A Christmas Special: Do they know it's Christmas?

Late morning the other day, I was awakened by the loud sound of bells echoing in our neighborhood. I must have been in a middle of a nice dream then, because my automatic association of the sound was that of sleigh bells indicating that Santa had come with presents for all. It was, however, nothing that in any way resembled the merry season. It was simply the garbage truck alerting every household that it was time to turn in the week's garbage.

I hurriedly gathered what things I needed to throw away. I filled a plastic bag with empty bottles and went outside. Across the road from my door, a family of scavengers was digging into the communal garbage bin. They were familiar faces, the same people that regularly make their rounds in our area. That day, as usual, they had to scavenge in order to eat, in order to live.

I waved to the biggest of the kids, a girl about six years old. She came running. As I handed her the bag, I noticed she was munching a partly rotten piece of apple. "Gilabay na man ni, sir," she volunteered to tell me. Perhaps she thought I was suspicious of where she got it from. But I was not. Of course, it was obvious that the spoiled fruit was coming from one of those garbage bags that had been put out by the roadside for collection. She might have mistaken the look on my face-it was not indignation, but compassion.

Shortly, a frail-looking little boy joined in. He was her brother, she said. The thin, pale kid was wearing a pair of oversized shoes that split at the seams. Obviously a find from the garbage, too. He shifted from one foot to the other as his sister rattled on telling me everything about him: That he was asthmatic and had "died many times already." That he was hospitalized for a long time months before and had to be sneaked out by their father, because the doctor got mad when they were not buying the prescribed medication.

To call this girl talkative is an understatement. But I didn't mind; she had me listening fully. At night, she said, the poor boy would have difficulty breathing and could go to sleep only after the whole family would fan him over with sheets of used cartons, for hours. Then, just as my heart was beginning to bleed by her story, she asked if I had leftover medicines, especially Vicks Vapor Rub, for her brother. I didn't have that, but was willing to give her money to buy one.

However, before I could reach into my side pockets, she said something that seized me completely. "Ayaw lang hatag kuwarta, sir, kay di na ipalit sa among Nanay og tambal. Ipalit ra na niya'g bugas."

I understood. Any mother would probably do the same thing with whatever little money there is-spend it on rice for all in the family rather than on medicine for just one. It might be a very difficult decision to make for a parent of one sick child and four other hungry kids. I couldn't imagine what torment she goes through every time she has to make such choice.

The thought stuffed my chest, and I was gasping for breath as I accompanied the two kids to a nearby store, to buy vapor rub. I got a small tin can of the medicine and gave it to the girl. She smiled at me and then turned to her brother. She smiled bigger at him. Her faced glowed like that bright star on the night when Christ was born. I did not smile. I could not. My heart cringed, instead, at the sight. Unbelievable how a thing that cost less than twenty pesos could bring such great joy!

Then their father called for them from the other side of the road. A full sack of refuse-plastics and metals-was already mounted on his shoulders. The mother stood beside him, a pile of old newspapers tucked under her arm. The other, smaller kids were each having their hands full of scrap wood. The girl looked at me. It was time for them to go.

How I wish I had given more. But perhaps the giving would not be the same if I had plenty to give. It might not have been as hard for me to part of the little money intended for viand for my next meal. I might not have had time to listen and allow myself to be pounded by the girl's story. My reason for giving might have been totally different-I might have given not because I wanted to help the kids but because I just wanted to drive them away.

They say the rich have a different view of the world. I can't say; mine are a poor man's eyes. And there are unique privileges to be found in poverty: no special social expectations to keep up with, no wealth to continuously worry over losing. The only sad thing is when you see others in much worse form, and you can do nothing.

As the two kids were walking away, I yelled out "Merry Christmas!" to them. They stopped, and turned to me, balancing the weight of the bag of empty bottles between them. There was a faint, uncertain smile on the girl's face, nothing on her brother's. Maybe she didn't understand my greeting. Maybe he didn't hear what I said. Or, maybe they just didn't know it's Christmas.