Duterte: Strongman, Jokerman (in CNN Philippines)

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Thanks to Don Jaucian of CNN Philippines for publishing the article on Duterte in its entirety. This was written in the heat of the election cycle, and I have read it again in light of the results and my own ambivalent feelings about Duterte (I sympathize with his voters, and I find Duterte himself—and the phenomenon of him—absolutely fascinating, a complex story of the Philippines and of overdetermined desire, that is, in this case, of a people’s political desire, a kind of idealism, an anguish, “having more determining factors than the minimum necessary—having more than one cause”). And I recognize demagoguery as an election strategy—heralded it seems as a Filipinism—Dutertism; but however much you make a Juan Pusong hash of his affect, the violence underlying it is a problem. I reread the article, and I would not change a word of it.

There’s that story of when Gertrude Stein first saw the portrait Picasso made of her, and she complained: “But it does not look like me.” The artist replied: “Don’t worry, it will.”

The issues behind this election outcome are structural, not personal. I was interested not only in a portrait of Duterte and his voters but also to consider  what constructs us.

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My Foreign Policy article on Duterte

The editor of this piece chose the title—not I! I do not think the Trump analogy is the best—nor is the sensationalizing caption—really annoying, actually. My original draft of this piece (published in its entirety on CNN Philippines) does not even mention Trump. The editor wanted the link to Trump to make it “understandable” to an American audience. Personally, I think the U.S. still needs to make the phenomenon of their Trump understandable to the world. With its sensational headline (again, not my fault!), this piece has also been picked up by NZ Herald and The Chicago Tribune, and cited in Forbes.

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Paltik Candidate: Duterte and the Duranos of Danao


Paltik Presidente

It is fascinating to check out the genealogy of Rodrigo Duterte. He excuses his foul mouth by such comments as “hindi ako anak ng konyo”—I am not a child of the upper classes.

But if you look up his bio, his father, Vicente G. Duterte, was in fact the governor of his province, Davao, when he was growing up, in 1959 to 1965—his formative, teenage years. Thus, he was no unknown peasant when he was learning to be a man. He grew up a governor’s child. He is, in fact, “anak ng konyo”—that is, a child of privilege.

There is no sense that his father had oligarch ways; in fact, there is very little info on what his father had done for Davao.

But Davaoeños on my FB page mention that his mother, Soledad Roa-Duterte, was known for her good heart, a civic leader—she supported Cory Aquino in 1986. It is said Cory Aquino handpicked Duterte to be officer-in-charge of Davao City when his mother declined the honor. He was elected mayor in 1988 and served six terms, a mayor of Davao City well into the 2000s.

That the origin story of Duterte, champion of death squads as a form of justice, lies in his being handpicked by Cory Aquino says a lot.

The Philippines’ continuing accommodation of Marcos-style fascist warlords, from the Cory years on, is the country’s rot. State violence remains our cancer though the dictator has, so they say, died.

Duterte likes to talk about Davao as a safe city under his long mayoralty; Human Rights Watch notes otherwise. Davao City certainly was not safe when a rash of hostage taking occurred in 1989, a now infamous year after his well-publicized account of the rape and death in 1989 of Australian missionary, Jacqueline Hamill. Davao, then and now, is probably no more safe than any large city in the Philippines with guns and assassins and petty thieves and drug lords operating in militarized local settings—in which too often state oppression joins with personal revenge—that have marked the Philippines since the guardia civil killed Crispin in the Noli, and the Americans took up where the Spaniards left off, and then our own series of sad republics has had its day.

Instead, what is remarkable about Duterte’s Davao City is not its dubious safety but its death squads. Duterte’s fans like to say that the extrajudicial killings of street children and drug addicts are worth it if the rest of citizens can walk the streets free. But no citizen in her right mind should sleep well at that cost. As far back as 525 B.C, the ancient Greeks knew well enough that Orestes and the rest of his bloodletting ilk of the house of Atreus had to stop taking justice in their own hands already. Thus courts were invented (so says Aeschylus). Courts, as far the civilized world goes, remain a fine alternative to bloodletting.

State-supported violence to tamp down crime is not security: it is crime. But when one looks further into Duterte’s genealogy, one gets an insight into his assassin-friendly rule. The Dutertes, like many Davaoeños, are emigrants from elsewhere, usually Cebu. In Duterte’s case, his father Vicente was from Danao City, in Cebu province. That lone consonant shift, v to n, Davao to Danao, is a significant différance. Danao City is the stronghold of the Duranos, a warlord family to which the historian Michael Cullinane devotes a whole chapter in Alfred McCoy’s classic anthology on Filipino cronyism, An Anarchy of Families. The figurehead of the violent, gun-loving Duranos is their patriarch, Ramon Durano, Sr. His wife was Beatriz Duterte.

