In the '50s, I was traveling alone all over Mindanao, Basilan

Host: The sun was sinking behind the hills, bleeding orange and amber across the horizon. The sea shimmered below — calm, endless, ancient. The faint sound of waves reached the balcony where Jack and Jeeny sat, two cups of lukewarm coffee between them, the faint smell of salt, smoke, and wood in the air.

They were in Zamboanga, on the edge of the old harbor, where stories still drifted like echoes of another time. The air carried a rhythm of both peace and history, of memory that refused to fade.

Jack: “I read something earlier. F. Sionil José said — ‘In the ’50s, I was traveling alone all over Mindanao, Basilan, all the way to Tawi-Tawi with just a camera and a notebook. I always stayed in the houses of Moros.’”

Host: Jeeny turned her head, the wind catching her hair, her eyes reflecting the last streaks of sunlight.

Jeeny: “That sounds like something from a different world. A world before fear drew borders around trust.”

Jack: “Exactly. Imagine that — traveling alone through Mindanao with nothing but a notebook. Staying in Moro homes, sleeping under roofs of strangers. Try doing that today — you’d be told it’s dangerous, reckless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was just as dangerous then, but he didn’t see it that way. Maybe he saw people first, not divisions.”

Host: The breeze picked up, carrying the faint chant of a muezzin from across the bay. The call to prayer mingled with the crash of the waves — a sound that seemed to belong to both heaven and earth.

Jack: “You think we’ve lost that kind of courage? Or curiosity?”

Jeeny: “Both. But it’s not just courage we’ve lost — it’s intimacy. We’ve replaced connection with caution. We build walls around our comfort zones and call it safety.”

Jack: “You make it sound like safety’s a sin.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s a luxury that can blind us. José wasn’t just wandering for adventure — he was seeking understanding. Traveling through Basilan, Tawi-Tawi — he wasn’t a tourist; he was a witness.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his face half in shadow, half lit by the dying light. His voice was low, contemplative.

Jack: “I envy that kind of solitude — purposeful solitude. The kind that doesn’t isolate but connects. You travel alone, yet you’re never lonely because every stranger becomes a story.”

Jeeny: “But solitude isn’t the same anymore. Today, even when we travel alone, we’re connected to everyone — phones, screens, posts. We never let ourselves vanish into the world.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what José had — the gift of vanishing. To walk into a village without an agenda, to sit with people whose language you barely speak, and still belong.”

Host: The sky deepened to a deep blue, and the first stars began to appear, faint but steady. The air grew cooler, and the lamps of fishermen blinked out on the water like floating fireflies.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That José wasn’t just traveling through geography — he was traveling through humanity. The Moros, the Christians, the mountains, the sea — they weren’t destinations; they were mirrors. He went to see the Philippines — and ended up finding himself.”

Jack: “You’re turning him into a poet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was one. The kind who didn’t need verses — only eyes that knew how to see.”

Host: A faint silence settled, as if the world paused to listen.

Jack: “You know, I’ve been to Mindanao once. Not as far as Tawi-Tawi — just Davao. I remember the tension there, the unspoken caution. Everyone polite, but watchful. It wasn’t hatred — it was distance.”

Jeeny: “That distance was built by generations of misunderstanding. Centuries of Manila’s politics, wars, betrayals — all etched into the way people look at each other. And yet José walked into that and was welcomed. Why?”

Jack: “Because he came with nothing — no power, no entourage, no fear. Just a notebook. And that makes people lower their guard. When you come with no weapon, your honesty becomes your armor.”

Jeeny: “And your vulnerability becomes your bridge.”

Host: Jeeny’s words lingered. The waves rolled slower now, rhythmic, hypnotic. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his eyes — tired, searching.

Jack: “I wonder what he wrote in that notebook. About the Moros. About the islands. About the silence that must’ve followed the call to prayer at dusk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wrote about the way strangers offered him food. Or the way their children laughed. Or maybe he just wrote about how it felt to belong somewhere you were never supposed to.”

Jack: “That’s rare now — belonging without possession. To be welcomed, not owned. To see, not take.”

Jeeny: “It’s the difference between travel and conquest.”

Host: The wind shifted. Somewhere below, a radio played a slow kundiman, faint and wistful. The melody slipped into the night, dissolving into the sound of the sea.

Jack: “You think it’s still possible? That kind of encounter — where trust is enough?”

Jeeny: “Trust doesn’t disappear. It just hides when fear becomes louder. There are still people in those islands who will open their homes to you, Jack — if you come with the same heart José did.”

Jack: “That’s the thing. I don’t know if I have that kind of heart anymore. The world taught me to calculate, not to trust. To ask ‘why’ before I ask ‘who.’”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why José’s story matters now more than ever — because it reminds us of what we’ve traded away. We gained information, but lost intimacy. We gained safety, but lost faith in each other.”

Host: The lamps outside flickered; the moonlight touched the edge of the table, turning the spilled coffee into a small, shimmering pool.

Jack: “Faith. That’s a dangerous word these days.”

Jeeny: “Only because people mistake it for blindness. But real faith — in people, in goodness — is seeing clearly and choosing to trust anyway.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s been betrayed and still forgives.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only way to stay human.”

Host: Jack looked out over the bay, where the waves met the darkness. The faint glow of fishing boats pulsed like heartbeat in the water.

Jack: “You know, José traveled with only a camera and a notebook — tools to see and to remember. Maybe that’s all we really need in life. To look closely, and to not forget.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when we remember, we keep bridges alive. Between people, between islands, between histories.”

Host: The night had deepened now. The sound of the sea was constant, eternal. Jack stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, his voice softer than before.

Jack: “Maybe the real journey is not the road, but the courage to cross into another soul.”

Jeeny: “And to be received not as an intruder — but as a guest.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes reflecting the last light from the horizon. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full, like a prayer.

The wind carried the scent of the sea, the faint laughter of children somewhere in the distance, and the memory of a man who once walked through Mindanao with nothing but trust and words.

And in that stillness, Jack and Jeeny understood — the truest form of travel isn’t movement across land, but the journey toward understanding. To see the world as José did: without armor, without suspicion, with a notebook in hand and a heart unafraid to enter another home.