The Cemetery Visit, Part I

It has been a long time since I last explored the Manila Memorial Park on foot. So when we visited my maternal grandfather, I was giddy with excitement. For me, cemetery visits occasioned not just opportunities to pray for the dead, but to go 'sightseeing' as well. As this cemetery is relatively new compared to others in Manila, and not to mention that it has a significantly middle class 'population', certain sections of the park were reserved for families who had the clout to build mausoleums for their beloved dead.

Entering the Park, one is immediately greeted by the sight of a large, Greco-Roman style mausoleum-- so large that it had its own driveway, and had pine trees surrounding it. A gorgeous tympanum of the Resurrection, done in the Renaissance style, lent a feeling of awe and wonder to the otherwise drab, gray structure. As a child I was incredibly fascinated by this building; I had always wanted to visit it, but never had the courage nor the time to do so. I imagined that, whoever owned the mausoleum, they were probably old-money types who shunned attention from the world. In any case, it was a very beautiful, very solemn structure. I would love to visit it some other time.

Anyway, my grandfather's plot was still a good distance away. To get there you crossed a bridge of sorts, where a man-made lagoon brooded silently. There was a white monument, like a gigantic spade of sorts, that thrust its way up so that whoever crossed the bridge would see it. I thought it was an ugly, brutal thing. Surprisingly, there were already a lot of people in the cemetery, for October. Usually the arrivals peak on October 31st and November 1st; I saw a lot of cars, even a classic Ferrari, gleaming immaculate and red as blood to one corner.

Eventually we arrived at my grandfather's plot. We got there just in time as the cemetery workers (who literally lived 'behind the wall'-- but more on that later) finished laying Lolo's new lapida (gravestone). The old one had long been decrepit, and the brass lettering stolen, so that we only read a ridiculous caricature of his name on our last visits. As for the workers-- Lolo was buried in a far-off, secluded area of the cemetery, which was already close to its boundaries. Behind the cemetery wall, however, was a small squatter 'colony'. It's quite creepy when you think about it, but in this corner of the world, survival is of greater importance than living one's life.

When we got there, the other side of my family was already there (the Protties). They brought a banig with them (i.e., a handwoven mat made for sleeping or outdoor eating), some short stools, paper plates, Doritos, pails of water (for cleaning the tomb), and what have you. My grandmother then surprised me by pulling out some siomai (dumplings) from her bag (!!!). They even came with some soy sauce. Oh, it was a wonderful picnic; the dumplings were simply scrumptious! My cousin then pulls out a deck of Magic cards and begins to duel with my brother; it was then that I decided to do a walking tour of the cemetery.

My aunt and my other cousin decided to tag along with me, and in no time, we were following the winding roads of the cemetery. Our first stop was not a mausoleum, but a 'condominium', which basically means a high wall where niches were arranged, side by side, for the beloved dead. We saw a lot of Basque names in that condominium; there was a Zabaljauregui, a Barranechea, and a Zaldarriaga next to a Fong. Surprisingly, I saw no messages in Euskerra, only in Castellano. Finishing that, we crossed over to a wooded path (see image above). But before that, we passed another condominium marked 'The Sanctuary of Peace'.



The following is going to be embarrassing, but it is true. When I first saw the SoP in 2001/2002, I thought it was where the bathrooms were. I remember yelling loudly for my brother, telling him I found the bathrooms. I even pointed a finger to indicate where it was. Suddenly I realized that my finger was pointing at a woman rather befuddled and amused; she then tells me, 'Hijo, ang 'Sanctuary of Peace' ay kung saan inililibing ang mga batang namatay.' In English: 'Son, this is where they bury those who died in infancy'.

That done, we finally reached the part of the cemetery where the mausoleums were. I was astounded at how large the cemetery was-- there literally rows upon rows of mausoleums! None of them, however, could compare to the size and majesty of the first mausoleum by the cemetery's entrance. A large part of the mausoleums we saw belonged to Chinese families; that was not immediately apparent, though, since many Chinese Filipinos tend to Hispanize their names; for example, often, an Ang becomes an Angeles in the process of 'Filipinization'. On another interesting note, many Chinese surnames in the Philippines are actually the Hispanized names of their forebears. Some examples are Chikiamco (Chi Kiam Co), Yupangco, Lichaytoo, Cojuangco. It was interesting to see, in some mausoleums, statues of Christ being venerated with joss sticks, and trays of sumptuous food for the deceased.

There were also some European-descent families. One mausoleum even had a family crest (Cabarrus), which I thought was pretty cool. Most of them were built in a rather brutal style that seems to defy categorization. I saw one that looked slightly Art Deco, and another with spooky statues of the Angustia and a relief of the Santo Entierro. Of course, I might be hallucinating; it is difficult to remember all the details. We must have walked for at least an hour, passing mausoleum after mausoleum, many silent and brooding, some bursting with life. We passed one of a Chinese family, and they were actually having a barbecue, complete with a grill, outside. I smiled at them, and they smiled back at me. The smell of paper money, incense, and candlewax permeated the air. It was a strangely peaceful thing to be among the dead. For a brief moment, I thought about the Final Judgment, when earth and sea shall give up the dead to bear final witness to the glory, justice, and love of God. It helped that the soon was obscured by a hazy mist, and that many trees were losing their leaves. I did not know what to make of these visuals, but they seemed to speak to one at a deeper level.



It was getting dark, and it was finally time to return to my grandfather. On the way back we decided to take another route, one longer but just as scenic as the one we took on our mausoleum-hunt. The fading sunlight burned golden, bathing everything in a haunted patina. Colors became richer, the wind and sound and heat even conspiring to produce a sense of blessed isolation. Many families were just starting to arrive at this time. Many of them we saw were praying the rosary; one family even had a customized set of black-beaded, silver-crossed rosaries for the occasion. Many were just enjoying the breeze, eating and drinking and toasting the memory of their beloved dead. Two kids nearly knocked me unconscious playing badminton, but I didn't mind. Finally, we were back at my grandfather's grave. The 'grown-ups' had already finished packing by the time we got there.

Sadly,we didn't get to pray for my grandfather together, since that side of my family has been Evangelical for some time now (please pray for them!). I took one last look at Peregrino, lying six feet under, and thought about him-- how he must have looked like, what his voice sounded like, how he was like when angry. Being that he died two years before I was born, I can only guess at these things. I said a brief prayer for Lolo Perry, before I finally boarded the car. It was an afternoon well-spent, I thought. On the way out, we saw more people arriving at the cemetery. Candles, some half-eaten already, while some were still tall and stout, lit the way out of the place.

I have only ever seen one picture of my deceased grandfather-- it was an old portrait, some forty years old already even when I was born. It showed a man with a high forehead, chinky, deep-set eyes, and perfectly combed hair. There was no trace of the difficult childhood he had in that photo; just a normal, everyday, ordinary, simple man. It's funny how death can change a lot of things, and at the same time, humbling. But even today, my image of Peregrino remains static-- he is, to me, forever the immaculately dressed man in that black and white photo I first saw several years ago. It is only now that I realize that I have his eyes.

The Spirit Photographs of William Hope

William Hope (1863 - 1933) was a little known English medium in life, gaining posthumous fame after an album of his 'spirit' photographs was unearthed in a Lancashire antiques shop. Here is the link to the complete set: The Spirit Photographs of William Hope @ the Flickr Commons.

Follows a short biography of Hope, from Flickr, where I found these pictures.

"Born in 1863 in Crewe, Hope started his working life as a carpenter. In about 1905 he became interested in spirit photography after capturing the supposed image of a ghost while photographing a friend.

He went on to found the Crewe Circle – a group of six spirit photographers led by Hope. When Archbishop Thomas Colley joined the group they began to publicise their work.

Following World War I support for the Crewe Circle grew as the grieving relatives of those lost to the war sought a means of contacting their loved ones.

By 1922 Hope had moved to London where he became a professional medium. The work of the Crew Circle was investigated on various occasions.

The most famous of these took place in 1922, when the Society for Psychical Research sent Harry Price to investigate the group.

Price collected evidence that Hope was substituting glass plates bearing ghostly images in order to produce his spirit photographs.

Later the same year Price published his findings, exposing Hope as a fraudster. However, many of Hope’s most ardent supporters spoke out on his behalf, the most famous being Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Hope continued to practice, despite his exposure. He died in London on 7 March 1933."

The Evocation of Mephisto

I thought I'd post something scary for Halloween. The following clip is taken from F.W. Murnau's 1926 adaptation of 'Faust'. In this scene, Faust, having found a book of the dark arts, attempts to conjure the demon Mephistopheles whilst in the middle of a crossroad, under a full and leprous moon. Murnau's skill at evoking the dread and power of the supernatural is something to behold. His skill at inducing chills up one's spine is simply legendary, and puts to shame the 'efforts' of so many derivative filmmakers who choose to focus on cheap thrills and loud noises to convey that feeling of dread we all love.

