EXCERPTS FROM "OUR CHILDREN ALL"
AN ESSAY BY RANDY DAVID

Aside from being a columnist for the "Philippine Daily Inquirer" and a host for the talk show, "Public Forum" (renamed "Public Life"), Randy David is a professor of sociology at the University of the Philippines (UP). David founded the Third World Studies Center, located at the Diliman campus of UP. These excerpts from "Our Children All" tackle the obligation of Philippine society to care and educate its children.

Paulo po, he said - Paulo Parungao was his name. I was doing some last minute shopping at Baguio’s vegetable market in between a late lunch at Rosebowl and the 3 p.m. Victory Liner bound for Cubao. A platoon of children of varying sizes and ages blocked my path, selling plastic bags and offering to carry my purchases.

Paulo, fourteen years old, was the biggest of the bag boys. I chose him so I would not have to feel guilty being trailed by a small malnourished child carrying my baggage. An eight-year-old girl with big bright eyes was actually the first to ask me, not for a moment doubting her strength. I will just buy one of your bags, I consoled her, you are too young to be a cargador.

Why are you not in school, I asked, forgetting that schools had closed for the summer vacation. Paulo said he had just finished second year high school at Baguio City High and would be a junior when school reopens.

It is quite late for the watercress, he warned me, but I know where we can get some. As he glided expertly through the sayotes and cauliflower, the asparagus spears and kutchay tips, and the perennial carrots and chicharos - I began my unintended interview.

His father was from Bicol, he said. He is dead now; he was a policeman. He himself - Paulo - was born in Nueva Ecija. They moved to Baguio because his mother had a sister here.

His mother remarried, but the relationship did not last very long. She decided to go to Singapore to work as a maid. She has been there two years, but has stopped writing and sending money. She probably thought her three children, all boys, were now old enough to fend for themselves.

We did find the last bundles of watercress in a remote corner, and along the way we picked up the obligatory mushrooms and some unusually rare blueberries and mulberries. There’s more space in your bag, Paulo reminded me, probably worrying how much tip a bag without the bulky cauliflower and carrots would merit. That is all I need, I said, and asked him to lead the way to the bus station.

The hike up Session Road exhausted me, and for the first time I realized what a great service it was to be brought to the door of your bus by Baguio’s bag boys. We paused and sat on a bench near the station, and I asked him some more questions. Paulo is the youngest of the boys. The eldest is eighteen - he has gone to Manila and has not been heard from ever since. The middle boy is seventeen and has taken a wife. And Paulo is on his own.

He has left his aunt’s home where his mother has deposited them when she went to Singapore. She was cruel to us, Paulo said. Now he lives with a family that had offered him a place to sleep. But he has to work in order to eat as well as send himself to school.

He sells newspapers every morning from seven to nine, from which he earns fifty pesos a day. Then he waits at the vegetable market to carry bags. At 1 p.m. he goes to school. He wants to finish high school, he said, and proceed to college so he could become a civil engineer. He is saving all his money for that.

Do you get good grades, I inquired. He is just an average student, he replied - an 80 student. But he will be an engineer some day, he assured me. Try to get into the UP, I told him, so you do not have to spend so much. I gave him a generous tip and my calling card, and advised him to write me when he finishes high school.

Watching this boy go through life without a family but with a sheltering dream, I suddenly thought of the young confessed killers of Philippine Science High School scholar Oliver Ang. Perhaps they, too - Cesar Rivera and Teddy Bernardo - are alienated from their families. There is no mention of any parent or relative coming up to claim them. No one has offered to provide them a lawyer...

..."How is it," asked Nietzsche in Human all too human, "that every execution offends us more than a murder? It is the coldness of the judges, the painful preparations, the understanding that a man is here being used as a means to deter others. For guilt is not being punished, even if there were guilt; guilt lies in the educators, the parents, the environment, in us, not in the murderer - I am talking about the motivating circumstances."

In another time and place, Paulo Parungao could have been one more teenage killer, rather than the diligent bag boy dreaming to be a civil engineer. A family happened to show him kindness at the precise moment when someone in his circumstances might have been inclined to wage war on the world...

From David, Randolph. Our Children All. Public Lives: Essays on Selfhood and Social Solidarity . Anvil Publishing, Inc., Pasig City: 1998. pp.157-159.