'The man who planted trees'

Philippine Daily Inquirer/OPINION/by Ma. Ceres P. Doyo

I wrote the piece below for this space 20 years ago, in 1991 (with a different title). I share this again to honor those who have been guarding our forests with their lives, in memory of the thousands (almost 2,000 dead and some 1,000 still missing) who perished in the Dec. 16 flash floods, landslides and log slides that roared into parts of Northern Mindanao and the Visayas, and in solidarity with the grieving, hungry, homeless and hopeless.

Tropical Storm “Sendong” is not entirely to blame. Earth watchers have been crying out in the wilderness, subsisting on the proverbial locusts and wild honey, unheeded in their own woebegone country.

While re-working this piece I was listening to the Enya album, “The Memory of Trees” and thinking of all the real Christmas trees out there that have protected us. I pray for brightness on the road ahead, “charged with the grandeur of God.”

                                                                * * *

When you remembered that all this had sprung from the hands and the soul of this one man, without technical resources, you understood that men could be as effectual as God in other realms than that of destruction. —from “The Man Who Planted Trees”

A story I read as a little girl and which I remember very well to this day (in fact the copy is still preserved at home in the province) is that of Johnny Appleseed. I remember his saucepan of a cap, his bright eyes and the fistful of apple seeds he strew around wherever he went.

Children keep things in their hearts and remember even when they become adults. After these many years I still remember how good I felt reading that picture story in the Junior Classics Illustrated. How Johnny Appleseed made the bare fields bloom and when he was old, how he marveled at the work of his hands and how he died a happy man and how the birds in the apple trees chirped his name long after he was gone.

I remember as I go over this warm little book which my friend, a farmer, lent to me. The book, “The Man Who Planted Trees,” comes with audio (text and music) which can be played while one is reading the book. Listening and reading—slowly, meditatively—takes 40 minutes. (This is now on YouTube!) The story is by Jean Giono, the illustrations (such exquisite wood engravings) by Michael McCurdy. A noted French writer, Giono has written more than 30 novels. He died in 1970 at 75.

The name of the man who planted trees is Elzeard Bouffier. Giono said the purpose of his story “was to make people love the tree, or more precisely, to make them love planting trees.” Through Giono, we first meet Elzeard Bouffier before the outbreak of the First World War, then when the war is over, then again before the outbreak of the Second World War and finally at the end of it.

Giono, the storyteller, describes where he first met Bouffier: “About 40 years ago I was taking a long trip on foot over mountain heights quite unknown to tourists, in that ancient region where the Alps thrust down into Provence. All this, at the time I embarked upon my long walk through these deserted regions, was barren colorless land. Nothing grew there but wild lavender.”

In this god-forsaken land lived Bouffier, “a man of great simplicity and determination.” Bouffier, who had lost his wife and children, resettled in this desolate place in Southern France. With only his dog and sheep for company, he started his monumental work—planting a hundred acorns every day of his life.

It is Giono who tells us about the transformation of the region—from a once arid vastness into a verdant land bristling with promise. Alone, unaided and in complete anonymity, Bouffier planted and did not allow the cruel wars to interrupt what he was doing.

When Giono goes back after the wars this is what he sees: “Everything was changed. Even the air. Instead of the harsh dry winds that used to attack me, a gentle breeze was blowing, laden with scents. A sound like water came from the mountains; it was the wind in the forest. Most amazing of all, I heard the actual sound of water falling into a pool. I saw that a fountain had been built, that it flowed freely and—what touched me most—that someone had planted a linden beside it, a linden that must have been four years old, already in full leaf, the incontestable symbol of resurrection.

“When I reflect that one man, armed only with his own physical and moral resources, was able to cause this land of Canaan to spring from the wasteland, I am convinced that in spite of everything, humanity is admirable. But when I compute the unfailing greatness of spirit and the tenacity of benevolence that it must have taken to achieve this result, I am taken with an immense respect for that old and unlearned peasant who was able to complete a work worthy of God.”

Incidentally, among Giono’s countless works, “The Man Who Planted Trees” was the one that got into trouble with editors. So he sort of gave it away. Said he: “It is one of my stories of which I am the proudest. It does not bring me in one single penny and that is why it has accomplished what it was written for.” It has been translated into more than a dozen languages.

The book (printed on acid-free and recycled paper, of course) is published by Chelsea Green and Global ReLeaf, a group which aims to stop global warming by planting millions of trees. The two groups have put up the yearly Jean Giono Award for the best tree-planting effort by an individual.

