Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Edited by
Julio del Prado
Beatrice Tulagan
Vinch Santos
Ram Hernandez
iii
Contents
Prose
Editors Notes 02
What was Needed 05
Customized Attachment 09
0 K 11
Poetry
Editors Notes 26
Kundiman Distance 29
Manila 30
Passing By 31
Ginisang Tuna 33
Tuluyan at Tula
Tala Mula sa Editor 34
Seguridad 37
Bagong Tagpi 38
Pangalan 39
Spotlight 40
Never Again:
In Response to the Marcos Burial
Editors Notes 42
Org Statements
Marcos is Not a Hero: KC Orgs Statement 43
KUJ Statement 44
KLC Statement 44
Poetry
Apotheosis, M. 46
Blind Eye 48
Tuluyan at Tula
Pipi 49
Alaala 51
List of Contributors 53
Acknowledgments 54
1
editors note
Struggle is familiar to the writer. Writers spend a lot of their time
strugglingeffectively trying to build staircases that begin with their
emotions and conditions, hopefully landing on a flight of beautifully
constructed, clear-cut representations of what lies within them. And
then from there they have to ensure they do not alienatea piece must,
somehow, share something: strike a chord. Leave the room with the famil-
iar buzz of sympathetic resonance. Or so were told. Theres a lot thats
left to questionand if that doesnt sound like a struggle altogether then
I dont really know what is, to be blunt.
Personally Ive been struggling: struggling to write something I
like again (still hasnt happened), struggling to better myself on multiple
fronts (or maybe really I just mean academically); struggling just to get
these editors notes together. It clicked just a little bit ago: three years
down the line as prose editor for the Kalayaan Review and I realized that
we have always been subject to trials of all sorts: perhaps it is just this
year in particular that has felt especially difficult.
I also had an especially difficult time choosing the final pieces, this
year. I extend my thanks to everyone: those who made the final cut and
2
those who I had to leave out of selection, for a multitude of reasons
which any of you are always more than welcome to ask me about, I prom-
ise. Somehow, the remaining pieces are all about strugglingbe it deal-
ing with the internal or witnessing the external, there is a familiar thread
woven into different fabrics, this time around.
But somehow, we are always climbing. We are always on ladders;
trying to find the roof, fix the shingles, keep the rain out. We are always
hiking towards whichever zenith of whatever mountain, my favourite
expression coming from the poet Ikkyu: Many paths lead from the foot
of the mountain, but at the peak we all gaze at the single bright moon.
I am always thankful to be entrusted with the role of editor: the
trust bestowed upon me means a lot, but it is ultimately all of the writers
I remain eternally grateful for. May we struggle onward; until we shrug
the struggle off and learn to make leaps and bounds, the kinds of strides
we need to ensure we remain unbroken. I hope we all continue to climb
our stairs, forever onward until we are gazing upon the bright moon.
3
4 Kalayaan Review 5
What was Needed
Nicole Mijares
8 Kalayaan Review 5
Customized Attachment
Zandra Javier
10 Kalayaan Review 5
0K
Nicole Mijares
Ate Robin was ten when she told me about how the world worked.
We were seated on the balcony floor of our house in Gordon Heights,
with our legs dangling off the edge. Below us, uneven rows of rooftops
stretched out into the horizon, burnished metal reflecting the warm red
light of the setting sun. The light had cast an amber glow on her unruly
hair forced into lopsided pigtails. We were still in our uniforms, mostly.
She opted out of her plaid skirt and lounged about in the shorts she al-
ways wore underneath.
I had just mentioned that I learned about the different states of
mattersolid, liquid, gasin class that day when she said, Those arent
all of it, you know. There are a bunch of others too. Theres plasma and
then theres a boss Einstein something and a bunch of other stuff. I read
that in a book in the science lab. Ill show you next time.
The teacher in the science lab is scary, though.
Nah. Hes okay. A bit cold, I guess, but still okay, she said, swing-
ing her feet through the railing, into the air, and back again. Hey, Gab,
want to know something I havent seen in a book yet?
I nodded, gripping the metal bars in front of me.
You know how theres air all around us but we cant see it? she
whispered, Well, thats not all thats there. Maybe its the boss things, I
dont know, but its there all around us and its the reason you sometimes
feel really cold even when its really hot outside.
Like when the PE teacher tells you in front of everyone to sit out
of playing agawang sulok? And the other boys do an exaggerated imita-
tion of your wheezing fits, I didnt need to say.
Exactly. She nodded solemnly. Its also what causes you to feel all
warm after getting a present even though its December.
Wow. So thats what it is.
Thats not all, she said as she turned to fully face me. Sometimes
it gets into your body and makes you feel either really cold or really warm
even though you normally wouldnt. Kind of like a fever but different.
I must have made a face because she mussed my hair.
