The nation has no borders
My country is contained within the bodies of people
That move, are shipped, trafficked, exported, migrate and circulate the globe.
My land is already in the hands of the colonizer.
My land, its hills, its mountains, its rivers and streams have been stolen and claimed by others.
And my people have no choice but to struggle together even as we are driven out to other continents, spread far into the world.
And so my country is contained not within physical borders, not as agreed upon by state governments, but within the bodies of Maria, Jose, and Pedro.
They who’ve left their familes and the golden sun and the sound of the ocean for the cold winter, and loneliness, and fear of the police and deportation.
My nation is both the child in the streets of Manila and the domestic worker in Hong Kong.
My nation is both the starving farmer in Bicol and the sex worker in Japan.
My nation is both the public teacher on strike in Cebu and the nurse in New York who’s lost her job
My nation, across oceans, share one and the same spirit, suffering the same wounds when the gun explodes and splatters brown bodies with rubber bullets.
My nation, in different timezones, share one and the same heart, having the same dreams and visions of airport returns and homecomings on hot and humid days.
My nation is not merely land and sea, but love. Overwhelming love.
And none can tell me that what happens back home does not concern me, that what happens in those sundried 7,000 islands has nothing to do with me.
For my nation has no borders.