Blog - Torturedsquid

the sirens of baghdad

7/2/2017

I came across Yasmina Khadra while looking for authors similar to Khaleed Hossein in terms of style and impact. It’s been a long time since Khaleed published anything, and I'm missing his simple, yet sincere and provocative storytelling.

Luckily, I was able to secure the other day Khadra’s “The Sirens of Baghdad”, a 200-page narrative about life in Baghdad and the tragic conditions that lead people to extremism. This was timely, as the Philippines is also right now struggling with extremists in Marawi, one of the country's major cities in the south.

"The Sirens of Baghdad" tells of a well-digger’s son, a young man of about 20, who was sent to Baghdad for university education but was forced to return to his village because of the American invasion. Back at the village, things seemed to be relatively undisturbed, owing perhaps to the village’s distance from the capital, but already people were increasingly venting--although carefully and cautiously--their frustrations about the war. In the barbershop where people usually converge to listen to news of the day, a philosopher and an old man laid down a challenge by confronting the audience with the truth about the war, about Bush’s invasion, and about how Iraqis had only themselves to blame for losing their bearings.

The young man was a pacifist by nature, but he was also very sensitive. He'd absorb all the pain he hears and carry them all in, like stored energy, to be unleashed one day by American GIs who raided their village and subjected everyone, including the young man’s father, mother and sisters, to torture and humiliation. The sight of his poor, half-naked father being tossed to the ground by screaming GIs was too much for the young man. The Bedouins are proud people. And humiliations such as that could never be forgiven, even by the most pacifist of all.

Bent on revenge, the young man fled to Baghdad only to be confronted by anarchy everywhere. The once city of his dreams was no more. When he met a team of insurgents, he committed himself to their cause. “I’m ready, Sayed. My life’s at your disposal”.

Eventually he was assigned a mission meant to dwarf the attacks of September 11, but he soon found himself struggling with a heavy dilemma. What should he do?

The “Sirens of Baghdad” gives us a look at how violence affects ordinary people, how it turns decent human beings into monsters, and how one must tread on the delicate balance between what is right and what is not.

Maria’ng Tang-an’s River

7/1/2017

“Be still and don’t shout”, our boatman, said as we started our cruise by the Bojo River in Aloguinsan, a small town 2 hours drive away from Cebu City. “There is a diwata guarding the river.”

I sat quietly at the front of the boat. With view unimpended, I could see the green water beyond me. Lining up on both sides of the river were thick mangrove forests that appeared to separate us from the outside world. It felt like being in a secret world taking a secret ride.

After a while, prodded by my curious colleagues, Manong the boatman continued his talk.

Her name is Maria'ng Tang-an (wise Maria), Manong said. She is very beautiful. And her long, straight hair matches the soft, white gown she is known to wear every time they see her.

She shows herself to people sometimes, but only to a lucky few. Even Manong who travels by the river every day hasn’t seen her.

Maria has been guarding the area for a long time now, according to Manong. She is known to have protected the caves from Spanish treasure hunters in the old days. During the Japanese invasion, she sheltered many locals, even people from faraway villages who came to seek cover underneath the mangrove trees.

Maria had a kind heart. And for a long time people took comfort in her generosity. People turned to her for help whenever they have problems. One who was in trouble only needed to knock at the door of one of those caves beside the river. She never abandoned anyone. People came to her if they needed things they didn’t already have, such as giant pots, gowns for weddings, and others. Her only condition was that once the objects were to be returned, they should be handed in good condition.

But one day, one careless local returned a precious wedding gown half burnt. This angered Maria so bad she shut the doors of her cave, never to entertain seekers again forever.

Manong talked in a calm voice, pointing at a tiny cave on the upper left side of the river.

As we paddled through the river quietly, I felt calm. There were birds chirping. And there were dogs on the shallow side swimming with kids. I could almost picture Maria smiling at the sight.

