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Module No. and Title: Module 7: Muslim Filipino Literatures

Lesson No. and Title: Lesson 1: Muslim Literature - Poetry
Learning Objectives: At the end of the lesson, the students are expected to:
a. identify and understand the basic culture and
tradition of Muslims in Mindanao through
poetry;
b. convey ideas through writing a poem; and
c. create clear application of the values learned
in the course.
Time Frame: 1 week

Welcome to the first lesson of Module 7, entitled “Muslim Filipino

Literatures”. In this lesson, you will be able to identify and understand the basic
culture and tradition of our Muslim brothers and sisters in Mindanao through delving
into some of their literatures in a form of a poem.

Interview two (2) to three (3) family members regarding their basic
knowledge about our Muslim brothers and sisters here in Mindanao. After which,
create a semantic map based from the collated answers of your family members.
Topics for questioning might be as follows:
a. Basics of their religion
b. Culture and Traditions
c. Different Muslim Tribes in Mindanao

? ?
Muslims in Mindanao

? ?

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 Read the poems below and analyze them by answering the guide
questions that follow:

Poem #1
Translation:
In ulan iban suga The rain and sun
Are essential on earth,
Kagunahan ha dunya Oh, Apu' Banuwa ["grandfather chief" or
Apu' Banuwa angel Michael]
In jambangan tulunga. Help the garden.

Poem #2
Translation:
Tarasul ini iban daman This tarasul and daman
Serves as a lesson
Ganti' pamintangan Concerning the obligation to love one's
Ha pasal ina' subay kalasahan mother
Di ha dunya ganti' patuhanan. Since she is God's representative on earth.

Poem #3
Translation:
Mabugtang agun in baran ku My whole being seems paralyzed
Pasal sin raybal ku. [Thinking] of my rival. The reason I no
Hangkan no aku di' no magkadtu longer pay [her] a visit Is that my heart is
Sabab landu' susa in atay ku. grieving much.

Source: https://reflectionsbymira.blogspot.com/2012/01/autonomous-region-of-muslim-mindanao.html

Questions:
1. Who is the speaker in the poem?
Poem 1: ______________________________________________________________
Poem 2: ______________________________________________________________
Poem 3: ______________________________________________________________
2. To whom is the speaker speaking, or in other words, who is the audience?
Poem 1: ______________________________________________________________
Poem 2: ______________________________________________________________
Poem 3: ______________________________________________________________

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 3. What do you think is the poem all about? Write it in a singular sentence only.
Poem 1: ______________________________________________________________
Poem 2: ______________________________________________________________
Poem 3: ______________________________________________________________

Before we get to know the poems you have read above, let us first indulge
ourselves to the history of Muslims in Mindanao.

The Philippine Muslims was once a dominant group in the country. They have
500 years political history, so far the longest political experience compared to other
groups in the whole Philippines. Their culture is a blend of Islam and adat. Adat is the
sum of both pre-Islamic culture and the philosophical interpretation of the Muslims
on the teachings of Islam. It is itself the lasting contribution of the Philippine Muslims
to the country’s national body politic. However, to know the Muslim history, one
should understand the role of Islam in bringing about historical development. It is this
Islam that actually produced heroic resistance against western colonialism. The
Philippine Muslims today became known as cultural communities owing to their
culture surviving foreign hegemonism to this day.

The history of the Philippine Muslims is part of the backbone of the historical
development of the whole country. Filipino historians like Dr. Renato Constantino
asserted that no Philippine history can be complete without a study of Muslim
development (1990:29).

The Philippines has two lines of historical development. The first line, which is
the older, came to develop in Mindanao and Sulu. And this refers to the Muslim line
of historical development. Had not this line of historical development been disturbed
by western colonialism, Islam might have charted the entire destiny of the Philippine
nationhood. External factors swept into the country and brought the second line. The
Hispanized Filipinos were central to the development of this second line. This is the
product of the great historical experiences of the Filipino people under western rule.

Roots

Mindanao and Sulu are the original homeland of the Philippine Muslims. These
areas are now the third political subdivision of the Philippines. They are located at the
southern part of the country, and lie around hundred miles north of equator. The areas
occupy a strategic position at the center of shipping line between the Far East and the

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Malayan world. They are situated north of Sulawise and to the west is the state of
Sabah. Mindanao and Sulu has a total land area of 102,000 square kilometers. It is a
fertile region and known to be rich in agricultural plantation, marine and mineral
resources. As reported, more than half of the country’s rain forests are found in
Mindanao. While its agricultural crops include rice, corn, root crops, vegetables,
cassava and fruits. Marine products like seaweed production, fish as well as gas and
oil are dominant in the Sulu sea. Fifty nine percent of tuna and sardines are largely
taken from the Sulu sea. Mainland Mindanao has substantial mineral deposits.
Zamboanga del Sur has gold, silver, lead, zinc deposit; Davao Oriental has chromite
reserves; marble deposits for Davao del Norte and oil deposit in South Cotabato.
These huge resources of the southern islands have made Mindanao the land of
promise.

However, the main concentration of the Philippine Muslim population is confined

largely to the western side of Mindanao down to the Sulu Archipelago. In mainland
Mindanao, the Muslims are dominant only in Lanao and Maguindanao provinces.
While the rest of the Muslim populations are scattered in nearby provinces such as
Zamboanga peninsula, North Cotabato, Sultan Qudarat, South Cotabato, Davao
Oriental, Davao del Sur and Sarangani island. In the Sulu Archipelago, the Muslims
are all dominant in three island provinces of Basilan, Sulu and Tawi-Tawi.

The Muslim Ethnic Groups

The Muslim ethnic groups in Mindanao and Sulu are linked by both
ideological and geographical factors.
The Muslims in the south are also culturally linked to Muslim countries in
Southeast Asia such as Indonesia, Malaysia, Brunei and the Patani of Southern
Thailand. They are composed of eleven ethnic groups. Each group has its own
language but only a few controls a political unit like a province or municipalities.
Some groups speak one language with three variations like the Maranao, Iranun and
Maguindanaon. The Sama people have one language with many variations such as the
dialect of the Jama Mapun, and the Bangingi. Below are some of the Muslim ethnic
groups we have in the Mindanao:
1. The Maranao. Literally, Maranao means people of the lake. Their homeland is
called Lanao which means lake. Their oldest settlement started around here,
and up to this day, highly populated communities still dot the lake. Their
language is similar to Maguindanaon and Iranun. One shall be confused as to
which of them owns the mother tongue since the Maranao and Iranun can
understand 60% of the Maguindanaon language. At any rate, these groups live
in proximity. Continuous contact allows them to develop or share a common
practice including language.
2. The Maguindanao. Originally, Maguindanaon is the name of the family or
dynasty which came to rule almost the whole island of Mindanao, particularly
the former Cotabato. It later refers to the Muslim people who live in the
Pulangi Valley which sprawls the Southwestern part of Mindanao. It is for this
reason, the Maguindanaon are called people of the plain. They accepted Islam
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at the last quarter of 15 century. Total Islamization of the whole Pulangi area
succeeded only with the arrival of Sharif Kabungsuan, a prince from Johore,

