Author: admin

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.

 

Norhan B. Kudarat

Maagang gumising si Fahad upang maligo dahil sa alas siyete ang kanyang pasok sa mataas na paaralan ng Dimataling sa Zamboanga del Sur. Makikita sa kanyang may biloy na mga pisngi ang saya at ngiting parang abot hanggang langit. Dali-dali siyang naligo na tila limang minuto lang at parang kidlat na nagbihis sa napaglumaang uniporme ng kanyang kuya dahil magkasingtangkad lang sila nito. Hindi na siya nag-almusal dahil alam niyang wala na naman silang ulam. Sabik siyang pumasok dahil makikita na naman niya ang crush ng campus na si Jameela. Si Jameela ay kaklase ni Fahad. Siya ang binansagang “Helen” ng kanilang campus at maging sa kanilang lugar dahil sa taglay nitong ganda na halos lahat ng mga kalalalakihan ay mapapatunganga at mabibighani. Matagal ng may lihim na pagtingin si Fahad kay Jameela ngunit hindi niya ito maligawan dahil sa haram sa isang Muslim ang magkaroon ng nobya o nobyo. Sa Islam kasi ay mahigpit na ipinagbabawal ang pagsasama ng dalawang magkaiba ang kasarian dahil maaari silang magkasala sa Allah o makagawa ng Zina o ang pagtatalik ng babae at lalaki na hindi pa kasal at dahil na rin sa payo ng ina nitong isang Ustaja o guro sa isang Arabic School na hindi naman gaano kalaki ang sinasahod.

Nang dumating siya sa paaralan ay dahan-dahang pumasok sa silid-aralan si Fahad na parang naka-slow motion sa isang pelikula habang nakatingin sa upuan ni Jameela na nakapwesto sa harapan na malapit sa pisara. Iniisip niya na kung nasa loob si Jameela ay kung paano niya ito kakausapin.

Pagkaraan ng ilang minuto ay dumating ang isang puti at bagong modelong “furtuner” na sasakyan. Huminto ito sa tapat ng kanilang paaralan. Pumarada ito malapit sa tapat ng kanilang klasrum. Sakay nito si Jameela. Unti-unting siyang bumaba sa sasakyan na para bang isang prinsesa na halos lahat ng mga mag-aaral ay nakatingin sa bawat hakbang niya at tila inihahatid papunta sa loob ng silid-aralan.

Bigla ding dumating ang kanilang tagapayo na masayang inanunsiyo na magkakaroon sila ng eleksyon ng mga opisyales ng kanilang section. Hanggang umabot sa puntong Muse at Prince Charming nalang ang pinagpipilian ng mga mag-aaral.

“Ngayon naman, mamimili na tayo ng ating magiging Muse,” masayang sabi ng kanilang guro.

“Ma’am, I nominate Jameela Mangundato as our Muse!” sabi ng kaklase nitong sabik na sabik na maging Muse si Jameela.

“Ma’am, I close the nomination!” sigaw naman ng katabi nito sabay tili ng malakas habang hawak sa kanyang dibdib.

“I second the motion ma’am,” dagdag ng isa pang kaklase nito na tila kinikilig ng sobra habang ginugulo naman ang sarili nitong buhok.

At naging Muse nila si Jameela sa kanilang seksiyon.

“Okay class! Ngayon naman pipili tayo kung sino ang ating magiging Prince Charming,” sabi ng guro na tila nakatingin sa kaakit-akit na mga mata Fahad.

“Ma’am! Wala namang ibang gwapo dito kundi si Fahad lang!” sabi ng babaeng kaklase nila na kinikilig din sa pagsambit sa pangalan ni Fahad.

“Ma’am, i-appoint nalang natin si Fahad! Bagay kasi sila ni Jameela!” sigaw ng isa pang kaklase nila na kunwari’y hinimatay sa kilig.

Dahil doon ay napagdesisyunan ng klase na si Fahad ang magiging Prince Charming ng kanilang seksiyon. Sumang-ayon naman dito ang kanilang guro na tila kinilig din ng bahagya.

Sa mga sumunod na araw, naging magkaibigan sina Fahad at Jameela. Tinuring silang love team ng kanilang campus at kalaunan ay binansagan ng pangalang FaJam na kuha sa inisyal na pangalan ng dalawa- Fahad at Jameela. Araw-araw na masayang pumapasok sa paaralan si Fahad dahil sa ispirado itong makita si Jameela sa tuwina. Pati sa panaginip nito ay nakikita niya si Jameela at palaging kausap.

