Ang kabuntagon dinha sa mga mata ni Lito samtang misubay siya niadtong gamayng dalan-dalan. Ang humod nga yuta lumoy ug humok kaayong paminawon nga iyang tumban sa iyang gagmayng tiil. Daw nagapabilin pa gani ang kabugnaw nga dala sa ulan kagabii diha sa huyuhoy nga mohaplas sa linghod niyang panit.

        Mao kadtoy kabuntagon nga daw gitagana alang lamang gayod kaniya – hinlo ug bughaw nga langit ug didto sa laguna naghiting-hiting sa kalunhaw ang mga balili. Bisan gani ang Adlaw ingon man sa naikog nga mohatag ug kainit sa panit. Sayo kaayo siyang nagmata kaganina ug daw mibangon dungan kaniya kining kaanindot nga paminawon sa iyang kaugalingon. Kadiyot ra kaayo nga nalukot niya ang banig niyang buli ug gidali pagsuksok didto sa suwambi. Labon, kaniadto sa ubang mga buntag pukawon pa siya ni Nianay niya, labi na kon wala siyay saring tulunghaan. Karon dili na siya papukaw kay sayo na man kaayo siyang magmata, sama karong buntaga bisan unta wala siyay saring kay Domingo man. Karon maulaw na siya nga pukawon pa ni Nanay niya kay dili na man gayod siya bata pang walay buot, napulo na man ang iyang panuigon.

The morning was in Lito’s eyes as he walked along the narrow path. He felt the softness of the wet ground under his small feet. The coldness brought by the rain last night was still clinging to the breeze that rub his tender skin. That morning seemed to be solely prepared for him – a clear and blue sky, and in the meadow, the grasses were green. Even the Sun was adamant to give heat to the skin. He woke up very early and it seemed that this beautiful feeling had risen up with him. He rolled the buri mat fast and put it in the small room. In the past, on some mornings, his mother would wake him up, especially if he didn't have classes in school. Now he wouldn’t need to be woken up because he woke up very early, like this morning even if he had no class because it’s Sunday. He was now ten years old and no longer a thoughtless child, he was ashamed to be wakened up by his mother. 

        When he came down, his father, who was already doing things in the yard, was surprised to see him. He thought his father would ask something from him, but when he didn't, Lito walked along the small pathway straight to the meadow near the coconut groove. Now he breathed very fresh air. He felt his whole body active. He just wanted to go anywhere this morning.

Makatuo kaha ikaw nga usa ka maanyag nga babaye sama kang Lorna mahigugma lamang sa usa ka tawo sama kang Paterno?

        Ang gipamulong ni Myrna nakapahinuktok ug kadiyot kang Nick samtang sila nag-atubang sa malinging talad sulod niadtong restawran ug pabugnawan sa dalan Azcarraga sa dakong siyudad sa Manila. Gilisdan siya pagtubag dayon sa maong pangutana. Usa ka maanindot ug makaiibog nga binuhat sama kang Lorna mahigugma sa usa ka tawo nga sama kang Paterno nga laksot, wala gayoy bisan diyotay na lamang nga kaambong? Ug si Lorna batan-on pa, bag-o pa gayong bus-ok sa panuigon niyang kawhaan ug duha samtang si Paterno hapit na motungtong sa katloan.

        “Apan nakapaneguro ka ba gayod nga nahigugma si Lorna kang Paterno, Myr?” mibalos hinuon pagsukot si Nick sa iyang kaatubang.

        “Gikan gayod sa ngabil ni Lorna,” mitubag si Myrna. “Ayawg kalimot nga akoy confidante ni Lorna gawas pa gayod nga mag-agaw kami!”

Could you believe that a woman as beautiful as Lorna would fall in love with a man like Paterno? 

        Nick mulled briefly over what Myrna said to him while they were facing each other at a round table inside a restaurant along Azzcarraga Street in the big city of Manila. He found it hard to answer her question right away. That a creation as beautiful and as attractive as Lorna would fall in love with someone as ugly as Paterno, not even a hint of handsomeness? And Lorna, who just turned twenty-two, was still young and full, unlike Paterno who was going on thirty.

        “But are you really sure that Lorna loves Paterno, Myr?” Nick countered while looking at his companion.

        “It came from Lorna’s own lips,” answered Myrna, “Don’t forget that I’m Lorna’s confidant aside from us being cousins!”

