Eyes of Humanity

by Jennifer Tehani Sarreal (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Philippines

Standing barefoot on a dirt path leading to the ocean, I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythm of drums floating in the wind. The throbbing beats were louder than they were on previous afternoons, transporting me three kilometers away where schools of tribus were rehearsing their dances. I smiled and imagined the excitement motivated by the coming competition. In just one day, tribus would invade the streets with the grand closing of a week-long festival. I stood still, transfixed by the percussive cadence that, like rainfall, pounded into me a sense of peace and saved my mind from movement. I ran down the unpaved road to the tiny wooden home of my hosts, next door to even smaller thatched nipa huts of bamboo. I have been in Miagao for three weeks and still cringed with guilt when I flushed a toilet or took showers indoors while little kids across the street were shitting in holes in the sand. I walked into the maids’ area where my hosts never ventured and where I washed dishes despite admonishments not to. It was a place of solitude and sanity. It was where I asked myself why I was in the Philippines. Six months ago, never saying no to a plane ticket, I agreed to fly to Miagao to participate in the Salakayan Festival. I was ecstatic at the idea of being introduced to the Philippines in such a unique way. I didn’t believe in visiting for the sake of visiting. I wanted to contribute to community projects and breathe it in. This was my opportunity. And who says no to a free trip? Night came and we arrived at the fundraiser on time (15 minutes late). The outdoor plaza was beaming with strobe lights, boasted a long buffet that covered the length of a basketball court and local officials were dressed in tuxedos under the sweltering humidity. Shameless displays of wealth at fundraisers for impoverished children are not a good look. I left my hosts’ table with the lie of having to prepare for my speech. Walking toward the gate leading back to the beach, a sinking feeling took hold of me. It clogged my throat and settled into my stomach with a nausea I can still invoke years later with the recollection of the sight before me: eyes. Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched the festivities from outside the open-aired plaza. The stares of the children held a stoicism that can only be learned. Grasping the bars that kept their families out, I witnessed betrayal and exploitation beyond my capacity for comprehension. Those eyes, so hardened and empty, created a perimeter around the gluttony that left no room for explanation, discussion or my petition for forgiveness. An unfamiliar rage boiled inside me as I marched toward the buffet. I piled food onto two plates, kicked off my heels and walked barefoot outside into the crowd of eyes. I heard my hosts laughing in their seats behind me, unbothered. Children who had no shoes and clearly no dinner kept a safe distance away from me. I held the plates out to those large abysmal eyes - eyes too young for jaded indifference. The few who inched forward were swiftly pulled back by their equally thin parents. I stood between the outsiders and insiders, both of whom were done with me. My hands shivered under the untouched plates. Lloyd, a Midwestern Peace Corps volunteer, walked over to me from the inside. “I don’t understand!” I exploded. “It used to bother me, too,” Lloyd said calmly, “I would work events with all the poor people locked out.” “It used to?” “You gotta understand something about Filipinos... they like watching. It’s really okay.” I tried to grin for Lloyd’s failed attempt at solidarity, and failed myself. I couldn’t force him - or anyone - to feel. There were no drums in the distance to grant me optimism. I couldn’t even hear my own muted barefoot steps in search of humanity. I will never forget those eyes. I saw them everywhere but mine wept alone as I walked into the darkness that violently grabbed at me like the rape of a people by conquistadors.