Ni Adoracio Miranda Yulo
Nang tayo’y sakupin ng mga, Kastila, hindi lamang pananampalataya ang ipinamana sa atin kundi bagay-bagay na kung hindi man ikayayaman ay pinakinabangan naman bagama’t ang iba ay may halong pagsisisi.
Isa rito ang bahala nang sistema. Ilan sa mga naghihikahos ang di ito malayuan kaysa magsikap muna. Naniniwala sila rito na mabisa sapagkat inilalagay nila sa Diyos ang pangangasiwa ng anuman sa buhay nila. Ngunit hindi ba ito mapanganib? Para sa iba kung sila’y pinalad, parusa ng Diyos kaya bahala na. ang iba naman ay di magsisi ang Diyos. Bakit pa sisisi ng iba hindi ba sila rin ang may kagagawan ng kanilang kabiguan? Hanggang sa kasalukuyan, ang paniniwala sa sistemang ito ay hindi pa nawawala. Ito ba ang dahilan ng di lubusang pag-unlas na ating kabuhayan o ginagawa lamang sangkalan ng mga ayaw magsikap sapagka’t nananaig ang katamaran?
Sa ganitong kalagayan ng paninindigan ng marami ay nawawala ang apoy at lakas ng puspusang pagsisikap para sa isang makulay na ambisyon. Nguni’t saan ito nagmula? Sa mga itinuro sa atin noon na huwag labanan sapagka’t ang Diyos ay hindi natutulog kaya’t ang katarungan ay igagawad din sa mga mapagtiis? “Blessed are the poor for theirs is the Kingdom of God.” Nagpapalakas ito sa sistemang binanggit subali’t nasaan ang sinasabing kahariang ito, sa Tondo, Novaliches o Carmona?
Ningas kogon. Tayong mga Pilipino ay mahilig sa pagsisimula ng magagandang proyekto o gawain para sa sarili o para sa iba. Masiglang-masigla ang kalooban, at halos buhos na buhos . Ang ilang kaisipan ay tinatabi at ang isa lamang ang pinag-aaksayahan ng buong panahon. Marami ang nabihag niya kaya masaya siya. Nakikini-kinita na niya ang tagumpay na hindi magtatagal ay mapapasakanya. Sa isang pag-uusap, may bagay silang di pinagkakasunduan. Isa sa kanyang mga kapanalig ay naging salungat sa mga panukala nila. May sumang-ayon naman subali’t dahil sa iba-ibang palagay, pansamantalang itinigil ang talakayan upang bigyan ng pagkakataong mapaglimi-limiang bagay na iyon.
Nang muling magpulong ang pangkat, iilan lamang ang dumalo. Napakarami ng iba-ibang dahilan na ibinigay sa hindi pagkakadalo sa pagkakataong iyon. Ito ba’y nangangahulungang wala na silang gana? Nais mo bang sabihin na humupa na ang ningas na nagliliyab na kogon at di magatatagal ay magiging isang abo? Napakagaling ng haka-haka mo. Nawalan na sila ng sigla dahil lamang sa pangyayaring iyon. At ang mamumuni ay unti-unti na ring pinagtakasan ng sigla. Nasaan ang hangarin niyang makatulong? Nasaan ang katuparan ng kanyang layunin? Nasaan ang ikatatagumpay ng napakaraming mungkahi, panukala at kilusan na hindi maitataguyod? Pawang balak nguni’t hindi isinasakatuparan hanggang sa tuluyang mawalan ng init at sigla at tuluyang maging malamig. Saying na paghahanda – palatuntunan, binipisyo mga papuri. Napakaganda ng simula nguni’t walang naaaninag na langit. Kulang sa tangkilik o kulang sa determinasyon? Isa ngang di kanais-nais na pag-uugali.
Mañana . . . mamaya na . . . bagama’t umuukilkil sa isipan niya ang pag-aalala. Alam niya na ninakaw nito ang oras niya. Masasabi mo ba na ito’y katamaran o kawalan ng pagpapahalaga sa mga bagay pa inaakala lamang ang kalalabasan. Hindi ba ito’y malaking hadlang sa pagsisiskap at pagiging makabulahan ang isang gawaing kapaki-pakinabang? Kung ang lipunan ang gagawa o susunod sa pilosopiyang ito, lalong malaking kawalan para sa lipunan. Bakit nga ba hihintayin pa ang bukas gayong may pagkakataon naman na gawin ngayon? Ang ngayon ay di na darating bukas.
