Category: Essay

An-Nurhaiyden Mangelen

After staying for twenty-one days at Davao Doctor’s Hospital, it was time for Ama’s life support to be unplugged. It was a decision that Ama’s wife, sons, daughter, who was my mother, and other relatives came up with. Needless to say, it was an extremely difficult decision to make. It was decided upon after Ama’s doctor told the family that at that point, my grandfather had no chance of recovery. After all, in those twenty-one days, he was never able to even open his eyes. This time, the stroke proved fatal. Most members of the family also thought that if they were in his shoes, he would have preferred dying in his home back in Dalican, Maguindanao than in a hospital far away from the place he was born.

In those twenty-one days at the ICU, my grandfather died three times. During those three times, the life support was still able to revive him. He was brain-dead, but his heart kept on pumping, his lungs begging for air from the dull, rusted green oxygen tank beside his bed. That tank has witnessed plenty of deaths in its life; looking back at it now, how tragic it is that the only constant thing accompanying the patients in that ICU was that green-rusted tank. How ironic is it that the thing literally giving patients air to breath bore witness to countless more deaths than anybody in that ICU facility. In those twenty-one days, I only saw him once. I also never cried, or even felt the urge to cry. An oxygen tank was a better grandson than me.

That one time I saw him, I thought he looked like the cyborg from Teen Titans, with all the wires connected to his fingers, elbows, nose, mouth. He also had a translucent plastic tube inserted down his throat through what I assume is a long and wide cut covered only by plasters. My mother said that it helps get air into his lungs. I was still a little kid back then. As someone who engrossed himself in cartoons and toys, I never really felt the gravity of the situation. I could never fathom the pain he had to endure when the doctors intubated him. All the injections and bedsore he had gotten from not being able to move around the bed, or even the sensation of not being able to function and be the master of his body the way he wanted to.

If only I could, I would ask him how he felt during those moments: was he still conscious? Did he know that he was far from home? Did he feel any pain? Did the anesthesia work well or did he still feel all the pain from the procedures the doctors did to him? If we had the opportunity to talk before he let out his last machine-induced breath, I would’ve asked whether it was worth it: his additional twenty-one days of only laying down motionless, eyes closed, with only strangers to accompany him.

Looking back, I wanted to slap my younger self across the face for not realizing that after the first death, my grandfather might not even remember him anymore. He might not remember the face of his children, his wife, how he lived his life. He was brain-dead after all.

At that moment, I remember feeling sad. Sad, but not devastated. I even had fun during our stay at the hospital. I spent those twenty-one days watching anime in counterfeit compact disks I used to buy from Moro vendors across the hospital building. I would then go ahead and watch what I bought in a pink portable mini DVD player with a built-in screen. At that moment, I cared more about the lives of those hand-drawn characters than the life of my only then-living grandfather. In those twenty-one days, I only saw him once. It was by design. Call it children’s ignorance, but how I wish that I realized earlier that I ought to be standing there outside the ICU, fighting the battle that he was fighting, being there and him seeing me in a grand cosmic miracle that he wakes up, that I loved my grandfather this much to dedicate an essay to him. I was so very close, yet so emotionally far.

I remember nine cars in the convoy: the ambulance, our car, the other cars owned by our relatives. We arrived in Dalican, Maguindanao around five in the afternoon. Along the way, Ama’s oxygen tank was in a constant watch because when we were around Cabacan, the tank was awfully close to being empty. Dalican was still two and a half hours away; everyone seemed to draw their shared tense breaths from the depleted oxygen tank beside Ama. Drivers drove so fast that the cars seemed to fly. The ambulance ran at around 140-160 kilometers per hour, its siren blaring one moment and then gone the next. Mama did not stop crying for the rest of the trip. In desperation, we played verses in the Qur-an on repeat in our car, as if that would give the family, especially Ama enough air to breathe.

