By Sanen Marshall parishioner of St Simon Church, Likas
It must have been some years ago now when, passing through the check-in counter at Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA), I overheard a couple of airport staff members chatting. They were speaking in one of the dialects that linguists call the Central Sama group of languages.
“Min Sampulna na kaa?” I asked one of them. From Semporna, are you?
“Aho,’ aheka na bangsabi maitu,” came the reply. Yes. There are many of us here.
They wanted to know where I had learned their language. In the water villages, I replied, also, on the decks of houseboats and while fishing in the middle of the sea. However, hearing this language spoken in the sterile corridors of international air travel was a new experience for me.
During a recent visit to the United Kingdom, I had an even more striking encounter of this kind while waiting in a grocery aisle behind a woman making a video call on her phone.
As she aimed her camera phone at the groceries so her friends could see, I could make out the words wala’ (not), wayruun (none) and hinangun (make).
“Are you Tausug?” I asked tentatively.
“I am Tausug”, she replied.
“Mataud na Tausug paghulaan didtu?” I continued. Are there many Tausug living here?
“Mataud, awn na kami Facebook,” she replied.
I offered her my phone, and she proceeded to show me a page called TauBrit; tau meaning ‘person,’ and Brit being a short form of British.
Interestingly, the members of this London-domiciled group had chosen to substitute Sug, the name of the people of Sulu, for ‘Brit,’ the name of the people there.
TauBrit was filled with images of dances, ‘Haylaya’ celebrations, and formal dinners, where they dressed in traditional Tausug regalia, complete with headdresses.
“Unu in hinang mu?” I continued. What is your work?
“Cleaner,” she said. “I am actually on my way to work now.”
Her story was different from the KLIA encounter. She represented those who had opted to leave everything familiar behind.
“Maghula aku ha daira Kota Kinabalu,” I persisted in Tausug. I live in Kota Kinabalu city.
“Oh, I grew up there!” she exclaimed, “I miss Sabah a lot”, she added. Then off she went. She was working shift hours.
The next day, I telephoned my Bajau Laut friend in Lahad Datu to discuss this curious encounter.
‘Tasuyu kaa,’ I said, ‘makbak aku a’a Sug maitu!’ Do you know that I met a Tausug person here?
She laughed and said, “Maingga-maingga lahad aniya Pala’u maka a’a Sug. Minsan du alawak, bang aniaya usaha, pehe ru magusaha!” In any land, there will be Bajau Laut and Tausug people. Even though it’s far, if there is work, there go to work.”
In this Year of Jubilee, such encounters reveal that human dignity can be found in unexpected circumstances. In the words of minority languages spoken thousands of miles from home. In Facebook communities that preserve traditions across continents. And in the age-old human practice of seeking work and hope beyond familiar horizons.
