Category: Fiction

Almayrah A. Tiburon

Schedule ko sa araw na ito sa aking doktor para magpa-ultrasound. Hindi ko alam kung bakit pinili ko ang pink kong whole dress, ginamit ang pink na rubber shoes, pink na medyas, at pink na kombong, hindi dahil sa babae ako kundi yun ang naisipan at komportableng isuot ko sa araw na yun. Habang nagbibiyahe’y napapaisip kung ano ang kasarian ng magiging anak ko. Pagdating sa clinic ay marami ring mga buntis ang nandoon para magpa-check-up. Nang matawag ang pangalan ko’y nag-usap kami ng doktor ko, sabay pinahiga ako’t nakatingin kami pareho sa monitor.

“Dok, bago niyo po tingnan kung anong gender ng anak ko, gusto ko po pala babae kasi dalawa po ang anak kong lalaki.”

Ngumiti ang doktor. Marahil nakita niya sa akin ang pananabik. “Baby girl! Congrats!” Wika niya at kung hindi ako nakahiga’y marahil mapapalundag ako sa tuwa. Saglit pa’y pumatak ang mga luha ko. Muling tiningnan ng doktor ang monitor, “babae nga. Tears of joy,” aniya habang nakatingin sa akin.

Nang malaman ng asawa kong si Azis ay masaya rin siya dahil alam niyang masaya ako kahit pa mas gusto niya ulit ng batang lalaki. Ang totoo’y nag-aalala siya kung magiging babae ang anak namin. Mahirap daw kasi palakihin ang batang babae sa henerasyong ito. Pasaway raw kasi ang mga bata at mahirap kung ang pasaway ay babae. Kako depende sa amin ‘yun bilang mga magulang. Niyakap ko sina Cozy at King at sinabing alagaan nila ang bunso nila at protektahan. Hindi ko alam kung bakit sinabi ko ‘yun sa mga bata kahit alam kong hindi naman ako maiintindihan ng isang mag-aapat na taong gulang at mahigit isang taong gulang.

Limang buwan na ang ipinagbubuntis ko. Muli ay sa panahon ng pandemya, na mas lalo akong dapat mag-ingat dahil may dalawang maliliit na bata at may batang babae na rin sa sinapupunan ko na hindi pa man lumalabas ay mahal na mahal ko na. Bago matulog ay kinapa ko ang aking tiyan at pinakiramdaman ang tibok ng kanyang puso. Gumalaw siya sa unang pagkakataon. Marahil ramdam niya na masaya akong magiging nanay niya.

Sa gabi habang pinapatulog naming mag-asawa ang dalawang bata, “Alam mo, sa mga susunod na buwan ay tatlo na sila,” wika ko kay Azis na hindi pa rin nawawala ang mga ngiti ko sa labi.

“Sinong patutulugin ko sa tatlo paglabas ng anak natin? A, si King. Malaki na rin si Cozy at maiintindihan naman niya.”

“Basta, walang dapat na mangunguna sa kanila, ayaw kong maramdaman nila na hindi tayo patas, na kailangang mahalin natin silang tatlo nang labis-labis.”

Bago kami matulog ay pinag-usapan namin ang magiging pangalan ng bata. Ang napagkasunduan namin ay “Bae Qailah (one who speaks) Sofia (an intelligent and wise woman)” at ang kanyang magiging palayaw ay “Precious”.

Anak, Precious, nag-alala ako para sa ating dalawa dahil sa pandemya, mapanganib ang paglabas sa kagaya kong buntis kaya sobrang pag-iingat ang ginagawa namin ng ama mo. Alam kong ang pagbubuntis kong ito’y stressful dahil sa pag-iisip ng laganap na sakit na ito. Natural lang siguro na mag-alala ako para sa atin dahil sobrang mahal na mahal namin kayo ng mga kuya mo.

Kapag naipanganak na pala kita’y ayaw kong bumili ng mga damit mo na kulay pink lang. Gusto ko kung anong komportable’t presentable ka’y yun ang ipapasuot ko sayo. Ayaw ko kasing kung anong ididikta ng lipunan ay gagawin ko dahil ayaw ko ng stereotype; na sinasabi ng maskuladong lipunan na ang mga babae ay mahihina, na kailangan ay sa tahanan lamang kasama ang kaldero’t kalan, at maglinis ng bahay. Ang pagiging babae ay hindi nasusukat sa kung ano ang nagagawa sa tahanan at kung anong kulay ang isinusuot. Naniniwala akong maraming babae ang polychronic, na kayang gawin ang mga bagay nang sabay-sabay, na alam kong kaya mong pagsabayin ang maging manggagawa’t kapaki-pakinabang sa lipunan gayundin ang gawing maging maliwanag, mapayapa, at masaya ang tahanan.

