“Ang tao’y inianak na parisparis”

In 1889, some time between February 17 and February 22, Rizal wrote his long letter in Tagalog to the valiant women of Malolos. He concluded his letter with seven principles, the sixth of which reads as follows:

“Ang tao’y inianak na parisparis, hubad at walang tali. Di linalang ng Dios upang maalipin, di binigyan ng isip para pabulag, at di hiniyasan ng katuiran at ng maulol ng iba. Hindi kapalaloan ang di pag samba sa tao, ang pag papaliwanag ng isip at ang paggamit ng matuid sa anomang bagay. Ang palalo’y ang napasasamba, ang bumubulag sa iba, at ang ibig papanigin ang kaniyang ibig sa matuid at katampatan.”

(The text is taken from the copy Teodoro Kalaw included in his Epistolario Rizalino, specifically Volume II. Scroll to page 153 of the PDF file.)

In 2013, I tried my hand at translating the seven principles. This was how I rendered the sixth:

“Man is born equal, naked and without chains. Not created by God to be enslaved, not gifted with intelligence to be deceived, and not endowed with reason to be fooled by others. It is not vanity to refuse to worship a fellow human, to enlighten intelligence, and to use reason in all things. What is vanity is making one’s self an object of worship, keeping others in ignorance, and imposing one’s will on what is right and just.”

(This piece is included in Radical: Readings in Rizal and History.)

For 2024, I hope to complete an English translation of the entire letter, as part of an exciting pamphlet series to be published by San Anselmo Press. This is how I would translate the sixth principle now:

“Humans are born equal, naked and without chains. Not created by God to be enslaved, not gifted with intelligence to be deceived, and not graced with reason to be fooled by others. It is not pride to refuse to worship any man, to enlighten the mind and to use reason in all things. What is pride is wanting to be worshipped, deceiving others, and willing one’s desires above reason and justice.”

“Laong Laan is my true name” (a translation)

Rizal’s letter of June 11, 1890, written mostly in Tagalog and addressed to Del Pilar, is part of a short exchange between the two leaders of the Propaganda Movement about Rizal’s role in La Solidaridad, the newspaper the reformists published to influence Spanish public opinion. It was a skirmish that prefigured their parting of ways the following year. That it was written in Tagalog, instead of the usual Spanish in which both were adept, is significant; I argue in “Rizal’s open secrets” that what we would today call authenticity was one of the driving forces behind their occasional letter-writing in Tagalog. But the letter is also significant for other reasons, including something deeply personal to Rizal: A few days before he turned 29, he confessed (not for the first time) his fears of an early death. What follows is my attempt at a new English translation.

Brussels, 11 June 1890

Chosen friend: I have just received your letter which I will answer immediately in consideration of your feelings.

How far [from the truth] is your speculation that I am separating from Sol [La Solidaridad] because of hurt feelings; it seems you do not know me yet: I am not impulsive, and even if my feelings were hurt, I will say so and will not stop helping and fighting.

My wish is for others to emerge and the ears of others to become familiar with other names. I am assailed by sorrowful thoughts, even though I don’t entirely believe them. In my childhood I fully believed that I would not reach the age of 30, I don’t know why I thought so. It has been almost two months now that almost every night I have no other dreams but that of my dead friends and relatives. Once, I even dreamt that I travelled to a place below the earth, and there I saw nothing but many people seated, wearing white, with white faces, silent, and surrounded by white lights; there I saw two of my siblings, one who is already dead and one who is still alive. Even though I don’t really believe in these things, even though my body is truly healthy, I don’t have any ailment, I have no fears, however, I am also preparing for death, I am preparing what I will leave behind, and I am ready for anything: Laong Laan [Ever Prepared] is my true name. That is why I want to try hard to finish the second volume of the Noli [El Filibusterismo], just in case, I don’t want what I started to come to an end without someone able to continue it. And that is why my wish is for the new [writers] to be known and to shine. Do not think that I am down or sad; every other day I do gymnastics and fencing, practice shooting, but who can predict the coming misfortune?

Every now and then I will also send you useful articles. 

May our countrymen there [that is, in Spain] obey the voice of their heart and dedicate the precious time of their youth to something greater that is worthy of them. We do not have the good luck of other young men who can have their time and their future; we have upon us a duty: to rescue our mother from captivity: our mother has been ransomed; we need to redeem her, before we can entertain ourselves. 

This is all.

RIZAL

“Laong Laan is my true name”

Most of us read Rizal in translation, either in English or in Filipino. But one reason I think his letters are the best introduction to his life and work lies in this still-little-known fact, that he wrote a good number of letters in Tagalog. To mark his 160th birthday, allow me to post an important letter that he wrote, mostly in Tagalog, to his only true equal among the reformists: Marcelo H. del Pilar. (From the third volume of Epistolario Rizalino, edited by Teodoro M. Kalaw; the copy likely contains OCR errors, but I think we get both gist and genius.) My attempt at a new English translation, here.

• 

• 

Column: Digong has taken over the bus

Playing catch-up with my columns again. This one was published on February 20, 2018. It offers a metaphor for understanding President Duterte’s assaults on press freedom. It also refers to this keynote speech I gave at the 2018 National Schools Press Conference, held in Dumaguete City, where I revisited Rizal’s letter to the women of Malolos—and suggested three new tasks for the campus press.

Some readers, not all of them ill-intentioned, ask a common question: If you can still write whatever you want in your column, or the news sections and the op-ed pages can still run stories or opinion critical of President Duterte, what assault on press freedom are you talking about?

But attacks on press freedom are not a one-time, either-or event, like a car crash. The readers who ask the question think attacking press freedom is like a serious road accident: It happens once, and there’s blood on the street. But in reality, assaults on the free press are like riding a bus headed for, say, Naga (because that’s where Mayon Volcano apparently is), and in the middle of the route a new crew, including a new driver, takes over—and then the bus suddenly, violently, changes direction. Do the passengers need to wait until the bus stops in Imperial Manila or arrives in Paoay, Ilocos Norte, before demanding an explanation or correcting the course?

This metaphor sums up the state of press freedom in the Philippines today: A new driver has taken over the bus and is going the wrong way (he even calls press freedom a mere privilege, instead of a guaranteed right). Do the passengers wait until he loses his brakes or threatens to drive the bus off a cliff before they take action to protect themselves?