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.