Category: Fiction

Mohammad Ammar G. Mangondato

“…Di katawan o madakel a giya man e titho a tiyoba sa Gahil!”.

Aden a isa ka pamilya a langon pamomolong a sii  miyagintaw sa inged a Gahil. Siran so pamilya a Mangatha, a aya mababaloy a pekabolosan o manga tao sa Gahil a tatalogedam sa pitibarangan a paniyakit. Giya a pamilya a Mangatha na titho den ko mala so gagaw iran ko kipakareregenan ago mala so panagontaman iran asar bo a kaogopan iran so maginged. Igira aden a kiyabolongan odi na minikimosawir kiran na daden a paganginen iran a perak odi na apiya antonawnon a mabaloy a sambi ko kiyaogop iran ko manusiya. Aya bo a antap iran na mawsar iran so ilmo iran a panabang sii ko makakikinanglanon.

Miyakaisa a masa na miyasugat a mala a paniyakit a inged a Gahil. Tanto a madakel a gomidam sa sakit. Sabap roo na diden khaompas so phamakibolong sa pamilya Mangatha. Sa kadakel o taw na di phakaato siran oto a pat ka taw a pamomolong- so kharomai a si Siddiq ago si Saliha, ago so wata iran a kambal a si Sofyan ago si Soraim. Apiya siran bo I phakagaga mamolong sa gini a misasamblay a sakit na di siran phakaato sa kadakel a kiyaogalinan sa giya a sakit.

Ko soled a sawlan na mas mindakel so miyasakit. Rumiyaot sa labi magatos ka taw so da magaga kabulungan a kiyasabapan sa kiyapatay iran. Madakel a miyakandarasag sangkoto a masa. Si Kadibah na isa ko manga taw a romiriit sii ko manga Mangatha. Thito niyan a ipkhaguwad a mga Magatha ka lalayon siran di mapodipodi ko mga galebek iran sa Gahil. Aya ngena iyan mambo na kabantogan sa datar o kababantogi ko pamilya a Mangatha sa miyathay a masa. Sa giya a miyaolaola na miyandingandingan iyan a mapiya aya a magosaren a tothol a pangibarat ka an ikagowad o maginged so manga Mangatha.

Tominibaw si Kadibah ko isa ko manga piyatayan sa wata a so kharumai a si Tukod ago si Karbala. “Aydow! Bapa, ante, kataya a miyakatalingoma ako ka tanto den a miyarata a ginawa ko inako maneg aken a mindod sa limo o kadnan so da rowaron a wata iyo,” kabasa e Kadibah. Di phakasembag so kharumai sa tanto a diran dikapakamboko sa rakes a phangarororo so manga lo i Karbala, ina i Mujahid. “Naoh ante, pakasorgaan o Allah si Mujahid. Isana den aya malipedes a minitiyoba rektano. Opama ka da nedaraynonen o manga Mangatha si Mujahid na imanto na mapipiya a ginawa niyo. Mataan ka matitho ka benar den so negneg sa Gahil a phisamili iran bo so piyanisakitan iran piyapiya ka so bo so manga pembayad kiran sa masolen.” Malo miniramig a kiyapamiyagi e Kadibah sii ko karomai taman sa tomiyaros peman ko ped a manga pamilya a makamboboko.

Madakel a piyatayan a miyakaneg sangkoto a tothol. Aden pen a miyakambalebaleson a di thibabaan o manga Mangatha a di iran kambolongi piyapiya ko ped a pamakitabang kiran. Na so manga piyatayan a pamilya na mimomosawira siran sa baden pakaawaa so manga Mangatha sa Gahil. Aden a somiyopak sangkoto a pamikiran ogaid na so kalilid na makaaayonon. Da pangaathay na miyakawma angkoto a katharo sii ko Pamilya a Mangatha. “Hay amakulay! bangka da maneg so minilangkap a tothol? A pithibaba tano kon a da tano kasiyapa ko manga pamilya iran,” pitharo e Sofyan. Inisompaton pen i Soraim, “Ama, madakel kon den man a miyakapiker sa solasogen iran a walay tano misabap sa genan a kabasa e Sofyan. Phakaawaan tano iran sa Gahil.” Aya bo a miyatharo e ama iran na, “Giya so masa a saden sa pimbasa iran sii reketano na di patot oba tano tomareg ka makikinanglan tano pen o inged tano.”

Da siran den pamimikiran sa mathay ka kinanglan so kaphamolongi iran ko ped a masasakit. Tanto a maregen ko manga Mangatha a diran di kapamolong sa daden a oba niyan bayad, go di pthoon so bager iran. Aya pen a mala a inikharata a ginawa iran na so mebarambarang a manga sasakit a tothol ago katharo a pekioma kiran. Misokayaw den mambo so maginged sabap ko di benar a antangan i Kadibah. Sa giyangkoto a tanto a kararata a ginawa o madakel na miyangonoton mambo so rarangit iran. Miyawma so gawii a kasolasog iran sii ko walay o manga Mangatha. Aya ngena o kadakelan na tarotop den a mapakaawa iran siran a kapapantagan a di manisakit ko kitatalogdam. Mala a ipekhararangit iran na so diden kaphakababa o bilangan o pekhada kiran sabap ko bager o paniyakit a di ron pakatiyokop a tarotop so panagontaman o manga Mangatha. Soden so maginged i miyakatalingoma sa liyo a walay o manga Mangatha. Sosokhayaw so manga tao sangkoto a masa. “Pamangawa kano sa Gahil! Sekano e kiyasabapan sa kiyapatay o manga pamilya ami.” masarangit a inilalis i Tukod. Ped sa di khakaleka sa Gahil si Tukod sabap ko karangit ago kabager iyan a mama.

Salakaw den a kaphakailay o madakel sii ko manga Mangatha. Salakaw so dimelalis, so dimamagita, ago so dinggogoraok sa mala. Apiya den i dikapanagontaman o manga Mangatha na miyategel den a kapagawa iran. “Di niyo den pamolongi a genan a pangasasakit a pagari ami ka di ami thomoon oba siran mamatay sa tangan niyo. Ilaya niyo man a miyasowa ami aya,” kabasa i Kadibah a makatatalingoma mambo. Magaan sa magaan na miyakapaninimo so pamilya ka magawaan iran angkoto a inged. “Ona kano den, ka aya mataan benar na diko den kharaw oba ko awai a manga bangsa tano aya. Opama ka awaan tano siran langon na di ko den katawan i khasowa iran. Antaa den i phamolong kiran?” pitharo e Siddiq ki Saliha ago so manga wata iran.

Kiyapasadan iran na aya bo a pethalimbagak na si Siddiq ka o titho sekaniyan a pemarataan o manga tao sa Gahil na aden pen a lamba a makaphamolong kiran. Tanto a masakit ki Saliha ago so dowa a wata iran a kapagawai iran ki ama iran. Tarotop mambo a siyoledan o manga tao so torogan iran na rakes a diyakep iran si Siddiq. “Ino kapen da awa sa giyangkai a inged? Ba aya thomoon ka na kaomanan so phamatay rekami?” kabasa e Kadibah. Piyakaliyo iran si Siddiq na iiketan sa tali a lawas iyan. Sabap ko rarangit iran na pimbentola iran si Siddiq a manga titiwaro a giyoray na so sabaad na pilebada iran a manga ator na taman sa aya niyan den mambo inikawapat. Malo miyalokha so manga taw na kinowa iran so ped ko manga madaseg iran sangkoto a torogan na piyamakaphato iran si-i ko manga walay iran.

Sii ko miyakapera a olan na da iran mapaginengka na baden miyataketakep so miyasakit ago so pagendod kiran sa kapatay. Apiya antonaa den e sowaan iran na di den khaaren so kadakel iyan kenaba datar inako sisii sa Gahil so manga Mangatha. Tanto a miyakasendit so manga taw. Miyawma so masa a tanto den ko miyakasopiit so dikapagintaw sa Gahil. Gopen iran mapamiker a kenaba miyakaompiya a kiyabogawa iran ko manga Mangatha ago kiyabonowa iran ki Siddiq, Ago aya mala na so kiyapangonoti iran ko katharo a da oba niyan katantowan a miniyag ko rarangit o pagetaw. Kiyatokawan o madakel a so langon a pitharo i Kadibah na daden a benar ron. Pimbabanog sekaniyan o pagetaw ogaid na daden a thoonan iranon sa soled a Gahil. Tanto den ko mala so kiyapakasendit iran.

