literary terms

LITERARY DEFINITIONS

PROSE

The form of written language that is not organized according to the formal patterns of verse; although it will have some sort of rhythm and some devices of repetition and balance, these are not governed by a regularly sustained formal arrangement, the significant unit being the sentence rather than the line

POETRY

Language sung, chanted, spoken, or written according to some pattern of recurrence that emphasizes the relationships between words on the basis of sound as well as sense: this pattern is almost always a rhythm or metre, which may be supplemented by rhyme or alliteration or both. The demands of verbal patterning usually make poetry a more condensed medium than prose or everyday speech, often involving variations in syntax, the use of special words and phrases ( poetic diction) peculiar to poets, and a more frequent and more elaborate use of figures of speech, principally metaphor and simile.

EPIC

A long narrative poem celebrating the great deeds of one or more legendary heroes, in a grand ceremonious style. The hero, usually protected by or even descended from gods, performs superhuman exploits in battle or in marvellous voyages, often saving or founding a nation.

– Virgil's Aeneid (30–20 BC), Milton's Paradise Lost (1667), epics of Homer, whose Iliad and Odyssey (c. 8th century BCE) are derived from an oral tradition of recitation. The Anglo‐Saxon poem Beowulf (8th century BCE) is a primary epic, as is the oldest surviving epic poem, the Babylonian Gilgamesh (c.3000 BCE). In the Renaissance, epic poetry (also known as ‘heroic poetry’) was regarded as the highest form of literature. Other important national epics are the Indian Mahābhārata (3rd or 4th century BCE) and the German Nibelungenlied (c.1200

MYTH

A kind of story or rudimentary narrative sequence, normally traditional and anonymous, through which a given culture ratifies its social customs or accounts for the origins of human and natural phenomena, usually in supernatural or boldly imaginative terms. The term has a wide range of meanings, which can be divided roughly into ‘rationalist’ and ‘romantic’ versions: in the first, a myth is a false or unreliable story or belief

LEGEND

A story or group of stories handed down through popular oral tradition, usually consisting of an exaggerated or unreliable account of some actually or possibly historical person—often a saint, monarch, or popular hero. Legends are sometimes distinguished from myths in that they concern human beings rather than gods, and sometimes in that they have some sort of historical basis whereas myths do not; but these distinctions are difficult to maintain consistently.

FABLES

A brief tale in verse or prose that conveys a moral lesson, usually by giving human speech and manners to animals and inanimate things (see beast fable). Fables often conclude with a moral, delivered in the form of an epigram. A very old form of story related to folklore and proverbs, the fable in Europe descends from tales attributed to Aesop, a Greek slave in the 6th century BCE: his fable of the fox and the grapes has given us the phrase ‘sour grapes’

FOLKTALES

A story passed on by word of mouth rather than by writing, and thus partly modified by successive re‐tellings before being written down or recorded. The category includes legends, fables, jokes, tall stories, and fairy tales or Märchen. Many folktales involve mythical creatures and magical transformations. It is also a general term for any of numerous varieties of traditional narrative. The telling of stories appears to be a cultural universal, common to primitive and complex societies alike.

PROVERBS

A short popular saying of unknown authorship, expressing some general truth or superstition: ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth.’ Proverbs are found in most cultures, and are often very ancient. The Hebrew scriptures include a book of Proverbs. Many poets—notably Chaucer—incorporate proverbs into their works, and others imitate their condensed form of expression: William Blake's ‘Proverbs of Hell’ in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1793) are, strictly speaking, aphorisms, since they originate from a known author.

EPIGRAM

A short poem with a witty turn of thought; or a wittily condensed expression in prose. Originally a form of monumental inscription in ancient Greece, the epigram was developed into a literary form by the poets of the Hellenistic age and by the Roman poet Martial, whose Epigrams (86–102 CE) were often obscenely insulting.

SONNETS

Poem of 14 lines, usually in iambic pentameter, restricted to a definite rhyme scheme. There are two prominent types: the Italian, or Patriarchal sonnet, composed of an octave and a sestet (rhyming abbaabba cdecde), and the Elizabethan, or Shakespearean, sonnet, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet (rhyming abab cdcd efef gg).

ODE

An elaborately formal lyric poem, often in the form of a lengthy ceremonious address to a person or abstract entity, always serious and elevated in tone. There are two different classical models: Pindar's Greek choral odes devoted to public praise of athletes (5th century BCE), and Horace's more privately reflective odes in Latin (c. 23–13 BCE).

RIDDLES

A puzzlingly indirect description of some thing, person, or idea, framed in such a way as to challenge the reader to identify it. Riddles, usually in verse, are found as a popular literary form in most cultures and periods.

PSALMS

Sacred song or hymn. The term usually refers to the Hebrew verses in the biblical book of Psalms, traditionally (but unreliably) attributed to King David. These psalms, notably in the English translation attributed to Miles Coverdale and found in the Book of Common Prayer, have had an important place in Christian worship, in English religious poetry, and in the development of free verse. The art of singing psalms is called psalmody, while a collection of psalms is known as a psalter.

LITERARY FORMS IN PHILIPPINE LITERATURE

The Literary Forms in Philippine Literature

The diversity and richness of Philippine literature evolved side by side with the country's history. This can best be appreciated in the context of the country's pre-colonial cultural traditions and the socio-political histories of its colonial and contemporary traditions.

The average Filipino's unfamiliarity with his indigenous literature was largely due to what has been impressed upon him: that his country was "discovered" and, hence, Philippine "history" started only in 1521.

So successful were the efforts of colonialists to blot out the memory of the country's largely oral past that present-day Filipino writers, artists and journalists are trying to correct this inequity by recognizing the country's wealth of ethnic traditions and disseminating them in schools and in the mass media.

The rousing of nationalistic pride in the 1960s and 1970s also helped bring about this change of attitude among a new breed of Filipinos concerned about the "Filipino identity."

Pre-colonial inhabitants of our islands showcase a rich past through their folk speeches, folk songs, folk narratives and indigenous rituals and mimetic dances that affirm our ties with our Southeast Asian neighbors.

The most seminal of these folk speeches is the riddle which is tigmo in Cebuano, bugtong in Tagalog, paktakon in Ilongo and patototdon in Bicol. Central to the riddle is the talinghaga or metaphor because it "reveals subtle resemblances between two unlike objects" and one's power of observation and wit are put to the test.

The proverbs or aphorisms express norms or codes of behavior, community beliefs or they instill values by offering nuggets of wisdom in short, rhyming verse.

The extended form, tanaga, a mono-riming heptasyllabic quatrain expressing insights and lessons on life is "more emotionally charged than the terse proverb and thus has affinities with the folk lyric." Some examples are the basahanon or extended didactic sayings from Bukidnon and the daraida and daragilon from Panay.

The folk song, a form of folk lyric which expresses the hopes and aspirations, the people's lifestyles as well as their loves. These are often repetitive and sonorous, didactic and naive as in the children's songs or Ida-ida (Maguindanao), tulang pambata (Tagalog) or cansiones para abbing (Ibanag).

Other folk songs are the drinking songs sung during carousals like the tagay (Cebuano and Waray); dirges and lamentations extolling the deeds of the dead like the kanogon (Cebuano) or the Annako (Bontoc).

A type of narrative song or kissa among the Tausug of Mindanao, the parang sabil, uses for its subject matter the exploits of historical and legendary heroes. It tells of a Muslim hero who seeks death at the hands of non-Muslims.

The folk narratives, i.e. epics and folk tales are varied, exotic and magical. They explain how the world was created, how certain animals possess certain characteristics, why some places have waterfalls, volcanoes, mountains, flora or fauna and, in the case of legends, an explanation of the origins of things. Fables are about animals and these teach moral lessons.

Our country's epics are considered ethno-epics because unlike, say, Germany's Niebelunginlied, our epics are not national for they are "histories" of varied groups that consider themselves "nations."

The epics come in various names: Guman (Subanon); Darangen (Maranao); Hudhud (Ifugao); and Ulahingan (Manobo). These epics revolve around supernatural events or heroic deeds and they embody or validate the beliefs and customs and ideals of a community. These are sung or chanted to the accompaniment of indigenous musical instruments and dancing performed during harvests, weddings or funerals by chanters. The chanters who were taught by their ancestors are considered "treasures" and/or repositories of wisdom in their communities.

