Some time ago, I received a letter from one Marlowe Fabunan, a young man from Sibale who was appalled by the destruction of the marine environment in Sitio Masadya or Maisoting Baybay (which are interchangeable place names) brought about by the salvaging of the sunken vessel M/V Mactan. I kept his letter on file, hoping to write about it later, when an opportunity arises. That opportunity is now.
“Uncle Nicon,” wrote Marlowe, “Maadong bati sa imo ag sa imo pamilya! Si Lowe Fabunan kali, apo ako ni late Noring Fabunan. Inggwa ako it maisuting inghuman nak tula tungkol sa Mactan. Buligi ako nak ma-translate sa English, kasi Bisaya kali. Maramong salamat. Imaw kali kag ako tula.”
I am not used to Sibalenhons writing me. As a writer, I deal in a lonely craft—of setting images and ideas into paper, of fashioning words into some workable, coherent thoughts that would convey whatever it is I want to convey to readers, and I don’t expect others to join me in my solitude in the world of the written word.
So, the letter was a surprise as it was poignant. It was also—I will say it now—symptomatic of the condition in which many Sibalenhons find themselves—ourselves—in, and that is the confusion as to what language they should communicate with the world.
Many Sibalenhons, particularly those who have left Sibale for places near and far, as exemplified by Lowe, are unsure—in doubt—whether to write or speak in Asi, English, or Tagalog. The cause of the confusion is the human environment, the technology they grew up with, and the influence of culture that besieges them in places where they live and work.
Why do I write about the Sibalenhon’s confusion in language? Am I not—a Sibalenhon writing in English—also confused myself?
I write about it because there is a real danger that Asi, our native language, may soon disappear from our tongues—and from our memory. And when such thing happens, ours would be a devastating loss. We only have ourselves to blame. The loss of our language would mean the loss of our soul from which there is no possible recovery. Lose our language and we become strangers to each other, in our own island.
I notice that many Sibalenhons rarely speak in complete, articulate Asi once they leave Sibale. Instead of using it frequently, we delight in diluting our language with borrowed words and phrases from the culture that happens to dominate us, a minority, at the time.
This is understandable. Over time, living outside Sibale exposes the Sibalenhon to a foreign language. He or she begins to acculturate himself or herself to that language, say Tagalog or Bicol, and he or she begins to forget Asi because there are only a few Sibalenhon, or there is no one at all, to whom he or she can communicate in our precious tongue. Marlowe’s terse letter is reflective of this condition. He wrote in morsels of Asi, English and Tagalog, thereby showing his difficulty in composing his message in straight Sibalenhon.
This is remediable. He should set his mind writing in Asi for his audience is Asi. Asi is a lively, lovely language, the most colorful medium that is our tribal music, the cultural sinew that binds our souls and the badge of our identity. It is the language of our ancestors and as such captures their longings and dreams which has rightfully become ours, here, now, in our time. Think about Asi, then, as our bridge to the past. You stop speaking Asi, you fumble and lose your way to your roots.
Critics may point out that no language is by itself complete, including Asi; that a language ought to borrow—as languages do borrow and become dynamic and fluid—over time, to live and become alive; and that a language is enriched through adaptation and borrowing of the idioms and phrases of other languages.
I agree. There is no pure English or French or Czech or Arabic, as there is no pure Tagalog or Cebuano. Each of these languages borrows freely—absorbs like a sponge—from one another and from all over everyday, over time. Asi, it is a fact, has borrowed copiously from Tagalog, Bicol, Hiligaynon, Karay-a. Yet, the evolution of a language is infinitely slow and as it occurs, it behooves the speaker of the language to endeavor, to exert, utmost effort to do with and live by its limitations and shortcomings—warts and all. There lies another way by which a language can be enriched: usage.
A language dies because of non-usage. Asi, even if it borrows and incorporates half of Webster’s dictionary, will still die if Sibalenhons cease to use it, either in writing or speaking. There is no excuse at all for a Sibalenhon not to learn and use Asi, and I have only a very low regard for Sibalenhons who, when they meet fellow Sibalenhons on the street and in informal occasions, greet each other purely in a foreign language. Such Sibalenhons are the murderers of Asi and I try to avoid them as much as possible.
This is not to say that we should not learn and use other languages. In fact, we should and must, considering how the world has shrunk because of advances in technology and the onslaught of liberalization. We Sibalenhons have become as global as any other citizens. But we must learn how to speak and write in our own language first before we venture into a borrowed tongue.
