Truth be told, when I assumed my role as Parish Priest of Brgy. Napsan, only ₱945.00 was turned over to me as the entire parish fund. According to the official report on parishes’ monthly income in the Chancery Office, the parish can be regarded as the “poorest of the poor.” This is not surprising, given that the majority of the population is made up of IPs (indigenous peoples), farmers, and fishermen—sectors that the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) has repeatedly determined to have the highest rates of poverty incidence.
I began to hear this kind of stark poverty from the mothers, and once I heard it, I could not unhear it. They told me they were planning to take out loans so their children could continue with online learning. “Mangungutang po kami ng pambili ng cellphone, Father, para po sa online class ng mga anak namin.” These were not casual decisions. They were spoken with fear, resolve, and an air of inevitability. What troubled me most was that these women had never truly known what learning was themselves. Their own education had been cut short or denied entirely by poverty. And yet they were now being asked—by circumstances, by systems, by a crisis not of their making—to go into debt so their children might have a chance. That mothers must borrow money so their children can learn is not a story of parental heroism alone. It is an indictment.
This is where our SimBaNa Credit Cooperative enters the story—not as a miracle cure, but simply as a practical expression of solidarity, and perhaps also of hope that has already become too elusive for many of our parishioners here. (SimBaNa stands for the three barangays that comprise our parish: Simpokan, Bagong Bayan, and Napsan.)
Fear and excitement were mixed together when we first started organizing. People had previously been burned by unfulfilled promises and unsuccessful projects. In actuality, a lot of people were already skeptical of any kind of investing and saving plan. However, since they had already been duped and taken advantage of numerous times, I cannot hold them accountable. We had to painstakingly mend their wounds first and win back their faith in cooperative ideals, mutual trust, and faith in God’s plan. Furthermore, some people continued to wonder, “What if others don’t pay?” “Father, how can people with nothing save anything?” was another question that many had asked me. Some questioned whether pooling their meager savings was worthwhile, and so on and so on.
It was difficult in the beginning. A few of the problems included inadequate record-keeping, external pressures, mismanagement, and limited capital. Long and occasionally tense meetings were held. The group’s resolve was put to the test when a few members neglected to make payments. Some of the concerns were warranted. Not to mention that there are some “doubting Thomases” among us who really made their presence felt through their share of negativity and dislike. For this reason, we were perceived as starting a journey that many considered “foolish.” Honestly speaking, I thought to myself that sometimes it would have been easier to give up and go back to the comfortable, if harsh, ways of borrowing.
But how can I give up? I am always reminded of Mang Nanding, who once told me, “Father, I work every day but never seem to move.” By day, he works the fields, his hands roughened by the earth and his body bent under the sun, planting crops that will barely feed his family. By night, he rows a small boat across the sea, casting nets into waters that frequently yield nothing. He is exhausted, but he cannot stop—for the children waiting at home, for his wife, who is concerned about every peso, and for the tenuous hope that tomorrow will be better. Magsasaka sa umaga, mangingisda sa gabi ang peg ni tatay.
That is the cruel paradox of poverty. The poor work hard—often harder than anyone else—yet the system keeps them running in place. One of the most painful instruments of this injustice is the lack of access to fair credit. Without it, a small problem becomes a lifelong burden. I don’t think institutions would consider those who are poor as “creditworthy.” And so, hindi talaga dapat sumuko. Laban lang.
As Church, we often hear about solidarity (and synodality), but solidarity is not sentimental. It is costly. It requires us to risk control, to believe that the poor can make decisions—even wrong ones—and still grow.
My experience here in SimBaNa tells me that cooperativism is not simply a financial tool. It is actually a school. Right now and right here, we are altogether being taught in a school of responsibility, patience, and mutual accountability. This experience has altered both my personal and ministerial perspectives. When I speak of stewardship, I see faces that know what it means to stretch a peso. When I speak of community, I think of meetings where disagreements are resolved not by power, but by consensus. And when I speak of hope, it is no longer abstract. It has a passbook. It is a small loan with a due date, a handwritten ledger, and a group of people who choose to believe in one another.
As of this writing, we have ₱3,809,854.00. What we find remarkable about this amount is that it does not yet receive external assistance—no donations, grants, foreign aid, or the like. This is people’s money. Isn’t this what the Gospel teaches us? When Jesus fed the crowd, he didn’t create dependency. He instructed the disciples, “Give them something to eat.” The miracle involved what the people already had, no matter how small.
We did not start this cooperative to solve poverty. That would be far too proud. We started it to walk with the poor as they solved their own problems—together. And in that, I see a fighting chance for the poor—a chance that begins when we listen, when we trust, and when we stand beside them as they claim what has always been theirs: possibility, hope, and the right to learn.
