Anifa Alonto

The first night Zulaika spent in the evacuation center, the floor reeked of dust, sweat, and fear. She was just eight, curled up between her grandmother, Ina Subaida, and her Aunt Amina. Around her, kids cried, and prayers drifted through the dark. Outside, Marawi’s sky was on fire with orange flashes of gunfire, lighting up the night. That’s when Zulaika realized, young as she was, that home could vanish, just like that.

Her father, Imran, had not come with them.

When the military ordered an immediate evacuation, Imran stayed behind at the padian, the old market where his grocery store stood like a second home. He told Ina Subaida he would follow. But that morning, fear had many faces. Imran feared losing the goods he had built from years of labor. He feared the chaos of extremists roaming the streets. Most of all, he feared for Toto and Dodong, his two Christian workers, men who had been with him since the store was nothing but wooden shelves and borrowed capital.

“They will kill them if they’re seen,” he said. “I won’t leave them.”

Days in the evacuation center dragged into weeks. Food came in irregular rations. Water, too, was scarce. Families who once lived in concrete houses now slept on thin mats, their dignity traded for survival. Children lined up for pater. Mothers queued for relief goods that sometimes never arrived. Nights were cold, the thin mats providing little warmth. Fear traveled through the center as rumors of nearby attacks stirred fresh panic. People got sick quickly. Every cough could be a fever, every scream a signal of new loss. Sometimes help came through the efforts of private groups, volunteers who brought soap, medicine, and just a sliver of hope. One morning, while Zulaika played with other children in the spaces between tents, she wandered and saw trucks carrying rice and blankets. She heard the name We Are Marawi, whispered with gratitude by mothers, like a prayer that still worked. Suddenly, she felt jealous seeing other kids with their mothers.

Zulaika’s mother was not with them. But she had her aunt Amina and Ina Subaida.

With no end of the Siege of Marawi in sight, and cramped in the evacuation site battered by heat, rain, and desperation, Ina Subaida faded a little with each passing day. She coughed through the night, bones sharp beneath her skin. Amina, only eighteen, and deciding to keep her college education on hold, became a mother to Zulaika overnight, washing clothes, lining up for rations, trying to keep the young girl from falling apart. Zulaika had tried asking about her mother, but Ina Subaida told her that it was not the right time for the truth to be revealed, that one day she would understand.

Amina just nodded, trying her best to give Zulaika the armor and care that was expected of a mother.

As weeks passed, the situation in the evacuation center did not improve. There was no money coming in. Every day, they waited for Imran to arrive.

But it was Toto and Dodong who finally came.

They looked hollow, thinner than before, carrying news too heavy to say. Imran had helped them escape Ground Zero through back alleys and broken walls, disguising them, guiding them until they reached safety. When they parted, Imran raised his hands as soldiers approached.

He never fired. He didn’t even get the chance. One bullet, and he was gone. A soldier thought he was an extremist.

Zulaika, in shock, whispered to her Aunt Amina, “Abuya didn’t make it out?”

Toto looked away, eyes downcast, shoulders burdened with sorrow and grief, while Dodong wept.

***

Long before the Siege, before the gunfire and the ashes, Zulaika’s story started with a quieter rebellion.

Imran met Katrina at the state university in Marawi. Both studied business, both dreamed bigger than their families allowed. Imran was a Meranaw Muslim, raised in tradition. Katrina was a Bisaya Christian from Bukidnon, strong in her faith and stubborn when it counted. They connected over long talks and shared prayers. Katrina saw something beautiful in Islam. Perhaps it was the discipline, the kindness, the sense of family. Love came fast and risky. But Katrina’s faith grew from understanding, not just feelings.

Their families hated the idea of them together. Imran’s family wouldn’t accept a Christian daughter-in-law, afraid it would shame their name. Katrina’s parents refused to accept a Muslim husband, calling it a betrayal. Both sides tried to break them apart, threw threats and guilt their way, but they held on to each other and to the faith they were building together.

Shortly after graduation, Katrina embraced Islam. She took the name Mariam. Following Islamic rites, she and Imran married in secret.  Fully aware that neither family would ever accept their union, they fled the city to begin life anew. A year later, they were gifted with a daughter, Zulaika.

For four years, they lived between shadows and borrowed peace, until their families found them. The families forced them apart. Zulaika, barely three, was taken by Imran’s family. Imran was made to stay silent, his wishes buried beneath the will of others, his father in particular. Mariam was sent away. In defiance, neither remarried. Love became a wound they chose to keep open.

One night, Mariam sat in her cozy Abu Dhabi loft, frozen in front of the TV as live news from Marawi played out. She had built a good life as an assistant manager at a global clothing brand, independent, respected. But every night, head pressed to the floor in sajdah, she still prayed for Imran and the child ripped away from her.

One night, her heart stopped. There was Ina Subaida on the Filipino channel. She was frail, coughing, begging for help in a crowded evacuation center. The only person in Imran’s family who ever showed her real kindness. The only one who gave her warmth when everyone else had nothing but bitterness and anger.

Mariam didn’t even think. She booked a flight home before the panic could fade.

Marawi met her with rubble and sorrow. She arrived too late. Ina Subaida was gone, lost to illness and the misery of the camps, her gentle spirit snuffed out. Imran had vanished, too. War had finished what family strife had begun.

Zulaika just stood there when Mariam dropped to her knees and hugged her tight, both of them sobbing. Zulaika’s tears came fast and hot, each one heavy with the loss of her Abuya and Ina Subaida, with memories of hunger, fear, and cold nights as a displaced child. And now, finally, the mother she’d been waiting for. She wanted to ask her mother many questions: why she left, what the future would be, but at that moment, Zulaika was enveloped by a feeling she had not felt for a long time. The scent of her mother against her skin brought relief that she had waited for so long.

