Stories from Camp Karingal

Transcription

globe. We buy an average
of 150(USA)
containers a month and we continue to increase our
Head Office
5301 W. 66th Street,
volume each month.
Bedford Park, IL 60638
Tel: (708) 458-9888 • Fax: (708) 458-9889
T A B L E
O F
C O N T E N T S
We also buy non-ferrous
minerals like high grade Nickel & Copper Ore, and high grade
Contact Person: Melissa Dietz
Copper Concentrate.
[email protected]
president, Mr. James Li has over 20 years of experience in
Email:
is be
a Trading
andfive
Processing
First America Metal
Corporation
(FAMC)
the business
and we
are
proud
to
in the top
in the industry in the Midwest area.
Website:
www.f-a-m-corp.com
company. We purchase non-ferrous metal scrap in the USA and other parts of the
Representative
Office
(Philippines)
globe. We buy an average
of 150
containers
a month and
we continue
to increase our
Head Office
(USA)
volume each month.
5301 W. 66th Street, Unit 512 Valero Plaza
‘Pedro’ is going home
Bedford Park, IL 60638124 Valero Street, Salcedo Village
Makati City, Philippines 1227
Tel: (708)
458-9888
• Fax:
(708)
458-9889
We also buy non-ferrous
minerals
like
high
grade
Nickel & Copper Ore, and high grade
Tel:
(632)
817-3657
Contact
Melissa
Dietz
Copper Concentrate.
Our Person:
president,
Mr.
James
Li has over- 20
years
of experience in
Country
Representative
Janette
Sandico
Email: [email protected]
the business and we
are
proud
to
be
in
the
top
five
in the industry in the Midwest area.
Email:
[email protected]
Website: www.f-a-m-corp.com
(Philippines)
Processing
Plant (China)
Head Office (USA)Representative Office
5301 W. 66th Street, Unit 512 Valero Plaza Nanhai Guang Yin Material Recycle Co., Ltd.
Village
Xiangang
Xiabian Industrial District
Bedford Park, IL 60638124 Valero Street, Salcedo
Makati
City,
PhilippinesSong
1227Gang Nanhai Foshan City
Tel: (708) 458-9888 • Fax:
(708)
458-9889
Tel:
(632) 817-3657 Guandong, China
Contact Person: Melissa
Dietz
Country
Representative
Janette
Sandico
Tel: (86) 1368-7444-955
• Fax: (86) 7578-5234-198
Representative Office
(Philippines)
Processing
Plant (China)
Unit 512 Valero Plaza Nanhai Guang Yin Material Recycle Co., Ltd.
124 Valero Street, Salcedo
Village
Xiangang
Xiabian Industrial District
Makati City, PhilippinesSong
1227Gang Nanhai Foshan City
Tel: (632) 817-3657 Guandong, China
Country RepresentativeTel:
- Janette
Sandico
(86) 1368-7444-955
• Fax: (86) 7578-5234-198
First America Metal Corporation (FAMC) is a Trading and
Processing company. We purchase non-ferrous metal scrap
Processing
Plant (China) Metal Corporation (FAMC) is a Trading and Proces
First
America
Nanhai
GuangUSA
Yin Material
Recycle
Co., Ltd.parts of the globe. We buy an average
in the
and
other
Xiangang Xiabian Industrial
company.
We District
purchase non-ferrous metal scrap in the USA and other part
Song
Gang
Nanhai
Foshan City
of 150 containers
a month and we continue to increase our
Guandong, China
globe.
We buy
an
average of 150 containers a month and we continue to in
Tel:
(86) 1368-7444-955
(86) 7578-5234-198
volume
each• Fax:
month.
volume each month.
T
HANKS to The Jeepney staff and our readers, Pedro will be going home. Actually
Pedro’s real name is Leodegario Riño. He was featured in our second issue under the
title “Trapped in Manila.” Five of our readers have offered the funds needed to re-unite
Leodegario with his wife and home in the province.
He is very anxious to get there. Our only holdup is facilitating some legal
documentation to insure he receives the pension benefits he is entitled to. This is
something our social workers are taking care of, and we expect within the next two
weeks he will not only be on the boat, but leaving with some long-term security.
It was fun to find Pedro. We took our magazine and a taxi to the Tanza dump, and
before long the community was buzzing about his photo and some of the other people
they recognized. These communities of informal settlers build strong personal bonds and
friendships. To give in this way to one is to give to them all. Thank you, dear readers.
Buy The Jeepney. It is an opportunity for change!
HOMELESS IN A
MATERIAL WORLD
4
6
18
20
22
suFFicient
sHeLter
By Leanna Garcia &
Jimbo Gulle
1
2
4
Editor’s Note
5
‘Tikboy’
By Aidan Garcia
Meet Our Parters
Growing Street Paper
Conference Back in Glasgow
UNDER A BRIDGE
SUSAN’S
RESIDENCE
27
By William Shaw
P.5
tHe Leona
FamiLY
on appLe road
By Jimbo Gulle
12
SPECIAL REPORT:
Stories from Camp Karingal
5301 W. 66th Street,
Head Office
Bedford
Park, IL(USA)
60638
5301
W.458-9888
66th Street,
Bedford
Park, IL 60638
Tel:
(708)
• Fax:
(708) 458-9889
Tel: (708)
458-9888
Fax: (708) 458-9889
Contact
Person:
Melissa• Dietz
Email:
[email protected]
Contact
Person: Melissa Dietz
Website:
www.f-a-m-corp.com
Representative Office (Philippines)
Unit 512 Valero Plaza
Representative
Office Village
(Philippines)
124
Valero Street, Salcedo
Unit 512
Plaza,
124 Valero Street, Salcedo Village
Makati
City,Valero
Philippines
1227
Makati
Philippines 1227
Tel:
(632)City,
817-3657
Country
Representative
Tel: (632)
817-3657 - Janette Sandico
Email:
[email protected]
Country
Representative - Janette Sandico
Processing
Plant (China)
Nanhai
Guang Yin
Material
Recycle Co., Ltd.
Processing
Plant
(China)
Xiangang
Xiabian Yin
Industrial
District
Nanhai Guang
Material
Recycle Co., Ltd.
Song Gang Nanhai Foshan City
Xiangang
Xiabian
Industrial
District
Guandong, China
Song
Nanhai Foshan
City,7578-5234-198
Guandong, China
Tel:
(86)Gang
1368-7444-955
• Fax: (86)
Tel: (86) 1368-7444-955 • Fax: (86) 7578-5234-198
Where our money goes
26
By William Shaw
By William Shaw
P.20
To donate to The Jeepney magazine, please visit our website www.thejeepney.
com or call us. Your gifts are tax deductible and go toward The Jeepney’s
partners and the support of the magazine. Most of our staff, including our
managing director and photojournalists, are unpaid volunteers. This is a social
enterprise for the poor.
We also buy non-ferrous minerals like high grade Nickel
We also buy non-ferrous minerals like high grade Nickel & Copper Ore, an
& Copper Ore, and high grade Copper Concentrate. Our
Copper Concentrate. Our president, Mr. James Li has over 20 years of exp
president, Mr. James Li has over 20 years of experience in
the business and we are proud to be in the top five in the industry in the M
the business and we are proud to be in the top five in the
industry in the Midwest area.
Head Office (USA)
28
ARTS & POETRY:
Untitled
By Ann Elizabeth Grimm
musings & meditations
Miriam
By William Shaw back Word:
‘We Love This Place’
By Robbie Menita
By William Shaw and Jimbo Gulle
We’re In! The Jeepney Magazine is now a member of the International Network of Street Papers
(INSP). A global independent media movement which supports homeless people worldwide, INSP now
boasts an international membership of over 90 street papers in 37 countries on 6 continents.
We would like to thank Glorietta Malls for providing a safe place for our vendors there for the month of April. Contact the Jeepney Magazine to provide a safe opportunity for the street and homeless people in Manila.
PARTNERS
OPERATIONS
DISTRIBUTION
STAFF
PRINTING
E D I T O R ’ S
N O T E
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
William Shaw
MANAGING EDITOR
Jimbo Owen Gulle
PHOTOGRAPHY AND
DESIGN DIRECTOR
Deborah Shaw
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS
Aidan Garcia, Leanna Garcia,
Ann Elizabeth Grimm,
Robbie Menita
CONTRIBUTING
PHOTOGRAPHER
Stian Olderkjaer, Equal Oslo
LAYOUT AND DESIGN
Sherwin Darilag
MARKETING AND
ADVERTISING
Lenny Pagala
VENDOR MANAGEMENT
Reah Medenilla
Lorna Lumioan
ABOUT THE COVER
Laying only inches from
the curb, two boys find
temporary relief from the
chaos. City life and heavy
traffic races past them while
they find comfort in one
another’s touch. Children
caring for children, it’s
happening all over Manila.
PHOTOGRAPH BY
DEBORAH SHAW
Dear Readers,
At nothing have I worked harder
than to provide quality shelter
for my family. In the American
recession of the early eighties, I
built my first home. It was very
similar in construction to the Gawad
Kalinga homes, with concrete walls
and floors. It was bigger, because
it had to be. The zoning laws in
Michigan required 860 square feet
(about 80 square meters). That is
what I built. The lumber for the
roof was rough-sawn at a local mill
(cheaper than the lumberyards). I
dug my own septic tank, laid the
blocks and sealed it.
I remember that tank distinctly.
It was unfinished and topless. I was
working above it on my roof edge,
on the same type of precarious
scaffold that is used here on home
projects. Balanced ten feet up I fell,
and landed back first on one of the
tank walls. I thought I had ruptured
my spleen and drove the fifteen
miles to the hospital, only to meet
my wife there, getting ready to
deliver our second child.
Bruised, but no more than
bruised, I went back to work.
Shelter was a pressing thing.
For me a home was and is
a refuge. Being in Manila is a
wonderful opportunity, but we
have lost the sense of comfort
and wellbeing that comes with the
comfort of our Stateside home.
