By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:08:00 11/26/2008
With the deposit and organization of the Doreen G. Fernandez papers in the Ateneo Library of Women’s Writings (ALIWW), Doreen has finally come home to rest in the university and the university library she loved very much. As a historian, I am grateful that her sister Della Besa and her niece Maya Roxas took the trouble to sift through every slip of paper in Doreen’s study and realized their importance to future researchers. Old papers being, for many Filipinos, just “kalat” [clutter], just “basura” [trash] and better consigned to the fire or the “magbobote” [junk buyer]. Historians will tell you that one person’s junk can be treasure to another—the moral of the story being that we must not throw anything away. Come to ALIWW to read and research.
This reminds me of another writer whom ALIWW should contact soon: Asuncion Lopez Bantug, granddaughter of Narcisa Rizal and thus by extension grandniece of the National Hero, Jose Rizal. I have known her for a long time and interviewed her about Rizal. The late Austin Coates, Rizal’s biographer, who had known her for decades, was surprised that I was able to ask the questions that would induce a flood of memories. A few times, she would break into tears and even recite poems she was taught as a child. I would jot all these down, always knowing that nothing can be as accurate and as immediate as the entries in a diary. And she had those, too, filed neatly in a bedside shelf, but unfortunately she wouldn’t let me read these.
Bantug has maintained a diary since her youth, documentation of a life that spans over half a century, all neatly written on old school notebooks. Now that is a primary source that should have gone to ALIWW. But then, on one of her long annual trips to the United States to visit her grandchildren, one of the maids had the bright idea of giving her musty bedroom a much needed spring cleaning, and so everything was cleared out, including the notebooks. Upon her return, she had a fit but managed to ask why they had messed with her things and discarded her precious notebooks. “Walang silbi na po” [“They are useless”] was the polite reply of the maid. “Puno na po ng sulat lahat” [“The notebooks were filled up.”]
Every time I narrate this story, even non-historians groan. But this is not the worst of my horror stories from research. As you may well remember from grade school, the Rizal brood was quite large. Francisco Mercado and Teodora Alonso had 11 children, two sons and nine daughters, and all but one reached adulthood. One could say that Rizal grew up in a house dominated by women, and since many of them took to their mother, this was a household with some strong-willed women. The Rizal boys, Paciano and Jose, did not marry. Jose did not have children and Paciano had a daughter. Most of the descendants of the National Hero proceed from his six sisters (Josefa and Trinidad were spinsters, Concepcion died young).
I was once called in for advice when one of Rizal’s grandnieces passed away. She had left many valuable things, including a portrait of the young Rizal painted in 1882 when he had just arrived in Europe, by his friend Felix Resurreccion Hidalgo. Of course, this painting was worth a tidy sum, but in my biased opinion it paled in comparison with a rather crude portrait in oil of Saturnina Rizal by Jose Rizal. This is much rarer than any Luna or Hidalgo in the market.
I asked if they had any Rizal manuscripts and photographs I could copy. They had those and other relics, but the item I most wanted to see was a stained embroidered piña handkerchief. Why did my heart race when I was told they had such a seemingly worthless thing? I had heard unconfirmed reports that one of Rizal’s sisters rushed to Bagumbayan that morning of Dec. 30, 1896 after his execution and his corpse was taken to the Paco cemetery for burial. This sister carried a dozen piña handkerchiefs, and when she found the place where her brother fell, she reverently used these handkerchiefs to soak up what was left of Rizal’s fresh blood on the ground. The urban legend is that each member of the family was given this rather gruesome souvenir.
I will never be sure if these handkerchiefs existed because one that matched the description was in this estate being divided among relatives. I asked for the handkerchief and heard one of the relatives ask loudly in Filipino, “Where was the soiled hanky that was lying on this table yesterday?” Nobody knew. So the question was asked again, and this time a maid rushed out carrying a neatly pressed hanky and proudly declared: “Naku! Ang tindi ng mantsa n’yan kahapon, kinuskus kong mabuti at nalinis naman po.” [“There was a stubborn stain on that yesterday but I managed to wash it off.”]
If the legend is true, if these morbid hankies did exist and this was the last of them, then the last traces of Rizal’s blood that could have undergone DNA testing went, literally, down the drain along with detergent and bleach.
During the last International Philippine Studies Conference in Manila, I sat with a group of historians over lunch and exchanged stories of the historical materials that got away. These horror stories were exchanged with a mixture of laughter and regret. There are enough to fill a small and interesting book. If I could only find the time and energy to set it to paper!
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
A passion for history
By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:14:00 11/21/2008
E. Arsenio Manuel was a byline I always associated with the four-volume “Dictionary of Philippine Biography.” As a college student, I would go through Manuel’s work and marvel at the meticulous research that went into these books. Manuel did not only dig up libraries and archives, he actually went around cemeteries copying dates of birth and death from tombstones!
Nicanor Tiongson was kind enough to introduce me to Manuel because he was the only source for these books that were, at the time, unavailable in bookstores. Manuel and I liked each other immediately, so I would visit him from time to time to listen and be inspired by his stories on research. While telling me about the prewar University of the Philippines campus on Padre Faura Street in Manila, he said he had originally planned to be a historian, but since his friend and contemporary Teodoro A. Agoncillo was already plowing that field, he decided to shift to anthropology and started by becoming one of the assistants of H. Otley Beyer.
A retired emeritus professor of anthropology at the University of the Philippines, Manuel invited me to attend his graduate class on Philippine Prehistory in the late 1980s. For a while it seemed as if I was the only one left awake in class after three hours of monotone monologue lecturing. He came to class on the first day and wrote on the board, “Where history ends anthropology begins.” I took that as a cue to abandon history and go further down the timeline, but there was no archeological studies program anywhere in the Philippines at the time. I flirted a while with anthropology and realized early on that I was not meant to be an archeologist digging in an open field; I was more comfortable researching in a library or archive.
I funded an excavation in Barrio Laguile in Batangas province in 1990 and that became my hands-on training in archeology. I saw and learned how test pits are made, how stratification of the soil gives clues to age and chronology. I also saw how archeologists evaluate the materials coming out of the earth: bones, rocks, fossils, broken pieces of earthenware. This was all very interesting but there was just so much to learn especially in the natural sciences: botany, biology, anatomy, chemistry, etc. This made me remember that I chose to become a historian to avoid math and science in school.
During our Batangas excavation, there were only two highlights, because we didn’t find anything spectacular or even moderately important. First was when a carabao fell into the pit one night and we spent the better part of a day getting it out, to the amusement of the whole town and neighbors. Second was when a handful of farmers came to the site with sacks and “bayong” [large native woven bags] filled with an assortment of ancient Oriental ceramics they had found while tilling their fields. Some of them found this illegal trade so lucrative that they left their farms and made a living looking for and selling ceramics to dealers and collectors in Manila. They brought out Ming porcelain, usually blue and white bowls and dishes, and placed them on the ground. Some had other wares, not necessarily from the area, artifacts traded by our forefathers that came from China, Vietnam, Thailand and India. I had seen similar artifacts in museums. These objects were unfortunately taken out of the ground without proper archeological care so many of the pieces were broken. Worse, the context of the objects—where were they found, with what other objects or with human remains—all that was gone.