Mariam did not want her daughter to live in uncertainty. Not again, she told herself. There might be an invisible hand behind this. She will not let her daughter slip again. Perhaps, in the ruins of this conflict, a new life can start.

Mariam took Zulaika and Amina back with her to Abu Dhabi. Amina would study again. Zulaika finally slept in a bed that did not reek of loss and despair. Still, Marawi clung to them in nightmares, in news headlines, in unanswered questions.

***

Nearly nine years later, Ground Zero still bleeds. Thousands of people are waiting to go home. Billions were promised, but the city’s still in ruins, lives still in pieces. Greed outlasts the smoke. Extremism, twisted by hate, leaves wounds that go deeper than gunfire.

War doesn’t care. It kills fathers who only wanted to protect their families. It breaks mothers, no matter where they are. It forces kids to grow up long before they’re ready.

But in the ashes of the padian, those left behind carry more than memories. They carry love that’s been lost, courage hammered out in chaos, and scars that never really heal. In those quiet, shattered places, only the human heart remembers everything that happened, and everything no one should have to forget.

Almayrah A. Tiburon

Alas-otso ng umaga. Matapos nilang makapag-almusal, agad na pumasok sa opisina si Minor. Samantala, si Aisah ay naglinis ng bahay, at pumasok sa kwarto upang kunin ang mga labahin.

Kinuha niya ang pantalon ni Minor at nadukot niya mula rito ang isang pregnancy test—may dalawang malinaw na guhit.

Tumulo ang kanyang mga luha at napahandusay siya sa sahig, at sa halip na katahimikan, napahagulgol siya.

Sa kabila ng lahat, napakabuting asawa ni Aisah kay Minor. Iniwan niya ang kanyang trabaho at piniling manatili sa bahay upang alagaan siya at ang kanilang anak na si Bokary, na dalawang taong gulang pa lamang. Ngunit sa oras na iyon, puno ng galit ang nararamdaman ni Aisah.

“Allahuakbar! Bakit niya nagawa sa akin ito?” bulong niya sa sarili. Sa lahat ng taon nilang magkasama, hindi niya inakalang magagawa iyon ng taong minahal niya.

Makalipas ang isang linggo, napansin ni Minor ang pagbabago sa kanya ng asawa; ang malamig na tingin, ang mabilis na pag-init ng ulo sa maliliit na bagay—tila lahat ay sanhi ng sama ng loob.

Habang naghahapunan, tahimik si Aisah. Ngunit hindi nagtagal, napagdesisyunan ni Minor na basagin ang katahimikang iyon.

 “Aisah, ano’ng problema? Ilang araw ka nang ganito. Kung may problema ka, sabihin mo.” May halong pagkabahala ang tinig ni Minor.

“Baka ikaw ang may dapat sabihin sa akin! Baka may gusto kang ipagtapat sa akin?” sagot ni Aisah, na may garalgal na boses.

“Diretsuhin mo nga ako, dahil hindi ako manghuhula!” tugon ni Minor.

“Minor… nakita ko ang PT sa bulsa mo! Lailahailallah!” sigaw ni Aisah, ang bawat salita ay puno ng sakit. “Ano’ng nagawa ko? Ano’ng kasalanan ko?”

Ang mga tanong ni Aisah. Ang totoo, ipagtatapat naman sana niya ngunit naghihintay ng tamang tiyempo, naunahan lamang siya ng babae.

“O ano, magpaliwanag ka!” panunumbat ni Aisah. “Ilang araw na ang lumipas, paulit-ulit sa utak ko ang mga tanong na ito. Ako na nagmahal sayo, ibinigay ang buong buhay ko, at wala akong ginawa kundi ang pananatili sa bahay na ito at alalahanin ang lahat ng pangangailangan mo!”

Habang lumalapit si Minor upang subukang kalmahin siya, malakas at puno ng galit na itinulak ni Aisah ang kanyang asawa. Sinubukan niyang yakapin siya, ngunit nagwala at umiiyak ang babae, hanggang sa nanghina siya at dumilim ang kanyang paningin.

Unti-unti niyang idinilat ang mga mata. Puting liwanag ang bumabalot sa paligid, at sa gilid ay may mga aparatong kumikilos na hindi pamilyar sa kanya. Tatlong dextrose ang nakabitin—puti, dilaw, at asul—na nakaturok sa kanya. Sa bandang kanan ng kanyang ulunan, may screen na gumagalaw ang mga kulot-kulot na linya. Naka-oxygen siya, may nakaipit na aparato sa paa at mga sensor sa dibdib.

Nasa ospital siya. Nanghihina at ramdam niya na ang sakit na naramdaman niya sa nakaraang araw ay hindi lamang sa diskusyon nila ni Minor.

Sa kabilang dulo ng kwarto, si Minor ay nakikipag-usap sa kanyang ina sa cellphone na si Malika, habang tahimik niyang pinagmamasdan si Aisah. Nang makita niyang nagising ito matapos ang mahigit sampung araw na pananatili sa ICU, natakot siya at dali-daling lumabas. Sa ilang sandali, dumating na ang doktor at dalawang nars.

Matapos siyang mailipat sa regular na kwarto, agad na tumabi si Minor. Sa mga mata nito, makikita ang labis na pag-aalala.

“Kumusta ka na? Ano ang nararamdaman mo? May masakit ba? Nagugutom ka ba? Ano’ng gusto mong kainin?” sunud-sunod niyang tanong, puno ng pag-aalala at pagmamahal. Ngunit sa isipan ni Aisah, bumabalik ang panlolokong ginawa sa kanya—ang sugat na iniwan nito sa kanyang puso.

Makalipas ang walong araw, nakauwi na sila sa bahay. Patuloy pa rin ang panunuyo at pag-aalaga ni Minor, ngunit sa puso ni Aisah, naroon ang malamig na hangin ng kawalan ng tiwala. Alam niya, kahit anong gawin ng asawa, wala na ang dating init ng kanilang relasyon—ang pag-ibig ay tila natapos na, at ang tiwala ay hindi na maibabalik.