Bilang babae, gusto kong paglaki mo’y maging matatag, matapang, at matalino ka sa mga pagsubok at manindigan sa mga desisyon at landas na tatahakin. May mga pagkakataon mang mahina ang boses mo’y natitiyak kong may makaririnig at may matitinag dahil huhubugin kita sa mga salitang may puso at malawak na pang-unawa. Lagi mo sanang itatangi ang kapayapaan at katarungan. Huwag titigil sa pagiging mabunga at malikhain. Huwag kang mag-alala kasi nandito kami ng ama mo para alalayan at gabayan kayong magkakapatid.

Limang buwan ka pa lang pero tungkol sa lipunan na ang sinasabi ko. Marahil ay gusto na talagang kitang makita. Bigla kong naramdamang gumalaw ka. A, baka ramdam at gusto mo rin ang mga gusto kong mangyari. Alam mo bang ninanamnam ko ang bawat mong galaw? Natutuwa kasi ako dahil pakiramdam ko’y masaya kang kasama ako. Alam mo bang nagsimula na akong mag-isip at mangarap ng magiging kinabukasan mo? At alam mo bang nasa imahinasyon ko na tatlo na kayo; magkakasamang pakakainin, maglalaro, magtatakbuhan, mamamasyal, at siguro mag-aaway. Party-party na siguro dito sa bahay. Nananabik na talaga ako sa pagkikita natin. Paglabas mo sa Abril ay mas lalo ka pa naming mamahalin ng ama mo kasama ng mga kuya mo – aarugain at kakalingain namin kayo nang walang humpay at walang pagod.

Nelson Dino

The sea had turned restless, its once calm surface now a churning mess of waves. A young lady stood on the edge of her father’s boat, the wooden frame creaking under the strain of the storm. She held tight to the worn railing, her knuckles white with effort, eyes wide as the sky grew darker. The winds howled, ripping through the sails and sending the boat veering off course. Panic flickered in her chest, a wild, erratic heartbeat that seemed to sync with the pounding rain. Her father’s voice, calling her name—Lundang—was swallowed by the roaring sea as furious waves battered the boat. Then, a deafening crack echoed through the storm, the sound of wood splintering, and suddenly, the world tilted violently.

Everything was water.

She was flung into the icy embrace of the ocean, the shock of it stealing her breath. The waves surged over her, pulling her down and spinning her in a dizzying swirl beneath the surface. The salt stung her eyes, and her lungs screamed for air, but she fought against the current, kicking her legs frantically. Just as darkness began to close in, she broke through the surface, gulping down the air in ragged gasps. The sea raged around her, merciless and unyielding, but she clung to consciousness, driven by a fierce will to survive.

The storm seemed to rage on forever, but finally, the winds began to die down. The waves still tossed the young lady about, but with less force, and she found herself floating in the water, exhausted but alive. The night sky had cleared, revealing a scattering of stars overhead, dim and distant but still there, like silent witnesses to her struggle. She felt a sudden stillness as if the sea had finally relented, allowing her a moment of peace. Her limbs ached, her body battered and bruised, but the fight had gone out of the ocean, leaving her to drift on the quiet, moonlit waves.

Time lost its meaning as she floated there, alone and adrift. But then, out of the endless blue, something changed. A gentle but insistent current began to carry her away from the open sea. She was too weak to resist and tired to care, so she let it guide her, hoping it would lead her to safety.

When she awoke, she was no longer in the water. The ground beneath her was solid, calm, and covered in soft, damp earth. She blinked against the harsh sunlight, the scent of greenery filling her lungs. Slowly, she sat up, feeling the sun’s warmth on her skin and the grass’s softness under her hands. She looked around, taking in her surroundings.

She was on land—dry land, lush and green, with trees towering overhead. The air was thick with the scent of rain, earth, and birds calling from the branches. She pushed herself to her feet, unsteady but determined, her damp clothes clinging to her body. She took a few tentative steps, feeling the earth give slightly beneath her weight, the grass brushing against her ankles.

Ahead of her, rising out of the forest like a silent sentinel, was Bud Bongao. The peak loomed above her, its slopes covered in dense, green vegetation. Seeing it filled her with an inexplicable sense of calm as if the mountain were a familiar friend watching over her. She couldn’t remember how she got here, but the show didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was safe.

As she made her way through the forest, she noticed movement in the trees above her. Monkeys, their dark eyes bright with curiosity, leaped from branch to branch, chattering amongst themselves. They watched her with interest, their small faces expressive as if they were wondering what she was doing in their domain. She smiled up at them, feeling a strange kinship with these creatures of the wild. They seemed to sense her peaceful intent, for they did not flee but followed her progress through the forest, swinging from vine to vine.

