Category: Nonfiction

Usa Ka Dekada sa Thailand: Mga Bulawanong Pagtulon-an isip OFW (Unang Bahin)

Nonfiction by | February 3, 2025

Wala gyod nako damha nga moabot og dose ka tuig ang akong pagpangama isip usa ka Overseas Filipino Worker (OFW) sa Thailand. Abi man god nako og usa ra ko katuig dinhi ug mouli na dayon sa atua. Unsang hitaboa nga ang usa, napun-an man og laing usa, hangtod nga nahimo naman kining usa ka dekada! Tinuod gyod diay nga lahi ang planong tawhanon kon itandi sa kabubut-on sa Diyos. Alang kanako, usa kini ka matahom nga gasa gikan Kaniya ang paglahutay sa ingon ani kadugayon. Ug tungod niini, aduna koy napudyot nga mga bulawanong pagtulon-an nga ikalipay ko pag-ayo sa pagpaambit kaninyo, ilabi na sa mga nagtinguha nga mosulay sa pagpanarbaho sa Land of the Free.

Migranteng Pilipino sa Thailand
Sa akong nakalap nga impormasyon gikan sa Embahada sa Pilipinas, mokabat sa 17, 921 ang kinatibuk-ang populasyon sa mga Filipino dinhi sa Thailand. Gitaho usab sa Department of Employment of Thailand, ubos sa Ministry of Labour nga adunay 14,830 ang kasamtangang nagtrabaho nga galangkob sa pagtudlo, management, engineering, arkitektura, ug negosyo. Ug dul-an sa 4,000 ang wala marehistro o ana sa dili regular nga mga sektor, samtang ang nabilin gilangkoban sa mga tinun-an, kapikas, mga anak sa migrante, ug katong nangempleyo sa giilang mga buhatan.
Niadtong 2020 ug tunga-tunga sa 2021, gatosan pod ka mga Pilipino ang gipapauli sa atong panggamhanan tungod nawad-an man kini sa ilang panginabuhian agi sa pandemya nga nipukan sa tibuok kalibotan. Subo kaayong palandungon nga adunay koy mga suod nga higala ang napagan sa maong panghitabo. Wala sa plano ang ilang pagpauli. Bisan pa man sa maong panghitabo, mipatigbabaw gihapon ang dakong gugma sa Ginoo tungod kay liboan ka mga Pilipino, turista, mga nangindahay nga makatrabaho pagbalik o magsugod og trabaho, ang nakasulod tungod kay gipaluagan naman sa nasod ang mga tamdanan sa pagbiyahe.

Nag-Education ang Mass Comm
Nahuman nako ang kursong Mass Communication sa University of the Philippines in the Visayas Cebu College (UP Cebu na karon) niadtong Abril 25, 2002. Inay mosugod sa pagpangempleyo, nisugyot ang mahigugmaon nakong inahan nga si Nanay Fe, nga dili usa pagsugod og trabaho. Niya pa, pagdiskanso usa sanglit pila pod ka tuig ang imong pagbudlay aron maangkon ang gikaintapang diploma. Dugang pa niya, nga mintras nagrelaks usa, sulayan nako pagkuha og Certification in Professional Education (CPE). Aron mokuha sa Licensure Examination for Teachers (LET) ubos sa pagdumala sa Philippine Regulation Commission (PRC). Gawas pa, nindot kaayo ang gitanyag nga 10% lamang (kon wala ko malimot) ang bayrunon sa total tuition fee, usa sa mga benepisyo ni Nanay Fe sa iyang pagtudlo sa Western Mindanao State University – Dumingag Campus (WMSU). Tuod man, nakombiser gyod ko sa akong inahan. Gidasig pod nako akong mga suod nga higala nga silang Kuya Recar, (nahuman sa kursong Accountancy sa Mindanao State University – Marawi; nitaliwan na sa laing kalibotan niadtong 2016), ug Danna (bag-ong nigradwar sa kursong Industrial Engineering sa WMSU – Main Campus, Zamboanga City; anak pod og magtutudlo). Aron hingpit nga maangkon ang maong sertipiko, gikinahanglan nga mokuha og 18 units ug pasaron kini. Twenty-one units ang akong gikuha. Paniguro nga naa koy reserba kon ugaling magkinaunsa. Sadya ang among pag-eskuyla og balik, bisan tuod dili kini mao ang pinitik sa among tagsa-tagsa ka mga kasingkasing. Buntag ug gabii ang among pagtungha sa duha ka tulonghaan nga anaa mahimutang sa Barangay Caridad ug Barangay Dapiwak sa Dumingag, Zambonga del Sur. Uban sa grasya sa Ginoo ug makanunayong pagsuporta sa among mga pamilya, nahuman gyod mi sa among pag-eskuyla sulod lamang sa usa ka semistre.

