POLS 620: Introduction to Indigenous Politics: Speak to me of justice... By Waziyatwin, Ph.D.W...

POLS 620: Introduction to Indigenous Politics: Speak to me of justice...

By Waziyatwin, Ph.D.
W...: Speak to me of justice... By Waziyatwin, Ph.D. Wahpetunwan Dakota from the Pezihutazizi Otunwe (Yellow Medicine Village), Minisota Makoc...

Prayer and Poetry Move Mountains

Prayer and Poetry Move Mountains

Everyday at six o’ clock my mother, sister and I would pray together in the corner of the room where our altar of the Santo Nino and Virgin Mary lay. We recited the rosary, each taking turn the supplication and the careful prayers that came along every bead. We prayed together until I reached the latter part of my high school years. The rhythm of my prayers did not seem to have the same weight and gravity as my mother. When she summoned those words—Hail Mary full of grace—the words were deep. But it came deeper when she said it in Ilokano. I learned to pray because of my mother. I learned to pray in community with my sister and father.

I regret that I do not say the rosary often, but I regret more that I do not get to say it with the people that have taught me how to love. The feeling of peace and calmness did not so much come out of saying the words of the rosary but with the communion I felt with those uttering the same words. There is something mysterious, powerful, sacred in being with people who crave a sense of wholeness in something greater than what we see. When I listen to her pray the rosary I hear her say, “Hope. I have hope, there is a way out of this and it will be beautiful.”

She was a poet, my mother. I realize now that my mother was doing poetry. Prayer and poetry is one and the same thing. Prayer and poetry have hope as the common denominator. Prayer and poetry are irrational in the way we hope are irrational. The early Christians remind us “hope that is seen is not hope.” Prayer puts into words what we cannot see or describe to ourselves and other people in our common language.

I recently tried to register for class on poetry at the university. The professor, a world renowned and decorated writer, responded that I would not be permitted to join his class because it was reserved for students who are studying for their doctorates, as if to imply that poetry makes sense when you have studied it meticulously and deciphered every meaning. He added that I needed to have a great deal of experience in poetry and poetics. I replied that I was sorry that I did not qualify to learn his kind of poetry and that I hope someday that I would be able to do poetry.

I realize later that I did not want to learn his kind of poetry—rational and lonely.

It is no surprise then why people feel inadequate in attempting to do poetry and prayer. We have been taught to believe that we need to have a graduate degree to do poetry and that we need to subscribe to a religion or go to church to say a prayer. This is a lie sold to us by those who want to keep hope away from us. We cannot allow them to have a monopoly on hope. We cannot allow professional poets and clergy people to define what is a poem and what is a prayer. To allow this to happen would mean the malnutrition of our souls and set darkness on the vision of our dreams. Our hope lies in poetry and prayer.

In these difficult times and desperate moments poetry and prayer needs to be said through the collective longing of the community we hold in our hearts. I did not understand then when my mother said: “We will get out of this and it will be beautiful”. She was naming and challenging all the injustices and the tragic happenings of her past and believed that only beauty can come out of this. There was a kind of suffering she was going through; but she suffered without losing her dignity—she had dignity because she suffered in community; she suffered with her children and husband and all those she had left behind in the homeland—Ilocos—of her birth. Indeed, it was beautiful.

In recent times I have found my way back to a community of believers. I hear each time the community pray the words, “only say the word and I shall be healed”. These words contain in them power to move mountains and silence storms. For what can be more poetic and prayerful then believing only in the simple utterance of words that one can be healed.

We need to do poetry more; we need to say prayers more. We need hope right now for our community and ourselves.

Remembering Kalihi: The Wounds of our ancestor, the hope of our children: Stations of the Cross

1st Station- Christ in Kalihi and Kalihi in Christ: Richard Lane

Opening Prayer:

O Apo a Namarsua, Papa and Wakea, Christ of Kalihi, and our ancestors who dwell in Kalihi. We gather at this hour to remember the stories and the lives that have made Kalihi a sacred place and a city of refuge, home first to Hawaiians and later joined with immigrant communities who have been forced out of their own homeland. In war, hunger, poverty, and colonization of other peoples and countries, Kalihi has become home to many oppressed peoples.