Sa obay a Gahil, na aden a inged roo a pembetowan sa Elim. Sa Elim miyagapas so karoma ago manga wata e Siddiq. Tanto den mambo a kiyapakakharata a ginawa iran sii ko masa a miyaneg iran a pinikibono si Siddiq. Siran bo i makakekenal ko titho a antangan i Siddiq sa  diniyan kapamolongi ko manga pangasasakit apiya daden a oba niyan bayad. Na apiya den i kararata a ginawa iran na da iran den maraw so manga pagetaw sa Gahil oba tarotop iran den a thalikodan. Miyakarampay kiran a katharo so miyawlaola a Gahil ago si di kiran di kambabanoga o manga pagetaw roo ka siran bo i mala a phakaogop kiran sangkoto a masa a kasakit. Miyangni so lamba a manga Mangatha sa tabang sii sa Elim na miyakaonot siran sa madakel a pamomolong nago madakel a awid iran a pagigimo a kinanglan ko kapamolong iran. Magaan sa magaan na milayalayag so miyangalalamba a Mangatha ago so miyangaiimbetar iran a manga pamamolong poon sa Elim taman sa Gahil. Katawan o pamilya a diran khagaga a siran bo ago da ba iran manga pagigimo a mapiya.

So rata a ginawa o pamilya na misoramig sii ko kapedi kenaba sii ko rarangit. Sii ko kiyapakatalingoma iran na tanto iran a minikapedi so masasaman o manga tao ago so kadakel a miyada kiran. Da phakaraw kiran makimbitiyara ki Saliha sabap ko mamala ago mala a kasendit ko kiyapangarasii iran ki Siddiq. Magaan sa magaan na inisogo i Saliha a kapamolongi ko madakel a manga tao a pangasasakit. Madilapet so kiyapakapiya o kadakelan ko manga tao sabap ko panabang poon sa Elim ago so gagaw a mapapadalem ko manga Mangatha. Tanto a mala a minipanalamat o manga taw sa Gahil ki Saliha ago so langon den a miyanabang kiran. Mitharo si Saliha sii ko pantag o madakel a tao.

Aya moripori ko katharo iyan na, “Tanto den a miyarata a ginawa aken ko kiyaoriyan o ama o manga wata aken. Ped rekano bo so miyangarasi rekaniyan ogaid na di patot oba ami talikodi sa taraotop ka atastanggongan ami a giya inged. Ka katawan ami so magegedam iyo sangkoto a masa. Kenaba sekami e mala a pakawgop go pakabinasa rekano. Matag kami baden dimamolong ka giyoto i kapasang a minibegay rekami o Kadnan. Mapakay a pekabolongan ami so pimbarang a paniyakit sa lawas. Ogaid na kenaba so manga antangan a ribat a aya niyaton na indadag ko pagtaw. Di katawan o madakel a giya man e titho a tiyoba sa Gahil!”.

 

Ang Sakuna sa Gahil
Salin ng “So Tiyoba sa Gahil” sa Wikang Filipino

            “…Hindi nila alam na ito ang tunay na sakuna ng Gahil!”

May isang kilalang angkan ng mga manggagamot sa Gahil. Sila ang pamilya Mangatha. Sila ang pinupuntahan ng mga taga doon kapag mayroon silang nararamdamang kahit anumang sakit. Malapit ang loob ng pamilya Mangatha sa mga taga Gahil lalo na sa mga taong pumupunta sa kanila upang magpagamot. Hindi sila tumatanggap ng pera o anumang anyo ng bayad para sa pagpapagamot sa kanila. Ginagawa nila ito nang bukal sa loob. Ang pagtulong sa mga nangangailangan ay hindi nila pinanggigiit. Ang kaalaman sa panggagamot ang paraang alam nilang maitutulong sa mga taga-Gahil.

May isang nakalulumong pangyayari ang minsang dinanas ng mga taga-Gahil. Halos lahat ng mga residente ay nagkasakit na naging dahilan ng walang katapusang bisita sa tahanan ng mga Mangatha. Hindi makayanan ng mga Mangatha na gamutin lahat ng mga pasyente nila. Apat lamang silang manggagamot- ang mag-asawang Siddiq at Saliha, kasama ng kambal nilang anak na sina Sofyan at Soraim. Kahit na sila lamang ang may kakayahang gamutin ang sakit na ito ay hindi nila makayanang gamutin ang dami ng nahawaan ng sakit.

Mas dumami ang nagkasakit sa loob ng isang buwan. Umabot sa labing isang daan ang mga namatay dahil dito. May isang residente na matagal ng may hindi pagkagusto sa mga Mangatha. Dahil sa mahalaga ang pamilyang ito sa Gahil, ay malaki ang pagpupuri nila sa mga Mangatha. Kaya labis ang selos ni Kadibah na nagdulot ng pagkamuhi sa pamilya ng mga manggagamot. Gusto niyang kilalanin din siya at pahalagahan ng mga tao gaya ng pagpapahalaga nila sa mga Mangatha. Naisip niyang isang malaking pagkakataon ang mga nangyayari sa Gahil ngayon upang sirain ang prinsipyo ng mga manggagamot at kamuhian ito ng mga tao.

Nag-tibaw (pagbisita sa namatayan sa mga Meranaw) si Kadibah sa isa sa mga namatayan ng anak. “Aydow! Bapa, ante, nakakapanlumo ang sinapit ng nag-iisa ninyong anak. Kaya nang marinig ko ang pangyayaring ito ay agad akong pumunta sa inyo,” ani niya sa mag-asawang Tukod at Karbalah. Hindi na nila itong nagawang sagutin dahil sa sobrang paghihhinagpis sa nangyari sa kanilang anak. “Nawa’y tanggapin siya ng Allah sa kaniyang paraiso,”dagdag pa ni Kadibah na lalong itinangis ng ina ni Mujahid. “Isang malaking sumpa itong nangyari sa bayan natin! Kung hindi lang sana pinabayaan ng mga Mangatha si Mujahid ay hindi niya sana ito sinapit. Masaya sana kayo kung hindi lang nila inunang gamutin ang mga nagbigay ng mas malaking halaga. Pinili lamang nila kung sino ang mga gagamutin nila,” mga pagbibintang nito sa mga Mangatha. Ang mga panggagatong na ito ay umabot sa lahat ng mga binisita nitong mga pamilya na namatayan.

Maraming mga namatayan ang nakatanggap sa mga balitang ito. May mga nagsabi din na sinasadya ng mga Mangatha na hindi gamutin ang ilang pumupunta sa kanila. Kaya ang ilan sa mga namatayan ay nagtipon-tipon at nagkasundo na paalisin sa bayan nila ang mga manggagamot. Bagaman may mga tumututol sa usapang ito ay mas madami sa mga ito ang sang-ayon sa pagpapalayas sa mga Mangatha. Dumating sa mga Mangatha ang balitang ito. “Hay amakulay! Hindi mo ba alam ang mga naibalita tungkol sa atin? Na sinasadya daw nating hindi gamutin ang mga pasyente natin kaya namatayan sila,” sabi ni Sofyan. “Ama, may nagsabi din sa akin na isa sa mga araw a ito ay susulungin nila ang bahay natin dahil sa mga sinabing iyan ni Sofyan. Palalayasin nila tayo sa Gahil.” “Hindi ito ang panahon na patulan natin ang mga sinasabi nila. Mas kailangan tayo ng bayan natin,” tipid na sagot ng kanilang ama.

Hindi na nila masyadong nilaanan ng oras ang usaping iyon dahil kasalukuyan silang nanggagamot. Hindi man sila tumatanggap ng kabayaran ay mahirap pa din ang ginagawa nilang ito. Hindi rin sapat ang mga lakas nila sa kinahaharap nilang bilang ng mga pasyente. Sa kabila ng mga serbisyong ito, ay mas namayani para sa mga tao ang mga maling husga na ibinabato sa kanila ni Kadibah. Ikinalulungkot man nila ito ay wala silang magagawa. Dala ng pighati na naging poot ay mas marami ang mga taong naniwala sa mga husga sa mga Mangatha. Dumating ang araw ng pagpapaalis sa kanila sa Gahil. Maraming mga tao ang nagtipon sa labas ng bahay nila, galit na galit. “Umalis kayo sa Gahil! Kayo ang dahilan kung bakit namatayan kami ng mga mahal sa buhay!” pasigaw na sabi ng galit na si Tukod. Isa si Tukod sa mga kinatatakutan sa bayan iyon.