I write in Asi, Tagalog and English, in that order. I knew a few Japanese as well as Arabic phrases, and I endeavor to speak Bicol when I am talking to a Bicolano. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. But whenever I chance upon a Sibalenhon, I quickly revert to Asi and try to sustain a conversation in our own language. At home, my two daughters, Lara and Lilac, alternately converse in English and Batangan, but they sing Sibalenhon songs and we try, as much as possible, to speak to each other in Asi. Sometimes, the shift in language is taxing, but we get by.
Non-usage is the culprit in the retreat, decay and demise of a language. It is a cause of our confusion as islanders and as a tribal family. It is, I am afraid, one of the causes of our division.
This is one of the reasons why Marlowe wanted my help in translating into English his poem, selected stanzas of which are reproduced below, for he believed—I knew it—that he will only find a more discerning audience if his poem is written in English; that no one will read him if he writes
“Uncle Nicon,” wrote Marlowe, “Maadong bati sa imo ag sa imo pamilya! Si Lowe Fabunan kali, apo ako ni late Noring Fabunan. Inggwa ako it maisuting inghuman nak tula tungkol sa Mactan. Buligi ako nak ma-translate sa English, kasi Bisaya kali. Maramong salamat. Imaw kali kag ako tula.”
I am not used to Sibalenhons writing me. As a writer, I deal in a lonely craft—of setting images and ideas into paper, of fashioning words into some workable, coherent thoughts that would convey whatever it is I want to convey to readers, and I don’t expect others to join me in my solitude in the world of the written word.
So, the letter was a surprise as it was poignant. It was also—I will say it now—symptomatic of the condition in which many Sibalenhons find themselves—ourselves—in, and that is the confusion as to what language they should communicate with the world.
Many Sibalenhons, particularly those who have left Sibale for places near and far, as exemplified by Lowe, are unsure—in doubt—whether to write or speak in Asi, English, or Tagalog. The cause of the confusion is the human environment, the technology they grew up with, and the influence of culture that besieges them in places where they live and work.
Why do I write about the Sibalenhon’s confusion in language? Am I not—a Sibalenhon writing in English—also confused myself?
I write about it because there is a real danger that Asi, our native language, may soon disappear from our tongues—and from our memory. And when such thing happens, ours would be a devastating loss. We only have ourselves to blame. The loss of our language would mean the loss of our soul from which there is no possible recovery. Lose our language and we become strangers to each other, in our own island.
I notice that many Sibalenhons rarely speak in complete, articulate Asi once they leave Sibale. Instead of using it frequently, we delight in diluting our language with borrowed words and phrases from the culture that happens to dominate us, a minority, at the time.
This is understandable. Over time, living outside Sibale exposes the Sibalenhon to a foreign language. He or she begins to acculturate himself or herself to that language, say Tagalog or Bicol, and he or she begins to forget Asi because there are only a few Sibalenhon, or there is no one at all, to whom he or she can communicate in our precious tongue. Marlowe’s terse letter is reflective of this condition. He wrote in morsels of Asi, English and Tagalog, thereby showing his difficulty in composing his message in straight Sibalenhon.
This is remediable. He should set his mind writing in Asi for his audience is Asi. Asi is a lively, lovely language, the most colorful medium that is our tribal music, the cultural sinew that binds our souls and the badge of our identity. It is the language of our ancestors and as such captures their longings and dreams which has rightfully become ours, here, now, in our time. Think about Asi, then, as our bridge to the past. You stop speaking Asi, you fumble and lose your way to your roots.
Critics may point out that no language is by itself complete, including Asi; that a language ought to borrow—as languages do borrow and become dynamic and fluid—over time, to live and become alive; and that a language is enriched through adaptation and borrowing of the idioms and phrases of other languages.
I agree. There is no pure English or French or Czech or Arabic, as there is no pure Tagalog or Cebuano. Each of these languages borrows freely—absorbs like a sponge—from one another and from all over everyday, over time. Asi, it is a fact, has borrowed copiously from Tagalog, Bicol, Hiligaynon, Karay-a. Yet, the evolution of a language is infinitely slow and as it occurs, it behooves the speaker of the language to endeavor, to exert, utmost effort to do with and live by its limitations and shortcomings—warts and all. There lies another way by which a language can be enriched: usage.
A language dies because of non-usage. Asi, even if it borrows and incorporates half of Webster’s dictionary, will still die if Sibalenhons cease to use it, either in writing or speaking. There is no excuse at all for a Sibalenhon not to learn and use Asi, and I have only a very low regard for Sibalenhons who, when they meet fellow Sibalenhons on the street and in informal occasions, greet each other purely in a foreign language. Such Sibalenhons are the murderers of Asi and I try to avoid them as much as possible.
This is not to say that we should not learn and use other languages. In fact, we should and must, considering how the world has shrunk because of advances in technology and the onslaught of liberalization. We Sibalenhons have become as global as any other citizens. But we must learn how to speak and write in our own language first before we venture into a borrowed tongue.