As Jesus walked Jerusalem in time of great need and persecution, we too, walk Kalihi in times of great need and persecution. In this journey of solidarity, We walk together to honor the stories, both past and present, hidden and forgotten, silenced and drowned out. In walking the land of Kalihi may we hear the voices, see the suffering, feel the joy, hear the cries, feel the laughter, and experience for ourselves a community that is alive but always in need of other voices echoing and making louder the cries of Kalihi. Like Jesus overturning the tables in the temple and demanding to ‘Give to Ceasar what is Ceasar’s and Give to God what is God’s”. Likewise the people of Kalihi demand Kalihi’s need: “Give us jobs, Give us health insurance, Give us our languages, Give us food on our tables, Give us Peace, Give us a community that respects each other and honor the land!

As we journey together on this pilgrimage we re-member those who cannot be with us.

Community Response: Personal Stories

We Pray: We hold you in our spirits and bodies

For our ancestors whose stories and life have been forgotten.

For the Land that is abused, neglected, scorched, and burned.

For our family members who work double jobs with no time to breathe and rest.

For the children who seek the warm embrace of parents in time of need.

For our families who live across the Pacific and seek reunification.

For people who do no have health insurance and live in fear of getting sick.

For all the displaced, exiled, diasporic peoples looking for a home.

For our Hawaiian brothers and sisters who have embraced our struggle to find home.

Closing Prayer:

O’ Kalihi, our Ancestors, Apo a Namarsua, Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend into the heavens you are there. If I make my bed in darkness you are there. If I rise on the wings of dawn, If I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand shall guide me, your right hand will comfort me. Amen. (Psalm 139)

Amazing Grace

2nd Station - Jesus Turns the Other Cheek: Fort Shafter

Opening Prayer:

Christ of Peace, as you were born naked, we too, are born naked. We entered this world with no weapons for killing, no armor for protection, no guns to shoot with. We were born as defenseless creatures. We did not need to defend ourselves because there was nothing to defend against. Like you, we were born to be embraced by our family, raised by our community, and nurtured by the Land. And yet, even as we stand here today, in front of the oldest Military base in Hawaii, we remember Jesus saying: “Put your sword, back, for all who draw the sword will die by the sword (Matt 26:52)” he said this while offering to turn the other cheek not as a passive act on violence but a proactive approach in living a life based on love and never from fear. Because the Military operates only on fear it speaks of closing its ‘window of vulnerability’ by building new weapons of war for the sake ‘national security’. The people of Kalihi do not need security. The people of Kalihi need Peace. And Peace can never be—can never come about—through building gates that separate our people’s communities from livelihood. We need to open it wide enough so that the cries of our community are heard through these gates. We need to make wider these windows of vulnerability so we hear the voices of our soldiers wanting to come home, wanting to be with their families, wanting to free themselves from the terrible decisions of those who send them to kill for a living, both people and the Land. Yet, we understand the difficult decision to seek jobs that do violence to our body, community and land, just to put food on the table and provide for our families. Christ of Peace, we remember your commandment to ‘love thy neighbor’ for we know that love begins when we see on our enemy’s forehead ‘thou shall not kill’.

Community Response: Personal Stories

We Pray: We are grieving and hoping for healing.

For the soldiers who are separated from the their families

For refugees who are prevented from going home because of war

For loves ones who have given their lives in order to provide for their families

For Makua Valley, Pohakuloa, Lihue, Puuloa, and other lands in Hawaii poisoned by nuclear contamination.

For people seeking jobs that affirm all life and away from the currencies of violence.

For survivors of domestic violence and those who are trapped in circles of violence.

For ourselves who inflict violence on our own bodies.