I also clearly remember enjoying the ride. That was the fastest one I had been, up until now. Before that afternoon, I just finished watching an anime about drifting and driving in the uphill mountain roads of Akina, Japan. This is just like Initial D, I thought. I felt the thrill, the speed, the exhilaration of experiencing what it’s like to be in the anime I watched. It felt like we were in a race. In retrospect, I want to scream at my former self for failing to realize that we were in a real race; not against other cars, but against time. That we were skating on thin ice. I even remember loving the moments the car zoomed past strangers on motorcycles, vehicles, and pedestrians.

Did he feel the speed? The thrill? Did his breathing get tougher, raspy, more elusive? Did he sense the anxiety and depressing atmosphere enveloping the convoy?

While inside the car, I never thought of what might happen in Dalican. I never even thought about what comes next if ever Ama gave up while we’re still on the road, or if the tank ran out of oxygen. I never thought of losing someone important, or maybe at that moment, he wasn’t important to me. Looking back, maybe I just lacked the compassion for my grandfather, or maybe at some point, I never even cared; after all, Ama and I never spent quality time together.

As a kid, I loathed his prickly mustache that stabbed me every time he kissed my forehead. I despised the times when he would ask for kisses. I hated the way he smelled; he smelled like a glass of warm milk, and I hated the smell of milk. Every time I asked him for five pesos to buy a sachet of Milo, he would intentionally give me four pesos and demanded a kiss on my forehead before he handed the last peso. “Kagyabu nengka, bulingit’n”, he would usually tease, telling me to stop eating Milo with my fingers because I looked gross and dirty every time I did. I also hated Ama’s big round eyes, which he used to scare children as a way of having fun. I cannot count the times I stopped playing and cried because of those eyes. Those eyes, they gave the scariest glares. But despite hating his mustache and his eyes, I liked his round belly. Every time he asked for a hug, I imagined that that was the sensation of hugging Barney the Purple Dinosaur.

That belly of his got severely small in those twenty-one days.

Now, how I wish he had gotten better, even for a few more months, or even weeks. That way, his belly could grow bigger again and I would then be able to hug him for a longer time. That way we could’ve spent more time together. I could’ve spent afternoons with him just sitting, sipping coffee, listening to stories only he could tell. I could’ve spent more time with the only grandfather I had, but also, I am uncertain whether my former self would have been able to appreciate that extra time, if granted by Allah and his ever-loving mercy. Children could be stupidly blissful and oblivious to the passage of life and time. For children, blind bliss starts off as a blessing that later becomes a curse that follows them around life: specters that menacingly haunt the hollows of retrospection and memory.

In the small amount of time that people were preparing his corpse for the burial, I felt like I did not belong in the room, that I shouldn’t be there, that that space was exclusive for those who loved Ama truly. Back then, the child in me loved him because he was the only one whom I can ask Milo money from, but further than that, I was not sure. If only I knew how to handle things more professionally at that early an age, my last moments with him wouldn’t be as useless. Looking back, I didn’t deserve to be present in his burial. No dead man deserves somebody who took them for granted in their own burial.

According to my mother, Ama had always been her companion since she was a little kid. Ina, Ama’s wife, never really treated my mother with compassion, especially when she married my father. As a child, my mother was a hardheaded, strong boy in the body of a girl.  She often disobeyed my grandmother and played with other boys her age, contrary to Ina’s commands. She would play, mingle, and socialize, as kids often do, which, for Ina, was conduct unbecoming of a young girl. Thereafter, Ina tried her hardest to keep my mother inside the house. She taught her how to knit and sew to take her time off  playing. She taught her how to cook to keep my mother in the kitchen. My mother never enjoyed this, and neither did Ama. He resisted for and with my mother. He would take her to Cotabato, which was a two-hour journey back then just to let her escape the housework. My mother bonded with Ama the most out of the seven siblings because of that. That’s the reason why it broke my mother gravely when he died. Then I learned how Ama played a gargantuan role in my parents’ wedding in 1998.

My grandmother was headstrong in disagreeing with the wedding. She was not in favor of my father because of his low financial capability. What Ama did was he faked being sick, demanded to be checked at Davao Doctors Hospital, and forced his wife to come with him, just to make leeway for my parents’ wedding. The wedding was kept secret from my grandmother. Of course, after she discovered it, she fumed and disowned my mother.