Naibog kaayo si Greta kang Manang niya Norma. Niining napulog-pito na karon niya nga panuigon, wala pa gayod siya mobati nga siya hingkod na nga dalaga. Alang kang Greta, ang matawag nga hingkod na gayong dalaga mao si Manang niya Norma nga aduna nay titulo ug aduna na usay gisudlan nga trabaho ug adunay daghang mga ambongang lalaki nga nangulitawo. Kinsa ba goy dili maibog ug madani kang Manang niya Norma, sa hunahuna lamang ni Greta. Wala na lamang sa pagkahindik gayod nga mamustura ni Manang niya, kay duna man lagiy suweldo nga ikapatuyang pagpamalit sa mga kinahanglanon sa pangasyos, maayong bata gayod kining iyang magulang dalaga. Labi na gayod kon makapangareglar sa buhok nga ipatuyo gayod didto sa beauty parlor hapit matag semana. Gawas pa nga ingon sa dili gayod kabsan ug mga party nga adtoan si Manang niya kon ma-Sabado sa gabii ug bisan gani sa mga yanong adlaw. Kon escort usab maoy pangitaon, walay kuyaw nga kahutdan kining iyang magulang. Sa tinuoray nga ihap, mikabat gayod ug walo kining mga ulitawo nga magpunay ug pamisita sa ila magabii, magkadungan pa gani usahay ug ingon sa alegre hinuon kaayo sila nga magkapundok didto sa sala.

Greta envied Manang Norma, her elder sister. At the age of seventeen, she hadn’t felt yet that she has already turned into a mature young woman. For Greta, the one who should be called as such was her Manang Norma — who already has a degree, a job, and many good-looking men courting her. In her mind, who would not admire and be attracted to her older sister? Indeed, there was nothing more pleasing than the way her elder sister looked because she had the salary to spend on those things necessary to take care of her appearance, more so, Manang Norma was beautiful. She went to the beauty parlor every week to have her hair done. On top of that, she never runs out of parties to attend on Saturday nights and even on ordinary days. Speaking of escorts, Manang Norma never seemed to run out of them. To tell the truth, there were eight suitors who were constantly visiting their house every evening. Sometimes they coincidentally came together, and it would seem they were happy together in the living room. 

Ang Avenida Rizal sa Manila niining mga taknaa sa gabil nagadasok pa sa mga tawo nga mag saoysaoy sa mga aseras. Didto mohunong ang taksi nga gisakyan ni Fe ug Rudy sa daplin sa Sine Avenue ug dayon nga kanaog sa ulitawo aron pag-agak sa dalaga pagkawas sa salakyanan.

        “Alas siyete pa lang," matod ni Rudy. “Maayo nga nasayo kita kay wala pa kaayoy tawo."

        Miyango lamang si Fe apan wala motingog. Sa paminaw niya naluspad gayod tingali ang iyang nawong gumikan sa kakulba nga midumbol sa iyang dughan. Sa iyang paminaw, siya lamang
ang gitutokan sa mga tawo niadtong higayona.

        Karon pa lamang gayod nga mag-inusara siya pagkuyog sa usa ka lalaki sa pagtan-aw ug sine. Kon di pa lang dako kaayo nga kaulawan, buot na gayod niyang sultihan si Rudy nga ipauli na lamang siya. Apan unsay ihingalan niini kaniya kon iya kadtong buhaton karon nga ania na hinuon sila?

At this hour in the evening, Avenida Rizal in Manila was still full of people strolling about on the sidewalk. The taxi that carried Fe and Rudy stopped at the side of Sine Avenue, and then the young man stepped out to help the young lady disembark the vehicle. 

        “Only seven o'clock," Rudy said, “It’s better we came early as there are only a few people."

        Fe only nodded but did not speak. She felt her face had paled due to the nervousness in her breast. It seemed to her that she was the only object that the people stared at in that moment. This was her first time going out to the movies with a man. If it were not so shameful, she wanted Rudy to take her back home. But what would Rudy call her if she would do that now that they are here?

Naghingutas si Senyor Rodolfo. Gibati niya ang inanay nga pagpangagiw sa iyang mga kusog, ang pagkawala nay hinungdan sa iyang mga galamhan. Ug kadtong mga nawong nga nanag-alirong kaniya, igo lamang mahakop sa iyang hanap na nga panan-aw, walay kalibotan niini. Unsa bay ilang gipaabot? Lugos na gani niya makita ang panagway sa iyang asawa nga nagaapong kaniya, nagalingkod sa silya simpig sa iyang higdaanan.

