Category: Fiction

Nelson Dino

“The newest action film set on a war-torn island run by separatists and filled with edge-of-your-seat twists.” The opening lines caught my attention as I read the description of a Hollywood action thriller released in January this year. This movie tells the fictional story of passengers of a plane that crashed in Jolo, which they describe as “an island in the Pacific filled with terrorists and blood-lusting rebels.”

“From being survivors to a hostage they become,” writes the description about the survivor’s experience on the island.

Again Jolo is unfairly thrust into the world scene as a dangerous image, characterizing its people as blood-lusting murderers. As a Joloano like me now living in America, I find myself being on the defensive end every time insensitive representations like this come up in conversations, having to explain to everyone the truth buried deep in this island.

It has now been forty-nine years. I was still a young girl on February 7, 1974, when that terrible thing forced my family and me to flee my town. But painful memories don’t fade away so quickly, especially when, every once in a while, I see film and media representations like this that remind me of how misinformed people are about what happened.

I hid my poignancy by quickly picking up the white mug on the center table facing me. Nothing seemed to quell my frustration about the word “rebels,” which they used several times in the movie’s description. I sipped what remained of my coffee. As I leaned back on my couch, I was flown back to memories of the massive blaze that ripped through the large town of Jolo in February 1974. This event set a path from my childhood in Jolo to how I am today.

With hurting eyes, I peered through the window of our house. I felt my knees weaken as smoke flowed endlessly upward, forming massive clouds. Fire filled the sky with a dark-orange glow that illuminated the streets, turning my happy moment into one of uncertainty. The full-length gown I was preparing fell from my hand to the baluy (a locally woven mat), gifted to me by my granny when I was seven. I was about to wear-test the gown for my graduation the following day, February 7.

Even as a young girl, I was already being groomed to become a medical doctor. I was believed to be among the best students near KM2, where our house stood, between Jolo’s and Indanan’s local boundaries. But my hopes of graduating from one of the most prominent elementary schools in town were dissipating into thin air. I felt my heart burst, watching houses in my neighborhood thoroughly engulfed by flames.

Shaking and still thinking about what to do next, I sat on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror on the cabinet. My mind was blank like the white paper used for our school exam, waiting to be filled with answers to questions from our teachers.

The house was quiet. I thought about my brother and my father. They must now be asleep, I presumed. I stood up to open the cabinet’s door, and as I did so, the room’s entrance swung wide open. I was startled. It was my father.

Nisa, pack your things.

Where’s Levi?

Wake him up. Go!

While packing my things, my father grabbed my hand. My brother came in rubbing his eyes lazily, appearing to have just woken up and unaware of what was happening. I looked at the old, wooden-framed clock on the wall behind me. Its hand was ticking like an aging grandpa but still sharp enough to show us the time. Seven o’clock and seven minutes in the evening.

While rushing to follow my father downstairs, I fell from the ladder on the second floor of our house. My father quickly went back and pulled my hand. I didn’t mind the sharp pain in the leg I endured from that falling. I only thought of joining my father and brother.

Before stepping out of the gate, my father looked outside, eyes darting from left to right, right to left. He was trying to see if it was safe to go out. He suggested remaining inside the house for a while until it was safer. He assured us we would go to the Jolo Pier as soon as possible.

A clock needle was ticking. I could hear it from my watch inside my bag. It was time. My father, brother, and I rushed to Jambatan, the local term for the Jolo Pier. We were walking fast along the streets of Alat. I was overwhelmed seeing hundreds of people on the road in disarray, going in the same direction we were going, all fleeing in panic. It felt like I had entered a twilight zone.

The cries of the babies and screams of older people were not different from the sounds of mortars and guns being fired somewhere. They all penetrated my young ears at once, hitting my heart and soul. I noticed abandoned belongings–bags, suitcases, laundry, animals, and others–filling the pier. I  suspected the owners may have left them there when they boarded the navy boats. Perhaps they had no choice but to leave them. Life or baggage. That’s obviously an easy choice.

As we fell in line, my father tightly held my hand. My brother was beside him on his left. The gun barrel from a distressed soldier nearly poked my left eye when he moved his gun while talking to my father. The sight of soldiers in full gear evoked millions of worries in my heart. I was thinking of my studies, my future, and my life. Like others, I felt nervous. More people were coming to the pier, waiting to board the naval when it arrived.

My mother’s round, gentle face flashed in my memory. She left Jolo for Manila one week before for something urgent, even though the news of the possible outbreak of war had been heard. I knew she wouldn’t have left if she had a choice. I wished she was here. My fears tripled when I saw a man in white cloth being interrogated by the same soldier who first talked to my father; even more afraid when the soldier asked the man to produce his cedula, which the man didn’t have. Later, I understood he was suspected of being a member of a group fighting the government troops.

I felt relieved when he was eventually allowed to join the passengers waiting to board the naval. But minutes prior, I could sense his fear and unease as he answered the soldier’s incessant questions. Luckily, for some reason, he convinced the soldier that he was just a civilian caught in the fighting between the two sides. In this battle between an elephant and an ant, the lives of those caught in between don’t really matter. Still, it felt good to see the man safe, even if we didn’t know him.

“Sumunod kayo!” shouted a soldier to a group of people on my left. His harsh voice jolted back my fear. This was the same soldier who interrogated my father for the second time. Fearing him, people became quiet. But a few seconds later, a loud boom erupted in the cerise night sky, followed by the rattle of automatic gunfire from a short distance away. Everyone was screaming again. My heart was beating rapidly. Any moment soon, I could collapse.

I saw my father talking to another soldier, requesting us to be accommodated. But the soldier declined and told him the naval boat was full and would soon start departing. This means we would have to wait for another trip. I felt myself sinking. I became more worried even as the soldier said, “Those who remain must wait for another naval to arrive. It’s not long. The other naval is on its way now.”

I heard my stomach growling with my last meal. I began to feel nauseous, remembering the sight of blood spattered on the cemented road and people visibly wounded as we were walking earlier.

The day before, military personnel came to our house to question my father. They were looking for a man who allegedly led a group in abducting a nurse to marry her to someone outside the gate of the general hospital. My father stood near our house’s entrance, answering the man with just, “Di po namin kilala, Sir.” The man left, but not without leaving a trace of worry in my heart.

On our way to the pier, my father’s target place for fleeing from the virtual killing, a loud blast suddenly went off not far from where we walked. I ducked. My father dragged us into taking cover under an old truck beside the road. He covered my brother and me with his body, embracing us tightly to keep us from crying. But my brother screamed so loud, his voice almost as loud as the raging bullets. My father masked my brother’s mouth with his hand to lessen the sound of his voice. We realized he was hit in the back, possibly by a rock. My father massaged him to reduce the pain. I sat beside them quietly, still frightened after the blast. Seeing soldiers marching alongside a combat tank was too much for my young heart.

While coming out from below the truck, my brother saw a used cloth diaper and kicked it lightly with his leg, opening its contents wide. The pungent smell of feces, mixed with the acrid scent of spent gunpowder, spread through the air. I immediately covered my nose. As flames enveloped every building my eyes could see, I saw people sauntering like ghosts. Some were physically injured. Some were simply lost.

Before we left home, the water and power supplies were already cut. But we had kept some water for drinking. For light, we used candles. Our neighbor, who had dug a foxhole, wanted us to hide with them, but my father refused. He wanted us to go directly to the pier. There was also an offer for us to go to the general hospital to take shelter there. Still, my father refused as he wanted to find a way to bring us to Zamboanga City so we could be together with our mother in Manila.

Coming out of the house was obviously suicidal. We had to pass by the Alat area, which was dangerous as it was infected by elements that none of us could ever identify–if they were from the military’s or the revolutionaries’ side. Some of them could be looters who are also dangerous. But we had no choice.

A few days before this, during dinner, my father told us that a small group fighting the government, calling themselves revolutionaries, was in town. One of them was, in fact, his relative. My father said his co-teacher saw them quietly paddling a small canoe beneath a warren of wooden stilt houses in Tulay. My father thought they did that to avoid military checkpoints. They came from different places in Indanan, Maimbung, Parang, and other islands. They were seen passing the stilt-house villages in Tinda Laud from Takut-Takut too.

The men hid inside their relatives’ homes. They met quietly with more relatives, which included some policemen assigned to the town. They were believed to be planning to enter Jolo’s center at dawn – to take back the part of the downtown held by the military, my father added, in a clear voice that hinted at worry and concern. When he mentioned that ammunition and firearms were discovered at the Doctor’s Hospital in Bus-Bus Lambayung, I told him this was news I had already heard at school. I only wanted to quiet him, actually.

I was excited about delivering my valedictory address, which I had carefully prepared with my brother. I ate slowly and thought about my graduation the next day. I thought about my friends and how we used to play together after school. We used to gather in their houses during social occasions. These thoughts occupied my mind more than my father’s talks about the impending attack we should be preparing for.

My father once told me about a shooting incident near the local movie theatre. This was the talk of the town months earlier. He warned us that if war eventually broke out, we may have no choice but to flee. To do so, we may need to pass by Perlas Theatre, a stone away from the pier.

Perlas Theatre was infamous for being in an area where violent crimes in Jolo usually happened. My father used to tell us that this place was dangerous. Don’t go near it, he said, to which I agree. I liked going to Plaza Marina, an open park, like Plaza Tulay, where other kids and I used to gather to play. Despite its beauty, locals saw this place as a reminder of the Spanish occupation of the town. It was built in front of a mosque together with other infrastructure. Here government leaders used to commemorate their heroes, the people who led the brutal conquer of Jolo centuries ago. Locals didn’t like these celebrations, as these heroes were actually colonizers.

When I saw the fire blazing the town after seven-seven, it was about five and seven minutes in the dawn. I didn’t even hear the bang, a call to prayer recited loudly in the mosques like I used to. The blazing town was far away from our house, but it looked much closer with the fire. Still wearing my white gown, I continued reading the valedictory piece I had prepared. It was already checked by my teacher, who I fondly called Ms. Lam, a beauty with brains like us all.

Even though we were close to her, as she was our English teacher, my friend and I used to talk about her lover, whom she frequently met at our school’s canteen. I used to pass their table, where I would drool over the chocolates given to her by her lover. But my friend was more curious about the guy, as he seemed handsome. He had been dating Ms. Lam since they were in fifth grade. I realized he was a soldier because he came visiting two weeks before graduation with his uniform on.

We nearly reached the bridge in Alat. From our left was a small path to the Tulay area. Instead of taking this route, my father had us go straight, passing through the largest mosque in town. From there, I could see the Tong Jin school building. Near this school, there was a checkpoint controlled by anti-government forces. The streets were chaotic and filled with people running for their lives, as the minaret of the mosques was a witness.

My father planned to have us pass through Takut-Takut or Tinda Laud (which literally means sea shops). Later this place became known as the Chinese Pier because of the presence of these shops. The group’s leader stationed near the school let us pass peacefully and told my father, “Lamud na kaw mari bang kaw saggawun sin sundalu,” trying to convince him that if a military personnel came to arrest him, he better join them, which my father replied to, with “mastal aku,” as he was teaching in a secondary school in the town with my mother.

I saw uniformed men along the road. About thirty to forty wore camouflage uniforms, and most had rifles or machine guns. When I turned my head to the left, one man’s eyes were immediately trained on me. I pulled my eyes nervously away from him. He approached my father. “Ama, patingin ng cedula nyo?” At his back was a radio, its antenna pulled up, producing husky sounds. That was the first time my father released my hand from his grasp since we left from hiding under the truck. He had to pull his cedula from the pocket of his small pouch. But first, he put us quietly behind him. I stood straight while holding my father’s right thigh. My brother was on his left, worried, silent, and still lullabied by the sounds of mortars I could hear from the distance.

Yari, Sir.

Salamat. Wag kayong sumama sa mga elemento na galit sa gobyerno.

Wayi, Sir. Sibilyan kami.