The path was narrow, winding through the dense foliage, leading her closer to the peak. She followed it without hesitation, driven by an instinct she couldn’t quite explain. The air grew cooler as she ascended, the trees thinning out to reveal more of the sky above. Finally, she emerged into a small clearing, where the trees parted to reveal a breathtaking view of the sea beyond. The vast blue expanse stretched before her, glittering in the sunlight, calm and serene as if the storm had never been.

She stood there, transfixed by the sight, her heart swelling with awe and gratitude. She had survived. The sea had spared her, and now she was standing on this sacred mountain, looking out over the world. It felt like a blessing, a gift from the universe, a reminder of the fragility of life and strength within her.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

The voice was deep, warm, and full of understanding. The young lady turned to find a man standing at the edge of the clearing, partially hidden in the shade of the trees. His beard was long and white, his eyes kind, with a wisdom stretching beyond the years. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, like someone who had lived many lifetimes.

She nodded, unable to find her voice, her gaze drifting back to the sea, and asked, “How do you know my name?”

“It’s like a current,” he said, standing beside her. “Your name is like a life, as it means a “close friend.” Sometimes, it’s calm; sometimes, it’s rough. But it’s always moving, always changing and tough like the peak of this mountain.”

She felt his words settle into her heart, deep and true, like the roots of a tree. They stood silently as the sea whispered its ancient secrets and the sun slowly descended toward the horizon.

Her name echoed in the rhythm of the currents, a melody tangled in her life as her memories unfolded. With her plan and her father setting their sights on Sandakan, the waves in the Sulu Sea rose and fell. Their journey faltered, leaving them adrift, their lives stretching into a vast, uncertain expanse—her father was never found again!

Daniel Luna 

Omar, a twelve-year-old boy, his brown eyes large, hefty as the earth itself, carries tales of resilience. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, coils into tight curls that mimic the sloppy paths he navigates daily. His lips, round and chapped by the relentless sun, seldom separate for words, speak volumes about his toughness. And his nose, broad, flat, and evocative of Emilio Aguinaldo, mirrors his strong heritage. An orphan, void of the warmth of familial ties, stands alone in his struggle for survival. He became his own savior, grappling daily to secure his basic needs. He barely managed to eat even once a day.

He lives in a small house, or we say kubo in Filipino language, nestled in the heart of the slums. Standing steadfast, an island of resilience amidst a sea of hardship, crafted from wood, bamboo, and nipa, the house’s skeletal structure is composed of seasoned wood that bears the weight of years and stories. The wood, weathered by time and elements, carries a patina of age, its grain a roadmap of survival against adversity. Encasing this wooden frame are walls of bamboo, woven together with the precision of a master craftsperson. Each bamboo stalk, standing side by side, mirrors the close-knit community of the slums, individual yet intertwined. The walls, a patchwork quilt of bamboo, provide a shield against the world. Crowning the house is a roof of nipa leaves, a thatched tapestry of nature’s own design. The leaves overlap like scales on a dragon, forming a protective shell against the tropical rain and sun.

One day, in the heart of the mangrove forest, Omar chanced upon a small, black creature. It had four stubby legs, a face and tail elongated like the waning crescent moon, and tiny, pointed fangs that added an intriguing intensity to its tiny form. At first, Omar feigned ignorance, treating the creature’s presence as an illusion. Yet, the persistent creature trailed him like a loyal spaniel, never baring its fangs or displaying any hint of aggression. This unexpected peacefulness made Omar pause, and he cast a speculative glance at the small reptile. A thought fluttered in his mind. Could he adopt this creature? Although void of reason, the thought seemed comforting. As if fate had conspired to make this meeting happen, Omar stumbled upon a small, white plastic container nearby. With a soft sigh, Omar gently bent his knees, lowering himself to the ground. With one hand steady on the container and the other cautiously reaching for the crocodile, he prepared to lift the creature. To his relief, the crocodile remained docile, allowing the boy to gently cradle it into its new home.

