To connect with community members, Cartwheel Foundation Inc. (CFI) follows the principle of meeting the indigenous communities they serve "exactly where they're at." In other words, directly in their lived neighborhoods.
But the neighborhood of the Sama-Bajau community in Paranaque---theirs is a secret world. The one public entryway is the Mohamad Mosque, a teal green tree amongst the architecture of bark. The mosque, however, was simply the signpost for the entire forest behind it.
Of course, I was oblivious. And so were my mentors from CFI. Today was their first time visiting the Sama-Bajau neighborhood since their work with them had all been conducted in the greater Paranaque area. Except, for the past few weeks, the Sama-Bajau have disappeared from CFI's periphery. During their June parent orientation in the Sama-Bajau Activity Center, so few parents attended that CFI was forced to delay the start of school. Now, three weeks out from the planned start of school, CFI is at a standstill as to whether to push for the program or to put it on pause.
Indefinitely.
With the help of the San Dionisio Barangay and the Muslim-Christian Neighborhood Association INC, CFI organized a last resort engagement for better turnout: an open forum within the Sama-Bajau neighborhood so that the parents can voice their concerns and questions "exactly where they're at."
And where are they exactly? An uncharted purok made up of hundreds, if not thousands, of multi-story shacks piled together. Sometimes, these haphazard condominiums became a cavern that engulfed the omnipresent Manila sun. In a single-file line, we walked along a muddy road that winded across sari-sari stores selling typical Pinoy snacks, alleyways storing crumbling infrastructure, and the keen eyes of cats evaluating us.
Our guides flowed smoothly through the path like the water that would flood this area in the upcoming rainy season. Except for the occasional salamat po and magandang hapon po, the place was quiet, anticipation building. Then finally, amongst the hanging laundry above and the trash below, I heard sounds of life---children. We were now in the Sama-Bajau version of an agora, a halo-halo of banter, rumble, and heat.
Sinama, Filipino, and my stilted Tagalog danced in the air as my mentor spoke to the parents about how CFI can help their children obtain an education in a safe and welcoming environment, catered uniquely to their community.
Her words were supported by the children around us, some of which were alumni of their school. These young alumni greeted their CFI teacher. A mano po for hello. A group hug for goodbye. The children were grateful for their teacher who believed in them in a society that would rather shun them.
The parents were grateful too, except life wasn't an endless recess like it was for their children. To the parents, life's a battle. Without a birth certificate for them or their children, they are unable to attend school, obtain employment, and qualify for health insurance. With limited mobility, they are left to beg, saving just enough to visit their tribe in the southernmost part of the Philippines.
CFI assured them that an investment in their children's education would be an investment in their family's future. Alongside school, CFI would provide sacks of rice and vegetables and assist them in applying for birth certificates. My mentor emphasized that CFI was invested in their emotional, physical, and legal wellbeing.
Not all her words were heard, drowned out by sounds louder than human chatter. That's because their agora was built underneath a railway: LRT-1. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized I've ridden on this train before. But until this moment, I never thought of what--and who--were underneath.
Nonetheless, the parents still understood. When called to give their children's names and ages for the sign up sheet, they lined up. Waving their official birth certificates proudly, parents of the alumni encouraged other families to trust CFI and the ways the organization can help them. Soon, the blank paper became as crowded as the agora.
The first day of school may happen after all.
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I decided to write a narrative piece detailing my first day on-the-ground so that my readers and I can situate ourselves in the real spaces of poor, urban communities. In theory, I understood the multifaceted issues the Sama-Bajau faced but, now, after visiting their neighborhood, I am more aware of the nuances in these issues. It's not just about low turnout. It's about ease in getting to school. It's about finding enough to eat. It's about assisting parents who might be more illiterate than their kids.
While our community outreach and the resulting sign-ups are promising, CFI and I are both concerned about sustaining this interest and by extension, attendance. We are trying to coordinate a school bus system for the children with the hope that the convenience incentivizes them to go to school. We are also trying to keep the parents involved in the entire process since the Sama-Bajau and other indigenous communities have historically been excluded within systems that are supposed to support them.
Represented by the physical space in which they live, eat, and pray, CFI and outside organizations must respect the Sama-Bajau's priorities to fulfill their short-term survival goals while ultimately still finding ways to improve their long-term livelihoods.