Author: admin

The Pulangui

admin

Mohannad Daguit Ules

Oh Pulangui, as I watch and heed you go,
You’re slow, steady—and sure of your flow.
In both your banks, where two strangers meet,
Will there be a path, on the plains you cut deep?

Oh, what a lovely place to stay.
Where in the morn’ng, white Talong birds play.
And in the sunset, to watch your golden glare,
To the evening you mirror the stars’ flare.

And every day that the Pulangui flows,
In both its banks where two strangers go.
For each day the sun rolls—they meet, meet, then greet.
And so, the Pulangui banks shrink—now waterlilies grow.

Then the waterlilies join the Pulangui go,
Yielding to its flow—steady and sure of its flow.
And then flowers sprout from the waterlilies’ bud,
Oh, what a lovely place to grow.

And so, the Pulangui carves a path across two chests—
Forming deep valleys where no one had ever guessed.
Now two rivers formed, a two Pulangui joined—
Two with one direction, two with one flow.

Oh, what a lovely place to grow,
And watch every sunset as you steadily flow.
Oh Pulangui, what more could you offer?
What more will your bounties bring—
Nothing more, with your grandness though.

With each tide that cycle—ups and downs,
Or when floods of seasons’ crushing shores.
Oh Pulangui—you surely flow, you surely flow.
Even with your crumbling banks—you still flow, you still flow.

Oh, Pulangui your flow must endure.
Time may test your patience; tide may test your flow.
You must endure—’til the last sunrise’s grace,
Or ’til the last sunset, to you its last embrace—
You will still flow; you will still flow.

A daughter-in-law

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Neshrin M. Macabago

On February 14, 1994, love suffused the air in Asli’s aunt’s house in Marawi as she and her groom, Sayd, prepared to tie the knot. The simple house was transformed into a floral and lovely setting. Upstairs, in the room, Asli, excited yet nervous, was all set with her white gown, hijab, and heels while her fingers and wrists glinted in gold jewelry, waiting for her husband-to-be to come inside and walk her down the aisle. The couple started getting to know and seeing each other a few months before he courageously asked her hand for marriage. At last, their love became halal. No words could express how elated Asli was, realizing that her dream moment had finally arrived. In the living room, on the other hand, Sayd, who seemed calm sitting on a gold chair, eagerly hoped for the speakers to finish their speeches so he could take his bride with him at all once. The two families were present to witness the union of their children as they sat on white plastic chairs, quietly listening and anticipating or perhaps judging one person to another.

Sayd grew up in a well-known family in their town, while Asli came from a struggling family in the province and grew up an orphan. Having no father was challenging for her and her younger sister, but it was twice as tough for her poor mother who needed to work tirelessly in basak as a farmer to survive the daily crisis. Raising two daughters alone was nothing but a heavy responsibility, indeed. Yet despite their hard life, Inakulay, Asli’s mother, still managed to provide for her daughters’ education until college because of her sweat and blood sacrifices working all day long in the rice field. Not long after she finished her studies, fate led her to meet Sayd through a mutual friend, and eventually, their friendship ended up in marriage. Weeks after the wedding, the newlyweds decided to live permanently in his family’s house for good, and so Inakulay and her sister were left in their wooden house in inged.

Growing up, her life felt somehow incomplete without the presence of her father, who died before she was even born. And so, when she grew older, Asli dreamed of having a complete, fine family of her own someday with a hardworking father for her children and a good husband for her. Unfortunately, life was never meant to be perfect and fair. Without any clues, the life with her in-laws was crueler than the life she had in inged. If only she had known it from the beginning, she would probably have convinced Sayd to live with her poor Inakulay instead.

From the day she got there, there was already an uncomfortable feeling she sensed as though telling her that she was unwelcome. All eyes were on her. Judging stares, even. Her three sisters-in-law seemed to dislike her, but one thing that made her more anxious was the presence of her mother-in-law. Her day-to-day life with them under one roof became challenging for her.

Later on, she and Sayd had three children, two girls and a boy. But the hatred towards her never changed. It was even passed on to her children too. All the grandchildren or apos in the family were spoiled and nurtured by their Ina, Sayd’s mother, except for her three children. Ina was impressively unfair. They were often excluded from every gift-giving as though they were not her apos, too. And with all the favoritism going on, Asli courageously spoke to her husband about it, thinking he could empathize with her since the matter concerned their children. But he was unconcerned, saying “Just don’t mind them.” And since she was submissive to him, Asli just followed her husband’s advice. To avoid further drama in the house, cooping up in the room was the only option for her, so no more interactions with her in-laws.

