Lessons From 13 Years Living in Manila's Slums

The following article was recently posted on the Servants website (www.servantsasia.org). It is written by Christian Schneider who is a nurse from Switzerland. He arrived in Manila in the late 1980’s, living in its slum communities for a further 13 years. Here he tells of his battle to try and mobilize middle-class churches to get involved with the lives of the very poor, and of how God worked through him to raise-up a new ministry to Manila’s street youth, called ‘Onesimo’....

A tale of two cities...

Inequality runs like a deep scar through Filipino society. This stark inequality has its roots in a long history of conquest, oppression and colonisation. When the Spanish arrived in the 16th century, they claimed ownership of these lands for their God and King based on the superior power of their muskets and swords. Huge tracts of land were taken out of Filipino hands and distributed among the Spanish gentry.

This dark legacy continues to cast its impoverishing shadow even today, with most of the Philippines still 'owned' by a small group of fabulously wealthy Spanish-descent families, while the vast majority of Filipino's remain landless – and poor. In the Philippines, the elite 20% hold 52% of all wealth, while the bottom 40% of the population subsist on only 14% the nations resources.

One of the most disturbing sights for Westerners visiting Manila is the desperate living conditions that about a third of its 10-16 million strong population struggle to survive in crowded squatter communities along swampy riverbanks, under bridges and flyovers, along the edges of railway lines or even in open dumpsites and cemeteries. Despite frequent evictions, land clearances and periodic ‘beautification’ schemes these hundreds of slum areas and the millions of Filipinos in them cannot be disguised or hidden.

The government officially calls the worst of them “depressed areas” and those marginally better off as “semi depressed”. To an outsider's eyes, the difference between Manila’s rich and poor citizens is so dramatic that it jars the conscience and floods the soul with heart breaking questions. But not so, it seems to me, most Filipinos. For them the everyday sight of the poor massed on their doorstep in their millions has become too familiar to have any more shock value.

In a city like Manila, the gulf between rich and poor is dark and gaping. Yet despite this it can be difficult to make clear demarcations between the very poorest, the relatively poor, and those who are beginning to 'make it'.

At least another third of the city’s population is made up of those living outside the obvious slums, but who have not yet made it into an officially zoned “village”, and certainly not as far as one of the highly privileged and highly guarded “subdivisions” where the wealthy live so well. To call all those living outside the officially depressed areas “middle class” would be inaccurate, since many of them are also struggling to meet their basic daily needs of food, rent, clothing, health, transportation and education. The ghettos and the prejudice…

But people living here certainly draw a clear line between those living inside “depressed areas” and those who reside beyond them. The Filipino themselves have well used labels - you are either “loob”, from inside, or “labas”, from outside of a particularly poor place.

And the names of these slums have over time become synonymous with certain social realities. Names like “Tondo” or “Payatas” are immediately associated with whichever violent gang holds that particular piece of turf, or with the image of criminals lurking in dark alleys. And since many of the “loob” families are squatting on land for which they have no official title, the wealthier “labas” categorise them as outlaws.

What disturbed me most is that I would often find the most indifferent and ignorant attitudes towards the poor amongst Manila’s confessing Christians. I frequently found myself wondering which Bible they were reading, and which city they were living in! How can we live surrounded by poverty and not even see it? How can we study the Bible week after week and not hear what it says? I began to fear for my brothers and sisters that by not recognizing their poor neighbours as their responsibility, and by failing to share the resources God had entrusted to them, they might eventually lose hold of Jesus all together!

The Church and the Blindness…

Quite often I would attend various church services across Metro Manila conducted in English (for this is the preferred language of the educated middle class in the Philippines).

These Evangelical or Pentecostal churches hardly differ in style or content from their counterparts in the West. They meet in beautiful buildings, where skilled musicians enhance a well designed order of service, and where an expensive sound-system and LCD projector are must haves. There are a huge number of these churches. Some services in these mega-churches are attended by hundreds, some even by thousands of believers.

Jesus is worshiped with the same songs found in nearly every other Pentecostal or Evangelical church everywhere else in this globalised world. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of gospel we have exported from the West, what kind of churches have we planted, what kind of discipleship have we brought? Have we simply been selling franchises in some kind of bland, anaemic ‘McChurch’?

