Author: admin

Nathara Mugong

“Pasalan yadu kabilahian ku, moleh na aku, moleh ni kau.”

At six in the morning, the sterile hum of the airport felt like a cruel soundtrack to my internal struggle. A powerful current seemed to pull me backward, as returning home after college was the last thing I desired. However, as I reluctantly navigated this journey back, I began to feel a different, subtle, yet insistent pull. It was more than just fate; Tawi-Tawi awaited me. This unexpected pause in my life urged me to confront my own vulnerable evolution, and in doing so, I rediscovered my connection to the place I considered home.

While Tawi-Tawi is regarded as a faraway escape or a place of uncertainty, for those nurtured by its shores, it is an intrinsic part of being, a homesickness that shapes one’s identity. Understanding Tawi-Tawi, then, requires grasping a sort of longing, a culturally significant sentiment knitted into the past, articulated through its artistic expressions, and demonstrably reflected in the lives of its people and in external perceptions.

Looking back from where I stand now, it was the instability of our pantan that reminded me home isn’t always a solid ground. It was a silent tremor beneath my feet, a precursor to the many shifts yet to come. For years, I’ve been pursing dreams, many of which were born from the very landscapes of my hometown. Each morning on my way to school, I can still vividly recall myself looking out to the horizon, my mind wandering between the simple things and the seemingly impossible aspirations: touching the clouds, enjoying store-bought ice cream and fried chicken, and having the connectivity offered by smartphones. But more than anything, I was drawn to the mystery beyond the Bud Bongao. It seemed to promise endless possibilities, and I yearned to uncover them. Looking back, I understand this wasn’t just a quest for comforts, but a longing to be in a wider world, even if it meant stepping away from what I knew. And, in a beautiful paradox, that journey led me to a richer sense of where I belonged.

A glint of sudden feeling revived those receding memories. There I was, reciting my poems and singing “Susulan Tawi-Tawi” at the National Museum in Zamboanga. It was as if all these long-held sensations, like the island itself, were calling out to me. In that moment, I realized that the yearning expressed in my verses was not solely mine. It exists as a deeply rooted cultural expression, an intangible legacy passed down through generations. Our story, built on a complex past, is one of longing born from our culture, persisting despite the scars of conflict, yet holding onto the hope for peace and belonging.

This cultural longing pulsates in the music and dances across our islands. Tausug and Sama songs speak of journeys and missing loved ones. Hainun’s compositions, for instance, capture the sadness of separation caused by social barriers. These barriers, stemming from rigid social hierarchies that sometimes divided communities, made love and connection across social strata a source of yearning. Even the stories behind our popular songs reflect this longing. “Susulan Tawi-Tawi” is said to have been written by an American soldier for a maiden he met, later evolving into a traditional serenade. The classic song “Baleleng” asserts that even the distance of Tawi-Tawi cannot spoil connection. Though originating from different circumstances, both “Susulan Tawi-Tawi” and “Baleleng” convey a love that surpasses distance, suggesting that waiting only intensifies affection. That line in “Baleleng,” “Bang kaw bunnal ba Leleng matuyu, urul kaw ba Leleng pamalayu,” essentially means, “If you really want me, my dear, you will follow me no matter how far.”

Beyond songs, our dances, with their intricate movements, also tell stories of longing—for a good catch from the sea, for the joy of togetherness, for healing, and for spiritual connection. The fluid motions of Igal mirror the flight of birds or the flow of water, expressing a longing for harmony with nature. However, this natural human desire takes on a subdued tone when we recall the tragic events of our past.

The story of my aunt, Sofia Mirkusin and Maj. Eduardo Martelino drifts through our family’s memory, often tinged with a strange unease. Camp Sofia in Simunul stands as a silent testament to their intertwined past. Elders recount Maj. Martelino’s gifts to Sofia—offerings made against a backdrop of rising tensions that cast a dim light on their supposed relationship. Was it love, or merely a strategic maneuver, a political gesture disguised as affection? Theirs is a story from an era marred by forced separations and violence, where mutual love seems conspicuously absent, overshadowed by the looming threat of conflict and Martelino’s military agenda. The 1968 Jabidah massacre, the killing of young Moro men, left a wound in the region, stirring a great yearning for justice and peace. Though rooted in reality, their story occasionally reads like a half-remembered dream, a fiction constructed from strands of fact and implied coercion. Yet, this narrative, alongside our basic human need for love, belonging, and authentic connection, resonates with a deep, if unsettling, truth.