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 who came to Mindanao after the fall of Malacca and nearby areas to Dutch
colonialists in 1511.
3. The Iranun. These people have inhabited the area bordering between Lanao
del Sur and Maguindanao province. They claimed to be the origin of these two
ethnic groups. The language of the Maranao and Maguindanao is strongly
rooted in the Iranun tongue. The Iranun may perhaps be the mother language
and the rest are just a mere dialects. For several centuries, the Iranun formed
part of the Maguindanao sultanate. Their culture received much influence from
the Maguindanao rather than the Maranao. The Iranun were excellent in
maritime activity. They used to ply the route connecting the Sulu sea, Moro
gulf to Celebes sea, and raided the Spanish held territories along the way.
4. The Yakan. The term Yakan is a mispronunciation of the word yakal by the
Spaniards. While the term Basilan has originated from two words basi (iron)
and balani (magnate). In the ancient time, Basilan was thickly covered by the
yakal trees. Foreign people often mistook the name of the yakal trees as the
native identity. During colonial period, the Spaniards branded the inhabitants
of Basilan as Yakan, and became carried up to the present.
The culture of the Yakans is similar to the Tausugs. Its inner foundation lies
on the spirit of martabat. For the outer side, religious institution like masjid
and madrasa, artifacts and the vast number of Yakan professionals, ulema,
politicians and fighters reinforced further the strength of the Yakan culture.
These two foundations are firmly planted in the heart of the Yakans. This is
their real strength. The challenge of the Yakans today is to steer their young
generation to assert their rights and develop confidence in their both material
and non-material culture.
5. The Sama. The Sama identity derived from the term sama-sama which means
togetherness or collective effort. The Sama people are highly dispersed and
scattered in the Sulu Archipelago. They are geographically diversified owing
to their exposure to maritime activities and fishing. Helping each other is
recognized as norm of the Sama people.
Badjao is one of the five sub-clusters that make up the Sama people. There are
five sub-clusters that make up the Sama people. They are known as the sea-
gypsies of Sulu Archipelago and Celebes sea. The Badjao people call
themselves Sama Laut and in Malaysia, they are called Orang Laut. All these
descriptions point to them as being boat people. They always move from one
island to another, living in their small boat for weeks or even months without
mooring or coming to town to buy their needs. The Badjao do not establish a
permanent community like the Arab and the Cossacks in central Asia. They
have not able to develop a political institution that can advance their collective
interest of their society. Their social organization does not approach even the
level of a clan, in a sense, because they have no recognized community leader.
Their social structure is leveled. Rich people or elitism is completely absent in
Badjao society. All of them belong to the poor strata. Family structure is the
only factor that makes the Badjao society possible. Roles and duties are
allocated to every member from the parents down to their children, from the
adult to the young ones. The father acts as leader; the mother is responsible for
cooking; children collect fire woods in the coastal areas, and helps gather sea

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 food and fetch water. As observed, the whole Badjao family constitutes also
the economic unit, which means, all of them have to work together (sama-
sama) for their survival.
6. The Kaagan. The Kaagan inhabited mostly Davao areas. They became
Muslims as a result of contact with the Maguindanao sultanate, and later
strengthened with the arrival of some Tausug groups who helped to organize
the Kaagan society. No wonder the Kaagan language has many bahasa sug
root words. With the departure of the Tausug and Maguindanao influences at
the height of the Filipinization process. Most of them have been marginalized
and were helpless to improve their society because their social organization
did not improve as those in Lanao and Sulu.
7. The Tausug. Prof. Muhammad Nasser Matli argued that the term Tausug is a
slang word and originated from two words: tau (people) and ma-isug (brave).
Therefore, Tausug means brave people.

Before the coming of Islam, the Tausug had already established a central
government. When Islam came, Tausug leaders accepted Islam. They did not
resist. As soon as they became Muslims they made themselves models by
infusing Islamic values and politics to the government. The result was the
spread of justice in the land. Seeing the beauty of Muslim leadership, the
entire natives finally accepted Islam. The peaceful triumph of Islam in Sulu in
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the middle of the 13 century led to the Islamization of local politics. This was
the process that brought about the establishment of the Sulu sultanate in 1450.
Many Tausug leaders were sent outside Sulu to further strengthen the Sulu
sultanate influence. This was the origin of the growth of Tausug communities
in Tawi-Tawi, Palawan, Basilan, Zamboanga, and Sabah. Up to this period,
these places are still the favorite destination of Tausug migrants who have
been displaced by the wars and conflicts between the Muslims and the
Philippine government.

In line with the Tausugs, their literature includes poetry and prose, and narrative and
non-narrative forms. The content of these forms belongs to either of two traditions:
folk, which is more closely related with indigenous culture; or Islamic, which is based
on the Quran and the Hadith (sayings) and Sunna (traditions and practices) of the
prophet Muhammad.

Tarasul (poems) are both entertaining and pedagogical. Although it is part of the oral
tradition, these poems are also written down. Topics of the tarasul are nature, cooking,
and love, among others.
Sources:
https://tausugbyfvelasco.wordpress.com/literary-arts/
http://gwhs-stg02.i.gov.ph/~s2govnccaph/subcommissions/subcommission-on-cultural-communities-
and-traditional-arts-sccta/central-cultural-communities/the-history-of-the-muslim-in-the-philippines/
https://reflectionsbymira.blogspot.com/2012/01/autonomous-region-of-muslim-mindanao.html

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 Inspired by how Tausugs write poems to convey their strong feelings towards
their chosen subject, create your own poetry (following the structure of Tarasul) based
from your own chosen topic.

Scoring Rubric
The poem goes perfectly together. There is
Cohesiveness unity between lines which connect with the 10
topic.

Use of poetic The poem uses 1 or more poetic elements to

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elements enhance the poem and the reader’s emotions.

The poem uses 1 or more unique metaphors

Creativity and similes to describe situations, objects, or 10
people.

Total: 30

Great Job!

Ready for the next lesson?

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Module No. and Title:
Lesson No. and Title:
Learning Objectives:
Time Frame:
Module 7: Muslim Filipino Literatures
Lesson 2: Muslim Literature - Prose
At the end of the lesson, the students are expected to:
d. identify and understand the basic culture and
tradition of Muslims in Mindanao through a
short story;
e. convey ideas through rewriting the story; and
f. create clear application of the values learned
in the course.
1 week

Welcome to the first lesson of Module 7, entitled “Muslim Filipino

Literatures”. In this lesson, you will be able to identify and understand the basic
culture and tradition of our Muslim brothers and sisters in Mindanao through delving
into some of their literatures in a form of a prose.

Let’s do picture-connectivity.

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 1. Seeing the pictures above, what words can you form out?
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2. How do these pictures apply to you?
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
3. Why is courtship and dating important in choosing a lifetime partner?
__________________________________________________________________
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__________________________________________________________________

Read the short story below entitled Blue Blood of the Big Astana written by Ibrahim
A. Jubaira and analyze it by answering the guide questions that follow:

1 Although the heart may care no more, the mind can always recall. The mind can
always recall, for there are always things to remember: languid days of depressed
boyhood; shared happy days under the glare of the sun; concealed love and mocking
fate; etc. So I suppose you remember me too.
2 Remember? A little over a year after I was orphaned, my aunt decided to turn me over
to your father, the Datu. In those days datus were supposed to take charge of the poor
and the helpless. Therefore, my aunt only did right in placing me under the wing of
your father. Furthermore, she was so poor, that by doing that, she not only relieved
herself of the burden of poverty but also safeguarded my well-being.
3 But I could not bear the thought of even a moment’s separation from my aunt. She
had been like a mother to me, and would always be.
4 “Please, Babo,” I pleaded. “Try to feed me a little more. Let me grow big with you,
and I will build you a house. I will repay you some day. Let me do something to help,
but please, Babo, don’t send me away....” I really cried.
5 Babo placed a soothing hand on my shoulder. Just like the hand of Mother. I felt a bit
comforted, but presently I cried some more. The effect of her hand was so stirring.

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6 “Listen to me. Stop crying—oh, now, do stop. You see, we can’t go on like this,”
Babo said. “My mat-weaving can’t clothe and feed both you and me. It’s really hard,
son, it’s really hard. You have to go. But I will be seeing you every week. You can
have everything you want in the Datu’s house.”
7 I tried to look at Babo through my tears. But soon, the thought of having everything I
wanted took hold of my child’s mind. I ceased crying.
8 “Say you will go,” Babo coaxed me. I assented finally, I was only five then—very
tractable.
9 Babo bathed me in the afternoon. I did not flinch and shiver, for the sea was
comfortably warm, and exhilarating. She cleaned my fingernails meticulously. Then
she cupped a handful of sand, spread it over my back, and rubbed my grimy body,
particularly the back of my ears. She poured fresh water over me afterwards. How
clean I became! But my clothes were frayed....
10 Babo instructed me before we left for your big house: I must not forget to kiss your
father’s feet, and to withdraw when and as ordered without turning my back; I must not look
at your father full in the eyes; I must not talk too much; I must always talk in the third person;
I must not... Ah, Babo, those were too many to remember.
11 Babo tried to be patient with me. She tested me over and over again on those royal,
traditional ways. And one thing more: I had to say “Pateyk” for yes, and “Teyk” for what, or
for answering a call.
12 “Oh, Babo, why do I have to say all those things? Why really do I have...”
13 “Come along, son; come along.”
14 We started that same afternoon. The breeze was cool as it blew against my face. We
did not get tired because we talked on the way. She told me so many things. She said you of
the big house had blue blood.
15 “Not red like ours, Babo?”
16 Babo said no, not red like ours.
17 “And the Datu has a daughter my age, Babo?”
18 Babo said yes—you. And I might be allowed to play with you, the Datu’s daughter, if
I worked hard and behaved well.
19 I asked Babo, too, if I might be allowed to prick your skin to see if you had the blue
blood, in truth. But Babo did not answer me anymore. She just told me to keep quiet. There, I
became so talkative again.
20 Was that really your house? My, it was so big! Babo chided me. “We don’t call it a
house,” she said. “We call it astana, the house of the Datu.” So I just said oh, and kept quiet.
Why did Babo not tell me that before?

