Jolo is terrible each time. But
the last trip I made was amazing. Like there was some fairy holding me by the
hand, and I kept on bumping, at very precise moments, into people I only wished
in my heart to see but believed I long lost to the dark.
But really, I do feel like a thief. Having gotten this far. My head still on my shoulders. Ces was gangraped, beeh, the human rights women say, with glee. But of course. Why would they accept, take it as given, that their own men would rape their own women but not that kaffir with a camera out to make a story of their savage lives? If they can kidnap and rape their own women, why not Ces Drilon indeed? Are you not afraid? Anthony Tan asks. No. I said. That’s good, he said. Good. To be not afraid is to not bear the reason for being afraid, right?
I sometimes think if the corner princesses will order my beheading, the rapists and the drug addicts will speak in my defense. But that is just a feminist fantasy. Such is my disillusionment with female agency, with female solidarity. Jolo, you see, is very sectarian. Separatist. That's what all those wars have done to a tribe. But not so. Not every Tausug man can be conned into believing that to get to Heaven, one must carry on the tip of his sword a kaffir's head. That's what committing a parrangsabil used to amount to: dih kunu makasud pa Sulga bang way kaw mapatay Kristiyano.
If I am guilty of any crime, it is feudal poaching. I should behave like a captive Bisaya slave, and not like a runaway Bisaya slave. I should be forever grateful for the spared neck, the spared head, forever paying the corner sultans and the sultanas little honors, rostrum mujahideens little praises, little dues. I should not be strolling around the downtown area like the stretches of the roadside canals and garbage-laden pathways are my garden, my skating rink, the hotel rooms and the convention halls theirs. I shouldn't be cussing in the vicinity of the princesses’ houses.
But really, I do feel like a thief. Having gotten this far. My head still on my shoulders. Ces was gangraped, beeh, the human rights women say, with glee. But of course. Why would they accept, take it as given, that their own men would rape their own women but not that kaffir with a camera out to make a story of their savage lives? If they can kidnap and rape their own women, why not Ces Drilon indeed? Are you not afraid? Anthony Tan asks. No. I said. That’s good, he said. Good. To be not afraid is to not bear the reason for being afraid, right?
I sometimes think if the corner princesses will order my beheading, the rapists and the drug addicts will speak in my defense. But that is just a feminist fantasy. Such is my disillusionment with female agency, with female solidarity. Jolo, you see, is very sectarian. Separatist. That's what all those wars have done to a tribe. But not so. Not every Tausug man can be conned into believing that to get to Heaven, one must carry on the tip of his sword a kaffir's head. That's what committing a parrangsabil used to amount to: dih kunu makasud pa Sulga bang way kaw mapatay Kristiyano.
If I am guilty of any crime, it is feudal poaching. I should behave like a captive Bisaya slave, and not like a runaway Bisaya slave. I should be forever grateful for the spared neck, the spared head, forever paying the corner sultans and the sultanas little honors, rostrum mujahideens little praises, little dues. I should not be strolling around the downtown area like the stretches of the roadside canals and garbage-laden pathways are my garden, my skating rink, the hotel rooms and the convention halls theirs. I shouldn't be cussing in the vicinity of the princesses’ houses.
Piso para sa MNLF. Since women cannot fight, the least we can do is help in the fund-raising, pity the fighters. They collect fighters like they collect chickenheads for slaughter, and now they have a pang of conscience, so they collect half a glass of rice from every house and one peso from every tricycle driver that the MNLF may be fed and have a stick of cig? You can bet that most of the fighters are of the tribe that cannot refuse being conscripted. No wonder, Susan is so afraid of getting an inch nearer to any MNLF rally. "Susan, we will only listen to what Bapa Misuari had to say about the giyera in Sabah and then we go home!"
"Dih. Ipamungluh hadja kita ha Sabah, Kah Sheh," no, they'll make of us fodder in their war at Sabah, her fear so real that she gripped my hand as we approached the gym.
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