Hospices for the poor, piglets for women

How exciting and challenging it is to work among the young, the promising, the poor who are strong and who could claim a future. How wonderful it is to count the successes.

But how noble it is to work among the forgotten and the least, among those who do not matter even to their own next of kin. They have no wealth to give back, except a smile and a thank you, and a lesson or two on how to love.

I have just read about an Asia-Pacific Conference on hospice care that is starting today here in Manila. The Philippines must now be on the map of hospice care.

The Philippines is now known as a training ground for caregiving and a source of health workers for the world—in both the domestic setting and institutions such as hospitals, hospices and nursing homes.

Professional caregiving in the domestic setting is commonly associated with overseas work or with the rich who could afford to hire caregivers. This chore used to be part of the household chore of yayas and houseboys, but now, one could hire trained ones who want to earn while waiting for overseas employment.

In the past, the word hospice conjured up images of old, sick, poor, unwanted and abandoned people with nowhere to go and left in homes such as the ones founded by Mother Teresa. Or of rich elderly folk entrusted by their next of kin in the hands of church-run institutions where they could be cared for and live comfortably until they die.

Until recently, the word hospice was not commonly mentioned in the Philippines and the one most people knew was the Hospicio de San Jose run by nuns near the Malacanang area and which, if I am not mistaken, dates back to the Spanish era.



The common impression was that hospices were for rich nations whose people were too busy to care for their old and sick family members. Filipinos usually take care of their loved ones in their own homes as culture dictated. But now new ways of caregiving for both the rich and the poor are in place and hospice care has come of age.

Mother Teresa-type institutions are no longer the only ones that take in the sick, dying poor. Committed lay persons have taken on the job as a part of their ministry, raising their own funds so that the poor may also experience loving care. The poor need not be terminally ill, and with proper care and medication, they could have a new lease on life and have meaningful lives once again.

I have had the opportunity of visiting and experiencing such places, and then leaving so inspired and edified. One of these is Anawim, Home of God’s Poor.

Anawim is nestled in a sprawling five-hectare property in the outskirts of Montalban, Rizal. It is run by the Anawim Lay Missions Foundation, Inc., the “mercy mission” of the Light of Jesus Community, a Catholic charismatic group founded by Bo Sanchez, a lay married preacher. Anawim is the Hebrew word for “the poor of the Lord.”

Anawim’s residents come from different walks of life and circumstances. Somewhere, sometime, at a certain point in their lives, they had reached a dead end. For most of them, there was no one and nothing left except a last painful stretch of a life that had yet to be spent. To whom shall they go?

The stories of their lives are varied and rich. Like the story of Jose Jobahib, in his late 70s, who once lived in the Payatas dumpsite slums. He was all set to go to the Quiapo Bridge in Manila. He was taking with him Judith, his 48-year-old daughter with Down’s Syndrome, and with her tied to him, was going to jump off the bridge.

Anawim found them and they found Anawim.

The Madre de Amor Hospice based in Laguna is not a facility in the strict sense of the word because the patients live in their own homes. In other words, hospice care—medication, counseling, etc—is brought to their homes by trained professionals and volunteers.]

A good friend of mine, Monina Allarey Mercado, is one of the founders of Madre de Amor.

I was able to visit the home of a woman with an inoperable breast tumor the size of a ten-kilo jackfruit. That was two years ago. She was washing clothes, laughing heartily, when I found her. She is still very much around, Monina told me.

The Philippine Cancer Society also has a home-based “hospice care”. I was able to visit terminally ill patients in slums and hovels and see for myself how holes-in-the wall could be transformed into comfortable “pre-departure areas”.

It was moving to see poor and emaciated patients brighten up when the hospice team came to ease their pain and utter comforting words.

10 women, 10 pigs. There I was, a journalist, bringing to a 5-star hotel dinner a sheaf of paper with the digital photos and mini-bios of 10 very poor women of Dingalan, Aurora. I was submitting it to my friend, Hong Kong-based Daphne Ceniza Kuok. Though comfortably married and ensconced in HK, Daphne is still an activist through and through. She’s involved with International Care Ministries and also helps Filipino workers in HK. The fire within her has not died.

I told Daphne that some friends of mine from NGOs pooled their money (P10,000 each) to help poor women in Aurora get out of the wreckage of last year’s typhoon. Each woman was given P10,000 (which can’t even buy an LV) worth of piglet, feeds, etc. (never cash) until the pig was ready for selling. This worked, and the sales earned the women a little something, like good meals for their families.