Love that tree.

Send feedback to cerespd@gmail.com or www.ceresdoyo.com

Season of immense grieving, immense giving

Philippine Daily Inquirer/OPINION/by Ma. Ceres P. Doyo

Storm “Sendong” struck in the wee hours when most people were asleep. Weather experts and forecasters were stunned upon beholding the aftermath of Sendong’s force and fury. But it was not Sendong’s wrath from the sky alone that caused the destruction. Elements on the ground conspired—silted rivers and congested riverbanks, poor urban drainage systems, denuded forests. It was not all Sendong’s fault. There surely will be a time for fault-finding. It didn’t have to be as bad as this.

And yes, this had been predicted three years ago, foretold, if you may, not by armchair doomsday soothsayers, but by individuals and groups that have been working on the ground and using science so that the authorities and their constituencies could be forewarned and be prepared. They were laughed out of the room. (Read “Sendong disaster foretold 3 years ago” by Kristine L. Alave, Inquirer, 12/20/11.)

Everything in words has been said about the immensity of the grief of the people who survived last weekend’s calamity that visited the cities of Cagayan de Oro and Iligan as well as other Mindanao and Visayan areas. But there are not enough words.

Almost a thousand dead and countless still missing. The counting continues. The live images of devastation that stream on the TV screen, the still images on print, the wailing, the weeping. Dead people, dead animals, debris, mud, water, wreckage, decay. Hunger, thirst, disease, and worst of all, immeasurable loss. How to go on living when one’s loved ones have been suddenly swept away without warning, only to be found lifeless in the most unlikely places, disfigured and wrapped in sticky mud?

We think we have seen enough tragedies in this world. But sometimes our defenses are pulled away suddenly and we experience the rawness of it all. On TV one beholds a solitary mother squatting and cradling her muddied baby, limp and lifeless. There are no tears in her eyes, no words from her lips, but on her mouth is a frozen scream. You find yourself breaking into sobs.

Journalists don’t easily shed tears. Or we seldom do. Not when we are on coverage. There is a protective shield that we put between us and the subject matter before us so that we don’t cross the divide. The shield or armor could take the form of a tape recorder, a microphone, a camera, a notebook, a moving pen. The deadline. The press ID. These set us comfortably apart. And when everything is over, we think we can stand up and easily leave, leave behind all that we have caught in our electronic gadgets or on paper and proceed to write in isolation about the discomfiting scenes we have witnessed, the tearing grief, the despair.

But that is not always the case. There are times when one has to lay down one’s arms, so to speak, and simply listen and be there because that is the best way to catch it all (the journalist switching to another mode). Or because it is the human thing to do.

I recall the time I was at the Payatas dump right after it collapsed on hundreds of waste pickers and on hundreds of homes around it. That was in July 2000. The most heart-rending scene for me was not how the dead bodies were being pulled out one after another from under the foul heap. It was watching a man who was waiting for his dead mother, pregnant wife and child to be brought into the chapel. They were among the first to be found, placed in coffins and brought to the chapel near the dump.

There were no media people in the chapel except myself. Everybody was at the disaster site, waiting for more bodies to be retrieved. A small man in black T-shirt and slippers was standing alone by the chapel entrance, watching. Are they yours, I whispered. He nodded. I stood beside him. Then he began to sob softly. I squeezed his shoulder and turned around to wipe my face. I could not picture anything sadder.

There’s no saying how or when it will hit you. It might interest people to know that journalists also need to go through some post-traumatic stress management. You can’t be at the disaster site the whole time and not notice something crumbling inside you. A good cry is a good start, I assure you.

Stunned, confused and listless, we coast in a sea of pain this Christmas season. But the positive side of this is the quick reaction of ordinary people to find concrete ways to send assistance to our badly stricken fellow Filipinos. The government cannot do it all. The NGOs cannot do it all. The churches cannot do it all. It is individuals (with or without connections) who can make the difference. There is no need to say how. This is the time to be creative. I know families that have drastically simplified their Christmas feasting in order to share with those who are disconsolate and need healing.

The grief is immense, but the ocean inside of us holds immense gifts waiting to be shared. For those who have given up their best and given till it hurt to those who have lost everything, this is your moment, your most meaningful Christmas yet.

Makabuluhan at makahulugang Pasko sa inyong lahat. May Jesus’ peace overwhelm and surprise you when you least expect it. Come, Wondrous Healer!