Naging iba na ang tingin ng mga tao sa pamilya Mangatha. Kung dati ang tinitingala sila ng mga tao, ngayon ay kabaliktaran nito. Nagsisisigaw, nagbabanta at ang ilan ay umiiyak nang malakas sa labas ng bahay nila. Hindi man bukal sa kalooban ay napilitan silang magdesisyong umalis na din sa bayan nila. “Huwag niyo ng ituloy ang panggagamot sa mga kapatid namin na nasa inyo dahil ayaw din namin silang mamatay gaya ng ginawa ninyo sa iba!” sigaw ni Kadebah na pinamumunuan ang mga tao. Papalabas na sana ang mga mag-iina ay biglang nagwika ang kanilang ama,”Mauna na kayo, dahil ang totoo ay hindi ko kayang iwan ang mga kababayan natin. Kung sakali mang umalis tayo ay sino na ang maaaring gumamot sa kanila?”, nilingon nito ang kaniyang asawa at ang kaniyang mga anak.

Napagkasunduan nilang pamilya na ang magpapaiwan ay ang kanilang ama na si Sidiqq. Dahil kung may gagawin mang masama ang mga ito sa kanila ay mayroon pa ding matitirang manggagamot sa pamilya nila. Lubhang masakit kay Saliha at sa kaniyang mga anak ang naging desisyong ito ni Sidiqq. Nang makaalis ang mag-iina ay eksaktong paglusob ng mga tao sa bahay nila at tinangay nila si Sidiqq. “Bakit hindi ka pa umalis sa bayang ito? Nais mo bang madagdagan ang mamatay sa amin?” sigaw ni Kadibah rito. Inilabas nila si Sidiqq na nakatali ang katawan. Sinalubong siya ng mga galit na tao saka pinaghahampas habang ang ilan ay pinagbabato ito na naging dahilan ng kaniyang pagkamatay. Pagkatapos ay pinasok nila ang bahay nina Sidiqq at kinuha ang mga mahal sa buhay upang iuwi sa kani-kanilang mga bahay.

Sa ilang buwang lumipas ay napansin nilang mas dumami pa nang dumami ang mga nagkasakit at mga nangamatay. Kahit anong gawin nila ay hindi nila matitigil ang pagdami ng mga nahahawaan hindi kagaya noong panahong nasa kanilang bayan ang mga Mangatha. Sobrang pagsisisi ang nangingibabaw sa mga tao. Mas lalo nilang napagtanto na walang magandang naidulot ang pagpapalayas nila sa mga Mangatha at pagpapapatay kay Sidiqq. Lalo na ng pagpapaniwala nila sa mga kwento walang katotohanan na nagpaalab ng galit at pagkamuhi ng mga tao. Nalaman din ng mga tao ang lahat ng pagsisinungaling ni Kadibah. Pinaghahanap nila ito subalit hindi na mahagilap kahit saang bahagi ng Gahil. Tunay na pagsisisi ang nararamdaman ng mga taga Gahil.

Sa tabi ng Gahil ay mayroong isang bayang tinatawag na Elim. Sa Elim nagtungo ang asawa at mga anak ni Sidiqq. Lubha silang nanlumo       sa sinapit ng kanilang ama. Sila lang ang nakakaalam sa tunay na pagkagusto ni Siddiq na tumulong sa mga nagkakasakit. Bagaman namumuhi sila sa mga ginawa ng mga taga Gahil sa kanilang pamilya ay hindi pa rin maalis sa kanilang mag-alala sa kasalukuyang sinasapit ng kanilang bayan. Nakarating sa kanila na pinaghahanap ito ng kaniyang mga kababayan upang humingi ng tulong. Dahil dito ay humingi sila ng tulong sa mga taga Elim at nagpasama din sila ng mga katulad nilang manggagamot pati na din ng mga kakailanganing gamit sa panggagamot. Naglakbay ang pamilya Mangatha at mga kasamang manggagamot mula sa Elim patungo sa bayan ng Gahil.

Ang naramdamang pagkamuhi ay napalitan ng pagkaawa nang madatnan nila ang sitwasyon ng Gahil. Sa dami ng nahawaan at nangamatay ay hindi maipaliwanag ni Saliha ang awa na nararamdaman nito sa mga taong lumapastangan sa asawa niya. Dahil sa hiya ay walang may kakayahang kumausap dito. Agad na ipinag-utos ni Saliha ang panggagamot sa mga tao. Mabilis ang paggaling ng mga tao sa tulong ng pamilya Mangatha at ng mga taga Elim. Hindi matapos-tapos na pagpapasalamat ng mga taga Gahil kay Saliha at sa mga kasama nito. Sa huli, nagwika sa Saliha sa harap ng maraming tao:

“ Sobrang nakagagalit at nakakalungkot ang naging katapusan ng ama ng mga anak ko. Bagaman alam ko, na kasama at narito ang mga lumapastangan sa kaniya ay hindi ko kayo magawang talikuran. Kasama kayo sa responsibilidad namin sa bayang ito. Hindi kami ang siyang tunay na makatutulong o makasisira sa inyo. Mga manggagamot lamang kami na siyang ibinigay na kakayahan ng Allah. Maaring magamot namin ang anumang uri ng sakit ngunit hindi ang mga baluktot na paniniwalang nagdudulot ng lason sa utak ng sangkatauhan. Na hindi alam ng karamihan ay siyang tunay na sakuna ng Gahil!“

Joross Michael D. Bongcarawan

Beep… beep… beep… beeeeeeppppp…

The rhythmic pulse on the monitor disappeared, replaced by an unbroken flat line, signaling the end.

“Time of death, 5:20 AM,” the doctor pronounced.

“Doc, what’s happening?” exclaimed Mother with her voice trembling. “Can you tell us what’s happening, doc?” “Doc?!”

One question after another, but the answers eluded her. My mother can’t seem to make things sense. She couldn’t believe it. Neither could I nor my family. She was fine and looked so strong a few days ago.

Everyone started to weep loudly, filling the room with anguished sobs.

“Ya Allah! Ya Rahman!” my uncle shouted while gently patting my mother’s back in an attempt to comfort her.

We went to Tawi-Tawi just yesterday. She told us about the great things about Tawi-Tawi. Honestly, she was more excited than us first-timers. On the journey there, it was as though she had become younger again. Her voice was so bright and full of life with all her chitchats and loud laughs.

“I can still remember when I was 18,” Grandma had shared. “we went to Simunul Island. Did you know that it is believed to be the birthplace of Islam in our country?” We just nodded because none of us had heard of it before. She added, “And the oldest mosque?”

I raised my hand eagerly as if I were a student being called by a teacher in an oral recitation. “Sheikh Karimul Makhdum Mosque!” I answered enthusiastically but in an ear-piercing way. As a prize, she gave me a tight hug. A hug that is tighter than usual, as if she knew it would be the last time. Her grip lingered a little longer, as if she was trying to hold onto every moment she could have before things finally slipped away.

With nothing but her happy-go-lucky and compassionate personality, no one would have imagined that her time would come way too early. It was quite hard for us to accept her sudden death.

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji-un,” whispered Grandpa, who was clearly trying to hold back his tears. I had never seen his eyes look so sorrowful and his usually steady voice falter. “May Allah grant her the highest place in Paradise. Ameen,” he added softly, his wish to ease the pain.

Grandma was the sweetest person I’ve ever known. Though we now live in Binangonan, Rizal due to my father’s work, every year, we pay a visit to my father’s hometown, Marantao, to spend some time with family and relatives.

It was the 31st of January, we traveled to Marantao, and as always, Grandma couldn’t contain her excitement. Grandma kept on calling Mother multiple times, asking the same thing.

“Where are you now? Almost there? Khaliq, is he with you?” she asked. “Not yet. I’ll give you a call to let you know. Yes, Khaliq is here,” Mother reassured her.

Grandma talked to me, and as expected, she bombarded me with a lot of questions. She asked if I had found a girlfriend and if I didn’t, I should find one.

“You must be very tall now, ikaritan ko,” she told me as if I were growing an inch every night to grow that big in a span of a year. Well, I didn’t. I smiled and told her how tiring it had been at school, in addition to my extracurricular activities. I had been so busy that I could barely give her a call, even during weekends.

1:35 PM. We are almost there. I could feel it. The bustling city lights and polluted air began to fade away and the streets are slowly becoming quiet. I started seeing the soft, calming green of the trees with their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. And the fresh air? It smells like heaven! I could smell the refreshing scent of nature. I could feel the excitement rising inside me as we drew closer to the warmth and comfort of our home.

Grandma was well-known in our community for her exceptional cooking skills. Her specialties are asked for by many people in different parts of our municipality. One time, she was even featured in local news for her mouthwatering pastil. It was our proudest moment, I can say.

1:50 PM. Calls echoed from one phone to another, everything was ringing and vibrating. Grandma certainly could no longer wait to see us after an entire year. The moment I stepped outside the car, the surroundings went silent when I saw her face. Her wide, beaming smile stretched all the way to her ears.

