SOUTH OF  THE 8TH PARALLEL: When the ash fell and the moon rose

SOUTH OF  THE 8TH PARALLEL: When the ash fell and the moon rose

There were mornings in Cotabato when the air itself seemed to pray. Before sunrise, the city held its breath. The call to prayer unfurled from the minaret—long, liquid, unhurried—threading through the damp air above the Rio Grande. It slipped past capiz windows and over corrugated roofs, through coconut fronds and electric wires, as if blessing everything equally: sari-sari stores, tricycles, the narrow lanes still wet from the night. Not long a…