This is not a complaint, but an
observation, and a sacrifice we
are wiling to make. It gives us a
constant sense of people’s need for
secure shelter and the confidence
and empowerment that manifests.
It is only natural one of our first
editions is on shelter. As we look
around our city, we see on every
Say cheese: Vendor managers Rhea (left, front
row) and Lorna flank marketing head Lenny,
while Jimbo, Bill and Debbie (from left, back
row) flash the pearly whites.
crevice and corner of unguarded
ground families squatting, trying
to construct stability, permanence,
comfort and safety. It is a pressing
thing.
We hope, through the distribution
of this publication, to bring awareness
and greater interest in the places
people live. We learn so much as we
explore the poor. As Robbie Memita,
our Back Word author, said last
month: “We are the rich, the rich of
the bangketa.”
Their richness is not in bank
accounts, in size or splendor of
dwelling, but in their heart, their
courage. I know the pressure I have
felt to provide a home. To deal with
that pressure day in, day out, to fear
the authorities and those who have
the power to evict and relocate, to
watch the floods fill their bedroom
and the rain pour in, the fear of
electrical issues, sanitary concerns and
rodents. All those pressures, all the
time. That takes heart.
We cannot do too much for our
neighbor, and shelter is a pressing
thing.
William Shaw
THE JEEPNEY Magazine is published monthly by Urban Opportunities for Change Foundation, Inc.,
with offices at Block 3 Lot 1 Narra Ave., Brgy. San Juan, Palmera Heights, Cainta, Rizal.
Mailing address: The Jeepney Magazine, P.O. Box 217, Araneta Center, Cubao, Quezon City
Telephone Number: 401-1933 • E-mail: [email protected] • Website: www.thejeepney.com
THE JEEPNEY MAGAZINE vol 1 • Issue 3
Growing Street Paper
Conference Back in Glasgow
T
HE 13th Annual Conference of the International Network of Street Papers (INSP) is set to take place in Glasgow from June 19 to 21,
2008, in partnership with The Big Issue in Scotland, the United Kingdom’s best selling news weekly magazine. Representing the
street-paper movement in Asia will be The Jeepney Magazine, the first street paper in the Philippines.
The international event, held in a
different worldwide city each year, is
returning to Glasgow, the home of its
international headquarters, after a fouryear break. Street papers are independent
newspapers and magazines sold by
homeless and severely disadvantaged
people on street corners around the world.
The INSP, a global independent media
movement which supports homeless
people worldwide, has witnessed a
significant growth in its membership since
it last hosted the event in Glasgow in
2004.
From a membership of 45 papers in
2004, INSP now boasts an international
membership of over 90 street papers in 37
countries on a staggering six continents.
The number of street paper journalists
attending this year’s international
conference
reflects
these
growing
figures,
welcoming over 90 delegates from 32
countries, a 35 percent increase from the
2004 event.
Among the INSP’s newest members
is The Jeepney Magazine, RP’s first street
magazine and just the second street paper
in the Asia after The Big Issue Japan,
based in Osaka.
Published by Urban Opportunities
for Change Foundation, Inc. (UOCFI),
The Jeepney’s objective is to uplift and
empower the urban poor by providing
them decent job opportunities, and to
help them move out of poverty back into
society. The Jeepney also serves
as the voice for the homeless and poor by
presenting topical stories of their lives.
The UOCFI employs vendors from the
urban poor and vends the magazine to the
socially conscious and interested public.
When a
vendor sells a
copy of the
magazine,
they receive half of its cover price of
100 pesos, making it a viable means of
employment for RP’s poor—most of which
live on less than 50 pesos a day.
Two registered social workers are
assigned to oversee The Jeepney vendors
and conduct case management to ensure a
transformational change in their lives.
Since 1994, INSP-member street papers
have enabled approximately 250,000
marginalized people to earn a dignified
income, make their voices heard and
build relationships across harmful social
boundaries.
Reaching 32 million global readers every
year, INSP is a strong and united voice
advocating for the needs and rights of
people living in poverty.
“At time when the gap between rich and
poor is growing and with millions of people
still living on the streets or in dire poverty,
street papers provide a very immediate
response to a human need; both a dignified
employment opportunity and a way to
integrate back in society,”
said Mel Young, cofounder of The Big Issue
in Scotland and Honorary
President of
the INSP.
‘Tikboy’
By Aidan Garcia
H
E only goes by the name “Tikboy.” On most mornings,
he startles commuters waiting for their rides along
España Avenue in Sampaloc, Manila as he crawls out
from underneath the roof of the waiting shed fronting the
University of Santo Tomas (UST), like a black ghoul emerging
from the darkness.
When he stretches to his
full height, only the whites of
his eyes are untainted. The rest
of his body is dirt and grime
incarnate, down to the matted
hair, the tattered shirt and shorts,
the yellowing fingernails. But his
smile, despite decayed teeth, is
still bright, and he isn’t crazy
like most people think he is.
“Ganito lang talaga ako,
marumi. Dito lang ako nakatira
mula noon pa [I’m just like this,
dirty. I’ve been living here since
way before],” Tikboy says, as
he points to his cardboard bed
under the waiting shed’s ceiling.
“Wala namang nakikialam sa
akin, siguro takot sa histura ko
[Nobody’s bothered me, perhaps
because I look scary].”
vol 1 • Issue 3 THE JEEPNEY MAGAZINE
Not a lot of people have the
courage to walk up to him, but
most people would be amused
to observe his antics from a
distance on any given day. One
moment he’s a barker, prodding
passengers and dodging jeeps
to get his tips from drivers. The
next he’s running up and down
the nearby overpass, asking for
spare change or food from the
UST students and pedestrians
who crossed from the other side
of España.
All the while, Tikboy goes
about his business with a smile
plastered on his face, the kind one
would associate with Batman’s
Joker. He never seems to have a
melancholy moment, nor seems
to mind that some people, like
some pretty colegialas passing
by, look at him with aversion.
“Malungkot na nga buhay
ko, malulungkot pa ba ako? [My
life’s already a sad story, so why
should I be?],” he says.
It’s a story one typically hears
of an urban vagrant: ran away
from his home in the province
at age seven, had a cruel father
that didn’t bother to look for
him, and had the city trap him
with its allure and difference to
his rustic past.
“Hindi na ako kailangan sa
amin, kaya natuto na akong
mabuhay mag-isa dito [I’m not
needed at home, so I’ve learned
to live alone here],” Tikboy says.
And so he says he’s brushed
aside trips to jail after those
regular police roundups of
homeless people; visits by social
workers, priests and pastors
in attempts to get him off the
street; and even the charity of
street vendors in the area, who
pity him and give him food
or make him run errands for
money.
“Hindi ko naman siya
matawag na baliw, halata
namang alam niya ang ginagawa
niya [I can’t call him a lunatic,
it’s obvious he knows what he’s
doing],” says Aling Marta, who
sells cigarettes and candy a
corner away from Tikboy’s shed.
“Masaya lang talaga siya dito
[He’s just happy where he is].”
His favorite part of living
under the shed? “Kapag umulan
dito sa España, nakakapagswimming ako dahil sa baha
[When it rains here, I can swim
in the floodwater],” he says,
admitting perhaps the only time
he takes a bath.
Then, when night falls,
he just creeps back under the
roof of the shed, and startles
bystanders when he creeps out in
the morning, his smile beaming
brighter than the sunshine. For
Tikboy, life is good, just the way
it is.
M E E T
T H E
P A R T N E R S
Meet Our
ALMIRA MENDOZA, 32
M
P A R T N E R S
opportunity for me to earn money so
I could provide for the needs of my
children, and someday have them all
by my side.”
would be fine, but it wasn’t. Her brotherin law again did not accept us in their
shack, after knowing I was pregnant with
Rolando’s child. So I was forced to sleep
with my children in a shaded corner
along Harvard Street. To make a living,
I sold cigarettes and candies, and did
everything just to survive.
When I heard of this job opportunity
from Urban Opportunities for Change, I
got interested and applied as vendor of
The Jeepney.
I know this would be a great
opportunity for me to earn money so
I could provide for the needs of my
children, and someday have them all
by my side. Some of my kids are at the
CCM’s children’s home. Someday, if
I do good here, we will all be together
again.
CHERAN BANARIA, 28
I
whore when I lived in Cebu.
I couldn’t take that anymore. One
day, I took my four kids and slept in
front of a bank along Aurora Boulevard.
But the MMDA was clearing the streets
that night, and brought my family to the
DSWD center in Mandaluyong City. They
released us the next morning.
I was so weak, so hungry, and I was
gasping for breath again, so I endured
this just to get home to my mother, who
got mad at me again.
But one day, a tall Englishman came
to me and invited me to go to Christian
Compassion Ministry to get free medicine
for my TB. He also invited me to their
Drop-In Fellowship to eat, bathe, wash
T H E
“I know this would be a great
PARTNERS
Y name is Almira
Mendoza. I am 32 years
old. I was born August
23, 1975 in Zamboanga del Sur.
But I grew up in Cebu with two
siblings. We went there when my
parents separated.
I am also separated from my
husband. I have eight children,
seven daughters and a son. I got
married in 1993 when I was 18,
but I already had a daughter with
a previous lover, who ran away.
My husband left me in 1999 for
a lover. A year later, I decided to
explore Manila, leaving two of my
kids with my mother.
When I came here, I worked as
a fruit vendor, earning 100 pesos a
day. But it wasn’t enough because
I had four of my children with me.
So I worked as a laundrywoman,
and earned 3,000 pesos a month.
While doing the laundry, I
got back pains and had difficulty
breathing, so I left that to become a
nanny. I earned 2,500 pesos doing
that. But I didn’t stay long in that
job because I had tuberculosis. My
employer forced me to leave.
When my mother and brotherin-law learned I had TB, they kicked me
out of the house, and didn’t let my kids
near me. Even our neighbors avoided me.
I felt so alone, so pitiful.
Eventually I was hospitalized at the
Quezon Institute (or QI, which specializes
in TB treatment), but no one took care
of me until some people took pity on me
and helped process my discharge papers.