My mother walked down the aisle alone, without her parents to walk her towards the man she wanted to marry. She was accompanied by her eldest sibling, and he took the place of Ama in the Wali, a tradition among Muslims where the father entrusts her daughter to the groom and goes into an agreement between two noble men. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, accompanying my mother down the aisle as well as entrusting his only daughter to the man she loves, but he understood his role. His sacrifice was and will forever be unparalleled and beyond compare in my eyes, even if somebody force-fed me the best romantic movie featuring the most beautiful set of casts, with the most heart-wrenching and fulfilling plot to defeat all romantic plots ever thought of in the history of mankind. That sacrifice made my mother and father’s dream a reality. Without that sacrifice, I would have never been born.

He was also the one who coerced my mother’s six brothers and his relatives to chip in some money for my father’s dowry, to which they reluctantly agreed to. Until now, my parents’ wedding invitation, which Ama hid from my grandmother, is still in his most treasured, albeit beaten and decaying, leather attaché case, untouched and collecting dust. That was the only tangible thing he held or saw that had a direct relation to the wedding.

When my mother told me this story, a significant time has already passed since his demise. I realized the immense impact Ama had in my parents’ lives. That moment, envy started to form in me; I also longed for that impact, for that bond. After hearing that story, I longed for a much deeper interaction with my deceased grandfather. It left a hole in me, a type of jealousy that could never be filled. The end of that story took a part of me that I know I could never regain. A part forever lost with his passing, unregainable, unobtainable.

I long for his grandfatherly presence. In the future, it would be nice if he would be able to come to my wedding. Sadly, life took that opportunity away from me.

As a kid, I never enjoyed my time with Ama, and my most vivid memories of him were those I disliked. That changed when he got hit by his first stroke back in 2009. We brought him to Notre Dame Hospital in Cotabato, and we stayed there for fifteen days. Luckily, he wasn’t incapacitated by the sickness, but his memory got impaired.

Ever since then, he became extremely forgetful: we needed to introduce ourselves to him repeatedly whenever we meet. The only ones he could remember were his children and his wife. Around that time, he also lost track of his bowel movement. He cannot feel the urge to go to the bathroom anymore. When he stood up or walked around, pee dripped from his shorts, and he constantly pooped in his pants. Sometimes his poop got dragged on the floor by his own feet, which infuriated my grandmother. He would look my grandmother in the eyes, with tears in his: maybe from the guilt of not being able to control his own body? I will never know.

I can never imagine how my grandmother felt like, seeing those eyes and those tears that just fell from them. I wonder if she ever felt pity after all those moments she was infuriated and uttered painful words out of exasperation and spite. I wondered if he ever felt like speaking up, retaliating, or was it that he already felt numb from the uttered words that inflicted unimaginable pain. Or was it that the only thing that made him cry every time was seeing the woman he married, the first woman he can remember in bouts of confusion and failing memory, hurt him over and over again over something he cannot control?

Reflecting upon it, that type of treatment is unbecoming of a woman who had stayed in a marriage for so long. But at the end of the day, it was her who took care of him through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, despite the tedious job of cleaning after his waste, and she continued doing so until his last days. She was there with us at the hospital, at the burial, at the grieving period. I am sure that inside of her, there was also a gaping hole that came with his passing. I wonder, how did their wedding go? Was it consensual or arranged? How did the courting go? Was there even any courting?

I never heard of the story nor could I find someone willing to tell me. I couldn’t ask my grandmother for she doesn’t want to talk about it. Every time a conversation had closely veered towards that subject, she had skillfully diverted it into another topic most of the time without fail, like how is a relative doing at school or anything other than their marriage. In rare moments where the conversation had nowhere to go, she would tell us that she was not comfortable talking about it and that she would slap our mouths shut if we continued pressing. We would then laugh, and then she would laugh. It would be clear to us that they were jokes, but still, nobody dared to try because everyone was scared, especially if she were to become mad. I wish I could’ve asked Ama about it over  coffee. What if instead of taking his presence for granted, I asked him how it went? Were there hindrances? Oppositions? Was it like my mother and father’s wedding? What hardships did they encounter and overcome to be able to have seven children and stay married for as long as they lived?

