A Prayer for My Father

Nonfiction by | July 22, 2018

I was taught how to pray before I knew how to write. But my father made me learn both at the same time.

While my mother wanted me to memorize the Lord’s Prayer at the ripe month of six months, my father, a non-Catholic, had explained that a prayer only consists of four words: Thank, You, God, and Amen.

That, my father explained to her daughter, who would one day tell him she is a lesbian, is all you need in prayer.

So when I had learned from my CLE teacher in Grade 2 that a prayer had four parts instead of four words, I was skeptical in making my own prayer. I remembered thinking that my father knew prayers so well, maybe that was the reason the Lord’s Prayer started with an “Our Father”—to honor fathers. Years later, I would learn that the “Our Father” in the Lord’s Prayer was a form of adoration.

Being the ambitious kid who wanted to have the best written prayer, I told my teacher I didn’t know where to begin. Years later, I would take up a degree in Creative Writing and would still ask that same question—especially when I write about my father. My then late-30s teacher wrote the acronym A.C.T.S on my paper with her veiny hands and said, “This might help you write.”


A prayer must always start with adoration. Think of it as a letter heading. Put an addressee so that the letter wouldn’t get lost.

I had to make sure my prayer was heard by God and no other deity. It is meant to be sent. My CLE teacher told us to always start the prayer by saying His name or an adjective that connotes praise before His name. It shows respect to His power.

I hated myself for not having an adjective to describe my father. I felt like I had no respect for him since I couldn’t associate him to an adjective. Maybe generous? Because he gave me the toys I wanted and the books I wanted to read. As early as two years old, he knew I preferred books to toys.

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Nonfiction by | July 1, 2018

When mothers go bald, children would start to think that there is something going on. I guess it is a spur for every child, or perhaps it is only a way of thrusting into my mind that I wouldn’t think differently; that the curious mind of a six-year-old would think of the bald boy in school whom she laughed at, and then she would look at her mother again. She would look at her twice, thrice, until there would only be her mother and the void. Finally, it would sink in that her mother is beautiful even without her crown of black hair, and that she need not wear a hat.

It all started with a slip. I hunkered down to my mother who was lying on the bathroom floor, naked. Her lips were pale and her eyes were half open. A little while ago, mama and I were bathing together in the bathroom. She lathed me with soap from head to my tiniest toenail until she could consider me clean. Clean, for her, was the immaculate whiteness of our bathroom tiles and the dustless walls and windowpanes inside. I flushed stark and dark against the bleached background, and was a disappointment in her sight. She rubbed my brown skin patiently until it reddened, and then she washed the soap and body dirt away.

“Maryosep! Kang kinsa man kang anak?” My mother just disowned me and continued complaining that if only my father listened to her and refrained from taking me every weekend to Cuaco beach, that according to her standards was a place no better than a garbage dump, her only child would have had fairer skin. In a fit of pique her rantings caused, I defended Papa and proved her how cool he was by telling her how he threw me from a dock into the water without my floaters on for me to learn how to swim. It provoked her more and made her address my father by his full name.

Kani jud si Samuel Ruiz,” she paused to catch some air, “Bantay ra gyud na imong amahan pag uli niya.” She can threaten my father freely while he was still not home yet from work. Her fury flared as she ruthlessly scrubbed my knees. I tried to calm her down with the assurance that Papa always got my back and would never allow the sea to take me away. Her mouth kept on blabbering about the said matter as if she did not hear me or deem my excuses considerable. She stood up from a squat and lost her balance.

I thought she fell asleep. The sight of my mother lying against the white tiles disturbed me after long seconds passed. I felt the cold seeped into my soles as slow as the pace of panic. I called her name a few times and paused for a moment, then I screamed for help. 

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A Siege Means No Classes

Nonfiction by | June 24, 2018

Grey and black smoke rose from the city like leaning towers. Gunshots and explosions replaced the sounds of crickets in the evening. The smell of fire spread everywhere. War and death were right in front of me.

The Zamboanga Siege lasted for about two and a half months, causing destruction and death. It’s been four years now, and the world has moved on to worry about other deaths and destructions. What was previously a top news story is now forgotten by many.