Thanks to the PCSO (Sweepstakes Office)
and the QI’s Social Welfare Officer, I went
home without having to pay a centavo.
But when I got home, it was still bad.
My mother didn’t want me to stay in our
shack, so I slept outside. My mother was
often drunk, and fought with me, yelled
and spit at me, and told everyone I was a
M E E T
my clothes and listen to God’s Word.
At first I hesitated, but the Englishman
was persistent, and soon I became a
regular. CCM helped get me a boat ticket
back to Cebu so I could recover from my
TB faster.
In Cebu, only one man cared for me,
Rolando (not his real name). He was
married, but he gave me medicines and
took care of the needs of me and my
children for more than two years. I fell
in love with him because of the care,
support and understanding he gave me
and my children.
I traveled with Rolando from Cebu to
Cagayan de Oro, and back to Manila to
see my sick mother. I thought everything
am Cheran Banaria, 28 years old. I
was born May 31, 1980 in Cabagan,
Isabela. Even with polio, I managed
to graduate from high school. I have
three sons with my husband, Carlito,
who is 44.
I grew up with my grandparents in
Bicol. After my grandmother died, my
mom took me and we stayed in Marikina.
When I turned 20, I met Carlito, and we
agreed to live together. We stayed two
years under the flyover bridge at the
Riverbank in Marikina.
When I asked him why we lived
here, Carlito said he didn’t want us to
rely on our relatives. He said staying in
the streets will help us stand on our feet.
Deep inside, I also preferred to stay on
the streets to make real what my mother
kept telling me: that I was the black
sheep of the family.
Our living was collecting recyclable
materials at the Riverbank. After a night
of work, we earned 150 pesos. We carried
sacks while walking, and sometimes I
thought we looked like the poor Santa
Clauses. During the day, we stood by
the fast food restaurants, waiting to
collect all the mineral-water bottles and
recyclable material we could get.
But in 2003, on our third year at the
Riverbank, the local government passed
a law clearing all public places from
beggars, overnight bystanders and street
dwellers. We were afraid of being caught
by the barangay tanod and police, so we
decided to roam until we reached Sta.
Rosa, Laguna. I gave birth to our first
son there.
In 2004, we decided to go back to
Marikina, hoping to find a greener
pasture. We found ourselves back at the
Riverbank. This time, they were able
stay in Barangka along the Riverbank.
We sold chicharon and cigarettes to get
by. A little later, our second son was
born.
But the police in Marikina got
aggressive in catching street dwellers, so
we moved to Cubao. We spent the night
in front of a newspaper’s advertising
office along Aurora Boulevard. The
security guard there allowed us to
stay there, and even gave food to our
children.
One day, a tall Englishman and a
tall Filipina approached us, inviting
us to attend the Drop-In Fellowship at
CCM every Thursday along Harvard
Street. Out of curiosity, we went. We
were so happy to know and meet some
street dwellers like us, and we attended
regularly since then.
When 2005 came, Carlito was
accepted for training at CCM’s Fairview
Training Center, while I gave birth to our
third son. A very kind “house mother”
of CCM helped me and even let me stay
in the orphanage for two months, while
Carlito was in training.
Because of our “good attendance”
and performance at the Drop-In Center,
we were made into caretakers of the
Fairview Training Center. From that
time on, we never thought of going back
to the streets again.
Even though we are still homeless,
we have received many blessings
from the Lord. Though we are not
worthy of His love, He is still kind and
loves us.
The Jeepney Magazine is a big help
not only for me but also for people
like me. We share to people our stories,
rich stories that can be found in the
streets. Before, I was really shy in
facing and talking to rich people.
I felt like an ant before them. But now,
I can say I am a bit confident facing
them.
At first, it was hard to sell the
magazine, but as the days went by, it
got easy. I corrected my mistakes, and
believe I can do better. Thanks to The
Jeepney.
Editor’s Note: The street vendors represented here are the first for The Jeepney Magazine. They, as well as we, are taking a risk, but
their risk is of desperation. As you read about their lives and their goals—in their own words—see that the desire to work and provide
is paramount to their lives. We hope through these jobs and with your support, they will not only have provision for healthy food, but
medical care, clothes and a home they can call their own.
H O M E L E S S
I N
A
M A T E R I A L
W O R L D
H O M E L E S S
I N
A
M A T E R I A L
W O R L D
The Strategy also states that:
“All citizens of all States, poor as
they may be, have a right to expect
their Governments to be concerned
about their shelter needs, and to
accept a fundamental obligation
to protect and improve houses
and neighborhoods, rather than
damage or destroy them.”
But even with the success of the
Pag-Ibig Fund (also known as the
Home Development and Mutual Fund
or HDMF), the Community Mortgage
Program and other low-cost housing
programs by both government and
non-governmental
organizations
(NGOs), evidence of inadequate housing
and homelessness in the country is
everywhere.
Population Boom
Shelter
Sufficient
By Leanna Garcia and Jimbo Gulle
T
O most of us, it is unthinkable to not have lived and grown up in a house with a roof and four walls,
no matter what it’s made out of. Shelter, or housing, is one of the most basic of human needs, stressed
by national and international law and underscored by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the
United Nations and thousands of human rights groups across the world.
But even as people need a secure,
adequate place to live to develop human
dignity, physical and mental health
and their overall quality of life, the
UN Centre for Human Settlements
estimates that in this world, over
one billion people live in inadequate
housing—and
over
100
million
people live in conditions classified as
homelessness.
It is also the primary reason why
street papers and magazines such as
Recent government figures say that about 3.4 million homes were built from
makeshift or improvised material, the type most seen in urban-poor shantytowns.
The Jeepney have been formed, to help
the poor and the homeless regain their
dignity by giving them a job that could
lead to the purchase of a new home, or
at the very least allow them to pay rent
for a room or house to live in.
What can be called sufficient shelter,
anyway? Eight years ago, the UN led the
Global Strategy for Shelter to the Year
2000, as a follow-up to the International
Year of Shelter for the Homeless in 1987.
The Global Strategy defined adequate
housing as “adequate privacy, adequate
space, adequate security, adequate
lighting and ventilation, adequate basic
infrastructure and adequate location
with regard to work and basic facilities—
all at a reasonable cost.”
The Strategy also states that: “All
citizens of all States, poor as they
may be, have a right to expect their
Governments to be concerned about
their shelter needs, and to accept a
fundamental obligation to protect and
improve houses and neighborhoods,
rather than damage or destroy them.”
The Philippines, as a member of the
UN, has complied with this obligation
through laws and the creation of
agencies such as the Housing and
Urban
Development
Coordinating
Council (HUDCC), a Cabinet-level body
currently headed by Vice President Noli
De Castro.
Of course, this is partly because
the Filipino population—currently at
90 million, making the country the
12th-most populous in the world—is
growing out of control. According to
the last census in 2000, the population
was growing at an average rate of 2.36
percent annually. Projections by the
National Statistical Coordination Board
(NSCB) put the RP population at over
94 million by 2010, just two years from
now.
More people should mean more
homes, but apparently not enough homes
can be built, or are being built, to keep up
with the rising population. In the 2000
Census of Population and Housing, the
National Statistics Office (NSO) tallied
14.9 million occupied housing units,
of all types of construction material
(from concrete to improvised/makeshift
material) throughout RP.
That housing figure, however, was
eight years ago, when the country’s
population was just under 77 million,
making it a ratio of five Filipinos to a
house. There is also no current data on
H O M E L E S S
unoccupied or vacant housing units;
the most recent government numbers
on that date to 1990, when the NSO
reported 377,096 vacant units compared
to over 11 million occupied houses
(that housed 11.4 million families, or
60.6 million Filipinos) in the same
year.
As for the rate in which Filipinos
build houses, NSO figures released last
March show a 13.2-percent decline in
the number of approved building
permits for the second quarter of 2007—
including an 11.6-percent
drop in residential building
construction permits. (Nonresidential permits, in fact,
fell by 41.4 percent during
the same period.)
Although dated, the
statistics on occupied
housing units itself is
interesting. It says that
in year 2000, at least
10 million homes had
galvanized iron (GI) or
aluminum roofing, and
4.59 million had concrete,
brick or stone walls.
Occupied houses with both
GI roofing and concrete
walls—the materials most
families that can afford
them would use—were at
4.32 million units.
On the other end of the
spectrum, about 3.4 million
homes were built from
bamboo/nipa/cogon grass
or
makeshift/improvised
material such as old
cardboard and recycled
plastic—the stuff most seen
in both rural and urbanpoor shantytowns.
Given the 1990 ratio of
five Filipinos to a house, there should
now be 18 million housing units to
shelter the country’s present population.
But as the recent building permits data
show, Pinoys are actually slowing down
in setting up shelter.
This also doesn’t take into account
that the new members of the RP
population since that year may also
be actually sheltered in shanties
and
informal
settlements
(such
as squatters) that do not require
building permits.
I N
A
M A T E R I A L
Bottom Line
The lack of shelter for Filipinos, then,
boils down to the country’s poverty,
which persists despite recent economic
gains. In terms of poverty incidence
among population, the NSCB said 33 out
of 100 Filipinos, or 4.7 million families,
were considered poor in 2006 compared
to 30 in 2003. (Poverty incidence statistics
are taken every three years).
Government stats also say the
poverty threshold, or the cost of an
individual or family’s minimum basic
needs (food and non-food, including
shelter), throughout the country was
at P15,057 in ’06; A Filipino family
of five therefore needed a monthly
income of P6,274—a daily income of
206 pesos—in 2006 to stay out of poverty.
However, in Metro Manila or the
National Capital Region where over
10 million people live, the annual per
capita poverty threshold was estimated
to be P20,566 in 2006. Hence, a family
living in NCR with five members needed
to earn at least P8,569 monthly in order
not to be classified as poor.
W O R L D
Considering that the subsistence or food
threshold (the minimum income required
for a family or individual to meet the basic
food needs) for the whole country was at
P4,177 two years ago, it would leave poor
families with just over two thousand pesos
to spend on rent or home improvement.
