What Christmas Is Like for Filipinos Who Can’t Come Home

(SPOT.ph) No other country in the world celebrates Christmas like the Philippines. Here, festivities are built around people: reunions that stretch late into the next morning, houses filled beyond capacity, feasts prepared for more guests than expected. December 25 isn't something you work around—it's the day everything else comes to a halt. So what happens when a Filipino is pulled out of this heartwarming setting?

For millions of Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs), what often remains are the small things—red clothing, shared food, borrowed spaces—that allow the season to exist at all. In other words, they make do.

Here are three Filipino stories of Christmas far from home.

Hong Kong on Sundays has long been claimed by domestic workers, many of them Filipino. They settle onto sidewalks or shaded corners on the one day they’re allowed to rest. Christmas doesn’t change that landscape much. Crowds gather just the same, the chatter fills the same open spaces, and somewhere among them you will find Daisy Tungcul, easing into the holiday spirit the way she has learned to do over the years.

Her Christmases abroad almost always begin the same way. She wakes up early and goes to church, a quiet ritual she set for herself to acknowledge the blessings that have carried her this far—good health, steady work, the ability to support her children even from miles away. After that, the day opens up. She heads to wherever she and her friends have agreed to meet: sometimes it’s the park, sometimes it’s the beach. The place changes, but the company doesn’t. Her tight-knit barkada of eight to ten has become its own small community.

In Hong Kong, December 25 is considered a statutory holiday, which means Daisy gets the day off—something she doesn’t take for granted. Not all employers are as lenient as hers.

“Nakakaintindi sila sa aming OFWs. Binibigyan nila kami ng pagkakataon to celebrate with friends,” Daisy says.

The group she celebrates with was formed around a reselling business they all belong to. They sell everything they can source—dupe luxury bags, boots, kitchenware, name it—usually to fellow Filipinos. Whoever’s not flying home joins in the celebration. Once everyone arrives at the agreed location, out come the gifts, the foldable tables and the plastic bags of food. Gifts are set aside for later, carefully labeled or wrapped in whatever paper was available. There are competitions in these parties—a singing contest, a battle for the “best in winter outfit”—and on Daisy's most memorable Christmas celebration with the group, she won both.

As for the food, the menu is unmistakably Filipino: pansit bihon, asado, macaroni salad, adobong manok, kalderetang baboy. People fall into roles without needing to say so—setting up, portioning food, making sure everyone gets a plate. There is a generosity in the way they organize themselves.

“Mag-aambagan for our exchange gifts, then sa foods, kung sino-sino gusto mag-share ng blessings nila,” Daisy says. Everyone contributes what they can. Those who earn a bit more take on the prizes for the games. Others bring dishes, drinks, or small treats to add to the table. By the time everyone sits down, the space is alive with chatter and movement. “Di namin nafi-feel ‘yung sadness pag magkakasama.”

By 8:30 p.m., Daisy has to be back at her employer’s home.

Daisy never imagined life would lead her here. The eldest daughter in a family of five, she's been working for as long as she can remember—first as a working student, then as an administrative assistant in the Cagayan Valley provincial government.

“Sa hirap, ako lang inaasahan sa pamilya.”

Then she became a mother of two. Much of what she earned went to the basics: rent, daily expenses, and infant formula that seemed to run out faster than she could budget for. At one point she was working three jobs—private secretary, pharmacy manager, and her government post—but even that wasn’t enough to make ends meet. The opening came through a message from her cousin: a family in Qatar was looking for a tutor. The timing was less than ideal, but the promise of a better life for her children outweighed everything else. Her second-born was only three months old when Tungcul made the decision to leave in 2008.

She stayed in Qatar for four years before a back injury forced her to return home. While recovering,she began to consider work in Hong Kong after the promise of slightly higher pay. Thirteen years later, she’s still here.

Hong Kong brought her physically closer to home, but the distance never fully disappeared. It only seems to get wider over time, becoming most noticeable during the holidays.

“I always try to stay motivated during these difficult times. As a mother, you have to be strong,” Daisy says, adding that she only gets to go home every two years. To make up for her absence, she calls her children every day without fail, a ritual she treats as non-negotiable. “Okay lang, para sa future ng mga anak ko. Naiintindihan nila ‘yun.”

In the Christmases she was not able to return, she sends what she can: money for groceries, for the red envelopes, the Noche Buena. She tells her children to invite relatives, all the titos and titas, to fill the family house so it does not feel thin in her absence. On the 25th, it is almost customary, if not expected, for her phone to blow up with updates—pictures and videos of kids weaving between adults, a boodle fight stretching the edges of a long table, groupfies taken against their blue-painted walls. All made possible by Daisy.

