SKIRMISHER

In October, a breath of the north stirs Manila, blowing summer’s dust and doves from the tile roofs, freshening the moss of old walls, as the city festoons itself with arches and paper lanterns for its great votive feast to the Virgin. Women hurrying into their finery upstairs, bewhiskered men tapping impatient canes downstairs, children teeming in the doorways, coachmen holding eager ponies in the gay streets, glance up anxiously, fearing the wind’s chill: would it rain this year? (But the eyes that, long ago, had gazed up anxiously, invoking the Virgin, had feared a grimmer rain — of fire and metal; for pirate craft crowded the horizon.)The bells begin to peal again and sound like silver coins showering in the fine air; at the rumor of drums and trumpets as bands march smartly down the cobblestones, a pang of childhood happiness smites every heart. October in Manila! But the emotion, so special to one’s childhood, seems no longer purely one’s own; seems to have traveled ahead deep into time, since one first felt its pang; growing ever more poignant, more complex — a child’s rhyme swelling epical; a clan treasure one bequeath’s at the very moment of inheritance, having added one’s gem to it. And time creates unexpected destinations, history raises figs from thistles; yesterday’s pirates become today’s roast pork and paper lanterns, a tapping of impatient canes, a clamor of trumpets…

– NICK JOAQUÍN

There is indeed something with October which smote the heart of the great Hispanist Nick Joaquín (1917-2004): the feast of La Naval de Manila, perhaps the greatest spectacle Old Manila (Intramuros) ever had. The fiesta was celebrated with great pomp and revelry during the Spanish era and before the last War. It was in commemoration of Spain and the Philippines’ successive victories against Dutch invaders during the year 1646. What made it unbelievable is that the ships that the Philippines and Spain used were not battle ships at all; they were frail galleon trade ships! Most of the seamen in those galleons weren’t even military men. And instead of focusing more on their flimsy defense, many of the sailors invoked the Virgin using the rosary.

Miraculously, they won. And they routed the Dutch four more times after that. And since then, La Naval de Manila, which old Manileños likened to the legendary Battle of Lepanto (in which the Virgin Mary was also a protagonist), was made part and parcel of Manila life.

Wittingly or unwittingly, Instituto Cervantes de Manila and other Spanish institutions declared October as the Spanish month in the Philippines. Instituto Cervantes de Manila, the Spanish institution created by Spain to teach and disseminate the Spanish language and culture throughout the world, currently celebrates its sixth edition of iFiesta! Spanish Festival for Culture and the Arts.

And I give a toast to that, as well. In fact, I’ve been trying to conserve the spirit of this centuries-old fiesta on my own. And every day. It really began when I studied the Castilian language, “la lengua de nuestros padres”.

It wasn’t easy, however, especially since English –as well as the freak that it spawned: Taglish– pervades the Philippine airwaves.

But the difficulty of learning a new language is not in the learning process itself, but in assimilating oneself into the language’s “soul,” or having an attachment, “un adhesión o cariño”, towards it.

Although Spanish was a part of my college curricula, I really never paid any attention to it. I only began studying Spanish in 2001, when I was already a young father. I wanted to learn Spanish not really to open up new opportunities for me (although I have to admit that the goal may have somehow changed now, especially since I’m about to welcome a third child this January), but to rediscover who I really am, i.e., I have desired to discover my “roots.” (Especially upon learning back in college that the name “Lapu-lapu” is actually a Blair and Robertson mistranslation; the correct name of the Mactán “hero” was Cali Pulaco.)

No one could have elucidated on this nationalistic desire better than our very own Spanish Shakespeare, the irrepressible, belligerent, and legendary patriot Claro M. Recto (1890-1960):

No es, ciertamente, por motivos sentimentales o por deferencia a la gran nación española que dio a medio mundo su religión, su lenguaje y su cultura, que profesamos devoción a este idioma y mostramos firme empeñó en conservario y propagarlo, sino por egoismo nacional y por imperativos del patriotismo, porque el español es ya cosa nuestra, propia, sangre de nuestra sangre y carne de nuestra carne, porque así lo quisieron nuestros mártires, héroes y estadistas del pasado, y sin el será trunco el inventario de nuestro patrimonio cultural.

(It is certainly not for sentimental motives or deference to the great Spanish nation that gave her religion, language and culture to half of the world that we profess devotion to this language but because of national egoism and because of imperatives of patriotism, because Spanish is already ours, our own, blood of our blood and flesh of our flesh, for so willed our martyrs, heroes and statesmen of the past and without it the inventory of our cultural patrimony would be wrong.)

I grew up in an environment of Tagalog conversations and English pedagogy, although my father’s side were of Spanish descent (and some of them still knows some Spanish). Unfortunately, they never really cared, nor did they take pride, of their Hispanic heritage. Perhaps the proper word for it is indifference.

I still have vague memories of my bisabuela (great grandmother) who was a native speaker of Spanish. However (according to my mom), she banished her daughter, who is my paternal abuela/lola, from the casa ancestral when the latter married a native Tagalog whom the former didn’t prefer. Some of my abuela’s siblings knew Spanish (particulary Windalino Évora y Bonilla, 1920-1997, one of the World War II heroes of Unisan, Quezon), but she doesn’t. Probably, she was never taught the language because of that liaison. I even noticed that whenever I’m lucky enough to visit our ancestral home in Quezon, my grandmother is the only member of the family who doesn’t have a sepia portrait hanging on its centuries-old paredes.

Despite my Spanish ancestry, I look more like an indio. Or even an Arabic terrorist than a Spanish half-breed (my mother’s maternal grandfather is from Malaysia, but not even my mother’s mother saw him; only ageing relatives). And because of that, there have been many times when I entered malls that security guards kept a close eye on me. And I knew why. No joke.

