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.

Dakong Krus

Fiction by | March 11, 2024

Naghinay-hinay ra ko sa akong mga lakang niadtong orasa padulong sa sementeryo. Gituyo nako nga hapon na managkot kay aron dili na kaayo init ug gamay-gamay na lang ang tawo nga mang-duaw sa ilang mga minatay. Ingon ani na man ‘sab ang akong naandan nga ginahimo matag kalag-kalag.

Pasulod na ko sa sementeryo, ug tuod man, ubay-ubay na lang gyud ang akong makitang mga tawo. Naa’y pipila ka mga police gabantay sa entrance, mga tawo nga gabitbit og bulak ug mga kandila, ug ang uban makita nako nga daw ga-picnic sa may lubong. Tulin ang akong paglakaw apan may mikalit og gunit sa akong kamot, “Te, kandila oh,hutda na lang ni bi, tulo diyes.” Gilingi nako ang tag-iya sa maong kamot nga daw gaspang nga liha paminawon sa’koang panit — batang lalaki, sa akong tan-aw mga 12 o 13 anyos ang pangidaron, uga ang iyang pamanit, ug daw kasudlan og tubig ang kalalom sa iyang collarbone. ‘Ah, solvent boy ‘ning bataa ba,’ akong huna-huna. Nagduha-duha ko’g palit sa iyang baligya kay akong pamasin nga ipalit ra ‘sab niya’g suyupunon ang halin, ug mipadayon na lang ko sa pagbaktas paingon sa akong duawon nga lubong. Apan wa ko niya lung-i ug miingon, “Sige na gud, Te, aron makapanihapon mi sa’kong manghod,” sabay tudlo sa batang’ babaye nga naglingkod sa unahan, mga 9 ang edad sa akong tan-aw. Deformed ang tiil niini, nag-aginod sa paglihok, ug daw maglisod kini sa pag-barog. Ang akong gibati daw gilumos og dakong kalooy pagkakita sa bata nga gapanawag ‘sab sa mangagi sa iyang tungod ug gihagad nga paliton ang iyang mga bitbit nga kandila.

Diha-diha mikuot ko sa akong bulsa ug gitunol ang singkwenta aron paliton ang baligyang kandila. Nagpasalamat siya ug miingon nga magkuha sa daw siya og sukli sa iyang manghod, apan giingnan na lang nako nga dili na lang, ilaha na ang sukli, ug mipadayon ko sa paglakaw aron managkot na.

Paghuman nako’g panagkot ug duaw sa mga lubong sa’koang ubang mga paryente’g higala, nakahuna-huna ko nga mohapit una sa dakong’ krus aron managkot og kandila alang sa tanang nangamatay, dayon mouli. Didto nakita nako usab ang magsuon. Nag-atong sila sa duha ka sinindihang kandila samtang nagbitbit og pinutos nga kan-on ug pila ka tusok nga isaw.

Samtang milingkod ko sa ilang likod paghuman nako’g sindi sa kandila, nakadungog ko miingon ang batang’ babaye sa iyang maguwang, “Ya, gibantayan g’yud kaha ta nila Mama ug Papa karon? Siguro kung naa pa sila, dili na unta ka mahasol magsige’g karga nako kay si Papa ra’y magkugos nako man.” Naminaw ra ko sa ilang pag-istoryahanay. “Sagdi ra, Day, kabalo ko pirmi sila gabantay nato. Ug ako, dili man pud ko kapoyo’g atiman nimo oyy,” ang tubag sa maguwang.

Sa akong kakuryuso, wa’ nako mapugngi nga mo-sagbat sa ilang istoryahanay ug nangutana ko kung naunsa diay ang ilang mama’g papa. Mitan-aw nako ang mga bata ug dili matago ang kasubo sa ilang mga mata samtang mitubag ang batang lalaki, “Namatay, Te, tulo na ka tuig. Ingon nila adik man daw ug pusher, mao to, gipang-tokhang sa mga pulis,” saysay niini samtang nagtulo ang dagkong’ luha.

Naghuot ang akong dughan nga mibiya sa sementeryo tungod sa nadungog nako nga istorya sa bata. Sa akong hunahuna, ani g’yud siguro ang kalibutan, dili mahutdan og dagkong’ krus nga ipapas-an, bisan pa man niadtong mga luya ug huyang pa ang abaga.

 

Angelie L. Mamites is currently pursuing the degree of Master of Arts in Literature at the University of Southeastern Philippines.