“Ya Allah! Bakit niya nagawa sa akin ito? Saan ako nagkamali? Saan ako nagkulang? Lailahailallah…”

Bulalas niya sa sarili habang nangingilid ang mga luha na hindi niya mapigil. Ang kalungkutan at galit ay tila bumabalot sa kanya sa bawat hininga. Hindi niya namalayan na sa pintuan ay nakamasid si Suhaylah, ang kanyang kapatid, at nakita ang pinakailalim na sakit na matagal na niyang tiniis.

Sa pagkakataong iyon, alam ni Aisah na hindi na niya puwedeng itago ang lahat. Hindi na niya kayang proteksyunan ang asawa mula sa galit ng pamilya, kaya nilapitan niya ang kapatid at isinapuso ang lahat.

“Ano?! Astagfirullah! Nagtiwala kami na hindi siya gagawa ng ganyang lihim, na hindi man lamang nagpaalam o kahit sinabihan ka man lang. Akala namin ay sapat ka na sa kanya. Kung ganito ring mamamatay ka sa sama ng loob, mas mabuti nang ibigay na niya ang talak, at isauli ka na niya sa amin!”

Galit at nag-aalab ang boses ni Suhaylah, ang bawat salita’y tila apoy na sumusunog sa puso ni Aisah.

Samantala, si Minor ay wala sa bahay. Nandoon siya sa pangalawang asawa—pitong buwan nang buntis. Biglang sumakit ang tiyan ng babae, kaya dali-daling isinugod sa ospital. Ilang oras ang nakalipas, isinilang ang isang malusog na batang babae.

Makalipas ang limang araw, muling nagtipon-tipon sa bahay ang malalapit na kamag-anak ni Aisah, gayundin ang pamilya ni Minor. Ang tensyon ay halata sa bawat galaw at tingin. Sa gitna ng lahat, isang datu ang pumagitna—magpapaayos ng usapin, magpapakalma sa lahat, at magbibigay ng payo kung ano ang pinakamainam na gawin para sa kapayapaan ng pamilya.

“Ey miyatay anan a Minor! Paanong nagawa niya ito sa kapatid ko, talaken ka si Aisah, isuli mo siya sa amin!” sigaw ni Abdul, paos ang tinig sa galit dahil hindi maatim kung paano nasasaktan si Aisah. Kumuyom ang kanyang mga kamao habang mabilis na bumaba ang kamay sa baywang, tila bubunot ng baril. Sa isang iglap ay napigil siya ng mga lalaking nakapaligid—mahigpit siyang hinawakan sa mga balikat at bisig, saka marahang inilayo upang pakalmahin ang nag-aalimpuyong damdamin.

Ang kanilang galit ay lalo pang pinaiigting ng kalagayan ni Aisah—tahimik ngunit malinaw ang bakas ng pagkasugat ng damdamin. Sa pananaw ng mga nakapaligid, hindi sana hahantong sa ganitong sitwasyon kung naging tapat lamang si Minor mula pa sa simula.

Sa kulturang Meranaw, maaaring tanggapin ang duwaya, ang pagkakaroon ng higit sa isang asawa, kung ito’y dumaan sa wastong pag-uusap, paggalang, at pahintulot ng unang asawa. Ngunit ang nangyari ay hindi ganoon.

Sa gitna ng tensyon, pumagitna ang datu.

“Tareg kano pasin!” malalim at awtoridad ang tinig ng datu, na tila humihiwa sa nag-aalimpuyong ingay sa loob ng silid. Unti-unting tumahimik ang mga nagngangalit na tinig.

“Huwag ninyong hayaang manaig ang galit. Nandito tayo bilang isang pamilya, bilang dalawang angkang pinag-isa ng pag-aasawa. Ang layunin natin ay hindi upang paghiwa-hiwalayin ang ating dugo, kundi upang pangalagaan ang maratabat ng bawat isa.”

Saglit siyang tumingin sa magkabilang panig ng silid—sa pamilya ni Aisah at sa pamilya ni Minor—bago muling nagsalita.

“Alalahanin ninyo ang itinuturo ng ating relihiyon. Sa Islam, bagaman pinahihintulutan ang talak, hindi ito basta-bastang ginagawa. Sinasabi ng mga pantas ng relihiyon na ito ang isa sa mga pinakakinamumuhiang pinahihintulutang bagay sa paningin ng Allah. Kaya’t ang mag-asawa ay hinihikayat na ayusin muna ang kanilang gusot sa pamamagitan ng pag-uusap, pagpapayo, at paghanap ng pagkakasundo.”

Bahagya siyang yumuko, tila binibigyang-diin ang bawat salita.

“Hindi rin tama na tayo mismo ang maggatong sa paghihiwalay ng dalawang taong pinagbuklod na ng kasal. Ang tungkulin natin bilang pamilya ay tulungan silang mahanap ang daan ng pagkakaunawaan, hindi ang daan ng pagkakawatak.”

Huminga siya nang malalim bago muling nagsalita.

“Kung tunay nating pinahahalagahan ang maratabat ng ating mga angkan, pairalin natin ang kahinahunan at karunungan.”

Pagkaraan ay tumingin siya kay Minor.

“Bakit hindi muna natin pakinggan si Minor?”

Unti-unting humupa ang ingay, bagaman nanatiling mabigat ang hangin sa pagitan ng mga naroon.

Dahan-dahang tumayo si Minor. Saglit siyang nag-atubili, tila naghahanap ng lakas upang buuin ang mga salitang matagal na niyang kinimkim.

