Author: admin

Amirol A. Mohammad

Sumabog ang isang transformer na gumising sa akin habang nahihimbing ako sa pagtulog. Malakas pa naman ang ulan ngayon at ang sarap pang itulog ang buong araw na ito.

Kailangan na ngang gumising at nag-iingay na ang mga busina ng mga magagarang sasakyan. Ang iba naman ay naka-payong para hindi mabasa sa malakas na buhos ng ulan.

Maliligo na nga at mahuhuli na sa klase, magagalit na naman sa akin sina Maam at Sir pag liliban ako. Mag aalmusal na din at naghanda na si Ina ng paborito kong sunny side up.

May bagong gatas palang binili sa akin si Ina. Pinagluto niya pa akong “sindag”. May pa-hotdog pa nga eh. Pero mas paborito ko parin ang dabest “palapa” niya.

“Pakagan ingka man kuman, khalate ka d’n, ilayangka man so oras.”

Nako, sinermonan na naman ako ni Ina, araw-araw na lang ito. Pero syempre nasanay narin ako, eh mahal ko yan eh.

“Anda ka sung orak?” tanong ni Kuyang Driver sa akin na may nginunguya pang pulang kendi, tapos bigla niyang idudura. Ewan ko ba anong kendi yun, hindi naman nabibili sa tindahan yun.

“Sa eskwelaan kaka,” sagot ko naman sa kanya habang nakatitig sa nginunguya niya. At umalis na nga kami, hinatid niya ako sa school ko. Nandon yung mga kaibigan ko hinihintay ako sa may gate.

“Tuna p’man e plano?” tanong ko agad sa mga kaibigan ko. Alam ko magyayaya na naman ito ng iskapo. Pero hindi ako pumayag kasi mapapagalitan ako ni Maam at Sir.

“Nako, late ka naman orak, saan ka na naman nagpupunta?” Ito yung bumungad sa akin sa classroom. Ang gulo kasi nitong mga kaibigan ko eh. Kinukulit akong mag iskapo.

At buong araw na nga akong nasa paaralan para mag aral. Sinundo pa ako ni Ina noong pauwi na ako. Sabi pa nga niya, “Tunaaya orak? Kyaburing ginan a susuluten ngka.” Sabay hawak sa aking kamay. Tumawid at umuwi kaming sabay.

“Pangunab ka na gu ka sambi sa bangala,” sabi sa akin ni Ina. Pero hindi niya ako natiis kaya pinaliguan niya ako at binihisan.

Gabi na noon, habang naglalaro ako sa may tablet na binili ni Ina sa akin noong birthday ko. Biglang tinawag ako ni Ina, nagmamadali at natatakot.

“Pakaganing ka san kuman, sung ta pn sa ingud, sa ki bapa aka.”

“Ngaynoto ina?” tanong ko sa kanya. Sinagot niya lang ako ng “basta pakaganing ka san badn” habang naiiyak na siya at nanginginig sa takot.

Nag-iimpake siya ng mga gamit, isinara niya lahat ng mga bintana at pinto. Bigla siyang napaupo at binukas ang kanyang mga palad. Nagdasal habang umiiyak siya.

“Wasaya dn ka lumyo tano,” sabi niya noong matapos agad ako sa aking kinakain. Hinawakan niya ako sa kamay at sabay kaming lumabas ng bahay. Naiwan ko ang tablet ko, babalikan ko sana pero hahayaan nalang daw sabi ni Ina.

Paglabas namin ng pinto ng bahay, nabigla ako at nakasara na ang mga bahay ng aming mga kapitbahay. Nakapatay ang mga ilaw at wala akong marinig na mga ingay.

“Pagda kano, pakagani niyo,” sigaw ng isang driver ng kotse sa aming dalawa ni Ina. Tumakbo kami agad ni Ina papuntang kotse. May dalawang mag-inang tumakbo din at sumakay agad.

Umiiyak na si Ina habang hawak hawak niya ako. Hindi ko maintindihan kung ano ang nangyayari. Noong dumating kami sa sasakyan nagmakaawa si Ina. At isinakay ako bigla, ipinatong sa isang babaeng nakaupo.

Hinalikan ako ni Ina sa noo, niyakap, at hinagkan ako habang umiiyak siya. “Tumunog ako bu ow, pyapya ka ruu taman sa dako ro pn,” habilin pa niya. Biglang umalis ang sasakyan nang hindi nakasakay si Ina.

