College football game is on fire. So even if the state of California has been disturbed by devastating wild fire from Santa Barbara county to Orange county, I cannot help but watched the game between Notre Dame Irish and Navy Midshipmen.
Well, I am a Bruin, having completed a professional program at UCLA; however, I begun to admire the Navy Midshipmen since I have watched its game against the Army last season. The Navy lost today, however they came out with a very good game and left the stadium humbly proud, accepting defeat.
Here's a Hey Poem (Dasang) that I wrote last year on the game between the Navy and the Army.
Hope you would like it.
CELEBRATE WITH FLAIR!
Edmund M. Industan
I tell you this, the way I felt…
Watching the Navy-Army game,
It’s twelve-one-seven football game.
My eyes were moist with joy of tears.
The navy won the game that day.
They cheered so extraordinarily.
Though I was no fan of either one,
I owed them hats off and respect.
The cheering fans and stalwart arms;
The weary seats and bowed heads,
So disciplined…accepted their fate,
Arms in bosom as Navies sang their hymn.
Hey!
Wish society be this way today,
Playing the game living life fairly!
Hey!
Make fantasy a reality,
But face the music with humility!
Sports have so many followers.
It squeezes juice from loans and moms.
It’s almost a religion to some,
A must to attend; acts as heroin.
It makes men act like wild animals.
Some howl as apes with letterheads;
Others come shirtless even in a cold night
Showing support for their muscled men.
For others, they’re like flowers needing rain…
Wilting, dragging their weakened limbs.
They’d stop by a watering hole before going home;
They’d gulp to drown their beat up souls.
Hey!
It’s just a game! Show your sportsmanship!
If you’d go wild, don’t spew fire with your lips.
Hey!
If your team wins, celebrate with flair.
Don’t pour the salt on a wounded soul!
Remember, the ball isn’t flat! It rolls!
It doesn’t stay on your side forevermore.
Try to wear the shoes of those who lost and
Celebrate! Like the navy cadets, so well-disciplined, that…
Peace and joy will reign for good.
NOTE: This Hey Poem is included in my book, THE EXPERIMENTAL DASANG (Hey Poem) and 45 OTHER POETRY FORMS.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Veterans Day & The Fil-Am War Veterans
November 11 is the Veterans Day to honor over 25 million military veterans in the U.S. In other countries, Nov. 11 is called Armistice Day or Remembrance Day in observance of the signing of the Armistice Treaty hurriedly signed between the Allies (Russian Empire, British Empire, France, Italy, U.S.) and Germany to end World War I. Allied Commander-in-Chief Marshall Ferdinand Foch and Germany representative Matthias Erzberger were principal signatories.
It was the 28th US President Woodrow Wilson who first proclaimed an Armistice Day dedicated to the cause of world peace. It was change to "All" Veterans Day in 1954, when Al King, a shoe vendor of Emporia, Kansas, campaigned to include all other military veterans. The 34th US President Dwight David Eisenhower who signed the name change to Veterans Day into law on May 26, 1954.
As US celebrate "the eleventh of the eleventh of the eleventh", I cannot help but remember my visit to 6 Filipino WW II veteran couples, who migrated to southern California after the 42nd President William Jefferson Blythe Clinton signed a law granting US citizenship to Filipino war veterans. (Of the 200,000 Filipinos, who responded to the 1941 call of the 32nd US President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, to help the Americans preserve peace and democracy in the Philippines, more than 17,000 war veterans came to US hoping that they would be recognized and treated fairly in terms of rights and benefits. Unfortunately, this has never happened.) These 6 Filipino veteran couples, whom our church visited in 1995, have been living in a small one-room studio, because the $500.00 pension benefit (a fraction of what the non-Filipino veterans have been receiving)was not sufficient to rent a one-bedroom apartment. So, imagine a room partitioned with curtains to give each couple their much-needed privacy. Imagine these couples with very little money left for their food, because they have to send money to their families in the Philippines, most likely, to pay the money they loaned to migrate. Tell me where the parity right lies.
The Filipino-American war veterans have been trying to demand equal rights since then. Some of them went on a hunger strike, some chained themselves to the fence of the White House and to the monument of Gen. Douglas MacArthur in Los Angeles in 1997 in order to be heard. Unfortunately, they still are fighting for their rights until now.
