Red sun over Manila Bay
By Gina Zamora Cowell
Part 2 of 2
Other stories were filed away in my memories. The baby of a mestiza raped by a Japanese soldier was
adopted by my grandfather's sister and her Spanish husband. The baby looked like a mestiza, and no other
explanation was needed. When she had children, two out of four children looked Japanese. Another incident
always sent chills down our spine because Japanese soldiers gathered up Filipino men whenever a soldier of
theirs was killed. For every Japanese soldier killed, Filipinos were killed until the identity of the killer was
revealed. My grandfather, father and uncle were in such a circumstance. They were pushed, blind-folded and
lined up against a wall for execution, but the hum of a low flying plane, possibly American, disrupted the
execution, and everyone was able to run away.
“When the Elephants Dance” describes the atrocities committed during the Japanese occupation, the
torture men went through, and the experience of "comfort women." These were stories that did not come up
during our family's Sunday bingo games. Maybe the adults felt that there were too many children present.
Tess Uriza Hothe wrote about corpses lying on the streets, rotting because no one could bury them. Many of
us were glued to Public Television last September when Ken Burns' documentary “The War” was shown, all
the more so for me because I had never seem film footage nor photos of Manila during the war. Scenes of
rotting corpses piled higher than five feet chilled me to the bone. It must have been a daily reminder of loss
too deep for words to adequately express the defeat of the spirit.
Part 2 of 2
Other stories were filed away in my memories. The baby of a mestiza raped by a Japanese soldier was
adopted by my grandfather's sister and her Spanish husband. The baby looked like a mestiza, and no other
explanation was needed. When she had children, two out of four children looked Japanese. Another incident
always sent chills down our spine because Japanese soldiers gathered up Filipino men whenever a soldier of
theirs was killed. For every Japanese soldier killed, Filipinos were killed until the identity of the killer was
revealed. My grandfather, father and uncle were in such a circumstance. They were pushed, blind-folded and
lined up against a wall for execution, but the hum of a low flying plane, possibly American, disrupted the
execution, and everyone was able to run away.
“When the Elephants Dance” describes the atrocities committed during the Japanese occupation, the
torture men went through, and the experience of "comfort women." These were stories that did not come up
during our family's Sunday bingo games. Maybe the adults felt that there were too many children present.
Tess Uriza Hothe wrote about corpses lying on the streets, rotting because no one could bury them. Many of
us were glued to Public Television last September when Ken Burns' documentary “The War” was shown, all
the more so for me because I had never seem film footage nor photos of Manila during the war. Scenes of
rotting corpses piled higher than five feet chilled me to the bone. It must have been a daily reminder of loss
too deep for words to adequately express the defeat of the spirit.
Early in January 1945, the Americans landed at three locations. The first landing was in Lingayen Gulf where General Douglas MacArthur,
his staff, and Filipino members of what would make up the caretaker government, had their picture taken upon arrival and wading on to the
shore to create the legend of a general fulfilling his promise to the Filipinos, "I shall return." MacArthur, knowing how to maneuver himself into
history, insisted on the picture taken more than once. Based on information passed on by Filipino guerillas, the American armed forces sped to
their first destination in Manila to free the Americans and Europeans interred at the University of Santo Tomas (UST), whose campus was used
as a prison camp. During the internment, Filipinos passed food to the Americans across the fenced wall, but this was never enough, and many
people died of disease and malnutrition.
General Yamashita, the commander-in-chief of the Japanese forces in the Philippines, withdrew his forces from Manila to Baguio City in
northern Luzon to set a tactical strategy to defend Japan from a possible American invasion from there. He left Manila under the command of
the naval General Iwabuchi. Filipino President Manuel Quezon declared Manila an open city, but he was ignored by Iwabuchi. Iwabuchi
ignited the Battle of Manila, lasting from February 3 to March 3, 1945, until the last Japanese holdout surrendered to the American forces.
The Battle of Manila between the Japanese and the Americans left Manila levelled to the ground (only Warsaw suffered more among Allied
capitals during the war years) and it was the only capital city destroyed in the Pacific. At the end, more than 100,000 non-combatants were
killed in Manila alone, many of whom were women and children. The toll for the dead and wounded was also high for Filipinos, Americans and
Japanese troops. Cruelties to prisoners of war and repressive occupation conditioned Filipinos to expect the worst, but they did not expect
extreme behavior that surfaced at this time.
