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The Foreigner
by Curtis Weber It was August 22, 1983. I was alone; I was afraid. I was standing on a sidewalk surrounded by dozens of homeless and starving women, several of whom were holding small toddlers to their flat and empty breasts. My mind was racing, trying to anticipate and prepare for any of the possibilities that could have exploded. Is my wallet in my front pocket? Do I have a way out or have they completely surrounded me? Are any of them holding anything that could be used as a weapon? The heat from sun and humidity was combining with the unfiltered diesel exhaust of the trucks that filled the street; my head was beginning to spin. The women only held out their frail bony arms to beg for money, for anything I could do to help them. "Pleaseplease" Was all they could say in English. But I couldn't speak Tagalog, their language, and couldn't understand anything they were saying. Unless you've ever traveled to other countries, in particular Third World countries, you may never understand how it feels to be a true minority or outsider. I was in downtown Manila, the capital city of the Philippines. Manila is one of the largest cities in the world, home to over 10 million people, covering an area larger the entire Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex. My friend, Paul, and I were lost. We had decided only the day before to take a impromptu trip to see the sights and enjoy the night life. Paul had taken several trips to Manila before and assured me he knew where to go. He assumed the bus would take us directly to the "American Zone", the common term for an area of Manila that was known internationally for its hotels and night life. Unfortunately, the bus took us deep within Manila, well beyond any area my friend Paul recognized. He left me and our two military duffel bags outside of a department store while he went inside in an attempt to find someone who spoke enough English to give us the directions we needed. Within moments after he entered the store, dozens of women approached me; begging for help. I grew up in a quiet, all white world, in Wisconsin. I had no idea how to respond to this, like a deer frozen in the lights of an oncoming car all I could was stand there. Fortunately, Paul found someone within the store that was able to point us in the right direction. We walked for hours and saw thousands of people before we saw our first Caucasian, an Australian. "What are you Yanks doing this far out of the zone?" We assured him it wasn't for the thrills. He quickly flagged down a taxi and offered us a ride to our destination. In spite of the events surrounding our arrival in Manila, we went on and enjoyed the weekend and made it safely back to our base. Upon my arrival into my dormitory, my friends rushed to me relief on their faces. When they realized I was unaware of why they were so anxious, they informed me of the assassination of one of the primary political opponents to President Marcos, who had maintained his control over the Philippines for over 20 years. They told me how Senator Aquino had been shot by a sniper as he exited the airplane upon his return from a self-imposed exile. Within hours of the assassination, crowds of Aquino supporters took to the streets looking for Americans. Some of the riots occurred in the same area my friend Paul and I had walked through the day before. We had been completely unaware of the danger we were in. It was my only trip to Manila but I still carry the memories. I will never forget the emptiness I felt during that walk. The fact I was surrounded by thousands of Filipino's was irrelevant, everywhere I looked I knew I didn't belong there. I was on the other side of the world, but it could have just as easily have been the moon. I stood 12 inches or more over everyone there, my skins was bleach white, and I had blond hair. I was an alien to these people. There is nothing more intimidating then a total inability to understand any written or spoken language and there is nothing more intimidating than a language barrier. Being surrounded by thousands of individuals who look completely different then you only makes it more formidable. It affects me differently every time I recall it. It is something I will never forget. I'm a divorced father living in Flower Mound, Texas. I've remarried and am seeking the purpose to which God has called me. Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |