(Editor鈥檚 Note: Following is a tribute to Italian priest Fausto Tentorio, who was murdered on Oct. 17 by still unknown assailants near his parish church in Arakan, North Cotabato.)
When a priest leaves the comforts of his First World convent to go on a mission and live in wooden shacks among the poorest in rugged mountains, you ask why. When the same priest stays in those mountains for 30 years, you ask why. And when that same priest鈥攕o gentle and so full of joy and hope鈥攍eaves this world in a brutal manner, you ask why.
We, members of the Kaliwat Theater Collective of 20 years ago, then led by Nestor Horfilla, were all very close to Pops (Fr. Fausto Tentorio). His kumbento was our second home for three whole years (1992-1995) when we collaborated with the Tribal Filipino Program for Community Development Inc. (TFPCDI) and the Manobo Lumadnong Panaghiusa Inc. (Malupa) to conduct cultural action among the Manobo communities of Arakan in North Cotabato.
The program鈥檚 major output was an ethnographic research contained in 鈥淎rakan, Where Rivers Speak of the Manobo鈥檚 Living Dreams,鈥� published in 1996. The book closed the chapter on the 20-year-old struggle of the Manobo to reclaim their ancestral domains. The powers-that-be (Department of Environment and Natural Resources and the Department of Agrarian Reform) needed documented proof that the Manobos knew enough of their territories to call it their own, and the book dug into the Manobo鈥檚 collective memories and reached as far back as their mythic past.
Toward the end of the program and months before the book was even published, Malupa was handed its certificates of ancestral domain claims (CADCs), Except for a handful of contested lands, all of the nearly 20 claims were approved. Days after the CADCs were issued, Pops came to the Kaliwat office with a huge grin on his face. He looked amused and humored.
Onion-skin paper
鈥淜ataw-anan kayo (It鈥檚 funny),鈥� he said. The Manobo leaders, he continued, were quietly shocked, and then mildly laughed when they saw the documents for which their elders, brothers and sisters suffered and died. All that bloodshed, said Pops, for just a few pieces of onion-skin paper. Onion-skin paper.
Pops, through the TFPCDI, was the bridge that brought together artists of Kaliwat and indigenous peoples. The two gathered in vibrant conversations of amazing proportions鈥攚here dances were exchanged, where the sounds of kubing and kuglong played harmonies with guitars, and where once an epic chant lasted overnight.
And so up the mountains, down ravines and through rivers and waterfalls we went, sometimes with and sometimes without Pops. But at journey鈥檚 end鈥攁fter a day or three of meetings with Manobo folks鈥攈ome was where Pops was, waiting with his silly, elfish grin, perennially amused.
I remember when I and Richard Belar had a minor motorbike accident on the way to the kumbento, we had to walk under the rain, on muddy path for almost two hours. By the time we arrived at the convent, Pops was outside, wearing his signature grin on his face and asking if we were all right. He particularly loved to tease Richard.
Serious advocate
Except during meetings when it was all down to business. There at the long table, on nights of updating and evaluating and assessing, Pops would turn into a serious advocate鈥攕mart and full of ideas, passionate and firm.
I remember vividly my last trip to my last community assignment in Arakan. Would I take the three-hour slow climb, or the one-and-a-half-hour pathless sharp incline, asked our lumad guide. It was to be the longest climb of my life. I did the climb alone鈥攚e all did in order to cover more ground in the littlest time鈥攁nd I slept in what I thought was the poorest shack I鈥檝e ever slept in in those three years.
And for the first time, I was noticing how unclean the surroundings were, and I was starting to become unhappy. Coming home, I chose the pathless way. Nobody warned me my face was going to be slapped by grass taller than us, grass that had tiny flowers with sharp needles on it much like the makahiya.
So in the swelter of the noonday sun, I was covered in my black raincoat, sweating like the rain, my arm uselessly trying to shield my face. And as we came onto a hilltop, I asked to rest, tears rolling down my eyes. Down where we were headed, a man was killed by a snakebite.
The cries of women chanting-weeping echoed through the mountains, 鈥淢y son has just died 鈥� my relative has just died 鈥︹�濃�攁 chorus and harmony so sad and beautiful I felt a longing for home and a better life.
Life鈥檚 purpose
鈥淚 am an artist, why am I here?鈥� I wept silently, my grief blending softly with the cries of mourning.
A few months later, Neneng Leoncito would ask the same thing on top of another hill, shouting at the top of her lungs, 鈥淚 am so tired already! Why am I here?鈥�
And two years later, Richard Belar would ask the same question while riding a nonairconditioned bus, carrying two boxes of chicks for some agricultural project in Lakewood (Zamboanga del Sur), where once again Kaliwat artists would make their temporary home among the Subanon indigenous peoples. 鈥淚 am an artist, what am I doing carrying boxes of small chicks?鈥� he asked in desperation amid goats and sacks of corn and rice and sweaty underarms.
I wonder if Pops ever asked the same thing, 鈥淚 am an Italian priest, what am I doing in the mountains of Mindanao?鈥�
Yet Pops was the ultimate artist鈥攈e carved and painted the paths that led us to the mountains of Arakan. And from where we all are now鈥攆rom the coasts of Florida, the congested streets of Manila to the various flourishing cities in Mindanao鈥攚e are forever changed.
And maybe, just maybe, the reason why Pops left the way he did was so we can all be reminded that the indigenous peoples鈥� struggle for their identity and their ancestral domains isn鈥檛 over.
In our mad rush to find new meanings in our lives as governments change, economies crumble, and 鈥淲owowee鈥� culture dominates Internet and paper headlines, Pops didn鈥檛 want his 30-year-old, quietly tired and weary cause to fade into oblivion.
And I ask for forgiveness for myself if I had forgotten, and for the others who may also have.
鈥淏athalang Manama, kung kami ay nagkasala鈥檡 patawarin
At kami鈥檡 sumusumpa na ang banal na lupa ay babawiin
Upang muling itayo ang dambana ng katutubong mithiin鈥�
鈥擣rom the song 鈥淢asukirum鈥� in the musicale 鈥淥ya Arakan鈥� (1994), libretto by Al Santos performed by Kaliwat Theater Collective
鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌�-
Cecilia B. Langlois (aka Geejay Arriola), thespian, singer-songwriter, communications specialist now based in Jacksonville, Florida, shares this short memoir with Nestor Horfilla , Marili Fernandez-Ilagan, Neneng Leoncito, Eden Licayan-Espejo, Popong Landero, Richard Belar, Narayan Duhaylungsod, Titing Trinquite, Theresa Opaon-Ali, Linda Monta帽ez,聽 Braddock and the many other artists of the Kaliwat Theater Collective she can no longer name for lack of space.