There’s the rub.

Turns out the Dutertes of Danao are linked to the notorious Duranos, potent deliverers of Cebu votes to the Marcos dictatorship in every crucial election of Marcos’s reign.

This is what I gather from the family trees that have proliferated since the man has become a buzzword—not all of his words so nice—in these elections (correct me if I am wrong, as the genealogies are actually conflicting): Beatriz Duterte Durano is the first cousin of Vicente G. Duterte, the late governor of Davao. Beatriz and Vicente’s fathers, Facundo (Vicente’s) and Severo (Beatriz’s), are brothers, children of Isabelo Duterte and Concepcion Buot. Since 1955 to 1986, Beatriz Duterte Durano was a force in Cebu politics, trading off the position of Danao mayor or congressperson with her children, Boy and other boy Duranos, so that their elections were “monotonous,” says Cullinane.

But her husband, Ramon Durano, Sr., is the kingpin—the Marcos crony whose spectacular devotion to martial rule is not meteoric but metonymic: his name is a substitute for the GGG (not galunggong, but guns, goons, and gold) of Philippine politics.

When I was growing up, visiting Cebu every summer, I’d hear of these toxic Duranos. Their fiefdom, Danao, was the well-known, dreaded (to a child’s mind) place of paltik. Some towns are known for their puto or their piña; Danao was known for its paltik—crude but effective Filipino-made guns, made illegally, but the Marcos-era police turned a blind eye. I grew up thinking that if you entered Danao, you’d be riddled with drug addiction or bullets. The Duranos were the overlords and masterminds of an un-charming cottage industry. At a time when violence was normalized and rumors of disappearances were as common as the whiff of kaingin, to me violence in Cebu equaled the Duranos. Guimaras was famous for its mangoes; Danao for its deaths. These were childhood equations of my martial law years.

If I mention the Duranos to my sister, for example, she immediately says—so violent. If I mention Duranos among Manileños, I only get glassy eyes. The power of the family is unknown. Information about the provinces is so lacking in the capital that it is no surprise that to many, the Duterte phenomenon catches them unaware. This is one more strike against the blinkers of the people of the national capital region. Significantly, in the last Pulse Asia Survey, the only region in which Poe and Roxas win is the Visayas. Who knows if that is because—they are aware of Duterte’s entire career—or of course Poe and Roxas have their own familial footholds in the Visayas—or maybe the Visayans are more intelligent and knowledgeable than the people in Manila would care to admit, knowing both the capital region’s personalities as well as their own. Who knows.

News reports state the Duranos of Cebu City (don’t know about Danao City) are not (publicly) on Duterte’s side in this election (the family had huge splits after Marcos years, according to Cullinane); but that does not negate the Durano/Marcosian style of Duterte’s views of law and order, ie, extrajudicial killings as state policy. He’s interesting (and thus maybe worse) in that he’s pretty open about it.

I keep wondering why the biography and genealogy of Duterte barely make play in Manila news. I imagine it is because for so long the man was ignored in the capital, for his Bisaya accent, his outrageous mouth, and his provincial affect as some no-name bumpkin. It would have been useful to figure out that the man has long had pertinent examples from his own set of relatives, however distanced or estranged he may be (I have no information on his actual personal relations with them) as an example of how to remain in power.


Professor Lector at the Faculty Center

I learned this week the UP Faculty Center burned down. I spent formative years there. My first novel, Bibliolepsy, was born there. I went to UP because I was told Franz Arcellana taught at Diliman. I never took his short story class, but I used to give Franz drafts of my work (they were all terrible—unbearable pieces of impossible malaise), and we’d talk about Dostoyevski (Franz talking about the fly buzzing about the the cold body of Nastasia Philipovna in The Idiot is somehow frozen in my memory) and Virginia Woolf and Kafka and so on. I liked best his stories of his friendship with Estrella Alfon, his Cebuano cohort in madcap literary stuff. Franz is not at all Lionel Lector in Bibliolepsy, but in Bibliolepsy, Lionel Lector is the only writer who escapes whole from the narrator’s crazy pen. I recognized once when I was reading Bibliolepsy to a crowd that the scene in Chapter 7: Third Poetry Reading is my own private homage to my conversations with Franz (you don’t think of these things when you are writing), and now I see it entombs my days at the FC.

