Sakal, tingali, ambot nimo

December 29, 2007

 

I haven’t really seen Judy Ann’s movie Sakal, Sakali, Saklolo but I see that it’s making waves, although for a much different reason that its producers would have liked.

On Thursday, Senate Minority Leader Aquilino “Nene” Pimentel panned the makers of the movie for the ethnic slur targeting the much larger population of the country that speaks Visayan.

Okay, from what I gathered, here’s the scene:

Gloria Romero: “Bakit pinapalaki ninyong Bisaya ang apo ko?”

Judy Ann Santos (Butts in): “Speak to the kid in Tagalog. Parang Pinoy.

Director and scriptwriter Joey Reyes then contemptuously dismissed Pimentel’s remarks as nothing more than the ramblings of a senile and tedious man. 

Make no bones about it, that’s an ethnic slur.  What? Only the Tagalogs are the real Filipinos now? With that said, I’m still quite ambivalent about the whole thing. The term Bisaya, though used homogeneously in pop culture, isn’t a solitary description for people who speak the language. I’m not going to rattle off a lengthy discourse on the difference in inflection, idioms, patois, and colloquialism between regions that are dominated by the Bisayas (the people, not the language); suffice to say that some speak the language better than others.

What’s my point? Well, it would be hypocritical for me to protest now when I’ve been guilty of making fun of others based on their regional genesis, culture, and native tongue. Fair or not, we have our own stereotypes about the Ilonggos (braggarts), the Mandayas (materialistic), the Ilocanos (penny-pinchers), the Moros (traitors) and even the tagalogs (My! how insular and snobbish they are).

We speak of Imperial Manila when referring to the policy decisions that do not undergo a consultation yet directly impact the economic and political direction of Visayas and Mindanao, but Davaoeños, too, are guilty of feeling superior to the residents of the far-flung barangays – the Matigsalogs, Ata-Manuvu, and other tribes — and I haven’t event taken into consideration the adjacent provinces and municipalities yet.

We’re dealing with a microcosm of what ails this country and that’s our regionalistic tendencies. Part of the reason why I couldn’t fully relate to what the senator was angry about is because I don’t see myself as a Bisaya but from Davao City who happens to speak Bisaya.

I’m speaking here of regionalism that’s largely defined by territory. Other factors also come into play, like culture, attitudes, economy, and affinity with the language but not by much. This matrix is quite evident the way we react to travel advisories issued by other countries against Davao City. I remember the two bombings that rocked Davao City back in 2003 when all the business leaders, tourism players, government officials and expats joined forces to employ a massive PR campaign to control the damage. 

Would the same travel advisory illicit a similar reaction among Davaoeños if that was issued against the Philippines in general? I reckon not.

Let’s take Teri Hatcher’s infamous snide remark about incompetent medical practitioners from the Philippines, apart from the official protest made by the Philippine government and Filipino doctors and nurses in the United States, the whole thing went kaput in just a few days until it was consigned to that purgatory called barbershop gossip, something to pass the time by.

I wonder how the remark would have been received if Teri Hatcher had said that medical practitioners from Davao City suck? This certainly would have been a different blog. When you go to Manila for example, you always strain your ears to listen to somebody speaking Bisaya and when you strike up a conversation, the first question you always ask where he or she comes from. Not the name.

But that kind of conversation is not so weird when you consider that it’s not the language that binds us, but our regions, cities, streets, houses, and similar acquaintances.

So no matter how ambiguous the term regionalism is, its interplay in Philippine political and economic dynamics is nevertheless real. When Malacañang calls for unity for a better Philippines, it’s not as simple as Filipinos holding hands towards a common goal. Instead it’s a neck-and-neck race for the distinction as the top performing province or city, whether in the area of peace and order, economy, environment, health, pollution control, or people.    

Sometimes I wonder if federalism is the most suitable political system for us, considering that we compete with each other anyway so why not just share the wealth and empower the regions to help themselves instead of constantly begging for scraps from the national government right?

But a corollary argument could also be made on how federalism could stunt the progression of regionalism from a spatial expanse into a dynamic process, from a pluralistic into an amalgamated society pursuing a much loftier goal than mere kinship and rivalry.  