Sabi nga ng matatanda, ang mamaya ay walang katapusan. Sa mga taong laging abala ang mañana ay walang puwang samantalang sa lagging nagsasabi ng mamamaya na gayong wala naming pinagkakaabalahan ay walang pakundangang paglulustay ng ganitong mga sandal na nakasisira at naglalagay sa kapahamaka ng kaunlaran.
Anong gagawin natin upang maiwaksi ang pilosopiyang ito na walang mabuting ibibgay lalo na sa kabataan? Hindi ba salungat ito sa kagustuhan ni Rizal tungkol sa paggamit panahon? Ito ba’y pasubali sa pilosopiya ni Aristotle na nag lahat ay pagpipilitang gawin ngayon gayong magdaranas ka ng hirap? Tambay-tambay muna at mainit pa ang panahon. Maya-maya ay malamig na, madaling matatapos ang gawaing iyan. Nguni’t kabaligtaran ang nangyayari sapagka’t ang mamaya ay naging mamaya ng isang kuwintas pa ng mamaya. Ito kaya ang ugat ng sususng-susong paghihirap ng karamihan lalo na ngayon? Dahil bas a kapaligiran, kawalan ng wasto at kinailangang pangganyak.
Napakagandang saloobin kung galit ang pinamamaya-maya upang humupa. Kaya lamang ay kapalaran ang nakataya. Nguni’t sa ngayon sa tatlong magkakasamang pag-uugaling Pilipino na namana natin sa mga mananakop, ang mañana ay humina na. Tila nagising ang mga Pilipino na sa kasalukuyangpanahon kapag pinairal natin ito, magigising na lamang silang ang kanilang binalak at pinaghandaan ay tinangay ng mga mapagsamantala na maglipana sa lipunan ngayon.
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
http://carlospromulo.org/2009/04/i-am-a-filipino/
Sinasabing ang kalinangan natin ay pinakamayaman kung ihahambing sa kalinangan ng ibang bansang Asyano dahil sa maraming uri ng dayuhan ang naparito at naghasik ng kanilang kalinangan na nagustuhan n gating mga ninuno, ginaya at sa tinagal tagal na panahon ay itinuring nang atin. Nguni’t may pagkakaiba pa rin bagama’t nakatulad. Halimbawa ang kaugalian ng Intsik sa pag-aasawa.
Ang isang dalagang tumuntong sa ika-anim na taong gulang ay kailangang ihanap ng isang kaibigan na magpapakilala sa kanya sa isang kaibigan o mapapangasawa. Maaring magkalayo o magkatulad ang uri ng pagkatao. Kakausapin ng isang “mother” ang magulang ng babae at ilalahad ang sadya at uri ng inilalapit niyang pag-ibig ng binata. Maaring sa pamamagitan ng larawan o di kaya ipakikilala ng harap-harapan. Kung nagkagustuhan sa pagkikitang ito, maaari ng ituloy ang mga nararapat pag-usapan –kaugalian, hangarin at at mga balak. Kapag nagkasundo, itatakda ang tinawag na “tenghon” na kung saan magkakasalu-salo ang pamilya at babae pati na mga kamag-anak at piling kaibigan. Ang bawa’t panig ay pawang may handog sa nagiibigan, bibiyenanin o hihipagin.
Ang handaan ay ayon sa kakayahan ng magulang. Ang tenghon ay parang lisensya upang ang dalawang nagiibigan ay hayaang magusap, mamasyal o kumain sa labas, na hindi kailangan ang tsaperon. Panahon din ito upang ihanda ang nalalapit na kasal.
Ngunit ang masakit ay sa panig ng babae. Ibibili sya ng magulang nya ng lahat ng kakailanganin sa buhay may asawa—mga damit at sapatos, mga alahas, lalo na brilyante na di dapat mawala ( anim na pares o higit ayon sa kaya ng magulang ) , kama , mga silya, piano, makina, kotse, repredyereytor, planggana ng bata, at mga kagamitan nito. Pati na bahay ay bibigyan kung may kaya ang magulang at may perang inilagak sa bangko para sa anak na magasawa samantalang ang lalaki ay walang ganitong pagkakagastahan kundi isang handaan pagkatapos ng kasal kailangan ang bilang ng lamesa ay anim, labindalawa, labinwalo, dalawampu’t apat at hindi pwedeng hindi ganito ang bilang ang paniniwala nila, swerte raw ito. Kung nais ng babae ay pwede pa ring maghanda kaya higit na marami ang gugugulin babae.
