Parang

kiko. 27. ph.

[pamalawag]

Kailangan kong sabihin sa'yo

May mga panahong

Tumatama sa akin ang araw

Na tila gong

At naaalala ko ang lahat,

Maging ang iyong mga tainga.

"I have to tell you" by Dorothea Grossman

[pamalawag]

Gubat

Sumasampalataya ako dahil ito na lang ang natitira sa akin matapos ang lahat. Matapos maglakbay sa bundok ng iyong bibig, sa heograpiya ng iyong balat. Matapos kong iwan ang aking damit sa baybayin at sumisid sa ating magkaibang wika. Matapos ang panahon ng mga alitaptap. Matapos ang bagong taong puno ng pangungulila. Matapos ang sakuna ng apoy, ang pagbulwak ng lupang punung puno ng galit. Sumasampalataya ako sa kalagitnaan ng Talomo*. Sumasampalataya ako sa dapithapon, sa dumudugong langit na nagpapahiwatig sa pagdating ni Mandalangan. Mula sa kanyang bibig, pipitasin ko ang salitang gubat. Sa isang salita lamang, maaalala ko na sa napakaraming mga lugar sa bansa, iba-iba ang maaaring pakahulugan ng digmaan. Sumasampalataya ako sa diwang hatid ng pangalan ni Mandalangan. Nananalangin ako para sa tagumpay ng pangayaw, para sa masaganang ani, para sa ulan. Hindi ako karapat-dapat magpatuloy sa iyo, ngunit kapalit ng gubat, at bilang pasasalamat, handog ko ang aking braso at paa, ang aking nasisilaw na mga mata at nauutal na bibig. Sumasampalataya ako sa gubat at sa bundok, sa gubat sa bundok, sa digma, sa bansa ng mga punongkahoy.

*Ang Talomo ay isang mayor na ilog na matatagpuan sa bayan ng Talaingod, Davao del Norte.

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Ang Wika ng mga Ibon

Marahil ang gayong bumibighani at tumutupok sa ating mga katawan ay siya ring nagpapanatili sa ating buo: Gubat, hamog, ang huni ng mga hindi mapangalanang ibon. Limang taon ka nang namamangha sa nakalulunod na luntian. May hindi maitaboy na tinig, bumubulong

Hindi mo pa kami lubos na nakikilala.

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Dasal

(para kay Uwak)

May dalawang uwak na magkasamang lumilipad—ang unang uwak ng mundo? O ang huli? Saan patungo? Sa ibang mundo, tiyak ang kanilang patutunguhan. Sa kabilang mundo, dalawang kalapati ang magkasamang lumilipad. Hindi kalapati ang lumilipad kundi maya. Hindi mga ibon kundi alitaptap, mas maliit, mas madaling ikubli at kumawala. Hindi mga alitaptap ngunit dalawang ilog. Sa kabilang mundo, marami tayong sapa na magtatagpo sa sabang. Sa kabilang mundo, hindi ang Davao River ang tunguhin natin, pero bumubuhos pa rin tayong lahat papunta sa dagat. Sa kabilang mundo, hindi nasunog ng araw ang balat mo, pero uwak pa rin ang call sign mo sa radyo. Sa kabilang mundo, marami tayong uwak na magkakasamang lumilipad, o murder, ika nga. Isang platun ng mga uwak. Sa huli, nag-iisa ang uwak na lumilipad sa kawalan. Sa kabilang mundo, ako ang pinatay, pero ikaw ang nakakulong.

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Sunlight through trees, you, etc.

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Life Cycle of a Wave

I.