But that’s not really the reason why I’m much prouder of my Spanish origins. During solitary moments, I try to figure out why. My dad’s Spanish side were of a landed gentry, but they weren’t as filthy reach as compared to the dones y doñas and ilustrados of Spanish and mestizo lineage. I haven’t discovered anyone yet from the family tree of any hispanista (but years ago, I learned that my abuela’s elder brother, Windalino –we Alas kids used to call him Uncle Carding– wrote poetry in Spanish; unfortunately, I still have to gain access on his works that are still hidden somewhere in our somewhat “unfriendly” ancestral house). But I really don’t comprehend this “patriotic egoism” that I have felt ever since I have learned about the amount of Spanish blood that’s still flowing in my veins.

Maybe the reason for that is I live in the Philippines. And this country, due to the backwash of 333 Castilian years, is still, by its movements and grace, a Latin country — the only país latino in Asia. And since the mores and norms of this country, albeit the strong tide of globalization and information technology, is still basically Kastilà, I assume that could have been the reason to my attachment to our Madre España’s heritage to our country.

It appears that Filipinos are Hispanic. It is inherent.

But later on, I’d beg to differ from myself. Amidst compelling evidence of the Kastilà that is still simmering in the Filipino cosmos, a greater percentage of Filipinos today hate our Spanish past. No thanks to the leyenda negra that our local educators –under the auspices of the CIA-backed Summer Institute of Linguistics (the same group who had a hand in the TINKERING of Ramón Magsaysay’s plane which crashed in Monte de Manunggal, Cebú, killing Mambo Mambo Magsaysay)– have successfully propagated, such as: “the Spaniards abused the natives when they imposed the unjust polo y servicios onto them; the Spaniards burned pre-colonial books; the Spaniards murdered Gomburza and Rizal; the Spanish friars raped the fairest Filipinas of their choice; the Spaniards owned vast tracts of land which they stole from the natives; the Spaniards hampered progress and education; the Spaniards bequeathed to us corruption; the Spaniards are evil beings from Mars; the Spaniards are all this and all that, etc., etc., etc.

Frankly, my dear, all this (and more) is a lot of BS.

Oftentimes, I’m led to believe that this attachment to Spain is brought about by my being a history buff. More than three centuries of Philippine history is written in Spanish, and that is where I’ve been trying to focus myself all these busy years. But then again, I can still remember that as a child, I used to boast to my classmates of my Spanish ancestry. And I never even knew back then that cuchara y tenedor, including my surname (Alas se dice wings en inglés), were Spanish words.

Even during my brief godless years, it was hard to deny my Spanish roots, although during that time, I hated everything Catholic, which is Spain’s “sister” and protectress for centuries.

Strange as it may seem, I find it unusual as to why only a few Filipinos are struck by this “national egoism” mentioned by Recto in that unspoken speech which was supposed to be delivered in Spain. But he died along the way (mysteriously?), in Rome.

I don’t want to harp around to everyone that, hey, I’m one of the lucky chosen few! Heck, no. I just want to ask something to each and every Filipino out there who happens to read this boring post if, at one point in their lives, have they ever even thought that the main reason why Spain united 7,107 islands and hundreds of warring tribes under one nation, one religion, and one language is to simply exploit and abuse us?

I find it all to stupid. When I was in the third grade, I find it too illogical to picture Ferdinand Magellan as nothing but a vicious and heartless monster of a conquistador, when it was he who was the catalyst of the Filipino nation.

In the US, they give thanks and honor to the man who discovered their country. They celebrate this event every year on Columbus Day (Día de la Raza en América Latina), celebrated every second Monday of -gasp!- October.

Here, if some government sector even plans of setting up a monument in honor of the hapless Magellan/Magallanes, it would be lucky if the project goes as far as contracting a willing sculptor.

To my knowledge, I’m the only non-elite and voiceless Hispanist yapping around this secluded corner of earth. I am affiliated to no physical group which aims to propagate and cultivate and preserve and defend the Spanish culture in the Philippines; I am a member of a yahoogroup (Círculo Hispano-Filipino), though, that fosters such aims. But up to now, the group really hasn’t made any significant mark in the mainstream; it only exists in the web, discussing and debating and exchanging ideas, but nothing more. And this depresses me.

But this doesn’t hamper my “quixotic goals” for Spanish in the Philippines. Though voiceless and powerless, at least I can say right before my grave that I fought a good fight, and stood up for my principles — quixotic words that are worth being laughed at by cynics. But I don’t care. Each individual has his/her own role to play in this world; this is the role that I was destined to portray. I will continue to scintillate my pen under the guidance of La Musa Española. At least, for me, that would’ve made a mark with a few good hombres.

Until then, I fight a lonely war…

***

To accuse the Spanish, over and over again, of having brought us all sorts of things, mostly evil, among which we can usually remember nothing very valuable, “except, perhaps,” religion and national unity, is equivalent to saying of a not very model mother, that she has given her child nothing except life, for in the profoundest possible sense, Spain did give birth to us — as a nation, as an historical people. This geographical unit of numberless islands called the Philippines –this mystical unit of numberless tongues, bloods and cultures called a Filipino– was begotten of Spain, is a Spanish creation. The content of our national destiny is ours to create, but the basic form, the temper, the physiognomy, Spain has created for us.

Towards our Spanish past, especially, it is time we became more friendly, bitterness but inhibits us; those years cry for a fresher appraisal.

(La Naval de Manila, October 1943)

¡Octubre en Manila!

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