Dont worry. Its usually harmless. See that guy walking over
there? she said, pointing at a man with a girl on his shoulders. See how
hes bouncing and practically floating in the air? Thats because the stuff
inside him is warmer and less dense, uhmit means less compact. Any-
way, hes warmer and lighter inside than the stuff outside so he floats.
Prose: Fiction 11
What happens if the boss stuff inside you gets moredense?
Then your body goes cold and you sink.
I was seven but I knew she was telling the truth. Now I know how
wrong she was. Im no expert but Im fairly certain that Bose-Einstein
condensate, a state of matter that approaches temperatures near absolute
zero, has nothing to do with it. Yet she was right about almost everything
else. Ill have to ask her about it when I find her.
Prose: Fiction 15
Stop! Youll fall, I said as I lunged forward, arms outstretched, star
apples slipping from my hands.
Its okay, I wont fall, said Ate Robin with a light, playful laugh.
Ill never fall. Even if I slip, Im light so Ill keep floating, gently, slowly
down. Ill follow a breeze, just like always.
What if a gust of wind blows you away? I asked, tightening my
grip on her wrist.
She put her hand on mine; it was as soft and warm as the smile on
her lips when she said, Then youll anchor me, wont you? Just like al-
ways?
I released my grip and stepped away from the edge she continued
to trace.
I hated watching my breath frost up windows, and yet there I was, point-
edly looking anywhere but inside our dads Civic. My left side pressed
uncomfortably against the backseat door, several plastic bags filled to
bursting with discounted clothes sat between me and Ate Robin. It was a
couple of nights before she was supposed to leave for college.
I found some really cute skirts for you, sweetheart, our mom told
my sister from the front passenger seat. Theyre in that plastic bag be-
side you. Take a look.
I almost laughed at the scowl my sister gave to the bright pink
bubble skirt she pulled out. When she peered into the bag, I knew exactly
how much she loved the rest of its contents.
See them? Arent they cute? Our mom was practically singing
with glee now. I couldnt stop myself from snorting.
Ma, I dont think thats her color, I said, trying to keep a straight
face. Her reflection glares at me from the rearview mirror.
Dont be stupid. She loves it. Dont you, dear?
Yeah. Of course. Thanks, Ma, said Ate Robin. She put on an easy
smile even though mom couldnt have seen it anyway.
So, where are we eating? our dad asked as we exited the parking
lot and pulled into Rizal Highway.
Prose: Fiction 17
Theres this really nice restaurant next to Spanish Gate that Grace
wont shut up about....
Ate should choose since shes the one who wont be here for a while.
Okay then! said our dad a little too enthusiastically. He hated fine
dining. Well go to Little Caesars. Its always been her favorite.
Ate Robin shot me a questioning look over the plastic bags. I dont
eat pizza but I shrugged, acquiescing to our dads choice. She hasnt liked
the pizza there since we were little. I wont say anything if she doesnt.
I collapsed into bed as soon as we got home from Little Caesars.
Later that night, I woke to the sound of my door creaking open. My
ears strained against the deafening silence, listening for footsteps. There
werent any, just the soft breaths of the wind.
My hand, dangling at the edge of my bed, feels a familiar warmth.
My sisters hands wrapped tight around mine. They were trembling
slightly, perhaps from the cold. She probably had another talk with our
mom. I imagined hearing a muffled sob. Still, I feigned sleep.
She whispered something into the darkness but her words were
snatched away by the cool night breeze, her voice too soft to carry the
weight of meaning. After what seemed like hours, her hands stopped
trembling and the warmth on mine started to fade away. I drifted back
into a fitful sleep. She was already gone when I woke up the next day.
I receive the news on December 24. My parents have been trying to hold
it off for as long as possible but today, Ate Robin is finally declared le-
gally dead. I get the call before noon, from an unknown number.
It was the family lawyer who laid it all out for me. He goes on and
on, describing the process and the legal ramifications of declaring my
sister dead. His words pass through my skull like the December chill.
None of it changes anything. Not really. My insides feel leaden and
my feet dig a little deeper into the ground. For a moment, I imagine giv-
ing into that feeling, falling; I head to the rooftop. Unfortunately, Nilo
was there.
That first time we met, says Nilo after several minutes of what I
hope could pass as normal conversation.
When you were piss drunk?
After I mentioned my uncle, he continues, you said something
about an Ate Robin. Today, he only has two cans of beer with him: both
are now empty.
Did I?
Yeah. When you were helping me back to my room, I think.
18 Kalayaan Review 5
I have coffee. I take a sip. Its bitter. I keep drinking. Its warm
and familiar.
I can feel his eyes on me as he waits for me to speak.
You know how people are disappearing all over the country? I think
I know why, because the same thing happened to my sister ten years ago.
