When Footprints Aren't Enough: The Gurong Pahinungod Experience

Amo dya ang akon nasulat nga reflection kang nag volunteer teacher ako sa Simunul Island, Tawi-Tawi in 1999-2000... my first ever teaching experience.

“Surreal but nice.” so says Hugh Grant in Notting Hill. My sentiments exactly! Like in a dream, I see myself stuffing my bags with things that are three-months overdue. I see myself bidding “goodbye” to my red-eyed mother and aunt. Is this IT? THE REAL THING? Wasn’t it just moments ago that we were all grumbling about delays and little hopes? But now, the moment is here. The long wait is finally over. The GPs are off to Mindanao -- AT LAST!

Both Jing (Panganiban) and I felt as if we were sleepwalking from the time we boarded San Lorenzo till our feet touched Simunul sands and our tongues burned with lara (chili). But as we lay on the principal’s daughter’s bed, the cobwebs of disbelief are slowly lifted. Hmn… it must be the pogita we had for dinner, or the doses of kahawa (native coffee) we had been drinking (because we can’t say no, obviously).

Tuesday afternoon (October 5) marked the beginning of our Intended Life. But what Jing and I never intended was to give an impromptu speech in front of the whole UMMAT National High School faculty, staff, students and VIPs. (Sorry Tatay Ruben but everything I learned in our Toastmaster’s Training got stuck in my throat!)

It was a Wednesday when we formally started our classes. We didn’t have the confidence of preparation, so it was like sailing the ocean in a bottle… no anchor, no sail, no captain.. How we’ve managed, I do not know. Plain chutzpah I guess.

But we were not that tough. It only took us a week to start re-examining ourselves -- our CAUSE. Pondering on the question, “What the heck are we doing here?” Tawi-Tawi is way too far from Iloilo. Too different. I wanna go home!

How time flies. The haze of surreality has faded. Yet, there are moments when I have to punch myself just to make sure everything is as real as the pimples on my face. But with every Sinama word that fell from my lips, with every kelor and tehe-tehe that graced my tastebuds, I know I am not at home. With every “Assalamu alaikum” and “Good morning, Ma’am” that greets my day, I know I am not just a tourist in this place -- taking nothing but pictures, leaving nothing but footprints…

With every non-reader and poorly constructed sentence that I encounter in my English 4, I know that my footprints are not enough. I have work to do. A difference to make.

Ablaze with the fire of volunteerism and the UP spirit, I thought I could do anything (like change the system for starters!). There are a lot of things I want to share. A lot of things that I think they need. And in my arrogance, I thought I would be the one to bestow them theses needs.

But I am not a demigod. I have no supernatural powers nor magic potions. My hands are tied by language, by culture, and by the system. Oh, if only the system were something I could make voodoo dolls out of, then it would be dancing to my tune right now…

There were times when I wanted to scream. To bash people. To call down the wrath of heaven, but my mouth remained closed. My fists remained at my sides…

There were times when I wanted to cry my heart out, even cry rivers of tears (enough to rival the Pacific) if these were the only way to drown the blank stares that fill the classroom. If only it was this easy, I am willing to get dehydrated and lose my eyelashes. Anyway, what’s a bald-eyed volunteer in the onset of quality education in the rurals?

I guess, I just have to content myself with wherever our lectures would lead us. Though not very far, but at least we’re moving. That is enough for now.

One thing I realized is that in doing volunteer work, leaving footprints in the sands of time is not enough. Sometimes, you just have to leave your heart, too.