Category: Nonfiction

Mubalik rako

Nonfiction by | September 21, 2026

It was Sunday. Molave Street was bright with the noontime sun. The doors of the neighborhood homes were wide open, letting the wind sweep through the insides. The sound of laughter echoed with the beeps of cars passing by, and children fearlessly running beside the curve of the road, untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by worries of an adult.

I could hear them from where I sat, separated only by the blurry plastic screen of the sari-sari store I was keeping watch over. Occasional murmurs slipped in but were never understood.

The silence on my side and the joy of the other felt uncomfortable. The noise felt so far away despite the short distance, like I was only meant to listen. Envy lingered in my mind for a moment before vanishing as the first customer of the day approached.

“Unsay ato angkol?” I gave a practiced, amiable smile.

It was Friday. She said we were going somewhere nice and that I had to wear my best clothes. I stared at the pile of clothes on the floor, looking like a mountain of rags, and settled on one. I guess a hand-me-down faded red dress with fewer patches could work as one. It smelled like old, wet paper, but I have never worn it. I never knew I was allowed to wear a dress.

“Inig abot nato didto dapat mag binuotan ka,” she said as she fixed my collar. It was folded inside.

“Opo,” I said like an automatic response, staring at her. There was a curve on her lips I had never seen. Or maybe never directed at me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed easily. Maybe I should have asked questions. But she smiled at me after years of scowls and frowns, and disgusted scoffs.

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The Red Stone Pendant

Nonfiction by | September 21, 2026

I could feel the sticky jelly in between my fingers while I scraped the jelly cup clean, pretending I could taste the strawberry flavor in it.

I turned my gaze toward the roaring television that my Lolo was so engrossed in. He was on the edge of his seat as Manny Pacquiao threw a punch.

“Tua ra! Sige sumbaga! Humana!” He shouted and cheered, while his face was just inches away from the screen and no one could ever bother him.

Meanwhile, there was my Lola, sitting in her favorite chair while combing her short, wavy hair. She has a  fair complexion, narrow eyes, round face, red colored nails, and what caught my attention most, was her gleaming gold and silver jewelries.

“Ma, kanak da yaang singsing mo kay masigahay,” I pleaded with a sweet smile but she was not moved by it.

Instead, she pulled out her jewelry box and got a fancy looking silver necklace with a red stone pendant.

“Kani na imo, dayai kini ha hatag dako kanmo.”

It was the fanciest thing I had that time, so I had it with pride and charm. I wore it in school, making sure my classmates will notice it and I could have the reaction I want to hear. But, I was getting conscious every time someone noticed it. 

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Happy New Year

Nonfiction by | May 11, 2026

I looked at the cracked skin under my nails. A lifetime of nail-biting had caused a constant prickle on my fingertips. I’d grown used to it, like most pains.

I inhaled the cigarette I had just lit. I hated the smell of tar. It burned my nose the same way gasoline did whenever the family car was refueled. Synthetic, acrid. Addictive. At gas stations, I would lean my head out the car window to inhale the fumes in secret before Mom slapped me back inside for wasting the air-conditioning. I hadn’t seen her in five years.

The sun was barely rising as I reflected on the past few days. An anthropologist friend and I had traveled to the uplands to film a documentary on the Obu Manuvu and their New Year practices. It was a beautiful community gathering. Their cultural attire danced in waves of color. The embers glowed so hot I could taste the roasted native chicken in the air. The Datu chanted prayers of thanksgiving in the rites of Panubaran. Great care was taken to preserve and pass down these ancestral practices to future generations. As I watched the children play while their parents prayed along in thanksgiving, the Datu’s words echoed in my mind.

“Let us not throw away our family’s own culture. It will fight for us.”

Even before I ran away, New Year’s with my family was never as vibrant as the feast I had witnessed. But our simple celebration carried hearty meals, shared laughter with my siblings, and Mom’s prayers for each of us. We were not a family big on tradition, but every year after media noche, we would gather in the living room to watch movies. It was warm and delightful. It was home.

Since leaving, I spent New Year’s Eve alone. Once, I attended a party hosted by a friend on New Year’s for those he called “friends without families.” But I had a family. One that, like many things I’d gotten used to, occupied less mental space as the years passed. I knew my heart missed them. I had settled into a life alone by running away from past hurts, but I also ran from those I valued — a family I would fight for.

The sunrise had kissed my skin when I stomped out the cigarette. My last, I told myself. I had made a mental checklist of movies I wanted to watch with my family when my friend asked if I was ready to go home.

I was.

Edwin “Ed” David J. Priete is a filmmaker, educator, and media producer from Davao City whose stories focus on social impact, mental health awareness, and cultural identity. A BA Communication and Media Arts graduate of UP Mindanao, he explores themes of trauma and recovery in his works, which have been featured and screened locally and internationally.

Where the Bulad Dries

Nonfiction by | May 4, 2026

Kaluy-i kami.
Panalipdi kami.
Tabangi kami.

I silently rushed toward my grandmother’s casket, still wearing my yellow uniform and khaki pants from Labangal National High School. I asked my sister for a piece of paper, then knelt beside the casket, watching the manghadji recite the novena prayers. Today is the final night of my grandmother’s wake. Among all my cousins, I was the only one who knew how to respond to the prayers, and so I was assigned this role. The others were outside; they were washing plates, serving food the all-nighters, and brewing coffee for those who would stay until dawn.

Mommy Rosalina, my mother’s eldest sister, was visibly upset that I had arrived late. I didn’t get the chance to explain that I had been making arrangements for an event I could no longer attend because of Lola’s untimely death. Someone had to take my place at the Peer Facilitators’ seminar. But I said nothing. I refused to speak.

My mother sat beside me and whispered, “Asa man ka gikan, Loy? Dugay lagi kaayo ka.”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I responded to the manghadji, “Sr. San Vicente, kaluy-i kami!”

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Kemohung

Nonfiction by | April 27, 2026

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?

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Why Adobong Puti Is My Favorite Type of Adobo

Nonfiction by | February 23, 2026

Adobong puti is probably one of those dishes that is closest to my definition of “comfort food.” Cliché as it is, I always mimic the infamous Anton Ego spoon-drop whenever I eat this dish.

Preparing adobong puti is the easiest way to cook meat. You can screw up frying meat, but there is no way you can mess up adobong puti. All you have to do is put the meat in a pot or pan. It can be any meat, but I personally prefer liempo, or any pork cut with a good balance of meat and fat, together with the spices, vinegar, and salt.

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Offerings to No One in Particular

Nonfiction by | February 9, 2026

“A bunch of rubbish” was my initial thought when I saw it on my daily walk to school. It was in my periphery, an eyesore against the pristine pinkish-white walls as its background, nestled under the shade of a young but bent kalachuchi tree in its unassuming yet interestingly cluttered glory. You walk a few steps ahead and you’ll see the board exam passers of our university, perfectly lined up with minimal design, painting an obvious disparity. With my cheap phone, held together by wrist bands and wishes, I would take a series of photos of a makeshift altar of sorts by the roadside of our school campus between June and September 2025. I was always compelled to take photos, as it was ephemeral, ever-changing, and seemingly included everything.

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A Eulogy for Aida Rivera-Ford

Nonfiction by | February 2, 2026

The first time I came within the sphere of Aida Rivera-Ford was 58 years ago, when she cast me as one of her players in a short sketch performed before the student body of the University of Mindanao. That was also my first introduction to theatre arts. That experience encouraged me to join the school’s Dramatics Guild, which further honed my interest and passion for the genre. But it was not until 1982 that I seriously embarked on the world of legitimate theatre, owing largely to her orchestration.

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