Furthermore, to actually understand our longing, one must acknowledge our attachment to the sea, how paramount it is, both a source of life and a force to be feared. It provides sustenance, connects islands, and governs daily life. Yet, it has also caused unimaginable grief and loss. The sea’s unpredictability has claimed lives in heartbreaking ways, as it did with my own grandparents in a boat accident. The conceding thought that the sea both sustains us and can take everything away adds another layer to our longing. It is not merely a desire for peace and stability on land, but also an awareness of the fragility of life on the very waters that sustain us. This duality of bounty and tragedy shapes our narrative in Mindanao.

Besides our own stories and history, some publications depict Tawi-Tawi as a peaceful, untouched paradise. However, a closer examination of these descriptions reveals a deeper understanding of the human condition—an ability to evoke empathy, inspire poetic expression, and touch the hearts of those who truly immerse themselves in the islands, which have witnessed countless stories of love, loss, and resilience.

Literature can offer this sense of presence. I found myself resonating with Arlo Nimmo’s “Songs of Salanda,” a book that covers his anthropological fieldwork among the Sama Bajau, specifically around Tawi-Tawi in the 1960s. Its concepts of cross-cultural understanding and the redemptive value of cultural immersion enthralled me, emphasizing how essential empathy is for bridging cultural divides, which speaks directly to the nature of longing. Nimmo’s work illustrates how an outsider can also develop a longing for Tawi-Tawi, a longing born not of direct heritage, but of engagement. I was most affected by the struggles for survival and the connections that arose from them; these raw accounts have stayed with me long after reading. Almost every chapter served as a reminder of life’s brevity and the importance of cherishing each moment, to practice kindness, express gratitude, and perhaps find the courage to say goodbye when it is time to let go. Reflecting on those memories now feels like revisiting fragments of a distant dream, a bittersweet reminder of the passage of time and the relentless flow of life.

Similarly, the Tawi-Tawi I remembered so well sometimes felt narrow and farther away. This feeling of home changing, of being both familiar and strange, made me curious about how others saw and experienced Tawi-Tawi. This feeling of missing a past that might be idealized in our minds is really what this longing for Tawi-Tawi is about—a personal and shared longing for a place we imagine as simpler, more connected, and more grounded.

To explore these varied perspectives, I posed a simple but telling question: “How did Tawi-Tawi make you feel?” The responses, often quiet and thoughtful from those fortunate enough to have visited, hinted at a sense of missing it, a longing for the slower, easier pace of island life. One friend described the air as “hindi malagkit” (not sticky), while a researcher found the pace of life to be “laid-back.” My teacher often spoke of the incomparable beauty of the beaches and sand. Another person raved about the “cheap, fresh and delicious food.” These feelings suggest a longing for comfort, peace, and solitude, something many of us crave in our busy lives. Interestingly, I also received responses that were simply, “it’s just okay.” This neutral response might indicate a lack of deep engagement or different priorities, demonstrating that individual experiences shape the intensity of our longing for a place.

Perhaps it is this reminiscence that sustains Tawi-Tawi’s enduring fascination for so many who have encountered it. It is a place that captures the disposition, a destination that whispers of refuge from the demands of everyday life, where simplicity is evident, resilience is ingrained, and the marks of struggle are softened by time. But to those of us who unconditionally claim it as home, Tawi-Tawi is not merely a place to explore and read about; it is an integral part of our hearts, a constant source of inspiration, and a lifelong longing for the land where our stories began.