21 Babo suddenly stopped in her tracks. Was I really very clean? Oh, oh, look at my
harelip. She cleaned my harelip, wiping away with her tapis the sticky mucus of the faintest
conceivable green flowing from my nose. Poi! Now it was better. Although I could not feel
any sort of improvement in my deformity itself. I merely felt cleaner.

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22 Was I truly the boy about whom Babo was talking? You were laughing, young pretty
Blue Blood. Happy perhaps that I was. Or was it the amusement brought about by my harelip
that had made you laugh. I dared not ask you. I feared that should you come to dislike me,
you’d subject me to unpleasant treatment. Hence, I laughed with you, and you were pleased.

23 Babo told me to kiss your right hand. Why not your feet? Oh, you were a child yet. I
could wait until you had grown up.
24 But you withdrew your hand at once. I think my harelip gave it a ticklish sensation.
However, I was so intoxicated by the momentary sweetness the action brought me that I
decided inwardly to kiss your hand everyday. No, no, it was not love. It was only an impish
sort of liking. Imagine the pride that was mine to be thus in close heady contact with one of
the blue blood....
25 “Welcome, little orphan!” Was it for me? Really for me? I looked at Babo. Of course
it was for me! We were generously bidden in. Thanks to your father’s kindness. And thanks
to your laughing at me, too.
26 I kissed the feet of your Appah, your old, honorable, resting-the-whole-day father. He
was not tickled by my harelip as you were. He did not laugh at me. In fact, he evinced
compassion towards me. And so did your Amboh, your kind mother. “Sit down, sit down;
don’t be ashamed.”
27 But there you were, plying Babo with your heartless questions: Why was I like that?
What had happened to me?
28 To satisfy you, pretty Blue Blood, little inquisitive One, Babo had to explain: Well,
Mother had slid in the vinta in her sixth month with the child that was me. Result: my
harelip. “Poor Jaafar,” your Appah said. I was about to cry, but seeing you looking at
me, I felt so ashamed that I held back the tears. I could not help being sentimental,
you see. I think my being bereft of parents in youth had much to do with it all.
29 “Do you think you will be happy to stay with us? Will you not yearn any more for
your Babo?”
30 “Pateyk, I will be happy,” I said. Then the thought of my not yearning any more for
Babo made me wince. But Babo nodded at me reassuringly.
31 “Pateyk, I will not yearn any more for... for Babo.”
32 And Babo went before the interview was through. She had to cover five miles before
evening came. Still I did not cry, as you may have expected I would, for—have I not said it?
—I was ashamed to weep in your presence.
33 That was how I came to stay with you, remember? Babo came to see me every week
as she had promised. And you—all of you—had a lot of things to tell her. That I was a good
worker—oh, beyond question, your Appah and Amboh told Babo. And you, out-spoken little
Blue Blood, joined the flattering chorus. But my place of sleep always reeked of urine, you
added, laughing. That drew a rallying admonition from Babo, and a downright promise from
me not to wet my mat again.
34 Yes, Babo came to see me, to advise me every week, for two consecutive years—that
is, until death took her away, leaving no one in the world but a nephew with a harelip.

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35 Remember? I was your favorite and you wanted to play with me always. I learned
why after a time, it delighted you to gaze at my harelip. Sometimes, when we went out
wading to the sea, you would pause and look at me. I would look at you, too, wondering.
Finally, you would be seized by a fit of laughter. I would chime in, not realizing I was making
fun of myself. Then you would pinch me painfully to make me cry. Oh, you wanted to
experiment with me. You could not tell, you said, whether I cried or laughed: the working of
lips was just the same in either to your gleaming eyes. And I did not flush with shame even if
you said so. For after all, had not my mother slid in the vinta?
36 That was your way. And I wanted to pay you back in my own way. I wanted to prick
your skin and see if you really had blue blood. But there was something about you that
warned me against a deformed orphan’s intrusion. All I could do, then, was to feel foolishly
proud, cry and laugh with you—for you—just to gratify the teasing, imperious blue blood in
you. Yes, I had my way, too.
37 Remember? I was apparently so willing to do anything for you. I would climb for
young coconuts for you. You would be amazed by the ease and agility with which I made my
way up the coconut tree, yet fear that I would fall. You would implore me to come down at
once, quick. “No.” You would throw pebbles at me if I thus refused to come down. No, I still
would not. Your pebbles could not reach me—you were not strong enough. You would then
threaten to report me to your Appah. “Go ahead.” How I liked being at the top! And sing
there as I looked at you who were below. You were so helpless. In a spasm of anger, you
would curse me, wishing my death. Well, let me die. I would climb the coconut trees in
heaven. And my ghost would return to deliver... to deliver young celestial coconuts to you.
Then you would come back. You see? A servant, an orphan, could also command the fair and
proud Blue Blood to come or go.
38 Then we would pick up little shells, and search for sea-cucumbers; or dive for sea-
urchins. Or run along the long stretch of white, glaring sand, I behind you—admiring your
soft, nimble feet and your flying hair. Then we would stop, panting, laughing.
39 After resting for a while, we would run again to the sea and wage war against the
crashing waves. I would rub your silky back after we had finished bathing in the sea. I would
get fresh water in a clean coconut shell, and rinse your soft, ebony hair. Your hair flowed
down smoothly, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Oh, it was beautiful. Then I would trim your
fingernails carefully. Sometimes you would jerk with pain. Whereupon I would beg you to
whip me. Just so you could differentiate between my crying and my laughing. And even the
pain you gave me partook of sweetness.
40 That was my way. My only way to show how grateful I was for the things I had
tasted before: your companionship; shelter and food in your big astana. So your parents said I
would make a good servant, indeed. And you, too, thought I would.
41 Your parents sent you to a Mohammedan school when you were seven. I was not sent
to study with you, but it made no difference to me. For after all, was not my work carrying
your red Koran on top of my head four times a day? And you were happy, because I could
entertain you. Because someone could be a water-carrier for you. One of the requirements
then was to carry water every time you showed up in your
Mohammedan class. “Oh, why? Excuse the stammering of my harelip, but I really
wished to know.” Your Goro, your Mohammedan teacher, looked deep into me as if
to search my whole system. Stupid. Did I not know our hearts could easily grasp the

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 subject matter, like the soft, incessant flow of water? Hearts, hearts. Not brains. But I
just kept silent. After all, I was not there to ask impertinent questions. Shame, shame
on my harelip asking such a question, I chided myself silently.
42 That was how I played the part of an Epang-Epang, of a servant-escort to you. And I
became more spirited every day, trudging behind you. I was like a faithful, loving dog
following its mistress with light steps and a singing heart. Because you, ahead of me, were
something of an inspiration I could trail indefatigably, even to the ends of the world....

43 The dreary monotone of your Koran-chanting lasted three years. You were so slow,
your Goro said. At times, she wanted to whip you. But did she not know you were the
Datu’s daughter? Why, she would be flogged herself. But whipping an orphaned
servant and clipping his split lips with two pieces of wood were evidently permissible.
So, your Goro found me a convenient substitute for you. How I groaned in pain under
her lashings! But how your Goro laughed; the wooden clips failed to keep my harelip
closed. They always slipped. And the class, too, roared with laughter—you leading.
44 But back there in your spacious astana, you were already being tutored for
maidenhood. I was older than you by one Ramadan. I often wondered why you grew so fast,
while I remained a lunatic dwarf. Maybe the poor care I received in early boyhood had much
to do with my hampered growth. However, I was happy, in a way, that did not catch up with
you. For I had a hunch you would not continue to avail yourself my help in certain intimate
tasks—such as scrubbing your back when you took your bath—had I grown as fast as you.

