of ancient Malacaang Palace, in the symbolic

act of possession and racial vindication.

I Am A Filipino by Carlos Romulo

I am a Filipino,
I am a Filipino - inheritor of a glorious past,
hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must
prove equal to a two-fold task- the task of
meeting my responsibility to the past, and the
task of performing my obligation to the future.
I sprung from a hardy race - child of many
generations removed of ancient Malayan
pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory
comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned
men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail
as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see
them come, borne upon the billowing wave and
the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty
swell of hope- hope in the free abundance of
new land that was to be their home and their
children's forever.
This is the land they sought and found. Every
inch of shore that their eyes first set upon,
every hill and mountain that beckoned to them
with a green and purple invitation, every mile of
rolling plain that their view encompassed, every
river and lake that promise a plentiful living and
the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot
to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by

every right of law, human and divine, this land
and all the appurtenances thereof - the black
and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers
teeming with fish, the forests with their
inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the
mountains with their bowels swollen with
minerals - the whole of this rich and happy land
has been, for centuries without number, the
land of my fathers. This land I received in trust
from them and in trust will pass it to my
children, and so on until the world no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal
seed of heroes - seed that flowered down the
centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In
my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that
sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe
that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into
rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed
that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that
morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots
put an end to all that was mortal of him and
made his spirit deathless forever; the same that
flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in
Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass,
of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in
flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio
Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth
royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L.
Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed.

It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of
dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that
were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen
many thousand years ago, it shall grow and
flower and bear fruit again. It is the insigne of
my race, and my generation is but a stage in
the unending search of my people for freedom
and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East
and the West. The East, with its languor and
mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my
mother, and my sire was the West that came
thundering across the seas with the Cross and
Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an
eager participant in its struggles for liberation
from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that
the East must awake from its centuried sleep,
shape of the lethargy that has bound his limbs,
and start moving where destiny awaits.
For, I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous
peoples of the West have destroyed forever the
peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no
longer live, being apart from those world now
trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot.
For no man and no nation is an island, but a
part of the main, there is no longer any East
and West - only individuals and nations making
those momentous choices that are hinges upon
which history resolves.

At the vanguard of progress in this part of the

world I stand - a forlorn figure in the eyes of
some, but not one defeated and lost. For
through the thick, interlacing branches of habit
and custom above me I have seen the light of
the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen
the light of justice and equality and freedom and
my heart has been lifted by the vision of
democracy, and I shall not rest until my land
and my people shall have been blessed by
these, beyond the power of any man or nation
to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What
pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of
my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has
come ringing down the corridors of the
centuries, and it shall be compounded of the
joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when
they first saw the contours of this land loom
before their eyes, of the battle cries that have
resounded in every field of combat from Mactan
to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when
they sing:

Land of the Morning,Child of the sun

returning...Ne'er shall invadersTrample thy
sacred shore.
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand
isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million
people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave
the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs
of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor
in the fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten
pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the
silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and
the ominous grumbling of peasants Pampanga;
out of the first cries of babies newly born and
the lullabies that mothers sing; out of the
crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in
the factories; out of the crunch of ploughs
upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience
of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the
clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I
shall make the pattern of my pledge:
"I am a Filipino born of freedom and I shall not
rest until freedom shall have been added unto
my inheritance - for myself and my children's
children - forever.

A Letter To His Parents by Jose Rizal

My dear Parents, Brothers, and Sisters:
The love I have always borne you
dictates the step I am about to take. Only the
future will show whether it is well and wisely
taken or not. Whatever may be the result, it
can, it should be said that it was my sense of
duty that forced me to act. Should I perish in
what I contemplate doing, that will make, should
make, no difference.
I know I have caused you one and all
to suffer match, but I do not repent having done
so; and should it be given me to begin my life
all over again, I would not change my conduct.
It has all been inspired by my appreciation of
my duty. I am starting now, and gladly, to
expose myself to perils and to the dangers that
may be awaiting me, not as an expiation of my
faults, for in this direction at least I do not think I
have committed any, but I am going to crown
my work, to bear witness by personal example,
to the truth of that which I have always
preached.