One time, she accidentally overheard them talking about her in the sala.

“Pamliin, ino kon anan seselet den sa kowarto?” (Why does she coop up in their room?)

Although the talk was not really hurtful, the fact that they were talking about her, eyeing on her, made her still feel conscious of going out and seeing them. In fact, it was not the first time she heard them mentioning her in their talks. Most of the time, it was harsh. But with all the sab’r, she ignored and hid it from her husband, so no more quarrel.

More years passed; another three children came into their growing family. Unsurprisingly, the loathing even grew. One day, her youngest daughter, who was only five, came home weeping and told her that Ina gave an alaw or gift to her one cousin when grandmother got home from somewhere and she got none. As soon as Asli saw her child crying over jealousy, it completely broke her heart as a mother. And she knew it wouldn’t be good for the child to know the truth that her Ina and aunts loathed them. She was a mere naive child who could not understand the situation yet.

A dowali took place in Jalimah’s house, Sayd’s aunt, and every relative was there helping, and Asli, as a miyakamong, was there also. She was very helpful in the kitchen until she accidentally dropped the palapa from the smashing pot she was holding, and everyone, of course, was surprised. Outside, Jalimah heard the noise and went to the kitchen to check. Her strong presence brought silence, and this time no one even dared to speak because everyone was aware how marangit she was. A tough old lady.

“Ainaw, anotonaapen aya?” Pissed Jalimah. (Goodness, what is this even?)

Asli, on the other hand, tried to explain, saying it was only an accident, but Jalimah did not bother to listen or care. She reprimanded her in front of everyone who was in the kitchen. Teary-eyed, Asli was mortified. After the lecture, Jalimah then went outside to entertain the guests as if nothing happened. Laila, who was also a miyakamong and a second wife of Sayd’s uncle, felt bad for Asli and told her to go home instead so she could rest and calm herself down from what just happened. The accident was only minor, yet the embarrassment that Jalimah put on her was way too much. She was unreasonably too hard on everyone she disliked.

At home, Asli secretly cried behind their bedroom door to ensure that her children would not see her. The pain, the bad treatment, the humiliation she received from her in-laws since day one, she’d had enough of all of it. Everyone was just too much for her to handle. Because in Sayd’s family, she had no voice, no place. They all looked down on her. No one treated her right. No one defended her, even her own husband. All along, Sayd was not fair to her. He constantly invalidated her sentiments as though her feelings meant nothing and even called her over-emotional whenever she expressed her rants on him. The truth is, Sayd never stood up for her when it comes to his family and relatives. “Let them be” is what he always told her. But Asli wanted him to defend her, just for once.

One night before she slept, a thought suddenly hit her mind, convincing her to end her marriage to Sayd, so she didn’t need to suffer anymore from his family. At one point, she wickedly wanted to do so because she had been already exhausted as well, but if she did, what would happen to her children then? They would grow up with no complete family like her. That was her biggest fear. Asli just couldn’t afford to see her children experiencing the same emptiness and yearning she had while growing up. With all the guilt, she then disregarded the thought of leaving her husband. “I must stay strong for my kids instead,” she thought to herself. Despite everything, Asli bravely chose to stay for the sake of her children, who were her strength, even if it meant accepting and bearing her in-laws’ harshness over and over.

Food to remember

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Joross Michael D. Bongcarawan

Beep… beep… beep… beeeeeeppppp…

The rhythmic pulse on the monitor disappeared, replaced by an unbroken flat line, signaling the end.

“Time of death, 5:20 AM,” the doctor pronounced.

“Doc, what’s happening?” exclaimed Mother with her voice trembling. “Can you tell us what’s happening, doc?” “Doc?!”

One question after another, but the answers eluded her. My mother can’t seem to make things sense. She couldn’t believe it. Neither could I nor my family. She was fine and looked so strong a few days ago.

Everyone started to weep loudly, filling the room with anguished sobs.

“Ya Allah! Ya Rahman!” my uncle shouted while gently patting my mother’s back in an attempt to comfort her.

We went to Tawi-Tawi just yesterday. She told us about the great things about Tawi-Tawi. Honestly, she was more excited than us first-timers. On the journey there, it was as though she had become younger again. Her voice was so bright and full of life with all her chitchats and loud laughs.

