That myth was blown to wind on the day I stood on a wooden, makeshift weather-beaten bridge in the middle of the Badjao community in Zamboanga. A boy wearing a red shirt, as school uniform, gracefully rested his chin on the school window. I was just standing beside him on the other side of the wall: me looking in, him looking into me. Slowly, color was fading in, fading out with old memory. Memory of my imagination, to be exact. I regard him as a brother regardless of a religion that separated us.