Closing Prayer:

Christ of Kalihi, Apo a Namarsua, We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only that, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it with perseverance. Amen. (Romans 8:22-25

Amazing Grace

3rd Station - Jesus: The working class, son of a carpenter: KOKUA KALIHI VALLEY/ KUHIO PARK TERRACE

Opening Prayer:

Christ of Life and Dignity, even as you fed the multitude with only a basket of bread and fish, we are still hungry and tired. You said these words: ‘human beings cannot live on bread alone’, because anyone who lives on bread alone dies by bread alone. You have shown us how to live with a little and still hold on to our collective dignity, yet in these times, we have forgotten the ways of our ancestors. Times have been difficult, no jobs, little pay, and absence of family. As we stand here in front of KPT, the Twin Towers of Hope, we ask the ancestors to guide us in building a community that trusts each other, as more and more people increasingly file for public housing, we are forced to divide among ourselves the little food we eat, the little spaces we share, the little beds we sleep on, yes, the miracle of solidarity and community is being lived in Kalihi, as we wait for the miracle of redistribution—work hours, income, access to land, playtime, sleep—we need all these equally to survive. These cannot be the sole burden of the community of Kalihi—we cannot live with dignity as long as we bear the heavy end of the cross. But there have been people and organizations that are making this miracle happen. Kokua Kalihi Valley (KKV) has provided for us so that, in your words, ‘we might have life and have it to the full’. KKV’s vision realizes that there are many ways our people can survive and live life to the full—we can plant our own food, till our own garden instead of solely depending on food stamps; we can share our stories of hope and struggle instead of listening to ‘experts’ on a panel discussion; we can dance, sing, chant, exercise and pray instead of heavy medications; we can create economic development without waiting for government supervision. We can do all these in the spirit of sharing, struggling, and striving.

Community Response: Personal Stories

We Pray: Where there is no vision, the people perish (R)

For communities who share despite not having enough resources.

For communities who resist eviction despite government prosecution

For communities who refuse permanent curfews and lockdowns

For communities who tear down gates of the rich and the poor.

For communities who use land for farming and planting fruits and vegetables

For communities who see the water that flows from our streams as wealth and health

For communities who see stories, tears, laughter and dance as medicine

For communities who make their homes a refuge for wounded healers

Closing Prayer:

Christ of Kalihi, Here is the dwelling of God among mortals. She will wipe every tear from their eyes. There shall be no more death, or mourning, crying out or pain, for the world that was has passed away. Amen. (Rev. 21:4)

Amazing Grace

4th Station - The Wandering Wounded Jesus: JIKOEN HONGWANJI TEMPLE

Opening Prayer:

Christ of Refuge, we remember your flight from Bethlehem to Egypt and then back again to Nazareth as you escape Herod’s order to murder innocent children. Like many of us we came to these islands wounded and in search of what the homelands could not offer—Peace and Safety. Because of colonization, our ancestors fled war, poverty, hunger, and sought refuge in these islands, while believing they could go back to the homeland. Even as we struggle to make this Land home, we acknowledge those before us, the indigenous peoples of this land and the continued resistance of U.S. occupation. We stand here today lifting the stories of our Okinawan brothers and sisters who carry wounds from Japan and the U.S. illegal occupation of their island and their continued discrimination in Okinawa and Kalihi. This temple, Jikoen Hwanganji, has been a symbol of peace and anti-discrimination in its effort to live out a more peaceful world.

We honor those who have remained vigil in the principal of love and justice, and the ancestors past and present who fought against the injustices we suffer, by calling out their name and summoning their spirits.

Community Response: Personal Stories

We Pray: Presente!

Minister Shindo Nishiyama,

Martin Luther King Jr

Archbishop Oscar Romero

Sister Dorothee Soelle

Queen Liliuokalani

Father Jose Burgos

Gabriela and Diego Silang

Please share with us the names and spirits you wish to call out:

Closing Prayer:

Blessed are the poor for yours is the kingdom of heaven,

Blessed are those who mourn,

For they will be comforted,

Blesses are the meek

For they will inherit the earth,

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness

For they will be filled.

Blessed are the peacemakers

For they will be called the children of God. Amen. (Mat. 5:3-9)

Amazing Grace

5th Station - The Misunderstood and the Imperfect Jesus: THE BRIDGE

Opening prayer:

Christ in our midst, who shares in our journey of suffering, we know that even your disciples did not understand you when you asked them: “who do you say that I am?”

Many have spoken of your power to summon legions of angels, of walking on water, of calming storms, of feeding thousands; of riding on chariots and subduing armies of Satan; to them you are the Messiah of Power and Might—you are God Almighty—who died for us in our sins. That is not the Messiah we understand.