Continue reading Usa Ka Dekada sa Thailand: Mga Bulawanong Pagtulon-an isip OFW (Unang Bahin)

Sinigang

Nonfiction by | January 20, 2025

Sinigang [Nonfiction]

The tangy, sour smell of tamarind soup filled the air as I stepped into the kitchen.

My mouth watered automatically, memories of my mother’s cooking flooding my senses. She was always so good at making Sinigang, the sourness perfectly balanced by the sweetness of the meat and vegetables. It was one of my favorite dishes, and she always seemed to know just how much sourness to add to make it perfect. As I waited for the soup to simmer, I remembered how she used to take me to school every morning. She would wake up early, even earlier than me, so she could fix breakfast and get me ready for the day. She would brush my hair, tie my shoes, and even help me with my homework sometimes.

 

It was the simple things like that which made me realize how much she truly loved me.

 

I also recalled the times when we would sit together on the porch, watching the sunset, and she would tell me stories about her childhood in their province. She would talk about the food they used to eat, like Sinigang for example. “Mao ra man ni among mapalit dapit sa kanto, nak. Mahal man gud kaayo ang pritong manok.” She shared. “Tunga pa mi ani nila nanay nimo ug tita.”. Her stories made me realize that this soup really played a part in my mother’s life and her fondness of it was later passed down to me. Aside from this, she would also share with me the games they played back then and the people they knew from their barangay. It was as if I was there with her, living those moments through her words. I wished I could go back to those days, when everything seemed so much simpler and carefree.

 

My mother always wore her favorite daster when she was at home. It was a dark blue, patterned with pink Gumamelas, and it seemed to bring out the color of her light skin. She would wear it almost every day, even when she was just cleaning or doing laundry. I never understood why she loved it so much, but it became a symbol of her to me, a part of her identity. Now that she’s gone, I find myself missing that daster almost as much as I miss her.

 

The Sinigang was finally ready, and I ladled some into a bowl. As I sat down at the table, the aroma filled the air once more. It was then that the weight of my loss finally hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness and grief, knowing that I would never be able to share another meal with my mother again. I took a bite of the Sinigang, savoring the familiar taste that reminded me so much of her. And in that moment, I felt her presence, as if she were right there beside me, telling me everything would be alright. I thought about all the things I had wanted to say to her, all the things I never got the chance to tell her. But most of all, I wished I could just have one more day with her, to hug her and tell her how much I loved her.

 

The memory of her warm, familiar embrace brought a tear to my eye, and I felt a lump form in my throat. It was then that I realized that the longing and sadness would always be a part of me, but it was also a testament to the love that we shared.

 

As I continued to eat my Sinigang, I found myself thinking about the future. I knew that I would never be able to replace my mother, but I also knew that I had to find a way to move forward. I had to find a way to honor her memory and keep her spirit alive. So, I decided that from now on, whenever I cook Sinigang, I would always dedicate it to her. It would be my way of keeping her close, of remembering the woman who had given me life and so much more.

 

And as I finished the last spoonful of soup, I knew that even though she was gone, her love and her legacy would live on, forever etched into my heart and my memories. I wiped away the tears that had begun to fall, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes, letting the warmth of her memory envelop me like a blanket. Because even though she was no longer here physically, I knew that in some way, she would always be with me.

 

I found myself thinking about my mother more and more. I would remember the sound of her laughter, the smell of her perfume, the way she would pinch my cheeks when she was happy. I began to cook Sinigang for myself more often, dedicating each pot to her memory. As I stirred the pot, I could almost feel her presence in the kitchen, teaching me her favorite recipes and sharing stories about our family. It was as if she was there with me, passing down a piece of herself in the form of this simple yet beloved dish. Slowly, over time, the pain began to subside, replaced by nostalgia and a deep sense of gratitude. I was grateful for the time we had spent together, grateful for the love she had given me, and grateful for the memories that would sustain me for the rest of my life.

