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Fiction

Can’t Go Out

By Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano
Translated from Cebuano by John Bengan
In this short story by Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano, a young girl longs to see the world beyond her rural village.

Darkness falls in the afternoon. It’s going to rain again. The carabao and the goats have been herded off to shelter. The newly harvested corn has been covered. The house smells of fuel because our tiny lamp has been lit. Smoke rises from the hearth, a signal that Mama is cooking something. The five of us can’t go out. I want to go out so I can wait for Papa. I want to look out for what he brings, but I can’t go out.

The other week, Papa brought meat from hunting. Mama prepared it in a delicious broth. Rod and I fought over a large piece of wild boar meat. Mama got upset because we shouldn’t fight at the table.

But last night, she and Papa were arguing. The five of us slept on empty stomachs. I couldn’t find my malong cloth. I fell asleep in our cold corner of the forest in Datal Fitak, a mountain in Matanao.

My teacher asks if we have ever seen a TV. I’ve seen one in a picture but I don’t know what it’s for. I haven’t been to Digos or to Davao, but I’ve heard about those places. So many people, they say, so many vehicles. Sometimes I don’t feel so bad because so many people and so many vehicles might run me over.

Ma’am Edna, my grade three teacher, says that others wish on a foling estar. I’ll also wish on a star that I might visit Digos even just for once. But the stars only come out at night, and I can’t go out.

I’ve only ever ridden Uncle Basud’s motorcycle, the time we delivered our harvested corn. I haven’t been in a jeep, or what Ma’am calls bus and van, airplane, ship. Sometimes my mind reaches the heavens. Are there also cars in heaven? Is there electricity, lights in the night that don’t need fuel?

I’ve only seen and listened to a radio but our radio ran out of batteries, and our house is now more quiet. When the wind blows, our cogon roof dances and our bamboo walls snap.

Mama didn’t go to Bangkal to buy batteries for the radio because there are soldiers. Anyway, I’ve seen a selfon. Because Ma’am Edna has a selfon. You can take a picture, listen to a song, you can read. I asked Mama if she knew how to use a selfon. She said to me, she doesn’t even know how to write her name. She only reached grade one, and then she was married off to Papa when she was only twelve. How could she have gone to school if she couldn’t go out.

Mama didn’t agree to me being married off to our neighbor Randy. Mama wants me to finish at least high school. Will I finish? I’ve repeated grade three twice. In a week, I’ll skip classes to help at 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 wouldn’t let us. We don’t know our birthdays and Ma’am Edna kept asking for my birthday. Mama said to me, you don’t have that because you can’t go out!

Papa didn’t come home. And I can’t find my malong. The wind outside seems to whisper something. The trees outside seem to speak and the footsteps of light feet lull me to sleep. When it’s dark, even when you want to take a piss, you can’t go out because there are raiders doing pangayaw. Wild creatures lurk outside. Rod’s malong smells like piss after he wet himself on our bed because we can’t go out.

I stir to the rustling of birds. Perok-perok, maya, agila, and banog, the loud ones early in the morning. I’m wide-awake hearing Mama’s scream. I rush downstairs and see two men.

“Your Papa’s gone,” says Mama, holding my malong soaked in blood. The men leave. I understand that my Papa is dead. I want to cry and look for Papa, but I can’t go out.

I told Ma’am Edna when she asked me what Papa’s work was, I told her Papa was a soldier. He had a yuniform and a gun. There was a red crest on the side of his yuniform. I bragged to my klasmit that Papa was a soldier. That was why he hunted deer and wild boar, because he was always in the forest. Every Friday I would wait for Papa because I knew he would bring something for me. Sometimes flowers from the jungle, and honey.

Rayzan said to me that Papa wasn’t a soldier. That was why we had a fight and I didn’t want us to be friends. Sometimes there were people who came to the house with Papa. They called papa Ka Oding. I saw that they had papers, and letters, money, guns, and they were also with women who were pretty and had light skin. I didn’t know where they were from. But Papa told us to play behind our cogon hut. Whenever his companions were around, Mama would go to the cornfield.

I told Papa, “Women can be soldiers too? I want to be like you, Pa. I want to be a soldier!”

Papa stood up, went outside, and struck our dog. Papa said I shouldn’t become a soldier, because soldiers have no mercy, they are abusive and they kill.

“Aren’t you a soldier, Pa? Why can’t I be a soldier too? You even have a companion who’s a girl soldier.”

Mama interrupted, “Greshel, your food, finish up, you’ll be leyt for the bayang flag ceremony.”

I didn’t know it would be our last breakfast with Papa. Only my bloody malong is what I have left. Papa brought my malong that day he left after he and Mama and had a fight.

Rebelde, rebelde, but your children will die of hunger?!” Mama’s voice was loud.

“This is for them, this is for you!” Papa left with his bag.