He sits there, listening, never interrupting. I tell him about her
how she used to drag me all over the place and how I slowed her down.
She loved rooftops and she would always take me up the ones she knew
I could climb. She also loved going off by herself and disappearing for
a couple of hours, sometimes more than a day. When I was younger, I
would beg her to take me along. She would simply wipe the snot and
tears from my face with the hem of her shirt and smile, shaking her head.
I didnt like it, but I had always accepted her little trips outside as normal
because my parents never really made a fuss about it. When I asked, how-
ever, Ate said that our mom used to scream at her for hours whenever she
would get home and that she had been the reason our dad had installed so
many double cylinder deadbolts to the front door. Eventually, they gave
up, made her carry a spare key, and bought her a phone. She would always
go home safely anyway and she never brought trouble.
So, when she disappeared again after her high school graduation,
our parents werent worried. They only called the cops on the third day.
I knew, even when I woke up to find her gone that first day, this time was
different from all the others. This time she might not come back. Despite
that, I did all that a school kid could do to find her.
I worked my ass off in high school, trying to get into the same uni-
versity she was supposed to go to. My parents didnt think I could do it
but I did, by the skin of my teeth. It was the first time I had ever worked
that hard for something. For some reason I had this strong feeling that
if I were to find her, it would be in Katipunan. Thats why Im still living
here. I cant explain why or where that feeling comes from. I just know.
For years, I would walk all over the city, looking up at buildings,
wondering if she was stuck somewhere like a kite on a tree. I never found
her.
I take a drag from my cigarette and hold the smoke in for as long as
I possible. I have no reason to mention the phone call.
Now my coffees cold, I say as first light encroaches, mercilessly
invading the darkened sky. The chain-link cages around us glimmer in
the light.
Nilo doesnt say anything. He just pokes at coals that have long
since died.
Prose: Fiction 19
Its been days since I last saw Nilo on the rooftop. Its almost one in the
morning and Im deciding whether I should go back to my apartment
when he finally comes without his usual bag of coal or his cans of beer.
He looks as if he ran up the stairs to get to the roof. He doubles over and
gasps out, in between breaths, Gab! I need your help!
His cousins son has been burning up and losing weight, he explains
when we get in the elevator. Theyve tried everything, from slack-jawed
clinicians to head-scratching albularyo. His parents can only look on
helplessly as he keeps getting worse. A few days ago, the kid started in-
termittently hovering a few inches over the bed.
We arrive at an old house along Malolos Avenue. A man in his mid-
forties; dressed in a large denim trucker jacket, is pacing outside the gate.
Nilo said you know whats happening to him, the man said, grasp-
ing my shoulders. Please help my son. His name is Kevin and hell be
turning twelve in February. Please. Help him.
Nilo and I follow him to a room at the very back of the house. Kevin
is staying where its coldest, the father explains. They wanted to keep his
temperature down as much as possible.
The kid is on a bed at the center of the room, bags of melting ice
beside him. His mother, Nilos cousin, is sitting on a chair beside the bed,
brushing his hair back from his forehead with a damp cloth. The air con-
ditioner is at full blast but shes sweating. The temperature should drop a
few minutes after I walk in.
Thank you for coming, she says with a weak smile. There are bags
under her eyes and tear stains on her cheeks. Nilo gives her a quick hug.
Ill go get more ice, says the father. He closes the door behind him.
Kevins mother pushes the chair against the far wall and steps aside,
giving us room to examine her son. Theres a faint flush on his cheeks but
he looks otherwise normal. I gently lay my palm against his forehead. My
skin tingles; he must be burning up.
When I step aside, Nilo brushes the hair from Kevins eyes. His fin-
gers are a bright pink when he pulls them back. He turns around to his
cousin and me, saying, Ill go get us some coffee, before shuffling out
of the room.
It takes a few minutes of silence before I realize that Nilo never
properly introduced us but before I can amend that, she says, Nilo said
you know whats happening to him?
I wouldnt say that exactly. Something very similar happened to
someone I knew a long time ago. Shed float just like this, sometimes.
What happened to her? Did she recover? Will my son be alright?
20 Kalayaan Review 5
My fingers itch for a cigarette but I tamp down the urge. Her breath
is only starting to get cloudy. I shouldnt warm myself up just yet.
How long has he been having these symptoms? I answer.
IIm not sure, but he never told me that anything was wrong. Im
sure he would have said something. She squeezed the cloth in her hands
before hastily wiping her sons forehead.
I ask if shes heard anything unusual from his school.
Hes never been a very bright student. He gets distracted easily
and forgets to do his homework sometimes, but thats normal. Her ex-
pression softens when she looks at her son. He always had the brightest
smile on his face. Never complaining. No one had anything bad to say
about him, really. Hed light up any room he walked into.