“Naow, so ikaritan ko! When did you get so tall and handsome? Someone has been making you blush? Ah! I see! You’re inspired! Tell me about it!” Grandma told me rapidly, barely catching her breath. For a second, I thought she was a retired professional rapper in her days.

“What’s this smell?” Mother asked, sniffing the air. “Wait… Ome, piyaparan a badak!?” Father exclaimed, with his eyes wide open with surprise, as if he had smelled something he never had before. “Let’s get inside, kids,” he added, his voice full of excitement, eager to devour every single dish that Grandma cooked for us.

PIYAPARAN A BADAK

Ingredients:

500 grams of young, unripe jackfruit
2 tbsp. of palapa
200 grams of dried fish
1 medium onion, finely chopped
2 bell peppers, chopped
1 spring onion, chopped
2 bowls of coconut milk
1 tsp, black pepper
1 tsp, turmeric powder
1 tsp, salt
2 cups of shredded coconut
2 cups of water

Procedures:

1. Put all the ingredients together in a cooking pot, except for the coconut milk for the first layer.
2. For the second layer, repeat the first step to ensure all ingredients are well combined.
3. Pour one bowl of coconut milk on top of the ingredients.
4. Cook for 20-30 minutes over medium heat until the jackfruit becomes soft. Make sure that it doesn’t dry out.
5. After it is boiled, pour the second bowl of coconut milk.
6. Cook for another 10-20 minutes or until the jackfruit is completely cooked.

As we stood on the doorstep, Aunt Asiya, Mother’s sister, welcomed us warmly. “Aydow, it’s been such a long time. Is this Khaliq, you’re oldest?” she asked with a smile. “Yes, but he’s the youngest. You must be referring to Khalid,” Mother replied. “Ehh, subhanallah! Yes, I remember Khalid,” Aunt quickly corrected herself, laughing lightly. “Pardon me, I must be getting old now,” she joked, shaking her head.

“Can’t you wait until we’re seated, Asiya?” Grandma teased her. “I’ve got plenty of questions for the family, too,” she added, making everyone laugh.

“Ibrahim, you can put your baggage in your old room. We cleaned it the whole day, so I expect you’ll be comfortable with it after all these years,” Grandma explained with a proud smile.

“Ome, why are you making it sound like it was my first time here?” replied Father with a laugh. “This is where I used to–” “Eh, karoo dn,” Grandma interrupted him before he could finish, cutting him off playfully.

Mother and I went first in the dining room and…

“Allahu Akbar! Ome, what’s with all of these foods!” Mother complained upon seeing the long table filled with various Meranaw dishes. My eyes dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Palapa? Piaparan a badak? Tiyateg? Dodol? Inaluban a sda? It felt like we were celebrating something big.

“Aren’t these too much, Ome? You didn’t need to prepare a lot. There are only five of us,” Father said in wonder, looking astonished. Grandma remained silent as she knew Mother and Father would never stop asking her about it.

“Untod kano, so that we can eat. You must be very hungry after the long travel.”

I cannot choose which to eat. “Can I have the dodol first?” I thought to myself. “No, it’s too sweet. I might lose my appetite.” I reluctantly put the dodol back, only to find myself returning to it. I can’t. I just can’t resist it. The sticky texture, the sweetness– it was too perfect to be resisted! “Dodol, I will never leave here without bringing some of you!” I said loudly, which brought laughter to the table.

“So, how’s work?” Grandma asked Father, shifting the conversation. “I don’t know how should I put it but something has caused quite a stir in our municipality,” he replied in a somber tone.

Father works as a government employee at the municipal hall. Lately, there have been rumors circulating in several barangays in our place. Reason? It didn’t come as shocking to many of us, though. Even I could sense that something was wrong with the system.

With the election coming up in a few months, tarpaulins were being put up here and there. They were literally plastered everywhere. Some people were excited about it because of the money they would get from different candidates. To us, it was yet another round of choosing leaders who can actually lead the people into betterment but have 0.5% of winning.

We couldn’t deny it. Some people are just blind, deaf, and allergic to good governance grounded in integrity, accountability, and transparency. They prefer short-term happiness without considering the long-term consequences of their thirst for money that can never be extinguished. They exchange small sums of pennies with years-long of bad governance.

And when these candidates manage to get a seat and act foolishly, these fanatics who blindly support them will either speak ill about them OR remain silent as they can blame no one but themselves.

PALAPA

Ingredients:

2 kg sakurab, sliced
4 pcs ginger, sliced
4 tbsp chili pepper
1 tbsp salt
1 ½ cup cooking oil
2 bulbs garlic, chopped

Procedures:

1. Using a mortar and pestle, crush sakurab, ginger, and chili peppers together.
2. When everything is crushed, add cooking oil to a cooking pan over medium heat.
3. Add chopped garlic and cook until fragrant.
4. Add the sakurab mixture.
5. Stir it from time to time to prevent the mixture from sticking to the pan. Keep stirring for 15-20 minutes until it changes color.

“What do you want to be in the future?” Grandma asked out of curiosity as she chopped the sakurab and ginger. “I want to become a politician,” I replied, watching her intently as she worked on the palapa.

Grandma paused for a moment, her knife still in mid-air. “I thought you hated politics?” she added, her eyebrows slightly contracted.

I nodded. She’s right. I do hate politics of all things. It is dirty— full of lies, deception, corruption, you name it. My voice faltered a bit, but I was determined to get my point across.

“I can’t just let it continue to be dirty. I want to make a positive change in our community. I want to make a difference in how things are done.”

“What do you think you can do if ever you become one?” Grandma continued, setting her knife down carefully. She looked at me warmly. “Do you think you can change it?” she asked thoughtfully.

I pondered. What could I really do? If I hate them because they are barely doing their responsibilities, do I also have what it takes to change a system that has been corrupt for so long?

My mind was racing. I thought about all of these politicians in our community who promised change but never delivered, how power was abused for selfish reasons, and how the poor were left to suffer while the elite continued to thrive.

I stared at the chopping board, my mind working through every possibility. “I don’t know. But I think if I had the chance, I’d focus on the people. Not on power, not on prestige, but on the people. I’d work to make sure that the promises made aren’t just words—they’d be real. I want to help the poor, build better education systems, improve healthcare, and ensure that everyone can enjoy the freedom and rights they are entitled to.”

Grandma watched me quietly as I crushed the ingredients altogether. “You’re not wrong,” she said softly. “But you must remember that change doesn’t come easy. It won’t happen overnight, and it won’t be without challenges.”

“I know,” I said, my voice steady but filled with uncertainty. “But if no one tries, nothing will ever change. I don’t want to sit back and complain like everyone else. I want to be part of the solution.”

Grandma smiled then, a deep, knowing smile that seemed to reflect both pride and concern. “Naow so ikaritan ko. You really have grown a lot.”

She said I have the heart and mind, but politics can be a heavy burden. I have to be prepared for the sacrifices, for the compromises. “But if your heart remains true to your purpose, then it will guide you. Never lose sight of why you started,” she added while stirring the mixture continuously.

I nodded slowly. The steady and rhythmic sound of the ladle against the pan echoed throughout the kitchen. “Well then,” Grandma said, breaking the silence, “if you want to make a difference, you’d better learn the ropes. You can’t change the world sitting on the sidelines.”

I smiled, knowing she was right. “I’ll learn. One step at a time.” Grandma’s eyes twinkled. “Good. And don’t forget the most important thing: Always stay grounded. Never forget where you came from, and always listen to the voices of the people. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

APANG

Ingredients:

2 ½ kg of rice, ground
2 cups of coconut milk
2 cups of water
2 ½ cups sugar
1 tbsp of baking powder
3 large eggs

Procedures:

1. Soak the rice in water before grinding it for 3-4 hours.
2. Mix the ground rice with all the other ingredients, then leave it overnight or for 6-7 hours.
3. Heat the pan and grease it with oil (for better taste, you can use a mixture of eggs and oil).
4. Add the rice mixture in a circular motion to form its shape.
5. Wait for 2-3 minutes. Once the top of the mixture is cooked, remove it from the pan.

The sun has risen unusually brightly today. The morning breeze was cool and refreshing. It seemed like it was not just me enjoying the fresh air; the trees seemed to be enjoying it too, swaying gently as if dancing with the soft blow of the wind.

A delicious smell escaped from the corners of the kitchen, filling the air with a mouthwatering scent that was both buttery and creamy at the same time. I quickly turned my head, unable to resist whatever Aunt and Grandma were preparing.

