I never once questioned why fishes drown. The news of kemohung became so ordinary that it barely stirred a ripple in me. The word itself means “fish kill,” though, if you take it apart, it sounds like it should mean swimming. The logic never quite made sense, but we used it anyway. That’s the way with Philippine English: a word is bent out of shape but everyone understands it, so it somehow becomes right. Meaning, after all, is a shared agreement.
In Lake Sebu, fish deaths had become almost as predictable as the seasons. The Philippine News Agency even described it as a natural, periodic phenomenon. We never owned fish nets, and our home sat far from the lakes our town was known for. Farming was our source of living, so I couldn’t fully grasp the grief of those who depended on the water. If I’m being honest, I even carried a shameful gladness when kemohung came. I didn’t understand the weight of their loss; I only knew that Mamang would be happy, and so I followed her lead. To me, it meant she could cook her favorite uton bolok (rotten fish) again.
Rottenness somehow finds its way to the table as a delicacy. Our neighbor who has fish nets would knock on the door and give us some. The fish, once lifeless and floating, are cleaned and revived in a way. My brother, whom we trusted most in the kitchen, marinated them in vinegar, garlic, onions, and ginger to soften the sharp, lingering smell of death. Misfortune is now turned into something we can taste, something we can share. Our resources are limited, so nothing is wasted, not even loss. What’s better than free food anyway?
Still, the thought of pollution sat heavy on my chest. In our final year of senior high school, my best friend Ren and I decided we would do something about it—or at least, I liked to think so. Truth be told, it was her spark, and I simply warmed my hands by it. I wanted to pretend I was fit for the STEM field. We joined the National Robotics Competition (NRC) 2024 for project proposals.
We called our project Dugong, inspired by the way the sea creature gently sucks in its food. We imagined a machine that could do the same, like a vacuum that draws in the excess feeds given to tilapia, the very thing that pollutes the water and steals oxygen from the fish until they suffocate. The idea felt bright, and buoyant or whatever that means because buoyancy was the first thing we considered while planning it. We were finally swimming in the right direction. At least, that’s how it felt to me. For once, I believed I was doing something relevant.
We didn’t win. Obviously, it was too good to be true. When they asked how many volts our machine would consume, we faltered. Our adviser tried to help by lifting a paper that read “20 volts,” but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The truth was, I didn’t know. And I couldn’t fake confidence. So I let the silence answer for me, for us.
It was a simple defeat, but I didn’t cry. Instead, I felt like sinking.
I had let my 750 pesos registration go down the drain. I couldn’t face Papang—he had been so excited, so willing to give that money. I was so embarrassed that I avoided our Grade 12 adviser for days, even though he had always been kind. He had made learning physics interesting. Still, numbers and I had long been strangers. I was never happy in any fields that involves math.
Time, as it turns out, changes us. In elementary school, I joined math quizzes across our division without a second thought. Back then, it came to me as easily as breathing when my teachers would urge me. It didn’t even matter whether I won. I didn’t notice its passing. That ease slipped through my fingers. My interests drifted like tides, from one shore to another, then another. Until I felt like I had taken in more than I could hold. Too many passions, too little space to keep them all.
And somehow, I found myself in the humanities and social sciences, venturing into literature. I told myself I chose writing. But the truth is, writing was the only thing that stayed. We didn’t have money for other degrees. But I don’t know if I’m good at it. I don’t know if I even love it the way I used to. Some days, it feels like I’m just forcing words onto the page, hoping they’ll keep me afloat.
I felt adrift, like everyone else, unsure of where the current would carry me. It was terrifying how I might grow to resent writing. I can’t stomach the thought of something I love burning me out completely. But here I am, two years in, still afloat. I told myself I wanted to swim against the current, like salmon fighting their way upstream.
I first learned about them in our Introduction to Literary Theory class, while watching Departures by Yōjirō Takita. The idea stayed with me: that salmon return to where they began, no matter how long or difficult the journey. Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along—finding my way back, even if I don’t yet know where “back” truly is.
Looking back, I was so sure I would be able to swim.
It took me four months before I could go home again after our Christmas break. I always tell Papang I am busy, so he always finds himself thinking his daughter is doing well at the university. Although I was sure he and Mamang didn’t know what a Bachelor of Literary and Cultural Studies is about. My aunt even said aloud in awe that maybe it’s about anthropology because it has culture in the name. Though I have to agree she was partly right, and I got to go back to the culture that raised me because of it. Or maybe I don’t know how I could make them understand. My parents just trusted me when I said what degree I chose.
Now, I couldn’t face them. I wonder, would Mamang be overjoyed if she tasted rot again?
The odor would remain despite all the ginger marinated in the tilapia. Ideally, the marinade should seep through the fish overnight, but it excited my family and me so much we had to leave it for an hour or two and then fry it. Or when it isn’t rotting too much, paksiw would be perfect. That’s just how it is when something rots. It softens, breaks apart easily, but we still find a way to make it edible.
We always do.
We have always known how to survive what should have broken us.
Even kemohung.
Even ourselves.
Hezel Ann Todi Sulan is a Tboli writer from Lake Sebu, South Cotabato. She is a Feature writer for Bagwis, Mindanao State University – GSC’s publication. She was also a Fiction Fellow for the 2025 SOX Writers Workshop and a Fellow of Sugilanon 2025.