A man should die for his convictions

and in the performance of his duty as he sees
it. I beg you to believe that I still maintain all the
ideas which I have proclaimed in regard to the
present state and the future of my country; and
I shall gladly die for my country more gladly
still if I might thereby secure for you all the
justice and tranquility which has been wanting.

It is indeed with pleasure that I risk my

life to save so many innocents, so many
nephews and nieces, to safeguard the children
of friends as well as the children of those who
are not my friends but who have been or are
now suffering for me. For what am I? Alone,
single man almost without family and quite
without illusions as to life. I have suffered many
deceptions, and what the future has in store for
me is obscure; and it would be still more
obscure were it not illuminated by the dawning
light, the aurora of my fatherland.
Jose Rizal

Inertia, I suppose, and the sort of reality we

moderns know make falling in love with my
immediate neighbors often a matter of severe
strain and effort to me.

The World in a Train

Francisco B. Icasiano
One Sunday I entrained for Baliwag, a town in
Bulacan which can well afford to hold two
fiestas a year without a qualm.

Let me give a sketchy picture of the little world

whose company Mang Kiko shared in moments
which soon passed away affecting most of us.

I took the train partly because I am prejudiced

in favor of the government-owned railroad,
partly because I am allowed comparative
comfort in a coach, and finally because trains
sometimes leave and arrive according to
schedule.

First, there came to my notice three husky

individuals who dusted their seats furiously with
their handkerchiefs without regard to hygiene or
the brotherhood of men. It gave me no little
annoyance that on such a quiet morning the
unpleasant aspects in other people's ways
should claim my attention.

In the coach I found a little world, a section of

the abstraction called humanity whom we are
supposed to love and live for. I had previously
arranged to divide the idle hour or so between
cultivating my neglected Christianity and
smoothing out the rough edges of my nature
with the aid of grateful sights without - the
rolling wheels, the flying huts and trees and
light-green palay seedlings and carabaos along
the way.

Then there was a harmless-looking middleaged man in green camisa de chino with rolled
sleeves who must have entered asleep. When I
noticed him he was already snugly entrenched
in a corner seat, with his slippered feet
comfortably planted on the opposite seat, all the
while his head danced and dangled with the
motion of the train. I could not, for the love of
me, imagine how he would look if he were
awake.

A child of six in the next seat must have shared

with me in speculating about the dreams of this
sleeping man in green. Was he dreaming of the
Second World War or the price of eggs? Had he
any worries about the permanent dominion
status or the final outcome of the struggles of
the masses, or was it merely the arrangement

of the scales on a fighting roaster's legs that

brought that frown on his face?
But the party that most engaged my attention
was a family of eight composed of a short but
efficient father, four very young children,
mother, grandmother, and another woman who
must have been the efficient father's sister.
They distributed themselves on four benches you know the kind of seats facing each other so
that half the passengers travel backward. The
more I looked at the short but young and
efficient father the shorter his parts looked to
me. His movements were fast and short, too.
He removed his coat, folded it carefully and
slung it on the back of his seat. Then he pulled
out his wallet from the hip pocket and counted
his money while his wife and the rest of his
group watched the ritual without a word.

Then the short, young, and efficient father stood

up and pulled out two banana leaf bundles from
a bamboo basket and spread out both bundles
on one bench and log luncheon was ready at
ten o'clock. With the efficient father leading the
charge, the children (except the baby in his
grandmother's arms) began to dig away with
little encouragement and aid from the elders. In
a short while the skirmish was over, the enemy shrimps, omelet, rice and tomato sauce - were
routed out, save for a few shrimps and some
rice left for the grandmother to handle in her
own style later.
Then came the water-fetching ritual. The father,
with a glass in hand, led the march to the train
faucet, followed by three children whose faces
still showed the marks of a hard-fought-battle.
In passing between me and a person, then
engaged in a casual conversation with me, the
short but efficient father made a courteous
gesture which is still good to see in these
democratic days; he bent from the hips and,
dropping both hands, made an opening in the
air between my collocutor and me - a gesture
which in unspoiled places means "Excuse Me."
In one of the stations where the train stopped, a
bent old woman in black
boarded the train. As it moved away, the old
woman went about the coach,
begging holding every prospective Samaritan
by the arm, and stretching forth her