Omar diligently fed the crocodile with the fish he caught, oblivious to the weight of the circumstances surrounding his decision to bring it into his humble home. Forgotten were the whispers of caution that echoed through the community—a warning against welcoming such a dreaded creature. The history of tragedies and lives lost to the jaws of crocodiles seemed a distant memory to Omar, submerged beneath his newly found connection with this unconventional companion. As the crocodile became a part of Omar’s life, remarkable changes began to unravel. An unseen tapestry of blessings unfurled before him, woven by the hands of anonymous benefactors. Food materialized in his hands, offered freely by strangers amidst the community. Even financial support, an unimaginable luxury in his past, appeared, easing the burdens that once bore heavily upon his young shoulders. Omar, brimming with joy and gratitude, attributed these blessings to the presence of the crocodile. Little did Omar know, his happiness was not solely derived from his crocodile companion, but also from the ripple effect he had unknowingly set in motion. The act of embracing the despised creature had stirred dormant empathy and generosity from their community, reminding them of the power of compassion and solidarity. The blessings continued to flow, not solely for Omar, but in the awakening of shared humanity within the hearts of those around him.

Years passed, Omar already an 18-year-old, had managed to renovate his house into a sturdier and more resilient kubo. However, he never anticipated that someone would discover the existence of the crocodile residing within his humble abode. One evening, a man roughly four times older than Omar grew envious of the blessings bestowed upon him. Consumed by jealousy, the man found an opportunity to sneak into Omar’s house with the intent to steal. Omar was absent at that time, occupied with the task of procuring a large container to provide a better home for the growing crocodile. The man cautiously entered the house, quietly opening the door. To his astonishment, he was met with a sight that struck him with fear. The crocodile had grown exponentially, now twice the size it was when Omar had adopted it. There was no container to confine it; Omar had allowed the creature to freely roam on the wooden floor. Overwhelmed by shock, the man found himself unable to utter a single word. Shaken to the core, he hastily retreated, leaving the door open, and uttered a single word in the local language, “Buwaya” — a term that means crocodile, filled with terror and alarm.

That fateful night, Omar remained unaware of the harrowing scene he was about to witness. As he glanced outside his home, an unsettling sight greeted him—people had gathered, clutching long, thick, and flat knives, their torches casting an eerie glow. His face drained of color, his heart raced in his chest, and myriad speculations raced through his mind as he stood just a short distance away. He felt a jolt of panic, thoughts racing through his mind. “Had those people discovered the existence of the crocodile? Were they aware that he had been living alongside the creature? The crocodile must have sensed the impending danger, he thought, it must have found a way to escape.” The weight of uncertainty pressed upon him as he contemplated the potential consequences. Questions swirled in his mind, intertwining with fear and apprehension. Had he been exposed? Would he too become a target of their wrath and animosity? Omar’s heart pounded in his chest as he grappled with the unknown fate of both himself and his once-trusted companion.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Omar’s instincts kicked in, urging him to rush toward his house. Pushing past the crowd, he fought his way to the center where a circle of onlookers had formed. His eyes welled up with unshed tears, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he beheld the devastating scene before him. The crocodile, once his cherished companion, bore multiple cruel stabs covering its rear. The ghastly sight tore at Omar’s soul as he struggled to comprehend the cruelty that unfolded before his eyes. A cacophony of voices erupted around him, the crowd unleashing a torrent of hurtful words. Shouts pierced the air, blending with scornful remarks aimed directly at him. They chastised him for his perceived recklessness and immaturity, emphasizing the inherent danger of harboring such a creature. The weight of their condemnation hung heavy in the atmosphere as if every syllable carried the weight of their collective disdain. Yet, amidst the verbal assault, Omar remained resolute, his determination unshaken. Ignoring the vitriol, Omar steadily approached the lifeless body of the crocodile. With tear-stained cheeks and a voice wrought with anguish, he pressed himself against the slain creature, mourning the loss of both a companion and the hope it represented. His hands clutched onto the crocodile’s head, seeking solace and offering a final act of tenderness in the face of overwhelming despair. In this heart-wrenching moment, he allowed himself to release his anguish, grieving loudly for the bond that had been abruptly severed.

Razul A. Ariz

He’s half-sleep while rummaging his phone under the pillow beside his head and snoozes all the ringing alarms he sets before he goes to bed. This is the usual scenario that happens every time he sets the alarm for Fajr’s prayer. They seem battling with his scheduled alarm – whenever the alarm rings, he automatically swipes the snooze button.

Before he sleeps, he conditions himself and plans to do lots of things for the succeeding days but ends up slacking til the sun rises. Thus, he will be waking up with guilt and disappointment from missing intentionally one of his religious obligations – his morning prayer.

That day was a sudden shift from the tide. Long before his alarm was supposed to ring, he woke up as if someone made him do it. As his routine whenever he’s awake, he utters the dua “Alhamdulillahilladhi ahyana ba’da ma-amatana wa ilayhin nushur” – a supplication that offers gratitude to the Almighty for making him awake from his sleep.

