Kalayaan Literary Circle

22 Manga Road, corner Aurora Boulevard,

1109, Quezon City

Kalayaan Literary Circle is a stdent organization of Kalayaan

College. It preserves and advances the Colleges tradition of
academic integrity and of excellence in arts and culture.

Published in the Philippines

by Kalayaan Literary Circle, Quezon City.
First published as Kalayaan Review 5, 2017.

Copyright reverts to the respective authors and artists whose

works apear in this issue. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval unit, or transferred in any form
or by any means, without permision in writing of the copyright
holder, or as expressly permitted by law.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence should be sent to the

Secretary of the Kalayaan Literary Circle
at the address above.

Edited by
Julio del Prado
Beatrice Tulagan
Vinch Santos
Ram Hernandez

Layout, cover design,

and illustrations by
Nicole Mijares

Typeset in Bell MT and Book Antiqua

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.

Julio del Prado

Prose Editor, Kalayaan Review 2017

3
4 Kalayaan Review 5
What was Needed
Nicole Mijares

I had many adventures deep in the middle of nowhere, Morong,

Bataan. I could fill an entire storybook with these tales, but I believe we
only have enough time for one today. It happened on one fine night, when
the murmurs of the kakawate trees and the sighs of the ocean breeze
were drowned out by the shouts and screams that filled the open space
of our parents house. It was a night unlike any other yet normal all the
same.
It was on that night that I understood how Pooh felt when he got
stuck in the entrance to Rabbits Howse. Eventually, Id get how Rabbit
felt as he huffed and stomped and sighed and tried to make Poohs mas-
sive butt seem like a normal part of his living room. But I guess that
doesnt matter. In the end, they managed to force Pooh out. He even went
flying right out and he ended up stuck in a tree full of honey instead!
That night though, I was Pooh, still stuck; kneeling on the patch of
floor between the kitchen and the dining table, trying to ignore the huff-
ing and stomping all around me. The cold floor was rubbing my knees
raw and my hands were getting sweaty, but I kept digging through my
clothes. Itd be a little sad leaving my Winnie the Pooh drawer behind,
but Id already whispered my goodbyes and his smiling face did seem
happy for me to be leaving. I wished I could take it with me, but Mommy
said to only take what we needed and I needed my Hundred Acre Wood
storybook most of all.
Overhead, something shiny flew across the room, from the far end
of the dining table to Mommy and Daddys cabinets. I jumped at the thud
as it hit, then a crash to the floor, followed by the smell of stale coffee
topped off with roared words Ive been told never to say. Its not nice if
kids say them, my teacher said once. I guessed only Mommy and Daddy
could say them. Cause theyre grown-ups.
Oh, bother; I got thinking again. I kept my head down. I needed to
find my favorite storybook.
My legs were starting to get the pins and needles when Mommy
yelled to hurry up and pack my clothesany clothesinto the plastic
bags on the floor. I pretended not to hear her and just stuffed my arms
deeper into my drawer, feeling for hard corners under all the cloth. I
didnt have a lot of clothes here, not nearly as much as my sisters did,
but right then I wished I had even less. I knew it was a good idea to leave
most of my clothes behind at Lolas. Mommy got mad at me, though,
Prose: Creative Non-Fiction 5
when she found out about that. She said I needed those clothes for when
I go to kinder in Morong. But I knew I would need them for when I go
back and have adventures in Pagsanjan again.
One of my sisters started screeching on top of all the noise. It
couldnt have been Denise cause she was under the dinner table, hugging
the leg as if she needed to take it with her. Her face was puffing up like an
overripe tomato; tears gushing out from the thin cuts of her eyes, but she
wasnt making a sound. No, the screeching was probably Iris since it was
coming past the table, probably from the beds. She wanted to stay with
Daddy, I thought I heard. Well, I couldnt really blame hershe never
really liked it much at Lolasbut I just didnt get it.
Maybe its because Lola can be cranky most of the time, sometimes
even crankier than Mommy. But Papa and Mama (thats Tito Bong and
Tita Reine to Iris and Denise) were okay most of the time. Though I
guess, on the weekends, Papa can sometimes get just as scary as Dad-
dy. Oh, but Ninong Ray had dogs! JT and Rover and Sugar. They were
RollwiRodtilerRodwhiters? Anyway, they were really big and really
black and got rowdy sometimes so Im not really allowed to go near them,
but Ninong Ray said it wasnt because they were angry at me. They were
just really friendly and they really liked giving hugs and they might love
me too much and hurt me. Anyway, they were nice dogs. They even got
along with the stray cat named Daga that Ninong Ray takes care of even
though he doesnt have to. I already missed Pagsanjan.
