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.

Sittiehaya Lininding Omar

Have you ever seen a fairy? Well, on my part, I think I have met a fairy. Life is full of surprises, but how can you tell if it’s a good or a bad surprise?

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” I can hear the adhan for Maghrib from the masjid near the lake in our hometown, Ramain. As a child, I loved to play beside the lake, which is full of trees and flowers. I still remember how I would collect various flowers and would end up having skin rashes. I would play with my cousins, cook soup in tin cans, and playhouse with them under the pine tree. We would tell various stories like how we believe that the lake is full of tonongs and that we should always be wary of them, we also thought that the pine tree is a home for many duwendes and a kapre. “Tabiya rekano.” 

We would always excuse ourselves whenever we played in that area but at that time, I was left alone because everyone had already left. I was waiting for my big brother to come and get me. I was sitting under the tree when the Iqaamah was called. I was on the verge of tears thinking about scary things and the assumption that my brother had forgotten about me. As I was weeping in silence, a voice whispered to my ear, it was consoling and somewhat warm. I turned my head to see a little boy not taller than myself asking me why I was sitting there alone. The first thing I noticed was him having no front teeth.

He was white as snow, his hair as silky as satin, his cheeks were as pink as cherry blossoms, and his voice was so soft that it felt like a humming wind in my ear. I told him my worries and he just laughed at me. He told me not to worry as he would guide me home. We both walked slowly because of his short legs. We talked from the lakeside to the waiting shed near our home until he bid me goodbye. I asked him his name and what he told me was a surprise to my ears. “My name is Fairy.”

Looking back to that memory, it has been fifteen years already. I remember how I would always brag about how a fairy escorted me when I was young. My friends would listen, but I could see how disinterested they were in it, I knew no one believed me yet I kept telling this story. As I grew up I have always been fond of fairy tales and that was the reason why I could always remember that day and how the story went. Whenever I walk home from school, I listen to music through my earphones and always enjoy the feeling of the wind that brushes my cheeks. The sun would be setting and the sky blushing red with reflection. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.”

I stopped the music as the masjid was calling for the Maghrib prayer. Ten meters away from our house gate I could see many luxurious cars parked outside our home. Many people were going in and out of our home but none of those faces were familiar. I strode to our house and went directly into my room ignoring everyone because of my anxiety. I sat at the bedside when my older sister opened the door and told me to change and help them in the kitchen. I hurriedly performed my Salah to help them in the kitchen when my auntie told me to bring a tray of 15 mugs of coffee to our living room. Everyone was looking at me with smiles and with interest. It was overwhelming for me as I could feel the sweat pouring down from my head down to my spine. After giving them the coffee, I decided to go out to catch some fresh air or, rather I would say escape from the pile of dishes that was waiting to be washed. I took a seat on the waiting shed near our home when a man sat across me.

The man was so tall that I chose not to look at his face, he was wearing a fullwhite clothing rolled up to his elbow, he was fair-skinned, and his smile was sweet, and I found it cute because of his pinkish cheeks. He asked me my name in his deep voice that came as a surprise to me, but I did tell him a name but not my name. He laughed at me and told me that I was still the same. He told me not to be scared as he would wait for a proper answer. I was very confused; why would he wait? When I was about to leave, he stood up and said, “My name is Bari.”

Memories came rushing, as I could no longer lower my gaze and glanced at his face. Now I see, it was Bari, not Fairy. I remember the kid that walked me home with no front teeth. He grew up so fast yet I’m still the same little girl from the past that never grew taller. 

Questions popped up in my head, like why was the kid here? After their visit, as everyone was leaving, I greeted every lady that was present as it was a practice performed by everyone in our traditional home. They kissed me on my cheeks and hugged me and said, “Masha Allah Takulay.” They glorified the achievements of my parents, eldest sister, and mine. After all that ruckus my father and mother told me that what unfolded was called “Kapamamanikan”. My hand was asked in marriage by the youngest son of the sultan of our province, and his name was Abdul Barrie. My father declined the offer though they said that they would wait for my answer when I graduate in college. My Abe told me how they were following me these past few days with his consent and would always look for a way to talk to me, but they always failed as I was always surrounded by my friends and it’s either school or home for me. Abe told me that I did well and proved myself to be conservative and did not fail him nor embarrass him. Ome, my mother, told me to think it through as the man who asked me in marriage is graduating with a degree this year and that he had been saving his romantic life for this moment.