I remember it in fragments. It was a carelessly developed plot that led to no profound meaning. The situation was straight out of a disaster film made solely for enjoyment. Except, of course, this was in no way a movie, and in no way fun.

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The Many Faces of Hope, Part 2

Nonfiction by | May 27, 2018

(Second part of the Keynote Speech delivered at the 44th Congress of the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL) and the 31st Gawad Alagad ni Balagtas held in Roxas City on 28 April 2018 with the theme: “Kadulom kag Kasanag: Panitikan ng Pag-asa.”)

Kanya, another image of the bird na lumabas ay ang ibong malaya. Ito yong inawit ng mga makibaka-huwag-matakot na ang bokabularyo ay dominated ng tatlong “ismo” monsters. Sa kanilang paningin tayo ay nakakulong sa malaking hawla ng tatlong “ismo” at “isang dipang langit” lang ang ating nakikita.

Ang daming mga Messiah ang nagsulputan, isa na si Marcos who viewed the oligarchs and communists as the evil causes of our poverty, declared Martial Law, and offered the New Society as the sinalimba or hope of Filipinos. In turn, ang mga ismong activists viewed Marcos as the biggest demon in Philippine society. Nag-mutual demonization. Kaso, mas makapangyarihan si Marcos at pinaghuhuli, pinagtotortyur, at pinagpapatay ang mga aktibista. After twenty years nagcrash ang New Society and was replaced by Hope who wore yellow at EDSA. But it went phht very quickly.

One government after another has come and gone, offering hope in the form of millennium goals that went up in smoke, a kagang-kagang jeepney, matatag na republika na madaling nalosyang, and another sinalimba labelled “kayo ang boss ko.” But the country’s situation has worsened. We’ve mangled our Constitution several times, but the diaspora continues, not only to the States but also to Arab countries where our so-called heroes could end up being murdered and hidden in a freezer.
I continue to be stunned by our poverty figures. Lanao del Sur (ARMM) – 74.3%, Sulu (ARMM) – 65.7%, Sarangani (Region 12) – 61.7%, Northern Samar (Region 8) – 61.6%, Maguindanao (ARMM) – 59.4%, Bukidnon (Region 10) – 58.7% etc, etc. Nationwide, it’s still a shocking 25%. Self-rating surveys say 50% of Filipinos feel they are mahirap.

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The Many Faces of Hope, part 1

Nonfiction by | May 20, 2018

(Keynote Speech delivered at the 44th Congress of the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL) and the 31st Gawad Alagad ni Balagtas held in Roxas City on 28 April 2018 with the theme: “Kadulom kag Kasanag: Panitikan ng Pag-asa.”)

To all UMPIL officers and members, our Balagtas awardees, National Artist for Literature Virgilio Almario, fellow writers, guests, and friends, maayong buntag.

I find our theme very interesting: “Kadulom kag Kasanag: Panitikan ng Pag-asa” (Darkness and Light: The Literature of Hope).

We are all familiar with the Greek myth of Pandora, the beautiful girl who received all the gifts from the gods and goddesses. She was a very curious girl. She was told not to open a jar, but open she did, and all kinds of evil came out, darkening the world — calamities, hunger, diseases, plagues, giyera, ungo, kapre, aswang. Na-shock si Pandora, but she had the presence of mind to close the jar. Ang naiwan sa loob, HOPE. Pag-asa, Paglaom.

I’d like to interpret this myth as the origin of how humankind acquired hope, rather than as how evil got into the world. Hope was Pandora’s gift to us. Her brother-in-law, Prometheus, gifted us with fire. Si Pandora, hope. Yong evil of the world na lumabas sa jar, gawa ni Zeus. Maldito man na si Zeus.

Across the millennia, Hope took different faces, shapes, and sizes, depending on the type of evil that prevailed during a particular era. Whatever shape it took, it always meant something good or better than the situation people found themselves in.

Hope is what keeps the fire of Prometheus in us burning, it keeps us going despite all the challenges, hardships, calamities – personal man o communal.

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Dogs Without Names

Nonfiction by | May 13, 2018

‘Man and animals are partly the same. Both deserve love, loyalty and law.’