From then on I never looked at my mother’s display cabinets the same way. Before all this, I never took a second look at the ceramics we had at home, which mother used as flower vases or just scattered tastefully on coffee tables. But these things have been coming out of the ground and collected since the 1960s. So many clues to our prehistory are actually lying around in people’s living rooms. They are not used for study or research but just for decoration.
In the San Pedro beach resort in Romblon province, I saw a whole plate of broken shards of Ming period Chinese and Thai ceramics and was told that after a heavy rain these are readily found on the shore. A reader sent me an e-mail saying that when they played “piko” [hopscotch] as children, they threw around Ming shards too as markers.
When roads are built and fields are cleared, these things still turn up. It is too bad that young people do not take this up in school. Children are taught about pre-colonial trade and exchange in “Hekasi” [Geography, History and Civics combined] but few realize that they can see and handle the real thing in their own homes.
Although I’m a failed anthropologist, I look back with fondness to E. Arsenio Manuel’s class and the afternoons in his study because he made me see and notice things around me that I would have otherwise overlooked. He taught me to be sensitive to artifacts and the stories they contain or evoke.
Not all history is found in a written record or a book; sometimes we find stories in photographs and artifacts. Learning to see things in a different light and continually asking questions, even of things we think we know already, have made me a better researcher. Agoncillo and Manuel infected me with their enthusiasm, and I can only hope that I can pay this debt forward by rubbing off my enthusiasm on my students and readers.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:14:00 11/21/2008
E. Arsenio Manuel was a byline I always associated with the four-volume “Dictionary of Philippine Biography.” As a college student, I would go through Manuel’s work and marvel at the meticulous research that went into these books. Manuel did not only dig up libraries and archives, he actually went around cemeteries copying dates of birth and death from tombstones!
Nicanor Tiongson was kind enough to introduce me to Manuel because he was the only source for these books that were, at the time, unavailable in bookstores. Manuel and I liked each other immediately, so I would visit him from time to time to listen and be inspired by his stories on research. While telling me about the prewar University of the Philippines campus on Padre Faura Street in Manila, he said he had originally planned to be a historian, but since his friend and contemporary Teodoro A. Agoncillo was already plowing that field, he decided to shift to anthropology and started by becoming one of the assistants of H. Otley Beyer.
A retired emeritus professor of anthropology at the University of the Philippines, Manuel invited me to attend his graduate class on Philippine Prehistory in the late 1980s. For a while it seemed as if I was the only one left awake in class after three hours of monotone monologue lecturing. He came to class on the first day and wrote on the board, “Where history ends anthropology begins.” I took that as a cue to abandon history and go further down the timeline, but there was no archeological studies program anywhere in the Philippines at the time. I flirted a while with anthropology and realized early on that I was not meant to be an archeologist digging in an open field; I was more comfortable researching in a library or archive.
I funded an excavation in Barrio Laguile in Batangas province in 1990 and that became my hands-on training in archeology. I saw and learned how test pits are made, how stratification of the soil gives clues to age and chronology. I also saw how archeologists evaluate the materials coming out of the earth: bones, rocks, fossils, broken pieces of earthenware. This was all very interesting but there was just so much to learn especially in the natural sciences: botany, biology, anatomy, chemistry, etc. This made me remember that I chose to become a historian to avoid math and science in school.
During our Batangas excavation, there were only two highlights, because we didn’t find anything spectacular or even moderately important. First was when a carabao fell into the pit one night and we spent the better part of a day getting it out, to the amusement of the whole town and neighbors. Second was when a handful of farmers came to the site with sacks and “bayong” [large native woven bags] filled with an assortment of ancient Oriental ceramics they had found while tilling their fields. Some of them found this illegal trade so lucrative that they left their farms and made a living looking for and selling ceramics to dealers and collectors in Manila. They brought out Ming porcelain, usually blue and white bowls and dishes, and placed them on the ground. Some had other wares, not necessarily from the area, artifacts traded by our forefathers that came from China, Vietnam, Thailand and India. I had seen similar artifacts in museums. These objects were unfortunately taken out of the ground without proper archeological care so many of the pieces were broken. Worse, the context of the objects—where were they found, with what other objects or with human remains—all that was gone.
From then on I never looked at my mother’s display cabinets the same way. Before all this, I never took a second look at the ceramics we had at home, which mother used as flower vases or just scattered tastefully on coffee tables. But these things have been coming out of the ground and collected since the 1960s. So many clues to our prehistory are actually lying around in people’s living rooms. They are not used for study or research but just for decoration.
In the San Pedro beach resort in Romblon province, I saw a whole plate of broken shards of Ming period Chinese and Thai ceramics and was told that after a heavy rain these are readily found on the shore. A reader sent me an e-mail saying that when they played “piko” [hopscotch] as children, they threw around Ming shards too as markers.
When roads are built and fields are cleared, these things still turn up. It is too bad that young people do not take this up in school. Children are taught about pre-colonial trade and exchange in “Hekasi” [Geography, History and Civics combined] but few realize that they can see and handle the real thing in their own homes.
Although I’m a failed anthropologist, I look back with fondness to E. Arsenio Manuel’s class and the afternoons in his study because he made me see and notice things around me that I would have otherwise overlooked. He taught me to be sensitive to artifacts and the stories they contain or evoke.
Not all history is found in a written record or a book; sometimes we find stories in photographs and artifacts. Learning to see things in a different light and continually asking questions, even of things we think we know already, have made me a better researcher. Agoncillo and Manuel infected me with their enthusiasm, and I can only hope that I can pay this debt forward by rubbing off my enthusiasm on my students and readers.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Philippine-French relations
By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:26:00 11/19/2008
June 26 is just one of 365 days in a year, a drop in an ocean of dates that constitute Philippine history. It is probably significant to people who were born, married, had children, or have relatives who passed away on this date. For the rest of us, June 26 means nothing without some research that reveals some relevant footnotes: On June 26, 1875 a royal decree was issued authorizing the planning of a railroad in Luzon; on June 26, 1910 Artemio Ricarte, revolutionary general, was released from Bilibid Prison in Manila; on June 26, 1950 the world felt the outbreak of the Korean War; on June 26, 1947, with the stroke of two pens, formal diplomatic relations were established between the Republic of the Philippines and the Republic of France. It is this last date that is being commemorated by a recent book I helped put together, titled “60 Years and Bon Vivant: Philippine-French Relations” (ArtPost Asia, 2008).
