Randy Ford Author- POSTE RESTANTE Manila 55th Installment

As soon as the smoke cleared and the fire truck was removed and the gate fixed the birds returned to Malacanan, while Marcos still sat on his throne. At the turn of the century the palace actually had a throne room and has one today though it might be called a library, a library filled with codices and books dating back to the days of Don Luis Rocha, a darling then of the cosmopolitan crowd. His stone mansion enclosed by a high stone wall was a gathering place for aristocrats just as it is today. It is in a small area surrounded by water in the heart of Manila, and it is only significant because it’s where the palace and the seat of the Philippine government are located. Otherwise it has its share of garbage, filthy streets, clogged drainage, and noise. The area also has a name (San Miguel), a hospice, a church, and an orphanage, and those looking for the hospice will find it on an island.

Today Malacanan is prone to flooding. A century earlier, nearby, on the shores of the Pasig, at Tanduay, near the San Miguel boundary, there were native sugar refineries, the buildings of which are still there and stand out because of a tall chimney. So there were better places to live than San Miguel, such as Malate, which in the early 1900’s was considered a prize residential district with first class apartments and hotels, parks, and the Rizal Memorial Stadium which was built in 1934. It was a handsome stadium where stars such as Babe Ruth, Lefty Gomez, and Jimmy Fox once played and was used by the United States and Philippine Armies as an arsenal and a storehouse. The Japanese army converted it into its headquarters where sentries were placed at every gate and where passers-by who failed to bow, salute or doff their hats were severely punished.

The nuns deplored this and particularly the atrocities and destruction that followed as trapped Japanese frantically fought for their lives. “Once the nuns were dead to the world, but now it was different,” as they experienced the horrors of liberation like everyone else. This was when some of the most inhuman acts against civilians (guilty or not-women, children, and the religious) were committed, and their church was burned to the ground. It was very difficult, very astonishing, for the risks even for nuns were real. (The desecration we should fear, when the long medieval habit, starched wimple and stiff headdress covering shaven heads weren’t respected. You should never touch a nun!) The Japanese intrusion pained them more than it embarrassed them. Up until then they had been cloistered, as if they could remain isolated when the death knell was sounded. One night, the Canillas family of Leveriza was tortured, and all of them killed at Harrison Park. The lawyer’s five daughters were raped and then killed by Japanese soldiers. The discovery reached the nuns in their convent and that was when they could anticipate their own fate.

There were those who sought refuge when there was no escape, and afterwards there was no way to forget. The nuns, in similar fashion, wanted to forget in order to be rid of resentment. For a while they tried by adhering to a strict regimen that governed their whole day. Tempered by diligence and by a strict routine from morning to night, but could they ever forget? Could they really remove rancor from their hearts? Yes, they tried. And they rebuilt their convent, as their church was rebuilt, and as they tried, they once again retreated from the world. They also tried by erecting walls of silence and through prayer (and covered themselves with black shrouds). They didn’t foresee the day when things would change. They wanted to remain faithful to Jesus and not make a mockery of their vows. As far as they were concerned, Jesus was the straight path that would save them from themselves. So they spoke only at certain times; their letters were censored; they weren’t allowed to read newspapers or magazines, watch television or go to movies; they were put on rations and ate only when it was time to eat. And at no time could they complain because they weren’t allowed to have opinions of their own. (This was what life was like in these communities, every facet of life regimented.) Like all those who took the same vows, before the Vatican Council II changed everything, they were all supposed to be the same, when of course they were individuals. Thus when reform came as early as 1964, the most obvious change began with a change of dress. First, the skirt was shortened to mid-calf, then to just below the knees…although now it is much shorter because of current fashion. After that the headdress was modified to reveal the ears, then the neck; now part of the hair is shown. Then heavens forbid, they could choose what clothes to wear, and many of them chose to wear everyday dresses, or “lay clothes.” “But we’re not changing for the sake of change,” Sister Romona Mendiola stressed. Instead they wanted to be human. Before then there had been so many restrictions that they were ignorant of the realities outside the convent walls.

