THE SILENCE OF THE KUKOK

 

 

October 4, 2003. That was the date we moved into the Nameless House by the Baeaeu-an.

The Church observes that day as the memorial of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals. The occasion was especially memorable to us, as stray cats, symphonies of maya capra, a snake, several geckos, a couple of bats, and a horde of black ants welcomed us into our new home.

Years later, the Nameless House became home not only to my growing family of five but also to a harem of rabbits, half a dozen pairs of lovebirds, a family of guinea pigs, assorted breeds of dogs, native chickens, turkeys, goats, and Kara—a mixed-breed carabao.

Stray and adopted animals were welcome, too. Even feral ones, like the marae—a small leopard cat—and the singgaeong—a civet cat—which often got run over by passing vehicles at night.

In the nameless creek, sili, freshwater eels, and wild ducks hunted for their favorite meals: crayfish, freshwater clams, and banag.

Uphill, we could always count on the presence of our neighbors, the households of Tay Berting and his son Totog. My wife's grandfather had placed them there as watchmen of the property he had inherited through his wife. They ran errands for us and helped with household chores whenever we needed them. They were the ayam—a Baleten-on label imposed upon the patriarch, Tay Berting. To us, they were our guard dogs.

Right after Yolanda, most of the tree canopies that had miraculously survived the onslaught of the super typhoon provided shelter to endemic birds seldom seen in this part of the country. I enjoyed watching punay—green pigeons and bleeding-heart doves—feasting on the fruits of bili, or marmelos.

Native to the place is the kukok—the Philippine coucal. Not a day passed without our hearing its haunting cry. Tueoy. That is how old people think of it. Some would even label it an aswang. Tueoy is the Inakeanon word for what English speakers might describe as wishing death upon someone or placing a hex on them.

But the kukok has been silent for most of 2026. I have not heard it cry out its haunting call. Not even when Av died on that memorable Sunday in October. It has been silent.

Did it know that Av would die that day? Was its silence a way of warning us that my daughter would no longer sing her songs? That she would no longer strum her guitar or dance her TikTok dances or paint sunsets on her canvas?

Much of the menagerie we once had is gone: the rabbits, lovebirds, guinea pigs, turkeys, goats, and Kara. So are the punay, the marae, the singgaeong, the symphonies of maya capra, and even the kukok. The nameless creek that cuts through our property is now without its sili and wild ducks.

Even the ayam uphill are gone—and the hill itself is no longer what it used to be. Tay Berting and Nay Yuning, his wife, have long been dead. Totog moved out to his wife's property in Lalab. Portions of the hills were leveled off by my wife's uncle. The secondary forest northwest of our place was destroyed in the name of development. It is no longer there.

They are all absent. Just like Av in our Nameless House.

 

FATHERS AND THEIR GRIEF

 

 

 

I sometimes wonder how parents survive the death of a child.

I remember John Q, the film where Denzel Washington takes an entire emergency room hostage in a desperate attempt to save his critically ill son. I think, too, of Eric Clapton, who famously channeled the tragic loss of his young son into "Tears in Heaven." Yet many others find no song to write, no stage upon which to perform their sorrow. Still, they endure.

I thought of this when Gary Granada arrived in Balete, shortly after the fortieth day of remembrance for his daughter, Kiel. He had come with Luke, his younger daughter, to continue work on a project we had begun more than a year earlier. Alongside Caitlin, Bryan, Mayann and our partners in the Local Government Unit, the Department of Education, and Societrix, he was helping develop contextualized learning materials for Citizenship Education.

What struck me was not simply that Gary came, but that he came while grieving.

During an earlier visit, Gary had quietly mentioned that Teacher Kiel had been instrumental in developing some of the very materials our educators in Balete were refining. To honor her contribution, we intend to publish these as learning handouts for Grade 10 students. In this way, her work will continue to speak to young minds long after her passing.

The months that followed brought a steady rhythm of plans, writeshops, meetings, and curriculum discussions. Schools across the district were introduced to the project. We spoke of books, policy, and ordinances. Life, as it always does, pressed forward.

Yet I refused to believe that Gary had somehow suspended his grief for the occasion.

He had publicly thanked those who offered prayers and condolences, apologizing for limiting his availability in the months ahead. But prior commitments, he maintained, would continue as scheduled. It was not a denial of loss; it was simply his way of carrying it.

Perhaps this is how some fathers grieve.

Their sorrow is not always visible. They do not always speak of it or display it for the world to see. They retreat backstage—sometimes slipping quietly into a dark comfort room—before stepping back out to face the work that awaits them. To a casual observer, they may appear composed, even untouched.

But grief has not left them.

It walks quietly beside them, accompanying them to appointments, conversations, and unfinished work. It waits in the silences between tasks and visits them when no one is watching.

Some fathers write songs. Others return to the work that still needs doing. Both are forms of remembrance. Both are acts of love.

And like the rest of us, they grieve.

