TAGBILARAN, Bohol (MindaNews / 25 November) — Well, what can I say?
It was not easy, really, to review this work if by “review” we mean squeezing the juice out of this hive. To be sure, while many a wonderful note can be spoken of about this volume, Pinangga has this subversion to resist rationale determinants. So, the safe step is to hope to arrive at the book’s universal message by engaging first the impressions immanent in every chapter.
Nevertheless, let me go on with this inadequate note I prepared “sa panahon sa kagoliyang.”
In Pinangga, Melchore Morante yet again nailed another epic read. Having read Morante for some time now, I would like to position Pinangga as a timely sequel to Sugilanon, which hit the press during the inception of the global pathos called COVID-19.
Pinangga is such a sweet word but in his anthology, Morante just painted it grim, and rightly so.
If by reading we mean engaging the signified-signifier structure of the texts, then one must admit that Pinangga can be excused for not being an easy read even if those chapters make you cry. The readers must be forewarned of the book’s romantic pretensions. Spoiler alert, yes, instead there are plenty of heartbreaks in this volume. And, if by entertainment we mean the parochial carnivalesque moments of ecstasies, then, hardly it does.
Pinangga is rather nostalgic. And the weight of melancholia could be felt enveloping Morante’s anthology. But the fact that it does suggest optimistic promises is what makes it an enticing piece. Having done so, Morante invites the readers to discern for a better conclusion for those poignant stories which of course by virtue of historical necessity translate as our present. Morante’s past juxtaposes with our present. And we, readers, automatically become part of those stories quite non-figuratively.
Although only little does Pinangga tell of romance, it inspires immanent criticism of the present with a stark reference to the past. How far have we as a nation evolved since? Has the Catholic church together with her ecumenical siblings remained steadfast in their call to the preferential option for the poor, and lobby on their behalf? Or had they already succumbed to the perks coming from the elitist temptations as personified by ex- Congressman Marcia in the chapter called, “May kaugmaon ba ang mga Manobo?” [p.150] How do the local churches today behave toward the conditions of the faithful who live in the margins? How have the Lumad coped with their social integration amidst the unbridled technological advancements? What remains of the prospects for the conservation of the Lumad identity alongside the incessant adaptation of popular foreign culture, of K-pop for example? And apart from their rights to their ancestral domain, what else is with the Lumad to save and promote? Checked against the seeming demise of the democratic promises and ideals, how far can politics of identity bring the Lumad struggle? Which forms of violence in Pinangga re-emerge today, and what enables this parallel resurgence?
These are one too many a question, of course.
But perhaps the generation who did not witness the atrocities, nay the barbarism, of Martial Law could be lucky enough. Well, I belong to that generation. I must be lucky.
What is there to miss anyway?
Never mind the “myth of the golden era.” Just take look at the curious bridge in Loboc, Bohol which was started in 1970s but never gets finished, to date. In 2005, it got dubbed as the “Bridge to nowhere.” It shall forever hang magnificently over the infamous Loboc river whose cruising tourists must have gone curious on whose genius goes the credit for the obviously embarrassing spectacle. But not to be very pessimistic about it, maybe, and just maybe, in the remote future such sublime imperfection will ever get to finish.
For one, Pinangga bodes well in attempting to erase, in a literary fashion, the myth of the golden era of the old Marcos’ regime. It was not golden; it was gloomy as Morante’s stories unfolded. The abductions of political activists, gruesome military brutality, corruption done by Marcos’ cronies, among others, could be seen rampant. The Marcos regime furloughed a “state of exception” if I may borrow a concept from the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben. The remnants of which regime haunts us today, teasing us of its ordained ability to yet again enjoy another political hegemony.
Nevertheless, Pinangga takes us back to a courageous past. It tells those stories of love – frustratingly not romance in the most commodified sense of the word – and the background structures which either made or broke them were also being accounted for. Morante’s penchant for those poignant memories breathes life to this anthology.
