Thailand was the first country that I visited, but readings on it and its placement as a member-state of ASEAN painted in me the picture that there wasn’t much difference from my home country, however, this proved to be a hastily made conclusion. 

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The first thing that struck me most were the highways that snaked out of Bangkok. They were massive, but unlike most highways of the same size in my country, its aesthetics – the Y-shaped molds supporting the upper levels, the clean, wide sidewalks, and the occasional trees and lakes dotting its undersides and peripherals – all exuded concrete elegance. I enjoyed my time cruising through its various levels and winding curvatures. Our succeeding drives over them were both graceful and smooth, and it painted in me the portrait of a well-planned cityscape. 

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The second, and perhaps most important thing, that made an impression on me was Thailand’s cleanliness. Sidewalks, rivers, roads, lakes, public spaces – all these were generally garbage-free. This is in direct contrast to my country, since I don’t think it’s any secret that Filipinos in general are not as mindful on the cleanliness of public spaces as other countries. We try, and there are quite a lot of Filipino families that embrace the value of cleanliness, but our public spaces, especially our bodies of water, reflect the systemic mindset of carelessness that most of us have towards our garbage. As such, seeing Thailand’s embedded culture of respect for their surroundings set in me a societal structure that us Filipinos may adopt to improve ourselves. 

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Their highways and their cleanliness collectively gave me the impression that Thailand is a well-structured country that embeds in their daily lives a culture for respect – both for their surroundings and for their fellowmen, things that I hope I may be able to contribute to my country’s cultural fabric through education. 

It’s not an understatement to say that names are integral parts of our identities. We may not necessarily identify with our names, but the fact still remains that the world can only know us through them. We respond when we are called by it, and coming from the right people, it can be the sweetest sound we may hear.  

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On the matter of names, however, Filipinos tend to succumb to the pitfall of mediocrity or crowd-mentality. Few parents actually think about the weight of the meanings of their children’s names, putting a premium on how names sound and their trendiness rather than what they mean, and what that meaning could potentially translate to.  The Laouzas, my foster parents in Thailand, were conscious in naming their children. They have two sons, Ram and Rak, and within the brief time that I spent under their care, both grew to become my siblings. I loved them both like they were my real siblings, and their names and their meanings – Ram “First” and Rak “Love”, somehow coincided with the way I looked at them. 

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Ram was a fifth grader. He was the eldest, thus his name being the Thai word for “first”. True enough, he was the first of the two that greeted us when we arrived at Sathit Bang Na, our host school, and he was the first that we were able to talk to. He’s a sweet, shy, and athletic boy who later unfolded to me as a very loving human being. On the night of January 16, as I was resting in my room in the upper floor of their house, I heard Rak cry. I didn’t mind it that much since Miss Nipa, their mother, was also downstairs and just thought that he was having a tantrum. Thirty minutes later, Ram came up and knocked on my door. His eyes were red and puffy from crying. He told me that Rak had an accident – while Miss Nipa was preparing hot soup for our dinner, Rak bumped into her and the soup spilled on his upper chest. She then took him immediately to the hospital. Ram was quite distressed with the incident, and he was apparently crying because he was worried and scared for his brother. Coming from a 10-year-old boy, this kind of sentiment came across to me as a vivid reflection of his character as an individual, young as he still was. He was a gentle, caring soul, and I adored and respected him that much more for it.   

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Rak was in Kindergarten, and he was one of the smartest and most charming little boys I met. His name translates to “love”, and he was just that. He was an affectionate child that radiated love and happiness in everyone around him. He was the focal point of the family, the “element” that brought all of them together. He was a warm and happy child and he wasn’t hesitant to make me, a stranger, feel loved in his company. Our favorite game was “bato bato pik”, a Filipino variation of rock-paper-scissors. He would make faces when he’d lose and his laughter when he won effortlessly lit up the room. He was also very sharp-minded. You’ll only need to repeat a new phrase once or twice for him to fully remember and deliver it – with accurate diction and intonation. Such was Rak, and such was my sadness when I said goodbye to the little young man. 

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Rak and Ram were my brothers in Thailand, and each of them possessed qualities that I valued and adored, and I would always raise the hat towards Mr. and Mrs. Laouza for raising such loving, caring, and happy children. They embody the kind of relationship that I want my future family to have. 
 

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Teacher, how does a bird fly?
Does it flap its wings
until there is nothing left
in the wind, in the muscle,
to stir?

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Teacher, why does the moon 
never comes back the same? 
Does the night take something
and return it when it passes? 

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Teacher, why do I have a hand? 
Is it to hold a pen, or a sword?
Is the hand mightier than both?
Does it have to be a fist when I 
want to be the latter? 

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Teacher, will you tell me
how a classroom can double 
as a home, will you promise
to not turn it like ours?

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Teacher, will you be there
when our home has nothing left to stir? 
Will your classroom give back pieces
of what the night has taken from me?
Will you hold my hand, 
when I open it and find only a sword?

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Will you be there, teacher? 
Will you promise?