The book grew out of the “Symposium on Philippine-French Relations” held at the Ateneo de Manila University on June 26, 2007 to mark the 60th anniversary of the establishment of diplomatic relations between the Philippines and France. The symposium covered four themes: France in Philippine history, France in Philippine culture, France in Philippine education, and Filipino families of French ancestry.
History tells us that the relations between the Philippines and France go beyond 60 years. A French consulate was established in Manila in the late 19th century, when the Philippines was still a colony of Spain. The short-lived First Philippine Republic had a diplomatic representative in Paris in 1898 when the United States and Spain were negotiating the terms for peace in what has come down in history as the Treaty of Paris. The Filipino representative worked in vain to gain recognition for the Philippines as a free and independent nation, thus the US acquired the Philippines from Spain for $20 million.
We can take the short view that pegs Philippine-French relations to 60 years, or take the long view and trace our relations to the Frenchmen who formed part of the Magellan expedition that came to our shores in 1521. A historian can cast a net narrow or wide, depending on the available documentation and, more importantly, his or her viewpoint.
French Ambassador Gerard Chesnel wondered aloud what happened to the Frenchmen who were part of Magellan’s crew because they were not included in the list of stragglers who made it back to Spain after the Battle of Mactan. He suggested that these French sailors remained in the Philippines and sired Franco-Philippine children, which would truly be the beginning of Philippine-French relations, not the opening of embassies 60 years ago.
While it would be fascinating to trace the descendants of these Filipino-French people in Cebu or Mactan, we can presume that those missing Frenchmen were either killed during the battle or were wounded and taken prisoner. The viceroy of Mexico wrote the king of Mactan, offering payment for Magellan’s corpse and survivors of the battle. The curt reply was that Magellan’s corpse was a war trophy and would not be returned. The prisoners of war were not available, having been nursed back to health and eventually sold off to the Chinese as slaves to generate income.
French travel accounts of the Philippines in the 18th and 19th centuries help Filipino historians recreate the past. These publications are illustrated with charming photographs and engravings that provide a visual link to the Spanish Philippines. More importantly, there are a handful of French eyewitness accounts of the Philippine-American War that provide a different view from the Filipino or American sources (it is always essential to see the same story from another angle). These French accounts are critical of the way Spain administered the colony and sympathetic to Emilio Aguinaldo and the Filipino struggle for freedom.
We do not have to look far for traces of France in Philippine history. Our national anthem has a part that echoes the French national anthem. The red, white and blue that, according to our June 12, 1898 declaration of independence, commemorate the colors of the US flag can be traced all the way back to the French tri-color. As a matter of fact, in the great Malolos banquet of September 1898 to celebrate the ratification of the declaration of independence in Kawit, the elaborate printed menu had a French feast. What better way to remember the battle cry of the French Revolution: Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!
Going back to the intellectual roots of the Philippine Revolution, we see France once again. When Spanish police raided the bodega where Andres Bonifacio worked, they found books that the Supremo of the Katipunan read. Two of the significant titles were: “Lives of the Presidents of the United States” and, of course, “The French Revolution.” An obscure bit of information that has yet to be verified is that one of Andres Bonifacio’s brothers worked abroad as a seaman and settled in France.
What would have been boring symposium proceedings was transformed by Tina Colayco and ArtPost Asia into a handsome book that I am quite proud of. My next project will be Philippine-Spanish relations.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:26:00 11/19/2008
June 26 is just one of 365 days in a year, a drop in an ocean of dates that constitute Philippine history. It is probably significant to people who were born, married, had children, or have relatives who passed away on this date. For the rest of us, June 26 means nothing without some research that reveals some relevant footnotes: On June 26, 1875 a royal decree was issued authorizing the planning of a railroad in Luzon; on June 26, 1910 Artemio Ricarte, revolutionary general, was released from Bilibid Prison in Manila; on June 26, 1950 the world felt the outbreak of the Korean War; on June 26, 1947, with the stroke of two pens, formal diplomatic relations were established between the Republic of the Philippines and the Republic of France. It is this last date that is being commemorated by a recent book I helped put together, titled “60 Years and Bon Vivant: Philippine-French Relations” (ArtPost Asia, 2008).
The book grew out of the “Symposium on Philippine-French Relations” held at the Ateneo de Manila University on June 26, 2007 to mark the 60th anniversary of the establishment of diplomatic relations between the Philippines and France. The symposium covered four themes: France in Philippine history, France in Philippine culture, France in Philippine education, and Filipino families of French ancestry.
History tells us that the relations between the Philippines and France go beyond 60 years. A French consulate was established in Manila in the late 19th century, when the Philippines was still a colony of Spain. The short-lived First Philippine Republic had a diplomatic representative in Paris in 1898 when the United States and Spain were negotiating the terms for peace in what has come down in history as the Treaty of Paris. The Filipino representative worked in vain to gain recognition for the Philippines as a free and independent nation, thus the US acquired the Philippines from Spain for $20 million.
We can take the short view that pegs Philippine-French relations to 60 years, or take the long view and trace our relations to the Frenchmen who formed part of the Magellan expedition that came to our shores in 1521. A historian can cast a net narrow or wide, depending on the available documentation and, more importantly, his or her viewpoint.
French Ambassador Gerard Chesnel wondered aloud what happened to the Frenchmen who were part of Magellan’s crew because they were not included in the list of stragglers who made it back to Spain after the Battle of Mactan. He suggested that these French sailors remained in the Philippines and sired Franco-Philippine children, which would truly be the beginning of Philippine-French relations, not the opening of embassies 60 years ago.
While it would be fascinating to trace the descendants of these Filipino-French people in Cebu or Mactan, we can presume that those missing Frenchmen were either killed during the battle or were wounded and taken prisoner. The viceroy of Mexico wrote the king of Mactan, offering payment for Magellan’s corpse and survivors of the battle. The curt reply was that Magellan’s corpse was a war trophy and would not be returned. The prisoners of war were not available, having been nursed back to health and eventually sold off to the Chinese as slaves to generate income.
French travel accounts of the Philippines in the 18th and 19th centuries help Filipino historians recreate the past. These publications are illustrated with charming photographs and engravings that provide a visual link to the Spanish Philippines. More importantly, there are a handful of French eyewitness accounts of the Philippine-American War that provide a different view from the Filipino or American sources (it is always essential to see the same story from another angle). These French accounts are critical of the way Spain administered the colony and sympathetic to Emilio Aguinaldo and the Filipino struggle for freedom.
We do not have to look far for traces of France in Philippine history. Our national anthem has a part that echoes the French national anthem. The red, white and blue that, according to our June 12, 1898 declaration of independence, commemorate the colors of the US flag can be traced all the way back to the French tri-color. As a matter of fact, in the great Malolos banquet of September 1898 to celebrate the ratification of the declaration of independence in Kawit, the elaborate printed menu had a French feast. What better way to remember the battle cry of the French Revolution: Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!
