{"id":6519,"date":"2026-03-17T12:25:28","date_gmt":"2026-03-17T04:25:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/?p=6519"},"modified":"2026-07-11T15:09:00","modified_gmt":"2026-07-11T07:09:00","slug":"who-gets-to-choose","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/who-gets-to-choose\/","title":{"rendered":"Who gets to choose"},"content":{"rendered":"

Shayra A. Macaombao<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The bouquet felt heavier than it should.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma turned it slowly in her hands, careful not to crush the white and cream petals. Around her, the small bridal room hummed with excitement. Her aunties were already holding their phones up, finding the best angle. Her cousins were whispering, retouching their lipstick, adjusting their hijabs in the mirror they all shared.<\/span><\/p>\n

A knock was heard from the other side. Salma\u2019s fingers tightened around the bouquet. She forced a small smile. She watched her reflection in the mirror. Her hijab framed her face neatly. She looked composed. She looked like a woman on a happy day.<\/span><\/p>\n

But why did it feel like her lungs were forgetting how to work?<\/span><\/p>\n

Another knock was heard. This time, she closed her eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

And just like that, she was back in Brgy. Sarimanok, three days before Eid, sitting cross-legged on the thin mattress in the corner as the smell of palapa and tilapia wrapped around the crowded sala.<\/span><\/p>\n

It had been their small family tradition. An iftar salo-salo at home, a few days before \u2018Eid, when everyone tried to come back, no matter how busy their lives had become. The plastic tablecloth was crowded with plates, classic fruit salad, and korma.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma sat between two younger cousins, half-listening to their story about online classes, half-listening to the adults seated around the low table. They thought their voices blended with the clatter and chatter.<\/span><\/p>\n

They were wrong.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNa-text na ako ni Kuya,\u201d her father said quietly, wiping his mouth with a tissue. \u201cSabi niya, okay daw sila if after Eid na ang formal na pag-akyat.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAlhamdulillah,\u201d one of her titas replied. \u201cAt least sa pamilya pa rin mapupunta ang bata. Mas maganda na pinsan kaysa stranger.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her aunt\u2019s voice floated above the noise. \u201cAnd mabait naman \u2019yang anak mo. She will understand. Good daughter \u2019yan.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cButi nga sa kanya, may plano na,\u201d another tita laughed softly. \u201cYung isa, ayaw pa rin mag-decide hanggang ngayon.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The \u201cisa\u201d did not need a name. Everyone knew they meant Amina, her older sister. The lawyer. The independent one. The one they had stopped pushing, not because they wanted to, but because they had learned they could not move her.<\/span><\/p>\n

She knew very well what Islam said about marriage. That a woman\u2019s consent was required. That she had the right to say no. She had heard it in khutbahs, in seminars, in stories the teachers shared after class. Once, she had even raised her hand and asked, just to be sure. \u201cSo if the girl doesn\u2019t want, the marriage can\u2019t happen, right?\u201d The ustadha had smiled and nodded. \u201cYes, Salma. Walang pilitan sa Islam.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But this knowledge sat like a small, fragile thing inside her chest, something that could so easily be crushed by what was happening in front of her.<\/span><\/p>\n

No one was asking her.<\/span><\/p>\n

The conversation moved around her like water finding its own path, flowing easily between her father and titos and titas, never once turning toward her.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma stared at the rice on her plate, her appetite shrinking with each word. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her glass of water.<\/span><\/p>\n

Across the table, Amina caught her eye.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her sister\u2019s brows knit together in a question: Are you okay?<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma gave the smallest nod.<\/span><\/p>\n

She could say something now, she thought. She could clear her throat, set her spoon down, and say, \u201cAyaw ko.\u201d She could remind them of what they all claimed to know about a woman\u2019s right to choose.<\/span><\/p>\n

But in the space between her thought and her tongue, other voices rose:<\/span><\/p>\n