The devastating part is that at this point, I could only speculate.

In 2011, hypertension and stroke got the better of him yet again, which led us to Davao Doctor’s Hospital. He finally took his rest on April 23 at Dalican.

Back then a part of me tried to assess the impact of his life on mine with this stupid brain of mine, his relevance, and the emotional connection I’ve had with him, but I failed.

I remember faking.

I remember forced tears.

It was hard to try and develop fake sympathy. I really tried but at the end of the day, I can only muster as much.

In the seven-day grieving period, hundreds of people came to his house in Dalican to pay their respects. They shared stories about how he helped them with their problems financially, emotionally, and in other aspects. Those stories that people told of him made me see him in a better light. I also realized that it wasn’t that we lacked the bonding moments necessary for me to feel attached to him; it was just that I tried my hardest to reject those opportunities instead of grabbing onto them. I rejected the moments when I should’ve just given him the kisses he repeatedly asked for.  I frowned at his prickly mustache and glaring eyes; I failed to see that those were the only prickly mustache and glaring eyes I’d experience from a grandfather ever. I took his presence for granted. I took the only grandfather I’ve had for granted. Now I’ve forever lost the chance to feel an extraordinary kind of love from a grandfather in the form of giving four pesos, of asking for hugs and kisses, of being stabbed by a ridiculously pointed mustache.

Before, my family visits his grave once a month, but due to life, college, post-graduate studies, and everything in between, I seldom have the opportunity to visit him. I usually bring nothing with me, except a bottle of water for when I get thirsty. Now that he is gone, I cannot bring him any gifts.

For now, this will have to do.

Hasmeyya Tiboron

One of the mixed blessings of being in your twenties is being old enough to take action on your goals but still young enough to take a different route in case you don’t want them anymore. I was twenty-one when I had the urge to pursue what I wanted to do, twenty-two when I found out I couldn’t, and twenty-three when I realized that the goals I set in my teenage years no longer matched the person I’d become.

We stopped at Bihing Tahik Resort one Saturday morning to pass the time. Our original plan was to hike to the peak of Bud Bongao but the sun was too intense for a hike and we were concerned more about Doc’s hypertension than the exhaustion and possible reptiles we might encounter later that day.

I was wearing a niqab but the salty air got through my nose I could feel it in my throat. We settled at the cottage at the far end of the resort. It’s so peaceful here. The ocean waves hitting the shore offer more than the relaxation we need.

“Banghunting banan sa trespasing.” Kuya said, referring to the sea vehicles in the distance. Those guys are looking out for trespassers.

“Katawan ka siki Rahma (not her real name) na sumyung samba, gyuto den mambo su mga wata, daden a mga kalek iran.” Doc said in a high-pitch outsounding the boat engines nearby. Did you know that Rahma and others went there once?

They exchanged stories about people who crossed the island adjacent to where we were. I wonder why it was such an issue. Is that a haunted island? Or a subject of mysterious urban legends we often see in movies?

“Di taw blu Doc?” I asked.
“Ababa mapya babay.” Doc said in her signature sarcastic Iranun tone.
“Malaysia den man anan Ma’am Has”. Kuya said. There were only three of us throughout our three-week fieldwork and if there’s something I learned about them, it’s that they can tell a joke and still maintain a poker face.
“Benar.” Doc said.
I pulled out my phone and checked our location and they were not joking. We were facing the sea borders with the Malaysian State of Sabah and North Kalimantan Province of Indonesia, and the sea vehicles Kuya pointed to a while ago were Coast Guard vessels protecting territorial waters from trespassers and intruders.