Examples of these epics are the Lam-ang (Ilocano); Hinilawod (Sulod); Kudaman (Palawan); Darangen (Maranao); Ulahingan (Livunganen-Arumanen Manobo); Mangovayt Buhong na Langit (The Maiden of the Buhong Sky from Tuwaang--Manobo); Ag Tobig neg Keboklagan (Subanon); and Tudbulol (T'boli).

The Spanish Colonial Tradition

While it is true that Spain subjugated the Philippines for more mundane reasons, this former European power contributed much in the shaping and recording of our literature. Religion and institutions that represented European civilization enriched the languages in the lowlands, introduced theater which we would come to know as komedya, the sinakulo, the sarswela, the playlets and the drama. Spain also brought to the country, though at a much later time, liberal ideas and an internationalism that influenced our own Filipino intellectuals and writers for them to understand the meanings of "liberty and freedom."

Literature in this period may be classified as religious prose and poetry and secular prose and poetry.

Religious lyrics written by ladino poets or those versed in both Spanish and Tagalog were included in early catechism and were used to teach Filipinos the Spanish language. Fernando Bagonbanta's "Salamat nang walang hanga/gracias de sin sempiternas" (Unending thanks) is a fine example that is found in the Memorial de la vida cristiana en lengua tagala (Guidelines for the Christian life in the Tagalog language) published in 1605.

Another form of religious lyrics are the meditative verses like the dalit appended to novenas and catechisms. It has no fixed meter nor rime scheme although a number are written in octosyllabic quatrains and have a solemn tone and spiritual subject matter.

But among the religious poetry of the day, it is the pasyon in octosyllabic quintillas that became entrenched in the Filipino's commemoration of Christ's agony and resurrection at Calvary. Gaspar Aquino de Belen's "Ang Mahal na Passion ni Jesu Christong Panginoon natin na tola" (Holy Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ in Verse) put out in 1704 is the country's earliest known pasyon.

Other known pasyons chanted during the Lenten season are in Ilocano, Pangasinan, Ibanag, Cebuano, Bicol, Ilongo and Waray.

Aside from religious poetry, there were various kinds of prose narratives written to prescribe proper decorum. Like the pasyon, these prose narratives were also used for proselitization. Some forms are: dialogo (dialogue), Manual de Urbanidad (conduct book); ejemplo (exemplum) and tratado (tratado). The most well-known are Modesto de Castro's "Pagsusulatan ng Dalawang Binibini na si Urbana at si Feliza" (Correspondence between the Two Maidens Urbana and Feliza) in 1864 and Joaquin Tuason's "Ang Bagong Robinson" (The New Robinson) in 1879, an adaptation of Daniel Defoe's novel.

Secular works appeared alongside historical and economic changes, the emergence of an opulent class and the middle class who could avail of a European education. This Filipino elite could now read printed works that used to be the exclusive domain of the missionaries.

The most notable of the secular lyrics followed the conventions of a romantic tradition: the languishing but loyal lover, the elusive, often heartless beloved, the rival. The leading poets were Jose Corazon de Jesus (Huseng Sisiw) and Francisco Balagtas. Some secular poets who wrote in this same tradition were Leona Florentino, Jacinto Kawili, Isabelo de los Reyes and Rafael Gandioco.

Another popular secular poetry is the metrical romance, the awit and korido in Tagalog. The awit is set in dodecasyllabic quatrains while the korido is in octosyllabic quatrains. These are colorful tales of chivalry from European sources made for singing and chanting such as Gonzalo de Cordoba (Gonzalo of Cordoba) and Ibong Adarna (Adarna Bird). There are numerous metrical romances in Tagalog, Bicol, Ilongo, Pampango, Ilocano and in Pangasinan. The awit as a popular poetic genre reached new heights in Balagtas' "Florante at Laura" (ca. 1838-1861), the most famous of the country's metrical romances.

Again, the winds of change began to blow in 19th century Philippines. Filipino intellectuals educated in Europe called ilustrados began to write about the downside of colonization. This, coupled with the simmering calls for reforms by the masses gathered a formidable force of writers like Jose Rizal, Marcelo H. del Pilar, Mariano Ponce, Emilio Jacinto and Andres Bonifacio.

This led to the formation of the Propaganda Movement where prose works such as the political essays and Rizal's two political novels, Noli Me Tangere and the El filibusterismo helped usher in the Philippine revolution resulting in the downfall of the Spanish regime, and, at the same time planted the seeds of a national consciousness among Filipinos.

But if Rizal's novels are political, the novel Ninay (1885) by Pedro Paterno is largely cultural and is considered the first Filipino novel. Although Paterno's Ninay gave impetus to other novelists like Jesus Balmori and Antonio M. Abad to continue writing in Spanish, this did not flourish.

Other Filipino writers published the essay and short fiction in Spanish in La Vanguardia, El Debate, Renacimiento Filipino, and Nueva Era. The more notable essayists and fictionists were Claro M. Recto, Teodoro M. Kalaw, Epifanio de los Reyes, Vicente Sotto, Trinidad Pardo de Tavera, Rafael Palma, Enrique Laygo (Caretas or Masks, 1925) and Balmori who mastered the prosa romantica or romantic prose.

But the introduction of English as medium of instruction in the Philippines hastened the demise of Spanish so that by the 1930s, English writing had overtaken Spanish writing. During the language's death throes, however, writing in the romantic tradition, from the awit and korido, would continue in the novels of Magdalena Jalandoni. But patriotic writing continued under the new colonialists. These appeared in the vernacular poems and modern adaptations of works during the Spanish period and which further maintained the Spanish tradition.

The American Colonial Period

A new set of colonizers brought about new changes in Philippine literature. New literary forms such as free verse [in poetry], the modern short story and the critical essay were introduced. American influence was deeply entrenched with the firm establishment of English as the medium of instruction in all schools and with literary modernism that highlighted the writer's individuality and cultivated consciousness of craft, sometimes at the expense of social consciousness.

The poet, and later, National Artist for Literature, Jose Garcia Villa used free verse and espoused the dictum, "Art for art's sake" to the chagrin of other writers more concerned with the utilitarian aspect of literature. Another maverick in poetry who used free verse and talked about illicit love in her poetry was Angela Manalang Gloria, a woman poet described as ahead of her time. Despite the threat of censorship by the new dispensation, more writers turned up "seditious works" and popular writing in the native languages bloomed through the weekly outlets like Liwayway and Bisaya.

The Balagtas tradition persisted until the poet Alejandro G. Abadilla advocated modernism in poetry. Abadilla later influenced young poets who wrote modern verses in the 1960s such as Virgilio S. Almario, Pedro I. Ricarte and Rolando S. Tinio.

While the early Filipino poets grappled with the verities of the new language, Filipinos seemed to have taken easily to the modern short story as published in the Philippines Free Press, the College Folio and Philippines Herald. Paz Marquez Benitez's "Dead Stars" published in 1925 was the first successful short story in English written by a Filipino. Later on, Arturo B. Rotor and Manuel E. Arguilla showed exceptional skills with the short story.

Alongside this development, writers in the vernaculars continued to write in the provinces. Others like Lope K. Santos, Valeriano Hernandez Peña and Patricio Mariano were writing minimal narratives similar to the early Tagalog short fiction called dali or pasingaw (sketch).

The romantic tradition was fused with American pop culture or European influences in the adaptations of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan by F. P. Boquecosa who also penned Ang Palad ni Pepe after Charles Dicken's David Copperfield even as the realist tradition was kept alive in the novels by Lope K. Santos and Faustino Aguilar, among others.

It should be noted that if there was a dearth of the Filipino novel in English, the novel in the vernaculars continued to be written and serialized in weekly magazines like Liwayway, Bisaya, Hiligaynon and Bannawag.

The essay in English became a potent medium from the 1920's to the present. Some leading essayists were journalists like Carlos P. Romulo, Jorge Bocobo, Pura Santillan Castrence, etc. who wrote formal to humorous to informal essays for the delectation by Filipinos.

