The red blood depicted in Zoluaga’s piece snakingly flows like the ancestral rivers in Tumandok lands. The winding ripples twined below the navels of these figures as if tugging them to stay immobile. But hear no petty cavilings from their travails, these are steadfast clan leaders who are vigorously marching along the correct line-of-path.
“I asked why they killed him, and they denied it. But I saw it with my own two eyes, they shot my husband.”