But hey, who am I kidding? A slur, even if cloaked in humor, is still a slur. 

 

Batman

December 26, 2007

I love Davao City.

In 2001 and 2005, it was adjudged by the Asian Institute of Management as the most competitive metro city in the Philippines, edging out Metro Manila and Cebu. The city is also a perennial runner up to the 40 Best Cities in Asia and that makes it, according to Asiaweek which conducted the survey, the Most Livable City in the Philippines.

As far as “livability” goes, it ranked 18^th followed by Cebu at 19^th while Manila was at far 25^th place.

It also earned the distinction of having the Best Police Office in the Country for six years from 1999-2005. With a crime rate of 0.8 cases per 10,000 per month, it’s one of the most peaceful cities in Asia. At least, that’s what the city government’s website (www.davaocity.gov.ph) says.

Unless my math is wrong, that’s roughly 160 cases per month. In a city of two million people, that’s not half bad when taken independently. Crime solution efficiency, however, dipped five points last year from 89 percent in 2005. The decline in crime solution efficiency for index crimes was mainly due to the increased of the unsolved crimes against persons, said the National Economic Development Authority 2006 Region-XI Economic Performance.

The authorities in these parts are just counting the rising body count killed nearly daily in the manner that would have earned the approval of Don Corleone: quick and easy. Maybe the Davao City Police Office hires statisticians as law enforcers? I've read of several killings attributed to the men on motorcycles, which the media ominously dubbed the Davao Death Squad, yet i haven't heard of a single arrest. That should bring down the crime solution efficiency several notches. 

What about witnesses?

No problem. In this city, nobody’s breaking the code of Omerta. Not if you like death to come knocking on your door while you sleep at night. Death, in this instance, rides a 94-kilogram machine with a 4-stroke engine and a max speed of 125 KPH while his scythe spews .45 caliber bullets.

As far as superheroes go, Batman was not invincible. He was human who pushed his limits to near breaking point to keep Gotham City safe from super villains and ordinary criminals. His motivation was revenge. You don’t hear batman talk about rainbows or pretty ponies or pontificate about abstracts like love, patriotism, and justice whenever he collars a criminal. They get owned and their asses thrown in jail, period.

Last December 24, while getting ready for breakfast with two broadcaster-colleagues, 51-year-old Ferdie “Batman” Lintuan was gunned down in broad daylight by death on a motorcycle. The term Batman is a corruption of the words “Batang Mandaya,” after the tribe where he supposedly belongs.

Belonged. I sometimes forget he’s dead now — relegated to the past. Rendered from passive verb “is” to “was” by bullets that stayed true to their nature. Just like that.  Right now, Somebody should tell his four children (who are orphans now after their mother succumbed to cancer two years ago) that their father did not die in vain. it's hard to feed them with virtues when they see their father's body lying in that casket. For these children, Christmas will no longer be the same again.

He might not have worn the dark cape, but in his radio program, Lintuan was also relentless in his attempt to check corruption and abuses in government. 

I remember four years ago, another broadcaster, the colorful Jun Pala, was killed in the city. As expected, nothing came out of the task force that was formed to investigate and run after the killers.

Right after Ferdie was killed, Task Force Batman was created. Is it farfetched to declare that nothing will come out of this investigation? Maybe or maybe not. But excuse me if I won’t hold my breath while waiting.

Unfair or not, Ferdie was associated with congressman Prospero Nograles, a known rival of Mayor Rodrigo Duterte. Unfair or not, his commentaries were dismissed as nothing more than black propaganda to dirty the administration of Duterte. Before he was killed, Ferdie was harping what he claimed was an overpriced People’s Park – the pet project of Duterte — pointing particularly to the relocated trees.

I will not venture to guess Ferdie’s motivations and alliances. Nobody’s perfect, certainly not me.

But in a city vaunted for its discipline and P300-million peace and order fund, people shouldn’t have to die for expressing their opinions. And if they do, somebody should go to prison for it. As the caped crusader in his later years realized, revenge is not the antidote to crime.

Justice is.

 

Punch-drunk love

December 7, 2007

There’s actually a funny story last night.

