Journal 5 PDF

The
Journal of
Contemporary
Philippine
Literature
5
2011
The University of the Philippines Press

Diliman, Quezon City
Likhaan 5
The Journal of Contemporary
Philippine Literature
© 2011 by UP Institute
of Creative Writing
All rights reserved. Rolando B. Tolentino

No copies can be made in Issue Editor
part or in whole without prior
Romulo P. Baquiran, Jr.
written permission from the
Charlson Ong
author and the publisher.
Associate Editors
ISSN: 1908-8795 Jayson D. Petras
Managing Editor
Karl Fredrick M. Castro
Cover Design/ Layout Artist
Arvin Abejo Mangohig
Grace Bengco
Copy Editors
Gerry T. Los Baños
UP Press Coordinator
Gémino H. Abad
Virgilio S. Almario
Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo
Amelia Lapeña Bonifacio
Bienvenido Lumbera
Advisers
Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr.
Ricardo M. de Ungria
Jose Neil C. Garcia
Victor Emmanuel Carmelo D. Nadera, Jr.
Charlson Ong
Jun Cruz Reyes
Rolando B. Tolentino
Fellows
Romulo P. Baquiran, Jr.
Mario I. Miclat
Associates
Eva Garcia Cadiz
Administrative Officer IV
Arlene Ambong Andresio
Gloria Evangelista
Pablo C. Reyes
ICW Staff
Nilalaman
vii Introduksiyon
xiii Introduction
xviii Notes for Likhaan from Charlson Ong
xix Mula kay Romulo Baquiran Jr.

xix From Romulo Baquiran Jr.
xx Tala ng reader sa akdang Filipino

xxi Notes on the Filipino works by the reader
Short Story / Maikling Kuwento

3 Huling Bakunawa
Allan N. Derain
22 Last Resort
Glenn Diaz
38 Perdition Plain
Russell Stanley Geronimo
56 Three Kisses
Ma. Elena L. Paulma
77 Ang Ama at Ina ng Isang Epiko
Jun Cruz Reyes
94 Delphi
Luna Sicat-Cleto
Poetry / Tula
Unang Orasyonal
Rio Alma
107 I. Papuri
108 Ii. Mortal
108 Iii. Pakikilahok
109 Iv. Kirot
109 V. Posteridad
110 Vi. Lumipas
110 Vii. Kabutihan
111 Viii. Kagandahang-loob
112 Ix. Tadhana
113 X. Makabayan
Mula sa Engkantado
Mark Angeles
114 Bagras
117 Balukanag
119 Dapdap
121 Talisay
123 Tindalo
Loser at Iba Pang Tula

Lolito Go
125 Loser
128 Cut
131 Basahan Mo Ako
135 Mitsa
137 Berso Libre, O Hindi Lahat ng Libre, Mapagpalaya
Sharing Spaces and Other Poems

Gabriela Lee
138 Sharing Spaces
139 Retrancher
140 Nudes
Luksang-Pati Para Kay Alex Remollino at Iba Pang Tula
Bienvenido L. Lumbera
141 Luksang-Pati Para Kay Alex Remollino
142 Pagdalaw sa Belen, 2009
144 Tagubilin: Sa Mga Iskolar ng Bayan
146 Parang Bulaklak o Dahon
Essay / Sanaysay
149 To Write
Gémino H. Abad
154 Nanay
Eli Rueda Guieb III
173 The Turn for Home: Memories of Santa Ana Park
Jenny Ortuoste
197 Fire In Ice
206 Ang Aking Gubat
Ellen Sicat
Graphic Short Story

226 A Short Story and a Handful of Tragedy
Seigfred Cabral
Interview / Panayam
241 Interview with F. Sionil Jose
Charlson Ong
259 Pagluluwal ng Buhay, Panulat, Pighati, Laban:
Isang Panayam Kay Lualhati Bautista
Luna Sicat Cleto
Annotated Bibliography
287 Alingawngaw: Tinig Pampanitikan ng Taong 2010
315 Echo: Literary Voices 2010
Jayson D. Petras
338 Mga Kontribyutor / Contributors

Introduksyon
“H
ayaang mamukadkad ang isangdaang
bulaklak,” tagubilin ni Mao Zedong noong
1957 para manghimok ng mas malawak na
partisipasyon at multiplisidad ng idea sa
rebolusyon. Bagama’t may nagsasabing
ginamit lang din ang mga kataga para bitagin
ang mga inaakalang reaksiyonaryo, nananatili itong matulaing retorika ng
malikhaing pagsulat.
Sa ikalimang edisyon ng Likhaan, patunay na ang antolohiya ng
panitikang kanyang natitipon taon-taon ay nagsasaad ng ilang indikasyon
sa mga kapamaraanan ng pamumukadkad ng mga arena ng malikhaing
pagsulat. Kontemporaryo ang tagpo, sensibilidad at stilo ng pagkasulat
ng mga akda—mga inobasyong nagpapaiba sa mga nauna sa kanila.
Diasporiko ang mga kondisyon sa mga kuwentong nakasulat sa Ingles, ang
sa Filipino naman ay pumapatungkol sa paghalaw sa nauna’t probinsyal
na mga paksain at ang inkorporasyon nito ng modernong sensibilidad sa
konseptwalisasyon at exekusyon. Ang mga tula sa Ingles ay metapisikal na
lirisismo ng iba’t ibang sandali ng agam-agam, at ang mga Filipino ay mga
pananawid sa realismo at metapisika ng mga piniling paksa. Ang dalawang
set ng tula ng mga pambansang alagad ng sining para sa panitikan—sina
Bienvenido Lumbera at Virgilio Almario—ay kinakikitaan ng mga oda at
eulohiya para sa aktwal na tao at ng pagnanasa sa diwa ng pagkabansa.
viii likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
Ang mga sanaysay ay mga malikhaing pagtugon sa mga trauma ng

paghihiwalay, pagyao at pag-iisa; sa pangangailangan ng pagsulat; at sa
mga pang-araw-araw na aktibidad at obserbasyon ng sabayang paglaya at
pagkakulong. Ang mga panayam ay mga kumpisal ng mga kapamaraanan
at imfluensya ng pagsulat. Sa panayam kay Lualhati Bautista ng
manunulat at skolar na si Luna Sicat Cleto ay naglahad ng konstruksyon
ng pagkamanunulat, personahe at feminism ang una. Sa panayam kay F.
Sionil Jose, isa pa ring pambansang alagad ng sining para sa panitikan, ni
Charlson Ong, ang mga kontrobersyal na paksa ng pananaw ni Jose ukol
sa pagiging “damaged culture” ng Pilipinas, pati ang alegasyon na siya ay
kapanalig ng Central Intelligence Agency ay direktang tinugunan, pati ang
mga panitikang isyu ng hinaharap ng akdang nakasulat sa Ingles, pati na rin
ang tema ng kataksilan.
Natatangi rin ang isyu dahil sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon ay nalikha
ang bibliograpiya ng mga nalathalang panitikang akda ng nakaraang taon.
Masinsin itong tinipon, in-annotate at ipinakilala ni Jayson Petras, ang
efisyenteng managing editor sa bolyum na ito. Kauna-unahang pagkakataon
din na may graphic fiction rito, ang “A Short Story and a Handful of
Tragedy.” Nais pang hikayatin ang iba pang pormang pampanitikan
para makapasok sa virtual at pisikal na pahina ng Likhaan sa hinaharap.
Pinahinga ng kasalukuyang isyu ang limitasyon ng nakalathalang pahina.
Dahil ang bolyum ay inaasahang higit na mababasa sa portal ng mga journal
ng Unibersidad ng Pilipinas sa Diliman, nabawasan ang pangangailangan
ng striktong limitasyon sa bilang ng pahina. Ninais din na ang disenyo
ng Likhaan 5 ay higit na umaayon para sa edisyong online nito kaysa sa
limitasyon ng nakalathalang pahina. Malaki ang inasa kay Karl Castro, ang
tagadisenyo ng journal, para sa layuning umangat ang mga pahina sa virtual
na mundo.
May ilang indikasyon ng kontexto ng mga akda sa Likhaan 5. Una
ay ang patuloy na pagbubunga ng mga programa sa malikhaing pagsulat
mula sa akademisasyon nito (sertipiko hanggang di-gradwado at
gradwado), “workshop circuit” o ang serye ng palihan na mapapasukan ng
manunulat na pawang baseng akademiko rin, pati na ang mobilisasyon ng
mga manunulat sa akademya sa iba pang posisyon sa mga institusyon at
publikasyong pansining. Sa isang banda, maaring pulaan ang network na
ito, ituring na conspiratorial, maging insular na mundo. Pero sa kabilang
banda, ito na rin ang synergizing na pagpupursigi ng malikhaing pagsulat
ix
sa akademya bilang pangunahing behikulo ng kontemporaryong panitikan.

At hindi kakatwa itong Likhaan 5 bilang journal na nagmumula sa isang
akademikong institusyon sa bansa at ang marami nitong kontribyutor na
nagmumula pa rin mula sa iba’t ibang programa sa malikhaing pagsulat.
Ikalawa, ang papel ng makabagong karanasan at teknolohiya ng
karanasan ay matingkad sa mga akdang kalahok rito. Ang mga diasporikong
karanasan ay matutunghayan sa mga maikling kwento. Ang lirisismo sa tula
ay nagmumula sa bukal ng modernong sensibilidad: urban at kosmopolitan,
kahit pa ang mga tula sa Filipino ay gumagamit ng mga tradisyonal na
imahen at talinhaga. Ang personal na sanaysay na “Ang Aking Gubat”
ay hindi lamang tungkol sa ligaya ng paghahardin sa syudad. Kasama rin
dito ang anxiedad ng pagtira sa gilid ng gitnang uring subdibisyon at ang
maralitang tagalunsod na kanyang kapitbahay, na pinapagitnaan ng barb
wire at panghihinayang na sana ay mas napataasan pa ang pader ng bakuran.
Maging ang talakayan ng alaala ng Santa Ana Park ay pinaghahabi ang mga
kwento ng nakakatanda hinggil sa lugar, pati ang naunang pagtratrabaho sa
pag-cover ng karera sa race track, pati na rin ang kasalukuyang predikamento
ng paghihiwalay sa asawa. Elehiya ang mga akda, lalo na sa sanaysay, pati sa
koleksyon ng tula ng dalawang pambansang alagad ng sining. Paano naman
hindi kapag ang luma ay patuloy na nagmumulto sa kasalukuyan, at ang
kasalukuyang ideal ay patuloy pa ring inaadhika mula sa nakaraan? Ang ibig
lang din nitong isaad ay ang pesimismo sa hinaharap: na ang pagkawatak ng
nakaraan at kasalukuyan ay nagtitiyak din ng bitak sa hinaharap, personal
at panlipunan man.
Sa usapin ng teknolohiya ng karanasan, ang nauna (mga kasama sa
buhay, race track, pinalalagong bakuran, halimbawa) ay mga personal na
pinagninilayan at ang pagninilay ay may kapasidad magbigay-artikulasyon
lampas sa personal; maaring unibersal na pakiwari ng pagluluksa at realisasyon
ng pag-iisa, kundi man ng pag-usad at pagkabalaho. Ang teknolohiya ng
karanasan ay sinisiwalat rin sa pamamagitan ng aktwal na teknolohiya ng
pagsusulat. Mula computer pati Internet, ang abstraktong alaala at idea ay
nagkakaroon ng teknolohikal na hubog: naisusulat, naeedit, narerebisa,
nafifinalisa, naipapalaganap una sa mas maliit na lupon ng magbabasa
hanggang sa paglawak ng publiko ng mambabasa. Ang pagkasalansan ng
Likhaan 5 sa world-wide web ay nagbibigay ng pandaigdigang publiko sa
dati ay hindi lubos na marating ng mga nakalathalang publikasyon. Ang
teknolohikal na paraan ng pagsulat at pagpapalaganap ng pagsulat ay
x likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
nagsasaad din ng tekonolohisasyon ng pagbasa. Ang resepsyon sa Internet,

pati ang multimedia na paglalathala ng Likhaan, ay sinasabing bagong
oralidad na lampas sa visualidad ng nakalathalang publikasyon. Kung
dati ay may rehimentasyon sa akto ng pagbasa sa fakuldad ng imahinasyon
gayong maaring balik-balikan ang primacy ng nakalathala para sa pag-angkat
ng “katotohanan,” ang kasalukuyang bagong oralidad ay mas malawak ang
pagsasambit ng salita na tulad ng binibigkas na salita noong unang panahon.
Wala pa ring katiyakan sa kaisahang “katotohanan” na isinasaad kahit pa
may virtual na akdang maaring balik-balikan dahil sa unang pagkakataon pa
lamang, hindi na linear ang pagkakasunod ng pagkasulat at pagbabasa.
Malamang, ang ganitong bagong oralidad ang siyang nagpapatunghay
sa ikatlong kontexto ng mga akda: madaling basahin ang mga akda sa
Likhaan 5. Mulat man o hindi, malinaw na may malaking konsiderasyon
ang manunulat sa kanyang inaakalang publiko. Tulad ng Facebook profile
status o tweet sa Twitter, ‘sakto ang paraan ng pagsasaad ng idea, saloobin
o komento kahit di naman talaga ‘sakto kung ito nga ba ang pakahulugan
kahit pa hindi naman mahalaga sa mambabasa ang pakahulugan ng awtor,
kundi ang diin ay kung may nakuha ang mambabasa sa kanyang binabasa.
Sa karanasan ng managing editor, readers, katuwang na editor at ako,
madaling isalansan kung ano ang aangat dahil ang mga nagbigay ng kanilang
kontribusyon at napili ay wala nang abstraksyon at absurdo sa pamamaraan
ng paglalahad sa mga akda. Malinaw ang mga akdang may sinasabi, at
ang may mas epektibong paraan ng pagsasabi. At ang mga akdang narito
sa Likhaan 5 ang mas may epektibong paraan ng pagsasabi, ang siyang
nakakasapol, malamang, sa kolektibong anxiedad sa kasalukuyan. Gamit
ang iba’t ibang lente ng pagsipat at pagbasa, pero tulad pa rin sa Facebook
at Twitter, ang umaangat ay yaong nakaigpaw sa limitasyon ng paraan ng
pagkasulat, yaong may virtuoso ng simplisidad kahit pa ang tinatalakay ay
ang bigat ng problema ng bansa o ang metapisikal na pasanin ng uniberso.
Ikaapat, ang papel ng malikhaing manunulat ay patuloy na
tumatampok bilang lunduyan ng kolektibong intelekwal na pagpupursigi
sa kontemporaryong panahon. Dagdag sa independent filmmakers, ang
hanay pa rin ng manunulat ang may kapasidad maglunsad ng malikhaing
interogasyon ng panlipunan at historikal na kaayusan, direkta man o di
lubos na hayag sa kanilang sinusulat. Sa isang banda, magaan basahin ang
mga akda sa Likhaan 5 dahil nga sa modernong sensibilidad at ang mga
postmodernong anyo ng teknolohiya. Sa kabilang banda, ang mga pabalat
xi
at hapag lang ang mababaw dahil nakatuntong ito sa masinop, malikhain at

kritikal na interbensyon ng manunulat sa panahon (nakaraan, kasalukuyan
at hinaharap) ng sabayang kontemporainedad (ang pagkakasalikop, sapin-
sapin, sedimentasyon ng mga yugto ng panahon). Malalim at masaklaw
ang sinasaad, metapisikal, realista o postmoderno man ang pamamaraan
ng pagkatalakay ng mga akda dahil sa kakanyahan, lalo na ng mga akda
sa Filipino, na makipagdiyalogo at makipagtunggali sa kontemporaryong
lipunan. Hindi pahuhuli ang kolektibong enerhiya ng pagtugon ng
malikhaing manunulat sa pagdamay sa politikal, panlipunan, kultural at
ekonomikong institusyon at kondisyon ng bansa, kundi man sa pagbibigay-
komentaryo hinggil sa mga ito.
At panghuli, ang kontexto ng humanidades sa kolehiyo ay sinasambit
din ng malikhaing produksyong nakapaloob sa Likhaan 5. Sa isang banda,
ang Likhaan lamang ang refereed journal para sa disiplina ng malikhaing
pagsulat sa bansa. Hindi tulad ng mga journal sa syensya na kayang
maglabas ng isang panalaliksik sa loob ng efisyenteng apat hanggang anim
na buwan, ang mga akda sa humanidades, lalo pa ang malikhaing pagsulat
ay kailangang antayin ang taunang paglabas ng Likhaan. Ito ang dahilan
kung bakit ang mga malikhaing manunulat sa akademya ay kailangan ding
maging skolar at kritiko. Walang katiyakan ang pagkalathala sa Likhaan
dahil sila ay nakikipagkumpetisyon sa napakaraming talentadong manunulat
sa labas ng akademya. Marami ang nagpadala ng submisyon sa Likhaan,
mas marami ang nasala kahit marami pa rin ang umabot sa final na pahina
rito. Sa kabilang banda, ang humanidades bilang larangan ang siya rin
namang nagpapaangat sa estado ng mga unibersidad sa Pilipinas sa mga
pandaigdigan at rehiyonal na pagraranggo. At kahit pa nga matumal ang
suporta para sa akademikong publikasyon para sa malikhaing pagsulat, lalo
na sa panitikang Filipino at lalo pa sa panitikan sa iba pang mga wika, ito
ang nananatiling palayok ng ginto sa dulo ng bahaghari ng akademya.
Sa malalaking kontextong ito minamarapat na basahin at lamlamin ang
mga akda sa Likhaan 5. Ito ang mga puno, sanga, dahon, higad at paruparo,
ang kabuuang hardin at bakuran, maging ang island sa highway o bitak sa
konkretong daan na siyang pinamumulaklakan ng mitong isandaang bulaklak
ni Mao Zedong. Gayunpaman, ang aktwal na paglalabas nitong talulot at
bulaklak ay naisagawa sa napakalaking pagpupursigi ng napakaraming tao.
Bukod kina Petras at Castro, nais ko ring pasalamatan ang mga katuwang
na editor sina Charlson Ong at Romulo Baquiran Jr. para sa matalas na
xii likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
pagsasala ng mga kontribusyon, pati na rin ang pakikipagkaibigang

nagpagaan sa mabusising gawain ng paglalabas ng journal. Hindi rin ito
mailalabas kundi ang suporta ng Likhaan: Institute of Creative Writing, sa
pamumuno ni Jose Y. Dalisay Jr. at ng deputy director Conchitina Cruz at
Anna Felicia Sanchez. Kay Eva Garcia-Cadiz, ang administrative officer,
kasama sina Arlene Andresio, Gloria Evangelista at Pablo Reyes sa lohistikal
at moral na suporta sa proyektong ito. Sa kabilang panig naman sa UP Press,
ang direktor na si Dr. Malou Camagay at ang masigasig na tagasuporta ng
proyekto si Prof. Gerry Los Baños, kasama ang mga copyeditor na sina
Arvin Abejo Mangohig at Grace Bengco, pasasalamat sa di matatawarang
pagsuporta sa Likhaan 5. Pasalamat din sa dalawang maingat at matulis
na readers ng isyu na ito. Hindi sila mapapangalanan hindi dahil sila ang
aawayin ng mga hindi nagtagumpay mapaloob sa isyu na ito, kundi dahil sa
protocols ng blind refereeing process na isinakatuparan ng Likhaan.
Mahirap magpalago ng isandaang bulaklak pero naging mabunga ang
mga ipinunla ng manunulat, na pinataba pa ng kalinga ng mga nagtrabaho
para sa nauna’t kasalukuyang Likhaan, kaya may katiyakan na ang malikhaing
pagsulat ay mananatiling mayabong na hardin ng mga idea at pag-asa.

Isyu Editor
8 Hunyo 2011
xiii
Introduction
“L
et a hundred flowers bloom,” Mao Zedong
once famously quipped in 1957 to encourage
wider participation and multiplicity in the
revolution of ideas. Although some have said
that the words were merely used to entrap
alleged reactionaries, the quotation remains
flowery rhetoric for creative writing.
In the fifth edition of Likhaan, the anthology is proof that the literature
it gathers together contains certain indications in the ways the arenas of
creative writing have been growing. The scenes, sensibility, and style of
writing are contemporary—innovations which differentiate them from the
ones before them. The stories in English are diasporic in condition, and the
ones in Filipino exhibit earlier and provincial themes and its incorporation
of modern sensibility in conceptualization and execution. The poems in
English are metaphysical lyricisms of various moments of doubt while
the ones in Filipino bridge realism and the metaphysical in their chosen
themes. The two suites of poems from two National Artists for Literature,
Bienvenido Lumbera and Virgilio Almario, contain odes and eulogies of
actual people and the desire for the concept of nation.
The essays are creative replies to the traumas of separation, death, and
solitude; the need and compulsion for writing; and the daily activity and
observation of concurrent freedom and confinement. The interviews are
confessions of both methods and influences in writing. Lualhati Bautista
xiv likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
relates constructs of being a writer, personality, and feminism in her interview

with the writer and scholar Luna Sicat Cleto. In Charlson Ong’s interview
with F. Sionil Jose, another National Artist for Literature, his controversial
views on the “damaged culture” of the Filipino and his alleged involvement
with the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) are directly addressed, as well
as the future of Philippine writing in English and the issue of betrayal.
The volume is also unique for its first-ever bibliography of important
literary works published in the last year. Jayson Petras, this volume’s efficient
managing editor, lovingly compiles, annotates, and introduces them. It is
also the first time that Likhaan will publish graphic fiction: “A Short Story
and a Handful of Tragedy.” We encourage more literary forms to enter the
virtual and physical pages of Likhaan. This current issue forgets about the
limitations of the printed page. Because we hope that this volume will read
more in the portals of journals of University of the Philippines, Diliman,
strict limitations on the number of pages were disregarded. We also wanted
the design of Likhaan Journal 5 to favor its online edition rather than the
printed page’s limitations. Karl Castro, this volume’s designer, was given
the task of translating the pages into the virtual world.
There are indications in the context of the works in Likhaan 5. First is
the continuing production of creative writing programs (from certificates to
undergraduate and graduate), from its academization, the “workshop circuit”
(the series of workshops, also academe-based, the young writer may enter
into), to the mobilization of writers within academe into other positions in
other institutions and art publications. On one hand, it is easy to vilify this
network as a conspiratorial, if not insular, world. On the other hand, this
is synergy—creative writing’s pursuit, in the larger world of the academe,
of becoming the primary vehicle of contemporary literature. Likhaan 5 is
by no means unique, produced by a national academic institution and its
contributors coming from the various creative writing programs.
Second, the role of new experience and the technology of experience
are brightly evident. Diaspora as experience is clear in thematics of the short
stories. The lyricism of the poetry comes from a modern sensibility; urban
and cosmopolitan, even if the poems in Filipino use traditional images and
metaphor. The personal essay “Ang Aking Gubat” is not merely about the
joys of gardening in the city; there is also the anxiety of living in the margins
of a middle-class subdivision and having the urban poor as neighbor.
Though already separated by barbed wire, one still wishes that the dividing
xv
wall be raised higher. The excellent memoir on the Santa Ana Park weaves
old timers’ stories about the place, an earlier career in race track journalism,
and the current predicament of separating from one’s husband. The works
are elegies, more so the essays, as well as the poems from the two National
Artists. What if old ghosts continually inhabit the present, and current ideals
are still longed for from the past? This can only mean the pessimism about
the future: that the divide between past and present guarantees a further rift
in the future, whether personal or collective.
In talking about the technology of experience, the above (friends, the
race track, a garden, for example) are personal meditations; the meditation
has the capacity to articulate beyond the personal, perhaps a perceived
grieving or a realization of aloneness, if not movement and obstruction.
The technological experience is also revealed by the technology of writing
itself. From the computer and the Internet, the abstract memory and idea
are given technological form; they are written, edited, revised, finalized, and
disseminated first to a small group of readers and then to a wider public
readership. The Likhaan 5 in the worldwide web reaches out to a worldwide
public, once not fully reached by printed publication. The technology
behind the methods of writing and its further dissemination also speaks
of the technologization of reading. Its reception over the Internet, as well
as the multimedia publication of Likhaan, can be seen as the new orality
beyond the visuals of the printed page. If before there was a regimentation
in the act of reading on the imaginative faculty (the primacy of the printed
word can be returned to, again and again, in the search for “truth”), the
current new orality is wider in its statement of the word, more similar to
how these words were stated in the past. There is no certainty of the one
“truth,” even if there exists the virtual work one can return to because, in the
first place, the continuity between writing and reading is no longer linear.
It is most likely that this new orality provides the basis of the third
context: the works in Likhaan 5 are readable. Whether conscious or not, it
is clear that the writer has great consideration for his perceived public. Like
a Facebook status update or a Twitter tweet, the way of expressing an idea,
feeling, or comment is exact, even if it is not what is exactly meant and even
if what the author means is not important to the reader; rather, the emphasis
is what the reader takes away from what he has read. In the experience of
the managing editor, readers, the associate editors, and in mine, it is easy to
organize what comes to the fore because those who submitted their works
xvi likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
and were chosen no longer have abstract or absurd ways of expressing

their art. It is clear what works have a message; it is also clear which are
more effective in their expression. And the works in this volume which
have a more effective mode of expressions are the ones which will capture
the collective anxiety of the present. Using different lenses of reading, but
also like that in Facebook and Twitter, what come to the fore are those that
transcend the way of writing, with an almost virtuoso-like simplicity even if
what is being tackled is the weight of a national problem or a metaphysical
burden in the universe.
Fourth, the role of the creative writer continues to be the basis of the
intellectual collective which is the pursuit in contemporary times. Along
with the independent filmmaker, it is the writer who remains capable of
creatively interrogating social and historical order, whether overt or covert
in his writing. On one hand, the works in Likhaan 5 are “easy” reading,
thanks to modern sensibility and the postmodern form of technology. On
the other, only the cover and surfaces are shallow because the journal stands
on careful, creative, and critical interventions of writers of our time (past,
present, and future) of current contemporaneity (the circumscribing and
layered sedimentation of different spaces in time). What is expressed is
deep and encompassing, whether it is metaphysical, realist, or postmodern,
because of the ability of the works, more true for the works in Filipino,
to dialogue and challenge contemporary society. The collective energy of
the creative writer both engages and critiques the political, social, cultural,
and economic institutions and conditions of the nation, if not giving actual
commentary on these.
Lastly, the context if the humanities in our universities are also explicit
in the creative productions in Likhaan 5. On the one hand, Likhaan is
the only refereed journal of the creative writing discipline in the country.
Not like science journals which can produce research within an efficient
four to six months, works in the humanities, especially those in creative
writing, have to wait for the yearly output of Likhaan. This is the very
reason why the creative writer in academe also needs to be a critic and a
scholar. There is no certainty in getting published in the Likhaan because
of the competition with other talented writers outside of academe. We
received many submissions, more than those screened, even if many have
also reached Likhaan’s final pages. The humanities, as a discipline, also
elevate the status of the universities in the Philippines in regional and global
xvii
rankings. Even if support for academic publications for creative writing has
been scant, more so for Filipino and regional languages, it still remains, for
those in the academe, the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
It is within these larger contexts that the works in Likhaan 5 should be
read in. These are the trees, branches, leaves, caterpillars, and butterflies,
the overall garden and backyard, and the islands on our highways and the
cracks on the concrete roads from which bloom the mythical hundred
flowers of Mao Zedong. Even so, the actual production of these petals
and flowers were borne of enormous efforts by many. Aside from Petras
and Castro, I would like to thank my associate editors, Charlson Ong
and Romulo Baquiran Jr., for screening the contributions as well as their
friendship which lightened the burned of producing the journal; It would
also not have come to fruition without the support of the Likhaan: Institute
of Creative Writing, under the directorship of Jose Y. Dalisay Jr. and his
deputy directors, Conchitina Cruz and Anna Felicia Sanchez. Thanks also
to Eva Garcia Cadiz, the administrative officer, along with Arlene Andresio,
Gloria Evangelista, and Pablo Reyes for their logistical and moral support
for the project. Over at the UP Press, many thanks also to Director Malou
Camagay and the ardent supporters of the project namely Prof. Gerry Los
Banos, and the copy editors Grace Bengco and Arvin Abejo Mangohig.
Thanks also to the careful and sharp readers of this volume. They shall
remain nameless, not because they will be harassed by those who were not
included, but because of the protocol of the blind refereeing process we use
for Likhaan.
It is difficult to make a hundred flowers bloom but what these writers
have sown have proven to be fruitful, made richer with the care of those
who have worked on the previous and current issues of Likhaan; there is
certainty that creative writing will remain a lush garden of hope and ideas.
Issue Editor
8 June 2011
Translated by Arvin Abejo Mangohig

xviii likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
Notes for Likhaan from Charlson Ong

(with notes from reader in English)
Little surprise, perhaps, given our present social reality that two stories in
this volume deal with Filipinos in romantic relationships with foreigners.
In “Three Kisses,” a sixtysomething widow, Nina who has adult children
and professional success, still chooses to marry a Belgian widower and seek
a new life in her husband’s country. In the cold of Europe she finds a love
beyond the contours of the body, of words and cultural nuance. The story
telling is confident, genuinely poignant and rewarding.
In “Last Resort,” a middle-aged Spanish-Australian divorcee, Carolina,
comes to the Philippines to do medical research and falls in love with a
younger Filipino man, Reynaldo. It is a romance complicated and uneasy
but yet poignant and tender. It is a quiet, confident story. “Perdition
Plain,” on the other hand is genre writing at its finest. It creates a vivid, post
apocalyptic world of violent gangs fighting for cultural and personal survival.
It is literature that many of our younger writers are presently creating.
Two non-fiction works both reminisce places and relationships.
Jennifer Ortuoste’s “Turn for Home” tells of a life spent in and around the
old Sta. Ana racetrack as commentator, jockey apprentice, and wife. The
work benefits from a genuine insider’s perspective—on horse racing as well
as failed marriages- that is tough, dry-eyed yet compassionate. Cristina
Pantoja Hidalgo recalls a lifelong fascination with light and glass, how
these objects—natural and human-made—are able to stir the substance of a
present predicament, of quiet distress and joy.
In poetry, Gabriela Lee provides a young and earnest voice that
achieves an informed simplicity through the use of well-spaced images.
Our interview with National Artist Franciso Sionil Jose offers insight not
only into the creative process of our most prolific novelist in English but
also the social conditions that helped form the man.
xix
Mula kay Romulo Baquiran Jr.
Mapangahas ang pagsasanib ng naratibo ng epikong Lam-ang at

pagsasamoderno nito sa panulat ng beteranong kuwentistang si Jun Cruz
Reyes. Naroon ang kilalang siste at madulas na pagsasalaysay. Nagtatagpo
ang nakaraan at kasalukuyan, ang mitiko at komiko sa bagong kuwentong
“Ang Ama at Ina ng isang Epiko.”
Ang sikdo ng pakikiisa sa kilusang bayan at paghahayag ng personal
na damdamin ay masinop na nailalahad ng pambansang alagad ng sining sa
panitikan Bienvenido Lumbera sa kaniyang koleksiyon ng mga tula. Ang
bugso ng pakikisimpatya sa pumanaw na aktibista at pagbibigay ng lakas
ng loob sa mga kabataan upang ibahagi ang talino at lakas sa ikabubuti ng
bansa ay mga paksang hindi pinanghihinawaan at palaging makabuluhan sa
panulat ng iginagalang na manunulat.
Inungkat ng panayam ni Luna Sicat Cleto ang mga saloobin at karanasan
ng kilalang pemenistang kuwentista na si Lualhati Bautista. Mahuhugisan
ang unti-unting pagbukad ng sining na ipinagmalaki ng kaniyang pamilya
at sa wakas ng mas maraming mambabasa dahil makulay at madamdaming
nagpahayag ng karanasan ng Filipina sa nakaraang mga dekada.
From Romulo Baquiran Jr.
Veteran writer Jun Cruz Reyes daringly combines the narrative of the Lam-ang
epic and its modern counterpart. There is the familiar smooth and sharp
storytelling. The past and the present, the mythical and comical meet in the
story “Ang Ama at Ina ng isang Epiko.”
National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbera shares the pulse of
participating in the national movement and expressing personal feelings in
his suite of poems. Sympathizing for a fallen comrade and encouraging the
youth to offer their strength and intelligence for the betterment of the nation
are always relevant themes to this respected writer.
Luna Sicat Cleto’s interview reveals the feelings and experience of
feminist writer Lualhati Bautista. One can see the beginnings of her art
in her family and with more readers because of her colorful and intense
narratives about women in the last century.
xx likhaan 5 ˙ introduksyon
Tala ng reader sa akdang Filipino
“Huling Bakunawa”: Mainam ang pagtatangkang isalaysay ang bersiyon

ng isang paniniwalang-bayan. Mayaman sa mga detalyeng katutubo’t
prekolonyal nang hindi isinasaalang-alang ang bisa ng mismong
pagkukuwentong moderno—may talim ng parikala at komplikasyon ang
sikolohiya ng mga tauhan. Bagaman hinanap ko si Guangling sa dulo ng
salaysay, may pang-akit ang bukas na enigma ng wakas.
“Delphi”: Ano ang halaga ng pagiging work-in-progress nito? Maaaring
maging isang buong kuwento ito kung sinikap ng manunulat. May tinig
ang manunulat at may mainam na tagpuan at kuwento, subalit salat pa sa
karakterisasyon[….] Maaari pang linangin ang humor sa diyalogo upang
madala rin iyon kahit sa mga sitwasyon.
“Bagras at iba pang mga tula”: May pagsasatao ng mga nilalang na
nagtatampok ng katutubong kulay kasabay ng mga alusyong-Kristiyano[…]
[H]indi matatawaran ang saliksik
“Loser at iba pang mga tula”: Mabisa ang paglalaro sa wika na iba
na sa eksperimentasyon sa Taglish ni Rolando Tinio noong dekada 60.
Naisasangkot at napapaksa ang mga usapin at kamalayang militante nang
hindi naisasaalang-alang ang kasiningan sa pagpapahayag. Pinakamainam
ang unang tatlong tula sa koleksiyon.
“Nanay”: Lubhang emosyonal ang paksa—tungkol sa pagkakasakit at
pagkamatay ng ina, sa tinig ng isang iskolar sa ibang bansa na napilitang
umuwi sa Pilipinas upang alagaan ang ina. Subalit nagawang hawakan ang
gayon kasensitibong paksa nang may pagtitimpi’t pag-iingat nang hindi
isinusuko ang mga dalamhati, galit, hinagpis, samantalang sinisiyasat din
ang mga istrukturang panlipunan at ekonomiko na sangkot sa mga usapin
ng buhay at kamatayan.
“Ang Aking Gubat”: May humor samantalang nailulunan ang ilang
mahalagang usaping panlipunan sa piniling trope—ang puno’t pagtatanim—
upang magbigay-puna sa mga hidwaang-panlipunan. Masarap basahin at
sundan ang kamalayan ng isang balong namumuhay sa isang subdibisyon
na hindi nakukulong ang isipan at imahinasyon ng kinasadlakang pag-iisa.
xxi
Notes on the Filipino works by the reader
“Huling Bakunawa”: A well-told tale of a version of a local belief. Rich in

native and precolonial details while being mindful of effect of the modern
story—sharp in irony and sociological complication in the characters.
Though I was looking for the Guangling at the end, there is a charm in the
ambiguous, enigmatic ending.
“Delphi”: What is the value of this work-in-progress? This could be a
whole story if the writer had exerted himself. The author has a voice and the
story and scenes are put together well, but the characterization is lacking….
The humor in the dialogue can also be sharpened so that other situations
can benefit from it.
“Bagras at iba pang tula”: Beings are personified involving native colors
along with allusions to Christianity…. The research is invaluable.
“Loser at iba pang tula”: Effective play of words different from Rolando
Tinio’s experimentation in the 1960s. Social consciousness and themes are
freely tackled without sacrificing artfulness. The first three poems are the
best of the collection.
“Nanay”: A very emotional theme—the sickness and death of one’s
mother, in the voice of a scholar abroad forced to go back home to take
care of her. The sensitive theme is handled with both restraint and care
without surrendering the grief, anger, suffering while tackling the social and
economic structures involved in life and death.
“Ang Aking Gubat”: Humor while talking about social issues using
its chosen trope—trees and gardening—to provide commentary on social
conflict. An enjoyable read about a widow, stuck in a subdivision, whose
mind and imagination are not confined to her fate of solitude.
Short Story / Maikling Kuwento
Huling Bakunawa
Allan N. Derain
Hindi batid ng mga katutubo kung anong uri ng isda

iyon yamang hindi pa sila nakakikita nang gayon
sa kanilang mga baybayin.Kung kaya itinuring na
lamang nila ito bilang isang dambuhala na itinalaga
ng Diyos sa malawak na Karagatan ng Silangan dahil
sa angkin nitong laki.
— Fray Ignacio Francisco Alcina
Historia de las islas e indios de Bisayas 1668
N
ang sundan ni datu rabat ang tutok ng hintuturò ng
kaniyang panauhin, nagtapos ito sa may bumubulwak na
bahagi ng dagat kung saan mapapansin ang mabagal na
galaw ng higanteng isda. Ang bakunawa kung tawagin
ng mga mangingisda sa gawing ito ng dagat. Ang bunga
ng kanilang tatlong araw at tatlong gabing pag-aabang at
pagmamatyag kasama ang Tsinong mangangalakal.
Nakatayo si Datu Rabat sa unahan ng kaniyang sinasakyang adyong
habang nakamasid sa Tsinong sakay naman ng sariling sampan. Nag-aalala
ang datu sa mga piratang maaaring sumalisi sa kaniya. Kaya kailangan niyang
bantayan ang mangangalakal na Tsino habang naririto ito sa kaniyang sakop.
Kaya siya nagtayo ng bantayog na magbabantay sa kaniyang pantalan. Kaya
rin siya umupa ng mga mersenaryong tatambang sa mga pirata. Sa kakayahan
niyang magbigay proteksiyon sa mga panauhing mangangalakal nakasalalay
4 likhaan 5 ˙ short story / maikling kuwento
ang mabuting pakikitungo sa kaniya ng mga tagasentro. Hindi siya dapat

mabigo kahit minsan lalo’t buhat sa Emperador na Anak ng Langit ang
kaniyang pinangangalagaang panauhin. Pero dahil parang mga dikya ang
mga tulisang dagat na ito na hindi na yata mauubos hangga’t may tubig ang
dagat, pinirata na rin niya ang karamihan sa mga pirata para sa ibang sakop
na lamang gawin ang kanilang pandarambong.
Tanghaling tapat at patuloy na umiikot ang araw sa palibot ng mundo.
At palibhasa bata pa noon ang mundo, iilang manlalayag pa lang ang
nakatitiyak na bilog ito at hindi lapad gaya ng pag-aakala ng mga karaniwang
tao sa lupa. Sa kaniyang pag-ikot, pinili ng araw na hintuan sandali upang
pagmasdan at maliitin ang dambuhalang isda sa gagawin nitong pag-abot
sa langit. Ang araw at ang bakunawa, matagal na silang may alitan. Hindi
naman nagustuhan ni Datu Rabat ang pagkakatayong iyon ng araw malapit
sa sinasakyan ng Tsino. Kanina lang, sumisilip-silip pa sa mga hanggahan
at sulok ng malapad na layag ng sampan ang mga sinag nitong tila bungkos-
bungkos na mga palaso. Ngunit napansin ng Datu ang biglang pagdidilim
ng sinasakyan niyang adyong. Natabunan kasi ito bigla ng anino galing sa
layag ng sampan.
Pinabilisan niya sa kaniyang mga bataan ang paggagaod sa bangka.
Kailangan nilang makasabay sa sampan. Kailangan niyang pakiramdamang
mabuti ang bawat mumunting galaw ng kaniyang panauhin. Bisaya
ang kaniyang sinasalita. Mahusay din siya sa Kiniray-a, Hiligaynon,
Sulog, at Subanon at handa siyang managalog kahit papaano para sila
magkaintindihan. Ngunit maliban sa ilang mga salita gaya ng ‘tapat’,
‘utang’, ‘mabuti’, ‘mahal’, at ‘mura’ ay wala rin namang gaanong alam na
salitang Tagalog itong dayuhan. Paano kayang masasarhan ang agwat nila
sa wika? Kailangan nila ng isang aliping may dalawang dila na magsisilbing
tagapamagitan. Ngunit hindi pa mahanap ang aliping ito at hindi rin niya
alam kung saang daungan o kung saang bilihan ng mga alipin makahahanap.
At kung sakaling palarin siyang makahanap, hinding-hindi naman niya iaasa
sa aliping ito ang mabuting pakikitungo sa panauhin. Siya mismo. Siya ang
mag-aaral at magtataglay ng dila ng banyaga. Ganito ang mahigpit na kapit
sa isang matalik na relasyon. Dila sa dila dapat. Aaralin din niya ang mga
sulat nitong parang mga kulisap sa kaniyang paningin. Ngunit matagal pa
bago niya madakip at maipasok isa-isa sa kaniyang kukote ang mga kulisap
na iyon. Sa ngayon, pakikiramdam lang ang tanging paraan. Sa ganito nga
niya nabasa ang matinding pananabik ng dayuhan kasabay ng pagtuturò
Derain 5
nito. Wala halos itong ikinaiba sa isang taong nakatanghod sa harap ng isang
mainit na palayok habang tinitiis ang sariling gutom. Nais ba ng kaniyang
panauhing gawing pananghalian ang bakunawa? Paano kung namamali siya
ng akala? Ngunit marami na siyang narinig tungkol sa kaniyang panauhin
buhat sa kaniyang mga tagapayo. Narinig niyang palahanap ng mga karneng
di-pangkaraniwan ang mga tagasentro. Bayag ng bakang nilaga sa yasmin.
Nguso ng elepanteng hiniwa-hiwa nang ubod nipis, inihaw at pagkatapos
ay sinarsahan. Atay ng serpiyenteng ibinabad sa alak. Paa ng batang unggoy.
Iyong malambot at maliroy-liroy na parte ng paa sa gawing pagitan ng mga
daliri at talampakan. Bilang pampalasa, ibababad ito sa pinitpit na luya. Na
di lang basta luya dahil ito raw iyong uri na umuuha na tila sanggol habang
binubunot sa lupa. Kamatayan ang hatid ng uha sa sinumang makarinig
nito. Kaya para mabunot ito nang ligtas, kinakailangang talian ang ibabaw
ng luyang ito at ipahila ang mahabang tali sa isang alagang aso na siyang
makaririnig sa uha, ngunit bago pa mamatay ang pobreng hayup, malamang-
lamang na nabunot na nito ang luya na ngumunguyngoy na lamang kung
di man tuluyan nang tumahan sa pag-iyak sa mga sandaling iyon. Pero
kung nanghihinayang sa mauutas na buhay ng alagang aso, kung minsan,
pinabubungkal at pinabubunot na lang nila ito sa kanilang mga alipin, o
kung walang alipin, sa kanilang mga anak na babae. Ano pa nga bang maaari
niyang itapat sa mayaman ngunit kakaibang panlasa ng kanilang panauhin
kung di ang karne ng bantog na isda?
May tikas at angas ang dambuhalang isda sa kaniyang ginagawang
panaka-nakang paglusob sa araw. Napipigilan nga lang ito lagi ng kaniyang
bigat. Tila higanteng laha ng adobe ang kaniyang katawan anupa’t
nagmumukha rin itong isang isla sa gitna ng dagat. Lumot, talaba, at
naglalakihang mga taklobong nakakapit ang halos tumatakip sa kaniyang
ilalim. May malapad na palikpik na halos tila koronang makikita malapit sa
kaniyang ulunan at may dalawa pang palikpik malapit sa kaniyang buntot.
Bongansiso minsan ang tawag sa kaniya. Tandayag naman siya para sa iba
dahil sa haba ng katawan niyang tila ahas. Ngunit sa lapad ng ulo, sa laki ng
mga ngipin at sa talim ng kaniyang tingin, berkakan din siya sa unang masid
na kalahating dragon at kalahating pating na may laki at lapad na parang isang
paraw na pandigma na kayang maglulan ng daan-daang katao. Kaya sa gitna
ng ere ibabagsak siya ng sariling timbang pabalik sa kailaliman. Magdadala
ito ng ligalig sa mga alon kasabay ng pagsirit ng matataas na pilansik ng
tubig at lilikha ng mga lagasaw na gagapang hanggang sa kinaroroonan ng
sampan ng Tsino at ng adyong ng Datu. Sapat ang lakas ng mga lagasaw

para yugyugin ang dalawang bangka na parang nagpapakislot lang ng mga
dahon sa batya ng tubig.
Napangiwi ang araw sa ipinakitang pagtatangka ng bakunawa. Alamin
mo ang dapat mong kalugaran, payo nito sa dambuhala. Hindi pa ganap ang
iyong birtud para abutin at lamunin ako at lumikha sa wakas ng isang eklipse.
Ngunit muli itong magtatangka. Dahil siya na ang huli sa kanilang lahi, hindi
siya dapat sumuko. Hindi siya magpapaalam sa mundo nang hindi man
lang napadidilim kahit ang kalahating bahagi nito. Kaya muli itong aahon
at sasalimbay lampas sa taas na unang narating. Ang ganitong pagpupumilit
na maalpasan ang sariling limitasyon marahil ang lalong nagpapadakila sa
kaniya sa mata ni Wu Guangling, iyon ay kung nauunawaan nga ng Tsinong
mangangalakal ang ibig sabihin ng mga balisang kilos ng dambuhala.
Sapagkat sino ang maaaring umintindi sa bakunawa? Tumayo at humanga
mula sa malayo. Iyon lang ang maaaring gawin ng isang gaya niyang tao. Ilang
mga daungan at siyudad sa paligid ng mundo tulad ng Baktria, Sumatra, at
Mangalore ang kaniya nang narating sa ngalan ng pangangalakal. Marami
na rin siyang mga natuklasang bahagi ng daigdig na hindi pa nabibigyan
ng pangalan kung kaya’t siya na ang nagpapangalan sa mga ito sa ngalan
ng kaniyang Emperador. Dahil dito, bukod sa pagiging komersiyante,
naging emisaryo na rin siya ng Dakilang Huang-di na Anak ng Langit at
Emperador ng lupaing nasa sentro ng buong mundo. Sari-saring uri ng
mga nilalang mula sa iba’t ibang kabihasnan ang kaniya nang nasaksihan at
nakadaupang-palad. Nakita na niya ang higanteng puting sawa ng Burma
at narinig na rin niya itong umawit sa gabi. Nasalat na niya ang sungay ng
rinoseronte habang nasa ilalim ito ng pampatulog na ipinainom ng hari
ng Mali. Ngunit alin man sa mga ito, walang makadaraig sa kabunyian ng
higanteng isdang namataan ng mangangalakal na sumusunod sa kaniyang
sinasakyang sampan habang tinutugpa noon sa unang pagkakataon ang
pantalan ng Himamaylan.
Tila pagtitig sa mata ng daluyong ang kaniyang naging unang
engkuwentro sa halimaw. Lubhang mapanganib at lubhang nakapanliliit sa
sarili. Tao ka lang na ang buhay sa mundo’y isang patak ng tubig sa dagat
ang katumbas, tila sinasabi nito sa kaniya. Ngunit anong yumi ng kilos nito
habang sumasalunga sa mga alon! Ipinagtanong niya sa mga tagaroon ang
nasaksihang aparisyon. Isang bagani na raw ang nilamon nito nang buhay.
Sumisid sa dagat ang nasabing bagani para manghuli ng mga isdang atun
Derain 7
na ihahandog sana sa dilag na nililigawan. Sa pagkakaalam kasi ng binata,

ang atun ang pinakamasarap na isda sa dagat ng Himamaylan. Subalit ang
hindi alam ng pobreng bagani, hindi atun kung di isang malabangungot
na halimaw ang naghihintay sa kaniya roon, at sa pagkakaalam naman ng
halimaw na ito, maliban sa araw, ang mga bagani na madalas na ipagbunyi
ang giting sa mga epiko ang pinakamasarap na tanghaliang maaaring tikman
sa ibabaw ng lupa.
Nagpakawala ng isang malalim na buntonghininga si Guangling nang
marinig ang kuwento. Sabay suyod sa kaniyang bigoteng umaabot hanggang
dibdib. Marahil, hindi niya naintindihan ang kuwento o naintindihan niya
at lalo nitong pinagtibay para sa kaniya ang kadakilaan ng halimaw. Narinig
niya noon buhat sa kaniyang mga kasama ang tungkol sa mga mandirigma
sa gawing ito na kumakain daw ng laman ng kapuwa nila mandirigma. May
paniniwala ang mga barbaro sa gawing ito na kasamang pumapasok sa loob
ng sikmura ng lumamon ang birtud ng baganing kaniyang nilamon, at ang
birtud na ito’y naidaragdag sa birtud ng lumamon. Ilan na nga kaya silang
mga mandirigmang nasa loob ngayon ng sikmura ng bakunawa? Di nga kaya
isang buhay na libingan ang bakunawa? Isang libingan ng mga bagani. At
naroon sila, magkakasama at pinag-iisa sa loob ng bituka ng dakilang isda.
Anong laking karangalan ang mailibing dito. Pero mas malaking karangalan
ang mapupunta sa sinumang makalalamon sa libingang ito! Biglang sumibol
sa utak ng Tsino ang larawan ng bakunawang lulutang-lutang sa loob ng
isang mangkok ng mainit-init na sabaw ng miki. Napalunok siya sa naisip.
Ngunit bigla rin siyang sinilaban ng hiya.
Naging isang malaking dahilan ang aparisyon para sa Tsinong
mangangalakal na bumalik sa Himamaylan taun-taon. Tuwing uuwi naman
siya sa Hunan na kaniyang bayan, isang batang pamangkin na kaniya nang
inampon at pinaaalaga sa mga kapatid na soltera ang maghihintay sa kaniya
doon pa lamang sa aplaya. Bukod sa mga pasalubong, inuuwian niya ito ng
mga kuwento tungkol sa kaniyang mga paglalakbay. Madalas na laman ng
mga kuwento ang tungkol sa pambihirang isdang namataan niya sa Silangan.
Mahahawa ang bata sa kaniyang pagkahumaling. Itatanim nito sa musmos
na isip ang mga kuwento ng tiyuhin. Wala pang babaeng nakapaglakbay at
nakarating sa mga kahariang nasa Silangan. Ngunit paglaki ni Mei Li, hinding-
hindi siya magpapabigkis ng mga paa gaya ng ginagawa sa mga kababaihan
sa kanilang bayan. Sa halip, maglalakbay din siya sa dakong iyon kung saan
nakarating ang kaniyang tiyuhin at kung saan nito nakita ang bakunawa.
Ikalawang pagpapakawala ng malalim na buntonghininga. Mas

malalim pa sa nauna. At ngayon nga’y narito’t nakabalik na siyang muli at
hindi naman siya binigo ng kaniyang kinatipan. Mamayang gabi sa loob ng
kaniyang sampan, kung pagbibigyan siya ng dagat ng isang tahimik na gabi,
sa kaniyang pag-iisa’y balak niyang pagmuni-munihan ang pagbubuklod ng
lakas at alindog nitong Anak ng Kalikasan. Susulat siya ng isang tula tungkol
dito. Gagamitin niya ang tulang “Atas sa Buwaya” ng makatang si Han Yü
bilang modelo. Subalit sa kaniyang tula, sa halip na pagbantaan at utusang
lumayas sa kaharian ang nilalang, ito’y aakitin pa niyang manirahan sa ilog
ng Yangtze upang hindi na malayo sa kaniyang piling kahit kailan.
Isa pa uling malalim na buntonghininga. Hinding-hindi maitatago
ang tuwa kahit sa kaniyang mga matang ubod nang singkit. At natutuwa
rin si Datu Rabat na nakikitang masaya ang kaniyang panauhin. Labis ang
kaniyang tuwa.
Nang muli na namang pumayapa ang alon, nagtatarang sa tuwa ang
mga tagagaod ng adyong ng datu. Natanaw nila sa di kalayuan na muling
bumubuwelo ang higanteng nilalang na pinanonood ng Tsino. Ang
nilalang na muntik nang magpataob sa kanilang sinasakyan. Nabulabog ang
dambuhala sa kanilang sigawan. Takot palibhasa sa kahit anong uri ng ingay,
agad itong sumisid sa kailaliman upang hindi na magpakita. Dito biglang
nagwakas ang maligayang sandali ni Guangling. Buong pagkadismaya
niyang nilingon ang adyong kung saan nagmumula ang sigawan. Naroon si
Datu Rabat, kumakaway.
Nang sumunod na araw, umalis sa Himamaylan ang sampan ng

mangangalakal upang tumulak pabalik sa sinasabing sentro ng mundo.
Habang nasa dagat ang Tsino at abala sa pagsusulat ng tula, walang sinayang
na sandali ang datu ng Himamaylan. Nagpasiya agad siyang paghandaan ang
muling pagdating ni Guangling. Sa pagbabalik ng panauhin, pauunlakan at
bibigyang dangal na niya ang ginawang pagtuturò nito sa gitna ng laot. Iturò
mo, kukunin ko. Iturò mo, huhulihin ko. Iturò mo, lulutuin ko. Madalas na
rin niyang naitanong sa sarili kung ano nga kaya talaga ang lasa ng karne ng
bakunawa. Naaalala pa niya ang matagal na panahon nang unang makatikim
siya ng laman ng isa ring dambuhala mula sa dagat. Datu pa ng Himamaylan
noon ang kaniyang ama nang may isang bongansisong kasing laki ng burol
ang napasadsad sa kanilang baybayin. Abot hanggang sa kabilang nayon
ang lansa nito kaya nagtulong ang mga tao na pagtipak-tipakin ang karne
Derain 9
ng dambuhala para ibilad sa araw at gawing daing. Isang buwan halos nila
itong pinagsaluhan bago naubos.
Sa susunond na ikatlong pagbilog ng buwan, ang naiturong isda naman
ang ihahanda nila sa pagbabalik ng Sugo ng Anak ng Langit. Sa susunod na
ikatlong pagbilog ng buwan, isasagawa nila ang isang salu-salong walang
kapantay.
Tumutol si Amandiwing, ang babaylan ng kanilang banwa na siya rin
niyang pinakamatanda at pinakamatalinong tagapayo. Hindi dapat galawin
ang bakunawa. Lilikha ito ng alingasngas buhat sa ibang mga banwa. Baka
ito pa ang pagmulan ng gulo. Pero nangatwiran ang datu. Aniya, kung
maipapakita natin na tayo dito’y kayang magpakasakit para sa Emperador,
mapupukaw ang loob ng Emperador na magpakasakit din para sa atin. At
kung magkagayon, anong hindi natin kayang hingin sa kanila?
“Sa lahat naman kasi ng mga datu, ikaw Rabat ang pinakapalahingi,”
malutong na tugon sa kaniya ng babaylan na parang lansakang kinikilala
ang sakit na taglay ng kausap. Batid ni Amandiwing na dahil sa maliit na
sakop ng datu kung bakit nagkakaganito ang kaniyang anak-anakan. At
kung gayon, dahil din ito sa maliit na tingin ng datu sa sarili. Kaya batid
din ni Amandiwing na batid ng datu ang kahalagahan ng pagiging maagap.
Sa buong kahabaan pa lang ng tabing-dagat ng Himamaylan, labimpito na
silang mga nakapuwestong datu. Isang datu ang nakaposisyon sa bawat
bungad ng ilog. Tungkulin ng bawat isa ang pamunuan ang kaniyang
nasasakupan sa dapat na paggamit sa ilog mula sa pangingisda hanggang
sa pagtatanim. Bukod sa labimpitong ito, may pito pang datu sa ilaya,
mayroon pa sa ilawud, at mayroon din sa mga kabundukan. Tanging ang
mga datu sa mga bayan ng Tayasan, Ayungon, Bindoy, Amlan, at Sibulan
ang kumikilala sa kapangyarihan ni Rabat, at ito’y hangga’t hawak niya ang
pantalan ng Himamaylan na dinaraungan ng mga mangangalakal buhat sa
sentro. Naniniwala ang karamihan sa mga datu na sapat na ang mga hayup
at pananim na matatagpuan sa sarili nilang mga sakop upang mapanatili ang
lakas at yaman ng kanilang mga bayan. Si Datu Rabat lang ang naniniwala
na mahalaga rin ang paghawak sa pantalan sapagka’t malaking ganansiya pa
ang maaaring makuha mula sa mga tagalabas. Isang beses pa lang na nailibot
ang datu sa loob ng sampan ng dayuhang mangangalakal pero simula noon,
madalas na siyang hindi mapagkatulog. Madalas nang maging laman ng
kaniyang malulungkot ngunit matatamis na alaala ang mga porselanang
gusi at banga, mga bakal na lalagyan ng alak; balat ng tigre, oso, leopardo,
balahibo ng paboreal, talukab ng pawikan; mga ginto, mga karayom na may

iba’t ibang laki at haba; mga lorong may iba’t ibang disenyo ang plumahe
at may kani-kaniyang mga wikang sinasalita gaya ng Arabe, Mandarin at
Hindu; mga kuwintas at porselas na abaloryong yari sa bubog, marmol,
ihada at ngipin; rolyo-rolyong kayong lino; mga espesyas gaya ng paminta,
kanela, basil, bawang, luya, sibuyas, asin, safron; mga pabango gaya ng
kampor, yasmin, insenso, at mira; mga sungay buhat sa elepante, olikorniyo,
usa, at demonyo. Subalit sa lahat ng mga kalakal na laman ng sasakyang
hugis sapatos, iisa lang ang tunay na bumighani sa kaniya. Kung mahihiling
niya sa mangangalakal na sa kaniya na lang at tanging sa kaniya na lang
ibenta ang mga bughaw na porselanang gusi at banga sa halip na ikalakal pa
ito sa ibang mga datu, at sa ganito’y magsirami rin ang koleksiyon ng ibang
mga datu ng mga bahanding tulad niyon na siyang ayaw niyang mangyari.
Ngunit nasa bakunawa ang susi.
“At kailan mo naman ito binabalak na hulihin?” tanong sa kaniya ni
Amandiwing.
“Luto na dapat ang isda bago pa dumating ang bisita,” tugon ni Datu
Rabat.
Anong sarap kung maibabalik lang sana ang kamusmusan ni
Rabat kung kailan maaari niya itong tuktukan sa ulo, nahiling bigla ni
Amandiwing. “Paano kung mahuli mo nga ang bakunawa pero pagkatapos
mong paghirapang hulihin at kitlan ng buhay, hindi naman pala darating
ang iyong inaasahang bisita? Kanino mo ngayon ‘yan ipakakaing lahat?”
“Babalik iyon dito.”
“Pero paano nga kung hindi na makabalik ‘yong tao? Paano kung ayaw
nang pabalikin dito ng kaniyang amo? O kung babalik man, paano kung
madisgrasya sa laot, simbaku?”
Nangislap ang mga mata ni Datu Rabat bago nakasagot. “Kapag
nangyari iyon, Amandiwing, ako mismo ang pupunta sa bayan ni Guangling
para dalhin ang ulo ng bakunawa sa Emperador.”
“Pero paano mo huhulihin ang bakunawa?”
Ito ang pinakamahalagang tanong. Bilang paghahanap sa sagot, nagtalaga
ang datu ng isang pangkat ng mga tanod para lamang sa dambuhalang isda.
Binubuo ito ng pinakamagagaling na mga mangingisda ng Himamaylan.
Sila ang aantabay sa mga lugar kung saan nagpapakita ang dambuhala,
kung saan ito madalas manginain at magpahinga. Aaralin nila ang kilos nito.
Kung ano ang kinakain nito bukod sa tao. Kung may kumakandili pa ba
Derain 11
ritong mga magulang. Kung ito ba’y isang lalaki o isang babae. Kung ito
kaya’y may kaparis na kinakaulayaw. At higit sa lahat, kung ito ba’y may
taglay na kahinaan. Limang kaban ng bigas na sinamahan ng bulto-bultong
ube, kamote, at isang buwig na saging na kung tawagi’y todlong binokot o
‘daliri ng binibini’ ang pabuya para sa bawat impormasyong maibibigay ng
mga tanod.
Ngayon pa lang, nakikita na ni Rabat sa kaniyang isip ang magiging
engkuwentro niya sa bakunawa. Pipili siya ng pinakamabuting araw para
isagawa ang pagsalakay. Iaayon niya ito sa sasabihin ng mga bituin. Habang
hinihintay ang mapalad na araw, ihahanda niya ang kaniyang mga sasakyang
pandagat. Uupa siya ng limang pirata para pamunuan ang kaniyang mga
paraw na pandigma. Nakikita na niya ang pinuno ng kaniyang mga pirata.
May suot itong turban yaring Bengal. May balabal itong marlota na madalas
makitang suot ng mga Turko anupa’t mapagkakamalan nga niya itong isang
Turko sa unang tingin. Ngunit hindi niya iaasa rito ang paghuli sa bakunawa.
Siya mismo ang mamumuno sa sarili niyang paraw na may dalawang layag.
Nakikita na rin niya ang kaniyang sarili bago pumalaot, magbibilin sa
kaniyang asawang laging panatilihing bukas ang pintuan ng kanilang bahay
habang nasa gitna sila ng dagat upang maakit pumasok ang malaking isda
dito. Sa dalampasigan, lahat ng makakakita sa kanila buhat sa malayo’y
mag-aakalang isang malaking digmaan ang kanilang pupuntahan. Tatlong
araw at tatlong gabi nilang susuyurin ang karagatan. Sa pang-apat na araw,
matatanaw nila mula sa malayo ang hinahanap. Maaabutan nila itong may
tinutugis na isang balyenang bulik. Pinipikpik ng bakunawa ang hinahagad
na balyena gamit ang kaniyang nguso. Sa lakas ng pagkakabayo, tatalsik ang
balyena. Hahampasin pa ito ng bakunawa gamit ang buntot. Mawawarak
ang katawan ng biktima. Mahahati sa dalawa. Ang gawing ulo muna ang
sasagpangin ng halimaw at di pa halos ito nangunguya nang husto nang
isinunod naman ang sa gawing buntot. Magsisiahon ang mga pating para
sana lapitan ang pinanggagalingan ng dugo na kanilang naamoy buhat sa
malayo. Ang mga aswang, busaw, sigbin, alok, balbal, kakag, oko, onglo,
wakwak, ik-ik, at mantiw ng dagat. Tila ito nang lahat ang mga pating na
mailuluwa maging ng pinakamadilim na bahagi nito. Ngunit sa kabila ng
kanilang dami, nang makita nila ang nanginginaing dambuhala, agad din
silang babalik sa kung saang bahagi man ng dagat sila nanggaling. Sandaling
matatahimik ang kaniyang bataan sa kanilang nasaksihan. Dahan-dahan
nilang ibababa ang mga layag upang hindi maging sagabal. Iihi muna sa
gilid-gilid ang mga kailangang umihi bago bumalik sa kanilang mga kasama
upang sama-samang magtawag sa mga anito ng dagat.
“Sa wakas,” sasabihin niya sa kaniyang mga kasama matapos nilang
magdasal, “ngayon natin masusubok kung totoo ngang nagliliyab ang titig
ng bakunawa.”
Kaya sabay-sabay nilang ihahagis ang kanilang mga sibat sa ulo ng
higanteng isda. Patatagusin nila ito hanggang sa utak. Ngunit paano nila
iyon magagawa sa kapal ng bungo ng halimaw? At kung maibaon man nila
sa ulo nito ang kanilang mga sibat, paano kung mas malakas ang hatak
ng bakunawa sa kanilang mga paraw? Alam niyang gagapangan siya ng
kilabot sa buong katawan kung mahuhulaan niya ang balak ng bakunawang
lumundag patungong araw. Isasama sila sa paglundag nito. Sa pag-angat
ng katawan ng dambuhala patungo sa inaasam, magsisilbing sagabal na
pabigat ang mga nagsisabit na bangka. Hindi makapaniniwala ang mga
nasa bangkang totoong nagsisiangat din sila dahil sa kinakapitan. Palibhasa
walang anumang gamit na angkla, sama-sama silang magsisitakbo patungo
sa likuran sa pag-asang ang pinagsama-samang timbang ng kanilang
mga katawan mismo ang magsisilbing pabigat na sasalba sa kanila at sa
kanilang mga bangka. Pero hindi pa man din sila naiaangat, naisip na
nilang mas malaking pinsala ang naghihintay pagbagsak ng dambuhala
pabalik sa dagat kung nakasabit pa rin sila dito. Hindi makaliligtas ang
kanilang mga bangka. Madudurog sila. Kaya sisikapin ng kanyang mga
bataan na putulin na ang lubid na nagdurugtong sa paraw sa katawan ng
bakunawa. Alam niyang walang makikinig sa kaniya kung pipigilan niya
ang mga ito dahil mas marami silang mas nais pang makabalik sa pantalan
nang buhay. Sisimulan din ng mga nasa ibang mga paraw na gayahin ang
kanilang ginagawa. Ilan ang matagumpay na makabibitiw, ilan naman
ang hindi papalarin. Kasamang matatangay ang mga ito sa pagtaas at
pagbagsak ng dambuhala. Pagtambog sa tubig, tuloy-tuloy sa kailaliman
ang mga naisamang bangka. Doon sa ilalim masusubukan ang tibay ng
pagkakagawa sa mga ito. Mapuputulan ng mastil ang ilan. Mababalian pa
ng katig ang iba. Samantalang ganap na mawawasak ang mga naihampas
sa mga koral at batuhan. Mga lubid at kalawit na lang na nakatarak pa rin
sa katawan ng dambuhala ang lulutang nang lumutang din ang dambuhala
pabalik sa dagat. Sa pagkakaalis ng mga sagabal sa katawan, sisikapin
nitong muling lundagin ang araw.
At simula pa lang talaga ito.
Derain 13
Kumalat ang balita tungkol sa binabalak ni datu Rabat. Naligalig ang iba
pang mga datu mula Mait hanggang Bohol. Ilan pa sa kanila ang dinalaw daw
ng mga misteryosong kataw. Mula sa dagat, nagsisampa raw sa kanilang kuta
ang mga Bantay ng Dagat na nagsipag-anyong mga dugong at may dalang
babala: sa paanan ni Datu Rabat mangangayupapa ang lahat pagdating ng
panahon dahil hihigitan pa nito ang pinagsamang kapangyarihan ng isang
libong datu. Mag-ingat kapag nahuli na ni Rabat ang bakunawa. Ito na ang
simula ng kaniyang paglakas.
Bago muling bumilog ang buwan at bago muling lumalim ang tubig sa
mga pampang, maliban sa datu ng Sugbo na humaharap sa kaguluhan ng
sariling mga sakop, nagpadala ng kani-kanilang mga sugo ang mga datu ng
Mait, Hantik, at Bohol sa silong ng datu ng Himamaylan.
“Mag-ingat sa pagsagot sa kanila,” bilin ng matandang tagapayo kay
Datu Rabat bago ito humarap sa mga panauhin. “Piliin mong mabuti ang
iyong mga sasalitain.” Tila isang bata at hindi isang datu ang kinakausap ni
Amandiwing. ‘Ama ng ibong diwing’ ang ibig sabihin ng kaniyang pangalan
at siya na halos ang nagpalaki sa datu nang maagang mamatay ang ama nito.
Kailangan niyang subaybayan hanggang ngayon ang kaniyang anak-anakan
dahil sa mga kakaibang gawi at pagtingin nito sa buhay. Bata pa rin kung
tutuusin ang datu kahit ito’y may tatlumpung taong gulang na. Naintindihan
naman ng datu ang nais sabihin ng matanda. Bilang paghahanda sa kaniyang
pagharap sa mga sugo, isang matinding pagsisiyasat ng sarili ang kaniyang
ginawa habang nasa harap ng kaniyang mga banga at gusi, dito sa kaniyang
mga bahandi na binigyan niya ng kani-kaniyang mga pangalan ayon sa
kanilang halaga at anyo. Itong mga gining na ginagamit sa pangasi. Ang mga
abdan at lumbang na tinawag nang gayon dahil sila ang pinakamalalaki.
Ang kaniyang mga linoping na may taingang hawakan, tila mga pintados na
ginapangan ng mga tato ang buong katawan. Ang kaniyang mga tinampilak
na kulay itim, naglalakihan at nagtataasan; may mga anak pa ito na tuytuy
naman ang pangalan. Ang kaniyang mga kabo na mumunting mga sisidlan
na bughaw at puti ang mga kulay. At ang pinakapaborito niya sa lahat,
ang mga hinalasan na may ukit na dragong halas sa magkabilang gilid. Sa
loob ng ganitong banga niya pinapangarap na malagak ang sariling labi
pagdating ng araw. Ang isa nito’y nagkakahalaga ng isang basing ng mga
ginto. Ilang alipin din ang kayang bilhin kapalit ng isa nito. Lahat sila’y
hagdan-hagdang nakadambana sa haligi ng kaniyang bahay, at ngayo’y
nagpapaalala sa kaniya kung tungkol saan talaga ang pulong ng mga sugo.
Alam niyang nagkukumahog din ang kaniyang mga kapitbahay na makuha
ang pabor ng dayuhang mangangalakal. Kani-kaniya lang sila ng paraan.
Ilan pa nga sa kanila’y iniaalok kahit ang kanilang mga dalagang binokot
para lang masarili ang mga bughaw na porselanang banga at gusi lalong-lalo
na iyong hinalasan. Nagkataon lang na siya ang nakahula sa totoong mithi
ng dayuhan. Dahil kung dati mga aliping nakuha sa digmaan at pananalakay
ang binibilang na karangalan, hindi na ngayon. Nagbabago na ang panahon.
Pagod na ang mga tao sa digmaan. Ang bughaw na porselanang hinalasan na
nagmula pa sa Anak ng Langit na nakaluklok doon sa Gitnang Kaharian ang
bagong birtud. Ang pinakamahalagang bahandi. Ang bagong pamantayan.
Dito na nakatutok ang mata ng halos lahat. Sapagkat ang sinumang may
pinakamalawak na koleksyon nito’y ipinagpapalagay agad na may malawig
na impluwensyang aabot hanggang sa kabilang kabihasnan. Ito ang
magsasabi kung sino ang kaibigan ng Anak ng Langit. Ito ang magsasabi
kung sino ang may pinakamaraming gintong nagagamit sa pakikipagpalitan.
Ito ang magsasabi kung kaninong pantalan ang dapat na puntahan. Ito
ang magsasabi kung sino ang totoong may sinasabi. Ngayon nila nakikita
ang bisa ng simpleng pagkakaroon ng ganitong uri ng pag-aari. Ano ang
pag-aari mo? Ang pag-aari ng hari. Ang pag-aari sa ari ng hari. Hindi ang
pagtatanim sa malawak na lupa. Hindi ang pag-uutos sa mga alipin. Hindi
rin ang pagkakaroon ng mabunying angkan.
Bilang pagsalubong sa mga sugo, naglabas si Datu Rabat ng buyo, apog,
at ikmo. Nagsiupo sa harap ng dulang ang mga sugo at nagsipagnganga
habang nagpapahinga buhat sa mahabang paglalakbay. Sinamantala ni
Datu Rabat ang pagkakataong ito para mailabas din at maipamalas sa mga
panauhin ang isang sisidlan na bagong bili mula sa Tsinong mangangalakal.
Isang porselanang lalagyan na hugis arinola dahil sa isa talaga itong arinola
ngunit ginagamit nila ngayon bilang luraan habang nagnganganga. Nang
magkulay pula na ang kanilang laway at mga ngipin dahil sa katas ng buyo,
pinagsaluhan naman nila ang alak na dala ng mga sugo. Naglabas naman
ng tapang usa ang asawa ni Datu Rabat upang mayroon silang mapulutan.
Tinagayan ni Datu Rabat ang mga panauhin. Ibinuhos sa lupa ang unang
tagay. Para daw ito sa demonyo. Napuna lang ng ilang sugo na sa halip na
sa iisang baso sila uminom na magkakaharap, mag-isang ginamit ni Datu
Rabat ang kaniyang inumang tanso. May pagtangi sa basong ito ang datu.
Sa katawan nito nakaukit ang isang sulat-Tsino na tila tinik ng isda ang
Derain 15
hugis. Nang ipagtanong noon ni Rabat kay Guangling na siyang nagregalo

ng inumang tanso kung ano’ng basa sa nakaukit na sulat, ‘Tê’ ang itinugon
nito. Nang tanungin naman ng datu kung anong ibig sabihin niyon, sunod-
sunod na pagmomostra ang ginawa ng kausap na tumagal din halos ng
kalahating oras. Tê ang tawag sa pagwawagi ng mga bagani sa digmaan. Tê
ang tawag sa pag-uwi ng pinakamalaking huling baboyramo sa panahon ng
pangangaso. Tê ang dahilan ng paglalayag ng mga manlalakbay buhat sa
Gitnang Kaharian patungo sa mga kasuluk-sulukang bahagi ng mundo. Tê
ang uban sa ulo ng matatandang tagapayo. Tê ang tawag sa kakayahan ng
haring magpataw ng buwis nang hindi gumagamit ng dahas o pamimilit. Tê
rin ang tawag sa tapat na pagbabayad ng utang sa isang pinagkakautangan
kahit taon na ang nagdaan. Karangalan. Kadakilaan. Kabantugan. Ito na
marahil ang ibig sabihin ng ukit na iyon sa kaniyang baso na hinding-hindi
ipinagagamit ng datu sa kaniyang mga kainuman, kahit pa kawalan ng
paggalang ang maaari nitong maging kahulugan.
Unang nagsalita ang sugo ng Mait. Ipinaalala nito sa bawat isang
naroroon ang mapayapa nilang pagsasamahan sa loob ng mahabang panahon.
Na matagal nang walang digmaang nagaganap sa pagitan ng kanilang mga
banwa at naging susi dito ang pagkakapantay-pantay ng kadatuan sa dangal
at kapangyarihan. Walang iisang naghahari-harian gaya ng naririnig nilang
nagaganap sa Maguindanao.
Hindi natagalan ni Datu Rabat ang pagmumukha nitong nagsasalita.
Natatandaan niyang ang datu mismo ng Mait ang madalas magmalaking
ang mga banga at gusing kinakalakal sa Himamaylan ay una nang naialok
sa Mait kaya napagpilian na raw ito bago pa nakarating sa kanilang
daungan. Ang nakararating sa inyo’y mga tira-tira na lamang namin, ang
madalas nitong ipamukha. Ang masaklap, may katotohanan ang yabang
ng taga-Mait dahil kung hindi sa daungan ng Maynilad, ay sa Mait
unang lumalapag ang mga mangangalakal, at kung lalong minamalas,
minsan hindi na nga ito nakararating pa sa kanila. Kapag nangyayari ito,
sa mga taga-Mait na lamang sila napipilitang makipagpalitan sa halip
na dumirekta sa mga Tsino. At sa ganito nababawasan ang kanilang
dangal, ang kanilang tê. Pero malapit na itong magbago. Titiyakin niyang
mailalagay na sa mapa ng mga dayuhang mangangalakal ang kanilang
Himamaylan. Ngayon pa lang, nakikita na niyang nakatayo sa kaniyang
pantalan ang mga pamilihang dinarayo ng mga mangangalakal na Tsino,
gayon din ng mga galing Maynilad, Sulu, at Burney. Sa mga pamilihang
ito lamang kasi mabibili ang uri ng mga alipin, pagkain, tela, armas, at mga
kasangkapang hindi mabibili sa ibang bayan. At siya, si Datu Rabat, ang
babago sa mundo ng kalakalan.
Patuloy sa kaniyang pagtatalumpati ang sugo ng Mait. Biglang tinalon
ni Datu Rabat mula sa kaniyang kinauupuan ang nagsasalita. Binigyan niya
ito ng isang bigwas at saka niluraan sa mukha. “Ulol!” singhal niya rito.
“Walang totoong pagkakapantay-pantay sa kadatuan!” Pero nanatili lamang
sa kaniyang utak ang lahat ng pandarahas na iyon. Mabuti’t nakapagpigil
siya. Nakita niya ang kaniyang sarili sa kaniyang tabi, tinapik siya nito at
saka sinabing hindi pa ito ang panahon mo. Pero sa kaniyang isip, kaniya
pa ring ipinagpatuloy ang naunsiyaming pananakit sa sugo hanggang sa
kaniya na itong pagsasaksakin at maglabas-masok ang kaniyang kampilan
sa dibdib nito.
Sumunod na nagsalita ang sugo mula sa Bohol. Ang taga-Mait lang
ang naglatag ng panimula, ngunit ang taga-Bohol bilang pinakamatanda sa
kanilang lahat ang umungkat sa tunay nilang pakay. Hindi na nagpaligoy-
ligoy ang sugo ng Bohol. Narito sila para kumbinsihin ang datu ng
Himamaylan na huwag nang ituloy ang binabalak.
“Walang dapat gumalaw sa bakunawa. Bunsong anak ito ng diwata
ng karagatan. Ang dagat mismo ang kakalabanin mo. Sa dagat tayong lahat
nabubuhay kaya mahirap kapag ito ang nagalit sa atin.” Napansin ni Rabat
na paubos na halos ang pinagsasaluhan nilang tapa at malamang na itong
taga-Bohol ang pinakamaraming nakain sa kanila.
“Ano bang binabalak mong gawin sa bakunawa? Bakit mo ito gustong
tugisin?” Nagtatanong ang sugo ng Bohol habang ngumangalot ng karne.
Ibinaba ni Rabat ang basong kanina pa niya hawak-hawak sa takot na
mainuman ito ng tatlo. “Hindi lang ito para sa akin,” mahinahon niyang
tugon. Sa simula, hindi naunawaan ng tatlo kung ano ang ‘ito’ na tinutukoy
ni Rabat. Kung ang binabalak na pagdakip ba sa bakunawa o ang basong
kanina pa ipinagdaramot sa kanila. “Para ito sa ating lahat na mga nabubuhay
at nais pang mabuhay sa hinaharap.”
Pinilit ng taga-Bohol na lulunin ang nalalabing malaking hiwa ng tapa
sa paraang hindi siya masasamid. Napatulala naman ang dalawa niyang
kasama sa pagkamangha sa mukha ni Rabat na biglang nagmistulang sa
isang anito na naghihintay na maihugis sa kahoy at magawan ng sariling
dambana. Muntik na nilang malimutan na naghihintay sila ng paliwanag
kung hindi lang muling nagsalita ang datu.
Derain 17
“Nakatira ang bakunawa sa dagat pero hindi ibig sabihin na parte ito
ng dagat. Ang kuto kahit gaano pa katagal na nakatira sa ulo, hindi pa rin
puwedeng maging parte ng ulo.” Sinikap ni Rabat na gamitin ang mga turo
ni Amandiwing sa mabisang pangangatwiran.
“Pero nagmamalasakit sa kahihinatnan ng bakunawa kahit ang mga
kataw,” sagot ng taga-Mait.
“Sino-sino sa inyo ang dinalaw ng mga kataw kahit sa panaginip?”
“Dinalaw ng mga ito ang Datu ng Mait.”
“Dinalaw rin ng mga ito ang Datu ng Bohol.”
“Pero dinalaw rin ba ng mga ito ang Datu ng Hantik?”
Hinintay nila ang sagot buhat sa sugo ng Hantik na kanina pa
nananahimik.
“Hindi,” pagtatapat nito.
Natuwa si Rabat. Tama ang balitang naipaabot sa kaniya. “Wala din
namang dumalaw sa akin,” dugtong pa niya. “Kaya bakit tila pinipili lang
ng mga kataw ang kanilang dadalawin kung totoong nagmamalasakit sila
sa bakunawa? O kung totoo nga ang mga panaginip?” Parang isang kuyom
ng buhanging isinaboy ng datu ang huling tanong na iyon sa kaniyang mga
kaharap. Nagtalo-talo ang tatlo. Nganingani nilang pagbabatukan itong
taga-Hantik na ayaw palang makisama ay kung bakit hindi nagsabi nang
maaga.
“Ni dilis walang pumaroon sa amin para maghatid ng kahit anong
orakulo. Hindi ako puwedeng magsinungaling tungkol diyan,” mariing
pagtatanggol ng taga-Hantik sa sarili.
“At kung dinalaw nga ng mga kataw na iyan ang datu ng Mait at Bohol
ngunit hindi ang datu ng Himamaylan at Hantik, ibig bang sabihin na hindi
pantay ang tingin ng dagat sa kadatuan?” panggagatong pa ni Rabat sa
gulo ng tatlong sugo. Hindi na niya hinintay na makasagot ang sinuman
sa tatlo. Sa kaniyang hudyat, pumasok sa loob ng silid ang babaylang si
Amandiwing. Nakasuot ito ng itim at puting baro na yari sa kayong dala ng
mga Tsino at sayang itim na yari sa abaka at nilalang bulak. May makulay na
turban na may sungay ng usa sa magkabilang gilid ang ulo ng babaylan. Sa
kasuotan niyang pambabae, tila bumata ng sampung taon ang matandang
tagapayong nagsilbi nang ama kay Datu Rabat sa mahabang panahon.
Sa kaniyang mga kamay at braso, nakatatong gaya ng sa mandirigma ang
eksena ng paghahabulan ng mga buwaya at labuyong tandang. Hawak niya
sa isang kamay ang isang malapad na pamaypay na may ganoon ding eksena
ng mga buwaya at labuyo. Sumalampak din siya sa sahig ngunit sa halip na

makisali sa harap ng dulang, naupo siya may dalawang dipa ang layo buhat
sa mga bisita. Kasunod niya, nagsipasok din ang tatlo pang kalalakihan. May
hawak na kudyapi ang una, may subing ang ikalawa, at kalatong naman
ang ikatlo. Naupo rin sila sa sahig na may dalawang dipa ang layo buhat
naman sa babaylan. Hindi madalas na mangyaring magsama ang tatlong
musikerong ito.
“Makinig kayong mabuti kung gusto n’yong malaman ang totoo tungkol
sa bakunawa,” anyaya ng babaylan sa mga naroon. Unang tumugtog ang
kudyapi na sinundan naman ng subing at kalatong. Nagpatuloy ang babaylan
sa saliw nitong tatlo. “Nang pasimula, inihugis at sinilaban ni Makaptang
Nakatira Sa Dakong Kaitas-taasan Ng Langit ang labintatlong bola ng apoy,
ihooooy! Ang mga bolang ito na tinatawag nating araw ang naghahalinhinan
sa pagbibigay ng liwanag at init sa mundo. Ngunit dahil naaakit ang mga
bakunawa sa mga bola, nagagawa nilang lumipad sa langit upang lunukin
ang mga ito at sa ganito’y nalilikha nila ang pusikit na kadiliman sa mundong
ibabaw. Ang dilim na hatid nito ang nagsisilbi namang pasimula ng mga
digmaan, sakit, peste at gutom, kruut-aaay! Dahil dito kaya itinuring na salot
ang mga bakunawa. Salot na kasalutsalutan! Maraming mga bagani noon
ang naglakbay sa paghahanap sa mga dambuhalang salot. Sinikap nilang
ubusin ang lahi ng mga salot. Pero may mga nagsasabi na hindi mga ninuno
nating bagani ang pumuksa sa mga bakunawa kung di ang mga Agta, ihoooy!
Nakipagdigma noon sa mga bakunawa itong mga Agta. Dahil ang mga
Agta ang mga naunang tao sa mundo na nabuhay kasabay ng mga unang
bakunawa, alam nila ang pinakamabisang pain para sa mga dambuhala. Sa
pamamagitan ng paing ito na ilalagak nila sa tuktok ng Bundok Kanlaon,
maaakit nila ang mga bakunawang sumampa sa dalampasigan at gumapang
na tila ahas papunta sa itaas ng bundok. Tulad ng karaniwang isdang hindi
nagtatagal ang buhay sa lupa, mauubusan ng hininga ang mga bakunawa,
kruut-aaaay! kaya hindi na sila nakababalik pa sa dagat. Sa halip, sa tuktok
ng Kanlaon na lamang sila mababalaho (iyon ay kung narating nila iyon nang
buhay) para matuyo at maging isang malaking tipak ng bato. Ang mga Agta
lang ang may alam sa sekretong pain. Hanggang ngayon, hindi nila sinasabi
kung ano iyon. Hinayaan din nilang mabuhay ang pinakabatang bakunawa.
Balang-araw, inaasahan nilang ito ang magiging pahirap sa buhay ng mga
naninirahan sa tabing-dagat. Ito ang paraan nila para tikisin tayong mga unat
dahil sa inagaw daw natin ang kanilang mga lupa. Samantala, labindalawa sa
Derain 19
mga bolang apoy ang natangay na ng mga naunang bakunawa. Isang bolang
apoy na lang ang natitira sa langit at nais din itong lamunin ng natitirang
bakunawa na gumagala ngayon sa ating karagatan, salamat sa mga Agta.
Kung matatangay ng halimaw na ito ang huling araw sa langit, hindi lang ito
maghahatid ng dilim sa mundong ibabaw, magdudulot din ito ng matinding
lamig.” Sa bahaging ito biglang tumayo ang babaylan, naglakad ng tatlong
hakbang palapit sa mga panauhin. Gamit ang matinding takot sa kaniyang
mga mata, sinikap niyang dalhin ang mga panauhin sa hinaharap na kaniya
na ngayong nakikita. “At kung mangyayari iyon, ay! ay! ay! mababalot ng
dilim at yelo ang buong mundo na gaya ng nangyari sa panahon ng ating
mga kanunununuan.” At dito nanahimik ang babaylan. Huminto rin sa
pagtugtog ang kudyapi, subing, at kalatong.
“Kung totoo nga iyang kuwento, bakit nasa langit pa rin hanggang
ngayon ang araw?” tanong ni Datu Rabat na parang hindi pa nalalaman ang
nakahandang sagot ng babaylan.
Bilang tugon, tumugtog muli ang subing. Ngunit nag-iisa na lang ito.
Pabilis nang pabilis na parang iyak ng isang baboyramong nahuli sa bitag
at nais kumawala. Ngunit bigla rin itong tumigil. “Dahil hindi pa sapat ang
kaniyang birtud,” sagot ng babaylan na tila biglang binalikan ng buhay
para lang sagutin ang tanong ng datu. “At dahil wala pa siya sa tamang
gulang.” Ang kalatong naman ngayon ang tumugtog. Palakas nang palakas
ang hampas na parang mga yabag ng isang papalapit na sigbin. “Ngunit
kapag narating na niya ang tamang gulang, kapag naipon na niya ang sapat
na birtud, at kapag naabot na niya ang tamang laki, ay, ay, ay, simbaku!” At
upang dagdagan ang diin ng kaniyang sinalita sa dulo, sinamahan pa niya
ito ng paghigop ng sariling laway. Nagtapos ang lahat sa huling hampas ng
kalatong.
Nangangatal sa takot ang tatlong sugo matapos na marinig ang buong
salaysay ng babaylan. Hindi na hinintay ng datung makapagsalita ang
sinuman sa tatlo. Tinapos niya ang pulong sa ganitong pahayag: “Kung
mahihingi ko ang basbas ng inyong mga pinuno, ako, si Datu Rabat ay
nangangakong ipagkakaloob ang dila ng bakunawa sa datu ng Mait, ang
bungsanga ng bakunawa sa datu ng Hantik, at ang langis ng bakunawa sa
datu ng Bohol sa sandaling mahuli ko ang halimaw.”
Matapos ang pagpapasabing iyon, nagpapasok pa ng ibang mga
putahe si Rabat. Nagpatuloy ang inuman, tugtugan, at kantahan. Kasama
nang kumakain at umiinom sa dulang ang babaylang si Amandiwing na
nagsikap na maibaling sa ibang paksa ang mga pag-uusap. Pagsapit ng

hapon, nagpaalam na ang tatlong sugo. Inihatid ng datu ang mga panauhin
hanggang sa pantalan kung saan naghihintay ang sasakyang karakoa ng
bawat sugo. Bago namaalam, nagpabaon pa si Rabat ng mga handog para
sa mga datu: mga rolyo ng seda at sarong na yari sa bulak, mga bangang
may lamang miki at pugad ng ibong yanwo na nakapagpapataas daw ng
libido kapag isinahog sa sopas, at ilang mga aliping pinili dahil sa pagiging
mahuhusay na mananayaw.
Magtatakip-silim na nang makabalik si datu Rabat sa kaniyang
bahay. Nagulat siya nang makitang nakaupo sa hagdan ng kaniyang bahay
si Amandiwing na nakasuot pa rin ng kasuotan ng isang babae at tila
naghihintay sa kaniya roon nang buong panahon.
“May nakalimutan kasi akong sabihin kanina doon sa tatlo,” walang
kaabog-abog na paliwanag ng babaylan pagsapit ng datu sa kaniyang
kinauupuan. Para sa matandang tagapayong ito, hindi pa pala talaga tapos
ang mga kuwentuhan at inuman. Maaari pa rin itong ituloy kahit ngayong
wala na ang tatlong sugo. Naupo ang datu sa tabi niya para pakinggan ang
kaniyang sasabihin. “Nakalimutan kong banggitin ang tungkol sa buwan.
Nilalamon nga rin pala ng mga bakunawa ang buwan. Nilalamon nila
kapuwa ang araw at buwan. Naintindihan mo ba ang ibig nitong sabihin?
Panahon ang tunay na nilalamon ng bakunawa. Binabakunawa din kahit ang
panahon natin.” Naulit ang paghigop ng sariling laway pagdating sa dulo
ng kaniyang pahayag ngunit hindi na para sa diin, sapagkat ang mga huling
tinuran ay tila sinasabi na lang ng babaylan para sa kaniyang sarili.
“Anong mawawala kung gayon nga?” tanong ni Datu Rabat na hindi na
makita ang kaibhan ng palabas sa katotohanan.
“Mawawala sa atin ang panahon ng paglitaw ng mga bituing Ulalen,
ng mga Kambing, ng buntalang Moroporo. Hindi na magtatawag sa
umaga ang ibong kahaw para magpaalala sa nalalapit na panahon ng
pagtatanim. Mawawalan ang mga punong katparasan, kattaloto, katlawaan,
at katkisiw ng kani-kanilang mga panahon ng pamumulaklak. Mawawala
ang paghahalinhinan sa pagdating ng mga hanging amihan at habagat.
Mawawala ang panahon kung kailan tayo naghahanda ng mga binhing
ihahasik sa lupa. Mawawala sa atin ang panahon ng dagankahuy kung kailan
tayo nagkakaingin. Mawawala ang daganenan bulan kung kailan natin
ikinakamada ang mga kahoy sa bukid. Mawawala ang elkilin kung kailan
natin sinusunog ang mga kahoy sa bukid. Mawawala ang inabuyan kung
Derain 21
kailan dumarating ang banayad na hangin galing timog. Mawawala ang

panahon ng paglitaw sa langit ng mga buntalang hudyat natin sa pagdating
ng tag-ulan, ng Losong, Balatik, Lubi, Butete at Alimango. Mawawala ang
panahon ng tag-ulan. Mawawala rin ang panahon ng paghahasik ng mga
binhi. Higit sa lahat, mawawala ang panahon ng anihan, gayon din ang
katapusan ng anihan. Mawawala ang siklong ating sinusunod. Mawawala
ang kaayusan. Mapapalitan ito lahat ng paglimot.”
Sandaling katahimikan ang namagitan sa dalawa. Nakatingin na sa
malayo ang babaylan na parang may tinatahak nang ibang mundo sa
kaniyang isip, isang mundong hindi na marahil sinusukat ng panahon.
Tumayo si Datu Rabat nang maintindihan niyang tapos nang magsalita ang
kausap. Pumasok siya sa bahay. May kinuha sandali at saka muling lumabas
at pumanaog. Naroon pa rin sa silong ang babaylan na tila may hinihintay.
Binubugaw nito ang mga niknik na lumiligid-ligid sa kaniyang mukha.
Nilapitan siya muli ng datu. Dalawang kamay na iniabot rito ang ulo ng
usa na galing sa piging. Inilaan ito ng datu para lang talaga sa babaylan.
Tinanggap naman ito ng babaylan, humakbang papalayo at saka inihagis
ang ulo pabalik sa datu. Sinalo ito ni Rabat. Nahulaan niya agad ang nais
mangyari ng babaylan. Inihagis niya pabalik sa babaylan ang ulo. Sinalo
naman ito ng kaharap. Nagpatuloy sila sa paghagis at pagsalo. Dahil naalala
ng babaylan ang huling ulong dinala sa kaniya ng datu. Ulo iyon ng isang
kaaway. Na pinagpasahan din nilang parang bola bago inialay sa mga anito.
Last Resort
Glenn Diaz
T
here is always the fetal position, no matter how old
you get and no matter how far you try to escape. My
hands, thick and sad, can always cradle my knees, and
I can return to this original position - primal position! -
and it hardly matters if it’s in the dark, watery womb or
this strange room, this uneasy stillness of a morning 48
years since that first bloody burst.
Next door, the music croons, garbled and distant, like it came from a
phonograph or a rusty jukebox: “Just when I’d stopped, opening doors.”
Horrible speakers, I thought, and the birds are chirping.
My eyes are moist when I open them, so I blink and blink. I get up and
stretch out my arms. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, then blink
some more, hoping the rogue tears would stop. From the bed, the light that
blankets this room is a calm vermillion, the curtains muting the otherwise
harsh sunlight. The sound of rolling water bounces around the walls.
I clear my throat and call out to the bare back busy in the small room’s
even smaller kitchen, “Hey.” My voice, it is deep and unfeminine, but I have
grown to love its severe monotone. My legs are splayed like pretzel, the right
indistinguishable from the left, like islands in the sea of ruffled bedspread.
“Good morning Ma’am Carolina. I have already bought -,” I narrow my
eyes at him. “Good morning, Carolina. I have already bought the cigarettes
and beer.” He enunciates each word carefully, mustering the same formality
of two weeks ago, when we met.
Diaz 23
“What about the -”

“The pills are on the drawer.”
I feel an urge to crawl under the covers, now a tumbled mess dripping
to the floor. If I look closely, I can trace Reynaldo’s profile in the bed. The
dent in the pillow. The blanket he broke free from. The minutest leveling
that cradled his back. The music next door continues, “There ought to be
clowns.” Birds still chirped in this place?
The room is fine and clean. It is not so bad. The two single beds,
pushed together, are modest and modestly soft, with flowery covers
predominantly orange and red. The bed spread is coarse against a naked
torso, and coarser still when you sweep your feet slowly against it, expecting
smoothness. There is a little side table with a cardboard desk calendar
advertising the wrong month. There are curtains, thick and rigid, refusing to
sway in the sparse wind blowing in the tropical summer. There is a kitchen,
a gas stove, a tiny pot. It is not so bad.
Arriving during the peak season, we settled for what they called “home
stay.” You stay with a local family in one of their spare rooms. In our case,
it was a separate house built recently for this anticipated crowd. The faint
smell of cement hung in the air, and the sloppy paint job in the walls was
barely dry. There are two rooms that open up to a small veranda in front.
It is not five-star, but it’s OK. The beach is just a five-minute walk away,
and the barest of necessities - no water heater, no carpets, no kitchen with
granite counters - remind me of its transience, that it is a place where people
come and go, that it is not home.
The other room is occupied by three tourists who came yesterday
afternoon. With their big bags, short shorts, and silly excitement over the
beach, Reynaldo assumed they were from Manila. They’re a curious bunch,
students, probably, and the first time they saw me, sitting in my chair with a
bottle of San Miguel in hand, one audibly whispered “colonizer” and they
laughed, like it’s an inside joke.
“You are a colonizer,” said Reynaldo, looking up from the laptop.
“Yes, brown man. You should thank me for civilizing your kind, you
know.”
He smiled with a naughty glint in his eyes, “C’mon, colonizer. Pillage
my mountains and seas.”
My shoulders shook in laughter.
During dinner later that day, the banter of the tourists was non-stop.
In between pinching the huge grilled fish, dipping it in a concoction of
fermented fish, onions and tomatoes, and stuffing it in my mouth, I could
make out parts of their conversation via the few individual words I could
understand: wind turbines, 20 stories, puta, enough money, hitch a ride;
then Ayn Rand, objectivism, siempre, harsh, humanist bullshit; and then
professional, laptop, boytoy, puede, Vanessa Redgrave, early 50s, forlorn -.
They were talking about us.
“Don’t you love farce,” Barbra Streisand is asking, when I open

my eyes.
I roll over lethargically.
“You dozed off again,” Reynaldo, now lying opposite me on the bed,
whispers when our eyes meet. “Did I tire you out last night?”
He goes for my mouth but catches my left cheek.
“Reynaldo, please.”
I stumble out of bed to the red cooler by the door before glancing back.
On the bedside table, the cup of coffee, I can tell, has gone cold. Reynaldo
looks on forlornly, his body hunched like half a heart.
I fish out a bottle of beer and make my way outside. I settle in my
chair and wonder sheepishly if Reynaldo’s the kind of guy, romantic and
brooding, who ponders on the space left on a bed, like me, like Damian,
when he’s not running off with a needy, leggy grad student. The sound of
running water resumes, and I regret knowing the answer.
Several minutes later, the tourists emerge from next door, garbed in
swimwear, cameras slung around their necks. Looking at them now, two
appear to be a couple; the third probably a close friend of one or both. They
descend the stone steps from the veranda, cross the patch of uneven grass,
and begin their leisurely stroll to the beach.
The three start off walking together in one line, until the third wheel, a
guy, stops to make way for a passing SUV. He willingly drifts a meter or two
behind and stays there. Oblivious, the couple is holding hands, dragging
their feet in unison, while the third wheel kicks pebbles on the ground.
They make a right turn by the row of idle tricycles, before fading into the
endless row of palm trees that lined the road, en route to the nearest resort.
Get used to it, I mumble. A strange smile erupts in my face, as I take
another swig of beer. You can only spot sadness in other people when
Diaz 25
you get by, when your own isn’t as oppressive and distracting. Pockets of
happiness.
I tighten my grip on the bottle, simultaneously cupping the pleasant
coldness in my palms and basking in the warmth of the sun on my arms
and legs. I take another mouthful, relish it, savor its bitter sweetness, before
merrily swallowing. My vision begins to blur and the world starts to spin,
but that’s what happens when you ingest beer in an empty stomach.
A puff of smoke. The roar of a passing car. A girl getting water from the
pump. It is my first vacation in years.
“Tiene los ojos mas tristes,” I say softly to myself. Still slumped in
my chair, I tug at my skirt and the hem obeys, more legs for the sun to
punish in earnest. The tourists have returned.
The guy with the sad eyes appears to be the funniest one among
them, an irony that is so familiar. Almost every word he says is punctuated
with laughter, like a joke he tells about French cows and how they moo.
He delivers the punch line, raising an eyebrow, curling his lips, fixing a
phantom beret. His next victim is the local dialect and its penchant for
hard, exaggerated r’s. To cite, there’s the expression for heavy traffic. Why,
it’s a lesbian preoccupation, he realizes belatedly, to their additional
delight. “Bumperrr to bumperrr,” the stranger repeats for my benefit
it seems.
Absolutely entertained, I feel vindicated. What’s not to like about this
lovely country?
No one would take the Philippines two weeks ago. The new head of
oncology, pirated and ready to impress, wanted to send all executives abroad
to “master with native fervor” every country in his jurisdiction. The news
got everyone giddy. A free trip. Most wanted to go to Japan or New Zealand
or Vietnam. The Philippines, I learned, was associated with mountains of
garbage and people losing their heads, mail-order brides and household
help. One thought it was somewhere in Central America; another, a US
territory, like Saipan, only poorer.
I felt a little defensive, because my father had been to Manila and Boracay
and had nothing but good things to say about them and Filipinos. I grew
up in Sevilla, and the Philippines was a staple in Spanish history books, at
least a page or two: under Spanish rule for over 300 years, outrageously
Catholic, and millions of Reyeses and Cruzes - kings and crosses - last
names that betray the ancient link. Asia’s Mexico.
So as my colleagues openly scrambled to get the “best” countries -
South Korea for cheap plasma sets, Thailand for Phuket, and India to visit
relatives - I sent an email to my new boss. I mentioned in passing my long,
impeccable performance in the company, save for an episode five years ago,
and said that my Filipino cook has a cousin with research experience who
could help me. “A tour guide and an assistant in one,” I closed, satisfied. “We
don’t have to fly in my assistant, in the process saving us some overhead.”
There was no affirmative response to my email, but in the meeting the
following day where he announced our destinations, in the big hall with the
orange draperies that watch over everyone, the new oncology head said, in
between quips about Manny Pacquiao and Imelda Marcos’ shoes, that I’d
be traveling 3,884 miles to the Philippines, and who’d want mangoes?
There was an awkward pause, and I grinned nervously, mentally egging
him to move on to the next country already. Everyone avoided my eye
amid the soft rustling of whispers, the spattering of unsure applause. In
the sendoff dinner the following week, I was eating something - a piece of
quiche? A slice of quesadilla? - when it came to me in silent montage, all
my 20 years or so in this company. The routines. The familiar places. The
small talks.
“Hewitt in the Aussie Open finals, how about that?”
“Big rugby match tonight!”
“Ha-ha did Mindy really get arrested for DUI in Chatswood?”
I was never popular, but it all went further downhill after the divorce
was finalized five years ago: two tumultuous weeks, I was to learn later, when
people furtively hid scissors and staplers when I come close, when they felt
sorry for me but not sorry enough to ask.
“What if I didn’t return?” I idly asked my assistant Mindy back at my
office after the assembly. “And what are you going to do there?” she said.
“Give massages by the beach?” before taking a bite on her morning bagel.