Currently, there is a bill known as "the Veterans Benefit Enhancement Act" (S-1513) in the US Congress. It is assumed that the bill is on the verge of natural death, because many US representatives are playing deaf and dumb. Some of them consider that Filipino war veterans are not entitled to equal benefits, because they were mustered during World War II to defend their own country. This argument is blatant lie. Philippines was still an American colony during World War II. These Filipino war veterans were fighting for the interest of the American government, not for the Philippines. It was only on July 4, 1946, when Philippine was formally proclaimed as a Republic. Don't you think they ought to have that parity rights that they have been demanding as promised by the 33rd US President Harry S. Truman that "these surviving Filipino World War II veterans will received equal treatment as American veterans?
I just hope that the US Congress and Senate will open their eyes and ears to realize the tough living condition of the Filipino-American war veterans.
In the spirit of Veterans Day, I salute the war veterans, particularly those who still are fighting for their rights to be heard.
It was the 28th US President Woodrow Wilson who first proclaimed an Armistice Day dedicated to the cause of world peace. It was change to "All" Veterans Day in 1954, when Al King, a shoe vendor of Emporia, Kansas, campaigned to include all other military veterans. The 34th US President Dwight David Eisenhower who signed the name change to Veterans Day into law on May 26, 1954.
As US celebrate "the eleventh of the eleventh of the eleventh", I cannot help but remember my visit to 6 Filipino WW II veteran couples, who migrated to southern California after the 42nd President William Jefferson Blythe Clinton signed a law granting US citizenship to Filipino war veterans. (Of the 200,000 Filipinos, who responded to the 1941 call of the 32nd US President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, to help the Americans preserve peace and democracy in the Philippines, more than 17,000 war veterans came to US hoping that they would be recognized and treated fairly in terms of rights and benefits. Unfortunately, this has never happened.) These 6 Filipino veteran couples, whom our church visited in 1995, have been living in a small one-room studio, because the $500.00 pension benefit (a fraction of what the non-Filipino veterans have been receiving)was not sufficient to rent a one-bedroom apartment. So, imagine a room partitioned with curtains to give each couple their much-needed privacy. Imagine these couples with very little money left for their food, because they have to send money to their families in the Philippines, most likely, to pay the money they loaned to migrate. Tell me where the parity right lies.
The Filipino-American war veterans have been trying to demand equal rights since then. Some of them went on a hunger strike, some chained themselves to the fence of the White House and to the monument of Gen. Douglas MacArthur in Los Angeles in 1997 in order to be heard. Unfortunately, they still are fighting for their rights until now.
Currently, there is a bill known as "the Veterans Benefit Enhancement Act" (S-1513) in the US Congress. It is assumed that the bill is on the verge of natural death, because many US representatives are playing deaf and dumb. Some of them consider that Filipino war veterans are not entitled to equal benefits, because they were mustered during World War II to defend their own country. This argument is blatant lie. Philippines was still an American colony during World War II. These Filipino war veterans were fighting for the interest of the American government, not for the Philippines. It was only on July 4, 1946, when Philippine was formally proclaimed as a Republic. Don't you think they ought to have that parity rights that they have been demanding as promised by the 33rd US President Harry S. Truman that "these surviving Filipino World War II veterans will received equal treatment as American veterans?
I just hope that the US Congress and Senate will open their eyes and ears to realize the tough living condition of the Filipino-American war veterans.
In the spirit of Veterans Day, I salute the war veterans, particularly those who still are fighting for their rights to be heard.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Cali's Prop. 8 Has Won! Get Over it!
Proposition 8 was the most expensive and controversial proposition in California during the Presidential election. An estimated total of $80 million were spent during the campaign. Sadly, those who opposed Prop. 8 are still spending more money to support protest march, which has been going on from San Francisco to San Diego. It is even believed that this protest rally would reach Salt Lake City, Utah.
If this proposition was for the State of California, how come the oppositions are going to hold protest rally in Utah? It is because they are specifically angry at the Mormon church for chipping in too much dollars to campaign against same-sex marriage.
Yes, Proposition 8 is a bill sponsored by those who are against same-sex marriage. It won over a slim margin, 52.3% yes to 47.7% no.
I know why the oppositions are having protest marches. They wanted to influence or delay the decision of the State to go ahead with the constitutional amendment. This follows the idea of the U.S. political scientist Robert Dahl (1956, 1963), one of the beautiful characteristics of democracy.
Come on, the election is over. Face defeat. Blame yourself. Oppositions should have spent double-time, triple-time, or gazillion time campaigning against Prop. 8 before the election if they really wanted to win. Unfortunately, they didn't. Probably, they were so over-confident that they could muster the popular vote of Californians after the State Supreme Court thwarted their 2004 decision, that annulled the 3,995 same-sex marriages allowed by Mayor Gavin of San Francisco, on May 15, 2008. Since May almost 18,000 same-sex marriages licenses were issued, according to a UCLA study. They probably never thought that many Californians are still highly into their religious values. Many Californians still cannot divorce marriage from their Christian belief that marriage is ordained by God to be a man-woman relationship.