The blurry outline of Malaysia harked me back to how I mentioned it a lot in my college days. My degree in Philosophy tweaked my outlook, and to put it in an Islamic Perspective, I wanted to advance it in a Master’s Degree in Malaysia. Or at least that’s what I told people when we talked about my plan after I graduate. But deep down, I had this aching desire to run away. To go anywhere far from where I grew up. The world is so big and yet I have contained myself in the small city at the bottom part of the country. I promised myself I would pull myself out of that container.

I was twenty-one when I got married but my new responsibility as a wife didn’t decrease that desire. It strengthened it. I shared my idea of studying abroad with my husband and it resonated with him and we agreed we’d go there together. He would take Master of Science in Pharmaceutical Chemistry and I would take Master of Arts in Islamic Thought and Civilization. We were young and newlywed and full of dreams. I knew things were getting serious when we drafted our admission letters and started sending e-mails for scholarships. But just when our actions matched our optimism, I got pregnant and it was nerve-wracking.

I should be happy because I also dreamed of being a mother someday, but I should study abroad first and then become a mother second. I came from a dysfunctional family and growing up, I made a pact with myself that I’d build a home where my children can safely return to and launch from. I swear I wanted to be a mother. But I was only twenty-two. I should live abroad first and be a mother second and not the other way around. This single switch in the order of things would change a lot of things and I didn’t know what to feel about it.

I stared at the outline of Malaysia softened by the haze. I wondered how things would have turned out if I only left no stone unturned when I still could. But thinking of my baby back home and the lazy movements of his small limbs, I’m grateful for how my fate has turned out.
I was twenty-three when I gave birth to our firstborn. His coming made me appreciate life more and I want to immerse myself in every moment before it passes instead of rushing to crash off the next line on the list. According to conventional wisdom, you should take over the driver’s seat of your journey. The best way to predict your future is to create it. We live in a time where people put so much emphasis on having control over things. But having control over things is a heavy characteristic that only God can have. and I felt so relieved when I stopped trying to have a semblance of that characteristic. I am human, I am flawed, and I make imperfect goals.

They say that only dead fish go with the flow. But I don’t think going with the flow is a problem if it heads in the direction you want. I am learning to lean back and wait for what life has to offer. I still have goals but I no longer hold onto them like a lifeline so that when things don’t go as planned, I could easily bid them goodbye. Of course, it’s not all roses. There are still times when my heart aches for the things I wish had turned out differently but I wouldn’t trade them to what I have now. Because in the delivery room when I gave birth to my son on September 9 at 4:15 am, a large part of me, too, was born.

Earl Carlo Mandi Guevarra

As I write this, I look out the window in sadness, feeling helpless at the terrible reality that tens of thousands of people are being systematically slaughtered in a place that’s just 41 kilometers long and 10 kilometers wide at its widest point. You can’t just make this up. Imagine cutting half of Metro Manila, placing it in an alternate dimension, and bombing it with all the kinds of ordnance you can think of, 24/7 nonstop – that’s what’s happening in the Gaza Strip right now.

On social media, it’s ironic that the majority of Filipinos support Israel’s actions, even when many around the world say otherwise. There are a couple of probable reasons why they might do so; they help with the defense requirements of the country, they equate it with the Holy Land, and the country is one of the rare people who would give Filipinos travel privileges (even in their security checks, Philippines is considered as one of those countries that will come right after their own citizens).

Ironically, a nation that is supposed to practice “makadiyos” (Godliness and excellence in service in the name of the Creator) and “makatao” (humanity and human excellence) as our core values are actively participating in dehumanizing people whose only fault was to be born on the wrong side of the planet.

I actually had an internal debate on whether I should reflect on the current conflict on paper or not. On one hand, I asked myself if there’s anything that has been written about the topic at hand that hasn’t already been written. On the other hand, it is pretty clear that many Filipinos, especially those outside of Mindanao, immediately demonize all Palestinians as terrorists – despite being completely innocent as far as the strictures of international law, war, and common human laws are concerned.

