SPECIAL SHORT STORY BLOG (Part 2)

Hey Y'all,

It's Halloween! Many kids and adult will be out in the street tonight trick or treating. The night will be spooky with lighted jack-o-lanterns and masked and dressed-up people walking around; however, most kids and kids-at-heart will be happy to have all the sweets and goodies they can have for November, and maybe for Christmas. LOL.

My experienced among the Ata Manobo was scary, but I knew God was with me. It also was a blessing, because it was one way that God answered my prayer about something. But you have to get the book, KOILAWAN, to know what is it.

Meantime, please enjoy reading the second and the last installment of the story, The Curse.


Since my stay in Koilawan, I heard several reports from
other villages of babies killed by their grieving families.
The babies were left in a village to die, placed in the coffin
and buried with the mom alive, or killed by pressing their
necks with a long wooden pestle. It still didn’t happen in our
village, because many of the villagers were already learning
and accepting the infallibility of God’s Word. Nevertheless,
this bereaved family was a new resident in our village and
one of those families, who still have not attended in any of
our Bible studies.

Tonight, I noticed something inside which was
uncommon in an Ata Manobo hut. It was a meter and a half
wooden pestle. To see it inside was so nerve-wracking that
I immediately paused for a silent prayer that God will guide
me to persuade the family not to let the baby die. I firmly
believed that without God’s intervention, the baby will be
6-feet under the following day.

The village chief was already there. The shaman, whose
hut was grandiosely standing few yards away, was audibly
chanting pleading for the malevolent spirit to spare the
village from harm. The grieving husband was lying on his
side like a fetus on the bark floor very close to the corpse.
The uncombed mother-in-law picked a charcoal and drew
a circle around the area where her son-in-law was lying
quietly. Then, the chief said, “Nephew (as he fondly calls me
to signify my acceptance in the village), I tried to convinced
them not to put the blame on the baby, however, the grandmother,
the shaman, and the uncles were against it. Please
try to talk them out of it.”

With all the programs in the village, the clinic, children’s
literacy class in the morning, adult’s literacy class in the
afternoon, the singing and the Bible Studies in the night
which usually ends at 10 p.m., hymn translation, counseling,
and entertaining village visitors, my use of the Ata language
has been non-stop; hence, I have been becoming more fluent
with it. Nevertheless, when the chieftain delegated the role of
persuading the family, I felt a lump in my throat. It was diffi
cult for me to open my mouth. I knew that I needed wisdom
of a smart and witty Ata chieftain for them to listen.
I was about to say a word when the baby twitched his
arms. I thought that it was nothing; however, I realized
he was having a backdoor trot. I handed him over to that
woman, who braved the rain, to clean him up.

“Oyyyyy…,” the grandmother began chanting a pentatonic
dirge. “Tomorrow, I won’t see you anymore, my
beautiful girl.” She sobbed in between lines. “Oyyyy….
Who would gather firewood now, who would dig yams for
dinner, who would weed the field ….now that you’ve left
us? Oyyyy….my breath is in pain”. She paused longer to sob
some more. Then, with an angered voice, she said, “You’re
gone, because of your child!” And she looked at the child, so
angry that her puffy brown eyes were so sharp. They could
pierce through a callous heart.

The uncles, who, like the mother, were mad at the baby,
nodded in concert. One of them reached for the wooden
pestle lifted it… then putting it behind him.
I took the lifting of the pestle as a good sign. Such action
made me to believe that the baby has left a soft spot in some
of these hearts. I looked at the guy to acknowledge his action,
but he spewed a big lump of red betel nut in response. I was
lost, in a few seconds, to see such rude response, however, I
felt, later, that it probably was just a showmanship to fool the
others on what’s deep in his heart.

The shaman made a much louder hair-raising chant.
There were thumping of feet that the dogs barked; the pig
sheltering under the stilt hut oinked. Some women from
nearby huts responded with their most common expression,
“Yoooogoy! Hmmm!”