That is, if they were to devote that entire
amount and neglect their other nonfood expenses like clothing, water, and
electricity.
Contrast the poverty threshold
figure to the average cost per square
meter of residential building
construction in the second
quarter
of
2007—P6,852,
according to the NSO—and
it becomes clear why most
Filipinos are squatting, living
in shanties or making do in
rundown structures: they
just can’t afford it. (The 1990
census, in fact, showed that
over 2.5 million occupied
houses were condemned or
needed major repair.)
While
the
Philippine
government is doing what it
can to alleviate the lack of
shelter, especially for the urban
poor, most NGOs devoted to
housing like Gawad Kalinga
have seen more success, which
indicates that the solution lies
in the private sector and the
country’s more well-to-do
citizens.
These
groups
and
philanthropists probably know
what the UN High Commission
for Human Rights notes in
its Fact Sheet No. 21, on the
Human Right to Adequate
Housing: “The indivisibility
and interdependence of all
human rights find clear
expression through the right
to housing.”
“Housing is a foundation from which
other legal entitlements can be achieved,”
the UN paper adds, noting that the World
Health Organization also has asserted that
housing “is the single most important
environmental factor associated with
disease conditions and higher mortality
and morbidity rates.”
Put another way, home—shelter—is
where the heart is. It’s unthinkable for a
person to live without a heart, as it should
be unthinkable for people to let other
people live without a house.
H O M E L E S S
I N
A
M A T E R I A L
W O R L D
Under a Bridge
By William Shaw
U
NDER a bridge is shelter and the ceiling of the bedroom is the pre-cast
concrete slab of the road above. A couch and an armchair sit with
an end table between them, like a Mocha Blends coffee house on the
riverbank. The water flows brown and dirty, but in the shadows you cannot tell.
I pretended I was in Mocha Blends and they were playing their special selection.
Dylan was singing “Watch the river flow...”
Only when you look into
the light beyond the bridge
can you see what darkness
hides so beautifully. Beauty
is a Manila river in the
night, when the water
splashes and sings and
every colored thing becomes
hidden in the black.
Jericho invited us in to
sit and relax. It is home. “I
know the mayor and he has
allowed us to stay here,”
he said. So we stayed and
watched the candles flicker
in the dim bridge light, even
though it was midday.
Jericho lives with Linda,
who has two children
from a previous marriage.
Her children live in Iloilo
with their grandmother.
The father is dead and
my interpreter makes a
cutting line on her neck to
symbolize the death. Death
is a matter of fact here.
Jericho and Linda have
a child on the way, but they
aren’t married. “Why marry,
we might want to move on,
or if we don’t get along we
will just separate,” he said.
“What do you think of
that?” I asked Linda.
“Okay,” she said.
“Who would you rather
live with, your children or
this Jericho?” I asked.
Only when you look
into the light beyond
the bridge can you see
what darkness hides so
beautifully. Beauty is a
Manila river in the night,
when the water splashes
and sings and every
colored thing becomes
hidden in the black.
Jericho squats on the right. This is his home and he has worked hard to make it one. Even the handles on his open door have a personal touch.
Family and neighbors gather for the photo. We enjoyed the conversation by the riverbank.
H O M E L E S S
I N
A
M A T E R I A L
W O R L D
H O M E L E S S
I N
A
M A T E R I A L
W O R L D
If we took real time to spend with these kids and past their “street” demeanor would find terribly confused and frightened Children. Their lives
are unhealthy in every way, but the resources and energies of authorities and wealthy are more often spent removing them, rather than alleviating
their suffering. As you walk the informal settlements and look under the bridge embankments you will find this population exploding. Children
the hope for the future, what are we doing to them?
It needs a million
dollars, like that song
by Barenaked Ladies,
“If I had a million
dollars,” except that I
would add a lyric: “If
I had a million dollars,
I would buy you some
earth.” That is what
this chunk of ground
needs.
Jericho thought that was
funny and replied seriously
that they would like to all
live together, but money
would not allow it. There
was no work in Iloilo. He
had left there eighteen years
ago at the age of twelve to
find work in Manila.
10 vol 1 • Issue 3 THE JEEPNEY MAGAZINE
We talked about The
Jeepney Magazine and
the opportunity for them
as vendors. They were
interested and asked us to
come back in a week to
discuss it in more detail,
with others. We said we
would.
This home was unlike
the next bridge dwellers’
home. This residence had
a small room that served
as the kitchen. It was two
meters by 1.5 meters. A
doorway led to a stairway
curling up to the simple loft
bedroom. The bridge casting
made the ceiling vary; here
one meter, there two. There
were pillows and some
blankets folded. A small
shelf held some treasures.
Another candle burned. It
was a comforting place.
“What happens when the
river rises?” I asked.
“Oh no problem,” Jericho
said. “It only comes up to
here,” and he held his hand
above the kitchen floor to
the first step of the stairway.
“We just stay in our
bedroom until it goes down.”
It must be exciting, like
a blizzard in Michigan when
the wind shrieks and the
windows rattle, to be here,
trapped in a cave, with no
escape, the water rushing
madly by. I imagined the
water creeping higher, and
the fear a flood would bring.
I wondered also about this
armchair, now 2 meters
above the river, but in the
coming months below or
in it.
Where does the armchair
go? I forgot to ask.
The next bridge dwellers’
home was much different.
There was only space to
crouch on the bank, above
the water and below the
concrete. We crept
down the embankment,
which was compacted hard
and dry, but unmistakably
an old dump. The layers of
refuse drooled out of the
earth like the spittle from my
Dad‘s mouth, when he lay
dying years ago. I
wiped his lips gently then,
but the earth is too hard and
the trash too embedded to
wipe.
It needs a million dollars,
like that song by Barenaked
Ladies, “If I had a million
dollars,” except that I would
add a lyric: “If I had a
million dollars, I would buy
you some earth.” That is
what this chunk of ground
needs. But instead a culvert
cuts through it, and the
culvert bleeds out a thick
grey sludge that has yellow
hairs growing sparse and
ugly in it.
I saw a man fishing in
a culvert not long ago and
so I stopped to ask him why.
Why and what, I wondered.
Frogs, he said, and held
them up for me to see.
They were thin and pallid,
but they were frogs. That
was on Marcos Highway,
just down from Santa Lucia.
The nearby factory is big
and healthy.
I do not pretend to
understand these street
children who cry in
ways that we cannot
handle. And grow to
be what we detest.
And die young. It is
incredible really that
we live among the
children of Dickens’
England.
This bridge (over the
river, on a dump, by a
culvert, bleeding waste)
was just by one of the
government’s many emission
control centers, a place
where cars are checked, and
money changes hands, to
make sure the cars don’t
pollute the air.
Those were the little
things. The big things were
running up to me with
their teeth full of rice. The
youngest had a blister above
his eye, skin lesions that
looked too much like a staph
infection on his nose, and an
abscess the size of a golf ball
on his forehead.
They were four children,
and very young, but old
enough to explain their
parents had gone to the
barangay captain to settle a
dispute between their mother
and her sister-in-law. Their
father had gone too. They
were four, but really eight
and maybe more, they
said. Some of the children
were not there; some were
at orphanages and some in
custody.
Farther down, two adults
slept dead to the world,
unrelated and unknown to
the children. There were no
candles or armchairs in this
place. The river was not so
dark and not so beautiful.
Their residence was built
on the side of the bridge,
not nestled under it and not
private. We peered into the
bunks that were their homes.
Tarps hung down to keep
out the weather and the rain.
The children crawled up and
in and scurried around us
like rats.
I do not pretend to
understand these street
children who cry in ways
that we cannot handle.
And grow to be what we
detest. And die young. It
is incredible really that we
live among the children of
Dickens’ England. This is
a history long considered
dead in the safety and
seclusion of modern wealth.
It is incredible that the
journalists in Manila raise
the hue and cry about the
freedoms they do not have,
the risks they run, when
under every bridge, by
every river, children live
like this.
There is no shelter
here. There is no safety.
There is no comfort. There
is no hope even. I had a
man tell me recently he
wouldn’t buy and wouldn’t
read the Jeepney. Too
depressing. Certainly, it is
less convicting, and cheaper,
to watch a Hollywood
representation of David
Copperfield than to walk
a mile and see him for
yourself. It is also an ironic
love of life that chooses
the make-believe over the
real.
It was an amicable visit,
under the bridge, in the
shadows, with Jericho. I
would like to go again.
THE JEEPNEY MAGAZINE vol 1 • Issue 3 11
Last week their home. Today a few children pick through the rubble. The last of the re-rod and salvageables are being gathered. The
informal settlers have been scattered. Emma Perez, a neighborhood leader said to me when I asked, “good…no good can come of this….”
SPECIAL REPORT
Stories from
Camp Karingal
O
N February 26, 2008, President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo issued
Executive Order 708, amending Executive Order 152. In essence,
EO 708 gutted the ability of the Philippine Commission of Urban
Poor (PCUP) under EO 152 to monitor and protect informal settlers from
random demolition. It transferred that authority to the respective cities
and municipalities, decentralizing control and eliminating the widespread
protection EO 152 had supplied by making the PCUP a clearing house for
“demos” affecting the urban poor.
February 26 may go down in infamy
for the informal settlers of Metro
Manila. Tens of thousands of families
are being displaced. In many cases there
is no compensation, no relocation, no
protection, no control and no recourse.
These people are moving into
churches, barangay halls, the streets, living
with relatives, building new less livable
shanties, renting smaller, less habitable
dwellings, and swelling the population of
the desperate homeless poor.
We at The Jeepney are looking at one
particular site, Camp Karingal in Barangay
Botocan, one of ten areas in Quezon
City where demolition has taken place
or is pending. The QC government and
police based in Camp Karingal “demoed”
239 families starting April 20, 2008,
completing it May 1.
Why cover Camp Karingal?