Sounds familiar? This was exactly the same situation that many people from this region had to face in the recent past. While there’s undeniably an actual and sustainable shot at lasting peace with the BARMM project (and yes, it’s way more peaceful now than before), it wasn’t that long ago when being from Mindanao (and being a Muslim) would raise eyebrows if you were walking in the streets of Manila – more so if you came from places like Maguindanao, Sulu, and the like.

I’ve even heard from one of my friends who lived in San Juan that there are rumors that other buyers wouldn’t buy a condominium unit if they found out that Muslims were living on the same floor. This isn’t the long-time-ago past of the early 2000s; I’m talking about something that happened just two or three years ago. This just shows that while the negative point of view towards Muslims may have been stifled over the past few years, it is still safe to say that many Filipinos still consider being a Muslim as a byword for being dangerous.

Now, on to the matter at hand: There are three things that we Filipinos should know about Gaza to understand the dynamics of the current and most destructive iteration of the conflict.

First, it’s ruled by a political entity called Hamas – yes, even its entry on the notorious Wikipedia lists it first as a political organization – who actually was elected democratically back in 2006 during the last Palestinian elections with 44.5% of the popular vote, and bagged 74 out of 132 seats. I can only think of a few big names here in the Philippine political landscape who have won by this margin fairly and squarely, and they had also to go up against a repressive and organized propaganda machine with virtually unlimited funding. With that being said, they also happen to be designated as a terrorist group by the United States and the European Union; but at the same time, they’re the de facto government of Gaza that provides for its 2.2 million people living within a completely blockaded area of 365 square kilometers. Make that of what you will.

Second, Palestine, is on paper, a state, though it’s divided into two entities: Fatah, who nominally sits as the Palestinian Authority, controls the West Bank, while Hamas controls Gaza. A state is supposed to have people, territory, government, and recognition by other states (even the Philippines officially recognizes Palestinian statehood) – this is what we’ve all learned in World History during high school. There’s a fifth element that’s generally implied – that’s the right to self-defense.

Given that Palestine is a state that’s recognized by 138 countries around the world and is being attacked by multiple means, doesn’t it have the right to defend its people, territory, and government through any means possible? This is what Palestinians have tried to do for many years against illegal settlers (no less than the UN condemned them), oppressive security forces (for those of you who don’t know, they’re going up against a full-scale surveillance apparatus that rivals the one placed in Xinjiang in China), and external parties who simply don’t want them to be a viable state for varying reasons.

Finally, in any conflict, there’s the concept of proportionality. To put it in terms that someone on the street would understand: You can only use force that is necessary to defend yourself and you can’t systematically target others who are not a part of your fight. One can argue that the invaders acted in “self-defense” (objectively, Hamas struck first), but that went out the window shortly after they decided to actively target medical facilities, schools, residential buildings, places of worship (including an Orthodox church), power facilities, you name it. Then, there is the fact that journalists were taunted and bombed (Wael Dahdouh, the Gaza bureau chief for Al Jazeera Arabic, had to go live 15 minutes after he had to bury his family – his wife, son, daughter, and grandson – that’s three generations killed in one strike!) Worst of all, nearly half of the deaths in Gaza are children; due to the conflict, an entire generation’s right to basic education and knowledge is denied and wiped out. You can’t think of a greater injustice than this.

Even if we throw all societal, rules-based, religious, and values-based considerations out of the window, anyone with basic human dignity should show at least some sympathy for those thousands who are forever unalive. It’s not just the people who are being erased from existence; traditions, cultures, and tales are being methodically and permanently devastated forever – that’s the extent of the horror that’s happening today in Palestine.

We may be apathetic and dismissive now, saying that it’s halfway around the world. However, this might be the reality that we Filipinos will be facing in a few years unless by some miracle we are spared from it. We can all rest assured that everyone and their dog is currently taking notes on this conflict, gauging how much they could get away with in terms of destroying human lives and dignity as well as the techniques and procedures that they could apply to maximize said destruction.

Going back, I realized I’d run out of tears. Every day, there’s a new catastrophe; every hour, there’s a novel calamity…and every hour, the population of an entire state is being decimated while many all over the world just watch on impassively as if it was nothing but a tragic movie.