“I know you are sad tonight. I am, too. You know how I
tried my best to feed her with water and porridge this afternoon,
when the mom took her to my house. But we all must
accept that the entire tribe, including our village, has been
undergoing some trials in life. It is nobody’s fault. The wind
brought the epidemic to us.”

“Yes, it is somebody’s fault. It is his fault!” The grandmother
pointed at the baby with her puckered lips. The red
betel nut juice was dripping on the side of her mouth. “He’s
the one who sucked the strength of my daughter. He must
not live!”

The uncles nodded again almost in unison.
“Apu (grandmother), the baby did nothing wrong. Your girl
was already very sick, when you came back from running to the
thickest forest to avoid the sickness. In fact, your grandson is
now very light and thin. It means that he had been denied of the
“white blood” (milk) even before your girl got sick. What good
does it do to you now, if you would kill the baby? Nothing! Give
him the chance to live…to grow and learn how to build a hut, hunt
wild games, make a kamot (Swidden field) to provide your food
in the future.” I tried my best to be calmed, yet strong enough to
instill authority. However, it seemed not good enough.
The uncles and the grandmother stood up and yelled a deafening
wild shriek of lament. One uncle started to brandish his
machete. The baby was stunned and cried frantically.
“Lord, please intervene!” That was all I could whisper.

While looking at them, I felt a force that made me got up. And
without waiting for them to calm down, I shouted, “Alright! I
take the curse. You believe this innocent baby is cursed, because
his mom died, while drinking her white blood. And I know that
you also believe that if someone would take the curse off him, he
would be free from it. Now, I am taking it. I do not have experience
taking care of a baby, much more… nourishing a malnourished
baby. But I would take the risk of keeping him. Should he
die, it means that he really is cursed; hence, I am willing for you
all to kill me!” Tearfully I pleaded. In the Ata society, men do
not cry.

The uncles and the grandmother looked at me in disbelief.
Here was the guy, who they thought was very brave to live with
them all by himself, but now he’s crying just to save a cursed
baby. They all quietly sat down. I heard the shaman made a
hard, strange, unpleasant, emphatic, guttural sound, ‘uhhh!’ to
express his disapproval contrary to the voices of the village chief
and the people from around the hut. I was silent! I was praying.
I claimed the power of God, when He protected the Israelites
from the Egyptians, who were chasing them before they crossed
the Red Sea (Exodus 14:21-31). This grandmother was known
to have a heart of a stone. She’s an avid follower of the Shaman.
She even won’t build a hut away from the shaman. She’s not
open to hearing God’s word. But, God moved in a mysterious
way. He can really move mountain for after several minutes, she
nodded sternly staring at me. I replied with a gentle nod, took the
baby from that smiling woman who asked my help earlier, and
then, started to descend slowly down that old wobbly chipped
log. I left the hut very happy and relieved. I was overjoyed for
the victory. I prayed thanking God and trusting that out of this
event, on this pitch dark night Light will continue to shine not
only in Koilawan, but in the entire Ata Manobo tribe.
While walking away from the hut, it seemed that I heard
singing and chanting from far away accompanied by the
swooshing wind and the swaying trees. But at the same time,
it seemed that some forces were blowing a very cold air on my
nape that I felt my hair rising up. One thing that I was sure of that
night was that the rain stopped. The baby held my shoulder so
tight, while we traversed the muddy trail. It seemed he was telling
me, ‘Thank you for saving me!’ And I pretty can remember that
I said, “Thank you, Lord, for giving me the courage to say those
words. Indeed, you are powerful. Indeed, I will need you to keep
this baby alive. So, come near me, Lord Jesus.”

Do you know why I said earlier that this child was an answer
to my prayer? Well, Parasio, I’ll tell you why next time.

