Merlinda Bobis

Welcome to Agam the Climate Podcast, a literary podcast about climate, consciousness, and crisis, but without jargon. We live in a time of uncertainty. Our future is still being written, which means there's still hope. Here we host conversations with writers and artists whose stories we need to guide the way. I'm Padma Perez, thank you for joining me. For the book Agam, Filipino Narratives on Uncertainty and Climate Change, contributors were sent a photograph to use as a writing prompt. They were asked to consider the words "uncertainty" and "ambiguity" while avoiding words and phrases such as climate change, global warming, adaptation, mitigation, and so on. This process produced 24 poems and narratives in 8 Philippine languages paired with 26 images. In Season 1, we bring you the voices behind the stories and poetry in the book. Today we're joined by Merlinda Bobbis, who is one of the contributing authors to the book Agam, Filipino Narratives on Uncertainty and Climate Change. She grew up in Legaspi City at the foot of Mount Mayon and now resides in Australia. A multi-awarded writer, she's also a performance artist, a visual artist, and a teacher. Her latest book is a collection of poetry entitled "Accidents of Composition." Hi Merlinda. Hello Padma. How are you? I'm good and I'm very pleased that we're doing this. Thank you for being here. We're also very honored that you could do this with us. And today, we're going to focus on "Ten Fingers," which you wrote for Agam. Before we listen to you read the piece, could you tell us a little about the photograph you received as a writing prompt? Now that was a bit uncanny receiving the photograph because the moment I saw it, I felt, "This is family," because his features remind me of the brothers of my father because they, some of them, you know, coming from a farming family. And I know I think he's a fisherman. He's a photograph of a fisherman, but whether he's a fisherman, farmer, he is a man who works with his some pulunguramui, with his ten fingers. And so I had an immediate bond with this man. And I also love the fact that there is a hint of a smile, but there is something else. There's a story there. And even that faint window, there is something else is happening inside. And so in fact, when I saw him, I thought at once of some pulunguramui because my father, and so he became my father. So it was a very fluid development. I thought, my father used to say in Beacolle, "I sent you to school with my ten fingers," because my father works with his hands, repairs, refrigerators, and air conditioners, working class, and he was a farmer too, before he became, he went to Manila to try his luck. And so, yeah, and the interesting thing, so the man in the photograph became my father. Here's Merlinda Bobbi's reading, "Sampulunguramui, Ten Fingers." And fingers, remember this, ten strong fingers in the farm raised and sent you to school. At the airport now, I'm hearing father's voice before I left, his smiling butt. "Okay, I'll post now. No more drama. Go on. Click it." Suddenly, the camera hides my smarting eyes, and the picture is taken. My father smiled, reaching eyes, grown red from too much sun, or from the twinge of this goodbye. My child is a scholar in America, she'll be a doctor. So, daughter, you'll repair your father after three years? Then he's wiping off the earth from his t-shirt, grabbing the dangling nipa from the roof, so I don't see the growing red of his eyes. "Father, my scholarship is for a different sort of doctor, PhD." I indeed, Nene, excuse me, but your father did a different study of the planting, harvesting, the sprouting of the rice, the dry and the wet, the changing seasons, the nature of storms. Of course, Nene, it's PhD. But don't forget where you came from. All of us, even those in America, still come from the farm. All of us have been raised with food from the farm. Remember this? A beautiful picture of my most beautiful father. I wish to pass his face around, to all the passengers lining up towards the plane. Please, see what can't be seen. Ten strong fingers in the mud, on the plow and the buffalo, on the rice grains, on his knees that always ache at night. Please, see what is invisible. Behind that window, my mother making me a sandwich so I don't get hungry on this trip. Special corn beef, she said, from the new grocery a little farther up. But the sandwich is taking forever to hold back the only child's departure, to hold back the tears. Eigloring, you're taking a long time, is that a giant sandwich or what? Father is smiling, quipping, but I don't see. Ten fingers of my mother, ten fingers of my father, please, see the invisible. The many times in a year of fixing the roof wrenched away by the many storms, the many times of evacuating because of the flood, the many times of scavenging for rotting rice. The other day the