Indeed, life is full of surprises, but this surprise can’t be said to be good or bad. As a woman with big dreams, this may become a shackle, but I know it will not fail me in keeping my Deen. Yes, I had met a fairy in my childhood memories but in my teenage years, I met Bari.

Meizan Badrudin

My grandmother always waited for me to come home. Whether it was six o’clock on a rainy Thursday night or 2 o’clock on a humid Friday afternoon, I would catch her sitting on the wooden bench in front of Aunt Linang’s sari-sari store, squinting as I approached. “Inu’to? Ining’gyan ka niran sa award?” Her eyes would light up with excitement as I consistently brought back various accolades, ranging from public speaking, essay, painting, chess, and badminton competitions. Sabi nga nila, mana-mana lang. She would always say “Alhamdullilah, apo ko seka” after the customary hugs, which reassured her she hadn’t mistaken me for someone else. Then, she would interrogate me about my day—where I went, what I did, who I was with, and why I came home earlier or later than she had expected. It was a routine I was particularly fond of.

We shared the same roof until I turned 15. During those nights when I decided to burn the midnight oil, she willingly stayed with me, keeping me company and making sure I sat properly and took my vitamins. Mas matalas pa ang mata niya kaysa sa akin especially since she was not just a guardian but also the skilled hand behind the embroidery on my dresses and uniforms. Our room became a sanctuary of love, where my academic pursuits and her attention to detail intertwined in a nightly ritual of resilience and care. It may have been unconventional, but I treasured every moment. Whether I did it out of love, respect, guilt, or a combination of each is a question that no longer matters.

I will not see her again.

A wake is called a wake because mourners stay up late to grieve over the dead—to bid a final farewell before their departure. I learned from the writings of Gabriel Harvey that the word “goodbye” came from the phrase “God be with ye.” A goodbye was meant to be a blessing. During Grandma’s wake, my brother dreamt of her. In his dream, he saw our grandmother on her way to the second floor of the house we lived in. Since Grandma suffered from arthritis, it had become difficult for her to walk, let alone climb stairs. Knowing this, my brother extended his arm for Grandma to hold. Then, the most surprising thing happened. Instead of accepting my brother’s offer as she usually did, Grandma only smiled and said, “Shukran. Kagaga ko den. ‘Dikena den masakit.” My brother woke up weeping. As he recounted his dream, I wept too. And then our mother joined us in tears. We cried because our dear old matriarch had remembered to say goodbye before ascending to heaven.

I find nothing comforting about the condolences pouring in. They give me the sensation of drowning, of being trampled by words that only exacerbate the pain—the sympathies from people uttering “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun” But of course, Allahu Ahlam. The dead—the good ones at least—have surely gone to a better place. We who are bereaved are the ones who are restless, unable to make peace with the permanence of our loved one’s departure.

“She was a good person,” albeit true, fails to capture just how much more interesting, fierce, smart, and brazen my grandmother was. When I think about the true essence of being Bangsamoro-Iranun, I think of her. Just as we Iranuns were celebrated for our shipbuilding skills and our ability to navigate vast seas, Dadi embodies that same spirit of resilience and strength. She is like the sturdy vessel that our ancestors crafted with care and expertise—her presence built us a solid home. Growing up, my siblings and I always felt a strong foundation beneath us. Each success we achieve is a tribute to the person who gave us life and taught us how to live it.

My favorite memory of grandma dates back to my high school days. If I stayed up late, so would she. She was my biggest supporter back then. My grandmother was a staunch believer in formal education, even though she didn’t finish elementary or high school herself. Or perhaps more accurately: My grandmother became a staunch believer in formal education because she did not finish school. At 16, she eloped with my grandfather and started a family. They were married for more than five decades and raised nine children, including my father. Despite struggling to make ends meet, my grandmother tried her best to send all her sons and daughters to college. It had become her obsession to remind even us, her grandchildren, to work hard toward our goals and not let anyone or anything distract us. “Pangagi kanu sa mapya”, she would say. It was for our own good, she would add with certainty. She placed perseverance on such a high pedestal that when she passed away, I chose to persevere and refused to pause.

