Here i am again tantalizing your thoughts. . . :-)
Duuuhhh?
Hard to maintain a blog site, though. :(
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Moment I Wake Up!
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| Don't Bomb Civilian Communities -- CSO |
I am a resident of Jolo, Sulu. All my life, I had never been interested in politics. Being a Muslim, I am slightly fatalistic by nature. “What the hell,” I say, “as long as I can satisfy my hungry stomach three times a day and have a simple normal life, then to hell with all the sufferings around the world!”
But my recent involvement in a Civil Society Organization makes me furious about what the military is doing to my native place. The CSO assigned me to visit some areas of conflict in Sulu like (a) Ipil, Maimbung; (b) Marang, Indanan; and (c) Sitio Tandu Pukut, Indanan.
In these places, I realized that there are atrocities committed by the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) against my beloved Sulu and its people.
All in the name of their pursuit of the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG), they are actually destroying the lives of the civilians, incapacitating them to have an honest and productive living. Let me explain.
First, in Ipil, Maimbung, the AFP assaulted sleeping civilians killing eight people, including a woman and children on February 04, 2008. They said that the operation was legitimate, a result of five months of surveillance activities to rescue the kidnapped victim, Rosalinda Lao. But the AFP did not find the ASG.
Second, in Marang, Indanan last April 30, the AFP’s bombardment of a place a kilometer away from the Moro National Liberation Front’s (MNLF) Camp Marang displaced thousands of civilians. They even pointed to a civilian’s house as being a “bomb-making factory” of the ASG. The strike that they conducted did not kill any ASG member. It was only successful in instilling fear among the civilians. It could also be just a mere provocation for MNLF soldiers to fight so that Chairman Nur Misuari would be thrown back to jail.
Lastly, in Sitio Tandu Pukut, Indanan on June 15, 2008, the AFP sent four rocket launcher grenade and 23 howitzer cannons to a civilian community. Their purported aim was to decimate the ASG in nearby Subah Timahu. Sulu Governor Abdulsakur Tan had actually given permission to the AFP to conduct the bombardment. When we went to the area, I realized that it was not the ASG that they intimidated, but the woman and children and other civilians in the area.
I have documentation to prove these atrocities.
As I interviewed the civilian victims, I almost cried with dismay. Their small farms were destroyed; their coconut and banana trees uprooted; their fishing boats reduced to smithereens. The fear and shock in women’s and children’s eyes were evident.
So, what is the AFP’s business here in Sulu? Do they really want the Tausug to have peace? They are the Peacekeepers, they say. Moreover, are the Tausug politicians concerned about the welfare of their constituents? What have they done to alleviate the poor people’s sufferings and miseries?
If the Tausug people do not unite to have a one strong voice against the connivance of these people in power, I don’t know what would become of our race.
Posted by Bulatlat
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Sentiments of the Civilians
Mrs. Hanina Abdusali, a six-month evacuee to the area, is still shocked and traumatized with the incident that gives her sleepless night. She said that she would immediately run for cover whenever she heard a strange sound. Ms. Abdusali was a native place of Batu, Itum, Barangay Alu, Parang, Sulu. She went to Tandu Pukut, Siyunugan because she believed in the relative safety of the place.
“We fled from danger to a more dangerous place,” she said in Tausug.
One of the wounded, Mrs. Biya Bahari, when asked why she brought her appliances to the Hja. Mariam’s warehouse said that she was only taking precaution against looting as it was their experience that whenever a military offensive was done to their place, the military had a penchant of looting their belongings.
Children’s right to education is also jeopardized. A Bato-bato Elementary School annex, which served grade 1 and 2 pupils in the community, had been closed since the incident happened. The pupils are now scattered to nearby elementary schools which are miles away from the place. Some children have to walk four (4) miles to Bato-bato just to attend to their classes. Other children choose to stop from going to school because of the incident.
Fishermen who rely on their fishing boats for sustenance of their families are also angry and call for redress of their grievances and indemnification. Some thirty (30) boats were damaged.
The owner of a bombarded small cassava farm asked, “What will happen to me, to my family after the incident? I rely solely on this farm for my family sustenance. Is there still hope that this land which I till for years produced good harvest after it has been destroyed by this chemicals from cannons?”
Mr. Kasim Hasim and other civilians asked for the help of the Sulu Governor Sakur Tan and the Vice Governor Lady Ann Sahidulla.
“We fled from danger to a more dangerous place,” she said in Tausug.
One of the wounded, Mrs. Biya Bahari, when asked why she brought her appliances to the Hja. Mariam’s warehouse said that she was only taking precaution against looting as it was their experience that whenever a military offensive was done to their place, the military had a penchant of looting their belongings.
Children’s right to education is also jeopardized. A Bato-bato Elementary School annex, which served grade 1 and 2 pupils in the community, had been closed since the incident happened. The pupils are now scattered to nearby elementary schools which are miles away from the place. Some children have to walk four (4) miles to Bato-bato just to attend to their classes. Other children choose to stop from going to school because of the incident.
Fishermen who rely on their fishing boats for sustenance of their families are also angry and call for redress of their grievances and indemnification. Some thirty (30) boats were damaged.
The owner of a bombarded small cassava farm asked, “What will happen to me, to my family after the incident? I rely solely on this farm for my family sustenance. Is there still hope that this land which I till for years produced good harvest after it has been destroyed by this chemicals from cannons?”
Mr. Kasim Hasim and other civilians asked for the help of the Sulu Governor Sakur Tan and the Vice Governor Lady Ann Sahidulla.
The Story of Sitio Tandu Pukut
June 15, 2008, three in the morning, the civilians of Sitio Tandu Pukut and Sitio Subah Timahu, Barangay Siyunugan, Indanan, Sulu were peacefully sleeping in their homes when intermittent loud sounds disturbed and woke them up. Realizing that the sources of the cacophony were not from mere ordinary sources but howitzer-cannon blast, the people, women and children, scurried here and there for cover. One of the explosives destroyed the electricity wiring of the SULECO that blacked-out the area which resulted to further confusion.
Some people took cover under huge trunks of tress; others beside huge rocks. As the explosion of bombs encircled them, they panicked and suffered abrasion all over their bodies. Even from their hiding places, they were shook and overthrown by the impact of the blasts. Some civilians were hit by shrapnel.
