Forms of Solidarity in Land and Life: The Tumandok People of Panay and Their Struggle

Reflecting on the Tumandok massacre of December 30 2020, I wrote elsewhere that the incident didn’t register very long in the public’s consciousness because of the fatigue from scandals and several occasions of ineptitude of the Philippine state’s pandemic response, a lockdown considered to be one of the longest and the most brutal in the world. Similarly the pandemic is as if a ghost in the award winning short film Panambi (Myra Angeline Soriaso, Jane Mariane Biyo & Katya Marie Corazon Puertoliano, 2021) which recreates the testimonies of women who witnessed the said massacre talk about their life and struggles. If they weren’t wearing face masks, you’d think the COVID-19 pandemic is non-existent. This juxtaposition, where one crisis seems to pale in comparison to another, is important to keep in mind when learning about the fraught experiences of the Tumandok people of Central Panay, it is simply another episode to the decades of their neglect and displacement. In an opinion piece written a few weeks after the incident, writer Rae Rival aptly asks, why is no anyone talking about the Tumandok massacre? Land and Life: The Tumandok People of Panay and Their Struggle, a slim book that functions as a history, testimony, and documentation all at once, responds firmly to this silence. Prepared by the Iloilo Legal Assistance Center (ILAC), with support from the Taiwan Foundation for Democracy, the book aims to not just to prevent total erasure of the massacre from public memory, but also to assert that the need for solidarity efforts are far from gone.   

Land and Life is made up of a primary essay that covers the long history of the Tumandok people, interspersed with generous amounts of photos and captions, along with two eye-witness testimonies of organizing efforts over the years. Since it is prepared by lawyers, special attention is given to the legal aspects of the Tumandok people’s experiences, but not to the point of being too technical for a lay person. In fact, the book takes tremendous effort to show a comprehensive view of a community. This includes brief discussions on language, cultural practices, artifacts, and economic livelihood. These details are integral to dispel the image of a tokenized indigenous peoples, and to show that the Tumandok have collective agency to assert their rights. They chant their epic poems and perform courtship dances, but ultimately they push back as community when control over their ancestral domain is at stake. Moreover, the narrative doesn’t begin in the massacre itself, but fifty years back. In the early 60s a military based was established in Central Panay on area covered by the Tumandok’s ancestral lands. After the land grab, they are then forced to pay tumado or rent to continue farming nearby. This begins the thorny relationship of the Tumandok and the state, especially with the military. Land and Life concisely connects various incidents of harassment, including deaths, of members of the community leading up to the unfolding of the Jalaur Dam project in the 2010s. A familiar pattern is exposed, indigenous groups’ lives, culture, and rights being treated as expendable for the state’s artificial version of development.

This history is complimented by two testimonies, twenty years apart, of participants to people’s assemblies organized by the community with help from progressive groups representing various sectors. If the attacks have been persistent over the years, so have been the solidarity efforts. Paz Garachico, writes in 1998, “It is very ironic that the government that has recognized the Tumandok as an indigenous people with unique and distinct cultural heritage is the same government that is attempting to drive them away from their ancestral domain through the intimidation of the Philippine Army. Two hundred terrified families evacuated due to military war exercises last December 1995. The same exercise wounded four Tumandok women and children when a mortar exploded. They took refuge in makeshift huts in the forest. Exposing the children and the elders to the elements and intense fear caused ailments.” Phillippe Angelo Hiñosa, meanwhile recalls his experiences immersing with the community, and highlights the dangers of the construction of the dam, “The Jalaur mega dam is endangered by an active fault nearby, landslides and a poor foundation at the construction site. A powerful earthquake could destabilize it and force it to collapse, drowning the Tumandok who live downstream. Meanwhile, those upstream could endure habitat degradation, reduced water quality, and unfavorable changes in biodiversity, which might ultimately lead to the extinction of aquatic species. Worse, it could accelerate climate change.” Hiñosa then attempts to come into terms with  grief of learning that one of the community leaders he had meaningful exchanges about aggressive development in 2019 would be killed in the massacre the following year.