Good daughters don\u2019t embarrass their parents in front of relatives.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Good daughters say yes, especially if it\u2019s family.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Good daughters trust their elders know what\u2019s best.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She felt all these unspoken rules pressing against her throat, heavier than any doctrine she had ever read.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next morning, the house in Sarimanok was quieter. Amina was sitting at the edge of their shared bed, brushing out her hair when their mother knocked and opened the door a little.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnak, may aakyat na naman mamaya,\u201d her mother said gently. \u201cPero ikaw pa rin ang masusunod, ha. We\u2019re just\u2026 we\u2019re just introducing them.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina looked at their mother through the mirror, arching a brow. \u201cAakyat na naman, Ome? Hindi ba kayo napapagod?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mother gave a strained smile. \u201cBasta ikaw, if you don\u2019t like, just say no. We understand.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma, lying on her side pretending to scroll through her phone, watched the small exchange like a witness to a scene she had seen play out many times before.<\/span><\/p>\n

There had been men from elite families, men with stable incomes, men with good reputations. Men whose names their titas liked to whisper as if they were charms that could secure her sister\u2019s future: engineer, doctor, architect, businessman. Each time, Amina had listened politely, asked a few questions, then quietly said, \u201cI\u2019m not ready,\u201d or \u201cI don\u2019t feel right about this,\u201d or simply, \u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Each time, their parents had sighed, sometimes argued a little, but in the end, they had yielded.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBaka hindi pa siya ready,\u201d she had heard her father say months ago. \u201cAbogada na \u2019yan. She knows what she wants. Hayaan na muna natin.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma sometimes wondered what the difference was, what line had been drawn between them that placed one sister on the side of respected autonomy and the other on the side of silent obligation.<\/span><\/p>\n

Was it age? Achievement? Income?<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina had her own job, her own apartment in the city, her own money. She sent remittances instead of asking for an allowance. When she came home, she came home as a contributor.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma was still a student. Her tuition came from her father. Her fare, her food, her notebooks flowed from the same source.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe, Salma thought bitterly, that was what it really meant to have freedom, not just knowing your rights, but being able to survive the consequences of insisting on them.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the days that followed, the house moved around Salma with a kind of quiet purpose.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her titas started coming over more often, slipping into the sala with the ease of people who owned part of the space. They talked about catering, about clothes, about possible dates \u201cafter Eid, inshaAllah.\u201d They never mentioned the word \u201cengagement\u201d directly to her, as if avoiding it made it less real.<\/span><\/p>\n

She wanted to say, I don\u2019t even know him like that. I don\u2019t like him like that. I don\u2019t want this.<\/span><\/p>\n

But every time she imagined saying it, she also imagined the looks, the disappointment and shock, the sermons about obedience and trust.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma lay on her bed, staring at the faint water stain on the ceiling. Her chest ached with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with fasting.<\/span><\/p>\n

She had been crying in quiet bursts for days, in the bathroom, under her blanket, in the comfort of dark corners. She had become practiced at wiping her face before stepping out, at blaming the redness of her eyes on lack of sleep or too much screen time.<\/span><\/p>\n

A soft knock came at the door.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSalma?\u201d Amina\u2019s voice. \u201cAko lang \u2019to.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome in,\u201d she answered, but her voice broke on the last syllable.<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina was quiet the whole time and waiting for her to speak.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma\u2019s voice trembled. \u201cI know my rights. I know what Islam says. I know I can say no. But when I open my mouth, Ate, nothing comes out. Because I feel like\u2026 like if I say no, I\u2019m not a good daughter anymore. And I don\u2019t know how to live with that either.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She pressed her palm to her mouth, as if trying to keep the sob from escaping. It didn\u2019t work. Tears spilled over her fingers.<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina moved closer and pulled her into a hug. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was only the sound of Salma\u2019s breathing, ragged and uneven, and the soft rhythm of Amina\u2019s hand on her back.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Amina whispered. \u201cI should have spoken up for you sooner.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou did,\u201d Salma said, pulling back slightly. \u201cWith your eyes. But you\u2019re also\u2026 you\u2019re also under fire with them. I didn\u2019t want to add to it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina gave a tired smile. \u201cYeah, well. Apparently, being a lawyer at thirty and still single is a crime.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cAte, what do I do?\u201d Salma asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina studied her for a long moment. \u201cI can\u2019t tell you what to do, Salma. That\u2019s the whole point, di ba? It has to be yours.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s easy for you to say.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHindi rin,\u201d Amina said softly. \u201cDo you think it\u2019s easy to keep saying no when everyone thinks you\u2019re wasting your chances? When titas tell you to lower your standards, when uncles joke that you\u2019ll end up alone? It\u2019s not easy. But I can survive it because I have my own life. My own money. My own space to run to when it gets too loud here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She cupped Salma\u2019s face in her hands, forcing her to meet her eyes. \u201cYou don\u2019t have that yet. I know. That\u2019s why it\u2019s harder for you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo I just\u2026 accept it?\u201d Salma asked, voice breaking again.<\/span><\/p>\n

