Category: Essay

Noor Saada

Moro is success. These days, the term “Moro” is a badge of honor especially for those who are in sync with the government of the day in the autonomous region, manifested in a line in the region’s hymn, “Bangsamoro’y tagumpay” (The Bangsamoro is success). It stands for a history of resistance and pride.

Yet for others, this very term raises hard questions about belonging, who speaks, and being spoken for. Though often associated with the 13 historically-identified Muslim ethnolinguistic groups in Mindanao, Sulu, and Palawan, the Moro identity extends beyond ethnicity, religion, and political boundaries to become an imagined landscape shaped by colonization, cultural translation, and the ongoing quest for self-determination.

Colonial Birth. The term was first used in the Philippine context by Miguel Lopez de Legazpi, the Spanish conquistador, who arrived in the archipelago in the 16th century. Borrowing the term from Spain’s centuries-long struggle against the Moors of North Africa and Andalusia, Legazpi and the Spanish colonizers used Moro to label the largely coastal and insular Muslim inhabitants of the Philippine islands, particularly in Mindanao, Sulu and Palawan.

The term was used to mark not just religious difference but political defiance. These Muslims were different from the “heathen highlanders” and the “docile Indios” of the Christianized North. Unlike the highland Lumad or Igorot groups who lived outside the reach of the colonial church-state apparatus, the Moros had their own centralized sultanates, maritime networks, and transregional Islamic identities that connected them to the Nusantara (Malay world), and the Islamic ummah (global community).

In this way, the term began as an exonym, a name imposed by the colonizer to define the enemy. Over time, however, especially in the regime of minoritization, it was reappropriated by the colonized indigenous population as a symbol of resistance and constructed nationhood (bangsa).

Inclusion – Who are in. The post-colonial reassertion of Moro identity centered around the so-called “13 ethnolinguistic groups”: Badjao, Iranun, Jama Mapun, Kagan, Kolibugan, Maguindanaon, Meranaw, Molbog, Panimusan, Sama, Sangil, Tausug, and Yakan. These groups share not only a common Islamic faith but also a history of resisting colonization, firstly against the Spanish, then the Americans and Japanese, and finally the post-independence Philippine nation-state.

While useful in political and legal frameworks such as the peace processes and the creation of the regional autonomies, it also risks essentializing a complex and dynamic set of identities. It leaves out many others who share the same historical geography, religious beliefs, or cultural ties, but who do not fall neatly within the 13 ethnic identities.

Exclusion – Who Gets Left Out. What of the Teduray, Lambangian, and Dulangan Manobo, among others, who are indigenous to Mindanao but are not Muslim? They live within the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region, yet their ancestral claims and cultural lifeways often remain peripheral in the dominant political discourse?

What of the Sama Dilaut (Badjao), seafaring, stateless, and often discriminated against, even by their land-based fellows?

What of the Jama Mapun and Molbog of Palawan, whose connection to Islam is deep yet whose marginality continues?

What of the mestizos, those born of Moro and Christian Filipino parents, or those who have embraced Islam through marriage or conversion?

What of Muslim reverts, Filipinos from Luzon or the Visayas, or even foreigners, who embraced the Islamic faith and chose to live among Muslim communities in Mindanao?

What about the descendants of the Lannang (Chinese), Arab, and similar Southeast and South Asian identities living in our midst?

Does a Moro identity requires bloodline? Land? Language? Or merely faith?

Blood, Faith, or Belonging. If being Moro is about blood, then we risk creating an exclusionary ethnonationalism that denies the hybridity and migration that have long characterized Mindanao, Sulu and Palawan.

If it is about faith, then we must ask: is every Muslim in the Philippines a Moro? Are Mindanawon converts or urban Muslims in Manila part of this imagined community?

If it is about lived cultural experience, then being Moro must include those who speak the language, participate in rituals, honor the maratabat (dignity), respect the adat (customary law), and uphold the collective memory of struggle.

