Going home: and finding love in the poorest of places

 Michael Angelo Camacho is a friend of the Catholic Worker. He works with non-profit organizations in San Diego.

Last January, I was prompted to return to the Philippine province in which I was born. I went there not only to attend my grandpa’s funeral but also to visit the grave of my grandma, who had passed away three months previously. It was she who practically raised me from childhood to young adult. While there I discovered something outstanding: amid poverty, I found charity in the hearts of my beloved family.

Moncada is 150 km. north of Manila. It is one of 17 towns in the Province  of Tarlac, and 40 percent of its population experience extreme poverty. This means that households experience one or more of the following conditions: malnutrition, no access to a safe water supply, unsanitary living conditions, living in makeshift housing, high mortality of children under 5 years old, children over 5 not attending school, food shortage, and unemployment. Although by no means the poorest place, this farming village is still the kind of location where missionaries and Peace Corps volunteers are sent.

Despite their own struggles with poverty, the family I visited were the most gracious hosts I could ever ask for. Unlike myself, these people weren’t giving from their surplus; they gave from their daily bread. Not only were they eating less than usual because they had one more mouth to feed, they also insisted on giving me the biggest portion of food. To reject them would have been disrespectful so all I could do was be humble and accept their generosity.

I also discovered that they were feeding another extra mouth beside mine: an orphan child. What Filipinos consider an orphan is a tad different from an American definition. It does not mean a child’s parents are dead, it means their parents are unable or unwilling to take care of their child. Because this person had no family relations able or willing to give her a home, my family had given her one.

I felt much affinity for this child. The last time I visited the Philippines, my aunt in Manila revealed to me the real reason my parents were absent for the first few years of my life. One day my mother showed up at my aunt’s home in Manila, which was at least a two-hour bus ride from our home province. She had nothing but the clothes she wore and the black eye she received from my father. I, her little son, had been left in the province. The fairy tale they told me was that she was off finishing college but in reality she had run away to the Visayan Islands. Meanwhile, I was told my dad was in what is now known as the United Arab Emirates making money to provide for his family while I was left in the care of the grandma. To see my family helping the little girl from another turbulent situation warmed my heart and I couldn’t help but connect with the child in brokenness.

 She wasn’t the only child my family had decided to help; they planned to host a benefit concert. Besides losing the grandparent we all shared, one of my cousins had died in a motorcycle accident, and my trip coincided with the 40th day of his passing. As a tribute to him, the celebration would benefit a newly founded charity to support students at a school in the poorest barrio.

If my cousin were still alive, he would have been my age. His family can’t replace the grandparents who raised me, and I can’t replace the brother they lost, but now we’ve gained a renewal of familial relationships between us all. I wish I could have known my cousin more while he was still alive. I am told we were really close as children and now I’ve been granted the opportunity to grow in love and charity with his brothers and sisters and I couldn’t be a luckier guy.

Michael Camacho’s family home in the Philippines.