For us today, we see you as just another person, struggling to live your life with god’s grace. It is enough that you cry and grieve with us. To feel you in our despair and desolation is comforting enough. You are the Messiah who keeps the light in the darkness of our wounds and who stays in the darkness with us. We remember your pleading with God to remove ‘thy cup’ for it was too heavy and your cry again as you were crucified, ‘why have you forsaken me?’. You are with us even as we face shunning from our communities. You are with us even we are abandoned by members of our own families. You are with us even as we are rejected by our compatriots . We echo your words as we ask our own family, friends, and community: “Why have you forsaken me?”

Community Response: Personal Stories

We pray: Only say the Word and we shall be healed

For those who have jumped off the bridge of despair and found eternal rest.

For those struggling with depression and have no one to hold on to

For the alienated community organizers who continue to do the work of peace and justice

For our Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered community who suffer discrimination

For wounded healers seeking to be healed

For our brother and sisters who served in armed forces and suffer from PTSD

For ourselves who bare the pain of our ancestors seeking relief

Amazing Grace

6th Station - Jesus, the cultural practitioner: FARRINGTON HIGH SCHOOL

Opening prayer:

Jesus Christ our Rabbi, we remember you teaching and preaching with teachers in the temple at 12 years old. You must have had great teachers and mentors for you to learn the great tradition of our ancestors. In these difficult economic times, the education of our young are being threatened by school cutbacks, furloughs, closure and low teaching salaries. Our schools are increasingly learning only the language of business—science and math—and neglecting the language and culture of our ancestors. Yet, even as we resist the onslaught of globalization Farrington High School has kept its history of teaching Hawaiian, Samoan and Ilokano languages. As you spoke and preached in Aramaic during the Roman occupation, we too speak in Hawaiian, Samoan, and Ilokano in the American occupation of our homelands. We realize that in speaking the language of our ancestors we summon their wisdom and power. Sister Soelle reminds us that: ‘In language we do not only encounter ourselves and express our actuality. We always live in a house of language built by generations before us”. If we do not speak our languages we kill our ancestors. In our struggle to find our identities we cannot afford to lose communication with the spirits of our ancestors. When they are lost we are lost. We need to feel and see the world that was severed through the loss and silencing of our languages.

Community Response: Personal Stories

We pray: Language is where God resides

We are grateful for Samoan Language

We are grateful for Hawaiian Language

We are grateful for Ilokano Language

We are grateful for teachers who teach us the language of curiosity

We are grateful for teachers who teach us language of critical learning

We are grateful for parents who encourage us to speak the language of the homeland

We are grateful for those striving to keep their languages alive despite heavy opposition.

Closing Prayer:

As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, the living God. When shall I go and see the face of God? (Psalms 42)

Amazing Grace

7TH STATION - JESUS WASHES THE FEET OF OUR ANCESTORS: COMING HOME

Amazing Grace

Foot washing: Honoring our Ancestors, Elders and Youth

Amazing Grace (Kaulana o Kalihi)

Station 1-Richard Lane

Amazing Grace

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now I’m found

Kalihi is our home.

Amazing Grace

How sweet the sound

Of sacred songs found here

Come home to me, embrace my heart

And we will be set free

Station 2- Fort Shafter

Repeat first 2 verses

Amazing Grace

How sweet the sound

Of opened gates to peace

To live a life of love, not fear

Your arms shall embrace me

Station 3-KKV/KPT

Repeat first 4 verses

Amazing Grace

Where is our home?

In towers of hope we stay,

We plant our gardens and share the seeds

This wretched life is sweet

Station 4-Jikoen Hongwanji Temple

Repeat first 5 verses

Amazing Grace

This refuge found,

We’re wounded, not alone,

We’re sisters standing side by side

It’s here we stand our ground.

Station 5-Bridge

Repeat first 6 verses

Amazing Grace

We face the world

It’s dark as dark can be

I never thought the dawn would come,

Was caught, but now I’m free

Station 6-Farrington High School

Repeat first 7 verses

Amazing Grace

How sweet the sound

Of words in our own tongues

They hold me in our roots so deep

Am found and now I weep

Station 7-Coming Home

Repeat first 8 verses

Amazing Grace

How sweet the sound

Of songs that yearn to be

We’ve walked the path, no longer blind

And we have been set free

Letter to my Kadkadua, Last: Part 3

Letter to my Kadkadua, Last: Part 3.

