"LIGHT AND GLITTER" 

(English version of "Ang Ningning at Ang Liwanag")

 by: Emilio Jacinto  

Glitter hurts the eye and deceives. Light favours sight and shows things as
they are. Glitter is fallacious.   Let us seek light and do not let us be deceived
by the false glitter of the wicked. Does a brilliant carriage pass as drawn by
spirited horses?  We salute and consider that he who sits in it is a person of
social standing. But, perhaps, he is a thief and the jewellery and vain show of
honesty may conceal a perverse heart. Does a poor man pass us, bent under
the heavy burden he is bearing? We smile and ask ourselves where he stole
that which he is carrying. But, thanks to the light, we can see by the sweat of
his brow and the fatigue of his body that this man is living by his own toil.
Alas! It is the custom to worship glitter and reject light. This is the reason why
man and nations are suffering misery and pain. Treason and perversity seek
glitter in order to conceal their falseness from the eyes of the spectators; but
honesty and sincere love go naked and allow themselves to be seen
confidently by the light of the day.

KALAYAAN: THE NOBLE ASPIRATION THAT GUIDED THE REVOLUTION

For our Heroes, Freedom is a dream that it so worth its hefty price

If we take proper semantics into consideration, our grandiose celebrations

every 12th of June are founded on a misnomer: The official, legal name of our
June 12 holiday is “Independence Day”, which is translated into the
vernacular as Araw ng Kasarinlan, yet we continue to refer to the day as Araw
ng Kalayaan or “Day of Freedom” in English.

Today, one may use “Kalayaan” to refer to the thoroughfare running across
Makati City where the now-defunct Pasig Line of the Philippine National
Railways used to run, or the similarly-named avenue in Quezon City running
from Elliptical Road to Kamias Road in Cubao. Students and alumni of the
University of the Philippines may fondly associate the word with the dormitory
where they were lodged during their freshman years. Kalayaan may also
remind us of a certain group of islands in the West Philippine Sea, sovereignty
over which is now being hotly contested among Asian nations, including a
superpower that isn’t even originally a party to the conflict but muscled itself
in, in pursuit of its agenda of projecting military power outside its established
territory. 

But before the turn of the 20th century, when the Philippines was still shackled
by the chains of colonial rule, Kalayaan was no mere mundane concept: it
was a lofty ideal, an unattainable dream, a noble aspiration which warranted
the highest of personal sacrifices.

Kalayaan was so lofty a word that Jose Rizal, the polymath and genius he
was, never knew the term until he was apprised of it by none other than his
compatriot and friend, Marcelo H. Del Pilar, who took the time and the effort to
translate his essay Amor Patrio for publication in the latter’s Diariong
Tagalog. Yet Kalayaan held such deep meaning for the two and their
compatriots that they exiled themselves into the land of their oppressors and
embarked on a crusade of agitation, using the power of the printed word to
call for reform on the Spanish Government’s administration of its overseas
colonial possessions. Kalayaan was so noble an ideal that Plaridel himself
noted, on the final issue of the La Solidaridad, that “no sacrifice is too little in
pursuit of earning the rights and the liberty of a nation oppressed by
slavery.” (Todo sacrificio es poco para conquistar los derechos y la libertad de
un pueblo oprimido y mal avenido con su esclavitud.”)

Kalayaan was so lofty a word that Andres Bonifacio, Emilio Jacinto, Pio

Valenzuela and their other sworn brothers in the Katipunan used it as the
name of the secret society’s publication in order to inspire more people to join
their cause and take up arms against their colonial masters. Kalayaan was so
lofty a word that it became the battlecry that resounded on the mountains of
Montalban on Good Friday of 1895, as well as on the fields of Balintawak and
the riverbanks of San Juan del Monte on the last days of August the following
year. Indeed, Kalayaan was so noble an ideal that Emilio Jacinto summarized
his Kartilya ng Katipunan with the statement that “when the glorious sun of
liberty shines over these wretched islands and enlightens a united race and
people, all lives, struggles and hardships endured shall be vindicated.”
Kalayaan was so lofty a word that Jose Palma, writer-editor for General
Antonio Luna’s aptly-titled revolutionary periodical La Independencia, was
inspired to write an ode to the freedom he and his fellowmen so desired,
which later became the lyrics of the national anthem that was first played on
that fateful afternoon of 12 June 1898, the same anthem we sing with fervor
today. Kalayaan was so noble an ideal that Emilio Aguinaldo, President of the
First Philippine Republic, adopted the sun of liberty as the principal symbol of
the fledgling republic, which is also prominently featured in the flag he hoisted
in Kawit on that fateful afternoon of 12 June 1898, the same flag which we
proudly fly today.

