Kronika ng Isang Unang Gabi ng Luksa

1.

Nakapupukaw ang liwanag sa mga toldang nakatayo sa harap ng Simbahan ng Santo Domingo. At masasabi pa ngang mas nakapupukaw sa taun-taong sarikulay na parol na nagbibigay tanglaw sa kabuohan ng Quezon Boulevard tuwing kakagat ang mga gabi ng Disyembre. Mula sa labas, mahihinuha ang puspusang paghahanda para sa tila pinakamalaking palabas ng taong iyon.

Pakapal nang pakapal ang mga tao’t halos sumasampa sa mga bakal na haligi ng simbahan. Sa gilid, nakaantabay ang mga ambulansya at patrol car. Nagpakalat na rin ng mga kawani ang pulisya. May mapanghing hangin na ring sumasabog, at hindi ako nagkamali sa hinalang may mga urinal na rin na inilagak sa lugar. Kinukumpleto ang larawan, na mistulang unang gabi ng isang patok na pelikula, ng isang kariton ng mamula-mulang popcorn. Pinagkaguluhan iyon ng ilan.

Kapapasok lamang namin na mga mamamahayag. At halos hindi nga kami patuluyin, sapagkat nagtuloy-tuloy kami sa pagsunod sa papasok na OB van ng isang TV network. Nalimutan naming magpasabi sa mga nakabantay. Hindi namin sinasadya. Napagsabihan kami ng pinuno roon ng sa susunod, sa susunod.

Na maaring basahin na babala. Tila binibigyang diin na huwag na huwag kaming makakaligta na magpasintabi, dahil mamamahayag kami’t may malaking kasalanan sa paglalamayan. Na hindi namin bakuran ang pinapasukan. Lalo pang nakapagdala ng kaba ang balitang winasak umano ng ilang tagahanga roon ang korona ng bulaklak na ipinadala ng Ispiker ng Kongreso Jose de Venecia.

Sa patuloy na paglapit namin sa mga tolda, na itinayo pala bilang pahingahan at tanggapan ng mga mamamahala ng lamay, nalantad ang isang pagsasaaltar—sa likod ng naglalarong dilang apoy ng mga kandila, ang ilang kuwadro ng mga larawan ni Fernando Poe, Jr., at mga poster nito nitong nagdaang halalan, kung saan nakataas ang hintuturo niya at kuyom ang nalalabing mga daliri. Sa anyo ng paggigiit ng pangunguna o pagiging “numero uno,” na naging senyal-pampulitika niya. Hawak ang mga ito ng ilang kabataang babae. Ang iba’y kandong ng ilang matatandang tagahanga na nagdarasal ng rosaryo.

Kung baga sa Banal na Kasulatan, ang mga tolda ang Dakong Banal ng mga tagahangang naghihintay kay FPJ. Bilang paghahayag ng kanilang paghanga at pagmamahal, tila nagtirik sila ng mga tolda upang ilagak ang mga rekuwerdo ng aktor. Nagtulos pa ng kandila, na tila may banal na sakramentong kailangang tanuran. Ito na ang huling labas ni FPJ sa lupa, at walang nakapigil sa mga babaeng apostoles na ito na maging tanod sa pagdarasal para sa ikatatahimik ng kaniyang kaluluwa. Pagpapakita ng kanilang liglig na pananalig.

Sa malapit, binabakuran ng mga pulis ang bahaging harap ng simbahan, kung saan patutuluyin at papipilahin ang mga dadalaw. Gamit nila ang bakod-bakal, iyong karaniwang dilaw na nakikita sa mga protesta sa Mendiola. Sa malayo, papalakas nang papalakas ang sigaw ng tao. Isa-isang nagkumpulan ang pulutong ng mga tagasuporta ng aktor na nagtipon sa iba’t ibang panig ng Maynila. Matatanaw sila mula sa labas.

Noo’y nasa Punerarya Arlington East pa sa Lungsod ng Pasig ang pinakahihintay ng balana. Matapos malagutan ng hininga, sa Arlington East pansamantalang inilagak ng kaniyang pamilya ang mga labi upang madalaw ng malalapit na kaibigan at kamag-anak. Hindi nagtagal ang pagsasaekslusibo. Nagsimula nang sumugod at pumila sa punerarya ang mga tao.

Ililipat na si FPJ sa Santo Domingo nang gabing iyon upang ganap na mamaalam sa publikong nagmahal sa kaniya at sa kaniyang mga obrang pelikula. Handa na raw ang buong partido mulang Pasig at darating sa Santo Domingo bago maghatinggabi, ayon sa mga tagapanguna sa Santo Domingo. Hinihintay na lamang ang kanilang pasabi.
Sabado nang bawian ng buhay si FPJ sa Ospital ng St. Luke’s sa Lungsod ng Quezon, kung saan nagsimulang magbantay ang mga kaibigan niya’t tagahanga. Mula nang mapabalitang may nangyaring masama, nagbantay na sila.

Naging emosyonal ang mga tao nang ihayag na comatose na si FPJ. Walang makatiyak sa mga balita, lalo na habang sinusuri ng mga duktor ang aktor. Hanggang sa may makatuklas mula sa telebisyon na sumakabilang buhay na nga ito, bago pa man naglabas ng opisyal na pahayag, ng consumatum est, ang maybahay na si Susan Roces. Masama ang kaniyang loob, lalo’t higit marahil sa media, habang binibigkas ang masakit na balita: “Wala na ang Panday.”

Ayon sa mga tala, kasama ni FPJ ang ilang malaong kaibigan sa pelikula at pulitika sa mga huling oras ng pagiging maláy. Sa isang Christmas party iyon sa FPJ Studios, isang gabing puno ng biruan, ng pagbabalik-tanaw sa nagdaang halalan. Matapos daw ng ilang bote ng beer, sumama ang pakiramdam ng bida. At unti-unti, pinanawan ng mga salita.

Pagbabara ng ugat patungong utak ang itinuturong salarin, ang paulit-ulit na binibigkas ng mga tagapagbalita sa telebisyon, habang paulit-ulit ding dumaraan sa paningin ang mga pinakahuling imahen na kuha ng kamera sa St. Luke’s—ang pagluwas-sumuba ng mga tao, ang pagdalaw ng mga artista, ang saglit-saglit na mga panayam sa mga espesyalistang tumitingin at ang mga tagasuportang galit dahil napabalitang dadalaw si Pangulong Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.

Sari-sari ang naging palagay. Masakit ang trahedya para sa mga sumuporta kay FPJ, lalo’t natalo ito sa halalan. Hindi na nito naipagpatuloy ang kasong inihain sa Tribyunal Elektoral laban sa Pangulong Arroyo—na nagtangka pang gawaran ang aktor ng isang medalya ng pagkilala. Isa sanang anyo ng pakikipag-ayos.

Ngunit para sa ilan, isa itong bangungot, kung saan umalingawngaw ang tinig ni Richard Gomez, habang naluluha sa telebisyon: “Wala na ang ating tunay na Pangulo.” Kung saan sumasagitsit na muli ang mga kuwitis na pinarikitan ni Niño Mulach, habang pinararangalan ang inililibing na ninong sa Sementeryo del Norte, sa pamamagitan ng hindi mabilang na “gun salute.” Kung saan pilit na nahuhuli ng kamera ang mukha ni Joel Lamangan, habang inaalayan ang Hari ng Pelikulang Filipino, sa huling gabi nito sa Santo Domingo, ng matatalim na taludtod at talinghaga.


2.

Akinse ng Disyembre ang gabing iyon, simula ng taunang Misa de Gallo. Kung tutuusin, isang masamang panaginip ang mahabang lamay na iyon para sa mga Dominiko sa Santo Domingo. Noo’y walang makatiyak kung ipagpapaliban ng marikit na simbahan ang taunang simbang gabi nito. Patuloy na dumaragsa ang tao. Kakatwa ang magdiwang pa ng Misa gabi-gabi sa simbahan, gayong matatabunan ang ritwal ng pinakapuntirya ng mga bumibista.

Binanggit ko nang mas maliwanag ang Santo Domingo kung ihahambing sa mga nagdaang simbang gabi. Marahil, dahil sa kislap at kinang ng pamamaalam ng namatay. Ngunit higit na maingay at magulo, na maaaring nakasanayan na ng mga Dominiko, kung isaalang-alang ang lamay ni Ninoy Aquino sa Santo Domingo noong 1983. Sa panahon ni Ninoy, napili ang simbahan dahil sa lapit nito para sa lahat ng dadalo. Tulad ng napagkasunduan para kay FPJ.

