T1: Rediscovery of the literary World

Introduction

Literature of the World

There is a lot to be said about the diversity and universality of world literature. The distinct
language and inventiveness of certain literature coming from different continents showcase the lives
and emotions of their people, while offering the world a view of what happens in their society.

Some of the contemporary writers nowadays are quite adept at portraying their cultures
through fiction. Some of these are Charlson Ong’s novel Banyaga, which narrates the plight of Chinese-
Filipino boys and their hardships in the country; and Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns is set in
Afghanistan and tells the story of two women who are placed in a situation that leaves them no choice
but to depend on each other.

The Filipino-Chinese in World Literature

Ethnic Chinese and Native Filipinos have interacted with each other since the 9 th Century, when
the Chinese sailed toward the Philippines to barter and trade items. Some of them stayed in the islands
and intermarried with the daughters of prominent tribes. Thus, the history of the Chinese and Filipinos is
very much intertwined not only in local history, but in world history as well.

Filipino-Chinese (or also commonly known as chinoy) Literature is an important part of

Philippine Literature for it is a melting pot of two cultures and the unique experiences that being a part
of this melting pot brings. It is important to recognize Filipino-Chinese Literature in World Literature, for
it may impart the experiences of being a product of two different (and oftentimes contrasting) cultures,
which is a common experience in the global context.

Here is an excerpt from one of the best novels written about Filipino-
Chinese life here in the country.

Charlson Ong is a Filipino-Chinese writer who has penned award-

winning works in the Philippine Literature. He is also a well-known fictionist
who has published collections of his short stories. He is best known, however,
for his novels Embarrassment of Riches (2002), Banyaga: A Song of War
(2006), and Blue Angel, White Shadow (2010). He currently teaches at the
University of the Philippines-Diliman.

Looking beyond the Text or at the Text

Discussion of New Historicism and “Death of the Author”

Have you ever read a literary piece, and afterward, you were more interested in the author’s history than the
story itself? Or maybe you believed that for you to understand the text, you needed to know the author’s history?
 The idea of historical criticism is a reiteration that for you to understand any given literary text, you need to
understand first who the author is, his or her social background, the concepts that were established during his or
her time, and the milieu her or she lived in back then. The idea is that before or after you appreciate a literary text,
you need to be familiar with who the author is and the world he or she lives in back when the text was written.

Furthermore, new historicists seek to find the political function of literature back at when it was written and
try to find the ways on how cultures produce and reproduce themselves. They try to reveal the historical truth and
authority in a text so as to find the prevailing ideas and assumptions of its historical time. Literature written in a
particular time may reveal its social organization, taboos, prejudices, problems, practices, and so much more. It
also seeks to discover how these ideas have evolved as the literary text itself changes.

Another theory that counteracts new historicism is from an essay by French philosopher Roland Barthes
entitled “The Death of the Author.” Here, Barthes argues against looking at the author’s identity and the context in
which the author lived in to understand the author’s literary text. He says that if you allow the author to intervene
in the text or if you give the text an author, the view and interpretation may be limited.

He further states that the readers must separate the literary text from its writers so that the text itself may be
liberated from the tyranny that the author’s context may impose on the selection. Every literary selection has
multiple layers of meaning; thus, these meanings must be allowed to flow and be interpreted on their own,
without the author’s background or history.

Summary of story titled “An excerpt from Banyaga: A Song of War

” by Charlson Ong

Includes the following:

a. Background information of the author

b. Character and its role
c. Setting
d. Theme
e. Plot
f. Symbolism
g. Moral
h. Quote/Punch line on the story

An excerpt from Banyaga: A Song of War

By Charlson Ong

Chapter Two: “Customs House Boy”

When he saw the line of humanity filing down the ramp of the
Chungking, Ernesto Yu panicked for a moment. He saw mostly men, in dark
blue and gray slacks, some still sporting pigtails–provincials unaware of the
great changes that have taken place across the middle kingdom–carrying
bundles, rattan baskets filled with grain and preserves. There were a few women, one or two worth a
second look, but he could see no teenage boys. This was the third time Ernesto had sent money home to
his cousin Ah Fan, who’d been promising to send over his “biggest, brightest” boy to apprentice with
Ernesto. But twice before Ah Fan had sent letters of apology, written by the village scribe See Co,
explaining how he needed every hand for the coming harvest or that his son had suddenly fallen ill. This
time though, Ah Fan had written:

