Me- “I’m a Methodist missionary.”
Local- “Baptist?”
Me- “No, Methodist.”
Local- "Baptist."
Me- "No, United Methodist."
Local- “Catholic?”
Me- “Umm…. Jesus? Jesus.”
Local- “So, Catholic.”
Me, changing the subject- “Gusta nemo ka carne mo?" (Would you like my share of the meat?)
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Thanksgiving and Solidarity
A fair amount of time has passed since I last wrote. I wish I could say I’ve been so busy I just haven’t had time, but quite frankly, for all my years of formal education, I have merely been unable to formulate sentences that could be at all relevant in my experiences here. It’s been little things, trips to the market, countless meals of rice and fish, words learned and lessons lost. When I look at the calendar I can scarcely believe that it’s already December; the unbearable weather here seems to leave my understanding of time in a perpetual month of August. And yet, I bear it. Everyone else here just deals with it- there are very few of us who flourish in it. So often when I tell American friends of the constant eating of rice and dried fish, of the endless sweating in the humidity they’ll say, “Wow, that’s not for me.” It begs the question, are we actually ignorant enough to think that Filipinos love living without air conditioning, that they enjoy eating the same food every day? Just because people are accustomed to a lifestyle doesn’t mean they would have chosen it for themselves.
Right now I’m listening to old European Christmas carols as I sit writing next to our office’s Christmas tree. It’s meager and under-decorated, but I rejoice in seeing it anyway. There are reminders of home everywhere, at no time more obvious than during the Thanksgiving celebration our office held last week. There was no turkey (we would have to shoot it ourselves, and there was no way I was condoning such an action, in my heart I am still a vegetarian) but there was stuffing, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and pie. Pineapple pie is still pie. Fifteen people in all joined in the celebration- coworkers and their spouses and a few children. We all said what we were thankful for- all for family and loved ones and most tellingly, many for solidarity in the cause of peace and justice in this country. I was most thankful that even in my isolation on the other side of the world, I had learned that I was not alone. Not alone in being, but mostly not alone in my desire for love and peace. If good-hearted Americans think it is our job to “save” the world, we are sorely mistaken. The most we can hope for is to be in solidarity, to struggle along side the masses and to open our hearts to justice, no matter what that will mean for our comfortable way of life.
I have found myself more comfortable being back in Davao City. I spent the end of October through the middle of November in Polomolok, a Dole pineapple plantation a half hour from General Santos City on the southeastern side of Mindanao. It was an enlightening and bizarre experience. Enlightening that I learned so much about the workers’ struggle against massive multinationals like Dole and bizarre in that I was just thrust into their lives for the briefest period of time and for those few days I was there felt consumed by the apparent hopelessness of their fight against greed-driven capitalism. And yet, is there not always hope? Filipino national ballads project such an idea, as do liberal priests and activist nuns. Those who are true to the faith do not put all hope in end-of-the-world eschatology that declares the people should wait for God to do right. The faithful most in touch know that there is a call for the church to do something, to be an aid and a comfort to her people in their endless conflict with the powers that be.
I was not an aid or a comfort in Polomolok- in the most obvious sense I imagine I was a burden. Oh, the American can’t eat this or that, the American wonders where she can buy toilet paper, the American needs extra water to do her laundry. Certainly no one was short with me, in fact it was their over-accommodation, their severe hospitality that made me the most uncomfortable. The guilt and shame I felt in my inability to survive was not personal, but societal. For my own experience, I was quite proud of how I adapted. Compared to those around me, I was unnaturally weak.
Weakness is perhaps the greatest burden here. I carry it around in the form of a water bottle and closed-toe shoes, both connected by climbing hooks to my water proof backpack that is twice the size of anything else my colleagues are carrying. But I need, x y and z, I need this medication for this affliction and this one to prevent malaria. And bug spray and a misquito net and a dictionary and a phone charger… It just goes on. I’m weak when I carry so much extra. Then I’m vulnerable when I go without. Humility is not an option, it’s an assigned task.
On December 3 I’ll be going on my second immersion to a peasant community an hour and a half out from Davao City Proper. I’ve already met the nuns and priest I’ll be spending most of my time with at a forum at their parish, St. Isidro. The local farmers had come to the church leaders requesting a forum on new government legislation that threatens to turn the land, their very livelihoods, over to large multi-national mining companies. They’ve entrusted their fate to these clergy, who in turn have returned it to the people. At the forum the leaders recommended the peasants start their own labor organization in an effort to unite in a seemingly hopeless struggle for their way of life.
