The crisp smell of fried mixture of flour, seasoning and meat had me motionless for a moment. Freshly removed from their browning in a pan of fat, the kikiams seemed inviting that I can hardly wait to devour them. I really was famished from the day’s work and my stomach was complaining without end. How much? I asked. Ten pesos for three, the street vendor had said. I gave him the sum and started eating when a girl, about 12 years old, approached me. She wore a dirty face, a foul smell and a soiled shirt. She tried to give me a faint smile as her tired, lonely eyes met mine. She’s a beggar, I realized. I felt hate.

That was about four weeks ago.

Last weekend while I was scanning through the articles I’ve downloaded from the website of the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines (CBCP), the text I have read pained me as I remember the girl who had begged me money for food a night weeks before. Quoting Pope John Paul II, the article read: 

So you’re Marilyn*? And this is your sister?  I asked her after another girl arrived. The two didn’t resemble each other no matter how I look at them. The situation seemed phony and I suspect a syndicate is perhaps behind the kids’ begging. My classmates have told me once how a street kid asked them for some amount so that he can have his lunch. They said they’ll treat him for lunch, but the kid declined and said he only wanted cash, then he walked away mad.

Okay, I’ll treat you dinner. I told them. Where do you wanna eat? Marilyn hesitated for a moment before she said “anywhere” shyly. Yes, they didn’t declined nor got mad; I was partly surprised, mortified and troubled. Did I bring enough cash? We rushed to the nearest Barbecue Station and ate together. I was clueless about how the conversation that followed will affect my life… like it changes now.

So where’s your mom? I asked while she chomped a mouthful of rice. She chewed it, and then swallowed before answering calmly, “She is dead”. So calm I almost believed she didn’t care. She then recounted how their father left them for another woman, how their mother died few months ago from an illness, how they suffer from then on, and how they are surviving the hard life. She has another Sister, too, a three-year old little girl. After her mama’s death no one had welcomed them. They cannot live with their father for their step mom does not want them. Her aunts and uncles were also living in poverty and cannot support them. They are on their own. Without a place called home. Without a complete family she can call home. Yet, she is not blaming anyone. She didn’t even cry. Perhaps she’s tired of doing that. 

I visited Marilyn and her sisters in the Cogon market last week, where they used to temporarily stay, but they were gone. Did someone finally want to take care of them and bring them home? I do not know. As I exit the place, I noticed that street vendors are getting few lately. Most of them are like Marilyn, too. They push their cart; sell their goods so they can have food for their family. Some sleep in the carts themselves. Have they become tired of the constant haunting of the RTA? That, I also do not know. What I know is this: The city is doing a massive cleaning to make the place tidy. Supposedly for our own sake, so that when investors come they’ll be drawn to invest. I’m supposed to be glad. But I’m not. I felt hate. 

While it is necessary to clean the streets, it is also imperative that these ‘filths’ they are sweeping off be given alternative livelihood or shelter for them to stay. They are persons, too-- with a family to feed, with a home to build. We have always tried to lead our country into progress, to the light. Yet in our struggle to eradicate poverty, we have sent our people into the vast darkness and lose our morality in the process. I felt hate. But Marilyn does not hate anyone. Should I not?

Marilyn begs to feed her sisters. We call her a beggar. A couple who take shelter in the streets: destitute. A man who can’t make a living for himself: a bum or a hobo. Yet, every time I meet and speak with a beggar, a destitute, a bum or a hobo, my heart aches as I become grateful for the life I had and envious of the faith and wisdom they shared. Too bad, some people could not grasp that. They are all homeless, yes, but for me, they are the real heroes. After all, they make the heart of those people near them happy, contented yet pained. I just hope someday, these heroes can find a place for themselves that is worthy to be called... home. Could you be their home?

Cruz, O. V., D.D. (1997) I was Homeless and You Took Me In. Retrieved September 29, 2007. http://www.cbcponline.net