Oryang, Part 4 (Conclusion)

Much have been written about the loves of Rizal. There were at least 9, maybe 10 of them–an international cast stretching all the way from London to Japan: Segunda Katigbak, Leonor Valenzuela, Leonor Rivera, Consuelo Ortiga, O-Sei San, Gertrude Beckett, Nelly Boustead, Suzanne Jacoby (or Thill? or both?), and Josephine Bracken. Ambeth Ocampo adds up the body count to 13, with Rizal “serious enough to propose marriage to three of [them] in his short life: Leonor Rivera, Josephine Bracken and Nellie Boustead”, adding “[it] was the last, in my opinion, who was the prettiest of them all” (Loves of Rizal, Inq7.net). The prospect that this child-prodigy of Teodora Alonso was also (my, my!) a regular jackrabbit with a lusty lady waiting in every port of call is enough to spice up stodgy history lessons in Catholic prep schools.

Leonor Rivera, Rizal’s model for Maria Clara, may have been the closest to being the love of his life. Their 11-year romance in letters kept him from falling in love with other women he met during his travels, even if it did not preclude him from flirting with them. Their tale of unrequited love could rival that in Love in a Time of Cholera, where Fermina Daza, waking up to the frivolity of their epistolary romance, promptly rejects the passionate advances of Florentino Ariza and marries the more sensible Dr. Juvenal Urbino. “Leonor’s mother [on the other hand] disapproved of her daughter’s relationship with Rizal, who was then a known filibustero. She hid from Leonor all letters sent to her sweetheart. Leonor believing that Rizal had already forgotten her, sadly consented to marry the Englishman Henry Kipping, her mother’s choice” (from JoseRizal.Ph). Stewing up the melodrama are anecdotal accounts of Leonor Rivera burning Rizal’s letters the day before her wedding, gathering all the ashes and tenderly sewing them into the hem of her wedding gown. “Thus, as she walked down the aisle to marry a man we are told she did not love as much, she felt the pieces of a lost love crumble at her feet” (Love letters to Rizal, Inquirer.net).

Leonor Rivera (right) with mommy. Notice her dazed expression as mum clutches her cuello while holding a fan like a whip. Mata lang ang walang latay! Aray ko po!

But even while Rizal reserved his true love for Leonor Rivera, like Florentino Ariza, he allowed, even encouraged, casual diversions during his travels. He had flings with other women. For how can we read Suzanne’s (Jacoby/Thill?) giddy and taunting letters otherwise:

…I hope your courts are open and I shall not have to wait a long time for your decision. Don’t delay too long writing us because I wear out the soles of my shoes running to the mailbox to see if there is a letter from you.

*****

There will never be any home in which you are so much loved as that in Brussels, so, you, little bad boy, hurry up and come back. Tell us a little about the kind of house in which you are lodged and how are the people there. (Love letters to Rizal, Inquirer.net)

This actually reminds me of a coy love letter, flower enclosed, to Leopold Bloom–posing as Henry Flower–from his amorous pen pal, Martha Clifford, in James Joyce’s Ulysses.

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter… I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other word. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me…

What do we make of 13 love affairs and three marriage proposals, two of which did not materialize? It’s certainly more love than a man can handle in a lifetime, but, then again, this is Rizal we are talking about–the über-über-Filipino might also be just as macho as he is matalino. Ambeth Ocampo in Rizal, Freud and the failure of psycho-history observes, however, “that the fact that Rizal had many women was probably an indication that he was incapable or perhaps had difficulty in maintaining a stable relationship with one woman… [he] would court a woman or show interest in her and when a relationship is formed and he is at that point of intimacy, Rizal would suddenly withdraw”.

Bloom tears up the letter, and at the end of that episode, as he takes his bath, Joyce invokes the flower image again, not to signify the awakening of amorous feelings, but the soporific surrender of a man, feeble and flaccid: “He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower”.

Was he just toying with poor Suzanne, or, was he really frigid, or worse, impotent, at least when it comes to the affairs of the heart? Or, perhaps, for Rizal, women were simply too intractable, like those elusive flowers of Heidelberg–fremde Blumen, strange flowers.

“kaya isipin ninyo mga kapatid kung katoiran o hindi ang kanilang ginagawa pag api sa amin…”

Oryang in her Talambuhay prudently skips over the quarrel (sigalot) between Bonifacio and Aguinaldo that began with the elections in Tejeros, their persecution and humiliation at the hands of Aguinaldo’s men, that eventually led to Bonifacio’s death. She, however, cryptically refers to having written a letter to Emilio Jacinto, that to her knowledge is supposedly in the hands of Jose P. Santos, the same fellow who was requesting her to write her autobiography in 1929. Another blogger, notes how Oryang–“in almost guarded language”–carefully weighs in on the provenance of the documents in Santos’ possession. She attests to having written accounts to Emilio Jacinto, but stops short in stating for a fact that these are what Santos has in his keeping. She was making sure the record was set straight with regards to her own version of the events in Cavite.