I look forward to spending the beginning of Advent, the season of active waiting, with these peasants. I hope to learn enough about their situation to be of some use- I hope to be wise enough to find my place and that, that place may be in solidarity.
I hope I don’t have to eat very much pork, but of this, I am skeptical.
Right now I’m listening to old European Christmas carols as I sit writing next to our office’s Christmas tree. It’s meager and under-decorated, but I rejoice in seeing it anyway. There are reminders of home everywhere, at no time more obvious than during the Thanksgiving celebration our office held last week. There was no turkey (we would have to shoot it ourselves, and there was no way I was condoning such an action, in my heart I am still a vegetarian) but there was stuffing, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and pie. Pineapple pie is still pie. Fifteen people in all joined in the celebration- coworkers and their spouses and a few children. We all said what we were thankful for- all for family and loved ones and most tellingly, many for solidarity in the cause of peace and justice in this country. I was most thankful that even in my isolation on the other side of the world, I had learned that I was not alone. Not alone in being, but mostly not alone in my desire for love and peace. If good-hearted Americans think it is our job to “save” the world, we are sorely mistaken. The most we can hope for is to be in solidarity, to struggle along side the masses and to open our hearts to justice, no matter what that will mean for our comfortable way of life.
I have found myself more comfortable being back in Davao City. I spent the end of October through the middle of November in Polomolok, a Dole pineapple plantation a half hour from General Santos City on the southeastern side of Mindanao. It was an enlightening and bizarre experience. Enlightening that I learned so much about the workers’ struggle against massive multinationals like Dole and bizarre in that I was just thrust into their lives for the briefest period of time and for those few days I was there felt consumed by the apparent hopelessness of their fight against greed-driven capitalism. And yet, is there not always hope? Filipino national ballads project such an idea, as do liberal priests and activist nuns. Those who are true to the faith do not put all hope in end-of-the-world eschatology that declares the people should wait for God to do right. The faithful most in touch know that there is a call for the church to do something, to be an aid and a comfort to her people in their endless conflict with the powers that be.
I was not an aid or a comfort in Polomolok- in the most obvious sense I imagine I was a burden. Oh, the American can’t eat this or that, the American wonders where she can buy toilet paper, the American needs extra water to do her laundry. Certainly no one was short with me, in fact it was their over-accommodation, their severe hospitality that made me the most uncomfortable. The guilt and shame I felt in my inability to survive was not personal, but societal. For my own experience, I was quite proud of how I adapted. Compared to those around me, I was unnaturally weak.
Weakness is perhaps the greatest burden here. I carry it around in the form of a water bottle and closed-toe shoes, both connected by climbing hooks to my water proof backpack that is twice the size of anything else my colleagues are carrying. But I need, x y and z, I need this medication for this affliction and this one to prevent malaria. And bug spray and a misquito net and a dictionary and a phone charger… It just goes on. I’m weak when I carry so much extra. Then I’m vulnerable when I go without. Humility is not an option, it’s an assigned task.
On December 3 I’ll be going on my second immersion to a peasant community an hour and a half out from Davao City Proper. I’ve already met the nuns and priest I’ll be spending most of my time with at a forum at their parish, St. Isidro. The local farmers had come to the church leaders requesting a forum on new government legislation that threatens to turn the land, their very livelihoods, over to large multi-national mining companies. They’ve entrusted their fate to these clergy, who in turn have returned it to the people. At the forum the leaders recommended the peasants start their own labor organization in an effort to unite in a seemingly hopeless struggle for their way of life.
I look forward to spending the beginning of Advent, the season of active waiting, with these peasants. I hope to learn enough about their situation to be of some use- I hope to be wise enough to find my place and that, that place may be in solidarity.
I hope I don’t have to eat very much pork, but of this, I am skeptical.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Into the Tondo
I was in the Tondo community September 19-20, part of a longer urban poverty immersion in Manila.
It has taken me a while to write this. I still wonder if it's my place to write what I do- if I tell a story from this island, it's not mine. The story, the land, the people in it. It seems like lots of Westerns have spent the last 450 years taking what they want from the Philippines, from the Global South in general. And so if listening carefully is important for me here, speaking carefully, choosing language carefully is just as important. I think perhaps the greatest flaw in many non-profits, in many well-meaning people who want to work "on" issues or "on" countries starts with the language they choose. If we talk about places and people like they're projects then we grow to feel we can take their images, stories and ideas without their permission. Because of course, we'll be using this information in their best interest. There are lots of problems with this reappropriation, but the most glaring is that we assume we know what is in the best interest of someone else just because they are poorer, less "educated," different.