For minutes, he stays in a lying position while staring blankly at the ceiling – he thinks about how melancholic life is, as time passes by swiftly yet progress is as torpid as a sloth; he’s exhausted in navigating the essence of life. After he gathered enough courage, he rose from his beddings and the rustling sound of his malung echoed in the dimly lit room.

Thereafter, he fixed his beddings, folded his malung, and put it above the pile of pillows arranged beside the bed headboard. He then grabbed the hanging white thobe behind the door and shook it off to dust any elements in contact with it. There were times, while he was lying on his bed, he felt a bit eerie staring at the spooky figure cast by his hanged thobe as if it was like a mangunsinà sneaking him all the time and perhaps would devour him at any possible moment.

As he walked along the bumpy road toward the masjid, the towering concrete houses were still asleep. A gentle breeze orchestrated by the blinking lights of the fireflies along with the symphonious serenade of crickets greeted him on that dawn which made him clasp his both shoulders as the shudder ran through him. “Hmm, këpya në sënggyup në sámbël ë nya” (hmm, the scent of this breeze is delightful) he mumbled; deep inside he realized how lucky he was for this bare minimum life privilege.

After a short while, the muadhin – the prayer caller, from the distant masjid called the qamat, the second or last call for jamaah before the congregational prayer commences. The line on that qamat saying “hayya alas salah, hayya alal falah” (come to prayer, come to success) gave him a lightbulb moment for his been clamoring for life stability for years without knowing that success is always calling him every day.

As he’s approaching the rusty dilapidated gate eroded by rainy and sunny seasons, the solar street light beside it shuts and paves a melancholic light on his way.

He lifted and swung open the gate which created a clunking sound, echoing on the quiet masjid’s courtyard as its metal panels moved against the hinges. He noticed how long those sagging gate panels covered with worn-out cyclone wire guarding the masjid’s threshold for unnumbered years from the access of stray dogs. He stopped for a while and peeked at the ajar masjid door and the jamaah, perhaps consisting of two, and an Imam about to commence their first raka-ah of salatul Fajr.

In a desire to catch up at the commencement of the prayer, he hastily strode to the washing area: washed his hands simultaneously, gargled water repeatedly, and concluded it by washing his feet. Despite the freezing water, he still managed to finish his ablution in the manner of how it was supposed to be performed. He then hurriedly entered the masjid, uttered the supplication, and proceeded to the saf of the jamaah to pray.

The prayer goes on, and then the imam concludes the congregational prayer by pronouncing “Assalamu alaykum warahmatullah” facing right then left. While, he, as a Masbuq, completes his prayer and stands for his last rakaah. Amid his standing, a spine-chilling breeze sweeps inside the masjid. He suddenly recited out loud melodiously the fatiha and a surah, probably, certain ayahs from surahtul Jin.

As how it ends, the salah concluded with salam and right after that, he read some Dhikr. “Alhamdulillah” he mumbled, painting a curve on his lips as a manifestation of being grateful for his little milestone that day – his salah. He then stood and walked towards the exit and left the masjid.

The imam awaited him outside and tagged along leaving the masjid. Out of concern, he suddenly said “Dátù, umeyka masbuq ta në nya det në mësulën bu i këpëmbátya ta së Fatiha ëndu sëkëb angh” (When we’re masbuq, it is required for us to recite our prayer silently) … “nya tëbya ë di’ ipëdsulën në umeyka ëdën màmum ta” (Not unless, when we have a màmum) he added in a hush and humble tone.

This perplexed him and he didn’t grasp the purpose of why the imam said that. Yet he replied by saying “Uwëy bápa Imam, nëpëngëgyan námi bun i námba së madrasah”(𝘠𝘦𝘴 𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘐𝘮𝘢𝘮, 𝘸𝘦’𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘩).

Then, the imam said, “Ah, këgina kë nëpëngëgyan nëngka bun bësën në di’ kë dën pëmbëlumënëy i metu së këgína ëntu kë’ di’ intu pëkëustu.” (I see, since you’ve encountered it in your lesson, you should never repeat how you performed it how a while ago, for it is not accurate).

“Ustu bun mën bási i’ntu bapa Imam, kë ngen pën bësën i ma’mum ku ëntu ë kimëbit së láki këgína. Tu mëngúda ëntu ë nëkëlámbung së mëputi” he explained.” (I think that was accurate bapa Imam, how about that màmum who tapped my shoulder awhile ago – the lad in white lambung).

The imam chuckled and said “mësëbëlëw kë mámbù ë wátà. Sëka bu i másbuq këgína ëntu, da’ dën nëkëtúndug pën së lëka.”(You’re a joker kid. You’re the only masbuq a while ago;no one comes after you) He patted his shoulder and said “Na metu dën ba, tumálus ëku dën.” (Okay, I will go then).

