Women of the War

As we Filipinos go about our daily lives, we are often blissfully unaware that the streets we navigate had been the sites of massive devastation about seven decades ago, during the Second World War. A lot of people lost their lives in bloody massacres. Whole city blocks were vaporized in a matter of minutes. An incredible amount of art works, treasures, books, and other manifestations of the cultural wealth of our country was lost forever.

Unaware of the destruction of the past, a number of our citizens have the impression that it is normal for urban centers to be so bereft of heritage resources, to be so stripped of meaningful connections with the past. Sadly, because we were not surrounded by heritage structures while we were growing up, we find very little use for such things, considering old buildings and other tokens of tradition as garbage that must be eliminated. Writer Bambi Harper likes to point out that after World War II, many of the facades of the churches of Intramuros were actually still standing. Yet instead of rebuilding such revered edifices - the way many cities in Europe had done - top officials decided to bulldoze away the last vestiges of the historic core of Manila. Such lack of concern for heritage structures would have been unthinkable in other civilized countries. In the same way, foreigners are often unable to imagine how such an architectural jewel as the Jai Alai building could have been so insolently torn down with such haste - despite public protest - only for the site to be left idle up to this day.

Filipinos travelling abroad are usually surprised to find whole neighborhoods filled with stately buildings from another era. Even in such bustling places like Delhi, Boston, London, Paris, and Florence it is quite common to have street upon street of edifices which are several hundred years old, still well maintained and vibrant. We sometimes think this situation is amazing, not realizing that this continuity with the past is really the norm in much of the world. Sadly, it is Manila which is unique even in South East Asia for having lost so much of its heritage structures because of the massive damage of war, because of the effect of centuries of typhoons and earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions, plus human neglect.

It is therefore a cause for joy when we happen upon places in the Philippines where the past is still cared for and very much present. One such place is Vigan.

Visiting this UNESCO World Heritage city is truly a treat for those who have a longing for days of yore. It is probably the only town in the country where one can still see endless streetscapes of lovely old houses and shops. I recall sleeping in an ancient ancestral home in Vigan and waking to a vista of mist settling on tiled roofs. One feels transported, mesmerized by the strange tangibility of vanished worlds.

Inevitably, the question is asked: Why did Vigan survive?

The answer to this puzzle lies at the heart of a new play, Babae ng Digmaan, that will be presented at the Meralco Theater on September 10, 2011. The story of why Ilocos Sur’s gracious capital still stands intact is truly a magical tale, a narrative which is worth savoring.

As in all such tales of magic, the circumstances have something to do with matters of the heart. Filipinos are used to stereotypical images of the brutality of Japanese soldiers during the Second World War. What is often lost among such trite images are the nuances of the many relationships which arose between the people of Japan and the Philippines. After all, migrants from the Empire of the Sun have been living in the Philippines for a long time. During the War, even as there were instances of cruelty and violence, there were also moments of tenderness and compassion.

In the case of Vigan, two love affairs blossomed and bore fruit. The first was between Belen Castillo and Major Sakae Narloka . The second involved Adela Tolentino and Captain Fujiro Takahashi. So concerned were the Japanese officers for their wives and families that they would bravely defy their superiors’ orders to burn Vigan. All they asked for their acts of courage was that their loved ones be spared by the citizenry from the sad fate of others who had become intimately associated with the departing defeated former conquerors.

Working with his own script and with music by Ato del Rosario, director Sonny Cristobal with the full support of Vigan mayor, Eva Singson Medina, has put together a fascinating production. What is interesting to note is how Sonny allows fabric to actively participate in the play. Among the features that add to the integrity of Vigan is the fact that its crafts industries are still very much alive. Weaving is one of the more prominent products of the city’s many craftspersons. It makes a lot of sense then that images of cloth and clothmaking would play important roles in “Babae ng Digmaan”.

In one scene, one sees the women busily spinning thread, while in another scene the elaborate costumes made from local textiles add character and color. Perhaps the most moving episode is a love sequence involving the two main characters carried out beneath a layer of finely woven cotton mosquito net cloth. This subtle enshrouding member makes the moment especially poignant even while it is suffused with a languid eroticism. After all the kulambo or mosquito net has always been a well known metaphor in Philippine life for marital relations.

Another noteworthy feature of the production is the fact that the cast are all newly trained actors. A large number of them are, in fact, working in the offices of the city government. Their performances, while professional also carry a certain freshness.

By the time one gets to the triumphant end one cannot refrain, however, from thinking about what the celebration is really all about. After all, even as the Second World War ends, innumerable disasters and problems still await the fledgling Philippine Republic. Yet one realizes that this play is reminding us that there is certainly much to be grateful for. One gives thanks that in places like Vigan, the horror of war could still produce a thing of beauty: a tale of how the sense of being human transcends race and prejudice, ambitions and intrigues.

Fabrics from the Forest

text and some photos by Ino Manalo

The island of Borneo is so vast that it can swallow up the entire area of the Philippines with room to spare. This enormous land mass is divided into four territories: Sarawak and Sabah which belong to Malaysia, Kalimantan which is part of Indonesia, and the Sultanate of Brunei. Borneo is South East Asia’s essential green lung with the largest expanse of tropical rain forest left in this part of the planet. Sadly, this critical resource is often under threat. Annually, countless trees are being cut down for lumber and to make way for new towns.

With this alarming destruction of habitat, many plants and animals are disappearing - taking their precious genes with them. Likewise, the Bornean peoples that have, for centuries, mastered the gentle art of living in harmony with the forest are losing their indigenous knowledge, victims of the forgetfulness that is part of the spell cast by modern civilization.