“I can still remember when I was 18,” Grandma had shared. “we went to Simunul Island. Did you know that it is believed to be the birthplace of Islam in our country?” We just nodded because none of us had heard of it before. She added, “And the oldest mosque?”

I raised my hand eagerly as if I were a student being called by a teacher in an oral recitation. “Sheikh Karimul Makhdum Mosque!” I answered enthusiastically but in an ear-piercing way. As a prize, she gave me a tight hug. A hug that is tighter than usual, as if she knew it would be the last time. Her grip lingered a little longer, as if she was trying to hold onto every moment she could have before things finally slipped away.

With nothing but her happy-go-lucky and compassionate personality, no one would have imagined that her time would come way too early. It was quite hard for us to accept her sudden death.

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji-un,” whispered Grandpa, who was clearly trying to hold back his tears. I had never seen his eyes look so sorrowful and his usually steady voice falter. “May Allah grant her the highest place in Paradise. Ameen,” he added softly, his wish to ease the pain.

Grandma was the sweetest person I’ve ever known. Though we now live in Binangonan, Rizal due to my father’s work, every year, we pay a visit to my father’s hometown, Marantao, to spend some time with family and relatives.

It was the 31st of January, we traveled to Marantao, and as always, Grandma couldn’t contain her excitement. Grandma kept on calling Mother multiple times, asking the same thing.

“Where are you now? Almost there? Khaliq, is he with you?” she asked. “Not yet. I’ll give you a call to let you know. Yes, Khaliq is here,” Mother reassured her.

Grandma talked to me, and as expected, she bombarded me with a lot of questions. She asked if I had found a girlfriend and if I didn’t, I should find one.

“You must be very tall now, ikaritan ko,” she told me as if I were growing an inch every night to grow that big in a span of a year. Well, I didn’t. I smiled and told her how tiring it had been at school, in addition to my extracurricular activities. I had been so busy that I could barely give her a call, even during weekends.

1:35 PM. We are almost there. I could feel it. The bustling city lights and polluted air began to fade away and the streets are slowly becoming quiet. I started seeing the soft, calming green of the trees with their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. And the fresh air? It smells like heaven! I could smell the refreshing scent of nature. I could feel the excitement rising inside me as we drew closer to the warmth and comfort of our home.

Grandma was well-known in our community for her exceptional cooking skills. Her specialties are asked for by many people in different parts of our municipality. One time, she was even featured in local news for her mouthwatering pastil. It was our proudest moment, I can say.

1:50 PM. Calls echoed from one phone to another, everything was ringing and vibrating. Grandma certainly could no longer wait to see us after an entire year. The moment I stepped outside the car, the surroundings went silent when I saw her face. Her wide, beaming smile stretched all the way to her ears.

“Naow, so ikaritan ko! When did you get so tall and handsome? Someone has been making you blush? Ah! I see! You’re inspired! Tell me about it!” Grandma told me rapidly, barely catching her breath. For a second, I thought she was a retired professional rapper in her days.

“What’s this smell?” Mother asked, sniffing the air. “Wait… Ome, piyaparan a badak!?” Father exclaimed, with his eyes wide open with surprise, as if he had smelled something he never had before. “Let’s get inside, kids,” he added, his voice full of excitement, eager to devour every single dish that Grandma cooked for us.

PIYAPARAN A BADAK

Ingredients:

500 grams of young, unripe jackfruit
2 tbsp. of palapa
200 grams of dried fish
1 medium onion, finely chopped
2 bell peppers, chopped
1 spring onion, chopped
2 bowls of coconut milk
1 tsp, black pepper
1 tsp, turmeric powder
1 tsp, salt
2 cups of shredded coconut
2 cups of water

Procedures:

  1. Put all the ingredients together in a cooking pot, except for the coconut milk for the first layer.
  2. For the second layer, repeat the first step to ensure all ingredients are well combined.
  3. Pour one bowl of coconut milk on top of the ingredients.
  4. Cook for 20-30 minutes over medium heat until the jackfruit becomes soft. Make sure that it doesn’t dry out.
  5. After it is boiled, pour the second bowl of coconut milk.
  6. Cook for another 10-20 minutes or until the jackfruit is completely cooked.

