The hill was bare of any shade except from a guava tree that stood solitarily
amidst the sea of waist-high cogon grasses that had been cutting on our weary legs. It
is among the many parts of Sitio Tagamot that was once a lush thicket of overgrown
ipil-ipil trees but have since been turned into level fields to grow corn and other crops
that can withstand the sun’s heat.
Among the earliest farmers who tilled this unforgiving land and took a gamble
by making this place their home was my Lolo Melanio. He was just sixteen when he
came here from Negros Occidental all too eager to leave his poverty-stricken hometown
and explore the world. He found his way in Davao Oriental to work in an illegal logging
business back in the 50s when the province was still a cornucopia of timber. Two years
after hauling ginormous lawaan, yakal and mahogany, he fell in love.
He first saw her during one of his colleague’s birthday celebrations, hanging
around a bunch of drunk boys relaying the circle’s only cup of the local tuba. Lola
Beryang was not your typical countryside woman: she was an avid drinker and a smoker
at the same time who made her own cigar by rolling out dried tobacco leaves in used
newspaper. She can also be seen most of the time with her male friends drinking at the
nearby river, if not, loafing around the barrio’s main sari-sari store, still drinking, while
smoking her rolled out trisbi. She was the barrio’s tomboy and everyone, even her
parents, was surprised when Lolo Melanio asked Lola Beryang’s hand on the year 1957
which after a reluctant agreement, married her a couple of months later the day Ramon
Magsaysay’s plane crashed in Cebu. While the entire country grieved of the passing of
the good president, the two exchanged vows in a simple ceremony at the local Baptist
Church in the foot of Sitio Tagamot.
As the local chief of the Mandaya, Lola Beryang’s father gifted the less-used
part of their ancestral land as a challenge to the unseemly couple. For three years, lolo
Melanio toiled upon the very hills: cutting and burning hundreds of ipil-ipil trees,
turning the unforgiving thicket into an abundant corn field. Their first child, my father,
was three when lolo had his first harvest.
However, now, as we retrace our steps on this familiar hill, there were no signs of
the towering lines of corn that Lolo Melanio once toiled on his entire life. The hills still
look like slumbering giants from afar though, oblivious of the changes in its sleep and
the familiar cries of the crows who my father regarded as ‘flying devils’ can be heard
distinctly from afar. They must have found themselves another place to eat their fill of
corn as there is nothing left in this spot except for the thriving sea of sun-burnt cogon
grasses, which with their nemesis gone, have triumphantly revealed themselves.
I remembered my father giving me one lesson about the grass: “To kill it, you
have to pull the last of its roots. You have to destroy everything and burn it so it will
never return to the earth again.” he said to me as he masterfully pulled the weeds off
the dry soil, digging up to the last of its roots with his rough calloused hands.
The cuts on my legs seem to sting a little bit more now. I think the cogon grasses
know that I am the blood of their enemy.
The first hint of the approaching rain came through the air which carried with it the
subtle smell of dampened earth. All the while, low clouds hover over the mountains of
Tagamot. Seeing the signs of the impending summer shower, I picked up my pace, so
much that I almost caused my little sister to stumble, forgetting that I was holding her
tiny hands.
“Budi, do you want me to carry you?” I ask knowing that she is exhausted after the
almost-an-hour walk. “It’s okay, I’ll just walk.” She replies, smiling plainly as if I could not hear her
hurried breathing or see the tiny trails of sweat running down her face.
“Are you sure? But we need to hurry.” I say, motioning to the gray clouds in the
distance.
“I’m fine, ate. Look. Watch me.” She lets go of my hand and runs ahead the trail,
carefully lifting the white dress my mother bought for her two years ago for her fifth
birthday while masterfully avoiding the sharp blades of cogon that may tear the dress.
I told her it was not the right dress to wear for a long walk but she insisted, telling me
that this special day needs a special dress even though, after two years, the dress had
become too small for her.
The initial plan was to come here alone. After all, it is more than two hour's
walk from the barrio where my Ante Boging resides. Aside from that, we need to go
through a swampy terrain near Uncle Joel’s hut, not mentioning the hot barren hill of
cogon where we are at. But Budi’s irritating cries were more powerful than the reasons
I just mentioned. When I told Ante Boging at dinner that I want to visit father and
mother, and that I will bring Budi with me, she blurted out that it was just a waste of
time.
—-
“They will never come back, you need to remember that. You and Budi need to
move on or else you will forever get stuck in that same feeling of remorse. That won’t
get you anywhere,” she said quite sharply. “Now go. The plates won’t wash
themselves.”