Ambeth Ocampo quotes a letter to Emilio Jacinto (is it the same letter?) written close to the events of 1897, where Oryang related her first encounter with the executioners, as she desperately went looking for her husband and brother-in-law.

…kinabukasan ng tanghali nila inalis ang dalawang magkapatid, at ng bandang hapon na ay nagkaroon ng laban sa labas ng bayan na di malayo sa aking kinalalagyan. Saka lamang ako pinakawalan. Nang ako’y makawala at ako’y tumawid ng ibayo at aking hinahanap ay nasalubong ko ang nang hatid na dala ang papalimusan kong damit na siya kong ibinibihis pati kumot gamit sa katawan ng aking bayaw. Ng ako’y itanong kung saan naroon ang kanilang dala ang sagot sa akin ay naroon sa Bondok sa isang bahay ng tuti [puti?], itinanong ko kung bakit nila dala ang damit. Ang sagot ay ako na raw ang siyang biling magdala. (Gregoria de Jesus Nakpil, undated letter to Emilio Jacinto. Original manuscript in The Encarnacion Collection)

In Santos’ records (“Tenepe” Si Andres Bonifacio at ang Himagsikan. Typescript in UP Library. Manila: n.p. 1935), Oryang gives a more harrowing account of her search for the bodies, of how she was given the run-around by Aguinaldo’s men, and of how Lazaro Makapagal, as if to twist the knife in, continued to lie to her and mock her.

Nang ako ay pakawalan nila ay hinanap ko si Andres Bonifacio. Sa bahay na aking pinagiwanan ay wala na at naipapatay na nila at sa katunayan ay nasalubong ko sa paglabas ng sular na nagtatawanan pa si Lazaro Makapagal at Jose Zulueta at tatlong sundalo pa, at ang isa ay pinalapit sa akin at ipinabigay ang balutan ng damit at sapatos na suot ni Andres at sinabi sa akin na, Perdon na, Señora.

Ay! Mga kapatid! Minulan ko na ang hanap sa pinajeruan sa akin ay natagpuan ko pagdating doon ay itinuro ako sa kabilang Bondok na labis ang taas ang inakyat. Ng kami ay dumating ay wala. Lakad na naman kami. Ay! Mga kapatid! May dalawang linggo kong hinanap sa Bondok na walang tigil kami kundi gabi. Nang di ko makita at walang makapagsabi. Kami ay sumunod sa kanilang tropa at kahit ang aking pagtanungan sa kanila ay kung saan saan ako itinuturo magpahanggang ngayon. Kaya lamang ako natuluyang ng paglabas [sa Cavite] ay nang nakausap ko ang aking amain [Mariano Alvarez] na sinapi sa akin na tapat… kaya isipin ninyo mga kapatid kung katoiran o hindi ang kanilang ginagawa pag api sa amin…

One can almost palpably hear the outrage in her voice (Ay! Mga kapatid!), as she appealed to the Katipunan, or to some other higher authority, to be judge of the injustices they suffered in Cavite. With the trial, and possibly its records, rigged, with the sneaky way by which the execution was carried out, and with the absence of the bodies of the deceased, Oryang, as if to steady herself, concludes by putting on record the plain facts.

Ako ay hindi maaring malinlang ng sino pa man tungkol sa nangyayaring ito pagkat ako’y saksi sa lahat ng nangyari mula ng gawin ang halalan sa Teheros na siyang naging simula ng kaguluhan hanggang sa siya’y ipapatay o barilin na nangyari noong 10 ng Mayo ng taong 1897 na naganap sa ibayo ng barrio ng Marigundong, sakop ng Kabite, at kaya ko naman natatandaang 10 ng Mayo ay dahil sa kinabukasan ng aking pista ng kapanganakan siya binaril.

Ang mga hirap at sakit na dinanas ko sa kasawiang palad naming magasawa ay di ko na ibig magunita pagkat tunay na nadudurog ang aking puso. Pinabantayan ako na parang isang tunay na salarin o kriminal sa lahat ng kilos na ang dalawang tanod ay may dalang baril na nakalagay ang bayoneta.

…Ang nagsiganap ay si Lazaro Makapagal na katulong si Jose Zulueta na may kasamang ilang kawal na may dala ding mga baril. May kasama pa silang Cazadores na bihag na tila ang pangalan ay Juan Marinio na siyang nag-abot sa akin ng balutan at sapatos ni Andres na iniutos ni Makapagal.

With all the double-dealing she had endured to get to the bottom of things, she states in a very lucid and poised manner, why she cannot be deceived and why she can never forget. She speaks with the same indignation as future witnesses in the Nuremberg trials, or the torture victims of the Marcos regime. Yet, true to her husband’s dreams, in the end, Oryang yielded her rights of redress, as the moment for revolt against Spain was ripe, and unity among Filipinos what the times demanded.