Reynaldo wasn’t quite how I pictured him during the eight-hour
flight. When my cook bragged about her cousin’s credentials, I imagined a
lanky guy in his twenties, wearing clear specs and neat, layered clothes. But
the man holding out the manila folder with my name was anything but a
nerd: he was dark, muscular, and slightly taller than my five-foot-seven-inch
Diaz 27
frame. The first time I saw him, he was in a white polo that hugged his torso,
his biceps slightly peeking, sparse sweat dotting his chest.
While there was no parting of the crowd in that sweltering Manila
airport, my head still swirled with fantasies of romance in the tropics. This
would do, I told myself. He would do.
“Hi,” I said, trying to suppress this alarming and forbidden giddiness.
“Reynaldo?”
“Yes. Ma’am Carolina?”
“Please,” I extended my hand and smiled coolly. “Call me Carolina.”
“OK, Carolina. Let’s go?”
On the way to the hotel, the humidity inside the rented van was so
that I imagined its smooth roof glistening smokily to the afternoon sun.
He was 28, he said, a history major from a state university in Ilocos Norte,
a province north of Manila. He lives with his parents and works for the
governor’s office. He took a two-week leave for this project.
Outside, kids in rags bearing flower garlands for sale ran around
accosting idle cars in intersections. Men peddled strange stuff, from bubble
machines to feather dusters. Jeeps in varying degrees of neglect trudged on,
like sardine cans grilling its helpless contents. Inside, the air-conditioning
unit worked full blast, to little avail. I casually nudged Reynaldo, careful not
to scorn the weather or anything in his country, “Global warming huh?”
before wiping my forehead with my hanky. He just nodded and smiled. His
eyes are brown, like sharp almond-shaped orbs under bushy eyebrows that
have clearly never met a pair of tweezers.
Sweating profusely, I started unbuttoning my shirt. He quickly looked
the other way, but the tint of the van reflected his ill-disguised curiosity: the
twin orbs seeking to take a peek at my drenched collar bones unraveling.

The next five days went by in a daze, packed as they are, meeting
after meeting, and endlessly looking forward to my hotel room and a
glass of wine. Reynaldo tagged along, copying files, recording interviews,
and keeping me entertained while shuffling between venues. In the end,
there was nothing left to do except compile all data and write the report.
At the celebratory dinner for two, we were talking about something - his
mother’s bout with colon cancer? My ex-husband who taught literature at a
community college? - when Reynaldo floated the idea of preparing the final
output in Pagudpud, his province’s answer to Boracay.
“I’ll make that trip anyway and you said you wanted to go to the beach.
What do you think?” he asked, his eyes like a child’s. My chest thumped, in
trepidation or excitement or both, sometimes I could no longer distinguish.
The following day at dusk, we were boarding a pink north-bound bus,
bracing ourselves for a 12-hour ride.
To claim providence, I planned to say in the future that I really got

to know Reynaldo in a Philippine province called La Union - the union.
“How foreboding right,” I would say to the few who’d care to listen, trying
to approximate the same wide eyes when I say it each time.
The trip stretched on as night sunk deeper, and we were both up,
somehow, amid the dim lights, the low murmur of the air-conditioning,
and the occasional snoring from some passengers. Outside, it was dark, one
sleepy town after another, and it would be another five hours until the sun
would rise.
“Mind if I asked you something in Spanish?” Reynaldo said, out of
nowhere, when I put my paperback down.
I shrugged, “Sure.”
“Ti-e-nes ham-bre?” he labored.
“Hambre,” I said, not pronouncing the H. “No, no tengo hambre. Pero
gracias, Reynaldo. A mi, me gusta un dried mango.”
He fished out a bag of dried mangoes from our stash.
“I wanted to practice my Spanish,” he said. “I bought a phrasebook.”
“Nice. What else can you say?”
He paused, as if thinking, then said, “Hay una farmacia cerca?”
I laughed, then proceeded rapidly, “No creo que hay una farmacia o
hospital cerca. Estamos en un autobus. Por que? Esta infirmado, Reynaldo?
No esta bien?”
The next two hours, we spent catching up.
“My parents were after my head when they found out I enrolled in
history,” he said, before shifting to a hysterical falsetto that supposedly
resembled his mom’s. “’History? Who the hell takes history? Magellan
discovered the Philippines. Lapu-lapu killed Magellan. The Spaniards shot
Rizal in Luneta. What else is there to know?’” He smiled. “They wanted me
to take up nursing or education or something.”
“Hey at least you followed your heart.” I said. “And sorry for killing
Rizal.”
Diaz 29
He laughed. “OK, I forgive your kind.”

I took his phrasebook and started flipping through it.
“But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Did you grow up in
Spain?”
“Si, si.” I told him. “I only moved to Australia because of my job.”
“Wow. You must really like your job.”
“Not really,” I chuckled. “But it made sense during that time, you
know? Going to the other side of the world. Starting fresh. It felt exciting!
It seemed like the right thing to do at 25. But you know, one thing led to
another and 20 years later, I realize I haven’t left Sydney in two decades.”
I stared blankly into the window, “Talk about being stuck in a rut.”
“Imagine that,” he said, looking dumbfounded.
That look, it was on the face of the maître’d the first time I went to
a regular haunt without Damian. How I had to tell him, “Table for one,
please,” and he gave me that look. How he had to ask again and I had to
say it again - “Yes, table for one.” - as if saying it once wasn’t torturous
enough. The next few instances, I lied and pretended someone was coming
and made frantic phone calls while I ate, until that habit got tiresome and
the waiters started noticing.
No one’s coming, Carolina, I remembered whispering to myself. No
one was coming.
I snapped back. “It’s not so bad. I mean, we have dozens of beaches in
Sydney. I don’t know, around 30 maybe? Everything is less than 30 minutes
away, too. Sydney is OK. Everything you want in a city is there. The Opera
House. Bondi Beach. Darling Harbour. It’s not so bad,” I said, trying to
remember the last time I went to these places.
“But I really look forward to Pu-gad-pad.” I beamed, recalling a tip
from my cook, how Filipinos found it “cute” when foreigners butchered
local words.
“Pagudpud, you mean?” he asked.
“Pa-gud-pud, yes. Yo quiero la mar, Reynaldo. I love the ocean. Who
knows? Maybe I’ll say ‘Oh what the hell,’ email the report to my boss, and
never leave Pa-gud-pud.”
“What about money?”
“I have savings,” I quickly answered. “One of the few perks of having
an alimony without the kids, I suppose. I can transfer my retirement fund
to a local bank account. If the rates stay as they are, it will last a good fifteen
years. Once I ran out, I can head to Manila for a couple of years, do some
consultancy work for a local affiliate, save up, then head back here.”
“You have really thought about this, have you?”
“Or,” I paused, getting a dried mango and grazing Reynaldo’s left hand, “I
can give massages by the beach. I do a mean shiatsu.”
“You’ll have some competition,” he said, smiling widely and, to my
mind, conceding to this game.
“I’ll lower my price. And I look like Vanessa Redgrave thirty years ago
in Julia, admit it.”
“I wasn’t born 30 years ago,” he said, and the bus hit a rough bump that
jolted most passengers to wakefulness.
Our bus slowed down to a wide, rock-strewn lot, beside a big

roadside cafeteria shortly after La Union. By then I knew that Reynaldo’s
ambidextrous because of a first grade penmanship teacher, that he watched
Baywatch as a kid, and that when he smiled his eyes disappeared from his
face.
We got off, and I smoked my first stick in hours. Long drags. A flicker
of ash. Smoke-filled lungs.
Across the street was another empty lot; an unfinished stop in front of
it, unpainted concrete walls with street graffiti and faded posters with faces
and names and the word “vote.” “One of the dirtiest elections in the world,”
he explained, “sometimes literally,” before setting off to get our food.
Primordial sunlight tickled my skin, still pasty and cold from the air-
conditioning. I couldn’t believe it - it is Monday, and I’m in a country 3000
miles away. I looked at my watch. By this time, Briana Whitewood and
her two boys from next door would be piling up in their car. She’d wave a
dutiful “Morning, Carolina,” and I’d wave back, rushing to work, thinking
for the nth time if things would have been different - better, more bearable
- if Damian and I had kids, never mind that he was always pissed and “not
in the mood.”
“Beef, chicken, or seafood,” Reynaldo inquired, appearing from behind
me.
“Beef please,” I said, and puffed smoke upward. I had no idea that the
sun felt this good in the morning. That the sky was a pompous blue. Five
days a week, I drive 17 minutes and walk 120 meters to my office building.
In the lobby, I’d find myself nestled among Armani suits similarly rushing
Diaz 31
about, before stepping into the perfumed, crowded elevator and punching
27 to get to my floor.
A few minutes later, Reynaldo and I were sitting on a wooden bench,
sipping hot instant noodles on a rickety table. He bought a couple of beef
wantons for himself. I said no. Mindy would be bringing my latte right about
now, reciting my schedule, dumping a ton of paper on my desk. A token how-
do-you-do if she’s having a good morning. “Is there anything else, Carolina?”
she’d ask sweetly, before retreating to her desk for the rest of the day.
“We’re almost there,” Reynaldo was saying. “We should have taken the
plane because Pagudpud is only a couple of hours away by air. But all flights
are booked. Everybody’s going somewhere during Holy Week.”
“No, no it’s OK. I actually like long rides. Especially if I’m not driving.
Besides, it’s still better than being stuck in a hotel. Or worse, coming
back to Australia,” I laughed awkwardly. “I really appreciate this. Gracias,
Reynaldo.”
“De na-da, Maam Caro- “
“Oh uh uh,” I cut him off, like a middle school librarian. “What did we
talk about, Reynaldo?”
“Carolina, Carolina, Carolina” he corrected himself, smirking, and the
sound of my name uttered by a foreign mouth sent shivers down my spine.
For 20 years, I’ve heard my name pronounced the English way. It was such
a joy to hear it said like this, finally, how it was said in my youth, by the guys
before Damian: Ca-ro-li-na.
“De na-da, Carolina,” he said.
“So,” I began again, stirring my noodles and innocently going for the
kill. “How many kids do you have?”
He blushed, “I’m not married. No one has made that mistake yet.”
We laughed in unison, while I continued to stir, my other hand resting
atop my crossed legs.
“Oh come on, I think you’ll make a good husband and father.”
“I am not sure about the wife part, but I definitely want kids,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“Ah,” he said.
“Hey,” I tried to smile and shrug off the familiar look. “I heard you guys
have amazing beer.”
“Yes, we do. Goes down like water, hits like a brick,” he promised, and
the eyes disappeared. He stabbed a stubborn piece of wanton, blackened
with soy sauce. “Like you don’t know what hit you.”
“Thank you for the pills,” I say, deciding to be the adult that I am.
The silence had become unbearable during lunch.
“So you’re talking to me again?”
“I didn’t get mad at you. Just a bit upset.”
“Because I want you to stay here and be happy, for a change?”
“You know it’s not as simple as that,” I say, desperate to leave it at that.
But I know he won’t let it rest, because he’s hurt and he wants to hurt
me back.
I know men and their egos.
“It can be,” he says, stuffing his mouth with rice and chewing rabidly.
I sigh in exasperation.
“It can be,” he repeats. “You always tell me how your life in Sydney is
so -”
“So what? So sad? So unbearably sad? How do you know it’ll be better
here?” I say.
“Will you stay?”
I can tell he wants to say yes, but if there’s anything I learned about
Reynaldo, it’s his inability to lie.
“I love this place,” I say. “And I’m very fond of you.”
“Sure.”
“But it’s just, you know, thinking about it real hard. I don’t think it will
work, Reynaldo.”
I was also silent when Damian came home that Saturday morning, after
not coming home for a week, when he told me he loved me, but maybe
that’s not enough?
“Just imagining it, you know, leaving my life in Sydney, dropping
everything I have built, I just can’t do it.”
“Don’t you want kids, Carolina?,” he asks abruptly. “The option will
not always be there.”
“Do you think I don’t hear that clock ticking?”
“Then why ask me for some morning-after -”
“Because! Do you have any idea how it will look if I return to Sydney
pregnant with a brown child?”
“Oh wow. I see. I understand now.”
Diaz 33
My first night alone, I spent sitting Indian-style on the floor of the

kitchen, clutching an empty mug.
“It’s because I’m Filipino, is it?” Reynaldo asks, and I don’t know what
he’s talking about.
I go out and find doe-eyed guy smoking by himself in the veranda later
that day. Three empty beer bottles beside him; I’ve had four. I introduce
myself and he nods. I pull my white plastic chair next to his. “May I?” He
shrugs. The retreating sun casts shadows in his face that reveal an inner
torment that wasn’t visible in the height of noon, the company of friends.
“Listen, just out of curiosity. I overheard you and your friends
guessing the kind of relationship I have with this guy. So? What was the
consensus?”
He takes a deep breath before proceeding in his most deadpan voice,
“You guys fuck like dogs in heat. We can hear you. It’s not a very thick
wall.”
“Oh,” I squeak, embarrassed. My droopy eyes show signs of
animation.
He puffs, inhales, and blows smoke to his right.
“But then there is the laptop, and he is constantly working on something
while you drink like a fish, so we’re not so sure. Personally, I go for sex slave
slash personal web designer.”
I smile and put a cigarette in my mouth. He fishes a lighter right away
and flicks it in front of my face.
The ritual of smokers is the same anywhere in the world.
“So what’s really the deal?” he asks.
“Well, work initially. You’re right. We are working on something,
professionally. But you know how things get in the way.”
“I know. Things,” he chuckles.
The silence is broken only by the occasional vehicle - SUV, tricycle,
jeep - that dares invade our view of our raised feet. In the distance, the loud
party music from the beach blares, registering as a faint murmur in these
dark parts.
“So who is that guy?” he says, looking at me for the first time to perhaps
tell me he’s serious. “Is he from around here, or is he also from wherever
you came from or -”
“Let’s just say he’s a distraction.” I look at him triumphantly.
My brain flutters lightly as a feather.

“Things, distraction,” he hums, guzzling down more beer.
“I have a question for you,” I say. “How does a guy your age know Send
in the Clowns?”
“Duh. Who doesn’t,” he hiccups, “who doesn’t know Stephen
Sondheim? A Little Night Music? Ingmar Bergman?”
“Impressive,” I say, nodding my head. “Impressive.”
“I’m not gay OK.”
I smile at him, “The story of my life.”
He thinks this over and nods, “Hey, wen, man-ang,” and the hilarity of
the local dialect directed to a red-haired Caucasian woman strikes us, and
we can’t stop laughing.
“So what’s the plan now?” he asks after a while.
I say something but the sound of a passing jeep drowns my reply, and
he only sees the accompanying smile.
His companions emerge from their room. They smile at me and talk
to him. Something about going to the market for their food the next day, he
explains, because the girl is getting tired of fish. When they leave, I raise my
feet once again to get that laid-back feeling of a few minutes ago, but it’s not
the same. There’s a certain comfort in two pairs of feet raised in abandon,
shadows they may be only now.
You know what would be hilarious? I think to myself. If Reynaldo also
knew Stephen Sondheim. That would be something.
It’s starting to get dark, and I close my eyes for a final puff.

The pill, yellow and tiny, the size of a perfect inkblot, sits proudly
on the bedside table. The prolonged staring match seems to amuse
Reynaldo, who’s on the table fiddling with the laptop settings so we can
steal some of the Wi-Fi signal from a nearby resort. I want to download
Send in the Clowns.
`”I went all the way to Laoag for that, Carolina,” he says, without
looking at me. “It took me more than three hours.”
“Now you want me to take it?” I ask. “Make up your mind, brown
man.”
“Are we going too far with this colonizer-brown man thing?” he
narrows his eyes. He slowly makes his way to the bed, and my heart pounds
with each step. With an almost sinister glint in his eyes, he sits beside me
Diaz 35
and envelops me in one arm. I playfully brush a stray strand of reddish-

brown hair and tuck it behind my ear. His tongue, warm and buzzing, starts
to probe. His breath reeks of beer. Outside, we can hear the banter of the
tourists next door. Dinner is being served, and the owner of the house had
been calling us, to no avail.
“Carolina!” I hear my new friend bellow in mock anger. “Remember
what I said about the wall?”
I snigger, but Reynaldo’s first dry thrust promptly reminds me of
the business at hand. A wayward moan escapes my mouth in pain. He
gains speed, and I grab on to his sweaty shoulders, wrap my legs around
his waist, and arch my back. His warm mouth goes for my breast. Amid
the rhythmic shoves, I reach for the pill and nearly topple over my beer.
I quickly pop it into my mouth, but it takes a while to go down, small as
it is, like a difficult decision. A bitter taste explodes in my mouth. After
a few minutes I feel his muscles tighten, and he lets out a subdued
moan, the scent of alcohol and desperation wafting in the air. His
tongue chases the pill down my throat, only it’s too late. He’s too late.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” doe-eyed boy says, later that night, back
at our seats.
“Aw that’s too bad!” I tell him, smiling like a fool.
“Yeah. I wish I can stay here forever,” he says. “Don’t you?”
Without meaning to, that word - “forever” - explodes in the space
between my eyes.
It goes to the bridge of my nose, and my chest begins to tighten.
I start to see numbers flashing, floating in mid-air like opaque smoke.
51, 52, 53, 54, 55.
He asks, “Hey are you OK?”
I idly snatch a mug atop the table to distract myself. I try to steady my
breathing.
Inhale.
The air molecules enter my nostrils, down my chest, filling up my
lungs, into my bloodstream, into the tiniest veins and arteries.
Exhale.
The air rushes out in one long, continuous release, then gathers in front
of my face, floating briefly, before arranging into more numbers.
56, 57, 58, 59, 60.
“Carolina?” I feel a pair of arms shaking my shoulders.

“You know,” I tell him, forcing my eyes shut and mentally warding off
the phantom figures.
“When you’re my age and you break off a relationship, your first
thought is always - always - was that my last chance?
“Carolina, try not to talk. You’re out of breath.”
“Do I just shrivel up and die now?”
“Carolina, listen to me.”
“But, you know, what can you do? It’s not like it will work only because
it’s your last chance.”
I return the mug. I regain calm.
“Before you know it, you’re shit scared of the number 60.”
“I’m 22,” he points out.
I inhale a lungful, “You’re very funny, you know. Just you wait.”
He gives me that look.
“Don’t give me that fucking look, you!”
“What?”
“I saw the way you look at your companions. You’re not so lucky
yourself.”
“What?” he asks.
“When you’re young and there is no one, you say fuck my life and drink
with your friends. Go to the beach and burn something. Am I right? When
you’re my age and there is no one -”
“What?”
“It’s like, maybe I should’ve said no to that promotion, you know?
Maybe I should’ve been more sensitive. He’d been stuck in that teaching
job for 15 years, and I was promoted after, what, three?”
Ten seconds of silence. A passing SUV. Crickets.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks, before fishing his mobile
phone from his pocket.
“Let’s just listen to some music, shall we?”
Our agreement to this proposition, we seal by bumping our bottles
with such force that they nearly break, a near-accident that only widened
our toothy grins.
And it starts to play, a familiar tune, the inimitable first four notes,
“Horrible speakers!” I shout, the intro reverberating through the darkness
of the street and beyond.
Diaz 37
“Isn’t it rich?” we look at each other, smiling. “Are we a pair? Me here

at last on the ground, you in mid-air.
“Send in the clowns.”
His companions, joint by the hand, come out of the room. They eye
me suspiciously and say something about a late swim and a few beers by
the beach.
“Isn’t it bliss?”
“You want to go with us?”
“Isn’t it queer? Losing my timing this late in my career.”
“OK, this one has lost it, “ he says. “Maybe we should call his
distraction.”
“Send in the clowns. Where are the clowns?”
They leave and take away my song, and I reach for my pocket for a
cigarette. Nothing. Instead, grains of sand.
“Don’t bother, they’re here.”
Sullen and suddenly sober, I return to our room, and Reynaldo’s smile
is sweet.
Perdition Plain
Russell Stanley Geronimo
T
here was a man who said that an immense vault of
gold was buried under a barren plain in the north. Then
everything went to hell.
He was an albino man. He moved on the road in a
hood, fists clenched in his jacket’s front pockets when
his gang was on the move. They moved from town to
town, lurked in the wastes and fled to god-knows-where, a convoy of stolen
motorbikesonwide dirt tracks. He was tall and scrawny, a white shape in
a white landscape, the alkali flats. He stooped at the back of a truck. The
paleness of his head was perceptible in the dark. Many said there was
something grim and evil about his whiteness that struck the nerves of those
who looked. They said this was why he killed. Something about the lifeless
blank on his face and form was thought to have engraved in his mind a taste
for burning and blood.
It was night. On the roadside he taught them how to use guns. They
grilled and ate around the campfire. He told them stories from the Judges
and of Job. They slept on the truck, under the tarp, which was their tent. He
quoted from the psalms in half-sleep, a book clutched to his breast.
In the morning they fled north. He loved the flat land, the open sky. They
drove on a straight asphalt road splitting a vast cornfield. The motorcycles
jounced where potholes and cracks broke the smoothness of the asphalt.
They passed by a field of grass with grazing cattle. There were dark patches
creeping over the pasture, the slow-moving silhouette of clouds. The man
Geronimo 39
opened his palms to the sky. There was a streak of a plane across the air
space. He prayed for rain. There was a row of electric transmission towers
of steel lattice slanting from the highway to the rolling hills. The bright
mass of clouds over the mountain range was like a violent swelling of waves
breaking into foam. He said they were the souls of rocks.
There was no rain. They took a narrow path of dust and wild plants to
avoid a checkpoint. They stopped beside a dry, ephemeral lakebed. The
plain around them was a wasteland of gray sediments, and the leaves of trees
lining a nearby road were covered with gray powder from the drilling of
cement and blasting of old roads. Tomorrow they would loot a gas station,
take barrels of diesel, some cash, water and tools for making improvised
weapons. The doctor among them collected stones and twigs and stoked
the fire. The albino stripped his jacket and was half-naked. There was a
sleek, dismal grayness to his skin tone, like a thin storm cloud or wood ash.
It was night again and the black sky was packed with stars.
They sat around the fire. The albino played the guitar, recited poems
and taught them old love songs and how to make bombs.
His bones were big. His flesh was tough. In the following day at twelve
there were pistol shots and bullet holes on glass and steel panels in the gas
pump. But it was not his habit to use his pistol in operations like this. He
liked to use whatever were on hand – fire extinguishers and empty bottles
of Coke. He used the red canister to intimidate the station manager and
personnel. As for the eight-ounce bottle, he sheathed it in the front pocket
of his jacket, the neck of the glass to be gripped and drawn when needed.
This way he could attack with the bottom’s broken edge. If his victims lived,
his white head would be the last thing they saw.
They killed no one. A barrel of fuel leaked inside the truck. The
carpenter among them smiled and opened a jug and poured it on the bald
head of the man with Down syndrome who was also part of the gang. Then
there was exchange of blows and all of them under the tarp stank of gasoline
and threatened each other to ignite a match. They were laughing. But the
albino was facing them away. He sat on his crossed legs at the opening of the
tarp. He watched the flow of cement under the tailing smoke, the dashes of
paint bisecting the road. Others followed their truck ondecrepit scooters.
Then he opened his palms. The rest of the gang thought he was crazy. The
doctor called him a lover of little boys. There was laughter and they openly
scorned him because he could not hear them.
He only spoke. Night on the open plain was bleak. The wind howled
in the trees and it was the only sound that accompanied a faint strumming
of chords. The man plucked the strings and made songs he could not seem
to hear. There was nothing in their plan that did not come from the albino’s
mouth. He did not -- could not -- listen to anyone’s question, advice or
objection. He spoke when he pleased and interrupted others talk. “Either
he’s deaf, or he’s faking it to avoid any oral settlement,” said the carpenter.
No sound, and therefore no word of reason, could punch a hole into that
hard globe of skull and stimulate a reaction.
They had not seen the albino respond to anything: hunger, pain, even
the stroke of the sun, which could burn his weak skin. His jacket protected
him from heat, but at times they saw him stripped by a water pump in
the harshest light. He moved with a self-determined will that knew no
hesitation, and when they followed him, they felt intoxicated in this blind
determination.
There was no cluster of stars. The night was so deep the plain and
meridian blended into a singular darkness. They played cards in the dying
fire. The faint, small circle of illuminated earth was the only one that had
form in the darkness of the playa.
They abandoned their hideout at daylight. On the highway, there was
a worker casting chips out of the concrete with a drilling rig. Behind him a
long line of blast holes had formed. There was a crane suspending a block
of cement from the beam. There was an engineer in hard hat standing by a
tent. The road was under renovation. They killed no one but they stole the
construction workers’ drills, mallets, sledgehammers and picks.
They fled. They arrived on a steel bridge over a stream with lilies and
stopped for water. They sat on boulders and drank and cleaned their feet.
Afterwards one of the boys in the gang had leeches on his legs. The albino
removed them with a knife. “He looked like he was sleep-walking,” the boy
said to the others. Then they moved further north where the blue of the
sky was blank and the plain was blank with the perpetual grayness of rocks.
From atop, the highway was like a straight mark of lead on paper, and only
the mountain range in the east could offer a consoling perimeter to this flat,
immense gap of void.
They passed by a small desert waste full of sunbaked weeds. They were
near the beach. There was a smell of rust in the air. Scraps of metal and
remnants of engines were half-sunk in sand. Through a length of hexagonal
Geronimo 41
mesh, they saw a house and jeep and some spare parts for their motorbikes.
They stopped and it was the first time in a week that the albino held a gun
on the road. The gate was locked and the tenants were away. They broke the
lock. Then the albino entered the kitchen and fried some eggs on the pan.
The others grilled fish, fought for bed and blankets, bathed with soap, and
collected supplies and tools -- pliers, steel wires, nails, lamps, flashlights.
They left mud everywhere and they passed the night.
The moon was a white hole in the black sky. They drank alcohol
until they were inebriated and fell asleep. At midnight the doctor woke up
screaming at the green gecko crawling on his leg. The boy aimed his pistol.
The bullet killed the gecko but it also pierced the doctor’s leg. The others
could not be alerted in their daze. The albino extracted the bullet with
pliers and scissors and cleaned the wound with alcohol. He then went back
writing on the margins of his book. He drew a blueprint of an apparatus for
lifting things from a hole, like a tackle to hoist a pail from the shaft of a well.
“I couldn’t have done it myself,” the doctor said in the morning, debilitated
by the wound. “I’ve never seen such surgical precision and quickness with
such crude tools.” The large lizard’s carcass dried away and was feasted by
a ring of flies.
The light was sharp. Silence wrapped the air but there was a dissonant
ring from a vehicle far away, the cry of an engine at decrescendo. They stole
the jeep and moved out. They smelled the sea. The highway was beside
the beach. There were electric posts along the footpath beside the dark
blue asphalt. They stopped to pee. Above them the floating clouds were
thick and heavy. The albino stood on a ledge of bricks bordering the beach
and road. It begun to rain. He faced the clouds. He opened his hands and
caught some drops of drizzle. He gestured the others to hurry and said they
were near.
The albino enumerated their advantagesin the current weather:
distraction, panic, the softening of mud, the muffling of pistol shots in the
pounding rain, the veiling of blood. Some people’s luck was a catastrophe
for the rest. They doubled their speed. The albino’s eyes were red and rapt.
It was as if he had reckoned all their chances from the start and was now
only validating their fulfillment. In the truck, they passed around a bowl of
water and mirror and razor for cutting beard. They polished their guns.
They combed their hair. Round the mountainside they arrived in a huge
dust bowl.
It was empty. They pulled their brakes. The albino climbed the jeep’s
steel roof. From his position the panorama was striped by rainfall.There
were barren hills in close distance. The field was a cake of dirt cracked by
drought. The only thing that moved was a dog prowling at the edge of a tent.
Beside that there was a crude gallows frame standing at twenty feet, a kind
of crane with a pulley and cord used for hoisting something from a deep
hole on the earth. Then there were natives coming out of the other tents
to fetch a pail of tools and coil of rope. The rain damped their garments
of rags. The natives saw the gang and the awful figure of the albino. The
downpour washed the gang’s smell of gasoline. The natives called out their
companions in the shelters. They were composed of husbands, wives, and
their children. The albino was half-naked and his skin was pale and stark.
For a moment between the quiet, tensed camps, there were only the
pattering rain and the dog departing the scene. It was raining but there were
holes in the heavens and shafts of light descending.
The albino squeezed the trigger and the gun brought the revolving
chamber into alignment with the barrel, irreversible as the planet’s turning.
The bullet cut fifty meters of air and sunk in someone’s flesh. To their sight
it was invisible; there was only a flash of light on one end and the sudden
spurting of blood on the other, as if there was no mediating line.
The gang crossed the wastes and loosed a shower of bullets in the
astonished air. They swept the field like chess pieces. Their hands singed
from the heat of their own guns. The men on motorbikes rounded the
tents and shot the natives who hid behind sacks of rocks. The natives were
armed with rifles. They shot their moving targets like children in country
fairs aiming their toy guns at trinkets. Out of the smoke and rain and light
the albino pounced upon the natives who were dumbstruck and mute in
their cloth shelters, with his gang of crazies and criminals and the sick and
paralytic, men who were banished in hospitals and prisons and alleys and
whose humanity was defined by the tools they used. When the cartridges
were empty, they were back to using bare hands and throwing large rocks.
They stooped for anything they could find and fought like primates.
The motorcycle’s gas tank was holed in the attack. One native threw a
dynamite. The engine caught fire and the driver rolled in the mud to save
his burning body. Nearby, the tent ropes were cut. The loose cloth flapped
from the pole. The shelter contained several flasks of mercury. Someone
crouched behind it but his skull was blasted by a descending canister of
Geronimo 43
cyanide. His body capsized the flasks and fell on a pool of quicksilver. The
canisters and flasks rolled everywhere. The liquid metal dripped in the mud
bespattered with blood and vomit. The white man ignited an LPG cylinder;
he had done this before in another person’s house. The tarp of the tent
blazed in flames. Those who crawled groped for knives and splinters and
shards of glass. The rain stopped. The killing continued. A man carrying
a chest tried to escape. He was chased and strangled with rope. The chest
was unlocked and contained high-grade ores of gold.
The sky cleared, but the noise did not end. The albino bore injuries on
his arms. He tied the knot of a cord around the neck of the natives’ chief.
The cord passed around the rim of the pulley. “I curse that this ground will
be the place of your perdition,” said the chief. The albino pushed the chief
out of the ground and suspended his body above the hole.
The light of day was leaving. They spared a native woman who was
capable of appraising ores and discovering veins of mineral.The moon was
bright and circular. The sky was loaded with fires. There were bats circling
overhead. The men dug pockets of earth without repose. The bodies were
covered in their own blankets. Beside the bodies there was a large campfire
surrounded by a circle of stones. A helix of smoldering ash rose from the fire.
The albino said prayers for the dead. He blessed their souls. “And forgave
them the sin of having been born,” said the native woman three years later
when she recalled the violence in a radio interview. “At that time I couldn’t
understand what he meant. But I always knew that he was not crazy.”
They cut the earth with spade until the holes were waist-deep. They
dropped the bodies and mounded the backfill. There were no names. They
marked the first graves with tools the dead left behind, their shovels and
picks, with their hats hanging down from the handles. The wind blew and
they felt the sharp pain of their injuries. The woman guided them to a water
pump where they washed their wounds. They ate the dog.
It was morning. The albino sat on a boulder in his jacket. All over the
ruined camp there were puddles of mercury reflecting the clouds and the
blue sky. There was light fog on the hills. For one day those who belonged
in this territory became no more than a specter. Last night a snake slithered
under the blankets, between the sleeping bodies. It stirred. Then someone
crushed it with a stone. It was no longer stirring.The boy forked the snake’s
cold carcass with a branch of tree and lanced the branch into the earth to
mark the mining camp’s entrance.
They gathered around the boulder. The albino stood on it. He breathed
the cold air. He spread his arms, his palms facing the field. “This,” he said,
“is where God hid His secrets.” In the next days they would take shifts in
ravaging the deep, from early morning to three o’clock and from afternoon
to midnight. He indicated the new place of the tents, how many of them
would be built, and the area for vehicles. He discussed how the explosives
must be handled, the reparation of the processing mills left behind by the
natives, how the ores were to be delivered into the crushing cone, the details
of the rotating rakes, the dimensions of the kiln, the procedure of refining
the metal that would bleed from the rocks, the current market value of gold,
the roles and duties of each man from chief to assayer to bookkeeper to
the lowliest mucker and shoveler, the kinds of devices for transporting the
materials, the shortest route to the nearby lake, the distribution of profit,
and finally the albino talked of paving a road to the highway -- the first road
of that nameless plot of land -- and how it was the beginning of everything
that was to come.
The shadows of clouds slowly passed over the plain. They remade the
crane to carry heavier things. On the boulder, a manuscript was laid down
bearing the layout of their community, which was to consist of several sections:
the mining proper where the ores were extracted from the veins, the adits,
drifts and stopes; the processing plant consisting of gravity concentration
unit, rod mill, cyanidation circuits and mercury amalgamation station; the
tramline for ore transport; the water source, including a blueprint for the
pipeline; the tents for the accommodation of workers; a warehouse for
tools, equipment, supplies, weapons, food, cigarettes and alcohol; the place
for discarded wastes; and the gravesite bearing the markers of the natives
who got there first. “He had a plan,” said the boy who once had leeches on
his legs. “He knew what to do from the start. He knew everything while he
himself remained impossible to know.”
They only had to continue what the natives started. There was a ladder
to the bottom of the shaft. The albino disappeared into the darkness of
the deep and inspected and touched the veins of quartz. He came back
to the surface and the real work started. The men wore boots and hats
and descended by ladder. The albino walked them through the entire
process like a supervisor explaining the details of a factory to students on
tour. Their chisels and carbide lamps were conveyed in a box through the
pulley. Wastes were dumped on the surface and ores were hoisted through
Geronimo 45
the same box. If ores were collected, they were delivered to the plant for
grinding, sorting, sluicing, panning, and melting in crucibles to shape the
gold into ingots. After that, they were ready for trade. But it would be weeks
before they could produce anything substantial.
The day ended. A curtain of darkness descended over the plain.
Their camp was cocooned in the coal-black air. There were no bats, but
there were spirals of insects around. “Something about his color made his
character impenetrable,” said the carpenter. They could smell the effluvium
from the dump. “I could not stand his sight. He’s terrifying to behold. He’s
formidable beyond reckoning.” Nearby there was still the dried carcass of a
snake pierced by a branch of tree, its upturned visage facing the campfire.
One day there were people standing over the hills. What they saw
could no longer be described by the modest word ‘camp’ -- it was a plant,
a compania by the standards of other small-scale mining operations in
the province. The newcomers had pistols. The albino hired them to dig
the stopes in the steep bulge where another level of the vein structure was
found. Then there was a mad surge of miners from other places months
after their settlement. They came in separate groups. They came on foot
and on motorbikes. They came with their wives, children, and cattle. Not
all were accepted into the plant, but the numbers kept increasing during
this period of migration. “It’s a threat to our company,” said a man in the
gang with the amputated leg. “Their arrivals were unplanned, unorganized,
uncontrollable, as if coming here was in their instinct.”
The albino assigned newcomers, some of them already knowledgeable
of the workflow,to perform a petrographic analysis for gold liberation in the
processing section. The others brought more equipment and gas. At night
they turned on the diesel generator to supply light and ventilation because
there was no available electricity. In the dark the plant was lit for the first
time without fire. “I was in a precinct when the albino came to me and
told me to follow him to the path of gold,” said the doctor to an inquiring
newcomer. “You did not argue with him how he knew where it was hid. You
just followed him. Maybe he was already prospecting for exposed quartz
veins long before he gathered us. He had probably been collecting samples
from outcrops long ago because he showed me a high-grade ore prior to
our coming here.”
In one year there were a hundred people in the plant. The men cleared
shrubs and thickets to pave a dirt road connecting the pit to the lake behind
the hills. The field was full of black grime.Signs demarcated the sections
of the plant. “There was a plan when we thought there was none,” said the
boy. “He made these empty acres of land into a town.”
One day a priest arrived through the new road from the highway. He
rode on a motorbike in the blinding heat, across a field that was like a sheet
of ice. He stood at the edge of the town, on top of a hill. Out of the silent and
immense flat earth, the albino and his band of bearded workmen blotted
the landscape with their ape-like figures and, with shovels and picks,
broke stones, plucked weeds and pierced the land. A scene from life out of
paradise. He did not know that metallic ores were lying in the deep around
this part of the valley, near the turbid lake. They tore the land in a round
perimeter, ravaging the center, scraping with shovels. They cast a rampart
of excavated spoil, the rim of the cut at the level of their waists. The basin
deepened, steel against soil, until the sunbeam slanted at the wall of the
shaft and could no longer give light to the bottom. They hit violently. The
men grunted and gave off sweat and went on.
“His paleness was awful,” said the priest to the others in the morning.
“This enterprise is mad because the leader is mad. Did his color make
him mad? Did people’s reactions about his color make him mad? Or were
people made mad by his color?”
The priest sat with the people at night. Lanterns lighted the gathering.
Tables were set up in the common tent, which was the place of their meals.
The priest did not preach just yet. He immersed himself in the flow of
events and busied himself in buildingpersonal relations with the husbands
and wives, the better to gain their trust. The albino stood up and spoke. He
talked about subdividing tasks, unclogging the canals, the need for more
tools. Then he talked about salvation, the nature of God, and man’s place
in the world.
“Not again,” said the carpenter.
The albino gestured like a preacher. “A poet reminds us that our time
on earth is merely the shadowy preface of our reality.”
“Spare us of your lunacy,” another man said.
“They think he’s a madman,” whispered the native woman to the priest.
“But he’s an eloquent madman who is followed by everyone.”
“Speech is the deputy of evil,” said the priest. The woman was
astonished. “I know that something foul happened in this place. There
used to be other people digging this mine. I don’t believe that they all died
Geronimo 47
because of an accident in the pit, as the others tell me.”

The woman told the priest about the massacre. Then there was storm
that night and the downpour ravaged the windblown tents.
The next day, no memory of the storm could be discerned. The town
felt the fullness of the sun. The cloudless air brought an infernal breath and
sucked the wetness out of the soil. The vicissitudes of weather made them
mad. Beyond the town, there was a vast bare ground crisscrossed by old
roads. It was grassless. There were a few wild plants and lizards basking in
the sun. There was a broken tire near the lake. The albino sat on a stump.
He was sharpening a rake. A mother brought her newly born child to him.
Other people remained behind her. The infant’s scream echoed in the open
terrain. The man laid his palm on the child’s head. He closed his eyes. Then
he named the child.
He breathed so deeply they saw his chest expand. He made them sit
around him and he taught them the basic composition of a man. “He is
made of things which could make other things. Even arsenic which could
kill him exists in his own guts.” The albinosmiled. “You could buy the
entire mass of man in separate flasks -- phosphorus, sulfur, elements that I
could also use to make gunpowder. They are bought cheaply in the market.
But rejoice, my friends. Rejoice. We are made priceless because of these
four words: God was made man.”
The priest wondered how the albino commanded loyalty. He did not
know how the people could put up with a preacher who contradicted himself
every time he spoke. “God is the only thing that exists,” the albino had
said. “There is no act of creation.” The following night the albino preached
something that was in direct conflict to the preceding one. “The maker
threw himself into his own creation and died.”The priest realized that the
content of the albino’s teaching was not important. What commanded the
people’s attention was his grand figure, his enchanting certainty in every
contradiction.
“Why did you allow him to baptize your child?” asked the priest to
the mother. “What is in this person that has authority over the soul of your
child?” The mother with the baby told him that the albino understood a lot
of things. Unfortunately, the most dangerous people on earth were those who
understood life more clearly, the priest thought. His characterless character,
his consistent inconsistency -- didn’t this define the albino’s whole person?
Even lawless people followed a law -- their very own. But this man would
not follow his own law. He didn’t have one. Inside his head there were no
rules, no balancing of equations, no capacity for reflection. He lived with no
apprehension for the past or future. He was present time incarnate.
All the rumors about the albino’s person could not be verified
because no one really knew about his identity and origin. Still, the priest
thought, wouldn’t this strategic veil of secrecy preclude madness? What
was it about the skin’s sheer lack of pigment that could take hold of a
person’s mind? What was in the nature of white, the subtle variations in
saturation, the gradation of brightness, the degrees in intensity, the infinite
modifications of the light spectrum -- what was in this thin ethereal layer
of superficiality wrapping his nature that could give away the secret center
of his character?
The fog veiled the mountain range in the east. The radio mast gleamed
from afar. The priest officiated the Eucharist in the community tent. It was
Sunday. The chairs were full and men lined along the canvas. The crowd
reeked of sulfur. A sacristan held a bowl of holy water. The priest preached
before them. The floorboard creaked beneath his feet. There was a stranger
who arrived in town. His car halted outside the tent and interrupted the
proceedings. He carried a suitcase and wore a hat. He was an officer of the
Geosciences Bureau. After the final blessing and before the crowd dispersed
into the field, the officer stood on the floorboard and said, “I came here
because this town is not safe. The water you drink is contaminated with a
high level of mercury.”
Someone asked if thiswas fatal. “Sometimes, yes. In most cases, it
could damage your minds,” the officer said. “Paralysis, blindness, and
sterility are some of its effects.” He proposed that the town be included in
the government registry. He suggested that the mining operations should be
licensed with local and national authorities. He said that it was the only way
his bureau could intervene to remove the hazards. He said the government
would not be hostile to their operations, provided they complied with legal
papers and a few taxes.
That night, someone drilled through his head. The officer’s corpse
lay on the town entrance, beside the hanging carcass of the snake. Written
on the dust were the words, “No thanks”. At sunrise, a crowd gathered
around the body. Flies were already feastingon it. They covered it with old
newspapers. Then the men heard a person working in one of the mining
shafts. The droning sound echoed in the quiet dawn. They wondered
Geronimo 49
who was already working at the mines this early. It was the albino. He was
holding the drilling rig. He was making holes in the ground.
Some people did not ask who killed the officer. The others, with a false
sense of tact, still asked the question because they did not know how to handle
the tension of knowing. The question grew cold on their tongues. Everyone
knew the truth, but no one spoke about it, because they knew that speaking
it out in public could unleash unimaginable horrors. They had to ask, “Who
killed the officer?” in order to hide the fact that they knew the answer.
They dug a new hole in the grave of the natives, placed the body in a
makeshift coffin and marked the grave with his hat. “They’ll know about
this,” the boy told the albino. “Any time now, the big guys will come.” The
albino grinned in his tent. He said, “I will keep things this way.”
That night, the boy talked to the doctor. “He said he would keep things
this way.” The drunken doctor loaded his pistol. When everyone was asleep,
he entered the albino’s tent, determined to do the impossible. The albino
was asleep. He slept without a blanket and shirt. Nearby, the doctor saw a
Polaroid of a young man in crisp coat and tie. Behind him stood a couple in
elegant attire. It was a family picture. The young man’s skin had the color
of ash and his lips were pale. The doctor cocked his pistol and aimed at the
albino’s head. He tried to pull the trigger. He stole a glance at the albino’s
family picture. What on earth was capable of tearing a person so violently
from this old, blissful way of life? he thought. His fingers were tremulous.
His hand was paralyzed in nervousness. Then he hesitated and walked
away back to his own tent.
“There is something unutterably sublime and evil about his visage that
makes me unable to do the act,” wrote the doctor on his diary, which was
later found in the rubble days after the destruction of the town. “The horror
of his color was not an objective thing of nature. His whiteness was a creation
of our own minds. A victim’s memory, preserving a mental copy of the man’s
actual color in a state of shock, with his mind still vulnerable to inexactitude
and exaggeration, would impair the accuracy of his own senses, so much
so that when the victim saw the albino again, he could not see the man as
he really was, but saw his own dread -- a white that was whiter than reality.
To be fair there was nothing special about the man’s condition. He had an
ordinary congenital disorder. But the fear that accompanied his figure was
the reason why the kind of white that was reported by the victims seemed to
be more pure, more dazzling, more intense than his actual color.”
In the morning, the doctor’s body was rotting at the entrance of the
town, where the officer previously lay. His skull was shot. The style of the
injury revealed that the gun’s tip came in contact with his head. The enraged
priest condemned the deaths. He spoke during the mass attended by half
of the community. “Truly, murder is nothing compared to the formation of
a whole town,” he said.
The shadows of clouds stained the barren plain. There were no
trees. Brown weeds and grass waved in the thick air. A group of men was
sharpening their blades in the tents. The noon was solemn. There were
ripples of heat over the cornfield where a row of transmission towers
disappeared into the distance. The clouds in the mountains were globed
and godlike and appeared to throw their immense weight on the rolling
hills. Tobacco smoke roiled in the big canvas tent among the crowded
congregation. The tent was swollen with people. The priest said that the
murderer should confess his sins. “And as for you, chief of this town, tread
the earth softly if you do not want to awaken the wrath of God.”
The wind blew over the vast arid region. The sacristan tolled the bell.
It was dusk. A blue bolt of lightning zigzagged between the interminable air
and the level ground. Someone found a dead serpent in one of the tents and
hung its carcass at the town entrance. The albino sat on a boulder near the
graves, showing two young men the blueprint of a tramline. There was no
sound around them except that of an old woman praying the novena in one
of the tents. The two young men sat before the albino and listened.
A figure stirred in the darkness. It was singing. The figure sat on the
grave, leaning on the shovel, which marked the native chief ’s grave. It
had a rope around its neck. Its hair was long and disheveled. The skin
was pale and ghostly. The two young men ran screaming to the tent of the
elders. The albino talked to the figure in rags, who was neither man nor
woman in appearance. It was sitting with folded legs, the knees touching
the chest. It was holding a pinwheel. The colored veins slowly twirled in
the air.
“Poor creature of earth,” it sang. Its gaze was directed at the empty
space while holding the pinwheel to the level of its head. “His rise is as
quick as his fall. Better that he had never been born.” It laughed. Its voice
was neither man nor woman. It laughed at the top of its lungs. It laughed
beyond its human capacity to laugh. Its hand held the pinwheel firmly, like
a child holding the string of a balloon. “Behold the man.”The pinwheel
Geronimo 51
continued to turn. “His rise, as quick as his fall. Better that he had never
been born.”
“Are you really prophesying?” said the albino. Then hemockedthe
figure and asked it to predict the future.
The figure laughed. It laughed so hysterically it dropped its pinwheel
and pounded on the earth with its hand. “Truly, the hereafter is deeper than
the infernal regions.” It laughed and pounded on the earth. “Don’t concern
yourself with ‘after’, fool. Now is the moment.The wise merely reads what
is already in the heart of people. Don’t you hear yet the sound of knives
being sharpened? Someone is already plotting your fall. The guns are keen
to make noise. All knives want to spill blood. Bombs dream of nothing else
but explosion. But man, that fickle-minded wretch – he tosses and turns in
bed at night, unable to act on his dark purpose.”
There was a gathering in the community tent that night. The priest was
preaching from a lectern. He told them about the doctrine of salvation, the
need for confession, and the importance of examining one’s conscience.
The albino entered, accompanied by the boy and the carpenter. There
were murmurs, and then silence. The chairs were occupied so they stood
along the canvas wall with the others.
The boy poked the carpenter with a branch of tree. A fight ensued.
One scratched with his nails, the other bit with his teeth. It was staged to
deliberately create a commotion. During the brawl, someone was spilling
fuel on the ground from a jug. The priest got off from the lectern. The
albino was loading his pistol. The other men tried to stop the brawl. The
albino said, “All the dead must be grinning now.”
The oil spilled all over the ground. Someone threw a cigarette. There
was sudden hissing and bursting into flame before it hit the floor. The
people ran -- husbands, wives, old women, and children ran with their
burning skirts and pants. The flame fed on the floorboard and plastic
chairs. The canopy and tarpaulin walls of the tent cupped the fire like a
hand. They battled the blaze with blankets. They screamed and coughed in
black smoke. No one saw the light across the hills. No one heard the town.
The people fetched pails of water from the well, from the pump, from the
lake. The albino fired from his pistol. The people spread in all directions,
uncoordinated and confused. The albino sought the priest’s head, but the
priest disappeared into the crowd. The others shoveled dirt and sand into
the fire. The surrounding field was quiet and undisturbed. The gentle
air stirred the grass. The albino -- he looked for the priest, firing his gun
every now and then. The people screamed and coughed. They spread in
all directions. The albino chased the priest. The priest ran. The albino
fired from his pistol. The bullet missed. The albino fired again. The priest
crouched and the bullet hit someone else.
The blaze was bright. The community tent burned the other
surrounding tents. The albino looked for the priest in the crowd. The other
members of the gang fired bullets in the air. They said traitors would be
killed. The native woman, crouching behind the carpenter, swung her blade
and wounded the carpenter. He fell and his wristwatch clinked against the
rock. Still unable to comprehend the suddenness of the attack, still unable
to feel the pain of the fatal injury, the carpenter’s other hand proceeded to
check the wristwatch if it was broken, even though he was already panting
for his final breath. He remembered that it was worth three thousand pesos
and that he was in love with the lady who sold it to him from a pawnshop.
Then death veiled his eyes.
The albino looked for the priest. The priest hid in one of the tents.
Meanwhile, more tents were caught in the spreading fire. An old man
retrieved a box of high-grade ores and bills under his bed, and then his
grandchildren never saw him again. Amidst the fury, there were men
wielding knives and guns. One of them shot a member of the gang named
John. In the neighboring village, John’s mother was preparing for his bed
sheet and was expecting her son to visit tonight after receiving a letter from
him last week. John’s mother would never know why her son did not
come home, would never know that a bullet pierced his heart. Death
veiled his eyes.
The boy among the gang wielded a pistol and shot a man in the neck.
The man was named Gideon. He fell on the dust and his knife clinked
against a stone. He was abandoned on the spot as the others ran. A female
stranger tried to nurse him. Gideon held her face and pulled it close to him.
He looked at her and imagined it was the face of his wife, who left him a long
time ago, saying in his mind what he could not say now because the bullet
was in his throat, that he was sorry he could not save their daughter when
she drowned. The stranger pulled herself away from his gaze. Then death
veiled his eyes.
There was a man who tried to save as many people as he could, but
he was hit on the chest by a stray bullet from the gun of one of those who
Geronimo 53
rebelled against the gang. He slumped on a boulder, saying the name of

his wife who was in another country, where it was morning, and who did
not know that her husband was dying on a rock while she lied down on a
bed with another man. Death veiled his eyes. A young girl of eleven tried
to look for her mother in the crowd. Then a male figure took her hand
and forced her to come with him on a motorcycle. She bit his hand and he
strangled her. Then death veiled her eyes. An old woman thought she saw
her husband re-enter the burning tents. For one moment, she forgot that
her husband had died long ago. Everyday she would tell herself that her
dead husband would eventually come home, and now her self-deception
materialized. She jumped into the fire, thinking she was following him, and
then death veiled her eyes. A man from the gang tried to escape with the
truck. He turned the vehicle on, but someone was already hiding behind
the driver’s seat, waiting for him to come, and cut his throat with a knife.
The last thing he saw was the town burning through the windshield, the
wipers swinging left and right. Then death veiled his eyes. Nearby, another
man was pointing a knife to a member of the gang. He was about to swing
the blade when a figure -- either man or woman wearing a garment of rags, a
rope tied to its neck -- appeared at his peripheral vision. He turned his gaze
and saw that it was holding a pinwheel. The figure gave out a loud laugh.
He looked back at his enemy, but it was too late, because a steel rod had
pierced his belly. He fell down and death veiled his eyes.
The albino checked every tent. He no longer knew why it was so
important to shoot the priest with his gun amidst all the panic, but he
still pursued this objective. It was true that killing the priest now would
no longer count in the scale of damage that was wrought. But as a captain
blinded with rage would prefer to harpoon the most insolent fish in the
sea than save himself from the sinking ship, so did the albino proceed to
this end. This town was his ship, and now that it was subsiding back to the
ground, he would just do what was still within his grasp.
“I guess we just have to accept the fact that this man could never be
grasped,” one of the men who once lived in the town said in the radio, many
days later, during the investigationand manhunt. The optic paradox of
colorlessness itself being a color, its instantiation as an apotheosis on the
body of a man, embodied the enigma of the albino’s personality. “When
you looked at him, you only saw his appearance. Try to see into his soul
and you will fail. Was he a drug addict? No. Did political enemies of the
provincial governor and his allies sponsor his actions? No. He upset
everyone indiscriminately. Was he a religious fanatic? He believed in God
but also seemed to have the conviction that actions, including his own and
the founding of that town, were without meaning and were not part of some
grand design. Was he blinded by gold and money? I shouldn’t think so. He
looked like he was not greedy for anything. He looked like he was doing it
for a pure and obscene enjoyment, a horrifying and primitive enjoyment
that superseded all categories of what an ordinary man could enjoy in civic
life.”
The town continued to burn. The stock of explosives ignited,
claiming with it their supply of alcohol and food. Ashes rained down
upon the scattering crowd. The manuscripts containing the blueprint for
improvements in the mining plant burned. The family picture in the albino’s
tent burned. Some men ravaged the processing mill to look for ores of gold.
Then they ran across the field carrying the ores and a few possessions. The
fire reached the cranes. The structures of timber collapsed and jammed
the shafts. Someone was asphyxiated in the fumes. Tons of waste stank of
heated metal and acid. The rope and pulley lifting the pail from the shaft
burned. The supply of tobacco, which the keeper tried to ration for the
entire community, burned. The sacks of corn and rice, which were holed
all over by mice, burned. A chair rocked back and forth in the wind, as it
usually did at this hour when the owner was alive, and burned. The beds,
still hollow with the weight of bodies now absent, burned.
It was daybreak. The fire died down. There was gradual brightening on
the field. The albino said he would keep things this way. The boy said they
were coming, the big guys with guns and tanks. The plain was deserted,
save by members of the gang. It was morning. The mining pit stank. The
boy said they were coming, the big guys with guns and tanks. They would
exact their warrant, forfeit what they did not own. Far away, in other villages,
schools were beginning to raise their flags for the morning ceremony. The
boy cried and deep in his heart he knew that all societies were founded in
blood. The albino said he would keep things this way. Outside the town, a
lizard feasted on the dried carcass of the snake, its calm visage appeared to
watch the burning. The town sunk in horror. The albino grinned. He said
he would keep things this way. The boy said they were coming.
Years later, the priest stood on a pulpit. It was the anniversary of
a bombing that happened in the city business district. The provincial
Geronimo 55
governor, mayor and their officials were present in the front rows. The
culprit had not been caught and identified. “Our misfortunes are neither
punishment nor a message from the Lord. The meaninglessness of our
catastrophes -- isn’t this what the Book of Job is all about?” The people
in the church were suddenly rapt. “There was a man--” he started. The
people looked. He paused, hesitating to recall. Then he shook off his train
of thought. Through all these years, the tongue could still not limn the edges
of terror. He had seen things that were beyond comprehension. How could
he, with mortal knowledge, be permitted in homily to say that there was no
sin in man’s heart except the sin of having been born? He wept -- wept for
the uttermost degradation of all that was good. He lingered in doubt, and
lulled the crowd with a more comforting anecdote.
Three Kisses
Ma. Elena L. Paulma
T
hese mornings, Nina awakened not just from the cold
that numbed her nose, but also from a deep sense of loss,
of something missing or forgotten, the cause of which
took her some time to remember, perhaps because she
did not want to. The cold, although still unbearable,
she had learned to live with, but this new sadness which
greeted her even before she opened her eyes bewildered her, so that her first
consciousness was always that of confusion.
On this her first morning back from the hospital, she wondered at
how this bed she was lying on and the gray ceiling above her had remained
unchanged. Slowly, so as not to awaken the sleeping man beside her, she
turned her head a little so that her eyes just made out the closed door, next
to which stood the walnut wardrobe, brought all the way from the old house.
Inside would be clothes, his on the left side and hers on the right, neatly
folded and hung, carefully arranged according to their colors. Facing the
bed was the window. Outside, the flower shrubs that lined the path toward
the entrance of the apartment building would be covered with December
snow by now, for the flakes had begun to fall last night as they were coming
inside. The half-light of the early morning filtered through the coral blue
curtains which she had chosen for this room, half-drawn across the window
to satisfy both her need for it to be pulled back completely and his desire for
it to be fully drawn. Ruben had packed the old beige curtains from the old
house, but she had insisted that they buy new ones for the apartment.
Paulma 57
She turned her head away from him, sleepily aware of the hazy outlines
of the nightstand to her left, on which resided a lamp and a small picture
frame standing a little askew. She had dusted and looked at this picture
so many times before that she could remember each detail even without
looking at it. In it was a photo of a couple during happier times, the younger
version of herself smiling up at the man who now lay beside her.
The glass surface of the picture reflected some of the glow from the
nightlight which was plugged behind the nightstand. Both of them could
not sleep in the dark. She had discovered this on their first night together in
the old house at Kessel-lo.
“Can we keep this on?” she had asked, pointing at the lamp that stood
on the nightstand, and speaking slowly, for he was just learning how to speak
in English. She had been dismayed when he shook his head, “Nee, nee.” He
bent down behind the nightstand, and there was a click. The sudden glare
from the nightlight made his hair look whiter, tracing the smaller wrinkles
on his lined face. He turned off the lamp on the table, casting his face in
shadow, and for a moment, she had wondered if she had done the right
thing.
That had been all of two years ago, she realized with some surprise.
When they first met, she had been 62 years old and about to retire from
her third managing stint in another dying hotel in Cebu. The daughter of
Mrs. Borromeo, owner of The Penthouse, had already begun scolding the
staff about the baduy arrangement of the seats in the lobby, asking who on
earth had told them to put bougainvilleas on the steps leading toward the
entrance. Next, she had complained about the bottomless iced tea in the
menu. Later, it was the way the napkins had been folded during a wedding
reception. The staff had wanted to protect Nina, but they were helpless
against the irate questioning of Miss Boromeo.
“Madam Nina told us to, Ma’am,” they had to say.
She had been in a similar situation before. The wife, or sister, or
daughter would note how well she got along with the owner and the staff,
and how much power she was given over the hotel, and the complaints
would begin. She had always been offered a job by one or another of the
hotel owners who had become her friends, but at her age, she was not sure
anymore if she would still be offered another job in the same position. Nina’s
friends, hoteliers like her, had set her up with Ruben, who was a friend of
the husband of a friend of a friend now living somewhere in Europe. One
day, she had received a letter from a Ruben Peeters, from 15 Stratenhaus,
Kessel-lo, Belgium.
“We gave him your address!” They had all exclaimed at the emergency
get-together that had been arranged on account of the letter.
“And your picture,” added Susan, the one closest to her. Nina was
meticulous with her looks, making sure to dye her short curls and to dress
in the smartest outfits. It was mostly her vivacious warmth, however, that
drew others to her.
“He must have been bowled over!” cried another one, and everyone
had laughed.
“You shouldn’t have!” she had scolded, looking at the fair-skinned,
white-haired, blue-eyed man in the picture that had been included in the
letter.
“Dear Saturnina,” she had read to her nieces gathered around her bed,
and they had giggled at the way she read her full name with a grimace. One of
them had grabbed the picture and said, “Hmmm, not bad. And he’s young,
Auntie, only seventy years old.” And everyone had burst into laughter as
the picture was passed around. His English had not been perfect but she
had answered the second letter, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to have a Belgian
pen friend. Susan’s daughter had married a German. She had sent Susan
enough money to renovate their house. All of Susan’s friends, including
Nina, had gone to the house blessing, where Susan made sure everyone
saw the numerous pictures of her daughter in front of beautiful castles
and gardens all over Europe. Said daughter had come home looking very
glamorous in her European clothing and make-up, handing out lipstick and
perfume, and treating everyone to a night at the Casino.
Nina was drawn to the Casino. She loved riding up to the Cebu Plaza
Hotel with her friends, alighting at the glass doors and taking the escalator
that led them to an arched entrance on the second floor where, in their
pearls and georgette blouses, they would stand in excited anticipation as
they surveyed the ballroom sized Casino, the green carpet on its expansive
floor muting the clinking of trolleys that held chips for the card games
and coins for the slot machines over which hovered a haze of smoke. Nina
preferred the slot machines, even when the round tipped metal lever that
made a satisfying growl at every turn evolved into the red and green buttons
that one could press at a higher speed. The excitement was the same, as
the images rolled on the round screen and the boxes fell into place, the
Paulma 59
ding ding as the credits multiplied every time two or three of the images
matched. She often ran out of coins, and spent more than she had planned,
but she always came back for more because who knows, the next roll might
hit the jackpot, and she wasn’t one to miss her chances.
Ruben had replied to her first letter, and began calling her long distance
after three months. Somehow, she had gotten through the conversations,
feeling exhausted after listening closely to Ruben’s thickly accented
Flemish-English. When he sent her a ticket to Belgium, her friends had
shrieked in delight and inundated her with outfits, her nieces giggling as
she modelled them around the bedroom.
He looked shorter than she had imagined as he stood waiting for her at
the Brussels airport terminal, holding a placard that clearly spelled out her
name: Saturnina Dimaculangan. She winced at the unglamorous vowels,
but gave him her dimpled smile nevertheless. They shook hands and she
had turned on her famous charm. Ruben’s face was red from laughing when
they arrived at his house. Some of his friends were there, with their Filipina
wives, to welcome her.
“Hallo!” They all gathered around her, shaking her hand. Some of the
wives laughingly showed her the Belgian kiss. Once, on the right cheek,
another on the left, and yet another one on the right cheek again. She was
delighted at their niceness, especially when she discovered that some of
them also came from the outlying towns of Cebu. After a while, Ruben had
taken her away from the excited Bisayan babble, and shown her around his
house, which was a sprawling bungalow with large bay windows that looked
out onto the green grass that surrounded it. She had been dazzled by the
perfectly mown front lawn lined with well-trimmed hedges. She had looked
in wonder as he showed her the back of the house, the grass as perfect as
the front lawn’s. Tall cypress trees marked what Ruben said was the edge of
a mini-forest. She had fallen in love.
The next day, he took her around Kessel-lo, showing her the lovely
bluegray-roofed Arenberg castle which stood stately pink amid the rolling
green university grounds. He took her for a walk around the Provincial
Domein, a huge park with tree-lined paths and white ducks swimming in
clear, green ponds. She was enchanted.
“Will you marry me?” Ruben had asked on the fourth night during
dinner at the hotel where she was staying. Nina’s thoughts often came in
images, floating about, following no particular order, and she pondered
on Ruben’s proposal this way. She thought of the faded old house left
behind by her first husband, its windows perpetually closed to keep out the
unrelenting dust and smoke from the busy highway next to which it stood,
its first floor well below street level after several highway constructions. The
house would be flooded at the merest rainfall for it sat next to a creek. She
thought of growing old all alone there in that house, for her son now lived
with his wife and four children, and her nieces and nephews would soon be
marrying and starting their own families. She thought of having to hunt for
another job and the slim chance of her ever getting work again on account
of her age. She thought of living on the pittance that would be her SSS
pension. Then she thought of living in Ruben’s sprawling house with its
romantic mini-forest right there in their own backyard. They would sit in
the red bricked patio, drink hot chocolate at night, and breakfast on hot
coffee and rolls in the morning. During weekends, they could stroll around
that nice huge park with the white ducks swimming in the clean ponds,
the tall trees waving above their heads. She thought of coming home to
the Philippines from time to time in her glamorous new look with huge
balikbayan boxes, and how she would show her friends and family, and yes,
even Mrs. Borromeo’s daughter, pictures of herself standing in front of that
castle Ruben had shown her, or in the middle of one of the gardens which
she would surely be visiting around Europe. Last but not least, she thought
of not being alone anymore. She had been a widow for close to twenty years.
Having someone nice like Ruben to talk to in the evenings and sharing these
growing-old days with was not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.
“Yes, I will,” she answered. Laughing, he had told her he had practiced
this question over and over again in English.
She had laughed with him, saying again, “Ja, I will marry you.” And he
had been delighted at her use of the Flemish word for “yes.”
He did not make any protestations of undying love, and she liked that
about him. She thought they understood each other better this way. It was
honest. These days, and at their age, it made sense to just be practical about
things. Rather than living alone apart, why not grow old together? She
vowed to use all her hotelier skills in cooking and housekeeping at Ruben’s
home. He would not be able to live without her after he tasted her special
lumpia.
Ruben had packed his bags and come home with her to the Philippines.
They got married at the Cebu City Hall, with Susan and her husband as
Paulma 61
witness. Her only son had been nonplussed, her friends delighted, her
relatives surprised but pleased, and she had been happy and excited.
Everyone was rolling on high expectations because a better life for one
meant a better life for all. This was tradition. There had been a round of
despedida parties after that.
“Why are you always so lucky? Congratulations and happy trip!” her
friends had cried, hugged, and kissed her on both cheeks, a touch of envy in
their eyes. “Find us another one like Ruben!” they had cried half-jokingly,
half-seriously.
“We will miss you, Madam Nina!” her staff had written on a streamer,
some of them in tears as they gave their farewell speeches.
Her son and daughter-in-law, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, brothers,
and sisters had gone to the Mactan airport to send them off. There was a lot
of crying and hugging and kissing at boarding time, Ruben included. He,
too, had been moved by the excess of affection all around, so different from
the Belgian way. He told Nina, when they were on board the plane, that he
would like to come back and visit again. His eyes were moist when he said it.
“We love you, Lola! We will miss you, Auntie! You take care and write
to us often.”
As she lay on her marital bed on this cold Belgian morning, Nina
swallowed the familiar lump that rose in her throat every time she
remembered her big, noisy family. She now turned her head to the right,
and watched the sleeping face of her husband. He looked old and tired. It
had been a long time since she had watched him like this. He was always
the first one to awaken, from a habit of waking up early for his daily duty
as a policeman. She was used to waking up early herself, but these Belgian
mornings took a little getting used to, not even after two years. Their first
quarrel had been about the heater.
“Turn it up!’ she had taken to using simple phrases so he could
understand, gesticulating and pointing at the thermostat on the wall next to
his side of the bed. “Nee, nee!” he would answer, shaking his head.
She would get up in silence, put on more clothes, get back to bed, and
lie on her side with her back turned to him. Sometimes, he would sigh,
get up, and turn the thermostat up. But sometimes, for some unnameable
reason, he wouldn’t. These were the times when she would silently cry
herself to sleep, feeling like an unwanted guest in a stranger’s house, wishing
she was not so far away from home.
There was, however, a time shortly after they had flown back to Belgium,
when she dared not cross him in any way. This was after their visit to the
bank. She and Ruben had gone to the bank to check the safety deposit box
which held all of his savings. She had gone with him into the inner room
where there were rows of cabinets with rows of little numbered drawers.
There he was with his key before one of the drawers, telling her how he had
looked forward to finally enjoying the money he had been saving all these
years, boasting a little about the bank’s security system. He slipped the key
into the slot, and drew out the box. When he opened the lid, it was empty.
She could still remember his face, red creeping up from his neck as he
swore, she was sure, even though it was in Flemish. It was the first time
she had seen him lose his politeness, and it scared her a little. Ruben had
told her how much was in the box, and the money amounted to more than
a few million in pesos. First, he called to the bank officer standing outside
the door, and spoke rapidly, gesticulating. The officer shook his head,
also speaking rapidly. She had followed Ruben as he stormed into a room
marked “Manager”, but after another fiery Flemish exchange, the manager
shook his head apologetically. Then they had gone to the police station.
Ruben had looked exhausted by this time, and the police, some of whom
were his friends, had patted him in the back, and spoken to him quietly
until he clamed down. He almost filed a case against the bank, but the bank
people had said that the safety deposit box could only have been emptied
by a legitimate holder of one of the keys. Only his previous wife held the key
and she was dead.
Nina, too, had been devastated. She had just gotten married and the
whole clan back home had already seen pictures of her nice new home and
her lovely new life. The images in Nina’s mind mocked her: the balikbayan
box filled with Belgian chocolates for her grandchildren, European scarves
for her sisters, shirts for her brothers, and trinkets for her nieces, the dinner
of grilled, boiled and sautéed seafood with the whole clan at Sutokil, her
treat. She sighed. There was always the balut at the Fuente plaza.
Ruben barely ate nor slept for a long time after that. Sometimes, he
would walk around the house opening drawers and closets, boxes and
bags, tapping on walls and floors. Sometimes, he would sit in the living
room without moving, just staring out the window. When he spoke, it was
always about what had happened at the bank, beginning in English, and
progressing to angry Flemish. Nina would learn that, owing to a deprived
Paulma 63
childhood, Ruben had tried to live a well-planned and well-executed life, in

command of everything, from his career to his first marriage, right up to his
retirement savings. She learned of it slowly.
“Don’t wear make-up anymore. You’re just wasting your möney and
eet’s not healthy anyway. Not goodt.” She had said, “Ja,” and had stopped
wearing make-up, to humor him at this time of misery.
“You should eat less vlees and more groente. Eet’s healthier. Vlees not
goodt.” She had said, “Ja,” and had stopped eating meat, to placate him at
this difficult time, consuming more vegetables than she had ever eaten while
growing up in her father’s small farm in Liloan, Cebu.
She could not buy any food for herself anyway. Belgian husbands, she
discovered, did not let the wives handle the money. She had married into
the wrong nationality.
He was very impatient with her while he taught her the Flemish
language. “Goeiendag” was easy to learn for that’s what he would say every
morning while nudging her awake at exactly seven o’clock, which was the
worst part of the day in her opinion. Soon, she was able to say, “Nee, nee”
in perfect Flemish fashion, with an irritable “Alstublieft” (please) when he
would persist and she was still sleepy. The phrase she liked best was “Ik
begrijp het neit” for it shut him up. It meant, “I don’t understand.”
Nina looked upon herself as a very patient and fairly tolerant and
forgiving person. But this individual she was living with would not let her be.
He was everywhere she was, telling her what to do and what not to do, from
the time she woke up to the last conscious moment before she turned to the
merciful blankness of sleep. She turned to her rags, wiping the windows,
the divan, chairs and tables in the living room, each crystal droplet on the
chandeliers, each rung, armrest and foot of each wooden chair in the dining
room, the surface of the formal dining table, the four carved legs of the
dining table, crawling down on all fours to wipe the surface under the table.
She wiped the top of the kitchen sink, the sides of it, the grooves between
the tiles, every can, bottle, and canister she could find in every cupboard.
Ruben would follow her around, thrusting the Windex spray for surfaces at
her face and saying, “Use this! Use this!” to which she would reply, “Ik begrijp
het neit,” turning away from him to wipe the kitchen table all over again. He
would shut up with a perplexed look because he had spoken in English.
Sometimes, she would stand by the window and watch the silent, empty
street outside, missing the jeepneys, the smoke and the dust, even the stray
dogs that plied the busy highway she had once wanted to escape from.
None of those who had married foreign husbands, even Susan’s daughter,
had spoken about the long, cold days that seemed to stretch and stretch,
one day merging into the next in a perfect pattern of sameness that mirrored
the uniform hedges lining the immaculate streets. Ruben was a prostate
cancer survivor. His doctors had told him to take it easy after his trip to the
Philippines, so aside from the few trips to nearby Leuven City, they seldom
went anywhere beyond the town limits of Kessel-lo. It was not long before
she stopped taking pictures of the single castle or watching the ducks as
they swam in the park pond, a perfectly bored look on their beaked faces.
It took Ruben a long time to get over his loss. There was not a speck of
dust in the house, and all the cupboards sported perfectly aligned cans in
alphabetical order.
“I worked hard and scrimped and saved – and now the money is all
gone, just like that,” he would moan in broken English, smattered with a
lot of Flemish, only a few words of which she could understand. Then, he
would call the bank and swear into the phone, in Flemish, but she could tell
from his tone. She felt his agony, oh how she felt it like it was hers. This went
on until she told him one day, “Ruben, I am learning more curse words
every time you call the bank.”
“Really?” he asked, using the English he had learned from her. “Really,”
she replied, and she proceeded to curse him in perfect Flemish.
Things had gotten better after that until the day they visited his daughter.
Ruben seldom saw his son and daughter, and they rarely called. The family
came together only for Christmas dinner, and the gatherings were always
minus the son. On Christmas day, a few months after the discovery of the
empty safety deposit box, they had gone to Ida’s place. Ruben and his son-
in-law were drinking after-dinner beer in one corner of the living room
when Ruben stood up, so suddenly, that everyone turned to look at them.
“My wife gave the key to my son?” Ruben had spoken quietly, his face
slowly reddening.
His daughter started to step out of the room, but he turned to her and
said, “And you split the money between the two of you?” Ida glared at her
husband, but she did not deny her father’s accusation. Then, as if making
up her mind, she turned to her father, showing all the bitterness she had
been hiding behind her polite smile. “We had to. Otherwise, all of it will
go to your new…wife.” she had said in English, not looking at Nina. “That
Paulma 65
is our money, too…and….and so is the house! You better sell it. We want
our share. You better sell it or we will sue,” so saying, she had stomped out
of the room. Nina could not remember all that was said. Ruben did not say
much, but his face had been very red. He just looked at them all, and they all
looked back at him in silence. And she just knew it was time to go.
“I will face them in court,” Ruben had fumed that night, cursing again
in Flemish. Nina’s pride was hurt. She was not going to let them think that
she had married this Belgian for his money alone. “Ruben, going to court
would be such a waste of money and effort on our part. We cannot maintain
this place anymore, anyway. Why don’t we just sell it, and give them their
share. Besides, it is too big for the two of us. We can always stay in a smaller
apartment. Easier to clean.” Nina suddenly felt too old for all the excitement
that was happening. All she had wanted was a nice, quiet life.
“Let us just get this over with and let us live in peace,” she had said
to Ruben.
She had cried inside when the last of their belongings had been packed
into the moving van and they drove away from the place she had fallen in
love with. The apartment in Heverlee was smaller, just one among many
in a building which was occupied mostly by old or dying Belgians. With
this second loss, things in the Peeters household went back to what had
become normal, with Ruben following Nina around carrying his spray and
muttering in Flemish, as the apartment glowed from all the cleaning. Time
was the only thing Nina had in abundance. That, and a cranky old Belgian
husband. Too much time, in her opinion, for it made her think. Nina had
grown up believing in commitment and in saving face. Going home a
divorced woman, a poor divorced woman, at her age was unthinkable. It
had a ring of defeat to it. And Nina had always been a winner, the one with
the better life than all her siblings, the manager of hotels in the city, the wife
of a dollar-earning seaman, the generous giver of gifts. No, there was no way
she could go home now. But the thought was there, peeping at her from
behind her husband’s white hair, lurking in the shadows of their bedroom
closet, beckoning to her in broad daylight as she stared out the window
like a caged bird. Ruben and Nina perfected their politeness, to each other
and to the world outside. Often, Ruben’s friends would invite the couple to
their homes for early evening avondmaal. Whenever this happened, Nina
put on the clothes she had brought from the Philippines, and the women
would go ooh and aah, asking her where she had gotten such nice clothes for
there was not much to choose from in quiet Heverlee. She quickly became
friends with the Filipina wives who started calling her Ma’am Nina even
before a new arrival from the Philippines recognized her.
“Madam Nina!” Claire had exclaimed.
“Why, it’s Claire! Kumusta?”
Claire had turned to the others and proudly said, “Madam Nina was
my manager at the Hotel Miranda.” All the others exclaimed at this for most
of them came from the barrios of Cebu. Nina shushed them, saying, “Let’s
have none of that here.” She had meant it. Unofficially, though, she became
their Ma’am Nina, the one they turned to every time they had problems of
any sort. Nina obliged, used to a role which had always been hers from way
back home.
After one such party, Brent and his Filipina wife, Pacita, brought Nina
and Ruben home. She had told Pacita that she missed eating meat and
Pacita had wrapped a piece of biftek, placing it into Nina’s “bring-home”
bag. Ruben politely asked them into the house for an elixir, but he was in
one of his moods, Nina could tell. She was grateful to whoever had invented
the unfailing politeness of Belgians, for it gave her some respite from his
picker-snicketing. But she found she had concluded too hastily. Ruben had
followed her into the kitchen after settling their visitors in the living room.
“Why do you have to take home food! It does not look good! Do you
want them all to think that we don’t have food of our own?” he began. Nina
was regretting having taught him so much English. She was beginning to
understand him.
“It is a Filipino custom to give food to your guests after a party. It’s
called “bring-home,” she had said, holding it up. He grabbed the paper
bag and opened it. Lifting the meat from the wrapper, he held it close to
her face.
“I told you not to eat vlees anymore,” so saying, he flicked on the disposal
chute in the sink and looking at Nina, threw in the meat, bag, and wrapper.
Nina gaped at him, unbelieving. She turned and walked out of the
kitchen, calling to Pacita who stood up from where she was seated in the
living room. Taking Pacita’s hand, Nina pulled her towards the kitchen.
Ruben had followed her out, but he had to stay in the living room with
his guest because it was impolite to leave him alone for too long. Nina felt
like telling her husband where he could stick his politeness. As soon as the
kitchen door swung close, Nina turned to Pacita.
Paulma 67
“I wan to get out of here!” she whispered fiercely. Pacita reached out to
hold her hands, saying, “Ma’am Nina, what’s the matter?”
“Di na ko! Di na jud ko!” she continued, using Bisayan in both relief
and exasperation.
“Is it Ruben?”
“I cannot understand him at all! Di na ko!”
“Why, what happened?” Pacita asked, drawing Nina towards a kitchen
chair.
Nina pointed to the disposal chute. “Thank you for the biftek. At least
one Belgian cockroach family will be happy tonight.”
“Hesusmaryosep! What has gotten into Mr. Ruben! But you know, my
first husband was like that also, Ma’am Nin. Okay, what can I do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think.”
“Listen,” Pacita began, “Brent is coming over tomorrow.” And they had
hatched a plan in the kitchen, the first of many.
Nina did not speak to Ruben that night, and he was quite eager to
welcome Brent when he came back the next day. Pacita winked at Nina
as they entered the apartment. The two women went immediately to the
kitchen, leaving the men in the living room.
“Are you ready ?” Pacita asked excitedly.
“I am! But first, let me get my millions.” Nina rolled her eyes at Pacita
as she reached up and opened the corner cupboard which held the coffee
beans. She took out a can marked Anheuser Busch InBev, a brewing
company in the city of Leuven, where Pacita and she were planning to go. It
was a major city two miles from the town of Heverlee.
“I had to fish this out of the garbage bin, you know. That husband of
mine is garbage crazy!” She pried open the can with a spoon and reached
inside.
“Tadaaa!” she cried as she proudly held out a hand filled with rolled bills
and some coins saved surreptitiously after market days. Pacita clapped her
hands, singing, “Let’s go shooopping!” And they stepped out of the kitchen.
“We’re thinking of making Tomates aux Crevettes!” Pacita sang as the
kitchen door swung close behind them. Both men in the living room simply
raised their hands and gave a thumbs-up sign because it was a favorite
Belgian appetizer.
“Problem is, we’re out of fresh tomatoes and shrimps,” Pacita
continued.
“I think we have some in the refrigerator,” Ruben said, his eyes directed
somewhere between Pacita and his wife.
“We checked them and they’re almost spoiled.” Nina confirmed,
looking between her husband and Brent. She had made sure to place them
way at the back of the freezer for she could not bear to dump them down the
disposal chute, which had been their first wild idea.
“Then let’s buy some,” said Brent, turning back to Ruben. Ruben said
nothing.
“So drive me to the shop,” Pacita told her husband.
“You know how to drive, don’t you?” Brent responded.
“You know I can’t drive when I’m alone in the car. It makes me nervous,”
said Pacita. “If you don’t want to take me, perhaps Ruben can?”
“Brent and I are not finished yet. Why don’t you and Nina go,” Ruben
replied, beginning to sound impatient.
“Is that okay with you, Nina?” Pacita asked innocently.
“Okay,” said Nina, her voice calm and cool, as if she couldn’t care less
if she went or stayed, as if her heart was not beating fast.
They walked slowly past their husbands as Pacita said, “Oh, I hope
there will be some fresh tomatoes and shrimps at the town market!’
“I know. Last week we had to go to Leuven,” Nina said loudly, putting
on her coat. “I sure hope we don’t have to do that!”
Pacita opened the door. “Brrr, it’s so cold outside!” Pacita shivered,
intimating that she would rather have stayed inside. The men could see
her from where they were seated. She stepped outside, then suddenly, as if
she had forgotten something, she turned and called to her husband, “Oh,
Brent, we might have to go to Leuven for the shrimps! We’ll be back soon!”
and she shut the door, before anyone could say anything.
They hurried to the car and got in. Turning to each other, they did
high fives and cried, “Yes!!!”
The minute the car turned toward the main road, Nina and Pacita let
out a whoop. Nina lifted her arms and waved her hands at the sky, loving
the brown road, the wide expanse of green on both sides, the occasional
trees and buildings, the sheer absence of the insufferable man she was stuck
with.
These brief get-aways occurred more than once, especially during
the times when Nina felt the urge to run as far away from her husband as
possible. Pacita, who was two decades younger than Nina, became Nina’s
Paulma 69
accomplice. They enjoyed the planning and subterfuge as much as the trip
itself which had to last for but a few hours, with Ruben waiting for their
return. For Nina, these were reminders of earlier times when she could just
get up and go without having to ask another person if it was okay that she
step out for a while, without being asked, where are you going? for how
long? with whom? why? what are you going to do? why?
Midway into the second year of their marriage, Nina’s grandson had
called to tell her he was graduating from High School.
“He begged me to come home for his graduation,” she told Ruben.
“You will go home only for the graduation?” he asked, hinting that it
was not that big of a deal.
“It is a very important occasion for us Filipinos,” she continued.
“Okay, we will go,” Ruben relented after two days.
The next day over rolls at breakfast, Nina began, “The graduation is in
April, which is a summer month,” she had paused for it to sink in.
While they were eating lunch later that day, she said, “It is very hot in
the Philippines during summer, you know. I hope they will think of putting
up a tent.”
“Why, where is it going to be held?” he asked.
“Graduations are usually held in the open fields because there will be
many, no throngs of people coming in to attend,” Nina knew Ruben had
developed rashes in the heat the last time he was in the Philippines, and he
hated huge crowds.
Holding out a plate of strawberries, Nina added casually, “The
program will surely start a little past noon time, maybe around 2pm because
graduations usually last for several hours.” She glanced at Ruben who was
beginning to look worried.
“I’m just worried about your health,” she told him with some concern
in the afternoon, as she was peeling potatoes for the frites.
“Maybe we should not go anymore,” Nina suggested as she bit into
her egg at dinner time. “Do you want more wine?” and Ruben had silently
handed her his glass, deep in thought.
“Why don’t you go, and I’ll stay. I don’t think I can bear the heat and
the crowd. It’s only going to be for two weeks, anyway,” Ruben had said as
he climbed into bed that night.
“Of course not. I won’t go without you,” Nina said before turning off
the lamp for the night.
The next day, Ruben bought a round-trip Brussels-Cebu ticket for one
Mrs. Saturnina Peeters. And that was how Nina was able to visit her family,
without him. Nina could hardly sleep in the weeks that followed. She cooked
enough food for Ruben to last for a month, even though she was only going
to be in the Philippines for two weeks. Perhaps a part of her wanted to
believe that she was not coming back for a long time, or maybe she did not
want to think about what would happen once she stepped on the plane that
would take her home. She kept herself busy with her packing, careful not
to show too much eagerness lest Ruben think that she was excited to be
leaving him. She was conscious of these thoughts, but less conscious of the
fact that she was concerned about what he would feel.
It was only when she was on the plane to the Philippines that she allowed
the thoughts she had only been vaguely aware of while in Belgium. Her
mind took wing even as the plane lifted off from Belgian soil. She realized
that she did not have to go back to Belgium. She could leave Ruben for
good. These thoughts came and went as she slept through half the trip and
attended to which gates and which flights she was supposed to be in during
the long, long way home. They lay half-forgotten at the back of her mind as
she was embraced and fussed over by her friends and family waiting at the
arrival area of the Mactan airport.
She ate all the lechon, afritada, and adobo prepared almost every night
for her. She hardly slept from all the midnight conversations, and the visits
to the Casino. Ruben called everyday from Belgium, and Nina found herself
clearing her schedule around three in the afternoon, which was the time he
called. She thought she did this from a sense of duty, ignoring the sense of
anticipation that accompanied her waiting for his call.
Sometimes, Ruben could not get hold of her through her cell phone.
“Uncle Ruben called!” a niece would tell her.
“He called on my phone, too!” her sister would say.
“And in mine!” her son would pipe in.
“Hallo! How are you?” Ruben would begin every time he got hold
of her.
“I’m all right. And you?” Nina would reply.
“Oh, I was wondering how to heat up the lumpia?” He had many
excuses for calling – he could not find his glasses, he wanted to know how
to heat up the ensaymada, he wanted to know how the graduation went,
and so on and so forth.
Paulma 71
After one such conversation, she had decided that it was not fair to
Ruben if she was to desert him this way. The man was just helpless without
her. She was also beginning to realize how she had gotten too accustomed
to the neat Belgian life. She now found the Philippines too crowded and too
noisy, its streets too congested and its houses lacking in the amenities she
had gotten used to in Belgium. At least, this was what she thought as the
main reasons for her desire to go back to Belgium. At unguarded moments,
however, she would recall with perplexity the way she had felt when Ruben
handed her that ticket for home.
He had gone to Leuven and come back in the afternoon. As soon as he
came in, he had handed Nina an envelope.
“What’s this?” Nina asked, opening the envelope. Inside was
her ticket.
“I told you I did not want to go to the Philippines without you,” Nina
said, and had been surprised at what she felt inside. She had meant it.
Although she tried to dismiss it, she would recall this feeling again
when she came back to Belgium, on one of her get-away trips with Pacita.
The trips had become less frequent after her return from the Philippines,
her need for it having become less desperate. She attributed this to the long
break she had just had.
It was but a regular moment in an ordinary day at Leuven, but because
of its singularity, she remembered that a little boy and his mother had
been walking by when it happened. She remembered the exact spot down
the layered, cobbled street where she and Pacita had been standing. She
remembered that a street sign on a corner signpost had spelled Munstraat.
She remembered how the afternoon sun had shown on a building marked
Oude Markt, the shadow of a nearby roof sharply outlined on its walls. She
and Pacita were on their way to their car, carrying their purchases, talking
about another Filipina whose Belgian husband had just died.
“Ma’am Nina,” Pacita always spoke in their Bisayan language whenever
they were alone, “are you going to sell the apartment when Ruben, you
know, goes?”
“When he goes?” Nina repeated, as much to herself as to Pacita,
surprised at the strangeness of this thought.
“Yes when he goes,” Pacita continued, oblivious to the sudden stillness
in her friend’s face. “You know, it is very difficult for Brent and myself right
now. His siblings are contesting the will my first husband left behind. His
father gave me a share of the property, you know.” Pacita had married the
son of her first husband.
Nina replied absently, “Well, I noticed that most Belgians live to a nice
old age. Did you notice that? In our apartment, almost everyone is aged 90
years old and up. I think Ruben will live up to a hundred.”
It was the thought which came after her words that Nina would often
recall for its oddness every time she was alone in the bathroom or when
Ruben was asleep, which were the only times she had to herself. She had
wished it were so - that Ruben would live to a hundred.
The man in her thoughts began to stir beside her, and Nina closed her
eyes, wishing to still be alone with her thoughts. She sensed him looking at
her, felt him moving away from her to the other side of the bed, very slowly.
His side of the bed inclined a little as he sat up, slid his feet to the floor, and
bent down, and she knew he was putting on his loafers. The mattress shifted
and was still as he left the bed, all these done with a minimum of movement.
There was a moment of silence as the carpet underneath muffled his steps.
Then she heard the door opening and closing softly. She was grateful that he
had not tried to wake her as he normally would, recalling another morning
about three months ago. His nudging had drawn a yelp from her. From the
wrist down, her right hand was burning with pain.
“What is it?” he had sounded scared.
“My hand hurts. I can’t move the fingers.” She held out her hand
awkwardly. Ruben had gone to the closet and started getting dressed.
“Where are you going?” she had exclaimed.
“We are going to the doctor,” he replied.
There was one thing that Nina did not like. It was going to doctors
while she was in pain, for they only made it worse with their prodding and
poking.
“No, I’m all right, really. Please do not let us go to the doctor.” But
Ruben had insisted. As it turned out, she had needed an operation for a
vein had literally frozen from the cold. Ruben had done all the chores while
it was healing.
She moved to look at that hand now, but another pain stopped her.
As if it could not help itself, her left hand moved from where it had been
lying on the mattress. It crept across her stomach, up towards her chest,
and as if afraid of what it might find, it stopped. But she already knew, of
course, even as her fingers found the edges of the bandage that covered
Paulma 73
the area where her right breast used to be. The truth startled her still,
every morning.
Had it only been two weeks since that first phone call? She pondered
at how such a significant loss could happen in so little time, and so quietly.
The doctor had called after their annual medical check-up.
“Nina, this is Hans. Is Ruben home?” Hans did not normally call after
a check-up.
“Ja,” she replied and silently handed the phone to Ruben who had
come into the kitchen.
“Hallo?” Ruben spoke into the phone. There was a moment of silence
as he listened to Hans on the other end. Nina had taken a seat in the kitchen
table, pretending to be busy mixing the eggs and cream for their lunch a la
flamande.
“Hans, are you sure?” Ruben whispered into the phone. Then he
nodded. “Ja, I will tell her. She’s right here.”
Nina watched as he slowly placed the handset onto its base. His
expression scared her. She did not want to hear what Ruben had to say,
whatever it was, and began to rise from her seat.
“Am I dying?” Nina joked. She wanted to be her usual cheerful self.
Ruben was silent. He looked like he was unsure of how to say what he
had to say. Finally, she whispered, “What is it?”
Ruben drew close and held her shoulders with his hand, as if to keep
her from falling. “You have breast cancer.”
Nina had felt her limbs go limp, as she dropped back to her seat. Ruben
sat down, too, and reached out his hand, as if to comfort her.
They had gone to the hospital where Nina underwent what the doctor
had termed a “simple mastectomy”. Simple. She almost smiled at the word.
Had it already been a week since that first morning after the operation? Each
morning since had felt unreal, six mornings of awakening with this strange
body and its missing part. There was something terribly funny about her
situation, on top of everything else, but she could not remember the joke.
The bedroom door opened slowly, and a wooden tray hovered in mid-
air through the gap. On the tray were arranged two cups of coffee, a plate
of steaming rolls, and a small slab of her favorite Namur butter. Next to
the butter stood a thin vase on which resided a single stem topped by a
perfectly yellow tulip, also her favorite. Above the tray was a face with a
tentative smile.
“Good morning,” he said.