Mula noon, tila sa simbahang ito na idinudulog ng oposisyon ang kanilang mga pinunong namatay—bilang pagbalikwas.

Sa pagbubuklat ko ng mga natatanging bilang ng ilang magasin noong kamatayan ni Ninoy, nabasa kong itinuring na makasaysayan ang simbahan dahil sa ginampanan nito sa bansa. Isa sa mga natatanging kuha ng mga magasin ang huling pagbabasbas kay Ninoy sa pangunahing altar ng simbahan. Sa isang panahong sinusupil ang kalayaan, isang matapang na paghahayag ng damdamin ang pagpayag na iyon ng mga Dominiko na gamitin ang altar. Nitong huli, sa bersyon naman ni FPJ, naulit ang larawang iyon, at marami pang iba, at higit na lumitaw ang Santo Domingo bilang dambana ng mamamayan, na may mga baitang kung saan maaaring ilantad ang mga pagkabigo at kasawian.

Kaya’t kung nakilala ng mas naunang panahon ang Santo Domingo dahil kay Ninoy, kikilalanin naman ng kasalukuyan ang simbahan dahil kay FPJ. Napatunayan ko na ang hinalang ito. Nito lamang, sinasabi na sa akin ng nakababatang kapatid ko, na ipinanganak matapos ang Edsa 1, na higit na tatanyag ang Santo Domingo dahil sa lamay ng namayapang aktor. Nabubura na ba si Ninoy sa gunita, hindi pa natin masasagot. Ngunit ang tanging masasabi: totoong pinangangatawanan na ng simbahan ang pagiging himlayan ng mga bayani.

Lalo’t isang kakaibang bayani ang tampok sa panahong ito—isang epikong bayani, isang sinematikong bayani, isang bayaning katha ng panitikan na nagtangkang umahon mula sa kaniyang mga kagilagilalas na pakikipagsapalaran, matapos na likhain ng ating kultura bilang bida.

Tinangka ni FPJ na maging tagapagligtas ng mamamayang Filipino. Sa kasawiampalad, unti-unting natupok ng karerang pulitikal ang silab ng kaniyang kabayanihang lalang ng industriyang minahal at inaruga. Ng kabayanihang babad sa pagiging kawawa, sa kaapihang may nakaabang na pananagumpay laban masama. Nasaksihang lahat iyan ng sambayanan sa kaniyang mga pelikula, kung saan lagi’t lagi siyang nabubuhay na muli. At noon, muling nasasaksihan ng mga tao ang salaysay na ito, na epiko ng kaniyang tunay na buhay. Datapwa sa huling kabanata, wala nang mahiwagang aklat ang magliligtas kay FPJ mula sa kamatayan. Natupad ang katapusan. At kapwa nila pinagsaluhan itong katapusang ito ni Ninoy sa iisang relihiyosong espasyo—sa espasyo ng Santo Domingo.

Isa ang Santo Domingo sa pangunahing simbahan sa Lungsod Quezon. Bukod sa mga lamay ng mga bayani, matagal na itong sentro ng gawaing panrelihiyon sa lunan. Matahimik ang kinalalagyan ng simbahan sa distrito ng Roxas. Hindi matao tulad ng ibang malalaking simbahan sa Kamaynilaan, na nasa mga pusod ng kalakalan at komersyo. Totoong angkop sa mataimtim na pagdarasal at pagmumuni—malamig sa mata ang luntian ng panloob na harding Kastila, mahangin ang malalapad na pasilyong tatak-Dominiko. Iskolastiko ang mga anak ni Santo Domingo de Guzman at hinihingi ng kanilang pagdidili-dili ang ganitong kapaligiran at kaayusan.

Kontemporanyo at makasaysayan ang Santo Domingo. Bagaman hindi ang nasa lungsod ang orihinal na istruktura, kundi ang itinayo noong 1588 sa Intramuros. Nasunog ang simbahan noong 1603 at nasira sa mga lindol ng 1619, 1862 at 1863.
Sa bawat pagguho, patuloy na itinaguyod ng mga Dominiko ang kanilang simbahan. Hanggang sa nalikha ang kilalang neogotikong bersyon pagkatapos ng pinakahuling lindol. Hinangaan ang rangya nito sa loob ng Dakilang Moog ng “kagalang-galang at matapat kailanman” na siyudad ng Maynila. Naging tampok tuwing Oktubre, kapag ipinagdiriwang ang pista ng patron nito.

Ganap na dinurog ng Ikalawang Digmaang Pandaigdig ang Santo Domingo noong 1941. Inilipat ito sa Lungsod Quezon. Disenyo ni Jose Ma. Zaragoza ang istrukturang Modernong Kastila ng kasalukuyang simbahan. Hinahagkan ito ng krema at nagliliwanag tuwing tanghaling tapat. Sa gawing kanan ng harapan nito, nasa anyo ng pagbabasbas sa mga naroroon ang dambuhalang Santo Domingo, na iskultura naman ni Francesco Monti.

Lahat nang ito’y sandaling nilunod ng lamay ni FPJ. At hindi nakaligtas dito ang patron ng Lungsod ng Quezon na nakatanghal sa Santo Domingo, ang Nuestra Señora de Santissimo Rosario de La Naval.

Sa anumang pagtalakay sa Santo Domingo, hindi maiwasang muli’t muling mapakinggan ang awit ng namayapang Nick Joaquin, ang pangunahing mananalambuhay at mamamahayag ng ating panahon, hinggil sa epiko ng mahimalang Birhen na ito.

Mahalagang balikan ang malikhaing sanaysay ni Joaquin na La Naval de Manila (1943), kung saan itinuturing ang Birhen bilang tagapagligtas ng Maynila mula sa pananakop ng mga Olandes noong 1646.

Limang labanan sa iba’t ibang bahagi ng Luzon ang pinanagumpayan ng Kastilang armada. Inialay ng hukbo ang kanilang pakikipaglaban sa Birhen. Nangako silang magtutungo na walang sapin sa paa sa dambana nito bilang mga peregrino. At nang ganap na mapaatras ang kalaban, sa kabila ng malaking kakulangan sa armas at galeon, agad nilang tinupad ang pangako. Hiniling din nila sa Simbahan ng Maynila na ituring na himala ang pagkapanalo. Pumayag ang kaparian matapos ang masusing pagsusuring eklesiyastiko. Inihalintulad ng simbahan ang pagkilos ng kamay ni Maria sa pagkakalupig sa mga Olandes sa Labanan sa Lepanto noong 1571.

Patuloy na ipinagugunita ng ginintuang larawan sa façade ng simbahan ang kasaysayang ito. Nakaukit ang La Naval kasama ang kaniyang tapat na hukbong-dagat. Nasa panggitnang kuwadro ang imahen ng Reynang Birhen, habang nakasunod sa kanan at kaliwang kuwadro ang mga kawal na nagpasimula ng tinaguriang “procesion de las procesiones” ng Maynila. Imahen na naglalahad ng pananalig at kapangyarihan ng panalangin.

Ngunit sa gabing iyon at sa mga gabing dumaan, hindi ang kasaysayan ng La Naval o ng Santo Domingo, ang tiningala ng mga bisita. Sa bandang ibaba ng façade, at sa ilan pang lugar sa Santo Domingo, itinayo ang mga video wall, kung saan ipinalabas ang mga dakilang pelikula ni FPJ. Na tiyak na nakipagtagisan sa aksiyon ng mga labanan ng armadang Kastila at ng mga Olandes. At maaari pa ngang nahigitan pa ito, dahil itong mga klasikong pelikula ni FPJ, lalo na ang kaniyang pagiging Flavio sa mga seryeng Ang Panday, Ang Pagbabalik ng Panday, at Ang Panday: Ikatlong Yugto, ang tunay na nakatatak sa kamalayan ng masa. Nasaksihan ng Filipino ang lahat ng kapanapanabik na mahiwagang pakikipagtunggali ni FPJ sa pinilakang tabing: ang pagpaimbulog ng bulalakaw kung saan kinuha ni Flavio ang pinanday na balaraw; ang paghaba nito’t pagiging ganap na espada kapag nakikipaglaban kay Lizardo; ang pakikipagtagisan ng lakas sa samutsaring maligno; at ang walang-hanggang pakikipagtunggali sa malawak na disyerto. Sa kaniyang lamay, ang mga pelikula ni FPJ ang nagsilbing aliw ng mga pipila upang masilayan siya sa huling pagkakataon. Hanggang sa naihatid siya sa huling hantungan, sa isa ring prusisyon na binansagan nitong huli na “martsa para sa bagong umaga.”