Maayong Paglakaw, Gali

Poetry by | March 11, 2024

Miabot na gayod ang tukmang panahon,
Mikunsad na sa yuta ang imong bituon.
Giagak na sa balod, sa gabon, ug sa hangin,
Ang kaliwat ni Gaun nga nangita sa kabilin.

Magbakho ang yuta sa imong pagbiya,
Apan sa imong pag-abot, ang langit magsadya.
Ang imong mga Buuy, naghulat na sa pantaw,
Didto sa Talugan kung diin may kalinaw.

Kalinaw kanimo, Anijun (07.20.2020)

 

Si Gine Mae L. Lagnason ay isang full-time faculty member ng Central Mindanao University. Natamo ang digring masterado sa Philippine Studies-Language, Culture, and Media sa Pamantasang De La Salle-Maynila taong 2019. Aktibo siyang nakikilahok sa iba’t ibang gawain at kumperensiyang nagtataguyod sa pagpapalawig ng diskurso sa wika, kultura, panitikan, midya, at edukasyon.

Raindrops falling on

Poetry by | March 4, 2024

Rusty metal sheets
Pitter-patter, run down
The banana leaves
Droplets group
On red cement floor
Shower, splatter, surge;
The television floats.

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

Burning in Davao

Poetry by | March 4, 2024

Bitter shade or none at all,
underneath the fiery ball,
I bite my teeth as I go outside,
praying to Christ I don’t burn
at the first touch of light.

Metal, cushion, all hot to the touch.
Like my coins as I count how much.
I wonder
how the driver has not melted away
in front of the glass.

I squint and see the metro-inferno
outside: the people walk as if it’s not a hell-hole.
How could one endure sunburn’s gash,
white light,
biting anyone in its path.

Then I remember
days of rain and cloud,
when I prayed it was
burning in Davao.

Benjamin Thursday R. Rosaupan is a student studying AB English in Ateneo de Davao University.

Talanaw’wo

Fiction by | February 26, 2024

Alas singko i-medya sa kilumkilom sa bukid sa Barangay Sirib, milanog sa tibuok dapit ang tingog sa langgam-pari gikan sa mga punoan sa Nangka ug ang mga manok nag tilaok ug nanugpa na pud sa punuan sa mga tambis. Si Dayang, usa ka dose-anyos nga babae, miadto sa umahan aron pangitaon ang iyang manghud nga babae nga ginganlag Naw, siyete anyos. Si Naw kada adlaw gayud magadula sa uma og patintero paghuman sa iyang klase kauban sa iyang mga amigo ug muuli ra pud kini kung apason sa iyang maguwang. Padulong na si Dayang sa maong dapit ug nasinati niya ang mga halakhak sa mga bata nga nagdula sa umahan. 


“Naw! Uli na sa balay! Nag hulat na sa imoha si lola!” Abtik nga nihawa si Naw sa iyang mga kadula, gikuha ang bag nga gibiyaan niya sa abog nga yuta, ug mipadulong sa iyang ate. Ang maong bag nga hinimo sa iyang inahan ilabihan og detalye: napuno og beads ug lagsik ang mga kolor. Samtang nagpauli sila, nikanta si Dayang sa uso nga kanta nga Ingles na napaminaw niya sa internet.

“Lahi ra gyud ang panahon karon. Ang tribo naa na gyuy mga Facebook account. Maayu kaayu ang epekto niini sa atong lugar sama sa paspas nga komunikasyon nga dili na kita mubaktas pa ug pila ka kilometro aron lang na makamensahi ka ama. Dali rapud ta makapangayug hinabang sa gobyerno.” sampit ni Dayang sa iyang manghud na naglakaw na wala sa panimuot. Apan si Dayang nagpadayun gihapon ug storya, “Daghang tinubdan sa libro gikan sa internet para sa tulun-an sa mga bata. Ganiha sa klase, nay gipa download si ma’am nga PDF para basahon nato sa lecture. Pero sambit ni lola Nita, tungod pud sa internet, nalingaw na ang mga kabatan-unan kun unsay mga trending nga sayaw ug kanta nga gawas na sa pinulongan sa atong tribo. Maong ganihang buntag, gitudloan ko ni ante sa kanta ug sayaw sa tribo.”