        Buot mosulti si Senyor Rodolfo, apan hain na ang iyang tingog? Gitungina na kaniya iyang dila. Kinsa bay nagbuot niining tanan? Kinsa bay buot mobuntog kaniya karon? Nanlimbasog si Senyor Rodolfo batok niadtong gahom nga nagakupot kaniya. Nanlimbasog si Senyor Rodolfo sa tuman, panlimbasog nga labing makalilisang kay sa tanan nga iyang naagian sa kan-uman ug unom ka tuig sa iyang kinabuhi. Kan-uman ug unom ka tuig! Pagkataas na diay sa dalan nga iyang nabaktas!

Senyor Rodolfo could hardly breathe. He felt the gradual loss of his strength and the uselessness of his faculty. And those faces around him were hazy in his half-blind eyes. He was unaware of their presence. What were they waiting for? He could even hardly see the face of his wife who was watching him and sitting on the chair beside his bed.

        Senyor Rodolfo wanted to speak, but where was his voice? He was deprived of his tongue. Who was behind all of this? Who wanted to defeat him now? Senyor Rodolfo struggled against the power that was holding him. Senyor Rodolfo struggled hard, a fight most horrible of all that happened to him in his sixty-six years of life. Sixty-six years! How very long the road he had walked through!

Nagasud-ong si Tito kang Padre Mario nga hapit na makahuman pagsul-ob sa sapot alang sa Misa ning Domingo sa buntag. Kaganina rang napuno ang simbahan sa mga maninimba apan dinhi sa sakristiya nagapaabot pa si Tito nga makahuman kini pagsul-ob sa alba. Pula karon ang sapot nga igmimisa ni Padre Mario ug misantop kang Tito nga tuod, pangilin man diay sa mga martir karon. Nasayod si Tito, sa iyang nagkasakristan kang Padre Mario sulod na karon sa tulo ka tuig, nga ang bulok sa sapot alang sa misa nga isul-ob sa pari magaagad kon unsay pangilin sa simbahan. Pula maoy gamiton kon pangilin sa Espiritu Santo, sa Balaanong Dugo, ug sa mga martir puti alang sa pangilin sa atong Ginoo, sa Mahal na Inahan ug sa mga balaan nga dili mga martir abohon kon panahon sa kuwaresma, itom kon Biyernes Santo ug sa mga Misa alang sa mga minatay.

        Karon misenyas si Padre Mario kang Tito nga ipatunol ang amito nga diha gipatong sa talad luyo sa pari, ug milihok ang sakristan aron pagtuman. Ang amito gitaod ni Padre Mario sa iyang liog human ikasul-ob ang casulla nga gisapaw sa iyang alba.

Tito watched Padre Mario who was almost finished donning his soutane for the mass, this Sunday morning. Earlier, the church was already filled with people who were there to hear mass, but Tito was still waiting in the sacristy for the priest to finish putting on the white robe. The soutane that Padre Mario would use for the Mass was red, and Tito thought that it was the feast of the martyrs today. Tito knew from his three years of being Padre Mario's sacristan that the color of the soutane that the priest would wear depended on what was the feast of the church. Red was used for the feast of the Holy Spirit, Holy Blood, and the martyrs, while white was used for the feast of our Lord, the Blessed Mother, and non-martyr saints, gray during Lent, black on Good Friday and on the Masses for the dead.

        Now Padre Mario signaled to Tito to hand in the ‘amito’, which was placed on the table behind the priest, and the sacristan followed. Father Mario put the ‘amito’ around his neck after he had put on the chasuble over his white robe.

Mihagtok na ang ikaunom ug tunga ang takna sa hapon, nangilumkilom na gayod ang kalibotan, ang hangin nagsugod na pagkabugnaw nga nagahuros paghinay gikan sa habagtan, apan didto niadtong dako ug halapad nga hawanan sa usa ka balay nga kongkreto niining siyudad, karon lugos na maabot sa himalatyong dan-ag, usa ka hamtong babaye, nagalingkod sa sopa nga uway daplin sa tamboanan, wala pa gihapon moundang sa iyang pagborda niadtong usa ka panyo, daw hinungdanon ug bilihon gayod uyamot kadtong iyang gibuhat nga dili niya sarang kabiyaan bisan sa makadiyot aron makapanuga unta sa hawanan—ang iyang mga mata luyo sa baga niya nga antiyohos namudlat na gani sa pagpanlimbaog nga makatataw gihapon sa matag tudyok niya sa dagom gumikan sa kahanap na sa kahayag niadtong taknaa diin buot nang moilog ang kangitngit sa kalibotan.

