{"id":6273,"date":"2025-12-01T14:23:08","date_gmt":"2025-12-01T06:23:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/?p=6273"},"modified":"2025-12-02T15:35:22","modified_gmt":"2025-12-02T07:35:22","slug":"my-path-home","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/my-path-home\/","title":{"rendered":"My Path Home"},"content":{"rendered":"

Nelson Dino<\/em><\/p>\n

\nI 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\u2014Sulu 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.<\/p>\n

\u201cLantri,\u201d my mother\u2019s voice is gentle, \u201cdon\u2019t be too sad. But I understand\u2026 it\u2019s heavy.\u201d<\/p>\n

I lower my head, my long black hair fluttering in the wind. \u201cInah\u2026 why must we be separated? Aren\u2019t we part of the same history and the same culture?\u201d<\/p>\n

She sighs deeply. \u201cThis is the decision of people in the big cities. They don\u2019t see what we feel. They don\u2019t know how the lepa and this sea have shaped us. They only see maps and political lines.\u201d<\/p>\n

I look at the sea again. In my mind, I remember my grandmother\u2019s stories of old Sulu\u2014Sulu 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.<\/p>\n

Since I was little, I have learned this history from a kissa<\/em>\u2014my grandmother\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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\u2019s whispers, a voice that always calms me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, Lantri,\u201d the voice echoes in my mind, \u201csometimes 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.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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<\/em> music, pis siyabit<\/em> 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.<\/p>\n

One afternoon, while sitting on the lepa, watching the orange-hued evening sky, I hear my mother calling from the stilt house. \u201cLantri! Come eat before nightfall!\u201d<\/p>\n

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\u2014though separated, the light of our culture and history still shines.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

And that night, as the moon reflects on the sea, I write to the wind, to the sea, and to history: \u201cYou 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.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

I look at the sky once more. The clouds move, leaving a gap for the moonlight to shine brighter. As if nature itself writes, \u201cSouls cannot be divided. Stories cannot be erased.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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 … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6273","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-short-story"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":false,"jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6273","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6273"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6273\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6320,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6273\/revisions\/6320"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6273"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6273"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6273"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}