So no major problems at school?
Oh no, none at all. Hes getting by just fine, she says, shivering
slightly at the last word.
What about at home?
I dont see how thats relevant.
Nilo comes back with a mug in each hand. The mother, whom I
later hear him calling Linda, welcomes the relief of coffee. I accept mine,
with muttered thanks, and pretend to take a sip before setting it down on
a nearby shelf. Linda and I settle into a lull as Nilo fills the room with
stories from when Kevin was a small boy.
For a moment, everything was okay. Linda relaxed a little, enough
to even manage small bursts of quiet laughter. Kevin settled to hovering
only a few centimeters off the bed.
By the time my mug of coffee stops giving off steam, Nilo finally
runs out of stories. He shivers, rubbing his hands together and shoving
them in his pockets. The room should be cold enough by now. I con-
sider stepping out for a quick smoke before I doze off completely, but my
thoughts are torn away by a sharp gasp followed by a shout.
Gab! Come on, help me hold him down! What
Nilos hands seem to slip through Kevins wrists.
Why? Whats happening? Kevin, sweetheart, please.
Hes blurring at the edges, becoming indistinct, immaterial almost.
Gab! Do something!
He shouldve cooled down. He shouldnt be getting worse.
I dont understand. Ate Robin said
Thats because the stuff inside him is warmer and less dense, uhmit
means less compact. Anyway, hes warmer and lighter inside than the stuff out-
side so he floats.
I feel my insides harden as the realization hits me.
Prose: Fiction 21
No, wait, we need to warm up the room. I
He hits the ceiling, dispersing in a cloud of bright mist, fading into
the rooms dull artificial light. It was like he was never there.
All that he left behind were crumpled sheets wet from spilled ice-
water and tears, a mother clutching at thin air and screaming for her
baby, and a father that burst through the door at the commotion only to
rush back out at the sight of the empty bed and his wifes eyes.
Nilo tries to console her but her cries only grow louder. There are
shouts and thuds coming from outside the room.
I shouldnt be here. I move to leave but I sink to the floor, legs trem-
bling. I shouldnt have been here. I only made things worse. I remember
the night before Ate Robin disappeared. I remember the warmth of her
hand fading and I sink even deeper into the ground.
Its already daybreak when Nilo and I head back to our apartment
building. We dont speak the whole way, not even once. Its only when the
elevator stops at my floor that he breathes out, See you tomorrow.
The metal doors close behind me before I can turn to respond.
The following night, Nilo rings my doorbell and hands me an alu-
minum can. Coffee, it says in tiny letters under the brand label. Its prob-
ably hot.
Its thanks for yesterday, he says. I dont even know why I called
you. There was no way anyone could have done anything.
I murmur my thanks and let him in.
Come to think of it, he says with a lopsided grin on his face, Why
do people say thank you after receiving thank you gifts? Shouldnt they
say youre welcome?
I shove aside several piles of papers from the couch, trying to make
room for him. They topple onto the floor, individual sheets flapping
weakly in the wind rushing from the open window.
Youre welcome, then, I say as I open the can. I take a sip; it tastes
like mud.
He pops open his bottle of beer then frowns.
Whats wrong? I ask him. Need me to cool it down for you?
No. Its fine. He taps the fingers of his left hand against the metal,
his ring clinking against it. Its just that. You know. It got me thinking.
Yesterday.
You should go see your wife and kid, I say, my lips hovering over
the rapidly cooling aluminum. A thin sheet of frost starts to cover what
my breath touches.
Shed pommel me as soon as she catches sight of me. Did I tell you
I used to have movie star looks before I met her? he says, letting out
22 Kalayaan Review 5
a half-hearted chuckle. Besides, shed probably yell at me for wasting
money I dont have.
I take out all of the bills in my wallet and hold them out to him. He
simply stares at my outstretched hand.
You need to see her. She wants to see you too, Im sure of it. Talk
to her. While you still can, I stop myself from adding. You can call your
boss tomorrow morning. Its the holidays. You should take a break and
be with family.
I cant possibly take all this he says, pushing my hand away and
almost spilling his beer in the process.
Dont worry about it. Consider it as thanks for the coal and the
conversation these last few weeks. And the canned coffee, I say, swirling
the remaining dregs.
He makes a few more objections and I insist some more.
Just when I almost have him convinced, he asks, What will you do
for money?
Havent I already told you? Im going back to Olongapo. Go get
a job therestart over from scratch, I figured, I said with a smile that
would have made my sister proud. Ill go and work my ass off over there
and in no time, 17k would be peanuts. Maybe you should move back to
Antique, find yourself a mine and make a fortune on coal.
Are you sure about this? he asks. I force the bills into his hands.
This time, he doesnt put up a fight and simply wraps his fingers on the
money, keeping the harsh winds from swiping them away. Thank you.