About four rocket launcher grenades and 23 howitzer-cannon shells (105/155) bombarded the area.
The bombardment stopped after 30 minutes. The civilians took advantage of the hiatus to evacuate the area for fear of a recurrent attack. They went to Barangay Siyunugan to the house of the community leader, Hadja Mariam Alama. But some brave civilians returned to their homes by five in the morning of the same day, June 15, 2008.
By daytime, the civilians witnessed so much destruction that the bombardment had caused. Their fishing boats (30 bancas) near the seashore were destroyed; their banana and coconut trees and root crops were mutilated; their houses were hit by shrapnel. Luckily, no houses were directly hit because most of the cannon shells exploded in the shore during high tide.
Four civilians, namely: Sarajan Makarram, Biya Bahari, Wawan Abdua, and Shernalyn Abdua came forward to report about their wound. The team brought the victims to the hospital for immediate check-up. Sarajan Makarram, however, refused to go to the hospital.
There were other wounded civilians but afraid or shy to come forward because they were hit in their private areas. Some women and children suffered abrasion all over their bodies.
The incident caused 69 households, 378 civilians to evacuate the place.
Some people took cover under huge trunks of tress; others beside huge rocks. As the explosion of bombs encircled them, they panicked and suffered abrasion all over their bodies. Even from their hiding places, they were shook and overthrown by the impact of the blasts. Some civilians were hit by shrapnel.
About four rocket launcher grenades and 23 howitzer-cannon shells (105/155) bombarded the area.
The bombardment stopped after 30 minutes. The civilians took advantage of the hiatus to evacuate the area for fear of a recurrent attack. They went to Barangay Siyunugan to the house of the community leader, Hadja Mariam Alama. But some brave civilians returned to their homes by five in the morning of the same day, June 15, 2008.
By daytime, the civilians witnessed so much destruction that the bombardment had caused. Their fishing boats (30 bancas) near the seashore were destroyed; their banana and coconut trees and root crops were mutilated; their houses were hit by shrapnel. Luckily, no houses were directly hit because most of the cannon shells exploded in the shore during high tide.
Four civilians, namely: Sarajan Makarram, Biya Bahari, Wawan Abdua, and Shernalyn Abdua came forward to report about their wound. The team brought the victims to the hospital for immediate check-up. Sarajan Makarram, however, refused to go to the hospital.
There were other wounded civilians but afraid or shy to come forward because they were hit in their private areas. Some women and children suffered abrasion all over their bodies.
The incident caused 69 households, 378 civilians to evacuate the place.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Graduate (Short Story)
The Graduate
Elsewhere in the world, December was a cold month. But here in Sulu, as the usual case in most of the tropical regions, the weather was just erratic—now sunny, next rainy—and it was hot today, scorching even.
The acacia and mango trees dotting the MSU campus were no match to the angry sun; their shades were no protection against the roasting tropical weather, only against the skin cancer that direct sunlight could give. Students and professors alike—unless one had fever—had sweats running all over their faces. The damp blotches on their clothes betrayed the sweats all over their bodies—especially in the armpits, more so, of those who forgot to use deodorant or “tawas.”
Inside the Dean’s Office of the College of Arts and Sciences, a different heat was stemming that made one wonder whether the sun could affect emotions as well.
“You did it again, young man!” roared the rotund Dean Barak Abdulyakin, standing akimbo, at the lean student sitting on a chair in front of the dean’s desk. “If you continue terrorizing your fellow students, I’ll be compelled to expel you from this college, your imminent graduation day this April notwithstanding!”
“I’ll sue you for libel, sir, because,” said Hassan, the object of the Dean’s anger, “as far as I’m concerned, I’m not a member of any terrorist group, local or otherwise—which you can double check on the FBI. So, how can I terrorize, sir?”
“Are you trying to make me laugh?”
“Perhaps, sir. But I need your answer just the same.”
“Isn’t it enough to tell you that Mr. Aminkadra—yes, that bright student that CAS is proud of—had just filed a dropping form because he could not stomach your own brand of terrorism inside the campus?” asked the dean forcing his eyes wider beneath the thick eyeglasses that reminded Hassan of the near-extinct tarsier’s eyes.
“It’s his decision, sir,” was the cool reply, his eyes unwavering on the peculiar eyes of the dean. “If he should drop out, I think, I’m not responsible with it.”
“It’s in the eyes, Mr. Sabturani—”
“Of course, the eyes….”
“What—?”
“Nothing.”
“Anyway, they were all there—anger, fear, resolution—when he told me yesterday of your unfair demand of him to do your thesis—and with threats of violence, of course!”
“I just want to graduate, sir, that’s all.”
“You can do that without disturbing other students’ studies, young man. Try doing your work, yourself. Don’t burden other people with yours. They have plenty of them, themselves.”
“Yes, sir! So, can I go now?”
“You may go, yes, but don’t forget everything that I’ve told you. And wait, please do apologize to Mr. Aminkadra. It’s a big loss for us losing a talented person like him. Persuade him to change his mind.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you!”
Hassan slipped out of the Dean’s Office unsure of what to do. The words of Dean Abdulyakin reverberated in his head now as he sat down on the improvised bench (which was actually one side of the enclosures of the CAS gardens) on the left side of the CAS building’s porch. The dean’s words deeply affected him, adding more pain to his already painful life. Why should the Dean expel him just to save someone else’s ass? He wondered what the Dean would do if he was in Hassan’s shoes—if he grew up with a mother who kept secret the identity of her husband to the grave.
Hassan’s Ina’ Sulma (Sabturani) died when he was first year high school without telling him who his father was. She only told him that his father died when he was yet unborn. But the rumor that his mother was single and had never been pregnant confused him the more. Sometimes, Hassan felt he was another Nabi I-sa. When he prayed once in a while, he had asked Allah, “Are you my father?”
His wealthy Apa’ Ammak (Pantarasa)—who took care of him after Sulma died—complicated the enigma one step further by saying, “Only your mother knew about your father, ask her in her grave!” His Aunt Aisha—who was an expert in ignoring Hassan—was of no help, either.
