Akdaan Literary Anthology 1

AK=d raᜈ==

AKDAAN

LITERARY anthology

akdang hulagpos

Foreword by Nonilon V. Queaño Edited by Petronila Cleto

AKDAAN Toronto

First published by Akdaan 2013 Foreword and selection © Akdaan, 2013 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No Part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or try any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other—without the written permission of the publisher.

Akdaan Literary Anthology is an imprint of Akdaan E-mail: grupongakdaan@yahoo.ca ISBN-13: 978-0-9936126-1-9 (Digital edition) Book design by Chris Sorio Cover and layout by Ysh Cabaña Typeset in Caslon Pro and Perspective Sans Printed in Canada by New Labour Press Ltd.

Panalangin para sa Bayang Mahal (Para sa mga biktima ng bagyong Yolanda at para sa mga biktima ng Paglabag sa Karapatang Pantao) or

Prayer for Our Beloved Motherland

by Lui QueaĂąo/ Petronila Cleto

Halika aking mamamayan, tunghayan Ang kalunos-lunos na sinapit at hagupit Langgasan ang mga sugat na likhang danas Na kanilang tiniis , buong giting at pagharap.

Come, my people, and raise up your voice in prayer Cover now with your eyes Their eyes, their faces stained and whipped by winds Their lives trembling fast like helpless birds within The piteous hands of sorrow Gently peel the scars of the suffering They patiently bore, with faith, with courage Ngunit tayo’y mga puso ding nagmamahal Lilikumin natin ang santuwaryo ng kanilang alaala Upang payapain ang kanilang panimdim Ihatid sa hantungan ng mapagkalingang Bathala!

In our hearts, our ancestors left a love so fierce With it we may gather sanctuaries from their remembered images And smoothen their sadness into peaceful waves Bring them to the place of the blessing gods Aming dasal ay pangako sa aming mga kapatid Kapayapaang walang hanggan, panata at pag-ibig Gabayan kayo ni Bathala sa paraisong talaga Humayo, humayo nang payapa, nang payapa!

Our prayers grow a branch, a promise to all sisters and brothers Of endless peace to come, an oath of love!

As the gods fare you deep into paradise Fare you well in peace, fare you well, in peace!

Bert Monterona | Harvest Ritual

PAunang salita Foreword

T

he poems and stories in this collection resonate with themes of contemporary Philippine society, including that of struggle or revolution, love, death, and on nostalgia and the longing for home.

The theme of revolution refers specifically to the armed uprising waged by the rebels in the countryside, starting with its full articulation, in a poem such as “Tatlong Yugto ng Pag-ibig o Paano ba Magmahal nang Wagas?” (“Three Stages of Love or How It Is to Love Truly”) and ricocheting through a number that grieve over or mourn the deaths of heroes and martyrs – including the two poems on Leonard Co (“This Marker Will Bear Flowers” and Lingling Maranan-Claver’s “For Leonard”), Audrey Beltran’s “A Lesson in Behavioral Science,” Mark Angeles’s “Midterms,” through Joane Zaragosa’s “Willem Geertman,” Rogene Gonzales’s “Pinatahimik Ka Ba Nila,” Trina Federis’s “Resonant” and others.

On the other hand, poems and stories of love and romance complement those of social protest and struggle, as they celebrate those profound and elemental feelings of passion and longing for the an absent beloved. Pieces like Mari Acejo’s “San-o Ka Mapuli” balance off the social consciousness in Ysh Cabaña’s “CMYK”, Jayjay Carpio’s “Pagkamulat”, Chris Sorio’s “Makabagong Bangungot”, and Eric Wilson’s “Makina”. Those emotions of longing and nostalgia, certainly, are rendered in a different way when the object is that of the motherland which include Raymond Garcia’s “True Filipino”.

On the whole, most poems, narratives, and the essays render various representations and assertions of Filipino culture and consciousness in the foreign land where the migrant poet/artist has found his temporary home.

Nonilon V. Queaño, Ph.D. Professor of English, Comparative Literature, and Creative Writing University of the Philippines Diliman, QC 11 December 2013

The Word and the Filipino Writer’s Context First Notes Towards a Nationalist Literature iv

By Petronila G. Cleto

O

ur beginning was the word.

When I sat down at last to finally put down these words to paper and start this essay, I had already asked myself several times why I had to do an introduction. I was hounded by the thought that the reason or reasons should be infinitely greater than just a nationalist editorial team’s desire to have one introduction in Tagalog and one in English. I knew that the nationalism of our small writer’s group cannot be narrowed down to this type of aesthetic decision. That search for a rationale for this introduction also had a devil’s advocate that dogged it every step of the way: why write a separate English introduction at all? In other words, why not just translate the Tagalog introduction into English, and have another introduction in Ilocano or Cebuano? For the welfare of our English-speaking, or rather, our English-reading, audience, we could then have that introduction translated into English. I then realized that this nightmare, which has parallels with the writer’s nightmare, clearly shows us how Philippine literature is essentially intertwined with political concerns. Our present concern about accessibility of literature to the greatest number of Filipinos, is by itself political. I also saw that the eventual failure of nightmares such as these to faze editors and writers already tells us how the heart of Philippine literature is the strong and passionate spirit of resistance.

As the contributions streamed in, the reasons I was looking for started to congeal visibly on the surface – became vessels above the waters, poised to carry us to the meaning of our quest as publishers. The poems, stories, essays and articles, in Tagalog and English, reverberated in our collective environment, and it began to be clear to me that a person introducing this book had a very necessary project to tackle with – and it was no longer the question of a traditionally good introduction. Something else had to be done, and done through this introduction, if our book in any way hoped to be a real landmark in Philippine literature. The task of the introduction – it became clear, as the boats came in above the waves of contributions - was to initiate discussions around three points. The first point would be the context of this first anthology in Canada of Philippine literature; the second, the context of the Filipino and the person of Filipino descent as a writer in contemporary literature. From this point onwards, let me include the person of Filipino descent in the broader category of

Filipino – a rather arbitrary move, but for now, let us go by the idea that the difference between Filipino generations will not create too many problems for this project. Doing so, we can focus on the over-all project, for the project has already become more important than the nightmare. That project is the initial formulation of a nationalist aesthetics of Philippine literature.

This objective that has just become clear brings us, fittingly enough, to the third point, which seems the most important point for a book carrying within its covers what is, in North American mainstream parlance, called “emerging literature” (or literature written in North America by nonestablished writers from new immigrant communities). That point is the very particular context of the Filipino writer as a worker residing outside of the Philippines.

Discussions on all three were, I thought, important to present to any reader. However, I was also aware that the project could be messy and could fail: at the onset I had no idea what the impact of discussion on one point could have on discussions on the two other points. Later, I thought this riskiness gave a sense of adventure to this writing project. Also, the project could not – and our Akdaan group is committed not let it - at any point, turn into an “academic project”, and by that we mean a project that is of interest only to chair-bound thinkers and not to community activists, and not to community leaders who have some sensibility or perceptiveness about literature. We intend the discussions to be accessible to all of these people we have mentioned here. The project of initiating these discussions, in all its riskiness, offered the opportunity for me to be a kind of scientist embarking on a new critical experiment, with my experience of life and writing to guide me along. The support of the Akdaan team was also an important guide, for the team has always been dedicated to the mode of checking or spurring on the progress of each writer on the team, the progress of this project, and of our every project.

The context of the Akdaan anthology: the Filipino writer

As nationalist writers and publishers, the people behind the production of this book have had to deal with many questions all over again in the real time of pulling together the literary pieces. At some earlier time in each of our lives, we had encountered these questions, but they inevitably met up with us again. We asked them together as a group.

When is literature (or art) not elitist? This question, of course, involves a soul searching and ego-scouring process, ideally ending with a continued commitment to the Filipino and the development of Philippine literature.

Also: when is literature that is written to express nationalist sentiment not good literature? This involves a somewhat keen awareness of the relationship between politics and aesthetics, and the answer is usually: when the writing shows indications that the writer has not gone through the process of soul-searching and ego-scouring, and when the means used to achieve

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the writer’s intentions miserably fail in achieving them. Then there is an equally difficult question as the two preceding ones: how do we ensure, if at all we can, that we are encouraging writers to write, and not just indulging people with whom we would like to have, or maintain, a relationship? We have had to collectively face this issue, according to each contribution that provoked this question. We have learned to practice this critical mode of thinking through our workshops together, and we now continually remind ourselves that in this lies our value as a team.

In the process of doing all these, each of us in the editorial staff have gradually come, each in her or his way, to the surprising realization that we were not simply gathering together some literary pieces into a book. Through this book, we began to understand that our contributors sought us out, and as we responded to them, we realized what we were doing: we were providing the Filipino writer in Canada a context. And context is the home of every literary piece; is the home of every writer. It is not for us to provide a writer her or his identity – that task belongs to the writer. We do not give the writer merely a venue for her or his literary work to reach others – there are so many other venues, but they would be unable to bring together to the writer to a place where he knows he is working from a firm and living foundation.

The context we offer in our first anthology is probably unique in its breadth and depth of scope. In this book, we not only connect the writer in Canada with literature in the Philippines, but also with literature by Filipinos in Canada and the United States. We also connect the writer with Filipinos living everywhere in the world. We thus also connect the writer with Filipinos who are changing their lives in other places, and who are also changing the world in these places. The awareness of all these changes and this still unanalyzed flux, and therefore an acute awareness of time and place, which the Filipino has acquired and developed throughout and despite a history of colonization and neocolonization, a history of a struggle against dehumanization, a history that he constantly develops and changes with each day – that is the important context that the Filipino writer needs.

It is the same context that we want the reader to have.

From what I know of writing and the passionate desire to share the inner world in which a writer lives, this assurance of context that one’s efforts are received and acknowledged by an audience is an important key opening doors both to the world of action and the world of thought. From what I know of community involvement and activism, the assurance of a venue through which one could contribute to other lives is a wonderful key to the mutable world. Here then, our book gives a context and a venue to the writer and the reader – an opening to the dynamism of literature,

Akdaan Literary Anthology which is, though in the flesh of words, actually directed thought, feeling and energy.

We also realized we were also providing Filipino writers in the Philippines a context as well: the context of the Filipino diaspora, which is an important reality of our times. This brings us to the next point.

The Filipino writer in the context of contemporary literature

While she or he writes anywhere in the world, the Filipino writer has a sense of an audience to whom the literary piece is directed. The emotional colour of that awareness shapes the kind of creation produced.

The writer who thrives on romantic, optimistic and cheerful themes finds a good workplace in the lyric, folktale or ethnic mythologies, or in narratives lit up by local colour. The writer more moved by a skeptical and critical attitude towards events in the country, and knows there is an audience for this kind of awareness, will find a suitable workplace in satire and parody.

Those who have a closer relationship with the various local or regional languages and cultures will naturally work from within that relationship and enrich contemporary literature through it.

And yet, what do we say about the truth that the Filipino writer, of all the writers of Asian descent, has had the most exposure to Western culture and literature? The most used language of communication among the “culturati” and the “literati” – scornful terms politically-aware writers used in the 60s - is obviously American English, which seems to have been dyed into our century-old cultural skins, the seemingly permanent tattoo of American colonization. Through English, the Thomasite missionaries effectively brought Christianity across the archipelago and even up to the Philippine Cordillera region and other daunting mountain ranges, preparing the tribal masses or the reconcentrados (people who have relocated from the lowlands to escape colonizers or oppressors) for “developmental progress” and other modes of American cultural occupation.

The American type of colonization, through the popularization of education and of the English language, was effective in causing some erosions to the true cultural heritage of the Filipino. It has proved more effective than Spanish colonization, though the Spaniards stayed for three centuries and a half, holding the chariot reins over the country, using their language and culture as a whip for its labour base of slaves. And therein springs up an irony: we are good speakers and writers of English, and yet we do not seem to have a place marked for us whenever the subject of a world literature in English is discussed. Writers in English from India, in comparison, have more of a place. For many of us, this becomes obvious only when we work or live abroad. For some, the shock of not being perceived as

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“belonging” to the English-speaking world may not be something easy to shake off. Filipino academicians in foreign universities have had to struggle to create by themselves, and mostly through themselves, the credibility of the Filipino as a speaker and writer in English. The struggle of our workers and community activists regarding this same concern would, of course, be more complicated because it makes them more threatening for other workers. Possibly, for some of their employers, they are a cause of some feelings of insecurity.

The grand illusion that most Filipino writers in English have developed in the process of becoming writers is a sense of intense belonging to an international literature in English. It is perhaps this illusion which leads people to search for “models” in writing, often not realizing that their model is writing from a particular context, and that context, together with that writer’s imagination and sensibility, is what gives “meaning” to the resulting piece. As a student of English literature back in the 60’s, I often wondered why there are writers who are considered part of movements or schools of thought – Romantic, Realistic, Symbolist, Social Realist. How is the Filipino writer to look at herself/himself amid all these movements which did not really make an impact on us as a cultural community? Only individuals or a small group of artists have claimed being influenced by any of these movements. I propose that our task as a community of writers today be to define ourselves as a community, and find our directions towards a well-characterized Philippine literature. If we say that our literature is tightly integrated with our political context, then we may think of definitions along that line. We can, for example, declare a post colonial movement in the process of birth!

As for the Filipino writer in Tagalog, the context of his being a part of the diaspora of Filipinos to all parts of the world, gives him an interesting and unique vantage point for writing. She or he becomes a vessel of the word in its essential “purity” as a vital part of a “mother” language.

This Filipino writer has the task of keeping Tagalog as a vital language, as well as a language of history and of things past. The many writers in Tagalog in our anthology have a very clear awareness of that vision.

The Filipino writer as a worker residing outside of the Philippines

The communicable word was the wheel that started human civilization on its first exploratory trip to discover what the human being is.

Filipino writers who are now all over the world - on the avenues, highways, airways and digital wavelengths built by economic development - rightly feel that they are commissioned to write about their lives. It is important for us all to have a record of the changed context of workers who are also writers in these

Akdaan Literary Anthology past few decades, and for us all to imagine along with writers what our future is like in this world of seemingly accelerated time and the changed intensity of the spaces between people. We need to know accounts and indications of the impact of their changed work environment upon their bodies, now tattooed with other designs and by new machines, and their changed environment of estrangement from loved ones and the from the places charged with feelings and memories.

The same feeling of being commissioned is also apparent in contributions from worker-writers who have remained in the Philippines for one reason or the other. Their working and waking lives are also changed: the consumerism in the country, brought in by American and other cultures of wealth and leisure, has changed the gears of production, and the objectives of the labour force. What kind of cultural choices, if there are any, are still left for the perceptive Filipino? Is the stay-at-home Filipino incapacitated somehow by a kind of modern malaise? What has happened to the protagonists of Jose Rizal or of Aurelio Tolentino? What kind of dust is lying or flying about in the country’s streets and trails? Are there newly-born mythological creatures such as kapre, tikbalang, aswang who have taken a new shape? Is there a kind of suffering that is unique to that Filipino writer? Is it possible that this writer who has patrolled the ancient but still powerful prisons of that country has found an affinity to the agonized sleepwalkers of Kafka, or is it rather the writer-foreign worker who has – as he finds that the world outside can also be a prison? The context that is shared in this anthology by these geographicallyseparated writers becomes that context that gives meaning to all the words on which they have wheeled out to us their narratives.

These initial questions and observations are the roots of that constantly creative cassava (if I may so reshape the image in one of the poems in this book) which we can put to ground and help nourish with our minds.

We look forward, as we work, towards a nationalist harvest of writings. As Akdaan grows, and continues to find new ways to provide the writer a much-needed context for creativity, we can keep returning to this beginning point. At this point, we already understand that the initiation of discussions and the opening of selves are an important seed that must be nourished so that we can reclaim ourselves.

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MGA AKDANG LUWAL NG PAG-IRAL

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H

uling bahagi ng taong 2011 unang pinag-usapan ang pagbubuo ng isang organisasyon ng mga manggagawang pangkultura bilang suporta sa mga kampanyang tungkol sa mga isyung kinakaharap ng mga Pilipinong nasa sa loob at labas ng Pilipinas. Sa isang Vietnamese RestoBar nabuo nina Petronila Cleto at Lui Queaño ang ideyang ito pagkatapos nilang ipabasa sa isa’t isa ang kanilang mga nagawang tula. Sa dalas nilang magbasa ng kanilang mga tula, nabuo ang ideyang magkaroon ng isang grupong maaaring makatulong sa pagpapakinis ng mga tula at pagpapanday pa ng mga bagong manunulat na nakabase sa Toronto. Sa ganitong mga usapan din nabuo ang pangalang AKDAAN. Dahil inspirado sa bagong grupo ang mga unang kasapi ng AKDAAN, madalas na ang mga pagkikita, palitan ng emails at pati na rin chat sa facebook. Ngunit dahil sa iba’t ibang mga commitment ng mga kasaping ito, dumalang hanggang huminto na ang mga pagkikita, pag-uusap at pagbabasa at pagpuna sa mga akda.

Pero dahil nga likas sa mga manunulat na maghanap ng grupong ​ makakasama nila sa pagpapanday ng kanilang sining, muling sumigla ang AKDAAN pagkaraan ng dalawang taon. Nagkita sina Pet at Lui, Ben at Paulina Corpuz (Philippine Advancement Through Arts and Culture, PATAC), Ysh Cabaña, Jesson Reyes at Rhea Gamana (Anakbayan Toronto),at Chris Sorio (Vice Chair ng Migrante Canada) sa downtown Toronto sa kalagitnaan ng isang rali para sa araw ng manggagawa.

Sa pagkikitang ito inungkat ni Ysh, isang arkitekto at makata, ang tungkol sa naudlot na pagbubuo ng AKDAAN. Willing at determined naman daw siyang makipagtulungan upang mailunsad at mapadaloy ang tulaan at akdaan. Sa tudyuhan at kumbinsihan, napagkaisahan at naitakda ang muling pagkabuhay ng grupo. Dito rin napagkaisahan na kailangang magdala ng kanya-kanyang baong tula na mababasa, ikikritik at isasalang sa pandayan nang mga akda.

Sa Second Cup Coffee sa York University nagkitakita muli sina Pet, Lui at Ysh. Masaya ang pagkikitang ito na naging inspirasyon para masundan nang isa pang pagkikita, at isa pang pagkikita, at isa pang pagkikita, hanggang maging regular nang pagkikita, pagbabasa ng mga likhang tula at pagtutulungan para mapakinis ang mga nilikha, habang umiinom ng kape. Mula sa unang huntahan sa Second Cup Coffee nagpalipat-lipat na sa iba’t ibang coffee shops, library halls at public parks ang pulong ng AKDAAN hanggang sa maimbita ni Petronila Cleto si Mary Parreño sa grupo na dating CEGP kagaya din ni Ysh Cabaña. Nang tumagal ay sumasali na rin sa pakikipagtalakayan si Chris Sorio, ang Vice Chair ng Migrante Canada.

Unang linggo ng Hulyo 2013 naipormalisa ang pag-uusap sa kung ano ang AKDAAN at para kanino ito. Sumangguni rin ang mga pundador nito sa mga kakilala at kaibigan sa mga gawaing pangkultura upang maging malinaw ang mga batayan at tunguhin ng organisasyon. ​ Sa loob lamang ng halos limang buwan, naging aktibo ang AKDAAN. Lumahok ito sa mga pagtitipon at programa ng mga masang organisasyon sa Toronto upang lalong patatagin ang grupo, magpakilala, at kumalap ng suporta. Kasabay nito, pinasok na rin ng AKDAAN ang iba pang mga anyo ng paglikha. Nasubukan nila ang kakayahan sa pagbabasa ng mga tula, pag-awit at pag-arte dahil sa mga imbitasyong tulad nang sa Diwa ng Kasarinlan, DNK, isang taunang proyekto ng Anakbayan-Toronto at political satire skit para sa isang Pork Barrel Night Show na ginanap sa may kalye ng Bathurst, Toronto bilang pakikiisa laban sa PDAF. At sa dami na rin nang paggampan ng AKDAAN mula sa mga imbitasyong ito ng pakikiisa sa mga mamamayang Pilipino, nabuo naman ang ideyang maglunsad ng unang antolohiya ng AKDAAN bilang isang pagtugon naman sa paghamig sa mga manunulat at makatang nakatalaga sa Toronto at iba pang karatig-bayan at probinsya. ​ Sa madami-dami na ring naglabasang antolohiya ng mga akdang pampanitikan ngayong taon, tila baga isang malaking pagdiriwang ito ng panitikang pambansa upang sabihing masigla ang pagsusulat sa loob at maging sa labas ng bansa. Hindi na siyempre usapin kung ang mga akdang nalikha may namumukod-tanging ambag kaya sa pag-unlad ng panitikang Pilipino. Ang mahalaga ay hindi tumitigil ang mga manunulat na magluwal ng mga talinghaga nang kanilang panahon at lipunan.

Magkakasama sa antolohiyang ito ang mga likha ng mga manunulat mula sa iba’t ibang henerasyon na pinag-uugnay ng iisang karanasan: ang panunupil ng lipunang marahas. Bugbog-sarado ang mamamayan sa mga suliraning kanyang hinaharap na ang pinakabuod at ubod ay ang pagsasamantala ng mga naghaharing-uri sa lipunan. ​Pansinin ang isyu ng pork barrel scam na nagpatunay sa kapangitan ng sistemang pulitikal na lalo pang pumapangit dahil sa pagpapabaya at pagsasamantala ng mga nasa poder. Paksa rin sa mga akda sa antolohiyang ito ang mga mamamayang hindi makaalpas-alpas sa gapos ng kahirapan, na ang mga hirap na kanilang nararanasan ay lalo pang pinaiigting dahil sa kapabayaan ng mga pinunong dapat sana ay nagtitiyak ng kanilang kaligtasan sa anumang kalamidad. Gayundin naman pinaksa ang patuloy na paghahanap ng katarungan para sa mga bilanggong politikal at desaparacidos, silang mga pinatahimik upang wala nang magsalita tungkol sa mga pagsasamantala, korapsyon at kawalan ng katarungan sa lipunan.

Sa gitna ng mga suliraning pambansa, laging may subyang na nalilikha ang mga pang-arawaraw na danas ng mamamayan sa loob at labas ng bayan. Marubdob na tinatawid ng makata ang mga hitik na

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ugnay sa kanyang pagkamanunulat nang tupdin ng kanyang sensibilidad ang malawak na larangan ng pag-aakda. Kung kaya nga’t may sangkap din sa antolohiya ng mga akdang tumagos sa damdamin at pagninilaynilay ng mga sariling paglalakap sa sensitibidad na dulot ng pagkikipagkapwa-tao maging ito man ay isyu ng relasyon o sariling pandamdam sa kanyang paligid at personal na danas na nag-iiwan ng tatak sa mambabasa.

Hindi ito isinasantabi bagkus ay iniipon upang sa kanyang pagbulwak ay maikakabit pa rin sa daloy ng riyalidad ng lipunang hindi matatakasan ng kanyang panulat.

Dahil ang manunulat ay aktibong kasapi sa pagbabago ng lipunang kanyang ginagalawan, taglay niya ang lenteng pagkamasuriin at sensitibo.

Hindi nakakalampas sa kanyang matiim at masinsing pagmamasid ang mga nagaganap sa kanyang paligid. Nilalagom niya sa pamamagitan ng kanyang mga likha ang mga panimdim at bagabag ng kanyang panahon. At ito ang salalayan ng kanyang mga likha, na siyang mababasa sa mga tula, maikling kuwento at sanaysay sa antolohiyang ito.

Ang pagbubuo ng AKDAAN bilang daluyan ng mga akdang nagsusuri sa panitikang hango sa tunay na karanasan ng mamamayan ay hindi aksidental dahil ang Manunulat ay hindi aksidental na nangyayari kundi ito ay sadyang umiiral upang suriin ang lipunan at panahon na kanilang iniinugan. Ang Manunulat ang siyang tinig at damdamin ng lipunan dahil siya ay aktibong kalahok sa mga pakikibaka ng mga mamamayan tungo sa pagbabago.

Kaya nabuo ang AKDAAN. Tumugon lamang ito sa hinihingi ng kalagayan at kaayusan ng lipunang kanyang kinapapalooban. Inisyatibang umusbong na kusa dahil sa mga tunggaliang namamayani sa kanyang panahon. Ang kanyang giya ay ang dinaramdam at ligalig, puyos at diskuntento ng mamamayan na patuloy na lumalaban sa dantaong kaapihan.

Lui Queaño Disyembre 8, 2013 Toronto, Canada

MGA nilalaman Table of Contents

Dedication | Panalangin para sa Bayang Mahal

or Prayer for Our Beloved Motherland Foreword to the First Volume Introduction | The Word and the Filipino Writer’s Context Panimula | Mga Akdang Luwal ng Pag-iral

i iii iv x

Mga Maikling Kwento | Short Stories San-O Ka Mapuli?

Even After Ang mga Babae sa Bintana The Pattern Unang Yapak

2 4 6 19 21

Mga TULA | POEMS Thoughts 30 True Filipino 31 A Lesson on Behavioral Science 33 Winter Sun 37 Heart Clocks 38 Teenage Love Affair 39 Dinner Time 40 Missing a Lot 41 Lungkot 42 Paalis 44 Tungkol sa Pag-ibig 45 In the Islands 46 Ode to Windchimes 48 Tamarind Soup 50 Refugee 51 Estrella 52 Dying Light 53 Two Histories 54 Demolition 55 To the Sojourner, on Cordillera Day 56 Sa Isang Bata sa Gilid ng Daan 58 This Marker will Bear Flowers 59

Table of Contents Mga TULA | POEMS Tatlong Yugto ng Pag-ibig o Kung Paano ba Magmahal ng Wagas 60 Ode to Cassava 62 The Faith of Satur Ocampo 64 Death to the Sergeant 66 Concertina 68 Midterms 69 Magtitibas 70 Third World 71 Bunso 72 CMYK 73 Of Multigrain Bagels 74 Di Namin Tutuntungan ang Higanteng Alon 77 Sa Aking Panulat 78 Nanlaban 79 Samal 80 Yapak 81 Mga Paa 82 Bakas ng Tsinelas 84 Children of the Earth 85 Sa mga Gabing di Ako Dalawin ng Antok 86 Makabagong Bangungot 87 Ang Ina 88 Makata sa Panahon ng Krisis 89 Willem Geertman 90 Isang Araw Mula Ngayon 92 Si Johnny, Iyong Aktibista, Iyong Hinuli Isang Gabi 93 Oblate 94 Death Row 96 Pagkamulat 99 Tagubilin ng Inang Caregiver 100 Ina 101 Makina 102 TFR (Tao for Rent) 103 Taba 104 Anak ng Mundo 105 Ika’y Hindi Nawala 106 Pinatahimik Ka ba Nila?

108 Sugat 110

Table of Contents Mga TULA | POEMS For Leonard 111 People Rising 112 Immigration Bill C-31 113 Asukal 114 Resonant 115 Caregiver 116 Usapang Kalye 118 Mga SANAYSAY | ESSAYS Muntikang Madesap Panulaan at Lipunan Brap: Flip-dot and Dialectics of Conceit A Love Letter to the Two-Year Younger Version of Me

122 130 133 137

Mga PANAYAM | INTERVIEWS Finding the Lost Amulets: Interview with Cindy Lape単a The Importance of Being Earnest:

Interview with Daryl David Mga Kontribyutor | Contributors

143 147 156

MGA Sining Biswal List of Illustrations and Images

Harvest Ritual Jumping Kid Let Your Imagination Out WBEY Bakwet Two Kids with Corn Continuing Revolution Leave it Behind Untitled

ii xvii 28 44 76 98 120 141 154

Alex Felipe | Jumping Kid

MAIKLING KWENTO SHORT STORIES

Mari Acejo

SAn-O KA MAPULI?

2

“L

a, si Che-che ni.” She had dementia, my lola. Lola was not just lola.

She was also mother, provider, financer, cook, konsintedor. She was the person who would bring me a glass of water in the middle of the night when I coughed as though my lungs and throat would come out; the person who would bring me coke and shower me with food when I was sick; and the person who would always ask: when was I coming home? She still knew who we were when we left for Canada, for then, her dementia was just beginning. We made her cry when we left. It was the first time I saw her cry.

My sisters and I would occasionally call home from Canada. “La, si Che-che ni. La, si Che-che ni...” It was a necessary introduction to which she always had an automatic reply. “San-o ka mapuli?” (When are you coming home?) She would never ask “kamusta ka na?” or “kamusta ang Canada?”

She probably does not even remember we are in Canada. The exact place did not matter. All that mattered was that we were not home and: “San-o ka mapuli?”

It was a question that never failed to stun me. Maybe because it was so upfront and maybe because I would feel helpless, never having a straight answer. “Kung may kwarta La”, “Kung makatipon, mapuli gid kami.”

(When we’ve saved up money. If we’d be able to save enough, we will go home for sure). And with that she’d ask smugly, “Pila?”. She would ask how much the fare was - a suggestion that she could, and would, finance our trip home. My sisters and I would chuckle at the idea. We’d say, it’s not like I’m coming home to Roxas City for school holidays from Manila. It was really no chuckling matter. It was no longer like that.

I was able to come home from Canada May of 2012. After two years. It’s not that long by most standards, I know, but it still felt like I had been away forever. I went directly to the hospital from the Roxas City airport. Lola was admitted again. She had been in and out of the hospital even before we left for Canada, but it was sad every time it happened. By the second day of my arrival I was already assigned for evening duty to watch after lola. It was what I came home for. Even as she was discharged, my evening shifts continued. She had to be turned every two hours to prevent anymore bed sores. She already had one on her back that was big enough you could probably fit in a pingpong ball or something a bit bigger.

Every day we had to make sure that she ate her meals, that her legs elevated to prevent edema, that her medications were on time.

After almost three weeks of that routine she recalled who I was only once, and it was at the most inconvenient of times. I went to the room she shared with lolo to say I was leaving for Iloilo with papa. “Che” she uttered.

“Ari ka gali?” (Are you here?). Yes La, I am home, I said. Surprised, delighted and wide-eyed, I flew to her side. I wanted to stay so badly, to stay in that moment because I knew she wouldn’t remember me the following day. Or even just some hours later. But I had to leave because I had important things to do in Iloilo. Their exact “importance” is now so hazy to me.

My lola passed away September 2013. I was in Canada. I was not able to come home for her funeral. “Wala kwarta” (No money). It was true that I had no financial means to do this, but I still felt so ashamed. It was excruciating. It felt like I was hiding behind an excuse. All throughout my lola’s last days I felt as if she was asking me, “Che, san-o ka na mapuli?”, and she did not mean a return to a merely physical place beyond our immediate reach. At her death, I found that my answer was ripe and ready, but I was troubled with this heavy fruit. The answer was lodged in the most painful three words I have yet managed to utter. Its truth was blinding, like my lola’s death: “I can’t, lola.” I can’t.

3

Aby K. Weygan

EVEN AFTER 4

I

n the kingdom of the seminar on sexual harassment, the citizens were bored. The king, the speaker, spoke so slowly (those in power never rush) and paused after almost every word that the topic lost its importance. Only coffee could save the world from sleeping, many knew. But no man was brave enough to risk the journey.

With cat-like grace, our princess (Selma) brought herself to the coffee stand. Male heads turned. Almost without the help of her eyes, nimble hands composed her potion: brewed coffee, 1 teaspoon of sugar done in a matter of seconds with no spill and no sound(of the spoon hitting the cup) . Well toned legs brought her back to her chair, silently but without embarrassment for being the first one to stand. Others followed briefly.

“Aany(pause) questionssz?” asked the speaker.

Selma’s friend, and sidekick, whispered a question “Do you have a valentine tonight?”. The princess replied with a confident smile. But boredom, those words and the speaker, made the stagnant waters of time a breeding ground of mosquitoes.

Mosquitoes of the past. There was something about the speaker’s voice that reminded Selma of a prince(number 3), a bard, who had her with his own “I would have given you all of my heart...baby I’ll try to love again...” who tried to hide the other woman in his closet while, on bended knees, begged her not to leave him. Selma left him. They were together for 2 years.

She also left sweetest prince number 4, who gestured much like the Speaker. So sweet and soft-hearted he couldn’t carry the burden of hismother’s death...financially. Selma paid and organized both wake and funeral all by herself. She barely slept and the whole damn thing cost her three paychecks. On this guy’s thank you FB post: “I thank all my family and friends who helped us during this dire time, all the flowers...” on and on, without the smallest thank you for Selma. Nobody from the guy’s family thanked her. She left them.

