BEHIND the doors of thousands of Filipino homes lies a silent crisis.
Between August and November 2025 alone, the Philippine National Police documented 6,883 cases of Violence Against Women and Children (VAWC) — statistics that "Berta," (a real name withheld to protect his identity), an incoming Grade 12 student from Davao City, lived through firsthand.
Berta's trajectory changed through Amaya Lay in Mindanao Inc., a non-government organization dedicated to child rights advocacy and community empowerment through the creative arts.
On June 18, the NGO launched its Child-Friendly and Rights-Based Drug Education project at Eden Nature Park and Resort.
Berta attended as a young theater performer whose life had been reshaped by the group. Speaking with SunStar Davao, Berta shared how the organization provided a lifeline from a traumatic childhood — a healing journey that came to the forefront during a sudden family conflict.
Christmas 2025 – reminder of old wounds
Berta recalled Christmas in 2025.
For many families, Christmas is a time for reunions, shared meals, and boisterous laughter. It is the one day of the year when differences are set aside, and homes are expected to feel a little warmer.
For "Berta," however, that particular Christmas became a reminder of wounds he thought had already healed. What should have been a festive night quickly escalated into chaos as voices spilled out of their family's home and into the street.
The argument centered on money.
Berta's father accused his eldest son of wasting the family's finances on drugs and online gambling. Before long, family members joined the shouting match, and curious neighbors began paying attention to the commotion.
To outsiders, it may have looked like an ordinary family dispute. For Berta, it felt like being dragged back into a past he had spent years trying to escape.
As the shouting continued, memories resurfaced. Memories of bruises that once covered his body, of fear that lingered inside their home, and of countless moments spent asking adults for help only to be met with silence.
At that moment, he was a frightened seven-year-old child once again.
“Wala mo naulaw na daghang tao nanan-aw nato? Naa ta ninyo tanan diria tas ingon ana inyuhang ipakita? Sa amoa (Weren’t you ashamed that many people were watching us? We are all here with you, and that’s what you choose to show? In front of us)?” Berta shouted in fury.
Their mother told them to direct their anger elsewhere. But Berta disagreed.
"Dili! Kamong duha ang kasab-an nako. Christmas Day tapos ing-ani ang mahitabo sa ato (No! I’m going to scold both of you. It’s Christmas Day, and this is what’s happening to us)?” Berta retorted.
Years had passed since the violence that once defined his childhood. The beatings had stopped. Their older brother had changed. Yet the emotions remained.
Christmas Day made Berta realize that while physical wounds heal, memories often stay long after the bruises disappear.
Growing up with fear
Before a theater organization became a major part of his life, before he found a community that listened, Berta's world revolved around home and his siblings.
There was a time when those memories were happy ones.
Berta remembers evenings spent gathered around the television with his brothers and sisters. They loved singing, dancing, and creating stories. Sometimes he would make up dramatic scenes, complete with exaggerated emotions and theatrical performances, simply to make his siblings laugh. Their laughter, Berta recalled, always brought a smile to his face.
Those moments became increasingly rare.
At seven years old, Berta's eldest brother began physically abusing them and their six siblings. Violence slowly became part of daily life.
The children were sometimes forbidden from leaving the house. Chores became a source of anxiety. If they failed to hear instructions immediately or complete tasks quickly enough, they could be struck with a broom or have objects thrown at them.
"Walang araw na hindi kami binubugbog," Berta recalled. "Lahat ng araw, galit siya."
What made the situation more difficult was that neither Berta nor their siblings understood why it was happening.
"Hindi namin alam kung ano yung rason. Tinatanong namin siya kung ano yung rason, wala talaga,” Berta recalls.
The question stayed with them for years. Sometimes, Berta would approach their mother, hoping for an explanation.
"Naunsa diay na siya? Unsay problema niya? Ngano ing-ana iyang ugali when it comes sa amua (What happened to him? What’s his problem? Why does he act that way when it comes to us)?” But they never received a clear answer. Instead, they were often told to accept it.
One day, after yet another incident, Berta confronted their mother directly.
"Bakit wala moy action na ginabuhat? Anak man mi nimo (Why aren’t you doing anything about it? We’re your children),” Berta recalled asking her mother. Their mother’s response left a lasting impression. "Sagdaa lang nang kuya nimo kay ana lang jud na siya (Just leave your older brother alone because that’s just how he is.)”
To the adults around them, it seemed like something that could be tolerated. For the children experiencing it, it never was.
A child who refused to stay silent
Among the siblings, Berta often found himself stepping forward whenever someone was hurt.
At 13 years old, he came home and found one of their younger siblings with a swollen, red cheek. Their eldest brother had slapped him after becoming angry over a clogged sink while dishes were being washed. The sight infuriated Berta, so she immediately confronted her parents.
"Mag-file ko’g kaso about ani. Wala koy labot kung makulong na siya (I’m going to file a case about this. I don’t care if he ends up in jail),” he recalled.
Instead of support, he was met with resistance. Their father dismissed the idea.
