by Marika Haramyangan
its breath
when one comrade
disappears.
we rest
without a word
through the night
turn only at dawn
after
the chorus of sparrows.
and it was time for us again
to keep ourselves together.
paint our faces
with the strangest fruit
of the salamander tree
that falls
from the neighbor's yard.
take long marches
from napulac
to the mountain ranges
of panay.
drink the sweat of the island
from the fabled rivers
of sibalom.
let the pig head
from the public market
stare
right through
you.
look for answers
on red notes
with a thousand-fold.
catch searing embers
with only
our tongues.
disclose your names from war
to me.
sweep the downtown streets
with the sole of our bare feet.
kiss
the goose-fleshed pavement.
bury our severed toes
on the most vulnerable
pot of soil
and watch each one
grow like mountains.
then, we'll rise
from where our comrade
fell
as another day
will reappear here.
Marika Haramyangan: When you are involved in the struggle for national democracy, the death of a comrade is inevitable. In Duterte’s Philippines, red-tagging has become a deadly weapon. Red-tagging is the act of labelling someone a “terrorist”, a sort of Filipino-style McCarthyism. This practice is amplified by the Anti-Terror Law, making it quasi-legal under vague provisions. It is the administration’s attempt to create enemies within the ranks of progressive groups to justify killings and corruption by their own agencies. Sadly, it has taken the lives of activists, student leaders, lawyers, journalists, church people, indigenous people, and community organisers in both cities and rural areas. In fact, death and illegal arrests have now become the norm to the point that saying “halong” (stay safe) to someone when you part from them has become a serious matter.
In my poem “Guerrillas in the City”, I study grief from the perspective of an activist losing a comrade. The visual structure of the poem mimics the tactical movement of guerrillas. The abundance of white spaces embodies the setting and parallels the moments of silence organic to mourning. The lines trail as you read the poem and rest before the following line begins. The images are drawn from imaginary traditions enacted in concurrence with the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. My declaration of natural locations in Panay was my way of geographically rooting the experiences of activists closer to me, who are my kaupod and kauban (comrades). Ultimately, this poem, its stylistic form, and the images it reveals attempt to metaphorise the people left behind in the struggle, like guerrillas passing through the city of grief—how we try to cope with loss and the senseless intensifying violence that threatens the people.
Today, lives indebted by tyranny live through us, and those who shall succeed us. No matter what happens, I know the struggle will continue. And I believe that to win this struggle, we must arouse, organise and mobilise the broader masses.
There is a stage of grief that I wasn’t able to mention—the last and the most important stage—which is hope. And at the end of this poem, I found hope. Hope in the death of our martyrs. It is enough to radicalise and enough to awaken mountains.
Published: Wednesday 1 December 2021[RETURN TO WRITE TO POWER]
Marika Haramyangan is the pen name of transgender poet Keira Cabrera-Gemora. Born in Iloilo City, she studied Creative Writing at Silliman University and is now majoring in Literature at the University of the Philippines Visayas.