wind, the rain, wrenched the multitude of houses from the earth, super store. I saw on my computer when I was finishing my conference paper, but no one saw in the library how my heart was wrenched out of my chest. So now I'm at the LA airport going home to what I don't know, to what I can't see in the news, our house, our farm, my father, my mother, I can't see them, or the impending landfall in my chest. But I see you, you, gasping at this tragedy on TV, on your laptops and iPhones as we wait to take off, please, I beg you, look closer, it is my father, my mother, and all of twenty fingers holding back this storm. So Merlinda, what made you choose this particular narrator when you wrote the piece? She's going abroad for a scholarship, and she's not becoming a doctor that can repair her father, she's getting a PhD. This piece is, you know, probably semi-autobiographical, because I started with when I saw the photograph, I thought this is my father, and this is a bobby's face, very much a bobby's face. So I thought, and it was just, it was not even a conscious choice, it was just, as I said, it was a very fluid development from seeing him becoming my father in my narrative, and then I thought, well, I wanted very much to have that inside-outside point of view. So you have someone who has lived in the farm, has known the storms, and also has been outside, and is able to take that story outside, because I believe the stories of the vulnerable spaces in this planet have to be taken to the very privileged first world, so that they can actually see that whatever they do there would impact us. Please see the invisible. I wanted to visibilize our land falls, and the impacts of these land falls on our daily lives, and to say, maawa ka naman, yung ganon, little bit of, there is a, it's an advocacy piece, like all the pieces in this book. And I wanted that the advocacy is not just among us, we actually have to go to the people who are polluting, who are doing a lot of, you know, the emissions who are responsible for this, the first worlds, and that in your comfortable places, you know, you're not worried about the fact that maybe your island will disappear, but there are many island countries in the Pacific, who, you know, with one super storm, one tsunami, they could just disappear from the face of the earth. That's why you wrote that line. That's why I wrote that. That's why it had to be that point of view, with someone who is able to, an insider and outsider, and who is able to take it somewhere else. So she is, the story is, she is in transit, she isn't, but also the story is in transit. I would like to think that with this, I could hand it over the story, I could tell the story to someone who is not from the Philippines and say, look, here it is, please see the invisible, in the same way that I can hand over, I wanted to hand over the photograph of my father. And you mentioned that it's a semi-autobiographical piece, could you tell us about that? Because of the fact, because Sampulonguramwe is really a phrase of my father. I sent you, that's a phrase, I sent you to school with my Sampulonguramwe, I sent you to school, or my ten fingers sent you to school, because he worked with his hands. And so, well, he repaired refrigerators and air conditioners, but he also was a farmer beforehand. So any person who worked with his or her hands and used that work, that labor to send children to school, to feed children, to cloth children, I wanted this to be a homage to all our workers, especially our workers in the farm, our fishermen, our workers, who have to deal with the daily activities of nature and the disasters that come our way. And you originally wrote this in Bicolan? Oh yes, I wrote it in Bicol. Could you read us a few lines or phrases in your piece that express your thoughts better than the English version? I think the best is, it's the ending part, I will have, it's a little bit long, it's a very short piece, but these are the ones that I felt cannot quite, the English version cannot quite get it, you know, the same. So let me read this, it's that portion when he's saying that this is probably a giant sandwich that the mother is preparing, ay glureng, kalui, halui muman, ano, higanti ng sandwich yan, nag-uuluk si pai, pag-ihibi, pero dai ko na hi-hiling, san pulong go ra mue ni mai, san pulong go ra mue ni pai. Hiling atabi ang dai na hi-hiling, pirang beses sa rung taon ang pagpakaray kang atup na na hulkab kang pirang beses na pag-uul, pirang beses ang pag-bakuit dahil sa bahak, pirang beses ang pagsalba kang naglalapang parwe, kasusarung aldaw, nag-abut kang paraus kang uran, sukadakul na harung hali sa daga, super storm, nahiling ko sa computer kampikatapus ko sa kong conference paper, pero dai kina kahiling sa library, kong papano nag-abut sa kong puso, hali sa sakong yung lagan, kaya aneeo na ko sa LA airport munyan, pa-uulik