The cry

From my personal archives. March 15, 2006

A sound told me it was already six p.m. I set aside the book I was reading and prepared myself for what I should do.

What I heard was the voice of the muezzin (crier) from a small mosque 50 meters away from our home. Inside the Muslim house of worship, he chants the call to salat (prayer) five times a day: at dawn, at noon , in the afternoon, in the evening, and at nightfall. He speaks with a microphone connected to a squawker so all Muslims in the neighborhood are well reminded of one of their chief duties.

The duty I had to fulfill that time, however, was not to pray but to cook rice. My family is Ilonggo and Catholic. We take the muezzin’s evening call as a cue to prepare supper.

We live in Sultan Kudarat, a province in Mindanao where Christians and Muslims are almost the same in number. The two groups of people usually live in separate towns or villages. But in our simple, gated community, Muslims and Christians live together—and rather peacefully.

The mosque near our home interests me. I always pass by it so I get to observe its features. It is about 15 square meters only and looks like a big shoebox, with two air conditioners jutting out the light-blue walls. The mihrab (niche), which contains the pulpit for the preacher, is at the west side of the mosque, facing Mecca . Extending from the mihrab about eight meters upward is a minaret with the symbol of Islam (a crescent and a star) at the tip.

A Maguindanaoan neighbor had the structure built inside his lot last year. It came to use just before Ramadan started. Since then, hearing the melodious but unintelligible sound has become a daily experience for my family.

To other people, the Arabic chant will surely evoke fear, especially if they associate Islam with the Abu Sayyaf and the Jemaah Islamiyah. I’m sorry to disappoint the bigots, but my neighbors are anything but terrorists.

Of course, the people in our place do not live in perfect harmony. But since our houses were built almost a decade ago, neighbors have not been seriously at odds with each other. The residents must have learned to respect each other’s beliefs and practices. Or each may just be too busy minding his own business.

As for me, I have long realized that nothing is more foolish than judging a person based on his faith or ethnicity. Growing up in a culturally diverse land made me realize that goodness and evil transcend religion or tribe.

I can’t blame the Christians and Muslims afflicted by the war if they hate each other. It’s not easy for them to just forgive and forget after losing their loved ones. The problem is how to stop the pain and hatred from being passed on to the next generation.

Putting an end to the enmity in Mindanao may be a Herculean task—but not impossible at all.

In From Arms to Farms, a documentary I’ve watched in an ABS-CBN regional station, a Muslim woman said that the people in her village joined the war because it was the only thing left for them to do. Their homes and farms had been destroyed in the crossfire. After the war, government and foreign aids came in and gave them livelihood. With a good income, they were able to send their children back to school and are now turning all their efforts to having a good life.

People of different ways of life learn to adjust with each other only when they enjoy economic opportunities and had proper education, just like in our community. Being involved in a savage war is the last thing in the minds of my family and my neighbors. Our parents know that guns and bombs will not help ensure a bright future for the children.

The road towards a peaceful Mindanao is long and tortuous. But I’m filled with hope whenever I’m home. The cry of the muezzin reminds me that Christians and Muslims can live together in one place without killing each other.