Yet, he didn’t complain. Apa’ Ammak gave him everything that he should have given for his inexistent children because his wife, Aisha Sabturani-Pantarasa, was barren. But despite the material things Apa’ Ammak provided him, Hassan was still unsatisfied. He wanted to know of his father, if just to settle the taunting he endured since childhood: “Bastard! That’s what you are! Bastard!”
Or maybe, just to prove that he was normal after all.
Then in his confusion, he befriended the wrong people. Maybe because of his frustration, or of the constant cajoling of his friends, he got hooked on drugs and boozes. His interest in studies went gradually downhill. Yet, because of superior intellect or just plain foolhardy, he managed to pass all subjects time and again because of his “terrorizing” a bunch of brainy classmates by forcing them to do his school work. If they refused, they should better know how to dodge fist blows to their faces and bodies. And Hassan was notorious to inflict more damage than that.
Those were the ways of Hassan: While his classmates were doing his homework, take-home exams, research work, and even studying for his major exams, Hassan was inside the dimly-lit room, enjoying drugs and boozes with his demented friends.
He got caught “terrorizing” many times before, but he always managed to negotiate his escape—sometimes an escape to another school. But now, as his graduation was approaching, he did not want to get caught again. Apa’ Ammak told him, “If you can’t bring a diploma to me this April, don’t ever step through my door ever again! And forget about the inheritance, I’ll forward it all to charity.”
It was a hollow threat, of course, as he could live without Apa’ Ammak, but he considered that he could not afford to live a luxurious life without him—and without the inheritance, of course. But then, he couldn’t do his scheme now without alerting Dean Abdulyakin. His classmates had already learned. Any of them would surely report to the Dean immediately, happy to get even with Hassan.
In the middle of Hassan’s contemplation, a skinny fellow, who was walking down the road in front of the CAS building, caught his attention. He realized that the fellow could be the answer to his problems. His name was Kasim, who was a new transferee to the campus. Kasim’s talents impressed Hassan. If there was someone who could do Hassan’s thesis, it should be Kasim. He had a frail body, a powerful brain, and a timid personality. Hassan thought that he could easily manipulate this man.
He bolted up and blocked Kasim on his way.
“We are classmate in Physics 199, right?” Hassan said. “Come with me, we have to talk.”
Hesitantly, Kasim followed the haughty fellow to the snack house near the MSU gate. Hassan chose the table at the back. “Sit down!” he said while casually opening his Polo shirt to cool off a bit.
Kasim’s eyes were riveted to the object on Hassan’s left chest. Kasim almost touched it if not Hassan roared, “I told you to sit down, not to stare at my chest. Are you gay?”
“Sorry,” said Kasim timidly, “I was just mesmerized by that thing on your chest.”
“Really?—never mind—your being gay doesn’t matter to me,” snapped Hassan. “Gay or not, you must do my thesis, or else you go home with a black eye or with blood oozing down your nose! Take your pick.”
“That’s outrageous, but,” Kasim said calmly, “you don’t need to intimidate me. Just consider your thesis done, brother.”
“That’s good, brother,” said Hassan, mimicking Kasim’s slow pronunciation of the word “brother,” and suddenly slamming a P500 bill on the table before heading out the door shouting, “Pay what you eat. Remember to hand me the thesis after two months. I’ll be watching over you. I know where you live.”
After the incident, his friends told Hassan that Kasim was now very busy—frequently visiting the library and barely attending any of his classes. Sometimes, they saw him in the Campus Net or the Next Step. As time went by, he was seen less and less in the campus as if doing a disappearing act.
Two weeks before the appointed time, Kasim was no longer seen anywhere. He wasn’t even seen going out of his house. This troubled Hassan. Riding on his teal-blue racing motorbike, he went to Kasim’s house to investigate. Kasim’s mother, Hja. Kumala, told Hassan to go directly to his room.
The door was ajar so he went directly inside startling Kasim who was encoding on his computer. His face, Hassan noticed, had a look of a person terribly shocked—or perhaps he was ill? Kasim’s face was haggard; its color, ashen, almost without blood.
“What brings you here, brother?” Kasim muttered almost inaudible as if conserving his energy.
“What—” Hassan stammered. “You looked terribly ill.” Then, he glanced at the computer screen, walked closer to it, and pressed the mouse. What Hassan saw surprised him: Kasim was doing Hassan’s thesis despite Kasim’s illness. Hassan anxiously clicked the “My Documents” only to be surprised further that it contained only one folder: HASSAN FILES.
Hassan faced Kasim and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing, man? When I asked you to do my thesis, I didn’t mean that you stopped doing yours! Besides, you look—you are—sick! You should be resting on that bed!”
“No matter. Everything isn’t important anymore, brother,” Kasim said. “I’m dying. I’m happy that before I die, I’ve done something good.”
“What—?” Hassan was alarmed. “Surely, you’re not dying, my friend! Print my thesis. Let me continue what you’ve started.”
“Let me finish it, brother,” Kasim said, a trace of a smile in his lips. “My two-month ultimatum isn’t yet over, I believe.”
“This isn’t your work, man!” Hassan said. “This is mine. Give me the hard copy. Now!”
“As you wish,” Kasim said as he reluctantly printed the unfinished thesis.
Clutching the papers in his hands, Hassan bid goodbye to Kasim and his family. When he was out of the gate, he felt a warm liquid rolling down his face. For the first time in his life, he was crying. Not minding the strangers looking at him, he negotiated the road to his house, while tears were streaming down his cheeks.
For the following weeks, Hassan’s friends missed him in their hideout. Some visited him but he refused to go with them saying that he was busy with his thesis. His friends taunted him. Some grew angry, feeling discarded by him. Yet Hassan persisted to ignore them. He spent all his time working on the thesis that Kasim started out for him. So, when he faced the panel of erudite, strict, and skeptical professors to defend his thesis, he was able to do it fairly well.
When their graduation came, Kasim wasn’t there; so, after the ceremony, he drove to Kasim’s house, ignoring Apa’ Ammak’s loud cry calling him back. Kasim was integral to his success. He felt it proper to show his diploma to Kasim and thank him.
“Yo, Kasim! Yo!” Hassan, his toga still on, yelled at the gate.