Ang paghihiganti ng mga oras na yaon ay natiim ko sa kalooban dahil nasa gipit na kalagayan ang bayan at lahat ng lumapit sa akin na humihimok upang magsamasama kami sa paghihiganti ay sinasaway ko at pinagpapayuhan ng kapayapaan sa hangad kong magkaisa ang lahat at matamo natin ang kalayaan na siyang layon ng paghihimagsik laban sa mga kastila.

I originally set out to write a short account of the less celebrated love life of Andres Bonifacio for a Valentine’s Day blog entry. The literature about Bonifacio’s life was so thin compared to Rizal’s who seemed to have made sure he left a stockpile of memorabilia, all over the world, as if he had prescience of his heroic destiny. While there are endless anecdotes about Rizal’s courtly ways with women, I did not find any gushing love letters for Bonifacio. All we know is that he had a first wife who died of leprosy, and that he re-married with 18-year-old Gregoria de Jesus, in secret Katipunan rites. What an extraordinary woman Oryang turned out to be. Not bad for someone he was thought to have met in a town fiesta or a baile, and courted for about six months. By 21, she would be deeply entrenched in the flames of a revolution sweeping the country, that her husband sparked. She would also be a widow. Theirs was a love that endured the worst, but survives through her witness and her voice.

Oryang, Part 3

“In brief, if the accused had to die, why were they pardoned? And if they were pardoned, why were they executed?”           –Teodoro M. Kalaw

Ay, there’s the rub. After the circus of rigging a trial that condemned the Bonifacio brothers to death, they get Aguinaldo to pardon him, and still, the brothers got executed anyway. What’s the deal here? It seems that no one is to blame, and everyone is to blame. Somehow, between Generals Pio del Pilar, Mariano Noriel, and Emilio Aguinaldo, the fates of Andres and Procopio Bonifacio were decided.

Teodoro Agoncillo in Revolt of the Masses examines the irregularities around the Bonifacio brothers’ death, and the washing of the hands of the principal players.

General Aguinaldo himself confesses that his previous order of pardon was withdrawn when Generals Noriel and Del Pilar prevailed upon him to do so in the interest of unity. This confession, then, coming as it does from the most authoritative source, definitely solves the so-called mystery of Bonifacio’s death.

….

General Pio del Pilar, originally a Bonifacio man, in a signed statement obviously designed to clarify or rather rationalize the unfortunate incident, contends that

“General Aguinaldo’s order granting pardon to the Bonifacio brothers did not at once reach General Noriel’s headquarters in Maragondon because General Aguinaldo was then in the field between Mt. Buntis and Maragondon and was gathering his men in order to reinforce the revolutionary army fighting the Spaniards who were then attacking the town of Maragondon… General Noriel also told me the same, namely, that the Supremo, Bonifacio, and his brother, Procopio, were already dead when he received the order of pardon. The reason why the order did not reach him on time was that there was a battle raging and it could not be ascertained where General Noriel and his companions were.”

They could not even get their stories straight. Aguinaldo claims del Pilar and Noriel egged him to withdraw the pardon “in the interest of unity”, while the latter two contended that they did not even receive the pardon in time. Granted that at the time things were in chaos, but it is hard to believe a lapse in memory with regards to sending a man to his death, especially one as important as Andres Bonifacio. How can they get their reports so mixed up unless there was some intent to leave this chapter of history in a cloud?

Agoncillo examines the turn of events leading up to the execution of the brothers in order to render obvious the holes in the generals’ lame excuses:

Andres Bonifacio was investigated on May 4, 1897, in Maragondon, then the headquarters of the revolutionary army. On the same day, the Judge Advocate forwarded the papers, including his recommendations, to General Aguinaldo, and the latter, on the same date, sent the documents to the Council of War. The next day, May 5, the trial was commenced and finished. On May 6, the Council of War met and handed down the death sentence on the two brothers. The papers containing the investigation and the decision of the Council of War were forwarded to General Aguinaldo’s headquarters, located in the same town, and Baldomero Aguinaldo, the Auditor of War, wrote his recommendations to the President on May 8. On the same day, President Aguinaldo wrote his order of pardon. The documents further reveal that on the day General Aguinaldo handed down his decision, it was supposedly shown, as required by General Aguinaldo himself, to the attorneys for the defense and to the prisoners, with Major Lazaro Makapagal attesting to it in both cases. There cannot be any doubt that the endorsements, if the documents do not contain forgeries, were received by the defense counsels and the prisoners on the very day that Aguinaldo’s decision was written. If the order of pardon was received not only by Makapagal himself but also by the defense attorneys, then it is logical to conclude that General Noriel’s excuse was a plain distortion of the facts. For if, as claimed, General Aguinaldo was “at the time between Mt. Buntis and Maragondon gathering his men in order to re-enforce the revolutionary army,” how could he have penned his decision and still be able to send it to Major Makapagal who in turn showed it to the prisoners and their attorneys that same day? The Bonifacio brothers were shot on May 10, two days after the receipt of the order of pardon. Moreover, it is clear that when the prisoners were taken to the mountains, the Spaniards had not as yet attacked the town. Major Makapagal himself, who was ordered by General Noriel–note that Noriel was in his headquarters in the early morning of May 10th when he called in Makapagal–to take the prisoners to Mt. Buntis to be shot as decided upon by the Council of War, testifies that Noriel, after giving his final instructions relative to the condemned, reportedly told him: “Hurry up! The Spaniards will attack today.” In other words, the enemy was not yet attacking but was about to attack the rebel capital where Noriel, Aguinaldo, and the prisoners were. And yet the excuse unabashedly claims the Spaniards were “attacking the town of Maragondon” at the time Makapagal was ordered to take the prisoners to the mountains! The excuse, therefore is unacceptable and shows clearly that the death of Bonifacio and his brother was a foregone conclusion the moment they were arrested in Limbon on April 28th. And the court that sat ostensibly to conduct a fair trial of the case, in making a farce out of the judicial process, brought upon its head its own severe condemnation.

