We are shaped by what we hate

That magnificent scholar and missionary, Melba Maggay, invited me the other week to speak before ISACC (Institute for Studies in Asian Church and Culture), which she founded sometime back. We have had so many encounters since then and one of them concerned evil and redemption, the theme of my last novel, The Feet of Juan Bacnang. The main address was made by William A. Dryness, a distinguished theologian, who spoke about the Biblical perspectives on culture and the arts. In the course of his lecture, he quoted my favorite Catholic Saint, Augustine: “We are shaped by what we love.”

I gave that quotation a bit of thought and started by saying that we are shaped by what we hate and despise. Hate, after all, is a much stronger emotion; love soon dies, but hate lingers on.

The conference being religious in nature, I went on to say that I am not pious but deeply religious, recognizing God as the greatest Artist — I also regard Jesus as a historical man, a revolutionary who helped in the destruction of the Roman Empire. He told his flock, “I give you not peace but the sword.”

I recalled the days when our country was foremost in the region, but that our colonization in the last hundred years or so has grievously reduced our ethical standards, banished our sense of community and nation. We need to reclaim our faith for religion is, perhaps, the one and only marmoreal foundation of ethics.

I argued that we are Westerners whether we like it or not — Westerners because most of us are Christians, that much of our culture is folk. We must recognize the great gulf between folk and classical traditions. Sure, we have epics, but the Ilokano epic poem, “The Life of Lam-ang,” cannot compare with the Homeric epics. Our folk plays pale before the plays of Aristophanes, or those of Shakespeare which were appreciated by both the masa and the intelligentsia.

Why compare our cultures with those of others? Simple — so we can locate where we are, so we can define ourselves, and finally understand ourselves.

As artists, we must not go down to the level of the masa; we should bring them up, intellectualize our languages, create classics out of our folk arts. We can do this if we are true to our roots and strive for excellence. Our folk arts then become the matrix of our cultural development.

More than this, our art will bind us together, give us our surest identity as a people and as a nation. Without this, we will surely be plowed under by the massive and global homogenization of Western imperialism; its harbingers have already made inroads in our society, creating in us the colonial attitudes which we must banish.

Education, revolution fired by patriotism are our alternatives.

I explained why our communists failed — they were not patriots like the Vietnamese communists who will soon — like other Southeast Asians, progress far ahead of us. Our communists were doctrinaire, seduced and blinded by the communist opiate. For this reason, they were not in EDSA I. If they were there, the power structure as led by the oligarchy would not be what it is today.

For all her brilliance as a writer and historian, Fe Mangahas elevated Cory to the pantheon of the gods. As The Economist declared in her obituary: “Her greatness ended when she became president.” I said Cory betrayed EDSA I. True to her class, she restored the oligarchy. She did nothing to promote agrarian reform contrary to her campaign promises. She had blood on her hands; she was responsible for the massacre of more than 20 demonstrators at Mendiola — a horror which never happened under the worst times of the Marcos dictatorship — and all because she refused to see them. All those hours without power during her rule proved her incompetence; but Filipinos, with no memory, have forgotten these.

Gilda Cordero Fernando, that brilliant writer and artist, accused me of being boastful for establishing my peasant background — reverse snobbery, perhaps? I did this not to edify the peasantry but to buttress the truth of my writing when I write about the poor. Many writers — academics at that who sincerely identify themselves with the poor — often do so without understanding them as proven by their work. They recoil at the masa selling their votes, electing ignoramus movie stars. Knowing is not understanding and understanding does not necessarily lead to acquiescence or agreement; in fact, it may result in deeper contrary feelings. But one thing is sure — understanding leads to wisdom and, hopefully, compassion.

I recall Bobby Malay telling me when she was in the underground: “Now I know how it is to be hungry and without a centavo.” Truly, only the poor understand the poor.

For this is the truth about so many well-meaning Filipinos, for writers like Gilda — they do not know what it is like to be poor. Thus, they argue from comfortable positions, which I hope I will never do for I have, myself, become comfortable.

Furthermore, what is art? Why the artist? Of what value is literature, of art in a country blighted by injustice? What is the meaning of life? Who am I? Am I my brother’s keeper?

As I told a popular and very competent painter way, way back, he will become rich and famous which he is now, but he will never be great until he makes telling social comment in his work, as indeed, great painters all over the world have done.

In the end, religion teaches us to value truth, justice and freedom. These are not abstractions in a country debased by lies, injustice and poverty. Yet, when we really think about the nature of freedom, we will come to realize that it is the very poor and the very rich who are free — the very poor because they have nothing to lose, and the very rich because they can buy almost anything. All too often, however, the very poor and the very rich are unaware of the good they can do with their freedom.

It was Lenin who said “power can be picked up from the streets” but power will always elude the very poor until they believe what that poor Spaniard cried out during Spain’s Civil War: “In my hunger, I command.” And the very rich, they will never be able to do good with their freedom until they ingest in their very marrow one of the basics of capitalism, that “money is like fertilizer, to do any good it must be spread around.”

And so, at this old and rickety age of 88, why do I continue writing? It is anger and hatred that urge me on, keep me alive. I am only too aware of what Bertolt Brecht said, that “shouting about injustice hoarsens the voice.” So, as an artist, I transcend my ego and write as best as I can, so I will not sound hoarse. But the seething hatred is always there — how I hate them all, the crooked politicians who exploit us, the very rich who have not dignified their loot. Yes, I rile, too, at the blatant hypocrisies in our society, how we celebrate our crooked leaders, a mass media motivated by profit alone. I hate, too, the apathy of so many comfortable Filipinos, the shallowness and ignorance of the masa, the recreant church leaders who deny God.

I would like to see not just kindly and noble missionaries, but brave crusaders bent on abolishing injustice, for which reason, I hope Pope Francis will now revitalize a lethargic and corrupted Church.

I am often asked if there is any hope that we will recover from being the “sick man of Asia.” And I always say, yes, but so much depends on our very young — if they have fire in their bellies.

Lest they forget, we have a revolutionary tradition, and above all, we are a heroic people. If only we live to serve God and country.