 

 

October 31, 2026

The Nameless Home

 

I still have not found the appropriate word or phrase to describe my home at Manggaean. My family and I have lived here since October 2003. We were four when we moved in. In 2008, Aurea Vera was given to us as a gift from God, our golden truth. And yet, even when she was taken back last October 11, 2026, the place remained nameless.

Some strangers call ours the haunted house by the bend, as the thick canopy of trees enveloping it keeps the house hidden from passing motorists.  At night, however, passersby wonder at the light spilling through the trees, as though it were bursting out of nowhere. My wife, on the other hand, loved describing her sweet daughters as the Engkantada ni Al sa Likuan—the Fairies of Al by the Bend.

A name would be useful for practical reasons. It would help couriers deliver our parcels, the occasional postal worker finds our address (postage delivery having become something of a rara avis), and public transport operators identify the place. More than that, a name would give the house a distinct identity in the eyes of the public.

Our home stands alone at one of the many bends along Manggaean, now considered part of Sitio Campitan, Barangay Aranas, along the Aklan East Road. This particular bend, however, has acquired a reputation as one of the more menacing places in Balete. The old people called it Baeaeuan—a spooky place where elementals were said to dwell and play tricks on passing motorists.

To the secular mind, it is simply an accident-prone stretch of road. Many motorists have met accidents here, some of them fatal. Human error, intoxication, exhaustion, and sleepiness have all played their part. The road climbs at an incline of about fifteen to twenty degrees, bends one way, turns in the opposite direction, and then bends back again. Its successive curves can play tricks on the reflexes of even a weary driver. Just beside our house, the road crosses a nameless creek.

Our home has served on several occasions as a temporary infirmary for unsuspecting motorists who met misfortune along the way. The girls would readily help us attend to the injured and ease their pain. Our porch became a place of refuge for their battered bodies, offering them a brief respite until rescue arrived. The gated space in front of the house served as a temporary parking area for their damaged vehicles.

In the 1970s, the creek teemed with life. In the 1990s, its water was diverted into a small impounding reservoir to irrigate the vast ricelands of the Calizo family. The creek managed to survive, though it became something like a dagaas-linaw—a body of water that often dries up during long rainless months. A spring near our property continues to feed it, allowing the creek to flow, albeit with less life to sustain. I remember seeing freshwater eels in it on several occasions in the mid-2000s.

The nameless home has now been visited by death. With Aurea Vera's passing this year, it has become no stranger to the pangs and pain that death brings to those who remain. The house and the Baeaeuan seem to speak the same ancient lesson: life is fleeting as creek water in summer, yet abundant while it flows.

Thus, they remind us not only of our mortality but also of our duty to live.

 

THE STORIES OF THE RINGS

 

I simply want to preserve the humor that resides within the otherwise exacting relationship between the I and the Thou. That is why I am writing this piece on the Stories of the Rings.

Certain relationships are marked by rings and their curious evolution. Take, for instance, two people who agree to be friends and commemorate the occasion with a Friendship Ring. At a certain point, the ring evolves into an Engagement Ring. And from there, those reckless souls, perhaps armed with nothing more than optimism and a sense of humor, proceed to what they call a Wedding Ring.

But once the honeymoon is over and reality acquires its sharp teeth, the ring often becomes a Suffering. Through these transitions, some emerge stronger, and their rings may rightly be called Enduring. For the weak, however, the story takes a different turn. Their rings become Terering.

In Inakeanon, terering means losing one's sound mind, as though the bolts in one's head have come loose. It is perhaps the final transformation of the ring: from a symbol worn on the finger to a condition endured in the mind.

 

REMEMBER HER SMILE

 

My friends, my family—

As you know, my youngest daughter, Aurea Vera, gave up her life at the twilight of October 11, 2026. She was eighteen.

She was born on May 13, 2008, at the Balete Birthing Clinic of the Pacita C. Cortes Health Center, once the Balete Puericulture Center. She was the last child my mother, a newly retired Supervising Midwife, helped bring into the world. The nation was then embroiled in the NBN-ZTE scandal, with truth rallies taking to the streets. Amid that clamor for transparency, our family found its own golden truth. We called her Av.

She was our laughter and our tears, our innocence and our scars. She was woven into the fabric of our family, as we were into hers.

Scarred since childhood, she wrestled with her demons. Yet she was strong, as her mother was strong in her love and support. She was sweet, as her sisters showered her with affection. She was kind, and her friends were never far, ready to offer companionship, or the distance she sometimes needed.

She has gone ahead of us.

We will miss her.

It hurts beyond words to look upon her lifeless body. Yet perhaps more painful still is to feel her absence in the ordinary spaces of our lives. For a man who has pretended to be stoic, almost Promethean in his resolve, her death strips away every pretense. It lays bare the vulnerability of one who thought he had mastered composure.

She has gone ahead of us.

And the manner of her going leaves us with questions we may never answer. She took her own life. She left no note.

