Category: Short Story

Fatimah Rafeeda Tajeer

Allaw pasakat muwan danta ma kalumaan ma Tawi-Tawi. The morning sun rose slowly over the sea and spread its light across the small Sama village floating quietly along the coast of Tawi-Tawi.

Tahik masi, sussi toongan a tandah leh ta deng ma reyoh kalumaan. The water was still, clear enough to see the fish gliding beneath the bamboo houses, while narrow wooden boats swayed gently, as if breathing with the tide.

Tima sat at the edge of their hut, her feet swaying in mid-air above the water. She was fourteen and infinitely curious about everything. Her family was Sama Dilaut, or Badjao – people of the sea. To them, the ocean was not a frontier, but home.

Her father, Akbar, prepared his small lepa, a slender boat carved from a single tree. He checked the fishing nets with practiced hands. Inside, her mother, Sitti, was boiling panggi, that’s what they call cassava, while humming a lullaby she had learned from her grandmother. Life was simple yet steady, like the rhythm of the waves below their home.

Tima loved mornings like this. Men paddling into deeper waters, disappearing against the endless blue; women behind, mending nets, washing clothes, or taking care of small children. The village smelled of salt and coconut-husk smoke, and though the world beyond the horizon felt far, their floating community felt complete.

Still, Tima often wondered what lay beyond the line where sea met sky. She saw kappal or bigger ships passing by filled with traders, visitors, or families leaving for city life.

“A pabalik bahah sigiya?’ Do they ever look back? She once asked her mother.

Sitti smiled softly. “Sampurahan a pabalik, sampurahan a maha na. Damikiyan, tahik mag pa saplag bang amin ingga sigiya.” Some do, some don’t. But the sea always remembers who belongs to her.

That answer stayed with Tima. The sea was gentle but could be cruel. Many villagers carried quiet stories of loss, like a father who never returned, a home destroyed in storms, a child taken by sickness when no doctor was near. Yet the Sama people endured, as they always had.

One afternoon, dark clouds gathered over the horizon. The once calm water shifted into restless waves. Akbar recognized the signs. “A ilu na baliyu. Engkotan bi lepa bi. A pasod bi kaanakan ni jalom.” A storm is coming. Tie the boats. Bring everyone inside.

Rain pounded upon the roofs of nipa and bamboo. The waves lashed at te stilts of their houses. Tima clung to her mother while thunder rumbled above. Outside, she heard her father giving commands as he battled the wind, securing their boat. Then a towering wave crashed into the side of their house, shaking it violently. Wood cracked. Sitti screamed for Akbar.

“Akbar! Akbar!!” But when the storm finally passed, he was nowhere to be found.

The sea was grey and dolorous for two days. Men searched coves nearby, calling his name. Only his small lepa was found half-broken, washed up among mangrove roots. The village grieved in silence. The Sama people never cried loudly, only praying in hushed tones, their eyes reflecting a pain each of them knew well. They lived with the sea, knowing the perils.

Tima sat by the shore, staring at the horizon beyond which her father once crossed. The water glittered under the sun, beautiful yet unforgiving.

“Anggay leh nu nga amah ku?” Why did the sea take him? She whispered. Sitti rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Halam bay ah leh tahik.” The sea never takes, she said softly. “A leh na ngalaynganan lang pabalik anu bay min iya.” It only calls back what has always been part of her.

In the weeks that followed, Tima helped her mother fish near the shallows. She had learned to steer the lepa and read the tide, and listen to the sea’s quiet warnings. The work was tiring, yet its rhythm soothed her. With every pull of the paddle came the soft splash of water. At such moments, she felt her father nearby, guiding her through the currents. At night, stars reflected on the water like scattered pearls. Tima thought of how her people had lived this way for centuries. The Sama Dilaut were born on the sea, lived on the sea, and returned to it. Their stories told of islands that lay afar, of storms that were survived, of love found between waves.

The sea was home and the teacher. It wanted patience and modesty. And, little by little, Tima understood that each tide carried not only sorrow but also strength. Months passed, and she grew into her role. Few girls her age could dive as fearlessly as she did, her body moving through the water like the fish she chased. She gathered shells and sea cucumbers to sell or barter for rice in the Bongao market. People said she had her father’s courage and her mother’s heart.

One evening, at sunset over the sea, Tima stood outside their home. The call to prayer floated from the small masjid, mingling with the soft slosh of water beneath the houses. Sitti joined her with a surian lantern.

“Amah nu war pamung na hadja na tahik bateh kaulluman baybay majatah, baybay madeyoh, sumagawa pabalik du iya.” Your father used to say the sea is like life, it rises, it falls, but it always returns.

Tima nodded. “A pabalik du kita.” And we return with it.

The Surian flickered across the village that night, their reflections trembling like stars on the water. And life went on fragile, yet strong, humble, yet full of grace. The sea had taken a lot, but it was still giving all: food, faith, rhythm, purpose. Tima’s eyes locked with the horizon, steady as the heartbeat within her. The sea whispered back, endless and unbroken, as always. Claiming her father had shaped her. To the Sama, the sea was not the end of life but life itself, boundless, mysterious, and eternal.

“Dikayuh ullow, mag andah du kita balik, Amah!” One day, we will see each other, Father!

Fi Amanillah – May Allah protect you.