I write in Asi, Tagalog and English, in that order. I knew a few Japanese as well as Arabic phrases, and I endeavor to speak Bicol when I am talking to a Bicolano. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. But whenever I chance upon a Sibalenhon, I quickly revert to Asi and try to sustain a conversation in our own language. At home, my two daughters, Lara and Lilac, alternately converse in English and Batangan, but they sing Sibalenhon songs and we try, as much as possible, to speak to each other in Asi. Sometimes, the shift in language is taxing, but we get by.
Non-usage is the culprit in the retreat, decay and demise of a language. It is a cause of our confusion as islanders and as a tribal family. It is, I am afraid, one of the causes of our division.
This is one of the reasons why Marlowe wanted my help in translating into English his poem, selected stanzas of which are reproduced below, for he believed—I knew it—that he will only find a more discerning audience if his poem is written in English; that no one will read him if he writes
in the vernacular. His belief is unfounded.
Anyo 1973, Mactan ay yumugrang,
buyan it Hulyo, sigulanon it mga maguyang
sa banwa it Sibale, Concepcion kung tuk-an
sa mapa'y parte it Romblon,
Maestre de Campo kung ayabahon
Naglipas ka mga adlaw,
buyan ag tuig ay nagligar ra
trenta y kwatro kung sumahon ninra
trenta y kwatro kung sumahon ninra
Sa irayom it ragat kag Mactan ay masisil-ip pa
Usang adlaw sa buyan it Agosto,
tawoy naalarma
sa bapor nak nakapunro mayungot sa Isla
kag mga magog pangisra ay nagkabayaka
naghagar it sakuro sa mga taga banwa.
Mabuyong ni isipon nak kag Mactan ay rahagtoy
Mabuyong ni isipon nak kag Mactan ay rahagtoy
ka usang nagpaparagat ay napa-papanaghoy,
dahil sinra ay nag-aasa yang sa israng mababaoy
nak pag-abot it hapon ay ituwang sa balinghoy.
Pagkaado ig masiran ka ato honasan
Makakapanihi ka it salinrab, kasoy-on ag buk-an,
ugaling sa ngasing ay naka-kabuyong
kung imo matutuk-an
mga lanang halin sa barko,
sa pampang ay nagrarapyasan.
Nupay paralihadoy ag nalilik kiy kag Mactan
nak nakaguwan sa irayom it ato karagatan,
sa usang yupok it dinamita,
nahabas ka tanang yaman
nak ing tatago ay
sa sigulanon yangiy matatanraan.
I can see he has the gift and his poem, which speaks of his melancholy over the loss of a sunken vessel to junk robbers, is the medium by which he lets us know of his feelings. Not a single non-Sibalenhon can empathize with him and understand his poem if it is written in a language other than Asi. He should cultivate this gift in the language he is most happy and comfortable with—and that is, in Asi.
I should add, too, that as a budding poet, he should take to heart the advice of the Bulgarian poet Blaga Dmitrova:
I should add, too, that as a budding poet, he should take to heart the advice of the Bulgarian poet Blaga Dmitrova:
Ars Poetica
Write each of your poems
as if it were your last.
In this century, saturated with strontium,
charged with terrorism,
flying with supersonic speed,
death comes with terrifying suddenness.
Send each of your words
like a last letter before execution,
a call carved on a prison wall.
You have no right to lie,
no right to play pretty little games.
You simply won’t have time
to correct your mistakes.
Write each of your poems
as if it were your last.
In this century, saturated with strontium,
charged with terrorism,
flying with supersonic speed,
death comes with terrifying suddenness.
Send each of your words
like a last letter before execution,
a call carved on a prison wall.
You have no right to lie,
no right to play pretty little games.
You simply won’t have time
to correct your mistakes.
Write each of your poems,
tersely, mercilessly,
with blood—as if it were your last.
tersely, mercilessly,
with blood—as if it were your last.
Write in Asi, Marlowe, and you would have served Sibale more than all Sibalenhon politicians combined have.
1 comment:
hi Manong Nicon. It's my first time to comment here.
I would admit, miskan ako bukoiy ako fluent mag bisaya, kada ngani kung pwede akong maghagar it pabor sa imo o sa iba pa natong kababayan nak magpost sa sibale online it Asi dictionary. Sa kaklarohan buko nako sador katong mga mararayum nak Asi.
Sa imo post about Unidad sa Trahedya dati sa old web forum na ing post ulit sa Sibale online, inggat ibang word nak bukuiy nako sador, o indi-iy naku marumruman kung nio kato.. like tiral nak mait, nakuyagwang, abasuyon, namako-mako, mabutikawan, kudlat, etc.
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