All the valentinos, all the memories and the mosquito bites, how they itch! But she has learned not to scratch them and to prevent further bites- swatting mosquitoes just before they’re about to suck. Still, a mosquito of the future would bite her. She would not foresee this, but it will happen.

It will happen.

Later on, at a time when her daughter had grown. Selma, with tears dropping like rain, would write another prince, number six, the

husband: “Mahirap tumanda na nagiisa.”(It’s hard to grow old alone). They would leave each other as they did before many times.

Mother Nature and Father Time never got married, nor stayed together forever. We are all bastards...even Him. But it’s just a story, the events aren’t real. Or are they?

Selma’s coffee flushes the stagnant time. Back to the present, sitting on a seminar. She takes out her DSLR camera, turns it on to the picture of her daughter, Fia (fire). The image lights another smile on her face.

Valentine’s Day, all the lonely vampires will prowl the night to escape the silence, solitude and sobriety or is it a madness of being single­ single and escape in the many ways men imagined them. And while they do all that searching and leaving in the shortest possible time, mother would simply go home to her daughter.

Just your daily fairy tale. Once upon a time, a lady met a gentleman, the two fell in love and had a daughter. As it happens the couple fell out of love. The mother and daughter went together and they lived happily... even after.

5

Rowena P. Festin

Ang Mga Babae sa Bintana 6

P

abalik-balik na lakad sa kalye namin ang paborito kong gawin nung bata pa ako. Sabagay, hindi naman gaanong kahabaan ang kalye. Mula kanto hanggang kabilang kanto, sampung bahay lang, medyo maluluwag kasi ang mga bakuran ng ilang mga bahay kaya ganon lang karami sa buong kalye.

Sa kalsada sa tapat ng bakanteng lote sa tabi ng bahay namin nagsisimula ang aking paglalakbay. Mula dito, tatanawin ko ang bahay ng tatlong babaeng nagpapaalala sa akin kay Medusa, sina Aling Oryang, Aling Sita, at Buslak. Sila ang tatlong babaeng nagmay-ari ng mga bintanang tumatanaw sa kalsada at Halcon. Ipinapaalala nila sa akin si Medusa dahil sa mga kwentong imiikot noon sa baryo na kapag napatingin ka daw sa kanilang mata, malilipat sa iyo ang kanilang sumpa. Hindi ko alam kung ano ang sumpang iyon, ngunit sa itsura nilang nagsasalitang mag-isa, nakapangalumbaba maghapon, at nakausli ang mga mata, naiisip ko na baka iyon ang sumpa. Ngunit dahil sa kanila, naniwala ako sa mga kababalaghan, sa mga engkanto, at sa mga aswang dahil sila mismo ang mga mga ito. Gusto ko silang ikuwento hindi lamang para patunayang may kababalaghan nga sa aming baryo, kundi dahil sa ganitong paraan, gusto ko silang alalahanin na hindi na ako natatakot at makakaya ko na silang tingnan sa kanilang mga mata.

Madaling makita ang kalye namin. Nandito ang opisina ng highways at Mababang Paaralan ng San Roque Dos. Nasa pagitan ng dalawang ito ang simbahan ng San Roque na habampanahon nang kulay-kalburo at sagana sa amor seco at makahiya ang paligid. Bihirang linisan kasi nga naaalala lang na puntahan ng pari kapag malapit na ang fiesta. Ang mga ito lang ang makikita sa kabilang parte ng kalye namin.

Mula sa bayan, isang diretso lang at San Roque Dos na, mayroon din kasing San Roque Uno, mas malapit sa bayan, nasa baba lang ng tulay. Yung sa amin malayo-layo pa at madami pang lubak ang dadaanan bago makarating, kung maswerteng may traysikel na maghahatid. Kung wala, pwede namang lakarin. Karaniwang kalye sa isang malayong probinsiya ang kalye namin: lubak-lubak, mabato, maalikabok kung tag-araw, matubig kung tag-ulan, may mga amor seco, makahiya, suwag-kabayo, albahaka, at kung anu-ano pang mga damo sa gilid ng kalsada, may palaktaw-laktaw na mga puno ng akasya, kamatsili, kasoy, kabalyero at malunggay, at tuwing hapon, dumadaan ang parada ng mga kalabaw na galing sa bukid na mag-iiwan ng hilera ng mga taeng kalabaw.

May mahabang sementadong daan papasok sa simbahan, dito kami naglalaro ng scooter, yun bang laruang kahoy na may gulong na bearing kaya naman sobrang ingay kahit kinulapulan na ng grasang kinuha namin sa

hayweys. Karamihan sa mga may scooter noon ay yung mga batang lalaking grade five at grade six dahil sila lang ang pwedeng humawak ng martilyo at lagari sa eskwelahan. Ginagawa nila yun sa shop kapag reses gamit ang mga retasong kahoy at mga pako at bearing na pinupulot sa hayweys. Kung may mga batang may scooter, malamang na may kuya sila. Yung scooter ko, scooter ng kuya ko.

Kapag hapon, nasa labas na ng simbahan lahat ang mga bata sa kalye, may scooter o wala, at lalabas na rin si Aling Linda, yung nakatira sa bahay nina Aling Oryang. May dalang walis-tingting o kung minsan ay mahabang panungkit, at tatakuting hahambalusin kaming lahat dahil napakaingay namin.

Magtatakbuhan kami sandali pero babalik din. Paulit-ulit hanggang mapagod na lang si Aling Linda at pabayaan na kami. Ganito nang ganito ang eksena tuwing hapong uwian na sa eskwelahan.

Binabaybay ko ang kahabaan ng kalye namin kung inuutusan ako ni Nanay na bumili ng gaas para sa gasera at kalan, at madalas yun tuwing hapon. O kapag pinabibili ako ng bukayo o bagoong kapag wala kaming ulam, at kung minsang may ekstrang barya si Nanay, kapag umaarkila ng komiks kina Sabadista at Monterey. At sa paglalakad ko para sa mga utos na ito, madalas akong napapagalitan kasi nga naman, sa lapit ng tindahan nina Sabadista, limang bahay lang mula sa amin, inaabot ako ng kalahating oras. Madalas kasi, sa katatanaw ko sa mga bahay, nalalampasan ko ang tindahan. Nagtataka nga si Nanay na hindi ako nagsasawang tanawin ang mga bahay samantalang iyon at iyon din naman ang itsurang nakikita ko araw-araw. Kaya siguro hanggang ngayon, kahit ilang dekada na ang dumaan, kabisado ko pa rin ang itsura ng harapan ng mga bahay na ito.

At hanggang ngayon, kapag umuuwi ako, ganoon pa rin ang ginagawa ko, nilalakad ang kahabaan ng kalye at tinatanaw ang mga bahay. At muli kong binabalikan ang kwento ng tatlong babaeng nagpaalala sa akin kay Medusa.

T

atlong bahay ang layo ng bahay nina Aling Oryang mula sa amin, katapat ng San Roque 2 Elementary School. Malaking-malaking bahay iyon na gawa sa kahoy ang itaas at gawa naman sa bato at adobe ang silong. Bahay nila ang pinakamataas na bahay sa kalye namin. Pinakamataas kasi sila lang naman ang may second floor, bagama’t malayo ang itsura nito sa mga bahay na bato, dahil wala namang bahay na bato sa San Jose. Nilulumot na ang pader ng bahay. Malalaki ang mga bintana sa itaas na gawa sa kahoy at kapis.

Nagagandahan ako sa kanilang malalaking bintanang kapis na nag-iiba-iba ang kulay kapag natatamaan ng sikat ng araw. Parang maraming maliliit na bahagharing nanggagaling sa loob ng bahay. Pero bibihira lang namang nakasara ang bintanang iyon, kapag malakas lang ang ulan at pumapasok sa kabahayan ang ampyas. Mas madalas na nakabukas iyon at nakapanungaw sa kanang bintana si Aling Oryang.

Malawak ang bakuran nina Aling Oryang. Walang bakod pero

7

Rowena P. Festin | Ang Mga Babae sa Bintana

8

nakaparada naman sa harap ng lote ang malalaking puno ng bugambilyang makapal ang pulang mga bulaklak. Tila mga banderitas na nakangiti at kumakaway sa bawat dumaraan. At wala rin namang kakaiba sa bahay nila maliban sa iba ang itsura ng bahay sa karaniwan at sa malalaking bintanang kapis na dinadaanan ng maliit na bahaghari. At marahil ako lang rin ang namamangha sa bahay na iyon, pero dahil iyon sa matandang babaeng tahimik na tahimik na maghapong nakapanungaw. Tahimik na tahimik habang ang kanyang kalooban ay tila dinadaluyungan ng maiingay na alaala ng karahasan, panggagahasa, kamatayan, at pag-iisa.

Sa buong panahong pumupunta ako sa bahay na iyon upang makipaglaro kay Vilma na kaklase ko sa elementari, hindi ko narinig na nagsalita si Aling Oryang o ni bumaba sa kabahayan. Basta nandoon lang siya sa bintana, maghapong nakapanungaw. Naroong nakapangalumbaba, naroong nakapatong ang mukha sa pasamano, pero lagi siyang nakatanaw sa malayo.

Tahimik lang, para bang may hinihintay o parang may pilit pinakikinggang napakahinang tinig. At tila ba lumalampas sa Halcon ang kanyang tanaw.

Walang kumakausap kay Aling Oryang, bida ni Vilma. Hindi naman daw kasi niya papansinin ang kumakausap sa kanya. Basta alam lang nila kung anong oras siya dapat inaakyatan ng pagkain, anong oras pinapatayo para magbanyo o kaya para maligo. Pero hindi na nila pinatatayo si Aling Oryang para sa oras ng pagtulog dahil yun lang daw ang kusa niyang ginagawa.

Rosaryo ang tunay na pangalan ni Aling Oryang. Pinsan siya ng lola ni Vilma. Nang mamatay ang kanilang mga magulang noong panahon ng Hapon, silang dalawa na ang naging magkasama sa bahay na iyon. Usapan ng matatandang nakakakilala sa magpinsan na si Aling Oryang ang pinakamasarap na magpuputo sa buong San Jose noong bago dumating ang mga Hapon. Pero nang pinilahan silang magpinsan at paulit-ulit na ginahasa ng mga Hapon, nawala na siya ng gana sa pagluluto. At nang mabuntis siya at nanganak ng patay na batang luno, hindi na siya nagsalita. Nandoon na lang siya sa bintana, nakapanungaw. Nakatanaw sa lampas ng Halcon. At kung minsan, kumikibot ang mga labi na parang may gustong sabihin pero hindi niya masabi. Kung minsan naman, bigla siyang tatayo habang nakapanungaw at may ituturo sa malayo, nanlalaki ang mga mata at tila sumisigaw ng tahimik. Saka mauupo na parang walang nangyari.

Kwento ni Vilma, baka daw natatanaw niya ang mga Hapon na gumahasa sa kanya o baka nakikita niya ang anak na luno. Walang makakapagsabi kung ano ang gustong sabihin ni Aling Oryang dahil wala na siyang kinausap at hindi na siya nagsalita mula nang ipanganak niya ang patay na batang luno. Pero sa kwento ng matatanda, hindi totoong batang luno ang ipinanganak ni Aling Oryang kundi isang batang lalaking may nakamamatay

na mga mata. Ang kapangyarihang ito ay dala raw ng sumpa ni Aling Oryang na mamamatay ang ama ng batang dinadala niya kapag natitigan siya nito.

Nang matapos ang digmaan at isa-isa nang umaalis ang mga Hapon, dumaan sa kalsada sa tapat ng bahay nila ang parada ng mga Hapon na papunta na sa dagat para sumakay sa barko. Nakaabang sa kalsada, nakaupo sa tarangkahan si Aling Oryang at ang kanyang pinsan, kilik niya ang sanggol, nakatingin din sa parada ng mga Hapon na nakatingin din sa kanila. At sa kahabaan ng parada, bigla na lang bumagsak sa harap nila ang isang Hapon, bumubula ang bibig, lumuluwa ang mga mata, at nakahawak sa leeg na para bang sinasakal, at unti-unti namatay habang kumikisay. Nagtatakbo palayo sa bahay nila si Aling Oryang, bitbit ang anak at ilang araw din silang nawala.

Binuhat ng mga Hapon ang natumbang kasamahan. Sabi ng matatandang nakasaksi sa kanyang kamatayan, ang Hapon na ito ang gumahasa kina Aling Oryang kaya siya lang ang tinalaban ng tingin ng batang kilik ni Aling Oryang.

Kumakalat na ang epidemya ng El Tor nang papaalis ang mga Hapon, ngunit hindi tinamaan ang mga taga-baryo dahil sa katas ng mga damo at dahon na iniisim nila kapag dumadali ang sakit ng kanilang tiyan. Maraming Hapon ang namatay sa barko. Pero hindi tinanggap ng mga taga-baryo ang kwento ng El Tor kundi ang kwentong ang Hapon na iyon ang gumahasa kay Aling Oryang kaya nararapat lang tumalab sa kanya ang sumpa.

Nang bumalik sa bahay nila si Aling Oryang makaraan ang ilang araw, hindi na siya nagsasalita at wala rin siyang dalang anak. Wala nang nakaalam, hanggang ngayon, sa buong baryo kung saan napunta o kung ano ang nangyari sa anak niya at simula din noon, nanatili nang tahimik na nakapanungaw sa bintana si Aling Oryang.

Hayskul ako nang mamatay si Aling Oryang. Mahigit isang daang taon siya nang mamatay at mahigit sa pitumpung taon siyang tahimik. Iniisip ko kung ano ang mga bagay na umiikot sa isip niya sa buong panahong iyon.

Mayroon kaya siyang hinihintay kaya namimintana siya? O naaalala kaya niya ang anak na luno? Ano kaya ang gusto niyang sabihin kapag kumikibot ang kanyang mga labi o kapag sumisigaw siya nang tahimik? Totoo kayang may sumpa sa mga mata ng kanyang anak? Totoo kayang ang kanyang anak ang pumatay sa Hapon?

Nang mamatay siya, umalis na rin sina Vilma sa San Jose. Parang hinintay lang siyang mamatay dahil sa kanila ibinilin ng kanilang lola ang pagbabantay kay Aling Oryang. Nang huling uwi ko, iba na ang nakatira sa bahay. Matagal na raw naibenta sabi ni Nanay. Iba na rin ang itsura ng bahay.

Butas-butas na ang bintanang kapis at lumang-luma na ang halos pagiba nang bahay. Bulok na ang dingding na kahoy sa itaas. Talyer na ng traysikel ang ibaba na dating kabahayan. Wala na rin ang mga banderitas na bugambilya.

Ang naroon na lang ay mga lantang puno ng santan at damo at mga poster ng politikong nakasabit sa mga kawad ng kuryente.

Napatingin ako sa bintana sa itaas. Parang nakita ko si Aling

9

Rowena P. Festin | Ang Mga Babae sa Bintana Oryang. Ganoon pa rin ang itsura. Nakakwadro sa malaking bintanang kapis.

Nakatanaw sa malayo. Kumikibot ang mga labi.

10

M

aliit lang ang bahay ni Aling Sita. Pinakamaliit sa kalye namin. Pang-apat na bahay mula sa amin. Katabi ng bahay nina Aling Oryang. Sementado pero hindi tapos. Pero ito ang loteng may pinakamaraming puno ng niyog. At ito lang din ang may puno ng kasoy na laging hitik sa bunga. Sa harap ng bahay niya may maliit na bintanang may takip na yero na kung araw ay nakabukas at tinutukuran ng isang mahabang yantok. Dito nakapangalumbaba si Aling Sita tuwing hapon, kapag tapos na siyang maglaba at magwalis sa kaniyang bakuran. Siya lang mag-isa sa bahay na iyon.

Siya ang paboritong labandera ng aming kalye, malinis na malinis at mabangong-mabango kasi ang kanyang mga labada, naka-almirol ang mga de-kolor at nakatina ang mga puti kaya naman makislap kapag nasisikatan ng araw. Araw-araw na may nakasampay sa kanyang napakahabang sampayan at laging may mga nakakula sa kanyang yerong kulahang nakalatag sa damo. At sa kainitan ng araw, makikita mong winiwiligan niya ang mga kinula. Ganoon ang tamang pagpapaputi at pagpapabango ng mga labahin, sabi ng matatanda sa amin, at iyon daw ang dapat naming gayahin. Maraming nagpapalaba sa kanya kahit alam na alam sa buong kalye, at dinig na dinig ng mga dumadaan, na paminsan-minsan, nagsasalita siyang mag-isa. Parang totoong may kausap.

Sitang Buang ang sikretong tawag naming mga bata sa kanya. Sikreto pero alam ng buong baryo maliban sa kanya, sa palagay namin. Pero baka rin alam niya dahil baka naikuwento na sa kanya ng madalas niyang kausap na kapre. Baka nga isa iyon sa mga dahilan kung bakit hinahabol niya ang mga batang magkakamaling mapalapit sa kanyang bakod. Kaya nga kapag dumadaan kami sa tapat nila, tumatawid kami sa kalsada kasi baka kami habulin. At mula sa kabilang kalsada ko tinatanaw ang bahay nila, at si Aling Sita habang namimintana o naglalaba o nagwiwilig ng kinula, o basta lang nagsasalita o nakikipag-away sa kapre. Naniniwala kami na kapre ang kausap niya kasi nakatingala siya kapag nagagalit, at tila may kinakausap na kung anong malaking malignong siya lang ang nakakakita.

Maliit lang si Aling Sita. Mahaba ang maitim at makintab na buhok na laging nakapusod sa may batok. Laging naka-duster ng bulaklakin. At tuwing umaga, kung hindi siya naglalaba ay winawalisan niya ang kanyang bakuran.

At habang ginagawa niya ang mga ito, salita siya nang salita. Nangsasalita na kung anu-ano ang sinasabi na hindi naman maintindihan. Minsan hahagalpak ng tawa na akala mo totoo ngang may kakuwentuhan ng isang nakakatawang kuwento. Kung minsan naman umiiyak at nagsasalita habang sumisigok. At kung minsan malutong na malutong ang pagmumura. O kaya kumakanta. O

kaya basta nakatingin lang sa malayo na tila ba may pinakikinggang kung ano.

Tumatawa siya, umiiyak, nagsasalita, nagmumura, kumakanta, tumatahimik.

Kausap daw ni Aling Sita ang kanyang anak kapag kumakanta siya o kaya tumatawa. At kausap naman niya yung kapre kapag nagmumura siya at umiiyak. Nagmamakaawa daw na huwag na siyang kunin at ibalik na ang anak niya.

Para sa amin, isang nakamamanghang tanawin ang isang babaeng nagsasalita na walang kausap pero parang may kausap: tumatawa, umiiyak, sumisigaw, ngumingiti, kumakanta. Pero ganoon lang siya kung mayroon siyang kausap. Kapag wala na, kapag sa may pintuan na siya nakatalungko, tuwing hapon, pagkapinaw sa mga nilabahan o habang tinitiklop ang mga nilabahan, kinakawayan niya at nginingitian ang lahat ng mga dumadaan na para bang noon lang niya ulit nakita pagkaraan ng napakahabang panahon.

At ang mas nakakagulat, kilala niya sa pangalan ang lahat ng mga tao sa kalye namin gayong hindi naman siya lumalabas ng bakuran. Siguro tinatanong niya sa kapre, o kaya pinapakilala sa kanya ng kapre ang bawat taga sa amin na dumadaan sa tapat ng bahay niya. Baka nga kilala rin niya lahat ang mga batang hinahabol niya at alam niya kung sino ang unang bumansag sa kanya na Sitang Buang.

Sabi ni Aling Libreng, yung matandang hilot ng baryo na tagasa may dagat na nasa bahay tuwing hapon para makiinom ng kape at maghatid ng mga tsismis, nasumpit ng hangin si Aling Sita nung bagong panganak.

Si Aling Libreng ang nagpaanak sa kanya at sa lahat ng mga nanganganak sa buong baryo ng San Roque. Patay ang bata nang inianak niya.

At dahil sa sama ng loob, iilang araw pa lang na nakakapanganak ay naglabada na ulit si Aling Sita. Ni hindi nga raw siya sumama sa libing dahil naniniwala siyang ibang bata ang namatay, hindi ang kanyang anak. Kinuha daw iyon ng kapre na matagal nang nanliligaw sa kanya para mapilitan siyang sumama sa kaharian nito sa loob ng punong kasoy.

Kung minsan naman ganito ang kuwento ni Aling Libreng: kaya nabaliw si Aling Sita kasi nalaman niya na hindi na siya pwedeng magkaanak matapos makunan.

Kaya yung asawa niya, nakisama na lang at nagka-anak sa iba. At kung minsan naman: may anak si Aling Sita, pero dahil minsan daw ay muntik na sila masagasaan ng bagong panganak niyang sanggol dahil itinatakbo niya dahil hinahabol sila nung kapreng nanliligaw sa kanya at pilit kinukuha ang anak niya para sumama na din siya. Nagalit ang asawa niya kaya dinala niya sa kamag-anak ang anak nila at pagkatapos, iniwan na rin siya. Hindi na kasi pwedeng mabuntis si Aling Sita dahil sa sumpa ng kapre na mabubuntis lang siya ulit kapag nandoon na siya sa kaharian ng kapre.

Si Aling Libreng, madalas kasing nasosobrahan sa kape dahil lahat at inom naman siya ng inom, kaya salasalabat ang kanyang mga kuwento. Baka nga daw kasi hindi na napagkakatulog dahil sa sobrang kape.

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Pero kung minsan, mahirap namang hindi maniwala kay Aling Libreng kasi totoo namang siya lang ang nag-iisang hilot sa baryo at lahat ng mga buntis at nangangak sa kanya nagpapaalaga, at siya rin ang unang nagpapaligo sa mga nanay dalawang linggo pagkatapos manganak, at sa sanggol kapag nahulog na ang pusod. Siya rin ang nagbibigay ng mga dahong ginagamit sa pagpapasugba para matuyo ang puerta. Kaya nga dahil madami siyang alam, natural na sa kanya naniniwala ang baryo, kahit pa salasalabat ang kwento niya, bahala ka nang pumili kung alin sa mga iyon ang paniniwalaan mo.

Pero kahit sinabi na ni Aling Libreng na isa siya sa mga nakipaglibing sa anak ni Aling Sita na siya rin ang nagkomadrona, tuloy pa rin ang iba’t ibang bersyon ng kwento ng pagkaluka ni Aling Sita. Pero ang pinakapaborito ng baryo ay ang panliligaw sa kanya ng kapre. Sabagay, hindi lang naman kasi si Aling Sita ang napabalitang niligawan ng kapre sa baryo namin. Lumipat kasi sa baryo ang mga kapreng nasa kabayanan dati nang dumating ang mga Hapon at laging nagpapaputok at naglalasing. Nakatira daw sila dati sa matatandang puno ng akasya sa plasang malapit sa simbahan, at sa isang malaking akasyang nandoon sa malapit sa Balalaika, baylihan yun na dating tambayan ng mga Hapon. Pero nang dumami na ang mga tumatambay na Hapon, naging bayonetahan ang baylihan kaya ipinasara na ng may-ari. At nag-alsa-balutan na rin ang mga kapre papunta sa mas liblib na lugar, sa baryo namin, sa San Roque. At hindi na sila umalis kahit na noong nagsisimula nang dumami ang mga dayo at wala na ang mga Hapon. Yung isa ngang kapre doon na tumira sa puno ng kasoy sa bakuran ni Aling Sita.

Pero nagsimulang lumala ang kalagayan ni Aling Sita, nang mas madalas na siyang tumatawa, nagsasalita, nagmumura, umiiyak at nanghahabol ng mga bata, noong kumalat sa buong baryo ang balitang nagka-anak na sa bagong kinakasama ang kanyang asawa at kamukha-kamukha daw ng namatay na anak ni Aling Sita. Ganito rin ang sinabi ni Aling Libreng dahil siya din ang nagpaanak. At nang sinabi sa kanya ng kapre na papaalis na sila sa San Roque.

At habang nagaganap iyon, unti-unting nawawala ang mga nagpapalaba sa kanya dahil unti-unti ring hindi na bumabango at kumikislap ang kanyang mga nilabahan. At paunti-unti, paunti-unting kumonti ang mga nakasampay at nakakula sa kanyang bakuran. Hanggang sa wala nang nagpapalaba. At palakas nang palakas ang tawa at iyak niya, at pabilis nang pabilis ang takbo niya sa paghabol sa mga bata. At tuloy-tuloy ang panliligaw ng kapre kaya palakas din nang palakas ang pagmumura niya at pag-iyak.

Pero dahil kilala naman siya ng buong kalye, kahit wala nang nagpapalaba sa kanya, nakakakain pa rin si Aling Sita. Laging may nagiiwan ng pagkain sa may pinto ng bahay niya. Baka kaya lagi pa rin siyang nakangiti at kumakaway sa mga dumadaan sa tapat ng bintana niya kapag

hindi siya abala sa pakikipagbangayan sa kapre.

Patay na si Aling Sita noong huli akong umuwi. Nakita siya isang umaga na nakahiga sa upuang nasa may bintana sa bahay. Pumasok sa bahay niya ang ilang mga kapitbahay dahil dalawang araw na nilang hindi nakikitang nakapanungaw si Aling Sita. Dumating ang asawa niya sa burol niya. Pero saglit na saglit lang, sinilip lang ang katawan niyang nakahiga sa banig at may nakatirik na mga kandila. Kinabukasan, inilibing siya ng mga kapit-bahay at pinabendisyunan sa pari na sinundo pa nila sa kabayanan. Ibinalot sa banig saka inilagay sa kabaong na gawa sa lawanit. Saka inihatid sa sementaryo. At bago natabunan ang hukay niya, dumating ang isang babaeng kamukha niya.

Anak daw yun ni Aling Sita. Nang wala nang tao sa libingan, saglit lang na tumayo ang babae sa puntod at iniwan ang bulaklak na dala saka tumalikod na rin. Iyon ang una at huling araw na nakita ang babaeng iyon.

Simula nang mamatay si Aling Sita, walang naglilinis sa kanyang puntod lalo na kapag papalapit na ang Araw ng mga Patay, maliban sa mga kamag-anak ng mga katabing nitso, at sila na rin ang naglalagay ng bulaklak at kandila na galing sa kanilang mga patay. Pero paminsan-minsan, may sariwang bulaklak at kandilang naaabutan sa kanyang puntod na hindi naman nangyayari kung Araw ng mga Patay. Tinarakan nila ng kahoy na krus na may nakasulat na Aling Sita ang kanyang puntod noon siya inilibing at kapag nasisira na ang krus dahil sa ulan o araw, may nagkukusang magpalit kaya hindi nawawala ang kanyang puntod. At nang isinusulat nila ang kanyang pangalan, noon lang nila naisip na hindi nga pala nila alam ang buong pangalan ni Aling Sita.

At nandoon pa rin ang puno ng kasoy sa kanyang bakuran, hitik pa rin sa bunga, pero iba na ang nakatira sa bahay ni Aling Sita, hindi na rin yerong de-tukod ang bintana kundi mga dyalusing salamin na nililitawan ng maliliit na bahaghari kung natatamaan ng sikat ng araw sa umaga.

Baka umalis na rin ang kapre. Nang mamatay kasi si Aling Sita, umikot sa buong baryo ang kwentong nang ipapasok na sa nitso ang kabaong, nagulat ang mga nagbuhat dahil napakagaan daw. Baka daw kinuha na ng kapre ang kanyang katawan at isinama sa kanyang kaharian.

P

ero ang pinakapopular na bahay sa kalye namin ay yung bahay ni Buslak.

Kasi ba naman, bago ka makarating sa bahay nila, dadaan ka sa isang mahabang kalye ng mga puting bato sa loob ng kanilang bakuran. Galing sa dagat ang lahat ng mga batong iyon. May malaking bintana ang bahay nila.

Halos sakop nito ang buong dingding na nakaharap sa kalsada. Sa bintanang iyon nakapanungaw si Buslak tuwing hapon pagkabalik nilang mag-anak galing sa dagat. Nandoon siya hanggang gumabi at unti-unting umiilanlang ang huni ng mga kuliglig at kamaksi sa paligid. Kapag may gasera nang nakapatong sa pasimano bintana, mawawala na si Buslak.

Nandoon siya tuwing hapon, simula noong bata pa ako hanggang nang hayskul na ako na palaki na nang palaki ang bukol sa kanyang mata.

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Tuwing hapon, umaalis silang mag-anak upang maglakad sa tabing dagat. Kahit umuulan, ginagawa nila iyon, at lalo na nga kung umuulan dahil kapag malakas ang alon, maraming mga bato at malalaking kabibi ang natatangay sa tabing dagat. Malalaman mong nakabalik na sila kahit hindi mo sila nakikita dahil sa tunog ng malalaking bato na tumatama sa kapwa bato na inihahagis nila sa kanilang sariling kalye.

Malapit lang kami sa dagat. At noong bata ako, napakaraming bato sa dalampasigan. Iba’t ibang kulay, sukat, at hugis. Pero habang tumatagal, nauubos ang mga bato. Naisip ko noon, siguro nandoon na sa kalye nina Buslak ang mga bato. Pero syempre hindi naman talaga totoo yun. Sa dami na rin ng mga dayo sa San Jose na karamihan ay sa tabing dagat nakatira, nauubos ang mga bato dahil hinahakot nila at ginagawang pandagdag sa semento ng kanilang mga bahay. Ngayon nga, kapag umuuwi ako at naglalakad sa tabing dagat, hindi na nga aroma, kangkong-dagat at malalaking bato ang makikita ko sa dalampasigan kundi mga basurang galing sa kung saan-saan, kasama ng mga bangkang pangisda, mga lambat na hinahayuma, mga nakabilad na isda, at mga batang nagtatakbuhan.

Bata pa ako Buslak na ang tawag sa kanya. At bata pa ako, napansin ko nang walang kapitbahay na kumakausap sa kanya at sa kanyang pamilya.

Lagi silang iniiwasan, kahit si Nanay noon, pinagbabawalan kaming tumawid sa bakuran nila. Mayroon kasing bagong saltang mag-asawang doktor na umupa sa bahay nila na naging kaibigan ni Nanay. Pero kahit gusto kong pumunta sa kanila, hindi ko magawa dahil natatakot akong makita ni Buslak.

Kapag nakita ka daw kasi ng aswang, kinagabihan ay pupuntahan ka niya para kunin ang atay mo. Isang taon lang na umupa sa bahay nila sina doktor. Umalis sila at bumalik na sa Maynila nang dalawang beses na nakunan ang asawa niya.

Inaswang daw ni Buslak pero hindi siya nagtagumpay na makuha ang bata dahil nakita pa namin nang inilibing nila ang kanilang mga anak. Kaya nga raw lalong lumakas ang parusa niya dahil nasa bakuran na nga niya, hindi pa niya nagawang aswangin.

At si Buslak, simula nang mamaga ang kanyang mata, lalo na siyang hindi makatingin sa tao dahil nakaharang na sa mata niya ang magang talukap, at lagi pa siyang nakasalamin ng maitim. At lalo ring kumalat ang balitang totoo ngang aswang siya dahil hindi siya makatingin sa kanyang kapwa. Pero ganoon pa man, hindi siya pumapalya sa pagpunta sa dagat tuwing hapon upang mag-uwi ng mga batong puti.

Helen ang totoo niyang pangalan pero Buslak ang tawag sa kanya dahil sa nakausli niyang kaliwang mata. Aswang daw sabi ng mga matatanda sa amin. Aswang na binawian ng kapangyarihang lumipad, magbago ng anyo at mang-aswang dahil hindi naman daw nakakapang-aswang. Nahuhuli dahil mahinang klaseng aswang daw. At bilang parusa at tatak na wala na siyang

kapangyarihan, pina-usli ang kanyang mga mata at hindi na siya diretsong makakatingin sa kanyang kapwa, tulad pa rin ng mga aswang na hindi pwedeng tumingin nang diretso sa mata ng kapwa. Malalaman mo na aswang ang iyong kausap kung hindi siya diretsong tumitingin sa iyo, paikot-ikot ang mata o kaya laging nakayuko. Hindi sila puwedeng tumingin nang diretso sa kausap nila dahil makikitang baliktad ang anino nila sa kanyang mga mata. Pero hindi mo nga malalaman dahil hindi naman sila tumitingin.