Nelson Dino

I gazed at the sea sparkling under the evening light. The lepa that is my home swayed gently with the Sanga-Sanga waves. The breeze brought the salty tang of the sea and the earthy scent of thatch, but my heart felt heavy. I am only seventeen, yet my eyes hold a sadness too deep for someone my age. Today, the news reached me—Sulu is no longer part of BARMM. We are separated. Like a blade piercing my soul, the sense of loss cuts deep. My mother sits beside me, mending the nets we just repaired, smiling, yet her eyes are sorrowful. I know she feels the same, though she says nothing.

“Lantri,” my mother’s voice is gentle, “don’t be too sad. But I understand… it’s heavy.”

I lower my head, my long black hair fluttering in the wind. “Inah… why must we be separated? Aren’t we part of the same history and the same culture?”

She sighs deeply. “This is the decision of people in the big cities. They don’t see what we feel. They don’t know how the lepa and this sea have shaped us. They only see maps and political lines.”

I look at the sea again. In my mind, I remember my grandmother’s stories of old Sulu—Sulu before all the modern laws and regulations. About small boats leaving the harbors carrying spices, salt, and cloth. About how our people sailed not just for trade, but to uphold dignity, and to defend our honor.

Since I was little, I have learned this history from a kissa—my grandmother’s narratives full of laughter, war cries, and tearful farewells. But now, that history feels hollow. Political lines separate us from the identity we have always preserved.

At school, I feel the change too. My friends speak of BARMM, of new identities, of opportunities, and limits. But I feel as if my soul has been sidelined. I have lost more than regional administration; I have lost a part of myself.

One night, when the moon reflects on the sea, I climb onto the deck of the lepa. My heart is too heavy to sleep. I gazed at the sky, as if seeking answers among the stars. The night wind carries my grandmother’s whispers, a voice that always calms me.

“You know, Lantri,” the voice echoes in my mind, “sometimes the world forces us to accept separation. But remember, this sea is still ours. Our traditions still live. Political lines may divide maps, but they cannot divide our souls.”

I lower my head, tears dripping onto my hands as I grip the edge of the lepa. I feel the warmth of the history my grandmother passed down, and slowly, my sadness is no longer pure despair. There is anger, yes, and loss. But there is also resolve.

In the days that follow, I begin to write. In a small notebook I carry everywhere, I write about the sea, about the lepa, about Sulu, and the homeland I love. I write for myself, for my grandmother, and for everyone who feels lost. The words become both a release for my grief and a bridge.

At school, when my teacher asks us to write an essay about our identity, I write wholeheartedly. I write about Sulu, maritime history, culture, kulintangan music, pis siyabit weaving, and how every lepa rowing at sea carries the stories of our ancestors. My friends listen, and some cry along. My teacher looks at me with admiration.

One afternoon, while sitting on the lepa, watching the orange-hued evening sky, I hear my mother calling from the stilt house. “Lantri! Come eat before nightfall!”

I stand, take a deep breath, and look at the sea. A cloud passes, briefly covering the sun. But beyond the cloud, light still shines through. I smile faintly. So too is our life—though separated, the light of our culture and history still shines.

I know the journey to accept this separation is far from over. The sense of loss still presses on my soul. But I also know that in every word I write, in every song I sing on the lepa, in every weaving I learn from my grandmother, Sulu remains alive. Sulu remains whole, even if the lines on the map have changed.

And that night, as the moon reflects on the sea, I write to the wind, to the sea, and to history: “You may separate us from BARMM. But you will never separate our souls. I will remember. I will write. I will carry this story, even alone.”

The lepa sways gently with the waves. The sound of water and wind becomes a lullaby for my soul. And for the first time since the news arrived, I feel a small peace. A peace born not from accepting separation, but from the resolve to protect my heritage, to ensure Sulu lives on in every story told, and in every pair of eyes that gaze upon the same sea.

I look at the sky once more. The clouds move, leaving a gap for the moonlight to shine brighter. As if nature itself writes, “Souls cannot be divided. Stories cannot be erased.”

And I know, even if the world separates us on the map, I will never allow our history and culture to be separated from my soul. Sulu remains mine. The lepa remains my home. The sea remains my path home.

Nathara Mugong

People moved slowly around the deck, their faces half-hidden behind cloth or the bend of their arms. Some sat with their luggage clutched between their knees, others leaned against the rails, watching the water slip by. The hum of the engine filled the pauses between voices, low and steady, almost like breathing. Children dozed against their mothers’ sides, and the air carried the faint murmur of prayer, the soft rhythm of waiting. Vendors wove between the passengers, shouting “Bonamine! Bonamine!” a medicine for travel sickness, their calls cutting through the salt and smoke and mixing with the cries of distant seabirds. Everything smelled of salt and smoke and longing, a scent familiar to anyone who had ever left home by sea.

I remembered that same smell from years ago, when the world felt larger and every crossing endless. Back then, each island on the horizon seemed like a promise, every voyage a small beginning. Now the scent reminded me only of what time had carried away: faces that faded at each port, words that never reached their shore. Still, the sea kept moving, steady and indifferent, as if memory itself were part of its tide.