Hinulma ni FPJ ang kamalayang popular ng Filipinas sa makabagong panahon—mula sa kaniyang pagiging bahagi ng Lo’ Waist Gang, kasama sina Joseph Estrada, Zaldy Zhornack, Bob Soler, at ang magkakapatid na Salvador, at paglisan niya sa gulo at galaw ng urbanidad patungo sa mga mitikong lupain, hanggang sa muli niyang pagbabalik sa lungsod sa iba’t ibang makabuluhang papel bilang bayani—pulis, tsuper, sundalo, duktor, pari.

Nakasulat din si Joaquin ng isang maikling kasaysayan ni FPJ, na singkinang ng sa La Naval. Sa Ronnie Poe and Other Silhouettes (1977), naikatha ng pambansang alagad ng sining ang noon pa ma’y larawan na ni FPJ—ang larawan ng isang bayani, mailap, sa harap at likod ng kamera.

Pelikulang rancho at cowboy ang ginagawa noon ni FPJ nang kapanayamin ni Joaquin. Puno ng aksiyon, ng barilan. Sa pagkukuwentuhan ng dalawa, na kapwa mahilig sa tagayan, muli at muling inilalantad ang mga bagay na halos batid na ng marami—lumaking mayaman si FPJ, napilitang maging padre de pamilya nang mamatay sa kagat ng aso ang amang Fernando Poe, Sr., nagsimula bilang ekstra sa pelikula upang matustusan lamang ang pang-araw-araw na pangangailangan ng pamilya, sumikat, gumawa ng sariling mga pelikula paglaon, at nagtagumpay.

Kalugud-lugod na talaga siya, kahit sa tunay na buhay. At hindi na nga nagtaka si Joaquin kung lumitaw rin ito sa kaniyang mga papel sa pelikula, na aniya’y pumupuno sa isang matandang pag-aasam ng masa. Aniya, isang bayani ng alamat si Poe, na kumakatawan sa kaawa-awang pangarap ng madla para sa kaligtasan, na mitikong naisasalin sa isang Bernardo Carpio, o sa pulitikal na pagbasa, nailalapat sa isang Magsaysay. Dito pa lamang, masasabing natupad na ang misyon ni FPJ bilang bayani ng epiko, at maging ng epiko ng kaniyang buhay.

Bagaman si Joaquin na rin ang nagpatunay na talagang may masidhing takot ang Hari sa media noon pa man. Malaking bahagi ng akda ang nagsalaysay hinggil sa piniling pag-iwas ni FPJ sa mga mamamahayag, na para sa kaniya’y mas madalas na nakasasakit kaysa nakauunawa. At isa sa mga pangyayaring nakapagdala sa kaniya ng palagay na ito ang engkuwentro niya sa maraming movie reporters. Hanggang ngayon, nananatiling stigma ng mga mamamahayag ang palagay na ito ni FPJ.

Kung pagbabatayan ang pag-uulit ng mga imahen sa kasaysayan, masasabing ang mga pakikipagsapalaran ni FPJ sa iba’t ibang daigdig at panahon ang nagsilbing salamin ng pakikipagsapalaran ng milyun-milyong Filipino. Lumalaban si FPJ kahit nasusugatan. Lumalaban din ang kaniyang hikahos na manonood upang mabuhay sa gitna ng krisis. Bumabangon mula sa pagkasawi si FPJ, at kasama niyang ibinabangon sa pagkasadlak ang balana, sa katapusan ng salimuot ng lahat-lahat.

Sa ganito rin marahil maibubuod ang epiko ni FPJ na niyayakap ng masa: isang epiko kung saan tumawid at nagpabalik-balik pa nga ang bayani sa pantasya at realidad. At natupad na namang muli sa pagkakataong ito ang isa pang andang pang-epiko sa daigdig ng realidad ni FPJ—ang pagkamatay ng bayani, ng “Da King,” ng “Panday.” At tiyak na kasunod nito ang kapana-panabik na katuparan ng isa pa, na inaasahang higit na mataas na uri ng pagkabuhay na muli—ang pagsasamito. Isinusulat na at hinahatulan ang kasaysayan ni FPJ, ang kaniyang mito.


3.

Pinatuloy kami ng mga namamahala sa isang mesa sa kanang bahagi ng simbahan. Doon kumpul-kumpol ang iba pang mga taga-media na nagpalista sa media bureau ng lamayan at kumuha ng opisyal na FPJ media card—ang pasaporte papasok at palabas ng Santo Domingo. Nakaimprenta sa ID ang larawan ni FPJ na sumalubong sa aming pagdating. Sa malalaking letra, nakatatak ang FPJ (1939-2004) at MEDIA. Kasabay ng pagpapatalang iyon ang puspos na paalala sa amin na manatili sa itinalagang lugar, sa gilid ng kapilya. Dumarami na kami at lalong kumakapal ang tao sa labas. Gumugulo na ang lugar. Sa may labasan, napansin kong mayroong mga t-shirt at wrist band na itim na ibinebenta sa mga bisita, pawang natatakan ng pangunahing motto ng lamay: “Ipagpapatuloy namin ang iyong ipinaglalaban.” Magagandang memento, bulong ko sa sarili.

Abalang-abala ang mga naghahanda, paroo’t parito, labas-masok ng kapilya. Punumpuno naman ng mga koronang bulaklak ang mahabang daan palabas ng mga sisilip kay FPJ. Mula sa mga kaibigan, kaalyado sa pulitika, at maging mga kasalukuyang opisyal ng pamahalaan—hahaba ang usapan kung iisa-isahin. Sa gilid naman ng pangunahing pinto ng kapilya, ang malaking-malaking korona ng mga puting orkidya mula sa matalik na kumpareng si dating Pangulong Joseph Estrada. Ang minsang naging kasangga sa pelikula. Araw-araw na pinapalitan ang mga bulaklak upang manatiling sariwa. Puting mga bulaklak ang hiling ng pamilya para sa lamay, at ang mga iyon ang aming nakitang dinadala sa pagpasok namin sa inihahandang kapilya.

Noon lamang nagliwanag ang kapilyang iyon—ang luklukan ng dakilang santong Dominiko mulang Peru, si San Martin de Porres. Sanay ang mga deboto roon ng pang-Martes na nobena na madilim ang altar. Madalas lamang na liwanag doon ang bumbilyang dilaw, di tulad ng sa kabilang maliwanag na kapilya kung saan nananahan ang makinang na La Naval. Nagdarasal ang lahat sa dilim, humahalik sa relikwaryo ng santo sa dilim at tumatanggap ng benditadong tinapay, na tatak ni San Martin sa kawanggawa, sa dilim. Mistulang nasa dilim ang pagsagot sa panalangin, ang pagtulong, palihim at hindi inihahayag.

Waring may nagtayang sa dambana ni San Martin itanghal ang huling palabas ni FPJ, na palihim din umano kung tumulong. Dahil nang mga sumunod na araw, isa-isang naglitawan ang mga taong natulungan niya. Ang ibang natulungan ni FPJ ay nasa kapilya’t natulog na roon upang di na mahirapan sa pagpasok. Lahat sila’y mukhang kulang sa tulog. May ilan pa ngang sa harap mismo ng ataul nabuwal sa sobrang hinagpis. Kuhang-kuha lahat iyan ng telebisyon. Mga iniulat na natulungan, binigyan ng salapi sa oras ng kagipitan, mga pinapag-aral, mga nadulutan ng mumunting kagandahang loob at masasayang gunita.

Sandali kaming nakiupo sa tabi ng isang tagahangang kagigising lamang at humihikab. May dala itong malaking itim na bag at nagdadampi ng make-up. Hindi rin siya nakangiti, tulad ng mga sumalubong sa amin. Naisip ko tuloy na itago muna ang manipis na ID at isuot ang katauhang may anonimidad, ng pakikibahagi sa daan-daang walang ngalang mukha na naroroon. Muling nabaling ang aking paningin sa altar.
Sa kabuohan, pinagmukhang magara ang altar ni San Martin. Dinagdagan ang kaligiran ng poon ng mga palmares. Tila nagbabalik sa kaniyang sariling lupain ng luntiang kagubatan ang santo. Sa may kaliwang bahagi, nakatanghal ang pamprusisyong imahen ng La Naval. Lunod sa puting orkidya at eucalyptus ang mga kerubing nakasilip sa ulap na kinalululanan ng Birhen.

