Recently, the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) has revoked the registration of Rappler, a media outlet that dares speak against the atrocities of the Duterte regime. In the guise of citing the “unconstitutionality” of Rappler’s issuance of Philippine Depositary Receipts (PDRs)—which are legal financial instruments likewise issued by other media companies—fascist enablers seek to silence those who criticize Duterte and his policies, further upholding political hegemony.
Jade Mark Capiñanes’ essay recently won third prize in the Essay in English of the 2017 Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. He grew up in Panacan, Davao City, but now stays in Fatima, General Santos City. He was a fellow for creative nonfiction at the Davao Writers Workshop in 2016 and the UST National Writers Workshop in 2017.
Wait for me, my Darling. Wait for me
the way I wait for your future father.
Wait for me the way seeds wait
for rain and bulbs wait for spring,
that moment when a switch
is flipped on and the world is brighter,
in Technicolor, with birdsong in the trees.
Be patient the way time has taught me
to be patient— with myself, with my hopes,
with the sperm donor who shall help me
create you. Sit in my subconscious
and fall in line with the other dreams
at the back of my mind as they join
the queue of things-I-have-yet-to-do.
Arian Tejano earned her bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing from the University of the Philippines-Mindanao. She was also a fellow at the Davao Writers Workshop. A poet and a photographer, she balances her time between Tandag, Surigao del Sur and Dumaguete, and occasionally travels around Asia for the love and self-exploration. In 2015, her poem When A Lady Boy Loves A Foreign Man won first prize at “The Other Side” poetry contest of Hong Kong-based Cha: An Asian Literary Journal. She is a marketing analyst by profession.
The vigorous lapping of the waves signalled the arrival of Omar first, even before his brother heard the familiar sound of the outrigger boat.
Perhaps it was the 6-hour bumpy van ride from downtown pueblo, followed by the stomach-churning two-hour banca ride until the easternmost coast of the Moro Gulf, but Omar swore there was that persistent low-pitch vibration that filled his ears with a whimper. Omar held his nose shut, and then blew into it. The whirring sound was still there. He yawned a couple of times—POP! Pressure finally equalized in his Eustachian tube. It had been years since he last visited his hometown, but one did not simply forget the lessons of one’s youth.
His brother, Abdel, was waiting for him by the docking site at the edge of a makeshift hut on bamboo stilts. What he lost in weight, he gained in the length of beard that now reached up to his chest. Whit his plain white robe and black skull cap, Omar thought Abdel looked like an Imam and felt suddenly uncomfortable in his sweat-drenched shirt and jeans.
Abdel extended his arms to welcome his little brother. “As salaam alaikum,” he said, and proceeded to engulf Omar in a tight embrace.