Kenka kadkadua:

Now you are here in Hawaii. After you have called out to your name: Umaykan, umaykan, di ka agbatbati! (Come, come, you are not to be left behind). My kadkadua you have made your way to me, across the rough waves of the Pacific. It is the same ocean traveled by our ancestors in their balangai, the vessel of hope and healing, which withstood the rough waters of life so it can carry across that dream of freedom, the elusive sovereignty that we are always after.

It is winter now—in Hawaii and the Ilocos. The winds begin to build its momentum, become stronger, and bring with itself the chill that cools the body and settles the mind. As the leaves of trees rustle and sway listen carefully; it will tell you its secrets, regrets, and forgotten memories. Go up to one of the homes of Papahanaumoku and Wakea in Kalihi, the ancestral god and goddess that watch over the land, in the valley between the ili of Ouaua and Maluawai, there the bamboo grows uncontrollably. There are secrets that the bamboo wants to share but only if it feels that you will reserve judgment—at least while it talks.

Kadkadua, you and the bamboo, are not so different. Like you the bamboo is not native to Hawaii. In the accident of birth it was brought to these shores, made its way to the mountain, took up its roots, and settled there. It felt at home but the bamboo in its loneliness wanted to be surrounded by other bamboo because it did not yet understand the language of the other trees and plants. The bamboo was one, and then became two and the two multiplied to a community larger than it expected. The first ancestor of the bamboo that settled there no longer lives—it was cut down— relieved of its agony and pain, its secrets were too burdensome and heavy for its own thin hollow body. It kept the secret to itself. It did not have the courage to speak of it even to its own off springs—so the other bamboos reside, sway, creaks as if it had not a care in the world.

Here is the secret: The bamboo forgot its identity; it fell in love with the land and lost its relationship with the people who gave birth to it. In its loneliness it invited other bamboos, but at the expense of the natives trees and plants—it sucked dry the water intended for the kalo (taro) farms, and stole the rays of the sun that fed the Koa tree, and as the Kalo began to wither away, the Koa also lots its strength and is barely hanging on for survival. You see the Kalo is food of the natives and the Koa is their vessel of freedom—food and freedom is inseparable—both are needed to live. In the bamboo’s desperate attempt for survival it neglected to share the land and all its rich resources. It let the fear of death overcome its own belief in the common good. Above all, it forgot its own identity. It lost its language, assumed it was native, and began to speak like it was borne of this land. With its language forgotten, its history went with it.

Kadkadua, here is another secret: The first people who brought the bamboo are your ancestors. Like the bamboo, your people lost their history in the journey to free themselves.

In the Ilocos the bamboo has a relationship with the native, both the lowlanders and highlanders. They knew how to harvest the young bamboo in its most delicious age. They built their homes of bamboo; they lined their gourd hats with thin woven strips to protect themselves from the tempestuous rain and the scorching sun; it was used to trap crab, fish, and shrimp in the once mighty rivers of the Amianan. It is still used by the boatman to carry the departed across the river and into the world of your ancestors. There the bamboo lives in harmony with the people. The people knew the strength and wisdom the bamboo had to offer. And the bamboo offered itself to the people. The bamboo and the people are made of the same sacred fibers—like the gods and goddesses of the Ilokano.

Kadkadua, there are stories that I cannot fully explain to you, of the bamboo and the history that you will soon come to terms with—I am sorry—even as I struggle to come to terms with myself.

All meaning-making are journeys.

All journeys are stories.

All stories are medicines.

We need medicine to heal our wounds.

It will be a difficult journey to find the balm to sooth and heal your wounds. Times will get difficult, you will feel lonely and alone; but never confuse the two. To be alone does not mean you are lonely. Indeed, it is possible to feel lonely even when you are surrounded by people—appreciate moments of solitude—remember the wisdom of being alone, silence is not the absence of words but the fullness of speech.