Some of my friends told me they worried that I wasn’t grieving properly—that I should have taken at least a week off from school when she passed away, that I should have put off writing papers, that I should have grieved the way everyone else grieves. But why? I know they mean well, but they were so concerned about how I kept going that they didn’t bother to ask why I persevered. I could have given them a satisfying answer. The funeral lasted only 24 hours, but mourning knows no end. We lost her after we held the “kanduli” she had requested the night before she left us. We had anticipated more time, more moments. If grief is truly just love with nowhere else to go, then perhaps there’s no harm in letting myself be its refuge. Grief arrived at my door, bringing with it a dusty box of memories I thought I had long forgotten.

What choice do I have? I could only embrace and welcome it. As I write this, grief quietly sits close to me. There are days it sleeps, there are days it screams, and there are days it wanders off and then returns. Grief is a welcome guest.

Like I did with my grandmother, I say good morning, good night, goodbye, and see you again.

Zeny-Linda Saipudin Nandu

✓ Pass the Bar Exams
✓ Take the Lawyer’s Oath
✓ Sign the Roll of Attorneys

Now officially, Atty. Zeny-Linda Saipudin Nandu, SCL.

It took me more than two decades to finally check off all the items on my bucket list above. With all honesty, I entered Ateneo de Davao University College of Law in 2002, and 10 years later, I graduated in 2012. Of course, there were regrets, frustrations, setbacks, and shortcomings. If I could go back in time, I would have gotten better grades and maybe, graduated on time. But it is comforting to know that everything that happens in life is preordained by God,

“Verily, we have created all things with Qadar (Divine Preordainments of all things before their creation, as written in the Book of Decrees Al-Lauh Al-Mahfuz).” -Qur’an 54:49

Life in law school wasn’t just about getting bad grades. In fact, most of my lifelong advocacy work occurred while I was in law school. Just when I was on the verge of having a mental breakdown due to my unfamiliar daily routine at law school – reading tons of books day and night in my dormitory and daily recitations in my classroom. The timing was perfect as I found a good alternative to keep me sane.

It all started when I happened to join the Ateneo de Davao Legal Advocacy Works (AdDLAW) after a schoolmate invited me to join, so I could travel to places for free. Just when I thought it was all about traveling for free, I became involved in alternative lawyering and human rights work. It was about studying law beyond the four corners of the classroom. It was about learning the human side of the law. I chose the so-called “road less traveled,” which even some lawyers are unfamiliar with. However, as none other than former Chief Justice Hilario Davide, Jr., said:

“Alternative lawyering is to practice law fundamentally for individuals, communities, and sectors that have been historically, culturally and economically marginalized and disenfranchised. To me, it is troubling that the lawyers who advocate such worthy causes are called the alternative. An alternative is a second choice. You should be considered the mainstream, the first choice, the true and ideal lawyers. Better yet, the conscience of the legal profession.”

Together with my AdDLAW colleagues, we had this seminar, which specifically focused on advocacy for the rights of children, women, indigenous peoples and communities, farmers and fisherfolks, environmental rights, and other human rights. After spending a week immersed in Samal Island’s agricultural, fishing, and IP communities and experiencing their daily lives, I chose the Paglilingkod Bayan Pangkapatiran Foundation (PBPF) for my internship in the Alternative Law Groups (ALG), which advocates for environmental rights, because I found the other advocacies too heavy for my heart to carry.  While at PBPF, I had to attend paralegal training and court hearings in Mati, Lanuza, San Franz, and as far away as Siargao. Even in my then ‘baluktot’ Bisaya, I was struck by how such a simple lecture on paralegals to fisherfolks can empower a community, and make them aware and vigilant of their rights.

After my summer internship, some volunteer interns from Ateneo Legal Services recruited me to join them. I was overwhelmed by how my experience with AdDLAW could impact the lives of people, especially those who are less fortunate. As volunteer legal aid interns, we were assigned to draft pleadings for labor cases that were filed in courts or with the National Labor Relations Commission (NLRC). This experience honed my skills in legal research, client interviews, and drafting pleadings. In my years at Ateneo Legal Aid, I can proudly say that we have won every case assigned to me. The most memorable of all these cases was the illegal dismissal case, and the submission of the position paper coincided with my midterm exam in labor law, where my professor was the labor arbiter who eventually decided the case. Although I failed her exam, I won the illegal dismissal case without her knowing that the position paper was drafted by me. Indeed, in life, you win some and you lose some.