Very simply, one of our “Jeepney
Partners” has been a longtime resident of
the informal settlement at Camp Karingal.
She and her family are now homeless, as
a result of the action that took place on
April 30.
This gives us at The Jeepney a personal
interest and a personal responsibility.
The situation at this particular informal
By William Shaw
settlement is very volatile. It involves
the informal settlers, private property,
the legal system, the Philippine National
Police, the city government, one of the
premier universities of the country, and
in a very real way it involves you, our
reader.
Our commitment to our Jeepney
Partners does not die when their
situation becomes more desperate
and more untenable. In this case we
were at Camp Karingal, hours after the
demolition teams had razed the homes.
Instead of a PNP establishment looked
like a war zone. A few stunned people
were milling around. An overwhelming
military presence, children in the rubble,
remnants of belongings piled up, and
our vendor coming out of a roofless door
greeted us.
It is important to understand what
happens to these families and how they
cope, if they cope. Courage and despair
have come out of Camp Karingal. These
are a few of the settlers’ stories.
ELIZABETH and Ramer “Jack” Nato
have lived as informal settlers in the Camp
Karingal area since 1985. Elizabeth is
our Jeepney Partner and our immediate
connection to this area.
They purchased their property rights from
the widow of a policeman, who lived next
to them. Originally, they bought 12 square
meters of vacant land for 10,000 pesos, and
later they purchased an additional 2 square
meters for another two thousand. (Vacant
land in Quezon City is selling for as much as
30,000 pesos a square meter today. Many
of these squatter homes are sitting on a gold
mine of property.)
The Natos have six children, but only
four (aged 17, 16, 13 and 11) live with them.
Their two oldest, 21 and 19, are married and
live elsewhere.
Their home, the one we had originally
come to photograph, consisted of one
room and a mezzanine where the children
slept. Privacy was a simple matter of
evacuation. Their comfort room was only
plastic bags, which they disposed of in the
garbage.
Jack has worked as a tricycle driver, a
barker and less recently as a police aide.
With his wife, they lead Bible studies and
head cell groups in the settlement, and their
children were involved in a dance ministry.
Elizabeth is an artist and has done murals
and drawings for the Camp. Both are wellliked and consider the police, for the most
part, their friends.
They are presently living with two other
families in their church, as they have no
place to go and not have enough money to
lease or rent another home.
The Wednesday morning demolition
caught both by surprise. Elizabeth was at
the court to hear the proceedings. Jack was
home and eventually found himself in the
mix of the people and the police.
“The police were sorry,” he said. “It
was against their will, but they were just
following orders. They were begging us
quietly to move, saying please move, please
move. We were pleading with them and they
were pleading with us, but they were afraid
to lift their voices because their superiors
might hear.”
(Fifty-plus anti-riot police and the 15
SWAT members formed a battlefront with
their shields and their nightsticks.)
“I had a good friend who got on his
knees and begged. He is a fireman. In
the beginning many of the families were
begging and crying for mercy.”
Jack chatted with one of the men
brought in to do the demolition. This
man didn’t know Jack was part of the
community. They all had green ribbons on
their wrists for identification. He estimated
300 men came in three trucks. The man
stated they were hired from Payatas and
Barangay Holy Spirit—both depressed areas
in Quezon City. Jack said the man told him
they were being paid 200 pesos a day and
lunch by a certain Ed Madamba and the
local Urban Poor Affairs Office (UPAO). This
particular guy chatted with Jack and then
stole his new sandals, given to him by his
mother-in-law.
The hired men were a desperate lot.
“This is our job,” they said. They ripped
and tore roofs carelessly. They stole
recyclables and personal things. In fact,
Jack said even the neighbors were stealing.
It was chaos. The police made no effort to
keep the chaos under control. Jack said he
saw heads and supervisors laughing, as if
at a party.
Now, the Natos are looking for work,
housing, and wondering about education
for their children.
Emma G. Perez
Lea Tasi – daughter of Leticia
JESSE has lived here 17 years. He
built the house they lived in, which now is
gone. He had a patch over one eye.
During the demolition, in his rush to
salvage his home, rust from his home’s roof
sheeting had gotten in his eye and
infected it. He lost his eye May 9. “It cost
me 31,000 pesos to get my eye taken out,”
he said.
“I am married with two children. We
were also one of the first families to be
demoed on April 20. We built a temporary
shelter under the water tanks until we
transferred to the Barangay Hall roof on
May 2.
“I have been a personal driver for the
last ten years, but because of my eye can no
longer safely do that job. We are surviving
because I have asked for help from my
former boss.
“I plan on starting a small business. I
am not sure what it may be. We will look
for a place to rent. We received 3,000
pesos from the Urban Poor Affairs office,
and they had us sign a waiver. I was not
given a copy of the waiver. I barely read it.
I needed the money.”
“I am not angry, because I can do
nothing. The demo team has already
come… and gone.”
We left Jesse as his wife and a visiting
brother attended to him. He was leaning
back in a plastic chair on the roof of the
Barvvangay Hall with no job, no home, no
eye, just a few silent tears.
Jesse
Ramer “Jack” Nato
SUSAN is also staying on the roof of
the Barangay Hall.
“I am 42 years old. I have lived here
all my life. My parents have been here for
over 50 years and my great-grandfather
was the original settler of this land. This
was farmland when I was a girl. We
grew bananas, sweet potatoes, planted
vegetables. What is now the camp was
just used for agriculture.
“I was one of the first people to be
demoed on April 20. The demolition
team just climbed onto my roof and started
to tear it off. I yelled at them to get off
and then started throwing my things out.
“I am a single mom with four children.
Everyone left on April 25 to live with
my husband, but I do not want to
move in with him, and his other family.
I now only have my one grandchild,
my nephew, and three of my siblings
here. I have to try and care for them all.
I have been doing laundry so we can buy
food.
“Some of the people have received
3,000 pesos, but because our shanty was
not part of the census, they have given
us nothing. We have till May 30 to
find a place to rent. I have no idea
where we will live and how we can
afford it.”
“MY name is Kathy, but I am not
here to talk about myself. I am here
because my mother Leticia, 64, is dead.
My mom was a very brave woman and
a fighter. She was a past president of
the Botocan Community Organization,
and had been a voice of resistance in
the struggle to receive justice in this
situation.
“On April 20, or ten days before
the major demolition took place, my
mother went to the Ombudsman to file
a complaint. When she came home, her
house was gone. Ours was the first place
to be torn down.”
“All of her things were scattered. No
one had informed her. It is hard to put
into words how my mother felt. She was
so angry, so upset. She felt so violated.
For three days she could not eat, she slept
with no roof, she was in the rain and the
heat with no shelter.
“We finally convinced her on the
23rd to come to my sister’s home in
Muntinlupa to rest. She tried to rest, but
she was still so angry and remorseful.
“We took her to the Veterans Memorial
Medical center. She died on April 25 of
heart complications. She is a casualty of
the demolition.
“My father is resigned about the
situation. He is in the province, and was
there when all this happened. He pities
my mother actually. As a retired police
officer, he feels she was fighting a lost
cause.
“The second reason I am here
is for my niece, who has also been
affected by the demolition. She
is 13 and had chicken pox when
the demolition started.
The
next three days without shelter
caused complications for her.
She is coughing blood,
has large boils, and
is having trouble
breathing.
“I plan to sue.
I want to sue.
They have killed
my mother. I
hope they have
not killed my
niece.”
HERE is our interview with Emma
B. Perez, a leader of the Camp Karingal
community:
Jeepney: Emma, you have become
a spokesperson for the Community. Are
you the president of the Community
Group?
Emma: No, I am not the president.
Actually I am not one of the officers. I am
just a member, but some of our officers
were afraid to get involved in the situation
of the demolition. When we went to
City Hall to meet the Mayor and (police)
generals, they were afraid to accompany
our president, so I accompanied her, and
since then the president and I are the
ones who have gone to seek help.
Jeepney: How long have you lived in
this village?
Emma: For almost 25 years.
Jeepney: Could you be classified as a
professional squatter, in other words one
who has other property and lives here
out of convenience or one who has used
relocation money to move into a squatter
community?
Emma: No… I am not. We are
average; we do not own other property.
Jeepney:
Are there professional
squatters living here?
Emma: Maybe, I am not so sure, but
some of the policemen who are inside the
camp have sold their houses to civilians
and some have divided their houses and
accepted tenants.
Jeepney: So some of the police were
squatter landlords?
Emma: Yes.
Jeepney: Briefly explain the situation
at Camp Karingal.
Emma: The AFP (Armed Forces of
the Philippines) leased five hectares of
land from University of the Philippines.
They have a 50-year lease. The AFP is
no longer here, but the PNP is, and they
are saying we are part of the leased land
and need to relocate. We do not feel we
are on the five-hectare property, so we
were trying to get a survey to establish
the specific boundaries the PNP has legal
right to, or even if they have a right.
Because of our public disagreement,
the president of UP invited our
neighborhood organization and the
Camp authorities to a meeting. This was
a very discouraging meeting because the
UP President said, “Whatever, whatever
he (Camp Superintendent) wants to do,
we have given it to them.”
We lost hope, at that point, because
we felt that the people in authority were
in collaboration and had prearranged the
decision. However, because of Philippine
laws we expected to receive time to move
and be provided a relocation site with fair
compensation.
But almost immediately, the camp
began to harass the civilians, with verbal
threats and warnings. One particular
officer was overheard threatening to
release a prisoner to burn our area if we
did not evacuate voluntarily. We felt
bullied by the leadership of the camp.
Some of the residents began to transfer
and tear down their homes to save any
usable items.
Jeepney: You were one of the people
standing in the human chain when the
police came?
Emma: Yes.
Jeepney: Tell me what happened
there.
Emma: The evening before, one of
the policemen got a megaphone and
was roaming around, telling the people
they were going to demolish the homes.
We didn’t understand how that could
be because we had a court hearing
pending and a current “stop” order. So
we gathered the people and said, “This
is our last fight.” The president and I
told them, “We have to fight. We have to
establish a human barricade.” I told my
mother, “We are in front.”
