The street where I live

About a year ago, there was a dilapidated abandoned house next to where I lived. The house became a hiding place and distribution point for illegal drugs. I saw mostly young boys and girls come and go, conducting their addiction. They did this in broad daylight so apparently people in the neighborhood were aware of what was going on.

I was appalled by the seeming apathy of the elders. As a foreigner, I decided to keep quiet and ignore the problem. I assumed that the lack of concern was typical of people living in big cities where they mind their own business.

One night I had a chat with one of the old men living across from my house and asked him why nobody reported the matter to the police. He said it was useless. I knew what he meant later. One morning, there was a "raid" but the young boys were soon back in their hideout as if nothing happened. I finally understood and accepted what I call the hard realities of life; it does not concern me so it should not cost me one night's sleep. But my Christian upbringing nagged at my conscience.

One day, I was pleasantly surprised to find the people in my street tearing down the old house. People collected money and what used to be a drug den is now a cemented playground for kids. I began to respect my neighbors. Apparently encouraged by what they could do if they were united, they took on a bigger project. They collected voluntary contributions from the residents and had the street asphalted. The rich gave more, and the poor gave less. My street residents are mostly poor and middle class, probably retired civil servants. Teachers, fruit vendors, preachers and some small-time Chinese traders live there. Kids from nearby come to our street, happily riding their bikes and roller skates.

I am proud of my street and the people who live here. Kids and youngsters call me Oom (the Dutch word for uncle) and the older ones even know my name. I have become one of them.

CESAR D. ESTRADA

Jakarta