“Ina akn!” Sumigaw ako ng malakas. Bigla akong naiyak. May nakita akong mga flag na itinataas ng mga hindi ko makilalang mga tao.

At biglang may malakas na sumabog sa aming likuran. Nakita kong tumakbo si Ina paalis sa kinatatayuan niya. Natakot ako, umiyak ako. “Ina!” sigaw ko sa loob ng sasakyan, habang umiiyak lahat ng nasa loob ng sasakyan.

Nagsunod sunod ang mga malalakas na pagsabog. Nagsisigawan ang mga tao. Nagkakagulo at nagtatakbuhan sa takot ang bawat isa.

At hindi ko aakalaing iyon ang huling halik at yakap ni Ina sa akin. Hindi ko inasahan na iyon ang huling araw na masisilayan ko siya.

At sumabog ulit ng malakas.

Anim na taon na rin pala ang nakalipas. Nagising ako mula sa mahimbing na pagkatulog. At ginigising ako ng kaibigan ko. Ang sarap pa namang itulog ang araw na ito.

Kailangan na ngang gumising at nag iingay na ang mga busina ng mga magagarang sasakyan. Ang iba naman ay nakapayong para hindi mabasa sa malakas na buhos ng ulan.

“Pagnaw ka san dn, sisaya dn so kikir’k sa tinda, ph’l’l’ka siran dn,” sabi ng kaibigan kong ginigising ako. Tumakbo agad kami ng mabilis papunta sa kabilang kanto.

“Ru ka sa sabala kanto ow, mamagilaya tano saya bu maalib’t tano aya,” sabi ko sa kaibigan ko.

Ang unang kinita kong sampung piso pinambili ko agad ng juice na tig-lilima ang baso at isang kalahati ng kwek-kwek na pupunuin ko lang ng sawsawan para mabusog ako.

Lalapit agad ako sa isang ate at isang kuya. Bubuksan ko ang aking mga palad at baka may iaabot sila. Kahit piso lang yan, makakabuo ako ng pera diyan.

Tatabi ako minsan sa mga kumakain at baka bibigyan ako ng makakain. Kahit tira-tira yan, papatusin ko yan. Kesa naman sa magutom.

Minsan hindi mamimigay, papaalisin ako, at pandidirian. Nasanay na rin ako. Minsan aapakan po ang paa ko, at itutulak palayo. Nasanay na rin ako.

Sino ba namang hindi mandidiri sa isang batang lansangan na natutulog sa kalye, minsan sa harap ng tindahan pag sinwerte na walang magbabantay, para lang makasilong.

Sinong hindi tutulak sa batang lansangan na ‘di kayang magbihis, makakaligo lang pag uulan, papatuyuin ulit ang damit at susuotin kahit basa pa.

Sinong hindi magpapaalis sa batang lansangan na mangangalabit, manghihingi, at manunuyo. Nasanay na rin ako.

Nasanay na rin akong makita ang ibang batang pumapasok sa paaralan at inihahatid ng mga magulang. Natatawa nalang ako.

Nasanay na rin akong magutom sa buong araw, makakain pag may nagbigay ng kalahati ng burger o kaya’y mga piso na hindi na kailangan.

Nasanay na rin ako na sa araw araw na buhay ko kailangan kong maging matatag, kailangang lumaban, kailangang mabuhay mag isa.

Nasanay na rin akong sambitin sa araw araw ang mga salitang bibigkasin pag manghihingi ka ng piso.

“Mayto, Mala” na minsan ay ginagawa pang biro ng mga swerteng mga bata na ‘di pinagkaitan ng mundo.

“Mayto, Mala”. Minsan ito, minsan wala.

 

 

 

Jannah Reeham M. Macaumbos

The smell of death permeated the small dimly lighted room. Two elderly women sat still and quietly near the large bed. Their eyes were swollen, ringed with dark circles. Laid on the bed was a young woman covered in white. A group of men entered the room carrying a wooden casket on their shoulders. They placed it near the bed and worked carefully together to place the lifeless body inside.

Quiet whispers began to fill the house immediately after the men left the room in silence. People began to swarm at Babu Aina’s. Their relatives in distant places also arrived on that day and expressed their sincere condolences on the abrupt death of Babu Aina’s daughter – Amina.

