I know I left you all hanging for too long. So here it is:
We rattled and jumped along the bumpy poorly paved streets holding onto our unbolted benches crammed in the back of the church-owned Jeepnie. We stopped at huts, shacks, and houses fitting more and more youth into the over packed vehicle. We were gathering young Filipinos from all over the city and outskirts of Lapu-Lapu for a Youth Rally downtown. We reached the covered concrete basketball court and all piled out of the backside of the old army vehicle grateful we could breath again. As we all looked up we could see young people arriving from all over the city:
The youth from the dumpsite village came crammed in a similar Jeepnie tighter than we had packed in ours. The city youth came on foot in groups or on colorful trykes honking as they came down the road.
We all walked into the outdoor auditorium and faced the plastic chairs neatly lined for the event. On the stage: sound equipment and band instruments ready to be used.
As we all sat down the divide became clear:
On the right the city and suburb youth sat in their bright colored clothes, white powdered and pale faces, oiled and shinned black hair, with book bags, flip flops, hats or barrettes in their air.
To the left the outcasts: the dumpsite youth in their faded thin shirts contrasted by their dark complexions and short frizzed hair. Having nothing to bring with them, they wear dirt covered and duck taped plastic flip-flops no accessories to boast.
The two sides dared not look at each other. They dared not speak across river that was the aisle separating their chairs.
The City folk with brightness in their eyes would with caution dare to take a peek and ‘the others”. “
The “Others” feeling uncomfortable in this concrete city cage were out of their league.
They were out of their world, their slang language, gangs, and rough behavior. Squirming in their seats afraid to look up to see the curious stares or glares of the city side.
I sat next to a young Filipina girl wearing a white shirt and purple clips in her hair on the city folk side. Other students sat on the left. The rally began and we sang Filipino worship songs all together. Although we were one in voice the social divide was great, staring us in the face. Awkwardness in the air.
After worship ended and everyone settled into their previous stances, and the same glances, our trip leader took the mic and took up a challenge. He called on the young Filipino people to help devote themselves to changing the poverty and oppression in their country. Like Moses when he was called to lead his oppressed people that they will have God’s help to bring this change.
Then he pointed out the elephant in the room: The dumpsite people were segregated from the city and suburb youth. To this separation he made it clear: we are all made equal in Christ –and that all Filipinos needed to work together to bring hope to their country. With this we prayed God would call these Filipino young people to reach their own -to instill hope in their hearts.
After such a sober event silence filled the building. Until it was announced that it was time for the youth groups to present their songs, dramas, and human videos. Each youth group did their song and dance, which was followed by clapping and smiles.
But the Dumpsite youth group was by far the most popular. As I watched I realized I had seen this before-they had practiced in their tin roofed church on the outskirts of their village everyday since we had begun visiting them. They wanted to make an impression, to prove themselves,and they did. In these young Filipinos moves you could see the truth of emotion and meaning.
In this interaction- a small shift occurred in the looks and attitudes of the city youth sitting and watching in their chairs. A change-less nervous glances- and then encouraged clapping for their performance. These poor young Filipinos walked back to their chairs with smiles on their faces.
It all ended in prayer. As we crossed the aisles grabbing one another’s hands-the river gap of the aisle was breached -hesitantly. It lasted only a moment but there was a hint of the hope. A joining of young Filipino Christians together encouraged to bring hope to their country.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Setting the Scene: The Philippines
From Kingdom without borders by Miriam Adeney:
“The sun goes down in the blink of an eye in the tropics, but the evenings stretch out wonderfully. People amble, gratefully inhaling the night breeze. Friends laugh, families meander companionably, couples nuzzle. Vendors, alert and awake, cater to everyone’s desires. In upscale places like The Fort or the Mall of Asia or the Podium, stylish people flock to coffee shops and bars.
Yet not far away, cardboard shacks hover on the banks of fetid canals thick with unspeakable garbage. The night breeze and the family and friends and vendors are here too, but the options are limited and the milieu squalid.” (Adeney, 13-14)
This is the Philippines. Small Islands known for their big cities with apartments of concrete and tin roofed shacks. Tropical foliage, mango trees, palms, and flowers. The crowded streets full of bikes, trykes, food carts, jeepnies, and people in flip flops wearing thin clothing. White powdered faces coming in and out of convenient stores selling home goods, local movies and music carrying sun umbrellas. Food carts with roasted chicken and other items on a stick, open-air markets with chickens bound at the feet, and fast food Jollibee standing happy guard outside. This is one version of this country. City life.
The other is right outside the gravel or concrete streets where the road becomes mud and dirt. And the homes become thatched collages of spare sheet metals, dried palm leaves, and old pop music or political posters. Built around waterways where children play in the local dumpsite, sewage waste, drinking water and swimming pool all in one. Wires and antennas strung from home to home held on by pieces of bamboo and duck tape connecting these villages and neighborhoods to the tube. Dirt yards with plastic chairs outside where children play with stones, sticks, and if they are lucky a cheap colorful plastic ball. They wear even thinner clothes some with holes, small dirty shorts, skirts, and t-shirts advertising off-brands in Tagalong, English, or Chinese or with skewed images of famous cartoon characters on them. This is another version of the country. Suburban life.