Going back to the intellectual roots of the Philippine Revolution, we see France once again. When Spanish police raided the bodega where Andres Bonifacio worked, they found books that the Supremo of the Katipunan read. Two of the significant titles were: “Lives of the Presidents of the United States” and, of course, “The French Revolution.” An obscure bit of information that has yet to be verified is that one of Andres Bonifacio’s brothers worked abroad as a seaman and settled in France.
What would have been boring symposium proceedings was transformed by Tina Colayco and ArtPost Asia into a handsome book that I am quite proud of. My next project will be Philippine-Spanish relations.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Born in 1933
By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:11:00 11/14/2008
Most Read
EACH YEAR WHEN we celebrate Independence Day, we hear a few voices of dissent that seek to change the date from June 12 to something else. People of the post-war generation remember that our Independence Day used to be celebrated on July 4, like that of the United States of America, until President Diosdado Macapagal moved it to June 12. I won't repeat the columns on the other dates proposed for our Independence Day, let's just say that the choice of date is often dependent on one's ideological or historiographical outlook.
Choosing the date to celebrate anything can be quite arbitrary. If we follow ancient Chinese example, we are already a year old at birth because they reckon from time in the womb. We have people eager to be the first to greet birthday celebrants and wait till the clock hits 12:01 a.m. to send a text or ring the sleepy person. Some people say we shouldn't celebrate birthdays in advance, while others say we shouldn't have the celebration after the actual date. All this can be quite confused and confusing.
I will bore you with a bit of institutional history today because in the case of the National Historical Institute, which celebrated the 75th year of its foundation a few weeks back, there has to be some kind of reckoning. The NHI as we know it today was established by President Ferdinand Marcos in 1972, following the reorganization of government after the declaration of martial law. If we take Marcos and 1972 as a reference point, then the NHI is far from 75 years old. But the institute has chosen to trace its birth all the way back to 1933, with the establishment of the Philippine Historical Research and Markers Committee (PHRMC).
Many people still refer to the NHI as a commission because it used to be the National Historical Commission before it became an institute in 1972. Before 1972, there used to be a number of historical commissions created by law to commemorate the birth centennials of our heroes of the late 19th century: Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Apolinario Mabini, Juan Luna, Mariano Gomez, Jose Burgos, Jacinto Zamora, etc. At one point, all these commissions were merged into one National Heroes Commission. Then it became more general as the National Historical Commission, until someone decided to give it a more academic tone by renaming it as the National Historical Institute. So far its selective institutional history is based on events and achievements during the terms of its different chairs: Encarnacion Alzona, Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, Esteban de Ocampo, Serafin D. Quiason, Samuel K. Tan, Pablo S. Trillana and yours truly.
To complicate matters, we go back to U S Governor General Frank Murphy who issued Executive Order 451 in 1933, creating the PHRMC whose job was to identify and mark "historic antiquities" in the capital, Manila, and later throughout the Philippines as a first step in their preservation. The members of this committee were: Walter Robb, an American journalist interested in the history of Manila as chair, the pioneering pre-historian of the Philippines H. Otley Beyer, the Spanish Jesuit Fr. Miguel Selga, SJ and dean Edward Hyde. The Filipino members of the committee were: Jaime C. de Veyra, Conrado Benitez and Eulogio B. Rodriguez.
When the Philippine Commonwealth was established in 1935, the PHRMC was replaced by the Philippines Historical Committee that had basically the same functions as the former, with the additional responsibilities of acquiring antiquities owned by private individuals and repairing government-owned antiquities. We have not yet found any material on the activities of the committee during the war years, and it is hoped that research on the Commission of Education, Health and Public Welfare during the Laurel presidency will fill in the gap.
Six months after independence and the inauguration of the Third Philippine Republic, on Jan. 20, 1947, the Philippines Historical Committee was reconstituted and placed first under the Office of the President, and later transferred to the Department of Education. The PHC was very active in the post-war years when the country was rebuilding from the ashes of the war. It was a time not just for physical reconstruction but also the reconstruction of the past as a means to form nationhood. Over 400 markers were installed all over the archipelago by the PHC, and most important, it acquired places and relics of heroes. The PHC was also responsible for the naming and renaming of streets, plazas, towns and other public places.
All these functions are still undertaken by the NHI in addition to the preservation of historical sites and structures, serving as lead agency for the commemorations of Independence Day, Rizal Day, etc.
Whether we reckon 75 or 36 years, the question of relevance crops up and the words of Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, who was appointed chairman in 1965, still rings true:
"In a country where poverty, underproduction, unemployment and corruption are the chief problems, what justification can there be for a national (cultural office) devoted to history? Surely such a question is rhetorical and does not need an answer, for it must be obvious to the most materialistic and pragmatic of us that the past is necessary to make the present viable and the future possible."
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:11:00 11/14/2008
Most Read
EACH YEAR WHEN we celebrate Independence Day, we hear a few voices of dissent that seek to change the date from June 12 to something else. People of the post-war generation remember that our Independence Day used to be celebrated on July 4, like that of the United States of America, until President Diosdado Macapagal moved it to June 12. I won't repeat the columns on the other dates proposed for our Independence Day, let's just say that the choice of date is often dependent on one's ideological or historiographical outlook.
Choosing the date to celebrate anything can be quite arbitrary. If we follow ancient Chinese example, we are already a year old at birth because they reckon from time in the womb. We have people eager to be the first to greet birthday celebrants and wait till the clock hits 12:01 a.m. to send a text or ring the sleepy person. Some people say we shouldn't celebrate birthdays in advance, while others say we shouldn't have the celebration after the actual date. All this can be quite confused and confusing.
I will bore you with a bit of institutional history today because in the case of the National Historical Institute, which celebrated the 75th year of its foundation a few weeks back, there has to be some kind of reckoning. The NHI as we know it today was established by President Ferdinand Marcos in 1972, following the reorganization of government after the declaration of martial law. If we take Marcos and 1972 as a reference point, then the NHI is far from 75 years old. But the institute has chosen to trace its birth all the way back to 1933, with the establishment of the Philippine Historical Research and Markers Committee (PHRMC).
Many people still refer to the NHI as a commission because it used to be the National Historical Commission before it became an institute in 1972. Before 1972, there used to be a number of historical commissions created by law to commemorate the birth centennials of our heroes of the late 19th century: Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Apolinario Mabini, Juan Luna, Mariano Gomez, Jose Burgos, Jacinto Zamora, etc. At one point, all these commissions were merged into one National Heroes Commission. Then it became more general as the National Historical Commission, until someone decided to give it a more academic tone by renaming it as the National Historical Institute. So far its selective institutional history is based on events and achievements during the terms of its different chairs: Encarnacion Alzona, Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, Esteban de Ocampo, Serafin D. Quiason, Samuel K. Tan, Pablo S. Trillana and yours truly.