It's also taken me a while to write this because I haven't wanted to think about it. It would be grossly unfair to say that what I see most of the time here is tragedy- quite the opposite. The way of life, the people I've met, the foods I eat are for the most part amazing and much of my time here is spent laughing with coworkers and learning all I can from the people around me. But it's human nature to remember the negative, to dwell on the horrifying. Maybe because at heart our nature is morbid, but I think it's because deep down we know that it's the darkest moments that define us the most. It's the time of suffering, the hours of struggle that make our victories meaningful. It's not until we've faced true tragedy that we can live real joy. Good Friday to Easter.
But some people's Good Fridays last longer than others. The Villa Delorosa to Tondo is hidden and strange. Powers-that-be have done an excellent job hiding this poverty, blotting this blemish on the face of Manila. But a stench cannot be blotted. So I smelled the Tondo before I saw it. It permeated the inside of the taxi that my guide had hired to bring us there- I could feel it getting into my hair. I glanced at the clock on my cellphone, a habit I'd gotten into throughout the immersion.
Tondo is a warehouse community that sits inside the main garbage dump of metro Manila. The city built these warehouses for this very purpose, to hide the public housing where no one of monetary value will ever travel. And public housing is a very generous term. Warehouse is literal. The structures are just large empty two story rectangular buildings among the heaps of trash. There's no running water (that I could see). Thousands of people live in these buildings. They've separated the space into "apartments" with tin and plywood, some have managed to run in electricity, but it only works from 6pm to sunrise.
And garbage is not just the aroma, but the income. The work in this community consists of sifting through the trash to find recyclable materials like plastic, glass, and aluminum. The materials are wrapped in bundles and sent to factories to reuse. Women and children are the main labor force, but men who haven't been able to find other work as a tricycle or taxi driver do the sifting as well. And that's a lot of them- under and unemployment rates are through the roof.
The walk into urban poor communities has consistently been a bizarre experience. When I first round the corner or go through the gate I feel a bit like a celebrity because everyone stares and points and waves and the children all want to know my name. White people don't usually tour these parts of the Philippines. But I feel more like a dog with its tail between its legs because I know the economic systems that allow people like me to be so wealthy have a downside. And this is it; widespread, gruesome, and cruel poverty.
The entrance into Tondo was different and not. It's like the high-rise of shanty communities, a mini-city of naked children and haggard adults sifting through mountains of garbage. I just wanted to run- I looked over my shoulder as they cab that had driven my guide and I here was pulling away. I wanted to call after it. I wanted to go anywhere, anywhere else. A small child ran over to me. "Hey, Joe!" he shouted, holding out his hand. "Joe, joe," he said over and over.
"Wala," I replied, my voice empty. I shook my head. No money here, no pesos here for you. I had made the mistake of giving out money before, against the advice of my guide. The children had swarmed me and she eventually had to yell at that them and push them away.
"You won't have enough for all of them," she said.
Hollowness gripped me when the boy finally gave up and went to beg elsewhere. Someone has enough for all of them- someone has these children's share tucked away in a bank or invested in a company. Someone is driving it around or wearing it on his wrist. These children have been robbed before they even leave the womb.
I stayed in the community night. I will decline to write about my evening experience because I do not feel I can do justice to the generosity of my hosts and I would only be self-centered and focused on the hardships I faced for less than 24 hours. And those are not my burdens to claim. I was just a guest looking in, counting down minutes until I could find a bathroom and breathe clean air. My efforts were so minimal, my time so short. Maybe if I lived there for years, or raised a child there, maybe if leaving was not a luxury I was afforded- then I would have something to say about Tondo.
A danger I face in sharing the positive side of Filipino life is that I will subconsciously romanticize their hardships. Certainly the family bonds here are powerful, life is much slower, there is time made to talk, and the people are hospitable. But it is in my best interest, not theirs to say life is "quaint" here and this is "just the way they do things." While cultural difference play a huge part, no one enjoys living in absolute poverty. Maybe people make the best of it, but for me to write off what I see as just an interesting outlook on life is to divorce any responsibility for the poverty. It's true, Filipinos laugh a lot, but it's not because life is great. Just because people love their families doesn't mean they love living in a shanty with them. Just because Filipinos are kind to foreigners doesn't mean they don't understand that the West has robbed them.