What are the things we see, hear, and feel that create this longing? It begins with the mesmerizing turquoise waters, always welcoming, their gentle sound reaching even under our houses and pantan. The powdery white sand that soothes tired feet, the breathtaking coral reefs teeming with life, and the sunsets that paint the sky in unimaginable colors—these are the images that remain with us, even across vast distances. The scent of salt and earth, the captivating rhythms of the gabbang, kulintang, organ, and ambak-ambak that fill our celebrations, the sincere and unconditional kindness of the locals, the vibrant colors of their traditional clothes at every special occasion, the age-old customs that connect families, and the unhurried pace of life—these are the constant and comforting reminders of the simple home we carry within us, a home we may have left, but one that lives on inside.

I am reminded of pagpatabowa, our tradition of giving gifts to visitors when they depart, especially if it is their first time or they do not visit often. One such instance is when my cousin left, and we gave her sulindang, sabley, and other tokens of our affection. This spirit of giving extends beyond farewells, as demonstrated by how Inah would thoughtfully send bang-bang and other items to my friends in Zamboanga City. I reflect on times I have done the same, perhaps unconsciously. This act of generosity, so prevalent in us, exemplifies the spirit of community that defines our region and fuels our longing for it.

As I watched a small boat cut a silver path across the water, the setting sun turning the sky into a vast canvas of oranges and purples, I knew this was my final moment on the shores of Simunul. A sense of peace mixed with the sadness of leaving again settled over me. There were no words that could capture the weight of this feeling or the essence of this place. Tawi-Tawi, I realized, is not something to be explained; it’s an experience to be felt and embraced.

Tawi-Tawi will forever possess a magic, a place I fervently hope will always belong first and foremost to its people, safeguarding its spirit and nurturing countless more beautiful stories that unfold along its beloved islands and shores. It’s this hope, this dream for the future, that makes the longing a little easier to bear, giving it purpose and the promise of return.

Norhan B. Kudarat

Si Norhamdin, ang aming bunsong kapatid na lalaki, ay isinilang noong taong 1990. Sa panahong iyon, siya ay nasa unang taon ng high school—labing-apat na taong gulang, puno ng pag-asa at panaginip sa buhay. Isa siyang payat ngunit masiglang binatilyo. Kahit walang-wala kami sa buhay, madalas siyang ngumiti—ang ngiting parang may itinatagong sinag ng liwanag sa gitna ng dilim. Sa kabila ng kahirapan, sinisikap naming buuin ang araw-araw. Ang tatay ko ay pa-extra-extra lamang sa kung anong mapasukang trabaho habang ang nanay ko ay isang simpleng maybahay na pilit hinuhubog ang aming tahanan sa gitna ng kakulangan.

Isang hapon, alas-singko ng gabi, sumiklab ang unos na hindi namin kailanman inaasahan. Naupo ako sa sahig ng aming kubo habang hawak ang aklat sa eskuwelahan. Nag-aaral ako noon bilang fourth year high school, nagsusumikap makapagtapos, nagsusulat ng mga pangarap sa gitna ng gutom. Biglang narinig ko ang ubo ni Norhamdin. Hindi na iyon ang karaniwang ubo. Para bang bawat hinga ay may kasamang kalawang, parang hinahatak palabas ang kanyang kaluluwa. Napabalikwas ako sa pagkakaupo.

“Allah akbar, Allahu akbar…” bulong ko habang tumatakbo papasok sa kwarto kung saan siya nakahiga.

Nang makita ko siya, namumutla na ang kanyang mukha, nanlalaki ang mata, at halos lumuwa na ang kanyang tiyan sa pag-ubo. Parang sinasakal siya ng sarili niyang katawan. Napatili si Inay, yakap-yakap ang kapatid ko habang panay ang dasal, “Astaghfirullah… Ya Allah, Tabangi kami (tulungan Mo kami!)”

Dali-daling lumabas si Tatay at humahangos na naghanap ng masakyan. Wala kaming pera. Wala kaming ambulance. Wala kaming kahit anong maaasahan kundi awa ng Allah at tulong ng mga kaanak.