Pabasa

The Pabasa is a Filipino Holy Week tradition, wherein the Passion of Our Lord is chanted in verse. The tone of the hymn varies from region to region, but the text is almost universal; forget about your chant workshops and Tallis motets for a little while and enjoy the haunting, guttural warbling that defined the faith of the laity in the Philippines for hundreds of years. This particular pabasa was filmed in Cardona, Rizal.

De profundis

I'm going to the cemetery tomorrow.

Think of it as a pre-All Souls' Day vigil. Here in the Philippines October and November are always very mystical months; there is a great deal of mystery and wonder that envelops them. Locally, November 1 and 2 are known as the 'undas', so-called, because of the waves upon waves of people visiting the dead on these two days. But no ordinary visits, these-- from Mexico, something of the Dia de Los Muertos seems to have been imported to our country. Thus undas in Manila means spending all day-- sometimes up to midnight-- in the cemeteries. There is always drinking, eating, merry-making, gambling (if you're lucky), and an occasional impromptu family reunion, happening right beside your loved ones' tombs.

The cemetery where my grandfather is buried is middle class, more or less. But you will still see people playing music and talking rather loudly, as it has always been. The older ones say, the dead need company; if we do not keep vigil with them for the day, it will come back to haunt us. Thus, prayers are recited-- novenas, rosaries, chaplets, the occasional song, litanies, and supplications. One always has to be wary, though, since many take it upon themselves to dress up as priests, and collect those delicious stole fees for their own benefit.

I am sure it will be an interesting trip. We will be going with some Protestant relatives, and some hardcore, mantilla-wearing, rosary-praying, knee-walking, statue-kissing Catholics. One time a Protestant aunt, observing a Catholic grand aunt lighting a candle for the deceased, took me aside and told me: 'I don't mean to be rude, but lighting a candle won't do anything for your lolo, since he is either in heaven or hell, and nothing will change that.' I replied: 'But the lighting of the candle is not a salvific act, it's merely for remembrance.' She replied to me: 'That's what you think. Our elders always told us that candles have other properties.'

It was then that I realized that I knew nothing at all about these traditions. I kept quiet, mumbling to myself in the head. Then another Protestant relative stepped forward, "Talked" to my grandfather for a bit, and then started to pray an Our Father, a Haily Mary (!!!), and a Glory Be. It is amazing how the cult of the saints, the rhythm of countless rosaries, the urge to visit and converse with the dead, can be so firmly rooted in the human soul, that even a self-confessed Born-Again Evangelical Protestant, would find herself muttering these forgotten, ancient, 'pagan' incantations. De profundis, indeed.

The days are running faster, it is growing darker earlier, and already the air seems to smell of lagrimas (a local flower associated with funerals) and candle wax. Tomorrow I will see all of these things-- if not all, then some. And I will become that naive, little boy I once was, and I will sleep in the bosom of these strange and forgotten rituals. I hope I don't see a ghost.

The Trinity

This depiction of the Holy Trinity is known in Latin America as the 'Trinidad Trifacial'. This particular example hails from Colombia, and was painted by Gregorio Vasquez de Arce y Ceballos. It is worth mentioning that, officially, this iconographic representation of the Trinity is discouraged by the Church; I recall reading somewhere about an edict that tried to suppress this particular 'icon', as well as one of the Holy Trinity inside the Virgin Mary's womb. I will try to find out more about that soon.

Castrum Doloris

The castrum doloris or castle of woes was an often elaborate, theatrical structure, which shelters the catafalque of a deceased person of immense prestige or nobility. In the Philippines, the use of the castrum doloris persisted up until the end of the Spanish occupation. Seen here is a photo of the castle of woes built for the death of Alfonso XII of Spain, in the old Manila Cathedral.

La Guadalupana

The Battle of Lepanto

Ask most people about the Battle of Lepanto today and you will be met with wither an uneasy smile or ignorance. For most of modern, secular Europe, Lepanto was a bloodthirsty massacre inspired by religious bigotry, a blight upon history whose memory must be forgotten, suppressed, and buried. Yet five hundred and thirty seven years ago, that fateful battle forever fixed the boundaries of the Mediterranean.

Few will probably know that Lepanto was the deciding factor that put a stop to Ottoman expansionism; a loss for the Christian side could have very easily meant the fall of Europe. On one side we have the Christian Holy League, under the aegis of the Spanish Hapsburgs, and sailing with the blessing of the Pope himself; on the other, the Ottoman champions, under the leadership of Ali Pasha. But at stake was more than just military power or economic dominance; indeed, one could probably say that Lepanto was as much a battle for the survival of Europe.

No easy task was this-- the mid 1500's was a time of upheaval in Europe. The convocation of the Holy League itself was fraught by mutual suspicion on the parts of those involved. The neutral Venetians were seen as self-serving and treacherous; Spain was seen as too prudent; and everyone secretly balked at the pope's wish to reclaim the Holy Land. Jealousy and division, and not to mention an almost genetically disposed inferiority complex against the Ottomans (conquerors of Byzantium), plagued the Christian side.

Fast forward to 7 October 1571, to one of the bloodiest days in history. In the span of but four hours, 40,000 people darkened the sea with their blood; fire and flame and smoke were everywhere, as the thunderous din of combat blasted ear drums and shook the marrow of men on both sides. However the day would ultimately go to the Christian side, thanks in part to the heavily armed Venetian galleases and the brilliant leadership of Don Juan of Austria. It was nothing short of a miracle-- the Christian Holy League, which up until a few hours before the conflict were arguing amongst themselves, would crush Ottoman power in a victory nothing short of remarkable-- and dangerously close. The leader of the Ottoman fleet, Ali Pasha, resplendent in his brilliant robes, was said to have been felled by an arquebus shot, after which his head had been decapitated by a Spanish soldier and attached to the tip of a spear. It was said that Don Juan was appalled by this barbarous treatment of what he considered a most worthy opponent.

In Europe, a collective sigh of relief was breathed, with the Venetians rejoicing the most. In Rome, it was said that St. Pius V, while in the middle of prayer, was roused by the vision of the enemy kapudan pasha (admiral), Ali Pasha, falling into the sea. It was a sign of victory, and on a most auspicious day, the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary. Pius made sure to add another gem to the Virgin's crown, naming her Our Lady of Victories for the Christian victory against the Turk. The victory of Lepanto had put a permanent check on the expansionist dreams of the Ottomans; henceforth, the Mediterranean would be in a stalemate. Divided Europe came dangerously close to being subjected to Islamic dominance, with the Mediterranean serving as the bloody theater of history. Malta alone locked Europe from the Ottomans, and from then it would be a short way to Rome, the center of Christendom. Philip turned his attention west, to the New World, while the sultan Selim had Persia on his mind. In time, both empires' power would be checked, Philip in the disastrous loss of his armada, and Selim and his successors by the unblinking thrust of modernity.

Today tensions have generally cooled off. Lepanto has largely been forgotten, the people it saved shrugging off the old myths and legends, its heroes and champions dubbed fanatics. In 1965, the pope returned the captured sail of the main Ottoman warship, the Sultana, to Istanbul; it was a large, green sail, embroidered with the 99 names of Allah repeated close to thirty thousand times. People have forgotten, too, the French knight for whom the capital of Malta, Valleta, was named: Sir Jean Parisot La Valette, who had previously crushed the vastly superior Ottoman forces in the great siege of Malta. He would later go on in history as one of the order's most illustrious grand masters, defending Birgu to the last man with a steely resolve that would infuriate Suleiman the Magnificent himself.

In 1646, Manila was threatened by the sudden appearance of five Dutch warships, bent on conquering the city. The soldiers, Spanish and Filipino alike, vowed to our Lady of the Rosary to feast her with a lavish procession if she gave them this victory. And sure enough, the Dutch invaders were repelled; but the most remarkable thing was that this was to happen for five times. Today, Our Lady of the Rosary is known in the Philippines as Nuestra Senora de La Naval. She is truly the Queen of Victories, savior of Europe and Asia.

Cecile Chaminade - Concertino for Piano and Flute, Op. 107

Prayers for My Father

Of your charity please say a prayer for the recovery of my father, who was admitted to the hospital tonight after complaining of chest pains. This is the second time this has happened to him; the last one was in December of 2002. Please storm heaven for his quick recovery. Thank you.

Funeral Customs

Whenever someone dies, I always make an interesting discovery. Most of these revolve around various practices and curiosities I often see being done when a loved one dies. These range from such customs as putting an extra chair for the deceased on the dining table, the belief that the deceased's body can and must never be left alone in the funeral parlor, the telling of riddles, or bugtongs as we call them in Filipino, the severing of the clasped rosary, the ninth, thirtieth, and fortieth day commemorations. To be honest, I never quite understood the rationale and piety behind them, but I will try to list as many as I can in this post.

