By Antonia Soave, IHM Associate
The Filipino word ugnayan means connection, relationship or bond. Before arriving in Taiwan, I knew it only as the name of the migrant shelter at Tanzi Catholic Church where I would spend three months serving as a Maryknoll lay missioner. By the time I returned home, I understood that Ugnayan was much more than the name on the front door. It described the very heart of the place.
At the Ugnayan Migrant Center, migrant workers from the Philippines found more than temporary shelter. Many had lost their jobs or were waiting for new employment. Others were navigating legal issues, recovering from illness, or receiving medical treatment. Every person had left behind parents, spouses, children, and familiar surroundings in order to provide for those they loved.
They arrived carrying uncertainty, sacrifice, and longing for home. Yet within those walls, they found something equally important—a community. What impressed me most was the resilience that the migrants demonstrated in the face of great hardship. This resilience wasn’t born of rugged individualism. It was resilience rooted in relationships. I watched strangers become friends and friends become family. They shared meals, celebrated birthdays, comforted one another after difficult phone calls, accompanied each other to appointments, laughed together, prayed together, and somehow found reasons to smile despite the uncertainty that surrounded them.
Living at Ugnayan reminded me that resilience rarely grows in isolation. It grows in community. I had come believing my ministry would be helping migrant workers navigate difficult circumstances. Instead, they taught me one of the most important lessons of my life: our greatest strength often comes from one another.
As an educator for more than four decades, I spent my career encouraging students to discover abilities they never imagined they possessed. In Taiwan, I found myself learning that same lesson again. Ministry unfolded not only through scheduled responsibilities but through ordinary moments—sharing coffee, folding laundry, preparing meals, listening without rushing, accompanying someone to an appointment, remembering a name, asking how someone was doing and waiting long enough to hear the real answer.
Relationships were not a distraction from ministry. They were the ministry.
Every day brought opportunities to step outside the shelter and discover more of Taiwan. I walked nearly five kilometers most mornings, climbed the five flights of stairs to the shelter without complaint, explored the neighborhood, navigated city buses, exercised at the local recreation center, and gradually made Taiwanese friends.
The women often asked where I was going or where I had been. They seemed amused by my curiosity and my desire to explore. As I came to know them better, I realized that many rarely ventured beyond the shelter unless absolutely necessary. They were waiting—for a labor broker’s phone call, a new employer, government paperwork, medical treatment, or simply for life to begin again.
Waiting had become part of their daily existence. I wondered if somewhere along the way they had forgotten that they, too, deserved moments of joy. So I began inviting them to join me at the community recreation center. The answers were almost always the same.
“I don’t know how to swim.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“The water is too cold.”
“Maybe another time.”
I smiled, accepted their excuses, and asked again another day. Then, two weeks before I returned home, something wonderful happened. Three women surprised me by saying yes. We gathered swimsuits, shorts, and T-shirts. A couple borrowed bathing suits from me with a few simple adjustments. We boarded the bus together, laughing as though we were children heading out on a school field trip.
For many of them, this was their first visit to the recreation center. We explored everything—the steam room, dry sauna, hot tub, water massage jets, and warm therapy pools. Their laughter echoed through the building as they delighted in experiences many had never imagined trying. Eventually, we wandered toward the lap pool.
“You don’t have to swim,” I assured them. “Let’s just enjoy being in the water.” One woman quietly asked if I would teach her how to float. I gently supported her back as she leaned into the water. At first her body remained stiff with fear. Little by little she relaxed, trusting both the water and my hands. In that moment I realized this was never simply about floating. It was about trust. Trusting another person enough to let go. Trusting yourself enough to believe you could do something you had always feared.
What I expected would be a brief outing lasted more than three hours. Watching these women laugh, relax, encourage one another, and discover simple joy became one of the happiest memories of my entire mission. It reminded me of taking my own students on field trips during my years as a teacher. The destination was never the point. The real gift was watching someone discover new confidence.
Months after returning home, one of the women sent me a message. She was still going to the pool. I smiled when I read her words. It wasn’t because she had learned to swim. It was because she had discovered something much more valuable. Confidence. Freedom. Joy. Looking back now, I realize that afternoon captured the true meaning of Ugnayan. Connection creates trust. Trust nurtures hope. Hope gives people courage to try something new.
Helping migrant workers find employment, navigate paperwork, and access services was certainly part of my ministry. Yet some of the most meaningful moments were never listed in any job description. They happened around a dinner table, during shared laughter, on neighborhood walks, and in a swimming pool where three women discovered they were capable of more than they had believed.
When I boarded the plane for Taiwan, I thought I was bringing experience, skills, and a willingness to serve. I returned carrying gifts I never expected to receive. The migrants at Ugnayan taught me that community is one of God’s greatest gifts. They showed me that resilience is strengthened when burdens are shared, that hope is sustained through relationships, and that ministry often happens in the smallest, most ordinary acts of accompaniment.
The word Ugnayan will always remain with me. Not simply as the name of a shelter in Taiwan. But as a reminder that wherever people choose connection over isolation, compassion over indifference, and community over loneliness, God’s presence is already there.