From the outside, Metro Manila’s Tenement Taguig is an intimidating structure. Its grey, fortress-like walls seal its tenants off from the surrounding world, with only tiny windows on its dilapidated exterior peeking outside. But once visitors find the entrance and step inside, they’re greeted with vibrantly colored walls and smiling faces. Residents here are used to outsiders these days, ever since the low-income housing project became world-renowned for its basketball court murals.

The center of this community is literally and figuratively the basketball courts, wedged tightly within an enclosure of walls that rise seven stories high. It’s a place where local ballers refine their skills and compete for glory and cash; when no games are in session, it’s also where residents gather for cookouts, parties, and a playground for the kids to let loose.

The open-air walkways look directly down onto the main court, providing a perfect view for the large-scale paintings that turn the entire court into a giant canvas and the intense games that play out atop them. A secondary court used to be unpaved, doubling as a soccer field, but it’s now outfitted with concrete benches and a bandstand.

Most of the walls on the ground floor and the roof are covered with graffiti and street art while many of the other walls are coated in bright pinks, yellows, and greens, with the ramps connecting each floor lit up brightly until midnight. In the daytime, each floor seems to glow as the warm Manila sun bounces off of the colorful surfaces. Soundtracked by the ambience of kids laughing and basketballs being dribbled, it’s something special for people lucky enough to take it all in. Even on stormy days, the complex is just as lively, with residents hanging out together in the hallways, roaming around and chatting while the rain batters the exterior.

Despite this proud and tightly knit community, many pressing issues haunt the tenants. The entire building is constantly threatened with eviction, concrete is crumbling in the complex’s many corners, and there’s no running water. Residents cart gallons of water, filled from the sole faucet on the ground floor, up the cracked ramps all day, even the elderly. Holes are so big in some places you can see straight through to the floor below. But it was these struggles that invigorated the community’s transformation into an arts-and-entertainment hub, which has helped raise awareness of the tenants’ plight and make their life more enjoyable. 

Fort Bonifacio Tenement, as it’s formally known, is located in Taguig City and was originally built in 1963 as part of a relocation program for informal settlers, mainly those living along the PNR commuter railroad tracks. It was home to 700 families and constructed by the Japanese government as part of the nation’s wartime reparations efforts.

Generations of families were born and raised at the tenement, and many of the original tenants’ families remain, including Jennifer Corpin, the current tenants’ association president. “The neighbors are like one big family here,” she says. “You don’t really need to leave to be happy, everything you need is here.” And it’s true; scattered throughout the building on various floors you can find sari-sari stores (mini convenience stores), food stands, barbershops, and public computers popularly called pisonet (named after it’s cost: one peso for five minutes of internet access). On one floor, there’s a pool table, and on others, videoke machines. “It’s a very simple life,” she adds with a smile.

Although Corpin, known to the locals as Prez Kleng, has another home now, she still keeps her original apartment in the tenement that she shares with extended family. Her apartment speaks to the range of units within the walls of the tenement. It’s one of the nicer spaces, renovated with new tiles and updated furniture. Some other units are just as well attended as hers, while others are more modest but lovingly adorned with family pictures and mementos. Then there are those that are just bare concrete spaces. Some have been boarded up since their families left. A few of the least fortunate residents have set up living spaces in the corner landings of the back stairwells.

Troubles first began for the tenement in the 90s. The aging building began falling into disrepair as the government fell behind on upkeep. Eventually, residents stopped paying rent. It’s unclear when exactly this started happening, but by the 2000s, pretty much everyone had stopped paying. The original residents were awarded perpetual lease contracts and were supposed to pay the National Housing Authority. But sometime during this period, they stopped sending bills entirely. And then the eviction threats started happening.

In 2010, mayoral candidate Lani Cayetano stepped up and told the residents they didn’t need to worry if she was elected. “You will not be leaving,” she said. “You can now sleep in peace.” The promise helped carry her into office and she went on to serve two terms until 2019. But she went silent after that first election and barely visited the tenement, despite numerous eviction notices sent out during her tenure. “It’s like she just used the issue to win,” complains Erick Delloza Reyes, an activist and former resident who grew up in the tenement. He points out that her family is a political dynasty holding positions all across high levels of government. “They’ve been in power for how many years now? But they did nothing.”

