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.