Before the first light breaks over the crowded alleys of Tondo, Aling Tessie, not her real name, is already at her small carinderia, stirring a steaming pot of arroz caldo. The savory aroma of garlic and ginger fills the humid morning air as tricycle drivers and construction workers queue up, clutching crumpled bills. For P40, they get a warm, filling breakfast — simple, nourishing, and cooked with the kind of care that feels like home.
Scenes like this unfold across the Philippines every day. Women behind makeshift stalls, sari-sari stores, and carinderias quietly keep their neighborhoods running, unseen but indispensable. This National Women’s Month, it’s time to recognize them not just as tindera or manang, but as the lifelines of Filipino communities.
Filipina vendors like Aling Tessie, who has been running a carinderia and a sari-sari store from her Manila garage for nearly two decades, are the invisible workforce holding barangays together.
Their small businesses are more than a source of income such that they are survival hubs not only for their own families but for the entire community.
“Hindi naman malaki ang kita, pero kahit papaano, nakakaraos. Kapag may utang, pinapautang. Basta kilala ko, okay lang — lahat naman tayo nagtutulungan.” (The earnings aren’t big, but somehow, we get by. If someone needs to borrow money, I lend it. As long as I know them, it’s fine — we’re all helping each other out.)
This quiet generosity happens in every barangay without headlines, without recognition. These women don’t just sell food or goods but extend credit without paperwork, offer palibre sa utang, and act as unofficial social workers in their communities.
When a neighbor loses their job, when payday is still days away, or when there’s simply not enough for one more meal, it’s the tindera at the kanto who steps in, often at the cost of her own profit.
Without women like Aling Tessie, life in the barangay would come to a halt.
In cities and provinces where grocery stores are too expensive or too far, small carinderias and sari-sari stores are the first, and sometimes only, line of defense against hunger. Yet their work remains largely unrecognized. They have no health benefits, no retirement plans. When prices rise or business slows down, they absorb the loss. When their stalls shut down, like many did during the pandemic, there is no really support waiting to help them rebuild. Still, they show up every day, quietly keeping their communities afloat in ways that go unnoticed.
More than just a place to eat, a carienderia is where neighbors share gossip, learn about job openings, or simply check in on one another. The tindera knows who’s behind on rent, whose children are skipping meals, and who needs a little extra but is too proud to ask. They offer palibre without making anyone feel ashamed.
These women aren’t just tindera such that they’re social workers, crisis responders, and community builders rolled into one. Filipinos often celebrate women like Aling Tessie for their tiyaga as if their endurance of hardship is something to be admired.
But they shouldn’t have to be this resilient. What they need isn’t just praise but a real support. Access to micro-loans, health coverage, and retirement benefits. Business permits that don’t eat up half their daily earnings. Government programs that reach the informal vendors who make up a significant part of the economy.
As the sun sets, Aling Tessie wipes down her plastic tables, counts her earnings, and sets aside just enough to buy ingredients for tomorrow. No fanfare, no headlines, just another quiet day of service, like she’s done for more than 20 years.
Her story is one of millions, ordinary women doing extraordinary work, not because they want to, but because they have to. It’s time to finally see them not just as tindera or nanay sa kanto but as the “sheroes” they’ve always been.
Every sachet of instant coffee sold on credit, every plastic bag of ulam, and every plate of pancit shared on payday is a woman holding her community together. More than just a thank you, they deserve to be counted, protected, and recognized not just this month, but every day.
***
Editor’s Note: This article is a literary piece inspired by the everyday lives of Filipina vendors in local communities. The story reflects the realities and resilience of countless women who serve as unsung pillars of Filipino society.