SHORT STORY POST (Part 1): A Special Blog

Hey Y'all,

I just took my granddaughter, who is turning two today, to Party City for her halloween/birthday costume. And, oh boy, imagine how she shrieked when she saw an animated mannequin that raises its bloody face every now and then, which was standing right by the door.

Yes, my friends, halloween is huge in the USofA that many people forget the economic crunch as they try their best to catch or stir the public attention by putting up the scariest or controversial decor outside their homes and business establishments. Besides jack-o-lantern and ornamental squash, one house in Beverly Hills put up two mannequins, who are dressed like Republican candidates, Sen. John McCain and Gov. Sarah Palin. Sad thing, Ms. Palin is hanging on a nooze. It was a smart move, though, that the one on a nooze isn't the Democrat candidate Barack Obama. It could have resulted a commotion and protest rally from the African-American communities.

Now, enough of the US culture. I also have experienced a scary cultural moments in my life. One of these was when I was working among the Ata Manobo of southern Philippines. I have decided to share the story to you if you haven't read it yet in my book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom, which is still available in 21 countries through online book outlets. You also could get it from the publisher, Xulon Press.


(13) THE CURSE

Koilawan, Davao
January 1980


Dear Parasio,

Rain was pouring so hard since this morning. River Lib was bursting to its seams. The cornfield by the river was already flooded since this afternoon. Drift woods and
bamboo saplings were floating and making those banging and screechy noise as they hit the rocky riverbank. Those who owned the saplings were sad for losing them, and one father was sadder for also losing his baby boy. I went to see him this morning and I felt bad to hear him telling me that he should have listened to my instruction of making that salt and sugar boiled water solution. His baby should have been alive today. He cared less for losing the saplings, however, he was hurting, because of his stubbornness. Usually, along with the rapping of the raindrops on our old wood shingle roofing, chants and tribal lullabies reverberate up and down this small remote village. However, tonight, besides the banging, the screeching and the swooshing in river Lib, the village is generally quiet.

I was rocking myself on a rattan chair, while listening to the rain-induced percussion music and looking at the flickering light of our gas lamp. The raindrops and the flame were having fun lulling me to sleep, when a quiet night was interrupted by shrill cries from one of the stilt huts. I stood up, held the gas lamp, opened our bamboo window and shouted, “Wuhhhh! What’s going on?”

“The wife of Usi’ U. passed away!” Our next door neighbor shouted in reply.

I sank back to the chair forlorn. I lost the strength I regained awhile back from a real long day giving cholera shots and teaching reading and writing to the kids. Few hours ago, I spoon-fed water to that dehydrated feverish woman. Now, she’s dead!

“God”, as I prayed silently, “Please let this epidemic pass by. Let the people….” I was not able to finish my sentence when I heard a woman’s voice at our rain-soaked trimmed Bermuda grass yard. I opened the window again. The woman, whose right
hand was holding a long, slender banana leaf over her head to protect her from the rain; the other was swaying an ember, was the niece of the decease.

“Please come to our hut. Help me save my aunt’s four-month old baby boy.”

Without putting my old running shoes on, I picked up my flashlight and ran the filthy, muddy trail to the stilt hut where the wailing was deafening. The baby was also crying hysterically. After I greeted those on the ground, I began to balance myself up on that slippery, wobbly chipped log, which was just a little bigger than a 26 oz. can of spaghetti sauce. Before I was able to sit on a squeaking bark floor, my heart melted to see the curly-haired malnourished baby boy, looking at me with his arms opened wide. His wide eyes seemed to tell me that he did nothing wrong… that I have to do something to save him. I picked him up, placed him on my chest, and gently patted his back to silent him. The baby hugged me and his loud cry turned into off and on sob until he quieted down, asleep.

Since my stay in Koilawan, I heard several reports from other villages of babies killed by their grieving families. (To be continued)

NOTE: Part 2 will be posted on Friday. Part 3 will be posted on Saturday, as my regular weekend blog.