Seven Days in Mindanao

General Santos, Koronadal City, Sultan Kudarat, T’Boli, Lake Sebu, Tacurong, Maguindanao—once just dots in the Philippine map for me—have now come to life. For seven days, I lived and breathed Mindanao.

As soon as I disembarked from the plane, the first thing I noticed was the weather—warmer than Manila’s. Even while I was taking a shower, I could almost feel sweat beads forming. The pace of living is slower this side of the world; there were not too many people in a hurry. The nearest mall to our homebase closes at 7:30 pm and the roads are virtually empty by 9. The silence of the place is calming, a stark contrast to the frenetic lifestyle in Manila—a welcome change for me.

But then again, it was not a vacation (though we had a day for rest and recreation at Lake Sebu) for me and thirteen other short-term and two full-time missionaries from Manila. For days, we became the hands and feet of Jesus to the T’boli tribes people and Muslims in South Cotabato. We would cram into a rented jeepney, endure the long and dusty travel on bumpy roads, and provide medical-dental and social care to our needy countrymen.

It was not easy, to say the least. But I’m not talking about the inconveniences we had to live with nor the service we had to do.

It was not easy for me to see our people in such a state of deprivation. I know that our country is poor but only recently realized how poor. While city dwellers like us complain of things like traffic or rising costs of commodities, our countrymen in far-flung areas contend—daily—with lack of food, treatable diseases which become fatal due to the unavailability of medical care. Lack of purpose. Lack of hope.

Majority of the population in the areas we visited is into farming. While dispensing medicine to an elderly Muslim woman, I asked her what her husband did for a living. Planting corn, she replied. Probing deeper, I learned that her farmer-husband sells a kilo of corn for seven pesos and that he only harvests once every three months. I dared not ask how much they earn every harvest time but I surmised that unless they sold more than six thousand kilos of corn, it won’t be enough to last them the three months up to the next harvest. Multiply this scenario hundreds, thousands of times, and you will get a portrait of poverty. And I haven’t started on their spiritual poverty yet.

Today I was back to my desk job. I was insulated from the heat and pollution in our air-conditioned office. The biggest struggle for me as soon as I sat down my chair was deciding what to do first, with the tons of work nagging for attention. Days from now, my Mindanao experience will probably fade into memory, until all I can recall are blurred images of faces, faint sounds of need. But may I not lose the grip of compassion. May I not lose faith in my God whose heart is big enough to accommodate each and every person. May I not lose sight of the fact that one day, someday, every tear will be wiped away by the nail-scarred hands of my Savior.

Our Makati II OJ Team

with some locals at Barangay Halilan, a few hours(and three inches of dust!) away from our homebase in Koronadal City

Having Dessert

It's past 8 pm and all of my teammates have left for home. Only Norah Jones is keeping me company. Her relaxed voice wafting through the air as if lulling me to sleep. But no, sleepy I am not. I can never be sleepy for dessert.

Writing--this is dessert. While editing can tax my mind sometimes, writing energizes me. Writing just because I want to, not an article due for a newsletter nor an overdue letter to an author, gives me a high. It's like scooping vanilla sundae dripping with thick chocolate syrup with marshmallows on top. Like feeling the soft flesh of the sweetest mangoes in my mouth. (Did I tell you that writing makes me hungry? I wonder why.)

I've been delaying this gratification for days now. I made a pact with myself not to write anything until after my emceeing stint at our booklaunch; promised to finish my parttime editing project before I write another non-work related word again. So here I am, enjoying my dessert, at last. Guilt-free.

----------------------------------------------

Three days from now I will fly to Koronadal City and stay there for a week. Funny because I feel my heart has already left ahead of me. During odd times of the day, as my mission adventure draws near, I think of the people I will meet. How do they look like? What do they think of Manilans like me? Will I stick like a sore thumb in a crowd? Can I really blend in with the Muslim women with my purple pashmina, which I hope, could pass for a decent head covering? Could I communicate with members of the T'boli tribe and ask them what life is like? How will I tell them about a real and personal God who they mistake for an unreachable deity?

With these questions in mind, I will pack my carefully-chosen clothes, toiletries, beddings, my Bible, some other books. As I zip my backpack, I'll make sure that with my bottle of Centrum, I'll bring an extra bottle of understanding (just in case the reserve in my heart runs out). They say a spoonful of this a day will make me extra-compassionate and sensitive to the needs of my countrymen I call strangers. As I slip the rechargeable batteries in my bag's side pocket, I'll pray that God will keep me going with His love, keep me singing with His joy.

My ticket indicates I'll be taking an economy seat via Philippine Airlines. But I could very well be flying on hope.

Seeing through the Window of Movies

Art, music, and literature all come together in a movie, and when they all come together just right, something beautiful happens. A window opens, and you glimpse something in yourself that has been hidden from you for maybe all of your life. Or you glimpse something in someone else. Or, in a rare moment of transcendence, you glimpse something beyond.

. . . Movies give you the opportunity for a couple of hours to look at somebody else’s life. And sometimes that can change you.

Ken Gire
Windows of the Soul

There are “feel-good” movies—usually starring big celebrities with cute and syrupy plots that make you wish you’re the girl (or the boy) on the screen. And then there are “think-hard” movies—movies that stay with you long after the last image has been projected on screen. Movies that will make you think before you sleep, think when you wake up, and think when you’re in the middle of doing another task.