Dumating ang ilang buwan ay nagkamabutian sina Fahad at Jameela. Palagi na ring hinahanap ni Jameela si Fahad kapag hindi niya ito nakikita sa campus. Hanggang sa naging magkasintahan sila kahit bawal sa Islam. Araw-araw silang nag-uusap sa mga plano nila sa buhay pagkatapos ng hayskul. Hanggang humantong sa sumpaan nilang hindi iiwan ang isa’t-isa kahit anong mangyari kahit langit at lupa man ang kanilang pagitan.

“Kalimo, mas mainam pang hingin mo na ang kamay ko kay Abi ko,” seryosong sambit ni Jameela habang nakatingin sa mapupungay na mata ni Fahad.

“Oo kalimo ko, In Sha Allah, mamamanhikan ako sa inyo at hihingin ko ang iyong kamay sa Abi mo,” sagot ni Fahad sabay hagod ng marahan sa maputi at malambot na kamay ni Jameela.

Isang araw, pumunta si Fahad kasama ang kanyang nanay sa bahay nila Jameela upang magsagawa ng pangengedong. Sa kultura ng mga Maguindanaon, ang proseso patungo sa isang kasal ay nagsisimula sa pangengedong. Sa matalinhaga at literal na pagsasalin nito, ang lumang kaugaliang ito ay nangangahulugang “pagbulong,” kung saan ang “kamaman” o ang pamilya ng inaasahang lalaking ikakasal ay nagtatanong kung may makukuha ba ang inaasahang ikakasal sa pamamagitan ng kanyang pamilya o “kababayan.” Ang mga unang pag-uusap ay may kinalaman sa “bantingan” (katayuan ng karangalan) ng prospect bride at “maratabat” (royal lineage) ng kanyang pamilya o wala sa ilang mga kaso. Ayon sa kaugalian, ito ay ang unang pagkakaunawaan sa pagitan ng dalawang pamilya na hahantong sa isang “Salangguni” o tamang pakikipag-ugnayan.

“Assalamu alaykom kagi Abdullah,” kinakabahang bati ng nanay ni Fahad sa tatay ni Jameela na medyo namumula ang mukha sa hiya.

“Alaykumus Salam naman sa iyo,” sagot ni Datu Abdullah na may kaunting pagtataka sa mukha kung bakit sila nandoon.

“Ah, Datu, hindi na po kami magpapaligoy-ligoy pa. Gusto po sana ng anak ko na hingin ang kamay ng anak niyo na si Jameela. Kaya po kami narito upang itanong kung wala po bang ibang nagkakagustong mamanhikan sa anak ninyo at kung magkano po ba ang magiging dote ng anak ninyo?” nauutal na paliwanag ni Ustaja Mariam kay Datu Abdullah.

“Alam mo Ustaja, kahit sino mang lalaking gustong mapangasawa ang aking anak ay hindi ko pipigilan basta lang kung kaya niyang buhayin ang anak ko,” mataas na boses na sabi ni Datu Abdullah.

“Kung gayon po, mga anong halaga po kaya ang inyong hinihinging dote sa anak niyo na si Jameela?” tanong ni Ustaja Mariam na may kaunting pangamba habang nakatingin kay Fahad.

“Kailangan niyong maghanda ng limang daang libong piso, isang ektaryang lupa, at isang magarang sasakyan!” pakutyang sagot ni Datu Abdulllah na makikitang seryoso at mukhang hindi na magbabago ang desisyon.

Natameme si Ustaja Mariam sa laki ng hinihingi ni Datu Abdullah. Napalunok naman si Fahad at biglang namutla ang kanyang makinis na mukha. Pagkatapos ng pangengedong ay umuwi na parang walang pag-asa ang mag-ina at doon sa kanilang bahay nagpatuloy na mag-usap.

“Kung buhay lang sana ang iyong ama ngayon ay baka may makatulong pa sa atin sa paghahanap ng kalahating milyon na iyan anak,” umiiyak na sabi ni Ustaja kay Fahad na sa malayo nakatanaw habang dinadama ang lungkot nang maalala kung paano nasawi ang asawa sa bakbakan sa Mamasapano.

