But I wasn't really your good student

I must have been stuck in academic ground, but not so stuck. I recall I spent more time reading Sheldon and Robbins, maybe Wallace and Ludlum, than solving my Algebra problems. Then after a visit at the padian, the public market in downtown Marawi, I somehow got into the habit of going there, especially after I made friends with student activists. I must have been slumming, but walking through the dirt road, skipping the mudpoles, crawling through holes in the wall, wading along the lakeside, made me feel I was living the best times of my life. I was also beginning to shed off my squeamishness, my biases, and frequented the food stalls down the stairways and when I had a little money, hunted for tiny bric-a-bracs at the antique stores. Once, as a way of welcoming my older sister to Marawi, because she decided to follow me and take up Midwifery, I took her there and we got lost. Two Maranao boys must have noticed, because my sister could not hide her panic, and they took fancy on frightening us some more. They kept on following us wherever we made a turn and did not let go of us until I stopped at a stall selling bolos and chose a long and big one and paid for it, too, and when I turned my head, of course, the two crazy Maranao boys were gone.

There was a part I missed though, which Mimi and her activist boyfriends like telling and retelling. I should have tried watching a movie inside one of those dilapidated moviehouses in Marawi, they said, and have the experience of my life. In the eighties they usually showed Sharon Cuneta or Robin Padilla movies, and Mimi and her friends happened to adore these two stars whose movies they could not wait to watch at Iligan when they did not always have the money or the time. Farmers selling their products at the market would usually come to Marawi in the morning and by noon they would have completed their business and had done some shopping too, so after lunch when there was a movie they liked to watch, they would kill time inside, while waiting for the passenger outrigger boats that usually left the wharf at three or four in the afternoon. You sat with your shoes on your seat, lest you sat on someone’s phlegm, Mimi's friends would say, sniggering, and Mimi would protest.

“No, they spit on the floor naman, you’re so anti-Maranao for a Maranao. It’s the seat bugs you have to watch for, Shei, not their spittles," she would deadpan, “or you’ll go home scratching your genitals.”

“No. The guy next to you might mistake you for a spittoon, Shei. It’s dark inside you had better watch, bring an umbrella if you must.”

No kidding, the experience was a big miss. Old men would have their heads under your seat, chasing after the coins or the tomatoes that had rolled down the floor. The hen or the roster they had bought or traded for their goods would be cackling or crowing midway through Sharon’s monologue; or the boy vending corn and peanuts would be pushing his cart up and down the aisle screaming, Ay mais! Ay lugasing!

Mimi was some kind of a lodestone, and if I had this strong sense of class allegiance, long before I started to read Marx and Engels or any of these local guys, I owe it to the times we shared together, when to be poor and in the right felt good. I was more of a loner, really, and didn’t care about other people’s poverty. On campus, there were guys I sat in class with, who you knew should have better stayed in their lairs than try school as rebel returnees. They really did not stay long: mid-way through the first semester they would disappear without excuses and I didn’t care. I was really too phobic to even try to get to know them, so they were really lost to me since Day One. But Mimi, who spent high school at the Trade School in Marawi had lots to say about them. Some of these former MNLF rebels, she would tell me, were her classmates, and one reason why she is so anti-pyudal, was because at the height of the secessionist movement when the Maranao elite joined the rebellion to be in command, these boy classmates of hers, who were now too overaged to be in high school, served as the commanders’ slave-boys and nannies, bearing the latter’s rifles for them, their bedpans, their thermoses, their mosquito nets.

Mimi would become a permanent influence in my life. Around that time that I frequented their house at Barrio Santos, her brother’s wife was also in the house, doing the laundry and awaiting the birth of another son. The brother himself was sweeping the yard of the mosque in Quiapo, doing his bit as community organizer. We still don’t know the end of Mimi’s brother’s long story, but the short of it is he took girls home and that he beat them all until they each left him, dragging along the kids he sired. Mimi’s mother is a Tausug whose family moved to Marawi sometime after the war in the seventies. The father was a Tagalog assigned in Marawi as a forester, who left her mother when she was pregnant with Mimi, a conference in Manila for an excuse. The way I remember the house in Barrio Santos, it had plenty of light and laughter. Beside Mimi and her mother, an aunt lived there, and there was a standing joke among these three women about the man that never came back since twenty-five years ago (that was Mimi’s age when I went a lot there). He must have never finished conferencing, they said, because he has never sent in another word since he last took leave. When Mimi finished Med school and was working as an intern in Zamboanga many years later, this same father came back an old man with a story about a wife that died of cancer in America. Mimi did not make any complaint; just shook his hand and smiled. And looked on while Mother and Brother jammed it up with the returning stranger. She however could not take to calling the old man Dad, like he wanted, and kept on saying Sir, which hurt, he said. He courted and married her mother again, in proper Tausug custom, but when the son Mimi’s brother sold the car he bought him, the old man went back to America, to process his wife’s papers for an excuse, and when he did not succeed the first try, he stopped trying altogether until he was not to be heard from again.

