FICTIONIST Januar Yap won thrice in the Cebuano Short Story category of the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, considered as the country’s premier literary battleground for veteran and rookie wordsmiths.
In 2000, his magic realism-influenced “Ang Suhito” got the second prize. The story had echoes of Salman Rushdie’s novel “Midnight’s Children.”
It took an ocean of 15 years for the creative writer and SunStar Cebu editor to snatch another Palanca award.
The communication and journalism professor at the University of the Philippines Cebu won third prize for his “Liboa’g Usa Ka Hugon-Hugon Kabahin sa Tagulilong” in 2015.
That same year, SuperBalita Cebu language consultant Lamberto Ceballos got the first prize for “Tuba” in the same category. Both Yap and Ceballos are members of Bathalan-ong Halad sa Dagang or Bathalad Cebu, a group of creative writers.
The awards in 2000 and 2015 only gave Yap the prizes and ribbons.
Yap is no mad Captain Ahab chasing an enigmatic white whale. But this year, the writer finally captured the Moby Dick of Philippine Literature, the Palanca medal, after winning the first prize for his story, “Baradero” (“Drydock”).
Yap said he has no plans to pawn the medal.
What was the inspiration of “Baradero?” How did it come into being?
“Baradero” is a chapter in a composite novel-in-progress called “Arkipelagorya,” which I hope to finish this year. The novel’s title is a portmanteau of “archipelago” and “allegory.” I am looking at narratives and imaginaries that transpire between the islands. In other words, seafaring. When I bumped into this story about 300 lepers that were transported from Cebu to Culion island in 1906, I was hooked right away. I saw that it fit thematically into the novel, and thus “Baradero.”
Was it difficult to write the story?
It was, and that was how I got the hunch that it was headed somewhere interesting. The challenge was filtering accumulated research and not lose focus on the humanity of the characters.
What is “Baradero” all about?
Many things. Seafaring, archipelagic—one wonders how much of the sea gets into the way of our consciousness as a country. Aren’t we all in this ship of fools? Is this ship stuck or moving forward. And if we are moving, to which direction? Another note in the story is also that part on the policy and management of leprosy cases in the country in the early part of the century. Far from perfect since the Philippines was pioneering in leprosy research, but the painful part was that in some cases, it was weaponized for political and other aims. Some method that seems true in our country today.
What does it mean for a writer to win a Palanca?
That one’s piece of work is validated by one’s peers. We are poor judges of our own work, so occasions like the Palanca allow us a chance to determine whether we’re doing it right or not. Not that it defines all of your writing, but it’s pretty helpful if you wish to gauge your imagination.
You are not a seer, but if you can think about the future of Cebuano Literature, what would it be like?
That, finally, we’ll outgrow labels like “Cebuano Literature.” That what we’re doing here, in this language, IS “national literature” as well. There is that unspoken notion that just because you’re writing away from the capital means you’re writing about a “locale” and it seems like an obligation to portray “local color.” Whatever that means. On the other hand, there is a way of thinking that’s inherent in our own language, something that’s hard to translate. That is to say there is a whole universe of new things to say as our contribution to the national consciousness.
What is your message to young writers writing in the Cebuano?
I hope to see more young writers pushing the envelope as far as writing in Cebuano is concerned. Write in the Cebuano that you know, grow from there. Be honest, experiment. Put premium on ambition, outgrow that temptation to settle for what’s cute and safe. Throw your imagination into the fire and see it billow.