Naniniwala sila na ang anak na babaeng nagasawa ay hindi maaaring apihin ng kabilang pamilya nguni’t hindi na rin sya maaring makibahagi sa kayamanan ng magulang kahit nga ito ay maging milyonaryo pa. sa kabilang dako, ang anak na lalaki ay may karapatan pa sa magiging mabuting kapalaran ng magulang. At kapag natapos na ang kasal, walang halaga na sa sariling magulang ang anak na babae. Ni hindi na sya pwedeng lumipat sakaling anuman ang mangyari sapagka’t ang turing sa kaniya ay iba ng pamilya ( hindi naman lahat lalo na sa mga modernong Intsik ).
Sa Pilipino naman, ang lahat ng paghahanda at paggagastos ay dapat manggaling sa panig ng lalaki sapagka’t kung ang babae ay gumastos mawawalan ng dangal ang panig ng lalaki. Kapag namanhikan, malapit na ang kasal kasi bago ito nangyari ang mga dapat gawin ay napagusapanna ng magkasintahan at hinihintay na lamang ay pagkakataong upang makapagtapat sa magulang. Ang iba pa nga ay handa na ang lahat pati restorang kakainan at simbahang pagdarausan ng kasal.
Huwag akalaing ganito kadali o kahirap ang pagaasawa sapagka’t bawa’t lahi at anumang kaugalian ay may kataliwasan.
Ngayon ay may pagbabago na ito sapagka’t nag-iba na nag ating panahon subalit mayroon pa ring mangilan ngilan na hindi nakalilimot sa kahapon.
Pinagkunan : Panitikang Filipino Kasaysayan at Pag-unlad
nina : Santiago, Erlinda M.
Alicia H. Kahayon, Magdalena P. Limdico
by John Stuart Thomson
SUMMARY
This novel, written by John Stuart Thomson and published in 1917, is about life in the Philippines, told through the point of view of an American who visits the country for the first time. The guest learns about the Philippines through his interaction with young Fil and Filippa and their family and friends. Through the story, Thomson shows how the Philippines is different from the United States by describing the rich natural resources, culture and traditions of the islands which he likens to “a string of pearls hanging from the golden Equator.”
The whole story is shown at :
http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/26414/pg26414.txt
SUMMARY
This novel, written by John Stuart Thomson and published in 1917, is about life in the Philippines, told through the point of view of an American who visits the country for the first time. The guest learns about the Philippines through his interaction with young Fil and Filippa and their family and friends. Through the story, Thomson shows how the Philippines is different from the United States by describing the rich natural resources, culture and traditions of the islands which he likens to “a string of pearls hanging from the golden Equator.”
The whole story is shown at :
http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/26414/pg26414.txt
By Alejandro R. Roces
from the book entitled English Communication Arts and Skills Through Anglo-American and Filipino Literature III
by Josephine B. Serrano and Milagros G. Lapid
published by Phoenix Publishing House, Inc.
Copyright, 1994
WE Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We drink when we are very happy. We drink when we are very sad. And we drink for any other reason.
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
from the book entitled Pinoy Pilgrim: in search of Filipino identity
by Manoling De Leon
published in Manila
Copyright, 2006
Negros in the 1920s was a land of promise; a blessed and rich fertile island that American-built sugar plantations turned into a blooming economy. Sugar was the Philippines’s number one export, and like any other boomtown, Bacolod attracted families from all over the world to work in her farms. My father was one of them.
His name was Gabino, and his friends called him Inong, but to us he was Papang. He was then a manager at Luneta Motors, a Ford Motor Company distributor in Manila. When he learned about the boom in Negros, he and my mother, Rosario or Chayong, decided to bring the whole family of eight young boys and girls from Manila and try their luck and start a new life.
They left Manila in 1929 and settled in Pulupandan, a town just outside Bacolod.
The town’s population was exploding. Thousands of workers from other island lived there side by side with the salesmen hawking their wares to the noveaux riches in the city who brought everything as soon as the dollars came flowing in.
My parents put up a small inn with a gas station beside it. Papang got himself appointed as the Bacolod dealer of Luneta Motors, selling machinery to farmers and landowners. He also brought a small farm where he planted sugars, just beside the bigger farm owned by a close planter friend who invited him to come over, buy a farm, and to manage both farms.
It was at this time when my family was happy and contended with life that I came into the world.
On the 10th of November 1931, I landed on my behind in Bacolod. I was the first boy in my family to be born in Negros. My ninong at baptism, I learned much later, was our parish priest, Fr. Ponce. I don’t know why among thousands of Papang’s friends , he chose a priest to be my ninong. Many years passed before I understood how having Fr. Ponce as my ninong was a part of God’s paln.