I can count with the fingers of one hand movies that have made such an impact on me. The latest: Million Dollar Baby.

As I think of Maggie, the female 31-year old wannabe boxer, struggling to convince veteran trainer Frankie to take her in, I think of the last time I felt as passionate about something. Is there a dream I should be pursuing? When was the last time I was willing to risk everything in exchange for one thing? Will I ever feel the surge of ambition run through my body and consume my soul once again? Or could it be that I am already living that ambition as I punch in my timecard day after day?

As I think of Frankie, the lonely father who tries to reconnect with his estranged daughter by writing her letters weekly (all of which were returned to sender), struggling to make peace with God, I think of my own standing with God. Is there something I need to forgive myself of, a sin that makes me think God is sometimes far when He is actually near? Why am I, at times, so stubborn in believing that I am unlovable, unforgivable when God thinks otherwise?

Ken Gire believes God can show Himself through the window of movies. He can speak to us in unconventional ways. I agree. The dolby surround sound was faint compared to the sound of God’s voice I heard—asking me something about myself—through the story.

The poster shows Clint Eastwood and Hillary Swank. She with her body poised like a boxer, he with eyes piercing through her. But Million Dollar Baby is not just about boxing. It’s about following your dreams, risking it all, taking the chance, living with regret, forgiving yourself, loving till it hurts, making peace with God.

I walked away from the darkened cinema with a heart heavy with emotions and a mind full of questions. But being transfixed by the movie for a couple of hours did something to my eyes. Somehow, it made me see more clearly. No wonder, I was seeing through a window to my soul.

Kinda Chinese

Food
I suspect that I have more than a drop of Chinese blood (yes, there’s a drop in here) running through my veins. For how else could I explain my huge appetite for Chinese food—siopao, sweet and sour pork, tofu, mami, kikiam, yang chow and (drumroll please) siomai? For the rest of my life, I can survive not eating another serving of Italian pizza, American cheeseburger, Mexican taco, Mediterranean shawarma or Japanese maki. But please pass me my siomai with soy and chili.

My fascination for Chinese food extends to the glutinous kind: tikoy. During the most recent Chinese New Year week, I ate fried tikoy almost everyday. While I was still chewing a forkful in my mouth, my mind was already thinking of who will feed me my next tikoy. On hindsight, I should have sung Lionel Richie’s Stuck on You while eating it.

Next year, Chinese friends, I will remember to greet you “Kung Hei Fat Choy!” Just give me some tikoy.

Fashion
I bought a Chinese-inspired blouse from UK in Baguio yesterday. It’s a ¾ sleeved aqua blue blouse with pink piping on its sleeves and around the neck. The last time I UK-ayed, I bought a silk mint green one that I occasionally wear to work. The last time I wore it was Chinese New Year’s day (occasionally nga kasi).

My collection of Chinese clothes is growing so fast that Rosebud, threatened I’ll take her place, is putting me under surveillance.

Friends
Many years ago, fresh from college, I insisted that Terry, my fellow mover at UST-CCC, take me to their house. Reason: She’s Chinese and I wanted to see an authentic Chinese house (as if I was expecting to find a relic from the Chi dynasty or a welcome mat in Chinese characters). She obliged and graciously led me around the streets of Divisoria, the alleys leading to Melchor Cano and the rooms of their house that was actually a multi-story building housing two families.

I can still recall the stack of imported goods near the door (they have a dry goods stall in Divisoria), the huge sepia photograph of her mother on the wall, the ubiquitous old piano she and her sister Yasmin can play.

Though Terry and I regularly ran into each other during our four-year CCC involvement, it was only after we’ve walked away from UST that we became more than batchmates. After college, our unlikely friendship (we had different interests), rooted in our shared faith, was watered by constant togetherness (at one time we even became officemates), and was nurtured under the shade of understanding and acceptance.

Through the years, we’ve shared countless meals—from sandwiches to siomais, in Jolibee and Le Ching and many other restaurants. Between the two of us, many jobs, heartaches, birthdays and other occasions have come and gone. Yet it’s funny what all these years did to me. For instance, I have ceased to notice that Terry’s eyes are narrower than mine, her skin fairer and that she could speak Fukien. To me, she’s now just “Terry,” period. I might be able to bring to mind her qualities as a Chinese but her nationality has become secondary to me.

When I think of her I remember happenings—the time we weaved our way in Quiapo on our way to the LRT station, our late-night viewing of The Wedding Singer at SM North Edsa, our Christmas afternoon in a second-rate carnival in Las Pinas. Good and (a few) not-so-good times, we had our share of these.

At first I was just interested in seeing an authentic Chinese house. Little did I know my heart would find a home.
-----------------------------------------------

Today, Aleks, another Chinese friend, is celebrating his birthday. He’s a walking jukebox (but no need to feed him coins, he sings for free!), caffeine-dependent (in almost all its forms: coke, coffee, tea), chocoholic (if Esau sold his birthright for stew, maybe Aleks will sell his for chocolate), a techie (my PDA consultant). A tall package of delight, he can impress you with his wit, tickle you with his humor, warm you with his words, and blind you with his neon orange polo shirt. He speaks with his mind, writes with his heart, tap dances with his fingers.

Silly and serious you, God must have been smiling when He created you.

Terry and I at Cafe by the Ruins in Baguio City. It was her birthday, March 5, when this picture was taken.