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.