History Matters

Nonfiction by | March 19, 2017

In August 2016, I finally submitted the approved manuscript of my PhD thesis. In the weeks after my final defense, I took a deep breath of relief, knowing that at last I can finally return to a normal life. Now I am able to sleep at normal hours, watch my favorite HGTV or do whatever fancies me without the guilty feeling of an impending deadline dominating my every waking moment.

To take advantage of this new status, I decided to resume reading fiction and picked up George Orwell’s 1984. Some people, who have been in similar circumstances, would understand the need for some time away from any scholarly undertaking.

I have been acquainted with Orwell’s writing, but it was a mistake on my part to plunge into his landmark novel at this time. Just a few pages into it, any conception of light reading flew out of the window. This book was dark, to say the least. It is a tragic illustration of what can transpire if we do not guard our democratic freedom to speak and think.

The novel is set in 1984, in the state of Oceania, one of the three super-states fighting for global dominance while engaged in harsh, domestic suppression. Where individual thought is forbidden and only Big Brother, the totalitarian leader, is allowed to reason and make decisions. The story revolves around Winston Smith, an employee of the Ministry of Truth, which operates in keeping with its motto that “Ignorance is Strength.” His job is to search old newspapers and other records for facts, then delete or “unfact” those that are politically inconvenient in the eyes of Big Brother. Winston is well-skilled at “doublethink,” which he defines as being “conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies…consciously to induce unconsciousness.” Completing the political realities of this society are the Thought Police – secret police that monitor and punish any “thoughtcrime” rejected by the Party. The citizens of Oceania know they are being watched, but no longer know how to care. Except for Winston, who starts to question these actions and writes down unauthorized information in a diary.

Thinking about the recent celebration of EDSA, it was not much of a leap to imagine a similar situation of “doublethink” working in some version of Oceania’s Ministry of Truth, gliding through the fake news that circulate through social media in our time.
Continue reading History Matters

Sabang

Poetry by | March 12, 2017

Ali, ambak diri sa Sabang.

Naghulat ang tubig-parat
sa dagat,
mahimuot ang isda
sa bula nga mokisiw
sa imong pagtugpa apan,

ang imong kalipay
sa pag-ambak
dali ra mahanaw,
sama sa pagkawala
sa bula, taod-taod
mubalik napud kag katkat
sa kabatuhan,
aron bation usab
ang samang kalipay.

Public school teacher Jan Vernix M. Atix is a fellow of Ateneo de Davao Writers Workshop. He integrates local color in  his writings  to promote Samaleño culture. Sábang, which also means river mouth,  is visited by local and foreign tourists for a diving thrill and cliff jumping.

On Separation

Poetry by | March 12, 2017

Your parting kiss fell
like a mote of dust leaving
a bruise in my heart.

~ ~ ~
I still dare not move
the empty cup of coffee
you marked with your lips.

~ ~ ~
Her fragrance lingers—
dancing in the room, bottled
by the falling rain.

~ ~ ~
Years on, I’d still flinch
from hearing the song she sang
on the night we met.

~ ~ ~
A room full of stillness

Like volumes upon volumes of books—our words,
the ones we left unsaid—in a beautiful, lost library.

Gabriel is a graduate of UP Mindanao’s Creative Writing Program. He currently works as a web content writer.

 

Water Lilies of Tukanalipao

Poetry by | March 5, 2017

Under lilies’ round leaves
He hides
From bullets racing,
Left and right.

His pistol
Firm in his fist. The fiendish
Water stifles his breath.

The sun slowly ascends
Despite a spoilt slumber.
He rises

From the refuge
Of the river,
Witnessing fallen,
Armored comrades.

A revengeful morning!

In the mosque, he shoots
Presumed foes. Four
Defenseless carcasses
Floating
In their blood.

The water
Lilies in the river
Unmoving, but living.

Nassefh Macla is a Kaagan-Moro from Panabo City, Davao del Norte. He is a Creative Writing graduate from University of the Philippines Mindanao. This is in commemoration of the January 25, 2015 Mamasapano incident.

 

Tilamsik ng Dugo

Play by | March 5, 2017

(Unang Bahagi)

Tagpo: Isang lugar sa Mindanao

Mga Tauhan:

John: sundalo, may asawa.

Elaine: asawa ni John.

Abdul-Malik: nagnanais sumapi sa rebolusyon, may asawa ‘t anak.

Noraisa: asawa ni Abdul-Malik.