He was left cemented on that road holding his trembling knees as fear enveloped his whole system due to the surge of that horrible information. Yet, after his sanity returned, he uttered to himself while pondering “mëpya pën silán kë pëkëëpas pën pëdsambáyang!” (how fortunate they are for they still dare to pray).

 

Abdulhamid Alawi Jr.

Wedding Songs

Like music trends, maybe we dance to changing customs. Let’s listen to conversations between sisters Aliyah and Aisha and between father and son Amir and Jamil.

Aminah’s Wedding, 1993, Marawi.

Aminah sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap. She tries to gracefully accept the surge of tradition that just defeated her and that none of her siblings, Amir, Aliyah, nor Aisha, fought for her. All rageful emotions dissipated with every tear that dropped. In her fate and of the customs, she tries to find meaning. She sees none. They have rendered her stoic even to the audible chat of her sisters just outside the door.

“How is she?” Aliyah asked the younger Aisha.

“Ate Minah is dressed and resting inside. I locked the door, keys safe in my pocket. The climate is perfect, and I saw so many relatives when I passed by the venue. The music they play is so fitting! Perfect.”

“Do we have a choice?”

“Relatives?”

“Funny, Aish. You’re still bitter about some uncles rejecting your suitor’s marriage proposal. I was referring to the song. Every wedding nowadays plays Kenny G. His are not even songs.”

“Just to clarify, I now hate that suitor too. I realized he did not put much effort into pursuing our family. Our uncles did not accept marriage proposals because I’m the youngest. You and Ate Minah should be sent off first. Is it my fault if I’m the prettiest and in trend? Also, Ate Leah, these saxophone masterpieces are songs. Anyway, thanks to me, it’s the first wedding that plays the new Kenny G song.’

Aisha, always with an ear for the latest fad, tried to infuse the traditional wedding atmosphere with a touch of modernity. Her subtle involvement was her way of pushing against the boundaries set by norms that bored her.

“Many I attended played just ‘Silhouette.’” Aisha continues, “ ‘Breathless’ is such a better match. Everyone’s nervous during weddings.”

At this point, Aliyah bounced in, “They have titles and meanings?! Enough of the music talk. When will the groom’s party arrive?”

“I am not so sure, Ate Leah. Will they fetch her here before or after solemnization?”

“After. You must keep yourself updated with our own culture as you are with the latest showbiz and music. This is how it usually pans out. First, guests wait at the venue. The groom attempts to follow if no male relatives of the bride ask for lantong along the way. If their party satisfies our male cousins and uncles, he may proceed, and the Imam will be there to solemnize by reading the necessary khutba.”

“Then they proceed here?”

“Yes. If he satisfied our demand for luka sa gibbon. If he does, we open her door for him. He then returns to the venue with Ate Minah.”

“How much would you think we’ll receive?”

“Well, male relatives came up with 30,000 for lantong set up at the intersection. We hope to match that.”

“Let me count… 500,000 for dowry given last night, 30,000 for lantong at the road. The most they’ll give us for luka sa gibbon here at her room is 20,000. A fitting total from the groom’s family: 550,000. Just right for our family stature.”

“Here they come.”

“Update. Auntie got to them first at the main door and claimed our luka sa gibbon for us ladies. We will just have to open Minah’s door.”

“Haha, they gave in at the first door. I knew the groom did not want his relatives to wait long at the venue. Let’s all go in and get her.”

“Okay, go! But let’s go in first.”

“Oh my, her eyes are so swollen.”

“What do you expect? It’s her first time to meet her groom. Stupid custom.”

“They say it’s Islam.”

“Not!”

“Well, it’s fate. Isn’t acceptance of Qadr a key to piety?”

“Maybe, but the consent. Far from Islamic rules on consent that I know.”

“Luka sa gibbon isn’t part of our faith, but you’re okay with it?”

“Stop it. Let’s just offer dua and prayers for Minah.”

“May our sister be happy. Ameen.”

“It’s probably her fault too. Why would she reject so many proposals in the last five years when she was almost 30?”

“We have expiry dates?”

“She is even lucky that the handsome groom our uncles picked is from a great lineage and related to the Governor. One uncle even said that her name, Aminah, was fated to be entrusted with our clan through her children. Her children will be okay.”

“May Allah bless our Ate Minah.”

“Ameen, Ate Leah. Let the groom in.”

Jamilah’s Wedding, 2003, Iligan.

“Were it not for Aminah, there would not be any wedding! This event stomps on my pride,” Amir shouted at his son Jamil, who was on guard along the road. “Why were they so in a hurry for all of these?”