Send feedback to cerespd@gmail.com or www.ceresdoyo.com

'Dominus est!"

Philippine Daily Inquirer/OPINION/by Ma. Ceres P. Doyo

“But in our weariness the Lord comes.” That is a quote from the homily of newly installed Manila Archbishop Luis Antonio G. Tagle DD delivered on Dec. 12 at the Manila Cathedral.

At that moment of recognition, at that moment when we finally see clearly, we gasp in awe, “It is the Lord!” Dominus est! This exclamation, Tagle reminds us, is drawn from the Risen Christ’s appearance to some of his weary disciples at the Sea of Tiberias. It is, I must say, one of the most dramatic post-Resurrection scenes in the Bible. “Dominus est!” is Tagle’s episcopal motto.

We are a long way from Eastertide. We are in the Advent season of waiting and crying out, “Maranatha!” But somehow, “Dominus est” seems apropos in this time of weary waiting.

The announcement on the papal appointment of Tagle, 54, as head of the Philippines’ most prominent archdiocese and his installation last Monday was among the few pleasant news events this Advent season. And so we gratefully say goodbye to retiring Archbishop Gaudencio Rosales who is known for his gentle leadership and love for the poor.

For weeks now we have been barraged with unsettling news that put us on edge and in near despair. Even as we embark on seeking justice for past wrongs done by the powerful, even as we long to see evildoers pay for their evil deeds, so many roadblocks are placed along the way. Will the big fish get away?

While Tagle’s homily does not allude to the recent events and the eye-popping live TV moments that showed judicial processes being carried out, I cannot help but find messages between the lines. Seven disciples of Jesus go out to sea to fish but catch nothing after a whole night’s work. And then a stranger appears from nowhere and tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. Tired, despondent and half-believing, the disciples do as they are told and get the catch of their lives. “It is the Lord!” And the stranger is stranger no more.

Are we finally seeing a big catch of big fish? Are we now seeing the day when the corrupt, the cheaters and the betrayers of our trust go through the process of intense purification? They know what they have done and will be hard put justifying their deeds. Why, why the insatiable greed for power and wealth? Why couldn’t they ever have enough? Why didn’t they learn from the sorry fate of their predecessors? Did they think the power and the glory would last forever? What did they learn in kindergarten?

Tagle reminds us: “Human efforts should continue but unless the Lord directs the catch, we labor in vain. We know that the Lord guards His Church. He keeps watch with us on those long nights of confusion and helplessness in mission. When in spite of our good intentions and efforts there are still multitudes of hungry people we cannot feed, homeless people we cannot shelter, battered women and children we cannot protect, cases of corruption and injustice that we cannot remedy, the long night of the disciples in the middle of the sea continues in us. Then we grow in compassion toward our neighbors whose lives seem to be a never ending dark night.

“But in our weariness the Lord comes.”

The day of reckoning has come. Now that the highest court of the land is under the harsh light of scrutiny as it has never been in the past, now that the judicial system is under a cloud of doubt, we must sit tight and watch actively so that justice is not derailed. The impeachment of Chief Justice Renato Corona, chief ally of former President and now Pampanga Rep. Gloria M. Arroyo who is currently under hospital arrest, and the filing of charges of electoral sabotage against former Comelec Chair Benjamin Abalos augur well for those of us who have long despaired over the seeming impunity of those who have wronged us and made fools of us.

If you want to better understand the workings of the Supreme Court in the shadows, a book to read (and give this Christmas) is Marites Danguilan-Vitug’s best-selling “Shadow of Doubt: Probing the Supreme Court” (Newsbreak, 2010).

Reveals Vitug: “When I started to report on the Philippine Supreme Court in 2007 for Newsbreak magazine, I was intrigued—and challenged—by its culture of secrecy and its strong system of hierarchy. I couldn’t know then that three years later a book I wrote to help chisel away at the Court’s wall of secrecy would confirm the Court’s formidable power and its spheres of influence when the publication and distribution of my book were halted.”

The entire judiciary, Vitug says, composed of about 2,000 judges, thousands of court personnel, and headed by the Supreme Court, is cloaked in this secretive culture. It is vastly different from its co-equal branches—the Executive Department and Congress—where Cabinet officials, senators and congressmen freely talk to the media.

“The Supreme Court is in a league of its own with justices who are unelected,” Vitug explains. “During the past administration (2001-2010) they’ve been appointed more for their loyalty to the president (Arroyo) than merit, and they serve until they reach the age of 70.