        Mao kini ang talan-awon nga hiabtan ni Mr. Martinez sa iyang paghisaka, mao lamay paghiuli gikan sa iyang buhatan, kining talan-awon sa iyang asawa nga mihangkob pag-ayo niadtong gibuhat niini bisan lugos nang makakita.

It was already half past six in the afternoon, dusk was upon the world, and the wind was getting colder as it blew from the south. Still, there in the big and wide living room of a concrete house in the city, which could hardly be reached by the dying light, a middle-aged woman sitting on a rattan sofa by the window still did not stop her embroidery on a handkerchief; it seemed important and valuable to her what she was doing, that she could not leave for a moment to turn on the lights in the living room—her eyes behind her thick eyeglasses opened big as she struggled to see clearly as she pushed the needle due to the dim light at that time when darkness would take over the world.

        This was the scene Mr. Martinez saw when he was inside, he had just arrived from his office, the scene of his wife keenly focusing on her work even though she could hardly see it.

        “What is this, Mameng, you didn’t turn on the light? Can you still see that?” Mr. Martinez said.

        The middle-aged woman looked up, her eyes twinkled and it seemed she had just noticed the darkness in the living room. “Oh, it’s already dark,” she said followed by a sigh.

Gikinahanglan nga, aron pagsuta kon unsay kamatayon, siksikon niya kon unsay kinabuhi… gikinahanglan nga mogawas siya aron kini pangitaon diha sa taliwala sa kinabuhi.

        Sama sa usa ka liso: kining sakit nga natisok sulod kaniya. Sama sa usa ka liso nga migitib na ug nakalipang aron sa panahon mobuswak ug mamunga ug kamatayon.

        Walay laing nasayod niini gawas kaniya ug sa mananambal nga nakahiling kaniya, ug maoy nagsayod kaniya nga panahon na lamay giagad. Gitakdaan siya ug tulo, labing dugay, unom ka bulan.

        Sa sinugdan, dinha ang hunahuna: pagka batan-on pa niya nga makabaton sa maong liso. Ngano nga gitisok kini pagsayo kaniya?

        Apan karon: unsay anaa sa panahon? Unsay kalainan sa kawhaag lima ug sa kalim-an ka tuig? Managsama ra ang sangpotan sa tanan. Maoy hinungdanon kon unsaon nimo pagdawat ang kamatayon.

In order to understand what death is, he must first understand what life is… He must go out to seek it in the midst of life.

        Like a seed: this disease that was planted inside him. Like a seed that had sprung grew, and in time, would eventually blossom and bear death.

        Nobody else knew about this except him and the doctor who had examined him and informed him that time would only tell when. He was given three, at most, six months.
In the beginning, there was the thought: he was so young to possess such a seed. Why was it planted so early in him?

        But now: what was it with time? What’s the difference between twenty-five and fifty years? The result was the same in the end. The important thing was how you accept death.

HUTUHOT, mabugnaw nga hutuhot sa hangin sa kagabhion. Kaamyon, lab-as nga kaamyon gikan sa usa ka dalaga. Kananoy, lunsay nga kananoy sa awit nga giduyogan sa daghang tingog didto sa koro sa simbahan. Ug kahayag, naggilakgilak nga kahayag nga gisabwag gikan sa altar. Kining tanan nagkahiusa ug nahimong usa lamang ka pagbati sulod sa kahiladman ni Rolando samtang nagluhod siya tupad kang Erlinda.

        Ania sila aron pagsimba. Misa karon sa tungang gabii sa Pasko. Unang higayon nga sila nagkuyog pagsimba sukad sila magkahigugmaay sa miaging bulan lamang. Dili nako hikalimtan kining gabhiona, nagkanayon ang hunahuna ni Rolando. Mipasigpat siya kang Erlinda sa iyang tupad. Kaanindot unta, nagkanayon na usab ang iyang hunahuna, ug dili na lamang matapos kining higayona. Kay ambot, ngano ba kadto? Gibati ni Rolando ang tumang kalinaw sa iyang kahiladman, ang labing putli nga mga pagbati. Mao ba gayod kaha kini ang bation sa usa ka tawo nga nahigugma, ilabi na kon ang iyang gihigugma anaa tupad kaniya.