Walking around Kuching, Sarawak’s capital, I was struck by the fact that there are yet sections where one feels the presence of the factors which have always defined Borneo life: the river and the jungle. Amidst the speeding cars and ritzy fast food establishments are huge trees rising majestically above multistoried apartment blocks. Parks with broad lawns seem almost half wild, as if the luxuriant tropical growth had paused briefly for a dalliance with modernity. It is tempting to pretend that contemporary life can coexist with the primeval.

Among Kuching’s main attractions is a museum which a popular guidebook has described as among the best in the region. The crowded exhibits are remnants of a colonial era. They are suffused with a perspective which views the products of Sarawak’s many traditional communities as mere examples illustrating the idea of the primitive. The notion that the inhabitants of this forested realm could weave or sculpt fascinating pieces worthy of careful study would only arise long after the museum had been set-up.

Not too far away is a small compact district of ancient riverside shophouses that had been the center of trade for generations. At present, these buildings host chic cafes as well as tourist establishments. One of the shophouses has been converted into an elegant gallery featuring the works of local artists. On the top floor is the store filled with the fashionable creations of my friend, Edric Ong. Wooden armoires hold innovative shirts and blouses. Racks display the boutique’s signature pieces: lovely silk shawls where the colors of the earth intermingle.

Architect – turned couturier – turned community development worker, Edric Ong is truly a Sarawak institution. I first met this remarkable man during a conference ran by the Madras Craft Foundation in India. We were both invited to speak about our projects on crafts. I made a presentation on the fiesta of Angono while Edric spoke on the weaving program that he was involved in with a group of women living in the forests of Sarawak.

My new-found Malaysian friend would eventually invite me to his hometown. Every other year, Edric, with the help of the members of the Atelier Sarawak , organizes the WEFT Forum which is a symposium for eco- fabrics. Speakers come from all over to share information about weaving practices which employed time-honored techniques along with organic dyes and fibers. It was truly a joy to spend whole afternoons just listening to people discussing their images of and insights into a galaxy of textiles.

Since any appreciation of fabrics is inevitably intertwined with garments, it was not surprising that the centerpiece of the symposium was a fashion show. The WEFT Forum production was a highlight of the Kuching social season. Everyone turned up to watch designers from Thailand, India, the Philippines, Japan, and Korea transform the textiles that had been the erstwhile subjects of academic dissertations into living creations walking down the ramp.

What truly made my Borneo visit unforgettable was a brief journey into the heart of the jungle. After listening to lectures about the loom traditions of Sarawak in the air-conditioned comfort of the seminar room, it was a mind-bending experience to find myself on a boat, gliding down the river surrounded by nothing but miles of impenetrable foliage in all directions. What dangers and treasures lay beneath leaf upon leaf, bough upon bough?

As a child, I had read an abbreviated version of an Armstrong Sperry novel about how a boy named Chad travelled through the wilderness to meet up with his explorer father. I have been looking for the complete book ever since. I was mesmerized by one of the illustrations (also done by Sperry) which depicted the young hero lost among gargantuan trees and strange plants with tall crest-like blossoms. I suppose this image was forever more fixed in my mind, a tantalizing prototype of the splendors of the tropics. Decades later, this prototype would finally come to teeming life in Sarawak.

One of the groups that Edric had been working with dwelt in what is called a longhouse. This is a series of residential units made of bamboo and thatch that are all strung together by a lengthy corridor. The entire village lived as one enormous family in a single abode which they graciously shared with us for a few days. Edric was helping the longhouse residents source raw materials as well as find markets for their products. He has been utilizing their traditional weaving for his fashion creations as well as incorporating ancient patterns into new designs. He has also conducted researches on the motifs.

During the day we watched crafts demonstrations, trekked through the forest, or swam in the nearby river. In the evenings, our hosts entertained us with stories as well as songs and dances accompanied by the music of gongs. I learned that women would dream about the patterns that they wove into their fabrics. While preparing for bed in one of the longhouse enclosures, I thought: What luminous cloths were yet being imagined as the evening progressed?

When it came to swimming, I must admit that the idea was bruited about of simply doing away with the last shreds of modesty. After all, we were in the very lap of Nature herself. Who would care? Happily, the more level headed among us were able to appeal to our sense of responsibility, noting that our shocking attempts at sylvan emancipation may very well hasten the demise of endangered species.

The issue of attire having been dealt with, we gave up ourselves to fluvial pursuits. We were children again: splashing, laughing, diving for bright pebbles. I floated on my back and looked up at the sky. It was a field of blue edged by the emerald of leaves. I recall thinking: this is how the heavens must have looked to our ancestors too, long ago as they drifted in the embrace of a primordial forest stream.

After our swim, I watched an old woman make a mat, amazed at how deftly her fingers interlaced the pandan strips. How effortlessly she produced decorations so subtle that they only emerged when the mat was held at a certain angle. Then it occurred to me that the almost imperceptible motif she was creating was akin to the effect of light falling on the rippling surface of the river. What a highly evolved aesthetic sensibility one must have to discern the intricacies of sunshine and water. What unimaginable expertise it must take to replicate this fluid, protean imagery with fiber.

Edric always stresses in his talks that he is only a facilitator. Many of his creations are rooted in the labors and aspirations of Sarawak’s traditional communities whose sources of knowledge come from deep within the viridian womb of Borneo. One can only pray that future generations may still be given the blessing of knowing how much more there is waiting in the quiet places of the rain forest.