Farida: rebolusyonaryo, pangalawang asawa ni Abdul-Malik
(Magbubukas ang dula sa pamamagitan ng pagpapakita ng mga magsisiganap sa anyong pagdarasal – Muslim at hindi Muslim.)

KORO: Nanunuot sa kalamnan ang lamig ng hanging dumadampi sa pisngi lalo na sa may mga buhanginan sa isang isla ng Mindanao. Tumatarak, sumusugat ang mga kutsilyong mandi’y hawak ng dilim na bumabalot sa naghuhumiyaw na katahimikan ng lupa. Sumisirit ang sariwang dugong may mga katagang sumasabay sa pagbulwak ng mapulang likido. Binabaybay nito at niyayakap ang mga katotohanang pilit ikinukubli sa likod ng mga hungkag na pangarap. Ang dugo ay nananambitan, naghihinagpis, nanunumbat, humihiyaw. Ang bugso ng galit sa katahimikan at ang dugo ay iisa.

Elaine: Lagi na lang kasi yang uniform mo ang inaatupag mo. Pakiramdam ko ‘yang baril mo ang pinakasalan mo e.

John: Tama na Elaine ano ba? Kung anu-ano ang pinagsasasabi mo. Lagi na lang ba tayong ganito?

Elaine: Oo nga John. Lagi na lang ba tayong ganito?

John: Tama na, Elaine, pagod na `ko.

Elaine: Pagod na rin ako (katahimikan). Gaano ba kasarap haplusin ang baril? Ga’no nga ba ito kasarap hagurin nang hagurin? (Patlang) Paano ba maging baril?

John: Ilang taon na tayong magkasama.

Elaine: Oo nga, yun nga ang problema. Ilang taon na tayong magkasama. Dalawa tayo no’ng nagsimula, hanggang ngayon dalawa pa rin tayo.
John: Iyan na naman ba ang pag-uusapan natin? Siguro hindi pa ta tayo handa.
Continue reading Tilamsik ng Dugo

Haplas

Poetry by | February 26, 2017

Haplas or liniment in English
reminds me of my Nanay
from Vicks to Efficascent
from White Flower to Betet
she always had a stock of them
hidden in her brown colored box.
Whenever I travel
from our place to Davao
she would always hand me
the latest of her Haplas
telling me to use them just in case
and I would remember thanking her
and instantly see her face lit up.
So nights like this
when I lay in my bed
chest hurt from coughing
or legs sore from prolonged standing
like instinct I would grab a Haplas
and it works most of the time
Thanks to Haplas.
Thanks to Nanay.

—
Abi Andoy is an alumna of Ateneo de Davao University. She’s a “haplas user” for as long as she can remember.

Radioman

Poetry by | February 26, 2017

for Fernando Solijon

History remembers you now
not as the martyr
for an Abstract chained to purses and legalese
but sprawled mind-blown all over newsprint, arms
spread in a reverse hallelujah. Before sunlight
hits gridlock you once scalded with your tongue
the morning grind, and sailed through
headlines and commentary, but croaked
when you couldn’t find their roots.
It is said that anchors hit the unseen floor
to keep the ship upright
as the waves rock it.
Instead, some thought you would tip the ship over,
not knowing the point was to show the muck
that came beneath the current:
“Expensive houses and cars!” “Off-country vacations!”
“Fancy restaurant dinners!” “What happened
to the foreign aid?” “How much
of the budget are their Majesties juggling
from their air-conditioned thrones?”
And then, a phone call: “Capin is ready for you.”
The answers, always,
are another matter. Anyone can write them
or proclaim them on air but they break wills.
They leave bloodstains and broken bones
over brash words hitting air but sing praises
to paintjobs on broken stones,
even claiming to solve our woes and know
who we should vote
come next election.
It is said that Fate
missed you three times in your life—
two from murky waters, another
from the murky waters of politics. When She didn’t,
that evening She came by motorcycle, serving
canned death for dinner, the tins left by the door.
As you run aground, we are told, we must commit
to keep alive longing for truth. We hear static.
You see bloodstains on broken stones.

—
John Oliver Ladaga is currently a fourth-year student taking up BA English at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. He likes warm soup and is attracted to flowers growing through cracks in the wall. He is from Iligan City.

Aspiration

Poetry by | February 26, 2017

for Izumi Shikibu

If I could cup
rainwater
in my hands
the way you
bottle pain
in five words

I would be
whole.

—
Mary June Tesorero-Miguel is a graduate of the Creative Writing program of the University of the Philippines. She works in local government.