sa dai ko param, sa dai ko na hi-hiling sa mga bareta, ang samuyang harung uma, si pai, si ai, ai kan't see them, or the impending landfall in my chest, but I see you, you, gasping at this tragedy on TV, in your laptops and iPhones as we wait to take off, please, I beg you, look closer, it is my father, my mother, and all of 20 fingers holding back this storm. I had, I'll explain, I had to read this until the end, because I really wanted, and even as in the crafting of the story, the technical strategizing, it's all in vehicle and suddenly switches to English, I wanted to, I really wanted that inside-outside headspace for the listener when the story is told. What's interesting is the first switch that happens is when she says "superstorm", and that's still mixed in with the Bicolano, and then it's followed with her addressing her American audience, why, why the word "superstorm", is there no Bicolano term for it? Baguio, wait, you know, the Bicolano term is baguio, but superstorm after hayan, I think in fact reming, when they started, that superstorm wasn't even around, right, or maybe it was, but that was the time when I got, I became aware of this concept of superstorm, and of course because there was a tidal surge, that's why the problem is because we're coastal, in Bicol, in Ligaspi, in Albay, so it was water there, and water from the ocean, so, and superstorm, it's the recognizable word outside, but it's also, it's not part of the everyday, well, conversation, and language of Bicolanos, and areas where you have mostly these superstorms, so after that, and storm surge also has become part of the ordinary vocabulary of people in vulnerable areas. In your work, earlier you mentioned rivers, and girls, and children, so in your work you focus a lot on water, and the environment, and women, and girls, why are these things important to you? I, it actually started, the water thing, the river thing started from, and I, from me writing about Fisher Woman, that novel is about the total war in 1987, and which was waged in the countryside, and one of the areas, of course, was Bicol, because it was a hotbed of insurgency, it was the purge of the NPA, and my mythologized Iraya, which is the village, the site of the conflict, and of course there's a river, and all the dead bodies were thrown into the river, so the river gets solid, polluted by these bodies, and there is this Fisher Woman with her 12 meter hair, who retrieves their bodies, but also their stories, the lived stories, so with that consciousness, having spent 17 years writing and researching that book before it was published, yes, it took a long time. I could have raised a child, 17 year old, by the time the book was published, so I think that started my river consciousness, that kind of nature is always there, nature gets solid by conflict, and by what we do as human beings, and that, as a scholar as well, that started me into thinking about rivers and empathy for each other, and empathy for the environment. It was again a very fluid movement from talking about the capua, your capua as the other person, not just within your family, your capua, not just within the Philippines, and then eventually I thought, the rivers are your capua, nature is your capua, and that's really what I want, what I have been doing as a scholar now, and as a community facilitator of community workshops, because that's what I have been doing so far, facilitating workshops with communities and even writers on rivers, on water, and I have now a template, I have a module on how to do that. That module, that style of facilitating, and I even did it for elders in Bicol. We have this, I facilitated a workshop to say, that's called Susuk Saluk, to save the dying river, the Naga River, and I facilitated it for elders, the elders who could still tell stories about their memories of the river before it got polluted. I like what you called it earlier, you said river consciousness, it's beautiful. It's a river consciousness, it's a water consciousness, it's a nature consciousness, and what I love is the children are very much at the helm, and all these demonstrations in Australia, in Europe, and kids saying, it's our planet, excuse me, it is what we have inherited from you, and please, so they're talking to the politicians, the policy makers, because you know Padma, I really believe the most important story is policy. It is the narrative that affects all our lives, that could kill us, that could make us live. What do you suggest for young people to do as they face the reality of climate change? Be kind, be kind, and be kind when you think of kindness, inevitably if you're a Filipino, you'll have to think of the kakwa, yeah, because, and then your kindness extends to be kind to the earth, and if you're thinking of kindness, you know how we are so, we only think sometimes of, oh, I'm kind to my mother, my