I stopped staring at the soldier after he allowed us to go unharmed. I became just like a sack of rice to my father. He quickly grabbed my hand, held it tight, and walked again. I could still hear my brother’s cries as he continued walking. I wondered why. When I saw his left foot, I realized one of his slippers was gone; it was probably lost along the way as we walked too fast. There was no time to go back and find it. I had to comfort him. My father didn’t mind my brother’s cries anymore. He just continued to walk fast, almost hauling us. I could not feel anything from my hand, only numbness.

My father thought of going through Tinda Laud on our way to the pier,  passing by the market and theatre near the dock. Near the mosque, I saw a bike in the heart of the Plaza Tulay. Beside him, a guy was lying dead. I thought he was shot in the stomach. My eyes also spotted a helicopter hovering at a distance. After a few minutes, I heard continuous rapid gunfire. I thought to myself–the helicopter must have been shot down.

On the way to Tinda Laud through Takut-Takut, along the path to the right-hand side of the road, I noticed someone on the ground lying dead, her long, black hair spreading out like carpet on the ground. She looked familiar. It was my mother’s friend, her pale face covered in blood. She was a teacher too, from the school where I was going. I wanted to shout, but no words were coming out. My father held my hand and told me not to mind anything and to continue walking. My brother was quiet. He was scared, I know, but I wasn’t sure if he understood what was happening. It seemed unfair for someone so young to see all that. Why was he even being dragged like that from the house? He was only five years old.

We continued forward. To our left was a gruesome sight that almost made me faint-a pack of dogs eating what looked like the body parts of a dead person. Almost instinctively, my father covered my brother’s eyes. But not far away were more and more bloodied dead people on the ground. Some of them looked bloated. There was no escaping this macabre sight.

At the Tinda Laud bridge, the fighting was heavy. Many group members against the government were stationed at Takut-Takut and Tulay. While the government troops stationed at Tinda Laud prevented the group from crossing and going to the pier areas. Hearing this, I remember a couple of corpses I saw on the streets earlier, burned and still hugging each other. I thought they were a couple, perhaps siblings.

Finally, we arrived at the house of Pah Ilam, my father’s cousin. I didn’t know that Pah Ilam was the community leader until my father told me that he was when we were in his bangka (a small, outrigger boat). Pah Ilam discouraged my father from going directly to the pier. He suggested that we take shelter at Bangas Island across the dock, about a few minutes and kilometers away by motorboat. He said he’d help us, as he was also transporting other people to the island.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. I had yet to eat after last night. Pah Ilam’s bangka had lots of punctures on its walls, albeit smaller than the size of the holes in fishing nets, and still manageable by plugging something into them. Pah Ilam was busy covering them as seawater was fast pouring in. There were four of us in the boat. With Pah Ilam and my father paddling, we went to sea. I thought the island was just close. But with the kind of bangka we had, reaching the island took almost forever. Our journey there could become another long story for me to tell one time.

The cold splashes of seawater, added by the appearance of a military boat, jolted me back from daydreaming. A soldier, perhaps their leader by how he acted, asked my father where we were going. After he was convinced that we were not their “enemy,” he ordered his men to tug our boat to the island. Other people were seeking refuge there, too, he said to my father. “As long as we’re there, we’d be safe,” my father assured us along the way, our boat tugging behind that of the military.

I joined my father in climbing to the highest part of the island when we arrived, still feeling chased. I could see the worries on his face. I knew he didn’t want to stay longer on the island. He wanted us to be hauled to the pier.

One of the soldiers came near me; he handed me biscuits as if already knowing how starved I was. He perhaps overheard me telling my father that I was hungry. He also shared some water from a blue container. Many people stayed near the beach. Some were at a small cottage. I still could see the fighting intensifying from the main island because the sounds of bombs reached my ears. My father comforted me when I cried and told him I was supposed to give my valedictory speech in school today.

He convinced me that I was still the valedictorian. And when the situation improved, he would return me to Jolo after staying for some time in Manila. For now, he said, we need to be safe with our mother in Manila. She was supposed to come from Manila today, but all flights were canceled. When we arrived in Manila, I would tell her how beautiful my gown was.

Before flying for Manila, her plan was to come home in the early morning of my graduation and witness me deliver by valedictory address, as I had shown her the program bearing the date February 7, 1974. My name as valedictorian, Nisa Mulban Jamari, was inscribed at the top.

War was not even part of my awareness at that very young age. If it happened today, I would know that the purpose of going to the pier was to take the chance of going to Zamboanga for safety, then Manila to see my mother. That port before the war was where the night market was. It was where everyone knew each other’s faces, in the vicinity of the town we called Walled City. I used to go there with my family.

My father didn’t want to stay on the island that day. At about four o’clock, he requested the military to send us to the pier. I never separated from him and my brother. Wherever he went, he tugged us along, afraid to lose eyes on us even for a minute. With us were parents with babies. There were also older people barely able to walk, already weakening after days on the island with very little food.

The military agreed to send us to the pier, with the condition that we should wait for the naval boat like others, as everyone could not accommodate us directly. My father agreed. He knew anything could happen to us there, but at least we tried. I could not go against my father’s decision as he was very concerned about us.

After my last bite of the biscuit the soldier gave me, my father pulled my brother and me to the beach, where a military boat was docked, ready to send us. I thought it was only three of us to be hauled to the pier. There was one other family who also requested to be sent with us. I bid goodbye to the soldier who gave me the biscuit. He was staying behind to help guard others.

On the boat, my father hugged my brother and me, his hands warmly embracing us. Along the way, my stomach was growling, joining the engines with their loud, ever-present rumbling. Biscuits were not enough to satisfy my hunger. Hopefully, after arriving at the pier, we would be given proper meals, including rice and fried chicken. I remembered how I bit the chicken thigh my mother used to cook for the family. She even cooked one for us before she left for Manila that morning of January 31. She kissed my forehead before I left for school.

She would have been in Jolo during graduation. But her promise to be with me on my happiest day could no longer be fulfilled. As I vividly remembered her last words before I left for school that day, I tried to hold back tears on the verge of falling down while my face was being hit by seawater from the waves. Her last words were: “I’ll be back, Anak. Tumtuma malasa kami kaniyu. Abutan ku pa in adlaw sin graduation mu. Kadungugan ku pa in bissara mu ha taas stage,” reminding me that she and my father loved us so much.

I had no time to grab many things at home before we left to flee from the expected haunts of war. My dream of becoming a doctor was in my valedictory address. I wanted to share my vision in life with my fellow graduates. But all these were quickly replaced by anguish and fear, seeing dead people everywhere, houses burning, and military helicopters falling from the sky.

Before our boat arrived at the pier, I thought of what I should be doing in Manila. My mind searched the clouds, looking at a hazy future. I questioned myself about what else I could do as I was also just a child. I knew nothing. I was just supposed to graduate from elementary. My father promised that he would let me finish high school in Manila. But then I was worried too. Could I enroll without graduating from elementary? Would my school confer my diploma even without a ceremony? I hope so, I thought.

As if hearing my mind, father squeezed my hand. He said he would find a way to enroll me in high school. He told me not to worry about my studies. My imagination brought me again to Manila. It was described to me as a beautiful place. I was told that people there helped each other regardless of their religions. Hope enveloped my being, allowing me to see a better picture of the future ahead.

We were allowed to queue after we arrived at the pier. We were guided to the nearest building turned evacuation center, a few minutes from where we docked. There were thousands of people there, all cramped like sardines. We had to stay for a few more days. We had nowhere to go. Waiting for the naval that would ferry us to Zamboanga, to my mind, was agonizing. My father could not contact my mother as the telephone center we used to call her was closed on the day of the siege.

A word from my father, “attack”, kept coming again and again in my mind, as if from a broken record. Many months ago, he told us that a group against the government had been planning to attack the town after many civilians were detained by the military and never heard from again. They may have been killed for being suspected members of the group known to people as Mawis or Aktibis. This group was fighting for their homeland’s independence from neo-colonialism, triggered by the Jabidah Massacre in Corregidor island in 1968. Led by political-scientist-professor Nur Misuari, who rose to prominence from a university in Manila, this group had many youths participating, hoping to receive their rewards in Jannah, to reach their glory, whether victory or graveyard.

On the road, while fleeing, I thought a blast hit my father. I was so scared. But he was divinely protected by the Quran he kept in a small pouch inside his bag. My father calmly said, “When Allah wills me to die, I will be resolved. But for now, I will keep you all safe. And we all shall reach Manila to be with your mother.”

My father was the first to disembark from the motorboat. When it was my turn, one of the soldiers came to help me. But my father was already there to help me down. My brother was next. After a while, we joined passengers lining up for registration to be ferried to Zamboanga. I could now see the naval boat from where I was standing. I was hopeful. Suddenly, my father’s close cousin appeared, asking my father for a favor. I knew him. We in the family all knew he was part of Mawis. Now he came disguising himself as a civilian. He was with a girl about my brother’s age, her hair tied at the back. He talked with my father for a while before leaving. And so, at the pier, our tiny group of three became four, queuing with hundreds more, all of us wanting to save ourselves from the monsters of war.

Since almost everyone in Jolo is a relative and knows one another, the girl could be our relative too, although none of us has seen her before. My uncle was only saving her, and we would bring her to Zamboanga to be reunited with her parents–just like us trying to reunite with our mother.

While queuing, I overheard a lady saying they were supposed to go to Bongao on the way to Sabah, but they were left behind by the boat. This was the only boat that could take them to Bongao. Her bag was lost along the way while fleeing from their house in Asturias. Her money and jewelry were all in that bag. That’s why she resorted to going to the pier to join the naval going to Zamboanga. From there, she would find a way to go to Sabah, as her brother was already there since before the siege, around the time martial law was declared.

Seven days after February seven, I was able to gasp the good air from the navy boat departing from Jolo to Zamboanga City. I looked straight at the peak of Bud Tumantangis from the naval ship, comparing it to the family photo I inserted into my notebook pages. As it slowly disappeared from my sight, I couldn’t help but cry. I knew I would be back. Jolo is still where I imagine I’d live as an adult. I resolved to go back to see a home healing from this terrible nightmare.  I resolved to one day be of help to others in my town so that in times of crisis like this, I cannot be indifferent to the sufferings of others.

As I bit the last piece of cookie I picked up from the platter marked with the number seven on its center, I remember my father telling me as a child that wounded pride cannot be remedied with war because, in wars, no one wins; every soul loses. I felt relieved, freed from memories of the savagery of war in February seven nineteen seven four.   I looked at my passport and ticket in front of me. It’s time to go home.

Rayyan Paglangan

Sinemagad den menem su mga garung. Ngen tu guna ka mimbalingan silan semya? Inunta bagu pon i kinaebpun n’yan entu sya, ka da pon maisa-kaparyan. Nakineg ku den menem i mana bamagesen a kinasabut ni Ama. Entu pon i kinapamukat ni Babu Gelem sa dagangan nin, na babaya ren bamintu. Su di kapegkagep nu kaped sa ganggula na di mapya a sipat. Uged na panun pan i kagep nilan, sa lalayun bun den inya a gatamanan?

Su pegkakanakan a wata ni Babu Saguira na bamisuk den temegel sa lindeng na walay nilan a pegkagebu nu senang endu ulan i mga palos nin, uman den makabesut inya ba a mga taw; a bamedsalay sa malendu a sinapang. Ka uman inya ba masandeng nu mga matuwa na kegkelen silan na gelek. Peru sama ren mamakatiti, bantang nin. Malugud ku si Apu Sandatu a nawan na kwat kanu paganey a kinalurep nu mga garung ba’nya sa dalepa nami. Di ku abenal kalipatan su nagpalas na matuwa guna su pidtindwan sekanin sa sinapang na mapulu nu garung. Ka maya kun ka aren ibagena nin a matalem. Ngen i patagan na matuwa di ren pakailag sa matalem? Saleta, nya nin pan gaduru i kakapet sa matalem, u apya nin tungkud na pedtakan nin benganam. Su mga bagu-sukod a taw na pinangantapan n’yan sa pendagang, u di na pedsilek sa matinang, apya da bun menem mabagel a pakapabenal nilan. Leb a gataman inya lakami, ka da pimberaya nami sa sera a bamuketen, u di na tapuri a banginsulun.