Ill pay you back, for sure
Theres no need. Really. Peanuts, remember?
Thank you.
You forget, you should say youre welcome.
He smoothes the bills and folds them carefully, before easing them
into his breast pocket. We sit there in silence, nursing our drinks.
Although there is something. I say after a while. Can you give
me the rest of your coal? Its going to get much colder here, I imagine.
The day Ate Robin started high school, we climbed the roof. At the very
back of the school complex, she made a grand gesture towards a tree. She
approached it with deliberate slowness then jumped. The next second,
she was running up the trunk, hands barely touching branches. I didnt
even have time to worry that she might slip and break her neck.
She stuck her head out over the roof and called out, Come on.
Its easy.
Prose: Fiction 23
I eyed the tree. Star apple: Chrysophyllum cainito, declared the board
nailed to its bark. I couldnt see any fruit. The trunk leaned towards the
roof at what looked like a manageable incline and several branches ex-
tended from it at almost uniform intervals, as if that tree was designed
specifically for climbing.
Its just one story, I muttered to myself.
I started my ascent with a confidence I soon lost. After several
minutes of slipping, hugging, and grasping at the caimito tree, I finally
managed to clamber up to the roof. Bent over and clutching my heaving
chest, I was met with a vast field of white framed by the dark green hues
of the forests beyond. The light afternoon drizzle had clung to the sur-
face of the roof, making it glisten. It was intensely bright and looking at
it made the back of my eyes burn but I couldnt look away.
Its foam, she said, waiting patiently for me to catch my breath.
Dont worryits alright to step on it. See? she added as she
stomped her foot down. The foam didnt yield an inch. The surface isnt
soft and you can walk on it. Come on.
I took a tentative step, testing the foam, slowly letting it accept
my weight, but still afraid that it wouldnt be able to support me, that it
would give in, swallow me. It held and I took another step.
Why would anyone put foam on a roof, though? I asked, scuffing
my shoe against the white, leaving behind a light trail of brown mud.
For insulation. This white you see is a top coat, she said, tapping
at the roof with the toe of her right shoe, It protects the foam but it also
deflects some of the suns light and heator, well, it reflects it, really.
Whatever isnt reflected gets absorbed by the foam underneath.
So, basically, its like a giant blanket that keeps you cool? Huh.
It kinda looks like snow. Id never seen snow.
But its warm, she said.
Hey, dont sit there! Its wet, youll get dirty.
Just a little bit damp. Its alright. She lay down, stretching her
limbs out as far as they could reach before folding her arms neatly on her
chest. Her permanently wind-swept hair fanned out around her head. She
let out an openmouthed yawn.
The green topped leaves of the caimito tree rustled in the wind.
Under the shade of an overhanging branch, there was a school chair. I set
that chair beside her and sat down.
Now that my eyes have gotten used to the bright light reflected by
the roof, I can see that it isnt as white as I thought it was. It might have
been, once, but right then it was yellowing in places that werent covered
in a layer of gray dust. Thin cracks branched across the surface, like the
24 Kalayaan Review 5
delicate veins of dried leaves. It looked like it could shatter at any minute.
I looked down at the metal legs of my chair, worried that they would stab
through and leave irreparable wounds.
I heard you and momtalking last night. They were probably in
the kitchen; I was supposed to be sleeping in my room upstairs.
Ate Robin shifted, lying on her side, her back towards me.
Isnt it hard? I asked.
Nope, she said, turning her head towards the sound of my voice,
eyes still closed. Its as soft as a bed made out of clouds.
Both of us knew it wasnt. Neither of us spoke for a long time.
I dont know how many days have passed. Most of me is either frozen
solid or completely shattered. I curl up around a milk can filled with whit-
ened coals. I see the metal touching my skin but I feel nothing. I remem-
ber Ate Robin, that day on the school rooftop, and warm snow. She was
right after all, it isnt hard.
I think of finally seeing her smile and hearing her say everything
will be okay, as I sink further and further where its colder and colder still,
until everything is bathed in deep, dark stillness and even light stays
frozen in midair.
Prose: Fiction 25
editors note
After all, poetry is a savage calling.
Edel Garcellano
And I ask the young here, Edel Garcellano breathed into a micro-
phone, as if posing a secret challenge, or perhaps an admonition, for the
fifty or so lucky enough to bear witness to a new poem in a lecture during
the 7th Philippine International Literary Festival. How long would you
toil in the violet hours of your young lives to serve the savage God?
A hush predictably fell over the crowdpartly because Sir Edels
manner of speaking has always been somewhere between a whisper and
a murmur, partly because he has a reputation for critiquing the establish-
ment and literary soirees such as the one he surprisingly he said yes to: a
session called Letters to Young Poets.