 

In the end, it wasn’t the Sinigang itself that mattered so much as the love and the memories that it represented. As I cleared the table and began to wash the dishes, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. It was as if my mother was there with me, nodding her approval, proud of the life I had built and the memories I had created.

 

And in that quiet moment, I knew that her spirit would always be a part of me, guiding me forward, one spoonful of Sinigang at a time.

 

Victory Valenciano is a 17-year-old HUMSS Learner from Ateneo de Davao Senior High School. She spends countless hours lost in the world of music, arts, and literature

Illustration by Noy Narciso

A Grandchild with Blue Eyes

Nonfiction by | December 30, 2024

I was around eight when my mom told me she wanted a grandchild with blue eyes. We were just hanging out in the backyard, sitting beside each other on a hammock, when she said, “Gusto ko ng mestizong apo!” She told me she wanted to see them in person, as blue eyes aren’t something you typically encounter in ordinary Philippine settings.

“Mestizo” is a Spanish word that originally described a person of Spanish and indigenous descent. Over time, the meaning evolved to a broader definition: a person of mixed race. In the Philippines, a mestizo is someone who is half-Filipino and half-foreigner, or, in simpler terms, a “tisoy”—someone with evident Caucasian features who is conventionally attractive.

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My Father’s Motorcycle

Nonfiction by | November 18, 2024

My father got into a motorcycle accident last Friday. He was on his way to pick up my mother from school. Another motorcycle ran into him at an intersection, and he was laid flat on the side of the road with his foot stuck beneath the pedal. He went home with swollen ankles but, thankfully, without any major injuries.

My father just got a new motorcycle last June. He bought it despite our family needing the money to pay for my little brother’s hospital bills. He insisted we needed a motorcycle because, otherwise, who would pick up my mother and siblings from school? My father has been unemployed for as long as I can remember. His only “job” is to pick us all up from school or work.

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Counting, October 1950

Nonfiction by | March 25, 2024

An excerpt from House, Tree, Person

For my great grandmother
Who bore my grandmother
Who bore my mother

I was chasing the chickens outside our home. The early morning dew had settled finely on the shrubs that grew around the perimeter. One, two, three, the chickens lay on their backs to expose their bellies toward the sun.

Later that day, our town would hold a celebration for the annual feast of Sta. Maria. Segundo would be there. During practices for the parada, we had to march side-by-side with my hand around his arm. We both looked down and saw the fine blonde hair on his fair skin, touching against my scaly, browned arm. “It’s from helping my parents with the chickens,” I defied.

We were to lead the entire congregation of pious young people, just behind a tow of men carrying Maria herself. On the last day of practice, he told me he would wait for me at the corner near our home, so we could walk to the town center together.

After I went about my rounds and click-click-click went the grains to the feeders, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to hang my bestida. It lay on my bed, freshly hand-washed, but how I feared it would become wrinkled!

I ran to our backdoor, past the charred coco lumber from last night’s cooking. It was quiet at home. All my siblings had already gone for early preparations—the four of us each given a task as important as the next. As the youngest, I was only too glad to be a part of the festivities. Even if it meant I had to go straight home after practices, unlike my elders.

Save for my older sister’s side of the bed, which was unkept, my white dress lay quietly in order. I took a hanger out of the closet and hooked the dress next to our mirror. I avoided my reflection, as my face would be flushed and as brown as ever from heat and sun. I can already surmise what neighbors and relatives would tell me today: you look so much like your mother.

I was meaning to ask mama if I should be getting ready by now. When she found the white, tiered dress for me at the tailor shop where she worked, she was told it had many tatters beneath the ruffles. The shop owner, a Chinese-American woman, told her to take it home, without asking so much as a sentimo. I look back now and realized I must have looked disappointed when she came home with it. It took her many bright afternoons to sew in the gaps between the delicate lace. Then she made alterations to the fit, submerged the garment in water and cornstarch (twice), and for good measure added a small bow by the collar. When she saw my face in the mirror wearing the dress, she put her hand on my cheek then went to fix herself sweetened kape nga mais in the kitchen.

She must have been up late last night again.