“The book I wrote, ‘Shadow of Doubt: Probing the Supreme Court’, opened a window on the Supreme Court’s inner workings. It was the first of its kind in the Philippines. The investigative reporting I did to write it revealed the ethical violations of justices and the book examined politicized appointments.”

Vitug, a dear friend since the oppressive martial law years, has several libel suits filed against her by a justice of the Supreme Court. Her book is available at Fully Booked, Solidaridad and Popular Bookstore.

Send feedback to cerespd@gmail.com or www.ceresdoyo.com

25 Years: Nobody told me it'd be like this

Philippine Daily Inquirer/OPINION/by Ma. Ceres P. Doyo

Twenty-five years and some 2,000 feature articles, special/investigative reports, and column pieces later, here I am still asking: Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be like this?

I’ve had an amazing time. Amazing, meaning I have been privy to so many things of this world that other mortals are not because “they are not there.” Oh “to be there” where people live and die, feast and famish, laugh and cry, to be there where events unfold and to watch history leave its tracks behind for us to decipher and to be sometimes awed and humbled enough to make us fall on our knees in thanksgiving and sometimes in mourning.

To be there where the heavens opened and hell broke loose. To watch great lives, small lives, dirty lives, fascinating lives, beautiful lives, incredible lives rise and fall, bloom, break into a thousand pieces or become whole again.

On Wednesday, 44 employees, I among them, were honored for 25 years of service to the Philippine Daily Inquirer and its mission. We are this year’s Silvers. Also honored were those who have completed 20, 15 and 10 years with the Inquirer. For every milestone, the Inquirer gifts us with a precious token in gold—real gold. And more.

Dec. 9, 1985 is the actual founding date of the Inquirer, now the country’s biggest in circulation and with a staggering global reach. So Friday is the Inquirer’s 26th anniversary. I’ve been with the Inquirer for 25 years and nine months. I joined on March 5, 1986, a few days after the People Power Revolution that toppled the Marcos dictatorship. Before that, I had already been contributing articles to the Inquirer, a new kid on the block then, and also to its feisty sister, the weekly Mr. & Ms. Special Edition (published by Eggie Apostol and edited by Letty J. Magsanoc) and to the so-called “alternative/mosquito press.” These publications played a huge role in bringing down the dictatorship.

We had paid a price for all that daring. And a price we also later demanded. Last February, a number of us in the press got our first taste of justice in the form of initial compensation from the Marcos estate. We were among the almost 10,000 victims of human rights violations who had filed a class suit against the Marcoses. But that is another story.

A day after the 1986 February Revolution, I received a call from Letty Magsanoc. I was asked to join the Sunday magazine of the three-month-old Inquirer. “You start tomorrow,” she told me. And I was to fly to Leyte right away to look into the fabulous treasures left behind by Imelda Marcos who would have been turned into tiny bits by the mob that descended on Malacañang Palace had she not fled on time.

Although I was a feature writer for the magazine, I also wrote occasionally for the daily. In 1995, I asked to move to the daily so I could write more investigative and special reports. Just recently, I asked to be transferred back to the magazine, although I could also still write features for the daily. I began writing this weekly column, Human Face, in the Opinion section, in July 1991.

It’s been a fantabulous 25 years. I would not have met people so diverse and strange and beautiful and ugly had I stayed in a previous career in psychology or lived a vowed life in the convent. From behavioral science and a vowed life to full-time journalism? It was an easy shift. The reason is obvious.

The 25 years are gently crashing in slow-mo on me now, chasing me all over again. There are stories I consider significant, not because they won honors or anything (like prize money) but because I thought they were high in excitement, danger, the human factor. Or simply because I relished doing them, period. Whether or not people loved or hated me for writing them is another story.

Nobody but nobody told me I’d be climbing mountains and bathing in freezing rivers. Nobody told me I’d be meeting with armed men and women who had spent away their youth and their dreams in uncharted jungles. Nobody told me I’d be able to talk to the powerful and the mighty as well as to the poorest and the most forgotten of the land. Nobody told me that I’d mingle with people who were the epitome of saintliness or that I’d one day come face to face with a 17-time assassin who would tell me his life story.

Nobody told me people would entrust to me their ugly secrets and their deadly sins. Nobody told me I’d confront a snake and slip on a mountain slope on my way to meeting forest dwellers who spoke in songs.