Lolas house was bigger, and because she was the only one living
there, I used to have most of the house for myself. We could have sepa-
rate rooms for playing with toys and watching TV and playing house
and reading storybooks. And then, when its time for lunch, Mama will
knock and call out from the small window under Lolas stairs and tell us
to go to their house next door. And maybe well even have lunch out back
at Ninong Rays, sitting at the terrace and waiting for bangka to go pass
by on the river below us and we would wave and say hi. Unlike the beach
in Morong, I could go to the river by myself. We could have more, better
adventures there. I didnt get why Iris didnt want to go.
I wished we could have just hurried up and gone there already but I
still hadnt found my storybook and I needed it for bed time in Pagsanjan
but all the yelling was beating up my head. I tried my hardest not to let all
the noise distract me from my mission. I dug and dug and dug. My hands
only stopped digging for my book when it got quiet and I started getting
goose bumps and I heard Mommy sob and I heard the scritch scratch of
Daddys lighter before smoke started filling up the entire house, then a
gurgle before the smell of brandy started burning up my throat. It felt
6 Kalayaan Review 5
like that time I was with Mama and Papa on a bus, on our way to visit
Mommy and Daddy, and I had too much itlog ng pugo and everything
felt wavy and
The quiet broke. I dont know what did it but again words-Im-not-
allowed-to-say got shot across the room from both sides. For a second,
Mommy looked like she was going to storm to where Daddy sat at the
head of the dinner table. For a second, Daddy looked like he would stand
up from his seat. Instead Mommy swooped down and grabbed something
from under the table. Next thing I knew, she was coming after me.
My arm felt like it was being torn off as I was whisked out of the
house and thrown into the backseat of Mommys car. Denise and I sat
there, rubbing our wrists, while Mommy filled up the trunk. There was
a lot of thudding and huffing and stomping but it was the quiet noises
that made me stop. Denise was sniffling and it confused me. Was it from
the pain? This much wasnt too bad, really. Wed both had way worse. I
searched her face and the crinkle in her brow and the wobble in her lip
only ended up confusing me even more. How could she be so sadwe
were leaving for Pagsanjan, after all.
When I asked her, whispering in case Mommy could hear us from
outside the car, she said she didnt want to leave but she didnt want to
be left behind either. That wasnt much of an answer, so I just leaned in
and whispered: When I lived at Lolas, I got to watch all the TV I wanted
until it was time for her telenovelas and sometimes, when Im lucky, I
can ask someone to read my storybooks for me. Not Lola though, cause
her eyes are bad. Shell just tell you funny stories of when Ninong Ray,
Mama, and Mommy were little. Or just make up her own stories or tell
weird stories about why she chased Lolo out of the house and why they
dont talk anymore. One time she said it was because he stole her bakya
but I dont believe her.
No, not Lola, but usually Ninong Ray says yes when I ask him to
read me stories before bed though! I already taught myself how to read,
of course! But, well, its different having someone else do it, like fam-
ily. You can just snuggle up in the sheets and play pretend until you get
sleepy. Its... nice.
Oh, I know! Its dark, but maybe I can try reading my Hundred Acre
Wood storybook to Denise. Thatll cheer her upMy favorite storybook.
I left it behind.
I tried to rub my face dry. I tried to be as quiet as I could, tried to
muffle my own sobs as I shushed my sisters. There was no need really,
because Mommy was already in the car, drowning out all other sounds
with the bad words. Its okay, I thought as we drove out the gate, maybe
Prose: Creative Non-Fiction 7
wed come back to visit Daddy and Iris and I could get my book then. I
had other books at Lolas and I knew I had one or two more Winnie the
Pooh books there and maybe Ninong Ray could read one of them for
me and maybe Denise would get to know what its like. Maybe Mommy
would read us a story too. Then when we visit Daddy soon, maybe hed
read us my Hundred Acre Wood storybook.
At the time, I could not have known that none of that would ever
happen. I slept, clutching at those threadbare thoughts and wishes, as
streetlights rushed past us overhead, the surrounding night sky deaf to
our cries, our mothers anger lulling us to sleep.
I woke up the next morning disappointed, back in our old bed in our
parents old house, back in our parents old strained silences and clipped
words, back with the constant fear of the silence breaking. Back to play-
ing pretend, like Rabbit as he tried to make the most out of being stuck
in his house with Pooh blocking the way out. Mommy must have changed
her mind. We must have turned around midway through leaving.
I rushed out of bed and to my drawer looking for Hundred Acre
Wood. In the end, I never did find it. I never found a tree full of honey
either. In the end, we never did leave for good.