And so I'll share this. As we left the next morning my guide was stopped by a woman who was concerned about her neighbor’s baby. We went to see the child in question. I cannot describe truly what I saw, at first I thought his head was much too big for his body and then I looked closer and saw his ribs and joints clearly exposed his skin. His mother was cleaning his diaper. His waste looked like that of a bird’s. I tried not to stare at the boy and his mother while my guide talked to the other woman in hurried Tagalog. I was able to decipher what they were saying through their sporadic use of English- this was a case of a simple infection gone awry and compounded with severe dehydration. The mother’s eyes were dull and distant, a sign of childhood malnourishment- a sign of hunger-caused mental retardation. She explained she had just kept giving the baby water in a bottle to try to rehydrate him. She hadn’t known he’d needed to go to the hospital. Her other two children were standing by. Things had gotten tight and she’d been giving her food to them so they wouldn’t go hungry. She didn’t know this would make her breast milk worthless to the baby.
The guide, a former nurse, gave the other woman the name of an admittance counselor at a local Catholic hospital. “They’ll see the baby for free,” she said, and quieter, “God knows, they would have before too.” She paused and glanced at the mother. “And she needs get a prenatal exam.” I swallowed. Of course the mother was pregnant again. This is a Catholic country- birth control is condemned and is widely unavailable, especially to the poor.
As we walked out of the warehouse, I leaned in a little to speak to my guide, but couldn’t figure out how to start the sentence. I didn’t have to- she shook her head as she put her arm around my waist. “This is what it looks like. It’s not the mother’s fault- no money, no education,” she said. And then she said, "It will be over soon.”
Maybe for one child. For his mother, this will go on and on. For the people it will never end until the world is turned on its head.
We took care to hop over the streams of filth on our way back to the main road, on our way out of the Tondo. I took care to look over my shoulder and not at my watch, but by the next evening I was sleeping comfortably in my own room, belly full of good food, running water just a few feet away. The hum of the air-conditioning drown out the noise of the people in the street.
It has taken me a while to write this. I still wonder if it's my place to write what I do- if I tell a story from this island, it's not mine. The story, the land, the people in it. It seems like lots of Westerns have spent the last 450 years taking what they want from the Philippines, from the Global South in general. And so if listening carefully is important for me here, speaking carefully, choosing language carefully is just as important. I think perhaps the greatest flaw in many non-profits, in many well-meaning people who want to work "on" issues or "on" countries starts with the language they choose. If we talk about places and people like they're projects then we grow to feel we can take their images, stories and ideas without their permission. Because of course, we'll be using this information in their best interest. There are lots of problems with this reappropriation, but the most glaring is that we assume we know what is in the best interest of someone else just because they are poorer, less "educated," different.
It's also taken me a while to write this because I haven't wanted to think about it. It would be grossly unfair to say that what I see most of the time here is tragedy- quite the opposite. The way of life, the people I've met, the foods I eat are for the most part amazing and much of my time here is spent laughing with coworkers and learning all I can from the people around me. But it's human nature to remember the negative, to dwell on the horrifying. Maybe because at heart our nature is morbid, but I think it's because deep down we know that it's the darkest moments that define us the most. It's the time of suffering, the hours of struggle that make our victories meaningful. It's not until we've faced true tragedy that we can live real joy. Good Friday to Easter.
But some people's Good Fridays last longer than others. The Villa Delorosa to Tondo is hidden and strange. Powers-that-be have done an excellent job hiding this poverty, blotting this blemish on the face of Manila. But a stench cannot be blotted. So I smelled the Tondo before I saw it. It permeated the inside of the taxi that my guide had hired to bring us there- I could feel it getting into my hair. I glanced at the clock on my cellphone, a habit I'd gotten into throughout the immersion.
Tondo is a warehouse community that sits inside the main garbage dump of metro Manila. The city built these warehouses for this very purpose, to hide the public housing where no one of monetary value will ever travel. And public housing is a very generous term. Warehouse is literal. The structures are just large empty two story rectangular buildings among the heaps of trash. There's no running water (that I could see). Thousands of people live in these buildings. They've separated the space into "apartments" with tin and plywood, some have managed to run in electricity, but it only works from 6pm to sunrise.
And garbage is not just the aroma, but the income. The work in this community consists of sifting through the trash to find recyclable materials like plastic, glass, and aluminum. The materials are wrapped in bundles and sent to factories to reuse. Women and children are the main labor force, but men who haven't been able to find other work as a tricycle or taxi driver do the sifting as well. And that's a lot of them- under and unemployment rates are through the roof.
The walk into urban poor communities has consistently been a bizarre experience. When I first round the corner or go through the gate I feel a bit like a celebrity because everyone stares and points and waves and the children all want to know my name. White people don't usually tour these parts of the Philippines. But I feel more like a dog with its tail between its legs because I know the economic systems that allow people like me to be so wealthy have a downside. And this is it; widespread, gruesome, and cruel poverty.