My grandfather said that this period separated the good from the bad. It brought friends and families closer. When the bombs started to drop,
he kept the family together, but they all had to run from one building to another, from one ruin to another. The Ermita, Malate and Paco
neighborhoods were the most heavily damaged, and their house was in the middle of this hell hole. They tried to cross a narrow river south to
Pasay City where my grandmother's sisters' house still stood, but they were too late; the Japanese destroyed all bridges and cut off electric and
telephone lines, and the water supply. They ran with a baby who cried most of the time, so they had to hide where no Japanese was present. My
thin father ran carrying his cousin on his back. They rushed to a shelter that was already occupied by another family, but this family pushed
them away. As my family zigzagged between gunfire trying to find another place to hide, a bomb fell on the first shelter and that whole family
died. Many people ran to churches for sanctuary, but the Japanese came in, locked the doors and gunned them all down. I don't even want to
write about what they did to women and babies.
No family stories, at least when I was around, were told after this period. Many more details may have been discussed among the adults,
much too inappropriate for children's ears. My parents got married towards the end of 1946, so life must have come back to some kind of
normalcy. I've seen the film of Japan's surrender to MacArthur aboard a U.S. carrier. It is not clear whether or not Filipino leaders were invited to
attend and given prominent places of honor to witness the defeat of an enemy who for three years shook the foundations of the country and its
people. Neither do I remember if members of the Filipino underground, so crucial to the American victory, were represented.
Almost all of the two generations that lived through the war are gone now. No one is left in my mother's family, and only one aunt is left in my
father's family. A cousin has taken over my grandfather's house and filled it with his antique and jade collections, pushing the memories of the
gentler time when as children we would gather around the dining table after Sunday lunch, play bingo and talk of the past.
his staff, and Filipino members of what would make up the caretaker government, had their picture taken upon arrival and wading on to the
shore to create the legend of a general fulfilling his promise to the Filipinos, "I shall return." MacArthur, knowing how to maneuver himself into
history, insisted on the picture taken more than once. Based on information passed on by Filipino guerillas, the American armed forces sped to
their first destination in Manila to free the Americans and Europeans interred at the University of Santo Tomas (UST), whose campus was used
as a prison camp. During the internment, Filipinos passed food to the Americans across the fenced wall, but this was never enough, and many
people died of disease and malnutrition.
General Yamashita, the commander-in-chief of the Japanese forces in the Philippines, withdrew his forces from Manila to Baguio City in
northern Luzon to set a tactical strategy to defend Japan from a possible American invasion from there. He left Manila under the command of
the naval General Iwabuchi. Filipino President Manuel Quezon declared Manila an open city, but he was ignored by Iwabuchi. Iwabuchi
ignited the Battle of Manila, lasting from February 3 to March 3, 1945, until the last Japanese holdout surrendered to the American forces.
The Battle of Manila between the Japanese and the Americans left Manila levelled to the ground (only Warsaw suffered more among Allied
capitals during the war years) and it was the only capital city destroyed in the Pacific. At the end, more than 100,000 non-combatants were
killed in Manila alone, many of whom were women and children. The toll for the dead and wounded was also high for Filipinos, Americans and
Japanese troops. Cruelties to prisoners of war and repressive occupation conditioned Filipinos to expect the worst, but they did not expect
extreme behavior that surfaced at this time.
My grandfather said that this period separated the good from the bad. It brought friends and families closer. When the bombs started to drop,
he kept the family together, but they all had to run from one building to another, from one ruin to another. The Ermita, Malate and Paco
neighborhoods were the most heavily damaged, and their house was in the middle of this hell hole. They tried to cross a narrow river south to
Pasay City where my grandmother's sisters' house still stood, but they were too late; the Japanese destroyed all bridges and cut off electric and
telephone lines, and the water supply. They ran with a baby who cried most of the time, so they had to hide where no Japanese was present. My
thin father ran carrying his cousin on his back. They rushed to a shelter that was already occupied by another family, but this family pushed
them away. As my family zigzagged between gunfire trying to find another place to hide, a bomb fell on the first shelter and that whole family
died. Many people ran to churches for sanctuary, but the Japanese came in, locked the doors and gunned them all down. I don't even want to
write about what they did to women and babies.
No family stories, at least when I was around, were told after this period. Many more details may have been discussed among the adults,
much too inappropriate for children's ears. My parents got married towards the end of 1946, so life must have come back to some kind of
normalcy. I've seen the film of Japan's surrender to MacArthur aboard a U.S. carrier. It is not clear whether or not Filipino leaders were invited to
attend and given prominent places of honor to witness the defeat of an enemy who for three years shook the foundations of the country and its
people. Neither do I remember if members of the Filipino underground, so crucial to the American victory, were represented.
Almost all of the two generations that lived through the war are gone now. No one is left in my mother's family, and only one aunt is left in my
father's family. A cousin has taken over my grandfather's house and filled it with his antique and jade collections, pushing the memories of the
gentler time when as children we would gather around the dining table after Sunday lunch, play bingo and talk of the past.