Amina was the brightest girl in our town. An exceptionally smart and talented young woman with an innocent and angelic smile. However, one day, she lost all the colors in life and began to act like a madman. No one, not even a single soul, knew the reason behind her sudden change.

I remember that day when a scream echoed all throughout our neighborhood – a scream of torment coming from a frail body of a helpless young woman.

I was preparing my morning coffee that day when I suddenly heard a faint voice coming from Babu Aina’s house. Strange, I thought. I stood quietly for over a minute hoping to hear it once again.

“Tabang! Ina, help me!” There it was again. I held my cup and hurriedly paced into our living room, trying to make sense on what I was hearing. The words were clear when I heard it once again. “Oh! I beg you, please help me. Tabangi ako niyo.”  Series of weeping sounds followed the chilling sound. I sat down near the window trying to listen intently to the muffled voices outside, hoping to grasp some details that would enlighten my curious mind of what transpires in our neighbor’s house.

I was flooded with questions when I heard a woman’s voice saying “Allahu Akbar! Poor child.” Her voice was masked with utter disbelief. “She totally lost it! Miyabethang so wata.” she added.

In a hushed tone, a man with hoarse voice said in incredulous manner “I saw her! They tied her wrists in the bedpost. There were bruises all over her body.” Resolute, he added “Jinn! A Jinn took over her body.”

As the chatters grew, a man’s voice erupted in midst of the small crowd caused an uproar “I told you! She is possessed by a Jinn.” I gasped upon hearing the news. “I agree. Have you seen the look in her eyes? She is definitely possessed. Astughfirullah!  It was red! It was bulging as if the blood was coming out of her eyes,” a man’s voice loudly responded, affirming the claim.

I shuddered upon hearing the words of the people outside. I felt a series of cold sensation slowly creeping inside my body and my hands began to freeze “Audhubillah. May Allah protect us against all forms of evil.” I whispered quietly as I awfully sought comfort and warmth from my morning coffee.

“Ahhhhh, NO! Don’t touch me! Ina! Help! Help me, please!” I jerked upon hearing the deafening scream. I tried desperately to balance the cup I was holding in my hand to avoid spilling the coffee. I managed to place the cup on the table when the sound of a slamming door caused me to jump to my feet. My heart was racing uncontrollably. I look at the direction where the sound came from. I tried to calm my nerves when I saw my mother walking inside the kitchen.

“Oh! There you are. I was looking for you.” she said as she tried to catch her breath. “Where were you? I went to your room, and you were not there.” Her face was filled with worry as she marched towards me. “I was calling you and you did not even respo – ”

“Aydo! Tabangi ako niyo. Help me!” a loud scream resonated within the walls of our home.

I looked at my mother and muttered in almost inaudible voice, “Omie, something is happening at Babu Aina’s.” She replied with the same pitch and horrified look that mirrors mine. “Astughfirullah! Audhubillah!  Their daughter is said to have been possessed by a powerful Jinn. Miyakasapher so wata sa marata.”

“You mean Amina?” My mother nodded in response to my query. “Audhubillah. Are you sure? She was fine when I last saw her with Aisha,” I added as I was clearly in doubt of the news I heard.

“There are things that reason alone cannot explain.” My mother replied as she placed her hand to mine. “Be careful, there are people out there that will do anything, even resort on doing something so evil just to ruin you.” Deep inside, I know exactly what my mother was trying to tell me. Amina was nothing but a perfect daughter. It was inevitable that people grew envious of her beauty and character. That might have been the reason behind her dreadful predicament. Her good nature tempted an evil soul to perform vile ritual to let the Jinn own her body.

That day had passed, but not as quietly as it used to. I thought it would end after the countless visits of a pamomolong. But I was utterly wrong. Days have turned into weeks. Sooner, it turned into months. Babu Aina did not give up on her daughter. She did everything in her power just to fix her daughter. She prayed day after day and gave charities to those in need, hoping that a miracle will happen, and her daughter will return to her usual self.

Due to the recommendations of her relatives, she invited known local healers from different towns and paid hefty amount of money only to expel the powerful Jinn that was said to have possessed Amina. However, not even one of them were able to explain the peculiar ordeal befallen in our small, secluded street.

One day, as I silently walked out from our house to catch a ride to school, I passed by a group of old folks, including Babu Halima, in front of Babu Zainab’s store. I heard them talking about Babu Aina’s daughter.

