Fatimah Rafeeda Tajeer

Allaw pasakat muwan danta ma kalumaan ma Tawi-Tawi. The morning sun rose slowly over the sea and spread its light across the small Sama village floating quietly along the coast of Tawi-Tawi.

Tahik masi, sussi toongan a tandah leh ta deng ma reyoh kalumaan. The water was still, clear enough to see the fish gliding beneath the bamboo houses, while narrow wooden boats swayed gently, as if breathing with the tide.

Tima sat at the edge of their hut, her feet swaying in mid-air above the water. She was fourteen and infinitely curious about everything. Her family was Sama Dilaut, or Badjao – people of the sea. To them, the ocean was not a frontier, but home.

Her father, Akbar, prepared his small lepa, a slender boat carved from a single tree. He checked the fishing nets with practiced hands. Inside, her mother, Sitti, was boiling panggi, that’s what they call cassava, while humming a lullaby she had learned from her grandmother. Life was simple yet steady, like the rhythm of the waves below their home.

Tima loved mornings like this. Men paddling into deeper waters, disappearing against the endless blue; women behind, mending nets, washing clothes, or taking care of small children. The village smelled of salt and coconut-husk smoke, and though the world beyond the horizon felt far, their floating community felt complete.

Still, Tima often wondered what lay beyond the line where sea met sky. She saw kappal or bigger ships passing by filled with traders, visitors, or families leaving for city life.

“A pabalik bahah sigiya?’ Do they ever look back? She once asked her mother.

Sitti smiled softly. “Sampurahan a pabalik, sampurahan a maha na. Damikiyan, tahik mag pa saplag bang amin ingga sigiya.” Some do, some don’t. But the sea always remembers who belongs to her.

That answer stayed with Tima. The sea was gentle but could be cruel. Many villagers carried quiet stories of loss, like a father who never returned, a home destroyed in storms, a child taken by sickness when no doctor was near. Yet the Sama people endured, as they always had.

One afternoon, dark clouds gathered over the horizon. The once calm water shifted into restless waves. Akbar recognized the signs. “A ilu na baliyu. Engkotan bi lepa bi. A pasod bi kaanakan ni jalom.” A storm is coming. Tie the boats. Bring everyone inside.

Rain pounded upon the roofs of nipa and bamboo. The waves lashed at te stilts of their houses. Tima clung to her mother while thunder rumbled above. Outside, she heard her father giving commands as he battled the wind, securing their boat. Then a towering wave crashed into the side of their house, shaking it violently. Wood cracked. Sitti screamed for Akbar.

“Akbar! Akbar!!” But when the storm finally passed, he was nowhere to be found.

The sea was grey and dolorous for two days. Men searched coves nearby, calling his name. Only his small lepa was found half-broken, washed up among mangrove roots. The village grieved in silence. The Sama people never cried loudly, only praying in hushed tones, their eyes reflecting a pain each of them knew well. They lived with the sea, knowing the perils.

Tima sat by the shore, staring at the horizon beyond which her father once crossed. The water glittered under the sun, beautiful yet unforgiving.

“Anggay leh nu nga amah ku?” Why did the sea take him? She whispered. Sitti rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Halam bay ah leh tahik.” The sea never takes, she said softly. “A leh na ngalaynganan lang pabalik anu bay min iya.” It only calls back what has always been part of her.

In the weeks that followed, Tima helped her mother fish near the shallows. She had learned to steer the lepa and read the tide, and listen to the sea’s quiet warnings. The work was tiring, yet its rhythm soothed her. With every pull of the paddle came the soft splash of water. At such moments, she felt her father nearby, guiding her through the currents. At night, stars reflected on the water like scattered pearls. Tima thought of how her people had lived this way for centuries. The Sama Dilaut were born on the sea, lived on the sea, and returned to it. Their stories told of islands that lay afar, of storms that were survived, of love found between waves.

The sea was home and the teacher. It wanted patience and modesty. And, little by little, Tima understood that each tide carried not only sorrow but also strength. Months passed, and she grew into her role. Few girls her age could dive as fearlessly as she did, her body moving through the water like the fish she chased. She gathered shells and sea cucumbers to sell or barter for rice in the Bongao market. People said she had her father’s courage and her mother’s heart.

One evening, at sunset over the sea, Tima stood outside their home. The call to prayer floated from the small masjid, mingling with the soft slosh of water beneath the houses. Sitti joined her with a surian lantern.

“Amah nu war pamung na hadja na tahik bateh kaulluman baybay majatah, baybay madeyoh, sumagawa pabalik du iya.” Your father used to say the sea is like life, it rises, it falls, but it always returns.

Tima nodded. “A pabalik du kita.” And we return with it.