“Goeiendag,” she said.
Nina watched as Ruben came forward carefully balancing the tray, her
eyes following his every move as he deposited the tray onto the nightstand
to her left. She tried to raise herself, but he was there before she could move,
lifting her bodily but gently, so she could rest her back against the pillows
which he hurriedly propped up behind her. She didn’t have to stay in the
hospital for a week, but Ruben had insisted that they wait until the drain
from her incision was removed from her body.
“I can still move, you know,” she said, trying to sound light-hearted,
“but dank u.”
She could not raise her right arm for her nightgowns and had slept in
her robe. She tugged at its edges now to hide her lopsided chest. He bowed
his head to allow her the slight movement, picking up the tray from the table
and gently placing it in front of her. He poured coffee onto the two cups and
held one cup toward her.
“Dank u!” she said, smiling at the cup.
“Zonder dank,” said he, raising his cup before bringing it down to
his lips.
Placing his cup on the tray, he picked up a knife and buttered a roll. He
handed it to her, then he buttered another one for himself.
“You remembered,” she said, lifting her eyes from the tray and smiling
at him, her left cheek dimpling.
“Hunh?” he said, chewing faster to clear his mouth.
She fingered the lace on the white cloth that covered the tray, her eyes
on him, the smile still on her face. She had told him to always place a cloth
over the breakfast tray.
“Oh, hmm, hmmm,” he nodded vigorously several times, still chewing,
raising his eyebrows at the cloth on the tray, and rolling his eyes toward her.
The slight movement juggled the tray a little and he steadied it.
“Oooops!” he exclaimed, eyes widening, looking at her, and she
laughed with him.
They finished eating in familiar silence. Afterwards, he lifted the tray
from the bed and placed it on the nightstand. Then he stood up. Nina
thought he looked tall from where she was.
“Bath time,” he said, smiling, in imitation of the nurse who had assisted
Nina with her baths in the hospital.
Paulma 75
“What?!”
“Bath time.”
“Nee!” She looked at him, shaking her head “Nee, nee!”
“Ja, ja.”
He sat down next to her, and looked her in the eye.
“It’s okay,” he said.
She bowed her head, fingering the edges of her robe. When she looked
up at him, he had not taken his eyes off her.
“It’s okay,” he said again softly, lowering his head, and looking at her
steadily.
Still looking at him, she gave an almost imperceptible nod. He stood
up, and bent down to gently help her up, as she slid first her left foot, then
her right, onto the floor. They slowly walked towards the bathroom door,
her left hand on his right arm, as on that day they had walked towards the
judge, and gotten married.
He sat her on the closed toilet bowl, turned toward the bathtub and
twisted the knobs. Nina concentrated on the sound of the running water.
Ruben turned to her. Nina was holding on to the edges of her robe, but
Ruben took her hands and lay them down on her lap, first one, then the
other. He began to unravel the silk knot that held her robe together and
again, she lifted both her hands to cover the ugliness of her chest. But he
gently placed his hands over hers and drew them down again. He drew
open the edges of the robe as Nina bowed her head, afraid to see the look
of disgust in his eyes. Her left breast hung old and wrinkled, the right part
of her chest covered with white bandage. She watched as Ruben slowly
removed the tapes that held her bandage and winced as her wound was
finally revealed. She lifted her head for she could not bear to look at the
drying blue-black tissues, the Frankenstein sutures on the puckered flesh
still red from the recent trauma.
Ruben met her lifted face and kissed both her moist eyes. He kissed her
right cheek, then her left, then her right again, in Belgian fashion, until she
smiled because it was ridiculous to be exchanging polite kisses there in the
bathroom with her seated on the toilet seat, one wrinkled breast hanging
between them. Then he kissed her on the lips, softly, and it was his turn to
smile for she kissed him back.
Nina’s eyes were on him as he knelt on the bathroom floor and bent
his head, the soft light from the bathroom lamp turning his white hair
into silver, gentling his blue eyes and casting a golden glow onto his
lined face.
He kissed her left breast. Then very gently, he moved his head to place
soft little kisses around her scar.
The water continued to gush from the faucet, both hot and cold streams
mingling in swirls at the bottom of the tub, as the steam began to rise.
77
Ang Ama at Ina ng Isang Epiko

Jun Cruz Reyes
P
atay na dapat ang batang si Panganiban. Tanggap na iyon
ng kaniyang mga kamag-anak. Sa isang banda’y mainam
na rin na namatay itong kasama ng ama. Magsama-sama
na silang mag-anak, pati ina sa kaluwalhatian. Masuwerte
pa nga silang matatawag, kahit na paano’y nananahimik
na, pero ang mga naiwan, parang mga sahog na inihitsa
sa kawali. Panay ang sangkutsa sa kanila, na hindi malaman kung saang
puwesto babagsak. Iyon ay kung babagsak pa sila ng buhay. Ang problema
ng kaniyang angkan ay kung ano ang gagawin sa mga hayop na iniwan ni
Panganiban tulad ni Bantay at mga alagang manok. Mahilig sa hayop ang
bata. Palibhasa’y maagang naulila sa ina. Nitong huli’y laging isinasama na
ng ama sa pagtugpa sa bangka para maglayag sa malayong bayan. Siguro’y
naghahanap din ng kausap kapag naiwan sa bahay, kaya ang mga hayop ang
nakahiligang kausapin at laruin.
Ngayon, ayaw sumunod ni Bantay, na ang gusto lang gawin ay
umalulong nang umalulong. Ang mga inahin nama’y putak nang putak, na
parang may nakikita, hindi tuloy matuloy ang pangingitlog. Ang mga tinali
nama’y laging balisa na pati bibe ay gustong yariin. Bago na ang panahon
mula nang malupig sila ng mga dayuhan.
Natawag na nilang lahat ang mga panginoon, Kumonsulta na sila sa mga
sonat at catalonan. Pati kay Padre Diego de Vivar, na laging nagtatanong sa
kanila tungkol sa alamat ng buwaya at kung saan naroroong ang iningatan
nitong ginto. Si Pasamba, ang kamag-anak nilang sonat ang nagpaalala na
may sinasabi ang panahon sa pamamagitan ng mga hayop ni Pananiban,

hindi pa nga lamang niya iyon mabasa. Humingi siya ng tulong kay Apo
Laki, ang panginoon nila ng digma at tagabantay ng araw, gayundin kay
Haye at Amanikabli, ang mga panginoon ng karagatan at sigwa. Hiniling
niyang tulungan ang bata sakali’t iyon ay buhay pa. Ayaw niyang paniwalaan
na wala ng bisa ang kanilang mga anito, na daig ito ng anito ng mga puti.
Mahirap tanggapin ang pagkatalo. Kaya lihim ang mga ritwal na ginagawa
ni Pasamba. Pero wala na yata talagang bisa ang kaniyang mga awit at
bulong. Mula nang matalo sila ng mga banyaga, natalo na rin ang kanilang
panginoon. Lahat ay nawalan ng bisa. Nagtampo na sa kanila si Bathala.
Mabuti pa si Mangahas, ang ama ni Panganiban, kahit bangkay ay
naiuwi. Sayang na bata, naturingan pa namang pinakamahusay na maninisid
sa mga bata, ay kung bakit naglahong parang bula. Ang huling natatandaan
nila ang laging laman ng kuwentuhan. Nangyari iyon sa dalampasigan ng
Bangkusay, bago ang malaking digmaan.
Nang namataan nila ang isang bangkang may lamang tatlong banyaga,
agad nagpasiya si Mangahas. Tulad nang dati, kahit saan ito pumunta,
laging kabuntot ang bunsong anak. Wala namang alon ay kung bakit tumaob
ang bangka. Nang may dumating na panaklolo, kulang ng isang banyaga.
Malamang daw ay nalunod gayong marunong naman itong lumangoy., o
kaya’y kinain ng buwayang alat. Pero nasaan ang bangkay?
Ang mga nanunubok sa kalapit na sasahan lamang ang nakakaalam
sa talagang nangyari. Hingal na hingal ang mag-ama nang umahon mula
sa kanilang pinagkukublihan. Halos pumutok ang mga dibdib sa bilis ng
paghinga. Hila-hila nila ang bangkay ng isang taong puti, na nakadilat pa
ang mata.
Hindi iyon ang pagtakas na iniisip ni Panganiban. Basta kailangan

niyang makalayo. Ang paligid na alam niya’y nagpapaalala sa kaniya ng
walang katapusang bangunggot. Napapanaginipan niya iyon kahit hindi
natutulog. Binabangungot siya ng mga nasaksihan niya noon. Minsa’y
dinadalaw siya ng mga babae sa kaniyang panaginip. Masasamang babae.
Ang una’y si Mangangaway, na siyang may kagagawan ng lahat ng
kasamaan sa daigdig. Kitang-kita niya ang suot nitong kuwintas na gawa
sa bungo ng tao. Magsisigaw siya pagkakita sa mga bungong nakangisi sa
kaniya. Maya-maya’y mag-iiba ito ng anyo, magiging magandang babae, o
maamong hayop. Pag nilapitan niya’y nagiging si Manisilat naman ito. Ang
Reyes 79
panginoong sanhi ng paghihiwalay ng mga mag-asawa sa lupa. Tapos ay

ang Hukluban, pumapatay ito ng tao sa pamamagitan ng pagtataas lamang
ng kamay. Pinagkakasakit siya nito sa panaginip at saka pagagalingin din
matapos siyang mangako at maghirap. Pagkatapos ay mananaginip siya ng
isang napakagandang babae. Lagi niya iyong nakakatagpo, sanmang may
tubig. Sa sapa, sa ilog at sa dagat. Kulay lupang humalo sa baha ang balat
nito, hindi ng itim ng banlik ni burak, kundi ng lupa sa bukid. Kulay luwad
na pula ang pisngi nito. At ang labi ay parang nilutong palayok. Mahaba
ang buhok ng babae. At pamangahas ang babae. Siya na may malulutong
na halakhak na tulad ng hampas ng amihan sa mga kagubatan. Siya na ang
salita’y tulad ng isang awit. Sinusundan niya ang awit nito ang malamyos
nitong awit. Na kung minsa’y nasusumpungan niya sa batis, o sa sapa at sa
dalampasigan. Waring kakambal siya ng tubig ng mapayapa at malinaw na
tubig. At magigising siyang balisa, may ngiti sa labi pero may butil ng luha
sa mata. Di niya tiyak kung iyo’y bunga ng tuwa o pangamba. Sa panaginip
niya unang nakilala si Namungan. Hanggang ito’y nagkatawang tao, matapos
ang entrada sa Kailukohan.
Kasabay ng kaniyang kakaibang panaginip ay ang pagbulas ng kaniyang
pangangatawan. Hindi na bagay sa kaniya ang paluha-luha. Naduduwag
ang dapat ay tumatapang. Naguguluhan ang kaniyang isipan. Nagagalit siya
kaya malimit siyang umiiyak. At ang hindi masabi’y nauuwi sa pananahimik
na parang may sinusuma sa isipan. Lagi siyang tulala, na sinasalitan ng
pagbulong-bulong. May kinakausap siyang hindi nakikita. Namamatanda
siya, sabi ni Pasamba at Bayinda. Hindi, siya’y nagbininata lamang, sabi
ng mga pinsan niyang ngayo’y may mga asawa na. Nangungulila raw sa
mga magulang sabi ng matatanda. Nangungulila, hindi sa mga magulang
kundi sa kasama. Babae lamang ang gamot sa lumbay, sabi ng kaniyang mga
kamag-anak.
Sabi rin ni Balaya at ng mga pininsan, lumayo siya at maghanap ng
mapapangasawa. Tutal nama’y walang pinsang-buo na magkakagusto sa
kaniya, sa ibang lugar siya maghanap. Sina Itim at Macapagal ay pawang
mga pinsang-buo ang napangasawa.
Saka nagpasiya si Panganiban, sasama na lamang siya sa entrada kasama ni
Itim na paborito ng mga puti. Doon niya hahanapin ang nawawalang tapang.
Galit siya sa mga duwag na ayaw lumaban. Lilipulin niya ang mga duwag,
nang ang matira’y ang matatapang lamang. Saka siya gaganti sa talagang mga
kalaban. Kakampihan niya ang mga kaaway na mga bagong panginoon.
Isa-isa nilang pinapasok ang mga pamayanan sa Samtoy (Iluko)

Palalabasin ang mga tao. Hihingan ng buwis. Kahit ano’y puwedeng maging
katapat ng buwis. Mas mainam kung ginto. Kung wala’y kahit bigas at
baboy o manok ay puwede na rin. Mas marami ang mas pinipiling lumaban
kaysa magbayad ng buwis. Kaya mas marami rin siyempre ang labanan at
nasasawi. May ligaya sa kaniyang poot. May kaganapan sa kaniyang poot.
Dito’y waring walang kamatayan. Nagkakaroon ng kahulugan ang kaniyang
paglaban.
Matapos ang mga labanan, lalayo siya. Maghahanap ng katahimikan.
Gusto niya’y naliligid siya ng tubig. Ganoon din ang kaniyang mga ninuno,
na laging nasa tabi ng tubig. Doon, kasabay ng lagaslas ng agos o hampas
ng alon, sisigaw siya nang pagkalakas-lakas. Pinapakawalan niya ang
kinukuyom ng dibdib. Ganoong niya nakilala si Namungan, na natakot
ng kaniyang sigaw, na ipinagkamaling paggibik ng isang kalabaw na ligaw.
Tumakbo itong natataranta. Waring sinusundan siya ng malakas na unga
ng kalabaw. Nadapa siya at siya naman ang nagsisigaw. Nagsagutan sila ng
sigaw. Alam ni Panganiban na hindi iyon alingawngaw ng kaniyang sigaw.
Napakagandang alingawngaw noon. Matimyas na tulad ng sa isang awit.
Agad siyang umahon para hanapin ang tinig. Nagharap sila. Nagtitigan. Siya
ang nasindak ni Namungan. Nagkasunod-sunod ang pagtatagpo. Hanggang
sila’y ikinasal ni Padre Francisco Lopez, isang Agustino, na may katuwang
sa pagkakasal na isang binatiyong bulag na’y pangit pa. Ang binatilyo ang
siyang tagasalin sa Tagalog ng sinasabi ng pari, na siya ring tagasalin sa
sinasabi ni Panganiban sa Pari. Na nagsasalita ng iba pa, na mga kapuwa taga
Samtoy ang ang nakakaalala. Siya raw si Pedro Bucananeg, na sa tingin ni
Panganiban ay may pagka dalahira dahil masyadong matanong at massalita.
Wala naman siyang magagawa kundi kaibiganin ito para maintindihan niya
ang mga kahingian sa dote ng angkan ni Namungan, na bagama’t nawawaan
niya ang kahilingan ay hindi naman mabigkas ng kaniyang bibig. Mahirap
makipag-usap ng patango-tango at pailing-iling lamang.
Matagal na panahon na iyon. Samantala’y nagsama na nga sina Juan

Panganiban at Namungan bilang mag-aawa. Ang kapalaran ni Bucaneg ay
wala pang paksa ni depinisyon maliban sa pagiging sipsip nito sa mga pari.
Ayaw ni Panganiban sa mga sipsip. Nagpatuloy ang walang katapusang
entrada nina Panganiban hanggang sa kaloob-looban ng kabundukan ng
mga Igolot. Kung saan nanggagaling ang mga ginto, doon sila pumapasok.
Reyes 81
Matapos iyon, uuwi na naman siya kay Namungan na may dalang mga
balita ng kabayanihan maliwanag sa kaniya ang dahilan pero hindi
ang patutunguhan. Hindi nakikinig si Namungan. Naglalaro din ang
kaniyang isip sa mga labanan tulad ng una silang magkita. Ang labanang
itinuro nila sa isa’t isa na naging mabisang pangontra ni Panganiban sa
bangungot.
Naglilihi na si Namungan. Tuwang-tuwa si Juan Panganiban. Halos
ayaw niyang lumayo sa tabi ng asawa. Napansin iyon ni Namungan.
Iyon naman talaga ang gusto niyang mangyari, ang huwag lumayo sa
tabi niya ang asawa. Sa bawat entrada nito sa kung saang kagubatan, siya
ang kinakabahan. Totoong matapang ang kaniyang asawa, pero hindi
nawawala ang pag-aalinlangan. Maraming paano kung… na naglalaro sa
kaniyang isipan. Ayaw niyang isipin na sa wala rin matatapos ang kanilang
pagsasama. Hindi niya kayang isiping isang araw ay maiiwanan siyang mag-
isa. Iniisip niya, matapos siyang manganak. Sasama siya asawa sa bayang
pinanggalingan nito. Doon sa lugar na walang digmaan. Sawa na rin siya
sa usapan tungkol sa ilan ang napatay at gaano karami ang ganansiya. Sawa
na siya sa mga kinagisnang patayan mula ng unang dumating ang mga puti
hanggang sa panahon na dapat ay sila lamang mag-asawa ang nagsasama at
nagdedesisyon sa buhay nila, pero hindi puwede. Pagkat ang kabiyak niya’y
soldado ng mga dating kalaban. Sasama siya sa bayang tinatawag nitong
sa Kasanglayan. Sasakay sila sa malaking cascoe, na may layag sa malaot
na malaot. Malungkot lumayo sa lupang tinubuan, pero mas malungkot sa
kaniya ang maiwan ng minamahal.
Lagi silang nagkukuwentuhan. Tungkol sa pamayanang pinang
galingan ni Panganiban. Tungkol sa mga kamag-anak nito na mga
kaginoohan ng kanilang bayan. Hanggang abutin siya ng gutom. Kung
bakit sa dinami-rami ng pagkain ay yung maasim ang kaniyang hinahanap.
Gusto niya ng malasebong sampalok. Maghahanap si Juan. Pero ang
sampalok ay minsan lang sa isang taon lumabas, iyon ay kung panahon
ng amihan. May sampalok pero hindi malasebo. Kung wala’y kamyas na
lang. Gusto ko’y iyong bilog na bilog. Maramng kamyas, pero ang bilog
na bilog? Gusto ko’y sintunes, yung luntian at pula, pero ang gusto niya’y
ang luntiang matamis at pulang maasim. Gusto ko ng lukban. Iyong nasa
pinakaituktok ng puno. Gusto ko’y iyong may tatlong dahong nakakabit
sa bunga. Matinik ang lukban. Ang daho’y ginagamit nilang pang-asim
ng bagoong. Dati’y dahon ang gusto ni Namungan, iyong medyo mura.
Sa susunod, sana’y hindi maisipan ni Namungan na magpakuha ng mga

tinik, sana’y hindi iyong may katas.
Kasabay ng maraming hiling habang nakahilig kay Juan ay ang paglakas
ng tibok ng kaniyang tiyan. Ipapakapa niya iyon kay Juan. Hihimasin ni
Juan ag sanggol sa sinapupunan na para bang nakikita niya. Kukuwentuhan
mo rin siya tungkol sa iyong bayan. May buhay na siya. Makiking din
siya. Kuwentuhan mo siya ng mga anting-anting ng mga ninuno. Ng mga
kapangyarihan na bigay ng mga anito. Kuwentuhan mo siya nang hindi ka
niya makalimutan habangbuhay. Kuwentuhan mo siya nang paawit nang
lalo niyang magustuhan.
Magugutom na naman si Namungan. Ayaw na niya ng maasim na
bungang-kahoy. Gusto niya’y ang mga lamang-dagat naman. Hinahanap
niya ang malaking kabibeng tulad ng berkakan. Hindi ba iyon ang sinisisid
mo noong una tayong magkakilala? Noong napagkamalan kitang kalabaw
at hinabol mo ako dahil akala mo ako ay sirena? Manguha ka na rin ng
ar-arosep at aragan. Iyon ang pinagsaluhan natin noong una mo akong
angkinin. Noong hinabol mo ako mula aplaya hanggang bukid, hanggang
sapa sa paa ng bundok.
Gusto ko’y alimasag na nababalutan ng gulaman. Kay raming gusto
ni Namungan. Gusto kong ibalik natin ang panahon. Bigyan natin ng
kahulugan ang mga bagay na nag-uugnay sa atin. Lagi tayong magkaugnay.
At dadagdagan pa nila ng pagmamahal ang batang nasa sinapupunan.
Magtatalik sila, kasama ang batang hindi pa isinisilang. Palalakihin agad
natin siya, malaking-malaki, gagawin natin siyang kakaiba. Pinakamatapang
at pinakamalakas sa lahat. Kikilalanin siya ng angkan. Itatala ang kaniyang
buhay at tagumpay.
Hindi na halos makagalaw si Namungan sa laki ng tiyan nang maisipan
nitong kumain naman ng mga binitag na baboydamo at usa. Huhulihin iyon
sa mga hanggahan ng kapatagan at kabundukan. Doon sa malalayong lygar
na ang tao’y kasing tulad ng mga tao sa ilap. Ibig sabihin no’y kailangan nang
lumayo ni Juan Panganiban. Babalik siya sa kampo para sa naghihintay na
tungkulin. May mga entrada pang kailangang isagawa sa Kaigolotan. Nang
maisip ni Namungan ang kaniyang nasambit, kinabahan siya. Ayaw na niya
ng baboydamo, kung ang magiging kahulugan noo’y ang paglayo na naman
ng kabiyak. Muli niyang binimbin ang panahon.
Lalayo ka Juan, pero hindi sa malayong-malayo. Pumunta ka sa
kawayanan natin sa Caparian. Tumigpas ka ng pinakamagulang na kawayan.
Reyes 83
Iyong hindi kinakapitan ng bukbok. Igawa mo ako ng higaang may

sandalan, tulad ng ginagamit ng mga dayuhan. Doon ako magpapahinga
pagkapanganak. Pagkatapos noo’y ibili mo ako ng bagong palayok at kalan.
Doon ako mag-iinit ng tubig na gagamitin kong pampaligo sa ating anak.
Lumakad si Juan Sinagupa niya ang malakas na hangin at ulan.
Kumukulog at kumikidlat sa tanghaling-tapat. Nag-aasawahan na naman
ang mga unggoy, o kaya’y isa na namang Sanglay ang mamatay. Di niya
alam kung tag-ulan na ba o tag-init pa. Iba ang timpla ng kaniyang panahon.
Waring may ibinabadya sa kaniya. Hindi ito Juan ang iyong panahon. May
matatapos at may magwawakas, pero hindi ito ang simula ng katapusan.
Ayaw nang tumagpas ng kawayan ni Juan. Tinitigan na lamang niya
ang mga inaakalang pinakamainam, iyong matataba at may mahahabang
bias. Iyong waring namumutok sa katabaan. Iyong uring bayugin. Saka siya
pumikit. Sa isip niya’y hinihiwa ng lintik ang langit. Tinatagpas ang kaniyang
paligid. Hanggang may bumabagsak na malapit sa kaniyang paanan. Dumilat
siya. Kay ganda ng pagkakaputol ng kawayan. Pantay-pantay na galing sa
lalong pinakamainam. Parang sinibak iyon ng isang panday.
Lumingon siya sa paligid. Walang mga aliping mauutusang ipagbuhat
siya ng mga nakatali nang kawayan. Hindi iyon nagustuhan ni Juan. Bawal
na ang alipin, kaya kay hirap na ring mag-utos sa kapuwa. Binilang niya
ang nakasalansang kawayan. Saka siya nag-umpisang maglakad papalayo
habang sinasabing bahala kayo riyan. Naghanap siya ng almacen sa
parian, malapit sa pueblo para bumili banga, kalan at tapayan. Matapos
noo’y nagdan na siya sa kampo para ibalita ang kalagayan ng asawa.
Nagkatuwaan sila. Iniinom nila ang tapuy na galing pa sa kaitaasan. Nang
umuwi siya, laking gulat niyang nakasalansan na sa silong ng bahay ang
mga iniwang kawayan.
Matapos ibaba ang mga bitbit na kargamento, pinili niya ang gagawing
haligi ng gagawing kamang may sandalan. Saka niya tinawag si Namungan
para tiyakin ang gusto nitong kama na kaniyang higaan. Ang gusto ko’y
iyong pagkatibay-tibay. Iyong makakayanan ang bigat ko at ng iyong anak.
Ang gusto ko’y iyong yari sa molave, sa gastan at dangla. Kahit na binalatang
puno ng bayabas ay puwede na rin. Napakamot ng ulo si Juan. Alam niyang
pinatatagal lamang ni Namungan ang usapan. Pati ba naman kahoy ay
napapaglihihan?
Dati, ang mga pamamaalam ay panandalian lamang na paghihiwalay.
Ngayo’y kinatatakutan ni Namungang mag-isa. Mapanganib ang kaloob-
looban ng Kaigolotan, doo’y waring ang kadilima’y walang hangganan.

Pinipigil niya si Juan. May nadarama siyang nakaambang kapahamakan.
Malapit na siyang manganak, pilit niyang ikinakatwiran.
Hindi napigil ang lalaki, na habang nalalayo sa kaniyang mahal ay lalong
umiinit ang ulo. Pagdating sa campo, ang napag-initan ay si Chacon, ang
kanilang Espanyol na kapitan, na noon pa ma’y hindi na niya gusto ang asta
at itsura. Sumusunod man siya, naroroon pa rin ang pag-aalinlangan. Galit
siya sa mga mapang-utos, galit din siya sa mga katutubong agad sumusuko.
Galit siya sa pinahihirapan sila bago sumunod. Galit siya. Hindi malinaw
ang puntirya. Si Chacon na naman ang mamumuno sa kanila. Ibig sabihi
noo’y kasama lamang nila. Wala naman ito sa unahan ng tropa. Matapang
lamang dahil lagi itong may tangang baril, samantalang silang mga katutubo
ay sibat at tabak pa rin ang bitbit.
Pinapasuko nila ang maabutan. Bihira lamang iyon. Malayo pa lamang
sila’y waring naamoy na sila ng mga Igolot. Makikipaghabulan sa loob ng
kagubatan. Igagawi sila sa mga patibong na bitu na may mga nakatayong
sibat na naghihintay sa kanilang katawan. Nagpapagulong ng mga bato.
Nandadamba. At mga nagpofotad pa, na pagkaingay-ingay, hanggang sila’y
parang pinutakte ng kaaway.
Ba’t nga magsisisuko, e pag nahuli’y hihingan ng tributo. Hindi rin
mapilit na manirahan sa ibaba kasama ng mga Samtoy. Para walang bihag,
inuutas na lamang ang lahat ng maabutan sa mga bahayan, ginagalugad iyon
para makuha ang pakikinabangan. Mga ginto iyong itinatagao sa mga gusing
gawa ng mga Sangley. Kung gayon, ang kalakal nina Lakandula’y nakaabot
rin pala hanggang sa pusod ng kabundukan. Patay ang ayaw sumunod at
mistulang patay na rin ang mga sumunod at mamatay rin ang nagbibigay
sa kanila ng pagod sa walang katapusang pagpapahabol at digmaan sa
kagubatan.
Naiinis si Juan sa among utos nang utos. Lintik ka Chacon, iniisip ni
Juan. Lintik ka rin Juan, iniisip ni Chacon. Lintik ka Chacon, masabi ang
masabi, hindi naman ikaw ang nahihirapan. May tagabitbit ka pa ng iyong
mga gamit. Katigas ng ulo, katwirang burat ang alam. Lintik ka rin Juan,
boses na iyon ni Namungan. Kinukuli siya. Gagawa ng bata, tapos ako’y
iiwan. Akala niya’y madali iyong gawin na tulad ng tumatae lamang. Anong
akala mo, sa puwit lumalabas ang bata. Na isang iri lamang na parang tatae
at pagkatapos noo’y parang walang anuman, na akala mo’y nagdadahilan
lamang.
Reyes 85
Ganoon pa ma’y nagkakaisa sila sa kanilang pakay. Matuklasan ang

pinagkukunan ng ginto ng mga katutubo.
Lumalakas ang sikad ng bata sa tiyan ni Namungan. Parang may
isinasaing sa kaniyang kaibuturan na kukulu-kulo. Winawarat siya, pero
wala namang magagawa dahil hindi kaya ng kaniyang katawan. May
gustong kumawala sa kaniyang sinapupunan. Hindi rin iyon mapakali, kung
minsa’y malakas na sikad ang nararamdaman niya, na lalong nagpapasakit
ng kaniyang balakang. Humihilab na naman ang kaniyang tiyan. Kay hirap
na pakiramdam. Humihinga siya nang malalim para magkahangin din ang
kaniyang dinadalang waring naiinis. Kahihigop ng hangin, kabag naman
ang kaniyang nararamdaman. Mas lumobo pa ang kaniyang tiyan. Tunay na
siyang nahihirapan. Nagpapalitan ang luha, ang hirap at ang galak. Malapit
na, malapit na, saka siya, sumigaw, putang ina mo Juan.
Narinig iyon ni Juan. Agad niyang dinaluhong ang mga kaaway. Walang
lingon-lingon, ipoipo siya sa kaniyang palagay, na madadaan ang lahat sa
pabilisan.
Iipnatawag niyang lahat ang sa palagay niya’y makakatulong sa
kaniyang panganganak. Ipinagmamalaki niya, na para bang kailangan
niya ng mga saksi, na ang ipanganganak niya ay tao at hindi tiyanak. Una
niyang ipinatawag ang hilot na si Alisot. Ipinahanda niya ang kaniyang
bagong palayok at kalan. Nanguha rin si Alisot ng murang dahon ng
bayabas at banaba na ipanglilinis sa mag-ina. Saka nito inihanda ang
pinatalim na biyas ng kawayan na siyang gagamiting pangputol sa pusod
at inunan. Ang inunan ay ibabaon sa silong ng bahay, sa tapat ng higaan ni
Namungan. Para ang bata’y laging malapit sa ina at lalaking hindi lagalag,
dahil lagi nitong babalikan ang nakabaong inunan na siyang una niyang
naging tahanan.
Ipinatawag din ni Namungan ang maninisid na si Marcos. Si Lakay
Marcos, na tulad ng kaniyang si Juan, ang siyang magtuturo sa kaniyang
isisilang sa mga lihim ng karagatan. Magiging manlalakbay din ang kaniyang
bunsong panganay, pero lagi itong uuwi sa sariling pamamahay. At si Pasho,
kailangang naroon din. Ito ang pinakamayaman sa kanilang lugar. Si Pasho
ang magtuturo sa kaniyang anak sa pagpapalago ng kabuhayan.
Nang sa tingin niya’y may sapat na siyang mga saksi, ipinasiya niyang
ito na nga ang oras na dapat siyang manganak. Isa na lamang ang kaniyang
hinihiling. Sana’y huwag mangyari ang pangitain na kaniyang kinatatakutan.
Noong siya’y nag-iisa na sa buhay, nang mamatay sa labanan ang mga
magulang. Noong siya’y naging dalawa, nang dahil kay Juan Panganiban.
Ngayo’y dapat maging tatlo siya. Hindi siya babalik sa pag-iisa.
Nag-umpisa siyang magbilang. Isa. Dalawa. Tatlo. Saka siya umiri.
Nararamdaman niyang malaki ang bata sa sinapupunan. Gustong
makawala, pero hindi makayanan. Isa pang iri, tindihan mo, sabi ni Alisot.
Ginawa niya. Isa pa. Ginawa ulit niya. Ang totoo’y hindi na namamalayan
ni Namungan ang sinasabi ng hilot. Ang sinusunod niya’y ang sinasabi ng
kaniyang katawan, na mas higit na nakakaunawa sa kaniyang kalagayan.
Nang nahihirapan na siyang huminga, umiri siya nang bigay todo, kasabay
nang kanyang pagkalakas-akas na pag-utot. Sa halip na lumayo ang hangin,
waring hinigop pa nito ang lahat ng hangin sa paligid. Lumamig ang silid.
Lumabas ang butil-butil na pawis sa mukha ni Namungan. Basang-basa
na rin ang kaniyang buong katawan. Laking ginhawa ng ihip ng hangin,
kahit iyo’y hndi na sariwa. Isa pang pagkatindi-tinding iri kasunod ng mas
malakas na pag-utot. Nahugot na ang lahat ng lakas at laman sa kaniyang
kalamnan.Sa pagitan ng kaniyang hita ay may isang batang nakangiti.
Malaki at madaldal ang bata. Baka nga kaya ito’y isang tiyanak, iniisip ng
mga nagsisugod sa silid para makita ang kangina pa hinihintay. Pero hindi,
kumpleto ang pigura at itsura nitong pantao at hindi panlamang-lupa.
Ako si Lam-ang. Iyan ang itatawag ninyo sa akin. Ayoko ng pangalang
banyaga.
Ito na ba ang kinatatakutan ni Juan Panganiban kung bakit kailangan
niyang maglagalag? Ito na ba ang sumpa? Naghahanap siya ng katahimikan.
Ayaw niya ng kahit anong ingay hangga’t maaari. Siya na waring nag-iipon
ng mga salita sa kaniyang isip, ay magkakaroon ng ibang bibig. Ang kaniyang
tinig ay bibigkasin ng ibang wika. Ang kaniyang kinukuyom na pag-asa ng
pagkakaisa, isasabuhay din ba ng kaniyang punla?
Ako si Lam-ang. Kakaibang pangalan, hindi katutubong Samtoy
ni Namungan at di rin ng Hagunoy ni Juan. Saang ninuno nanggaling?
Nakanganga lamang si Alisot sa nagsasalitang bagong panganak.
Mali si Alisot. Ang bata raw na ipinaglihi sa maasim ay palasimangot.
Bugnutin pa at mainit ang ulo. Ang bagong dating na bata ay masayahin at
madaldal. Masalimuot na panahon, kay daming kakaiba. Hindi na rin alam
ni Alisot kung sinong panginoon ang tatawagin, ang sa katutubo ba o sa
banyaga. Siguro’y natawag niyang lahat noong nagbubulong siya bago nag-
umpisang umiri si Namungan. Siguro’y nagsanib sa sinapupunan ng ina
ang kapangyarihan ng maraming diyos, kaya ang bata’y higit na pinagpala.
Reyes 87
Kung gayo’y isasama na rin niya ang larawan ng bagong diyos sa kaniyang
sambahan sa likod ng kanilang bahay.
“Ina, dahil kailangan akong maging binyagan, si Guibuan ang gusto
kong maging ninong.” Saka siya luminga-linga sa paligid para hanapin si
Guibuan. Hindi niya maintindihan kung bakit pawang nanlalaki ang mata at
nakabuka ang mga bibig ng mga nakatanghod sa kaniya. Pakiramdam niya
ay mga bingi at engot ang mga ito. Nagtatanong ang mga mata at bibig na
walang salita ng mga kaharap. Marami ring tanong na nagaganap sa isip ni
Lam-ang, iyon muna ang gusto niyang intindihin bago ang mga tanong sa
isip ng mga kaharap.
“Isa pang tanong ina, bakit ang daming umili (tao) ay wala si ama?
Sabihin mo, may ama ba ako talaga o ano? Galing ba ako sa alimuom o ako’y
putok s buho lamang?”
Napahalakhak s Namungan. Natauhan din sa wakas. Hindi tiyanak ang
kanyang
anak kundi isang batang pinagpala. Kagilagilalas. Para siyang isang
bayani ng epikong luma kung magsalita. Siya na nga ang pinagpalang
sinasabi ni Fray Francisco Lopez, na tutubos sa kanilang lahat. Iluko nga
ang magliligtas sa bayan. Nasabi na iyon ni Apong Marcos niya: Dadakilain
ang mga Iluko. Sa ikauunlad ng bayan, disiplina ang kailangan. This country
shall be great again. Kung ganoo’y totoo ang ang sinasabi sa simbahang
malaki. Tama ang milagro, kaharap niya ang buhay na milagro. Salamat
panginoon. Iniisip din niya kung pabibinyagan na niya ang sarili niya ng
Maria, dahil siya’y nag-anak ng isang himala. May Juan na sa kanila, na dapat
sana’y ginawang Jose. Madaling kumbinsihin ang asawa, pero ang bata’y
nagpasiya na si Lam-ang siya at hindi si Jesus. Sayang na pagkakataon. Pero
di bale, kung ganoon, ang anak ang siyang magiging katutubong buhay na
panginoon. Lam-ang? Ano iyon?
Si Chacon, ang opisyal na Espanyol, sabi sa kaniya ni Juan noon, ay
matapang lamang. Lam, sabi ni Namungan. Lamang, sagot ni Juan. Pinag-
usapan nila ang katangian ni Chacon. Siguro’y iyon ang huling salitang
narinig ng bata sa sinapupunan sa huling pagtatalik ng mag-asawa, nang
hinihikayat ni Namungan si Juan na huwag nang sumama sa entrada/
reduccion. At siya ay si Lam-ang, hindi basta isang bata lamang.
“Ang iyung ama si Juan Panganiban. Nasa sinapupunan pa lamang kita
nang umalis siya para agpasurong ti (umakyat) Kaigooltan. Pinasok niya
ang kasama ni Kapitan Chacon.”
“Kaigolotan? Mapanganib doon ina. Pati sarili nila’y sinusugatan para

lamang magka-tatoo. Kung gayo’y hayaan ninyong hanapin ko ang aking
ama. Kailangan ko siyang makausap, agad-agad”
“Huwag kang magmadali adeng. Kapapanganak mo pa lang. Lampa
ka pa at patpatin. Saka kulang ka sa…” Hindi niya itinuloy ang kasunod
ng kulang sa buwan. “Anak, hindi pa husto ang iyong isipan. Huwag kang
magpadalus-dalos, kahit ipinanganak kang may kasamang magic.”
Narinig ni Lam-ang ang agam-agam ng Ina, na hindi rin niya isinatinig.
Kulang-kulang ka diyan. Kung nagmana ako sa aking ama, di dapat lagalag
din ako. Alam naman niyang umalis ang ama. Narinig niya nang nagpaalam
ito. Ang gusto niya’y makita at makaharap ang may-ari ng tinig na kabisado
na niya. Kailangang kumbinsihin si Ina na hindi ako lampa, ni kulang-kulang
sabi ng isip niya. Mula sa pagkakahiga’y pumihit siya. Umupo, at hinugot
ang mga pako ng sahig. Saka siya tumayo at tumakbo sa paligid ng bahay,
na parag sinasabing: Hetong sa iyo, lampa pala ha? Diyan na kayo, humabol
kayo sa tambol mayor.
Tulala syempre ang mga naiwan. Sinasabi na nga bang kailangan ng
saksi sa panganganak, sabi ni Namungan sa sarili. Kung hindi, kay hirap
ipaliwanang ng mga pangyayari. Pang Guiness Book of Record ang kaniyang
anak, balang araw. Ang problema na lamang niya’y kung paano kukumbinsin
ang lallakay at babbaket (katandaan) ng kanilang ili (pamayanan). Ang
poproblemahin na lang niya’y kung paano kukumbinsihin ang mga kaanak
na ang magiging bayani nila’y may dugong Tagalog at hindi purong Samtoy.
Hindi iyon magugustuha ng kanilang angkan. Pero okey lang daw sabi ni
Apong Marcos. Dagdag boto rin kung sakaling ang labanan ay papalitan
na ng bilangan. Paramihan ng kakampi kaysa ubusan ng lahi. Napatulala
silang lahat, hanggang naisipan ni Baket Alisot na magtimpla ng salabat na
may kamoteng pula para sa lahat. Hinigop nila iyon nang hinigop hanggang
masaid, kasabay ng panonood ng sip nila sa mala telepantasyang pangyayari
at nag-aabang sa susunod na pakikipagsapalaran ng kanilang bukod-tanging
pinagpalang bayani ng isang dakilang epiko ng sambayanan. Sinabayan
niya iyon ng pagnganga hanggang mamula ang paligid ng bahay sa pula ng
kanilang dura. Hanggang ma-high silang lahat. Totoo ang lahat ng istorya.
Doon na sa pagkakaupong iyon sila inabutan ng panahon ng kape at tabako.
At nitong bandang huli’y ang panahon ng pinakamasarap sa lahat, ang
panahon ng malinamnam na basi, na ginawa nilang isang pambabae at isang
panlalaki, at nang ipagbawal ay pinagmulan ng kanilang rebolusyon.
Reyes 89
Habang pinapasok ang Kaigolotan, mas lumaki si Lam-ang. Para siyang

hinihipang lobo na korteng tao. Sa bawat paghinga niya gumigilas ang
kaniyang katawan. Ang hindi makasabay sa paglaki niya’y ang kaniyang utak
na nanatiling naayon lamang sa kaniyang edad. Di na niya mabilang ang
kaniyang naihakbang, habang nag-aaral siya ng maysa-dua-tallo-sangapulo-
sang-ribo-ribu. (isa hanggang libu-libo). Pero hindi pa rin siya tumitigil sa
paghakbang.
Sa tabing Ilog Amburayan, papaitaas ng bundok, nakatuwaan niyang
mamulot ng mga kakaibang bato. Yung mga may magic tulad ng sagang,
tangrabvan, lao-labingan at iba pa. At dahil namana rin ang hilig ng ama sa
hayop, pati agimat ng mga ito’y kinolekta na rin niya, pati ng wala ang ama
niya tulad ng sa tamaraw at alupihan.
Inabot na siya ng gutom bago napasok ang Kaigolotan. Naghanap siya
ng mataas na puno ng lawaan na mapagkukublihan ng kaniyang tungkong-
kalan. Inilabas niya ang baong munting palayok. Hinugasan muna ito bago
nagsaing. Para mabilis sa ginagawa, tinulungan siya ng mga tiyanak sa
paligid. Sa sobrang carbohydrates, inantok siya. Itinusok sa lupa ang sibat,
ipinatong sa ugat sa tabi ng kalan ang kalasag, pero nanatiling nakahanda
ang kaniyang buneng (bolo).
Natulog siya. Nag-aagaw-malay siya nang muling marinig ang pamilyar
na boses. Tinatawag siya ng kaibigan sa halip na anak. “Dalian mo Kaibigang
Lam-ang. Pinagpipistahan nila ngayon ang aking bungo.” Napaigtad si
Lam-ang. Agad dinampot ang mga gamit.
Napasok niya ang pinakamadilim na bahagi ng kagubatan. Makapal
ang mga puno’t halaman sa paligid. Malamig ang simoy. Ito na nga ang
kaibuturan ng Kaigolotan. Narinig niyang nagkakatuwaan ang mga ito.
Lumakas ang ingay. Malapit na siya. Kita na niya ang pakay. Sa gitna ng
kaguluhan ay ang bungo ng kaniyang ama. Nakatusok iyon sa dulo ng isang
tikin. Sa silangan nakaharap ang bungo.
Sumulak ang dugo sa ulo ni Lam-ang. Si Juan Panganiban iyon, sabi ng
lukso ng kaniyang dugo.
“Anong nagawa ng aking ama at inyong tinampalasan? Magbabayad
kayo.”
“Nagbayad na kami kaibigan. Mainam pa’y umuwi ka na lang.”
“Anong kasalanan niya sa inyo?”
“Kinuha niyang lahat ng aming mga ginto. Ngayo’y gusto pa nilang
makuha ang minahan. Kung katulad ka ng iyong ama, mamamatay ka rin.”
Yung mga ginto, hindi niya iyon problema. Marami sila noon sa bahay.
Yung kamukha siya ng kanyang ama, iisipin pa niya kung papayag siya, dahil
wala naman iyong naiwang retrato sa kanila, bungo pa lang nito ang kaniyang
nakikita. Pero yung mamatay din siya, hindi puwede, ibang usapan na iyon.
Kani-kaniyang krimen lang sa buhay kaya kani-kaniyang labanan rin. At sa
pakiwari ni Lam-ang ay wala pa siyang nagagawang krimen dahil ama lang
muna ang pakay niya. No Way, sabi ng isip niya. Aanhin ang agimat na pang
super hero kung nerbiyoso lang pala siya. Hindi niya aatrasan ang bantang
deal or no deal.
“Mga taong tatoo, humanda kayo. Pero kokonti lang kayo. Para mas
magara ang labanan, magpadami pa kayo. Isama nyo kaya ang buong angkan
n’yo? Isama ninyo ang lahat ng may tatoo, sosyal man o istambay. Hindi ko
kayo uurungan.”
Tingin ng mga Igolot, may sayad ang kanilang kaharap, basag ang pula,
may toyo sa utak. Etc. Sira sa madaling salita. Ala pagbigyan. Nag-fotad
(sigaw pandigma) nang walang katapusan ang hinamon. Ini-relay iyon ng
nakarinig na parang text na naresend sa lahat ng sulok ng Kaigolotan. Naging
salidum-ay ang fotad. Habang nagpaparami ng participant sa gagawing
labanan, naglibang muna sila. Nagpalitan sila ng nganga, hanggang inabutan
na sila roon nang pagpasok ng mga bagong mangangalakal na naghahatid
ng tabako at mascardong may pulot, na mas masarap ihalo sa dahon ng
ikmo, apog at bunga. Malaunan, naging kuwadrado ng tabakong minatamis
(mascardo). Dumami pa ang nakikinganga. High na talaga sila. Durog na’y
sabog pa sa amats. Panay ang wow at bad trip nila pare. Pinapantasya na
ng kanilang guniguni ang magaganap na labanan. Nang may madulas sa
dura, saka nila naalalang giyera nga pala ang ipinunta nila roon at hindi ang
pakikinganga.
Isang dura, isang pukol ng sibat at pana. Sa dami ng dura, parang
umuulan ng pana at sibat, papuntang lahat kay Lam-ang. Nahihilo itong
huli sa dami ng nanganga. Dahil pasuray-suray, hindi tumatama ang asinta.
Nang mahimasmasan, siya naman ang pumorma. Simigaw din siya nang
pagkalakas-lakas, tulad noong napagkamalang kalabaw ang kaniyang ama,
para takutin ang mga kalaban. Kinausap niya ang mga agimat, na kasing
kahulugan ng “Let’s bolt in.
“Humanda kayo, ako naman!” Sabay hugot ng kaniyang buneng (bolo).
Akala ng mga kalaban ay susugurin na sila, pero sa lupa tumaga si Lam-
ang. Iniisip nila, ano kaya yon? Nakaluhod na yumuko sa lupa si Lam-ang.
Reyes 91
Kinain niyang parang suman ang nahiwang lupa. Mahalaga iyon kay Lam-
ang. Napansin kasi niyang ganoon din ang ginawa ng mga kalaban bago siya
pinaulanan ng mga sibat. Ginawa niya para pawalang bisa ang magic ng
kalaban. Kumbaga, quits na lang sila. Gusto rin niyang magsalidum-ay tulad
ng ginagawa ng mga kalaban, kaya lang wala siyang tagasagot at ka-second
voice. Hu Hamo na nga lang, sabi niya sa isip.
“Heto na ko.” Babala niya. Tinawag din niya ang hanging habagat para
tulungan siya. Ibinalibag ng hangin sa kung saan-saan ang lahat nang humara
sa kaniyang daan. Parang mga tibang puno ng saging na bumubulagta
sila, sa malayo, sa mas malayo, sa mas malaong-malayo. Mahangin talaga
si Lam-ang. Iwinasiwas muli niya ang kaniyang buneng, waring magnet
itong hinihigop ang kalaban. Nagugutay ang bawat mahigop nito. Kulang
na lang ay maraming bawang at mistulang longganisang Vigan na, na sa
pagmamadali ay hindi na naisilid sa nilinis na pantog ng baboy.
Sa dami ng kinaing lupa, sumobra yata ang lakas ni Lam-ang. Nag-iisa
na lang ang taong tatoo sa harap niya. Wala pa itong galos ni latay. Sinugod
siya ni Lam-ang.
“Heto nang katapusan mo.” Hiniwa niya ang bibig nito. Tinusok sa
mata at pinutulan pa ng tenga. Saka niya ito ito pinauwi. “Pasalamat kayo’t
mabait ako. Kung hindi’y inubos ko na kayo. Hala uwi, magpakita ka sa mga
kamag-anak mo. Mag-umpisa ulit kayo ng lahi.”
Umuwi siyempre ang kalaban, para isulat ang talagang nangyari. Sinong
Lam-ang, Lam-ang yan? Kung nakuha pa nilang masakop ang Kaigolotan?
Ano siya, hibang, tulad ng amo niya? Ano sila, bale? Paano mananalo ang
mga sumusuko. Kahit amo n’yong dayuhan, hindi kami natalo, silang mga
bataan lang? Basta si Kabunian pa rin ang the best, si Lam-ang? Wala yun
kay Aliguyon at Ulalim. Pahabaan na lang ng kantahan, asa ka pa.
Hindi naman umuwi agad si Lam-ang. Naroroon na rin lang siya,
sayang naman ang pagkakataon. Tinanggalan niya ng alahas ang lahat ng
kaniyang napatay, pati ang makakapal na bracelet sa braso at binti na mga
tanso lamang. Laking kayamana ang natanggal ni Lam-ang. Iniisip niya
kung iyon din ba ang naging pakay ng kaniyang ama at big boss nitong si
Gido Lavazarez, ang mamulot ng ginto sa loob ng kagubatan. Totoo walang
napupulot lamang na ginto. Ang mahirap ay kung paano ito tatanggalin
sa katawan ng mga patay. Iniisip din niya kung bakit tila suot ng mga ito
ang lahat nilang mga alahas sa katawan. Armas din ba iyon? O para walang
makukuha ang mga sumasalakay sa kanilang mga bahay? Saka na ang sagot.
Ang tiyak lamang niya’y hindi na siya makaugaga sa bigat ng mga nakubra
niya. Ang pinakamaganda at mamahali’y isinupot na lamang niya, hanggang
hindi na niya makuhang tumayo sa bigat. Kinailangan pa niyang gamitin ang
agimat ng kalabaw para lamang mabitbit pababa at maiuwi ang kaniyang
napanalunan.
Saka niya binaybay ang gilid ng sapang dinadaluyan ng dugo. Hanggang
siya’y makabalik sa puno ng Ilog Amburayan. Dahil batang isip, hanggang
bahay, hindi pa rin niya ganap na maunawaan ang mga pangyayari.
“Inang Namungan, anong kasalanan ang nagawa ang ama kong si
Panganiban?”
Anong isasagot ng ina tungkol sa kasalanan? Ang naisip niya’y ang
listahan ng mga kasalanang inihanay ni Padre Totanes. Nakipagyarian ka
ba sa baka? Nakipagyarian ng maramihan? Mangalikot. Magpalabas. Hindi
anak iyon ang kasalanan ng iyong Amang Panganiban. Pero mahalay iyong
bigkasin sa anak, kaya ang sagot niya na lang:“Anong kasalanan? Hindi nga
kami nag-aaway kahit misan. Under de saya ang ama mo, kaya nga siya’y
isang mabuti at ulirang asawa.”
Walang makapang matinong sagot si Lam-ang sa ina. Napakamot na
lang siya ng ulo, mula ulo hanggang talampakan. Kating-kati siya talaga.
Mula pagkabata’y naglagalag na siya. Sa tanang buhay niya’y hindi pa siya
nakapaligo nang totoo. Sa lamig ba namang iyon sa Kaigolotan, maisip pa
niya iyon. At sa bigat ng kaniyang mga suot noong pababa na siya, baka
ikalunod pa niya ang paglulublob sa sapa at ilog. Isa pa’y naninilaw siya.
Buti na lamang at hindi pa tag-ulan, kaya walang peligrong tamaan siya ng
kidlat.
“Mainam pa Ina’y hambalusin mo ang iyong longgan para magsipunta
rito ang mga kababaihan. Kailangan ko Ina ng pagkarami-raming kababaihan.
Nangangati akong tunay, gusto kong maligo sa bukana ng Ilog Amburayan.
“Pero bago iyo’y, bisitahin muna natin ang matandang kamalig, iyong
ang poste’y gawa sa molave na may sahig na yari sa deraan, na pinakntab
ng bellaang. Maipawalis sa kanila ang mga patay na ipis, gagamba at ia
pa. Luma na rin lang naman ang mga palay doon, ipamigay na sa kanila.
Ang kukuhanin ko lang nama’y ang dayami. Pasisigaan ko’t gagawin kong
shampoo.”
Oo lang nang oo si Namungan sa nagyayabang na anak. Pati nga mga
alahas nito’y di na maganda at lupa pa’y ipinamigay ni Lam-ang sa mga
kadalagahan. Talagang kailangan niyang magsuhol. Sa kapal ng libag
Reyes 93
niya, ilang kababaihan ang nagpalit-palit sa paghihilod sa kaniya. Pati ang

buhok nito’y hindi makuha nang kung ilang ulit na pagsa-shampoo. Pero
pinagtiisan na rin nila, malaki naman ang pabuyang naghihintay sa kanila.
Gusto sana ng mga kababaihan ay sa pampang na lang paliguan ang batang
malaki. Sabi nila’y mabuti sa pampang para hindi magalit ang buwaya sa
kanila.
“Anong buwaya-buwaya?” sabi ng Lam-ang. Ayon at pinagtripan
pati ang nagtatagong buwaya. Ang totoo’y marami iyon pero nagpulasan.
Maraming nakarating sa lungsod. Naging pulis ang small time at naging
kongresista ang mga big time. May pipitsuging buwaya rin, tulad ng
kaniyang ama.
Matapos maligo, naitala sa kasaysayan ng Iluko ang unang malaking
kaso ng polusyon. Nangitim ang ilog, lumutang ang mga isda at hipong
tabang. Bumuka ang mga kabibe at tulya. Umagos ang maduming tubig
hanggang karagatan. Bumabaw ang ilog, bumara ang burak sa mga koral.
Ay naku Lam-ang, sinira mo ang kalikasan, sabi ng mga ecologist na green
peace.
Pagkatapos maligo’y pagporma naman ang inasikaso ni Lam-ang.
Ipinalabas ang kaniyang pantalong checkered at panyong burdado, na
magiging advance retro balang araw. May nabalitaan pala ito sa kung saan
na may isang dalagang pagkaganda-ganda sa di lang maganda. Hahanapin
niya ang bahay ni Ines Canoyan.
(Di na yon isasama sa kuwento, dahil copy righted na iyon sa isang
telenovela.)
Tulad ng alin mang epiko, makukuha naman ang gusto. Ang ayaw ni
Lam-ang ay ang ending ng kaniyang istorya. Kailangan niyang sumisid sa
dagat para harapin ang kanyang berkakan. Hinarap iyon ng kaniyang mga
ninuno, para lamang matuloy ang tradisyon.
Tinanong niya ang ina sa mangyayari.
“Dalawa lang anak ang puwedeng pagpilian. Mamatay ka o mabubuhay.
Pag namatay ka, tulad ng iyong ama, maititigil ang istorya, pero kung
mananatili kang buhay, para iyong isang sumpa. Lagi kang pag-uusaan.
Pagtatalunan ang iyong buhay. Sa katagalan, kikinis ang iyong istorya. Iyon
nga lang, sa dulo, hindi ka na totoo.”
“Anong gagawin ko?”
“Anong magagawa ko? Ituloy mo ang istorya mo. Bahala na si Pero
Bucaneg sa magiging dulo nito. Kahit bulag iyon, malakas ang guniguni.”
Delphi
(isang sipi mula sa work-in-progress)
Luna Sicat-Cleto
N
asaan ang anak ko?
Ito ang tanong ni Mrs. Redempcion na hindi
masagot ni Mr. Fajardo. Kahapon, nagmiting ang Man
Comm hanggang alas-otso ng gabi, nalipasan na ng
trapik sa sentro, at umuwi na ang mga empleyado sa mga
tahanang malamig na ang sinaing. Pagod na ang staff, at
kaya itong basahin ng kahit sino. Namamali na ang ulat sa bawat umaga na
pagkikita, masungit na ang pagtatanong ng iba kung dumating na ang snacks
sa canteen. Kahit ang mga bata, ramdam ang krisis. Panay ang tawag ng mga
magulang, at gayundin sila. Mabuti na kamo at naimbento na ang cellphone.
Kung hindi, araw-araw sigurong puno ng mga tatawag o tatanggap ng tawag
ang opisina ni Ms. Cleofe.
Dalawang linggo na silang hindi makapagdesisyon. Dumating na, noong
isang araw pa, ang subpoena mula kay Mrs. Redempcion. Akalain mo. Huling
taon na ng kaniyang paglilingkod bilang director, praktisado na nga niya ang
moment ng pagbibigay ng farewell speech, at heto, nangyari ito. Hay. Pero
ang mga probabilidad ay nariyan na. Arts school ito: at hindi lang basta arts
school. Ito lang ang bukod tanging institusyon na nangangako, nangangarap,
at nagluluwal ng mga talentadong pianista, ballet dancer, pintor, violinista,
writer. Boarding school ng mga kabataang nawawalay sa mga magulang
at kailangang bantayan at alagaan. Kulang ang mga metapora ng botany at
biology para ilarawan ang kaibahan ng mga kabataang ito sa iba pa – mas
sensitibo sila, mas babasagin ang krisalis kaysa sa iba, iba ang lipad.
Sicat-Cleto 95
Kagaya ng nawawalang anak ni Mrs. Redempcion na si Delphi.

That girl – I cannot even remember who she was. Ipinaalala pa ni Ms.
Cleofe kung sino siya, sa roster ng kabuuang populasyon ng mga estudyante
na aabot sa 80. Hindi n’yo ba siya naalala? Siya ‘yung dalagitang laging
nakaitim? And why do you wear black? I’m mourning for my life, sabi ng
karakter ni Ibsen. At nagulat siya na siya nga, siya nga ‘yung batang nagsabi
nito sa inosente niyang pagtatanong kung bakit siya laging nakaluksa. I’m
mourning for my life. Pero namumukod ba ang nakaitim na iyon, sa dinami-
dami ng mga kabataang ika nga’y masasabi ring may pagka-dark? Batik ba
siya sa kaputian ng paligid? Hindi siguro. Sa eskuwelahang iyon, weird ang
normal. Pinakamarami ang freshmen, trenta. Sumunod ang sophomore,
beinte kuwatro. Junior, 16. At senior, 10. Nalalagas ang bilang ng freshmen
taun-taon – may matatalsik dahil mahina ang academic performance, may
hindi makakapasa sa mga arts class, may mahuhuling natutulog sa kung
saan-saan, o anumang disciplinal issue. Sa mga napapauwing mga kabataan
na iyon, pinakamasaklap iyong napauwi dahil hindi pala ito kasing talentado
ng karamihan. Ilan sa kanila ang bukod tanging nakapag-aral sa mga liblib
na komunidad – parang sibol ng eksotikong bulaklak sa paligid ng burak,
ng niyog, ng agahang dilis at saluyot. Lumuwas ang mga kabataang iyon
sa Los Baños, umakyat sa bundok Makiling, matapos ang pistang idinaos,
na ginastusan ng mayor o kagawad. Pagkatapos, uuwi lamang na hatid ng
traysikel, nag-iisa,balik sa paligid ng burak, niyog at agahang dilis at saluyot,
baon ang sulat na pirmado niya. Parang talunan sa reality show.
But this girl, hindi siya kabilang doon. Hindi siya kabilang sa great
unwashed, ‘yung paboritong phrase ng kanyang mentor sa teatro. May
kaya ang mga magulang, lalo na ang ina, ng batang ito. One look at her
form 137-A would tell you that. Forbes Park. Cambridge Circle. Aba, hindi
na magugulat si Mr. Fajardo kung malalaman niyang may kaanak itong
nawawalang dalagita na ito na somebody powerful. Iyon naman ang subtext
ng phone call ng ina nito kahapon. She knows some people. Lagi nitong
ipinapaalala, even before this incident, na siya, si Mrs. Yna Reformina
Redempcion, ang bukod tanging pintor na babae sa Pilipinas na kayang
pakainin ang sarili sa kaniyang art. Her paintings have been exhibited here
and elsewhere, nakarampa na sa mga auction houses, naretratuhan na sa
mga tanyag na katalogo ng mga art collections. That was how she introduced
herself, noong friends pa sila sa initial meeting ng staff sa mga magulang
at mga kabataan a month before that semester. Suot ni Mrs. Redempcion
ang atypical na costume ng mga successful art personalities: mamahaling

bestida na chiffon, designer shoes at de salon na buhok. A perfect ensemble
for an actress in a tea party. She was very flattered nang sinabi niyang I like
your dress. Beso-beso, yung eksaktong dampi lang ng pisngi at paghalik sa
hangin. Kaunting small talk tungkol sa traffic, sa mga corrupt na politiko, sa
sangkaterbang kalat sa Kamaynilaan.
Most of the parents avoided her, he observed. Pagkaraan ng ilang tungga
ng red wine, maingay na kasi ito. Nawala ang class ng tea party dress at
nasaniban na ng kaluluwa ng laos na bold star. We’ve been friends since I was
an unknown in college, di ba direk? Even before you became a noted actor?
Nangingiti ang ibang mga magulang. Karamihan sa kanila’y mga
ordinaryong empleyado lang: sa eskuwela, sa mall, sa bangko. May
mangilan-ngilang OFW. Walang may come uppance sa kanila na maging
pamilyar agad, di tulad ni Mrs. Redempcion.
Of course they haven’t seen any of your plays, di ba direk? Chekhov,
Shakespeare, that was the repertoire, right? Buhay na buhay pa noon ang
Bulwagan. I remember those evenings na umuuwi kaming mag-asawa from
a performance feeling giddy and excited still, after watching those plays.
Bahagyang nangangaligkig si Mr. Fajardo sa tinuran ni Mrs.
Redempcion. Call me Yna. (Check. But I won’t call you Ina to your face.
You’re much too old for that ingenue name.)
And siyanga pala, this is my husband, Tito. (Muli, naalala niya ang itsura
ng asawa nito: simple, walang kaere-ere. Puting polo shirt, khaki pants,
nice sensible shoes. Wore the sad, dignified air of academics. Obviously
embarassed by the wife.) May sinasabi pa si Mrs. Redempcion hinggil
sa reputasyon ng kaniyang asawa. Na ito’y isang scientist at madalas na
maimbitahan sa mga kumperensiya sa climate change. Tila nairita ang lalaki
sa pakilala sa kaniya at walang pasabi na umalis ito, nagkunwang nauuhaw
at uminom ng punch, na hinagis lang niya sa katabing halaman.
Saka lang lumapit sa kanila ang bata – si Delphi.
“She has an interesting name,” natatandaan niyang nasabi kay Mrs.
Redempcion.
“She certainly does. Galing kami noon ng aking asawa sa Greece. We
were enchanted with the place, lalo na ‘yung tinatawag nilang Oracle. Hence
the name.”
Ngumiti lang ang dalagita. Black t-shirt, black jeans, black shoes, black
sooty make-up. Medyo mataba. Mukhang uwang sa itim na suot.
Sicat-Cleto 97
Ngayon, nasaan na ba ang itim na uwang na iyon? Napahalukipkip

siya sa lamig. Malamig talaga sa Makiling tuwing madaling-araw. Kahit sa
Marso. Habang iniihaw na sa init ang Kamaynilaan, sa bundok, nagjajacket
ang mga tao.
“O, gising ka na?” ungol ng lalaking katabi niya. Pupungas-pungas
itong bumangon, humalik.
“Archie, ano ba? Sinabi ko na sa ‘yo na sa lugar na ito, we have to be
discreet? I’m the one who’s running the place.”
“Are you sure about that mother?”
“Careful, may six o’clock trip pamaya-maya and you may just find
yourself aboard that bus.”
Nagkibit-balikat na lang si Archie. Nag-inat, sinadya ba niya o hindi
na itapat ang katawan sa kaniya at sa repleksiyon ng salamin, nakikita pa
niya ang pagkisyaw ng mga muscles nitong talagang pinagpuhunan ng
maraming oras sa gym. Patag ang abs, maganda ang hubog ng binti, braso.
Pero maliit. Alam niya ito at alam ito ng buong kapatirang naging karelasyon
na nito. Sa liit ba naman ng mundo ng teatro, kayo kayo lang rin naman
ang magkakasama sa cast party, opening night, auditions, at kayo-kayo
lang rin ang mag-aagawan sa mga minor-major -major major -acting roles
o directorial stints.
“Dapat kasi, inurungan mo na ito. Ikaw ang first choice sa role, sabi ni
Direk.”
“Sabihin mo sa kanya tumigil na siya sa plastikan ha? We all know na
sinulot ng aging lover niya ang role. Ano’ng ako ang first choice. Che!”
“Bakit ka ba nagtataray?”
“Wala. Go back to sleep. I have a lot of things in my mind.”
“Are you still worried about that student? Tama na. Move on na.
Tingnan mo nga ang sarili mo. Mas puyat ka pa sa tandang.”
“Easy for you to say. Hindi ikaw ang hinahabla.”
“Sabihin mo na lang kasi sa hitad na ‘yon na nagpasearch party na
kayo’t halos hinalughog na ninyo ang anit ng bundok...”
“At wala kaming nakitang kahit na ano...”
“Well, paasahin mo naman ng konti.”
“Like how? Excuse me, nakita namin ang panty ng anak ninyo pero
ewan namin kung nasaan siya?”
Tumahimik na lang si Archie. Tila alam nitong walang patutunguhan
ang usapan. Sa halip, sinasaksak na lang nito sa tenga ang earphones ng
iPod, dinampot ang weights sa sahig at nag-exercise, inuusal ang bilang

ng repetisyon na akala mo nagrorosaryo. Hindi na ito muling tumingin sa
kaniya at alam niyang nag-zone out na ito.
Sa isang iglap, nagka-interes muli ang media sa eskuwelahang iyon.
Hindi na ito basta tinitingnaan bilang katapat ng Julliard, o isa sa mga
bakas ng edifice complex ng Marcoses. Mula sa pagiging white elephant
na kinukuwestiyon ang praktikalidad, pati ang seguridad ng mga kabataang
nag-aaral doon ay nauukilkil. How safe are they, ngayong nalantad na may
isang dalagitang katorse anyos na nawawala sa gitna ng kagubatan? It didn’t
help na alam ng mga tao ang alamat ng bundok na iyon. Ng diwatang nakatira
doon. Ng mga lamang lupa’t engkanto na posibleng naninirahan doon. It
didn’t help na may paranoia ang tao sa posibilidad na baka nagahasa ang
dalaga, na-gang rape o napagtripan ng mga lulong sa droga. Magmula nang
nalantad ang balita, naging sunod-sunod na rin ang coverage ng media
sa mga drug-related crimes na palasak sa area na iyon... na para bang ang
kademonyohan ng lungsod ay sumasanib na sa “liblib” na probinsiya ng
Calamba o ng Los Baños, hesusmaryosep, patawarin, lugar pa naman ng
kapanganakan ng pambansang bayani na nagbuwis ng buhay sa Luneta.
And it didn’t help the reputation of the school either. Kumakalat ang
tsismis na nagmimiting na rin ang Executive Board, at baka i-scrap na lang
ang eskuwelahan, ia-absorb na lamang ng ibang mga state-run high schools
– kahit ba nakasentro sa Science o Technology – ang mga estudyanteng
casualty ng insidente.
The first time he heard the rumor over coffee, muntik na niyang
maisprayan ng sipon niya at ng kape ang kaharap niyang guro. But that’s
absurd, ang nasabi na lang niya. Abysmally so. How can students of the arts
– future artists – be future scientists?
Tamang-tama na pagkasabing pagkasabi niya no’n, siyang anunsiyo
ni Cleofe na nasa waiting area ng office niya ang babaeng ayaw niyang
makaharap.
Lord, have mercy.
Pero pagbukas niya ng pinto, hindi isang babaeng naka-tea party dress
at de salon na buhok ang sumalubong sa kaniya kundi isang babaeng tila
pinabili lang ng suka sa kanto at may media ID.
“Sir, I’m Ina Reformina of Channel 2.”
Ipinasiya niya noon din na wala nang small talk-small talk, kaagad
niyang sinagpang ng tanong ang babaeng pinabili ng suka.
Sicat-Cleto 99
“Haven’t you had enough? Nasa mga diyaryo na ang balita. Kayo na
yata ang hindi pa nakakaalam.”
“Gusto ko lang pong i-verify kung totoo nga po ang sinabi ng aming
source na two weeks na raw na nawawala ang anak niya and yet you haven’t
declared her missing...Mag-aapat na linggo na po Sir ever since her
disappearance.”
The girl was batting her eyelashes like crazy.
Sasabihin na sana niya: “I need to talk to my lawyer first.”
Pero nakita na niyang may tumayong aparisyon na naka-chiffon.
Nakaupo sa isang sulok. Awtomatiko niyang nasilip ang bintana. May mga
tv crew na nag-i-interview ng mga estudyante sa labas. Gamit ang voice
training na natutuhan niya sa post doc niya sa Gresya, sinigawan niya
ang crew. “Hey. Wait a minute. You have no right barging into this school
without an official appointment!”
“Well, my apologies Mr. Fajardo, noted actor. I’ve decided it’s time to
act,” sabad ni Mrs. Redempcion.
Bumaling ito sa katabi niyang reporter. “Pleased to know that you were
able to make it at such an early hour.”
Ngumiti lang si Ina.
“If you’ll ask me, magandang ma-interview ang mga kadorm ng anak ko.
You might gather something there na hindi pa nako-cover ng imbestigasyon
ng eskuwelahang ito.”
“Hindi po ba ninyo natanggap ang aming finile na report?”
“Natanggap. Pero anong silbi ng mga log-in-log-out na time check at
place monitoring kuno? My daughter is still missing.”
“Well kung ganito rin lang then so be it. Nasaan ang camera? Ok. Diyan
ba? Here is the official announcement: Last February 14, a student named
Ms. Delphi Redempcion disappeared within the school’s premises. She
failed to show in the houserounds. All the students who were questioned
recalled that on that fateful day, she was attending her History class. She
asked to be excused. She did not return – not to her class, or her lessons
after. She did not board the bus nor did she show up for dinner. At dawn,
we searched the premises. No sign of her. All her things are intact – clothes,
laptop, etc.”
“So what do you believe is the cause of her disappearance?”
“Each of the learners here are gifted in the arts. She may have run off
somewhere, enrapt with an idea, and could not find her way back.”
“Baka naman po nagtanan?”

“Sumama sa NPA?”
Nagtawanan ang lahat, maliban kay Mrs. Redempcion at Mr. Fajardo,
sa mga unsolicited comments ng crew.
“Do you have a file photo of this student?”
Awtomatiko nang iniabot ni Cleofe ang retrato, passport-sized, sa
media.
“Wala ho ba kayong mas malaki-laki rito?”
Tila napahiyang nagsenyas si Mr. Fajardo kay Cleofe, pero nagsenyal
itong wala na silang naitagong biswal na dokumento. Maingay na
bumuntunghininga si Mrs. Redempcion at naglabas ng makakapal na photo
album na bitbit niya sa isang sosyal na pasiking. Kumuha ang reporter ng
pinaka-recent, tinapat sa camera, at may nagsabing ia-adobe photoshop na
lang.
“No, I refuse that! You must show her just as she is.”
“No Ma’m, you misunderstood us. Ang ibig po naming sabihin ay...”
Kumaway lang ang babae, dinismiss na ang mga paliwanag.
“It’s alright. Mukhang nagkaintindihan naman,” singit ni Mr. Fajardo.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses,” pahayag ni Mrs. Redempcion
sa kanya. “Useless nang -ideny na nasa tabi-tabi lang ang anak ko. It’s
been four weeks! Oh My God. Oh My God.” At tila on cue na nagnervous
breakdown si Mrs. Redempcion sa harap ng camera. Praktisado ang pahid
ng tissue sa sulok ng mga mata na akala mo nagtatapat na presidential
prodigal daughter.
Hindi na matagalan ni Mr. Fajardo ang eksena. He excused himself.
Bahagya niyang naririnig ang sinasabi ni Mrs. Redempcion sa kaniyang
pagtalikod:
“Yes, she was gifted. She was exactly like me in my younger days.
Winning prizes for amateur painting contests. Except that she’s more of an
introvert...takot sa tao.Nagkukulong lang sa room niya to finish a painting, a
study. No, she has no boyfriend. No. I am sure. I have tapped all our phones
at walang nanliligaw sa kanya.”
And what about her father Ma’m? Does he know about this?”
“He’s in Malaysia right now, nasa fieldwork.”
“Kumusta na po siya?”
Napapangiwi si Mr. Fajardo sa pekeng malasakit ng tanong. Samantala,
sumisidhi ang drama, ang iyak ni Mrs. Redempcion. Sumenyas ang direktor
Sicat-Cleto 101
ng crew na ilapit pa, itutok pa sa mukha, at parang nakikini-kinita na

niya kung papaano titimplahin ang shot. Mater Dolorosa. Dissolve to sa
majestikong tanawin ng bundok Makiling, sa portrait ni Madame. Habang
abala ang crew ng media sa pag-aasikaso kay Mrs. Redempcion, may lalaking
biglang pumasok. Si Mr. Redempcion!
Parang nakoryente siya sa silyang kinauupuan, at kaagad niyang
sinalubong ang ama ng estudyante. Gayon pa rin ang ayos nito katulad ng
huli silang magkakilala, ngunit ngayo’y parang nagusot-gusot ang polo’t
pantalon at ilang araw nang hindi nakapag-aahit.
Wala nang small talk small talk. Dumeretso kaagad ang tatay sa
rekomendasyon.
“So, has there been a search party?”
Ipinaliwanag niya na nagawa na iyon, at nang sisingit sana ang
broadcaster sa kanilang usapan, suminghal ang tatay sa crew.
“Puwede ba? Lubayan n’yo muna kami. We want to talk to Mr. Fajardo
alone. Give us some space!”
At may estudyanteng nagtatakbo, bumulaga sa pintuan. “Sir, Sir, si
Delphi, nakita na!”
“Saan?”
“Sabi ni kuya, nandoon sa chapel.”
In all his life, hindi pa nagdarasal ng ganoon kataimtim si Mr. Fajardo.
Na-stroke noong ’04 ang lola niya na nagpalaki sa kaniya, a stroke that she
never recovered from. Araw-araw, iyak siya nang iyak habang naglalakad
siya ng pasilyo ng ospital o namimili ng instant noodles at canned peaches
sa grocery. Nagdasal siya noon, taimtim, na sana pagbalik niya, gumising
na mula sa coma ang lola niyang naatake. Hindi iyon nagising. Noong ’87,
namatay ang una niyang marubdob na pag-ibig, isang Pranses na nakilala
niya sa post doc theater program. He was mugged. Nagdasal din siya,
taimtim, na sana mahuli ang mga nambugbog. Walang nahuli. Ngayon,
natagpuan na ang isang hindi niya kaano-ano, na kung tutuusin ay sagot
sa taimtim rin niyang dasal. Buhay. Humihinga. Pero ano pa? Ano pa
ang puwedeng mangyari sa isang dalagitang nawala at natagpuan muli, at
makikitang nakahandusay sa bangko ng kapilya?
Ang kapilyang ito’y itinayo sa balikat ng isa pang burol, tanaw ang
Laguna de Bay, walang mga pader, kaya ideal na venue para sa isang dream
wedding. Para sa mga suckers ng communing with nature. Disneyesque na
may ibon na bibitbit ng trahe de boda. Of course pantasya lang. And it is
precisely that fantasy kung kaya kumikita rin kahit paano ang kapilyang iyon.
Nakatutulong rin kahit paano ang profit nito para ma-offset ang tumataas na
gastusin ng maintenance ng eskuwela – sa araw-araw na biyahe na aabot ng
ilang libo, tumataas ng 100 percent sa bawat taon.
At hindi mapigilan ni Mr. Fajardong mag-isip ng future forward.
Ngayong nakahandusay sa bangko ng kapilyang iyon ang dalagitang
nawala’t natagpuan. How will this affect the school? Can the damage
be undone? At kung magising nga, hindi ba’t parang perfect fantasy rin
ang setting?
Hindi walking distance ang kapilya at kinailangan pang sumakay ng
shuttle (gastos na naman) bago makarating doon. For the first time in years,
traffic sa Makiling, usad pagong ang mga sasakyan sa bitukang landas ng
bundok, patungo sa lugar na iyon na pagkalapit-lapit. Nawalan ng tiyaga
ang mga magulang, di na nakapaghintay, at linakad ang destinasyon.
Mas nauna pa sila sa nakasakay. Hinihingal na umupo muna sa damuhan
si Mrs. Redempcion. Tuloy sa lakad-takbo ang kaniyang kabiyak. Malayo pa
lang, tanaw na niya ang budbod ng mga nakikiusyoso.
Nitong mga nakaraang taon, nahihirapan na sina Mr. Fajardo na
palayasin ang mga nag-squat doon sa itaas, at binigyan pa nila ng empleyo
ang mga ito kaysa mas mahirapan pa sila sa paghahanap ng mga tagalinis,
tagaluto’t tagalaba, at tagapagbantay.
Eksenang pieta ang naabutan niya sa kapilya. Kalong ni Mr. Redempcion
ang ulo ng anak, tinawag-tawag ang pangalan. Walang galos at walang sugat
ang dalagita, walang dungis ang suot na unipormeng puting kamiseta’t
maong. Para ba’ng nalingat lang ang lahat at naroon lang pala ang bata’t
nakatulog lang sa bangko.
Humihinga. Himbing na himbing. Pero ayaw magising. Ayaw nang
magising.
Nasa kuwarto na siya na puti ang mga pader, may hiwa ng araw sa
isang sulok, katapat ng mukhang may koronang tinik na nakatingin, hindi
ngumingiti.
Wala nang naalala si Delphi sa nangyari sa kaniya. Blangko ang utak
niya, hindi ma-rewind. Kahit i-supply pa ng mga nakapaligid ang mga
detalye – nasa Magnetic Road ka noon – bigla ka na lang umalis noong klase
na natin sa History – ano ba’ng ginagawa mo doon? Sinong dumukot sa
iyo? Baka naman may natatandaan ka, kahit mukha, kahit pangalan, kahit
detalye ng bahay, o ng kalsada.
Sicat-Cleto 103
Nag-mute ang lahat, parang kagaya ng monitor ng tv na wala kang

makikita kundi marmol ng grey na linya. Gumagalaw ang bibig ng nanay
niya, ng nars, ng tatay niya, ng doktor. Sa huli, huminga na lang ng malalim
ang nanay niya, umalis. Naiwan sila ng tatay niya sa loob ng kuwarto.
Hinawakan lang nito ang kaniyang mga kamay, hinahaplos ang kaniyang
buhok, binubulong, “matulog ka muna, matulog ka muna...”
Sa kumpol ng mga taong nakatagpo’t nakasalamuha niya sa bundok,
namumukod ang babaeng iyon. May korona ring nakaputong sa kaniyang
ulo, ngunit hindi iyon tinik. Sanga-sanga, dahon-dahon, baging- baging.
Nagluluksa sa suot niyang blusa’t saya na luray-luray at animo’y basahan.
Nakayapak. Mamasa- masa ang mga sugat sa kamay, leeg, braso, binti.
Namumulaklak ang ketong, nangangamoy. Kahawig ng amoy ng mga
sugat na nagnanana ang isang tutang matagal nang hindi naliligo. Sa isang
galaw, binasa nito ang dulo ng kaniyang hintuturo ng sariling laway, at saka
ipinahid nito ang laway sa kaniyang noo, sa bibig, dibdib. Pakrus na pahid.
Waring pagtanggap sa banal na salita tuwing misa. Isinasaisip, isinasabibig,
isinasapuso.
Mapandiring tao si Delphi. Pero nang nadampi siya ng hintuturo ng
estrangherong iyon – sa noo, sa labi, sa dibdib – wala siyang palag.
Poetry / Tula
Unang Orasyonal*
Rio Alma
I. Papuri
Panginoon, ano ba sa iyo’ng insenso?

Bakit kailangang marmol o ginintuan
Ang ihandog sa iyong bahay o dambana?
Tinatamad ka ba kapag walang deboto?
Nababawasan ka ba ng kapangyarihan
Pag luad ang pedestal at walang bandila?
Naghahayin kami ng bulaklak at prutas

Nang ang kalinga mo sa ami’y magpatuloy;
Ngunit alay nama’y amin láng pinipitas
Mula sa kalikásan mo. Batid mo, Poon,
Hindi naman kumukúpas ang diyamante *Mula sa Orasyonal,
Kahit ibaon sa paglimot at basura; isang bagong koleksiyong
At wala ring naidadagdag ang papuri nagsimula sa pagmuni
Sa totoo, sa mabuti, at sa maganda. sa mga meditasyon ni
Marcus Aurelius hinggil
6 Hunyo 2010 sa búhay at daigdig ng
tao. Mula ang pamagat
sa Espanyol na oracional
ngunit may layuning
maglaro sa pagitan ng
“orasyon” at “rasyonal”
upang ulitin (usalin) at
ipagunita ang napakalaking
guwang sa pagitan ng mga
lunggati’t mithi at ng mga
kasalukuyang katunayan.
Ituturing na isang malaking
tagumpay ang tula kapag
hindi natinag ang umiiral.
108 likhaan 5 ˙ poetry / tula
Ii. Mortal
Panginoon, natitiyak ko na likha mo

Ang kamatayan; at iyong ginagabayan
Ang oras at paraan kung ito’y dumatíng.
Natitiyak kong naisip mo lámang ito
Matapos likhain ang buong santinakpan
At makuro ang bagot sa búhay-bituin.
Ang tákot namin ang lumikha ng sagisag

Sa kamatayan—may anyo’t damit na luksa
At karit na walang awa’t walang patawad—
Na lalong tumákot sa ’ming mortal na diwa.
Para kaming dagâ sa búhay mong may pain;
At bunga ng aming tákot na unibersal,
Panginoon, bakâ nilikha ka rin namin
Kalakip ng pangarap na kawalang-hanggan.
7 Hunyo 2010
Iii. Pakikilahok
Ang takót sa masamâ ay ayaw mabúhay.