“Ehh she had it coming,” said nonchalantly by the old man. He was sitting on the wooden bench with his legs crossed and a cigarette in his hand.

“What makes say so?” asked Babu Halima.

“Have you seen how she present herself? Astughfirullah,” Babu Zainab replied.

“Yes! Oh God! Her dress was not appropriate at all,” said by the woman who stood next to Babu Halima. “She even laughs so loud. With men, if I may add.”

“With men?!” Babu Halima exclaimed. Clearly taken aback from what she had heard.

“Yes. She laughs as if those strange guys were her mahram,” replied by the woman with incriminating tone as she continued to say, “She doesn’t have any modesty left at all.”

“Sii rekaniyan bo tiyaman o Allah.”  Babu Halima muttered.

“I warn you, Halima. You better talk to your daughter. That girl is her friend after all.”

“Astughfirullah! God forbid! Such hysterics have no place in our house.”

I didn’t pay much attention in their conversation. I continued my way to class as I was running late. My day went as usual. I saw Aisha, Babu Halima’s daughter, sitting weirdly and out of place at the student’s lounge. She looked lost and pale like a ghost. I sat near her.

“Hey, are you okay?” I looked at her worriedly. She lost weight excessively. Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes were lost in complete oblivion.

I stood from my seat and decided to leave. Clearly, she needs her time alone to cope with what was happening in our neighborhood, especially to her friend, I thought. I left her alone and went straight home. I never would have expected what will happen a week after our encounter.

There was a huge commotion outside our home. Our neighbors were screaming for help and frantically saying that Aisha attempted to end her life. Fortunately, she survived.

It was difficult for our entire town to understand what was running in the minds of these two girls. The madness that corrupted their souls. Most people from our town were claiming that something evil was behind this string of tragic events, and that someone was trying to harm these poor souls.

Naturally, due to the recent occurrences concerning Aisha, her mother decided that for the time being, she will drop out at school. Since then, I never heard from her again… not until the death of Amina.

Babu Halima went to the diaga of Amina along with Aisha. I felt relieved upon seeing her despite the traces of loneliness that were evident in her eyes. She was sitting alone on the chair placed at the corner of the room trying to avoid any attention. I went to her to ask if she was doing well.

“Hey, Aisha. Is everything okay?” She was reluctant at first to answer. She tried to dodge my peering look but later sighed in resignation and replied, “Alhamdulillah. I’m okay.” I didn’t pry any further, afraid that she might feel uncomfortable. We sat quietly beside each other.

“You know, Amina was hearing voices… voices that she can’t explain.” I was puzzled by her words.

“She tried to fight it. Believe me, she tried so hard to fight it – to silence those voices in her head.”

“What do you mean?” I asked her curiously.

“Amina, that poor girl, was having episodes.” She looked at the distance trying to hold the tears that was about to fall from her eyes.

I tried to make sense of her words and asked, “What episodes are you talking about?”

“Schizophrenia!” She said trying to catch her breath.

“In her mind, voices murder her repeatedly, hunting her even in her sleep.” She cried.

“No one listened to her plea. For God’s sake! She was begging for help!” She said loudly as she stood from her seat. She looked at me with sadness in the depths of her eyes. Her voice began to crack.

“She screamed for help” she continued to say. “She was screaming for help… from her mother! From anyone… from me.” She was panting uncontrollably as she slowly lowered her gaze.

“Now, she is lying there, in her grave, because no one even dared to listen to her.” She was in tears. “I – ” she uttered with conviction and longingness “ – didn’t listen to her.”

Under the dark and gloomy clouds… it was quiet.

The screams of agony and madness were slowly forgotten, buried along with the memory of the girl with brightest smile. The whispers were finally silenced as I sat still, listening to the quiet sound of the girl who mourns the passing of her only friend.

Shariful Hashim S. Mansul

A red lightning breaks the night sky as though cracking an eggshell visible only in a split-second. One, two, four, sixteen, innumerable. A cloud of smoke emerges. A deep hollow whistle. And without a clear sequence, four residential buildings collapse. Another one follows, closer. People start wailing and the view wobbles. More buildings follow. Duration ends.

