Month: July 2016

Notes on Peace: In Ciudad de Sambuwangan

Nonfiction by | July 31, 2016

The rugged coastline came into view as our plane approached the airport of Zamboanga City, Sambuwangan to the ancient Sama people. This was only my second time to visit this city. The first time was a quick stopover as we transitted for Tawi-Tawi. But this second visit, only days after the Zamboanga Siege, and with the city still trying to salvage itself from the trauma of those days, brings out various emotions in me.

As we neared land, houses on stilts below us grew larger, ships lining the coast called eager young men and women to a better life, perhaps in Sabah. Flooded houses also grew more vivid, reminding the plane’s passengers of yet another recent calamity that hit the city.

I searched within me if I’ve come prepared for the work ahead. Have I read enough materials on this siege? How much do I know of the ethnic diversity in the area, to better understand the situation? How sensitive am I to woundedness? Will anyone be ever really prepared to face such monsters as trauma and grief?

Continue reading Notes on Peace: In Ciudad de Sambuwangan

Fatima, the War Nurse

Poetry by | July 31, 2016

In her clinic in the camp, she whispers
Her prayers, hoping no one had been hurt.

But when the forest hushes from gunfire and grenades,
She hears howls of pain, Tabang! Tabang kamo!

Her instruments were all set, laid on the bamboo table – scissors,
Syringe, and bandages – waiting for the wounded.

A bloodied brother in front of her came with a headwound.
Scalp grinning, slit by a bullet. And she stitches it

The way her mother had sewn her pink abaya.
Curious eyes peeking, vision passing through amakan walls.

Veiled women outside covering their mouths.
Pink, sequined veil covers her head. “The color relaxes

The patient,” she remembers. As she buries the needle
In the warrior’s skin once more, she recalls how an old patient

Repelled her, refused her care, for she was wearing a veil.
She had not removed her tondong.

She had turned to another patient, since then.
She gave a slight smile behind her surgical mask

When “Alhamdulillah” came out of the wounded man’s mouth.
Fatima hears gunfire go off again as she washes her hands.

She closes her eyes and waits
For the forest to be completely silent.

—
Mohammad Nassefh R. Macla graduated from the University of the Philippines Mindanao with a degree in BA English, major in Creative Writing. He is a Kaagan-Moro writer from Panabo City, Davao del Norte.

May you also love me like a fever

Poetry by | July 23, 2016

Translated from the poem by Adonis Durado

May you also love me
like a fever,
Fever whose heat would not subside.
Heat born with chills.
Chills that disdain covers
Source from a deep jealousy.
Jealousy that cannot be appeased
Having been assured too many times.
Assurance expelled in one cough.
Cough of one so delicate, may be
sprained by a tickle to the soul.
Soul that’s a swelling in your loin
but a swelling in my chest.
Chest, ah, this chest of mine
ever breathing your
moods, antics, will…
for I am your refuge,
your one piece of blanket,
your single teaspoon of medicine.

Anthony L. Kintanar is a member of Bathalan-ong Halad sa Dagang-Sugbo (Bathalad-Sugbo), the foremost organization of writers in Cebuano, and has contributed to its publications as author, editor, and translator. He attended the Silliman University National Writers Workshop and was an associate editor of the Sands and Coral, Silliman’s literary journal.

Does it really matter what the dead think? (Part 2)

Fiction by | July 23, 2016

Ted chews the pancit he has shut into his mouth. He stares at Melissa and raises his brow, as if to ask her if anything’s wrong. She hasn’t said much throughout the meal, and she’s only spoke to him intermittently since he arrived.

“Have I told you this pancit is delicious?” he mutters.

“Thanks,” she says, folding her arms.

He piles strips of cabbages and mushrooms on the side of his plate. “I don’t like vegetables, darling,” he’d say, “I just like the noodles.” She used to argue with him that the taste of the vegetables have seeped into the noodles anyway, and that’s how the real pancit guisado should come as, so he might as well eat them, the lot. She can’t be bothered now, though. Besides, in their arguments, he always wins.

Continue reading Does it really matter what the dead think? (Part 2)

Panggaon unta ko nimo sama sa usa ka hilanat

Poetry by | July 17, 2016

Panggaon pod unta ko nimo
nga sama sa usa ka hilanat.
Hilanat nga way kunhod ang kainit.
Kainit nga gikaluhaag takig.
Takig nga di buot magpabukot,
daw suol sa lawm nga pangabubho.
Pangabubho nga di pahaplas
kay dili na mosalig sa pasalig.
Pasalig nga maukal ras usa ka ubo.
Ubo sa usa ka tandogonon,
dali rang malisa sa kundat sa kalag.
Kalag nga lisay sa imong bugan
apan lisay ning akong dughan.
Dughan, intawn, kining dughan
kong baskog kanunay sa imong
sapot, tiaw, pagbuot… kay lagi
ako man ang imong abtanan,
imong usa ka panapton nga habol,
imong usa ka kutsaritang tambal.