I lay back down and thought of the heaven that Ma’am Edna told us about. In heaven there is plenty of food, in heaven there is God. Papa said God is not real. Mama said there is a God. I want to believe there’s a God so I could pray to Him about what I want. I want to go to Digos, eat hatdog, ays krim, and pitsa. Ma’am Edna told us these taste good and she showed us pictures. Ma’am even wanted to bring us to Matanao but Papa wouldn’t let us, because we can’t go out.

Gunshots! Gunshots! Gunshots! At first I could count the gunfire. But there are too many gunshots and I can’t anymore count because I can only count up to twenty. People are running, others yelling, “The soldiers are here!”

Soldiers?! Maybe Papa’s with them! I’ll go out! I see at the door Mama and my siblings covered in blood. Our walls and roof riddled with bullets.

“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

Mama stirs. And she says, “Don’t go out, you can’t go out!”


© Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by John Bengan. All rights reserved
.

English Cebuano (Original)

Darkness falls in the afternoon. It’s going to rain again. The carabao and the goats have been herded off to shelter. The newly harvested corn has been covered. The house smells of fuel because our tiny lamp has been lit. Smoke rises from the hearth, a signal that Mama is cooking something. The five of us can’t go out. I want to go out so I can wait for Papa. I want to look out for what he brings, but I can’t go out.

The other week, Papa brought meat from hunting. Mama prepared it in a delicious broth. Rod and I fought over a large piece of wild boar meat. Mama got upset because we shouldn’t fight at the table.

But last night, she and Papa were arguing. The five of us slept on empty stomachs. I couldn’t find my malong cloth. I fell asleep in our cold corner of the forest in Datal Fitak, a mountain in Matanao.

My teacher asks if we have ever seen a TV. I’ve seen one in a picture but I don’t know what it’s for. I haven’t been to Digos or to Davao, but I’ve heard about those places. So many people, they say, so many vehicles. Sometimes I don’t feel so bad because so many people and so many vehicles might run me over.

Ma’am Edna, my grade three teacher, says that others wish on a foling estar. I’ll also wish on a star that I might visit Digos even just for once. But the stars only come out at night, and I can’t go out.

I’ve only ever ridden Uncle Basud’s motorcycle, the time we delivered our harvested corn. I haven’t been in a jeep, or what Ma’am calls bus and van, airplane, ship. Sometimes my mind reaches the heavens. Are there also cars in heaven? Is there electricity, lights in the night that don’t need fuel?

I’ve only seen and listened to a radio but our radio ran out of batteries, and our house is now more quiet. When the wind blows, our cogon roof dances and our bamboo walls snap.

Mama didn’t go to Bangkal to buy batteries for the radio because there are soldiers. Anyway, I’ve seen a selfon. Because Ma’am Edna has a selfon. You can take a picture, listen to a song, you can read. I asked Mama if she knew how to use a selfon. She said to me, she doesn’t even know how to write her name. She only reached grade one, and then she was married off to Papa when she was only twelve. How could she have gone to school if she couldn’t go out.

Mama didn’t agree to me being married off to our neighbor Randy. Mama wants me to finish at least high school. Will I finish? I’ve repeated grade three twice. In a week, I’ll skip classes to help at 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 wouldn’t let us. We don’t know our birthdays and Ma’am Edna kept asking for my birthday. Mama said to me, you don’t have that because you can’t go out!

Papa didn’t come home. And I can’t find my malong. The wind outside seems to whisper something. The trees outside seem to speak and the footsteps of light feet lull me to sleep. When it’s dark, even when you want to take a piss, you can’t go out because there are raiders doing pangayaw. Wild creatures lurk outside. Rod’s malong smells like piss after he wet himself on our bed because we can’t go out.

I stir to the rustling of birds. Perok-perok, maya, agila, and banog, the loud ones early in the morning. I’m wide-awake hearing Mama’s scream. I rush downstairs and see two men.

“Your Papa’s gone,” says Mama, holding my malong soaked in blood. The men leave. I understand that my Papa is dead. I want to cry and look for Papa, but I can’t go out.

I told Ma’am Edna when she asked me what Papa’s work was, I told her Papa was a soldier. He had a yuniform and a gun. There was a red crest on the side of his yuniform. I bragged to my klasmit that Papa was a soldier. That was why he hunted deer and wild boar, because he was always in the forest. Every Friday I would wait for Papa because I knew he would bring something for me. Sometimes flowers from the jungle, and honey.

Rayzan said to me that Papa wasn’t a soldier. That was why we had a fight and I didn’t want us to be friends. Sometimes there were people who came to the house with Papa. They called papa Ka Oding. I saw that they had papers, and letters, money, guns, and they were also with women who were pretty and had light skin. I didn’t know where they were from. But Papa told us to play behind our cogon hut. Whenever his companions were around, Mama would go to the cornfield.

