I have something that I just need to get off my chest.
Every year during Ramadhan, the city and regional governments sponsor evening fairs for peddlers, storekeepers, and small entrepreneurs. These fairs get really crowded every evening as people would often go there to eat with their friends and families.
On the second Tuesday of Ramadan, I was with my sister at BGC (Bangsamoro Government Centre) Ramadan Fair. We were hanging out in one of the less crowded areas when a young boy came to our table to ask for alms. It was seven in the evening and so we asked him where his parents were. He stammered a little and pointed at an elderly-looking lady carrying an even younger child in her arms. The little boy said it was his mom and that she is deaf-mute. I wanted to learn more about them because I intend to help them in ways more sustainable than giving alms. I had difficulty understanding the little boy because he couldn’t seem to speak well. Fortunately, his older brother arrived.
The older brother, who introduced himself as Mama, was a better communicator. Through him, we found out that his father already passed away. He is the oldest of four siblings but one of them passed away too. His mom is born with a disability and is illiterate. They live in a tiny house but are at risk of getting displaced. Mama did not know how old he was but says his brother (the little boy who first talked to us), is six years old. He said they visit the fair every night to beg because they have to pay the owner of the land where their house is located or else they will be forced to move out.
I asked Mama whether he was still studying and he said he quit school. He dropped out in third grade because some kids in his school were bullying him. They beat him up horribly and so he decided to stop schooling. I asked whether he told the teachers about the bullying and he said that even the teacher’s kid is a bully and so he thought it was better that he quit school instead.
My sister and I asked for the contact details of anyone that may have a phone who knows them. We truly wanted to help. And we mean, help properly like helping them get access to welfare services. We asked for their address and he told us “just ask around near Quirino bridge, “where does the mute live?” (idsa nu bu lu tampal sa titayan sa Quirino, "daw i walay siya na mga mao?").
Beyond their miserable situation, I was honestly alarmed by how there seemed to be nobody who thought of helping them out properly. I’m even more appalled with how dehumanized they are; her mom being called mute instead of her proper name: Rahema.
We didn’t have enough cash then and so we could only give them P500. But we were able to get the number of their guardian. We bought them food that they could eat for their next meal and I spoke to Mama. I asked him whether if I could move him to a better school, will he be willing to go back and study again. He said yes and that he actually wants to study. I told him that I will do my best to find him a good school; that education will be his best chance to lift himself and his family from poverty.
Exactly a week later after that encounter, I received a message from my sister telling me that our contact person for Rahema called. Mama had died.
He got into an accident. He was biking when a band of kids threw stones at him. He fell down and hit his head. The next day, he kept throwing up. He was brought to the hospital but died the same night.
It took a long time for me to process everything. I was in shock. I felt weird. It felt like there was an empty hole in my stomach and it was growing and gnawing its way up my throat. It felt so heavy. I wanted to cry. I wrote a message to a friend hoping that in doing so, I can process what happened and be able to help myself properly grieve. I finally managed to shed a few tears that night but the heavy feeling in my chest lingered until dawn. I tried to identify what those feelings were---was it sadness? anger? frustration? regret?
The rest of April was planned out a long time ago to be spent with family and so for the next weeks after I heard that news, I subconsciously pushed the thought of it to the back of my mind. Yesterday, as soon as I stepped out of the plane and breathed in the woeful air of Cotabato, my repressed thoughts about what happened to Mama came flooding in.
I told the story to my uncle earlier this evening --- to ask for advice, to weep, to heal. I was not able to finish my story; my uncle continued it for me. He has heard of what happened to Mama. And I learned that when Mama fell, the group of kids closed in and kept kicking him. An adult male even joined in. I was told that his case has been brought to the 'authorities' but that the parents of the delinquents managed to haggle the compensatory damages.
I was reminded of the heavy feeling I had three weeks ago, but I know it clearly now. It is injustice. When I started writing this, I told myself that I should be fine by the end of it. I still am not.
I don't think I will be anytime soon.
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