“Ha? Mag- file mog kaso nga bata pa kayo? Isa pa, kinsa may mubuhi sa inyoha (Huh? You’re going to file a case when you’re still young? Besides, who’s going to take care of you)?” his father retorted.
Berta could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Abi nako parents mo namo (I thought you were our parents)?"
Years later, they still remember asking that question.
For Berta, one of the most painful parts of their childhood was not only the violence itself but the feeling that nobody was willing to stop it.
Questions that remained unanswered
As Berta grew older, another question began to occupy his thoughts. He already knew he was gay. He had known it since childhood. At times, he found himself wondering whether hisfather treated him differently because of it. He questioned whether his identity had anything to do with the silence he encountered whenever he sought help.
Eventually, he brought up the concern. The response, once again, was silence. Afterward, Berta often found himself turning to their mother.
"Ano na itong bana mo? Dahil ba bakla ako? Wala siyang magagawa kung bakla ako kasi ito naman yung gusto ko (What’s wrong with your husband? Is it because I’m gay? He can’t do anything about it if I’m gay because this is what I want),” he told his mother. No explanation ever came.
When the violence stopped
By the time Berta was around 15 years old, he and his siblings had reached a breaking point.
Together, they confronted their older brother and told him that the abuse had to stop. They reminded him that he was no longer dealing with children his own age.
For the first time, he appeared to reflect on his actions.
Gradually, the physical violence lessened. The house became quieter. For a while, Berta believed the abuse had finally ended.
But when the argument erupted on Christmas Day years later, he realized something important. The violence may have stopped, but the experiences had not disappeared. The memories remained, resurfacing whenever conflict entered the home.
Discovering a different world
The turning point in Berta's life came through theater.
Antonio Apat, whom Berta fondly calls "Tatay Tony," introduced him to the performing arts. Despite loving to sing, dance, and act, Berta described himself as naturally shy, especially around people outside his family.
"Mahiyain talaga ako. Sa bahay hindi ako mahiyain. Pero kapag sa labas, sa community, napakamahiyain kong tao (I’m really a shy person. At home, I’m not shy. But when I’m outside, in the community, I’m a very shy person),” he said.
A close friend eventually encouraged him to join Amaya Lay in Mindanao Inc. The friend explained that many of its members were Children Affected by the War on Drugs (CAWOD). Listening to the stories shared within the organization, Berta found similarities with his own experiences.
The circumstances were different, but the emotions were familiar. And for the first time, he felt understood.
Theater also gave them something they had not fully experienced before: a safe space.
During rehearsals, mistakes happened. Children forgot lines. They missed cues. They made errors.
But unlike the environment they grew up in, nobody responded with violence.
Instead, facilitators guided them, corrected them, and encouraged them to improve.
That difference stood out immediately.
"Napakalaking tulong kasi nawala yung trauma ko pagpasok ko dito," Berta said. "Napaka-talkative nila. Hindi sila plastik. Hindi sila judgmental."
The shy child who once struggled to speak in public gradually became more confident.
People complimented their voice. Others praised their acting.
Even something they had once been teased about — their crooked teeth — became something they embraced.
"Okay lang," Berta said with a laugh. "Kasi maganda naman ako."
Finding support
Theater did not erase every challenge in Berta's life. By the fourth quarter of Grade 11, financial difficulties at home began affecting his education.
"Nasira yung academics ko," Berta recalled. “Yung main problema talaga namin is financial."
There were times when school requirements became difficult to complete. Attending classes regularly became a challenge.
When members of Amaya Lay learned about the situation, they stepped in to help.
The organization provided financial assistance, school supplies, printing support, and access to resources that allowed Berta to continue studying.
"Nung nalaman nila na hindi na ako pumapasok ng paaralan, doon sila nag-take action," Berta said.
The support made a significant difference. For someone who had spent much of their life navigating problems on their own, knowing that people were willing to help mattered.
Today, Berta remains uncertain about what the future holds.
College remains a difficult decision, especially given their family's financial situation.
But there was a time when he dreamed of becoming a doctor or nurse so he could care for family members whenever they became ill.
Whether that dream eventually changes or remains is something Berta has yet to decide.
What he is certain about is the importance of sharing stories.
"Sana kahit hindi mo ito nararanasan, sana magkaroon ka ng empathy."
Berta hopes that people who hear their story will better understand what children experience behind closed doors. They hope others become more aware of abuse, even when it happens within families.
Most of all, they hope other young people facing similar situations realize they are not alone.
"Kapag napapanood mo ito, may makukuha kang lesson," Berta said. "'Ay, puwede palang mag-file ng case kapag binubugbog ka ng pamilya mo.' Kailangan nilang malaman yung mga story namin."
Years ago, Berta was a child searching for someone who would listen.
Today, he stands on stage and tells stories of his own.
And each time the lights come on and the performance begins, their voice reaches farther than it ever could before — not only for themselves, but for others whose stories have yet to be heard. FRANCES KIM CATCHILA, ADDU, SUNSTAR INTERN