A few nights ago, near midnight, she was called outside by one of our neighbors. None of us could hear the entire conversation, but it seemed severe. Our eldest, Panchito, closed the windows when we heard raised voices. Then we heard our mother wailing. When she came back inside, Anita, my elder sister, offered her a glass of water. My mother waved her hand and said: “Dili. Kape.” She wanted corn mix coffee.

Our father was not home yet, but in due time would come barging in our front door with treats. All of us listened intently to his voyages to lands like Butuan, Leyte, and Cebu. “It was raining hard one night, and the very roofs over our heads were beginning to come off—luckily Dodong (our long-time family friend) found shelter for the three of us down by road. It turns out to be a chapel of San Pedro. Dodong had to make the sign of the cross before busting open the chains with a heavy rock. Hopefully God and all the saints can forgive us!”

I saw my mother make a face.

For an entire year, papa frequented Bohol, where he said the pristine beaches had sand like milk powder, and there were strange creatures that made noises at noon, and again at sunset.

“These were the Alimokon,” he said. “If you are on a journey in the morning and an Alimokon coos in front of you, turn back and go home. You have been warned of impending danger.”

Before departing again, he kissed mama good bye and left money for a month’s spending. But mama learned quickly to be tight-fisted, as papa was known to be gone for much longer. He left only last month.

The next afternoon, as they were repairing a sacristan’s robe for the parada, she looked at my sister Anita with her suha-shaped eyes and asked about Roldan, one of the men who accompanied father at work. That morning, Anita had just seen Carmen, Roldan’s wife, front-heavy and heaving. “They have to make do without a third man until I give birth,” Anita heard Carmen prattling to a choir of helpers sweeping the steps of the rebuilt St. Augustine Cathedral. “Roldan has been home for seven months now. He’s a good, loyal husband…” Carmen trailed off as she fanned herself with a thin, Mama Mary paypay. Through the fan, she peered at Anita passing by.

“’Nang Carmen will be giving birth soon so she forbade ‘Nong Roldan to Papa’s trips,” my sister told my mother. “There’s no Manong Roldan, only Papa and Dodong. Just the two of them.” Mama looked at Anita calmly. After that, Anita thought none more of it. But after Mama’s death, my siblings and I learned she went a little further. Mama had sought the cousin of a distant relative who once lived in the same town Father frequented. She was told it was no secret that her husband strolled about the plaza with a young lass tied to his hip, with the loyal Dodong trailing behind. One, two, three, and a fourth, growing inside my Father’s mistress.

“She bore a child! The boy has your husband’s eyes, and his love for women. How the boy clings to his young mother’s breast like a tarsier.” This was what we heard before our mother awoke the entire neighborhood with her wailing.

I knocked on the door to my parents’ room. “Ma?” Sometimes she overslept. At odd hours of the night, light would still flicker beneath the space of her bedroom door.

“Ma?”

“Ma! Ma! Mama!”

Mother was hanging from the ceiling. I stood on the chair just beneath her and ached my limbs to untie her overhead. I dared not look at her face.

When her body came down, I untangled the many layers of cloth straining her neck. I crouched down with her and held her close, my arms wrapped around her to keep the warmth from leaving her body.

Panchito saw us like this. My father eventually took the handsewn cloth made of retaso when he got home a week later, and we never saw it again. Papa would cease his travels and stay home to take care of us, eventually working at a soda plant until he died in his 70s. Through the years, his handsomeness faded until it was apparent that he was much lonelier than he liked to admit. Papa never remarried.

It was much, much later when I found out that Segundo had been waiting for me nearby when they took my mother’s body away. He must have seen me in house clothes, crying for God.

Anna Miguel Cervantes (b. 1993, Cagayan de Oro) is a writer & artist interested in the nexus of her identities as maker of text, moving images, and installation.

Spectacle in the Dark

Nonfiction by | March 18, 2024

It’s June and I sit inside a 7-11 that is below an old house located between old buildings that line Claveria, one of the oldest streets in Davao. This 7-11 branch is small, so it had to maximize space inside to make way for some tables and benches. While waiting for my grilled four-cheese sandwich, a guy sat beside me; I realized that it was impossible to have someone sit across from you – all four tables are positioned facing the street.  There were more seats outside, but I chose to bask in the cold of the AC, having walked a kilometer under the midday sun. Just across the next block facing the spot in 7-11 where I am sitting, is the Lawaan Theater and behind me are the Odeon and Eagle theaters, run-down and crumbling. The guy sitting next to me on the same bench moved to the adjacent table when it was vacated. The grilled cheese sandwich took longer than I expected.