You should have hauled me to court. Nailed me behind bars. Now I will have to convict you.
Each one of you.

Some are born to sweet delight

The cut worm forgives the plow. (Proverbs in Hell, W. Blake)

The title of the post is a line from William Blake's poetry; Which Nadine Gordimer appropriated for her story about a girl who gets killed when a terrorist, a roomer in her mother's boarding house she fell in love with, uses her to bomb the plane she boards.

The story came to mind as I gad about inside my head, in between thankless transcription jobs, and in the midst of all the futile war of words I endlessly engage in with people, half-friends half-allies who I made the highest fortune to know. There's no regretting the world, and as I think it over, I recall Ramille quoting Kah Arlene about buti na yung ikaw ang malamangan kesa sa ikaw ang manlamang: better that people conned you than you conning them.

What I say is, it is not a question of whether you stole or did not steal, and not a question of getting caught or not caught, but rather, what do you steal. Robinhood is, of course, everybody's star robber, stealing cratefuls from the rich that the poor may eat. One of my favorites is Riva, Marge Piercy's information pirate: she steals data, including scientific formulas from the multis, that poorer countries may make their own medicines.

Another favorite is the bohemian Jean Genet, who is not fictional, and that's why he can only be a petty thief. What people miss is, the fag was actually stealing a life: he got free board and rent at the penitentiary and wrote the plays that earned him fame as a poet-criminal, which in the French revolutionary tradition is a glorious title.

The previous week, journalist friends were on a hype over what they perceive as big-time robbery. Mary Ann, they say, has been robbing you blind. Lord. As though I didn't know that. If I make up a list about crimes committed by NGO friends, I said to them, murder and theft ranks highest: they rob you first, and then they murder you. Or, they murder you first, and then they rob you. When you're dead, nobody believes you anymore, and so they embalm you for a little while, and resurrect you again if they need more of your remains.

How come, you say, I'm still here and not quite dead yet?

But I am already dead. See, I cannot even write a book. That requires a living writer to do that. I don't even have a byline. A blogline is not a byline. A byline is what you see on newspapers, legit. Genius is achievement, poet-mentor and underachiever Cesar Ruiz Aquino explained, quoting another mentor. Yes, Germelina, you are right. We mother rights awardees are just pathetic bloggers, ghost writing for our former dead writer selves that our employers may live.

The Royal We doesn't become me, aha? But false humility doesn't become me more.

You know the funny story about how some cadres escaped the purges?

Oca, said Luwi, was spared because the hukbo -- or the Political Officer -- who should be ordering his execution had a moment: he thought maybe Oca could write them another project proposal? After the purging the reconstruction, what will happen to the Reaffirm project if they ran out of fucking writers to take care of fucking funding agencies? I don't know if they were able to recycle Oca's life as a fund raiser, but I just know the feeling. So when I listen to Joni Mitchell singing how freely she slaved away for something better and how she got herself bought and sold, I feel a little better, like I can forgive myself and my retailers.

So what if fat catatonics and ugly old dykes stole my words and my aces? It wouldn't make them better catatonics and better dykes, only better thieves.

Credit? Byline?

Long had I signed a pact with the devil. I'll be damned if my friend Mephistopheles did not take care of them.

imams, lesbians, and rape

The imams they do not condemn us, they know lesbians exist. What they don't like is news of rape and some such.


(This is an excerpt from an interview. See also: http://tumbalatadavao.blogspot.com/2011/11/si-mherz-at-ang-usaping-sogi.html.)

....

Mherz: The imams, they do know something, and some they really have a low regard for lesbians. They say that it can't be helped, having lesbians around, because in the old times, in the period before The Prophet, there were already lesbians. They know that lesbians exist, they do not condemn us, what they don't like is when they hear about rape and some such, because last month there was a rape involving lesbians.