8 Kalayaan Review 5
Customized Attachment
Zandra Javier

Twenty-eight by forty-eight inches of trust and pride was sawed

into a fine drafting table. I boastedI boasted to myself. My classmates
had a hard time looking for a cheap drafting table. Ama made me onea
big one made of good quality wood hed sawed and planed himself.
The drafting table was originally his. Ama used this drafting table
when he was still in college. The only physical thing that was newly at-
tached to it was the drawing board itself (because he wanted me to use a
newer, larger one with enough space for other things to be put on top of
it), and nylon string. As for the new, abstract things, there were plenty.
My drafting table really was a lot bigger compared to those that
could be bought from National Bookstore. It had more space than I need-
ed. I could even put my dreams on itI slept on it many times; such a
huge pillow, not very comfortable, though.
My drafting table was adjustable. By the right side of its foot was
a rusty circular crank that could be turned clockwise and counterclock-
wise to adjust the boards height and angle of inclination. The metal was
stained by hardworking fingerprints from years ago. Rusted smooth and
harmless; I thought, until I turned it towards every angle it could be ad-
justed to, and it was left only with the smudges of sleepless nights and
silent sobs.
It had a built-in ruler, supported by the strong nylon string. I just
needed to slide the one-meter ruler up and down, up and down, up and
down, just like my hopes, to guide me in drawing straight lines. I could
never draw a straight line. I had that built-in ruler on my drafting table,
yet the lines I drew kept on crossing the limited boundaries I was allowed
to traverse. The ruler was always in good condition, after all the years
it guided a father to his field; his daughter to eventually follow the same
guide.
A well-lighted lamp that could also be adjusted was fixed on the
upper part of the drafting table. It helped me see the pencil marked mea-
surements I needed to trace with ink, to make my mistakes more visible.
The brightness of the lamp was so strong one could even trace dried up
droplets of forced patience and false dedication on the exposed wood.
Eventually, the lamp lost its light. The light bulb was replaced. And as
time went by, its adjustable joints no longer worked. It kept its ample
light on just one part of the table, and delayed me from putting more
details on my plates. My guiding light needed to be replaced, and it was
replaced with a lamp that was not adjustable.
Prose: Fiction 9
 The varnish of the board was not smooth enough as a direct base
for drawing. I taped a clean cartolina on top of the board for a better
drawing surface. It looked so neat, until its corners were scribbled with
short prayers, bible verses, words of self-motivation, and secret curses.
Soon the cartolina was no longer efficient as overlay. It needed a replace-
ment. And I replaced it every time it became exhausted with my rants,
and wrote on the new ones just the same: letters from me, to me.
That drafting table Ama made for me accompanied me on restless
nights and days. It held my plates. It held my tears tears of joy and
pride in finishing projects that received a lot of rebukes from the maker
of my drafting table; tears of unexpressed objections from even starting
the projects. It held extended patience and endurance I never thought I
had.
That drafting table was very compassionate. It heard the controlled
strokes of sobs that performed duets with the screeching sounds the met-
al parts of technical pens made whenever they touched the ruler as they
helped me create stressed straight lines, yet it never complained of hear-
ing the same tunes over and over again. I hope it also heard my thank
you for our four-year union.
The drafting table retired two years agono, it was I who retired.
It was always in good condition. It never needed a replacement; a new
companion, perhaps. Our companionship ended in silence.
Dusted in the guilt of failing Amas dream for me, it sits not in a
forgotten corner, but stands on its melancholic glory to greet me; always
with its immobile straightness, whenever I enter home.

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.