“Oo nga ina ko, maaaring baka sana may mga kamag-anak tayo na pweding tumulong sa atin dito,” nanghihinayang na sagot ni Fahad habang nakatingin sa labas ng bintana nilang yari sa lumang kawayan.

Dahil sa laki ng hinihingi ng tatay ni Jameela na dote o bigay-kaya (Mahr sa Arabic) ay naisip ni Fahad na huminto sa pag-aaral at mag-abroad. Ang mahr ay isang kontrata na pinapasok ng ilang Muslim sa kasal. Sa batas ng Islam, ito ay isang regalo o kontribusyon na ginawa ng lalaki sa kanyang magiging asawa, para sa kanyang eksklusibong ari-arian, bilang tanda ng paggalang sa nobya, at bilang pagkilala sa kanyang kasarinlan. Dahil dito, pinayagan naman siya ng kanyang ina at ng kasintahang si Jameela na kitain ito at makaipon para sa kanilang kinabukasan. Nag-usap naman nang masinsinan ang magkasintahan hinggil sa plano ni Fahad na mangibang bansa.

“Kung ang kapalit na makuha ang kamay mo kalimo ko ay ang mangibang bansa ay gagawin ko. Lahat gagawin ko kahit madurog at mawasak ang puso ko na mapalayo sa’yo,” sambit ni Fahad na unti-unting pumatak ang luha sa mapungay nitong mga mata.

“Astagfirrullah kalimo ko! hindi ko kayang makita kang malungkot. Itanan mo na lang ako kalimo ko,” nagmamakaawang sagot ni Jameela na wari’y ibibigay lahat makatuluyan lang ang binata.

Kahit pinipilit siya ni Jameela na itanan siya nito ay hindi ito pumayag sapagkat nais niyang hingin ang kamay nito sa tatay niya nang maayos at naaayon sa Islam. Kalaunan ay pumayag din ang kalimo o mahal niya na si Jameela na mangibang bansa ito para makaipon ng sapat na dote para sa kanya.

Nagtrabaho si Fahad sa Doha, Qatar bilang isang waiter. Kahit wala itong karanasan sa naturang trabaho ay agad itong natanggap dahil sa angking gwapo, tikas, kinis ng kutis at ibang katangian na parang isang koreanong artista na tinitilian ng mga tagahanga nito. Ginawa niyang araw ang gabi upang makalikom ng sapat na salapi para kay Jameela. Hindi na niya inisip ang sarili. Kahit may lagnat ito ay pumapasok pa rin ito sa hotel na kanyang pinagtatrabahuan. Palagi siyang nag-oovertime sa trabaho. Nagsa-sideline din siyang magbenta ng kakanin dahil noong nasa Pilipinas pa ay katulong siya ng kanyang nanay sa pagbebenta ng kakanin at kahit noong nasa elementarya pa ito.

Dahil sa angkin nitong kagwapohan, hindi maiwasan na pati mga lalaking arabo o ibang lahi ay napapalingon kapag nakakasalubong ito. Minsan din ay may kusang nagbibigay sa kanya ng pera, cellphone, at alahas pero hindi niya ito tinatanggap dahil ayaw niya ng mga bagay na hindi niya pinaghihirapan. Kahit abala siya sa trabaho ay hindi pa rin niya nalilimutang magsimba ng limang beses sa isang araw (utos sa Islam) at kahit pagod pa ito galing sa trabaho. Nagtrabaho siya nang mahusay at nag-ipon nang nag-ipon.

Makalipas ang limang taon, natapos niya ang kanyang kontrata sa Qatar at nakaipon na ng mahigit limang daan libong piso. Masaya siya sapagkat makakauwi na siya sa Pilipinas at maibibigay na ang dote na hiningi ng ama ni Jameela. Lumipad siya pauwi ng bansa nang nakangiti at sabik na sabik. Nang dumating siya sa kanilang baranggay ay dumiretso itong pumunta sa bahay nila Jameela. Habang naglalakad ay napansin niyang maraming nakawagayway na mga pandala at pandi na nakabalandra sa labas ng bahay nila Jameela na karaniwang makikita lang tuwing may ginagawang salagguni o kasalan. Ang pandala at pandi ay simbolo ng kulturang Bangsamoro na ang ibig sabihin ay may malapit nang ikasal. Masayang pumasok si Fahad sa loob ng bahay. Nakita niya si Jubair na matalik niyang kaibigan kasama ang ama niya na katatapus lang mag-salangguni o mamanhikan kay Jameela at nakatakdang ikasal.