To complicate matters, we go back to U S Governor General Frank Murphy who issued Executive Order 451 in 1933, creating the PHRMC whose job was to identify and mark "historic antiquities" in the capital, Manila, and later throughout the Philippines as a first step in their preservation. The members of this committee were: Walter Robb, an American journalist interested in the history of Manila as chair, the pioneering pre-historian of the Philippines H. Otley Beyer, the Spanish Jesuit Fr. Miguel Selga, SJ and dean Edward Hyde. The Filipino members of the committee were: Jaime C. de Veyra, Conrado Benitez and Eulogio B. Rodriguez.
When the Philippine Commonwealth was established in 1935, the PHRMC was replaced by the Philippines Historical Committee that had basically the same functions as the former, with the additional responsibilities of acquiring antiquities owned by private individuals and repairing government-owned antiquities. We have not yet found any material on the activities of the committee during the war years, and it is hoped that research on the Commission of Education, Health and Public Welfare during the Laurel presidency will fill in the gap.
Six months after independence and the inauguration of the Third Philippine Republic, on Jan. 20, 1947, the Philippines Historical Committee was reconstituted and placed first under the Office of the President, and later transferred to the Department of Education. The PHC was very active in the post-war years when the country was rebuilding from the ashes of the war. It was a time not just for physical reconstruction but also the reconstruction of the past as a means to form nationhood. Over 400 markers were installed all over the archipelago by the PHC, and most important, it acquired places and relics of heroes. The PHC was also responsible for the naming and renaming of streets, plazas, towns and other public places.
All these functions are still undertaken by the NHI in addition to the preservation of historical sites and structures, serving as lead agency for the commemorations of Independence Day, Rizal Day, etc.
Whether we reckon 75 or 36 years, the question of relevance crops up and the words of Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, who was appointed chairman in 1965, still rings true:
"In a country where poverty, underproduction, unemployment and corruption are the chief problems, what justification can there be for a national (cultural office) devoted to history? Surely such a question is rhetorical and does not need an answer, for it must be obvious to the most materialistic and pragmatic of us that the past is necessary to make the present viable and the future possible."
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu
A personal introduction
By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 23:36:00 11/11/2008
THRICE COLONIZED and with an archipelagic landscape, the Philippines is a young nation constantly in search of self. History is central to this search for identity and thus the teaching of history in schools is both informative (as an academic discipline that studies the past) and formative (when the past is utilized to place the student in the context of the nation--its past, present and future). Thus, the structure and presentation of history in textbooks, classrooms, official holidays and commemorations, street names and monuments, while seemingly innocent, become contested territory when history as a social science or an academic discipline becomes a handmaid to citizenship, nation building and nationalism.
It is the beginning of yet another semester, and I will enter a classroom and have 80 pairs of eyes following me around, 80 pairs of ears that I presume are listening to every word that proceeds from my lips. I have been teaching since 1985, but I still feel stage fright at the beginning of every term.
The first day is crucial. While many teachers are content with meeting the class, distributing the syllabus and explaining course requirements, I give a full lecture using all the tricks I have learned over the years. Students will remember your first day. If you do well, that first impression will be carried till the end of the term. If you don't make an impression, you are doomed for the whole term. You can never catch up, you can never make up.
While I have always been interested in history, I did not foresee my future as an academic and didn't really prepare for my future (my undergraduate thesis was actually on "Food in Kapampangan Culture"). The turning point in my life came when I met two senior members of the National Historical Institute: the late E. Aguilar Cruz (journalist, writer, painter, wonderful raconteur who served as permanent Philippine representative to Unesco in Paris--all this without having finished college) and the late Teodoro A. Agoncillo (nationalist historian, opinionated raconteur, academic who built a distinguished and colorful career likewise without a PhD). Agoncillo got me interested in research, Cruz opened doors to a career in journalism where I specialized in history.
I began writing in 1985, the tail-end of the Marcos period, in the pro-Marcos Daily Express. In those days of strict censorship, history was considered a "safe" subject and I was allowed to write anything I wished. Then, as now, sensitive readers noticed that I actually commented on the present using the past.
From the beginning, I have always been suspicious of textbook or official history, often asking questions or exploring other possibilities in something that has come down to us over the years as truth. Writing for the general reader also made me write without jargon, in a clear and simple way which is frowned upon by some constipated academics. To engage readers uninterested or hostile to history because of their traumatic experience with the subject in school, I would often write about the lives and times of men and women canonized as heroes to free them from their monuments of stone and bronze and make them human again. My light and often mischievous slant can also be credited to my having started my career in the same room as the infamous show-biz columnist Ricky Lo.
I wrote feature articles on history and eventually wrote a column that appeared in the Lifestyle/Entertainment page of the now defunct Daily Globe. Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc suggested that I move to the Inquirer or at least have my column moved from Lifestyle to the Opinion-Editorial page. I didn't realize it then, but I often wrote serious stuff but these were not taken seriously because the column appeared next to a photograph of Dolphy or a starlet in half a dress. I moved to the Inquirer in 1993 and now provide foil in a spread where columns comment mainly on politics and current social issues.
Professional and academic historians did not look kindly on popularization. While much of my writing is culled from primary sources, the style and form are not academic. Critics unfairly demand that my column utilize footnotes, have a clear theoretical framework, and should be written in the deadly prose better suited to academic journals. Partly as a result of this aggravation, I pursued (and still pursue) a PhD to get my license to practice history. Often addressed as "Doctor," I have always been tempted to have calling cards made with the letters "HpD" after my name instead of "PhD" to signify "Hindi pa doctor" (Not yet a doctor).
While I am an associate professor in the history department of the Ateneo de Manila University, it is journalism that provided me with a public voice that led to books, lectures, consultancies, and eventually my appointment as chairman of the National Historical Institute in 2002. It was then that I realized one of the great ironies of my life: I built a reputation as an iconoclast, my articles often challenged textbook or official history but with the stroke of a president's pen, I suddenly found myself the keeper of that same official history I had previously challenged.
With this personal introduction, I begin yet another semester introducing my students to the joys of Philippine history.
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 23:36:00 11/11/2008
THRICE COLONIZED and with an archipelagic landscape, the Philippines is a young nation constantly in search of self. History is central to this search for identity and thus the teaching of history in schools is both informative (as an academic discipline that studies the past) and formative (when the past is utilized to place the student in the context of the nation--its past, present and future). Thus, the structure and presentation of history in textbooks, classrooms, official holidays and commemorations, street names and monuments, while seemingly innocent, become contested territory when history as a social science or an academic discipline becomes a handmaid to citizenship, nation building and nationalism.
It is the beginning of yet another semester, and I will enter a classroom and have 80 pairs of eyes following me around, 80 pairs of ears that I presume are listening to every word that proceeds from my lips. I have been teaching since 1985, but I still feel stage fright at the beginning of every term.