Among those who wrote criticism developed during the American period were Ignacio Manlapaz, Leopoldo Yabes and I.V. Mallari. But it was Salvador P. Lopez's criticism that grabbed attention when he won the Commonwealth Literay Award for the essay in 1940 with his "Literature and Society." This essay posited that art must have substance and that Villa's adherence to "Art for Art's Sake" is decadent.

The last throes of American colonialism saw the flourishing of Philippine literature in English at the same time, with the introduction of the New Critical aesthetics, made writers pay close attention to craft and "indirectly engendered a disparaging attitude" towards vernacular writings -- a tension that would recur in the contemporary period.

The Contemporary Period

The flowering of Philippine literature in the various languages continue especially with the appearance of new publications after the Martial Law years and the resurgence of committed literature in the 1960s and the 1970s.

Filipino writers continue to write poetry, short stories, novellas, novels and essays whether these are socially committed, gender/ethnic related or are personal in intention or not.

Of course the Filipino writer has become more conscious of his art with the proliferation of writers workshops here and abroad and the bulk of literature available to him via the mass media including the internet. The various literary awards such as the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, the Philippines Free Press, Philippine Graphic, Home Life and Panorama literary awards encourage him to compete with his peers and hope that his creative efforts will be rewarded in the long run.

With the new requirement by the Commission on Higher Education of teaching of Philippine Literature in all tertiary schools in the country emphasizing the teaching of the vernacular literature or literatures of the regions, the audience for Filipino writers is virtually assured. And, perhaps, a national literature finding its niche among the literatures of the world will not be far behind.

The variety and abundance of Philippine literature evolved even before the colonial periods. Folk tales, epics, poems and marathon chants existed in most ethnolinguistic groups that were passed on from generations to generations through word of mouth. Tales associated with the Spanish conquest also took part in the country’s rich cultural heritage. Some of these pre-colonial literary pieces showcased in traditional narratives, speeches and songs are Tigmo in Cebuano, bugtong in Tagalog, patototdon is Bicol and paktakon in Ilongo. Philippine epics and folk tales are varied and filled with magical characters. They are either narratives of mostly mythical objects, persons or certain places, or epics telling supernatural events and bravery of heroes, customs and ideologies of a community.

Below are examples of ethno-epics popularized by different ethnic groups in the country:

Biag ni Lam-ang (Life of Lam-ang) of the Ilocanos narrates the adventures of the prodigious epic hero, Lam-ang who exhibits extraordinary powers at an early age. At nine months he is able to go to war to look for his father’s killers. Then while in search of lady love, Ines Kannoyan, he is swallowed by a big fish, but his rooster and his friends bring him back to life.

The Agyu or Olahing of the Manobos is a three part epic that starts with the pahmara (invocation) then the kepu’unpuun ( a narration of the past) and the sengedurog (an episode complete in itself). All three parts narrate the exploits of the hero as he leads his people who have been driven out of their land to Nalandangan, a land of utopia where there are no landgrabbers and oppressors.

Sandayo, of the Subanon tells of the story of the hero with the same name, who is born through extraordinary circumstances as he fell out of the hair of his mother while she was combing it on the ninth stroke. Thence he leads his people in the fight against invaders of their land and waterways.

Aliguyon or the Hudhud of the Ifugaos tells of the adventures of Aliguyon as he battles his arch enemy, Pambukhayon among rice fields and terraces and instructs his people to be steadfast and learn the wisdom of warfare and of peacemaking during harvest seasons.

Labaw Donggon is about the passionate exploits of the son of a goddess Alunsina, by a mortal, Datu Paubari. The polygamous hero battles the huge monster Manaluntad for the hand of Abyang Ginbitinan; then he fights Sikay Padalogdog, the giant with a hundred arms to win Abyang Doronoon and confronts the lord of darkness, Saragnayan, to win Nagmalitong Yawa Sinagmaling Diwata. Reference-NCCA

Other epics known to most Filipinos are the Ibalon of Bikol, Darangan which is a Muslim epic, the Kudaman of Palawan, the Alim of the Ifugao, Bantugan of the Maranao, the Hinilawod of Panay, the and the Tuwaang of Manobos. The Tagalogs pride their Myth of Bernardo Carpio, a folk hero said to hold the mountains of San Mateo apart with his powerful arms to prevent them from colliding.

There are shorter narratives that tell the origins of the people, the stars, the sky and the seas. A famous story that tells of the origin of man and woman is that of Sicalac (man) and Sicavay (woman) who came out of a bamboo after being pecked by a bird. This, and other stories of equal birthing of man and woman throughout the archipelago assert a woman’s equal position with a man within the tribal systems. Reference-NCCA

During the Spanish colonial period, the country have encountered transformations in their daily customs. It affected not only the country’s whole system but as well tainted the purity of their folklore traditions. And because of the western’s strong influence and forceful implication of their civilization, the locals’ forms of expression on national issues and self-consciousness were replaced through political essays, novels, poems and religious prose- a form of learning, however, that led to ultimate awakening of Filipinos regarding the unreasonable colonial rule in the country. Famous examples of these Spanish-adapted writings are the novels of Jose Rizal, El Filibusterismo and Noli Me Tangere.

Nowadays, Filipino writers have continued to patronize the intellectual influence started by Rizal but to further aim at reviving the richness of the country’s very own folk traditions and introducing it to new generations as a significant form of art.

THE LUMADS OF MINDANAO

The Lumad are a group of indigenous peoples of the Southern Mindanao, Philippines.
Lumad is a Cebuano term meaning ‘native’ or ‘indigenous’. For more than two decades it has been used to refer to the groups indigenous to Mindanao who are neither Muslim nor Christian. The term is short for katawhang Lumad (literally “indigenous peoples”), the autonym officially adopted by the delegates of the Lumad Mindanaw Peoples Federation (LMPF) founding assembly in June 26, 1986 at the Guadalupe Formation Center, Balindog, Kidapawan, Cotabato, Philippines. It is the self-ascription and collective identity of the un-Islamized indigenous peoples of Mindanao.

The name Lumad grew out of the political awakening among various tribes during the martial law regime of President Ferdinand Marcos. It was advocated and propagated by the members and affiliates of Lumad-Mindanao, a coalition of all-Lumad local and regional organizations which formalized themselves as such in June 1986 but started in 1983 as a multi-sectoral organization. Lumad-Mindanao’s main objective was to achieve self-determination for their member-tribes, or, put more concretely, self-governance within their ancestral domain in accordance with their culture and customary laws. No other Lumad organization had had the express goal in the past.
Representative from fifteen tribes agreed in June 1986 to adopt the name; there were no delegates from the Three major groups of the T'boli, the Teduray and the Subanen.

The choice of a Cebuano word was a bit ironic but they deemed it to be most appropriate considering that the various Lumad tribes do not have any other common language except Cebuano. This is the first time that these tribes have agreed to a common name for themselves, distinct from that of the Moros and different from the migrant majority and their descendants.

There are 18 Lumad ethnolinguistic groups: Ata, Bagobo, Banwaon, B’laan, Bukidnon, Dibabawon, Higaonon, Mamanwa, Mandaya, Manguwangan, Manobo, Mansaka, Subanon, Tagakaolo, Tasaday, Tboli, Teduray, and Ubo.

According to the Lumad Development Center Inc., there are about eighteen Lumad groups in 19 provinces across the country. They comprise 12 to 13 million or 18% of the Philippine population and can be divided into 110 ethno-linguistic groups. Considered as "vulnerable groups", they live in hinterlands, forests, lowlands and coastal areas.[1]

Katawhan Lumad are the un-Islamized indigenous peoples of Mindanaw, namely: Erumanen ne Menuvu`, Matidsalug Manobo, Agusanon Manobo, Dulangan Manobo, Dabaw Manobo,Ata Manobo, B'laan, Kaulo, Banwaon, Teduray, Lambangian, Subanen, Higaunon, Dibabawon, Mangguwangan, Mansaka, Mandaya, K'lagan, T'boli, Mamanuwa, Talaandig, Tagabawa, and Ubu`, Tinenanen, Kuwemanen, K'lata and Diyangan.]