“Kung ako ang tatanungin,” wika niya, basag ang tinig, “ayaw kong hiwalayan si Aisah. Nangyari ngang nagkaroon ako ng pangalawang pamilya,” patuloy niya, “ngunit hindi ibig sabihin na pababayaan ko si Aisah, kaya kong gawin ang kondisyon na pantay na pakikitungo sa kanilang dalawa. Di aken katiger a rata a ginawa ko imanto, agu tanto aken a pekhababayan si Aisah—mahal na mahal ko si Aisah alam niya iyan.”

Humigpit ang kanyang pagkakahawak sa gilid ng mesa, na para bang doon siya kumakapit upang hindi tuluyang matumba.

“Ayaw kong ibigay ang talak,” dagdag niya, halos pabulong na, “ka tanto a aargaan aken sekaniyan at hindi ko kayang mawala siya sa akin.”

“Aya maana lalag ko na ganito talaga,” marahang wika ni Sabdullah, ang ama ni Minor. Mabigat ang kanyang tinig, tila dala ang pagod ng isang amang nahaharap sa gusot ng sariling pamilya. “May mga pagsubok na dumarating sa ating buhay—mga muskila na hindi natin inaasahan. Ngunit naniniwala ako na ang lahat ng ito ay may layunin ang ating Panginoong Allah. Ang hinihiling lamang namin ay maging maayos ang lahat—lalo na para sa ating mga anak, sina Aisah at Minor.”

Sandaling nanahimik ang silid bago nagsalita ang ama ni Aisah.

“Aya man aki a maregen na tanto a masakit rekami a masosowa aya,” wika ni Alikhan na ama ni Aisah, pigil ang galit ngunit ramdam ang sakit sa bawat salita. “Si Aisah… alam ninyo, at alam din ni Minor, kung gaano siya kabuting asawa.”

Saglit siyang huminto, saka tumingin kay Minor na tila naghahanap ng sagot sa isang tanong na matagal nang bumabagabag sa kanyang dibdib.

“Ang hindi namin maintindihan,” patuloy niya, pinipigil ang panginginig ng tinig, “ay nagawa niyang itago ang lahat—parang isang taong kumikilos sa dilim, na ayaw ipaalam sa sinuman ang kanyang ginagawa.”

Saglit siyang tumigil, saka muling nagsalita, mas mabigat ang bawat salita.

“Hindi naman lingid sa amin na sa ating kultura ay may duwaya. May mga pagkakataong tinatanggap ito ng pamilya kung ito’y dumaraan sa tamang paraan—sa maayos na paliwanagan at paggalang.”

Napatingin siya kay Minor, ang mga mata ay puno ng pagkadismaya.

“Masaya ang pagsasama nina Minor at Aisah. Wala kaming nakitang senyales na may ganito palang itinatago si Minor. At higit sa lahat, alam ninyo ang kalagayan ng anak namin—may sakit siya sa puso. Hindi siya maaaring mabigla sa ganitong paraan.” Huminga siya nang malalim, tila pinipigil ang galit na maaaring kumawala anumang sandali.

Sa isang sulok ng silid ay tahimik na umiiyak si Aisah. Wala siyang sinasabi, ngunit ang kanyang katahimikan ay tila mas mabigat pa sa anumang sigaw. Mabilis ang pag-angat-baba ng kanyang dibdib, at ang pawis ay unti-unting namumuo sa kanyang noo.

Napansin ito ni Suhaylah, ang kanyang kapatid. Agad siyang lumapit at kinuha ang librong nakapatong sa mesa. Marahan niya itong ipinaypay kay Aisah, tila umaasang mapapawi kahit kaunti ang init at bigat na bumabalot sa katawan ng kapatid.

Ngunit sa halip na gumaan, tila lalo pang nahirapan si Aisah sa paghinga.

Humigpit ang hawak niya sa damit sa may dibdib, na para bang doon niya sinusubukang pigilan ang sakit na unti-unting sumasakop sa kanyang katawan. Namutla ang kanyang mukha, at unti-unting nanghina ang kanyang tuhod.

Sa loob lamang ng ilang sandali ay umatake ang kanyang karamdaman.

Biglang nagkagulo ang silid. May sumigaw. May nagmamadaling tumayo. Nataranta ang marami.

Sa gitna ng lahat ay si Minor ang unang nakalapit. Hindi na siya nag-atubili. Mabilis niyang sinalo ang nanghihinang katawan ni Aisah at agad itong binuhat. Sa kanyang mukha ay mababasa ang takot—isang takot na hindi na niya kayang itago.

Buhat niya ang asawa habang mabilis na lumabas ng bahay. Ilang sandali pa’y isinakay niya ito at agad na pinaharurot ang sasakyan patungong ospital—na para bang sa bawat segundo ng kanilang paglalakbay ay nakasalalay hindi lamang ang buhay ni Aisah, kundi pati ang pag-asa niyang maituwid ang pagkakamaling minsan niyang itinago sa katahimikan.

Kinabukasan, dahan-dahang nagkamalay si Aisah. Marahan niyang iminulat ang mga mata, ngunit nananatiling mabigat ang kanyang ulo at tila umiikot pa rin ang kanyang paningin. Inilibot niya ang tingin sa loob ng silid ng ospital, na para bang may hinahanap na mukha. Ngunit wala roon ang taong inaasahan niyang makita.

Ang naroon lamang ay ang sariling pamilya. Nang mapansing nagising na ang anak, agad na lumapit si Binombao. Hindi na siya nagsalita. Mahigpit niyang niyakap si Aisah, na para bang sa yakap na iyon ay nais niyang pagaanin ang sakit na dinadala ng anak.

Samantala, si Minor ay nasa ibang bahay—sa piling ng kanyang pangalawang asawa na si Aminah. Naroon din ang ilan sa kanyang mga kamag-anak, gayundin ang pamilya ng babae. Sa loob ng silid ay ramdam ang tensyon na tila matagal nang kinikimkim.

Nag-maratabat ang pamilya ni Aminah.