The entrance into Tondo was different and not. It's like the high-rise of shanty communities, a mini-city of naked children and haggard adults sifting through mountains of garbage. I just wanted to run- I looked over my shoulder as they cab that had driven my guide and I here was pulling away. I wanted to call after it. I wanted to go anywhere, anywhere else. A small child ran over to me. "Hey, Joe!" he shouted, holding out his hand. "Joe, joe," he said over and over.
"Wala," I replied, my voice empty. I shook my head. No money here, no pesos here for you. I had made the mistake of giving out money before, against the advice of my guide. The children had swarmed me and she eventually had to yell at that them and push them away.
"You won't have enough for all of them," she said.
Hollowness gripped me when the boy finally gave up and went to beg elsewhere. Someone has enough for all of them- someone has these children's share tucked away in a bank or invested in a company. Someone is driving it around or wearing it on his wrist. These children have been robbed before they even leave the womb.
I stayed in the community night. I will decline to write about my evening experience because I do not feel I can do justice to the generosity of my hosts and I would only be self-centered and focused on the hardships I faced for less than 24 hours. And those are not my burdens to claim. I was just a guest looking in, counting down minutes until I could find a bathroom and breathe clean air. My efforts were so minimal, my time so short. Maybe if I lived there for years, or raised a child there, maybe if leaving was not a luxury I was afforded- then I would have something to say about Tondo.
A danger I face in sharing the positive side of Filipino life is that I will subconsciously romanticize their hardships. Certainly the family bonds here are powerful, life is much slower, there is time made to talk, and the people are hospitable. But it is in my best interest, not theirs to say life is "quaint" here and this is "just the way they do things." While cultural difference play a huge part, no one enjoys living in absolute poverty. Maybe people make the best of it, but for me to write off what I see as just an interesting outlook on life is to divorce any responsibility for the poverty. It's true, Filipinos laugh a lot, but it's not because life is great. Just because people love their families doesn't mean they love living in a shanty with them. Just because Filipinos are kind to foreigners doesn't mean they don't understand that the West has robbed them.
And so I'll share this. As we left the next morning my guide was stopped by a woman who was concerned about her neighbor’s baby. We went to see the child in question. I cannot describe truly what I saw, at first I thought his head was much too big for his body and then I looked closer and saw his ribs and joints clearly exposed his skin. His mother was cleaning his diaper. His waste looked like that of a bird’s. I tried not to stare at the boy and his mother while my guide talked to the other woman in hurried Tagalog. I was able to decipher what they were saying through their sporadic use of English- this was a case of a simple infection gone awry and compounded with severe dehydration. The mother’s eyes were dull and distant, a sign of childhood malnourishment- a sign of hunger-caused mental retardation. She explained she had just kept giving the baby water in a bottle to try to rehydrate him. She hadn’t known he’d needed to go to the hospital. Her other two children were standing by. Things had gotten tight and she’d been giving her food to them so they wouldn’t go hungry. She didn’t know this would make her breast milk worthless to the baby.
The guide, a former nurse, gave the other woman the name of an admittance counselor at a local Catholic hospital. “They’ll see the baby for free,” she said, and quieter, “God knows, they would have before too.” She paused and glanced at the mother. “And she needs get a prenatal exam.” I swallowed. Of course the mother was pregnant again. This is a Catholic country- birth control is condemned and is widely unavailable, especially to the poor.
As we walked out of the warehouse, I leaned in a little to speak to my guide, but couldn’t figure out how to start the sentence. I didn’t have to- she shook her head as she put her arm around my waist. “This is what it looks like. It’s not the mother’s fault- no money, no education,” she said. And then she said, "It will be over soon.”
Maybe for one child. For his mother, this will go on and on. For the people it will never end until the world is turned on its head.
We took care to hop over the streams of filth on our way back to the main road, on our way out of the Tondo. I took care to look over my shoulder and not at my watch, but by the next evening I was sleeping comfortably in my own room, belly full of good food, running water just a few feet away. The hum of the air-conditioning drown out the noise of the people in the street.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Good News?- Reflections for NCCP Staff Worship on my month in Manila
I spent a good deal of time packing for the Philippines. It was a months-long process- making lists, buying a few things here or there, and then during my last few days in the states it was mental agony trying to decide what I would need for more than a year in a country I knew very little about. And for all my worry, I came here only forgetting one thing. Not bad, except for the fact that, that one thing was my Bible. A missionary who forgot her Bible.
At first I thought, a missionary who forgets her Bible is like a soldier who forgets his gun, who comes running to his destination leaving behind the thing with which he's been the most trained. But as I've thought about it more and more, I've come to believe that this unarmed soldier may be the best kind of soldier. He's a soldier who must be careful and listen, who has lowered his defenses and must rely on the people around him. He's a soldier without an easy solution to fall back on.