After my parents died, Ante Boging took us in. She was my father’s younger sister
but her demeanor exudes a sense of authority and no-nonsense practicality that made
her seem like the older of the two. She is a public elementary school teacher who is infamous among her students and even among the people in the barrio for being a stern
figure. She was someone whom you cannot ask for a stalk of malunggay, her neighbors
would joke but I know it was a fact. Her gaze always terrifies people, probably because
it was deep and wise and her dark brown irises seemingly knows something you don't
know about yourself. I also felt that way when I first met her years ago, during my Lolo
Melanio’s funeral.
“Are you in school?” That was her first question. She did not ask for my name, or
my age or my favorite color or praise the dress I was wearing.
I can only afford a nervous nod during that time.
“Are you good at school?”
Another nervous nod.
“Good,” she commented, patting my head while half-turning to where my father
was sitting. “We don’t need another uneducated person in the family.”
Ante Boging and father had a huge fight after that. It first started with how my
father said she had no right to speak that way to a child, then it goes to how father
should possess the entirety of the farm that Lolo tilled since he took care of the old man
through his dying days.
“It was me who tilled those lands with our father. You have no right to own a part
of it,” my father shouted, firmly.
“Maybe. But I am still your father’s daughter and though it is of no use to me, it is
my birthright to own a part of that land.”
With all the bickering and cursing hurled at each other, all I can remember was
how her voice and presence demands nothing but respect and how my father’s voice
broke whenever he tried to speak.
We always thought that this was why Ante Boging is still unmarried at fifty-
eight. Actually, she is beautiful. Her features were similar to those of the pictures I saw
of Lola Beryang: firm cheekbones, wide forehead, and compelling eyes framed with
naturally thick lashes; nonetheless, she was dominant and intimidating and there is no
question that her eyes, those watchful eyes, made her suitors scurry away.
As I keenly tried to scrub the hardened rice off the iron ladle, Ante Boging appeared
behind me. “That’s not how you do it, Rosa,” she said matter-of-factly. “You need to
soak it in water while scraping it hard, like this.” She grabbed the ladle off my hand and
I watched her meticulous hands scrubbing every part of it as if in a trance while at the
same time, giving me a lecture on how it takes more than strength to take off every last
bit of crud on anything. When she was satisfied, she turned to me. “And that’s how you
do it. When you don’t properly wash every part, it will spoil the food later on.”
I just nodded.
“Tomorrow,” she continued, “Make sure to be back before lunch.”
“So, we can go?”
“Yes. But bring a lot of water, it is a long walk after all… and don’t forget to bring
an umbrella. It might rain.”
After saying this, she went out to her garden and returned with two gumamelas of
different colors: one red, while the other, white. She grabbed one of the glasses and put
the flowers in it. “Your mother, she always loved flowers, especially gumamelas. This
one –” she reached for the white gumamela – “is her favourite. Bring these to her
tomorrow.”
“How about papa?”
“Your papa?” I sensed a hint of bitterness in her voice. “He does not care about
flowers. All he cares about is the money he gets from his corn.” I know Ante Boging and father were not really close. In fact, every time her name
was mentioned at home before, father would always change the subject or make a snide
comment about Ante Boging being a proud old woman.
“Why do you hate father that much, Ante?” The question just left my mouth.
It was too late when I realized that I might have crossed the line. While the silence
lingered, I imagined myself leaving this place with nothing but the worn rucksack I
used for school. Budi would have to stay and like my grandfather, I would have to go
and explore the world all by myself.
But just as I was about to make the most sincere apology of my life, a loud laugh
burst from her mouth. I was astonished and puzzled at the very same time, as in the
long months I have lived under her roof, it was the only time I heard her laugh like
that.
“Oh dear, don't misunderstand me. I don’t hate your father. We were just never
close to begin with.” With dreamy eyes, she finally told me the answers to the questions
that have left me wondering all this time.
“I had to leave my family when I was twelve, just a year younger than you are
now. Your lolo, he regarded education as just a waste of time and money. Like your
father, all he cared about were their chickens and the profits he got from her harvested
corn. After learning how to read and calculate, he dropped out of school and chose to
help your lolo. There’s no money in school, my father always told us. Once we know
how to read, and do addition, subtraction, division and multiplication, that’s it. It is the
only thing we needed to know, according to him. That’s why he expected me to stop
going to school after getting my elementary diploma but, damn, I love learning. And I
am really good at it, you know. I did not graduate as valedictorian for nothing.” She
paused for a while, grabbing the nearby chair. “I have higher dreams than tending chickens and planting corn. I want to become somebody but they never cared about my
dreams, including your father who had married your mother by then. So I did what I
had to. I went away to Davao and became a working student.
