Krizia Daya, a member of the Ladies for Rizal New York, delivers a speech at the Knights of Rizal New York State Area Assembly on February 20 at the Philippine Center, sharing her story as a nurse who joined a recent nurses’ strike in Manhattan. She compares their struggle with Dr. José Rizal’s push for reform that triggered the 1898 Philippine Revolution | Photo by Paula Morandarte
Good evening everyone,
I stand before you as a nurse.
But I also stand before you as a Filipina — a daughter of a country whose people have always known what it means to sacrifice quietly.
When nurses go on strike, people sometimes misunderstand us. They ask, “Why would you walk away from your patients?”
But let me tell you about my patients.
Before the strike, I had assignments that I knew were unsafe. Too many patients. Too many needs. Not enough nurses. I remember standing in the hallway, holding my assignment sheet, calculating in my head — calculating who needed pain meds, who was at risk of falling, who was unstable but trying to look “okay.”
That tightness in my chest — that moral math — is something nurses carry every day.
I did everything I could. We all did. But I left that shift knowing I had survived it — not that I had given my patients the care they deserved. But that we had merely survived.
And as a Filipina nurse, that hits differently.
Filipino nurses have a long history in American healthcare. We were recruited. Trained in a system shaped by colonial ties. Taught English in our classrooms. Encouraged to leave home and serve abroad. We are known for compassion. For resilience. For being “hardworking.” For not complaining.
Sacrifice is almost written into our migration story. But sacrifice without dignity becomes exploitation.
On the strike line, I saw something that felt historic. I saw Filipino nurses — along with nurses of every background — standing not just as caregivers, but as advocates. Not quiet. Not invisible. But unified.
That first morning on the picket line — still dark outside, cold air cutting through our jackets. Some of us were afraid. Some of us were thinking about bills, about family back home, about our children. And I looked around and saw my coworkers holding signs with gloved hands, chanting for safe staffing.
And I thought: this is what generational courage looks like.
As a Filipina, I think of José Rizal.
Rizal did not begin with violence. He began with awareness. Through essays, novels, and organizing abroad, he became a leading voice in the Propaganda Movement — a movement that demanded representation, equality, and dignity under the law.
They were not trying to burn everything down. Not initially. They were trying to reform a system that treated Filipinos as lesser.
“And when we stand together — disciplined, strategic, unified — peaceful reform is not weakness. It is power. And history shows us that when people awaken together, change is no longer a question of if. Only when.”
They believed education could awaken a people.
They believed unity could pressure power.
They believed moral authority mattered.
And that belief cost Rizal his life. But his work planted consciousness. It unified scattered voices into a national identity.
In many ways, Filipino nurses today live in that same tension — between service and self-advocacy. We are raised to endure. To be grateful. To keep our heads down. To send money home. To survive.
But on that strike line, we were not just enduring.
We were asserting dignity. We were saying: caring for others should not require self-erasure. I repeat: caring for others should not require self-erasure.
Administration may have held the building. They may have held the finances. But we held something more powerful — collective moral authority. And unity transforms moral authority into leverage.
Rizal and the Propaganda Movement understood something that still applies today: fragmentation protects those in power. Division keeps systems intact. But when people recognize their shared struggle — when they refuse to be isolated — reform becomes possible.
In Philippine history, reformists and revolutionaries debated methods. But no one can deny that peaceful reform laid the intellectual groundwork for freedom. It shifted consciousness before it shifted power.
That is what our strike did. It shifted consciousness.
It reminded nurses — especially immigrant nurses, FILIPINO nurses — that advocacy is not betrayal. Speaking up is not ingratitude. Unity is not rebellion. It is a responsibility.
I think about that hallway before the strike — the weight of that assignment sheet. And I think about the picket line, where, despite uncertainty, I felt lighter.
Because I was no longer carrying that moral burden alone. That is what a unified front does.
It transforms quiet sacrifice into collective strength.
It transforms isolation into solidarity.
It transforms fear into reform.
Rizal wrote to awaken a people.
We strike to protect the people.
Different centuries.
Same pursuit of dignity.
And when we stand together — disciplined, strategic, unified — peaceful reform is not weakness. It is power. And history shows us that when people awaken together, change is no longer a question of if. Only when.