At the mouth of the river where the sky and the sea meet, one can see Negros Island not very far away looking pale blue, like the backdrop of a watercolor painting. When the sun is high, the color of the sky is the same as that of the sea. It is no longer possible to tell one from the other.

One can stop by and snorkel or swim by the mouth of the river. Both sea and river are made of crystal clear water. Looking down below one can make out the details of all treasures underneath: tiny fishes, clear sand, white corals. It is haven for those who love water.

One has to cruise the river slowly to see the walls of the caves beside the it. One of those caves, if one watches carefully, is the door to Maria’s home. They call it Maria’s Cathedral door.

The other caves used to be the home of monkeys of different varieties. They were Maria’s army. They ruled the area for a long time. But one day a treasure hunter came and blasted off the walls of some of the caves in his quest for treasures. Most of the monkeys left after that, but a few devoted ones remained to look after what remained of their former home.

I can understand why Maria guards this place with the care of an overprotective mother. It is very charming and idyllic. A kind of hideway for those escaping from the world.

The river is just 1.4 kilometers in length. One can cruise in 30 minutes to 1 hour with a banca or walk through a 400-meter-long bamboo boardwalk connected to a trail. The first thing we asked was if there are crocodiles in the area. Manong assured us there is none. The bancas are safe because they are designed with outriggers or “katig”.

Maria’s Bojo River is a natural harbor, Manong said. During typhoons when the sea is as turbulent as someone in bad mood, the river remains peaceful. It’s a paradise on its own, its peace undisturbed by what is going on around it.

All boatmen running the cruises at Bojo River went through 4 months of ecology and preservation training by a group of biologists sent by the government. That’s why Manong who guided us knows the scientific names of all 22 species of mangroves around the area. He explained that the tiny bubbles that we saw floating around the river were from the mangroves themselves--a proof, that they too, like us, breathe. He boasts of the place and his childhood experiences with it. He said he’s been passing by the river every day since he was a kid, going back and forth to catch fishes or accompany his father. Near the area there are over 100 springs that regularly bring fresh water to the river.

In a way, Manong and boatmen like him, as well as other villagers who form the Bojo Aloguinsan Ecotourism Association, the association that manages the multi-awarded tourist area, have become Maria’s army. They look after the place the way Maria does--with care, with pride, and with the protectiveness of a devoted mother.

When they talk about the place, you do not hear the usual verbose, memorized lines of a tour guide. You hear someone showing off his own backyard.

Here is where I spent my childhood playing with other kids, especially during summers. Here is where we’d watch aninipots (fireflies) at night. Here is how we’d skip classes in the daytime to join our fathers as they catch fishes.

I watched Manong as he also lamented at how, in the old times, sending children to college was not yet a necessity. How the river and the sea together used to have more than enough to provide for everyone. And how those who wanted things that were not provided, such as fresh produce, crops, chickens, vegetables, and others, could always barter their fishes with the farmers who regularly trade or visit the area.

One day, Manong said, as his father was paddling on his way to sea, he saw a giant ship coming towards the river. What was it doing in such a shallow area? Scared, he bolted fast and went home, telling his wife and children about what happened. There are tales like this which scare fishermen and visitors. Which also add to the river’s mystery.

Going home, I was wondering - will it help if we promote the place heavily to tourists? In a way it will bring more income to the villagers. But to what extent? Will tourists come in droves one day like they do in Boracay, to threaten the peace and destroy the balance? And if that happens, what can Maria and her army do?

A weird tale

4/17/2017

Yesterday, we passed by a small mausoleum while taking a boat ride to see monkeys at the far edge of the Brunei River. Our friend Faizal told us a story about it and it was too interesting not to share.

part of the mausoleum when viewed from the river.

