Veils and Words (excerpt)

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

- Lord Byron


Imagine how wonderful it would be when thoughts are easily converted into words, creating meanings that would influence people's minds. One no longer has to stare at a blank sheet of paper for over an hour, ignoring the crumpled ones all over the desk. A cup of coffee instead of two or three would probably be enough to finish a 10-page short story. No more calling upon the Muses and praying for an inspiration or worrying about pimples and eye bags caused by sleepless nights. Computer fees would cost less for those who choose to work on their papers the night before a designated deadline. No more solitaires or checking of one’s Friendster account or even chatting on-line while waiting for brilliant ideas to come.

Life as a Creative Writing student would be less difficult, or so I thought. For words don’t just come easily. Sometimes one has to grasp them from somewhere then double-check whether they express his thoughts well or not. They often linger at the tip of one’s tongue before they find their way out on the piece of paper. Just when the writer becomes satisfied with his work and develop a sense of pride or closeness to the material, the words reach the scrutinizing eyes of readers and critics. Three to four hours of sleep each night plus cups of coffee, not to mention the expenses on typing and printouts that are no less than a hundred peso, are down to bloody red marks, comments on overlooked grammatical errors and worst, taking out of one’s favorite lines.

***

He who does not expect a million readers should not write a line.

- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Finishing a degree in Creative Writing made me realize that writing is in truth, something intimate and personal. It is an outlet of one’s deepest thoughts, a reflection of one’s subconscious desires, and an emblem of courage. A noble act that it is, writing wouldn’t be as important when the purpose of informing the readers is removed. For this purpose, writing requires boldness for it takes guts to write down one’s thoughts especially when the writer has in mind the reactions and comments he will receive from his readers.

To write is to unveil. It is a form of exposure. The writer’s intimate ideas and desire to make them known are comparable to an unveiled woman’s beauty and her longing to be recognized. A writer is comparable to a Muslim woman in a strict Muslim community who dares to remove her veil, and takes the risk of being looked at or criticized the moment she exposes her aurat (or parts of her body that must be concealed from the opposite sex who’s not a member of her immediate family). However, while a writer has his words as weapons in exposing the truth according to his eyes, a woman has her veil to save herself from any exposure to evil glances.

I learned how to take these risks. Letting my teachers and fellow student writers read my works then hearing their comments and criticisms is like removing my veil before the class after swearing that I will never take it off.

Preface to my final paper in Poetry 2

Poetry intimidates me. I used to tell myself that I don’t love poetry. I was not fond of reading poems or writing one. I would rather read a novel or write fiction. Perhaps this attitude was influenced by the fact that I was not able to write any successful poem. I was intimidated by the thought that poems, although they come in short forms, require so much brainwork and time from the writer. I had to follow strict rules for my work to be considered poetic. It was for this reason that I always ended up with one-liners and crumpled papers.

The first batch of poems I was required to write in my Poetry 1 class under Prof. Ricardo de Ungria was probably the most difficult experience. I couldn’t decide whether or not writing a poem already provided with a subject was difficult. I have to say that it made things less difficult because the provided subject gave focus to my writing. What was difficult about it was the fact that I had to associate two totally different subjects into one poem. Love and avocado, for instance, gave me a hard time. I tried to use avocado as a metaphor for love. I focused so much on the connection I was trying to achieve without realizing that I was no longer making any sense. The following stanza is an example of my desperate attempt to relate the two subjects:

You speak of love.
It is crazy, I hear
like an avocado peeled,
sliced and grilled
dipped in a bowl filled
with soy sauce then chilled.

What I noticed about my first set of poems is that most of them didn’t make sense at all. Honestly, when I wrote these poems, my concern was more on the sound they produced than the sense they made. I learned in our C.W. 101 class last year that sound in poetry mattered more than sense. I interpreted the lesson wrongly that my poems turned out unsuccessful. I focused so much on the rhyme, alliteration and syllabication that I didn’t care if the imageries were vague or inappropriate. My poem “Where the Maya Sang the Sounds of Twilight” best examplified this experience.

Where the maya sang the sounds of twilight
And the trees’ trance in the forthcoming night,
I pedaled and pedaled before the wind
Through a sea of stones tarried to be seen.

This poem was supposedly a pentameter with a rhyming pattern. When I thought of pentameter, I only considered the syllables. The idea that I was able to produce a line with ten syllables was enough for me. In order to produce rhymes with the help of a rhyming dictionary, I started writing backwards. I didn’t prepare any theme for this poem. I was set to the idea that the rhymes would lead me to the end of the poem. Sense didn’t matter anymore. The second line, for example, did not support the idea of the first line. I just combined a group of words that sounded good to me and that they rhymed with the first line. I didn’t know exactly what “trees’ trance” meant and I didn’t care if it made sense as long as it was a form of alliteration. The idea and image produced in the fourth line was also vague. The whole poem was actually vague. I didn’t even understand what I was trying to say in this poem. This was the result of too much focus on the sound. I realized that even though sound mattered more than sense, it didn’t mean that I had to totally shut the poem from making any sense. Even my accentual poem didn’t have a central theme because my focus this time was on the accents. I didn’t even know how to count accents in a line because whenever I tried, I always ended up counting the syllables.

In my second set of poems, making an association between the subjects given was less difficult compared to the first one. Because of the things I learned from my experiences in writing my first batch of poems, I didn’t put much focus on the sound. Instead, I focused more on the grammar and the central theme of each poem, which is why there weren’t any rhymes except for the pantoum. Most poems in this batch were mimetic, thus easier to write. They didn’t require big imaginations. “Puberty,” for example, was a poem about discovering my own body with my hands. My ideas flowed in this poem because I based them on my experiences during adolescence. I was able to use a virtual dialogue, which was a new style to me. The problems I had, however, in this poem were the line breaks but they were not as terrible as the ones I had with “Apple of Ama’s Eyes.”

Ama, please tell me because I don’t quite
Understand why Kakah always gets the
Redder apple or the nice pink clothes that
I so much want to have. I want to know

Why you always present her to the guests
With pride while I wait in one corner for
You to call me and introduce to your
Colleagues. But you often forget that I

Exist. Is it because she’s the eldest?
Perhaps it’s because Kaka gets higher
Grades in school or the fact that she wears her
Veil and I don’t. Ama, please tell me why.
Since the poem was supposed to be in pentameter, some lines had to break at the wrong words. I later learned that I must not end my lines with conjunctions and linking verbs because they affect flow of the poem especially when read out loud.

