The Twenty Peso Picture

Twenty pesos.

Roughly equivalent to US 40¢.

It could buy you a fare on a bus and on the train.

A bottle of water.

A pack of breath mints.

It's not really much, but when you're poor and starving, it means not having to sleep on an empty stomach.

It may mean that for another day, you survive.

But when you're really itching to get home on a rush hour, with people jostling you to get to the handful of buses, twenty pesos is not very high on your thinking list. That is, until harsh reality jostles you too.

And that's when I saw him, selling garlands on the street. A thin, frail-looking boy of about seven or eight. Or (one could not really tell because of malnourishment), for all I know he could have been in his teens. Vague though his age may be, I'm fairly certain of what he looks like. He was skin and bones, wearing dirty rags that would not even be fit to wipe the floor with. Weaving in and out of traffic, he had his back to me. And I could see the plethora of fungal infection that have made a patchwork of the skin of his back and skinny legs. The tangled weave of hair, dirt, lice and nits on his head. And the numerous scars on his body, a testament of a life lived on the streets.

I stood there, gazing at the child. Thoughts of how one so young as he, could have such a wretched life. At twenty-two, I haven't yet worked a day in my life. And here is this boy who is barely waist-high, facing the hordes of vehicles in Manila rush-hour, trying to sell Sampaguita garlands that have wilted hours ago. Making the dangerous street his playground. And playing a game of life and death.

In all my thoughtful preoccupation, I didn't notice that the boy was near me, trying to sell his garlands to the lady next to me. She didn't want them, the garlands. She's not going to buy. And yet, the boy was still persistent. He has to sell them all, he says. She relented by taking a chocolate bar from her purse and giving it to the boy. He didn't look happy, money would've been better.

He moved on to the line.

To me.

And that's when I saw his eyes. When he looked at me, he did so with eyes not of a child, but of someone else. Someone who was jaded. Who had faced the trials of life, and had lost all hope. The eyes that shouldn't be in a child's face.

He asked if I would buy his garlands. His voice, raspy and hoarse.

I stood there, transfixed by what I was seeing. A face hollowed by hunger.

My shock must have registered in my face. And he realized that I won't buy from him. He moved on, towards the far side of the line, and continued hawking his garlands to people who don't care to buy.

That's when I thought of the twenty pesos crumpled in my pocket. I thought of giving it to him, and in return, he would give me permission to tell his story to the world. I have seen pictures of vagrants and poor people in photo sharing sites. And yet, I didn't move. Also, aware of what I would do. To feed on the wretchedness of a child's life.

I couldn't do it.

I watched him walk away, still clutching his garlands. Not one of them had ever been bought. Maybe he would try again in a different place, or maybe he would walk home, to whatever part of the street home was. And try to sleep off another night with only a chocolate bar to hold off the hunger.

As much as I want to bring his plight for the world to see, it was not my suffering that would be seen. It was his. And no amount, especially a mere twenty pesos, would be able to justify what I would do. Taking away his anonymity and childhood with a twenty peso picture.

I wanted to show the world his image. The image of a child's miserable life, that shouldn't be his in the first place. I wanted to show the world that he is the future.

But now I understand.

He is not the future.

I am.

I am the future, and all of us privileged enough to help kids like him. It would be a long time before I would be able to help the way I really want to, by taking kids like him out of the streets, and into better lives. I wouldn't even know if he'd still be alive when that time comes. But I know that I would help him and others like him.

I was never meant to take that picture.

But this is the least that I can do to help him, wherever he is now.