The first custom is holding a banquet in honor of the deceased. Now food is very central to Filipino culture, but during funerals, when there are hundreds of guests to feed (a local belief is that the average person will know 250 people in his lifetime, hence many wealthy families often prepare for this amount), banquets often turn into truly sumptuous events. A place of honor is reserved for the deceased; the chair is left unoccupied, and often has the best servings of food. This could probably be an influence of the Chinese, who often buried food, clothing, and other paraphernalia with their dead.

Another belief holds that the deceased must never, ever, be left alone in the funeral parlor. Local piety holds that the soul of the deceased will get angry if he is not prayed for, and would often haunt its negligent relatives. That is why many Filipinos often 'camp' in the funeral parlor; they sleep, eat, and sometimes even bathe in them (in the bathrooms, of course!) until the day of burial comes. Corollary to this is the belief that someone must stay awake and keep vigil with the deceased for the whole night. To accomplish this, the old-timers would often tell 'bugtongs'. A bugtong is a sentence or question with a hidden meaning, which often functions as a riddle. Here's an example of a bugtong:

Buto't balat
Lumilipad

Loosely translated into English, it is:
Skin and bones
Flying

The answer is, of course, a kite. A bugtong often "fetishizes" mundane things and customs (kaugalian).As far as I know, this practice has been around since Pre-Hispanic times; it survived the Spanish colonization and was given a Christianized facade.

Another interesting funeral custom is the severing of the clasped rosary. Among Filipinos, it is a norm to place a rosary in the deceased's hands as a sign of piety. However, before the body is ultimately buried underground, a relative or loved one of the deceased, usually a female, severs the rosary; it is left in the clasped hands of the deceased, however. This is because they believe that, since the rosary essentially follows a circle, it thus goes round and round, i.e., forever. Thus, it could be seen as a sign that the deceased would have to spend time in purgatory forever (if he is bound for eternal glory, anyway). With the cutting of the rosary, the deceased's loved ones are symbolically freeing him from the fires of purgatory.

I've also seen, in old photographs, how the old-timers used to tie a band of narrow cloth around the deceased person's jaw, thus keeping it tightly shut. I don't have an explanation for this, but I've heard that it keeps the body from being possessed by demons (that is, they prevent them from entering the dead person's mouth). I've not yet heard a good or convincing explanation for this yet, though.

Finally there is the custom of commemorating the ninth, thirtieth, and fortieth days since the death of the loved one. The ninth day, of course, is the culmination of the novena masses for the repose of the soul; it is called the pasiyam, literally 'the ninth'. The thirtieth day commemoration is probably more of a Tagalog practice (I am not really sure), and is mostly held for women. Forty, of course, is a very loaded number in Scripture; there were forty days and nights of rain that flooded the earth, forty days and nights spent fasting in the desert; it is most probable that the fortieth day commemoration is symbolic of the soul's 'calvary' and is perhaps a celebration or reminder that, often life comes through death. It is, above all, a ritual of hope.

It is worth mentioning, too, that women often lead in the prayers; usually, the matriarch of the clan is the prayer leader, if there be no priest present. As is customary, all of these commemorations end in a feast.

St. Peter's Mother

Among the Tagalogs, this story of St. Peter's mother is a very popular folk tale. I remember reading a version of this story way back in second grade, with some of the circumstances altered; still, the essence of the story remained. This version was the one I often heard from my relatives groqing up.

It was said that St. Peter's mother was a very avaricious and greedy woman. One day, when she had lived almost the whole of her life, she summoned St. Peter to her bedside. With a weak but firm voice, she said to St. Peter, 'Entreat you the Lord for me that I be granted many more years to come'. St. Peter, being the obedient son that he was, went to the Lord to seek His help.

So it came to pass that St. Peter saw the Lord one day, after He had just performed a miracle. He flung himself to the Master's feet, and said 'O Lord, You are great and powerful indeed, and no earthly praise is fit to honor You. But my mother is old and sick, and has asked me to spare her life.'

The Lord looked at St. Peter and said, 'When a tree is old its leaves wither and die. But since your mother has asked to be given more years to her life, it shall be done. Plant this seed in your garden, and as long as the tree shall bloom, your mother will live.' St. Peter fell before the Lord and thanked Him. He reached home, when, in his excitement, he forgot to plant the seed in his garden. It remained in his pocket for days, until finally, St. Peter's mother died. The saint was inconsolable, and wept and cursed, but he resigned himself to the will of God.

Nine days after his mother's death, St. Peter had a vision. In that vision, he saw his mother, wrapped in flames, and once again, St. Peter's mother asked her son a favor. 'My son, I am trapped in purgatory, and I am parched beyond relief. Tell the Lord to snatch me away from these unbearable flames'.

Guilt gnawing at his conscience, but at the same time afraid of being rebuked by the Lord for his incompetence, St. Peter debated whether or not to go to the Lord. But in the end, he decided to muster up his courage, and ask the Lord for another favor. So it happened that he chanced upon the Master once more; and again, he flung himself at His feet, and asked 'My Lord, my mother has died because of my incompetence; but now she is in purgatory, and the flames, she says, are unbearable. She asks you to free her from that unspeakable prison!'

The Lord looked at St. Peter and said, 'As I told you, a tree that withers is near death. But since your mother asked for a respite against the pains of purgatory, it shall be granted her. Take you this rope, and when you see her again in your visions, throw the rope to her, and she shall enter Paradise. But be you warned, this is the last favor I will grant your mother.'

That very night, St. Peter's mother appeared to him. 'Mother, the Lord has granted your request! Take the end of this rope and climb up, and you shall enter the gates of paradise!' Overjoyed, St. Peter's mother quickly snatched the rope, and began to climb up in earnest; but just as she was about to escape the mouth of purgatory, she felt a tug on her ankle. Below, she saw a chain of souls, all miserable and yet at the same time hopeful. The soul immediately below her said, 'Take us with you that we too may quench our thirst!' But St. Peter's mother, being greedy and avaricious, tried to shake away the souls clinging to her feet.

And suddenly, in the midst of it all, the rope snapped, and St. Peter's mother fell into the deepest pit of purgatory, eventually landing at the gates of Hell. She alone fell to such a great depth. There she remains to this day, waiting, beyond all mortal rescue, until that Day known to the Lord alone, when heaven and earth shall pass.

Dostoevsky on Hell

Fathers and teachers, I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love. Once in infinite existence, immeasurable in time and space, a spiritual creature was given on his coming to earth the power of saying, "I am and I love." Once, only once, there was given him a moment of active lifting love, and for that was earthly life given him, and with it times and seasons. And that happy creature rejected the priceless gift, prized it and loved it not, scorned it and remained callous. Such a one, having left the earth, sees Abraham's bosom and talks with Abraham as we are told in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, and beholds heaven and can go up to the Lord.

But that is just his torment, to rise up to the Lord without ever having loved, to be brought close to those who have loved when he has despised their love. For he sees clearly and says to himself, "Now I have understanding, and though I now thirst to love, there will be nothing great, no sacrifice in my love, for my earthly life is over, and Abraham will not come even with a drop of living water (that is the gift of earthly active life) to cool the fiery thirst of spiritual love which burns in me now, though I despised it on earth; there is no more life for me and will be no more time! Even though I would gladly give my life for others, it can never be, for that life is passed which can be sacrificed for love, and now there is a gulf fixed between that life and this existence."

They talk of hell fire in the material sense. I don't go into that mystery and I shun it. But I think if there were fire in material sense, they would be glad of it, for I imagine that in material agony, their still greater spiritual agony would be forgotten for a moment. Moreover, that spiritual agony cannot be taken from them, for that suffering is not external but within them. And if it could be taken from them, I think it would be bitterer still for the unhappy creatures. For even if the righteous in Paradise forgave them, beholding their torments, and called them up to heaven in their infinite love, they would only multiply their torments, for they would arouse in them still more keenly a flaming thirst for responsive, active and grateful love which is now impossible.

In the timidity of my heart I imagine, however, that the very recognition of this impossibility would serve at last to console them. For accepting the love of the righteous together with the impossibility of repaying it, by this submissiveness and the effect of this humility, they will attain at last, as it were, to a certain semblance of that active love which they scorned in life, to something like its outward expression...

I am sorry, friends and brothers, that I cannot express this clearly. But woe to those who have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there can be none more miserable than they. They tell us that it is a sin to pray for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never be an offence to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them every day. Oh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud spirit entirely.

For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are tortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God and life. They live upon their vindictive pride like a starving man in the desert sucking blood out of his own body. But they are never satisfied, and they refuse forgiveness, they curse God Who calls them. They cannot behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of life should be annihilated, that God should destroy Himself and His own creation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath for ever and yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death....

- The Brothers Karamazov

Liturgical Excerpts from 'Ivan the Terrible'

These are incredible. Clips from a 1943 Russian film, 'Ivan the Terrible'. I actually saw these a couple of months back but have only remembered to put them up recently.



And here is Part 2

Pater Noster

Not all modern sacred music is bad; case in point, this divinely sublime setting of the Pater Noster, as sung by the Philippine Madrigal Singers. This was composed by a local composer, John August Pamintuan; the Madrigals have won countless praise and accolades for their impeccable singing. This piece is simply moving!