From a distance, I could hear the faint sizzle of something cooking on the stove. As I approached the kitchen, the aroma grew stronger—there was no mistaking it. Grandma must be making her top-tier apang again. The sweet scent of her cooking always seemed to make the world feel a little brighter as if the whole day could only get better from here.

“Mapiya kapipita, Grandma!” I greeted her cheerfully. As usual, she replied to me with a big, warm smile. “Are you making apang?!” I shouted in excitement. “I knew it. I knew it was apang just by the smell!”

Grandma chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, it’s apang. You have a good nose, ikaritan ko. Go, and wake your Father and Mother and tell them the breakfast is ready.”

I shook my head and hurried to the bedroom, with my excitement growing with every step. As I entered, I saw them already making their beds and preparing our things. “Grandma’s almost done with the apang! It smells so good, you won’t believe it!” I said brightly.

“We know, son. We can smell it from here,” Father replied. “We’ll go downstairs in a bit.”

I rushed back to the kitchen and saw Grandma wiping her hands on her apron. “Where are they?” she asked. “Asiya, can you bring the native coffee here?”

I told Grandma that Mother was already packing. We might have to go back today as Father was summoned to the municipal hall due to an urgent matter.

“You’ll have to leave, then?” Grandma asked, her voice tinged with concern. “I guess so, Ome. We were planning to stay a little bit longer but I guess it can’t be helped,” Father replied, giving her a gentle smile. “It’s important. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure to stay longer next time. I promise.”

Aunt Asiya, who had been quietly sitting at the table, spoke up. “Well, I guess we can’t stop you. But you better come back for another round of kandori-like preparation.” She winked at me playfully.

Grandma laughed softly, shaking her head. “If only we had more time, I’d make sure you ate your fill. But for now, have some breakfast. After that, you may go and take care of things, Ibrahim.” My father nodded, his expression softening as he stood up. “Thank you, Ome.”

While we were eating, Grandma stood first to prepare the extra food she’d been wanting us to take home– piyaparan a bakas, dodol, palapa, and biyaring.

As we made our way out the door, there was a combination of melancholy and happiness. I saw Grandma for the last time. Her lips curved up gently as if the smile was trying to hold back tears. There was a softness in her eyes, a sparkle that hinted at happiness, but beneath it was an unspoken sadness.

My thoughts still linger on the comforting warmth of Grandma’s kitchen, and the way her laughter always made everything feel bright. Even though we were leaving for now, I knew that we would come back, soon.

But…

where do we return now that…

Grandma has peacefully rested?

The food she prepared wasn’t just to fill the stomach; it was to fill our hearts and minds with memories worthy of remembering.

Norhasnie Curo

The clanging of kulintang still resonates in my ears as if those days were from a distant yesterday. Our house was teeming with cousins, in-laws, and people clouded by hazy memories. The house’s interior radiated golden yellow textiles and dangling mamandiyang. I remember the damask patterns on the linens enswathing the rustic chair slats leaning against the sidewall, leaving a narrow walk-through space in front. I liked the faint scent of camellias adorning the wooden tables, only that was neither too overwhelming nor too boring to me. Several pieces of silver tabak aligned along the living room to the balcony. For an average fifteen-year-old like me, everything seemed vibrant and ostentatious.

Amidst all that merry, my sister was weeping in front of her casket beaming with bangles and brooches, gifted by aunties before walking out of her room. She was wearing a beige chemise underneath the maroon landap muffling her petite body. Trinkets bedecked on her necklace were glinting along with her silver headdress. Her pale skin complemented the piercing colors around her. She was beautiful. But her expression was stubborn and somber, a fever of madness that left me stunned.

I knew that she was not happy about the marriage. She did not love her betrothed and she knew her dreams were now long buried beneath the soiled sheets in her bedroom. I also could not do anything for her when she was forced to marry a man she met once in the diyalaga before the wedding ceremony. A socially inept sister like me can only be of use when guests are over the house. Not just me, Meranaw women are predetermined to act this way. We tend to our brothers and parents, take care of the household, and clean men’s spittoons (bamaan).

Where is the bride? Auntie Raysa, who was peering from the bedroom door asked.

You’re here auntie, my sister is inside. I responded while waiting for her to walk in.

 Get in first. I prodded her.

Everyone looked so happy to see the eldest daughter of the family getting married. Distant cousins started calling each other gari and daani as if those people had been living together since forever. I did not like the jaunty atmosphere. I was getting tired of it and snuck inside Kaka Rocaya’s bedroom.

Kaka. (Sis). I called out to her.

Have you seen mother? She asked.

No, she is probably blathering about you again to Uncle. She looked worn out.

Her eyes were swollen red. The garish clothes didn’t help to make her look less devastated.

Be happy. I was not trying to comfort her.

 You don’t even know how I feel. She muttered.

You should wear those bangles now.

I flopped on the couch across the window. The golden hues of sunset silhouetted my sister who was hunkered on the bed. Her grimace was so unfit in the picturesque scene.

I don’t like wearing these bangles. It feels like I am getting sold off.

You are getting sold off. Auntie Faisah said those gifts show your value, so you need them with you later for display.

Even you think that women are only worth the gold, huh?

We are always prickly around each other. There was no way to keep up a conversation between us. We differ in personality, principles, and perceptions. We argue all the time. Even in this place, where we have no one else but each other, seems to cripple simple words of affection.

Why haven’t they considered this marriage carefully? She began her rants again.

She would circle around the same arguments for hours and it was sickening. I never felt bad for her. She’s annoying.

If you don’t want to do this, then why are you still here? Should I help you get away from here? My voice could not hide the sarcasm. I hated talking to her.

There you are again. You talk like everything is a child’s game. It’s not as easy as you think it is. You think like a toddler.

I was not being sarcastic when I told her to run off. Adults think that young people’s decisions are always confined to their emotions. I seem more like the older sister between us two. My brothers will never manhandle her. She could have gotten married to someone else, or she could have taken all her belongings and gone off somewhere. She did not. She could have made a different choice. I knew how things were going to turn out when she decided to do so. Familial relationships would hit rock bottom. Relatives will get too rowdy, and she will lose her home. It would not be easy for someone like her to end up that way.

You’re all dolled up and let our aunties paint your face, yet you’re telling me you don’t want this? I retorted.

You don’t understand a thing!

 You don’t understand me either! I am not saying that our brothers did nothing wrong, but that is why I am telling you that you have a choice here!

I was furious. I was on my feet shouting at my sister. I could feel the seething rage behind her blank gaze.

Have you gone mad? Why are you arguing on such an important day? Auntie Faisah, one of my closest aunts stormed inside after hearing us from outside.

She towed me away from the room and I could feel my sister looking at me with daggers.

By the way, have you already hugged your sister? She is about to be taken away now.

Auntie Faisah chuckled as we watched my eldest brother, Kuya Monib, and the groom’s father, Bapa Satar, face each other with their right hands stifled underneath a white cloth.

Men in polos and guras (headwear) were gathered around them while women, mostly my aunts, were huddled up a few meters away from the po-faced men while wallowing in muffled tears and some smiling out of fascination.

My sister is not a convenient woman. She is smart, does good work, and a pretty one at that. She lacks nothing if you compare her to other Meranaws. Yet she can be dumb sometimes, on the most important events like this where she has gotten tied up with old practices.

You are also a smart girl, you know. But your sister has the heart. She can’t stand a life that brings pain to the people she loves.

What’s the use of all that when she’s the one who suffers. I furrowed my brows.

That’s because she loves us. She says a lot against this, but in the end, she chose to be with us. Love makes women strong.

That’s dumb. I sneered at the thought.

The bangles around my sister’s wrists caught my eye again. They must be so heavy when worn.

Why do women have to wear too many bangles? They don’t really make her look any costly. I was desperate to act haughty in front of my aunt.

Bangles are not supposed to raise women’s value, sweetheart. They show their strength. When a woman wears a bangle, it shows she can attain riches by themselves.

I looked up to see my auntie’s visage. She wore an expression I doubt any Meranaw man would ever want to see. She was a proud woman.

_______________________________

Banggel is a Meranaw word for bangle which refers to an ornamental bracelet that is worn by Meranaw women. It is often used during special occasions such as weddings, formal meetings, and enthronements to show power and wealth.

Sheilfa B. Alojamiento

The year was 1989 maybe. I was in this office, one of those city-based social development institutions supporting what we then called the PDOS—the poor, the deprived, the oppressed, and struggling. There was a commotion, a shuffle. Muslim nationalists—the ones we libeled separatists—had early on absconded. We would know later that they set up their own programs to help their own poor. I was myself decamping. There was a marching order to consolidate and expand forces and there I was, a foot dragger. Sowing doubts within; doing the enemy’s job for them.

Do you know Nids?

