Abdulhamid C. Alawi, Jr.
Khalil came into the world as a symbol of a town’s resilience in the face of natural calamities. Khalil was born in Bubong, Tugaya, during the late 1950s. He grew as beautifully as his community, which was gracefully recovering from the earthquake of 1955. As a young man, his body slowly and steadily gained strength as he joined his community in rebuilding their houses with sturdier structures.
“Khalil! Join us, boy!”, his father called him from the masjid with its door being refurbished. In Tugaya, restoring a door or any wooden part of the masjid is another masterpiece being crafted. Ranaw bows down to their carving skills.
The boy came, sat, and watched his elders. At times he assisted in lifting logs in place after being formed into wooden masterpieces. In a matter of days, he was able to summon enough confidence to hold the tools. His father and uncle patiently taught him the strokes. They initially expected that he could be in for a long grind.
In their time, standards were high. While tourists these days bargain for shallow and poorly crafted wooden carvings at Davao’s Aldevinco or Manila’s Quiapo, the early versions had leaf and petal curves of dapal, potyok, and todi etched deeply into the wood for at least two inches. Boring into the wood took a lot of effort because only the oldest, toughest lumber was chosen. The finest curvatures of pako rabong and lawi can only be done in such, probably, ancient hardened timber. No tree in Ranaw now comes half the age of what used to be brought down from the Great Mount Gurain. These were the levels of artwork that made the impressive torogans of the past.
The boy was not difficult to train, as it turned out. Genes may have played a role or he knew his passions at an early age. His uncle had him advancing in skills quickly. He even added some personal strokes of his own, although generally, the traditional masterful strokes that Maranaw were known for dominated.
“What did I tell you? He is a natural,” his father exclaimed.
Khalil also did well in madrasah. He walked daily to school, routinely aced schoolwork, and walked back home along the natural beauty of Bubong that has given him creative inspirations. He enjoyed Arabic calligraphy the most. He saw the various inscriptions at home, and when the same Holy Verses were presented in another form in the Quran he had in the madrasah, he felt a jolt of excitement. Rapidly, he again progressed in knowing various strokes in Magrebi and Diwani. He mastered, too, when to relax for the informal and modern ones.
The boy took pride in his carving and calligraphy. However, the real masterpieces were in his imagination.
He had heard of the grand welcome for his cousin Luqman. Luqman, who was at least fifteen years his senior, had arrived after studying in Madinah. Khalil’s family shared they wanted him to be next in the clan’s growing list of Islamic scholars. He visualized himself in such a status too.
He saw himself giving eloquent sermons in the same masjid where his clan’s woodworks and calligraphy are displayed. He would sit right in the middle during Friday sermons delivered by Kaka Luqman and looked around, imagining it all play out in his own future at the backdrop of elegant art.
On top of that, he was an obedient son who played actively until adolescence. He was an active lad but never to the detriment of his studies or duties. Relatives liked him for all that he was. In fact, he was also good-looking. Considering his family’s lineage, he was a promising young lad for his community. Those were the best times of his life. Khalil was indeed the darling kid of his town.
Unfortunately, conflict caught up with him. Rido and its vagaries necessitated changes. Male members of his family were willing to kill to prove that the family intended to maintain their prestige and maratabat. In return, other younger men like him had to flee due to communal fear of retaliation against them. That was another aspect of being the apple of his relatives’ eyes. Young nobles had to be saved. He had to leave his hometown and madrasah. Literacy was relegated to a lower station in the order of priorities.
Khalil suddenly became an ever-adjusting young man in Metro Manila. He lived with his elder cousin. Since there were no integrated schools yet, instead of starting over in school, he chose to work and earn for himself and his family back home. At a young age, he realized that without education, all he could earn in the Philippines were crumbs. Moreover, as a Muslim in 1970s Manila, the prospects of finding a respectable job were bleak. Prejudices based on his name and accent were common.
He learned something from his cousins who returned from Saudi Arabia. They said that hefty sums of riyals came with less discrimination in religious life. His decision came quickly, as many Filipinos were going abroad. With some help from relatives, he was able to gather the right set of documents. Saudi Arabia was the prime destination for him. His main motivation, aside from earning, was learning. For him, his arrival in Jeddah was an opportunity to be closer to the Two Holy Cities. He intended to work in Jeddah but fantasized about being able to study, as others had completed their studies at a university in Madinah or Makkah.
Once abroad, the young overseas contract worker (OCW) realized his contract to be actually unfavorable for him. He returned home after two years empty-handed but with better strategies for his next contract. A few contract extensions allowed him to save. He spent a large sum on the studies of his nephews and nieces and landed another contract. The next tour of duty was as tough as the bruising Middle Eastern conflict in Kuwait. He ended up as a TNT, or Tago Nang Tago, the Filipino slang for a person in hiding. He hid among his fellow Filipinos until finally, after a long wait, the Philippine Embassy repatriated him back home.
He flew, this time to Riyadh, one last time. The Philippine Government now referred to him as an Overseas Filipino Worker, with supposed added respect and benefits. Politicians capitalized on calling him a modern-day hero. They were indeed heroes in terms of their sacrifices. In terms of government services for them, that is another story.
Towards the end of his last stint abroad, Khalil started to reflect. All those years, he had forgotten about his studies. There were not many options for those who wanted new skills and knowledge. He stared at his aged face in the mirror and conceded that he had been discriminated against by Arabs whom he thought were his brothers, his rights not amply supported by his government, and generosity likely taken advantage of by relatives.
He finally decided to rest and went directly to his hometown. His Kaka Luqman was still celebrated not just as an aleem but also as a retired public servant who was thrust into public office during the height of Ulama joining Ranaw politics in the 1990s. Khalil was proud of how things had gone with his cousin. He tried to ignore it, but as he went for prayer in the masjid, it sank in. He was saddened by what had happened to his innocent promises to himself, beautifully drawn like the wooden okir and calligraphies in the masjid. They had all become naught. He felt the need to surrender those dead hopes he had held onto for too long and tried to be at peace with himself.
Khalil never married and had no children to his name. The Madinah diploma had become impossible, and most of his savings were short-lived. He learned soon that all he had with him was liver cirrhosis and a few more months. He passed away with rubbed-out dreams and unrewarded resilience amidst the many man-made issues in his hometown, in Metro Manila, and abroad.