The New World Order, circa 1942

From Strange Maps.

Follows a quick explanation of which nation belongs to what coalition. It's interesting, to say the least.

* The United States of America (USA): the US, Canada, all Central American and Carribean states, most Atlantic islands (including Greenland and Iceland), most Pacific islands, Taiwan, Hainan, the Philippines and several now Indonesian islands, including Sulawesi. This was to be the dominant power in the world, military and otherwise.

* The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR): the Soviets were to be rewarded with Persia (Iran), Mongolia, Manchuria, Finland, and all of Eastern Europe, which subsequently would form part of the Eastern Bloc (excluding Albania, but including the real-life maverick state of Yugoslavia, socialist but anti-Soviet). All of theses states were simply to become member-states of the USSR. Austria and most of Germany, although ‘quarantained’ are shown within the Soviet sphere.

* The United States of South America (USSA): including all South American states, with the three Guianas as a single constituent state and the Falkland Islands part of the USSA.

* The Union of African Republics (UAR): All of Africa as a federation of republics.

* The Arabian Federated Republics (AFR): covering Saudi and all other states now occupying the Arabian Peninsula, plus present-day Iraq and Syria.

* The Federated Republics of India (FRI): Present-day Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Nepal, Bhutan, Bangladesh and Birma (Myanmar).

* The United Republics of China (URC): A federation including all parts of present-day China, Korea, the erstwhile French colony of Indochina (now Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia), Thailand and Malaya.

* The United States of Scandinavia (USS): Norway, Sweden, Denmark.

* The United States of Europe (USE): the Benelux countries, the German Rhineland, France, Switzerland, Spain, Portugal and Italy.

* And finally the British Commonwealth of Nations (BCN), including Great Britain, Australia, New Zealand, Sri Lanka, Madagascar and most of Indonesia.

Smaller entities include Eire (the whole of Ireland), Greece (including Albania), Turkey (excluding European Turkey), Hebrewland (the Holy Land plus Jordan) and Japan. The three axis states (Germany, Italy and Japan) were to be ‘quarantained’ until they could be readmitted in the family of nations.

True story: in the 1940s, there were groups in the Philippines which lobbied intensively for the country to be annexed to the United States. This was post American independence, mind you. There were also groups which supported its 'repatriation' to Mother Spain; it is a little known fact that many Falangists made the Philippines their home base, in fact, there were even demonstrations in support of the Falange during that time. The multi-millionaire Andres Soriano (then worth almost a whopping $100 million), who relocated from Spain to the Philippines, was one of the most well-known Falangists in the country.

A Family Thing

I never met my maternal grandfather. Peregrino--Perry, as his friends called him-- was a foreman working for Ford in the 1950s to the 1960s, as well as an occasional shop teacher. In my mother's house there used to hang an old picture of Peregrino in my grandmother's room, and I remember looking at a stern, authoritative figure, with perfectly coiffed 'Jose Rizal' hair, eyes that looked at imperceptible sights in the far off distance, and a thin, hazy suggestion of a smile. When I was younger and I misbehaved, my mother would tell me stories of Lolo Perry-- strict, stern, and disciplinarian-- and how my behavior would simply make his blood curdle. They were quite the stories!

This much I know about Peregrino: he was born in the province of Catanduanes in the 1920s, whereupon he was orphaned at an early age, and had to be raised by distant relatives. Coming from a poor family, he had to start work at an early age; by the time he was in his teens, he had seen the grit and grime of the real world, and vowed to make a better life for himself. Now in those days, these decisions were literally life-altering; and thus it came to be that Peregrino left his home in Catanduanes to begin his sojourn in Manila. That was the last he ever saw of his brothers and adoptive parents.

He met my grandmother in college--she, studying mathematics, he, a vocational course in engineering. The whirlwind romance eventually blossomed into a marriage; Peregrino would move his family to the (more or less) suburb of Santa Ana in Manila, where they lived in a compound leased by their Spanish landlords. They would spent the better part of a decade and a half in that compound, until, tired of the congestion afforded them by Manila, they eventually relocated into the then newly developed Teachers' Village in Quezon City. They had a small bungalow built, with enough land to raise some farm animals. It was the first house in that street, and even today, my mother's house carries the patina of age and history on its walls. This was around 1965.

Now, my grandfather wasn't able to go to a 'proper' university; but this did not stop him from constantly reinventing himself. Since his immediate bosses were Americans, he gradually developed his English skills; in fact, he forbade any and all materials not in English to be read, listened to, or watched in their house. At the dinner table, Peregrino, with characteristic solemnity, would admonish his children to 'Masticate your meat' and to 'rectify your bad manners'. Disobedience, or failure to comply with his orders, meant immediate punishment. When he would argue with my grandmother, it was always in high-phalutin' English.

Like many Filipino fathers, my maternal grandfather was not exactly very pastoral. His word was law, and in his house, he was king. He was also somewhat of an amateur athlete, with an easily bruised ego; one time, challenged by a younger colleague at the factory, the then already 55 year old Peregrino ran a mile in an effort to beat his younger opponent; he lost, but his simmering temper certainly shut up the competition! Conversations with Peregrino more or less followed an interview format; 'How was your day?', was followed by 'Have you eaten?', and then by 'Have you done your chores?', an optional (but liberally used) 'Why is the standard of your work very poor?' and then finally by a reminder to 'Thank the Lord you're still alive'. That was it.

Peregrino, like all men, had his faults; his was an irascible, stubborn, almost Iberian temper. He kept mostly to himself; as mentioned, he had an easily bruised ego, and he was always very demanding. But for all his flaws, Peregrino was really a simple man. He was a man of genteel manners, who never failed to welcome visitors with his company. Often, Mormon missionaries would come to visit their house, and he would invite them in for polite conversation. When the topic of polygamy was brought up, however, he simply could not restrain himself and would chase them off the gate with his bolo. He found joy in fixing broken appliances; he would always wake up at four in the morning to inspect the grounds. No dead light bulb, no broken link of a chain, no clogged toilet, no stray piece of garbage escaped his eyes. Even today, at my mother's house, all the appliances are the same ones that my Lolo Peregrino had built, albeit with some tweaks, alterations, and many repairs done over the course of the last three decades.

He died of cardiovascular failure in 1987, at the age of 66 (67?). Ironically, he was on his way to the Philippine Heart Center, which was only a few blocks from their home. As it happened, an ashen-faced Peregrino suddenly slumped to the ground; by God's grace, a tricycle driver (picture a motorcycle with an attached sidecar) nearby witnessed the event, and carried him on his back to the Heart Center. He would not last for much long; a few more days at the hospital, and he would succumb to the sleep of death. He died on 17 January, exactly a week before his birthday.

Almost a year ago, as I was having lunch with the family, the topic suddenly shifted to my late maternal grandfather. Appalled at the way my sister was chewing her food, my mother admonished her to 'masticate your meat'. I sat there, listening to her stories, when a sudden chill crawled up our spines. The date was 17 January.

Don Giovanni, a cenar teco m'invitasti

Lord Have Mercy!

Orissa Burning

Please storm heaven for the safety of the Christian population of Orissa. The barbarism and hatred being shown them could only be the handiwork of the Devil. Please, for the love of Christ Our Lord, pray for them!

LOL

I love that site!

I Think I'm In Love With You

I don't want you to get hurt.

Although I've only known you for a short while, it's safe to say you've turned my world upside down. It's really crazy. You always know the right words to say to make me laugh, melt, and think. This is the first time I've ever felt this way. It's a mystery, really. But for the past one and a half weeks, it's been a hell of a roller coaster ride, and one that I've loved immensely. I'm still convinced you're perfect. I know that you are. But please understand when I say that I think I'm living a lie. It's difficult, really. Earth shattering. Heart breaking, especially. So this is what it feels like to be in love. This is what we all go crazy for. I'm sure it's beautiful in the long run, but for now, I can't stand the burden it's taking on me.

I know that there's a chance you'll be angry with me. I've prepared for that. But it's better than keeping anything at all from you. I think I'm ready to take that risk now. It's a shame that I've only had the courage to overcome the internal turmoil now, but it's better late than never. I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to be scarred. I don't want anything to happen to you, or me. I know that you're a good person, and it is just a shame that I haven't been able to reciprocate that well enough. Please understand, this is incredibly hard for me as well; too many things have happened lately. I know that these are not excuses, and can never be used to justify anything. I don't want to lie anymore. I want to be honest with you.

Let me try to make it up to you before it's too late. Help me to become a better person. Though there's a slim chance of anything 'real' happening between us anytime soon, I know in my heart of hearts that I need you to be there. Someday, somehow, I will make it up to you completely-- and I hope that you and I will finally be happy. Please, forgive me. I am truly sorry.