We were bound for Sambuwangan, but the direct routes were already fully booked, forcing us onto the Kappar Hapit-Hapit—a ship hopping from island to island: Tawi-Tawi, Siasi, Jolo, and finally, the city. It felt less like a vacation and more like a breathless passage through the shifting waters of the Sulu Sea.

I was small enough that the crowd rose around me like a forest of legs, the engine rumbling in my head without pause. But my world was safe, enclosed by the strong presence of Inah and Mmah. This was the miracle: the three of us, together, making the same impossible journey. It had never happened before, and in my heart, I knew it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

We would often reach a new place as the dark lifted. We saw the islands not under the harsh glare of noon, but in the soft, first light of dawn. The stops always felt like quiet arrivals, the sky bleeding gold over the unfamiliar docks.

But the anxiety always came with the morning. With a sudden thud and the rasp of ropes, the ship came to rest against the dock. That was the maghapit-hapit—the brief, uneasy stop that every traveler on these routes knew too well.

“Palobbos kitabi,” Inah said, her voice a low rumble above the chaos.

Stepping onto the temporary docks of Siasi and Jolo was like entering unknown territory. The instant we left the ship’s railing, a cold, tight knot of panic settled beneath my ribs.

The dock was a whirl of strangers, cargo, and shouting.

What if the ship leaves while I turn my head?

What if it pulls away?

What if the crowd swallows me whole and the anchor rises, cutting the one tie we had to safety?

My eyes were glued to the kappar. It was the only constant I recognized. I checked it, then I checked Mmah.

I didn’t just hold his hand, I locked my small fingers around his wrist. “Mmah, don’t let it go. Don’t let me get lost.” I whispered.

He stopped right there, on the strange soil of a place that felt both alive and watching. He didn’t hurry me or laugh. He simply turned.

“Daa kow talow,” he said gently. “Look at the ship. It is still here. Look at Inah. She is still here. And I am right here. I will not let you go.”

He didn’t rush the moment. He waited until the knot in my chest loosened, until the scent of the sea breeze and the noise of strange voices became mere background hum again.

In Jolo, we passed rows of small stalls. The pier buzzed with vendors calling out their wares—grilled fish, rice, and bulawan that caught Inah’s gaze. She bought a chicken barbecue wrapped in plastic, and we ate it later, somewhere between islands.

On the tricycle ride through town, the streets were nearly empty, the morning washed in gray. The buildings looked tired, the air still. Inah told me stories of her student days, how they would cross the jambatan to fetch letters and allowance, how Jolo once felt alive with voices she could still name.

We stopped by one of her old friend’s house, though no one she knew remained. Still, the family there welcomed us in. They let us bathe, offered food, and for a while, it felt like we belonged. Inah then told me it was brave of her to bring me here, to a place where we no longer knew anyone. But we were safe, and that was enough. She looked around and whispered how much Jolo had changed since her last visit.

In Siasi, a familiar boy appeared at the port, guiding us through the small market that welcomed our arrival. From there, we made our way to my uncle’s house. It was a simple place of bamboo and warmth. I still remember the smell of pandisal, manggis, and buwahan laid out in abundance, as if the place itself was offering us rest.

Jolo and Siasi were so different, it was almost unreal that we had been there at all. We climbed back onto the kappar just as the final whistle pierced the air, and the sea carried us onward.

By the time we reached Sambuwangan, the noise that once clawed at the ears had softened into release—arrival, at last, sounding like peace.

But the real treasure wasn’t the destination. It was the knowledge that for that singular, anxious, beautiful voyage, every time I stepped off the boat, I knew, with absolute certainty, I would be led back.

And now, as time moves on and distances grow vast, I realize I succeeded in freezing that time. The fear of being left behind had dissolved, replaced by the stillness of memory: the three of us, together against the sea and the unfamiliar.

“Toot! Toot!” Then came the low, mournful call of a ship’s horn. It was no longer a final whistle, but a sound too real, too loud to be only memory.

My eyes snap open.

I am not on a ship deck. I am on a weathered wooden swing at Lantaka Hotel, the sea just beyond, and I am alone.

The Kappar Hapit-Hapit was never a ship. It was never a real journey; only a dream I kept afloat.

It was the beautiful, frantic chain of islands I had built in my mind, a looping memory I clung to, endlessly recreating that voyage. I kept reliving it because the truth is too heavy to bear: I am the one lost at sea, still waiting to be led back.

The Kappar Hapit-Hapit was just the imaginary way home.

Nail Arumpac

Miyanga ipos aya ragon sii sa ingaed a Karomatan sii sa Payong. Ko adaen paen a mga tao a kimbaebaling sa poro ago sa kilid a ragat. Madakael paen a mga tao a kibaebaling sii sa kaporoan sii ko adaen a maulad a diron dipamumulan, na aya mga tao ron na giya bangsa a mga taribasok a paembaetowan siran sa mga taga-kaporoan (mga tao a kimbaebaling sa poro) sa Raebokaen ago sii paeman sa kilid a ragat naso mga Iragataen na siran so mga bangsa a mga patotogaes na sii kimbaebaling sa marani sa ragat, umani isa na adaen a pimbida-bidaan iran sa paekakuwan sa kapaekauyag-uyag iran. So mga bangsa a mga taribasok na paekabaebayaan iran so kapamomolaan sa lagid o ilaw, niyog ‘go salakaw ron paen. Mabaebaya siran paen mangayam sa mga pangangayamaen lagid o manok, karabaw, koda ago sapi. Na sii pman sa sabala siko bangsa mga patotogaes na kawasa sa mga paekakuwaansa kauyagan sii sa ragat lagid o saeda, muntiya ago antona kaon saan a paekasokat sa ragat, umani isa a bangsa na bida-bida e kauyag-uyag.