I was on a jeepney having just come from my parents’ house in Bunawan, some 21 kilometers away from the poblacion, for my father’s birthday.

It was around 9 o’clock or so and that’s when it usually gets interesting because that’s the time when the drunk passengers go home to their wives, mistresses or miserable lives. So we stopped in front of the Tibungco Public Market and two passengers embarked — a woman and his boyfriend — and sat beside me.

The guy was sitting next to me while his girlfriend was to his left. You know those guys who had a few drinks and they think they’re already invincible? Well, the son of a bitch next to me was exhibit 1, your honor.

He was irascible during the whole ride, acting drunk and always testing the kunduktor (the driver’s little helper) whenever they stopped at intervals to solicit passengers. His girlfriend was doing her best to look disinterested, probably embarrassed, or proud that her boyfriend was such a badass. 

Assessing them both with my judgmental eyes, I didn’t understand what she saw in him. The girl was okay: sexy, knew how to dress, milky skin. And don’t blame the dim lights either because even with the bad lighting and my bad eyes, I could still see he was ugly as a turd.

I guess it really is true, good girls are attracted to bad boys.

Okay, pull out your calculators people because we’re doing a little bit of Algebra:

Question:

The fare from Tibungco to Agdao is P13.00. The girl handed the guy P20.00 from her wallet.  How much should the guy add to cover both their fares?

Answer:

Nothing. Because the guy was not only drunk, he was also an idiot.

We stopped at Barangay Jerome. The two morons alighted and the guy paid the kunduktor the P20.00. Naturally, the kunduktor protested and they had an argument. The drunk guy was maybe four inches taller and 10 kilos heavier so the kunduktor let it go and went back to the jeepney.  All the while, the girl still looked bored.

As the jeepney set off, the drunk guy was still letting the kunduktor have it. Perhaps thinking he was already in his turf and his homies was sure to back him up in case there was a fight. I didn’t think the kunduktor heard him so remembering what my grandmother told me to be always helpful, I called the attention of the kunduktor and tattled.

Next thing I heard was the kunduktor right hand banging on the jeepney’s roof and in one motion, grabbed a paddle from somewhere and dashed after the drunk, who bolted so fast towards the waiting trisikad drivers you never think he had alcohol in his system.

The kunduktor stopped in the middle of the road as the bastard pleaded for help from his homies. Though I could not overhear their conversations, the drunk was really animated, pointing to the bad guy with the paddle like a small child telling on somebody to his mother.

So before the whole thing escalated, the kunduktor wisely went back to the jeepney and we sped off.

I knew it. The drunk son of a bitch was a sissy.

And where’s the girl, you ask?

She was casually crossing the road towards her boyfriend. Still bored.

Pansit

December 6, 2007

   “Nay, where’s Tatay?”

    A pair of sad-looking eyes gazed up to the frail woman in an old shirt, so worn-out that her drooping nipples threatened to break out from the thin fabric, and her disheveled hair trying to cuddle up together and hold onto her hairpins, as if ashamed of their slovenly existence.

     “Nay, where’s Tatay?”

    The woman tries to busy herself with the already burning firewood. Blowing air into it from strained lungs, breathing life into the fire and, more importantly, buying herself some time to think of an excuse.

    Finally, she faces the little boy of four, no, five. Today’s his birthday, dressed in his best shirt, worn only three times, on special occasions like this. They had bought it two sizes larger so the possibility of outgrowing it until his next birthday would have been slim. Now, the shirt already fits the boy, so maybe they have to buy him a shirt again sometime soon. She gave him her best smile and said:

    “He’ll be here soon anak, don’t worry.”

    “But its’ already nine o’clock and Josephine and Estong are already here.”

    Though there’s no clock in the shanty, the boy knew the time because the local bingo game from next door had already started – the time when husbands are already home and the wives finished with their household chores.

    “Pansit is not that easy to cook anak, and besides your father’s shift ends at eight,” the mother said. “So go play with your friends, he’ll be here soon with your pansit.”

    It sounded fake, even to herself. But the boy, with that faith inherent in most children, let the offense pass. Her husband’s shift actually ended at seven and Toning should have been home a while ago since the construction site where her husband works as a carpenter was just one ride away from their home.  So she has every reason to worry.

