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Saturday, May 9, 2009

Crimson Crescents (An original short story by Gilbert Y. Tan)


Crimson Crescents
By Gilbert Yap Tan
(Note: This short story won First Prize for April 1988 and the Grand Prize of the Year in the 1988 Mr. & Ms. Magazine Love Story Contest)

She was named Bai by her parents who thought she looked like a little Muslim princess with tiny gold earrings shaped like quarter moons on her pierced ears. She was born on the feast of Hariraya which marked the end of thirty days of fasting. Her parents and their Muslim neighbors set about in frenzied preparation for it. Three days after that, her aguela insisted on having Bai’s ears pierced so she could pass on the family heirloom to her eldest granddaughter. Bai was baptized with a Maria appended to her name at the insistence of the kura paroko who ministered the rite.
As a child, Bai often wondered about the contrasts of her background with that of Camar’s. She befriended Camar on a Palm Sunday while on her way to church. She was waving her palaspas with the leaves at the tip folded to look like a flock of birds in flight.
Passing by a group of Muslim youngsters who were about her age, she was curious why they were not dressed for Sunday mass. Then suddenly her palaspas was snatched from her hand by a couple of boys who shouted “Sarimanok! Sarimanok!” They had mistaken her palm birds for the mythical bird of the Muslims. Bai pleaded with them to give it back but to no avail. Another boy came running after them while hastily rolling a tubao cloth between his hands. With a quick flick of the tubao, the boy hit the back of the palm snatcher who, in his surprise, dropped the palaspas. It was retrieved by the boy with the tubao. An exchange of names soon became an exchange of questions and answers.
“Why are you playing with these palm leaves?”
“This is not a toy. We use this to commemorate the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem.”
“Who is Jesus? Is he a prophet like Muhammad?”
“Jesus is the Son of God. Is Muhammad also the Son of God?”
“Muhammad is our prophet. He founded our religion so we could praise Allah, the Holy Name of God. Allah has no son.”
Confusion streaked across Bai’s forehead. “Is your religion different from ours?”
Camar only smiled at her naiveté.
* * *
Camar and Bai went to a high school run by a state university established mainly for Muslim and tribal minorities. They swapped each other’s baon during recess. While Bai had sandwiches, Camar brought quaint but delectable delicacies. But while Bai let the sweet, brittle bijon-like tinagtag crackle between her teeth, Camar just held the sandwich.
“Why are you not eating?”
“We are on fasting starting today which is the beginning of Ramadan,” Camar said matter-of-factly and spat on the floor.
“Why are you doing that? That’s unsanitary! You’ll spread germs that way!” Bai uttered, revulsed at what she just saw.
During the Ramadan puasa, we abstain from all physical activities. It’s our way of cleansing our souls.” Camar fidgeted in his seat as he explained his “unhygienic” act.
“So that's what our classmates call your freedom of spit!” Bai blurted out in a loud burst of laughter.
“You can have your sandwich back! Ina was right – all you Christians are pigs. You’ll eat anything anytime even it’s forbidden by your Bible!” He rose to leave.
“Wait!” Bai caught his hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made fun of your customs.” There was a remorseful tone in her voice.
Camar scrutinized her face as if searching for any trace of insincerity in it. “It’s all right. I’m just cranky for not having eaten anything since this morning. Our first and only meal will be tonight.”
“If I promise not to tell anyone, will you eat this sandwich?”
“If you will let go of my hand, I can eat the sandwich properly.” A smile lit up in his eyes.
* * *
When they entered their freshman year at the state university, the academic atmosphere was burdened with sparks of dissent, discrimination and dismay. The students were factionalized. The chairmanship of the supreme student council was the bone of contention between Christian and Muslim parties.
Christian students lorded it over the Muslim students and treated them like second class citizens. Christian teachers and staff members bristled at the dropped hints that they should convert to Islam if they wanted security of tenure. The resentment on both sides was like transparent glass waiting to be shattered.
Bai was often mistaken for a Muslim. She was outrightly rejected by a sorority when she gave her name. She took up nursing because of the lucrative jobs that awaited nurses abroad.