I think that being a ninong or godfather is one of the signs of being Pinoy. If you have not been a ninong yet, your life is not complete. I have been a ninong to over a hundred children all these years.
Do you know what a ninong or ninang is supposed to do?
A ninong is supposed to help his inaanak (godson or goddaughter) to grow up and be a decent gentlemen or lady, or at least someone who is not a criminal or social menace. For us Christians, being a ninong is a serious responsibility, because you have to help your inaanak be a man or woman of faith. Think about this the next time someone invites you to be a ninong or ninang.
I don’t remember even meeting him, but seeing how my life turned out, I’m sure Fr. Ponce took his duty as ninong seriously. He must have prayed hard for me, and to this day I thank God for this holy man, Papang’s friend, who agreed to be my ninong and watch over my spiritual life.
I spent my childhood growing up on our Negros sugar farm, six peaceful years marked by a rustic and simple existence. Three other brothers and sisters born in that span of time increased our family size to a dozen, a number that would frighten many government officials these days.
As I look back, growing up with eleven brothers and sisters was the best time of my life, always surrounded by someone I loved and adored, or “hated” in the innocent and childish sense of the word. Belonging to a large struggling family taught each one of us not only to survive, but also to thrive and bloom so we could become anything to anyone, a skill that proved very useful later in life.
It was also in Negros that I reached the age of reason, when my young mind learned to distinguish between good and bad, and where I developed my own unique personality of being different enough to attract attention, but at the same time being like my siblings with whom I shared the same parents and enjoyed the ups and downs of family life.
We fought childish fights, but we also dreamed childish dreams, and in growing up we learned to look out for each other, showing with deeds the love we shared. Through the years, the complex twists and turns of life strained my relationship with some of them, but as I write these lines I feel deep in my heart that I continue to love and adore each one of my brothers and sisters with a passion that can only come from me. I love them because of the great parents and family name we shared, and because each one of them become a part of what I am.
Of my siblings who had an impact on my childhood, I remember with fondness Teresita, the prettiest among my sisters. Just a year younger than me, she was our chief “sumbungera” or whistleblower. Isong was a year older than me but I treated him like a younger brother . I was his protector, and he became my first loyal follower who did everything I asked. Tuting was the fourth in the family, an athletic and very good-looking chap with simple tastes. Marisa was a hardheaded troublemaker whom we thought was jealous of Teresita’s beauty
Dealing with these four family characters at a young age sharpened my emotional development. I learned to hide my mischief from Teresita and grew in my concern for others because of Isong. Tuting taught me the value of serenity and living a simple life. And especially from Marisa, I learned not to take myself too seriously and to discover true beauty on others. It was she who gave our family an example of being there for each other no matter what the cost.
Some years later of our Singalong home, Marisa was carrying Dely’s baby daughter, Lita down a long flight of stairs when she slipped. She tumbled and rolled all the way, reaching the ground bloodied, bruised and shaken.
She could have save herself, but she did not. She rolled over and over, protecting Lita in a tight embrace, ready to give up her life or end a cripple just to keep our baby niece safe.
Since then, all of us siblings looked up to Marisa as a real hero, an example of courage and strength born of love. Our parents taught us to love each other, and each one was willing to do anything, even to die, for the others.
But of course, our home in Negros was not a convent or a monastery where everyone went around acting prim and proper. Neither was it a military school where everyone walked around thinking of heroic acts to do.
No. it was more like a carnival.
We had a riot all the time, each of the thirteen children (Ate Dely and Kuya Gabining were the bosses, so they were above it all) taking sides depending on the season or the cause of the trouble, but we enjoyed it tremendously.
Our family’s barkada structure kept changing boundaries, and for days the kids from one camp would not talk to those in the other camp. Yes, it was pure childishness, but we learned this way to adjust to each other’s temperaments, another useful skill that helped us to survive when we found ourselves years later out in the real world.
Then suddenly , when I was around six years old, we were yanked away from Bacolod and sent to Iloilo City, another island just a short boat ride away. My brothers and I studied at a private school in the city where I enrolled in Grade One.
And like most young boys, I fell in love with my Grade One teacher.
She was the first puppy love of my life outside of the family circle. With her, I learned how it was to be jealous, caring, and infatuated, and how to express my love (or what I thought was love) to a woman. She was so sweet, clean and smelled good. And her eyes…..! Crystal clear, sincere, and loving, I think it was those eyes that captivated me then, and that continue to enthrall me to this day as I sit writing some seventy years later. I wonder what became of her? To this day, I never knew, because right after classes ended in early 1938, just before I turned seven, we all moved back to Manila.