Sheilfa: Last month?

Mherz: In September.

Sheilfa: Where is that?

Mherz: At Tanjung. At Zone 3.

Sheilfa: Really?

Mherz: A student.

Sheilfa: Just this last month?

Mherz: Yes. That's why lesbians have such a bad reputation here.

Sheilfa: You know the rapist? What is she like, an addict?

Mherz: No, not an addict. It's like this. The girl's MU got into a fight with this lesbian.

Sheilfa: With the rapist.

Mherz: Yes. With the rapist. They had a fight at one time and the girl's boyfriend got a beating and took it hard. He did not hit back. Just took all the insults spat at him and kept them inside him. Then he said to the girl's boyfriend, one day you will be sorry for all this.

Sheilfa: Then she found an opportunity to get back.

Mherz: Yes. Through the girlfriend.

Sheilfa: Men do that all the time. They do that. That's why during war, say this camp and that camp, or this country and that country, instead of men killing each other, it's the women they turn on, so we have this mass rape each time there is a war. What this tomboy did, it's like that. Hurt the woman to hurt back another man.

Mherz: Yes.

Sheilfa: Because if she fought one-on-one she would be beaten.

Mherz: Haha. He'd be beaten black and blue. He won't score a single point. Zero. So what he did, he took the girl, fetched her from school.

Sheilfa: She had her kidnapped?

Mherz: No. He told the girl the boyfriend wanted her.

Sheilfa: The girl had no idea that she will be...

Mherz: She didn't know about the fight.

Sheilfa: But the girl was not the object of the fight.

Mherz: No. There was another issue. But I don't know what.

Sheilfa: And then? After fetching her?

Mherz: The girl said, where are we going? Wait, I will just get my bag. Then she just noticed that they were already at Zone 3. She said, why are we here? Your boyfriend is here and wants you here because he's got some problems, he'd like to get some fresh air. She believed him. And when they got to this hut, it was a small hut, she asked, Where's.... she looked for her boyfriend. But he wasn't there, of course. Not here, he said to her, your boyfriend is not here.

Sheilfa: And then she raped her.

Mherz: Not right away. First, he beat her. He said to her, listen to what I have to say to you and get all of this to your boyfriend. I didn't ask anymore what he said to her, the patient had difficulty speaking, you see. She was rather traumatized. She was fifty-fifty when she was taken to the hospital.

Mherz: She is from the Port Area. Fourth year high school. They are our friends, the perpetrators. Including the girl, she is also a friend.

Sheilfa: Who told you about this?

Mherz: She herself. She told me while she was at the hospital. At the public hospital. We were there, I chanced upon her because a friend's sibling was also admitted on that day. She is the daughter of an imam. A bit older than me.

MM: Older than you?

Mherz: I mean the face. But I don't know if she really is older than me because…

Sheilfa: She's tall?

Mherz: Yes. She's got a nice body, aha?

Sheilfa: The tomboy that raped her, is she also big?

Mherz: No. Just about my size, but there were four of them.

MM: Tomboys?

Mherz: Yes.

MM: The ones who played basketball with us?

Mherz: Yes. Two of the tomboys are from Busbus, one is a student of Sulu State College, third year high school.

Sheilfa: What did they use, a motorcycle?

Mherz: Yes.

Sheilfa: There were gang rapes before, remember? And no one was really arrested or penalized, right? They got away with it. So these tomboys, they took after these crazy rapists.

Mherz: That's why.

Sheilfa: You don't know their names?

Mherz: I don't know the names.

Sheilfa: These are the same tomboys you see around during practice?

Mherz: Yes. And they're our friends too, but not very close.

Mherz: Took fancy on her.

Sheilfa: Turned on her. Boys do that. If they cannot square it off with another boy, they hurt the girlfriend or the sister. What do people here usually do in such cases, keep it secret, contain it? It shames the woman, the family?

Mherz: No. They also try to talk about it, because the father wanted to ask for help, because at the time when the daughter was at the hospital and he was home, the rapist's uncle visited him and warned him against... what's ipasaplag, M?

Sheilfa: Spread.

Mherz: Yes. To not expose it, not tell people. And especially, he said to him, don't ever think of filing a case because I can finish you anytime I like, even right at this moment. There was nothing he could do. They are poor.