Hindi naman lumpo’y nais lámang manood
Sa bintana at ang sarili’y ibilanggo;
Hindi naman pipi’y nilulunok ang laway;
Hindi naman mangmang ay ipinapadiyos
At kandila ang mithi at tibok ng puso.
Ang tákot sa masamâ’y anak ng malubhang

Paniwala sa taal na dilim ng budhi
At ng kawalan ng tiwala sa adhikang
Bakáhin ang hari man ng malî’t tiwali.
Ang dilim, gilalas, parikala’t pagsubok
Ay sili sa dugo’t pampalusog sa muni.
Ang lamukot ng búhay ay pakikilahok;
Nagwagi na siyá pagkilos makitunggali.
10 Hunyo 2010
Rio Alma 109
Iv. Kirot
May kirot na higit sa nalagas na ngipin;

Higit na mahapdi sa hanay ng kulubot,
Higit na malalim sa sugat ng pag-ibig.
Di makirot ang puntod sa bawat lakbayin;
Walang kuwenta ang bawat puti ng buhok
At ang dagtang luha sa kopita ng tamis;
Pagkat may kapalit ang luoy ng bulaklak;

Isinisílang ang fenix mula sa abo.
Bawat wakas ay simula. Ngunit, kay saklap!
Kung ito’y di matupad sa búhay ng tao.
Kung matapos sairin ang layaw ng mundo,
Nágisíng siyáng tila sambuntong dayami:
Nabulok ay walang tumubò kahit damo,
Susunugin, mawawala sa guniguni.
10 Hunyo 2010
V. Posteridad
Panginoon, panahon pa palá ni Marcus

Ay naganap na ang ginagampanan ngayon
Sa buong daigdig: edukasyon ng paslit,
Kasalan, piging, libing, hanapbuhay, libog;
Mayabang, sakim, taksil, matulungin, gutóm;
Aksidente, away, paligsahan, digma, sakít.
May panahon din silá sa tabsing at mósim,

Negosyo’t politika, dayà, bola, laro,
Pagpaplano sa ambisyon at paniningil.
Marahil, may iba lang kaming subli’t likô.
O marami kaming nalilimot tandaan
Dahil mas masarap tandaan lang ang sarap.
Panginoon, ilan kayâ’ng tulad kong hangal
Na pílit nabúhay para sa Hinaharap?
8 Hunyo 2010
Vi. Lumipas
Tila malabong larawang nakapanungaw

Sa bingit at singit ng aking panaginip,
Ninais kitáng malimot dahil nalugod
Sa banyagang palayaw: Penelope, Susan…
At lumitaw ka namang panaghoy o gálit
Sa kasaysayan ng aking pagtúlog-túlog.
Nais kitáng linawin. Ngunit lubhang umilap

Ang anino mong ngayo’y nagkasapin-saping
Bugtong, awit, at putól-putól na alamat
Na dapat kong muling-likhain, at tawaging:
Salome, Gregoria, Gabriela, Alunsina…
Ang bawat piraso mo’y kaginhawahan ko.
Hábang nabubuo ka’y lalong gumaganda;
At tumatanda akong may sungay sa noo.
21 Hulyo 2010
Vii. Kabutihan
Panginoon, hubugin mo akong mabuti

Upang hindi maging ganap na masunurin
Sa lunggati ng mortal na lamán at puso;
Upang makapaglingkod sa nakararami,
Tulad ng malinis at kailangang hangin,
Nang walang kapalit na medalya o ginto.
Payapain mo ang aking mainiping loob

Sa mahahabàng tunggalian o sa lumbay,
At lalo pang patatagin ang pulso’t tuhod
Sa gitna ng bulaklak, papuri’t tagumpay.
Handa man akong nag-iisa sa pighati,
Lubhang mahirap manahimik sa palakpak;
Nakababaliw kahit kiming ngiti’t pagbatì,
Lalo’t tubuan ng sungay, buntot, at pakpak.
9 Hunyo 2010
Rio Alma 111
Viii. Kagandahang-loob
Panginoon, kipilin mo akong maganda

Kaysa sarili kong matá’t nakamihasnan;
Yaong gandang busilak at di kumukupas
Sa titig ng araw, asim, pait, at pakla;
Hindi kinakain ng uod at kalawang;
Hindi maisasalin sa wika ng aklat.
Bigyan ako ng gandang katutubo, payak,

At higit pa: Yaong marangal at magiting
Laban sa taginting ng tamburin at pilak
At lalo na laban sa magdaraya’t sakim.
Yaong may sulyap na pumapawi ng lungkot,
May salitâng tahas, pantay, at makatao,
May taingang matiyaga sa bawat pagdulog,
May ilong sa bago at sa takbo ng mundo.
10 Hunyo 2010
Ix. Tadhana
Where there is no vision, the people perish.
Walang tarheta ang ilog. Walang tahanan.

Walang libingan ang ilog kundi ang ilog.
Ngunit walang ilog na hindi nagsimula.
Ang Simula! Ang dapat nililingong bukal;
Ang pugad ng bugtong kung sa manok o itlog.
Walang hantungan ang ilog na mula wala.
Ang ilog ay bulág kung walang nililingon

Kayâ sunod-sunuran sa panahon at unos.
Ililigaw ito ng maharot na simoy
Sa lungsod ng burak, sa banyagang bantayog.
Saan nga ba patungo ang ilog na bulág?
Sa pusali’t tambakan ng libog at putik.
Mananahan ito kung saan mapapadpad;
Mamamatay ito kung saan mapapikít.
(Paalala sa Bagong Pangulo ng Bansa)

1 Hulyo 2010
Rio Alma 113
X. Makabayan
Iniibig ko ang palay, niyog, kawayan

Di dahil lámang sa suman, gatâ, sawali;
Ni di dahil sa tapuy, palaspas, lawiswis.
Iniibig ko kahit ang bato’t damuhan,
Tulad ng ingat ko sa sariling daliri
At pagtingin sa anak, magulang, kapatid.
Sinusukat ko ang tubigan at lupain

Araw-araw, nang di makamkam ng banyaga;
Tinitingala ang kanyang araw at bitwin
Upang idambana sa utak at haraya.
Nilalakbay ko ang mga lungsod ng sikhay
Upang pagpugayan ang pawis at talino;
Sakâ nupò sa pasig, upang mapakinggan
Ang sigaw ng alon sa wikang Filipino.
4 Hulyo 2010
Mula sa Engkantado
Mark Angeles
Bagras
Sa tabi ng ilog, isang bagras:

tinatastas
ang sarili
sa pagkakabuhol.
Isang balangaw
na walang hanggang nagpapalit
ng sarikulay.
Maharlikang hinahalinhan
ang maringal na kasuotan.
Hindi mo ito mamamalas

na bihis
ang kaparis na puntas.

Kusang humuhulagpos ang damit.
Ginugutay ang upak

upang maitanghal
ang matingkad na luntian
na nangungutim
sa pagkamanibalang
hanggang sa matambad
ang mga retaso ng lila, kahel, at bughaw.
115
Maluwag sa loob na tinatanggap

ng ilog ang mga pilas nitong inaanod
bilang pagkain
ng kinakandiling mga lalang;
sinusupsop ang dagtang hilaw
na sangkap
ng mga likhang-goma.
Sa tabi ng ilog, isang lumad:

sinasalok ang tubig
sa magkasalikop na mga kamay.
Tinggayad na nababasag sa alimbukay

ang kaniyang mukha.
Gumugulong papalayo
ang mga laylayan ng rabaw:
maninipis na alingawngaw sa salamin

ng sansinukob.
Mga busog itong umiilandang kasunod

ng mga pinawalang palaso
sa mausok na kalangitan
na hindi dagim kundi dapog

ng petrolyong nasusunog.
Sa tabi ng ilog, sumabay sa pag-awit ng aliw-iw

ang bagras—isang kumintang – sa saliw
ng kulintang, tagongko, at kapanirong;
sa sagalsal ng kutiyapi, dayuday, at daguyung.
Angeles
Nagayuma ang lumad sa budyong. Nahiraya sa sanghaya.
Inapuhap ang kampilang nakasukbit sa baywang ng historya.
Muli, naghunos ng damit ang bagras.

Naghunos nang naghunos.
Hinaplit ng siyam-siyam
ang matandang ilog
ngunit hindi natinag
ang lumad na nakakapit

ang titig at pananalig
sa liwanag
ng sahing ng bagras
na walang humpay sa pagdanak

mula pagsibol hanggang awanggan.
117
Balukanag
Isipin mo ang bartolina,

ang impiyerno ng karsel, ang pag-iisa.
Isipin mo ang isang piraso ng bakal,

walang patid na palutang-lutang
sa milya-milyang latag ng karagatan.

Mistulang walang katapusan.
Iwinawasiwas ng bawat araw, oras, at sandali

ang pananabik ng unang pagsampa sa barko.
Inuumay ng ilang dipang dampa ang panatang

mahagkan ang lupa ng mga dinadaungang bansa.
Pagpalaot, lantay na dilim ang inaabot

ng kakarampot na pukol ng paningin.
Sumisigid sa buto ang lamig ng hangin

at laging may banta ang dagim
ng paparating na unos: buwisitang

pumapanaog pagsarhan man ng pintuan.
Isipin mo ang bulwagan ng mga baliw.

Nakapaglakad ang mga apostoles sa tubig
118 Angeles likhaan 5 ˙ poetry / tula
habang kami ay pinuputakti ng mga hagalgal

na tumalon sa bangin ng pagkalunod.
Labas-masok ang mga ipis sa mga butas

ng bakal na nginangatngat ng kalawang.
Nanganganib ang barkong lumubog.

Nangangamba kaming magkaluslos.
Isipin mo ang pagkabagot at lumbay

na pilit naming pinapaslang
sa pagbabasa, pagtulog, pagsusulat

ng mga liham. Sa babae, bisyo, at alak.
Kinulimbat ng paglalayag ang sagalsal

ng aguhon sa aming dibdib.
Hindi mapapalis ng karaniwang sabon

ang alat ng hangin at tubig sa balat.
Kaya sumusuling kami sa balukanag

na humuhugas sa pagkakasala ng dagat.
119
Dapdap
Pumupusag-pusag ang mga dumalagang dahon

sa aking mga sanga na tila kawan ng mga salmon
at ako ay isang gasang sa bughaw na dalampasigan.
Maya-maya lang, magdiringas ang aking mga tangkay.

Maglilitawan ang mga mainiping palong ng katyaw.
Nakamasid sa kaligiran ang kanilang mga butong mata.
Panahon ito ng pamumukadkad ng mga iskarlatang

taluktok ng mga bulaklak na siyang aking korona:
ang kagampan ng pagpapala ng aking santuwaryo.
Aranya akong pinamamahayan ng mga engkanto,

mga makikisig na lalang na nag-iibis ng bangong
bumibighani sa mga mortal para sila silain.
Maging ng mga kibaan na may mga gintong ngipin

at maibigin sa mga punungkahoy na maningning;
pinagniningning ng laksa-laksang mga alitaptap.
Sa paglatag ng kapanglawan ng gabi, magliliwanag

ang aking mga sanga na tila ako ang nagpapaliyab
ng aking sarili para ipahayag ang aking kalooban.
Ipamamalas ko ang aking angking kapangyarihan.

Hindi nga ba’t pinansusuob ako ng mga babaylan
sa kanilang mga ritwal? Ipinaiinom sa mga maysakit?
Nagsisilbing pangontra sa barang? At ang aking siit

na dinapuan ng alitaptap ay may birtud na pang-akit?
Hindi ba’t ako rin ang kumukupkop sa mga patay?
Mula sa sidhi ng alab ang aking ilang na kalikasan

kaya’t langkay ng apoy ang sa akin ay humahapay.
Tulad mong nakayapos sa banakal kong balisaksak.
121
Talisay
Matiim ang tindig ko mula sa sentro

ng inusbungan kong semilya.
Mistulang labaha o espadang
iniluwa ng bibig ng lupa:
nakaumang ang tungki sa alangaang.
Palapit nang palapit ako sa langit.
Akala mo inaasinta ko ang lawas
para bulagin ang matang namumuo
sa saligutgot ng papawirin.
Ngunit hindi ito ang kaluwalhatian

para sa akin—akong nakatulos
na hindi nahuhutok ni humahapay.
Kundi ang marating ang eksaktong edad
na ako ay simulang banghayan ng mga sanga;
sibulan ng masigabong pilyego ng mga dahon.
Ang maging ganap na punungkahoy:
luntian at hitik sa bunga at bulaklak.
Kinawiwilihan ng mga paniki at bayakan.

Kung sakali mang isang peregrino

ang magpalagay na ako ay isang pagoda
dahil sa aking labay na mistulang sapote
ng mga payong na umiikit sa aking tarong,
mag-apuhap kung saan sa aking tahip
nakatabi ang mga labi ng mga banal,
mapararangya ko lang ang kolonya
ng mga hantik at kuwitib na namamahay
sa nahungkag na saray ng aking katawan.
Maging ang kampon ng mga aswang

na kumakanlong sa aking mga labay,
nananahan sa kaibuturan ng aking banakal,
ay lilisan din pagdating ng takdang araw.
Abangan ang pagpapalit ng aking damit
sa tagbisi: bagwisan akong pula, tanso, ginto.
Ang pagbitaw ng unang dahon sa aking tangkay.
Mapapanot ako pagdating ng Marso
at muli, isang tuod na nakalubog sa hukay.
123
Tindalo
Gumuhit ang alupihan sa langit

at inabot ang aking ulunan.
Parang bendisyon ng Panginoon
sa aking basyong katawan—
ako ngayon ang sisidlan ng relihiyong
nagpaluhod sa mga katutubo
na yumukod tulad ng kawayan.
Konsagrahin ang aking banal na tarik.

Akong krus ay kaha ring may tangan
ng matandang krus ni Magallanes
na itinarak sa dibdib ng Sugbu.
Sa loob ko, ang mga labi ng tablang
piningas-pingas ng mga turista at deboto
sa palagay na taglay nito ang talisman
ng saleng na nakalulunas sa mga sakit.
May-sa-bayabas ang aking mga dahong

nagtatangkang manlanggas sa mga pilas
ng kasaysayan ng ilang siglong pananakop.
Pinapaypayan ang dapog ng alingasngas
na palsipikado ang tangan kong krus;
na winasak ng mga kampilan ang berdadero
nang si Magallanes ay kinuyog sa Mactan.
Langhapin ang samyo ng aking balat.

May suob itong insenso at kamanyang.
Hindi ba’t tulad ako ng alangaang
na may pintang dugo sa huling alab ng araw
at unti-unting nilulukuban ng luksang kulay?
Tingnan mo, hinding-hindi ako nakukubkob
kahit ng sanlaksa mang hukbo ng anay.
Buksan mo itong kaloob-looban.

Antabayanan ang susungaw
sa aking balagat at tadyang.
Kung ito ay krus na tinilad-tilad
o kulumpon ng mga agiw.
125
Loser at Iba Pang Tula

Lolito Go
Loser
Nag-unahan pa kaming ibrodkast ang napaagang wakas

ng aming pag-ibig. At para bang showbiz gimmick,
nagpagalingan kaming mag-explain in public kung bakit
walang sakit, walang pait, walang tears
ang closing ceremony ng aming hit na teleserye.
Sa Facebook at Twitter winner ang post niya about
my so-called “mental hernia” at “mental dyspepsia.”
And while she was busy calling me names, I simply said,
“the past tense of us is--used.” And it became
the Facebook status of the century, I suppose.
Well, ginamit niya lang ako at naki-ride sa magic carpet
ng aking mga tula. At ginamit ko rin siya para
sakyan ang ano pa nga ba, katawan niya. And her influence
bilang diwata ng kilusan, which served me a ticket
to take a closer peek at the underground station
at matsansingan ang maseselang mga impormasyon,
mga mapa at parapernalya, mga pangalan at palayaw,
ang buong communist masterlist. At iba pang leaks.
Pero hindi ako intel or asset of any sort ha,
intelligent lang. Smartass, sabi ng iba. Call me
an asshole slash collector ng tsismis, kontrobersiya
at sari-saring salimuot na pansahog sa mga tula
at nilulutong nobela. Which reminds me sa patutsada niyang:
yes, you may be good at cooking ideas but you cannot
fictionalize your hunger any further. Perhaps she’s right.
Ang buhay ko ay isang walang katapusang hunger strike.
Go
Pero katulad lang din ng kaliwang puwersa, meron akong

sariling krusadang isinasabuhay, ikinakampanya.
And obviously, I’m taking this to the extreme.
Sining ang aking isasaing at hangin ang aking uulamin.
But I am not closing the door sakaling mag-offer
ng alternative ang future. For example, the possibility
of getting published. Pero bago pa iyon, alam kong
I have to apply myself more willingly to the demands
of capitalist reality. Halimbawa, mag-ahit, magpagupit,
makipila sa hilera ng mga nanggigitatang aplikante.
Napakalawak ng tiwangwang na lote sa aking kukote,
wika nga ni Tariman, nangangating mataniman.
But I refuse to be used for profit, gaya ng gustong
mangyari ng mga babaeng nagmahal sa akin, allegedly.
Iisa lang ang kanilang sinasabi: Kailan ka ba gigising?
Ok darling, gigising ako, magsesepilyo, maliligo
at kakatok sa mga pabrika’t opisina bitbit ang biodata
na nagtataglay ng aking pangalan, tirahan, taas at timbang,
araw at pook ng kapanganakan, pangalan ng mga magulang,
kursong hindi tinapos dahil napabisyo nag-eksperimento
nanipaklong nanalakitok nanalaginto nanalagubang.
Ano pa ba ang gusto nilang malaman? Special skills?
Languages I speak? Kung alam lang nilang kaya kong magbigti
sa buhok kong lagpas tuhod. And that I solve the rubik’s cube
faster than they could tie their shoes. Walang echos.
On top of that, I speak Jejemon, Bekimon, pati esperanto.
Maski litanya sa patay kabisado ko. Ituro mo,
at pangangalanan ko ang mga bituin. Pumili ka
127
at mula sa kuwaho ay babasahin ko ang mga pangitain.

Napakarami ko pang kayang gawin, tanggap na po ba ako?
Kung hindi pa rin boss, it’s your major major loss.
Magaling pa naman akong magmasahe at magtimpla ng kape.
And it’s her loss as well, ngayong Brecht na kami.
Ngayong Bukowski ko na ang kaniyang natatagong ugali.
By the way, marami pa naman ibang kerida, sabi nga ni Neruda.
At napakarami pa ring puwedeng i-karir Gibran.
Ka-Lorcang babae, napaka-Celan, di naman kagandahan.
Plath na Plath naman ang ilong pati ang boobs.
At ang buhok, sabog sabog parang Lucretius.
Jesus Manuel Santiago, patawarin ako, sa panlilibak
sa iyong anak. Nauna siyang umunday ng pataksil na saksak.
128 Go likhaan 5 ˙ poetry / tula
Cut
Binibilibid ko raw ang sarili sa lubid

ng aking buhok. Lalo raw akong nababansot.
Hindi raw tatangkad ang aking mga pangarap.

Sapagkat inaagaw ng kuto ang sustansiyang
para sa buto at sentido. Ilang ulit na niyang tinangkang

ako ay gupitan sa pagtulog. Kung minsan,
nagigising ako mula sa bangungot ng kaniyang

bungangang nagsasagunting, matalim.
Matalinghaga si itay sa aking panaginip.

Wika nya, “ang bungo ay imperpektong
uniberso, napakaraming oripisyo.

Ang buhok ay daang libong
pautang na patuloy sa pagtubo

mula sa langit ng anit. At ang uban ay tahimik
na kidlat, tahimik na protesta ng edad.”

Sa tunay na buhay, hindi makata si itay,
ni hindi niya batid ang kahulugan ng tayutay.

Marahil para sa kaniya, ang tula ay isa lamang
marupok na hibla ng buhok. Manipis

na manipesto ng libog at lungkot.
129
Isang araw, biniro ko siya: alam mo ba

na tula ang paboritong libangan sa langit
maliban sa sabong at tong-its?

Hindi siya natawa. Ang pagmamakata,
sa palagay niya, ay isang birong hindi maganda.

At ang sinumpaang tungkuling magsulat
ay isang sumpang walang katumbas.

“Mabuti pang naging pansit ang buhok mo
pati balbas. Mabuti pang naging tanso,

mabuti pang naging kuwerdas ng gitara
o bandurya,” ang madalas niyang sumbat.

Subalit hindi kay itay napuputol ang mga pagtutol.
Tumutol ang eskuwela: kumumporme

sa uniporme’t pagpapakete sa estudyante!
Tumutol ang simbahan: gawing ehemplo

si Hesus, maliban sa buhok!
Tumutol ang gobyerno:

gupitin ang terorismo,
ikalaboso ang mga eskandaloso!

Ang kahol ng mga aso: multo! multo! multo!
At ako, direktor at patnugot

ng buhay ko’t buhok,
ay hinihintay lang ng lahat

na isigaw ang cut!
at pabayaang umusad

ang isang bagong eksena
na masaya si itay, magaan

ang buhay, karaniwan ang lahat,
malayong-malayo sa taliwas
na tikwas ng pag-aangas.
131
Basahan Mo Ako
Basahan mo ako
ng kahit ano.
Tula, manipesto, diyalogo.

Mga kuwentong digmaan
nina Cervantes at Homero.

Ang malademonyong mga berso
ni Rushdie. Ang malulutong

na alulong ni Ginsberg.
Anumang meron ka, kahit ano.

Kuwentong imbento, kuwentong
barbero, kuwentong sorbetero.

Huwag ko lang marinig mula sa iyo
ang pagkulo ng digmaan sa iyong katawan.

O ang bulong at alulong ng demonyo
sa iyong mga buto, bungo at kalamnan.

Kumusta na ang mga tulang naglagalag
sa mga poste at dingding, sa bangketa,

sa abenida’t eskinita ng kamaynilaan?
Ilarawan mo ang malabitukang ruta

ng iyong pakikibaka. Ang hagupit
ng mata at buntot ng bagyo.

Ikagat mo sa balikat ko
ang pangil ng kapitalismo.

Nang madama ko kahit papaano
ang ngipin ng katanghalian

at ika’y nangangaligkig at gutom,
kumakahol na parang ulol.

Kumakahol na parang ulol!
ii
Iligaw mo ako sa laberinto

ng konseptong sosyalismo.
Iligaw mo ako sa bundok

ng himutok at pagmumukmok
ng mga gerilyista. Ilihis

ang usapang herenggilya’t
medisina. Mabuti pang ilibot mo ako

sa kusina ng iyong mga alaala:
Gisadong pangako, inadobong biro,

sinampalukang suklam at siphayo.
Subukan mong igala

ang aking haraya
133
sa malalayong ibayo.
Sa Tigris, ang mga sinaunang tao.
Basahan mo ako ng mga sulat

ni San Pablo kay Timoteo,
ang paglaya ng mga Ebreo

sa Ehipto. Ang ebolusyon ng tao.
Ang mga rebolusyong industriyal,

rebolusyong intelektuwal.
At ang paborito ko: Rebolusyong Ruso.

Bolshevik, Menshevik. Kung bakit
hindi sapat, ayon kay Lenin,

ang simpatya. Hindi sapat.
Hindi sapat ang magtapat.

Hindi sapat ang sumumpa.
iii
Ikumpisal mo sa akin ang

iyong nakaraan. Kulayan mo
ng mapupulang katwiran.
Bakit maaga kang nagbuntis
ng hinanakit sa pamahalaan?
Bakit hindi sapat ang matutong umibig?

Bakit kailangang humawak ng karit?
Nagugutom din ba ang mga puso nina Gorky at Trotsky?

Nauuhaw din ba sila sa mga luha’t tula ng maiilap na alitaptap?
iv
Nais kong sa iyo marinig ang buod

ng diyalektika ng gutom at libog.
Tunggalian ng mga uri

Tunggalian ng mga ari
Ariin mo ako. Ipatitulo.
Napakahaba ng iyong nilakbay

patungo sa aking mga bisig.
Tangay-tangay ng magkapares
mong sandalyas ang mga salaysay
ng semento, aspalto’t buhangin.
Itapak mo sa akin
ang mga paang nahapo.
Ipagpag mo sa akin
ang kanilang mga sikreto.
Basahan mo ako.
135
Mitsa
Sa araw na ito, akin ang mikropono

ang bersong ito, ang gitara’t silindro.
Akin ang entablado. Ang palakpak
at halakhak. Ang sandaling katahimikan.
Akin ang inumin, ang pulutan.
ii
Ang araw na ito, akin.

Ang sala-salabid na lubid
ng pag-asa’t pangamba, akin.
Ang kromatikong sonata ng pag-ibig, akin.
Ikaw na nahuli kong nakatitig
sa katimugan ng aking mukha, akin.
Kumakanta ang laksang mga bituin:
sana’y di kami malasing
iii
Sa araw ding ito, inaalala nila

si Ernesto. Sinisikap mabuhay ng apoy
sa nakatirik na kandila, habang patuloy
na sinusuway ng hangin ang bilin ni Hemingway:
wag kang masyadong malambing

iv
Walang sinindihang anupaman sa aking kaarawan.

Ayaw kong may hinihipan. Ayaw kong pagpikit
ng mahinang liwanag, palakpakan.
“Ilang taon na lang

mamamatay ka na”
kantiyaw ng itim na mitsa
ng gamit nang kandila
sa puntod ng makata.
137
Berso Libre, O Hindi Lahat ng Libre, Mapagpalaya
halimbawa,
libre lang ang nagkalat na karunungan sa paligid. tumingala, libreng langit.

libre lang ang makinig at maantig sa awit ng paghihimagsik. libre kang makiawit.
libre kang makisiksik sa pila ng mga panatiko’t deboto. dalawampung piso
ang presyo ng isang ticket ng lotto. pero libre lang ang umasang manalo.
libre lang ang humimbing, humilik, gumising. libre lang ang mangarap nang gising.
libre lang ang balita at tsismis. sa lamayan, may libre pang kape at biskuwit.
magmahal man ang presyo ng tubig at kuryente, ang ulan at kidlat--laging libre.
butas man ang bulsa ng makatang pobre, tuloy lang ang berso libre sa pasahe.
libre lang ang magmasid-masid. ang magpatumpik tumpik. ang humirit. ang mainip.
libre lang ang umibig. libre lang ang umulit. ang mainip. umibig. umulit. umibig.
subalit kailangang lumakad ang panaginip.

kailangang humakbang ang mga titik.
kailangang magningas ang pag-ibig.
kailangang sumiklab ang nagkakaisang tinig.
marami pa rin namang libre sa mundo.

subalit hangad ko’y lumayang totoo.
Sharing Spaces
and Other Poems
Gabriela Lee
Sharing Spaces
Isn’t it interesting when a poet says that he is preoccupied

with something? “I am preoccupied with time.”
“I am studying space, the birth of distant stars.”
“I think about connections all the time.”
Well -- I am preoccupied with the roast beef

in the oven, slowly cooking to a perfect shine.
I pretend that I am listening to a man speak

about the war in Iraq, in Palestine, in Afghanistan --
places that have given birth to ruins, civilizations.
I am occupied with the blood and bones of another

life, of a spoken work, of a word yet unspoken.
I stroke my belly and listen to two hearts beating.
I am preoccupied with this occupation of living.
In this distance: an airplane takes off, words on a screen,

the death of another star. Whole galaxies live and die.
The roast beef is almost running out of time.

Soon, he will come home. We will sit down. Eat.
This is my occupation: this devouring of a world.
139
Retrancher
Always this need to prune what has become unruly, untidy

vines in the garden threatening to overrun the petunias.
Not that they aren’t lovely, all green and winding like some serpentine
earth goddess wild child whose name we have buried under earth under sky.
But really, how can one sit through breakfast without thinking of sex
while watching vines intertwine like lady fingers across the wall?
Horizontal now and they become sheets mossy messy let’s tangle
entangled where endings and beginning become a Gordian knot
a riddle, a tale told in a stroke of a blade, a rake cutting through the green green
grass. Better to chop it up, parcel it up into neat little boxes ready for burning:
becoming cordwood, driftwood, a stack of firewood trapped without a grasp, waiting

for the flame that cleanses the dead, that consumes, that finally mingles with air.
140 Lee likhaan 5 ˙ poetry / tula
Nudes
I am jealous of people who can take their clothes

off. How liberating it must be, to become unfettered
from the jailhouse of buttons, zippers masquerading

as locks without keys. I mean, let your hair down
there, peering out, child-like, a dark little secret

between flesh, the shadowed parts of your play.
Each strand contains what we could never find,

could never name. “Who are you?” we would ask
bending down to speak to a stray patch on someone’s arm

or thigh, crouching down to confront that junction
between two legs. Let me discover your secrets.

Give me the key. Allow me to enter.
141
Luksang-Pati Para
Kay Alex Remollino
at Iba Pang Tula
BienvenidoL. Lumbera
Luksang-Pati Para Kay Alex Remollino
Kaming naiwan mo
Na umaasang magiging kaagapay ka
Hanggang marating ang lipunang inaasam natin,
Nakaramdam kami ng sindak at panlulupaypay.
Mahaba pa sana ang panahon

Na kasabay ka pa namin sa paglalakbay,
Pero ginupo ka ng traydor na sakit,
Inagaw ang lakas na maipapahiram.
Ang mga salitang lakas mong pumipiglas

At nanibasib sa aming binti’t bisig,
Mga butil ng pag-asa at sigasig sadibdib,
Humubog ng landas tungo sa nag-aalab na bukas.
Ngayo’y nakatitik na mga salita na lamang

Ang naiwan sa amin, at ang aming paglalakbay
Ay tulak na lamang ng mga alaala ng nilimbag sa video at larawan,
Mga ulat at tulang sinisinop, tinitipon ng kabataang nahapis.
Alex, paalam, patuloy pa rin ang aming paghakbang,

Hila-hila ng mataginting mong panawagan
Sa mga tula mo at mga sanaysay,
Salamat sa mga gunitang sa pangarap natin ay nagpapatibay.
142 Lumbera likhaan 5 ˙ poetry / tula
Pagdalaw sa Belen, 2009

Para kina Andres at Bien Miguel
Pasensiya na, aming mga apo,

Kaming dinatnan ninyo,
Wala kaming naipong ginto,
Mira at kamanyang
Na sukat ialay sa inyong pagsilang.
Mahaba, sanga-sanga ang landas naming tinunton,

At maraming abang puntod ang naging pananda
Ng aming pagdaan.Naghintay kami sapag sikat
Ng pulang talang magpapalaya,
Hanggang abutin ng pagkabagot
Ang iba naming kasama, at angiba,
Ng pag-aalinlangan, at ang iba pa
Ay naghanap ng iba namang pangarap.
Habang naghihintay, nagsulat kami

Ng pana-panahong ulat, at nagpakalat
Ng umaapoy na manipesto.
Nagtanghal kami ng mga dula,
Nanawagan para sa pagbabago.
Bumigkas ng mga tulang bawat tugma
Ay nagsasakdal, nakatanaw sa hustisyang
Kailan kaya makakamtan?
Inawit namin ang mga himutok at pagbabanta
Ng mga kasamang magsasaka at manggagawa.
143
Sa ilalim ng nagbabagang araw, dumagsa kami sa haywey,

Kaisang kawan-kawang inabuso ng militar.
Tinambangan namin ang mga kaaway sa kanayunan,
Sumanib sa pamumuhay ng mga katutubo,
Nakitanim kasama ng nagkakaingin, nakibigkis-bisig
Sa mga pari, madre at seminarista.
Ganyan namin pinaraan ang maraming taon,

Nakaguhit sa noo
Ang apoy ng pulang tala
Na sisikat at sisikat din
Sa langit ng ating bayan.
Tagubilin: Sa Mga Iskolar ng Bayan
Bulwagang kolonyal ang pinagsimulan,

Sadyang itinayo bilang pasanayan
Ng manunungkulan sa pamahalaan
Ng Amerikanong sumaklot sa bayan.
Taliwas sa layon ng mga sumakop,

Ang unibersidad, nagbango’tkumilos,
Natutong lumaya, tumayong bantayog,
Naging institusyong ayaw magpabansot.
Karunungang handog ng unibersidad

Ginawang tumana ng bayang maunlad,
Binhing kaalama’y pinunla sa utak,
Sa sambayana’y tumubo ang lakas.
Kayong kabataang salinlahing bago,

Halina’t araling magpakatotoo,
Magtanong, tumutol, suriin ang dayo,
Sarili’y hanapin, kayo’y Filipino.
Abutin ang sulo ng giting at tapang,

Bayang sinisilim ay inyong tanglawan,
Hawiin ang dilim ng pandarayuhan,
Akayin ang bayan sa kaliwanagan.
Awit at tulain sa baya’y ihain,

Bako-bakong landas ng baya’y patagin,
Ang araw ng bukas huwag paghintayin,
Sa langit ng ngayo’y dapat nang magningning.

145
Siglong magdaraa’y may paghamong hatid,

Hihinging alay ang puso at dibdib,
Hahamunin kayong sarili’y iwaglit
Lumuwalhati lamang ang bayang piniit.
Sa pagsulong ninyo tungo sa pangarap,

Oblatio’y nariyan, bantayog ng lakas,
Hahamunin laging ihandog ang lahat
Nang kamtin ng bayan ang paglayang ganap.
Sumulong patungo sa bagong sentenyal,

Simulang isaysay bagong kasaysayan,
Sige, kabataan, sa giting mo’t tapang,
Itanghal ang bagong pamantasang hirang.
Parang Bulaklak o Dahon

Para kay Shayne
Parang bulaklak o dahon,

Palutang-lutang na bumababa ang maya sa damuhan.
May patalastas kayang dala
Mula sa walang direksiyong paglalakbay
Sa himpapawid?
At biglang pakpak na pipiglas paakyat

Upang ituloy ang walang direksiyong paglalakbay.
Ganyan yata ang haraya sa pagdapo sa paksa,

Saglit na saglit lamang nag-iiwan ng tula,
Na paglapat sa lupa ay maghihintay
Ng mambabasa, na kung minsan
Ay hindi dumarating,
At kung dumating man
Ay nagdudumali.
Minsan naman, mapapatda

Ng mga salita ang mambabasang
Walang magawa,
At magaganap ang isang himala–
Matutuklasan ang patalastas

Na iniwan sa damuhan
Ng bulaklak/dahon/maya.
Essay / Sanaysay
To Write
Gémino H. Abad
1. Any written work is text. “Text” is from Latin texere, textus, “to
weave.” So then, to write is to weave language anew, and all we read and
unravel is a word-weave, a text-tale.
The text is not so much written in a historical language, like English
or Tagalog, as wrought from language. For the writer, the language is not a
given. In every instance of writing, language is re-woven, reinvented, because
the writer must find his own path through the wilderness of language. Our
thoughts and feelings without our words are like brambles – the underbrush
of the human psyche, dream and intuition.
To write is to breathe life into language. For the words of any language
are single and bereft in the dead sea of the language’s dictionary. No
meaningfulness arises from there, from that dead sea, because the meanings
of words do not arise from themselves, but from lives lived. The words come
to life only when writer or reader light them up with their imagination – then,
and only then, are the words brought into interplay in some order by which
a thought or feeling, a human experience, is endowed with a definite form.
From there – that form made up wholly of elected words, that configuration
of a human experience constructed with words – a meaningfulness arises,
from reader to reader, from critic to critic, each one drawing imaginatively
from his/her experience of the world in his/her own community of a shared
ideology.
150 likhaan 5 ˙ essay / sanaysay
2. To speak, to write: one needs to be aware of the difference between

communication and expression.
When one speaks, language isn’t the only medium of communication
– there is body language, gestures, facial expression, tone of voice, the very
occasion for speaking. Communication implies community, communion:
that is, one shares in, and draws from, his community’s outlook or world
view, values and beliefs, biases and prejudices.
When one writes, language assumes a different character, a different
life; it becomes the sole medium. It becomes a singularity of expression
– more than communication, the expression is one’s way with language,
an individual style. Style, says the philosopher Albert Camus, is “the
simultaneous existence of reality and of the mind that gives reality its form.”
Such expression has a certain power to move and persuade by which even a
community’s outlook, values, and prejudices might be subverted, changed
or transformed.
Singularity of expression, a distinctive style – for to write is to translate
in its etymological sense: from Latin transferre, translatus, “to convey or
ferry across.” To write is to ferry across the multitudinous sea of words and
their nuances one’s own soul’s freight without hurt or injury to its import
and aim.
It is no accident that language is also called tongue. The tongue is a
sense organ that offers the delicatest and most intimate sense of reality; it
implies then that the sensitive reader savors the words of the text and draws
delight from it. De gustibus non disputandum: in matters of taste, dispute
is disreputable.
3. The subject of all writing is a human experience: when it is written,

it is the singular moment, or the singular course of an event, as lived as
imagined. What is most real is what is most imagined.
The moment is first lived, and then imagined, before it is written; or, if it
is purely imagined, it is as if it had been lived. In every case, one draws from
one’s experience, whether the experience is in one’s own living or, as when
has been moved by a novel or a poem, in one’s own life of imagination.
What is a human experience? – the very word, “experience,” tells us
from its Greek and Latin etymology – in Greek, enpeiran, from which the
English word “empirical” comes; in Latin, experiri, from which the English
word “experiment” is derived. Both Greek and Latin mean, 1st, “to try or
Abad 151
attempt”; 2nd, “to fare, go on a journey”; 3rnd, “to undergo,” to suffer, to

endure; and 4th, “to pass through,” that is, to meet with chance and danger
where nothing is certain. That is the rich meaningfulness of that one word,
“experience.”
A thought or a feeling is already a human experience. A mood or state
of mind, a stance or attitude is a human experience. The only reality we
shall ever know is a human reality: only our individual perceptions of
what we call “our world.” A cat’s perception of its own world is different
from ours; it inhabits a different world. This is why Carl Jung could say
(poignantly, because we are mortal), “the individual is the only reality”:
such the compass and limit of human experience.
And it is only with the words of a language that we grasp our human
reality. Which is why I say that the meanings of our words come from lives
lived, from a people’s history and culture. Which is why I also say, the poem
is to live, not just to read. To write is to get real.
4. As to literary criticism, its original meaning is instructive. The

word “criticism” comes from Greek krinein, “to divide or discriminate,
and to judge,” from which the English words, “crisis” and “critical,” are
derived. Thus, a time of crisis is a time of division and judgment, and to
criticize is to bring matters to a head, to a point of crisis. “Theory” is also
from Greek theoria, meaning, a way of looking. Any theory then is only one
way of seeing, of making sense. Any way of looking, even in science, has its
limits and, as to its currency, a certain life-span. No theory has monopoly
of seeing.
For any literary work, there are only two general criteria: in Tagalog,
“may saysay” and “may dating.” General criteria, for any generalization may
hold water but not the sea. Both criteria, saysay and dating, vary in their
appreciation and application, from reader to reader, because (to repeat)
every reader draws from his/her own experience of reality, from his own
preferred “theory” or “way of looking,” from his current advocacy, be that
Marxist or feminist or ecological, and from his community’s history and
culture, his community’s world view, values, beliefs and biases.
But in every literary work, both “saysay” and “dating” are wrought
from language.
“May saysay”: not meaning, but meaningfulness. Not all our words can
catch that meaningfulness of a human experience that has been endowed with
a definite form in the literary work; that meaningfulness is what the words of
the story or poem can only evoke, reader to reader: each one needs to enter
imaginatively into the human experience there mimed or simulated in the
literary work. There is no fixed, unambiguous meaning for any individual
human experience precisely because it is individual, having its own living
context. In fact, the mimesis of the imaginary human experience in story or
poem is already meaningful, so that its interpretation is redundant.
“Meaningfulness”: I would say, in Filipino-Tagalog, “diwa” – I mean,
the very spirit of what it is to be a human being, its nightshade and its
sunrise, both. That is what the reader-critic attempts to apprehend at the
very heart of the human experience that is simulated in the literary work. In
that light, too, both the writing and the reading are a spiritual experience;
and for that very reason, likewise, one’s sensitive response to the literary
work varies from individual to individual.
That diwa is the literary work’s moral dimension: what raises it to a
universal plane. The universal plane isn’t the realm of eternal verities, it is
rather the site of everlasting questioning.
“May dating: from that meaningfulness of the depicted human
experience arises the effect, the dynamis or intellectual and emotional power
of the literary work to interest and persuade us, to make us see and relive the
experience and be moved by it. Every text is cathectic: that is, invested with
mental and emotional energy.
If we demand from the writer a mastery of his medium, his language, by
which he is able to overcome its limitations, the writer must also exact from
his readers the same mastery of the language. It is the sense for language that
is the basic poetic sense, and that needs to be cultivated. What deteriorates
is not language itself but the sense for language among its users.
5. In conclusion, I would say that writing is a lifetime vocation – a

call from language. What is the calling? if language itself could speak, what
is it saying?
Language is absolutely literal, it fixes things with their names: a rose is a
rose, and proud is proud, and honor is honor. But language secretly yearns
to be free. It is the writer’s calling to free it, to enable it to transcend itself by
its own evocative power, through various rhetorical strategies. The poetic
moment, or the moment of writing, as Yves Bonnefoy puts it, “open[s] to
the intuition that all language refuses.”
Abad 153
How does it happen? – through that work of imagination by which

the words of a language in interplay are endowed with a power to evoke
the reality of a human experience; by that energy of imagination, from both
writer and reader, things are brought back alive from their names and labels
that would pin them down like mere laboratory specimens.
Says Carlos Angeles in “Landscape II” - “I touch your absence here /
Remembering the speeches of your hair.” Only by work of imagination,
on the reader’s part, is the experience of a lover’s desolation of yearning
brought to life, and it was the poet’s power of expression that made that
possible. We as writers or readers have to be, in the words of Marianne
Moore, “literalists of the imagination.”
There is only one requirement in writing: to have a life, to live, to be
fully aware of the living of it. And there is only one requirement in reading:
a sense for language. The language of poetry – of all excellent writing – is
language made aware of the sensation, the miracle of living.
Nanay
Eli Rueda Guieb III
T
ahimik naming pinagmamasdan ang payapa niyang
paglisan. Pero abala ang mga doktor at nars sa pagpigil
sa kaniyang paglisan. Malayo kami sa kama, pero si Joy,
ang kapatid kong madre, nasa gilid ng kama ni Nanay,
binubulungan, inuusalan si Nanay ng mga tahimik na
dasal, ginagabayan siya sa kaniyang pag-alis. Ito na nga
yata ang panahong iyon, sabi ko sa aking sarili.
May boses ng lalaki na nanggaling sa may gawing pinto ng I.C.U. “Boss,
tapos na ang visiting hours.” Hindi namin pinansin ang pagpapaalis sa amin
ng guwardiya. Isa pang babala buhat sa kaniya: “Lagpas na po kayo.”
Lumingon ako sa guard, nagmumura ang utak ko. Respetuhin mo
naman ang mga sandaling ito, sabi ng utak ko sa guwardiya. Pero iniwasan
kong magalit. Walang puwang ang galit sa mga panahon ng pamamaalam, sa
mga panahon ng mga tiyak na paglisan.
“Dumadaan kami sa isang proseso. Nagpaalam kami sa mga doktor,”
mahinahon ang aking sagot sa guard, pero may diin, may pahiwatig ng galit
sa kaniyang kawalan ng respeto sa mga natitirang sandali ng aming pamilya
sa yumayao naming nanay. Humangos ang isang nars palapit sa guard,
kinausap siya nang halos pabulong. Maingat na isinara ng guard ang pinto.
Buti na lang at hindi ko minura ang guard. Naalala ko si Tatay. Guwardiya
rin si Tatay. Buong buhay ng pagiging tatay niya ay nagbantay siya sa NIA
(National Irrigation Administration), sa main office nito sa Quezon City, sa
mga compound nito sa Port Area sa Maynila, at sa opisina nito sa Bulacan
Guieb 155
noong doon na siya nagpa-assign para malapit sa bahay namin sa Baliuag.

Sabi ko sa sarili ko, sana, sana, ni minsan ay hindi minura si Tatay ng
kaniyang mga binabantayan o ng mga pamilya ng kaniyang binabantayan.
Sakali mang hindi nahiwatigan ni Tatay ang ilang mga sensitibong emosyon
at pagkakataon, sana ay inunawa siya ng mga tao sa kaniyang paligid, na
ginagampanan lang naman niya ang kaniyang trabaho.
Alam kong ginagampanan din lang ng guwardiya sa ospital ang kaniyang
trabaho, kaya hindi ko siya minura, kaya pinigilan ko ang sarili ko na magalit
sa kaniya.
“Hindi kayo magbabago ng inyong desisyon?” baling sa amin ng
doktor na naghahabol sa buhay ni Nanay. Medyo na-disorient ako sa tanong
na iyon. Nagdesisyon na kaming magkakapatid sa iba’t ibang scenario ng
kondisyon ni Nanay. Bawat scenario ay may mga responses na kami. Bawat
scenario ay alam na rin ng mga doktor kung ano ang aming mga desisyon at
pahintulot na puwede naming ipagawa sa kanila.
May nag-atubili sa loob ko nang tanungin kami ng doktor. Pero sabi ko
sa sarili ko, nasa letting-go mode na kami. Kailangan na rin naming tanggapin
na iiwanan na kami ni Nanay, at pinapayagan na namin ang kaniyang pag-
alis, na kaming magkakapatid ang magdedesisyon kung papayagan naming
dugtungan pa ang buhay ni Nanay ng kung anu-anong aparato na may
kapasidad na mag-extend ng buhay ng gusto-nang-mamahingang katawan
ni Nanay.
Ang bigat pala ng desisyong iyon, na kilalanin naming magkakapatid
na sa amin ipinapaubaya ng mga doktor kung anong ekstensiyon ng buhay
ang ipapahintulot namin kay Nanay. Naisip ko, sana, hindi mali ang aming
desisyon, ang aming mga desisyon. Sabi ko kay Nanay, sa sarili ko lang,
sa utak ko lang, ‘Nay, kung mali ang aming desisyon, patawad. Hindi ko
akalaing sa mga huling sandali ni Nanay, kami ang gagawa ng desisyon para
sa kaniyang buhay – at kamatayan. Tanong ko sa sarili ko, trabaho ba ito ng
isang anak? Bahagi ba ito ng responsibilidad ko kay Nanay? Ang payagan
siyang mamatay? O desisyunan kung kailan siya mamamatay?
Ganoon lang siguro ang buhay. May yugto sa buhay na dapat ilaan
hindi lang para sa kamatayan kundi maging sa proseso ng paghantong sa
kamatayan.
Tatlo lang kaming magkakapatid ang nasa I.C.U. nang mga oras na iyon.
Tinetext na rin ng kapatid kong si Reymon ang dalawa ko pang kapatid
(sina Susan at Rogel) tungkol sa nag-aagaw-buhay na kondisyon ni Nanay.
Nasa ibang bansa si Regin, ang bunso namin. Ineexpect na rin naming
makakauwi siya mula Mexico, pero mukhang hindi na niya aabutan pang
buháy si Nanay. Wala pang isang taong nasa Mexico si Regin. Tinext na rin
niya si Auntie (ang natitirang kapatid ni Nanay), ang mga pinsan namin at
mga kamag-anak.
Nag-aagaw-buhay nga ba ang tamang termino para sa mga sandaling
iyon sa buhay ni Nanay? O pagpapalit-buhay? O pag-aalis ng buhay?
O paglilipat-buhay? Pagsasakabilang-buhay? Hindi ko alam. Ayoko na
munang alamin. Ayokong alamin.
Paano bang tinetext ang pag-aagaw-buhay? O pagsasakabilang-buhay?
Ayoko na ring tanungin pa ito sa kapatid ko.
Noong gabing iyon ay sasabihin sa akin ni Auntie ang ironiya ng
eksenang iyon sa I.C.U. Ako, si Reymon, at si Joy, kami ang tatlong anak
ni Nanay na laging wala sa bahay sa mahabang panahon ng kaniyang
pagkakasakit, at kaming tatlong magkakapatid ang kasama ni Nanay sa mga
huling sandali ng kaniyang buhay.
Pitong taong bed-riddem si Nanay. Nang ma-stroke siya noong undas
ng 2001 ay naparalisa na ang kalahati niyang katawan. Nang umagang iyon
ay nagpunta siya sa sementeryo, sa libingan ni Tatay, ni Mama (ang kaniyang
inda [nanay]), ni Lolo (na kaniyang stepfather), ng kaniyang panganay na
kapatid at ng iba pang mga kamag-anak. Pagkapananghali ay umuwi na siya
at kami naman ang pumalit sa kaniya sa sementeryo. Nagkataong umuwi uli
ang bunso naming kapatid at nakita si Nanay sa bahay, mag-isa, nakahiga,
nanlalata at hindi na makausap nang matino, kaya’t agad siyang isinugod
ng aking kapatid sa ospital. Stroke na pala iyon. At buhat noon ay tuluy-
tuloy nang bedridden si Nanay. Ironikal na ang pinakahuling sandali ng
kaniyang kalakasan ay ginugol niya sa pag-aayos ng mga bulaklak sa libingan
ng kaniyang mga mahal sa buhay at sa pagbibigay-galang sa kanilang mga
alaala.
Noong mga unang buwan pagkatapos ng stroke ay nag-physical therapy
si Nanay, pero nakakailang buwan pa lang ay inayawan na niya iyon, kahit
ang physical therapist na mismo ang nagpupunta sa bahay. At kahit anong
pilit namin sa kaniya na ipagpatuloy ito ay ayaw niyang pumayag. Hindi na
siya naka-recover sa kondisyon niyang iyon.
Ilang araw pagkatapos niyang ma-stroke ay umalis ako papuntang
Montreal,sa McGill University,para simulan ang aking Ph.D.sa anthropology.
Hindi ko na maaari pang ipagpaliban ang aking pag-alis. Pangalawang
Guieb 157
pagpapaliban ko na iyon kung sakaling hindi ko pa iyon itutuloy. Bago ako

umalis ay kinausap ko pa si Elvie, ang isa sa mga pinakamalapit kong pinsan,
kung tama ang desisyong ginawa kong tumulak pa rin sa pag-aaral sa kabila
ng kondisyon ni Nanay. Sabi niya ay ipagpatuloy lang ang mga bagay na
dapat ipagpatuloy kahit na nagkaganoon si Nanay, dahil hindi lang naman
daw akong mag-isa ang magdadala ng gayong responsibilidad. Sabi niya,
marami kayong magkakapatid, marami tayong magkakamag-anak, na hindi
pababayaan si Nanay. Isa si Elvie sa napakaraming kamag-anak na ilang
taon ding tumira sa bahay namin sa Baliuag noong aming kamusmusan at
kabataan.
Kaya noong una akong umalis ay mabigat ang aking loob dahil tila
mas inuna ko pa ang responsibilidad ko sa aking sarili kaysa pananagutan
kay Nanay sa panahong kailangan niya ang aking kalinga. Pero taon-taon
ay umuuwi ako. At sa bawat pag-uwi at muling pag-alis ay laging may
pangamba sa aking kalooban kung magkikita pa kaming muli ni Nanay –
nang kapuwa buháy.
At sa bawat pag-uwi – na inaabot rin ng dalawang buwang fieldwork
sa Bohol at ilang araw na pag-aalaga kay Nanay – ay nakita ko ang dahan-
dahang pagbagsak ng kaniyang katawan. Nakita ko kung paanong dahan-
dahang nginatngat ng diabetes ang pisikal niyang katawan, ang malalaking
pagbabago sa kaniyang pagkatao, ang malalaking pagbabago sa aming
mga pagkatao, ang pagbagsak ng aming kabuhayan, ng lahat ng aming
kabuhayan para isalba si Nanay. Ang pinakamasakit, naramdaman ng aming
pamilya kung paanong nginatngat ng sakit na iyon ang aming mga emosyon,
mga emosyong yumayanig sa pagkatao, mga emosyong madalas ay hindi
sinasadyang makasasakit sa kalooban ng aming mga sarili at maging sa
kalooban ni Nanay, at kung paanong sinabayan ng aming mga emosyon ang
pagbuwag sa mga sariling emosyon upang panatilihing buháy ang lahat ng
puwedeng panatilihing buháy sa panahon ng panunulay sa kamatayan.
Mahabang panahon iyon ng pamamaalam. Pamamaalam sa isa’t
isa. Pamamaalam din sa sarili. Pamamaalam sa sarili habang patuloy na
tumatangan sa tiwala sa kung anuman ang natitira pa sa sarili. Pamamaalam
iyon na sinabayan ng mga hindi-ginustong pag-uungkat ng mga pagkakamali
ng magulang, ng marami ring pagkakamali at pagkukulang naming
magkakapatid. Mahabang panahon iyon ng paninimbang ng kung ano ang
puwede, ng kung ano ang dapat, ng kung ano ang naging dapat sana, ng
kung ano ang puwede sana, ng kung ano ang puwede pa.
Noong 2008, habang tinatapos sa Montreal ang aking disertasyon, ay

chinikka-text sa akin ng aking kapatid na delikado na ang kondisyon ni
Nanay. Walang lubay ang pakikipagchikka-text ko sa kanila para sa mga
update sa kalagayan ni Nanay. Halos hindi na rin ako natutulog dahil laging
kinakailangang subaybayan ang malalang kondisyon ni Nanay. Ilang phone
card ang aking binili para laging makatawag sa bahay.
Noong nire-revive si Nanay, itinapat ni Susan, ang pangalawa sa aming
magkakapatid, ang kaniyang cellphone sa tenga ni Nanay para makausap ko
siya. I love you, ‘Nay, sabi ko kay Nanay sa telepono. Maraming salamat, ‘Nay.
Hagulgol ako nang hagulgol habang nagpapaalam sa kaniya. Naririnig ko sa
kabilang phone ang pag-ungol ni Nanay. Hindi ko alam kung naiintindihan
niya ang mga sinasabi ko sa kaniya.
Dalawang araw akong iyak nang iyak, mag-isa, sa masikip na basement
na inuupahan ko sa Montreal. Hindi ako agad nagdesisyong umuwi dahil
naagapan naman daw si Nanay. Pero nagdesisyon pa rin akong umuwi,
hindi tiyak kung babalik pa sa Montreal, hindi tiyak kung tatapusin ko pa
ang aking Ph.D., depende sa magiging sitwasyon ng pamilya. Ilang linggo
na lang, deadline na ng aking disertasyon, pero hindi na iyon importante.
Ang mabigat pa, kapag hindi ko ma-meet ang deadline ay babawiin ng
unibersidad ang dissertation writing grant na natanggap ko buhat sa
McGill. Ibig sabihin ay ibabalik ko ang perang ipinangtustos sa aking huling
taon ng pananatili sa unibersidad. Pero noong mga sandaling iyon, mas
mahalaga ang mahabol kong buháy si Nanay. Nagpaalam ako nang maayos
sa aking adviser, sa mga miyembro ng aking academic panel, at sa opisina
na nangangasiwa ng aking writing grant. Nauunawaan raw nila ang aking
kondisyon. Pinahintulutan nila akong umuwi, at saka na lamang daw namin
pag-usapan ang commitment ko sa pagtatapos ng aking disertasyon. At buti
na rin lang at may sapat akong perang pamasahe pauwi.
Mag-aalas dose na ng gabi nang dumating ako sa Maynila buhat sa
Montreal. Dumiretso ako sa ospital, sa Capitol Medical sa Quezon City.
Hindi ko na kinailangan pang makiusap sa guard na papasukin ako sa
ospital, naabisuhan na sila ng kapatid ko, at naintindihan naman nila ang
sitwasyon. Nakita naman nilang may tatak pa ng airport ang taxing sinakyan
ko. Sampung minuto akong pinayagan ng attending physician na makausap
ko sandali si Nanay. Gising si Nanay nang dumating ako. Hinalikan ko siya
agad sa pisngi, sa noo. Nagpasalamat uli sa kaniya. I love you, ‘Nay, sabi ko
uli sa kaniya. Conscious si Nanay nang mga oras na iyon. May konting saya
Guieb 159
sa aking loob na nakilala pa niya ang bumalik niyang panganay. At may saya
rin sa aking loob na inabutan ko siyang buháy.
Ilang araw buhat nang dumating ako, bukod sa pagproseso ng mga
emosyon, ay maraming bagay ang inasikaso at inisip. Higit sa lahat, kung
saan kukuha ng pambayad sa mataas na bill sa ospital. Nang manawagan
ako ng dugo para ipampalit sa stock ng ospital na gagamitin para kay Nanay,
isa-isang nagdatingan ang mga kaibigan buhat sa U.P. Lakay Kalikasan
Mountaineers, ang mountaineering group na kinabibilangan ko sa
unibersidad, para mag-donate ng dugo. Ang mga kaopisina at kaibigan ng
aking mga kapatid, pati mga kalaro namin noong bata pa kami, nag-ambag
rin ng dugo. Hindi ako nahiyang manghingi ng pera sa mga kaibigan. Sabi
ko, hindi ako nangungutang, nanghihingi ako. Hindi ko kayang mangutang,
dahil wala na kaming kapasidad na magbayad. May mga kaibigan na nag-
announce sa mga e-groups at nanawagan sa ibang mga kaibigan, nanghingi
ng mga donasyon, ng kahit na anong tulong.
Sinimulan rin naming asikasuhin ang paglapit naming muli sa PCSO
(Philippine Charity Sweepstakes Office). Pangalawang beses na iyon ng
paghingi namin ng tulong sa PCSO. Ang una ay noong isang pagkakaospital
ni Nanay noong 2006.
Buhat nang ma-stroke si Nanay noong 2001 ay taon-taon na siya halos
naoospital. Sa loob ng isang taon, minsan ay tatlong beses siyang nako-
confine. Noong mga unang taon ng kaniyang pagkakasakit ay nakakaya
pa naming i-private room si Nanay sa iba’t ibang ospital sa Bulacan. Pero
simula noong 2004 ay bagsak na financially ang aming pamilya. Naibenta
na namin ang lahat ng puwedeng ibenta. Kahit ilang gamit sa bahay ay
ibinenta na rin namin. Ang mga lumang gamit sa bahay na minana pa nina
Nanay at Tatay sa kanilang mga ninuno, mga gamit na pinamahayan na ng
maraming gunita, ay pinagsikapan din naming ibenta. Karamihan sa mga
luma naming gamit ay hindi namin naibenta dahil masyadong mababa ang
tawad ng mga bumibili, mga buyer na parang walang respeto sa gunita
ng mga gamit na iyon. Kahit mga old coins na minana ko pa sa lolo ko
sa Tatay ay pinag-isipan na rin naming hanapan ng buyer, bagamat wala
kaming nakitang buyer na marunong rumespeto sa gunita ng mga bagay
na iyon.
Mula noong 2004, kapag naoospital si Nanay, lagi na lang siya sa ward.
Bukod sa gastos sa ospital ay ang mataas na gastos sa medical maintenance
ni Nanay at ang gastos para sa regular checkup. Hanggang kahit pamasahe
papuntang ospital ay wala na kaming mailabas. Kahit sariling pagkain

ng pamilya ay hindi na rin namin matustusan. Ilang beses na rin kaming
naputulan ng koryente dahil hindi na namin ito mabayaran sa tamang oras.
Pati internet connection sa bahay ay hindi na rin namin na-sustain. Sa
katunayan, maging ang lupang kinatitirikan ng aming bahay, at ang bahay
kung saan kami nakatira, kung saan nakatira si Nanay, ay nakasanla na rin,
subalit nagawan ng paraan ng pamilya na matubos noong bago naging
lubusang lumala ang kondisyon ni Nanay, dahil isa ito sa mga bagay na
hindi dapat mawala. Maging ang natitira nilang lupa sa Duyong (sa San
Simon, Pampanga) na minana pa niya sa kaniyang inda (na aming lola),
na minana naman ng kaniyang inda sa kaniyang ama (na aming apú) ay
naisanla na sa bangko, na hanggang mamatay si Nanay ay hindi na namin
natubos. Hinanapan ko na rin ng buyer ang lupa sa Pampanga na binili ko
kay Auntie (na kaniyang kapatid) noong kaga-graduate ko pa lang sa college.
May gustong bumili pero natakot akong itapon na lang basta ang gunita ng
lupang iyon. Doon kami paminsan-minsang nagbabakasyon tuwing tag-
araw noong aming kabataan. Ngunit sa bandang huli ay napilitan na rin
akong ibenta iyon sa isa kong pinsan.
At ang masakit, kahit ang regular checkup ni Nanay ay hindi na rin
nagagawa. Kung pamasahe ay hindi na kaya, iyon pa kayang ipambabayad
sa doktor o regular na ipambibili ng insulin at marami pang gamot?
Maraming kamag-anak at kaibigan ang nagbigay ng tulong sa aming
pamilya: gatas, pagkain, vitamins para kay Nanay, ilang kilong bigas, madalas
ay pera para sa pagkain ni Nanay, mga kontribusyon ng mga kaibigang
Filipino sa Montreal, mga panalangin buhat sa maraming kaibigan at
kasamahan ng kapatid kong madre sa Missionaries of the Immaculate
Conception.
Hindi ko malilimutan nang minsang magpunta sa Duyong ang dalawang
pinsan ni Nanay (sina Nanang Poeng at Nana Linda) para manghingi ng
pera sa mga kamag-anak namin doon. Maiyak-iyak ako nang iabot sa akin
ng aking mga tiyahin ang nalikom nilang pera buhat sa mga kamag-anak
naming magsasaka: kulang-kulang five thousand pesos. At may pahabol
pang ilang sako ng bigas para kay Nanay. Pasensiya raw at iyon lang ang
kanilang maiaambag sa amin. Sabi ni Nanang Poeng at Nana Linda: ‘yan
lang ang puwede naming tulong, ‘yung ipanghingi si Ate Bele [si Nanay],
dahil wala rin naman kami. Isa iyon sa hinding-hindi ko malilimutang
ambag kay Nanay. Hindi ko alam kung paanong gagantihan ng pamilya ang
Guieb 161
ganoong taos-pusong kabutihang-loob at sinserong kababaang-loob ng

mga kamag-anak namin sa Duyong.
Ubos na ang retirement money na natanggap ni Nanay sa pagseserbisyo
sa gobyerno. Clerk si Nanay sa Registry of Deeds. Noong bata kami, sa
Pasig siya naka-assign. Nang lumipat ang pamilya sa Baliuag noong 1970s,
araw-araw ay pumapasok siya sa Pasig at araw-araw ding umuuwi sa amin
sa Baliuag. Pero di nagtagal ay pinayagan din siyang ma-assign sa opisina
nila sa Bulacan, sa Malolos. Buong buhay ng pagiging nanay ni Nanay ay
ginugol niya sa opisinang iyon.
Sa unang lapit namin sa PCSO noong 2006, kung tutuusin ay maliit
na halaga na lang ang kailangan namin, halos P30,000 lang. Hindi naman
kasi namin inisip kailanman na lumapit sa PCSO, kahit na noong halos
ibenta na namin ang aming mga kaluluwa matustusan lang ang lahat ng
medical needs at hospital bills ni Nanay. Dahil tingin namin ay baka
hindi naman kami pansinin. Paano kaming papansinin e lahat kaming
anim na magkakapatid ay may mga trabaho, liban sa akin na noong
mga panahong iyon ay umaasa lang sa scholarship, at ang kapatid kong
madre na nakasandig ang buhay sa kawanggawa. Lahat ng mga naunang
pagkakaospital ni Nanay, maging noong unang putulan ng binti si Nanay
noong 2005 o 2006 ay hindi kami lumapit sa PCSO. Mahigit one-hundred
thousand din ang nagastos namin sa unang pagputol sa binti ni Nanay. At
sa bawat pagkakaospital ay halos fifty-thousand ang aming nagagastos.
At buwan-buwan ay kailangang makapaglabas ng halos thirty-thousand
para maipagpatuloy ni Nanay ang kaniyang buhay. Lahat ng iyon ay iniasa
muna namin sa aming sariling kakayahan, sa lahat ng tulong na ibinigay
ng mga kamag-anak, kaibigan at kakilala. Noong talagang walang-wala na
ay doon ko na-realize na may limitasyon rin maging ang pag-asa sa sariling
kakayanan. Nauubos rin pala ang pagtitiwala – at pagsandig – sa sarili.
Parang may mali sa pananaw na iyon, pero iyon ang katotohanan ng aming
buhay noong mga panahong iyon.
Ang pinakamasakit tanggapin ay ang conscious na pagbitiw sa mga
responsibilidad sa mga sarili kong anak para tugunan ang responsibilidad
sa sarili kong magulang. Hindi ko na inalam kung kaya iyong unawain ng
aking asawa. Sabi ko na lang sa loob-loob ko, may sasalo naman sa mga anak
ko, walang ibang sasalo sa Nanay ko kundi kaming mga magkakapatid. Sa
panahong magkakambal ang bahay at ospital, sa panahong ang kahulugan
ng buhay ay ang paghahabol sa buhay ng nagbigay sa akin ng buhay, hindi na
importante para sa akin kung may uunawa pa sa akin. Kahit anong kasalanan
ang ibato sa akin ninuman, kahit na anong akusasyon ng pagkukulang ang
iparamdam sa akin ninuman, tinanggap ko ang lahat ng iyon nang tahimik,
nang buong pagpapakumbaba. Ang tanging importante para sa akin ay
unawain ko ang kondisyon ni Nanay. Ironikal pala ang pagkukulang. Ironikal
din ang pang-unawa – at pag-unawa.
Isa sa pinakamasakit na naranasan ko ay nang tapunan ako ng sobre
ng pera ng isang tao na inakala kong makatao. Ang taong iyon ay kaibigan
ng marami kong kaibigan. Nanghihiram ako noon ng pera sa kaniya para
ipandagdag sa bill ng ospital. Nagpaunlak naman siya ng pera. Pero wala
na rin talaga akong iba pang mapagkukunan ng pampuno sa iba pang
kakulangan (dahil halos lahat ng puwede kong lapitan ay nalapitan ko
na), kaya nanghiram ako ng dagdag pang pera. Nakita ko kung paano siya
sumimangot. Inilabas niya buhat sa kaniyang bag ang isa pang sobre ng pera
at inihagis iyon sa bakanteng kamang katabi ng kamang hinihigaan ni Nanay
sa ward ng ospital. Sa normal na sitwasyon ay hindi ko iyon tatanggapin.
Puwede namang sabihin nang maayos kung talagang hindi na puwede, at
mauunawaan ko iyon. Kahit labag sa aking loob, kahit may pakiramdam
akong bagsak na bagsak na ang aking pagpapakumbaba, kahit wasak na
wasak na ang aking dignidad, kahit alam kong pagpaparamdam na iyon ng
aking kawalang-silbi, ay tahimik at malumanay kong dinampot ang sobre
ng pera.
Ibang-iba ang eksenang iyon sa isang kaibigang kasalukuyan ring
dumaranas ng paninimbang sa buhay at kamatayan (na noong mga panahong
iyon ay katatapos lang operahan). Naglakas-loob pa rin akong manghiram
sa kaniya, at prinangkang hindi ko tiyak kung kailan ko siya mababayaran,
pero tiniyak kong babayaran ko siya. Pinahiram niya ako ng malaking halaga.
Ang kaibigan kong iyon ay hindi gusto ng marami kong kaibigan.
Sabi sa akin ng isa kong nakausap sa pila sa opisina ng PCSO (sa
una naming pagtatangkang lumapit sa PCSO), sana raw ay noon pa kami
lumapit. Sabi ko, pinagsikapan muna kasi talaga namin.
At noon ngang sagutin ko ang tanong ng isang staff sa PCSO kung ano
ang trabaho ko, ang sabi ko, wala. Kitang-kita ko sa mukha ng nag-iinterbiyu
sa akin na hindi siya makapaniwala, na parang niloloko ko siya. Hindi ko rin
naman masisi ang reaksiyong iyon. Hindi naman ako mukhang gusgusin,
hindi rin mukhang walang alam kung magsalita. Sa madaling salita, parang
hindi naman ako indigent. Kumbaga, wala sa akin ang estereotipikal na
Guieb 163
imahen ng isang kapos na kapos sa buhay. Sabi ko, on scholarship ako.

Nang ipinakita ko ang aking student I.D., lalong kumunot ang kaniyang
noo. Sinalo ko agad ang nakita kong pagtataka niya. Sabi ko, nasa Canada
nga ako, pero hindi ako nagtatrabaho, nag-aaral ako. Lalo nang nagmukhang
gulantang ang mukha ng nag-iinterbiyu sa akin.
Mukhang tama ang ilang mga nakausap ko sa pila sa una naming lapit
sa PCSO, mga kapuwa kong nanglilimos ng grasya. Sabi nila, matuto daw
akong maglihim ng ilang impormasyon. Huwag ko raw sabihin na nasa
abroad ako o may kamag-anak na nasa abroad. Huwag ko rin daw sabihin
na lahat ng kapatid ko ay may trabaho, at kung ano ang pinagkakakitaan ng
kanilang mga asawa at ng aking asawa. Sabi nila, mahirap daw ipaunawa sa
mga nagbibigay ng limos kung bakit hindi pa rin kasya ang lahat ng suweldo
ng kapatid at ambag ng mga kamag-anak at kaibigan, maging tulong ng mga
nasa ibang bansa, upang tugunan ang lahat ng gastos sa ospital. Kumbaga,
matuto raw akong magdrowing ng kahirapan sa isip, sa salita at sa gawa.
Hindi ko kinayang magdrowing. Honesty pa rin ang pinakapundasyon
ng pakikipagkapuwa, kahit sa panahong umaamot ng grasya at unawa.
Punung-puno ng mangha ang mukha ng kausap kong taga-PCSO. Umalis
akong hindi umaasa ng kahit magkanong sentimo.
Inilabas namin ng ospital si Nanay noong 2006 na iyon nang hindi
ko na matandaan ngayon kung paano kami nakalikom ng thirty thousand.
Pagkaraan ng halos apat na buwan (nakabalik na uli ako noon sa Montreal),
nakatanggap ng sulat ang aking kapatid buhat sa ospital, may cheke daw
kaming matatanggap, reimbursement buhat sa ospital dahil sinagot ng
PCSO ang halos 50% ng gastos sa ospital. Fifteen thousand. Katumbas
siguro iyon ng lahat ng itinaya ng pamilya namin sa lotto.
Maraming ospital na pinagdaanan si Nanay. Aaminin ko, may isang
ospital sa Bulacan, sa Pulilan, na natutuhan kong isumpa. Paano kong hindi
isusumpa, pati senior citizen privileges ni Nanay, mukhang binabawi sa ilang
nakakubling expenses. Noong may mga hindi maipaliwanag na expenses na
nasa bill, humingi ako ng paliwanag buhat sa isang may mataas na tungkulin
sa ospital. Kung ano-ano ang isinasagot sa akin. Ang isang sagot na talagang
nagpainit ng ulo ko ay nang sabihin niya sa akin na ginagawan nila ng paraan
na mabawi sa ibang expenses ang nakakaltas na senior citizen privileges
ng nanay ko. Minura ko talaga ang kausap ko. Anong karapatan ninyong
nakawin ang karapatan ng nanay ko? Gusto kong lumusob sa Department of
Health para gawan ng paraan na tanggalan ng lisensiya ang ospital na iyon.
Pero sa isang sitwasyong mas kailangang nakatuon ang emosyon at panahon

para kay Nanay, pakiramdam ko ay walang puwang ang mga karapatan kong
magkuwestiyon sa pagnanakaw ng iba sa karapatan ng nanay ko. Sabi ko sa
sarili ko, sana ay mas may taláb ang sumpa kaysa batas.
Minsan naman, sa pareho ring ospital, ay inisyuhan ako ng isang resibo,
iyong tipo ng resibo na nabibili sa palengke. Temporary receipt daw iyon
sa bayad sa services ng isang doktor. Kahit National Bookstore ay hindi
nagtitinda ng ganoong klase ng resibo. Nang humingi ako ng totoong resibo,
hindi raw puwede dahil hindi naman daw sa kanila ang doctor’s fee. Humingi
ako ng kahit na anong papel na may official logo ng ospital, pati TIN nila,
bilang sertipikasyon na nagbayad na nga kami ng fee ng doktor. Sinadya
ko nang magtaas ng boses dahil talagang kailangan nang eskandaluhin ang
buong ospital. Nilapitan pa ako ng guard. Pinatawag ko ang pinakamataas
na opisyal ng ospital at siya lang, sabi ko, ang kakausapin ko. Wala daw.
Mukhang tanga talaga ang kausap ko. Ang ibig kong sabihin, kung sinong
pinakamataas na opisyal ninyo na nandidito ngayon sa ospital! Di nagtagal,
lumapit sa akin ang isang representative daw ng kanilang finance. Sabi ko,
hindi ko kayo kinikilala, pero dahil ikaw ang lumapit sa akin, bigyan mo ako
ng resibo o anumang certificate na may official logo ng ospital na nagsasaad
na binayaran ko ang fee ng doktor. Napilitang magprint ng certificate ang
kausap ko, may fancy letterhead ng kanilang ospital.
Buhat noon, tuwing mapapadaan ako sa billing office, nawawala ang
mga tao sa opisina o kaya naman ay matagal bago ako harapin. Minsan,
nakita kong nakabuyangyang sa isang desk ang resibong nagreresibu-
resibuhan. Minsan, nakita ko ring inisyu ang ganoong klase ng resibo sa
isang ale, na walang karekla-reklamong tinanggap ang resibu-resibuhan. Sa
loob-loob ko, sana, kapag namatay kayong mga empleyado ng ospital na ito
o iyong mga stockholders ng ospital na ito, sana ay hindi resibu-resibuhan
ng palengke ang ibigay sa inyo ng Diyos bilang patunay ng inyong mga
naging buhay sa lupa.
Ang pinakahuling eskandalo na ginawa ko sa ospital na iyon ay noong
ililipat na namin ng ospital sa Quezon City ang Nanay ko. Mahinahon akong
humingi ng wheelchair. Ten minutes, wala pa ang wheelchair. Nagsabi uli
ako sa nars. May darating na raw. Twenty minutes, wala pa rin. Nagsabi
uli ako sa nars. Darating na raw. Nagtitimpi pa rin ako. Sabi ko sa sarili ko:
magpasensiya ka lang, ward lang kayo, wala kang karapatang mag-demand.
Pero sagot ko rin sa sarili ko: wheelchair lang naman ang hinihiling ko.
Guieb 165
Meron naman kaming sariling wheelchair na ibinigay ng isa kong pinsan

para kay Nanay, hindi nga lang namin dala nang mga oras na iyon.
Pero mag-iisang oras na, wala pa rin ang wheelchair. Kailangan na
naming mailipat si Nanay sa Quezon City. Nagpunta ako sa lobby, kinuha
ko ang isang naka-park na wheelchair, at nang mapansin kong maraming
doktor na nasa lobby ay sinadya kong magreklamo nang mataas ang
boses, iyong maeeskandalo pati patay sa morge. “Anong klaseng ospital
ito, wheelchair lang, ipinagdadamot ninyo sa amin!” At habang papunta
sa ward ay ibinulalas ko ang lahat ng galit ko sa ospital na iyon. Lahat ng
doktor, nars at mga taong masalubong ko, nakatingin sa akin. Ako naman,
mag-isang nagtutulak ng wheelchair, namumula sa galit. Pagdating sa ward,
mahinahon kong binuhat si Nanay, buong ingat na isinakay sa wheelchair,
itinulak nang dahan-dahan ang wheelchair, at habang nasa corridor ay nakita
kong bumababa sa hagdan ang admin officer na kahapon lang ay kausap ko
tungkol sa mga reklamo ko sa ospital. Binalingan ko ang admin officer: “Ito,
ito ang sinasabi ko sa inyo sa usapan natin kahapon. Napakairesponsable
ng ospital na ‘to.” Tuloy-tuloy ako sa corridor, nakabuntot si Auntie, pati
isa kong kapatid. Nai-park na ng isa kong kapatid sa harap ng ospital ang
sasakyan na hiniram namin. Dahan-dahan naming isinakay sa sasakyan si
Nanay. Nilapitan ng guard ang wheelchair sa tabi ng sasakyan. Binawalan
ko nang malakas ang guard, iyong tiyak akong maririnig ng bayan ang aking
galit. “Huwag mong hahawakan ang wheelchair na ‘yan!” Hinawakan pa
rin ng guard ang wheelchair. Nang matiyak kong safe na sa pagkakaupo sa
sasakyan si Nanay, hinabol ko ang guard, inagaw sa kaniya ang wheelchair.
“Ako ang kumuha nito, ako ang magsosoli nito! Hindi ako tulad ng iba na
hindi marunong magsoli ng gamit sa tamang lugar.” Napilitang bumitaw ng
guard sa wheelchair. Ibinalik ko nang maayos ang wheelchair kung saan ko
iyon kinuha.
Habang paalis ang sasakyan sa ospital, nakita ko sa side view mirror
ng sasakyan ang maraming tao, pati mga doktor at nars na nasa lobby, na
nakatingin sa paalis naming sasakyan. Kinausap ko ang mga tao sa salamin,
sa loob-loob ko lang: sana, kayong mga nakatingin sa amin ngayon, huwag
sana kayong lapastanganin ng ospital na ‘yan. Noong mga sandaling iyon,
naging klaro rin sa akin ang isang bagay: hinding-hindi ako kailanman
magpapadala sa ospital na iyon. Kahit iyon na lang ang ospital sa mundo,
mas gugustuhin ko pang mamatay kaysa tratuhing parang patay sa ospital
sa iyon.
Habang umaalis ay naalala ko kung paanong ni-rush ko sa ospital na iyon

si Nanay. Napansin ko sa bahay na latang-lata si Nanay sa kaniyang kama,
hindi kumikibo, hindi kumikilos. Wala noon ang nagbabantay kay Nanay,
at ako lang ang mag-isang nasa bahay. Pero alam ko na ang ibig sabihin ng
ganoong kondisyon ni Nanay, pero sa teorya lang, hindi sa totoong buhay.
Kapag masyadong mataas ang sugar level, maingay, madaldal, magulo,
balisa si Nanay. Kapag bagsak ang kaniyang sugar level, lupaypay si Nanay,
halos parang patay. Pero dahil first time kong nakitang ganoon kalupaypay
si Nanay ay natakot talaga ako. Sa panahong nasa ibang bansa ako ay laging
ganito pala si Nanay. At noon ko rin nalaman na ganoon kabusisi ang
pagbantay sa kaniyang kondisyon.
Nang mangyari nga iyon ay binitbit ko si Nanay. Pakiramdam ko ay
parang patay na si Nanay. Habang binubuhat si Nanay ay siya namang
dating ng nag-aalaga sa kaniya. Inutusan ko siyang tawagin si Nana Linda
(ang asawa ng isang pinsan ni Nanay na ang bahay ay ilang bahay lang ang
layo sa aming bahay). Agad na dumating si Nana Linda, kasama ang isa
niyang anak na tumulong sa akin sa pagbuhat kay Nanay. Buti’t nagkataong
dala-dala ko ang van ng asawa ko, at iyon ang ginamit ko sa pag-rush kay
Nanay sa ospital. Sina Nana Linda at ang pinsan ko ang umalalay kay Nanay
sa sasakyan habang pinaharurot ko ang van sa highway, papunta sa ospital.
Wala akong pakialam sa lahat ng traffic violations na ginagawa ko, bukod
pa sa walang-humpay na pagbusina sa buong biyahe papuntang ospital.
Ang importante ay mabilis na makarating sa ospital sa Pulilan, sa ospital na
laging pinagdadalhan ko kay Nanay dahil iyon ang ospital ng kaniyang mga
unang doktor, ang ospital na di magtatagal ay isusumpa ko.
Sa ospital ding iyon una kong nilinisan ng puwit si Nanay sa kaniyang
higaan. Kasama rin sa nilinis ko ay ang kaniyang puwerta. Ito ay noong umuwi
ako noong 2003. Ako ang bantay noon sa ospital, wala ang kapatid kong
babae, at wala pang nars na nagpupunta sa kuwarto para linisin si Nanay.
Nadumi si Nanay at kailangan na talaga siyang linisan. Hindi ko alam kung
mahihiya ako kay Nanay habang nililinis ko ang mga pribadong bahagi ng
kaniyang katawan. Hindi ko malilimutan ang malungkot na pakiramdam ng
paglilinis na iyon. Aaminin kong nahihiya ako sa sarili ko nang nililinis ko na
ang kaniyang puwerta. Ewan ko kung ano ang tingin ni Nanay sa ginagawa
kong paglilinis sa kaniya. Alam kong doon ako dumaan noong ilabas niya
ako sa mundo, pero malungkot iyon para sa akin, dahil parang dahan-dahan
nang namamatay ang daluyan ng lahat ng kaniyang mga isinilang. Hindi ko
Guieb 167
gusto ang pakiramdam na iyon, dahil pagpaparamdam ng kamatayan ang

ipinaunawa sa akin ng paglilinis kong iyon sa katawan ni Nanay habang siya
ay nakahiga sa kama, hindi makakilos, hindi kumikilos.
Wala kaming naging problema sa pagtrato kay Nanay sa nilipatan niyang
ospital sa Quezon City, liban sa ilang kiskisan noong iniuuwi na namin ang
bangkay ni Nanay. Mula 2006, doon na paulit-ulit na na-confine si Nanay sa
ospital na iyon. At doon din kinailangang putulin ang isang binti ni Nanay,
above the knee. Mula noon hanggang nang mamatay si Nanay noong 2008,
parang kurdong umbilikal na nakaugnay ang pusod ng ospital sa pusod
ng aming bahay at ng aming mga buhay. Sabagay, mula pa naman noong
ma-stroke si Nanay, pinagdugtong na ng kurdong umbilikal na iyon ang
mga salikop ng bahay, ospital at nitso. Pakiramdam ko, pati buhay naming
magkakapatid ay waring nasa nitso na rin.
Isang linggo bago unang putulin ang isang binti ni Nanay ay nakiusap
sa amin si Nanay na gusto niyang magbakasyon sa Duyong, sa San Simon,
Pampanga. Sa Duyong ipinanganak si Nanay, sa Duyong siya lumaki,
bagamat sa Maynila siya nagdalaga at nagkaasawa. Nasa Duyong ang
kaniyang mga pinsan, ang kaniyang mga kababata. Nasa Duyong ang mga
nalalabi pa niyang ninuno. Dinala namin siya sa Duyong, kinupkop ng isa
niyang pinsan. Iniwan namin ang lahat ng instruction sa pag-aalaga kay
Nanay, ang oras ng pag-inom ng gamot, ang tamang pagche-check ng sugar
level, ang oras ng pagche-check ng sugar level, ang tamang pag-iinject ng
insulin, ang tamang pagkain ni Nanay, ang tamang oras ng kaniyang pagkain,
ang wastong paglilinis ng mga sugat ni Nanay sa isa niyang paa, at lahat ng
dapat malaman sa pag-aalaga ng isang bedridden na diabetic patient.
Isang araw ay may text message akong natanggap buhat sa Duyong.
Kailangan ko na raw sunduin si Nanay, dahil tila namamaga ang isa niyang
paa. Agad akong nagpunta sa Duyong. Nakita kong ibang-iba na ang isang
paa ni Nanay. Magang-maga at parang hinog na hinog ang mga sugat sa
pagitan ng mga daliri. Ilang taon naming inilagaan ang mga sugat na iyon
at kailanman ay hindi naging ganoon kalala ang kondisyong iyon. Pero sa
isang linggo lang na pagtira niya sa Duyong ay tila mabilis na lumala ang
kaniyang kondisyon.
Ayaw ng pinsan niyang iuwi si Nanay dahil masaya daw si Nanay
sa Duyong. Aaminin kong totoo naman iyon. Parang masayang-masaya
talaga si Nanay sa piling ng kaniyang mga kababata at ninuno. Tinaningan
na rin ng isang pinsan ni Nanay ang buhay ni Nanay. Ilang araw na lang
daw siguro ang itatagal ni Nanay. Sa katunayan ay nagdalawang-isip

rin ako noon at tinanong ko ang aking sarili: saan ba talaga mas masaya
si Nanay? Masaya siya sa Duyong, pero nasa Baliuag at Maynila ang mga
posibilidad ng pagdurugtong ng kaniyang buhay. Pinagpasiyahan pa rin
naming magkakapatid at magpipinsan na ibalik sa Baliuag si Nanay para
mapatingnan siya sa kaniyang doktor. Noon ko rin nalaman na kung sa
Duyong aabutin ng kamatayan si Nanay ay hinding-hindi namin maibabalik
sa bahay sa Baliuag ang kaniyang bangkay, liban sa paglilibing, dahil may
paniniwala ang aming mga ninuno sa Duyong na ang bangkay ay ibinuburol
kung saang bahay siya namatay.
Iniuwi ko si Nanay na punung-puno ng pasasalamat sa mga kamag-
anak namin sa Duyong. Maaaring doon lumala ang sugat ni Nanay, pero
tiyak akong hindi iyon gusto – at hindi iyon ginusto – ng aming mga
kamag-anak doon. Kailanman ay hindi ako nagtanim ng anumang galit o
pagtatampo sa aming mga kamag-anak doon, dahil tiyak ako sa aking loob
na naging masayang-masaya ang kalooban ni Nanay sa lugar ng kaniyang
kapanganakan at kabataan, sa piling ng iba pa niyang mga mahal sa buhay.
Sa Duyong – kahit sa loob lamang ng isang linggo – ay tila muling nabuhayan
ng loob si Nanay.
Hindi raw maaaring patagalin sa morge ang bangkay ni Nanay. Sa
Capitol Medical iyon sa Quezon City noong 2008. Lumapit kami ng kapatid
kong madre sa accounting office at sinabi namin na ni singko ay wala kaming
maibabayad. Kahit magkano lang daw muna, puwede nilang tanggapin.
Hindi kasi makapaniwala ang kausap namin na sa halos dalawang linggong
pagkaka-I.C.U. ni Nanay ay parang wala kaming ginawang paraan para
makalikom ng perang pambayad sa ospital. Sabi ko, kahit five thousand, wala
kaming maibibigay. Halos P800,000 ang kailangang bayaran, puwera ang
ibang mga pang-araw-araw na gastos ng pamilya kaugnay ng pagkakaospital
ni Nanay. Mag-promissory note na lang daw kami. At kung may titulo ng
lupang maaaring ibigay sa ospital ay dalhin daw.
Sa billing office naman, ang sabi sa amin, baka hindi nila kami mabigyan
ng death certificate dahil kulang pa ang bayad namin – at wala pa nga raw
kami talagang ibinabayad. Gusto kong magalit, pero tinimpi ko lang ang
sarili ko. Ilang linggo na kaming rollercoaster ang emosyon, ayoko nang
yugyugin pa ang emosyon ko ng mga ganitong usapin. Tahimik kong
sinagot ang kausap ko. “Kung hindi ka magbibigay ng death certificate,
ibabalik ko ang nanay ko sa I.C.U. kasi para sa iyo, buhay pa ang Nanay ko.”
Guieb 169
Tulalang mukha ang iginanti sa akin ng kausap ko. Hindi ko iniaalis ang
tingin ko sa kaniyang tingin. Muli akong nagsalita. “Kung ayaw mong mag-
issue ng death certificate, paki-certify na lang na buháy pa ang nanay ko.”
Malumanay ang pagsasabi ko niyon. Tulala pa rin ang kausap ko.
Nailabas din si Nanay sa ospital nang hapong iyon, kahit wala kaming
ibinayad kahit singko. Pinayuhan ako ng kausap kong tulala na makukuha
ko ang death certificate ni Nanay kinabukasan pa kasi tapos na raw ang
office hours. Winarningan ko ang kausap ko, pero tahimik ang warning,
malumanay ang aking boses. Sabi ko sa mamang tulala: “tiyakin mong tiyak
ka na patay na nga ang Nanay ko, dahil kung hindi, ibabalik ko siya sa I.C.U.
kahit dineklara na siyang patay ng mga doktor.” Tulala pa rin ang mukha
ng kausap ko. Kahit ako, litong-lito na kung sino ang pinakaawtoridad
sa kamatayan ng tao: ang Diyos, ang doktor, ang billing officer, ang
representative ng accounting office? Ang Diyos nga, sumang-ayon na siguro
sa mga doktor na patay na ang nanay ko, pero ewan ko kung bakit hindi iyon
matanggap ng tulalang billing officer na kausap ko. Sino ba talaga sa mga
diyos ng langit at lupa ang magpapatotoo sa kamatayan ni Nanay?
Bago rin umalis ng ospital ay kinausap uli namin ang accounting office.
Ang kapatid ko nang madre ang pinagsalita ko. Sabi ko, mas paniniwalaan
siya at baka mas maawa iyon sa kaniya. Naka-full costume ng pagkamadre ang
kapatid ko noon. Sabi ko sa kaniya, hindi naman siguro iisipin ng accounting
na nagsisinungaling ang mga madre. Kung ako kasi ay baka isipin lang na
nagsisinungaling ako na wala kaming maipambayad kahit singko nang mga
oras na iyon. Sabi naman sa akin ng kapatid kong madre na hindi naman
daw niya gagamitin ang kaniyang pagkamadre para humingi ng awa o pang-
unawa o iparamdam na hawak niya ang katotohanan. Sinabi rin niya sa akin
ang kaniyang pangamba na baka hindi pa rin kami paniwalaan ng ospital. At
kung magkaganoon, sabi niya, wala tayong magagawa. Talagang wala tayong
magagawa, sagot ko, pero wala rin silang magagawa dahil talagang walang-
wala na tayo.
Mas importante para sa akin na simulan na ang proseso ng pagluluksa.
Ang hirap palang pagsabay-sabayin ang emosyon ng luksa, ng tinipong pagod
at puyat, ng mga kimkim na poot sa mga nanamantala kay Nanay sa halos
isang dekada ng kaniyang paghihirap, ng pagharap sa demands ng ospital,
ng pagsusumamo na bigyan kami ng mahabang palugit na makapagbayad
(nang hindi nawawalan ng respeto sa sarili), ng antisipasyon ng muling
paglapit sa PCSO (at ang maliit na asam na sana’y may maiabot uli sila sa
amin), ng pragmatikong pangangailangang maihanap agad ng punerarya si

Nanay (nang walang hinihinging downpayment), ng konsensiya ng paghingi
ng pera sa mga kaibigan (nang hindi nawawalan ng sariling dignidad), ng
pagpapatatag ng sarili habang isa-isang tinatanggap ang mga pakikiramay
ng mga dumarating na ilang kaibigan sa ospital noong mabalitaang namatay
na si Nanay, ng kiming pagdulog sa mga local government officials na mag-
eendoso ng malaking tulong na kailangan namin buhat sa PCSO, at ng
napakarami pang salimbayan at konstelasyon ng iba’t ibang antas, hugis at
uri ng emosyon.
At noong dumating na ang mga kapatid ko sa ospital, inihatid ko sila sa
morge para tingnan si Nanay.
Mainit sa morge, kaiba sa mga una kong imahen ng malamig na morge.
Napaka-demeaning ng nakita ko. Nasa sahig ang bangkay ni Nanay, nakahiga
sa isang manipis at makitid na stretcher, ibang-iba sa napapanood kong mga
eksena sa morge. Nakataklob ng kumot ang nag-shrink niyang katawan.
Bukod sa talagang parang lumiit at umimpis si Nanay, kinailangang putulin
din ang natitirang binti ni Nanay ilang araw bago siya namatay.
Noong unang putulan ng binti si Nanay noong 2006 ay kinonsulta pa
kami ng Capitol Medical kung iuuwi ang putol na binti o pahihintulutan
naming iwan na lang iyon sa kanilang laboratoryo. Nagulat ako sa tanong
na iyon dahil hindi namin inaasahan na iniuuwi rin pala ang putol na binti.
Ganoon daw ang paniniwala ng iba nilang pasyente. Hinihiling ng iba na
iuwi ang pinutol na paa upang mabigyan ng nararapat na paglilibing ang
tinapyas na bahagi ng katawan. Pagbibigay-respeto daw iyon sa katawan ng
mga mahal sa buhay, kahit buháy pa ang pinutulan ng paa. Pinagdesisyunan
naming magkakapatid na iwan na lang sa laboratoryo ang binti ni Nanay.
May pinapipirmahan sa akin ang ospital, isang consent form na nagbibigay
ng karapatan sa ospital sa pinutol na binti ng aking nanay. Isa lang ang
nirequest ko sa ospital, kung puwedeng makita ko ang binti ni Nanay bago
ko pirmahan ang consent form. Dinala ako ng isang technician sa isang
laboratoryo. Binuksan niya ang isa sa mga tila-refrigerator na aparato,
humugot ng isang binti, at sinabing iyon ang binti ni Nanay. Pinagmasdan
kong maigi ang frozen na binti ni Nanay. Naalala ko ang sinabi sa akin ng
kaniyang doktor bago siya putulan: hahanap-hanapin daw ni Nanay ang
kaniyang paa. Iyon daw ang magiging pakiramdam ni Nanay, na para siyang
mumultuhin ng kaniyang sariling paa, para daw itong aninong paminsan-
minsan ay gagambalain siya.
Guieb 171
Kailanman ay hindi ko tinanong si Nanay kung nagparamdam sa kaniya

ang kaniyang paa.
At hindi ko rin alam kung ano ang naramdaman ni Nanay noong
malaman niyang puputulin na rin ang isa pa niyang binti noong halos nag-
aagaw-buhay na siya. Ang alam ko lang, ayaw iyon ni Nanay, pero napapayag
namin siya dahil iyon, ayon sa kaniyang mga doktor, ay kailangan na talagang
gawin. Kahit naman iyong unang pagputol sa kaniyang binti ay hindi rin niya
ginusto, hindi namin ginusto, pero natutuhan naming tanggapin, natutuhan
niyang tanggapin, na kailangan iyong gawin.
Hinawi ko ang nakataklob na kumot sa katawan ni Nanay. Kahit payapa
ang mukha ni Nanay, hindi ko gusto ang mukhang nakita ko. Mukha iyon
ng kamatayan. Hindi iyon ang mukhang kilala ko. Muli kong hinalikan si
Nanay, sa pisngi at sa noo. Malamig at matigas na ang mukha ni Nanay, di
tulad ng halik ko sa kaniya kaninang tanghali noong katatantan lang ng mga
doktor sa paghahabol sa kaniyang buhay.
Noong nasa I.C.U. si Nanay at habang napansin naming nakaka-recover
na siya matapos maputol ang natitira niyang paa ay nagrequest si Nanay
na iuwi na siya. Gustuhin man namin siyang iuwi ay hindi maaari dahil
unstable pa rin ang kaniyang sitwasyon. Lalong hindi kami pumayag na
iuwi siya nang ipakita sa amin ng kaniyang mga doktor ang likod ni Nanay:
nangingitim, unti-unti na ring naagnas dahil sa ilang taon ng pagkakahiga.
Muli, kamatayan ang nakita ko sa parang nabubulok nang katawan ni Nanay
kahit buháy pa naman siya. Sabi ko sa sarili ko, dahan-dahan na ngang
namamatay si Nanay. At sakali mang malampasan ni Nanay ang kasalukuyan
niyang kondisyon ay baka ang buong pamilya naman ang hindi tumagal
dahil tiyak ako, tiyak kami, na hindi na uubra ang kinasanayan naming pag-
aalaga sa kaniya. Ibang antas na ng pag-aalaga ang kakailanganin ni Nanay.
Ewan ko, pero naiisip ko ngayon na sana ay pinagbigyan namin ang
hiling ni Nanay na iuwi na siya. Siguro, mas gusto niyang mamatay sa sarili
niyang bahay, hindi sa ospital, kundi sa bahay na ipinundar nila ni Tatay,
sa bahay kung saan nila kami pinalaki, sa bahay kung saan naganap ang
lahat ng saya at lungkot at galit at tuwa at hikbi at tampuhan at away at
pagpapatawad at unawaan sa aming mga buhay. Pero sana ay naunawaan ni
Nanay kung bakit hindi namin napaunlakan ang hiling niyang iyon.
Naaalala ko rin na may isa pa siyang kahilingan na hindi ko alam
hanggang ngayon kung napagbigyan ng aking kapatid. Nasa Montreal ako
noon at sinabi sa akin sa phone ng aking kapatid kung nasaan ang mga
photo albums ng kabataan ni Nanay, pati mga larawang hindi naka-photo

album. Hinihiling daw ni Nanay na makita lahat iyon. Itinuro ko sa aking
kapatid kung saan sa bahay nakatago ang mga iyon. Hindi ko lang alam
kung naipakita ngang muli kay Nanay ang mga sariling gunita ng kaniyang
buhay.
Nang mahawi ko ang kumot na nakataklob kay Nanay, ibinulalas ni
Susan ang isang malakas pero impit na hagulgol. Si Susan ang kapatid na
sumunod sa akin; siya ang tumayong panganay sa mahabang panahong
wala ako sa Pilipinas habang dahan-dahang namamaalam, matagal na
namamaalam si Nanay. Parang sa kung saang malalim na yungib nanggaling
ang hagulgol na iyon. Tahimik kong pinagmasdan ang pagyakap niya sa
namayapang katawan – at at sana nga’y payapang katawan – ni Nanay.
Hindi ko rin alam kung saang malalim at liblib na yungib ko hinugot
ang lahat ng mga nagsasalungatang tahimik, humahagulgol, impit ngunit
rumaragasang emosyong pinakawalan ko nang mga sandaling iyon.
173
The Turn for Home:

Memories of Santa Ana Park
Jenny Ortuoste
1: Larga
A
The track location
t the fringes of the cities of Manila and Makati is
Santa Ana, a slice of town that seems as if it can’t quite
make up its mind whether it is as upscale as Makati or
as down-to-earth as Manila. Filipinos being an adaptive
race, residents have hit upon the happy expedient of
blending both ambiences into a culture both posh and
plebian. Condominiums rise beside drab one-story homes; offices with
glass windows and doors are built beside carinderias and auto talyers.
At the end of Pasong Tamo, a few kilometers away from the high-
rises of Ayala Avenue, the street name changes to A. P. Reyes Avenue and
skyscrapers give way to humble eateries, a lotto outlet, an Andok’s Manok
branch. Just past the McDonald’s and Jollibee on the opposite corners, high
white walls stretch the length of the street and cover an entire block.
Behind the walls is Santa Ana Park, once the racetrack facility of the
Philippine Racing Club. Built in 1937 close to the Manila town it was named
for, the track was shut down in 2009 and moved to a far larger property in
Naic, Cavite.
The Philippine Racing Club was founded by American and Filipino horse-
men and entrepreneurs in the late 1920s as a counterpart to the Manila Jockey
Club, enclave of Spanish and Filipino aristocrats at its foundation in 1867.
There were three main structures on the twenty-five hectare property,

all in the then-fashionable Art Deco style – two grandstands and an office
building. There was a mile-and-a-quarter long oval dirt track surrounded
by stables that, as the sport grew over time, mushroomed to far more than
the area could comfortably hold.
Until the facilities were moved to Naic, races had been held continuously
at Santa Ana Park since it was built, with only a brief hiatus during the war.
The place was named for St. Anne, patron saint of nearby Santa Ana, Manila,
although the property itself was part of Makati. Over seven decades, the
track was the scene of countless challenging races, the arena of the victory
and defeat of champion racehorses and horsemen.
The area is home to my two daughters and myself. We have lived on
my former father-in-law’s compound behind the track since my marriage to
his son, a jockey, in 1990. A veterinarian and horse trainer, he maintained
his nearly 1,000-square meter property as a racing stable with stalls for
twelve. We lived with the sounds of soft neighing and hoofbeats as the
horses were hotwalked in the mornings after ensayo, and the clanking of the
tin labangans as feeding time approached.
2: Unang Kurbada
The gates
There were four main gates to the track, all along A. P. Reyes
Avenue. Gate One was the first on the right, coming from Pasong Tamo.
It opened onto several decrepit wooden stables - “ung kina Jun Paman”,
“kina Fernando Poe”. Gate Two was open only on racedays and let out
onto the parking lot. Gate 3 allowed cars inside even on non-race days;
through it passed, in the morning, the neighborhood’s matrons who
stretched creakingly as their husbands, old men in white tee-shirts, shorts to
their knees, and long white socks, took their morning constitution, huffing
around the parking lot and main buildings for half-an-hour to sit upon a
bench and smoke after, wheezing through their incipient emphysema saying
“Nakakahingal ang mag-jogging.”
Gate Four opened straight to the cockpit, where the sabungeros were more
vociferous in cheering than kareristas. It was the gate through which horses
stabled outside the racetrack entered for their morning workouts, though
Ortuoste 175
some passed through Gate One, if it was nearer. (There was another gate,
along Hippodromo Street, which was perpendicular to Pasong Tamo.) Beside
the crumbling sabungan was an alley that led to the track. It was concrete-
paved but narrow and only horses passed there, or the occasional vehicle,
with official approval. Another lane led down the left to more stables.
Between Gates Three and Four was another gate, which was not
numbered since it was the only one through which vehicles could not pass.
This was the pedestrian gate for admissions. There were two old-fashioned
turnstiles painted green. Booths were built beside it, and women sold tickets
for admission at ten pesos. Another turnstile was for taga-karera (members
of the racing community who were directly responsible for putting on races)
and visitors who were not charged the price of a ticket. That gate was opened
only on racing days, one hour before the races began. Outside that gate and
Gate Three were poised the sellers of racing programs – “Dividendazo,”
“Silip Sa Tiempo,” the now-defunct but excellently-printed “Racing Time”
and “Patok” – who also purveyed black and blue ballpoint pens (for writing
down ruta, or betting combinations), cigarettes, cheap lighters, and candy
– Orange Sweet, Mentos, and Halls.
Despite the security guards placed at all gates, residents and outsiders
still found ways to enter the karerahan – via the labyrinth of stables built just
outside the track walls but with gates leading to the track, or by scrambling
over the roofs of the grooms’ quarters and stables built crowded against
each other, jostling each other for space as structures grew in layers over the
decades. By “residents” are meant the people who lived with the horses and
were responsible for their care – grooms and their families, some trainers,
and one horseowner – Jun Paman – and his family. The last I heard, he
is still there, a holdout of the last days, choking on dust as the remaining
structures around his are razed to the ground while he gazes, forlorn, at
where a vibrant community once bustled.
Upon entering through the turnstile gate, racegoers saw two main
buildings in the Art Deco style, both coated in white paint. In the late
‘90s until the track was shut down, the ground floor of the building on
the left, facing the track – the main building, though both were the same
size – housed carinderias built right inside the old betting stations, cement
cubicles that were necessary to accommodate bettors in the days before
off-track betting stations and races broadcast on cable television and the
subsequent dwindling of track attendance.
The ballroom and studio

On the second floor of the main building were a vast parquet-tiled
ballroom, the broadcast studio, horseowners’ boxes, and VIP lounges.
The ballroom, one of my grand-aunts said, was where they had dances
for the alta sociedad during the late ‘30s and early ‘40s. That conjured up
for me visions of women with bobbed and marcelled hair, clad in crisp
baro at saya whirling in the arms of men in somber suits to tunes played
on a victrola. Those lofty days are long gone, because when I first saw the
ballroom in 1990, it was only a wide sun-drenched space, the wooden tiles
scuffed and dislodged in many places by the heels of unromantic bettors.
The walls above and all around the ballroom were adorned with bad
murals of champion horses from the ‘60s and ‘70s – Sun God, Reporter,
Fair and Square. What the pieces lacked in aesthetics was compensated
for by the fact that the gaudy paintings were a sort of immortality for the
winners, whose names would have faded from memory otherwise except
from the minds of those who actually saw them run.
In later years the ballroom was used for community functions. It
was where I staged the first Gintong Lahi Awards for the Philippine
Thoroughbred Owners’ and Breeders’ Organization (Philtobo) in 1991.
The industry’s only recognition program, the Gintong Lahi ceremony
recognizes annual achievements in racing and breeding. I had the raised
stage on the right side of the ballroom cleaned and adorned with a painted
Styrofoam set and blue and yellow balloons. At dusk, it looked quite
presentable with the white-draped tables and monobloc chairs provided
by Cunanan Catering, owned by a horseowner used to the preferences of
his fellow horsemen. He ordered an ice sculpture of a horse set up in the
center of the ballroom, lit from beneath by pink, yellow, and blue lights. It
was spectacular and something that the Philtobo members and guests never
forgot, even after they held the event at fancy hotels later on.
The jockeys also borrowed that ballroom several times over the years
for their Christmas parties. There are usually around 150 active jockeys in a
year, and they, along with retired and injured jockeys and their wives, would
pack the huge space and party all night.
Off the ballroom, on the left side facing the track (always facing the
track, which is how the taga-karera spatially oriented themselves, the
track being the facility’s raison d’etre and the source of the community’s
livelihood) was a broadcast studio constructed in late 2004. Horse races,
Ortuoste 177
for reasons of transparency and to support the off-track betting stations,

have been televised on and off on free television since the 1950s and on
cable soon after it became widely available in the country.
When my marriage faltered in 2002 and I had to go back to work to
support my daughters, I was hired as a broadcast commentator for PRC.
They outsource the production of the live horseracing coverage to two
small outfits, Pro-Ads and Creative Station, and it was with them that I
learned the skill of race commentating. We used a makeshift studio on
the second floor of a decrepit wooden structure attached to the stewards’
stand midway the two main Art Deco buildings. The wooden floor boards
were ancient and warped. They sagged visibly and emitted ominous
creaking noises. We joked that no one should gain any weight or else the
entire structure would come down. The joke wasn’t all that funny because
the scenario was entirely possible. In 2004 work began on a new facility
just off the ballroom.
Unbeknownst to Pro-Ads/Creative Station, PRC built the new studio
for another production company that was, in effect, in-house. The Creative
Station crew walked out hours before the start of the races one afternoon
after learning that their contract would not be renewed. The new production
company, Prime Channel, moved their broadcasting equipment – switchers,
mixers, cameras – into the hastily constructed studio which was still being
finished with masilla and painted and managed to be up and running with
only three hours’ notice.
I was the only race commentator remaining after the Creative Station
exodus (I was an employee of “the Club”, as both racing clubs are called,
not of the production company), and sat alone on the panel for an entire
raceweek of six days, on board for eight races on Tuesday to Thursday, nine
races on Friday, and thirteen races on the weekend. I developed an allergy to
the dust raised in construction and rushed to the Makati Medical Hospital’s
emergency room twice that week (after the races, of course, since the show
must go on) for shots of Benadryl to bring down the swelling from hives that
erupted all over my arms. PRC gave me a bonus of five thousand pesos for
that solo stint. I used the money to pay for medical expenses related to the
allergy, grinning sourly at the irony.
I didn’t have truly interesting experiences in that new studio off the
ballroom because I left PRC in 2005, the year after it was constructed, to
work for horseowner Hermie Esguerra at his holdings company.
I had more memorable moments at the old wooden studio where I

worked for three years. In October 2002, Creative Station staged the only
Halloween special in horseracing broadcasting. I dressed as Elvira, Lady of
the Dark, in a long-sleeved asymmetrical top and a skirt with a jagged hem
that grazed the floor; my makeup was appropriately spooky. I used half a pan
of black eyeshadow and wore my eyeliner pencil down to a stub. I looked
like a raccoon. Or dead. My three co-hosts were dressed as Frankenstein,
a mummy, and a corpse bride who wore all white in contrast to my black.
We remained in persona the entire evening. Text messages from racing fans
kept our mobile phones beeping the entire night, saying how they enjoyed
the humorous show. My youngest daughter, who was five years old at the
time, told me later that my mother-in-law, who had taken her son’s part in
our marital troubles, had pointed to the television screen and screeched: “I
was right! See, your mother is a witch! I told you!” Hilarious.
The breakdown of my marriage was sudden but not wholly unexpected.
My ex-husband had difficulty controlling his temper and over the eleven
years we were together he often exploded, leaving me beaten and weeping
in a corner. The end came soon after he took a mistress for whom he bought
many things. Groceries I didn’t mind so much, but it was seeing a credit
card bill for three television sets that finally emboldened me to confront him
and risk his heavy-handed, acid-tongued wrath. Glaring at him, I waved the
bills under his nose. He said, “That bill is wrong! I didn’t buy her three
TVs. I only bought her two!”
Over several months I cried and begged for him to come back. One
day he responded to my pleas by gagging me with duct tape and binding
my hands and legs with estribera - thin leather stirrup straps – cinching the
buckles tighter than he would have for a race. I felt violated. He treated me
worse than he did horses.
When he left, our housemaid, sobbing and frightened, freed me from
my bonds. She embraced me and promised to be my rock during the crisis.
A week later she took a fast plane to Cebu with most of my jewelry, all the
cash in my ex’s drawer, and a favorite quilt I had made myself.
The punches kept raining on me, despite my feeble attempts to duck.
Soon after that, my ex and his parents hid my youngest daughter from me
for a week. I complained to the barangay captain, who took my ex’s side.
Incensed at my “airing our dirty laundry” to other people, my ex-husband
and his parents evicted my children and me from the compound.
Ortuoste 179
That incident heralded the non-resurrectible death of our marriage. I

found an apartment for rent on nearby Syquia Street, on the boundary of
Manila and Makati. It was a walking distance from the track; I could not
bear to be too far away from the familiar.
Since I had no money of my own, I could not stop working and could
not take charge on moving day. I had broadcast duty at the track the day of
our transfer. My new yaya, an intrepid woman who had good culinary and
social skills, assured me she could take care of things and shooed me off to
Santa Ana Park. With the help of grooms from nearby stables, she stuffed
our possessions into feed sacks. I had to bring our Siamese cat, Bastet, with
me to work as there was no one to take care of the cat.
That afternoon, Bastet jumped out of my bag and onto the desk as I
and another racing analyst, jockey Joey Macaraig, were on air live doing our
opening spiel. She sat on the desk and meowed plaintively. The director
yelled “Cut!” when Joey and I burst out laughing. The director ordered a
production assistant to grab the nonchalant Siamese as we did the opening
again, barely able to contain our giggles.
The tension I was under this time was cruelly intense. I had to keep up
my spirits to buoy up the children, who were upset and afraid. Every little
instance of joy that came my way, like the incident with the cat, was savored
and treasured.
Infidelity is tolerated and common among men within the racing culture,
as it is in the mainstream, but there is an unspoken code that dictates a man
should never leave his wife and children. What my ex did was considered
beyond the pale. Yet since it was away mag-asawa, no one could interfere,
only support. I was devastated at the breakup of our family, but had no
choice but to take the hits and soldier on. Among the taga-karera, strength
in adversity and resilience are considered core virtues.
Taga-karera are those people directly involved with the races. They
are set apart from karerista – bettors or racing aficionados. In the racing
community, jobs are handed down through generations. There are surnames
that resound in the sport through the years – Guce, Basco, Dilema. These
are batang karera – people born into racing. My two daughters are batang
karera. I am not.
I received a lot of advice during this time. The one that sustained me
most came from veteran jockey Joe Noel Camu who said: “Huwag kang
paa-api sa kanila. Tandaan mo, batang karera ka!” It was his way of saying,
“You are one of us.” To me it was a conferment of that elite status within the
community. It was then that felt I truly belonged and accepted in the world
that I had embraced.
3: Cinco-0ctavo
The boxes and grandstands

Both the Art Deco buildings on the property had private boxes on the
second floor leased by horseowners or big bettors. The boxes all faced the
track and had huge glass windows and air conditioning with a television
monitor dedicated to the racing channel. However, those boxes were tiny,
with space only for a small table and about five chairs. One horseowner
told me that his maids’ bathroom was bigger. But Filipinos, being inured to
cramped spaces, sometimes crowded as many as ten at a time in the boxes,
especially during blockbuster races.
The boxes could be decorated according to the owners’ taste and
means, as long as he did not add nor subtract anything to the basic structure.
Hermie Esguerra had the walls of his covered with wallpaper, and he
brought in sofas and huge leather office chairs. Jun Almeda’s window was
covered with one-way tint, through which one would peer and sometimes
see, dimly, Mikey Arroyo laughing with Jun and their other friends.
Betting stands were positioned at intervals right outside the boxes; the
horseowners were pampered by the club, since the heavy bettors among
them were known to plunk down fifty thousand pesos or more on just one
race. To cater to their wishes, “runners” or betting assistants, not necessarily
club employees, ingratiated themselves with particular horseowners or
bettors and stayed the entire racing evening or day with them, running with
their bets to the nearest takilya. In turn they received meals and, should the
bettor win, balato. If the bettor was the generous type, everyone in the box
received something, and sometimes the teller at the takilya who had sold
the winning ticket was given a little cash as well.
A word on balato: the term has been tarnished with the connotation of
“obligatory handout,” given to friends and family when one has gained sudden
good fortune from gambling, the lottery, or competitions. The denizens who
lined up for cash or goods outside boxer Manny Pacquiao’s (who, by the way,
had visited Santa Ana Park at least twice) home were asking for balato.
Ortuoste 181
However, in the racing culture, one does not ask for balato; it is
considered bastos – vulgar - to do so; it is not what a true taga-karera would
do. One waits to be given a share of a friend’s winnings, which may be in cash
or in kind, such as the gesture of paying for the group’s meals and drinks. If
none is forthcoming, that is all right, as it is not obligatory though it may be
hoped for, especially if the dividendo (winnings) are huge compared to the
puhunan (capital). It is considered good form to give a share to the tipster
who gave the winning combination, anywhere from ten to twenty percent,
again depending on the size of the dividends.
Where did the masses who could not afford their own boxes stay? On
the lower floors of both buildings were the grandstands. Racegoers on a
budget would crowd into the low spaces underneath, where there were
no seats save for concrete benches here and there built around the pillars
holding up the rickety wooden structure under the main building. Wooden
seats were neatly ranged on the level above; the club charged ten pesos per
person for the privilege of sitting on the benches coated in chipped dark
green paint. In the other building (neither building had a name; people just
said ‘sa kaliwang building” or “sa kanan”), concrete bleachers above wide
steps seemed always littered with crumpled betting tickets, cigarette butts,
candy wrappers, and drinking straws no matter how often janitors shuffled
around with their brooms and dustpans.
On the ground levels of both buildings there were eateries hawking arroz
caldo, bulalo, and beer. Laguinto’s Carinderia was perhaps the most
popular, owned as it was by veteran jockey Angelito Laguinto. Folks lined
up for their hot goto and palabok, hanging around the stall hoping for
racing tips from the Laguinto clan or from jockey Angelito himself when he
occasionally dropped by. Shakey’s Pizza once set up a kiosk and a portable
oven. They were mobbed the first couple of months, but after the novelty
of having a brand-name fast food at the track faded for racing fans Shakey’s
sales dipped and they left, pizza not being traditional inuman or karera
fare. Savory Restaurant with their famous chicken recipe did much better
and was always packed, as was the Main Track Bar and Grill at the parking
lot, which, with its air of seedy gentility, was the meeting place of choice for
minor horseowners and heavy bettors, the air inside choked with cigarette
smoke and the heady hops aroma of San Miguel beer.
In later years, the ground floor of the right-hand building, which used
to be filled with betting cubicles, required when there were no off-track
betting stations, was converted into indoor badminton courts. A bridgeway

was built to connect both buildings much later on, which made it convenient
to cross over to see friends on both sides.
4: Likuran
The track
The Santa Ana track was a mile-and-a-quarter long dirt track, “dirt”
being a racing term that refers to a surface that is not “turf ” or grass. Most
dirt tracks around the world use sea sand, a semi-coarse variety as powder
sand is too fine and will cause horses to slip, while rocky sand will injure their
hooves. Modern surfaces such as the Cushion Track and Poly-Track brands
mix synthetic fiber and wax with sand to provide an all-weather surface that
is kinder to horses’ hooves. But as Santa Anita Park in California found out,
synthetics are a bitch to drain, causing a halt to their racemeets until their
track was rehabilitated. On my visit there in July 2009, Santa Anita Park
then-president Ron Charles took me down to the track one morning. He
bent down, took up a handful of the dirt, and pressed some into my hand.
He told me to recommend it to Santa Ana Park management for their new
track at Naic, Cavite.
I crumbled the material between my fingers, marvelling at how much
softer it was than sea sand, but since my shoes had sunk halfway into the
synthetic, I felt this was something Philippine racing could do without,
because compacted sand provides a firmer surface for good track times
while still having the yield and cushioning to protect horses’ hooves and
jockeys in case of a fall. Besides, the Philippines being an archipelago, sea
sand is plentiful, whereas the synthetic costs millions of pesos the industry
can ill afford. A year after my visit, Santa Anita Park took up their synthetic
track and returned to sand.
The track was marked along its length into sections. Philippine racing
still uses Spanish terms in its lingo, mixed with American. There’s ‘first
bend’ or “clubhouse turn”; tres-octavo (three-eighth’s mile); media milya
or half-mile; cinco octavo (five-eighth’s mile); meta (finish line); and much
more. The graceful cadences of Castilian trip lightly on Filipino tongues
that segue between languages as fluidly as horses gallop.
Workouts on the track took place in the mornings as early as four. In
the still dark, horses and riders emerged, gray shadows moving clip-clop
Ortuoste 183
towards the sand-filled oval. Horses grunted hruhmm, pawing the ground,
impatient to be taken on their one-trot, two-canter, tranco, or whatever
work the trainer prescribed for them that day.
I first stepped on that dirt oval in 1990, a sports correspondent for the
Manila Chronicle gathering material on horseracing via direct participation,
ala Hunter Thompson. I signed up as an apprentice jockey and was given
a feisty two-year-old colt the groom called “anak ni Alamat,” Alamat being
the colt’s dam. He hadn’t been given his own name yet as his owner had not
registered him.
I started the colt off on three rounds of the track on a walk. As we both
got stronger and developed muscles, we graduated to a harder routine. First
a walk and a trot, then two rounds of trotting, then one day the trainer,
leaning against the rail, held up three fingers and yelled, “Tatlong torote.”
This was the routine the other exercise riders and apprentices did most
often. I felt I had arrived.
I wrote a series of articles for Chronicle detailing my adventures as an
apprentice, from the morning works to the physical training that my male
classmates breezed through while I did my best to get by. The day I stopped
feeling gonzo was when Alamat’s colt shied at a piece of paper on the track
and galloped at top speed. I had not learned to gallop yet and could not
control my mount. Jockeys and grooms yelled for others to clear the track –
“Kaskas! Runaway!” as I hung on to the reins, the wind whipping my shirt
against my chest.
The colt spied a gap in the rails that led to our stables. He swerved to
go through it, threw me off-balance, and I spun in mid-air, landing flat on
my back on the sand.
I felt no fear. There was no pain. The sky was very blue and the clouds
were very white. The sand was gritty under my fingers, and I thought, this
is not Santa Ana sand, there are no beaches here, only the Pasig River. The
sand was alien to the place, trucked there from some shoreline in northern
Luzon. But it had been trodden by people and horses and that made it part
of the town. There I was, lying in several inches of dirt, embedded in Santa
Ana in a way few people ever experienced.
Jockeys rode past me; unseated apprentices were not an unusual
sight, in fact it was expected for one to fall several times during training,
and since it was obvious I wasn’t dead – yet - there was no cause for alarm.
One jockey did stop beside me as I lay in the sand, staring blankly up at
the sky.
He halted his horse and leaned over me. I saw him upside down. It
was some wiry guy clad in layers of t-shirt, sweatshirt, and jacket. They all
looked alike in their helmets.
“Okay ka lang?” he asked.
Of course not, you idiot, I nearly broke my neck when I fell and I
could have been paralyzed from the neck down like Ron Turcotte who rode
Secretariat who was the greatest racehorse of all time in my opinion and
he spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair until he died in a car accident –
Turcotte, not Secretariat, was what I wanted to say.
“I’m fine,” was what I actually said.
We were married at Don Bosco Church five months later.
The wedding was simple yet moving and heartfelt and many said after
what a wonderful couple we looked, he in a cutwork-embellished jusi
barong from Lumban and I in an ecru faille terno with dense embroidery of
white sampaguita and green vines and leaves on hem, sleeves, and panuelo.
One of my aunts, who ran an embroidery-for-export business, stayed up
late the night before the wedding stitching beads on my panuelo. She had
also arranged for the creation of my wedding bouquet of sampaguita, telling
me she had a difficult time finding a florist who would agree to handling the
tiny, delicate, fragrant florets.
Among the guests at my wedding were my fellow apprentices and
they sat at one table. Our riding teacher said much later that my best friend
among them, Bener Nepomuceno, could not stop weeping at the ceremony
and reception. He was my guide and defender during the time I was with
them for training and I had no idea he liked me.
Bener worked horses where I did – the Nicky Jacinto stables – and he
unfolded the intricacies of track life to me. He taught me how to read the
racing programs, how to watch a race with a critical eye, and how to go
around horses without being kicked. He showed me how to center a saddle
on a horse’s back on top of the mattress pad, how to buckle the overgirth
tight to avoid a slip and fall, and how to hold the reins – not too loosely that
the horse could not feel the bit, not to hard to damage their sensitive mouths
and create a bisyoso horse. It was sad that after my marriage, I had to give up
my old friends. They understood. My then-husband was the jealous type.
As a young mother, I took my babies to the track nearly every day their
first couple of months to catch the morning sun. When they were older,
Ortuoste 185
they learned to toddle on the grass that ringed the track by the outer rail as
their father rode by, smiling indulgently. My youngest daughter, born with
a severe case of jaundice brought about by the incompatibility between her
father’s blood type and mine (showing we never should have married in the
first place), recovered from it after I took her to the track to bathe in the sun’s
rays. From yellow, her skin turned pink in increments; proof, I thought, that
the sunlight at the track was more efficacious than anywhere else.
The old track at Santa Ana Park saw some of the most thrilling battles
the sport has known. It was Wind Blown’s home track, Wind Blown the
idol of racing fans, who could carry an impost of sixty kilos and still run
as fleet as thought. He is now standing stud at Herma Farms in Batangas,
the prize stallion of top-ranked horseowner and breeder Hermie Esguerra’s
ranch.
Bred by Sandy Javier, Wind Blown (Hazm – Wind in My Hair by
Cox’s Ridge) looked like a tadpole as a foal, his former groom Esting Labra
commented in an interview I did with him before he died. Esting loved his
alaga, bathing him not with bareta soap, as is the common practice, but
with Sunsilk shampoo in sachets that he’d open with his teeth and drop to
the paliguan floor.
As a colt Wind Blown was ungainly and moved awkwardly, even after
training, so Sandy sold him to Hermie as a three-year-old, knowing the
colt had potential that had not yet manifested itself. A late bloomer, Wind
Blown began asserting himself in the latter part of that season, winning the
third leg of the Triple Crown in 2000. He went on to triumph in that year’s
Philippine Charity Sweepstakes-sponsored Presidential Gold Cup, the
most prestigious event on the calendar, and scored again the following year
in the same race, a feat performed by only three other horses – Fair and
Square (1981 and 1982), who later stood at stud and threw some excellent
stakes runners; the incomparable filly Sun Dancer (1989 and 1990), who
later became a broodmare but did not produce champions; and the feisty
and aptly-named Bulldozer (1996 and 1997).
Wind Blown tried for a three-peat in 2002, but carried sixty kilograms
and lost to Free Wind who had a handicap weight of fifty-six. For years after
that, Hermie would recall that incident and say, “Sino nga iyong tumalo sa
atin sa Gold Cup, Jen?” And I would make sure to forget the name of the
horse that beat the track idol.
5: Media milya
The jockeys’ quarters

By the track’s first bend were the clinic, jockeys’ quarters, and
saddling paddock. There was always at least one nurse on duty whenever
there were workouts and races. The nurse at Santa Ana Park, whom I only
knew by her first name, Chit, was plump and jolly and sold food on the side
– longganiza, daing na bangus, embotido. After we separated, my ex used
to buy whatever she had and send it to my place to make up for not giving a
montly sustento for our children.
There was also an ambulance parked in front of the clinic during
workouts. During races, it followed the horses around the track but outside
the rail. Should any jockey or exercise rider be injured badly enough to
have to be taken to the hospital, Chit or the other nurse, Marlyn, would ride
in the ambulance with them. They also had to monitor the jockeys’ vital
signs before the races; should a rider’s blood pressure shoot up too high,
he would be declared “unfit to ride” by the racing stewards and be replaced
by another jockey of the same classification. Otherwise, the horse would
be scratched from the race, an outcome no one wanted as it meant loss of
potential income.
What people know of horseracing jockeys is, in general, only what they
see on cable television’s Karera Channel. Short muscular men dressed
in colorful eye-popping silks swing a leg atop Thoroughbreds taller than
themselves and ride them at top speed around an elliptical track. Their faces
are barely discernible under their helmets and the straps criss-crossing their
cheeks; they are recognized by their eyes and smiles. Theirs is a physically
demanding and very stressful job. To ease the pressure they sing karaoke,
dance, drink light beer from cans, and, at parties, some sport spiked hair
and wear weird clothing like tartan kilts. Well, that was just this one rider,
Noriel Cannoay, and he wore that red and black monstrosity one year to the
jockeys’ Christmas party. This was a year after he was thrown off a horse
during laban and smashed half his face to smithereens; he recovered nicely
but after that began to behave oddly, more than what was usually odd for
him, anyway. Others eschew the man-skirts and decorate themselves with
misspelled tattoos of banal religious platitudes like “Jesus is my Saviuor”.
The jockeys’ quarters at Santa Ana Park was a two-story wood-frame
building, as decrepit and dirty as the other old wooden structures on the
Ortuoste 187
premises. On the ground floor were a dining table and a space for the meal
concessionaire, a former rider named Atik Salvador who had broken his
thigh during a race and never fully healed. There was a television on the
wall. Club regulations prohibited showing the betting matrix on any of the
jockeys’ quarters monitors to discourage race fixing, so the sets were usually
tuned to game shows, variety shows, or telenovelas.
Behind the table were the “whipping benches” for training apprentices.
These were ordinary wooden benches with metal eyes on one end to fasten
reins to, while padded rectangles on the other end simulated the flanks of
a horse. Apprentices would straddle the bench, crouch low in the ‘monkey
ride’ or tonka ride position, chest as close to the bench as possible, and
scrub the reins, all the while wielding a whip on the pads.
Also practiced were flipping the whip up from a tucked position
to whipping position, and switching the whip to either hand. Some
apprentices would imitate the older veterans and add their own flourishes
that made them look like band majorettes. Our riding instructor, an
elderly American named George Stribling, discouraged the arte among
his ‘boys’ and taught a simpler form of the ‘whip up’ and the ‘switch’,
although once the apprentices graduated to journeymen and were out
from under his thumb, they pretty much did what they wanted in those
terms out on the track.
Also on the ground floor was a sauna, in which nearly all the riders
spent at least an hour each raceday. “Making weight” is the most difficult
thing a jockey has to accomplish. Riding, in contrast, is considered easy
and even pleasurable. Other jockeys went to extremes to keep their
weight down, such as fasting and taking appetite suppressant drugs such
as Ionamin. It was said that excessive use of the latter led to star jockey
Jesus Guce’s deafness and consequent speech impediment in his later
years. I could barely understand him, I remember, and would whisper to
bystanders: “Ano raw sabi ni Bong?” Because of that, most riders today
back up their morning workouts on the track with visits to the gym while
exercising discipline and self-control at the dining table.
The second floor was one huge room, divided into two – an
airconditioned area, and one that was not. Beds filled both, and it was here
that the jockeys passed the time between races – napping, having massages,
and playing video games. My ex was considered odd because he preferred
to read novels – during the ‘90s, he had his favorite Tom Clancy and John
Grisham, and later Dan Brown and David Baldacci. “Matalino kasi,” the
other riders shrugged.
Once in a while I had to wander inside for interviews or on other
errands and it always disconcerted me to come in and see men whom I
knew and interacted with as friends walking around in their underwear or
with towels around their waists. They were used to seeing me, and in any
case I was not a stranger – I was taga-karera and they knew if I was there,
seeing them half-naked, I had good reason. For me it was like seeing twenty
clones of my ex-husband walking around or lounging.
Someone told me that there were ghosts in that building – shadows
that would flit hither and yon, only to be seen from the corner of your eye.
Or there would be strange noises at night. The same was said of the main
buildings – the old man in the ladies’ bathroom who glared at everyone who
came in, looking for someone in particular. And so on. Not being sensitive
myself to such things, I never saw anything out of the ordinary, but did
sense an eeriness when walking around the place late at night or in the wee
hours.
6: Huling Kurbada
The stables
One of the most important areas of the track was the stables. It was
where the racehorses were housed, those magnificent animals that pounded
the sand with their hooves during races, manes and tails flying, sharing for
a few minutes the gift of their speed with the slow, plodding humans who
could only watch and marvel.
The horses that are registered to race on Philippine tracks are all
Thoroughbreds. The word is always spelled with a capital T, as if it
were a brand name. This is a particular breed of horse, and all of today’s
Thoroughbreds are descended from three stocky and sturdy ancestor
horses brought to England centuries ago – the Byerley Turk (1680), the
Darley Arabian (1704), and the Godolphin Arabian (1729). They were
cross-bred with native mares and in time, through the process of artificial
selection, T-breds emerged with the ability to do only one thing well – to
run very fast.
Ortuoste 189
Through the centuries of human tinkering, these horses have developed

a handsome conformation, with narrow heads, lean bodies, and sleek legs.
Being cared for by humans all their lives and not having to contend with
conditions in the wild, Thoroughbreds are not good survivors. Their legs,
so slender and elegant, can carry them at speeds averaging sixty kilometers
per hour – but only for a couple of minutes. Their lungs are powerful, but the
legs, developed to be thin and fast, may snap in the heat of battle and down
they go, eight hundred to one thousand pounds of expensive horseflesh
crashing into the sand, their eyes rolling back in their heads in agony. Some
struggle up, valiantly, on three legs, the broken leg dangling at a painful
angle, still trying to finish the race. It is heartbreaking. It is heartbreaking.
But when they run it is poetry, it is magic. A well-trained racehorse will
look forward to the battle. Horses are herd animals and run as a pack, but
years of human conditioning have instilled in them the spirit of competition
– the urge to compete for mates, superiority within the herd, and lebensraum
was channeled into the drive to run faster than the others on the track, to
cross the wire first, to win.
The stables are crucial to racing operations and the success of the
sport. The cleaner and more well-maintained the stables, the healthier
the horses. Considered the showcase facility was Hermie Esguerra’s, the
top horseowner in rankings for many years now. He takes a hands-on role
in managing his stables and did the same at Santa Ana Park. He leased a
stand-alone facility for twenty-five horses that used to belong to the top
horseowner before him, Rolly Rojas. Hermie turned it into a model place,
clean and airy, with its own weighing scale and wide viewing box, the glass
windows of which gave out onto the top of the stretch. Other areas were not
as well-kept, due to financial constraints on the part of their owners.
Humans lived alongside horses in the stables, partly for economic
reasons, partly to be close enough to care properly for the animals from
which they derived their livelihood. It was not unusual to see horses come
out of the track gates followed by children in school uniforms. In other
racing countries, only grooms are allowed to live on site, since racetrack
stables are not meant to be residential communities.
But at Santa Ana Park, human lives were so closely linked to horses that
the environment and practices reflected the depth of this bond.
7: Rekta
The track environs

A large part of Makati with its glittering buildings and air-
conditioned malls is considered the country’s central business district.
Yet in some areas of the city, many still pursue agricultural activities in
connection with sports and gaming. It shows, perhaps, that there are some
Filipinos in the city who are unable to shake off the provincial soil from
their shoes. Maybe it is part of the culture, an echo of our tribal past, that
accepts as a norm humans living with animals as part of an intermeshed,
interdependent ecology.
Stepping out of Gate Four, one sees the Barangay Carmona Sports
Complex right in front of the gate. There was a hexagonal sign right there,
made to look exactly like a traffic sign, that said: “Caution – Race Horses
Crossing.” The day they took down that sign marked the end of racing in
Santa Ana.
Take a right, and AP Reyes divides into two – one way leading to P.
Domingo Street, the PEMCO lightbulb factory, and Havana Bridge,
which divides Makati City from Manila, and from thence to Lamayan and
Kalentong streets.
The other way leads to H. Santos Street – a cul-de-sac named after
Kapitan Hermenegildo of Philippine Revolutionary fame. A few meters
from the corner is the compound where we live; a bit further down, the
neighborhood public elementary school, where lessons and elections are
held in a cramped yet airy campus in the middle of a packed residential
community. The street ends at the banks of the Pasig River, which separates
us and our community from the Pandacan oil depot.
At the end of the street, facing the water, there used to be the Ramon
Balatbat stables on the left. Another set of stables was on the right, leading
into the track in a maze of alleys and narrow easements. Close to the street,
on that property, the Metropolitan Association of Race Horse Owners
(MARHO) rented space upon which they had a room built which for many
years served as the office of the oldest such organization in the country,
founded in 1974.
As MARHO manager since 2008, I went five days a week to that little
office for over a year. It was a great convenience to walk to work and be there
in three minutes. I was glad not to be cramped in between tall buildings
Ortuoste 191
or decaying apartment houses. There’s something to be said for cool winds,

wide-open spaces, and elbow room, in sight of Ayala Avenue’s gleaming
office buildings, sunlight reflecting off the banks of glass windows.
Beside the MARHO office was a larger room used by veterinarian Rey
Miranda as his surgery. It was where he performed minor procedures – chip
bones, sobrecaña – that often afflict juveniles (two-year-olds) and three-
year-olds, those put through their toughest training.
Aesthetically, the view at the end of H. Santos Street disappoints. The
Pasig River is a drab gray, choked with sheets of bright green water plants;
the Pandacan oil tanks are industrial steel and boring. Once one of them
caught fire – late at night – and we watched the conflagration safely from
across the water, the blue, red, and yellow flames leaping up against the dark
sky, the thick smoke swirling and made visible by the fire’s glare. (It was put
out quickly and no one was hurt.)
What the river lacks in beauty, it makes up for with action. Tugs and
ferries pass at regular times throughout the day. This is the new ferry that is
such a boon to travelers going to and from Manila. They are somewhat slow,
the tugs even slower, but the ferries are clean and bravely fly the Philippine
flag from their masts.
There were also gamefowl farms along H. Santos Street. Two are still
there, beside our house, while another is right on the banks of the river. A
couple of others moved to Cavite with the horses when operations were
halted at Santa Ana Park.
One morning, Marvin, the keeper of the cocks at the riverbank farm,
showed off a Philippine python that he caught at the back of the pens. The
snake was caught while attempting to devour a rat as large as a kitten. Placed
in a small cage in the center of the fighting cocks’ training arena, the python
looked sulky. Who wouldn’t be, interrupted in the middle of breakfast and
cooped up in a wire box? It was around five and a half feet long and its back
bore a magnificent pattern of harlequin diamonds in shades of yellow, black,
and taupe.
Marvin placed the cage with its grumpy occupant in the center of the
small training sabungan and neighbours gathered around to gawk. Dr.
Miranda said the python is not poisonous but kills its prey by crushing.
Onofre, MARHO’s messenger and a part-time waiter at the track, said that
a bigger python, its body as thick around as his thigh, was found last month
in the same area. Our office was just five meters away. Could a snake find
its way inside and hide under my desk? The men said, oh yes, it could.
They were quite serious. I was apprehensive about the possibility of finding
such deadly beauty entwined around my ankles someday, but I would never
have traded the excitement of my unusual job for a conventional and boring
career imprisoned in a Makati cubicle, where the highlight of my day would
have been meager lunches from plastic bags and trips in claustrophobia-
inducing elevators.
Whenever my lower back began pinging pain signals to my brain from
hours of being hunched over a computer keyboard, I’d step out of our little
office to stretch my legs along the river bank. Sometimes I’d cross the quiet
residential street – it was a matter of a couple of meters – to the Mon Balatbat
stables, which had a peaceful river view cross-hatched by a cyclone wire
fence that broke up the vista into diamond-shaped chunks that let brisk
breezes through.
Whenever Mon, a horseowner and breeder, would visit the place, he
would send for me and we’d chat. He’d smoke cigarette after cigarette,
grinding the butts into the sawdust scattered on the stable grounds, and
I’d cajole him, a self-acknowledged tightwad, into spending for merienda.
He’d send his driver Raul to the McDonald’s on the corner of AP Reyes
Avenue, and we’d eat fries and slurp Coke through plastic straws and trade
the latest karera gossip while Mon ordered his horses brought out one by
one and paraded in front of us by grooms who fidgeted while holding the
halters, eager for Mon to be off so they could return to lounging by the river
or studying the day’s racing program.
Mon had quality horseflesh in his stables. Some of the horses were his,
the others boarders, whose owners paid him a monthly sum that covered the
basics of stall rent, feeds, and grooms’ salaries. (Medicines and supplements
were extra and to the owner’s account.)
Since his stable area was open to the sky, unlike most of the the trackside
stables, we could see the horses much closer and under better viewing
conditions. The sunlight would gleam off the horses’ backs and flanks,
throwing the pale brands on their shoulders in sharp detail. I’d amuse
myself by trying to identify the brands – Aristeo Puyat’s “AP” standing for
his Paris Match Farm, Hermie Esguerra’s Herma Farms and Stud sun-and-
waves, Norberto Quisumbing’s “NQ”. The horse’s place of birth is marked
with a letter – “L” for Lipa, Batangas, where 90% of the country’s ranches
are located, “R” for Rosario, Batangas – indicating that it is with these
Ortuoste 193
municipalities that the foaling slips, the equivalent of birth certificates, are
archived. The year of birth and birth order on the ranch would also be
indicated by numerals. For instance, “26” on top of “06” means that the
horse was the twenty-sixth born on that ranch in the year 2006.
Life in the neighborhood when the track was still around was like living
in the probinsiya, but in the middle of the busiest urban area of the country.
Modernity seemed to have passed this area by, going straight to a post-
modern model and its paradigm of progress being obsolete. But that would
be being unfair to the vibrant spirit of ‘make-do’ that was the community’s
norm, its way of doing things, of raising farm animals for fun and profit
within sight of the towering skyscrapers of the country’s most powerful and
influential business district.
8: Meta
The end of an era

After 72 years on the site, PRC’s racing operations were transferred
to a new facility at Naic, Cavite, and the first race was held there on 6 January
2009. Structures at the old track came down swiftly– grandstands, betting
windows, paddocks, stables. Everything was reduced to piles of rubble and
stacks of wood.
The once-vibrant and noisy neighborhood is quieter. Yes, that’s a
good thing, but we were used to the racket – the chatter of grooms and
their families, the neighing and snorting of horses, the clatter of hooves on
the street in the morning, the faintly-heard voice of the racecaller over the
PA system during race meetings. All gone from here, now.
PRC management says that part of the property, around four
hectares, has been purchased by taipan Lucio Tan’s group, perhaps for an
Allied Bank data center or some other purpose. The rest of the property,
21 hectares, will also be developed in time by Ayala Land, into a mixed-
use residential and commercial area much like the Rockwell area, also in
Makati. It’s hard to imagine a Rockwell here, but if it does happen, it’ll be
good for the ‘hood. Property prices will rise. There’ll be jobs and other
economic benefits.
But I miss the old track. It’s where I trained every morning for two
months back in 1990 as the country’s first female apprentice jockey. It’s
where my ex-husband asked me on our very first date, to marry five months

later. It’s where I sunned my babies; it’s where they learned to walk, on
the strip of grass beside the rail, while their father exercised horses in the
mornings, all of us coming home smelling of sun and dust and the sweat of
horses. It’s where I picked up my career when I had to go back to work after
my marriage failed.
And I never thought, when I married a jockey twenty years ago, that the
time would ever come that I would be a historian of this track’s demise.
When a mall or condominium is built here, right on the track, will the
ghosts of gone horses still race, silently, where they used to run free? Shall
phantasms of riders and horses, or their manifestations of psychic energy
remaining in the rocks, in the soil, and carried on the breeze, still run races
until entropy consumes the sun and time runs backward?
The racetrack that stood here for generations, and that some thought
would never be torn down in our lifetime, is no more. A rich part of Santa
Ana’s history has disappeared. Had enough photographs been taken?
Videos? Are there still old-timers around who remember the place when
it was still Sampiro, San Pedro de Makati, when the air was cool and you
could faintly see, behind the track, the blue shadows of the mountains of
Rizal in the distance before the high-rises rose up to obscure them?
No matter. We will run the races over and over in our heads, and savor
the memories of the track in the quiet times or over raucous kitbitzing with
fellow taga-karera. And wherever fortune takes us and racing, it is at this
place, Santa Ana, at the fringes of Makati and Manila, where we still, and
always will, take the turn for home.
Ortuoste 195
“…and finally…”
Salitang Karera
Aparato. Starting gate. Ensayo. Morning workout or airing

Apprentice. An inexperienced or new intended for conditioning or
rider granted weight allowances; training.
a student rider. Filly. A female horse aged four or less.
Ayuda. Full exertion, usually under Gelding. A castrated male horse.
whipping. Hinete. A jockey.
Backstretch. Straight part of track Huling kurbada. The final turn or
opposite the homestretch. bend.
Bandera. Lead or front in a race. Hugando. A decisive victory without
Banderista. A front runner or a horse much urging or undue effort.
with early speed; a horse that Judge. A racing official who decided
prefers to run in front rather than the winners and placers of a race.
come from behind. Juvenile. A two-year old horse.
Barrier. A trial race. Kurbada. The bends (“curves”) of
Besiro. Yearling (year-old horse). the track, ie, ‘first bend’ (unang
Cinco-octavo. The 5/8 mile post or kurbada), ‘last bend’ (huling
1,000 meters; the bend or turn kurbada).
just before the backstretch. Larga. The start of the race, when the
Colt. An unaltered (uncastrated) male horses jump out of the starting
horse aged four or less. gate.
Dead heat. When two (or more) Latigo. The whip.
horses are judged to have reached Likuran. The backstretch.
the finish line simultaneously. Llamado. The favorite in a race.
Deboka. A sprinter, pacer, or front Lucha. Speed duel usually between
runner. two horses.
Deklarado. A horse declared or May-ari. A racehorse owner.
entered to run in a particular Media milya. The half-mile post.
race. Meta. The finish line.
Dehado. An underrated racehorse Milya. A mile or 1,600 meters.
that wins; a non-favorite; a Mola. A Thoroughbred.
longshot. Novato. A new horse, usually a
Deremate. A come-from-behind juvenile, that has yet to win a race.
runner, one that is able to race Octavo. 1/8 mile or 200 meters; a
well at longer distances; a stayer. furlong.
Divisa. Racing silks or colors Photo-finish. A race too close to call
identified with a particular owner that is decided by the use of a
or stable. photograph taken by automated
Ensayador. An exercise rider. cameras at the finish line.
Pista. The racetrack.

Quarto. Fractions of every mile or
every 400 meters of the race.
Rekta. The homestretch or last
straight run until the finish.
Remate. To come from behind.
Salida. The break or start of the race.
Scratch. A declared horse withdrawn
from a race.
Siete-octavo. 7/8 of a mile or 1,400
meters.
Sota. Groom; syce.
Sota mayor. Chief or head groom of a
stable or ranch.
Steward. A racing official who
monitors race conduct and
control.
Taya. Bet or wager.
Thoroughbred. The particular breed
of horse used in Philippine
racing.
Tiyempista. Clockers or timekeepers
of the races.
Tres-octavo. 3/8 of a mile or 600
meters.
Tres-quarto. ¾ of a mile or 1,200
meters.
Unang kurbada. The first turn that
begins on the homestretch; also,
“clubhouse turn”.`
Ultimo quarto. The last quarter of
the race.
(Most definitions above courtesy of the

Manila Jockey Club)
197
In Search Of Stillness And Serenity

W
hen I was young, I did not think silence‌
and serenity were important. As a child, I liked
being taken by my mother on Christmas shopping
expeditions when the crowds were thickest on
Escolta, Raon, Carriedo, Avenida Rizal. As a
teen-ager, I enjoyed holidays at the beach with the
family and with friends, the more the merrier. I loved sound and movement,
loud throbbing music, fast dances, flashing lights…
It annoyed me that my father preferred to take the family to tourist
spots off season. So very typical of him, I thought, resentfully. I felt left
out of things, was afraid I was doomed to be forever left out of things. Of
fun things. Of things that mattered. Of things that mattered to me and my
friends. Things like being popular, being in the know, being cool.
So perhaps what I feared was aloneness. Only much later did moments
of solitude become precious, something to be hoarded and treasured. This
was when I had been married for a while, and had small children, and
sometimes felt that the demands on my time and attention were endless.
And then my husband accepted a job with UNICEF, and solitariness
was thrust upon me. His job required us to move around the world a lot,
and there were periods—after we had settled into our new house and found
reliable help—when I would be by myself a lot. Tony would be travelling on
official missions, or working in his office. The children would be in school,
but I would not have found a job of my own yet. So I would invent little
errands for myself.
In Bangkok, I used to walk from our house on Sukhumvit Soi 23 to
Asia Bookstore at the corner of Sukhumvit and Soi 15, select a paperback,
then walk a couple of blocks farther to this Danish Bakery, where I’d order
a cup of coffee and a pastry. And I’d just sit there, reading my paperback.
Bangkok’s roads were strident with traffic sounds, but both that bookstore
and the café were quiet.
When I found a job as an editor in a magazine, my schedule filled
up. And in time, we had made a good number of friends, both foreign and
Thai. Tony’s job required that he do a lot of entertaining, and in those days
I found that lifestyle fun.
And so it was to be, in all the countries to which he was posted. But
even as I threw myself willingly into that social whirl, part of me would
sometimes seek out stillness.
Sometimes I found it in unexpected places. Like the home of this lady
who made beautiful batik clothes which she sold in trendy boutiques. As
she drove me to the place, Chalee, my Thai assistant, told me that the lady
did everything herself—from dyeing the material to designing, cutting,
and supervising the sewing. She was “a Mom Chao,” Chalee said, “a real
princess,” not just an ordinary “Khunying,” who acquired the title because
of “new money.” She was descended from the brother of a queen. Thai
people used “a different kind of language” when talking to the “real royalty,”
like her, Chalee added.
To my surprise, I found the princess to be, not just beautiful and
remarkably youthful in that improbable way of some Siamese women, but
disarmingly down-to-earth and unassuming. Her house was a lovely, old
Thai-style villa, in Thon Buri, across the Chao Phya River from Bangkok. It
had a great many windows and verandahs, so the indoors flowed seamlessly
into the outdoors. What had been the dining room now served as her work
room. It opened into a rambling garden, full of fruit trees, flowering plants,
little ponds traversed by footbridges… and dipped gently down to a little
dock on the river bank. Her old tables, jars, scrolls, tapestries had that
indefinable quality which comes from, not having been bargained for and
acquired, but anciently owned and treasured.
Chalee and I had come unannounced, so the princess—who said we
must call her simply Nunie, which was her nickname, and never mind the
Hidalgo 199
title—had to finish attending to a client before coming to us. She waved

us out into the garden. And Chalee and I sat in basket chairs under the
frangipani trees, sipping the cold lime juice which had been served to us
by a maid in a sarong, and watched the barges and the small boats gliding
slowly down the river. Behind us, Nunie’s newly dyed fabrics, hung out to
dry, were bright splashes of color, billowing like sails in the breeze. In my
memory, it is one of those perfect moments, frozen in time.
When I was hired to teach literature by the Jesuit University in Seoul,
the first office assigned to me actually belonged to an elderly Korean male
professor who was on sabbatical leave. Nothing in the room belonged to me,
save for a white porcelain tea set that I kept on a low wooden table against
one wall. It was a Korean tea set with small, handle-less cups, a gift from one
of my classes—one that I had taught earlier at Seoul National University. (It
was a Korean custom for students to present their teachers with a gift at the
end of the term, they said. But my good friend, Kang Bong Yang, told me
that they did so only if they liked their teacher.) I brought in a small electric
kettle so I could boil water to steep the tea leaves in. And that table with its
tea things became my own little corner in a stranger’s office.
I did not expect that I would ever feel at home in someone else’s space,
among his personal things—massive wooden furniture, leather-bound
books, paper weights, a letter opener… But, in fact, I spent many quiet,
contented hours in that office. Its single window overlooked part of the
campus. So I had a view of young people strolling arm in arm down the
lanes, or bent over their books under the trees. And sometimes I would
remember the other office I had left behind in Diliman, with its view of
spreading acacia trees, and the sound of the Carillon bells as the dusk
slowly crept in.
During those years that we spent in Seoul, we often took out-of-town
trips. I particularly loved the mountains—Soraksan, Tohamsan, Songnisan...
But they were usually teeming with tourists—mainly Koreans—for the
country was on the brink of becoming a fully developed nation. Often
we would encounter busloads of farmers and their wives, still wearing
the traditional Korean costume, doing the sights in high spirits, indeed,
sometimes in a state of disorderly inebriation.
But now and then, I would go with Tony on his field trips to inspect
different UNICEF projects. This would take us off the well-beaten tracks.
One such trip was to Jeungdo, a tiny island off Mokpo, early in the winter. It
was a long, tiring drive from Seoul to Mokpo, and then an equally long boat
ride to the island. We were housed in a traditional inn, which was heated
ondol style, with steam from the cooking fire in the kitchen, running through
flues under the floor, on which lay our sleeping mats.
One afternoon we were taken up a mountain trail to the little village’s
look-out point. The pace set by the men was too brisk for me, so I fell
behind and waved them on. There was a flat rock under the shade of a small
tree, which struck me as the perfect spot to catch my breath. But as I was
about to sit down, I looked up and realized that I was not too far from the
hill’s crest. For the view before me was spectacular. The sky was overcast,
so the sea was slate-grey, and the islands in the distance, a smoky lavender.
Immediately below, scattered haphazardly about, were little settlements,
peanut farms, seaweed set out to dry on thatch frames, a fishing boat or
two, some mountain goats. And all was quiet and still around me, save for
the chirping of invisible birds and the crisp rustling of a breeze through the
branches of the tree.
In Rangoon, we lived in a house that was off the main road, and had a
large garden, bordered by tall coconut trees. One could sit with a steaming
cup of coffee in the morning, or with a frosty glass of iced tea in the late
afternoon, among the potted ferns and begonias in our own portico, and
feel that one wasn’t in the city at all. We were surrounded by sounds which
brought to mind childhood and other lost seasons. Dawn was announced
by the crowing of cocks, dusk by the cawing of crows. On clear nights, there
was the chirping of crickets; when it rained, the croaking of frogs. And both
the afterglow and the starlight over the Inya Lake were enchanting.
Travel was restricted by the Burmese government, but foreigners
were allowed some freedom, provided permission was secured from the
authorities. One time, we went to Taunggyi, an old town in the hilly Shan
states, perched some 5000 miles above the Bay of Bengal. It seemed hardly
changed from the British hill station that it used to be, with its cherry trees and
bullock carts, the vendors in the open market still dressed in the traditional
garb of the various hilltribes, and an old, rather dilapidated wooden house
standing in a grove of pine and eucalyptus trees doing service as a hotel.
Toward the end of our visit, U Win Tin, one of Tony’s staff members
who had accompanied us on the trip, suddenly remembered what he called
“the monastery on the hill.” So we turned into this bumpy narrow road
which cut through fields of sugar cane, raising great clouds of dust behind
Hidalgo 201
us. We could see it from afar, a white pagoda at the crest of terraces carved
into the slope of a mountain. (U Win Tin must have told us its name, but I
no longer recall it.)
Past the fields, the road climbed up till it came to a rusty gate. There
we had to leave our van, and proceed on foot, taking care to first remove our
shoes, as the grounds of Buddhist temples are considered sacred. Up a flight
of crude stone steps cut into the slope, and down a narrow footpath, and we
stood on the temple’s main terrace. Below us was Inle Lake surrounded by
dark emerald foliage.
I’ve written of this place in my book on Burma: “It is a secret, magical
place, more precious than poetry… warm sunlight, soft whisper of a breeze
through teakwood banyan trees, gentle harmony of birdsong and temple
bells, wildflowers growing in the crannies of old walls, low, even chanting
of a kneeling monk…. It is dearer to me because I know I shall never see it
again. Even if I were to return to Burma, I don’t think I shall find it. It will
have disappeared, like all perfect things.”
Paradoxically, it was in war-torn Beirut where I think I found
more places to be quiet in. When we lived there, Lebanon—and Beirut
itself—was divided into east and west. The west was where most foreign
embassies and the international agencies were located. This was the
Moslem side, controlled largely by the PLO, under the protection of the
Syrian Army. The east was under the power of the Maronite Christians, led
by the Gemayel and Chamoun families, who had their own private armies.
We rarely crossed the border, an invisible demarcation line guarded by
snipers strategically perched in the surrounding buildings, their pock-
marked walls mute witnesses to the long-running civil war which had not
really ended.
My favorite walk was on the promenade along the Avenue de Paris,
early in the morning, after I had brought the girls to their school. At that
early hour it was empty, save for the thin grey-haired old man in a faded
blue tunic, selling fresh orange juice from a little cart adorned with plastic
gladioli, not far from the lighthouse. I never grew tired of gazing out into
that sea, the Mediterranean. The mist would still be banked on the horizon,
and I could only make out the silhouette of Mount Lebanon, and the ship
or two docked at the Beirut Harbor. The tide would be out, so beyond the
craggy rocks close to the sea wall, men in windbreakers would be sitting on
the large flat, moss-covered rocks, with their fishing poles and their baskets
full of bait. The grayness suited my mood which during those early months
was untroubled but lonely.
When the mists lifted, the Mediterranean would turn a brilliant
sapphire blue, its waves gilt-edged, the gulls swooping in graceful arcs. And
the mountain would come to life—snowy crests, pine forests, little white
houses with gleaming rooftops, grey rocks. But soon the old men would
come with their dogs, to sip their cups of Arabic coffee while playing tric-
trac (the original Arab version of backgammon) on the stone benches…
and the housewives with their babies in their prams would stop by on their
way to the grocer’s… And I would walk on.
One morning, I discovered the seaside gate to the American University
of Beirut campus. I followed the footpath past the football field, the
basketball courts and the tennis courts; then climbed up some steps that
led through the trees to the school buildings. About halfway up I found
what I was looking for.
The stone steps were shaded by many old trees, and the ground
around them had been allowed to practically run wild. In one spot, stood a
little grove of pine trees, their branches growing quite close to the ground,
forming a natural bower. And one of them had a trunk so bent to one side
that it could serve as a bench. Off to one side were three girls, perhaps in
their early teens. Two were busily scribbling on sheets of paper on top of
books balanced over their knees. A third one, a bit younger than the other
two, was trying to amuse herself by gathering into a pile the dried pine
needles that covered the ground like a thick carpet. None of them paid any
attention to me. From that height I had a clear view of the young men and
women working out in the track, or kicking a ball around, and beyond them,
of the promenade, and the sea. Now and then a couple would pass by, on
their way up or down, absorbed in each other. This little pine grove would
become “my” special little place.
But the protracted fighting—which went on long after the so-called
ceasefire between Moslems and Christians—had isolated Lebanon, which
at one time had been what its residents still liked to refer to as “the Paris of
the Middle East.” So it was not difficult to find, within an hour’s drive from
where we lived, a little deserted grassy spot under some umbrella pines,
where one could simply spread a blanket over the grass, open a picnic
basket, feast on Arabic bread and Haloumi cheese and whatever fruit was in
season, and then lie back and enjoy the birdsong.
Hidalgo 203
One time we were invited by Frieda, a member of Tony’s staff, to her

family’s old villa in the small Druze town of Abey, up in the mountains.
Her great grandfather had been the village blacksmith and had built the
house in the late 19th century. It had walls of thick stone, deep windows, a
high, vaulted ceiling, beautiful rosewood furniture, hand-carved and inlaid
with nakkar and mother-of-pearl, and lovely old rugs, lamps, pipes, copper
coffee pots…
Frieda walked us through a small forest of oak trees, to the olive
orchards, where her father was cutting off large branches and putting them
into baskets—the white (green) olives to be made into araq; the red, into
vinegar; and the black (the sweetest of all), to eat as part of the traditional
Lebanese mezze. And then we came to the olive press, and were offered
some freshly baked Arabic bread to dip into the freshly pressed oil, which
was delicious.
And there was a serenity about the olive grove, and the day, and
the village itself, which seemed far removed from the ceaseless strife that
plagued Lebanon.
I was delighted that New York City was full of pocket-sized parks
tucked away among the imposing structures of glass and steel, where one
could pick a stone bench among boxes planted to yellow jonquils or blue
and violet petunias or orange daisies, and munch on a hot dog sandwich at
one’s leisure, sometimes while listening to a single man playing on a Spanish
guitar, and sometimes to a full string quartet. They were tiny tranquil oases
in that throbbing, speeding city.
But when I felt really troubled, and needed something to soothe my
spirit, I would go—not on a week-end, when there were bound to be crowds,
but on ordinary work days—as my friend Akiko Kitatani once suggested, to
visit Monet’s “Water Lilies” at the MOMA. In those days, the triptych was
by itself, covering three walls of a small room. The fourth wall was all glass.
And there was a couch in the middle of the room. So one could gaze at
Monet’s blues and greens and lavenders and pinks and turquoises for as
long as one wanted. And then one could turn one’s head, and gaze at the
very real trees standing tall and stately against the very real blue sky. And
both Monet’s canvas and Nature’s brought me the tranquility I sought.
When we returned to Manila, the biggest blessings of our homecoming
were the renewed company of old friends, the picking up of my interrupted
career, the resumption of activities I had always enjoyed: classes, book
launchings, writing workshops, conferences and seminars, art exhibits,

lunches and dinners with students, colleagues, and friends, huge clan
reunions... Life lived to the full for twenty years.
And then I found myself, once again, seeking stillness and serenity.
But they seemed to have grown ever more elusive. Perhaps they were more
accessible in those foreign countries because, over there, we did not have the
same options that we have here. The many ties we forged were superficial.
There were spaces closed to us, experiences unavailable to us. There was
much we would never know, much we would never understand. Often we
were thrown back on own resources. Often, we were actually alone, and not
always by choice.
But when I once again had what I have called “life lived to the full,”
I found myself wondering whether it was not simply life lived at a kind of
breakneck pace, life crammed full of things which in the end would prove
of dubious value.
One day, a graduate student of mine asked me when was the last time I
was in a quiet place. And I thought: do I know any quiet places in this city
which is my home?
There is a little Carmelite Chapel, just down the block from our
townhouse, a white chapel, with a neat little courtyard planted to tall trees
and flowerbeds, and a vine with yellow flowers clambering over its cloisters.
When I was a child, I would sometimes walk to it, with my Lola and my
Tita Pacita, to hear Sunday mass. In those days, Gilmore was a quiet little
road. Around it were medium-sized houses with gardens. Today Gilmore
feeds into Ortigas Avenue, and is never not clogged with traffic. I have often
wondered why the nuns choose to stay. Sometimes I fancy that it might
be because they know people like me need their chapel. I visit it now and
then, just to sit in one of the back pews and be quiet with my own thoughts.
Sometimes I pray.
Back when I was a university co-ed, my close friends and I had
discovered, tucked away in one corner of the campus, a place which in those
days was called the “Pharmacy Garden.” It was located between the Main
Building and the University Chapel. We never saw Pharmacy students—or
any other students—there; we didn’t know what purpose it served. We liked
it because of that. It was our discovery, our little secret. There was a well in
there which my friends and I chose to believe was a wishing well. I recall
our skipping class one afternoon, shortly before graduation, and actually
Hidalgo 205
throwing some coins in and making wishes. And mine was actually granted.
When I started working for my old university again, I would pass it every
day on my way to the office. (It is now called the “UST Botanical Garden.”)
But for some reason, I have never thought to walk in.
In February of this year, my husband died. Had he lived three months
longer, we would have been married 45 years. His dying revealed to me a
solitude that has nothing to do with stillness or serenity. This solitude is a
deep, dark place. And within it is only turbulence and agonizing pain. And
I know that even if I were to revisit all those places I remember as tranquil
havens, and even if I were to find new ones, or try to create them, they will
not bring me peace or comfort, for the turmoil and the tumult are in my
heart.
One thought alone sustains me: that if I so choose, the searching can
go on.
29 April 2011
Ang Aking Gubat
Ellen Sicat
P
intas at hindi papuri ang pagtawag ng iba na gubat ang
apat na raan at dalawampu’t isang metro kuwadrado kong
bakuran. Hindi ko magawang magdamdam, sapagkat ginawa
ko itong madawag na kahuyan, sa halip na magandang
halamanan.
Maliit, nababakuran. Supil ang paglaki at pagtaas ng
mga punongkahoy sapagkat parati kong pinuputulan. Abot tuhod pa
lang, tinatanggalan ko na ng korona . Pagsasalin iyon ng kapangyarihan
sa nakababatang mga puno upang ang mga ito’y sumirit at magkapuwang.
Marami ang mga ito, kaya kailangang paghatian nito ang biyaya ng lupa,
hangin, tubig at araw.
Sa kadawagan ng gubat sa aking bakuran, nahawan ang gubat sa aking
kalooban. Kahit anong laki ng aking problema -- pumapayapa ako, pagtanaw
ko, sa aking gubat. Ito ang aking altar. Itinuturing kong kaibigan ang aking
mga puno’t halaman. Kahit alam kong hindi dapat ang siya, kaniya, sila at
kanila, ginagamit ko pa rin ang mga panghalip na ito sa kanila.
Walong punong mangga, anim na niyog, walong kalamansi, tatlong
kaimito, dalawang tsiko, dalawang bayabas, isang langka, anim na atis,
tatlong guyabano, apat na lanzones at isang rambutan ang nagsisiksikan sa
aking bakuran. Padami nang padami ang tanim kong mga puno at halaman
sa paso, lata o sa anumang maaaring pagtamnan. Nang naubusan na ako
Sicat 207
ng paglalapagan, isinabit ko na sa pader at puno At hindi lang isang hilera.

Sa parteng naarawan, dalawa o tatlong hilera ang nakasabit na halamang
pinatubo ko sa basyong bote ng softdrink at mantika.
May halina ang indayog ng halamang nakasabit. Umaagos ang dahon at
sanga, pumapaimbulog ang bulaklak -- parang pagtatatak sa kamalayan ng
nilipad na palda ni Marilyn Monroe.
Tinitipon ko ang panahon sa mga tanim kong puno. Kung binigyan
ko ng puno sa lata o paso ang isang kaibigan o kaanak, ibinigay ko rin
ang aking panahon. Parang nagbasag sila ng alkansiya kapag inilipat ang
puno sa kanilang bakuran. Madaling mamumunga dahil ilang taon na itong
nakatanim.
Itinatali ko ang mga puno sa isa’t isa. Kapit-sanga nilang nilalabanan
ang hagupit ng hangin at bagyo. Pati mga puno, kailangan ng pagkakaisa
at tulungan upang hindi dapurakin ng anumang sakuna. Kung sila man ay
tamaan ng kalamidad, may sasalo sa kanila.
Noong unang nakita ng aking bayaw na agronomist ang aking itinanim
na mga puno – agad niyang ipinayong bawasan ko. Bale ba, noon, may
lima pa akong puntod ng saging na saba. Magsisiksikan umano, ang mga
ito paglaki. Hindi ko rin daw maaasahang mamunga. Hindi marahil niya
napansing may nakalawit na puso at bunga ang bawat puntod ng saging.
Nang muli silang nagbalikbayan ng kaniyang pamilya pagkaraan ng
dalawang taon, namumunga na ang mga bayabas. Dalawang buwig ng
saging ang nakasabit sa kusina. Kinunan ng retrato ng kasama niyang anak,
ang mga puno ng saging na may nakalawit na bunga. Pagkaraan, inani ko
ang mga puso at ipinaulam sa kanila. Nagustuhan ng aking pamangkin ang
kilawing puso. Ayon sa aking kapatid, kalasa iyon ng artichoke. Nagdala
pa sila sa Italya ng puso at dalawang piling na saging. Muling inungkat ng
aking bayaw na bawasan ko ang mga puno. “Gubat na,” sabi niya.
Iyon nga ang gusto kong mangyari, ang magkaroon ako ng sariling
gubat. Parang imposible ito noong kalilipat namin sa aming bagong bahay.
Bawat hukay ko noon ng pagtatamnan, basurang hindi nabubulok
ang aking nakakalkal. Nakahambalang ang bloke-blokeng sementong
tinibag mula sa ni-renovate na bahay. Putik na sintigas ng bato ang lupa,
kaya hinaluan ko ng buhangin ang itinatabon ko sa mga punla. Iyong
mga hindi ko maihukay nang malalim, pahilig ang ginawa kong tanim.
Mayroong pagbaon ko ng bareta, tuloy-tuloy itong lumubog. Tubig ang
nasa ilalim!
Bawat kaibigang alam na mahilig akong maghalaman, nagpayong

masiyahan na lang akong magtanim sa paso -- mukhang walang puwedeng
itanim sa aking bakuran. Gayunman, hindi pa rin ako pinanghinaan ng
loob.
Pagkaraan ng pitong taon, gubat na nga ang aking bakuran. Tama ang
aking kamag-anak na agronomist – hindi ko maaasahang magbunga ang mga
ito nang maayos. Gayunman, hitik sa bunga ang mga atis at bayabas. May
limang bunga ngayon ang puno ng langkang nasa gawing kanan ng lote.
Nagbunga rin kahit paano ang isang puno ng rambutan at mangga. Wala
pang kalahating kilo ang ibinunga subalit kung aking ipagmalaki, parang
isang tiklis ang naani ko. Paisa-isa kung magbunga ang guyabano. Para sa
akin, iyon na ang pinakamalamukot na guyabano kahit inisnab ito ng aking
mga anak. Nakita kasi nilang maitim na ang kalahati ng sukol sa pagkahinog
na prutas nang katasin ko. Namumunga na rin ang isang puno ng niyog.
Nasubukan ng aking pamilyang kumain ng buko hanggang magsawa.
Buong taon, kahit paano, may naaani ako mula sa aking mga
punongkahoy. Buong taon namumunga ang bayabas, na inilalaan ko sa mga
ibon ang bunga. Agosto pa lang, may bunga na ang rambutan, pero bandang
Oktubre pa iyon mapipitas. Sa Hulyo, araw-araw akong may nakakaing atis
– may second round ang pamumunga sa Oktubre (hindi nga lang kasindami
ng nakukuha ko sa first round). Mayo kami umaani ng langka. May nalalaglag
na bunga ang santol noong Hunyo hanggang Agosto. Enero namunga ang
punong mangga sa harap ng bahay. Kapag namunga pa ang pitong puno ko
ng mangga, baka magkabungang-araw kami.
Kaunti lang mamunga ang aking mga puno, pero itinuturing ko iyong
biyaya. Biyaya ng panahon. Dumaan ang panahon, at nagbunga ang aking
ipinunla.
Marami nang namatay sa mga nauna kong itinanim na mga puno. Iyon
ang batas ng kagubatan – matira ang matibay. Noong bagyong Reming,
kapwa humilig pakanan ang magkatabing puno ng langka at guyabano.
Pinutulan ko noon ang langka, ngunit hindi ko pinutulan ang guyabano.
Magkasinlaki sila noon. Ngayon, ang katawan ng guyabano ay kasinlaki
ng binti ko, samantalang ang langka ay binti lamang ng bata ang kasinlaki.
Saanmang gubat, kaya-kayahan ang maliit. Matapos linggisin ng isang malaki
ang ugat ng langka, naging pain ito sa anay. Isang aral ito sa akin. Hindi ko
sabay pinutulan ang magkatabing puno. Hinayaan kong makaungos ang isa.
May nakalamang, kaya hindi patas ang laban.
Sicat 209
Nauna ko nang ipinaputol ang dalawang makopa sa gawing kanan ng

lote. Hindi ko kayang tabasin sapagkat ganggahita na ang laki ng puno.
Gusto kong lumaki ang katabi nitong mga puno ng kalamansi.
Hindi ko alam na makopa pala ang aking itinanim. Sabi ng aking ina na
siyang nagbigay nito sa akin, rambutan daw ito. Nang pinuna kong bakit iba
ang dahon, ibang klaseng rambutan daw kasi ito. Maharlika. Mahal nga daw
ang pagkabili niya, dahil ibang klase nga.
Pinili ko ang lugar na pinagtamnan – iyong matatanaw mula sa labas ng
aming bakuran. Nilaliman ko ang hukay at nilagyan ng maraming compost.
Nang namunga, saka ko nalamang makopa pala.
Maganda ang makopa, kung sa maganda. Pero hindi namin masyadong
kinakain. Lasang styrofoam. Ayaw ko mang kumitil ng puno at sayang ang
ilang taong inilagi nito sa mundo – kailangan ko itong patayin sapagkat
maliit lang ang aking gubat. Wala puwang dito, ang inakala kong ginto, iyon
pala’y tanso.
Gayunman, nakonsensiya akong lubusang patayin ang mayabong na
makopa. Ipinaputol ko na lang na walang itinirang dahon at sanga, Lumaki
ang katabing kalamansi at walang tigil na namunga sa loob ng dalawang
taon. Pagkaraan ng bagyong Ondoy, biglang natuyot. Masyadong nababad
ang mga ugat? O namamatay ang punong hindi inaani ang bunga?
Muling sumirit ang tinabas kong makopa. Malalim at matibay ang
ugat ng macopa. Kahit anong tabas, tumutubo pa rin ito. Pero tulad
ng isang artistang nawala sa kamalayan, mahihirapan nitong mabawi
ang dating kinang. May nagpayong talupan ko ang puno at tiyak
mamamatay ito. Nagtitipon pa ako ng lakas ng loob na gawin ang
gayong kalapastanganan. Samantala, pinakapitan ko ito ng orchid upang
maghunos-dili ako, upang sa susunod, kapag natutuksong mang-upat,
matitigilan ako.
Bawat puno sa aking gubat ay may karapatang mabuhay – iyong
mahihina at sinasabing may taning ang buhay tulad ng langka, guyabano
at papaya, parati kong binibisita, na parang dumadalaw sa maysakit.
Hindi naman ngayo’t mahina, pababayaan ko na lang na mawala sa
aking gubat.
Ang maipupuri ko sa aking mga puno, kani-kaniya sila ng diskarte
upang masikatan ng araw. Nabubuhay kahit siksikan, na parang
mga pasahero sa MRT tuwing rush hour – nagkakabangga ang mga
katawan, tumitingala upang hindi mahigop ang hininga ng katabi.
Sa Kabilang Bakod
Mariringal ang bahayang subdibisyon sa kaliwa, harap at likod ng
aming bahay. Naka-manicure ang mga bakuran. Naggagandahan ang
bakod. Mga pinakahuling modelo ng kotse at van na nasa kanilang garahe.
Malalaking tao ang aking kapitbahay sa subdibisyon, kabilang ang ilang
kongresman, huwes, heneral, abogado, at marami pang ibang sikat na
nababasa sa diyaryo o kaya’y napapanood sa telebisyon.
Alangang-alangan ang aming bahay sa subdibisyon. Mukha itong
bahay ng isang naubusan ng pondo. Hilamos lang ang pinta sa magaspang
na palitada ng pader. Walang nakakabit na mamahaling materyales. Payak
na payak tulad ng isang babaeng wala na ngang polbo at kolorete ay wala
pang maayos na saplot. Gayunman, ipinagmamalaki ko ang aming bahay
sapagkat mag-isa ko itong ipinatayo. Para itong taong pangit nga, ngunit
may karakter. Ang aking gubat ang nagbigay ng kaibang katangian sa aming
bahay. Kinurtinahan nito ang mga bintana. Tinabingan ang magaspang.
Dinugtungan ang kapos.
Ang aming subdibisyon ay napapalibutan ng bahayang iskuwater.
Gusgusin at tagpi-tagping bahayan ang nasa gawing kanan ng aming lote.
Nasa tabi kami ng mataas na perimeter wall na hanggahan ng subdibisyon
at bahayang iskuwater. Alangan sa subdibisyon, tampok sa iskuwater ang
aming tahanan.
Gusto noon ng aming contractor na taasan ang perimeter wall na
sumasakop sa amin upang ikubli ang nakapanlulumong tanawin. Hindi ako
pumayag, dahil didilim sa amin at baka tumaas lang ang bahayang iskuwater
na nakadikit sa aming pader. Pinalagyan ko na lamang ng barbed wire --
isang metrong nakatayo at kalahating metrong nakayuko. Bukod pa ito sa
barbed wire na nakapaikot na parang bola sa kahabaan ng perimeter wall na
sumasakop sa aming lote.
Natatanaw mula sa ikalawang palapag ng aming bahay ang bahayang
iskuwater. Yari sa tagni-tagning plywood at yero-plantsado ang karamihan,
pero may mangilan-ngilang semi-concrete. Kung paano-paano na lang hinati
ang kanilang lote. Walang kalyeng matanaw, kung mayroon man, natayuan
na rin iyon ng bahay. Ang makipot na pagitan ng mga bahay ang kanilang
daanan.
Nagsisi ako, kung bakit, hindi ko pinataasan ang sumasakop sa aming
perimeter wall. Hindi ko na iyon puwedeng ipagawa ngayong ubos na ang
aking pondo. Hindi lang pala magnanakaw ang dapat kong pangilagan,
Sicat 211
kundi pati sunog. Naalala ko ang ipinahiwatig ng isang kaibigang opisyal ng

isang malaking bangko: puwedeng sunugin ang bahayang iskuwater kung
gusto silang paalisin ng may-ari ng lote.
Sa bubungan ng iba pang bahayang iskuwater, pumapagaspas ang mga
damit sa sampayan. Hindi kaya ang idea ng roofdeck ay nagmula sa kanila?
Marami silang gamit sa kanilang bubong. May mga hollow block o kalbong
gulong ang parang ipinampako sa atip. Ang iba, ibinodega sa bubong ang
mga gusgusin at malamang, sirang electric fan, washing machine, refrigerator
at bisikleta.
Sa gawi pa roon, kung saan natatanaw ang Commonwealth Avenue,
mas makapal at mas dikit-dikit ang tagpi-tagping bahayang iskuwater.
Madalas akong mamalikmata pagtanaw sa bahayang iskuwater, sapagkat
ang dating mababang bahay ay biglang tumaas. Minatyagan ko ang kanilang
paraan ng pagdagdag ng ikalawang palapag. Una, naglalagay sila ng poste
sa bubong. Kamalamala mo, tumaas na ang kanilang bahay. Malamang, mga
karpintero ang karamihan sa kanila.
Naging kabatian ko ang matandang babaeng nakita kong nagsasampay
sa ibabaw ng kanilang bubong. Nakayuko siyang nakatuntong sa bubong at
nakatingala akong nakayapak sa lupa kung kami’y mag-usap. Siya si Aling
Toyang. Ayon sa kaniya, ang lupang kanilang kinatitirikan ay pag-aari ng
isang dating kilalang doktor sa mata. Nasa Amerika na ang doktor at hindi
na umuuwi ng Pilipinas. Hindi ko naman mausisa kung sino ang nagpatira
sa kanila roon. Siguro, nagkayayaan lamang sila, tulad ng nangyari sa isa
kong pinsan. Pinatira lamang ang pinsan ko sa lote ng isa naming kamag-
anak na nasa Amerika -- kung sinu-sino na ang kaniyang niyakag magtayo
ng bahay sa lote. Hindi totoo sa Pilipino ang kasabihang: blood is thicker
than water dahil kahit tubig na relasyon natin, may bahid rin ng dugo, kaya
malapot din.
Akala ko, maiingayan ako sa kapitbahay na iskuwater. Hindi naman
pala. Mas nagugulantang pa ako sa busina ng mga kotse ng kapitbahay kong
taga-subdibisyon. Parati yatang binabalisawsaw ang kanilang mga drayber.
Madalas ding magdaos ng swimming party para sa mga bata ang isa sa
dalawang kapitbahay ko sa likod. Nakabubutas ng eardrum ang tiliang
Ingles-yaya.
Madalas, may bumibirit ng mahihirap na awitin sa bahayang iskuwater.
Malakas ang boses na parang nagpapadiskubre sa talent scout. Maganda
naman ang kanilang tinig kahit madalas sumablay sa pagbigkas ng salita.
May isang bahay roon na dating may pulang bandilang wumawagayway

sa bubong. Hindi ko na natanaw ang bandila mula nang nabalitang nagtalaga
ng sundalo sa mga baranggay upang suyurin umano, ang masasamang-loob
at rebelde.
Maingay sa bahayang iskuwater tuwing nalalapit ang halalan. Maya’t
maya, may nagtutungayaw sa loudspeaker na hinihingi ang kanilang boto.
Sa gabi, sumasabog ang kuwitis. Magpapako ng pangako ang bulaang
kandidatong basa man ang papel ay dinadayo, dahil may karay na mga
artistang walang ningning.
Kung Kuwaresma, may palit-palitang nagbabasa ng pasyon sa buong
maghapon at magdamag. Madalas ding may pinaglalamayang bangkay. Ang
paraan yata ng pakikiramay ng magkakapitbahay doon ay sindihan ang
kanilang ilaw at magsugal. Maingay ang sutsot at saway ng matatanda, kaysa
tilian ng mga batang naghahabulan.
May isang bahay doon na sementado ang bubong. Mga tinastas na sako
ng bigas ang ginawa nilang dingding. Doon, madalas may nag-iinumang
kalalakihan. Hubad-baro. Pamorningan. Kinakanta nila ang kanta ng mga
banda. Inireklamo yata sila ng mga taga-subdibisyon sapagkat matagal nang
hindi ko sila naririnig.
Naalala kong noong bagong lipat kami, pinalagyan ko ng barbed wire ang
itaas ng perimeter wall ng lote sa tapat na pag-aari ng aking kapatid. Nilapitan
ako ng isang lalaki na nagpakilalang drayber siya ng kongresman at doon umano
siya nakatira sa bahayang iskuwater. Itinuro niya ang isang bahay na nakadikit sa
pader ng aking kapatid. Tumatawid lang daw siya sa bubong na iyon.
Ayon sa kaniya, ninakawan ng materyales ang kapitbahay naming may
surveillance camera, noong kasalukuyang ipinagagawa ang bahay nito. Sa
harap mismo nila, idinaan ang mga inodoro at lababo. Wala silang nagawa.
Pero noon iyon. “Nakita n’yo, hindi kayo nanakawan noong nagpagawa
kayo. Naubos na ho’ng magnanakaw d’yan.”
Sa tono ng kaniyang boses, parang may kinalaman siya at ang kaniyang
amo, sa pagkaubos ng magnanakaw. Pagkaraan ng ilang araw, nakita kong
ginugupit niya ang isang bahagi ng ipinakabit kong barbed wire. Sumampa
sa pader at tumawid sa bubong ng iskuwater.
Pinalagyan ko ng patayong yero ang daanan niya. Pero, pagkaraan
lang ng isang-araw, nawala ang yero. Malakas niyang sinabi sa kapuwa niya
drayber na naglilinis ng kotse sa kalye sa tapat ng aming bahay, habang
nakatingin sa amin: “Akala mo naman, may mananakaw sa kanila!”
Sicat 213
Natawa na lang ako. Tulad ng sinabi niya, wala namang mananakaw sa

amin. Praning lang ako. Bago kami nakawan , ang mayayaman muna naming
kapitbahay.
Kung nagkakabisita kami, parati nilang pinupuna ang bahayang
iskuwater. Itinatanong nila kung hindi kami natatakot. Takot ako noong
una, noong hindi ko pa kilala ang ilan sa kanila. Pero ngayong kilala
ko na sina Aling Toyang at ang ibang umaamot sa aming gulayan,
kampante na ako. Lalo na, nang sabihin ng anak ni Aling Toyang na
hindi sila katalo ng magnanakaw dahil takot sa kapatid niyang pulis.
Kung hindi makadikit sa kanila, hindi makatatawid sa amin. Isa pa, ang
kapitbahay naming kongresman ay 24-oras na may bantay sa labas ng
kanilang bakuran. Siguro naman, idadamay na niya kami sa kaniyang
babantayan.
Upang ikubli ang tila concentration camp na dating ng aming bakuran,
nagtanim ako ng mga madahong halaman sa aming pagitan ng bahayang
iskuwater. Nagpaakyat ako ng sampagita, ampalaya at sitaw sa bakod. Sinabi
ko kay Aling Toyang na malaya silang kumuha ng bunga o dahon kung
kanilang kailangan.
Habang lumalalim ang pakikipagkaibigan ko sa kapitbahay kong
iskuwater, lalong bumababaw ang pakikitungo ko sa mga kapitbahay kong
taga-subdibisyon. Nasa dead-end ang aming lote kaya’t bihira akong may
makitang kapitbahay, maliban sa kanilang mga drayber na pumaparada sa
katapat naming kalye at sa mga kasambahay na nagtatapon ng basura.
Nagkaroon pa kami ng cold war ng isa kong kapitbahay. Tinamnan ko
ng aratiles ang bakanteng lote ng aking kapatid na katapat ng aming bahay.
Nang lumaki ang puno, maraming batang iskuwater ang nangunguha ng
bunga. Nagbigay din ito ng lilim sa kalye, kaya’t doon pumaparada ang mga
sasakyang umapaw na sa garahe ng iba kong kapitbahay.
Ipinaalam sa akin ng isang kapitbahay na ipatatabas niya ang puno
ng aratiles. Mayroong daw iyong alupihang maliliit (millipide). Baka daw
magkasakit ang kaniyang mga anak. Pumayag naman akong tabasan nila
ang puno kahit alam kong wala namang dalang sakit ang alupihan, maliban
kung iyong hawakan. Tulad ng ibang insekto, upang ipagtanggol ang sarili,
may inilalabas itong lason. Gayunman, tumutulong ang mga alupihang ito
na buhaghagin ang lupa. Hindi naman ngayo’t may alupihan ang puno,
papatayin na. Kung may kuto ba ang isang tao, papatayin mo na siya, hindi
ba’t kukutuhan mo lang o gagamutin ang kuto?
Bakit kaya parating pinagdidiskitahan ang mga puno? Pinagtataguan

ng magnanakaw. Makalat. Akyatan ng magnanakaw. Naninira ng bahay. May
batayan naman ang mga akusasyong ito, pero hindi katwiran upang huwag
magtanim ng puno sa kanilang bakuran. Ang lahat ay may paraan. Nasa
atin bang kamalayan ang magalit sa puno? May kaugnayan ba ito sa ating
kuwento tungkol sa kapre?
Naalala ko ang matandang puno ng sampalok sa dating bahay namin
sa kampus. Sinabi ng pinaglilinis namin ng bakuran, na may namataan
siyang umuusok sa puno ng sampalok. Pinatotohanan din ito ng matandang
nagtitinda ng puto. Tumanda na siya sa paglalako sa kampus at may nakita
nga umano siyang napakalaking taong may sumpak na tabako. Nakahiga
ang lalaki sa malaking sanga sa pinakatuktok ng puno. Gayon kung ilarawan
ang kapre sa mga kuwento, di ba?
Nagtatanim din naman ang mga tao ng mga punong karaniwang
natatagpuan sa parke, tulad ng Indian Tree, Madagascar Palm, Benjamin
Tree at kung anu-ano pang punong, totoong maganda, pero hindi likas sa
atin, at hindi namumunga. Hindi ba’t puwedeng taguan rin ng magnanakaw,
sumira ng bahay, at magkalat ang mga dayuhang punong ito? Maaaring
magdala pa ang mga ito ng mapaminsalang insekto o bumago sa balanse
ng Kalikasan. Sabagay, hindi naman ako siyentista, isa lang gumagamit
ng bao. Ayaw lang yata natin ang ating sariling mga puno, sapagkat baka
may humimpil doong kapre na para bang ang kapre, hindi maninirahan
sa banyagang puno. Sana, ang kuwento ni Maria Makiling ang pumasok
sa ating kamalayan. At sana, magkaroon pa ng mga kuwento tungkol sa
pag-aalaga ng kalikasanKung nalalapit na ang Pasko, nagpapadala ng
regalong pagkain ang aking mga kapitbahay sa subdibisyon. Naalangan
akong gumanti ng regalo. sapagkat simple lamang ang mga alam kong luto
at hindi ako gumagawa ng pastries o cake. Mahirap ang aking pinagmulan,
at sa amin, hindi uso ang nagreregalo. Regaluhan man kami, hindi kami
nakikipagpalitan. Naisip kong ang ihandog ay ang aking sinulat na nobela
at ang koleksiyon ko ng mga kwento. “Writer pala kayo” sabi ng isang
kapitbahay.
Pinuri niyang ibang klaseng tao ang mga manunulat, pagkatapos,
idinugtong niyang, hindi siya nagbabasa ng Tagalog. Maliban sa pasasalamat
ng mga nabigyan ko ng libro, wala akong narinig na puna o papuri. Hinulaan
kong hindi nila binasa ang handog kong libro.
Sicat 215
Ngayon, dahil hindi nga ako gumaganti ng regalo, wala nang nagpapadala
ng aginaldo tuwing Pasko. Natakot sigurong, baka bigyan ko uli ng libro,
matagpuan pa nila roon ang kanilang katauhan.
Binigyan ko rin ng libro sina Aling Toyang. Tuwang-tuwa sila ni Rey.
Binasa nga ni Aling Toyang, sapagkat sinabi pa niyang katulad ng isang
kuwento ko ang nangyari sa kanila. Hindi ko alam kung dapat ba akong
matuwa nang sabihin ni Rey: “Nagsusulat pala kayo! Puwede kayong
magsulat sa komiks. Buhay na naman ang komiks, alam ba ni’yo?”
Nagdodrowing siya sa komiks at kung minsan, siya ang sumusulat ng teksto
ng iginuhit niya. Ipinakita niya sa akin ang koleksiyon niya ng mga lumang
magasing Bulaklak, Aliwan at Liwayway.
Oktubre pa lamang, nakakabit na ang pamaskong ilaw sa bahayang
subdibisyon. Hindi kami nagkakabit ng ganoon dahil nagtitipid kami sa
koryente. Katwiran ko, marami kaming puno, kaya hindi namin kailangan
ang Christmas Tree. Subalit ang apo kong si Julian ay parating nakatanaw
sa kumukutitap na ilaw sa katapat naming bahay. Nagpipilit siyang lapitan
iyon. Baka kailangang kahit paano, magkabit kami ng ilaw-pamasko.
Pero, ikakabit ko lang iyon, sa pagpasok ng Simbang Gabi, tulad ng aking
nakagisnan.
Sa bahayang iskuwater, hapon pa lamang, maririnig na ang mga batang
nagka-caroling. Kung bakit iba ang tunog ng awiting Pamasko kung mga
bata ang kumakanta kahit panay Jingle Bells lang ang kanilang inaawit.
Hindi bata ang nagka-caroling sa subdibisyon na nagpapasabi muna na
magka-caroling sila sa ganoon at ganitong araw. Hindi puwedeng barya lang
ang iabot sa kanila. Maski isandaan pa siguro, baka kantahan ka paglayo ng:
“Thank you, ang babarat ninyo.’
Pagsapit ng Bagong Taon, ang gaganda ng sinisindihang luses ng
mga taga-subdibisyon. Pinanonood namin noong una mula sa roof deck
ang pagsaboy ng iba’t ibang kulay na bituin sa kalawakan. Kabi-kabila ang
dagundong ng paputok. Sabi ko sa aking mga anak, tahimik lang kaming
manood dahil baka mapansin ng mga kapitbahay na bale kami pala ang
ipinagsindi nila ng naggagandahang luses.
Mula nang lumipat kami rito sa aming bagong bahay, dalawang beses
nang nagkasunog sa bahayang iskuwater. Iyong una, hindi natuloy dahil
naagapan ng mga kapitbahay. Ang pangalawa na kamakailan lang nagyari,
pagtawag ko sa bumbero, mayroon na raw tumawag at parating na. Talagang
kinabahan ako dahil ang lapit-lapit lang sa amin ng sunog. Nagkataong

butas pa ang aming hose at sira ang gripo sa labas. Tinigmak ko ng tubig
ang aming mga pader pati ang kina Aling Toyang.
Napanood ko sa telebisyon ang ulat tungkol sa sunog kinagabihan.
Apatnapung bahay pala ang natupok at mahigit dalawang oras itong
tumagal. Maliban sa matandang nawalan ng malay at batang nawawala,
walang nasaktan. Hindi nakapasok ang trak ng bumbero dahil makipot
ang daan pero nagtulong-tulong ang mga tao sa pag-apula ng apoy. Timba-
timba nilang sinabuyan ng tubig ang nasusunog na mga bahay. Buhay pa rin
ang bayanihan sa bahayang iskwater. Ang bahayang iskuwater ay gubat ng
makatuturang mga kuwento. Ito rin ay aking gubat.
Pambihira ang aking kapalaran! Ang kinatatakutan ko noong iskuwater
ay siyang kasundo kong kapitbahay, samantalang ang mga taga-subdibisyong
kapitbahay, mukhang hindi ko makakasundo. Ginusto ng isang Matalino
na tumira ako sa ganitong lugar, upang hindi ko malimutang, sa kabila ng
bakod, iba ang pamumuhay.
Naglipana sa Gubat
Unti-unti, nagkaroon ng mga hayop sa aking gubat. Nagtanim ako ng
mga masipag mamulaklak na halaman para imbitahin ang mga bubuyog
nang mag-pollinate sila ng tanim kong mga halamang-gulay. Nagpapalaboy
ako ng mga tirang kanin at tinapay kaya’t dumayo ang iba’t ibang uri ng ibon.
Bukod sa pangkaraniwang maya, mayroon ding tarat, batu-bato at maria
kapra. Takot ang pusa, kahit pa ang aso, sa maria kapra. Parang eroplano ito
kung bumulusok paikot sa puwet ng aso’t pusa.
Nakapagtatakang pares-pares ang nagpupuntang hayop sa aking
gubat. Magkapares ang kalapating, mistulang espiritu santong, nakasampa
sa pinamatarik na bahagi ng aming bubong. Magkapares ang maria
kaprang, tila mga sirkerong nagbabalanse sa umuugoy na dahon ng niyog.
Magkapares ang mga pusang tila star-crossed lovers. Parating kagampan
ang babae at ang lalaki ay parating may sugat sa leeg. Magkapares ang
asong mini pinscher na tila duwendeng doberman. Putpot ang buntot,
makislap ang balahibo pero mistulang patay-gutom kung habhabin ang
aming basurahan.
Sa tag-ulan, maraming susong kinakain ang dahon ng halaman.
Kasama ang aking apong si Julian, kinolekta namin ang mga suso. Noong
una, pinupukpok namin ito hanggang sa madurog. Nakadidiri at masamang
217
halimbawa sa aking apo. Dapat, kung kailangang patayin ang hayop, mabilis
at hindi masakit na paraan. Naalala ko ang ginagawa ng aking ina sa suso.
Asin ang pampatay niya rito.
Niyaya ko si Julian na maghanap kaming muli ng suso. Siyempre, tuwang-
tuwa ang bata. Nang marami-rami na kaming natipon, binubudburan ko ng
asin ang mga iyon. Tumiklop ang mga suso at nagtago sa kanilang kuweba.
Kinabukasan, si Julian pa ang nagpaalala sa akin sa mga suso. Wala nang
laman ang kuweba. Hinugasan ko ang mga basyong suso. Pinagdugtong-
dugtong ni Julian ang mga iyon na parang nakaparadang mga sasakyan.
Habang minamasdan ang aking apo, naisip kong, balang-araw, maaalala
niya ako, tuwing may makikita siyang suso. Hindi ba’t magandang alaala ang
may kaugnayan sa kalikasan? Balang araw, baka wala nang suso, wala nang
maria kapra – may iba nang lahi ng mga itong susulpot -- ngunit maiiwan
ang masayang alaala ng napagkitang hayop ng ating kabataan.
May magandang karanasan si Julian sa alitaptap. Tinakot siya ng
kaniyang yaya sa multo. Kahit anong sabi kong walang multo, takot pa rin
siya sa dilim. Nang minsang matulog siya sa amin ay biglang nawalan ng
koryente. Upang mawala ang kaniyang takot sa dilim, kinarga ko siya sa
tabi ng bintana at sinilip ang kadiliman. Napansin niya ang kumukutitap na
alitaptap. “Ilaw! Ilaw!” hiyaw niya. “Alitaptap ‘yon. Firefly,” paliwanag ko.
Pilit niya akong niyayang hulihin namin iyon. Hindi siya natakot
nang lumabas kami sa kadiliman. Tili siya nang tili habang hinuhuli
ko ang alitaptap. Pinasilip ko sa kaniya ang liwanag nito sa dilim ng
tikom kong palad. Nang ilahad ni Julian ang aking kamay, lumipad nang
mababa ang alitaptap. “Huli mong taptap!” “Bayaan natin siya, para
may ilaw dito sa labas.”
Mga Damo
IIang buwan na kaming nakalipat sa aming bagong bahay, hindi ko pa
maitanim ang mga dala kong punla at buto. Para akong astronaut na
naghahanap ng palatandaan ng buhay nang tumuntong ako sa ibang
planeta.
Wala halos malakaran noon sa aming lote dahil nakahambalang ang
kalat at ang tirang materyales. Bato, buhangin, basura, tumigas na halo
ng semento, retaso ng yero, plastic na tubo. May nakaipit na mga supot
na plastik, alambre o sako sa nanggigitatang lupang putik. Wala ni isang
puno. Sa dami ng basurang naitapon sa lote, wala man lang bang naligaw na
buto? At ang nagsigawa sa aming bahay – doon sila sa lote nagluluto noon.
Masamang palatandaan -- wala man lang sumibol sa tiyak na may naitapong
buto ng kamatis, sili, ampalaya o kalabasa.
Nabuhayan ako ng loob nang namataan kong may ilang uri ng damong
tumutubo sa ilang bahagi ng lote. Tinukoy nito ang mga puwede kong
pagtamnan. Kung saan sila namuhay, doon ako naghukay. Iyong mga parte
ng lote na walang damo, hinukay ko ng mas malalim at saka nilagyan ng
garden soil. Ipinakalat ko sa buong bakuran ang tirang buhangin at graba.
Ipinabasag ko ang mga namuong semento at ginawang lakaran. Pagkaraan
ng ilang linggo, sumibol ang mga itinanim ko. Nagsulputan ang gabe, at
kumalat ang damo. Kailangan lang palang, may maglinang ng lupa. Matigas
ang lupang putik kaya’t kailangang basagin upang makahinga ito. Anupa’t
pagkaraan lang ng ilang taon, wala nang palatandaan ng dating kondisyon
ang aming bakuran. Salamat sa damo.
Damo siguro ang katumbas ng matibay na tao. At tulad ng tao,
maraming uri ang damo. May malambot. May matigas. May matangkad.
May mababa. May gumagapang. May tumataas. Ang nakahahanga, kahit pa
tapak-tapakan, nasadlak sa pinakamasamang kondisyon ng lupa, namayani
pa rin. Survivor di ba?
Hanggang ngayon, pinababayaan ko ang mga damong tumubo sa aking
gubat ngunit hindi ko sila pinaghahari doon. Ako ang gobyerno sa aking
gubat at pain ko sa insekto ang damo. Sila ang dinudumog ng insekto sa
halip na halaman ko. Ang lupit, di ba? Para silang mga rebelde na minaliit
ko ang kakayahan. Gayunman, todo-bantay ako. Baka isang araw, sa tibay
nila at kakayahang dumami, magising na lang akong okupado nila ang
buong gubat.
Maraming klase ng damo ang hindi matatagpuan sa aking gubat tulad
ng makahiya at amorseko. Sadyang inalis ko ang ganitong damo sapagkat
sila’y sandatahan at kapag pinatuloy, baka manakit. Ang talahib ang
hindi ko lubusang mapaalis. Nahirapan talaga akong gapiin ang talahib.
Kahit ko pa bunutin at makuha ang bukol-bukol nitong ugat, tumutubo
pa rin. Pasahero ng hangin ang buto ng talahib kaya mahirap ubusin.
Isinasama ko na lang ang mga dahon nito sa mga inilalagay kong bulaklak
sa plorera.
Parati kong binubunot ang mga damong tumataas at ginagawa
iyong pataba. Iyon namang maganda, tulad ng carabao grass at clover,
pinababayaan kong latagan ang buong gubat.
219
May mga damong maganda ang bulaklak at pinatutuloy ko sa aking gubat.

