By Nie Xiaoyang
The night rain falls slowly. Droplets trace delicate paths across the windowpane, mingling with the blurred glow of city lights. This is my second rainy season in Manila, and my 11th month in the Philippines. As I look out at the surreal skyline — towering high-rises colliding with crumbling homes — I suddenly realize: this city is becoming part of me.
When I first arrived, it was the harsh edges of the skyscrapers and the faded chaos of the old quarters that struck me most. But now, what truly compels me to pause and reflect are the people — those who remain gentle in the noise, those who smile at the world despite having little.
What moves me most are the small, quiet moments along the streets of Manila: An elderly woman in plain clothes carefully selecting a gift with her granddaughter; A family of seven gathered around a plastic table to celebrate a child’s birthday — the cake is modest, but the laughter rings sincere; Or the tattooed man with a beast on his shoulder who suddenly stopped me on the street, asked me a series of questions, and then warmly warned, “There’s a mad dog down the alley — don’t go there.”
One morning, I went out alone and bought a skewer of fried bananas at a roadside stall. The vendor, a cheerful woman, smiled and slipped me an extra piece. “It’s on the house,” she said. I took a deep breath of the already warming air — thick with the smells of oil, fruit, and gasoline — and felt, in that rough and cluttered moment, an unexpected sense of ease.
In many cities, traffic congestion breeds frustration. A single honk can unleash a chain of anger. But in Manila — where traffic jams are almost legendary — there seems to be a strange undercurrent of calm. Drivers rarely yell, rarely lean on their horns, rarely cut in line. It’s as though they have long accepted the city’s unruly rhythm and made peace with it.
There is a disarming constancy to Filipino kindness. Not long ago, I returned from a short trip with my family. As we passed through immigration, several officers noticed my wife holding our six-month-old baby. Without hesitation, they leaned in to smile and coo. One woman made a silly face that startled the baby into tears; she immediately apologized, her eyes filled with genuine regret and warmth. My wife turned to me and said, amazed, “I thought borders were supposed to be cold.”
Of course, I’ve also heard stories — some troubling — about travelers being questioned or delayed at entry. But I’ve come to believe that the world is rarely as binary as rumor makes it. In an age so quick to divide and label, I’ve learned to treasure every moment that breaks the mold. These moments, like pebbles cast into still water, create ripples of understanding and dignity.
Manila has quietly reshaped my sense of what it means to be “livable.” It’s not galleries or architecture that define a place — it’s whether, in the midst of the ordinary, you can still feel the texture of humanity: the quiet resilience of those who pursue joy, even without wealth.
That tattooed man still lingers in my memory. My initial caution quickly gave way to warmth. Before we parted, he asked, “Are you Korean?” I said, “No, I’m Chinese.” He paused, then said, “Philippines and China — no war.” The people around us chuckled, some echoing, “No war, no war...” In that moment, I understood: the grand theater of international politics often plays far from the lives of ordinary people. What they desire most is simple — peace.
I recalled a scene from 2001, during my coverage of the first Boao Forum for Asia. Then–Philippine President Fidel Ramos, cigar in hand, told me, “Asian countries need economic integration to secure peace.” Two decades later, his words feel even more poignant. Integration does not guarantee peace — but without it, peace becomes more distant.
And yet, peace always begins with kindness toward a stranger. The drivers, the customs officers, the vendors — they are the living soul of this city. In less than a year, they have quietly etched a soft connection in my heart.
Peace and geopolitics may be grand concepts, but they often reside in life’s most unassuming corners — in a warm breakfast, in a child’s birthday laughter, in a stranger’s simple plea: “No war.” Cultural exchange has never truly been about treaties between governments. It begins with the grace we extend to one another, moment by moment.
As night deepens and the rain thickens, I turn my gaze to my baby boy, who is slowly learning this city alongside me. We call him “Wala” — a nickname whose “la” was drawn from “Manila,” as if to say, “Wow, Manila.”
He does not yet understand the world, but through his wide, unclouded eyes, he has already caught a glimpse of its gentler side. I hope that one day, he will remember this rainy season in a foreign land —a time when the rain fell softly over a city that is imperfect but sincere, unfamiliar yet full of quiet goodwill.