We are 13 American missionaries (2 combined teams – Magnetic Light and Ruach) stationed just outside of a village in the mountains of the Philippines. Let’s say that it is a Friday and we are going to see the boys from the camp in Cubao, a fairly large city, where they live on the streets. We leave along with our host Ryan and the boys who work at the church – Emil, Noy, and Eman. As soon as we leave the property of the church we are on one of the village streets run over with roosters, a few young goats, and lots of children – some without clothes. The kids all yell at us, “Hi Jason! Hi Jenna!” and raise their hands out to us for high fives. The women in the doorways call out “How are you?”, which is one of the only English phrases they know, and love to get to use.
We wait for the jeepney in the shade of the trees. It is not hot in this part of the Philippines unless you are standing directly in the sun. Then, in combination with the high humidity, it is pretty uncomfortable. When the jeepney shows up, Racers instantly climb up to the top of the jeepney until the roof begins to sink in, while two others claim spots hanging off the back. These seats are uncomfortable and undesirable, unless you are from the US where such behaviors are illegal, in which case they are the best seat on the bus. All the rest of the Racers are forced to take conventional seats inside of the jeepney, where the locals are probably wondering whats wrong with the displaced enthusiasm of Americans.
The jeepney is a small, colorful bus with benches running along the sides. The inside is personalized and decorated to fit the tastes of the driver. It can be anything from homey to rave. We’ll make this one average. It has some lights hanging in the ceiling, some dice hanging in the windshield, some figurines on the dashboard. The driver is playing a pop station loudly, and the Racers jam to the familiar western songs. A second man in the passenger seat collects fares. He keeps track of the man three spaces down on the right who is paying a 20 peso fare for 2, and the woman at the back, who is waiting for 30 pesos of change, and the large group all paying together. The exchange of money continues throughout the ride with fares sent up along the line of passengers, and the change sent back the same way. When they get into the city his job is to hang out the window and shout their destination to the people on the sides of the street to collect more passengers. He calls out the change in Spanish, and probably knows a good amount of survival English.
A woman in a uniform is on the jeepney. Every day she takes the multiple jeepney rides to get from the dirt streets of the mountains to the large city where she works in the mall. However, her job will only last about 5 months before they will hire new people. Some people who choose to work in the city can live with relatives to save money, but she has no relatives there and so spends hours in commute every day. The travel loses her money overall, but working in the city is an opportunity to wear nice clothes, makeup, and cute flats, as well as get some air conditioning.
An older woman raises a cloth to her nose against the smog in the city. Some of the Racers do the same.
We get to the right stop and walk through the streets to the place where we can usually find the boys. It almost looks like home. The storefronts represent McDonalds, Starbucks, Dunkin’ Doughnuts, and other familiar names. In addition, the streets and stores are decorated for Christmas, which is a HUGE deal in the Philippines, and lasts for days.
And then we get to have a little reunion when we meet up with the boys. Maybe we find one, but then more show up. Some familiar faces, and some new faces- both boys and girls. These kids have the clothes on their backs and some money that they get by any means, as well as a solvent saturated cloth. The solvent is like paint thinner, and the kids sniff it to get high. They may be 12 years old and completely addicted. Some of them have glazed eyes. They act one way on the streets, but when we are with them they become kids. We dance, play chess and checkers, and let the kids act like movie stars in front of the cameras. We see their child side.
When people walk down the street they look at the kids disdainfully. I guess that they have a reason. Where some of the boys might have lost family and have nowhere to go, most of them have family and homes – even nice homes – but they choose life on the streets. On the streets there are no chores, there is no school, and there are no rules. Therefor they receive little to no sympathy in the culture. As I talk to one of the boys a woman comes up and informs me that he only wants to get money from me. He is nothing more to her than a street bum. I get upset with her. She has good intentions towards me, but she doesn’t see him for who he is. I know his name, and I know him as a kid, ready to love and have fun. He takes my hand and I lead him away.
It was a little hard for some of us to figure out the way to feel towards these boys. At first we thought that they were homeless and life had deposited them in this hopeless place, but no, most of them chose it. However, when I look at them I know that they are kids. As one said, the street devours people. Maybe they were 10 and wanted to be free, but now they are 16, addicted to solvent, and too used to the life on the street to do anything else. I see a system that allowed this to happen. No one is making sure that these boys are going to school, or have a place to stay, or are fed. They allow them to disappear and be subjected to a life where others pass them by with only a scornful glance, even though they are a child. People watch as their lives are devoured, because no one stepped in to protect them.
And I became very angry. But then, I know that I do the same thing at home, though not towards children. How do I transfer this experience to the people that I see on the streets in my city who have been devoured by the life that they chose? Do I condemn them and move on? Why do things seem so black and white in other countries, and it seems so easy to point fingers, but when I think back to my home right and wrong and excuses get all muddled. I don’t think it’s more complicated there than here. I think that when I came to these countries I did it as a missionary with a goal, and that became my mindset and the eyes through which I see this new world. I think the problem is that I do not carry that mindset with me at home, and therefore absolve myself of any duty towards my fellow person. We didn’t give these boys money. We gave them meals, opportunities to have fun and be who they are, unconditional love, and a place to learn about God. I think that that is the most and the least that we can be doing.
