Life in the Tombs
In the hills outside Manila, there is a community of families who are so poor, the only place they can afford to live is in a graveyard. Karen, Anna, and I spent the morning with them today.
Compassion International has always existed to help the ‘poorest of the poor’ and their mission is being fulfilled in the work I witnessed. We woke up a little earlier today, since the trip to the project was going to take a little longer. For those of you who have to commute to work during rush hour, I would recommend you visit Manila for a cure to any road rage you may have. What you and I experience during an occasional slowdown or heavy commute is a way of life here. From 6:30 in the morning till about 9:00 you can count on gridlock — with blaring horns and near-misses that would make even the most road-savvy Houston commuter swoon. But we finally arrived at the Elohim Student Center in the hills of Manila.
When we met with the students and their teachers, we saw happy, well-adjusted 5-8 year-olds. We laughed and played, we sang songs together, and blew bubbles. After a presentation from the children, we boarded our bus for a trip to their “homes.”
You’ll notice in many of my blogs from the Philippines, I’ll put the word “homes” in quotation marks, because the places where these beautiful children live do not mirror any living conditions most of us could relate to.
First of all, no American in their right mind would live in a graveyard, would they? Who would surround themselves with death? Who would subject themselves to the threat of disease, the smell and the shame that comes from living in these conditions?
Only a family who had no other choice.
When the Pastor told us where many of his students lived, I had a picture of something that was far different from what I found. When you and I think of a gravesite, we probably picture a well manicured area with flowers lovingly by friends and family. We think of a resting place that’s more serene than macabre. But that’s not what I saw when I visited with the children today.
Imagine having to walk down a broken road lined with a wall of tombs on your left and above-ground crypts on your right. The wall of tombs was 250 feet long with tombs stacked six-high. Many had grave markers identifying loved ones that had lived only a few days or years. Add to that picture open tombs that have been broken into and vandalized, and the refuse of death strewn all about. Imagine the message this sends to the children — “You aren’t very important, because you live where they send people who’ve died.”
Trash and waste were the decorations of these tombs — and scattered throughout the graves were homes — places where people actually lived. The space was shared with dogs and cats so thin that they barely looked alive. Chickens and livestock were chained to stakes in the ground to keep them safe from thieves, but not allowed to feed or graze. This was the boulevard my family and I walked down to visit the homes of two Compassion children.
Past the wall, we turned off the main road to walk between small shacks that served as homes for the people who lived there. Every open door had the face of a small child, barefoot and dirty. Some were playing in the water that ran outside their door which was dark with runoff and waste from the homes around it. As we walked deeper and deeper, the walls grew closer and closer — until we couldn’t walk any further without brushing up against someone’s home. Privacy isn’t a concept that’s known here. The wall seperating you from your neighbor is often simply a piece of cardboard found on the side of a road. It’s dark as light bearly penetrates the overlapping roofs. The air is still and dank. And then we arrived at our destination.
At both houses, the mothers are alone. Their husbands work as laborers, earning about $25 a month. One family had four children, the other had five. Health concerns abound. The children may not see their fathers for weeks, if work takes them from home. Both families were squatters on this land since it was a public graveyard.
When we asked how we could pray for them, both had the same reply. “Pray for my children, for their health, for my husband to find better work, and for us to be able to find a better place to live.” It’s the same prayer you and I would pray — “God, keep my family healthy, help us to provide for them, help them to have more than I had.”
While I’m struck at how different these conditions are from anything I know, I also find tremendous similarities. These are families — people who Jesus died to save. They have hopes, they have dreams, and they have fears. But unlike you and me, they don’t really know how they can change. Unless they are educated, they’ll probably never break the cycle of poverty they’ve known for generations. Unless they get the healthcare they need, they may not live more than a few years. Unless someone tells them ’you matter’ they may never dream of leaving the tombs.
Tonight, as you go to bed — I hope you’ll join me in this prayer. “God, you have given us so much. I don’t know why you allowed me to be born in the United States, and others to be born in poverty, but I ask you to use me to release people from whatever keeps them captive. Show me how I can be used to change the lives of those I come in contact with. And Lord, whatever you ask — I’ll do it.”
As I left life in the tombs today, I asked the Pastor of the Church that partners with Compassion how I could pray for him. He told me he sometimes gets discouraged because the need is so big and his resources are so small. I hope you’ll pray for him and the volunteers at the Elohim Student Center in Manila. They need to be encouraged, and reminded — as only God can do — how much they truly matter. Thank you.
I love you,
Jon