Somehow, Amir felt that he was a victim to Aminah’s newfound power in the family. It’s as if Aminah came back in rebellion against her family, and he had to bear the brunt of it. He looks back to his possible role in her wedding. If there was any at all, it was minuscule, he thinks to himself. Aminah should not have crossed him.

“Calm down, Abi. Auntie Minah feared that if Ismael and Jamilah were not wed sooner, there was a higher probability that another suitor from closer relatives might win over your favor. She knows how Jamilah would be devastated if she’s wed to anyone else. M&Ms was fated to happen, they said.”

“M&Ms?”

“Nicknames of the groom and bride. Mael and Mila,” Jamil addressed his father’s confusion.

“How about my Maratabat as a father? Who gave Jamilah that Nokia anyway, Jam? The boy got to her with those texts. I guarded your sister well.”

“Ate Mila needed the phone. It was easier to pick her up at school. We were not giving her load, but the guy gave her load cards even after graduation. He kept calling too.”

No matter how large or little the issues raised by his dad, Jamil tries to patiently respond as a good son trying to comfort a distressed elder. He thinks to himself, how could Jamilah do this to their father? Jamil understood his father’s pain, the sting of perceived dishonor.

“Aminah with these wedding decisions and plans. What has happened to our society? We have Aminah and Jamilah deciding now. I lose face at male relatives noticing that she’s calling the shots. She sure has learned how to leverage her husband’s influence over me. Have you seen her husband?”

“He’s doing well at the venue, welcoming everyone. Guests will be looking for him, the Governor’s first cousin. I’m sorry if things are not going exactly as you want it, Abi. Aunt Aminah told me clan matters are balanced with negotiations and concessions.”

In the years that passed, Aminah, not being able to have her own children, helped take care of Jamilah. She saw Jamilah as her own daughter. “My Milah,” as she calls her, was vibrant and full of life. She also saw a reflection of her own once-dormant hopes.

Aminah was not able to plan her own destiny, but in the weaving of Jamilah’s story, she had altered the pattern of their family’s tapestry. It was a bittersweet victory, the knowledge that her sacrifice had borne fruit in the happiness of another. The negotiations had been delicate, a balancing act of respect and subtle defiance. She thought she was able to put into good use the influence of her husband’s family. Aminah had worked the threads of tradition with a gentle hand, advocating for Jamilah’s right to choose, to love, over her father’s high standards and pride.

“When is the groom’s convoy arriving?” Amir impatiently snaps. “At least I get some recompense after this insult.”

“You should be at the venue, father. The Governor and the Congressman may arrive anytime.”

“They will attend? Alhamdulillah. I can rush down to the venue after this. It’s barely 50 meters away via the footpath. Cars will have to go around the curve. I came up here to check on you, my son. Why would you lead the lantong stakeout?”

“To fortify our stand, father. The groom’s dad relayed they won’t hand in anything more than 20,000.”

“What?! Wait until we show them my baby ArmaLite.”

“Abi, we can’t brandish that here.”

“Because we’re in Iligan! Another stupid decision from Aminah. For all we know, they may not even give any and then be allowed to pass. Custom is dying. It is not about the money. We lose the prestige; we lose proving our worth.

“Here we go again. Abi, she just didn’t want another arranged marriage. She said she cried a bucket during her own wedding. She cried more when both ustad and lawyer friends advised her against backing out.”

“Indeed, at that time then Minah thought her being enrolled in law school could save her, huh? No number of friends can stop fate. How about you, when will the school year start?”

“In a week.”

“Let’s take something from this waiting along the road with my giving some words of wisdom. My dear son, we have cultural weight.”

“By weight, you mean value?” Jamil quickly chances on the favorable change in topic.

“Blood is influence. Your looks count. People’s impression of your religiosity counts. Continue the kind gestures and magnanimity we teach you because those are important. Choose an amiable wife. Your affluence is estimated by our properties and, more importantly, your job or on finishing law school after high school and college. These and many other factors will be the basis for how our clans will weigh you, my dear golden boy.”

“My weight. Lineage, looks, faith, manners, spouse, and whether I become a lawyer?”

“There are no clear-cut rules and basis. Some say there is Hadith on those, and I see practicality in them. For me, patience with relatives and being giving helped me a lot in life. Allah blessed me through my support to them. Relatives give back kindness. Just keep those in mind as you mature. A lot of those you’ll pass to your wife and the children she will bear for you.”

“Yes, I was born for you…”

“Why are you suddenly singing?!”

“And the choice was never ours…”

“Stop this haram song!”

This time, his father’s intensely shrieking voice was harder to appease. His father’s issue now has gone to the level of his act of singing. As he stopped himself, a realization dawned on him. The traditions that held his father captive were the very chains he also probably could break. The thought of his own future, potentially shackled by the same expectations, started a seed of self-determination in his heart.