“Kalimo ko!” nagtatakang sigaw ni Fahad habang hinahanap si Jameela na parang pinagsakluban ng langit at lupa ang pakiramdam. Hindi niya alam ang gagawin at parang nababaliw at natataranta.

“Anong ginagawa mo dito?!” galit na tanong ni Datu Abdullah kay Fahad.

“Heto na po ang limang daang piso, Datu!” pagsusumamong sabi ni Fahad sa ama ani Jameela habang inilalagay sa mesa ang pera nakatali pa.

“Dinagdagan ko pa po ng isang daang libong piso,” dagdag pa niya habang tumutulo ang luha nito na parang tubig na umaagos sa gripo.

“Hindi ko kailangan ang pera mo! Nagbigay na ng isang milyon ang pamilya nila Jubair para hingin ang kamay ng anak ko!” pagmamataas na sinabi ni Datu Abdullah.

“Wala kayong isang salita Datu Abdullah!” wika ni Fahad na nagsusumamo habang nakaupo sa sahig na parang batang inagawan ng isang laruan.

“Umalis ka na dito bago pa magdilim ang paningin ko! At huwag kang mag-iskandalo dito. Hindi ka imbitado dito sa bahay ko! Hindi kayo bagay ng anak ko! At higit sa lahat ayaw kong makasal sa anak ko ang isang katulad mo!” galit na sigaw ni Datu Abdullah habang tinituro sa mukha si Fahad.

Umalis si Fahad sa bahay ni Datu Abdullah na humahagulgol sa labis na kalungkutan. Habang si Jameela naman ay nagkulong sa kanyang kwarto ng araw na iyon at buong araw na umiiyak at hindi kumakain. Hindi niya pweding kausapin si Fahad sa pagkakataong iyon dahil binalaan siya ng kanyang ama na papaslangin si Fahad kapag nagkatuluyan sila nito. Ayaw mawala ni Jameela si Fahad kaya nagdesisyon siyang pakasalan si Jubair at tanggapin ang inaalok nilang isang milyong dote.

Kinasal sina Jameela at Jubair sa isang hotel sa siyudad at maraming mayayamang pamilya ang imbitado. Buong araw na umiiyak si Fahad at pinagsusuntok ang haligi ng kanilang bahay na yari sa isang marupok na uri ng kahoy. Kahit nagdurugo na ang kanang kamay nito ay hindi pa rin niya tinigilang suntukin ang haligi ng bahay nila. Inawat lang siya ng kanyang ina at niyakap.

“Tama na kalimo ko. Tama na,” umiiyak na pakiusap ng ina niya na labis na nasasaktan sa dinadanas ng anak. Nilapitan niya ito.

“Ginawa ko ang lahat ina ko. Tiniis ko ang lahat. Wala ng natira sa akin ina. Siya lang ang lagi kong iniisip. Ikamamatay ko kapag mawala siya ina ko,” patuloy na hagulgol ni Fahad habang yakap ang ina nang mahigpit.

“Makakakita ka rin ng mas magmamahal sa iyo ng totoo kalimo ko,” pagtahan sa kanya ng ina niya habang hinahaplos ang ulo nito.

Mula noon lagi na lang nakatulala si Fahad at hindi masyadong kumakain. Nawalan na siya ng gana sa buhay. Hindi na rin nakikita ang mga biloy nito sa magkabilang pisngi ng kanyang mukha na dati rati ay kusang lumilitaw. Hindi na rin siya lumalabas ng bahay. Isang araw, narinig na lang niya na nanganak na si Jameela at pinangalanan itong Fajam na hango sa bansag sa kanila noong nasa hayskol pa sila. Lalong nalungkot si Fahad ng makita niya sa Facebook ang mga larawan nila Jameela, Jubair at ang anak nito sa isang aqiqa o isang ritwal na ginagawa ng mga Muslim sa bagong silang na sanggol at pagpapangalan dito.

“Mamahalin pa rin kita habambuhay kalimo ko,” sabi ni Fahad sa sarili habang pinagmamasdan ang mga larawan ni Jameela sa social media.

“Ikaw lang ang una at huli kong mamahalin,” dagdag pa nito habang unti-unting pumapatak ang luha niya.