If it is political, then the term becomes not just a cultural label, but a revolutionary one, an assertion of a historical grievance and a demand for justice, recognition, and self-rule. But what happens when the politics falter, when unity frays, or when governance fails to live up to the ideals?

How about those who assert the primacy of their ethnicity: they are Bangsa Sug, Bangsa Sama or Bangsa Iranun over and above their Moro-ness? Are they less of a Moro?

Reimagination.  An inclusive identity must reckon with these tensions. It must honor its history of resistance, but also evolve to reflect the pluralism within its region. The legacy of Legazpi’s colonial label must be undone not merely by inversion, that is, wearing it as a badge of honor; but also, by transforming it into an inclusive identity of justice, dignity, and cultural integrity.

To be Moro is not only to descend from gagandilan (warriors), membership in the revolutionary group or speak a native tongue, but to be part of a living history, of a people shaped by the ecology and the collective struggle, by the Quran and the kulintang, by adat and amanah (trust), by memory and movement.

Moro is a name we have adapted and reshaped to suit and define our collective struggle and quest for self-determination. It is an identity not just exonymically acquired, but lived, chosen, and contested. It is not a category closed by blood or birth, but an unfolding story of a people still becoming and coalescing.

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.

Sohaylah B. Manabilang

 
As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the bukid awakened. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh grass. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the tall corn stalks; their golden tassels swayed rhythmically. In the distance, the lowing of cows and the clucking of chickens punctuated the morning stillness.​

The farmhouse stood modest yet welcoming, its wooden walls weathered by years of sun and rain. A small garden bloomed beside it, vibrant with the colors of ripened tomatoes and the deep green of leafy vegetables.

Visiting the bukid always gave warmth to my heart. The stillness of the farm enveloped me like a comforting blanket, a stark contrast to the city’s relentless hustle and the ceaseless hum of car engines. I remember going to my uncle’s farmhouse every weekend, the most awaited days of my life. There, my Bapa and his wife, Babu, had a farm that became a tapestry of daily routines. They had a lot of big cows, and they were so adorable. Chasing after the chickens, I laughed as they darted between the bamboo posts, their feathers rustled like whispers of old friends sharing secrets. Even watering their Eggplants, Sakorabs (White Scallions), Pariya (Bitter melon), and Loya a Pagirisen (Ginger) made me the happiest. I loved volunteering to do these things every time.

The wide cornfield was a playground, and when it’s almost time to harvest them, I was the most excited as I loved separating the corn from their cob, but sometimes, it could be tricky, some are hard as rock and cemented to their cob. After my Bapa and our neighbors harvested the corn, kids from the neighborhood gathered to organize the corn into different sacks of rice. I noticed that children in the province had possessed a natural inclination to help, as if kindness were woven into their hearts. Their friendly competition during tasks made work felt like playing, and the sense of community was palpable.

This is something I noticed from the kids who grew up in provinces; maka-oogopa, they were so helpful as if it was written in their hearts. Although often, it was a competition against one another, friendly competition, because then we wouldn’t realize that we were finished with our task. It was simply playtime for the kids in the bukid.

I remember when I was a 3^rd grader, it was almost the weekend, and I kept telling my friends at school that we would be traveling somewhere far away. I loved describing my uncle’s farm to them. My classmates were always attentive in listening to the stories I had. Together, we smiled and imagined the beauty of the farmhouse and its people.

One Saturday morning, my Ome woke me up and my other siblings instructing us to get ready as we were going to visit my Bapa. The sun barely showed itself, and I could only hear a few chickens clucking from the back of our house. Quickly, I sat down and stretched my arms, still yawning, I asked my mother, “Ome, antonaa i pagawidan aken? What should I bring? I want to take my Hello Kitty backpack with me.”

She just nodded, and I took that as a signal from her. I hurried to get my bag and stuffed my paper dolls in it. I was thinking that I would show my friends in the bukid what I got from the city. After a few minutes, everybody was ready to go.