Agoncillo then concedes that “there was something irregular in the execution of Bonifacio”, but explains it away as “the abnormal psychology that pervaded the revolutionists toward the close of the first epoch of the national struggle for emancipation”. Abnormal psychology? How about plain ambition, malice, betrayal, treachery? This, to me, render all confusion about the timing of the pardon, and the puzzling behavior of the generals regarding this case extraneous. I do not understand why Agoncillo is reluctant to assign base human qualities to our national heroes, and would rather rationalize their motives with some form of neurosis. He needs a healthy serving of Dante.

The last character in this sordid affair is the executioner himself, Lazaro Makapagal, who in 1928-29 wrote an account of his role in the killing of Bonifacio. In it, he portrays himself as a sympathetic character–a foot soldier caught between duty and fear of military sanction, and his pity for the brothers. He further mitigates his role, by claiming not to have known about the orders of execution until he opened the sealed directive from General Mariano Noriel.

…Pagdating namin sa bahay ay tinawag ko ang dalawa [Andres and Procopio Bonifacio] at sinabi kong sila’y ipinadadala sa bundok ng Tala, kaya’t sila’y manaog agad at dadalhin ko roon. Nanaog naman sila dala ang mga damit. Nagtungo nga kami sa Tala.

Habang lumalakad ay itinanong sa akin na baka raw sila ay babarilin. Sinabi kong hindi, at ang orden sa akin ay dalhin sila sa bundok ng Tala upang ilayo marahil sa laban. Itinanong kung ano raw ang balita ko na gagwin sa kanila. sinagot kong ako’y isang komandante lamang ng “fuerza”, malayo sa mga pinuno, pirme sa kwartel kaya ako’y walang balitang tinatanggap kundi puro utos sa trabaho. Habang lumalakad kami ay naguusap na mapayapa. Wala silang anomang kutob ng loob, at ako, kaya pati mga kawal ay hindi handa sa panganib. Nang dumating na kami sa isang pook na may bundok na munti, tila bilog, malapit sa Cawayanan, kabilang tubigan, harap sa Norte, tanao namin ang bayang Maragondong, kanan ang sikat ng arao at sa licod ay tanao ang bundoc Buntis, ay niyaya nila akong magpahinga raw muna kami at sila’y pagod. Pumayag ako. Nagupuan kaming lahat sa pinakapaa ng bundok na munting bilog, harap sa tubigan at kawayanan. nang malaon nang kaunti ay sinabi sa akin ni don Andres;

“Kapatid, malapit na rin lamang tayo sa bundok ng Tala ay baka mabubuksan na iyong pakete o sulat at ng malaman natin kung saan mo kami iiwan.” Alang-alang sa pakiusap ay pumayag ako. Akala ko’y sa pangulo sa Tala doon sila ibibigay. Dahil sa sabing basahing malakas sa harap nila at ng malaman kaya binasa ko naman ng malakas ang nilalaman na humigit kumulang ay ganito:

G. Komandante Lazaro Makapagal:

Alinsunod sa utos ng Consejo de Guerra na ginanap sa Maragongdong noong ika 8 nitong Mayo laban sa magkapatid na sina G. Andres at Procopio Bonifacio, hinatulang barilin upang mamatay. Sa pamamagitan nito, kayo at mga kawal na nasa ilalim ng inyong kapangyarihan ay inuutusan upang ganapin ang nasabing hatol na barilin ang dalawang magkapatid.

Ipinatatalastas sa inyo na sa ano mang kapabayaan o kakulangan ng pagsunod sa utos na ito ay pananagutan at ipapataw sa inyo ang bisa at kautusang nasasabi sa Codigo de Enjuiciamento Militar Español.

Dios ang mag-ingat sa inyo sa mahabang panahon.

Maragongdong 10 de Mayo de 1897.

Mariano Noriel

Nang marinig nila ang wikang barilin ang magkapatid ay napatigil ang pagbasa ko dahil sa ang Procopio ay napalukso sa upo sabay ang wikang “Naku kuyang!”