The book concludes detailing with the aftermath of the massacre, which I consider to be very important. Despite the gravity of the violent events, barely being one in the first place, the massacre inevitably stopped being ‘breaking news’. Pictures of the nine community leaders killed, along with those of the sixteen arrested, are shown with their names and the communities in Tapaz, Capiz where they lived. I don’t think any mainstream media outlet took this much effort to humanize the victims. The ensuing evacuation was also discussed, along with the spill over violence that occurred in early 2021 namely the murder of Julie Catamin, a community leader and key witness to the raid, and to the attack against Angelo Karlo Guillen, one of the volunteer lawyers representing the detained Tumandok. Weaponization of the law is most pronounced in these sections. For example, the investigation of the perpetrators is summarized, “The Regional Internal Affairs Service (RIAS) of the Philippine National Police conducted its own investigation on the bloody operation. In April 2021, it recommended the filing of charges for grave misconduct and grave irregularity in the performance of duty against 14 police operatives from Luzon who participated in the simultaneous raids. In June 2021, RIAS exonerated the 14 operatives who were charged because none of the families of the victims came forward to present evidence during the conduct of summary hearings.” Almost all the detainee have been release through the help of members of ILAC, however the communities still live in fear and under surveillance. Construction of the Jalaur dam is underway, and this time, the massacre is the ghost presence in the state’s press releases.

Land and Life is an excellent addition to the country’s long list of literature of solidarity. It is be best read alongside recent titles like Gantala Press’ Dawwang: Kababaihang Tagapagtanggol ng Kordilyera (2021), a comic book about Leticia Bula-at’s experiences of organizing against the Chico River Dam since the 70s, and the lessons imparted to younger generations of land defenders and allies who, just like the Tumandok, have to be vigilant even amid a global pandemic. On the other hand, Vijae Orquia Aquisola’s Awit ng Bakwit (Sentro ng Wikang Filipino-UP Diliman, 2019), uses poetry to tackle the experiences and perseverance of displaced Lumad children. This book is not merely a refusal to forget, but a challenge to carry on the fight for the rights and well-being of indigenous peoples. Land and Life, proves that we are not as far removed as we’d imagine to these stories of struggle.

Permanence and Mobility in Dili Pwede Mogawas ug Ubang Mga Sugilanon / Can’t Go Out and Other Stories by Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano, translated by John Bengan (Ateneo de Davao University Publication Office, 2022) [Book Review]

There is a strong current of orality in the stories of Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano, presented bilingually in her debut with translations by John Bengan. The pieces in Dili Pwede Mogawas ug Ubang Mga Sugilanon/Can’t Go Out and Other Stories are similar to  narratives one has grown up listening to, they could be gossip heard or memories one reconstruct for one’s self. This is shared early on by Serrano-Quijano when she cites the influence of her grandmother and father to her love for storytelling. On top of this mode, it is the themes of permanence and mobility, and their various permutations that figure prominently. Why do people stay or leave, what motivates them, and what is the aftermath of their decisions. Particularly, movement is carried out by walking, taking the bus, or riding the habal-habal. These episodes remind me of the essays of Teng Mangansakan or the fiction of Rogelio Braga, where the traversing of space in a large land mass like Mindanao is both a setting and a subject. Since I only have an elementary understanding of the region’s geography, I had to look up the where exactly the places are. The stories unfold in Davao del Sur, namely in Blaan communities that are part of the neighboring rural municipalities of Magsaysay and Matanao. Both are approximately 30 kilometers to the provincial capital of Digos, and over 80 kilometers to the regional center of Davao City. Macario Tiu in his foreword writes that these “stories are raw, unadorned, and tell of real conflicts and struggles. We are fortunate that Joy has chronicled the dynamics of the socio-economic and political changes that are taking place in her hometown.” Meanwhile Bengan’s translation has maintained the casual and distinct language of Serrano-Quijano, and even kept some words and colloquialism in Bisaya as they are more effective rather than finding equivalents in English. He adds that these stories “are unmistakably of their time and milieu–Mindanao, at present.” Throughout this review, I will quote both Serrano-Quijano and Bengan. Aside from tone, themes, locations, and language explored, another consideration in the stories are their length which is consistently brief, each “a few hundred short of two thousand words” according to Bengan. Hence the ‘real conflicts and struggles’ tackled are done by Serrano-Quijano in a brisk and deflected manner often with slice of life approach, ending up with various results. This collection is a first of its kind, providing a portrait of a precarious reality and history to a region that seldom crosses the minds of people in centers.        

