What Parenting Is Not

There was so much more that I learned from Amy, the stay at home mom, I met at the 8-hour queue last Thursday. I did ask for her permission to share on my blog some of the things she confided to me.

For Amy, parenting is not, asking older children in the family to be responsible for their younger siblings. Amy came from a family of 13 children in an impoverished village; she was the 7th child. She was responsible for taking care of one younger sibling. She also helped with household chores. She sadly recalled her particular chore as a grade schooler: "As soon as I got home, I would quickly set aside my school bag and take off my uniform, change my clothes and feed the pigs. I did not have much time to play. I never really experienced what it was to be a 'child.'

For Amy, parenting is not, letting the kids fend for themselves. Unlike her two boys who are experiencing what it's like to have a mother who prepares their lunch box, tutors them, and joins them in their field trips, Amy studied on her own. Her mother had to earn a living and there were other children to take care of. Yet, Amy did quite well in school that a medal awaited her at graduation day. Unfortunately, both her parents could not make it.

"Perhaps that was my destiny," Amy said. "I promised myself that when I had my own family, things would be different."

Despite a meager income, Amy makes sure that her sons get to join their school's field trips. She helps them out with their lessons, plays with them, assigns them light chores like washing the dishes, and ensures that they only watch TV one hour each day.

Amy believes that her concerns should extend beyond her family. So she volunteers at the city government's feeding program and bring her boys along once in a while. "I want them to realize that they are better off than other children, even if we are also poor. And I think they are catching on. Once my younger boy, shared his lunch with his schoolmate who had no food."

How many Amys are there in this country?

I don't know, but for sure her story lifted my spirit. It renewed my faith in God and in the resilience of the Filipinos amidst the widespread poverty and helplessness.

This Way to Burma...

Water puddles, muddy side roads, sidewalks stained by red betel nut juice. This too is Burma (Myanmar)to me.

But what I treasure is memories of the children of Burma. Kids with organic cooling tanaka on their faces. Kids for whom wood and plastic blocks are a novelty. Kids whose parents can only afford to put steamed rice in their lunch boxes, so the school takes care of their meat or veggie dish.

Many of Burma's children are undernourished, so it's fairly common to see children who are stunted and underweight.Nutritious meals are beyond the reach of many poor families who subsist on rice porridge, and so is safe water. In the community where these photos were taken, water must be boiled. Cooking gas is too expensive for many families and firewood is a scarce resource, so the poor must make do with unboiled, unsafe water.

Despite these limitations, these kids' parents strive to send them to school because they value education. More than half however of the 80% of children who are enrolled do not complete primary school.

My friends and I do what little we can and personally I am grateful for the chance to help. Yet I feel like I'm standing on the shore of an endless sea of needs. Feelings of helplessness and inadequacy do set in. Many times. Far too often than I prefer. But because we are part of a big community of people and organizations helping the people of Burma, we refuse to lose hope.

We keep on.."one child at a time."

Burma on My Mind

It's been more than a year since I last visited Rangoon.

My last visit was in September 2007. The night before I left, a blaring announcement rudely awakened me. I could not understand what was being said, but I quickly sensed something was very wrong and remembered the beginnings of martial law in the Philippines. The next morning I learned from front desk that it was an announcement about the imposition of curfew starting that day; everyone should be home by 9pm-5am.

It was an early morning drive to the airport that morning and my Chin friend was pointing out to me army trucks moving into the city.

Monk- led rallies marked the previous days which the world watched on their TV screens/computer monitors. My Chin friend, concerned for my safety, would not even allow me to watch the rallies from afar; he intentionally kept me as far as possible from the rallies.

Nevertheless, I saw the side of Yangon that the military junta keeps on hiding from the rest of the world: Children, women, men walking on the streets in the rain because they could not afford to commute. Bus fare had increased to 200% - from 3 cents to $15 which is half a month's salary of a school teacher. Many walked through rain and flooded streets without umbrellas because they would rather have food than covering for their bodies. At that time the price of 1 sack (30 kilos) of rice had risen by 65%- from $14 to $21. At that time many families only ate once a day and a meal was a small bowl of rice porridge.

All my thoughts and feelings about what I saw in Rangoon I kept inside. My Chin friends were suffering enough; I could not burden them with my tears. I had to wait for my debriefing in Bangkok.

But my tears, all the pent up sorrow over the suffering that I saw, could not wait for the Bangkok debriefing. I cried on the plane. Bitter tears. Tears of helplessness at so much suffering...

Come January I will visit Rangoon again...Will I be brave enough to see suffering upon suffering heaped on hapless Burma?