Inalisan ng kapangyarihang maging aswang si Buslak nang dalawang beses na siyang nahuli at dalawang beses na ring muntik na niyang ikanta kung saan ang pugad ng mga aswang. Noong una, nakatakas siya at ibinalik ng punong aswang ang kapangyarihan niya dahil nangako siyang sasailalim sa matinding pagsasanay bago ulit lumipad. Kaya nga sabi nila halos isang buwang hindi nakadungaw sa bintana si Buslak kasi nagsasanay sa pagiging aswang. Pero si Buslak yata ang pinakamalas na aswang sa ibabaw ng lupa dahil nahuli ulit siya. Dahil daw yun sa katakawan niya kaya siya nahuli. Pinulot kasi niyang isa-isa ang mga nakakalat na butil ng bigas na nakita nyang nakasabog sa labas ng bahay ng isang aaswangin niya.

Madali lang naman manghuli ng aswang, sabi nung matandang tagabaryo na dating aswang na naging Knights of Columbus matapos alisin sa kanya ang sisiw ng aswang; lalo na daw kung bagong aswang pa lang o kung ang swang ay sadyang matakaw. Kailangan mo ang mga buto ng kalabasa o kaya buto ng sitaw. Kung wala kang makita, pwede rin ang bigas o mais. Maghanda ka na rin ng matibay na tali, pwede yung tali ng barko, kung wala naman, pwede na yung pangsuga sa kalabaw. Pero siguraduhin mo na nabendisyunan ng agua bendita ang tali, o kung malayo ka sa simbahan, pwede ring budburan ng asin o isisin ng bawang ang tali. Nasusunog kasi ang balat ng aswang sa agua bendita, asin at bawang, at nanghihina sila kapag inabutan ng araw na may sugat pa.

Isabog mo ang mga buto sa labas ng bahay, mas maganda kung buong bakuran para kahit saan dumapo ang aswang, hindi siya makakaligtas.

Huwag kang maghuhulog ng kahit na isang butil sa loob ng bahay. Hintayin mo munang madilim na madilim para hindi ka matanaw ng aswang o ng kanyang tiktik. Mas mabuti kung maghahating-gabi. Sabayan mo sa paghagis ang pagdating ng aswang. Pupulutin ito ng aswang dahil ayaw na ayaw ng mga aswang na may mga nakakalat na kahit anong butil sa paligid nila. Pupulutin nila itong isa-isa at kakainin. Naniniwala kasi sila na kapag natapakan nila ang mga ito, habampanahon na silang maglalakad. Ibig sabihin, hindi na sila makakalipad, at hindi sila papayag na mangyari yun sa kanila. Kapag abalangabala na ang aswang sa pamumulot, siluin mo ang aswang gamit ang benditado o inasnang lubid.

Kapag nahuli mo na ang aswang, pwede mo nang gawin sa kanya ang ritwal ng pagpapagaling, kung mabait ka. Itatali mo lang siya ng patiwarik sa puno at tatapatan ng kawang may kumukulong tubig. Paiikutin mo nang mabilis na pabilis ang nakatiwarik na aswang hanggang mahilo siya at isuka

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niya ang sisiw na nasa kanyang bituka, ito ang kapangyarihan ng aswang.

Mamamatay agad ito kapag nahulog na sa kumukulong tubig. Pero kung matindi ang galit mo sa aswang, pwede mo siyang tagain para mamatay, pero tiyakin mo lang na ang tatamaan ng taga ay iyong gitna ng likod niya dahil hindi niya ito maaabot para pahiran ang laway niya. May kakayanan ang mga aswang na pagalingin ang kanilang sugat sa pamamagitan ng kanilang laway.

Kung tatamaan siya sa gitna ng likod, tiyak na patay siya. Pagkataga mo sa aswang at hindi ka sigurado kung nasapol mo ang likod niya, itarak mo sa lupa ang talim ng itak para hindi na siya makaligtas. Hayaan mo doon hanggang sumikat ang araw.

Nung ikalawang huli ni Buslak, muntik na siyang kumanta, pero sinuwerte pa rin ang mga aswang dahil nung kakanta na siya, nahatak nung isang makikinig sana sa kanta ang dila niya. Baka sa sobrang galit dahil iyon daw ang dila na muntik nang sumipsip sa tiyan ng kanyang buntis na asawa. Ayun, naputol ang dila kaya hindi na nakakanta. Hindi rin naman nila mauutusang magsulat kasi alam na alam sa buong baryo na no read no write si Buslak. Iniwan na lang siyang nakatali sa puno ng talisay dahil hindi na rin naman daw siya makakapang-aswang dahil wala na siyang dila.

Gumagamit ng mga pamahid at langis ang mga aswang para makalipad o makapaglakad nang mabilis. Pinagsasama nila ang ipot ng manok o bibi at bulok na laman ng tao na tira nila, saka nilalagay sa langis para matunaw.

Itatago nila ito ng hanggang isang buwan. Kapag mabahong-mabaho na, pwede na itong gamitin, mas mabaho, mas mabisa. Pero para sa mga aswang, ito ang pinakamabangong pabango at ang amoy na ito ay nangangahulugan ng nakakahilab na kabusugan sa isang gabing paglipad. Mas mabango ito sa sampaguita at dama de noche, mas mabango sa pinakamasarap na ulam. Basta walang bawang ang ulam.

Sa ilalim ng batalan ang paboritong lugar ni Buslak para sa pagpapahid ng langis. Hindi daw kasi ito nakikita ng mga dumadaan dahil nasa likod ng kanilang bahay.

Ayon ulit sa matandang tagabaryo na dating aswang na nagsabi kung paano manghuli ng aswang, wala naman daw kahirap-hirap ang pagpapahid ng langis. Simpleng ritwal lang daw na mabilis makasanayan. Ganito daw ang tamang pagpapahid ng langis:

Ilubog ang dulo ng kanang daliri sa langis, at ipahid ito simula sa dulo ng daliri sa kaliwang kamay, papunta sa braso, hanggang sa kili-kili, sa tagiliran, hanggang sa kaliwang binti at magtatapos sa mga daliri sa mga paa. Ganito rin ang gagawin para sa kanang bahagi ng katawan. Ang kaliwang kamay naman ang ilubog sa langis. Habang ginagawa ito, malakas na isinisigaw ng aswang ang pinakamakapangyarihang dasal para sa paghahati ng katawan o pagbabago

ng itsura, paglipad at pagpunta sa minarkahang bahay ng biktima: Pwera bati!

Pwera usog! Pwera hulog! Pwera bati! Pwera usog! Pwera hulog! Habang isinisigaw ito, makakarinig ng lagitikan na para bang may natatapakang mga tuyong sanga sa gubat, kung minsan naman, ang tunog na ito ay parang tunog ng nasusunog na maliliit na kahoy, o kung minsan ay tunog ng tinatapakang kalawanging yero. Hihinto lamang siya sa pagsigaw kapag tuluyan nang nahati ang kanyang katawan, o kapag nagbago na ang kanyang anyo, kapag siya ay mukha nang baboy o aso. Saka aalingasaw ang pinakamabahong amoy ng pinagsamang bulok na laman at ipot ng manok o bibi. At habang palakas nang palakas ang lagitikan at palakas nang palakas ang Pwera bati! Pwera usog!

Pwera hulog! Pwera bati! Pwera usog! Pwera hulog! ay sumasabay naman ang pagtinghas ng buhok nila at pagtubo ng pakpak na parang paniki. Saka makakarinig ng pagaspas ng malalaking pakpak. Kapag narinig na iyon, nahati na ang aswang at pupuntahan na niya ang bahay ng kanyang hapunan. At sa bahay na pupuntahan niya, maririnig mo na ang huni ng tiktik.

Namatay sa kanser sa mata si Buslak. Bago siya namatay, ilang linggo ring naririnig namin ang nakakakilabot na ungol sa kanilang bahay. Sabi nila, inilalalabas ni Buslak ang kapangyarihan ng mga aswang na hindi binawi sa kanya, inalisan lang ng bisa. Mamamatay lang daw ang mga aswang kapag may napamanahan na sila ng kapangyarihan. Nang mamatay si Buslak, namatay na rin ang kwento tungkol sa kanya at tungkol sa pagiging aswang niya. Hindi na nila nalaman at hindi na rin nila inalam kung sino ang nagmana sa pagkaaswang niya dahil wala rin naman daw bisa ang kanyang sisiw.

N

gayon lang ulit ako nakabalik pagkatapos ng halos dalawampung taong pamamalagi sa Maynila. Pagkatapos ng high school sa San Jose, nag-aral ako sa syudad, doon na rin nakapagtrabaho at nakapag-asawa.

Pero iba na ang itsura ng kalye namin ngayon. Mas malala kesa dati. Giba-giba na sa kalumaan ang ilang mga bahay, ang iba naman, napalitan na, at iyong iba, wala na talaga, bakanteng lote na lang na puno ng mga damo at mga puno. Nagtataka nga ako kung paanong nangyari na malaki na ang iniunlad ng kabayanan, samantalang ang baryo namin, mas lumala pa ang itsura kesa noong iniwanan ko may ilang taon na rin ang nakaraan.

Naroon pa rin ang hayweys na tulad noon, tambakan pa rin ng mga kalawanging trak, ang Mababang Paaralan ng San Roque Dos na katulad ng ibang mga pampublikong paaralan sa syudad, wasak-wasak na ang eskwelahan dahil sa kalumaan at kapabayaan, hindi na yata napaayos simula noon. At ang simbahan ng Sa Roque, hangang ngayon ay tuwing fiesta lang binubuksan at nililinisan.

At ako, bagama’t hindi estranghero sa kalsadang ito ay nakaramdam ng paninibago at pagiging estranghero. Wala na ang mga bahay ng mga babae sa bintana, pero parang nakikita ko sila sa naiwang mga balangkas

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ng bahay, sa mga bakanteng lote, nakatingin akin. Parang ako naman ang namimintana at sila ang tumitingin sa akin.

Hindi na sila naaalala ng mga batang nadatnan ko sa aming kalye, katulad ng kanilang mga kuwento, sila man ay mga alamat na rin at katulad ng mga kababalaghan at engkanto, hindi pinaniniwalaang totoong nabuhay sila at tumanaw sa aming kalye noon. Pero sana sa pamamagitan ng kwentong ito, maniwala sila na minsan sa isang panahon, totoong naganap ang mga kababalaghang iyon sa aming kalye at totong nabuhay doon at nakipamuhay sa amin ang mga engkanto at aswang.

M.E. Montemayor

THE PATTERN

“D

o you like her? She’s pretty isn’t she?” I asked Zen. “She looks just like Taylor Swift,” Zen said, snidely.

“Hmm, I never noticed that,” I admitted. Zen looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Have you never noticed that all of your girlfriends look like Taylor Swift? They’re all tall, blue-eyed with curly blonde locks,” Zen said. I stared at her.

“I guess I have a type, so what?” I said.

“You’re Asian, she’s white. Have you ever considered that maybe you have a white fetish?” Zen asked.

“Wow, that’s way out of line! Unlike you, I don’t see race,” I said.

“But would you have an Asian girlfriend?” she asked. I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“I don’t know, it depends. I don’t find myself that interested in Asian girls..,” I admitted.

“Why not?” Zen asked, suddenly interested.

“Well, it’s kind of the same reason why you date black guys,” I said.

Zen sighed.

“It’s not the same thing. One, I’ve only dated two black guys, and they’ve both lasted less than a month. Two, I’ve dated people of other backgrounds, I’ve dated a Korean guy and a Russian dude..,” she said.

“Okay I get it. I don’t know, Zen. I can’t explain love or why I really care for one type specifically. You can’t berate me just because I’ve only dated white girls so far, it’s not fair,” I said.

“It’s a pattern though and in the end, you’ll probably end up marrying one of the blonde Barbie dolls,” Zen said, bitterly. I looked at her closely. “Why does it bother you so much?” I asked. She looked at me, and suddenly I knew.

“You like me?!” I asked, truly surprised. Now, she looked uncomfortable.

“I never said anything, but now that I know I’m ‘not your type’ I have nothing to hide,” she said. I shook my head. “This is hard to wrap my head around,” I said.

“Oh come on! We’ve been friends since high school, how could you not know?” Zen said.

“Is that why you never liked any of my girlfriends? I always thought that you were just being critical,” I said. Zen rolled her eyes. “Your girlfriends were annoying and always the same cookie cutter girls,” she said.

“You should have said something,” I muttered.

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“I wanted you to figure out for yourself that you were in this twisted pattern of only dating these blonde Barbie dolls, but you never did!” she sputtered. I shook my head.

“I don’t see it that way. I like them for who they are not because they’re blonde or have blue eyes,” I protested. “That’s the problem! You don’t see it as a problem,” Zen said. I looked at her and she looked down. “Asians who only date white people are white-washed, and they don’t think that other Asians are good enough for them,” she said sharply.

“That’s not true!” I said, now angry.

“Yes, it is. It’s all because of the media and colonization, and internalized racism,” she said.

“Why can’t you just accept that maybe I happen to find blonde girls attractive and that it has absolutely nothing to do with being white-washed?

I’m just as proud of being Asian as anyone else!” I argued, vehemently. She shook her head. “Why can’t you accept that you’re a product of the media propagated perception that white women are better than Asian women?” she asked. We both glare at each other, each refusing to budge from our own opinions. But I soften. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. Then, I paused.

“There was a reason why I asked you if you liked her,” I said. She looked up at me, but remained silent. “You’re my friend, and friends come first for me.

I’d only just met her. If you don’t like her, I’ll just tell her it isn’t going to work out,” I said, kindly. She exhaled.

“No, I want you to figure out for yourself if she is the right one.

Maybe she is. And as your friend, I fully support any decision you make, so long as you’re happy,” Zen said, offering a weak smile.

I smiled back at her. We were friends and although we didn’t quite agree, we respected each other’s decisions. I also realized then and there that things had changed between us, and that the carefully crafted pattern that I was in was about to be broken.

Lui Queaño

UNANG YAPAK

L

abing-walong oras ang flight mula Pilipinas hanggang sa Canada. Isa’t kalahating oras mula naman hanggang Hongkong, labindalawang oras mula Hongkong hanggang Vancouver at limang oras naman mula Vancouver papuntang Toronto. Kaya kasama ang paghihintay sa Vancouver nang apat na oras, inabot ng dalawampu’t dalawang oras lahat-lahat ang haba nang nilakbay niya. Kaya nang lumapag sa wakas ang eroplano sa kanyang destinasyon, naramdaman niya ang pamimitig ng kanyang paa sa matagal na pagkakaupo. Pati ang likod niya’y may mga pumipitikpitik dahil sa ngalay ng mahabang paglalakbay. Nang tuluyang huminto ang eroplano at may signal na lumabas sa ulunan ng kanyang upuan na pipwede nang tanggalin ang seatbelt, napabuntunghininga si Ysh nang malalim. Sa wakas nandito na rin siya sa Toronto. Tiningnan nito ang relo. Sampung minuto bago mag-alas dose ng madaling araw, nakaramdam siya ng gutom. Wala kasing pagkain sa buong flight mula Vancouver hanggang Toronto.

Ang port of entry niya ay sa Vancouver kung saan apat na oras siyang naghintay bago ang eroplanong susundo sa kanya papunta sa Toronto Pearson International Airport. Aba’y apat na oras din iyon! Tapos ang katabi pa niya ay super ang amoy ng kilikili. Kung kaya sa apat na oras na flight na yun, amoy kilikili ang kanyang maliit na mundo. Hindi naman siya masyadong delikado pero ‘pag nakakahilo naman na ang amoy, ‘e ibang usapan na yun. Ibang lahi ang katabi niya’t palangiti. Sinubukan niyang kausapin ang katabi niya ngunit nginitian lamang siya nito. Hindi alam ni Ysh kung naiintindihan siya nito. Pero inintindi na lamang niya ang kinasadlakan niya sa buong limang oras na paglalakbay patungong Toronto.

Sa limang oras na flight nasanay na rin siya sa amoy, kaya nang tumigil ang eroplano nagmadali na siyang tumayo upang agad kunin ang backpack.

Ayaw niyang sanayin ang ilong sa amoy kaya kung may pagkakataong takasan, e takasan na agad ba! Naalala niya ang mga linya sa movie ni Juday na kandatawa silang pamilya nung pinanood nila sa SM North: “Juday: Kuya, napanood niyo ba yung Cinderella and the seven dwarfs?; Kuya: hindi ho, e.; Juday: pakicheck ho kasi mukhang patay na iyong isang dwende!

Nangangamoy!” Naiisip niya yun habang nakatingin siya sa kanyang katabi na tinumbasan naman niya ng tawa. Napalingon tuloy sa kanya ang taong nasa unahan niya’t nakatayong hinihintay ang paggalaw ng linya palabas ng eroplano.

Malaki ang eroplanong sinakyan niya. International flight kasi kaya siguro ganun. Iba’t ibang lahi. May mga kapwa Pinoy siyang nakita sa bandang unahan. May isang buong mag-anak. Pagkakita’y may biglang kurot sa pusong naramdaman si Ysh. Eto na naman. May dalaw agad ang

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Lui Queaño | Unang Yapak

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pangungulila sa kanya. Pinaalis niya ang nakaabang na lungkot na yun na biglaang dumudungaw sa kanyang puso. Kinuha niya ang MP3 na pabaon ng kanyang panganay na anak, isinuot ang earphones at pinakinggan ang masayang musika ng Da Coconut Nut ni Ryan Cayabyab. Epektib. Hindi nga lang niya sigurado kung hanggang kailan ang tagal ng effectivity nito sa kahungkagan na kanyang nararamdaman.

Mas nabilisan siya sa flight mula Vancouver hanggang Toronto. Apat na oras lang yun. Ang kagimbalgimbal sa kanya’y ang karanasang amoy ng kilikili at ang tanong ni Juday kay kuya. Natawa siya. Sa port of entry niya kanina sa Vancouver pumila pa siya kagaya ng iba pang mga bagong salta para icheck ng immigration officer ang kanyang mga dokumento.

“How much money did you bring with you, Sir?” tanong ng immigration officer.

“$10,000...” at dinukot ni Ysh sa bulsa ng kanyang jacket ang money draft na kahapon lang niya pinagawa sa isang bangko sa Makati.

Inisa-isa ng immigration officer ang inabot niyang money draft.

“Your passport, please”.

Binuklat niya ang Philippine passport na kulay brown. Sinipatsipat si Ysh tinitiyak marahil kung ang litrato niya sa passport ay kaparehong ng mukha niya. Nang ngumiti ang immigration officer sa kanya, tama ang suspetsa niya, mas gwapo siya sa personal! “Hahaha,” buong tawa niya sa sarili. Bata pa ang immigration officer at sa tantiya ni Ysh ay 26 taon lamang ito kaya marahil mahigpit sa pagcheck sa mga dumarating na gaya niya.

“Welcome to Canada!” at ngumiti ulit ito sa kanya.

Natapos din ang pangangalkal sa kanyang pagkatao at sa show money na pahiram sa kanya ng mga utol sa Amerika! Pagkaraka’y lumabas na siya sa mahabang linya. May guide naman ang bawa’t linya kung saan lalabas, kaya dirediretso niyang binaybay ang pagitan ng dalawang linyang lubid na daanan ng mga parating na immigrant na kagaya niya. Nilingon niya ang pinanggalingang linya bago siya tuluyang lumabas. Sa tantiya niya’y mga 200 tao pa ang nakalinya para sa immigration check. Mabuti na lamang at hindi siya gaanong naghintay at nahirapan sa pagpila. Wala namang gaanong tanong sa kanya. Samakatwid nakatadhana nga yata ang kanyang pag-aabroad. Napansin niya ang airport security na lumapit sa isang pamilyang Arabong pinalabas sa linya. Hinugot sila sa linya at dinala sa isang silid. Sinundan niya ito ng tingin. Hindi alam ni Ysh kung bakit pero suspetsa niya’y may kaugnayan ito sa kapraningan ng Amerika simula nang sumabog ang Twin Towers sa New York. Napailing na lamang siya sa nakitang yun. “Homeland Security!” naalala niya ang mga salitang iyon bago sila pumasok sa linya.

“Pinoy ka?” hinanap niya ang pamilyar na salitang iyon.

“First time ko kasi kaya naghahanap ako ng kapwa Pinoy. Ako si Marites. Marites Conana,” ang pagpapakilala nito sa kanya.

Muntik nang matawa si Yshmael sa apelyido nito. Gusto sana niyang itanong kung Ilokano ito. Madalas kasi niyang marinig sa mga Ilokano ang salitang “konana” na ibig sabihin sa Tagalog ay “sabi niya.” Nahiya naman siyang tanungin ito, kaya nagpakilala na rin lang siya at inipit na lang niya nang matimyas ang sana’y papalabas na halakhak nang madinig nito ang apelyidong konana.

“Yshmael. Yshmael de la Cruz. Tawagin mo na lang akong Ysh.”

“Saan punta mo, Marites?’

“Sa Toronto ako. Caregiver. Sunduin ako ng amo ko doon sa airport. Kinakabahan ako kasi baka mawala ako. First time kong lumabas ng bansa.”

Sa mga salitang iyon pa lang, ramdam na ni Ysh na nangangailangan nito ng kakwentuhan at kasama para masigurong makakarating ito ng Toronto na hindi nag-aalala, kinakabahan o natatakot. Sino ba naman ang hindi makakaramdam ng mga ganito? Kahit naman siya’y hindi kilala ang bagong bayang pupuntahan. Ganun din naman ang pakiradamn niya, naghahanap din siya ng kapwa Pinoy na kakwentuhan. Karamay sa mga pakiramdam na kagaya nyang bagong salta sa Canada. Kagaya nila parehong bagong salta sa Canada!

Bago pa tuluyang makalabas sa immigration area ay muli na namang pumila si Ysh. “Ano naman kayang pila ito?” Iba ang pilang ito dahil lahat ng suot niya pwera lang sa damit at pantalon ay pinatatanggal at pinadadaan sa x-ray machine. Security check daw bahagi ng Homeland Security ek-ek. Naalala niya ang isang pamilyang Arabo na dinala ng airport security sa isang silid. Kumuha si Ysh ng lalagyan mula sa tiklis at patongpatong na mga plastik containers. Walang nagawa si Ysh kundi tanggalin lahat ng nasa katawan niya: sinturon, relo, barya sa kanyang bulsa, salamin sa mata, sapatos, MP3, sombrero at pati kwintas niya. Tanggalin na rin kaya niya pati buhok sa kilikili niya. Joke lang. Sa malikot niyang isip habang tinatanggal niya ang mga burloloy niya sa katawan, inisip niyang mag-ala UP Oblation at dumipang palabas habang dumaraan ang katawan niya sa x-ray machine. Natawa siya sa posibilidad na baka lahat maggayahan sa kanya maging kahindik-hindik ang tanawin.

Dumaan siya sa x-ray security machine nang walang tumunog at umilaw na pula. Ibig sabihin siya’y isang birhen biro niya. Siya’y isang matimtiman at walang kaduda-dudang dalisay at purong mamamayan ng daigdig. Kung bakit naman kasi may mga Homeland Security pa e pwede namang paamoy na lang sila sa mga german shepherd dogs. Malaking problema lamang ang mga may putok kasi baka bigla ulit umeksena ang mga linya ni Juday o sa isang kalunuslunos na senaryo ay mamamatay sa putok ang mga german shepherd dogs. Kunsabagay mas takot siya sa aso,

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Lui Queaño | Unang Yapak

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mas okey na rin yung x-ray machine, cool..

Pagkatapos ng x-ray ay muling ibinalik niya ang mga tinanggal sa katawan . Napansin niya si Marites na hinihintay na lamang siya. Nagtaka si Ysh bakit ang bilis nito. Naalala niya si Wonder Woman na pag umikot nag-iiba at nagiging wonder woman. Sa malikot niyang pag-iisip natukoy nitong baka ganun ang ginawa ni Marites. Umikot, itinaas ang kanang kamay at sumigaw ng Darna! Tapos nagkagulo sa buong airport, napraning ang mga airport security at pinagbabaril siya kaso sinalag naman ng mga de-kyuteks na kamao ni Marites. Tagumpay siya, panalo ang mga bagong bayani. Marites Conana, ang bagong Darna, bagong bayani, ang dakilang OFW! Natigil ang kabuangan ni Ysh nang tinawag na siya ni Marites .

Bumunghalit siya ng tawa at huminto lang nang sinabihan siya ng katabing puti: “Is there any problem?”

“Muntik niyang sagutin, eto ang piso, mukha pa ni Rizal nakaimprinta diyan, maghanap ka ng kausap mo!”

Paglabas nila sa mahabang linyang yun ay pagpasok naman nila sa loob ng Vancouver Airport kung saan tumambad sa kanila ang mga nakahilerang souvenir shops mula sa mga damit, alak, sigarilyo, sombrero, unan, key chains at mga kainan gaya ng McDonald, Tim Horton’s Coffee, StarBucks, atbp. Napakalaki at napakaaliwalas ng loob ng airport.

Naaaninaw sa sahig nito ang lahat ng mga paang paroo’t parito at ang mga hinihilang bagahe’t maleta. Pati mga boses ay parang alingawngaw na lumalambitin sa mga bahas na malalaking bakal sa kisame. Sa kintab nga nito’y pwede na siyang manalami. Palinga-linga sila at manghangmangha sa tanawin sa labas na kitang-kita sa dingding nitong salaming naghahati sa nakatanghod na bundok at dagat mula sa kinalalagyan nila sa loob ng airport. Dahilan sa mga salaming dingding ay namamalas ang mga eroplanong nakaprente sa labas.

Magkasabay silang lumabas ni Marites. Hila-hila ni Marites ang kanyang maliit na maleta, samantala’y nakabackpack lang si Ysh. Sa pagkamangha sa nakita’y biglang parang gusto niyang ulit-ulitin ang paborito nilang mag-asawang pelikula: ‘Kung mangarap ka’t magising.”

Napahalakhak siya kahit na sa loob naman niya’y hinayang na hinayang siya’t hindi niya kasama ang pamilya sa mga oras na iyon. Siguradong nagtatakbo na ang kanyang mga anak sa kintab ng sahig.

“Anong gate ka, Marites?”

“Gate 22. Ikaw?”

“Pareho tayo. Air Canada.”

Napansin ni Ysh ang lumiwanag na mukha ni Marites. Biruin mo nga naman na sa dalawampu’t dalawang oras na paglalakbay at puno ng pag-aalala ay may kasabay na siya at hindi na siya aanga-anga kung saan

pipila, saan pipickup ang mga bagahe, kung may babayaran pa ba siya, at kung anu-ano pang tanong na laman ng utak ni Marites. Masarap talaga ang pakiramdam na may kadamay ka sa unang araw mo sa ibang bayan.

Sa paghahanap nila ng geyt, unang hinanap ni Ysh ang telepono.

Nangako siyang tatawagan niya ang asawa’t mga anak pagkadating sa Vancouver. Kaya una niyang ginawa’y maghanap ng money changer para mapalitan ang kanyang money draft na $1,000. Kailangan niya ng perang pantawag. Hindi pa nga siya pamilyar sa pera ng Canada. Pero kahit paano naresearch niya ito sa internet.

Nang matapat sila sa money changer booth nagpaalam muna siya kay Marites. Pinalitan niya ang $1,000. Kwarenta pesos ang palit kada isang Canadian dollar. Kinikwenta niya na sa oras na iyon may apat na libong piso siya. Humiling siyang bigyan siya ng barya para pantawag sa telepono.

“There’s a phone card vending machine right there!” sabay turo ng tindera sa bandang unahan. Napansin niya yun. Kaya pala hindi siya binigyan ng barya kundi mga tigsasaandaang Canadian dollars. Doon daw sa vending machine makakabili siya depende sa halaga ng phone card na gusto niya. Mas mahal na card ang bibilhin niya para makausap niya nang mas matagal ang kanyang asawa’t mga anak.

Pagkabiling pagkabili nito, hinanap kaagad nila ang geyt para hindi na sila mahirapan sa boarding. Nakaapunte na sila agad. Kasunudsunod pa rin nya si Marites. Nahalata ni Ysh na parang nahihiya ito dahil sa pagsunud-sunod niya sa kanya. Kahit naman si Ysh hindi rin kumportable na may ibang kasabay. Mas gusto nga niyang mapag-isa pero sa isang banda naman gusto rin niyang may kausap para hindi siya gaanong mapaisip sa pamilyang iniwan sa Filipinas.

Sa hinaba-haba ng nilakad nila narating din nila ang geyt 22.

Hindi naman talaga mapagod maglakad kung ayaw maglakad pwede namang magmovator. Sinubukan ni Ysh magmovator pero napansin niyang napapatakbo si Maritess, atubiling baka maiwan niya ito. Kaya nagdesisyon na lamang siyang maglakad at sabayan si Marites.

“Ysh, ayun na yung geyt 22!” ang parang batang nagbubunyi si Marites pagkakita sa geyt na kuntudo turo pa.

Sa isip-isip ni Ysh, “talagang me ganun? Me turo pa.” Natuwa na rin siya sa wakas dahil makakadiskarte na siya nang kanya. Pwede na siyang maghanap ng telepono para makatawag sa Pinas. Nagpaalam muna siya kay Marites na hahanap muna siya ng telepono para kontakin ang kanyang pamilya. Pinangako kasi ni Ysh tatawagan nito ang kanyang asawa’t anak pagkababang-pagkababa nito sa Vancouver dahil apat na oras siyang hihimpil doon.

Naramdaman niyang parang bumalik sa pag-aalala si Marites.

Parang natakot na baka magtagal siya at maiwanan ng eroplano. Siyempre OA namang masyado yun, ang pambubuska niya sa sarili. Tatawag lang

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sa telepono, maiiwan agad ng eroplano! OA talaga yun sa isip niya. Sa isip lang naman niya yun kaya baka naman siya ang OA mag-isip. Pero para payapain si Marites inihabilin nito ang kanyang back pack. Ngumiti si Marites, parang nagpapasalamat sa kanya.

Malapit sa wash room ang telepono at natanaw niyang may kausap na si Marites na Pinoy. Sigurado siyang Pinoy dahil ang lalakas nilang magusap kahit magkatabi’t magkaharap na. Ilang metro lang layo niya sa geyt 22. Kinuha ni Ysh sa kanyang bulsa ang nabiling phone card. Bell Phone Card $10. Binasa niya ang instruction kug paano ito gamitin. Inangat niya ang telepono, idinayal ang numero sa Filipinas at hinintay ang pagring ng telepono sa kabilang linya. Lumakas at sunudsunod na indayog ng kanyang puso at sabik na sabik siyang makausap agad sinuman sa asawa niya’t mga anak. Walang sumasagot sa kanilang bahay sa Philcoa. Imposible namang ‘di pa sila nakauuwi. Sinubukan niya muli pero ganun pa rin, walang sumasagot. Ring lang nang ring. Nawawalan na siya ng pag-asa hanggang naisip niyang baka tumuloy sila sa Villamor Airbase, doon sa bahay nila sa Pasay. Sinubukan niya ang telepono doon, nagring.

“Pa, si George ito, Pa!” ang sabi sa kabilang linya.

Laking, tuwa naman ni Ysh sa pagkarinig sa boses ng panganay niyang anak. Ramdam niya agad ang pananabik sa bawat isa gayung ilang oras pa lamang naman silang hindi nagkita. Pero dahil ang layo ng pagitan, OA na kung OA, pero ang pakiramdam ni Ysh ay taon na silang hindi nagkikita. May parang sumapok sa kanyang ka-OA yan, ganun!

“Kanina pa ako tumatawag sa bahay sa Philcoa, pero walang sumasagot.”

“Dito kami muna tumuloy nila Mama kasi nakatulog yung dalawang bata. Tapos iyak pa nang iyak. Buti nga sinamahan kami ni Tiyong Levy! Kumusta diyan, Pa?”

“Ang haba ng biyahe. Ang haba-haba ng biyahe. Nakakapagod na,” parang maiiyak na si Ysh at gusto na agad bumalik sa Filipinas gayong kalalapag pa lamang ng eroplano sa Vancouver. Agad tinanong nito ang kanyang asawa. Natutulog daw sabi ni George. Gigisingin daw niya ito.

Nang kausap niya na ang asawa sa telepono, parang naghihintayan sila kung sino ang unang magsasalita. Malakas ang pakiramdam ni Ysh na umiiyak ang kanyang asawa. Ramdam kasi nito ang tahimik at kakaiba sa linya. Nang magsalita siya’y iba ang sumagot, si Tiyong Levy.

“O, ‘tol, pumunta lang si Lena sa banyo. Ako na muna raw pagtiyagaan mo. Hehehe.”