I just hope that those who are for same-sex marriage would look at it differently. Even though an amendment to the California constitution to specifically acknowledge that marriage is a bond between a man and a woman, their right to cohabit, their right to display their love in public, their right for hospital visitation, their right to own and share property together are still not taken away from them. It is only the privilege of tying a knot in marriage that are not freely given to them.
Every Californians has rights. Oppositions of Prop. 8 were just out-voted during the election. So, let's get over it.
If this proposition was for the State of California, how come the oppositions are going to hold protest rally in Utah? It is because they are specifically angry at the Mormon church for chipping in too much dollars to campaign against same-sex marriage.
Yes, Proposition 8 is a bill sponsored by those who are against same-sex marriage. It won over a slim margin, 52.3% yes to 47.7% no.
I know why the oppositions are having protest marches. They wanted to influence or delay the decision of the State to go ahead with the constitutional amendment. This follows the idea of the U.S. political scientist Robert Dahl (1956, 1963), one of the beautiful characteristics of democracy.
Come on, the election is over. Face defeat. Blame yourself. Oppositions should have spent double-time, triple-time, or gazillion time campaigning against Prop. 8 before the election if they really wanted to win. Unfortunately, they didn't. Probably, they were so over-confident that they could muster the popular vote of Californians after the State Supreme Court thwarted their 2004 decision, that annulled the 3,995 same-sex marriages allowed by Mayor Gavin of San Francisco, on May 15, 2008. Since May almost 18,000 same-sex marriages licenses were issued, according to a UCLA study. They probably never thought that many Californians are still highly into their religious values. Many Californians still cannot divorce marriage from their Christian belief that marriage is ordained by God to be a man-woman relationship.
I just hope that those who are for same-sex marriage would look at it differently. Even though an amendment to the California constitution to specifically acknowledge that marriage is a bond between a man and a woman, their right to cohabit, their right to display their love in public, their right for hospital visitation, their right to own and share property together are still not taken away from them. It is only the privilege of tying a knot in marriage that are not freely given to them.
Every Californians has rights. Oppositions of Prop. 8 were just out-voted during the election. So, let's get over it.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
FIRST MIXED RACE U.S. PRESIDENT
It would still be monumental and historic to say that the 44th President of the USofA is a mixed race and not be labeled solely as African-American. In fact, it would be more fitting to the American society. Why? I tell you why.
It would mitigate race relation and racial divide. It is a non-domineering term. It embodies the real USofA as a melting pot. It symbolizes the real democratic country populated by migrants. It helps everyone to identify and, hopefully, unite with, and support Obama administration as it faces challenges in solving pressing problems. It brings hope and aspiration to everybody.
As we probably have known already, the term African-American was revitalized in the late 1980s to replace the term, Afro-American, a self description popularized by the black community in 1960s. The former is well-accepted by many, because it does not send a picture of nappy hair. However, others, like the Haitian, who are of African descent, would not identify themselves as such. Haitian still prefers to be called black. Some members of the African-American community, like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. have described this as America's "hypocrisy". And so until now the 1944 classic study of Swedish economist, Gunnar Myrdal, on the American Dilemma still exist.
It is true that the 44th President of the United States of America has an African father; however, he has a Caucasian mother, and an Indonesian step-dad. He is not only an African-American. He is a United Nation, personified. That's one thing, besides his smartness, confidence, youthfulness, and intelligence, that made him very attractive to everybody. Remember, more than 50% of those who voted for Barack Obama were Caucasian. And Asian have voted for him, too.
I just hope that the media and, Barack Obama himself, would start using the term mixed race, so that the incoming administration can truly represent equality and indivisibility among the citizens of the United States of America.
It would mitigate race relation and racial divide. It is a non-domineering term. It embodies the real USofA as a melting pot. It symbolizes the real democratic country populated by migrants. It helps everyone to identify and, hopefully, unite with, and support Obama administration as it faces challenges in solving pressing problems. It brings hope and aspiration to everybody.
As we probably have known already, the term African-American was revitalized in the late 1980s to replace the term, Afro-American, a self description popularized by the black community in 1960s. The former is well-accepted by many, because it does not send a picture of nappy hair. However, others, like the Haitian, who are of African descent, would not identify themselves as such. Haitian still prefers to be called black. Some members of the African-American community, like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. have described this as America's "hypocrisy". And so until now the 1944 classic study of Swedish economist, Gunnar Myrdal, on the American Dilemma still exist.
