Dih kaw mugah?*

If we think of the time when we closed ranks and marched on the streets to denounce state fascism, US military presence in our land, and the rape of our women by our own men, almost each one of us could probably claim proudly that, Yes, I was there, we made a stand and we were not afraid. Our number then was our strength, as we had the backing of our religious leaders and the broad coalition of civil society organizations in the province. But such show of courage, we are afraid, is now a thing of the past.

Of course there is so much to be afraid of. Our soil and shores are septic enough with violence, it is peace we need, not more bloodshed, and our anger at our fate can only bring on more anarchy. Besides, they have the guns and the money, and they are in power. We are not. And so the best and the bravest of us are stopped, and now we go to our respective corners to rethink our lives, our jobs, our families.

The month of March should be important for us. The 18th marks the 43rd anniversary of the Jabidah Massacre, the tragedy in Philippine history that gave birth to the Bangsa Moro revolution which we steadfastly supported through its highs and lows. The 8th of this month also marks the hundredth year of International Women’s Day and all over the world,  women of all classes and colors celebrated it in every way and any way they could —marching on the street, dancing for peace, demanding for equal rights, blessing a day care center, maybe a shelter for battered wives or a much awaited water project. Some do it with pomp and pageantry, in plush halls and convention centers of Los Angeles or some other affluent cities, others quietly and grimly, in rugged streets and noisy pavements of the world’s poorer quarters.    

Here in our small hometown, we did a little number, with the province’s First Lady taking the lead in a parade and a cultural show, extolling motherhood, praising duty and obedience as our supposed one claim to heroism. But in the soles of our feet and in the palms of our hands, we have known of other duties, to our homeland and our agama to be so taken by official congratulations. Our own realities are much too clear for us to be befuddled by such great palavers.

The hundred of cases of undocumented rapes in our islands remain unsolved, and now unspoken of, the victims in hiding, in silence and obscurity. And as we speak so, we know that in the remote villages and the crowded dwellings of our slums, daughters and sisters are being raped, wives being abused and beaten. As our leaders talk peace and development, American soldiers surveillance our villages, our own police officers at their beck and call. Now we cannot even farm our lands. In our homes food is growing scarce, water scarcer, that if our children don’t die from bullets, they might from pneumonia, maybe from diarrhoeia or malnutrition. 

Perhaps we are not alone in this. Around the world our own sense of anger and restlessness is reflected in other lives that could have been ours as well. In Egypt a puppet dictator has been ousted, and in Libya, an anti-American regime is being forced to flee. These upheavals perplex and amaze us, but one thing is clear: the desire for change is there in Muslimland, and we start thinking about what we also so desire for our homeland. As overseas workers are shipped home, conflicting stories are told us. Khadafy may be a dictator, but he is a benevolent dictator, some claim, and OFWs we meet on the plane tell us that they personally shook hands with the man and what a kind-hearted fellow he is. Our friends in the universities also tell us that the beleaguered ruler can be credited for seeing to the basic welfare of his own people, aside from providing the workers we sent to his country with basic shelter and amenities, and ensures that they remit a hundred percent of their salaries to their wives and families here back home, a form of state feminism by long distance, we might say. For sure, this is something our own government is never capable of doing for its battered women.

And down here in the islands one thing thing is guaranteed: the permanence of brazen power and the bondage it demands of us.

Should we stay afraid of the change that we alone can make?

 *Are you not afraid?