Kahit naman nagpapatawa si Tiyong Levy iba ang boses nito sa telepono. May konting garalgal. Pinipigil nitong umiyak. Pahinto-hinto kasi ang pagsasalita nito. Hindi dirediretso at walang sigla. Pati na rin siya’y

parang may bikig sa lalamunan at anumang oras ay maluluha na rin.

“Sige, tol, ingat ka diyan. Heto na si Lena,” yun ang huli nilang pag-uusap ni Tiyong Levy. Dahil pagkaraan noon’y hindi na niya ito makontak sa kanyang cellphone kahit nang mga sumunod na araw mula nang dumating si Ysh sa Toronto.

Matagal ang pag-uusap nila ng kanyang asawa sa telepono.

Panay ang bilin niya at pangakong lagi silang tatawagan. Kahit papaano’y kinakalamay niya ang sariling sa pasingit-singit niyang mga jokes. Ayaw niyang umiyak kung kausap niya ang kanyang asawa.

“Tamang-tama tulog ang mga bata,” ang pagpapatawa niya habang kausap niya ang asawa sa telepono. Natawa din naman ang kanyang asawa pulos daw siya kalokohan kaya yun ang mamimiss niya. Sa gitna ng kanilang pag-uusap biglang may narinig siya: “You have one more minute for this call.”

Nagpaalaman na sila. Kutakutakot na “I love you” ang pumailanlang at sumasalpok-salpok sa mga bahas na bakal ng kisame ng airport. Muli na naman niyang naramdaman ang lungkot lalo na nang ang huling tunog ng telepono ay tot-tot-tot-tot.

Ibinaba niya ang telepono. Sa kinaroonan niya’y nandoon pa rin si Marites na kausap pa rin ang pinoy na malakas pa rin ang ang mga boses.

Kahit may kahungkagan ang kanyang pakiramdam nabiro pa niya ang sarili sa ngayong masayang larawan ni Marites. Dahil nagtatawag na ang eroplanong magdadala sa kanya sa Toronto. Lumapit siya kay Marites.

‘Halika ka na, boarding na, Wonder Woman”.

“Ano?”

“Este Darna pala.” Bitbit ang maleta ni Marites at backpack naman kay Ysh pumasok sila sa airplane tube na ang pinakadulo’y konektado ng pintuan ng eroplanong magdadala sa kanila sa destinasyon. “Welcome aboard, Sir” ang sabi ng nakaabang na stewardess sa pintuan ng eroplanong magdadala sa kanila ni Marites sa Toronto.

Pakiramdam ni Ysh ay bumigat ang bakpak sa kanyang likod at lalong naramdaman niya ang bikig na namuo sa kanyang lalamunan. Tuluytuloy siyang parang hinigop papaloob ng eroplano.

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Ruth Tejada | Let Your Imagination Out

MGA TULA poetry

Szara Joy Salise

Thoughts 30

The life I would have had If planes did not take me to another land If the time it took for me to fit in was put into Learning about the history that runs through my veins Discovering the roots and branches of my family Standing in front of the house where I was born Reminiscing cracks a smile from my lips In come stories of when you were this high This was where you blew your first birthday candle That was where we had ice candy under the heat of the sun But this is temporary I have a life somewhere else In a city strangely different, far from here And if I had stayed, Instead of recurring thoughts of wanting to visit back home Would I have been one of the many whose only wish is to leave?

To get out of the homeland, for better pay, To send money to my family, perhaps marry a white man?

Raymond Garcia

TRUE FILIPINO What does it mean to be a true Filipino?

I have been asking myself for years Ever since Tagalog started sounding strange And no longer familiar to my ears What does it mean to be a true Filipino?

I have been pondering on this so I read Jose Rizal’s quote the other day, translated to English And what he wrote cut into my soul So when you looked at me with eyes full of pride, And a face full of self-righteousness telling me that deep down inside I am not whole, because I do not know what my mother’s language is.

Or that I can never be Pinoy, because my tongue cannot properly

enunciate our words Or due to the fact that my father’s father’s land was not my place of birth No wonder you ignore me, when I come up to you to say hi And no wonder I hear your voices behind my back, whenever I pass by Every time I try to speak, my teeth chatter, my voice cracks It took so much for me to say ‘kamusta ka’, yet you broke me with just one laugh BUT NO MORE I have had enough of you all blaming me for not being able to speak it You grew up in Philippines, I grew up in Canada –

don’t you know there is a big difference?

You were raised to speak, to breathe, to walk in our islands But I had to survive, to fit in, to grow here, so my tagalog they silenced

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Raymond Garcia | True Filipino

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Yet my parents raised me and my brother with the same Filipino truths They taught me to be proud of myself, my skin color, and love my Filipino roots I call my brother kuya, sisters ate, I mano to my titos and my titas I have Filipino character and values, thanks to my ninongs and my ninangs Yet some of you stay away from the sun, and bleach your skin white Changing to look Japanese or Korean, because looking Filipino isn’t alright You wear 5-inch high heels, just to give you that American appearance Afraid that Filipino beauty in society will never receive clearance So what is a real Filipino?

Is it now hard for you to decide?

Let me tell you what makes you a true Filipino.

It is your heart Your soul Your mind.

Audrey Beltran

a lesson in behavioral science

Para kay Kristel Tejada. 16 years old (March 15, 2013) Para din kay Mariannet Amper. 10 years old(November 2, 2007) grief is a lesson in behavioral science it shakes those who pretend to be or choose to be in deep stupor with seemingly clean hands clasped together in apathy in greed grief is a lesson in behavioral science it rouses those who cannot sleep because of a loss because of one act that wakes us to a society of diminished values

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Audrey Beltran | A Lesson in Behavioral Science

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grief is a lesson in behavioral science and it is more than that. grief is denial for those who do not want to take accountability or face reality; it is easier to wash one’s hands rather than to understand the weight of a death. grief is a mother clutching a pair of her daughter’s shoes that should have taken her to school, to a profession, to a life rather than to the grave.

grief is a father counting his coins and bills to pay for his daughter’s education and to pay for an irrational guilt negotiating that maybe maybe he could bring her back. i am her, he says. grief is the tears is the anger of a nation that knows hunger helplessness and desperation too well to kill oneself or to die for killing this system that thrives on dead bodies dead dreams.

35

Audrey Beltran | A Lesson in Behavioral Science

36

we. are. a. people. stripped off. rights. that. should be. delivered. by. the.

State.

Grief is a lesson in behavioral science.

And it is more than that.

Kristel Tejada, a University of the Philippines-Manila student of Behavioral Science took her own life when she could not take the final exams at the University because her parents could not pay the cost of education in the State university. Her death has put on focus the commercialization of education and state abandonment of the right to education of each Filipino student.

Mariannet Amper took her own life in 2007 due to hunger. She was from Davao.

Faye QueaĂąo

Winter SUN I sit here wondering Where you’ve been.

The air feels algid and A surfeit of crusted brown leaves Pass me by I close my eyes and let them travel I tell them to find you And they come back As dutiful messengers.

In a far away town Where no one knows, you sit there by the river You stare at your reflection In deep thought Clouded by suffering The memories are ubiquitous Never leave your side Would hover over you Like a melancholic tragedy.

37

Faye QueaĂąo

HeaRT CLOCKS 38

the way our hearts work is funny like clocks, they move in a slow circling motion ticking away in a nagging manner like time, they restrict us to a certain schedule‌we think we are free so little do we know we belong to the beat.

Maia Angela San Diego

TEENAGE LOVE AFFAIR Day after day, we quenched our lust – inside the car at dusk, unseen through tinted windows. Like thieves at night, we fucked. Probing eyes search for our shadows. But burning passion entangles us with hushed kisses. No one can know.

My heart is filled with purely him: his laugh, his touch, the wrinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiles - seventeen and in love.

Still, these thoughts cloud my head. What would Lola say? Her only apo has fallen in love with a forty-year-old man. What would Papa say?

A forty-year-old man has seduced his only son.

39

Analyn D. Aryo

DINNER TIME

(On the eyes of a foreign caregiver) 40

Eat, my child, please!

I begged this child I call ward As he stared At his dinner of Sirloin steak, buttered vegetables, Mashed potatoes, a cup of milk.

“I don’t want to,”he hissed, “Please, eat.”I insisted.

“Why?Why?Why?”he screamed “So that you’ll grow well,” I said.

But I wish I could tell you this: You need to eat, because, I am being paid to make sure you Eat this feast, So that another child your age Will also have something to eat: A bowl of rice and one dried fish.

Analyn D. Aryo

MISSING A LOT The mother stood looking at me and her sonSnuggled in the crook of my arms, His head warm in my chest as I Rock him- back and forth.

I feel his steady breathing As if the world ended and all is well “I feel like I’m missing a lot,” she said.

As she smoothens her skirt, her high-heels in hand And bids me goodnight. She’s a bit late for her date.

I wave to her, “have a good time” as I rock her son – back and forth Until his breath let me believe, too, that time stood still and all is well.

Although I feel like I’m missing a lot.

41

Rowena P. Festin

Lungkot 42

Rumerenta ang lungkot Ng malaking espasyo sa isip Hindi nagbabayad Dumudungaw siya sa bintana O tumatayo sa pinto Nakahalukipkip Kapag may nararamdamang paparating Tulad ng petsa Boses, mga alaala Tibok ng puso Masaya man o malungkot Dumudungaw siya sa bintana O tumatayo sa pinto Nakahalukipkip Upang ihagis sa iyong puso Ang talim ng kanyang titig.

43

Ysh Caba単a | WBEY

Rowena P. Festin

PAALIS 44

Pagbukas ng tarangkahan Walang kahit ano sa kalsada, Maliban sa iyong bagahe At nakaabang na taxi Paalis ka na ulit, Pinakamalungkot na mga salita Ngayong araw na ito.

Kumukulay-asul na ang langit; At ako, Nakatitig sa pinakamalamig na bagay Ngayong araw na ito: Ang iyong bagahe Sa compartment ng taxi.

Lui QueaĂąo

Tungkol sa Pag-ibig Madalas ang kanyang bisita Wala siyang bulaklak O tsokolate gaya ng iba Pero ang bango niya’y Nakalulunod sa kaluluwa Magpapaanod naman ako Hanggang makalimutang May buhay pang natitira Sa paggampan at pagkikipagsapalaran.

Madalas siyang bisita Sa umaga Sa tanghali Sa gabi.

Walang pinipiling oras o araw o panahon man.

Mapapansin na lang Na nagmamahal nga Kung wala nang iluha Sa pangungulila Dahil sa tuwing kakatok siya Papapasukin lamang Upang kasamang humimlay Sa babahan ng sinag ng umaga.

45

Paskie Pascua

IN THE ISLANDS 46

In the islands where I came from where the sun burns like toxic cakes and the moon decays like gangrenes, we gather dead fish by breakwater rocks murdered by cyanide bowels, and then we boil them with weed black with soot from the swamps flavored by bitter sweat crawling down our faces like blood.

That is lunch for a family of six the last meals of the first days of the rest of our lives, and then we thank God. In the islands where I came from where birds fly in joy along murky skies because no one could afford to imprison them in golden cages, we behead chickens with rusty kitchen knives and cook every little bit of their malnourished body, boil them on acid rain water head, flesh, entrails, feet even blood is caked and cubed and barbecued.

That is dinner for a family of six the last suppers of the first days of the rest of our lives, and then we thank God. In the islands where I came from where roads have no exit signs only entry ways and houses have no doors

only windows, dogs roam the streets like bullfrogs on daylight and fireflies at dusk, they signal the coming of storm pacify ghosts that disturb the living and body-search suspicious strangers, they patiently wait for leftovers of poisoned sweat.

That is food for our dogs they swallow these graces with us with obedient hearts, and then they wag their tails to thank God. In the islands where I came from we die in thousands, six months a year typhoons devour our neighbor wars kill our friends earthquakes crush our houses of rattan wicks and bamboo sticks each flood sweeps our 12-month dreams away.

In the islands where I came from we weep and weep and weep for ten months of misfortune, and then in the next two months of grace we frolic in the mud rife with chemical vomit, we laugh with grasshoppers drunk with caffeine, we chase bullfrogs dazed with nicotine under a shade of nitrogen clouds.

In the islands where I came from we die and live every day live and die every night die and live again and again, and then, in the mornings of our lives we get up and breathe the new air and then we thank God as we head out the door and dance like butterflies with one foot and 700 hearts and wings as huge as the blue sky.

In the islands where I came from.

47

Ysh CabaĂąa

ODE TO WINDCHIMES 48

I appreciate your reception At my passing through the door You’d let me listen to the melody of our encounter What jangling in the atmosphere pushes your fingers the same percussion that forced my standpoint to declare, to dare to struggle on the side of the marginal as to how your situation is now suspended on the sloped plenum You remain holding regard for differing worlds It came to my mind if you could really make evil spirits flee I will whisper to you to play on the threshold for the reason that only in the colliding of those metal digits could you make music which means when there is dialectic in every opportune moment.

Ysh CabaĂąa

ODA SA KUNGKONG Ikinalulugod ko ang melodiya ng ating pagmumuok na sa akin ay ipinarinig mo habang pumapasok sa pinto Anong tigatig-taginting ng hangin ang tumutulak sa iyong mga daliri ang mismong perkusyong bumunsod ng aking paninindigan upang bumunyag, bumaka sa kiling ng nasa laylayan parang sa iyong kalagayan ngayon nakasabit sa dalisdis ng ulunan Nakaantabay ka palagi sa pagitan ng taliwas na mundo Naisip ko kung matataboy mo ang mga masasamang espiritu bubulungan kitang tumugtog sa bukana dahil sa pagbabanggaan nga lamang ng mga daliring metal ika’y nakagagawa ng musika ang ibig sabihin kapag may dialektiko sa bawat napapanahong pagkakataon.

49

Lingling Maranan-Claver

Tamarind Soup 50

I’m cooking tamarind fish soup the halibut is milky white I peel a pretty onion-a pearly orb of sweetness then slice a thumb of ginger to a handful of pungent slivers I burst the heart of a hot tomato And cut a bunch of bright crisp greens For piquancy, a forlorn pepper Whose shriveled skin belies the fire within Into the gentle simmer I toss them all In the order my mother And my mother’s mother taught me to Without the tamarind of home I take a lemon And then another And squeeze them well for all their worth I take a ladle and meditate on this devilishly spicy brew As I stir and taste and stir Steam rises, forming clouds of sour goodness And then I think of you, my love My tears fall and salt this fool’s tamarind fish soup.

Lingling Maranan-Claver

REFUGEE Eight years is a long time to be listening to snowflakes fall in December, when you know fully well that you could be drinking lemongrass ginger brew under the heaving mango tree, while listening to the carols of the blind trio who play their beat-up violin and bass in a nowhere key, or to town kids bang on the sardine tin cans and bottle cap tambourines surprising you with made-up words in borrowed Yuletide songs of old.

You love it there where the sun gazes and casts long shadows across the fallow fields and the wind strums the bamboo leaves, while you are here listening to snowflakes fall in December.

51

Wallei Bautista Trinidad

ESTRELLA 52

Pagal na tinig ang aking naririnig Mula sa iyong nangangatal na bibig Hirap at dusa’y siya mong kapiling Ginhawa sa buhay ang tanging hiling.

Ugating mga kamay at napudpod na kuko Mga sugat sa binti at peklat sa ‘yong braso Ay mapait na alaala ng nakaraan mo Ano nga bang pag-asang naghihintay sa iyo?

Estrella, sa langit ikaw ay tumingala Damhin ang lawak na pag-ibig ni Bathala Hindi ka nag-iisa, ikaw’y laging may kasama Sa lahat ng daing at mga pagdurusa.

Tayo din ay mga talang isinabog sa langit Ang iba’y kumikislap, ilan ay tila nakapikit Ngunit bawat isa’y may liwanag na hatid Nagbibigay sigla sa pusong umiibig.

Sa kandungan ng lawak naiiba kang talaga Sa paningin ika’y mistulang tala sa umaga Kapag nalulumbay sa langit ay tumingin Masusumpungang talang nagniningning Kaya ang iyong pagod at mga hinaing Mapayapang bukas ang sa’yo ay darating Di matitinag sa bugbog at unos na tamasa Bukas ay lagi’t-laging pag-asam at pag-asa!

Caesar Preposi

Dying Light Darkness, ate the moon tonight.

Though it is thick and velvety, the blackness is warm, and the sea partook of the lambent glow of distant stars that peppered the bald spots of the cloudy skies.

Darkness, engulfed the day in its womb and sea drenched it in spectral, colorless mist, sodden in iodine and salt erasing the visceral mystery of the light, that lovely light gone home, but still shining in my heart.

53

Petronila Cleto

TWO HISTORIES 54

history of water is parable of return. earth evolves gathering the ancient blood (whirler of breath) our lips hurry after with prayers, roundelay of prayers and curses (bring back the silver the diamonds the haloes overflowing the youthful days I cupped my untrembling hands) skies, none of your spaces could ever equal the tremors that create our impassioned breath! skies, none of your spaces could ever equal the terrors that create our impassioned breath: our limbs struggle after our dreams, the order of progress we wish to liberate (bring now, my mind, my hands the promise locked within the entangled sun the days to come are arguments with snarling earth) history of matter is parable of discourse. evolve the earth gather the rotting blood, whirler of death!

Petronila Cleto

DEMOLITION their summer dream would spoil without it behold, it will fall to mark our lives with carving whip a sharp screech of sunlight through a chorus of spitting lizards their dream is holy, their chasuble embroidered well with machine-designed wheels of centuries-old progress while they also try to guess the treasures, the hidden mines, the golden breasts beneath our modest Sunday dress then as they prepare for bed majestically put on their night skin tattooed with a serpentine history they may snicker at how pagans humbly give up, all the time, their freedoms and their souls seduced by the power of something more ideal!

55

Petronila Cleto

To the sojourner, on cordillera day 56

In the subway, it is darker and later than the afternoon We sit across each other, with an angle of limp light Which we bridge and on it we meet Across layers of silences you know very well So well that their keenly embroidered fabrics soothe you Even in the wind-ruled deserts of your sleep So well that their ancient colours descend From the mountain peaks where memory began To your trees and fibrous body Shaped and spent from the day’s work And also because you have often had no choice But look from dusty windows where you And pain have perched together like able sojourners To gaze at the wind-borne currents and tides Across these layers and dusty windows You can look at me, your sister now, And with eyes declare that somehow, signals are clear You don’t look away, and so my eager memory sketches you Who are also a welcome stranger, who have found joy In being human through another’s non-foreign eyes, Non-foreign face, non-foreign hands, non-foreign body You, who can dive into the deep inside the eyes…

Your daughter looks up from her slumber One eye wondering at my look, but the other Lost in her own deserts Of aloneness Of strangeness She must be told!

There are heroes who shine with steadfast beauty Who have conquered the cliffs and parched lands, Wrested victory away from the scornful winds of change They are mirrors to the inner truth: That the strong heart’s greatness transcends man-made Terrors and disasters!

We know we consider her future As we look into each other’s lives We know there are enormous roots greater than us Entangling us, reaching out for our blood, For the stems and buds of our integrity But we know their stranglehold grows weaker As ancient spirits grow in wisdom together!

Yes, even here, where the city has jungles Strewn with sharp and cruel teeth of modern lies!

And so we cannot go each her way, weeping Beating drums dolorously into the distance – We will use sturdy bridges of truth To cross all distances and abysses Prepare the soil, very like our ancients, And build terraces to protect the land Where a new and greater world will grow.

57

Lualhati Bautista

Sa isang bata sa gilid ng daan 58

kulang na panabing ang toldang itim sa ambon na bumabasa sa iyong mukha. lalong hindi sapat upang huwag kang malula sa taas at lawak ng langit. ipikit ang paningin at huwag damhin ang daing ng iyong bituka matulog nang mahimbing hindi man makaawit ang galit na ina. tanggapin nang kandungan ang kabaong na sinliit lang ng an ay wala pang lugar sa tahanang sinlaki lang ng tuldok ay nakaupo pa raw sa lupang hindi inyo. manahimik at huwag sumilip sa mukha ng amang nakatungo nguni’t tiim-bagang na tinatabingan ka sa ambon na nagiging bagyo.

Nonilon Queaño

THIS MARKER WILL BEAR FLOWERS: A VILLANELLE FOR LEONARD CO This marker will bear flowers with the trees As time and forest sanctify your death Now you are pure light shining on the leas Such darling soul, we pray, find quiet rest Even as we reel harder to forget This marker will bear flowers with the trees It was eternity you offered us A mind of mountains, longer view of suns Now you are pure light shining on the leas Rafflesia leonardi, we will set you down To dwell in us like the same flow’r you found This marker will bear flowers with the trees And may the Fountainhead put things aright, Punish your murderers with stones of fire Now you are pure light shining on the leas The world has lost a great man and dear friend Love grows on trees, perchance, but grief can’t die This marker will bear flowers with the trees Now you are pure light shining on the leas.

59

Nonilon Queaño

60

Tatlong Yugto ng Pag-ibig o Kung Paano ba Magmahal ng Wagas?

(Sa alaala ni Kasamang Aileen)

Una, kailangang ikampay ang isip nating Nagmahal nang wagas Sa imperyong kalawakan, Tulad ng bulalakaw, Gumuhit ng liwanag sa gaano man kapusikit na dilim, Upang puso’y bolang apoy na itanim sa gubat, O kung saan ang sinta’y napapadpad, Tumutubo lamang ang pag-ibig sa liwanag.

Ikalawa, ang pagkilos na lagi’y buhay sa loob, Pagmumulat sa masa Ukol sa imperyalismong sanhi ng hirap at inhustisya Kahit saang mundo, Kahit saang kalawakan, Gaano man katagal, Pagbuwag sa metapisika Na nagsabing lahat ng hirap, dusa’t kamangmangan Ay tadhana ng Diyos sa langit, Kahit malinaw na ang Diyos ay negosyanteng Humakot ng yaman sa pangungulimbat Sa minahan, pananiman, patahian, paminggalan Nating nagdasal, sumimba, siniphayo, sinalanta Sa kahangalang ipinakalat nila -Lulan ng lagim ng giyerang kanilang dala-dala saanman -Na mapalad ang mahirap at nagugutom Dahil pagpapalain sa kabilang buhay.

Ang bulalakaw na isip lamang ang nakakagagap nito.

Ikatlo, ang pag-aarmas, Dahil walang tatapos sa salot ng imperyalismo Kundi rebolusyon.

Tatawagin natin itong pagmamahal nang wagas, Mula sa pusong nagliliyab, Pagkaraang payabungin ang kamalayan ng masa, Ang pag-aalsa, Pagkaraang pamukadkarin ang pag-ibig sa laya, Ang digmang bayan na pinanday tuwina Ng awit, pananalig, at pangarap Gaano man kapanganib, kalayo, katagal, Ganoon magmahal nang wagas, Guguhit ng apoy at liwanag sa kalawakan at gubat, Yayabong ang pag-ibig, Tulad ng pag-aalsa.

Wala namang halaga ang buhay kung hindi magmahal, At paano ba kaya magmahal kung hindi nga wagas.

61

Jaime Dasca Doble

ODE TO CASSAVA 62

After months of waiting, a clump of cassava is dug up then boiled, filling the hunger of a peasant who has rarely tasted a tin plate of good rice.

At other times, a cassava is roasted over a bonfire by a guerrilla taking a respite amidst the hectares of camouflage.

Back in the city, an order of a prized cassava cake topped with grated cheese is almost unthinkable to someone here in the hills.

The skin of a cassava is peeled with a knife, incising spirals of discontent against skirmishes with an Army patrol.

Cooked, it is shared and savored by cadres whose only dip is a disciplined choice between shrimp paste or rock salt.

Afterward, its cut stem is once again planted in infinite rows leaning toward the horizon, the underground tubers awaiting the call of this unfinished revolution.

63

Jaime Dasca Doble

THE FAITH OF SATUR OCAMPO 64

And it took the rain to recognize you up close: white hair spliced into black, face yellowed by the light.

Outside the University Film Center, the rain poured down strands of memories.

Your eyes flickered for a second when I revealed I was the son of the man who arrested you.

The underground tales began to recount how you were taken away, brought to a safehouse, a black cloth wound around your head, questioned by many male voices.

Soon the inquiry turned into a medieval torture chamber.

For nine-and-a-half years, you were detained in a cell that you could circle only in a few steps.

There was only one thing I wanted to know: if ever, at one point, my father tortured you.

You said you were unsure.

Father made visits to your cell, unarmed. You stand near the bars, while he would lie on your bed and offer you cigarettes.

You shared stories of war seen from different lenses.

Father used to be on your side, too.

But his restless spirit could not be contained by anything.

Years after, without you knowing it, father would be shot dead in the migraine heat of midafternoon.

You remember most vividly his well-trimmed mustache and curly hair tamed by pomade.

His laughter had the sound of creaking bamboo. A free man, now you file bills that would break the spiral of poverty in the land.

You make speeches, still gather people in protest marches.

And I am left with nothing, save for the gambit of grieving.

In 1976, Satur Ocampo was arrested at an underground safehouse in Subic, Zambales. The intelligence officer responsible for his capture was Josefino Casuela Doble of the Philippine Constabulary.

65

Jaime Dasca Doble

Death to the Sergeant 66

A bullet is loaded in the chamber, its coppered future pending from the trigger of a pistol, as hammer and primer meet, then squeezed in mid-afternoon.

Powder turns to firepower engraved, sharpened into the bore, a barrel of anger against this man — father of scattered children, husband of women, cue master, card player, rooster aficionado, jueteng comptroller, illegal logger, bemedalled constable, eye of intelligence, the dictator’s engine of control: an enemy of the people whom he hauls away from their homes in the deepest night, signing them with his magnum on their foreheads, leaving a trail of blood

drying on rock and sand, mounds of hatred growing as he turns his back on them, warning of another visitation.

But today, the palm leaves wave in the churches full of pious pilgrims while nearby, the men bet on the derby.

You sit in the corner of the arena, waiting for the spurs to clash when this tempered bullet hits your scalp, your flesh, enters the base of your skull at zero range, followed by another bullet, the first bullet exiting and leaving a hole in your forehead, the second making an inverted kiss on your cheek that Palm Sunday.

All that is left in the cockpit is a pool of slippers and sandals — torn ears — as your rooster now crows its victory.

In 1987, Josefino Casuela Doble of the Philippine Constabulary was gunned down by an unidentified assailant in Santa Cruz, Zambales. An intelligence officer during Martial Law, he was responsible for the capture of high-profile revolutionary leaders such as Satur Ocampo, Bernabe Buscayno, and Jose Maria Sison.

67

Ysh Caba単a

CONCERTINA 68

Effective may be the rings running each gap fastened with twisted wires that you make We, the people, will march crossing every lap even if our lives may be at stake

Mark Angeles

MIDTERMS

Inaamin ko, hindi engineering ang kursong gusto kong kunin.

Fisheries sana tulad ni tatay. Pero ayaw niya. Gusto ay lumipad ako malayo rito sa Samar.

Inaamin ko, natukso akong gumawa ng kodigo. Midterms namin ngayon sa subject ni Prof. Joma Cui. Nakaupo siya sa teacher’s table. Ang mga kaklase ko naman tutok na tutok sa kani-kanilang test papers. Habang manaka-naka akong tumitingin sa labas ng pintuan. Sa mga puno, sa mga ulap.

Nakita ko ang dalawang lalaking nakasuot ng ski mask at may dalang mga armas. Pumasok sila sa classroom. BANG! BANG! Tumimbuwang si ser. Nagliparan ang mga test papers.

Alay ang kuwento kay Prof. Jose Ma. Cui, founding member ng Bayan Muna sa Northern Samar. Habang nagmi-midterms ang kanyang klase sa College of Engineering, University of Eastern Philippines, Northern Samar, pinasok sila ng dalawang kalalakihan at pinagbabaril ang guro.

69

Mark Angeles Ikapitong Sundang:

MAGTITIBAS* 70

Umaawit ang sundang ng magtitibas kapag nahihipo ang puluhan.

Sumisingasing maging ang mga pingas habang hinuhugot sa kaluban.

Gabud at danas ang siyang nagpapatalas sa sukbit na patalim sa baywang.

Sapagkat ilang niyog na ang nabiyak, ilang damuhan na ang nahawan.

Umaawit ang sundang ng magtitibas sa sandali ng pananambang.

Nilalagok ang dugo ng mga limbas sa ngalan ng sambayanan.

* tugon sa panawagan ni Ericson Acosta

Mark Angeles

THIRD WORLD I love your sunrise after sunrise and the oil that marks your summer.

I love your dark brown skin— porous as an earthenware and sometimes phosphoric like bronze.

I love the scent of brine in your sweat and the bread that rises over your firewood.

I love the lush of your fruits and minerals and the fish that burst forth from your seas.

I love the coiling tongue of your rivers, the valleys that wary like shy birds, and the forests that lie in their sleep.

I love your ballads and your lullabies, the secret prayers that you whisper, and your war songs—your thunderclaps that terrify your enemies to their knees.

I love the stench of your sewages, the persevering brigade of workers that fuel your markets and factories, and the dung that impregnates your fields.

I love the root of your tears pressing against famine and poison.

I love the diamond of your history forged in the very core of your natives’ culture.

And most of all, I love your slaves who raise bullets in their backyards and load their guns with manifestos of resistance.

71

Lui Queaño

BUNSO Kay Sinag 72

Niyayakap ng iyong titig Ang umagang kagigising lamang.

Anong hiwaga sa bawa’t kwentong Sumasalubong sa iyo araw-araw?

Tinutunton wari ng iyong tanaw Ang mga litaw na pigura’t hugis Ng paligid mong kakaiba Sa init ng sinapupunang pinanggalingan Siyam na buwan ang nakaraan.

Ngayon sa iyong pagsilang, Madirinig mo ang mga kwento Ng malamig na tarangkahang Nagpinid sa iyong lolo Isang panahon ng batas militar Kasama nang iba pang anak ng bayang Gumampan at tumuligsa Sa diktadurang ibinuwal!

Ay! kayliliit pa ng iyong mga daliri’y May matikas na itong litaw Ng kamaong palaban!

Ysh Cabaña

CMYK Color me your Korea Times daily pressboy.

Keri lang yan That I have to undergo This rite of passage Of getting inked to have a local Canadian experience.* I don’t intend to operate Soon the paper snake, But such is life Like accomplishing a docket, A list of things to do (that, at least you should have) Certain to me it is— Should I get finished Here stacking tabloids And metros and magazines, I will get over the skid From newsprint to newsprint And my history will be published On the same plate negative With the optimism I had When I used to fold lips.

*Local Canadian experience is a requirement asked from foreign workers or im/ migrants in Canada used unofficially but widely by employers to segregate the dominant white candidates from people of colour

73

Ysh Cabaña

OF MULTIGRAIN BAGELS 74

I have a method of creating, I wear a lab gown therefore I am a scientist, a hand glove and a pair of plugs in my ear I do everything mechanical folding bags, shaking them, waiting ten seconds for the next, looking at the right side to left if there is just a disarray along the packing line with the label which says “Processed in Canada” of the same at the same time does not speak that they are in fact a product by Russian, Indian, African, Hispanic, Filipino— of which the last I am— like them the varied grains that dot the baked torus in Toronto— poppyseed, rye, bran, wheat, sourdough.

I cannot convey words for the wage has to be worked on I cannot more than act habitually, cannot speak only hand gestures to my colleagues because they too cannot run against the belt that runs all over the mill least for the yeast risen least for capitalism Worked on in the multiracial plant for the singular global corporate brand by an American addressed by the name Mister Donut I am a scientist I do everything methodical: packing bagels, in my goal of making my own dough with just a hole in the middle, not much of a direction, a teleology.

75

Szara Joy Salise | Bakwet

Alexander Martin Remollino

DI NAMIN TUTUNTUNGAN ANG HIGANTENG ALON Pagpapatiwakal na kung sasakyan namin ang ihip ng hangin.

Pagpapatiwakal na kung kami’y paaanod sa ragasa ng ilog.

Kami’y mga artista ng bayang nakasalagmak sa tambak ng basura.

Di namin tutuntungan ang higanteng alon ng di-pagsaling sa putik ng katotohanan, pagkat aming tangan ang tungkod ni Moises-tungkod na hihiwa sa palalong dagat.

77

Alexander Martin Remollino

SA AKING PANULAT 78

Huwag sanang tulutan ng tadhana na ako’y lisanin mo sa gitna ng digma.