Tumawag si Tatay kay Bapa Malagia, ang kamag-anak ng nanay ko na may lumang sasakyang de-karga. Wala kaming tiyak kung saan kukunin ang pambayad, pero ang buhay ng kapatid ko ang nakataya. Sumakay agad si tatay, si Kaka Yham (pinsan ko), at ang kapatid kong si Norhamdin, na noon ay halos wala nang ulirat.

Sa loob ng sasakyan, habang tumatakbo ang oras at ang makina ng sasakyang nanginginig, naririnig ko mula sa kwento ni Kaka Yham na paulit-ulit silang nagsasalita sa kanya:

“Sabot ka, Norhamdin… sabot ka ah. (Huwag kang bibitaw).”

Hinahaplos nila ang kanyang likod habang ang bawat hibla ng plema ay lumuluwa na mula sa kanyang bibig. Sa may Betinan, San Miguel, Zamboanga del Sur pa lang—hindi pa nakararating sa Margosatubig Hospital—ay bigla siyang tumigil sa paghinga.

“Daden, Kaka… Badti (Wala na, Kuya Badti),” bulong ni Kaka Yham sa tatay ko na puno ng panginginig ang tinig.

Tumulo ang luha ni Ama. Umugong ang kanyang iyak na hindi na niya kailanman muling naiguhit sa ibang araw. Hindi na nila itinuloy sa ospital ang biyahe. Alam nilang huli na ang lahat. Bumalik sila, dala-dala ang katahimikan, dala-dala ang isang bangkay—ang aming bunsong lalaki.

Pagbukas ng pintuan ng bahay, sabay-sabay kaming nagsitakbo. Ang nanay ko, nang makita ang anak na wala nang buhay, ay bumulagta sa sahig.

“Allahu akbar!” ang sigaw niya na humugot ng lahat ng luha sa kanyang dibdib.

Ang mundo ko ay parang biglang tumigil. Tila may malaking bato na tumabon sa dibdib ko, hindi ako makahinga. Lumuhod ako sa tabi niya, hinawakan ang malamig niyang kamay. Puno pa ito ng plema, at ang kanyang labi ay nanunuyo, naninigas.

“Din… kapatid ko…” nanginginig kong bulong. “Hindi ka man lang nakapagpaalam…”

Sa mga oras na iyon, ang gabi ay naging masyadong tahimik. Wala nang tunog ng kuliglig, wala na akong naririnig kundi ang tibok ng puso ko at ang alingawngaw ng mga hikbi. Isinagawa namin ang mga ritwal ng paglilibing ng isang Muslim kinaumagahan—nilinis ang katawan, binalot ng puting tela, at inihatid sa huling hantungan bago magtakip-silim.

Ang mga salitang “Innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rājiʿūn” ay paulit-ulit na binibigkas sa bawat panalangin. Mula sa Allah tayo nanggaling, at sa Kanya rin tayo babalik.

Nang mailibing na siya, tila nabawasan ang liwanag sa bahay. Wala nang maingay na tawanan, wala na ang masayahing tinig ni Norhamdin. Sa mga araw na sumunod, paulit-ulit kong sinisisi ang sarili ko. Bakit hindi ko siya nadala agad sa ospital? Bakit wala kaming sapat na pera para sana’y maligtas siya? Lahat ng ‘kung sana’ ay parang mga punyal sa dibdib.

Sa gabi, bago ako matulog, umiiyak ako nang palihim. Sinasabi ko kay Allah, “Ya Rabb, bakit siya? Bata pa siya. May pangarap pa siya. Bakit hindi ako na lang?”

Ngunit sa mga gabing iyon din, natutunan kong tanggapin ang kalooban ng Diyos. Na ang lahat ng nangyayari ay may hikmah, may karunungan sa likod ng bawat sakit. Si Norhamdin ay hindi na nahihirapan. Siya’y nasa mas mabuting kalagayan na, sa Jannah…In Sha Allah.