gnarled hand in the familiar fashion so

distasteful to me at that time. There is
something in begging which destroys some
fiber in most men. "Every time you
drop a penny into a beggar's palm you help
degrade a man and make it more
difficult for him to rise with dignity. . ."
There was something in his beggar's eye which
seemed to demand. "Now do
your duty." And I did. Willy-nilly I dropped a coin
and thereby filled my life with
repulsion. Is this Christianity? "Blessed are the
poor . . ." But with what speed did
that bent old woman cross the platform into the
next coach!
While thus engaged in unwholesome thought, I
felt myself jerked as the train made a curve to
the right. The toddler of the family of eight lost
his balance and caught the short but efficient
father off-guard. In an instant all his efficiency
was
employed in collecting the shrieking toddler
from under his seat. The child had, in
no time, developed two elongated bumps on
the head, upon which was applied a
moist piece of cloth. There were no reproaches,
no words spoken. The discipline
in the family was remarkable, or was it because
they considered the head as a
minor anatomical appendage and was therefore
nor worth the fuss?

Occasionally, when the child's crying rose

above the din of the locomotive and
the clinkety-clank of the wheels on the rails, the
father would jog about a bit without
blushing, look at the bumps on his child's head,
shake his own, and move his lips
saying, "Tsk, Tsk." And nothing more.
Fairly tired of assuming the minor
responsibilities of my neighbors in this little
world in motion, I looked into the distant horizon
where the blue Cordilleras merged
into the blue of the sky. There I rested my
thoughts upon the billowing silver and grey
of the clouds, lightly remarking upon their being
a trial to us, although they may not
know it. We each would mind our own business
and suffer in silence for the littlest
mistakes of others; laughing at their ways if we
happened to be in a position to suspend our
emotion and view the whole scene as a god
would; or, we could weep for other men if we
are the mood to shed copious tears over the
whole tragic aspect of a world thrown out of
joint.
It is strange how human sympathy operates.
We assume an attitude of complete
indifference to utter strangers whom we have
seen but not met. We claim that they are the
hardest to fall in love with in the normal exercise
of Christian charity. Then a little child falls from
a seat, or a beggar stretches forth a gnarled

hand, or three husky men dust their seats; and

we are, despite our pretensions, affected. Why
not? If even a sleeping man who does nothing
touches our life!

hard on the back. Looking behind, I saw my

father. He was annoyed because I had
disturbed his siesta. I picked up a pillow at my
feet, gave it to him, and went back to our mat.
The two other children were fast asleep. The
sight of the whip, symbol of parental authority,
hanging on the posts, gave me no other choice
but to lie down.

The ayuntamiento of Manila or the commander

of the regiment in Intramuros did well in
ordering the closing of the gates during the
siesta hour. Once, the Chinese living in Parian,
just a short way from the Walled City, timed the
beginning of one of their revolts by attacking at
two o'clock in the afternoon. They were sure
that the dons, including the guards and
sentinels, were having their siesta. They felt
that they would be more successful if the attack
came at siesta time.