Of Machismo, Lenten Rites, and Bread

Note: This was originally a paper for a sociology class. I've edited it slightly to make it more 'blog-gy'

I've been meaning to blog about the San Pedro Cutud Lenten rites for a while now. It's one of the most controversial practices here in the Philippines, owing to the obvious fact that it is, in the end, a ritual crucifixion, completed with scourging and real nails. For sure, the official Church decries this excess of devotion as bordering on fanatical, if not pagan; almost all the bishops of Pampanga province, where these rites take place, are thoroughly against it. I myself am ambivalent to it at best; it is a rite that involves a lot of spectacle and theatrics, that much is true, and one always has to be wary of that. But then again, I've never had to be crucified, so I will not pass judgment now.

Basically, on Good Friday, in the little town of San Fernando in Pampanga, a group of male devotees and the occasional woman would be taken to the small hillock-cum-rice field of San Pedro Cutud, three kilometers away from the city. Along the way, the devotees would cover their faces and beat their backs with makeshift scourges. To make the process easier, the backs of the devotees are first pierced by glass, to get the blood flowing. From there it is a simple matter of flogging the back with the flails, at the ends of which are attached thin strips of bamboo.

Whenever a church is passed, the devotees would stop, kneel outside, and increase the vigor of their penitence. Some who are flamboyant enough even ask help from other devotees; they prostrate themselves unto the dust, while the appointed onlooker flogs his back. This process continues until the mini-Golgotha of San Pedro Cutud is reached. From there, some of the men eventually depart; only a few go on to actually be crucified. The crucifixion itself is a different act, a different ritual; costumed men representing the Roman soldiers seize the Christ(s), dragging them onto the hillock. The crowd of onlookers, some dressed to look like the Jews, jeer and spit, all part of the ritual.

The crucifixion itself is a very straightforward business, however. Once the Christ(s) have lain themselves on the cross, their palms are nailed to the wood. To prevent possible infections from the ordeal, nails which have been soaked in isopropyl alcohol overnight, are hammered quickly, avoiding bone as much as possible. The feet, too, of the penitent are nailed to a small wooden platform, to prevent the body from sagging. Once this is done, they are left to stand for all of three minutes before being taken down; I've heard stories as well of some penitents pronouncing the words of Our Lord as He agonized on the Cross.

It's interesting to note that majority of the penitents are not exactly regular Mass-goers; I think it's safe to say that these men are on the 'periphery' of the Church's life. Some of them are borrachos, polygamists, some may not even have stepped foot inside a church in decades. Of course, I'm not saying that all of these men are of questionable character-- hell no! So what exactly is in this practice that we find so repulsive?

In my opinion, it's not so much as the San Pedro Cutud rites are repulsive, so much as they are 'different' and 'naive', that makes them so foreign. There are no prescribed liturgical texts or any official framework upon which the rituals are built. Hence, they are not regulated, and are therefore peripheral; it is integrated more into the sphere of daily life than it is with the commemoration of Our Lord's Passion and Death. I say this because, at the bottom of it all, these rites are attempts to petition the needs of the gut-- food, shelter, jobs, livelihood-- rather than mere pious attempts to edify the heart and soul. It is literally bargaining with God-- scandalous at worst, naive at best-- by the loudest, most theatrical ways possible.

I think it's very easy to blame the people who partake in the rites as seeking glory and fame for themselves; that may be partially true, but as I've already said, I have never in my life had to be crucified for a morsel of bread and water. Perhaps, in the end, we do not think life is so important as to suffer and die for it, so as to live. Most of us are too 'comfortable' to see life as it is outside our borders. and the truth is, life is hard. It's difficult. It's a back-breaking ordeal. So it may be that this is not exactly the most appropriate channel to ask for God's help and blessing; it could even be construed as mockery of Christ's sacrifice. I certainly won't be having myself crucified soon, that much I can say, but that's because I know I don't have to.

But it's a terrible fact of life that others have to. It almost shames me to think, that, had my situation been the other way around-- would I be so selfish as to show my love for God in such a manner? Would I be willing to be called a glory-seeker and a conman just so I can feed my family? My answer would probably be no.

That Still, Small Voice

My great grandfather, Tatang Angel, was a Mason. He was born in a very different Philippines than the one I know today, when it was still Filipinas, and the 'lengua Sajon'-- as English was known then-- was still considered unacceptable. He was a teacher; he was the principal of the local high school in Quezon province, and was apparently quite good at it. In those days, being a Mason meant being anti-clerical, possibly atheistic, and entailed a hostility to the Church. While being a Mason still entitles one to being ostracized by one's community today, the ideological differences were remarkably more defined back then.

He married my grandmother sometime in the 1920s. Where they were married no one remembers now, but cases of Masons being married in the Church were supposedly not that rare. Of course, once they married, they never went there again. When Angel finally had his own family, Mass was not an option at all. He forbade my great grandmother Felina from going to church, and would chastise her if he caught her doing so. For Felina and their young daughters, among them my grandmother, that meant sneaking out of the house at the crack of dawn to catch the first Mass of the day. They would cut little pieces of cloth from old blankets, and even the mesh from the window screens, to serve as veils.

For much of her early life, my grandmother attended Mass in secret. Even when she received her first Holy Communion, it had to be under her father's nose. Still, my great grandmother Felina would go to great lengths to teach them of the Faith. Although she herself probably never received excellent catechesis, she made it a point to teach their children all the devotions that she, in turn, was taught by her mother. To the day my grandmother died in 2004, she would pray the rosary three times daily, and would spend at least an hour reading Scripture. She was fiercely Catholic, who demanded that even their non-Catholic household help join the family in their prayers.

My great grandfather eventually became a well-respected teacher. When World War II dawned, he took it upon himself to move his family constantly, so as to avoid persecution by the Japanese. As a teacher with nationalistic ideas, he was seen as a threat by Japan, because he could potentially incite his students to rebellion. They moved several times, often in secret, often at night. Then the day came that the constant exhaustion and stress finally caught up with his wife Felina; she fell ill during one relocation. Several weeks later, she was dead.

Whether Angel had abjured Masonry at this point I don't remember; but it was certainly true that he had a change of heart at this point. Sometime after the war, great grandfather Angel repented, and was received back into the Church. No doubt Lola Felina had something to do with his conversion; needless to say he spent the rest of his life a Catholic. To this day, all of his daughters are devout Catholics-- four of time, who have been living in the United States for at least forty years now, remain as steadfast as they were back in the 'old country'. His youngest daughter, a religious sister, followed in his footsteps and became a teacher and a brilliant chemist, writing her thesis in German; my grandmother, the eldest daughter, founded a school in honor of the Santo Nino, who would do wonders for Angel. She married my grandfather in the 1950s; she taught him how to pray.

It shames us to think, that we, with all our conveniences and tools, have done so little so show our love for Christ. I thank God for my great grandmother Felina and her little square pieces of mesh, her propensity to wake up early, and her undying patience.

Busy

Pardon the recent drought in blogging. I have been very busy and simply cannot find the time, effort, peace, and ideas to blog. I will, however, continue to blog, and have several posts lined up in my head waiting to be published. This month is proving especially challenging for me, although I reassure all my readers of my intent to continue posting. I also ask your prayers for an intention of mine-- please storm heaven for this. Thank you all so much!

Eden

I took this photo today, at around noon. As you can see, I am still a beginner at photography, so please forgive any compositional or technical 'imprudence' on my part. Hopefully, with my new camera, I will be able to post more original content. There is a slight window of chance that I will be free on Wednesday or Thursday, so I may just post some photos of old colonial churches. Watch out ;).

Santiago Matamoros

In Spain, the 25th of July is celebrated with great pomposity as the feast of St. James the Great-- or, as he is popularly known there, Santiago Matamoros. The epithet Matamoros literally means 'Moor-slayer', and was appellated to the saint by the Spaniards during the Reconquista. The story goes that, at the eve of the battle of Clavijo, the saint appeared to a soldier in a dream. The next day, on the battle itself, the Christian armies-- being vastly outnumbered-- were greeted by the sight of a knight astride a white horse. It was St. James himself, riding through the enemy hordes and slaying the Moors. To this day, many Spaniards shout 'Santiago y cierra Espana' (St. James and strike for Spain) as a battle cry.

The photo above is from Fort Santiago in the Philippines, taken from Fra Lawrence's ever excellent photostream.

"St James the Moorslayer, one of the most valiant saints and knights the world ever had ... has been given by God to Spain for its patron and protection."
- Cervantes, Don Quixote

Some Observations

I have been very busy these past few days. I've taken an interest in photography again after the longest time, so I enrolled myself at a basic photography class. Although I have to say, it was a bit difficult, because I am a masochist, and stuck to using my old, very old, nigh ancient, Canon EOS 500-- in film, of course. I was a bit disappointed because the pictures, when they were finally developed, seemed to be hazy, not so much as a result of poor skills but because there seems to be a leak in the camera that let light in. Very disappointing. Luckily, a place nearby is selling the new Canon 450D DSLR at a mere Php 42,950, complete with a basic wide-to-normal lens (18 to 55mm). That's less than a thousand US dollars, good enough, I guess.