One of Kasim’s sisters opened the gate and surprised Hassan with a gesture he less expected. The girl hugged him and cried on his chest. The tears of joy, Hassan thought. She then led him to the house.
Barely inside the door, each of Kasim’s four siblings alternately hugged him. Some kissed him. All of them are happy with my graduation, Hassan thought. But where are you, Kasim?
Kasim’s father, Hji. Amirul Ismael, hold Hassan’s hand and embraced him saying, “Congratulations, son! But I’m sorry, your brother Kasim is no longer here to congratulate you.”
Bewildered, Hassan disengaged from the embrace and said, “Where’s he, sir? I came here to show him my diploma. I’ve made it because of him. Thanks for the warm welcome, though you hardly know me. I wasn’t even a good friend to your son!”
“Listen, son. Kasim is now on a journey. Before he went, he told me that he was happy to go because he’d finally fulfilled his mission—to find you.”
“To find me—that’s his mission?”
“Yes, and he asked me to tell you about this only when you graduate—you and Kasim are true brothers. He found the proof on your left chest—that odd birthmark you have there.” Hji. Amirul’s voice unsteady, he added, “I thought he could wait for the graduation rites to finish, but he already went this morning to meet with Allah. Kasim is gone, son.”
When Hassan hadn’t replied, Hji. Amirul continued, “I really don’t know if I should laugh or cry, now. But I think it’s fair for you to know that I’m your father and Hja. Kumala is your mother. You were stolen in the hospital when you were still an infant. Welcome back, son!”
Hassan threw himself to the inviting arms of Hji. Amirul. As he embraced his father, then his true mother, so alive, he was crying—really crying. All the members of the family—now his family—enveloped him in their loving arms, an assurance that they’d not allow to lose him again. Kasim might be gone, but he gave them Hassan, the long lost son—and brother—who no one knew was stolen from them by the barren previous wife of Hji. Amirul.
Later in Kasim’s room, Hassan sadly whispered into the dead man’s ear, “Thank you for the gift, dear brother. You give me my life back and my true family. You also give a Mother back to me—my real Ina’ at that.”
Elsewhere in the world, December was a cold month. But here in Sulu, as the usual case in most of the tropical regions, the weather was just erratic—now sunny, next rainy—and it was hot today, scorching even.
The acacia and mango trees dotting the MSU campus were no match to the angry sun; their shades were no protection against the roasting tropical weather, only against the skin cancer that direct sunlight could give. Students and professors alike—unless one had fever—had sweats running all over their faces. The damp blotches on their clothes betrayed the sweats all over their bodies—especially in the armpits, more so, of those who forgot to use deodorant or “tawas.”
Inside the Dean’s Office of the College of Arts and Sciences, a different heat was stemming that made one wonder whether the sun could affect emotions as well.
“You did it again, young man!” roared the rotund Dean Barak Abdulyakin, standing akimbo, at the lean student sitting on a chair in front of the dean’s desk. “If you continue terrorizing your fellow students, I’ll be compelled to expel you from this college, your imminent graduation day this April notwithstanding!”
“I’ll sue you for libel, sir, because,” said Hassan, the object of the Dean’s anger, “as far as I’m concerned, I’m not a member of any terrorist group, local or otherwise—which you can double check on the FBI. So, how can I terrorize, sir?”
“Are you trying to make me laugh?”
“Perhaps, sir. But I need your answer just the same.”
“Isn’t it enough to tell you that Mr. Aminkadra—yes, that bright student that CAS is proud of—had just filed a dropping form because he could not stomach your own brand of terrorism inside the campus?” asked the dean forcing his eyes wider beneath the thick eyeglasses that reminded Hassan of the near-extinct tarsier’s eyes.
“It’s his decision, sir,” was the cool reply, his eyes unwavering on the peculiar eyes of the dean. “If he should drop out, I think, I’m not responsible with it.”
“It’s in the eyes, Mr. Sabturani—”
“Of course, the eyes….”
“What—?”
“Nothing.”
“Anyway, they were all there—anger, fear, resolution—when he told me yesterday of your unfair demand of him to do your thesis—and with threats of violence, of course!”
“I just want to graduate, sir, that’s all.”
“You can do that without disturbing other students’ studies, young man. Try doing your work, yourself. Don’t burden other people with yours. They have plenty of them, themselves.”
“Yes, sir! So, can I go now?”
“You may go, yes, but don’t forget everything that I’ve told you. And wait, please do apologize to Mr. Aminkadra. It’s a big loss for us losing a talented person like him. Persuade him to change his mind.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you!”
Hassan slipped out of the Dean’s Office unsure of what to do. The words of Dean Abdulyakin reverberated in his head now as he sat down on the improvised bench (which was actually one side of the enclosures of the CAS gardens) on the left side of the CAS building’s porch. The dean’s words deeply affected him, adding more pain to his already painful life. Why should the Dean expel him just to save someone else’s ass? He wondered what the Dean would do if he was in Hassan’s shoes—if he grew up with a mother who kept secret the identity of her husband to the grave.
Hassan’s Ina’ Sulma (Sabturani) died when he was first year high school without telling him who his father was. She only told him that his father died when he was yet unborn. But the rumor that his mother was single and had never been pregnant confused him the more. Sometimes, Hassan felt he was another Nabi I-sa. When he prayed once in a while, he had asked Allah, “Are you my father?”
His wealthy Apa’ Ammak (Pantarasa)—who took care of him after Sulma died—complicated the enigma one step further by saying, “Only your mother knew about your father, ask her in her grave!” His Aunt Aisha—who was an expert in ignoring Hassan—was of no help, either.
Yet, he didn’t complain. Apa’ Ammak gave him everything that he should have given for his inexistent children because his wife, Aisha Sabturani-Pantarasa, was barren. But despite the material things Apa’ Ammak provided him, Hassan was still unsatisfied. He wanted to know of his father, if just to settle the taunting he endured since childhood: “Bastard! That’s what you are! Bastard!”
Or maybe, just to prove that he was normal after all.
