Philippines Moves to Protect Children from Sexual Abuse

The Philippines passed a new law to raise the age of consent. The change could go a long way toward protecting the country’s most vulnerable children. 

Children on the street. Beegee49. CC BY-ND 2.0.

The Philippines’ House of Representatives recently passed a new law that would raise the age of consent from 12 to 16. Long among the world’s lowest ages of consent, lawmakers hope the change will protect children from sexual predation. In recent decades, the Philippines has become a global hub of child sexual exploitation. Though the new law will improve protections for victims of abuse, long-lasting effects of sexual predation will be felt for years to come. 

The age of consent was decided in 1930 in the Revised Penal Code at 12 years old, the product of what is widely considered a culture of patriarchy. At such a low age, sexual acts against children were almost impossible to prosecute in court. Defendants could claim sex with a child was consensual because they were both above the age of consent. Under this code, defendants could escape a rape verdict if they offered to marry their victim. 

In recent years, sexual abuse against minors has seen a massive increase across the Philippines. Experts say the number of IP addresses used for streaming child pornography has risen from 23,333 in 2014 to 81,723 in 2017, a 250% increase. Cases of HIV/AIDS among minors have been increasing steadily over a similar period of time. Of all rape victims, 70% are children, the vast majority girls. As a result, girls as young as 14 are becoming pregnant at higher rates. 

Campaigners for the bill long argued that children needed far more protections than the Philippines’ legal system granted. The law that would raise the age of consent also contains measures to harshen penalties for rape, sexual exploitation and abuse as well as shift the burden of proof of consent from the victim to the offender. The new law passed the House of Representatives with 207 votes and only 3 opposing; it is expected to pass the Senate just as easily. 

A family making ends meet. FotoGrazio. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Increased data collection has painted a clearer picture of the issue in recent years. International advocacy helped focus lawmakers’ attention on the issue, but it also revealed the lack of resources the Philippines suffers from in combating sex crimes. Sixty-four percent of online abuse cases were initiated by foreign authorities who traced crimes back to the country.

Online sexual abuse afflicts more children today than it ever has. A combination of widespread poverty and COVID-19 lockdowns has rendered the practice rampant in recent months. Poor families were disproportionately harmed by lockdowns, causing a small number of families to resort to online abuse. Predators from foreign countries—mainly the United States, Canada, Europe and Australia—pay facilitators to sexually abuse children, directing the abuse themselves via a livestream. 

The facilitators often include immediate and extended family. In 90 cases involving 381 victims from 2011 to 2017, 43 were abused from two months up to two years. Half were arranged by parents or extended family. The average age of victims was 11. The youngest victim was less than 1. 

The Philippine government plans to implement additional measures to address the conditions that make child sexual abuse so prominent. The Philippine Plan of Action to End Violence Against Children, begun in 2017, campaigns for children’s rights and was partially responsible for raising the age of consent. The U.S. Department of State classifies the Philippines as Tier 1 for fully complying with the Trafficking Victims Protections Act. For the time being, raising the age of consent marks another crucial step in combating sexual exploitation.

Michael McCarthy

Michael is an undergraduate student at Haverford College, dodging the pandemic by taking a gap year. He writes in a variety of genres, and his time in high school debate renders political writing an inevitable fascination. Writing at Catalyst and the Bi-Co News, a student-run newspaper, provides an outlet for this passion. In the future, he intends to keep writing in mediums both informative and creative.

Indigenous Fashion Hits the Runway

Long overlooked Indigenous artists are revolutionizing the fashion world. Balancing innovation and tradition, these designers envision a sustainable, inclusive way of creating clothes.

Indigenous women sewing. SriHarsha PVSS. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Nothing about this year’s Indigenous Fashion Week Toronto (IFWTO) went according to plan. The pandemic demanded a totally virtual fashion venue without a live audience, forcing the Indigenous communities that comprise it to rethink what a fashion week could be. Then again, reimagining the fashion industry is the forte of many Indigenous designers.