Nakalipas ang ilang taon sa bayan ng Karomatan sa Payong. Nang may mga taong naninirahan pa sa gubat at sa tabing dagat. Maraming pa ang mga taong naninirahan doon sa gubat sa may malawak na bukiran, ang mga naninirahan roon ay ang tribu ng mga magsasaka na tinatawag ni lang taga-Kaporoan (mga taong naninirahan sa bukid) sa Raebokaen at sa tabing dagat naman ay ang mga Iragatën na sila ang bumubuo sa tribu ng mga mangingisda na naninirahan malapit sa dagat, bawat tribu ay may pagkakaiba ng pinagkukunan ng likas na yaman. Ang tribu ng mga magsasaka ay mahihilig magtanim tulad ng palay, niyog at iba pa. Mahilig din sila mag-alaga ng mga hayop tulad ng manok, kalabaw, kabayo at baka. Sa kabilang tribu naman ang tribu ng mga mangingisda naman’y mayaman sa likas na yamang dagat tulag ng mga isda, perlas at ano pa mang likas na yaman na makukuha sa karagatan, bawat tribu ay may iba’t ibang estado sa buhay.

Ugaid na miyakaisa a gawie, na adaen a miyadaedaeg a Iragataen si sa kaporoan marani sii ko lupa o mga bangsa taribasok a paepaenguwa sa kayo. Kodaen ko masaesaendod a isa otu sa bangsa o mga patotogaes sa di niyan dika gogoray sa mga kayo siko lupa o mga taga-kaporoan na adaen a miyakinaeg iyan a lalis a marani sii ko diniyan di gogorayan sa kayo. “Nga!”, na magan so magaan na inobay a gyoto a patotogaes, na miyailay niyan a giya mapiya a pangilaylayan. So gadong a pamomolan ago so mga pangangayamaen. Miyobay a patotogaes otu ka a niyan mapagilailay sa marani giyoto a kiyamasaan iyan. Nako mailay saekaniyan o mga kimbaebaling roo, so mga bangsa taribasok. Na miyamaemaesa siran ko mailay iran so mga muntiya a dimamanaenang siko lawas iyan ago so paedang iyan a piyangaebaal a poon sii sa ator a maputi sii sa kalodan.

Nang minsan, isang araw ay may napadpag na Iragataen sa gubat malapit sa lupain ng tribu ng mga magsasaka upang mangahoy. Habang abala ang isa sa tribu ng mga mangingisda na nagsisibak ng mga kahoy sa lupain ng mga taga-kaporoan ay may narinig siyang sigaw malapit sa kaniyang sinisibak na kahoy, “Nga!”, dali-dali ay nilapitan ito ng mangingisda at nakita niya ang magandang tanawin, ang luntiang hardin at mga hayop. lumapit pa ang mangingisda para makita pa ito ng malapitan ng makita siya ng mga taga-roon ang tribu ng mga magsasaka. Sila ay nabighani ng makita nila ang mga perlas na kumikinang sa kaniyang katawan at ang kaniyang dala-dalang itak na gawa sa puting bato mula sa karagatan.

“Antaa ginan a mama a sabarang daen kapakailay akaen sa kisosolotaen iyan anan” kabasa o sabaad ko mga Bangsa Taribasok. Miyamaemaesa so miyakailay raekiyan, Taman sa miyaka-oma sii ko Datu (Olowan o mga bangsa taribasok) sii sa ingaed otu so totol, “Datu, adaen a miyakasolaed sii sa lupa tano a sabarang daen so baebangalaan iyan a lagid o kaenaba mibibilang sii ko mga bangsa tano”. Magan so magaan na siyongan saekaniyan o Datu, so miyataro a mama a adaen a di mamanaenang a gayonggay siko lawas iyan, na piyakabolos iyan angkoto a patotogaes sa lagid o paed saekaniyan sii ko bangsa iran. “Inoka sii makaoma sa lupa ami?” pitaro o Datu. “O Datu, miyama kaoma ako sii sangkayi a lupa iyo sabap sa ko kiyadaedaeg akaen sa kapaepaengowa ko sa mga kayo a ipagitagon ami”. saembaeg o Patotogaes. Pamomolowan a paegisaan saekaniyan o Datu na inaenggat iyan so patotogaes “O mapakay a mailay akaen so kapiya odi niyo di kapagoyag-oyag sii ko dinga di taroon a kilid ragat?”.