After the lecture, I managed to catch up with Sir Edel to ask for an
autograph of all things. He was of course soon flanked by other students
ecstatic over his surprise appearance so I was not able to extend the in-
teraction. When I got home, I remembered I havent even seen what he
wrote yet. I reached for my worn out copy of Knifes Edge, now one word
richer. In a hesitant script in fading ink, Sir Edel simply wrote Hello.
There will always be young writers toiling in their violet hours
and the ones whose poems are published in this issue of the Kalayaan
Review are no exception. There is an earnest attempt in each piece to
encapsulate burdens in all their gore and glory, all rooted from the poets
giving way to being young, being hungry, and being reckless. As to how
long these poets will continue to toil, we have no way of knowingbut
I certainly wish them a lifetime of stories and a lifetime worthy of being
storied.
26
I leave you now with another poem of Sir Edel Garcellano, aptly
called Words.
27
28 Kalayaan Review 5
Kundiman Distance
April Garcia
In the room with a cracked window, on the third floor of the ratty apart-
ment, on the corner of two hellsEDSA and Monte De Piedad. I choke
back our favourite Abelardo kundiman. We hold the same note octaves
apartthe distance, embalmed in the tapestry of photocopied music
sheets, is as grave as the humidity engulfing us. The unbearable 32-de-
gree Celsius of late April cannot stop the dust and sweat from infecting
the spaces of the pianoout of tune, like the spinning of the fan, accu-
mulating dirt, rust, and our voices. Were trapped in the spaces between
its blades, as we reached for the spaces between its ribs.
Poetry 29
Manila
Niki Dela Cruz
30 Kalayaan Review 5
Passing By
Niki Dela Cruz
I look at the toddler standing barefoot under the MRT tracks, in his tat-
tered clothes gazing out into the passing traffic of midday. I think about
how he must not have eaten anything yet as he stares out with empty
eyes, but as the traffic crawls along the length of EDSA.
I forget about him.
An ordinary bus stops beside the window, and the stark contrast is re-
flected even in the passengers. Through the deeply tinted window I stare
at the worn seats and worn-out riders. I think about the old Filipino films
with bus explosion scenes, but as I spot the driver laugh about something
with the passenger behind him.
I forget about it.
Poetry 31
Ginisang Tuna
Zinj Ludovica
I remember the dinners youd make for us. Easy to cook dinners because
your fingers hurt after long days of puttering in the house and you
wouldnt trust us to cook kasi sayang sa gas. Sardinas at misua. Mal-
ing. De lata. Daing at itlog na maalat na may kamatis. Lucky Me. Tinapa.
Tuyo at malamig na sabaw ng tinola. Adobong kangkong. Giniling na
may repolyo.
The nights in Rizal are lazy unlike nights here, everything is different
here. I miss the stars, catching frogs barehanded and trying to sing the
song of the toads, the way grass would rub against my elbows when I
walked the dogs, the fields that looked like a sea of grass when the wind
blew, taming goats even if you told me not to because they would eat the
malunggay and the scent of their shirt would trail into the house.
You would always go outside after lunch, pretending to sweep the yard
even though it was painfully obvious youd sneak off to buy a coke. Then
youd wheedle me to skip school and stay with you instead to cook pop-
corn and watch movies and explain the plot so youd understand whats
going on. I would hide the remote so you wouldnt fast-forward it to the
fun parts. Youd break the horror CDs in half and burn them because
kay Satanas galing to. Para wag pasukin ng masamang espiritu ang ba-
hay. Wed pray for forgiveness and youd assure me how God forgave us
kasi sinira naman natin agad pagkatapos at din na natin uulitin but I
knew youd still be seduced everytime by the sweaty DVD vendors at the
palengke entrance, I knew youd pick the goriest looking ones and hand
them to me to read if the synopsis is any good.
You taught me to use a little bit of sugar instead of MSG for the umami
flavour. Id eat every meal from the bowl I always ate from, the shallow
cream one with hairline cracks and bubbles and irregularities. I could still
see the glazed clay cup Id drink from, a small brown one, the same cup
Id share with the dogs.
I made dinner tonight. I can almost hear you yelling at me for having the
burner on too high and wasting gas. I cut garlic and onions the way you
taught me, saut them with the oil from the cans. I measure sugar, salt,
32 Kalayaan Review 5
and pepper by eye and it tastes exactly the way youd make it. I breathe
in the scent and try to tell myself Im teary eyed because of the onions.
Even though Im finished cooking. Even though you taught me how to
cut onions in a way that wouldnt make me cry. Im not crying because
cooking tuna is the only way I could make you come back. A knife and
chopping board being the line from me in the city to you in the province.
I wonder if you threw my clothes away, if you broke my bowl and cup.
That seemed like something youd do, with a kay satanas galing to. Para
wag pasukin ng masamang espiritu ang bahay.