Ang Andres ay napaluhod na akmang ako’y yayapusin, sabay na napasigaw ang wikang “Kapatid patawarin mo ako.”

Ako naman ay umigtad at ang minamatyagan ko ay ang kilos ng Procopio dahil sa malakas kay Andres, ay baka ako maunahan. Kinabahan ako ng takot na baka lumaban o makawala at makapagtago sa kagubatan. Awa sa kanila at takot sa nag-utos ang naghari sa akin. Paano ako? At ako’y sumigaw ng “Peloton! Preparen! Carguen, Armas!” Nang marinig nilang naglalagitikan na ang mga gatilyo ng pusil sa pagkakarga, sila’y tumahimik na. Nang magkargahan ang mga pusil hinarap ko ang Procopio, sinabi kong: “Defrenten, Mar!” itinuro ko ang dinaanan, isang landas na munti, patungo sa loob ng gubat. Sa loob ng gubat ay tinupad namin ang utos ng Consejo de Guerra.

Pagkatapos ay binalikan ko ang Andres na binabantayan ng dalawang kawal. Nang ako’y makita niya ay paluhod na sinabi sa aking, “Kapatid, patawarin mo ako!”

Ako noon ay nasa panganib din gaya niya. Nagdaramdam siya ay nagdaramdam din ako, ngunit, “Wala akong magagawa” ang naging sagot ko sa kaniya. Nang makita niyang hindi siya makapamamanhik sa akin ay biglang tumakbo. Tinungo ang kagubatan, kaya hinabol namin. Inabot namin sa tabi ng ilog, pinakasulok ng isang ilog na munti. Sa malaki siya naroon at ang munting ilog ay pinakasanga. Doon namin siya binaril. Pagkatapos ay tinangka naming ibaon, bilang paggalang, datapuwa’t wala kaming panghukay. Gayon man ay nakagawa kami ng kaunti sa bayoneta, tinabunan ng kaunti na mga sanga ng kahoy ang pangdagdag.

Such was the fate of the founding father of the Katipunan, formenter of the Philippine Revolution–buried in a shallow, unmarked grave, near a brook, and a hill named after stars. No one else attested to these facts, and it would not be unreasonable to doubt the motives of Makapagal in portraying himself as sympathetic to Bonifacio, thus clearing him of the judgment of future generations, except for the striking poignancy of his account.

He evokes a very human, very accessible Bonifacio, not a glorious hero whose statue stands erect at Monumento, but a suffering man–“poor, infirm, weak, and despised”–with a very real fear of death. Uneasy with the uncertainty of their fate, he asks Makapagal to open the sealed envelope with General Noriel’s orders, appealing to him as brother (kapatid). Makapagal reads it aloud, as prescribed, and having its contents revealed, both executioner and prisoners were taken by surprise (napatigil, napalukso sa upo, umigtad).

Bonifacio begs him for his life, but Makapagal, alarmed the prisoners might escape, mixed with his pity and fear (“Paano ako?”), rushed to carry out the orders, and shoots Procopio first. The brothers fell silent as the soldiers loaded their guns in what is perhaps the most heart-stopping passage in his narrative: “Nang marinig nilang naglalagitikan na ang mga gatilyo ng pusil sa pagkakarga, sila’y tumahimik na”. With Procopio dead in the forest, Bonifacio pleaded with Makapagal a second time, and, realizing the determination of the latter, tried to escape by the skin of his teeth.

What makes it more poignant was how Bonifacio personally appealed to Makapagal, calling him brother, and phrasing his petition in terms of repentance (“Kapatid, patawarin mo ako!”) as if it was Makapagal whom he had personally injured. The repitition of the appeal and the cadence of the storytelling, to me, evokes the last meeting between Jesus and Peter at the closing of the Gospel of John, where Jesus, in a gesture of forgiveness, asked Peter thrice to tend to his lambs. Perhaps in some sort of inversion, in Makapagal’s own reckoning, he is remorsefully alleviating some of the indignities suffered in Bonifacio’s death by giving us this most human account of the hero’s last hours.

Oryang, Part 2

Reading the account of the execution of Andres Bonifacio filled me with sorrow and disgust. It reads like high tragedy; once the Supremo resolved to attend the Tejeros Convention, the ineluctable wheels of fate turned towards his death. You know something really, really bad was going to happen from the onset, as when Oedipus insists in finding out who the killer of Laius was, or when King Lear divides up his kingdom between his thee daughters. You know, from a postmortem view, they were going against better judgment, which the Greeks explain away with hubris, and, like the ineffectual Chorus, all you can do is witness in horror the grizzly turn of events.

