UNDER THE BRIDGE

I’m continually amazed by the extreme contrasts of poverty and wealth in this world. Walking in the heart of metro Manila with a couple of my Filipino classmates, I squinted in the sun as I looked upward to survey some brand new high-rise condos. There were multiple glistening towers, each about forty stories. A true art form of space conservation in the midst of a dense urban jungle. Santa Messa mall was just across the street, demanding the business and patronage of the upper-middle class condo residents. As this was the first of multiple visits to a particular squatter area, we were scheduled to meet a local community organizer from a community under a nearby bridge. I thought to myself, “surely we’ll have to take another bus or jeep to reach the community. This place is too upscale.”

Finally, with cigarette in hand, Mang Jose showed up, and we carefully jaywalked across the busy street. Thirty seconds later, we entered his community under the bridge. The bridge, which covering much of the community, created a cool, moist darkness, and the sound of traffic was muffled by the concrete over head. The bus fumes above were replaced by the smoke from open cooking in the alleys. Breakfast time. After bumping my head against a cross beam, I decided to walk with my hands out and my head bowed out of respect for the low protruding beams. Concrete, metal, and sheets of wood separated the compact homes, each housing five to seven people, with one main room and maybe a loft.

We made it to the riverbank, where floating garbage and human waste blackened the water, making it easy to see the speed of the current. As I learned in a following visit, the frequent hard rains cause the river to rise around five feet, filling most of the homes with sewage water up to an adult’s chest. Small children need to be carried, climb to the loft, or leave during these intervals, which last a few hours. This is routine for them. But the refreshing thing about the rainy season is that the river keeps moving, preventing the stagnating water from producing a miserable stench.

When I experience situations like these, I often feel a mixture of awe, anger, guilt, compassion, and desire to do something. It’s only through sitting down and hearing the stories of people that one can gain a deeper understanding. That’s also how the situation turns from a pitiful scene into a personal story with unique faces and names. I’m always encouraged by the joy and brilliance of the people in these types of communities. They find a way to scrape by through some form of business or service. When one family is struggling to buy food, the neighbors share, and the bond grows deep. Deeper, I’d imagine, than a neighbor borrowing a cup of sugar. They share a kilo of rice, a kilo of life. There’s much more to say about this particular community and other communities which are all unique. It’s a privilege to enter these places, to learn from the residents, and to begin putting my puzzled questions into a shape that makes sense, or at least carving a foundation for how to live my life in regard to these issues. I have much to be thankful for. Much to learn. Endless opportunities to somehow take action. We all do.