“Honorable brother, Wei Bun, my third son Hap Sun is on his way. He is slightly smaller and less
strong than his brothers, and is sometimes given to constipation. But he is quite intelligent, and quick to
learn, a virtue which I believe is most welcome in Lu-song. In truth, if I had the means I would have sent
him to the provincial capitol or even to Shanghai where he might make most of his wits. But, alas, the
poor are cursed. Still, I thank you once more for your generosity. I beg you to have patience with my son,
to treat him fairly, if sternly. Teach him well and do not spare him the rod. Beat him as you might a lazy,
disobedient caribou if so doing will make him a useful man. Remind him always of his responsibilities at
home: his blind grandmother, his suffering mother, his unwed sisters whose futures can only be secured
by dowry, his youngest sibling who is weak-minded. When he is come of age, perhaps in three or four
years, I expect you will send him home to marry a good daughter of Am-kaw. In the meantime, steer him
clear of the vices of the huanna as well as our own people who are given to excess and debauchery. Let
him worship the ancestors each morning, and swallow bitter gourd at supper to remind him of his station
in his life and of the long journey ahead. I expect you will send me religiously the amount we have agreed
upon in exchange for my son’s services. You may subtract the cost for his board and lodging which I
expect to be minimal as our Hap Sun is used to a most frugal lifestyle. Let him sleep in the workplace and
share his meals with house pets, if that is what you deem best. And if the most untoward fate should
befall him, I expect you will provide him all the services befitting a member of the clan. Otherwise, you
may do as you wish.

“Your unworthy brother, Lee Mo Fan.”

Ernesto cringed at the memory of his cousin’s letter. He wondered what his long absence from
home had done to his reputation that he should be thought of as one who could treat a boy, and a relative
at that, as a draft animal. He wondered what his own father had written in his letter to Ernest’s distant
uncle all those years back when Ernesto, a gangly fifteen-year-old Lee Ah Bun, was sent over to
apprentice to Yu Bien. Did his father mention “our Ah Bun wetting his bed on his wedding night?” Did his
old man also ask Yu Bien to “provide every service befitting a member of the clan should the most
untoward fate befall the boy?”
 Finally, Ernesto saw a group of teenage-looking boys heading for the Customs House. He quickly
made his way into the concrete and wood building and saw the boys approaching the officer’s desk. His
heart sank. He saw two, perhaps three, anemic-looking boys who seemed hardly able to lift a bale of milk
much less stir huge vats of dye ten hours a day. He remembered Yu Bien’s look all those years back.
“What?” Yu Bien had shouted as Ah Bun stood outside the Customs House. “Your father promised a
stallion, now I’m stuck with this donkey!”

Ernesto felt like doing as Yu Bien did back then and rail at the boys, if only to exorcise memories
of that long-ago day when he became a Customs House boy for nearly a month. Yu Bien was so
disgusted by the sight of the young Ah Bun; the bull of a man dragged the boy back inside the Customs
House and handed him back to the officer. “This is the wrong boy,” Yu Bien told the huanna, “This is not
my nephew, he is stowaway, send him back.” “Who will pay for his passage” “I don’t care!”

The stunned Customs Man scratched his head and told Ah Bun to sit in a corner. Ah Bun sat
there watching the people from the boat file through the Customs Men. He saw people greeting each
other, overjoyed, while others wept, perhaps upon hearing about the death of a loved one. He heard
people shouting, arguing. He thought his uncle would return for him later, perhaps in a carriage draw by
four horses. He sat until all the people from the boat had left and the day became night and night gave
way to light. He might have dozed off a while, dreaming of the nearly ripe lychees in their backyard when
the huanna Customs Man woke him. “What will we do with you?” the huanna asked the teen-aged boy
who looked bewildered but unfazed. He’d seen men killed, he’d seen houses burned. He was unafraid.
“You don’t even understand a word I say, do you?” the huanna asked.