This poem is part of Adonis Durado’s poetry collection, Lisay sa Bugan, that was recently launched in Davao city. Adonis Durado is the author of two previous collections, Dili Tanang Matagak Mahagbong (2008) and Minugbo Alang sa Mugbo og Kalipay (2009). He was the recipient of several literary awards, including the Emmanuel Lacaba Prize for Cebuano poetry, the Outstanding New Writer Award (Cebuano Studies Center and Faigao Foundation), and the Writer of the Year (Bathalad Foundation). You may read the English translation of this poem here.

Does It Matter What the Dead Think? (Part 1)

Fiction by | July 17, 2016

Her hand still holds the telephone handset. The sound of it dropping onto its base seemed like a closing door, banging and locking her into her guilt and uselessness. The clear blue skies outside her window in Armidale seemed to have turned overcast like the grey skies of her General Santos town. She cups her mouth as she lowers herself onto the floor and feels the tears roll down her cheeks. Her mother’s cry on the phone keeps playing in her mind.

“Inday, ulahi na ang tanan. It was too late for all of us. We tried, but Nene didn’t make it to the hospital.” The old lady’s controlled voice showed the sincerity of their endeavors to save her sister. “We could have saved her if we’ve known beforehand.”

Melissa, or Inday to her family in Gensan, knows that her sister and her sister’s baby could have been saved had her sister been admitted to the lying-in clinic. There, midwives would have been able to determine her state of pregnancy earlier and prescribe a caesarian procedure at the hospital. Melissa had insisted that giving birth at home with the assistance of a midwife would be okay. This is what most women do in the Philippines. Nene agreed.

Continue reading Does It Matter What the Dead Think? (Part 1)

Harbor

Poetry by | July 10, 2016

It is the moon’s urbane hour—
the period for prism play,
and sidewalk vigil.
The bay tonight is a carpet,
creased by the warm west wind,
black, crayon crimson and yellow.
I sit on the steps, with a paper bag
of syruped sticked fruits, while you,
angle adept, contour the moments.
I watch you fade into the crowd of clicks
and ice cream cones. Fireworks balloon
and pop in the night sky.
You emerge from the flurry of laughs,
with a scarfed smile to show me
your harvest of colors.
In the roll of my mind,
I harbor outtakes of you,
undeveloped, paparazzi raw:
Cotton-gloved fingers by the docks
of the browning hills
in the crips of autumn.
Palms clasped in prayer after washing
the golden god of a birth day
in the bricked spirits of a temple.
Broad shoulders bronzing
in the noontime sun,
the sea shelling you in…
We return to the hostel,
doubling back to our double deck
selves.
I pillow my head, close my eyes
and replay tonight’s scene,
this time, in reel time:
the indigo wash of the bay,
our bodies head to toe,
blurring the crowd,
a stranger’s hand snapping
a portrait of two sailing smiles
in an open harbor.

—
Miguel Antonio Lizada grew up in Davao City and teaches English language and literature at the Ateneo de Manila University. He was a fellow of the 54th Silliman University Writers Workshop. His essay “The Bangkok Masseur” won a Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award.

Subay sa Tradisyon sa Tagay: Nganong Gipalabi ko ang pagsulat ginamit ang dila ni Lapulapu. Ikatulong Bahin

Nonfiction by | July 10, 2016

Subay sa Tradisyon sa Tagay…. Unang Bahin
Subay sa Tradisyon sa Tagay…. Ikaduhang Bahin

Kon ang imong uyoan nga si Shakespeare nakasulat sa mga way kamatayong balak, ang atong mga bantogang magbabalak sa dilang Bisaya may mga garay usab nga mopawagtang sa atong kalaay ug kabudlay.

Atong tilawan kining balak ni anhing Rene Estella Amper, usa ka doctor sa medisina ug kanhi mayor sa Boljoon, Cebu, nga nag-ulohan SA BABAYE NGA NAGHUBO DIDTO SA BAYBAYON SA OBONG [8]:

Nahitimbakuwas ang akong panan-aw
sa kalit nga pagdailos
sa imong patadyong
daw ang labtik sa pasol
tadlas nianang nag-ugdo nga kabilin
diha sa puti mong dughan.
Continue reading Subay sa Tradisyon sa Tagay: Nganong Gipalabi ko ang pagsulat ginamit ang dila ni Lapulapu. Ikatulong Bahin