I then had the opportunity to attend the first Moro Law Interns Conference as the only participant from my law school. One of the participants’ recommendations was to establish a Moro law student organization at each participating law school in Mindanao to encourage Moro students to advocate for Bangsamoro rights. Having in mind the Moro situation, and with the support of other Moro law students at Ateneo, we were able to form the Ateneo Law Student Advocates for Bangsamoro Rights (AL-SABAR). We conducted seminars, paralegal training, and relief operations in Moro communities and joined other law groups in rallies and press conferences to voice out our statement on issues affecting the Bangsamoro. I became its first elected president, and AL-SABAR was for a long time the only law school-based Moro organization in the country.

My AdDLAW and ALG experiences also paved the way for me to represent my law school as a replicate intern at the Summer Internship Program of the Ateneo Human Rights Center (AHRC) in Makati. Again, I traveled to many places for free, including a week-long immersion trip to Bakun, Benguet, a month-long internship proper with the Environment Legal Assistance Center (ELAC) in Puerto Princesa, and Coron, Palawan, and an internship evaluation at Ilocos Norte and Sur. This summer was the best summer for me, I enjoyed it even more because I never thought I would be able to travel to these places, and it provided me with an opportunity to empower people. The following year, I was able to facilitate the next batch of AHRC interns in their orientation seminar in Laguna and immersion in Occidental Mindoro. Also, I was among those who were tapped by the AHRC Executive Director who also held the same position at the time with the Legal Network for Truthful Elections (LENTE), to establish the local chapter of LENTE at the Ateneo de Davao College of Law, the first in Mindanao.

I also joined the Fraternal Order of Saint Thomas More – Tau Mu Fraternity and Sigma Tau Mu Sorority and have been an active member for years, serving as an editor-in-chief of both The Messenger (the official newsletter) and The Freshmen Survival Manual, a member of the Academics Committee, and being elected Lady of the Scroll. As Tau Mu, I was also elected Vice President, and became an Acting President of the Ateneo Law Student Council.

When I decided to look for a job, my former law professor, who was also a city councilor at that time, hired me to work in her office in Sangguniang Panlungsod ng Davao (SP), where she chaired the Committee on Women and Children. I was assigned to her free legal assistance desk. Here, I was once again faced with handling women’s, children’s, and labor cases, including rape, child abuse, and VAWC cases, which were sometimes too much for me. Handling pro bono labor cases for illegally dismissed workers has always been rewarding for me, especially since we have won every labor case assigned to me. In one case I worked on, I was waiting for a public jeepney when a taxi driver suddenly stopped and asked me to get into the taxi. He happily shared that he was already driving a taxi and was able to send his son to college with the money he won in a labor case. He refused to take my fare, saying it was the only way to thank me for handling the case for free.

Although I may not have graduated on time and was active in various advocacy groups, I never took my law studies for granted as I also tried my best to excel in my studies. I also had the experience of seeing my name included in the Law Bulletin’s list of topnotchers in one of my final exams. However, as the song goes, “I did my best, but I guess my best wasn’t good enough.”

Luckily, I was still able to graduate from Ateneo de Davao, and I continue to live by the motto of being “a man (or woman) for others.” Then I realized that the long road to getting my law degree was not a waste of time because, even after failing the bar exams in 2012 and 2014, I still had an easy path to finding a job after law school. Indeed, every single thing that has ever happened in our lives is preparing us for a moment that’s meant to come.

Fast-forward to my 2023 bar journey, and there’s only one phrase to aptly describe it, “a leap of faith.” I’m not a religious person, but after not making it twice in the bar exams, and taking a break of nearly 10 years, I have been praying to The Almighty to show me signs, so I could try again, and hopefully one last time.

Miraculously, there were indeed a lot of signs. When the 2023 bar syllabus was released in early 2022, I had a dream that I found an old bar bulletin that contained simplified ways to answer the bar exams. I still remember realizing it was just a dream when two of my bar buddies asked me for a copy of this and I couldn’t find it. But the day before the last Sunday exams, I accidentally came across the 2020 handbook published online by the Philippine Association of Law Schools (PALS) and Rex Bookstore, and it contained almost exactly what I had seen in my dream. And I have been using the same format throughout the three-day bar exams.

Even with the hashtag #HernandoBar2023, named after 2023 Bar Chairperson Justice Ramon Paul Hernando, I took that as a sign. I changed the hashtag to #HerNanduBar2023, inserted my last name, and even wrote it in my review notes.