I scratch off frost from my jaw, nails catching on stubble. I wrench my

teeth apart, letting out a cloud of breath. My body crackles with every
tiny movement I make. Above me, thin lines of late afternoon light force
their way through the drawn curtains and creep against the walls and
ceiling of my one-bedroom apartment. I roll on the couch and turn my
head towards the coffee table.
My searching hand slides against newspapers that I bought maybe
a week ago, brushing over clippings of articles on missing persons, spill-
ing stale coffee. Finally, my fingers close around a small cardboard box.
It feels empty. It makes no sound when I shake it. I bring it up to my face,
my eyes straining against the darkness to see whats inside. Its empty. I
dont have the energy to throw it across the room.
I turn on the TV, out of habit. News anchors report the same thing
ad nauseam. They talk in a rush of rattling words, vomiting out rehashed
headlines. I change the channel every time they pause to take a breath.
Philippines suffering from unprecedented cold, neighboring coun-
tries largely unaffectedMetro Manila, just a few degrees shy of snow
formation, experts sayPhilippines ill-prepared for record low tempera-
tures, Malacaang admitsThousands dead by hypothermiaNeighbor-
hoods burnt to the ground, BFP warns against unsafe heatingMultiple
reports of yet-unconnected disappearances baffle investigatorsTem-
perature drops show no indication of stoppingCurrent meteorological
findings inconclusive, PAG-ASA to conduct further analyses
Still nothing new. Experts from everywhere have been pulling
together theory after theory, inconclusive data after inconclusive data,
bullshit after bullshit, but still none of them even have an inkling of
whats going on. My sister would have known. She would have smiled
lightly and said everythings going to be okay. I snort at the thought.
I lower the volume, willing my thoughts to ease with the gradual
comfort of silence. Theres shouting coming from past the ceiling. A
womans voice. Then the sound of crashing plates and a wailing child. I
drag myself out of the couch and put on another coat.
12 Kalayaan Review 5
 The cashier wordlessly hands me six packs of Lucky Strike. I exit
the convenience store, where a young woman with matted hair sits by
the entrance, her legs drawn up to her chin and covered with a sheet of
tarpaulin. Her sun-browned skin looked dull in the cold. I drape my out-
ermost coat around her shoulders; I have my cigarettes now, Ill be fine.
She doesnt move and I step away.
My eyes trace the rooftops along Esteban Abada Street as I slowly
go past several crowded coffee and tea shops. I see a dark shadow shift
on top of a two-story building. My heart hastens only to sink in disap-
pointment as I realize it was just the top branches of a tree. Of course it
wasnt Ate Robin. With difficulty, I continue walking.
The joints of my legs are frozen stiff. I can feel paper-thin cracks
spreading inch by inch under my skin every time I put one foot in front of
the other. Apart from my pallor and a few patches of frost that form on
my skin when I stay still for too long, you wouldnt know that anything
was wrong just by looking at me.
My body began freezing from the inside ten years ago. My arms
and hands turned stiff and numb, fingers starting to darken at the tips.
At first, it was just my back and shoulders that grew heavy, then the rest
of me. My mind was also weighted, becoming slow and ponderous, eas-
ing out of whatever I was doing at the time. The entire process was slow
enough that I didnt notice until halfway through, after I graduated from
college.
Its getting hard to breathe so I pause to light a cigarette.
A sudden movement that I see from the corner of my eye tears my
gaze downwards, where several vehicles are parked in front of a line of
houses. A cat darts underneath a silver Accord. I notice a fat ginger cat
nestled inside the front wheel well of an old Sonata and people seated
inside. Theyll die if they stay for too long; one wrong move and they
could kill. I leave behind the sound of engines humming softly and cats
mewling in contentment.
My breathing eases as smoke fills my mouth and burrows through
the back of my throat. I hold it in my lungs, letting my body leech away
its warmth. The smoke flows out as I open my lips to take another drag.
Back inside my apartment building, the security guard greets me
with a Good afternoon, ser. Hes staring pointedly at my hand, so I nod
at him as I put out my cigarette and attempt a smile.
I take the elevator to the 12th floor then the stairs to the rooftop.
Thick dark clouds are obscuring the setting sun and a blanket of dense
smog blurs the city below. A bloody streak of light splits the otherwise
unbroken gray. Muted red light casts an eerie glow to the rows of chain-
Prose: Fiction 13
link cages used for drying clothes. I light another cigarette and head to
my usual spot by my cage, away from the glowering sun.
In the middle of an aisle, theres a large can of baby formula with
its lid gone, surrounded by six empty beer cans strewn carelessly on the
floor. Inside the milk can is a large handful of whitened coals glowering.
I purse my lips around my cigarette, crouch down, and extend my palms
towards the embers.
Thats mine, says a voice from behind me. But youre welcome to
share if you want. You look like youre freezing.
The owner of the voice is a man in his early twenties, three or four
years younger than me. His hair is cropped short and hes wearing a dark
green parka, naturally faded jeans, and ratty sneakers. He has several
sheets of newspaper under his arm, a bag of coal hanging from his elbow,
and three more cans of beer in his hands. His left cheek is swollen red.
You shouldnt leave fires unattended. I straighten up and shove
my hands into my pockets.
Oh. Sorry. Guess I should have put the lid on, he says. Im Danilo
Santillan, but everyone calls me Nilo. Except my wife. She calls me ass-
hole. Im sure the whole building knows by now, but I live on the fifth
floor.
He waits for me to say something. I take in a long drag of smoke
and hold it in my mouth. Hes still staring, waiting for my response.
I finally settle on, You probably shouldnt be up here drinking in
this weather.
Says the guy who went all the way to the rooftop for a smoke, he
says as he sits down by the heat, throwing pieces of newspaper and coal
into the fire. I consider heading back down, but its too cold in my room.
Gabriel Hallare. Fourth floor.
Danilo moved to Manila a few years ago for university. He left be-
hind his girlfriend of two years with a promise to keep in touch. After
graduation, he decided that the job opportunities in the city were better
and asked her to permanently move here with him.
Its weird, he says when hes halfway through his eighth can. We
got along more when I was still a student and she was still back in An-
tique, and not just because we didnt have time to fight. We used to actu-
ally sit down and talk.
Nowadays, shell only tell me about anything when Ive pissed her
off. I do something small or say something off-hand then she just flies off
the handle. Shell recite this list of all the wrongs Ive done herall of
them stuff shed never seemed to even care about beforeand at the end
of it I have no idea what shes really mad about.
14 Kalayaan Review 5
 I nod; my mother could get like that sometimes. I wish I brought
coffee.
Today, he said with a tight-lipped smile, I left a pair of scissors
inside the bathroom and she couldnt find them when she needed them.
That drives her up the wall. So she goes off to catalog all the stuff Ive
misplaced. Somehow it ends up being about my job, how Im not earning
as much as she thinks I should. About how she had to sacrifice so much
to stay with me all these years. About how I havent been paying as much
attention as I did before. Shes yelling and breaking plates and chuck-
ing stuff at me so I do the sensible thing and try to get out of her way.
And then she screams, Oh, so youre walking out on me again? I just didnt
want to deal with all that when both of us were too angry to even have a
decent conversation, you know? I told her that. You know what she says
to me? You just dont want to deal with this. Period. Hah. Shes the one who
took the baby and left in a huff. Shes the one who ran away. Not me.
He tilts his head back, draining his beer before crushing the can
underfoot. He moves to grab the last unopened can but stops, his hand
frozen in midair.
I left our apartment while she was still yelling at me, he says, his
voice a hoarse whisper now. I went for a walk around the neighborhood.
To calm my nerves. When I came back, they were gone. Both of them.
My blood just ran cold. I shouldve been angry, just like I was before I
left. But I was just cold.
He stares at the dying embers for a long time.
Once, when I was little, he says softly, as if to himself, my uncle
told me that there was something in the air that made you cold or made
you warm. Not air or water vapor or anything like that. Something else.
He said its also inside people. Said if youre not careful youd freeze up
or float away. Or maybe even explode from the pressure. He looked like a
bloated balloon so the thought of him rising into the air made me laugh.
Nilo looks up at me with his mouth forming a smile, but theres no
trace of amusement in his voice. He got mad and smacked me upside the
head. He was probably touched in the head. All our relatives definitely
thought so.
What happened to your uncle?
He stands up unsteadily. His feet keep rising a few inches off the
ground then falling. I take one last drag from my cigarette before stub-
bing it out on the floor and putting the butt into my pocket ashtray.
You shouldnt drink too much, youll freeze to death.