The Customs Man led the boy, almost a young man really, to a table and gave him something hot
and dark and bitter to drink. He gave Ah Bun strange-looking dumplings and something white and rank-
smelling to eat. The boy would soon know that these were the coffee and bread and cheese, which some
of the huanna ate when they woke up in the mornings. The boy pined for some gruel and minced fished
and tofu. The man led Ah Bun to a room with many bunks, some of which were occupied by people from
the old country–people from other boats, the boy surmised. Then he understood what had happened. He
understood that his uncle Yu Bien would not take him; that he Lee Ah Bun, was now among the
abandoned and unclaimed among derelicts and criminals, discarded humans. The boy felt his guts freeze
and he could not stop the tears. He wept terribly, angrily. He wanted to be among dead, among those
he’d seen murdered and mutilated by bandits and soldiers. He wept until the room crowded around him,
until the huanna shook him hard and shouted at him. Ah Bun stopped crying he made up his mind that he
would never again weep the rest of his life.
 The oldest lannang–all of them men–regaled Ah Bun with stories about Manila. Some had never
left the Customs House while others had lived in the city and even traveled to the provinces before
running afoul with the law. Many had debts and fake papers–they had bought the tua di, alien landing
certificates of other lannang who had gone home to the old country and decided to stay put. Most were
charged with petty crimes. Some were awaiting trial. Others yearned to return home if only some
benevolent ship captain would give them passage. One shook violently and moaned like a sick dog and
was often beaten up by the Customs Men. He was an opium addict, Ah Bun learned.

The men at the Customs House had little to eat. Occasionally, some kind people from the
“benevolent society” brought food, but the Customs Men would have their fill before giving the lannang
their share. Once a Buddhist run cam with hot noodle soup and sutras; another time, a white man in black
robes showed up with a pretty young lass, a lannang who spoke Hokkien, they talked about the Son of
God. “The Son of God is also a white man?” Ah Bun had asked the young lass who reminded him so
much of the pretty girls back home, of Pue An, his own teenage wife of three months, who did not have
bound feet. “He is not really white,” the young woman said. “But his eyes, his hair…” “Do you want to
know more about him?”

“What is your name? Where are you from?”

“I’m Margaret. My Chinese name is Po Kim, precious lute. My parents are from Xiamen. I was
born here. I’m studying to be a nun.”

“Why?” Ah Bun asked, in his heart he regretted that he was already a husband; that he had
agreed to marry a near-stranger because his father wanted a new fish net. He would not want to make
this lovely girl, this fairy of a foreign land, a second wife. But perhaps, he might stay here forever…
perhaps.

“This is no place for a young man like you,” Margaret said, “Fr. Andechaga will talk to the
authorities. I will go to your uncle and talk some sense into him. He can’t do this,” she said, and Ah Bun
wanted to touch her, to pull her to him and be with her the way he’d been with Pue An, but different. But
he only said, “No! I won’t have anything more to do with him!”

“Don’t be a fool. You don’t want to rot here.”

Ah Bun learned many things from the lannang at the Customs House. They gave him foreign
cigarettes to smoke and taught him some of the words of the huanna until the boy tried speaking to the
Customs Man. The huanna laughed at Ah Bun’s attempts to speak Tagalog but gave the young man a
bottle of beer and began teaching him how to play huanna chess. Ah Bun shined the huanna’s shoes and
scrubbed the floor. He carried pails of water from the deep well as he did back home and washed the
walls. He fed the few chickens the Customs Men and the lannang raised behind the building. Ah Bun
decided that the huanna was as good a man as a huanna could be and, years later, when he was asked
what name he wanted to be baptized with, Ah Bun remembered the name the Customs Man had said
before the boy finally left the Customs House: Ernesto.

After spending twenty-four days in the Customs House, Ah Bun finally saw his uncle Yu Bien
again. He was with Margaret and the foreign priest. Margaret smiled at Ah Bun and he felt his heart
beating against his ribcage; in another time and place he would have begged her to marry him, he would
have sworn to forget Pue An and his past life, but now he was but a worthless beggar that she had come
to rescue. Yu Bien looked agitated; he tried to smile as Margaret and the priest led Ah Bun out of the
Customs House. Still the boy stared into his uncle’s eyes and saw him look away. Ah Bun knew then that
Yu Bien would never again turn him away. “Why did you have to disgrace me this way?” Yu Bien finally
asked his nephew when they were alone heading for home. “I only told the truth.”

“Truth? The truth is that you must learn to be a man. You must know that the food I will feed you
is food I deny my own child. You must know how fortunate you are to have a home in this strange land!”