The first day is crucial. While many teachers are content with meeting the class, distributing the syllabus and explaining course requirements, I give a full lecture using all the tricks I have learned over the years. Students will remember your first day. If you do well, that first impression will be carried till the end of the term. If you don't make an impression, you are doomed for the whole term. You can never catch up, you can never make up.
While I have always been interested in history, I did not foresee my future as an academic and didn't really prepare for my future (my undergraduate thesis was actually on "Food in Kapampangan Culture"). The turning point in my life came when I met two senior members of the National Historical Institute: the late E. Aguilar Cruz (journalist, writer, painter, wonderful raconteur who served as permanent Philippine representative to Unesco in Paris--all this without having finished college) and the late Teodoro A. Agoncillo (nationalist historian, opinionated raconteur, academic who built a distinguished and colorful career likewise without a PhD). Agoncillo got me interested in research, Cruz opened doors to a career in journalism where I specialized in history.
I began writing in 1985, the tail-end of the Marcos period, in the pro-Marcos Daily Express. In those days of strict censorship, history was considered a "safe" subject and I was allowed to write anything I wished. Then, as now, sensitive readers noticed that I actually commented on the present using the past.
From the beginning, I have always been suspicious of textbook or official history, often asking questions or exploring other possibilities in something that has come down to us over the years as truth. Writing for the general reader also made me write without jargon, in a clear and simple way which is frowned upon by some constipated academics. To engage readers uninterested or hostile to history because of their traumatic experience with the subject in school, I would often write about the lives and times of men and women canonized as heroes to free them from their monuments of stone and bronze and make them human again. My light and often mischievous slant can also be credited to my having started my career in the same room as the infamous show-biz columnist Ricky Lo.
I wrote feature articles on history and eventually wrote a column that appeared in the Lifestyle/Entertainment page of the now defunct Daily Globe. Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc suggested that I move to the Inquirer or at least have my column moved from Lifestyle to the Opinion-Editorial page. I didn't realize it then, but I often wrote serious stuff but these were not taken seriously because the column appeared next to a photograph of Dolphy or a starlet in half a dress. I moved to the Inquirer in 1993 and now provide foil in a spread where columns comment mainly on politics and current social issues.
Professional and academic historians did not look kindly on popularization. While much of my writing is culled from primary sources, the style and form are not academic. Critics unfairly demand that my column utilize footnotes, have a clear theoretical framework, and should be written in the deadly prose better suited to academic journals. Partly as a result of this aggravation, I pursued (and still pursue) a PhD to get my license to practice history. Often addressed as "Doctor," I have always been tempted to have calling cards made with the letters "HpD" after my name instead of "PhD" to signify "Hindi pa doctor" (Not yet a doctor).
While I am an associate professor in the history department of the Ateneo de Manila University, it is journalism that provided me with a public voice that led to books, lectures, consultancies, and eventually my appointment as chairman of the National Historical Institute in 2002. It was then that I realized one of the great ironies of my life: I built a reputation as an iconoclast, my articles often challenged textbook or official history but with the stroke of a president's pen, I suddenly found myself the keeper of that same official history I had previously challenged.
With this personal introduction, I begin yet another semester introducing my students to the joys of Philippine history.
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Torture
By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:40:00 11/07/2008
Whenever you see traffic policemen or enforcers lying in wait or hiding midway along a one-way street, one word comes to mind: “kotong.” One would assume that prevention should be the option rather than punishment, but then that does not generate income. If a traffic enforcer stands at the beginning of a one-way street and waves the unsuspecting or stubborn motorist the correct way, there is no need for a ticket, fine and seminar. No need for a bribe.
Erring motorists flagged down by corrupt traffic cops or deputized “alalay” [aides] used to be asked the odd question, “Sino’ng abogado mo?” [Who is your lawyer?] The clueless ask why they need a lawyer for a minor traffic infraction, so the corrupt cop then makes clear that the question is a polite way of asking for a bribe. The “lawyers” refer to various faces on the different denominations in our paper money. It is a way for the motorist to make an offer or haggle for a comfortable amount.
Remember nobody takes coins, so the heroes of the 19th century—Rizal, Mabini, Bonifacio—cannot act as “abogado.” Thus, Quezon means P20, Sergio Osmeña is worth P50, Manuel Roxas P100 and, God forbid, Aquino has a face value of P500. At today’s rate, Quezon and Osmeña will get you nothing, except a traffic ticket. Roxas might get you off the hook if you are lucky. Aquino often does the trick but, if you intend to haggle, then use Macapagal, who is worth P200. If you want a “Get out of jail” card like those in the famous board game Monopoly, you will need three “lawyers”: Abad Santos, Lim and Escoda who are on the P1,000-bill. Estrada is on the P2,000-bill but these limited-edition bills, while legal tender, are best kept for numismatic collectors and are probably worth more than their face value.
Looking at the “ube” ice cream colored Roxas bill recently, I remembered the controversy it sparked when it was first issued. Rabid nationalists objected to the American Stars and Stripes on our money. Why, they argued, is a foreign flag on our currency?
It was a valid point that missed two bits of history. First, if you take the trouble to read the Declaration of Independence from Spain that our founding fathers read from the window of Emilio Aguinaldo’s home in Kawit, Cavite on June 12, 1898, you will find that the colors of our flag—red, white and blue—are mentioned. Every school child knows the symbolism for these colors: red for bravery, white for purity, and blue for peace. There seems to be nothing assigned to yellow or gold, the colors of the eight-pointed sun and the three stars. Nationalists will be disappointed to discover that according to the 1898 Declaration of Independence, the red, white and blue in our flag, our national symbol, were based on the same colors as those in the American flag! Little wonder the author of that text was never given an important office in the First Republic.
Second, if you look at the Roxas bill, there is no text to explain the context of the offensive flag. It is presumed that everyone knows that the two flags on the bill come from a significant scene in Philippine history. On July 4, 1946 when the United States recognized the independence of the Philippines, the American flag that flew over the islands for almost 50 years was finally lowered, and our flag was raised—proof that we were, finally, a free and independent nation. On that day, Emilio Aguinaldo, a living relic of the Philippine Revolution, was quoted as saying, “Isinauli lamang nila ang kalayaang ating nakamit noong 1898.” [“They only returned the freedom we had won in 1898.”]
Aguinaldo was still alive when President Diosdado Macapagal moved our Independence Day from July 4 to June 12. The Philippine-American War puts this part of our history in context.
In the San Francisco Presidio exhibit “War and Dissent” is a disturbing picture showing the use of “water cure” on a Filipino being interrogated by American soldiers. The procedure is simple: Water (salty or dirty) is forced down a prisoner’s mouth, and then when the victim’s stomach is full and bloated, someone jumps on it, forcing the water out. This is repeated until the victim spills the beans. I have read the transcripts of US congressional investigations on this and was horrified that sometimes this torture was done under medical supervision so that the victim was pushed to his limits but kept alive. Despite being a century old, this painful part of the Philippine-American War gains renewed resonance because of the use of torture in our times, in later wars.