The problem: Every P10,000, as agreed upon, had to be taken back so that other clamoring women (“Kami naman!”) could have a crack at it too. If only the women could hold on to it for a little longer, like two to three years, and make it run a full cycle. Gets nyo?

SOS call from a seaman

If I were to put together the feature stories I had written about overseas Filipino workers (OFW) they could probably fill one small volume. Come to think of it, I probably should put them between covers. They’re part of our history as a people in search of the land of milk and honey.

One story was about a domestic helper who stabbed dead the Saudi princess she worked for and who maltreated her for so long. The stabbing happened while the DH and her mistress were on a holiday in Cairo. The maid’s tearful letters to home (the last from the Cairo Hilton were they were staying) intimated that something was bound to happen. I was able to get hold of a photocopy of the bloodstained letter to her family which a Filipino consul found on the crime scene.

Another story was about someone who worked for Saudi royalty and who regaled me with her version of a “Thousand and One Nights” and photos of her wards, the desert picnics, the opulence that surrounded her.

And more. Stories told by OFWs (with photos to show, too) of their 1990 exodus across the desert when the Gulf War began. “Tomboy love” among lonely maids in Hong Kong. Husbands left behind to care for the children while their wives toiled abroad, kids left in the care of relatives and how they coped. Non-government organizations helping families of OFWs through savings and livelihood.

And how could one forget the Filipinos working in a Mediterranean luxury cruise ship as chefs, cooks, top-notch engineers, musicians, food and drink servers, spa attendants. They were proudly Pinoy and the best of the lot on the ocean blue, and so obliging to serve up sinigang and adobo even on formal dinner nights. Ah, but ever pining for the day they would be home.



I have saved some e-mailed letters, too, like the one from a doctor who sent a feedback to a column piece and who got feedback himself when I published it. The doctor said he was writing from a gas platform in the middle of the South China Sea. He narrated how his daughter begged him to stay for a day more so that she could present him to her classmates and teachers on family day. But he had to leave…in tears.

Here is a letter that I received from a seaman a few days ago. I did not translate it into English in order to retain the pathos and the bathos and its Filipino flavor. I merged two letters and moved some sentences around for coherence. The all-caps letter is a gold mine for theater. And more.

DEAR MISS DOYO, LAGI PO AKONG NAGBABASA NG PDI AKO PO AY SEAMAN AT KASALUKUYAN NA NASA BARKO NGAYON. LAGI KO RIN PONG NABABASA ANG COLUMN NINYO… MAY EMAIL ADD KAYO KAYA PO AKO SA INYO SUMULAT.GUSTO KO PO SANANG HUMINGI SA INYO NG TULONG KUNG PWEDE LANG PO NAMAN KUNG HINDI NAMAN PO AY BALEWALAIN NINYO NA LANGPO… NASA LAOT NGA PALA PO KAMI GALING VENEZUELA PAPUNTANG USA. AKO PO AY KASASAKAY LANG DITO SA BARKO LIMANG BUWAN AKONG NAISTAMBAY KAYA MEDYO KINAPOS DIN. GANYAN NAMAN ANG SEAMAN PAG NAPATAGAL NG TAMBAY AY UBOS DIN.

ANG AKING PONG ANAK AY APAT… ANG PANGANAY AY NASA HOME CARE NA PRIVATE SA KASALUKUYAN DAHIL SA KANYANG SAKIT DI NAMAN MALALA PERO ANG SABI NG DOCTOR AY KAILANGAN DAW NG MGA ISANG TAON GAMUTAN KAHIT PABALIKBALIK SIYA DON KASI NGA PO AY DI NAKUKUMPLETO ANG GAMUTAN. PAG BABA KO AY ILALABAS DIN SIYA. SIYA AY MAGTUTWENTY SIX THIS OCTOBER.
MAM KAYA PO AKO SUMULAT... MAY KAKILALA BA KAYO NA MAGISPONSOR SA ANAK KO. MARAMI PO AKONG NARIRINIG NA PWEDE HUMINGI NG TULONG SA PCSO OKAYA AY SA PAGCOR. KAYA NGA LANG PO AY SIGURO PROPER KONTAK. ANG ISA PA PONG GUSTO KONG MALAMAN AY DI BA KAMI PWEDE TULUNGAN NG OWWA OR SSS OR PHILHEALTH SA GANITONG SITUATION BILANG ISANG OFW NA SINASABI NILANG BAGONG BAYANI. ANO PO BANG INSTITUTION ANG MAKAKATULONG SA MGA GANITONG PROBLEMA NG OFW.