Pinangga summons the truth of the past of each of these stories, namely, “Kung dili karon, kanus-a? 1983-1987”; “Dadong. Asa ka ana anak? 1988-1989”; “Kang kinsang gugma ang mas palabihon? 1990s”; “May kaugmaon ba ang mga Manobo? 1997-1999”; “Wala na diay bili ang kinabuhi? 2014-2015?”.
Do these chapters allude to actual, real-life events? In other words, were those stories the instantiations of Morante’s vicarial experience? If so, how abominable must it have been for him witnessing each moment unfolding. And how traumatic it must be recalling those details. Or are these short stories only like the Mona Lisa smile, “cold and lonely, lovely work of art.” Shakespeare once alluded “a name for a thing,” words for thoughts, matter and form – this psychic phenomenon must owe its embodiment somewhere, somehow. In Pinangga, they are being told as they must be.
Reading Pinangga closely, one may relate it with a chapter entitled “social and historical conditions for the rise of historical novel” in Georg Lukács book Historical Novel. Highlighting on how authorial contexts bring out the realist position of historical fiction, Lukács says, “This basic attitude remains essentially unchanged despite the fact that realism continues to bring out the specific features of the present with ever greater artistic power.” [HN, p.20]
Further, in Pinangga, “mass actions” are ample as can be seen in the chapter entitled “Kung dili karon, kanus-a?” or in “Kang kinsang gugma ang maghari?” [p.92] In these chapters, Morante portrayed a wide range of engagements across social sectors to bring about social change, and of course one for the better. For instance, in the third chapter called “Kinsang gugma ang mag hari?”, Morante highlighted the romantic symbiosis between “media” and “the pulpit” as personified by the characters, namely, Cheding and Padre Junrey, respectively, in the collective struggle against “logging”. The unbreakable commitment and solidarity between the lay and the ordained Christian sectors (mostly Catholics) solidified in the “barricades” and “picket lines” could only be now nostalgic. [p.91]
The romance between these characters, that is between Cheding and Padre Junrey, cannot be ignored due to its symbolic importance. The coupling of the media and the pulpit channeled those marginal voices through, viz., the struggles which would carry within them the anxieties of the commoners’, the Lumads’, the handicaps’, the desaparecidos’ and quite essentially or topically, the oppressed. The media was to the pulpit as the eye is to the soul. And although this symmetry is not at any rate always given, it nevertheless did not have to get an uphill beginning to flourish. The media enables the eyes to see such faith in action. The commitment to social justice shared between Cheding and padre Junrey paved the way for love in the making.
Let us recall that eventful Sunday in June when the Katubigan folks were anticipating Independence Day on the one hand, and preparing for the “picket”, on the other. Morante positioned the events like one in an orchestra. There would be seamless coordination enacted from the municipal executive level through the police and all the way to the parochial sectors over the inception of the barricade. “Si Mayor Arellano nagpasalig nga iyahang hangyoon ang Chief of police nga mo-posting og mga police sa kanto pasulod sa Barangay Bakilid aron bantayan nga dili magubot and maong lugar pag-abot sa mga logging truck. Iya usab ipataud ang pipila ka sheds owned by the municipal hall aron dugang dunay landong dapit sa barikada.” [ibid]
Does this still have meaning to us today? And would this top-level coordination, close to being perfect, be even possible in an altered historical condition such as ours?
I remember back in the days, I was a sophomore student at the diocesan seminary, more than a decade ago now, when the Diocese of Tagbilaran last organized prayer rallies on two separate events: one against the used of contraception, and the other against the proposed oil drill in Cebu-Bohol straits. The former rally was led by a couple who practiced medicine by profession and who were staunch proponents of the right to life catholic movement; the latter was spearheaded by the Diocesan Social Action Center. Both events were participated by multi-sectoral organizations. Also, both occasions commenced with the celebration of the Holy Mass at the Lourdes Parish. Then, a procession followed on CPG avenue, leading all the way up to the St. Joseph Cathedral.