Sheilfa: It's like a repetition of what happened before. It was like this in 2009, right? There was this series of rape. But now, the perpetrators are lesbians. Fuck.

Mherz: The rapists are lesbians.

Sheilfa: What's the implication of that on our work of organizing lesbians. Shiiit.

Mherz: The tomboys in Jolo are shitty fucks.

Sheilfa: That's why, maybe there is a need for us to create an alternative... lesbianhood, right?

Mherz: Some lesbians I know are even into selling girls.

Sheilfa: Is Rhidz among these?

Mherz: No.

Sheilfa: Are you among these?

Mherz: Eeeey! Sipais!

Sheilfa: What's sepais?

Mherz: Nothing. It's like Jesuschrist.

MM: Never.

Sheilfa: So you have never in your language. Is it true that during the series of rapes in 2009, some lesbians were at the service of these rapists, espying after the girls and feeding information to the rapists, like she goes to school at this hour and goes home at this hour. Is it true?

Mherz: Before? They just did not rape girls, they were also selling them into prostitution.

Sheilfa: They really did that?

Mherz: They did that all the time.

Sheilfa: They're the pimps here? In Davao the fags are the pimps.

Mherz: Before, everyone was a pimp. Fags, tomboys, anybody. Men, women.

Sheilfa: Everyone was a pimp?

Mherz: Yes. Sometimes even your own mother pimped for you.

Sheilfa: True.

Sheilfa: You know of many cases like that here?

......

Si HRD at ang ASG: excerpts from an interview with Cocoy Tulawie

This should be titled In defense of the Abbu Sayaf. Cuts from interviews conducted around this time last year. The phone containing the taped interviews was stolen before I could finish transcribing.

…..Lahat ng Christians kaaway, tapos yung kidnap for ransom to sustain organization allowable. So medyo malabo sa akin iyon. Year 2002 nagmiting noon. Ako, si Global, si Dr Abou Gumbahali, doon malapit sa Karawan, Indanan, iyan ang erya nila. Tapos, eventually, nakipag-usap ako sa mga naging kagroup ko, iyong naging Bawgbug, sila Al Fhadar Fajiji, tapos sila rin, hindi sila pumayag sa ganun. Yung si Majid Ibrahim, classmate ko yun siya since high school, patay na. Iyong isa pang member ng Abbu Sayaf, si Yusoph Tadday, na malamang nasa Muntinlupa na o sa Bagong Diwa, kaibigan ko rin yun. Noong nakulong siya sa Jolo pumunta sa akin ang Father niya, tapos binisita ko siya. Si Nadjmi, yun si Global.

Hindi ako naniniwala sa negotiations. Hindi rin iyan makakatulong sa Muslim community. Hindi rin mari-realize ng masses ang hinahangad nila, di ba. Hindi rin sila makaka-benefit diyan. Iyong mga commanders lang. Mga MILF leaders lang ang makikinabang diyan. Wala naman talaga kuwenta ang negotiations eh. Tulad noong nakipag-negotiate si Misuari, anong nangyari, inilagay sa power. Anong nangyari sa ibaba? Wala.

Kung i-attack nila iyon corruption, iyon pa, mas makikinabang pa ang mga tao, kasi hanggang barangay level iyan, e. Iyong peace negotiations, ang mga lider lang ang makikinabang niyan. Tulad ni Misuari, nakipag-negotiate siya, inilagay sa power. Sa ibaba walang nangyari.

Si Misuari noong ARMM Governor siya, dapat he had the power to discipline the Governor of Sulu at lahat, pero wala. Kasi iyang IRA, kung ikaw ay isang mayor, bago maaprubahan ang IRA mo sa itaas, kailangan maaprubahan muna sa provincial level. Magkakaroon ng deliberations diyan sa province. Pagkatapos niyan bago iyan maaprubahan i-deliberate muna iyan sa provincial level bago ipadala sa ARMM, saka doon sa national. Ibig sabihin, ang ARMM Governor may control siya over the mayor. Iyong ARMM Governor may power siya over sa apat na governors. Above all, ang national government, sila pa iyong may pinaka-responsibility diyan na i-discipline iyong mga governors. Kasi representatives nila ang mga iyan sa grassroots e. Ang problema sila-sila lang din, kasi iisang bahay lang sila. Pero madugong discussions iyan.

