Memories of Mindanao, Part 16

By Conrad J. Benedicto

“At last, it was time for Rosie to sing. If I had been a swallow flying overhead, I surely would have stopped to perch myself on a tree branch just to hear the mournful voice resonating from this tiny home amidst the trees.”

In the afternoon we got back on our habal-habals and vroomed along a mountain road until it became a dirt lane and then a muddy trail. Instead of horses, a herd of motorcycles conveyed us into the heart of the forest where sits the “Gono Lmingon,” or Chanter’s House, the home of a renowned T’boli chanter whose English name is Rosie.

In a small but beautiful space with thatched windows that opened up to the misty mountainside, Rosie received us with cups of delicious coffee, steamed sweet bananas, and rice cakes. Hanging on the walls of the room and laying on her bed were many beautiful woven t'nalak fabrics of the famous T’boli dreamweavers, colorful bead necklaces, tinkling brass bracelets and anklets, and musical instruments. The pleasantries were delightful and soon many of the items on display were inside the backpacks and purses of the turistas. At last, it was time for Rosie to sing. If I had been a swallow flying overhead, I surely would have stopped to perch myself on a tree branch just to hear the mournful voice resonating from this tiny home amidst the trees. Indeed, it felt as if the whole forest was leaning silently toward the Chanter’s House as Rosie sang.

Like Auntie Myrna, Rosie is burdened with the troubles native people encounter when they are encroached upon by foreigners who have the law and armed government on their side. We could have been sitting inside a roundhouse in California during the Gold Rush or a Sundance ceremony on the Great Plains of America after the Civil War. Rosie’s songs and troubles were the same. But so was the persistence of culture and memory. Six children came to the house after their dismissal from school and shared the songs and dances Rosie taught them. Their voices were hopeful and happy. There was also a young man who played the mouth harp, flute, and kulintang like a budding master artist. Inside the Gono Lmingon’s cozy little room, traditions lived on, and the land grabbers were far away. Here, some lasting beauty of T’boli culture was sustained as if by an enchantment woven from Rosie’s songs.

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