Then in his confusion, he befriended the wrong people. Maybe because of his frustration, or of the constant cajoling of his friends, he got hooked on drugs and boozes. His interest in studies went gradually downhill. Yet, because of superior intellect or just plain foolhardy, he managed to pass all subjects time and again because of his “terrorizing” a bunch of brainy classmates by forcing them to do his school work. If they refused, they should better know how to dodge fist blows to their faces and bodies. And Hassan was notorious to inflict more damage than that.
Those were the ways of Hassan: While his classmates were doing his homework, take-home exams, research work, and even studying for his major exams, Hassan was inside the dimly-lit room, enjoying drugs and boozes with his demented friends.
He got caught “terrorizing” many times before, but he always managed to negotiate his escape—sometimes an escape to another school. But now, as his graduation was approaching, he did not want to get caught again. Apa’ Ammak told him, “If you can’t bring a diploma to me this April, don’t ever step through my door ever again! And forget about the inheritance, I’ll forward it all to charity.”
It was a hollow threat, of course, as he could live without Apa’ Ammak, but he considered that he could not afford to live a luxurious life without him—and without the inheritance, of course. But then, he couldn’t do his scheme now without alerting Dean Abdulyakin. His classmates had already learned. Any of them would surely report to the Dean immediately, happy to get even with Hassan.
In the middle of Hassan’s contemplation, a skinny fellow, who was walking down the road in front of the CAS building, caught his attention. He realized that the fellow could be the answer to his problems. His name was Kasim, who was a new transferee to the campus. Kasim’s talents impressed Hassan. If there was someone who could do Hassan’s thesis, it should be Kasim. He had a frail body, a powerful brain, and a timid personality. Hassan thought that he could easily manipulate this man.
He bolted up and blocked Kasim on his way.
“We are classmate in Physics 199, right?” Hassan said. “Come with me, we have to talk.”
Hesitantly, Kasim followed the haughty fellow to the snack house near the MSU gate. Hassan chose the table at the back. “Sit down!” he said while casually opening his Polo shirt to cool off a bit.
Kasim’s eyes were riveted to the object on Hassan’s left chest. Kasim almost touched it if not Hassan roared, “I told you to sit down, not to stare at my chest. Are you gay?”
“Sorry,” said Kasim timidly, “I was just mesmerized by that thing on your chest.”
“Really?—never mind—your being gay doesn’t matter to me,” snapped Hassan. “Gay or not, you must do my thesis, or else you go home with a black eye or with blood oozing down your nose! Take your pick.”
“That’s outrageous, but,” Kasim said calmly, “you don’t need to intimidate me. Just consider your thesis done, brother.”
“That’s good, brother,” said Hassan, mimicking Kasim’s slow pronunciation of the word “brother,” and suddenly slamming a P500 bill on the table before heading out the door shouting, “Pay what you eat. Remember to hand me the thesis after two months. I’ll be watching over you. I know where you live.”
After the incident, his friends told Hassan that Kasim was now very busy—frequently visiting the library and barely attending any of his classes. Sometimes, they saw him in the Campus Net or the Next Step. As time went by, he was seen less and less in the campus as if doing a disappearing act.
Two weeks before the appointed time, Kasim was no longer seen anywhere. He wasn’t even seen going out of his house. This troubled Hassan. Riding on his teal-blue racing motorbike, he went to Kasim’s house to investigate. Kasim’s mother, Hja. Kumala, told Hassan to go directly to his room.
The door was ajar so he went directly inside startling Kasim who was encoding on his computer. His face, Hassan noticed, had a look of a person terribly shocked—or perhaps he was ill? Kasim’s face was haggard; its color, ashen, almost without blood.
“What brings you here, brother?” Kasim muttered almost inaudible as if conserving his energy.
“What—” Hassan stammered. “You looked terribly ill.” Then, he glanced at the computer screen, walked closer to it, and pressed the mouse. What Hassan saw surprised him: Kasim was doing Hassan’s thesis despite Kasim’s illness. Hassan anxiously clicked the “My Documents” only to be surprised further that it contained only one folder: HASSAN FILES.
Hassan faced Kasim and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing, man? When I asked you to do my thesis, I didn’t mean that you stopped doing yours! Besides, you look—you are—sick! You should be resting on that bed!”
“No matter. Everything isn’t important anymore, brother,” Kasim said. “I’m dying. I’m happy that before I die, I’ve done something good.”
“What—?” Hassan was alarmed. “Surely, you’re not dying, my friend! Print my thesis. Let me continue what you’ve started.”
“Let me finish it, brother,” Kasim said, a trace of a smile in his lips. “My two-month ultimatum isn’t yet over, I believe.”
“This isn’t your work, man!” Hassan said. “This is mine. Give me the hard copy. Now!”
“As you wish,” Kasim said as he reluctantly printed the unfinished thesis.
Clutching the papers in his hands, Hassan bid goodbye to Kasim and his family. When he was out of the gate, he felt a warm liquid rolling down his face. For the first time in his life, he was crying. Not minding the strangers looking at him, he negotiated the road to his house, while tears were streaming down his cheeks.
For the following weeks, Hassan’s friends missed him in their hideout. Some visited him but he refused to go with them saying that he was busy with his thesis. His friends taunted him. Some grew angry, feeling discarded by him. Yet Hassan persisted to ignore them. He spent all his time working on the thesis that Kasim started out for him. So, when he faced the panel of erudite, strict, and skeptical professors to defend his thesis, he was able to do it fairly well.
When their graduation came, Kasim wasn’t there; so, after the ceremony, he drove to Kasim’s house, ignoring Apa’ Ammak’s loud cry calling him back. Kasim was integral to his success. He felt it proper to show his diploma to Kasim and thank him.
“Yo, Kasim! Yo!” Hassan, his toga still on, yelled at the gate.
One of Kasim’s sisters opened the gate and surprised Hassan with a gesture he less expected. The girl hugged him and cried on his chest. The tears of joy, Hassan thought. She then led him to the house.
Barely inside the door, each of Kasim’s four siblings alternately hugged him. Some kissed him. All of them are happy with my graduation, Hassan thought. But where are you, Kasim?
Kasim’s father, Hji. Amirul Ismael, hold Hassan’s hand and embraced him saying, “Congratulations, son! But I’m sorry, your brother Kasim is no longer here to congratulate you.”