I hope to be the best kind of missionary. I, too, hope to come with my defenses down, careful with words and more careful in listening. I want to be the missionary who lives in partnership, not leadership and not servitude, at least not the kind of servitude that perpetuates the imbalance of power between the Northern and Southern Hemispheres.
I can see a little bit of the imbalance in the scripture we've read today. This imbalance may not be what the writer of Isaiah II had in mind, but I think the greatest truths come when we turn traditional sources of wisdom upside down. The Good News today is this, "My people, foreigners will serve you. They will take care of your flocks and farm and tend your vineyards. And you will be known as priests of the Lord, the servants of our God. You will enjoy the wealth of nations and be proud that it is yours." (Isaiah 61: 5-7)
Good news, right? Looks like God's people are living quite well here. Unless of course we consider that God's people also include the foreigners. And after a month in Manila, this is what I've come to believe- the Filipinos have been made to be foreigners in their own land. Whether it's the Moros in Mindanao, farmers in Luzon, or workers who live in the shanty slums, their lives are determined and destroyed by powers that be, powers that come in from the West and take what they want. Priests from Spain took the land and the religion, and then capitalists from America took the economy and educational system as well. The Filipinos will work for them; they will be the foreigners who serve.
But I've also learned that just like that of ancient Israel, the collective Filipino memory is long. The nearly 400 years of Spanish rule is not forgotten and the US-Filipino War is not forgotten either. Three hundred thousand Filipinos lost their lives in that war, as did 100,000 during the Japanese Invasion of World War II. And the presence of US troops for the past 60 years is on the people's mind. After all, the Americans are still here.
In light of this knowledge, I am forced to ask myself this question- how can the presence of one more Westerner, one more white American, be a good thing? What can I do here? Can I undo the damage of militarization and commercialization? Is there anything I can say to change anything? How can I possibly bring the Good News when I don't have any answers, when I left my Bible and so much of what I knew at home?
And that's when I realized- the best kind of missionary doesn't bring good news. She looks for it. She stands in solidarity with the oppressed and listens when they speak. A good missionary doesn't come armed with solutions or with Truths- she comes with open ears and an open heart, gentle hands and a grateful tongue. The solutions come from the people and the Truths come from God, but when God speaks he does so through the oppressed and downtrodden. What can I do here? I can listen for the word of God that comes from the displaced and desperate.
Because after all, Filipinos don't want foreigners to serve them. They just want to possess the fields they till, the companies they serve, and the land of their ancestors. They want clean water to drink, air to breathe, and education that includes their story. They want what everyone wants- to be citizens, not servants, in their country.
I hope in the next fifteen months I can learn to live in partnership, that I grow to find the place of solidarity and learn to stand in strength and silence. I hope I am ready to hear the news that comes from the mouth of the people, the words that bring liberation for them as well as their oppressors. And then I will be a messenger of the Good News- I'll take it home with me.
At first I thought, a missionary who forgets her Bible is like a soldier who forgets his gun, who comes running to his destination leaving behind the thing with which he's been the most trained. But as I've thought about it more and more, I've come to believe that this unarmed soldier may be the best kind of soldier. He's a soldier who must be careful and listen, who has lowered his defenses and must rely on the people around him. He's a soldier without an easy solution to fall back on.
I hope to be the best kind of missionary. I, too, hope to come with my defenses down, careful with words and more careful in listening. I want to be the missionary who lives in partnership, not leadership and not servitude, at least not the kind of servitude that perpetuates the imbalance of power between the Northern and Southern Hemispheres.
I can see a little bit of the imbalance in the scripture we've read today. This imbalance may not be what the writer of Isaiah II had in mind, but I think the greatest truths come when we turn traditional sources of wisdom upside down. The Good News today is this, "My people, foreigners will serve you. They will take care of your flocks and farm and tend your vineyards. And you will be known as priests of the Lord, the servants of our God. You will enjoy the wealth of nations and be proud that it is yours." (Isaiah 61: 5-7)
Good news, right? Looks like God's people are living quite well here. Unless of course we consider that God's people also include the foreigners. And after a month in Manila, this is what I've come to believe- the Filipinos have been made to be foreigners in their own land. Whether it's the Moros in Mindanao, farmers in Luzon, or workers who live in the shanty slums, their lives are determined and destroyed by powers that be, powers that come in from the West and take what they want. Priests from Spain took the land and the religion, and then capitalists from America took the economy and educational system as well. The Filipinos will work for them; they will be the foreigners who serve.