Early the next morning, this was the
30th (of April), I told people to get out of
their house and wait for the demolition
team at the gate in preparation for the
resistance.
When the demolition team did come,
I led the way for the human barricade…
but sadly no one from the community
was there but me. I was alone. They
stood at the back looking at me and I
told them to come. “Come here. We are
going to fight.”
Sadly, they did not move.
The
demolition team was already in the
camp. There were some outsiders there
that resisted with me. I got caught
between the 50 police with shields
and the outsiders. I was shocked to
see the police beat indiscriminately the
ones standing with me. I tried to
plead with the police to not beat the
underage, but I was getting crushed,
and two women police attempted to
grasp me and abduct me. My brother
pulled me out.
Jeepney: You have mentioned that
you expected the police to be your
friends. What happened?
Emma: During that time, I told the
police to stop. “There is a hearing in the
court. Let us wait for the result of the
hearing.” They continued to push and did
not listen. The police were like animals.
Jeepney: How does this make you
feel about your country?
Emma: I think in my situation, in my
opinion. I’m living in a foreign land. I am
not living in my own country. Because I
am Filipino and I am in the Philippines.
The people are Filipinos hurting Filipinos.
And the fact these people are the PNP,
they are our security. How is that?
Jeepney: Do you feel threatened?
Emma: No, but someone has told me
my life may be in danger because of this
situation. I am not afraid. Because, you
know, there is God. He is my friend and
protector. I told my neighbors: “Do not
lose hope. God holds our future.”
Jeepney: What did the churches do?
How many churches were represented in
your community?
Emma: There are Catholics there.
There are Iglesia ni Cristo, there are
Muslims. I attend an evangelical church.
Jeepney: Where were the church
leaders?
Did they know what was
happening?
Emma: No, they did not know. I
asked for prayer from my church. There
is a Catholic church inside the camp, but
I saw no church leader.
Jeepney: What about the media?
How have they helped?
Emma: The media are only there for
a story. They are not there to help.
Jeepney: How could the Jeepney
readers help you?
Emma: If some of the Jeepney
readers are Christians, they could pray for
the people in charge, for their salvation.
Pray for them. It would be the best, the
best way to help.
FOUR women were huddled. Women
are the resisters in these situations, the
more vocal and less fearful. The human
chain was designed to put the women
and children in the front and the men
in the back. In most cultures, the men
resist and the women and children stay
behind, even among the poor. But
these four women, whose homes were
destroyed, sought refuge in one another,
comfort in loss. Unified in their grief
mixed with anger, they were inspired to
boldness, which irritated two policemen.
Words were exchanged. The officers
were angry. They threatened to take
one of the women’s sons to jail. They
shot their guns in the air twice. The
Camp Superintendent came over then,
because shooting their gun was criminal
and they needed to make an immediate
report, to explain their actions.
The interesting thing was the son.
They threatened and intimidated, but it
was the son who changed the dynamic.
Authorities yell at the women, but they
hurt the men and everyone knows it.
To be imprisoned in the Philippines is
hell—the overcrowding, the sanitation,
the distribution, the food, the health.
So the men are cowed by the fear of
violence, the women by the men, and
the children are learning.
ROSARIO ATIENZA RAFAEL and
Alfredo Rafael have lived here since
1958. Rosario was born in 1936, Alfredo
in 1931. They have 16 children. Their 13
living children and their families were
living with them on land adjacent to
Camp Karingal.
We at The Jeepney saw the QC tax
map, on which their land is identified as
adjacent, but outside, the unsurveyed
area that Camp Karingal, UP Bliss and the
University of the Philippines pay lump
sum taxes on.
The Rafaels claim their land was
awarded to them by President Marcos in
1980. They have a deed and tax receipts
to prove it. They also claim that their
son Leo showed the documentation to
Camp Karingal’s Senior Supt. Elmo San
Diego before the demolition, and that he
supposedly said, “OK, but we are going to
demo your house anyway. You can sue
for the land later.” That conversation is
undocumented, but their home is gone.
They have no money to sue. Leo has
rented a small home and his wife and
parents are living there.
Rosario says: “I do not want to stay
here anymore. I want to go to my home. I
am so hurt. I want to gather my children,
my grandchildren. Every afternoon I cry,
and pray, that we can regain our land. I
always go to see them, but they are not
there, so I ask them to come here.
“I cannot breathe when I remember
our lost land. I am asking help from Emma
Perez to gain back our land. I just want
to gather my children. I feel something
beating in my breast. I have difficulty
sleeping, worrying about where are my
children. There is not a single grandchild
around now. I hope before Christmas our
land will be back.”
She said this in a breath as she rocked
in her wheelchair, one side of her body
paralyzed from a fall two years ago. The
house is a room, three meters by six
meters.
Her son, Federico Rafael, says: “We
were demoed on the 21st, one of the very
first homes (destroyed) because we are the
access to all the other homes. The demo
team destroyed many of our belongings,
our TV, our stove, our electric fan. They
stole our galvanized iron (roofing) and
my mother’s electric massager, which she
needs for her paralysis.
“The demolition team climbed
immediately on our house. They gave
us no time to get our things. During the
demolition I could hardly breathe. I kept
on crying. I was afraid because the police
had guns and billy clubs. I was afraid I
would be hit or shot. I felt my heart being
beaten during this time. I do not want to
see (Supt.) San Diego or the demolition
team. I did not want to watch. I could
not watch.
“I do not want to see or look at the
place, but my son has to go to school. My
14-year-old son works for a police officer,
and the officer pays his way to school, so
if I want to visit him I have to go into
the camp. I do not visit often. When I
do, I have to swallow my pride. I have to
sacrifice my feelings and emotions.”
“We have a fifty-year certificate of
occupancy from the barangay. But I have
no job and no place to live.”
prerequisite of RA 7279, San
Diego added.
He noted that the Quezon
City government, through
its Urban Poor Affairs Office,
had extended 3,000 pesos
in assistance to the affected
families, while the QCPD
provided transportation to
move the settlers to proposed
relocation sites in Montalban
and San Mateo, both in
Rizal, or to areas of their
choosing.
Each of the 239 families affected has
a story. These are random stories, not
picked like big strawberries from a box.
The earth is indiscriminate in its
destruction. Lava flows, wind blows, the
earth shakes and we all fear the power
and we all join in the suffering. This
destruction is different; it is discriminate,
legal or illegal, and it piles discrimination
onto physical loss. The ramifications
of that combination are fearful to
consider, and yet we seem to be
generating a culture and society
without fear, in its blind quest for sterile
infrastructure.
C
‘We observed due process,
and we followed the law’
T
HE second-highest ranking officer of the Quezon
City Police District (QCPD) says the same law that
Camp Karingal’s informal settlers hoped would protect
them from demolition actually worked against them.
Stian Olderkjaer
discussions with the settlers
regarding
the
planned
“demo” began as early as last
year, and they were served
notice of the impending
action thrice—through public
announcements, consultations
and flyers, all documented—
before it actually happened.
San Diego said the fact that
the QCPD still formed a Local
Inter-Agency Committee (LIAC)
for the Karingal situation, as
required under the Lina Law,
showed the police and the
government was serious in
observing due process.
The settlers had complained
they were not represented in
the LIAC, which San Diego
himself headed as chairman.
“We did this despite the
fact that under the law, they
were exempted from protection
(from
demolition).
We
organized the LIAC precisely
in compliance with RA 7279,”
said the QCPD colonel, who
also revealed he knew some of
the affected settlers personally.
Also, since the Quezon
City Regional Trial Court had
denied the settlers’ motion for
a temporary restraining order
(TRO), the “presumption of
the law” allowed the police to
proceed with the demolition,
he added.
He said the police had
the right to administer
Camp Karingal because the
Philippine National Police,
when it was formed in 1991,
was given control of all assets
and facilities that used to
belong to the martial-law-era
Philippine Constabulary, the
PNP’s forerunner.
“Although the AFP has yet
to formally turn over all its
former camps now in use by
the PNP, the lease on Camp
Karingal is still binding,”
San Diego said. “The fact that
UP actually owns the land,
and we are administering
it, shows it is government
property.”
He said the QCPD is still “in
the process” of pinpointing the
exact boundaries of the camp—
another point of contention
raised by the settlers—but
stressed Camp Karingal is a
“fenced property.”
The plans and funding
for the proposed P30-million,
five-story quarters for QCPD
personnel
inside
Camp
Karingal, the main reason for
the demolition, were already
approved, fulfilling another
learned they actually had
houses in the provinces, San
Diego said.
Asked what the root of
the problem was, QCPD’s No.
2 man said the indiscriminate
sale and rental of “rights” by
the initial police and civilian
settlers in the camp—without
knowing if they did have legal
rights to the land—led to a
“very big compound that grew
out of control.”
“Over 50 percent of the
land in Quezon City is occupied
by illegal settlers. In our case
here, past administrations (of
QCPD and the government)
were not able to control the
building of structures on
the camp grounds, and past
administrators were seemingly
oblivious to them,” he said.
“As for the demolition,
we followed the law and due
process. Beyond that, we did
nothing,” Colonel San Diego
ended.
Camp Karingal’s History
amp Karingal’s history officially began in
1974, when the Philippine Constabulary (PC), the
forerunner of the Philippine National Police (PNP) but
then a martial-law-era branch of the Armed Forces of
the Philippines (AFP), needed land to place its units
under its Metropolitan Command or Metrocom.
By Jimbo Gulle
QCPD Senior Superintendent Elmo San Diego says Section 5 of Republic Act 7279,
or the Urban Development
and Housing Act of 1992, allows any demolition action to
proceed against any informal
settlements if they are erected
on government land.
The Karingal settlers were
therefore “exempted” from
the protection granted by the
so-called Lina Law, giving the
police and city government
the right to evict them from
the camp, San Diego told
The Jeepney in an exclusive
interview.
