Category: Essay

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.

Afdal B. Kunting

Stuck in a traffic jam at Veterans Avenue again! During the day in Zamboanga, there is virtually no chance to rev one’s engine and sprint to a destination. I was running a little late at around 7:15 AM, but the traffic build-up was already colossal. Just another day in Zamboanga.

Typically, during these episodes of boredom, I would yearn for simpler times, the carefree Zamboanga of old, our Ciudad de Flores (City of Flowers). The city was very much provincial then, like a charming barrio lass. Acacia lined avenues, verdant greenery and a profusion of bougainvillea flowers exuded a quaint country charm.

After a couple of deep sighs, I stumbled across a favorite memory of my childhood, the calesa ride. I was probably around four or five years old back then, in the late 1970s. Sundays were specially anticipated because it meant the possibility of a picnic at the beach at Cawa-Cawa Boulevard. We lived with my Angkong (Granddad) and Amah (Granny) at Sto. Niño, on San Jose Road, just a stone’s throw away from the beach. It was a short walk for an adult but a fair distance for kids. So, a calesa ride was in order.

I don’t know why this memory is something that I could recall after so many years. Perhaps happy memories are etched with more fervor in one’s brain cells? Even today, the images seem so vivid. A typical jaunt to Cawa-Cawa would involve our Amah Lei Wah and Ae (Aunt) Rosita, calling us to prepare hurriedly so we can get a good spot at the beach. At that time, there were no beach resorts of note except maybe Caragasan Beach, but that was too far away. Apura ya, nuay mas ya kita lugar alya! (Be quick or else we won’t be able to get a spot there!)

I would gather up our dog, Skippy, a poodle with a questionable pedigree and shepherd my younger brother, John, and first cousin Koji towards the camino or road. We had a neighbor who operated a calesa, our suki for these excursions. His name escapes me, we just called him Nyor (Mister), but his features are still clear to me. He was a short, slightly rotund, jolly person. His weather-beaten face always featured a gap-toothed smile. “Hoy Peter! Anda ya tamen ustedez na aplaya? (Hey Peter, you are going to the beach again?) We would reply in unison with a gleeful Si! Si! Si! (Yes! Yes! Yes!)

If you didn’t notice, we had nicknames not aligned to our first names, my brother being Ahmed and Koji is Emmanuel. My Mmah (dad) is a multi-ethnic Muslim while my mom is of Chinese descent. I was told that her parents came from Manila during the war leaving their fledging business to escape the fighting. Being Muslim, my dad gave us Arabic names, however, my Amah didn’t like it one bit. Deficil habla ese mga nombre. Hard to say those names. She would remark. Thus, we were nicknamed Peter and John after the Apostles. Our family was one multi-religion affair. Since my Dad was in Tawi-Tawi during our early years, we practiced a variety of religions before becoming Muslim later. We went to mass at the city’s Roman Catholic cathedral, had a Chinese altar at home and celebrated the ancestors’ birthdays, burned paper money and joss sticks. We even had lechon during birthdays! The crispy lechon ears were the first to be consumed! Those were carefree days indeed, just don’t tell my dad!

Back to the calesa. We clambered onto the brightly colored contraption whose sizable wooden wheels were bright yellow covered with flat gray rubber for a less bumpy ride. The dark red spokes provided a jarring contrast. The sky blue coach was average sized, easily fitting two adults and three boisterous boys plus the kutsero. I don’t know why, but the rhythmic clip clop clip clop of the hooves on the mixed asphalt and gravel road was a mesmerizing sound to my young ears.

Nyor’s horse was a cantankerous old stallion with a mean temper. We knew better than to come near its legs or mouth. Experience is a bitter teacher. When the grumpy horse strayed away from the chosen path Nyor kutsero would give him a healthy whack on his fly-covered butt. The judicious use of the whip allowed us to make good time and arrive at the correct destination. This horse also had a nasty habit of stopping suddenly and depositing a steaming heap of manure as we were eating our breakfast. Ay loko gat esta caballo! (What a crazy horse!) My Amah used to remark in her shrill voice! I don’t know if this was intentional, but it happened too often to be a mere coincidence! This caballo was toying with us!

Since we would go early, we usually brought food to eat; suman ibus, tamal, and alfajor. The latter is a Zamboanga delicacy that is sort of like a biscuit made from corn and probably coffee. It felt like eating gravel, but it was Amah’s favorite. The tamal, on the other hand, is a handy eat-as-you-go snack of steamed glutinous rice powder with coconut milk, chicken, sotanghon and boiled egg wrapped in banana leaf. Real good quality tamal just melts into your mouth, sending an explosion of salty, umami goodness. As you can probably tell, it is my all-time favorite comfort food. We form lifelong habits from childhood activities.

After an hour or two hours of invigorating dips and feeble attempts at swimming, we would call it quits. Nyor kutsero knew to be back by that time to pick us up. The fare, a few centavos, was good enough for him to buy some tuba bajal or coconut toddy for his afternoon buzz. As we headed back home, the horse’s mane would flick in cadence to his clip clops. Boys being boys, we would rock our heads in unison with the horse’s mane, not minding our salty skins and dry lips. Everything was a game back then.

Such trips were highlights of my childhood. Sadly, as we grew older and my Amah became frailer, these trips became few and far in between. The appearance of more jeepneys and tricycles signaled the inevitable demise of the calesa.

A loud honk broke me out of my revelry, the traffic enforcer was signaling for our lane to move. As I drove in a sea of cars, I found it remarkable that in the span of less than fifty years, no traces of the calesa can be seen in my city. Such a sad end for an iconic mode of transportation.