45 There I was in my bed at night, alone, intoxicated with passions and emotions closely
resembling those of a full-grown man’s. I thought of you secretly, unashamedly, lustfully: a
full-grown Dayang-Dayang reclining in her bed at the farthest end of her inner apartment;
breasts heaving softly like breeze-kissed waters; cheeks of the faintest red, brushing against a
soft-pillow; eyes gazing dreamily into immensity— warm, searching, expressive; supple
buttocks and pliant arms; soft ebony hair that rippled....
46 Dayang-Dayang, could you have forgiven a deformed orphan-servant had he gone
mad, and lost respect and dread towards your Appah? Could you have pardoned his rabid
temerity had he leapt out of his bed, rushed into your room, seized you in his arms, and
tickled your face with his harelip? I should like to confess that for at least a moment,
yearning, starved, athirst... no, no, I cannot say it. We were of such contrasting patterns. Even
the lovely way you looked—the big astana where you lived—the blood you had... Not even
the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave our fabrics into equality. I had to content myself
with the privilege of gazing frequently at your peerless loveliness. An ugly servant must not
go beyond his little border.
47 But things did not remain as they were. A young Datu from Bonbon came back to ask
for your hand. Your Appah was only too glad to welcome him. There was nothing better, he
said, than marriage between two people of the same blue blood. Besides, he was growing old.
He had no son to take his place some day. Well, the young Datu was certainly fit to take in
due time the royal torch your Appah had been carrying for years. But I—I felt differently, of
course. I wanted... No, I could not have a hand in your marital arrangements. What was I,
after all?

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48 Certainly your Appah was right. The young Datu was handsome. And rich, too. He
had a large tract of land planted with fruit trees, coconut trees, and abaca plants. And you
were glad, too. Not because he was rich—for you were rich yourself. I thought I knew why:
the young Datu could rub your soft back better than I whenever you took your bath. His
hands were not as callused as mine... However, I did not talk to you about it. Of course.
49 Your Appah ordered his subjects to build two additional wings to your astana. Your
astana was already big, but it had to be enlarged as hundreds of people would be coming to
witness your royal wedding.
50 The people sweated profusely. There was a great deal of hammering, cutting, and
lifting as they set up posts. Plenty of eating and jabbering. And chewing of betel nuts and
native seasoned tobacco. And emitting of red saliva afterwards. In just one day, the additional
wings were finished.
51 Then came your big wedding. People had crowded your astana early in the day to
help in the religious slaughtering of cows and goats. To aid, too, in the voracious
consumption of your wedding feast. Some more people came as evening drew near. Those
who could not be accommodated upstairs had to stay below.
52 Torches fashioned out of dried coconut leaves blazed in the night. Half-clad natives
kindled them over the cooking fire. Some pounded rice for cakes. And their brown glossy
bodies sweated profusely.
53 Out in the astana yard, the young Datu’s subjects danced in great circles. Village
swains danced with grace, now swaying sensuously their shapely hips, now twisting their
pliant arms. Their feet moved deftly and almost imperceptibly.
54 Male dancers would crouch low, with a wooden spear, a kris, or a barong in one
hand, and a wooden shield in the other. They stimulated bloody warfare by dashing through
the circle of other dancers and clashing against each other. Native flutes, drums, gabangs,
agongs, and kulintangs contributed much to the musical gaiety of the night. Dance. Sing in
delight. Music. Noise. Laughter. Music swelled out into the world like a heart full of blood,
vibrant, palpitating. But it was my heart that swelled with pain. The people would cheer:
“Long live the Dayang-Dayang and the Datu,
MURAMURAAN!” at every intermission. And I would cheer, too—mechanically,
before I knew. I would be missing you so....
55 People rushed and elbowed their way up into your astana as the young Datu was led
to you. Being small, I succeeded in squeezing in near enough to catch a full view of you. You,
Dayang-Dayang. Your moon-shaped face was meticulously powdered with pulverized rice.
Your hair was skewered up toweringly at the center of your head, and studded with glittering
gold hair-pins. Your tight, gleaming black dress was covered with a flimsy mantle of the
faintest conceivable pink. Gold buttons embellished your wedding garments. You sat rigidly
on a mattress, with native, embroidered pillows piled carefully at the back. Candlelight
mellowed your face so beautifully you were like a goddess perceived in dreams. You looked
steadily down.
56 The moment arrived. The turbaned pandita, talking in a voice of silk, led the young
Datu to you, while maidens kept chanting songs from behind. The pandita grasped the
Datu’s forefinger, and made it touch thrice the space between your eyebrows. And
every time that was done, my breast heaved and my lips worked.

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57 Remember? You were about to cry, Dayang-Dayang. For, as the people said, you
would soon be separated from your parents. Your husband would soon take you to Bonbon,
and you would live there like a countrywoman. But as you unexpectedly caught a glimpse of
me, you smiled once, a little. And I knew why: my harelip amused you again. I smiled back at
you, and withdrew at once. I withdrew at once because I could not bear further seeing you
sitting beside the young Datu, and knowing fully well that I who had sweated, labored, and
served you like a dog... No, no, shame on me to think of all that at all. For was it not but a
servant’s duty?
58 But I escaped that night, pretty Blue Blood. Where to? Anywhere. That was exactly
seven years ago. And those years did wonderful things for me. I am no longer a lunatic dwarf,
although my harelip remains as it has always been.
59 Too, I had amassed a little fortune after years of sweating. I could have taken two or
three wives, but I had not yet found anyone resembling you, lovely Blue Blood. So, single I
remained.
60 And Allah’s Wheel of Time kept on turning, kept on turning. And lo, one day your
husband was transported to San Ramon Penal Farm, Zamboanga. He had raised his hand
against the Christian government. He has wished to establish his own government. He wanted
to show his petty power by refusing to pay land taxes, on the ground that the lands he had
were by legitimate inheritance his own absolutely. He did not understand that the little
amount he should have given in the form of taxes would be utilized to protect him and his
people from swindlers. He did not discern that he was in fact a part of the Christian
government himself. Consequently, his subjects lost their lives fighting for a wrong cause.
Your Appah, too, was drawn into the mess and perished with the others. His possessions were
confiscated. And you Amboh died of a broken heart. Your husband, to save his life, had to
surrender. His lands, too, were confiscated. Only a little portion was left for you to cultivate
and live on.

61 And remember? I went one day to Bonbon on business. And I saw you on your bit of
land with your children. At first, I could not believe it was you. Then you looked long and
deep into me. Soon the familiar eyes of Blue Blood of years ago arrested the faculties of the
erstwhile servant. And you could not believe your eyes either. You could not recognize me at
once. But when you saw my harelip smiling at you, rather hesitantly, you knew me at least.
And I was so glad you did.
62 “Oh, Jafaar,” you gasped, dropping your janap, your primitive trowel, instinctively.
And you thought I was no longer living, you said. Curse, curse. It was still your frank,
outspoken way. It was like you were able to jest even when sorrow was on the verge
of removing the last vestiges of your loveliness. You could somehow conceal your
pain and grief beneath banter and laughter. And I was glad of that, too.
63 Well, I was about to tell you that the Jafaar you saw now was a very different—a
much-improved—Jafaar. Indeed. But instead: “Oh, Dayang-Dayang,” I mumbled, distressed
to have seen you working. You who had been reared in ease and luxury. However, I tried very
much not to show traces of understanding your deplorable situation.
64 One of your sons came running and asked who I was. Well, I was, I was....

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65 “Your old servant,” I said promptly. Your son said oh, and kept quiet, returning at
last to resume his work. Work, work, Eting. Work, son. Bundle the firewood and take it to the
kitchen. Don’t mind your old servant. He won’t turn young again. Poor little Datu, working
so hard. Poor pretty Blue Blood, also working hard.
66 We kept strangely silent for a long time. And then: By the way, where was I living
now? In Kanagi. My business here in Bonbon today? To see Panglima Hussin about the cows
he intended to sell, Dayang-Dayang. Cows? Was I a landsman already? Well, if the pretty
Blue Blood could live like a countrywoman, why not a man like your old servant? You see,
luck was against me in sea-roving activities, so I had to turn to buying and selling cattle. Oh,
you said. And then you laughed. And I laughed with you. My laughter was dry. Or was it
yours? However, you asked what was the matter. Oh, nothing. Really, nothing serious. But
you see... And you seemed to understand as I stood there in front of you, leaning against a
mango tree, doing nothing but stare and stare at you.
67 I observed that your present self was only the ragged reminder, the mere ghost, of the
Blue Blood of the big astana. Your resources of vitality and loveliness and strength seemed to
have drained out of your old arresting self, poured into the little farm you were working in. Of
course I did not expect you to be as lovely as you had been. But you should have retained at
least a fair portion of it—of the old days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark rings; not dull,
dry hair; not a sunburned complexion; not wrinkled, callous hands; not....