Amina\u2019s eyes softened with a sorrow that felt old. \u201cNo. I\u2019m not saying that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThen what?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThen you decide what you can live with,\u201d Amina whispered. \u201cNot what they can live with. What you can live with. Because in the end, ikaw ang gigising beside that person every day. Not them.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma closed her eyes. \u201cI\u2019m scared.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMe too,\u201d Amina admitted. \u201cBut if you decide to say no, I\u2019ll be there. If you decide to go through with it, I\u2019ll still be there. I just\u2026 I just want you to know that someone is on your side. Even if I can\u2019t fix everything.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma\u2019s tears came again, quieter this time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

They stayed like that for a while, sitting on the bed in the dim light, the night before Eid stretching around them like a held breath.<\/span><\/p>\n

Knock. Knock.<\/span><\/p>\n

The sound pulled her back to the present like a sudden inhale.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma\u2019s eyes flew open. The ceiling of their home was gone, replaced by the white-painted wall of the bridal room. The air smelled not of korma and sweat but of perfume and hairspray.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her cheeks were dry. Her hands were full of flowers, not tissues.<\/span><\/p>\n

She hadn\u2019t realized she was smiling.<\/span><\/p>\n

The bouquet was still in her hands, the ribbon snug around her fingers. Around her, the chatter grew louder as the women adjusted their positions.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cReady na kami!\u201d someone shouted.<\/span><\/p>\n

The door handle turned. Salma\u2019s heart stumbled. For a brief, sharp second, the old panic rose. That the door would open and reveal a man she had not chosen, walking toward her with everyone watching, everyone recording, everyone congratulating a decision that had never been hers.<\/span><\/p>\n

But the man who stepped in wore a suit that had obviously been chosen to match someone else\u2019s dress, not hers. His smile was wide, but it wasn\u2019t directed at Salma.<\/span><\/p>\n

Behind her, rising from the chair by the mirror, was the bride. Amina stood, smoothing the front of her white gown, the fabric catching the light with each small movement. Her hijab had been pinned with delicate care, framing a face that looked both the same and completely new.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma looked at Amina. Then she looked down at the bouquet in her hands. She realized, in that moment, that she was standing exactly where everyone assumed a woman wanted to be: at the center of attention, at the doorway to a new life, flowers in hand, cameras ready. But this wasn\u2019t her doorway. It was Amina\u2019s.<\/span><\/p>\n

Salma took a deep breath. Then, without a word, she placed the bouquet in Amina\u2019s hands. Salma watched her go, surrounded by family, by cameras, by noise. For the first time, she understood that this story had never really been about who got married first, or to whom.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was about something simpler and harder. Who gets to choose?<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Shayra A. Macaombao The bouquet felt heavier than it should. Salma turned it slowly in her hands, careful not to crush the white and cream petals. Around her, the small bridal room hummed with excitement. Her aunties were already holding … 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":[29],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6519","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":false,"jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6519","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=6519"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6519\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6901,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6519\/revisions\/6901"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6519"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6519"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6519"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}