I read several versions of the story, looking for someone to blame for the egregious injustice of Bonifacio’s death. There was no single person to point a finger at, even Emilio Aguinaldo, yet all of them were culpable; it seemed like the whole of Cavite ganged up on Bonifacio. First, there was Daniel Tirona. After Bonifacio was humiliated during the elections for positions in the revolutionary government by not winning the presidency, but instead “the rather insignificant post of the Director of the Interior”, Tirona, adding insult to injury, undermined his eligibility by questioning his academic and professional qualifications, even suggesting that there was a lawyer in Cavite better suited for the job. Bonifacio threw a fit, declared the elections a fraud, and stormed out of the room. He was the Supremo after all, founder of the Katipunan, the secret society that instigated the rebellion.

Then there was Col. Yntong (Agapito Monzon), probably the most unsavory character in this story, who arrested Bonifacio for sedition in Limbon, Cavite, under orders of Gen. Mariano Noriel. His party was received by Bonifacio as friends, who shared breakfast with them, and were sent away with goodwill and cigarettes. At a safe distance, they sealed off the area, and started shooting at the camp. The first to fall was Bonifacio’s brother, Ciriaco. Bonifacio came out in the open, and hugging the men he met, shouted: “Mga kapatid akoy walang guinagauang kaualang hiaan.” They fired again, just missing his shoulders, and hit the man behind him. “Mga kapatid tingnaniño na ang pinapatay niño ay iño ring kapua tagalog.” Another shot finally wounded him, and having fallen, they stabbed him in the throat. Were the orders to arrest him, or to take him dead, rather than alive? This would have conveniently removed a “troublesome” thorn, who has outlived his use as organizer of the Katipunan, and had demonstrated his lack of military skills to prosecute the rest of the revolution.

Col. Yntong interrogated Oryang over money they were sure she hid somewhere. Indeed, they invaded Bonifacio’s camp shouting “Humarap ang ualang hiang Supremo na magtatakas ng aming salapi!” Not believing her protestations, she was ordered tied to a tree and beaten (golpihin), but the soldiers refused, on account of her being a woman and the wife of the Supremo. Ambeth Ocampo, parsing between the lines of court transcripts, alleges that Col. Yntong tried to rape Oryang twice, which does not surprise me following his insidious behavior so far.

Not content with this, Col. Yntong later took Aling Oryang’s wedding ring, twelve pesos as well as bullets for a revolver. Then he forced Aling Oryang into a vacant house. Bonifacio in his testimony told the court that Col. Yntong was forcing his wife into an empty house “sa talagang kilos na ilugso ang kapurihan” but this was averted when the other officers objected. Later, in Indang, Col. Yntong attempted to rape Aling Oryang again but this time, Bonifacio pleaded with Tomas Mascardo who mercifully intervened.

What is very disturbing in Aling Oryang’s testimony before the court-martial is the silence over the so-called attempted rape. We do not have a word-for-word transcription of Aling Oryang’s testimony, rather only what appears to be stenographer’s notes which state that, after being divested of the little property she had on her person, they left the house and crossed the street to another house where Col. Yntong ordered all the people to get out and “forced her upstairs” How else can a historian interpret the records which state, “ng makalabas sia ng daan ay may isang bahay na pinapanaog nalahat ang tao at ipinapapanhik ang nagsasaysay?”

Where does such meanness come from? Well, Daniel Tirona had been spreading slanderous rumors about Bonifacio up until elections in Cavite, perhaps with the same allegations about dishonesty over Katipunan funds. For his wife to be assaulted by a military lackey, and for him to beg them to lay their hands off her like a sorry, sniveling dog, must have been the most humiliating blow to Bonifacio, and the ultimate power trip for the Caviteños. They have not only succeeded in stripping the Supremo of his power, but his dignity as well. It is curious that at the end of her brief autobiography, Oryang cites the admonition against dishonoring women as an example of Katipunan discipline:

Ang natatandaan kong kaparusahan sa hindi sumusunod ng mga ipinaguutos ng katipunan, gaya ng mang-babae, ay ipatatawag kapagkarakang maunawaan sa halip na siya’y bigyan ng kaparusahan ay agad siyang babasahan ng dapat pagpitaganan ang isang babae, gaya na rin ng pagpipitagan sa sarili na ang sinasabing pangaral ay ganito: “Kung hindi mo gustong lapastanganin ang iyong Ina, asawa at kapatid ay nararapat na pakaingatan mo na gawin mo sa iba ito pagka’t sa ganyang kaapihan ay maaari mong ipalit ang tatlo mang buhay. Kaya’t isa-isip tuwina na ang masama sa iyo ay hindi dapat gawin kailan man sa iba at sa paraang iyan ay isa kayong marangal na maibibilang na anak ng bayan”.

Indeed, if we look at the precepts of the original Katipuneros–Cartilla (Emilio Jacinto), Katungkulang Gawain ng mga Anak ng Z. LL. B. (Andres Bonifacio), and Verdadero Decalogo (Apolinario Mabini)–which all parallel the Ten Commandments, we can see that they envisioned the struggle for freedom, as Reynaldo Ileto puts it, in religious and moral terms. The Revolution was a political as well as an eschatological transformation of Philippine society, not unlike the reversal of fortunes at the end of days, when the poor in spirit inherits the kingdom of heaven as in the Beatitudes. Seen in this light, the assault on Oryang, to me, marks the second phase of the Philippine Revolution, when the original religious and moral ideals of the Katipunan, were usurped by purely political and military goals, that gave excuse to brutishness, self-aggrandizement, and treachery.