Ikaw ay masong magagamit sa pagpapanday ng isang bayan kung saan walang taong parang asong nakagapos habang hinihimod ang paa ng kung sino, kung saan ang mga tao ay mga mulawing lahat at di mga kawayan.

Ngunit kung wala kang iuukit sa papel kundi isang pumpon ng mga pinabanguhang kahangalan, mabuti pang ang mga kamay ko ay magkadurug-durog sa riles, dili kaya’y tamaan ng isang libong lintik upang ikaw ay di ko na mahawakan pa.

Ben D. Nillo

NANLABAN Wala sa isip niya ang burol kahit ang mga igagastos at ipanlalagak pinangungunahan siya ng gulat at hinagpis, pinababalintunaan ang natanggap na hapis.

May iba pa po ba kayong kamag-anak?

Iling ang sinagot niya sa imbestigador; Nakikipagtalo ang ingay ng kaniyang hikbi sa naghahanap na mga tikatik ng mga daliri sa naghihingalo’t kinakalawang na makinilya.

Pinasadahan ni SPO1 sa pinaka-maikli ang nangyari: Nanghablot ng bag at kumaripas ang Apo. at matapos umalingawgaw ng saklolo.

Naabutan ng parak at nagpupumiglas papuntang presinto.

Pinatunton sa kaniya ang purinarya, kasama sa nakasilid ang di’mawaring resulta ng imbestigasyon at otopsiya.

At ang kapirasong papel na nakuha sa bulsa ng namayapa: Maligayang Kaarawan Lola. At umusal ang matanda:

Kung makakapagsalita lamang siya...

79

Ben D. Nillo

SAMAL 80

Hubo’t hubad ang musmos sa lantay na umaga Bukadkad ang mga daliri at pinaparinig sa mga lulan ng lantsa: “Piso ! Piso! Sincilio!* Sincilio!�

Nakatayo sa trono ng kaniyang nilulumot na bangka.

Nagliligalig ang sanlibong kislap sa kaniyang likuran Nag-aapuhap ang hangin sa buhok niyang ginintuan.

Walang araw ang hindi naglalarong kalakaran Ng mga bangingi sa pantalan ng Zamboanga, Laging dungaw pansin sa laot Ang kasing linaw ng karagatan Ang malabo nilang kinabukasan.

Pangpawi ang bawat paghagis ng barya Ng mga naiinip na bisita ng aplaya.

Ang matunghayan ang pagpapakitang gilas Ng mga batang ninuno ng peninsula.

Ang pagsagip sa nalulunod na barya Ay haraya ng hapis nilang pamana.

Ang kalaliman ng karagatan Ang mababaw nilang kaligayahan.

*Barya

Ben D. Nillo

YAPAK Sumilao farmers march to DAR to continue fight Hanggang saan nga ba ang dulo nitong paglalakbay Kung may nagbabaluktot sa tuwid?

Nagpupundar ng kalyo sa talampakan bawat pag-usad diri sa aspaltong tinatahak.

Mula sa Bukidnon hantod sa kagawaran ng Agraryo.

Kupkup ng kubaling1 kamay ang panawagang nakatitik sa karatula ang aming hinaing: “Walay ugma ang akong adlaw karon2 Kung dili ko pakan-on gikan sa akong gitanum3.�

Tinatahan ng pag-asa ang humihikbi naming balat tuwing katirikan ng araw.

Sinusuyo ng panalangin ang namamanhid na binti, tuwing ngumingiti ang buwan.

Yumayaman sa pawis ang bawat dalita, sa landas pahakbang palapit sa aming mithi mabawi lamang ang nalupig na minanang lupa sa kamay ng mga tampalasang lahi.

1 Makalyo 2 Walang bukas ang araw ko ngayon 3 Kung hindi ako papakainin ng aking itinanim

81

Piya C. Montalban

MGA PAA 82

Bitbit mo ay buwan at araw Konstelasyon at direksyon Kaliwa o Kanan Palusong o Paahon Putikan o Aspaltado Sa mga gubat at dagat Salimuot ng bawat planeta Ng galaksiya.

Bitbit mo ang utak at palad; Ang ngiti at simangot; Ang hinahon o hapo Ng sebo, litid, kalamnan Ng balikat, dibdib at puso; Ang kilig at yamot, Ang kilabot, Na gumagapang Sa pusod at puson; Ang tunggalian Ng sikmura at kaluluwa.

Alay sa iyo hanggat maari’y Sapin na kumportable, Sapat para protektahan Ang sakong at bukong-bukong Sa matutulis na bato, Graba’t mga pako Sa daang tuwid ma’y baku-bako.

May mga gaya mong nakatitikim Ng kalinga, nakahihilata sa spa, Ginagastusan ang pustura Habang naglalakad ng milya-milya Mga talampakang humahalik Sa init at lamig ng semento Silang ang kasu-kasuha’y Ipinanganak sa pobreng katauhan.

Ngunit ikaw, na nagdala sa akin Sa mga libluban ng kanayunan, Ikaw na kasama kong umakyat Sa mga burol, bulkan, at bundok.

Bumaybay sa mga talon, ilog, Bukal at mga talampas.

Ikaw na uminda ng maga at kirot Sa bawat pagkakatapilok.

Ikaw na bumitbit sa akin, Naghatid sa mga pintuangbayan Ng Ljubljana, Desanzano, Zagreb, Lyon, Marawi, Iligan, Lapu-Lapu, Mactan, Cagayan de Oro, Panaad, Lucena, Lucban, Naga, Legaspi, Allen sa Samar, Concepcion, Tarlac, Cabañatuan, At sa marami pang lugar na naghihintay Sa ating pagdapo’t paglalakbay- Dalawampu’t anim na buto, Tatlumpo’t tatlong sugpong Na nakikipagtulungan, Sa labing siyam na mga masel, At isang daan at pitong lamad Para makalikha ng eksaktong Kilos at galaw- Ikaw ang nakababatid Ng aking mga tindig, Ng bawat pagkaliwa, Ng bawat pakikisalamuha.

Ngayo’y bitbit mo Maliban sa buong Ako,

Ang tangan kong Karit at maso.

83

Tomas F. Agulto

Bakas ng Tsinelas 84

Pumapasok kami nang nakayapak At walang takot: Si Ricardo, si Antonio, si Rosendo.

Apat yata kaming sakit ng ulo ng malaking-brasong si Mrs. Lopez; Mga batang amoy-kaliskis kundi man amoy-lumot.

Nauubusan kami ng hiya sa harap ng klase Kung pinipitpit sa desk ang sampung daliring nakadidiri.

Kaya siguro magkakatunog ang aming katwian at sagot : Wala po kaming pambili ng tsinelas, Titser!”

Mga suti na pag-irap iyon at makikirot na pagsimangot Kaya natatakot na kaming pagtawanan ng first honor Na apo ng Prinsipal.

Paulit-ulit ang dahilan ng aming pagbabalik-balik Sa silid-aralan kahit walang baon kundi nangingipalpal Na alikabok sa tuhod at lakas ng loob.

Gayon katigas ang aming paghahangad na matuto Di katulad ni Emilito Manlogon na kahit may-ulo’y Kumbakit tulala at laging lulugulugo.

Greydtri na siya nang sitahin ng titser: “Bakit parehong saliwa ang suot mo sa paa.”

Tanong iyong nagtulak sa kanyang magpaalam umihi Sa Titser na nabastusan nang ang bata’y biglaang umuwi.

Mahirap kalimutan ang pares ng tsinelas Na kalakaladkad niya palabas sa lansangan Upang di na muling tumapak sa bakuran ng paaralan.

Pulot na tsinelas iyong tila ba tunay na magkapaa Dahil ang sukat, tabas ay parehong kaliwa’t kulay-pula.

Cindy Lape単a

CHILDREN OF THE EARTH children of the earth we are born in the womb of mother nature we are nurtured we feed at her bountiful bosom and we grow strong as children of the earth. we are born children of the earth we grow strong feeding from her bounty and when we are grown we forget how we were born from the womb of mother nature. we were nurtured by the rich bounty of our mother earth we have grown. we have forgotten. we grow fat taking more than our share. we grow rich taking more than we need for ourselves. we grow greedy taking everything from the earth. we have forgotten how we were born. we have sold our mother to the highest bidder. we have sold our lifeline to the earth. we have sold our mother. we have sold our earth. we were born children of the earth and children of the earth we shall die. children of the earth we shall hunger for more and when there is no more, we shall hunger again for what no longer is. for the barren mother stripped of her glory stripped of her bounty stripped of her beauty and when she can no longer give how else shall we live? as children of the earth we shall die on the barren grounds stripped of beauty and bounty in filthy oceans populated by flotsam on bare mountains that will be bare sand in the bosom of a dead mother her children will die.

85

Marlon Villanueva Ala

Sa mga Gabing

di Ako dalawin ng Antok 86

Sa mga oras na ito: ganap nang nakalatag ang dilim saan ko man ipaling ang aking mga mata maliban sa gaserang nakikipag-agawan ng buhay.

Hindi gaya noon: nakikipaglaro pa sa lamlam ng buwan.

Nakikipagtibig-bilog sa mga musmos na kanayon kahit abutan pa ng liwanag sa ilalim ng punong talisay na madalas naming tambayan sa magdamag na huntahan.

Makatlong araw na buhat nang lisanin ko ang kabihasnan.

Nandito ako ngayon sa malayong linang ng dulongtimog-silangan ng Quezon— sa Bondoc Peninsula.

Muling napadpad ang mga paa na parang dayo sa lugar na kabisang-kabisa ang kinalakhan.

Habang nakahiga at nakamulagat, matiim akong nakatitig sa hungkag na gabi inaaninaw ng paningin ang nabubuong imahen— hindi iniisip ang bukas, hindi pinananabikan ang umaga. Sapat nang mairaos ang mga sandali ng ngayon. May inip sa ganitong pangingilin: ang mga panahong nakaliligalig ang tikatik ng orasan habang nagkukubli ang kaba sa katahimikan ng bulahaw ng mga palakang nagdiriwang sa danaw; alingasngas ang huni ng mga kuliglig, idagdag pa ang nagmamaktol na tuko sa palupuhan, at ang kaluskos ng mga butiking nanlalapa sa mga bihag na insekto.

Walang-mayaw na pakikihamok ang gabi tulad ng mga nilalang sa kapalaluan ng paligid, tuwina pagputok ng umaga, maaaring isa na ako sa mga patay na saksi— ng militarisasyon.

Chris Sorio

Makabagong Bangungot

“Magbiro ka na sa lasing, huwag lang sa bagong gising!”

—Matandang kasabihan Nang musmos pang bata Bangungot na kasama’y Bampira, aswang, Tiyanak, kapre, Mga engkanto, Manananggal, at tikbalang.

Laging malikhain ang mayamang pakiramdam.

Ngunit ngayon, Bangungot ay yabag Ng mga boots ng militar; O kaya nama’y malakas na ugong Ng hanging habagat ng super typhoon Na bagyong Yolanda’t lindol!

Laging mapanupil ang kanilang karahasan.

Ay! Hatakin paa’t kamay!

Gisingin ang diwa’t Paslangin ang makabagong bagungot At mahabang dantaon ng ating pagkatulog!

87

Joane Zaragosa

Ang Ina

88

““Ano ang isang Ina?” — Lorena Barros, Martir ng Bayan

Bente-kwatro oras Pitong araw, Isang Linggo Labindalawang Buwang Pagpapagal Nang kung ilang taon kang humihinga Trabahong hindi kontraktwal Bawal mag-resign, imoral ang masesante Walang Day-off At walang anumang umento sa sahod Na makatutumbas sa halagang gulugod Ng iyong pagkatao.

Kusinera, Labandera, Serbidora, Taga-linis, Taga-badyet, Punong-abala Tubero, Mananahi, Magsasaka At dumadalas, Ama Wala nang trabahong di mo kinakaya Sa pag-ibig sa anak na hulas sa ‘yong pwerta.

Ngunit ano ang isang Makabayang Ina? Bente-kwatro oras Pitong araw, Isang Linggo Labindalawang Buwang Pagpapagal Nang kung ilang taon kang nakikibaka Trabahong hindi kontraktwal Hindi kilala ng bokabularyo ang mga salitang:

Leave o Lie Low Walang Day-off At walang anumang umento sa sahod Na makatutumbas sa halagang gulugod Ng iyong paglaya.

Kusinera, Labandera, Serbidora, Taga-linis, Taga-badyet, Punong-abala Manggagawa, Magsasaka, Aktibista At dumadalas sa armadong pakikibaka Wala nang gampaning di mo kinakaya Sa pag-ibig sa sambayanang iniluluwal ng iisang ideolohiya.

Joane Zaragosa

MAkata sa panahon ng krisis Kung makata ang nagtatanim ng salitang umuusbong na tulang umaani ng pagtindig na kung babayuhin-gigilingin babaklas ng kulturang nais magpakalma ng alimpuyo ng pag-aklas: Sining ang bigas na bubusog sa bawat kumakalam na sikmura; Kung makata ang nagpapawis ng salitang lakas-paggawa ng tulang umaani ng pagtindig na kung isasalang sa produksyon babaklas ng kulturang nais magpakalma ng alimpuyo ng pag-aklas: Sining ang produktong lilikha ng yaman ng naghihikahos na bansa.

Ngunit kami’y hindi makata lang magsasaka’t manggagawa’y marami sa aming bilang: Sining nami’y paltik na pumuputok sa bawat panggigipit na idinudulot nitong estadong nabubulok; Sining nami’y pagtangan ng M203, nagmumulat ang bawat kasa’t putok na sa kanayunan sa digma’y nakipag-isang-kasi

89

Joane Zaragosa

Willem GeErtman 90

Binaybay mo ang hangganan Ng mga pagkakahati, at tinawid Ang guhit ng ating pagkakalayo.

Walang bansa-bansa, kultura, Dayalekto, kulay ng balat, kulot Ng buhok ang bumalakid sa iyo.

Tanging ang tuon ay sa iisang Misyon: Sagipin sa pananalasa Ng kalamidad, likas man o gawa Ng mga ganid sa tubo. Binitbit Mo ang laban ng tao sa kapwa Nito tao, kahit ng tao sa hindi Tao, kahit pa ang ibig sabihi’y Pagbaybay sa peligro at rahas Ng digmaang itinatanggi kahit Lantaran ang tunggalian sa uri.

Willem, itinuro mo sa amin Ang maging Pilipino, hanggang Sa huling tanghali mo sa mundo.

Kaya hindi namin hahayaang Tawaging pagnanakaw lamang Ng salapi ang pananambang Sa iyo. Gamit ang talas ng iyong Pagsusuri, hindi kami maililigaw Ng kanilang mga pagtatanggi.

Hindi kami matatakot hanapin Mga duwag na salaring nagtago Sa huklob na bonet, at liksi ng Motorsiklong, tumalilis sa alam Na alam nilang pagkakamali.

Kalamidad ang iyong pagkawalay.

Sumusuka ng lahar ang bulkan Ng ating iisang paninindigan, Miminahin namin ang kanilang Kasakiman, hahayaang gumuho Ang tatag ng bulok nilang lipunan.

Magbabawas ng poot ang dam Ng aming naipong galit. Babaha Sa kalunsuran mula sa kanayunan Ang hukbo-hukbo naming timpi.

Yayanigin ng ligalig ang mga ganid.

Sa oras na iyon, Willem May ligtas na lugar na nakahanda Sa mga tagalikha ng bagong mundo, Mga bagong tao.

Si Willem Geertman ay isang Dutch National na kilala bilang environmental advocate. Bilang isang misyonaryo, masugid na naglingkod sya sa mga mga katutubong Dumagat-Alta at nagtaguyod sa kanilang karapatan sa ilalim ng BATARIS-isang NGO sa lalawigan ng Aurora.

91

MJ Rafal

ISANG ARAW MULA NGAYON Tahimik pa rin sa iyong kuwarto.

92

Kung paano mo ito iniwan noong huli mong pagbisita, walang nabago, kundi ang pagdami ng alikabok sa kisame at ang paglagom dito ng dilim kahit katanghalian.

Naroroon pa rin ang mga aklat, ang salansan na ikaw lamang ang nakaaalam.

Ang gusot ng kumot at lungkot ng unan, walang ipinag-iba sa kurtinang wala nang alon. Ang tsinelas mong magkatabi, katulad pa rin ng dati, naghihintay ng mga talampakang mahilig sa lakbayin.

Tahimik pa rin sa iyong kuwarto.

Bagamat kuyom na kuyom ang kamaong nakalarawan sa nagtuklap na paskil sa binabalakubak mong dingding; bagamat ang tatlong boteng nakatumba sa paanan ng iyong papag ay pinamahayan na ng ipis at gagamba; bagamat naglalamat na ang ulirat ng mga tisert at pantalon mong naulila ng plantsa; bagamat sumisinghal ang alaala sa bawat sulok at rurok ng iyong pahingahan; oo, Tahimik pa rin sa iyong kuwarto.

At umaasa pa rin kami, na isang araw, isang araw mula ngayon, maririnig namin ang iyong mga yabag sa gitna ng hatinggabi; kakatok sa pinto, hahalik sa pisngi, ngingiti.

Katulad ng palagi mong ginagawa noong hindi pa nakatala ang iyong ngalan sa aming mga pangamba.

MJ Rafal

Si Johnny, Iyong Aktibista, Iyong Hinuli Isang Gabi Mabait pong bata ‘yang si Johnny, mahusay raw sa eskuwela, sabi-sabi.

Lalo na sa Math saka History. Lagi rin pong kasama sa top ng klase.

Ewan kung bakit nga ba hinuli ng mga mamang diretso ang likod, isang gabi. Wala naman pong bisyo ‘yan maliban sa kompyuter. Dito kasi sa amin, uso ang Pisonet; maghuhulog ng piso, makakalarga na sa FB o sa mga Dota-dota at iba pa. Pero ‘yan pong si Johnny, iba po ang hilig.

1st college pa lang po ‘yan, kumukuha ng Sociology, ang mga binabasa, di ko makalahig. May nakita po ako, isang araw, Pinoy Weekly ang nakalagay.

Tapos isa pa, PADEPA. Meron ding, PKP ba ‘yon? Saka mga website na panay kamao saka puro pula. Madalas po, pag nakikita ko s’ya, may picture na iniiba, Photoshop tawag do’n, di ba? Di ‘yan masalita si Johnny. Wala nga’ng kaibigan na malapit, kaya sa sulok ‘yan palagi. Dito ‘yan palagi sa shop, kaya madalas kong nakakausap. Wala kasi silang kompyuter sa bahay.

Uuwi lang kapag tinawag na ni Aling Goria, ‘yong manikurista niyang nanay. Iyong tatay raw ni Johnny, si Mang Andeng, dinukot daw isang gabi, lider daw kasi ‘yon sa mga rali. Tapos, banggit n’ya minsan, baka mahinto na s’ya next sem. ‘Yan e no’ng magpa-print s’ya ng mga parang diyaryo ang itsura, tapos ang nakalagay: JUNK CYBERCRIME LAW! Aktibista raw ‘yan, kaya ganyan, sabi ni Mang Samuel. Pero iniisip ko, di naman s’ya nanggugulo, siya nga lang ang pinakamatino dito sa shop. Lahat ng ‘andito, puro “putangina” at “pwakanangina” ang nasa bunganga, lalo na kapag naglalaro ng Dota. Opo, bantay lang po ako rito, galing akong probinsya. Pag gagamit, sa akin po sila nagpapapalit ng barya. Namimiss ko na nga po si Johnny, wala na kasing matino dito sa shop. Walang makausap. Puro mga nakikipag-chat lang. ‘Yong may kausap na porener, tapos nag-iipit ng dibdib ‘yong ‘andito, minsan bakla pero madalas ‘yong Ale d’yan sa kanto, ang tawag e Sekretarya: Sekretarya daw ng United Nations. Ay, basta! Basta, miss ko na si Johnny, saka ‘yong mga post niya sa FB . Andami ko kasing natututunan sa kanya, 1st year hayskul lang ako, di ako nakatapos. Kumusta na kaya s’ya? Teka, kaninang umaga ho, may nakitang bangkay do’n sa estero. Di na makilala, puro paso, tapos hubad-baro. Parang si Johnny nga e, parang si Johnny, ‘yong kumukuha ng Sociology, ‘yong aktibista, ‘yong hinuli isang gabi, no’ng isang gabi.

93

MJ Rafal

oblate 94

Ibig ko lamang, ngayong gabi, ay mamulaklak.

Bahagi ng malamig na halik ng hangin, magalak.

Ang nakadagan sa aking dagok, aking inilagak Sa kawalan, kasabay ng aking pamamaalam.

Unawain ninyo ang aking kahulugan.

Ragasa man ang mga nagtataka, nababalam, Ang mga pang-unawang singkitid ng pagpaslang sa akin, Akayin sila sa katubusan ng aking paglisan at tunguhin.

Nagbabadya, ang hininga ko’y titis, isang bituin.

Gapos ang liig, gapos ang kamay at mga paa, Sinubukan kong kilalanin ang nais nilang ipaunawa.

Talaga lamang, ang lagi kong nakikita, nakikilala: Funeraria, sa dulo ng maliwanag na kuweba; Ako, sakmal ng kanilang mababagsik na akala; Pangarap at pangakong nauwi sa wala.

Kailan nila mauunawaan ang aking kahulugan?

Ano ang mga paraan? Ano pang mga dahilan?

Tigmak ng dugo ang aking kasaysayan,

Alin sa mga dahon ang dapat nilang batayan?

Rekwerdo ba akong marapat nang kalimutan?

Unawain ninyo, ipinta sa lupa ang aking paglisan.

Ngayon, higit kailanman, hinog ang panahon.

Gaygayin ninyo ang lansangan ng aking mga taon, Ang aking hininga, ang aking henerasyon.

Nanlilimos ng awa, ng dangal ang aking mga katulad.

Para saan ang mga kamatayang nasasaksihan, nailalantad?

Angkinin ninyo ako, ako ang testimonya ng naglintos na palad.

Reklamasyon, ako ang multo ng mga walang pangalan.

Armas akong dapat ninyong makilala at tanganan.

Kaya nga ’t kalampagin ang mga nagtutulug-tulugan, Ang mga nagbibingi-bingihan, silang dapat nang patawan.

Yanigin ang kanilang riwasa, ang kanilang katiwasayan, Kamatayan ko’y isang lantad na katotohanan.

Rekwerdo ba akong marapat nang kalimutan?

Ilagak ninyo ako sa inyong mga kamao at talampakan.

Simulan ang dapat nang simulan, ang aking kahulugan.

Takada ko’y hindi lamang isang hungkag na guni-guni.

Entablado ako ng isang simula, ng pumipintig na pagmumuni.

Lansagin ang mga kalaban! Ito’y laban ng mga uri.

95

Lindsel Ekid Balikol

Death Row 96

My tag says 70,861… three more and I’m next I, born out of rape – my mother, helpless for she was chained At birth, taken away from her and imprisoned in a battery pen I wasn’t alone There were others like me, stolen from their mothers For weeks I hear her bellowing for me But I could only cry back longing for her snuggle I could only imagine the taste of her milk, Which I was forbidden to drink I could still remember her smell And how she talked to me while I was still in her womb She always told me, ‘Be brave my child just like your siblings who were long gone’ I didn’t know why, but now I understand – for I’ll be born in this hell…

The ramp is moving, two more & I’m next We didn’t like what they feed us, But we’re so famished spray-dried blood is the only choice I once peaked through a hole in my wall My two-legged feathered friends hanged to the guillotine machine ball My pink-eared pals pushed to the electrocution turbine roll Several other babies thrown to the mill ground alive & all And a lot of us knocked out with a gun to their heads Blood splattered all over walls, ceilings, and floors Laying lifeless but still breathing, blood drained to dripping pans Immobile but still conscious, skinned & amputated…

The ramp moves again, one more & I’m next Before me, my amigo turns his back attempting to escape But there was no other exit At night when I cry myself to sleep I dream of my mommy nuzzling my cheek And on her breasts, I’m soundly asleep But I wonder still, why they loved my mother’s milk Yesterday I heard them say, she no longer filled to the brim Now my spent mama useless to them, they’ll shoot her at the killing well If only I could kiss her goodbye and feel her warmth once again…

The ramp moves and it’s my turn My heart thumping heavily & fast I wish this murder chambers were made of glass People outside would hear us screaming & begging for our life Maybe if I suckle my knocker’s hand, he’ll have a heart & set me free If not, maybe in death I’ll be in paradise and finally be with my mother’s glee…

97

Alex Felipe | Two Kids with Corn

Jayjay Carpio

PAGKAMULAT Ginawa mo akong kaibigan ng di kilalang tao Pinagsanib-sanib mo ang lakas ng lahat ng nabubuhay Ibinigay mo uli sa akin ang bayan tulad ng pagsisilang.

Ibinigay mo sa akin ang kalayaang hindi matatamo ng taong mapag-isa.

Tinuruan mo akong magsiid ng kagandahang-loob, parang apoy.

Ibinigay mo sa akin ang matwid na kailangan ng punungkahoy.

Tinuruan mo akong makita ang pagkakaisa at pagkakaiba sa sangkatauhan.

Ibinigay mo sa akin kung paano maglaho ang pighati ng isa sa tagumpay ng lahat.

Tinuruan mo akong matulog sa higaang sintaas ng aking mga kapatid.

Hinayaan mo akong magtayo sa katotohanan tulad ng sa bato.

Ginawa mo akong kalaban ng masamang-loob at sandigan ng nababalisa.

Hinayaan mo akong makita ang linaw at posibilidad ng ligaya sa mundo.

Ginawa mo akong walangpagkawasak dahil sa piling mo’y hindi ako nagwawakas sa sarili.

99

Jen Owatan

TAGUBILIN NG INANG CAREGIVER 100

Sa paglipas ng araw, ika’y nagbabago, Edad at taas, ay syang iyong natatamo.

Murang isip, ay unti unting nagbabago, Kung minsan ay laging nagsusumamo.

Ngayon ika’y may ganap nang pagkatao, Sana’y huwag kang magbabago.

Laging lumingon sa pinanggalingan, Na syang naghubog sa iyong katauhan.

Unti unting dumarating, Panahong di na tayo magkakapiling.

Sana’y palagi mong tatandaan, Mga paulit ulit kong habilin.

Dalangin ko sana, ika’y patnubayan, Ng ating Diyos na mapagmahal.

Na ang buhay na iyong tatahakin, Ay batay sa kagustuhan ng ating maykapal.

Jhanette Owatan

INA Noong ako’y musmos pa Nang iniwan ng aking ina Upang kumayod sa ibang bansa (Sa hirap ng buhay doon siya nagpunta) Napakahirap Napakasakit kapagka wala sa tabi ang ina Dahil ang mas gusto’y siya ang mag-aruga Ngunit gustuhin ma’y walang magawa Kundi sundin ang ika’y tadhana.

Habang lumalaki, lalong nangulila Akala ng iba ayos lang at malaya Ngunit mahirap mag-isang walang ina Dahil walang malapitan Kapag mayroong problema At nang dumating ang panahong Tayo’y nagkasama Hindi na mahalaga Kung anong nadama Ang lalong mahalaga’y Kasama ka sa tuwina.

Salamat sa iyong walang tigil na suporta Kahit minsa ako’y pasaway na talaga Ikaw ay diyosa dito sa lupa At wala nang iba pa Pagmamahal mo, o aking ina Wala nang makakapantay pa Dahil sa iyo ako’y buong-buo na Wala na akong masasabi Dabes ka talaga!

101

Eric Wilson

MAKINA 102

Hindi na ako buhay.

Parang walang kulay Ang balat, hindi tunay.

Ang isip ko’y namatay.

Ang Diyos ay wala na dito Sa loob ng puso ko.

Parang hindi na ako tao, Naging makina na ako.

Wala nang kaluluwa Sa loob ng sikmura.

Kahit aking pamilya Ay hindi ako tiwala.

Ito ang kapalaran ko dito, walang hanggan.

Hindi na pwedeng saktan Ang patay na katawan.

Ellen Torres

TFR (Tao For Rent) Para kay Jaysen Reyes

Nangarap nang matayog, Sing taas ng eroplano sa himpapawid, Taas noong hinarap ang bukas, Bitbit ang maleta, pasaporte at pera.

Lumakad sa isang bansang binansagang “Tahanan ng mga taong matatanda at mabubuti”, Inisip ng isang modern alipin ng gobyerno at sistema, “bubuti ang buhay sa kabila ng dolyar at yelo” Pero ni minsan, hindi naisip ng inalipin, Aalipustahin, lilinlangin, aabusin at pagsasamantalahan ang karapatan, Sa sinasabing tahanan ng mga matatanda at mabuti.

Ngayon, ang tinaguriang alipin, Dinusta ang mukha, sumaboy ang dugo sa mukhang kayumanggi, Limang daliri na nauwi sa tatlo At ang halos na pagkakaimbalido ng mga pangarap sa sing tayog noon Nang eroplano sa himpapawid.

Ngunit nagpumiglas ang tinaguriang alipin, Kasama ang iba pang inalipin, na ngayon ay tumatayo sa kani-kanilang paa.

Sino nga ba may sabing habangbuhay silang magpapaalipin at

sila’y for rent lamang?

Si Jaysen Reyes, 26 y.o., ay isangPilipino na nabaril sa Red Deer Alberta nitong Setyembre 21, 2013

103

Ellen Torres

TABA 104

Ang sarap namnamin,

Buong taba na nanlalangis sa aking labi,

Na maari akong patayin dahil sa sakit sa puso, —pork barrel nga naman ang pumapatay sa sambayanan

na ninamnam na ng karamihan.

Ron Magbuhos Papag

ANAK NG MUNDO

Nais kong isigaw: Anak ako ng mundo!

Nililinis ko ang mga kubeta ng Europa habang nagtatago sa mga ahente ng embahada ng sariling bansa; nanimbang sa mga niyebe nito nasugatan sa adobe namalimos ng kapirasong karne sa mga palengke. namuhay na parang daga namamaluktot paggising at pagtulog.

Nais kong isigaw: Anak ako ng mundo!

Habang sumasayaw sa entablado sa madilim na bar sa Japan, nilalamas, nililibak, hinahalikan ng mga pusakal na walang ngalan, pampalubag loob ang isiping marangal ang ganitong gawain napapakain ang pamilya sa hindi nakaw na pera kahit ang aking gunita ay tumitili kapag dinadalaw ng bangungot ng gawaing itong napasok na di pinagkasunduan na di pinag-usapan na labag sa aking kalooban.

Nais kong isigaw:

Anak ako ng mundo!

105

Ron Magbuhos Papag

Ika’y Hindi nawala 106

Hindi ako naniniwala na ikaw ay nawala sariwa sa alaala nang huli kang magpaalam bawat hakbang na papalayo ay batalyon ng berdugong bumabayo sa puso.

Bawat metrong distansya ay pagkaubos ng sustansya, ay pagkalanta, at paglikas ng salita mula sa nanunuyong dila.

Hanggang mawalan ka ng hugis sa paningin, itaboy ng maligamgam na hangin ang pigura mo sa kalsada.

Naiwan akong nakatanga sa kawalan ng alinmang masabi, ideya, palatandaan kung saan ka huling nagbuhat at paparoon, nakipagpingkian ng palad, humimpil at nakipagpulong.

Ilan taon na ngang huli tayong nagyakap at nagtalik ilan taon nang huling hingan ka ng payo at mungkahi sa trabaho, sa pagpapalaki kay bunso, sa pagpasok ni panganay sa eskwela.

Ilan taon nang tayo’y magsalosalo Sa maliit nguni’t masaya nating entresuelo.

Nguni’t lagi kang di lamang asawa at kaibigan, laging katuwang sa lahat ng bagay, pangarap, laging di lamang tatay ng ating mga anak kundi kapaligsahan at kalaro, lagi kang ganito, di mawawala sa akin Alam kong ika’y hindi nawala sa akin …

At laging mananabik sa iyo ang ating mga anak, ipagtatanong ng iyong mga kaibigan gugunitain ng mga kapatid, magulang, kamag-anak, kapitbahay, ka-kwentuhan, laging nasa kwento ng tagumpay ng pakikibaka sa kanayunan… laging nasa bawat anak ng masa ang iyong pangalan.

107

Rogene Gonzales

Pinatahimik ka ba nila?

108

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Gerry Ortega?

Pagkatapos magsahimpapawid ang tinig sa pag-aruga kay Inang Kalikasang hilig, sa bayan na sa kabila ng pagdurusa’y inibig pa rin sa himig: Itinarak ng talim at lupit ng salita ang guhit ng walang-alinlangang opinyon sa balita upang gapiin mga gahaman na pakana’y pang-aalipusta sa lahat ng dampi ng dagat, banaag ng bundok, pagaspas ng palay at kurba ng kweba.