It is true that the 44th President of the United States of America has an African father; however, he has a Caucasian mother, and an Indonesian step-dad. He is not only an African-American. He is a United Nation, personified. That's one thing, besides his smartness, confidence, youthfulness, and intelligence, that made him very attractive to everybody. Remember, more than 50% of those who voted for Barack Obama were Caucasian. And Asian have voted for him, too.
I just hope that the media and, Barack Obama himself, would start using the term mixed race, so that the incoming administration can truly represent equality and indivisibility among the citizens of the United States of America.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
A POETRY BLOG & A THOUGHT ON UNICEF PROGRAM
Well, Halloween is over. Today is the UNICEF day... time to donate some "Old Presidents" as this United Nation's organization help educate and nourish young minds in developing countries.
Yes, I still cannot forget those years in the early 60s, when I helped my grade school teacher-mom, opened those huge tins of golden cheese and bags of powdered whole milk from the UNICEF. To many Filipinos, who live in the rural areas, cheese was never a part of their meals; hence, cheese was absolutely introduced by the UNICEF program to them. Initially, many kids did not like the taste; however, teachers like my mom, patiently educated the kids of its nutritional value. Slowly, the kids begin to like it. Before the end of the school year, most wanted to have a bigger share of it so that their parents could have some, too. And the powdered whole milk? Oh, the schoolchildren loved them. Kids were always ready with their cone-shaped paper for that powdered milk. They wanted to be the first person in the line. As the kids were going home from school, most of them were sipping the powdered milk through a small hole at the tip of those cone-shaped paper. So, friends, I, for one, would like to see the UNICEF program go on. Hope you are, too.
Meanwhile, here is the last part of my special story blog, The Curse. This is the poetry version. You also can read this in my book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom. Enjoy!
(14) SAVING A DEAR CHILD
Edmund melig Industan
The wailing stopped! Some gasped in disbelief.
Seems it's the last oink at a slaughterhouse.
It slowly faded, hush was all around
Not one in jungle wailed again that night.
I won't forget that rainy night of yore.
A mom with ember cried in pain…for help.
An infant was about to see his grave,
For jungle culture is in darkest night.
The smoke of death had passed through villages.
The child's mom inhaled, kicked the bucket.
With culture so unique and so mundane,
This nursing child, considered the culprit.
The ember left, I followed it in haste.
…Unmindful of the muddy narrow trail.
My thought was on a roller coaster ride.
The prayer I made, the only calming state.
The chanting wail got loud as loud can be,
…As I edged closer to that bark-walled shack.
The soft and somber tune of bamboo lute,
I now can hear amidst the oinks and barks.
Just as I started climbing that chipped log
The shaman yelled a yapping, 'wo-wo-wo!'
Warding the evil off with frond of palm
That village could be freed from frightful woe.
Just as my head surfaced that squeaking floor…
The child, I saw, half-naked that cold night.
As he saw me, he cried with opened arms…
As if to tell me, 'Please, save me tonight!'
I tip-toed 'round the corpse that lay in state…
Around the spouse, who's laid there fetus-form.
Picked up the child and swayed him in my arms…
And calm him from a dreadful crying bout.
As soon as comfort came to this poor child,
The wails of kin and chants of shaman rolled.
Consoling words I gave, but not enough!
Most kin would like to see the child dead!
'He's curse! He'd kill again someday.
Our forebear wouldn't want… see him alive!
The pestle's ready! Press his neck tonight!
That curse will end and joy… is here again!'
As catalyst, I tried and tried so hard.
I gave them reasons known in heaven and earth.
But shaman's word's so strong, and mine was weak.
Until I stood and said, "I'd take the curse!"
The chirping crickets stopped; the silence heard!
And there's no hooting owl was overheard!
Right then, I knew, I'd stop! The battle's won!
Flee darkness! Flee! Oh, light! Illuminate!
At last, the grandma's nod was quietly given.
The tapping rain had stopped; the stars have shown.
The grips, I felt, from teeny-tiny hand
Seemed saying,' Thanks! You're here…now I'm alive!'
I left the stilt shack with a swaddled child…
Feeling the stares of eyes in darkness loomed.
A force seemed pushing me to a sure doom.
In prayer I whispered, 'Thanks…now, be my guide.'
Maybe you wonder after two decades.