The topics of the sermons are nearly always the same: personal salvation, how not to backslide, how to fight the devil and his temptations, how to live a pure and holy life, how to get others saved, how to become successful in relationships and in business, how to get the maximum blessing out of being a follower of Jesus… the plight of their poor neighbours is seldom mentioned anytime or anywhere. It as if their impoverished brothers and sisters simply do not exist. It is as if the middle class live not only in a totally different city, but in a totally different world, where they never see people literally starving, thousands digging through mountains of garbage, millions ‘living’ in inhuman squalor.

In the spacious homes and ornate churches of the middle class, it seems that the thousands of abandoned children working, begging or stealing to keep themselves alive on the streets are never mentioned.

Victor – a rich young man …

It was in just such a middle class church that I met Victor, a young Filipino businessman in his thirties. Apart from a spell studying in England, he had lived all his life in Manila. Here he grew up in a first class subdivision as the son of a successful medical doctor. When I told him about Servants, and that all our foreign workers, compelled by their faith in Jesus, lived in the slums with the poor, Victor was fascinated. “I have never entered a squatter area in all my life,” he said. “Let me join you for a visit.” And then, after hearing about my ministry among the street youth there, he added “Oh, and I will prepare a bible study for your guys.”

Victor arrived in his fancy car at an American fast food restaurant which has a secure parking lot near the slum area where I lived with my family. I felt really excited showing him around: at last, someone from that affluent church was showing an interest in the lives of their poor neighbours.

Slowly we walked through the dark, crowded alleys of the squatter area. As always it was hot, narrow and noisy. Victor, usually such a chatty fellow, became very quiet. After 15 minutes, we reached the community house of Onesimo where our boys were still having their siesta (an early afternoon nap).

We carefully peeped through the unlocked door and saw about 10 half naked bodies, mostly tattooed, sleeping on the floor like packed sardines. Most were small and skinny but there were some big guys too. It was very hot and more than a little smelly. I suggested to Victor that we go to the chapel next door and wait until the guys were ready.

As we sat on the bench in the chapel, Victor started to softly weep. “Chris”, he said, “I have nothing to say here. I am in the wrong place. I have never seen anything like this.”

As gently as I could, I replied: “Victor, a third of your city live like this, and these young men are believers - they are part of your family!” Despite his initial shell shock, we managed to strike up some good interaction with the guys, and each shared with Victor where they came from, what life was like before Onesimo, and then how they met with Jesus. They finished with a song for their new friend. It sounded terrible but they sang it from their hearts.

When we left the slum and arrived back at his air conditioned car, Victor said, “I will tell my brothers and sisters in my bible-study group about this. I will convince them to come and visit your centre and meet the guys too. They have to see this.”

I must admit that I felt hopeful. Finally, I was playing a part in bridging these two worlds! But sadly, my hope was in vain. I was to be disappointed once more. None of Victor’s friends ever turned up. And when I reminded Victor of his good intentions, the well rehearsed excuses rolled easily off his tongue…

A new charismatic church, and who is going to wash whose feet?

Another smaller and less traditional church caught my attention. It had a new congregation of about 80 young adult Filipinos, most of them professionals. I first met them in a public park where they were preaching the gospel and giving out free fruit drinks to the people passing by. I was impressed with their creativity, and drawn by their beautiful, worshipful singing.

I got to know Williams, their Pastor, who I learnt had a heart for the poor. He was already volunteering in an adult education program for people from depressed areas. This was in fact a program in Tagalog (the Filipino language) which Servants had helped set up. I talked with him about how his young professional congregation could get more involved with the lives of the urban poor. His response was cautious: “You know I have to be very careful with this, and I have to find the right moment. They have to be readied to face such big issues”.

After more than a year, I got a telephone call from Pastor Williams. He said, “Chris, I just feel we need to do something symbolic - an act with enough spiritual impact to break the evil spirit that keeps us from getting involved in ministering to the poor.” “Sure” I replied, “sounds like you‘ve got an idea already, right?” “Yes. Chris, I thought I would handpick 10 guys. We would visit one of your centres in the slums, and wash their feet just as Jesus did with his disciples. What do you think?”