    The drizzle, as if mocking her, now erupted like an unchecked tantrum. Wreaking havoc to the makeshift shack next door, ending the bingo game prematurely as the players scuttled to their homes.

    Her husband is a good carpenter, judging by their home which he built himself along with a few friends.  They had to spend money for the beer and the pulutan for that but it was all worth it.  There’s no hole in the roof for the rain to pass through and the walls hardly sweat because the house is not made up of patches of cardboard and rotten plywood or rusty sheets pieced together by second-hand nails and screws.

    It’s a good house and she’s quite proud of it. With uncustomary viciousness, she smiles to herself as she thought about what’s happening to Mareng Tonya’s house right now. She imagined her panicking, as she usually does even in the most trivial of problems, placing buckets to catch the raindrops dripping to the decomposing floor, while shouting invectives at the storm.  She also imagined Mareng Vicky’s house drenched in rainwater because there’s no one home right now.  Well, their children can now have the swimming pool they’ve always wanted.

    She laughed aloud at that one, but it was not a spiteful laugh. It was an attempt to mask the gnawing anxiety that’s slowly eating her resolve. Maybe her husband was on overtime, or maybe he was on his way home and the rain caught him so he had to seek shelter somewhere, maybe he couldn’t catch a jeepney, or maybe he found a child somewhere, shivering at the bestial coldness of the night wind, and he had to help first.

    Or maybe… no, she shuddered and cursed herself for even thinking about that one. Death only happens to other people, not to her, not to them. She decided to put that thought away from her mind. As it always happens when you’re determined not to think about something, she grew to think about it even more. She couldn’t think of anything else. Drug addicts roam the city like pack of wolves looking for some solitary animal to pick on.  The fear hung thick in the air that she could smell it, the aftertaste staying in her quivering mouth. The fear is so great that she thought her heart would burst.

    She decided to do something, anything. But what? She couldn’t go to the construction site in this storm. And what if she did go there, what would she do if she found out that Toning had already left a long time ago? No. that wouldn’t be practical. Maybe Kapitan Fred can help…that’s it! She’ll go to Kapitan Fred right now and ask for his advice.

    She left the kitchen to fetch her umbrella and sweater from their small room, and just as she was about to leave, she heard Toning’s voice calling from outside the shanty.

    “Choleng, Choleng, open the door.”

    Relief run past through her whole being as she rushed to the door, but her son beat her up to it. Welcoming his father with a gap-toothed smile and almost simultaneously reaching out for the soaked cellophane containing what he already assumed was the pansit.

    She could have strangled her husband or what he made her went through, and she would have embraced him for proving her morbid thoughts wrong, but she held back. Not for her drenched clothes, nor out of embarrassment, not even out of pride, she was beyond those a long time ago. She held back because of his expression and his bloodshot eyes. She watched carefully as his smile as he greeted his son “happy birthday” didn’t reach those crimson eyes.

    She knew something was wrong, her husband, this stranger, had committed something awful, something he could have avoided but didn’t, and his guilt is now slowly eating him up like a malignant disease. She’ll ask him later, she thought.

    First, she’ll have to prepare the pansit for the children. She looked at her son talking animatedly to his father as Toning tried so hard to listen.  After the table was set, she called after the children to eat. The children scurried, laughing and squeaking with delight on their way to the table.

    She went to where her husband was sitting, in a rattan chair they purchased six months ago. Her husband was looking in her direction but she knew he wasn’t seeing her. She sat beside him, tracing his thick hair, the usually wild strands now subdued by the rain or maybe by his transgression. She gazed at those strong features, the chiseled chin and thick nose, the thin lips, the unusually humble and kind eyes, so out of place from his sturdy looks.

    “Toning, what’s wrong?”

    “I had to do it Choleng.”

    It was a statement of a guilty man trying to reassure himself what he did was necessary.

    “Why, what did you do?”

    “Look at Boboy, he’s so happy. I finally kept my promise. I bought him pansit for his birthday,” Toning said.