I'm still alive! Still Kicking! Humbly proud!
The jungle came to know what's wrong and right
…The child? Oh, yes! My child is still alive.
(c) edmund industan, 2007
NOTE: Those who still have not gotten a copy of KOILAWAN, check it out now in your favorite online book outlets. The book is still available in 21 countries. A portion of my royalty fee will go to the Ata Manobo Literacy Fund of the Translators Association of the Philippines, a non-profit Christian organization that I used to head before I migrated to the USofA.
Yes, I still cannot forget those years in the early 60s, when I helped my grade school teacher-mom, opened those huge tins of golden cheese and bags of powdered whole milk from the UNICEF. To many Filipinos, who live in the rural areas, cheese was never a part of their meals; hence, cheese was absolutely introduced by the UNICEF program to them. Initially, many kids did not like the taste; however, teachers like my mom, patiently educated the kids of its nutritional value. Slowly, the kids begin to like it. Before the end of the school year, most wanted to have a bigger share of it so that their parents could have some, too. And the powdered whole milk? Oh, the schoolchildren loved them. Kids were always ready with their cone-shaped paper for that powdered milk. They wanted to be the first person in the line. As the kids were going home from school, most of them were sipping the powdered milk through a small hole at the tip of those cone-shaped paper. So, friends, I, for one, would like to see the UNICEF program go on. Hope you are, too.
Meanwhile, here is the last part of my special story blog, The Curse. This is the poetry version. You also can read this in my book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom. Enjoy!
(14) SAVING A DEAR CHILD
Edmund melig Industan
The wailing stopped! Some gasped in disbelief.
Seems it's the last oink at a slaughterhouse.
It slowly faded, hush was all around
Not one in jungle wailed again that night.
I won't forget that rainy night of yore.
A mom with ember cried in pain…for help.
An infant was about to see his grave,
For jungle culture is in darkest night.
The smoke of death had passed through villages.
The child's mom inhaled, kicked the bucket.
With culture so unique and so mundane,
This nursing child, considered the culprit.
The ember left, I followed it in haste.
…Unmindful of the muddy narrow trail.
My thought was on a roller coaster ride.
The prayer I made, the only calming state.
The chanting wail got loud as loud can be,
…As I edged closer to that bark-walled shack.
The soft and somber tune of bamboo lute,
I now can hear amidst the oinks and barks.
Just as I started climbing that chipped log
The shaman yelled a yapping, 'wo-wo-wo!'
Warding the evil off with frond of palm
That village could be freed from frightful woe.
Just as my head surfaced that squeaking floor…
The child, I saw, half-naked that cold night.
As he saw me, he cried with opened arms…
As if to tell me, 'Please, save me tonight!'
I tip-toed 'round the corpse that lay in state…
Around the spouse, who's laid there fetus-form.
Picked up the child and swayed him in my arms…
And calm him from a dreadful crying bout.
As soon as comfort came to this poor child,
The wails of kin and chants of shaman rolled.
Consoling words I gave, but not enough!
Most kin would like to see the child dead!
'He's curse! He'd kill again someday.
Our forebear wouldn't want… see him alive!
The pestle's ready! Press his neck tonight!
That curse will end and joy… is here again!'
As catalyst, I tried and tried so hard.
I gave them reasons known in heaven and earth.
But shaman's word's so strong, and mine was weak.
Until I stood and said, "I'd take the curse!"
The chirping crickets stopped; the silence heard!
And there's no hooting owl was overheard!
Right then, I knew, I'd stop! The battle's won!
Flee darkness! Flee! Oh, light! Illuminate!
At last, the grandma's nod was quietly given.
The tapping rain had stopped; the stars have shown.
The grips, I felt, from teeny-tiny hand
Seemed saying,' Thanks! You're here…now I'm alive!'
I left the stilt shack with a swaddled child…
Feeling the stares of eyes in darkness loomed.
A force seemed pushing me to a sure doom.
In prayer I whispered, 'Thanks…now, be my guide.'
Maybe you wonder after two decades.
I'm still alive! Still Kicking! Humbly proud!
The jungle came to know what's wrong and right
…The child? Oh, yes! My child is still alive.
(c) edmund industan, 2007
NOTE: Those who still have not gotten a copy of KOILAWAN, check it out now in your favorite online book outlets. The book is still available in 21 countries. A portion of my royalty fee will go to the Ata Manobo Literacy Fund of the Translators Association of the Philippines, a non-profit Christian organization that I used to head before I migrated to the USofA.
Friday, October 31, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
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.
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.
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