I've also taken two of my old lenses to the cleaners. One is a Tamron 35mm to 105mm, the other is a Sigma, 28mm to 200mm. The latter is lacking a lenscap so I can only imagine how much that is going to freak out the shop's proprietors.

Also, I find it strange that I seem to be asked all the time whether I had a permit to take photographs in public. Yesterday morning, I was shooting at the uberchic Greenbelt Mall (and I use that term loosely, as it is really more a lifestyle center) when I was approached at least three times by two different guards if I had permission to take photos of the mall's public space. The same thing happened when I went to Manila Bay that afternoon. I wasn't aware the city officials owned the sunset. What's really irritating about the Greenbelt incident is that the patriarch of the family that owns it, Jaime Zobel de Ayala, is himself a photographer! The Zobel de Ayalas are quite possibly the wealthiest family in the Philippines; the immediate branch, based in Manila, is worth at least $2.6 billion; the Spanish based part of the clan (who own Sotogrande, the most exclusive, most expensive address in Spain), at least $1.7 billion. Another branch also based in Manila is worth almost $700 million (I think the Zobel side).

Slight Edit: I just came back from said mall after picking up something for my sister. I had to pass through it to get to the train, so I thought I might as well enjoy the experience... There was a Bang and Olufsen store there, which REALLY excited me, as I have admired their products for a long time-- but the prices are murder. I was looking at a pair of headphones which cost something like Php20,000 (around $400++). Wow, that is expensive. There were cheaper products to be sure, but the prices remain relatively high. If I only had the money... :(

Finally, after six long years of agonizing waiting, Terminal 3 of the Ninoy Aquino International Airport is open. The new airport is one of the more infamous white elephants of the Philippine government; its opening is good news, especially now that tourism here is booming (again). Although the 3 to 4 million visitors we have every year hardly compares to the tens of millions that visit Thailand and Malaysia. Ay, politicians can be so stressful. Would that they were buried in the Film Center instead of all those workers.

On a Starbucks, at 10:04 pm: Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah' starts to play. A man in his thirties cups his face in a corner; an elderly American couple sweet talk each other; a housewife, with a worried look on her face calls her son, only to be screamed at; a newly graduated employee, clad in an ill-fitting shirt, romances his girlfriend; a man sits alone in the far corner, his drink before him, untouched. He is carrying the weight of the world.

A Thousand Words

Found this on the Skyscraper City Forums.

The caption reads:
"Brother Jose Marjabacas and Col. Walsh look at the remains of the Father Superior of the Philippines. Trying to escape from a tomb in which a number of priests and sisters were held prisoner, the Japs shot him. 1945"

Link: Wartime Philippines

Bit of Nostalgia

Growing up, I never really understood when my parents and grandparents would wax nostalgic, and reminisce about the 'good old days' of the Philippines before the Marcos era. Hearing them talk, you would sometimes get the idea that Manila might as well have been an American city back then. Sadly, the distance of time, memory, and shame, have all but rendered this vision a dream. So it is indeed chilling when I see videos like this-- made in 1955, back when my grandparents had the honor of living in the second most powerful economy in Asia, only next to Japan. It's haunting, really, how times have changed.



EDIT: I know it's a commercial for Coca Cola, but I still think it provides a valuable glimpse into the past.

A Woman Scorned

I was at my friend Guada's home the other day along with some people I haven't seen in a long time. They lived in a rather affluent suburb south of Manila, in a large, spacious mansion filled with antique family heirlooms. You see, Guada and her family are what you and I would call 'old money'; in fact, she herself is descended from a long line of Spanish-Filipino mestizos, which, to this day, carries quite the social capital here.

Usually when one talks about mestizos, the overwhelming mental image that appears is that of a life of consummate ease and affluence. So, amidst the gleaming marble floors and priceless works of art, and beneath a giant crystal chandelier imported from Belgium in the late 1800s, our friend told us a story that was, frankly, iconoclastic.

When Guada's family moved into that suburb some 20 years ago, there weren't a lot of people who lived there yet. So they were able to build big, grand, and expensive. The house was truly gigantic, and was surrounded by an immaculate sea of green, and had numerous trees as well, creating the illusion of some secret garden or a pocket paradise. One the first people who moved there, according to her, was a Spanish couple, exceedingly wealthy, and 'tienen cara de Dios', meaning they were also very good-looking. The lady was tall, at least 5'10, and possessed a classic beauty at once timeless and relevant; the husband was also tall, dashing, a veritable conquistador in stature, apparently expensively educated in England and Switzerland, and whose aristocratic ways charmed all who met him.

It was an open secret that the lady kept a closet full of couture, from local designers and venerable European houses alike. It was likewise acknowledged that the dashing groom was an excellent sportsman, and whose collection of classic cars was the envy of many. Living next to such a charmed couple, Guada's family, usually very low-key, took pride in being seen with their new neighbors.

Everything went well until that fateful day...

Guada awoke one morning to find the dashing groom running scared from a seemingly supernatural foe. Her room had a view of the next door couple's spacious lanai, but it was only then that she exploited this fact. A shout, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor, followed. Out comes the lady, her hair still in her curlers, wearing a very matronly 'duster' (a 'house dress' popular with spinsters, usually very cheap and tackily designed), a cleaver in her hand. In crisp and crackling Tagalog, she shouted at her husband: 'P----g ina ka, ilang babae na ba ang binalahura mo? Tarantado!' (approximately 'You son of a b-tch, how many women have you perverted? Damn you!') which she then followed by a litany of curses in Spanish. The poor husband was quaking! The lady ordered her maids out and told them to pick up rocks with which to hit her philandering husband on sight. But it was the senora herself, wielding one of her husband's expensive golf clubs, who scoured the vast garden... While she wasn't able to bludgeon him, she did make mincemeat out of that golf club!

But that was not all, the Lady, incensed at the countless adulteries if her husband (all of which she seemed to have found out about in the same day), escorted herself to the garage, where, in a fit of rage worthy of Godzilla, she smashed the windows and windshields of many a classic Jaguar, BMW, and even a priceless Aston Martin!

The next day, however, it was as if nothing had happened at all-- the elegant lady appeared once more in public, ever charming, dressed in all her finery and jewelry. The Poor Husband, nowhere to be seen, had been 'grounded' by his wife for the rest of the week! LOL!

Tantum Ergo Sacramentum

A Very Strange Cult

I've seen my fair share of strange cults, heck, we even have them in the suburbs of Manila, but the Suprema de la Iglesia del Ciudad Mystica de Dios in Mount Banahaw takes the cake. It's even named after the cult's leader! Mr. Sidney Snoeck has some fascinating photos and essays in his website, My Sari-Sari Store. I love the pics of the 'Mass' and their 'iconography'. Very creepy, if I do say so myself.

Typhoon Fengshen

Of your charity please offer your prayers for the 229 dead and more than 700 missing in the aftermath of Typhoon Fengshen, locally, Frank. We did not have electricity for most of the day so I was only able to learn of the tragedy two hours ago. The 700 missing as a result of a ferry sinking into the sea is what worries me the most.

‘Frank’ leaves at least 229 dead, 700 missing

Santa Filomena Almarines

This is a very interesting episode in Philippine history.

Filomena Almarines was supposed to have been a saintly woman who lived in the town of Binan, Laguna, in the early twentieth century. A vendor, Filomena was the daughter of a poor tenant farmer. Not much is known of hear early life except that she died in 1938, her father following suit some seven years later. Since most people were poor back then, many had to share the same graves when they died. This is still a very common phenomenon today; I've heard of families so poor who were all interred in the same nicho (niche); probably a bit of a shock to our middle class sensibilities, but ultimately a pragmatic move (it also saves the remaining members from paying the priest extra for his stipend). Anyway, as they were preparing to clear Filomena's niche, lo and behold, she was discovered to be incorrupt!

A local man, wizened and much respected by the townsfolk, discovered that there was water inside the niche. Perhaps he read this is a supernatural omen, but something drove him to wash his eyes with it; soon enough, the blind man began to see once more. In popular religious fashion, Filomena's mortal remains were exhibited in a glass coffin; some cautioned that the 'holy water', if holy indeed it were, could be a breeding ground for many, untold diseases; but still people flocked to Filomena. There were even reports that new quantities of water began to form inside the locked, glass coffin.

Eventually it was decided that the body was to be re-interred in the ground, but the parish priest refused, because the chosen site was formerly a grazing ground for beasts. Thus, the people sought the help of the Aglipayan priests (officially, the Iglesia Filipina Independiente) for the required blessings. Today it is said that the body of Filomena Almarines is still under the custody of the sons of Aglipay; there are rumors too that the body, when it was exhumed in the 1970s, had finally corrupted; but her eyes, it was said, remained clear as ever.

EDIT: I found the link to where I originally found this. Mr. Alex Castro has one of the most unique photos in his Flickr account, many of them of a religious background. I highly recommend going there to check out his stuff-- you won't be disappointed!

