I remember the first time I saw the documentary film “Dreamweavers” back in our Sociology class in college. It featured the T’boli tribe of Lake Sebu in Southern Mindanao and how they weave their cloths inspired by spirits in their dreams. I was amazed watching that film, fascinated at how these people give value to their traditions and at how pre-Catholic animism surfaces in all their arts and crafts even if they have been baptized Christians by early Mindanao missionaries. The T’nalak cloth of the T’boli already captivated me when I first saw that film. It was for me a romantic remembering of our past before the cross gave us a new persona. I thought to myself that maybe this people, with their own arts, worldview, rituals and traditions, hold the answer to that elusive mystery of the Filipino identity. And I longed for that answer.
In May 2011, I transferred from Naga to Davao, to work at the Ateneo de Davao University. I was thrilled at the prospect of being in Mindanao, close to the Lumads – to my romantic phantasm of the genuine and unadulterated Filipino. And undaunted by my parent’s fears of kidnappings and bomb explosions by insurgents fighting for ideologies and lost wars, I went to this strange city in Mindanao, a settler from Southern Luzon.
At first I felt that I had unwittingly cut my self off from my known world of Naga City where everyone knows everyone. But I soon realized from my conversations that almost everyone here is a settler, mostly from the Visayan islands, a number of migrants from Luzon and even some from other countries. I asked them “who are the original inhabitants?” and with a hint of mixed fear, disdain and boredom, would answer me, “mga natibo,” natives, tribal people of the hinterlands, with their un-Christian gods and un-Visayan characters. At least in that sense, I felt a little more at home. I am not the only settler in this strange city.
I have been fortunate in my work to be able to travel to areas in Mindanao. It wasn’t just a dream-come-true for me but a real chance to see these “original” inhabitants. I would consider it then that fate brought me to Mindanao and to Lake Sebu in South Cotabato. At last, I will be in that lake surrounded by clouds and forests, where people tell the stories of creation in songs and in their weavings.
But then my first visit to Lake Sebu almost brought me to tears. Lake Sebu is no longer the mysteriously charming place I’ve imagined from that “Dreamweavers” documentary. Fish pens of tilapia crowd the lake and surrounding mountains are almost denuded. A number of resorts have also dotted the lakeside. And yet, there’s still a barely perceptible charm, almost like the humming of a mother’s lullaby. It is certainly there in the sweeping breeze that tickles the lake’s surface. The sun still bathes the lake with a golden warmth each morning. The mist still covers the mountains and for a moment, houses and resorts are obscured, the lake exhales ancient songs.
It was certainly not my imagined Lake Sebu but already a place where the modern world and its many wonders and appeals have slowly crept to the homes of the T’boli people. I have come to a Lake Sebu where people have already embraced the modern tides – with its television shows, capitalist attitudes and current flairs. I have to ask: did they have a choice or were they pushed in a corner with nowhere to run but to modernity and its lifestyle?
Many times now, I have returned to Lake Sebu and have befriended some T’boli residents. One told me a story of a Lake Sebu without the settlers and their modern ways. There was a time in her childhood, she said, when lotus flowers in pink and dark violet covered the whole lake from end to end and when the mists descend, the clouds frolic like playful gods in their pool; a solitary T’boli man in the distance would be in his dug-out canoe fishing or foraging for shells. I confessed to her that this was my imagined Lake Sebu. She remarked that it was also her lost Lake Sebu and the land is a mirror of our very own selves and that whatever worldview we assume for ourselves, we also try to sculpt our environment for that worldview to fit in. I realized that Lake Sebu was such a victim.
Just the other week I was invited to document an international conference on Ikat Weaving. Ikat is a method of weaving where strands are tied before they are dyed giving them their distinct patterns. One of the most highly regarded ikat fabrics in the southeast Asian region is the t’nalak of the T’bolis – hence the conference was held in Lake Sebu and I was again at its shore longing for imagined worlds and occasionally craving for its delicious tilapia.
In this conference I met Kevin, a graduate of the Ateneo de Davao University and a T’boli of Lake Sebu. He was very patient with my questions about his being a T’boli, their struggles and his dreams not only for himself but also for his people. He also shared with me the same story of this bygone Lake Sebu, when there were no fences yet in the lake and anyone can fish or swim in its water.
Thinking about these stories of old-world beauty and magic, it was very timely when he taught me a traditional song (we were all told to give a short presentation during the cultural night of the conference and Kevin chose this song). He said that it was usually sung during weddings and celebrations, and is about an edenic paradise that may be a fitting reference to Lake Sebu but also an allusion to all paradises lost to the inanity of mankind. The T’bolis call this paradise Lemlunay, and the song goes:
Lemlunay gono setifun ne Lemlunay gono sesotu.
Lemlunay gono kemulo ne Lemlunay gono setambul
e se waten uni sembakung e Lemlunay tey lemobun.
Kevin helped me do a rough translation and we came up with this: Lemlunay is a place where the people are gathered and united and we are all beckoned by the sounds of festivities; the beating of gongs and drums welcome us to this paradise hidden in mists.
This archetypal paradise calls to mind our dreams of a perfect place where differences are set aside and we celebrate our oneness with creation. I asked if this is the T’boli heaven and Kevin answered no, it was a place comparable to the Biblical Eden yet there is no mention of a parting from this Eden, from Lemlunay, because of a sin or transgression. We can only assume that Lemlunay faded to dreams, to the world of mists. I thought that the modern world was surely no place for this Lemlunay.
I would like to believe that Lake Sebu was once Lemlunay and human folly has pushed it to the plane of the mythical, a world that can now only be accessed through songs but is still physically present in the slowly congesting lake of Sebu. In looking for my imagined Lake Sebu brought by that documentary I’ve watched, I was also searching for our identity as a people. If I have to be honest, I was looking for my self. Take away all the western, borrowed cultures from my system, what is left of me? Who am I in this sea of foreign cultures? Of modern gadgets and western language? Who are we as a people, tortured and brought to our knees by colonizers? We have become ‘modern,’ parting from our indigenous selves, embracing western, foreign cultures, but who is this indigenous self?
I don’t have the answers right now. Perhaps the journey is still unfolding before me. Maybe the answers are in Lemlunay, maybe in Lake Sebu – in their songs, music, in their t’nalak, or their stories. But I have to constantly remind my self that in this search, I maybe searching for a lost past, a mere fuzzy dreamland of the imagination. What I would like to do is to better understand where we failed in our past in order to build a better future. The hidden Lemlunay is but a metaphor of what we’ve lost but also of what lies before us.
If only we can part the mists shrouding our vision. Maybe we can find Lemlunay – the sound of gongs and drums welcoming us to our land, to our self, to our identity, to our future even.