Shake Rattle and Roll

It’s December 1990 and Papa took me to see Shake Rattle and Roll Part 2. It was my first memory of going to the movies. Even though we lived that time in the slum area (called Barrio Pogi) directly in front of the cinema complex. Entering a different world for two hours is just a walk across. SRR 2 was sort of an upgrade from the horror komiks that I read for 50 cents from Pogi’s suking tindahan. The monsters seemed more real and scarier in the dark, larger than life. The old standalone cinemas of my childhood were really dark, made more overwhelming by the only light emanating from the silver screen. The darkness was vivid and the memory of it was. I even remember sitting along the aisle.

The episodic Shake Rattle and Roll horror film series began in 1981. It took 9 years for Part 2 to happen, but the 90s made up for its absence in the 80s as it became an annual staple during the Metro Manila Film Festival, a festival that, although named after the country’s capital region, happens throughout the entire Philippines, or at least in cities where there are theaters.1 SRR 2’s first episode is about a ghostly possession, where Eric Quizon’s character succumbs to the evil spirit of a mad doctor played by Eddie Guttierez. After wearing the doctor’s ring, the husband becomes murderous and torments his wife, played by Janice de Belen. The episode features a flashback scene that shocked me when I saw it again as an adult. In it, Gutierrez’s mad doctor performs a forced abortion to a young schoolgirl, played by the late Isabel Granada. Papa covered my eyes during the scene, but I managed to peek a split-second and remember seeing blood dripping onto the white basin. Rewatching it, I was amazed at how nerve-wracking the scene was – aside from the abortion scene, there was copious bloodshed when the doctor blew his brains out and when Quizon cut off his finger – and even more amazed that I was actually let in. I guess the rating would have been PG 13, which meant kids can go with an accompanying adult. 

Godzilla vs.?

It’s July 2023 and I just watched two Godzilla movies back-to-back. The Japanese ones. Godzilla vs. King Ghidora and Godzilla vs. Biollante. I watched them to conjure up a memory. I wanted for a particular scene to match a certain image and unlock a more vivid childhood memory of me watching it alone inside the Lawaan Theater. I later learned that the name alludes to the province of Davao, then an undivided Region 11, being a logging haven. Davao also became a stronghold during the Japanese occupation, and many Japanese migrated to Davao to engage in abaca business even before the war.

I watched King Ghidora first because I am certain that it came after SRR 2 but then if foreign films often get screened late in the provinces, there was a chance that the 1989 film with Biollante might be the one that I saw. If it was King Ghidora, I might have seen it in 1992 when I was eight. The faint image I had in my head was Godzilla in a city with buildings around him. But isn’t this scene a given in any Godzilla film, as he is wont to wreak havoc in the city at some point?

In the mid-90s, we moved from the downtown area to a suburban village, closer to the cement factory where Papa once worked. I got a Godzilla toy from Papa, and grew fond of it, the memory of watching the Godzilla movie fading away. When I saw (larger-than) life-sized Godzilla lording it over a building in Shinjuku in 2017, two months after Papa died, I couldn’t summon the memory to life, more preoccupied by the need to record the moment on Instagram. Of course, I would later learn of Godzilla as an anti-imperialist cautionary tale amidst remnants of Japanese occupation in the city kept alive by tourism. And I would later be involved in organizing a film festival that started as a collection of Davao-made horror short films that express the urban anxieties of living in post-EJK of Duterte’s Davao.

There is a bias for things from the past that comes with age and nostalgia that when our memories of it become hazy, we try to salvage it from oblivion and obsolescence. But a certain ‘spirit of the times’ decides which ones are worth remembering, Annie Ernaux says. Like reviving a certain grandeur and feeling of awe from the crudeness of visual effects in monster movies of our childhood. Even with the spectacle of CGI, some of us harp on the pre-digital effort of make-believe. From the aswangs in SRR 2 with its boar-like fake fangs that ate its own kind in a clever body-swapping narrative to the giant kaijus that exude menace even when they are sloppy. They were my spectacle, and I followed it into the dark.