Replika ito ng imaheng ipinalikha ni Gobernador Heneral Luis Dasmariñas at ipinamahala sa mga Dominiko noong 1593. Datapwa mukhang inaalikabok ito’t di napunasan sapagkat laging nakalabas. Di tulad ng nakatanghal sa kabila na malusog pa ang puti ng mukhang yari sa nakar. Sa kanan, ilang may katangkarang kandelabra na lalagyan ng malalaking kandilang amoy vanilla. Iniusog ang mga upuan upang mabigyan ng sapat na espasyo ang paglalagakan ng ataul sa harap ng altar. Malapad na malapad ang espasyo’t may sapat na puwang para sa daanan ng mga sisilip.

Espasyo ang madaling nakapukaw sa akin. Ang wala roon—o sa kaso ng pag-aabang na iyon noong unang gabi ng lamay, paparating pa lamang. Hindi ko napigilan ang sarili sa pagtatala sa isip ng sandaling iyon na pinagmamasdan ko ang pinaglagakan kay FPJ. Dito naghilahan at nagbanggaan ang kawalan at pananahan, ang interogasyon at negosasyon ng dalawa na higit na nagpapausbong sa isang alamat.

Na kahit wala pa siya’t hindi pa tapos ang pagsasaayos, madarama ng lahat, datapwa pumanaw na siya, ang kaniyang pananahan. Sa malay man o sa puso, isa siyang mahalagang bahagi ng kalipunang ito na kinabibilangan ng lahat. At totoong walang makapagtatatwa, may kaya man o wala. Lalo ang wala, na umasa sa kabayanihan ni FPJ bilang bida. Ngayong wala na siya, lalo siyang nabubuhay. Nabubuhay na muli.
Higit na umigting itong pagbubulay nang biglang nagliwanag ang altar. May spot light pala na ikinabit sa canopy, paharap ng kapilya. Unti-unting isinaayos ang pokus ng liwanag, patungo sa espasyo ng paglalagyan ng ataul. Nito na lamang huli ko naunawaan na siniguro pala ng mga tauhan na tatama ang liwanag sa mukha ng bangkay ni FPJ. At tunay nga: napakaganda ng mga kuha ng mga kamera sa telebisyon sa magandang lalaking si FPJ kinabukasan. Maganda ang ilaw. Kuhang-kuha ang payapang mukha ni FPJ na nakasungaw sa kaniyang ataul. Hindi nga ba si Susan Roces pa ang nagsabing hindi pa niya nakita na ganoong kaguwapo ang kaniyang asawa?

Nakabukod ang kapilya ni San Martin mula sa buong simbahan sa pamamagitan ng mga kahoy na pader. Ang mga iyon marahil ang naisip na pinakamagandang paraan upang huwag magambala nang tuluyan ang mga araw-araw na gawain sa Santo Domingo. Pinagkabit-kabit ang mga iyon at idinikit sa mga scaffolding. Nilayuan namin ang bandang iyon sapagkat hindi pa tapos ang pagpipinta sa pader. Kulay abo ang pintura nito, nagmukhang isang malapad na pinilakang tabing. Nakalatag pa sa sahig ang mga peryodikong pananggalang mula sa patak ng pintura.

Maiinit ang ulo ng ilang namamahala sa loob. Hindi nila naikubli. Huling-huli na sila at hindi matapus-tapos ang kanilang trabaho. Usap-usapan noon na hindi raw maililipat si FPJ sa Santo Domingo kung hindi agad na maisasaayos ang lahat. Patuloy na tumatakbo ang oras. Sa labas, patuloy na sumasabog ang liwanag ng mga ilaw-kamera na nakapagpapataginting sa mga imahen sa salamin ng simbahan. Walang tigil ang pagmamartilyo ng mga mama.

Nagsimula na sa pag-eensayo ang string quartet na kinumisyon para sa unang gabi ng lamay. Paulit-ulit na sinumulan ang malamig na Saan Ka Man Naroroon. Pinatimyas ito ng pagtugtog ng biyolin. Kaso, hindi maituluy-tuloy ang himig. Lagi’t laging sumasablay sa isa o dalawang tono. Unti-unti na ring napupuno ang mga silyang walang laman sa kapilya. Lalong umiinit. Paypay nang paypay ang ilang matatandang naroroon.

Walang anu-ano’y sumakit ang ulo ko. Hindi mabatid ang gagawin ko. Nagsimulang maging sureyal sa akin ang lahat: ang pagsasalimbayan ng musikang napapatid, ng patuloy na pagmamartilyo, paglalagari at pagpapakinis sa mga gilid ng pader na kulay abo, ng kandilang matamis ang bango, ng isa-isang pagdating ng mga beteranang artista at mga taong naging malapit sa namayapang aktor.

Nagsimulang tumugtog ang orkestra ng isang klasikong piyesa, na palaging nakapagpapaalala sa akin sa karangyaan ng sumakabilang panahon. Iniladlad ng mga gawing itaas ng pader ang mga puting tela sa pader ng abo, na itiniklop na parang kurtina at pinalamutian ng mga dahon ng pino. Nagmukhang palasyong Griyego ang kapilya.

Patuloy pa rin ang paggawa sa loob at walang katapusan ang pagbuhos ng mga dumadalaw. Lalong kumislot ang kirot sa aking sentido, na pinatindi pa ng alinsangang ganap na lumukob sa kapilyang sumisikip. Lumagkit ang aking mukha sa init. Na hindi dapat nangyayari dahil Disyembre’t malamig. Napatingala na lamang ako sa mga myural ng Apat na Ebanghelista sa bandang itaas. Pumikit ako ng ilang sandali. Pasado alas-diyes na.

Nang imulat ko ang aking mga mata, tila bumalik ang ipinasa-Diyos kong dinaramdam. Nagsalita sa harapan ang isang beteranang aktres-mang-aawit. Nakapormang nagpapabata siya sa itim na blusa’t knickerbockers. Kahit puting-puti na ang kaniyang buhok.

“Alam ko po na lahat tayo’y nagpunta rito dahil mahal natin si Rah-nie,” wika niya sa lahat nang naroroon sa kapilya, na may pagdidiin sa tamang pagbigkas sa bansag kay FPJ na “Ronnie.” Umalingawngaw ang kaniyang tinig, na para bang maya-maya lamang, sasabay na siya sa pag-awit sa mga nag-eensayong manunugtog sa likod, magpapalit ng terno at huhugot ng bulaklak mula sa La Naval upang amuy-amuyin—sa nakagisnan natin na larawan niya sa telebisyon bilang sopranong dalagang bukid.

“Pero hindi po matapos-tapos ang set up. Parami po tayo nang parami rito.” Agad kong nahiwatigan ang susunod na sasabihin, kaya tumayo na agad ako. Pinigilan ako ng isang kasama.

“Hinihiling po na lumabas tayong lahat. Hindi po maililipat si Rah-nie dito hangga’t hindi natatapos ang pag-aayos,” pagtatapos nito, nang nakataas ang kilay. Datapwa may pahabol na pagpapaumanhin at ngiti. Na tulad ng kaniyang ginagawa bilang kontrabida sa mga pelikula.

Nagtayuan nang maayos ang lahat at lumabas sa pangunahing pinto ng kapilya. Doon ko napagtagni-tagni ang nakitang bulungan ng mga namamahala sa harapan bago sumakit ang ulo ko—ang kanilang usapan. Nauna ang mga tagahanga at ang mga di kilalang mukha. Halatang nagpahuli ang mga artista. Kasama nila kaming mga mamamahayag na nagbabakasakaling manatili, sapagkat tiyak na mahihirapan na kami sa pagpasok. Subalit walang pinatawad.

Ang totoo’y naginhawaan ako nang lumabas sa kapilya. Kahit na napakagulo ng mga kawani ng media. Nagkalat sila sa buong compound. Sumasabog pa rin sa hangin ang halimuyak ng magarbong korona mula sa pinatalsik na pangulo. Napagmasdan ko itong mabuti nang pagkakataong iyon, namalas ang pagsusumigaw ng pangalan ng pinagmulan, na nasusulat sa tintang ginto: Pareng Erap. Isang katagang pinagbali-baligtad man, nagsasalaminan. Ngunit malamang ay kumatawan sa matinding pagsasamahan hanggang sa huli nina Panday at Asiong Salonga.


4.

Pinakamalaking trahedya marahil ni FPJ ang kaniyang pagkabigong maging isang bayani ng trahedya. Nahirati ang mamamayan na nakikitang nabubuhay na muli ang aktor matapos ang dugtung-dugtong na mga pagsubok. Hinding-hindi siya natatalo.

