Category: Nonfiction

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?

Continue reading Kemohung

When my nephew Jeff turned eight, I saw what a grand celebration looked like through his eyes. We had two kilos of grilled tilapia, a pack of his favorite hot dogs, a loaf of bread, three bottles of Coke, and a 350-peso bento chocolate cake that made him smile all night long. But most importantly, we had Uton bolok from our neighbor, literally, rotten fish. This was all his mother could afford while working away in Manila.

When she called that evening, Jeff’s first words were about the Uton bolok. He bragged about it because it was his mother’s favorite. He talked about his birthday, how happy he was, and his visitors, who were all his cousins. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was sweet how he could easily take pride in the simplest things. My siblings and I grew up like that, too, never with the luxury of asking for more. Gratitude, I suppose, was something we learned early; we were told to be thankful, and we understood what it meant to have just enough.

Growing up in the rural side of town, I don’t remember craving anything fancy. Food was just something to fill the stomach and keep us going. But when I left for college, my world widened. I wanted to taste, see, and know more about what life was like beyond our small Kohu back home. 

Kohu is a Tboli word for kitchen, and ours was special. It stood outside our house, with no door and one side completely open. Anyone could come and go. Most of our neighbors had theirs the same way, which made sharing easy. If smoke wasn’t rising from a family’s Kohu, it meant they hadn’t cooked their meals yet, so someone nearby would always send food over. Looking back, maybe that’s why life felt lighter. Continue reading Make a Wish