It was in this batch of poems that I was able to experience difficulty combined with pleasure. It was my first time to learn about pantoum and write one. The fact that I had to write at least three stanzas in pentameter, with a rhyming pattern and lines I had to repeat in the next stanzas was more difficult than I imagined. Nevertheless, I felt excited to write one because I thought it was challenging. Although it required a total brainwork to think of ways that I would be able to use the lines in the next stanzas, I found pleasure in playing with ideas because I had no idea where they were leading to. It was a difficult kind of pleasure to write one stanza at the same time, looking forward to writing the next one. The pattern of the lines to be repeated was complicated but after a close study, I was able to manage understanding the sequence of lines and rhymes.

It took me a long time to finish my last set of poems. Perhaps it was because I found difficulty in writing the villanelle and the sonnet. Writing the villanelle was more challenging than writing the pantoum. It was hard enough to write one stanza with lines in pentameter, following a rhyming pattern. What made it harder, however, was the fact that I had to write five stanzas of three lines using rain and a book of poetry as subjects. I had no idea what to write about a book of poetry. I even made things more difficult by using two lines from John Donne’s “The Ecstasy” in my poem:

With a book in hand, I try to read Donne.
You wait all day, the same our postures were.
Not caring if you stay there until dawn.

With the haughty look I’ve been putting on,
You plead. And whilst our souls negotiate there,
You stand in the rain like a real moron,
Not caring if you stay there until dawn.

I didn’t realize that it was awkward to use old English with contemporary language in one poem. The syntax was wrong in the first stanza, second line. Meanwhile, the connection between the first and second lines of the next stanza was not clear. This is the result of an easy attempt in trying to get away with the hardship of explaining the significance of Donne in the poem.

Writing the sonnet was easier compared to writing the villanelle but only because I wasn’t aware of the rules regarding the subjects of each line. I didn’t know that the first four lines should describe the setting then the next four must show the theme and so on. What I knew was that a sonnet must contain 14 lines in pentameter (usually iambic) with a rhyming pattern that could either be Shakespearean or Petrarchan.

Generally, the most difficult part in writing a poem is how to start. It usually took me a number of crashes and erasures before I would find the appropriate line to begin with. In writing short stories, I could go on blabbing once I found the right ideas. Things are different in writing poetry. Since poems come in short forms, the words used must be carefully chosen. More often than not, when I write poems in free verse, I find it difficult to sustain the first set of lines that I wouldn’t know how to continue or where to end. In order for me to have a sense of direction in writing, I usually make out a pattern that would serve as my guide. The most common pattern I make is the repetition of the first line in each stanza. This way, my ideas pour out because they are centralized to the idea of this one line.

Among the things I learned throughout the course was that figurative language makes a good poem if it is used well. I’m still not used to using metaphors and symbols lest they would turn out vague. As of the moment, I am more concerned with the poem’s form. I try to improve my syntax, the line cutting and the sound the poems produce. I think I’ll consider using figurative language as I go through more experiences with poetry.

I’m still on the process of learning how to love poetry. It still intimidates me especially when I get to read difficult poems as well as the beautiful ones. Maybe this is because of my way of thinking that I will never be able to write poems as beautiful as the published ones I read. But as Isadora Duncan said, “It would take as many years of concentrated effort to write one simple, beautiful sentence.” It will probably take me a lifetime and endless passion to write one beautiful line or stanza. When time comes that I would be able to write a single stanza that I could truly consider a work of art (based on the standards I observed in the art of poetry), I would truly be satisfied.

Vfairroz

"Vfairroz," said Daniela, obviously having a difficult time pronouncing my name. "Are you sure you’re a Muslim?”

I almost dropped my cup of coffee.

"Oh, I’m sorry," she gasped. "Did I offend you?”

We were at BO’s Coffee Club at SM waiting for Rose who was my roommate and Daniela’s cousin. I placed my cup on the table, thinking that I couldn’t afford to spend another 50 bucks for a second round in case I dropped it.

Since I went to study college in Davao City, I got used to people asking me about my religious background. Not a single day would pass by without people asking me questions, as if my being a Muslim was as strange as how my name was spelled.

“It’s okay,” I said. In fact, I’ve already heard dozens of different versions to Daniela’s question. (“I didn’t think you were a Muslim… Really? But I thought you weren’t… As in?”) But each time I heard them, they just never failed to catch me off guard.

“So, why aren’t you wearing that thing?” she said, making hand gestures over her head. “I’m not sure what you call it… you know that thing that Muslim women use to cover their hair?”

“Hijaab.”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Ijab. Why aren’t you wearing one?”

I found it strange why people in Davao City always expected Muslim women to wear their hijaab. Back in Cotabato where Muslims were as many as Christians, it wasn’t that big a deal whether Muslim women wore hijaab or not. To veil or to unveil was a matter of choice not obligation, or so I thought.

“I can’t stand the heat,” I lied.

The truth was that I wasn’t used to covering my hair. My parents never imposed on me to wear a hijaab although I always felt they wanted me to.
“My Vfairroz would truly make her ama happy if she starts wearing a hijaab,” my father would say. I would only smile at him.

“This will surely look good on you, bai,” Ina would say whenever she brought me at the Sariling Atin or at the barter to buy her new set of tundong. I would only smile at her, too.

If I told Daniela this, I was sure she’d ask follow up questions like: “Why? Aren’t all Muslim women obliged? I had a Muslim classmate in high school and I never saw a single strand of her hair. Her father would be furious if she unveiled… How come your case is different? Is it really okay to expose your hair in public?”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, sipping her coffee.

That was it? No more comments or questions?

“Do you mind if I asked another question?” she said after a while.

And I thought I heard the last of it.

“Shoot,” I said. What is taking Rose so long? I glanced at Watson’s and saw her still checking out a lipstick. Please hurry up and save me from your cousin’s inquiry.

“Is it true that when a Muslim gets mad or pissed off at someone, he calls his whole clan then they attack whoever offended their family member?”

“It depends,” I said, trying to sound as patient as I could. “It’s more probable when the oppressed has a strong kinship bond with his family.”

“How about you? Would you do it?”

“Why not?” I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I made fun of her a little. I was bored and my feet were getting numb. Thanks to Rose who was probably taking the whole Watson’s with her.

“Is that the reason why you’re scared of Muslims?” I asked her.