Undeniably a lot of oral tales are cautionary in nature, often with gruesome and tabloid-like details or outcomes. Some of the best stories in the collection pushes this familiar, not to mention simplistic, format further. Aside from concise plots and quick pacing, these stories are a window to a social condition that is fraught in itself. In Pikpik/Tap, a young teacher seeks better opportunities outside her hometown, and finds it in a school two hours away. There she encounters sinister stereotypes still widely accepted, specifically of scheming residents wanting to poison outsiders through a simple touch. In a classroom, the students asks, “if it was true that there were sorcerers and tappers in Matanao. My eyes widened and I quickly denied the accusation. I was amused thinking about the various ways people from other places peddled false beliefs and spoke evil of other towns, like the often-heard story about Siquijor as the land of ghouls./ Nibalos sab silag pangutana kung tinuod ba na nay mamarang ug mamikpik sa Matanao. Misiga akong mata ug abtik nga milimod sa maong akusasyon. Malingaw ko maghunahuna sa mga tinuohan ug mali nga panghadlok sa mga tawo sa ubang lugar, sama pananglit sa sulti nga sa Siquijor daghang wakwak.” In the end, the teacher’s rational frame of mind would be challenged as she herself fell victim to an supposed attack. Ako si Robin Nabaro/I Am Robin Nabaro, on the other the hand, doesn’t need to dabble in folk beliefs to present horror in people’s daily lives. The protagonist, also a teacher, is on a bus ride from the city as she takes note of fellow passengers and the often chaotic scenarios of the long commute. In the process, she exposes her anxieties as well as her arrogant disposition. “Sometimes, it was scary and worrisome to take the Mindanao Star because of the accidents their drivers had been involved in. But it was the same with the passenger vans. Because of their reckless driving, a lot of horrifying accidents had happened, which were quickly posted on Facebook. You could clearly see the blood and brains splattered everywhere. That was why whenever I took the bus or a van, I never forgot to pray and looked up at the sky. Even if there was a fear of accidents, I had to go to Davao every so often to transact with GSIS, NSO, and other agencies of government./  Usahay makahadlok ug makabalaka kung mosakay sa Mindanao Star tungod sa mga aksidenteng gikalambigitan sa mga drayber nini. Apan mao man sad ang mga van. Tungod sa ilang pagdali-dali sa dalan, daghan na kaayog mangilngig nga aksidente ang nahitabo, nga tulin kaayong ma-post sa Facebook. Klaro ra ba kaayo ang mga utok ug dugo nga nagkatag. Mao na nga kung mosakay ko sa bus o van, di gyod malimtan ang pag-ampo ug paghangad sa langit. Bisan may kahadlok kinahanglan man gyod moadto sa Davao kay naa man didto ang GSIS, NSO, ug uban pang ahensya sa gobyerno.” During stopovers when passengers get the opportunity to relieve themselves, she dreads a possible terrorist attack, “Sometimes I’d think, what if there were bombs inside the bags that they left behind, we’d all perish. /Usahay makahunahuna ko nga kung naay bomba ang mga bag nga ilang gibilin, hurot gyod ming tanan.” Beyond the risk of accidents or violence, what gets her ire the most are people asking for alms that gravitate to public places like terminals for a captured market of sorts. One man in particular has been a mainstay of her commute episodes that she has come to memorize his script. She goes on her mind about laziness and lack of initiative, and even articulates the Anti-Medicancy Law to rationalize her obliviousness to what she considers an act. However, the harmful road infrastructure would later prove to her that what she percieves as being an upright citizen means next to nothing.    