Naipus su pila ka minutu, namakeleng sa dumpaw su mga taw ka namagena endaw ren mun ikinakineg n’yan sa mabagel a kinambetu, a tinundugan na lesing endu ulyang nu isa a ina. Ina a sigusigu nawan na wata. Ina a taman sa kapatay iten nin su sakit nu natala. Apya ngen i kakyug na mga taw edtangila sa papan, na di n’yan magaga, umengka nya nilan mapagitung i sekan’yan den i mekatundug.

Mangkas-mangkas i kinaledsu na bagu a timpu. Uged di ku medtalu i di ren katundugan su mapet ba’ntu a natala. Kagina nya nami bun nambamatan a uyag-ugay na su tatap a kabangumis nu mga garung sa lekami. Umengka su bagi, enten pan i nedtalu a pedtameng kanu kalilintad, na nya pan egkululwan mangumis kanu menganawt a taw. Kaisigan pan samana i kabangumis nilan umengka da ren mun makatika edsabek a mapulu gaunutan sa lekami.

Magabi sa malemag na bangingat su mga ama endu mga kaka nami a mama, mana silan pedtulug a manuk. Makasalidep sa managan, na makageram menem temekaw. Nakaisa a magabi, mapasad yupen ni Ina i sulu nami, na nabisu kami langun na kinatekek ni Datu ebpun sa kinadtalentam. Nakageram si Bai a malanat ku ipedsayug sa puyutan nin, endu minulyang. Kinedtagan ni Ama si Datu a di pakaimaman endu inimwan nin ebpyapya. Mamakagebpa ren si Ina sa kabamagayas nin pegkakep kani Datu. Mana gupak i pusung ku matag di ku gakatika pedsupegan si Datu. Nya ku kalageran na mana inasekan  sa mawgat a papan i laleb ku.

Miniseg su mga gay na di ku bun abenal kalipatanan su’ntu a magabi. Nya ku bun den bagitungen taman sa bangagiyan i ngen guna i nedtaginup ni Datu ba’ntu a nadsabapan nu kinatakek nin sa mabagel? Galidu i ginawa ku. Ka tu pon ba taman na umul ku i kinailay ku kani Datu sa metu ba i pebpalas nin. Mana den pedtapiken na sambel i maketu nin uman sekanin pekapasad pebsambayang, ka pedsandeng sa mawatan. Tinawag aku nin pan makaisa endu pinangindaw sa kadsambayang endu katigkel kanu bataluwan. Napya i ginawa ku guna embalingan i kagalaw nin, metu bun su mga pakat nin, endu tagapeda nin sa kapeghafids.

Matag kami penggalaw-galaw na dala sabut nami kanu tumundug a manggula. Bantang nin, na dala pakataw sa ngen i kahanda nu Kadenan kanu mga ulipen nin. Banginsukuran nami su mga mapya a nakatingguma sa lekami, masela pan sa manawt, madakel pan sa paidu. Aden kanu mga taw i nakabagi sa nasasangan bu, kaped memen na nakalawan. Mana wata magali ni Ama a si Bapa Absar, a sekelep mata migkawasa. Mapulu ged saguna i kapegkailay nu mga taw sa lekanin. Kanu paganey na dala abenal egkagaga ni Bapa Absar, ganinitan silan sa uman gay a kapaguyag-uyag.  Pangabpet bu sekanin pegkames kinauna kanu lupa nu mga ped a taw. Tig’i  Ama na ilingan nami  si Bapa Absar, edsamekal kami kun sa endaw taman i magaga nami a mga wata nin. Kagina su limu nu Kadenan tig’in, na gumanan pan umengka pedtantu su ulipen nin.

Nakauma ren ba su gay a mamakendwandwan kami den menem. Su kekyabkyab nu pusung, na isa kanu mga sipat a aden makatingguma a di mapya. Apya ngen pan inya ba, na nya ku bu mapangeni  kanu Kadenan a mapulu, malimu, endu mangampun, na pakawalown kami Nin sa batalu. Belalag aku saguna baguli sa lekami ebpun sa bangagiyan. Pakasabalang i timpu saguna, ka tekaw ren mun linemega su senang. Bengerung i sambel a di gapamamantag. U di kena bu mapanay i kinasibay ku, na  nalidseg aku ren na pagaran nu mga garung a sinamagembet kanu lalan. Mana aku gebperan na napas, nakakep ku i ginawa ku, endu da ku katigkali nakulyang aku. Di kena ren menem matag i da aku n’yan mailay, ka di kena aku nagena. Uged nya ba a mga taw na bangamen n’yan bu i begaratan nilan. Pulinan a mangumis! Tekaw a nagkalendem ku si Datu a nadsabapan na kinaenda ku mulyang. Nya ku kalageran na mana aku binubusan sa ig a matenggaw. Nalunsanan i kinegkyabkyab na pusung ku sa di ku katawan ngen i sabap nin. Da ku kaimamani a midsakuya ren besen i mga ay ku. Makin aku pan namagayas. Peru bun den abenal na makauma aku ren. Ingapi aku nengka Datu. O Kadenan nami, lindungi kami Nengka kanu malat a manggula endu kawagan.

Gasandeng ku ren i walay nami. Malimu su Kadenan, na da bun mambu mga garung a benaligid lun. Nakanggingisi aku sa di kena ayad a ginawa ku apeg’a kinuyapay ku si Datu a pagegayan pedtulung sa Kur’an kanu kamalig nami. Kinayang nin su mga lima nin, endu dinapeng  kanu mga tangila nin. Endaw ren mun i kinaledsu nin lemengag sa Kur’an, na namakabesut temembelaw su mga garung ebpun kanu mga kawalayan sa ubay nami. Guna aku den ba makasembwang kanu pansuran nami, na migkakatenggaw i badan ku, ka nya ku den nambamatan na si Datu a pidtindwan nu mga garung sa sinapang. Nangalimbwat i bumbul ku, inunta si Datu na mana da gegkanu nin kanu ganggula. Da ku makineg i swara ku kinapanawag ku sa tabang kanya Ama endu Ina ka linemedsang i sagkung na kinembetu nu sinapang a pinatindu sa leleb ni Datu. Nauli ren i kinalyu n’ya Ama endu Ina sa walay, nangalumasayan silan nya nilan kinailay sa nambetadan ni Datu. Matag pagugulyang si Ama na pinamagasayan nin kemadtag si Datu, nakapila-pila sekanin sinemabut kanu ngalan nu Kadenan. Si Ina menem na mana kawan na kwat den sa kabilesing endu kabagulyang. Saki menem na medtagas aku kanu pidtindegan ku. Midtatagitu senemeput i mga lu sa mga mata ku, endu mana inalenan sa watu i lelemeran ku.

Migkakaliga a tinemendeg si Ama ka pimbabaliban endu pinenendu nin su mga garung. Nakasayaw aku gemapus sa lekanin guna su sekanin menem i pedtindwan n’yan sa sinapang. Si Ina menem na gengabibid den sa kapenggenteng sa lekanin. Nya ku kalageran na mana binandesan i lipunget a bagu pon kinemagat sa pusung ku sa kinadtelu na mapulu nu garung sa pendagang kun si Datu sa matinang endu nangagaw kun sa sinapang a nadsabapan na kinatimbak nilan sa lekanin. Matag kami nilan ginanetan, na dala den mun silan pangeni sa ampun.

Kinedtagan kami mamagayas nu mga pagubay nami. Lu ren su  nagugulyang, namakedsendit, endu nangalidu i ginawa nin. Gangalingayan nilan sabap sa kamungangen, katidtu, endu kapya na adat nin si Datu. Mana bengemesen i pusung ku bagilay kani Ina a dala palin nin bengakep sa migkatenggaw ren a bangkay ni Datu. “Endu kun ka nya n’yan pan tinutulu si Datu a lawan i kapya na palangayan nin? Nya n’yan tinutulu i wata ku a magelek sa Kadenan endu di makatika enggula sa mawag pagidsan na ipedsendit nilan! Enten guna i banutulu ba’nya sa di pakatidtu? S’enten mambu i maguntung kanu ngyawa na kaped nin, na pangenin ku kanu Kadenan a masuti sa langun endu di mapembidaya na di sekanin taleman nu lupa.” Pedsapa ni Ina.

Nya madakel kanu minigu kani Datu na mga pakat nin. Gatusan kanu mga mata nilan i gagedam a sakit endu lat a nanam. Tu bun ba a magabi, apya ngen pan i kalibuteng na dunya, nilebeng nami si Datu. Sabap sa di gapya i ginawa ni Bai, na lamig migkalidtabun  sa walay si Ina. Madakel a mga taw i minunut sa kinalebeng kani Datu, uman isa na  midtapik sa sulu ka ipanayaw sa lalan. Baningaran na mga sulu su ulan-ulan, upama nin ka pekapanudtul bu i mga sulu, na makamamung man malidu i ginawa nu ulan-ulan. Malembunes a damaapus i nasageran nami mangay sa kalut a belebengan kani Datu, masupeg sa ay na palaw tampal sa sedepan. Malugkug i mga palas na langun a minunut. Da pakatika bagingel nya tabya na su sambel. Dala da tabang sa kinatampul kani Datu; wata pan sa matuwa.

Dala kami den egkakawget mapasad i kinatampul. Midtatagapeda kami langun lemalag muli. Sya sa unan ku si Ama a bengakepen nu mga tagapeda nin; ped den s’ya Bapa Keds, Bapa Satur, Bapa Maguid, apeg’i— endaw ren si Bapa Absar? Natekaw ren mun sekanin mataring, inunta kaped n’yan pon entu kagina. Nanandeng aku sa unan nami, kalukalu nakauna den sekanin. Uged na dala sekanin matun na mga mata ku lu. Linemangi aku sa ulyan, natabwan a belidtwas sa sakabyas a lalan si Bapa Absar endu da pekadsuliman lun i kinatun ku sa lekanin. Nya ku kangan, na pidtatangga nin mapangguguli. Ngen tu guna ka sakabyas a lalan i tinuntul ni Bapa Absar?

Inunutan ku i kyug na ginawa ku a tundugen si Bapa Absar. Da aku panalus muli, makin aku mimbalingan kanu lalan a nalipusan nami, endu da aku mapegkanukanu tinundug ku si Bapa Absar. Peru sama di ku ren sekanin masawt ka mangkas abenal i kasangkad nin. Uman entu sekanin lemengi na bamisuk aku kanu tumpukan na mga apus sa liged na lalan.

Mindayunday su mga takuling, su pusung ku menem na mindabak. Linemindung aku mamagayas kanu tumpukan na mga apus, guna telen sa kabelakaw nin si Bapa Absar. Naniling aku sa pageletan na mga sanga na apus. Sukran kanu ulan-ulan a di galugat panayaw, mapya i kapegkailag ku apya ngen i kalibuteng. Aden nakauma a mama. U di aku galimban, na nya ba i mapulu nu garung a minimatay kagina pon kani Datu. Ngen i lakaw ni Bapa Absar sa nya a taw? Panun i di nin kapegkagelek banangul sa nya a taw? Inunta nya a taw na tangutangen sa umul nu pakedsan nin.

Lawan pan sa depeng na kuren i kinegkasela na mga mata ku guna ku kembamatay i ikinaduwal na mapulu nu garung sa pinamugkus a kulta kani Bapa Absar a mangkas menem a tinamalima. Tabya ka benal bun si Ama sa kinedtalu nin sa wata pon i pamikilan ku, uged nya ku masigu na di kena aku babal. Gatuntayan ku ngen i maana na kinapagilaya ni Bapa Absar endu na mapulu nu garung. Labi lawan den a gatuntayan ku ngen i sabap na kinaenggay na mapulu nu garung sa kulta kani Bapa Absar. Mapasang besen i malemu makatuntay, ka malemu bun makaigis i lu na taw.  Mapayag pan sa salendaw nu senang a si Bapa Absar i banutulu sa dalepa nami. Panun i kinatika nin manutulu kanu mga pagali nin? Kanu mga isa nin sa agama? Kani Datu a pakiwatan nin endu katawan nin sa ginawa nin a di makatika enggula sa mawag? Panun i kinatika nin maguntung sa umul nu mga tagapeda nin sa ngalan na kulta? Di kena metu bantang a migkawasa si Bapa Absar, nya bantang na nabimban sekanin na kadudunyay. Endu di kena besen su mga garung i bantang a satru nami, ka ginawa nami.