“What made you think that?” she asked, surprised. She sipped the last of her coffee.

“You know what the problem with you people?” I said, raising my tone and trying to sound as serious as possible. “You misjudge all Muslims simply by basing on the actions of a few. Can’t you understand that we’re not perfect?”

She was struck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way…” she said; her lips started to quiver.

Oops. I bit my lips.

“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m the one who should apologize. That was supposed to be -”

“Oh, no. I was the one who started it,” she said, her eyes teary.

A joke, I finished my sentence in my head.

“Please forgive me. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing,” I said. I was too guilty to look her in the eyes.

“What did I miss?” said a voice beside us. It was Rose. So much for an hour of shopping, I thought as I looked at the small plastic bag she carried.

“You’re not going to report this to your family, are you?” Daniela said.

So, that was why she was so apologetic.

“What is she talking about, Fai?” Rose asked, signaling to the waiter. “A cup of fropoccino please,” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Please?” Daniela pleaded.

“All right,” I said. To assure her that everything was fine was the least I could do.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, shaking my hands vigorously.

Weirdo.

Ayoko ng Pork

*written on Sept. 27, 2004 for my Creative Non-Fiction Class

(it's unedited so feel free to correct any grammatical lapse you might find. hehe)

It was a sunny afternoon probably two or three summers ago. Back then, my parents and I would usually hang out by the garden under the mango tree and have our little chitchat. I stretched my legs and rested them on the round table as I leaned comfortably against the rubber chair. Father sat next to me while Mother was busy spraying her orchids.

“What if,” began my father, “you were starving to death and you only had two choices for your meal: a stewed beef from a stolen cow or a cooked pork that is ‘legally’ yours, perhaps given by a neighbor. Now, which meal would you eat?”

I smiled at my father as I thought hard for an answer. I love it when he posts questions that require a lot of thinking on my part. It makes me feel as if we were both lawyers working for the same law firm and that I was his partner. “Well,” I said, “I’d rather eat the stewed beef.”

Father must have expected my answer. But of course, he and Mother raised me as a Muslim though I don’t exactly remember them lecturing me not to eat pork or anything that contains swine’s meat or blood. It must have been a common knowledge in the family as if each child was born with the restriction already instilled in his innocent brain. I was surprised to hear my father’s answer though.

“I would, possibly, eat the pork,” he said, flashing a knowing smile at me. “Eating a stolen food might cause me stomach aches. Now I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Yuck,” I said, “I can’t imagine myself eating pork. I’d rather starve.”

Some people, particularly Christians, think it’s hard to restrict oneself from eating pork. “Tubuan ka na ng pakpak niyan,[1]” my friends would say whenever I have to eat chicken meat for an entire week at the school canteen. But I have no complaints. Like what I said to my father, I would rather starve than eat pork even if it is the last choice I have.

Back in Cotabato, mealtime has never become an issue to me because restaurant owners as well as staff at the school canteen know which food to serve their customers. They clearly specify which food contains pork and which one doesn’t as a way of respect to those who don’t eat the meat. But things are different in Davao. Almost every canteen or cheap restaurant I go to have 80% pork in its menu. These people do serve chicken and beef but I fear that they might be using the same utensils or oil when cooking each meal. Even in well-known food chains, I have to do my inquiries. For instance, my friends and I happened to be hanging out in Matina Town Square and we could only afford to eat dinner at Taps. While my peers had already taken their orders, I, on the other hand, had my hesitations. I had to ask the waiter.

“Excuse me,” I said while the waiter in yellow uniform positioned his pad and pen, ready to take my order. “I have to ask. Do you use the same utensils in cooking your meals?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. His face was serious as he answered that I had to believe him.

“What about the oil? Do you use the same oil?”

“No, ma’am. We use them separately.”

“Are you willing to bet your soul on it?” I said lightheartedly, sending chuckles to a friend who sat beside me. I didn’t mean to give the waiter a hard time but I had to make sure. I feel that eating a chicken that is cooked with the same oil as used in cooking a pork meal is almost the same as eating pork per se.

The waiter just smiled and patiently took my order.

I came back two weeks later and did the same inquiry on another waitress. This time, I received a positive answer. The waitress confirmed that they use the same utensils in cooking every meal. Upon hearing this, I turned away and let out a curse. Then I had to contain myself. I was innocent, I thought. Allah will understand.

It’s a wonder to various individuals why Muslims don’t eat pork. I know a lot of people who respect my food restrictions but I doubt it if they knew the reasons behind this diet. I, for one, believe in two reasons behind this Islamic regulation. First, it is said so in Sura 16, Verse115 of the Holy Qur’an:

He has only forbidden you dead meat, and blood, and the flesh of swine, and any (food) over which the name of other than Allah has been invoked. But if one is forced by necessity, without willful disobedience, nor transgressing due limits, then Allah is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful.

I believe that Allah wouldn’t forbid Muslims from eating pork if it were not for their own benefit. I personally believe that eating pork is unhealthy to the body. Even when I was young, I witnessed how our neighbor’s pigs eat from dirt and I couldn’t imagine eating something that once fed from filth. My non-Muslim friends would defend that pigs are boiled and cleaned before they are cooked so it really is safe to eat them. Others would also point out that chickens and cows often eat from dirt as well. I wouldn’t argue on those points but the thing is, my abstention from eating pork is not just something out of religious belief for it has become something psychological.

I have never been tempted into eating pork no matter how juicy a pork barbeque would look like or how my companions would devour pork chops and lechon baboy while their lips become too glossy from eating. As long as I know that a food contains anything haraam[2], I will never be tempted to eat it regardless of the hunger I feel. It is as if my mind automatically rejects the idea.

It is only later when I learned the deeper reasons behind this Islamic regulation. Medical reports state how consumption of pork cause a number of diseases such as risks of high blood pressure, heart attacks and stroke due to the high cholesterol contained in the pig’s meat, and other ailments carried by harmful germs like tapeworm diseases. Furthermore, Muslim scholars explain that consumption of pork affects an individual not just physically but also in moral and spiritual ways. As Rashid Shamsi puts it in his article, “Why Islam Forbids Pork,”

Anything, which is harmful for the body, hurts the soul as well. Consumption of swine-flesh reduces the feeling of shame and as such the standard of modesty. It creates lowliness in character and destroys moral and spiritual faculties in a man.