Note: I was thinking of where Franz’s papers were: it turns out they were at the FC. This is very painful. May Jurilla blogs on the English Department: “The Department of English and Comparative Literature (DECL) suffered a particularly gut-wrenching loss: In February this year, the family of the late Francisco Arcellana, National Artist for Literature, donated his library to the department. It comprised over a thousand books, the most special ones marked with annotations in his hand and inscribed by their authors for him, along with rare first editions of Philippine literary works. Some of my colleagues and I were in the process of sorting through the collection. It was tedious and literally dirty work, but it came with the privilege of catching a glimpse of the life of the mind of a brilliant man who was a pillar of Philippine arts and letters and who was once one of us, a member of the DECL faculty.”

from Bibliolepsy, a novel

‘The door of the cafeteria, which was housed in the Faculty Center, opened. It had a slow way of moving, this door—a bit like the careful, rheumatic movements of many of the people who frequented the place: old or aging professors with different measures of gall drained in them. The door opened but did not close. Instead, a head seemed to hold it ajar. It peeked through the door and looked into the room. Not looking, you’d say, but glaring, or almost as if startled into our presence—the flies on the food, the aluminum dullness of the counters, the grime on the cracked plywood walls, colored flesh now, withered to the hue of our questioning faces as we looked at him, he who seemed surprised by his own arrival.

His head, when seen this way, preening back as though ready to be sliced by the door, was all eyes—a wide gray reckoning of his place and time. …

Professor Lionel Lector—though I don’t recall my naïveté anything to be proud of—was the reason I had decided to go to university at all, and this university in particular.

He was famous for one poem, a song of love and faith and dying, a common enough tale for any song, and a rare occurrence in being written so simply, powerfully and completely, easy to memorize and quick to move the one who reads. It was a poem embedded in our national memory now, published as it is in grade-school texts, definitive anthologies, commemorative books, and even periodically in the Philippine Journal of Education (as though it were a tic in this august body’s neck). Even babies, it is said, were affected by this poem. They cried at the right parts. Or so Prospero had said to me. I would cry, turning my head into my sheets, when my father recited the penultimate line of grief.

“I thought he was dead,” said burly but unsaintly Bernard.

“He should be,” said Tina. “It’s better than appearing mad like that. He gives me the creeps in the hallway, I think his dental fixtures will one day pop out. What’s he always chewing on in his mouth—cotton balls?”

“When you are old and gray, Tina,” I said, “I hope someone gives you a mirror and knocks it into your gums. I’d like to do that to you right now.”

“Hey man,” said Bernard, “chill out. It’s cool, Prims: everybody knows we worship the Prof.”

“He only wrote one poem after all,” said Tina.


You know one learns a lot from one event, sometimes from even the most innocuous ones. Spending a day talking frivolously with a group of friends, you feel upon walking away from the table a generous repulsion in your chest, like a cotton wad of gross but natural excretions. You feel that you’ve wasted time, it will not come back, and worse still, you wasted it posturing, peacocking your image, or cheaply frittering away your passion upon indifferent people—the usual feelings of self-loathing that come upon us in fitful times. And you think: Why do I even allow myself to speak?

It was like this that afternoon, as I walked out of the Faculty Center to my new apartment in Area Six. I had moved all my books to the university area, and this trooping over from Adriatico to Diliman to Adriatico took a toll on my nerves. The daily diesel fumes were deadly. And as I passed by a room where people normally had classes, because of the shortage of space in the college, I saw again the old poet, Professor Lector, by a door.

His back looked like the upright back of an amphibian, leaning in.

“I like to look at them.” He turned to me.

I was startled by his address.

His voice was loud, from the habit of years of teaching, which unduly modulates speech to this high treble.

He motioned me to move closer.

“Look at them,” he was whispering. “It’s my class.”

“Then why aren’t you teaching it, sir?” I asked.

“I am,” he whispered, nodding his head. “They just don’t know it.”

“What are you teaching them, sir?” I asked.

“It’s just this.” He motioned me even closer to him, so that he said loudly in my ear: “It’s that the author is dead. He is no longer in our midst.”

Through circumstances and an almost strange delicacy, I had never enrolled in his class. I call it delicacy, a reader’s weird sense of abomination. Later as I got more comfortable being around these hallways, the mere sight of the poet in the building produced in me a kind of pain.

It was not just that he was old and intermittently lucid and altered from what he may have promised to be when he wrote the poem. It was not only the mental readjustments one had to make when one saw him (continual as those adjustments were), from one’s continuing historical image of him to his continuing, or may I say deconstructing, presence. The historical image, of course, receded as the present man daily peered through doors, gnashing his teeth as though chewing lifelong sheaves of paper.

It was a pain of all of these but not quite—not simply an everyman’s sorrow over the passing of time, which happens to all of us, even though we are not poets.