I have two dogs. They don’t have names. They are Brown and Dalmatian. The latter is a combination of spotted black and white colors. One morning, when I woke up, I heard somewhere in the house faint crying voices. I was not sure what it was. And so I went outside from the main room. I found out that pups have just been delivered by the mother dog. They just went inside my house, and sought comfort at my terrace. I pitied them very much. I bought powdered milk, mixed it with water and served it to the little dogs and the mother dog.

I roamed around my neighborhood telling them that a dog has just delivered her puppies in my house, and they replied that the pups already belonged to me since they were born inside my house. The five little puppies grew very fast. My budget for food increased because I have six more mouths to feed.

When the dogs were still young, they were led by the mother dog to my immediate neighbor. After a few days, they returned back to my house where they were born.

One day, my neighbor asked to have one of the pups so that he could keep it as his pet. I didn’t hesitate to give it for as long as they are not going to be slaughtered and be served as food during celebrations or party.

It was very difficult to catch these dogs. With my neighbors’ persistence to catch one of the pups; they succeeded and finally, they placed it inside an empty sack.

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The Fish

Nonfiction by | April 15, 2018

It’s a cold and cloudy Wednesday morning on this twenty-fourth day of January when I find myself sitting on this green chair, writing on a circular, wooden table of the school library. Beside my journal is a coffee that I bought straight out from the vending machine in front of me. Every day, I make it a routine to reserve a ten-peso coin in my pocket so I can pay for this drink. I suppose drinking coffee every morning has been my ritual. It’s what keeps me going these days: making my heart beat faster as it normally does; evoking emotions for every beating of it; and finally turning these emotions into words. So whenever I am lost for words, I only pause for a moment to sip this coffee of mine until the right words come along. It seems to me that it is the only thing now that keeps me writing my troubles out, so to speak.

The weather today has surprisingly turned into a gloomy one when nobody expected it as the sun has been shining brightly as ever since the last few days. I suppose life is akin to the weather: it glooms in an abruptly way just as when it has made you used to the sunny days. In this particular instance, however, I think about life and how I spend my every waking day with the same strict routines that I follow. I think about how people unconsciously forget what really matters in life because of “other things” they would rather immerse themselves into. I think about how our routines gradually consume us and divert our attention intensely focused toward worldly affairs and trivial matters. I think about the reality of life: that one day, all of these things surrounding me will vanish; that one day, I, too, shall die.

It happens every day that we wake up in the morning, take a warm bath, have some breakfast, drink a coffee, and drive or commute to school or work. We would attend to our classes, our appointments, or sometimes to our organizational meetings. We would then watch a film or a series if we have the time. We would talk excessively with friends about almost anything. We would laugh out loud and think of a good restaurant to have some meal together. We would go to our most desired coffee shop, read a book therein, or perhaps study. We would prepare for a scheduled presentation, or surf the net for how many hours. We would go home right after, have a good night sleep, and in the next day: repeat the same routine.

It happens that Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday all seem to follow the same path most of the time. It seems as if our entire life had been programmed to be in harmony to the same, continuous rhythm every day. Can we transcend this?

As we are living the mundanity of our lives, we are gradually absorbed into this way of thinking where our perception of everything around us becomes constant and typical. Everything seems to flow with the current. Everything is under our careful control. Nothing seems wrong, at least hopefully. And everything seems so orderly, systematically, and accordingly just as the way we expect them to be.

This absorption has become so efficient in fixing our perspective. The process too is so transparent that, without our consciousness, it has successfully placed authenticity, meaning, purpose, and death to the background. Because of this, we are no longer aware of them, nor perhaps even spare a minute to ponder upon them. Like the fish that is unable to recognize the water as it has become ordinary for it, we are living under the mundanity of our lives oblivious, deliberately or not, to the reality and value of life itself.

While we are trapped into this matrix, somewhere out there are people who have already made an abrupt escape—people who have woken up from the illusion that hid the true reality of life. I refer to these people as those who are suffering: those who are afflicted with illnesses, diseases; by war and genocide; depression, worry, and grief; those who have recently lost a loved one; and many others alike. More than that, somewhere out there is a father diagnosed of cancer and a son anxiously bothered of his old man’s condition.