Backed up by physicians and medical experts, Shamsi explains that the process of eating doesn’t just end with the digestive system. What one eats is absorbed by the body system including the brain and this, according to Shamsi, “in no small way affects man’s nature.” He further explains that pigs are naturally lazy, indulgent in sex, dirty, greedy and gluttonous and these traits could be attained by pork-eaters. Shamsi proves this as he states the plight he witnessed among those who eat pork. According to him, “Those nations, which consume pork habitually, have a low standard of morality with the result that virginity, chastity and bashfulness are becoming a thing of the past in Europe today.” This statement may turn out to be disputable to some people for reasons that consumption of pork could not have been the primary cause of moral degradation in some countries. There’s no point on arguing with that because the point here is that aside from a person’s upbringing, education and environment, consumption of pork is a small factor that generally affects a person’s behavior.

As Resil B. Mojares’ writes in his article, “We are what we eat.” I definitely don’t want to be as lazy, sex indulgent, dirty, greedy and gluttonous as pigs. I most certainly wouldn’t want to get a risk of heart attack or catch a tapeworm disease. But then I see that my father has a point when he would rather eat pork than suffer from stomach pains or hunger. Indeed, Allah is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful if eating pork is the only way to save one’s life from starvation. But until then, ayoko pa rin ng pork.[3]

Reference:

Shamsi, Rashid. “Why Islam Forbids Pork.” The Muslim World League Journal. Internet.
Online. WWW. Address. http://www.islam.tc/ask-imam/view.php?q=6031.
October 1999.

[1] You would grow wings.
[2] A thing forbidden in Islam
[3] I still don’t want [to eat] pork.

Hijaab

“Lugar lang, ‘Nong,” you say to the driver.

The tricycle pulls over the corner of the street. You step out of the vehicle and walk the rest of the way toward the waiting shed outside the university. You see a few students going in and out of the school gate in their ordinary shirts and pants. You pass by some of them including a group of girls who look at you as if you have no right to be walking on that street. One of them raises an eyebrow. You could have rolled your eyes but you think better. Instead, you walk ahead, pretending not to see them.

On the corner of the shed, you see a woman in her hijaab 1 -- a white veil that is pinned under her chin, covering her hair and neck, a blue long-sleeve shirt and slacks. It is your cousin Omairah. As you approach her, you catch a couple of guys follow you with their gazes. The taller one, whom you think looks cute, smiles at you and says hi. You smile back.

You see Omairah look at the street ahead with searching eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice you coming. “Kaka Mai-mai!” you call out.

She looks at your direction. “Jamela?” she asks as you face each other. She looks at you with doubtful eyes, as if she’s meeting you for the first time.

“Sorry I’m late. You see –”

“La hul la huwa kuwata illah hillahi aaliyul azim,” 2 you hear your cousin say, interrupting your excuses. She looks at you from head to toe with obvious disbelief in her eyes.

You don’t know what the Arabic expression exactly means but you do remember that your late grandmother used to utter those words whenever she dropped something or whenever she heard some bad news. It is not really the reaction you expect from Omairah. You think she would greet you with a smile and hug you despite your tardiness. Instead, she welcomes you with foreign words and a look on her face that you couldn’t quite determine whether it’s an expression of surprise or disapproval. But something about the way her brows contract and her mouth drops a little tells you that your cousin doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

She grabs you by the arm and pulls you toward the corner of the shed, almost bumping with one of the students passing by. “What’s that you’re wearing?” she asks, frowning.

You look at yourself nonchalantly. Seeing that there’s nothing wrong with your outfit, you say, “Why, thank you Kaka Mai-mai. You don’t look bad yourself either.”

Surely, you can’t expect your cousin to appreciate your white tank top and baggy pants as much as she would not be able to understand how it took you an hour to decide on what to wear for this occasion. You always consider your cousin as the “old-fashioned” Muslim woman who’s satisfied with her hijaab.

“Look at yourself. Your underwear is almost visible under that sando. Did Bapa Sahidin see you in those – clothes?” she says in the most worried tone you hear from her.

“Ama is in Iligan for a one-week seminar,” you assure her, “and I make sure that I would be home before Ina does. They’re not going to kill me if that’s what you’re worried about. Unless…” You cross your arms and give her a half-serious suspicious look, “Unless you tell them about it, which I know you wouldn’t. Am I right, dear cousin?” You put your arm around her shoulders.

“But –”

“Come on, Omairah,” you say. “I’m only here for the sembreak. I’ll be returning to Davao next week and there’s no way that I’m going to spend my vacation listening to your sermons.”

You turn away, leaning your back against the wall. For a brief moment, the two of you don’t speak. You face Notre Dame Avenue, taking your time watching tricycles and jeepneys pass by. You wonder where the taxis are, almost forgetting the fact that you are in Cotabato City and not in Davao. Here, taxis are rare. A chain of carenderias, an Internet café and a billiard hall line up the other side of the street. Students probably hang out there during their break. There are no malls in the city, only small department stores. You’re glad that the mall is just one ride away from your school in Davao. You can’t imagine yourself eating in a turo-turo during lunch break.

“I’m sorry,” you hear Omairah say in a gentle tone. “It’s my fault. I should have reminded you about the dress code. You see, you can’t go to the forum –”

“Wait a minute,” you say, “what do you mean dress code?”

“Well, it’s not really the right term to use,” she says, “but, what I mean… what I’m trying to say is that you can’t go to a n Islamic forum in those clothes.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll be getting everybody’s attention. You’d probably be the only one who’s not going to wear a hijaab,” she explains seriously.

You try to control yourself from chuckling at the no-nonsense expression on her face. “Will the guys be wearing hijaab, too?” you ask, trying to tease her.

“No silly,” she says, now smiling. “I think there will be no guys in the forum.”

“But I thought you said Amir’s going to be there.” Now you’re the one who’s wearing a frown. You only accepted your cousin’s invitation because you thought your crush is going to be there.

“That was for yesterday’s forum,” she says. “Today’s topic is about women in Islam. I think most of the guests will be women. So –”

“So that would mean that I no longer have any reason to join the forum,” you say, lowering your head. “Amir’s not going to be there. I dressed up for nothing. Besides, I don’t want to embarrass you with my outfit. I don’t want them to think that you have a kafiir 3 cousin.”

“Jamela,” she says, holding your hands and looking you in the eyes, “you’re already here. Let’s not waste your effort for coming today. The forum is for your own good. And don’t worry about the hijaab. I have an extra shirt and tundong 4 in my locker.”