Mang Isko the Healer

We didn't really have access to the best hospitals growing up, so like any normal Filipino family, we sometimes resorted to 'peripherals'. As a child I remember going at least three to four times a year to the residence of Mang Isko, who was reputed to have been gifted with the power of healing in my father's province of Batangas. He lived on top of a hill, alone, with his small hut that could easily have been a quaint ermita to a traveling image of a saint, and his farm animals, which consisted of cows, chickens, goats, and a carabao.

But first, a background. As I have already said, the circumstances in which I grew up in were not exactly middle class. To save on bills, we would pay Mang Isko a visit. He was, you see, an 'albularyo', a traditional medicine man whose knowledge of herbs and other natural remedies were a cheaper alternative to hospitals. Well, at least I think he was an albularyo; he never claimed to be anything near it, but he played along with that honorific. Mang Isko looked like your stereotypical image of an Asian in the 1940s; think Fu Manchu, with more Japanese eyes, buck teeth, and the like. He even had paler skin than most Filipinos. Mang Isko was greatly respected by all those who knew him, not only because he could 'heal', but because, it was said, albularyos were privy to the secrets of the universe; rivals to priests, in their knowledge of incantations and prayers. It was also said that they chanted in Latin, thus giving credence to the notion that they were priests. There was even an old legend that held that the Jesuits, when they first came to the Philippines, compiled all the secrets and incantations of the albularyos into one black, leatherbound book, possession of which was said to give anyone power beyond his reckoning. To this day, there are still many who hold to this claim. Makes for a good Indiana Jones movie, if you ask me.

Anyway, the drive to Mang Isko's quaint house took about half an hour from my father's childhood home. From the highway one took a right turn to a hill fronted by an aging wooden billboard advertising an equally old and creaky hotel. The road wound up the hill, and to either side were small residences built by squatters. Finally the hill leveled somewhat, and the road led to Mang Isko's grotto of a house, which had a rather spacious veranda overlooking the small plot of land he farmed.

As a city kid, I hated going there. Especially at the age of 9 or 10, when I was just beginning to discover the wonders of the Internet; I felt Mang Isko's home was ancient at best and antediluvian, if not prehistoric, at worst. It was a small wood and stone affair, characteristic of homes built at the turn of the 20th century. The main house, which was of wood, stood on a base of stone, its foundation, and was reached by climbing a small stair. Inside, the house looked like a curio shop. It was literally stuffed with religious images, which contrasted, humorously and ironically enough, with the White Castle whisky calendars the old man had collected over the years (even healers have their needs too).

To one side was a wall, where an ancient, dark, wooden crucifix was affixed. It looked very expensive, with rayos of gold, and bolts of gold on the arms (there's a Spanish term for that which I have forgotten). The corpus had a wig of abaca, with finely worked potencias. The crucifix itself was framed by a gigantic wooden rosary; images of the Blessed Virgin, Saint Peter, and even a 'painting' of St. Michael ripped off a bottle of gin flanked the big cross (A popular brand of gin here is called Ginebra San Miguel). There was a small table which held a large number of candles before the images. There was a small, darkly lit room, with a single wooden bed with no mattress, where he performed his 'hilot' or traditional Philippine massage, his main method of 'healing'.

Mang Isko himself was a pleasant old man, whose hospitality was legendary. The last time we were there, 1998, my dad complained of a bad back, and my grandfather came along as well, as his arthritis was bothering him. So in we go, inside the small, quaint house, drinking small bottles of Coke which I then called the last point of civilization in the genteel, all too quiet surroundings of the farm. The only sound one could hear was the mooing of the cows and the clucking of the chickens. It added a decidedly mystical air to the whole environment, I thought.

Only once did I even dare to look at the procedure, and I was greatly disappointed. I ran into the room, feigning ignorance to mask my prideful curiosity, and discovered the old man rubbing a golden liquid onto my father's back. To my mind then, it looked like piss. I watched Mang Isko rub the liquid with his small, deft hands, which, even in the darkness, seemed to wander as if guided by truth itself into the invisible nooks and shadowy crevices of my dad's back. My grandfather awaited his turn, meanwhile, on a nearby chair, his pant leg rolled up to just above his knees. For an old man, Mang Isko moved with a graceful dexterity that seemed almost superhuman. I remember thinking that he must have loved exercise when he was a kid. That was the most sensible explanation for me.

Bored, I filed out of the house. I ran across the field with my brother, cursing the dumb beasts, throwing little stones at them or else flinging mud everywhere. Finally, after half an hour of doing so, I went back to the veranda, and sat myself on a small wooden chair. Finally, incensed at the constant mooing of the cows, I hurled a large rock at one of them, and screamed at the top of my lungs: 'Shut up you stupid cow!' But there was something about the silence that followed that simply wasn't right. I looked over to my side and saw Mang Isko's little figure, mouth agape, brows crunched, clearly puzzled, if not offended. 'Do you really think I am stupid?', he said. 'I just told your father what any sensible person would do. He needs a new mattress.'

It seemed that, just as I screamed at the cow, Mang Isko was simultaneously telling me that he knew the answer to my father's problems. It was incredibly hideous timing. Hearing the commotion, my dad headed outside, clearly angered at the commotion I caused. 'You ungrateful, disrespectful child! How dare you talk to your elders that way! Puneta!' My grandfather, ever the silent type, just shook his head in disapproval, but his eyes told me that he was greatly disappointed in my behavior.

I never got to apologize to Mang Isko. It was nearing dark, and he had gone to fetch a couple of things from the nearest house some 2 kilometers away; we thanked his housekeeper-slash-fac-totum, and told her to convey our sincerest apologies to Mang Isko. That was in the summer of 1998, and ten years hence, I have yet to apologize for that faux pas. I had never felt so humiliated before; I could not bear to look at his housekeeper, let alone Mang Isko.

The drive down the hill was eerily silent; only the croaking crickets accompanied us on the way down. Even the cows had seized mooing, and the chickens had clucked their last. Above, the full moon shone brightly-- and somewhere to the right, to the side of the road, I saw a small fire. The moonlight revealed Mang Isko's small figure-- hands outstretched in the orans, knees kneeling on dirt, a rosary hanging from either hand. The old albularyo knelt before a small, dilapidated grotto with an image of the Santo Cristo, and somewhere, in the distance, I heard a small voice, chanting words that could only have been Latin.

Saint Guinefort

I found this little gem of an entry in Wikipedia. It is definitely one of the most unusual cults I have ever encountered.

"Saint Guinefort was a 13th century dog that received local veneration as a saint after miracles were reported at his grave.

His story is a variation on the well-travelled 'faithful hound' motif, perhaps better-known in Britain in the form of the dog Gelert. Guinefort the greyhound belonged to a knight who lived in a castle near Lyon. One day, the knight went hunting, leaving his infant son in the care of Guinefort. When he returned, he found the nursery in chaos - the cot was overturned, the child was nowhere to be seen and Guinefort greeted his master with bloody jaws. Believing Guinefort to have devoured his son, the knight slew the dog. He then heard a child crying; he turned over the cot and found his son lying there, safe and sound, along with the body of a viper. Guinefort had killed the snake and saved the child. On realising the mistake the family dropped the dog down a well, covered it with stones and planted trees around it, setting up a shrine for Guinefort. Guinefort became recognised by locals as a saint for the protection of infants. It was alleged by Catholic commentators, dismayed by the worship of a dog, that the locals sacrificed babies at the site.

The cult of this dog saint persisted for several centuries, until the 1930s, despite the repeated prohibitions of the Catholic Church."

Not Dead Yet!

So sorry for the lack of updates recently, I have been busy with several things. Also, I will be going to Hong Kong tomorrow and will be staying there for five days. The last time I was in Hong kong, in 1996, I cried in public, inside a bus, no less, so for the last decade or so I have always associated that place with crying. It should be a fun trip, although the school season has already started here in Manila (arrgh, no beach this year!). Also, keep an eye out for a somewhat historical (i.e., it is about history, not necessarily 'revolutionary' or anything)post in the coming days; the last post has made me think a lot about the character of Manila as a whole, and it is something, I think, which is worth exploring.

San Agustin Convent Chapel

A picture of the Augustinian convent chapel at San Agustin church in Old Manila. Though the church itself still exists (the sole surviving great church in the destruction of Manila in WWII), the convent, where this chapel was located, did not. It is completely polychromed in gold, or so I have read.

Something Entertaining

The 80s. I'm glad I was born at the end of that ridiculous decade, hahahaha. 'Look around like a hound till you catch that fox!' LOL

Why?

Because I'm in love. Because we've been doing it for 500 years. Because she deserves it. Because she is the Mother of God. Because it is May. Because she is our Mother.

