REST IN PEACE, THE BODY WILL FOLLOW
by Geejay Arriola

For one who rarely reads newspapers, I wouldn't know. But all my colleagues were saying it didn't come out in the national dailies at all—the story that thousands of evacuees walked the highway and rallied in Pagalungan to show the world they don't want any more wars and want to go back home.

Artists of Kaliwat Theatre Collective and Mebuyan Peace Project arrived in Pagalungan at 9 am on June 24. A number of Moro women approached us, asking where we came from and thanked us for coming to join them. It was literally the hottest performance we ever had—we sang songs under the glaring eye of the tyrant sun, drenched in sweat and speech after speech amid merry shouts of Allah hu akbar. For a few of us, it was the first time we saw evacuees en masse. It was a big deal. After all, evacuation from one's own land shouldn't happen. It is a societal aberration worse than death itself—for death is rest in peace and evacuation a restless, agonizing journey.

We stayed onstage—an old truck with collapsible sides—for three hours, our eyes protected Matrix-style, hands on gongs, dabakans and guitars, ready to belt out our most persuasive songs on cue. When not performing, we huddled near the truck's head, seeking out each other's shadows for shade. The sound system was a disaster—three microphones for all 10 artists and five music instruments. At the last minute, we changed our repertoire—dramatic scenes and mellow songs were deleted, and were replaced with upbeat anthems and kulintangan pieces. There were too many people and inadequate miking that we practically screamed our songs.

Three hours of heat, sweat, and struggle with the microphones drove us to utter exhaustion.

Yet it was nothing. It was nothing compared to the evacuees' exhaustion and hunger and pain of endless flights from razing bullets and falling bombs. It was nothing compared to the loss of homes, harvests, and loved ones. It was nothing compared to living in makeshift tents for months, not knowing when you will finally go home.

We slept on the way back to Davao, exhaustion rapidly transforming into bliss with dreams of the comfort of our own homes.

Three days later, I had my duplex-mate Pido Ayala listen to the music I wrote for Arnel Mardoquio's Tanglaw sa Gabi. Arnel wrote the lyrics a month back, after he visited Pikit. The lyrics turned into song five days before I went to Pagalungan for Bakwit Power. After playing the song on my newly-bought second-hand classical Young Jin, Pido remarked that it was the only music I ever wrote that was relaxed, soothing, and peaceful—devoid of throb and tension.

It had to be. Night is the only time the evacuees rest—and sleep they do, through growling stomachs and nightmares of the dead and the dying.

We all need rest—performers from bad sound systems and can't-say-no-to them gigs, media from covering politics and showbiz, rebels from the thought that guns will bring answers, and government from the thought that the answers are guns. The intensities of the need for rest and quiet vary, all equally legitimate. One's struggle with raising a kid is as important as the revolution, no ifs and buts.

During one of my regular Tuesday drinking bouts with artists at Matina Town Square, I narrated bits and pieces of my life story, which I ended with "I can die anytime, and I wish it is soon." Classical guitarist Iking Cadayona replied, "Rest in peace, the body will follow." We all burst into laughter. After all the endless jokes, beer and mirth that followed, I went home with a motto implant—Iking's punchline is the perfect dictum for these troubled times.

TANGLAW SA GABI
ni Arnel Mardoquio

Sa tabi ng daan, sa malamig na damuhan
Ilatag ang isip at katawang nasindak ng
digmaan at walang katapusang paglisan
Hayaang ihimlay ng buwan ang mga diwang
pinaslang, hayaang ibalabal ng hamog
ang mga nagkukunwaring tapang Tumingala sa
langit para itanong sa mga bituin kung may buti pa
bang aanihin Buwan o aming buwan salamat
sa iyong tanglaw Bituin o aming bituin lakas mo'y aming
babaunin Huwag pahintulutang may unos pang darating
Kayo na aming tanglaw sa gabing madilim.

written 2003