As we stood on the doorstep, Aunt Asiya, Mother’s sister, welcomed us warmly. “Aydow, it’s been such a long time. Is this Khaliq, you’re oldest?” she asked with a smile. “Yes, but he’s the youngest. You must be referring to Khalid,” Mother replied. “Ehh, subhanallah! Yes, I remember Khalid,” Aunt quickly corrected herself, laughing lightly. “Pardon me, I must be getting old now,” she joked, shaking her head.

“Can’t you wait until we’re seated, Asiya?” Grandma teased her. “I’ve got plenty of questions for the family, too,” she added, making everyone laugh.

“Ibrahim, you can put your baggage in your old room. We cleaned it the whole day, so I expect you’ll be comfortable with it after all these years,” Grandma explained with a proud smile.

“Ome, why are you making it sound like it was my first time here?” replied Father with a laugh. “This is where I used to–” “Eh, karoo dn,” Grandma interrupted him before he could finish, cutting him off playfully.

Mother and I went first in the dining room and…

“Allahu Akbar! Ome, what’s with all of these foods!” Mother complained upon seeing the long table filled with various Meranaw dishes. My eyes dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Palapa? Piaparan a badak? Tiyateg? Dodol? Inaluban a sda? It felt like we were celebrating something big.

“Aren’t these too much, Ome? You didn’t need to prepare a lot. There are only five of us,” Father said in wonder, looking astonished. Grandma remained silent as she knew Mother and Father would never stop asking her about it.

“Untod kano, so that we can eat. You must be very hungry after the long travel.”

I cannot choose which to eat. “Can I have the dodol first?” I thought to myself. “No, it’s too sweet. I might lose my appetite.” I reluctantly put the dodol back, only to find myself returning to it. I can’t. I just can’t resist it. The sticky texture, the sweetness– it was too perfect to be resisted! “Dodol, I will never leave here without bringing some of you!” I said loudly, which brought laughter to the table.

“So, how’s work?” Grandma asked Father, shifting the conversation. “I don’t know how should I put it but something has caused quite a stir in our municipality,” he replied in a somber tone.

Father works as a government employee at the municipal hall. Lately, there have been rumors circulating in several barangays in our place. Reason? It didn’t come as shocking to many of us, though. Even I could sense that something was wrong with the system.

With the election coming up in a few months, tarpaulins were being put up here and there. They were literally plastered everywhere. Some people were excited about it because of the money they would get from different candidates. To us, it was yet another round of choosing leaders who can actually lead the people into betterment but have 0.5% of winning.

We couldn’t deny it. Some people are just blind, deaf, and allergic to good governance grounded in integrity, accountability, and transparency. They prefer short-term happiness without considering the long-term consequences of their thirst for money that can never be extinguished. They exchange small sums of pennies with years-long of bad governance.

And when these candidates manage to get a seat and act foolishly, these fanatics who blindly support them will either speak ill about them OR remain silent as they can blame no one but themselves.

PALAPA

Ingredients:

2 kg sakurab, sliced
4 pcs ginger, sliced
4 tbsp chili pepper
1 tbsp salt
1 ½ cup cooking oil
2 bulbs garlic, chopped

Procedures:

  1. Using a mortar and pestle, crush sakurab, ginger, and chili peppers together.
  2. When everything is crushed, add cooking oil to a cooking pan over medium heat.
  3. Add chopped garlic and cook until fragrant.
  4. Add the sakurab mixture.
  5. Stir it from time to time to prevent the mixture from sticking to the pan. Keep stirring for 15-20 minutes until it changes color.

“What do you want to be in the future?” Grandma asked out of curiosity as she chopped the sakurab and ginger. “I want to become a politician,” I replied, watching her intently as she worked on the palapa.

Grandma paused for a moment, her knife still in mid-air. “I thought you hated politics?” she added, her eyebrows slightly contracted.

I nodded. She’s right. I do hate politics of all things. It is dirty— full of lies, deception, corruption, you name it. My voice faltered a bit, but I was determined to get my point across.

“I can’t just let it continue to be dirty. I want to make a positive change in our community. I want to make a difference in how things are done.”

“What do you think you can do if ever you become one?” Grandma continued, setting her knife down carefully. She looked at me warmly. “Do you think you can change it?” she asked thoughtfully.

I pondered. What could I really do? If I hate them because they are barely doing their responsibilities, do I also have what it takes to change a system that has been corrupt for so long?

My mind was racing. I thought about all of these politicians in our community who promised change but never delivered, how power was abused for selfish reasons, and how the poor were left to suffer while the elite continued to thrive.