I told Papa, “Women can be soldiers too? I want to be like you, Pa. I want to be a soldier!”

Papa stood up, went outside, and struck our dog. Papa said I shouldn’t become a soldier, because soldiers have no mercy, they are abusive and they kill.

“Aren’t you a soldier, Pa? Why can’t I be a soldier too? You even have a companion who’s a girl soldier.”

Mama interrupted, “Greshel, your food, finish up, you’ll be leyt for the bayang flag ceremony.”

I didn’t know it would be our last breakfast with Papa. Only my bloody malong is what I have left. Papa brought my malong that day he left after he and Mama and had a fight.

Rebelde, rebelde, but your children will die of hunger?!” Mama’s voice was loud.

“This is for them, this is for you!” Papa left with his bag.

I lay back down and thought of the heaven that Ma’am Edna told us about. In heaven there is plenty of food, in heaven there is God. Papa said God is not real. Mama said there is a God. I want to believe there’s a God so I could pray to Him about what I want. I want to go to Digos, eat hatdog, ays krim, and pitsa. Ma’am Edna told us these taste good and she showed us pictures. Ma’am even wanted to bring us to Matanao but Papa wouldn’t let us, because we can’t go out.

Gunshots! Gunshots! Gunshots! At first I could count the gunfire. But there are too many gunshots and I can’t anymore count because I can only count up to twenty. People are running, others yelling, “The soldiers are here!”

Soldiers?! Maybe Papa’s with them! I’ll go out! I see at the door Mama and my siblings covered in blood. Our walls and roof riddled with bullets.

“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

Mama stirs. And she says, “Don’t go out, you can’t go out!”


© Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by John Bengan. All rights reserved
.

Dili Pwede Mogawas

Dulom ang kahaponon. Ulan na sab ni. Ang kabaw ug ang kanding nahipos na. Ang mga bag-ong sinanggi nga mais natabonan na. Nanimaho na og gas ang balay kay gisindihan na ang among gamay nga suga. Nag-aso ang abohan, timaan nga nagluto na si Mama. Kaming lima, dili pwede mogawas. Gusto unta ko mogawas kay akong atngan si Papa. Gusto ko motan-aw sa iyang dala, apan dili pwede mogawas.

Niadtong nilabay nga simana, nagdala si Papa og karne gikan sa pangayam. Gisabwan kini ni Mama ug lami kaayo ang init nga sabaw. Nag-iloganay mi ni Rod sa dakong pikas nga karneng baboy ihalas. Nasuko si Mama kay di daw dapat mag-away sa kan-anan.

Apan kagabii, naglalis sila ni Papa. Natulog ming lima nga way sulod ang among mga tiyan. Ang akong malong wa na nako nakita. Nakatulog ko sa katugnaw diri sa amoang dapit sa bukid sa Datal Fitak, bukid sa Matanao.

Nangutana akong maestra kon nakakita na ba daw mi og TV. Kakita na ko sa piktyur apan wa ko kabalo kon unsa na. Wa pa ko kaadto sa Digos ug sa Davao, apan nakadungog na ko kon unsa to. Daghan daw tawo, daghang sakyanan. Usahay dili ko maibog kay kalain anang daghag tawo ug daghang sakyanan kay basin maligsan ko.

Ingon ni Mam Edna, ang akong maestra sa grid tri, ang uban daw maghandom sa foling estar. Mohangyo unta ko sa bituon nga makasuroy pod ko anang Digos bisag kausa lang. Apan gabii lang magpakita ang mga bituon. Dili pwede mogawas.

Motor ra gyod ni Angkol Basud ang akong nasakyan, kadtong naghatod mi sa among sinanggi nga mais. Wa pa ko kasakay og dyip, kanang ingon ni Mam nga bus ug van, eroplano, barko. Usahay akong hunahuna moabot sa langit.

Naa kaha mga sakyanan pod sa langit? Naa pod kaha kuryente diadto, kanang mga suga inig kagabii nga dili na kinahanglan og gas?

Radyo ra gyod ang akong nakita ug nadunggan apan kay wala may bateri among radyo, misamot kamingaw among payag. Kon mohangin, gasayaw-sayaw ang among kogon nga atop ug gapiti-piti ang kawayang bungbong.

Wala na kaadto si Mama sa Bangkal kay mopalit og bateri sa radyo kay daghan daw sundalo. Hinuon kakita na ko unsa ng selfon. Kay naa may selfon si Mam. Pwede mag-piktyur, maminaw og kanta, pwede magbasa. Nangutana ko kay Mama kon kabalo ba siya mogamit og selfon. Ang ingon niya, di man gani siya kabalo mosulat sa iyang ngalan. Grid wan lang daw siya taman, ug gibuya na kay Papa katong dose anyos siya. Unsaon pod niya pag-eskwela kon dili pwede mogawas?