I never really knew until many years later why we had to return to Manila.. it had something to do with the collapse of one of my Papang’s business projects in Negros. He wanted to put up a horseracing tract just outside Bacolod and invested a lot of his personal money to import materials and horses from Australia. Something happened and the project didn’t work out, so he once again uprooted the whole family and brought us all back to Manila.
I Am a Filipino
By: Carlos P. Romulo
First appeared in The Philippines Herald in August 1941
I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task–the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.
I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope–hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.
This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green-and-purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hallowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof–the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals–the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world is no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes–seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the first invader of this land, that nerved Lakandula in the combat against the alien foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.
For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon-shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life-and-death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West–only individuals and nations making those momentous choices which are the hinges upon which history resolves.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For, through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when first they saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:
Land of the morning,
Child of the sun returning–
Ne’er shall invaders
Trample thy sacred shore.
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares upturning the earth, out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics, out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:
“I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance—for myself and my children and my children’s children—forever.”
By: Carlos P. Romulo
First appeared in The Philippines Herald in August 1941
I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task–the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.
I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope–hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.
This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green-and-purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hallowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof–the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals–the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world is no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes–seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the first invader of this land, that nerved Lakandula in the combat against the alien foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.
For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon-shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life-and-death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West–only individuals and nations making those momentous choices which are the hinges upon which history resolves.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For, through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when first they saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:
Land of the morning,
Child of the sun returning–
Ne’er shall invaders
Trample thy sacred shore.
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares upturning the earth, out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics, out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:
“I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance—for myself and my children and my children’s children—forever.”
MABINI'S DECALOGUE FOR FILIPINOS
http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/14660/pg14660.txt Apolinario Mabini, Martyr.
"Thou shalt love thy country after God and they honor and more than thyself: for she is the only Paradise which God has given thee in this life, the only inheritance of thy ancestors and the only hope of thy posterity."
PHILIPPINE PRESS BUREAU
Washington, D. C.
1922
MABINI
Mabini was undoubtedly the most profound thinker and political philosopher that the Pilipino race ever produced. Some day, when his works are fully published, but not until then, Mabini will come into his own. A great name awaits him, not only in the Philippines, for he is already appreciated there, but in every land where the cause of liberty and human freedom is revered.
Mabini was born in Tanawan, province of Batangas, island of Luzon, P.I., of poor Filipino parents, in 1864. He received his education in the "Colegio de San Juan de Letran." Manila, and in the University of
Santo Tomas. He supported himself while studying by his own efforts and made a brilliant record in both institutions. Later he devoted his energies to the establishment of a private school in Manila and to legal work.
Mabini came to the front in 1898 during the Pilipino revolution against Spain. In the subsequent revolution against the United States he became known as "the brains of the revolution." He was so considered by the American army officers, who bent every energy to capture him.
He was the leading adviser of Aguinaldo, and was the author of the latter's many able decrees and proclamations. Mabini's official position was President of the Council of Secretaries, and he also held the post of Secretary of the Exterior.
One of Mabini's greatest works was his draft of a constitution for the Philippine Republic. It was accompanied by what he called "The True
Decalogue," published in the pages following. Mabini's "ten commandments" are so framed as to meet the needs of Filipino patriotism for all time. He also drafted rules for the organization and government of municipalities and provinces, which were highly successful because of their adaptability to local conditions.
Mabini remained the head of Aguinaldo's cabinet until March, 1899, when he resigned. But he continued in hearty sympathy with the revolution, however, and his counsel was frequently sought.
Mabini was arrested by the American forces in September, 1899, and remained a prisoner until September 23, 1900. Following his release, he lived for a while in a suburb of Manila, in a poor nipa house, under the most adverse and trying circumstances. He was in abject poverty.
In spite of his terrible suffering from paralysis, Mabini continued writing. He severely criticised the government, voicing the sentiments of the Filipino people for freedom. He was ordered to desist, but to this, in one of his writings to the people, he replied: "To tell a man to be quiet when a necessity not fulfilled is shaking all the fibers of his being is tantamount to asking a hungry man to be filled before taking the food which he needs."
Mabini's logic was a real embarrassment to the American military forces, and in January, 1901, he was arrested a second time by the Americans. This time he was exiled to the island of Guam, where he remained until his return to Manila on February 26, 1903.
Mabini died in Manila, of cholera, May 13, 1903, at the age of 39 years. His funeral was the most largely attended of any ever held in
Manila.