Bihira lamang nilang makita si Minor, at bagaman alam nilang may nauna na itong pamilya, malinaw sa kanila ang isang bagay: kung pinili nitong magkaroon ng dalawang asawa, nararapat lamang na maging patas siya sa dalawa.

“Na tona ari i mapipikir ka sa pagari ami aya? Magpakalalaki ka!” matigas na wika ng panganay na kapatid ni Aminah. “Akala mo ba hindi namin alam kung gaano nagtitiis ang kapatid namin sayo? Pupunta ka lamang sa kanya kung kailan ka bakante. Hindi ba dapat malinaw at nakatakda kung anong mga araw ka nasa bawat asawa mo? Isinaka a mapiya a mama!”

Sandaling nanahimik ang silid matapos ang matalim na salita.

Maya-maya’y nagsalita ang datu, na kanina pa nakamasid sa gitna ng tensyon.

“Na banda aya mapiya na isaan tano so mamaan o antonaa i mapipikir iyan,” mahinahon niyang wika. “Hindi maaaring isang panig lamang ang ating pakinggan at hindi rin tama na agad tayong humusga. Alalahanin din natin ang itinuturo ng ating relihiyon. Sa Islam, bagaman pinahihintulutan ang talak, ito ay itinuturing na isa sa mga pinakakinamumuhiang pinahihintulutang bagay sa paningin ng Allah. Kaya’t hindi nararapat na tayo pa ang maging dahilan ng paghihiwalay ng mag-asawa.

Huminto siya sandali bago muling nagsalita.

“Ang totoo, dalawa rin ang asawa ko. Hindi naging madali sa simula, ngunit sa kalaunan ay nagkaroon kami ng pagkakaunawaan.”

Tumingin siya kay Minor.

“Nggiginawai tano, ipandapat iyo ron? Ano ang plano mo ngayon, Minor?”

Huminga nang malalim si Minor bago nagsalita. Halata sa kanyang mukha ang pagod at bigat ng sitwasyong kinakaharap niya.

“Aya rek akenon,” wika niya, dahan-dahan. “Alam ni Aminah kung ano ang nararamdaman ko para sa kanya. May anak din kami.”

Saglit siyang tumigil bago ipinagpatuloy ang mga salitang tila mabigat sa kanyang dibdib.

“Ayaw kong ibigay ang talak. So makapantag ko suporta ko rekiyan agu ko wata ami, at habang nandito ako ay ipagpapatuloy ko ang responsibilidad ko sa kanila.”

Hindi madali para kay Minor ang sabihin iyon. Ngunit sa sandaling iyon, alam niyang kailangan niyang harapin ang lahat—ang dalawang pamilya, ang kanilang inaasahan, at ang mga sugat na siya mismo ang nagbukas.

Walong taon na ang lumipas. Habang maingat na inaayos ni Aisah ang mga gamit ni Bokary, nakamasid siya sa batang abala sa paglalaro kasama ang isa pang batang magdadalawang taong gulang, si Alia na anak nila ni Sarip.

Si Sarip, mabuti at mahinahon, ay araw-araw na ipinaparamdam ang kanyang walang kapantay na pagmamahal kay Aisah. Tanggap niya si Bokary bilang sariling anak, minahal at inangkin bilang bahagi ng kanilang pamilya.

Tuwing nakikita naman ni Aisah si Bokary, tila nakikita niya ang imahe ni Minor dahil kamukha ng bata ang ama nito, bumabalik ang larawan ni Minor sa kanyang isipan—isang alaala na matagal nang itinatago sa mga lihim na sulok ng puso. Nasasaktan pa rin siya, at sa kabila ng maraming taon, ramdam pa rin ang pagmamahal niya kay Minor—pagmamahal na hindi tuluyang napawi, kahit ilang taong magkalayo ang kanilang landas at kahit pinipilit pa rin niya itong kalimutan.

Napabuntong-hininga siya at sa isang sandali ng pag-iisa, hindi niya napigilang mapaiyak habang nakatalikod sa mga bata.

“Ome, tara na, male-late na po ako,” biglang sambit ni Bokary.

Pinahid ni Aisah ang mga luha, binitbit si Alia, at lumabas sila ng bahay.

Samantala, si Minor ay nakatayo sa bintana, tahimik na pinagmamasdan ang paligid. Sa kanyang mga mata, bumalik ang lahat—ang simula ng kanilang pag-iibigan ni Aisah. Pakiramdam niya, sa mga sandaling iyon, sila lamang ang tao sa mundo, sa isang paraisong punung-puno ng kaligayahan. Dito, sa piling ni Aisah, ipinangako niya na wala nang ibang babaeng iibigin—siya lamang. Ngunit nagkamali siya. At kahit gustuhin niyang balikan ang nakaraan, alam niyang hindi na ito pwede.

“Aisah, kung alam mo lang ang lahat…” bulong niya sa sarili. “Hindi pa rin kita malimutan. Ikaw pa rin ang laman ng puso’t isipan ko. Pumayag ako na ibigay ko ang talak, upang palayain ka… ang sabi pa ng mga magulang mo’y kahit itali nila ako sayo’y ayaw mo na raw na makasama ako habambuhay.

Alam ko—mas pinili mo ang kapayapaan ng iyong puso kaysa sa pagsasama natin, na mas pinili mo ang maratabat mo. At kahit ganoon, kahit naghiwalay tayo, hindi naglaho ang pagmamahal ko sayo, Aisah… at hindi rin maglalaho hangga’t ako’y nabubuhay. Sa tuwing pinapayagan mo akong ilabas si Bokary, tuwing hawak ko ang maliit niyang kamay, tila bumabalik ang larawan natin—ikaw, ako, at ang bata—sa mundong para lang sa atin. Ang mga sandali ng saya, ng init ng ating tahanan, at ng mga pangarap na sabay nating binuo… Lahat ay bumabalik, at masakit—napakasakit—na maalalang ibinigay ko ang talak—ang paghihiwalay, at mas masakit pa nang malaman kong nakasal ka na, at may bagong buhay sa piling ng iba.