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, nang isara ang radyo?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, nang bitawan ang mikropono?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Gerry Ortega?

Pagkatapos maisipang tanghaling tapat mag-ukay-ukay at pasalubungan ang anak ng bestidang pula ang kulay?

Anong kilatis ng titig sa bawat tinahing tela?

Anong busisi ang babagay sa panlasa ng dalaga?

Tulad ng tapang ng pagsusuri sa anumang isyu sa mundo, tulad ng talas ng komento sa sinumang pulitiko na hindi makuntento sa mga luhong libangan at hindi mabusog sa kurot na kinakamit ng katakawan ng katawan.

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, nang ang bibig ay magtikom?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, nang ang kamao’y kumawala sa pagkuyom?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Gerry Ortega?

Pagkatapos kumonsulta ni San Pedro sa sakit ng ulo dahil sa pagkagalos ng pakpak ng dalang tandang na kagagaling lamang sa isang matinding sabungan sa binagyong mga bakawan ng mga bwakaw na buwaya na tinangkang magtinola sa tanghalian: Ang kaisa-isang paru-paro ay hindi na nagawang magpaalam pa sa kay lapit na kinaroroonan ng tatlong talulot ng rosas na sinisinta.

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, nang itutok ang baril sa batok?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, nang umalingangaw ang putok?

Unang inilathala sa Plumang Punyal: Mga Tula at Dagli na Pinatalim ang Puno’t Dulo at alay kay Dr. Gerry Ortega, pinaslang na mamamahayag at aktibistang lumaban sa mapanirang pagmimina sa Palawan.

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Gerry Ortega?

Kahit na ikaw ay patay na?

Kahit na nilagot ang hininga?

Kahit na pinigtal ang pagtibok ng puso?

Kahit na pinatigil ang pagdaloy ng dugo?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, kahit na ikaw ngayon ay patay na?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Gerry Ortega?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Ding Fortuna?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Eden Marcellana?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Eddie Gumanoy?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Noel Capulong?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Celito Bacay?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Caloy Rodriguez?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Romy Malabanan?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Nicanor de Los Santos?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Lester Barrientos?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Armin Marin?

Pinatahimik ka ba nila, Arman Arbarillo?

Kayong hindi nananahimik, kahit na nasa ilalim na ng hukay, Kayong nananawagan, kahit na kayo’y matagal nang humihimlay: Pinatahimik ba nila kayo? Pinapatahimik ba nila kayo?

Sila na piniling manahimik, patuloy na nananahimik!

Sila na mulat sa pagiging tahimik, kusang nananahimik!

Kahit na, kahit na narinig mismo ng kanilang mga tenga ang sumisigaw ninyong saklolo?

Kahit na, kahit na nakita mismo ng kanilang mga mata ang papalagim at papalagim na kahihinatnan ninyo?

Kahit na, kahit na nasa kanila nang mismong harapan?

Kahit na, kahit na nasa kanila nang mismong paanan?

Ang inyong huling habilin na ituloy ang ipinaglalaban?

At ang minsang naging tahimik, naging tahimik nang mismong ialay ng inyong buhay sa pagkahandusay sa tuwid na daan ng duguan, duguan, duguan niyong mga bangkay?

109

Gem Aramil

SUGAT 110

I Hinusgahan kayo ng mga pasistang utusan; Hinuli; Kinaladkad; Ginulpi-Mga hangal sila!

Hindi nila batid lilingunin sila ng kasaysayan; makailang beses uusigin ng panahon ‘Sindami ng mga luhang dumilig Sa lupang hinubaran nila ng dangal.

Uulitin nang sanlaksang ulit Ang inyong mga tininig Hindi lang dahil kayo’y binusalan Sa loob kinakalawang na silid, binubulwakan ng kahindik-hindik na karuwagan Karuwagang sumasalamin sa miserableng anino ng limatikong nakakakorona: kundi dahil ang kasalukuyang pagdurugo ng sugat sa puso ng kalayaan karapatan at katarungan ay walang hanggan At sanlaksang mamamayan ay tulad ninyong may naglalagablab na pagnanasa sa pagpapanday ng katotohanan; pagdurog ng mga kakatwa’t salungang inuusal ng nagpapalit-balat na panginoon.

II Ganoon nga Madali unawaing ang mga taong marangal at may paninindiga’y ikinukulong; pinahihirapan; pinapatay sa isang bayang nanunungkula’y mga sinungaling kriminal at magnanakaw!

Lingling Maranan-Claver

FOR LEONARD I saw your face on the pavement I heard them speak your name While floating lanterns bade goodbye Lighting up the cold night sky A world of words in praise of you And brushstrokes of a mourning hue Oh, how our days dimmed so To see your verdant dream die It came to pass as you had written A thousand moons ago When you were cradled by the mountains And the north star guided you Foot soldiers stole a life so lush And all that’s good in you Now, you’re every flower that holds your name And every ground that honours you To the forest trails whereon you’ve walked The bed of moss whereon you’ve lain The canopy of twigs entwined There we shall go, there we shall go.

Leonard Co was a Filipino scientist specializing in ethnobotany and plant taxonomy. He was killed by members of the Armed Forces of the Philippines while doing field research in Leyte on November 15, 2010

111

Lingling Maranan-Claver

People Rising 112

We are a million stars, dying to be born The sum of light, to break the long cold night.

We are the sparks, that start the great big fire Burning through the dark days to bring freedom to light.

We are the people rising We are the winds, gathering speed To tear down your fortresses, your palaces of greed The gathering clouds before the thunderous storm To heal this wounded earth, our broken, barren home.

We are the people rising.

Streams from everywhere and raging rivers are we Flowing forth to the seven seas We are waves of courage, eternal tides of change Birthing our tomorrow when justice we shall know We are the people rising.

We are the seeds, strewn across the lands To brilliant fragrant fields, of colours we become A hundred thousand thoughts in bloom, but we are one Taking root together as we occupy our ground.

We are the people rising.

Imelda Ortega Suzara

IMMIGRATION BILL C-31 In June, since approved by the House of Commons, This new Bill went up to the House of Senate For debate, then step up higher to upper summons.

For Royal Assent to legally complete the ultimate fate Of poor immigrants, the lowest classes.

Hereafter, false claims will mean that an official Could foreigners deport or imprison Will also mean welfare grants become less beneficial, Or medical treatments suffer omission.

Thus summarily, A government’s cruelty, May be unleashed on an ethnic minority Ending, of land, their lease If need be, in some way, cause their decrease Pray for some mild reprove: instead of protecting, Throw them into some prison, Along with human smugglers disgusting, So guilty of social treason!

113

Trina Federis

ASUKAL

Para sa mga manggagawa ng Hacienda Luisita sa Tarlac 114

Nung bata ako, ang akala ko sa asukal ay matamis na bagay na binubuo ng matatamis na mga butil.

Pinatatamis nito ang kahit ano, kaya kahit na masira ang ngipin ko, patuloy pa rin ako sa pagtangkilik nito.

Ngayon ko lamang naintindihan na hindi ganoon kasimple ang asukal.

Ito’y binubuo rin ng hindi natupad na mga pangako, pakikipaglaban para sa karapatan na sinusuklian ng dahas, at hindi makatarungan na sahod para sa kalunos-lunos na trabaho.

At ngayon ko lang din naintindihan na nagiiba-iba ang lasa ng asukal; minsan maalat dahil sa luha, minsan mapait dahil sa dugo.

Trina Federis

RESONANT for Rachelle

A symphony of grief resounded throughout the night when you were killed.

A cacophony of anguished voices at first, they soon blended with each other, rhythmically relating ruminations on your hopes, dreams, and desires.

You may have left us, but we know you are strumming your gun to the tune of the music, your still-clenched fist beating the air, your voice, resonant and clear.

115

Mary Parre単o

CAREGIVER 1. Ako, ang aking pamilya, kami 116

Sa pagbukas ng ilaw naaninag

Larawan ng masayang pamilyang

Nakaukit

Sa salaming lamesa

Ako.

Pumalaot.

Isa, Dalawa, Tatlong taon

Ang gugugulin

Sa estrangherong bayan

Ng mga mala-palasyong bahay

Na ngayon lang narating.

Kailangan pa ring tiisin

Pagkawalay sa pamilya

Kinabukasang nakasalalay sa atin.

Sa pagbukas ng ilaw naaninag Larawan ng masayang pamilyang Nakaukit Sa salaming lamesa

Ngunit ako ay nangangapa Dahil lumuluha Lumuluha Kapalit ng kasaganaan

at

pagkawalay sa pamilya.

2. Caregiver, migranteng manggagawa, ang ating uri!

Sa kamay ng banyaga ikaw sumailalim Walang kapaguran at parang makina

Ang sa iyo ay turing.

Pilitin mang isigaw Hindi pa man kayang gawin Nababalot sa takot na ikaw ay pauwiin.

Subalit hawak lamang ay kontrata Hindi, hindi ang buong buhay Kung pagkatao ay hamakin Huwag, huwag palalagpasin Caregiver man kung tawagin Ipagtanggol yaring uri!

117

Mary Parreño

Usapang Kalye 118

SCENE1. Umaga. Sa labas ng munisipyo.

Pan lang ang camera. Zoom in.

Ano ba ang kaso mo?

“Murder”, sagot niya.

Ha!?, kaninong sugo ka?

Huwag mo nang alamin At baka ma-discover.

Ilan bang napatay mo?

Wala, napagbintangan lang.

Bakit di mo inilaban?

Mas okey ho sa kulungan May matitirahan.

SCENE 2. Ganung araw din. Sa labas ng kulungan.

FULL SHOT:

Hala! Nakahilata si Manong

Lapitan ko kaya at pakinggan ang hininga

REACTION SHOT:

Ay! lasing lang siguro

Eh, bakit may bukol sa ulo?

Napagkamalan siya, for sure!

ZOOM OUT: SCENE 3. Hapon. Same Day. Sa may kanto malapit sa munisipyo.

Papailanlang ang musika ni Britney Spears, Ooops I did it again!

Araw-araw ka na lang demure

Inggit ka,I’m sure!

Dito sa kalye, ako ay may future

Aba, kung may angal ka, magtanong sa people Dahil ang kasagutan, or else, No more!

Music fades out.

SCENE 4. Umaga. Kinabukasan. Bumulagta ang balita ng Pork Barrel

habang nag-uusap sa munisipyo.

Music fades in PRICE TAG ni Jograd de la Torre

Magkano ang isang item?

Seventy daw po kapag beginner Ang mahal naman, ano ang cover?

Huwag pong mag-alala At iyan ay forever

Excuse me,Sir, passport?

Ay, bakit ito ay tampered?

At ang ibang document mo ay altered

Ang sagot niya, ay over Di ko alam iyan, sister!

Lalakas ang music ni Jograd de la Torre, Price Tag.

Music Fades Out.

119

Bert Monterona | Unfiinished Revolution

MGA SANAYSAY ESSAYS

Roberto Ofanda Umil

Muntikang madesap 122

I. Imbestigasyon iktak ng relo ang bigwas ng kamao ng nakasibilyang pulis.

Kalkuladong kalkulado ang unday at lakas. Pirmis ang suntok. Hindi dumaplis sa kanan o kaliwang mga tadyang. Sentrong sentro sa sternum – buto sa gitna ng dibdib – ang sapok.

Lumuwa na parang bilaok mula isip ang mga impormasyong ipinakakanta sa akin. Natipon ang mga ito sa dulo ng dila. Humapdi ang higpit ng posas sa kaliwang kamay ko.

Pataas na ikinabit ito sa malarehas na barandilyang harang ng bintana sa taas ng balikat kong dikit sa pader. Natinag ang katawan ko sa bangko. Nanalaytay ang hapdi at kirot mula kaliwang pulso at sentro ng dibdib papunta sa ibang bahagi ng katawan hanggang sumidhi sa kalingkingan. Nampiga ang kirot.Takot at ispekulasyon ng kamatayan ang namulagat sa ulirat.

“Matigas ka, ha! Mam’ya, aaminin mo pati pagpatay kay Rizal at Ninoy.”

Malutong ang boses ng nakasibilyang pulis. Sinasaloob niya ang mandatong tagapamayapa. Sagap ang pangungutya ng mga nagmimiron sa mga gilid ng kuwarto. Sinasaliwan ng paistakatong lagutok ng suntok. Minsang napatitig ako nang diretso sa kaharap sa kabilang gilid nang magpahinga ang tagasuntok. Para panatilihin sana ang dangal. At moral. Napasugod ng ilang hakbang ang natitigan ko habang nandidilat na sumisigaw.

“’Tang ina ka! Minumukhaan mo ba ‘ko, ha?”

Pinigilan siya ng katabi saka napangiti na umatras. Simple lang ang pulis na miron. Karaniwan ang bihis. Ang iba pa ay nakadyaket.

Samantala, pantalong madulas ang tela at panloob na lamang ang suot ko.

Tumagos sana sa dibdib ang kuyom na mga daliri ng pulis na tagasuntok kung karton lamang ang nipis ng katawan ko. Ilang saglit pa, bumalik ang kasama niyang umalis kanina. May bitbit na kahong yari sa kahoy. Mga isang piye ang laki at kalahating dangkal ang kapal. Mayroong mga buton sa ibabaw at kawad sa gilid.

Isang binatilyong may bitbit na galon ng langis ang lumapit sa amin.

Maluluwag ang suot niyang maong na shorts at t-shirt. Iminuwestra ng tagasuntok ang ipapagawa sa binatilyo. Habang pinihit-pihit naman ng isa pang pulis ang buton ng bitbit niyang kahon na kahoy. Nanlamig ang mga binti ko sa tilamsik ng tubig.Tigmak ang mga talampakan sa baldosang inaapakan. Nang makita ng pulis na sapat na ang basa, minuwestrahan ulit ang binatilyo para pigilan. Kargado ng kawing-kawing na interogasyonang hiram sa bakal na awtoridad. Umilanlang sa kuwarto ang sunud-sunod na tanong at bintang nilang mga nakapaligid.

T

“Sino-sino’ng mga kakolektib mo?”

“GK ka di ba? Ganap na kasapi ng partido!”

“Ilan na’ng pinatay mong kasama namin?”

“’Tang ina kang sparrow ka, impiltreytor!”

“Wala pang ‘santaon ‘tong ID mo, a. Sino’ng nag-dispatch sa ‘yo sa Red Cross?”

Pilit kong ipinangunyapit sa dulo ng aking dila ang mga impormasyong nais nilang maidura ko. Kung nakikita lamang sa dila ang nasa isip ko ay baka hinablot na ito ng mga mag-uunahang pulis sa harap at gilid pagnganga ko.

Pinalagutok pa ang aking dibdib. Sumingasing ng dismaya ang tagasuntok sa hindi ko pagsasalita. Ikinasa ng may hawak ng kahon na kahoy ang kawad. Napangisi mula pagkadismaya ang tagasuntok saka kinutya ang paninindigan ko. Idinikit sa ilalim ng labi ko ang dulo ng kawad. Nginig agad ang buong katawan ko. Tuluy-tuloy ang epekto sa isip. Sumagitsit ang kuryente sa kalamnan. Pinaalimbukay ang dugong nananalaytay. Sa dilim at lalim ng gabi, may artipisyal na dumiklap na liwanag. Naging puting puti ang lahat.

“Tataaay…”

Kulob sa de-erkon na kuwartong ito ang sigaw ko. Walang kaluskos man lamang mula sa ibaba ng ikalawang palapag na ito, sakaling may gising o nagising sa aking pagdaing. Malamang din, pinagagaan ng lamig ang pakiramdam ng mga tortyurer na abalang abala sa katawan ko; samantalang pinagiginaw nito ang balat at pinaninigas ang mga masel ko.

Nagbulungan ang dalawang grupo ng mga pulis na miron sa magkahiwalay na dalawang mesang sinasandalan ng sampay-bakod nilang mga puwit. Maliban sa pangalan ay hindi sila interesado sa aking ama na apat na taong nang namayapa. Pero nakahugot ako ng lakas mula sa kanya habang sinasagitisit ng kuryente ang aking kalamnan sa pangalawang dikit ng kawad sa aking utong. Muling namuti ang paligid.

Tuluyang napika ang tagasuntok sa hindi ko pag-imik. Kinalas ang posas. Pinakawalan ako sa barandilya, hindi para palayain. Ipinahubad ang pantalon ko at panloob. Tuluyang pinagdilim ng piring ang paligid habang iginagapos nang patalikod ang mga kamay ko.

Inakay nila ako mula sa kinasadlakang pader.Gumaspang sa yapak kong paa ang baldosa. Ang lumang amoy ng pintura, paskil ng mga poster ng mga hinihinalang kalaban ng gobyerno, ang mesa at mga papeles sa ibabaw ay sinuob ng panghe. Nanulasok ang bantot ng tae. Umaalingawngaw na parang boses ng mga matadero sa sumikip na kuwarto ang sigabo ng mga pulis. May mariing nangutya kung paano kakarnehin ang kakatayin. Mayroong galit na galit. Gigil na gigil. Ngunit mayroong nagtataglay ng tonong matimpi. Sa boses na ito nais umapila ang simpatya ng aking isip. Pero ayaw magsumamo ng aking dila.

Hindi sumunod ang katawan kong pilit nilang pinahiga. May sumipa sa alakalakan. Paayon sa pagkakaluhod ko ang isa pang tadyak sa dibdib. Tuluyan

123

Roberto Ofanda Umil | Muntikang Madesap

124

akong napatihaya. Naiwang pakilo ang tuhod.

May basahang tumapal nang mariin sa mukha ko. Humigpit ang gapos.

Napaigtad padiretso ang mga tuhod. Kumaskas ang kaliwang balikat sa gaspang ng baldosa. Binusalan ang sigaw ko. Sumigabo ulit ang sabay-sabay nilang tanong na tiyak ang hinihinging sagot. Bintang na galing ulat-intelehinsiya ang basehan.

Hindi ligalidad. Panlalait sa pagkatao, sa paninidigan, sa buhay. Pangungutya sa kasalukuyang sinasapit at itsura. Pananalig nila sa mapanupil na puwersa ng estado.Yinurakan ang kahit pirasong bakas ng tatag sa aking balikat.

Isa-isang umupak ang mga nakasapatos, nakatsinelas na mga biyas.

Kumuyog sa iba-ibang bahagi ng katawan. Kumuyog din sa diwa ang mura nila kung bakit ayaw kong magsalita. Sagap na sagap ang galing gripong lagaslas ng tubig na sinasahod; ibinuhos iyon sa basahang isinapaw sa mukha kong sinupil nang madiin. Sumigid ang tubig sa pahigóp kong hininga. Nanuot sa pasngawan.

Papalagok sa lalamunan. Nakalas ang pustiso kong bumalagbag sa ngalangala.

Napaubo ako. Humapdi sa pasngawan ang tubig.

Bigla, may bigat ng puwersadong paa ang umapak sa aking tiyan.

Pinabigat pa. Bumulwak ang mga nalagok kong tubig. Napigilan ng basahan.

Nanatili ito sa bibig, ilong at muling sumigid sa pasngawan at nalagok kong muli kasabay ang panibagong buhos. Hindi ko namalayan kung paano ko naibalik ang pustiso sa tamang pagkakabit. Saglit nilang tinantanan ang waterboarding, kilalang “water cure” sa mga taktikang intelehensiya noong digmaang Fil-Am. At nang mabigong makarinig ng impormasyon, dinaiti ulit ang kawad, sa labi, sa mga utong, sa titi.

Pinahaba ng ganoong proseso ng “interogasyon” ang magdamag ng a-uno hanggang a-dos ng Pebrero, 1988.

Kasabay ng walang humpay na sumpa, panlalait, banta at umaatikabong pambubugbog, waterboarding, pangunguryente, isang determinadong boses ang nagpaalalang huwag patamaan ang mga bahagi ng katawan ko na maaaring magkapasa.

Saka nangibabaw ang matimping tono ng boses. Nag-alok ng sopdrink, sandwhich at malasakit sa gitna ng mga pangyayaring saksi siya kung paano humantong sa pagkakahandusay ang tinuring nilang kaaway na iginapos, piniringan, hubo’t hubad. Isinadlak mag-isa sa seldang katabi ng kuwartong iyon ang katawan ko. Mga lumang diyaryo ang ibinigay na sapin sa paghiga.

Pambalot din sa tumpok na ilalabas pagtingkayad. Ang galon ng langis ang ibinigay na ihian. Nasisid ko ang lalim ng gabing iyon. Kinabukasan, habang umaantak ang mga sugat, bugbog, pasngawan at lalamunan, sa pamamagitan ng putol na piraso ng alambre, sinikap kong isulat nang patula sa pader ng selda ang mga nangyari.

II. Pagbabalik sa mundo pinagpatuloy ko ang pagtula. Giya ang tabloid na Tempo, nag-enrol ako sa Rio Alma Poetry Clinic ilang linggo matapos mapiyansahan ako’t makalaya noong 26 Pebrero 1988; 25 araw na parang 2,500 taon ng pagkakakulong at pagkatoryur sa panahong ipinangangalandakang nanumbalik na ang demokrasya.

Marahil, napiyansahan ako dahil sa isinampa naming petisyon ng Habeas Corpus bilang pagtutol sa pagkadakip sa amin nang walang Warrant.

Sa paglabas ko, naglagari ako sa buwanang bista ng aming petisyon at ng kada-Sabado-ng-hapong poetry clinic.

Bandang Hunyo 1988, dumating ang hindi masamang balita: napawalang sala ako sa ikinaso sa akin na paglabag sa RA 1700.

Samantala, hindi magandang balita ang dala ng isang kaibigang miyembro ng Concerned Artists of the Philippines. Ang sinalihan ko raw na poetry clinic ay pinamumunuan ng isang kolaboreytor ng pinatalsik na diktador, ang diktador na namuno sa rehimeng-militar na nagtortyur sa akin. Kolaboreytor daw si Rio Alma.

Dumalas ang mga Biyernes na para akong di mataing pusa; ang mga Sabado kasi ay ang araw ng poetry clinic. Dumungaw sa isip ko ang matimping boses niyong tortyurer na eksperto sa pagpapalambot ng bihag, at ang ekspertong tinig ng guro sa poetry clinic. Kapwang nagsilbi sila sa iisang diktador.

Paglaban sa antok na epekto ng huni ng Ibong Adarna ang paglagom ng mga pagkakaiba at pagkakapareho nila. Kasunod ang ipot, nakakabato. Dahil dito, umalis ako sa poetry clinic.Tumagaktak ang pawis ko gaya ng pagpipigil sa sakit ng tiyan habang bumibiyahe. Gumaan lamang ang pakiramdam matapos lumagaslas ang buhos na hinigop ng inodoro.

Kinantiyawan at binansagan akong “bersus” ng mga bagong nakilalang manunulat. Galing ang kantyaw mula sa Umil Vs. Ramos na petisyong habeas corpus laban sa muntik naming pagkadesap.

“Koyang” naman ang tawagan nilang magkakamiyembro sa Galian sa Arte at Tula, ang tanging organisasyon ng mga manunulat na nagsulong ng panitikang sumalunga sa diktadura at nagpahayag ng tinig ng karaniwang tao sa panahon ng batas militar. Sa mga kuwentuhan, kinumpirma nilang nagkaroon ng imbestigasyon sa balitang huli ko nang nasagap.

Napatunayan ang ugnayan ni Rio Alma sa diktadura nang desperadong lumantad siya upang iendorso ang nanganganib na pananatili ng diktador noong 1986 Snap Election. Ang pag-endorso ay lumabas sa isang buong pahinang advertisement sa ilang pahayagan. Bukod dito, nalantad din ang Writers’ Union of the Philippines na kanya ring pinamumunuan bilang instrumento ng diktadura upang himukin ang mga manunulat na ipagpatuloy ang diktadura.

Unti-unti nang naglabasan ang mga kalansay, wika nga, mula sa mga lihim na silid ng mga mapagkunwaring makabayan. Ilang taon bago

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nito, bulto ng Ang Pahayagang Madaya, at Ms. & Ms., mga lampoon o paninira sa anti-diktadurang Ang Pahayagang Malaya, at Mr. & Ms., ang natagpuan sa bodega ng Adarna House, pag-aari ni Rio Alma, na naglilimbag ng mga aklat-pambata. Matutunton ding ang Adarna ay dating proyekto ni Imelda Marcos sa ilalim ng Nutrition Center of the Philippines.

Pinatalsik ng GAT si Rio Alma bilang tagapayo.

Sa ganitong yugto ako napasok sa GAT, ilang buwan makatapos akong tuluyan nang umabsent sa poetry clinic: iniinda pa ng GAT ang demoralisasyong epekto ng di-nila-agad-natuklasang kolaborasyon, samantalang taas-noo sila sa makasaysayang disisyong pang-organisasyon na patalsikin ang isa sa tagapagtatag ng kanilang samahan.

Naging masigla pa rin ang mga koyang sa pag-alalay sa grupo ng kabataang manunulat na nasamahan ko. Gusto naming pareparehong makapaghasa ng pagsusulat; umabot sa antas gaya ng mga koyang. Nabuo kami sa magiging huling batch ng GAT (1973 hanggang 1993).

Ngunit sa mga panahon ding iyon, kinukutkot na noon ng di lantad na anay ng pananamlay ang ilang nakasalamuha kong kaibigan at nakilalang alagad ng sining; maging sa pagkamanunulat ng ilang mga koyang. Ang dating pultaym na disposisyon ng kumitment nila sa mga adbokasiyang sektoral, karapatang sibil, pambansang demokrasya ay nagsimulang bumugbog at kumuryente sa buong katawan ko.

Isang dating armadong partisano ang kumalas sa yunit niya sa Alex Boncayao Brigade. Nag-abrod at pagkatapos pagsawaan ang bartending sa isang bansa sa Europa saka nagpotograpo pagbalik. Hindi niya raw makilala ang pawasto at palihis na mga punto ng diskurso ng pananatili sa kilusan at pagbaklas dito, pati na ang pagkahati sa mga paksyon.

Isang grupo ng mga musiko ang nagpasyang magbukod. Hindi na raw kasi mapagbuklod ang nagkalamat nilang prinsipyo kung sa mga mulat o sa komersiyalisadong panlasa ng mga tagapakinig itutuon ang sakaling lilikhain pa nilang mga awitin.

Isang dibuhista ang nagtaas ng singil sa mga dinidisenyo niyang mga diyaryo ng mga NGO. Wala na raw kasi talagang libre ngayon. Ilan lamang sila sa mga progresibo at rebolusyonaryong alagad ng sining na nakasanganglandas galing sa panahon ng batas militar.

Mula sa panahong iyon pausad kung saan-saan ang kanilang disposisyon; naglalayong lumugar sa isang punto-de-bistang may simoy at makalalanghap ng sariwang hangin. Ngumatngat ang reaksyon sa kakulangan ng opurtunidad sa kilusang ginugulan ng panahon ng kabataan; nag-aabang ang kabikabilang raket mula sa mga proyektong pinopondohan ng gobyerno at pribadong kliyente na nangangailangan ng serbisyo ng mga manunulat at alagad ng sining.

III. May kalayaan nga ba? akakapraning nang uriratin noong 1992 ang ikinaso sa akin na paglabag sa Anti Subversion Law; parang tubig na ibinuhos sa mukhang tinapalan ng basahan sa alaala ng magdamag. May bigat na parang diin ng paa sa tiyan ang ilang linggo’t halos araw-araw na laman ng mga diyaryo, talakayan ng mga programa sa TV at radyo ang pag-urirat sa kaso ng aking pagkakahuli. Lahat ng araw at buwan ay parang a-uno hanggang a-dos ng Pebrero 1988 ulit kahit apat na taon na akong nakalalaya.

Nangingibabaw ang musika kaysa hilig ko sa panitikan noong madalas pa ang salitan ng pagtubo at pag-impis ng taghiyawat. Kapag walang makausap at tipong galit sa mundo, rock na mga tugtugin sa DZRJ AM ang parang payo ng kaibigang nagpapakalma sa kasagsagan ng kahirapang naglayo sa akin sa mga magulang ko. Naengganyo ako sa pagsusulat nang mabasa ko ang Strawberry Fields Forever, librong tungkol kay John Lennon, inilabas nang patayin siya noong 1980. Naisip kong modelo pala siya ng anak na lumaki nang produktibo kahit nawalay sa magulang.

Isang artikulo tungkol sa papel ng kabataan ang unang sinulat kong nalathala sa Ang Tinig, diyaryo ng Gregorio Araneta University Foundation, unang unibersidad na inenrolan ko ng BS Agriculture. Sunod ang tulang asaynment sa Pilipino. Hanggang ikalawang taon lang ako sa kursong iyon.

Hindi naniwala ang titser na akda ko ang tula. Sa pag-alala ko ngayon, masyado kasing pamilyar ang mga linya. Dahil unang tangka sa tula, latak ng akda ng mga manunulat na inaral ang lumabas kaysa mga pagmumuning pinatining galing sariling karanasan. Bago ako nahuli, may dalawang tula na rin yata akong nalathala sa magasing National Midweek.

May limang taon na akong manunulat-organizer ng Alliance of Health Workers mula sa pagiging ordinaryong kawani sa Philippine General Hospital nang mamatay si Ninoy Aquino. Natutuhan ko nang pahalagahan noon ang mga sinusulat kong tula. Tinipon ang mga iyon hanggang magpultaym ako sa andergrawn na Makabayang Samahang Pangkalusugan. Hanggang napadalaw ako sa ospital na pinagdalhan sa isang sugatang partisano sa atas ng lider ng grupo namin. Doon ako hinuli sa bintang na kasamahan ako ng partisano. May bigat ang dibdib ko nang umalis dahil naiwan ko ang pagsusulat at hindi ako dapat sumunod sa atas na iyon. At ngayong muli kong inaalagaan na parang hardinero ang pagsusulat, nabulabog ako ng pag-uurirat.

Kasabay ng Black or White na kanta ni Michael Jackson, sumahimpapawid ang debate sa midya at akdemya kaugnay ng desisyon ng Supreme Court sa petisyong habeas corpus noong nakakulong pa ako. Pabor ang SC sa warrantless; nagbigay ng lihitimasyon sa aming pagkakahuli, at ganoon din sa aming pagkakatortyur.

Samantala, ang mahihilig sa indie films ay nagsimulang hindi mapakali sa pag-akses sa kopya ng VHS ng bayolente na pelikulang Reservoir Dogs ni Quentin Tarantino. Inilatag ng mga pangyayari ang kondisyong magsasakonteksto para ituring na kriminal ang mga pulitikal na paglabag sa

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ambisyong Philippines 2000.

Tanging si Justice Abraham Sarmiento ang sumalungat sa en banc: The apprehensions in question chronicle in my mind the increasing pattern of arrests and detention in the country without the sanction of a judicial decree.

Four years ago at “EDSA”, and many years before it, although with much fewer of us, we valiantly challenged a dictator and all the evils his regime had stood for: repression of civil liberties and trampling on of human rights. We set up a popular government, restored its honored institutions, and crafted a democratic constitution that rests on the guideposts of peace and freedom.

I feel that with this Court’s ruling, we have frittered away, by a stroke of the pen, what we had so painstakingly built in four years of democracy, and almost twenty years of struggle against tyranny.

IV. Kontra-agos agpatuloy ang tortyur sa paraang katulad ng pangingisay ko sa kuryente, lunod sa buhos-tubig at kuyog ng mga tadyak at mura. Sa panibagong antas, may paisa-isang bumubulyaw nang paulit-ulit sa pagakusa ng pagpatay; pinaghubad akong ininteroga sa kuwartong de-erkon habang ihinahagod ng miron ang lapád na gilid ng balisong sa leeg ko.

Pinaupo ako sa harapan ng kalibre kuwarenta y singkong nakakasa habang nakaumang ang blangkong bond paper. Katabi ang bolpen na ipanlalagda.

Ihinarap ako sa isang heneral na diretsahang nag-alok ng pera at baril kapag sumama sa kanila.

Habang handusay ang hubo’t hubad na isip ko bago tantanan ng mga pagbabago sa lipunan, isang nabalitang nahuling babaing sparrow ang nagpatotoo at nangumbinsing magpatianod na rin.

“Galing din ako sa kilusan. Sumama ka na lang sa ‘min.”