Although he died from natural causes, Mabini died a martyr to the cause of Philippine independence. Five years of persecution left his intense patriotism untouched, but it had made his physical self a ready victim for a premature death.
="THE TRUE DECALOGUE"=
=By APOLINARIO MABINI=
First. Thou shalt love God and thy honor above all things: God as the fountain of all truth, of all justice and of all activity; and thy honor, the only power which will oblige thee to be faithful, just and industrious.
Second. Thou shalt worship God in the form which thy conscience may deem most righteous and worthy: for in thy conscience, which condemns thy evil deeds and praises thy good ones, speaks thy God.
Third. Thou shalt cultivate the special gifts which God has granted thee, working and studying according to thy ability, never leaving the path of righteousness and justice, in order to attain thy own perfection, by means whereof thou shalt contribute to the progress of humanity; thus; thou shalt fulfill the mission to which God has appointed thee in this life and by so doing, thou shalt be honored,and being honored, thou shalt glorify thy God.
Fourth. Thou shalt love thy country after God and thy honor and more than thyself: for she is the only Paradise which God has given thee in this life, the only patrimony of thy race, the only inheritance of thy ancestors and the only hope of thy posterity; because of her, thou hast life, love and interests, happiness, honor and God.
Fifth. Thou shalt strive for the happiness of thy country before thy own, making of her the kingdom of reason, of justice and of labor: for if she be happy, thou, together with thy family, shalt likewise be happy.
Sixth. Thou shalt strive for the independence of thy country: for only thou canst have any real interest in her advancement and exaltation, because her independence constitutes thy own liberty; her advancement, thy perfection; and her exaltation, thy own glory and immortality.
Seventh. Thou shalt not recognize in thy country the authority of any person who has not been elected by thee and thy countrymen; for authority emanates from God, and as God speaks in the conscience of every man, the person designated and proclaimed by the conscience of a whole people is the only one who can use true authority.
Eighth. Thou shalt strive for a Republic and never for a monarchy in thy country: for the latter exalts one or several families and founds a dynasty; the former makes a people noble and worthy through reason, great through liberty, and prosperous and brilliant through labor.
Ninth. Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself: for God has imposed upon him, as well as upon thee, the obligation to help thee and not to do unto thee what he would not have thee do unto him; but if thy neighbor, failing in this sacred duty, attempt against thy life, thy liberty and thy interests, then thou shalt destroy and annihilate him for the supreme law of self-preservation prevails.
Tenth. Thou shalt consider thy countryman more than thy neighbor; thou shalt see him thy friend, thy brother or at least thy comrade, with whom thou art bound by one fate, by the same joys and sorrows and by common aspirations and interests.
Therefore, as long as national frontiers subsist, raised and maintained by the selfishness of race and of family, with thy countryman alone shalt thou unite in a perfect solidarity of purpose and interest, in order to have force, not only to resist the common enemy but also to attain all the aims of human life.
*** END OF MABINI'S DECALOGUE FOR FILIPINOS ***
THE FILIPINO IDENTITY
Guillermo Gómez Rivera and José Mario S. Alas
Since the Philippines is now witnessing a world full of turbulence and incertitude, trudging on a road leading almost to hopelessness , it is high time that we Filipinos should wake up and face the facts, and to discern the real cause behind all this farce and evil.
We Filipinos were stripped of our national identity upon the arrival here of our so-called liberators: the North Americans, particularly the Thomasites. From that time on, the Republic of the Philippines has never been the same again. Everything that is Filipino was literally mangled, especially during the 1945 massacre of Manila courtesy of the Yankee soldiers. Therefore, before anything of the same tragedy happens again, we better arm ourselves with the powers of historical research and delve into the truth amidst all the lies taught to us by some “idiotcators.” Remember that the past is our gateway to the future.
The Filipino identity is the product of the Filipino State that began to exist in Spanish on 24 June 1571. The Filipino State was founded together with Manila on that same date, with the government having Spanish as its official language
In 1599, the previously existing native ethnic states went into the Filipino State as co-founding members. They incorporated themselves with the Filipino State when they elected the Spanish King (Rey Felipe II) as their natural sovereign . This election was verified during a synod-plebiscite held also that year.
From that time on, and after forming part of the 1571 Filipino State, our pre-Hispanic ancestors also accepted Spanish as their official and national language with their respective native languages as auxiliary official languages. Thus, the previously autonomous Ethnic States that existed before 1599 were respectively the ones that belonged to the Tagalogs, Ilocanos, Pampangueños, Bicolanos, Visayans, Mindanáo Lumads, and the Moro Sultanates of Joló and Maguindanáo.
