The feeling of nausea greeted me when I finally summoned the courage to “check out” the place where most children I know live. I see crammed houses that are not really houses but boxes that are trying too hard to appear like one. They are dilapidated, yes, but not because of neglect but of mere pathetic yet sad reason – they simply couldn’t afford to buy concrete, wood, paint, aluminum roof and, even, as incredulous as it may seem, nails. I thought of my jeans for a moment and knew that with my single purchase I could actually build a house much grander than what was in front of me. Right then, I had this urge to hide, to clothe myself with their garments and hide my nakedness from them. How could a little child grow up normal and happy here? I didn’t delve on this thought for a long while, though, because the children who brought me there were literally swarming around me, saying, though not in a chorus, “teacher, ‘yan ang bahay nina Kevin, mayaman yan sila kaya malaki bahay nila.” Curious, I looked and, well, I found out that Kevin’s house is, true, much bigger than theirs and, also, that their concept of “mayaman” is a lot different from mine. Wealthy, in my opinion, is owning Mercedes Benz, Jaguar, Ford, Lincoln Continental, BMW and twenty other expensive cars with a one-block mansion in Forbes Park and CEO of three, maybe, five companies and whose idea of one-week vacation is touring and shopping Europe in three to five days, but certainly not a multi-colored, two-level, SM North comfort-room sized place where ten people live. I felt my heart split.
It was another thing to see the place where they sleep in, and entirely different to smell it. It was one big pink MMDA urinal with dark, murky ponds here and there that smells familiarly of Philcoa canal and of non-working sewage system with a similar group of thumb-like flies to boot. I wanted to puke, to cover my nose, but, conscience, ethics whatever it was dictated that I be sensitive. Don’t get me wrong, though, I was not in Payatas or in Smokey Mountain or someplace where people throw their garbage, I was in Pook Palaris, a place covered by a high concrete wall beside the University Hotel. Yep, the UH of the University of the Philippines Diliman campus. This may not shock you, after all, for when you ride an Ikot jeepney you would see countless of the sorry state I’m poorly describing to you. The thing is, people like me had become apathetic to these situations. After all, what can you do? But when you know most of the people who live in one of these miserable places, it is another story.
They were there; excitedly pointing out houses that belongs to which child and exclaiming surprises as to why, all of sudden, I visited them for the very first time. I have known them for almost three years. I taught them Christianity, the Bible, and even tutored them in their academics. I see them every Outreach class every Saturday in the Church of the Risen Lord and prayed, played, cleaned, ate with them. They are the central beneficiary of major outreach events that I organize. But, in almost three years, when I first visited them, it was the only time the reality of their condition sunk in.
These children ranging from four to sixteen years old, though not all of them but most, are watch-car boys and girls, they sell sampaguita with their mothers during Sundays outside the Parish, clean stalls, windows and comfort rooms in the Shopping Center. The very age that I was occupied with piano lessons, Barbies, fairy tales, collecting coins, stamps and stationeries to be bartered, sleep-overs, play and t.v time with a yaya in tow, these little children are worrying about where to get money to buy their notebooks, their projects, their allowance, and contributing to the day’s meals. Their goal is survival. And they do a lot of things, aside from decent jobs, to achieve this – quarrelling with another kid to get his or her share of food on our snack time after a Bible lesson, competing for food and gifts, and, believe it or not, there was a time when they even talked a new volunteer into giving them juices and food they knew was not for them by lying to her face, some even stole goodies right after praying, and some, sad to say, entered into a new kind of job, “ending”. I first heard of this gambling activity when, during Bible study, my student asked me casually, “teacher, gusto mo tumaya sa ending?” How would one react when faced by this dilemma? My student said he gambles to save money for the materials he needs to buy for school projects and to purchase another notebook.
After every Bible class, we give out snacks – usually biscuits and juice, and every after snack time, before they leave, one or two of the unkempt children would approach me and ask for one more biscuit for a younger or older sibling. It never fails to sadden me when I look at their expectant faces, but I couldn’t give them, not even in secret, for the others might know of it and would think that I practice favoritism. Of course, the giving of extra biscuits could be made possible if we have more food to distribute, but, unfortunately, we almost always have enough for fifty or so children.
The sad tales of reality never end. It could make you cry, it could teach you when you allow it to sink in or it could awaken you from the deep slumber of apathy and hypocrisy – or, hopefully, all of it combined so as to prompt you into action. Something happened that stirred my already-becoming jaded heart and compelled me to act fast: My eleven year-old student who has been with us for as long as I can remember missed Bible class for two consecutive Saturdays. When I asked his older sister his whereabouts, she just shrugged as if to say “I have no idea”. Then I saw him. It was a Sunday and he was playing with his friends near the Catholic Church, shouting in child-like glee. When he saw me looking at him, he hesitantly approached. “Bakit ka absent”, I asked. “Kase, teacher, wala po ako tsinelas eh”, he answered. When I looked down, the proof was glaring at me -- He was wearing his mother’s worn out slipper.
No wonder they couldn’t fathom the goodness and faithfulness of God that we’ve been telling them for almost three long years. No wonder they couldn’t understand it when we say Jesus loves them. I knew then that until these kids who were smiling so openly at me see bright days, they wouldn’t understand what we mean by blessings from Heaven and Jesus’ love. To them, these are not tangible, not real, but pain and abandonment is. Looking at the sea of expectant and smiling faces made me feel so small and so utterly weak. These children have tasted it all except the goodness of life. It seemed that the little children surrounding me were little adults I should learn from. They have seen, smelled, and felt the harshness of life, yet they go on living like happy, normal children. They may not have the luxury to enjoy life now, but because of what they are going through, if they continue fighting the fight against the all-consuming poverty, their victory in the arena of life is ensured. And then, hopefully, what we’ve been teaching may become, for them, a reality.
Chocolate Lover at 12:56 PM
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