To be fair and balanced though, there is an old photograph of small models showing the various forms and types of torture used by the Spaniards on Filipinos during their watch. Torture was used by all sides in those wars. A disgusted Apolinario Mabini denounced its use, and said it was more humane to carry out a swift execution than slow torture.
The Philippine-American War has long been swept under the rug. To study it makes us realize that history does not repeat itself. We have not progressed much in the past century. History does not move by itself, rather it is we who repeat.
What one should learn from history is not the names, dates and places better used for game shows and crossword puzzles. The real challenge is to recognize and break the historical cycle.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:40:00 11/07/2008
Whenever you see traffic policemen or enforcers lying in wait or hiding midway along a one-way street, one word comes to mind: “kotong.” One would assume that prevention should be the option rather than punishment, but then that does not generate income. If a traffic enforcer stands at the beginning of a one-way street and waves the unsuspecting or stubborn motorist the correct way, there is no need for a ticket, fine and seminar. No need for a bribe.
Erring motorists flagged down by corrupt traffic cops or deputized “alalay” [aides] used to be asked the odd question, “Sino’ng abogado mo?” [Who is your lawyer?] The clueless ask why they need a lawyer for a minor traffic infraction, so the corrupt cop then makes clear that the question is a polite way of asking for a bribe. The “lawyers” refer to various faces on the different denominations in our paper money. It is a way for the motorist to make an offer or haggle for a comfortable amount.
Remember nobody takes coins, so the heroes of the 19th century—Rizal, Mabini, Bonifacio—cannot act as “abogado.” Thus, Quezon means P20, Sergio Osmeña is worth P50, Manuel Roxas P100 and, God forbid, Aquino has a face value of P500. At today’s rate, Quezon and Osmeña will get you nothing, except a traffic ticket. Roxas might get you off the hook if you are lucky. Aquino often does the trick but, if you intend to haggle, then use Macapagal, who is worth P200. If you want a “Get out of jail” card like those in the famous board game Monopoly, you will need three “lawyers”: Abad Santos, Lim and Escoda who are on the P1,000-bill. Estrada is on the P2,000-bill but these limited-edition bills, while legal tender, are best kept for numismatic collectors and are probably worth more than their face value.
Looking at the “ube” ice cream colored Roxas bill recently, I remembered the controversy it sparked when it was first issued. Rabid nationalists objected to the American Stars and Stripes on our money. Why, they argued, is a foreign flag on our currency?
It was a valid point that missed two bits of history. First, if you take the trouble to read the Declaration of Independence from Spain that our founding fathers read from the window of Emilio Aguinaldo’s home in Kawit, Cavite on June 12, 1898, you will find that the colors of our flag—red, white and blue—are mentioned. Every school child knows the symbolism for these colors: red for bravery, white for purity, and blue for peace. There seems to be nothing assigned to yellow or gold, the colors of the eight-pointed sun and the three stars. Nationalists will be disappointed to discover that according to the 1898 Declaration of Independence, the red, white and blue in our flag, our national symbol, were based on the same colors as those in the American flag! Little wonder the author of that text was never given an important office in the First Republic.
Second, if you look at the Roxas bill, there is no text to explain the context of the offensive flag. It is presumed that everyone knows that the two flags on the bill come from a significant scene in Philippine history. On July 4, 1946 when the United States recognized the independence of the Philippines, the American flag that flew over the islands for almost 50 years was finally lowered, and our flag was raised—proof that we were, finally, a free and independent nation. On that day, Emilio Aguinaldo, a living relic of the Philippine Revolution, was quoted as saying, “Isinauli lamang nila ang kalayaang ating nakamit noong 1898.” [“They only returned the freedom we had won in 1898.”]
Aguinaldo was still alive when President Diosdado Macapagal moved our Independence Day from July 4 to June 12. The Philippine-American War puts this part of our history in context.
In the San Francisco Presidio exhibit “War and Dissent” is a disturbing picture showing the use of “water cure” on a Filipino being interrogated by American soldiers. The procedure is simple: Water (salty or dirty) is forced down a prisoner’s mouth, and then when the victim’s stomach is full and bloated, someone jumps on it, forcing the water out. This is repeated until the victim spills the beans. I have read the transcripts of US congressional investigations on this and was horrified that sometimes this torture was done under medical supervision so that the victim was pushed to his limits but kept alive. Despite being a century old, this painful part of the Philippine-American War gains renewed resonance because of the use of torture in our times, in later wars.
To be fair and balanced though, there is an old photograph of small models showing the various forms and types of torture used by the Spaniards on Filipinos during their watch. Torture was used by all sides in those wars. A disgusted Apolinario Mabini denounced its use, and said it was more humane to carry out a swift execution than slow torture.
The Philippine-American War has long been swept under the rug. To study it makes us realize that history does not repeat itself. We have not progressed much in the past century. History does not move by itself, rather it is we who repeat.
What one should learn from history is not the names, dates and places better used for game shows and crossword puzzles. The real challenge is to recognize and break the historical cycle.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
A splendid exhibit on a forgotten war
By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:05:00 11/05/2008
There is a splendid exhibit going on at the Presidio of San Francisco, a former military base very much like Clark, Subic and Camp John Hay that is now undergoing conversion into a modern space for civilian use. The exhibit, “War and Dissent: The U.S. in the Philippines 1898-1915,” curated by Randolph Delehanty, PhD (Harvard), explores the little known period of our shared history that is now known as the Philippine-American War.
It is a forgotten war, not fully explained in both American and Philippine textbooks because when George Dewey and his ships blasted the floating wooden antiques that comprised the Spanish fleet in Manila Bay on May 1, 1898, that battle marked the first shot in the Spanish-American War. We must remember that the US was interfering in the way Spain was running neighboring Spanish Cuba, which like the Philippines had people fighting for their independence. When the American ship Maine exploded in Havana, the accident was used as an excuse for the US to declare war against Spain. The first shot was not fired anywhere near Washington or Madrid, it was heard half the world away in Manila Bay.
After his victory in Manila Bay, Dewey held Manila hostage from the sea; he didn’t have land troops to take and occupy the city. So to keep the pressure on the Spaniards holed up in Intramuros, Emilio Aguinaldo was brought back to resume the Philippine Revolution. He was led to believe that the US, which had fought and won her independence from Britain, was helping Filipinos win theirs, too.
Aguinaldo was to be sadly disappointed. After his return to the Philippines from Hong Kong in late May 1898 on board a US vessel, he resumed the struggle for freedom. On June 12, 1898, in his home in Kawit, Cavite, the Filipinos made their declaration of independence from Spain. Dewey did not attend the party, as he had been instructed by Washington not to make any promises to the Filipinos or recognize their independence in any way.