Malinaw na lumutang ito nang mapataob siya sa halalan. Kumpiyansa sa kaniya ang mga alipores sapagkat walang katalo-talo ang tumaya sa isang sikat. Ngunit hindi siya nagtagumpay. At sa di inaasahang pangyayari, matapos ng matagal na pananahimik, tuluyan pang nagapi ng nakabibiglang kamatayan. Tuloy, hindi mawari ng mga tao, lalo na ng mga nananalig sa kaniya, ang kung saan sisimulan at papaano pag-aaralan ang pagtanggap. Datapwa nakatulong marahil ang pagpapakita ng kaniyang patay na mukha sa telebisyon.

Iniisip ko tuloy ngayon kung ano kaya ang nangyari kung nakagawa man lamang nitong huli si FPJ ng kahit isang pelikula kung saan hindi siya makaaahon. Iyong hindi siya maliligtas kahit anong gawin niyang pagpupumiglas. Mayroon kayang mag-iiba sa kaniyang palad? Makapaglulunsad din kaya siya ng rebolusyon tulad ni Ninoy?
Ngunit hindi na ito mahalaga. Ang mahalaga ang naroroon sa Santo Domingo habang inaantabayanan ang kaniyang pagdating—ang mga nagrorosaryong babae, ang mga nagsusumiksik na tagahanga, ang magarbong paghahanda.

Isa na namang kulto ang nalikha ng industriya ng pelikula sa pagkamatay ni FPJ, isang bagong pananampalataya. Nakapagkatha ang kasaysayan ng panibagong debosyon, ng panibagong ikon, mistulang diyos at imortal. Hindi na ito bago sa atin. Alalahanin na lamang ang pagkamatay nina Julie Vega at Rico Yan. Ganoon din ang dami ng tao, ganoon din ang dami ng mga deboto na humabol at nag-abang. Lumuha at nagluksa. Pumila upang magbigay-pugay. Sumalat. Lahat, hindi magkamayaw, tulad ng mga nasa Santo Domingo.

Lalong lumalim ang gabi at halos hindi na makapaghintay ang marami. Abalang-abala ang marami sa amin sa paghingi ng mga panayam sa ilang matataas na taong naroroon. Mas makapal na ang dami ng tao’t. Dumagsa na rin ang mga pulitiko’t artista.
Panay na rin ang sabi-sabi na malapit na raw dumating ang karo. At tunay nga.

Ilang sandali pa, pumasok ang karong may dala ng mga kagamitan ng punerarya. Sandali kaming hinawi upang paraanin ang sasakyan. Muling binuksan ang pinto ng kapilya upang maipasok ang mga ginintuang ilaw. Patuloy sa pagtugtog ang quartet, at ang ineensayo nila noon ay Hindi Kita Malilimutan. Pagkatapos, tumigil ang quartet at narinig ng lahat ng nasa labas ang pagtugtog naman ng paboritong awitin ni FPJ, ang Kamusta ka.

Sandali akong sumilip sa loob ng simbahan. Nagwawalis na ang ilang tauhan doon at mukhang nakatulong nga ang aming paglabas. May mga kausap sa telepono ang mga namamahala roon. Waring nagbibigay ng mga panuto. Tumatango. Maaliwalas na ang mga mukha. Ang ilan naman sa kanila’y katu-katulong ng mga taga-Arlington sa pagsasaayos ng mga ilaw at paglalatag ng pulang karpet. Bumalik ako sa pangunahing daanan nang muling isara ang pinto.

At tuluyan na ngang dumating ang pangunahing karo. Nangagtakbuhan ang lahat patungo sa daraanan nito. Hinarangan na kami ng kurdon ng mga pulis. Napakapit na ako rito upang magkaroon pa ng pag-asang makapasok muli sa kapilya.

Unti-unting bumagal ang isip ko sa pagsikip ng lugar. Tila ba nagkaugat ako sa kinatatayuan habang nagpupumilit sumiksik ang maraming potograpo at camera man. Nasilaw ako sa mga dagitab. Kusang nagpakatuod ang katawan upang sanggain ang mga panunulak. Hindi nagtagal, dumaan sa harap ko ang itim na karo. Makintab at may madidilim na salamin. Halos hindi maaaninag ang ataul na nasa loob. Biglang lumitaw ang ilang pulis sa aming kinatatayuan at pinaatras kami nang bahagya, nambubulyaw. Noon lamang ako muling natauhan. Sa di kalayuan, halos mabuwal ang mga bakal-bakod. Patuloy na sumisigaw ng FPJ! FPJ! FPJ! ang mga tao.

Habang umaatras kami’y natanaw ko sa bandang kaliwa ang pagpasok ng pamilya ni FPJ. Nangunguna si Susan Roces, inaalalayan ng isang lalaking may kalakihan ang katawan. Pagal siya, nanlalalim ang mga mata at salat sa make up. At marahil, muli at muling nagsasanay sa kung papaanong sisilipin ang asawa sa loob ng makintab na kahon na iyon na nakatakdang ilabas sa aming harapan.

Binuksan ng tsuper ang likod ng karo. At unti-unti, nalantad ang nguso ng kulay tsokolateng kabaong. Sumunod sa tsuper ang kaniyang mga kasamahan. May pinihit lamang ang isa sa kanila sa sasakyan at marahang lumabas ang ataul. Maingat silang pumuwesto sa mga gilid, sinalat ang hawakan. Binuhat nila ang ataul papalapit sa pinto ng kapilya. Higit na umugong ang sigawan. May nagpalakpakan. Sa malayo, ang hindi mahulugang karayom na madla, iwinawagayway ang mga dalang tuwalyita o mga larawan ng nasirang aktor.

Unti-unti ring nagbukas ang pinto ng kapilya. Agad na ipinasok ang kabaong. Inilagak sa espasyong inihanda. Binasbasan ng obispo. Tumugtog na muli ang quartet. Nagsimula ang Misa. Nag-antanda ang lahat.

Hindi ko naiwasang maisip, matapos na mamalas ang ispektakulong iyon, ang ritwal ng Despedida ng Birhen ng La Naval. Para bang wala ako sa isang unang gabi ng lamay kundi sa huling araw ng kapistahan ng La Naval tuwing Oktubre. Umaawit ng pamamaalam sa imahen matapos ang halos isang buwan ding pagkakapedestal sa gitna ng marangyang altar: De tu divino rostro, la belleza al dejar,/permiteme que vuelva, tus plantas a besar./He quesaso Maria, abrasado en tu amor,/quedete adios señora adios, adios./Dame tu benediction Madre del Salvador./Madre amorosa, prenda de amor, adios, adios!

Disyembre 2004

Biyaheng Quiapo

They all came in droves,sporting maroon, the signature color of the Nuestro Señor Jesus Nazareno. They came in from all sides of town. Dagat-dagatan. Tumana. San Jose. Pandacan. They had worn the names of their places of origin, and they had worn them with glee.

Some even brought their small children, carrying them along with their little Nazareno images or letting them walk barefoot the way all pilgrims do. It had been raining for long in Manila and the legendary Plaza Miranda, where disparities, political and otherwise had been fought (remember what they said about bills and if they could be defended in Plaza Miranda?), was all grubby and muddy. But the pilgrims, some of them participating in this annual vigil for years, do not mind anyway. Waiting for the Nazareno was holy devotion, something that others usually consider as blind and unnerving.

Quiapo is virtually at the heart of Manila, and is one of the more important landmarks as you enter the city’s central district. Quiapo as we know it, is a district known for wares, its food from the past, the notorious that had inspired films set in her locale, and of course, this age-old statue which people flock to every Friday. The usual places to see in Quiapo, such as the hopia centers like the newly built Poland Hopia in Escolta, or even the Excellente Ham at Palanca, had to take a back seat and fuse naturally into the flurry of festivities. While the usual businesses like the optical shops and the audio and video centers did not close shop, all attention was set on the Nazareno, which was returning from its two-day stay at the Luneta. The day was still long. Good thing it was cold and windy.

Walking Around
As I walked down the street of Evangelista, there was music and all that noise. People walked around and waited for the Nazareno. As the crowd thickened, the string of masses at the church continued.

At the side streets, pirated DVD stations abound, more than the usual agimat or herbal peddlers, which have been fixture at Quiapo’s side streets ever since. Today, they seem to have been side swept by the emergence of these sellers who just keep on coming and going despite strict law enforcement. Some people in red who went to wait for the Nazareno gathered around the DVDs, looking for the latest flicks they could buy at around P 35 or so apiece. The DVD sellers also make sure they get people to buy—they sample the DVDs on their own TV sets and players.
Curiously, the police who just roam around do not mind.