Problema lang, pagsumingit sa paso, tinatalo ang talagang may-ari ng paso dahil
sa mas makapal at matibay ang kanilang ugat. Talagang nilulupig ko ang ganitong
damo – sapagkat maganda nga ang bulaklak, pero ito’y may niyurakan.
Pag-aabono
Hindi ako gumagamit ng mga nabibiling abono. Madalas akong bigyan
ng pataba ng ilang kamag-anak at kaibigan, pero hindi ko pa nasubukang
gamitin. Ni hindi ko na nga matandaan kung saan ko itinago ang mga iyon.
Ang bale abonong ginagamit ko ay iyon lamang ginagawa kong compost.
Ang mga tuyong dahon at sangang tinatanggal ko ay inilalagay ko sa
mismong halamang tinanggalan ko. Kung malaki ang dahon, ginugupit ko.
Binabali ko ang mga sanga bago ko ilagay. Ang pinagwalisan ko, puwera ang
mga nawawalis kong hindi nabubulok, ay inilalagay ko rin sa mga halaman.
Ang mga nabubulok na basura’y inilalagay ko sa ipinagawa kong
malalim na flower box sa palibot ng aming bakuran. Doon ko rin inilalagak
ang mga malalaking pinagtabasan ng mga puno at halaman. May isang parte
ng flower box na inilaan ko sa binubulok kong saha at dahon ng saging. Iyon
ang patubuan ko ng kabute.
Doon sa roof deck at balcony, winawalis ko ang lumot ng sahig at iyon
ay inilalagay ko sa mga halaman. Sa tag-ulan, makapal ang lumot at mahirap
kunin. Sa tag-araw, napupulbos ito. At iyon ang panahong inaani ko ang
lumot. Bawat araw, may nakatalagang halamang aking binibiyayaan.
Hangga’t maaari, hindi ako gumagamit ng hose sa aking pagdidilig.
Tinitinggal ko ang tubig ng isang araw upang maalis ang chlorine bago ko
ipandilig. Iniipon ko rin ang tubig-ulan sapagkat nabasa kong may nitrogen
ang tubig-ulan. Hindi naman delikadong magkaroon ng lamok. Narinig
ko sa isang scientist, na tatlong araw bago maging lamok ang kitikiti. Kaya
bale, binitag ko lang ang kitikiti, bago ko idinilig iyon sa halaman. Magiging
pagkain pa ng ibon ang kitikiti. Kaya’t kahit marami akong halaman, hindi
malamok sa aking gubat.
Kahit pa may bird-flu, winawalis ko ang puting butil na ipot ng ibon at
inilalagay iyon sa halaman. Inilalagay ko rin ang dahong naiputan ng ibon.
Mabuting ginagamit kong taniman ang mga malinaw na plastic na bote
ng softdrink kahit napapangitan ang aking isang anak sa mga ito. Sinasabi
ko na lang na hindi ba niya alam na maski sa Europe at UD, uso ang non-
conventional containers.. Pumapasok sa lalagyan nito ang sikat ng araw kaya
may tumutubong lumot na kasama ang halaman. Naging self-sustaining

tuloy ito.
Kahit bawal magsiga, nagsisiga ako para paalisin ang mga insekto. Mas
pinsala sa kalikasan ang insecticide kaysa usok ng siga. Kung may pupunang
kapitbahay, ikakatwiran kong nag-a-aroma therapy lang ako. Mabango yata
ang nasusunog na mga dahon ng bungangkahoy.
May nabasa akong ang hasang, bituka, at pinaglinisan ng isda ay mahusay
na pataba. Hahaluan umano ng pulot at iimbakin ng ilang araw. Ang katas
nito ay ipandidilig sa halaman. Hindi ko ito magagawa dahil maselan ang
pang-amoy ng aking mga anak. Saka, saan ako kukuha ng pulot?
Ang bunso na kumukuha ng eskultura ay gumawa ng pond na korteng
nakangangang ulo ng pating. Sinlaki ito ng drum. Nilagyan niya ito ng mga
isda at halamang dagat. Ang bilis dumami ng isda. Nagkaroon din ng mga
suso. Tinatanggal ko ang suso. Araw-araw, binabawasan ko ang malumot
na tubig at pinapalitan ng bago na tininggal muna ng isang araw upang
sumingaw ang chlorine. Ang tinanggal kong tubig ay ipinandidilig ko sa
halamang namumulaklak. Hindi ba, bale katas din ito ng isda? Mainam
palang may pond sa bakuran, basta’t lagyan lang ng isda. May palagiang
pagkukunan ng abono. Hindi malamok dahil kinakain ng isda ang kitikiti.
Pinalalamig din ng pond ang kaligiran.
Ang tirang beer, gatas, at kape ay ibinubuhos ko sa lupa. Gayon din ang
hugas-bigas. Ang mga balat ng itlog ay iniluloblob ko sa tubig at dinudurog.
Iyon ay ipinandidilig ko sa mga halamang nakasabit.
Maganda raw pataba ang dumi ng tao. Siyempre, modern times na tayo
kaya hindi ko ito gagawin. Ibinabaon ko sa lupa ang mga tirang pagkain.
Bale, nagbaon na rin ako ng ebak.
Lipat-Paso
Nakapaso ang karamihan sa aking halamang ornamental, lalo na
iyong mabilis lumaki. Ayaw kong makipaggitgitan pa sila sa mga puno.
Kailangang laging pinapalitan ang lupa ng halamang nakapaso. Maliban
kung sadyang pinupulyo ang halaman o iyong tinatawag na bonsai, mas
mainam ding ilipat ito sa mas malaking paso kaysa dati. Bihira kong ginagawa
ang paglilipat-paso o repotting.
Ang bawat paso ko -- gubat. Ilang klase ng halaman ang nasa isang lalagyan.
May sitaw na sumingit sa paso ng gumamela, bukod pa ito sa dalawang
magkaibang kulay na sitsirika. Pinababayaan ko ring magkaroon ng damo ang
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aking halamang nakapaso. Huwag lang silang mas malaki pa at mas mayabong
kaysa halaman, pinatutuloy ko sila sa aking pasong gubat. Magkayapos ang
kanilang mga ugat. Kagulat-gulat na hindi sila nagpapatayan.
Ang napansin ko sa kanila, kung sila’y magkasampaso, sila ay
nagtutulungan. Walang aphid ang rosas sapagkat, may kasampaso itong basil.
Hilo siguro ang aphid sa amoy ng basil. Hindi makain ng ibon ang bunga ng
siling labuyo dahil may katabi itong euphobia – baka natutusok ito.
Kung sakali at talagang kailangang palitan ko ang paso, binabasa ko
muna ang lupa. Itinataob ko ang paso pagkaraan. Buong-buo kong nakukuha
ang halaman at kaniyang mga kasama. Nakakulumpol ang kanilang mga ugat
na sumunod sa korte ng paso. Kasama kong inililipat lahat ng kasampaso ng
aking halaman. Ang tinatanggal ko lang ay iyong punla ng puno. Inililipat
ko iyon sa ibang lalagyan, inihahanda kong ipamigay sa sinumang gustong
magtanim ng puno. Pagkaraan ng ilang araw, kapansin-pansing, mas masigla
ang tubo ng halaman pati ng kaniyang mga kasampaso. Ano ba ‘yan! Hindi
man lang namahay.
Lahing Papaya
Papaya lamang ang alam kong halamang may kasarian. Ang babaeng papaya
lamang ang namumunga. Ang lalaking papaya, namumulaklak lang. Papaya
lang ba ang may kasarian? O ang halaman, may kakayahang, palutangin ang
tunay nitong kasarian? Maski sana tao, may gayong kakayahan.
Karaniwang pinapatay ang lalaking papaya dahil hindi nga namumunga
pero hindi ko ginagawa. May dahilan kung bakit may lalaking papaya at
kahit hindi ko alam kung ano iyon, may kutob akong may gamit sila sa
pagpapatuloy ng kanilang lahi.
Madalas akong makabilii ng papayang matabang at may matigas sa
loob – baka ang dahilan, pinuksa na ang lalaking papaya. Isa pa, may nabasa
akong kailangang pares-pares ang tanim na punongkahoy upang makapag-
pollinate ito at mamunga ng marami.
Ang kamag-anak kong kasumpaan ang lalaking papaya ang nagsabi,
na ang ugat ng babaeng papaya ay pahalang, samantalang ang lalaking
papaya ay may mahabang ugat na pababa. Magagawa raw babae, ang
lalaking papaya, kung puputulin ang pahabang ugat nito bago itanim. Aba,
nakakapag-sex change rin pala ang papaya. Malala nga ang gender issue sa
lahing papaya. Kung maniniwala ka sa karma, baka ang maging lalaking
papaya ang hantungan ng mga galit sa bakla.
Nadiskubre kong may mahinhing bango pala ang bulaklak ng lalaking

papaya. Kaiba ang bango. Kung alin pa ang lalaki sa lahing papaya, siyang
mahalimuyak at maganda ang bulaklak? Sabi ni Aling Toyang, gamot daw
ito sa maraming sakit. Tinabunan ko ng buhangin ang puno nito bilang
pasasalamat. Pero, pagkaraan ng tag-ulan, bumigay ito. Nabuwal na lang
ito’t sukat. Gayunman, nanatili pa ring buhay ang mga babaeng papaya kahit
mga balo na. Kaunti lang sila ngayong mamunga. Maliit lang ang hinihingi
ko sa lahing papaya – ang magkaroon ako ng sangkap sa tinola.
Halamang-Gulay
Magaling magtanim ng halamang-gulay ang yumao kong asawa. Marami
at maganda ang kaniyang ani. Tiklis-tiklis ang nakukuha naming upo,
ampalaya, talong, okra, petsay, letsugas, at kung anu-ano pa. Binubungkal
niya ang lupa bago tamnan. Hinahaluan ng dumi ng baka o manok.
Ginagambulang madalas at nilalagyan ng abono. Hindi ko siya magaya.
Samantalang ako, mahina lang ang ani sa tanim kong halamang-gulay.
Sa paso o lata lang ito nakatanim. Sumingit lang ito sa halamang ornamental.
Maigsi kasi ang buhay ng halamang-gulay. May dignidad itong mamamatay
kung may kasampaso itong maganda at malagong halaman. Hindi masakit
ang kaniyang kalansay .
Pinababayaan kong tumubo ang mga damo para sila ang atakihin ng mga
insekto. Hinuhuli ko lang ang kaya kong hulihing peste. Ipinandidilig ko ang
pinagsabunan ng damit sa pag-asang mahatsing ang insekto. Nagpapalaboy
ako ng kanin at tinapay upang pumunta ang mga ibon. In-assign ko sa nga
ibon ang paghuli sa mataas ang lipad at nangangagat na insekto.
Kaya naman, hindi maganda ang aking ani. Mapalad nang may limang
makuhang bunga sa isang puno ng kamatis. Payat ang tangkay ng kangkong.
Maiigsi ang bunga ng sitaw. Maliliit ang dahon ng petsay at mustasa. Kung
bibigyan ako ng grado bilang magsasaka, lagpak ako. Gayunman, kahit
paano, may nakukuha akong sangkap sa aking niluluto. Higit sa lahat, hindi
ako napagod, manapa’y nalibang. Sa showbiz lingo -- hindi nag-effort, nag-
enjoy lang.
Sala-salabat
Mula sa mga bintana sa ikalawang palapag ng aming bahay, sala-salabat
ang mga sanga at dahon ng mga puno sa aking gubat. Magkakasama ang
kanilang mga dahon kaya mahirap matukoy kung anong puno ang nakatanim
223
sa ganoong lugar. Sa tapat ng bintana ng aking kuwarto, nakayakap sa puno

ng bayabas ang punong atis, at sumingit pa ang santol. Kaya minsan, paghila
ko ng sanga ng bayabas, madidiskubre kong may hinog na atis. Hindi ko
malalamang, may bunga na pala ang isang puno ng kalamansi, kung hindi ko
natanaw ang nakasingit nitong tangkay sa dahon ng santol. Nang sungkitin
ko ang bunga ng kalamansi, bumagsak sa aking paanan ang hinog na santol.
Sungkit ako nang sungkit ng maliit, malaki ang nahulog.
Mainit ang Kamay

Parating sinasabi ng mga nakakakita sa aking mga halaman na malamig
ang aking kamay. Kadalasan, idinudugtong nilang, mainit ang kanilang
kamay, dahil hindi sila makapagpatubo ng halaman.
Hindi ako naniniwalang may mainit at malamig na kamay. Mayroon
lang tamang pagtatanim. Sa sandaling makapagpatubo sila ng halaman,
magkakaroon sila ng tiwala. At kapag nasimulan nilang magtanim, hindi na
nila titigilan. Sisiluin sila ng talinghaga ng halaman at bago nila napansin,
nagka-develop-an sila ng halaman -- sapagkat ang halaman, tulad ng babae,
lalong marikit, kapag minahal.
Maraming tao ang hindi kilala ang mga puno, lalo na ang mga kabataan
ngayon. Mahirap asahang kaibiganin ng kabataan ang mga puno kung
hindi ipinakilala sa kanila. Tulad ng pagkain ng gulay, kung ipinakikita
ng matatanda na kinakain nila iyon, gagayahin ng mga bata. Hilig sa mga
halaman ang magbabangon sa kagubatan.
Dalawang bagay sa mundo ang gusto kong ginagawa. Magsuat at
maghalaman. Sa pagsusulat – nakasusulat nga ako, pero, ewan, kung
magaling ako. Sa paghahalaman – sigurado ako, magaling ako, kung hindi
man, napakagaling.
Graphic Short Story
A Short Story and a
Handful of Tragedy
Seigfred Cabral
It was the hour that would usher in a new age,

one that would not be kind to the old gods.
The key to that new age was also the key to
survival, and they all urgently staked their claim.
...Until an unexpected arrival makes them
realize the meaning of inevitability.
228 likhaan 5 ˙ graphic short story
229
231
233
235
237
Interview / Panayam
Interview with F. Sionil Jose
Charlson Ong
N
ational Artist for Literature Francisco Sionil
Jose was born on Dec.3, 1924 in Barrio Cabuwagan,
Rosales, Pangasinan. Despite a childhood of poverty and
landlessness Jose went to public schools and later, the
University of Sto. Tomas where he studied Journalism.
Perhaps, the best known Filipino author, internationally,
Jose has published several short story collections, and some twelve novels
including his Rosales saga- Poon, The Pretenders; My Brother, My
Executioner; Mass; and Tree – which trace the journey of an Ilocano peasant
family, through several generations, from landlessness to engagement with
the centers of power. Jose has been translated into 28 languages. He has
received several awards including the Ramon Magasaysay Award for
Creative Communications and the 2004 Pablo Neruda Centennial Award
from Chile. Likhaan caught up with him at the Solidarity book shop which
Jose founded in 1965 along with the Solidaridad publishing house.
242 likhaan 5 ˙ interview/panayam
Likhaan: Of all your works what would you consider your masterpiece?
F. Sionil Jose: That’s like asking who among my seven children I love most.
All of them …no favorites.
Likhaan: Is there one work that you think is representative of you as a
writer?
FSJ: No. Some of my novels were written on the run. I wrote different parts
at different times and put them together later on, like carpentry.
But what I enjoyed most writing was Mass because I wrote it from
beginning to end in one creative spurt.
Likhaan: How long did it take you?
FSJ: One month in Paris. June, 1976.
Likhaan: Was it a pleasant book to write?
FSJ: O, yes. I conceived it on the plane to Paris and the moment I got into
my room I took out my typewriter and started writing. I wrote
it sometimes two or three days straight on end. No sleep, and
sometimes no food, as well. Until sometimes my fingers got numb
typing.
And when I was through with it, I made corrections, refined
the characters, finalized the whole text.
Likhaan: What was the most unpleasant book to write?
FSJ: The novel about Ricarte (Vibora). I started with the thought that he
was a tragic figure: A heroic old man who came back to this country
after almost 30 years of exile in Japan. But as I went on studying
him, researching, gathering data, I lost interest it in the character. I
did not put everything that I discovered about him in the novel.
Likhaan: Were you disappointed?
FSJ: A little bit. I interviewed a lot of people including some of the Japanese
survivors of World War II who were with him in Ifugao. Two
Japanese scholars helped me locate these people. They told me a
lot of stories and I realized how Ricarte was devoted to Filipinas.
He really loved this country, but towards the end, it turned out
to be a kind of bizarre affection for Filipinas. There was a lot of
information that I did not use because they would make him look
worse than I imagined. For instance, he was so obsessed with
undoing the past that he even wanted to rename the islands and
the days of the week. And this is when nationalism can also be
distorted. In the end, he was more of a tragic figure rather than a
243
tragic hero. But he had one saving grace and that was the fact that
even with the power he enjoyed under the Japanese, he did not
enrich himself. He reminded me so much of what Anding Roces
said: patriots don’t get rich. He was able to help a lot of people but
also was responsible for setting up the Makapili (Band of Filipino
wartime informers). He also blinded himself to the barbaric nature
of the Japanese military. He returned in January 1942 by plane
from Formosa, landed in Northern Luzon and came down to
Manila. By April, the Bataan death march and all the atrocities that
the Japanese committed were already known to most Filipinos. Yet
he decided to go with the Japanese so that towards the end, he was
quite scared of the guerrillas. That’s why he joined the Japanese
retreat to the Cordilleras. He was so mesmerized by them. And
yet, they did not really give him a luxurious life. In Japan he lived
poorly. He was aware of the negative characteristics of the Japanese
but he was so enamored of their militarism, their sense of discipline
that he stuck with them to the very end. By April 1942 when it was
so obvious that the Japanese were barbaric, he could have just left
them and returned to the Ilocos. He would have not starved, he
was very much respected there.
Likhaan: Are your characters like Ka Lucio (Mass) based on real people?
FSJ: Yes. Ka Lucio is based on Luis Taruc. If you read my novels carefully
you will recognize some of the characters because while it is
true that they are composite characters …it’s very clear who I’m
referring to.
Likhaan: The poet and critic Ricaredo Demetillo once said that you spoke
of “awful truths and grappled with fearful realities that centrally
confront us,” are you always concerned with the dark side of
society?
FSJ: If we are not concerned with the dark side of society, what do we write
of ? All sunshine and roses? Hindi naman puwede ‘yon. ‘As I’ve
been telling this artist from Paete who is a very good craftsman,
Baldemor: You will be rich and you will be famous but you will
never be great until you make social comment. My greatest example
in this regard is not only Picasso but the Mexican renaissance
Likhaan: Diego Rivera.
FSJ: Yes, also his contemporaries Siqueiros and Orozco who joined the
Mexican revolution. The American artist Jean Charlot was also with
them. He gave an exhibition of his work in our gallery. He lectured
on the Mexican renaissance. It took about thirty years, 1910-1940.
All these artists after the revolution were commissioned by their
government to make murals and to paint the damaged buildings
and the new buildings. So they started painting their experience
of the Mexican revolution: peasants, soldiers, the Indians, the
historic characters. At first the Mexican elite, conditioned by
classical images of Western art, failed to appreciate them. But
afterwards, they became the hallmark of the Mexican renaissance.
And they influenced not only Latin American art, but even
American art. Botong Francisco was very much impressed by the
Mexican renaissance. Again, that is when social commentary gives
a particular patina or aura, not only of reality but of greatness to
art. And it’s the same thing with literature.
Likhaan: In a piece that was published in Atlantic Monthly, James Fallows
described the Philippines as having a “damaged culture.” Do you
agree? I think you were among the people he interviewed.
FSJ: Of course, definitely. The Spaniards came here, Christianized us, told
us to go to church and we went to church. When we left the church
we found out that we had lost our lands. The Americans said, you
go to school and be educated. We went to school. When we left
school, we found out we had lost our souls.
Likhaan: Your early story ‘The God stealer’ that is much anthologized
appears to anticipate the themes of your latter works: betrayal of the
native and rural by the citified bourgeoisie; the uneasy relationship
between Filipinos and foreigners, especially Americans; regaining
cultural integrity.
FSJ: It’s a commentary on the relationship between the colonized and
the colonizer. Our problem is how to decolonize our minds.
Remember that at the outset, the ilustrados only wanted to be
equal with the Spaniards, to have seats in the Spanish congress.
They did not want to be free from the Spaniards. That’s the entire
problem with so many of us. We want to be equal to the Americans
not to be free from them. That is one of the greatest liabilities
of the Filipino intellectual: That we continue to apologize for
Spanish colonialism, for American colonialism, even for domestic
245
colonialism. The intellectuals don’t want to free themselves from

these strangling but invisible chains. Incidentally, the story is based
on an actual incident. During the 1950s I worked for one year
with the United States Information Service (USIS). It was my first
job after college. And I got to meet an American cultural officer
named Bill. He was a very nice young man. At the same time there
was also an Ifugao working in the Press office. So one time, when I
was already working with the Manila Times- I still dropped by the
USIS office occasionally to ask for bond paper, I was very poor- I
bumped into this Ifugao friend who invited me to go with him and
Bill to Banaue. We took the Dangwa bus. There were no hotels
back then so we stayed in the house of Bill Bayer, the son of Otley
(the anthropologist) who was still living then. Banaue was just a
small sleepy village in those days. And there were no established
tourist shops. But Bill chanced upon a bulol (indigenous statue)
and wanted to bring it home. So he started haggling. Our Ifugao
friend said: No, don’t buy any of those, tonight I’ll just go to the
terraces and steal one for you. That’s how the story came about.
Likhaan: You mentioned your work for the USIS. Some people have
accused you of being a CIA. Is this true?
FSJ: That CIA label came about I think in 1971. It ‘s funny because that
was also when I first went to the Soviet Union to attend the 50th
anniversary of the October revolution- which wasn’t really in
October since the Russians went by a different calendar … By
that time I was already a member of the congress for cultural
freedom. The congress for cultural freedom was a non-communist
cultural organization set up in Paris. La Liberte de Culture. That’s
the French name. It included world famous literary figures like
Albert Camus; there were European, Latin American and Asian
writers. They sponsored, in England Encounter, that’s the British
magazine. In Germany, Der Monat. In France, Preuves. In Mexico,
Examen. In Australia, Quadrant. And here, Solidarity. But first,
I’ll tell you about Solidarity. This is all related. You see, our
generation was matured by WWII, so when we started writing after
the war, we were already old people. I wrote The Pretenders when
I was in my 20s. Many of those chapters were written when I was
18 but when you read it now it’s quite a matured novel. So even
when I was with the Manila Times, in the 1950s, I already had a
kind of vision about how this country should be. And so I started
travelling around Southeast Asia in ’55. I believed that considering
our advancement, we should be the leaders in Southeast Asia. But
that idea was modified when I met Sukarno in Malacañang.
In the 50s, Sukarno often came to Manila in cognito because he had
several women lovers here and some of the Filipino politicians
and entrepreneurs who have interests in Indonesia were his go-
betweens. During one of my visits to President Quirino, I chanced
upon Sukarno in Malacañang. I introduced myself and we talked.
He impressed upon me that Indonesia was the natural leader of
the region since they were the biggest, most populous country in
Southeast Asia with the most resources. So, I thought to myself,
‘okay, we’ll just be the intellectual leaders of the region’ and I felt
very justified in thinking so during those days because I knew a
bit of Indonesian history. When Indonesia became independent
in 1945, to the best of my knowledge; it had only 114 university
graduates. Anyway, this idea for a quarterly, an intellectual journal,
came from Elmer Ordonez. Back then the Sunday Times Magazine
of which I was a staff member, and later editor, was already
publishing a lot of serious articles on politics as well as the finest
fiction and poetry. But I felt it was inadequate. So Elmer gathered
people including myself, O. D. Corpuz, Rey Gregorio, Alex
Hufana, Raul Ingles and we set up Comment as a quarterly. It was
published by Alberto Benipayo. Then I left for Hong Kong to edit
the Asia magazine. And that gave me an opportunity to go around
the region and establish contacts with writers from all over. When
I left the magazine, I was already prepared to put out Solidarity.
So when I left the Colombo Plan in 1964* *Colombo Plan for
Cooperative Economic Development was organized in 1950 by
26 countries to promote development in Asia and the Pacific. Jose
worked as Information Officer at the headquarters in Colombo,
Sri Lanka from 1962 to 64.
I set up this book shop (Solidaridad) and the publication (Soldarity)

immediately. For funding the magazine, I got $10,000 from the
Congress for Cultural Freedom. That is why if you look at the
247
issues of Solidarity it always acknowledges the assistance from

the Congress. Then around ’69 I think, a story appeared in the
international press that the Congress for Cultural Freedom was
funded partially by the CIA. That started it. And what was a
bit, not ironic, but somewhat funny was that at the time that that
charge came out, I had just returned from Moscow. Remember,
my generation, many of us were very pro-communist. But I was
never a communist, just pro-communist. If you read My Brother
My Executioner or my other novels, you will see that I have a very
strong pro-Huk position. But during my first trip to Eastern Europe,
in ’68 or ’69, that was when my pro-communism collapsed. When
I got back I displayed all these Russian posters in our art gallery
cum bookshop. They sold like hotcakes. But that CIA charge quite
worried me because the bookshop was our livelihood. Sabi ko,
naku, naloko na, wala nang pupunta sa bookshop (no one will want
to come anymore). I wasn’t worried about the support from the
Congress. I was worried about the bookshop going bankrupt. The
following day puno ng tao (we were filled to rafters). Everybody
wanted to see what a CIA front looked like. And then one of my
old friends came to me and said: Hoy Frankie, ang lakas-lakas mo
pala sa American Embassy. Tulungan mo naman akong magkaroon
ng visa (help me get a visa to the US). I thought the controversy
would destroy Solidaridad, but it didn’t. I had to file a case in court
against this fellow who made that charge.
Likhaan: You won?
FSJ: Of course I won. But I made a mistake. I filed a criminal rather than a
civil case. So he was fined I don’t know how much. And somebody
told me: “you should have filed a civil case so you would have
gotten money.”
Likhaan: More recently you were charged with racism, are you anti-
Chinese?
FSJ: Ha, ha, ha. My wife’s grandfather had pigtails. My objection is not to
all Chinese, but to some Chinese especially the very wealthy ones
because they send all the millions of pesos they make here abroad.
Uli Schmetzer’s recent book The Chinese Juggernaut describes
how the overseas Southeast Asian Chinese contributed 80 percent
to the modernization of the Chinese economy and yet there’ still
249
lots of room for investment here. Of course there are also poor
Chinese and many Chinese-Filipinos who are committed to this
country. It’s fine for them to be loyal to their culture as I am loyal
to my being Ilocano. They should be loyal to their language, to
their arts and so forth but there should be a distinction between
Chinese culture and the Chinese state. In other words, I’d like
them to contribute as much as they can to the development of this
country which after all is where they were born and will probably
die. So they should be loyal to this country without abjuring
their roots because traditional Chinese values can contribute a
lot to this country: Their work ethic, their commitment to their
groups, their capacity for saving and industry. Besides, I level the
same charge (disloyalty) against the rich Spanish mestizos like the
Zobel-Ayalas who not only look down on this country but whose
money is all over the world. I also level the same charge against
rich (indigenous) Filipinos especially people like Marcos (late
former president) who salted so much money abroad.
Likhaan: Why write fiction then rather than journalism given your
advocacies?
FSJ: You cannot say much in journalism because you have to have
documents, you have to have proof. And there’s always that charge
of libel that hangs over your head. And worse than that, they can
always silence you by other means. And fiction is not really a
weapon of cowards. Why did Rizal write novels? He could have
just been a propagandist and pamphleteer. Because he knew that
art lives on long after the events that inspire it.
Likhaan: You mentioned The Pretenders, can you tell us a bit more about
it? It’s one of your early novels and it has been staged as a play.
FSJ: I wrote many of those chapters on the run because I was poor, I had
to earn a living. So what I did was write chapters as short stories.
Then I sold them as short stories. And then later I wove them
into a novel that was serialized in the weekly women’s magazine.
We were very fortunate during those days because we had a very
sympathetic editor, Delia Albert Zulueta. The weekly magazine
which was published by the Roces family serialized a lot of novels
in those days, including those of NVM Gonzalez and Edilberto
Tiempo.
Likhaan: Who are your major influences?

FSJ: I would say that more than anyone else, Rizal. The Rizal novels were
the first novels in English that I read when I was in Grade 5. I
had a very good grade school teacher Soledad Oriel, (she’s passed
on), who gave them to me. She also gave me Willa Cathers’ My
Antonia to read then, Don Quixote. When my mother found out
that I love to read, she went around town looking for books for me.
She borrowed from people who had books- teachers, government
officials. My mother was perhaps the single greatest influence in my
life. She was a tiny peasant woman. She never wore western dress,
only baro’t saya and her hair was always in a bun, pingle, we call it
(in Iloko). And she never wore shoes except those slippers we call
kuchos that are still in use. But she was able to finish Grade 7. And
she spoke beautiful English, always correct and grammatical. She
was taught by Thomasites (first batch of teachers from the US).
In those days if you finish Grade 7, you were sometimes allowed
to teach school already… I came to Manila at 13 , on April, 1937.
Shortly after I finished grade school in Rosales. I took the train
from my hometown to Paniqui, Tarlac and transferred to the bigger
Ilocos Express that traveled to Tutuban station (in Manila). It was
my first train ride. I had my pasalubong- a bundle of firewood and
a bag of vegetables- and my tampipi (rattan case). A kindly uncle
took me in so I could attend high school. He met me at the station.
Manila was very different then.
Likhaan: Some critics refer to a Philippine English or Filipino English. Do
you think there’s such a thing or are they just been patronizing?
FSJ: No, there is. My Russian translator mentioned this, it’s a different
kind of English, and even Fr. Bernad has observed the difference
between our English and those of the Irish or the English in
England; the timber is different. And one can also distinguish
between American and British writing. Although they are not
necessarily opaque, I find English novels more difficult to get into
while American novels seem to let you in the door at once. That’s
my feeling.
Likhaan: Are you optimistic about the future of writing in English in the
Philippines, especially for those who want social change? Are they
reaching a sizeable readership?
251
FSJ: It’s very difficult to say. In spite of the increase in population, sales
of my books have gone down. Maybe it’s economics. I’m not too
sure. But English for sure is going to be here for a long time. But
what I would like to see in our schools is the inclusion of a foreign
language other than English. In high school, not in college. I’d
like to see Spanish included because it should be easy for us to
learn how to speak Spanish, because so many loan words. You
know when I’m in South America, or in Spain, I can’t converse in
Spanish because I had a lousy teacher in Spanish in college. But I
get around. Knowing another language is always an advantage. But
that’s not so much the point. What worries me is the continued
shallowness of Filipinos.
Likhaan: What do you mean?
FSJ: We are a very shallow people.
Likhaan: Is this because of the educational system?
FSJ: Basically, the educational system. When I say these things, remember
I have no academic proof. I just go by instinct. You know very well
that most Asians were influenced by either Buddhism or Hinduism.
And these two great religions have a very profound philosophical
background. Christianity also has a great and wide philosophical
background especially if you go back in time and trace it to the
ancient Romans and to the ancient Greeks. After all, the Bible was
originally written in Greek. But we don’t teach Latin anymore
or even Greek in school. And most of us have no background
in the Greek or Latin classics. And that is where I have, I think,
an advantage over so many of our young people today, I read
the Greek myths in grade school- Ulysses, Medusa all that stuff.
Because I was poor I didn’t take anything for granted, so when
I came to Manila for High School I was in the National Library
every afternoon reading the classics: Aristotle, Plato…the Romans
and Greeks. Then I moved on to the English classics, to Dickens
and to Melville, and so on. I have that kind of background.
Likhaan: Do you do a lot of research?
FSJ: Yes, of course when I’m writing. I had a visitor once, a doctor, who
asked me if I took up medicine? I said “no, but I tried to.” He
said my story ‘Olvidon’ sounded like it was written by someone
with a medical background because the terms are quite accurate.
I do a lot of research. And this is what I tell young people who

are writing. You know, if you are writing about a deaf person, you
better know how a deaf person reacts, how he got to be deaf. How
his deafness might be cured. Things like that.
Likhaan: The theme of betrayal seems to loom large in your work. Betrayal
of the peasant by the bourgeoisie, of brother by brother, of
leaders…
FSJ: I see it all the time. Well, you start with our leaders. There are very
few of them who did not betray their own ideals. That’s the whole
idea of Tree. Have you seen a balete tree? How does it start? As a
sapling, then suddenly its vines gather around it, strangle the tree
and become the tree itself. Look at Marcos. He started out so well.
O.D. Corpus once said to me that he was optimistic about Marcos
because, first, Marcos had a ‘sense of history’ which means he will
try to do his best, second he was Ilocano- like us- which means he
was hardworking. He would persevere to achieve his goals. But
what happened? Most of the time it’s us betraying ourselves.
Likhaan: There seems to be a lot of anger in your work.
FSJ: Of course. Alam mo, in this country when you stop being angry, you
are dead, you are no longer responding to the evil that’s happening
all around us.
Likhaan: Your five book saga- Poon, Pretenders, My Brother My
Executioner, Mass and Tree that took decades to complete did you
plan it out before hand?
FSJ: That series was inspired by the Noli and the Fili as well as by William
Faulkners’ novels and by John Steinbeck. In a sense, also by
Dickens because I read Dickens when I was in high school. But
basically it was Rizal. Remember, Ibarra became Simon. One of
the first novels in that quintet is Tree. I wrote those chapters there
really as short stories. The idea came from the ‘Wayward Bus’ of
Steinbeck. It’s one of his little known novels. This bus is stalled
in a small town and the passengers get out and get to know the
townspeople. That’s the view of the story. I improved on that. I
improved also on the Yoknapatawpha novels (of Faulkner) by
building this characters that are related to one another. And also
I did not confine the setting to this town but included the city
as well. So there’s an ongoing tension between town and city,
253
between urban proletariat and the peasant. And there’s also the
generational conflict between the old and the new and the passing
of power from the Spanish hierarch to the rich Filipinos to the new
generation, including the revolutionaries.
Likhaan: You really planned the five?
FSJ: No, only four. The concluding novel which I wrote first was the
Pretenders. ‘Yon ang ending sana. When I wrote that ending,
I already wrote Poon. But the first chapter of Poon came out in
1958. I had to read a lot on history but the whole plotting was
already very clear in my mind.
Likhaan: Do you outline your books?
FSJ: No, I never make outlines. What I do is I make character sketches.
Then as I go along, I develop them. But at the same time I let them
grow.
Likhaan: In what way?
FSJ: In the sense that once you imbue a character with a certain quality
you can’t alter it willy-nilly. He has his own life. You can’t make
him do something that is not in conformity with his character.
The Pretenders is the last book (of the saga) but it’s one of the
first that I wrote. And I intended the quartet to end in a very
negative note because that is what I saw: there is no future for
our sad nation unless there is a revolution. That is why the main
character commits suicide, but that suicide is not just one man’s
passing. It’s an allegory about the necessity of destroying the old
order to give way to the new. Then Marcos declared Martial Law
and I wasn’t allowed to travel for four years. But by the second
year of Martial Law, I saw these young activists like Eman Lacaba
( poet and activist who was killed in Mindanao) fight back and I
was heartened. I realized that the young would meet the challenge
of the times. So, much as I was disillusioned with communism, I
was very much supportive of the New People’s Army during the
Marcos regime. So when I saw all these young people joining the
revolution, I knew I had to say something positive about them
through the character of Pepe Samson. I conceptualized the story
(of Mass) from the plane to Paris. Mass could be subtitled: The
Education of Pepe Samson. But I also wrote it as a picaresque
adventure ala Don Quixote.
Likhaan: You mention your mother a lot. How about your father? Did he
have any influence in your work?
FSJ: No, he was an Aglipayan (Philippine Independent Church) priest.
And he left us when…I don’t even know when he left us. Later I
reunited with him but there was no longer any affection between
us. So my surrogate father actually was my wife’s father.
Likhaan: If you didn’t become a writer, what do you think you would have
become? An educator?
FSJ: No, a doctor. I would have been a doctor. During the war, when I
was studying in the University of Santo Tomas, I was staying
with a rich cousin who was a doctor. So that’s how I learned to
give intravenous injections and take blood pressure. So when the
Amercians reached Rosales (Jose returned to his hometown during
the later years of WWII and he was there when the US military
recaptured the Philippines from Japan) I immediately joined the
medical corps. and was given a rank of technical sergeant.
Likhaan: You have seven children. How did you manage to raise such a big
family as a writer?
255
FSJ: My wife should be here so she could listen to this. We always told our
kids that all that we could give them was a good education. So
they understood that and applied themselves. When I was with
the Sunday Times, every school year opening I would be at Chino
Roces’ (the publisher) office door with the voucher. “What’s this
for?” he’d asked every time, and I’d say: tuition. But you know,
Chino liked me very much and so did the older sister, si Bebeng.
Likhaan: You worked as a journalist for many years and received several
awards for your work….
FSJ: Yes with Manila Times. I sometimes kid Marcos Roces the nephew
of the older Roceses, although he joined the Times when I’d left.
I’d tell him: “You people exploited me, you paid me so little.” But
in spite of that, the ten years that I spend with the Times, were
very, very good years for me. I have nothing but praise for the
Roceses in that sense, because they gave me absolute freedom.
They never interfered. As a matter of fact they never interfered
with the editorial department. And to the best of my knowledge,
I was the only one who was given a car by Chino. They are really
a different breed altogether. First, they were never ostentatious.
Second, they never used the Manila Times to advance their own
interest. I was with the Times magazine not the Daily but I got so
many awards in journalism. I wrote on a lot of things especially on
land reform. One time I wrote an article about scavengers being
shot dead in Clark Air Base. So, a couple of American officers, I
think they were colonels, came to the Times to complain. Chino
called me to his office. I said if they had any complaints they could
write these down and we’ll put it out in the magazine. The officers
left and that was that. Also, my expense vouchers were signed
without question so instead of taking annual monthly vacations I
went to Sulu, I went to Mindanao to explore. Kung saan-saan ako
pumupunta. And one time, Bebeng called me to her office I was
worried because she looked angry. She said some of her friends
were complaining about my articles on land reform. I told her all
my articles were documented and I could vouch for everything I
wrote. And that I was prepared to face any libel charge myself. It
turned out she was indeed worried about libel charges. “So, do you
have problems with your work?” she asked me. “Yes Ms. Roces,”
I replied, “I have to do so much research.” “You get a research

assistant immediately,” she said. So I had one of the staff members
of the Manila Times as research assistant. Another time I got an
award from National Press Club. I did not attend the ceremonies.
She said: “I got your award last night at the National Press Club
because you weren’t there. Why did you not go?” I told her I
didn’t have a barong Tagalog. Within an hour she had a new one
delivered to me. They were that kind of people.
Likhaan: You have witness nearly a century of Philippine history unfold.
are you hopeful for the country and for our literature?
FSJ: I’ve seen three generations of Filipino leaders come and go and I’m
not very optimistic. The only time that I really had great optimism
was when Magsaysay was president. When he died, people in the
streets wept. When I attended Ninoy Aquino’s funeral I didn’t
see people weeping that way. So when people say that we are not
capable of producing leaders, no, that’s not true. That’s not true
at all.
Likhaan: You have any advice for young writers, aspiring writers?
FSJ: One of the greatest tasks of Filipino writers really is how to make
Filipinos remember. Not only to remember but to love this country.
You don’t have to teach farmers how to do that because they deal
with the land, they love the land. It’s the urbanized, the rich, who
don’t have that kind of affection for the land. And without that
kind of affection for the land itself, walang mangyari sa atin (we
will go nowhere). And that starts with memory. We cannot blame
colonialism all the time, it’s a dead horse. We must really look within
ourselves for the kind of love that will transcend us as individuals.
That is what I don’t like so much about writers like Jose Garcia
Villa, because people like him were so narcissistic. If you do not
think of others, if you’re only concerned with yourself, you will
dry up as a writer. And that is one reason I think why Garcia Villa
stopped writing at 50. Narcissism can only go so far. I don’t know,
but that’s my feeling. And you have to keep stoking the passion. I
knew many good writers when I was a young man but they died
artistically, some went abroad. They never flourished. Their roots
were severed early enough and once those roots are severed, you’re
done. I remember the words of my favorite American jurist, Judge
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Learned Hand, he said: freedom is in the heart. When it dies there,

no constitution, no court of law, can ever revive it. It’s the same
thing with writing.
Likhaan: Any Regrets?
FSJ: In the 1950’s, I could have joined Andres Soriano and become one
of his top executives. I know how to handle myself with all sorts
of people. In other words, I’m adaptable. That’s one of my regrets
especially when my wife complains about our finances. The other
was when Luis Araneta offered me all the capital I needed to
expand Solidaridad, no question asked for five years. This was in
the 1970’s, before Martial Law. He was then one of the richest men
in the country. You know, I never took advantage of the people I
knew. Not because of pride, but because I’ve survived all sorts of
hardships since I was a boy. So with that kind of background, I
never felt I needed the help of the rich. At the same time... but like I
said, there are regrets. Imagine… that offer was made to me before
National bookstore started operations. Solidaridad was the first
bookshop in the country with air conditioning and a sound system.
Carlos Romulo (late former Minister of Foreign Affairs) opened this
bookshop. The first title that I published was Romulo’s ‘Identity
and Change.’ Well, I sometimes rue the choices I’ve made in life
now that you have a third rate movie maker who makes millions.
You know, (Carlo) Caparas, who has the gall to accept the National
Artist Award. He earns millions, while many first class writers can
hardly make a living from their writing. I cannot make a living on
my… how many translations? If I lived on my royalties, I would
have starved to death long ago. What I would like for this country
is also to be a nation of readers. Not so much for writers to be
more comfortable but so that we’ll have a thinking people who will
not elect people like Erap Estrada because if people do not read,
then they become, without their meaning to, shallow. And if they
become shallow, they usher into office these nincompoops.
Likhaan: Is it important for beginning writers to be part of a writer’s
organizations like Philippine Pen?
FSJ: I found out how important writers organizations are during the
Martial Law years. First, an organization gave the writers a sense
of community and, hopefully, a sense of purpose and a sense of
nation. One of the things that mark our generation of writers

from those of today is that we went out of our way to meet our
literary elders. People like S. P. Lopez, Leopoldo Yabes, Federico
Mangahas, Teodoro Lansang. They were ten…fifteen years ahead
of me. But I went out of my way to know them because I’ve been
reading them. In other words, I wasn’t imprisoned by generation
or geography. And to me that’s very, very important. All writers
tend to compete with one another. It’s part of the territory, part of
the job. And sadly, we don’t even read one another. But we should,
in a sense, get to know each other so that we can form a community
especially when such a time as that kind of oppression ever comes
back. You know during the Martial Law years, I felt so alone. Many
of us felt so powerless and isolated. And every time there was some
kind of grouping, as with Pen, that gave us moral strength, more
so when foreign writers came to work for the release of the writers
in prison, because there were many writers then in prison. Aside
from that this is one way we can form a community and a common
purpose and a common sense of nation.
Likhaan: Is there a passage from your books that you like reading in
public?
FSJ: This is the last paragraph in the novel of Po-on. The main character
Istak is in Tirad Pass where he knows he will die. And these are
his last thoughts: “This is our gift not to him but to Filipinas.
Honorable cripple, I’m not a patriot. But how do you measure
the sacrifice this poor man beside me has made? He lies still. His
hands no longer feel. He is so young, so very young. What had life
promised to hold for him? Who is the woman he would have made
happy? Who would have borne his children? Honorable cripple
you know the answers. And God, do I take Your name in vain?
I don’t know why I am here when I could have ran away. It must
be pride or stubbornness of which men of the north have plenty.
If it is pride, what then can I be proud of ? I have nothing to show.
Nothing which I have built by myself. Why then am I here? I will
search the depths and will find nothing there. Nothing but duty,
duty, duty.”
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Pagluluwal ng Buhay, Panulat, Pighati, Laban:

Isang Panayam Kay Lualhati Bautista
Luna Sicat Cleto
B
uklatin ang anumang libro o akdang isinulat ni Lualhati
Bautista, at tiyak na mayroon kang mapapansin. Magaan
ang wika, madaling suotin ang sinasabi. Hinihigop ka agad
ng kuwento. May siste, may humor. Tila naririnig ang
ibinubulong ng iyong utak at palilitawin iyon sa pahina.
May opinyon tungkol sa mga nangyayari, pangyayari:
sa kultura, sa kasarian, sa pook, sa politika, sa palitan ng dolyar at piso,
ultimo kasaysayan at binubuo pang kasaysayan. Pero sa kabila ng pagiging
ma-opinyon, hindi mo naman mabitaw-bitawan ang sinasabi. Parang may
subliminal na iniiwan, may askad, may angas, may kurot, may tahimik na
paninimdim. Parang kakilala mo ang mga tauhan. Parang nakarating ka
na rin sa lugar. Parang nakinikinita mo na nangyayari sa harapan mo ang
mismong eksena. Sa madaling sabi, buklatin mo ang anumang libro o
akdang isinulat ni Bautista at alam mong nagbabasa ka ng isang akdang
likha ng isang Mananalaysay.
Ibig kong malaman kung saan nanggagaling ang tinig na iyon.Saan

kaya sumusuot ang likaw ng utak na iyon? Kaya nang binanggit sa akin na
kakapanayamin namin siya, wala akong pasubaling umoo.
Maaari kong ilarawan ang kaniyang bahay – sabihin na puro lungti o
berde ang mga pangalan ng kalsada, o ng mismong subdibisyon. Maaari kong
tukuyin ang hagabi bench na may linilok na katawang tila representasyon
ng unang babae’t lalaki, ang mga poster ng film adaptations ng Dekada
’70 at Bata Bata Paano Ka Ginawa. Ang mga lampshade na may base
na lumang makinilya’t sewing machine. Ang capiz na mga bintana. Ang
ginupit na glowing review ng kaniyang obra na isinabit malapit sa kusina,
naka-frame. Wala kang matatanaw na bulubundukin o dagat. Doon sa
kanila, may paisa-isang traysikel, na wika ni Bautista’y mahal sumingil ng
pamasahe. Pinakain niya kami ng chocolate chip cookies at Pop Cola, na
inihatid ng isang dalagitang kasambahay. Wala akong nasuyod na mga
titulo ng mga libro sa isang aklatan (nasa kabilang kuwarto). Wala rin akong
natanaw na writing desk (nasa kuwarto niya). May 21” na telebisyon. May
tumpok ng mga lumang diyaryo sa may pinto (nag-aantay ng bibili) katabi
ng nakaparadang kotse. Bahagya kong nasilip ang kaniyang kuwarto. Wala
na siyang mga anak na kapiling. Padalaw dalaw na lang ang mga apo. May
kani-kaniya nang mga bahay na inuuwian. Ang ikalawang palapag ng bahay
na iyon, aniya, ay buong-buo rin bilang bahay: may banyo, kusina, sala,
tulugan. Doon dati nakatira ang pamilya ng anak niya na nasa Australia na
ngayon. Pero bihira siyang umakyat. Nang sinabi niya ang detalyeng iyon,
alam kong mabibigo ako sa anumang tangkang i-simplify ang kaniyang
pagkatao, pagkamanunulat, sa iisang artikulo.
Marami na siyang naisulat na mga nobela at screenplay na may mga
paksang tila ketongin nang isinulat sila sa kanilang panahon. Walang
gustong lumapit, walang gustong humawak. Lagi, may bidang babaeng
may tapang, o makatutuklas ng sarili niyang lakas. Sa Bata, Bata, Paano
Ka Ginawa, nakilala natin si Lea Bustamante, single parent ng dalawang
supling na magkaiba ang ama, hinahamon ang kumbensiyon; si Amanda
Bartolome ng Dekada ‘70, ina’t asawa, na unti-unting namulat sa pagkaina’t
asawa, kasabay ng pagkasino sa epekto ng batas militar. Hindi lang buhay
ng middleclass na kababaihan ang mababasa: may naisulat din siya hinggil
sa pagdidildil ng asin at pagpapahirap ng mga kasamá sa Sakada, may
hinggil sa mga babae sa bilangguan sa Bulaklak ng City Jail; o ang mag-
inang sina Anna at Lorena, ang mag-inang pinaghiwalay ng paninindigan
261
at armadong pakikibaka, sa kaniyang pinakahuling nobela na inilimbag ng

Cacho Publishing, ang Desaparesidos.
Masasabi nating panulukang bato sa career ni Bautista ang huling akdang
nabanggit. Nanganak ang nobela ng mga debate hinggil sa pagsusulat ng mga
partikular na paksang kadikit na ng batas militar: ang tortyur, panggagahasa,
ang pamilya bilang casualty ng armed conflict, ang mga pagkakanulo, at ang
tinutukoy ng mismong pamagat, ang mga desaparesidos. Sino ang may
karapatang sumulat ng ganitong mga paksa? Kailan masasabing pag-aari
ninuman ang paksa, kung ang karanasan ay malawakan at maraming mga
bersiyon ng katotohanan? Kung may dalawang akda na pareho ng paksa, at
pareho ng premise, paano irerespeto ang intelektuwal na pag-aari ng nauna?
At paano ang negosasyon ng ganitong mga kuwestiyon ng adaptasyon at re-
interpretations? Nang ipinalabas ang Sigwa nina Joel Lamangan at Boni
Ilagan noong Cinemalaya Festival ng 2009, may mga nakapagsabing ang
materyal ay tila kamukhang-kamukha ng nobela ni Bautista, isang bagay na
alam din mismo ng awtor. Binili ng Viva Films noon pang taong 2000 ang
karapatan sa pagsasapelikula ng Desaparesidos na bago naging nobela ay
isinulat muna bilang screenplay at nanalo sa Philippine Centennial Literary
Contest at si Joel Lamangan mismo ang nakatakdang maging direktor niyon.
Kaya may kopya si Lamangan ng script. Bukod dito, si Joel Lamangan mismo
ang nagdirihe ng dulang pantelebisyon ng Desaparesidos para sa GMA
telesine noong 1998. Ngunit hindi natuloy ang partnership nina Lamangan
at Bautista dala ng mga sirkunstansiya. Pre-production stage pa lang
umano, nasa eksena na si Ilagan, isa ring respetadong pangalan sa teatro at
pelikula. Hindi natuloy ang artistikong tandem nina Bautista at Lamangan
dahil mas nabuo ang pares nina Lamangan at Ilagan. Okay, fine. Nangyayari
naman itong mga re-group ng partnerships sa artistikong kolaborasyon.
Pero bakit wala man lang acknowledgement ng ambag? Sa salaysay ni
Bautista, napakalantad ng pagkakapareho ng idea sa umpisa pa lang: “Yun
mismong konsepto na naipit ang isang nanay sa labanan at ibinigay sa iba
ang kanyang anak, at ang pinagbigyan niya’y namatayan ng sariling anak at
inangkin ang anak ng kasama. Saka niya pinalabas na ‘yung anak ng kasama
ang namatay. At nangyari itong lahat sa kaguluhan ng Martial Law – ‘yan
ang premise.” Maririnig pa niya na sinisiraan siya sa ibang prodyuser ng
direktor, sinasabing bakit siya kinukuha ay napakamahal ng kaniyang talent
fee? Pero nilinaw niya na hindi niya alam kung totoo ito. Problematiko ang
nangyari kay Bautista dahil may hamon pa si Ilagan na magsampa siya ng
kaso sa korte. Ang katwiran naman ni Bautista, “Civil case lang iyan, pera-
pera lang. Sana kung criminal case para may kulong. Saka sa sobrang tagal
ng mga kaso sa korte na umaabot ng maraming taon, baka patay na ang mga
kaibigan nating ito, hindi pa nadedesisyunan.” Ang mahalaga, sabi niya,
ay hindi lang iyong pumatok sa takilya ang pelikula mo o umani ng mga
palakpak; mas mahalaga kaysa dito ang integridad mo bilang tao at bilang
tao ng sining. Nagkalamat ang samahan at pinagsamahan ng mga sangkot
na kapuwa mga artist.
Maaaring senyal na rin ang pagkakawangis na ito ng tila pare-parehong
package ng karanasan ng batas militar na naisasalin sa panitikan: tila iisang
krisalis ang pinagmumulan ng mga paruparo ng mga idea, iisang yungib
na pinagbabangunan ng mga Lazarus. Alam naman ni Bautistang walang
nagmamay-ari ng mga idea. Siya pa ang magiging territorial? Hindi ba’t sa
kaniya rin nanggaling ang sensibilidad na ang mga supling ay hindi pag-aari
ng magulang dahil ang nilalang ay ipinapanganak nang malaya? Giit niya,
at least man lang, kilalanin ang kaniyang ambag. Ipa-revise ang materyal sa
kaniya kung sa kaniya nga kinuha. Ipinakita niya ang personal niyang DVD
copy ng Desaparesidos bilang movie for tv na lumabas sa GMA 7 ngunit
hindi niya maipadadala sa amin dahil nag-iisa lang ang kopya niya at isang
oras at kalahati naman ang gugugulin kung panonoorin namin sa kaniyang
bahay at bahagya ko ring pinasalamatan iyon, dala ng kaba kong maging
tensiyonado pa ang aming kuwentuhan.
Masuwerte Ako sa Pamilya
May pangarap na indie film si Bautista na magkukuwento ng buhay

ng kaniyang amang musiko, isang biyolinista. Nabanggit na niya ito sa
panayam sa kaniya ni Pennie Azarcon. Naging ahente ng lupa’t bahay si
Esteban Bautista, na isa ring retratista’t mang-aawit, kompositor at makata.
Laking probinsiya si Mang Esteban, tubong Bulacan na napadpad
sa Maynila at naging mang-aawit sa bansag na Binatang Maynila,
namumutiktik ang dyaske at damuho sa dila, pinong managalog, bihirang
magalit, tinatampal ang palad sa ulo kapag napupuno, mapagmahal
na asawa’t magulang. Minsan, noong nagdadalaga si Bautista, may
manliligaw ang kaniyang kapatid na ipinakiabot pa ang sulat sa tatay
niya mismo, alam na alam naman na ang kaharap niya ay ang magulang
mismo ng pinipintuho. Isa ito sa mga anekdotang ikinatutuwa ni Mang
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Esteban na ulit-ulitin sa pamilya. Sa tingin ni Bautista, masuwerte siya sa

kaniyang magulang, lalo sa ama, at tingin niya’y isa itong salik ng kaniyang
tagumpay na tinatamasa ngayon.
Ikinasisiya niya ang pagtugtog nito ng biyolin. “Ako ang kanyang
pangunahing tagapakinig, ang kanyang masa.” Biyolin ang pang-aliw, at kung
minsan, pampakalma sa tahanan kapag nagkakatampuhan. Tumitiklop ang
sama ng loob niya kapag naririnig na niyang tinutugtog ang kaniyang mga
paboritong piyesa. Noong 2002, nang isinapelikula ang Dekada 70, isinama
ang isa sa mga komposisyon ng ama niya, at ito ay ang awit na “Gamugamo”.
Muli niyang nakasalamuha ang mga orihinal na komposisyon ng tatay niya
noong mag-grand reunion silang magkakamag-anak noong 2009. Inawit ng
kaniyang mga kapatid ang mga kantang natatandaan nila. Hindi kumakanta
si Bautista dahil malimit siyang kantiyawan ng ama: “Mahusay na manunulat
ang anak kong ‘yan,” sa tuwing siya’y aawit, na gagatungan rin ng kaniyang
mga kapatid at sila’y maghahagalpakan. Ito ang dahilan kaya nahiya siyang
kumanta sa harap ng mga tao.
Bukod sa pagtugtog ng biyolin, nakapagtayo rin si Mang Esteban ng
banda sa mababang paaralan kung saan nagtapos si Bautista ng elementarya.
“Noong araw masaya ang pista ng Tondo sa gabi kadalasan dahil may mga
labanan ng banda. At nanonood sila ng nanay ko.” Sampung taon ang
agwat ng edad ng kaniyang mga magulang. Malimit mag-alaskahan na
kaya nagustuhan ng babae kasi’y panahon iyon ng Hapon, “Pag wala kang
asawa, kinukuha ka ng Hapon,” at sasagot naman ang lalaki ng, “Ikaw nga
ang sulat nang sulat sa akin e.” Siyam silang magkakapatid pero lima na
lang ang buhay: dalawa ang namatay sa pagkasanggol, isa sa edad disisais
(rheumatic heart) at ang isa ay nito lang nakaraang taon. Purong Filipino ang
mga pangalan ng mga babae: Ligaya, Lualhati, Luningning, Aliw, Marilag,
Paraluman. Ang mga lalaki nama’y heneriko: Enrico, Dante at Cesar.
Naroon ang ama sa anumang mahalagang okasyon ng buhay-mag-
aaral nilang mga magkakapatid. May mga eksenang mapagkit ang kapit sa
kaniyang alaala. “One time, nasa stage ako, hindi makakarating ang aking
ina dahil kapapanganak pa lang. Buong akala ko wala nang pupunta. Nang
biglang makita ko ang tatay ko, tumatakbo, lumalapit sa stage, kumukuha
ng mga retrato, parang sine, parang sine talaga.” Nang unangg mailathala
ang kuwento niya sa Liwayway, nagpaabot sa kaniya ng advance copy ang
publikasyon. Nang malaman ito ng tatay niya’y inikot nito ang lungsod,
pinakyaw ang lahat ng mga kopyang mabibili sa bangketa, ipinamigay sa mga
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kaibigan, hanggang sa maubos maging ang supply ng mga dealer. “Maririnig

ko siya sa telepono, may kausap, damoske, magbabayad naman ako, bakit
daw wala nang gustong magbenta ng Liwayway sa kanya, magbabayad
naman siya?” Noong dumami na ang mga kuwentong nailathala ng anak,
naging ordinaryo na sa tatay ang pagkakalimbag. Ngunit hindi kumupas
ang paghanga sa kakayahan ng kaniyang anak na kasundo niya’t kaibigan.
“Siya ang nagbukas ng aking imagination. ‘Yung nabasa mong sinabi ko
sa interview kay Pennie Azarcon, totoo ‘yon.” May teleskopyo ang tatay niya
noong bata pa siya, at sinisilip nila ang mga bituin sa langit. “Isang beses,
tinanong ko sa kanya, ‘Paano ko kaya mapupuntahan ang mga bituing iyon?
At ang sabi niya, ‘Balang araw, igagawa kita ng hagdanan para maakyat mo
ang mga bituin.’ At tinanong ko siya, ‘Paano ka? Sasama ka ba sa akin?’ At
sabi niya, ‘Hindi, dito na lang ako para pag nangyaring nahulog ka, masasalo
kita. Pero sigurado akong hindi ka mahuhulog. Dahil hindi ka takot na
umakyat.’” (Azarcon, 2008). Ang debosyon ng ama’y hindi lamang sa anak
na nagsusulat. Natatandaan ni Bautista na sa gabi, kapag maalinsangan,
pinapaypayan sila ng magulang. At sasabihin pa nitong, “Kunwari, mga
iniihaw kayong mais!”
Nakuha niya sa tatay niya ang katapangan niyang mag-isip. Nakakausap
niya ito sa kahit na ano. Walang maraming bawal, walang usaping bawal.
Nag-aaway din paminsan-minsan ang mga magulang, lalo na noong
dinibdib ng tatay ang pagkamatay ng unang anak na lalaki noong eleven
months old pa lamang at natuto itong bumabad magdamag sa pinball
machines. Kalaunan na lang daw niya na-realize na hindi ma-console ng
tatay niya ang nanay niya dahil hindi nito ma-console mismo ang sarili.
Wika ni Bautista, hindi nagsisigawan ang kaniyang mga magulang kahit
na nag-aaway, hindi eskandaloso. Habang hindi umuuwi ang tatay niya,
nakahiga sa papag si Nanay kasama silang magkakapatid, hindi umaakyat.
”Naiisip ko kung bakit hindi kami umaakyat. Natatakot ba siya sa multo,
ganoon?” Hanggang sa maunawaan niya na kaya hindi makatulog ang ina’y
wala pa ang asawa niya. Kapag nagkakatampuhan, umuuwi silang mag-
iina sa mga lola niya. At doon na sila susunduin ng tatay niya kinabukasan.
“Sasalubungin na siya ng lola ko sa pinto. Sinverguenza! Wala naman
akong maintindihan sa sinasabi ng lola ko na nagka-Kastila. Tapos pag
magdarasal na kami ng Angelus, lumuluhod kami ng isang pinsan ko sa
bandang likod. Simplikado konsumido Amen, ‘yun ang natatandaan kong
isinasagot namin sa dasal. At pinagtatawanan namin ang mga nangingitim
na talampakan ng mga nakaluhod!” Palasimba ang lola niya, lahat ng santo

dinadalaw.
“Minsan natatandaan kong nagalit talaga siya (ang tatay) dahil nakita
niya kaming kasama sa prusisyon, at gutom na gutom na ako. Hinugot
niya ako sa prusisyon at dinala sa kainan, at galit na galit siya sa tiya ko, sa
nanay ko, sa lahat.”Iyan lang ang namumukod na anekdotang ikinuwento ni
Bautista kung saan nakita niyang nagalit talaga ang ama. Pero maliban dito,
isa siyang uliran. Katuwang sa gawaing bahay, at hindi katulong, ang turing
ng tatay niya sa ina. Siya ang tipo ng lalaking nagluluto, namamalengke, at
naglalaba ng lampin (sa panahong wala pang disposable diapers). Hindi
naninigarilyo. Kung may bisyo man, iyon ay ang pagtaya sa mga kabayo ng
Sta. Ana at ng dating San Lazaro. Natatandaan ni Bautista ang isang eksena,
matapos ang pangalawang atake ng ama noong 1984. Nasa intensive care
unit sila ng ospital sa UST, sinabihan sila ng doktor na ihanda na ang loob
dahil matanda na ang tatay at posibleng mamatay. Nang nagdedeliryo na
ang ama, nataranta sila. Pero nagbiro ang isang kapatid, ang sabi, “Huwag
kayong umiyak. Akala n’yo mga pangalan natin ang tinatawag? Hindi. Mga
pangalan ng mga kabayo ‘yun.” Napahagalpak kami sa kuwento.
Pumanaw na ang kapatid niyang lalaking ito, si Boy o Cesar, noong
nakaraang taon, biglaan din ang pagkamatay, kagaya ng ama na pumanaw
noong 1992. Ugali ng tatay niya na magpaaraw sa umaga. At noong Pebrero
14, 1992, nagkamali ng pagdiin sa pinto na nagkataong bukas pala, bumukas
ang pinto at humagis si Tatay. Apat na tadyang ang nabali at naitakbo
naman sa ospital, pero doon na nag-cardiac arrest. Inihanay ni Bautista ang
paralelismo ng mga pagpanaw ng mga lalaking kadugo: biglaan, atake sa
puso, taranta sa ospital, pero wala na. Ang kapatid naman niya, bigla raw
nginig na nginig ang buong katawan, halos hindi makatindig, itinakbo sa
ospital, dead on arrival. “Ang tindi ng denial ko. Paulit-ulit kong tinitingnan
ang mukha niya sa kabaong. Paulit-ulit kong tinatanong: si Boy ba iyan?
Sigurado ba kayo, si Boy iyan? No’ng ililibing na lang siya, saka ko inamin,
oo, si Boy ‘yan, huwag ko nang lokohin ang sarili ko. Kamukha siya ng tatay
ko at kamukha din ng anak niya. “
Mas matindi ang nanay niya na nang unang matanaw ang kabaong ng
anak, ayaw bumaba ng sasakyan at pumasok sa bahay nito. Ang tagal ding
tumanggi na dumalaw sa libingan nito at nang sa huli, makumbinse nilang
sumama sa kanila sa memorial park noong birthday ni Boy, ayaw iharap ang
wheelchair niya at tumingin sa libingan ng anak.
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“At siyempre,” dugtong niya, “huwag din nating kalilimutan ang

asawa’t mga anak ni Boy. Namatay si Boy yakap ng anak niyang babae dahil
ito ang nagtakbo sa ospital. Pareho sila ng tatay ko, yakap ng anak na babae
sa mga huling sandali ng kanilang buhay. Ang kapatid ko ring si Marie ang
nagtakbo sa tatay ko sa ospital, yakap niya habang daan. Pareho nilang
pinipilit buhayin ang ama, pinilit pang buhayin ng mga doktor. Ang kapatid
ko, sinaksakan ng kung anu-anong iniksiyon, minasahe at kinoryente ang
puso. Pero wala na talaga. Wala noon ang asawa ni Boy dahil inutusan niya,
nasa opisina naman ang panganay na anak na lalaki. Naiwan sa bahay ang
bunsong anak niya, trese anyos pa lang, na siya namang tumawag sa bawat
isa sa amin. Paspas daw ng patakbo ng kotse ang isa pang kapatid kong
lalaki—tulad din noon nang ang tatay ko ang itinakbo sa ospital. Pero tulad
din sa tatay ko, hindi man lang nga niya inabutan nang buhay si Boy. Pareho
silang sa Cavite nakatira; kaming mga babae, dito sa Quezon City.
“Mula nang mamatay si Boy, parang masyadong mahigpit na naming
binabantayang magkakapatid ang isa’t isa, pati na ang asawa’t mga anak ni
Boy. Nagkikita-kita na, nagtatawagan pa. Nagte-text na, nagcha-chat pa.
Parang sinisiguro lagi na ando’n pa ang bawat isa sa amin. Iba rin kasi ang
pagkamatay ng tatay ko sa pagkamatay ng kapatid ko. Ang tatay ko nang
mamatay, 76 na; si Boy, 51. Nasa prime of life.”
Sumabay ang isang speaking engagement ni Bautista sa exit ng tatay
noong 1992, naimbitahan siyang magsalita sa may tatlo-apat na libong katao
sa isang esklusibong eskuwelahan noon sa San Lorenzo Village. “Hindi ko
na matandaan ang pangalan ng eskuwelahang iyon, parang biglang nabura
sa isip ko noon pa man. Hindi ko maalala kahit ano ang gawin ko. Kahit
ngayon, maliban sa detalyeng alam kong tinanggihan ng eskuwelahang
iyon si Kris Aquino, dahil nag-aartista siya.” Itinuloy niya ang pananalita,
at pagdating sa bahay, hindi na nakapagbihis, dere-deretso na ang pag-
aasikaso sa lohistika ng pagbuburol at paglalamay.
Mas marami man siyang anekdota sa kaniyang ama, at tila tahimik siya
sa pagsasalaysay hinggil sa kanyang ina, hindi niya nakaliligtaang kilalanin
ang ambag ng nanay niya sa kanilang paglaki. Kasama ang nanay niya sa
henerasyon ng mga babaeng nasa bahay lamang: tanggap ang papel nila
bilang ilaw ng tahanan. Ginaya pa nga ni Bautista kung paano ito magsalita:
pigil na pigil, sukat na sukat ang mga kataga, pero dama ang pag-aalala at
malasakit sa mga salita. Oo, walang pasubaling ang tatay niya ang artist at
supportive father. Pero hindi nangangahulugang hindi makasining ang ina.
Natuklasan niya iyon nang mabasa niya ang isang sulat nito na pinatingnan
sa kanya. Nagulat pa siya nang nakita niyang may sarili itong style, may
artistic flair. Na marahil kung nabigyan ng pagkakataon, naging manunulat
din ang kaniyang ina.
Lualhati, Paano Ka Ginawa?
May naikuwento rin siyang eksena noong kaniyang kabataan. Lumabas

silang magkakaibigan at ginabi ng pag-uwi. Naabutan niya ang nanay at
tatay niya na nasa gitna ng kalsada, hinahalihaw ng flashlight ang bawat
dumarating. Nakaramdam siya ng pagkapahiya. Sabi ng tatay niya, “Hindi
pa lang kayo mga magulang ngayon kaya hindi n’yo pa naiintindihan ang
damdamin ng magulang. Maiintindihan n’yo lang ang kalooban namin pag
nagkaroon na kayo ng sariling mga anak.” Naunawaan nga lamang niya ang
lagay ng mga magulang, partikular ang ina, nang siya ay magkaroon na ng
sariling supling. Ang anak niyang lalaki, naisipang magpalipad ng kalapati
kasama ang mga kabarkada. 13-14 years old ito noon. Dinala nila ang mga
kalapati sa dulong bayan ng Bulacan at pinagpustahanan kung kaninong
kalapati ang unang makakauwi. Nakarating ang mga kabataan sa probinsiya,
wala nang pamasahe pauwi, at kung hindi sa pagmamagandang loob ng
mga tsuper ng dyip na pinayagan silang sumakay kahit walang pambayad,
marahil hindi na makauuwi. Dadalaw ang sentimyentong ito sa isang eksena
sa Dekada 70, sa isang eksena ng paghahalintulad ng ibon sa mga bata.
“Masarap lang maging ina habang maliliit pa’ng mga anak mo, habang
wala pa silang sinasaktan sa ‘yo kundi kalingkingan ng paa mo na natatapakan
nila sa kapipilit na magpakarga. Pero hintayin mo ang panahong kasintaas
mo siya, ‘yong pagkakaroon niya ng sariling isip at buhay, buhay na hiwalay
sa ‘yo, at matitikman mo sa kanya ang mapapait na kamatayan.”(Ibid:52)
Kasama sa mapapait na kamatayang ito ang pagtukoy ng sariling
landas ng anak, na maaring hindi inakala ng magulang na tatahakin ng
sariling kadugo. Ngunit itinatanggi mismo ni Bautista ang reading na
autobiographical ang kaniyang mga nobela. Kaugali man niya o kawangis
ng likaw ng isip sina Lea Bustamante at Amanda Bartolome, hindi siya ang
mga ito kundi mukha sila ng maraming babaeng katulad niya:
“Siya, si Amanda Bartolome, ay tulad rin ng maraming ina na nakatali
na ang buhay sa pag-iintindi sa buhay ng kanilang mga anak. Araw-araw na
nakikita ko ang ganitong babae, pero araw-araw ding natutuklasan ko na
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kahit ang ganitong babae ay hindi totoong ina na lang at wala na. Pagdating
sa mga anak, lahat ay gusto nilang maibigay; pero pagdating sa sarili, meron
din siyang gustong mangyari.” (Bautista, 1983:5)
Mabagal, at unti-unti, ang proseso ng pagtuklas kung ano ang kaibhan
ng buhay ng babae sa buhay ng lalaki. Natumbok niya ang konsepto ng
kalayaan at paggalang sa pagkakapantay sa karapatan ng tao sa pagmamasid
at kalituhan. At magsisimula ang matatalas na pagmamasid at pagtatanong sa
kaniyang kabataan. “Ang mga kaklase kong mga lalaki, puwedeng lumundag
sa baitang ng hagdan sa eskuwelahan. Bakit noong ako na ang lumulundag
sa mga paso’t baitang ay pinagsasabihan ako na “Kababae mo pa namang
tao”? Ang mga kaklase kong lalaki, iniipitan ka ng sulat sa notebook o
libro. Bakit pag ang babae na ang gumawa, malandi na siya? Nagkakasya sa
padaan-daan sa tapat ng bahay ng type nila? Paano mo sasabihin na tayong
mga babae ang namimili, samantalang namimili lang tayo sa kung sino lang
talaga ang namamansin sa atin? ‘Yon, e. Unti-unti ‘yon. ”
Hanggang sa usapan ng pag-aasawa, hinahamon ni Bautista ang
ideyang bakit kailangang mamili sa pamilya at career. Makakasalubong
niya maging sa resepsiyon, persepsiyon, at produksiyon ng kaniyang mga
akda ang klasikong dilema na ito. Payo ng editor ng Liwayway, halimbawa,
kailangang tukuyin ang mabuting babae: “‘yung tipong “stay at home, ‘yung
marunong magluto”. Natawa si Bautista sa naalalang payo ng editor na iyon,
si Gervacio Santiago, na malambing niyang itinuring na pangalawa niyang
ama at tinawag na “Mang Basyong”. “Hindi ako marunong magluto, kaya ko
lang, prito, gisa. ‘Yun lang,” biro niya. Inungkat ko ang isang urban legend
na narinig ko sa mga sirkulo ng mga kabataang manunulat noong dekada
80. “Totoo ho bang hindi kayo masyadong mahilig maglaba? Na noong
panahong nag-aaral ang mga anak niyo’y bumibili kayo ng sangkaterbang
mga uniporme at pag naisuot na, tapon?”
Nangiti ang awtor. Hindi naman daw, sayang naman daw iyon. Ang sabi
niya, bago niya isinulat ang una niyang nobela, ang ‘Gapo nag-ipon siya
nang nag-ipon. Itinabi niya ang kinita niya sa pagsusulat ng mga teleplay.
Binili niya ang mga uniporme sa palengke at hindi sa mga department store.
At habang nagsusulat, kapag hinubad na ang uniporme, sinisipa na muna
niya ang damit sa ilalim ng sofa, at magpapatuloy siya sa pagmamakinilya.
May naging karelasyon din siya, si Tony, na napaka-supportive sa kaniyang
pagsusulat. Tatay ito ng kaniyang bunso. “Pagkaano naglalaba na ‘yan ng
mga damit ng anak ko, kahit ng mga anak ni Levy. Nag-aasikaso ng pagkain
at nagplaplantsa.” Sinkronisado ang pagbili nito ng ulam sa pagtigil ng

gawain ni Bautista. Tila na-anticipate kung anuman ang pangangailangan
niya. “Noong isinusulat ko ang Gapo, nag-breakdown ang makinilyang
ginagamit ko. Alam mo, inismagel ako ng kapatid ko sa opisina nila sa
kalaliman ng gabi, ang Bureau of National and Foreign Information para
may magamit akong makinilya. Si Tony ang driver, ang tagabili ng pagkain,
ang bantay namin magdamag. Siya din ang taga-punch at taga-folder ng
manuskrito. Ang mga unang pinakamahuhusay na obra ko, Gapo, Dekada,
Bata-Bata, Bulaklak sa City Jail, nagawang lahat no’ng panahon na
kami ang magkasama. Pati na iyong dalawang short stories na nanalo din
sa Palanca.” Ironiko na hindi man lang niya napasalamatan ito sa kahit
na anong naisulat niyang libro. Namatay na si Tony. Nalumbay siya sa
kamatayan nito, tila nawalan ng sense of security, nakalutang. Ngunit inisip
niya, hindi siya puwedeng lumutang lang; mayroon pa siyang mga dapat
sulatin, maraming dapat harapin. Ang dami pa niyang mga ambisyon, ang
dami pa niyang gustong isulat.
Tanong, Paano Ka Nailuluwal? Idea, Paano Ka Dumarating?
Walang isinalaysay na proseso ng pagsusulat si Bautista. Walang

recipe. Nahahagingan lang na mayroon, at nakalapat ito sa pang-araw-araw
rin niyang buhay. “Ang akala ng iba, nanonood lang ako ng tv. Hindi nila
alam, nagtratrabaho na ang utak ko noon.” Idiniin niya ang halaga ng mga
matitingkad na imaheng nasasagap sa pang-araw-araw na buhay. Ibinahagi
niya na mayroon siyang nabuong karakter na luka-luka, na base sa isang baliw
na babae sa kanilang lugar noong maliit pa siyang bata. “Tuwing maliwanag
ang buwan at naglalaro kami, nandoon siya sa bintana, nakadungaw, tula
nang tula.” Matagal na ang karanasang iyon, bata pa siya, ngunit maisusulat
niya ang tagpong iyon, ang luka-lukang iyon, pagkaraan ng maraming taon
sa “Sumakay Tayo sa Buwan” (1995). Parang may nalulon siyang bagay
na dinidigest ng bituka ng imahinasyon, at naghihintay ng tamang panahon
para lumabas.
Sinabi rin niya na ang karamihan sa mga manunulat na natitipuhan ng
mga literary circle – gaya nina Gabriel Garcia Marquez -- ay nabasa niya
lang noong nagkapangalan na siya. Walang gatol niyang ipinagtapat na ang
pinakapaborito pa rin niyang nobela’y ang Noli Me Tangere ni Jose Rizal.
Na hindi nakapagtataka, dahil bakas rin sa kaniyang akda ang sensibilidad
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na sapulin ang milieu, lumikha ng mga tauhang kapag tinusok ay may

dadaloy na dugo, humabi ng mga kabalintunaan at magpatawa sa satirika’t
ironiya. “Minsan hindi ako nagbabasa kapag mayroon akong gagawin kasi
hindi ako makakabasa ng tuloy-tuloy.” At siya ang tipo ng mambabasa na
binabasa niya ang lahat kapag talagang naibigan niya ang estilo’t idea ng
awtor. Binasa niya at tinapos ang The Grapes of Wrath ni John Steinbeck sa
loob lang ng isang buong magdamag, ang The House of the Spirits ni Isabel
Allende sa loob ng isang maghapon. Kahit noong bata pa siya, sa pagdating
ng rasyon nila ng Liwayway, “cover to cover” siya kung magbasa, pati mga
anunsiyo, binabasa niya. Inamin rin niya na mahilig siyang manood ng Tom
and Jerry, maging ng Juan For All, All for Juan, Face to Face, The Price is
Right, at Bubble Gang.
Ito kaya ang sekreto kung bakit napupulsuhan niya ang ibig basahin ng
ordinaryong tao? Walang pagtatakip o pagkapahiya ang pag-amin niya sa
pagkonsumo ng kulturang popular. Hindi rin daw siya naimpluwensiyahan
ng mga manunulat sa Ingles. Mas malakas ang impluwensiya ng Liwayway sa
literary career ni Lualhati Bautista. Taas noo niyang sinabi na ito ang binabasa
nila sa pamilya, at ito ang lathalaing inambisyon niyang mapaglathalaan ng
kaniyang kuwento. Matapos ang elementarya niya sa Emilio Jacinto, naghay-
iskul siya sa Torres High School (sa dating Ismar Annex na ibinukod na at
pinangalanan nang Gregorio Perfecto sa kaniyang kapanahunan). Pinag-
aralan niya kung paano gumamit ng makinilya. Tinuklas niya kung paano
mapupuntahan ang opisina ng Liwayway. Dati, isinusumite niya ang
kuwento sa koreo. Hanggang sa magdesisyon siyang isumite ang natapos
niyang manuskrito nang personal. Bakit? Dahil kinakantiyawan siya ng
isang pinsang lalaki na nakatira sa kanila kapag isinasauli na sa koreo ang
manuskrito. “E hindi mo maitatangging manuskrito ang laman ng sobre,
ang kapal kasi,” pakli niya. Naka-school uniform pa siya nang una niyang
hanapin ang tanggapan ng Liwayway. 16 years old siya noon.
Siya ang tipo ng estudyanteng hindi mapakali. Madalas mapagsabihan
dahil maingay, malikot, at nasusutsutan. Hindi palaaral. Magmula nang
matutong bumasa’t sumulat, nagdrodrowing na ng mga kuwento, may
thought balloon at captions. “Ang titser ko nga noong grade 1, si Mrs
Marcial, kinumpiska ang mga drowing ko. Aakalain ba niyang magiging
dakila ako balang araw?” pabiro niyang sabi. Noon pa man, alam na niya
ang gusto niyang gawin. Gusto niyang magkuwento. Ayaw niyang nasa loob
ng klasrum. “Parang gusto ko nang magsulat. Gusto ko ng holiday. Bakit ba
mga titser ang nagdidikta ng holiday ko?” Gayunman, hindi siya nahuhuli
sa klase. Laging mataas ang kaniyang mga marka. “Ano ba ‘yung tawag sa
araw na magiging teacher ka ng isang araw? Ako ‘yung kinukuha nila doon.
Pag dadalaw ang mga bisitang bisor, ako yun, ako ‘yung ihinaharap ng mga
titser.” Matapos ang hay-iskul, nakaisang semestre lang siya ng kolehiyo sa
Lyceum. Hindi na niya itinuloy. Wala na siyang interes.
Sa mga panahong ito, nababasa na niya sina Edgardo Reyes, Efren
Abueg. Pero ang pinaka hinangaan niyang talaga ay si Levy Balgos de la
Cruz, isa sa mga maningning na pangalan ng panitik sa Liwayway, kasama
sa mga bagong dugo. Ang lalaking ito na kaniyang hinangaa’y magiging
asawa niya kalaunan. Tuloy-tuloy ang pagsusumite niya ng mga akda sa
publikasyong ito, at nakatuwaan siya ng patnugot na si Gervacio Santiago.
“Ang tatay ko ang nagbukas ng pinto ng aking imahinasyon, ang nagpunla
ng binhi, pero inalagaan din ako ni Mang Basyong bilang manunulat.”
Natatandaan niyang sinabi nito na “Iba ang maging mahusay na manunulat
sa maging mahusay na tao. Kailangan mo munang maging mahusay na
tao bago ka maging mahusay na manunulat.” Mentor ang nakatatandang
manunulat na ito’t isa siya sa mga unang gumalang sa talent ni Bautista.
Talagang inaasikaso siya nito kapag siya’y napadaraan doon, “Binibitiwan
niya ang kahit ano na kanyang ginagawa.” Dahil kilala ni Mang Basyong
ang likot at tigas ng ulo ni Bautista’y nagsusungit-sungitan ito, may patpat
pang pinang-aamba kay Bautista kapag kinakalikot na nito ang mga bagay
sa kaniyang mesa. Close na rin sila kaya napagtatapatan siya ng mentor ng
mga off-the-record na puna sa mga manuskritong dumaraan sa kaniyang
mga kamay: maganda ang materyal ngunit bumubulagsak, tila may kulang.
“Kung ikaw ang nakaisip ng kuwentong iyon, tiyak ko na mas magandang
naisulat at mas may puso.”
Di nagtagal, dala na rin ng mainit na pagtanggap sa kaniyang mga
naisusulat, naging ikalawang tahanan na rin niya ang Liwayway. May
binanggit siyang dalawang babaeng nakasabayan niya bilang mga manunulat:
sina Josefina Corpuz at Erlinda Namora-Sietereales. Magkakasama silang
bumibisita doon tuwing hapon, “medyo nanggugulo,” at nakakagulo nga
marahil dahil isang araw, ipinaskil na sa library doon na tambayan nila ang
karatulang: “work more, talk less.”
Spoiled ang Tres Marias na ito sa tanggapan. Malaya silang nakapag-
uuwi noon ng supply ng newsprint, carbon paper at typewriter ribbon. Kapag
natanggihan ang naisulat, ipinalilista pa nila sa kantina doon ang kanilang
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kinaing meryenda bilang ganti, na nakapangalan kay Mang Basyong. Isang

kapilyahan ang naikuwento rin ni Bautista, kapilyahang nakapagluwal rin
ng isa pang nobela. “Nangupit kami ni Josefina Corpuz ng mga coupon
bond na may letterhead ng Liwayway, at gumawa kami ng sulat para kay
Director Alejo Santos na noon ay superintendent ng National Penitentiary,
kinopya namin ang pirma ni Mr. Laudico (ang editorial director) na kunwari,
inassign niya kami na sumulat ng artikulo tungkol sa mga bilanggo ng death
row. Wala lang, curiosity lang.” (Bautista,2011:1)
At namatay nga ba ang mga pusa sa kuryosidad na ito? Taliwas sa
inaasahan, nang mabunyag ang ginawa nilang kapilyahan (nagkataong
pumunta sa Liwayway ang isang taga-opisina ng National Penitentiary na
contributor din ng magasin, at ikinuwento na may dalawang kabataang dalaga
na nag-interview ng mga bilanggo sa death row. Tinukoy ang kanilang mga
pangalan.) Hindi sila nablacklist. Bago pa man sila nasabon ni Laudico’y
may isang kapuwa manunulat ang nagtanggol sa kanila, si Virgilio Blones,
o si Mang Ilyong. Hindi nito kinukunsinti ang pamemeke sa pirma ng
nakatataas, ngunit lubos nitong naunawaan na ibig nilang umalis sa kanilang
comfort zone para makasulat. Tila pinagtiyap rin ng pagkakataon na natuwa
sa kanila ang direktor ng Penitentiary maging ang asawa nito. Si G. Alejo
Santos mismo ang lumiham sa superintendent ng Correctional Institute for