Along the way, I could hear my stomach making noises. I thought of my biscuit inside the bag, just as I was about to grab it, I remembered my friends and thought of sharing it with them, thinking that they would love to have some Butter Coconut for a snack.

As the days unfolded on the farm, I noticed the subtle rhythms that tended life in the bukid. The early morning fog that slowly lifted to reveal the sun’s golden rays, the chorus of birds greeting the dawn, and the predictable patterns of farm chores created a comforting routine. Each task, whether it was feeding the cows or tending to the garden, felt purposeful and connected to the land.

The travel to the bukid wasn’t that long, it’s only a 10–15-minute drive from home. When we were almost there, I could see the people from the farm preparing to start their day. Compared to the city, I was sure at this time of the day, everyone would still be snoring and feeling cozy under their blankets. Upon arrival, the muddy scent yet aromatic Nitib a Kapi, native coffee, greeted us, and my Bapa welcomed us with a hearty smile. Breakfast was a feast of foods prepared with love by Babu, and my already empty stomach started complaining.

“You are just right on time,” Bapa said, his voice brimmed with happiness. My mom hurried to the kitchen to help Babu prepare our breakfast. I could hardly contain my excitement as the rich aroma of freshly brewed Nitib a Kapi, filled the air. My eyes lit up when I saw the Piyaparan a Banggala— soft, warm cassava generously topped with sweet, creamy coconut, laid out on the table, looking absolutely mouthwatering. My heart leapt even more when my cousin Ainah arrived, carrying a basket of Apang a Maregas, pancake made of rice, their golden surfaces slightly crisp and glistening, and Pakbol, ripe bananas lovingly wrapped in grated cassava, fried to a golden brown. When everything was finally set, Bapa joined us at the table, and the laughter and the happy clinking of plates filled the room as we all shared the delicious feast.

Since it was harvesting season for corn, my Bapa jokingly winked at me and instructed me about my task, to separate the corn from their cobs. I automatically thought of my friends from the neighborhood whom I was expecting to come over, and true enough, one by one, they started to appear. We started doing our task, not minding the scorching sun that was hitting our skin. My Babu, with her warm smile and gentle hands, brought us Iniyaw a Kamais, its golden crust glistening under the sun, filling the air with the sweet scent of the roasted corn.

Each moment spent in the bukid was etched in my heart, a tapestry of laughter, warmth, and simple joys that continued to nourish my soul. It is a plant that continuously grows within me. I didn’t even noticed my hands getting swollen from working the entire day with my friends. Just like the other kids, what matters to me is the thought of contributing something good to people. It was almost the call of prayer for ‘Asr, the afternoon prayer, when we finished our task. A thought popped in my mind: the biscuit I kept in my bag, and the paper dolls I brought from home. Quickly, I took them out and told my friends I had presents for them. Everyone was so excited about what was inside my bag, just right after I showed them the Power Puff Girls, their foreheads frowned, as if telling me that these paper dolls were not their kind of thing. I happily told them that back home, these were my toys. We played for quite some time and decided to share the biscuit with everyone.

Before the sun set, my friends individually said goodbye to me, waving their hands happily. After everyone had gone home, my mom called me because we were going home. This time, we were not staying overnight in the bukid. On our way home, we passed by Somaya’s house, my friend, who was outside taking a bath from the ombak (water pump). I smiled to myself, seeing her from a distance.

Life in the bukid was a quiet symphony of simplicity, where each sunrise brought a new song of hope, and every sunset whispered tales of contentment. Every visit we make is heavily painted in my heart, and up until today, I remembered every detail of it.

Looking back, I realized that those weekends in the bukid instilled in me a sense of community and gratitude. The simplicity of farm life taught me to appreciate the small joys and the importance of shared labor.

Visiting in the bukid taught me invaluable lessons that the bustling city couldn’t offer. The simplicity of life there, where the day’s concerns revolved around the harvest or the weather, provided a sense of clarity. More importantly, the sense of community was apparent. Neighbors worked together, shared meals, and supported one another without hesitation. This collective spirit fostered a deep sense of belonging and taught me the true meaning of cooperation and kindness.

