Forgive and Forget? Screw That! Parallels Between My Family History and My National History

Our view from a restaurant balcony at Banaue. Also one of several photos from our 3-day trip that will be somewhat evenly but definitely randomly dispersed throughout this post

“History is written by the victors” – Winston Churchill

THE GAME MASTERS OF HISTORY. Just this past week of being in UP-Diliman, I have felt the weight of the truth of these words by merely sitting in on a couple of classes taught by Dr. Ricardo Jose. One class he teaches focuses on the Philippine Commonwealth and the other on American Policies in Asia. Through both, I am learning how my education in American schools has largely starved me of a great and vital portion of my national bearing as a Filipino by feeding me an account of Philippine-American history and relations scant in truth and teeming with myths.

The room is air-conditioned as I sit listening to Dr. Jose’s three-hour lectures, thirstily drinking in a version of history purposefully left out of American textbooks. Back at Balay Kalinaw, the fan gently shakes its head as I hungrily feed on readings that would help me fill in the gaps of the horribly-torn and badly-sown patch of quilt that, representing my Filipino identity, has sadly lain folded in the shadows, having been stitched mute lest it call attention to just how badly mangled my sense of identity really is.

The air-conditioner, the fan – these physical comforts only add to the surreal quality of this on-going learning experience as, with each lecture and reading , I am fed another devastating truth and, with each bite, my internal landscape convulses at the bitter taste of my people’s history.

The growing discomfort I feel makes me feel alive.  Only during rare moments like these do I truly know that my senses are still sharp, my conscience awake.

Taken during our 2-hour jeepney ride from Banaue and along the rather perilous trail to Batad

AMERICAN VERSION. After years of immersion in American curriculum that only taught me about the Spanish-American War of 1898, I come to learn from a Filipino professor in a Philippine university that there was a Philippine-American War that followed it a year later in 1899. I am shocked that such a great and traumatizing event in Philippine history has been hidden from me, and resentful that I had to literally travel back to my homeland to uncover the disguise laid upon this war.

On their part, the Americans called this war by the diabolically misleading phrase: “splendid little war,” a title calculated to hide the imperial designs of the United States, as well as deflect the many atrocities it committed against the Filipinos as it strived to expand its global sphere of influence at the dawn of this last century.

A political cartoon by Zinn illustrates how the United States government under McKinley helped liberate the Filipinos from over 500 years of Spanish rule, only to turn around and invade the country under the pretext of civilizing an already civilized people, and Christianizing an already Christian nation.  El-oh-el, U.S.A. El-oh-el.

PHILIPPINE VERSION. How a war that features the invasion of a nation, the exploitation of its resources, the discrimination against its people, and the destruction of its established society can be called “splendid” is beyond me. There is nothing splendid or “little” about a war that lasts for three years, during the time of which countless young girls and women are violently stripped of their honor, while over a million of their men are tortured and murdered fighting for their freedom, and a whole group of indigenous people are massacred defending their land and way of life.

Splendid little war, indeed!

When a war for Philippine independence is derisively referred to by Americans as a “splendid little war,” one can rest assured that the “protected zones” to where it herded Filipinos were, in fact, concentration camps, and the “benevolent assimilation” program it presented to the rest of the American public was, in reality, “kill-and-burn” and “kill-everything-over-ten” operations.

A man relaxing on the mountaintop before the descent to Batad

Surely, a person, any person – even Mark Twain’s Person Sitting in Darkness – can see right through this blatant misapplication of terms and despise pledging allegiance to the American flag. As Twain satirically recommends, the US must be careful to disguise the nature of its intent in order that the Person Sitting in Darkness might be fooled once again, and its business of oppression, exploitation and discrimination might continue without any outcry by its victims.

For the next five weeks, I have the rare privilege of attending to these weighty matters by way of travel, study and reflection. In excavating my national history, I can’t help but think upon my own family history and take note of certain parallels that run through both like seams on a crisply-folded quilt.

FATHER'S VERSION. My first week in Manila was a memorable one. Before I even heard about the Philippine version of Philippine-American relations through Dr. Jose, I got the chance to hear my father’s version of our family history from the man himself. One Sunday afternoon in June, he broke 15+ years of silence and attempted to explain away an equal amount of years of absence by welcoming us into his house and revealing his heart to us.

After a 9-hour van ride and a 2-hour jeepney ride, we were ready for our 3-mile long hike down the mountain to reach our final destination: the famed Banaue Rice Terraces

I had waited years for this.

His heart was right there. I could reach out and crush it right then and there if I wanted. Just reach out and curl my fingers around it.

