Lost Within These Walls

Dear Lord, the silence in this labor camp dormitory is louder than the construction noise outside. I am sitting on my bunk, staring at a picture of my children back in Negros, and I truly do not know if I can hold on for another contract. Everything I do is for them, yet I am missing their growth, their birthdays, and the sound of my wife’s voice when she tells me she is tired. Why does providing for my family require me to lose my place in it?

I feel like a ghost haunting my own life. I send my remittance money, I hear the 'thank you' on the video call, and then I return to this metallic bunk. Have You forgotten me in this desert? I prayed for a better life, but I didn't think it meant being a stranger to my own children. What do I do now, when the promise of a better future feels like a cage of my own making?

I miss the smell of rain on the soil in our backyard. I miss the simple joy of sharing a meal without counting the cost of every dirham. I am exhausted, Lord—not just in my body, but in my spirit. I am losing my purpose, and I am terrified that if I stay, I will become a hollow man who only knows how to work and nothing else.