THE BREEZE, a cold breeze of the wind in the evening. The scent, a fresh scent from a young woman. The melody, the melody of the pure song was accompanied by many voices of the church choir. And the light, the dazzling light emanating from the altar. All these became only one feeling inside Rolando’s being while kneeling beside Erlinda.

        They were there to hear mass. It was a Christmas midnight mass. It was the first time that they had attended mass together since they became sweethearts only a month ago. I cannot forget this night, Rolando said in his mind. He glanced at Erlinda beside him. How nice it is, he thought again, that this moment won’t end. He couldn’t explain what happened. Rolando felt the utmost peace inside him, the purest of all feelings. Is this really how a man feels when he is in love, especially when his beloved is beside him?

SI PEDRO ug si Julia maoy usa ka magtiayon nga bulahan ug sapian. Si Pedro usa ka propisyonal, naghupot usa ka katungdanang lungsodnon, may pila ka balay nga paabangan ug mga binaol nga yuta. Si Julia matawag tang usa sa atong mga bulahang asawa nga walay laing buhat kon dili ang pagpanabi, suroy sa kabalayan sa mga higalang hamili, panugal sa nobintina ug pangginggi sa walay paghunahuna sa iyang kaugalingong panimalay ug sa iyang mga anak, sanglit sangkap siya sa manluluto, manlalaba, mga binatonan nga maoy nagbantay ug nagmatuto sa iyang mga anak. Si Pedro usab dili lang masuko sa buhat sa iyang asawa, bisan kini pagaapason na sa kabalayan, kay labut pa nga daog siya ni Julia, kini iyang pinangga ug tinumanan sa buut.

PEDRO and Julia were a fortunate and wealthy couple. Pedro was a professional, working in a municipal office, had several fields and houses for rent. Julia could be called one of our lucky wives who had nothing to do but gossip, visiting the houses of respectable friends, gambling nines and panguingue without a care about what was happening in her own home and of her children, since she had a cook, a laundrywoman and househelp who would watch over and guide her children. Pedro would not get mad at his wife’s actions, even when she had to be fetched from the houses, for while Julia was domineering, he loved her and gave in to her wishes.

Isog as Virtue in Bisayan Cultural History
George Emmanuel R. Borrinaga, PhD

Abstract

This paper explores the continuities and changes in the conceptualization and practice of the cultural value of isog (ferocity/courage/bravery) across different historical periods and in relation to changing and accumulating group identities in the Visayas. Analyzing identity based expressions and actions through a “history of sensibilities”, it examines how isog and related concepts were defined and acted upon in the colonial and post-colonial periods as documented in sources such as ethnohistorical accounts and oral traditions. It traces the enduring significance of the isog value in the face of colonization/Christianization starting in the 16th century, the turn-of-the-20th-century rise of anti-colonial nationalism, and post-World War II globalization/outmigration. Each of these periods generated new, outsider-imposed identities and transformed local practices and beliefs. However, these identities were often paralleled by local identifications expressed through isog-denoting cultural identity labels that had originally been pejorative labels but were subsequently appropriated and repurposed to suit group survival needs (e.g., Bisaya-Cristianos as Pintados; Pilipinhon/Filipinos as Pulahan; Samar-Leyte Bisayans as Waray-Waray). It argues that, despite major changes in the core beliefs and values of the Visayans across time, isog has remained a central virtue in contemporary Bisayan society and its plural identities owing to the multiplicity and frequency of overlapping social and environmental adversities in one of the most hazard-prone and repeatedly-colonized countries in the world.

Keywords: Bisayas, culture, history, isog, virtue

On Language, Education, & Culture: Views from the Young Visayan Americans in Hawaii
Rodney C. Jubilado, PhD

Abstract

In 1909, the Visayans, mostly from Cebu and Siquijor, set sail for the Hawaiian Islands to fill in the labor gap in sugar plantations under the employment of Hawaiian Sugar Planters' Association (HSPA). The hiring of these Visayan laborers was facilitated since the Philippines was an American colony and Filipinos were US nationals until 1946, the year when the Philippines gained full autonomy from the USA. One hundred years later, Hawaii is now home to generations of Visayan-Americans who are descendants (or relatives) of the Visayan Sakadas or more recent immigrants from the Philippines. Focusing on the younger generations of Visayan-Americans, this paper aims to describe and analyze the views and perspectives of the second-, third-, and fourth- generations about their connection to the homeland, career, and education. Using purposive sampling, a questionnaire, and interviews, the data was gathered from students of the Filipino Studies Program at the University of Hawaii-Hilo from 2019-2023. Findings include their distancing from the homeland in terms of “unbridled” financial aid, “non-typical” career choice, and sustained interest in the study of their heritage.

