REMEMBERING MR. SORIA

IT was 3 o’clock in the morning, Thursday, just after I was tired reading a law book, when I thought of browsing on the recent posts in my Facebook account, which I seldom do after I have enrolled in a review school. That was when I chanced upon a post in our high school group account announcing the death (on July 10) of Mr. Marcelino Soria, our former teacher in high school. He was 80 years old.

So while most Filipinos had been topping up the blogosphere with their tributes to the Comedy King Dolphy, who died on the same day, I have this space of my blog only for my old mentor.

It’s true that you’ll never know the importance of a person to you until you’ve lost him. Now you weep for lost opportunities to talk to that person again and thanked him a lot for whatever good things he had done for you to become what you are now.

Mr. Soria was more than a teacher to me. He remains an integral part of my high school life in Narvacan. He was our teacher in Social Studies, our Citizens Army Training commandant, and most importantly, my mentor in campus journalism. I now have this sweet awareness that I had been one of his many, many students, in a single aspect of his productive life as a writer and a mentor. He was the adviser of our high school paper The Pioneer, where I served as editor-in-chief during my senior year.

I remember when I first joined the competitive test for new members of the school paper. I was in second year, a transferee from a private school in another town. First time applicants like me were asked to write a feature story about a person. And in spite of the many persons that I knew so well about, I chose as my subject the school janitor. I painted in words how Manong Temyong would push his wheelbarrow filled to the brim with dried leaves and some litter he picked up around the campus, unmindful of the many students worming about him and the heat of the noonday sun. I described how his muscles and the arteries bulged in his arms as he pushed his rickety cart, his sweat streaming down his face. 

A day or two after the exams, Mr. Soria peeked through the window of our classroom, and asked our class adviser who was teaching us that day to have “this boy Valdez” stand up for him. So I stood up before this middle-aged, medium-built bespectacled man with a ready smile, chinky eyes and raspy voice. 

He instructed me to come to The Pioneer office during my vacant period. I learned later that he was so impressed with my feature story that he had to personally seek “this boy” who can write descriptions so very well. 

Soon, he gave me a bundle of back issues of The Pioneer. He wanted me to study right away everything about the campus paper, its structure, parts and contents. This was the start of my three-year life as a campus writer under his tutelage. Then I learned from him that for the past seven years, or since 1981, our school hadn’t won the over-all championship in the Division Secondary Schools Press Conference (DSSPC), a provincial-level competition for school organs. Mr. Soria was hard pressed to train his staff to be the best that they could be and regain the title.

Once he told me how he got hooked into reading early in life; he would stay for long hours under the shade of a tree to read. And this endeared me to this man, because I was also doing these things in our barrio. Sometimes I would bring a book with me when I send my cow to the pasture. I would read under the shade of a camachile tree, under an electric post, or in a breach in riverbanks.   

The man is both strict and funny in the classroom. He would berate a student for a bungled recitation, as a grumpy old colonel would to a clumsy private. His now classic words “Likkabek ta durekmo (I’ll scrape out your ear wax)” and “Isab-itka dita dingding (I’ll hang you to the wall),” were some of his most-liked expressions in class. And he could be like a neighborhood tippler in telling funny stories, most of them having an imprint of a pilosopo. It’s always fun to listen to his stories though.

While still a beginner or trainee in the staff, Mr. Soria chose me to compete in the feature writing contest. I only placed 11th in my first outing to the annual provincial level competition. I was promoted associate editor in the next year, and I was again qualified to compete in the competition, and this time I copped top ten places in editorial and news writing.

My close relationship with Mr. Soria was highlighted when I was in my senior year. Though he had already appointed me editor-in-chief, I still tried my luck in school politics, and without consulting him. I ran for 4th year representative for the student government. But an incident happened during the campaign period, which almost caused me, together with four of my classmates, an expulsion from school. My classmates and I admitted our fault, as we have no choice, and pleaded with our parents to the principal to give us a chance. We were reprieved but on my part, I was disqualified as candidate in the election. Some teachers had even asked Mr. Soria to recall my appointment as EIC of The Pioneer. But he wouldn’t want me out. Receiving that trust from him was my defining moment as a high school student.