Nakaenda aku mulyang ginagkenu ku sa nanalusan sa ilud s’ya Bapa Absar endu su mapulu nu garung. Temelen aku magena endu midtatangga aku muli. Makin pan migkalibuteng i magabi. Uged na di det a ipegkagelek su kalibuteng na magabi, ka  nya det a ipegkagelek na su kalibuteng na atay na ped ta a manusya. Kagina su kalibuteng na magabi na pedsagad bu, uged su kalibuteng na  atay na pakabinasa.

Da ikagep n’ya Ina endu Ama i kinapagugulyang ku kinauma sa walay. Matag aku n’yan bengakepen, na nya nilan bun sabut na bagulyangan ku i kinadala ni Datu. Da nilabit ku sa lekanilan makapantag sa natawan ku. Ka iling-iling nu ulan-ulan a di kailag sa malemag, sakali pebpapapayag na kauma na magabi, aden  gay a nakatelenged kanu langun a makatingguma. Kagina ka metu, na lu ku bun den itapenay kanu Kadenan i langun.

Sinemagad su pila ka paryan. Gedtatagitu nami den getalima sa mapya i kinedtatangguna ni Datu. Malimu su Kadenan, na dala kami Nin pedtaraya mambu, lalayun kami Nin pan a pinanituluwan. Nakaisa a gay, kinakap kami ni Bapa Absar, initan kami nin sa tenga ka saku begas endu mga alugan ebpun pan sa Kotabato. Pembuteng i atay ku sa gailay ku i taw a nya a tinemipu kani Datu, endu da ku katigkali na nakapamisuk aku. Mana bengemesen i pusung ku sa kapegkailay sa mga lukes nami a gagalaw sa napanenggit ni Bapa Absar. Di kena matag, upama bu ka katawan n’yan endaw ebpun i kulta a ipinamasa ni Bapa Absar kanu mga pinanenggit nin, na makauli man sa bilanggwan si Ama. Temu lamig di aku pedtalu, ka di ku magaga i apeg mga lukes nami na madala. Da ku katakawi i kinaubay sa laki ni Bapa Absar. “Nya Armida, talima ka i magatus anya ka embabalutu ka mangagi.”  U di kena aku pedsabar saguna na di ku kapageratan si Bapa Absar. Mesla abenal kadupangan i lekanin anya! Matag aku bu nakegkiling-kiling ka di aku pakatika pedtalu, ka tabya sakabyas pan i makalyu sa ngali ku. Da den mun kinatalima ku sa lalow na kinapatugak sa lugu ni Datu, apya aku kalunusan.

Da makasawt sa dwa ka ulan-ulan taman na kinapatay ni Datu, na nakatundug matay si Bapa Absar. Kinaataki sa pusung i pinatay nin, tig’a wata nin a kaka sa langun. Nya pedtalun nu mga taw a natabu lu sa kinaataki sa lekanin, na namulayang kun i mga mata nin. Napamikil ku i pedsasaw bun besen i tyuba. Ka apya endaw pan i taw sa bilubangkot na dunya, umengka dupang, na  penelden sekanin nu tyuba. Matag bu nangalugat su namegkalut sa belebengan kani Bapa Absar, ka di pegkadelem su kalut a nabpunan n’yan, apya ngen pan i kedsamikal nilan. Taman sa nauma silan na malulem, na da bun pebpalinan nu mababaw a kalut. Sabap s’entu, na dala kebpyapyani lemebeng si Bapa Absar.

Ang Nanunuro

Direkta at kontekstwal na salin sa Filipino

Muli na namang dumaan ang mga luntian. Bakit kaya sila bumalik dito? Samantalang kagagaling lang nila rito, wala pang isang linggo. Narinig ko na naman ang tila minamadaling pagsambit ni Ama sa ngalan ng Diyos. Kabubukas lamang ni Babu Gelem ng tindahan ay kaagad na siyang nagsasara. Ang hindi pagkakataka ng ilan sa nangyayari ay hindi magandang hudyat. Subalit paano pa sila magtataka, kung ito’y nararanasan na sa tuwina?

Ang nagbibinatang anak ni Babu Saguira ay isinisiksik ang sarili sa dingding ng kanilang bahay na pinarurupok na ng araw at ulan ang mga haligi, sa tuwing sasalakay ang mga taong ito; na may mga tangang mahahabang baril. Ang mga matatanda’y nanginginig sa takot sa tuwing matatanaw nila ang mga ito. Muntikan pa silang maihi, sa katunayan. Akin pang naaalala si Apu Sandatu na nawalan ng malay noong dati’y sumalakay ang mga luntiang ito sa aming lugar. Hinding-hindi ko kailanman malilimutan ang pagmumukha ng matanda nang siya’y tutukan ng baril ng pinuno ng mga luntian. Di umano’y nagtatago siya ng sandata. Aanhin naman ng matandang hindi na nakakaaninag ang sandata? Isa pa, magagawa niya pa bang humawak ng sandata, kung kahit ang kaniyang tungkud ay hirap niyang kapain? Ang mga nagbibinata ay kanilang pinaparatangan na kung hindi gumagamit ay nagbebenta ng ipinagbabawal na gamot, bagaman wala silang matibay na patunay. Pambihira ang ganitong karanasan, wala kaming ipinagkaiba sa isdang nilalambat o ‘di kaya’y sa tipaklong na hinuhuli.

Pagkaraan ng ilang minutu’y nagmistulang mga daga ang mga tao, nagsipagtaguan nang makarinig ng malakas na pagputok na sinundan ng hiyaw at iyak ng isang ina. Ina na tiyak ay nawalan ng anak. Ina na hanggang sa kamatayan ay babaunin ang sakit na dinanas. Gustuhin man ng mga tao ang magtaingang kawali, ay hindi nila magagawa, kung kanilang maiisip na maaaring sila na ang susunod.

Matulin ang pagsapit ng panibagong panahon. Subalit hindi ko masasabing hindi na masusundan pa ang mapait na karanasang iyon. Pagkat ang madalas na pandudusta sa amin ng mga luntian ang siyang buhay na amin nang kinagisnan. Ang tadhana nga naman, kung sino pa ang naturingang tagabantay ng kapayapaan ay sila pa mismo ang una-unang nanghahamak sa mga maralitang tao. Lalo pang titindi ang kanilang panghahamak sa amin, kung wala man lang sa mga nasa itaas ang maglalakas loob na ipagtanggol kami.

Araw gabi ay nag-iingat ang aming mga ama’t mga kapatid na lalaki, para silang mga manok kung matulog. Saglit na maiidlip, kapagkuwan ay maaalimpungatan. Isang gabi, matapos hipan ni Ina ang aming lampara, kami’y nabingi ng pagsigaw ni Datu buhat sa pananaginip. Nagising si Bai na marahang kong idinuduyan at saka umiyak. Dinaluhan ni Ama si Datu na hindi pa nahihimasmasan at tinahan nang mabuti. Nagkandarapa pa si Ina sa pagmamadaling mayakap si Datu. Hindi ko man malapitan si Datu ay para namang binibiyak ang aking puso. Wari ko ay may nakadagang mabigat na tabla sa aking dibdib.

Umusad ang mga araw nang hindi ko pa rin nakakalimutan ang gabing iyon. Napapaisip ako sa tuwina maging sa eskwela kung ano marahil ang napanaginipan ni Datu na nagdulot sa kaniyang malakas na pagsigaw. Nababagabag ang aking kalooban. Pagkat sa tanang buhay ko, ay noon ko lamang nakita sa ganoong anyo si Datu. Tila tinatangay ng hangin ang kaniyang kamalayan sa tuwing siya’y matatapos na magdasal, sapagkat napakalayo ng kaniyang tinatanaw. Minsan ay kaniya akong tinawag at pinangaralan tungkol sa pagsamba at pagkamatiisin sa mga suliranin sa buhay. Natuwa ako nang magbalik ang kaniyang sigla, ganoon din ang kaniyang mga kaibigan at kasamahan sa pagha-hafiz.

Habang nagagalak ay wala kaming kamalayan sa mga susunod na magaganap. Katotohanan nga na wala ninuman ang nakakaalam sa ninanais ng Maykapal para sa kaniyang mga alipin. Aming ipinagpapasalamat ang mga magagandang bagay na sa amin ay ipinagkaloob, malaki man o maliit, marami man o kakaunti. Mayroong mga taong katamtamang pinagpala, mayroon ding labis. Katulad ng pinsan ni Ama na si Bapa Absar na kisapmatang yumaman. Ngayon ay mataas ang pagtingin ng mga tao sa kaniya. Noon ay salat sa buhay si Bapa Absar, kinakapos silang mag-anak sa araw-araw na pamumuhay. Nakikitanim lamang siya ng mais noon sa lupain ng iba. Aming tularan si Bapa Absar ang payo ni ama, magsumikap aniya kaming mga anak niya sa abot ng aming makakaya. Dahil ang pagmamahal ng Diyos ay nadaragdagan aniya kung ang kaniyang alipin ay matiyaga.

Dumating na nga ang araw na kami’y muling magdurusa. Ang pagdagundong ng puso  ay isang pahiwatig na may magaganap na hindi kaaya-aya. Kung anuman ito, ang tangi kong dalangin sa Maykapal na siyang pinakamataas, magpagkalinga, at mapagpatawad, ay patapangin niya nawa kami sa mga pagsubok. Ako’y kasalukuyang naglalakad pauwi sa amin galing sa eskwela. Kakaiba ang panahon ngayon, pagkat bigla na lamang nagtampo ang araw. Bumubulong ang hanging hindi napupuna. Kung hindi lamang maagap ang aking pagtabi, tiyak ako’y nasagasaan na ng humaharurot na sasakyang naglululan ng mga luntian. Tila ginagahol ako sa hininga, napayakap ako sa aking sarili at hindi napiligilang maiyak. Malabong ako’y hindi nila napansin pagkat hindi naman ako nagtago. Sadya lamang namimili ang mga taong ito ng kanilang iginagalang. Palibhasa mga manghahamak! Bigla ay naalala ko si Datu na naging dahilan ng pagkatigil ko sa pag-iyak. Para akong bihusan ng malamig na tubig. Tumindi ang pagdagundong ng aking puso sa kadahilanang hindi ko alam. Hindi ko namalayang nag-uunahan na pala ang aking mga paa. Lalo pa akong nagmadali. Kaunti na lang at ako’y darating na. Hintayin mo ako Datu. O aming Diyos, kami’y ilayo Mo sa masasamang pangyayari at kasamaan.

Abot-tanaw ko na ang aming bahay. Mapagkalinga ang Maykapal, wala namang umaaligid na mga luntian dito. Ako’y wala sa sariling napangiti at kinawayan si Datu na nakaupo sa aming kamalig at nakadukwang sa Kur’an. Itinaas niya ang kaniyang mga kamay upang itakip sa kaniyang mga tainga. Nang siya’y magsimula nang bumigkas ng nilalaman ng Kur’an, ay biglang nagsulputan ang mga luntian mula sa mga kabahayan sa aming tabi. Pagbungad ko sa aming tahanan ay nanlamig ang aking katawan, tumambad sa akin ang panunutok ng mga luntian ng baril kay Datu. Nanindig ang aking balahibo, samantalang si Datu ay tila walang napapansin sa nangyayari. Hindi ko nadinig ang aking boses sa paghingi ko ng saklolo kina Ama at Ina, pagkat sinabayan ito ng alingawngaw ng pagputok ng baril na itinutok sa dibdib ni Datu. Huli na nang makalabas ng bahay sina Ama at Ina, pinanghinaan sila nang kanilang makita ang kalagayan ni Datu. Habang umiiyak ay dali-daling dinaluhan ni Ama si Datu, ilang beses siyang sumambit sa ngalan ng Diyos. Si Ina ay tila mawawalan na ng ulirat kakahiyaw at kakaiyak. Ako naman ay nanigas sa aking kinatatayuan, unti-unting nagsulputan ang mga luha sa aking mga mata, at tila may nakabarang bato sa aking lalamunan.