On one of the walls of the Nakpil-Bautista house, there hangs two huge panels of Oryang’s Sampung Tagubilin sa mga Kabataan, her counsel to the Philippine youth, again, in the form of a decalogue.

1. Igalang at mahalin ang magulang pagka’t ito ang pangalawang Dios sa lupa.
2. Alalahanin tuwina ang mga banal na aral ng mga bayani na nasawi dahil sa pag-ibig sa bayan.
3. Huwag magaksaya ng panahon ng di pamarisan.
4. Pagsikapang magkaroon ng anomang karunungan na tumutugon sa kanyang hilig upang paki-nabangan ng bayan.
5. Ang kabaitan ay alalahaning isang malaking kayamanan.
6. Igalang ang mga gurong nagpapamulat ng isip pagka’t kung utang sa magulang ang pagiging tao ay utang naman sa nagturo ang pagpapakatao.
7. Iligtas ang api sa panganib.
8. Matakot sa kasaysayan pagka’t walang lihim na di nahahayag.
9. Kapag napagingatan ang kasamaan ay doon manggagaling ang malaking karangalan.
10. Sikapin ang ikapagkakaisa ng lahat at ika uunlad ng bayan upang huwag magkaroon ng sagabal ang kasarinlan.

The eighth counsel reads: “Fear history, for it respects no secret.” (Hernandez translation)

Oryang, Part 1

One of the things I did while back home for Christmas was to look for Filipiñana books. I had no time to drop by Ateneo de Manila Press and get myself The Propaganda Movement, 1880-1895 (John N. Schumacher) and The Katipunan and the Revolution (Santiago V. Alvarez). Nonetheless, I did manage to bag a haul from different bookstores around the city: Decimal Places (Ricardo M. de Ungria); Edad Medya (Jose F. Lacaba); Kwadro Numero Uno (Benilda Santos); Pulotgata (Danton Remoto); The History of the Burgis (Marien N. Francisco and Fe Maria C. Arriola); Meaning and History, The Rizal Lectures and Bones of Contention, The Bonifacio Lectures (Ambeth R. Ocampo). In addition, I picked up Quiapo, Heart of Manila (Fernando N. Zialcita) at the Nakpil-Bautista House during my walking tour with Vince and Cez. Rofel Brion also gifted me a copy of his recent poetry collection, Sandali, exquisitely published by Ateneo’s ORP. Let’s just say almost half of my luggage were the weight of paper.

I read Ambeth Ocampo’s Rizal Lectures on the plane going back to the US, and his Bonifacio Lectures during my week’s stay in San Francisco. It’s not hard to believe the popular appeal of his bi-weekly column in The Philippine Daily Inquirer; he dispenses with the staid tone of scholarship, and retells history from an angular point of view. His congeniality is infectious as he confesses shedding tears while researching on the authenticity of the “found” bones of Bonifacio, or as he shares his greatest tragedy–being a historian with severe sinusitis, allergic to the very materials (dusty documents) of his own profession. One of his lectures was on what the revolutionaries had for lunch at the Malolos Banquet of 1898. (They had ice cream for desert–glaces according to the menu written in French! How the heck did they keep it from melting in the tropical heat?) When Jane in socio-anthropology, a true activist back home, tried to get me to read Renato Constantino’s histories, I abstained, and excused my lack of interest in class struggle. I read history, I told her instead, for tabloid gossip. Reading Antonio de Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, I find myself going straight to the last chapter, skipping the history of early Spanish settlement, to his account of pre-Hispanic Philippines, and, as promised in the translator’s introduction, the sexual proclivities of native Filipinos before their Catholic piety.

In any case, what impressed me the most, in reading Bones of Contention was the character of Gregoria de Jesus, the wife of Andres Bonifacio. I could not reconcile a picture of her–very serene and grandmotherly in her saya–at the Nakpil-Bautista House, with the gun-toting radical who stashed away the subversive literature of the Katipunan, and narrowly avoided arrest by escaping through rice fields and to the mountains. She was just 18 when she wed Bonifacio, and 21 during the Cry of Balintawak, the outbreak of the rebellion. I keep forgetting how young the revolutionaries were, and become more astonished at their readiness to stake their lives for the ideals of freedom. I was barely 17 when we marched to EDSA during the 1986 People Power Revolution that toppled the Marcos regime, but would hardly consider myself a revolutionary–more of a spectator, than an active participant.