This began a very intense and productive time in my training with him. I also started joining him in his trip to a printing press in Laoag to proofread the galley of our school paper.  

And learning from him was never hard work because I genuinely enjoyed reading and writing. It was in this period that I started writing poems and short stories. It helped that I was editor-in-chief of the publication. I was given enough confidence. 

And my hard work paid off. In my last year to compete in the DSSPC, I captured the highest award, the overall individual championship for garnering the highest points in the annual competition. And best of all, The Pioneer won its first overall championship award, its first in eight years. I didn't fail my mentor.

When he learned that I will be going to UNP Vigan for my college education, he challenged me to get the highest position in the university paper. And which I did and held the top position of our campus paper Tandem for two consecutive years.  
After graduation from college, I was hired as a part-time high school teacher, substituting for my father who filed an indefinite leave of absence from a private school that year. So I went to Mr. Soria, who was retired by then, as a loyal student would to his aged master, not only to report what I have achieved but also to seek his advice for my career path. I went to his rented place, a house near our high school campus. I told him I would be handling journalism subject and was tasked to handle the campus paper. Only five years have passed since I left him and The Pioneer after my high school graduation, and I became a school paper adviser like him. I told him I wanted to be a good mentor like him who would train or inspire future writers. His invaluable assistance and support in my high school life, and this time his fatherly advice, will never be forgotten and will always have a lasting impact on my life. 

And that was the last time I saw him in person. After only a year of teaching, I moved to Manila, worked in a big publishing house and soon established my residence in Bulacan. So I felt a profound sense of loss, for all of the richness of our relationship and the many years it could have continued, if only I had kept in touch with him.  

But then I’ve been so fortunate to be that kind of his student who would take all his lessons to heart, and hopefully I will pass it on to my future students, if ever I would teach again.

Rest in peace, Sir.

PO-ON: SELF-SACRIFICE AND NATIONAL UNITY

BEING an Ilocano myself, and having known much of our own history and language, I take pride of having read F. Sionil Jose’s Po-on (Dusk), the first in the five-book series The Rosales Saga. It’s the same feeling I had, as a Filipino and proud member of the Malay race, after reading the English versions of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, two classic novels of Jose Rizal.

The setting of Rizal’s Noli and Fili is a fictional town called San Diego (possibly in Laguna), but the issues transcend the locale of the novel. It depicts the general struggle of the Filipino against abuses by the friars and the ambivalence of the ruling class. It is set at the time when the Philippines was still a province of Mother Spain.

Sionil Jose’s Po-on, on the other hand, is set in Cabugao in Ilocos Sur, my home province, and ultimately in Rosales, Pangasinan, the author’s birthplace. It initially describes the plight of the Ilocanos at the hands of the abusive Spanish rulers during the later part of their rule in the region, and the start of the American conquest, following the Spanish-American war. But toward the end of the novel, it conveys a message that deals with nationalism or the question of our identity as Filipinos.

The novels of Rizal and Sionil Jose both deal on poverty, poor governance and human rights abuses during the Spanish time, with emphasis on the lecherous, potbellied friars who rule the land and oppress the people. But while Noli and Fili are seen through the eyes of an ilustrado (Crisostomo Ibarra a.k.a. Simoun the Jeweler), Po-on is seen through the eyes of a poor indio named Istak (Eustaquio Salvador/Samson), who went with his family in exodus from Ilocos to Pangasinan to escape from the wrath of the Spaniards after the grisly killing of a parish priest. The journey of the family filled with tragedies is comparable with that of Tom Joad’s family in John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, who also got to their Promised Land but in the end, something had to be sacrificed in the name of duty.

Having moved by the powerful and intense narration of the Po-on, I felt a pang of conscience and regret for having read only a few emotionally charged fictions written by our own nationalist authors that really speak about us—our past, our present, and our future. Before Po-on and Rizal’s twin novels, I have read Gagamba also by F. Sionil Jose, Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, and an anthology of short stories by Mindoro native NVM Gonzales. But none that I have read so far, other than Po-on, speaks the history of the resilient and frugal Ilocanos.  