68 You seemed to understand more and more. Why was I looking at you like that? Was
it because I had not seen you for so long? Or was it something else? Oh, Dayang-Dayang, was
not the terrible change in you the old servant’s concern? You suddenly turned your eyes away
from me. You picked up your janap and began troubling the soft earth. It seemed you could
not utter another word without breaking into tears. You turned your back toward me because
you hated having me see you in tears.
69 And I tried to make out why: seeing me now revived old memories. Seeing me,
talking with me, poking fun at me, was seeing, talking, and joking as in the old days at the
vivacious astana. And you sobbed as I was thinking thus. I knew you sobbed, because your
shoulders shook. But I tried to appear as though I was not aware of your controlled weeping. I
hated myself for coming to you and making you cry....
70 “May I go now, Dayang-Dayang?” I said softly, trying hard to hold back my own
tears. You did not say yes. And you did not say no, either. But the nodding of your head was
enough to make me understand and go. Go where? Was there a place to go? Of course. There
were many places to go to. Only seldom was there a place to which one would like to return.

71 But something transfixed me in my tracks after walking a mile or so. There was
something of an impulse that strove to drive me back to you, making me forget
Panglima Hussin’s cattle. Every instinct told me it was right for me to go back to you
and do something—perhaps beg you to remember your old Jafaar’s harelip, just so
you could smile and be happy again. I wanted to rush back and wipe away the tears
from your eyes with my headdress. I wanted to get fresh water and rinse your dry,
ruffled hair, that it might be restored to flowing smoothness and glorious luster. I
wanted to trim your fingernails, stroke your callused hand. I yearned to tell you that
the land and the cattle I owned were all yours. And above all, I burned to whirl back
to you and beg you and your children to come home with me. Although the simple

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 house I lived in was not as big as your astana at Patikul, it would at least be a happy,
temporary haven while you waited for your husband’s release.
72 That urge to go back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was strong. But I did not go back for a
sudden qualm seized: I had no blue blood. I had only a harelip. Not even the fingers of Allah
perhaps could weave us, even now, into equality.

Source: https://djworkz.blogspot.com/2017/11/blue-blood-of-big-astana.html

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Guide Questions:
4. How is the structure of Muslim society shown in the story?
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
5. Do you think Dayang-Dayang has affection towards Jafaar? Why or why
not? Support your answers by citing lines from the story.
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
6. What do you think this line suggests? “not even the fingers of Allah
perhaps could weave us, even now, into equality”
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
7. What Philippine issue can be discerned in this story? Expound concisely.
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________

Meet the Writer

Ibrahim A. Jubaira is perhaps the best known of the older generation of English
language-educated Muslim Filipino writers and one of the most prolific, with three
volumes of short stories published and two more collections of unpublished material.
Born in 1920, Jubaira began writing in high school. He was editor of the Cresent
Review Magazine and the Zamboanga Collegian, as well as a columnist for the
Zamboanga City Inquirer and Muslim Times. His own education and social standing
—he came from a family of minor royalty—put him on a path familiar in colonial
history. Coming of age under the colonial American government, his English-
language education led him to government service: first as a teacher in Zamboanga
and later with the Department of Foreign Affairs, which took him to Sri Lanka (1969-
78) and Pakistan (1982-85). A number of his later stories were set

19
outside the Philippines. In 1970, Jubaira received the Presidential Medal of Merit in
Literature from Ferdinand Marcos.
As a young man, he published frequently in The Free Press, a magazine which was
established in 1907 and published until it was shut down by the Marcos government
in the 1970s. Throughout the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, The Free Press was—to paraphrase
literary historian Resil Mojares—a middle-class bible, carrying articles on culture and
current affairs, as well as a steady supply of English-language short-stories. The Free
Press actively sought contributions from unknown or lesser-known writers in the
provinces outside Manila, and it came to serve as a venue for such young writers. To
publish in The Free Press was to be given a national, English-language audience for
subject matter about which the readership may not have been knowledgeable.
“Blue Blood of the Big Astana” was published in 1941, on the eve of World War II.
Philippine independence was not formalized until 1946, and the great migration of
Christian Filipinos to Mindanao did not get underway until the 1950s. But like many
intellectuals and political leaders of his generation, Jubaira advocated an integrationist
approach in the southern Philippines, believing that only a measure of accommodation
with the “Christian state” could protect Muslims from unscrupulous newcomers. For a
time in the 1950s he served on the ill-fated Commission on National Integration.
Both as a writer and as a high-status Muslim with the benefit of a colonial education,
his voice assumes a distance from the world he describes in “Blue Blood.” Jubaira’s
curious use of the Anglo-English term “Mohammedan,” for example, is an important
marker of his complicated “debt” to American schooling and sets him apart as one
empowered and knowledgeable enough to convey the world of datus, astanas
(palaces), and “Mohammedans” to others.
Ibrahim Jubaira died in 2003.
Source: https://kyotoreview.org/issue-5/blue-blood-of-the-big-astana-ibrahim-a-jubaira/

Now, let’s discuss the Muslim Culture.

Sociopolitical Life

The introduction of Islam gave way to a social and political order not
completely different from the existing structure known to the early settlers of southern
Philippines. It produced an “Islamic variant” of the barangay where the pre-Islamic
timuways evolved into datus of Muslim Filipinos. On the other hand, datus of large
barangays became sultans.

Under Islam, the datu was ordained as God’s vice-regent or deputy whose
power was sacred. He was assisted by the pandita (one learned in religious matters),
and he administered justice according to the law of Islam and adat.

Foreign Muslim missionaries like Sharif Abu Bakr in Sulu and Sharif
Kabungsuwan in Mindanao became leaders of communities they Islamized. They
eventually married local women and adapted to the exisiting social order. With more
coordination and skill than the native datus, they increased their power, which
enabled their descendants to control a large following in an extensive territory, thus,
the emergence of the early Muslim Filipino sultanates.

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 In the present-day Moro society, sultans still have considerable influence and
social prestige.

Child Rearing

A ceremonial preparation of the child for adulthood called pag-islam

(meaning, what Islam has required) or circumcision follows Islamic rites. It may be a
simple or elaborate ceremony done by an imam or another religious personality who
performs prayers and chants.

Today’s modern medical facilities, however, make it easier for families to

have their son’s circumcision done by a doctor at a hospital. Prayers are done at home
and the boy is taught his responsibilities as a member of the family and the Islamic
community. Islam regards an uncircumcised male adult as infidel.

Another ceremony marking a boy’s intellectual initiation is called pag-tammat

(referring to “ending” study of the Qur’an). This is an occasion which is disappearing
because most parents send their children to madaris (religious schools).

Courtship and Marriage

Muslim Filipinos observe traditional courtship and marriage practices just like
other Filipino groups. Because marriage is considered an alliance of families, relatives
on both sides have a say on the union. Major Moro groups expect the man to court and
marry a woman who comes from the same status of his family. Arranged marriage is
mainly due to prestige and the parents’ wish to enable their children to enjoy a better
social and economic life.

A bride-gift is an essential part of any proposed union. It is meant to

compensate the bride’s family for the loss of a woman-member and to reimburse the
cost of her upbringing.
Source: http://www.muslimmindanao.ph/muslim_arts.html

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Courtship and dating are challenging, right? Now, to check your comprehension about
the short story and the discussion that followed, answer the following questions:

1. Make a list of three positive and three negative traits that the character (Jafaar)
displayed in the story. What character trait describes him the most?

2. Based on the character traits you’ve listed, explain why the character acted the
way he did in the story.

3. Would the story have been better if the character had displayed a different
character trait? Why or why not?

4. Is the story realistic or true to life? Explain your answers by giving examples.

5. If given a chance to rewrite the story, how would you like it to end? Make
your own version of the ending of the story.

-CONGRATULATIONS!-
You have finished all the lessons in this module.

How about some movie break?

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Module No. and Title Module 8: Literature of Emerging Consciousness

Lesson No. and Title Lesson 1: Contemporary Mindanao Writers

At the end of the lesson, the students are expected to:

 identify the values acquired from the readings through

Learning Outcomes
getting its moral; and
 convey ideas through a presentation showcasing the
authors and their literary pieces discussed; and
 create clear application of the values learned in the
course.