The dialectical relationship between reason and myth is present again in Ang Buntis gikan Zamboanga/The Pregnant Woman from Zamboanga, basically structured as a ghost story. The narrator, a young school girl who has to cross the river to get home, encounters an unfamiliar pregnant woman. She recalls an eerie story from her grandfather, one whose awful details has left a deep impression on her, much more compared to common stories of enchanted beings in the forest. This girl is another rationalist at heart, paying attention to the relationship of superstition and material conditions, “Further up our sitio, some children were taken to the hospital because of stomach pains. According to the village healers, the children had offended those-not-like-us because they played in the river and were making noise last Friday. But our teacher said that possibly the stomach pains were caused by the germs from drinking water. Maybe, it wasn’t the children or the engkantos’ fault that they had stomach aches. Maybe, the ones to blame were the parents who dirtied the environment./ Sa unahan sa among sityo, adunay mga naospital tungod kay nagdaot ang tiyan. Sumala pa sa mga mananambal, nakasala ang mga bata sa mga dili-ingon-nato tungod kay nagdula-dula sila sa sapa ug nagsaba-saba niadtong Biyernes. Apan ingon sa among maestro, ang sakit sa tiyan posibleng dala sa kagaw nga makuha sa inumong tubig. Tingali di sala sa mga bata o sa mga engkanto ang pagsakit sa ilang tiyan. Tingali sala sa ilang mga ginikanan nga naghugaw-hugaw sa kinaiyahan.” Remaining restless from the sighting, she asks her grandfather to tell the story with the figure of the pregnant woman again. As a young man, apparently he was a construction worker employed to build roads in the area in the mid-70s. In one phase of the project, the equipment suddenly stopped working while employees started getting sick. The only remedy to crises ending up being a blood sacrifice. He recalls in vivid details the incident of a woman’s death, “I couldn’t believe what I had witnessed. The noise of the cicadas grew even louder. The wind that slapped me seemed damp and smelled of blood. From the woods emerged huge monitor lizards with skin the color of gold and crawled over to the woman and in a blink, the dead body and the monitor lizards were gone!/ Halos di ko katuo sa akong nakita. Misamot kakusog ang mga huni sa mga gangis. Ang hangin nga mihapak sa akoa daw basa ug bahong dugo. Migawas gikan sa lasang ang mga kolor bulawan nga mga dagkong halo ug miadto sa lawas sa babaye ug sa pagpilok nako, wa na ang patayng lawas ug ang mga halo!” Perhaps myth is not the opposite of reason, but rather it’s underbelly. This is especially true in cases like that of massive postwar road expansions in Mindanao, nature is penetrated and changed forever. Even after decades, the life of settlers is one filled with hauntings. A parallel story that tackles communal unease, Gambalas Ago!/I Have Avenged Myself! unfortunately comes off more melodramatic rather than macabre. Again from the point of view of children, Serrano-Quijano skillfully inserts the social and economic dynamics of a small sitio in Magsaysay. A glaring fact is the need for children to work, “One of the ways children in Kanapulo made money was by doing raha or gathering firewood. The stores bought a bundle of firewood for five pesos, and sold it for ten. Because so many people were doing raha in Kanapulo, chopping trees and making charcoal were prohibited. The children and local youths were now doing raha in secret. As they said, “If you’re caught, you’re dead. If not, enjoy life!”/ Usa sa pangwarta sa mga batang taga Kanapulo ang pa-raha o pagkuha og kahoy aron ibaligya nga sugnod. Tagsingko ang palit sa mga tindahan sa usa ka bugkos nga sugnod us ibaligya nila kini og tagdiyes. Tungod sa kadaghan sa naga-raha sa Kanapulo, gibawal na ang pagputol sa mga kahoy ug pag-uling. Kawat-kawat na lang ang pag-raha sa mga bata ug mga batan-on. Ingon pa nila, “Kung masakpan, patay! Kung di masakpan, lipay-lipay!” The town was rattled when a widowed store owner got pregnant, igniting marital fighting in various households. The woman was later reported missing, and the incident is suggested to start a longer conflict between spouses, specifically the parents of the narrator, instead of closure.The final confrontation however felt unnecessary. We end up with a infidelity trope where one woman is pitted against another, where it would have been a more fascinating investigation of how a community is complicit in their silence after a crime.