I worry if you still sneak off to buy Coke from the sari-sari store. I worry
if you understand the movie plots and if theres someone to explain for
you.
Poetry 33
tala mula sa editor
Unang beses kong mag-edit uli pagkatapos ng tatlong taong hindi
pagsusulat. Hindi na rin ako gaanong nakakabasa ng fiction o kaya ng
mga tula. Hindi dahil pinilihindi naman ako ascetickundi dahil wala
talagang oras.
Aaminin ko, medyo malungkot na tatatlo lang ang mga piyesa sa
Filipino. Pero ang mahalaga ay may nagsumite pa rin. May naglakas-
loob. Iyon kasi ang sa tingin ko ay isa sa mahalagang bagay sa pagsusu-
lat: iyong maglakas-loob. Kaya sana magsulat pa rin sila, at magsulat ng
maraming-marami. Dahil ang pagsusulat, hindi lang naman kuwestiyon
34
ng karanasan, kundi ng pagbubuno sa nakagisnan, ng tunggalian. Taboo
word yata ang pakikibaka dahil siguro nakagisnan na natin na ang pani-
tikan ay dapat mabulaklak o kung ano pa. Mahalaga ang tunggalian kasi
natututo tayong mas maging masinop at kritikal; kritikal hindi lang sa iba
kung hindi sa sarili nating mga hinuha. Nariyan ang kapangyarihan ng
panitikan: ang manabik, manggulo, at higit sa lahat ay magpa-isip.
Pagbati sa lahat ng mga manunulat na naglakas-loob magsumite
at pumunta sa mga workshop. Magsulat ng maraming-marami at lalong
magbasa ng maraming-marami!
Vinch Santos
Filipino Editor, Kalayaan Review 2017
35
36 Kalayaan Review 5
Seguridad
Zandra Javier
Tatlong araw na mula noong may nanloob dito sa bahay. Umuulan noon.
Dagli 37
Bagong Tagpi
Zandra Javier
38 Kalayaan Review 5
Pangalan
Nicole Mijares
Tula 39
Spotlight
Vinch Santos
Sino ba kami?
Tila mga aninong walang mukhang
Dinadaan-daanan, kinakalimutan
Walang mukha, walang kwenta
Sisihin pa sa kalagayan
Sino ba kami?
Sino ba kami?
Sila, ang dali-daling makilala
Katawan at mukha ang puhunan
Limpak-limpak ang bayaran
Sino nga naman kami, kumpara sa kanila?
40 Kalayaan Review 5
In Response to
the Marcos Burial
41
tala mula sa editor
Pagkat walang nakakatakas sa multo ng kasaysayan.
Ang mga akdang ito ay multo. Multo ng mga akdang ito.
Ang mga akdang ito ay kasaysayan. Kasaysayan ng mga akdang ito.
Multo ng kasaysayan.
Ram Hernandez
Editor, Never Again:
In Response to the Marcos Burial
42
MARCOS IS NOT A HERO
The name of Kalayaan College has its roots in the Katipunan. Ka-
layaan means freedom and independence, and as an institution, Kalayaan
College stands for education, for freedom and independence. Kalayaan
College stands for enlightenment to free ourselves and the rest of society
from the shackles of ignorance and intolerance. Kalayaan College stands
for truth.
It is therefore in accordance with our philosophy as students of
Kalayaan College to stand on the right side of history; history of the
common people. Former President Ferdinand Marcos declared Martial
Law from 1972 to 1981, and 70,000 Filipinos were imprisoned, 34,000
were tortured, and 3,240 were killed under this proclamation. Students
and student-activists, such as Liliosa Hilao and Luis Boyet Mijares,
were among those people.
The Supreme Courts ruling on Marcos burial in the Libingan
ng mga Bayani is unjust, as it invalidates the struggle of the Filipinos
victimized by Martial Law and of the Filipinos who dared to and still
continue to fight against injustice.
We, Students of Kalayaan College, stand with over 100,000 Filipi-
nos and their families who were victimized by Martial Law.
We do not support the Supreme Courts ruling on Marcos burial.
We do not condone historical revisionism because it goes against the very
principles on which our College is founded. We cannot move on without
accountability, which starts with our acknowledgement of our own his-
tory and truth.
The Truth will set you free.
KLC Statement
Kalayaan Literary Circle
i.
The only clouds He could see across sky-high palace walls, through the
window, from His throne were of dustsmoke that danced upwards off
exhaust and tobacco pipes alike.
This kingdom of decades-old rubble and ashes from battle, of faces risen
from grease pits. This was His kingdom, in repair, rising.
ii.
He and His She were Malakas and Magandagifts of the Divine, leg-
ends of a new world woven seamlessly into mythology by His own hand.