The speaker was someone I knew from way back when I was still a student. We were standing in the middle of the receiving hall of a two-story unit in a four-door apartment. She came with the Marawi gang chauffeured by the liaison guy whose family owned the vehicle that took everyone there. Then suddenly, people were going to the kitchen behind the movable dividing wall or to the small room on one side of the main door.

Did you know that Nids died? she again asked.

I shook my head. There were arrests and executions all the time. Too many to keep track of or to have time to grieve over. That someone I might have known from way back was now on the list should not make for a terrible case.  Then I saw our office head flee the hall, running to the bedroom upstairs, her face very soft and tender. I looked around me, aware all of a sudden that we were alone in the living room.

Where’s everyone?

A little before that I was in a smaller office in the same city. Around me were younger people, Muslim boys. They were diffident, quieter than the usual crowd our office feted. One or two were slinging tubaos, their smiles pale. They moved around as one would if he were inside a chapel. I was sitting on a long rattan bench beside another young woman, a comrade, and a Muslim. On the table in front of us were roasted cassava, fried fish, seaweed salad, soft drinks. The office cheerleader, the one who would leave in a little while for the burial of his politician-father, was entertaining our guests.

Have your fill! This is guerilla’s fare!

A nudge on one’s side. A smile to cover what was up. Is it true, my fellow sitter, a Muslim cadre who shared our quarters, mumbled, her voice low enough not to be heard beyond an ear. Is it true that a whole squad got wiped out because of panggi and malong?

Ha?

The story went—the one that got to her—that this team of foot soldiers was on its way to a meeting to forge a UG-level military alliance when, while spending the night in an outpost, they were raided by enemy forces. It would have been a breakthrough of breakthroughs, coming together to plan joint actions.

None escaped on account of panggi and malong.

Ha?

Board and bed, she quietly explained, the luminescence not leaving her face. Happened in Lanao Norte, accordingly. They stuffed themselves a little too much and overslept too. When the enemies fired, none was quick enough to jump out of the window or rise up from bed. Some fell with their feet caught inside their malongs.

For a long time that story never left me.

I never heard of such an incident., at least not as you narrated the case to me, Nene would say to me more than three decades later.

We were in her house. One of the more than a dozen of kittens had wetted the floor and she was wiping it dry. When she had washed the mop and had it slung over the fence to dry, she returned to the living room, to the litter of books and paper she was sorting.

Nene was my Political Science 101 instructor in Marawi. On campus, movement people called on her—for advice, for help—. It was the time when so many students were going over to the anti-Marcos struggle. A score I knew dropped out to go underground and were in the Mindanao United Front work.

I just asked what made her decide to leave. She was throwing monographs and students’ papers she did not want to be filling her cabinets. I was gathering stories I was forever writing and rewriting. I pressed the red button of the mini tape recorder I was lugging all the time.

You mean the UG?

Yes, the underground.

I no longer believe in the things I used to believe in.

I fell silent. It was a terrible thing to say coming from someone like her. And a terrible thing to hear for someone who always looked up to UG people.

You no longer believe in…

Her eyes were on the dusty notebooks. Fingers browsing through yellowing pages, the face clenched around the jaw.

No.

You no longer believe that…

No.

But….

Socialist states are not and cannot be morally superior to capitalist states. For as long as there is class differentiation, there will always be the poor, and there will always be exploitation. That’s why… she took a breath, glanced at the door, then to me.

Didn’t I tell you this before?

I did not reply. Just stared on, anger rising up in my chest.

Her lips pursed, dull eyes casting about among the litter at her knees.

That’s why Marxism is for the withering away of the state. Marx’s ideal is communism, a classless and stateless society, which, being ideal, shall never be.

There are strange moments of illumination that do not feel like illumination. Like being there before the fall, of a pillar or a monument. Like being the tail of the beast that bites itself, or, being in the eye of a storm.

I leaned back in my seat and shut my eyes. For an endless time, the tape ran on dead air. Then I opened my eyes again and reached for the pause button. She was still sifting papers, picking, throwing, casting about low. In another moment the fallen pillar was on the same eye level with the beast and the storm, looking back, mirroring one’s brokenness.

Did you know that so many were executed then?

How could I not know? I was the office’s human rights documenter, wasn’t I. Always on a fact-finding mission, always afield, always in conferences. Could she be talking about the other cases? The undocumented ones?

After that chauffeured group disappeared in our living room, none returned. One is now in Canada, another in West Virginia. The rest here and there in obscure corners of the country, revolution and class war now a faraway country sometimes recalled with a touch of nostalgia.

It took me decades before I finally got over my PTSD, the liaison guy who brought the girls out would confess at GC.

Nids died in 1987, a news dispatch would belatedly confirm to me. According to this archived item, four community organizers affiliated with the National Democratic Front, the political wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines and the New People’s Army, were killed in Tangkal, Lanao Norte, on July 24 of that year. Implicated were members of the Tunda Force, a group of capitulationists formerly under the Moro National Liberation Front. In a statement, the Muslim rebel commander overseeing the territory admitted being put in a shameful situation: his NDF guests had been slaughtered while a regional peace pact between revolutionary forces was in effect. Lost were one carbine, one M16, one .45 calibre pistol, one .38 calibre revolver, three Garands, and one radio handset. The M16 was what was used in the execution. This last detail was not in this dispatch.

In the eighties, Nene said, she was in the United Front Committee. She would come to school finding her name scrawled on the blackboard at the College of Arts and Sciences Building convicting her as a certified member of the Communist Party of the Philippines. Most everyone she knew would be received in her house at the Fisheries Village. One morning after hosting the previous night’s meeting when everyone but a couple were gone, an ex-soldier started stoning her house. That was not the first time that he did that. She rose and took the gun the sleeping man left lying on the ironing board and went out; fired shots at the water hole where their kitchen drain stopped. Then she went back in, dismantled the gun, left it where she picked it. She went out again, in her housedress and slippers, to confront the military man. A neighbor accosted her, grinning.

Patapsingi lang! Tiila lang! Don’t hit the bullseye! A graze in one leg will do!

But the man had fled. When she returned to the house, her guest, the NDF and UF bos, a co-signatory to the regional peace talks, was up on his feet, the reassembled gun in his hand.

I thought we were raided, he said to her. I told myself, Whatever happens, I should have my gun.

Then she got a scolding. What if the bullets ricocheted? What if a neighbor or one of the kids got hit? What if you got hit? What?! You went out to attack and left your gun?? What idiocy is that?!

Only the Muslim rebel commander and co-signatory to the peace talks was awestruck. Her little adventure put a stop to the harassment. The rest of the house laughed off the whole episode. But there were other executions everywhere. One of the Maranao guests that usually came to her house with the Marawi chaps would be found lying dead in bed, his two hands holding his severed head.

The comrades said he was a partisan.

A partisan?

A gunman. A hitman. They also warned me not to trust him.

The comrades paid him to kill fellow…?

No.

He was in the UF?

He was UG. He would come to the house with the rest.

Who killed him?

I don’t know. They wouldn’t say.

Where was he killed?

In Marawi. I cannot recall now if it was in his own rented place or in the house of this Tausug man where he sometimes slept.

She looked away as she said this, at a mid-point distance around the house’s vicinity, her arms crossed in a self-embrace.

Then she turned her face back to me.

But many, so many were executed at the time. Her voice was soft, low.

I did not speak for a long moment. Her daughter came out of their bedroom and walked by, impervious to the ongoing conversation. The girl turned on the faucet and washed her hands, then went out of the kitchen door.

I did not know about that case, I said. But I knew about this raid a comrade had told me about.

Then I related to her the panggi and malong incident my fellow sitter whispered to me ages ago.

The kitchen door opened again, the daughter came in, a bundle of washed clothes slung in one arm. She went inside without a word or a nod.

A massacre?

The word they used was a wipe-out. It was a whole squad.

Neither did she know about it, said she, though her voice did not betray surprise.

Then she added: Or if I did, the way it was told to me was not like how you recounted it to me just now.

And then she asked, Do you know Nids?

Nids, she explained, was a Business Administration student who went underground. She was also in the UF work, Mindanao-wide level. She was executed in an MNLF area.

It was after Cory took to the presidency when I read about the regional peace talks being broached. Negotiations in the national level bogged down after farmers were massacred in Mendiola, but in Lanao, local initiatives were in progress, with the Franciscan Brothers in Baloi and Bishop Capalla himself of the Diocese of Iligan brokering the peace. I remember reading a news item that had the CPP chair criticizing what regional bosses were doing—early signs of inner schisms I then chose to ignore—. Soon after that, I would find the picture of the MNLF-Ranao, the NDF-Northwestern Mindanao, and the NPA-Lanao bosses in the inside page of a national daily. In the same picture was a little woman corralled by an armchair, described as the NDF negotiator’s back-up service. Not exactly in those words.