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 watch the morning light spread across my apartment ceiling in a fa-

miliar pattern. I get up at half past five and walk to work, eyes turned
upwards and searching. My heavy fingers crash against the keyboard as
I write letter after letter and fill up data sheet after data sheet. I sink into
my couch a little after eight. I wake up my laptop and go through all my
bookmarked sites. I scroll through lists of names and descriptions. I turn
on the TV. I turn it off. I make coffee. At ten, I take two packs of ciga-
rettes with me to the roof.
Hey, I brought sisig. Want some? asks Nilo when he sees me. He
has a cardboard take-out box lined with aluminum foil in one hand and
another in a plastic bag by his feet.
The rich, savory aroma of pork thats been boiled, broiled, and
grilled wafts towards me, envelopes me. I see bits of chopped liver, white
onions, green pepper, chicharon, and crisp pork ears intersperse the mass
of glistening meat. Its good sisig and my stomach rumbles in agree-
ment. My throat, however, constricts. I suppress the urge to retch.
No, thanks. Im good, I say. Ive got coffee.
His eyes never leave his food as he continues wolfing down bits of
hacked-up pig in between gulps of beer. I sit down on the ground op-
posite him. He talks about his hometown through mouthfuls of food. I
can only make out snatches of words through the sound of his chewing
but I nod at him whenever he raises his eyes at the end of each garbled
sentence. Its been a week since his wife left.
When he finishes his first box of sisig and after a long swig of beer,
he looks at me squarely and starts to speak in somber tones.
Are you sure you dont want any?
Quite sure. Besides, you look like youre still hungry.
16 Kalayaan Review 5
 He smiles at that and whips his attention back to meat. He coaxes
the sisig laying over the double lining of foil out of the take-out box,
carefully placing it on top of his little milk can furnace and over the red
coals. He crimps the edges of the foil around the lip of the can to secure it
in place. Soft hissing fills the air as pork fat drips onto the embers below.
The smell makes my stomach lurch. He reaches for another can of beer.
Its gotten warm. I guess I shouldve wrapped it in wet newspaper
or something.
Maybe you should have snorted up that first box quicker. Not that
thats possible.
Maybe I should put it in my freezer for a bit, he says, weighing the
beer in his hand. He looks longingly at the warming meat in front of him.
Nah. Give it here.
Youre finally going to drink? This ones disgusting when warm.
I wrap my hands around his beer. I take a deep breath and exhale
from my gut, directing the stream of air towards the bottom of the can.
I do this five more times before handing it to him.
How the fuck did you do that? he says as soon as his fingers touch
the surface of the can. I shrug and I watch him pop open his third beer.