I stared at the chopping board, my mind working through every possibility. “I don’t know. But I think if I had the chance, I’d focus on the people. Not on power, not on prestige, but on the people. I’d work to make sure that the promises made aren’t just words—they’d be real. I want to help the poor, build better education systems, improve healthcare, and ensure that everyone can enjoy the freedom and rights they are entitled to.”

Grandma watched me quietly as I crushed the ingredients altogether. “You’re not wrong,” she said softly. “But you must remember that change doesn’t come easy. It won’t happen overnight, and it won’t be without challenges.”

“I know,” I said, my voice steady but filled with uncertainty. “But if no one tries, nothing will ever change. I don’t want to sit back and complain like everyone else. I want to be part of the solution.”

Grandma smiled then, a deep, knowing smile that seemed to reflect both pride and concern. “Naow so ikaritan ko. You really have grown a lot.”

She said I have the heart and mind, but politics can be a heavy burden. I have to be prepared for the sacrifices, for the compromises. “But if your heart remains true to your purpose, then it will guide you. Never lose sight of why you started,” she added while stirring the mixture continuously.

I nodded slowly. The steady and rhythmic sound of the ladle against the pan echoed throughout the kitchen. “Well then,” Grandma said, breaking the silence, “if you want to make a difference, you’d better learn the ropes. You can’t change the world sitting on the sidelines.”

I smiled, knowing she was right. “I’ll learn. One step at a time.” Grandma’s eyes twinkled. “Good. And don’t forget the most important thing: Always stay grounded. Never forget where you came from, and always listen to the voices of the people. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

APANG

Ingredients:

2 ½ kg of rice, ground
2 cups of coconut milk
2 cups of water
2 ½ cups sugar
1 tbsp of baking powder
3 large eggs

Procedures:

  1. Soak the rice in water before grinding it for 3-4 hours.
  2. Mix the ground rice with all the other ingredients, then leave it overnight or for 6-7 hours.
  3. Heat the pan and grease it with oil (for better taste, you can use a mixture of eggs and oil).
  4. Add the rice mixture in a circular motion to form its shape.
  5. Wait for 2-3 minutes. Once the top of the mixture is cooked, remove it from the pan.

The sun has risen unusually brightly today. The morning breeze was cool and refreshing. It seemed like it was not just me enjoying the fresh air; the trees seemed to be enjoying it too, swaying gently as if dancing with the soft blow of the wind.

A delicious smell escaped from the corners of the kitchen, filling the air with a mouthwatering scent that was both buttery and creamy at the same time. I quickly turned my head, unable to resist whatever Aunt and Grandma were preparing.

From a distance, I could hear the faint sizzle of something cooking on the stove. As I approached the kitchen, the aroma grew stronger—there was no mistaking it. Grandma must be making her top-tier apang again. The sweet scent of her cooking always seemed to make the world feel a little brighter as if the whole day could only get better from here.

“Mapiya kapipita, Grandma!” I greeted her cheerfully. As usual, she replied to me with a big, warm smile. “Are you making apang?!” I shouted in excitement. “I knew it. I knew it was apang just by the smell!”

Grandma chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, it’s apang. You have a good nose, ikaritan ko. Go, and wake your Father and Mother and tell them the breakfast is ready.”

I shook my head and hurried to the bedroom, with my excitement growing with every step. As I entered, I saw them already making their beds and preparing our things. “Grandma’s almost done with the apang! It smells so good, you won’t believe it!” I said brightly.

“We know, son. We can smell it from here,” Father replied. “We’ll go downstairs in a bit.”

I rushed back to the kitchen and saw Grandma wiping her hands on her apron. “Where are they?” she asked. “Asiya, can you bring the native coffee here?”

I told Grandma that Mother was already packing. We might have to go back today as Father was summoned to the municipal hall due to an urgent matter.

“You’ll have to leave, then?” Grandma asked, her voice tinged with concern. “I guess so, Ome. We were planning to stay a little bit longer but I guess it can’t be helped,” Father replied, giving her a gentle smile. “It’s important. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure to stay longer next time. I promise.”

Aunt Asiya, who had been quietly sitting at the table, spoke up. “Well, I guess we can’t stop you. But you better come back for another round of kandori-like preparation.” She winked at me playfully.