Keywords: Filipino studies, heritage education, Visayan Americans, young generation

The Noir Sensibility of Benjamin A. Abellana's Post-War Urban Fiction
Bea M. Lastimosa, PhD

Abstract

This paper delves into the urban fiction of Benjamin A. Abellana, analyzing the noir sensibilities and themes in his works. By focusing on the lingering impact of the colonial legacy of the American regime, the complexities arising from disrupted relationships and extramarital affairs, and the thought-provoking portrayal of criminals as victims, Abellana skillfully paints a vivid portrait of Cebu and its post-war anxieties. Through his exploration of noir sensibilities, Abellana not only captures the prevailing disillusionment following the war but also provides a compelling glimpse into the intricate dynamics of a society grappling with its past.

Keywords: Benjamin Abellana, noir fiction, post-war Cebuano literature, urban fiction,

Bridging Literature and Peace: Reflections on Folk Narratives and Peacebuilding
Federico V. Magdalena, PhD

Abstract

The author presents some intersections of literature and peace, focusing on indigenous societies and conflict groups from Mindanao. He argues that folk literature offers many opportunities to build peace in areas affected by deadly conflicts. This is conveyed through various formats: stories, mass media, chants, and dances, or even staged performances played with the help of young actors especially women. One such literary genre is the Meranaw epic Darangen that UNESCO recognized in 2005 as intangible cultural heritage. Though it features deadly wars between rival chiefdoms, notably Bembaran and Kadaraan, it also provides lessons that encourage peace dialogues, promote reconciliation, and even prevent virulent wars through the efforts of influential women. Among the stage shows that transmit ideas of peace are community festivals and street dancing (e.g., Kasadya or Diyandi Festival in Iligan City honoring Michael the Archangel). Peace education and peacebuilding in the curriculum are now getting trendy and conducted in universities (Miriam College, Notre Dame University, Mindanao State University). The presentation also discusses ways of sustainable peacebuilding efforts through policies crafted to resolve conflicts and establish a peace culture in various levels of society.

Keywords: folk literature, Meranaw people, Peace literature, peacebuilding, peace studies

Enrique de Malacca: Malay or Cebuano
Federico V. Magdalena, PhD

Abstract

My purpose in this paper is not to engage in the long-running, sometimes unproductive debate about the topic, which has recently pitted Malaysia and Indonesia in a conflict of sorts. Rather, I want to challenge and call for more research into it, if one is to prove conclusively that Enrique was indeed from either one of these countries. Or whether he could have been also from the Philippines, which is our focus here. Though Enrique de Malacca died 500 years ago, his memory has lived on. He will continue to provoke the imagination of writers.

Keywords: Cebuano, Enrique de Malacca, identity, Malay

“I'm happy,” she said, wiping the tears falling down her wrinkled cheeks. I told her    I was getting married. Our relationship hasn’t been the nicest, the kindest, and the gentlest. We are both storms—her with her trauma, me with mine. Out of nowhere, I called her when I randomly asked Ambros, my now-husband, how his parents got together. Who courted whom. How?

Lucy Barton, a character in Elizabeth Strout’s My Name Is Lucy Barton, opined that she didn’t know anything about her mother before she became a mother. Everything she knew about her was her being the woman who gave birth to her. That particular line stuck with me. Stung me.

I never made an effort to know my mother, of how and who she was long before she became a wife and a mother of eight living humans and a dead one. Long before I witnessed her own breaking. Long before motherhood killed whoever she was and whoever she wanted and intended to be. One reason I’m afraid to be a mother is that I’m afraid to turn out like her. She wore her anger, frustration, violence, and trauma like her own skin.

One of my goals this year is to attend to things and people who matter the most to me. Perhaps we—me and Mama—are not a lost cause. I’m not hoping for a happily ever after between us. Rather, I’m hoping, with the passing of time evident on our faces and in our failing bodies, that we learn to calm our storms.

