Under DENR Memorandum Circular 2005-005, issued May 26, 2005, forest is defined as an area at least half a hectare (5,000 square meters) in size with a ten percent stocking level, meaning, that at least 500 square meters of which should be shaded by trees with a minimum height of five meters. Private lands meeting the new forestry standard are included, such as private tree plantations and even parks in private subdivisions. Under the old definition, only public lands with a minimum area of one hectare could be called forest.
I should have no quarrel with this official definition except that it will unduly put at risk the forests that do not meet the specific criteria for are and tree stocking. In my case, for instance, when I was young, the first forests I encountered were not the big-size, hazy blue, mysterious and not-so-inviting jungles in the far eastern horizon of our town where my grandfather and other craftsmen in the barrio went to gather rattan or try their luck at trapping deer and wild pigs when there was little farm work to do.
My first forests were instead tiny patches of tree-shrub-bamboo-grass-fern-herb vegetation that were not very far from where we tethered our carabaos to graze. Yes, their areas were often no bigger than a basketball court. And yet, they were power houses in themselves insofar as flora and fauna and ecological let alone utilitarian uses are concerned.
They came in the form of shrubbery beside the road, shady thickets along the river banks, or former bangkag (rainfed vegetable and root-crops farm) left to fallow to let its soil become fertile again. Others were at the far end of our ricefield, beside a former river course turned pond, or in long undisturbed lots adjacent to the elementary school.
They were the forests next-door, as it were, where we often went to play hide and seek or imitate the movies we saw about local people fighting the Japanese invaders. We entered these forests to chase birds as they fed noisily in a tree laden with fruits. The birds, such as the pirruka (bulbul) and the uwak (crow) often presaged the presence of ripe bignay, banana, jackfruit, guava, papaya, or wild pineapple. Sometimes the fruit-laden trees the avian creatures would sing or quarrel about are not edible to humans (such as samak and balete).
Depending on the season, we went to these remnant forests to gather food for the kitchen. Often they were the edible flowers of the alukon, or the young leaves of the panalayapen. Sometimes we had kaburaw, kamiring, kastila, anonas, or the vine ariwat. We would go under them during the rainy season to hunt edible mushrooms and fungi. In summer they would be spots for gathering abuos eggs, and when our elders didn’t beat us to it, smoke beehives for honey.
The forest remnants on the river banks are good places to gather edible fern, along with wild button tomatoes and the young leaves of the wild ampalaya (bitter gourd). At the onset of the rainy season would often have tigi (Amorpophallus campanulatus) and taro in their periphery. Occasionally a prized find would be tubers of the wild singkamas (turnip).
During times of rice shortage (the consequence then of locusts and rats “harvesting” the rice ahead of the farmers), the womenfolk would comb these forest fragments for the wild yam we called karot which was toxic but my grandmother just sliced them thinly, put them on a wicker basket, and soak the pearly white edibles on a flowing part of the river to wash off the itchy component of the yam before letting this dry in the sun and then fry them as substitute for rice as staple food or as afternoon merienda (snacks) for farmers as they take brief respite in their work under the baking the sun.
It was from these forests that I learned my very first lessons on tree identification, bird identification, how to fell trees, how to climb trees, and which trees were favorite perches for certain birds. And even if they bore silent witness to my early tree-killing, bird-murdering, nest-destroying, and banias (monitor lizard)-hunting days, they significantly started me on my nature-appreciation path. Yes, they shaped much of my nature-writing inclinations plus advocacy for native trees, forestry for the birds, and outdoor recreation for families.
Yes, in the barrio where I lived, they contributed enormously to cementing the bonds between children and Mother Nature. Small they might have been, but they had been our ever-ready "department store" for many of our everyday subsistence needs in the barrio -- food for the family, fuelwood, poles for huts, termite globs for feeding the chickens, organic feed for the swine, medicine for boils and other minor ailments, shelter for the carabaos, and playground for kids.
This is why I’m concerned that, if we don’t watch out, the definition of forest that is being proffered by the DENR to conform with international forestry and allied groups may unwittingly cause the demise of such children- and people-nurturing “islands” of hope.
(To be concluded)
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