To be honest, I did not feel too comfortable with the idea, but I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. So I replied, “OK, let me first consult with my guys at the Onesimo centres. But I think they should also be agreeable to it.” I spoke with the trainees and leaders of our therapeutic communities, and asked them what they thought about this “symbolic meeting”. To my surprise they actually liked the plan, but added “and we want to wash their feet too!”

I went back to Pastor Williams with our guys’ suggestion. He did not say much. And for some reason, he never did visit us with his 10 handpicked guys.

A bright young upwardly mobile theology student…

One day, we were visited in our squatter house by Conny. She had heard about the Servants workers living among the poor while studying a course called Transformational Theology at her seminary, and had grown curious. This college was only ten minutes walking distance away from the slum where we lived as a family. Conny was in her mid-thirties and was working on her Ph.D. She wanted to know how we were coping with two small kids in such basic living conditions.

After she had asked most of her questions, she suddenly started preaching at us. “You must know”, she explained, “that those people moving from the province into the capital would be better off if they just stayed where they were born and where they were supposed to be - in their provinces, instead of ending up in such dreadful places like this! Why can’t they all stay in their provinces?! There are just too many people in the city. Why did they have to come here in the first place? Really, it’s is all there own fault!”

So I asked her, “What about you? Which province are you from?” “What do you mean?” she asked back, a bit surprised. “…well, we are from Bicol”, she continued, “the city of Legaspi. Our family still owns a big house and some land there.” “Then why are you not staying in Bicol with your family, why are you living here in Manila?” I asked. “Well, it is different you know,” she explained, “our children need a good education, the kind we can only get here in the capital.”

“That’s interesting, Conny” I said - and now it was my turn to preach. “You claim a right for your family and your kids to migrate to Manila, just because you are well off. But what about the poor, and the education of their kids? Why do they have less right to try and improve their lives here in the city?

And what about the poor who come to the Manila unemployed and desperate to save their kids from starving, because there are no longer any fish in their ancestral fishing areas now that the big fishing companies have taken them over and are making huge profits? Or what about those poor whose villages have become unsafe to live in due to the insurgency – the insurgency which is fuelled by the horrible economic inequities and injustices of the Philippines? I can take you and introduce you right now to families here in my neighbourhood who will tell you their stories!

And tell me Conny, what would happen to Manila and all its rich people and its factories if there were no cheap labour from the provinces coming in? Who would fill their need for house-servants, gardeners, drivers, bodyguards, factory workers and the street sweepers? They are my neighbors, living right here in the slums, and you, Conny, need them. But because they are paid so poorly they simply can’t afford nice housing like you have!”

Conny never came back.

Many Churches with Closed doors…

I knocked at the office doors of a number of pastors of big, wealthy Manila churches. I was convinced that as someone living with the poor, it was my duty to advocate and seek a better life for the many orphans in our community. So I approached these churches to ask if they would consider sponsorship for these children, their brothers and sisters, their fellow Filipinos.

I thought it was right that I should speak up on behalf of the voiceless, who themselves would never be able to get past the security guards watching the front gates of these church offices. I was certain this was part of my Christian duty: to lift up the cause of the weak, the poor and the defenceless.

But as l look back, it all seemed to be a waste of time and energy. I did not get a single response that actually turned into long term support for a single orphan. I got plenty of promises, but no results…

In fairness, most pastors would listen to me patiently. But then they would claim that they already had a ‘program for the poor’, and an over-full agenda for their members. They were genuinely convinced that they were doing enough already.

Who am I to judge? One pastor even considered my visit to be very handy, as he was able to dump a few boxes of used clothing on me. Somebody had left the boxes at his office to be passed on to the needy, and they were getting in his way. In that particular church, according to a Filipino friend of mine who worked there, there were fourteen millionaires among its members. And so eventually they promised that they would collect some money for the street kids - next Christmas day…

One Sunday, someone persuaded me to take some friends from our slum to experience one of these rich peoples church services – after all, the poor also enjoy air-conditioned temperatures, soft seats and wonderful worship music!

Afterwards though, my friends told me that they simply felt uncomfortable and out of place. They didn’t have enough English to understanding most of what was said. Actually, I was quite relieved that they hadn’t understood the sermon. It was totally unrelated to their lives.