Ang kanyang libingan, bagamat simpleng hukay sa lupa, ay naging paalala sa akin ng kahalagahan ng bawat hininga, bawat yakap, bawat oras na kasama ang mga mahal sa buhay. Ang kanyang huling ubo ay hindi basta tunog ng paghihirap—ito ay naging sigaw ng isang sistemang salat sa tulong, kulang sa katarungan, at barado ng kahirapan. Ngunit ito rin ay naging paalala ng pananampalataya, na sa dulo ng lahat, si Allah ang higit na nakakaalam.

Ngayon, tuwing naiisip ko ang gabing iyon, hindi na lamang sakit ang aking nadarama. May kasamang tapang, may kasamang layunin. Ginamit ko ang lungkot bilang lakas. Nag-aral ako nang mas mabuti, nagsumikap sa bawat hakbang ng buhay. At ngayon—magdadalawang dekada mula nang mawala si Norhamdin—ako’y isa nang guro sa loob ng halos sampung taon, at malapit ko nang matapos ang aking PhD in Language Studies sa MSU-Marawi. Sa puso ko, dala ko ang pangakong walang batang gaya ni Norhamdin ang kailangang mamatay sa likod ng isang lumang de-karga, dahil lamang sa kakulangan.

Marahil ang pinakamahalagang aral na iniwan niya ay ito: sa mundong puno ng kawalang-katarungan, ang pagmamahal ng isang pamilya, ang pananampalataya sa Allah, at ang tapang na bumangon mula sa pagkawasak ang tanging sandata natin. Si Norhamdin ay wala na sa piling namin, ngunit ang kanyang alaala ay mananatili—sa bawat dasal, sa bawat hakbang ko patungo sa aking mga pangarap, sa bawat pagtulong ko sa nangangailangan.

Ang huling ubo ni Norhamdin ay naging simula ng aking pakikibaka—ng aking panata: na hindi ko hahayaang masayang ang kanyang buhay. Gagawin kong inspirasyon ang kanyang huling hininga upang bigyang-tinig ang mga gaya naming laging nilulunod ng katahimikan at kahirapan.

Sapagkat ang tunay na pamana ay hindi nasusukat sa dami ng ari-arian, kundi sa dami ng pusong nadama mo—kahit sa huling pagkakataon.

At sa huling pagkakataon, kapag dumadampi ang malamig na hangin tuwing dapit-hapon, tila muli kong nakikita ang mukha ni Norhamdin—ang bahagyang ngiti sa kanyang labi, ang ningning ng kanyang mga mata sa kabila ng pagod.

Noong una, pinilit kong manatiling buo sa gitna ng pagkalugmok. Sa kabila ng lahat, bumangon ako, nag-aral, at nagpatuloy sa paniniwala sa bukas. Ngunit ang mas masakit, hindi roon nagtapos ang yugto ng pamamaalam. Ilang buwan lamang ang lumipas mula nang mamaalam si Norhamdin, sumunod ang pinsan kong si Kaka Yham—naaksidente habang sakay ng motorsiklo at siya ang labis na naapektuhan. At dalawang taon makalipas, noong 2007, binawian din ng buhay ang aming ama—binaril sa hindi pa rin malinaw na dahilan. Silang tatlo, na minsang magkasama sa likod ng lumang de-kargang sasakyan, ay sunod-sunod ding nawala, parang paalala ng kalupitan ng tadhana.

Ngayon, marami pa kaming natitira—mga saksi sa gabing iyon, mga pusong tinuruan ng pait kung paanong magmahal nang buo at mabuhay nang may layunin. Hindi na namin maibabalik sina Norhamdin, Kaka Yham, at Ama, pero dala pa rin namin sila sa bawat hakbang—sa bawat panalangin, sa bawat pangarap na tinutupad.

Ang huling ubo ni Norhamdin ay hindi lamang paalam—ito’y naging paanyaya. Paanyaya sa amin na magpatuloy, magmahal, maglingkod, at mangarap. At sa bawat pagkakataong magtuturo ako, mananalangin, o titigil para alalahanin, alam kong hindi kami nag-iisa.