But that was never the voice of God, was it? It was His.
iii.
If you lie enough, if you steal enough, if you hurt enough, you can tran-
scend morality.
His empire was faultless, gilded in only the purest of gold, melted from
the coffers of an entire nation.
46 Kalayaan Review 5
Or perhaps he wasnt blind.
Perhaps He did see the blood dripping down the knees of a crawling
nation.
Perhaps He did hear both dissent and pleas brought beneath his window,
and left there.
Perhaps the stench of the rotting flesh of the Disappeared never left His
nostrils.
Perhaps the icy feeling of gold where His buttocks rested was simply
irresistible.
Perhaps the taste of all the blood He spilled remained in His mouth, even
after the day He died.
iv.
Because the truth of this narrative and the universal value of truth it-
self was somehow lost in translationdecades of it from the people
who stood only to benefit from their own twisted version of events, the
narrative wherein every monument to Him is untouched by the grime
that covers everything else.
48 Kalayaan Review 5
Pipi
Hazel Luna
Dinig ko ang mga huni ng ibon sa tuwing aaahon ang araw sa si-
langang bahagi ng aking silid. Ang mga dahong pasulyap-sulyap sa aking
bintana at paunti-unting dumadapo sa lapag ng aking tahanan; habang
ang paligid ay nababalot ng maliwanag na sinag.At katahimikan.
Huminga ako nang malalim, kinolekta ang matamis na simoy ng
hangin at kinamot ang gilid ng aking utak; nakakubli roon ang mga
alaalang nagsisilbing alila na tila ba walang tahanang nagnanais kumup-
kop. Inihimbing ko ang aking mga mata at ibinunyag nito sa akin ang
kanyang sarili; nakahubad at puno ng galos, ang nakapulupot nitong
mga kamay at nakasaradong bibig, ang naglalagas nitong buhok at kupas
na pagkatao, ang mga matang papungay-pungay mula sa pagod ng pag-
aantay.
Nagpakita ang mga imahen,isang lumang rolyong negatib; laman
nito ay mga litrato ng pulburang nananatili sa palad ng mga lalaking pilit
ipinasok ang bunganga ng baril sa pagitan ng dalawang hita ng isang
batang babae, ang himig ng nagsisiawit na mga kababaihang nakabalot
ng puti at ang mga nakasaradong kalyeng tila bay inabandona na. Hindi
ko inakalang sisibol pa ang panahon mula sa hudyat ng apokaliptiko.
Ang hapon ay sumapit, at ang ulap ay nagtago at ang kalangitan
ay nagdilim, dahan-dahang pumatak ang ulan dala-dala ay maligamgam
na asul at malungkot na tugtog. Ilang hakbang mula sa aking hapag-
kainan ay ang papel na naglalaman ng mukha ni boyet na nakatitig at
nakangiting habang buhay makukulong sa maliit na kahong espasyo sa
dyaryo at ang hanay ng mga nakaimprentang pangalang nagsisiksikan sa
obituwaryo. Ang radyo sa tabi nito ay minsang nag-anunsiyo ng pagka-
kaisa upang magtipon sa isang malawak na kalyeng nabalot ng dugo at
katawang walang-malay-hinalay. At sa tuktok ay isang litrato ng aking
pamilyang ngayoy naglaho. Naglalakbay kasama nina boyet, lily, maria,
archimedes, hilda, at trinidad.
Parang mga plakang gasgas, mga tinig na wagas ang pag-alon;
isang bangkang palaboy-laboy sa gitna ng kalaliman, ang huling upos
ng isang sigarilyo at nagsasayawang apoy sa pampang ng isla. Kasabay
nito ang mga tanong na nambubulabog: paano ko nga ba haharapin ang
balita sa telebisyon at desisyong walang pagbabagong pumapatay sa dikta
ng kinabukasan? Iminulat ko ang aking mata at pinigilan ko ang sariling
hipuin pa ang aking memorya.
50 Kalayaan Review 5
Alaala
Ram Hernandez
Niki Dela Cruz still romanticizes everything, and wishes poetry would
love her back the way she does.
Zandra Javier is that weird daydreamer who wrote when asked to draw,
and drew when asked to write. One time while daydreaming about a fic-
tional character, someone thought she was in love.
Si Zinj Ludovica ay qus2 n4ng mmty if not for Squishy, cats, memes,
aesthetic basura, fried chicken, ey b0ss, titi-train porn, at mga malasang
inuman.
Nicole Mijares has been stuck in a time loop for nearly a decade (or per-
haps all her life). Shes scared shell crumble into dust when the loop ends.
53
Acknowledgments
The Kalayaan Literary Circle would like to thank the Kalayaan College
Administration, Board of Directors, Faculty, and Staff for their
continuing support of the Kalayaan Review.
Angela Natividad