Mula noon, nagpakalayo-layo na lang si Fahad para hindi niya makita ang pamilya nila Jameela at muling maalala ang mga masasakit na naranasan nito sa lugar na iyon. Hindi na rin siya nagpi-facebook. Sa kabilang dako naman ay masayang-masaya na si Jameela sa kanyang pamilya at unti-unti na niyang natutunang mahalin si Jubair hanggang sa mabuntis siya ulit nito at manganak. Tumandang binata naman si Fahad at hindi na umibig pang muli. Dinamdam niya lahat ng sakit na naranasan niya. Hanggang isang araw, nabalitaan na lang ni Jameela na nagkasakit at namatay na si Fahad dahil sa sakit at depresyon. Inilibing siya agad na naayon sa isang kultura ng Muslim na kung saan sa loob ng dalawampu’t apat na oras ay dapat nakalibing na.

Sa hindi inaasahang pagkakataon ay may biglang dumating na isang package para kay Jameela. Isa itong kahon ng sapatos na may katamtamang laki. Dahan-dahan niya itong binuksan. Nagtataka siya dahil walang pangalang nakalagay dito kung sino ang nagpadala nito. Nang tuluyang mabuksan niya ang kahon, nakita niya ang isang puting sulat na nakalagay sa isang sobre at limang daang libong piso na buo pang nakatali. Binuksan niya ang sulat at biglang tumulo ang kanyang mga luha.

“Para sa iyo kalimo ko. Wala akong sama ng loob sa iyo. Hindi mo kasalanan ang lahat. Kasalanan ko kung bakit isinilang akong mahirap at hindi kita nagawang ipaglaban. Kung sana ay nakaipon ako ng mas maaga ay sana tayo na ang nagkatuluyan. Ingatan mo si Fajam ah. Sa kanya ‘yang pera na iyan. Para sa kanyang pag-aaral. Kahit hindi ko man siya tunay na anak ay alam kong sa pangalan pa lang niya ay hindi mo pa rin maikakaila na mahal mo pa rin ako pero hindi na tayo pwedi sapagkat haram sa Islam na makiapid. Hayaan mong mahalin kita kahit may asawa ka na. Hayaan mong mahalin ko ang anak mo kahit hindi ko siya tunay na anak. At hayaan mo ng mahalin kita habambuhay at kahit sa kabilang buhay. Kung ipapanganak man akong muli, ikaw at ikaw pa rin ang aking mamahalin. Walang isang minuto na hindi kita iniisip. Mahal na mahal kita kalimo ko.” Hindi pa niya natatapos basahin ang sulat ay tumulo ang mga luha ni Jameela at halos mabura na ang mga tinta ng sulat sa luha nito. Umiiyak si Jameela habang yakap-yakap nang mahigpit ang sulat. Nang ‘di anu-ano’y biglang nagdilim ang kanyang paningin at hinimatay.

 

Ashia A. Abdulatiph

“The dog is flying.” Our GEC104 professor was in the middle of talking about the difference between humanities and science. I looked outside and drowned out her droning voice. The cloud looked like it was about to let down a strong rainfall.

The ant wandering on my desk died. I killed it.

Ping.

A text came through. The sharp sound disturbed the still and dull atmosphere. Reverberating throughout the classroom and echoing inside my head. My nerves flared out, my anxiety soared, the sound of death signaling another funeral.  I took a deep breath and reached towards my phone, turning it on.

Come home. The message said.

Come die. I thought. I want to puke. Puke, a word commonly mis-reported to be invented by Shakespeare. Deafening. Assassination. Bedazzling. Bedazzling light. Bedazzling beauty. Bedazzling life.

The shuffling of feet signaled the end of the class, pulling me out of my reverie. Having calmed down a little, I quickly arranged my things and left the room with my classmates. Others will be going to their next class, others will eat in some restaurant in comcent., and I will be walking home. Towards death.

Death. A funeral. How fast a life passes on. All used up. How easy it is to take a life. Life and Death. How many people die each day? Around 150,000 people. There is no cure to this, just enjoy the interval. The big secret. The miracle.  We will all die one day, so let go and live. Around 300,000 babies are born every day. That’s twice more….

Without realizing it, I have reached home with my feet guiding me through the familiar path. The house loomed over me, offering no solace from these scattered thoughts. I stood at the front of the door for a while. I watched as a yellow butterfly took flight and fly away. I felt the start of the rainfall as a rain drop fell on my skin. I reached for the doorknob, took a deep breath then opened the door.