One evening, as I sat on our porch watching the stars emerge in the clear night sky, I reflected on the days spent in the bukid. The laughter of friends had woven itself into the fabric of my being. I realized that these experiences had shaped my values and perspectives, instilling in me a deep appreciation for the simple joys of life and the importance of community.

The memories of golden mornings, the laughter of friends, and the warmth of family gatherings were engraved in my heart. These moments, though simple, had shaped my understanding of community, kindness, and the beauty of shared labor.

Returning to the city was always bittersweet. The fast-paced life, the noise, and the constant rush felt overwhelming after the tranquility of the bukid. Yet, I carried with me the lessons learned, and the memories cherished. Whenever the city’s chaos became too much, I would close my eyes and recall the sights, sounds, and smells of the farm, finding solace in those memories.

Years have passed since those weekends in the bukid, but the lessons remained. Now, as I navigate the complexities of adulthood, I often find myself seeking the simplicity I experienced in the farm. Whether it’s tending to a small garden or helping a neighbor, I strive to live by the values planted in me during those formative years. The bukid, in its quiet way, continues to guide me. In the rush of daily life, I carry with me the lessons learned on the farm—the importance of slowing down, the joy of working together, and the profound connection to the land. These values have become my compass, guiding me through life.

Now, as I tend to my small garden, I find solace in the rhythm of planting and nurturing. Each seed sown is a tribute to the bukid, a reminder of the roots that continue to nourish my soul. The spirit of the farm lives on in me, a quiet presence that brings peace amidst the noise of the world.

Peaceful and simple.

Almayrah A. Tiburon

Momento ito ng pagninilay-nilay sa papel na dapat kong gampanan bilang isang ina habang nakatambad sa isipan ang patong-patong na gawain. Umaalingawngaw ang tinig ng puso; tinig tungkol sa pagsasakripisyo at pagtitiis, sakit at hirap, ngunit higit sa lahat ay pagkalinga, at pag-ibig na wagas at dalisay. Ina akong batbat ng pangitai’t misyon, pumpon ng luwalhati’t latoy, dahil nasang lumaking mabuti ang mga anak.

Hindi biro ang maging isang ina. May pagkakataon na ibig kong sumuko ngunit sa tuwing nakikita ang mga anak ay napapawi ang lahat ng pagod at sakripisyo at tumatapang ako. Lahat ng ina ay dumadaan sa pagkakataon na tila nauubusan na ng pasensya ngunit nagpapatuloy pa rin kumalinga at mag-aruga, na ang tunay ay maubusan man ng pasensya ay hindi marunong mapagod magmahal. Kailangan lamang habiin ang bawat minuto dahil lagi-laging naghahabol ng oras, na baka magising ang mga anak na natutulog at hindi magawa ang mga dapat gawin – maglaba, magsampay, magluto, maglinis, at marami pang iba.

Mahirap man sa simula dahil nababagbag sa maraming gawain at iniisip, ngunit alam kong makakaraos at malalagpasan ito dahil ano’ng mga hirap ang hindi kinakaya ng isang ina para sa kanyang mga supling? Pitong taong gulang na si Cozy, nasa Grade 1 na siya, masipag mag-aral at madaling turuan. Si King ay apat na taong gulang, makulit ngunit napakalambing. Samantalang si Precious ay magtatatlong taon at unti-unting nagkakaroon ng sariling pag-iisip, ng sariling pandama at pang-unawa sa paligid, ng unti-unting kamalayan. Darating ang panahon na silang tatlo ay marunong mag-isip, mamuna, magtanong, manggalugad, at nakahanda naman akong umalalay at gumabay sa kanilang paglalakbay.