Evangelista, and nearby Raon, is a multimedia center of sorts. Walking around on fiesta day, one will see and hear, not only the sampling of the films in DVD, but the simultaneous playing of a lot of this country’s most favorite musical instrument—the videoke. A lot of the stores in Evangelista and Paterno, most of them, selling audio and video equipment, played the videokes on display. Some of the stores even had singers—the salesmen actually—showing how their units fare despite the bad singing. I was bracing myself for any untoward action when somebody tried that deadly song, Sinatra’s “My Way,” which had already claimed a lot of lives in bars and beer houses. Good thing everyone seems to be in a good mood and in high spirits.

As I continued to walk, several of the stores were being visited by a group doing the Dragon Dance, which the Chinese believe to drive away bad spirits. This added up to the noise of the place, which, for some bizarre reason, was becoming musical as the place grew in me. I turned to Paterno, which led to Carriedo and found myself in an all-new world. Stories kept on unraveling as I continued to walk with the pilgrims in red. At the far end of the street, a group of cross dressers was gyrating to the beat of drums played by their male companions. One of them was eating fire.

I thought I was in some kind of mardi gras. Everything was all here, so mixed up, but quite beautifully. When I was younger, I met in Plaza Miranda the likes of Aling Teta, who helped people understand the future through card reading and if I remember her right, Josie, who sent her son to journalism school by selling herbs and pito-pito. I tried looking for their faces among the multitudes of people on the side streets of Paterno, and later on, back in Carriedo, where people carrying their own images of the Nazareno continued to arrive. In the news, the church announced that there would be around 200 replicas of the Nazareno arriving for the festivities.

The Nazarenos, needless to say look alike, bearing the pain and sorrow as they all carried the sins of the world. Somehow the people here, the dwellers and peddlers looked all the same too. I could not find Aling Teta, and Josie anymore, or even Mang Ruben, who sold agimats and Sto Niños with phalluses. I could only recall their stories as I tried looking for any familiar face in the crowd. At least, I could still hear their voices in my head. They are shadows, I suppose, of the mystical character of Quiapo, the Quiapo that I was used to seeing since I was young. Much has changed since then, and I feel for the likes of Aling Teta, Josie and Mang Ruben who had been dispersed, especially after the church did a clean-up. While Quiapo changed for the better, I guess it had lost some of its magic when the vendors were placed at the side streets of the church. The vendors too have been prey to the MMDA clean up in the Metro, and this I suppose resulted in the dwindling of their number.

I walked to Carriedo again and approached another Quiapo fixture, the candle stand ladies, who offered pilgrims seven bundled candles for P20. A lady, a very young one, was carrying a clear envelope with a sheet of bio-data inside. She was praying fervently. I got my own candles from the peddler, Linda, who said she was practically new to the place. Candle sales are up in Carriedo, of course, since candle lighting is not allowed in the church periphery, and had to be done outside. And I think there’s really no way to do just this. At the far end of Carriedo, at the arch that welcomes everybody to the church, there is just no space for any other form of religious fervor.

I had to put up with people who were going out on the other direction. At one point, it looked like I would be trapped in this sea of humanity starting to assemble into unstoppable waves that could lift up anybody at any given time and carry him elsewhere—that is if he doesn’t go under. Stampedes are not so new to Quiapo, and yearly, some pilgrims die after being run over by people. It was scary but amazing all at the same time. Not long after, the bottleneck at the side entrance just cleared up. The gripping experience, I suppose, is part of the sacrifice.

The Image Returns
The police had put the figures to around 6000 people as of late lunch. In Plaza Miranda, the pilgrims were in prayer, some of them listening intently to the endless sermons being delivered by the priests who say masses for the day of the feast. The old ones were especially stern, saying their rosaries or the prayers in their novena booklets. Others meanwhile wiped crucifixes or hand-carried images of Nazarenos with their red hankies or Good Morning towels. The hankies and towels are very important in the devotion, and so is the act of wiping images. Later on, as the image arrives, these hankies and towels would be lobbed in the air, some of them being tossed to the caroza carrying the Nazareno and the men that protect it. It is believed that blessings abound for the owner of the hanky or the towel. Some people do the wiping early on, perhaps, since getting a hanky to be wiped on the Nazareno would be way too challenging. Before one can get even near the caroza and throw a hanky, one would have to risk being crushed by other pilgrims who attempt getting a hold onto the rope that pulls it. By the time the Nazareno reaches back the church, the caroza would have already been enveloped by waves and waves of pilgrims, most of them males, who have the strength and stamina to carry on with the crawling procession.

The procession used to parade just around Quiapo, until two years ago, when the parish celebrated the image’s 400th year in the Philippines. From then on, a translacion similar to that of the Ina of Penafrancia in Naga is done. They are very similar of course, since in both, men play the game of bringing back the images. A lot of violence too is done in both instances, but the Nazareno’s I think is a well-managed one.

The procession was peculiarly long this year, despite the fact that it only covered some six kilometers, starting from the Quirino Grandstand at Luneta. When news that the Nazareno was arriving, coming from a detour to Recto, Legarda, and then to Arlegui, which is already near Malacañang Palace, people started to move to Quezon Blvd. and Quezon Bridge. The party bringing the Nazareno did not make it to the deadline. It took the procession about 12 hours before it reached the church. It was already at 9 in the evening that excited pilgrims started the traditional tossing of the hankies and towels. It was, despite the long wait, an astounding arrival. Moving is something that could describe the experience of Quiapo and the wait, but that would be an understatement. As the caroza passed through Carlos Palanca and its handicrafts center, and the Maharlika Village and its Mosque, the mood shifted from sober to electrified. The long, long wait was over. The Nuestro Padre has returned. At around this time, the devotees were said to have reached about 20,000.

The red banners carrying the names of the groups of the devotees marched with the caroza, as the church bells were tolled, and people shouted with glee.

Quiapo has been nothing but enigmatic to me since I was young. My uncle the seaman, who now resides in Honolulu, used to bring me as he fulfilled his Friday devotions to the Nazareno. His prayers had been answered and I just stopped seeing the Black Nazarene one day. Later on, when I got older, I took jeepney rides from the Pontifical University where I was studying to pray in the church. Until now, I haven’t really fathomed Quiapo, despite the fact that I have seen, felt, experienced, and even written about it many times. The recurrent question, I think, is this: why do people keep on coming back here? I would like to surmise that it is not only about the Nazareno. Quiapo is a world, a world of its own, and it does not convey itself so easily. The scenes of pilgrims walking around, and even walking on their knees, the scent of burning candle, or even the sweet hams, and the street sounds of the district, and the spiritual experience that borders on the mystical of this very place are parts of a realm that would always be deep and profound. We could never, in our lives, explain it.

A lot of people do not understand why pilgrims take this yearly trouble of risking life and limb to fulfill the devotion. Some take it as fanaticism. But if we look deeply into the phenomenon of Quiapo in its fiesta, we will see that just being in the place is meditation enough on the ways we have been playing our lives as individuals and as a people. Quiapo is not merely devotion and sacrifice. It is an examination of our lives, our conscience, and our consciousness. I remember what Aling Teta told me years back as I sat down with her somewhere around the church.

“Sa Quiapo, palakasan ng loob. Kapag mahina ka, kawawaka,” (In Quiapo, you need to be strong. When you’re a weakling, it’s a pity). Quiapo then, is life, as we examine it.

Photo by Miko Santos

Balay Silay: The Houses of Memory at Silay, Negros Occidental

When one walks around Silay, that quaint Negros Occidental heritage city a town away from the capitol of Bacolod, one experiences immediate transport—an experience of being here, and being not here all at the same time. To say the least, the city has a time of its own. It almost always does not belong to our realm, but then again, it is much part of our own, much part of the present.

The Plaza, the City Hall, the old houses, the streets—all these characterize Silay’s glorious past. Every step in the cobblestones, under the eaves of trees, and even under the shadows of those great houses will grant one a benevolent gift of memory. Silay, after all, is the city of memories—known long ago even as the City of Lights, the Paris of Negros, where culture and wealth thrived. Each house is a memento of those times of the Sugar Barons, the vaudeville, the zarzuelistas and the mannered young ladies trying to peek through their capiz or glass windows. Each alley, each shadow, is found memory.