father, my friends, but you have to remember, but if you think, you know, it's really rethinking your framework, but if you're thinking that, okay, my family is kapo, my friends are kapo, but they won't, but because the rivers are their kapo as well, then if I am kind to my mother, if I'm kind to my friends, extension ya ne, yung pagkakapoanya, kapoanya rin yung ilog, kapoanya yung air, yung daga, yung lupa, so the kindness extends to these, even to the littlest animals, and that's how I wish, and it's easy for children, especially at a very young age, to probably still think beyond themselves, because when we're older, we're very much on the lookout for number one, which is the I, we'll get very obsessed with the vertical pronoun, but children, maybe I like to think if, although it is so easy with all the YouTube and the technology and they can see, and the consumer society, we forget the we, we have to return to the we, and maybe just placstaduhi natin muna yung vertical pronoun, pahigain. So since Agam was published in 2014, we've seen this rise in Clifi or climate fiction. Why do you think that that happened? I think there is, it's because first, personally, because I've written Clifi, and they call Locust Girl a Love Song Clifi, which is a bigger picture of a waterless planet. So really, it's very much about my water concern is extended in that book, but it's also about refugees when resources are controlled, and water is being controlled only by a few people, and eventually, there will come a time that there will only be, that's this Clifi book that is only one place, Potman Greenhaven in the planet, everything is desert. That's how where we are headed. That's what we're doing to the planet. It's a very grim kind of way of looking at the progression of our narrative, but that's how we are. You know, that's how what we've been doing. So there is a trend. Why is there a trend of Clifi? Because our bodies feel it. Your body is aware of what's happening to climate. We just had an earthquake, we just had, we just had, nature is telling us there's something. The planet is protesting, and we, if you are, yeah, your body knows it and feels it. You feel the heat, you feel the cold, you feel the, you feel the lack of water. So I think, I always, you know, all my works are about, are always grounded in the body, and of course, the planet is a body. So I think, because we feel it, so Clifi, it is, we're seeing it in the disasters, in our super storms, we see it. And you mentioned grim, so there are very grim imaginings of the future in a lot of Clifi. What do you think that implies for our abilities to face that future with all the uncertainty and also the despair, but also hope? Yes. In fact, I write about very grim issues from war to domestic violence, child prostitution. These are my, I write about trauma a lot, and I write about really the dying planet. But all the time, I am always saying, there is, you, there, I don't want to despair, there is always hope, and in fact, even in Locust Girl, a love song, which they call a Clifi, it is very much about love. Again, you know, even if it's a very, it's not set in the Philippines, it's in a mythical time in the future, but love still goes back to Kapua. It's something that's part of our, of our culture, and I know sometimes we bandy around the word Kapua and love, it has become so, we have become so glib in the way we use it. But at the end of the day, it is probably what we need. And I don't, it's not a case of all we need is love, you know, that kind of thing. No, no, no. No, I am talking about meaningful loving, where it is about feeling, thinking, doing. And there is a self-awareness as you love. There is a kind of a self-reflexivity, a self-critique. It's not just, you know how you can say, "Oh, I'm kind and I'm good." The kind of a self, a kind of, I think there is, there should be an ethics, an issue of ethics in the loving, accountability. It's, it strikes me how it's easy to say, to talk about kindness. But when we think of it as a practice, it can actually be quite difficult. It is, it is, yes, it can be very difficult. However, having said that, there are also, that's why I believe in hope, there's hope. I don't despair because even if it's, when you become conscious, you know, when you become, you think, "Kind, I'll have to be kind." It's difficult. And we talk about, and we see so much unkindness in the world, you know, locally and globally. But it gives me hope when I see people doing acts of kindness unconsciously even. And I want, I think for me, because I am despairing of the way we tell stories, really. I'm despairing of the 24/7 media cycle where it's all very grim, very depressing. And it's like there's no, and all the infighting. And we all are in the race for who tells the worst, the best story of tragedy. And we, we seem to revel in it. And we have