Siesta
Leopoldo Serrano
When I was a boy, one of the rules at home that
I did not like at all was to be made to lie on the
bare floor of our sala after lunch. I usually lay
side by side with two other children in the
family. We were forced to sleep by my mother.
She watched us as we darned old dresses,
read an awit, or hammed a cradle song in
Tagalog.
She always reminded us that sleeping at noon
enables children to grow fast like the grass in
our yard. In this way, in most Filipino homes
many years ago, children made to understand
what the siesta was. Very often I had to pretend
to be asleep by closing my eyes.
Once while my mother was away, I tries to
sneak out of the house during the siesta hour. I
had not gone far when I felt something hit me

During my childhood, whenever we had house

guests, my mother never failed to put mats and
pillows on the floor of our living room after the
noonday meal. Then she would invite our
guests to have their siesta. Hospitality and good
taste demanded that this be not overlooked.
The custom of having a siesta was introduces
in our country by the Spaniards. Indee, during
the Spanish times, the Philippines was the land
of the fiesta the novena, and the siesta.
Many foreigners have noted this custom among
our people. Some believe that even the guards
at the gates of Intramuros had their siesta. It
was a commonly known fact that every
afternoon the gates of the city were closed for
fear of a surprise attack.

Even today visits to Filipino homes are not

usually made between one o'clock and two
o'clock in the afternoon. It is presumed that the
people in the house are having their siesta. It is
not polite to have them awakened from their
noonday nap to accommodate visitors. There is
well-known saying believed by many of our
people: "You may joke with a drunkard but not
one who has been disturbed during his siesta."
Our custom of having our siesta has not been
greatly affected by American influence. We
have not learned the Yankee's bustle and
eagerness of endurance for continuous work
throughout the day.

But if only for its health -giving effects, we

should be grateful to the Spaniards for the
siesta, especially during the hot weather, for the
siesta serves to restore the energy lost while
working under a hot climate.

as they delighted the palate. Here, the papaya

stretched out its broad leaves and tempted the
birds with its enormous fruit; there the langka,
the coffee and the orange trees perfumed the
air with the aroma of their flowers. On this side
is the iba, , thebalimbing, the pomegranate with
its abundant foliage and its lovely flowers
bewitched the senses; while here and there
rose the majestic palm trees loaded with huge
nuts, swaying their proud tops and graceful
branches, queens of the forests. I should never
end where I to number all our trees and amuse
myself identifying them.

panorama of twilight, thoughts that are long

gone renew them with nostalgic eagerness.
Came then the night to unfold her mantle,
somber at times, for all its stars, when the
chaste Diana failed to course through the sky in
pursuit of her brother Apollo. But when she
appeared, a vague brightness was to be
discerned in the clouds; then seemingly they
would crumble; and little she was to be seen,
lovely, grave, and silent, rising like an immense
globe which an invisible and omnipotent hand
drew through space.

My Home
Dr. Jose Rizal
I have nine sisters and one brother. My father, a
model of fathers, had given us and education in
proportion to our modest means. By dint of
frugality, he was able to build a stone house, to
buy another, and to raise a small nipa hut in the
midst of a groove we had, under the shade of
the banana and other trees.
There the delicious atis displayed its delicate
fruit and lowered its branches as if to save me
from trouble of reaching out for them. The
sweet santol, the scented and mellow tampoy,
the pink makopa vie for my favor. Farther away,
the plum tree, the harsh but flavorous casuy,
the beautiful tamarind pleases the eye as much

In the twilight, innumerable birds gathered from

everywhere and I, a child of three years at
most, amused myself watching them with
wonder and joy. The yellow kuliawan, themaya
in all its varieties, the kulae, the maria karpa,
the martin, all the species of pipitjoined the
pleasant harmony and raised in varied chorus a
farewell hymn to the sun as it vanished behind
the tall mountains of my town.
Then the clouds, through a caprice of nature,
combined in a thousand shapes, which would
suddenly dissolve, leaving me with only the
slightest recollections. Even now, when I look
out of the window of our house at a splendid

At such time, my mother gathered us all

together to say the rosary. Afterward, we would
go to the azotea or to some window where the
moon could be seen, and my ayah would tell us
stories, sometimes lugubrious and at other
times gay, which in skeletons, buried treasures,
and trees that bloomed with diamonds mingled
in confusion. All of them born of an imagination

wholly Oriental. Sometimes she told us that

men lived on the moon, which we could

perceive on it, were nothing else than the

woman who was forever weaving.