Namumulang tumindig si Ama upang pagsalitaan at duruin ang mga luntian.  Mabilis akong yumapos sa kaniya nang siya naman ang tinutukan nila ng baril. Habang namamaluktok naman sa kakahila sa kaniya si Ina. Wari ko’y sinilaban ang galit na kasisindi lamang sa aking puso, nang sabihin ng pinuno ng luntian na si Datu ay nagbebenta umano ng ipinagbabawal na gamot at nang-agaw pa ng baril dahilan ng kanilang pagbaril sa kaniya. Hindi man lang nila kami hiningan ng paumanhin bago sila lumisan.

Kami’y kaagad na dinaluhan ng aming mga kapitbahay. Mayroong umiyak, nagsisi, at nalumbay. Sila’y nahihinayangan dahil sa angking kadalisayan ng loob, pagkamakatarungan, at kagandahang asal ni Datu. Tila pinipiga ang aking puso habang nasisilayan si Ina na walang patid sa pagyakap sa malamig nang bangkay ni Datu. “Bakit si Datu pa na labis ang kagandahan ng pag-uugali ang itinuro nila? Kanilang itinuro ang anak kong may takot sa Diyos at hindi makakagawa nang masama tulad ng ibinibintang nila! Sino ba ang nanunurong iyan nang hindi wasto? Kung sinuman ang pagkikitaan ang buhay ng kaniyang kapwa’y hihilingin ko sa Maykapal na siyang banal at patas sa lahat na siya’y hindi tatanggapin ng lupa.” Sumpa ni Ina.

Mga kaibigan ni Datu ang karamihan sa nagpaligo sa kaniya. Banahag sa kanilang mga mata ang nadaramang sakit at pagkahabag. Sa gabi ding iyon, sa kabila ng madilim na mundo ay aming inilibing si Datu. Dahil hindi mabuti ang pakiramdam ni Bai, ay nagpaiwan na lamang si Ina. Maraming mga tao ang sumama sa paglibing kay Datu, bawat isa ay may dalang sulo pananglaw sa daraanan. Tinitingala ng mga sulo ang buwan, kung makakapagsumbong lamang ang mga sulo, ay tiyak magdadalamhati maging ang buwan. Masukal ang kakawayan na aming nadaanan patungo sa hukay na paglilibingan kay Datu, malapit sa paanan ng bundok sa bandang kanluran. Malamlam ang pagmumukha ng mga sumama. Walang nangahas na mag-ingay maliban sa hangin. Walang hindi tumulong sa pagtatambak ng hukay ni Datu; mapa matanda man o bata.

Hindi na kami nagtagal pa nang matapos ang pagtatambak. Magkakasama kaming lahat na naglakad pauwi. Nasa aking unahan si Ama na inaakap ng kaniyang mga kasamahan; kabilang na sina Bapa Keds, Bapa Satur, Bapa Maguid at— nasaan na si Bapa Absar?  Bigla na lang siyang hindi mahagilap, kani-kanina lamang siya’y kasama pa nila. Nagmasid ako sa unahan, baka sakaling siya’y nauna na. Ngunit hindi siya mahagilap ng aking mga mata roon. Lumingon ako sa hulihan, nagkataong lumilihis ng daan si Bapa Absar at walang nakakapansin nang siya’y aking matunton. Sa palagay ko’y sinadya niya ang pagpapahuli. Bakit kaya lumihis ng daan si Bapa Absar?

Sinunod ko ang aking kagustuhan na sundan si Bapa Absar. Hindi ko itinuloy ang pag-uwi, sa halip ay bumalik ako sa aming pinagdaanan nang hindi nagpapahalata upang sundan si Bapa Absar. Muntikan pang hindi ko siya  abutan dahil sa bilis ng kaniyang hakbang. Sa tuwing siya’y lilingon ay kumukubli ako sa mga kakawayan sa gilid ng daan.

Umaawit ang mga kuliglig habang ang puso ko’y  tumatambol. Kagyat akong kumubli sa kumpulan ng mga kawayan nang huminto sa paglalakad nito si  Bapa Absar. Ako’y sumilip sa siwang ng mga sanga ng kawayan. Salamat sa buwang hindi marunong mapagod sa pagbibigay tanglaw, ako’y nakakaaninag nang mabuti sa kabila ng dilim. May lalaking dumating. Kung hindi ako nagkakamali, ito ang pinuno ng mga luntian na pumaslang kay Datu kanina lamang.  Ano ang sadya ni Bapa Absar sa taong ito? Paanong hindi siya kinikilabutan na harapin ang taong ito? Samantalang ang taong ito ay mangungutang ng buhay ng kaniyang kapareho.

Higit pa sa takip ng kaldero ang ikinalaki ng aking mga mata nang masaksihan ko ang pag-aabot ng pinuno ng luntian ng binungkos na pera kay Bapa Absar, na mabilis naman nitong tinanggap. Marahil ay tama si Ama noong kaniyang sabihin na bata pa ang aking isipan, ngunit ang matitiyak ko lamang ay hindi ako hangal. Batid ko kung ano ang kahulugan ng pagtatagpo nina Bapa Absar at ng pinuno ng mga luntian. Higit na nababatid ko kung ano ang dahilan ng pagbibigay nito ng pera kay Bapa Absar. Mahirap pala ang madali lang makaunawa, dahil madali lang din tutulo ang luha ng tao. Maliwanag pa sa sikat ng araw na si Bapa Absar ang siyang nanunuro sa aming lugar. Paano niya nagawang ituro ang kaniyang mga kamag-anak? Ang kaniyang mga kapanalig? Si Datu na kaniyang pamangkin at alam niya sa kaniyang sarili na hindi makakagawa nang masama? Paano niya nasikmurang pagkakitaan ang buhay ng kaniyang mga kasamahan sa ngalan ng pera? Hindi totoong yumaman kung ganoon si Bapa Absar, ang totoo’y natukso siya ng kamunduhan. Hindi rin pala ang mga luntian ang tunay naming kaaway, kundi ang aming mga sarili.

Natigil ang aking pag-iyak nang mapansin kong tumuloy sa hilaga sina Bapa Absar at ang pinuno ng mga luntian. Itiginil ko ang aking pagkukubli at nagpasya nang umuwi. Lalo pang dumilim ang gabi. Ngunit hindi dapat na ikatakot ang kadiliman ng gabi, ang dapat na ikatakot ay ang kadiliman ng kalooban ng ating kapwa tao. Pagkat ang kadiliman ng gabi ay lilipas din, ngunit ang kadiliman ng kalooban ay nakakapaminsala.

Hindi ipinagkataka nina Ina at Ama ang aking pagtangis pagkarating nang bahay. Habang ako’y kanilang niyayakap, ang buong akala nila’y pinagluluksahan ko lamang ang pagkawala ni Datu. Wala akong binanggit sa kanila tungkol sa aking napag-alaman. Dahil halintulad sa buwang hindi naaninag sa araw, saka lang lilitaw ay  sa pagsapit ng gabi, ang lahat ng bagay ay may nakatakdang araw. Kung gayon ay sa  Diyos ko na lamang isasangguni ang lahat.

Lumipas ang ilang linggo. Unti-unti ay amin nang natatanggap nang matiwasay ang pagkawala ni Datu. Mapagkalinga ang Maykapal, kami’y hindi Niya pinabayaan, bagkus ay patuloy Niyang ginabayan. Isang araw ay dinalaw kami ni Bapa Absar, dinalhan ng kalahating sakong bigas at mga kakaning galing pang Kotabato.  Nagwawala ang aking kalooban habang nasisilayan ang taong ito na siyang nagkanulo kay Datu,  hindi ako nakapagpigil na mamalagi sa isang sulok. Parang pinipiga ang aking puso habang pinagmamasdam ang aming mga magulang na  nalulugod sa mga dala ni Bapa Absar. Kung nagkataon lang na alam nila  ang pinanggalingan ng perang ipinambili ni Bapa Absar sa mga dala nito, ay tiyak na magiging uwian ni Ama ang bilangguan. Kaya minamabuti kong huwag na lamang magsalita, pagkat hindi ko kakayaning mawala maging ang aming mga magulang. Hindi ko namalayang tumabi sa akin si Bapa Absar. “Heto Armida, tanggapin mo ang isang daang ito at baunin mo sa eskwela.” Kung hindi lamang ako nagtitimpi sa ngayon ay mababastos ko si Bapa Absar. Malaking kalapastangan ang ginagawa niyang ito! Napailing na lamang ako, pagkat hindi ko magawang magsalita, at baka ano pa ang mamutawi sa aking bibig. Hindi ko kailanman tatanggapin ang kinita sa pagpapadanak ng dugo ni Datu, ako man ay mamatay sa gutom.

Hindi umabot ng dalawang buwan magmula nang mamatay si Datu ay sumunod si Bapa Absar. Ataki sa puso ang kaniyang ikinamatay ayon sa kaniyang panganay na anak. Ang sabi pa ng mga taong naroon noong siya’y atakihin, ay tumirik daw ang kaniyang mga mata. Napagtanto kong nagmamadali rin pala ang karma. Dahil kahit saan mang lupalop ng mundo naroroon ang tao, kung siya’y dupang ay hahabulin siya nito. Napagod lamang sa wala ang mga humukay ng paglilibingan kay Bapa Absar. Dahil kahit anumang paghuhukay ang kanilang gawin, ay tila hindi lumalalamin ang nasimulan nilang hukay. Hanggang sa hinapon na sila ng paghuhukay ay wala pa ring ipinagbago ang mababaw na hukay. Dahil doon ay hindi nailibing nang maayos si Bapa Absar.

 

Sheilfa B. Alojamiento

Dawn. Light spreading its wings in the skies beneath my feet. The aroma of brewed coffee wafting in the air, spoons like chimes clinking against enamel cups.

I sat bolt upright. Are we here now?

Most everyone in the deck was up. The women opening their bundles and fixing their hair, men sitting across each other on their beds’ ends, a cigarette or enamel cup in hand. In the cot beside me Jack sat, knees apart, hands cupped before him, head bowed. The camera bag he cradled all night like a baby sat close to his side. He amazed me. How easy for him to glide in and out of things. Almost six feet and pale-complexioned and if not for his short nose he could pass himself off for a white man, a Milikan, but here he was, praying the Muslim way while the older Muslims just across us sat and sipped coffee. Nudge him and he would just say no deal. He’s interfaith dialogue in action, two hills same land; partake of the bread and you partake of God.

In another moment he was bringing his hands to his face thrice over and he was done. I wrapped my malong around my shoulders, sank my back against the deck side. The boys he went with in Marawi must have taught him well. They were mostly politicians’ sons, campus gigolos; surrounded by adoring girls, Muslims and Catholics.

We were now swerving inland and the low chatter, in the language I did not comprehend, was getting livelier. Oaths broke in here and there several decibels higher. Outside, the blue sea shimmered.

I moved up. Turned around and rested elbows and forearms on the railing. An approaching island rose to full view. It looked uninhabited, the white shore inviting, the green tops unmoving. A quiet seemed to shelter its virginal state.

Bangas Island. Paradisical eh?

Does anyone live there?

A few fishing families. They get their drinking water from Jolo and sell their catch there.

We glided past the island and I watched as fishermen with their families paddled along toward the direction we were going, their bare skin and the dark shapes they made so sharp and so stark in the morning light.

Bajaus.

He half-turned and smiled, then returned his gaze to the moving object at sea. It was like looking at a postcard shot coming alive.

We’re now here, Indah.

I pulled my malong over my head and began folding it. Jack was still standing on one end of the small space between two folded beds. His middle was pressed against the wood rail, his fingers loosely twined around a triangular web of taut rope that held the green canvas. He was looking skyward, to a towering blue mountain in the distance cradling in its lap what looked like tall houses leaning against its height.

That’s Bud Tumantangis. The Crying Mountain.