It will be rough in the activism of your dreams. Follow your body and understand the power of emotions. Allow yourself to get angry. If anyone ever discourages you from feeling and expressing anger—runaway—fast! Anger is an epistemological truth. Anger will remind you of the bundle of contradictions that accompany you in the journey to freedom. But never allow anger to be the sole reason of why you move. It is borne out of love. You move because that anger and oppression you have experienced allowed you to envision a world that is free of the very thing that brought out your anger.

Kadkadua: Here is what the bamboo and the ancestors forgot in their journey to redemption—their wounds started from the homeland. They left because the land no longer afforded them the freedom they were born with—the homeland too has invasive species that suffocate the natives—but unlike the bamboo in Hawaii the invasives in the Ilocos arrived violently like the storms that come from the West, ravaging everything on its path, uprooting every tree that has stood its ground for centuries. The bamboo and the ancestors take with them this trauma—it hurts so much it forced them to keep silent; policing even their own thoughts; arresting even their own bodies.

We must keep remembering that the journey does not end because we have settled and taken up roots in this land of Hawaii. We do not heal simply because we have a house, family, and a job—all things the homeland could not provide us—the beginning of this healing is to exorcise the trauma that we have kept buried in our bodies. The beginning is to call and keep calling to our kadkadua to return to us that wisdom and the four souls across the river, in the Law-ang of our ancestors, and into the vessel that is us.

To Enter Into The Lives Of The Young Ilokanos Like Me

To Enter Into The Lives Of The Young Ilokanos Like Me

by Jeffrey Tangonan Acido

Agkabannuag, Fil-Am Observer November 2010 Issue

To enter into the difficult lives of the young Ilokanos of Hawaii is something sacred and rare. To be allowed a glimpse into the inner lives of those who are struggling it out with the many issues of their identity when such are also my issues is rarer.

For it takes grace and courage to be able to understand the missing links in one’s identity, the jigsaw puzzle of our socialized lives, and the rubric cubes of our quest for what makes sense in our immigrant life especially when many of us do not believe anymore that we are just visitors of this land but have become, somehow, part and parcel of its story and landscape.

One of the Kabambannuagan writers said: “It took me six months and a self-exile half way around the world to realize this was my calling.” This ‘self-exile’ was in London, England, where Ilokanos are more than invisible and almost absent in the minds of their employers.

In that essay, she speaks of her ‘calling’—a responsibility to learn the language of her ancestors. This ‘calling’ she speaks of is her responsibility to learn the language of her ancestors—Ilokano. What it took her six months it took me years and multiple graduate degrees to figure out. This coming to terms with her own identity and language, thus her struggles, is the common theme found in an anthology I co-edited—Kabambannuagan: Our Voices, Our Lives.

I had the privilege of co-editing and, therefore, entering into the lives, emotions, and traumas of 14 young Ilokano writers who have taken the painful task of naming the source of their pain and struggles and reclaiming what was theirs to begin with—their body, vision, and language.

My experiences are not too far from their world of traumas and hopes. It was not possible to live out a ‘detached professionalism.’ Like all of them I have roots in being from Kalihi, in being Ilokano and in loosing and shaming myself for the sake of ‘fitting in’ and ‘being like everyone else.’ Only later would we realize that ‘fitting in’ happens only when you erase that quality that made you a reflection of the gods and goddesses. And ‘being like everyone else’ meant that English had to be the only language spoken, and if not English, it would be Tagalog, masquerading itself as Filipino. I felt all these and I lived all these.

In the process of reading and prying into the lives of the writers I realized and internalized the pain and struggle of what it means to name that oppression, how ever that oppression looks like.

I found myself unable to attend class and ride the bus without tears welling. I tried hard to hold back those tears that should have fallen years ago by pushing back the emotions and memories that came with it; I tried to look out the bus window but I could not help but see these emotions, reflections, and re-memberings being more real than the traffic that the bus passed by. My mind tried hard to rationalize and follow a logic that would not allow me to cry but I had to trust my body and my skin, my feelings and my heart. I cried enough to make uneasy those who sat next to me. I cried in silence; but for whatever reason I felt like the Ilokano elders that sat next to me knew the intentions of my tears.