There are about twenty general hilltribes of Mindanao, all of which are of Austronesian descent.
The term Lumad excludes the Butuanons and Surigaonons, even the said 2 ethnic groups are native to Mindanao and the word tells it so because those two are Visayans and Lumad are not ethnically related to them.

Bilaan
The Bilaan or B'laan is an indigenous group that is concentrated in Davao del Sur and South Cotabato. They still practice indigenous rituals despite adaptation to the way of life of modern Filipinos.[2]

Manobo
The Manubu tribe is different from the bagobo, because they live in the upland areas northwest, north, and northeast of Mt. Apo in interior Mindanao.
The Arumanen-Manuvu had its origin from a village settled place called Banubu near the mouth of Pulangi River.

A god named Apo Tabunawai rules the village. He is acclaimed as the “Timuay” or the convenor of the village elders. According to legends, Timuay Apo Tabunawai was a skillful forest food gatherer such of wild ubi, sago palm, various roots crops nuts and fruits.

Issues are tackled by the Council of Elders are the review and reconstitution of community policies for the coming seasons. To bring omens of good tidings, abundance and societal well-being, marriages of young people are arranged and undertaken on the post-festival evenings.

By foot and with the use of basket types of traps, the hunters bring home large fowls, fish, lizards, pythons and lesser wild games.

The villagers acknowledge that the abundance brought home from a hunt comes from the favor of Elemental Beings whose compassion is anchored upon Apo Tabunawai.

Subanen

The Subanuns are the first settlers of the Zamboanga peninsula. Because they live near the river ("suba"), they are called river dwellers or Suba-nuns. The family is patriarchal while the village is led by a chief called Timuay. He acts as the village judge and is concerned with all communal matters.

Higaonon

The Higaonon is located on the provinces of Bukidnon, Agusan del Sur, Misamis Oriental,and Rogongon, Iligan City, Lanao del Norte. Their name means "people of the wilderness". Most Higaonons still have a rather traditional way of living. Farming is the most important economic activity.

Kalagan
Cultural groups Majority of the inhabitants of the region are of Visayan lineage. The ethnic residents include the Manobo, the Mamanwa and other tribes.

Kamayo
"Kamayo" literally means "You/ its Yours / Yours " when it use to conversation by the lumad / other kamayo speaking people. But "Kamayo" when refers to as a group of people / as a society in a certain place in mindanao means " A Way of Life" or Pamaaging panginabuhi-an in kamayo term.The kamayo way of life is peacefull, kind and loving people. Most of kamayo are located in the minicipality of ,Bislig, Hinatuan, Tagbina, San Agustin, Lingig and other part of Caraga region, Campostella Valley and Davao provinces.

Mamanwa
The Mamanwa is a Negrito tribe often grouped together with the Lumad. They believe in a collection of spirits, which are governed by the supreme deity “Magbabaya”. The tribe produce excellent winnowing baskets, rattan hammocks, and other household containers.

Mandaya
"Mandaya" derives from "man" meaning "first," and "daya" meaning "upstream" or "upper portion of a river," and therefore means "the first people upstream". It refers to a number of groups found along the mountain ranges of Davao Oriental, as well as to their customs, language, and beliefs. The Mandaya are also found in Compostela and New Bataan in Compostela Valley Province (formerly a part of Davao del Norte Province).

Mansaka
By: Gwendalene Ting The term "Mansaka" derives from "man" meaning "first" and "saka" meaning "to ascend," and means "the first people to ascend the mountains or go upstream." The term most likely describes the origin of these people who are found today in Davao del Norte, specifically in the Batoto River, the Manat Valley, the Marasugan Valley, the Hijo River Valley, and the seacoasts of Kingking, Maco, Kwambog, Hijo, Tagum, Libuganon, Tuganay, Ising, and Panabo (Fuentes and De La Cruz 1980:2).

Sangil
The Sangir or Sangil is located in the islands of Balut, Sarangani, and the coastal areas of South Cotabato and Davao del Sur. Their name comes from Sangihe, an archipelago located between Sulawesi and Mindanao. This was their original home but they migrated northwards.

Subanon
History has better words to speak for Misamis Occidental. Its principal city was originally populated by the Subanon, a cultural group that once roamed the seas in great number, the province was an easy prey to the marauding sea pirates of Lanao whose habit was to stage lightning forays along the coastal areas in search of slaves. As the Subanon retreated deeper and deeper into the interior, the coastal areas became home to inhabitants from Bukidnon who were steadily followed by settlers from nearby Cebu and Bohol. The name Subanon, "which is derived from the word suba, "river," means a river people.

Tasaday
One of the smallest tribes in the Philippines, there were only 61 individuals in a census conducted in 1987. They were originally called “Linat Batang."

Up to this day, they continue to hunt and gather food, dwell in caves, use stone tools and wear garments of “curcoligo” - a kind of fern plant - along side practices acquired through long contact and exchange with neighboring people. They are socially and geographically distant, though not completely isolated. Linguistic studies show Tasadays belong under the ethno linguistic category.
The Tasaday (IPA [təˈsɑdaɪ]) were purportedly a group (cf. tribe) of about two dozen people living within the deep and mountainous rainforests of the southern Philippine island of Mindanao

Tboli
The Tbolis are one of the indigenous peoples of South Mindanao. From the body of ethnographic and linguistic literature on Mindanao they are variously known as Tboli, T'boli, Tböli, Tiboli, Tibole, Tagabili, Tagabeli, and Tagabulu. They term themselves Tboli or T'boli. Their whereabouts and identity is to some extend confused in the literature; some publications present the Tboli and the Tagabili as distinct peoples; some locate the Tbolis to the vicinity of the Buluan Lake in the Cotabato Basin or in Agusan del Norte. The Tbolis, then, reside on the mountain slopes on either side of the upper Alah Valley and the coastal area of Maitum, Maasim and Kiamba. In former times, the Tbolis also inhabited the upper Alah Valley floor.

Bagobo

The Bagobo is a tribe that traces its origin from the people who brought Hinduism to Mindanao during the Sri Vijayan and Majapahit invasion. When the people inter-married with the locals, they formed a new society and came up with the name Bagobo.

The word “Bagobo” is derived from the root word “bago,” which means “new” or “recent” while the “obo” suffix means “grow” in the tribe’s dialect.

The Bagobos have a light brown complexion. Their hair is brown or brownish black, ranging from wavy to curly. The men have an average height of five feet and three inches, while the women’s height average is five feet.
Although their faces are wide, their cheekbones are not too prominent. Their eyes are dark and widely set, while the eye slits are slanting. The males and females deliberately shave their eyebrows to a thin line. The root of their nose is low, while the ridge is broad. Their lips are full and their chins are round.


Musical Heritage of the Mindanao Lumad groups
Most of the Mindanao Lumad groups have a musical heritage consisting of various types of Agung ensembles - ensembles composed of large hanging, suspended or held, bossed/knobbed gongs which act as drone without any accompanying melodic instrument.

Social Issues
At the beginning of the 20th century, the Lumads controlled an area which now covers 17 of Mindanao’s 24 provinces, but by the 1980 census they constituted less than 6% of the population of Mindanao and Sulu. Heavy migration to Mindanao of Visayans, spurred by government-sponsored resettlement programmes, turned the Lumads into minorities. The Bukidnon province population grew from 63,470 in 1948 to 194,368 in 1960 and 414,762 in 1970, with the proportion of indigenous Bukidnons falling from 64% to 33% to 14%.

Lumads have a traditional concept of land ownership based on what their communities consider their ancestral territories. The historian B. R. Rodil notes that ‘a territory occupied by a community is a communal private property, and community members have the right of usufruct to any piece of unoccupied land within the communal territory.’ Ancestral lands include cultivated land as well as hunting grounds, rivers, forests, uncultivated land and the mineral resources below the land.
Unlike the Moros, the Lumad groups never formed a revolutionary group to unite them in armed struggle against the Philippine government. When the migrants came, many Lumad groups retreated into the mountains and forests. However, the Moro armed groups and the Communist-led New People’s Army (NPA) have recruited Lumads to their ranks, and the armed forces have also recruited them into paramilitary organisations to fight the Moros or the NPA.