On Aug. 13, 1898, Dewey bombarded Fort San Antonio Abad (inside the present Central Bank complex along Roxas Boulevard) and the Spaniards, in accordance with a secret agreement, surrendered to the US, not to the Philippines and the Filipinos.
In the evening of Feb. 4, 1899, a sentry named Grayson in a blockhouse in Sta. Mesa shot and killed a Filipino whose name is forever lost to history. That shot began what used to be called the “Philippine Insurrection” because it was convenient for the US not to recognize the First Philippine Republic established in Malolos earlier in the year. To refer to the “insurrection” as a war would have been tantamount to recognizing that the Philippines was already a free and independent nation.
In 1998, the Library of Congress changed its bibliographic classification and changed “Philippine Insurrection” to “Philippine-American War.” That simple change in words significantly changes the whole way in which we see our past, understand our present, and see the future.
Over two decades ago, when I first wrote about the Philippine-American War using as illustrations gory pictures of dead Filipinos in the trenches, I received hate mail branding me as “anti-American” and a “leftist” and a “communist.” Historical memory is short in the Philippines, leading someone to write, “Don’t blame the US if they don’t come back to liberate us as they did from the Japanese in 1945.”
These critics didn’t even know that I used American sources for my articles, mostly materials from the anti-imperialist league—including Mark Twain—that tried to remind Americans against the expansionist policies of Presidents McKinley and Roosevelt. These materials were sourced from the New York Public Library, but that did not stop the board of censors from banning an anti-bases documentary where I appeared on camera to provide historical context. (I have only appeared on film twice in my life and both were given an “X” rating and banned, so no producer or director has touched me since.) Fortunately, the world has become a better place, and now that such an exhibition has been made in the US, I hope we can bring it to the Philippines.
The exhibit consists mostly of text and photos, with some artifacts like captured Philippine and Spanish flags, maps, books, letters and diaries. It explores “the little known war in the Philippines from several points of view, including one American soldier’s story, the struggles of the Philippine independence movement, and the experience of the Lopez family [these are Lopezes from Batangas province, related to Rizal, not those from Iloilo province who are now associated with Manila Electric Co. and ABS-CBN Broadcasting]. Furthermore, the exhibit illustrates how US expansion was depicted in political cartoons of the period.”
Thoughtfully provided on tables are i-pods that allow visitors to hear the “voices of dissent: Mark Twain, other members of the Anti-Imperialist League, and the African-American Press.” The exhibit concludes by showing “the rise of the Presidio into a major military installation and the expansion of the US into the Caribbean and Pacific.”
If you are visiting San Francisco or have friends or relatives there, the exhibit runs until Feb. 22, 2009.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:05:00 11/05/2008
There is a splendid exhibit going on at the Presidio of San Francisco, a former military base very much like Clark, Subic and Camp John Hay that is now undergoing conversion into a modern space for civilian use. The exhibit, “War and Dissent: The U.S. in the Philippines 1898-1915,” curated by Randolph Delehanty, PhD (Harvard), explores the little known period of our shared history that is now known as the Philippine-American War.
It is a forgotten war, not fully explained in both American and Philippine textbooks because when George Dewey and his ships blasted the floating wooden antiques that comprised the Spanish fleet in Manila Bay on May 1, 1898, that battle marked the first shot in the Spanish-American War. We must remember that the US was interfering in the way Spain was running neighboring Spanish Cuba, which like the Philippines had people fighting for their independence. When the American ship Maine exploded in Havana, the accident was used as an excuse for the US to declare war against Spain. The first shot was not fired anywhere near Washington or Madrid, it was heard half the world away in Manila Bay.
After his victory in Manila Bay, Dewey held Manila hostage from the sea; he didn’t have land troops to take and occupy the city. So to keep the pressure on the Spaniards holed up in Intramuros, Emilio Aguinaldo was brought back to resume the Philippine Revolution. He was led to believe that the US, which had fought and won her independence from Britain, was helping Filipinos win theirs, too.
Aguinaldo was to be sadly disappointed. After his return to the Philippines from Hong Kong in late May 1898 on board a US vessel, he resumed the struggle for freedom. On June 12, 1898, in his home in Kawit, Cavite, the Filipinos made their declaration of independence from Spain. Dewey did not attend the party, as he had been instructed by Washington not to make any promises to the Filipinos or recognize their independence in any way.
On Aug. 13, 1898, Dewey bombarded Fort San Antonio Abad (inside the present Central Bank complex along Roxas Boulevard) and the Spaniards, in accordance with a secret agreement, surrendered to the US, not to the Philippines and the Filipinos.
In the evening of Feb. 4, 1899, a sentry named Grayson in a blockhouse in Sta. Mesa shot and killed a Filipino whose name is forever lost to history. That shot began what used to be called the “Philippine Insurrection” because it was convenient for the US not to recognize the First Philippine Republic established in Malolos earlier in the year. To refer to the “insurrection” as a war would have been tantamount to recognizing that the Philippines was already a free and independent nation.
In 1998, the Library of Congress changed its bibliographic classification and changed “Philippine Insurrection” to “Philippine-American War.” That simple change in words significantly changes the whole way in which we see our past, understand our present, and see the future.
Over two decades ago, when I first wrote about the Philippine-American War using as illustrations gory pictures of dead Filipinos in the trenches, I received hate mail branding me as “anti-American” and a “leftist” and a “communist.” Historical memory is short in the Philippines, leading someone to write, “Don’t blame the US if they don’t come back to liberate us as they did from the Japanese in 1945.”
These critics didn’t even know that I used American sources for my articles, mostly materials from the anti-imperialist league—including Mark Twain—that tried to remind Americans against the expansionist policies of Presidents McKinley and Roosevelt. These materials were sourced from the New York Public Library, but that did not stop the board of censors from banning an anti-bases documentary where I appeared on camera to provide historical context. (I have only appeared on film twice in my life and both were given an “X” rating and banned, so no producer or director has touched me since.) Fortunately, the world has become a better place, and now that such an exhibition has been made in the US, I hope we can bring it to the Philippines.
The exhibit consists mostly of text and photos, with some artifacts like captured Philippine and Spanish flags, maps, books, letters and diaries. It explores “the little known war in the Philippines from several points of view, including one American soldier’s story, the struggles of the Philippine independence movement, and the experience of the Lopez family [these are Lopezes from Batangas province, related to Rizal, not those from Iloilo province who are now associated with Manila Electric Co. and ABS-CBN Broadcasting]. Furthermore, the exhibit illustrates how US expansion was depicted in political cartoons of the period.”
Thoughtfully provided on tables are i-pods that allow visitors to hear the “voices of dissent: Mark Twain, other members of the Anti-Imperialist League, and the African-American Press.” The exhibit concludes by showing “the rise of the Presidio into a major military installation and the expansion of the US into the Caribbean and Pacific.”
If you are visiting San Francisco or have friends or relatives there, the exhibit runs until Feb. 22, 2009.
* * *
Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.
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