In 2014, the housing authority again threatened the residents, saying they would be removed from Tenement, claiming that the structure was unsound and would collapse in the next big earthquake, which is expected and overdue. They offered to move them to a new location, but it was out in the province, far from work, the hospital, and the friends and family they’d grown up around. While some took the offer, the majority of tenants poured out to the alcoves, leaning over the railing to bang pots and pans in a noise barrage to protest the eviction. “We’ve asked for a third party to study the structure but they won’t entertain it; we’d have to pay for it ourselves,” Corpin says. When Neocha contacted the Japan International Cooperation Agency (the agency that took over development projects like Tenement), a representative declined to comment, saying they could retrieve no records of the project and thus were unable to provide any information about it.

It was around this time that Mike Swift got involved. Swift is a FIlipino-American rapper who grew up in the housing projects of Coney Island, Brooklyn. He moved from the Philippines to New York in second grade and returned in 2004 as an adult to pursue a rap career. He had some success from documentary-style DVDs, which included video of him performing in both countries, joking around with big-name rappers, and hooping. “Basketball had always helped me make friends, even as a kid in Brooklyn before I spoke English well,” he says. “I was already ahead in math and grammar and everything, but my accent was different. Once I landed in the Philippines, I was looking for basketball right away. ‘Where we ballin’ at?’ That’s how I became friends with everyone.”

Swift had been in the country for a full decade by 2014 and was looking for something beyond the rap world. With basketball so popular in the Philippines, courts can be found almost anywhere in the country, from little dirt clearings with boxes for hoops, to narrow alleyways with hoops on wheels so they can be moved out of the way of traffic. He’d been taking pictures of them along his journeys, collecting them on an Instagram account called Mr. PinoyHoops. He was also involved in renovating courts. “Everywhere I went, I was looking for courts,” he says. “Even in New York I was involved in clean-up jobs on the courts. It’s not major money, it’s just major time. And that became my philosophy: You don’t need the government or money, you just need to be a leader. Get a broom and a garbage bag; buy a bit of paint.”

In 2014, Swift was featured in a Nike commercial shot at the tenement. Through that visit, he met the ballers there and learned more about the place. “I became focused on getting the world to pay attention to the tenement,” he says. “I wanted to make it attractive so people would come here, and I was interested in all elements of hip-hop, so the art came naturally. They were facing eviction and I was at a low in my rap career. We were both at lows in our lives.”

Swift decided to throw a big event called Picnic Games to help raise the resident’s spirits. There were games for the kids, food, music, and art. “It was a synergy of all the different parts of my life, but the residents really made it all happen.” The event was a success, and the Picnic Games became a regular event. As a result, the local government even briefly backed off with the eviction demands.

The next year Swift met Maya Carandang, a local painter, tattoo artist, and dancer. The murals that they created in the tenement began to capture international attention. Their first full-court mural, designed by Carandang and painted with the help of dozens of residents, was a giant picture of LeBron James. “The mural was bait for him to come here,” Swift laughs. And it worked. The mural and its story drew one of the NBA’s best players to the other side of the world. “It became a saying around here, ‘If LeBron came to the tenement, anything is possible.'”

Despite the tenement’s newfound exposure, eviction threats once again continued. “The problem is the value of the land,” says Reyes. “The local government wants to sell the land to corporations rather than have the tenants stay there. They’re not helping residents because they want them to suffer so they are just forced to move.” Along with the eviction notices, the murals and events continued as well. The court is now repainted a few times a year, although Carandang is no longer involved. Events are just as frequent, with graffiti battles and musical performances drawing crowds from across the city. The tenement has been used as a setting for telenovelas, video games, and a Nike sneaker was even named after it. The grey walls of the tenement’s outer walls are slowly being covered in pastel hues as well, with donated paint organized by Swift.

Earlier this year, a month before the country shut down in hopes of warding off the coronavirus, tenement residents came together once again in remembrance of Kobe and Gianna Bryant. A full-court, black-and-white mural of Kobe and his daughter Gianna was painted within days of his demise. Space was cleared on every other bit of surface surrounding the court for residents and guests to paint messages to them. Candles were lit throughout the week. “It’s unfortunate that it needs to be in mourning,” says Swift. “This tribute was the least we can do. It was so natural: There was no plan, no proposals. We all just came together out of love.” Once again, reporters and fans started arriving from across the country and the world to revel in the magic that the tenement had created. “We’re the world-famous tenement court,” Swift grins.

But the struggles are far from over. There’s still no running water, the concrete keeps crumbling, and the eviction notices continue. “We’re just surviving on our own,” says Corpin, a statement made with some pride rather than resignation. “We’re used to the fact that no one cares about us.”

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Contributor: Mike Steyels
Photographer: Earvin Perias
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li