Red sun over Manila Bay
By Gina Zamora Cowell
Part 1 of 2
When I was growing up in Manila, my grandparent's siblings and their grandchildren would join my own
extended family for lunch, making it a tight squeeze at the dining table. We'd play bingo after lunch, and the
grandchildren would take sides, cheering for grandmother, cousin, brother, or parent. Then quiet would
descend and conversation would turn to "wartime."
Among Filipinos of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, nothing eclipses the experiences of the
World War II Japanese occupation and the battles to liberate the Philippines. On December 8, 1941, at about
the same time Pearl Harbor was attacked, devout Filipinos were at church for the feast of the Immaculate
Conception. No one was ready when Japanese bombs fell on Manila. Monching Revilla, my father's cousin,
was courting a young woman that day, and he never came home. As the Japanese occupation took root, my
grandmother's brother, Herman Boncan, fled to the mountains to join the guerillas. His body was dumped in
front of his house after the Japanese caught him. We knew of others who were tortured in Fort Santiago, the
Spanish fortress within Intramuros, the walls around the old city of Manila. Among torture techniques used was
a water hose forced into prisoners' mouths until water poured out through the nose and filled the lungs and the
prisoner all but drowns. Waterboarding is nothing new.
Part 1 of 2
When I was growing up in Manila, my grandparent's siblings and their grandchildren would join my own
extended family for lunch, making it a tight squeeze at the dining table. We'd play bingo after lunch, and the
grandchildren would take sides, cheering for grandmother, cousin, brother, or parent. Then quiet would
descend and conversation would turn to "wartime."
Among Filipinos of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, nothing eclipses the experiences of the
World War II Japanese occupation and the battles to liberate the Philippines. On December 8, 1941, at about
the same time Pearl Harbor was attacked, devout Filipinos were at church for the feast of the Immaculate
Conception. No one was ready when Japanese bombs fell on Manila. Monching Revilla, my father's cousin,
was courting a young woman that day, and he never came home. As the Japanese occupation took root, my
grandmother's brother, Herman Boncan, fled to the mountains to join the guerillas. His body was dumped in
front of his house after the Japanese caught him. We knew of others who were tortured in Fort Santiago, the
Spanish fortress within Intramuros, the walls around the old city of Manila. Among torture techniques used was
a water hose forced into prisoners' mouths until water poured out through the nose and filled the lungs and the
prisoner all but drowns. Waterboarding is nothing new.
| After General Douglas McArthur's escape to Australia, the American troop left behind surrendered to Japan on April 9, 1942. The last American and Filipino stronghold in Corregidor was turned over to the Japanese, and the infamous horror-filled Bataan Death March(1) began. Prisoners suffering from wounds, malaria, and starvation were forced to march 90 miles from Mariveles in Bataan to Camp O'Donnell in Tarlac, without food, water, or rest. Many were beaten to death or bayoneted if they fell by the wayside. I've met former American soldiers in Wisconsin who survived the Death March; some talked about nightmares that still haunt them many years after the march. “When the Elephants Dance” One of today's well known Filipino-American writers is Tess Uriza Holthe, who wrote a 2002 national best seller, “When the Elephants Dance.” There are no elephants in the Philippines, and the title is relevant only because of the phrase, "chickens don't come out." Ms. Holthe was born and raised in San Francisco, and has never been to the Philippines. Her father, Salvador Uriza, kept his children tied to the Filipino culture with tales of the supernatural, ghosts, and magic. At the same time, Mr. Uriza and his mother told stories of their harrowing years during the Japanese occupation. “When the Elephants Dance” blends the supernatural with war experiences, encapsulating Filipino culture and this one defining part of history. The reality of the cruelty and atrocities is relieved by the magical and whimsical stories of harpies, enchanted places, and ghosts of people and fish. This book is well worth reading. Every family has stories of their own When my mother's father, Alfonso Recto, died in 1936 after a long illness, the family, whose main income was his salary as a judge of the Court of First Instance, had only the earnings of a gas station to rely on. My grandmother Maria was very ill with cancer and by 1942, her jewelry and other family heirlooms had been sold to purchase medication. With the gas station an obvious prize the Japanese would inevitably seize, my mother Helen, then 18 years old, and her six brothers had few options. So, like many other families, they left Manila to join their mother's brother, Domingo Lopez, for the duration of the occupation in Tayabas, in what is now Quezon Province. Maria Recto died in Tayabas during this period. My mother told her children tales of the joys of a simple life in Tayabas. She had mastered Chopin's Nocturne in E Flat and whenever she played the piano, people gathered outside the house to listen. She still played this piece many years later. She became the belle of the town, and delighted in nightly haranas by young men, singing love songs accompanied by a guitar under her window. With both parents dead, my mother, who had three older brothers and three younger brothers, became the surrogate mother of her younger brothers, sewing their clothes by hand and looking after them. She remembered Japanese soldiers who came by often to play with the children, showing them pictures of their families in Japan for whom they were homesick. They were especially kind to the children and brought them extra food to eat. She thought the mercenary soldiers from Korea were more cruel. My father's family, the Zamoras, stayed in Manila throughout the occupation. The Japanese commandeered their house and the taxis from the family's company. They occupied the rear of the house; seven adults and a baby occupied the kitchen, the laundry room, and one bedroom and bath to share. The Japanese printed currency, rendering the peso useless. In its place was what Filipinos called "Micky Mouse" money, bags of which could not buy a loaf of bread or a kavan of rice. The fleet of taxis was reduced to one small bus driven by my father Didy and his older brother Peping. They took turns driving and collecting the bus fare from riders. But their main task was foraging for food to keep the family from starving. They could have had a small garden, but the Japanese soldiers usually demanded the harvest for themselves. I have seen pictures taken after the war where everyone was underweight. My father must have weighed only about 100 lbs. Looking for food was foremost in their minds. My aunt, on her death bed more than 60 years later, had dreams of anxiously waiting for her brothers to come home safely with food for all of them. "Saan si Peping at si Didy? Nandito na ba sila?" (Where are Peping and Didy? Are they here yet?) We heard her agitated voice uttered from deep in her unconscious mind, reaching back to these moments of great uncertainty. Next and final installment will be on the aftermath of World War II. 1See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bataan_Death_March for a side article |