For the Lumad, securing their rights to ancestral domain is as urgent as the Moros’ quest for self-determination. However, much of their land has already been registered in the name of multinational corporations, logging companies and wealthy Filipinos, many of whom are settlers to Mindanao.
Our ancestors have passed their traditional beliefs from one generation after the other. To some indigenous tribes, traditional beliefs are the gospel truth. Through time, some of our traditional beliefs have been eclipsed by scientific principles.

Indian, Chinese, Arabian, Spanish, Mexican, and American belief systems have contributed to our own set of beliefs.

There are folk beliefs about the es of illnesses. Though some tribes believe certain maladies have a biological origin such as overeating, poor diet, excessive drinking, infections, and accidents, there are still other groups who believe that spirits and elementals can also be a cause for a number of illnesses. The belief in the supernatural is the primary reason why up to this day Filipinos have a surplus of albularyos or quack-doctors.

Traits, on the other hand, vary from one person to another and in a collective sense; it varies from one nation to another. Every country has its own set of traits. They are molded from influences from another person or from another culture. This holds true in our country, as the Americans, Spanish and other countries that made constant interactions with our fellowmen through the years have influenced us.

Because of this mix of influences, we came up with a set of traits and influences that we can call our own.

the mats

The Mats
By Francisco Arcellana

For the Angeles family, Mr. Angeles'; homecoming from his periodic inspection trips was always an occasion for celebration. But his homecoming--from a trip to the South--was fated to be more memorable than, say, of the others.

He had written from Mariveles: "I have just met a marvelous matweaver--a real artist--and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a sleeping-mat for every one of the family. He is using many different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children will be very pleased. I know you will be. I can hardly wait to show them to you."

Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance to leave the kitchen. In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked her oldest son, José, to read the letter at dinner table. The children became very much excited about the mats, and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to be the chief topic of conversation among the children.

Finally, from Lopez, Mr. Angeles wrote again: "I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner."

The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up again like wildfire.

"I like the feel of mats," Antonio, the third child, said. "I like the smell of new mats."

"Oh, but these mats are different," interposed Susanna, the fifth child. "They have our names woven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too."

The children knew what they were talking about: they knew just what a decorative mat was like; it was not anything new or strange in their experience. That was why they were so excited about the matter. They had such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat older than any one of them.

This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr. Angeles were married, and it had been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not since been used except on special occasions.

It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders, and a lot of gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running the whole length of the mat, was the lettering: Emilia y Jaime Recuerdo

The letters were in gold.

Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was taken ill, the mat was brought out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one of the children had some time in their lives slept on it; not a few had slept on it more than once.

Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia's trunk, and when it was taken out and spread on the floor the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emilia to see the mat spread. Then a child--a girl--watched with them. The number of watchers increased as more children came.

The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laid on the nuptial bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them. The folds and creases always new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching the intricate design was an endless joy. The children's pleasure at the golden letters even before they could work out the meaning was boundless. Somehow they were always pleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the artistry of its weave.

Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of ritual. The process had become associated with illness in the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. There had been deaths...

In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family. He had brought the usual things home with him. There was a lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growing provinces): pineapples, lanzones, chicos, atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved sweets from Lopez.

Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and lively talk. Dinner was a long affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would interrupt his tales with: "I could not sleep nights thinking of the young ones. They should never be allowed to play in the streets. And you older ones should not stay out too late at night."

The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes and wiping the table clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they did not show it, were all on edge about the mats.

Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the table and crossed the room to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap he disengaged a ponderous bundle.

Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest. He dropped the bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cord that bound it. It was strong, it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working at the knots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun shaking.

He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was to one side of him with the scissors ready.

Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching the proceedings quietly.

One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the bundle was loose.

Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr. Angeles joyfully cried: "These are the mats, Miling." Mr. Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.

"This, I believe, is yours, Miling."

Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her skirt, and with a strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle silently and then broke into delighted, though a little self-conscious, laughter. Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the very center of it: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers--cadena-de-amor--were woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor.

The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless exclamations of delight.

"It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!" Nana Emilia's voice broke, and she could not say any more.

"And this, I know, is my own," said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat was rather simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple.

"And this, for your, Marcelina."

Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one of her worries with regard to the mat. "How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my name into my mat?" she had asked of almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there was a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist.

"And this is for you, José."

José was the second child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school. Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.

"You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship," Mr. Angeles was saying.

"This is yours, Antonia."

"And this is yours, Juan."

"And this is yours, Jesus."

Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the children's mats there was somehow an appropriate device.

At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with their excited talk, and through it all Mr. Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voice:

"You are not to use these mats until you go to the University."

Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be unfolded.

"But Jaime," Nana Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, "there are some more mats."

Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia's words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was different.

"Yes, Emilia," said Mr. Angeles, "There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren't here..."

Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face paled and she could not say anything.

The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it.

The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles' own, and it had a name. There was no symbol or device above the name; only a blank space, emptiness.

The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed strange to them.

Then Nana Emilia found her voice.

"You know, Jaime, you didn't have to," Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened.

Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement.

"Do you think I'd forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them?

"This is for you, Josefina!

"And this is for you, Victoria!

"And this is for you, Concepcion."

Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them.

"Don't, Jaime, please don't," was all that Nana Emilia managed to say.

"Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?" Mr. Angeles demanded rather than asked.

His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger.

Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow.

The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not see the face of their father. But they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, his voice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the spot.

Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped her clasped hands between her thighs.

There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which were with infinite slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not bright but deathly dull; the separate letters, spelling out the names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine with a festive sheen as did the other living names.

the witch

The Witch

By Edilberto K. Tiempo

When I was twelve years old, I used to go to Libas, about nine kilometers from the town, to visit my favorite uncle, Tio Sabelo, the head teacher of the barrio school there. I like going to Libas because of the many things to eat at my uncle’s house: cane sugar syrup, candied meat of young coconut, corn and rice cakes, ripe jackfruit, guavas from trees growing wild on a hill not far from Tio Sabelo’s
house. It was through these visits that I heard many strange stories about Minggay Awok. Awok is the word for witch in southern Leyte. Minggay was known as a witch even beyond Libas, in five outlying sitios, and considering that not uncommonly a man’s nearest neighbor was two or three hills away, her notoriety was wide. Minggay lived in a small, low hut as the back of the creek separating the barrios of Libas and Sinit-an. It squatted like a soaked hen on a steep incline and below it, six or seven meters away, two trails forked, one going to Libas and the other to Mahangin, a mountain sitio. The hut leaned dangerously to the side where the creek water ate away large chunks of earth during the rainy season. It had two small openings, a small door through which Minggay probably had to stoop to pass, and a window about two feet square facing the creek. The window was screened by a frayed jute sacking which fluttered eerily even in the daytime.

What she had in the hut nobody seemed to know definitely. One daring fellow who boasted of having gone inside it when Minggay was out in her clearing on a hill nearby said he had seen dirty stoppered bottles hanging from the bamboo slats of the cogon thatch. Some of the bottles contained scorpions, centipedes, beetles, bumble bees, and other insects; others were filled with ash-colored powder and dark liquids. These bottles contained the paraphernalia of her witchcraft. Two or three small bottles she always had with her hanging on her waistband with a bunch of iron keys, whether she went to her clearing or to the creek to catch shrimps or gather fresh-water shells, or even when she slept.

It was said that those who had done her wrong never escaped her vengeance, in the form of festering carbuncles, chronic fevers that caused withering of the skin, or a certain disease of the nose that eventually ate the nose out. Using an incantation known only to her, Minggay would take out one insect from a bottle, soak it in colored liquid or roll it in powder, and with a curse let it go to the body of her victim; the insect might be removed and the disease cured only rarely through intricate rituals of an expensive tambalan.

Thus Minggay was feared in Libas and the surrounding barrios. There had been attempts to murder her, but in some mysterious way she always came out unscathed. A man set fire to her hut one night, thinking to burn her with it. The hut quickly burned down, but Minggay was unharmed. On another occasion a man openly declared that he had killed her, showing the blood-stained bolo with which he had stabbed her; a week later she was seen hobbling to her clearing. This man believed Minggay was the cause of the rash that his only child had been carrying for over a year. One day, so the story went, meeting his wife, Minggay asked to hold her child. She didn’t want to offend Minggay. As the witch gave the child back she said, “He has a very smooth skin.” A few days later the boy had skin eruptions all over his body that never left him.