The IFWTO featured 16 designers with their own unique takes on Indigenous fashion, the clothing created by designers from a native background. It included artists from across the world who are united by a shared Indigenous heritage. Combining traditional figures and techniques with mainstream styles yielded some of the week’s most exciting work. Mobilize, for instance, fused Indigenous writing and designs with streetwear hoodies and jackets to innovate style while staying true to its roots. Audiences took well to Mobilize’s style; most of its items sold out. 

Mobilize and other Indigenous brands seek to fundamentally change the fashion industry’s status quo. Jamie Okuma, a California designer of Luiseño and Shoshone-Bannock descent, emphasizes resourcefulness and respect for nature in her garments. “All of my work has tradition at its core ... So I try to utilize everything possible in my work—with my art, supplies, fabric—and not be wasteful.” Crafted with patience, detail and care, her pieces are meant to be worn again and again. “We all have those go-to pieces in our closet that we keep for years and literally wear out before we retire them,” she says. “I'm here to make the go-tos, the keepers.”

Shoes designed by Jamie Okuma. nonelvis. CC By-NC-SA 2.0.

Okuma’s approach is a welcome change to the dominant fad of “fast fashion.” These items, mass produced by large companies, are designed season by season and intended to fall out of fashion and be thrown out within a year. This approach to fashion differs starkly from that of Indigenous creators, who value durability, tradition and craftsmanship, even if it comes with a much higher sticker price. Though fast fashion allows consumers to don the latest runway fashions at an affordable price, it comes at a steep environmental cost. Products often fall apart within weeks or are thrown out having never been worn, earning the style the nickname “landfill fashion.”

A billboard for Grace Lillian Lee’s fashion. Brisbane City Council. CC BY 2.0.

Grace Lillian Lee, designer and co-founder of First Nations Fashion and Design in Australia, seeks a place for Indigeneity in the mainstream. “There’s definitely a lot that non-Indigenous people and designers can learn from Indigenous people,” she says, “especially in terms of sustainability.” Her work relies heavily on the weaving techniques of Torres Strait Islanders. More than a way to promote sustainability, Lee calls her clothing “a soft entry into reconciliation and healing our people.” Such meaningful craftsmanship doesn’t fall out of style by next season; it is passed down through generations.

Lisa Folawiyo. NDaniTV. CC BY 3.0.

Indigenous fashion is just beginning to enjoy its long overdue time in the sun. Dresses by Lisa Folawiyo, a Nigerian and West Indian designer, have been worn proudly by the likes of Solange Knowles and Lupita Nyong’o. Her intricate, flowing dresses explode with color. Boasting hand-embellished designs, Folawiyo’s dresses can take up to 240 hours to complete. Her West African designs have won the plaudits of the international fashion world and effortlessly outshine the mass-produced artifacts of fast fashion.


A dress by Lisa Folawiyo. Museum at FIT. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Indigenous people still generally lack a place at the corporate level. Sage Paul, a member of Canada’s English River First Nation who now lives in Toronto, called for the post-pandemic “new normal” to include the voices of Indigenous people in an article for The Kit. Fashion emerged from a 14th-century European aristocracy, she argues, and colonized Indigenous people to steal resources, goods and fashion trends. “The colonial systems we are operating under no longer serve our society, and the only way we will evolve is by allowing new and interconnected systems to come to the fore.” That means moving Indigenous brands into the mainstream. 

The IFWTO is a good place to start. Its online market links viewers directly to designers’ websites. Live panel discussions provided a glimpse into the questions and concerns of some of Indigenous fashion’s most admired artists. Videos of models strutting the catwalk resembled music videos, showcasing the unbridled possibilities of Indigenous fashion. Most importantly, it put more Indigenous designers on the map. As of now, they show no signs of slowing down.

Michael McCarthy

Michael is an undergraduate student at Haverford College, dodging the pandemic by taking a gap year. He writes in a variety of genres, and his time in high school debate renders political writing an inevitable fascination. Writing at Catalyst and the Bi-Co News, a student-run newspaper, provides an outlet for this passion. In the future, he intends to keep writing in mediums both informative and creative.