As if you’re interested with the forum, you think. And what does she mean ‘for your own good?’

You don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.

You clutch your hands away from her and ask, “How about Amir?”

Omairah smiles. “We’ll probably run into him along one of the hallways.”

***

Room 216 is already closed when you reach James Burke Building. A poster is attached on the wall. In bold letters, it reads: Forum on Women In Islam, August 25, Monday, 9:00-11:30 A.M. You hear a woman’s voce inside. The forum has already started. Omairah opens the backdoor.

“Kaka Mai-mai, wait,” you say. “Are you sure I look okay?”

Omairah heaves a sigh. “Jamela, you look fine. Don’t make such a fuss about it.”

This is your first time to wear a hijaab. Your parents are not so strict as to oblige you to wear one though your father would be very furious if he sees you wearing sleeveless shirts and short shorts. Good thing they don’t visit you very often in Davao City and whenever they do, you make sure your ordinary shirts and pants are ready.

Earlier, Omairah let you use her black tundong and insisted that you keep it. You put on a plaid sweater over your tank top. Since your pants don’t cling to your legs, you need not change them.

You enter the room and take the vacant seats at the back row. There are about thirty people in the room and sure enough, everyone is wearing her tundong, save for the three guys to your left. You look around and notice that each woman has her own style, her own way of wearing her veil. Only a few, including your cousin Omairah, pin the cloth under their chin. Others tie their tundong to the front, revealing their neck while others just throw the edges of the fabric to their back, not really putting their tundong properly that oftentimes they slide, exposing their hair.

“I’m very much glad to see that all of you girls are wearing your hijaab,” a woman says. It must be the speaker. She stands in front of the room, a small woman who’s probably in her forties. She’s wearing a black hijaab that reminds you of the ones worn by women in the Middle East. The same color of cloth covers her head and the rest of her body leaving only her face and hands exposed. It looks like a tundong attached to a loose gown.

“I pray to Almighty Allah that you do not remove your hijaab the moment you step on another land,” the speaker continues.

“Oh no,” you think. “This is not a forum. This is like a priest’s sermon.” You look at the door, wishing that Amir would enter any moment.

“There are women,” says the speaker, “who only wear their hijaab in places where they feel forced to do so. But the moment they step on a place that doesn’t adhere to Islamic rulings, they remove their cloaks, as if wearing them is not a religious duty.”

You expect Omairah to glance your way but it looks like she’s seriously paying attention to the speaker. You look around and realize that everyone does the same. You cross your legs and lean restlessly against the chair.

“I feel sad for these women. They don’t know what they’re doing. They must fear Allah and the Last Day,” the speaker says, walking to the center of the room. “Does anybody here know why these women do such things?”

You hear people whisper around you but nobody raises her hand. Your cousin seems to be lost in her deep thoughts.

“Maybe,” you say, loud enough that all heads turn to your direction including Omairah whose thoughts probably snap back to reality. Just then, you feel like a lump has formed inside your throat.

“Speak up, Bai,” encourages the speaker, probably sensing your agitation.

“Maybe,” you say, sitting up straight, “these women fear that they wouldn’t fit in with the foreign people. That wearing hijaab would identify them with the rest of the individuals and that they would be treated differently.”

“You have a point,” says the speaker. You feel relieved when all eyes turn to her. “But if these women think that way, may Allah have mercy upon them.”

You see others nod their heads while others murmur words of approval. Omairah nudges you and says, “Nice going. Your reasons sound familiar.”

You’re so interested to listen to the speaker who is about to tell a story that your cousin’s last statement doesn’t reach your ears. You totally forget about Amir.

“It’s a parable that my late father who was an ustadz,5 peace be upon him, used to tell the young ladies in our barrio. The story is about a man who’s about fifty years old and his teenage son. They own a camel as old as the father himself but they still use it because it is the only property they have.”

Silence fills the room after a few hushes.

“On their way to the market one hot morning,” the speaker goes on saying, “the father decides to let his son ride the camel while he is walking. They pass by people who look at them strangely. One of them says, ‘Poor old man, why won’t his son show some respect and let his father ride the camel?’ The young man hears this. Feeling ashamed of himself, he insists his father to ride the animal while he does the walking. Not wanting to add to his son’s embarrassment, the father agrees.”

Aside from the lady in the third row who is busily using her cellphone, everybody seems to be in all ears. The speaker’s voice echoes in the small room.

“Still on their way, they reach the desert where they meet a caravan. ‘God have mercy on the poor boy!’ they hear a woman say. ‘Shameless man! How could he punish his son and let him walk?’ Both father and son hear this and decide to ride the camel together.”

All eyes follow the speaker’s direction as she walks to the right corner of the front row. She stops in front of a woman and properly puts her tundong in place. The woman is probably so engaged in listening to the story that she doesn’t realize her tundong fell on her shoulders. Everyone’s attention is now on her. Unable to look into the speaker’s eyes, the woman looks down on her lap, blushing.

The speaker continues with the story, diverting the guests’ attention back to her. “So they both ride the animal until they reach an oasis. They pass by a woman walking hand in hand with a child. ‘Mother, look!’ the child says, pointing to their direction. ‘That is a poor camel. Those men look heavy. Don’t they feel pity towards the camel?’ The woman hushes the child. Realizing the thought, both father and son pity the animal and decide to walk the rest of the way to the market.”

A cellphone beeps in an ascending tone, interrupting the speaker. Heads turn to the woman seated on the third row. She hurriedly turns off her cellphone and apologetically smiles to the speaker who seems to be indifferent with the interruption.

“At last,” says the speaker, “they reach their destination. Everybody looks busy trading with each other. When both father and son think they’ve had enough of the people’s comments, one of the merchants looks their way. ‘Stupid people!’ the merchant says, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘They have a camel and yet, they crossed the desert on foot!’”

The speaker walks to the teacher’s table and sits on the chair next to it. “That’s how the story ends,” she says.

“Wow,” you think. “That was a good one.” You lean forward, resting your chin on your right hand, eager to hear more from the speaker.

“You’re probably wondering why I told you the story,” the speaker says. “Who has an idea?”

Everyone looks at each other, waiting for someone to speak up. You glance at Omairah who shrugs her shoulders.