“Sino ang lalaking iyan na may kakaibang ang kaniyang kasuotan?” wika ng isa sa mga tribu ng mga magsasaka. Namangha ang mga taong nakakita sakanya, hanggang sa dumating sa Datu (ang namumuno sa tribu ng mga magsasaka) sa nayon na iyon ang balita, “Datu, mayroong nakapasok sa ating lupain na may kakaibang kasuotan na parang hindi kabilang sa ating angkan”. Pinuntahan naman ito kaagad ng Datu, ang nasabing lalaki na iyon na may makikinang na palamuti sa katawan at pinatuloy niya ito na parang kasapi ng agkan nila. “Bakit ka naparito sa aming lupain?” sabi ng Datu. “O Datu, nakarating ako rito sa inyong lupain sa kadahilanang ako ay naligaw sa aking pangunguha ng kahoy para may panggatong” sagot naman ng mangingisda. Habang tinatanong ng Datu, ang mangingisdang iyon ay inalok siya ng Datu “Kung pwede ay makita ko ang kagandahan ng inyong pamumuhay sa sinasabi mong tabi ng dagat?”.

Ko mapitaon otu na miyakaoma so patotogaes a paed iyan so Datu o mga bangsa taribasok. “Asalamoalaikom” kabasa o patotogaes. “Antaa…Aydow!, so karuma ko!” pitaro o karuma o patotogaes rakaes a miyagakaes iyan so karuma niyan “Ama!” pitaro mambo o mga wata o patotogaes. Paekabaya-baya so pamilya o patotogaes ka saekaniyan na miyaka kasoy sa ingaed iran a bibiyag ago miyakan duwa-duwa siran sa ino adaen a tagaepada iyan a naba isa ko mga Bangsa Patotogaes a Iragataen. “O Karuma ko?, antaonon a ped kanan?”. Piyagosay mambo o patotogaes ko pamilya niyan na piyamakinaeg iran mambo. “Bolos kano sa kapipiya ginawa” maana piyakataros siran o karuma o patotogaes sii ko walay iran sa kapipiya ginawa. Ko mapasad oto na pitaro o datu ko patotogaes “Badi mapakay a malibaet ta a lupa iyo aya ka an akaen mapagilay-ilay ‘go bako nga mawit sii ko datu iyo sa giya bangsa niyo?”. “Ana mapiya giya miyanaeg akaen raeka Datu” pitaro o patotogaes sa gumiyanat siran mambo sa walay ongkoto a Patotogaes. “O karuma ko, pagawa ako daan sa walay ka pagunotan ko angkayi a datu. Sa kabaya iyan a kamasaan iyan so kapaekauyag-uyag tano sii sangkayi a kilid a ragať”. “Oway karuma ko, siyapaen kano o kadaenan” inisimbag mambo o karuma o patotogaes. Miniyog mambo so patotogaes ka adaen a tadaeman iyan sa giyong koto a datu o mga taribasok a piyakabolos iyan sa lupa iran sa lagid a paed saekaniyan sii kokobangsa iran. “Giya ron so mga litag a kibaebaetad ami sangkayi a ubay a mga ator a para ko mga saeda ago mga layagan” pitaro o patotogaes sii ko Datu a mga taribasok.

Nang umagang iyon ay dumating ang mangingisda kasama ang Datu ng mga magsasaka.  “Asalamoalaikom” wika ng mangingisda. “Sin…Naku!, ang asawa ko!” sabi ng asawa ng mangingisda kasabay ng pagyakap niya sa kaniyang asawa “Ama!” sabi naman ng kaniyang mga anak. Labis ang tuwa ng pamilya ng mangingisda na siya ay naka-balik ng buhay sa kanilang angkan at pagtataka nila na bakit may kasama siyang hindi isa sa mga taga-Iragataen “Asawa ko?, sino ba iyang kasama mo?”. Nagpaliwanag naman ang mangingisda sa kaniyang pamilya at pinakinggan naman ito. “Bolos kano sa kapipiya ginawa” na ibig nitong sabihin ay lubos silang pinapatuloy ng asawa ng may mabuting ginhawa. Matapos ang iyon ay sinabihan ng Datu ang mangingisda “Kung pwede ay malibot natin ang inyong lupain ng akin itong masilayan at madala mo rin ako sa namumuno sa inyong tribu”. “Aba’y ikinagagalak kong marinig iyan mula sa iyo Datu” sabi ng mangingisda na siya ring pag-alis nila mula sa bahay ng mangingisda. “O asawa ko, aalis muna ako ng bahay sapagkat sasamahan ko pa si Datu. Na nais masilayan ang ating magandang pamumuhay dito sa tabi ng dagat”. “Oway karuma ko, nawa’y gabayan kayo ng lumikha” sagot naman ng asawa ng mangingisda. Pumayag naman ang mangingisda sapagkat utang na loob niya ang pinatuloy siya ng pinuno ng mga magsasaka sa kanilang lupain na parang kasapi ng angkan. “Itong ang mga nakalagay dito sa tabii nitong mga bato ay panghuli ng mga isda at mga alimango” sabi ng mangingisda sa Datu ng mga magsasaka.

Ko mapasad iran malaebaet a bala sabala a sakop a mga bangsa a patotogaes, na tumiyaros siran ko walay o mapuro o mga patotogaes. “Bolos kano!, sa kapipiya a ginawa.” Pitaro o Datu o mga patotogaes. Aya iran daen kiyapakasolaed na inalaw siran o Datu a kanduri sii sa paekaenanan “Untod kano na kan kano ko mingi paeriparado ami rkano”, madakael a lino a mingi paeriparado o mga patotogaes lagid o piyagiyaw a saeda, pitinola a saeda ago adaen a mga unga a pamomolan. “Mga antunaa onon ini?” pakaisa o datu sa ginawa niyan. Miyasaegipa o Datu o mga bangsa taribasok a da a baegas sii ko paekananan.