I was shocked myself by one of the testimonies shared during the service. It was given by an obviously wealthy and prominent woman who shared a convoluted story of how the Lord had blessed her and saved her out of a business crisis. In describing how her business went down, she wept great tears and explained, “I lost absolutely everything, imagine my friends, really everything. I went down to only one car…”

I was so ashamed knowing that my friends struggled everyday just to fill their stomachs, while this Christian lady considered being reduced to one car as having “lost everything”.

A daring minority: Filipino professionals making sacrificial career choices in order to help their poorer neighbours.

What I have written here are reflections from my personal experiences. I am not a theologian or a development expert - I am just a Swiss layman. I am a cultural outsider with a limited, perhaps distorted perspective. Nevertheless, for thirteen years I lived among Manila’s poor, walked with them, loved them, and tried to see life through their eyes. And during those years I visited many middle class churches in the city in an attempt to connect rich and poor Christians, that the whole gospel might be experienced by both sides of the divide.

And with genuine gratefulness, I have to mention the Union Church of Manila, a very wealthy church right in the heart of the country’s main business district. This church regularly supports many good projects among the urban poor, including some involving Servants and Onesimo.

Furthermore, I have been privileged to meet a few young professional Filipino Christians who opted for a more sacrificial way of life. They chose not to strive for promising careers in the corporate world, or move overseas in search of high salaries. Instead, they opted to serve on lower incomes with faith-based development organizations, in order to help and journey with the poor.

Yes, there are Pastors and activists - like the beautifully spoken Melba Maggay – who do raise their voice and use their gifts to fight for the poor. These professionals advocate justice and righteousness in society through their publications, training, free legal aid, counselling, grass root development work and church planting among the poor.

On the roof top of a passenger jeep

In my early years of living with the poor, I dreamed of helping start a movement of churches which would build their dignity by experiencing the transforming power of a relationship with Jesus - and by keeping a safe distance from the rich!

I perceived us, the middle class and the rich, as hopelessly and incurably patronizing and disempowering towards the poor and their communities.

But soon I realized that while Jesus really is the key for any lasting transformation, to liberate the poor ‘as a people group’ was only a sentimental dream of mine. The root of poverty lies not just with ‘the poor’ but also with us, the rich.

The solution to poverty must come from both the poor and the rich. The sharing of money, of know how, of access, of manpower, of values, of connections and means of communication – these are all part of bringing the poor out of their trap, and the rich out of theirs, to a place where both can really meet God!

But it has to happen in the spirit of Jesus, which means journeying together and learning from each other. And this will require mutual respect, understanding, passion and patience.

Such sharing is crucial and brings blessing to both the poor and the rich. The salvation of the poor and the rich are inextricably bound together. I had also learned from the sociologists that, historically, no social movement among the poor ever survived unless a vital connection with the middleclass was nurtured. It was crucial that we should find a way to bridge this gap.

Eventually the help for Onesimo to begin bridging this gap between Filipino social classes came from a place I least expected. And it was not from the church!

During my first year with Servants in Manila I was staying in a relocation area at the northern outskirts of the Capital. It was called “Bagong Silang” meaning ‘new life’ which sounded rather ironic, if not sarcastic, to me.

About 150 000 slum dwellers from the inner city, forced by government troops at gunpoint, were literally dumped at a site without a functioning water system or any electricity. There were no toilets, hardly any trees, and no playgrounds for the kids. There was no resident doctor in the area and hardly any health workers. It all looked to me like a rather poorly organized refugee camp. Like a thick, dark cloud over this shanty town, hung the ever present smell of sickness and death. Every week, small children died in my neighbourhood due to lack of food, clean water or medicine. My heart broke when my own host family, during a weekend I was away, lost a wonderful, seemingly healthy baby boy because of simple diarrhea.

In this place, two years before I joined the team, a Servants couple from Australia started a church, a small kindergarten, a feeding program and a “health clinic”. I found myself in that small “clinic” – nothing more than a plywood shack with some ointments and bandages - as the only ‘professional medic’.

I ended up getting some surgical instruments and treating patients all day, often well beyond what my general nursing skills actually allowed. We would organize transport to the city hospitals for really severe cases. My language study suffered and I got worn out fast - physically and emotionally.

One Sunday I will never forget, a mother brought her dying 8 year old son to church. The starving boy’s body was literally skin and bones. As a congregation, we prayed and cried to the Lord for a miracle. At the end of the prayer time, the mother loudly screamed and wept. The boy had died right there.