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.

The word assumes a silence

that is of course full of words
that mean this & that
& nothing more.
Yes, everything seems to fall short
of real conversation
because words fail us.
But we drown in the river of words
as if the spoken is a lie,
a betrayal of what we think we mean.
There is no salvation in the saying of words
But what weapon do we use
against that which oppresses & chokes?
Silence overwhelms
but we must keep on inventing the word
that will smash
the thick glass of air between us.
The task is heroic.
Poetry is a minor matter.
Beatrice Adeline Tulagan
Poetry Editor, Kalayaan Review 2017

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

The city is old.

Its concrete bones are caked with dust and disappointment.
Its glass windows hide its age in reflections and LED advertisements.

The city is old.

Blaring horns from shiny, new cars made in Japan, Germany, and
America are heard in chorus as they drown out the screams of decay.

The city is old.

There is nothing new about pedestrians crowding over fishball, isaw,
and bopis, as they impatiently queue for the faulty MRT.

The city is old.

It wheezes and coughs every few heartbeats with the sound of
a deteriorated, old man gripping his chest in writhing pain.

The city is old.

The city has had its share of bittersweet dishes but nothing worse
than being served its own death on a silver spoon.

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.

There is a couple on the bus who look twenty-something, looking at seat-

ing prices for a concert of a band I cant read from off their phone screen.
I think of the times Ive missed out on live concerts, wild screaming, and
blaring music, but as the two remain undecided on their preferred seats.
I forget about them.

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.

I reach Ayala in a record forty-five minutes, and I stretch out my arms as

I get up from the leather-smelling bus; I inhale the comfort and luxury at
the price of fifty-five pesos and wonder how often I could get to experi-
ence it. I think about all the previous discomforts Ive had with public
transportation and the reasons to dislike Metro Manila, but as I step off
the bus with a clearer understanding of privilege.
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 wish I brought my cup and bowl here.

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.

Tuwing umaga, binabati ako ng mga mapuputik na bakas ng paa mula

sa labas papunta sa kwarto ko. Ang lintik, ginawa pa yatang pahiran ang
kumot ko. Maglilinis nanaman ako.

Hindi naman siguro bumangon iyong magnanakaw mula sa bakuran ko

para gumanti, di ba? Ang lalim kaya ng pagkakahukay ko. Hay, matignan
na nga lang ulit mamayang gabi bago ako matulog.

Dagli 37
Bagong Tagpi
Zandra Javier

Pagtiyagaan mo na lang itong hinabing usok at alikabok

Nang hindi ka masyadong ginawin sa lamig ng ating kapalaran;

Ito na lamang ang aking balabal.

At kung masanay ka man sa nagninisnis nang pag-asa mula sa iyong

pagkakabaluktot sa ibabaw ng mga nalaglag na dahon at mga balat ng
kendi,

Nanaisin mo pa ring ariin ang balabal kong ito

Na hindi mo gugustuhing bumalot pa ng sunod na henerasyon ng ating

nawawalang pag-iral, ngunit

Magbibigay ng dagdag na init sa bawat nipis ng sinulid kung ipaghehele

mo na ang tanging kayamanan sa iyong dibdib.

38 Kalayaan Review 5
Pangalan
Nicole Mijares

Ako poy limang taong gulang

nang inyong ibinigay sakin ang nagdaragsaang mga ngalan.
Dalawang taon bago ko matandaan at dalawang taon pa bago maisa-ulo
Mga pangalang humubog sa aking pagkatao.

Gago. Tarantado. Demonyo.

Tanga. Bobo. Puro yabang. Anong pinagmamalaki mo.
Walang pakundangan. Walang hiya. Ingrato. Nasa loob ang kulo mo.
Putang ina mo. Bastardo. Impakto. Bakit ka ba nandito.
Mabuti pa hindi ka na ipinanganak
kasalanan mo lahat to.

Opo. Pabigat. Tamad. Perhuwisyo.