I could not quite put my finger to it, at least not at that moment.

I had to return to the building for a class that afternoon, and I saw him again in greater shadow: the way light fell upon the day. He was in a dark hallway a bit ahead of me.

“And how did the class take it, Professor?” I asked.

“Ah, hello, hello,” he said jovially, seeing but not placing me. He spoke with that jocular twang of his, peculiar to him, although they say he picked it up from his student days in the American Midwest, in Iowa with Paul Engle or Kalamazoo, amid the scent of Bienvenido Santos’s apples.

Professor Lector’s speech was a healthy rounding of vowels, an amused adoption of a foreign language.

“Take what, my dear?”

He stopped in his tracks to wait for me near the glass entrance midway through the hall.

Light was better there.

“How did they take the fact of the death of the author?” I asked.

He put out his hands in that gesture of doubt, moving his palms up and down. “So, so,” he said, shaking his head conspiratorially. “It’ll take them a while to get over it.”

“How long did it take you?”

I regretted that I had spoken.

Because there was this tragedy about which people whispered. How Professor Lector had stopped writing at an age too young for everyone’s wishes.

It was as much a tragedy, for some folk, as it was a mystery.

People thought they saw some signs of its cause. Knowingly they point out how after the writing of his seminal poem, Professor Lector had condemned it. He condemned the anthologizing, the commentating and the repeated publications in Philippine journals. All of this is true. He liked the poem, he had said in an interview, but he liked others better. He pointed to his masterpiece, which the world ignored. He wrote other poems, but we continued to memorize the same lyrical relic. He grew old, but people still confronted him with his boyhood poem.

And then he had confronted them with silence. He showed them the speechlessness of his days. And it became a mystery to everyone that he spoke nothing (for when a poet publishes nothing new, he may as well be mute); when in fact, say some clever souls, when he had spoken before, readers had drowned out his words by their thoughtless applause.

That was one theory. That readers, by their early, too partial pleasure, had killed Professor Lector. The public had made him sit on his laurels, squashing them.

It’s a fanciful theory.

There are others.

When I saw him in the hallways, it would sometimes seem as if his speechlessness were a long bout of self-revulsion, a cradling of an unspent loathing—”Why do I even allow myself to speak?”

But I recognized my own pale miseries in that.

He looked at me with those wide-open, humorous eyes and answered my question, which I had regretted, with that booming trill to his speech: “How long did it take me? Most of my life, my dear, most of my life. I had to teach it to myself.”

I moved on with him. We had reached his office.

“Yes,” he said, frisking himself for his keys, “the author annihilates himself.”

“Literally or symbolically?”

“Eternally and daily,” he grinned. “That’s how it should be. But mind you,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “I’m not revealing any of my secrets.”

He tinkered with his door’s lock, as if it were difficult, but it was easily opened.

He gestured that I take a seat.

I did.

His office held the clutter of a life dwelt in the mind—books, scattered paper, college bluebooks, greeting cards from students illustrated with Virginia Woolf in facsimile smile. I suppose I sought what I hoped to find: a sign of writing in progress, his secret life that would astound skeptics and pierce the mystery once and for all.

A typewriter lay on a side table, a bulky, dusty Remington. On a sheet on his desk I quickly noted the type he favored, the merry, wide font of Pica.

“A letter to a student,” he said to me. “They write me from all over, you know.”

“You write them back,” I said.

“Everyone. When I can, you see, when I can.” He gestured to all the papers on his desk, chairs, settee and cabinets, and upon a host of other papers and books. “They like to write to me. That’s my son,” he pointed to a picture. “He lives in Belgium, in Liege. Where they have these town fairs, you know—market days where they only sell guns and bullets. Can you believe it? My son lives in the world’s marketplace for guns. He’s a travel agent. And that’s my grandchild. She plays the piano, but more spectacular than that—she drives a car. Mine! At the age of sixteen! And that’s my wife.”

I saw a picture of a lady in sepia. I saw calendars given by colleagues. I saw pens and penknives. I saw coffee spoons and cheery, literary mugs. But apart from the space held by the typewriter, cramped in the corner by a cabinet of books and a settee with a flowered footstool, shouldered by a calendar of wit, beginning with Oscar Wilde and downhill from there, draped with bluebooks on its keys, I failed to see his space for writing.

As if mysteries might be so easily unravelled.

And what I saw clearly was my bungling, sorry vulgarity.

Professor Lector had seated himself before me.

“Now,” he said, “why are you so interested in the death of the author?”