Kung kalam ng tiyan lamang ang konsiderasyon sa pagkimkim ng mga nalalaman, at kung walang saysay sa pagkatao ang manindigan sa prinsipyo at paggawa ng panahon para sa karaniwang tao, na siya ring katayuan ko sa buhay, ang dinanas na tortyur ay isa lamang kaso ng masokismo.O, pagpulot ng bato na ipinamumukpok sa sariling ulo. O kaya ay pagsuko sa isang nananakit na karelasyong inaakalang may kontrol sa buhay ng isang palasukong nabubulagan sa pag-ibig.

Pangunahin pero isa lamang sa mga konsiderasyon sa pagkimkim ng mga nalalaman ang manindigan sa prinsipyo at paggawa ng panahon na punan ang kalam-tiyan. Konsiderasyon din ang pagnanais kong makalikha ng pelikula, panitikan at musikang hindi palatakas sa realidad ng lupang sumasapo sa talampakan. Gayon man, ang masokismo ay determinadong katambal ng sadismo. Isa itong tambalang pinaiiral ng mga pagnanasa: pagnanasang makasakit at pagnanasang masaktan.

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Hindi ako paniniwalaan ng marami na sa kabila ng pagyurak sa akin ng mga pulis, nagsisukong rebolusyonaryo (na mga ahente na ngayon sa magkaharap na mga Kampo Aguinaldo at Crame), ay hindi ako nagtanim ng galit sa kanila.

Sino ba naman ang maaaring magagalit sa binatilyong hindi na nga sukat ang suot ay madungis pa? Among nagmamalinis. Ang magagalit sa pulis na sumusunod sa utos ay taga-utos na may gusto pang iutos dahil masunurin ang kanyang utusan.

Ang maniningil sa isang taong walang sariling paa at nagbebenta ng saklay at/o wheel chair na ipinagkaloob sa kanya para makaagapay sa paglalakbay ay sariling kasaysayan niya lamang. Ang maghiganti sa kuyog na nagtulong-tulong manguryente, mag-waterboarding at mambugbog sa isang bihag sa loob ng kuwartong hindi mararating ng katwiran ay kuyog ding pinaiiral ng siklo ng mga pagnanasang makasakit at masaktan.

Kung patitiningin pa sa pananaw, ang pakikisangkot ng mga api sa pagbabagong panlipunan, dahil sila ang mayorya, ay saligan ng tunay na demokrasya. Pero naniniwala akong hindi pa sanay ang marami na pagmunian ang lipunan. Mas sanay tayong pagtsismisan lamang ang mga nangyayari sa kongkretong daigdig na ito. Uk-ukin ng pandarambong at katiwalian ang mga burukrasya at institusyong hantungan ng mga transaksyon. Hanggang sarili at pamilya lamang ang mga alalahanin. Pasasaan nga ba’t ang lahat ay nasasanay rin at nagtatanda. Nakakapanatag ng kalooban na nag-iwan ng ligasiya si Justice Sarmiento bago nagretiro. Pinasisinag ng luminaryong ito ang katwiran ng pag-asa.

Samantala, ipinakita ng mga paninidingan nina Justice Sarmiento at mga koyang sa isang panig, at Rio Alma, mga nagsisukong rebolusyonaryo, mga nasuyang potograpo, dibuhista at musiko sa kabila, ang dalawang uri ng halaga ng paninindigang kaugnay ng kanilang mga propesyon at pagkamamamayan.

Ang halaga ng pagiging abogado ni Justice Sarmiento sa Supreme Court ay nagkaroon ng talab ng sariling buhay dahil sinalungat niya ang paninindigang nangangatwiran para sa kaayusang patuloy na naglulunsad ng phenomenon ng mga desaparecido. Ipinadama niya ang motibo ng pagkataong matapat kahit kontra-agos. Ang halaga ng pagiging manunulat ni Rio Alma ay nagkaroon din ng purol ng sariling buhay dahil inako niya ang piraso ng tiwaling kapangyarihan ng diktador. Ipinadama niya ang pagkataong matapat sa padrino dahil patiayon sa agos.

Aaminin kong hindi sapat ang tatag ko noong isinalang ako sa mapanlipol na tortyur. Napakanta ako ng mga impormasyong kalahati lamang ng katotohanan. Samakatwid ay kalahati ring hindi kasinungalingan. Ang daloy ng buhay sa dakong iyon ng daigdig ay nagresulta sa pagkakaroon ng dalawang uri ng mga desap: may dekadekada nang hindi natatagpuan ang mga katawan pero walang kamatayan ang mga kaluluwa; at mayroong parang walang kamatayan sa pagpapasasa ang mga katawan pero desap ang mga kaluluwa.

Ako? Alin man, ay, muntikan lang.

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ahat ng marunong bumasa’y nagkakaisang ang tula’y siyang pinakamakapangyarihang anyong pampanitikan. Walang sumasalungat sa dating sinabi ng manunulat na si Rogelio Sicat na ang makata’y isang “maestro ng salita.”

At bakit naman hindi sasang-ayunan ito? Ang pilosopong Pranses na si Voltaire ang nagsabi: “Isang kanais-nais na katangian ng tula na kaunting tao ang kakaila; iyo’y lalong maraming sinasabi at sa lalong kaunting salita lamang kaysa sa tuluyan.” Samantala’y inihambing naman ng makatakritikong pampanitikang si Matthew Arnold ang tula sa tuluyan sa paraang ganito: “Tuluyan--mga salita sa kanilang pinakamabubuting kaayusan; tula-pinakamabubuting salita sa kanilang pinakamabubuting kaayusan.”

Tungkol naman sa pagiging manunulat, ang mga manunulat mismo’y may sanlibo’t isang pala-palagay kung bakit sila nagsusulat.

Subalit sa kadulu-duluhan, ang pagiging manunulat ay isang pampublikong tungkulin. Malakas ang intelektuwal na impluwensiya ng manunulat, lalo na ng magaling na manunulat, at bawat salitang kanyang iukit sa papel ay nakaaabot sa maraming tao sa loob ng maikling panahon lamang.

Kung ang manunulat ay walang maitatatak sa papel na makapagaambag sa kamalayan ng kanyang mga mambabasa hinggil sa mundong kanilang ginagalawan, walang katwiran--at masasabi pa ngang isang nakasusulukasok na pandurugas--ang paghikayat niya sa madlang maglaan ng oras upang basahin ang kanyang “obra” gayong maraming higit pang makabuluhang gawain ang maaari nilang mapagbuhusan niyon.

At isang napakalaking bahagi ng mundong ginagalawan ng tao ang lipunan. Lahat ng tao’y bahagi ng lipunan, kaya’t lahat ay naaapektuhan nito at nakaaapekto rito. Malaki, kung gayon, ang pananagutan ng manunulat sa paglahok sa pagsasaayos ng lipunan.

Higit na mabigat sa makata ang hamong tumalunton sa landas ng pakikisangkot, dahil nga sa higit na kapangyarihan ng mga akdang kanyang nililikha. Kung ang isang makata’y aabutin ng pagkaputi ng buhok nang walang iniaambag na hiwaga ng kanyang panulat sa paglikha ng isang malaya at makataong lipunan, ang bawat uban ay dapat niyang ituring na tinik, ayon nga sa makatang si Isagani sa nobelang El Filibusterismo ni Jose Rizal, sapagkat sa mahabang panaho’y para siyang nabuhay bilang isang patay.

Kung babaybayin ang kasaysayan ng daigdig, maraming makikitang makatangt sa iba’t ibang antas ay nakaimpluwensiya at nasangkot sa mga kilusan sa pagbabago.

Nangunguna ang mga halimbawa nina Pablo Neruda at Victor Jara ng Chile, Ho Chi Minh ng Biyetnam, at Mao Tse Tung ng Tsina. Sa kasagsagan

ng proletaryong pakikibaka sa Estados Unidos sa panahon ng Depresyon (1929 at kabuuan ng dekada 1930), naging inspirasyon ng kilusang manggagawa roon ang isang Woody Guthrie at isang Carl Sandburg. Noon namang kainitan ng kilusan sa karapatang sibil at kampanya laban sa Digmaang Biyetnam noong dekada 1960, sa bansa ring iyon, naging mga idolo ng madla sina Robert Lowell, Allen Ginsberg, at ang noo’y progresibo pang si Bob Dylan.

Kung titingin naman tayong mga Pilipino sa sariling bayan, aba’y mahaba-haba rin naman ang makikita nating talaan ng mga makata ng pakikisangkot sa iba’t ibang yugto ng ating kasaysayan.

Nariyan si Francisco Balagtas, na ang Florante at Laura’y isang anti-kolonyal na epikong binihisan ng damit-pantasya upang makalusot sa mga Kastilang sensor at maipabasa sa madla. Si Rizal ay may tula tungkol sa kahalagahan ng sariling wika at sa katamisan ng mamatay alang-alang sa bayan, at sa isa sa kanyang mga tula nagmula ang magpahanggang ngayo’y inuusal na ang kabataan ang “pag-asa ng bayan.” Sa panahon ng himagsikan laban sa mga Kastila, naging bukambibig ng madla ang mga mapanghimagsik na tula nina Andres Bonifacio at Emilio Jacinto.

Sa mga unang dekada ng pananakop ng Amerika sa Filipinas, namayagpag ang mga Cecilio Apostol at Aurelio Tolentino. Pagdating ng mga huling bahagi ng dekada 1910 hanggang sa kalagitnaan ng dekada 1920, lilitaw naman ang mga Jose Corazon de Jesus at Amado V. Hernandez. Sa huling bahagi ng dekada 1920 at sa kabuuan ng dekada 1930, makikita ang pagpasok sa eksena nina Salvador P. Lopez at Carlos Bulosan.

Marami sa kanila ang sinawimpalad na mabawian ng buhay bago ang 1940. Dalawa naman sa kanila, sina Lopez at Hernandez, ang lumahok sa pakikidigma laban sa pananakop ng Hapon noong 1942-45. (Ang dalawang ito’y pareho pang umabot sa dekada 1970, at si Lopez ay pumanaw noong 1991.)

Iluluwal ng dekada 1950 ang mga E. San Juan, Jr. at Jose Maria Sison.

Sa unang hati naman ng dekada 1960 ay lalabas ang mga Gelacio Guillermo at Elmer Ordoñez.

Sa ikalawang hati ng dekada 1960 ay papasok sa eksena sina Lorena Barros, Rogelio Mangahas, Levy Balgos de la Cruz, Teo Antonio, Bayani Abadilla, at Lamberto Antonio. Si Rogelio Ordoñez, na naunang makilala bilang isang kuwentista, ay magsisimulang maglathala ng mga tula sa panahon ding ito. Si Eman Lacaba, na malakas na naimpluwensiyahan ng Pormalismo, ay magsisimulang tumula tungkol sa panlipunang protesta sa ganito ring yugto ng kasaysayan. Isang Bienvenido Lumbera, na naunang mapabantog bilang isang kritikong pampanitikan, ang magsisimulang lumikha ng mga progresibong tula sa panahong ito.

Sa mga unang taon ng dekada 1970 at sa kalagitnaan ng Batas Militar, makikita ng madla ang mga tula nina Alan Jazmines, Heber Bartolome, Romulo Sandoval, Fidel Rillo, Edel Garcellano, Nonilon Queaño, Virgilio Vitug, Jesus Manuel Santiago, at Lilia Quindoza (na magiging kabiyak ni Santiago). Isang Pete Lacaba--nakatatandang kapatid ni Eman na tulad niya’y

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nauna ring maimpluwensiyahan ng Pormalismo--at isang Rolando Tinio na naunang maimpluwensiyahan ng New Criticism, ang sa panahong ito’y magsisimulang lumikha ng mga tula ng pakikisangkot.

Sa panahon ding ito, si Guillermo’y makikilala sa rebolusyonaryong kilusang lihim bilang si Kris Montañez. Si Eman Lacaba nama’y mamumundok at susulat ng mga rebolusyonaryong tula gamit ang ngalang-sagisag na Felipe Dagohoy. Magluluwal din ang kanayunan ng mga rebolusyonaryong tula mula kina Barros (na namundok din), Wilfredo Gacosta, Ruth Firmeza, at Jason Montana. (Sina Eman Lacaba, Lorena Barros, at Wilfredo Gacosta ay pawang mapapaslang ng militar sa kanayunan bilang mga mandirigmang-bayan).

Sa pagitan ng huling hati ng dekada 1970 at kahabaan ng dekada 1980, susulpot naman ang mga Joey Ayala, Abet Umil, Vim Nadera, at Luisito Queaño.

Karamihan sa kanila’y buhay pa at tumutula magpahanggang ngayon, lalo na si Jesus Manuel Santiago na linggu-linggo’y may bagong tulang lumalabas sa pahayagan. Samantala, sila ngayo’y nasasamahan na rin ng mga higit na batang tinig sa panulaan, tulad nina Bomen Guillermo (anak ni Gelacio), Richard Gappi, Kerima Tariman, Ericson Acosta, at iba pang katulad.

Patuloy na nalilikha sa Filipinas ang mga bagong henerasyon ng mga makatang tumatalunton sa landas ng pakikipaglaban para sa kalayaan at katarungang panlipunan. Na siya lamang na dapat na mangyari sapagkat nananatili sa ating bansa ang ekonomiyang kontrolado ng mga dayuhan, pulitikang nagtataguyod sa ganitong kaayusan ng ekonomiya, at kulturang umaayon sa ganitong mga kalagayan; isang sistemang panlipunang higit na nagpapahalaga sa yaman ng iilan kaysa sa karapatan ng lahat na mamuhay bilang tao, at tiwaling burukrasya.

Nananatili sa mga manunulat ng ating bayan, lalo na sa kanyang mga makata, ang hamon ng kasaysayan. Malaki ang mawawala sa buhay ng isang makatang Pilipino kung hindi siya tatalima sa hamong ito.

Ysh Cabaña

BRAP: FLIP-DOT & THE DIALECTICS OF CONCEIT

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he parking lane along Progress Ave. was quite wide enough to congregate local Hip-Hop artists of Filipino descent from different parts of Toronto. Dance crews walked it out with beats by the DJ. Graphic t-shirts stood along the walls of the garage that was bombed with stickers nascent from contemporary cultural identities. Emcees took to the front of the garage their verbal front while the youthful crowd matched the rhythms with hand gestures, almost as if scratching their own records.

Such was the scene in at the last summer block party organized

by Filipinas Clothing Co. (FCC), an apparel brand owned by brothers Corwin, Harvey, Nikki, and Gino Agra. The one-off event succeeded in bringing together fans, Hip-Hop artists and even passersby to raise awareness of Filipino talent and collectivity.

Beyond his signature cigar hazed and bling-trimmed videos, Fenaxiz rhymes with profundity yet grounded in reality. In “White Man’s Burden,”1 from his album Vintage released 2012, Fenaxiz educates his listeners about material history. Referencing the Rudyard Kipling poem of the same title, he reflects on the critical aspect of the history of his people and reclaims his personal story in Hip-Hop space: “I was lost ‘til I found my inheritance / Now I know my worth, I control the world / And this rap ain’t even scratching the surface / Of our collective experience, my peoples / We gotta match our path with our purpose…”

Seeds of Counterculture

For some time now, for Filipino-Canadians, “knowledge of self ” has come from Hip-Hop. It is arguably part of a long standing Filipino culture which can also be traced in the Ilonggos’ romantic “binalaybay,” the Tagalogs’ “balagtasan,” and the Cebuanos’ “balak.” Its productive grammatical process is vernacular yet stemming to the Filipino diaspora.

Perceived internationally as the spawning ground of HipHop, the district of Bronx in New York experienced an influx of new immigrants in the 1970s.2 The fragile low-income neighbourhoods were gradually deteriorating because of failed urban renewal policies. Mobility went on a decline for families who faced racist and classist subsidies in favour of suburban commuter residents, majority of whom were white.

Ironically, the diverse population in housing projects later became a major 1 http://www.fenaxiz.com/lyrics_WhiteMansBurden.html 2 Evelyn Gonzalez, “The Bronx” (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 111.

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indicator of ‘authentic’ Hip-Hop culture. Until the end of the 1970s, HipHop and rap music were primarily localized.

In Los Angeles, many working-class Filipinos were compelled to resettle in the outer districts, where the growth of West Bay Hip-Hop was witnessed in the 1980s.3 Through their sense of crisis caused by inclusive corporate development, the youth of this era had found ways of naming their experience. Emcees of Filipino descent were at the forefront of local Hip-Hop scene. Among the most recognized rappers were Bambu and Kiwi of Native Guns. Immersed in the long standing and ever evolving creation of the other elements of the culture—DJ-ing, breakdancing and graffiti writing—Filipinos proved to be part of a thriving Hip-Hop generation that is parallel with the fundamental stage of Afro-diasporic narratives.

In fact, many second-generation Filipinos have been, since then, in a sense “blackened.” The sociocultural affinities of Filipinos with Blacks have been conceivable, especially if attributed to Hip-Hop culture. “Black Asians” has been a label that is even accepted by individuals themselves who have partiality on either positive or negative implications. Filipinos have such a diverse culture that they can hardly be realistically narrowed down into a homogenous “stereotype”. With such diversity, an individual can afford to associate himself or herself to another identity with either pride or self-denial.

For Scott Ramirez, Filipino Hip Hop in Toronto has started to experience its brighter days. During his university days, for a thesis project in his senior year, Ramirez went on a mission to record the impact of Hip-Hop culture as a channel of representation and a tool to facilitate knowledge of self. In his 2011 documentary “Flip Hop: Bridging the Gap,”4 the emcee posited that with the growing visibility of Filipino Hiphop, solid community outlook is somehow achieved while its members are “instilled with a sense of cultural pride and confidence”.

Tales from the Flipside

Rewinding back to 1995, Superskillz debuted as the first local stage in Toronto to showcase Filipino talent among youth organized by university-based student groups. Though its heyday is over, it would usher in waves of artists who perceived that connections outside of their cliques were a way to tap into a larger audience. Hence we have the “Rise 3 Viesca, V.H.“With Style: Filipino Americans and the Making of American Urban Culture” 4 Flip Hop - Bridging the Gap documentary http://vimeo.com/33847110

of Toronto”, characterized by a more authentic Filipino presence in Hip-Hop swag. The “Rise of Toronto” also meant the increasing number of immigrants who brought with them the current diversity which is the highest throughout the history of the city.

By 2000s, Filipino Hip-Hop in cosmopolitan Toronto was fueled by the beef that is defined by the rivalry between groups from east and west ends of the city. The solitudes of Mississauga and Scarborough were perceived to be dissected by the downtown core. But these places did not become distinctly concentrated because many workers also moved into them – and these workers were under the Temporary Foreign Worker Program, and were at a labour market disadvantage.

Young Filipinos were skewed as bolshies as tensions among new immigrants and assimilated youth who were born and raised in Canada increased. Figures from statistical research found the downward trend of success for the following generation of Filipinos. With the comparative value of the category of visible minority, the ethnic group were even shown as more likely who consistently underperformed in academics.

But regardless of the deplorable environment, Filipino youth were able to adapt Hip-Hop culture from the sole Hip-Hop Filipino station in Toronto Jump Off Radio (now defunct) to Bucc N Flvr representing Canada in an international street dance championships. To artists, it has a certain appeal to as an alternative space for transformation.

This was, in part, why the newcomer Agra brothers then jumpstarted Filipinas Clothing Co. The scope of FCC’s vision is more ambitious than doing rounds in the local events scene. It is a project that aims to “find avenues that will lead to positive changes in the Philippines and to less privileged citizens.”5 Thus, FCC, which also means “for continuous change,” asserts its potential in developing a critical lens that can be utilized to not only understand the composition of the world, but more significantly, to re-create it.

Forward to 2011, the first Flip Dot Battle Grounds took place in Toronto—“Flip” is an obvious play on Filipino while “Dot” is in reference to the city—as an outgrowth of a burgeoning format of Hip-Hop all over the world.6 Rap battle is a form of emceeing where artful insults are rhymed a capella against each of the parties. Despite the hurls of loose meter, taunting and the lack of monetary compensation, rap battles are able to magnetize audience with the use of Internet channels to gain control of cultural capital.

For instance, the Philippine-based FlipTop movement even exceeded, by a million views, its predecessors America’s GrindTime and Canada’s King of 5 Aquino, Tricia “Tshirts by Fil-Canadians aim to raise Pinoy pride and unity” in interaksyon.com.

6 FDBG “The Video That Sparked The FDBG Revolution In Toronto” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbV9GGZKNAA

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Ysh Cabaña | BRAP: Flip-dot & the Dialectics of Conceit the Dot combined. Filipinos once again pushed the gameplay a notch higher.

If only for that, Flip Dot is decidedly worth more than watching.7 136

Word Up

The unity that is espoused by FCC is probably best embodied by the supergroup Southeast Cartel, which has become the preferred brand by arguably the most popular emcees in Toronto including, Tagalog-rapping Franchizze and Abstrakt of Dos Amardos, Pipoy, Dagamuffin, Biggz, Raygee and Bustarr of Sundaloz, Rydeen, and Mississauga-based Da Barkadaz. Southeast Cartel combined conventional views of Filipino with improvisation of language, whether native, second language or both.

However, if the emergent Flip Dot culture is any indication, organizing Filipino youth still has a long way to go. Fenaxiz speaks with sincerity in “The Real Toronto”: “The good, the bad, the beauty, the ugly / The young, the old, the smart, the dummy / The peace, the war, the poor, the wealthy/ The hoods, the ‘ burbs, the sick, the healthy / The love, the hate, the true, the fake/ The strong, the weak, the asleep, the awake /The success, the hustle, the stress, the struggle / It is what it is and this the real Toronto.” 8

In the end, it lures us to a calm compromise with “what it is,” instead of challenging the norm with what is to be done.

The challenge in forging unity among the Filipino youth through Hip-Hop is to bring forth new materials circumventing resistance against the standard notions of culture. While the more popular analyses on Hip-Hop’s origins date it back to the rhetoric of oppression caused by racial segregation, it is the understanding the axis of classes that strengthens it as a tool to deepen the lyrics and facilitate real human relations between different identities.

Perhaps the FCC block party was a swarm of Flip Dot’s finest.

But for it to be a more durable performance is to spit back from Hip Hop roots of principled resistance, to put the cipher into plain text: “Makibaka!

Huwag Matakot!”9 (Dare to struggle! Never be afraid!)

7 http://fliptop-battles.blogspot.ca/ 8 http://www.fenaxiz.com/lyrics_TheRealToronto.html 9 http://www.fenaxiz.com/lyrics_Power.html REFERENCES: San Juan, Jr., Epifanio (2004) Working through the Contradictions, From Cultural Theory to Critical Practice. Associated University Presses. Cranbury, NJ Badiou, Alain (2012) From Logic to Anthropology or Affirmative Dialectics.

Rowell Perez

A Love Letter to the Two-Year Younger Version of Me Dear Past Me,

When you come to Canada when you’re 21, recently graduated from the top university in your country, with Latin honors and a professional license, you will think that you have an edge over many other people hoping to establish a career in this foreign land and that landing a dream job will be very easy. You will feel so optimistic about the future that lies ahead of you and blindly, you will imagine yourself effortlessly climbing your way up to your own version of success. This will make you feel giddy, excited, and hopeful. But as soon as you set foot on this country as an immigrant, you should have known already that things won’t be that simple, that your background in the Philippines doesn’t matter anymore, and that yes, excuse me, you have to deal with the same bullshit as everyone else.

In your first few weeks in Canada, besides accustoming yourself to the harsh climate and learning how to get around the city, the first thing that you will do is hunt for a job. Because you’re ambitious, you will ask one of the staff in your brother’s school how you can be hired as a teacher. She will smile and say, “Well first of all Mister, you need a teaching certificate. Are you already certified here in Ontario?” The answer is no. But you will not be discouraged. On the internet, you will surf every jobsite available to see if there are schools looking for teachers or teaching assistants. You will find many. But 99% of them will ask for a Canadian certificate and/or at least two years of experience. You will lower your standards and type ‘tutor’ in the search box instead. Surprise!

They have higher standards. At least five years of experience. Having a car is a plus.

On the next few days, you will discover that you can get your credentials evaluated for a chance to be given a teaching certificate, so you can teach without having to study all over again. But as you browse through the long list of requirements and the tedious process that you’ll have to go through, not to mention the slightly expensive processing fee, you will know that they actually mean, “You know what, just go study again!” You will decide to try it out anyway. Then you will book for an appointment with a career adviser and with an organization that helps newcomers write resumes and find a job. They will not be of great help to you, however.

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Then slowly, reality will set in: that you urgently need to earn money. Because c’mon, you moved to a new country with your whole family. Your mom is single and she’s the only one who has a job; your two youngest siblings are going to school; your family is starting from scratch; bills keep coming; you’re in debt. So you will be advised not to be so picky with jobs. The very next day, you will walk around the street under heavy snow, and literally go from door to door handing out resumes to every establishment possible. It will not matter if it’s a coffee shop, a drugstore, a beer store, or a burger stand. But even this will not be easy. Days will pass but you will never get a call for a job interview. You will get a bit depressed until one morning you will read in the classifieds of a local newspaper about a company looking for customer service representatives. You will give them a call right away and the following morning, you’ll come for training and only then that you will find out that your would-be job is to go house to house, check every household’s water heater and force encourage the owners to switch to the brand you sell. No offense, but you will say to yourself that that’s not your kind of thing. You are not yet so desperate so you will not show up the next day anymore.

After a little over a month, you will finally get a job. It will be at Subway and you’ll love how they address their employees there: sandwich artists. Apart from that, you will hate everything. First day of training will be the worst day of your life and the experience will be indescribable.

The manager will yell at you in front of customers, your co-workers will power trip, and at the end of your shift you will feel like you were degraded and violated. Worse, your annoying boss-from-hell will not pay your 19 hours of training so you will have to summon your best English to text the manager and threaten her to pay you. Then the guy who will train you to close the store will tell you to stop being so gingerly at work and upon hearing that, you will want to cross your arms and ask him if there’s something wrong with that but because you’re new to Canada and maybe, it’s not allowed to be gingerly at work, all you’ll say is a gingerly “okay.”

They will let you work alone at night and pay you minimum rate with all the amount of work they will require you to do but you will not complain and just be grateful that you have a job at last.

Soon enough you will realize that you need another job because you will want to earn more to pay for your family’s debts and save up for school. You will get hired in a Froyo store and you will think that things are a little better there than in your other job. Except that on your first day of training, the guy assigned to train you will give you a heads up by saying, “Don’t worry, I know how to “deal with immigrants,” complete with quote unquote hand gesture and you will know that he means something by that

but you will just shrug it off. Then he will give an employment form for you to fill out but he won’t trust that you know how to do it so he will do it himself. And he will be like, “Do you know your address?” “Do you know your phone number?” You will want to scream at him and say this: I sure as hell do! I’m not as stupid as I look and guess what, I’m probably better than you. But you will NEVER do that because it might turn out that he is actually better than you. You will politely say instead that you can fill out the form yourself if he would allow.

So you will spend the next few months working your ass off, day and night, every single day. You will miss a lot of family gatherings and special holidays, you won’t have any friends and social life at all. It will just be all about money and your family will start to fall apart because you will always fight over money. You will forget about completing your requirements for your certification and you will miss your friends and family back home so badly.

Then Life, with all her royal bitchiness, will see that you haven’t reached your quota of bad luck yet. So one night while you’re at work, a robber will barge into the store and point a gun at you, demanding all the money. You will freak the hell out and give him everything you have. You will get so traumatized that you won’t work for days and after contemplating about your misfortunes and asking yourself why they happened to you, you will feel so trapped because your only option is to believe the greatest cliché of all: that everything happens for a reason.

But just when it seems that you’re only an inch away from an ultimate burn-out, you will rediscover your favorite self-help book under a pile of novels you didn’t even bother to read. It’s about viewing things from another perspective. And you’ll start to wonder, perhaps it’s just you.

Perhaps, you were just being too cynical and you were just over-reacting after all this time. When you accompany your cousin to the salon one day, you will approach one of the girls if they can do a rebond for your hair.

You will love the reaction of her face and you will decide that that’s how you would want to live your life from then on—carefree and unaffected by people’s impressions. And before you notice, you are actually living life and seeing things from another perspective.

At work you’ll start to get along with your workmates. You’ll listen to their stories and you’ll share yours, too. You’ll have so much fun and you will wonder why only then you realized how cool these people are. You will stop seeing the dollar signs in your head all the time and you’ll let your debt worry about itself. There will be so much time to pay it, anyway. You will finally start completing the requirements for your certification. You will take that exam they’re asking you to take, and once you’ve submitted all your documents, you’ll just let it be. You will buy that swivel chair you know you’ve always been fixated on. You’ll start to reach out again to your family and you’ll bond stronger than ever. You will quit

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that job because it’s not good for your psychological well-being. You’ll get a new one. In the summer that will come, you’ll get into sports; you will meet new people—amazing people! You will make friends, lots of them and you’ll spend every weekend together. You’ll pick up new hobbies and you will start to finally go for what you love doing. You will live your life one day at a time. There will be so many things to look forward to.

There will still be misfortunes along the way, of course, but you will be surprised by how you will see them differently from the first time they happened to you. Work will still be a pain in the ass sometimes and certainly it’s not something that you really want, but you will learn to suck it up. You will realize that Canada has not been bad to you, after all. Then for the first time in your life you will believe that maybe, everything really happens for a reason. And from that point on, things start getting better.

Kathy de Castro | Leave it Behind

MGA PANAYAM INTERVIEWS

Lui Queaño

FINDING THE LOST AMULETS: interview WITH CINDY LAPEÑA

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hree months before this publication, my fellow “kaakdas” Tita Pet Cleto, Ysh Cabaña, and Mary Parreño were discussing about what we should include in the first Akdaan anthology. During the course of discussions at such venues as coffee shops, parks, malls, and library halls, we were reminded of Mao Zedong’s famous words “Let a hundred flowers bloom and a hundred schools of thought contend” - an invitation for a broader participation of the masses in the revolutionary arena. Transposed to the creative side of things, we agreed that what we want is the promotion of the arts through which expressions and opinions are encouraged more than a hundred times. Our initial discussions finally led us to the concept that our first Akdaan anthology would have what a regular anthology has: poetry, essays, fiction, illustrations and pictures. However, we thought that we could also include an interview of a Filipino writer or perhaps a Filipino immigrant writer who is supportive of the struggles of Filipino immigrants.

I fortunately chanced upon Cindy Lapeña, a Filipino-Canadian writer who has just published her first fantasy novel entitled The Lost Amulets. The book is considered as appealing as that of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series and at par with the works of best-selling novelists Cornelia Funke and Lloyd Alexander. Instead of the usual urban fantasy characters as zombies, vampires and wolves, Lapeña’s novel uses aswang, dwende, tikbalang, sigbin, buwaya,siyokoy, kataw and kapre - mythical characters which are deeply rooted in the Philippine folklore. Lapeña currently lives in Prince Edward Island, Canada where she is an arts and teaching consultant, an actor, director, a painter and owner of Art ‘n’Words Studio Gallery. Before migrating to Canada in 2007, Cindy joined the annual nationwide literary contest of Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature and won 3rd place for a full-length play in English. Lapeña maintains a blog called mimrlith.wordpress.com where she shares her poetry, essays and artworks. She also regularly contributes articles, essays and writes music reviews in a number of local newspapers and journals in Canada.

AKDAAN: Can you tell us how you became a writer?

CINDY LAPEÑA (CL): I’m what you’d call a bookworm—I love reading, and from a very young age, I was a voracious reader, but that wasn’t enough for me. I soon realized that I could express myself very well in words. I was also in love with poetry, so my earliest writing was poetry, which I filled notebooks with since

I was 10 years old. By the time I was in 7th grade, I was trying my hand at short stories and even wrote a novelette, and some plays for school, as well. I always had to be in the school paper, the school magazine, the newsletter staff. I haven’t stopped writing since.

AKDAAN: What inspired you to write The Lost Amulets? What is it that you’re exploring in this book?

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CL: I am a huge fan of world mythology, and when I was taking my Master’s, I was a little frustrated that there was no specialization in mythology - I wanted to explore comparative mythology further.

When I decided I would finally start writing a book for NaNoWriMo last year, I gave it a lot of thought. I bemoaned the current obsession in movies and TV shows for vampires, wolves, and zombies and decided that I wanted to introduce new mythical/ magical creatures—what better than Philippine mythology as a source?

As urban fantasy, the novel brings together a huge cast of magical beings and throws them into an adventure with human children whose innocence and fresh insights will help to restore the balance of nature.