Sensing the silence, the speaker begins to say, “The point of the story is that no matter what you do, you can never impress everybody. It may be that you remove your hijaab in a foreign land and decide to wear western clothes. Most people there would like it but there will always be that someone, not just your fellow Muslims, who would not like how you look.”

The words hit you. You feel like somebody just poured a glass of cold water on your head. You lower your gaze, dreading the speaker’s next words.

“Tell me, which do you fear more: people’s comments or the Words of Allah?”

“The Words of Allah!” everyone says in unison. You don’t answer.

“Chapter 33, Verse 59 of the Holy Qur’an, Allah said: ‘O Prophet! Tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to draw their cloaks all over their bodies,” the speaker says, memorizing each word.

You uncross your legs and cross them again, starting to feel uncomfortable. You don’t know about how the others feel but it’s getting hot inside the room. You shake the fabric under your chin, fanning your neck.

“Have fear in Allah and the Last Day,” continues the speaker. “Wear your hijaab and protect yourselves from evil glances and desires…” She walks over the table, reaches a small green book, flips the pages and reads, “Women who are dressed but appear to be naked, who would be inclined to evil makes others incline towards it. Their heads would be like humps of the fat camel. They will not enter Paradise and they would not smell its odor. And men with whips like the tails of the bulls with which they beat the servants of Allah…” 6

Your heart beats faster with each word you hear from the speaker. You feel your tundong tighten around your face. You can’t take the heat any longer. You stand up and excuse yourself from Omairah. You pass through the back row and out of the room, closing the door behind. You need some air and decide to remove your veil but you’ll do it in the Ladies’ Room where no man can see you. You walk the way to the comfort room, passing by a familiar looking guy.
“Assalamu Alaikum,7 Bai,” he says. You realize that it is the tall guy you passed by outside the university though he is walking alone this time. You stop walking after hearing the guy’s kind words. Strangely, everything feels light. You no longer feel strangled by your tundong. A light breeze embraces you, fanning all the heat you feel.

“Just give it a try, Jamela,” you whisper to yourself. “If things don’t work out… well, you have the whole vacation to think about it.”

You take a deep breath. Feeling a lot better, you decide to go back to the forum.

***

It is five-thirty on a Sunday afternoon. You step out of the taxicab and walk straight into the mall. You just arrived in Davao City and your butt still aches after five long hours of bus ride. You see a few a schoolmates going in and out of the mall in their latest get-up. You pass by some of them including four classmates who don’t seem to notice you. One of them looks past your way. You could have called their attention but you decide not to. You walk ahead.

On one of the tables near the ice cream stand at the Food Court, you see a lady sitting comfortably in her semi-sleeveless red blouse and pedal pushers. Her long raven hair hangs loosely on her right shoulder, revealing a smooth nape. It is your best friend Bianca Marie. You see her take out her cellphone. You approach her but she must be too caught up with texting or with playing games on her phone that she doesn’t notice you coming.

“Hey, Bianx!” you say, tapping her shoulder lightly.

She looks up to you. “Jam!” she says, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, what have they done to you in Cotabato?” She looks at you the same way your Kaka Mai-mai first glared at you last week.

“It’s a long story,” you say. You take the seat before her, putting your knapsack on the table.

“Is that your outfit for the day?” she asks. “Or are you planning to dress like that for the rest of your life?”

“It depends,” you say. “Do I look that bad?”

She looks at you intensely as if doing a close study on a newly discovered species. “Well,” she starts to say, “I wonder what happened to your fashion sense?”

Ouch, that hurts.

“Your scarf,” she continues, “what do you call that?”

“In Maguindanaon, we call it tundong.”

“Tun—whatever. I know that black matches with any color but it sure looks unpleasant with your red sweater. Dark colors absorb heat easily. And seeing that you’re all covered up, you’re surely going to stink ten minutes after you step out of this building. You’re going to sweat all over, and in no time you’ll discover that your back is full of allergies. And how about your hair? Didn’t you just have it rebounded last month? What—”

“Bianca Marie,” you finally manage to interrupt, “I get the point.”

You already had Bianca Marie’s reaction played at the back of your mind before you meet with her today. Three years of sharing fashion magazines and beauty tips, doing make-over and giving out pieces of advice, she surely helped you become a new person without leaving any trace of the unsophisticated girl from a small town in Cotabato. Now that you’ve transformed into a religious-looking person with your hijaab, you sense that your friend is trying to convince you to go back to your usual self, the one that everybody likes.

“I don’t mean to offend you, Jam,” your friend says, gently this time. “But the way you dress now doesn’t show who you really are. We both know that you’re not the religious kind of person.”

You look down and nod your head. You don’t want to meet her eyes.

“But it’s your choice,” she says. “Think about it. You’re beautiful. I just don’t want you to hide your beauty under those clothes.”

You prefer to listen than to say anything.

“What will Josh say?” she says.

You look up. “What has Josh got to do with this?” you ask. Josh is one of your suitors. He is the gorgeous Sports Editor of the student publication and you really, really like him.

“He’s been looking for you yesterday,” Bianca explains, “so I texted him to meet with us today. Here. In five minutes.”

“No, you didn’t!” you say, hoping that your friend is just kidding around. You don’t want Josh to see you now. At least not in a dress like the one you wear.

“Yes, I did,” she says. “I wonder how he’s going to react the moment he sees you.”

Josh has become your biggest crush after Amir. You waited three years for him to notice you. It was only last month when he finally asked you out and actually started courting. There’s a chance that he wouldn’t like your new look. What will people say in case he stops courting you?

“Excuse me,” you say, rising from your seat.

“Where are you going?” Bianca asks.

“I’ll be back,” you say. You carry your back bag and walk away.

You face the mirror inside the Ladies’ Room and see a woman in a tight fitting black shirt; her hair, neatly brushed, is clipped on one side. You drive away the words that keep echoing in your mind. They keep you from appreciating the woman you see in the reflection. In less than ten minutes you are able to change your outfit, powder your nose and apply your lipstick. You fold your sweater and tundong neatly and put them inside the bag. After washing your hands, you take one last look in the mirror and force a smile.

You rub your arms uneasily as you walk the way back to where Bianca Marie is. Strangely, you feel naked walking around without your hijaab. When a guy you pass by winks at you, you feel goose bumps rise all over your arms and nape that you want to run back to the comfort room and hide. But you keep on going until you see Bianca Marie. Sitting before her is a guy in blue polo shirt. You can only see his back but you’re sure that it is Josh. You take a deep breath before approaching them. Your heart beats fast with each step. It is as if you can hear the flowers crying when you pass by the flower shop. But you can’t. You already forgot what your late grandmother used to tell you: “The trees, birds, the grass and everything that Allah has created… they feel deep sorrow the moment a woman removes her veil.”