Ang mag-igsoon parehong sakop sa tribong Bagobo sa barangay Sirib apan ilang lola wa pa gayud kapaminaw nga sila nikanta sa pamulong sa ilang tribo. Ang ilang inahan mipanaw na ug ang amahan nila nagtrabaho sa syudad sa Dabaw. Pirme kini mag Facebook isip komunikasyon nila. Ang ilang kauban sa panimalay mao ang ilang lola nga giila sa ilahang tribo nga Talanaw’wo o maghahabol. Sa iyang katinguwangon nga nag-edad ug otsenta-anyos, maglisod na siya’g lakaw ug dili na siya makaklaro, apan ang iyang kamot, dili gyud makalimot sa paghabol o pagtahi sa ilang mga sanina ug bag. Pag-abot sa kubo nga hinimo sa iyahang amahan gamit ang kawayan, daling miadto si Dayang sa pugon kay wala na nisiga ang kalayo sa iyang nilung-ag nga saging. Si Naw nidiretso sa kwarto ug nilingkod sa kilid sa katre kung asa nagpahulay iyang lola Nita, ug kini nisundog sa kanta ni Dayang ganihang pagbaktas nila. Pagkakita ni lola Nita sa hugaw na bag, dali kini niyang gipaphaan aron mawala ang abog.

Si Lola Nita nitan-aw sa iyang apo samtang iyang mata naay mga kasubo. Nisampit kini, “Nakahinumdom ko sa imong inahan atong syete anyos pa sya, pirmi nako siyang suguon na magtahi og nawwo inig human skwela, unya kung dili sya magtahi bunalan nako iyang kamot og lepes.”

Nahunong sa pagkanta si Naw ug nangutana siya sa iyang lola, “Unsay lepes la?”
Tubag ni lola Nita, “Mao kini ang himan nga ginagamit sa paghabol.”

Dayun mitindog kini nga nagbakho ug naglisod og lakaw, ug niadto sa iyang gamay nga baul aron ipakita ang lepes. Mipadayon kini ug storya, “Ang lepes na panag-iya sa imong ina. Gikan pa ni sa akong inahan na gipamana sa akoa, ug akong giregalo sa imong ina kadtong syete anyos na siya. Kani gyud akong ginagamit sa paghabol sa inyong sinina ug bag aron pirmente ninyu sya mabati. Akong mabati ang iyang kamot na naghabol ug mahinumdoman nako pirme ang iyahang pagka-maayu motahi”.

Gigunitan ni lola nita ang lepes pag-ayo, sama sa pag-amping sa butang na mabuak o sa bata nga bag-o gilalang. Gihipos niya kini’g balik sulod sa gamay niyang baul.

Nihubas na ang nilung-ag na saging ug gibutang kini ni Dayang sa ilang lamesa. Naghimo kini ug sawsawan na ginamos nga gipuga-an og lemonsito. “Anhi namo diria Naw, manihapon nata”. Daling milingkod si Naw sa lamesa.

Si lola Nita gialalayan ni Dayang padulong sa lamesa ug lingkuranan. Sa pagkuha ni lola Nita og saging, wa sya masayod nga kini init pa kaayu. Siya napaso ug kalit gikuha iyang gakurog na kamot. Nakulbaan si Dayang maong nakasyagit siya, “Ayaw na paghabol la!” ingon pa ni Dayang, “mao na ang katungdanan ngano magsige’g kurog imong kamot. Mas maayo nga magpahulay na ka sa imong pag tahi. Mao na ang gapakapoy sa imoha kada adlaw.”

Nihawa si Dayang sa lamesa ug miadto padulong sa baul nga gibutngan sa lepes ug miingon, “Ako na kining hiposon la aron di naka maghago sa paghabol kada-adlaw.”

Pagkakita ni Lola Nita nga gikuha ang iyang lepes, kalit kining mitindog ug naglakaw padulong sa iyang apo. Iyahang gipakita kang Dayang iyang nagkurog na kamot ug siya miingon, “Tan-awa ang akong mga kamot, bisan kon ang akong mga kamot nangurog, hilabihan ka payat ug luya na kaayo alang sa paghabol, ang akong dughan dili gayud matigulang, kay gihigugma ko ang akong pagpanahi, ang akong inahan ug inyung inahan—-ang dapit diin ako nahisakop.” Mitibi kini sa kasakit. Wala na gyud napungngan ni Lola Nita ang daklit na takoban na iyang gina antos kada-adlaw.