Despite its present shabby structure, the old Lawaan theater still stands. It was turned into a headquarters of a Hindu religious group though I haven’t really figured out how the building would still have inhabitants. Prominent in what used to be its marquee’s place is a streamer of then-congressional candidate and civil society leader Mags Maglana who dared to go against the reigning Paolo Duterte during the last elections. On one side, part of the Odeon-Eagle complex has been demolished and part of it is now a Victory praise and worship center. Amidst the rising towers that are now threatening to swallow downtown, the detritus of my childhood adventures, memories etched in the dark, may have found their own light.

[1] I am not sure if throughout its history the MMFF happened simultaneously all over the country. I imagine carrying the reels outside Manila then would have been more laborious and time-consuming.

Jay Rosas is a film programmer, critic, organizer, and filmmaker based in Davao City. Recently, he was selected as one of the Southeast Asian fellows for the Arts Equator Fellowship.

Trials of the Flood and a Side of Fried Chicken

Nonfiction by | March 11, 2024

Reeling in Hunger

Reels on Facebook really know how to test me when I’m at my lowest point: scrolling through food shorts at 2 AM while my gut punches my brain for craving food that won’t be available until later. But among these food clips, fried chicken is the frequent visitor to my phone-bleached eyes. I let these reels torment my dinnerless soul while rain relentlessly pounds the metal roof outside. And the only thing I can do is imagine that I was the content creator dipping that drumstick in gravy.

Everyone on social media is in search of the Holy Grail recipe of perfectly cooked fried chicken. Some say wet and dry batter is the secret; others, buttermilk and brine. Use a variety of spices, and double fry it for that “extra crunch.” There’s also the simplicity of the Kanto fried chicken: big pieces deep-fried and sold in batches that pack street stalls with hungry customers regardless of the weather. Each recipe boasts quality with these adjectives: tender, crispy, juicy, sarap to the bones. Chicken, hot fried chicken, was man’s friend amidst life’s woes. I had to bring these recipes to life, but little did I know that the pitter-patter outside brewed something else.

From Prison to Prison

As the university finally granted us a much-needed escape after grinding and floating throughout the first semester, my focus shifted from studying to spending hours laughing and craving on whatever reel that appears on my feed. I scrolled on Facebook away from the readings, away from the recitations, and away from the academic pressure cooker. Additionally, due to my dormitory’s prohibitions on using cooking appliances for safety concerns, I longed for the taste of home-cooked meals and fried dishes that I would prepare myself. Upon returning to Tagum for a twenty-day escape, I relished the opportunity to cook meals by myself and serve them to my family. Frying chicken was more than just satisfying my mother and younger brother’s cravings. It was a closure I sorely needed and a refuge.

However, my stay was plagued with persistent rain . We’re used to searing temperatures from 9 AM to 12 noon, with the sky becoming dark and cloudy as early as 3:45 in the afternoon. Around 5:30 PM came the rain shower that persisted until midnight. We found ourselves trapped indoors as the water levels gradually rose, encroaching on our doorstep with ill intent. Who knew rain could be a prison? Fortunately, my mother and I had secured a week’s worth of groceries—including the chicken pieces I’d been planning to cook—by going to the mall early. What’s more, the clouds had spared us from their weeping. Otherwise, the fares would have doubled or added twenty pesos more, and we’d be left stranded at the mall’s entrance waiting for a ride.

Recipe for Disaster

There are areas in Tagum City with low elevation, and these are vulnerable to flooding even with the slightest drizzle. During the night, when it rains for an extended period, people would hastily pack their essentials and evacuate to the nearest gym or school to seek shelter for the night. Then they’d go back home the next day to check for the things they left, even if it meant wading through the muddy waters once again and facing possible health risks. This practice, and the deluge that necessitated it, has existed across generations; even my mother once braved these conditions before finally moving downtown.

But this time was different. What began as brief showers and small puddles escalated to nightlong downpours and stagnant waters. These floods not only swallowed roads but also crawled into and engulfed house floors in some areas. This time, it spared no corner of the city, reaching even the previously untouched neighborhoods and causing city-wide blackouts that plunged barangays into darkness. Because of this, evacuation efforts became increasingly hazardous, with residents navigating solely by the faint light of LED flashlights. Widespread class suspensions were declared, and many students and their families were displaced. Worse yet, the water buildup due to days of heavy rainfall further exacerbated the crisis by rendering crucial entry points inaccessible and causing soil instability in some areas.