Bewildered, Hassan disengaged from the embrace and said, “Where’s he, sir? I came here to show him my diploma. I’ve made it because of him. Thanks for the warm welcome, though you hardly know me. I wasn’t even a good friend to your son!”
“Listen, son. Kasim is now on a journey. Before he went, he told me that he was happy to go because he’d finally fulfilled his mission—to find you.”
“To find me—that’s his mission?”
“Yes, and he asked me to tell you about this only when you graduate—you and Kasim are true brothers. He found the proof on your left chest—that odd birthmark you have there.” Hji. Amirul’s voice unsteady, he added, “I thought he could wait for the graduation rites to finish, but he already went this morning to meet with Allah. Kasim is gone, son.”
When Hassan hadn’t replied, Hji. Amirul continued, “I really don’t know if I should laugh or cry, now. But I think it’s fair for you to know that I’m your father and Hja. Kumala is your mother. You were stolen in the hospital when you were still an infant. Welcome back, son!”
Hassan threw himself to the inviting arms of Hji. Amirul. As he embraced his father, then his true mother, so alive, he was crying—really crying. All the members of the family—now his family—enveloped him in their loving arms, an assurance that they’d not allow to lose him again. Kasim might be gone, but he gave them Hassan, the long lost son—and brother—who no one knew was stolen from them by the barren previous wife of Hji. Amirul.
Later in Kasim’s room, Hassan sadly whispered into the dead man’s ear, “Thank you for the gift, dear brother. You give me my life back and my true family. You also give a Mother back to me—my real Ina’ at that.”
The Letters (Short Story)
The Letters
It was a cold dark night. The moon was hiding behind the clouds as if afraid to see what was about to happen on the ground below.
Behind the manicured foliage, there was a man clad in black outfits that camouflaged the color of the night.
He was observing an elegant house, waiting for the light to be turned off in its living room. Passing through the panes of the closed window, the other light from one of the bedrooms was also ablaze. The rumor had it that it was never put out every night.
The man dressed in black pulled the flashlight-lighter from his pocket. He briefly turned on its beam toward his watch. It read 2:38. He had been there for almost an hour, and yet the silhouette of a man beside the reading lamp had barely moved. The man was so engrossed by his reading. The rumor had it that he was living alone.
Harun could not wait any longer in the shadow. He had to barge into the house now. It was his best chance to make his mind at peace.
Almost a year ago, Harun’s beloved brother was killed. The incident shattered the life of the 15-year-old Harun. Since his father’s death, his brother, who had become the breadwinner of the family, was the next father figure he knew of. He had assured Harun that he would send him to college. His textile business partnership with Sakur Bandahala was profitable.
Yet, his brother’s murder put an end to his dreams. Harun had dropped out from the MSU Laboratory High School. His teachers and classmates were saddened about his decision, for he was somehow in the honor’s list. But since his mother’s sari-sari store business was not enough to support his schooling and his other five siblings’ needs, he had to stop and help his mother in the market. The opportunity for a good life was stripped of him. His hatred for his brother’s killer grew each day, especially when he saw his youngest sister silently crying out of hunger. If he only knew who the killer was, he would kill him on the spot.
Then, two weeks ago, he received an anonymous letter without a return address. Out of curiosity, he opened it up immediately. During the course of his reading, his looks had changed from one of doubt to resolve, until he was laughing like a mad man. Allah was not deaf to his prayers after all.
The letter read:
“Dear Harun,
“My conscience consumes me everyday for almost a year now. Today, I decide to tell you my awful secret: I know of your brother’s killer. He is Sakur Bandahala.
“Yours sincerely,
“The witness”
Despite his strong desire to avenge his brother, he still decided to spy on Sakur. He received his confirmation when many of Sakur’s neighbors told him that Sakur was a very disturbed man. Not once, they said, while Sakur was breaking everything in his house, he had shouted that he was so sorry he had killed one of his beloved friends. Hearing this, Harun went to his friend’s house to borrow a gun.
Tonight, as he climbed the grilled fence to Sakur’s house, he felt grotesquely happy that he could finally avenge his brother’s death. He jumped with his knees slightly bent to diminish the force of his impact with the ground. Then he stood up and ran the remaining short distance to the door.
Holding his breath, he silently approached the main door, the skeleton key in his right hand. He was surprised that he didn’t need the key, for the doorknob was unlocked. He put the key back to his pocket and pulled the gun from under his pants’ waist. Slowly, he then opened the door afraid of any creaking noise from the hinges. Nothing came.
He was now inside. The man, 20 feet diagonally from where Harun stood, was oblivious of Harun’s presence. Only when the man heard the click of the weapon ready to fire that he looked up from the novel he was reading. Looking surprised, the gaunt man, his eyes tired from lack of sleep, stood up and looked at the intruder.
“Why did you kill my brother?” asked Harun, his gun leveled at Sakur’s belly.
“I have reasons that your young mind can not understand,” said Sakur.
The words were the final confirmation for Harun; this man was really his brother’s murderer! He felt a deep pain in his heart.
“Therefore, you will not doubt my reason of killing you, now!” Harun yelled, squeezing the trigger. A loud explosion ensued; a crimson blotch appeared on Sakur’s torso; blood expelled from his mouth.
“Yes, I understand,” Sakur faintly said, his face forming a grimace. Then the grimace became a smile before he turned his back and walked toward the alight bedroom.
Harun was confused. Sakur’s smile was not a devious one, neither bitter. It was a contented smile. Yet, the wounded Sakur was an easy prey; so, Harun allowed Sakur to open the room. Besides, Harun was taking strange pleasure seeing the killer slowly die. He was not concerned about the neighbors; they were fast asleep by now.
When the door was open, a putrid stench wafted through the house. Curious where it came from, Harun followed the bleeding man to the room. As the man limped toward the bed, Harun saw a skinny woman lying on it. But no, dear God, no! It was only a skeleton garbed in a woman’s dress. Then, the man lay down beside the grotesque figure. He caressed the skeletal face while tears were filling his eyes.
The dying man looked up at the perplexed Harun and said, “I am not as brave as my wife,” before his head fell to the bed, dead.
