Bulalakaw

Nonfiction by | June 30, 2013

Sa gamay pa ko, kanunay ko makakitag bulalakaw nga kalit lang mosutoy gikan sa kawanangan padulong ambot asa sa kalibotan. Diha pa mi nagpuyo sa Quezon Boulevard, sa may Salmonan banda. Katunggan pa ang maong lugar kaniadto, daghang bakhaw ug waterlili, gurami ug puyo, hasta tangkig. Sa gabii kalingawan namong mga bata nga magdulag biros, tigso, ug tubig-tubig. Tingali tungod kay kanunay ko naa sa gawas sa balay sa gabii mao nga kanunay sab ko makakitag bulalakaw. Apan naa koy mahinumdoman nga usa ka dako ug siga kaayo nga bulalakaw nga mihiwa sa kangitngit ibabaw sa Isla sa Samal. Nakahinumdom ko niini kay morag duol kaayo ang bulalakaw ug dugay napalong ang iyang pagdilaab. Nakahinumdom ko nga mihunong sa pagdula ug gitutokan ang paglupad niini hangtod nga nahanaw.

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An Ode to a Facebook Stalker

Poetry by | June 30, 2013

(a response to the poem “Ode to a Facebook Photo” by Allen Samsuya, which appeared in December 2, 2012)

In this portrait, there are only my eyes
that speak of yearning to see
The stream of your stars
scattered in my galaxies.

I swim my eyes through the nebula
outside this four-cornered universe.
Nevermind the griffins and bountiful trees.
Let me see your abyss.

–
Karen Kae is a BSED-English student in the Ateneo de Davao University.

Water Lily

Poetry by | June 30, 2013

Dugay na nakong gipanind-an
imong paglunang sa linaw,
Buot ka na nakong ibton
Kay sa kaanindut sa tubig
Gasinagbot ka lang.
Miaksyon nakog duol
Aron tapuson na ang imong
Pagpalaksot ning linaw
Apan sa dihang ikaw akong pagabunluton…
Tinuod mong kaanyag imong gipanalipod
Og imong napugngan akong kamangtas,
Gitun an mo pa gyod ako
Sa bililhong pagtulun an.

Macky is a graduate of AB in Literature from University of Southeastern Philippines. He is the president (soon to be former) of Union of Literature Students.

Imagination and the Making of a Nation, Part 2

Nonfiction by | June 23, 2013

Keynote speech delivered on the occasion of the Ateneo de Davao Writers Workshop 2013 held last May 27

My Facebook shows a photo of the well-known critic, Isagani Cruz, home from an European sally. He writes, “Geneva might be the cleanest city in the world…Soon I will return to the Gates of Hell, but dirty or corrupt though it may be, Metro Manila is home sweet home.” It’s almost the same way I feel about every place where I have set up a bed and a kitchen, home in its plainest sense–it may not be much of anything in comparison with the magazine-sleek, full-colour portrayals of the homes of the rich and famous. Home to me is three-dimensional, solid and sensual, populous and visceral. It is the house where I live, the cluttered room, the dirty kitchen, the straggling garden, the people I love, those who might dislike my smell or the sound of my speech, the heat, the cold, the mud. If you transport me to another, better place, this sense of home will follow me like the smell of frying buladin the morning, like the muscular memory of the language I grew up with, like the tireless eyes of my mother watching us all from her grave in Ormoc’s hillside graveyard. No matter where I would be in the world I know I belong here even if by chance I will never return here for the rest of my life.

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Imagination and the Making of a Nation, Part 1

Nonfiction by | June 16, 2013

Keynote speech delivered on the occasion of the Ateneo de Davao Writers Workshop 2013 held last May 27.

We have just completed a major political exercise, the mid-term elections of 2013, which left in its wake varied effects upon the countryside, conflicting memories for us to deal with, many dilemmas, lessons and realizations to ponder, and prospects and speculations about our future as a nation. This election has not been as loud and strident as elections past. It did not leave us mountains of trash–literally–to put away as in earlier elections, when thousands of brigades had to be mustered nationwide to rip off the posters and markings from walls, electrical posts, even trunks of trees in every barangay and even along the highways.

This election left a bad taste in my mouth because for the first time I had a close encounter with the vote-buying syndrome. Our day helper is a nice cheerful garrulous lady in her mid-forties, who lives near our little subdivision in Tacloban City. In my family the helper sits and eats with us. So for the duration of the election season dinnertime conversations were instructive on how our neighbors were gearing up for the election. My house help told us how much she expected to “earn” from each candidate, from mayor down to councillor. She did not give a thought about the senators–there were no pickings to be had there, she observed dismissively.

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The Last Guardian Seeker, Part 2

Fiction by | June 9, 2013

Chieftain Logaton lays a chunk of ground areca nut on the betel leaf, adds a dash of lime, and rolls the leaf. He hands the whole quid to Timuk.