forgotten, there's another side. We have forgotten to tell the stories of kindness. And so my, it's an advocacy again. My project now is to put it there. It has the voices, the invisible, please see the invisible. I go back to that. Because it has become invisibilized because we're talking about conflict all the time. We're talking about unkindness all the time. And they do exist. I am not talking about an easy way out. I'm not talking about a polyana nesk, polyana nesk, polyana nesk attitude or approach to storytelling. I am talking about balance. If you're going to write about conflict, tell the story, please, tell, see the invisible. There are stories of kindness. They do exist. You've seen this. I've seen this. I've lived this. But I never talk about it. Because I was also one of those who was very much into writing about conflict. Because of course conflict, you see that. And of course, as a novelist, conflict is drama. You don't have a story without conflict. But then, and the danger for any storyteller is that you focus on that and you forget the other side. And it's a beautiful other side. My last question for you is, I wish I could, I'm tempted to hazard a guess, but I will hold back. I would like to hear you first. What is your superpower? When I saw that among the questions, I thought, when you send me that question, I actually, my response, I have no superpower. I never think in terms of superpower. If you had one, what would it be? If I had one, I think if I wished for one, if there is a, if you know, you think of the superpower, the superheroes, if I could have a superpower, I would like very much the power to shift people's consciousness and change the narrative, change how we tell stories. And if, I believe, if we shift how we story, because story begins not when you put a story, not when you speak, not when you write, but the moment you see, you're already telling a story. So you can have even stories of unkindness just by looking at making judgments of other people. Yeah? But you can also have very good positive stories by just the kindness of sight, I call it. So if I have this, if I could have that, if I could, I would have, I want a superpower so that I could gift it back, give it back. I could touch each one. And if I have that superpower, each time I touch a body, they would return to that, to they would remember what they already have within them, because I still believe that each one has that, the capacity to tell a kinder story and to live a kinder story. So the superpower, if I were, you know, one of those superheroes flying around, I'd fly around and touch everyone, touch everyone, so they can revise, revision our storytelling powers, and story living powers. And also, not when you, storytelling is not just telling, but also listening, that we can listen to each other and have conversations. Then the, you know, in Bicol we always say, the first thing when we see each other, first, you know, I think it's a typical thing with Filipinos, "Ano na kaum ka na, have you eaten?" And then it is, "Riaan kita," let's tell stories. But storytelling is a give and take, it's telling and listening. So imagine if one has a superpower to shift the storytelling and listening, so that people can live and tell and listen to stories, that view relate to each other, including our planet, our rivers of waters, Ascapua. Then I think we'll be a better planet, and we, we will feel better about ourselves too. I think you already have a superpower, I don't know about that, and what it is, is you make the invisible visible. Oh, well, thank you, but I think every writer does that. I'm just one of them, I'm just one of them. And when I talk about writer, by the way, I should probably use the word. Let me rephrase it, every storyteller has that. Because you see, I think I became a writer because I come from a family of storytellers, my grandfather, my grandmother, my father, they tell stories, so the oral storytelling. And in fact, that's what I love most, that's why I'm into performance, because the orality of the story, the body, it's the body that tells the story. Text, text is good, I love text, but text without the body, no thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much for speaking with me and allowing me to share these little, you know, wishes perhaps. They're beautiful stories, so we're very grateful that you shared your stories with us. Thanks for listening to Agam, the Climate Podcast, a podcast about climate change without jargon. Continue the conversation with us next episode. We are a part of the Agam Agenda out of the Institute for Climate and Sustainable Cities based in the Philippines. You can hear past episodes and engage online with us on Facebook, Twitter and Agam.ph. That's A-G-A-M.ph. Special thanks to Ground Bravo Studios, Far Eastern University, and you, our listeners, for your support.