I knew somehow he had found me out—a sneaky reader with misplaced concern. My intentions were more folly than malice, of course. I had no excuse for my spying and indecent interest but my lack of understanding.

For here was a writer whole in his world—his letters and his sons and the books he read and spoke about; a man booming with amusement in his voice, with a healthy attachment to his world—always peering in through doors, taking us all in with bright, living eyes, with the penetrating, permeating voice of a midsummer’s turtle.

I may have caged him in his poet’s cell: I had given him only a strip of paper, long as a poem, on which to stalk and speak about things. But he had jumped out of it—he had bidden himself away from the reader.

And even when and if he did take the bluebooks off the Remington and dusted the keys to type his words in merry, fat Pica—did he have to wave the matter to the world, to the rampaging bull of readers that snorts in small circles, inhuman and impatient to see his unlifted, furled and secret cape?’

“If this is a symptom, then what is a country? A tumor of ideology?!”

From The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata

“[1]  Enough, Estrella, enough. All readers of history are prey to this revolutionary postscript—dueling memoirs that rose from the ashes of war. Magdiwang writers jumped the Magdalo to the gun: Artemio Ricarte and Santiago Alvarez, both Magdiwang, penned the first memoirs. Then that elegant stylist, Apolinario Mabini, damned Aguinaldo in sublime dudgeon. “Miong” Aguinaldo never recovered from Mabini’s prose style. It took him six decades before he published the Magdalo version of events (though before that the historian Agoncillo did function as ventriloquist). He was too late: by that time he was a villain, a schemer, and a murderer in the eyes of many. The point is: he became so not necessarily because of established fact but because he did not frame the narrative. The question of why Aguinaldo took so long to publish—the Mystery of The Tardy Memoir—is thought-provoking. On one hand, his image as villain was convenient to Americans, the actual combat enemy. The Magdiwang case, the vilifying of Aguinaldo, suited the eventual occupiers (which does not mean that Magdiwang statements were untrue). Aguinaldo’s memoirs show he was perhaps an insecure egoist who lent his instability to others’ schemes. At worst, he killed not only Bonifacio but also Luna. So the Interesting Case of the Dueling Revolutionary Memoirs may be no postmodern mystery; the first president is, as we suspect, less than a hero, and his tardy recollections may be tacit acknowledgment of his sins. This does not lessen the following fact: Estrella’s agony is symptomatic, a fantasist’s angst. The Supremo’s death inscribed trauma—it is the emblematic wound of all Filipinos betrayed by fellow Filipinos. (One notes that Aguinaldo, in turn, was betrayed, though unfortunately  for him not killed, by a Filipino turncoat in America’s pay.) This duplicitous sense of self, the Judas wound, marks the country’s notion of its humanity, so potent in its history. Only in the story of Rizal is there no Judas kiss, which may explain why, given the country’s complex aversion to the past, it clings to the hero with implacable ardor. Rizal’s death is simple: Spain killed him. Filipinos are not complicit in his blood. Emilio Aguinaldo, on the other hand, is troubling—he is the man in us whom we prefer not to see: the sinner in our midst who is ourselves. Just as we will never see Rizal as a man because we idolize him, we cannot see Aguinaldo as a man because we vilify him. (Dr. Diwata Drake, New York, New York, U.S.A.)

” [2]  Whoa, Aramis de Michigan. Calm down. (Trans. Note)

” [3]  Dr. Diwata, let me explain the physical nature of my ‘implacable ardor,’ as you call it—though you do not deserve my patience! I recall distinctly when my illness began. It was late in June in the year martial law was lifted by the tyrant, and yet the country was no more changed than I was by the proclamation. I was a freshman in college taking Philippine History and Institutions 101. I’d always been a bookworm, an idealist—yes, as you say, a fantasist. As a kid, I used to collect the posters of the heroes and labeled them with their corresponding epithets, because I was a nerd with weird compulsions. When I learned about the political assassination of the Plebeian Martyr by the men of the First President of the Republic, I was not only surprised that I had never heard about it before in my high school textbooks: I went into septic shock. My breathing froze in that room at Palma Hall Annex, and my asphyxiated shriek before I slumped sideways from the graffitied desk onto the lap of my blockmate, a pale, kind of palsied kid from Panay, made the entire classroom go still (or so I was told, as I had gone into abasic atrophy, a kind of failure of the nerves). I remember (or fancy I do) the ambulance, the brief blur of flame trees in my rolling vision, the concerned face of my professor (the bifocaled, unwitting perpetrator of my nervous wreckage), as I was strapped onto a trundle, given emergency respiratory help, a blood pump, and whatnot. My classmates waved at me as if calculating already whether or not they could take time off to go to my funeral. It was a minor seizure whose source the doctors could not fathom—whether I was epileptic, schistempsychotic, or just plain pathetic, it was a mystery to them. I returned home for the rest of the term, and in those months all history books, even komiks versions, were banned; but surreptitiously I read. By the end of the year I was back at college, but this time armed with the weight of history—not to mention all the kilos I had gained from provincial puto. In this way I became a vessel of the country’s pain, a small price to pay for truth. If this is a symptom, then what is a country? A tumor of ideology?! (Estrella Espejo, ditto)”