Most of the people previously mentioned had no business starting a

revolution, much less seeing it to its bloody end: many of them came from
privileged backgrounds, were able to obtain a good education, and had
promising careers ahead of them. Rizal and Valenzuela were physicians, Del
Pilar and Mabini were lawyers, Bonifacio a warehouse manager of a trading
firm, Aguinaldo a traveling merchant on top of being a respected local official.
Yet they promptly responded to so-called “tawag ng panahon” and risked life
and limb chasing the elusive dream of Kalayaan: that one day, they will live in
their beloved country free from oppression and discrimination, where they will
be allowed to voice out their opinions without fear of reprisal, where religion
won’t be invoked to justify atrocious behavior on the part of the clergy, where
education would be made accessible to all willing to learn, where all people,
regardless of race, gender and social status, would be afforded the right to
life, liberty, ownership of property, and the pursuit of happiness.
Our heroes found themselves in the struggle for independence through
different circumstances, most of them personal in nature, but it was for the
love of Kalayaan which made them stay and see it through, for better or for
worse. The dream of Kalayaan was the driving force behind all of their
endeavors, and the nobility of their cause was the reason why they were able
to succeed in the end. Their toil earned us our Liberty; their sacrifices gained
for us our greatest inheritance.

A century and two decades hence, it is now up to us, the Filipinos of today,
heirs to the legacy of our heroes, to make sure that the Kalayaan they
valiantly fought and died for will be safeguarded for the future generations.
Yet there are times that we fail in that regard: sometimes we prefer to sacrifice
our liberty in the name of security; we belittle the importance of our civil rights
in pursuit of convenience, we have submitted ourselves to the mercy of the
“new tyrants” and allowed them to exploit our sensibilities to entrench
themselves in the reins of power and do as they please with impunity.

One of Rizal’s characters in his second novel El Filibusterismo, Padre

Florentino, told a dying Simoun: “Why Independence, if the slaves of today
shall be the tyrants of tomorrow? And they would be, without doubt, because
he who loves tyranny submits to it.” While independence was Rizal’s most
ardent wish, he opposed the Revolution because he felt that it should be
guided by a noble aspiration – the selfless desire for Kalayaan – and not by
personal whims and caprices in order to succeed. The movements that
served as precursors to our eventual Independence, the Propaganda
Movement, the Liga Filipina, the Katipunan, and so on, were all guided by
said noble aspiration, and while they were not initially successful in their own
right, they caused a chain reaction of events which led to the glorious moment
of 12 June 1898. But the Revolution is yet to be finished; and it is now
imperative to us to continue what our heroes have started. Now is the high
time to ask ourselves: “Are we deserving of the Kalayaan which we enjoy
today? Or have we grown so accustomed to such that it is now easy for us to
take it for granted? Is our so-called ‘patriotism’ a sincere expression of our
love for liberty, or it is merely lip service which masks our own capricious
interpretations of justice?”

Independence Day is not just a day for us to celebrate the day we have
unilaterally declared our separation from colonial subjugation; it is also a day
for us to remember the noble aspiration which our forebears paid for with their
blood, sweat, and tears, and make ourselves worthy of it. For in a time when
hope was bleak, they dared to dream, when faced with censorship, they dared
to speak, when placed under duress, they dared to resist. It is now our
sublime obligation to sustain what our heroes have labored to attain, and they
expect nothing less from us.

(Sanaysay) essay, an analytic, interpretative, or critical

literary composition usually much shorter and less systematic and formal than
a dissertation or thesis and usually dealing with its subject from a limited and
often personal point of view.