While the news report quoted everyone who repeated themselves, it looked like the fourth member of the panel never benefitted from an interview. She sat in a corner with her side to the camera, her head slightly bowed, pen poised above a notepad at her right hand. In the national level peace negotiations sortie that ended just before the regional talks officially started, stories about the achievements of the underground women’s organization affiliated with the NDF made waves. Reading the news item about a seemingly indefensible local peace pact, I remember feeling a pang, a kind of hunger for words from a woman who went around with a short arm slung in her waist. I found none.

According to Nene, Nids was killed for insisting to accompany a group in an MNLF territory. She had been dissuaded from going but she did not listen. The picture of her death painted before Nene was one of a disgraceful sort: as though she was running when shot from the back: left arm raised, head turned to her right, the other arm bent in an angle by her side. The all-boys squad was there for their first baptism of fire: to consolidate and expand forces in Muslim areas.

At the time Nene was replaying the NDF bos’ lampoon of his dead comrade-deputy secretary, I had no idea that the fourth panelist in the failed regional peace talks and the Business Administration student who went underground and was killed was one and the same person. I also did not know that when she died, she did not die alone: the guys she accompanied went with her to her grave. All I could see then was Nene’s anger. She refused to know more, refused to listen further, she said, not only because she did not like hearing about comrades meted with ugly violent deaths, but most of all, she hated the story teller, hated the manner he was telling it.

How could he laugh like he derived satisfaction over a comrade’s death?! I said, what kind of a man is this I am receiving in my house!? This is no revolutionary!

I would also know, several interviews later, that the bodies were never brought home, never brought out of the place where they were felled. It was a border mountain between Tangkal and Magsaysay then accessible only by foot, and the slaying made the area no man’s land. The request to the masa to please bury the bodies had to therefore go through a long involved channel: from one kasama to another, then to an ally and then another, until finally a motley group of young boys armed with spades and shovels had to be let in to perform the unpleasant task.

What would a set of menials tasked to lift smelling bodies into an open grave feel? I never ceased to wonder. And what could Muslim gravediggers who otherwise denounce communists have seen? Wasted youth? Dead kaffir bodies beginning to stink? One small, sorry-looking girl whose last feat was to carry a gun around her hip which she was not able to fire? If the slain team’s gravediggers were Maranao boys who only had hatred for accursed communists and had no fellow feeling for peasants’ sons like them, surely, they would not trouble themselves with such a revolting job? On the other hand, if they were Muslims, and they were, what they did—burying dead bodies of strangers and jihadists of a kind—would have been the next thing to a prayer or a pilgrimage to Mecca.

The 1987 news dispatch did not give details besides the fact that four NDF organizers were killed by the Tunda Force. On the other hand, the Lanao Red Army At-Large, when first lit on during an unscheduled interview, did not deny a wipe-out of an entire squad.

Hurot gyud, all seven of them.

He moreover did not mention any Tunda Force.

Ang tag-iya lang gud sa balay. Just the house owner.

The slaying occurred in the place where the team slept and boarded for several days. According to him, it was an SYP—Sandatahang Yunit Propaganda—the armed propaganda unit of the Red Army tasked to expand base. They were all Christians, young boys just out of school. The mountain part was known to have been always under the control of MNLF commanders with a history of friendship and alliance work with Maoists and NDF personages since the seventies. Pockets of communities in surrounding villages were considered mass bases.

They had been well-briefed, this NPA commander now on leave explained. There was no lack for reminders on top of comradely reminders. To be constantly on the move and be incessantly on the guard; to not spend two consecutive nights in one place and especially not in one house; to never gather in one room with no lookout watching the periphery; to always have a night watch; and finally, to stay close to the man of the house and his wife and children. Except that, in this particular case, the house owner had no wife and no children, which might have been noted but was not, or, if it had been noted, the note might have been overruled, annulled. On this particular day or night, the man of the house did not join them for the meal. No one could recall however and none of those I interviewed could tell if it was breakfast lunch or supper; only that when the boys went out to the kitchen table, they left their arms in their bedroom—just there, leaning against the wall.

He must have temporarily lost his mind, didn’t care what was right or wrong all he saw was an opportunity, the NPA commander now on leave broached. The erstwhile fighter also did not reveal that there was a girl in the team: a 22- year-old who dropped out of college to go underground. And he did not say that of the seven, someone did not leave her gun lying around. No details from him either whether the house owner went in through the door or through the bedroom window, or if he found an excuse to get inside the room passing by the door; just that the next moment, he was raining bullets on them all.

A security lapse, a serious one. Thus went the summation that closed the case.

They were young, and trusting, he added, in a more forgiving tone. They must have underestimated him because he was alone.

No political motive imputed either. Say, that it was a military ploy, fire for fire, after losing an Army official in an ambush or after a rank demotion and such jingo talk. In certain cultures, he expounded, nothing is more irresistible than high-caliber rifles just there, within reach and for the taking.

That squad that got wiped out in Tangkal, who were they?

Across me sat this former staff of the Mindanao Committee. She was a sometime-comrade and sometime-friend from way back when we were both very young. Now she was in another trustworthy post in a government office and still wore that it’s-quiet-as-it’s-kept air about her. I was rather uneasy. Would she talk about her past? Would she lend me her lights? For I knew the woman. She would not calumny a comrade no matter what his faults might be. Not for the sake of a sentimental journey, and not for the sake of local history.

No, it was not an all-boys team. Jen was there. Jenny!

Jenny?

Nids! Leonida Gentica. An MSUan! A BA major!

Nids was not supposed to be part of that team, she went on. But there was this task to do consciousness-raising among the masa in the area. Since there was already an existing regional agreement between the MNLF Command, the NDF, and the NPA, they were confident they could go around unescorted by Moro cadres. The boys were young recruits. YS—youth and students—and peasants’ sons.

Mga Bisaya!

It appeared that either the team trusted a little too much, or, they could not find any Moro accompanier and figured the Maranao man they had befriended could help them around. For three days he fed them, offered them his house. On the fourth day, they were slaughtered. No one knew, she said, how many days or nights had lapsed before anyone went in to bury the bodies. After the incident, the military must have put the area under reconnaissance so that none of the comrades could get in.

It was a case of palihog palihog palihog. Palihog diri palihog didto. Pasa pasa pasa. Hangtod nga nalubong ra gyud sila sa masa. A long relay of please please please. Request here request there, relay relay relay. Until finally, the putative masa had all of them properly buried.

No other information had been given as to how many bullets were spent, whether there was a hole in the back of her head, a wound on her side or in the heart. Only that where she fell, there were bullet shells from her pistol.

Which meant her pistol had been fired by whom?

She postulated that Nids did not die right on from the seized rifle the house owner fired. It was her own pistol that was used to finish her. But she could not remember if there were survivors. Although she was there during the assessment meeting that post-mortemed the case, the survivors’ whereabouts were never fully taken into account. It would seem that no one in that meeting was counting on anyone’s return just in case there were any survivors because it was there that the decision to abandon the territory was made.

In 1987 there was this group of Maranao boys who visited our office. Could they be from the place where Nids was buried?

I don’t know.

Could they be the ones you requested to bury our dead?

Maybe.

I did not ask again if the whole squad got wiped out. Or rather I did, and suspected an edit that more than fitted with what had been officially reported in that 1987 news dispatch. Like the Lanao Red Army At-Large, she, too, did not assign a highly political or ideological motive for the slaying of the man’s guests.

He was really tempted. Those were high-powered guns!

For I could not help demanding: If there were survivors, how could they have run from that crazy man discharging a round of ammo? Could anyone have ducked, rolled, tumbled, crossed mountain trails unhurt to reach friendly territory? An M-16? Burst-fire mode?

Yes! An Automatic! Kaya madali sila natultol ng kaaway! That was why the military immediately located them.

And cordoned the area? That was why it took days before contacts could get to the place? So, soldiers only left when the bodies began to smell?

Maybe not. What I know is, they had been buried properly by the masa.

Why didn’t I think of it? If military men went in first, then it must be military men who first described Nids’ disgraceful state when found. The NDF bos was with the Bishop all the time and the Bishop was friends with bigwigs in the military the whole time. The Bishop even borrowed choppers at one time to bring journalists and human rights workers to mountain areas to locate and exhume missing bodies. Didn’t bishops have brothers in the underground movement? Didn’t NDF bosses have relatives in the military? For all I know someone might have promised his uncle in the military a case of beer in the event that the revolution won, all in the name of United Front work. For all I care such a wager might have made the Bishop laugh.

