VILLANUEVA, Felicidad Lucille L.

(2018-02195)
ENG 153 - G

The Frustrating, Lifeless, and Alienating History in Gina Apostol’s Insurrecto (2018)

Insurrecto (2018) by Gina Apostol was a wild, dizzying ride across Philippine history. I
did not enjoy the journey at all. Hiding behind the excuse of postmodernity, Apostol drags
readers through multiple jarring narratives without a clear distinction of where we even are in the
story. What an ineffective way of telling an often obscured part of Philippine history!

The story had so much potential. Two women unraveling their personal grievances and
tying it all together into the big weave of American colonialism in the Philippines? Cool, sign me
up! But told in multiple disorienting, fragmented narratives with pretentious grandiose language?
No, thank you! If I had a choice, I would have dropped the book the moment I read “[T]he
translator and mystery writer Magsalin” (3). But I did not have a choice; I forced myself to get
through my frustration of reading this book filled with missed opportunities.

Such a bigger disappointment was finding out Apostol’s intention in writing Insurrecto.
This was her attempt to write a counter exercise to the disinformation rampant during Rodrigo
Duterte’s regime. In an interview with Fiction Advocate, Apostol asserts that “readers need to get
smarter” in discerning what is fictional or not. Insurrecto illustrates history and reality as both
constructed and perceived in multiple ways depending on one’s positioning. Regardless of who is
writing history, all these narratives are shaped by ideologies. Often than not, the dominant
narratives in Philippine history are trickled through a colonialist lens. Given the existence of
multiple perspectives, Apostol challenges readers to be aware of illusions in history writing.

Ultimately, Apostol fails in her challenge of engaging her readers as active participants in
writing history. Rather than being motivated to counter-check the validity of the facts in
Insurrecto, readers are lost and alienated by the language and the story itself. The book forgets its
heart of exposing the sanitized atrocities of the Philippine-American war. Insurrecto loses its
readers through poor characterization, an inaccessible writing style, and cowardly socio-political
commentaries. We are left with an overly intellectualized narrative where history feels lifeless
and alienating.

Insurrecto is supposedly about Filipinos. Apparently, it is set in the Philippines. Yet why
does it not feel Filipino? Why is it so difficult to care about any of the characters? All arrows
point to poor characterization. Not only is it difficult to believe that any of the Filipino characters
have lived for more than a week in the Philippines, but we barely get enough ground to
sympathize with these characters. Frankly, I could care less about anyone in the book. Chiara
Brasi, as perceived by Magsalin, is an entitled brat who confidently believes anything she reads
off the internet. Magsalin, who is supposedly a foil to Chiara, is not so different from the white
director’s detachment from the Philippine nation. Ludo Brasi, a cheating film director, walks
around the Philippines like he owns it. Magsalin’s uncles are portrayed as single-minded,
misogynistic (alleged) Duterte supporters. And everyone else was barely given space for me to
even remember their names. The nearest I cared was for Casiana Nacionales, a revolutionary
who spoke with wit and moved with heart.
Apostol fails to breathe life into her characters. They all fall flat. Mere caricatures. Paper puppets
for a narrative that does not even make sense. The six pages of where all characters are reduced
to a singular phrase speaks greatly of how Apostol regards them. Simply part of a cast. This
makes it difficult for readers to even consider them as reflective of real people. Ironic
considering that this is a critique of history and metanarratives.

To a certain extent, I can pretend as if poorly written characters do not bother me.
Apostol makes this task easy for me by using a writing style so unbearable to read. In the two
months I tried reading this book, I had a total of five migraines and two fevers. I wish I was
joking! Imagine my frustration reading praise of Insurrecto’s dizzying fever-dream-like prose.

Okay, I understand that there is a reason behind Apostol’s use of postmodern, nonlinear
storytelling. I understand this reflects the disorienting and fragmented nature of history. I
understand that the Wikipedia-like hypertext is a way for readers to cross-check what is
presented as facts in the book. I understand that Apostol is inviting everyone to be active
participants in the production and consumption of history. But who exactly are willing to be
active participants in this story? Who is willing to brave through the poor writing disguised as a
whiplash of references and a blur between perspectives? Definitely not me (but I forced myself
to finish anyway).

