By Anisha Elin Guro, New York City.
I confess that I had always dreamt of going to America ever since I was a kid. In my wildest dreams, I could see myself frolicking with kids my age-- playing under the trees, running across streams and chasing rabbits. Oh, the dreams that I dream when I was a kid! How could I blame people who have their own American dreams? I always had my own aspiration decades before I would actually feel the breeze that my imaginary little American friends enjoyed.
But, after few trips to America and having lived in New York City for over a year now, I can say that I have not really achieved my American dream. I have visited more States in the United States of America (USA) even more than some Americans have, but I could not find the America in my vision. Perhaps, I never will. Unhappily, I have to accept that the America of my childhood only existed in my fantasy.
I knew of course, even as a child, that the America I was imagining was a place that was already long lost and forgotten. I wasn’t expecting to see it but nonetheless, I was hoping to see a remnant of it, a memorandum, a reminder of that world long time ago before the founding fathers of the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave ever set foot on that continent and then robbed the real Free and the Brave of their beloved Turtle Island.
Finally, I met someone who would take me back to the America of my childhood. His name is Tom Porter. It is quite an easy name to remember I have to admit, rather than his other name: Sakokwenionkwas. He is a Mohawk, a member of the Bear Clan. His people (the Mohawk Nation) have joined other nations – Onondaga, Oneida, Cayuga, Seneca and Tuscarora to form the Six Nations. They are commonly known to us as the Indians of North America or the USA.
They are the original inhabitants of the USA, or the Turtle Island as they refer to their land. Of course, we all know that they no longer own their land. Some Europeans long time ago felt the need to establish their own empire away from the control of their own kings and queens and decided one day that they must have freedom, independence and land. Never mind if it meant snatching away other people’s freedom, independence and land.
Sakokwenionkwas talked about his people’s successful return to their ancestral homeland, Kanatsiohareke. People thought that after hundreds of years, it was impossible for the traditional Mohawk Indians not only to return to “The Place of the Clean Pot,” but also to practice their old ways, customs and traditions. But they made it and this inspiring story was the subject of Tom Porter’s book – Kanatsiohareke: Traditional Mohawk Indians Return to Their Ancestral Homeland.
This was the America I was thinking of when I was a little girl. I read about Indians in my story books. Most often, they weren’t portrayed nicely. They weren’t the good guys in the stories. But there was one story that remained etched in my memory. It is the story of a little Indian girl who strayed away from her home one cold day. After sometime, she needed to get warm and had no choice but to come into the log house of a family of White people.
Reluctantly, they let her in, although they were afraid of an ambush from the little Indian girl’s family. The story ended happily with the Indians “realizing” that the White people meant no harm with the little girl going home to her family. The White people? Well, they were happy that they need not use their guns. I guess, there is something in the parallelism of the real story of the Moro people and the Indian nations that made me think nicely, kindly and dreamily of the Indians instead of the people who wrote stories about them.
I was too young of course to think of that similarity. But, my sympathy always went with the Indians, not the blue-eyed young girls with golden hairs whose fathers had guns just in case they needed to shoot an Indian. When Sakokwenionkwas talked about his people, I could not help but identify myself with him. It was as if, a Moro was talking in front of me, instead of a Mohawk.
The Mohawk values that he explained to the audience, were the same values we hold dear. Mohawks don’t call elderly people by their first names. Elder people, regardless of your relation to them should either be called grandfather or grandmother. Like them, we also call our elderly either Bapa and Babo, or uncle or aunt respectively. If we have the same values, we also have the same problems.
The destruction of the Mohawks and the other Indian nations was not only by means of force. History bears witness that no amount of genocide could actually wipe out a whole group of people. The Mohawks survived. So did the Moros. Of course, the Jews, the Kurds, the Armenians, the Kosovars and the Bosnians and a whole lot others. But, there are other more subtle means that could exterminate a group of people.