Timuk bites off and chews. In a moment, the menthol taste of the quid cools his mouth.

Chieftain Logaton smiles at Timuk. “You don’t have to tell it to me, young man, but I know that’s the best quid you’ve ever had.”

Timuk spits the residue on the dirt floor. He says, “I won’t be stingy with my praise, Chieftain. You deserve the reputation for having a way with plants. You use the same ingredients as others do, but your hand adds magic to the quid.”

Logaton’s smile widens, exposing his red, areca-stained teeth. “Ah, but you have yet to taste my latest concoction. I found out betel quid tastes so much better when sprinkled with tobacco. I’ll make one for you. You should take it to your fagamal.”

“Tobacco? Isn’t that from the lowlands?”

Logaton stares at Timuk, his smile wiped away. “Yes,” the chieftain says. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Chieftain, I must come to the lakeg tree as pure as possible. My betel quid must not contain anything that is not from here, especially something that is brought by our enemies.”

“Oh, that Wot!” Logaton says. “He has poisoned your mind against the people from the plains. He is not content with sending you off with just betel quid. He also wants you to not enjoy the quid. A quid is just a quid, it’s not food. Only food is prohibited. You won’t violate any rule whether your quid has areca or tobacco or weed.”

“It wasn’t Chieftain Wot who told me about staying pure. It was Chieftain Bendung.”

“That Bendung, too. I’m sure he made you a beliyan like him. How does he expect chants to help you stay alive for nine days? To tell you what I truly feel, young man, this guardian seeking is madness. Nobody knows if akaws still exist.”

“Chieftain Sik, the next and last chieftain I’ll visit, had a spirit-guardian not a long time ago.”

“But not anymore. The spirits have left us, young man. What the other chieftains don’t see is that for the people of the plateau to survive, we must adapt to the times. We must learn the ways of the people from the plains. We need not fight Gantuangco. Do you know what I’ve done? I let the company use my territory without any objection. I struck a deal with Mr. Gantuangco himself. I told him I would not oppose the operation but the company must hire the people of my village as workers.”

Timuk’s mouth falls open.

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The Last Guardian Seeker, Part 1

Fiction by | June 2, 2013

Timuk wipes the tears off Wadina’s cheek. “I will come back,” he tells his wife, his hands cupping her chin.

“I know,” Wadina says. “I’m sorry, I can’t help but cry. I know you can do it. You can capture the akaw. It’s just that . . . Oh, Timuk, it’s too dangerous. For nine days, you have to stay in the lakeg tree without food, and then you will fight the spirit-guardian when it appears. Do you really have to do this?”

“I have to, Wadina. The five chieftains have chosen me. This quest is for all the Manobo people. We cannot fight the intruders on our own. They have guns. We need the akaw to protect us.”

Wadina takes a deep breath. “I will offer my prized hen to Nemula,” she says. “I know the almighty will help you. You have a good heart, Timuk, and you are brave and intelligent.”

Timuk smiles. He kisses the infant in Wadina’s arms and whispers, “Sleep tight, child. I am taking this fagamal for you. I want you and your brother to grow up without fear, safe in the land Nemula gave us.”

The older child, five summers old, stands silently beside Wadina. Timuk kneels down and tells him, “While Father’s gone, you take care of Mother, all right?”

“Yes, Father.” The boy speaks with the fluency of a grownup. “I’m the man of the house now.”

Timuk chuckles. “Good,” he says, tousling his son’s hair. “You remember everything I tell you.” He stands up and tells his wife, “Do not worry, Wadina. I am not alone in this quest. I will be bringing with me the counsel of the five chieftains. I have spoken to two of them, and I will drop by the remaining three on my way to the lakeg.”

“I trust you, Timuk,” Wadina says. “Your children and I will be waiting for you.”

“I will come back,” he says. He unties his horse from the tree and mounts it.

The other people from the village, huddled several feet behind Wadina, yell the guardian seeker goodbye. Timuk waves at them as the horse runs, disappearing into the other side of the hill.

Timuk feels cold, and he knows it’s not because of the wind sweeping past him. It’s because of fear. Despite the confidence he has shown his family and tribesmen, he’s not sure if he can capture the akaw, if he can grab its scrotum first. The chieftains have told him that if the akaw grabbed the seeker’s scrotum first, the man would lose his mind. For Timuk, it would be worse than death. It pains him to imagine himself going home talking to invisible people and laughing at inanimate objects. Wadina and the children will be hiding in shame all day. The kids in the neighborhood will tease him and make him dance. The elders will be shaking their head in disappointment.

Timuk reminds himself that he has to see three more chieftains. Perhaps after talking to them, he will finally be sure of himself. He lightly kicks the horse, and it speeds up, galloping on the footpath that leads to the village of Chieftain Wot. The pounding of the hooves is loud, but to Timuk’s ears, the beating of his heart sounds louder.

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