We Ilocanos are well scattered to other parts of the country and to foreign lands, where we account for majority of immigrant Filipinos. They say it’s about our land. Ilocos Region, or Ilocandia, is one of the smallest regions in the country. Add to this fact that the region is sandwiched by the sea in the west and by the rugged mountains in the east, a condition that has made for a very limited amount of arable land for a very industrious people. It was a tough geographical location for us Ilocanos to live in. No wonder, we are stereotyped with regional traits vital for survival, such as tenacious industry, perseverance, resilience, frugality, and pioneering spirit. Because of so very little space in the region, Ilocanos seemingly are duty-bound to move to other places in search for better opportunities not only for their own sake but for the whole clan.

In Po-on, Sionil Jose shows us the other reason for this diaspora, which is the persecution of the Ilocano indios under the Spanish regime. But prior to Istak’s story, the Spaniards weren’t particularly lucky with their conquest of Ilocos. The Ilocanos were one of the first ethnic groups to revolt against Spanish officials. Two of the Philippines’ most notable uprisings were the Basi Revolt in 1807 and the one lead by the lion-hearted Diego Silang of Aringay (now part of La Union) in 1762-63, which was continued by his wife Gabriela Silang. The Silangs’ revolt, which is also well mentioned in Po-on, was fueled by the grievances against Spanish taxation and abuses. The uprisings were short-lived and never duplicated until the twilight of the Castilian rule during Istak’s time.

These abuses by the Spanish rulers subsist in the province up to the last decade of the 19th century. Although one exceptional friar is very kind to young Istak and takes care of him like his own son, that is, teaching him how to pray, write and speak Spanish and Latin, Istak and the rest of the indios are not generally allowed to become priests. So Istak, in spite of his advance education, has to go back to his family and help in his family's farm. Ba-ac begs the new priest to send his son to the seminary, and while they are arguing, Ba-ac realizes that the priest is the one who ordered him to be arrested and hung up by the arm because of an accusation that he was malingering from the duty to offer compulsory road building work for the Spanish. In a fit of fury he kills the priest with a crucifix. Ba-ac’s family has to leave hurriedly, taking the back roads to avoid the Spanish guards. They go with other relatives who have also been expelled from their lands. So the families escape like fugitives and along the way, they encounter the much feared tulisanes and the atrocious Spanish officers. Amidst their adventures are poignant episodes of love and devotion, particularly between Istak and Dalin, his devoted wife and savior, and family solidarity and values.

At the end of the story, we see Americans now taking over but, soon the Filipinos found out that they are as bad as the Spanish. American soldiers would torture and rape the poor natives. Don Jacinto, the local landowner who helps them set up a small village in Rosales town, is very much involved in the independence movement and Istak soon starts helping him, particularly when a man known as the Cripple (Apolinario Mabini) stays at the house of Don Jacinto. Finally, Istak is sent off on a dangerous mission to take a message to President Emilio Aguinaldo but ends up at the last brave stand of El Presidente's loyal soldiers at Tirad Pass, where Istak was shot dead by the Americans.

Istak, a martyr in a very real sense, is aglow with patriotic fervor until his death. He understands that love for country, which involves sacrifice, is essential to discovering the meaning of his own existence. And true enough, he gave honor to the country by proving to the white invaders that Filipinos are capable of offering their dear lives, not only for their clan, but for our country's freedom. Sadly, this is all in the past tense. We now live in a curious era where most Filipinos wanted to be Americans or Europeans, and most of our politicians are bereft of patriotism in their service to the nation.

The Cripple in the novel says it with fire and ice: "There is so much that the past can teach us… Diego Silang—more than a hundred years ago, what did he prove? That with a brilliant and selfless leader, we can be united the way he united the north. And united, we can then make Filipinas strong, formidable…”

Of course, today there are no more colonizers to contend with, but we still have many wars to fight. There is the war on poverty, rampant corruption in government transactions, poor governance, and the never-ending struggle for national unity. Po-on clearly tells us that our dream to have selfless leaders, who know the value of self-sacrifice, and citizenry that is truly united for the country remains a dream.

I must say, Po-on is a must-read for every Filipino if we only want to educate our countrymen about our glorious past.