'Bidadari'
In 1987 I chanced upon the “Broce” property in the corner of the crossing to Cotabato City on the left side, and Dinaig, Maguindanao, on the right. Dinaig, of the royal family Balhaman, was amusing. Wilson and Bert sent word to warring factions literally living and aiming at each other across the street who were Mayor Unting Sinsuat and his nemesis, the Abas, to please “not aim their grenade launchers across the street yet, we will be passing by.”
The “Broce” property sloped downward hidden behind the biggest, leafiest acacia trees in Maguindanao. No one would know about the house in the middle of that valley that had a creek where the army soldiers and women washed clothes from army fatigues to athletic uniforms and both sexes, assimilating Moro culture, bathed in malongs. Engineer Cholo Blanco, a descendant of the Spanish period, was a contractor and his brother Bobby an architect. Cholo gathered yellow and red wood called manga chapuy and narra to make a low-key modest home that is the envy of visitors, being the only house still made of wood — therefore very delicate. So when an explosion took place by the airport I sent an S.O.S. to Khagi Murad, my compadre, to spare my residence. Another one of my rebel companions jumped out from my capiz window as a general approached.
What a blessing to have a sanitized house compared to the hotel I used to book — one that smelled of urine with a filthy rug I never stepped on. Imperial Hotel has since burned down and my home has remained steadfast, shining clean for my political endeavors and historical research.
I have gone through many houses in Maguindanao. First was Bobby Blanco’s white bungalow that became my storage for furniture shipped to Central Mindanao. Second was a five-by-six-foot “house” at the compound of the Autonomous Region owned by the Human Settlements Commission. Twenty would crowd into that room, discussing political alliances, livelihood programs, trips to Bongao Island, security arrangements, superstitions and marriages of the Maguindanaoan. That tiny room turned clubhouse had inadequate running water so I was the recipient of a huge batya filled with water for “hygiene” — if, miraculously, the faucets decided to give me droplets of water.
In time I was transferred by Governor Zac Candao, who won the autonomous elections after a challenging campaign, to his official little house also in the autonomous compound. The Moro Islamic Liberation Front hierarchy regularly met with us and in good faith shared their organizational structure and their military powers for my studies toward a master’s degree in national security.
Eventually my impermanent home became Sulu Vice Governor Ben Loong and Assemblyman Bassir Abdurajak’s residence. An angry wife swooped down on the area, gathering her husband’s clothes and Bally shoes and burning them under a lone tree. My husband brought the ego-bruised boys shopping to Australia while us girls had the last laugh.
We planned the seal of the autonomous regional government in “Awang” — that’s what my new house was christened. Although the Muslims wanted my residence named “Bidadari” — meaning angel or nymph. Saidamin Pangarungan conceived of the kris in the seal. Tupay Loong is for the half-moon by the kris. Gerry Matba was in Tawi-Tawi, so far away he consented to every logo, sight unseen. Zack sat mesmerized by the turn of events and called his nephew Candao, a music student at the University of Santo Tomas Conservatory of Music, to sing the autonomous hymn composed by George Canseco whom Jun Simon called. I found Imao (who years later became a national artist) at the University of the Philippines and asked him to draw the seal for the four governors — Saidamin Pangarungan of Lanao Sur, Zack Candao of Maguindanao, Tupay Loong of Sulu and Gerry Matba of Tawi-Tawi — which became the official seal of governance of the region.
I had a Tiruray from Upi named Tony as my bantay whose wife had a clubfoot, while Tony had weak lungs. In time his wife passed away and Tony chose to live in Upi; but not before a group of four Tirurays entered my gate that I’d always leave open. All of them claimed they owned my property and the 18 cacao plants not more than two meters high. Luckily, I was home. I gave them all the trees that they had uprooted and left them with a thousand pesos. No wonder: the Tirurays inhabited Awang where the Philippine Army is located, right beside me. Before the Torrens Title came to be, or the Southern Philippines Development Authority, or migration for that matter, all that land was common property inhabited by the Tirurays. The Tirurays migrated high up to Upi to live when Christian settlers arrived with land titles (not me, of course). The half-Maguindanao and Tiruray Ustadz Abul Halil Yahya of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front — a kind, religious man and adviser to Salamat Hashim with Ustadz Pasigan — told me he lived on P.C. Hill. He said P.C. did not stand for Philippine Constabulary but Pedro Colina. It was the highest location in Cotabato and for security reasons the Philippine Constabulary and later the Philippine National Police planted themselves on that hill. There was found the white sand of the Maguindanaon-Timuay ancestors of 700 years ago that they had stepped on to complete the rites of proclamation of the Sultan and Timuays. Tantawan, the old name of Colina Hill, was where the early inhabitants had safely taken refuge during the Cotabato floods as the Pulangi River swelled. Still years later, the Sultan would divert that river to allow it to flow in front of his royal home so the guests invited to his daughter’s wedding could dock their boats closer to the celebration site. Now, ironically, the Cathedral stands on his residence and concrete roads have reduced the river to an estero.
The floods have been disastrous for me, as they have for the Maguindanaons whose name means “people of the floods.” That describes me, too. Garbage cascades into my backyard. I am continually digging and cementing my canals. My creek is buried under seven feet of mud. Illegal logging has taken away roots from trees that once stopped mudflow. The glassy, clean water has disappeared. My door that leads to the creek is underground, like my lampposts. All are future archeological sites.
Today my home exists for the favorite sons I never had. The Philippine National Police Academy Class 2007 are my bantays Palmon, Landig, Tuvillo, Balaqui, Laderas and Operario who’ve sought refuge there. To Awang I bring my research group — Professor Dizon of Tarlac, Dr. Abdullah Madale, Roland Bayhon and Jean Guillard who travel with me all over Central Mindanao or Davao and North Cotabato, Lanao Sur and even Cagayan Valley. Upon my return to Awang, I continuously find hundreds of anays I constantly murder. In the past I have seriously thought about breaking down the structure and numbering the wood, piece by piece, to send it by barge to Manila! I have been abused by drug addicts who have stolen my electrical wires, tapped my electricity and stolen my water pipes. I dug up the concrete road to put my water pipes into it as a last resort. And the thieves aren’t Moros.
How sad, though, it would be to leave my balete tree. The Land Transportation Office came by six years ago to cut her down. I told them, “You’ll get hurt. And she’ll be angry because she isn’t tall enough to cause danger. “Twice the men who came left bleeding. One, the chainsaw cut a bad slice off his arm. The other’s leg was almost dismembered. It was so frightening that I offered food at her roots. I have witnessed army trucks roll by with soldiers and return empty from Narciso Highway. (You know why.)
Awang is an open house with a lot of antique beds, comforters and hot water. A place where I “live history,” write history and participate in history. Bidadari has seen my adventurous youthful years; what a treasure “Awang” is.