A week later, the grieving mother came to church again and told us that it was her dying boy’s request to bring him to church that morning. “He died,” she continued, “while God’s family was praying for him, guiding him to heaven…” This was the testimony of a mother, who found comfort in God’s presence in the midst of her tragedy. But my heart pounded with confusion and my head swum with questions: questions my theology couldn’t address. I found myself badly in need of a more adequate theology of suffering!

My senior missionary colleague and his wife – hardworking founders of the Servant’s ministry in that area, almost lost their sanity during those times. It was so difficult to witness all those children dying around them and not able to do enough to prevent it. The feeling of powerlessness was devastating. Their own unwanted childlessness made matters worse.

I remember my colleague telling me that as the prophet Elisha had done over the dead body of the widow’s only child, he repeatedly did over children in his neighbourhood who had just died. He would stretch out his body over them and breathe on them while praying. But unlike the experience of Elisha, none of those starved children ever came to life again. We cried to God and wept with the family members in utter despair. And many times, with a reading from Scriptures and a prayer, we helped them bury their children since the parents (mostly Roman Catholic) did not have the money to pay for a priest.

But mostly, all we could offer was to stay with them in there grief and desolation. This godly missionary couple eventually burnt out, and left the Philippines after a few years, returning to their home country for good.

After a succession of such physically and emotionally draining experiences, the Servants team advised me strongly to take time off for a holiday. I travelled to a nearby and very beautiful island, and enjoyed some wonderful days at a Philippine beach.

On my way back, I had to take a 3-hour drive on rough roads in order to reach the airport and catch my plane to Manila. The passenger jeep was so crowded (as usual) that I opted for the windy “seat” on the roof, with a fantastic open air view. It was a bit dangerous though! I had to hold firmly to the luggage or to whatever else was available while the jeep skipped across the rough roads.

Next to me I noticed a Filipino guy, just a few years younger than me. When we started talking to each other, my first impression was that he was rich. His name was Harry. He was in his last semester studying law and was also on his way home to Manila. He spoke with a very sophisticated American-English accent.

When I explained to him that I belonged to a group called Servants and that we all stayed in slum areas, he was plunged into disbelief: no westerners would ever live in places like that! But then he shared with me that he was part of a group of young lawyers who gave free legal aid to the poor. And maybe still in disbelief, he asked me for a description of how to get to my slum house.

A few weeks later, he showed up at my place in “Bagong Silang” together with his best friend Joel, who would soon be a lawyer too. I had not believed he would really come, but he did! They drove two hours through the city traffic just to find me. I was very impressed. Out of this “divine meeting” on the roof top of a passenger jeep, many years of friendship developed.

Harry visited our youth camps, climbed with us through tropical forest and mud tracks, and up to high mountain peaks. From firstly just cooking spaghetti for the guys in the drug rehab program at Camp Rock, he eventually became the president of the Onesimo Foundation.

His voluntary contribution in legal matters to Servants and Onesimo have been priceless – enabling us to comply with the complicated procedures in building houses and buying land, in securing organizational permits, standing as defence in the criminal cases of our young clients among the poor, helping us stand against illegal demolition attempts of squatter communities, and much more…

Harry was and still is always available to assist us with his entire law office. Today he is a well known professor at the University of the Philippines, and appears almost weekly on the major TV channels. He married Mylah, a beautiful lady journalist and TV newscaster. They have two great kids.

Over time, Harry gave up smoking and began worshiping in a local church. And I really believe that it was his involvement in the lives of the poor that drew him closer and closer to Jesus.

How Camp Rock came to be…

We came to learn that regular time out is part of good self-care practice, and that we in Servants needed to remind each other of this often. One favourite spot for a retreat was the beaches of Puerto Gallera on the Island of Mindoro. Though only half a day’s trip away from the monstrous mega-city of Manila, you can find yourself in a tropical paradise of almost untouched natural beauty.

But while I was enjoying one such escape, I couldn’t stop thinking of my poor friends from the squatter areas, and how much they would not only enjoy, but really needed a taste of this beauty.