Camar enrolled in AB Political Science for one day he wanted to handle cases involving Muslims. He joined the Black Shirts frat which had a rival – the Ilagas. Frats in the 70s were named after the two warring groups. Black Shirts were Muslims in black attire who fought the Christians over land disputes. The Ilagas were Visayans resented by the Muslims because they grabbed their lands.
One drizzling night on their way home from classes, Camar took off his tubao which he used as a belt for his denims so Bai could cover her head. A loud voice in the dimly-lit alley jolted them.
“Where do you think you’re going, you Black Shirt?
There were five men in the shadows. They were armed with bats, truncheons, and chains. One figure stepped out and looked at them closely. The man noticed the tubao on Bai’s head and dismissed them. “You may go! You are not the one we’re after.” Camar and Bai hurriedly walked away in fear of whatever else the darkness held in wait for them.
The next day, the news spread all over the campus that a rumble was raging between the Ilagas and the Black Shirts. One Ilaga fratman was found dead with a rosary stuffed down his throat. That night, Purok Medina was razed to the ground by men who angrily shouted “You Muslims hate us for eating lechon. Now be the lechons yourselves!”
Several classes in one building of the university were cancelled because the homeless Muslims sought shelter there. Bai was among the volunteers who attended to the fire victims. Many of them wore only flimsy malongs since all their clothes and properties were lost in the fire.
Afterwards, when the embers from the fire had become ashes, the anger still seethed and surged. Prayers chanted in loud wails could be heard as they reverberated in the building. The fire took the lives of three children innocent of the two frats’ folly. The sufferings she saw made Bai realize that she had a crucial decision to make.
* * *
The strife was still going on, this time on a wider scale, when Bai passed the board exams. She found a low-paying job at the provincial hospital and was assigned to the unholy graveyard shift from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. Camar had gone underground and joined a rebel movement espousing the secession of Mindanao from the Philippines. The writing on the wall called for a holy war – Jihad. This only served to drive a deeper wedge leading Camar and Bai to drift apart.
While on duty, Bai was called to assist in the emergency room. A Muslim rebel was seriously wounded during an encounter with the military. “This man could have been my Camar,” she thought. As she cleaned the rebel’s wounds, tears stung her eyes. She tried to hold them back, but it was too late – the floodgates of her memory opened and clouded her vision.
“Bai, I am a Muslim. My religion judges. It urges resistance when and where there is injustice.”
“Why do you have to do this? Don’t you know what it is doing to us, to our lives?” Bai was inconsolable.
“We are only fighting for what is rightfully ours.”
“But this will also bring down a holocaust upon all of us!”
“Yes, I know that . . .” Camar let out a heavy sigh. “But I also know and feel that I love you so much, Bai. The Jihad, if it comes, can’t change that.”
“Camar, at this moment, I swear upon the Holy Bible that you are and will always be the only man I love.”
“Bai, on the powerful words of the Koran, I promise you my heart.”
Their irreconcilable differences lost momentum and became trivial on that bittersweet night of parting.
* * *
From that moment on, every shot fired became a thorn inflicted on Bai’s heart. She seemed to see Camar’s face on every casualty in those skirmished. She became closely attentive to news of encounters in the province. Her ears morbidly waited to hear onlt one name. She feared the inevitable – she feared for Camar’s life.
The routinary night watch over the patients began to tell on Bai’s disposition. She was restless as she made her rounds. While adjusting the intravenous drip for a patient, she saw a flash of red outside the window pane. It was Camar waving his ubiquitous tubao. Bai’s heart leaped at the sight of him. It was almost a year since their separation. She pointed towards the morgue wing and hurried to welcome her rebel back. She tried to conceal her nervousness, but it showed in her uneven steps.
Their kisses were passionate. Bai broke away from his lingering embrace. “You must not be seen here. There are soldiers confined here.” There was alarm in her voice.
“I will not be deprived of my chance to see you and to have you in my arms.” Camar looked at her longingly.
“Camar, it is not safe here. I want you to stay but on but you have to go now. Please!” Bai sobbed through her tears.
He brought out his tubao and tenderly wiped her tears. “I will bring your tears with me. They will always remind me of your love.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her once more.