A long long time ago (circa 1432-1485 to be exact), a princess whose name was Ayang and her younger brother got romantically involved with each other. The princess got pregnant out of this. And when her father learned of it, he got very angry. This was haram of the highest degree. Her father, incidentally, was Raja Sulaiman. This part was amazing, btw, because I learned this was the same Sulaiman that ruled Manila around that time. Manila in the 1500s was a vassal state of Brunei. I'm also not sure if Sulaiman was Raja or Sultan, so to be safe I'll just call him Raja for now. I have to dig more because I have poor memory and I also have very limited knowledge of Southeast Asian history.

Anyways, going back. The siblings’ crime was punishable by death by stoning. But Sulaiman, although known for being a strict ruler, did not have the heart to do it. So he had people dig a cavern underground where Dang Ayang (Princess Ayang) and her brother could be locked up for the rest of their lives.

They were given food, water and utensils for cooking. The cavern given to them was small but was fitted with an air shaft for breathing. It was also fitted with a chimney, and for a few days smoke could be seen rising out from it indicating that Dang Ayang was still alive.

Historical accounts differ in terms of how long she survived in the cavern. Some say she lived for a week, other say 40 days. Accounts also differ on who was actually sent to accompany Dang Ayang. Some say she was locked alone, others say she was with her brother and household members or waiting ladies (dayang - dayang) whom the Raja punished as well for being accomplices.

It’s hard to tell the details now as it has been many centuries since it happened.

Dang Ayang’s kubur (or grave) has now been turned into a beautiful mausoleum at the heart of Brunei’s capital, along Jalan Elizabeth II (Elizabeth II Road. Jalan in Brunei = Dalan in Cebuano). Locals recount this part of oral history as a tragic tale of love. Others say the story provides a picture of how Brunei rulers ruled that time: firm in carrying out punishments on anyone who went against the law, regardless if they're family or not.

a view of the mausoleum from the city

3

1/14/2017

Kung sa imong pag inusara imong
mamatikdan kining gamay’ng alibangbang nga naglibot
kanimo samtang nagkapa kapa, ayaw
katingala. Ang hangin mismo
ang nagdala niini paingon sa imong
tugkaran aron mosidlak sa imong
presensya. Ang langit
ang naghukom nga ibutang kini
duul kanimo.Walay kusug nga
mosupak sa mando sa kapalaran,
siya sayod nga ikaw mao’y kalibutan.
Imong mata’g pahiyom maoy
langit alang sa kalag nga dugay na’ng
himalatyon.

tinta

1/14/2017

Makiangayon ba nga pasagdan
nalang nga banlason
niining ulan ang tanang
nakasulat na? Dili ba
ikaw mismo ang nag ingon
nga kining tinta, kansang kangitingit
kinutlo sa kalalum sa kagabhion,
molungtad sa paglabay sa
panahon? Ug nganong
sa gamay’ng dalimuos kalit
kang nahanaw ug gibiyaan ang
tana'ng naandan ta? Dili ba igo
nga gitagaan ta ug panahon kining
tanan samtang gibuhian ang
kasingkasing, giamping nga
wala’y mausik sa tinta, ug sa tana’ng
pulong
nga nahatag na?

engkaso'g di na mobalik

1/14/2017

Ayaw ka pagsyagit o paghilak. Ingon man ayaw
hagbasa ang mangga sa likud niining
balay. Ayaw bungkaga ang pultahan
sumaa sa imong nakaandan na.
Hinoon hulkasa ang mga nilabhan.
Silhiga ang mga dahong laya sa nataran samtang
nagtanum ug bag-ong bulak nga ipuli
sa nangamatay na.
Ayaw usiki ang mga sulat, ug ayaw sunuga ang
kagabhion sa paghuna
huna.

sa liwas/AFTERMATH

1/14/2017

Ug unsay gisimbolohan niining
pagpangatagak sa mga
anghel karo’ng buntaga? Gigubang
paraiso. Sa katapusan niini unsay
magpabilin pa? Mga hulagway,
orasan, kwintas ug tanang
butang gilabay na sa wanang. Kauban ikaw nga
dili na mamahimong ikaw. Ako nga dili na
mamahimong ako. Ug human niini
mga katawang dili na
madunggan pa. Mga pulong nga
mahimong
hikalimtan
na.