Am I a Cebuano filmmaker?

This is a question I have wrestled with during my career as a filmmaker. Around the 2010s, films coming out of Cebu were being noticed by critics and film enthusiasts for the novelty of their narratives and a seemingly unique approach to storytelling — or so they said.

In film festivals and junkets, when you are introduced as a Cebuano filmmaker or when you say you’re from Cebu, one has gotten these kinds of reactions: “Galing ng films ng Cebu!”; “Iba talaga ang Cebuano humor!”; “Ano bang tubig iniinom ‘nyo sa Cebu?”. I’m sorry if I sound like I’m bragging but this really has happened. If you ask any of my contemporaries, they will probably give a similar response. Of course, we also cannot discount the possibility that those people were really just being polite. But the point I am trying to make here is that the films we made have been labeled “Cebuano”. And in effect, I, as a member of the production team, was also consequently labeled as a Cebuano filmmaker.

Cebu, the facts:

As a writer of numerous short stories and three novels, I use the setting Ubec, which is Cebu spelled backwards, in many of my fictional stories. Ubec is a lot like Cebu, but it isn’t Cebu. This talk is about how I created this mythical setting, which freed me to reimagine Cebu and its inhabitants in my fiction writing. I will also talk about some of my stories and fictional characters and how they were inspired by Cebu. You will find “Ubec” in many of my short stories and my three novels: When the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Magdalena, and The Newspaper Widow.

I’d like to start by giving some facts about the Cebu I grew up in before I go into the reimagining part.

I was born after World War Two, the youngest of four children. My parents were Mariano Flores Manguerra and Concepcion Cuenco Manguerra. My father had been in the guerrilla movement in Mindanao, where he, my mother, and their three children lived during wartime. When Liberation came, and because my father’s house in Manila was completely destroyed, my parents decided to settle in Cebu where my mother’s family, the Cuencos, come from.

This one trip to a cluster of islands in the Visayan part of the Philippine archipelago years ago presented a most stunning visual — an inter-island funeral procession. The smaller islet did not have a cemetery and so the folks had to ferry the dead to the nearby island. But low tide on funeral day required them to carry the coffin themselves through the shallow waters. I was shocked that I was shocked. How could I not have imagined something like it when I live in a nation-state of 7,100 islands? That question has never left me since then.

I was born in the same year President Ferdinand Edralin Marcos hijacked Philippine democracy via a declaration of Martial Law. Being ushered into that dark regime, a generation grew up as though in Plato’s allegorical cave. Clarity and truth came incrementally only in the waning years of the dictatorship when fury and resistance escalated.

The wave of the sea is calling
“Come, my dear,”
And for a moment I thought of diving in
Not caring whether I can swim through the surge

I dive
I drown

The stillness of the water is calling
“Come, my dear,”
And for a moment I thought of breathing in
Not caring whether I have gills to draw in the air

I breathe
I bid

Farewell

I am scared.
Of the past－the things haunts my every waking.
Of the future – whatever is in store for me.
Of the moment – being alive.

a sip of dandelion wine as you sit beside me
the fragrance of lavender
while i stop the world and its ever-moving gears
just so i could keep the mechanism of your
ever wondrous existence within my touch

a sip of dandelion wine as i sit beside you
while mozart tossed and turned in his grave
so may he wish he was i
the music i am hearing, the music i wanted to hear and
the music he wanted to write are one and the same
in words that come from your mouth
and the song that comes with it

a sip of dandelion wine and I slowly lose consciousness
the smile that binds the continental
plates, forms mountains while zeus regrets
his existence is only in myth and so
may he wish he was i for
the sun I am seeing, the sun i wanted to see and
the suns he wanted to create are one and the same
in light that comes when you smile
and the bliss that gathers around it

a sip of dnadnelion wine and
I’m comlpetely durnkk
but she’s stll bseide mee andnd as long as she’s there
thhere will alwasys be a sun
andd therhe will always be music
for my liiife nds its intoxicattion with beauty

day and night, I sit at the front porch
a rocking chair inches before the three
small wooden block stairs,
ragged nails, splinter wood strips