Though presentation of issues are consistently done, there are evident stories where they are deliberately the take off point of the narrative. Dili Pwede Mogawas/Can’t Go Out, is about a child growing up in the middle of armed conflict between communist rebels and state forces. The title refers to an absurd rule of her mother, on top of their family’s already impoverished life. The child narrator again has casual innocence in making sense of her situation, “Mama didn’t agree that I’d be married off to our neighbor Randy. Mama wants me to finish at least high school. Will I be able to finish it? I’ve repeated grade three twice. Every week Id be absent thrice to help in the cornfield. My playmates are better off, they get to go with their Mamas when the 4Ps are released. We didn’t join the 4Ps because Papa won’t let us. We don’t know our birthdays and Ma’am Edna kept asking for my birth certificate. Mama said to me, you don’t have that because you can’t go out!/ Wa nisugot si Mama nga ibuya pod ko sa among silingan nga si Randy. Gusto ni Mama mohuman ko bisag hay eskul. Makahuman pa kaha ko? Ikaduha nako nibalik og grid tri. Sa usa ka simana, moabsent kog katulo kay motabang sa maisan. Maayo pa ang uban nakong kadula, maka-uban sa ilang Mama kung rilis sa 4P’s. Wa daw mi apil sa 4P’s kay di mosugot si Papa. Wa mi kabalo sa among birtdi ug sige nag pangayo si Mam sa akong birt sertikeyt. Ingon si Mama, wa mo ana kay dili ta pwede mogawas!” This narrative approach is paradoxical. By focus on a child’s perspective, and her parent’s avoidance of discussing matters in the open, we see an experience of war that is intimate and visceral, but falls short on comprehensively providing hints to the roots of insurgency or to the gravity of the state’s chosen response. The loss of innocence arc runs very a strong risk of perpetuating an ahistorical view of conflict, resulting the difficulty of imaging alternatives to what Serrano-Quijano described as a ‘ceaseless war’. This tragedy is interesting to compare to Baryo Tai/Barrio Tai, a story that has more hopeful look into the displacement being done in communities. The name of the place, literally ‘shit town’, is a moniker agreed upon by outsiders relying on two levels of meaning; a large presence of livestock and its overall poverty. It is worth noting that before the arrival of a mining company planning to set up operations, peasant families are already dealing with years of neglect, “The harvests had become less. Sometimes, the water supply was limited. The prices of pesticides for the rice went up and the interest rates of the loans for the pesticides were increased by the lenders. Before harvest time, we were already drowned in debt./ Nagminus ang ani. Usahay limitado ang patubig. Nagkataas ang mga medisina sa humay ug nagtubo ang interes sa mga nagapautang og medisina. Wa pa maani, nalumos na mi sa utang.” Caught between a rock and a hard place, the story illustrates how the state’s own incompetence is used to justify the ushering in of capital. In a town meeting with residents hesitant to sell off their lands, the barangay captain reasons, “My fellow barangay folks, before we think or say anything negative, we should listen first to the representative of the SAMARA Mining Company so we’ll know their plans. It can’t be denied that we are having a hard time with our water supply at present. The NIA keeps increasing the charges.”/ “Mga ka-barangay, una kita maghunahuna o mosultig negatibo, ato usang paminawon ang representanti sa SAMIRARA Mining Company aron sab madunggan ang ilang mga plano. Di ikalimod nga naglisod na ta sa tubig karong panahona. Nagkataas ang singil sa NIA” While local officials are bought off, the community, informed of other cases of environmental problems mining brings, came to together in resisting. It is very curious to see that the National Irrigation Administration is shown as unconcerned, but mentions the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples (NCIP) as having a more proactive role in empowering indigenous communities. In 2019, President Duterte appointed an ex-military officer that was formerly involved in a smuggling controversy in his prior position. Critics pointed out the frequent clashes between the military and indigenous groups, the glaring example being the massive evacuation of Lumad communities. Remaining in position in 2022, the NCIP chair red-tags indigenous groups resisting a dam project in the Apayao. There are other cases that posits that the agency often has a hand in facilitating the entry of corporations in resource-rich area under the ancestral domain of indigenous groups. Because of the story’s large scope, events are rushed and incidents occasionally heard in the news are filtered through. No mention of militarization, harassment or outright murder of resistant community leaders. The teenager narrating the story even pursues a degree in agriculture technology in the end, establishing the story as a liberal polemic to the manifold problems, one that reads a lot like a wishful fantasy.  