“After high school,” she continued, “I needed to do everything on my own. I
worked odd jobs for four years first and then studied for another four. Thankfully, I am
pretty smart for a girl from the province and got a scholarship. I graduated top of my
class. I did that with no support from your lolo and lola. During those years, my life has
been one of responsibilities and sacrifices: eating tinughong when there’s nothing left
to eat and at times, drinking water just to get through the day. That’s where I got my
ulcer, you know. While your father was here, tending over the corn and chickens with
my parents, eating bisayang manok together and what else, I was there, alone. I have to
survive and reach my dreams with nothing but myself.”
She paused, looking dreamily at the scene outside: the crescent moon sailing
serenely in the vast sky. “I can’t hate your father, he is my brother. We have our
differences and our views and dreams just don’t align… and probably, I was just
jealous.”
“Sorry Ante.” That was the only thing I could say.
“I love your father, dear. Just not the way most people do.”
The air crackles with the impending rain. I should have listened to Ante Boging
and brought an umbrella. Budi is now resting under a shade, still holding on to the two
wilted gumamelas.
From where we stand, I can finally see the plot where our home once stood. Beyond
the bend, the rows of weathered stones stood unmoving, sparsely covered with
overgrowth. The macopa tree behind it continues to stand tall. It is starting to reveal the pink flowers in its branches, beckoning the forthcoming summer. The old swing that
was made from our used motorcycle tire is still there, hanging on firmly to one of its
limbs which is now arching with age, casting long shadows on the ground below.
The view before us should have brought us to the time when everything was
beautiful; however, like the complex interplay of beauty and dread, of happiness and
sadness, the memory of this place brought forth pain of unhealed wounds that had
gnawed at our lives starting that fateful night.
The moon's silver glow painted shadows on the ground that night, while the stars
above flickered like distant fireflies. The air was thick with the scent of earth and fresh
cut leaves. It was the time of harvest and father was busy sorting out this month’s yield
at our silong where he usually stores the sacks of peeled corn cobs. It was a good
harvest, he said. The weather was perfect and the flying devils have not visited the field
to destroy the crops. The scarecrows seemed to have guarded the farm well.
But what concerned my father was the buying price of the corn in the market. It
was too low right now. Only fourteen pesos per kilo.
“Should we wait?” Asked my mother the day before. My father said no; he needed
to pay the debt he owed Ser Clemente. It needed to be paid right away or the twenty-
five percent interest per month would drown him in a much bigger debt.
Then they talked about Uncle Joel, my mother’s older brother who had been a little
unlucky in his harvest. My mother was concerned when she told my father of the news
that he would probably stop farming and just move closer to the barrio and work there.
I know Uncle Joel really well; even before I was born, he was already a farmer, tending
his farm three hills from here.
“Probably he was just getting tired of farming.” my father had told her. After their conversation, my father announced to us that he would bring us to Mati
with him and that he would treat us with ice cream after selling his crops. He would
rent Ser Clemente’s tricycle too so we could go together but on one condition: I had to
teach Budi how to write her name. It would have been my first time going to Mati and
I was very excited that I would be able to finally see the famous landform that resembled
a sleeping dinosaur in Badas.
“Write it well or you will have to stay here tomorrow.” I teased Budi who was too
eager to finish the task. Although her eyes were tired from playing with our old mutt
Buts all afternoon, she still continued to fastidiously write the second S of our surname
with her fragile hands.
“Ate, it’s getting dark. Can we light the gaspin now, please.”
Indeed it was getting dark. The cicadas had already started their nightly orchestra.
“Done!” Budi yelled exultantly.
It was far from done, however. The first S was inverted so are the other letters.
Her first name was also unreadable. I thought: we had to stay at home after all.
Outside, Buts was barking apprehensively.
The three men emerged from the shadows like phantoms. They wore dark and
beaten jackets over their burly bodies. These men were strangers to this part of Sitio
Tagamot where everyone knows everyone.
“Good evening.” said the one who wore a campaign shirt of one of the senators
who won last year. The man’s long dark hair was haphazardly kept by a red bandana
on which was printed a triangle with three stars and an incomprehensible symbol. Under
that bandana was a visible scar that lined his forehead. “Is Dodong there?”
“Dodong?” I asked, then remembered how my mother called him that whenever
they had a fight instead of the usual pang or langga. “Y-yes. Let me just call him…” The man’s lips, thin and tightly drawn, tried to draw a smile as he saw my father
appearing from the side of the house but it was his eyes that failed him. Those eyes
were devoid of life. As the light from the lamp flickered, his scar seemed to cast a long
haunting shadow on his face while revealing the long gun he wore like sash.
My father on the other hand did not smile back. His face was that of shock, mixed
with concern and confusion. His eyes, usually warm, widened; his brows furrowed. It
was evident that he recognized this man but desperately tried to hide the glint of
familiarity in his gaze.
Who was this man? Why did he know my father?
