by MARITES N. SISON

THEY HAD JUST come from a police station, and dusk and the grim prospect of sleeping on the filthy and menacing streets of Metro Manila had driven Yolanda and Angeli to the White Cross Orphanage in San Juan, right in front of a burgeoning squatters' colony.

The two women, both in their early 30s, figured the nuns would take them in for a night or two, just like what happened months ago, when they had arrived there, separately, with their respective children in tow. In fact, some of their children are still at White Cross, and if nothing else, at least they would have been very glad to see Yolanda and Angeli.

But even the promise of seeing one of her daughters—two-year-old Minorca—was not doing the upset Yolanda any good. She had just lost her life savings of P14,000, after all, which was why she and Angeli thought of asking help from the police. The money was supposed to pay her way to a job as a domestic helper in Hong Kong, where she planned to save enough to get her children, and then put their lives back on track. But it was stolen the night before at a recruitment agency in Sta. Mesa, along with Yolanda's meager belongings.

"Yun na nga lang ang pag-asa ko (That was my only hope)," she moaned, burying her face in her hands. Angeli could only look on, realizing no words of comfort could possibly soothe Yolanda. Despite the trip to the police station, they knew the chances of finding the thief and recovering the amount were nil.

Yolanda and Angeli are not related to each other, but a common life marked by a hardscrabble existence first as youngsters and later as single mothers brought them together. Or more accurately, White Cross made them friends: It was there that they first met, as mothers visiting their children on Sunday mornings.

Although it is primarily an orphanage, White Cross in the last several years has become more of a temporary shelter for children whose parents can no longer take care of them full time. Most of these parents are single mothers like Yolanda and Angeli who are barely able to keep their own bodies and souls together. According to Siony Flores, head social worker at the government-run Reception and Study Center for Children (RSCC) that has also taken to providing similar services as White Cross, most of these women are victims of domestic violence and economic depression. Others are unwed mothers, widows, and rape victims with unwanted pregnancies.

Just how widespread the phenomenon is of single parents putting their children in temporarily to shelters run by either private institutions or by the government is unclear. But there is growing evidence of an emerging underclass of single mothers who are marginally employed and are at their wits' end over who will take care of their children while they work.

Officials of the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) say that between January to August 1998, 7,135 children (ages 0-17) were placed in temporary shelters. Most cases involved single mothers between the ages of 16 to 35. Single fathers accounted for less than one percent of cases. "The men who leave their children here are often widowers," says the RCC's Flores, commenting on the scarcity of single fathers using the services of children's shelters. "We seldom encounter men who had been left by their wives."

Officials at both White Cross and the RSCC say more and more single parents are putting their children temporarily in shelters. The RSCC, which is supposed to take in at most only 120 children at a time, has in recent years been forced to take in as much as 150 to 200. Its latest number of occupants, according to Gualberto, was 220.

Lack of money, the absence of even the barest of shelter, disorientation and the overwhelming responsibilities of solo parenthood are the main triggers for the surrender of children to such centers. "They want to hold on to their children," says social worker Remia Capispisan of the Women's Crisis Center of these children's parents, "but they just don't have the means."

Most of the mothers who end up at the doorsteps of White Cross and RSCC are poor, have deficient or no education, and have little or no employable skills. Those who do manage to find jobs are still unable to keep their children because they cannot afford child care. The work they get inevitably offers very low pay and does not provide room for advancement.

A maid, for instance, earns anywhere between P1,000-P2,500 a month. A minimum of P4,000-P5,000 a month is needed to provide for a child's food, clothing, medical needs and other miscellaneous expenses, according to Constancia Gualberto, who heads the RSCC in Quezon City. "That's how much we spend per child in the institution," she says, "and it's even discounted because we buy everything in bulk—food, clothing, toiletries, vitamins—and it doesn't include shelter. You can imagine how much it costs to raise a child outside."