Minggay’s only companions were a lean, barren sow and a few chickens, all of them charcoal black. The sow and the chickens were allowed to wander in the fields, and even if the sow dug up sweet potatoes and the chickens pecked rice or corn grain drying in the sun, they were not driven away by the neighbors because they were afraid to arouse Minggay’s wrath.

Besides the sow and the chickens, Minggay was known to have a wakwak and a sigbin. Those who claimed to have seen the sigbin described it as a queer animal resembling a kangaroo: the forelegs were shorter than the hind ones: its fanlike ears made a flapping sound when it walked. The wakwak was a nocturnal bird, as big and black as a crow. It gave out raucous cries when a person in the neighborhood had just died. The bird was supposed to be Minggay’s messenger, and the sigbin caried her to the grave; then the witch dug up the corpse and feasted on it. The times when I passed by the hut and saw her lean sow and her black chickens, I wondered if they transformed themselves into fantastic creatures at night. Even in the daytime I dreaded the possibility of meeting her; she might accost me on the trail near her hut, say something about my face or any part of it, and then I might live the rest of my life with a harelip, a sunken nose, or crossed eyes. But I never saw Minggay in her house or near the premises. There were times when I thought she was only a legend, a name to frighten children from doing mischief. But then I almost always saw her sow digging banana roots or wallowing near the trail and the black chickens scratching for worms or pecking grains in her yard, and the witch became very real indeed.

Once I was told to go to Libas with a bottle of medicine for Tio Sabelo’s sick wife. I started from the town at half past five and by the time I saw the balete tree across the creek from Minggay’s hut, I could hardly see the trail before me. The balete was called Minggay’s tree, for she was known to sit on one of the numerous twisting vines that formed its grotesque trunk to wait for a belated passer-by. The balete was a towering monstrous shadow; a firefly that flitted among the vines was an evil eye plucked out searching for its socket. I wanted to run back, but the medicine had to get to Tio Sabelo’s wife that night. I wanted to push through the thick underbrush to the dry part of the creek to avoid the balete, but I was afraid of snakes. I had discarded the idea of a coconut frond torch because the light would catch the attention of the witch, and when she saw it was only a little boy... Steeling myself I tried to whistle as I passed in the shadow of the balete, its overhanging vines like hairy arms ready to hoist and strangle me among the branches.

Emerging into the stony bed of the creek, I saw Minggay’s hut. The screen in the window waved in the faint light of the room and I thought I saw the witch peering behind it. As I started going up the trail by the hut, each moving clump and shadow was a crouching old woman. I had heard stories of Minggay’s attempts to waylay travelers in the dark and suck their blood. Closing my eyes twenty yards from the hut of the witch, I ran up the hill. A few meters past the hut I stumbled on a low stump. I got up at once and ran again. When I reached Tio Sabelo’s house I was very tired and badly shaken.

Somehow after the terror of the balete and the hut of the witch had lessened, although I always had the goose flesh whenever I passed by them after dusk. One moonlight night going home to town I heard a splashing of the water below Minggay’s house. I thought the sound was made by the witch, for she was seen to bathe on moonlit nights in the creek, her loose hair falling on her face. It was not Minggay I saw. It was a huge animal. I was about to run thinking it was the sigbin of the witch, but when I looked at it again, I saw that it was a carabao wallowing in the creek.

One morning I thought of bringing home shrimps to my mother, and so I went to a creek a hundred yards from Tio Sabelo’s house. I had with me my cousin’s pana, made of a long steel rod pointed at one end and cleft at the other and shot through the hollow of a bamboo joint the size of a finger by means of a rubber band attached to one end of the joint. After wading for two hours in the creek which meandered around bamboo groves and banban and ipil clumps with only three small shrimps strung on a coconut midrib dangling from my belt, I came upon an old woman taking a bath in the shade of a catmon tree. A brown tapis was wound around her to three fingers width above her thin chest. The bank of her left was a foot-wide ledge of unbroken boulder on which she had set a wooden basin half full of wet but still unwashed clothes.

In front of her was a submerged stone pile topped by a platter size rock; on it were a heap of shredded coconut meat, a small discolored tin basin, a few lemon rinds, and bits of pounded gogo bark. The woman was soaking her sparse gray hair with the gogo suds. She must have seen me coming because she did not look surprised.

Seeing the three small shrimps hanging at my side she said, “You have a poor catch.”

She looked kind. She was probably as old as my grandmother; smaller, for this old woman was two or three inches below five feet. Her eyes looked surprisingly young, but her mouth, just a thin line above the little chin, seemed to have tasted many bitter years.

“Why don’t you bait them out of their hiding? Take some of this.” She gave me a handful of shredded coconut meat whose milk she had squeezed out and with the gogo suds used on her hair.

She exuded a sweet wood fragrance of gogo bark and the rind of lemons. “Beyond the first bend,” she said pointing, “the water is still. Scatter the shreds there. That’s where I get my shrimps. You will see some traps. If you find shrimps in them they are yours.”

I mumbled my thanks and waded to the bend she had indicated. That part of the creek was like a small lake. One bank was lined by huge boulders showing long, deep fissures where the roots of gnarled dapdap trees had penetrated. The other bank was sandy, with bamboo and catmon trees leaning over, their roots sticking out in the water. There was good shade and the air had a twilight chilliness. The water was shallow except on the rocky side, which was deep and murky.

I scattered the coconut shreds around, and not long after they had settled down shrimps crawled from boles under the bamboo and catmon roots and from crevices of the boulders. It did not take me an hour to catch a midribful, some hairy with age, some heavy with eggs, moulters, dark magus, leaf-green shrimps, speckled.

I saw three traps of woven bamboo strips, round-bellied and about two feet long, two hidden behind a catmon root. I did not disturb them because I had enough shrimps for myself.

“No, no, iti. Your mother will need them. You don’t have enough. Besides I have freshwater crabs at home.” She looked up at me with her strange young eyes and asked, “Do you still have a mother?”

I told her I had, and a grandmother, too.

“You are not from Libas, I think. This is the first time I have seen you.”

I said I was from the town and my uncle was the head teacher of the Libas barrio school.

“You remind me of my son when he was your age. He had bright eyes like you, and his voice was soft like yours. I think you are a good boy.”

“Where is your son now?”

“I have not heard from him since he left. He went away when he was seventeen. He left in anger, because I didn’t want him to marry so young. I don’t know where he went, where he is.”

She spread the length of a kimona on the water for a last rinsing. The flesh hanging from her skinny arms was loose and flabby.

“If he’s still living,” she went on, “he’d be as old as your father maybe. Many times I feel in my bones he is alive, and will come back before I die.”

“Your husband is still living?”

“He died a long time ago, when my boy was eleven.”

She twisted the kimona like a rope to wring out the water.

“I’m glad he died early. He was very cruel.”

I looked at her, at the thin mouth, wondering about her husband’s cruelty, disturbed by the manner she spoke about it.

“Do you have other children?”

“I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t be living alone.”

A woman her age, I thought, should be a grandmother and live among many children.

“Where do you live?”

She did not speak, but her strange young eyes were probing and looked grotesque in the old woman’s face. “Not far from here--the house on the high bank, across the balete.”

She must have seen the fright that suddenly leaped into my face, for I thought she smiled at me queerly.

“I’m going now,” I said.

I felt her following me with her eyes; indeed they seemed to bore a hot hole between my shoulder blades. I did not look back. Don’t run, I told myself. But at the first bend of the creek, when I knew she couldn’t see me, I ran. After a while I stopped, feeling a little foolish. Such a helpless-looking little old woman couldn’t be Minggay, couldn’t be the witch. I remembered her kind voice and the woodfragrance. She could be my own grandmother.

As I walked the string of shrimps kept brushing against the side of my leg. I detached it from my belt and looked at the shrimps. Except for the three small ones, all of them belonged to the old woman. Her coconut shreds had coaxed them as by magic out of their hiding. The protruding eyes of the biggest, which was still alive, seemed to glare at me---and then they became the eyes of the witch. Angrily, I hurled the shrimps back into the creek.

wedding dance

Wedding Dance

By Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.