I wondered how the street kids and the youth from the slums would react if they could see a clear blue sky no longer hidden by dark layers of smog; or how they would feel if they could gaze at the endless ocean, sparkling and full of sumptuously coloured fish – such a far cry from the black, oily Bay of Manila that they knew. I wondered if they could get to know their Creator in a new and deeper way if they had the chance to dive into a cool waterfall just a short rainforest walk from this beach. Wouldn’t their hearts want to start trusting a God who had given us such an unspoiled creation to enjoy and to care for! A creation which could provide more than enough for every person on the planet …if its bounty were shared rightly among its population!

It was during one of these times of retreat that my parents in-law from Switzerland joined us at Puerto Gallera. While strolling along the beach one beautiful day, I pointed out to them a big straw-roofed bamboo house built on solid rock which was for sale. “This is for sale,” I said, “and has been for quite a while already. It used to be a Spaghetti House for the tourists run by a Swiss guy.”

Wistfully, I thought out loud “It would be just wonderful to own such a spot for the poor of Manila, so they too could enjoy holidays here just like us.” The response of my parents-in-law was totally unexpected, for I had never thought of them as rich. They said, “Well why don’t you buy it. We will lend you the money!” “Whoa… what an offer,” I thought, “but is this from God? Would such a purchase be compatible with the principles of Servants, such as simplicity?”

A few weeks later, we invited to that beach site in Puerto Gallera, some of our friends who were urban poor leaders. We shared with them our emerging vision of buying this land with the Spaghetti house in order to run youth camps, leadership training and retreats for the folks from the Manila ghettos. There was quite a discussion, much reflection and prayer, and a lot of excitement of course.

At the end of that weekend, our local friends endorsed the vision and committed themselves to supporting it and being part of it. We called the Spaghetti house (including the 800 square meter lot) “Camp Rock,” and entered into the long and tiring process of buying the property - of course with the help of our lawyer friend Harry Roque.

But right away we were able to use the site for a succession of youth camps for the residents Manila’s various slums. How we got scorpions instead of bread… Those camps initially were too crowded. We were hosting over 200 boys and girls at a time. The boys had to sleep in tents at the beach while the girls would enjoy the safety of the old Spaghetti house.

But we soon realized that we were not always making friends on that beach, but by our very presence also provoking irritation and even hostility among some neighbours and local government. Camp Rock is located at a prime spot in a fast developing tourist area. Little wonder that some felt threatened by these urban poor folks crowding the beach.

We soon had to abide with a new local government ordinance prohibiting the use of tents on the site. We carried on despite the restrictions until 1999, when there was a terrible tropical storm. It rained for weeks causing the steep slope behind the main house of Camp Rock to move dangerously.

When some small rocks started to fall down on the house, Regie, our faithful guard and local caretaker, called and urged us to do something. We then took this threat as a signal that it was time to further develop Camp Rock. We planned to make a deep and firm foundation on that steep slope, building an additional big house, parking space and a half court for playing basketball.

We did not have that much money but our original debt was already paid off. And we were learning that we would never lack in financial provision if we would step out in faith to help the poor! But it took us endless trips and meetings with officials, long waiting and many prayers until we finally got all the needed permits through the corrupt and bureaucratic system of local and national government.

The German Embassy in Manila had helped us with an initial amount, and some more money came in from overseas. But we still needed even more funds to get the construction finished.

On the same beach, about 1000 feet away, a very rich family owned three marvellously designed beach houses. The family was Filipino but of Spanish origin. They visited their resort just a few times a year. They would come aboard three helicopters or on their luxury boat. Being a rather chatty neighbour, I befriended their family architect and also got to know their care-taker. The architect showed me around one day, allowing me to even peep inside the beautifully, handcrafted houses. When I shared with him that at Camp Rock we were still in need of donations for our current construction and slope protection, he encouraged me to ask the mother of that rich Spanish family, ‘the Dona’. He told me that that she was a good woman who supports many foundations for the poor and is quite approachable.

So with considerable effort and perseverance I managed to bring a request letter to the personal secretary of ‘the Dona’. Her office was on the 35th floor of one of the most modern high rise building in the heart of Makati, the country’s major business capital. This building is owned by the family. Its grandiosity radiates a sense of power and wealth that almost took my breath away. The same building also hosts the Philippine Stock Exchange!