Grandma laughed softly, shaking her head. “If only we had more time, I’d make sure you ate your fill. But for now, have some breakfast. After that, you may go and take care of things, Ibrahim.” My father nodded, his expression softening as he stood up. “Thank you, Ome.”

While we were eating, Grandma stood first to prepare the extra food she’d been wanting us to take home– piyaparan a bakas, dodol, palapa, and biyaring.

As we made our way out the door, there was a combination of melancholy and happiness. I saw Grandma for the last time. Her lips curved up gently as if the smile was trying to hold back tears. There was a softness in her eyes, a sparkle that hinted at happiness, but beneath it was an unspoken sadness.

My thoughts still linger on the comforting warmth of Grandma’s kitchen, and the way her laughter always made everything feel bright. Even though we were leaving for now, I knew that we would come back, soon.

But…

where do we return now that…

Grandma has peacefully rested?

The food she prepared wasn’t just to fill the stomach; it was to fill our hearts and minds with memories worthy of remembering.

Banggel

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Norhasnie Curo

The clanging of kulintang still resonates in my ears as if those days were from a distant yesterday. Our house was teeming with cousins, in-laws, and people clouded by hazy memories. The house’s interior radiated golden yellow textiles and dangling mamandiyang. I remember the damask patterns on the linens enswathing the rustic chair slats leaning against the sidewall, leaving a narrow walk-through space in front. I liked the faint scent of camellias adorning the wooden tables, only that was neither too overwhelming nor too boring to me. Several pieces of silver tabak aligned along the living room to the balcony. For an average fifteen-year-old like me, everything seemed vibrant and ostentatious.

Amidst all that merry, my sister was weeping in front of her casket beaming with bangles and brooches, gifted by aunties before walking out of her room. She was wearing a beige chemise underneath the maroon landap muffling her petite body. Trinkets bedecked on her necklace were glinting along with her silver headdress. Her pale skin complemented the piercing colors around her. She was beautiful. But her expression was stubborn and somber, a fever of madness that left me stunned.

I knew that she was not happy about the marriage. She did not love her betrothed and she knew her dreams were now long buried beneath the soiled sheets in her bedroom. I also could not do anything for her when she was forced to marry a man she met once in the diyalaga before the wedding ceremony. A socially inept sister like me can only be of use when guests are over the house. Not just me, Meranaw women are predetermined to act this way. We tend to our brothers and parents, take care of the household, and clean men’s spittoons (bamaan).

Where is the bride? Auntie Raysa, who was peering from the bedroom door asked.

You’re here auntie, my sister is inside. I responded while waiting for her to walk in.

 Get in first. I prodded her.

Everyone looked so happy to see the eldest daughter of the family getting married. Distant cousins started calling each other gari and daani as if those people had been living together since forever. I did not like the jaunty atmosphere. I was getting tired of it and snuck inside Kaka Rocaya’s bedroom.

Kaka. (Sis). I called out to her.

Have you seen mother? She asked.

No, she is probably blathering about you again to Uncle. She looked worn out.

Her eyes were swollen red. The garish clothes didn’t help to make her look less devastated.

Be happy. I was not trying to comfort her.

 You don’t even know how I feel. She muttered.

You should wear those bangles now.

I flopped on the couch across the window. The golden hues of sunset silhouetted my sister who was hunkered on the bed. Her grimace was so unfit in the picturesque scene.

I don’t like wearing these bangles. It feels like I am getting sold off.

You are getting sold off. Auntie Faisah said those gifts show your value, so you need them with you later for display.

Even you think that women are only worth the gold, huh?

We are always prickly around each other. There was no way to keep up a conversation between us. We differ in personality, principles, and perceptions. We argue all the time. Even in this place, where we have no one else but each other, seems to cripple simple words of affection.

Why haven’t they considered this marriage carefully? She began her rants again.

She would circle around the same arguments for hours and it was sickening. I never felt bad for her. She’s annoying.

If you don’t want to do this, then why are you still here? Should I help you get away from here? My voice could not hide the sarcasm. I hated talking to her.

There you are again. You talk like everything is a child’s game. It’s not as easy as you think it is. You think like a toddler.

I was not being sarcastic when I told her to run off. Adults think that young people’s decisions are always confined to their emotions. I seem more like the older sister between us two. My brothers will never manhandle her. She could have gotten married to someone else, or she could have taken all her belongings and gone off somewhere. She did not. She could have made a different choice. I knew how things were going to turn out when she decided to do so. Familial relationships would hit rock bottom. Relatives will get too rowdy, and she will lose her home. It would not be easy for someone like her to end up that way.