Pinili ko ang magparaya dahil ayaw kong masaktan ka pa, dahil alam kong hindi kakayanin ng puso mo ang duwaya. Mas pinili kong masaktan ako kaysa mawala ka sa mundo. Sapat na sa akin na ikaw ay buhay, masaya, at kasama ang iyong mga anak—at kahit sa ganitong paraan, mamahalin kita sa bawat tibok ng puso ko, sa bawat hininga, hanggang sa huli kong sandali.

“Ama, khan tano kon sabi ni ina, nakahain na raw po siya,” wika ni Jenan, ang anak ni Minor kay Aminah. Napangiti siya sa bata. Hinihila siya nito patungong kusina.

Nelson Dino

The night of February Three pressed in around Lamion. Heavy and humid, tinged with the brackish scent of the shallow waters beneath my stilts, along with the faint smoke drifting from nearby houses. I leaned over my notebook, reviewing my lessons and completing my assignment for Literary and Cultural Studies, the page glowing beneath a single flickering bulb.

My pen scratched quietly, a fragile beat against the night, a silent clamor vibrating in the shadows. Outside, the wind tugged at the garbage lining the face of the sea, brushing against the wooden stilts of my house, and lifting the thin floorboards with every gust.

I paused and listened to the laughter rising from nearby homes, warm and alive, and my chest tightened. I remember my grandmother’s voice, soft but firm. “Don’t forget, Lara Mina, even when the waves take, life goes on.” The words once seemed small, almost ordinary.

Now they anchored me to the floor beneath my feet, swaying slightly above the shallow, murky waters of Lamion. Hope and despair mingled like salt and water in my veins, sharpening my senses and reminding me that I am alive.

Then came the smell.

Sharp. Biting. Smoke mixed with the tang of wet wood; it is the smell of death dressed in firelight.

At first, I thought it was someone cooking too late. Then the bulb flickered and died. Darkness pressed against my eyes and my chest. I opened the door. Flames licked the stilts, crawling up the wooden pillars that held my house above the water. The fire moved fast and greedily, threatening to collapse the structure entirely.

My body froze.

I prayed. Not again. Not after the sea bore away my grandmother in the burning of the MV Lady Mary Gay, not after the storm that took my parents. And now—fire. The home that survived death, perched above the water like a fragile promise, was being devoured.

My memories flared like sparks.

I saw again my grandmother holding my hands on the deck of the burning ship, murmuring prayers as smoke curled into the sky. I heard my father shouting over the storm, calling my name. I saw my mother’s pale, smiling face, reaching out, then the waves swallowing them all.

Now fire roared where stilts once held my life. I rushed inside, grabbing my bag, my notebook, and a few photos of my family. Flames hissed close, snapping as if they knew what I was trying to save.

“Astaghfirullah,” I whispered, and ran.

Neighbors called after me, hands gripping my shoulders. The roof cracked and collapsed. Planks splintered into the water below. Sparks spiraled into the night sky like lost fireflies, a sight of beautiful terror. I did not cry. Shock pinned me in place.

I was reviewing my lessons.

I was answering my task.

By dawn, the house above the water was gone. The university gym was converted into a temporary shelter. Canvas tents lined the polished floor, families huddled together, murmuring their grief. I was given a small space, a thin mat on which I sat, clutching my bag to my chest.

The air smelled of damp canvas, smoke, and fear heavy with people’s loss. I pressed myself into a corner, almost insignificant in the crowd, listening to the echoes of grief and imagining the stilts of my house collapsing again under flames.

The next morning, a notice spread across the gym. Ma’am Joyce, the Chancellor, announced the suspension of classes for students affected by the fire, giving us time to recover, to tend to our losses, and to breathe. Relief settled gently in my chest. The weight of lessons was lifted, if only for a moment. Even small pauses, I reminded myself, are gifts.

Still, my mind turned restlessly.

Where will I live if I cannot rebuild the house on stilts? Where will I get money for wood, nails, and labor?

Supplies became scarce. The recent sinking involving Aleson Shipping Lines has suspended trips from Zamboanga to Jolo. Even ferries to Tawi-Tawi were canceled. The arrival of rice, canned goods, and cooking oil was delayed. Prices rose like a stubborn tide overnight. Scarcity bloomed like a bitter flower; patience burned like cold fire. Yet even cold fire, I tell myself, can offer warmth to those willing to endure.

I imagined walking through an empty market, asking for rice, oil, and firewood. I imagined trading the little I earned from my MSU TCTO student assistantship, followed by the rhythm of rationing, sweating, and surviving. Each plan felt fragile, but every thread can still be woven into a stronger cloth.

Then I remember the message from our dean. Ma’am Joyce had instructed that university allowances must be expedited for students affected by the fire. Relief coiled in my chest. It will not rebuild my house or replace everything we have lost, but it will help me begin. Some rice, a few cans of fish or meat, maybe a small bundle of nails. A faint light appeared. Survival first. Rebuilding later. Even the smallest light can guide a heavy heart.

And then came the people bringing proof of humanity.

Volunteers from Bongao with the MSU TCTO Disaster Risk Reduction and Management team arrived carrying sacks of rice, canned goods, and blankets. Neighbors brought baskets of fish from the shore, offering them with quiet nods. Students organized clean water, placing containers beside our tents. Someone even left a small bottle of cooking oil near my mat.

Humanity stitched itself through Lamion, turning loss into a fragile living whole, patched by a show of mercy, from which kindness became a quiet lighthouse in the storm.

My memories returned, unbidden.

Like an apparition, I saw my grandmother stirring a pot over a kerosene stove, singing while I spilled rice and laughed at my clumsiness. I saw my mother sewing late into the night, humming songs of the sea. Then I saw my father teaching me how to measure wood, how to hammer nails, and how to rebuild what breaks. Even broken things, I remember, can still hold beauty.