The concept -- Kill the Indian, but Save the Man meant that the Indian will be forced, beguiled, persuaded, tricked, encouraged and lured to abandon his culture, religion, values and ways of life and become integrated into the mainstream culture. There were several ways these were achieved. Schools were put up that teach the native people ways that were different from their own. But, one of the most destructive was the introduction of alcohol and drugs. When these were introduced to the Mohawks, nobody need not destroy them. They did the job themselves.
It was like somebody telling me the story of the Moro people, the Meranaos most particularly. He said something that brought tears not only to his eyes but the audience as well who kept a stony silence as we waited for him to finish his story. I realized that it wasn’t without a good reason that I treasured the Indians in my heart ever since I was a young girl. My respect to the Indian chief grew as I listened to him say these words:
How do you deal with broken hearts? How do you touch a heart that’s broken? How do you tell them not to touch marijuana so they can have a good chance in life? You need to be a good mother and a good father. If you are a real Indian, you should never touch alcohol and drugs.
I could feel the hot tears in my eyes threatening to stream down my cheeks. This time, they weren’t only for the Mohawks. Those tears were also for us Meranaos. We may not have forgotten to call our elderly Bapa and Babo, but certainly, some of us have fallen preys to drug and alcohol, not merely as a vice but as a profession. Who among our elders had the courage to say to our brothers and sisters that if we are true Meranaos and royal-blood, we should never give in to drugs and drug-pushing? If there were, were these calls heeded at all? How come we Meranaos are ready to get at the throat of anybody who would force us to eat pork, and not at someone who would make us entirely forget who we are, what our dear ancestors died for that we may remain to be the Meranaos of yonder times?
Despite my tears and my numbing disenchantment about the plight of the Meranaos, I realized that somehow we are better survivors than the Mohawk Indians. We still have our land, Ranao. We still populate our land and unlike the Mohawks who could only dream one day or returning to their valley, which they did incidentally, we were able to hold on to our beloved land. Thanks to the bravery of Sultan Kudarat, Sultan Pandapatan of Bayang and Amai Pakpak who paid with their blood that we can hold our heads up high and retain our customs and traditions and still speak our language. Somehow, I saw a ray of hope for us. Perhaps it is not yet too late.
Perchance, we can still keep our society from disintegrating apart. Let us not dream of returning to our own valley. Let us keep our rolling hills and valleys while we still have the opportunity. And if we are to be true Meranaos, we should never touch drugs nor alcohol. The Mohawks have a term for these: something like mind changers. Indeed, these dangerous substances have a way of altering the minds of both the user and the pusher that they no longer think along the lines of morals, values, sanity and relations.
I was feeling nostalgic about my own people while Sakokwenionkwas was still discussing. I remembered finding an old picture from the internet of a Meranao datu on horseback wayback in the early 19th century who looked every bit an Indian without the feather headdress. I also found a lovely but foreboding picture of Moros together with some Americans. The writing on the photo reads : #34- Gen. Sumner’s Conference with Sultans of Bayang and Oato, At Camp Vicars Mindanao, P. 1. Perhaps, these were the same Sultans of Bayang and Wato who died that we may live with pride and honor. Perhaps, it was the last snapshot of the Moro Sultans before their Kris met the Krag. It wasn’t merely a coincidence that the Moros were called the Indians of the Philippines. We share the same courage, ferocity, valor and sadly, history. Suddenly, I realized that my beloved Indian Chief was no longer crying. He was relating another story.
Indeed, he is like our urban legend of a Meranao Bapa, full of stories, wit and humor. But I did not realize how closely they are alike until he shifted to another genre. He said that in one of the gatherings of the Six Nations, one of them came up with the solution to the problems of the Indians in North America. The proponent argued that the Six Nations need only to build a massive ship.
At that point, I was curious how could the building of a large vessel be the answer to the Indian’s woe? Then, he continued on quoting the advocate of that brilliant idea: “We will build a huge ship and then, we will put all the Europeans inside the ship and send them home!!!” The hall roared with laughter, even the White guests could not help but laugh. Of course, it was meant to be a joke, but, on the other hand…? Ha, perhaps we should also hire all the buses in Mindanao and put all the Visayans and the Luzones in those buses and send them home!