Time Frame 2 weeks

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the first lesson of Module 8, entitled “Contemporary Mindanao

Writers”. In this lesson, you will be able identify the different contemporary writers,
their background, works and achievement through different activities prepared for
you.

ACTIVITY
Answer the following questions:
1. Think of five words (it may be thing or adjectives) that come in to your mind
when you hear/think of the word “DECEMBER”.
2. Do you celebrate “Christmas” with your family? If so, share a personal
experience of your unforgettable “Christmas”. If not, what do you usually do
during the Christmas season/holidays?

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 ANALYSIS
Read the story below, For Death is Dead in December by Leoncio P. Deriada.
Afterwards, answer the questions that follow.
For Death is Dead in December
by Leoncio P. Deriada
1958.
It was December and the wind
was cold over the pines in the park.
It was December and Dario said,
I want to die.
But his friend Leo said, dream
Dario dream. For death is dead in
December.
Dead in December.
Leo wrote poetry. Dario wrote
love letters and later he wanted to die.
It was not because of a poetic impulse
but because he felt so alone – so alone
in spite of Leo and Rolly and Henry
and Miss Cobangbang who taught him
T.S. Eliot and Shakespeare and
Descartes and Thomas Aquinas. It was
not once he had wished to die – to
dissolve with the wind and wail over
the pines in the park. The wind was
always a sadness and Dario fancied
that to be one with the wind was to be
away from the sadness that it was.
For Dario was 17 and did not
know what it was to be young.
Philosophy could not make much of
youth. Literature only deepened
melancholia and made intense the
desire to die, to cease within the
midnight with no pain, to say, oh death
where is thy sting!
For Dario was 17 and Nena said
she didn’t love him.
For Dario was 17 and his father
was dead. Long ago.
And December was the month of
winds. There was a two-week vacation
though – away from Miss Cobangbang
and the thick books and the
blackboards that were not black but
green and forever powdered with
chalk. Miss Cobangbang did not write
much on the board and Henry and
Rolly always made use of the space by
sketching legs and priests during the
class breaks while Leo bent out of the
window and reached for the acacia
blossoms.
Leo, Rolly and Henry wee the
best friends in the world. And he went
with them, laughed at them.
Ha ha ha!
Cut classes with them. But he
would die alone.
It was December 24 and Dario
was in the park. He sat on a bench
under a pine tree. Above, the wind
strummed the pine needles into a
peculiar thin sound that was neither
noise nor music but a sadness. He saw
people, probably trying to be lost like
him. But they talked, they laughed.
They sat on benches and ate ice
cream and peanuts. Children ran
around with balloons pregnant with
helium, on which Santa Claus said in
colored greetings: Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year. Tomorrow is
Christmas Day, Dario thought. But
there was no excitement in it; the
celebration had been there since
December 1 and the anticipation made
the Day cheap, ordinary, uninteresting
like Christmas trees thick with tinsel
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leaves and bulbs that winked
mischievously, even maliciously.
Christmas was nothing but bargain
sales and populated parks and winds,
sad winds.
I’m dreaming of a white
Christmas. The song was cold like the
wind.
Sad.
The world was people, places,
things. It was the wooden white
building in Jacinto Street with acacia
trees and benches of wood. It was pens
and compositions and debates and
exams. It was the beach at Kabacan
and Talomo and Dumoy – white, free,
forever related to sunburn. It was Nena
– beautiful, proud, tall and slim like the
silhouette of a palm. The simile was
Leo’s. One day in the beach:
That old pagatpat is Fr.
Malasmas, said Rolly.
That rugged rock is Miss
Cobangbang, said Henry.
That palm is Nena. Tall, proud,
slim, beautiful, said Leo.
Let’s swim, said Dario.
Yes, the world was quite
enjoyable, what with these crazy
friends and Miss Cobangbang and her
popped eyes and her awful name and
epistemology and romantic poetry.
Apparently, Dario remembered nothing
but Byron’s defective foot and Keat’s
nightingale. Henry called him Ram.
Rolly called him Dar. The arid
instructors (except Miss Cobangbang –
she wasn’t dry in spite of her pistol of
a name) called him Mr. Ramos. People
were funny. Nobody called him by his
pet name. At home his mother called
him Boy. At home, Mr. Santos, his
mother’s husband, called him Boy. The
neighbors referred to him as Boy
Santos or Santos Boy. Imagine to be
called Boy when you were 17 and a
campus sensation. Only Leo called him
Dario. There was a certain beauty in
his name when said by someone, not
necessarily Nena. It sounded strange
the way Leo said it. It sounded strange,
unfamiliar, but real – with a
farawayness and a sadness like the
wind over the pines. Dario Dario
Dario.
Dario!
All of a sudden, the noise of the
park was there. Dario looked up. Leo
was in front of him – smiling, tall, in a
blue shirt with ink stains on the left
pocket.
Hi, he said and moved to the
right. Leo sat beside him.
What would they talk about?
Nothing. They had had a good share of
ideas and always ended up with Leo’s
sham scolding: You cynic!
Once on the campus, after Nena.
Dream Dario, dream. For death
is dead.
What shall I dream about? He
snapped. He was angry, miserable.
Many things.
I’m not a poet. He stressed poet
with obvious malice.
You are a man.
I want to die!
Nonsense! Everybody is a poet.
You are a poet. Poets don’t die. They
just pretend to die for dramatic effect.
Man is empty. He needs something to
fill him up. Gloom empties the heart.
And dreams heal the inner scars. You
are sick, Dario, with a sickness of your
own making. Cure yourself, Dario
baby. Think of love, not Nena. Love is
deep, deeper than the ocean floors,
depper than any woman’s face.
You talk too much, he told Leo.
We are good friends, Leo told
Dario.
Stop playing big brother! He
shouted inside him but he could not
say it. for the truth was he had been
wishing he had a brother.
We are good friends, Leo said.
So Rolly, Henry and I will get you
tonight for the midnight Mass. Okay?
They hastily left the park and
headed towards the city’s mini-zoo.
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They passed the cage of monkeys that
amused people (or was it the monkeys
that were amused?), passed the shop
with windows with their gaudy
displays, passed some beggars, and
finally over crackers and Coke:
You are not happy, Dario.
I remember my father.
Your father?
My father.
They listened to the soft drink
running hoarsely through the straw.
You are tired, Dario. Go home
and sleep.
I will, Dario said.
They went home.
During supper, Dario surprised
Mrs. Felisa Santos.
Mama, tell me about my father.
At the head of the table Mr.
Santos looked up but Dario did not
wait for his mother to answer. He
drank two glasses of water and hurried
to his room unaware of the new magic
of the Christmas tree in the sala.
Boy!
Mama.
He didn’t open his door.
Dario stood in front of the
mirror. He smiled at the man there and
his eyes laughed. Crew cut, proud
nose, a pimple on the forehead. The
small mouth opened slightly,
rehearsing kisses for all flowers – the
rose, the acacia, the gumamela, the
azucena, the cogon, the mimosa –
everyone, even the lotus… he had been
shaving long before ROTC and now a
blue shadow rainbowed faintly above
his lips – beautiful, asserting manhood
that would love all but die alone.
The night before Dario dreamed
that he had died.
But he woke up.
I’m dreaming of a white
Christmas. The neighborhood children
were singing carols.
Dream Dario dream – for death
is dead in December…
Damn Leo and his ideas!
He switched off the light, opened
the window wide and sat in the
window beside flower pots the
Christmas moon was still on the other
side of the roof.
Dario Ramos Sr. was a lawyer.
He died when Dario Jr. was in the
nursery. In the sala was a set of law
books and a collegiate dictionary
which Dario searched page by page
looking for weird words and invisible
marks that were his father’s.
Mr. Santos, his step-father, was
two hundred pounds, the manager of a
bottling company, and a Knight of
Columbus.
In college, Dario was president
of this and vice president of that:
Debating club, Sodality, Credit Union,
Club Cervantino, et cetera. He did not
make the Art Club, for his grasp of art
was as bad as his handwriting which
looked like a doctor’s that baffled even
the most sophisticated pharmacist. In
fact Dario started as a pre-med student
but changed to a pre-law after one of
his instructors, a balding scholar who
never learned the art of public
speaking in his Augustinian alma
mater, flunked him in organic
chemistry.
Above all, Dario was a
Consonant – a member of a four-man
club named Consonants for reasons
even Athene would not think of. Leo
wanted to be president. Rolly wanted
to be president. Henry wanted to be
president. So Dario wanted to be
president. They made 36 Valentine
cards last February. Miss Cobangbang
said thank you very much L.D.R.H.
Those were their initials. Dinky gave
Henry a shy grin. Nilo, the school’s
best actor, tore the card they gave to
Inez. Bobby and Letty quarreled: the
student pilot thought Rolly still wrote
love letters to her. Samira, who
received the one with the gold thumb
tack, gave Leo a Lebanese grin that
reminded him of cedars and Fr.
Wieman’s nose. Nena made a book
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marker out of the red heart and a
doodle sheet out of the envelope.
Tonight the Consonants would
go to midnight Mass.
I will sleep, Dario said to his
pajamas. And so he slept.
Dario dreamed.
He was sitting on the cement
base of the stairs, biting his nails. In
the house Perry Como was loud with
the smell of cooking pans in the
kitchen.
Boy.
Mr. Santos was at the top of the
stairs. Dario did not look up.
Papa.
You are sad. Don’t you like the
things I bought you for Christmas? The
scooter, the shotgun, the pingpong set,
the-
Will you stop spoiling me! He
shouted, surprised at the rise of his
voice. You are not my father. Why
don’t you beat me up? You are so good
good good. You make me forget my
own father.
Boy!
Don’t call me Boy! I’m Dario
Ramos Jr. Dario Ramos Jr.!
Soon his mother was there –
flushed by the tonic of the kitchen,
worried, still young, beautiful.
I’ll go away, he said.
For at the gate somebody was
waiting for him. He was tall, with the
crew cut, with the proud nose, with the
laughing eyes. A thin, blue shadow
rainbowed above his lips which were
half-parted as if poising kisses to all
flowers, even the lotus…
Papa Papa Papa!
And his arms were around his
father. He kissed his forehead, his
cheeks, his chin, and then his forehead
again and his cheeks again and his chin
again with a passion that was more
intense than the thirst of deserts and a
thousand fatherless sons.
But the eternity in his embrace
ended just there, the cloud of sleep
melted and presently disclosed an
obese face – prosaic and benign, the
face he had been afraid of because it
was always kind and good. Under the
light, Mr. Santos glistened like a
Buddha and Dario, in his trance, saw
an oasis.
And again it just ended there. He
was now in his senses and the
discovery of his arms around this
commonplace man was an
embarrassment. He pulled his arms
away instinctively. Behind he saw his
mother and he had a momentary
feeling of guilt.
Dario!
Papa.
Dario was hoarse and hearing his
own voice with relief.
Boy?
Mama.
Are you sick, Dario?
No, Papa.
He must have talked in his sleep
and he felt something odd, something
undefinable that was almost a sense of
guilt for something that could not be
named. His step-father called him
Dario and, in an instant, he felt so
ashamed of his inadequacy in all these
years of morbid introspection and
silent rebellion.
I’m going to midnight Mass, he
said.
The moon was now on the west
side of the roof. The Consonants
would be knocking at the door any
minute, singing their greetings and
their joy. He wondered how they
would look tonight. It seemed that they
suddenly became remote, as remote as
his fear and love for the dark
somewhere far away, farther than the
silhouette of palms, farther than the
source of the wind in the park…
Henry and Rolly would be
loquacious forever, but tonight, it
would be different. He would not hear
them. For Leo would speak to him like
a nemesis or a reminder or a
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conscience or a ghost that haunted him
forever. Dario. Dario. Dario.
Tonight God is born. Death is
dead. Dream Dario –
Leo would not be different. For
he had always been different. He had
always seen through people and,
worse, he would tell what he had seen
there.
Did Leo lose his father? He
didn’t ask. Did Leo lose Teresita? He
didn’t ask. A tall palm was in Dario’s
mind in a moment. He never lost Nena.
She had never really belonged to him.
Yet something was lost. It was
not his father. He had never belonged
to him.
A noisy knock startled Dario. His
friends were there and here he still was
in his pajamas. Mrs. Santos hurried
out of the room to answer the call. Her
husband stayed.
Dario jumped from his bed to
dress up. Outside, the world was bright
and noisy with carolers. It was
Christmas. The moon was bright; it
was obese, benign, like the face he had
been afraid of not long ago…
And Mr. Santos smiled.