Randy Ford

Randy Ford Author- POSTE RESTANTE Manila 50th Installment

Deep within the dungeons unseen grates opened and water rushed in. The tide was high then. I looked up and then down fearing my fate. Was it really too late? Then in the depths of my confused mind I saw a faint ray of hope. If I could only climb up and find a pocket of air, maybe… I was weak, but I used the wall. I knew that some things were irreversible (such as death) or that even if the water stopped coming in the chances were slim that all of it would drain out. Thus the river and the Japs would win.

Manila was then in our hands (the Americans) except for the dungeons and the tunnels where I was held. A few snipers were still stubbornly firing from the ruins of the fort. Without knowing any of this, I hoped I hadn’t been forgotten. By then I was held prisoner more by my own fear than anything else, and I was certain that I’d be killed either by the Japs or inveterately by my liberators. The certainty of my death (though it was less certain than I thought) seemed in keeping with what I was sure the Japs wanted to do to me. (Later I learned that the few Japs that were left refused an offer to surrender made in their own language by a Japanese/American, but thankfully a few of them were taken prisoner anyway.) “This hell was a fabrication of the theirs,” I thought. I had explored the exterior and interior of it (this hell) and hadn’t found a way to escape. “The Japs who created it were killed, and I lived.” I noted the irony and said, “The Japs who created it were mad men.” I said it and meant it after I found out that more than 3,000 men, women, and children were burned to death after they were enticed into the fort with an offer of protection. It was impossible to justify the horror while I knew the palpable fear that they must’ve felt. I could go on. Others could fill in the blanks and verify the interminable, the atrocious, and the senseless. At first cautiously, later indifferently, and finally desperately, I crawled toward the grate hoping that I could open it. To the grate! To freedom or death! My dungeon was a structure that also served as a bomb shelter; its was solidly built of earth and stone and as solid as a vault. In the dungeon I crawled, knowing about the tide and the grate. It was dark and dank, as I felt my way to the end of the corridor and passed other cells or pits, incredibly open like mine was. I became a blinded centipede while large numbers were being murdered in other parts of the city. Other prisoners, who had clung to life for so long, died without making the effort I did. I wanted to live. But I don’t know how much of it was real. I know that for many years it got mixed up in my mind, and I’m no longer able to separate truth from fiction or sleep through the night. It has kept me from being strong or happy. It was so horrible that it contaminated my future and jeopardized everything. I don’t want to talk about the cries of tortured souls, the bleeding children and women hanging naked from bars of cells, the crimes committed by Lieut-Colonel Seichi Ohta.

I emerged after having tasted the ravages of war and more bitterly after having experienced the torture chamber known as Fort Santiago. I don’t remember the stages I went through, or the time I had to give up to regain my sanity. I only know that the affects never left me. Often I wake up with cold sweats, and I can think of nothing else. This nightmare, now so much a part of me, could’ve been avoided had I given up. My imprisonment in Fort Santiago was so horrible that I feel that I won’t be fazed by anything in future. Let’s hope that’s true.

III
Those who saw the devastation of Malate know how it has risen from the embers of war. When I walked along the Dakota estero, which usually flooded after a heavy rain, I was reminded that the area used to be a swamp. Of course, I had to rely on the accounts of others and what I have read to learn about how my neighborhood has been rebuilt many times after earthquakes, fires, floods, and wars. Malate’s people as a whole have always been God-fearing…a trait that helped them remain hopeful and courageous and rebuild after each catastrophe. At first, I thought it had something to do with a devout faith in their saint, Nuestra Senora de los Romedios of Our Lady of the Healing Powers; then I saw that there was more to it than that. You can never remove the human factor. It takes more than ceremony. Attesting to this fact was how hard people worked. Or the sacrifices people made. Take the pain mothers suffered for their sick children when they walked on their knees from the front of Malate church to the altar while reciting the rosary. Suddenly, expecting a miracle, they felt better and often their children got better. Regardless whether they experienced a miracle or not, so great was the relief which overwhelmed them (and so great was their worry) that I suppose they had every reason to believe that God cared. The swamp dried out, and streets were laid out, later avenues and boulevards appeared, Herran to the north, Taft to the east, Vito Cruz to the south and Roxas to the west.

Randy Ford