People say that half of this ritzy business district is owned by this old Spanish clan whose name appears at many street corners. I felt so good about myself after I had passed on the request letter. Even if we could just get a few crumbs off this rich family’s table for Onesimo, it would surely be more than enough! Camp Rock could be finished without any further delay. I still felt good even a few days later when I called the personal secretary to follow up on my letter. “You are lucky”, she said, “Dona is spending a few days in the Philippines”.

But what followed had nothing to do with being lucky: it was more like a terrible nightmare! When Dona read about our request, she hopped into her helicopter and went for a site inspection of the on-going construction at “Camp Rock”. Straight on, without talking to us, she went to visit the Mayor of Puerto Gallera in the local town. There, she placed a complaint against us.

One must know that Dona is the “Queen” of that Island and whenever she complains, even the Mayor starts to tremble…. “Drug addicts and street kids on my beach? No way! This is too much, and besides this new building doesn’t fit the new standards drawn up for this tourist zone!”

It was the first time that the Dona had visited the Mayor in person which made him feel both honoured and terrified at the same time. Without talking to us first, the Mayor had a letter written revoking all permits and licenses regarding Camp Rock and its development. The reason given was that a drug rehab site in that place would jeopardise the development of their tourist program.

It was a Sunday night when I got this letter and I was totally shattered, right down to the core of my bones, fearing that this could be the end of Camp Rock. I did not wait for an opportunity to speak to him in his office, but on that very night I searched out the mayor’s private residence in town.

My heart was beating so hard that I could feel the pulse in my head when I knocked at his door. His son brought me right into the living room. I was already familiar with the mayor’s bully-like face, as his portrait was on posters and streamers all over town following his recent election campaign. “This is a misunderstanding”, I explained after some formal introductions, “we have never planned to run drug rehab at Camp Rock. It is a camp and youth training site only. And of course, once the basic construction is finished we will cover all the concrete with indigenous material like bamboo, rattan and plants.”

The mayor was unimpressed. He just shrugged his shoulders and asked: “Why did you ask the Dona for money in the first place? Don’t you know that she is a big tax payer on this island? And because of this issue, you know, she has visited me personally for the first time!”

All seemed hopeless. But after some time of prayer, I got into a real fighting mood, knowing that at this point we couldn’t fall any deeper.

What then followed was a nerve racking exchange of letters and faxes between the Dona, the mayor and my friend and lawyer Harry Roque. Dona actually faxed me from Hotel Peninsula in New York, defending her position, stating that she is solely concerned with the preservation of the beauty of her place.

Harry, in reaction, exploded in holy anger when he heard my terrible news. “These Spaniards already raped our country for three hundred years, and now they still want to do it…”.

He then placed the story of the “Dona and the unwanted street kids on her beach” with supporting documents at a major daily newspaper and with the national TV channel.

As a last resort, Harry told me, we would put pressure on the Dona and the mayor through the media. Harry at that time was also a congressman’s chief of staff and used this capacity to ask the governor of that island to put in a good word for us with the mayor.

On a follow up visit at the Mayor’s house, I mentioned in passing that the whole story might be released on national TV and newspaper. This upset the mayor, and with raised voice he shot back at me, “Are you threatening me?” “Well,” I replied as calmly as I could, “what other options do we have against a powerful family like that of the Dona’s?!”

The construction of Camp Rock stood still. It took another few weeks of prayer and waiting. Finally, we got a response from the Mayor’s office. It was a letter of agreement that we were asked to sign! It contained nothing that we would not have wanted to do in the first place. We had to agree not to have drug addicts undergoing rehabilitation at Camp Rock, and to put finishing touches on the new building so that it would best fit in with the natural environment.

In terms of bridging the gap, the professional help we received from the “middle class” was crucial in this crisis. One man armed with ‘holy anger’ took on one of the most powerful families in the Philippines. And this, backed by the awesome grace of God, meant overcoming the iron will of a fearsome lady - despite all her billions of dollars.

[Christian and his wife Christine lived with Servants in the slums of Manila for 13 years, while raising their children Isabel and Noel. In response to the tragedy of Manila’s street kid and street drug problem, they began the ministry of Onesimo – a network of therapeutic communities and a youth campsite where many are finding new life. Onesimo draws its name from the Biblical character discussed in the letter to Philemon who escapes slavery and oppression, and in the process finds Christ.]