The trip was courtesy of the office, the staff house with the dialogue program where a core staff and several other volunteers shared quarters. It was my first travel to the islands, part of an exposure trip new recruits had to undergo, and I was a little apprehensive. I landed beside Jack like a piece of debris during a storm, and he would joke that I am probably as shell-shocked as Fatmawatti.

Fatmawatti was the local girl we both knew from college. She grew up in Jolo and will accompany us during the two-day trek. I would know that in 1974 when we were nine or ten, I was only standing back while soldiers shoveled up my grandfather’s shotguns from a trench in our yard; Fatmawatti, on the other hand, was running from one bomb crater to another while over her head above coconut trees, planes rained bullets and shrapnel all over. To comrades in the headquarters, Jack included, she was invariably a war-freak, a secessionist, queen of the Bangsa Moro struggle.

Jack saw me at home and invited me to join him in the volunteer brigades. He saw how everything was blown out where I lived, though no gun was ever fired, no grenade ever lobbed. His taking me out of there thus constituted a saving act. The movement was a plank of wood, perhaps a lifeboat itself that I caught and anchored on. According to Jack, Fatmawatti was a niece to an MNLF commander and herself a handful of a nationalist. At first, I did not understand the word. From grade school on I was taught it was a good thing, a trait one would associate with heroes. But the chaps in our headquarters spoke of it in a quite different tone.

Nasyunalis yun! MNLF yun!

What’s wrong with that?

Everything. Look what happened to their struggle.

Then there was Jack who liked mythologizing everyone he knew, nationalist or not. This comrade an Ibaloi princess; this handsome boy a great fellow a scion son to Maranao nobility; this cadre from an island you wouldn’t find in the map a Phil. Sci. scholar and a genius; this Chinese-Tausug beauty a descendant to the Sultanate of Sulu. It was his way of saying I’m in a great movement, with the best company one could ever wish for. Just the same, anxiety accompanied me all throughout. And if truth be told, it was the bombed place that fascinated me. It was what I was more excited about seeing. And this Susukan, the Moro warrior-revolutionary Jack and those who had been to his lair had been raving about. Accordingly, he rose to the command for having fought the longest. Unlike the other rebel commanders, he never surrendered.

A quiet humble man. You ought to meet him.

As for princesses and great beauties, they fazed me. If I were the frog, I would certainly be safer in a bog. Of course, I could not speak against our would-be host to Jack. His dear friend was the acknowledged and honored sovereign as far as the southwestern gate was concerned. She was rear guard, local guide, ally, ambassador of good will. I just promised myself to keep out of her way and kept praying that I would get in and out of her land unharmed.

That’s the Chinese Pier.

I leaned elbows and forearms on the railing. It was a sight to behold—the wooden architecture, the slender stake-like columns holding up gray thatches, the red and silver roofs, the flickers and splotches of colors in the wooden palings outside doorways and windows. At the docks, the shapes and movements of people were coming clearer, mostly men in their work clothes and fishermen’s caps, in different postures of waiting. Some stood with one arm suspended against a paling, others squatted with arms crossed on their knees. In the mix were several women wearing pants very loose in the bottom; others had their tube skirts strung on one shoulder.

The shoreline villages drew closer and the chug-chugging of the engine below us grew louder and jauntier. Here and there lone huts hoisted on thin limbs above seawater greeted us and a short distance across them stood islands of little houses, as poor and as bare, a banca or two tied to a post underneath. I tucked my malong inside my backpack. Jack was squatting on his heels, reaching for his pair of sneakers stowed between the boxes under our beds. When the boat gave out a long blast signaling its arrival on port, he was straining his neck for the sight of his friend at the dockside. He must have spotted her. He waved his hand vigorously.

Passengers were now moving toward the gangplank. One of the boat crew started folding the Army cots, stacking them one on top of the other. Port workers clambered up the rail and onto the deck, yelling and grabbing luggage pointed to them. Suitcases and boxes were dragged and lifted onto shoulders and backs. On the water below the deck, banca-riding families were raising their faces in supplication, jumping after the coins some of the passengers threw into the air. I watched as boys six and twelve years old broke the surface of the water, disappeared, then reappearing with a coin between their teeth. Jack pulled the two boxes of dry goods from under our beds and we joined the throng of homecoming passengers heading out.

My fear of Fatmawatti was greatly unfounded. As we stepped onto the quay, she and a handful of friends welcomed us. I hesitated a moment behind Jack’s shoulder, a few steps from the foot of the gangplank, as though I may turn around boatward just in case our host refused to have me. Jack turned a head toward me after a flurry of exclamatory reports just as Fatmawatti was about to turn away to see to our transport.

Do you know each other?

Fatmawatti nodded up to me, a faint smile freshening what I always remembered as an old woman’s face. Then a male cousin started carting our luggage and we crammed ourselves inside two waiting cabs. Jack sat behind the tricycle driver and held on to his camera bag, Fatmawatti and two others sat in the passenger seats, the cousin in the other cab with our bags and boxes of supplies: rice, canned goods, vermicelli, cigarettes. More exchanges of news went on over the roar of the speeding vehicles, the two other girls warmly exchanging courtesies with me.

Inah—Fatmawatti’s mother—met us at their door. Platters of dumplings and sweet cakes were laid on the long table in the living room and Jack took the trouble of naming each native delicacy to me, Inah and Fatmawatti’s two sisters helping him. The coffee was mighty good, sweet and strong, reminding me of home when Grandmother wasn’t so poor, a banana and coffee patch in the back of our yard, everyone coming for help, and Grandfather strong and wise beyond blame. Inah poured us another serving, then sent one of the men to the market for our provisions, another to the camp to see to our safe passage. It was toward midday when the advance party returned. We sat at another meal in the open yard, a feast of roasted fish the size of long platters, black soup which the male cousin cooked in a big black pot over fire, and fresh seaweeds of varied colors decked with sliced onions and tomatoes.

Not long after, we were on a long hike, Fatmawatti and her two male cousins leading the way. She and Jack filled each other with more news. About friends they used to know on campus, about the latest gossip from the ranks of the marchers in Manila, about teachers and confederates still around or gone, pausing only if Jack’s attention would be caught by an edifice of a big house with ukkil wings or by a graffiti on broken walls declaring war on Filipino colonialism. With his camera bag slung over one shoulder, the zoom lens held daintily in his lap, and the two of us taller than the average Chinese-Tausug or Sama-Bajau, Jack and I were rather marked out as foreigner-guests early on. Approaching the road leading to the mountain parts, we were met by a teenager who returned our Assalamu alaykum with a quiet alaykum wassalam, then with spark in his eyes and the shiest of smiles, he addressed Fatmawatti.

Dayng Pilippin?

Are we from the Philippines, he asked, to which Fatmawatti nodded and smiled with as much charm.

When the boy was several meters behind us, Jack forewarned me. You are now in Bangsa Moro Republik, Indah.

Bapa Omar was not given to talking. Having spent most of his life in the jungle, he could only converse in the local dialect. He had sad eyes and his left foot bore a big scar in the base between the toes. From a deep wound during one encounter, he told me when I asked, and no elaborate account was added. He was seated across me on the bamboo floor in an open hall, a rifle by his side leaning against the wall. Jack was his lively self as usual, full of good tidings and generous with praises. He was standing surrounded by men younger and older than him. It was his second visit to the islands and he must have shaken hands with them before. By and by the men were showing him Russian-made weapons, what each was called, how to hold and fire them. Jack nodded at me, and I joined the little inventory, the men letting me name and hold each weapon. Then Fatima summoned me. She just saw her two cousins off. They were on their way back to the highway to get a ride to town and see to their other errands.

The ground we were stepping on is a historical place, she explained. She was showing me around the camp, what remnants of stone structures still held there. I ambled beside her, awkward and unsure.

It used to be the fortress of a great sultan of Sulu. It is encircled by the river.

She pointed to the narrow stream below. Rocks scattered about along the copsy marsh and up to where we stood.

When the sultan was ruler, he required every farmer who came to the fortress to bring a piece of rock to help secure the place. When the crown was transferred to a relative in another town, the fortress was abandoned. In 1974 the military came, and the stronghold was destroyed.

I kept nodding my head, unable to find words that would give voice to the gladness and the confusion that I felt. It was my first trip out. It was also my first writing assignment. I did not fully appreciate or comprehend the secessionist struggle as yet, and I suspected that the office that took me in was not of one mind as far as the Muslim brethren were concerned. Glad as I was that Fatmawatti trusted me enough to be telling me such details, I was torn inside; fearful, too, that my long silence and lack of enthusiasm would be taken by her as ambivalence: that I did not sympathize but was there as a Bisaya, an adversarial agent, a critic-spy. Before I could mumble another stupid phrase, Bapa Jalah came strutting in, tip of finger touching his brow.

He was calling us to coffee, and we walked behind him, Fatmawatti a few paces ahead of me, head bent, silent in a sad way, as one would if we were still walking among the ashes of a lost kingdom. When we reached the clearing where the men sat, Bapa Jalah went straight to the boulder where he left his rifle. Jack was with Commander Ahmad and we joined the men around the bamboo table, cups of coffee going around laps. The unwalled shed was held together by bamboo poles, the ceiling made of marang leaves, and the weapons hanging around men’s shoulders and backs glittered, their possessors none too old to keep them firing.

If you stay here for a month, you shall learn to live as a guerilla, Commander Ahmad said to me.

A decade younger than Bapa Omar, Commander Ahmad looked more like a pirate than a farmer-turned-fighter. One of the women setting down the trays was his wife and the two-year old toddler romping around was his daughter. Her name, he said proudly, is Mujib Jihada. Jihad, Jack elaborated, is an Arabic word for holy war.

Beside Commander Ahmad Bapa Omar sat, quiet, his 70-years old face well-chiseled, eyes mirroring years seen. His mien made me think of Grandfather, the last one I would remember as a gentle peasant. He farmed and fought, Commander Ahmad said, catching me looking down at the dark skin cradling a rifle, the fingers light around the trigger.

Commander Ahmad’s men introduced us to the farmers’ sons and the women folks who came by. They asked, Mawis? Not without some warmth. It somewhat upset me. I then thought it was a dissociative appellation that did not go well with the Islamist tradition and the comradely affection with which we were received. I would know much later that before the MNLF became a name to reckon with, there was in the islands a Maoist movement and that Desdemona, the late wife of Misuari, was among its leading lights. By the mid-eighties however or around the time we went there, mawis somehow went out of usage and aktibis outfamed all else in preeminence and spread. Along with this, separatism in the islands also relied more and more on religion’s drawing power.

I was half asleep inside the commander’s hut when Bapa Jalah called from the door again, this time to where black soup, chicken broth, roasted fish, and pakupaku salad awaited. Fatmawatti rose beside me and we went down to join the men under the leafy roof. We ate with our bare hands, the soup warming our bellies, the spring water sweet and quenching. After lunch we got ready for another five-kilometer hike. We were to go to the camp where the mujahid Commander Susukan was anticipating our arrival.

We walked along scrubland, accompanied by around twenty-five men including Commander Ahmad and Bapa Jalah. Bapa Omar begged off. He was staying behind to do some farm work. He was well along wielding an ax when we took leave that afternoon.

Maglahanglahang! came a command from behind us, meaning, to walk a safe distance of a few feet from each other. By and by we came upon a cool shady place and the men slowed down. Sitting back from our path on one side was a shady spot where white cloths held in four corners by thin poles spread over square spaces. They were the graves of their dead comrades, the men told me. They died during encounters with the military, some from shrapnel wounds dropped by military planes. A little way further and I was greeted by open pits under big trees.

What are those?

Paksul they were called. Trenches. They made plenty all over, to jump into. With battalions of soldiers deployed in the islands, surprise attacks took place from time to time.

Folks on their way to work crossed paths with us, some bent under fruit baskets made of coconut fronds, others carrying farm tools. They would bow ever so lightly, mumbling prayers and good wishes. In one village that we passed an old woman with a headdress stopped from digging at the sight of us approaching. She rose, unwrapped and rewrapped the tadjung around her waist, a wooden trowel in hand. Unable was she to return our greetings as we each took turns wishing her Assalamu alaykum. When I glanced back before we made a turn behind trees, she was still staring after us, her eyes on me, mouth wide open. I did wonder what she could be thinking.

