PAGKAMATAY: salin ng Dying ni Alice Walker

I have been vocal of my fascination with Alice Walker. This is a Pilipino translation of her poem Dying which she wrote for “those who with our taxes die from torture.” I, in turn, dedicate this to the Morong 43 who continue to be detained by the AFP despite glaring evidences of lapses in procedure and sheer inconsistencies of the bases of arrest.

Pagkamatay

Para sa mga namamatay sa tortyur gamit ang ating mga buwis

Paano nga ba

Ang mamatay?

Tulad ba ito ng

Paglubog sa

Isang batya

Ng mainit na gatas?

Tulad ba ito

Ng hubo’t hubad

Na pagbibilad

Sa Araw

Sa mga unang

Nakakapasong

Araw

Ng Tag-init

Matapos ang

Isang Taglamig

Sa nagpangatal

Sa iyong

Mga ngipin?

Ang mamatay

Sa tingin ko

Ay maaring

Tulad niyon.

Higit sa lahat,

Sa iyo

Ito.

Isang

Ligtas

Na lugar.

Maaaring

Kinokuryente

Nila ang

Iyong

Mga daliri

Sa paa

Sa panahong iyon

O

Binubunot

Ang

Mga kuko mo

O

Pinahihinto

Ang

Tibok ng

Nahihintakutan

Mong puso

Sa iba pang

Mapanlikhang

Paraan.

Ngunit

Sa pagkamatay

Matatakasan

Mo

Sila

Patungo

Sa

Kapayapaan.

Hinding-hindi

Nila

Malalaman

Ang

Bagay

Na

Tanging iyo

Lamang.

Sa iyo

Lamang

Ang pagkamatay.

Katangi-tanging

Nilalang;

Anuman

Ang iyong nagawa.

Lihim mo

Ang pagkamatay.

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Today, I am ending my post-Semana Santa hibernation.

I just lost a dear friend that Holy Week for reasons I cannot simply tell you. However, I do want to share with you what I feel in the aftermath.

Although, death, as I have come to accept, is unarguably inevitable, that fact has not lessened the pain of losing a dear friend. In my lifetime, he must be the third most painful death I have to accept. First was very personal, it was my paternal lola. I was an hour too late for her last breath. The second was a girl friend some of you may know, Erika Salang. She died a brutal death in the hands of the 42nd IB in the Bicol Region. And know this.

It made me ponder on death… and life.

Let me share this little tidbit about me, I have this weird habit of reading the Obituary Section, especially so when I am travelling to other parts of the country. I must confess that this habit to browse the bland pages of the national dailies started only when I began to be away from home for long periods. I would browse the national dailies, if there is one available, head for the Obits and scan if someone I knew died.

In the beginning, my fascination started with language. As this region is highly multilingual, the greetings and messages of thanks and condolence are in slightly, if not altogether, different languages. I was enjoying playing detective then, armed with elementary knowledge of iloko, deciphering which word translates into which.

After a while, I started looking at their birthdates and death anniversaries. Some were as ripe as 97 years, while some were only a few months old. Their pictures, which for the old ones usually have two, one from their younger years and the other from recent times, are almost always smiling, or in a playful tone, never sad.

Then it hit me. These people I am reading about ARE actually people. Walking, breathing people before they ended up in the paper I am reading. And I started to wonder how they lived their lives. How they must be missed so much. How must be remembered.

I know this is a bit too early for a blog on All Souls’ Day, but I cannot help it. This is catharthic for me. To write my thoughts, finally, after a mental bog down.
And I realize that Life does go on, even after death. This life may not be yours alone, but Life itself. My dear friend, in the end, you are judged not by God, but by the people you left behind who directly or indirectly benefit from the selfless endeavor you chose to pursue.
And for this, you will remain immortal in our thoughts and forever etched in history. Your brilliant smile will forever be remembered.

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