I pressed my hands to my cheeks, tasting tears. They were all gone. I was alone. But survival can be stubborn like a pulse stirred by fear. Fear became my companion, solitude my teacher, and despair my secret fuel. Still, hope persisted beneath the weight.

The next morning, I dressed in borrowed clothes and returned to campus. I swept floors, filed documents, and ran errands. A staff member told me that I should rest.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I need to be here.”

At night, back in the gym, I unpacked my bag. My notebook survived. I traced familiar words and imagined the house again—stilts first.

I started mapping it out on the floor using broken broomsticks. I measured with my feet, counted planks in my head, and traced walls in the air. Every imagined plank was a promise.

I closed my eyes and let the gym floor sway like water. I walked carefully, as if already above the sea. In my mind, the house will rise not through memory alone, but also from careful and deliberate planning. The stilts will become fingers, touching sky and water at once.

Two days later, the university allowance arrived. I counted the bills carefully. Enough for food. Not enough to rebuild. My chest tightened, then steadied as I reminded myself again. Survival first. Rebuilding later. Even small beginnings carry hope.

I stepped outside with my supplies and imagined the stilts rising again, one corner at a time.

But it is a start.

When night came, I spoke softly to the wind, to my grandmother, and to the sea that has taken so much of my life. “I will try. I will endure.” Then a breeze moved gently across Lamion, as if remembering us all.

The kindness of strangers, the proof of humanity, flowed through the night like steady waves.

Lamion grew quiet again, mourning its losses. Inside the gym, among tents, I traced my life through memory, planning, and survival. Fire took the house. Scarcity took certainty. The sea took my family.

But no force can take my persistence.

And I cling to it like a memory, a page, a plank, and an imagined stilt at a time, swaying over Lamion like the heartbeat of my persistence, fragile and unbroken, a living oxymoron of grief and hope, sorrow, and strength.

Today I may be homeless, but I am still Lara Mina Santuari. That is good enough. It is a start.

Photo by Philippine Star

Shayra A. Macaombao

The bouquet felt heavier than it should.

Salma turned it slowly in her hands, careful not to crush the white and cream petals. Around her, the small bridal room hummed with excitement. Her aunties were already holding their phones up, finding the best angle. Her cousins were whispering, retouching their lipstick, adjusting their hijabs in the mirror they all shared.

A knock was heard from the other side. Salma’s fingers tightened around the bouquet. She forced a small smile. She watched her reflection in the mirror. Her hijab framed her face neatly. She looked composed. She looked like a woman on a happy day.

But why did it feel like her lungs were forgetting how to work?

Another knock was heard. This time, she closed her eyes.

And just like that, she was back in Brgy. Sarimanok, three days before Eid, sitting cross-legged on the thin mattress in the corner as the smell of palapa and tilapia wrapped around the crowded sala.

It had been their small family tradition. An iftar salo-salo at home, a few days before ‘Eid, when everyone tried to come back, no matter how busy their lives had become. The plastic tablecloth was crowded with plates, classic fruit salad, and korma.

Salma sat between two younger cousins, half-listening to their story about online classes, half-listening to the adults seated around the low table. They thought their voices blended with the clatter and chatter.

They were wrong.

“Na-text na ako ni Kuya,” her father said quietly, wiping his mouth with a tissue. “Sabi niya, okay daw sila if after Eid na ang formal na pag-akyat.”

“Alhamdulillah,” one of her titas replied. “At least sa pamilya pa rin mapupunta ang bata. Mas maganda na pinsan kaysa stranger.”

Her aunt’s voice floated above the noise. “And mabait naman ’yang anak mo. She will understand. Good daughter ’yan.”

“Buti nga sa kanya, may plano na,” another tita laughed softly. “Yung isa, ayaw pa rin mag-decide hanggang ngayon.”

The “isa” did not need a name. Everyone knew they meant Amina, her older sister. The lawyer. The independent one. The one they had stopped pushing, not because they wanted to, but because they had learned they could not move her.

She knew very well what Islam said about marriage. That a woman’s consent was required. That she had the right to say no. She had heard it in khutbahs, in seminars, in stories the teachers shared after class. Once, she had even raised her hand and asked, just to be sure. “So if the girl doesn’t want, the marriage can’t happen, right?” The ustadha had smiled and nodded. “Yes, Salma. Walang pilitan sa Islam.”

But this knowledge sat like a small, fragile thing inside her chest, something that could so easily be crushed by what was happening in front of her.

No one was asking her.

The conversation moved around her like water finding its own path, flowing easily between her father and titos and titas, never once turning toward her.

Salma stared at the rice on her plate, her appetite shrinking with each word. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her glass of water.

Across the table, Amina caught her eye.

Her sister’s brows knit together in a question: Are you okay?

Salma gave the smallest nod.

She could say something now, she thought. She could clear her throat, set her spoon down, and say, “Ayaw ko.” She could remind them of what they all claimed to know about a woman’s right to choose.

But in the space between her thought and her tongue, other voices rose:

Good daughters don’t embarrass their parents in front of relatives.

Good daughters say yes, especially if it’s family.

Good daughters trust their elders know what’s best.

She felt all these unspoken rules pressing against her throat, heavier than any doctrine she had ever read.

The next morning, the house in Sarimanok was quieter. Amina was sitting at the edge of their shared bed, brushing out her hair when their mother knocked and opened the door a little.

“Anak, may aakyat na naman mamaya,” her mother said gently. “Pero ikaw pa rin ang masusunod, ha. We’re just… we’re just introducing them.”

Amina looked at their mother through the mirror, arching a brow. “Aakyat na naman, Ome? Hindi ba kayo napapagod?”

Her mother gave a strained smile. “Basta ikaw, if you don’t like, just say no. We understand.”

Salma, lying on her side pretending to scroll through her phone, watched the small exchange like a witness to a scene she had seen play out many times before.