By and by we emerged from the thicket and a rusty Light Vehicle Tank greeted us. Bapa Jalah was atop the tank in no time, gesturing for Jack to photograph him. He was barely four feet, but stocky, and the squarish face between shoulder-length hair well-lined. The current state of the LVT was his work, Jack bragged. He had exploded not less than ten armor tanks and the one he was straddling looked at least a decade old. He liked saluting me, a quick touch of his brow and a nod of his head, which he seemed to prefer doing rather than shaking hands standing a foot apart from someone a foot taller than him. His wide grin on impish face and alert ways reminded me of Rumpelstilskin.

Be that he could turn rust into gold.

A little way up and we came upon an empty hall, the fence surrounding the yard full of holes and blackened in many places. It was what remained of the town’s municipal building after villages were burned down in the aftermath of the February 1974 uprising. When we reached the village, men surrounded us, exchanging embraces with the fighters. Wondering eyes followed me and Fatmawatti whispered to me, amused. With my malong wrapped around my waist, she said, people must have mistaken me for a mestiza Maranao-Tausug. That pleased me no end and I had to stop myself from hugging Fatmawatti. A Maranao for a mother and a Tausug for a father or a Maranao for a father and a Tausug for a mother? Either way it was a fabulous idea.

Jack had forgotten about us. He was busy taking shots at whatever he fancied, the women taking one step back as he aimed his camera’s lens at them. By and by he was in front of another 1974 wreckage, a mosque. A local chap, perhaps annoyed at his elaborate poses, his full height bending this way and that, sometimes kneeling on one knee or standing on an elevated structure, remarked, Filipino?

Fatmawatti hollered. Next time you come around, you should wear a sawwal, Utuh!

I laughed with Fatmawatti. And shoot around like a freak photographer!

We were soon directed to see the distinguished rebel leader in his lair. A passenger vehicle was procured and a handful of men stayed on to escort us. The rest, including Commander Ahmad and Bapa Jalah, were to return to their camp. Bapa Omar and the women would be waiting over supper, they said. We bade goodbye and rode the fiera, trudging through bumpy and muddy inroads, the vehicle rocking and groaning through rock-strewn and lopsided forest ground, until finally, we reached Commander Susukan’s camp. By then it was dusk.

A sputtering wick lamp lit the bare room and the shadow of a woman in the dark kitchen was groping for another gas lamp. We bent our backs through a low door, mumbling good wishes and shaking hands with the slight-framed and oldish commander. Our escorts remained on the yard, and the three of us had ourselves seated on the mat, our backs against the wall. Susukan spoke low, a slow deliberate monotone of one who had just so much to tell, so much to hold. A glint of brilliance radiated from his eyes, the deep look he sometimes fixed at some distance in the dark. He showed us copies of a publication he helped produce which he kept inside a carved chest along with his other precious belongings.

This is good, he said, as he lit a cigarette one of the men handed in from the door.

Angan-angan. Hope. At the day’s end it’s all that will keep us alive.

The woman in the kitchen set down a brighter lamp and more of his treasured items were brought into the light. Mimeographed texts; a red banner with a star, a crescent, and a sword; a chessboard and a typewriter. At the top of the tidy heap inside his trunk, in black leather case, the Holy Book, the letters on the cover gilded, and in a corner by his elbow, his rifle.

The Holy Koran extolls us to change our condition or God Himself will not change it, he murmured.

The Prophet, too, he went on, executed a long march, a protracted struggle during the hegira, the flight to Medina, before their victorious return to Mecca.

An hour later, he was still browsing over the pages of Liberation we brought him. I did not know then who were writing those very cogent texts and when later I would get to read Dolores Feria’s prison notes and barbed wire journals, I would be so astonished to know that the words of an American exile, a socialist and a feminist, should reach a glorious nobody in the far jungle of Jolo. At the time I also did not know yet about Maoism’s early success in the islands or that unlike the arms shipments from China which intellectual-revolutionists botched up twice over, Russia’s AKs and leather boots reached the MNLF camps largely undetected and unintercepted.

After supper of fried fish and green mangoes, I and Fatima rested our backs on the bamboo floor. Jack reposed beside Commandeer Susukan who went back to his corner by the blinking gas lamp, digesting his regular quota of required reading. The woman in the kitchen banished behind the door. As he pored over the text in his hand, he seemed to be scooping each word as he strained his eyes to grope each print, his brows close to the flame. I felt my chest tighten a little, warming to the glow of the flickering light.

Early the following morning, we retraced our path back to the village we stopped at the day before. The half a dozen men who walked with us proceeded to take a different path in the forest. As soon as they had us deposited inside another passenger jeep that would take us to town, they headed toward their camp. As we got nearer the outer road, Army outposts not manned the day before were suddenly thick with uniformed men. Fatmawatti and the women passengers bristled.

Laung ku awn ceasefire bihaun?

They stopped our vehicle though none took the trouble of making us come down on the road to be inspected. They eyed at our bags and contraband faces but that was all. Fatmawatti thundered on, in crisp vernacular.

Bahgu kunu, New Armed Forces kunu, sah, unu ini?!

By the badges on their sleeves, they were the infamous Philippine Marines, the felon of many atrocious crimes in the islands.

By five o’clock in the afternoon, Inah saw us off at the door, exchanging hugs and endless prayers and wishes for our safe journey back. Fatmawatti and her two sisters kept to our side, the male cousin faithfully trailing us, always several feet away at our rear or moving up to our side. Soon, we were again walking back to the port where a waiting ship was docked. I was feeling sad, held back by thoughts that were never there before.

I hugged Fatmawatti goodbye.

Jolo, Jolo. Wassalam, Jolo, Jack murmured as I sat in my cot. He was standing on the deck looking out, his hands on his hips, his eyes in the far blue mountain half-hidden by mist. Behind him on the deck an old man with a white cap was kneeling on a prayer rug, his head bowed, hands cupped before his chest.

I threw another look at the islands of houses sparsely scattered around me; I gazed at the tall mountain with its thick shadow looming high up above the horizon; at the bustle of men and women at the wharf and the children running on the ridges. I scanned the bright blue waters, the wooden structures that looked a beauty from offshore but a chaos of rough-and-tumble lives up close. I thought of the found friends I walked with in the forest.

Wassalam, Jolo, Wassalam, I muttered to myself.

The engine revved up and a blast announcing departure was sounded. Jack was waving his hands, at no one, or perhaps, at everyone in the port we were leaving behind and beyond. Goodbye, Jolo, goodbye, he kept on murmuring, which I found strange. You were not supposed to say goodbye to anyone, only to wish them peace whether they were coming or going.

As though you won’t ever get back here again!

But indeed, Jack never returned to the islands after that trip with me. It was as though he only brought me there so that I would know my way if I returned there in my own time to find out what I would with my own two eyes. It would be decades though before I could really go back and know with the soles of my feet the wounds of the land. By then the friends I met in the jungle were no longer there to see to my safety.

I never got to know what became of them. Soon after that trip, even our own office would be evacuated and we in the volunteer brigades would be dispersed, too, never to gather together again. I was past all hopes, alone, and myself a separatist of some kind when I finally got to hear from one I barely knew Susukan’s name. The speaker, a lady guard in a school where I taught, claimed that his father used to be Susukan’s right hand. The kindly commander died, she said, neither from a bomb dropped in his camp or from an encounter with government soldiers but from a gunman’s bullet. He was by then managing the use and distribution of fishing boats among poor fishing families, and someone, a rival, got in his way. This businessman with some wealth wanted the fishing boat for himself and Susukan refused to lend it to him, refused to give in to any inducement proffered him. The poor fisherman got his fishing boat, the lady guard said, but Susukan paid for it with his life. I did not hear anything more that would corroborate or belie this sad news as by and by I myself would have to leave the place for good.

I still ran into Fatmawatti every now and then after that visit with Jack, in the islands and in cities, but by then, as with Jack and the other comrades I used to share quarters with, we had stopped hugging, had stopped shaking hands, and had stopped wishing each other peace. We might as well had been ships stranded onto our own lost selves. It was as though we have become strangers to each other and strangers to our past selves, all the names and places visited and all the years trod now foreign lands once chartered but had better be put away in a place beyond recall, beyond recovery.

 

Joross Michael D. Bongcarawan

Aircon… ON. Electric fan… ON. Zainab is slurping an iced tea. Ali is enjoying some ice cream treats. Zulaikah is taking a shower and has been there for about 20 minutes now. Everyone is coming up with a diskarte to beat the heat, but to no avail; we failed no matter how hard we tried.

It was a hot Sunday afternoon in January. The sun has been rising unusually hot these past few weeks. The wind cannot even move a leaf. The lake is waveless as if it’s also resting under the boiling heat of the sun. Everything seems to be still.

“The Philippines is currently experiencing a severe increase in temperatures in several parts of the country, signifying threats from El Nino,” the report said.

“Ahh, it’s so hot,” my sister complained.

“I just took a bath, but look, my sweats are already dripping one by one. Subhanallah,” she added.

“You Khaliq? ‘Don’t you feel hot at all?”, she asked.

I just nodded my head in response. I can’t even dare to move. It feels like moving a bone can make me sweat profusely.

“Assalamu alaykum. Ina, mapipiya kano san?”, Omie said as she talked with Grandma on the phone. “We are planning on spending a vacation there tomorrow. Katawan kadn, inikadali ka i Ghafur ago gya mga wata,” she added.

“I’ll bring the kids with us because it’s been a while since you last saw them.”

“Na gyuto Ina ow. I’ll call you again. Assalamu alaykum.”

My mother informed us that we would be visiting our Grandma’s hometown— the small but happy town of Banga Pantar. I, together with my siblings, jumped in excitement. It’s been ages since we last stepped foot in that cold, peaceful town. I think we won’t be able to sleep all night out of excitement.

If I can remember it well, I was just five when I last saw Grandma before we permanently settled in Quezon City. I was so young back then. I can vividly remember how she makes palapa, which is a staple dish in our daily meals. I didn’t like it at first because it was spicy, but I eventually grew to like it, and it has become my favorite since then!

The night came. Everyone fell asleep. While I, still eyes wide open, busy thinking about all the good things I can do there and such traditional foods I can eat as dodol, jackfruit with some coconut shreds, and yes! Palapa! And my bolayoka!!! There’s Gaza, Ayyub, and my best friend, Iyash! Langit, Lupa? Sili-sili? Tagu-taguan? Oh! All those games we played before. Ah! It took me an hour or two, or more, to imagine all these things.

Suddenly, a loud sound of knocking resonated through our walls.

I didn’t know…

I’m not sure…

It was past midnight already, so…

Maybe it’s normal to…

Imagine unreal things? Ey! There’s no such thing as…

Ya Allah! Someone is really trying to crack our door open!

I can see how much force he is trying to exert with those loud thuds. Until…. Ya Allah! It was opened. And I saw… a silhouette of a huge man… His muscles…. are gigantic…. His face… I cannot see it. But oh! His knee…. I can see it dripping with blood. Then he started walking… towards me… slowly… and…

“Ahhhhh! ”, I screamed.

My alarm rang. It was 7 a.m. already. The rooster started crowing. The birds were chirping.

Shoot! What a dream! I quickly woke up and washed my face to fully awaken my soul. Maybe it’s because of my overexcitement. But somehow it helped me wake up early, as I usually make bed at 10 a.m. when on break.

“Pupunta tayo sa babu n’yo maya-maya. Start packing your things,” Omie said.

“Ilang araw po pala tayo dun, Omie? ”, I asked.

“5 days only. Phkatangkaan mambo a phakatnggaw a dunya. Your father also missed your grandma, that’s why,” she replied.

My little siblings once again jumped in excitement. It was a semestral break, so it wouldn’t hurt to enliven our bodies and souls in the meantime.

As we finished packing our things, we started traveling. It was quite a long trip, so I fell asleep in the car.

“Khaliq, dumating na tayo. Kawto si Ina ka nanayawn ka niyan.”

I was half-awake, but as soon as I saw Grandma’s face, it felt like a bucket of water was splashed right on my face.

“Inaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”, I screamed while running to her.

“Aydow, watakulay akn a Khaliq. You’ve grown a lot!”, Grandma said. “Let’s go inside and eat. I have prepared a lot for you to dig in.”

“Ina, may palapa ba? ”, I asked. “Of course, it’s your favorite,”  she responded.

Then we had our meal. Afterward, I asked Omie if I could go outside and visit my bolayoka. She allowed me but warned me to go home before dusk.

On my way, I saw Gaza. He didn’t recognize me.

“Hey, Gaza! Mapipiya ka?”, I said. “Antaa ka?”, he responded. “It’s me, Khaliq!” “Ah, Manila boy! Ska bs anan. When did you arrive? Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. You have grown so tall.”

I just laughed, and we had some chitchat. I asked him where the others were, and he accompanied me to their houses. Finally, we gathered again after five years. Everyone has grown a lot.

We tried playing the games we used to play. Sili-sili. Langit-lupa. Tumbang-preso. We enjoyed it so much that we became oblivious of the time. Before calling it a day, we played hide-and-seek, in which I became the taya.

“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar.” The call for prayer has come. “Tagu-taguan, maliwanag ang buwan. Wala sa likod. Wala sa harap. — ” I didn’t hear it as I was busy singing the chant. “—Pag bilang ko ng sampo nakatago na kayo. Isa… Dalawa…Tatlo…”

I started looking for my playmates. The surroundings started getting darker, but still, I found none of them. After minutes of continuous seeking, I still didn’t find any of them. I was chilly, so I went home.

I was sulking a little bit. My bolayoka tricked me on my first day here after all these years. I’m heading back home feeling disappointed.

But suddenly, I heard some heavy footsteps following me. I resisted wanting to look back. I walked quickly, and so did it. My body started trembling, and I got teary-eyed. But after a while, the footsteps were gone. I looked back… there was none. I continued walking, and…

“Where could he have gone?” said Omie. “Aydow, da ngawn tharowa a baling bo gagaan?” my Grandma asked. “I told him, but maybe he got too excited,” Omie replied.

“Abie iyan, hanapin natin si Khaliq. It’s already Maghrib, but he has not come back yet.”

“Khaliq! Khaliq! ”“Where are you? “Aydow, watakulay!”, both Omie and Grandma cried.

“Khaliq! My son!”Abie keeps on screaming.

Abie saw a person lying down. He rushed to it, thinking it might be me.

“Khaliq, watakulay?! ”“Khaliq is here! Subhanallah, “What happened to you, dear? ”Abie spoke word after word out of worry that I might be dead.

I woke up lying on our couch. My whole body hurt as if I had been punched several times. I was bedridden for weeks. I got thinner, and I looked pale. I lost my appetite, and I could hardly take medications. I spend days thinking about what I’ve done to deserve this.

Suddenly, I remembered what I saw in my dreams before coming here. I saw a huge, red-kneed man with blood dripping from his knees. It was the same man who attacked me when I was looking for my playmates. The only thing I could remember was when he held me tightly leaving me passed out.

This must be what Omie has been constantly telling me. I have to go home before dusk or the call for Maghrib, as mariga i lb will be roaming around looking for a target. Whoever gets caught will be inflicted with an incurable disease— the warning that I just let pass through my ears.

Omie and Abie decided to have me hospitalized and undergo some check-ups. The initial finding was that I was having a series of hallucinations. The doctor said they might have to do another check-up in the following weeks for possible symptoms of schizophrenia. Omie grew impatient and just took me to a local healer to identify what had been inflicted on me.

Omie’s hunch was right. What I’m going through is not a mere hallucination. I was cursed. “Miyakasaphr a wata iyo aya. Miyadakp aya a mariga i lb!” Omie stood in shock, having mixed emotions. But what could she do? Nothing but to cherish the remaining time left for me.

What was supposed to be a five-day vacation to start afresh became days that have turned into weeks and later into months of frailty.

Hussien C. Malawi 

Despite countless polygamous marriages, I’ve always told myself I’d never find myself in that situation. The thought of being in a polygamous marriage never sat well with me. Yet, there I was, getting ready to attend my husband’s marriage to another woman once again.

“Get ready,” my mother interjected, a gentle interruption to my thoughts. “We should be early, as it takes hours to reach our destination.”

Brimming tears betrayed me as I turned to my mother, seeking solace and understanding. “Despite the countless ways I have loved and supported him, how can this be, mother?” I uttered, my voice quivering with a mixture of anguish and bewilderment.

As my mother gently laid her hand on my back, her comforting presence acted as a healing salve for my troubled soul. “Sometimes, my dear, the desires and needs that reside within people’s hearts are complicated, beyond our complete comprehension. What matters most is how we choose to respond and forge ahead. Focus on the love you hold for your husband, your children, and, most importantly, for yourself.”

In the quiet, burdened by unsaid truths, I found the courage to speak my mind. “This is a sunnah, mother. But it seems he treats it as an obligation,” I said.

She embraced me tightly, her warmth comforting my worried heart. “I’ll try, Mother,” I whispered, my voice filled with determination.

“Mama, is daddy going to be there too? I miss him,” my younger son, Iman, chimed in, his innocent face lighting up with anticipation. He counted the days on his fingers, a playful smile gracing his lips. “He did not come home for 1, 2, 4, 5! Five days!”

“Yes, my dear,” I replied, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Are you excited? Wake up your brother Abdul so that we won’t be late.” As I dressed Iman in his shirt, he nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with excitement.

Memories of the previous year flooded my mind, recalling an unforgettable moment with my family. I vividly remembered the mysterious object wrapped in red cloth, secured with a thick thread around Iman’s stomach. It was a talisman, a form of spiritual defense against negative forces mentioned by the healer we had visited.

I was never particularly inclined towards such beliefs, but my mother-in-law insisted on consulting the healer. Our son, Iman, had been plagued by recurring illnesses, leaving us desperate for a solution to alleviate his suffering. In my husband’s province, there was a renowned traditional healer, known for his extraordinary abilities to cure ailments that defied conventional medicine.

In the car, my nerves were on edge as I prepared for a difficult conversation about my husband’s interest in polygamy. Memories of our wedding day, once filled with joy, now felt tainted by this revelation. Lost in thought, the ringing phone interrupted, revealing Abdul’s class adviser on the caller ID, sparking curiosity and concern about what news awaited me.

Gently setting aside my swirling thoughts, I turned to my son, Abdul, who sat quietly beside me in the car. His eyes, usually filled with a curious spark, were fixed on the world outside as if searching for answers beyond the glass pane. Worry marked my expression as I gently inquired, hoping to understand the reason for his teacher’s call. “Abdul, your teacher called. What happened?” Yet, he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the passing landscape, withholding any explanation.

Abdul, my son, was unlike any other child. He carried himself with a gentle demeanor and a calm presence, but there was a shy quality to him that set him apart. While he possessed a quiet wisdom beyond his years, he often preferred observing rather than actively engaging in conversations or social interactions. This reserved nature wasn’t a sign of disinterest but rather a struggle to find his place amidst the bustling world around him. As his mother, I couldn’t help but question if I had done something wrong, if my protective instincts had hindered his social development. Yet, amidst these doubts, my love for Abdul remained unwavering.

As the scorching heat of the sun bore down upon us, my little boy tugged at my sleeve, his eyes wide with excitement. “Mama, look! It’s raining!” Iman exclaimed, pointing towards the sky. I followed his gaze, expecting to see nothing but a cloudless expanse of blue. To my surprise, droplets of rain fell from above, glistening in the sunlight like a thousand tiny diamonds.

I couldn’t help but smile in bewilderment as I witnessed the extraordinary scene before me. The heavens seemed to be playing a mischievous game, juxtaposing the cool touch of rain with the relentless blaze of the sun. How could rain fall from the sky amidst such intense heat?

I watched as my son stretched out his hand, his palm upturned to catch the unexpected rainfall. He giggled with delight as the raindrops danced upon his skin.

As we stepped out of the car, my husband’s umbrellas, lined up in a neat row, extended their protective embrace to shield us from the elements. With my husband gently cradling our youngest, Iman, in his loving embrace, and my hand intertwined with Abdul’s, we ventured towards the threshold of their house. As we crossed the threshold, the weight of my expectations collided with the reality that awaited me, leaving me momentarily taken aback.

Instead of the intimate gathering I had envisioned—a private exchange between our families to discuss the impending changes in our lives—I found myself confronted by a gathering of unfamiliar faces. A wave of surprise washed over me, creasing my brow in confusion. This was not what I had anticipated. Why were so many unknown individuals present? I could not fathom the purpose of their presence.

As I looked around the room, I slowly realized that many faces belonged to the family of the woman my husband was about to marry. Despite the lively discussion about my husband’s polygamous union, my attention wandered. I couldn’t help but notice the easy rapport between my husband and his second soon-to-be wife, their laughter and shared understanding evoking memories of our own past.

As I excused myself from the meeting, leaving behind the weight of expectations and final decisions, I sought solace in the presence of my children. Abdul and Iman were with their aunt, their innocent faces filled with concern as I entered the room.

“Mama, are you okay?” Iman’s voice trembled with worry, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine concern.

“Why would I not be okay, my dear?” I reassured him, gently patting his head, attempting to mask the turmoil swirling within me.

“I know why we came here, Mama. That woman? Ugh!” Abdul’s frustration spilled forth, his young voice tainted with a mix of anger and sadness.

“Abdul, manners!” I reprimanded him gently, understanding the depths of his emotions but still guiding him towards kindness.

As I stood with my children, seeking solace in their presence, a familiar figure emerged behind me. It was my mother, her silent presence offering both comfort and strength. I hadn’t realized she had followed me, her unwavering support always by my side.

“So, what is your decision, my dear?” Her voice carried a mix of anticipation and concern, her eyes reflecting the weight of our shared history.

In the presence of my mother, I felt a sense of calm amidst my inner turmoil. With a heavy heart, I mustered the courage to speak my truth. “Mother,” I began, my voice wavering, “I can’t bear this any longer. Please, help me.” As the words hung between us, silence filled the room, heavy with emotion. Despite the difficulty of my decision, I knew it was necessary for my own peace of mind.

After gathering myself in solitude for what felt like an eternity, I rose from my seat and made my way back to the meeting. As I stood silently, hidden in the shadows of the doorway, my heart sank at the sight before me. There, in the dimly lit room, I watched as my mother, her face etched with desperation and tear-stained cheeks, pleaded with my husband.

The weight of the moment pressed upon my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I had known, deep down, that our relationship had been faltering, but witnessing this raw and vulnerable exchange between my mother and my husband shattered any illusions I had clung to. The reality of our crumbling union became starkly evident, and the need for my decision became even more resolute.

Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I refused to let them fall. Stepping towards my mother, seeking her embrace, I maintained a steady gaze upon my husband, waiting for his decision. His eyes wandered to the woman, and the talaq escaped his lips. At that moment, a mixture of relief and pain washed over me. It was a bittersweet liberation, a step towards reclaiming my sense of self and seeking a future where my happiness was not compromised.

With heavy hearts, we swiftly left the room and sought solace in our car, where my son Iman’s tears mingled with our shared pain. In our sorrow, Abdul, wise beyond his years, reached out to comfort his brother. As we drove away, relief washed over me, though uncertainty loomed ahead. Despite the unknown, I felt a flicker of hope knowing that I had taken the first step towards prioritizing my own happiness and well-being, with my children and mother by my side.

I woke up to the soft glow of the early morning sun seeping through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue across the room. The tranquility of the moment embraced me, and I savored the coziness of the bed, reluctant to leave its comforting embrace.

Lying still, a gentle fluttering sound draws my attention, and I’m amazed to see a yellow hummingbird darting around the room, its iridescent feathers catching the sunlight. Mesmerized, I extend my hand, and it lands delicately on my finger before I release it to soar out the window.

Settling into my favorite armchair with a steaming cup of coffee, I savor the serenity, the aroma mingling with the morning breeze. As my children’s laughter fills the house, I find solace in their presence, their unwavering love anchoring me as I navigate life’s uncertainties, determined to create a home filled with love and authenticity.