Nang matapos nilang malibot ang bawat parti na sakop ng mga tribung mangingisda, ay tumuloy na sila sa bahay ng pinuno ng mga mangingisda. “Tumuloy kayo sa mabuting buhay” sabi ng Datu ng mga mangingisda. Pagkapasok palang nila ay sinalubong na sila ng Datu ng salu-salo sa hapag-kainan “Maupo kayo at kumain sa aming inihanda para sa inyo”, maraming ulam ang inihanda ng mga mangingisda tulad ng inihaw na isda, tinulang isda at mayroon ding bunga ng puno (prutas). “ Ano ang mga ito?” tanong ng Datu sa sarili. Napansin ng Datu ng mga magsasaka na walang kanin sa hapag-kainan.

Magan a minisa “Inoto? langon a lino a mapapadalaem sii ko paekananan na da ba ron karne ago baegas?” paekamamasa a di niyan ron di kataruwa. “Kagiya sabap sa ginan bo e paengakokowa ami a mga paningkauyagan ami sii sa lupa ami”. Somimbaeg mambo so Datu o mga patotogaes o ino gaeyong koto e mapapadalaem sii ko paekananan. Pakagaan so totol na kumiyan siran. Sako mapasad oto na adaen a pipaesadaan o duwa a Datu sa maebida a bangsa, “Badi mapakay a makasung ako mambo ko lupa iyo a dingka di taroon a Kaporoan?”pitaro o Datu o mga Patotogaes sii ko Datu o mga taribasok. Mapasad a giyong koto a pipaesadaan iran na kumiyasoy so Datu o mga taribasok sii sa lupa iran a tagaepada iyan so Patotogaes ago so Datu iran. “Bolos kano sa kapipiya ginawa hay Datu o mga Patotogaes” pitaro o sabaad ko makadadarpa sangkoto a kanduri. Na gyoto mambo e miyasuwa, miriparado so mga bangsa taribasok sa kanduri a ipasaela-saela iran sa kiya bisitaa kiran o patotogaes ago ko Datu o mga patotogaes. “O Datu, dikami dn pagtao” kabasa o Datu o mga patotogaes sa maana a pambaelingan siran sii sa ingaed iran sa kilid a ragat. “Pagilay kano sii ko kapaembalingan iyo sa ingaed iyo mga bolayoka.” simbag o Datu o mga Taribasok.

Agad siyang nagtanong “Bakit? puro ulam lang ang nasa hapag-kainan at walang karne at kanin?” sinabi nito ng nagtataka. “Sapagkat iyan lamang ang mga likas na yaman na nakukuha namin dito sa aming lupain”. Sumagot naman ang Datu ng mga mangingisda kung bakit iyon ang nasa hapag-kainan. Pabilisin natin ang kwento at kumin na sila. Pagkatapos ng iyon ay may napagkasunduan ang dalawang datu sa mag-kaibang tribu, “Kung pwede ay makapunta rin ako sa inyong lupain na sinasabi mong Kaporoan?” sabi ng Datu ng mga mangingisda sa Datu ng mga magsasaka. Pagkatapos ng napagkasunduan na iyon ay bumalik ang Datu ng mga magsasaka sa kanilang lupain kasa-kasama ang mangingisda at ang kanilang Datu. “Tumuloy kayo ng may mabuting buhay. O Datu ng mga mangingisda” sabi ng isa sa mga naroon sa piging. Iyon din ang nangyari, naghanda ang mga tribu ng mga magsasaka ng isang piging bilang pagbibigay giliw sa pagbisita sa kanila ng mangingisda at ang kanilang Datu. “O Datu, hindi na kami magpapaalam” wika ng Datu ng mga mangingisda na ang ibig nitong sabihin ay sila na’y babalik sa kanilang lupain sa tabi ng dagat. “Mag-ingat kayo sa inyong pag-uwi sa inyong lupain mga kaibigan”.

Ko mapita ron otu na miyakauma so mga taga-Raebokaen sa lupa o mga taga-Iragataen a ki aawid siran sa mga ilaw, kamais, ube, mga pangangayamaen ago tuna kasan paen a paekaekuwa iran a paningkauyagan iran roo sa poro. Gaeyoto mambo sii ko mga taga-Iragataen a miyaka-uma siran a ki aawidan iran mambo so mga saeda, layagan, mga pamomorotaen sa ragat ago tuna kasan paen a paekakuwan iran a paningkauyagan a adaen a raekon a mga Iragataen “O datu, katayi so pipasadaan iyo ko Datu ami, sa mingi gulalan ami sa iwit ami sangkayi a lupa iyo so kiyapaesadaan iyo ko Datu ami” kabasa o isa ko mga Patotogaes. Miya-ipos so pira olan na dataro todaen mambo e paekasuwa-suwa sii ko mga bangsa iran. miyabaloy a laelaekaan kiran uman e bangsa sii ko mga lupa iran ago taros daen so kiyapaesadaan iran a so kambaebaegaya. Taman sa miyakauma so madakael a miyangasasalin sii sa ingaed rakaes so kiyaalin o masa sa miyabaloy a kasabapan sa igira kuwan na dadaen a paekaragon o mga taga-kaporoan ago da mambo a paekakuwa a saeda o mga taga-Iragataen, taros a miyada so kapaepaegawid o mga taga-kaporoan sa paekaragon iran sii ko mga taga-kilid a ragat lagid daen mambo sii ko sabala a bangsa.