At quarter to 5 in the afternoon, university offices start closing. Faculty members walk out of their college buildings one by one and head to the parking lot of motorcycles, the main mode of transportation in a town with mostly pedicabs with fares too expensive for the average local to afford. Students who don’t want to go home just yet idle on the field waiting for the sunset, playing guitar, gossiping, cracking jokes. Some just try to connect to the free campus wifi to download pirated K-pop songs, bracing the five, ten, fifteen download errors due to bad signal.

Wahda joins her orgmates in the Sajahitra Publication for a long leisure walk. They’re heading to the newly opened snack house along Street 18 with a 15-minute walking time from the campus. She keeps to her phone watching videos of the new outbreak of indiscriminate destruction and killings in Palestine. Pictures of wounded children covered in dust, hysterical parents running in random directions, Arabic vandalisms in black and red spray paint, ruins after ruins of residential buildings, fill the imagery coming from the coverage of the humanitarian crisis. Why do people love wars? she asks Ayra who is walking beside her. I hate it. Look at this baby boy. Oh my dear.

Ayra, a niqabi who is active in the New Muslimat Madrasah, tilts her head towards the screen. Stop watching too much of those. That’s the reality of things, she stresses. You’ll just be stressed, Wads, and after all, there’s a reason why they are being punished like that. Only God knows. Radzkan, their photojournalist, agrees, nodding. He always goes with the flow without really adding anything to the conversation. That’s enough social media for today, he butts in. She slides her phone into her pocket.

Will Noor still come? Radzkan asks. Yeah, she said she’ll just finish sorting out the test papers in their department and get it to the faculty room. She’s probably preparing to leave by now, Wahda explains. Oh, that’s fast. Well, she better be. I’ll not hold myself back from those beansprout empanadas. Everyone bursts into laughter.

She turns her gaze to the ground, still uneasy. The image of a girl retrieving her books under the rubble occupies her mind. Her big and imposing curly hair hits her too close to home. She wonders if her classmates also tease her for that. What are her interests? Does she like listening to British boy bands, K-pop, nasheeds, or perhaps classical music? Or does she prefer metal for a change? Or does she even like listening to music? What’s the probability of her knowing Rupi Kaur’s poetry and liking it? If she does, I wonder what her favorite lines are from milk and honey.

rivers fall from my mouth
tears my eyes can’t carry

They arrive at the snack house, a small and claustrophobic place with one wall on which the menu is written in big wall-paint strokes. On the table is a pitcher of hot slimy sauce with the color of blush. A waitress approaches them and asks for their order. A platter of beansprout empanadas and four bottles of soda, one to be served later for when their student assistant friend arrives. The snack house primarily only serves beansprout empanadas, a merienda favorite across southwestern Mindanao, that people love to pair with soft drinks over school or office gossip. A savory treat with a kick to end a hectic week.

Waiting for their platter to arrive, Wahda picks up her phone to check out newer updates about the crisis. She watches an explainer on the geopolitical and historical context of the situation. When Ayra notices, she points out that nothing happens without a reason. There is always war in the Middle East because a lot of its people have done something that they are supposed to avoid. Now, they’re facing the consequences.

What do you mean? Wahda asks with a mixture of surprise, sincere curiosity, and irritation. The surprise because how could even one stomach the thought that people, especially the innocent, deserve the indignity of violence. The children, the women, the old and the paralyzed are never spared nor differentiated to begin with when airstrikes shower from their moonlit skies. It comes to anyone and affects everyone.

Those people, the Palestinians, are People of Innovation. They practice a form of Islam that is way different from how the early Muslims practiced Islam. They also have beliefs without a basis in the scriptures, Ayra answers. A loud pedicab passes by, then she continues. They are a People of Innovation, and because of this they are being taught a lesson by God. An imam from Saudi already explained this in detail, but he said that as long as they do not stop from their Innovation, they will continue with their suffering. The best we can do is learn from their mistakes.

Wahda feels overwhelmed by Ayra’s response. She is naive to the clerical rulings and opinions on what’s going on in Palestine, although she considers herself religious. What she knows is that in the world of Muslims, the ummah, they are all brothers and sisters. And aren’t brothers and sisters supposed to look after one another? Sure, there may be differences in their practice and perspective of our religion, but is that a sufficient reason to consider them deserving of their situation? She feels her chest bubbling with an emotion akin to rage but without a specific recipient. Unfair. This is unfair, she keeps to herself.