Footnotes:

1 [Arabic] Any object that conceals a woman from the sight of men who are not members of her family
2 There is no source of power but from Allah, the High and the Mighty.
3 [Arabic] A disbeliever of Islam
4 [Maguindnaon] veil, head scarf
5 a scholar, teacher or professor in Islam
6 Al-Fauzan, Dr. Saleh Fauzan, Rulings Pertaining to Muslim Women. Ministry of Islamic Affairs, 2000.
7 [Arabic] Peace be with you.

Sunnah

I looked at my nails and found that they were unevenly cut. I wished I could go to the parlor like my Kaka Nurkia and have them manicured. But Ambo2 said last, last week, “Let me clip them myself. You’re too young to go to a manicurist.” And so she clipped my nails last, last Friday. She said that it is sunnah to clip one’s nails during Fridays and one gets to receive a reward after death. I didn’t understand what clipping one’s nails had to do with Fridays. Why couldn’t it be done on Mondays? At least on Mondays, my nails were clean when Madame Ballera checked them in class.

Last Friday Ambo wasn’t home and there was no one to clip my nails. So I trimmed them myself last night. Now they looked uneven. My classmate said this morning that they looked like boys’ nails. I had to hide them before Madame Ballera started checking. I refused to show her my hands but she started tapping a long ruler on her palm.

“Who clipped your nails, Urduha?’ she asked.

“I did, Madame because my mother wasn’t home last Friday,” I said. I looked down because I didn’t want to see her angry face.

“Why didn’t you have them clipped last night?”

“Because my mother only clips them on Fridays. She said it is sunnah.” I thought my teacher was going to ask what sunnah meant but I thought maybe she knew.

“Next time let her trim your nails, all right?” she said. “You want them to look like most girls’ nails, don’t you? A girl’s nails must be clean and shapely. Always remember that.”

“Yes, Madame,” I said. I looked at her nails and saw them painted with pink just like the color of her uniform. Maybe that was how a girl’s nails should be – clean, shapely and painted.

I searched through Babo Kong’s drawer this afternoon. She was busy watching TV. I used to borrow her hairbrush and she said it was okay. Maybe it was also okay with her if I borrowed her nail polish, too. I found a red one and tried it. It was as red as the lipstick Babo Kong wore when she picked me up from school this afternoon.

I thought my red nails already looked beautiful except that they were not shapely. I waited for Ambo to come home so she could trim them. I would tell her that Madame Ballera wanted her to trim my nails tonight so tomorrow it wouldn’t look like boys’ nails again.
But Ambo was not happy to see my nails.

“Indah,3 what have you done?” she asked, holding my hands. “Who polished your nails?”

“I did, Ambo. Don’t you like them?”

“Oh, Indah. You must remember that your nails have to be clean so you could join me and your father and your Kaka Nurkia when praying.”

“But they are clean, Ambo,” I said. “They are only painted with red.”

“No,” she said, “When your nails are clean, it means that they are not polished. The nail polish will prevent the water from cleaning your nails when you wash before praying.”

And so Ambo took a piece of cotton, poured a small amount of acetone on it and rubbed my nails. The cotton felt cold as it touched my skin. After five minutes, my nails were back to their normal color. Then Ambo clipped my nails one by one.

Now my nails didn’t look like boys’ nails anymore. They now looked clean and shapely just like what Madame Ballera said. Ambo clipped them and it wasn’t even Friday.

Footnotes:

1 Sunnah [Arabic] a practice that is recommended in Islam
2 [Tausug] in this context, mother
3 [Tausug] little girl

Wudhu

I am going to offer a prayer for ‘Ishaa. (2)

“Bismillahir rahmaanir rahiim,”(3) I whisper before dipping my hands into the basin, cupping water then cleansing my hands away from the container, washing them up to the wrists. I perform this three times.

Feeling the water cool against my skin, I wash my hands that which your lips have touched. I am careful not to spatter anything into the basin.

I cleanse my mouth that spoke my fondness of you. Earlier tonight, when we went out for dinner, you spoke with so much sincerity as you confessed your adoration for me. Your words were music to my ears and I couldn’t help but admit how much I felt the same for you.

I rinse my nostrils that have become familiar with your fresh scent. Your bath soap and cologne linger on your skin even after a day’s work.

I wash my face upon which your eyes caressed passionately. I had to look away for I could not dare meet the fire in those dark eyes.

Then I wash my arms that enclosed you with so much longing. I can’t imagine how I was able to go through these past few days without seeing you.

I wipe my head, driving away thoughts that burned my cheeks.

I wet my ears that were tickled by your warm breath as you whispered.

Finally, I wash my right foot up to the ankles then the left foot. My feet that will lead me to where you will be waiting tonight.I stand up, facing the Ka’bah (4) in the west or where I observe the sun is going to set. I recite my prayers. “Oh, Allah, please lead me not into temptation.”

Footnotes:
1. Wudhu. Ablution performed by Muslims before performing a prayer.
2. the early night prayer, between time the Salaatul Maghrib ends and before Salaatus Subuh begins.
3. In the Name of Allah, the Benificent, the Merciful.
4. The Muslim shrine at Mecca enclosing a sacred black stone given to Abraham by the angel Gabriel Webster

Language Barriers

DAVAO CITY -- “Jay,” I asked my friend, Dorothy Joy who sat beside me. “What is the Bisaya word for try?”

“Tistingi,” she whispered.

We were in class then and I was bored with the lecture so I distracted myself by sending messages to another friend across the room. I was going to say, “Try it” or “Subukan mo” but I wanted to use Bisaya so I wrote down, “Tistingi nimo.”

If I only knew that I would become the subject of my friends’ mockery at the end of the class, I wouldn’t have tried writing in Bisaya.

“It should be tistingi not tistingi nimo” one of them! said. My friends were actually laughing at my note.

I got confused. Later on, I realized that Bisaya was like the English Language where imperative sentences could get away with the “you.” I could say, “Write” instead of “You write” in the same way that in Bisaya one would say “Pagsulat” rather than “Pagsulat ka.” The latter indeed sounded awkward.

