The persistence of memory

By Chong Ardivilla
Published in The Manila Standard Today

National Artist for Literature F. Sionil Jose walks out of his quaint bookstore at Padre Faura Street. The name of his bookshop is Solidaridad or Solidarity, an aim of Jose’s massive literary works regarding progress of the country. He hobbles with his cane and stops and points at a gnarled tree on a dusty sidewalk and says, “Can you see this gaping part of the tree? That was caused by a shrapnel during World War II.” This tree has seen the incoming Japanese and is a mute and twisted witness as to how Manila was razed to the ground. Jose shuffles “Only a few remember this.”

Jose seemed to be one of Filipino literature’s keepers of memories. Not because of his age, he is past 80, but because his novels and short stories seem to wag the finger at Filipinos to never forget or lest another vicious cycle constantly attacks the beleaguered nation.

Jose still remembers. Born in the sprawling fields of the north, Jose has a vivid memory walking as a little boy with his grandfather to the fields that was stolen from them by the elite by tricking the illiterate peasants. He still remembers the landed gentry rolling in on horseback and his grandfather shed silent tears.

Land and the peasantry are topics close to Jose’s heart. He would bristle at the thought that Japan would maximize the potential of land asking from landowners of vacant lots for hefty taxes lest they put it in use. Ergo, it is no surprise that even in the cemented jungle of Tokyo would have patches of vegetable plantations thus putting the land to use. Whereas here in the Philippines, we have the most arable land on earth yet lax and myopic laws would render hectares upon hectares of land into misuse and mismanagement.

Jose would bring some of his friends and avid readers to a trip to the Ilocano part of Pangasinan, where he grew up and show them where a millenarian revolt was crushed violently in the 20th Century. This “colorum” revolt comprised of farmers rising up against the Americans and they were massacred inside the church in the early 20th Century. Throughout his novels and short stories, the issues of land, the ruling class’s attitude and peasant uprisings have had prominence. It is as if it was Jose’s duty for us to know our history.

“I should have been a high school teacher,” Jose remarks, “It would have been the best time to mould young minds.” Jose who was a journalist then a novelist was also a teacher at his alma mater University of Sto. Tomas. He opines, “it would have been more effective to ingrain in high school students the lessons of history and to open their eyes sooner rather than waiting for them to enter college.”

Jose may not be teaching these days, but he welcomes students as well as young writers seeking advice in the arduous task of stringing words into coherent and substantial stories. Like a plump sage waiting on his dais, Jose would accept visitors that stream in from all the corners of the world. From college students at the University belt to a German couple doing a PhD dissertation, Jose is ready to enrapt them with stories and memories of himself and his nation.

It is ingrained in his works that memory can be sufficient step to acquire freedom. We must learn from the past mistakes, learn from the noise of today to set the stones for a better future of our nation. We can only be free if we understand ourselves as to what it means to be Filipino. Upon realization and proper understanding of such rigorous layers and baggage of that identity, one can proceed in what Jose says of a “revolutionary change.”

Among his novels, the Rosales Saga is the most notable. He is even touted as South East Asia’s most likely candidate for a Nobel Prize for Literature. The Rosales Saga is a series of novels that follows a clan from across generations in various eras of the Philippines. This saga was recently reprinted by the distinguished Modern Library
publisher in the United States.

His novel Sins, which was also published in America, raised a lot of eyebrows and caused gasps and rising temperatures. In this racy novel, he tells of a Spanish mestizo family’s coping mechanism in several upheavals in our history. From collaboration to incest, it was an unblinking portrayal of a family’s decay. Perhaps it was his way of poking at the very class that rendered his grandfather in tears bewailing their lost land. Jose’s eyes would twinkle with glee as he shares, “A lot of our Spanish elite resorted to in-breeding and incest to propagate their bloodline.” Of course, he didn’t name names; he just guffawed leaving that to the reader’s imaginations and deductions.

Jose remembers a time where he was invited by a prominent family’s mansion. By then, Jose has been an established writer. He went to have dinner to talk about literature and politics and was shocked to find a little boy under the table fanning the feet of the rich masters and the guests. Such scenes and memories of inequity make Jose’s blood boil and call for a change in society.

Among his works, it is his short story "Olvidon" which is quite a searing indictment against the dictatorship and corruption. The short story revolves around a doctor trying to find a cure for a rash that is attacking the “Leader” and his First Lady. Interestingly enough, that rash is not sexually transmitted nor transferred via contact but apparently the president’s men have been afflicted, too. It was such a scathing metaphor for corruption and comeuppance.

Jose received the Ramon Magsaysay Award for Literature in 1980 and he was to meet then President Ferdinand E. Marcos. Jose wryly remembers that the late dictator was quite cordial with him. Marcos did not openly castigate writers who question his dealings. “He was smart enough not to create attention,” Jose says, “and besides he knew that not a lot of Filipinos read.”

The second floor of the Solidaridad Bookshop has a small office where Jose would churn out articles, stories, where he would take a rest and would accept friends and fans. It is a small room that is lined by books. Some of which are copies of novels translated in several languages.

On his desk is busted fountain pen. He fiddles with it and indicates that this is one of those classic pens. It was destroyed when unknown men broke into his book shop and rifled through his files and documents. Papers were strewn about and as if a portent, left his broken pen on his desk. One can guess who they were and why they did it. It is yet another testament on the path Jose chose with his works.

This sort of terror tactic struck fear among the writing community during Martial Law. There were disappearances and there were silences. Jose took upon himself to make a petition and will deliver it to the Presidential Palace. He got a roll of parchment and asked his fellow writers for their signatures to ask the authorities to abate the oppression against them.

Only a handful of writers wrote their names. A lot of writers were afraid to sign the petition. Jose opens his drawer and the roll of parchment is still there, yellowed with age. But he will not discard it.

He says it is there to remind me of those who are brave to have at least stood for their beliefs and for their desire for real change.

He will never forget. Neither should us.