I have the most beautiful name, fit for a princess. I will always thank Ma and Pa for giving it to me. Before they moved to Davao, it was only my parents and kuya Emil. They lived in Mati then, where Papa said it was always scorching hot, but lucky for them they had a small hut by the sea, next to the big resort where Ma and Pa worked. Papa told me he cleaned the pools and fixed the aircon; Mama cleaned the guest rooms every night, even if no one stayed in them. When they were really lucky, Papa’s boss, the owner of the resort, let my kuya Emil wander around the resort when he couldn’t be left behind in their payag, which was almost all the time. Eventually, when kuya Emil became big enough to help Pa clean the pools, Mama got pregnant with me. My parents didn’t want to leave the sea behind. It was the only life they had ever known. But with two kids, and a measly wage of 300 pesos per day between the two of them, they figured their chances were better elsewhere, like Davao. They managed to find a tiny room for rent in Sasa where, late at night when everyone else was asleep, and even the local drunkards were passed out in their own homes, you could hear the sea’s gentle splashing against the concrete seawall. Two weeks after they moved, Mama gave birth to me, with the help of the barangay midwife, and named me Delmar, of the sea.

II.

Papa works all day in the wharf, manning the barges that leave for Samal. He leaves at dawn and goes home around midnight, smelling heavily of saltwater and sweat. I’m the only one awake around that time, listening to the waves and thinking about what a good swimmer I’d make. I could smell Papa’s damp smell before I could see him come in. He would open the door very slowly, careful not to let it hit Mama or kuya Emil or Jomar or little Jilyan, whoever slept closest to the door that night. Then he would see me, sitting by the only window of our house looking out into the water, and hold up a finger to his lips and smile.

Mama leaves the house as early as noon for her own job, which I think is the best job in the world. She sells all kinds of clothes at the night market in Roxas. Bright floral dresses, every kind of high heeled shoe, a thousand blouses arranged by color in the racks. One morning, she and Papa gave me a light blue dress with thin straps. Papa likes blue. He said it reminds him of when he and Mama first met.

When they had gone, I tried on the dress. I loved how light it felt. I loved the feel of the fabric under my fingertips, like fine sand. I stepped out into our street and into the daylight. I hated my Grade 9 adviser for forcing me to get a more school-appropriate semi-kalbo haircut. It had taken more than a year and copious begging to let my hair grow out, almost to my shoulders. I could have dyed it blonde, or green, have it cut in layers, and then I could be truly beautiful. Maybe I could even be Miss Universe. Now it’s all gone.

I climbed up on the seawall right on the edge of our barangay, looking out into the blue sea which glittered in the sun just like my dress. I walked slowly along the edge of the seawall, pretending like it was a runway and the sound of the waves were applause from the crowd.

“Gwapaha oy!” a harsh voice suddenly called out. I turned and saw three burly men in green long-sleeved shirts and orange helmets. They were sneering as I carefully climbed down the seawall. I kept my head down, scared that they might start talking to our neighbors about the bald boy in a girl’s dress. I glimpsed two more men wearing similar helmets on the other end of the street, pointing at the other houses. One of them was taking pictures.

“Where do you live, ‘day?” asked the first man. He had the broadest shoulders of the three of them. I pointed to our street.

“Are your parents home?”

I shook my head.

“This your sister’s dress?”

“Papa and Mama gave it,” I squeaked.

The men burst into laughter. “Your parents must be blind, ‘day. I bet you have a big penis, how could your parents miss that?” The first man crouched down until he was close enough that I smelled the cigarette smoke and tar from his shirt. “What’s your name, ‘day?”

“Delmar.”

“Listen closely, Delia”—he paused, let his companions snigger— “take off that dress and start packing your things. Your pretty clothes might go to waste if they end up buried in the rubble.”

I ran to our narrow street; ran so fast I didn’t notice my dress getting caught in scattered nails along the way. For a time, at least, the dress had been perfect, beautiful. I was beautiful.

III.

I still pass by the rubble of our neighborhood sometimes if I have a few pesos to spare for jeepney fare. Papa still works in the wharf. None of us could ever let go of the sea. We moved somewhere in Agdao; a friend of Mama’s managed to find a new apartment for us, just as cramped as our old house, but farther from the sea. So Papa sometimes doesn’t go home for days.

Mama quit her work in Roxas after a bomb exploded there one night, not too far from their stall, which killed six people. So she stopped bringing new clothes. Soldiers swarmed Roxas the next day. I’ve come to realize this is a city of soldiers. There’s a military camp not too far from Sasa. So when the bulldozers came to demolish our houses and our neighbors began throwing stones to keep them away, military trucks were quick to respond and beat everyone they saw clutching a rock. I can understand. Our neighborhood loves the sea, why else would we stand our ground? Even Papa almost got arrested for shouting at the soldiers.