Yung mag-human rights campaign, bagong option kasi iyon eh. Kasi ang dating option bibitbit ka ng baril, maging armado ka. Ginawa na iyon e. Ginawa na ng MNLF, tapos ginawa ng Abbu Sayaf. Ginawa nila iyon kasi akala nila, mahinto iyong abuse. Pangalawa, gusto nilang makamit ang freedom nila. Di ba? Tapos tayo naman ang pinili nating option i-document lahat, tapos kailangan mag-cooperate ang pamilya nung mga namatayan, ng mga wounded, lahat-lahat. All cases of abuse pati na rape. At ginawa talaga iyan ng mga tao, nag-cooperate sila. Nagpupunta talaga ang mga tao, nagpapa-document talaga sila. Pumupunta sila. Umabot sa ganoong situation. Pero wala pang nag-document na iyong aggressive talaga para ma-address iyong human rights situation. Wala akong nakikita na ganoon e. Andami-daming human rights violations sa Sulu pero isang beses lang bumaba ang DOJ. Iyong Padiwan Massacre. Si Undersecretary Makabangkit Lanto pumunta doon. Pagkatapos ng Padiwan Massacre, the rest na nangyaring HRVs wala na, inignore nila. Iyon din ang isa sa mga challenges sa HR victims sa Jolo, kung pano i-handle para hindi mawala iyong hope ng mga tao. Kasi winawala talaga iyon e. Kaya dapat ipagpatuloy ang paniniwala sa HR.

Paano panatilihin ang hope for human rights? Kasi marami ang nagsasabi, halimbawa ang mga sundalo, sasabihin nila, Ilang taon na kayong nakikipaglaban sa human rights, nanalo ba kayo? So parang pinapatay nila iyong hope ng mga tao. So tayo naman paano natin panatilihing buhay iyong hope. Kasi kung ayaw ring makipag-cooperate iyong victims sa iyo, mahirap din iyon. Malaking bagay iyon e. Kasi sa Muslim kasi, kapag may nangyari sa iyo, sabihin, Tuhan allahu ta’Allah. Sa Muslim kasi kapag namatayan ka chadar, destiny na ganun na talaga ang mangyari, so bakit pa siya magku-complain. Isa sa mga pinakamalaking problema na na-confront iyan iyong bago pa lang kami nag-uumpisa. Ang ginagawa ko din sa organizing sinisigurado ko na meron talagang panahon na magselebreyt ng temporary victory. Iyon mag-ipon-ipon kayo lahat, kasi bago sa kanila iyon,e. Na-try ko talaga iyan.

Kahit anong sector hindi naman mahirap organisahin basta masipag ka lang. Iba-iba rin kasi ang interes ng mga tao. Ang rape kasi kahit saan puwede mo siyang dalhin. Iyong fishermen mahirap mong dalhin iyan sa isyu ng kababaihan. Pero may panahon na nagpa-participate din talaga sila. Iyong mga tricycle drivers, there was a time na hindi sila namasahe, nag-join sila ng rally, na-surprise talaga ako noon. Wala akong miting with the tricycle drivers prior to that rally kasi hindi ko noon inexpect na sasali sila dahil kailangan nilang kumita, e. Sa tricycle drivers kasi, ayaw ko silang i-organize para sa ibang isyu, pero kung kailangan nila kami, nandoon kami. Pero na-surprise ako noon dahil nandidiyan na silang lahat.

Rali yun para kay Misuari. Ang hirap ding kasi magparali ng Free Misuari e. Matakot ang lahat. Ang mga MNLF mismo pinagtatanggal ang mga piktyur ni Misuari sa mga restoran. Ako iyong pinaka-first na tao na nagdikit ng piktyur ni Misuari sa sasakyan. Natakot ang lahat ng tao.

Iyong rali laban sa ID system, maraming pressure. Sabi ng asawa ko, huwag mo na lang ituloy. Si Muayni nasa Lugus Island na noon. Hindi siya sumama sa rali. Pero sa rape issue sumama siya. Si Mufti sold out siya sa ideya kahit nasa Saudi siya at that time. Tapos noong nagrali na kami sa masjid, ayaw akong pasalitain nung imam ni Misuari. Sa kanya daw ang time na iyon. Sa kanya ang oras na iyon at walang ibang puwedeng humingi ng oras na iyon kundi si Misuari lang. Nag-eskpleyn ako sa kanila, iyon yung sinasabi ko na temporary victory. Kasi na-release nga iyong mga hinuli na walang ID. Para maramdaman nila iyong temporary victory.