There’s this poem entitled “Oh Rascal Children of Gaza” by Palestinian writer Khaled Juma, written in 2014, that encapsulates my feelings pretty well:

Oh rascal children of Gaza.
You who constantly disturbed me
with your screams under my window.
You who filled every morning
with rush and chaos.
You who broke my vase
and stole the lonely flower on my balcony.
Come back,
and scream as you want
and break all the vases.
Steal all the flowers.
Come back…
Just come back.

The bitter truth is that they’re not coming back to this world; they’ve been denied their right to exist and the right to try to shape the world around them for a better, brighter future. Yet, I believe that they’ll be reborn in another world, in a place where they’ll be happy, gilded, and dignified.

I can’t comprehend the fact that I’m living in an age where it’s possible to see entire generations dead in the blink of an eye. Still, I pray that the people of Palestine may resist and outlast this grim period – and that they may enjoy the chance to attain lasting and sustainable peace and progress, just like what’s currently built up in the Bangsamoro. I also hope to see them one day becoming free from the river to the sea and spreading into the ocean and leaving their stamp on all the coasts of the world.

Nurmina Abdul

I struggled with holding a pencil in preschool. While my classmates raced out of our makeshift classroom, I was left behind, clutching my pencil as if my life depended on it when it should be the pencil depending on me to guide it across the paper. My concerned and, at the same time, stressed-out teacher would let me do “Close-Open Hands” Exercises to help work my right hand’s control muscles and allow me to grasp a pencil without assistance. At home, my mother would teach me how to make du’a by letting me imitate how she lifted her hands, asking for the Almighty’s blessings. I remember these not because my handwriting had turned appealing or I became the best in making du’as but because my palms would seize my memories and ideas, ultimately processing them through my attempts at writing.

As a kid, I quietly enjoyed reading in corners. But growing up, soaked in an irretrievable rush to build a dream, I considered writing more seriously. The people around me, however, don’t seem to take me seriously each time I tell them I’m taking up creative writing. What more if they knew I couldn’t hold a pencil properly as a kid? Some of my relatives and acquaintances would confuse my course with Education major in English: They see the two disciplines as identical. If they were birds, they’re of the same feathers. Both struggle to find a nest to rest in. Though teaching is noble, and I might dive into it, I don’t think it’s fair to continually mistake something for something else.

In seventh grade, I learned a narrative could get amplified twice as others, especially when the other is perceived lightly. I remember first hearing the outcome of SAF 44’s OPLAN exodus in Mamasapano, Maguindanao, through my computer teacher, who prayed for the eternal repose of the slain forces and for protection against “bandits” who, according to him, wanted to take over the land of promise. In some way, he tried choosing his words carefully. Later, I’ll discover that at least seven civilians were dead, including a five-year-old and a farmer. While I’m far from competing about whose pain is more painful, maybe it’s worth saying that no one has a monopoly on suffering. I refuse to be convinced that someone wakes up waiting to be killed in their own home. Perhaps my classmates and teacher have forgotten the scenario because I would wish the same. Yet, the daunting task of writing, I have to feel, I have to remember, I have to retell.

A quick Google search of words synonymous with “process” would include procedure, operation, action, activity, undertaking, proceeding, development, course, measure, and means, to name some. I thought my writing “process” included opening and closing my hands like what I did in preschool. The more I practice, the better I’ll be. The tighter I hold onto narratives, the better. But I realize that as I learned to hold pencils and keep memoirs, I struggled to let go, too. There are times that I refuse to write because of such reasons.

My mother told me I should put my trust in God, especially regarding things outside my control. Indeed, it’s convenient to let the higher being take care of those beyond our capabilities. Yet, I’m not immune to the pressure. I admit to seeing writing as a chance to navigate through my Maguindanaon identity. Growing up, I struggled a lot with representation. I wondered why Bangsamoro history is obliterated in most history books while our clothing, food, language, and customs are appropriated. I wonder why Muslims get asked to explain Bin Laden’s actions when I don’t recall any credits for Rumi’s brilliance. I find it extra challenging to process the necessity to put frequent efforts into proving I’m not a threat to anyone by merely existing or, for that matter, writing. Probably, my mother was right to say I must relinquish what I can’t control.