AKO PO AY 54 NA AT MALAPIT NA RIN PONG MAGRETIRE SABI KO NGA PO NA DI LAHAT NG OFW AY SINUSWERTE. SWERTE NA RIN DAHIL NAKAPAGPA ARAL NG MGA ANAK KAYA LANG PAG NAGKAROON KA NG GANITONG PROBLEMA AY NAUUNAWAAN PO NINYO ITO. DI PA NGA PO NATAPOS ANG AKING BAHAY NAKAPENDING DIN. SA KASALUKUYAN AY ITITIGIL DAW NILA ANG PAGAGAMOT SA ANAKO AT GUSTO NA NILA PALABASIN DAHIL DI PA AKO NAKAKAKUMPLETO NG BAYAD UMABOT NA PO NG 60 THOUSAND PLUS.

DEAR MAM CERES, MARAMING SALAMAT PO SA INYONG REPLY AT MASKI PAPANO AY NABIGYAN NINYO NG ORAS ANG AKING EMAIL. LAST APRIL NGA PO AY IPINASOK ULI SA KANILANG REHAB AND ANAK KO SA REKOMENDASYON NG DOKTOR PARA DAW MAASIKASO ANG PAGDETOXIFY SA ISANG GAMOT NA NIRESETA NIYA NA NAADIK ANG ANAK KO. THAT TIME KAMI ANG NABILI NG GAMOT MORE THAN SIX KIND ATA YUN PLUS ANG BAYAD SA REHAB AY 16K ANG GAMOT NIYA AY UMAABOT NG 10K ACCORDING SA RESETA NIYA NA INIIWAN NAMIN SA KANILANG SO CALLED HOMCARE. UNANG BUWAN MONTH OF MAY NABAYARAN KO PA ANG UPA SA REHAB. JUNE DI NA AKO MAKABAYAD PERO NAKAKABILI PA AKO NG GAMOT.

PINALALABAS NA NG DOKTOR ANG ANAK KO KASI DI PA AKO NAKAKABAYAD. AT NAGIWAN NA LANG DAW PO SIYA NG RESETA AT KAMI NA LANG DAW ANG BUMILI. NAKATANGGAP AKO NG EMAIL SA ANAK KO NA AYAW NIYA NG PROMISSORY AT DAPAT FULLY PAID DAW BAGO MAILABAS ANG ANAK KO.SAAN NAMAN AKO KUKUHA NG GANOON KALAKING HALAGA. KUNG SAKALI AT MAILABAS KO ANG ANAK KO AY SANA MAIPASOK SIYA SA ISANG INSTITUTION NA MAY PROGRAMA KASI PO SA REHAB NIYA SA KASALUKUYAN AY WALA SILANG PROGRAMA. DI KO PO PINUPUNA…PERO KUNG SAMA SAMA NAMAN ANG BABAE AT LALAKI…KASI ANG ANAK KO EH NAGKAGUSTO SA ISANG BABAE NA IPINASOK NILA DATI AT NGAYON AY BUMALIK DIN NAGKITA NA NAMAN SILA. DI NAMAN PO AKO MASAMA ANG LOOB KO SA MGA DOKTOR DON...NAKAKAHIYA NGA SA KANILA AT DI AKO NAKAKABAYAD...ANG AKING PONG ASAWA AY SI…ETO PO ANG KANYANG CELLPHONE NO.+63 9173940404…

RESPECTFULLY YOURS,
(Name withheld) 203232@eos.hanseaticfleet.com

Sing, ‘fiat justitia ruat coelum’

Indeed, one can say, “nessun dorma”. No one sleeps as this benighted country awaits the rising of the sun and the day of judgment of former president Joseph Estrada.

In Puccini’s last opera “Turandot”, no one sleeps as Calaf, the “Unknown Prince”, waits for Princess Turandot’s life-and-death answer to a riddle. Calaf’s fate hangs in the balance.

I am starting to write this piece on the eve of the Sandiganbayan’s judgment on Estrada, accused of plunder and several other crimes. I continue writing tomorrow (yesterday, that is) after either his conviction or acquittal.(Now, as I continue writing, he is being judged guilty of plunder, but not of perjury, and is being sentenced to reclusion perpetua or 40 years. It takes less than 30 minutes to read it all to him.)