“Despite
them
being
exempted from the provisions of
RA 7279, we still followed due
process and exhausted all legal
remedies before proceeding
with the demolition,” said San
Diego, QCPD’s Deputy Director
for Administration.
Camp Karingal’s secondin-command, next only to
QCPD’s Senior Superintendent
Magtanggol Gatdula, said
He
noted
that
in
conducting a census of the
settlers’ families to determine
who qualified for relocation
and financial assistance, the
QCPD uncovered “a lot of
fictitious names” among the
families that disqualified them
from getting aid.
Also, several active and
former policemen living in
the Karingal settlement were
not entitled to relocation
or assistance because it was
The PC, then under Major
General Fidel V. Ramos (the
future President), saw about
five hectares of unused land in
Diliman district owned by the
University of the Philippines
(UP), and proposed to lease
it from the state school.
Ramos apparently wanted to
decongest Camp Panopio, the
Constabulary’s headquarters
also located in Quezon City, by
relocating the Northern Sector
Command of the Metrocom.
Dr. Salvador P. Lopez,
UP’s President at the time,
then signed a memorandum
of agreement (MOA) with the
AFP, represented by Ramos, on
September 25, 1974, leasing
the five-hectare property for
the PC Metrocom’s use for
50 years at just one peso
a year. The UP’s Board of
Regents, the state university’s
highest
decision-making
body, approved the MOA two
months later.
The Constabulary stayed
in Camp Karingal over the
next dozen years, but after the
1986 EDSA Revolution that
topped the Marcos dictatorship, Metrocom was abolished
and the camp abandoned by
military personnel.
Shortly after that, the
Quezon City government
supposedly transferred the
headquarters of the city police
to Camp Karingal from its
original spot along EDSA beside
Bernardo Park in Cubao.
Although
the
PNP
apparently
absorbed
the
Constabulary’s
duties,
responsibilities and property
when it was formed in 1990
under Republic Act 6975, the
camp’s changing of hands
from Metrocom to the QC
Police District is unclear.
Squatters in camp
Originally called Camp
Datuin and renamed after a
former Quezon City police
chief, Camp Karingal also
served as headquarters of
Motivated by pesos and rice, six men wade through the mortor and concrete trying to get their job done.
They with three hundred others were trucked in from adjacent Barangays to destroy their neighbors home.
about 100 members of
the
Presidential
Security
Command. They continued
to stay at the camp even after
“People Power I” in ‘86.
But since the existing
barracks could no longer
accommodate the presidential
police, Constabulary Col.
Reynaldo Diño, head of the
North
Sector
Command,
authorized them to built
temporary residences along a
shallow creek that bordered
Camp Karingal from the east.
Colonel Diño also ordered
the police settlers to act
as perimeter guards, since
squatters had already occupied
the other side of the creek in
Barangay Botocan, one reason
why Camp Karingal only has a
fence on its western side.
Still, informal settlers kept
coming around this porous border, and in 2000, in a report to
the National Police Commission
(Napolcom), then-Camp Karingal commander Superintendent
Carlito Esmeralda reported that
139 families were squatting inside the camp—including some
personnel of the QCPD itself.
Esmeralda also admitted the
QCPD could not just demolish
the settlers’ houses without
first relocating the families,
owing to the provisions of
Republic Act 7279, the Urban
Development and Housing Act
of 1992 or the so-called Lina
Law protecting the urban poor
from unjust demolitions.
H O M E L E S S
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Susan’s
Residence
By William Shaw
S
2
8
4
7
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9
6
3
1. This large yellow cabinet is a rice
dispenser which protects the rice from
pests and spills. It may be their most
valuable item.
2. Two pans, one a heavy iron fry pan
and one a rice pot, both traditional
cookware
3. Radio
4. Dishes
5. Plastic stools and a wooden bench
6. Two plastic dressers
7. School books
8. Laundry baskets and buckets
complete this family’s material
possessions
9. Two mattresses, one not shown
5
USAN, Melquiades, Karen Joy,
Kemuel and Kenneth John. The
Sarandin family has lived here 17
years. Karen Joy is 16-and-a-half, so she
was born here.
They bought this house from another
squatter for 2,500 pesos. It made sense to
buy rather than pay rent. Yes, rent is part
of being a squatter. In the Sarandin’s area,
many of the neighbors pay rent, as much
as 1,200 pesos a month. It is not unusual
for a landlord to own multiple houses in a
squatter area and not the land. He charges
rent and the squatters pay.
Each year, this area has become
more crowded. Each year the Sarandin
family has more neighbors. This is the
type of community where society can
conveniently put people together, and
there are no zoning laws.
As you can see, there is not a lot of
room to place the material belongings of
the Sarandins. The face of a neighbor’s
child and the doorway of her home
are just three feet away. In the unseen
background, a man observes from another
alleyway. (See inset photo)
Sanitation is a problem. The Sarandins
have a toilet and bucket shower. They
have a holding tank that collects the solid
waste. Not all the neighbors have a tank,
and rains combined with tank overflow
wash through their home.
There are three items not pictured. A refrigerator
and fan (both not working) and a mattress that
sleeping Kemuel, 15, refuses to evacuate. The
house consists of two rooms. The only window is
shown above the books. It faces the alley and the
neighbors.
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the Leona
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family
By William Shaw
T
HIS family lives in a push cart. In our
first issue, you may have read that
Manny Pacquiao did the same, albeit
for only a few days. It is not unusual for a
street family to own a push cart and use it as
a home. It gives them mobility, an element
of safety and permanence. It allows them to
vend close to home. But as you can see, it
is difficult to accumulate many possessions
when you live in a cart with five kids and a
niece.
For this photo essay, we met the family
in a state of disarray. Normally the husband
sleeps during the day and works at night. The
wife and children sleep at night and work all
day. The problem was that rent was due. The
husband was being forced to work and find
money for the rent.
Rent is actually a loan, given to street
people, who have shown an ability to pay.
This family pays 200 pesos each weekday on
their loan.
This family carried a bank book from
an obscure cooperative. They had borrowed
five thousand pesos, of which they need to
pay 5,700 back within 44 days. If you are in
business or even own a home, then the cost of
money becomes an important factor in your
ability to function profitably, or function at all
for that matter.
I remember my first home I had a loan
with 11 percent interest. That would bankrupt
most home owners in the United States today.
This family pays 116 percent interest to the
cooperative. No wonder the father has to
work night and day. No wonder they live in
a cart.
Pictured here are Alfredo and Jennifer, their nieve MJ,
daughter Joy. Not shown and off playing their trade
on the street are their sons Jimboy, Freddie, Michael
and their youngest boy Joshua. They have one other
son by the name of Alfred who is a twin of Freddie.
He lives with an Aunt.
2
The Leonas: Jennifer, Alfredo, Jimbo, Twins
Alfred and Freddie, Michael Joy and Joshua.
Alfred lives with an aunt. The two boys are off
somewhere.
7
3
1
4
5
6
1. A chair salvaged and used as arm chairs are used
everywhere. A chair in a house is better.
2. The push cart: a rope is stretched from the risers
on each side. It supports the tarp, which becomes
a makeshift shelter in times of rain, or sun. 3. Dishes: The family cooks with charcoal, from the
pits of Tondo, or with scraps of wood. You can see
throughout the side streets of Cubao places where
the sidewalk, and the walls, are scorched and
burned from the cooking fires of the poor.
4. A hard hat is a precious commodity. It may mean
a job. The street people can go one to two years
between a construction project and a temporary
position. 5. The tarp is a necessity of street life.
6. Bedding consists of cardboard. Cardboard on
concrete in many cases.
7. These six bags are clothes, almost one for each
member of the family.
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On Apple Road
The Sawals: Michelle holding Kenneth,
Jason and Jonathan. Dad Robinson is
at work, only daughter Cherrylyn is with
her ‘lola’ in Ilocos Norte
1. A gallon of purified water like this one
costs 25 pesos, and lasts for about a week.
It’s needed for 7-month-old Kenneth’s
milk—the regular powdered kind, not the
costly formulas for babies.
2. Jason and Jonathan need these shoes to go
to school, and to keep from bruising their
feet on the rougher parts of Apple Road. 3. This TV is their only electrical appliance,
and sole source of light at night.
4. Dishes 5. Their clothes and beddings
6. Rice pot..
By Jimbo Gulle
L
IVING by the roadside in a suburb of
Manila is preferable to living in rural
Ilocos. At least that’s what Michelle
Sawal, 30, and her family of six believes.
Here along Apple Road—where there
are no such trees, only fruitless banana
stalks—in what is a little more than
a cardboard house lives Michelle, her
husband Robinson and their three sons
aged six and younger. Robinson drives a
truck for a construction-materials company
near the Cainta Junction, while Michelle
tends to Jason (six), Jonathan (four) and
Kenneth (seven months) by herself. Their
eldest and only daughter, 11-year-old
Cherrylyn, is with her paternal grandmother
in Ilocos, about to enter high school.
They used to live in the banana field
behind their present house, until the lot
owner pushed them and other squatters
to the area toward the road, giving each
family a three-by-three meter space from
the gutter to erect their patchwork places.
But to the Sawals, this humble home
is still better than living up north, where
her mother-in-law and daughter are also
struggling to get by. “Mahirap din doon
e [It’s also tough to live there],” says
Michelle, who caddies once a week at the
nearby golf course. “Pero dito malapit ka
sa trabaho, dito may mauutangan kami
[But here we’re close to jobs, here we can
get credit].”
Even then, their jobs don’t pay enough
to support their family. Robinson should
be taking home 700 pesos a week, but
Michelle says sometimes he goes home
penniless, owing to advances he made from
the previous week. He also has to spend 60
pesos a day in fare to get to work.
“Ako naman, minsan nakaka-500 sa
pagka-caddy, pero depende kung mabait
‘yung golfer [Sometimes I earn 500 pesos
from caddying, but that depends if the
golfer is kind],” says Michelle.
That’s why, she says, they often lend
groceries from the sari-sari store three
doors down from their house. Luckily,
Michelle has befriended the storeowner—
whose house is not much different that
theirs—giving them a credit line sorely
needed in a depressed area like theirs.