Bai watched the darkness envelop Camar. The future was as murky as ever. Her restlessness lifted only to let anxiety settle down in its place. She heard gunshots nearby. She held an empty medicine tray tightly with both hands. One patient moaned aloud in his troubled sleep. “Everything will be all right,” she told herself. She felt a shudder course through her body. “It will be all right . . .”
She learned that Camar was spotted the night before. Bai did not know what to do and think. She paced the length of the nurses’ quarters. She wanted to cry but she could not. Her handkerchief choked from her constant wringing of it. Later that day, a bunch of tinagtag was delivered to her by a grimy looking boy. He would not tell her from whom it came. Hurriedly unwrapping the delicacy, Bai found a message meant for her eyes only.
“He is alive, but he wants you by his side. Go to the market. Someone will offer you a mat with the niaga motif. Follow her.”
She filed for a leave on the pretense that her mother was sick. Minutes later, Bai was at the less-frequented handicraft section of the market. It was a time when practicality demanded of people to spend their money on essentials rather than on décor. She contemplated on an oversized basket made of dried water lily stalks and thought of how useful it would be as a clothes hamper. She did not sense the pair of eyes following her every move. Startled, she watched a circular mat unfold before her. She looked up and noticed four gleaming gold-capped teeth in a row surrounded by a smile of a female vendor. Then she recognized the intricate dragon-like designs on the mat. The niaga design!
Bai followed the vendor to the backroom. Her regulation white shoes were replaced by a pair of nondescript black kung fu shoes. A loose batik t-shirt was substituted for her blouse. The woman motioned to her to follow.
She undertook her perilous trek into the mountain recesses with a blindfold and under cover of darkness. When her female escort took off the blindfold, Bai saw the rebels praying in a prone position facing east towards Mecca. She was led gently into a makeshift hut where Camar lay wounded. Tears sprung from her eyes as she rushed to him.
Camar spoke in a hoarse whisper. “It’s Allah’s qadar that I be wounded. If it is His will that I die for the movement, then I am resigned to accept my fate.”
“No, Camar! Don’t say that …” she interjected.
“I did not ask you to be here to argue with me, Bai.”
“Camar, you are telling me that your God is a God of vengeance. A God who wants bloodshed. But I know Allah is compassionate and all-knowing as my God is a God of love.”
“I am a Muslim and I stand by my beliefs.”
“But you and I are Filipinos. Let us not allow our cultural differences to separate us from our faith in one God.”
“Yes, it is our faith that unites us all . . .” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “And we are bound not only by love, but also by blood.”
“Rest now, Camar . . . all these will soon pass.”
“Bai, kalimu ko saka . . .”
“I love you too.” And with a heavy heart, she braced herself for the journey back. She stumbled through the rocky precipices f the mountainside. She was in despair and hopelessness clung to her like a heavy cloak.
Back at her quarters, She murmured the prayers of the Rosary for him as she went through a sleepless night. “God, if you can hear this plea, lowly as it is, please enlighten Camar’s mind and keep your love burning in his heart . . . “ Dawn crept slowly to reach the fringes of the retreating darkness.
* * *
When he was well enough, Camar sought a private audience with their commander.
“Assalam alaikum, Commander.”
“Assalam, Camar.”
“I want to talk to you about my decision.”
“And that is . . .” The commander gestured to him encouragingly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Camar said, “I’m leaving our movement.”
“You are aware of our movement’s code, are you not?”
“Yes, I am.” Camar swallowed hard.
“You know and yet you still want out?”
“I believe this is my true fate and will accept it, no matter what the outcome is.”
The commander shook his head. He regretted to lose a good follower like Camar, but he must respect his decision. And now he had in his hands the responsibility to perform for their cause. He couldn’t risk the gains achieved by the movement.
A single shot was all it took.
* * *
It was twilight. Stars would be out that night in the cloudless expanse of the sky. People left in trickles. Soon Bai was left alone by the grave of her beloved Camar. The anguish of losing him left her speechless, but thoughts raced around her mind.
Why is it so easy to hate others and so difficult to love in return?
How long will this struggle go on?
How many more will die for what is at stake?
Why Camar? Oh God, why Camar?
His body was found that morning by the roadside and was brought to the hospital morgue. She saw Camar still clutching the bloody tubao to his chest. The tubao was now in her hand – stained by her tears and his blood.