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 kon 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!

Wa niuli si Papa. Wala sad akong malong. Ang hangin sa gawas morag naay gihunghong. Ang mga kahoy daw naay gisulti ug ang mga yatak sa mga tawong gaan og tiil nagpatulog sa ako. Basta ngitngit na, bisan kaihion ka, dili pwede mogawas kay naay mangayaw. Naay mga bangis nga mananap nga nag-atang sa gawas. Mao nga ang malong ni Rod baho og anso kay sa higdaanan naman siya mangihi kay dili pwede mogawas.

Nakamata ako sa kasikas sa mga langgam. Perok-perok, maya, agila, ug banog, mga sabaan sa sayong kabuntagon. Labaw na nakamata kanako ang siyagit ni Mama. Dali-dali ko nga ninaog ug nakita ang duha ka tawo.

“Wala na imong Papa,” ingon ni Mama samtang naggunit sa akong malong nga puno og dugo. Nilakaw na ang duha ka tawo. Sa akong pagsabot, patay na akong Papa. Gusto ko mohilak ug pangitaon si Papa, apan dili pwede mogawas. Ingon nako kay Mam kadtong nangutana siya unsa ang trabaho sa akong Papa, ingon ko nga sundalo. Aduna siyay yuniform ug pusil. Adunay pula nga tatak ang kilid sa iyang yuniform. Manghambog ko sa akong mga klasmit nga sundalo akong Papa. Mao na makapangayam siya og mga binaw ug baboy ihalas kay naa man siya pirme sa bukid. Matag Biyernes gahulat ko kay Papa kay kabalo ko nga naa siyay dala alang kanako. Usahay bulak sa lasang ug dugos.

Ingon ni Rayzan, dili daw sundalo akong Papa. Mao to nga nag-away mi ug wala na nako siya giamiga. Usahay naay moadto sa balay nga mga kauban ni Papa. Ka Oding ang ilang sampit kay Papa. Makita nako naa silay mga papel, mga sulat, naay kwarta, naay mga pusil, ug naa sab silay kauban nga mga babae nga gwapa ug puti. Wala ko kabalo asa sila gikan. Pero ingon ni Papa, magdula lang mi sa luyo sa among kogon nga payag. Basta naa na gani iyang mga kauban, molakaw si Mama sa maisan.

Niingon ko kay Papa, “Pwede diay magsundalo ang babae? Gusto ko mapareha sa imo, Pa. Gusto ko magsundalo!”

Nikalit og tindog si Papa, nigawas, ug gibunalan ang among iro. Ingon ni Papa, dili daw ko mahimong sundalo, wa daw kaluoy ang mga sundalo, abusado ug mopatay.

“Di ba sundalo man ka, Pa? Ngano di man ko pwede magsundalo? Naa man gani kay kauban nga babaeng sundalo.”

Nisagbat si Mama, “Greshel, ang imong pagkaon, hutda na, ma-leyt na ka sa bayang.”

Mao na diay kadto ang ulahing pamahaw ni Papa kauban namo. Dugoang malong na lang nako ang nabilin. Gidala diay ni Papa akong malong kadtong nilakaw siya nga nag-away sila ni Mama.

“Rebelde, rebelde, unya imong mga anak mamatay sa gutom!” Kusog ang tingog ni Mama. “Para ni sa ila, para ni sa inyo!” Nilakaw si Papa bitbit iyang bag.

Nibalik ko og higda ug naghunahuna sa langit nga giingon ni Mam. Sa langit daw daghan pagkaon, sa langit daw naay Ginoo. Ingon si Papa dili tinuod ang Ginoo. Ingon si Mama naay Ginoo. Mas gusto ko motuo nga naay Ginoo aron sa Iyaha ko mag-ampo sa akong gusto. Gusto ko makaadtog Digos, mokaon og hatdog, ays krim, ug pitsa. Ingon ni Mam lami daw kaayo ni kay iyaha ming gipakita sa piktyur. Gusto gani ni Mam nga dalaon mi sa Matanao apan di mosugot si Papa, kay dili mi pwede mogawas.

Buto! Buto! Buto! Sa sugod maihap pa nako ang mga buto sa armas. Apan nagkadaghan ang mga buto ug dili na nako maihap kay taman lang baynte ang akong maihap. Naay nagdaganay, naay nisyagit, “Naa na ang mga sundalo!” Sundalo? Basin naa si Papa! Mogawas ko! Nakita nako si Mama ug ang akong mga manghod nga puno og dugo sa may pultahan. Nangabuslot among bungbong ug atop. “Mama! Mama! Mama!” Nilihok si Mama. Ang ingon niya, “Ayaw gawas. Dili pwede mogawas!”

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