“Sorry, I can hear the wedding song from here. This David Pomeranz song reminds us of our culture’s concept on Kuris, makes it easier for arranged spouses to process their situation. Plus, I remember you singing ‘King and Queen of Hearts’ with a guitar years back. I heard that song too played earlier.”

“That was long ago, son. New ulama relatives have guided me to abhor songs that destroy our youth. Maybe going back to instruments and flute songs during Aminah’s wedding can make this wedding less cursed.”

“The lyrics worry you?”

“For most songs, the lyrics are immoral.”

Jamil’s Wedding, 2013, Cagayan de Oro.

“These Maher Zain songs and lyrics are perfect! Baraka Allahu lakuma wa Baraka ‘alaykuma wa Jama’a baynakuma fi…”

“Goodness, stop!” Aliyah interrupted Aisha’s humming.

Aisha’s face quickly turned reddish. Her mood changed from being inspired to being annoyed by the sudden scolding. She was motivated because of her earlier interaction with the venue manager on songs to play. She was drawn to him and found a kindred spirit in him who knew a lot about music too. This wedding seemed to serve as a turning point for Aisha. Her interaction with him was liberating, a realization that while her family’s traditions formed the backdrop of her life, they did not need to dictate her many decisions in life. She is still single after all these years.

Aisha retorts, “Why stop the Islamic song? Are you a haram police now like Kuya Amir?”

“No Nasheed will match this wedding! No Islamic lyrics will fit. Why are we marrying kids who eloped?! People assume zina!” Aliyah fired back.

“Because we’re tired of rido, Ate. We are lucky the girl’s family didn’t tie Jamil to a tree and slaughter him. Those acts can very well fall into acceptable vendetta for running away with a girl. It helped that Ate Aminah’s husband is related to the bride’s family.”

“What do we have to thank Aminah for? She started this! She spoiled Amir’s daughter, Jamilah. Now the son has gone berserk.”

“Jamil will manage. He said he will still pursue his studies in law as his father wished. Minah may have started it for our family, but many clans have the same issues. Times have changed indeed. We can’t control kids nowadays. We just hope Kuya Amir will soon reconcile with his son.”

Jamil, sitting on stage, is on the brink of his own wedding. However, it is one that bore no resemblance to the ones his father could have envisioned for him. Jamil felt the weight of his decision. He had chosen love over tradition, his heart over his family’s honor. The knowledge of his father’s hurt pressed heavily. Jamil wrestled with his guilt and his conviction.

Jamil consoles himself that he has made the right choice. This was not just a union of two hearts; it was a statement of change, a declaration that tradition can give way to the right to choose love at times. He will be assured of himself more every time he will gaze at his lovely bride who is about to sit next to him in a few minutes.

“Who is this girl anyway? I don’t know many of her relatives.” Aliyah, asks Aisha, wanting to investigate the new member of the family. “The narration of lineage has gone from an hour of enumeration in past weddings to just a few lines of speech now. I heard from someone they had Chinese blood.”

“We look more Chinese with her morena skin,” Aisha giggly replies. “Did you know she sent him very private photos of her online? She is so into texts, chats, and meet-ups. Young girls now are exposing themselves too much. Technology is not so much a boon as it is a bane. Fits her stature that her dowry includes everything. Wedding costs, luka sa gibbon, and lantong. I see it as one simple package for her worth. That is a lot less worry for us on being held up along the road and not being able to enter her room when Jamil fetches her after solemnization.”

“There will be no fetching at all. She will be here at the venue a few moments after  Jamil, her father, and the solemnizing officer have exchanged words. How convenient.”

“Convenient for us from the groom’s side.”

“But many from our side can’t attend. They are complaining about Cagayan. It seems we get farther away from our hometown in every wedding.”

“Most protests to this wedding are from those based in Marawi. The farther we are, the lesser the issues. We have enough relatives who made it. I know we must have the right mix of clan families as witnesses. I don’t know if it’s really God who blesses the matrimony or the clan presence.”

“Do you know who convinced the bride’s relative that we need not hand to them separate amounts for lantong and luka sa gibbon?”

“Aminah?”

“Nope. The religious cousins of both the bride and groom. One simple Mahr is what they requested. The simplicity of our religion worked to our advantage.”

“All these changes, I hope our practices change for the better.”

“As great as Maher Zain lyrics, Aish?”

“Yes, Ate Leah. Now can I go back to listening to him? I told the cute manager of this venue, who added me on Facebook, to make sure to play ‘For the Rest of My Life’ before the night expires.”