My father was a man of quiet demeanor. Aside from the occasional banter with my
mother, he is a soft-spoken man with an unassuming presence. He never got my Lola’s
hallmarks. He does not drink or smoke and was never unruly. That is why I could not
imagine him being at the same table with this scarred man.
The stranger continued with his friendly charade, commenting on how my father
had grown old. Indeed, my father’s face had been weathered by years of toil under the
sun, boring around those kind eyes the lines of constant hard work in the field.
“Joel told us you got a good harvest.” The man announced.
This time, my father just stood there and calmly called my mother who was then at
the kitchen with Budi, preparing the night’s dinner.
She appeared by my side at our house’s threshold, almost annoyed at the sudden
call. But her expression underwent a subtle but telling change as she saw the man with
the scar and the other two men in the shadows. A tinge of fear seemed to dance within
her irises, as they darted between the three men searching for any clues that might reveal
their true intentions.
In a whisper, my father ordered my mother to send us to Ante Boging for the night.
Her face, normally resembling warmth, abruptly became tense. We stepped back inside
and called the unsuspecting Budi. With her steady hands, she reached for the gas lamp,
its tiny flame casted a soft glow that flickered across our tiny home. The warm light
seemed to ward off the encroaching darkness even as shadows danced upon her face.
“Budi,” she said, her voice composed, “why don’t you and Rosa go over to Ante
“It’ll be a little adventure for both of you.” Her smile, though gentle, seemed to
quiver at the edges. As she turned her eyes to meet mine, the flicker of concern and
worry etched in the lines around her eyes betrayed her. She pressed my hand and stared
at me without saying anything. I returned her stare with a comforting nod of
reassurance, not knowing what that stare truly meant for the both of us. Outside, the
world seemed to grow darker by the second.
With the motherly touch that Budi and I had enjoyed all our life, she smoothed our
hair for the last time and gently nudged us toward the back door. “Go on, now,” she
encouraged, her voice trembling imperceptibly, “Ante Boging will be waiting for you,"
she lied.
With the weight of the flickering gas lamp on my left hand casting its ethereal glow
at our every step and the small fingers of my little sister entwined like a lifeline on the
other, we journeyed through the familiar trail under the canopy of the stars, never
thinking that we are walking away from our once peaceful life.
—-
It took us a year to get back to the home we used to know; this place that once
was brimming with life and love now reduced to ashes. What was left was a single blackened pillar at the edge of the plot that stood as a haunting reminder of the fire that
had consumed both my home and my parents.
The two wooden crosses, to my surprise, were recently painted white. They
stand solemnly amid the ruins, etched with the names of our parents. A year after, the
earth around the grave still bears the charred remains of that tragedy, a stark contrast to
the beautiful landscape that surrounds it.
Budi kneels before the crosses, gently feeling each emblazoned letter with her
fingertips then finally places each of the gumamela on the base of each cross.
And then she starts to pray.
She begins her prayer clasping her small hands together like delicate petals seeking
refuge from an internal storm. In the moment of silence, all I can do is listen to her
prayers. However, the words that left her mouth are not just mere pleas for comfort and
longing, but declarations of love and remembrance. It is as if my young sister has taken
upon herself the responsibility of keeping the memories of my parents alive within her.
In her words is wisdom that should not have belonged to one so young, a knowing that
goes beyond the maturity of a typical seven-year old. She speaks of missing our parents
and the emptiness that she feels inside and promises to be a good girl for me and Ante
Boging.
As the first showers of the summer rain start to fall, that’s when I lost control of all
the emotions I rigidly guided. Each of my sister’s words became giant ripples that chip
away the walls, which for months and long, I have built patiently, thinking that as a
figure of strength, it is the only thing to do. But as the pent up emotions burst those very
walls leaving nothing but waves of unbridled emotion of grief, longing, and anguish
that have manifested itself into a seemingly endless flow of tears, I found myself in the
face of my sister, not the facade of strength I tried to play, but that sad little girl who had unknowingly walked away from her peaceful life that fateful night under the
canopy of stars.
As the weight of our parents’ absence continues to bear heavily upon my shoulders,
the thunder rumbles in the distance, its sounds seem to remind me of the turmoil that
will now continue to haunt us. My dissonant sobs blend with the grumbling of the sky
and the rain serves as a veil for my tears. I know that I need to be strong for my sister,
to be an armor of strength but at this very moment, I allow myself to grieve and mourn
the loss of the life we have known and to accept that everything has changed.
As my innocent sister's prayer comes to an end, I look at the crosses. They seem to
whisper tales of laughter and tears, of dreams and aspirations, all now resting peacefully
beneath the earth.
“They are gone! Look, ate! The gumamelas are gone!” Budi cries out. “Mama and
papa, they have accepted my prayers!”
I hold my little sister’s body close in an embrace.
“They did. They did.” I whisper, my hand tightening over the withered
