As an intern at Childhope Philippines Foundation, I was introduced to many projects that opened my eyes to the everyday struggles and quiet resilience of street children. One project stood out not because I was able to witness it in person, but because of how deeply it echoed in the stories I heard, the photos I saw, and the way the team spoke about it with both urgency and compassion. KliniKalye—a mobile health initiative whose name fuses “klinik” and “kalye”— reminded me that healing doesn’t always happen inside clinics. Sometimes, it happens on the side of the street, in the presence of people who refuse to turn away.
I wasn’t able to go with the team myself, but I listened closely. I observed pictures, and read Facebook posts—and in all of those, one truth stood out: health is a right, but for many children on the streets, it still feels like a privilege. KliniKalye was created to bridge that painful gap. It brings basic medical services straight to the children who need them most—those who live and sleep on sidewalks, who often treat illness as something to endure, not something they have the luxury to address.
What moved me most was the way the team talked about the children—not as cases, but as people. They remembered names, personalities, and symptoms. They remembered the child who used to run away at the sight of a health worker but now eagerly lines up for vitamins. They
remembered the girl who shared her wound not just with fear, but with trust. And I remember thinking: This is what it means to earn someone’s belief in care. To offer healing without walls or conditions. To meet people where they are—literally and emotionally.
Even from a distance, I felt the weight of this work. I saw how KliniKalye is more than a medical response—it’s a declaration that no child is too poor, too far, or too forgotten to deserve proper care. It is a small clinic on wheels, but it carries a big message: that compassion belongs everywhere, especially in the spaces we often ignore. And in a world that moves fast, where health is often tied to privilege, KliniKalye slows down just enough to say: we see you, we hear you, we will care for you.
As I finish my internship, I hold this project close to my heart—even if I didn’t experience it firsthand. Because witnessing doesn’t always require presence; sometimes, it requires attention, empathy, and the willingness to carry someone else’s mission forward. KliniKalye taught me that healing is not just in the medicine —but in the message. And that message is clear: every child matters. Every illness deserves care. Every life, no matter how overlooked, is worth showing up for. – Jap Condeno, Volunteer Intern