Rizal wasn’t actually a cold intellectual
When darkness hit, he clung on to the people he loved. So should we.
This postage stamp shows how deeply Rizal has invaded our national consciousness. When someone’s face appears on a postage stamp, you know most everyone has accepted his importance. That’s why I didn’t like Rizal at first. He was too common and too cliché. I only studied him because I was forced to.
While in college, I fell in love with John Paul II’s literary and less-rigid theology. Because of this first academic love, Rizal (given his masonic anti-clerical sympathies) looked sacrilegious to me. This changed somewhat, when I had to choose a research topic while studying in Singapore last year. There, a history professor had done his dissertation on intellectual elites in Malaysia, and I wanted my research topic have some connection to his interests. So, I decided to give Rizal a second chance, given his erudition and reputation in the region.
Shortly after I finished that project, I wrote this post on one of Rizal’s childhood diary entries — the one where he tells us that sad story about the moth who flew too close to the flame and died. That entry introduced me to Rizal’s passionate spirit. What he did and achieved, the events he inspired or maybe even conspired to bring about, his novels, his intelligence are, in my opinion, less interesting and significant than what he moved him on the inside. I say this because whatever it was he held sacred and most valuable show us the kind of man he was. The other external aspects, in contrast, focus only on how big his brain was.
One type of historical evidence that gives us a glimpse into what moved Rizal’s passions are his poems. Unlike more straightforward documents, poems show what resided in our heroes’ imaginations. What heroes imagined as opposed to what the ideas they proposed reveal to us the ‘gods’ they were devoted to. Poems allow us to see the contours of their dreams and loves, and the kind of fuel that nourished their souls.
Perhaps Rizal’s most well-known poem is his Mi ultimo adios, penned right before his execution. Here though I’d like to draw attention to one of his lesser known, but enchanting pieces. He wrote this poem while exiled in Dapitan, some time between 1893 and 1895. Entitled Mi Retiro (In english, “My retirement”, possibly a euphemism for his exile), he composed it for his mother, Teodora Alonso, who he knew missed him terribly and was worried about his health and possibly, his sanity.
The poem is a daunting twenty-four stanzas. It’s florid and old-fashioned, but it’s worth reading through because it shows how he suffered fighting for gratitude. Of the twenty four-stanzas, I will quote only two to keep this post readable.
Here’s the first, stanza 12 :
Asi pasan los días en mi oscuro retiro,
desterrado del mundo donde tiempo viví,
de mi rara fortuna la providencia admiro:
quijarro abandonado que al musgo solo aspiro
para ocultar a todos el mundo que tengo en mí!
The english (my translation):
This way I spend my days in my dark retreat,
removed from the world where I once lived;
I admire providence for my changeable fortune:
abandoned pebble that in moss I aspire
to hide the world that I have in me.
This stanza reveals how scarred and alone he felt while exiled in Dapitan. Marilou Diaz Abaya’s film doesn’t really show how painful that exile was for Rizal, and I suspect many of our history classes portray him similarly. So, we’re left with the perception that he wasn’t too affected by the rejection and suffering he experienced when he was shipped off to Dapitan.
Yet, in this poem we see how scarred he felt in this “dark retreat”. He felt like an insignificant abandoned pebble that wanted to hide! How fragile these lines make him appear! So unlike what we’d expect from the hero sculpted in stone.
The next stanza (13):
Vivo con los recuerdos de los que yo he amado
y oigo de vez en cuando sus nombres pronunciar:
unos estan ya muertos, otros me han abandonado;
¿mas que importa? … Yo vivo pensando en lo pasado
y lo pasado nadie me puede arrebatar.
I live with the memories of those I have loved
I sometimes hear when their names are uttered:
some are already dead, others have abandoned me;
But who cares? I live thinking in the past
and the past no one can snatch from me.
Here, he sounds desperate. He sounds like a man hanging on to life from a cliff’s edge. The edge he clutches on to are memories of those he has loved: his friends, relatives, and lovers. He tries to transcend the pain of being away from them, and even the pain of being rejected by some of them. He clings on to the memory of their goodness and in what he keeps of this past, he finds refuge from his loneliness. Thankfulness for these human bonds are what keep him going even if his surroundings convince him that everyone has rejected and forgotten him.
These poetic snippets show that Rizal was no stoic ideologue. His soul wasn’t only moved by politics. What kept him going were memories of people he loved. In remembering these bonds, he struggled to remain thankful for each friend, his mother, his brother, his sisters, his girlfriends. He fought to keep stock of the value in his life even if the Spanish authorities appeared to have robbed him unjustly of everything.
That struggle for gratitude is something we can learn from, especially during our uncertain, precarious political present. Those in power may take away many things, but their are certain interior possessions that they can never steal. The possessions that keep hope alive: friendship and family that anchor us on the inside and help us see the grace that remains even in unjust suffering. Ultimately, its these loves that keep us fighting for a better future, even to the point of selfless sacrifice, even when our surroundings tempt us to hopelessness.
What I find consoling and striking about Rizal is that despite his brilliance, he didn’t turn to knowledge or expertise to rescue him from difficulty. What kept him afloat were those at home whom he held and held him dearest. His messiahs were not ideas or theories, but people. And I believe, it was these human faces that gave him the courage to risk everything, even his own life.
These stanzas challenge us to reframe the politico-cultural crisis we are currently in. The solution to the crisis isn’t just sharper theories and smartly-worded political opinions. The solution is nurturing and valuing those closest to us and making those bonds the foundation of a more just and caring future for our people.
What’s interesting is the challenge doesn’t only come from pulpits. Our anti-clerical hero taught and lived the same truth.
Thank you so much for reading!
If you enjoyed this piece, you might like this one too: Captivating Risks — why Rizal’s ghost was present at Duterte’s inauguration.
And if you’d like the full-version of both the Spanish original and English translation of Mi Retiro, you’ll find it here. It’s definitely worth a thoughtful read.