    She knew what that meant. He had always promised to bring their son pansit for the past two birthdays but something always came up. She had witnessed her son’s disappointment and her husband’s frustration. Another spoilt birthday. But not tonight, he made good his promise. But why isn’t he happy? Why doesn’t he feel triumphant?

    “What did you do Toning?”

    Her husband looked at her with a painful expression. His eyes were pleading her to understand for something she didn’t know yet but is about to.

    “I stole money from Mrs, Cordova,”

    “You what!?!”

    It was all she could do from shouting. She was expecting him to say that he had a fight with the foreman and was fired from the job. Or he gave the rest of the “advance” from his salary to some sick mother. But this! Her husband, a thief! Then she was suddenly afraid for him, for their son, for their future.

    “You have to give the money back, Toning,”

    “I can’t,”

    “What do you mean you can’t? How much did you…”

    She almost said “stole.”

    “…borrow?”

    “I don’t know, about eight hundred I think.”

    “Did you spend it all?”

    “No. I just spent some of it for the pansit.”

    “Then give the rest back, and tell Mrs. Cordova that you’re going to pay what you have spent. She’ll forgive you.”

    “I can’t. The maid saw me taking the money, when I was about to run and she blocked my path, I panicked and hit her.”

    “God, Toning! Sometimes you can be so stupid.”

    “I’m sorry Choleng. I saw the money and thought of Boboy. How much pansit I could bring home to him…how I can keep my promise… shit! I didn’t mean to hit her.”

    He was crying now. Choleng had to shift her position so that her body blocked Toning’s face, hiding it from the children’s view. The tears mingled with his salty sweat to try to purge his guilty expression. She recognized the pleading from the drowning man, the cry for help. She was also incensed by the helplessness she felt. Like the only way to save a drowning man is to swim after him and you suddenly realize that you don’t know how to swim yourself.

    “I know you’re sorry Toning but what do we do now?”

    “I don’t’ know Choleng. I don’t know,” Toning said as he buried his face in his hands.

    To see this man, this strong man, god of their heavens reduced to mortality, was a pain she could hardly bear. What could she do? She doesn’t know anything about these things. There’s nothing she could do. Nothing…no, wait. She’ll ask for Kapitan Fred’s help. He would know what to do. Yes, she’ll go there right now. She smiled, feeling better already.

    The rain, which just moments ago taunted her, seemed to regret its actions for now the rupture humbled itself to a mere sprinkle.

    “Give me the money, Toning. I’ll go to Kapitan Fred and tell him the truth so that he can help us.”

    Her husband looked at her with searching eyes before he understood what she was trying to do. Indeed, Kapitan Fred would help them. He was their kumpare, after all. Godfather to Boboy. He was groping for the money in his pockets when they heard Kapitan Fred’s voice calling from outside. Good! She thought. She doesn’t have to go to his house. Kapitan Fred is here. She was so relieved she didn’t stop to wonder what Kapitan Fred would want at this time of the night. If she had, maybe the shock of what she was about to see would have been abated.

    When she opened the door, she saw Kapitan Fred with the barangay tanods but that wasn’t so unusual. He usually tagged them along wherever he went. What caught her eye was the two policemen. She had to muster all her resolve not to shout to Toning to run.

    “Choleng, good evening. Sorry to disturb you but these two policemen would like to have a talk with your husband. Where is he?”

    She suppressed a shudder and she knew it is not because of the cold air.

    “He’s in the room changing clothes.”

    “Can you call him, this is sort of important.”

    The barangay captain looked uneasy; perhaps ashamed that he knows them or be a godfather to their son. At that moment, Toning emerged from the doorway, saw the policemen and quickly understood.

    “Are you Antonio Ramos?” one of the policemen, presumably the higher ranking officer of the two, asked.

    “Yes.”

    “We’d like you to come to the station with us. There’s a complaint against you.”

    “Okay. Just let me change my shirt.”

    Toning went back to the house and Choleng made use of the opportunity to talk to Kapitan Fred to help her husband.

    “Pareng Fred, please look after Toning. You know him, you know he didn’t mean to do it.”

    “I’ll try Choleng, but there’s nothing much I can do.”

    “Just go to the station with him and help him in whatever way you can.”