The Assassination of General Bustamante

A curious footnote in Philippine history is the assassination of the governor general Fernando Manuel de Bustillo Bustamante y Rueda in 1719. The general, who came to Manila from Mexico on 9 August 1717, quickly proved to be an unpopular figure, which would later lead to his assassination, unique in the entirety of Philippine history for being instigated by priests and religious. On 17 October 1719, it was reported that all of Manila was at a standstill; church bells sang funeral dirges, and the citizenry lit candles, multitudes of them, as if it were Dia de Todos los Santos. Word reached the ears of the Governor that the religious were conspiring with many of the citizens to assassinate him. In response to this, he had the Archbishop of Manila, H.E. Antonio Cuesta, arrested and thrown in jail. This would prove to be his fatal mistake.

Two days later, just before the crack of dawn, the sons of St. Dominic, St, Francis, St. Ignatius, and St. Augustine poured out in droves into the streets of Manila, and processed to the Palacio del Gobernador..

"The Franciscans, Dominicans and Augustinians came out from their convents, each as a body, carrying in their hands crucifixes and shouting, ‘Long Live the Church! Long Live King Felipe V!’… they were joined by people of all classes and proceeded to the Church of San Agustin…

The governor who was roused from his sleep and informed of the arrival of the mob sprang up and ordered the guards to keep back the crowd… He dispatched an order to the fort to discharge artillery at the crowd; but he was so little obeyed that, although they applied a match to two cannons, these where aimed so low that the balls were buried in the middle of the esplanade of the fort.

Without opposition, this multitude arrived at the doors of the palace… As for the soldiers of the guard, some retreated in fear, and others in terror laid down their arms. The mob climbed up by ladders and entered the first hall, the halberdiers not firing the swivel-guns that had been provided, although the governor had commanded them to do so…

{Bustamante} attempted to discharge his gun at a citizen standing near and it missed fore; then the governor drew his saber and wounded the citizen; the latter, and with him all the rest at once attacked the governor. They broke him right arm, and a blow on his head from a saber caused him to fall like one dead."

In the aftermath of the assassination, it was said that the Te Deum was sung in the streets of Manila, and that the governor's body was yet made subject to a heap of other indignities too numerous to mention. Finally, his and his dead son's body, with their remaining relatives, were banished to the galleons to return to Mexico. It remains a controversial, albeit rarely discussed, footnote in Philippine history, with a number of historians defending the efficiency of Bustamante's reign. Prior to his arrival, Manila was governed by corrupt officials (hmm, this sounds familiar), and her treasury was in shambles. To be fair to the governor, he was able to raise Manila's coffers significantly, but his ruthlessness, it was said, also knew no bounds.

You may read some more of this incident in these following websites.

"A fatal religious procession"
Assassination of General Bustamante
Philippine History.net

RIP Jimmy Mizen

Please pray for the repose of the soul of Jimmy Mizen, 16, murdered for refusing to pick a fight. As a teenager, I am deeply affected, not only because it was a life cut too short, but because from what I have read, Mr. Mizen was an exemplary character who brought love and joy to everyone who knew him. A devout Catholic and an altar server, Jimmy was killed, apparently by a fellow teenager, who smashed a dinner plate to his neck, and thus, bleeding to death. It is indeed sad that a gentle soul like him would have to die such a tragic death. Pray for justice, pray for his family. I've little doubt that he is with God now.

St. Francis Xavier Church, Nasugbu, Batangas

Can you believe this Church was just recently renovated? And yes-- those are the renovations! I was able to visit this church in April of last year; prior to this occasion I had last been in this church in April of 2005. Back then the murals still had not been painted and the retablo was still being finished. I'm particularly smitten with the chandeliers, I've seen them in person, and thought they were just absolutely fantastic. Nasugbu is a small town located in the province of Batangas, just two hours' drive south of Manila. It is famed for its beaches and multiple azucareras; many prominent residents of this town are of the old Spanish mestizo extraction. I have a couple of relatives in this town, and visiting them-- and no doubt, their church-- is always a pleasure.

The official website of St. Francis Xavier parish is here. Also, do check out their Flickr account; it has many beautiful pictures of the spectacular high altar, and more.

Sinigang na Baboy!

Sinigang na Baboy is arguably my favorite meal in the whole world. For those who don't know, sinigang na baboy means 'sour soup with pork', roughly the equivalent of the Thai tom yum, only less spicy. In fact, many Filipinos compete to make the sourest sinigang possible. In my opinion, it's best eaten on a cold, rainy day, as the hot soup is always refreshing in any circumstances. Here are the ingredients and steps to make sinigang.

First, you need the broth, and to make that, you need some tamarind first. Locally, it is called sampaloc, and half a kilogram usually suffices for making the broth. Clean the sampaloc, and place it in a pot with roughly 7 or 8 cups water. Heat for 20 to 30 minutes, depending on your tastes. I think the rule of thumb is the longer the sourer, though I think there's also a danger of draining away all the sourness. The best way to see if the broth is ready is when the tamarind pods are "mashable" or at least very soft. After boiling, discard the solid tamarinds, and strain. Don't worry if the broth looks cloudy, it's supposed to be that way, in fact, most people I know think that it's meant to be that way.

Ideally, while this is being done, you should have your pork ready by then. Typically, we use pork ribs for sinigang, although pork chops are also an acceptable substitute. Some cooks sear the pork first to add some zest to it, but typically, this is not required. Make sure to add a lot of bony parts, as these help to add flavor to the broth. Most Filipinos also opt to keep the fat in the pork, citing its velvety smooth texture as the pinnacle of all delights. Add a large quantity of water to the pork, together with some chopped tomatoes and spring onions (green onions if none of the former). Since sinigang is a typical Filipino dish which means the more ostentatious the better, many also add leeks, eggplant, sitaw (long beans), long green chili, and patis (fermented fish sauce); some also add black pepper to make it spicier. The quantity depends on the cook's liking, but usually these are in quantities that do not outnumber/outpower the pork. Let this simmer for at least 40 minutes.

After this is done, add the tamarind broth to the pork. Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and then add kangkong leaves (water spinach). These are a favorite of mine, and I like them in large doses in my sinigang. You can also add the water spinach earlier, with the rest of the pork, but this might turn them a rather unappetizing shade or brown. Thus, it's preferable to add them later so that they retain a somewhat vibrant green hue. I also like to add more onions at this point, just because they're awesome, LOL.

Finally, when all is done, sinigang na baboy is served! It is always eaten in the Philippines with magnificently hefty servings of steamed white rice. I like to put some of the broth in a cup and then just pour everything on top of the rice. The pork is tender and exudes a very sour, yet absolutely very tasty, uh, taste. You may also keep some more patis at hand, to make it even sourer; kalamansi (calamondin) is also another fine option. Kainan na!

*Note: The word sinigang is actually a method of cooking. Fish, prawns, and chicken siningang are all respectable dishes on their own. Typically, 'sinigang na manok' or chicken sinigang is not called thus, but given the moniker 'sinampalukang manok'; that is, literally, 'sampaloc-ed chicken'.

Some Updates

Dear Readers,

It has been a long time since I properly updated this blog. Over the course of the past few weeks, I have posted less and less frequently, occasionally popping in for prayer requests and some rants. Partly, this hiatus is my own fault; as I've mentioned, I've been battling severe depression lately, and it has really taken a toll on me. Just looking at the mirror confirms that I am now rather gaunt, if not a bit downcast. The good news is that I am not bi-polar, although I have been told that I am prone to depression. Apparently, I have many family members who are of similar situations, so I guess I am not alone in battling this. Thank you all so much for your kind thoughts and your prayers.

Also, I have added an option for Donations to this blog. The main reason I am doing this is because I've finally decided to be 'independent' to some degree, that is, I'm now going to pay more a third of my college tuition. Lately, I've felt like I've been in all your endeavocausing my parents undue stress with education, and I wanted to help them by alleviating some of the burden from their shoulders. I don't think I can go steady with a part time job yet, though, as I still have some personal issues to resolve. That said, your donations would be of tremendous help! Please understand, though, that I am NOT demanding anything from you; I will still continue blogging, donations or not.

Finally, I ask that you all be patient with me! Although this blog is not exactly a 'mega-blog', I am nevertheless DELIGHTED with all of the thoughtful and humorous comments you have left in my posts. They have seriously given me much to ponder, and I have to admit that they are often the inspiration for some of my posts. Once I again, I thank you all for reading my blog. May the Good Lord continue to bless you all in everything that you do!

The Myanmar Cyclone

Of your charity, please pray for the souls of the 22,000 dead and 41,000 missing as a result of the recent, devastating cyclone Nargis in Myanmar (aka Burma). There are bigger, more real news out there than the Indiana primaries or the latest celebrity scandals, and this is one such item that is sadly, outrageously, lacking attention.

De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine:
Domine, exaudi vocem meam.
Fiant aures tuae intendentes:
in vocem deprecationis meae.
Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: qui sustinebit?
Quia apud te propitiatio est:
et propter legem tuam sustinuite, Domine.
Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus,
speravit anima mea in Domino,
a custodia matutina usque ad noctem.
Speret Israel in Domino.
Quia apud Dominum misericordia
et copiosa apud eum redemptio.
Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.