Kinabukasan ay dumating ang mga taga-Raebokaen sa lupain ng mga taga-Iragataen dala-dala ang mga palay, mais, kamote, mga hayop at iba pang likas na yaman mayroon sila, ganoon din ang mga taga-Iragataen na dumating sa Raebokaen dala-dala rin ang mga isada, alimango, kabibi at iba pang likas na yaman meron din ang mga Iragataen. “O Datu, narito ang napagkasunduan niyo ng aming Datu, na isinagawa namin sa paraan na dinala namin sa inyong lupain ang nasabing kasunduan niyo ng aming Datu” wika ng isa sa mga mangingisda. Lumipas ang ilang buwan na ganoon parin ang nangyayari sa kanilang mga tribu, naging bukas ang bawat tribu sa kanilang mga lupain at patuloy ang kanilang napagkasunduan ang pagbibigayan. Hanggang sa dumating ang maraming pagbabago sa nayon pati na rin ang pagbabago ng klima na naging dahilan ng minsan lang may naani ang mga taga-kaporoan at wala na ring makuhang isda ang mga taga-Iragataen, naging paminsan-minsan na lang nadadalhan ng mga taga-kaporoan ng mga na-ani ang mga taga-kilid a ragat gayun din ang sa kabilang tribu.

Miyauma so gawi na dadaen a maeyaba a mga bangsa taribasok sii ko mga patotogaes para makaawid sa miyaragon, gaeyoto daen mambo sii ko mga taga-kilid a ragat a da siran daen mambo takaedaeg sa Raebokaen. Sabap roo na miyapasad daen so pipaesadaanan iran. Miya-ipos so pipira ragon na miyawa so sabaad ko mga taga-kaporoan kaan makangaeloba sa baego a baelingan ago paemomolaan, gaeyoto daen mambo sii ko sabaad ko mga Iragataen a paepaengiloba sa baego a balingan kaan siran makapagpoon sa baego a kapagoya-oyag, bago a ingaed ago bago a kapipita.

 Dumating ang araw na hindi na bumababa ang mga taga-kaporoan sa mga mangingisda upang mag-dala ng mga na-ani, gayundin ang mga taga-kilid a ragat na hindi na rin umaakyat sa lupain ng mga taga-kaporoan. dahil doon ay natapos na ang kanilang napagkasunduan. Pagkaraan ng ilang taon lumikas ang iba sa mga taga-kaporoan upang maghanap ng bagong matitirhan at matatamnan, iyon din ang ang iba sa mga taga-kilid a ragat, naghanap ng bagong matitirhan upang magsimula ng bagong buhay, bagong lupain at kinabukasan.

Lady Johainee Dimaampao Banocag

The wind blew in my direction and brushed through my skin. But instead of coolness, I felt a stinging sensation creeping.

I always wondered how a breeze could be as burning as the sun in this humid weather.

Droplets of sweat started to form on my forehead, and soon my shirt was soaking wet.  A cold drink would surely quench my thirst under this heat, but every time Ama catches a sight of me elsewhere than the rice fields, he immediately yells, “Kasoy ka sa basak!” (Go back to the rice field!)

One can say that I am worse than our carabao, which is given water when it is thirsty and shade when it is tired.

I looked up at the sky to find a hint of rain, but the fiery sun blinded my sight instead. This won’t do. I need to finish plowing the fields if I want to go home early.

“Taps! Baling ka den, wata, ka miyakaranti-ranti so alongan imanto!” (Taps! Go home, kid. The sunlight is intensely hot right now!)

I followed the voice and saw Bapa Asiz gesturing a shooing motion with his hand.

“Amay den, Bapa. Khagaga aken pen.” (I’ll go home later, Uncle. I can still handle it.)

Bapa Asiz is an old neighbor who taught me how to cut the rice stalks when I was five. Well, I begged him to teach me because Ama said that if I don’t learn how to do it on my own, then I am not leaving the house at all.

Aside from cutting rice stalks, he also promised to teach me how to separate the grains from the stalks in the future when I am a bit older. Now that I am ten, I am going to ask him about that promise.

I think ten seems a good age to learn how to thresh the grains.

Besides, Ama said that if I learn how to harvest rice by myself, then he will let me go to school next year. I can’t wait for that to happen because I’ve never been inside a classroom.

A burst of laughter cut my daydreaming short.

I looked at the main road that runs alongside the rice field and saw kids of my age wearing their school uniforms. They were laughing at me as if I were showing something comical in the vast paddy.

They’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember, but I still don’t know why they do. So, I gave myself a quick look.

Aside from my tousled hair and soiled feet, I couldn’t grasp the reason why I feel teased by the fingertips they kept on pointing at me.

“Inoto ako niyo bes isisinga den?” Why are you always laughing at me?

I had to find out.

“Ilaya ngka man a karabaw anan sa likod ka. Da den a phimbidaan iyo.”

Look at the carabao behind you, he said. There’s no difference between you and it at all.