"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights
upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.

"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."

"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."

He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"

She did not answer him.

"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.

"Yes, I know," she said weakly.

"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you."

"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.

"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us."

This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.

"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."

"Yes, I know."

"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"

"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.

Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls.

Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.

"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the
whole village."

"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.

"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."

"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."

"I have no use for any field," she said.

He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.

"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."

"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing."

"You know that I cannot."

"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that."

"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."

She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.

She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled,
resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.

They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain.

She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains
five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him.

She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."

"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.

"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have no other man."

"Then you'll always be fruitless."

"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."

"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."

She was silent.

"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."

"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."

"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe."

The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.

"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.

"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."

"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you and have nothing to give."

She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"

"I am not in hurry."

"The elders will scold you. You had better go."

"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."

"It is all right with me."

He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.

"I know," she said.

He went to the door.

"Awiyao!"

He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.

"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.

"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck.

The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.

Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.

She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully
timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her
husband a child.

"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said.

Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the
river?

She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.

Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village.

When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.

When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her
sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.

Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her.

The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them.

A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.

Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

ANG DALAGA'T BINATILYO (ONE ACT PLAY)

ANG DALAGA'T ANG BINATILYO
by Alberto Florentino

**************************************************

Ang lihim na pag-iibigan nina
Pepe Rizal at Segunda Katigbak

Isinadula ni Alberto Florentino
batay sa "Memorias de un Estudiante"*
na sinulat ni Jose Rizal

© Karapatang-ari 2000 ni Alberto Florentino



Ang Eksena:
Ang kalsada patungong Batangas. Makikita sa malayo ang isang binatilyo na nakasakay sa puting kabayo.

Tinig ng Taga-salaysay:
Noong kanyang kabataan, mula 1878 hanggang 1881, sumulat si Jose Rizal ng isang talambuhay, "Memorias de un Estudiante," tungkol sa kanyang buhay bilang isang mag-aaral sa Ateneo de Manila sa Intramuros, Maynila. Ginamit niya ang sagisag na "P. Jacinto."
Ang sumusunod na madulaing tagpo na tawagin nating "isang dagli," na pinamagatang "Ang Dalagita't ang Binatilyo," kinatha ni Alberto Florentino batay sa nasabing talambuhay. Ang dula ay tungkol sa samandaling pakikipag-kaibigan at pakikipag-ibigan ng binatilyong si Pepe Rizal at dalagitang si Segunda Katigbak.
Unang itinanghal itong maikling dula noong 1970s sa Rizal Park Open-Air Auditorium sa Luneta, sa direksiyon ng mandudula. Ang gumanap ay sina Ariosto Reyes sa papel na Pepe Rizal at Leila Florentino sa papel na Segunda Katigbak.

---

ANG DALAGITA'T ANG BINATILYO ni Alberto Florentino

Para kay Leila,
na siyang unang gumanap sa papel na Segunda

---

PANAHON: 1882
POOK: Sa harapan ng Colegio de Concordia sa Intramuros, Maynila

(Mangyayari ang eksena sa harapan ng Colegio de la Concordia sa Intramuros, Maynila, taong 1882. Sa likod, makikita ang iskwela. Isang maliit na glorietta na may iskayolang inuman ng mga kalapati. Isang bahay-kalapati at mga kalapati na naglisaw—nagliligawan, naghahabulan, naglalaro, at umiinum sa tubigan.)

(Si Pepe ay may 19 taong gulang at si Segunda, 16 o 17.)

(Si Segunda ay nakasuot ng isang saya na tinawag ngayong "Maria Clara." Papasok si Segunda na kasama ng ilan sa kanyang mga kaiskwela at kaibigan na nakasuot ng karaniwang uniporme ng kanila eskuwela.)


Kaibigan 1. Naku, Segunda, ang ganda mo kanina!

Segunda. Kanina lang? Eh ngayon?

Kaibigan 2. At ang ganda mong sumayaw!

Segunda. Siempre naman!

Kaibigan 3. At ang guwapo din ng iyong katambal!
(Isang sandali)

Kaibigan 1. O, ano, Segunda, balitaan mo naman kami.

Kaibigan 2. Oo nga naman. Kailan ba?

Kaibigan 3. Tuloy ba?

Kaibigan 4. At siya na bang talaga?
(Isang sandali)

Kaibigan 2. Hindi ka pa ba magpapalit ng suot?

Segunda. Hinihintay ko si Pepe …

Kaibigan 3. Si Pepe? Bakit hindi si—

Kaibigan 4. Huwag mong sabihing—

Segunda. Hoy, huwag nga kayong mag-umpisa ng sali-salita. Walang ibig sabihin ito.

Kaibigan 2. Bakit nga ba si Pepe Rizal?

Segunda. Nangako ako na matapos ang velada, iguguhit niya ang aking larawan habang naka-suot ako nito.

Kaibigan 3. Ang suwerte mo sa mga kalalakihan, Segunda …

Segunda. Kaya … pagdating niya, iwan n'yo 'ko, ha?

Kaibigan 4. Kung iyan ba'ng gusto mo e …

Segunda. Alam naman ninyo na masyado siyang mahiyain. O, ayan na siya!

Mga Kaibigan (lahat sila). O sige— … Aalis na kami … Basta lang imbitahin mo kaming lahat sa malaking piging!

Segunda. Adios!

(Mag-aalisan silang lahat. Bubuksan ni Segunda ang dalang supot na puno ng mais at palay. Isasabog niya ito at papakainin ang mga kalapati.)

(Papasok si Pepe na nakasuot ng uniporme ng mga estudianteng lalaki: puting "amerikana serrada" at sombrero. May dala siyang ilang pirasong papel at mga lapis o krayola. Sa kanyang pagdating, mabubulabog ang mga kalapati.)

(Ilalapag ni Pepe ang kanyang sombrero sa damo at maghahanda siya sa pag-guhit. Hindi siya mapalagay.)

Pepe. Siyanga pala, Segunda …

Segunda. Ano 'yon, Pepe?

Pepe. Binabati kita sa inyong sayaw kanina.

Segunda. Salamat naman …
(Isang sandali)

Segunda. Matagal ba ito, Pepe?

Pepe. Hindi naman …

Segunda. Kasi … mainit itong suot ko. Ayaw mo ba ako iguhit sa aking uniporme?

Pepe. Mas maganda kung ganito'ng suot mo … Nagmamadali ka ba?

Segunda. Hindi naman. Baka biglang dumating ang aking sundo—

Pepe. Huwag kang mag-alala. Di ito magtatagal.

(Aayusin ni Segunda ang kanyang suot at ang kanyang pagkakaupo. Nakatayong pupuwesto si Pepe sa harapan, at mag-uumpisa ng pag-guhit. Habang gumuguhit, wala siyang kibo.)

Segunda. Pepe … sino ba’ng katipan mo?

Pepe. Huwag ka sanang malikot, Segunda.

Segunda. Ni hindi ba ‘ko maaaring magsalita?

Pepe. Maaari. Huwag ka lang masyadong malikot.
(Isang sandali)

Segunda. Ang tanong ko sa iyo … sino ‘kakong katipan mo?
(Mapapatigil sandali si Pepe.)

Pepe. A, wala… Wala akong katipan.

Segunda. Bakit naman? Wala ka bang napupusuan sa mga kadalagahan?

Pepe. Ah, basta wala.

Segunda. Bakit nga?

Pepe. Pagkat ni minsan … di ko pinag-isipan na ako—sa hitsura kong ito—ay papansinin ng sino mang dilag …

Segunda. Bakit naman?

Pepe. Sino sa kanila—lalo na ang mga maririlag—ang papatol sa akin?

Segunda. Bakit naman napakababa ng pagtingin mo sa ‘yong sarili?
(Isang sandali)

Segunda. Kung gusto mo, Pepe … ihahanap kita—

Pepe. Ng ano?

Segunda. Ng isang magiging katipan mo. Ang dami ko yatang mga kaibigan na kay gaganda! Pihong isa sa kanila ay mapupusuan mo … at mapupusuan ka rin.