Aside from these indigenous or native Ethnic States, the pre-Hispanic Chinese ofMayi-in-ila Kung shing-fu, or what is now known as Manila, likewise joined the Filipino State when they accepted the King of Spain as their natural sovereign. More so, because they knew that they would become the chief benefactors of the Manila-Acapulco Galleon Trade that would in turn last for 215 years.
Hence, all of the above mentioned people became, ethnographically and politically, Filipinos as well as Spanish citizens or subjects when they freely accepted the Spanish King (Rey Felipe or King Philip II) as their natural sovereign in 1599, resided in the Philippines to do business, and paid taxes to His Majesty’s Manila government. It is because of this historical event that the Spanish language is an inseparable part of every Filipino’s individual, collective, and national identity. Because of this fact, Philippine education today, to be truly Filipino, must have Spanish as its medium of instruction as was the case before the Americans came, since without a notion of this language no Filipino can say that he is truly Filipino in his identity (Caviteños and Zamboangueños should, and can, start with their own Chabacano vernacular).
This is why a nationalist of the stature of Claro M. Recto declared that: “Without Spanish the inventory of our national patrimony as a people will be destroyed, if not taken away from us since Spanish is part of our flesh and blood as Filipinos.”
Teodoro M. Kálaw, another great Filipino, also said that: “The Filipino national identity, as well as what we know and recognize as Filipino culture, remains primarily articulated and manifested in Spanish because this is its original language. The Filipino Civilization is a beautiful blending of the Spanish and the indigenous civilizations. Without Spanish and its beneficial influence, we betray our own rights to dignity as a people and stop being Filipinos in order to sadly become economic slaves of another power.”
It is therefore a very condemnable crime against the Filipino people, in the words of Cebuano Senator Manuel C. Briones, to educate the new generations of Filipinos without any Spanish as, at least, one more subject in their curricula.
“More so,” added then Senator Manuel C. Briones, “because Spanish is also a world language!” And this is totally true because, at this writing, Spanish has around five hundred million primary speakers and another seven hundred million people as second-language speakers.
Should present-day Filipinos be left-out?
However, that is not the complete point. The main argument is that we Filipinos, before joining the battlefield against imperialism/neocolonialism, should very well know who the real enemy is. Moreover, we should realize that whenever we throw punches at the enemy, the only ones who we hit are ourselves due to the ignorance that we have about who we are and what we were. Our language, our culture, as well as our history and identity, were all distorted (this can be observed through the fiery writings of Recto, Kálaw, Briones, Jesús Lava, Renato Constantino, and even Nick Joaquín, regarding this matter; among those mentioned, perhaps it is Recto who divulged the most scathing truth on the agenda of the Americans and what they did to our country).
Even national hero José Rizal can be considered as an American-invented hero in some sense . This is not to say that Rizal’s heroism was horseplay. Rizal was an ardent nationalist, a great writer and scholar, bar-none. He has every right to be our national hero for he instilled in his followers the importance of nationalism and national identity. However, the American regime managed to distort everything about him, and even used his tussle with the Spanish government in the Philippines when in truth, Rizal, who was a Freemason, was solely against the Spanish friars particularly the Dominicans who ordered the expulsion of his family, together with other Calambeños, from Calambâ, Laguna due to a land dispute.
The scheme of using Rizal’s “hatred” (kunô) against Spain was taught in all the schools, public and private, from pre-school up to college, little by little conditioning the minds of young Filipinos into accepting the absurd notion that the real villains were the Spaniards and that our saviors were the Americans. This alarming lie being done in our school systems still exist, quite obviously.
So now that it is made clear what a Filipino is, perhaps the question should be rephrased: should present-day Filipinos remain unconcerned about what those foreign oppressors did to us and are still doing to us?
circa 2001
Guillermo Gómez Rivera and José Mario S. Alas
Since the Philippines is now witnessing a world full of turbulence and incertitude, trudging on a road leading almost to hopelessness , it is high time that we Filipinos should wake up and face the facts, and to discern the real cause behind all this farce and evil.
We Filipinos were stripped of our national identity upon the arrival here of our so-called liberators: the North Americans, particularly the Thomasites. From that time on, the Republic of the Philippines has never been the same again. Everything that is Filipino was literally mangled, especially during the 1945 massacre of Manila courtesy of the Yankee soldiers. Therefore, before anything of the same tragedy happens again, we better arm ourselves with the powers of historical research and delve into the truth amidst all the lies taught to us by some “idiotcators.” Remember that the past is our gateway to the future.
