Cooperative Finds Ways to Force OFWs to Save

By JEREMAIAH M. OPINIANO

LOS BANOS, LAGUNA (OFW Journalism Consortium)–A TWO-STOREY town hall here is a reminder that political will, when wield, gets results.

For instance, whenever fish traders like Clarita Quisel walk by the hall, she automatically reaches for her pocket to rub coins and bills.

Under a low-savings rate regime, the town hall’s savings and loan association is effective in “forcing” families of overseas Filipino workers, like Quisel’s, to save.

The local government’s Kawayanan Bayanihan Multi-purpose Cooperative has uncanny methods for doing so.

One is delivering to the member a letter reminding the weekly deposit of P20 (nearly half a dollar) was not made the past Sunday. The letter also asks the member to pay a P30 penalty.

If the member misses another deposit, a promissory note is sent with the message: “If you fail to deposit, the local police will give you a subpoena.”

Such method, while too direct for some, marks the Kawayanan Cooperative’s success.

As of this writing, Kawayanan has total resources worth P3.42 million, with some P3.4 million loaned to members. Existing deposits of the cooperative amounted to P2.6 million (US$63,179).

But more than deposits, loan repayment has always been Kawayanan’s frequent challenge, according to the group.

Yet since only families from Malinta village are the only eligible members, issues surrounding non-paying members “are easily addressed,” the group’s report said.

Kawayanan’s the most successful Bayanihan Savings Replication Project, said Darrell Dizon of the Department of Interior and Local Government, referring to his agency’s former project that formed the Kawayanan.

Aside from families like Quisel’s, Kawayanan’s members are fishers, fish vendors, flower growers, laundrywomen, domestic workers for families in other villages, employees of the University of the Philippines-Los Baños, sari-sari store owners, and former OFWs.

Some 80 to 90 percent of members are women, said Kawayanan president Ricardo Bagnes, himself a former Saudi Arabia-based accountant during the 1980s.

Sunday

EVERY Sunday, Quisel joins a line snaking from the Kawayanan office inside the town hall.

The room was crowded with farmers and fisherfolks, all clutching yellow passbooks with enclosed bills and coins. There were two collectors getting each depositor’s cash and passbooks.

After five minutes of waiting for her turn, Quisel extends a P20 bill to the collector, a woman behind a desk.

Before the collector could say anything, Quisel says: “P20 for this week. That okay with you?”

That’s the minimum weekly deposit of the cooperative, explains Bagnes, understanding that most of the fishing village’s 5,000 residents belong to the middle- and low-income groups.

The collector nods, takes Quisel’s bill, and gives her a receipt as proof of deposit. She writes the deposited amount in a yellow passbook bearing Quisel’s name and places it inside a wicker canister.

The minimum amount to save weekly makes the habit “manageable” to do, say former domestic workers Arsenia and Perlita Bacorro.

Still, a member must appear before the collector just to say s/he can’t put some savings for the week.

Arsenia said the member then promises the collector she’ll increase her deposit the following week.

These are also recorded in the passbook.

Hence, the subpoena is issued only after giving the member a lead time of about three weeks.