I was back on the kitchen, preparing lunch by placing the ingredients and mentally seasoning the chicken by scrolling on Facebook when suddenly the city government’s page issued a road advisory:
“NOT PASSABLE TO ALL TYPES OF VEHICLES: Tagum to Carmen via Guadalupe”

The reported Low-Pressure Area (LPA) hovering over Southern Mindanao created an impact that was anything but low. All travelers to and from Davao City and nearby areas were cut off. We were trapped, and my father, who was planning to go home, was stranded on the other side of the flooded fence.

Marinating in Uncertainty

We spent the following days glued to updates on the flood situation, watching the road status fluctuate from “NOT PASSABLE TO ALL VEHICLES” to “PASSABLE TO HEAVY TRUCKS AND LIGHT VEHICLES” and vice versa. Large crowds sought refuge at evacuation centers as their homes were inundated with the flood. And there were no signs of it subsiding anytime soon due to intermittent showers. Students and employees who had classes and work were in a state of limbo: anxiously waiting for the Guadalupe bridge to become passable.

Luckily, there was an alternative route people could use; albeit a lengthy slog that cuts through many towns before arriving at Panabo — one more city before Davao. However, even this detour offered no guarantee as the roads became impassable once the Pagsabangan River overflowed. I, on the other hand, chose to wait for the bridge’s water to recede so that my father could finally go home. My mother and I would get elated whenever the road advisory said that the bridge was passable for heavy vehicles like trucks as it meant that the water was starting to ebb; and worried when it rose again.

Meanwhile, I saw some individuals force themselves to take the route despite the treacherous currents. A motorcycle driver almost got swept away if it weren’t for the people who jumped out of their vehicles and dragged him to safety. Families waited on the other side, while it was work and school for others. No deluge can simply overturn the unwavering demands of life.

Serve Hope (and Sensitivity) on a Platter

Despite the relentless downpour and turmoil the LPA brought to the city, it did not completely submerge its spirit. There were institutions and concerned citizens that led donation drives toward flood-driven barangays and puroks and offered essentials such as food, water, and clothes. Volunteers and rescue teams spent nights tirelessly wading through the waters to help evacuate those who were still trapped and stranded. A prominent social media influencer even posted a video on Facebook cooking adobong manok and showing dozens of packed meals ready to be delivered. Unlike the hapless chicken thigh, the people did not succumb to the prospect of being fried in its own predicament. Instead, what I saw were struggling citizens offering aid to other struggling citizens without any second thoughts. People helping other people without the need of national broadcast, although it would certainly help boost awareness. A celebrity breakup hounded the headlines at the time.

While excessive promotion of resilience risks romanticizing disaster, we were fortunate that the city government wasted no time in spearheading relief efforts. We did, however, expect someone from the upper echelons of government to express a tinge of sympathy and compassion on Mindanao’s situation. But he was busy, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, and it wasn’t the time to look for someone who wasn’t there.

We continued to chat with my father via video call to check on each other, waiting for the flood to subside. I then left my mother and younger brother to the conversation and headed back into the kitchen to take out a Crispy Fry packet. There were still some drumsticks left over, and I needed to cook supper before the flood cuts the power out.

Clint Jovial Delima is currently a first-year BA English (Creative Writing) student at the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Thin Skins in Short Supply

Nonfiction by | January 1, 2024

Last January, I bought three onions for 75 pesos. It’s known that they can make people cry. Now, they can break hearts, too.

We started 2023 with a shortage in full swing. It’s a crisis, you might say. We have those all the time. True, but this is a different kind of crisis. This isn’t a state of emergency declared when a typhoon floods your house. This isn’t the kind of threat that happens when men with guns show up unexpectedly, or when you see the face of a friend on the police’s wanted poster for alleged charges of attempted murder. We learn to expect these things when the language of justice is money. It says what’s right and what’s red.

This crisis is the kind that creeps up on your windows or darts across your kitchen floor. It’s quiet, insidious. The worst kind. You go about your chores, go to work, grate your fingertips on a keyboard for chump change. You don’t notice it until it’s staring you in the face. By then, it’s too late.

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