The last is even further out of town in the arid wasteland. Where the foliage disappears and mango trees do not offer fruit falling down a crevice of a tin roof. The roads are dusty and wide connecting one larger suburb or city to another. But there is life in-between, ignored as an unpleasant blur and smell on the side of the roadway. Some small huts outside known as sari-sari stores house small amounts of products from the city: candy and soda, chips and cosmetics, soaps, shampoos, and laundry powder. The entryway is met with a few homes-the nicer version of what is to be seen further and deeper into the village. They are made of spare parts and pieces: more tin siding and roofs, posters, rotting wood, a bamboo strung door, and rusted and crooked nails or duck tape holding the leaning and buckling structures against each other. Here a meal is served once every three days. Children run around with even thinner clothes that look more like cloth napkins with holes bigger than quarters in them. If the children are wearing clothes at all-it may be washday and they lack pants or a shirt or both. They run around trying to find ways to waste their energy, too young to work. Those who can work are found further back in the village in the mountain landfill: the dumpsite. Where unmarried women and men of all ages work picking through the trash and leftovers from the city scavenging for goods that can be kept, or polished, reshaped, and sold. Blackened by their hours in the sun they are treasure seekers, looking for money in another man’s trash hoping to find enough to provide the family’s dinner in two days. Or to find a new siding to the house, a new piece of cloth for carpet, a new stick to poke the garbage with the next day they work. This is the often untold version of the country: the outcasts: the squatters: the Dumpsite people.
These are the poorest of the poor.
So what happens when all three versions of this country collide?
To be continued . . .
P.S.- for those of you who can relate to seeing similar situations (any of the three pictures I describe) in other countries please feel free to share your memories, feelings, and reactions. If you have not, feel free also to comment of course on your thoughts in reading this :)
-sorry if the pictures are too small-anyone know how I can make them bigger?
“The sun goes down in the blink of an eye in the tropics, but the evenings stretch out wonderfully. People amble, gratefully inhaling the night breeze. Friends laugh, families meander companionably, couples nuzzle. Vendors, alert and awake, cater to everyone’s desires. In upscale places like The Fort or the Mall of Asia or the Podium, stylish people flock to coffee shops and bars.
Yet not far away, cardboard shacks hover on the banks of fetid canals thick with unspeakable garbage. The night breeze and the family and friends and vendors are here too, but the options are limited and the milieu squalid.” (Adeney, 13-14)
This is the Philippines. Small Islands known for their big cities with apartments of concrete and tin roofed shacks. Tropical foliage, mango trees, palms, and flowers. The crowded streets full of bikes, trykes, food carts, jeepnies, and people in flip flops wearing thin clothing. White powdered faces coming in and out of convenient stores selling home goods, local movies and music carrying sun umbrellas. Food carts with roasted chicken and other items on a stick, open-air markets with chickens bound at the feet, and fast food Jollibee standing happy guard outside. This is one version of this country. City life.
The other is right outside the gravel or concrete streets where the road becomes mud and dirt. And the homes become thatched collages of spare sheet metals, dried palm leaves, and old pop music or political posters. Built around waterways where children play in the local dumpsite, sewage waste, drinking water and swimming pool all in one. Wires and antennas strung from home to home held on by pieces of bamboo and duck tape connecting these villages and neighborhoods to the tube. Dirt yards with plastic chairs outside where children play with stones, sticks, and if they are lucky a cheap colorful plastic ball. They wear even thinner clothes some with holes, small dirty shorts, skirts, and t-shirts advertising off-brands in Tagalong, English, or Chinese or with skewed images of famous cartoon characters on them. This is another version of the country. Suburban life.
The last is even further out of town in the arid wasteland. Where the foliage disappears and mango trees do not offer fruit falling down a crevice of a tin roof. The roads are dusty and wide connecting one larger suburb or city to another. But there is life in-between, ignored as an unpleasant blur and smell on the side of the roadway. Some small huts outside known as sari-sari stores house small amounts of products from the city: candy and soda, chips and cosmetics, soaps, shampoos, and laundry powder. The entryway is met with a few homes-the nicer version of what is to be seen further and deeper into the village. They are made of spare parts and pieces: more tin siding and roofs, posters, rotting wood, a bamboo strung door, and rusted and crooked nails or duck tape holding the leaning and buckling structures against each other. Here a meal is served once every three days. Children run around with even thinner clothes that look more like cloth napkins with holes bigger than quarters in them. If the children are wearing clothes at all-it may be washday and they lack pants or a shirt or both. They run around trying to find ways to waste their energy, too young to work. Those who can work are found further back in the village in the mountain landfill: the dumpsite. Where unmarried women and men of all ages work picking through the trash and leftovers from the city scavenging for goods that can be kept, or polished, reshaped, and sold. Blackened by their hours in the sun they are treasure seekers, looking for money in another man’s trash hoping to find enough to provide the family’s dinner in two days. Or to find a new siding to the house, a new piece of cloth for carpet, a new stick to poke the garbage with the next day they work. This is the often untold version of the country: the outcasts: the squatters: the Dumpsite people.
These are the poorest of the poor.
So what happens when all three versions of this country collide?
To be continued . . .
P.S.- for those of you who can relate to seeing similar situations (any of the three pictures I describe) in other countries please feel free to share your memories, feelings, and reactions. If you have not, feel free also to comment of course on your thoughts in reading this :)
-sorry if the pictures are too small-anyone know how I can make them bigger?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