I breathed and lived Silay in a pasamano of the Balay Negrense, in my first summer trip to the province. After a grueling writers workshop at Bacolod, we fellows paid homage to this town of the olden days, and the sight of the beautiful and elaborate grand staircase led me to the wide halls of a past I can only imagine—or at least see in books and old lore. Being in the stairs brought me images of grand parties and bailes. In the adjoining rooms with small altars and retablos, I was reminded of the angelus as the bells of the San Diego Cathedral tolled. But life in its simplicity was there in the pasamano, at sunset. I sat in the terrace like an eager child, saying my farewell to the ending day. I saw the almost reddish skies color the whole neighborhood at Balay Negrense, with a sprawling garden fenced off by intricate grillwork at that street aptly named Cinco de Noviembre. It was in Silay that the event known in Negros history as “Al Cinco de Noviembre” was planned before it took a revolutionary turn in 1898, the birth of the Philippine Republic.

But before anything else, the house in itself has great history. In the early 1800s, the patriarch of the house Yves Leopold Germaine Gaston moved here with his wife, Prudencia Fernandez. The Frenchman ventured into sugar, and he brought with him the horno ecocomico, a sugar milling technology still unheard of in the lands. He became a prominent businessman, a full-pledged Sugar Baron in what could have been a self-sustaining Republic of Negros. In the Gaston house was a round table with a circular illustration of the Gaston lineage. How big the family is, I exclaimed to a friend, while we read each of the names that descended from the Frenchman Gaston. This family has grown this much because of the many stories it had to tell about Silay, the city of their roots. At that point of the afternoon, I tried to imagine how it was to grow up in this household—in that pasamano. Somehow, it was deeply magical. The trees swayed as night fell. The red started to disappear.

But of course, there were more houses out there. And we could just imagine that while the people were marching quietly at the secret meeting for the “Al Cinco de Noviembre” in the neighborhood drugstore in the street, more and more of the owners of the houses started to peep through their half-opened capiz or stained glass windows, trying to know what was happening. Of course, they have probably heard about it—the plan, and actually the whole kucho-kucho, the rumors that were spreading with it. The Revolt was actually an effective bluff that scared off the Spanish authorities and the peninsulares who had been holding fort for so long.
With all the influential families banding together—the Lacsons, the Golezes, the Locsins, the Severinos, the Aranetas, the Lizareses, the Diazes, the Montillas and many others—Negros, in one brief shining moment, portrayed probably one of the first bloodless revolutions in Philippine history. The movements seen from the discreetly opened windows probably provided a sneak peek at the painful but fulfilling birthing of Negrense, and by extension, Filipino nationalism.

What else could be seen in the windows of the heritage houses? Well, in the Gaston house, I saw the San Diego, the trees in the plaza, and the many other gallant houses, which at night were mere shadows of the past. I saw no light at these houses, save for some, which were still being used by descendants of the old families. But in the Bernardino-Ysabel Jalandoni Ancestral House, I saw in the wide and airy windows a city coming alive. It was near the popular eating places, and the busy bus station where one could wait for a ride to go to other towns like Victorias. It was a junction to other realms, I suppose.

But somehow all the windows of the homes provide canvasses of an idyllic time some of us would probably want to cross and be part of. The canvass expands if we just look closely: even farther than the Golden Years of the Sugar Barons, there was pre-colony, when Silay was merely a land of lore where a princess named Kansilay led the people fight the rampaging pirates. But the princess died in battle. In her grave rose a tree, which the people named after her, and consequently, the town. Did my favorite bowl of sour kansi also originated from her? I can only speculate.

The canvass could also paint a revealing colonial past: The first settlements had been found in 1565 in this town known as “Carobcob,” which is Kiniray-a for “to scratch.” From a humble creek town, it had become an encomienda of Cristobal Nuñez Paroja. Those days began the long journey of the Negrense sakadas who toiled for a land they will never own.

The story of the sakadas is the story of Negros, and of Silay itself, where most of the rich and the affluent monopolizers of the sugar industry spent their riches. Their lives crisscrossed here, like the many buses that pass through town in sleepy nights. By the windows, they could probably be seen—there is no such thing as absence.

Today, you could walk around Silay and still get the authentic colonial feel. The plaza, although bereft of its old benches (the benches had found a home at Balay Negrense), has still maintained its being sentro of the town. The whole town in itself is a sentro, if we recall history: the nearer the sentro, the richer and important the inhabitants of the houses were. This was the common structure of the pueblo system when the Spaniards gathered the indios to turn them into civilized subjects of Madre España. The regularly planned roads of the heritage town all wonderfully converge in the Plaza, where the Sen. Jose C. Locsin Cultural and Civic Center now stands, right across the Silay City Hall and the San Diego Cathedral. Time has somehow stood still.

But Silay is not only a convergence of the historical and the political. Another colorful facet of the Silay canvass is its rich cultural heritage. This town loved all that was good, true and beautiful, and it could be seen in the very intricacies of the houses themselves. The grillwork, the ventanillas, and the whole design of the Balay Negrense are nothing but amazing work, and the same goes to the other houses that surround the Plaza. Although adopting the bahay na bato structure, the houses themselves encapsulate the grand and even the baroque in the magnificent homes of the Sugar Barons and the leading community leaders. The houses have become architectural treasures themselves embodying the different and “wide range of architectural styles, ranging from the Floral to Geometrical styles of the ‘bahay na bato’… the Art Nouveau and Art Deco influences… and the American colonial styles,” according to architect Juliet Patosa.

And it was also the center of art and culture for Negros, in the days of the Sugar Barons. The Cathedral of San Diego is a work of art itself, a living proof of this cultured society. When the town was boasting itself of being the “Paris of Negros,” it had to recreate what used to be a dilapidated parish church. Don Jose Ledesma initiated the new construction, and hired the Italian architect Lucio Bernasconi. Bernasconi adopted the traditional Latinate cross-shaped structure of churches, and placed on top of the structure complex, Byzantine inspired silver-colored domes, that shine bright in sunlight. The Sugar Barons shelled out money for the construction of the whole church, which has amusing columns and stained glass.

As an art center, Silay was the center stage of entertainment. Neil Solomon Locsin wrote: “As Silay grew in population and progressed in economic and cultural wealth, it became famous for its cultural; shows and import of artists from Manila and overseas.” Among the known visitors of Silay, Locsin noted, were pianist Arthur Rubenstein and Spanish poet Salvador Rueda. Silay was also home to many artists and even theater enthusiasts. The National Artist for Architecture Leandro Locsin, who designed many of the more popular structures around the country, hails from Silay.

But my mind had wandered long around Silay. In my memory, I am still seated at the pasamano of the Balay Negrense, the heritage house of the Gastons. During the tour, this house, discovered had long been filled with music, especially with the opera singer, Conchita Gaston, who was believed to have lived here. In her heydays, she was known to have performed Madame Butterfly, and even for Leonard Bernstein’s rendition of Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex. Her gift of voice must have resounded in every nook and cranny of Balay Negrense, and even in the surrounding neighborhood mansions. I could only imagine her sing, while accompanied by a grand piano. But these are only memories, reconstructed even.

The next summer I was in Silay, I walked its Plaza. At night, the trees glittered with display lights. I relieved the shadows of the houses of memory. Time gifted itself. The walk in the windy night was simply blissful. Perhaps, Conchita was peeking out her still unclosed grand windows, carrying a tune, an opera perhaps, taking in the light of the full moon, addressing the Silay skies. Perhaps, Silay was singing with her too. It sings the composos that continue to sing the Negros story.

Photo by Andrew Tadalan

The World According to Doreen Gamboa Fernandez

The world according to Doreen Gamboa Fernandez, is a plate. It is a plate filled with her favorite Silay sweets or afternoon merienda like kalan-unon, piaya, empanada, lumpia, tortitas or dulce gatas. Or it could be a plate of sumptuous bindonggo, pinakas nga guma, or guinamos nga bihud; or maybe even a serving of inasal nga manok, shiny in its oils and secret spices, hot off the grill, and perfect with sinamak.

This is the world Doreen tried to articulate all through her life, until she passed on at the age of 67 in 2002 while on vacation in New York. The world she referred to belonged not only to the red and fertile Negros soil—although it may well be solely for it, given the fact that she wrote that our culinary culture is very much grounded in the soil, in the locale itself. Her universe revolved not only around, but also within this plate. And this worldview of hers all began in that little town called Silay, now a city, in Negros Occidental.

“Silay is a city, deservedly so because it has two museums, a cultural center, houses traditional and modern, and is the rumored home of a new airport,” Doreen wrote, in a popular flyer distributed by the city’s tourism office. The terminal she wrote about is now known as the Silay-Bacolod International Airport, the new gateway of tourism and commerce in the region.

Undoubtedly and hopefully for the better, the airport and some other various developments are changing the Silay landscape day by day. But somehow, we could sense that Doreen wished all these would not move, not even touch her beloved Silay. She never lived to see the dread, or the amazement though. However, she took with her the memory of a quiant Silay, which will always have a “small-town feel to it.” “Most Silaynon shop, go to movies, go to school, and dine out in Bacolod. I am glad this feeling persists, because it has kept Silay food, one of the town’s best assets, at the level of hometown excellence.”