And in these days of shared poverty for many people, there are no more extended families—no village of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins to run to when a nuclear family falls apart. Said Yolanda, 32: "Wala kaming matirhan ng mga anak ko nang maghiwalay kami ng asawa ko, kaya dinala ko sila rito. Patay na ang nanay ko. Di ko maasahan ang tatay ko dahil maliit pa lang ako pinabayaan na niya kami (My children and I had no home after my husband and I separated, that's why I brought them here. My mother is dead. I can't rely on my father because he had already neglected us even when I was a child myself)."

Yolanda walked out on a four-year-relationship with her common-law husband because of his infidelities. She was two months pregnant at that time. Penniless, she begged her sister in Laguna to take in Carla while she worked as a maid in Manila. The little money she earned from her job, she sent for Carla's needs. "Siempre kahit kapatid ko yun, sinisingil niya ako para sa gatas, vitamins, pagkain. Minsan nangungutang pa ako (Even if she's my sister, she had to ask me for money for milk, vitamins, food. Sometimes, I'd even have to borrow money)," she said.

But Yolanda later took Carla to her employer's house when she noticed that her daughter's arm had a lot of bruises. She says the little girl's hair was matted each time she visited her. A few months later, Yolanda had to leave her job to give birth at a friend's house. They stayed there for four months. Soon after, Yolanda took Carla, then six years old, and baby Minorca to White Cross. Carla has since transferred to Asilo de San Vicente on UN Avenue in Manila, because White Cross houses children up to only seven years old.

Angeli, 30, is a widow. Her 10-month-old baby, Mercy, has been at the White Cross for the last six months. Her older daughter Grace had been transferred from one institution to another until social workers finally settled her at Home Link, a nongovernmental institution in Sta. Cruz. Home before that was a pushcart along Quezon Boulevard, the only thing Angeli could afford from the little she earned selling empty bottles and iron scraps.

Angeli had previously rented a tiny room in a shack, but got kicked out when her landlady's son, a drug abuser, raped her. She later found out she was pregnant and tried desperately to have the baby aborted. Angeli recalled, "Ininuman ko na ng gamot, di pa rin nalaglag (I'd drunk some medicine, but the baby held on)." She gave birth to Mercy at a charity ward and managed to live with a friend for five months until she heard about a temporary shelter for babies. She searched for Boys' Town in Cubao, not realizing it is an institution for disadvantaged and abandoned boys. "Lumapit ako sa isang madre dahil hilong-hilo na ako, di ko makita ang Boys' Town at tinuro niya ako sa White Cross (I approached a nun because I was already dizzy, I couldn't find Boys' Town, and she told me about White Cross)," she said.

Both government and private shelters try to adopt a stable, family atmosphere. Usually, there is a housemother who takes care of the children's needs. The shelters almost always have a playground complete with swings and slides, plus wide, open spaces to run around in. Children classified as "non-risk," or those who are not the offspring of battered women in hiding or are not victims of incest, study in public schools. The rest get their education within the confines of the shelter.

But no shelter, however perfect, can come close to having loved ones just a wink away, and everyone knows it. RSCC officials say as much as possible, they discourage parents from giving up their children even temporarily.

"We should be the last resort," says Flores. "We don't want children to be separated from their parents. If the problem can be solved, like if there are relatives who can help, then the children should not be left here. We try to explain to them what the effect of being left here can be on the children."

The toll of separation is heavy for both sides, but the child suffers most especially. A child separated from his or her parent normally doesn't eat or sleep for two weeks, sometimes even months, says Flores. "The child has little appetite, and her relations with her peers are poor," she observes. "If it's a baby, her resistance is weakened and it will be easy for her to fall ill."

The older ones regress emotionally, according to Gualberto. "The child knows she has a mother. Dati akap-akap niya, all of a sudden mawawala (She had used to hug her mother, and now the mother is gone). Sometimes the mother doesn't visit very often (and) they become withdrawn. Their apprehensions and longings affect their development."