AKDAAN: Any thoughts on yourself being called the “Filipina J.K. Rowling”? Has this label ever changed your perspective on your work?

CL: I would really rather be called the “Filipina C.P. Lapeña,” although it would be flattering to be likened to J.K. Rowling—I have great respect for her. If my novel and the subsequent books in the trilogy receive even a quarter of the popularity that her Harry Potter series has received, I would be exhilarated!

AKDAAN: If you weren’t writing, what would you want to be doing for a living? What are some of your other passions in life?

CL: I’m also an artist and painter, and I love to create artistic or

decorative things that are useful, as well, from just about anything I can get my hands on. I have a line of crafts that I call one-of-a-canned, which are decorated cans, bottles, plastic, and cardboard containers. I use beads, buttons, ribbons, threads, macaroni, lace—just about anything I can find—and paint to decorate that containers so they can be used as gift packages, caddies, or catch-alls.

AKDAAN: Who is Cindy Lapeña as a mother? Friend? Wife?

CL: I am the proud mother of three children from two marriages that, unfortunately, did not work out. My two older children, a son and a daughter by the first marriage, are completely independent, while my youngest son lives with his father. Living alone has its benefits, since I can devote my time to my art and not have to worry about taking care of anyone else.

I’m really more of an introvert, but working as a teacher, training consultant, actor, director, administrator, manager—or any other of the several jobs I’ve had—I’ve made several friends and some have become very close. I enjoy every minute I spend with my friends as much as I enjoy being by myself. I also tend to give more than I get out of any relationship just because I can’t be part of something without being completely and wholeheartedly immersed in it.

AKDAAN: What do you think is the role of a writer in society and why?

CL: I have always agreed with the old adage that “the pen is mightier than the sword.” Writers are essential

in society because they have the ability to put ideas into words that become permanent—what is written and published has the potential to last a very long time and the potential to be read by millions of people all over the world throughout its existence.

To this day, society depends on the knowledge and wisdom of what it has found in the written word—the very foundations of society are based on the writings of Plato, Aristotle, LaoTzu, and Confucius, among others.

Every year, more and more things are written, and because of them, people are called to action, inspired, motivated, encouraged, converted.

Writers are and always will be the ones who document everything—regardless of the source of the information—that the rest of society reads, hears, and chooses to believe or not. They are our historians, witnesses, entertainers, teachers, leaders, models. Because of that, I believe no society will ever survive without writers.

AKDAAN: How would you differentiate a good writer from a bad one? Or is there any distinction at all?

CL: There are certainly very clear distinctions between good writers and bad writers, the most evident being mastery of craft. Writers who cannot write well, spell correctly, punctuate properly—who are not mechanically adept—will either fail from the start or not go very far as writers, unless they have such absolutely brilliant ideas that readers are willing to overlook the mechanical flaws, or they have excellent editors, copyreaders, and proofreaders. More than mechanical mastery, however, is the fact that good writers have good ideas and are able

Good writers are excellent observers, have wider vocabularies, and are persistent.

They don’t give up and they don’t take shortcuts.

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to put those into words in original and meaningful ways that make their work interesting, unique, immortal. Even if writers are poor at mechanics at the start, the constant editing and revising should rub off on them so that their grammar, spelling, and punctuation eventually improve. That’s when they start becoming better writers. Good writers are excellent observers, have wider vocabularies, and are persistent.

They don’t give up and they don’t take shortcuts. They capture our imaginations and draw us into their worlds so that we think their characters, situations, and places are so real that it feels like we know them really well.

AKDAAN: Any advice to young and beginning writers?

CL: A lot, really, since I’ve also been a creative writing teacher.

1. Master the medium. You need to be good at writing to be a good writer. That means you need to learn how to spell (or at least look up your words in a dictionary), you need to know how to use punctuations correctly, and you need to know how to write good sentences, good paragraphs, and good essays. You need to know literary enhancements such as figures of speech. You need to know about voice, point of view, structure, and style.

2. Read a lot. Reading gives you good ideas and lets you see how other writers write. You also subconsciously improve your grammar, spelling, vocabulary, and style because some of what you read stays with you.

3. Write a lot. Whenever you have a chance, write something. Anything.

I used to make students write a journal entry a day. Even if it was just one sentence. Write when you think of something. Expand on that. If you like to argue, write your arguments.

If you like music, write lyrics, write poetry. If you like reality, write news stories. If you like movies or TV, write scenes, write dialogues. Pick one little thing everyday and write about it. Practice makes perfect.

4. Be very observant. One of my favourite things to do is watch people.

I make up stories about people I see, in my mind. Everywhere I go, I also love watching little things. I look at details. I take in the scenery, look at what’s there. I look at colours, shapes, textures. I listen to sounds, take in the smells. Observation provides writers with the details that make their writing more real, more alive, more vibrant.

5. Find a model. Pick a writer you admire and imitate his or her writing. Just don’t mistake plagiarism for imitation. This will help you develop a style. In time, you will have your own voice.

6. Don’t give up. Writing isn’t easy. There are so many people out there who want to be writers, and so many who think they’re writers who shouldn’t be published. You need to persevere and get those ideas on paper (or your computer) because if you don’t have anything to sell, there’s no point in even thinking about publishing.

And that is a different story.

Petronila Cleto “Although the wonders of life and development happen around us all the time, there are still large unknowns. As organisms develop, tissues bend, twist and change shape. Despite a remarkable array of changes, cells must still maintain epithelial integrity. How changes in cell shape and tissue remodeling are directed and coordinated by mechanical forces and cell polarity remains unclear.”

- Daryl David, microbiologist

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST: INTERVIEW WITH DARYL DAVID

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aryl Jason Verzosa David, 28 years old, is the son of Roberto De Jesus David, who worked in the Philippines as a mining engineering manager at Apex Co., and of Nerissa Verzosa David, who worked as a high school music teacher at Our Lady of Grace and also as a private teacher for piano and electric organ. Daryl graduated with a PhD in Cell and Systems Biology, and in the Collaborative Program in Developmental Biology at the University of Toronto, Ontario Canada, on November 15, 2013.

At the time of this interview, DJ already had three publications to his name, and an additional submitted publication awaiting revision. Two are about a novel way in which cells can change their shape, and how this process is controlled by evolutionarily-conserved proteins.

David had started with looking at molecules and graphs, and then forced himself to look at bigger things, and went onwards to bigger and bigger images. This is how he began to seriously study the cell.

DJD: The cells were more visual, and that made them more real for me. I thought they were so moving, and I felt very emotional about them. They were so beautiful.

And they were there before your very eyes. And they were alive!

Especially with the more recent studies I went into, I found them to be really beautiful.

AKDAAN: How did you discover this focus you now have

on the shape-changing ability of cells? You had said that discoveries are not really “eureka” moments.

For you, they were more “hmmthat’s funny” moments, as you quote from Russian scientist Isaac Asimov. Could you tell us more about that moment for you, regarding this shape-changing?

DJD: I think I’m very fortunate that I found this focus. I always have a need for focus, because

*Writer’s note: the phrase is not to be taken in the farcical sense of Oscar Wilde’s play.

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I think I’m wasting energy otherwise. I searched for this focus for years, and I believe I found it because my studies had prepared me for this discovery.

Chance favours a prepared mind.

I studied the cells for two years, and then my group mates and I thought of looking at it live. We were extremely lucky that during that time that we had decided to do that, the new technology (topof-the-line microscope at the time we started the study) was still able to help us look at many aspects of the live cell. While my teammates were looking at something else about the cell, I was struck by this ability of the cell to change its form.

AKDAAN: You had also written that while the cells changed their shapes, they would still maintain the integrity of the cell structure. What did you mean by that, and how did you observe this phenomenon?

DJD: Yes, there are constants, although they change their shapes.

I meant that the cells would maintain their connections to other cells, and also their polarity – what was on the upper part stayed there, and the lower parts stayed lower - even as they changed shape. My study helped me to uncover some of the fundamental processes governing cell shape change during the embryo development of the fruit fly, the Drosophila melanogaster.

AKDAAN: Why are fruitflies a better study subject than rats or mice?

DJD: Our laboratory is a drosophila laboratory, so we studied nothing but fruit flies.

Fruit flies are a good animal model of choice. They reproduce quickly – and it only takes 10 days for the embryo to become an adult. They’re also cheap - they don’t cost much public money, and so you can do thousands of experiments! What’s also great is that the embryo develops outside the body of the fruit fly, and its growth can be clearly seen and are easy to image.

They have been well-studied for over a century, and their entire genome well studied and fullysequenced. Imagine that we study the specimen live, and in real time!

AKDAAN: It’s interesting that they would have similarities with the human species.

DJD: Yes, their proteins and complex networks are incredibly similar to those found in humans.

Importantly, over-all, proteins, genes and the pathways of their interactions are remarkably conserved throughout evolution.

AKDAAN: Has technological advancement played an important role in your study?

DJD: Modern scientists definitely have more tools, which we have been using for a century.

We also benefit from the fact that scientists who use fruit flies for their studies are collegial

and tend to share their findings.

Comparatively speaking, the scientists who have been studying the mouse so long have a more territorial attitude.

AKDAAN: What is next in your career?

DJD: In the next phase of my career, I will be heading to the Pasteur Institute in Paris, France to study the bacterium Listeria, the pathogen that causes listeriosis when ingested. Listeria can invade and take control of cells, and I will use my training in cell biology to better understand the ways in which it can infect cells.

This understanding is critical if we are to find new ways to battle infection.

AKDAAN: What’s the importance of the behavior of this pathogen? Why study these particular bacteria?

DJD: Listeria forces the cell to take it, and nourish it. It can penetrate any place at all. My new boss was co-writing a paper with my old boss on how the bacteria use the connections and polarity of the cells to invade them. It is possible we will find the new ways that they do this, and how they are evolving resistance to drugs. Then we can eventually stop that kind of evolution.

AKDAAN: You are definitely very aware of your social responsibilities. Is that mainly how you see yourself as a scientist?

DJD: As a scientist, I view my role in society as one of shedding light on the unknowns. I can bring some semblance of certainty in an

otherwise uncertain world. Since our research is relatively “quick” as compared to research in other animal systems, our work is at the forefront of discovery for health and research.

AKDAAN: Did you find it difficult to start your career in science?

DJD: Places such as Canada tend to be meritocracies – it is not enough to simply be “smart” but also be able to persevere and work hard. Of course, I did face some challenges regarding money and time availability, but I hardly consider these challenges overly arduous. At university I see people of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, and socio-economic status. It is clear that one should not be held back out of fear of “social class” - at least not in a society that wants to be known as multicultural.

AKDAAN: What do you think is important to remember as you advance in your career?

DJD: I would also consider a scientists’ communication with the public-at-large as critical.

We must strive to do a better job at communicating our work and its relevance to the general public. If we truly understand our work, we will have the ability to distill the research into the most crucial and concise statements, without too much technical jargon.

Undoubtedly, research in the basic sciences is absolutely critical to progress in our understanding of our world and provides possible tools to make new and creative discoveries. If the general public

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better understands the benefits of scientific research, everyone gains a better appreciation of the value of science research. This would encourage more work in the field. I have taken great pains to present my research to as wide a variety of people as possible: to fellow scientists who are not experts in my field and to my friends and family. In addition, I have attempted to instill a sense of excitement about scientific research with my family by preparing mini science-experiments with my young relatives. I also do this with children in the community as a volunteer- I try to demonstrate exciting science experiments to them.

AKDAAN: So is this strong sense of social responsibility the reason for your choosing to be a scientist instead of a musician? I hear you love music. You’re known to be quite good on the classical guitar.

DJD: I am a skeptic at heart.

Scientists should really be skeptics at heart, I think – both of their own work and of the world around them. In science, we are constantly posing questions and seeking answers. I think that we scientists in our scientific quests strive to overcome our own skepticism, and only then can we be confident of our discoveries. I chose to become a scientist because of the excitement. I get to perform new tasks almost every day! For me, it

is a constant learning adventure.

In science, one gets to see more than the eyes can see, yet make discoveries about things that are fundamental to everyday life.

AKDAAN: To you, is there a commonality between science and making music?

DJD: I believe that science requires skills in extreme creativity at similar levels of those of artists and musicians. The best science is that which tackles problems in a unique and interesting way.

Scientific discoveries that we consider factual and obvious today were at one time unimaginable.

The world as a sphere, for example.

The evolution and relationship of the species. The brain as the centre of thought and bodily control.

It was only through methodical and careful study that these discoveries have now attained a level of certainty. Even the tools that we currently consider fundamental and routine required some creative thinking in addition to hard work. Including the ability to “cut and paste” pieces of DNA together, to amplify DNA, and to visualize individual proteins in a living cell. These were discovered through the study of disparate things: viral species that infect bacteria, a bacterium that can live in hot springs, and the glow of jellyfish and red colour of coral.

Connecting these seemingly unrelated and “funny” studies of science requires ingenuity and

creativity. Advancements in our understanding of the world and our technical expertise continue at a rapid pace. I am absolutely thrilled to be a part of this advancement.

AKDAAN: Do you mind if we talk a little about your artistic side?

I understand you play the guitar.

I’ve often heard and read of people who are experts in mathematics being excellent in music as well.

How do you look at this side of your personality? Do you look at it as a “balancing” of your scientific side?

DJD: I’ve played the flute since high school. I was forced to do it; it was the only instrument available!

I turned out OK with it. I’ve been playing it now for seven years.

Then I wanted to join a band, but I wasn’t able to find one. I’ve been a classical guitarist for a very long time. I like it because it’s very relaxing. It also keeps you running at the right pace. You wouldn’t have a good moment, without music! It makes me think of the movement of cells, too! I also like photography. I’m a fairly good photographer. I’ve photographed many of our family events.

Photography helps me capture my memory. Memories are very important to me.

AKDAAN: Speaking about memories – how do you sum up your memories about the different transitions in your life? From living in the Philippines to living in Canada? From being a worker to your profession now as a scientist?

DJD: Throughout my upbringing as both a Filipino immigrant and

As a scientist, I view my role in society as one of shedding light on the unknowns.

I can bring some semblance of certainty in an otherwise uncertain world...

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as a scientist, I have certainly faced some hardships, but nothing was insurmountable. I consider myself fortunate to have been presented with the opportunities I’ve had in my life. I’ve learned the importance of hard work, of perseverance, and of being articulate. Of course, I have had challenges during my education. Living far from the downtown campus at the University of Toronto meant 1.5hour commutes each way every day for my Bachelor in Science degree. After three hours a day of commuting, I would be incredibly tired. I also worked a part-time job throughout the entirety of high school and my undergraduate degree and worked all summer. All of this, however, was manageable.

Indeed, it was clear from my experiences with classmates that I was certainly not alone. There were plenty of other immigrants who have come to Canada, and whose children attend the University of Toronto, striving for a better life. Those students and I were all trying to achieve greater things by pursuing a higher education. It was our hard work that mattered most.

AKDAAN: Your parents were professionals in the Philippines – your father is an engineer; your mother a piano teacher. They did not land the same jobs here, and they work below the level of their capacity. Did that fall in socioeconomic status affect you?

DJD: People need not feel

trapped by their socio-economic status. Nor should they be burdened by their origins. I believe that the breadth of perspectives provided by people from varying backgrounds and experiences is important for the creativity and novel ways of thinking that are so crucial for scientific discoveries.

Ultimately, science has little interest in the socioeconomic status of yourself or of your family – what is important is the level of achievement attained.

AKDAAN: How do you deal with the stresses of your profession? Since you are always in the quest for something, the percentage of failure is always large, I imagine. Plus, there is the fact that science is a very competitive field.

DJD: As with many things in life, there are risks involved in science. I have learned the following important lessons: you need to be well informed, to plan for success, and to learn from the inevitable failures. Often, media news releases overlook the many failed experiments, wrong directions taken, and the hundreds of unsuccessful scientists - all of these that underlie each breakthrough. I have learned that the vast majority of experiments will not work and that many ideas are simply crazy – but it is important to try them. Oftentimes, the experiments that do not pan out as planned can still give

interesting results if one looks carefully enough. It is important not to be disheartened by failure, but rather to keep an open eye for interesting, unexpected results which may stem from such failures.

However, the resiliency to deal with failure is acquired through experience in addition to having a solid basis of support in the form of friends, family, loved ones, and a community such as the Filipino community.

AKDAAN: So what upsets you? Apart from failure in your scientific experiments? What makes you happy, or sad?

DJD: I get upset when people lie. Then you can’t trust them anymore. And trust is the foundation of everything. And it’s also important that there be sincerity. As for happiness, I think of myself as normal – I don’t think I’m very difficult to please! I like twilight, with its colours of pink and blue falling on people’s faces.

There are so many things to be happy about. There are always things that make one sad. When my grandma passed away last March, I was very sad. She passed away just two months before I completed my PhD. I was very close to my grandma.

AKDAAN: Do you have some sage words to those younger than you?

DJD: Just a few things I have learned. Life doesn’t go the way you planned, so you need a community to nourish you. I overcame my difficulties, thanks to an extensive support network of

family, friends, and community. It was truly amazing to know that the breadth of experiences stemming from a multi-cultural, mixed society is a source of strength and creativity required for science.

With the help of a nourishing community, you can keep on progressing. I didn’t expect Paris.

However, again I will say that it’s not luck. It’s what I call “the importance of being earnest”

It’s being prepared. Indeed, it’s people’s hard work that gets them where they want to go.

At our interview’s end, as we were leaving, Daryl goes up one step of the stairs in the hallway facing the door. As his father bids us his last goodbye for the night (there were others earlier), the main doors began to close off my view of the family. There was enough time for me to see – or to imagine I saw - Daryl making a little jump from that step.

This last image, whether actual or not, was in perfect sync with the series of images I had of Daryl during the whole interview at his parents’ residence in Scarborough, Ontario. He seemed to me, despite his intellectual accomplishments and almost athletic appearance, still very like a child.

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MGA kontribyutor

contributors

ANALYN DOCLAN ARYO — Analyn, a Benguet-born Igorot of the Applai (Besao) and the Bontoc tribes, won the editorial writing contest of “The Sun”, a leading community newspaper in Hong Kong. She also wrote plays for Migrant Collective. She is a professional nanny in Ontario.

PASKIE PASCUA — Paskie is a veteran journalist-editor-publisher who survived a turbulent dictatorial regime in the Philippines. He then backpacked his way through four continents.

He is a poet, filmmaker, teacher, artist/painter, musician, and yes—a cook.

BEN D. NILLO — A theatre artist and a poet, Ben was a Fellow at the 4th Western Mindanao Writing Workshop-2008; at 1st Ateneo de Zamboanga University Writing Workshop-2008 and at the 16th Iligan Writing Worshop-2009. Ben, born and raised in Zamboanga, lives in Caniogan, Pasig City.

ROGENE A. GONZALES — Roge, once the chairperson of the Southern Tagalog chapter of the College Editors’ Guild of the Philippines, was also News and Managing Editor for the UP Los Baños Perspective. His poetry book, Plumang Punyal: Mga Tula at Dagli na Pinatalim ang Puno’t Dulo, is available for download at www.scribd. com.

CAESAR PREPOSI — Caesar writes poems, short essays and vignettes on his free time from his busy life as a pediatrician. He received his M.D. from Far Eastern University-Nicanor Reyes Medical Foundation in 1982 and his diploma in Pediatrics Medicine from Mt. Sinai School of Medicine in New York City.

FAYE QUEAñO — A “New York native and creative”, and an Advertising and Marketing student at the New York Fashion Institute of Technology, Faye is involved in a number of editorial activities (e.g., Creative Director for OBTRUSIV Online Magazine). She is also a freelance photographer, a video editor for a number of New York clients, and a night-time poet.

IMELDA ORTEGA SUZARA — An immigrant to Vancouver British Columbia in 1978, Imelda is PRO for the Philippine Press Club Ontario (PPCO).

Her sonnet book of poetry is available online via http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/isarte .

LINDSEL C. EKID-BAKIDOL — Lindsel has a degree in Psychology from Saint Louis University and is working on her graduate degree in Language & Literature at University of the Philippines in Baguio. A wife and mother, she believes that “peace, justice, and harmony in society can be achieved through the practice of compassion to all beings, human and non-human alike.”

MAIA ANGELA SAN DIEGO — Maia,, 17 years old, says her world turns into “a blur as she bleeds paint onto canvas.” She is a student at the University of the Philippines Fine Arts, in Diliman.

MARIA EUGENIA MONTEMAYOR — Maria is working on a double major in English and Political Science at the University of Toronto, Trinity College. In 2006, she received the Ray Raymond Literacy Award. She has had her work published by in a number of Toronto publications.

MARK ANGELES — Mark was elected vice president for Luzon of the College Editors Guild of the Philippines. He participated in the 2013 Fall Residency of the International Writing Program in University of Iowa, U.S.A.

SZARA JOY SALISE — Szara Joy, “a student of life”, an up-cycling enthusiast, a novice DoIt-Yourself (DIY)-er/crafter, and a doodler, is deeply influenced by her childhood memories of the Philippines. She recently had an exposure trip to the Philippines which inspired her recent works. She is the co-creator and co-editor of “My Own Time (MOT) Zine”, available at http://myowntime.blogspot.ca/ TRINA FEDERIS — Trina is currently a staff member of Crispin B. Beltran Resource Center, an institution engaged in upholding the legacy of the late labor leader and people’s representative, Crispin “Ka Bel” Beltran.

YSH CABAñA — Ysh received his BS in Architecture degree from the Philippines.

He engages art in various scales. He works across disciplines of literature and visual art. He unabashedly “adores minimal compositions as much as vibrant and bold.” His critical attitude is essentially projected towards optimism. Ysh is one of the founders of Grupong Akdaan, a Toronto based writers group.

LUI QUEAñO — Songwriter-musician Lui lives in Toronto and belongs to a family of musicians and writers. He has published in several literary publications, including the Cultural Centre of the Philippines Anthology. A member of Galian sa Arte at Tula (GAT)- a progressive writers group, his poetics is clear in his collection of poems, Engkwentro , published under AkdangBayan Writers Group. He is one of the founders of Grupong Akdaan, a Toronto based Writers Group. A Chemical Engineering graduate from Saint Louis University, Lui is also a registered Engineer-In-Training (EIT) under Professional Engineers of Ontario (PEO).

ROWENA PEñAFLOR FESTIN — A full time teacher, Wena is working on her PhD in Malikhaing Pagsulat at the University of the Philippines.

Named Makata ng Taon (Poet of the Year) by the Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino, she has also won awards in Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, Gawad Galian and Gantimpalang Ani for her fiction and poetry. She has also

presented papers in national conferences on cultural studies. Her critical essays, poetry and fictions have been published in journals and anthologies, and in her book Pinakamaagang Paraan ng Pagpatay.

JAYJAY CARPIO — Jay is a dedicated family man and lives in Toronto with his wife Cathy and son Joma. He is a self-taught poet, a community organizer, a labor leader and a big fan of Crispin “Ka Bel” Beltran. He is a member of Filipino Migrants’ Workers Movement, an organization based in Toronto and participates in various community events, the most recent of which is the 2013 campaign for $14 increase minimum wage.

LUALHATI BAUTISTA — Lualhati has received awards from both local and international awardgiving bodies. Her works have been anthologized ,published and recognized internationally, in the company of Michael Ondaatje, Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood, etc. Her novels Dekada ‘70 and ‘Gapo were awarded the Grand Prize in the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. She writes scripts for movies and television.

NONILON QUEAñO — Nonilon is a multiawarded writer, poet and playwright with awards from prestigious literary award-giving bodies such as CCP, Palanca, and Talaang Ginto of the Komisyon ng Wikang Filipino, UP timpalak Panitik, etc. He holds a PhD in Literature from the University of the Philippines and teaches Comparative Literature there. He was a Fellow for plays at the International Writing Program in University of Iowa under Paul Engle.

MARLON VILLANUEVA ALA — A member of KATAGA, a writers group based in Quezon Province, Philippines, Marlon is a fourth year AB Political Science student at the Manuel S. Enverga University Foundation (MSEUF). He is a Literary Editor and co-editor of The Luzonian Publication , the official Collegiate Student Publication of MSEUF. He also founded the APLAYA- students writers’ organization and the GUNI-GUNI Artist Collective in Quezon Province ,Phillipines.

ROBERTO OFANDA UMIL — Abet is a poet and a musician. He writes music for, and performs with, his band BERSUS. Abet is a student of Malikhaing Pagsulat, the creative writing program at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. A winner in various literary contests, he has published Oda sa Kaldero, his first poetry book.

CHRIS SORIO — A student activist and a campus journalist when arrested after the declaration of Martial Law, Chris was detained at Camp Bago Bantay for two years. Upon his release, Chris worked with the Task Force Detainees of the Philippines and eventually

joined SELDA, the association of ex-detainees.

Now a Toronto resident, he is Vice Chair of Migrante Canada and a migrants’ rights and human rights activist.

MARK RAFAL — “MJ” is into literature and poetry. He identifies himself as a “beloved son, a brother, a friend and a lover at varying levels and points of view.” He likes what Roque Dalton once said, “Poetry , like bread, is for everyone”.

WALLEI BAUTISTA TRINIDAD — Wallei currently works in the footwear industry while dabbling in several projects and interests. He is an architect by education and by chance became a footwear specialist. He is a volunteer-trainer of FDA who is teaching basic and creative photography during his off hours.

JOANE ZARAGOSA — Joane is a native Abelling from the mountains of Zambales. She writes occasionally. She was able to go to college through a scholarship grant from a generous nun.

She teaches on a makeshift daycare centre in Zambales.

JAIME DASCA DOBLE — Jaime, currently studying for the priesthood, is the author of the well-received bilingual poetry collection entitled Order of the Poets: Poems in English and Pilipino (2005). He also edited the voluminous work, Kadiliman: The Philippine Collegian Anthology of Critical and Creative Writing (2006) for the University of the Philippines in Diliman.

CINDY LAPEñA — Cindy’s most recent book, The Lost Amulets, bears marks of her roots to the Philippines folklore and mythology. Cindy won 3rd prize in the Philippines’s prestigious Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in 2007. She currently resides in Prince Edward Island, Canada.

PIYA C. MONTALBAN — Piya is an active member of Kilometer 64 Writers Collective. She was a Fellow in the 4th Palihang Rogelio Sicat and19th Iligan National Writers Workshop for short story. She is the National Coordinator of Hacienda Luisita Peasant Suporters Network and Secretary of Palihang nasa Linya (Workshop on Line).

Rowell Perez — Rowell is a freelance writer and a children’s story writer. He was first published on the Young Blood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer in 2011. He is also a teacher and a member of the Philippine Teachers Association of Canada.

MARI ACEJO — Born and raised in Roxas City, Capiz in the central islands of Visayas, Mari finished her degree in Occupational Therapy in the University of the Philippines. She moved to Canada in 2010 after being sponsored by her mother who was in the Live-in Caregiver Program.

RON MAGBUHOS PAPAG — Ron, a poet, film maker, journalist and a public servant, was a Fellow in the 8th University of Santo Tomas National Writers Workshop. His documentaries He Never Wrote ‘30’, Behind The Second Front, and Oust garnered awards from the Cultural Center of the Philippines. To date he has made more than twenty documentaries and two feature films in his more than 15 years as a film maker, with some shown in international venues and film festivals.

LINGLING MARANAN-CLAVER — Lingling comes from a family of writers. She writes poems and composes music. For a time, Lingling lived in Vancouver, Canada where she was a member of Canada-Philippines Solidarity for Human Rights.

ERIC WILSON — Eric hails from Mandaluyong, Philippines and just recently migrated to Canada.

He considers himself an amateur writer.

ELLEN TORRES — A six month old Albertan who hails from Biñan, Laguna. Writing is not art according to her. Rather, “it’s a way of educating people for everything that exists” she indites.

ABY WEYGAN — Aby is a student, a semiretired teacher, a struggling writer, and a school director. He is a member of UBBOG young writers, and Our Daily Abyss, which can be reached at ourdailyabyss.blogspot.com. He is working on his thesis and a novella entitled Solving Metamorphosis and other fiction.

MARY PARREñO — Mary has a Bachelor of Science degree in Accountancy from Notre Dame Tacurong College, Philippines, where she was the editor-in-chief of their school newspaper The Torch . A Business Administration student at CDI College Scarborough campus, she also dreams of writing a novel.

ALEXANDER MARTIN REMOLLINO — Alex was a journalist, poet and activist who devoted the best years of his life to serving the Filipino people.

JENNIFER OWATAN — A 40-year old mom who used to be a caregiver, Jennifer loves reading and sports. Working at Tim Horton’s, and part-time as a Financial Representative of a Toronto-based insurance company, she still finds time to write poetry.

JHANETTE OWATAN — Jhanette started writing poetry when her mom left for Canada to work as a caregiver. Her mom’s absence in here life created a dent that she didn’t realize would make her a poet. She writes what she feels and doesn’t mind being called “different” . She discovered here writing skills at the age of 12. She hopes to write about her Cordillera roots.

AUDREY BELTRAN — Filmmaker-writer, Audrey is a human rights worker in the Cordillera

region. She is the current deputy secretary general of the Cordillera Human Rights Alliance – Karapatan. She visited Canada in 2010 to participate in the founding of the International Women’s Alliance. She was part of the campaign for support for the call to release the Morong 43 health workers, and for indigenous peoples confronting corporate destructive mining in the Philippines.

RAYMOND GARCIA — Born in Hong Kong, Raymond and his brother lived in the Philippines early on for 6 years, before immigrating to Canada. Now in Toronto, both he and his brother share experiencesand messages through songs, spoken word,and articles. Raymond is currently a member of Toronto-based Southeast Cartel, a rap group that aims to expose and solidify Filipino culture through Hip Hop. BERT MONTERONA — Bert is an international award-winning painter and visual art designer from the Philippines who has exhibited his works in Asia, Australia and North America. His bark-like tapestries celebrate indigenous culture, its myths and rituals, and artistic expressions. Works made on un-stretched canvas were made to emulate and pay tribute to the materials used by his indigenous ancestors.

CECILLE DE CASTRO — Born in Aringay, La Union, Cecille has a fond interest for the visual arts. She spends most of her time painting, drawing, sketching, styling and decorating. She took undergraduate studies in Commerce with a major in Marketing.

ALEX FELIPE — Graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Political Science from the University of Toronto, Alex’s goal of becoming a human rights lawyer gave him a different path to be a professional photographer that he is now. His photo essay about Canadian-owned mining in the Philippines had received honourable mention at the 2009 National Magazine Award for Photojournalism.

He is now teaching at York University.

RUTH TEJADA — Ruth is an aspiring artist and plans on taking culinary arts to become a chef in the future.

Kathy de Castro — Kathy is a freelance artist/illustrator based in Toronto with a fondness for birds. She was also once addicted to black and white, up until late 2012 that she re-discovered color. She believes that “there is good in everyone and that there is always time to stop and smell the coffee.”

ABOUT THE EDITOR Petronila Cleto — Petronila has always found inspiration in her lolo (grandfather), David Ngayan Cleto, a Filipino peasant who, by dint of intelligence and diligent study, became secretary of the 19th century Spanish Audiencia Real in the Philippines but later joined the ranks of the revolutionary army, the Katipunan ng Kataastaasang Kagalanggalangang mga Anak ng Bayan.

Native of Nueva Ecija, and quickly becoming aware of the word, she saw it as a necessary bridge between mind and reality, and as a window through which visions and light can enter a life and change it. And so, turning from a love of the dance to one of “word-dancing”, she became her high school’s journalist, playwright and poet. In university, she joined PEN Philippines and the Writers’ Club at the University of the Philippines. While writing plays for the UP Dulaang Laboratoryo, she also wrote critiques of the visual arts, film and theatre. Surviving the Martial Law years, she dedicated herself to political journalism, and wrote for many publications, and co-founded Newsfilm, a video and news agency. Early in the 80s, she became a founding member of many women’s organizations, among them: GABRIELA Philippines; Women for the Ouster of Marcos and Boycott (WOMB); the Concerned Mothers’ League, and the first women’s political party in Asia (Kababaihan para sa Bayan, or KAIBA). She helped establish the pioneering Women’s Crisis Centre (1989), and worked on its board and staff. Self-exiled in Canada, she has been active in the Filipino community, and has given theatre workshops for women. She was invited to join the Writers in Exile Network of PEN Canada in 2006, and was awarded writer-inresidence positions at McMaster University (2008) and George Brown College (2010). Watching the emergence of young writers, including that of her daughter, she has great trust that the next generation of writers will meet – with wisdom and bountiful heart - the critical challenges of the next century of Philippine literature.