Ang sangkap at salalayan ng ritmo ng pagkalinga ay nagmumula sa kaibuturan ng puso ng ina. Iminumustra ito ng aking puso at kaluluwa, ninanamnam at nilalasap ang sarap at pagtitiis habang maliliit pa sila sapagkat batid kong mangungulila rin ako kapag lumaki’t nagkaroon na sila ng sariling pamilya, na ako ang kasama nila sa kanilang kamusmusan ngunit sariling pamilya nila ang kasama sa aking pagtanda.

Kapag minamasdan ko silang tatlo na natutulog, binabalikan ko ang mga nangyari sa buong araw, natatawa na lang ako kung papaano pinagsasabay ang mga gawain; tagapakinig ni Cozy sa marami niyang kwento, napakalawak ng kanyang imahinasyon. Hinahabol ko naman si King na kung minsa’y pumupunta sa ilalim ng lamesa sa tuwing pinapakain. Gayundin kapag sina Cozy at King ay sinusubuan habang dinuduyan si Precious, binabantayan si Cozy sa kanyang pagguguhit habang nagkukulitan sa paglalaro sina King at Precious, sumusunod sa paghila ni Precious dahil may gustong ituro sa akin na mga bagay na napapansin nito habang may hawak akong libro na ibig kong tapusing basahin, nagluluto ako habang silang tatlo ay nagtatawanan sa kanilang pinanonood. Masyado pa silang maliliit at marami pa akong pagdadaanan. Naisip ko tuloy, nagkakaganito ako sa tatlong bata, ano na lang kaya yung mga inang higit pa sa tatlo ang anak?

Gusto kong gawing maging mabuting ina kahit mahirap naman talagang magpalaki ng bata lalo na kung may mga bagay na hindi sumasang-ayon sa gustong resulta, at marami pang ibang nangyayari na hindi kayang ilarawan bagkus buntong-hininga lamang ang naitutugon. Ang danas ko bilang isang ina ay ibig kong isatitik, isalin sa mga salita bago sagasaan ng rumaragasang mga taon. Kung minsa’y may mga kaisipan kasing lumilipad dahil tinatangay ng iyak ng tatlo kong anak na pagkatapos tumakas ay hindi ko na mabubuong muli, na mahirap nang mahagilap muli.

Sa lipunang ginagalawan ng mga ina, kung papaano pinalalaki ang anak ay may masasabi pa rin ang mga tao, na basta na lang nagkokomento base sa kung anong alam at nakasanayan nila. Ngunit nagpapatuloy pa rin ang mga ina dahil ang bawat isa sa kanila ay may kanya-kanyang laban, magkakaiba man ng pananaw at pagpapalaki sa anak, ang mahalaga ay ginagawa ang mga bagay na sa tingin ay ikabubuti ng mga anak, na maibigay ang tama at maayos na pangangailangan ng mga bata sa ngalan ng pag-ibig.

Tatandaan ko palagi na hindi ko ihahanda ang daan para sa kanilang tatlo bagkus ihahanda ko sila sa lalakaring daan. Hahayaan ko silang madapa sa daan, masaktan, at magkagalos upang malaman at mapahagahan ang tunay na ligaya. Hahayaan din silang lumabas sa gitna ng gubat at umahon sa pusod ng dagat upang mapuntahan ang katwiran at katarungan, at maranasan ang malayang mundo habang ginagabayan sila. Batid kong ang tanging nakakaunawa at nakakakilala sa tunay na kaligayahan ay yaong mga taong nakaranas ng hapdi at sakit.

Ang detalye ng damdamin at tibok at hininga ng aking puso’y walang laman kundi ang mga minamahal na mga anak, ang aking pamilya, na umiikot ang mundo ko sa kanila. May taong itinanong sa akin ng asawa ko kung sinong mas matanda sa amin. “Siya. Kaya nga Ate ang tawag ko sa kanya,” ang sagot ko na may kasamang sama ng loob dahil mas matanda sa akin ang tao ng sampung taon. “Kaya lang naman ako mukhang mas matanda sa kanya dahil ako ang ina ng mga anak mo.” Dugtong ko. At niyakap ako ng asawa ko nang mahigpit.