Source:
http://leonciopderiada.blogspot.com/2012/
10/for-death-is-dead-in-december_4.html

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Answer the questions:
1. What was the atmosphere of the story?
____________________________________________________________
2. What major emotion is being displayed by the main character of the
story? What caused this emotion to the character?
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
3. What is/are the event/s mentioned in the story to which you can relate?
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________

ABSTRACTION
Let’s get to know more the author of the story you just have read!

Leoncio P. Deriada is a Filipino writer. He was

born in Iloilo but spent most of his life in Davao. He
went to school at the Davao City High School and
graduated in 1955. He earned his BA English degree at
the Ateneo de Davao University where he graduated cum
laude in 1959. He later received his MA in English from
Xavier University in 1970 and went on to receive his
PhD in English and Literature with a specialization in
creative writing from Silliman University in 1981 where
he later on served as professor and chairperson of the
English Department.

He is a multi-lingual writer having produced works in English, Filipino,

Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a and Cebuano. His thirteen Palanca awards include works in
English, Filipino and Hiligaynon. Of these thirteen, five are first-prize winners, and
these include "The Day of the Locusts" (Short Story, 1975), "Mutya ng Saging"
(Dulaang May Isang Yugto, 1987), "The Man Who Hated Birds" (Short Story for
Children, 1993), "Medea of Siquijor" (One-Act Play, 1999), and "Maragtas: How
Kapinangan Tricked Sumakwel Twice" (Full-Length Play, 2001). He became a
Palanca Hall of Famer on September 1, 2001. Aside from his Palanca awards, he has
garnered other prestigious awards such as the Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni
Balagtas, Asiaweek, Gawad CCP, Graphic, Focus, Yuhum (Iloilo), and Blue Knight
Award from Ateneo de Davao for Outstanding Achievement in Literature. In 2002, he
was one of Metrobank's Outstanding Teachers.

Source: https://alchetron.com/Leoncio-P-Deriada

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9
Aside from Leoncio P. Deriada, below are some of the well-known Contemporary
Writers of Mindanao. Let’s get to know more about them!
Ricardo De Ungria graduated with a BA
Literature, cum laude, degree from the De La Salle
University and an MFA in Creative Writing from
Washington University in St. Louis, United States in
1990 when he was awarded a Fulbright grant. He
received writing residency fellowships at the
Hawthornden Castle International Retreat for Writers in
1991 and the Bellagio Study of Conference Center in
1993.
In 1999, he moved to Davao City in Mindanao to
become the first dean of the College of Humanities and
Social Sciences of the newly established UP Mindanao
campus. In the same year, he founded the Davao Writers
Guild that eventually published the works of its members and held poetry readings in
the different universities in the city; published DAGMAY, which was the first literary
page in a local newspaper SunStar Davao in the island (it is now available online);
and initiated the Davao Writing Workshops in 2005 that became an annual first-level
training ground for young and beginning writers in the region and in the island.
He is a founding member of Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC), and a
member of the Unyon ng mga Manunulat ng Pilipinas (UMPIL), and Davao
Writers Guild. For his achievements in literature and writing, he was awarded the
Gawad Balagtas by the UMPIL in 1999 and the Patnubay ng Sining at Kalinangan
(Literature) by the City of Manila in 2007. He was also UP Artist 1 from 2009–11
and 2012 to the present time and the recipient of seven National Book
Awards.
Works:
 R+A+D+I+O (1986)
 Decimal Places (1991)
 Voideville: Selected Poems, 1974–79 (1991)
 Nudes: Poems (1994)
 Body English (1996)
 Waking Ice: Poems (2000)
 Pidgin Levitations (2004)
 m’mry wire (2014)
Source: https://patrickkoksen.wordpress.com/2016/11/10/carolyn-o-
arguillas/

Jaime An Lim was born in Cagayan de Oro City in

January 7, 1946. He received his Bachelor of Arts in
English degree cum laude from Mindanao State University
in 1968.
His literary works, which comprise mostly of
poems, novels, essays, and short fiction, are commonly
known to narrate and represent Filipino life and culture in