“Yes, uncle. I have learned my lesson,” Ah Bun said before dropping suddenly to the ground in
front of Yu Bien, kowtowing, “Thank you for teaching me well.”

“Get up! Get up you fool!” Yu Bien said trying not to attract more onlookers. “You’ve brought me
enough shame!”

And now, as Ernesto Yu eyed the Customs Man who was inspecting the two boys in front of him,
a strange sensation came upon Ernesto briefly; he remembered his boyhood, the time before war and
pestilence and the journey across the sea, and he wondered if he’d ever been happy.

“There is only one name in this document, Mr. Yu,” the huanna said, “Which one of them is Lee
Hap Sun?” Ernesto’s pleasant mood turned into irritation. “Let me talk to them,” Ernesto told the officer
and dragged the two boys to a corner. “Which one of you is my nephew?” he asked. The two boys looked
at each other and the smaller one raised his hand. Ernesto’s heart sank deeper. “I only sent for you Ah
Sun, it was very clear in my letter to your father. I only need one apprentice. I can only afford one. Who is
this?”

“I am Ah Tin, distinguished uncle…”

“Shut up!”
 “This is Ah Tin, uncle. He is the eldest son of third Aunt Mei Lu.”

“Who?”

“Aunt Mei Lu, your niece by grandfather’s third wife the former maid servant, grandmother Po
Lian.”

“I don’t know any Mei Lu! His name is not in the document! Do you know what that means? He is
here illegally! He’ll have to be sent back or else be kept in the Customs House where I must pay for his
upkeep!”

“Not the Customs House, uncle, I beg you,” Ah Sun pleaded. “Or I will have to pay that thief over
there five hundred pesos and be indebted to him for the rest of my life in this country.”

“I will work for my debt, uncle,” Ah Tin said, fearful but afraid to cry.

“Don’t call me ‘uncle,’ you stowaway. Do you know how much five hundred pesos is? Not ten of
your worthless lives can pay for the trouble you’ve caused.”

“Forgive me,” Ah Tin said and dropped to his knees. Ernesto panicked, he suddenly saw what Yu
Bien saw all those years ago: a pitiful boy kneeling before a curious-looking Chinaman. “Get up you fool!
You’ve done enough harm!”

Meanwhile, the hunna had approached. “So what are we going to do with the boy, Mr. Yu?”

“Do as you wish!” Ernesto was tempted to say for a moment. “Let him learn his lessons as I did!
Let him shine shoes, scrub floors, clean outhouses! Let him sleep among junkies and thieves!” But
Ernesto knew that the boy would not survive as he himself once did. He knew the world had changed
even if he seldom left his own workplace these past twenty years. He knew the huanna had changed;
they were sharper now, wiser, less prone to laugh at Chinese stowaways trying to speak Tagalog and to
teach them chess; the white men have changed, the Spaniards had left with their noses in the air and
their tails between their legs, replaced by Americans who brought automobiles and running water and
electric lights, built street cars and boulevards, paved roads and cleaned up the boats, and paid the right
price for everything they bought, but stayed clear of Chinatown.

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Martin, let me have this one,” Ernesto said, he’d
learned enough Tagalog to strike a decent-enough bargain with the huanna. “Ah, what we do for old
friends,” the Customs Man said, shaking his head, “three hundred pesos.”
 “Martin!” Ernesto nearly screamed. “I’m not a rich man, Martin. I own no lumberyard or bank. I’m
just a poor dye maker. I’ll send your wife the blue cotton.”

“Cotton? So you think my Melissa is good enough only for cotton?”

Ernesto swallowed the bitterness in his tongue. “I mean to gift her with the silk for Christmas,” he
said, trying to smile. “Thirty pesos,” Martin whispered, showing off his nicotine-stained teeth. “I don’t have
that kind of money on me, here, take this,” the Chinese replied taking off his watch. “It’s Swiss-made, I’ll
redeem it tomorrow.”

Martin eyed the watch briefly and waved it away; he had no use for watches. He had no use for
colleagues talking behind his back. He was surprised that the Chinaman who didn’t seem to have more
than two camisas to wear despite his bolts of textile should have such fancy silver on him. “Must have
accepted it as a payment from some bankrupt debtor,” the huanna thought to himself. “Take the boy,”
Martin whispered, “I don’t have much use for him. My wife will like the silk.”

Note: You can sort summary from the internet for more understanding. Don’t forget to
site the references.