But I've also learned that just like that of ancient Israel, the collective Filipino memory is long. The nearly 400 years of Spanish rule is not forgotten and the US-Filipino War is not forgotten either. Three hundred thousand Filipinos lost their lives in that war, as did 100,000 during the Japanese Invasion of World War II. And the presence of US troops for the past 60 years is on the people's mind. After all, the Americans are still here.
In light of this knowledge, I am forced to ask myself this question- how can the presence of one more Westerner, one more white American, be a good thing? What can I do here? Can I undo the damage of militarization and commercialization? Is there anything I can say to change anything? How can I possibly bring the Good News when I don't have any answers, when I left my Bible and so much of what I knew at home?
And that's when I realized- the best kind of missionary doesn't bring good news. She looks for it. She stands in solidarity with the oppressed and listens when they speak. A good missionary doesn't come armed with solutions or with Truths- she comes with open ears and an open heart, gentle hands and a grateful tongue. The solutions come from the people and the Truths come from God, but when God speaks he does so through the oppressed and downtrodden. What can I do here? I can listen for the word of God that comes from the displaced and desperate.
Because after all, Filipinos don't want foreigners to serve them. They just want to possess the fields they till, the companies they serve, and the land of their ancestors. They want clean water to drink, air to breathe, and education that includes their story. They want what everyone wants- to be citizens, not servants, in their country.
I hope in the next fifteen months I can learn to live in partnership, that I grow to find the place of solidarity and learn to stand in strength and silence. I hope I am ready to hear the news that comes from the mouth of the people, the words that bring liberation for them as well as their oppressors. And then I will be a messenger of the Good News- I'll take it home with me.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Laika's Community
Though I have not started my actual job (this will happen after I leave for Mindanao on October 2), my schedule has picked up here. In the past week I have done two urban immersions in which I went into local communities and stayed with host families and took part in daily activities while learning about the political issues affecting the people.
My first stay was hosted through Kairos, a Catholic organzation that works with squatter communities to organize the people to fight for their own justice. Many squatters in Manila are former farmers who have been forced to flee their lands due to economic hardship. As though it is not enough that they live in shanty villages, many without water and sanitation, now the government threatens to demolish these villages in the name of big business.
The community is right off the highway, after exiting the jeepney, we walked around a corner and saw the community. This was only my second observation, the first thing that struck me was the smell. I cannot fully describe what the stench of this sewage-filled river is like- even as I think about it now, I feel a bit queasy. And I'd thought maybe the smell would pass or I would get used to it, but as I lay on the floor of Laika's one-room shanty with the other 6 members of the family later that night, the smell kept me awake.
Laika's mother was unbelievably kind. She was constant in offering me snacks (coconut milk right from the fruit, fish cooked whole on a skillet outside) and spent a great deal of time just talking to me about what life was like here and the dreams she had for her daughters. In the evening of my second day there seminaries from Redemptorist Catholic Seminary in a nearby part of Manila. It was good to be able to share with them. They had all come from the provinces and this was their first exposure to urban poverty. It is so different than rural poverty, they said. At least out in the country there is clean air and space for the children. In urban poverty the air, water, and land are all filthy.
And the children are small. When I first meant Janine, Laika's youngest sister, I thought she was about 6 years old. She was so small and quite. Janine is actually 10, almost 11. I took to her immediately and she held my hand anytime we walked somewhere so I wouldn't get lost. She shared her toys with me though she had so few, her favorite was her bottle cap collection. There were no real rules to the game, just shuffling them around. Coming from a country where a child's happiness is a commodity that Disney, Mattel and other corporations sell, the sight of her so in awe of toys from garbage moved me.
Though I was inclined to stay on with them longer, Kairos had arranged for me to go to another squatter village that night. This village was by the airport, right beside the barbed wire fence that partions off the runway. I must have flown over it on my way into Manila. The smell was not nearly as prominent here, but the noise from the planes was so loud that anytime one flew overhead, the shanties' tin walls would shake.
The house I stayed at here was larger- three rooms, one of which was a sewing cubby where the mother made handcraft rugs to sell on the streets. Getting into the home was difficult. It was on the second floor so to enter one had to climb a wooden ladder from the street. I quickly learned that there was no water there- on this particular day they didn't have the 2 pesos (4 cents) to fill get their container filled and since the father was at work there was no one strong enough to carry it up the ladder. I have no idea what they were doing as far as using the toilet, I didn't ask.