I also added my nickname and changed Tau Mu’s 2023 bar hashtag #Ascend to #AsZend. That was how desperate I was to look for signs. I even thought that the purple (law’s academic color) tumbler my bar buddy gave me was also a sign, and when I needed to replace the frame of my eyeglasses, purple was the only color that fit my lenses.

When I learned that our bar chair’s lucky number was 8, I decided to make my lucky number “3”. It’s true—the universe is colluding:

My birth month (March) is the 3rd month;
My age is 43, although it doesn’t look like it;
I am my parents’ 3^rd child;
I have a family of 3 (with my always supportive husband, and our unica hija);
The year is 2023, and this bar was my 3rd take;
For the first time in bar exam history, the exam period was shortened to 3 days, and the bar exam results were released in almost 3 months;
When I received my notice of admission prior to the exams, my local testing center was on the 3rd floor, and my room number is 301;
When I entered the exam room on the first day, I got goosebumps when the proctor said, “You are seat number 3”;
After the bar exams, I’ve dreamed about it four times. In three of those dreams (the first, second, and fourth), there were no results of the bar exams, which I shared with family and friends. I kept my 3rd dream to myself until the bar exam results came out. In this dream, I failed again. I stick to it because many people would say that dreams are the exact opposite of reality, and that’s exactly what happened; and
Finally, at the oath and signing ceremony, I received my roll number, with the last digit being 3.

Spiritually, it was important for me to wake up at 3 a.m. (aligned with my lucky number) for the Tahajjudprayer from the start of my bar review on April 1 until the day of the bar exam results. Tahajjud is a voluntary prayer mentioned in the Qur’an and by the Prophet (peace be upon him):

And they who pass the night prostrating themselves before their Lord and standing.” (Quran, 25:64)

“The Lord descends every night to the lowest heaven when one-third of the night remains and says: ‘Who will call upon Me, that I may answer Him? Who will ask of Me, that I may give him? Who will seek My forgiveness that I may forgive him?’” (Bukhari, Muslim)

As have been told by those before me, the road to becoming an attorney was never easy. It wasn’t just a matter of looking for signs, as in my case. This experience may have been a leap of faith for me, but I know there is still no substitute for hard work and perseverance.

When I woke up at 3 a.m. during the review, I immediately started my readings after prayer. I hardly take naps or rest during the day, but I make sure to go to bed early at night, so I can easily wake up at 3 a.m. and maintain normal sleeping hours. I isolated myself from people for six months and only left the house when necessary. Furthermore, I enrolled in an online review center to stay up to date since my grueling six-month review was more focused on learning for the first time most of the coverage of the bar exams, as those were either not yet enacted, amended, revised, or part of jurisprudence when I was studying law 10 years ago.

My biggest worry was that I would hardly recall or forget what I’d been studying or reading for months because I have a short memory span and I forget quickly or forget about it completely because I have been surgically operated on twice under general anesthesia. Being the perennial crammer that I am, reading the last-minute tips from the time I entered the local testing center before 5 a.m. until the last minute when the first bell rang at 7:30 a.m. was like going through my 6-month review in a nutshell. Almost everything became fresh again in my memory.

All of this is made possible by The One Above. As the Qur’an 11:88 says, “My success is only by Allah.” Even those who accompanied me on this journey are God’s instruments to finally make my dream a reality. As the saying goes, it takes a village to raise a lawyer. I may not be able to name each person individually, but collectively, my parents, sisters, friends, relatives, in-laws, former teachers and professors, past and present employers, and colleagues I have worked with in a variety of fields, including advocacy groups, organizations I am affiliated with, bar lecturers and review centers, past and present house helpers, former doctors, physical therapists and faith healers, and last but not least, my husband and daughter. I am forever grateful to all of them.

Finally, I would like to thank the Almighty Allah for giving me these wonderful people, for my answered prayers, and for the abundant blessings He bestowed on me to share with others.

Looking back, it is the most triumphant moment of my life as of late and at the same time the most humbling experience by far. I do not know where my life takes me from this but one thing is for sure, my law school and bar journey before becoming an attorney taught me important lessons of selfless service, hard work, perseverance, patience, and strong faith. With these, I am forever grateful for everything that happened in my life. All praises belong to Allah. Alhamdulillah!