Unexpected things always happen in an instant. It doesn’t remind you beforehand. It doesn’t inform you of its coming, nor does it even give you a warning sign just like when you are driving on a highway and a road undergoing repair is one kilometer ahead from your location. Just when you think everything is normal, things could change in a blink of an eye, disrupting your personal routine, reducing your driving pace.

It was on a Monday afternoon in the middle of a class discussion when, all of a sudden, I received a distress message from my eldest sister, telling me that our father has just been diagnosed of a suspected cancerous cyst in the kidney according to his doctor. I was in the middle of a recitation then when I received the message. My teacher kept on asking the class questions about a previous lesson of which I still could remember. I uttered an answer to my teacher and then I half saw the text message. I read it afterwards properly. Even then, I knew that something doesn’t feel right even though everything around me seems as usual as they are. I didn’t know how to react. All I could ever recall was the sudden blurring of my vision of my teacher, my classmates, the chairs, the Power Point, and my notebook.

I reached for my handkerchief inside my pocket to dab my eyes. Tears were already filling my eyes, I realized. I was captured by the moment. Even though my body was physically present in the classroom, I felt mentally, emotionally, and spiritually isolated from my classmates. I could not hear my teacher speaking as if all the noises had suddenly been muted. My eyes were fixed towards my teacher but I could not see her. It seemed as if my consciousness went to somewhere else, but I knew I was arrested by the moment—a moratorium amidst the mundanity of life.

All the memories suddenly flashed back to me like a new episode of a TV series reviewing the previous events before it begins. I thought about how, in my kindergarten days, my father would buy me a box of Cloud 9 chocolate every time he arrives home from work. I recalled how, during my early elementary days, I used to borrow his screw driver to enact Harry Potter casting a spell. I recalled how he used to spoil me with almost all the things that I wanted: from toys, shoes, guitars, drum set, clothes to cars. I thought of the times when he provided me with everything that I needed in school. I thought of the times how he supported me with my decisions and my choices in life. I thought of how often he would give me words of wisdom that would always soothe my heart. I thought of how during every meal, we would share our favorite fish that my mother would cook for us; we would cut it into half so that his would be the head part and mine the tail.

While my mind was mentally traveling, I pondered upon the idea of death—that death is the only thing certain in this life. I reflected upon how short life really is that in every passing minute, someone somewhere is dying. I reflected on the simultaneity of things: that while we are here in class listening to our teacher’s discussion in the comfort of our air conditioned room, someone else from somewhere else is suffering from an illness, from a loss of a loved one, from depression, from poverty, from war, and from many other unfortunate events. This parallelism of world events made me think that just because it isn’t happening here at this very place that I am currently sitting into, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening at all. What would seem so little to me, to anyone might be all.

All the people suffering in this world because of numerous reasons such as international disputes, politics, religion, terrorism, crimes, and even stretches out to the people afflicted with different kinds of disease such as brain tumors, cancers, dengue fevers, malarias: these are the people who have to pause in the rhythmic patterns of their lives, who have to drop whatever they are doing in order to attend to the crises at hand. All of these sufferings are what we normally hear on the news, from other people, and from the hospitals, yet all the same we do not lend an ear to them. All of these do not seem to matter to us. Why should we even care? Who are they to us anyway? We do not really understand something so deeply unless it finally happens to us or to our loved ones. We do not really value the true essence of life until an alarming situation comes forth. We do not really know how something truly feels until finally it knocks on our doors, disturbing the comfort of our lives.

Many would pity these people, but I say that this pity is misattributed. I say these people are lucky enough because life has given them a way out from their routines which have gradually made them forget the essential things in life—routines that have blinded them to the reality of life. A breakthrough in this so-called “everydayness” of our lives would make us value our existence even greater. It would make us rethink on the essentials in life: our loving relationships, our family and our ties with our relatives, our behaviors, our faith, our mistakes, our shortcomings, and the people we may have hurt or wronged. It would also make us reevaluate how we are living our lives, how hardly do we forgive others, how easily do we get angry over trivial reasons, and how tightly do we clutch on to our grudges. The possibility of death is an enough lesson for us to learn about the most important things in life that we wouldn’t probably learn in the four corners of our classrooms. Suddenly, I regained consciousness from my mental journey in one of Mitch Albom’s famous lines: “Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.” I then immediately told my seatmate that I won’t be able to come to class for the next subject. “I have to go now. I need to see my father.”