In many occasion I found myself surprised to find the ground that I stood on dripping with tears that only a certain form of trauma can summon. Though the tears came from pains and struggles they also came from a sense of finding that we are not alone. I cried alone but I did not feel alone. I knew I was connected to these writers in the same way that I am connected to the land that my ancestors tilled—in the Ilocos and elsewhere, in Hawai’i and elsewhere.

The Ilokano word barangay connotes the sense of community or communities that we are a part of. The popular usage of barangay has lost its sense of indigeneity; for political purposes it has stripped itself of the power to heal and thus remains only a word relevant to the government when it wants to account the population and administer the people’s collective life. The true meaning of barangay is rooted in connection to each other, the land that we till, the sea that we ride and fish, and the wind that wipes away our worries. Here is a concept that we have regained and reclaimed in Kabambannuagan. Their essays make up a barangay, a community that shares the burden of what it means to live in the diaspora in hope of finding a home that offers them a chance to live out an ethic of relationality. The writer’s attempt to journey together in the geography of pain and struggle, hope and vision, make real the true meaning of barangay—to be in community in the hope of healing our body, our communities, and the land we stand on. This journeying together parallels the boat—the balangay/barangay—used by the Ilokanos and their gods and goddesses of healing. The balangay/barangay is the boat used by the Ilokanos when they traveled the sea to seek out other farmable lands that the geography of the Ilocos could not offer. It is also the boat used by the gods and goddesses of healing—they have the power to touch human beings, heal them, and give them the power and responsibility to heal others.

Kabambannaugan is the boat and the community that will help to begin this journey to healing and redemption for our ancestors and us, and to make real the connection to this land of Hawai’i—a place that is seeking to restore its language that was once banned and the land that has been stolen.

If we do not tell our stories now, someone else will tell it for us. With Kabambannuagan, the storytelling by us has begun.



Wandering Love by Waya Amianan

Feel the warmth of your body

follow its sensations and

it will take you to the beating

of hearts that pulsate only

to the tune of dancing doves

and double rainbows

away from the calculations

of what is possible.

We do not fall in love with numbers

That count our tears, we cannot make

love to the zero’s and one’s and the

Yes’s and No’s.

Facts are lies.

Love lives

in myth

and mystery.

Our skin, the third lung

needs to be touched, caressed,

So our soft whispers of longing can

reach across the oceans of solitude.

When our ancestors read our palms

They knew that love had

wiggled its way into our lives

without leaving a trace, so they

had to search, find meaning in

trees that did not move in storms,

floods, and wildfires.

They knew that love jumped off

the edge of our palms,

so they turned to

the stars,

read every sparkle and glitter,

built rafts that broke,

built canoes that split in half,

and still they kept on

searching.

The brightness of the moon,

was enough so the

soul calmed down,

made love to the waves

of uncertainty, that led

to another tree and yet

another mystery.

Hiding, Hunger, and Hamilton

to carmen d, jenn c, ryan b, the hope of our people. for sneaking in food and drinks on the 4th floor of hamilton library and sharing with me laughs, over drinks and food. Agyamanak.

Hiding, Hunger, and Hamilton

On the fourth floor of Asia the coldness

of colonialism has gotten into our stomachs

and corrupted our culture and

made rough the road to freedom.

Come hide with me

In Molokai where voices are not silenced

and the cries of our people are made loud

where whispers are carried by the winds

to tell each other of our longings.

Come hide with me

hide our drinks that are soft in

the news of our papers

roll it up and conceal it so we

can feed the hunger of our ancestors.

Come hide with me

In Anaheim, where we cavort with the angels

who know the meaning of what it is

to fly away from the sea of troubles.

Come hide with me

and hunger in Hamilton

so we sneak the food from the paradise of our palms

where we read each other’s destiny

to write the abstract of our dreams

that will free our people of their empty stomachs,

so they can turn the tears into joys

that dried up before falling to the earth.

Come hide with me

In the Bay Area where there are no roaches

to scare away that ghosts that haunt us

in the dreams of our childhood.

Come hide with me

and you will see my waves

of freedom that weaves

in the straightness of tomorrow

that will shave the layers of

despair and desolation.

Hide with me so we can escape

together with the gods and goddesses

that bring with them spirits that ease

our wary bodies and feed our hungry souls.

Will you come and hide with me?