Some books to read after watching Heneral Luna

I see that there is a petition going around to get CHED to show Heneral Luna in schools. I’d say that should go with a list of books and texts to read on the revolution and especially the war against the Americans. Here would be my choices, apart from the usual suspects (Agoncillo textbooks, Rizal’s novels [must read], and so on). I read these doing research for The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata and for my new novel, William McKinley’s World, and I annotate a few of the books here. In my view, all of these books should be reprinted, if they are not online. CHED should reprint the out of print books.

Affairs in the Philippine Islands: U.S. Senate Hearings on the Philippines, 1902. This is available online: https://archive.org/texts/flipbook/flippy.php?id=affairsinphilip00philgoog

These hearings begin with the testimony of William Howard Taft, the governor-general. This etext has a search function, so just search Aguinaldo or Paterno or Buencamino or Luna and see what Taft or Macarthur or Otis says about them. (Buencamino and Paterno were the leaders of the Federalistas—early collaborators with the Americans.) [oops, I lied: search function does not work.] Taft’s patronizing comments on Aguinaldo, in particular, make us understand how much our own revulsion toward Aguinaldo may also be constructed, partly, by American prejudice: very interesting. (Which is not to say that Aguinaldo does not deserve his sad place in history.) The senators ask Taft about the assassination of Luna: they believe that Aguinaldo has confessed to killing him; Taft disagrees. Etc. Interesting to hear abut these events from the enemy’s side. Arthur MacArthur also testifies (he has an interesting pompous, bombastic academic voice, like a teacher giving a lesson). It will be useful for students to see how modern-day Philippines was constructed by imperialists quite ignorant of the Philippines (and by a few nice racist anti-imperialists as well, equally ignorant). In this way, we might see how present-day self-loathing is also mirrored in the imperialists’ loathing of the Filipinos. Also, if we hear ourselves described in the words of racists, we might be able to understand the power of the colonial voice in us. Or, how much that racism shapes us. NOTE: Ironically, these hearings were convened after the scandal of the American atrocities in Samar. The aftermath of Jacob Howling Wilderness Smith’s “kill and burn” response to the Balangiga uprising resulted in the faux-‘investigations’ of the Lodge Commission and this set of hearings in 1902. Taft, A. MacArthur, Elwell Otis, etc testify, and so do many American soldiers who survived Balangiga, and so on. But no Filipino testifies: there is no Filipino voice in Affairs in the Philippine Islands.

Mabini, La Revolucion Filipina (The Philippine Revolution), available online: http://www.univie.ac.at/voelkerkunde/apsis/aufi/history/mabini2.htm

Mabini is an extremely elegant writer (I moved from the Spanish to the English to read his memoir/histoire of the revolution), and I think he’s the best stylist on the revolution. My joke in Raymundo Mata is that Aguinaldo never recovered from Mabini’s prose style. Mabini absolutely cuts Aguinaldo in the memoir—his great pen is worse than a bolo knife. Apparently Mabini did not include his own doubts about Luna in his memoir (his doubts hinge though on Luna as a politician, not as a general): but he absolutely blames Aguinaldo for Luna’s death. What we must admire about Mabini is that he refused to pledge allegiance to the Americans; he got shipped to Guam instead. He and Ricarte are similar in that way—they chose exile over allegiance to the enemy.

Vivencio Jose, The Rise and Fall of Antonio Luna, a juicy book that I have not reread. I read it long ago. This, I believe, is the definitive biography of Antonio Luna. (NOTE: I was the editor of a biography of Jose Cojuangco that mentions his aunt Ysidra Cojuangco’s rumored love affair with Luna; of course, the book debunks it, but also without evidence, just as the rumors of their affair have no evidence. I see the story of Ysidra as Ysabel in the movie to be seductive but not convincing; great for a movie though.)

Jose Alejandrino, The Price of Freedom. Alejandrino was an officer in the Luna Division, but he was also the brother of a great general under Aguinaldo, Joaquin. Alejandrino says he wasn’t salvaged along with the others in Luna’s circle because he believes Aguinaldo was afraid of making his brother Joaquin angry.