There had been men from elite families, men with stable incomes, men with good reputations. Men whose names their titas liked to whisper as if they were charms that could secure her sister’s future: engineer, doctor, architect, businessman. Each time, Amina had listened politely, asked a few questions, then quietly said, “I’m not ready,” or “I don’t feel right about this,” or simply, “No.”

Each time, their parents had sighed, sometimes argued a little, but in the end, they had yielded.

“Baka hindi pa siya ready,” she had heard her father say months ago. “Abogada na ’yan. She knows what she wants. Hayaan na muna natin.”

Salma sometimes wondered what the difference was, what line had been drawn between them that placed one sister on the side of respected autonomy and the other on the side of silent obligation.

Was it age? Achievement? Income?

Amina had her own job, her own apartment in the city, her own money. She sent remittances instead of asking for an allowance. When she came home, she came home as a contributor.

Salma was still a student. Her tuition came from her father. Her fare, her food, her notebooks flowed from the same source.

Maybe, Salma thought bitterly, that was what it really meant to have freedom, not just knowing your rights, but being able to survive the consequences of insisting on them.

In the days that followed, the house moved around Salma with a kind of quiet purpose.

Her titas started coming over more often, slipping into the sala with the ease of people who owned part of the space. They talked about catering, about clothes, about possible dates “after Eid, inshaAllah.” They never mentioned the word “engagement” directly to her, as if avoiding it made it less real.

She wanted to say, I don’t even know him like that. I don’t like him like that. I don’t want this.

But every time she imagined saying it, she also imagined the looks, the disappointment and shock, the sermons about obedience and trust.

Salma lay on her bed, staring at the faint water stain on the ceiling. Her chest ached with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with fasting.

She had been crying in quiet bursts for days, in the bathroom, under her blanket, in the comfort of dark corners. She had become practiced at wiping her face before stepping out, at blaming the redness of her eyes on lack of sleep or too much screen time.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Salma?” Amina’s voice. “Ako lang ’to.”

“Come in,” she answered, but her voice broke on the last syllable.

Amina was quiet the whole time and waiting for her to speak.

Salma’s voice trembled. “I know my rights. I know what Islam says. I know I can say no. But when I open my mouth, Ate, nothing comes out. Because I feel like… like if I say no, I’m not a good daughter anymore. And I don’t know how to live with that either.”

She pressed her palm to her mouth, as if trying to keep the sob from escaping. It didn’t work. Tears spilled over her fingers.

Amina moved closer and pulled her into a hug. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was only the sound of Salma’s breathing, ragged and uneven, and the soft rhythm of Amina’s hand on her back.

“I’m sorry,” Amina whispered. “I should have spoken up for you sooner.”

“You did,” Salma said, pulling back slightly. “With your eyes. But you’re also… you’re also under fire with them. I didn’t want to add to it.”

Amina gave a tired smile. “Yeah, well. Apparently, being a lawyer at thirty and still single is a crime.”

 “Ate, what do I do?” Salma asked.

Amina studied her for a long moment. “I can’t tell you what to do, Salma. That’s the whole point, di ba? It has to be yours.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Hindi rin,” Amina said softly. “Do you think it’s easy to keep saying no when everyone thinks you’re wasting your chances? When titas tell you to lower your standards, when uncles joke that you’ll end up alone? It’s not easy. But I can survive it because I have my own life. My own money. My own space to run to when it gets too loud here.”

She cupped Salma’s face in her hands, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You don’t have that yet. I know. That’s why it’s harder for you.”

“So I just… accept it?” Salma asked, voice breaking again.

Amina’s eyes softened with a sorrow that felt old. “No. I’m not saying that.”

“Then what?”

“Then you decide what you can live with,” Amina whispered. “Not what they can live with. What you can live with. Because in the end, ikaw ang gigising beside that person every day. Not them.”

Salma closed her eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” Amina admitted. “But if you decide to say no, I’ll be there. If you decide to go through with it, I’ll still be there. I just… I just want you to know that someone is on your side. Even if I can’t fix everything.”

Salma’s tears came again, quieter this time.

“Thank you,” she said.

They stayed like that for a while, sitting on the bed in the dim light, the night before Eid stretching around them like a held breath.

Knock. Knock.

The sound pulled her back to the present like a sudden inhale.

Salma’s eyes flew open. The ceiling of their home was gone, replaced by the white-painted wall of the bridal room. The air smelled not of korma and sweat but of perfume and hairspray.

Her cheeks were dry. Her hands were full of flowers, not tissues.

She hadn’t realized she was smiling.

The bouquet was still in her hands, the ribbon snug around her fingers. Around her, the chatter grew louder as the women adjusted their positions.

“Ready na kami!” someone shouted.

The door handle turned. Salma’s heart stumbled. For a brief, sharp second, the old panic rose. That the door would open and reveal a man she had not chosen, walking toward her with everyone watching, everyone recording, everyone congratulating a decision that had never been hers.

But the man who stepped in wore a suit that had obviously been chosen to match someone else’s dress, not hers. His smile was wide, but it wasn’t directed at Salma.

Behind her, rising from the chair by the mirror, was the bride. Amina stood, smoothing the front of her white gown, the fabric catching the light with each small movement. Her hijab had been pinned with delicate care, framing a face that looked both the same and completely new.

Salma looked at Amina. Then she looked down at the bouquet in her hands. She realized, in that moment, that she was standing exactly where everyone assumed a woman wanted to be: at the center of attention, at the doorway to a new life, flowers in hand, cameras ready. But this wasn’t her doorway. It was Amina’s.

Salma took a deep breath. Then, without a word, she placed the bouquet in Amina’s hands. Salma watched her go, surrounded by family, by cameras, by noise. For the first time, she understood that this story had never really been about who got married first, or to whom.

It was about something simpler and harder. Who gets to choose?