I read through multiple reviews of Insurrecto on Goodreads, a site for reviewing books, just to
make sure I was not alone in my hatred. There is praise applauding the kaleidoscope of
perspectives. There are also low-rated reviews where they often surrender that the book is not for
them. Oh the irony of surrendering to a book about how Filipinos must not surrender to
disinformation and oppression.

The point of Insurrecto was to tackle the many different narratives in history—from the
colonized, colonizers, and bystanders—and how certain narratives rise as dominant, fostering
ideologies. But who could get this point? Apostol’s intentions were buried under big postmodern
concepts, overload of references, and difficult to follow stream of consciousness. It took a lot of
discussions with fellow readers to unearth Apostol’s intentions. Should it really be hard to figure
out the purpose of one’s book? Especially if we are dealing with pertinent issues that are
currently plaguing Philippine society?

Apostol forces readers to figure out her message. Should the responsibility of making sense of
socio-political themes be left to the reader, or should the author explicitly establish it? This
cannot be answered by a plain yes or no. Every author’s work manifests their own politics,
consequently enforcing a certain view of the world. In some cases, it is better to trust the readers.
In other cases, the author must establish that yes, we are critiquing capitalism, racism,
imperialism, sexism, and the like. Insurrecto’s sense of importance does not match the book’s
accessibility. Apostol fails to establish the significance of the history she is shining light on. It all
just feels like a journey to figure out what the mystery is.

Poor writing can somewhat be excused if the commentary holds weight. Insurrecto also
fails at this. Given the blurb explicitly mentioning that the book was set in “Duterte’s
Philippines,” I expected this to be a critique on police brutality, war on drugs, and
disinformation. Try searching “Duterte” in the book and you will end up with nothing. Only
heavy allusions to the populist strong man. There are two scenes in the book involving a riding in
tandem scheme. Something in the middle about Chiara possibly possessing drugs. I wonder why
Apostol is afraid to even mention Duterte.

More glaring than her cowardly attempts to criticize Duterte’s bloody anti-poor regime is her
recall to the student movements during Marcos Sr.’s dictatorship. When Magsalin’s husband
admired her mother’s stance against the dictator, Magsalin countered that maybe her mother “just
did not like the blood” (110). Through her character, Apostol ends up belittling the significance
of revolting. Way off-putting was Caz, a school-teacher, who criticized the student movement
during martial law after participating for a while. How awful to read a Filipino character say,
“[W]hat does her marching do but infect the streets with her useless despair?” (223).

Current day issues are not a concern in this book. Nor does it seem like historical revolutions
during Martial Law or the Philippine-American war were of cultural significance to the nation.
They are merely used to paint the scenery of modern-day Philippines. Such a missed opportunity
to illustrate the irremovable links between past, present, and future.

Insurrecto becomes the same neocolonial cinema it attempts to criticize. Reimagining war
narratives through film and forcing the locals to relive their traumas. Detached from the heart of
what happened in history. Becoming colonizers of these narratives.

The only hope in Insurrecto is the essay at the end of the notes entitled “How Do We
Know the Things That Make Us?” Apostol positions herself to Philippine history that is mostly
written from the colonizers’ perspective. It would have served the book a bit of justice to put this
essay as a preface instead of an afterword. Perhaps, I could have had a sense of direction and
significance guiding me through the winding maze of the book.

However, the damage is already done. Nothing could save Insurrecto from its
lifelessness. There were so many references to films, to Rizal, yet we never get the euphoric
post-reading realization of how everything ties in together. Honestly, Insurrecto felt like a book
that was commissioned to be published in the West for representation brownie points. Such
reflects what Elaine Castillo argues in her essay “How to Read Now” (2022) that works by
writers of color are “merely [a place to] cosplay diversity, empathy, education [to white people].
Not a place to truly be diverted from oneself; not a place to be made humble in one’s
vulnerability; not a place to be laid bare in one’s unknowing.” (17). Insurrecto by Gina Apostol
tried to do so much in postmodern style yet forgot to ground itself in lived experiences. We end
up with a book more lost than the reality of Philippine history.
 Works Cited

Apostol, Gina. Insurrecto. Soho Press, 2018.

Castillo, Elaine. How to Read Now. Penguin, 2022.

Fiction Advocate. A Way to Poke at Power: An Interview with Gina Apostol. 2019,
https://www.fictionadvocate.com/2019/04/02/a-way-to-poke-at-power-an-interview-with-
gina-apostol/