As for the mothers, they "are already depressed to begin with and are still unable to recover from their trauma and then a crisis of separation hits them," says Capispisan. Most take an emotional beating, thinking themselves unworthy mothers. They often worry over whether their children are getting adequate care.

"Laging tanong sa akin ng anak ko, Ma, kelan ba ako uuwi? Masakit sa kalooban ko (My daughter always asks me, 'Ma, when am I going home?' It hurts)," said Yolanda, wiping away tears. "Tuwing bibisitahin ko siya, sinasabi niya lagi 'ayaw ko dito, may nang-aaway sa akin.' Mga salitang bata ba. Sinasabi ko hindi pa ako handa. Kung magkakasama kami, mahihirapan lang siya (Every time I visit her, she always says, 'I don't like it here, there's someone who's always picking a fight with me.' Child talk, you know? I tell her, I'm not ready. If we're together, she'll only have a hard time)."

She said she tries to explain to Carla that it was concern for her well-being that prompted the hard decision to leave her and her sister in institutions. "Mahal kita kaya linagay kita rito (I love you that's why I put you here," Yolanda said she tells her daughter. "'Hindi kita pinaaampon (I'm not putting you up for adoption)."

Before she lost the money she had scrimped from her job as a cook, Yolanda had been slowly preparing Carla for her departure for Hong Kong. "Sabi ko, alam mo ba ang abroad? Matagal bago ako makakabalik. Ang tanong niya, 'kelan kita makikita?' Sabi ko, hindi agad pero pagbalik ko, magkakasama na tayo (I said, do you know what 'abroad' means? It's going to be a while before I come home. She asked, 'When will I see you again?' I said, not right away, but when I come back, then we can all be together again)."

Not everyone who wants to leave his or her children in temporary shelters is allowed to do so. A mother or father undergoes an interview and assessment process. "If we believe there are families they can go to," explains Flores, "we refer the matter to the LGUs (local government units) so they can solve the matter on a local level."

But there are cases when the children are taken on the spot. According to Flores, this usually happens when they see that the mother is already "in crisis, under stress na siya at psychologically disturbed, na pag di mo tinulungan ay malalagot na ang pisi (and that when you don't help her, she will totally lose it)." The mother is then referred to centers that cater to women for counseling and treatment.

The shelters do not charge the mothers. In White Cross, the parents "pay back" by cleaning the yard. They are also asked to visit their children each week or, at the very least, twice a month. Under the law, a child left at a shelter and not visited by a parent or relative for six months is considered abandoned and becomes eligible for adoption.

But social workers try to stretch the period a little longer and put out ads in newspapers, television and radio in the hope that the child's guardian would come forward and claim him or her. Gualberto, though, says, "When a whole month passes by and the mother has yet to show up, we try to prepare the child emotionally para di mabigla (so she won't get traumatized)."

At RSCC, she says, almost 80 percent of the children left there temporarily are taken back within a period of three to 12 months. Overall DSWD figures, however, are not as reassuring. Last year, 1,245 children or only 30.5 percent in state shelters were returned to their parents or relatives while 2,387 or 58.5 percent remained in the centers. More than four percent ran away, while 3.6 percent were transferred to private institutions. The rest got adopted, sent to foster care, found jobs or died.

Gualberto says the children are given back to their parents only after national and local social workers ascertain that there is an adequate system in place. "The parents don't have to be rich, it's enough that they can provide the basic needs," she says. "There must be a house, a caregiver, there is food to eat, and security is assured"

The reunification process takes less than a month. Once a family is reunited, social workers at the community level monitor how everything is going over a six-month period. There are some returnees, or parents who come back and try to leave their children again, says Gualberto, but except in extreme cases, they are turned away.

Reunification with their children is among the most fervent wishes of the parents who have had to leave their offspring in shelters. But for many, that remains a wish for too long a time. Yolanda, for example, is nowhere near being able to getting her two daughters back after almost two years of leaving them in the care of nuns. Her friend Angeli is in a similar situation, having left her job after getting into a fight with a fellow maid.