If there is one good thing to come out of all this, it’s that everyone passing through our old neighborhood, now nothing more than rubble and some concrete doorways somehow still standing, can catch a glimpse of the sea, even for just a moment. Enough time to remind them we lived here once, listened to the back and forth of waves every afternoon, woke up to something vast and beautiful every day.

[pamalawag]

Unang Buwan ng Pagkamangha

Tila huminto saglit ang mundo,

lumiyab ang lahat ng apoy sa lahat

ng abuhan sa sityo nang mas maliwanag

nang matanaw mula sa pintuan: isang nanay,

karga-karga ang kaniyang musmos

habang tumatawid sa namamagang ilog na maghapong naulanan.

Ang aking natutunan sa ganitong pag-indayog: ang salitang

Manobo para sa baha: lanog at itong tahimik na paghintay

sa pagtila ng ulan: lurang

[pamalawag]

Miss u kiko love u always! ❤️

Ty pi for missing and loving me. Kinailangan ko ata yan marinig. Ingat palagi. ❤️

[pamalawag]

Bai

A crowd has gathered around the two women. “The soldiers have no place in our villages!” the older woman cries and, as if she can no longer contain her wrath, finally stands, mustering all her authority.

“Apo—” the other woman keeps interrupting. She keeps a safe distance, like she is afraid the swirling dust will stain her white blouse. The bai’s jewelry, tinkling as she waves her arms furiously, ringing as loud as bells, stifles the other woman’s voice.

The bai is not talking to the other woman anymore. She faces the crowd. “I want to pull out the military and the Alamara!” she says with such fury, I can only listen with all my heart. I could have believed she could do it herself. Her words come strong and quick like bullets. In my mind’s eye, she has already gone off to war.

All over the country, women with wax on their elbows look up from the bamboo floors, they cease their dancing, spit out their nganga, step out of their houses, and everywhere they follow the bai.

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The Weight of a Body

It starts as these things usually do, these brief transactions of love: with a look. I see you on one of my evening walks, try to meet your gaze. Or did I single out a picture of your body as I scroll through an infinite collage of anonymity? It doesn’t matter. We end up in the same windowless room anyway. In this fenced country of synchronicity and eagle-eye efficiency, you can only wander so far until you’re called back and forced to don more camouflage, to render yourself indistinguishable with the next body in line.

We have only seen each other in half-light. Your tattoo of an eagle draped over your right shoulder exists only in this windowless room, for my eyes.   It is thus easy to imagine, in the dimness that could have been both our hearts, it was you who looked for me that night; in the dark, it is you trying to catch my gaze.

[pamalawag]

Visit Original Link

Me, reading Gift, 2 by J. Neil Garcia. Enjoy!

[pamalawag]

Hubad

Ilang beses na rin tayong nagtagpo sa mga pagi-pagitan:

ng bukid at siyudad ng pangarap at gunita, ng panahon

ng mga wikang kapwa tayo mga baguhan—Tagalog, Bisaya

—upang saglit makinig sa mga natuklasang dila. Alam mo ba?

kung ang pagsalin ay pagbuhos ng isang wika buhat sa pitsel patungo sa baso

maaari rin itong pagtanggal ng damit

hanggang matunton sa pagitan ng saplot at balat

ang panibagong kahulugan nagaabang, hubo’t hubad.

[pamalawag]

Notes on Learning a New Language

Greetings

            It was June of 2017 when I first met J. That was also the last night I spent in UP before moving to Mindanao, where I would spend the next five years, although I didn’t know it at the time. We had actually talked before, briefly. We met up in Palma Hall where he gave me a pirated copy of Breaking Bad, but he was in a hurry then, on his way to a meeting in Maginhawa. I didn’t ask him particularly for a copy, but he was kind enough to go to UP even if it meant taking a small detour. Even then, I realized he was the kind of person who would make time for others.