“Gibati ba nimo ako? Nakakita ka ba nako? Tan-aw sa akong mga mata, unsay imong nakita? Usa ka himatyon nga lawas ug hanap na ang mga mata, apan tan-awa kini, ako ang bata niining dapita, ang iyang anak ug ang iyang inahan. Ako iya niya ug sa kataposan mobalik ako kaniya— ug gikan sa akong kabatan-onan ako nabuhi ug miginhawa alang kaniya. Karon nga hapit na matapos ang akong gutling, modangop ko kaniya, apan mapasalamaton pa ba ang akong inahan ug anak kung ang iyang lawas dili magsul-ob sa mga kolor ug panapton nga nagpaila kaniya? O ang madasigon ug makuti nga mga sumbanan nga nagpaila sa iyang panit, sa iyang timaan ug sa iyang nawong?”

Ang tingog ni Lola Nita nagkurog kay ang iyang dughan nangngutngot sa kasakit, apan dili niya masinati nga ang iyang nawong napuno na sa iyahang mga luha. Wala kasabot si Dayang ug Naw sa ilang lola Nita, apan sila nagsugod nasad ug hilak pagkakita nila sa ilang lola nga nitibi sama sa usa ka syete anyos. Mipadayon kini sa pagstorya samtang sigeg tulo iyang mga luha,“Dili ba siya maguol sa akong pagbiya nga walay kabilin sa pagmintinar sa iyang kasagrado? Imo bang gision ang iyang sapot ug biyaan siya nga hubo taliwala sa adlaw ug sa katugnaw nga kagabhion? Mahimong mamatay siya sa katugnaw kung mohunong ka sa paghabol sa iyang mga sinina. Siya masakiton usab, tungod kay daghang langyaw nga mga tiil ang nagtungtong kaniya, naghugaw sa iyang kasagrado ug kaputli sa dunot nga mga tiil nga dili igo nga pagtahod sa iyang yuta na panit. Ang baba sa iyang mga anak napuno sa lain nga mga pamulong nga nakapakurog kaniya sa kahadlok. Siya nagahilak nga walay katapusan panahon sa kagabhion, Kinsa ang mopahid sa iyang mga luha? Kinsa ang mokanta sa iyang pamulong kung ang iyang mga anak dili makasulti sa iyang pinulongan?”

Si Lola Nita naglisod na og ginhawa ug siya niluko sama sa usa ka bata nga nahadlok. Daling miduol si Naw sa iyang lola ug gigakus niya kini. Wala gayud kasabot si Dayang sa mga panghitabo, ang iyaha nalang pirme madunggan kay ang pagsulti ni lola Nita ug “ina,” ug “anak,” ug nahinumduman ni Dayang ang iyang gibati kadtong adlaw nga nahibaw-an niya ang pagpanaw sa iyang inahan. Siya pud miluko ug nihilak sa kasakit kaniadto, kay wala na ang inahan nga nagbuhi sa iya, ang inahan na nag-amping sa iyaha panahon nga wa pa siya masayod sa mga butang sa kalibutan. Tingog na lamang sa pagkanta sa iyang inahan ang nakapahilom sa maong tibi ni Dayang. Kanta nga gamit ang pinulongan sa ilang tribo; ang kanta sa iyang inahan aron siya makatulog ug maundang ang iyang kahadlok.

Hinay nga gibalik ni Dayang ang baul nga naay lepes. Diha pa niya nahuna-hunaan nga ang lepes maoy nagpahinumdum sa inahan ug anak sa iyang Lola Nita na dugay na nibiya sa kalibutan. Gidawat ni Lola Nita ang baul sama sa usa ka sanggol nga bag-o ra nahimugso. Gigakus niya kini og taman, ug gikantahan niya kini sa awit kaniadto sa iyang inahan aron muundang ang tibi sa iyang anak.

Nihunong kini sa pagkanta ug nihunghong sa maong baul. Nadunggan ni Naw ang hunghung sa iyang Lola Nita nga gigakus ang baul sa iyang tyan, “Dili nako pasagdan nga mawala sa panumduman ang akong inahan. Dili nako tugutan nga makalimtan ang akong anak. Siya kinahanglan nga mabuhi sa sulod sa ilang huna-huna ug kasing-kasing, sa madasigon nga sinina, pinaagi sa mga awit ug sayaw, pagginhawa, paglungtad, ug sa kahangturan gimahal siya sa iyang mga anak.”

***

Aimee Rose Larida is a graduate of Bachelor of Arts in Literature and currently studying Master of Arts in Literature at the University of Southeastern Philippines. This story is inspired by Apo Rita Agon of the Bagobo-Klata Tribe.