She may have settled into peaceful domesticity with second husband, Julio Nakpil, when the Americans came and aborted Philippine independence, but there still seemed to be the old fire and feistiness under that saya, betrayed only by the direct, unflinching gaze of her last photograph. My first intimation of her complex and contradictory character was her own account of her marriage to Bonifacio. I was surprised to have found on the Web the original Tagalog of her autobiography, executed in 1928 at the request of Jose P. Santos. A facsimile of a contemporary English translation by Leandro H. Hernandez in Philippine Magazine is even available. Written in her 50’s, she barely mentions–almost just in passing–her parent’s objection to her marriage to Bonifacio.

Noon marahil ay mayroon na akong labingwalong taong gulang at mayroon nang pumapanhik na mga binata sa aming tahanan at dito’y kabilang si Andres Bonifacio, kasama si Ladislao Diwa at ang pinsan kong Teodoro Plata na eskribano nang panahong yaon, nguni’t wala akong nakakausap. sa kanila tungkol sa suliranin ng pagibig palibhasa ang mga magulang at dalaga sa panahong yaon ay totoong maingat at ikinahihiya halos na masabing sila’y may tagahanga at katunayan ay mayroon na palang isang taong nanunuyo si Andres Bonifacio sa aking mga magulang ay hindi pa kami nagkakaunawaan ng mga niloloob sa pagibig at may tatlong buwan pa ang nakaraan ay naalaman kong hindi kasangayon ang aking ama sa pangingibig sa akin ni Bonifacio sa dahilang ito ay mason, at ang mga mason ng panahong yaon ay ipinalalagay ng mga matanda, sa kagagawan ng mga prayle, na masasamang tao, ay noon pa naman ako nagkakaroon ng bahagyang pagibig sa kanya. May anim na buwan pa ay nagkaibigan na kami ng tuluyan at bagaman laban sa kalooban ng ama ko ay napahinuhod din alangalang sa malaking pagmamahal sa akin at pagtatapat ko ng katotohanan ng aming pagiibigan, kaya’t bilang pagbibigay ni Andres Bonifacio sa kaugalian ng matanda ay ikinasal kami sa simbahang romano sa Binundok ng buwan ng Marso ng 1893 at ang aming naging saksing lalake ay si Restituto Javier at ang saksing babae ay ang may bahay nito na si Ginang Benita ni Javier. Sumunod na linggo ay pamuli kaming ikinasal sa harap ng lahat na katipunan, sa kahilingan ng mga ito, sapagka’t hindi nila pinahahalagahan ang aming kasal sa simbahang romano at ito’y ginanap din sa bahay ng aming inaamang Restituto Javier, sa daang Oroquieta noong araw, at natatandaan kong nagkaroon pa ng kaunting salusalo at sa mga panauhin ay kabilang si G. Pio Valenzuela, Santiago Turiano, Roman Basa, Marina Dizon, Josefa at Trining Rizal at lahat halos ng pamunuan ng katipunan. Nang sumapit ang gabi ng araw ding yaon ay inianib ako sa katipunan sa ilalim ng sagisag o simbolikong Lakambini, upang ganapin ko at tuparin ang kanyang banal na palatuntunan at simulain.

In fact, her parents so objected to Bonifacio, that they removed her from their house, and kept her virtually a prisoner with relatives. Ambeth Ocampo quotes her letter to the gobernadorcillo, pleading to be released from her parents, and have her boyfriend summoned so they can be wed. She was under the legal age at the time and would have needed parental consent to marry.

Aco poi si Gregoria de Jesus nataga Caloocan dalagang tagalog at menor de edad aco po ay may tratong magasaua sa aquing nobio nasi Andres Bonifacio na taga Tondo Calle Sagunto no. 11 letra E ng matalastas na aquin magulang ang aquing magandang hanhad aco po ay dinala dito sa isang bahai sa calle Madrid no. D letra 28 ang lagai co po dito ay tunay na bilanggo uala acong libertad na anoman.

Saiyo pong capangyarihan aco ay nagquequeha at hinigingi co pa sa iyo mediante justicia aco poi cunin mo rito, tauagin ang aquing novio, gauin mo ang deligenciang dapat, ipadalasa Gobierno napara cami macasal.

Humihingi po aco saiyo ng pagca justicia at umaasa po acong paquiquingan mo sa pagcat itoi siyang toncol ng sino mang may magandang calooban na pasa mo po.

The letter reads like that of an enamored young girl’s–clumsily written, and desperate–but, at the same time, reveals a self-possession and strong-headedness. However the matter was settled, she finally got what she wanted. They were married twice: first, in the Roman Catholic Church, and then, in Katipunan (secret society) rituals. The parents must have cringed; they did not approve of Bonifacio’s involvement with the masons in the first place. Shortly after, she was sworn into the secret society as Lakambini (muse) “in order to obey and practice its sacred principles and rules” (Hernandez translation).

Given the turn of events, how she immediately enlisted into the secret society that sparked the revolution, whose Supremo (chief) happens to be her new husband, his strong political commitment to the cause of freedom must have been what turned her on about Andres Bonifacio. This was no fluffy, stay-at-home Confederate lady, but a tough, politicized woman, who would learn to ride horses and shoot guns as contingencies of the struggle demanded.