Nobody told me I’d be dining with generals, politicians and movie stars; or that I’d be sleeping with prostitutes and embracing AIDS-stricken women. Nobody told me I’d have to track down members of a death squad and break bread with them. Nobody told me one of my stories would become a multi-awarded blockbuster movie. Nobody told me I’d be watching up close a convicted rapist die by lethal injection.

I’ve learned about the sex lives of the very poor as well as the proclivities of the rich, and that the most obnoxious could be likable and the most attractive reek of bad odor. I’ve learned that people in the hinterlands read the Inquirer. I’ve been honored and praised. I’ve been rebuked and reviled. I am astonished that students are doing theses on my works. (Tip: A lot of my stuff are at the Ateneo Library of Women’s Writings.)

A great and sobering adventure it has been.

Every now and then I’d turn out some literary gems (or so they tell me!). But many are rough shards of so many lives, events and places. What does it matter, I would say, I was there, others were not. And doing the stories gave me great times—of terror and joy and sadness and fun.

Send feedback to cerespd@gmail.com or www.ceresdoyo.com

Bukid Kabataan: A place to be strong, to belong

Sunday Inquirer Magazine/FEATURES/by Ma. Ceres P. Doyo

The happy shrieks of children blend with the sonorous mooing of the cows. The striking green of the fields compete with the blueness of the sky. The patter of little feet, the chorus of voices in the classrooms, the rising of the nuns’ chanted prayers at eventide…

Space, quiet, fresh air, dew on the grass, good food, warm arms and the healing embrace of nature. But here above all, is the child, the child who needs to become whole again.

Bukid Kabataan Center (BK), which means children’s farm, is a special place, a home for children who have never known one or who had watched theirs fall apart. Here they slowly claim their stolen childhood, name their pain and bind their wounds with the help of caring adults.

The children vibrate with energy, laughter and songs. But behind the innocent eyes and carefree mien is deep pain that these children are helped to confront. There are bright moments and bad moments. There is a time to drink the sun and a time to weep oceans.

At 9, Melan (not her real name) had already decided for herself how to fix her life, step out of her trauma and move on. Raped repeatedly by her grandfather and ostracized by her family because she was going to make a case of it in court (with help from legal and social services), she found herself in a bind.

Then Melan made a dramatic bargain. She would not testify so that the case against her abuser would be dropped – but on condition that she would never be returned to her family or next of kin, and that her family should release her for legal adoption.

It took some time for Melan’s desire to come true. BK became Melan’s home and school for a couple of years while the adoption process was ongoing, which included matching, visitation, counseling and other legalities.

Melan’s adoptive family came to BK recently to finally take her with them to her new home abroad. She had eagerly waited for this moment to happen, and when it did, BK came alive. A child was on her way to healing, and most of all, to a home.

Considered a foundling, Jassie was about 6 when social workers brought her to BK. She remembers carrying a small bag with some clothes and going to a church with her father. Jassie’s father told her to wait there while he completed some errands. Night fell but Jassie’s father never returned.

A security guard took pity on Jassie and took her home. Every day for several days, the guard brought back Jassie to the church in the hope that her father would return. But he never did. Because he could not afford to take in a child, the guard put Jassie in the care of a family whom he thought would be caring enough. But things did not work out and Jassie again found herself abandoned on some wayside.

A young boy is repeatedly beaten up by his stepfather, a prepubescent girl is rescued from prostitution. The children’s stories about their young lives sound like they come straight out of a tearjerker telenovela, except that they are not a scriptwriter’s imaginings. They are real – and one can only gasp in shock.

Bukid Kabataan is a special ministry of the Religious of the Good Shepherd (RGS) that serves children who have been physically and sexually abused, neglected and abandoned. BK’s services are inspired by the charity and compassion of Jesus the Good Shepherd and are directed towards the healing and total development of both male and female children (aged 6 to 16 more or less).

The ministry looks after the physical, mental, emotional, social and spiritual well-being of those it serves so that they, despite their tortured past, may become enabled and productive members of society. The RGS’ work in BK is in line with the congregation’s thrust towards justice, peace and integrity of creation and special care for women.

Founded in France in 1835 by Saint Mary Euphrasia Pelletier, the Good Shepherd Sisters came to the Philippines in 1912. The mission of the RGS, one of the largest women’s congregations in the world, is “directed to the most neglected and marginalized, in whom the image of God is most obscure.”