Hindi naman sila magrarali kung wala ako e. Hindi nila kayang magrali sa Sulu nang sila-sila lang. At walang naganap na rali sa Sulu kung wala ako.

Iba naman yung time ni Cory. Para sa akin walang kuwenta yun. At saka at the time ang panghatak nila iyong puwede ka maging pulis, sundalo, posisyon sa gobyerno. Sa negotiation yun e. Ganun yun e. Hindi siya tungkol sa isyu.

Nagtakbir yung mga tao sa loob ng mosque e nung sinabi ko na bakit kung si Misuari ang huhulihin puwede kaming maggamit ng masjid, pero bakit kung tricycle drivers ang huhulihin hindi kami puwede dito sa masjid.

Jolo, Dumaguete a reprise

16 May 1997. Every night when I lie to sleep the fetid air assails me. I left the bowl of dust for the sea of garbage. Cellophane is going to gobble this whole town down.

Maimona says: I love like fire. My husband raped me when my parents were away. It’s because he loved me so much. Olive smiles: Im a ref. Cool. I throw away the bad things I keep the good.

Sheena: I am a rock. Hard. Hard. I have no friends except Farisha. She’s a tomboy. Together we scrounge the streets and fight men.

Mimi: I am a sunflower. Bright, bright, bright. I say Hi! to the sun. Say Goodnight to the night. And Bow. Bow.

Eleven years. My memory of Jolo was one of romance. I am devastated. In all those eleven years, the town has sunk down; only the garbage has piled up. I should write Jack. And tell Fatima: Here, the town you were so jealous of you don’t want us around. Can you embrace it? Embrace it.

18 may 1997. At the boat, aircon department. The lady tells me the bed belongs to her. She hunches and sprawls her legs her whole body saying this is mine mine mine keep off keep off. It isn’t greed. Just unhappiness. By and by an old man gently pushes me out of his cot. Sibug kaw, Indah. I expostulate, in choppy Tausug, telling him that I don’t like upper decks because I don’t like to sleep right in front of the TV the screen glaring at me it hurts my eyes. I feel stupid, irrational: like, in this shithole am I arguing for such a little thing? But how readily he agrees. The rest of the trip he sits there with his son glued to the TV, forgetting about me.

Humped over on my cot my hands in my belly a man asks: Maita kaw, Indah? My God, he knows I am Bisaya, but he only sees me as he sees: something in pain. They’re not at all like people I used to know in another country.

Morning at baliwasan grande: A clean well-lighted place. Is this relief I feel? I can’t wash Takut-Takut off me.

24 may 1997. Back in Takut-Takut and back to this pit. I happen to love the baby and didn’t feel for once like bashing its head against the wall. But I have this urge to push the door shut each time Mike threatens to show his face at the door to check on me saying Hi, trying, ever trying, to be nice. Mohay. That little woman with so much strength.

I feel sapped. All my energy drained out of me by all the noise all the clamoring needs the filth the despair around me. The stench of human habitation. I can’t stand it. The house Mohay is going to live in… incredible. Okay. Okay. So I am old. All my youth’s strength gone out of me gone into this sewers known as Takut-Takut.

25 may 1997. It’s no wonder the Tausug girls in Silliman are that deadly indifferent to talk of country. No language for struggle. Don’t care about Misuari and his bullshit. I can’t write. I can’t think. It’s not amoy basura, it stinks of godshit. Tinaehan ng gobyerno? Ng Diyos? And Saliya just said today she can’t bear the smell of fake leather it makes her sick she's going to faint. I can’t tell her I can’t bear the stench of everything else I could eat leather.

I need a cup of strong coffee. But there’s no coffee. No. There is, but no water to wash the spoon with. Okay there is water but there is no hot water. There is hot water, but it’s for the baby. Goodness. What am I to do? What am I doing here? Did I jump from the frying fan to the fire? Again?

Dear Zeny, You and Malik deserve a medal each for valor. You know what was my first thought after snugly settling in Takut-Takut? Arson. My second thought? Fatima. And that she should be here. My third thought? To flee! To hell with it all. Bahala kang Zenaydaha ka. Bahala kang Rolaysa ka. Bahala kang Mohaya ka. Mogradweyt ko, mogradweyt ko, uy. Lupad balik paDumaguete. Suffer Tim. Suffer Mr and Mrs Kelso. Suffer everything.