You’re all dolled up and let our aunties paint your face, yet you’re telling me you don’t want this? I retorted.

You don’t understand a thing!

 You don’t understand me either! I am not saying that our brothers did nothing wrong, but that is why I am telling you that you have a choice here!

I was furious. I was on my feet shouting at my sister. I could feel the seething rage behind her blank gaze.

Have you gone mad? Why are you arguing on such an important day? Auntie Faisah, one of my closest aunts stormed inside after hearing us from outside.

She towed me away from the room and I could feel my sister looking at me with daggers.

By the way, have you already hugged your sister? She is about to be taken away now.

Auntie Faisah chuckled as we watched my eldest brother, Kuya Monib, and the groom’s father, Bapa Satar, face each other with their right hands stifled underneath a white cloth.

Men in polos and guras (headwear) were gathered around them while women, mostly my aunts, were huddled up a few meters away from the po-faced men while wallowing in muffled tears and some smiling out of fascination.

My sister is not a convenient woman. She is smart, does good work, and a pretty one at that. She lacks nothing if you compare her to other Meranaws. Yet she can be dumb sometimes, on the most important events like this where she has gotten tied up with old practices.

You are also a smart girl, you know. But your sister has the heart. She can’t stand a life that brings pain to the people she loves.

What’s the use of all that when she’s the one who suffers. I furrowed my brows.

That’s because she loves us. She says a lot against this, but in the end, she chose to be with us. Love makes women strong.

That’s dumb. I sneered at the thought.

The bangles around my sister’s wrists caught my eye again. They must be so heavy when worn.

Why do women have to wear too many bangles? They don’t really make her look any costly. I was desperate to act haughty in front of my aunt.

Bangles are not supposed to raise women’s value, sweetheart. They show their strength. When a woman wears a bangle, it shows she can attain riches by themselves.

I looked up to see my auntie’s visage. She wore an expression I doubt any Meranaw man would ever want to see. She was a proud woman.

_______________________________

Banggel is a Meranaw word for bangle which refers to an ornamental bracelet that is worn by Meranaw women. It is often used during special occasions such as weddings, formal meetings, and enthronements to show power and wealth.

Marriage, Separation & Other Folk Conventions

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Sheilfa B. Alojamiento

Book review of Asain Calbi’s Bride Price & Other Stories,
published by Xavier University Press, 2023

I had to go over the entire set another time, just to make sure I would find the gems I did not spot right on. On first read—a quick run-through—I slapped the book down quite disappointed. I much prefer the first story collection (Panunggud & other stories), I said, which I found more solidly traditional. A more careful rereading—after an interval of six weeks—made me appreciate each story better, including the cryptic flash fiction that closed it. Queer and folk and though a tad conservative, it really is saying more, seeing more, and showing more.

It looks out and looks up some: away from the engrossing confines of the home and the island, the worn fixation with the long-haired local maiden, the constancy and goodness of heart of the rural poor, and makes small dashes here and there, half of its foot wanting to be in the world out there: the town plaza, the ongoing conference in the metropole, the humming airport, those places in constant motion, where comings and goings are commonplace and almost by themselves inconsequential. Still, you get to see that wherever your reading takes you, there’s that abiding love for the long-held ones: old fidelities that hold things up, and hold the book together: filial loyalty, friendship, brotherhood, forgiveness, the naïve faith in the small essentials that make life endurable and ultimately redeeming.

It is not without humor, either. It is most warming when it is at its old-fashioned best, as when it casts a critical eye on folksy ways: the handsome man who visited the local market to shop around for a wife in between cruises in Jakarta, the looker female teacher he wanted to marry playing a bad joke on him; the old man the quack doctor who repays the offense of another man against his twin brother with a hook-shaped penis for a cut ear; the drunken skirt chaser, who got pierced with a safety pin in a movie house and got robbed during a foray to the big city; the newcomer, the Tausug settler-landgrabber and his greedy son on a buying spree, wanting all the land to themselves and evicting native farmer-occupants.