BK had its beginnings in 1983 as the Morning Glory Program (MGP) of the Archdiocese of Manila/Caritas Manila and with Good Shepherd Sisters running it. The land on which the MGP set up its ministry was donated by Msgr. Francisco Tantoco, a priest of the Archdiocese of Manila. MGP and BK have since undergone several reorganizations until the Good Shepherd Sisters fully took over in 2000, with Sr. Mercy Ang, RGS at the helm. The Department of Social Welfare and Development then gave it accreditation as a residential child-caring institution.

In BK, children are provided not just food, shelter and clothing but also individual care, education and counseling/therapy. Values and a sense of family and community are inculcated in them. BK hopes to reconcile the children with their parents, but only after a proper home environment is ensured. For some children, however, there may be no homecoming ever.

Located in Sitio (sub-village) de Fuego, Barangay (village) San Francisco, General Trias, Cavite, BK is about two and a half hours’ drive from Manila. The spacious farm setting of 6.5 hectares makes it conducive to healing. Affluent adults have so-called spas for the soul, so why not something similar for poor, wounded children?

The words nature therapy or eco-therapy may have yet to make it big in psychology books and become mainstream, but it is already vicariously being experienced in BK even as empirical data on its efficacy have yet to come in.

Presently assigned in BK are three Good Shepherd Sisters. Sr. Gemma Dinglasan, RGS is superior and program director, while Sr. Myra Luna Atian, RGS and Sr. Erlin Bacol, RGS are residence coordinators. They are assisted by a team that consists of social workers (for case management, records, visits and counseling), house parents, teachers, household staff, farm workers, a driver as well as occasional volunteers.

BK offers elementary schooling from Grades 1 to 6 within the compound. A child is allowed a maximum stay of three years, but exceptional cases are given consideration. An after-care program, educational assistance and family counseling are provided for those who have moved on.

Sister Gemma says that the children take to gardening work without much prodding and head for the gardens after classes. Closely supervised by farm workers, they eagerly tend the plots and love to watch the seedlings grow. Harvesting gives them a thrill.

In BK are 17 big greenhouses built by the “Halaman sa mga Simbahan” program of the Department of Agriculture. Bishop Luis Tagle of the Diocese of Imus (Cavite) – who will be installed as Archbishop of Manila on December 12 – was instrumental in getting this done. Vegetables are grown organically, that is, without chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Organic fertilizers are produced right there and vermiculture (cultivating earthworms) is now in place. The farm produce provides BK with healthy meals and some income.

The children have become appreciative and protective of the natural environment. “One time,” Sr. Gemma recounts, “a child questioned the cutting of some trees. We had to explain the reason behind it and assure him that for every tree that was cut, a dozen or so were planted.”

At one time BK had more than 50 children in its care. Right now there are 39, still quite a handful if one considers the complexity of each case. They could test one’s patience and endurance. Tantrums and mischief are not rare. Sr. Gemma remembers the time she had to chase a bunch of them. Out of breath and not able to catch up, she blacked out and fell to the ground. When she came to she found herself surrounded by children weeping and cradling her in their arms. “They were saying, ‘Sister, sorry po, di na uulitin.’” Sr. Gemma laughs about it now.

“You can tell when it’s gagamba [spider] season,” Sr. Erlin chuckles, “you’d see them carrying around toothpaste boxes.”

But climbing trees is a no-no. Well, why not try the rooftop?

The sisters and staff know every trick in the book and are a step ahead of their wards. When things go awry, a friendly cop is called in to teach the kids that they can’t get away with fist fights. A punching bag is hung for those who need to express their rage. Regular group sessions are held to resolve conflicts or for the children to pick up gems from the Bible. One child had his own profound reflection on Jesus’ going away to rest.

In her years in BK, Sr. Gemma has not known of a child who has tried to escape. “Oh, they love it here,” the nuns say. For these women, the work is very difficult but rewarding.

And how does BK survive? Sister’s quick answer: by God’s providence. There is no steady source of funds (none from the government or foreign funders), but somehow BK continues to thrive on the kindness of low-key donors and even strangers. (Those interested to help can contact BK at tel. no. 046-5093009.)

For those who have issues with the Catholic Church or Christianity in general because of the failures and transgressions of its leaders, the quiet work of mercy and compassion in BK provides a different, more reassuring image of the Church.

“Pasasalamat ay alaala ng puso [Gratitude is the memory of the heart],” a popular saying from Sr. Mary Euphrasia, is now a line from a song that the children of BK often sing. It goes with the heart-rending refrain, “Pamilyang nawala, dito namin natagpuan (The family that we lost, we have found here).”

Their voices rise to a crescendo and their hearts cry out, “To be strong, to belong.” •