The Philippines is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. There are palm trees everywhere and there's enough green surrounding me to make me feel like I'm back in the western Washington forests — but I'm in the tropics. The temperature is warm and humid, like the South, and it rains almost every day. Our clothes might never fully dry but I don't really mind. We're in freaking paradise.
As Sharisse and I walked to our ministry site for the day, I told our translators that there are people in America sitting in cubicles right now with computer backgrounds of places like this. They laughed. They would probably switch places to be in those cubicles in heartbeat. Everyone wants to go to America here.
Our walk was about 3 kilometers away from the nearest city, and we passed by children walking to and from school. Normally these children walk this path four times a day, as they walk home for lunch — a total of about 12 kilometers a day walking, rain or shine (and normally it's rain).
Many of these children are participants in a program called Food for the Hungry (FH) and are sponsored by Americans thousands of miles away. You know the commercials to sponsor children in need? These are the kids we passed and the inhabitants of the homes we visited today.
My ministry this month is to interview the children, parents of the children, and the teachers of the children in order for FH to put together updates on each child to then send to their sponsors. I see these children face-to-face, visit their homes, see where they sit in class each day. They are not just children staring back at me on a television screen or in a banner ad next to my blog.
As Sharisse and I walked through what seemed like paradise, the road became less paved and the houses started to shrink in size. I fought the feeling that I was another white person coming in to the town with a clipboard (which I was). I looked suffering in the face today, and my heart broke to pieces.
Today was the day to talk to parents. However, many of my interviews were done with middle schoolers and teenagers, because they were the men and women of the houses. One young teenage girl I met lived in a one-room "house" with a bed, a counter, and a few chairs against the wall. She lived in this room with five of her brothers and sisters and her father. Her mom left their family a couple of years back and never returned, leaving her as the new mom.
The girl was speaking on behalf of her sister, telling me that math and English were her sister's favorite subjects in school, and that she wanted to be a teacher one day. She told me about how her sister was very responsible and helped her around the house all the time, and how much she enjoyed the value training that FH provides.
I asked her my final question: do you have any prayer requests?
She completely broke down, telling me about how the community puts food on their table, her father is never around, that this room/house isn't actually theirs, and how she takes care of everyone and is constantly sick with UTIs. She prayed for health, for provision. She didn't ask for anything, just looked at me with helpless tears in her eyes.
I was speechless; I tried to encourage her, but I could just muster out "you're so beautiful" and "we are sisters" and "I want to pray for you." So much for my gift of encouragement.
As my translator and I left the house, I realized something that made me even more sick to my stomach. I turned to her, and hesitantly asked her something I needed to know but was the last thing I wanted to hear.
"Hey Atie, I have a past, and I keep meeting young girls with UTIs. I know there are a few reasons why people get UTIs, but I know that the main reason girls get them isn't good. Do you know what I'm trying to say?"
She looked at me, nodded knowingly, and said to me, "It's probably what you're thinking."
I wanted to puke. I've met so many young girls with UTI problems it makes my head spin. This is day two of interviews.
Don't let the palm trees fool you — we're far from paradise.