I glanced at our carabao, which has been helping me plow the land since morning. Its skin is as black as the charcoal that Ama tells me to use when cooking.

I looked at my skin and realized that what they were saying was true. I am dark like a carabao myself! This is so embarrassing.

So, without any hesitation, I impulsively lifted my feet that had been buried in the paddy since the early hours of the day.

I ran and treaded the long highway under the scorching heat of the sun until I heard the water rushing through the laoasaig (river).

The eyes of women doing their laundry were following my every move, but I didn’t care. I need to take a bath and get rid of this carabao skin.

My body was already submerged in the water when I pictured Ama’s furious face when he finds out about me leaving the rice field with the plowing unfinished. However, every time I thought about the other kids mocking what I looked like, I wanted to drown myself in the water even more.

I can’t have my future schoolmates laughing at me again.

“Kurang pen ini.” This is not enough.

I briefly whispered these words under my breath as I searched for a small rock among the big ones surrounding the stream. I found one and immediately brought it back to the water with me.

When Ina was alive, I recall seeing her rubbing a small rock on her body whenever she took a bath at the laoasaig.

She never told me it was the rock doing the work, but her skin was different than mine, that’s why I am going to give it a try. It was neither as white as the dove’s feathers nor the white shell of an egg, but it was nowhere near the murkiness of a carabao’s skin.

I was about to start rubbing the small rock on my body when my eyes caught sight of a white rock under the water. I thought that maybe a white rock could make my skin as bright as it is, too.

I held my breath and immediately swam underneath. As soon as I got a hold of it, I started rubbing it on my skin.

I desperately rubbed it on my arms, on my belly, and on my legs. I rubbed it on my face and on every part of my body where my hands could reach. But even after rubbing vigorously, my skin still looked the same.

“Taps! Antonaa i pezuwaan ka san?” Taps! What are you doing there?

Oh, no! It was Bapa Asiz! If he told Ama about me, then I was surely screwed up when I get home.

I pretended not to hear him and continued forcibly rubbing the white rock on my skin. But instead of white, I saw red on my arms. I lifted it out of the water and saw that my skin was bleeding.

I don’t know if it’s the wound or the realization that my skin was dark, but I felt warm tears uncontrollably rolling down my cheeks.

My sobbing turned into bawling. And before I knew it, Bapa Asiz was already embracing me in his arms, consoling me with his soft shushes.

I haven’t cried so much since my Ina passed away when I was four because Ama thrashed me with a rope every time I wept for something. Because of that, I forgot how relieving it is to cry.

Bapa Asiz and I silently marched our way back to the rice fields. As we arrived, I saw sacks of rice loaded in the back of his old pickup truck, parked at the side of the road.

We sat down at the back of the truck, next to the sacks, and faced the vastness of the paddy.

I caught a glimpse of a carabao from a distance and sighed in disappointment. I was still as dark as the carabaos in here.

“Taps, di ngka pekhayaan a maitem ka. Toos anan o langowan a phindukawan ka sa basak.”

Taps, do not be embarrassed by your dark skin. It’s a symbol of all the hard work you had in the rice fields.

I was surprised to hear that Bapa Asiz knew of my dilemma when I never uttered a word since the time he caught me on the laoasaig.

Because I was worried that he was going to tell me on Ama, I tried to change the subject of our conversation.

“Bapa, anda ngka maguwiten a giyangkai a manga khisasakoon a maregas?”

Uncle, where are you going to take these sacks of rice?

I promptly asked him to divert his attention to anything but the reason behind my sudden outburst earlier.

“Mapasa-pasad so langowan a galebek saya na sa Marawi aken giiphasaan so margas.”

After all the work here is done, I am selling the rice at Marawi.

I just nodded at his answer.

I thought he was going to stop there, but what he said next made me stare in timid bewilderment as the sun slowly disappeared along the lines of the rice fields.

“Katawan ka, Taps, na kenaba bu maregas i khapakay a roranen sa trak ka apiya so karabaw na khapakay aken roranen o magunot raken.”

You know what, Taps, aside from rice, I can also load the carabao in my truck if it’s willing to go with me.

Maybe Bapa knew that I did not know what to say, so he let me sit with him in silence, letting time pass by.

When it got dark, he stood up, entered the driver’s seat, and turned the engine on. The sound surprised me, but nothing startled me more than the voice screaming my name from afar.

“Mustapha! Mustapha, anda ka?! Miyakapalaguy so karabaw, da a pakaid iyan a wata!”

Mustapha! Mustapha, where are you?! The carabao escaped, you worthless child!

The voice did not sound like that of a father worried about his 10-year-old son who hasn’t come home yet, because it sounded like that of a father ready to hit his child again.

I know Ama well. When he uses my real name instead of the nickname given to me by Ina, it means that he is very furious.

The idea of another sleepless night with bruises on my skin made my heart race with fear.

As Ama’s voice was getting nearer, my head was telling me to run, but my gut feeling was saying something else. 

When I finally saw Ama’s figure from the other side of the road, I decided to follow my instinct. Before I realized what I was doing, I was already inside the passenger seat, telling Bapa to start driving.

I am not sure of what happened to the carabao I lost, but I was sure that since then, Ama lost two of his carabaos and they never returned to the rice fields again.