Pepe. Imposible! Mahirap mangyari! Ibahin nga natin ang usapan. Ikaw naman ang matanong ko. Mayroon ka bang … katipan?

(Matitigilan si Segunda at biglang lulungkot ang kanyang mukha.)

Segunda. Wala ka bang alam, Pepe?

Pepe. Na ano?

Segunda. Tungkol sa akin? Wala bang nababanggit sa’yo ang kapatid ko?

Pepe. Si Mariano? Wala.

Segunda. Magtapat ka sa ‘kin!
(Isang sandali)

Pepe. Minsan … mayroon siyang nabanggit sa akin … na may katipan ka na raw …

(Hindi sasagot si Segunda. Tatapusin niya ang ginagawa niyang papel na bulaklak.)

Pepe. At nalalapit na raw ang araw ng inyong… pag-iisang-dibdib. Totoo ba ito? At kailan ang kasal? Totoo ba na uuwi ka sa inyo sa Lipa ngayong bakasyon at di na muling babalik sa Maynila?

Segunda. Gusto ko sanang tumigil pa rito upang ipagpatuloy ang aking pag-aaral … ngunit ang mga magulang ko …

Pepe. Gusto nilang papagtaliin ang inyong dibdib? Pinipilit ka ba nila?

Segunda. Hindi naman. Bakit mo natanong iyan?

Pepe. Kung gayon, ikaw ang may kagustuhan nito?
(Magkikibit ng balikat ang dalagita.)

Segunda. Ang lagay ay … nakikinig lang ako sa mga nakakatanda sa ‘tin.

Pepe. Kailangan bang sundin ang mga magulang sa lahat ng panahon? At sa lahat ng bagay?

Segunda. Oo, sapagkat nakakatanda sila sa atin … at alam nila kung ano ang nararapat para sa atin.

Pepe. Maski na tungkol ito sa mga bagay na may kinalaman sa puso? Gaya ng… kung sino ang nararapat para sa atin?

Segunda. Lalo na. Pagkakatiwalaan ko na muna sila bago ang aking sarili.

Pepe. Bakit?

Segunda. Maaaring mas tama sila pagkat di sila nabubulagan …

Pepe. At maaari ding magkamali sila, di ba?

Segunda. Maaari din …

Pepe. At malalaman mo ito—na tama ka at sila ay mali—kung kailan huli na ang lahat? Kung kailan naaksaya na ang kalahati ng iyong buhay? At marahil wala ka nang magagawa?

Segunda. Ano pa nga ba ang magagawa ng isa kung tinalagang mangyari ang ganoon?

Pepe. Kailan ang uwi mo ngayong bakasyon?

Segunda. Sa Sabado. Isang grupo kami na magsasabay-sabay. Ikaw?

Pepe. Uuwi rin ako sa amin sa Calamba.

Segunda. Bakit di pa tayo magsabay-sabay? Ibababa ka namin sa Calamba. Kasya sa aming carromata ang isa pang katao.

Pepe. Naipangako ko kasi sa aking Mama na Biyernes ang uwi ko.

Segunda. Kung maaari din lang, bakit di mo gawing Sabado? Baka huli na ang Biyernes …

Pepe. Ano'ng ibig mong sabihin?

Segunda. Para nga makasabay ka sa amin.

Pepe. Hayaan mo at titingnan ko.

(Iaabot ni Pepe kay Segunda ang larawan na ginuhit niya.)

Pepe. O, et o… Ipagpaumanhin mo sana kung di ko nahuli ang taal mong kariktan.

(Titingnan at kikipkipin ni Segunda ang larawan sa kanyang dibdib. Titingin siya kay Pepe nang walang patumangga.)

Segunda. Maraming salamat, Pepe.

(Bilang kapalit ng larawang iginuhit ni Pepe, kukunin ni Segunda ang sombrero na nakalapag sa damo, isusuksok ang papel na bulaklak sa banda, at iaabot ito kay Pepe. Magsasalita si Pepe, animo kausap niya ang bulaklak sa kanyang sombrero na hawak-hawak niya. Nakatitig siya sa bulaklak habang sinasabi ang sumusunod.)

Pepe. Alam mo ba, Segunda … na ikalulungkot ko nang labis … ikauulila ko … kung mangyaring … mawala ka … sa buhay ko? Ngayon pa namang… nagkakilala na tayo at … at …

Segunda. At ano, Pepe?

(Biglang tutugtog ang kampana ng simbahan bilang tanda ng agunyas. Mabubulabog ang mga kalapati at magliliparan sila sa bakuran ng escuela. Susundan ng kanilang mata ang mga naglipanang ibon.)

(Nakahanda nang lumikas si Segunda.)

Pepe. Segunda …

Segunda. Paalam na … Pepe. Paalam!

Pepe. Bakit paalam? Di ba magkikita pa tayo? Sa inyo sa Lipa … kung di man dito sa—

(Tatakbo ang dalagita na dala-dala ang lahat ng kanyang kagamitan.)

Pepe. (pahabol) Segunda!

(Titigil at lilingon si Segunda. Lalapit si Pepe kay Segunda.)

Segunda. Ano iyon, Pepe?

Pepe. Segunda …

Segunda. Magsalita ka, Pepe.

Pepe. Segunda …

Segunda. Pepe, nariyan ang sundo ko.

Pepe. Anong oras ang daan ninyo sa bukana ng Calamba?

Segunda. Marahil sa ganitong oras din.

Pepe. Baka abangan ko ang inyong carromata sa daan papuntang Lipa.

Segunda. Bakit pa? Sayang lang ang panahon mo! At … mabibigo … mabibigo lang siya …

Pepe. Sino?

Segunda. Ang iyong Mama.

(Biglang tatalikod at tatalilis si Segunda.) Susundan ng tingin ni Pepe ang dalagita.)

Pepe. Segunda!

. . .

Tinig ng Taga-salaysay:
Gaya ng ipinangako niya, sa takdang oras sa sumunod na Sabado, si Pepe, sakay ng kanyang puting kabayo, ay nagtungo sa bukana ng Calamba, sa daan papuntang Batangas.
Nagbakasakali siyang makita niya ang carromata na sakay sina Segunda at ng kanyang mga kaibigan.
Dumaan nga ang carromata ngunit mabilis ang takbo nito.
Malapit na ang sasakyan nang makita ni Pepe na sila na nga iyon.
Itataas ni Pepe ang kanyang kamay upang patigilin ang carromata, ngunit mabilis ang takbo ng kabayo at ng hilahilang carromata.
Makikita ng mga dalagita si Pepe nang nakalampas na ang carromata.
Inakala ng mga dalagita na kumakaway lang si Pepe, kaya kumaway sila at buong siglang sumigaw ng "Pepe! Pepe! Pepe!"
Makikita ang mukha ni Pepe na pagpugaran ng lungkot at kabiguan.
Hawak-hawak niya—sa kanyang kanang kamay na kumakaway pa rin—ang isang liham.
Gusto sana ni Pepe na makarating kay Segunda ang laman ng liham: ang pagtatapat ng taus-pusong pagmamahal ng isang binatilyo sa isang dalagita.

(Makikita ang kalsada patungong Batangas. Sa malayo, ang binatilyo na sakay ng kanyang puting kabayo.)

Tinig ng Taga-salaysay:
Wala sa kaalaman ng binatilyong si Pepe—pati na rin ng dalagitang si Segunda—na ang pag-iibigan nila na sumilang at nag-usbong ay walang pag-asang lumabong at mamulaklak … sa kanilang maligalig na daigdig … at sa kanilang takdang panahon.
Saka lang nila malalaman ang katotohanan … na bago pa man napamahal si Pepe kay Segunda—at si Segunda kay Pepe—mayroon nang taglay na ibang minamahal si Pepe: Ang Inang Bayan.
Ang pinaka-una, ang pinakahuli, at ang pinakamatinding pag-ibig na mararanasan niya sa buong buhay niya, hanggang sa kanyang mga huling oras sa Bagumbayan: Ang pag-ibig sa Bayang Pilipinas.
Hindi nila alam ito noon.
At nang malaman nila ito, huli na ang lahat.