            J had come from an Independence Day mob in Ayala. I saw him just outside Ministop Maginhawa, in shorts, sandals, and a black t-shirt—typical mob attire. He stood at exactly six feet; I remember him telling me. As always, he had gone out of his way to keep me company on my last night in UP before my flight to Davao. He had nowhere else to go, he told me, since his dorm had a 10-pm curfew (we had met up at around 9 pm), and besides, he added, we needed proper introductions.

            And so it was that we spent the entire night swapping life stories on a stone bench in front of Vinzons, sharing a pack of cigarettes. I had unfortunately forgotten what we talked about, what trivial piece of information about my life I had left him with. I do remember the look of utter surprise on his face when I told him I was leaving him with all my books. He said a book was like a piece of someone’s heart, and so giving and receiving books was a very intimate act of exchanging parts of ourselves. You can imagine his astonishment and delight when I left with not one, but a duffel bag full of books I had collected over the years. For him, I had already given my entire heart.

            A few days after that night, and for all the days and nights to come while I was in Mindanao, I arrived in Davao City, thinking how J would have loved it here. Since that night, everything I’ve done has been with J in mind, as ridiculous as it might sound. For instance, I learned that “magandang umaga” in the language of the Manobo tribe of Davao-Bukidnon is mowpiya no masolom if they are Matigsalug, or maradyow no masolom if they are Matigtalomo. “gabi” in Manobo is marokilom; “hapon” is mohapon. The greetings would adjust accordingly. Manobos distinguish themselves according to the river their ancestors had come from. The Matigsalug tribe live along the banks of the Salug River, flowing through southeastern Bukidnon towards Davao City. The Matigtalomo are mostly found in Talaingod, Davao del Norte.  J would have loved that idea—water separating the languages we grow up in, whether it was a river or a sea, yet somehow still making ourselves understood despite the distance. He grew up in Zambales and was introduced to the sea at a young age.

Geography, Wildlife

            I recently read about a tribe of aboriginal Australians, the Guugu Yimithirr, whose native language primarily uses cardinal directions—north, south, east, and west—to locate themselves and everything around them, giving them a near-precise sense of direction. How useful it would be to never lose your bearings, no matter where you might find yourself. My first few months in Bukidnon were some of the most difficult. I didn’t know any Binisaya, and neither did my comrades, who were mostly Manobos. They could understand Tagalog, mostly thanks to old Pinoy action movies they enjoyed watching. Tagalog and Manobo have very few words in common. I can recall only two, which are, interestingly enough, “paa” (foot) and “dagat” (sea).

            I eventually developed a fear of getting lost. To put my mind at ease, to find my bearings if I ever got lost in the mountains, I learned as many words for land markers as I could. Wohig is a river, however wide or shallow it is. A mountain is called bobongan. It is easy to walk on napo, flat plains. My comrades used to ask what it was like living sa dibabo, in the flat, lowland plains through which all rivers flowed on their way to the sea. Sampow is a waterfall; powalas is a forest. My favorite, because it is the most recognizable, is sabang, the point where two smaller rivers converge into one, and is thus given one name.

            Aside from geography, I learned a great deal of wildlife. What continues to fascinate me is the fact that Manobos have a name for every bird they encounter. There is the salapati, a dove. A kalasanon, a wild chicken, can be very jarring to hear in the middle of a forest. A saguksok got its name from its distinctive call, which sounds exactly like “sa!-guk!-sok!”. The locals often lament about the kalyawa, whose cries used to fill the forests near their homes. Rigoy, a comrade of mine who died of tuberculosis, often imitated the call of the salapuyan. It has a low, lonely, drawn-out call. Wandering through the forest, I would always mistake it for a dog’s whimper. I like to believe he was talking to the birds, divulging all his secrets.

Verbs

            The limokon resembles a pigeon—plump and small, with gray-brown feathers, red feet, and a red beak. Its breast has an iridescent plumage, now maroon, now green. It has a distinct call, starting out as low and slow hoots, eventually going faster, like a hand rapping on a wooden door, insistent and thoughtful at the same time. It is perhaps for this reason that the limokon figures as an omen bird in Manobo superstition. When one hears a limokon’s call ahead of him while walking, he must immediately return to where he came from, for whatever lies ahead will bring him danger and bad luck.