And in her life, she always remembered Silay food. She took with her such wonderful childhood memories, memories that have probably written themselves and remained in her palate forever. “When we used to return home in school vacations, our first request was for the manug-libud. These pleasant lady-vendors would come; baskets on their heads, cans slung on their arms… (They) lay everything down on the kitchen table.”

Doreen’s catalogues, in books and in the flyer, are nothing but amusing. Even now, she describes food so well it actually brings one back to the table. This gift of powerful descriptions was given to her, not by the fates, but probably by the manug-libud, as they seem to have brought out some magic in those sweet and filling goodies from their baskets.

Her descriptions could be considered talismans for this world she attempted to make sense of. Her mouth-watering sentences are all visceral, making wide use of all the functioning senses.

“Piyaya, (the) sesame-sprinkled cakes with melted brown sugar inside”; “chicken-filled empanadas in pleated, fluted shells“; “And very, very especially, the Silay Lumpia, like which there is no other; crisp young ubod from a tree felled that morning, sautéed in garlic, pork and shrimps, in a wrapper thin as silk, accented with jaunty spring onion.” Reading closely, there is no place for dry adjectives in her paper, as well as her palate. Perhaps, only the paradoxical grammar of the senses could ever make it in her universe.

She also recalled quite vividly, a dear culinary shrine of her childhood, the El Ideal Bakery along Rizal Street, and provided an amazing catalogue, as if she was herself bringing us in front of the bakery’s display glasses. “El Ideal Bakery on Rizal Street can tell its own tale of Silay food. At least 75 years old, perhaps older, (the bakery) specializes in cookies and biscuits from which Molo, Iloilo is still famous. Most of Negros was populated by families from Iloilo… (carving) out sugar haciendas during the 19th century sugar boom. This is one of the legacies.”

Doreen continued: “The name of the biscuits are a roll call of tradition: quinamunsil and sinambag, kamachili and sampalok; bañadas, a cookie bathed in white frosting; broas or lady fingers; bizcocho Principe and bizcocho de caña; galletas, thin and wafer-like; paciencia, masapodrida; lubid-lubid twisted like ropes, hojaldres thin and crumbly; paborita; ugoy-ugoy; isda-isda. And meringues large and small, white or colored.” She kept all of them in mind, remembering their taste, and the sense of wonder in every sweet bite.

Doreen also probably remembered as well, the road to their rich and colorful market, despite being much sheltered as a Silaynon. She must have gone to it, taking in all the sights, sounds and flavors. “The market is a place in which to buy—or eat local specialties. From the bindonggo cooked with batuan, “tender and steaming,” as she described it, to the kalo-kalo or sinangag with scrambled eggs during breakfasts, she has probably memorized the most important places of these tasteful market treats. They’re all inscribed in her heart. Markets, they say, are repositories of local food culture, and it is always blissful to make a pilgrimage every time we get the chance. Doreen probably agrees, as she made a hearty recommendation in the flyer: “Have as well inasal nga manok, our barbecued chicken special because of tuba vinegar and atsuwete, and the roasting method. And if diwal (angel wings) are in season, let them fly you heavenward.”

Silay and its food have permeated Doreen’s writings from for many years. In the 50s, she left Silay to study at Manila’s St. Scholastica’s College, earning her BA in 1954. At the Ateneo de Manila University, she received her MA (1956) and PhD (1977) in literature, where she taught for almost thirty years. She had become a performer in her writings, and in her two passions— theater scholarship and food writing. She studied theater and even organized a very progressive theater group during Martial Law. She also wrote food reviews that are unparalleled up to now.

For the critic Barbara Kirshenblatt-Giblett, Doreen flourished in both. “Both challenge the writer to go beyond criticism. Doreen approached both kinds of writing as an educator, rather than as a critic… She made ephemeral memories, and traced a path from the immediacy of the moment to a vast and varied culinary landscape and history.” The magic from the basket of the manuglibud must have been so potent for Doreen, it gave birth to several books: Sarap: Essays in Philippine Food (1998, with Edilberto Alegre), Tikim: Essays on Philippine Food and Culture, and many food guides in collaboration with Alegre. Doreen also penned with Alegre, Kinilaw: A Philippine Cuisine of Freshness (1991), and Fruits of the Philippines (1997). A few years before her death, she was inspired to look into Filipino food culture through the clay pot, the palayok. In her Palayok: Philippine Food Through Time, On Site, In the Pot (2000), she seemed to re-echo what was earlier discovered in the discourse on “Filipinology” by Prospero Covar.

Doreen’s and Covar’s earthen wares are relatives in the first place, both describing the Filipino character and culture at large. And with this clear similarity, we could not help but be astonished.

“For Doreen,” Giblett continued, “food was a mirror that Filipinos could hold up to themselves. It offered an opportunity for self-knowledge that was grounded in immediate experience, embodied knowledge and personal and collective memory.”

And after all, it was what she always wanted. In an interview with the defunct Pen and Ink literary journal, she related her own poetics of food writing—and her burning desire to stir the primal hunger of every Filipino reader. “I... want food writing to be something you can almost taste. I want the reader to feel pleasure reading it; I want to make the reader hungry. That’s where everything I learned as an English major comes in. Thus I can write about food without using only food words. I can use words from literature, from painting, from music, and so on, to bring the whole experience across. I want to emphasize the Pleasure Principle; it must always be there.”

In her passing, Doreen has found herself in a fictionalized world created by her fellow Hiligaynon writer and critic, Rosario Cruz Lucero. In the Palanca-award winning short story aptly titled “Doreen’s Story,” the tongue-and-cheek first person speaker of the story related how the fictional Doreen related the story of Anabella, the defiant daughter of a haciendero in Silay who locked herself up in her room to write “72 novels, 122 short stories, 7 novelettes, 5 corridos, 8 narrative poems of 100 to 1,000 stanzas each, 231 short lyrics, 7 long plays, 24 short plays and dialogos in verse, 7 volumes of essays, and 2 autobiographies.”

The name Anabella itself alludes to “Si Anabella,” a story written by Magdalena Jalandoni, the queen Hiligaynon writer, who was a recluse and who had a comparable writing output with Luceros’ Anabella. But the real story happens in the elegiac remembrance of Doreen at the beginning of the story by the point of view, who might be Lucero herself, we do not know: “The day before she left for New York, where she died two weeks later, Doreen told me the story of the house on Sanchez St., in Silay City, the city of her childhood. She herself had lived in a bahay na bato on a different street, where the first wave of migrants from Iloilo had settled two centuries ago.”

The fictional Doreen interweaves the stories in that amusing metafiction (or meta-food review?). Everything is being related at a restaurant’s table, where Doreen is supposed to sample on the food for a food review. She comes in and out of the story, in and out of the fictional Silay created in that universe of Lucero’s story. And everything still revolved around the plate. “The waitress came with our panini sandwiches and Doreen reverted easily from storyteller to food critic. “Twelve minutes,” she said. “Not bad.” She wrote it down in her little notebook. Then she took a moderate bite on the sandwich, chewed it, and swallowed it with her mouth full, although she was not one to take dainty bites either… Anabella, she said, was seventeen when she fell in love. He was a dentistry student on scholarship, the son of a plantation worker and a banig weaver, and her parents would have none of it.”

“My generation needs its own legends too,” Lucero ends the story. But whose story, whose legend was it, really? It could basically be Anabella’s, or even Lucero’s, the story’s speaking voice. But it is definitely Doreen’s story, as her life and memory—and by extension, worldview—had been hemmed in quite beautifully in a colorful narrative of love, passion and creativity in the city of Doreen’s childhood. In this story, Doreen returns to the Silay of her childhood, perhaps agreeing that her personal legend really resides in her town. She may not have rested in her own native land, but she returns to it through her writings and through her platefuls of magnificent thought on food and culture.

Like the fictional Anabella, Doreen only had one love: Silay. “The best way to staste Silay is to have a friend invite you and serve you “just our ordinary food,” like laswa, a combination of four or five kinds of vegetables (leaf, seed, root) steamed with guinamos. Or paklay, pork or beef innards soured with green pineapple and balimbing. And the desserts that so many households make to order.”

And she also advised, for us to remember: “When you leave, take home with you some of the sweets, snacks, biscuits—the flavors of a town that once had a mini-opera house and was called the “Paris of Negros,” but is still and will always be best remembered as the home of Silay kalan-unon.”