Women para payagan sina Bautista at Corpuz na pumunta doon at mag-
interview ng mga bilanggong babae. Pagdating sa Correctional, hiniling
nila na makatulog sa dormitoryo pero hindi sila pinayagan. Sa opisina lang
sila nagmagdamag, pero isinasama ng guwardiya sa pag-iinspeksiyon sa
dormitoryo sa kalaliman ng gabi. Hindi mapalampas ang pakikitalamitam
nila sa mga babae ng Correctional. Mga artikulo sa Kislap ang nailuwal
mula sa karanasang ito. Masusundan ang adventure nang imbitahan sila ng
isang manunulat na pulis-Maynila rin na si Leonardo Buluran kung ibig
nilang bumisita sa Manila City Jail. Dito namulat si Bautista na ibang-iba
ang kondisyon ng Correctional sa city jail. Dito muling pumitik ang kamera,
ang thought balloons, at ito rin ang nagpunla ng idea para sa Bulaklak ng
City Jail. Bagamat tulad ng Sumakay Tayo sa Buwan, maraming taon din
muna ang lumipas bago iyon naisulat (1983).
May stamina rin siya na gawing tuloy-tuloy ang pagsusulat, tuloy-tuloy
ang konsentrasyon, na asset para sa pagsusulat ng nobela o ng screenplay.
Minsan pinansin siya ng nanay niya. Katatapos lang niyang isulat noon ang
isang nobelang isinulat para sa Palanca. Naisipan niyang maglinis ng bahay.
“Ano ka ba naman, kahit nga mga makina, nagpapahinga!” Nangingiti lang
siya dito, dahil hindi naman sa kailangan niya ng pahinga, maalwan namang
rinerelease ng katawan niya ang enerhiya, kasama lang ang paglilinis sa mga
“spur-of-the-moment” na gawain, hindi routine.
Kapag nagdidisenyo siya ng nobela, gumagamit rin siya ng notes. Sa
Dekada, halimbawa, may notecards na nakadetalye ang kapanganakan ng
mga tauhan, nakasulat rin doon ang mga current events na kasabay ng mga
panahong ipinanganak sila. Pero hindi niya naitago ang gaya ng mga bakas
ng pagluluwal ng akda, naitapon niya ang notecards na ito. “Malay ko bang
sisikat ang Dekada? Siyempre hindi ko pa alam ‘yun. Pinangarap ko lang na
manalo uli sa Palanca para mapatunayan ko sa sarili na hindi lang tsamba ang
pagkakapanalo ng Gapo (na una nang nanalo ng grand prize noong 1980).”
Hiningi ng Ateneo Library of Women’s Writings (ALIWW) ang kaniyang
mga borador, at ido-donate na sana niya ang mga libro. Pinakopya na niya
ang mga serye ng teleplay, ipina-bookbind, pero naiwang nakatambak sa
ikalawang palapag ng kaniyang bahay, nawala na sa isip niya. Kasama siya sa
mga pinarangalan ng ALIWW noong Araw ng Kababaihan ng 2004.
Isa rin sa asset ni Bautista’y alam niya kung paano dumiskarte sa
industriyang kinapapalooban ng writer. Dalawa ang mundo ng panulat
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na nalalagusan niya: ang domain ng kulturang popular, at ang domain

ng babasahing binansagan na literary. Naging patnugot siya ng Valentine
Romances, at ang eksperimental na romance series ng Anvil. Hindi siya
nagtagal bilang patnugot ng Valentine. “Kaya ako umayaw kasi baka
magkaroon kami ng conflict ng mga kaibigan ko kasi marami akong puna sa
mga isinusulat nila. Kaya ang sabi ko, huwag na lang ako, kunin na lang nila
si Ben Pascual, dating taga-Liwayway, mahusay na editor.”
Nariyan ang pormula ng romance, pero nagagawa niyang maigala ang
imahinasyon sa mga parametro nito. Sa kaso ng Anvil, naging sariwang
ihip ng hangin ang karanasan. Bukas ang estilo – bahala ang contributor na
ipinangalandakan ang mga porma at teknik na halaw sa mga modernistang
akda – ang stream of consciousness, ang pastiche, ang impluwensiya ng
screenwriting. Ilan sa mga sumabak at nalathala sa serye’y sina Cris Papa,
Lourdes Vidal, Ago Diokno, JJ de la Rosa, Rolando Fulleros Santos,
Rolando Tolentino at Joi Barrios.
Alam niyang nakataya ang kaniyang pangalan, byline man ito ng
screenplay, artikulo sa Kislap o Liwayway, novella ng isang NGO, romance
novel na inilimbag ng malaking publishing house o entry sa Palanca. Pare-
pareho ang intensidad ng ibinubuhos niyang kalidad. May himig na tila
nagpapasalamat siya na nakasalamuha niya sa mga writing project ang
mga ka-wavelength din niya, tulad ni Chito Roño, o ni Ishmael Bernal, o
ni Lino Brocka. At tapat din niyang inamin na may rapport ang working
relationship nila ni Joel Lamangan kung produksiyon para sa telebisyon
ang pinag-uusapan. “Kasi pag tv, under pressure siya at wala na siyang
pagkakataon na makialam sa script. Shoot na lang ng shoot. Wala na siyang
time,” nagtatawang sabi ni Bautista.
Natutuhan na rin niya ang sining ng pakikipagnegosasyon pagdating
sa creative na nilalaman ng akda, lalo pa sa mga medium ng script na
pangtelebisyon o pelikula na given na maraming makikialam sa proseso.
Tinatanggap niya ang mga suhestiyon, pero hindi rin ibig sabihin na
kailangan niyang sundin. Minsan, nagiging maingay siya at mapilit. Minsan
na itong umani ng kantiyaw kay Direktor Gil Portes. “Hoy ikaw, akala mo
lagi kang nasa sarili mong pamamahay. Napaka-fiery mo,” puna ni Portes.
Ayon kay Portes, kagulat-gulat daw ang aksiyon ni Mother dahil may
reputasyon itong mabagsik (subtitle: nambabato ng anumang madadampot
sa tabi, lampshade man o ashtray). Pero sa pagkakataong iyon, hindi raw ba
niya nakita, dahan-dahan lang itong nagbaba ng telepono para marinig lahat
ng pinagsasasabi niya?
“Ewan ko naman kung bakit nagkaro’n ng gano’ng reputasyon si
Mother,” sabi ni Bautista. “Mabait naman ‘yong tao.”
Kasal siya sa isang kapwa-manunulat, si Levy Balgos de la Cruz. Noong
una’y siya ang tagahanga nito. Siya ang tagamakinilya ng mga akda nito,
at hindi niya ito ikinababahala. Aktibista rin ang asawa, naabutan nila ang
Unang Sigwa, at hindi maiwasang marinig niya’t makasalamuha ang iba
pa nitong mga kapuwa aktibista. Hindi rin maiwasang makasama siya sa
kanilang mga diskusyon, na isang anyo muli ng pag-aaral at ng eskuwela,
ngunit mas mapagpalaya. Hindi niya binitawan ang kaniyang pagsusulat
kahit noong mag-asawa, katunaya’y mas sumidhi pa ito. Bukod sa maiikling
kuwento, bago ang pelikula o kahit ang nobela ay sinubukan niya ang
larangan ng telebisyon. Si Direktor Ishmael Bernal ang unang nagbigay sa
kaniya ng break. Naging seryoso na ang paglalagay ng mga thought balloons,
voice over at captions sa kaniyang panulat. Tila isda niyang nalangoy ang
pagsulat ng script para sa pelikula at telebisyon. Na-ban ng dating Board of
Censors ang isang dulang pantelebisyon na ginawa nila ni Lino Brocka, ang
Daga sa Timba ng Tubig dahil miscarriage of justice daw.
Noong 1975 ay naging co-writer siya ng Sakada, ang pinaka-unang
akdang pampelikula niya. Masasabi nating inihudyat ng pagpili ng
paksa ang magiging kalakaran na ng kaniyang mga akda: mulat at tapat.
Kinumpiska ng militar ang mga kopya ng pelikula. Sa kabila ng paghihigpit
sa sensura ng batas militar kabalintunaang ginintuan ang panahong iyon ng
pelikulang Filipino. Naging sunod-sunod rin ang pagluluwal ng mga obrang
pumapaksa sa tunay na kalagayan ng mga ordinaryong mamamayan. Isa ang
Sakada sa mga pumaksa ng malalang problemang agraryo na kinakaharap
noon, at magpahanggang ngayon ng bansa, nagsilbing eksposisyon ito
ng mga mapang-aping praktika ng pasahod, ang opresyon ng tiempos
muertes, ang kabulukan ng tenancy system, na waring sintunadong
tinig sa ibinabalandrang pagsulong ng ekonomiya ng rehimeng Marcos.
Masusundan ang screenplay na ito ng Bulaklak sa City Jail (1984), Kung
Mahawi Man ang Ulap (1984), at Sex Object (1985) na hinugot mula sa
Daga sa Timba ng Tubig. Tumabo ng maraming gawad ang Bulaklak,
mula sa Metro Manila Film Festival, Film Academy Awards, Star Awards,
at URIAN.
Daga sa Timba ng Tubig (1975) at Isang Kabanata sa Buhay ni
Leilani Cruzaldo (1987) ang ilan sa mga una niyang naisulat na dramang
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pantelebisyon. Hindi naipalabas ang una; nagwagi naman ang huli ng gawad
mula sa Catholic Mass Media Awards. Ang kredibilidad niya bilang matinik
na manunulat sa medium ng telebisyon ang nagbukas na rin ng pinto para
maging pangunahing manunulat din siya ng seryeng Dear Teacher, kasama
si Amado Lacuesta at sa direksiyon ni Ishmael Bernal, Mama, sa direksiyon
naman ni Mario O’Hara, at Pira-pirasong Pangarap ni Joel Lamangan.
Kinikilala siya ngayon bilang grand prize winner ng nobela sa Palanca,
isang tagumpay na tatlong beses niyang makakamit. Ang una’y para sa
Gapo (1980), at ang mga sumunod ay para sa Dekada 70 (1983) at Bata
Bata Paano Ka Ginawa? (1984). Mapapansin mula sa mga serye ng mga
taon ng mga obrang ito na naging aktibo talaga siya sa pagsusulat noong
dekada 80, kung saan kasagsagan rin ng pagdapo ng usaping feminismo
sa larangan ng panulat. Kasagsagan rin ito ng pagtaas ng kaso ng pagkitil
ng karapatang pantao. Ng lumalawak na pagitan sa buhay na tinatamasa ng
mga mayaman sa mahirap. Ng pagdagsa ng mga multinational companies,
ng low intensity conflict, ng pataas na pataas na inflation rate. Binuksan ni
Bautista sa kaniyang panulat ang tradisyong tanggap na ngayon sa diskurso
ng panitikan ng kababaihan: ang pagpapalaya ng babae ay hindi tiwalag sa
usapin ng pagpapalaya ng bayan.
Wika ni Bienvenido Lumbera sa paunang salita ng Dekada 70:
“Ang katapatan ng isang likha ay nasa pagkasapol ng awtor sa prinsipal
na diwang nagbigay sa panahon ng tatak na ikinaiba nito sa nangaunang
panahon. Ang diwa ng pagbabago ay siyang itinampok ni Bautista bilang
tatak ng dekada 70, at ito ay kinakatawan ng sentral na sensibilidad ng
akda.”(Lumbera,1984:2) At ang sentral na sensibilidad na ito’y walang iba
kundi si Amanda Bartolome: “Nakatira sa isang subdibisyon sa Kamaynilaan,
ina ng pamilyang nasa panggitnang uri, asawa ng isang inhenyero, “Mom”
ng limang anak na lalaki, at ang pinakamahalaga, bukas ang isip sa mga
ideyang dala ng nagbabagong panahon.” (Ibid.)
Charming ang bida sa Dekada 70 dala na rin ng tila diyalektikal
niyang pag-uukilkil sa sarili sa bawat pagtatapos ng mga kabanata. Laging
naipamumukha sa kaniya ang kaniyang kakulangan pa sa pag-aaral o
pagtuklas. Nakikita ito halimbawa, sa kaisipang natutunggakan siya sa
sarili sa realisasyong tumatanda ang mga supling; o natutuklasan niyang sa
sukatan ng materyalistang lipunan, dapat ay masuwerte ang tingin niya sa
sarili, maligaya, pero bakit siya nagtatanong? Isa pa: nababangga ang mga
mito ng pagkalalaki at kapangyarihan ng lalaki ng kamalayang maaaring
ipinagkakait rin ng pagka-ina niya ang pagka-ama ng kaniyang asawa.

Nang matauhan siya na sangkot na nga ang panganay niya sa kilusan, ni
hindi na niya magawang pigilan ito. At kahit nasasaktan, unti-unti na rin
niyang tinanggap na bukod ang pagkatao nito sa kaniya. May kamalayan rin
ang sensibilidad na ang dami-dami niya pang dapat na matutuhan. Isang
posisyon ito na nakapagpapakumbaba ngunit nakakapagpalaya rin.
Napansin ng kasama kong nakipanayam (si Romulo Baquiran Jr.)
na tila may napaka-intimate na kaalaman si Bautista sa kilusan, sa mga
damdamin ng mga pulang mandirigma. “Hindi naman ako nakulong, no.
Ay kasi talent ‘yun,” at saka ito tumawa. Kumabig siya makaraan ng ilang
saglit, isinalaysay niya noong nahuli noong 1974 si Levy. Natatandaan
niyang kasabay noon ang pagdaraos ng Miss Universe Beauty Pagent sa
Pilipinas. Anupa’t sa kabalintunaan ng paghahanap ng pinakamagandang
babae sa lupalop ay kinakaharap ni Bautista noon ang pinakahalimaw na
mukha ng diktadura sa itsura, at salaysay, ng asawa niyang natortyur. Tila
binatak ng elektrisidad ang mga kalamnan at buto, malaki na nga ang mga
mata lalo pang namulagat, linundagan ng mga lalaki sa dibdib, at sinidlan ng
hilakbot ang diwa na nababakas sa mga matang hindi mapakali, sa katawang
pagod ngunit hindi makatulog nang mahimbing. Una niya itong hinanap sa
Baguio, at nagpaluwal ng pera si Ishmael Bernal para rito. Si Bernal ang isa
sa mga umalalay sa kaniya sa masalimuot na panahon ng kaniyang buhay
noon.
Lumipas ang mga taon, at hindi na pinunan ni Bautista ang mga detalye
ng pagsasama nila ni Balgos de la Cruz. Magkasundo sila bilang mag-asawang
manunulat, nagturingang magkapantay. Hindi sila nagbabasahan ng akda
habang nasa proseso pa ng pagsusulat. Ayaw ni Bautista’t baka mapintasan
siya. “Mas paniwala ko pa nga na mas mahusay siya sa akin. Paniwala ko
‘yon noon. Ngayon, hindi ko na kayang paniwalaan ‘yon,” sabay tawa. Hindi
naman daw sila nagkakapikunan.
Ito rin ang charm na mababanaag sa pakikipanayam kay Bautista.
Ang intra-intelligence na taglay ng kaniyang mga tauhan ay galing mismo
sa intra-intelligence ni Bautista na mapanuri na sa usapin ng disjunct ng
nakikita niya’t saloobin niya at ang kulturang kaniyang ginagalawan, kahit
noong bata pa siya. “Nang mag-asawa, magtanan, ang isa kong kaibigan
noong hay-iskul, ang lungkot-lungkot ko para sa kanya. Lalo na noong
ipinamimigay na niya ang kanyang mga damit...parang nagtapos na rin ang
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kanyang buhay.” Tila inaakay niya kami sa kaniyang pagkukuwento sa isang

eksena: naroon siya, kasama ang kaibigan, sa isang silid, nakalatag ang mga
bestidang maaaring paborito pang suotin noon ng kaniyang best friend.
Ngunit ngayo’y ipinamimigay, dahil hindi na iyon siya.
Palatanong rin siya maging sa usapin ng sex, at sa isang bahagi ng
Dekada 70, halos mapangiwi ka at mangiti ng sabay sa katapatan ng tinig
na mababasa:
“Noong mga panahong iyon – ewan ko ba kung sino ang naglagay sa isip
namin – na hindi raw kami dapat mag-isip ng sex dahil mauuwi iyon sa
pakikialam namin sa parte ng aming katawan na bawal hawakan, at yon,
sabi nila, ay nakakatighiyawat. Kaya wala akong mukhang maiharap sa
tao nong una akong nagkatighiyawat, dahil itinuring ko iyong parusa
sa pakikialam ko sa aking sariling katawan. Kami noon ay ni walang
karapatan sa sarili naming katawan.” (Bautista,1983:21)
1983 niya ito naisulat, at marami nang nailuwal na antolohiya’t indibidwal

na koleksiyon ng women’s writings sa ngayon na nakapagsasalita na rin ang
mga babae tungkol sa sarili nilang mga katawan. Mismong si Bautista’y
nakasulat ng erotic na tula na pinamagatang “Dyugdyugan”. Nangiti ang
live audience sa poetry reading book launch nang binasa pa lang niya ang
pamagat. Pumatok ito, bumagay ang “gaspang” at “angas” ng wika’t diwa sa
layuning mapagpalaya sa kasarian at sexualidad. Nakakatuwang malaman
na kaya pala niya ito nailuwal ay bunsod na rin ng poetry challenge. Tuwing
nagkikita-kita kasi silang mga ka-womenan, o magkakaibigang mga makata
na sina Marra Pl. Lanot, Benilda Santos, Lilia Quindoza Santiago, Ruth
Elynia Mabanglo, Aida Santos, lahat may dalang tula. Siya lang ang wala.
“Nakikinig lang ako, kaya sabi ko, ‘tay kayo sa susunod. Parang si Jimmy
Santos ba, nag-perform sina Jose Manalo noong nakaraan at sa Sabado
naman sa kanya naman ang abangan. Pagkatula ko, pumatok naman.” May
iba pa siyang mga tulang naisulat. May nalimbag rin siya sa antolohiyang
Voices of Asia, pero kay Marra lang daw niya ito ipinababasa. Ang iba ay
unpublished pa.
Asiwa rin siya na bansagang basta feminist na hindi naisasakonteksto.
“Kapag sinabing feminist kasi parang may negative na pagkaintindi ‘yung
iba.” May narinig rin daw siyang komento sa women’s desk ng Screenwriters’
Guild na: “Bakit naman ako sasali diyan, masaya namin kami sa mga asawa
namin?” Nakakataas ng kilay, wika ng mukha niyang tumingin sa amin. Para
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sa kaniya, nakalulungkot ang derogatory attitude na ito, sapat para masabi

niya na “May mga babaeng mga lalaki rin kung mag-isip, kaya’t kailangang
itaas-taas ng konti ang consciousness.” Bukas siya maging sa pagsulat ng
akda, mapa-nobela man o screenplay na tumatalakay sa gay and lesbian
issues. Lumapit raw si Portia Ilagan sa kaniya noon pa, noong hindi pa uso
ang mga pelikula tungkol sa isyu na ito, may ipinakita sa kaniyang konsepto
para sa pelikula. Higit siyang nagkainteres sa kuwento mismo ni Ilagan.
Ang salaysay kung paano umiibig, nabibigo, nagne-negotiate ang mga
lesbiyana sa mga patakarang heterosexualna tila muhon sa lupa. Hindi rin
daw niya malilimutan nang mamatay ang manikurista niyang gay. Halos
maglupasay sa pag-iyak ang boyfriend nito, hindi maawat sa dalamhati.
At nangyari iyon maraming-maraming taon na ang nakararaan, noong
ang takbo pa ng utak ng marami ay pera lang ang hinahabol ng lalaki sa
karelasyon niyang gay.
Napag-usapan rin namin ang mga problemang kinakaharap ng mga
babaeng walang access sa kanilang karapatang pangkalusugan, na isa ring
anyo ng pagbawi ng karapatan sa katawan ng babae. Isa pala ito sa kaniyang
mga adbokasya. May serye si Bautista ng mga nobelang isinulat para sa
Linangan sa Kababaihan Inc. (Likhaan) noong 2005: Ang Kabilang Panig
ng Bakod, Hugot sa Sinapupunan at Desisyon. Ipinamimigay ang mga
novelettes sa mga kababaihan sa mga urban poor communities.
May eksena sa Hugot sa Sinapupunan na dramatikong ipinakikita
ang pang-uuyam at pagligwak ng dangal sa kaso ng mga babaeng
mahihirap na napipilitang humanap ng aborsiyonista. Hindi kailanman
nila maituturing na “magandang karanasan” ang paglalaglag. Sa bahay
man, sa charity ward ng ospital o sa isang klinikang tago, pare-pareho
ang karanasan ng degradasyon. At hindi nangangahulugang mas makatao
ang mga nasa medikal na propesyon. Animo’y hayop ang katawan,
walang karapatang tumutol. Kung kaya’t ironikong naibulalas ng bida
na “kung sakit ang pag-uusapan, hindi naman talaga ganoon kasakit ang
magpalaglag.”(Bautista, 2005:19) Muli, tapat ang pagsapol sa karanasan,
dulot rin ng detalyadong pagpinta ng milieu na pinamumulaklakan ng
patagong pagpapalaglag. Isang open secret na lugar na “sikat” at madaling
matalunton sa tamang pagsabi ng password at paghahanap ng landmarks,
lugar man iyon ng informal settlers o bilihan ng abortifacient sa bisinidad
ng Quiapo church.
Kapansin-pansin rin sa serye ng mga novellang ito na ang formulang
sinusundan ni Bautista’y kulturang popular. Buklatin ang Desisyon, at

ang mababasa’y isang kakatwang baryasyon ng chick lit na umusbong sa
bookshelves ng canon sa Kanluran: ngunit sa halip na magkita kita ang mga
babaeng magkakaibigan para pag-usapan ang fashion, sex, at love life, ang
mga babae sa Desisyon ay higit na nakararanas ng internal na pagbibiyahe:
kung bakit masalimuot ang karanasan ng pagbubuntis sa bawat isa sa kanila,
kung bakit ang pag-ibig ay usapin rin ng materyal. Buklatin ang Hugot sa
Sinapupunan at may deskripsiyon ng mga laundromat na nalalagusan ng
babaeng mahirap bilang “human washing machine”. Papatok ang mga
babasahing ito sa kasalukuyan, lalo pa ngayon sa kainitan ng debate sa RH
bill, sabi ko kay Bautista. Ay oo, sang-ayon niya. Isang mang-aawit mula
sa isang kilalang banda noong 1970s ang naalala niya: dinurugo na pala’y
ni hindi namamalayan, tuloy pa rin ng pag-awit sa show. Nagpalaglag pala
ito nang patago ngunit hindi maaring mapalampas ang show kinagabihan.
(At ang buong akala ko pa naman ay drama lang ng mang-aawit ang pait
ng mga liriko, may literal palang pinaghuhugutan.)
It’s a Man’s World?
Marami pa siyang mga pangarap sulatin, ngunit tila mas nakasentro

na ngayon sa paglikha ng screenplay. Ginawan niya ng screenplay ang
‘Gapo bilang rock opera ilang taon na ang nakararaan dahil simula’t sapul,
pangarap niya ito bilang isang straight musical play. Pero nakatago pa ito,
sabi niya; hindi ko inilalabas. Nasusubaybayan rin niya ang mga film projects
ng mga kabataang filmmaker, at generous siya sa pagpuri ng kaniyang mga
nagugustuhang mahuhusay. Ito rin marahil ang parang pay-it-forward niya
sa pagkanlong sa kaniya ng mga maalamat na pigura sa panitikan, pelikula
at kulturang popular: mga tulad nina Gervacio Santiago, Liwayway Arceo,
Ligaya Perez, Clodualdo del Mundo, Sr., Celso Carunungan, Ishmael
Bernal, Bienvenido Lumbera, Mars Ravelo. Si Ravelo’y nangahas na
pasulatin siya ng komiks at artikulo, wala nang editing, “Pinipirmahan na
lang at ipinapasa sa accounting.” Lalo siyang ginanahan sa pagtitiwalang ito.
Napakalaki ng malasakit ni Ravelo sa survival ng industriya ng komiks na
binili nito mismo ang Bulaklak Publications para hindi lang iyon magsara,
at dahil doon, naibenta’t naisangla niya ang marami niyang property. Si
Bernal naman ang nagbigay ng break sa kaniya sa telebisyon. Siya rin ang
nagpakilala kay Bautista kay Oscar Miranda, na executive producer noon
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ng tv show na “Sumasainyo: Gloria Romero”. Dahil sa naging bukas ang

mga taong ito sa pagbibigay ng oportunidad at tiwala, na tila pinulsuhan
lamang ang kaniyang kakayahan kaya hindi rin niya masyadong pinapansin
ang mga armchair critics na sa tingin niya’y nag-oover-analyze. “Sa akin
kasi, sapat na matatamaan ang puso mo, masakit. Sumasakto.”
Hangga’t maari, gusto niyang maging awtentiko: sa paksa, sa tauhan,
sa wika. Sa pagsusulat ng dialogue, halimbawa, pinakikinggan niya ng
paulit-ulit ang dayalog, hindi na baleng magmukhang sira kung nagsasalita
nang walang kausap. Nakaengkuwentro siya ng ilang isyu pagdating sa
awtensidad ng wika sa Liwayway. Halimbawa ang paglalangkap ng “putang-
ina” sa dayalog. “Napaka anti-woman nga, pero hindi mo sisilipin sa
ganyan e. Ganyan naman mag-usap ang mga tao sa lugar namin sa Tondo.”
Nakakatulong rin sa paghahagip ng dayalog ang pakikinig sa kung paano
magsalita ang mga tao: at saan pa the best mapakinggan iyan kundi sa tapat
ng bintana?
Sa lahat rin ng gawa niya, nasa proseso man ng pagsusulat o nasa proseso
ng produksiyon na kasalamuha na ang ibang kapuwa artists at kamanunulat,
importante kay Bautista na may respetuhan ang mga magkakasama. May
mga mapagsamantala rin na nasa industriya ng panulat, at maaga siyang
namulat dito. Noong bata pa siya halimbawa, kinuha ng isang publisher
ang isang istorya niyang nalathala sa Liwayway kasama ang istorya ng iba
pang awtor. Binayaran ng tig-isandaang piso ang bawat awtor. Tumanggi si
Bautista, gayundin ang kaniyang kapatid na si Marilag na kinuhanan din ng
maikling kuwento. Bata man siya noon, alam niya ang halaga ng paghingi ng
permiso, “Kasi kuwento ko ‘yon.” Pinayuhan siya ng kaibigang abogado na
kumuha ng sulat sa editor upang magsilbing ebidensiya na hindi nagpaalam
ang publisher. Binulungan siya ni Mang Basyong na dapat si Clodualdo del
Mundo ang gumawa ng sulat . Dagdag na bulong naman ni Ligaya Perez,
huwag mo nang asahang igagawa ka niya ng sulat, ikaw na ang mag-draft at
ipapirma mo na. Tinulungan pa siya ni Ligaya Perez kung ano ang ilalagay.
Tamang-tama na dumating si Clodualdo del Mundo, Sr. Nag-alangan ang
senior writer. Singit si Ligaya Perez ulit at sinabi kay Del Mundo: “Pirmahan
mo na, hindi ka naman titigilan niyan.” Pinirmahan na nga, at dahil doon,
nabayaran si Bautista, pati ang kaniyang kapatid, ng tig-isang libong piso.
Nakilala si Bautista sa reputasyong palaban. Kapag tinawagan na siya
at nasabi na maaari nang makolekta ang voucher o tseke, aasahan niya ito.
Kaya nang sabihin ng kahera ng magasing Tagumpay na makukuha na niya
ang pera niya, batambata pa siya noon, umasa siya na ibibigay ang kaniyang
tseke. Iyonpala, hindi pa handa ang voucher. Leave no hostages ang tindig
ni Bautista, nagsumbong siya kay Celso Al. Carunungan. Nagbanta na hindi
aalis nang hindi nakukuha ang pera niya. Absent pa naman ang accountant.
Ang ginawa ni Carunungan, siya na mismo ang nag-issue ng tseke kay
Bautista.
Noong dalaga pa si Bautista, at malapit nang magdisiotso, medyo
kinakabahan na siya noong wala pang nanliligaw sa kaniya. “Pangit ba ako?”
tanong niya. Marahil ang katapatan niya, ang tiwala sa sarili ang binasa
bilang panganib ng mga tao sa paligid niya. Dati, tinutukso siya ng ibang
mga manunulat at artist sa isang pamangkin ni Liwayway Arceo. “Naku,
ayokong maging manugang ‘yan,” sabi ni Aling Lily, sabay tawa. “Pero
mahal naman ako ni Aling Lily,” pakli ni Bautista. Lagi itong may regalo
sa kaniya tuwing Pasko. Mga regalong likha ng kamay. Pumunta pa ito sa
burol ng tatay niya na ikinagulat pa niya. Kinutuban daw si Aling Lily na
tatay niya ang namatay, dahil may Lualhating nakalista sa mga pangalan ng
naiwang anak na lumabas sa obitwaryo ng isang diyaryo.
Love her or hate her, iisa lang ang Lualhati Bautista ng ating panitikan:
ang awtor ng mga nobela, screenplay, teleplay, kuwento at tula na sapol ang
sensibilidad ng kaniyang panahon. Tama ang yumaong Odette Alcantara
sa “paliwanag” niya ng pangalan ni Bautista: “Lualhati dahil naluwal na
ang pighati. Pero walang katotohanan na ang ibig sabihin ng pighati ay
malungkot na baboy.”
Annotated Bibliography
Alingawngaw:
Tinig Pampanitikan ng Taong 2010
Jayson D. Petras
P
andinig ang sinasabing huling nawawala sa tao bago
malagutan ng hininga. Samakatuwid, higit sa paningin at
pandama ang tagal ng danas at pagtimo sa ating kabuuan ng
anumang napakikinggan bago kumawala patungo sa ibang
daigdig ng kaakuhan.
Gaya ng buhay ng tao, lagpas sa laki at estilo ng mga
titik o gaspang at kinis ng mga pahina ang hatid ng mga publikasyong
pampanitikan. Nagsasatinig ito upang katawanin ang dimensiyong
tumatagos sa limitasyon ng panahon at pook. Humihiyaw ito patungo
sa mga mambabasa upang ukilkilin ang himaymay ng kamalayan at ulirat
ng bawat isa sa patuloy pang pag-unawa at pagsusuri sa indibidwal at sa
lipunan.
Sa sarili nagsisimula ang bulong ng maraming manunulat sa publikasyon
ng 2010. Maaaring ang tinig ay ibinunga ng paghahabi ng pananaw ng may-
akda tulad ng mga tulang hatid ng chapbook series ng grupong Linangan
sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo (LIRA) at ng mga publikasyon ng High Chair.
Posible rin itong dulot ng iba’t ibang lawak at lalim ng danas sa pakikipag-
unay sa kapaligiran at sa kapwa gaya ng Agaw-dilim, Agaw-liwanag ni Abreu,
Sagad sa Buto ni Baquiran, Jungle of No Mercy ni Mizuguchi, Pamhinta X ni
Cano, Pilgrim in Transit ni Peñaranda, Connecting Flights na tinipon ni De
Vera at iba pa o sa paghuhulma ng mga salaysay na nakabatay rito tulad ng
mga dula ni Casanova at nobela ni Ong at ni Reyes. Gayundin, resulta ito
ng pagsusuri ng iba’t ibang salik ng malawak na kulturang kinabibilangan
ng awtor, halimbawa sa mga katha ni Almario, Ordoñez, Pison, Tolentino
at Torres Reyes.
Bukod sa nabanggit, umaalingawngaw rin ang mga kaganapan ng mga
sinundang taon sa mga limbag ng 2010. Dinig pa rin ang dagundong ng
Batas Militar sa panahon ng rehimeng Marcos na pinatunayan ng mga
tinipong akda ni Abad sa Underground Spirit at nina Cimatu at Tolentino
sa Mondo Marcos. Nauulinigan naman sa mga pahina ng After the Storm
na tinipon ni Elbert Or, Renaissance nina Abrera, at Bituin and the Big
Flood ni Doyo ang hagupit ng mga bagyong Ondoy at Pepeng. Samantala,
patuloy na nagwiwika ng parangal at pasasalamat ang mga akdang Ninoy
at Cory: Magkabiyak na Bayani ni Landicho at Cory: An Intimate Portrait
II na pinamatnugutan ni Penson-Juico sa namayapang Pangulong Corazon
Aquino.
Ang mga nabanggit ay ilan lamang sa napakaraming pagsasatinig
ng mga manunulat ng isang panahon at pook ng pagpapatotoo sa tiyak
na kinikilusang espasyo – sa loob man ng sarili o sa labas ng malawak na
sandaigdigan. Matingkad sa mga ito ang anyong tula na humihimig sa
iba’t ibang paraan – katutubo, tradisyonal, makabago o eksperimental –
dulot ng iba’t ibang publikasyon at organisasyong aktibong nagtataguyod
nito. May sariling daloy rin ang tunog na likha ng mga kuwento, sanaysay
at dula, kasabay ng iilang dulang nailathala. Marami ring pagkakataong
nagpapanagpo ang mga boses dulot ng pagsasama-sama ng mga anyo sa
loob ng mga katha.
Sa bawat salaysay, litaw ang mahigpit na ugnay ng wika. Bagama’t
dominante pa ring maririnig sa mga akda ang mga wikang Filipino at
Ingles, patuloy na itinataguyod at gumagawa ng sariling boses ang iba’t
ibang wikang rehiyonal gaya ng Pangasinan, Cebuano, Iluko, Bikol, Waray
at Hiligaynon sa mga proyektong Ubod Writers Series II ng Pambansang
Komisyon para sa Kultura at mga Sining at Ateneo Institute of Literary
Arts and Practice. Unti-unti ring lumilikha ng natatanging himig ang mga
organisasyong pampanitikan sa lalawigan tulad ng Cavite Young Writers
Association, Espasyo SiningDikato, at Paper Monster Press na pawang
mga nakabase sa Cavite at ang publikasyong Ulupan na Pansiansia’y
Salitan Pangasinan na naglathala ng mga likha ng mga kontemporanyong
manunulat ng Pangasinan.
Sa pagtatangkang maisaboses ang lahat ng mga publikasyong
pampanitikan, o kung hindi man ay ang marami sa mga ito, ginalugad
ng mananaliksik ang mga aklatan, bilihan ng libro at maging ang sariling
koleksiyon, sinipat ang mga press release sa iba’t ibang website at blogsite,
at nakipag-usap sa mga tagapaglathala. Sa mga pamamaraang ito, sa tulong
ng mga masisigasig na mag-aaral ng UP Diliman na sina Pia Benosa at Elvin
Cruz, nagtagumpay ang mananaliksik na mapakinggan ang 116 akdang
naitala rito. Gayunman, mababakas din ang iba’t ibang antas at lalim ng
pag-uugnay sa mga teksto. At bagama’t may ilang hilaw ang pagpapanagpo
at pagpapakilala, minabuti ng mananaliksik na isama ang mga ito sa talaan
bilang paraan na rin ng paghahabilin at paghamon sa mga mambabasang
ganap na kilalanin ang mga akdang ito.
Narito ang pag-alingawngaw ng mga sari-saring tinig na humulma,
humuhulma at huhulma bago at sa taong 2010 at sa mga susunod pang
panahon:
A salik na nagpausbong sa imahinasyon.

Nagbibigay rin ito ng mas malalim
Abad, Gémino H. Care of Light: na pagtanaw sa sariling pagkiling at
New Poems and Found. Pasig: Anvil poetika ng manunulat. Dagdag pa rito,
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [TULA] pinagdurugtong nito ang kasaysayan ng
Koleksiyon ng 38 new poems at 11 found panitikan at ng Pilipinas at inilalahad
poems mula sa Professor Emeritus ng ang bisa ng imahinasyon ng tao sa
UP Diliman na si Gemino Abad ang sitwasyon ng Pilipinas.
Care of Light: New Poems and Found.
May mga pasabi rin ukol sa ilang tula Abad, Gémino H. Underground
sa akda sa hulihang bahagi nito. Ang Spirit Vol. 1: Philippine Short
introduksiyong pinamagatang The Stories in English: 1973 to 1989.
Poem is the Real: A Poetics ay ginamit Lungsod Quezon: The University
naman sa ICW Panayam Centennial of the Philippines Press, 2010.
Lecture Series, UP Faculty Center [MAIKLING KUWENTO]
noong ika-5 ng Disyembre 2008 at -----. Underground Spirit Vol. 2:
nailimbag rin sa Likhaan 2008. Philippine Short Stories in English:
1973 to 1989. Lungsod Quezon: The
Abad, Gémino H. Imagination’s University of the Philippines Press,
Way: Essays Critical and Personal. 2010. [MAIKLING KUWENTO]
Maynila: UST Publishing Ang aklat ay kasunod na libro sa Upon
House, 2010. [SANAYSAY] Our Own Ground (2008) at tipon ng
Tinipon sa Imagination’s Way ang mga maikling kuwentong naisulat sa
mga sanaysay ni Gemino Abad mula sa Ingles noong panahong 1973 hanggang
kaniyang personal na buhay patungo sa 1989. Nahahati sa dalawang volume
kitisismong pampanitikan. Tinatangka ang aklat: volume I na sumasakop
nitong bigyang-kahulugan ang mga sa panahong 1973 hanggang 1982
290 likhaan 5 ˙ annotated bibliography
at volume II para sa panahong 1983 kilusang rebolusyonaryo sa bansa at

hanggang 1989. Sinasabing karamihan pagbibigay-liwanag sa mga karakter na
sa mga kuwento ay pumapaksa sa mga nagpatakbo at bumuhay rito sa loob
pangyayari noong rehimeng Marcos ng nakaraang sandaang taon. Higit sa
kung kailan pilit na nilulupig ang mga lahat, ito ay patunay sa kakayahan ng
laban sa pamahalaan sa pamamagitan panulat at literatura na maging daan
ng pag-aresto at pagpapahirap – mga para hanapan ng katahimikan ang
nakikitang dahilan kung bakit nailipat kaguluhang nagaganap sa buhay ng
sa anyo ng maikling kuwento ang isang komunista. Ginawaran ang libro
sentimyento ng mga manunulat. ng UP Centennial Literary Award at
2011 Madrigal Gonzales Best First
Abrera, Manix, et al. Renaissance: Book Award.
Ang Muling Pagsilang. Pasig:
Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010. Alfar, Nikki at Vincent Michael
[SANAYSAY, DIBUHO] Simbulan, mga patnugot.
Ang aklat ay koleksiyon ng mga Philippine Speculative Fiction
gawang sining mula sa 60 Pilipinong 5. Pasig: Kestrel DDM, 2010.
mangguguhit mula sa Pilipinas at [MAIKLING KUWENTO]
ibang bansa na eksperto sa larangan ng Muling tinipon ng mga patnugot na sina
komiks, cartoons, animations, gaming Alfar at Simbulan ang pinakamagagaling
at graphic design. Pinapaksa ng mga na science fiction, fantasy at horror
larawang tampok ang kabayanihan ng stories ng Pilipinas --na pumapaloob sa
mga superhero kung nagkataong ang iisang katawagang speculative fiction.
mga ito ay totoo at nakasagip noong Kasama sa edisyon na ito ang mga likha
panahong nanalanta ang mga Bagyong ina Angelo Lacuesta, Charles Tan, Mia
Pepeng at Ondoy sa Pilipinas. May Tijam, Rica Bolipata-Santos, at iba pa.
pagpapakila sa lumikha ng mga obra sa Ang mga kuwentong ito ay lalo pang
bawat pahina. Tampok din sa libro ang nakapagpasidhi sa diskurso sa lugar
mga mensahe ng mga nagsipagbahaging ng speculative ficton sa kasaysayang
mangguguhit sa hulihang bahagi ng pampanitikan ng Pilipinas
akda.
Almario, Virgilio S, patnugot.
Abreu, Lualhati Milan. Agaw-dilim, Lirang Pilak. Lungsod
Agaw-liwanag. Lungsod Quezon: Quezon: Vibal Foundation,
The University of the Philippines Inc., 2010. [TULA]
Press, 2010. [SANAYSAY] Ang aklat na itoay koleksiyon ng mga
Ang Agaw-dilim, Agaw-liwanag ay higit tula ng apatnapung kasapi ng grupong
pa sa isang talambuhay at pagsusuri Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo
ng mga pangyayari sa kasaysayan (LIRA). Kabilang sa mga kasaping
batay sa isang perspektibang aktibista, ito ang mga batikang manunulat at
peminista at gerilya. Ito ay paglalahad makatang sina Romulo P. Baquiran
din ng mismong mga pundasyon ng Jr., Roberto T. Añonuevo, Michael M.
pagkahubog ng kontemporanyong Coroza at iba pa, at ang mga nakababata
291
ngunit patuloy namang umaani ng man. Layunin nitong bigyan ng

mga parangal sa panulaan tulad nina pag-asa ang mithiing mahuhulma sa
Mesandel Virtusio Arguelles, Phillip bawat mambabasa ang isang kritikal
Kimpo Jr., Beverly Siy at iba pa. Bahagi na pagtangkilik sa wika at panitikang
ang publikasyong ito ng pagdiriwang ng Filipino.
LIRA sa ika-25 na anibersaryo nito.
Almario, Virgilio S. Ang Tuta ni Noe.
Almario, Virgilio S. Muling Lungsod Quezon: Adarna House,
Pagkatha sa Ating Bansa: O bakit 2010. [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
ang pinakamahabang tulay sa Sa ika-30 taon ng Adarna House ay
buong mundo ang Tulay Calumpit. inilimbag nito ang Ang Tuta Ni Noe
Lungsod Quezon: The University na kuwento tungkol sa Dakilang Baha
of the Philippines Press, 2010. na nabanggit sa Bibliya. Tungkol ito
[KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY] sa isang tuta na namatay ang mga
Ang Muling Pagkatha sa Ating Bansa kasama sa pagbaha at walang natirang
ay isang direktang pagtalakay ng kapares, di gaya ng iba pang mga
Pambansang Alagad ng Sining na si hayop. Kinaiingitan sya sa loob ng
Rio Alma sa mga sakit at mga kapuna- arko dahil sa atensIyong ibinibigay
punang aspekto ng buhay Filipino at sa kanIya ni Noe. Sa pagtatapos ng
ang pagkakakilanlan nito sa kaniyang akda ay matatagpuan sa pagkati ng
kasaysayan. Ang akda ay binubuo ng tubig ang isang babaeng kapares na
iba’t ibang sanaysay ukol sa politika, tuta ng mag-asawang Manaul (Eagle).
kasaysayan at kulturang Filipino. Lahat ay may kapares na sa pagbaba sa
Nagbibigay rin ito ng mga natatanging arko. Tinampukan din ng panghuling
rekomendasyon kung paanong gawain na nagpapakilala sa mga hayop.
maaaring simulan ang isang dalisay na Nasusulat sa Ingles at Filipino ang
pagpapapahalaga sa katauhang Filipino libro, may 32 pahina at rekomendado
na siyang huhulma sa identidad natin sa mga batang edad 9 hanggang 11.
bilang isang nasyon.
Aragon, Susan Dela Rosa. When
Almario, Virgilio S. Pitong Color Came To Town (Pag-Abot
Bundok ng Haraya. Maynila: ni Kolor Sa Lungsod). Lungsod
UST Publishing House, 2010. Quezon: Adarna House, 2010.
[KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY] [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
Sa Pitong Bundok ng Haraya, kritiko ng Kuwento ito ng bayang Alikabok/
kasaysayan ng pagbasa at pag-intindi ng Abog na walang kulay. Tamad ang
panitikan ang papel na ginagampanan mga tao, palagiang lasing ang mga
ng Pambansang Alagad ng Sining lalaki at laging tulog ang mga babae.
na si Rio Alma. Ang paglalahad Punong-puno ng alikabok ang paligid.
ng mga perspektiba sa libro ay tila Hanggang sa dumating sa bayan ang
isang paglalakbay at pagpapakilala sa isang lalaking masigla at may kulay.
bawat bundok na tinatahak ng isang Nagsimula siyang maglinis at gisingin
tao—mapa-manunulat o mambabasa ang mga tao. Nagtuturo ang libro ng
kulay at kalinisan. Interaktibo rin dahil persona sa mga tula. Makikita rin ang
sa bahagi nitong maaring kulayan. isang komplikado at interesanteng
Nagtuturo rin ito ng kulay at agham sa imahinasyon na naglalabas ng mga
huling gawain. Nasusulat ang libro sa salita at taludtod na pawang naglalaho,
wikang Ingles at Cebuano. kalat at naglalakbay sa pahina.
Arcellana, Emerenciana Y., Asenjo, Genevieve. Lumbay ng

patnugot. Favorite Arcellana Dila. Lungsod Quezon: C&E
Stories. Lungsod Quezon: The Publishing, Inc., 2010. [NOBELA]
University of the Philippines Press, Umiinog ang nobela sa karakter na si
2010. [MAIKLING KUWENTO] Sadyah Zapanta Lopez, apo ng dating
Tinipon ni UP Professor Emeritus Assemblyman ng Antique Marcelo
Emerenciana Arcellana ang mga N. Lopez na inakusahang puno ng
pinakamagagaling na gawang fiksiyon Guinsang-an Bridge Massacre noong
ng kaniyang nasirang asawang 1984, at anak ni Teresa Checa Z. Lopez,
Pambansang Alagad ng Sining na kilala bilang Kumander Rafflesia
Francisco Arcellana. Kasama sa ng Coronacion Chiva Command sa
koleksiyong ito ang mga popular at Gitnang Panay. Pinatutunayan ng
itinuturong gawa gaya ng “How to mga tauhang sangkot at ng mismong
Read, Death in a Factory” at “The kuwento ang interes ng nobela sa
Mats.” aspektong politikal -- sa patuloy na
pakikibaka para sa kapangyarihan at
Arguelles, Mesandel Virtusio. katarungan sa pagitan ng magkabilang
Alinsunurang Awit. Maynila: UST panig.
Publishing House, 2010. [TULA]
Ang Alinsunurang Awit ang ikaanim Asis, Michael Demetrius. I Am
sa koleksiyon ng mga tula ng makatang Because We Are: Reflections
si Arguelles. Ipinamalas sa akda ang On Love, Relationships,
pagsasama ng kariktan ng imahinasyon and Life. Lungsod Quezon:
at pagdanas na makikita sa halos Ateneo de Maynila University
40 awit na pumapaksa sa pandama. Press, 2010. [SANAYSAY]
Iba-iba man ang nais patunguhan ng Pinapaksa ng libro ang iba’t ibang
bawat karakter sa kaisipan ng may- aspekto ng pag-ibig, pakikipagtipan at
akda, pumapalo pa rin sa pag-ibig ang buhay na hango sa personal na danas ng
kabuuang tema ng Alinsunurang Awit. may-akda. Gumamit ng mga istorya mula
sa kaniyang mga pakikisalamuha ang
Arguelles, Mesandel Virtusio. may-akda upang mas maging malalim
Alingaw. Lungsod Quezon: ang pagkaunawa ng mga mambabasa sa
High Chair, 2010. [TULA] bawat paksang tinatalakay. Binabanggit
Ang Alingaw ang ikalima sa koleksiyon sa libro ang isyu ng pag-ibig, seks at
ng mga tula ng makatang si Arguelles. espiritwalidad sa isang relasyon at
Bakas sa mga pahina ang iba’t kung papaano ito dapat pagyamanin sa
ibang katauhan ng kaniyang mga patnubay ng Panginoon.
293
B bunga ng kahirapan na kitang-kita

sa mga espasyo tulad ng naninikip at
Balarbar, Corazon V., et al. maingay na ospital, at pati na rin sa
Gems in Philippine Literature. kultura at pamilyang Filipino.
Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc.,
2010. [SANAYSAY, TULA, Barco, Nestor S. Ang Daigdig ay
MAIKLING KUWENTO, DULA] Iisa at Marami. Cavite: Cavite
Ang libro ay tipon ng mga tula, Young Writers Association, 2010.
maikling kuwento, dula, sanaysay, [TULA, MAIKLING KUWENTO]
parabola na gawa ng mga Pilipinong Isang koleksiyon ng mga tula at
manunulat at tumatalakay sa mga kuwentong hinabi ni Barco sa loob ng
Pilipino mula noon hanggang sa ilang taon.
kasalukuyan- ang kanIyang kaluluwa,
psyche, pamayanan at tradisyon, at Barrios, Joi. Bulaklak sa
suliranin at gawi ng pamumuhay. Tubig: Mga Tula ng Pag-ibig
Isinasalaysay ng libro sa pamamagitan at Himagsik. Pasig: Anvil
ng mga akda ang kasaysayan ng bansa Publishing, Inc., 2010. [TULA]
at ang pagtatalaban ng mga tao at Ang 229-pahinang libro na naglalaman
grupong humubog sa bansa at mga ng mga tula ni Joi Barrios at may salin sa
mamamayang Pilipino. May tampok Ingles ni Mark Pangilinan ay pumapaksa
na introduksyon rin ukol sa literatura sa pag-ibig at pakikIbaka sa pananaw
ng bansa ang libro mula sa panahon ng isang babae. Ang bawat kabanata
ng pananakop ng mga Amerikano ay sinisimbolo ng bulaklak – sagisag
hanggang sa kasalukuyan. Marami ng pag-ibig at pakikibaka para sa may-
ring pasunod na seksyon at gawain akda na noon pa ma’y paborito nang
ang bawat akda gaya ng literary shop, talinghaga sa mga romantikong panulat
gemstones at word filter na humuhubog tulad ng magnolia na kumakatawan sa
sa pampanitikang kakayahan ng mga kasaysayan ng babaeng nangingibang-
mag-aaral. bayan at ng water lily para sa bawal na
pag-ibig sa gitna ng digma. Itinuturing
Baquiran, Romulo P. Jr. Sagad sa ang akda bilang dokumentasyon ng
Buto: Hospital Diary at Iba pang kanilang pakikibaka sa mga polisiya
Sanaysay. Maynila: UST Publishing ng Pamahalaang Arroyo kung kaya’t
House, 2010. [SANAYSAY] sadyang inalis ang mga akdang
Nag-iba ang mga pananaw sa buhay ng naisulat bago pa man ang nasabing
akademiko at manunulat na si Romulo administrasyon. Ayon sa Pambansang
Baquiran Jr. nang maaksidente noong Alagad ng Sining para sa Panitikan na
Agosto 2008 at mabalian ng buto. si Virgilio S. Almario, “dapat basahin si
Nilalaman ng aklat na ito ang kaniyang Joi bilang makata na babae, feminista,
mga karanasan nang mamalagi sa aktibista at nasyonalista.”
isang pampublikong ospital para
magpagaling. Masinsinan at mapanuri Benosa, Sherma Espino. Dagiti
ang pagtalakay nito sa mga isyung Babassit nga Alipugpog. Maynila:
National Commission for Culture Brainard, Cecilia Manguerra.

and the Arts at Ateneo Institute of Vigan and Other Stories. Maynila:
Literary Arts and Practice, 2010. Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010.
[MAIKLING KUWENTO] [MAIKLING KUWENTO]
Laman ng koleksiyong ito ang apat na Inaalala ng manunulat na si Brainard
maiikling kuwentong Iluko. Maliban hindi lamang ang bayan ng Vigan at
sa pagtatanghal ng mga malikhaing ang Pilipinas sa kaniyang mga maikling
inobasyon sa malikhaing pagsulat sa kuwento sa aklat na ito. Narito rin ang
Iluko, pansin din ang kaibahan ng mga mga partikular na lugar na kaniyang
tauhan sa mga kuwento ni Benosa. pinaglagian—Sagada, Maynila, Cebu,
Kung dati’y naaapi at nagmumukmok Cusco, Peru, Calcutta, Chartres,
ang babae sa kuwento o sarsuwelang California, at iba pa—na makikita
Iluko, ibang uri ng lakas naman ang mula sa mata ng kaniyang iba’t iba at
nagagawang ipakita ng mga tauhan ni interesanteng mga tauhan. Bagaman
Benosa sa kabila ng pagiging biktima matagal nang expat sa Amerika, ang
ng sistemang mas pabor sa mga mga akda ni Brainard ay pawang mga
kalalakihan. Ang kuwentong “Mga pagbabalik-tanaw ukol sa bayang
Mumunting Ipu-ipo,” na siyang salin kinalakhan. Ilan sa mga inspirasyon
ng kuwentong pantitulo sa Filipino ni para sa mga maikling kuwento ay mga
Cles B. Rambaud, ay kabilang din sa personal na karanasan ni Brainard, na
koleksyon. Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod binigyan ng katauhang pamfiksiyon.
Writers Series II.
Boyer, Robert H. Sundays in

C
Manila. Lungsod Quezon: The
Calica, Maya O. Undercover Tai
University of the Philippines
Tai. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc.,
Press, 2010. [SANAYSAY]
2010. [NOBELA/CHICK LIT]
Laman ng Sundays in Manila ang mga
Ang nobela ay umiinog sa babaeng
sanaysay ng akademikong si Robert
si Amanda, na isang luxury cruise
Boyer sa kaniyang mga karanasan sa
ay nabago ang buhay nang maging
paulit-ulit na pagbisita sa Pilipinas sa
undercover agent siya matapos
loob ng maraming taon. Nagbibigay
ang pagkawala ng isang Tai Tai.
ito ng mga kawili-wiling obserbasyon
Kinailangan niyang magpanggap na isa
tungkol sa kaugaliang Filipino batay sa
ring Tai Tai sa tulong ni Agent Brian
perspektibang Amerikano. Gayundin,
upang malutas ang kaso. Ang Tai Tai
sinusundan ng mga repleksiyon sa
ay isang pangngalang nabuo noong
aklat ang kasaysayan ng relasyong
ika-19 na siglo sa Tsina na may literal
Pilipinas at US mula noong panahon ng
na kahulugan na supreme of supreme
pananakop ng huli sa bansa. Nilalaman
at tumutukoy sa supreme wife ng mga
din ng aklat ang mga dibuho ni June
lalaking Tsino na kayang sumuporta sa
Poticar-Dalisay.
maraming asawa.
295
Calixihan, Jovita O. at Lucesa ng mga salitang bakla na kadalasan ay

Y. Diano. Gems in Afro-Asian sinusundan ng paliwanag para sa mga
Literature. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, hindi nakauunawa nito.
Inc., 2010. [SANAYSAY, TULA,
MAIKLING KUWENTO] Carcamo, Ronaldo, patnugot.
Kalipunan ng mga akdang Afriko- Aninaw. Lungsod Quezon: Linangan
Asyano na nagtatangkang maintindihan sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo, at
ng mga Pilipinong mag-aaral ang Vibal Foundation, 2010. [TULA]
kanilang pagkakatulad sa iba pang mga Aninaw ang huling bahagi ng chapbook
mamamayan ng Asya at Afrika sa gawi series ng grupong pampanulaang
ng pamumuhay at pananampalataya LIRA para sa taong 2010. Isa itong
at gayundin naman ang kanilang koleksiyon ng dalawampu’t limang
pagkakaiba-iba sa pananaw at mga bagong mga tula mula sa mga makatang
tradisyon. Nagmula sa mga bansa tulad sina Giancarlo Lauro C. Abrahan V,
ng Japan, India, Korea, China, Persia, Mikael Rabara Gallego, Louie Jon A.
Lebanon, Nigeria at Ghana ang mga Sanchez, at iba pa.
akda na kuwento, sanaysay at tula.
Nilapatan din ng panimulang talakay Casanova, Arthur. Kidney for
ukol sa Afrika at Asya ang unang Sale. Maynila: UST Publishing
bahagi ng aklat upang maintindihan House, 2010. [DULA]
ng mga mambabasa ang kontekstong Nilalaman ng aklat na ito ang tatlong
pinanggalingan ng mga akda. Marami dulang ganap ang haba na ineeksamen
ring pasunod na seksiyon at gawain ang uri at antas ng kahirapan,
ang bawat akda gaya ng literary shop, partikular na ang pangangalakal ng
gemstones at word filter na humuhubog mga laman-loob na talamak sa ilang
sa pampanitikang kakayahan ng mga mga komunidad sa bansa.
mag-aaral.
Casanova, Arthur. Semento
Cano, Louie. Pamhinta X: Mga Boys. Maynila: UST Publishing
Nababagang Sanaysay. Lungsod House, 2010. [DULA]
Quezon: Milflores Publishing, Tipon ng mga dulang may isang
Inc., 2010. [SANAYSAY] yugto, na pinangungunahan ng dulang
Nakasentro ang libro sa mga karanasan “Semento Boys,” ang librong ito ni
ng may-akda at kaniyang mga salaysay Casanova.
ukol sa mga “Pamhinta” o mga
“lalaking nakahanap ng misteryo ng Cerda, Christoffer Mitch C.
tuwa sa piling ng kapwa lalaki” ngunit Paglalayag Habang Naggagala
hindi nagbibihis at kumikilos gaya ng ang Hilaga at Iba Pang
babae. Iba’t ibang aspekto rin ng buhay Kuwento.Maynila: National
pamhinta ang tinalakay ng aklat gaya Commission for Culture and
ng usapin ng pag-ibig, seks, pag-asta at the Arts at Ateneo Institute of
mga lugar-pasyalan ng mga pamhinta. Literary Arts and Practice, 2010.
Kapansin-pansin din ang paggamit [MAIKLING KUWENTO]
Binubuo ng limang kuwento ang kasama ay hindi lamang yaong mga

koleksiyong ito na naglalarawan sa naisulat ng mga may isip na noong
kontemporanyong buhay ng Pilipino. panahon na iyon kundi maging
Pinupuri ang mga akda ni Cerda para ng mga tinatawag na Martial Law
sa kontrol niya sa wika at emosyon ng babies. Kasama sa koleksiyon ang mga
nais ipahiwatig. Kabilang ang aklat sa maikling kuwento, sanaysay at tulang
Ubod Writers Series II. gawa nina Michael Francis Andrada,
Robert JA Basilio, Padmapani Perez,
Chua, Noelle. Mrs. Mismarriage. Zosimo Quibilan, Jr. at Sanadra Nicole
Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., Roldan.
2010. [NOBELA/CHICK LIT]
Ang nobela ay tungkol sa buhay ni Cortes, Fidelito C. Everyday
Audrey Lee, isang Harvard Literature Things. Maynila: UST Publishing
PhD candidate na nagpakasal sa House, 2010. [TULA]
kaniyang kasintahan na si Paul Chang, Ang Everyday Things ay koleksiyon
isang MBA at namuhay sa isang halos ng mga tula ni Cortes na nagwagi sa
perpektong buhay sa Singapore. Ang 1994 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
problema sa kanilang relasyon ay Awards. Si Cortes ay isang Stegner
nagsimula nang naging mapaghinala Fellow in Poetry sa Stanford University
si Audrey na nangangaliwa si Paul, at kasalukuyang naniniraan sa Long
idagdag pa ang palaging pagiging abala Island, New York. Ang kanyang unang
ng huli sa trabaho. Isinalasay sa nobela libro ng mga tula na Waiting for the
ang tipikal na mga hamon sa mga Exterminator ay nagkamit ng National
bagong relasyon ng mag-asawa. Book Award mula sa Manila Critic’s
Circle.
Cimatu, Frank and Rolando B.
Tolentino, mga patnugot. Mondo Cruz, Conchitina. elsewhere held
Marcos: Writings on Martial Law and lingered, 2nd ed. Lungsod
and the Marcos Babies (Volume Quezon: High Chair, 2010. [TULA]
1). Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., Tinatalakay sa pangalawang libro
2010. [MAIKLING KUWENTO, ni Cruz ang kasalukuyang lagay
SANAYSAY, TULA] ng ugnayang mag-asawa sa ating
--Mondo Marcos: Mga Panulat mundo- ang kabiguan, kompromiso
sa Batas Militar at ng Marcos at pangangailangan. Ang mga tula
Babies (Volume 2). Pasig: Anvil sa koleksiyon ni Cruz ay pumapalag
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [MAIKLING sa mga karaniwang estilo ng
KUWENTO, SANAYSAY, TULA] panulaan sa pamamagitan ng mga
Sa bilinggwal na antolohiyang ito, footnote,marginalia at index – tila ng
pinagsama-sama nina Cimatu at mga naratibong inilululan sa berso ang
Tolentino ang mga gunita at alaala ng mga akda.
mga manunulat sa mga kaguluhan at
pagkilos na sumiklab noong dekada Cruz, Jhoanna Lynn B. Women
‘70 at ‘80 sa Pilipinas. Ang mga akdang Loving: Stories & a Play. Pasig:
297
Anvil Publishing Inc., 2010. Beauty Brigade, 2010. [TULA]

[MAIKLING KUWENTO, DULA] Mula sa 157 tulang tinipon sa Crowns
Tipon ng mga kuwento at isang and Oranges, isang antolohiya ng mga
buong dula na pumapaksa sa mga tula sa Ingles na pinamatnugutan
homosekswal na babae, “mga nina Cirilo Bautista at Ken Ishikawa,
babaeng nasa transit at mga babaeng isinagawa ni David ang proseso ng
naghahanap sa kanilang buhay at erasure sa kaniyang mga tula habang
kalauna’y nagtatanong kung ano ang iniiwan ang mga bakas nito sa kaniyang
kanilang nahanap.” Nais ng may-akda mga pahina. Ang bagong koleksiyong
na sa pamamagitan ng librong ito ay ito ay nakasandig sa anyong found
mahamon ang kakulangan ng mga poetry.
librong pumapaksa sa mga lesbian sa
tradisyong pampanitikan ng Pilipinas. De Vera, Ruel S., patnugot.
Isinali rin sa koleksiyong ito ang buong Connecting Flights: Filipinos
dula na “Halataka, Ms D!” na nanalo Write From Elsewhere.
ng ikalawang gantimpala sa 1999 Don Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc.,
Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for 2010. [TULA, MAIKLING
Literature sa kategoryang Full-length KUWENTO, SANAYSAY]
play, English Division. Pagtitipon ng mga tula, maikling
kuwento at sanaysay na inakda ng
D mga Pilipinong manunulat tungkol
sa kanilang mga karanasan, saloobin
at pakikipagsapalaran mula sa iba’t
David, Adam. The El Bimbo
ibang bansa sa mundo ang libro. Ito ay
Variations, 3rd ed. Lungsod
sumunod sa naunang aklat n Writing
Quezon: The Youth and Beauty
Home:19 Writers Remember Their
Brigade, 2010. [TULA]
Hometowns na pumapaksa naman sa
Sa aklat na ito, gumamit ng 99 na
pangungulila ng mga Pilipino sa kani-
pamamaraan ng pagbuo ng tula
kanilang bayan sa Pilipinas. May 169
si Adam David upang bigyan ng
pahina at nasusulat sa Ingles ang aklat.
panibagong buhay ang linyang
“Kamukha mo si Paraluman” mula
Dela Cuesta, Shiela Gonzales.
sa kantang Ang Huling El Bimbo ng
Junior. Maynila: Lampara
Eraserheads. Mula sa pagdaragdag
Publishing House, 2010.
ng line cuts hanggang sa total text to
[KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
comics transformations, nagawang
Tinanghal na kampeon sa 2007 Don
bigyan ni David ng kakaibang lasa ang
Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards
linyang sumikat noong dekada ‘90.
for Literature ang kuwento tungkol
Naghahatid din ng ligaya at pighati ang
sa pagtatanong ng batang si Victor
pagbabasa sa bawat pag-iiba ng linya
sa katauhan ng hindi pa nakikitang
ng kanta.
ama. Ang tingin ng bata ay wala
siyang pagkakatulad sa kanyang ina,
David, Adam. Crows and Rages.
lolo at lola at iba pang kamag-anak.
Lungsod Quezon: The Youth and
Nagtanong siya sa kaniyang lola ngunit Ang 24-pahinang libro na alay sa mga
wala itong nasambit kundi maaring siya batang nasawi at nakaligtas sa mga
ay kamukha ng kaniyang ama. Hindi bagyong Ondoy at Pepeng ay kabilang
rin naman alam ng kanyang ina kung sa mga libro ng Anvil Special Topics
saan naroroon ang kanyang ama kaya’t for Kids. Isinalaysay rito ang karanasan
sa halip na humanap ng pagkakaiba ay ng batang si Bituin at ng kaniyang
pagkakapareho ni Victor sa kaniyang pamilya sa isang mapaminsalang
mga kamag-anak ang ipinunto ng ina. bagyo na nagpalubog sa kanilang
Sa huli ay nangako ang ina na sabay bayan. Inilahad ang kanilang paglikas
nilang hahanapin ang ama ni Victor sa patungong evacuation center hanggang
paglaki nito. sa muling pagbalik sa kanilang tahanan.
Binanggit din sa kuwento ang mga
Dela Cruz, Ainne Frances, salik na gawa ng tao na nakapagpalala
patnugot. Paglagos. Cavite: Cavite sa baha at ang kanilang mga naging
Young Writers Association, tugon upang hindi na maulit pa ang
2010. [TULA, MAIKLING trahedya. Binigyang-diin ng aklat ang
KUWENTO, SANAYSAY] kahalagahan ng pamilya at komunidad
Ang Paglagos ay isang koleksiyon ng mga -- ang pagtutulungan sa panahon at
bagong akdang tula, maikling kuwento makalipas ang panahon ng sakuna.
at sanaysay ng mga batang manunulat May kalakip na mga gabay na tanong
na tubong Cavite. Karamihan sa mga para sa mga guro at tagapagkuwento
akdang nailimbag ay nagdaan sa mga at nasusulat sa mga wikang Ingles at
palihang inoorganisa ng grupo. Filipino.
Dela Cruz, Mar Anthony Simon. Dumdum, Simeon Jr. If You Write
Pasakalye. Maynila: National This Poem, Will You Make It Fly
Commission for Culture and (A Book of Birds and Verse Forms).
the Arts at Ateneo Institute of Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo de Manila
Literary Arts and Practice, 2010. University Press, 2010. [TULA]
[MAIKLING KUWENTO] Muling sumabak sa panibagong
Kapansin-pansin sa mga kuwento ni proyekto ang hukom at makatang
Simon ang labis na enerhiyang panulat si Simeon Dumdum Jr., upang
at uhaw sa espasyong mapaglalaanan maipagpatuloy ang kaniyang maraming
nito. Ngunit batid din ang kontrol sa interes, na sa puntong ito ay ang mga
mga emosyong ito sa mga kuwentong ibon. Mababasa sa librong ito ang mga
nagaganap sa mga napakapamilyar tulang isinulat para sa bawat ibong dito
na lugar sa isang siyudad na siya ring lamang sa Pilipinas matatagpuan. Hindi
pinaghaharian ng kaguluhan. Ang aklat lamang pampanitikang kasiyahan ang
ay kabilang sa Ubod Writers Series II. makukuha sa pagbabasa sa aklat kundi
maging praktikal na impormasyon
Doyo, Ma. Ceres P. Bituin and the Big ukol samga ibon at estilong panula na
Flood. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., ginamit sa bawat akda.
2010. [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
299
E G
Espasyo SiningDikato. Espasyo Galang, EJ and Apol Sta. Maria.
Zine Vol. 1 No. 1. Cavite: Espasyo Riddle of Nowhere. Lungsod
SiningDikato. 2010. [MAIKLING Quezon: High Chair, 2010. [TULA]
KUWENTO, SANAYSAY, TULA] Isa sa mga unang proyektong nakaguhit
-----. Balite Zine. Cavite: Espasyo at may kulay ng High Chair Press ang
SiningDikato, 2010. [MAIKLING Riddle of Nowhere kung saan pinagsama
KUWENTO, SANAYSAY, TULA] ang kapangyarihan ng salita at larawan
Ang Espayo Zine at Balite Zine ay upang magbigay ng panibagong
inilalathala ng grupong Kabitenyong kahulugan sa mga sinaunang bugtong.
Espasyo SiningDikato. Bagama’t Nakasulat sa berso at itinuturing na
hind regular ang publikasyon ng hiwalay na mga tula ang bawat akda
zine, kahanga-hanga pa rinang mga rito.
edisyon ng mga akdang nailalabas
nito na sumasakop sa mga genre ng Gojo Cruz, Genaro R. Mahabang-
maikling kwento, sanaysay, tula at iba mahabang-mahaba. Lungsod
pang makabagong uri ng pagsulat na Quezon: Adarna House, 2010.
bunga ng pag-eeksperimento ng mga [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
kasaping nakababatang manunulat. Ang akdang ito, na nanalo ng unang
gantimpala sa 2009 Don Carlos Palanca
F Memorial Awards for Literature sa
kategoryang Maikling Kuwentong
Pambata, ay tungkol sa batang
Fernandez, Erwin. Pasirayew
nagngangalang “Gatpuno Ping Emilio
ya Malapati (A Haughty Dove).
Juanito Santiago R.(Ruiz) Lakanilaw”.
Urdaneta: Ulupan na Pansiansia’y
Ipinapakita rito ang pagpapangalang
Salitan Pangasinan, 2010.
Pinoy na may kasaysayan. Ang Emilio
[KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
ay nagmula sa pangalan ng kaniyang
Pumapaksa sa pagiging
mga magulang na Emma at Julio. Ang
mapagkumababa at masunurin ang
Juanito ay pangalan ng kaniyang lolo
pambatang librong ito na nasusulat sa
sa tatay at Santiago naman ang lolo
wikang Pangasinan. Sa panulat at guhit
nya sa ina. Ang Ruiz ang kanyang
ni Fernandez, naging isang kayamanan
panggitnang pangalan samantalang
ng panitikan ng Pangasinan ang
ang Gatpuno at Ping ay mula naman sa
Pasirayew ya Malapati-lalo kung
pinaglihiang sangkap ng halo-halo ng
iisipin na iilan lamang ang nailimbag
kaniyang ina na gatas at macapuno at
na akda mula sa rehiyong ito sa mga
pinipig at saging.
nakaraang taon at lalong mas iilan kung
lilimitahan sa mga akdang pambata.
Gracio, Jerry B., patnugot. Ilang.
Lungsod Quezon: Linangan sa
Imahen, Retorika at Anyo, and
Vibal Foundation, 2010. [TULA]
Ikalawa ang Ilang sa chapbook series mundo. Maihahambing ang karanasan

ng grupong pampanulaang LIRA para sa katahimikan at panandaliang
sa 2010. Tulad ng ibang mga bahagi kapayapaang hatid ng pakiramdam ng
ng serye, nilalaman ng koleksiyong ito pagdaan ng isang anghel. Karamihan
ang dalawampu’t limang tulang siya sa mga tula ay inspirado ng mga guhit
ring nagdaan sa mga palihan ng grupo. nina Van Gogh, Dali, Juan Luna, at iba
Sinuri ang mga akda ng makata at mas pa. Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod Writers
kilalang manunulat para sa pelikula na Series II.
si Jerry Gracio.
Hipolito, Jerome M. Oda sa Tadik
Groyon, Vicente Garcia. The Sky asin iba pang Bersong Bikol.
Over Dimas. Lungsod Quezon: Maynila: National Commission
The University of the Philippines for Culture and the Arts at
Press, 2010. [NOBELA] Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts
Ang pagbasa sa bawat pahina ng and Practice, 2010. [TULA]
nagwaging nobela ni Groyon ay hindi Ang mga tula ni Hipolito na kabilang
isang ordinaryong pagtuklas sa misteryo sa koleksiyong ito ay babad sa mga
ng Pandora’s box. Dinadala nito ang reyalidad ng Bikol—hindi lang sa
mambabasa sa Bacolod kung saan paglalarawan ng lupain, kundi maging
makakasalamuha ang mga Torrecarion sa pagtalakay ng politika, ekonomiya at
- isang pamilyang binubuo ng mga payak na pamumuhay rito. Hindi rin
kakaibang nilalang, kabilang ang isang pinalagpas ni Hipolito ang pagbalik-
baliw na ama. Unang nailimbag noong tanaw sa umuusbong na estado ng
2003, hinangaan ang nobelang ito sa panitikan dito. Bahagi ang aklat ng
pangkabuuang estilo ng panulat at Ubod Writers Series II. Ang ilan sa mga
matatag na daloy ng istorya. tula ay isinalin ni Kristian S. Cordero
sa Filipino.
H
J
Hacla, Marlon. May mga
Dumadaang Anghel sa Parang. Javelosa, Jeannie E. Revisiting
Maynila: National Commission Relationships. Pasig: Anvil
for Culture and the Arts at Publishing Inc., 2010. [SANAYSAY]
Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts Kabilang sa Living Awake Series ng
and Practice, 2010. [TULA] Anvil Publishing ang librong ito na
Batid sa unang koleksiyon ng mga tumatalakay sa iba’t ibang aspekto
tulang ito ni Marlon Hacla ang ng ating relasyon sa mga tao sa ating
kabalintunaan ng katahimikan sa paligid na sinasabing “pinakabuod at
panulaan. Hinahabi niya ang mga salita esensya kung bakit tayo nabubuhay”.
nang hindi diskurso sa buhay ng tao ang Nais ng libro na mas maintindihan
unang mithiin, kundi ang paglikha ng natin ang ating personal na
tahimik na espasyo kung saan higit pang paglalakbay sa mundong ito gayundin
mapagnilay-nilayan ang kaguluhan ng ang pag-unlad ng ating mga kaluluwa
301
kasama ng mga taong kabahagi natin taong gulang na bata na akala ay alam
sa buhay. na ang lahat ng bagay sa mundo at
naglayas sa kanilang tahanan. Bigla ay
Javelosa, Jeannie E. Shift Your nagawa ng batang makitang nakahubad
Mind!. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, ang mga tao sa kaniyang paligid. Di
Inc., 2010. [SANAYSAY] kalaunan ay nawalan na ng laman
Isa itong kalipunan ng mga artikulo ang mga tao sa kaniyang paningin at
na naglalayong bigyang-linaw ang nagmistulang mga buhay na kalansay
ating pagkaunawa sa ating sarili at sa na lamang. Sa 83-pahinang nobelang
ating buhay, na sa paniwala ng libro ito ay muling naipamalas ni Nick
ay makakamit sa pamamagitan ng Joaquin ang kaniyang walang kupas na
pagkakaroon natin ng kamalayan o galing sa panulat.
pagiging mulat. Pinamagatang Shift
Your Mind! ang librong ito dahil Jurilla, Patricia May B. Bibliography
nagnanais nitong baguhin ang paraan of Filipino Novels: 1901-2000.
ng pag-iisip, perspektibo at punto Lungsod Quezon: University
de bista ng mga mambabasa upang of the Philippines Press, 2010.
maitaas ang antas ng kanilang pag-iisip [BIBLIYOGRAPIYA]
mula sa conscious knowing patungong Itinatala ng libro ang mga nobelang
conscious being. nailimbag sa anyong aklat sa Pilipinas
noong ika-20 siglo (1901-2000).
Javier, Carljoe. The Kobayashi Kasama rito ang mga nobelang nasa
Maru of Love. Lungsod Quezon: wikang banyaga, Filipino (Tagalog) at
The Youth and Beauty Brigade, mga nobelang banyaga na isinalin sa
2010. [SANAYSAY] Tagalog. Dahil sa kakulangan, hindi na
Tinipon ni Javier ang mga nagawa pang maitala ang mga nobelang
masisteng sanaysay ukol sa buhay at inilimbag sa wikang bernakular gaya ng
pakikipagrelasyon sa The Kobayashi Bikol, Cebuano at Iloko. Sa pagsunod
Maru of Love. Hinati sa mga kabanatang sa pamantayan ng UNESCO, hindi rin
break-up: pre-break-up, during the isinama ang mga mga nobelang mas
break-up at post-break up, idinetalye ng konti sa 49 pahina ang haba dahil hindi
libro ang pamamaraan ng isang lalaking ito maituturing na libro. Mga Literary
nasa edad 20 at aminadong geek sa Novel lamang din ang itinala at hindi
kaniyang muling pagbangon mula sa kasama ang mga Tagalog Romance
pagkakalugmok sa pamamagitan ng Novel.
libro, video games at iba pang bagay na
dulot ng kulturang popular.
L
Joaquin, Nick. Candido’s
Landicho, Domingo G. Banyuhay
Apocalypse. Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
ni Lam-Ang. Lungsod Quezon:
Inc., 2010. [NOBELA]
C&E Publishing, Inc. , 2010.
Isinalaysay sa nobela ni Joaquin ang
[TULA/MODERNONG EPIKO]
istorya ni Bobby Heredia, isang 17
Sa anyo ng katutubong panulaan,
nilikha ni Landicho ang modernong Lumbao, Annie Dennise at

epikong tumatalunton sa buhay Anelka Lumbao. But That
at kasaysayang politikal ng dating Won’t Wake Me Up. Lungsod
Pangulong Ferdinand E. Marcos. Quezon: Adarna House, 2010.
Ang akda ay maituturing na bahagi ng [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
pagbabanyuhay ng kayamanang bayan Tinalakay sa librong ito ang kuwento
sa modernong panahon. tungkol sa batang si Maya at ng
kaniyang ina. Kailangang magising ang
Landicho, Domingo G. Ninoy at bata upang hindi mahuli sa pagpasok
Cory: Magkabiyak na Bayani. sa eskwelahan kung kaya’t kanilang
Lungsod Quezon: C&E Publishing, pinag-usapan ang mga paraan kung
Inc., 2010. [TULA, SANAYSAY] papaano gigisingin si Maya. Nabanggit
Pinapaksa ng libro ang katangi- ang paggamit ng alarm clock, pagtilaok
tanging buhay ni Benigno “Ninoy” ng tandang, pagsigaw ng magtataho,
Aquino Jr. na tinaguriang “Bayani ng pagtugtog ng banda at iba pa. May
Demokrasya” at ni Corazon “Cory” panghuling gawain din kung saan
Cojuangco Aquino na sumasagisag sa pagsusunud-sunurin ang mga larawan
diwa ng demokrasya. Nahahati ito sa batay sa kronolohikal na paglabas nito
dalawang bahagi. Ang unang bahagi sa kuwento. May 32 pahina, nasusulat
ay umiinog sa kasaysayan ni Ninoy sa Ingles at Filipino at rekomendado sa
sa anyong tula at prosa. Patulang mga batang 7-8 taon gulang ang libro.
rendisyon naman ng naging buhay ni
Cory ang ikalawang bahagi.
M
Lopido, Leonilo D. Ha Salog
Malaga, Jay Gallera. Duha
ug iba pa nga mga Siday.
Ka Tingog. Maynila: National
Maynila: National Commission
Commission for Culture and the
for Culture and the Arts at
Arts at Ateneo Institute of Literary
Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts
Arts and Practice, 2010. [TULA]
and Practice, 2010. [TULA]
Hindi lamang eksplorasyon ng isla
Maihahambing sa isang umalohokan
ng Negros ang hatid ni Malaga sa
si Lopido, ngunit sa pahina lumilitaw
mga mambabasa. Ang mga tula sa
ang kaniyang boses. Hindi lamang
koleksiyong ito ay mga pagmumumuni-
alienation o mga paghahambing ng
muni, pamimilosopo at isang
buhay probinsiya at buhay siyudad
pansariling paglalakbay na nagaganap
ang mababatid sa kanyang mga tula,
sa pahina. Bawat persona ay isang
ang makatang Waray na si Lopido ay
pamilyar na tauhan sa mismong buhay
ninanais na makabalik sa isang estado
ng mambabasa. Bawat tula ay isang
ng kaligayahan sa pamamagitan ng
pamilyar ngunit bagong pagpipinta sa
panulaan. Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod
buhay Filipino, kahit nakasentro man
Writers Series II at isinalin naman ni
ang bawat akda sa iisang lugar. Bahagi
Timothy R. Montes ang ibang mga
ang aklat ng Ubod Writers Series
tula sa Ingles.
II, at isinalin naman ng makatang si
303
Genevieve Asenjo ang ilang mga tula. kanlungan ng panitikan. May 145
pahina at nasusulat sa Filipino, Ingles
Mabanglo, Ruth Elynia S. at lokal na wika ang libro.
at Rosita G. Galang, mga
patnugot. Essays on Philippine Matias, Segundo D. Alamat
Language and Literature. Pasig: ng Dugong (The Legend of the
Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010. Dugong). Maynila: Lampara
[KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY] Publishing House. 2010.
Koleksiyon ng mga sanaysay na [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
sumasagot sa hamong kaharap ng Nasusulat sa Ingles at Filipino, ang
Wikang Filipino bilang Wikang kuwento ay tumatalakay sa pagiging
Pambansa ang akda. Sa unang bahagi mapayapa, bukas-palad, magiliw
ay ipinaiintindi kung papaanong dapat sa panauhin at kahalagahan ng
unawain, bigyang-halaga at ituro ang pagsasakripisyo. Ang mga dugong,
panitikan ng Pilipinas sa iba’t ibang ayon sa kuwento, ay nagmula sa grupo
perspektibo. Ibinahagi sa parteng ng mga taong tinatawag na “Dugo” na
ito ang mga sanaysay nila Lumbrera, naninirahan nang mapayapa sa isang
Arboleda, Tolentino, Lacaba at sulok ng mundo. Dumating sa kanilang
Mabanglo. Sinuri naman sa ikalawang isla ang grupo ng mga dayuhang
bahagi ang katanungan ukol sa Wikang “Wara” at “Tuling” na kapwa humingi
Pambansa at pagkabuo ng Filipino sa at napagbigyan ng parehong ikatlong
pamamagitan ng mga sanaysay nina bahagi ng isla. Di nagtagal ay nais na rin
San Juan at Almario. Pinaksa naman sa nilang sakupin ang natitira pang bahagi
ikatlo at huling bahagi ang pagtuturo at ng isla kung kaya’t nagtunggali ang
pagsasaliksik sa Filipino sa iba’t ibang dalawang grupo ng dayuhan sa kung
konteksto. kanino mapupunta ang lupa. Dahil sa
takot sa digmaan ay sumama ang mga
Macansantos, Francis C. at Luchie Dugo sa kaibigan nilang mga sirena
B. Maranan, mga patnugot. at hiniling na gawin silang katulad ng
Baguio Calligraphy. Pasig: Anvil mga nilalang sa dagat upang tahimik na
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [TULA, makapamuhay sa ilalim ng karagatan.
MAIKLING KUWENTO] Unti-unti nga silang ginawang dugong
Antolohiya ito ng mga tula at maikling ng mga ito. Sa huli ay nagbigay paalala
kuwento na nagmula, isinulat o ang may-akda na maging mabait tayo
binigyang-inspirasyon ng lungsod ng sa mga nilalang sa dagat na likas na
Baguio. Sa paunang salita ay binigyang- maamo at mabait.
diin ang ideyal na kultural at pisikal na
katangian ng lugar na nagbibigay-daan Matias, Segundo D. Alamat
upang ang mga manunulat dito ay ng Paniki (The Legend of
makagawa ng mga akdang pumapaksa the Bat). Maynila: Lampara
sa lipunan at uri ng pamumuhay na Publishing House. 2010.
mayroon ang Baguio bilang isang [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
multi-kultural at multilinggwal na Itinatampok sa alamat na ito ang
kahalagahan ng pakikisama at ng bawat akda.

pakikipagkapwa-tao, pag-iwas sa mga
negatibo at di kanais-nais na ugali Mercurio, Phil Harold L. Ayaw
gaya ng pagsisinungaling, pagiging Pagpudla an Tuog Ig Iba pa nga
tuso, magulang, makasarili at maramot. mga Siday.Maynila: National
Ayon sa kuwento, makukulay ang Commission for Culture and the
mga balahibo ng mga paniki noon at Arts at Ateneo Institute of Literary
isa sa pinakamagandang ibon dati. Arts and Practice, 2010. [TULA]
Dahil sa paparating na tatlong araw na Nilalarawan sa mga tula ni Mercurio
pag-ulan, nag-ipon ang lahat ng mga hindi lamang ang simpleng uri at antas
ibon ng puso ng balete, maliban sa ng pamumuhay sa Samar. Nag-iiba ang
mga paniki na palihim na nag-ipon sa lapit nito sa wika at ang paghabi ng mga
yungib. Nabulok ang mga pagkain sa salita at metapora sa tuwing tatalakayin
yungib kung kaya’t nagalit ang dyosa sa na ang karahasan at kahirapang laganap
mga paniki ngunit kaagad din naman sa lugar. Isinalin sa Filipino ang ilang
silang napatawad nito. Dahil naman mga tula sa koleksiyon nina Merlie M.
sa paparating na pitong araw at gabing Alunan at Janis Claire B. Salvacion.
dilim, nag-ipon ang mga ibon ng sinag Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod Writers
ng araw samantalang nag-ipon nang Series II.
palihim ng sinag ng buwan ang mga
paniki. Muli itong natuklasan ng dyosa Mizuguchi, Hiroyuki. Jungle of No
at tuluyan nang pinarusahan ang mga Mercy: Memoir of a Japanese Soldier.
paniki at pinapanagit. Inihiwalay na rin Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010.
ito sa pamilya ng mga ibon. [SANAYSAY]
Nilalaman ng libro ang mga karanasan
Mercado, Julio F., et al. Gems in ng isang sundalong hapon na si
English and American Literature. Hiroyuki Mizuguchi noong panahon
Pasig: Anvil Publishing Inc., ng Digmaang Pasipiko, kung saan
2010. [SANAYSAY, TULA, kaniyang pinamunuan ang grupo
MAIKLING KUWENTO] ng halos 80 Formosan na sundalo
Antolohiya ng mga akdang karamihan sa kagubatan ng Hilagang Pilipinas.
ay mula sa Amerika na ang kabuuang Ang kaniyang mga magulang ay
tema ayon sa patnugot ay umiikot sa mga naninirahan noon sa Davao at noong
partikular na karanasan sa paghahanap 12 taong gulang siya ay pinapunta siya
ng sarili at ng saysay sa buhay. Ang mga ng mga ito sa Pilipinas upang mag-aral.
akda ay ay naglalayong mahubog ang Ngunit bago pa man siya makatapos sa
imahinasyon at masubok ang kritikal mataas na paaralan ay sumiklab naman
na pag-iisip ng mga mag-aaral. Hindi ang digmaan. Sa kaniyang kabataan ay
na isinali ang mga akdang Pilipino namulat siya sa mga kulturang Hapon,
rito upang hindi maging ulit sa unang Filipino, Amerikano at Chabacano.
dalawang libro ng serye. Nilakipan din
ng mga gawaing sumususog sa mga Monteseña, Francisco Arias. Ayaw
pampanitikang kasanayan na inihain Pagpudla an Tuog Ug Iba pa nga
305
mga Siday. Maynila: National Kuwentong Bayan: Dito, Doon

Commission for Culture and the at Kung Saan-Saan. Pasig:
Arts at Ateneo Institute of Literary Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010.
Arts and Practice, 2010. [TULA] [PANITIKANG BAYAN]
Maraming pinaghuhugutan ang Kalipunan ng mga alamat at kuwentong
mga tula ni Monteseña. Maliban sa bayan ang libro na nahahati sa apat
mayamang bokabularyo at diksiyon, na bahagi. Ang unang kabanata ay
nariyan din ang personal at kolektibong inilaan para sa mga alamat mula sa
alaala, mga sikretong nais ikumpisal, Pilipinas kung saan naisama rin ang
maging ang proseso ng paghihntay ng mga nabanggit na alamat sa El Fili ni
kapatawaran at pagsisisi. Kabilang ang Rizal habang nasa kubyerta ng bapor si
koleksiyon sa Ubod Writers Series II. Simoun tulad ng “Alamat ng Malapad
na Bato” at “Alamat ng Yungib ni
N Donya Geronima.” Labinsiyam na
mga kuwentong bayan naman ang
tampok sa ikalawang bahagi ng akda
Nem Singh, Rosario P. at Ma. Sylvia
at labinsiyam ding kuwentong may aral
Ples Pengson. Gems in World
naman sa ikatlo. Sa ikaapat at huling
Literature. Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
kabanata ay mga kuwento mula sa
Inc., 2010. [SANAYSAY, TULA,
ibang bayan naman ang ibinida gaya
MAIKLING KUWENTO]
ng “Sa Bundok ng Olympus,” “Sa
Ang 405-pahinang antolohiya ay may
Jupiter ng Kama,” “Si William Tell ng
mga akdang nagtatangkang tugunan
Switzerland” at iba pa.
ang interes at pangangailangan ng
mga Pilipinong estudyante lalong
higit yaong may mga kapamilyang O
nagtratrabaho sa iba’t ibang panig ng
mundo. Tinatangka ng bawat akda Ong, Charlson. Blue Angel, White
na mag-ambag sa isang holistikong Shadow. Maynila: UST Publishing
pananaw pandaigdig na siya namang House, 2010. [NOBELA]
kolektibong nais iparating ng libro. Sa kaniyang nobela, binigyang-buhay
May mga pagsasanay rin sa dulo ng ni Ong ang pakikipagsapalaran ng
bawat akda gaya ng word filter, literary Tsinong pulis na si Cyrus Ledesma
shop at gemstones na pantulong sa matapos ang naganap na patayan sa
kasanayang pampanitikan ng mga mag Blue Angel Café, isa sa mga notoryus
aaral. Naghanda rin ng isang overview na lugar sa Maynia. Hindi lamang
ukol sa panitikang pandaigdig mula naglalaman ng karaniwang suspense ng
sa panahong midyibal hanggang sa mga nobelang may temang misteryoso,
kontemporanyong panahon upang mayroon ding masalimuot na
mas maging maliwanag ang konteksto paghuhugpong ng mga istorya habang
ng bawat akda. ang mga karanasan ng mga karakter
sa nobela ay isinasalaysay, gaano man
Nem Singh, Alfredo C. at Rosario kaordinaryo ang mga ito sa ating
P. Nem Singh. Mga Alamat at lipunan.
Or, Elbert, patnugot. After the ------- Issue 2. Cavite: Paper Monster
Storm: Stories of Ondoy. Pasig: Press, 2010. [TULA]
Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010. Ang Paper Monster Press ay isa sa
[MAIKLING KUWENTO, mga makabagong grupo ng panulaan
SANAYSAY AT LARAWAN] at palihan na nabuo sa probinsiya
Laman ng akdang ito ang tipon ng ng Cavite sa loob ng mga nakaraang
mga istorya ng mga biktima noong taon. Ang konsentrasyon ng kanilang
kasagsagan at matapos ang pananalasa mga isyu ay ang mga makabagong
ng mga bagyong Ondoy at Pepeng estilo ng pagtula, kung saan malakas
noong 2009. Ibinahagi ng mga ang paghikayat sa mga nakakabatang
kontribyutor hindi lamang ang kanilang makata na nakapagsusulat sa Ingles
mga karanasan kundi maging ang at Filipino saanman sa mundo na
kanilang mga saloobin, pagmumuni- magbahagi ng mga gawa.
muni at pangarap matapos ang sakuna.
Nagsisilbing paalaala ang akda sa Paran III, Lorenzo. An
bawat isa na minsan sa kasaysayan ng Isteytsayd Life: Not so Random
ating bansa, ay nangyari ang ganitong Thoughts from a Pinoy Living
tradhedya. in America. Lungsod Quezon:
Ordoñez Elmer A. The Other View: Press, 2010. [SANAYSAY]
The Academe, Politics, Memory Muling sinariwa ng komedyante at
(Volume I). Lungsod Quezon: expat na si Lorenzo Paran II ang
University of the Philippines Press, alaala ng kaniyang buhay bilang isang
2010. [KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY] migrante sa Amerika sa pamamagitan
-----The Other View: The Academe, ng mga sanaysay at anekdotang
Politics, Memory (Volume II). nalikom sa librong ito. Bagaman isang
Lungsod Quezon: University hindi tahasang pinag-uusapang bagay,
of the Philippines Press, 2010. nabigyan ng kakaibang lasa ni Paran
[KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY] ang tamis at pait ng isteytsayd na
Tinipon ng nangungunang pamumuhay at ang panghabambuhay
pampanitikang kritiko at propesor na si na pangungulila sa Pilipinas.
Elmer Ordoñez ang mga sanaysay ukol
sa panitikan at kasaysayan ng Pilipinas Penson-Juico, Margie, patnugot.
sa The Other View. Karamihan sa mga Cory: An Intimate Portrait II,
sanaysay sa akda ay nailimbag bilang Selected Tributes and Eulogies.
artikulong opinyon sa kolum na may Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc.,
parehong pangalan sa pahayagang 2010. [SANAYSAY, TULA]
Manila Times. Ang pangalawang libro na tipon ng
mga sulat, tula, panalangin, sermon
P sa misa at tribute patungkol sa dating
Pangulong Corazon C. Aquino. Kaiba
sa naunang libro Cory: An Intimate
Paper Monster Press.Issue 1. Cavite:
Portrait, at sa hiling na rin ng dating
Paper Monster Press, 2010. [TULA]
307
pangulo sa may-akda, hindi hiningi Pison, Ruth Jordana L. Dangerous

at bagkus ay kusang dumating ang Liaisons: Sexing the Nation in
mga kontribusyong akda na bigay ng Novels by Philippine Women Writers
mga kaibigan, pamilya at nagmamahal (1993-2006). Lungsod Quezon:
kay Cory. Ibinahagi rin sa aklat ang University of the Philippines Press,
invocation at talumpati sa paglulunsad 2010. [KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY]
ng libro at sa necrological service para Sa librong ito, sinuri ni Pison ang mga
kay namayapang dating pangulo. akda ng mga Pilipinang manunulat at
ang kanilang pamamaraan kung paano
Peñaranda, Victor. Pilgrim in nila hinahabi ang mga tauhang babae
Transit. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, sa kanilang mga gawa. Hinimay rin
Inc., 2010. [TULA] ni Pison kung ang malaking papel ng
Koleksiyon ng mga tulang isinulat ng kababaihan sa mga naratibo ng bansa
may-akda sa kaniyang paglalakbay sa gamit ang mga teoryang pangkasarian
iba’t ibang lugar sa Pilipinas at ibang at tekstuwal na pagsusuri sa mga
bansa. Ang bawat akda ay may kalakip nobela. Nagkamit ng karangalan bilang
na petsa at lugar ng pagkakalikha ng pinakamahusay na disertasyon sa UP
mga tula. Karamihan sa mga tula ay Kolehiyo ng Arte at Literatura noong
sumesentro sa kultura at karanasan 2009 ang pag-aaral na ito.
ng may-akda sa mga lugar na kaniyang
pinuntahan. Isinulat sa wikang Ingles Pomeroy, William J. The Forest.
ang libro at binubuo ng 95 pahina. Lungsod Quezon: University of the
Philippines Press, 2010. [NOBELA]
Perez, J.V.D. Ang Mga Anak Sang Isang muling limbag na klasiko noong
Montogawe Kag Iban Pa.Maynila: 1963, ang The Forest ay tungkol
National Commission for Culture sa kuwento ni Bill Pomeroy at ng
and the Arts at Ateneo Institute of asawang si Celia bilang mga kasapi
Literary Arts and Practice, 2010. ng pagkilos ng mga Huk noong
[MAIKLING KUWENTO] dekada ’50. Nagsimula ang kanilang
Isa ang Ilonggong si J.V.D. Perez pakikipagsapalaran noong Abril ng
sa mga kabataang patuloy na 1950 kung kailan sila napabilang sa
nagsusulong sa panitikang Hiligaynon ranggo ng mga forest leader hanggang
na waring naghihingalo sa modernong sa taong 1952. Nahahati ang libro sa
panahong ito. Bakas sa kaniyang mga maiikling mga kabanata na nagdadala
maiikling kuwento ang kaalaman sa mga mambabasa sa mabilis at
at pagpapahalaga sa mga isyu ng delikadong daloy ng buhay ng mga
manggagawa at magsasakang Filipino. gerilya.
Ang isa mga pangunahing tauhan, si
Berto, ay isang sakada, samantalang
hindi naman nalalayo ang mga kuwento
R
ng buhay ng iba pang mga tauhan
Remodo, Adrian V. Ini an
ni Perez. Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod
Sakuyang Hawak Asin Iba Pang
Writers Series II.
Bersong Bikol.Maynila: National
Commission for Culture and the at Johnny Delgado bilang Ding.