The Surian flickered across the village that night, their reflections trembling like stars on the water. And life went on fragile, yet strong, humble, yet full of grace. The sea had taken a lot, but it was still giving all: food, faith, rhythm, purpose. Tima’s eyes locked with the horizon, steady as the heartbeat within her. The sea whispered back, endless and unbroken, as always. Claiming her father had shaped her. To the Sama, the sea was not the end of life but life itself, boundless, mysterious, and eternal.

“Dikayuh ullow, mag andah du kita balik, Amah!” One day, we will see each other, Father!

Fi Amanillah – May Allah protect you.

Nelson Dino

I gazed at the sea sparkling under the evening light. The lepa that is my home swayed gently with the Sanga-Sanga waves. The breeze brought the salty tang of the sea and the earthy scent of thatch, but my heart felt heavy. I am only seventeen, yet my eyes hold a sadness too deep for someone my age. Today, the news reached me—Sulu is no longer part of BARMM. We are separated. Like a blade piercing my soul, the sense of loss cuts deep. My mother sits beside me, mending the nets we just repaired, smiling, yet her eyes are sorrowful. I know she feels the same, though she says nothing.

“Lantri,” my mother’s voice is gentle, “don’t be too sad. But I understand… it’s heavy.”

I lower my head, my long black hair fluttering in the wind. “Inah… why must we be separated? Aren’t we part of the same history and the same culture?”

She sighs deeply. “This is the decision of people in the big cities. They don’t see what we feel. They don’t know how the lepa and this sea have shaped us. They only see maps and political lines.”

I look at the sea again. In my mind, I remember my grandmother’s stories of old Sulu—Sulu before all the modern laws and regulations. About small boats leaving the harbors carrying spices, salt, and cloth. About how our people sailed not just for trade, but to uphold dignity, and to defend our honor.

Since I was little, I have learned this history from a kissa—my grandmother’s narratives full of laughter, war cries, and tearful farewells. But now, that history feels hollow. Political lines separate us from the identity we have always preserved.

At school, I feel the change too. My friends speak of BARMM, of new identities, of opportunities, and limits. But I feel as if my soul has been sidelined. I have lost more than regional administration; I have lost a part of myself.

One night, when the moon reflects on the sea, I climb onto the deck of the lepa. My heart is too heavy to sleep. I gazed at the sky, as if seeking answers among the stars. The night wind carries my grandmother’s whispers, a voice that always calms me.

“You know, Lantri,” the voice echoes in my mind, “sometimes the world forces us to accept separation. But remember, this sea is still ours. Our traditions still live. Political lines may divide maps, but they cannot divide our souls.”

I lower my head, tears dripping onto my hands as I grip the edge of the lepa. I feel the warmth of the history my grandmother passed down, and slowly, my sadness is no longer pure despair. There is anger, yes, and loss. But there is also resolve.

In the days that follow, I begin to write. In a small notebook I carry everywhere, I write about the sea, about the lepa, about Sulu, and the homeland I love. I write for myself, for my grandmother, and for everyone who feels lost. The words become both a release for my grief and a bridge.

At school, when my teacher asks us to write an essay about our identity, I write wholeheartedly. I write about Sulu, maritime history, culture, kulintangan music, pis siyabit weaving, and how every lepa rowing at sea carries the stories of our ancestors. My friends listen, and some cry along. My teacher looks at me with admiration.

One afternoon, while sitting on the lepa, watching the orange-hued evening sky, I hear my mother calling from the stilt house. “Lantri! Come eat before nightfall!”

I stand, take a deep breath, and look at the sea. A cloud passes, briefly covering the sun. But beyond the cloud, light still shines through. I smile faintly. So too is our life—though separated, the light of our culture and history still shines.

I know the journey to accept this separation is far from over. The sense of loss still presses on my soul. But I also know that in every word I write, in every song I sing on the lepa, in every weaving I learn from my grandmother, Sulu remains alive. Sulu remains whole, even if the lines on the map have changed.

And that night, as the moon reflects on the sea, I write to the wind, to the sea, and to history: “You may separate us from BARMM. But you will never separate our souls. I will remember. I will write. I will carry this story, even alone.”

The lepa sways gently with the waves. The sound of water and wind becomes a lullaby for my soul. And for the first time since the news arrived, I feel a small peace. A peace born not from accepting separation, but from the resolve to protect my heritage, to ensure Sulu lives on in every story told, and in every pair of eyes that gaze upon the same sea.

I look at the sky once more. The clouds move, leaving a gap for the moonlight to shine brighter. As if nature itself writes, “Souls cannot be divided. Stories cannot be erased.”

And I know, even if the world separates us on the map, I will never allow our history and culture to be separated from my soul. Sulu remains mine. The lepa remains my home. The sea remains my path home.