Writing a short story involving Maguindanaon characters unveiled my internalized prejudice against my fellows. “Why did you kill off the character?” My lecturer asked in an afternoon Fiction I Workshop. The class was curious about the ending of my draft. They couldn’t wrap their heads around the death of the male protagonist turned combatant. It didn’t help that he was murdered by his fiancee, who didn’t earn the readers’ trust that she got in her the ability to kill. Looking back, I assumed that erasing my character was an easy shortcut to tie up the story. Perhaps a part of me didn’t yet have the full courage to defend my choice to write about arranged marriages and armed struggle. I failed to distinguish constructive self-criticism from pure contempt in writing about my people. I’m quite sure developing a sense of inferiority doesn’t happen overnight. I suppose I’m not alone in my experiences either. However, I consider it a personal battle that I must overcome. Regardless, on that afternoon, I gave everyone equally bad and lazy answers via Google Meet.

Mostly now, I imagine Moro writers who came before me had also searched for their specific voices and inspirations and had to learn and unlearn many things in their writing process and beyond throughout their journey. I find solace in thinking of fellow beginning Moro writers out there likewise trying. What’s left for us, I guess, is the boldness to keep on writing. I know I learned to hold a pencil to write stories. I believe I have an axon of assertions — even when pulled away, impulses.

Kristian Rivera

You are a Muslim, and I am a Christian, yet I haven’t fully discerned how much this friendship genuinely means until I learned the history and the story of the Moro people in Mindanao. This came full circle when I realized that your roots have been systematized with marginalization and prejudice throughout the years.

Of course, being part of the second generation, you and I haven’t really experienced the escalation or re-escalation of violence that the generation before us went through, and how the brotherhood between a Muslim and a Christian is being questioned due to the unending biased distinction, negative reframing of stories, and the struggles between the two religions.

In the course of our friendship, I have heard your countless “Muuli ko sa SND“, specifically on Fridays. It was nothing to me, not until I realized how much you gave importance to your space, to your home, and to your family. I wasn’t even sure what SND stands for, which somehow raised a question on my part on whether I really know you, or whether I took our friendship for granted.

Today, I have educated myself, and a part of that was the reemergence of the memories we had relished during our senior year of high school, which all persist in my vision. The years I spent being best friends with you felt like an invisible space that separated us, being unable to grasp the real story behind your name. But I think a part of this feeling is because I wasn’t really introduced to the concept of the Bangsamoro and the history of the Muslim people until I got into college.

I have heard that SND or Sultan Naga Dimaporo is a beautiful province in Lanao del Norte. I’m intrigued about the blue beaches, the carnival, and the night market! I hope I had the time to ask you about your hometown before, which may mean that I’d be closer to your home as a non-Moro. In fact, I would love to go there and simply experience the place with my own feet.

I look up to you because of how you value your family and how you truly care about their success in life. I can still remember one time you shared about the livelihood of your parents and how it helped you and your siblings’ education. Your perseverance has always been one of the traits that has kept you going. I hope you still have this today.

Four years ago, after Ramadhan, you brought a Meranaw food called “dodol“, a sweet toffee-like, sugar palm-based confection commonly found in Muslim-dominated areas in Southeast Asia but also common in Mindanao. I wasn’t asking you to get me some, but you gave me one. Please know that I won’t forget that day, as I shared it happily with my family. It even became my favorite!

Brother, although it has been years since our last in-person contact, I made sure that your history is clearer to me now. Our difference is not really a difference; for me, we have always been one; we have similar interests, hobbies, and perceptions, and sometimes we envision the same ideals.

Your bloodline has fought for centuries, and today, I am with you to keep and protect your honor.

I am proud that you are my best friend, and I hope more friendships like this will be born.