But the kids, what do they know about all this? Yet, they have to bear most of the punishment that you speak, she says in persistence to Ayra’s explanation but now with a hint of hesitance. She’s afraid to say something stupid about religion in front of her. She directs her eyes towards the platter of freshly fried beansprout empanadas being brought by the approaching waitress. Our beansprouties are here! Guys, let’s eat first. That’s enough. Let our brains rest from the midterm week, please, Radzkan interjects. Wads, can you move the sauce? he tells her, taking the platter from the waitress to place it on the table.

They take turns getting beansprout empanadas from the platter into their small colorful bowls, tearing them like paper into bite-size pieces. The cooking oil oozes onto their fingertips. Do you want alcohol, Radzkan asks the two, after tearing his share of empanadas. He takes the pitcher of sauce and pours it into his bowl. Here, sauces are treated like soups. They ought to fill bowls to the brim, just like satti. And just like satti, they always ought to be spicy. A few scoops into the afternoon snack, Noor arrives. She approaches the group with an apologetic smile.

Sorry, there was a lot of paperworks. Sir added another section for me to sort out right when I was about to finish, she explains.

I knew it. Even to our section, he loves giving surprise assignments. His unpredictability drives us crazy. Ugh, that’s why everyone dislikes him, Radzkan affirms.

Noor sits on the other side of the bench Wahda is sitting on. She puts her bag on a monoblock chair and takes out her stainless steel tumbler. So, what have you been talking about? she asks while getting empanadas to her small bowl, tearing them one by one. Afterwards, Radzkan hands her his alcohol spray. A brief moment of silence pervades the table.

Have you heard about what’s going on in Palestine? Oh God, I want to adopt the children. I feel so bad about them, Radzkan opens up the topic again as he glances at Wahda and Ayra. Noor looks at him and figures out what’s going on, worry hidden by a demeanor of calm.

Oh, yes! My God. I’ve been following the issue since day one. It’s terrible, and the Arab countries are so silent about this. All UN resolutions to end it are so far rejected by the US, even humanitarian aid is blocked because they think it will only be seized by the Palestinian resistance when most of the casualties are civilians in civilian areas. They justify their murder by saying human shield, but the truth is whether you’re a civilian or a resistance fighter, there will always be a certain justification for your murder. You’re either a terrorist, a sympathizer, or a human shield. The entire reasoning makes murder in any scenario acceptable. It’s almost unimaginable how the world has let this happen, let alone conceive it in their minds. Really makes you wonder who controls the world. Noor stops to slurp a torn piece of empanada soaked in the special sauce, suddenly conscious of her too-much-information reply.

If that’s what they’re destined to be, then that’s where they’re destined to be. We can do nothing about it. It’s their fate. There must be a reason behind why God put them in that situation. Perhaps, it’s to teach them a lesson, Ayra responds.

Noor feels her chest tighten. How could someone say and let alone entertain a thought like that? Even if all that has happened and will happen in the world is predetermined in the divine scheme of God, to entail that an entire unarmed population deserves to be wiped out because that’s their fate is straight up unbelievable. Abominable. Where is this coming from even, Noor tries to process it in her head.

But sis, it’s like you’re saying that what the settlers are doing are right. It’s as if they’re just carrying out the supposed divine fate of our brothers and sisters in order to be punished. It’s as if the settlers are actually the good guys. Babies as young as 1 day old are dying from this catastrophe. Are they equally responsible for their situation? It’s too much, Noor complains. She cannot hold it back.

Well, they are a People of Innovation. They practice a form of Islam far different from the early Muslims. If they just stayed true to the path, these things would not have happened. They should start repenting to stop this war, or they will continue to earn the wrath that God has sent them. The grand imams from Saudi have been saying this for a long time. And what did the Palestinians do? Nothing. They continued with their old ways. This is where it should start. Change always starts with ourselves if we want God to help us, Ayra insists.

Since none of them are as well-versed in the official religious view in Saudi Arabia on the Palestinian struggle, Noor cannot respond. She dislikes it when she’s forced to talk about things she doesn’t know. She prefers to keep her mouth shut in such cases. Wahda keeps to her phone scrolling at cat memes while eating from her bowl, although she’s attentively listening to their argument. She is now more confused. She wants to speak, but an aura that stifles variety of thought seems to have overtaken the group. It seems like each word they speak can easily be dismissed, and they, too, for not knowing their religion well enough as Ayra. Radzkan notices that things aren’t going so well.