The store also supplies them something
else: electricity, which the Sawals use to
power their only appliance, a second-hand
14-inch television. The TV doubles as the
home’s only light source in the evening.
For this luxury they pay the storeowner
100 pesos a month.
Otherwise, Michelle’s home has the
barest of essentials: a roof of two old GI
sheets, walls of plywood and used tarpaulin
streamers, an earthen floor leveled and
covered with linoleum for them to sleep
on, several bags of clothing, a pot for
cooking rice, a frying pan, and a small net
hammock for baby Kenneth.
Kerosene for cooking is out of the
question; too expensive, she says. Instead
they gather firewood from around their
area, but even that is growing scarce since
everybody in their neighborhood uses it.
If this place has taught them anything,
Michelle says it is self-reliance. “Wala kaming
inaasahang kamag-anak o kapamilya, kami
lang talaga [We don’t rely on any relatives or
kin except ourselves],” she says.
She then breaks into a wide smile—the
kind that says living as a squatter in
Manila’s suburbs is still better than living
poor in the province. That Michelle
believes.
3
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5
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2
W
here do you go
when the rains come down
and the waters rise
and your feet won’t grip
on the hard cement
slipping with mud and algae?
Puddle-stompin’s fine
in a bathing suit
when the sun comes out
and umbrellas twirl
and your feet twirls too
in the rainbow pool
and the bright drops fly
and catch the rays
of the new-washed sun.
But it’s not so great
when you lay your head
on a rocky bed
and your thin, thin clothes
hold the chilly damp
and it chills you to your bones.
A bed
in a house
is better.
W
here do you go
when the wind is hard
and it hurls its load
at your cheeks and eyes
and your eyes can’t see
through the wind-snarled hair
and they hurt
even when they are open?
A strong, swift wind is lovely, I
know,
on a white-sailed boat
on a blue, blue sea
with the sunscreen on
and a Long Island Tea
and a book to read
or a fishing pole.
But it cuts
and it aches
on a corner spot
or a ragman’s bike
where the only drink
is a half-day’s pay
and another man’s news
is still new to you.
A chair
in a house
is better.
W
here do you go
when the night is dark
and the shadows stretch
from the windows where
another child sips
a bedtime drink
and your stomach growls
and your shoulders hunch
and your hands are dark
against the dark?
The dark is fine
when the lights light up
and make a pool of golden warm
and the music pours
out a rippling riff
that moves with the moving light.
But it’s not as good
when your feet can’t find
the step that will lead
to the place you sleep
and your Mama’s face
is a shadow face
in the dark, dark night.
A night
in a house
is better.
M U S I N G S
&
M E D I T A T I O N S
By William Shaw
S
UCCESS to me has always been measured by the heart. Mariam
came to Cubao six years ago. She came hard and cold. She was
a mean woman, but meanness was a response to a mean world.
In a way her meanness denoted strength of character and a resistance
to the injustice she was dealt.
As a boy, I found myself
surrounded by a circle of buddies. I
had to fight someone much smaller
and weaker than myself. It was no
win. If I hit him I was booed and
catcalled, kicked at. If he hit me, he
was cheered as I was jeered. I wasn’t
sure what to do, and so I tried to
defend myself, but nothing else. He
slipped in a punch that bloodied my
nose, and in pent-up frustration I
ran home crying.
Years later, a friend found
himself in a similar situation. But
he was older and had a knife. His
teenage frustration used the knife,
stabbing it deeply into the younger,
weaker boy. Fight over. There was
no one in the circle of youth that
jeered him then. They stood in
fear and cowered at his anger. He
had taken their power and turned
it against them, violently and
effectively.
When I heard the story, I fought
many emotions. I understood
and understand being trapped by
This could be a picture from the dust bowl years of America, but it isn’t. It is inside the garage Mariam and her children call home. her daughters
sit on a borrowed sofa. Their one bag is packed. They are ready to return to the province, but do not know what or who will great them.
M U S I N G S
circumstances, being jeered at ,
being hemmed in by a society of
people with no care or concern
and little understanding. But I
also understood the sorrow of his
response and the consequence. He
spent time in prison and died in a
motorcycle accident a few years
later.
In many ways these scenarios
are Miriam, but more than Miriam,
it is every street person, every
indigenous tribal man, everyone
who is trapped by unconcern and
injustice and a
warped sense
of power,
surprised by
the hate an
urban setting
can bring.
So where
does victory
come in?
Miriam’s
father raped
her at the age
of 14. She
remembers
the scene. The
light was just
a shadow.
The music
throbbed.
Alcohol flowed.
Her father watched and saw his
daughter and boy in their nimble
and sexual youth, at the party. It
made him angry. He punched the
boy and punched Miriam, then
dragged her out to the field, because
this was the province and the field
bordered the party spot.
That was the beginning of
Miriam’s hardness. She went to her
grandmother, but Grandma would
not believe her, so she “rebelled, ran
away.” She lived with friends, began
to drink, conceived her first child at
age 16. She married a drug pusher,
became addicted to cocaine, shabu,
marijuana and eventually cough
syrup. She had three more children.
&
M E D I T A T I O N S
Her drug-pusher husband beat her,
and when he began to beat the
children she left him.
That was when Miriam showed
up in Cubao. Hard, angry and
mean. And she knew she was mean.
She wanted to be mean. She had
another child. She lived in room, off
a street, with no door and only two
walls. It was a garage of a building.
When she gave birth to her last
child, Reah Medenilla, our social
worker, heard she was in labor.
Reah found her all alone in the
If Miriam is a miracle, than
we can learn from her story.
Her change took years, it took
sacrifice, it took unconventional
compassion; in other words,
a willingness to love her for
no other reason than because
she was there. It also takes
tomorrow—because tomorrow
for Miriam is another miracle,
and another surprise.
empty prison of a home, bringing
yet another child into the world.
When we met Miriam for this
story to produce an essay on
“Squatters in a Material World,”
she didn’t seem mean, or angry.
She seemed gentle and meek. It
is possible that life has broken her
down. It is possible that her life is
just a shell, her spirit withered under
the pressures of street living. “I want
to go home and rest,” she said.
On the other hand, Miriam may
have overcome her debilitating pain,
and after meeting
her that is what I
want to believe. “I
have forgiven my
father,” she said.
Victory came
to Miriam slowly,
softly and with
God. “I called on
Him. I have faith
in Him,” she said.
“I pray to make
my mind sober,
I lose love for
people easily. I
know I am mean.
Drugs still want
me.”
Miriam is a
different person
in the same
circumstances. She is thirty-eight.
A few people, not many, have given
her years of compassion, regardless
of her meanness and past and even
her present. I talked to some of
those people, and they themselves
are surprised at Miriam. She is, in a
way, a success story, and success on
the streets is a miracle.
If Miriam is a miracle, than
we can learn from her story. Her
change took years, it took sacrifice,
it took unconventional compassion;
in other words, a willingness to
love her for no other reason than
because she was there. It also takes
tomorrow—because tomorrow for
Miriam is another miracle, and
another surprise.
B A C K
W O R D
Robbie and Jeepney staff member talk about the latest in Robbie’s life. The mattress on the sidewalk sleeps
three men and turns into a comfortable place to hang out. This is home and one that Robbie hopes will be
his for a long while. He and his two companions are already prepared for the monsoons with a tarp and some
string
‘We love this place’
Y
ou heard I was ill; No, I was just
overly fatigued. I had to rest.
I will tell you about this place
(where I live).
This place has given us income for
life. We collect trash, deliver wood for
fire in the market; they barbeque with
wood in the market, and anytime we
pass by a piece of wood we pile it to
collect later.
We work as barkers. We do car
wash, parking, guarding cars. We
collect old tires that people use as
flowerpots and sell them for ten pesos.
Also people give us food. I have talked
to the neighborhood and many have
agreed if the food is not spoiled, if it can
be eaten, than they will save it for us,
Sonny, Gyrus and I.
(ED: We were interrupted in the
middle of this discourse by an official
barangay vehicle, with three grinning
men and one serious woman. The
woman told Robbie they had received
numerous complaints that his
mattress home had become a drinking
establishment, and it was unsightly. It
was a timely visit, because our presence
had drawn a crowd. Sonny lay in
an armchair, dead to the world. The
armchair was in the street. An empty
gin bottle lay close by.)
“What she means to say,” said
Robbie when the barangay councilor
left, “is this place is a public scandal.
She wants us to put the gin in another
bottle, not drink out of the gin bottle.
And she wants us to keep the place
clean.”
That brings me to the street sweeper.
Sometimes we debate with the street
sweeper. For me it is always a joke,
but the street sweeper doesn’t know
that. You are the sweeper, we say. It
is your job to keep our street clean,
which is our home. So we give her a
hard time about all the leaves that are
falling. This makes her mad. She is
tired of her job, because of the leaves.
She wants us to clean up and tries to
talk to us like maids. I told her if
she was tired of her job she should
“re-tired.” Haha.
I also told the street sweeper. “In
my home, I eat, I sleep, I smoke and I
shower. I am not a maid and I do not
clean.” I told her that as I rested on my
mattress and sipped on my gin. Then I
had to rub her shoulders and her aching
muscles to make up.
(ED: Robbie showed us his firepot,
the coffee can, half filled with pig
intestines he had gotten from the
butcher, his salt box, the mattress, the
chair.)
“We will not leave this spot. Because
this is a trash area, and a good and
friendly neighborhood. We love this
place.” And as if in agreement, Sonny
stumbled from his chair and walked to
the gin bottle. Two men came over from
across the street and sat. They brought
some rice in a bag that Robbie took for
later. The sun shone. All was well.
EDITOR’S NOTE: It took a while to find Robbie this month. He was ill, at least that was the word on the street, but when we finally tracked him down he was in good spirits, just having finished a
bottle of gin with Sonny, one of the other men he lived with on the bangketa (sidewalk).

Stories from Camp Karingal

Transcription

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