Arts at Ateneo Institute of Literary
Arts and Practice, 2010. [TULA] Reyes, Jun Cruz, patnugot. Likhaan
Binabaybay ng mga akda ni Remodo Journal 4. Lungsod Quezon:
ang karagatan ng mga salitang The University of the Philippines
makapagpapakahulugan sa katawan ng Press, 2010. [MAIKLING
tao. Mapakatawan man ito ng tao na KUWENTO, SANAYSAY, TULA,
puno ng libog, o ang katawan bilang KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY]
pinaninirahan ng espiritu santo, o Ang mga akdang bumubuo sa ikaapat
ang katawan mismo ng Diyos. Bahagi na edisyon ng Likhaan Journal ng
ang aklat ng Ubod Writers Series II. UP Institute of Creative Writing ay
Isinalin naman ni Kristian S. Cordero nagsilang ng isang kapana-panabik
sa Filipino ang ilang mga tula sa na antolohiya. Bukod sa karaniwang
koleksiyon. laman na maikling kuwento, sanaysay
at mga tula, naglalaman din ang
Reyes, Edgardo M. Isla: Si Tarzan libro ng koleksiyon ng kritisismong
at si Jane, at si Chito. Lungsod pampanitikan.
Quezon: C&E Publishing,
Inc., 2010. [NOBELA] Roxas, Reni. Ay Naku. Makati:
Ang akdang ito ni Reyes ay nagsimula Tahanan Books for Young Children,
bilang de-seryeng nobela sa Liwayway. 2010. [KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
Umiinog ang kuwento sa buhay Kabilang sa Tahanan Books for Young
ni Jane Anderson, anak ng isang Readers Series ang libro na may 32
pilotong Amerikano sa isang bar girl pahina at nasusulat sa wikang Filipino.
sa Lungsod Angeles, at ang kaniyang Isinasalaysay sa kuwento ang karanasan
pakikipagsapalaran bilang artista sa ng bunsong anak na si Botbot isang
mga pelikula at telebisyon sa katauhan gabi bago matulog ang pamilya.
ni Jane Roldan. Nagsimula sa kaniyang pagbibihis ng
damit pantulog, tumuloy sa pagkabasag
Reyes, Edgardo M. Mga Uod at niya ng mga gamit sa sala hanggang
Rosas. Lungsod Quezon: C&E sa pagtatago sa kaniyang magulang
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [NOBELA] at nagtapos sa kaniyang paglitaw at
Pinapaksa ng nobela ang kapalarang eksenang nagyayakapan ang pamilya.
nilalaro sa hirap at tagumpay ng isang Karamihan sa mga pangungusap ay
pintor na si Ding. Bagama’t naisalibro binubuo lamang ng isang salita na may
sa taong 2010 ang Mga Uod at Rosas, salin patungo sa wikang Ingles.
ang orihinal na manuskrito ay naisulat
ni Reyes noong 1980 at naiserye sa
magasing Jingle sa nasabing taon.
S
Bukod pa rito, naisapelikula na rin
Salvacion, Janis Claire B. Siso
ang nobelang ito noong 1982 na
Sakradang Ug Iba pa nga
pinagbidahan nina Nora Aunor bilang
mga Siday Han Tagoangkan.
Socorro, Lorna Tolentino bilang Nina,
309
for Culture and the Arts at Press, 2010. [SANAYSAY]

Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts Inspirasyonal na libro na may
and Practice, 2010. [TULA] layong ipabatid sa mga mambabasa
Kabilang si Salvacion sa bagong lupon ang kahalagahan ng mga bagay na
ng mga makatang babae sa Visayas. pinakaiingatan natin sa buhay at kung
Ngunit higit pa rito ang pagpapalawak papaanong ang mga ito’y maaaring
ng diskusyon ukol sa lugar ng mga maglahong lahat sa atin. Ayon sa may
kababaihan sa lipunan at sa tahanan, akda, piniling pamagat ang “Lost and
pati ang sarili niyang pagpapalit-palit Found” sapagkat kahit may indikasyon
ng papel sa buhay—bilang anak, asawa, ng kalungkutan ang lost, may kaakibat
ina. Kinikilala ang koleksiyon bilang namang pag-asa ang found dahil sa
unang aklat ng mga tula sa wikang pangako nitong pagkatagpo muli sa
Waray. Ang ilan sa mga ito ay isinalin ng kung anuman ang nawala sa atin.
makatang si Merlie M.Alunan. Bahagi
ang aklat ng Ubod Writers Series II. Sering, Tara FT. Amazing Grace: A
Novel. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc.,
Samar, Edgar Calabia, 2010. [NOBELA/CHICK LIT]
patnugot. Lamang. Lungsod Tumatalakay ang nobela kay Grace na
Quezon: Linangan sa Imahen, may kasunduan nang magpakasal sa
Retorika at Anyo, and Vibal boyfriend niyang si Mike na nangibang-
Foundation, 2010. [TULA] bansa at nawalan na ng oras upang
Lamang ang unang lumabas sa makipag-usap sa kaniya. Laging may
chapbook series ng grupong babaeng kasama sa mga litrato ang
pampanulaang LIRA para sa 2010. kasintahan, at dahil dito, isang biglaang
Ang bagong koleksiyon ng mga tulang pagbisita ang ginawa ni Grace na
ito ay naglalaman ng dalawampu’t nauwi sa pagkaalam niya na natagpuan
limang mga tulang sinuri ni Edgar sa Singapore ni Mike si Kaila, ang dati
Calabia Samar. nitong girlfriend, at nagkabalikan ang
mga ito. Hindi na rin natuloy ang kasal
Sanchez, Louie Jon. At Sa ni Grace.
Tahanan ng Alabok. Maynila: UST
Publishing House, 2010. [TULA] Serrano, Vincenz. The Collapse
Ito ang unang koleksiyon ng mga tula ni of What Separates Us. Lungsod
Sanchez na tumatalakay, higit sa lahat, Quezon: High Chair, 2010. [TULA]
sa mga pamamaraan ng paggunita ng Sa librong ito ng mga tula, nakahanap
paniniwala. Si Sanchez ay dalawang ng espasyo si Serrano upang panagpuin
beses nang nagawaran ng parangal ang magkakahiwalay na bagay –
na Makata ng Taon ng Komisyon ng “tayo” bilang pananda ng Maynila sa
Wikang Filipino. Inglatera o sa alinmang siyudad. Ang
pagtatangkang lumikha ng buo at
Santos, Rica Bolipa. Lost and Found wasakin ang mga pagitan ay natamo
and Other Essays.Lungsod Quezon: sa tipon ng mga pira-pirasong berso at
The University of the Philippines tulang prosang makikita sa libro.
Sicat Cleto, Luna. Mga Prodigal. sa taong 1997. Nilalaman ng haiku ang
Pasig: Anvil Publishing, mga sumusunod na impormasyon:
Inc., 2010. [NOBELA] pangalan ng kaklase, ambisyon at
Pinapaksa ng bagong nobelang ito pangkasalukuyang propesyon—na
ni Luna Sicat Cleto ang tila malaon siyang inaalam ni Suarez sa online
nang kapalaran ng maraming Pilipino social networking site na Facebook.
– ang pangingibang-bansa – at ang Ang aktuwal na libro ay magbibigay rin
pakikipagsapalarang kaakibat nito. Si ng impresyon ng isang handmade na
Antonio ang bidang tauhan, nangakong libro, dahil sinadyang i-mimeograph
hindi na muling aalis ng Pilipinas ang mga pahina nito—pawang paalala
subalit makikita ang sariling nasa Dubai sa mga materyal na kondisyon na
para sa pagtugon sa pangangailangan siyang pahapyaw na pinatatamaan ng
ng pamilya. mga nasabing haiku.
Simon, Tanya Sevilla How

Long Till September?. Lungsod
T
Quezon: Adarna House, 2010.
Teodoro, John Iremil E. Anghel
[KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
Sang Capiz kag Iban pa nga
Inihahandog ng Adarna House sa
Sugilanon: Mga Maikling Kwento
kanilang ika-30 taon ang librong
sa Hiligaynon at Filipino.
naglalaman ng kuwento tungkol sa
[MAIKLING KUWENTO]
paghihintay ng isang batang babae
Sa Anghel sang Capiz, pinagsasama-
sa pagsapit ng kanIyang kaarawan sa
sama ng manunulat na si Teodoro
buwan ng Setyembre. Inilarawan sa
ang limang maikling kwentong sinulat
librong ito ang ilan sa mga tradisyon
sa Hiligaynon at may salin na rin sa
at gawaing Pilipino na idinaraos sa
Filipino. Kontrobersiyal ang aklat
bawat buwan ng taon. Nagsimula
dahil ito ang unang koleksiyon na
ang kuwento sa buwan ng Oktubre at
tumatalakay sa mga isyu at konteksto
paisa-isang binaybay ang bawat buwan
ng mga homosekswal sa Pilipinas na
hanggang sumapit ang Setyembre.
nailathala sa Hiligaynon.
May panghuling gawain sa anyong
matching type kung saan ang mga
Tiama, Aida Campos. Panagbiahe.
larawan ay ipapareha sa buwan na
katugon nito. Nasusulat ang libro sa
for Culture and the Arts at
Filipino at Ingles, naglalaman ng 32
Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts
pahina at rekomendado sa mga batang
and Practice, 2010. [TULA]
8-9 taon gulang.
Ang mga tula ni Tiama ay kinikilalang
kabilang sa bagong henerasyon ng
Suarez, Angelo. Batch ‘97 Haiku.
mga akda sa wikang Iluko. Dala ng
Lungsod Quezon, 2010. [TULA]
impluwensiya ng naunang pagsusulat
Ang mga haiku sa Batch ‘97 Haiku
sa Ingles, may pokus sa paglikha ng
ay nagmula sa ilang mga kataga sa
mga imahen at pagsalaysay ng sariling
yearbook ng makata noong elementarya
karanasan ang mga tula ni Tiamen, na
311
iba sa karamihan ng mga tulang Iluko Vibal Foundation, 2010. [TULA]

na patula ang estilo. Sinalin ni Cles B. Rurok ang ikatlo sa chapbook series
Rambaud sa Filipino ang ilang mga ng grupong pampanulaang LIRA para
tula sa koleksiyon, na tumatalakay sa sa taong 2010. Nilalaman nito ang
mga isyu ng kababaihan, diaspora, dalawampu’t limang tula ng ilan sa
at iba pa. Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod mga nagdaan sa mga palihan ng grupo.
Writers Series II. Sinuri ang mga akda sa kung paano
nararating ang rurok sa isang tula ng
Tiempo, Edith L. Commend manunulat na si Enrico Torralba.
Contend: Beyond Extensions.
Lungsod Quezon: University of the Torres Reyes, Maria Luisa.
Philippines Press, 2010. [TULA] Banaag at Sikat: Metakritisismo
Baligtaran ang libro at nahahati sa at Antolohiya.Maynila: National
dalawang bahagi, ang Reaching Out Commission for Culture and
at Beyond, Extensions. Kalipunan the Arts at Ateneo Institute of
ito ng mga tulang tumatalakay sa Literary Arts and Practice, 2010.
magkasalungat na konsepto ng [KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY]
commending at disproving.Nilalayon rin Pinagsama-sama sa aklat na ito ni
nito na papag-isahin ang magkabilang Torres Reyes ang mga kritisismong
panig ng katotohanan. Ang mga tula lumabas sa nakaraang 100 taon ukol
ay naisulat ngunit hindi pa nailimbag sa akdang Banaag at Sikat ni Lope
matapos na ang may-akda ay hiranging K. Santos. Kabilang sa mga kilalang
1992 National Fellow for Poetry. kritiko at manunulat na matatagpuan
sa koleksiyon ay sina Gabriel Beato
Tolentino, Rolando B. Gitnang Francisco, Teodoro A. Agoncillo, Juan
Uring Fantasya at Material na C. Laya, Epifanio San Juan, Jr., at iba
Kahirapan sa Neoliberalismo: pa. Siya namang pinangungunahan
Politikal na Kritisismo ng ang antolohiya ng sanaysay ni Torres
Kulturang Popular. Maynila: Reyes, pati na rin ng sarbey ng mga
UST Publishing House, 2010. kritisismo hinggil sa nobela.
[KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY]
Tulad ng mga naunang libro ni Tuazon, Noel P. Tanang Namilit
Tolentino, ang gawang ito ay isang sa Hangin. Maynila: National
koleksiyon ng mga kritikal na sanaysay Commission for Culture and
patungkol sa mga kaugalian ng the Arts, 2010. [TULA]
mga napapabilang sa gitnang uri sa Gaya ng may mahikang pananggalang
pagkonsumo ng mga produkto ng na Dumitawag Eyamen sa Bisayang
kulturang popular na markado ng mitong Ulahingan, naisin ng mga
neoliberalismo. tula ni Tuazon ang protektahan ang
mayamang kulturang Manobo at ang
Torralba, Enrico C., patnugot pakikiniig nito sa kalikasan—na siyang
Rurok. Lungsod Quezon: Linangan tanging koneksiyon ng modernong
sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo, at Pilipino sa pre-kolonyal na estado
ng lupain. Bahagi ang aklat ng Ubod trahedyang naganap sa Maynila, kung

Writers Series II, ang ilan sa mga saan sinisiyasat ni Villanueva ang mga
tula mula sa koleksiyon ay sinalin ng puwang na naiiiwan at mga nalilimutan
makatang si Merlie M. Alunan mula o pilit na binuburang alaala, sa
Bisaya tungo sa Ingles. pamamagitan ng tula.
U Villanueva, Rene O. Blip. Maynila:

Lampara Publishing House, 2010.
[KUWENTONG PAMBATA]
Ulupan na Pansiansia’y Salitan
Nagwagi ng ikalawang gantimpala
Pangasinan. Tagano ed Kelang
para sa Maikling Kathang Pambata sa
(Provision in the Wilderness).
1995 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
Awards for Literature ang kuwentong
Salitan Pangasinan, 2010.
pumapaksa sa tunggalian ng malayang
[MAIKLING KUWENTO,
pamamahayag at pamamahayag sa
NOBELETA, TULA]
ngalan ng katotohanan, kabutihan,
Isang kayamanan ng wikang
at kagandahan. Ang pangunahing
Pangasinan ang Tagano ed Kelang
karakter na si Blip ay likha ng
sapagkat isa ito sa iilang mga libro ng
makapangyarihang awtoridad sa
mga nakaraang dekada na nagtitipon
kagalang-galang na Republika ng
ng maikling kuwento, nobeleta at tula
Gunting at naatasang lulunin ang mga
ng kontemporanyong manunulat ng
salitang sa tingin nya’y hindi maganda,
Pangasinan. Ang antolohiyang ito ang
hindi mabuti o hindi totoo at sa tuwing
pumupuno sa kakulangan ng mga
gagawin niya iyo’y napapalitan ng
pampanitikang limbag at sumusuong
“blip blip blip” ang salitang yaon. Sa
sa hugpungan ng impluwensiya sa
kalaunan ay nagalit na ang mga tao
hilagang Pangasinan.
sapagkat hindi na nila maibulalas ang
kanilang mga damdamin at maaari
V naman daw kontrolin na lamang
ang mga programang umeere sa
Villanueva Jr., Camilo M. Tamang telebisyon.Di nagtagal ay pumutok
Hinala. Lungsod Quezon C&E ang tiyan ni Blip sa dami ng salitang
Publishing, 2010. [TULA] nakain nya at natulig ang lahat sa mga
Pinagsasama-sama saTamang Hinala nag-aalimpuyos na salita. Matapos ng
ang mga tula sa nakalipas na mga taon nangyari ay umalis si Blip sa kanilang
ng manunulat at makatang si Villanueva, lugar at nagpakalayo dahil hindi na
writing fellow ng Bienvenido Santos niya masikmura ang ipinagagawa sa
Creative Writing Center ng DLSU. Ang kaniya.
ilan sa mga tula ay patungkol sa buhay
manunulat at sa pagtawag sa mga musa
upang magbigay-inspirasyon para sa
Y
paglikha. Ang ibang bahagi naman
Yabes, Criselda. Below the Crying
ng aklat ay ukol sa ilang mga totoong
Mountain. Lungsod Quezon:
313
The University of the Philippines Oris, mga patnugot. Burador.

Press, 2010. [NOBELA] Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo
Ang pangkabuuang impresyon sa de Manila University Press,
mga katimugang isla ng Pilipinas 2010. [SANAYSAY]
ay nayuyurakan ng mga negatibong Kalipunan ito ng mga sanaysay
balita tungkol sa digmaan. Sa Below na pumapaksa at “nagpapakita ng
The Crying Mountain, binibigyan ang salimuot ng larangan ng kulturang
mambabasa ng sulyap sa Jolo, Sulu popular. “ Ilan sa mga akda ay hinango
mula sa pananaw ni Yabes, isa sa mga sa mga nagsipagwaging sanaysay mula
naninirahan doon na naging bihasa sa Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
rin sa iba’t ibang isyung panlipunan Awards. Mayroon ding 25-pahinang
noong panahon niya bilang isang introduksiyon tungkol sa retorika sa
mamamahayag. Ang nobela ay isang unang bahagi ng aklat. Ang pamagat
panawagan upang ating suriin ang ating nito ay hinango sa paniniwalang ang
gawi ng pamumuhay at kasaysayan “lahat ng kaalaman para sa anyo ng
bilang isang bansa. Ang akda ay isa sa sanaysay ay mananatili lamang at
mga pinagpilian sa 2011 Man Asian nararapat lamang na manatiling burador
Literary Prize. na pana-panahon ay napapalitan.”
Yabes, Criselda. Sarena’s Story: Yuson, Alfred A. Poems

The Loss of a Kingdom. Lungsod Singkuwenta’y Cinco. Pasig: Anvil
Quezon: The University of the Publishing, Inc., 2010. [TULA]
Philippines Press, 2010. [NOBELA] Naglalaman ng 55 tula ang libro sa
Sa ikalimang libro ni Criselda Yabes ay wikang Ingles at Filipino na siyang
isinalaysay niya ang gunita ni Sarena, pinaghanguan ng pamagat ng aklat.
ang paboritong tagapagsilbi ng prinsesa Pawang gawa ng awardee para sa
ng Sultanato ng Sulu na si Piandao. 2009 Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni
Sa naratibo ng di pinangalanang Balagtas for Lifetime Achievement na
tagapagsalaysay, nakatanggap ito ng iginawad ng UMPIL o Writers Union
sulat mula sa kaniyang ina na si Sarena of the Philippines na si Alfred Yuson
na naglalaman ng mga alaala nito sa mga ang mga tula. Ang mga akda sa aklat
huling sandali ng Sultanato ng Sulu. ay nailimbag na rin sa iba’t ibang
Uminog ang nobela mula sa pagkamatay publikasyon sa Pilipinas, Hawaii,
ng Sultan at pagpigil ng mga datu Netherlands at Hong Kong.
sa pagkahirang kay Piandao bilang
Sultan hanggang sa pagdedesisyon ng
Pangulong Quezon sa kasasapitan ng
Z
Sultanato. Ang Sarena’s Story: The
Zafra, Galileo. Ambagan 2009: Mga
Loss of a Kingdom ay itinanghal na UP
Salita Mula sa Iba’t Ibang Wika
Centennial Literary Prize Winner sa
sa Filipinas. Lungsod Quezon:
Gawad Likhaan.
University of the Philippines Press,
2010. [KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY]
Yapan, Alvin B. at Glenda C.
Kinokolekta sa aklat na ito ang mga
papel na ibinahagi sa nakaraang

Kumperensiya sa Paglikom ng Salita
noong 2009. Layunin ng proyektong ito
na gawing opisyal ang pagkilala sa mga
salitang mula sa iba’t ibang mga wika
ng bansa, na unti-unting napapabilang
sa bokabularyo ng pambansang wika.
Layunin din nitong masuri ang papel
ng mga salita, di lamang sa rehiyonal o
panlalawigang konteksto kundi lalo’t
higit sa pambansang konteksto.
Zafra, Jessica. Twisted 8½.

Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
Inc., 2010. [SANAYSAY]
Kabilang sa Twisted Volumes ng
manunulat na si Jessica Zafra ang
libro at tipon ng 27 sa kaniyang mga
Emotional Weather Report na column
sa The Philippines Star. Tinalakay dito
ni Zafra ang mga nagawang pagbabago
ng agham at teknolohiya sa ating mga
buhay sa nakaraang mga dekada kalakip
ang kaniyang pansariling pakikibagay
sa mga pagbabagong naidulot nito.
315
Echo:
Literary Voices 2010
Jayson D. Petras
T
he sense of hearing, they say, is the last to go
before death. Therefore, more than sight or feeling, we
experience more of what we hear as we pass to the next
world in another form.
Like human life, literary publications are more
than the size and style of typography or the smoothness
or roughness of the paper they are printed on. It embodies that which is
beyond the spirit of place and time. It screams into the consciousness and
thought as the examination of the individual and society continues.
It is in the self where the whispers of writers of these books begin. The
voices may have been weaved from the viewpoints of the authors featured
in the chapbook series of the group Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo
(LIRA) or the publications of High Chair. The breadth and depth of
these can also come from experience of the world and with others, such as
Agaw-dilim, Agaw-liwanag by Abreu, Sagad sa Buto by Baquiran, Jungle
of No Mercy by Mizuguchi, Pamhinta X by Cano, Pilgrim in Transit by
Peñaranda, Connecting Flights edited by De Vera and others or the shaping
of narratives in the plays of Casanova or the novels of Ong and Reyes. Also,
they are the results of analyzing different factors moving in the wide cultural
arena of the author, such as those by Almario, Ordoñez, Pison, Tolentino,
and Torres Reyes.
The events of the past also continue to reverberate. The thunder of the
Marcos military regime/martial law is loud and clear in the works selected by
Abad in Underground Spirit and Cimatu and Tolentino in Mondo Marcos.

The pages of After the Storm selected by Elbert Or, Renaissance by Abrera,
and Bituin and the Big Flood by Doyo are whipped by typhoons Ondoy and
Pepeng. Meanwhile, Ninoy at Cory: Magkabiyak na Bayani by Landicho
and Cory: An Intimate Portrait II, edited by Penson-Juico, continue to their
voice of thankfulness to the late president Corazon Aquino.
The above are just some of the many manifestations of the writer
voicing out, moving within his milieu, whether within the self or within the
world. Poems are salient among these voices—native, traditional, modern,
or experimental—as many publications and organizations actively support
them. The stories, essays, and plays also have their own differing sources.
There are also occasions when different voices combine as works combine
different forms.
The question and issue of language remain important. Despite the
dominance of English and Filipino, voices in Pangasinense, Cebuano,
Iluko, Bikol, Waray, and Hiligaynon are heard through the project Ubod
Writers Series II of the National Commission and the Arts and the Ateneo
Institute of Literary Arts and Practice. Literary organizations like the Cavite
Young Writers Association, Espasyo SiningDikato, and Paper Monster
Press (all Cavite-based) and Ulupan na Pansiansia’y Salitan Pangasinan
which published contemporary Pangasinan literature have also joined in
on the national chorus with their own music.
In the attempt to give voice to these all these works, or at least many
of them, I raided libraries, bookstores, my own collection while treading
through myriad press releases in website and blog sites and talking to
publishers. In this way, through the help of Pia Benosa and Elvin Cruz,
industrious UP Diliman students, this researcher triumphed in listening to
the 116 works listed here. Even so, the various levels of connecting the texts
are evident. In spite of raw encounters and introductions, this researcher
deemed it fit to include them as a challenge to the readers who should listen
to and hear out these voices.
Here are the echoing voices which shaped, are shaping, and continue
to shape 2010 and the years to come:
317
A University of the Philippines

Press, 2010. [SHORT STORY]
Abad, Gémino H. Care of Light: The book follows Upon Our Own
New Poems and Found. Pasig: Anvil Ground (2008) and collects short
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [POETRY] stories in English from 1973 to 1989.
Care of Light: New Poems and Found Volume I covers 1973 to 1982 and
is a collection of thirty-eight new volume II covers 1983 to 1989. The
poems and eleven found poems from stories were written about the Marcos
Professor Emeritus Gemino H. Abad. regime, during which arrest and
There are also notes on some poems. torture were used against Marcos’s
The Introduction entitled “The Poem enemies—reasons why the sentiments
is the Real: A Poetics” was delivered at of writers were transferred to the form
the ICW Panayam Lecture Series, UP of the short story.
Faculty Center on December 5, 2008
and was also published in the Likhaan Abrera, Manix, et al. Renaissance:
2008. Ang Muling Pagsilang.
Abad, Gémino H. Imagination’s 2010. [ESSAY, DESIGN]
Way: Essays Critical and The book is a collection of art works
Personal. Manila: UST Publishing from sixty Filipino artists from the
House, 2010. [ESSAY] Philippines and other countries
Imagination’s Way gathers Gemino who are experts in comics, cartoons,
Abad’s essays on his personal life animation, gaming, and graphic design.
towards literary criticism. It attempts The premise is superheroes doing their
to give meaning to the factors which work during the typhoons Pepeng
fire the imagination. It also looks closer and Ondoy. Artists are introduced on
at personal views and poetics. Aside each page and the book also features
from these, the book connects the messages from the artists.
history of literature in the Philippines
and explains the effect of the human Abreu, Lualhati Milan. Agaw-
imagination in the context of the dilim, Agaw-liwanag. Quezon
Philippines. City: The University of the
Philippines Press, 2010. [ESSAY]
Abad, Gémino H. Underground The book is more than an
Spirit Vol. 1: Philippine Short autobiography and examination
Stories in English: 1973 to 1989. of historical events from activist,
Quezon City: The University feminist, and guerrilla perspectives.
of the Philippines Press, It also tells of the very foundations
2010. [SHORT STORY] on the contemporary revolutionary
-----. Underground Spirit Vol. 2: movement in the country and
Philippine Short Stories in English: illuminates the characters which lived
1973 to 1989. Quezon City: The and gave life to the movement in the
last hundred years. Above all, it is
proof of how writing and literature is a University of the Philippines Press,

way to peace amidst the trouble in the 2010. [CRITICAL ESSAY]
life of a communist. The book was won Muling Pagkatha sa Ating Bansa is a
the UP Centennial Literary award and direct discussion by National Artist
the 2011 Madrigal Gonzalez Best First for Literature Rio Alma of the ills of
Book Award. Filipino life and their manifestations in
his own life. The book features essays
Alfar, Nikki and Vincent Michael which touch on politics, history, and
Simbulan, editors. Philippine Filipino culture. It also gives unique
Speculative Fiction 5. Pasig: Kestrel recommendations on how a pure
DDM, 2010. [SHORT STORY] appreciation of Filipino identity which
Editors Alfar and Simbulan gather in turn will mould the identity of the
the best in science fiction, fantasy, and nation.
horror in the Philippines, which fall
under speculative fiction. Included Almario, Virgilio S. Pitong Bundok
are works by Angelo Lacuesta, Charles ng Haraya. Manila: UST Publishing
Tan, Mia Tijam, Rica Bolipata-Santos, House, 2010. [CRITICAL ESSAY]
and others. The stories fuelled the In Pitong Bundok ng Haraya,
discourse on the place of spec fic in the National Artist for Literature Rio
literary history of the Philippines. Alma plays historical critic in reading
and understanding literature. The
Almario, Virgilio S, editor. perspectives laid out are like a journey
Lirang Pilak. Quezon City: Vibal and an introduction to the mountains
Foundation, Inc., 2010. [POETRY] one must cross—whether one is a writer
The book is a collection of poems from or a reader. The book aims to awaken
forty members of the group Linangan in the reader a critical appreciation of
sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo (LIRA). the Filipino language and literature.
Among this group of veteran writers
are Romulo P. Baquiran Jr., Roberto Almario, Virgilio S. Ang Tuta
T. Añonuevo, Michael M. Coroza, ni Noe. Quezon City: Adarna
and others. The younger generation House, 2010. [CHILDREN’S
reaping awards for their works is LITERATURE]
represented by Mesandel Virtusio On its thirtieth anniversary, Adarna
Arguelles, Phillip Kimpo Jr., Beverly published Ang Tuta ni Noe which is
Siy, and others. The book is part of about the Great Flood. It is about a
LIRA’s celebration for its twenty-fifth puppy whose compatriots all died.
anniversary. Others grow jealous of him because
of the attention Noah gives him while
Almario, Virgilio S. Muling in the ark. In the end, a female puppy
Pagkatha sa Ating Bansa: O is found, pet of the couple Manaul
bakit ang pinakamahabang (Eagle). All have their parts by the
tulay sa buong mundo ang Tulay end. The book also has their last deeds
Calumpit. Quezon City: The which introduced the animals. It is in
319
English and Filipino, thirty-two pages Despite the various destinations each
long, and is recommended for children character wants to reach, love remains
from 9 to 11. the overall theme of the book.
Aragon, Susan Dela Rosa. When Arguelles, Mesandel Virtusio.

Color Came To Town (Pag-Abot Alingaw. Quezon City: High
ni Kolor Sa Lungsod). Quezon Chair, 2010. [POETRY]
City: Adarna House, 2010. Alingaw is the fifth poetry collection
[CHILDREN’S LITERATURE] of Arguelles. An interesting and
This is a story of the town Alikabog/ complicated imagination is at work in
Abog which had no color. The this book brimming with his personae
townspeople are lazy: the men are and differing personalities. The words
always drunk and the women are always and stanzas disappear, disintegrate,
sleeping. Dust is everywhere until a and travel on a page.
man full of color and energy arrives.
He starts to clean up and energize the Asenjo, Genevieve. Lumbay
townspeople. The book teaches about ng Dila. Quezon City: C&E
color and cleanliness. The book also Publishing, Inc., 2010. [NOVEL]
features sections which can be colored. The novel revolves around Sadyah
It also teaches about color and science. Zapanta Lopez, grandchild of former
It is in English and Cebuano. Assemblyman of Antique Marcelo
N. Lopez, alleged mastermind of the
Arcellana, Emerenciana Y., Guinsang-an Bridge Massacre in 1984,
editor. Favorite Arcellana and child of Teresa Checa Z. Lopez,
Stories. Quezon City: The known as Commander Rafflesia of
University of the Philippines the Coronacion Chiva Command in
Press, 2010. [SHORT STORY] Panay. The novel concerns itself with
UP Professor Emeritus Emerenciana characters in the political aspect in
Arcellana gathers together the best their continued struggle for power and
of the fiction of her late husband, justice in the middle of
National Artist for Literature
Francisco Arcellana. Included are his Asis, Michael Demetrius. I Am
most popular stories “How to Read,” Because We Are: Reflections On
“Death in a Factory,” and “The Mats.” Love, Relationships, and Life.
Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila
Arguelles, Mesandel Virtusio. University Press, 2010. [ESSAY]
Alinsunurang Awit. Manila: The book is about the different aspects
UST Publishing House, of love, relationships, and life viewed
2010. [POETRY] from the experience of the author.
Alinsunurang Awit is the sixth poetry Stories used are gleaned from real
collection of Arguelles. The beauty life for a deeper understanding of the
of the imagination and experience are themes discussed. It also talks about
exhibited in forty songs about feeling. love, sex, and spirituality and how
relationships are enriched with God A collection of stories and poems

as guide. written by Barco over several years.
B Barrios, Joi. Bulaklak sa

Tubig: Mga Tula ng Pag-ibig at
Himagsik. Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
Balarbar, Corazon V., et al.
Inc., 2010. [POETRY]
Gems in Philippine Literature.
This 229-page book of poems by Joi
Barrios and translation into English
2010. [SANAYSAY, TULA,
by Mark Pangilinan is about love and
MAIKLING KUWENTO, DULA]
the struggle from the viewpoint of a
The books is a collection of poems,
woman. Each chapter is symbolized by
stories, plays, essays, parables written
a flower—symbol of love and struggle of
by Filipinos about Filipinos from past
the author whose favourite metaphors
to present—his soul, psyche, culture
in romantic writings like the magnolia,
and tradition, and problems and ways
which symbolizes the female OFW,
of life. The book discusses the history
and the water lily, for forbidden love in
and the groups who shaped the nation
times of war. The book is considered
and the Filipino as citizen. The book
a document of struggle against the
also has an introduction discussing
policies of the Arroyo government,
literature from the American colonial
which is why works preceding that
period up to the present. It also
period were removed. According to
contains sections like literary shop,
National Artist for Literature Virgilio
gemstones, and word filter which will
S. Almario, “Joi should be read as poet
enhance the literary skills of students.
who is female, feminist, activist, and
nationalist.”
Baquiran, Romulo P. Jr. Sagad
sa Buto: Hospital Diary at Iba
Benosa, Sherma Espino. Dagiti
pang Sanaysay. Manila: UST
Babassit nga Alipugpog. Manila:
Publishing House, 2010. [ESSAY]
National Commission for Culture
Romulo Baquiran Jr.’s views in life are
and the Arts at Ateneo Institute
changed when he breaks a bone and
of Literary Arts and Practice,
is hospitalized in August of 2008. His
2010. [SHORT STORY]
stay in a public hospital is carefully and
The collection contains four short
analytically detailed, as well as issues of
stories in Iluko. Aside from innovations
poverty salient in public spaces like a
in creative writing in Iluko, Benosa
crowded and noisy hospital, Filipino
also writes unique characters. If female
culture, and family life.
characters were abused or despondent
before, Benosa’s heroines exhibit
Barco, Nestor S. Ang Daigdig ay
strength even if caught in a patriarchal
Iisa at Marami. Cavite: Cavite
order. “Mga Munting Ipu-ipo,” the
Young Writers Association, 2010.
title story translated in Flipino by Cles
[POETRY, SHORT STORY]
B. Rambaud, is also included in this
321
collection, part of the Ubod Writers century China, with the literal meaning
Series II. “supreme of supreme” and pertains to
the supreme wife of a male Chinese
Boyer, Robert H. Sundays in who has many concubines.
Manila. Quezon City: The
University of the Philippines Calixihan, Jovita O. at Lucesa
Press, 2010. [ESSAY] Y. Diano. Gems in Afro-Asian
Sundays in Manila contains the Literature. Pasig: Anvil
experiences of academic Robert Boyer Publishing, Inc., 2010. [ESSAY,
on his frequent visits to the Philippines. POETRY, SHORT STORY]
It features interesting observations A collection of Afro-Asian works that
on Filipino customs as viewed by an help Filipino students in understanding
American. Also, it traces the history their similarities with other people
of Philippine-US relations after the from Asia and Africa regarding their
colonial era. June Poticar-Dalisay ways of life and faith as well as their
designed the cover. differences in views and tradition.
The stories, essays, and poems come
Brainard, Cecilia Manguerra. from Japan, India, Korea, China, Persia,
Vigan and Other Stories. Lebanon, Nigeria, and Ghana.
Manila: Anvil Publishing, Inc., An introduction discusses Africa and
2010. [SHORT STORY] Asia to provide a better context of the
Brainard remembers the towns of works. It also contains sections like
Vigan and the Philippines as well as literary shop, gemstones, and word
the places she has stayed in—Sagada, filter which will enhance the literary
Manila, Cebu, Cusco, Peru, Calcutta, skills of students.
Chartres, California, and others—
through the eyes of her interesting Cano, Louie. Pamhinta X: Mga
characters. Even if she has long been an Nababagang Sanaysay. Quezon
expatriate in America, Brainard writes City: Milflores Publishing,
stories of nostalgia for the country Inc., 2010. [ESSAY]
she grew up in. Some of the stories The book is about the experiences
are inspired by real life, this time with of the author as “Pamhinta” or a man
fictional characters. who has found the joy of mystery in
the company of other men” who does
C not dress or act as a woman. Different
aspects are discussed like love, sex,
behaviors, and places of leisure for the
Calica, Maya O. Undercover Tai Tai.
“pamhinta.” Noteworthy are uses of gay
Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010.
lingo with accompanying explanation
Amanda’s life changes when she
for those who do not understand it.
becomes a Tai Tai. Agent Brian helps
her through her disguise to solve a
case. The Tai Tai is a name from 19th
Carcamo, Ronaldo, editor. (aside from his being too busy at

Aninaw. Quezon City: Linangan sa work). The novel presents the typical
Imahen, Retorika at Anyo, at Vibal challenges for newlyweds.
Foundation, 2010. [POETRY]
Aninaw is the last part of the chapbook
series of poetry group LIRA for 2010. Cimatu, Frank and Rolando
A collection of twenty-five poems from B. Tolentino, editors. Mondo
Giancarlo Lauro C. Abrahan V, Mikael Marcos: Writings on Martial
Rabara Gallego, Louie Jon A. Sanchez, Law and the Marcos Babies
and others. (Volume 1). Pasig: Anvil
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [SHORT
Casanova, Arthur. Kidney for STORY, ESSAY, POETRY]
Sale. Manila: UST Publishing -----. Mondo Marcos: Mga Panulat
House, 2010. [PLAY] sa Batas Militar at ng Marcos
Three plays examine levels and kinds of Babies (Volume 2). Pasig: Anvil
poverty,particularly the selling of organs Publishing, Inc., 2010. [SHORT
common in the poorest communities. STORY, ESSAY, POETRY]
In this bilingual anthology, Cimatu and
Casanova, Arthur. Semento Tolentino gather memories of writers
Boys. Manila: UST Publishing about the tumult and struggle of the
House, 2010. [PLAY] ‘70s at ‘80s. Works by Martial Law
A collection of one-act plays, featuring babies as well as those who actually
Tipon “Semento Boys.” lived in the era are featured. Among
the writers included are Michael
Cerda, Christoffer Mitch C. Francis Andrada, Robert JA Basilio,
Paglalayag Habang Naggagala Padmapani Perez, Zosimo Quibilan Jr.,
ang Hilaga at Iba Pang Kuwento. and Sandra Nicole Roldan.
Manila: National Commission for
Culture and the Arts at Ateneo Cortes, Fidelito C. Everyday
Institute of Literary Arts and Things. Manila: UST Publishing
Practice, 2010. [SHORT STORY] House, 2010. [POETRY]
Five stories about contemporary Everyday Things is a collection of
Filipino life. Cerda is praised for his poems from Cortes who won in the
use of language and emotion. Part of 1994 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
the Ubod Writers Series II. Awards. Cortes is a Stegner Fellow
in Poetry in Stanford University and
Chua, Noelle. Mrs. Mismarriage. currently lives in Long Island, New
Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., York. His first book, Waiting for the
2010. [NOVEL/CHICK LIT] Exterminator, won in the National
Audrey Lee, a Harvard Literature PhD Book Awards, as conferred by the
candidate, weds Paul Chang, an MBA. Manila Critic’s Circle.
They live a perfect life in Singapore
until Audrey suspects Paul of infidelity
323
Cruz, Conchitina. elsewhere held David, Adam. Crowns and Rages.

and lingered, 2nd ed. Quezon City: Quezon City: The Youth and
High Chair, 2010. [POETRY] Beauty Brigade, 2010. [POETRY]
Cruz’s second book is about the current From the 157 poems in Crowns and
status of marriage: the heartbreak, Oranges, an anthology edited by Cirilo
compromise, and need. Cruz ditches Bautista at Ken Ishikawa, David uses
normal style for through footnotes, erasure while leaving traces of his
marginalia, and index—like narratives poems on the actual page. This new
borne on verse. collection is based on the form of
found poetry.
Cruz, Jhoanna Lynn B. Women
Loving: Stories & a Play. Pasig: De Vera, Ruel S., editor.
Anvil Publishing Inc., 2010. Connecting Flights: Filipinos
A collection of stories and one play Write From Elsewhere. Pasig: Anvil
about the homosexual woman, Publishing, Inc., 2010. [POETRY,
“women in transit and women looking SHORT STORY, ESSAY]
for their lives and considering that A collection of poems, short stories,
they have found.” The author wishes and essays by Filipino writers about
to challenge the dearth of books about their experience, thoughts, and
in traditional Philippine literature. adventures in different parts of the
The play Halataka, Ms D! is included, globe. This follows Writing Home: 19
winner in the 1999 Don Carlos Palanca Writers Remember Their Hometowns,
Memorial Awards for Literature, Full- a book about the nostalgia of writers
length play, English Division. for their hometowns. It is 169 pages
long and is in English.
D Dela Cuesta, Shiela Gonzales.
Junior. Manila: Lampara
David, Adam. The El Bimbo
Publishing House, 2010.
Variations, 3rd ed. Quezon
[CHILDREN’S LITERATURE]
City: The Youth and Beauty
Winner of the 2007 Don Carlos Palanca
Brigade, 2010. [POETRY]
Memorial Awards for Literature, a
David uses ninety-nine ways of
story about Victor who has questions
constructing s poem to recreate the
about a father he has never seen. He
line “Kamukha mo si Paraluman”
sees no similarities between him and
from Ang Huling El Bimbo by the
his mother, grandfather, grandmother,
Eraserheads. From adding line cuts
and other relatives. He asked his
to total text to comics transformation,
grandmother but she replies that he
David reinvents the line which became
may look like his father. His mother
popular in the 1990s. Joy and sorrow
also does not know where his father is
issue with every reinvention.
so Victor resolves to find similarities
between him and his family. In the
end, his mother promises to help find
Victor father with him.
Dela Cruz, Ainne Frances, editor. Dumdum, Simeon Jr. If You Write
Paglagos. Cavite: Cavite Young This Poem, Will You Make It Fly
Writers Association, 2010. [SHORT (A Book of Birds and Verse Forms).
STORY, ESSAY, POETRY] Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila
A collection of poems, short stories, University Press, 2010. [POETRY]
and essays by young writers from Judge and poet Simeon Dumdum Jr.
Cavite. Majority of the works have embarks on a new project to explore
been workshopped by the group. his many interests: this time, birds.
Dela Cruz, Mar Anthony Simon. The poems were written for birds that
Pasakalye. Manila: National can only be found in the Philippines.
Commission for Culture and The book is entertaining, containing
the Arts at Ateneo Institute practical information and writing styles
of Literary Arts and Practice, used for the poems.
2010. [SHORT STORY]
It is evident in Dela Cruz’s works
the overflowing energy and the thirst
E
for space it needs. But the control of
Espasyo SiningDikato. Espasyo
emotion is also evident in these stories
Zine Vol. 1 No. 1. Cavite: Espasyo
set in familiar spaces in the city which
SiningDikato. 2010. [SHORT
also contain violence. The work is part
STORY, ESSAY, POETRY]
of Ubod Writers Series II.
-----. Balite Zine. Cavite: Espasyo
SiningDikato, 2010. [SHORT
Doyo, Ma. Ceres P. Bituin
STORY, ESSAY, POETRY]
and the Big Flood. Pasig:
Espayo Zine and Balite Zine were
Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010.
published by the group Kabitenyong
Espasyo SiningDikato. In spite of
This book remembers the children
irregular periods of publication, the
who dies and survived the typhoons
zine is still admirable for the short
Ondoy and Pepeng and is part of the
stories, essays, poems, and other works
Anvil Special Topics for Kids series.
written by young and experimental
It is the story of Bituin and her family
writers.
during a catastrophic typhoon which
inundates her town. It follows them
from evacuation center back to their F
house. The book also discusses man-
made factors which worsen flooding Fernandez, Erwin. Pasirayew
and the steps to prevent these. The ya Malapati (A Haughty Dove).
book emphasizes the value of family Urdaneta: Ulupan na Pansiansia’y
and community—helping others Salitan Pangasinan, 2010.
during and after times of need. The [CHILDREN’S LITERATURE]
book has a teacher’s guide and is in The book, written in Pangasinsense, is
English and Filipino. about humility and obedience. Written
325
and illustrated by Fernandez, the Ilang is the second in the chapbook

book is a gem in Pangasinan literature series of poetry group LIRA for 2010.
considering the small number of Like the others, it contains twenty-five
literary works from the region and the poems workshopped by the group.
even smaller number of works which Poet and scriptwriter edited this
are for children. volume.
G Groyon, Vicente Garcia. The Sky

Over Dimas. Quezon City: The
Galang, EJ and Apol Sta. Maria.
Press, 2010. [NOVEL]
Riddle of Nowhere. Quezon City:
Reading the pages of Groyon’s award-
High Chair, 2010. [POETRY]
winning novel is not an ordinary
Riddle of nowhere is one of the first
discovery of Pandora’s box. It
High Chair titles with illustrations
transports the reader to Bacolod and
and color, combining the power of
the world of the Torrecarions, a family
words and art to reinvent old riddles.
of strange members, including a crazy
Written in verse, the poems are
father. First published in 2003, the
considered independent.
novel has been praised for its overall
style and solid story and plot.
Gojo Cruz, Genaro R. Mahabang-
mahabang-mahaba. Quezon
City: Adarna House, 2010. H
This book, which won first prize in the Hacla, Marlon. May mga
2009 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Dumadaang Anghel sa Parang.
Awards for Literature in the category Manila: National Commission for
Maikling Kuwentong Pambata, is about Culture and the Arts at Ateneo
a boy named “Gatpuno Ping Emilio Institute of Literary Arts and
Juanito Santiago R.(Ruiz) Lakanilaw.” Practice, 2010. [POETRY]
It shows the Filipino culture of naming In Hacla’s first poetry collection,
children: Emilio is from the name of the absurdity of silence in poetry is
his parents, Emma and Julio; Juanito evident. He weaves words not with the
is from his paternal grandfather; discourse of life as aim, but the creation
Santiago from his maternal one. Ruiz of silent spaces where the noise of
is his middle name while Gatpuno and the world can be meditated on. The
Ping are from the halu-halo which his experience of silence and temporary
mother craved while she was carrying peace can be likened to the passing
him in her womb. over of an angel. Many of the works
were inspired by the art of Van Gogh,
Gracio, Jerry B., editor. Ilang. Dali, Juan Luna, and others. The book
Quezon City: Linangan sa Imahen, is part of the Ubod Writers Series II.
Retorika at Anyo, and Vibal
Hipolito, Jerome M. Oda sa Tadik Javier, Carljoe. The Kobayashi Maru

asin at iba pang Bersong Bikol. of Love. Quezon City: The Youth
Manila: National Commission for and Beauty Brigade, 2010. [ESSAY]
Culture and the Arts at Ateneo Javier writes on life and relationships.
Institute of Literary Arts and Divided into chapters such as break-
Practice, 2010. [POETRY] up: pre-break-up, during the break-up
Hipolito’s poems are steeped in at post-break up, the book details the
the realities of Bikol, not just in ways a twentysomething male geek
the landscape, but in discussing its who tries to recover from a breakup
politics, economy, and the simple through books, video games, and other
way of life. The poet also looks back pop culture stuff.
at the burgeoning literature from the
region. The book is part of the Ubod Joaquin, Nick. Candido’s
Writers Series II. Kristian S. Cordero Apocalypse. Pasig: Anvil
also translated some of the poems in Publishing, Inc., 2010. [NOVEL]
Filipino. Joaquin’s novel is about the story of
Bobby Heredia, a seventeen year old
J runaway who thinks he knows it all.
Suddenly, he sees the people around
him without clothes, and then as
Javelosa, Jeannie E. Revisiting
moving skeletons. In this 83-page
Relationships. Pasig: Anvil
novel, Joaquin shows off his inimitable
Publishing Inc., 2010. [ESSAY]
style of writing.
Part of the Living Awake Series of
Anvil Publishing, this book discusses
Jurilla, Patricia May B. Bibliography
the various aspects of our relationships
of Filipino Novels: 1901-2000.
with other people which are “the very
Quezon City: University of
essence of why we live.” The book
the Philippines Press, 2010.
promotes a better understanding of
[BIBLIOGRAPHY]
our personal journey and our spiritual
The book lists down the novels
growth among the people we come
published in book form from 1901
into contact with.
to 2000. Included are novels in
foreign languages, Filipino, and those
Javelosa, Jeannie E. Shift Your
translated into Filipino. Because of
Mind!. Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
limitations, novels in Bicol, Cebuano,
Inc., 2010. [ESSAY]
and Iluko were not included. Using
A collection of articles which seek
UNESCO standards as well, the book
to clarify our self-understanding
excludes novels under forty-nine pages.
which can be achieved by a greater
Only literary novels are included and
consciousness. It is entitled so as it seeks
not Tagalog romance novels.
to change our thoughts, perspectives,
and point of views which will raise
our level of thoughts from conscious
knowing to conscious being.
327
L Lumbao, Annie Dennise at

Anelka Lumbao. But That
Landicho, Domingo G. Banyuhay Won’t Wake Me Up. Quezon
ni Lam-Ang. Quezon City: City: Adarna House, 2010.
C&E Publishing, Inc. , 2010. [CHILDREN’S LITERATURE]
[POETRY/MODERN EPIC] This book is about Maya and her
In the form of native poetry, Landicho mother discussing the ways she can
creates a modern epic about the wake up and not be late for school. The
life and political history of former use of the alarm clock, the crowing of
president Ferdinand E. Marcos. The the cock, the calling of the magtataho,
work can be considered as part of the music from a band, and others.
transformation of national wealth in There is an activity for arranging the
modern times. illustrations chronologically based on
the story. The book is thirty-two pages
Landicho, Domingo G. Ninoy at long and is recommended for children
Cory: Magkabiyak na Bayani. 7 to 8 years old.
Quezon City: C&E Publishing,
Inc., 2010. [POETRY, ESSAY] M
The book is about the unique lives
of Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino Jr., Malaga, Jay Gallera. Duha
considered as “Hero of Democracy,” Ka Tingog. Manila: National
and Corazon “Cory” Cojuangco Commission for Culture and the
Aquino, who has symbolized the Arts at Ateneo Institute of Literary
essence of democracy. The first part Arts and Practice, 2010. [POETRY]
about Ninoy is in prose and poetry; the Malaga not only offers the reader an
second part is about Cory is in poetry. exploration of the island of Negros; his
poems are meditative, philosophizing,
Lopido, Leonilo D. Ha Salog ug iba and a self travelling actually travelling
pa nga mga Siday. Manila: National on the page. Each persona is a familiar
Commission for Culture and the character in the reader’s own life.
Arts at Ateneo Institute of Literary Each poem is a new way of looking at
Arts and Practice, 2010. [POETRY] Filipino life. Part of the Ubod Writers
Lopido can be considered a town Series II and poet Genevieve Asenjo
cryer, but his unique voice changes translated some of the poems.
on the printed page. Waray poet
Lopido writes about alienation and Mabanglo, Ruth Elynia S. at
the differences of city and country life, Rosita G. Galang, editors. Essays
as well as a yearning for a return back on Philippine Language and
to happiness through poetry. Part of Literature. Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
the Ubod Writers series II; Timothy Inc., 2010. [CRITICAL ESSAY]
Montes translated some of the poems The book is a collection of essays
in English. on the challenges Filipino faces as
a national language. The first part
touches on how Philippine literature and war ensues. The Dugong wish to
should be understood, valued, and avoid the war and ask their mermaid
taught using various perspectives. This friends to turn them into sea creatures.
section contains essays by Lumbera, The story teaches us to be kind to sea
Arboleda, Tolentino, Lacaba, and animals that are by nature peaceful and
Mabanglo. The second part is about gentle.
questions on Filipino and how it was
formed and features essays by San Juan Matias, Segundo D. Alamat
and Almario. The third part is about ng Paniki (The Legend of
teaching and research in different the Bat). Manila: Lampara
contexts. Publishing House, 2010.
Macansantos, Francis C. at This legend tells of the importance of
Luchie B. Maranan, editors. civic-mindedness, avoiding negative
Baguio Calligraphy. Pasig: and unproductive behavior, being
Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010. selfish and self-centered. Based on the
[POETRY, SHORT STORY] story, the bats used to have colorful
An anthology of poems and stories feathers and were considered to be one
from, written in, or inspired by Baguio. of the most beautiful birds. Due to the
The foreword emphasizes Baguio’s looming 3 days of heavy rains, every
physical and cultural characteristics bird gathered in the heart of the balete,
which inspire writers to produce works except the bats who secretly hoarded
on society and way of life which Baguio food inside their cave. However, the
offers as a multilingual, multicultural food became rotten and so the goddess
location. The book is 145 pages long of the forest got angry with them
and is in Filipino, English, and local but easily forgave them afterwards.
languages. Because of the approaching 7 days
and nights of darkness, all the birds
Matias, Segundo D. Alamat helped to gather the beams of the sun
ng Dugong (The Legend of the but the bats clandestinely gathered the
Dugong). Manila: Lampara glimmer of the moon. This ploy was
Publishing House. 2010. again discovered by the goddess and
[CHILDREN’S LITERATURE] thus the bats were punished by being
Written in English and Filipino, the made ugly. They were also separated
story encourages being peaceful, open, from the family of birds.
hospitable, and the value of sacrifice.
Sea cows, the story goes, came from Mercado, Julio F., et al. Gems
people known as “Dugo” who are in English and American
living in their own peaceful corner of Literature. Pasig: Anvil Publishing
the world. The foreign groups Wara Incorporated, 2010. [ESSAY,
and Tuling asked for and were given POETRY, SHORT STORY]
a third of the island. The two groups An anthology of works mostly coming
wanted to take over the whole island from North America whose overall
329
theme revolve around the pursuit In his youth, he was exposed to many
of finding oneself and purpose in cultures- Japanese, Filipino, American,
life. The works aim to mold the and Chavacano.
imagination and critical thinking of
students. This collection does not Montesaña, Francisco Arias. Ayaw
include works by Filipino writers, but Pagpudla an Tuog ig Iba pa nga
it contains research questions which mga Siday. Manila: National
suggest based on each respective work Commission for Culture and the
intended to raise the level of literary Arts and Ateneo Institute of Literary
competence of the reader. Arts and Practice, 2010. [POETRY]
Montesana’s poems are drawn from
diverse sources. Aside from rich
Mercurio, Phil Harold L. Ayaw vocabulary and diction, present as well
Pagpudla an Tuog ig Iba pa nga are the personal and collective memory,
mga Siday. Manila: National secrets longing to be revealed and the
Commission for Culture and the process of waiting for forgiveness and
Arts and Ateneo Institute of Literary repentance. This is included in the
Arts and Practice, 2010. [POETRY] Ubod Writers Series II.
Mercurio’s poems do not only depict
the simple kind of life and living in
Samar; it alters visage as it weaves
N
words and metaphors when violence
Nem Singh, Rosario P. and Ma.
and poverty prevalent in the area are
Sylvia Ples Pengson. Gems in World
dealt with. Some poems from the
Literature. Pasig: Anvil Publishing
collection were translated into Filipino
Incorporated, 2010. [ESSAY,
by Merlie M. Alunan and Janis Claire
POETRY SHORT STORY]
B. Salvacion. This book is part of the
This 405- page anthology is composed
Ubod Writers Series II.
of works which attempt to address the
interest and need of Filipino students
Mizuguchi, Hiroyuki. Jungle of
especially those who have relatives
No Mercy: Memoir of a Japanese
working in various parts of the globe.
Soldier. Pasig: Anvil Publishing
Each work tries to contribute to a
House, 2010. [ESSAY]
wholistic world view that the works
The book is a memoir of Hiroyuki
collectively intend to convey. After
Mizuguchi, a Japanese soldier during
each piece, activities such as word
the Second World War where he led a
filter, literary shop and gemstones are
group of 80 Formosan soldiers in the
provided which aim to provide more
jungles of Northern Philippines. Prior
literary exercises for the reader. An
to the war, his parents were residing in
overview of world literature from the
Davao. He was sent to the Philippines
medieval times to the modern-day
to study when he was 12 years old.
is incorporated to provide a clearer
However, even before he finished high
context for each work.
school, the war has already erupted.
Nem Singh, Alfredo C. and Rosario authored by victims of Ondoy

P. Nem Singh. Mga Alamat at and Peping during the height and
Kuwentong Bayan: Dito, Doon aftermath of the two devastating
at Kung Saan-Saan. Pasig: storms in 2009. The contributors
Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2010. narrated their personal experiences as
[NATIONAL LITERATURE] well as their views of, reflections from
The 4-part book is a collection of and aspirations after the calamity. This
tales and folklore. The first section is book serves as a reminder that once in
devoted to tales from the Philippines. the history of our nation, this tragedy
It includes stories such as “The Tale occurred.
of the Wide Rock” and “Tale of Dona
Geronima’s Cave” mentioned in Rizal’s Ordonez, Elmer A. The Other
El Fili when Simoun was in the hull of View: The Academe, Politics,
the ship. Nineteen stories of folklore are Memory (Volume 1) Quezon City:
presented in the second section while University of the Philippines Press,
nineteen fables compose the third. 2010. [CRITICAL ESSAY]
The fourth and final section featured Leading literary critic and professor,
stories from other countries such as Elmer Ordonez, brought together
“At Mount Olympus”, “William Tell essays on literature and history of the
of Switzerland” and many more. Philippines in The Other View. Most of
the essays were originally published as
O articles in the Manila Times column of
the same name.
Ong, Charlson. Blue Angel, White
Shadow. Manila: UST Publishing P
House, 2010. [NOVEL]
In her novel, Ong gave life to the Paper Monster Press. Issue
struggles of a Chinese police officer 1. Cavite: Paper Monster
named Cyrus Ledesma after a murder Press, 2010. [POETRY]
at Blue Angel Café situated in one of the Paper Monster Press is one of the
notorious areas in Manila. Her work contemporary poetry and workshop
does not only possess the suspense groups from Cavite formed in recent
of a mystery novel, it also conjures the years. The core of their advocacy is
chaotic connections of an unfolding modern styles of poetry. The group
story as the characters narrate their zealously urges young poets wherever
experiences, however ordinary they in the world who write in English and
may be in our society. Filipino to share their body of work.
Or, Elbert, editor. After the Storm: Paran III, Lorenzo. An Isteytsayd
Stories of Ondoy. Pasig: Anvil Life: Not so Random Thoughts
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [SHORT from a Pinoy Living in America.
STORY, ESSAY & PICTURES] Quezon City: University of the
The book is a collection of stories Philippines Press, 2010. [ESSAY]
331
Comic and expatriate, Lorenzo Paran Perez, J.V.D. Ang mga Anak
relives the memories of his life as Sang Montogawe Kag Iban Pa.
an immigrant in America through a Manila: National Commission
collection of essays and anecdotes. for Culture and the Arts,
Paran concocts a different flavor to 2010. [SHORT STORY]
the sweet and bitter life of living in The author is one Ilonggo youth who
the United States and the life-long continues to advance Hiligaynon
yearning for the Philippines. literature, which perhaps may be
nearing its demise during these
Penson-Juico, Margie, editor. modern times. His short stories give
Cory: An Intimate Portrait II, precedence to issues affecting the
Selected Tributes and Eulogies. Filipino laborer and farmer. One of his
Pasig: Anvil Publishing, Inc., main characters, Berto, is a SAKADA,
2010 [ESSAY, POEM] however, the story of each character
This second book is a collection of is not distant from the rest of his
letters, poems, prayers, sermons and characters. This book is included in
tributes for the late President Corazon the Ubod Writers Series II.
C. Aquino. Unlike the first book,
Cory: An Intimate Portrait and as a Pison, Ruth Jordana L. Dangerous
personal request made by the former Liaisons: Sexing the nation in
President to the author, pieces were Novels by Philippine Women
not commissioned but were voluntarily Writers (1993- 2006). Quezon City:
contributed by friends, family members The University of the Philippines
and people who loved Cory. The book Press, 2010. [ CRITICAL ESSAY]
also includes an invocation and a In this book, Pison analyzes works of
speech made during the book launch Filipino women writers and how they
and necrological services for the late weave female characters into their
President. stories. Using gender theories and
textual analysis, Pison examined the
Penaranda, Victor. Pilgrim in roles of women in the narratives of our
Transit. Pasig: Anvil Publishing, nation. This study was awarded Best
Inc., 2010 [POETRY] Dissertation of 2009 at the UP College
A collection of poems written during of Arts and Letters.
the author’s travels around the
Philippines and other countries. Each Pomeroy, William J. The Forest.
piece includes the date and place when Quezon City: The University of the
and where the verses were penned. Philippines Press, 2010. [NOVEL]
Most of the poems focus on the A reprinting of the 1963 classic, The
culture of each place and Penaranda’s Forest tells the story of Bill Pomeroy
experiences in them. Written in the and his wife Celia, members of the
English language, the book consists of Huk Movement during the 1950’s.
95 pages. The story opens during the summer
of 1950 when the couple joined the
ranks as forest leaders. The book is manuscript was completed in 1980.

divided into short chapters that bring This was serialized in the magazine,
the reader through the fast-paced and Jingle appearing that same year. In
often dangerous life of a guerilla. addition, this novel has been turned
into a movie with the same title in
R 1982. Nora Aunor starred as Socorro,
Lorna Tolentino as Nina and Johnny
Delgado as Ding.
Remodo, Adrian V. Ini an
Sakuyang Hawak Asin Iba
Reyes, Jun Cruz, editor. Likhaan
Pang Bersong Bikol. Manila:
Journal 4. Quezon City: The
National Commission for
University of the Philippines Press,
Culture and the Arts, and Ateneo
2010. [ SHORT STORY, ESSAY,
Institute of Literary Arts and
POEM, CRITICAL ESSAY]
Practice, 2010. [POETRY]
The pieces that compose the 4th edition
This collection by Remodo is a journey
of Likhaan Journal of the UP Institute
through the sea of words having similar
of Creative Writing spawned a much
meanings found in the human body.
anticipated anthology. Aside from the
Whether this be a body full of lust, the
expected short story, essay and poem,
body as the vessel of the Holy Spirit,
this also includes a collection of literary
even the body of God. This book is
critique.
part of the Ubod Writers Series II.
Kristian Cordero translated selected
Roxas, Reni. Ay Naku. Makati:
poems into Filipino.
Tahanan Books for Young
Children, 2010. [CHILDREN’S
Reyes, Edgardo M. Isla: Si Tarzan at
LITERATURE]
si Jane, at si Chito. Quezon City: C&
Included in the Tahanan Books for
E Publishing, Inc., 2010. [NOVEL]
Young Readers Series, this 32-paged
This work by Reyes first appeared as
book is written in Filipino. It narrates
a serialized novel in Liwayway. The
the experiences of Botbot, the youngest
story revolved around the life of Jane
child in his family on a night when the
Anderson, daughter of an American
family was about to sleep. Starting
pilot who became a bar girl in Angeles
from his changing into pajamas, to his
City, and her struggles as a movie and
breaking an item in their living room up
television actress named Jane Roldan.
to when he hides from his parents, his
subsequent reappearance culminating
Reyes, Edgardo M. Mga Uod
to the scene where his family embraced.
at Rosas. Quezon City: C& E
Most of the text consists of only one
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [NOVEL]
word with English translations.
The novel focuses on how destiny
played its role in the failures and
successes of a painter named Ding.
Although published as a book
only recently (2010), the original
333
S Santos, Rica Bolipata. Lost and

Found and Other Essays. Quezon
Salvacion, Janis Claire B. Siso City: The University of the
Sakradang Ug Iba pa nga Philippines Press, 2010. [ESSAY]
mga Siday Han Tagoangkan. This inspirational book aims to share
Manila: National Commission of to its readers the value of the things
Culture and the Arts and Ateneo we hold dear and the possibility of
Institute of Literary Arts and losing them. According to the author,
Practice, 2010. [POETRY] the title “Lost and Found” was chosen
Salvacion is among the new breed because even through there is a trace
of women Visayan poets. Her work of sadness in lost, hope accompanies it
does not only touch on the positions with a promise that the thing lost may
women occupy in the society and in be recovered, whatever it was.
the home, it also draws attention to
her ever-changing roles throughout Sering, Tara FT. Amazing Grace:
life: as daughter, wife, and mother. A Novel. Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
This collection is recognized as the Inc., 2010. [NOVEL/ CHICK LIT]
first book of poems written in Waray. The novel is about a woman named
Selected pieces were translated by Grace who was about to marry her
Merlie M. Alunan. This book is part of boyfriend, Mike. Mike worked abroad
the Ubod Writers Series II. and had no time left to speak with her.
In his photographs, Mike is always
Samar, Edgar Calabia, editor. accompanied by female companions.
Lamang. Quezon City: Linangan This prompted Grace to make an
sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo, and unannounced visit. She discovered
Vibal Foundation, 2010. [POETRY] that while in Singapore, Mike has
Lamang is the first chapbook series reunited with his ex-girlfriend, Kaila.
of the literary group LIRA for 2010. The wedding of Grace did not push
This new collection features 25 poems through.
critiqued by Edgar Calabia Samar.
Serrano, Vincenz. The Collapse of
Sanchez, Louie Jon. At Sa Tahanan What Separates Us. Quezon City:
ng Alabok. Manila: UST Publishing High Chair. 2010. [POETRY]
House, 2010. [POETRY] In this book, Serrano finds a way to
This is the first collection of poems merge separate entities – “we” as a
written by Sanchez that focus on the marker for Manila against England or
commemoration of beliefs. Sanchez is any other city in the world. The attempt
a 2-time winner of the Poet of the Year to construct the whole and tear down
given by the Commission of Filipino the spaces between is attained by the
Language. gathering of pieces of verses and prose
seen in the book.
Sicat Cleto, Luna. Mga Prodigal. impression of being handmade, the

Pasig: Anvil Publishing, pages are intentionally mimeographed
Inc., 2010. [NOVEL] albeit a reminder of the material state
This new novel by Luna Sicat Cleto which is fleetingly touched on by the
focus on the seeming fate of many haikus.
Filipino nowadays- working in other
countries and its accompanying
struggles. Antonio, the lead character,
T
promised not to leave the Philippines
Teodoro, John Iremil E. Anghel
anymore but finds himself in Dubai to
Sang Capiz kag Iban pa nga
provide for his family.
Sugilanon: Mga Maikling
Kwento sa Hiligaynon at
Simon, Tanya Sevilla. How
Filipino. [SHORT STORY]
Long Till September? Quezon
In Anghel sang Capiz, Teodoro put
City: Adarna House, 2010.
together 5 short stories written in
Hiligaynon which were translated into
For its 30th anniversary, Adarna House
Filipino. The book is controversial as
presents this book that tells the story
it is the first collection of published
of a young girl’s anticipation for her
works in Hiligaynon that deal with
upcoming birthday. Depicted in the
homosexual issues and contexts in the
book are some Filipino traditions
Philippines.
celebrated during each month of the
calendar. The story opens on the
Tiama, Aida Campos. Panagbiahe.
month of October and one by one,
Manila: National Commission
every month is passed until it reaches
for Culture and the Arts, 2010
the month of September. Activities
AND Ateneo Institute of Literary
such as matching pictures for each
Arts and Practice. [POETRY]
corresponding month are presented at
The poems of Tiama are considered
the latter portion. The text of this 32-
to be part of the new generation of
page book is in Filipino and English
works in the Iluko language. Bringing
and is recommended for children aged
the influence of being first written in
8-9 years old.
English, there is an intention to create
images and narratives about personal
Suarez, Angelo. Batch ’97 Haiku.
experiences in Tiama’s poems,
Quezon City, 2010. [POETRY]
different from the majority of poems
Haikus in Batch ’97 Haiku are from
in Iluko. Some pieces dealing with
selected phrases from the poet’s 1997
issues on women, diaspora and others
elementary yearbook. A haiku has the
were translated into Filipino by Cles
following entries: classmate’s name,
B. Rambaud. This is part of the Ubod
ambition and current profession-
Writers Series II.
information that Suarez obtained
through the social networking site,
Facebook. The actual book gives the
335
Tiempo, Edith L. Commend/ Institute of Literary Arts and

Contend: Beyond Extensions. Practice. [CRITICAL ESSAY]
Quezon City: University of the Torres Reyes brought together the
Philippines Press, 2010. critiques generated by Lope K. Santos’
[POETRY] Banaag at Sikat from the last 100 years.
The book is divided into 2 parts, Included in the list of acclaimed critics
Reaching Out and Extensions. It is a and writers in the collection are Gabriel
collection of poems that deal with the Beato Francisco, Teodoro Agoncillo,
competing notions of commending Juan C. Laya, Epifanio San Juan, Jr. and
and disapproving. This also aims to many more. The anthology opens with
unify the two sides of the truth. The an essay by Torres as well as a survey of
poems were completed but were critiques that have since appeared.
not published since the author was
awarded the 1992 National Fellow for Tuazon, Noel. Tanang Namilit
Poetry. sa Hangin. Manila: National
Commission for Culture and
Tolentino, Rolando. Gitnang Uring the Arts, 2010. [POETRY]
Fantasya at Material na Kahirapan Like the magical name of Dumitawag
sa Neoliberalismo: Politikal na Eyamen in Bisayang mitong Ulahangin,
Kritisismo ng Kulturang Popular. the poems of Tuazon yearn to protect
Manila: UST Publishing House, the rich culture of the Manobo tribe
2010. [ CRITICAL ESSAY] and their sensitivity to nature- the only
Like the previous books of Tolentino, remaining bond that ties the modern
this work is a collection of critical essays Filipino to the precolonial days.
about the third kind of consumerism Selected poems from the collection
of popular culture that is marked by were translated from Visayan to English
neoliberalism. by the poet Merlie M. Alunan.
Torralba, Enrico C., editor. Rurok.

Quezon City: Linangan sa Imahen,
U
Retorika at Anyo, and Vibal
Ulupan na Pansiansia’y Salitan
Pangasinan. Tagano ed Kelang
Rurok is the third chapbook series of
(Provision in the Wilderness).
the group LIRA for the year 2010. It
has 25 poems. Each piece was studied
Salitan Pangasinan, 2010 [SHORT
as to the process of reaching the
STORY, NOVELETTE, POEM]
pinnacle of a poem.
One of the treasures of the Pangasinense
language is the Tagano ed Kelang as it
Torres Reyes, Maria Luisa.
is one of the few books belonging to
Banaag at Sikat: Metakritisismo
the past decade that brought together
at Antolohiya. Manila: National
short stories, short novels, and poems
Commission for Culture and
of contemporary Pangasinense writers.
the Arts, 2010 AND Ateneo
This anthology fills the void in
published literature as it upholds the what they wanted to say when they
connections of influence from northern argue that television programs have the
Pangasinan. means to censor what is aired. Before
long, Blip’s stomach bursts because
V of the volume of words he ingested.
Everyone became bewildered by the
swirling words. In the end, Blip left
Villanueva Jr., Camilo M. Tamang
and went to a far off land because he
Hinala. Quezon City: C& E
could not stomach what they wanted
Publishing, 2010. [POETRY]
him to do.
Tamang Hinala brings together the
poems of the past year from writer
and poet, Camilo Villanueva, Writing Y
Fellow of Bienvenido Santos Creative
Writing Center of DLSU. Some of the Yabes, Criselda. Below the Crying
poems pertain to the life of a writer Mountain. Quezon City: The
and the summoning of muses for University of the Philippines
inspiration vital to the creative process. Press, 2010. [NOVEL]
Other parts of the book deal with real The southern part of the Philippines
life tragedies that have happened in has been wracked by negative news of
Manila, wherein Villanueva through war. In Below The Crying Mountain,
poetry, examined the spaces that one is given a glimpse of Jolo, Sulu
remain, the unremembered, and the from the point of view of Yabes, a writer
memories that have been successfully who has lived there and has become an
wiped away. expert in the social issues when she
lived as a journalist there. The novel
Villanueva, Rene O. Blip. Manila: is a call to analyze our way of life and
Lampara Publishing House, 2010. history as a nation. The book was in
[CHILDREN’S LITERATURE] the shortlist of the 2011 Man Asian
Winning the second prize for Short Literary Prize.
Works for Children in the 1995 Don
Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards Yabes, Criselda. Sarena’s Story:
for Literature, this story deals with The Loss of a Kingdom. Quezon
journalistic freedom and journalism’s City: The University of the
quest for truth, goodness and beauty. Philippines Press, 2010. [ESSAY]
The main character, Blip was created In Yabes’s fifth book, Sarena, the
by the powerful authority of the favorite servant of Princess Piandao
respected Republic of Shears and was from the sultanate of Sulu. In the
assigned to swallow all the words that narrative of the anonymous storyteller,
he deemed ugly, negative or untruthful. she receives a letter from her mother
Whenever he does so, the words Sarena about the last moments of
turn into blip, blip, blip. As the story the sultanate. The book is about the
continued, the people became furious death of the sultan and how the datus
because they were unable to express stopped Piandao from succeeding as
337
sultan, until President Quezon decided the Kumperensiya sa Paglikom ng Salita

the fate of the sultanate. Sarena’s in 2009. It is the aim of the project to
Story: The Loss of a Kingdom was a UP officially recognize words from the
Centennial Literary Prize Winner in various languages in the country which
the Gawad Likhaan. gain usage in the national language. It
also aims to analyze the papers within
Yapan, Alvin B. at Glenda C. a regional and, more importantly, a
Oris, mga patnugot. Burador. national context.
Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila
University Press, 2010. [ESSAY] Zafra, Jessica. Twisted 8½.
A collection of essays about and Pasig: Anvil Publishing,
“exposing the chaos of popular Inc., 2010. [ESSAY]
culture.” Some of them are winners Part of the Twisted Volumes, Jessica
in the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Zafra ‘s book is a collection of twenty-
Awards. The introduction is a twenty- seven articles for her Emotional
five page treatise on rhetoric. The Weather Report in The Philippines
title is based on the belief that “all Star. Zafra writes on the changes
knowledge of the forms of the essay science and technology have made on
remains and rightly remains erasures our lives, along with her own take on
which are replaced over time.” these changes.
Yuson, Alfred A. Poems

Singkuwenta’y Cinco. Pasig: Anvil
Publishing, Inc., 2010. [POETRY]
Contains fifty-five poems in English
and Filipino, on which the title is
based. Yuson is an awardee for the
2009 Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni
Balagtas for Lifetime Achievement
from UMPIL or the Writers Union
of the Philippines. The poems
have already been published in the
Philippines, Hawaii, the Netherlands,
and Hong Kong.
Z
Zafra, Galileo. Ambagan 2009:
Mga Salita Mula sa Iba’t Ibang
Wika sa Filipinas. Quezon City:
The University of the Philippines
Press, 2010. [CRITICAL ESSAY]
The book is a collection of papers from
338 likhaan 5 ˙ mga kontirbyutor / contributors
Mga Kontribyutor / Contributors
Gémino H. Abad is University Philippines. May dalawa siyang indie

Professor Emeritus of English and books: ang Patikim at Emotero.
Creative Writing at the University of
the Philippines. A poet and scholar, he Si Seigfred Cabral ay isang freelance
has finished his six-volume anthology graphic artist at eskultor. Nakapag sulat
of Philippine short stories in English na siya ng mangilan-ngilang artikulo,
from 1956 to 2008, in continuation, karamihan ay pagsusuri ng mga dulaan
of the late Professor Leopoldo Y. at pelikula, para sa pahayagang Malaya.
Yabes’ critical-historical anthology Ang kaniyang kasalukuyang interes ay
of Filipino short stories in English ang pagbibigay buhay sa mga akda
1925 to 1995. In 2009 he received the sa pamamagitan ng Stopmotion
Premio Feronia, Italy’s highest award Animation kung saan ang kaniyang
for foreign authors. mga aktor ay likhang kamay yari sa
silicone.
Virgilio S. Almario is a foremost
living poet and literary critic in the Awtor ng dalawang nobela si Luna
Philippines. He was proclaimed Sicat Cleto: ang “Makinilyang Altar”
National Artist for Literature in 2003 (UP Press, 2003) at “Mga Prodigal”
and is now a Professor Emeritus in the (Anvil, 2008). Kabanata mula sa work
College of Arts and Letters, University in progress niya ang “Delphi”. Bukod
of the Philippines, Diliman. sa pagsusulat ng nobela, mandudula,
mananaysay at kuwentista rin si Luna.
Kilala rin sa cyber moniker na Makoy May mga nakamit na siyang gawad mula
Dakuykoy si Mark Angeles. Nagsilbi sa Palanca, CCP, Gawad Tsanselor,
siyang vice president for Luzon at Madrigal Prize for Best First Book
ng College Editors Guild of the para sa kanyang mga akda.
339
Si Allan N. Derain ay awtor ng librong Canada, at nagtuturo siya ngayon

Iskrapbuk na nilathala ng UP Press. sa U.P. Department of Broadcast
Nagwagi ng Carlos Palanca Memorial Communication, kung saan siya
Awards for Literature 2006, 2007, nagtapos ng kanyang B.A. Dalawang
2008 para sa kaniyang mga isinulat antolohiya na ng maikling kuwento
na kuwento. Kasalukuyan siyang ang kanyang nailathala (Pitada, Anvil,
nagtuturo sa Kagawaran ng Filipino 1994; at Pamilya®: Mga Katha,
sa Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila at U.P. Press, 2003), at nagkamit na rin
kumukuha ng kaniyang doktorado sa siya ng maraming parangal buhat
Unibersidad ng Pilipinas, Diliman. sa Palanca, Cultural Center of the
Philippines, Gantimpalang Ani, New
Glenn Diaz obtained his degree York Festivals, Catholic Mass Media
in Secondary Education from UP Awards at iba pa para sa kanyang mga
Diliman in 2008 and is now in the akdang pampanitikan at mga likhang
university's MA Creative Writing pangradyo, video at pelikula. Siya ang
program. His works have appeared kasalukuyang chair ng Film Desk ng
in the Philippines Free Press and Young Critics’ Circle.
Philippines Graphic, and he was a
fellow for fiction at the Ateneo and Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo has
Silliman national workshops. He is a published more than 20 books of
freelance writer, mainly dabbling in fiction, creative nonfiction and literary
journalism and PR. criticism. She is a UP Professor
Emeritus and continues to teach
Russell Stanley Geronimo is creative writing and literature at the
studying in the UP College of Law. Graduate School of the College of Arts
He is a graduate of De La Salle & Letters. She is also director of the
University. He was a fellow in the 48th UST Publishing House.
Silliman University National Writers
Workshop. Gabriela Lee graduated with a
master's degree in Literary Studies
Si Lolito Go ay tubong Olongapo from the National University of
City. Kabahagi sya ng KM64 Poetry Singapore, and a bachelor's degree in
Collective, isang grupo ng mga Creative Writing from UP Diliman. She
progresibong makatang kabataan. Ilan was a fellow for poetry in English at the
sa kanyang mga tula ay nailathala na UP, Iligan, and Dumaguete National
sa iba’t ibang publikasyon sa internet Writers’ Workshops. Her works have
tulad ng High Chair, at ang ilan naman been published in both Philippine
ay napabilang sa mga antolohiya tulad and international publications, such as
ng Ipu-ipo sa Piging. Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume
1 and Volume 5, A Different Voice:
Katatapos lamang ni Eli Rueda Guieb Philippine Fiction by Young Writers,
III ng kanyang Ph.D. sa anthropology Crowns and Oranges: New Philippine
buhat sa McGill University sa Montreal, Poetry, By Blood We Live, The Dragon
340 likhaan 5 ˙ mga kontirbyutor / contributors
and the Stars and the upcoming from the UP-Diliman College of Mass
Isolation Remembers What Repetition Communication, an MBA from Ateneo
Forgets: An Anthology. She writes de Manila University, and is close to the
both poetry and fiction in English. She finish line for a PhD Communication
is currently based in Singapore. Research degree from her alma mater
UPD-CMC, where her dissertation will
Guro, kritiko, makata, at mandudula si be about the Philippine horseracing
Bienvenido Lumbera. Pinakatampok subculture. Larga!
na pagkilala sa kaniyang husay ang
pagkagawad sa kaniya ng titulong Ma. Elena L. Paulma graduated with
Pambansang Alagad ng Sining sa a BA in English (Creative Writing) and
Panitikan. Patuloy siya sa pagtuturo an MA in Comparative Literature at
ng mga kursong literatura at araling UP DIliman. She teaches at Xavier
Filipino sa UP CAL Graduate Unviersity, Cagayan de Oro City and
Program. is curently finishing her PhD Creative
Writing at UP DIliman.
Charlson Ong has written 3
collections of short fiction- Men of Si Jayson D. Petras ay nagtapos
the East and other stories, Woman of ng Batsilyer at Masterado sa Araling
Amkaw and other stories, Conversion Pilipino sa UP Diliman. Kasalukuyang
and other Fictions and three novels An nagtuturo ng Wika, Panitikan at
Embarrassment of Riches, Banyaga: A Araling Pilipino sa UP Departamento
Song of War; and Blue Angel, White ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas
Shadow . He is a fellow of the ICW. (DFPP). Nagsisilbi rin siyang
Katuwang na Tagapangulo ng DFPP
Jenny Ortuoste is a taga-karera of at Affiliate Faculty ng Faculty of
over twenty years' standing, a dark Education, UP Open University.
horse who came from behind to carve
her own niche in the horseracing Isa sa pangunahing manunulat ng
industry in various roles, among them bansa si Jun Cruz Reyes. Siyam sa
race analyst on the live cable television kaniyang sampung librong naisulat
race coverage and assistant manager ay premyado o nagawaran ng writing
for racetrack operations. A member grant. Nagsusulat siya ng tula, kuwento,
of the Philippine Sportswriters nobela at non-fiction. Gumagawa rin
Association, she writes three weekly siya ng pelikulang dokumentaryo.
columns: two on horseracing - "The May limang one-man show na siya, na
Hoarse Whisperer" in English for kakikitaan ng pintura at manaka-naka
Manila Standard-Today and "Karera ng kaniyang iskultura.
Lang!" in Filipino for Inquirer
Bandera - and an opinion column in Kinikilala ngayon si Ellen Sicat hindi
English, "Pop Goes the World" for lang bilang asawa ng manunulat na si
Manila Standard-Today. She has a BA Rogelio Sicat, kundi isa ring nobelista
Communication major in Journalism at kuwentista. Noong 2005, nagkamit
341
ng Grand Prize para sa kategoryang

nobela ang kanyang “Paghuhunos”,
na linimbag ng UP Press; at kasama
sa nashortlist sa National Book
Awards noong 2009 ang kanyang
kuleksiyon ng maikling kuwento, ang
“Alimuom”(Anvil, 2007).

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The

The University of the Philippines Press

All rights reserved. Rolando B. Tolentino

xviii Notes for Likhaan from Charlson Ong

xix Mula kay Romulo Baquiran Jr.

xx Tala ng reader sa akdang Filipino

Short Story / Maikling Kuwento

Loser at Iba Pang Tula

Sharing Spaces and Other Poems

Graphic Short Story

338 Mga Kontribyutor / Contributors

Ang mga sanaysay ay mga malikhaing pagtugon sa mga trauma ng

sa akademya bilang pangunahing behikulo ng kontemporaryong panitikan.

nagsasaad din ng tekonolohisasyon ng pagbasa. Ang resepsyon sa Internet,

at hapag lang ang mababaw dahil nakatuntong ito sa masinop, malikhain at

pagsasala ng mga kontribusyon, pati na rin ang pakikipagkaibigang

relates constructs of being a writer, personality, and feminism in her interview

and were chosen no longer have abstract or absurd ways of expressing

Translated by Arvin Abejo Mangohig

Notes for Likhaan from Charlson Ong

Mula kay Romulo Baquiran Jr.

Mapangahas ang pagsasanib ng naratibo ng epikong Lam-ang at

From Romulo Baquiran Jr.

Tala ng reader sa akdang Filipino

“Huling Bakunawa”: Mainam ang pagtatangkang isalaysay ang bersiyon

Notes on the Filipino works by the reader

“Huling Bakunawa”: A well-told tale of a version of a local belief. Rich in

Hindi batid ng mga katutubo kung anong uri ng isda

ang mabuting pakikitungo sa kaniya ng mga tagasentro. Hindi siya dapat

sampan ng Tsino at ng adyong ng Datu. Sapat ang lakas ng mga lagasaw

na ihahandog sana sa dilag na nililigawan. Sa pagkakaalam kasi ng binata,

Ikalawang pagpapakawala ng malalim na buntonghininga. Mas

Nang sumunod na araw, umalis sa Himamaylan ang sampan ng

balahibo ng paboreal, talukab ng pawikan; mga ginto, mga karayom na may

hugis. Nang ipagtanong noon ni Rabat kay Guangling na siyang nagregalo

ng mga buwaya at labuyo. Sumalampak din siya sa sahig ngunit sa halip na

nagsikap na maibaling sa ibang paksa ang mga pag-uusap. Pagsapit ng

kailan dumarating ang banayad na hangin galing timog. Mawawala ang

“What about the -”

“Don’t you love farce,” Barbra Streisand is asking, when I open

To claim providence, I planned to say in the future that I really got

He laughed. “OK, I forgive your kind.”

Our bus slowed down to a wide, rock-strewn lot, beside a big

My first night alone, I spent sitting Indian-style on the floor of the

My brain flutters lightly as a feather.

and envelops me in one arm. I playfully brush a stray strand of reddish-

“Carolina?” I feel a pair of arms shaking my shoulders.

“Isn’t it rich?” we look at each other, smiling. “Are we a pair? Me here

because of an accident in the pit, as the others tell me.”

rebelled against the gang. He slumped on a boulder, saying the name of

childhood, Ruben had tried to live a well-planned and well-executed life, in

“Good morning,” he said.

Ang Ama at Ina ng Isang Epiko

may sinasabi ang panahon sa pamamagitan ng mga hayop ni Pananiban,

Hindi iyon ang pagtakas na iniisip ni Panganiban. Basta kailangan

panginoong sanhi ng paghihiwalay ng mga mag-asawa sa lupa. Tapos ay

Isa-isa nilang pinapasok ang mga pamayanan sa Samtoy (Iluko)

Matagal na panahon na iyon. Samantala’y nagsama na nga sina Juan

Sa susunod, sana’y hindi maisipan ni Namungan na magpakuha ng mga

Iyong hindi kinakapitan ng bukbok. Igawa mo ako ng higaang may

looban ng Kaigolotan, doo’y waring ang kadilima’y walang hangganan.

Ganoon pa ma’y nagkakaisa sila sa kanilang pakay. Matuklasan ang

“Kaigolotan? Mapanganib doon ina. Pati sarili nila’y sinusugatan para