Santiago Alvarez, The Katipunan and the Revolution. This is the most comic among the revolutionary memoirs; its great details are amazingly pungent (therefore, some say, likely lies). But all the war memoirs must be taken with a grain of salt (or maybe bagoong). They were written years after the events, with, in my view, many traumatized memories, as the writers are men who lost their war, and their competing, dueling versions of who was the hero and who was not are part of the cost of our occupation, a symptom also, who knows, of our trauma. Alvarez was the son of the leader of the Magdiwang, Mariano Alvarez, related by marriage to Bonifacio. The Alvarez family took Bonifacio in when he escaped into Cavite. His memoir is in Tagalog, since he is Caviteño; it is translated by Paula Carolina Malay (wife of Armando Malay, I think). Santiago Alvarez has a great memory for stupid yet excellent details, such as a scene of diarrhea during a battle because they were so hungry they ate rotting watermelons.

Artemio Ricarte, Memoirs. Anything about or by Ricarte is worth reading. I do love how he ended up owning a turo-turo diner in japan. Or something like that.

Of course, Emilio Aguinaldo also wrote his memoirs (he wrote two, in fact), Mga Gunita and Saloobin; but each must be taken with a grain of bagoong.

Reynaldo Ileto, The Filipinos and Their Revolution, and Pasyon and Revolution. Indispensable for thinking about what the historian Ileto calls the ‘third realm,’ the peasant world of Christ-tropes and anting-anting faith that is one of the very few books that analyzes the revolution from below. It is important to recognize that the history of the revolution we are normally taught is an ilustrado history: it is history from above. And to teach the revolution, we need to be aware of our own class consciousness, and the class ideologies inherent in the way history has been written. The Manila-consciousness, of course, is a given: that Manila-fantasy aspect of our history should also be part of our awareness in teaching the revolution. Ileto does many things that deconstruct such fantasies; in the process, of course, like anyone else, he creates his own. But that, too, is a given: it is a part of the neurotic, ordinary braid of writing about history, a hazard of the revolution.

Resil Mojares, The Brains of the Revolution. Among others, Mojares casts a sympathetic gaze on Pedro Paterno (even as he recognizes, of course, this buffoon’s huge faults), and while I disagree that we need to waste any time on sympathizing in any way with Paterno, who had an amazing propensity for betraying the revolution while ostensibly allying himself with it [a truly weird guy whom Rizal mocks in code in one of his journals, and the one moment in Helen Taft’s racist memoir of her years in the Philippines that I kind of nodded at was her laughing over Paterno’s obsequiousness], Mojares’s judicious common sense is necessary in any list of books on any topic on the Philippines.

Simeon Villa, Aguinaldo’s Odyssey. Simeon Villa was a doctor in Aguinaldo’s army as it fled north after the defeat at Malolos; Villa was captured with Aguinaldo in Palanan. His diary was thus captured by the Americans as well, and it is one of the documents in the Philippine Revolutionary Records. It also exists in J.R.M. Taylor’s extremely annoying translated volume The Philippine Insurrection Against the United States. I read through that volume in the New York Public Library, and Taylor’s ignorant annotations on the Philippines are nauseating, more so because he was the translator of our story. In any case Villa is not a very good writer, or at least he is not an emotional one—an odd thing, as General Villa is the father of the poet Jose Garcia Villa (Villa the poet hated his dad, however—which is a different story). But Dr. Villa’s narrative is important because it documents the barefoot, scarring travails of the last dregs of the desperate troops of Aguinaldo, hunted relentlessly by the men of Arthur MacArthur, in particular the implacable Javert-like fiend, Fred Funston (I imagine Funston like a pirate, with a patch in his eye). In Villa’s rather autistic voice, the ilustrado nature of the Filipino officers remains problematic, but even so, his diary is terribly sad—it ends right on the date of their capture: with an eerie lack of foreknowledge. As far as I know, Villa’s book is the only extant memoir written during the war.

Orlino Ochosa, The Tinio Brigade: Anti-American Resistance in the Ilocos Provinces. This is a good companion volume with William Henry Scott’s on the Ilocanos. Someone should make a movie of Manuel Tinio. He is one of the revolution’s most successful generals. He was on the boat with Aguinaldo back from Hong Kong, but he was actually only eighteen when he joined the war against Spain. But he was such an able general he soon took charge of the northern army against the Americans. He surrendered to the Americans after Aguinaldo was captured. Note how no one knows much about Tinio—the heroes of the American war are not enshrined the way the Spanish war heroes were. I imagine one reason might be the fact that they became politicians after the war. Tinio did not write a memoir.