Harun was dumbfounded. As he darted his eyes around the room to find sense in what was going on, he noticed the papers on the dressing table. He approached the table and picked up the papers with his free hand. It was only two sheets. No! The first paper was the letter. God Almighty! It was the same letter he received two weeks ago. Putting the gun on the table, he pulled out his copy in his pocket; it was really the same!
Then he flipped the paper to read the other one beneath it. It was another letter. It read:
“Dear Husband,
“I am no longer worthy of you. Your friend has defiled me when you were in Zamboanga. Hamid Aqibba raped me. If there were really life after death, we will meet there, my love. I will always love you! Goodbye!
“Your loving wife,
“Kamra”
Harun had dropped the letters from his hands. He felt that all the things around the room were spinning around him. His knees buckled, unable to carry his weight any longer. He felt weak. His brother was a rapist, after all.
Another loud explosion disturbed the silence of the night. Up above the sky, the moon had now set free from its cloud cover as if to tell the world: “When those impulsive souls should meet in The Hereafter, it would be too late to repent for their mistakes.”
It was a cold dark night. The moon was hiding behind the clouds as if afraid to see what was about to happen on the ground below.
Behind the manicured foliage, there was a man clad in black outfits that camouflaged the color of the night.
He was observing an elegant house, waiting for the light to be turned off in its living room. Passing through the panes of the closed window, the other light from one of the bedrooms was also ablaze. The rumor had it that it was never put out every night.
The man dressed in black pulled the flashlight-lighter from his pocket. He briefly turned on its beam toward his watch. It read 2:38. He had been there for almost an hour, and yet the silhouette of a man beside the reading lamp had barely moved. The man was so engrossed by his reading. The rumor had it that he was living alone.
Harun could not wait any longer in the shadow. He had to barge into the house now. It was his best chance to make his mind at peace.
Almost a year ago, Harun’s beloved brother was killed. The incident shattered the life of the 15-year-old Harun. Since his father’s death, his brother, who had become the breadwinner of the family, was the next father figure he knew of. He had assured Harun that he would send him to college. His textile business partnership with Sakur Bandahala was profitable.
Yet, his brother’s murder put an end to his dreams. Harun had dropped out from the MSU Laboratory High School. His teachers and classmates were saddened about his decision, for he was somehow in the honor’s list. But since his mother’s sari-sari store business was not enough to support his schooling and his other five siblings’ needs, he had to stop and help his mother in the market. The opportunity for a good life was stripped of him. His hatred for his brother’s killer grew each day, especially when he saw his youngest sister silently crying out of hunger. If he only knew who the killer was, he would kill him on the spot.
Then, two weeks ago, he received an anonymous letter without a return address. Out of curiosity, he opened it up immediately. During the course of his reading, his looks had changed from one of doubt to resolve, until he was laughing like a mad man. Allah was not deaf to his prayers after all.
The letter read:
“Dear Harun,
“My conscience consumes me everyday for almost a year now. Today, I decide to tell you my awful secret: I know of your brother’s killer. He is Sakur Bandahala.
“Yours sincerely,
“The witness”
Despite his strong desire to avenge his brother, he still decided to spy on Sakur. He received his confirmation when many of Sakur’s neighbors told him that Sakur was a very disturbed man. Not once, they said, while Sakur was breaking everything in his house, he had shouted that he was so sorry he had killed one of his beloved friends. Hearing this, Harun went to his friend’s house to borrow a gun.
Tonight, as he climbed the grilled fence to Sakur’s house, he felt grotesquely happy that he could finally avenge his brother’s death. He jumped with his knees slightly bent to diminish the force of his impact with the ground. Then he stood up and ran the remaining short distance to the door.
Holding his breath, he silently approached the main door, the skeleton key in his right hand. He was surprised that he didn’t need the key, for the doorknob was unlocked. He put the key back to his pocket and pulled the gun from under his pants’ waist. Slowly, he then opened the door afraid of any creaking noise from the hinges. Nothing came.
He was now inside. The man, 20 feet diagonally from where Harun stood, was oblivious of Harun’s presence. Only when the man heard the click of the weapon ready to fire that he looked up from the novel he was reading. Looking surprised, the gaunt man, his eyes tired from lack of sleep, stood up and looked at the intruder.
“Why did you kill my brother?” asked Harun, his gun leveled at Sakur’s belly.
“I have reasons that your young mind can not understand,” said Sakur.
The words were the final confirmation for Harun; this man was really his brother’s murderer! He felt a deep pain in his heart.
“Therefore, you will not doubt my reason of killing you, now!” Harun yelled, squeezing the trigger. A loud explosion ensued; a crimson blotch appeared on Sakur’s torso; blood expelled from his mouth.
“Yes, I understand,” Sakur faintly said, his face forming a grimace. Then the grimace became a smile before he turned his back and walked toward the alight bedroom.
Harun was confused. Sakur’s smile was not a devious one, neither bitter. It was a contented smile. Yet, the wounded Sakur was an easy prey; so, Harun allowed Sakur to open the room. Besides, Harun was taking strange pleasure seeing the killer slowly die. He was not concerned about the neighbors; they were fast asleep by now.
When the door was open, a putrid stench wafted through the house. Curious where it came from, Harun followed the bleeding man to the room. As the man limped toward the bed, Harun saw a skinny woman lying on it. But no, dear God, no! It was only a skeleton garbed in a woman’s dress. Then, the man lay down beside the grotesque figure. He caressed the skeletal face while tears were filling his eyes.
The dying man looked up at the perplexed Harun and said, “I am not as brave as my wife,” before his head fell to the bed, dead.
Harun was dumbfounded. As he darted his eyes around the room to find sense in what was going on, he noticed the papers on the dressing table. He approached the table and picked up the papers with his free hand. It was only two sheets. No! The first paper was the letter. God Almighty! It was the same letter he received two weeks ago. Putting the gun on the table, he pulled out his copy in his pocket; it was really the same!
Then he flipped the paper to read the other one beneath it. It was another letter. It read:
“Dear Husband,
“I am no longer worthy of you. Your friend has defiled me when you were in Zamboanga. Hamid Aqibba raped me. If there were really life after death, we will meet there, my love. I will always love you! Goodbye!