            The mountains of the Pantaron range in Talaingod are harsh for the uninitiated and unfamiliar. Pantad is “sand” in Manobo, loose, treacherous earth. It took me years to master the principle of walking like my comrades do; even five years later I am still as clumsy as ever. They, on the other hand, almost floated on the earth. If learning to walk was hard enough, I had to master running, climbing, hiding, and generally living in the mountains. Ogpa is to live. Ondoi kad og ogpa? means “where do you live?” Makati and UP and even J all seem farther than ever, which is ironic since I can now simply purchase a ticket and not worry about any danger along the way. Gipanow is to walk, palagoy to run, and holos to hide. There are two words in Manobo for fording rivers, it reminds me to always be mindful of where I’m going: uraek is to ford a river upstream and laras is to ford downstream. Nabuntol is tired; gimoloy is to rest. I don’t think Manobos believe in the afterlife. When someone dies, the people they leave behind remark, “nakagimoloy on.” At least, nakapahinga na.

 “I love you”

            Tita R was the mother of one of my comrades, the only other city-raised bourgeois intellectual who lasted almost as long as I did in the mountains. She says she missed me, and is glad not because I am alive, but because I am still alive despite everything that has happened. Sometimes I feel I should not share in her or anyone else’s happiness about my continued survival.

            When learning a language, almost always the first thing we learn is how to say “I love you” in that language. We believe the people we love deserve to hear it in all tongues; naturally I’ve told J this, since he enjoys language and its nuances and possibilities.

“Ginhawa” in Tagalog means “relief.” But “ginhawa” in Binisaya, and its Manobo translation goynawa, means “breath.” Beyond breath, Manobos use the word goynawa to describe the heart of hearts, that part of us only the people we truly love can touch and hurt and caress. In times of distress, when a loved one has caused pain, they lament, masakit ka kodi no goynawa. In Manobo, “I love you” is dakkol goynawa ko keykow. In my own translation, I say, my heart has grown; it is for you.

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Why There Are No Bells in Camp Tan

To tell the time they use trumpets blasted over speakers.

All the dogs howl all the same. They think this is already too much agony

and they probably thought bells sound too solemn in a place with so much killing.

[pamalawag]

The Weight of Silence

      What do murderers leave behind after a slaughter? Blood? Rainclouds? The smell of gunpowder mixed with ash, settling gently in a corner of the kitchen? Lingling clutched the plastic bag of rice closer to her chest. Silence, she decided after a while. That is what murderers leave in their wake.

      Lingling watched the men as they clambered up their trucks, hauling rifles, unopened sacks of rice, and monobloc chairs. They were quiet, except for the occasional barking from one of the men, sitting in passenger seat of one of the trucks. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Partosa. He looked like he was in his late 20’s, with a tall, lean frame, short-cropped hair, and a permanently furrowed brow.  Nay Sena, the sitio’s oldest resident, approached him, one hand still carrying the five kilos of rice the men had given away earlier, the other gripping the car window. As she talked—Lingling was too far away to hear her words—Partosa’s brow creased even further as he peered down at her. Then he pointed to the back of the truck, where the men were now loading unopened cartons of sardines. Nay Sena approached them, stooped and frail, and held her hand out. A bald, middle-aged man, wearing clothes that looked more faded than that of his companions, gave her a couple of canned sardines then motioned for her to go away.

      After the men had loaded up all their things into their trucks, they drove off, one after the other. Everyone from the sitio watched them leave. When the men had all gone and the dust finally settled into a muted, sweltering March afternoon

      “Way klarong mga tawhana!” Anton exclaimed. His fists were clenched; the veins along his arms seemed ready to burst from his skin. His bare feet stirred up the dust in the sitio hall.

      “What now?” Jose, Anton’s father, asked him as he sat down and put one foot up on the bench. He and most of the sitio’s men had come from the corn fields and had therefore missed the meeting.  He held out his hand to his son. “Bi sa imong layter.”