Discernible by now, Serrano-Quijano prefers perspective coming from young characters. In stories where the point of view is that of an adult, it is alternatively nostalgic. This frame is largely due to the circumstances of adults who have pursued careers in urban centers and look back to their hometown fondly. I feel that this results to the compromise of the issues these stories try to raise. Ang Loyalista/The Loyalist is a recollection of a grandmother who had a life-long fascination with a figure of the dictator Ferdinand Marcos. The narration is so earnest and uncritical, that by the time a sense of irony is inserted in the end–admittance of a life-long material hardship, it seems that it didn’t have the impact it aims to achieve. It conclude matter of factly, “I might have not understood her being a Marcos loyalist, but I understood her abiding loyalty. If I would be asked whose granddaughter I am, without hesitation, my answer would be: “I am the granddaughter of Julia, the Blaan Marcos loyalist.”/ Tingali di man nako masabtan ang iyang pagka loyalista kay Marcos, apan nasabtan nako nga ang iyang pagka-loyal way utlanan. Kung pangutan-on ko kung kay kinsa kong apo, sa way pagduhaduha mao ni ang akong tubag: “Ako ang apo ni Julia, ang Blaan nga Marcos loyalista.” Meanwhile Kasiawa/Kasiawa, is a remembrance of a Chinese neighbor and his relationship to the community. “Siawa was the only Chinese man in our village. There were also Kapampangan, Ilocano, and Blaan, but the lone Chinese man was considered the most respected among the settlers in our place./ Si Siawa lang ang Instsik sa among sityo. Aduna sab mga Kapampangan, Ilokano, ug Blaan apan ang nag-inusarang Intsik ang giila ug pinakarespetado nga dayo sa among lugar.” This would have been a perfect venue to discuss migration paths and stories, or the role of a merchant class, often Chinese, in an import-dependent and export-oriented economy. The story however, settled on being an impressionistic character study.

In contrast to the fast action of most stories, the collection is actually bookended by narratives of permanence, similar but contrasting versions of peace. Abogmaya/ The Maya Birds functions like a procedural of routines in a rural household. Despite material hardships and conflict with family, the grandmother who mostly lives alone is content. This could be taken as due to her being in her twilight years, or simply humble acceptance of her place in nature. This is illustrated in her peculiar relationship with birds. “Tomorrow, the work continues, the work continues,” Adela said to herself. When she turned to look at the ricefield she saw that the maya birds had gathered again. Anger wasn’t what she felt for the birds. On her lips formed a smile. “Here come my visitors, but I must drive you away”/ “Ugma, padayon gihapon ang mga buluhaton, padayon gihapon,” matod pa ni Adela sa iyang kaugalingon. Paglingi ni Adela sa basakan nagtapok na pod ang mga maya. Dili kapungot ang nabati ni Adela ngadto sa mga maya. Sa yang mga ngabil nilutaw ang pahiyom, “Ania na sab ang akong mga bisita, apan kinahanglan ko gayod kamong abogon.” However the life goes on standpoint is pushed to its ironic end in Salibo sa Baryo Bagol/Rain Spray in Barrio Bagol, making it the most poignant and enraging piece in the collection. Story of a mother trying to fix a window in her hut so the water won’t come in. She takes on jobs to make ends meet, and later applies for government aid, only to be rejected based on a technicality. In an interview for her application, a detached staff fail, or refuse, to see the deeper contradictions poverty brings. “Indeed, the people from DSWD arrive in our house. I answer them to the best of my ability. One of the things they notice is that we don’t have a toilet. One of them tells me that we really need a toilet because it is dangerous to just cover our shit with a coconut shell. It can be the source of many diseases./ Tuod man, niabot ang taga DSWD sa among balay. Gitubag nako sila kutob sa akong makaya. Usa sa ilang namatikdan kay wa mi kasilyas. Sumala pa sa usa kanila, kinahanglan naa gyod mi kasilyas kay delikado ang among pagtabon og bagol sa among tai. Mao unya kini hinungdan sa mga sakit.” Here, she and her family is one with nature, but not necessarily living with dignity. Fatalism is unveiled, and has deep roots in underdevelopment. Contentment in the first story is subverted, it is nothing more but making do.  

I finished this book in one sitting. It is after all, as I’ve mentioned, fairly short and immensely engaging. The sheer number of subjects they exhausted will haunt you, though I think the treatment is done unevenly. What is certain is that Serrano-Quijano carries deep humanistic care about the people, places, histories she has encountered and has preserved the stories in an accessible fashion. The collection is an juxtaposition of the intrusion of capital, dysfunctional public institutions, armed conflict, poverty, and how all closely intertwined and inseparable. These fragments of perseverance and making do, are admittedly heroic but they also expose their own limits. I highly recommend this book to those looking for stories from the regions, and discover why such stories rarely reach the centers, or the national imagination, in the first place. An excellent gauge of the modernity the nation-state espouses after all, is to look not in its supposed achievements, but to those who it leaves behind.

Dili Pwede Mogawas is available for purchase in Ateneo de Davao University Bookstore’s Lazada account