3
0
the midst of globalization and the effects of foreign cultures which are slowly
creeping in the Philippine society.
His renowned masterpiece and most famous work, the "Axiolotl Colony", was
also awarded a first place award for short story in the Palanca awards of 1993. Jaime
An Lim has won awards for his poetry from the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
Awards for Literature, Panorama, Philippines Free Press, Home Life and The
Academy of American Poets. In 1996, he was the national fellow for poetry of
Likhaan, the University of the Philippines Creative Writing Center. He has published
two collections of his poetry, Trios (University of the Philippines Press, 1998) and
Auguries (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2017), from which 'Auguries
on a Monday Morning' was taken.
Before this most recent recognition, Lim also garnered prizes from the Carlos
Palanca Memorial Awards through the years. Some of his awards are his short story
"The Liberation of Mrs. Fidele Magsilang" for fiction in English in 1973, his essay
collection "The Changing of the Guard" in 1989, and his poem "Yasmin" in 1990.
Aside from these he was also given awards in international literary workshops and
contests.
For his outstanding achievement in fiction and poetry, he was awarded the
2000 Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas by the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa
Pilipinas.
At 70, Lim recently retired as a professor of English from the Mindanao State
University-Iligan Institute of Technology (MSU-IIT) where he organized the
Mindanao Creative Writers Group, Inc., and founded the Iligan National Writers
Workshop.
Source: https://www.sunstar.com.ph/article/96932/Local-News/Jaime-An-Lim-earns-
yet-another-small-bright-thing-

Christine Godinez-Ortega is a poet, author, educator,

journalist. She is a full professor of English, Department of
English, College of Arts & Social Sciences, Mindanao State
University-Iligan Institute of Technology (MSU-IIT), IIigan
City. She is a full professor of English, Department of English,
College of Arts & Social Sciences, Mindanao State
University-Iligan Institute of Technology (MSU-IIT), IIigan
City. She is Director of Publication and Information of the
MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology. She teaches creative
writing and literature and is a founding member, resident
panellist and Director of the Iligan National Writers Workshop. She is the Literary
Arts Coordinator of Central and Northern Mindanao and Vice Head of the National
Literary Arts Committee of the National Commission for Culture and Arts (NCCA).

Source:https://www.apwriters.org/author/chrgod/#:~:text=She%20is%20a%20full
%20professo r,%2DIIT)%2C%20IIigan%20City.&text=She%20teaches%20creative
%20writing%20and,th e%20Iligan%20National%20Writers%20Workshop.

3
1
 Calbi Asain is an English teacher whose stories and essays have won awards
from the Ateneo de Zamboanga. He writes in Tausug as well as English and Filipino.

Asain was summa cum laude when he graduated from the Notre Dame of Jolo.
He has graduate degrees in English and Philippine Studies from the UP.

He has attended the UP National Writers Workshop and the Silliman Writers
Workshop. His works have appeared in Midweek, Ani and Graphic. His
bookPanunggud and Other Stories was published by the DLSU Press in 2001. In
2003, he won the Rajah Baginda Award for Outstanding Tausug in Literature.

Source: https://panitikan.ph/2013/05/09/calbi-
asain/

Si Almayrah Abbas Tiburon ay ipinanganak sa

Marawi City, bunso sa limang magkakapatid. Noong nasa
kolehiyo siya ay naging aktibo sa mga paligsahan sa
literature, music, at sports. Nakapagturo siya nang
dalawang taon sa Marawi Capitol College Foundation at
tatlong taon sa Philippine Integrated School-Main Campus.
Ngayon ay kasalukuyang siyang nagtuturo sa Mindanao
State University – Main Campus.
Hilig niyang magsulat mula pa noong nasa
elementarya siya at ngayo’y itinuring na nga niyang
libangan ang paglikha ng tula, maikling kuwento at
sanaysay. Nakikita niya ang sarili na masaya sa pagsusulat dahil kahit nasa daan
siya’y ibig na niyang lumipad at makarating sa bahay upang maisulat ang ideyang
biglang pumasok sa isip.

Sa unang libro niya, ang Terminal (na may printed copy at ebook version),
matatagpuan ang mga kuwentong tumatalakay sa maselang mundo ng kanyang tribo.
Dulot ito ng totoong mga pangyayari sa lipunan. At hindi lamang ito tungkol sa
tribong Meranaw kundi maging sa iba’t ibang tribo sa Pilipinas. Ang aklat ay may
himig na nakakatakot upang magbigay-sigla sa mga mambabasa.

Ang ibig ni Bb. Tiburon ay makilala ang Meranaw sa Lanao bilang isang tribo
sa Pilipinas, ang tribong may sariling sining, tradisyon, at paniniwala na may
kakayahang makipagsabayan sa ibang kultura. Makasaysayan ang tribong ito, at
habang naglalakad ang panahon ay yumayaman ito nang yumayaman dulot ng
impluwensiya ng kultura ng iba’t ibang indibidwal na napapadpad sa Lanao.

Si Bb. Tiburon ay puno ng pangarap at kahit gustuhin man niyang itulog ang
pangarap na ito, para siyang binubusinahan na gaya ng pagbusina ng mga sasakyan sa
terminal. Kailangan niyang gumising at maglakbay sa isang tiyak na destinasyon.
Gaya ng mga tao at sasakyan sa terminal, may tiyak na patutunguhan ang kanyang
mga kuwento.

Source: https://panitikan.ph/2014/06/12/almayrah-abbas-
tiburon/
3
2
 All writers have stories to tell. They tell stories that mimic life, often in all its
fullness, because life itself is a story. There is no life that is not a story, and it is not a
story if it has no life.
The stories in Songs Sprung from Native Soils: More Conversations with Eight
Mindanao Writers (Xavier University Press, 394 pages, 2019), edited by prize-winning
poet Ricardo M. de Ungria, are no different — except that these are not fictional. These
are nonfiction stories narrated in interviews with eight acclaimed writers who either hail
from or have spent years living in Mindanao.
The authors mentioned above may work or have worked in the academe, but this
is not what binds them. What does is their love for the written word. Reading their
interviews, it is safe to say that cultural diversity (or the lack of it) and marginalization
are among the most complex challenges facing Mindanao writers, then and now.
Through these interviews, the authors share colorful stories from certain periods in their
lives, particularly when they were starting out in their careers, as well as sad
experiences.
As a whole, Songs Sprung from Native Soils highlights a group of writers with
roots in Mindanao who reflect on their lives and the practice of their craft and
profession. It features courageously transparent stories that deal with the pain of
marginalization and represent a way forward in promoting Mindanao and its literature.
This book is an invaluable resource for literary researchers, cultural educators
and workers, as well as for those eager to celebrate and learn more about the writers
who are more passionate about Mindanao, its culture and traditions.

Source: https://www.manilatimes.net/2020/03/15/weekly/the-sunday-times/literary-life/songs-sprung-from-native-
soils-mindanao-storytellers-get-personal/703178/

APPLICATION
Choose a Mindanao Writer, among the authors discussed or other authors you
may look up in the internet, and then create a PowerPoint presentation to discuss the
following. The contents of each slide will be enumerated below. Your output will be
graded based on the scoring rubric given.
Content
 Title of the Presentation (Author
st
Chosen) 1 PPT Slide:  Name of Student
 Year, Course, Section
nd
2 PPT Slide:  Picture of the Author
 Basic Personal Details (if there is any available)
rd
3 PPT Slide:  Family Background of the Author
th
4 PPT Slide:  Educational Background of the Author
th
5 PPT Slide:  Written works or any other literary pieces (including the
year of publication)
th
6 PPT Slide:  Achievements or awards of the author (including the year
the award was received)
th th
7 to 8 PPT  A short analysis which discusses about the common

33
 Slide: themes of the literary pieces of the author to which you
could relate to your experiences as a person who lives in
Mindanao. You may also cite some scenarios which may
be similar to the ones portrayed in one of their literary
works.
Last PPT Slide:  Cite your references.

PowerPoint Slide Presentation Scoring Rubrics

Criteria Description Points
Content & Presentation covers topic completely and in-depth.
Organization Information is clear, appropriate, and accurate. The format 15
given was followed accordingly.
Analysis & Discussion Presented material is completely analyzed and evaluated,
providing support for main points with reasons, discussion 15
of alternatives, explanations, and examples as appropriate
Style & Format The PowerPoint slides are informative, well designed, easy
to read, and complement the speaker’s content. The number
10
of slides is consistent with the limit of the presentation
given.
Source/ References Includes citation of sources and references of the ideas used
10
in the presentation.
TOTAL: 50

-CONGRATULATIONS-
You have finished the lesson in this module!

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