Back then, the Provincial Capitol building sat across from the cathedral. Hence, the rallies were picturesque, resembling some confrontations. The giants stood face-to-face, hopefully in the service of the people. A few devout government officials too were present in the rallies. Prayers were said. Both ended orderly and peacefully. And as to their success, one can only surmise a relatively split outcome – while the RH Bill eventually passed into Law in 2012, the oil drill did not materialize, at least for now. Give or take, it came to be.
Today, however, it is hard to find similar mobilizations, at least on the busy streets of the post-pandemic world. In the diocese of Tagbilaran, at least, there has been no immediate cause to mobilize, as if no other social woes happened lately than the pandemic. Now, “all quiet in the diocesan front” – ominous, eerie, pathetic, as some observers would say.
At this juncture, though, I would like to share a few excerpts which to me are thought provoking in their simplicity:
from “Kang kinsang gugma ang maghari?”:
“Nagpasalamat siya sa ilahang pagmahal sa kinaiyahan…kay kini gasa sa Dios alang kanatong tanan…” [p.92]
“kinsa man ang atong isipon nha silingan ug gani igsuon?” Lukas 10:25-37 [p.110]
“ang kalasangan ug katubigan mga igsuon sa katawhan, busa sama sa tawo ng gikulata ug gibiyaan sa dalan, kinaiyahan nga gitampalasan angay tabangan.” [ibid.]
“bulahan ang modapig alang sa katarongan kay ilaha ang gingharian sa Dios”, [p.112]
“nga ang mga kabus kkung dili na ka-antos sa pagpanglupig kanila, mobangon gayud…nga ang konteksto sa kahimtang ug ang kayano sa katawhan maouy mas dakung hinungdan sa ilahang kalampusan…” [pp.114-115]
from “Wala na ba diay bili ang kinabuhi?”
“Angay nga dili natu dawaton kinin’g mga pagpusil og mga gisuspetsahan nga mga adik, kay daku baya kini nga sala sa Dios,” [p.200]
Yes, it may be true that parallel messages sketched in Pinangga bridge across albeit already in altered historical contexts. The universal qualities of those literary messages stemming from the role of ideologies in social organizations, the peculiar nature of social class engagements, militaristic violence during the Marcos regime, symbolic violence, student protests, capitalist encroachments, ecological struggles, human rights promotion, and the extra judicial killings emanating from Duterte’s war on drugs, among others nevertheless possess a perennial status. The fruits did not fall far from the tree, as they put it.
There is a need to recognize this kind of literary mediation in a developed democracy and especially for a defective democracy, like ours. Morante would seem to portray that when politics meddles in its very own purpose, the citizens cannot expect a better outcome. Politics when unchecked negates society.
In all these stories and many others, Morante penned the details down in such poignant strokes which evoke not only enjoyment but also resentment in his readers. But to enjoy memories, one must first be keen to transcendence which is immanent in both knowledge and sentiments. And what is there to enjoy? What is there to consume? How can one consume the past outside production? What about trauma? What is memory in the first place? In the second place, how must memories be told?
Morante is engaged in hauntology in the same way that the French philosopher, Jacques Derrida wrote. In Pinangga, the specters which haunt are those who get reproduced, that is, reminisced. “Memory is dwelling,” says the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger. The specter dwells in memories but only in the memories of the living. It may now be supposed that we, the living, dwell alongside ghosts. For Morante, moreover, what appears to be a dual comeback converges in politics.
The specters of the Lumad, the desaparecidos, the victims of extra judicial killings, of those characters who fought and died for justice dwell in Pinangga, the significance of which could not be underestimated. These specters never left the village. In fact, they continue to interfere in the organization of daily life as well as in its administration, albeit in our context, quite literally literary. And apparently, they pose to remind the living corpses of past catastrophes that lurk on the corner, to be unearthed, for a breach to break free. To be free and to command – the ghosts live on.
Hurry, then. Grab your copies!
(MindaViews is the opinion section of MindaNews. Ismael P. Magadan, Jr. is a
Philosophy Instructor at the Bohol Island State University – Tagbilaran/Immaculate Heart of Mary Seminary – Tagbilaran. Pinangga will be launched in Davao City on Saturday, 25 November 2025 at the BauHaus at 3 to 5 p.m.)