    “Okay Choleng. I’ll try to do anything I can to help but I’m not promising anything,”

    “Thanks. That’s all I ask.”

    Toning loomed in the door with the three curious children in tow. Their eyes were wide as they saw the policemen and almost all the inhabitants of Barrio Maasim in front of the house. Toning came down from the stairs with all the dignity he could muster. Choleng stared stupidly at the fading shirt her husband was wearing and thought rather absurdly: “Why did he have to wear that shirt, I haven’t mended the hole in its right underarm yet.”

    As her husband brushed past her and their eyes met, she couldn’t think of anything to say to assure him that they’ll be alright without him. She couldn’t even lie although she knows he will settle for it. She knows this is the part where she should cry, plead, cuss, swear and shout, just like they do in the movies, but she couldn’t do it. Maybe the shock dulled her senses. She just watched him being escorted through the sea of people who parted and made way for them just like in the Old Testament. Moses parting the red sea.

    The moon now appeared from behind the somber clouds to set its eyes upon its celestial domain. Casting a dull and surreal gleam to the grieving district.  

    Choleng wiped away a morsel of pansit from Boboy’s mouth as she pushed the children back into the shanty and away from the nosy neighbors who now are eagerly weaving their own versions of the story. Each story felt more accurate than the other.

 

 

 

The blue mountain

December 5, 2007

 

Mt. Fakal Range is a timber-rich forest in North Upi, Maguindanao. Nestled some 1,000 feet above sea level, it is one of the few spots in Mindanao that still boasts of a dense forest cover. The Tedurays and tribes who claim the land have another name for it, Kansad Gadung – the blue mountain.

That’s how I opened the story I wrote for the Philippine Business for Social Progress (PBSP) and if it sounded ominous, I meant it that way.

The hike to Kansad Gadung was difficult. The habal-habal only takes you to the first barangay and oddly enough, we were greeted by the barangay chair who was sitting, zen-like, in a small thatched hut without walls along the road.

That was to be our last conversation with another human being for another six hours.

The next hours were pure hell. We trudged the path that rolled drunkenly along seven hills as the sun tried to pound us into submission. With each step, I could nearly feel the sun’s rays getting heavier.

My Teduray guide, Romeo Saliga, told me that it’s not uncommon for the Tedurays to go home nearly blind in the dark, preferring the shadowed roads to the merciless sun. I could only think: “Yeah, right! Now he tells me.”

This distance has also developed in the Tedurays a twisted sense of humor. A curious klakafan or traveler asking how far Kansad Gadung is would get the curt reply: “Walking distance lang.”

“But it’s really walking distance because you have to walk all the way. How can you refute that?” Saliga laughed.

He could afford to mock. Saliga, after all, was no ordinary guide. He is the project coordinator of the Lumad Center for Development, Inc. (LCDI), which works to preserve the habitat, culture, and identity of the Tedurays at the risk of being corrupted by the customs and traditions of the lowlanders.

A growing number of Teduray children migrate to the city to work as trisikad driver, laborers, househelp, construction workers, and waitresses

Because of assimilation and the lure of the life in the city, Saliga said, more and more Teduray children are becoming ashamed of who they are. In extreme cases, some Tedurays who met success in the city even disown their tribe. . Of course, this is a problem that besets not only the Tedurays but other indigenous peoples as well.

The tribe used to dominate the 21 ethno-linguistic groups in Central Mindanao, but due to the devolvement of the Maguindanao Province to the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM), the number has since dwindled to a little more than 67,000, the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) said in its website.

Although the Teduray belong to one tribal group, they differ in dialect intonation, rituals, dress and color identities, depending on where they are located.

After passing seven hills, two ghost communities, a big-ass river, endless fields of cogon grasses and a stream with the most delicious water I’ve ever tasted in my life, we finally reached Kansad Gadung.

What greeted us was a structure right at the foothill of the peak, as the first descending slope touches the plain. The two-storey wooden building was constructed in way that resembled a woman with arms akimbo, which I learned was a traditional Teduray design.

I could almost picture out the woman from the building, with her eyes looking at the verdant expanse and her back against the peak of Kansad Gadung.