I drove on to where my father was on that Monday afternoon. I was driving really fast without minding the speed limit, recklessly beating a lot of red lights on the way. I did not even bother warming up the engine upon ignition anymore. I knew Papa would scold me had he known.

Somewhere in the traffic-laden roads of Davao City, however, there was one intersection where I was so close to traversing, but I was caught up by the red light the moment I was near. Abruptly, I stepped on to the break really hard and brought the car into a full stop. Annoyed and anxious, there was nothing else I could do but wait. So, I looked around instead and I saw a sticker of a fish in the car ahead of me. It was a simple fish, but beneath its existence is an underlying truth of which has rendered me in deep thought.

A fish’s natural habitat is the water. Once it is born, it does not need any “swimming lessons” like we humans normally do; rather, it just automatically learns how because that is its nature. It probably doesn’t have any idea at all that what it is doing is actually called “swimming” in human language; it just is. More so, the water is the fish’s safe haven. It goes around to it every day, swimming in its vastness. The fish probably does not recognize the water anymore because for all its life, it’s just there made available in its whole lifetime.

Because of this, I suppose the fish no longer acknowledges the value of the water because it has grown used to it every day. However, this recurring pattern in the fish’s everyday life reaches a point of cessation when it has been caught by the fisherman in his net. In that way, the fish wouldn’t have seen it coming. Once it is trapped into the fisherman’s net, it would desperately grasp for the water. It would try its best to reach for the water. But, when it is already too late for the fish to return to the water is the only time when it would regretfully realize the true value of the water that it had ignored for its whole lifetime. Sadly, there is no going back for it now.

Finally, it’s becoming quite chilly here in the school library. I reached for my cup of coffee but it was already empty. I am still very worried about my father’s condition and I guess this would be the only thing that will occupy my mind throughout the day. I guess a short title would be most suitable for this essay—perhaps that one simple thing that struck me most during that Monday afternoon. It would be enough, I hope, as life as well is short-lived.

I suppose we have all been too hasty in trying to meet our academic and work-related deadlines, notwithstanding the fact that even our personal lives are inevitably subjected to it. Nevertheless, I must always keep in mind that I should not become the fish that has made used to the water so much that it has become transparent to its eyes; rather, I should learn to value the water even before I am caught into the fisherman’s net—a “not-yet” and also a “will-be.”

On that Monday afternoon, the sticker of the fish in the car ahead of me had slowly become smaller and smaller in sight. Loud horns from the cars at my back made me shiver, bringing my attention back on the road.

The green light came, and I drove on to see my father.

Ali K. Satol Jr. is an incoming fourth year student of Ateneo de Davao University (ADDU) with the course of Bachelor of Arts Major in English Language. He is born in Cotabato City and is currently living in Davao City to finish his studies. Ali is the incoming Internal Vice President of SALAM: The Ateneo Muslim Society, a Muslim student organization of ADDU. As an English Major, he is also a member of the Society of Ateneo Literature and English Majors (SALEM). His essay, “The Fish,” was written for the said subject and is one of the many essays in his collection called, “Of Truth and Memories.” The said piece won Ali his place in the small group of finalists for the World Youth Essay Competition (WYEC) 2018. He is now competing for the final round of the contest.

My San Pedro Street

Nonfiction by | March 11, 2018

For someone who was born outside, I defined Davao City as our destination for buying school supplies and watching movies. There were no decent cinemas where I came from. When I officially moved to Davao to pursue my university degree, way back in 2000, I found myself re-defining the city in a different way.

In 2012, I decided to document the city’s center, San Pedro Street. This project was inspired by academic papers by UP Mindanao professors: one on architectural landmarks by Architect Rowena Delgado, and another on the aspect of urban decay by Roberto Alabado III. Both were published in Banwa, the Multidisciplinary Journal of UP Mindanao. Their point was that since development was sprawling outside the city, the city’s center, where most architectural landmarks were located, was in danger of becoming overlooked and at worst forgotten.

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I asked, “Is San Pedro Street overlooked?” I also pondered on what would make people think about San Pedro. Back then, I was exploring street photography and its capacity to tell stories with just a photograph. I decided to take a creative adventure.

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