      Anton sat down next to his father and passed him a lighter. “They killed another chicken, Pa.”

      Jose didn’t even blink. He took out an old instant noodle wrapper filled with cut up newspaper strips and inad-ad—finely shredded tobacco. He took a pinch and evenly spread it out on the half-folded newspaper strip. It seemed like a news article; only the headline remained intact. It read: “BEWARE THE REDS!”

      “Did you hear me, Pa?” Anton asked. “I said they killed another one of our chickens. We were saving that one for Maymay’s graduation.”

      Jose rolled up his likit and lit it. “What can we do, son?” Jose sighed and took a drag.

“Be grateful it was just a chicken,” Noning said, leaning on one of the wooden posts. “I heard they took another one, a girl this time, taga-San Roque.”

“Surely they don’t think she could be one of… them?” Manang Diday piped up. “Oh, keep still, ‘day!” she scolded her ten-year-old daughter Nina, sitting between her knees, as she picked out lice from her hair.

“You know how these people are. They think just because they have guns, they can do whatever they want,” Anton said.

“That’s called Martial Law, anak,” Jose laughed darkly.

“Laugh all you want, Jose,” Manang Diday pointed at him. “I’m surprised you all had the guts to head to the fields today. One of them was looking for you, you know, asking why you didn’t join the meeting.”

“Well, they found us,” Jose said. “Three of them went straight to my field, looking for Noning and Samuel, and all the other men. It’s a good thing they found them and let them go.”

“Yeah. Just in time too. And after a million questions,” Noning chuckled. “Ay, that reminds me.” He reached into his pocket and took out a pad of bright red capsules and a small, folded note. “For your brother.” He handed it to Lingling.

“Salamat, ‘kol,” Lingling smiled and took the medicine. Noning winked.

Jose looked at her with concern. “How’s Basil?” he asked.

“Arang-arang na, ‘kol,” Lingling replied.

“Lorena was asking if you were able to get the name of that lieutenant earlier,” Noning asked her.

“Lieutenant Partosa. He looks kind of like kuya, actually.”

“Kuya Basil is much more handsome!” Nina giggled.

Everyone laughed at tiny Nina. “No doubt he’s much kinder,” Diday sighed. “Naku ’day, I just wish his wound would get better, poor thing. We can’t hide him here forever. Who knows what they’ll do to him if they find out we’ve been harboring him.”

Lingling gently touched her hand and tried to sound as brave as her brother. “We’ll be fine, Manang. We’ll just have to keep quiet.”

They stayed in the sitio hall until late in the afternoon, waiting. Nay Sena emerged from her hut, carrying a bayong filled with rice and canned sardines. Anton hurried to help her.

“We’ll come back the next day, ‘nay,” Noning told Nay Sena when she reached them. He took the bayong. “Down by the river, as usual.”

“There’s some tundan bananas there,” Nay Sena squeaked.

“I’ll be sure to give an extra piece to Lorena. Anton can come with me,” Noning smiled.

“Just be careful,” said Jose gently.

Silence followed. The whole of San Miguel sat and waited for night to come, listening to the river at the foot of the hill, roaring with all its might as it made its way down toward the plains to which all killers returned, deaf to the coming torrent.

[pamalawag]

Sunset God

I pluck the word war from your mouth. You ride across a blood-red sky. I hear war and think, in many places, it means a rainforest. I hear you inspire courage. You only listen to prayers for victory. The rest I etch along my arms; I pray also for rain, and a good year for rice, and courage. I also carve courage on my skin. Courage against fire. Courage against darkness, which is sure to come. You reveal yourself only in a burning sky. When my comrades speak your name. Perhaps to remind us: war and forest share the same word.

[pamalawag]

Woman with Child Crosses a River

(Bugtong Lubi, Panganan, Bukidnon)

The world could have stopped turning, all the fires in the sitio

could have burned brighter at such a sight— a mother

with her child clinging fervently to her arm

as they cross a river, which overnight had swollen

like a vein through which all the blood of the body is now rushing.

What I learn from this teetering—

this balancing act— the Manobo word for flood: lanog

and this waiting for the rain to stop: lurang