When I left the shanty town on my third day of the exposure, I didn't look over my shoulder- I was on the way to the promised land of personal space and running water. There can be no true solidarity when one can fall back on other resources, but I am ashamed to say in that moment I just didn't care. I was not strong enough to stay there.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Magandan hapon from metro Manila
When I first heard I was going to Philippines, when I first tried to dream of the Philippines, of what any of this would be like, my mind went blank and empty- away from thick jungles, dirt roads, and rice patties. Like a potted plant moving from its container, I said, I am ready to live in a different soil, breath the air of a different dirt, gaze at foreign stars. Here now, at a desk in an office on the biggest thoroughfare in Manila, I am glad I did not dream of these things. Because so far, that is not where I am.
In the mornings here I watch the sunrise over large buildings and parking lots and palm trees. It comes early here, at 5:30. The first day I was hear I noticed a nearby rooster crows at daybreak. Then I noticed the rooster crows pretty much all the time. I no longer notice the rooster as much as abhor it. True though, without him, the juxtaposition of farm life and urban living would be lost. The Karaoke Bar down the street broadcasts its patrons' offerings well until the wee hours, along with the never-ending stream of traffic. Filippinos aren't agressive or angry drivers, but the majority of vehicles are older and so the noise can be a bit overwhelming. I am pleased I will only be in Manila through October 1st. I hear in Davao there are more trees and cleaner air. The smog here is quite terrible- when riding in jeepneys women will cover their children's mouths with hankercheifs or napkins. Needless to say, I have not done any biking or jogging since I've been here.
This past Thursday I went to a forum on the global "War on Terror", apprpriately scheduled on the 6th anniversary of September 11. There's a very pacificistic movement here, I think it comes from the Filipino experience in WWII (100,000 civilians were killed within one month when the Japanese were trying to take over the islands). Filipinos are concerned about protecting their civil rights after the passing of the Filipino version of the Patriot Act, as many Americans are at home. I continue to find more similarities here than differences.
Young people are politically active and gravely concerned about the economic issues here. The main line of work for most adults here continues to be international-focused (either they travel abroad to make a decent salary they can not get here, or they do telecommunications work outsourced by American companies.) The Western World seems keen on taking advantage of the cheap labor here and as in the United States, corporations seem to always win over the workers, especially the poorest ones.
The food is different. In my time here I have gone from being a former vegetarian to a conesore of stuffed squid, turkey intestines and fish. Lots of fish. But not like American fish- Filipino fish come with their heads and tails still attached. I find it hard to not look the fish in the eye while I scrape the meat from his bones, or more often, the bones out of the meat. The taste of the food is not altogether unpleasant when dipped in approprate soups. That being said- I am already one third of the way through on of the jars of peanut butter my grandmother sent with me. :-)
In the mornings here I watch the sunrise over large buildings and parking lots and palm trees. It comes early here, at 5:30. The first day I was hear I noticed a nearby rooster crows at daybreak. Then I noticed the rooster crows pretty much all the time. I no longer notice the rooster as much as abhor it. True though, without him, the juxtaposition of farm life and urban living would be lost. The Karaoke Bar down the street broadcasts its patrons' offerings well until the wee hours, along with the never-ending stream of traffic. Filippinos aren't agressive or angry drivers, but the majority of vehicles are older and so the noise can be a bit overwhelming. I am pleased I will only be in Manila through October 1st. I hear in Davao there are more trees and cleaner air. The smog here is quite terrible- when riding in jeepneys women will cover their children's mouths with hankercheifs or napkins. Needless to say, I have not done any biking or jogging since I've been here.
This past Thursday I went to a forum on the global "War on Terror", apprpriately scheduled on the 6th anniversary of September 11. There's a very pacificistic movement here, I think it comes from the Filipino experience in WWII (100,000 civilians were killed within one month when the Japanese were trying to take over the islands). Filipinos are concerned about protecting their civil rights after the passing of the Filipino version of the Patriot Act, as many Americans are at home. I continue to find more similarities here than differences.
Young people are politically active and gravely concerned about the economic issues here. The main line of work for most adults here continues to be international-focused (either they travel abroad to make a decent salary they can not get here, or they do telecommunications work outsourced by American companies.) The Western World seems keen on taking advantage of the cheap labor here and as in the United States, corporations seem to always win over the workers, especially the poorest ones.
The food is different. In my time here I have gone from being a former vegetarian to a conesore of stuffed squid, turkey intestines and fish. Lots of fish. But not like American fish- Filipino fish come with their heads and tails still attached. I find it hard to not look the fish in the eye while I scrape the meat from his bones, or more often, the bones out of the meat. The taste of the food is not altogether unpleasant when dipped in approprate soups. That being said- I am already one third of the way through on of the jars of peanut butter my grandmother sent with me. :-)
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