I play my banjo, string after string
the sky my acoustic,
clouds, my note sheet,
the crows visit
bob their heads to
country folk songs,
strum after strum

day and night, I sit at the front porch
the neighbors’ kids, like the light
brigade charging onwards
with branches and pebbles
i, the sun, frowned upon;
the moon, i wish i was

in this evolving history of the world,
we’ve been granted enough serendipity
to show love virtually
instances no contact of skin,

if I were to meet you in the Renaissance
I would’ve painted biblical a scene, you
in the middle, la belle ferronnière,
apropos of your beauty

if our souls crossed in the age Victorian
I would’ve worn seventeen layers of frock coats,
my photograph in your silver locket
bulky as possible, to stir you of my admiration

of a parallel world, our pathways in the Classical
I’d be Beethoven, you, my Elise;
write Symphony No.5 and I modulate it
a more romantic tune

we celebrate our affection now,
you and me in alternate planes of existence,
also make merry, our souls forever destined
converge in all the recorded memories of time

the future might be an intricate conundrum,
but older versions of us in worlds still
live in bliss, laugh at the thought of ourselves today—
clueless of how much happiness we’ve yet to have.

Naay pito ka ngalan ang gugma.
Kahibalo ba ka kon unsa sila?
Pisi, Kahayag, Kalayo, Baga
ang kauban sa iyahang gingharian.

Ang uban pa, maayo pod,
mapaubsanon apan buhi:
Yamog, Impiyerno, ang Buhi nga Tubig.
Ako silang gipanganlan dinhi (kay naa
sila sa Balaan nga Kasulatan),
nagpatin-aw sa matag timala
sa birtud ug hulag. Isulti nako
ang kamatuoran sa mga timala.
Motungha ang gugma matag adlaw
sa mohalad og gugma.
Bastante na kini nga kinaadman.

PISI ang gugma nga mogapos,
mangulipon ang iyahang gahom.
Dili mabugto, mabuhat niya ang tanan.
Kamo nga nahigugma kahibalo niini.

Unsay pasabot sa KAHAYAG
nahibalo ang mga mohalad
og mga gasa sa gugma,
gitugotan man o ginadili.

Sumala sa Balaan nga Kasulatan,
mao kini ang timailhan sa BAGA:
ang usa ka mahimayaong gasa
sa Ginoo sa hinasa nga kalag.

Sa ilalom sa ngalan sa KALAYO,
malas o suwerte, kasadya o kasubo,
modilaab kini. Gisigpo kita
sa sama nga kainit nilang duha.

Kon ang tanan nasunog na
sa ilahang kabangis, ang YAMOG,
moabot susama sa hangin, motalunong
ug magdala og kamaayo.

BUHI NGA TUBIG (iyahang ikaunom
nga ngalan) motubod ug mohunas,
susama sa akong gugma nga motubo
ug mahanaw sa panan-aw.

IMPIYERNO, (akong mabatian ang kasakit)
manunglo, gitabonan ang tibook kalibotan.
Walay makaikyas. Walay naay grasya
aron makalingkawas.

Pag-amping, kamong nangandoy
nga makipaglambigit sa mga ngalan
sa gugma. Sa luyo sa ilahang katam-is
ug kapungot, walay molahutay.
Wala kondili mga samad ug halok.

Maskig morag layo kaayo ang gugma,
molihok ka padulong sa iyahang kailadman

Love has seven names.
Do you know what they are?
Rope, Light, Fire, Coal
make up its domain.

The others, also good,
more modest but alive:
Dew, Hell, the Living Water.
I name them here (for they
are in the Scriptures),
explaining every sign
for virtue and form.
I tell the truth in signs.
Love appears every day
for one who offers love.
That wisdom is enough.

Love is a ROPE, for it ties
and holds us in its yoke.
It can do all, nothing snaps it.
You who love must know.

The meaning of LIGHT
is known to those who
offer gifts of love,
approved or condemned.

The Scripture tell us
the symbol of COAL:
the one sublime gift
God gives the intimate soul.

Under the name of FIRE, luck,
bad luck, joy or no joy,
consumes. We are seized
by the same heat from both.

When everything is burnt
in its own violence, the DEW,
coming like a breeze, pauses
and brings the good.

LIVING WATER (its sixth name)
flows and ebbs
as my love grows
and disappears from sight.

HELL (I feel its torture)
damns, covering the world.
Nothing escapes. No one has grace
to see a way out.

Take care, you who wish
to deal with names
for love. Behind their sweetness
and wrath, nothing endures.
Nothing but wounds and kisses.

Though love appears far off,
you will move into its depth.

(English translation by Willis Barnstone and Elene Kolb from the original Brabantian form of Middle Dutch)