Walang kuwenta. Kasayangan ng espasyo. Tama po kayo.
Bakit nga ba hindi matuto-tuto. Walang patutunguhan ang buhay ko.
Putang ina ko. Bakit ganito. Bakit pa nga ba ko nandito.
Mabuti pa nga hindi na ipinanganak
kasalanan ko lahat to.

Nay, Tay, tama na po. Alam ko na.

Pasensya, inabot ng sampung taon higit pa, pero di na kailangang ipaalala.
Sa wakas akin nang natutunan, naisa-puso, ang mga ngalang asintado
Mga pangalang bumugbog sa aking pagkatao.

Tula 39
Spotlight
Vinch Santos

Good morning maam, sir

Balik kayo uli, salamat.
Daraan ang madlang punung-puno ng saya
At ako, para sa kanila
Padala koy ngiti at ligaya

Ang sarap panoorin ng kasayahan

Habang pawalis-walis, papunas-punas
Mga payaso, leon, nagsasayawan
Pero bigla ko na lamang maaalala
Sino ba kami sa mga mata nila?

Sino ba kami?
Tila mga aninong walang mukhang
Dinadaan-daanan, kinakalimutan
Walang mukha, walang kwenta
Sisihin pa sa kalagayan

Sino ba kami?

Kami ang maraming hindi nakikita

Araw-araw ang kayod
Pagkaliit-liit ang sahod
Alas diyes kung umuwi, hanep ang pagod

Sino ba kami?
Sila, ang dali-daling makilala
Katawan at mukha ang puhunan
Limpak-limpak ang bayaran
Sino nga naman kami, kumpara sa kanila?

Sino ba kami? Kilala niyo naman kami

At iisa lang naman ang gusto namin
Na sana, kahit saglit,
Spotlight sa kanilay mawaglit

Sana kahit ngayon lang

Spotlight kamiy masinagan

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.

Kalayaan College Student Organizations

Psychological Association of Kalayaan College (PAKC)
Kalayaan Literary Circle (KLC)
MultiMedia Organization of Kalayaan College (MMOrg)
Kalayaan Law Society (KLS)
Kalayaan Union of Journalists (KUJ)
Kalayaan Music Organization (KAMO)
Kalayaan Management Association (KAMA)

Never Again: Org Statements 43

KUJ Statement
Kalayaan Union of Journalists

Kami sa Kalayaan Union of Journalists ay tumututol sa paglibing

sa dating pangulong Ferdinand Marcos sa Libingan ng mga Bayani. Ang
paglibing sa isang diktador sa Libingan ng mga Bayani ay manipesta-
syon ng tatlong usapin sa kasalukuyan: 1) paglapastangan sa kasaysayan
ng mamamayang Pilipino; 2) ang paglimot sa mga mga martir ng Batas
Militar tulad ni Lorena Barros, Lean Alejandro, at iba pang mga mama-
mahayag at manunulat na napaslang dahil mas pinili nilang ipahayag ang
katotohanan sa panahon ng diktadurya ni Marcos; at 3) ang pagkakaroon
ng historical revisionism lalo na sa panahon ng social media.
Tutulan natin ang pagbubura at pagbabago sa ating kasaysayan!
Tutulan natin ang paglapastangan sa kamalayang Pilipino! Labanan ang
historical revisionism!
Anton Largoza-Maza
KUJ President,
18 November 2016

KLC Statement
Kalayaan Literary Circle

We, at the Kalayaan Literary Circle, do not condone the Supreme

Courts decision to bury our history and to give Ferdinand Marcos the
title of hero. Kalayaan Literary Circle recognizes that Marcos is NOT a
hero and will never be. We are gathered here in solidarity to make sure
our voices will pierce through the thick air of amnesia and historical
revisionism.
There are fascist apologists, those whose consciousness are still
asleep, telling the youth to move on; that we dont deserve to have
a voice in this because we werent born to experience and witness the
supposed greatness of a period where torture, suffering, and death
were the norm for those who made the mistake invoking their right to
freedom of thought and speech. We may have not been born during the
Martial Law, but we choose not to act deaf to the truth.
We choose to remember that it wasnt Marcos who built infrastruc-
tures in the country. We choose to remember the working class whose
hands were tainted with cement and blisters as they made towers rise
from the ground.
44 Kalayaan Review 5
 We choose to remember the collective memory of those who fought
to liberate the country for the sake of our generation.We choose to
remember and to stand with Liliosa Hilao, Archimedes Trajano, Luis
Boyet Mijares, Noel Cerrudo Tierra, Edgar Edjop Jopson, Antonio
Tonyhil Hilario, Lorena Barros.We choose to remember Emmanuel
Lacaba and other writers who werent afraid to take their literary voice to
the streets and fight to free the country from the chains of fascism. We
choose to remember how names were transformed into invisible numbers
that the dictator denied to have made.
As young writers we will use our words as weapons against his-
torical revisionism, against those who ignore the history of struggle, and
against those who believe that Marcos is a hero.
The true heroes of the Philippines are those who have spilled their
blood and sweat for their labor. Those who marched the streets where
tanks rest. They have known the dangers of fighting for liberation, but
they have also known that [a]wakened, [t]he masses are Messiah.
The history of our archipelago is not dictated by the Supreme
Court; it is not dictated by the elite; the history lies with the ordinary
people and we will not let Marcos bury the stories of the masses.We will
make sure that he is being haunted in the afterlife as the fight for truth
echoes in the air of our country.
Marcos
Hitler
Diktator
Tuta
April Garcia
KLC President,
18 November 2016