William Henry Scott, Ilocano Responses to American Aggression. Scott is very meticulous and gives a good survey of the peasants, the towns, the provinces, and the heroes and the enemy occupiers in the Filipino-American war. It is a good book for recognizing the daily life but also the high stakes in the war—that we began as an anti-imperialist nation—and our loss in that war brands us, sears us, so much so that we have forgotten that war. At the end of his book, Scott muses on that fascinating gap—the lack of memoirs detailing our war against the Americans. Filipinos do not write the story. None of the heroic northerners in Scott’s book wrote their memoirs—most wrenching would have been Manuel Tinio’s memoir: perhaps the most honorable and successful among the Filipino generals in Scott’s book. The paragraph on his surrender to the Americans is heartbreaking. But Tinio never wrote his own story down. Scott notes that one great revolutionary against the Americans, Juan Villamor, wrote an unpublished chronicle, Inedita Cronica de la Guerra Americana-Filipina en el Norte de Luzon, 1899-1901, but even that unfinished chronicle, projected to be three parts, has part 1 and part 3 but not part 2: the section on battles against the Americans. The only Filipino-American war memoir that exists intact is Simeon Villa’s. Even the very talkative memoirist Santiago Alvarez, for instance, does not talk much about the battles against the Americans—he focuses on his time with Bonifacio, and he ends with some funny addenda on the colorum; Ricarte focuses on the Bonifacio period as well, with some huge swaths of (I imagine justified) vitriol against Aguinaldo. The lack of emphasis on the Americans in the movie Heneral Luna is just one more war story that for some reason cannot address adequately that imperial war, as if the American war is an undigested, indigestible bitter pill that we have yet to swallow in the story of the making of our nation. The tendency in history is to move on quickly into the Quezon era, and then World War 2, when America is our unedited hero. It’s a weird gap in the Philippine story, the American war.

Albert Sonnichsen, Ten Months a Captive in the Philippines. Very interesting book on being a prisoner in Aguinaldo’s army. His book would also make a good movie. Some excellent details on daily life in the revolutionary provinces. It is available online: https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=XzFDAAAAIAAJ&printsec=frontcover&output=reader&hl=en&pg=GBS.PA8

Sonnichsen was a fairly liberal-leaning man (still has racist traces, though) who was captured in Malolos. He was a kid from Oakland, CA, part Danish. The book’s trope is that of a white man taken by the natives (like those American tales of being kidnapped by Native Americans). In captivity, he meets some key figures like Juan Villamor, teaches English to a mayor, learns Spanish from his fellow prisoners (some Spanish POWs), watches a revolutionary fiesta, eats a lot of bibingka, and so on. Some very moving scenes in the book, such as when a Filipino mother feeds him and asks him about how Americans treat their prisoners—turns out her son was captured by the Americans. Sonnichsen’s papers are in the New York Public Library, and he ended up joining the independence rebels in Macedonia after his capture in the Philippines. Wondered if his time captured by revolutionaries made him join a different war.

Alfred McCoy, Policing America’s Empire. This gives devastating light on why the revolution so spectacularly failed—trust me, it is not our fault. It is also not Aguinaldo’s fault. Our self-loathing is misplaced. The brutal counterinsurgency and policing methods of the Americans were abominable, relentless, rapacious, outrageous. Scandal-making and spying and ferreting out blackmail-worthy secrets on postwar katipuneros are only a few of the sidelights that explain why the stories of the American war do not exist. People were hounded into silence, collaboration, allegiance, and so on. Of course, many were likely going to be venal anyway, like Quezon (he seems to have been a spy, more or less, or at least a well-groomed informant, for the infamous U.S. constabulary chief of Manila, Bandholtz). Quezon especially does not go down well in this book; but nobody does. But the fact is, the venality of any Filipino intriguero in the American years must be balanced with the implacable policing system that both anticipates the Marcos era but also creates it. The spy, policing, and military system of the Americans is inextricable from its effects: even though one may also see that that past system may not be the direct cause of our current state and atrocities, the thread is indelible. If one split our history in half, with the American era (up to 1946) on one side and folded the other half (1946 and beyond) over it, we’d simply be creating a mirror montage: the American era facing the post-American era, and the spy and military structures of each would mirror the other: the corrupt and relentlessly self-serving age of the American occupation is embalmed in the failed forms of governance we know now.

The Unintended is in an Irish anthology, reviewed in The Independent, an Irish newspaper.

“These two diverse and compelling collections represent the finest talent in contemporary writing and editorial guidance in a world where homeland is mutable, distance is relative, identity is fluid and exile is never far away.”

Read the full article here.