When I lived in Crizel's house, my lodging while I interviewed and photographed members of this community affected by toxic waste-I had the opportunity to know the young girl.  An artist as well, I was fascinated by her drawings.  Pointing at a flying person, I would ask, "ano iyan?" (what is that?)  "Tao,"  (a person), she would reply as though I was crazy.  "Alam KO iyan," (I know that) I would chuckle, "pero, anong ginagawa niya?"  (but what is she doing?)  "Humihiga", (resting) she would reply, as though I was still nuts for asking.  Later, I would ask Crizel's mother Dina how things were going.  She would tell me that Crizel had been dreaming about Jesus, or angels.  Crizel would relate such things with amused laughter, as though describing a cartoon.  She would even talk about death, boldly, the smile never leaving her eyes.

     But even Crizel could not remain smiling when she came within a blade's edge of death one month into my stay at Clark.  I came home to find her immobile with a fever, bruises and one foot swollen twice its size.  She had been bitten by an ipis or cockroach.  And because of her impaired immune system, the bite had gotten infected and would not heal on its own.  It was a gruesome wound, as was Crizel's appearance: yellowish skin, teeth tender and bloodstained, and a blankness in her eyes which signaled danger.  We rushed her to the hospital.

     The next day, I arrived at the hospital after one night away to find Dina holding Crizel's limp body in her arms, rocking silently.  I feared the worst.  Was Crizel going to die-from this small bite?  Dina could barely speak, bursting into tears at any attempt.  I spoke to the pediatrician, who said that if Crizel's system, aided by antibiotics, could not fight the infection, there was nothing more they could do.  I couldn't believe my ears.  But the odds seemed stacked against her, the resources of this small hospital stark and discouraging.  The best room they could provide had windows open to the dirty streets, and a janitor who came in frequently to move the dust around with a blackened mop.

     Fortunately, we were able to transfer her to a better hospital in Manila, thanks to funding obtained at the last minute from a benefactor in the States.  Crizel was quickly taken to an "isolation room", safe now from germs and viruses.  For the first night, I was allowed to stay in the room. I slept on the cold floor while crews of nurses flowed in and out, taking blood tests, checking her intravenous drip and temperature.  Dina, Task Force coordinator Nerissa and I took turns accompanying Crizel to the bathroom and x-ray chamber, far into the wee hours of morning.

     Crizel remained at St. Luke's hospital for several weeks, and eventually, she did recover.  Her eyes slowly gained back their usual brightness.  And then she was able to return home. Today, Crizel's lease on life depends on nothing but Fate.  She has undergone as much chemotherapy as doctors feel she can handle.  She stays at home drawing and enjoying the toys which visitors from all over the world have brought her.  She casts spells on people daily.  It has been one year since Crizel's diagnosis with Acute Myelocytic Leukemia, a rare form of the disease with a low chance of remission.  Doctors say she is not fit to undergo the rare and expensive bone marrow transplant.  There is no promise that she will live another month, even another day.  But still she survives, brightening the lives of all who meet her.

     Crizel is only one of the many "toxic waste victims" whom I met during a one-month project at Clark.  Not all of the children plagued with speech disorders, deformities and congenital diseases faced their disabilities with such boldness; in fact, most did not.  Many of the children could not speak, unable even to express sadness nor joy.  Often they would look at me with a blankness that could only be interpreted as acceptance.  This silence was the hardest: it forced me to take on the burden of their pain.  Their lack of reaction became my anger.  And knowing that these children were all exposed to dangerous chemicals while in the womb or the cradle did make me angry.

     Who was the US government, I would ask myself, to leave their garbage in this land?   How could they do it consciously, with records even to prove their awareness of the situation?  Before the military evacuated Clark, they proposed cleanup projects at the cost of $8.4 million; none of them were carried out.  And now activists and communities themselves are left to the heavy task of proving the connection between the toxins and health problems being reported.

     But regardless of whether or not the causality of these illnesses could be proven-or even if they proved negatively-there was no getting around the issue of exposure.  This for me was the bottom line.  Everyone has the right to know what she or he is drinking, or the soil in which they plant. Everyone has the right to live without the fear that they have unknowingly been poisoned from pesticides, motor fuel, or asbestos.  And everyone has the right to be heard.  Dina, Crizel's mother, expressed it in these words (translated from Tagalog):  "The Americans left their garbage in this country.  We don't know whether Crizel will live or not.  We want the Americans to know what happened to us."

     Someday, the US government will heed these words, will accept and even offer some remedy.  And on that day, an entire community will heave a sigh of relief, because the truth has been known.  I, for one, will feel a burden lifted from my shoulders which was placed there the moment I first came under Crizel's spell.

Published in Filipinas Magazine