MOTHER'S VERSION. I grew up under my mother’s care, fed by her version of family history that portrayed my father as physically violent (she often had to wear long-sleeves in public in order to cover up her bruises), morally corrupt (he was a womanizer and he left us for another woman), and emotionally abusive (he treated her like dirt due to her lack of education).

I can still remember my mother visibly shake as she recounts how, during a fight, he pushed her to the ground, pointing and screaming that she was only a centavo and he was a peso. She only had an elementary education while he was already in college. Even I can’t help but shake with anger and resentment thinking that the woman who has cared for and loved me so fiercely for the past 22 years was a mere centavo to this man. A mere centavo, and he a peso.

This peso abandoned his young wife and four young children, the oldest of which is me. As we went through life without the one who was supposed to be our priest, protector and provider, my mother tried her best to fulfill those roles in his place. We went through many difficulties and learned to climb many mountains in order to survive on our own. My personal means of fortification was through education. It was through education that I was going to help redeem my mother’s honor. If I worked hard enough, and achieved high enough, he might see the folly he committed against us, and grieve. I just wanted to see him grieve.

And at long lat we arrive! And what a view!

FORGIVE. But on that Sunday afternoon, I reached out my hand and, instead of crushing his trembling heart, his exposed heart, I patted his back, encouraging him to continue his tale. I was momentarily alarmed by how different my actual reaction was from my fantasies of avenging myself and my family. In that moment, it became obvious that I was more interested in hearing the truth (or at least his version of it), than I was in hurting him or anybody. I just wanted the whole picture.

I was tired of lying about in two broken pieces across two different continents and just wanted to be whole.

The Hillside Inn with a fantastic view of the rice terraces

BUT DON'T FORGET. There is a lot to be forgiven when two very important aspects of your identity, (your mother, your father, your homeland, your dreamland) have engaged in years of warfare with you right in the middle. There’s a popular saying that goes: “Forgive and Forget.” Personally, I think this is the most unwise aphorism I have ever come across. I will forgive, but I won’t forget!

REMEMBER. The evening I arrived in the Philippines, I was seated across my father on his kitchen table reveling over the relative worth of the Philippine Peso compared to the US Dollar.

“I’m still getting used to mentally converting $1.00 to P43.00. What can you buy nowadays with P43.00?”

My father: “Ah, not much. Even the Peso here is no longer worth anything –” and, shaking his head, he went on to talk about how the Peso is no longer worth anything.

Apparently the Peso is no longer worth anything.

I will forgive, but I won’t forget. I will remember and move on. Like I said on my introductory post, I have two objectives on this trip: academic and familial. I realize now that the two are intricately tied. In the present time, I will continue to learn, and to travel and to live.

AND MOVE ON. This past weekend, we traveled to Banaue and Batad, sweating in hikes up mountains and through jungles and around rice terraces, and splashing in the waterfalls, enjoying a region of the world untouched by commercialization.

I am living, breathing in Filipino air and wanting to help cleanse the pollution that’s in it. I recognize that my education will come into play as I use that as oxygen to sustain myself, fill up my lungs, and expand it, summon up the voice to call back the things that were mine, and call forth the things that are mine by heritage, and call into existence a future that’s less polluted with myths and false memories – one that doesn’t operate blindly under the motto: “Forgive and Forget.”

Though the idea of using education as a way to redeem my mother and her side of the family has stamped itself on my mind long ago, I realize now that I can also use education as a means of redeeming my national identity. I am no longer interested in seeing people grieve. I want redemptive relationships and I wish this between my mother and father, and between the Philippines and the United States.

The parallel between my family history and my national history is very loose and definitely not perfect, but that is not the point. My interest lies in my personal observation that there are multiple versions of events, multiple perspectives in history, all populated with people with different, often clashing interests. And, in order to find where you fit into the context of your history (familial or national), you have to read literature, engage with the culture –you have to know the events that swept you up in your current position. But even knowing is not enough. You have to be armed with the ability to forgive what’s been done in the past and move on.  Forgive, (and you might even be called to forgive multiple times), but never forget. It only takes one moment of forgetting to suck you back into the equation of oppression, subjugation and sweep you back into the backburners of history.

The view from my windowsill at Batad

OWN YOUR OWN HISTORY. Instead of digging your foot on the ground and sinking, dip your finger in the dust and draw a line, and write something redemptive. I write for me and about my various histories in hopes of recording and preserving the world as it looks from my windowsill. In all the time that has passed, is passing, or will pass, I am the only one who will occupy this vantage point. No one else can know my experiences unless I tell them, so I write. And by so doing, I position myself into the role of a victor. 

One-hour picturesque trek from our inn to the waterfalls

 The most rewarding natural destination I have ever set out for

Anthony, the man who drove us through the jungle in his jeepney, and led us through the terraces to get to this closely-guarded secret