Out of the window goes the piece I had intended to write. That is, my two cents on the great tenor of our time Luciano Pavarotti whose death last week was mourned by music lovers worldwide. I soaked the world’s grief and mine in his music in the past days, deriving comfort from the sacred arias, to the flirtatious and “brindisi” ones, to even the Hollywoodish “Yes, Giorgio”; from his vintage 1965 recording to his recent crossovers from opera to pop.



Well, he got to sing (“Panis Angelicus”) at his own funeral, didn’t he?

But it is the end of what has become Pavarotti’s signature song from “Turandot” that will linger for all time. He soars and explodes in the end of “Nessun dorma” with “vincero…vincero!” followed by the blare of trumpets that heralds victory.

Who is the victor, who the vanquished?

Estrada is no Calaf. The similarities end in their waiting in the night. But this plunder case in the trial of the century is indeed operatic in magnitude and I can visualize and hear in my mind an opera chorus, like the chorus of the prisoners in Verdi’s “Nabucco”, breaking mightily into song as judgment on Estrada is being rendered. I imagine the song to be “Fiat justitia ruat coelum.” Let justice be done though the heavens fall.
So much for trying to mix and mesh on this day of days.

My thoughts go back to May of 2001 when Estrada was arrested, handcuffed and brought to his prison cell. What happened after that was totally unexpected. The throng of poor people who adulated Estrada went berserk. It stunned and jolted many, even those who had worked and immersed themselves among the poor for most of their lives.

They wept for the people and for themselves. Church workers, most of whom had accompanied the poorest of the poor for many years, shed tears while reflecting on the violence on Mendiola, where thousands of Estrada supporters went wild, destroyed property, and hurt and were hurt by those who stood in their way.

"Where have we failed?" I remember the church workers who worked among the poorest asking almost in unison at a reflection session. “How have the poor come to this? Who led them there? Why couldn't they understand that their idol, Estrada, committed a grave crime against them, the very poor people who put him in power? Where were we?”

"Like sheep without a shepherd" was how a priest described the throng that went on a rampage. "We looked at the thousands who massed up at the Edsa Shrine and dismissed them simply as a mob-unwashed, uncouth, uncultured—and saw and heard only their ravings and the threat to us 'peace-loving and educated' citizens. When this mob finally moved, we congratulated one another and said our judgment was deadly accurate."

But the priest used the biblical parable of the Good Shepherd to point out that many failed to see the so-called mob "as Jesus would have wanted us to see them—as people who were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd."

Because the angry poor were not the enemy.

A community organizer in poor Christian communities for two decades wept unashamedly and expressed his frustration. "Why, why?" he cried. "Have all our efforts gone to waste? I have poured out my life for the poor, and now this. Should I give up?"

But it was different in a poor district in Malate and Paco in Manila where Good Shepherd nuns have lived for 20 years: No member of a Christian community in the area went to the pro-Estrada rally.

When asked why, a woman answered they knew Estrada had stolen and they did not want to side with evil. Seminars, reflections and prayer had brought them to this kind of conviction, she added.

"We knew on Monday that the (Estrada followers’) takeover would not happen because God would not allow that," the woman said.

A Franciscan nun sobbed as she recalled how relocated squatters with whom they had lived for seven years turned against them. "We lived side by side with them, lived the way they did, but they still thought Estrada was their savior," she said. "Kulang na lang palayasin nila kami (They did all but drive us away) and they blame us for Estrada's downfall."

"We should not give up," a sobbing church worker said, "we have to be shepherds, not only to the poor, but also to one another. We need to be more compassionate."

The work will be hard and will take a long time, someone added. "We cannot leave and give up now. We have to examine ourselves and find new ways."

Others expressed hope mixed with disappointment. "This is a wake-up call," a church worker said. A wake-up call, indeed, for those who were asleep and those who were already awake. That was six years ago.

It’s just been an hour since the judgment was read. Who knows what the aftermath would be this time.

In the dying light in a pauper’s eyes

MANILA, Philippines -- The absent one. This was how Mother Teresa referred to that absence that she felt in her life during her 50-year dark night of the soul.

Where was the beloved, the one for whom she poured out the substance of her life, the one supposed to give meaning and purpose to her selfless daring to love the world’s most abandoned?