“Feel ko nandoon lang ako pag sinesend nila mga kasiyahan nila. Mga sayawan, mga bata. Masaya ako para sa kanila.”

Daisy talks about coming home but always with care, and always with conditions attached. She tells herself: one more contract, one more contract, even though she knows that it will still take three or four more years for her bunso to finish college. After that, maybe she can finally stop and be home, for good.

Until then, she looks for joy where she can find it—with her barkada, where Christmas means parlor games, inside jokes, and another competition to win.

“Christmas is everywhere. Alam ko naman okay ‘yung family ko. Masaya sila kaya masaya ako. That is the spirit of Christmas.”

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Christmas in Qatar tends to stay indoors. As a predominantly Muslim country, the holiday has long been absent from public life—no strings of lights along the streets, no Christmas music in malls, nothing that resembles the season many Filipinos grow up with back home.

That quiet was one of the first things Maria Gina Panis—who goes by Marge—noticed when she arrived in 2014. That year also marked her first Christmas away from her children.

“Ibang-iba po talaga,” Marge says. “Sobrang nakakaiyak kasi first time ko magpasko na wala sa kanila.”

Before moving abroad, Marge worked in microfinance in Albay. It was decent, steady work, but supporting four children on that salary felt increasingly impossible: “Yung income ko, hindi na siya sapat sa apat kong anak. Lumalaki mga bata, lumalaki mga expenses.” So when her sister, who was already in Qatar, suggested she try working there, the idea stayed with her. In the end, she took the chance.

Unlike in Hong Kong, Christmas isn’t considered a holiday in Qatar, so OFWs usually have to improvise—celebrating early, late, or over whatever their schedules allow. Marge is fortunate that her employer is a Christian, as she’s allowed the exact day off. For many others, December 25 is just another workday.

Over the years, she has built her own web of holiday traditions across Qatar’s Filipino communities. Some years she celebrates at her sister’s home; other times, inside her OFW-filled compound. She also has her circle from the 4 AM Club, a group she helped form during Leni Robredo’s 2022 presidential campaign. When Robredo lost, they asked themselves: “Ano kaya kung ipagpatuloy natin?” The answer became Angat Buhay Qatar, now a volunteer network that donates to shelters out of the members' own pockets. These groups gave her a sense of belonging, and are especially comforting during the holidays.

The gatherings themselves follow a familiar script: kainan, exchange gifts, parlor games. Even if the celebrations stay indoors, they find ways to recreate Christmas as they know it—stringing lights, setting up a tree, covering the room with as much color as space allows. These parties last all night long, especially if there’s no work the next day.

“Kahit nasa loob kami ng bahay... Lalo na if may mga bata, kailangan ma-experience nila kung ano ‘yung Christmas sa Pilipinas,” Marge says.

Some years, Marge spends the holidays on her own, especially when schedules don’t line up or invitations don’t come. What remains constant is that she cooks.

“Mag-isa man po ako or may pupuntahan na celebration, lagi ako nagluluto.” Cooking is the one part of the holiday she can control.

When she does go out for herself, it's usually to the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary. It's the nearest church to her place, but it still costs some 20 to 30 Qatar riyal (roughly P325 to P490) to commute just to get there. As Qatar has gradually opened more spaces for its expatriate communities, the church has grown fuller during the holidays. The seats are packed with Filipinos, row after row, and sometimes Mass is even conducted in Tagalog.

“Unti-unti nakikita namin na nagiging open sila... May kantahan, mafi-feel mo parang nasa Pilipinas ka kasi ang daming Pilipino,” Marge says.

After Mass, she’ll head home for a video call with her children. She asks them what they want for Christmas so she can budget accordingly. Most years, the family opts for ordered platters instead of preparing meals from scratch, and sometimes, they even check into a hotel to mark the occasion.

When asked about her most memorable Christmas in Qatar, Marge hesitates to answer. It’s not the gatherings she remembers but the moments she wasn’t home. Her eldest once asked her, “Bakit mo kami iniwan? Every pasko di ka namin nakakasama.” It's a question that still catches her off guard. She goes home when she can—usually every two years—but it never quite makes up for being there for the holidays.

This Christmas, there are no fixed plans yet. December has been weighing on her more than usual, in ways she can't quite articulate. She's already turning 48 this month. Three of her children are already working—one is a chemist, another is in IT—but her youngest is still in Grade 12, about to enter college. She knows she will need a few more years before she can retire.