The building took nearly a year to finish by 100 Teduray men and women through bayanihan spirit. The upper level has been fixed to accommodate visitors, like us, who might have to spend the night while the ground level was converted into a school.

Two-meter long benches, equidistant to one another, were lined up in the middle of the school, with the solid earth for its floor. A dangerously-tilting makeshift stage supports the blackboard.

In the corner, traditional Teduray weapons and tools like the sundang (bolo), klung (shield), laya (woven basket), kubing and agong, both musical instruments, were displayed.

Here, high school graduate Ronald Benito has been teaching children ages 6-10 years old the rudiments of reading, writing, and counting. Only 29 years old, Benito was trained by the LCDI to ably teach the indigenous-based curriculum.

The goal, he said, is to instill their identity in the children’s minds so they wouldn’t get swallowed up when they enter the mainstream multi-grade system.

“They are afraid because they could not cope up in the multi-grade system,” he said.

Each class begins with the sagfad, a prayer for peace, followed by a Teduray song, inged gey freneken. Even the song “Bayan Ko” was translated into Teduray.

Teduray folklores, fables and myths, make a major part of the class; the story of Matalgo, for example, and bitun, the origins of the Teduray. An hour is also allotted each day to learn practical survival and hunting according to the ways of the Teduray in the jungles of Kansad Gadung.

“The concept is learning by doing, and making it more fun,” Benito said. “We talk about how to care for the environment.”

I wrote:

It’s still 4:00 a.m. The roosters in their backyard have not yet crowed. But 9-year old John Paul Mokudaf’s house is already a bustle of activity. His mother is hunkered down at the kitchen, her face near the palayok, blowing life into the fading flames. Only the young ones remained sleeping.

In about an hour, John Paul and her sister Judy Ann, who’s in kiddie 1, would start the three-hour walk to the school. It’s not a leisurely stroll along the boulevard, either. The morning fog renders it almost impossible to see beyond two feet while the roads are slippery and the grasses are moist from the dew. One wrong step and they could end up with a bum ankle or worse, roll down the steep incline.

The sharp blades of the nearly six-foot high cogon grasses continuously bite into their faces and arms. John Paul and Judy Ann occasionally look down, shielding their eyes from the danger.

At 10 minutes before class time, almost without fail, John Paul and Judy Ann are already in their benches, picking off the sludge that caked on their feet and slippers.

“Every time, when I come to class they are already there waiting for me even though I only sleep upstairs,” Benito said.

When asked why he didn’t stop schooling despite the difficulties, John Paul replied: “So I could learn what I must do and think for myself.”

His perseverance paid off as John Paul was adjudged as the class valedictorian during the graduation rites.

That’s not the end of his troubles, though. Graduating from grade school meant he will now walk for nearly five hours at Sitio Lahangkab, where the elementary school is located.

“I can do it,” John Paul said, his face set and his eyes steady.

But the school building has far more significance than just giving the Teduray children an education. The forest of Kansad Gadung has become the venue in a silent but deadly war between the Tedurays and the illegal loggers.

The Tedurays treat the forest almost as the last frontier and they were not about to give an inch against the loggers.

“We set up traps in the forest for the loggers who enter without permission,” he said, pausing before adding, “They also kill us when we prevent them from cutting the trees.”

While the men shed blood for the blue mountain as its present protectors, the children would ensure its future. Saliga said they need to learn to read and write so one day they, too, would continue the fight to keep Kansad Gadung through the ancestral domain claim.

The school and the justice hall, built a few meters from each other, serve as the fortress of the Tedurays. Even though tradition compels the Tedurays to live far from each other, both buildings are always filled with people.

The cicadas started to sing as the dusk and fog enfolded both buildings. The emerald peak loomed at the distance, slowly disappearing beneath the gloomy miasma.

As we lay down on the hard wooden floors, I heard Saliga crept into the room cradling the banig (weaved mat) on his left arm. He stood near the windows and I could hardly make out his shape in the dark.

 “That’s Kansad Gadung,” Saliga whispered, pointing to the unlit forest from behind the wooden jalousies of the school building. “We’re prepared to die to protect our home.”