A Small Voice from Marawi

Salamun 'alaykum. I am back again! This is my nth attempt to revive this blog. I hope this time I can stick to my plan and maybe post an entry once a month at the very least. Not very ambitious, but still no promises here. Oh, well. Anyway, as my comeback entry, I'm posting on this blog the speech I read during the Philippine PEN 2017 Congress-- PEN at 60: Reaffirming the Writer's Commitment to Truth and Freedom, held at the University of Santo Tomas on November 21-22, 2017, where, together with Dr. Maimona Magayoong, Prof. Sorhaila Latip-Yusoph, and Prof. German Gervacio, I sat on the Literary Session named Tales from the War Zone: Voices of Marawi.

Here's the full text of my speech:

It was an ordinary, sunny MSU afternoon. I was at my office waiting for my students to submit their final requirements as that day was the deadline and, while waiting, I was listening to the songs from the musical, Grease, and I was reading random stuff on Twitter. I came upon the news of the bombing at Ariana Grande's concert in Manchester. Seeing that most of those who perished, who got hurt, and who were still missing were very young people, I was heartbroken. I was tweeting about it and RT-ing some tweets and as I read the tweets from all over the world, I burst into tears. I couldn't help it. So much hate in this world. (How could I have known that in a few hours I'd be crying for my own, beloved Marawi City!)

And then, I noticed my phone blaring like there was no tomorrow (I was wearing my headset so I couldn't hear my phone ringing), I checked it and I saw that I had a missed call from my sister and messages from her, from my mom, and from my good friend, Omaimah. I opened the messages and they were all saying that fighting had broken out somewhere in Basak-Maletlet and that there was an explosion at Markaz. Calmly, I removed my headset. I neither panicked nor felt the need to because, in MSU, somehow we are used to hearing a few firefights every now and then. Ones that would last just a few minutes. Then, I did hear a series of gunshots and I went to the door to check if there was any commotion. There was none. Students were just walking like there was no firefight ringing in the air from a distance. And then, suddenly the blasts and firefight got louder so I went back to my table to turn off my laptop and fix my things. My sister's text messages were frantic; she was telling me to go home as the fighting might blow up. After fixing my things in a very relaxed manner, I went to check on my friends at the other building, where there was a thesis defense going on. I peeked through the glass door of their department and waved at one of them. He came to the door and I told him that I thought we needed to go home because the firefight was now becoming louder and increasing in frequency. I told him I'd go ahead, but somehow I couldn't. The blasts, by this time, sounded louder and nearer so some kids were starting to panic. Our college staff who was assigned to lock the gate ran to me and, pale with panic and worry, told me that we had to go because he was going to lock the main entrance to the building already. I told the students who were there that we had to go and they should calmly tell their classmates who were still inside the classrooms. Meantime, the thesis defense got cut short because they could no longer focus on it because the firefight and explosions seemed to have gotten even louder and nearer. One of our colleagues, Sir Dingdong, said that it wasn't wise to lock the College. Where would you have these people go? They are safer here. He said matter-of-factly. And, he was right. He was talking about the students who didn’t live on campus. So, we decided that the entrance shouldn't be locked. At least, not yet. I told them apologetically that I had to get home. I was not scared (ok, maybe a little!) for myself but all I could think of at that time was how worried my mom was that I was still out there. So, my friends (three other faculty members) and I, and almost all of the students who were still at the College that time, went ahead. We advised those who stayed behind to be alert and go home as soon as they can. Our colleagues who remained there were from Iligan so they obviously couldn’t go just yet because they’d have to pass through Basak-Maletlet going down to Iligan. We thought that the fighting would be over after a few hours at most. By 5pm, everyone would be back to the safety of his/her home. We thought. And, how wrong we were. 

The war that broke out that day became the longest in the recent history of the country. It lasted five whole months. Martial Law in Mindanao was declared. More than half of our city burned, bombed, and pulverized to the ground. The “official” news reported a number of deaths (from the side of the government troops, from the side of that group, from the civilians), data on how much this and that were found and recovered. These were the important information. These were all very scary, infuriating, and frustrating facts that we needed to force into our systems. The news also reported how many times this country’s leader came to our city to support and inspire our troops. They needed some boost every now and then. These were the “important” truths. These were the stories we heard. 

But, for those of us who are from Marawi, there’s so much more to it than that. Our truths, our stories are stories of old men and women who were left by their loved ones in their houses in Marawi because they had no other choice and because they thought that they’d be able to go back for these loved ones after just one or two days. Our stories are those of families who got separated from one another for the first time in their clan’s history. Our stories are those of men and women who had to get off their vehicles, walk a few meters and line up to be body-inspected or stand next to that scary “wanted” poster to make sure they didn’t resemble any of the faces in the pictures. Our stories are those of men and women who were singled out in buses full of passengers just because of their names or the way they were dressed, these men and women often delayed the trip because of the additional interview and inspection so when they would finally get back on the bus, other passengers would give them dirty looks and angry stares that were enough to make them want the ground to just open up and swallow them. Just because of their names or something they were wearing. Our stories are those of families who were refused by apartment or home owners even if they were willing to pay as much as 6 month-advance rent just because of their names or the place they came from. Our stories are those of the innocent residents of the city who got stuck after the fighting started and who were forced to fight with and for that group and/or serve that group. Our stories are of the hostages who, after months of being captive and dealing with that group, showed signs of Stockholm syndrome. Our stories are those of lost homes, lost memories, lost time, and lost loved ones. Our stories are those of the small everyday triumphs of the spirit and the frustrations of a devastated city’s lost people. Our stories are those of the people who have lost everything. Our stories are those of the people who no longer know what to do or where to go or what to say or think. Our stories are those of people who feel betrayed by this country’s leadership. 

In the days and nights that followed that fateful May 23 afternoon, my mom and I were “trapped” in MSU Campus. We decided to leave when all our phones and gadgets ran out of battery and when we no longer had water to use nor drink. During the days and nights we were still there, I didn’t sleep at all. My phone became some sort of hotline with me connecting people who needed help with those who could actually help (some people I knew from the LGU) and giving many friends and students advice and reassuring words so they would remain calm. The worst text/call a teacher, I guess, could receive from a student is one that says, Ma'am, tabaaang! Not one of us knew what to do, but I had to be strong because it was at this time that my students and my non-Meranaw friends or those who were not really from Marawi or Lanao del Sur needed my strength and calm the most. I honestly couldn’t breathe until every non-Meranaw friend and student I had was safely out of Marawi City. I had never felt so scared and so helpless. And, I never want to go through that ever again. 

And, this is the reason why I cannot stop writing, why I cannot stop telling our stories. This is the reason why despite the threat of getting hit by stray bullets or the threat of that group suddenly becoming strong enough to actually get into the campus, we chose to go back to MSU-Marawi. Despite the fact that the windows to our houses, classrooms, and offices would shake as every bomb exploded, as every airstrike struck, we chose to come back. This is why despite many of our colleagues losing everything they owned, we all chose to come back. We chose to stand for peace and freedom. We had to come back. MSU was Marawi’s last stand. So, please, listen to our stories. Listen to our truths. Do not dismiss us as just statistics or data. Read us, listen to us. We are all Marawi!

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