“Sabi ko nga, in five years, dapat makauwi na 'ko. Ang hirap ang dami ko nami-miss... pero iba pa rin ‘yung kasama mo sila. Hindi naman po kasi pang-habang-buhay dito. Malungkot.”

She pauses, trying to hold back tears before continuing. For this Christmas, she knows only one thing for sure: she will go to church to give thanks for all that she has. She will also offer a prayer—for the day she can finally come home and for the family she continues to miss.

For Remedios Lantano, becoming an OFW wasn’t something she decided out of desperation. It was always the plan.

She’d known it as early as high school, watching her two older sisters build lives for themselves in London. They worked, sent money home, and eventually paid for her entire college education. By the time Remedios had children of her own, following that path felt almost inevitable. Going abroad wasn’t a leap into the unknown so much as a continuation of what she had already seen was possible.

Now 68, Remedios has become something of a veteran. Over the next four decades, she carved out that life across multiple countries—Canada for a year, Taiwan for five, Japan for 18, and eventually London, where she is today.

“Pinangarap ko na mag-OFW talaga. ‘Yun ‘yung nakatatak sa utak ko, na once naging OFW ka, gaganda buhay mo, gaganda buhay ng pamilya mo,” Remedios says.

Unlike Daisy or Marge, whose lives abroad revolve around children they ache to come home to, Remedios’ driving force was independence. She wanted to secure a future where she could stand on her own, without having to rely on anyone else.

That instinct shaped her choices even when circumstances pulled her back home. At one point, she returned to Binalonan, Pangasinan to care for her mother, who had been diagnosed with cancer, putting her life overseas on pause. Once her mother passed, her siblings urged her to stay in the Philippines, offering to support her financially so she could raise her children there. She didn't want help that came with dependence. Against her siblings’ wishes, she set off to London.

Her experience of Christmas shifted with every country she lived in, changing as much as her surroundings did. Her first time in Canada was the hardest. She remembers crying all the time, being so far away from home. There were no telephones or smartphones then, only letters sent back and forth, each one taking weeks to arrive. In Taiwan, Christmas faded into the background. Her workdays were long and exhausting, leaving little room for celebrations. That was also when communication with her children thinned out the most. By the time she moved to Japan, the season slipped by without much notice, so December 25 came and went without the rituals.

It wasn’t until she reached London that the holiday finally felt familiar again. With tens of thousands of Filipinos living across the United Kingdom, Christmas there was festive in a way she hadn’t experienced since leaving home. Filipinos formed groups by region—Camarines Sur, Cebu, Cavite—and Remedios joined many of these groups, partly for community, partly for networking. The gatherings were predictable in the best way: plenty of food, long karaoke sessions, and faces that reappeared year after year.

“Every year ako uma-attend bawat isa,” she says. “Kaso nagka-edad na, so ngayon sa small gatherings na lang ng mga kaibigan at kamag-anak.”

Her Decembers in London are now slower, more deliberate. In the days leading up to Christmas, Remedios would buy red tops, decorate her house, and send Christmas cards to people in her life. She used to send balikbayan boxes every December, but with both of her adult children now settled with their own families in Canada and Japan, respectively, there’s no one left in the Philippines to send them to.

Instead, her motherly affection has shifted toward the children she has cared for throughout her career as a nanny. Every month, she meets up with two kids from the family she worked with for seven years, and two from the household she’s been with for the past five. They meet once a month to dine at a restaurant. Around Christmas, she makes sure they all receive gifts.

She plans to take them out again on the 24th.

Remedios knows she's one of the lucky ones. Years of steady work, both full-time as a nanny and part-time as a real estate broker, enabled her to invest in several condominium units in the Philippines. That financial cushion is why she no longer feels the pressure that keeps many OFWs working. So what’s keeping her from retirement?

“Eh ayaw nila akong pakawalan. Sabi ko nga sa kanila, matanda na ko,” she says with a laugh. With no pressure to hurry, she's content to wait it out. London is where she plans to retire, anyway.

She speaks about her years abroad without regret. She talks about the children she has cared for as a nanny with pride, even as she acknowledges the distance from her own children and grandchildren. It was a trade-off she accepted early on and one she still stands by. Through her work, she says, she is able to give her family stability—and that, to her, is a legacy.

“Sa totoo lang, hindi naman ako nagsisi. Napaganda ko ang buhay nila. May legacy na ko maiiwan sa mga anak at apo ko,” Remedios says.

On Christmas Day, she just plans to stay home, watch Netflix, call her children, and move through the day on her own terms. Just how she likes it.

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