There was only that Sunday we had shared, an ordinary day now made extraordinary by memory. She massaged her father's aching back. She refilled the empty water jug. She laughed with her sisters, playfully scolding them and their mother for being too boisterous. She spent the afternoon with her boyfriend. Nothing in these recollections explains her going. They are simply the moments we shared, now immeasurably precious.

She has gone ahead of us.

Her absence feels absolute.

Yet I keep returning to that last smile, the sweet smile she gave us before going into her room.

I want to remember her smile.

Not because it explains her going. Not because it eases the pain. But because it was hers. Because she was here. Because, for all the pain she carried and all the questions she left unanswered, she was our Av.

And we loved her.

We thank our Christian community, our relatives, our friends, our fellow Baleten-ons, and all who have come to walk with us in this valley of sorrow. Your presence reminds us that grief need not be borne alone.

Above all, I thank God for lending Av to us for eighteen years. Eighteen years of laughter and tears, of struggles and triumphs, of wounds and healing, of memories that will forever remain part of who we are.

And I thank Av.

For even in her passing, she has awakened many of us to the things that truly matter. In our sorrow, we have been reminded to pray. We have been reminded to forgive. We have been reminded to love. We have been reminded that every moment shared with those entrusted to us is a gift and a grace.

Remember her smile.

Please remember her in your prayers.

May God, in His infinite mercy, grant her eternal rest, and may perpetual light shine upon her.

Amen.

 

(Updated on October 17, 2026)

 

  

Joecab

I saw Joyce from a distance yesterday afternoon. He was at the poultry supply, perhaps buying goods for his game fowls.

Joyce is a friend from my childhood in rural Balete. We grew up together, went to the same school, and were tutored by the same teachers from Grade 1 to 6 at Balete Elementary School. We were playmates, though not exactly the best of friends. We had our share of differences, and when diplomacy failed, we let our fists settle the matter.

 Old Baleten-ons called him Joecab—a monicker he earned for being the grandson of Old Lo Bador, the original “bagoe.” As you already know, Balete is notorious for giving a second baptism to its favored sons and daughters, christening them with monickers apt to capture certain characteristics in their persons. Thus, Joyce became Joecab, a combination of his first name and his grandfather’s “patented” nickname—not to mention that he was always sporting shaven head we used to enjoy rubbing with a chunk of goso.

 I was on my way home yesterday when I saw him standing before the poultry supply along T.F. Calizo Ave. He acknowledged my passing with a nod and a smile. Something in that smile somehow reminded me of a particular event in our lives—not when we were toddlers playing bricks and goso at the plaza, but when we were already grappling with the puzzle of puberty.

 You see, despite the feminine sound of his name, Joecab was a raging bull. He was already brimming with testosterone in his youth. On one occasion, he quipped, addressing the entire barkada:

 “Tao kon sin-o katon kara iya ro mauna makapangasawa?”

 But that’s not what I recalled yesterday upon seeing him. What I remembered was that particular instance in Mapait, one summer night…

 “This song,” Joecab proclaimed in his loud baritone voice, breaking the silence of the night, “is lovingly and heartily dedicated to Miss—Sin-o ngani to, pre?”

Thus began our harana, or serenade, to a young and beauteous vacasionista.

 As you also know, Joecab had a good singing voice and was a self-taught acoustic player. He was one of those few animators in our group of friends who could turn a simple gathering into festive carousing. Just let him strum his guitar to the tune of Tantaloyloyloy.

 Those were the days!

That’s Joecab.

And he was the first among us to get hooked.

Owning the Church of the Poor

Msgr. Adolfo Depra used to speak of the Church of Balete as truly the Church of the Poor. He made that remark sometime in the 1990s, after celebrating the High Mass during the Feast of St. Rafael the Archangel, which had been rescheduled to October 23 instead of the traditional October 24.

In those days, the roles of the local Church and the civil government in the fiesta were clearly defined. The Church was not trying to take over what did not belong to her. She was simply claiming what was rightly hers.

The fiesta was a religious event. As such, the Church strove to manifest the truth of Christian life in every facet of its celebration: in the preparation, in the celebration itself—from Day 1 of the novena to its culmination—and even in the evaluation afterward. The fiesta was meant to be a witnessing to the ideals of our brotherhood in Christ Jesus; never merely a festal gathering of frenzy and wild abandon.

Perhaps this was what it meant to be a Church of the Poor: not simply to stand with the poor, but to protect what was sacred to them, even when doing so meant confronting the habits and interests that had gradually taken possession of the fiesta.

To claim the fiesta was therefore not to claim power over the people. It was to reclaim a meaning that belonged to the people in the first place.

And perhaps this is where the Church had to be both pastoral and prophetic. Pastoral, because it knew the people and their lived realities; prophetic, because it could not simply bless whatever had become customary. It had to ask whether our customs still bore witness to what we professed to believe.

The question was never: Who owns the fiesta?

The deeper question was: What has the fiesta become—and what does it say about us?

For a Church of the Poor, that question could not be avoided.