What is this falling of
angels this
morning a sign of?
A broken paradise. What will remain
of it in the end? Portraits, watches,
a necklace and other
things have all been thrown into the
void, along with you who
will no longer
be you. I, who will no longer be
me. And after this a
laughter which will never be
heard of. Words that
will soon be
forgotten.

ps

11/14/2016

In a similar way, (who
knows?) you might
one day decide to
undie. When that
happens I’ll quickly go back to my old
notes and correct all those
ugly misspellings.
I’ll write full sentences with your
name in them,
this time no longer holding my
breath in or stopping to
clear my eyes
after every
punctuation.

september

8/31/2016

Years later, the universe forgot. Because more important things happened that eventually replaced the adventures of that one September. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Especially that 2 am when they drove past the plainness of the city, towards the mountain top where they witnessed the moon quietly meeting its lover, away from everyone's prying eyes.

How they held hands as they marvelled at the red-orange sky as it burst in celebration. How they smiled in silence because they knew no one else saw it.

And how even though he left so quickly, she kept him in her memory. She hears his mischievous laughter at times. She also remembers watching him fade away with the sun as she died in silence.

But it doesn’t matter. She loved him. And she still thinks that in spite of having seen so many Septembers in her life, there is only one September that she can call fabulous beyond compare.

MY Thai massage story

8/1/2016

Three years ago, while visiting Bangkok, my friend Ava and I decided to have a massage. We've had Thai massage in Cebu before and thought it would be really nice to finally have one in Thailand.

We went to one of those small shops near our hotel. I forgot the name of the shop. I don't even remember the name of our hotel now or the street we were in.

The woman who came to our room was small, probably 40 kilos or so and around 4’10 in height. She seemed to be in her 50s. She didn't speak English. But she smiled a lot so that more or less made up for everything.

As she walked in, I stared at her gentle, wrinkled face. She reminded me of my Lola who passed away when I was younger. Her presence, like that of my Lola's, was the kind you’d look for when you’re sick or need attention.

As she approached my bed, I said “Hello”. She smiled and quietly signalled me to take my clothes off. She gave me only a piece of loose shorts and nothing for the top except a white towel. I was embarrassed at first, but I told myself it was nothing irregular. Massage parlors do this kind of thing all the time.

Before she began, I told her I was not used to hard massage and that she should be careful. She said Ok.

At first it was pleasurable and relaxing. She poured menthol oil into my back and kneaded me gently. The smell of menthol while being massaged and the soft music in the background were enough to send me to outer space.

But, after a while, I noticed her pushing harder and harder. Suddenly, she sat on top of my legs and started pulling my arm towards her, my back facing her back. I heard some heavy cracking. I wondered what that was…my bones? my muscles? my liver? I was alarmed.

Fifteen minutes into the routine, I was beginning to think this auntie may be an MMA fighter. She kept pulling me into all sorts of directions left to right, contorting me into positions I wouldn’t imagine anyone ever doing to me in my entire life. When I’d tell her to go soft, she’d just smile, tap my butt, and then keep on with what she was doing.

The torture and manhandling went on for two hours. All this while I was wearing only a towel. When she was done, I reached out to my wallet painfully and then gave her money. Afterwards, I returned to my bed sore and soft as dough. I thought all my bones melted. I couldn’t get up anymore. I felt sick all over.

The next day, I got fever as expected. Meanwhile, Ava was on the bed beside mine, cheerful as ever. She actually didn’t do the massage and opted for a scrub instead. So she was healthy and had all the energy to tease me about the ordeal. “Da, sige pa. Ngano ni enter?” she’d say to me over and over again while laughing.

Well, she suffered with me too. We had to cancel our scheduled trip to Cambodia. We spent the rest of the day holed up in our hotel.

As for Thai massage, that was voluntary torture. I paid high for that horrible experience. I'll never very gonna do it again ever.