Missing the days without GMO crops in my town

Soon after the heavy rains stopped and the flooding ebbed in Pampanga, I visited my centenarian mother at our farm house in Dampul, my birthplace in Sta. Monica, Sta. Rita town.

The area had had no electric power for four days and nights. Floodwater breached the bank of the main waterway, inundating the town center and certain barangays.

Dampul was spared from flooding, and Inang was thankful. However, she complained that during the four days the household had to make do with whatever little fresh food supplies were available at the town market.

After lunch, my visiting siblings and I gathered around our nephews and nieces to talk about the flood. The conversation drifted to a nephew’s account of how, three years ago, field workers of the Department of Agriculture introduced the planting of Bt corn in Sta. Rita, held seminars in each barangay urging the farmers to plant Bt corn and other genetically modified crops.

(The term Bt pertains to a bacterium called Bacillus thuringiensis placed into the corn kernel to produce a protein which can paralyze or kill predator caterpillars that feed on the leaves, stalks, and ears of corn. Its introduction spurred a global debate over the potential dangers to health, environment and biodiversity vis-à-vis the boost in agricultural production and income.

(In 2001 the government allowed the field testing of Bt corn in South Cotabato and Isabela. Ecology advocates opposed the move. I then filed a bill in the House of Representatives banning the introduction of Bt corn in the country. Though supported by a few other colleagues, my bill never saw the light of day. Anti-GMO advocates raised the issue to the Supreme Court, which dismissed it on technical grounds.)

During one seminar, my nephew narrated, the DA field worker brought along representatives of foreign firms that promote Bt corn and other vegetable seeds with GMO (genetically modified organisms). Their sales spiel ran like this:

“You don’t need to spray chemical insecticides anymore, since Bt corn gives you specific protection against pests during the entire cropping season. You will get higher yields, and you will earn more when you sell your harvest to the producers of animal feed.”

One farmer promptly asked, “Are you telling us that Bt corn is not for eating by humans?” The DA field worker replied, “Well…, the mature grains will be hard on the teeth. Maybe when they have just begun to appear (nagpeperlas) you can eat the corn.”

The farmer quickly asked, “But if it kills the caterpillars, wouldn’t it do the same to humans?” Another farmer queried, “If it kills insects, it’s poison. When you feed the corn to animals and we then eat the meat, won’t we be poisoned in turn?”

The field worker was clearly at a loss, and the foreign firm representatives stayed silent, my nephew recalled with a chuckle.

Some of the farmers were induced to plant Bt corn, he reported, but most have given up because income was low compared to the expenses they incurred. However, the DA and foreign firms’ campaign eventually convinced them to adopt various genetically modified vegetable seeds, my nephew pointed out.

Today, save for stringbeans (which can be replanted using seeds from the previous crop), the farmers have to buy neatly-packed GMO seeds, supplied mostly by foreign firms, for ampalaya (bitter gourd), eggplant, tomato, and green pepper. But their experience shows, my nephew explained, that seeds from the crops thus obtained are not good for replanting, as the yields are lower and of inferior quality the second time around.

Thus, the farmers have to keep buying new seeds supplied by the foreign firms, who dictate the price. They have lost control of selecting the seeds they want, as they used to do before the advent of GMO. This is tragic — and needs looking into — if it is a nationwide condition.

Specifically for ampalaya, my nephew said, fewer and fewer farmers can afford to plant it. Why? A can containing 450 seeds costs P1250; 13 cans are required for one hectare of land. Adding P75 to 80 thousand for fertilizers, constructing trellises, etc., plus P20,000 for labor, pushes total expenses to well over P110,000.

The arithmetic calls for larger production to ensure profitability. Thus, marginal ampalaya producers are driven out of the market.

These anecdotes make me nostalgic for my youth in the late 1940s to mid-1950s, when our family used to plant plenty of seasonal vegetables relying on traditional practices. We selected the best fruits of every crop to extract the seeds for planting in the next season. We dried these under the sun for several days, storing them afterward in airtight containers.

And we didn’t use chemicals either. For fertilizer, we mixed carabao manure with composted leaves and other plant materials. We burned damp hay to produce smoke that drove away insects or tied pieces of cloth to protect the ampalaya fruits.

We almost always produced good crops that provided our family (relatives and barriomates, too) nutritious sustenance and brought in much-needed cash for our big brood’s schooling and other needs.

I miss those days.

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