“Your loving wife,
“Kamra”
Harun had dropped the letters from his hands. He felt that all the things around the room were spinning around him. His knees buckled, unable to carry his weight any longer. He felt weak. His brother was a rapist, after all.
Another loud explosion disturbed the silence of the night. Up above the sky, the moon had now set free from its cloud cover as if to tell the world: “When those impulsive souls should meet in The Hereafter, it would be too late to repent for their mistakes.”
Bulatlat Honors my First Post
AFP Attacks Civilian Community in Sulu
BY NTA
DEMOCRATIC SPACE
Posted by Bulatlat
Vol. VIII, No. 20, June 22-28, 2008
I am NTA, a resident of Jolo, Sulu. All my life, I had never been
interested in politics. Being a Muslim, I am slightly fatalistic by
nature. “What the hell,” I say, “as long as I can satisfy my hungry
stomach three times a day and have a simple normal life, then to hell with all
the sufferings around the world!”
But my recent involvement in a Civil Society Organization makes me furious
about what the military is doing to my native place. The CSO assigned me to
visit some areas of conflict in Sulu like (a) Ipil, Maimbung; (b) Marang,
Indanan; and (c) Sitio Tandu Pukut, Indanan.
In these places, I realized that there are atrocities committed by the Armed
Forces of the Philippines (AFP) against my beloved Sulu and its people.
All in the name of their pursuit of the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG), they are
actually destroying the lives of the civilians, incapacitating them to have an
honest and productive living. Let me explain.
First, in Ipil, Maimbung, the AFP assaulted sleeping civilians killing eight
people, including a woman and children on February 04, 2008. They said that
the operation was legitimate, a result of five months of surveillance
activities
to rescue the kidnapped victim, Rosalinda Lao. But the AFP did not find the
ASG.
Second, in Marang, Indanan last April 30, the AFP’s bombardment of a place a
kilometer away from the Moro National Liberation Front’s (MNLF) Camp Marang
displaced thousands of civilians. They even pointed to a civilian’s house as
being a “bomb-making factory” of the ASG. The strike that they conducted
did not kill any ASG member. It was only successful in instilling fear among
the civilians. It could also be just a mere provocation for MNLF soldiers to
fight so that Chairman Nur Misuari would be thrown back to jail.
Lastly, in Sitio Tandu Pukut, Indanan on June 15, 2008, the AFP sent four
rocket launcher grenade and 23 howitzer cannons to a civilian community.
Their
purported aim was to decimate the ASG in nearby Subah Timahu. Sulu Governor
Abdulsakur Tan had actually given permission to the AFP to conduct the
bombardment. When we went to the area, I realized that it was not the ASG
that
they intimidated, but the woman and children and other civilians in the area.
I have documentation to prove these atrocities.
As I interviewed the civilian victims, I almost cried with dismay. Their small
farms were destroyed; their coconut and banana trees uprooted; their fishing
boats reduced to smithereens. The fear and shock in women’s and children’s
eyes were evident.
So, what is the AFP’s business here in Sulu? Do they really want the Tausug
to have peace? They are the Peacekeepers, they say. Moreover, are the Tausug
politicians concerned about the welfare of their constituents? What have they
done to alleviate the poor people’s sufferings and miseries?
If the Tausug people do not unite to have a one strong voice against the
connivance of these people in power, I don’t know what would become of our
race. Posted by Bulatlat
 |
| A Call to Stop Bombing Civilian Communities in 2008. |
BY NTA
DEMOCRATIC SPACE
Posted by Bulatlat
Vol. VIII, No. 20, June 22-28, 2008
I am NTA, a resident of Jolo, Sulu. All my life, I had never been
interested in politics. Being a Muslim, I am slightly fatalistic by
nature. “What the hell,” I say, “as long as I can satisfy my hungry
stomach three times a day and have a simple normal life, then to hell with all
the sufferings around the world!”
But my recent involvement in a Civil Society Organization makes me furious
about what the military is doing to my native place. The CSO assigned me to
visit some areas of conflict in Sulu like (a) Ipil, Maimbung; (b) Marang,
Indanan; and (c) Sitio Tandu Pukut, Indanan.
In these places, I realized that there are atrocities committed by the Armed
Forces of the Philippines (AFP) against my beloved Sulu and its people.
All in the name of their pursuit of the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG), they are
actually destroying the lives of the civilians, incapacitating them to have an
honest and productive living. Let me explain.
First, in Ipil, Maimbung, the AFP assaulted sleeping civilians killing eight
people, including a woman and children on February 04, 2008. They said that
the operation was legitimate, a result of five months of surveillance
activities
to rescue the kidnapped victim, Rosalinda Lao. But the AFP did not find the
ASG.
Second, in Marang, Indanan last April 30, the AFP’s bombardment of a place a
kilometer away from the Moro National Liberation Front’s (MNLF) Camp Marang
displaced thousands of civilians. They even pointed to a civilian’s house as
being a “bomb-making factory” of the ASG. The strike that they conducted
did not kill any ASG member. It was only successful in instilling fear among
the civilians. It could also be just a mere provocation for MNLF soldiers to
fight so that Chairman Nur Misuari would be thrown back to jail.
Lastly, in Sitio Tandu Pukut, Indanan on June 15, 2008, the AFP sent four
rocket launcher grenade and 23 howitzer cannons to a civilian community.
Their
purported aim was to decimate the ASG in nearby Subah Timahu. Sulu Governor
Abdulsakur Tan had actually given permission to the AFP to conduct the
bombardment. When we went to the area, I realized that it was not the ASG
that
they intimidated, but the woman and children and other civilians in the area.
I have documentation to prove these atrocities.
As I interviewed the civilian victims, I almost cried with dismay. Their small
farms were destroyed; their coconut and banana trees uprooted; their fishing
boats reduced to smithereens. The fear and shock in women’s and children’s
eyes were evident.
So, what is the AFP’s business here in Sulu? Do they really want the Tausug
to have peace? They are the Peacekeepers, they say. Moreover, are the Tausug
politicians concerned about the welfare of their constituents? What have they
done to alleviate the poor people’s sufferings and miseries?
If the Tausug people do not unite to have a one strong voice against the
connivance of these people in power, I don’t know what would become of our
race. Posted by Bulatlat
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