The Filipino identity is the product of the Filipino State that began to exist in Spanish on 24 June 1571. The Filipino State was founded together with Manila on that same date, with the government having Spanish as its official language
In 1599, the previously existing native ethnic states went into the Filipino State as co-founding members. They incorporated themselves with the Filipino State when they elected the Spanish King (Rey Felipe II) as their natural sovereign . This election was verified during a synod-plebiscite held also that year.
From that time on, and after forming part of the 1571 Filipino State, our pre-Hispanic ancestors also accepted Spanish as their official and national language with their respective native languages as auxiliary official languages. Thus, the previously autonomous Ethnic States that existed before 1599 were respectively the ones that belonged to the Tagalogs, Ilocanos, Pampangueños, Bicolanos, Visayans, Mindanáo Lumads, and the Moro Sultanates of Joló and Maguindanáo.
Aside from these indigenous or native Ethnic States, the pre-Hispanic Chinese ofMayi-in-ila Kung shing-fu, or what is now known as Manila, likewise joined the Filipino State when they accepted the King of Spain as their natural sovereign. More so, because they knew that they would become the chief benefactors of the Manila-Acapulco Galleon Trade that would in turn last for 215 years.
Hence, all of the above mentioned people became, ethnographically and politically, Filipinos as well as Spanish citizens or subjects when they freely accepted the Spanish King (Rey Felipe or King Philip II) as their natural sovereign in 1599, resided in the Philippines to do business, and paid taxes to His Majesty’s Manila government. It is because of this historical event that the Spanish language is an inseparable part of every Filipino’s individual, collective, and national identity. Because of this fact, Philippine education today, to be truly Filipino, must have Spanish as its medium of instruction as was the case before the Americans came, since without a notion of this language no Filipino can say that he is truly Filipino in his identity (Caviteños and Zamboangueños should, and can, start with their own Chabacano vernacular).
This is why a nationalist of the stature of Claro M. Recto declared that: “Without Spanish the inventory of our national patrimony as a people will be destroyed, if not taken away from us since Spanish is part of our flesh and blood as Filipinos.”
Teodoro M. Kálaw, another great Filipino, also said that: “The Filipino national identity, as well as what we know and recognize as Filipino culture, remains primarily articulated and manifested in Spanish because this is its original language. The Filipino Civilization is a beautiful blending of the Spanish and the indigenous civilizations. Without Spanish and its beneficial influence, we betray our own rights to dignity as a people and stop being Filipinos in order to sadly become economic slaves of another power.”
It is therefore a very condemnable crime against the Filipino people, in the words of Cebuano Senator Manuel C. Briones, to educate the new generations of Filipinos without any Spanish as, at least, one more subject in their curricula.
“More so,” added then Senator Manuel C. Briones, “because Spanish is also a world language!” And this is totally true because, at this writing, Spanish has around five hundred million primary speakers and another seven hundred million people as second-language speakers.
Should present-day Filipinos be left-out?
However, that is not the complete point. The main argument is that we Filipinos, before joining the battlefield against imperialism/neocolonialism, should very well know who the real enemy is. Moreover, we should realize that whenever we throw punches at the enemy, the only ones who we hit are ourselves due to the ignorance that we have about who we are and what we were. Our language, our culture, as well as our history and identity, were all distorted (this can be observed through the fiery writings of Recto, Kálaw, Briones, Jesús Lava, Renato Constantino, and even Nick Joaquín, regarding this matter; among those mentioned, perhaps it is Recto who divulged the most scathing truth on the agenda of the Americans and what they did to our country).
Even national hero José Rizal can be considered as an American-invented hero in some sense . This is not to say that Rizal’s heroism was horseplay. Rizal was an ardent nationalist, a great writer and scholar, bar-none. He has every right to be our national hero for he instilled in his followers the importance of nationalism and national identity. However, the American regime managed to distort everything about him, and even used his tussle with the Spanish government in the Philippines when in truth, Rizal, who was a Freemason, was solely against the Spanish friars particularly the Dominicans who ordered the expulsion of his family, together with other Calambeños, from Calambâ, Laguna due to a land dispute.
The scheme of using Rizal’s “hatred” (kunô) against Spain was taught in all the schools, public and private, from pre-school up to college, little by little conditioning the minds of young Filipinos into accepting the absurd notion that the real villains were the Spaniards and that our saviors were the Americans. This alarming lie being done in our school systems still exist, quite obviously.
So now that it is made clear what a Filipino is, perhaps the question should be rephrased: should present-day Filipinos remain unconcerned about what those foreign oppressors did to us and are still doing to us?
circa 2001