Never Again: Org Statements 45

Apotheosis, M.
LJ Z. Galvez

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.

He longed for ascendancyto bypass mortality. What indeed was mor-

tality but a construct rife with limitation?

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.

God had spoken to Him in a dream, giving His divine mandatejustice

and justification of the highest order.

But that was never the voice of God, was it? It was His.

He was the only God.

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.

Hisworld glittered enough to blind Himto fault and accountability.

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.

Perhaps He just never cared.

Perhaps knowing He, His Royal Family, and His Loyal Subjects would
live eternally in comfort, even excess, was enough.

Because true godhood was infallibility.

iv.

Decades even later, The Present.

A kingdom of rust and tarnish weeps.
It is caught in a stalemate in the battle for its rotting heart.

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.

But He was no Hero. He was no God.

he was just a man.
he was just a man who stole and killed with no remorse.
he was just a man masquerading as a god.

And all he left behind was a broken kingdom,

perpetually begging for scraps at the knees of false gods,
licking the ground to survive.

Never Again: Poetry 47

Blind Eye
Colleen Garcia

Across the blinding and terrifying veracity

there is no escape for you and me
today marks another death
in the arms of many

Many who have never forgotten

the memories of the unforgotten past
Hoping that this is just a nightmare
that it wouldnt last.

But one cannot close their eyes

to escape the depths of darkness
no matter how one tries
the soul of the enemy is
never dead, though it died.

It lives still though one cannot see

within veils of invisibility
in the hearts of his family
that kept a blind eye
to reality

One should not forget history

for history shows us what
we should and should not
bury.

Is this man really worthy

of being buried in
Libingan ng mga Bayani?

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.

Never Again: Tuluyan 49

 Ang buwan ay muling nagliwanag at pinayungan ang kadiliman,
nanumbalik ako sa aking kama at tinakluban ko ang aking katawan ng
malambot at makinis na kumot, maganda ang panahon at kalmado ang
paligid, ako ay nakipagusap sa kaitaas-taasan, at hinele ng mundong salat
at minangmang.

50 Kalayaan Review 5
Alaala
Ram Hernandez

Iba-iba ang mukha ng alaala

Mayroong manipis, mayroong makapal
Mayroong mapurol, mayroong matalas
Kaya madalas marinig sa mga matatanda:
Kung nabubuhay pa si (sabihin ang pangalan
ng yumao) ay ganito ang sasabihin niya sa yo

Iniiwan natin kasama ng hangin

Ang paraan ng ating pag-iisip. Ang hibla,
ang hilatsa at gusot ng ating lohika
Kaya walang nakakalimot. Maliban
na lamang kung kawangis na ng pag-iisip
na ito ang lahat ng lohika ng mga natira

Never Again: Tula 51

52
 Contributors

Niki Dela Cruz still romanticizes everything, and wishes poetry would
love her back the way she does.

LJ Z. Galvez is A GayTM. He is not a conservative.

April Garcia likes Jollibee and hentai.

Colleen Garcia is a romantic and a pragmatist trapped in one. She tries

her best not to hoard cookies (but fails).

Ram Hernandez. Aktibista. Guro.

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.

Anton Largoza-Maza is a cat on a synthesizer in space, and Chairman

Meow.

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.

Hazel Luna is a temperate shrub bearing longing in spring, and round,

hard-shelled, edible heart in autumn.

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.

Vinch Santos is trying to finish his Masters degree. Emphasis on trying.

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.

We would also like to extend our sincerest gratitude to the following:

Dr. Jose V. Abueva

Dr. Virginia S. Cario

Dr. Ma. Oliva Z. Domingo

Prof. Josefina M. Albores

Prof. Cynthia D. Gealogo

Prof. Maybelle Koch-Guzman

Prof. Jomar Cuartero

Angela Natividad