Mother Teresa’s own revelations, kept and hidden even after her death 10 years ago, and made public just recently in a book (“Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light” edited by Rev. Brian Kolodiejchuk), are now the subject of scrutiny and speculation, even of awe. It is Time magazine’s cover story this week.

But this happens to those who tread that mystical twilight zone reserved for the highly spiritually evolved among us. It is a price they have to pay. They have been privileged to experience the divine so intensely and intimately. And when the peak experiences that have led these chosen ones to do daring acts of love, when the ecstasy and consolation are withdrawn, when from lush orchards they are led to deserts, barren and desolate, there is no balm for the pain. Worse, there can be neither feeling nor non-feeling. Just a yawning absence.

But what made Mother Teresa’s dark night so different from that of other known mystics was that it went on for a long stretch of 50 years. And despite this trial, she held on to what she believed she must do -- to love what the world deemed unlovable -- even while she herself was going through a seemingly “loveless” existence.

“Where is my faith -- even deep down right in there is nothing, but emptiness and darkness. My God, how painful is this unknown pain…”

Hers was blind faith in its truest form, faith threatened but, ah, roaring with a fury. She pushed on, making the world believe what must be believed -- that God loves unceasingly and so must we -- and put aside how her own soul felt. She never expressed her doubts openly, except to her spiritual guides.

Was she lying then when she constantly spoke to the world about that great love that quenched her and sustained her work? Was she lying when she inspired others to seek that love and respond to it, and also spend their lives like she did?

Indeed, countless others have followed Mother Teresa’s path to those who are hidden and hideous to the world’s eyes. The thousands who, over the years, have joined or worked with the Missionaries of Charity (the congregation she founded in 1948) are proof that the divine love that she missed was not absent. It was at work.

Heroic indeed are those who do acts of sacrificial love even when love -- the feeling -- has hidden beneath the ruins. That is the real test. Mother Teresa surpassed the test. She was like an athlete who made it first to the finish line despite injuries and doubts.

It is with some guilt that I go over the words she wrote me many years ago. She responded to my scathing letter (in which I enclosed a biting statement from a Filipino religious) about how she “held hands with the dictator Marcos.” It was the late 1970s, the Philippines was under martial rule and I did not like the way the dictatorship feasted on her presence and made her the face of compassion, how she allowed herself to be used. I was an admirer of that “something beautiful for God” that she was doing and that was precisely why I wrote her. I was disappointed and angry when she came and was swept into the arms of the conjugal dictatorship.

I was young, impetuous. I mailed my letter in India and I received her response while I was still there. From Calcutta, she sent me a stinging handwritten response. It was not short and sweet. Here is a paragraph: “I had not gone to your country to discuss politics, not to preach justice, but just to serve: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give home to the homeless -- that is all. To be able to do this, ours is a life of prayer and action and so we proclaim Christ to the poor… It is easy for you to preach the theology of Liberation and Justice with full stomach and well rested bodies, but our people in Binondo and other places around the world have to suffer the pain of hunger plus the discontent you have created in their lives. For me this is the greatest injustice done to the Poor….” And more.

I did write about that exchange (“Mother Teresa’s strong letter to me,” Sept. 11, 1997) shortly after she died.

All those years, she was painfully and secretly seeking her God. In the vastness of all the hiding places, in the immensity of a million faces, in the dying light in a pauper’s eyes.

I am sure, in death, she found the Absent One at last. This God who had walked her across sandstorms and rainstorms, across fields turned white by lightning, this God who had walked her to the edge and bade her to cross alone. And then was gone.

In death, she arrived at last and realized The Absent One had been waiting.

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Bravo, Bacolod and Dumaguete, for inviting the Manila Symphony Orchestra, the oldest in Asia, now composed mostly of young, talented musicians, for concerts. (La Salle-Bacolod yesterday and Silliman U on Sept. 7 and 8.) Helen Quach conducts. This is Quach’s second coming this year, after a 16-year absence. The Saigon-born Chinese-Australian conductor, the toast of the stage for decades since she was in her 20s, later had to go through her own “dark night” and journey toward healing. (We wrote about this in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine, May, 29, 2007.)

Get a jolt in the soul from Beethoven, Grieg (with pianist Cristine Coyiuto) and Tschaikovsky. Bravo to St. Scholastica’s College that provides a home for MSO and hones orchestral talents. The music will live on.

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