I really like the sauce. It’s less spicy and more sweet than the ones at our cafeteria, Radzkan inserts. I hate it when I have to sweat just for merienda.

But not for other things, yes? Noor teases him. Everyone is surprised, looking at each other and laughs so hard that the waitress gives them an irate look.

They recede to lighter topics about the school publication and the latest album releases of their favorite K-pop bands. They should be finalizing the topics for the first issue this year of Sajahitra before the month ends. Noticing the platter of beansprout empanadas cleaned, they turn silent. Wahda and Noor keep to their phones, and Ayra small-talks with Radzkan about the student council’s new campus resolution since he’s close to the president.

***

After dinner, Wahda lounges in the living room reading the third volume of the young adult novel series she’s been trying to finish. Her grandfather, in his early 70s, watches TV and turns to Aljazeera. A news reporter in a blue vest with protective headgear appears, a hill of rubble behind him and people wailing, digging, running, shouting, panicking, embracing one another, crying, and praying. His hand approaches the remote control, slow and shaking, and turns the volume up. The reporter approaches a young boy and speaks:

His name is Yousef and he’s 8 years old. Last week, his entire family was killed in an airstrike at a residential area in Khan Yunis. Since then, he and his surviving brother settled in a refugee camp managed by the UNRWA. And today, this refugee camp has been bombed, taking the life of his brother. Yousef now belongs to a growing number of Wounded Child No Surviving Family, or simply WCNSF, in Occupied Palestine.

Wahda overhears it through her headphones. She takes it off to listen and slips a bookmark in her book. She is again overwhelmed by tragedy. She remembers the conversation at the beansprout empanada snack house. No one has any right to blame the victims themselves, she declares to herself. She hears someone sobbing. She breaks from her introspection and sees her grandfather removing his eyeglasses. His face dampened in tears.

Apu’, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Let me get you water, she tells him and rushes to the kitchen for a glass of water. When she returns, she sees him covering his face with his hands, sobbing more than earlier.

Oh, Ummal, he manages to mumble under his sobbing. Wahda closes the TV trying to calm his grandfather. Forgive me, oh Ummal, he continues almost inaudibly.

Apu’, it’s okay. I’m here. I am Wahda, your grandchild, she tries to assure him.

He looks at her and points to the glass of water. She takes the glass and helps him drink, now calming down. After, he gives long and heavy heaves looking at the glass and moving his eyes to the wall.

I have something to show you, he tells him. He asks her to get the blue album from the old cabinet in his room. When she gets back, he tells her to flip it until they reach a certain picture of two boys shoulder-to-shoulder in what seems to be a studio.

Wait, he halts her. He points at the taller boy. This is your granduncle, Ummal. Remember him. He is my older brother. His voice cracks as he mentions his name, ready to sob again but not before she reassures him. Apu’, I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m here. I won’t leave.

Nobody could separate us when we were young. He taught me how to swim, how to catch small crabs by the beach, how to make a stingray-like kite, how to climb the many rambutan trees in our home village outside the town, and many other things. We were like twins even though he was a bit older than me. In terms of bravery, nobody dared. In terms of looks, he was known for it. He pauses and looks at his grandchild straight in the eyes before shortly reentering his memory, uttering each word as if it all happened only yesterday.

When the big war broke out in the ‘70s, he was killed with his wife by people who did not even belong here, just because he held a different view about our homeland like many others before. Your granduncle Ummal was a victim of people who did not even know our history and heritage. They arrived, knowing not a single word in our tongue, and burned everything right before they themselves left and never returned. Do not ever forget your granduncle Ummal. Your Apu’ would not be here today if it were not because of him. He fought a righteous cause. Those Palestinians and their suffering are no different from our suffering before. He stops. His eyes glistens and streams of tears cascade down his chin, settling drop by drop on his white checkered sarong.

Wahda, unable to contain the surge in her heart, joins her grandfather. She caresses his back and starts wiping her own cheeks. She has freed her tears at last, now permitting her facade to come close with her true emotions piling up since the start of the mass slaughter of ordinary Palestinians, some of whom strike her as too familiar.

Beyond words, beyond discussions, beyond arguments, beyond cognition and reason, she reaches a poignant, if not fateful, finality in self-affirmation in what at first were distant confusions mediated by phone screen. She is one with them. History condemns her to be, beyond the distance of geography and the newer hardline interpretation of her faith that only seems to frustrate her most personal realizations.