For the most part the stories are sadly cast: young love is tragically terminated, beauty and innocence corrupted, doomed; marital happiness a scarce thing, most unions are pragmatic arrangements, not romantic plunges; and interspecies friendship, even friendship between two small boys or two grown-up men cursed: death or separation is its twin. You wonder: Is it anti-marriage, anti-romance, anti-incest, or just anti-copulation? But it’s not anti-reproduction, is it. For one, it likes gifting its homies with a fecund parade of boys (Pah Jumadil’s issues are all boys; the ugly hag teacher is blessed with five good-looking sons; Saddang and Isnirayya also have five sons; all the other children characters are sons; and only daughters the pretty young ones and the most beloved are invariably meted with thwarted happiness).

Female protagonists are largely stereotypes. There goes another dutiful wife, another pitiful orphan, another dowry fetcher, another jealous warden. The rest are sketches of street inhabitants and urban characters with no memorable speaking parts. And while it can be quite frank at describing male anatomy up close, not a single descriptive sentence accompanies how exactly a particular hag looks like, only that people always give her a second look (she is “also a looker” in that people look at her “because she [is] ugly”). Is her nose pointy, the upper lip unreparably cleft, did she have a mole as big as a pingpong ball, is she pockmarked with acne, has a mouth shaped like that of a horse’s? For a lookist take, the narrative skips inches of necessary detail. But what a joke on a classic drama-and-action trope. On account of mistaken identity some men get shot, but this one gets lucky and gets laid after a long wait.

There are occasional mishaps in the dialogue and the description—which quick readings would otherwise not yield—but the stories, for the most part, are well-conceived. In a conversation between Ladjasali and his parents, the son tells his father, “[in] our culture, it’s taboo to turn [sarahakan tugul] down”(“Bride Price,” p. 7)—a bad translation of di katu’ di manjari in bihan. In an earlier scene in another conversation over supper in the same story, when Ladjasali first reveals his intentions, his father is described to have “stood up” but it is Ladjasali who “sat down again and took a glass of water” in the paragraph that follows (p. 3). The lapses notwithstanding, and the excesses—when a lecture is inserted—the prose is passably simple it is almost vernacular English.

In each piece, the characters and the setting, and the choice of names and places, are drawn with the justness and the precision of the native. You know that names like Isniraiyya and Saddang Arraji and places like Lungan Gihtung or Kabbun Jatih were not randomly plucked from air. The names are themselves characters: homely familiars that come alive by just being spelled out on the page, addressed, or let speak. And this is one amazing linguistic achievement unique to this book.

The inward gaze is always there, with the narrator as the mediating intelligence, the participant-observer who steps in and out of the story to reveal character and offer an opinion (that unavoidably intrudes in some places). There is also a surfeit of local vocabulary that sometimes rubs off on the text, but the recast cliches and metaphors court new interest as always, there is that utmost care of one who does not want to paint his country in a bad light. Despite the didacticism, the local speaker’s meticulousness and certitudes dominate, and the book on the whole is a successful attempt at writing for, rather than writing against.

“Bride Price,” the carrier story, remains the definitive Tausug classic with all the tropes associated with the Tausug character: parental control, male authority, land conflict, a fetish for guns; greed, family love, feudal bondage. The local maiden’s own wishes are immaterial; perhaps they don’t exist. Maimona is just a protégé, the property of the men around her. I first read this story in a 2018 edition of Mindanao Harvest and I have noted retouches in the text, particularly in the concluding paragraphs. In the 2018 edition the last two sentences in the second from the last paragraph reads” “He fell to the same spot where the first soldier lay dead. It turned purple as the spurts of blood from the two men mixed in it.” In this 2023 edition it goes: “He fell on the same spot where the first soldier was lying dead. The spurts of blood from the two men mixed and colored the river red.”

This is a queer reading, but I like the earlier version in that the blood that mixed did not drain into the river but seeped into fertile ground. The annulled union between the thwarted heterosexual lovers, the would-be couple Ladjasali and Maimona, had been supplanted by a union in death of two men, Ladjasali’s and the unknown soldier’s blood, the soldier he earlier saw cavorting in the water with his rival-assailant and would-be killer.  He came upon the two in the hidden part of the brook, half-naked, soaping themselves and splashing each other with water, their laughter pealed—and if I may stretch a  little the metaphor, with the innocence of children at play in Paradise—. The slightly homosexual vein is diluted in this newest edition, replaced by a vision of violence coloring the river. Thankfully, in his other stories in the same set, this theme of brotherhood pact and deep bond between two male friends keeps on recurring. That the author chose to close the book with this image gives hope that future stories would yield narrative possibilities in this direction.