Camar’s words resounded in her consciousness. “And we are bound not only by love, but also by blood.”
Somehow her tears of love and the blood from the heart promised to her by Camar had fused together in that significant piece of cloth. The tubao used by Camar to flick a playmate just so he could retrieve her palaspas, the same cloth that she used as a turban against the drizzle, and the same color that caught her attention when he came down from the mountains just to see and hold her. The memories that plagued her were painful, but the pain that scraped her heart also brought an understanding that somehow made his death more bearable.

Her dark brooding misery found comfort and solace in his ultimate sacrifice in the name of love. Bai promised herself that she would learn to let go in the same way that she had learned to love Camar.

"Go to Allah with my love, Camar, kalimu ko saka . . .” Bai whispered and in the dying light of the sun, her earrings blazed like crimson crescents.

(Illustrations scanned by Ric Dumalay)

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Pacman makes it to Time 100 - The World's Most Influential People


Manny Pacquiao is featured in The Time 100 - The World's Most Influential People in its May 11 2009 issue. Pacman belongs to the Heroes & Icons (Those who inspire) together with sportsmen Tiger Woods, Rafael Nadal, US First Lady Michelle Obama, actor George Clooney, Pastor Rick Warren and TV maven Oprah Winfrey. Pacman has a one page feature on page 69 of the Asian edition of Time Magazine.

Below is the reprint of the article written by Lennox Lewis, former world heavyweight champion on Manny Pacquiao:


Manny Pacquiao

Pound for pound, Manny Pacquiao is the best boxer in the world. But even more important than holding that distinction, Manny has connected with the people of his home country, the Philippines, to the point where he's almost like a god. The people have rallied behind him and feel like they're a part of him, because they can see his talent, his dedication, his grace and his class. The grip he holds over the Philippines is similar to Nelson Mandela's influence in South Africa. I can surely see Manny becoming the Philippine President one day.

In fact, he already ran for Congress in the Philippines but lost, in part because voters thought he could do more for the country as an inspirational champion boxer. I agree with the Filipino people. Manny, 30, already has a true global reach, and his influence will only expand as he gets better. Manny is from the Muhammad Ali school. He's a boxer, a puncher and a mover — a champion in four weight divisions. He doesn't stand there and take shots. He throws that wicked jab and is so quick to dodge trouble.

Boxing needs a guy like Manny. Too often, when something positive develops, the sport takes two steps backward; you never know where the black eye is going to come from. With Manny, you don't have to worry about that. He just loves the sport and knows he's carrying the hopes of his country in the ring.

Lewis, the former world heavyweight champion, is a boxing commentator for HBO Sports

Fast Fact: Pacquiao is the first athlete the Philippine Postal Corp. has honored with his own stamp


Photos from Time Magazine website

Monday, May 4, 2009

My Belated Summer Reading List '09

Having some teeth extracted to make way for partial dentures is not my idea of enjoying the summer break. And so to distract my mind from the pain and to while the time while my gums heal, I immersed myself in reading some of Jack Ketchum's fiction: Off Season, Offspring and Peaceable Kingdom.


I'm glad to have found Ketchum's Off Season and Offspring this late. The earlier editions were abridged due to some gory scenes involving cannibalism. The books (in their restored texts) sure were the perfect foil to the hunger pangs brought on by the soft diet imposed by my dentist. Ketchum (whose real name is Dallas Mayr) is now getting the recognition he deserves. Some books of his had been/are being filmed (Offspring, Lost, Girl Next Door, etc).

Based on a true story in the 60s, The Girl Next Door is the story of a teen-aged girl who suffers abuse from a family that took her and her sister in after their parents died and other people in the community. It is also the story of how an adult holds sway over kids who know no better and the kid who is torn between the attraction of cruelty and the gut-feel of doing the right thing.

I have started reading this book of Ketchum's short stories. The stories are scary and stick to my mind like a last-song-syndrome (LSS). Ketchum now joins my list of favorite stellar authors.

I have not been able to smile the way I used to in the last two years due to some missing teeth and the penchant of some people I talk to of staring at my missing teeth. And so in looking forward to having partial dentures to complete my smile, I'm reading A Brief History of the Smile by Angus Trumble. Trumble explores various aspects of the smile as an involuntary reflex, a mating call, as a default facial expression, among others. There is no better preparation than this book in getting my original smile back. :)
The son of millionaire Gloria Vanderbilt, Anderson Cooper had to earn the respect of others the hard way and through hard work. As CNN reporter, Cooper gives his readers his first-hand accounts of chaos and conflict from the tsunami in Sri Lanka, the war in Iraq and the Typhoon Katrina aftermath in New Orleans and Mississippi.

As my fave author, Bob Greene never fails the reader in me. Here he tells the story of a childhood friend who is dying and how his friends saw him through to the end of his journey. Sentimental, true, but rightly just so. Anyone who doesn't get this book never had the privilege of experiencing true friendship.

A satisfying read to someone like me who loves musical theater. The book chronicles various points in Sondheim's life and the genesis of his musicals. The back stories of his musicals are so deliciously interesting. I'm now savoring how A Little Night Music came to life on stage. I can't wait to read about my favorite song, Being Alive from Company and the story behind Sweeny Todd.

I want this book by Bob Buford to cap my summer reading. The blurb convinced me to buy the three-book Philippine reprint: ". . . when you've accomplished something yet find yourself asking Is this all there is to life? Is there something more?"

Buford makes use of exemplars to show how we can make our lives richer and more meaningful and start living with the finish line in mind.
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