“Assalamuaikom.” I said as I entered the house. It was dark inside, no light was turned on. Nothing was replaced or even moved here and yet everything felt so different. The air, it’s the air. A great absence can be felt, like a black hole sucking the light from its surrounding. My father had died. Two month ago, a lifetime ago.

A man was in the living room. There was no one in the house except for him. My sister is still in school and my mother is drowning herself with work. He was sitting in the dark, wearing nothing but black. The only light source coming from the slightly opened window casts shadows around him, making him look grim. A grim reaper out on a mission.

“Bapa Ito.”

“Get ready. We should finish this as fast as possible. It’s better that way.”

“Okay.” I started to walk away when he called out my name.

“Rahim.”

I stopped and looked back. He was walking towards me. In the dim living room, I watched his frail and weak frame, a stark contrast against his usual jovial and jolly energy. He stood before me, placing my trembling hand in between his hands.

On the third day of my father’s funeral, Bapa Ito pulled me away. He grasped my shoulder. His voice full of venom. His eyes full of anger. “Rahim, do you understand why your father is gone? They killed him, those bastards.”

That was the first time I felt scared of Bapa Ito.  With his bloodshot eyes, his booming voice, and the force of his grip on my shoulder, he was like a mad man.

“An ambush. They shot at him, three men. While he was on his way home, they shot at him, at his head. He laid there on the pavement.”

Noticing that I was beginning to feel scared, he calmed down. He caressed my cheeks then whispered, “Avenge your father. For your mother, for your family, for your honor, for the clan. For everyone that he and you love. Kill them. That is your job as his son. For your maratabat.”

“It’ll all be fine.” Bapa Ito said, bringing me back to the present.

“I am scared, bapa.”

“Stop thinking for now. Empty you’re head. Promise me that.”

I nodded. He released my hand then urged me to move along.

I went up to my room, then closed the door behind me. I am scared but I know it is something I must do. Something I am expected to do.

I looked at the clothes I have prepared earlier. Much like the clothes bapa Ito is wearing, it was all in black. I quickly changed and then went to my cabinet. I opened the drawer to get the gun. .45 caliber. The metal cold to the touch. I safely put it inside my waistband then walked downstairs, going back to the living room.

Bapa Ito noticed me and said, “Oh, you’re ready. I’ll start the motorcycle.”

It had started to rain heavily when we got out of the house. The sound of the water dropping on the metal roofs and the sound of thunder from lightning made things a little hard to hear. The roar of the motorcycle’s engine added to the cacophony of sounds.

Bapa Ito handed me a helmet. “Here. Put this over your head. It will cover your face.”

I put the helmet on then sat at the back. Bapa Ito also wore a helmet. As soon as we have settled, we were on the way. Towards the target.

“That’s him in the orange jacket. I’ll stop the motor when we are near him then you shoot. Understand?”

I nodded, even though he can’t see me.

I took out the gun from my waistband. I held it in my right hand – the pointy finger on the trigger, my thumb on one side of the handle while my pinky, middle, and ring finger on the other. I put my other hand below the barrel to provide support.

The motor stopped.

I raised my arms.

Then aimed.

At the guy in the orange jacket. At his head.

Then I pulled the trigger. Felt the gun’s mechanism release a bullet hunting its target.

Bang! Thud!

The sounds vibrated in my ear. Traveling throughout my whole body. Finding its way into my head. Imprinting itself into my memory.

And we were speeding along. The roar of the engine and the downfall of rain drowning out the screams. I barely noticed these sounds. Barely felt the coldness and my clothes sticking to my body. In my head, there was only the cold metal in my right hand, my heart thudding against my chest, and that sound inside my head repeating again and again.

Bang! Thud !Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud !Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud !Bang! Thud! Bang!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Ping.

When I became aware of my surrounding, I find myself inside my room.

It’s that sound again. I feel fear slowly creeping in. Did he also have a son? Did he even have a wife? He looked young. Will I also be killed? Will I be killed by his son? His father? His cousin? When I die, who will kill for me? Bapa Ito? Will it continue? This cycle of death?

I buried myself into my bed. I started crying and gasping as tears forcefully cascades down my face. In my blurry vision, I saw a moth resting on the corner of the room.

The target. I do not even know his name. I did not want to know who he is.

According to a statistic, one hundred fifty thousand people die every day. Today, one of them died by my hand.