I said to this former Mindanao Committee staff that perhaps if that NDF team did not move beyond the confines of the house they were holed in, it was because they could not. It was not safe to do so, as their host might have counseled them.

She did not argue.

A more serious proposition would be, if it shamed the MNLF commander that he was not able to protect his NDF friends poaching in MNLF territory, it must have been a bigger shame for the underground NDF operatives and their Red Army not to have been able to protect themselves from an unarmed Maranao. A wipe-out? Their own weapons used against them? The description of the NDF bos of how Nids looked when found dead—head turned, left arm up, right arm bent by her side—indicates that she was the lone cadre who did not put away her gun when she joined her comrades to eat. The fire coming from behind her, she must have turned around, her left hand empty, not holding a plate—or it would not be raised like that—the other hand reaching for her pistol on her waist.

Maybe Nids was actually holding the pistol and was about to fire it when she was felled? Or she might have fired and missed, that was why the assailant came at her? He might have actually removed the gun from her side and shot her there and then, the second time, maybe the third and fourth time. And that was what the famously misogynistic comrade-bos was laughing over? The sight of her with her short, attempting to pull up a return fire before an Automatic discharging a storm?

Ever circumspect, she only said, maybe.

Which got me railing some more. For if the early version of the story was true, that is, that the boys were still wearing their malongs when fired upon, what does it say of us, what does it say of those boys? That they took off their foot soldiers’ pants in favor of malongs, a way to feel at home, go native? That they were a bunch of loitersacks staying in bed all hours while their masa walked around the house cutting wood, making fire, finding food, cooking, setting the table? Was Nids the only one in the team who wore her pants and helped around the house? Did the rest go there for a cultural number, a peace forum, and did not bother to sling their Garands, the carbine, the .38 caliber revolver, the radio set, the M16? Didn’t they know they were in Moro territory where possession of a gun, a weapon, is status, prestige, power, manhood, bride price, everything? Weren’t they the finest set of idiots, indeed, fit for slaughter how unrevolutionary.

But if it had not been Nids, could it have been someone else? My History teacher in Marawi now a social anthropologist and postmodern epistemologist would inform me that he was the bos’ first choice for a deputy secretary during that mess of a peace talks. Had he accepted the invitation to be in the negotiating panel, he might have died instead of Nids, said he. It was he, though, who had to go to the Office of the Registrar, breaching confidentiality protocols, to ask for Nids’ home address so that the news of her death would be delivered to her parents. Another of his former students took the long road across mountains to bring the letter to the mother. Words of praise and assurance, this courier would later recount to me. That their daughter died for a good cause and that her body had been interred properly. The mother also asked to please send home Nids’ things, so that the family will have something to remember her by. He did not know, said he, if the comrades were able to accede to such a most modest request: he was no longer there to know.

By the time I arrived at this elaborate summation, Nene was herself already dead. She finally succumbed to an illness that damaged her hearing and eyesight, a rather apt end, I would say, to what she no longer wanted to hear or read about some more. When last interviewed, she refused to say another word. I no longer have any involvement with the movement, she said.

I hold no authority now to represent the UG story.

Where I myself now stand, I am confronted with this mountain, this highland. I sometimes find myself counting my dead: mistakes on top of repeated mistakes, mounds over mounds of unknown graves. I try to reinvent the lives that I have known, the times we had, a way to honor and to praise what I and the comrades had struggled for and done together when we were still the best that we could be and did not know it. And I remind myself: Nid’s life was not and need not be wasted.

I realize, too, as I write this sentence, in this paragraph, on this page, that it was not as though I did not live. That I have a past, definitive; long and sheltering, goading me on far into this perilous present, so that the future perfect I might never have to create or imagine with what little time I have in my hands, may be more tangible, more appreciable.

 

 

 

Hanin A. Ayaown

I hated my uncle. The brother of my mother. He was already an adult, yet he did not have a job. I could understand if he failed to get a job after countless job applications. However, that was not the case. Instead, he made my mother his source of funds. He would always go to our house to ask for money. The problem was he had a family. He would always ask for a considerable amount of money. We even had to spend less just to be able to give him the money he demanded. Even the bonuses that Mother would receive were given to him. Sometimes, Mother even had to borrow money from others just to meet our needs. 

 Mother gave him money because he was a well-known thug. A well-known thug in our family and the neighborhood. He would beat any person that caused him dissatisfaction. One time, he beat a motorcycle driver when the driver refused to give him a ride. Not only that, anything or anyone that dissatisfied him would taste his gun. He would always use his gun to scare people and make them bend to his will and demands. His dreadful acts were well-known to our family and in the neighborhood. That is why we couldn’t do anything about him. Our family was scared of him.

One time, when my mother could no longer bear his demands, she refused to give him money. He got angry and made a mess in our house. He grabbed the flower vase and threw it on the floor. Mother screamed.

“I will make a mess in this house of yours if you will not give me the money,” he said.

Mother was so scared and gave him the money. His dreadful acts did not only stop there. He would always take our things that would catch his interest. Our furniture, bags, shoes, and anything that would fascinate him. 

 “Your bag is nice. My daughter would surely love it. Give it to me,” he said.  

An incident made them stay in our house for weeks. The problem was his wife and daughter were extremely irresponsible. They did not clean the mess they created. Dirty plates, table, and sink would always welcome me and Mother. They would even use our personal things without permission. My uncle’s wife would always bring her friends to our house. We cleaned after them.

One time I was on my way home from school. As I was getting near, I heard laughter coming from our house. I opened the gate and saw numerous shoes in our doorway. I entered the house, and I saw my uncle’s wife laughing with other women in the living room. However, what shocked me the most was the jewelry box placed on the table. The jewelry box was my mother’s. My uncle’s wife was happily and proudly showing off the jewelry. I was shocked. I could not say anything. I just let her be. I would just let Mother handle the situation.

My mother arrived and she saw the situation in the living room. She waited for the visitors to go home before she confronted my uncle’s wife.

“Sarah, you know I do not mind that you bring your friends to my house. However, would you mind being sensible enough to not touch my things without my permission?” Mother said.

“What? Am I not allowed to do anything? Am I not allowed to bring my friends because this is not my house? Are you telling me I should not do anything because this is not my house? Why? Are you angry because we are staying in your house?” She said. Her voice was filled with bitterness.

“Do not worry, we will leave,” she said again.

I was in my room and my mother was in the kitchen when my uncle arrived. His wife told him what happened. He got so angry. He shot the flower vase on the living room table. My mother screamed and I hurriedly went to the kitchen. I saw my uncle pointing his gun towards Mother.

“You want to make us leave? You dare to scold my wife?” He said while pointing the gun towards my mother. My mother could only raise her hands.

 “Put your gun down! We can talk without your gun!” My mother said while trembling.

 “Talk? You think you are superior than me just because you have money?” He asked.

 “Leave this house or else I will shoot you in the head,” he shouted.

 “Alright. We will leave. Just put your gun down!” Mother pleaded.

 “Just leave this house this instant,” he said angrily.

I was so angry. Just how shameless this man can be. How dare he do this to my mother who gave him everything. How dare he threaten us to make us leave our own house. I could feel the rage surging in me as I witnessed the situation.

Mother hurriedly grabbed my hand. As we were about to leave, I saw him put the gun down on the table as he turned back. I do not know what took me over because I immediately took the gun. I could not think of anything. I just wanted to get rid of the man who is causing so much pain in our lives. As I could no longer endure the anger, I pulled the trigger and shot him.

The sound of a gunshot reverberated in the whole house. My mother ran to me. She was terrified.

“What are you doing?” She asked. Her voice was filled with terror. 

“Leave!” I angrily said to my uncle who looked at me. Shocked was written on his face.

“Put the gun down!” My mother said.

 “This little child! Do you think I would be afraid of you because you are holding a gun?” He asked me mockingly.

“You should be afraid of me because I will shoot you in the head if you don’t leave our house,” I said.

“Then, shoot me in the head,” he said smugly.

“Put the gun down!” Mother said.

I was about to pull the trigger again. However, my cousin arrived. They came to check what was going on in our house after hearing the gunshot. Mother told them what happened. Although my uncle was known for his brutality, he could not do anything to my cousins because most of them were police officers. Out of respect for my uncle, they let him be.

 Mother was afraid my uncle would make a mess in our house again. So she decided that we would move into another neighborhood. One day, we heard the news that my uncle died after being beaten senseless by thugs. I don’t know if it was a good thing or bad. Honestly, I don’t know what I should feel. However, the new reality that we didn’t have to live in fear was a welcome development in our lives.