I can’t speak Bisaya fluently in the same way that I can’t speak any language smoothly. I speak Tagalog and English, though not perfectly, because they are the ones used at home and in school. My parents belong to different tribes. My father is a Maguindanaon and my mother, a Tausug. During their early years of marriage, my parents spoke in Tagalog so that they could understand each other. It was only years later when they mastered each other’s dialects.

My siblings and I, however, already adopted Tagalog as our first language. Although it was never too late to learn Maguindanaon and Tausug, we didn’t care much whether we could speak them fluently or not as long as we could understand even the basic words only. For instance, I know how to say, “Malingkat ko” or “Manisan ako” both of which mean, “I am beautiful” in Tausug and Maguindanaon respectively.

I actually regret the idea that I never attempted to learn my own language. Whenever I go to Moro communities or meet Muslims I would often feel like I am the odd person out because I can’t relate to what anyone is saying. At one side, I can hear Tausug words while on the other side I recognize Maguindanaon or Maranao accents. I have no idea where to situate myself. I’m hesitant to join any conversation because I can’t speak any dialect fluently. I fear that I might break the bond between these people if I interrupt their conversation. I can’t just ask them a favor to speak in Tagalog so I can relate to what they are saying. That will be embarrassing. It is in fact embarrassing to claim oneself as a Maguindanaon-Tausug who lived all her life in Mindanao particularly in the Maguindanao province yet she never learned her ancestors’ tongue.

I remember an old woman who came to visit our home when I was 11. She wore a silky long sleeved blouse and a malong like most old Maguindanaon women do. I sat in the living room while she stood at the doorway. She asked me something in Maguindanaon.

“Huh? Ano yun?” I asked her politely. That is how I use my Tagalog in a polite way. In Luzon, the proper way of asking a stranger is, “Sino ho sila? Ano po iyon? Sino po ang hinahanap nila?”

I was sure that the old woman was looking for someone but as much as I tried, I could not comprehend what she was saying. Then she gave up, shaking her head. I could say by the way her eyebrows contracted that she was annoyed or frustrated.

“Mga wata a nya, di den mataw bag-Muslim…(These kids today, they no longer know how to speak Muslim),” she murmured as she allowed herself to enter our house and look for someone who she probably thought made sense to her.

The old woman probably meant, “to speak Maguindanaon” instead of Muslim. I just shrugged my shoulders. I get those kinds of comments from old Muslim people particularly from my grandparents. The truth is, my paternal grandparents and I don’t understand each other. If I count the number of hours I spent talking to them since I was a child, it would probably not reach ten hours. This becomes one of my regrets because I have not developed a special bond with my grandparents.

When I reached college, I had to go through a long period of adjustment during my first year. There had to be someone who could translate words for me so I could communicate well with the people. I remember being asked questions like if I was from Luzon because I spoke the Tagalog language. Some were curious as to why I couldn’t speak in Bisaya. It was as if they could not believe that someone who lived in Mindanao didn’t know how to speak in Bisaya. I had to insist that in my hometown, people speak in Tagalog. They probably thought that Tagalog was only spoken in Luzon in the same way that I thought Bisaya was only spoken in the Visayan region.

I remember having a classmate who seemed to doubt my incapability to speak the language.

“Alia,” he said, “which part of Cotabato are you from?”

“The city,” I said, smiling at him. “Why?”

“Because my father had already been to Cotabato,” he said. “He told me that people there spoke in Bisaya just like the Davaoeños.”

I wasn’t sure if I would laugh at him for doing his research or become irritated by his skepticism.

“Maybe your father went somewhere in the Cotabato province and not in the city,” I said calmly. “North and South Cotabato are different from Cotabato City. People from the north and south speak in Bisaya, Ilonggo and Maguindanaon. I’m sure that the official language in my hometown is Tagalog.

I hoped I convinced him.

I consider my hometown a melting pot of different cultures. Maguindanaons, Tausugs, Ilonggos, Maranaos, Iranuns, Bisayas, and Tagalogs live in the city. Perhaps, when these people first settled in the Cotabato, they couldn’t communicate well if they used their own languages that they decided to use the national language, Tagalog, as the official language of the Cotabateños.

The Tagalog used in my hometown, however, is different from the one used in Luzon. People commonly use a few Bisaya words and the tone used is quite hard like there’s a certain force to it when the language is spoken. But when people speak inside their homes, only a few families use Tagalog while majority speak their own dialect.

I still don’t know how to speak Bisaya fluently. Some people may find this hard to believe knowing that I’ve been living in Davao City for almost four years now. I should have learned the language already. But honestly, I was never interested in learning how to speak the language. If given a choice, I want to stick to Tagalog because I think it isn’t fair that I can’t speak my parents’ languages then I have to learn Bisaya. But then again, I regret not being able to comprehend the dialect very well. I realize this more whenever I go to poetry reading sessions. People would start laughing while listening to a Bisaya poem and I sit among them, having no idea what can be so funny.

It also embarrasses me when I try to speak Bisaya and my friends would laugh at my accent and diction. They would say things like “bakikaw” (awkward) or “lain paminawon” (sounds unpleasant). I have no choice but to stick to my Tagalog, which is sometimes mixed with Bisayan expressions. I could only say, “lingaw man pud.” (I enjoy it though).

(originally published at Mindanews.com on 14 March 2005)

Warning!!!

Substantial reproduction of the entire copyrighted work, or even a large portion thereof is sufficient in point of law to constitute piracy.

Administrative action: The author may turn to the administrative machinery of state and bring an administrative complaint against an infringer,

Administrative fines: Fines not less than Php 5,000.00 but not more than Php 150,000.00 may be levied against the offender.

Criminal Prosecution: The infringer and those who aid and abet her shall be punished by a range of fines according to the degree of recidivism of the offender:

First offense: Imprisonment of 1 year to 3 years plus a fine ranging from Php 50,000.00 to Php 150,000.00.

Second offense: Imprisonment of 3 years and 1 day to 6 years plus a fine ranging from Php 150,000.00 to Php 500,000.00.

Third offense: Imprisonment of 6 years and 1 day to 9 years plus a fine ranging from Php 500,000.00 to Php 1,000,000.00.

Source: Intellectual Property Law (R.A. 8293)

So, if you intend to use any material from this site for any purpose whatsoever, kindly ask for permission from the author.

E-mail her at: sahara_alia@yahoo.com.

Thanks! Salaam.