Amazing is the word to describe the story of Katipuneros who were captured at the battle of San Juan del Monte and exiled to Yap Island in the Carolines.  It is wonder this kind of stories do not find their way into Filipino movies.

Short summary:

Sixty five Filipino rebels were captured by Spanish cavalry troops during the assault of the powder magazine in San Juan del Monte  on August 30, 1896 .  They were exiled to Yap island in the Carolines and there suffered untold hardships and depredation – meager food, cramped and dirty prison cell, hard labor, and torture.  But their conditions suddenly changed after the Governor of the island was replaced by someone who treated them humanely.  Under the policy of the new governor, torture was abolished and the prisoners were provided with nourishing food and habitable space to stay.  At one time, the governor received a letter from an official of a religious corporation in Manila ordering him to treat the prisoners in the most cruel manner that they deserve as rebels against the Spanish government and religion.  The letter asked the governor to starve the prisoners - give them less food and a lot more physical punishment until they die.  The governor angrily rejected the order saying he is the authority in the island and no friar can instruct to do their bidding.  Instead of punishment, the prisoners food ration was increased,  given more free time, with only the condition that they do not escape from the island, that they should be together at the dinner table and sleep on schedule.  After the island was ceded by Spain to Germany it was necessary to evacuate the place  and this event gave the prisoners the opportunity to be sent home. Before parting, the governor confided that he is not a Spaniard but a Frenchman who happen to be married to a Spanish woman, and that he is not one to bow down before a friar or allow himself to be employed as an assassin by those who pretend to be holy.  He also admonished the Filipinos not to feel any shame or regret because they earn the honor and respect deserving those who sacrifice in the defense of the liberty of their native land, the Philippines.

(Note: The following narrative was lifted entirely from pages 173-182 of Santiago Alvarez’s book, “The Katipunan and the Revolution, Memoirs of a General”)

Let us leave aside for the moment the preparations and activities of the Sons of the People in their current campaigns, to review the dark, thorny, and precipitous road to death that the Katipuneros gladly took for the sake of freedom for the Motherland.

To those who participated in the siege of the Spanish enemy’s powder arsenal at San Juan del Monte, Rizal, on the morning of 30 August 1896, the thundering command of the Supremo Andres Bonifacio, “My brethren, attack!” still resounds in their ears.

As the Katipunan bolo brigade rushed towards the enemy position, they were met by a hail of bullets.  The shooting intensified from their front and rear when new enemy reinforcements arrived.  The latter were the same troops who had earlier in the morning routed the army of General Salogo (Ramon Bernardo) at Santa Mesa.  Among the Katipunan officers in that siege was Lt. Miguel Ramos (alias Bulalakaw). 

"To each his own!  Seek your own safety!” the Supremo shouted.  The Katipunan ranks broke pell-mell in a frantic effort to escape.  But just then Lieutenant Bulalakaw shouted, “Lie down on your bellies!”

The bolo brigade dropped to the ground, and each one tried to burrow a safe niche for himself.  At first no one dared to stand because of the low-flying barrage of bullets.  But they soon realized that they were easy targets in that position and that it was better if they died either fighting on their feet or fleeing to safety.  This reasoning must have led one to get up on his feet in spite of the crisscrossing bullets and to run for his life.  His example was quickly followed by the others and soon all the bolo brigade was fleeing aimlessly in all directions.  Quite a number escaped unscathed, but many were wounded.  And in their hurry to get away, the Katipuneros left their dead where they fell on enemy ground.

The enemy’s cavalry troops chased the fleeing Katipuneros and tried to block their flight.  At noon, they overtook and arrested a group of them on top of a mountain.  Among those taken prisoners were Katipunan members Manuel Castaneda, Teodorico Castaneda, Claro Castaneda, Catalino Bustamante, Victor de los Reyes, and Miguel Ramos.

Account of Miguel Ramos

[Author’s [S. Alvarez's] note:  One of the Katipuneros captured and imprisoned by the Spaniards, after the Battle of San Juan on 30 August 1896, was Lt. Miguel Ramos (alias Bulalakaw, lit., shooting star).  He wrote the following account to prove that those imprisoned by the enemy suffered no less than those who were left fighting in the battlefield.]

After our arrest by the Spanish cavalry troops, we were ordered to put down our bolos in a heap on the ground.  Then with both hands up, we were lined up a yard-and-a-half away from the pole of bolos.  Our captors searched our bodies thoroughly and then bound us individually at the elbows with rope as thick as a finger.  They brought us thus trussed up to the civil guard garrison at Marikina. 

We prisoners agreed on a common defense strategy.  At any trial court in which we would be arraigned, we were to say that we had been peasants working in the fields when men with guns had pounced on us.  They had forced us to produce guns, and when we could not, they had hauled us off and impressed us into their army.  They had placed us in the vanguard of troops that attacked the powder arsenal at San Juan del Monte.  After our ranks dispersed the Spanish cavalry troops had chased and captured us.  This was our testimony to every Spanish officer who interrogated us.

In the afternoon of 2 September 1896, we were brought to the Bilibid Prison in Manila.  We were not given any supper that evening.  The following day we were fed once, and at eleven o’clock that night our elbows were again tightly tied behind us.  Then we were hustled off from Bilibid and brought to the pier.

Our captors put us on a steamboat called Churruca.  All sixty-five of us prisoners were so weak and hungry that if we stopped to rest for a while we found it difficult to get up and walk again.  Mobility was hampered, not only because of our weakened conditions due to hunger but also because of the discomfort from the tight binding of our elbows behind us.  They herded us into a dark, windowless compartment, with a single opening on top that was covered by a piece of canvas measuring about three feet square.  They surrounded us with guards, which seemed to me unnecessary if the purpose was to prevent us from escaping.  Besides being hogtied, we were all too weak from exhaustion and hunger to escape.

Suddenly, two Spanish soldiers began to beat us with canes, while two others joined by kicking and shoving around until we fell down the keel of the boat.  We fell in different positions, on our backs, bellies, sides, or on our heads.  Then a big voice boomed out, “Bury the dead!”

We were packed like sardines at the bottom of the keel.  To sleep, we could not even lie down horizontally.  We could hardly move as we huddled close to each other, sitting on our haunches.  The air was fetid since the only aperture was the door above, and even this was blocked by many guards.  Since it was stifling hot, we were a grimy and stinking lot, with bedraggled and soiled clothes.  And to top it all, we were still hogtied.  But the will to survive did not leave us, for we ate and drank the foul food and water they gave us.

Our destination was Yap, in the Caroline Islands.  On reaching land, they bailed us out of the hold of the boat with rope and herded us into the beach like cattle.  They made a head-count as we landed to make sure that no one escaped.  With sticks and kicks, they propelled us to where the governor of the island, Maj. Miguel Marquez, was waiting.  But when we were about to be presented, the governor refused to let us come near him, perhaps because of our stench and squalor.  He ordered our handcuffs removed and had transferred to a corral on the beach.  Located at the foot of a mountain, the corral was sturdily fenced for keeping captured cattle.  There we bathed and washed our clothes.  We were a naked lot hanging our clothes to dry when two Spaniards came to take photographs.  Hustling us to pose, they took pictures, with none of us wearing any clothes.

The Spaniards used Yap island as a prison.  The military governor, Major Marquez, was extremely cruel and churlish toward us prisoners.  Looking down on Filipinos as inferior to Europeans, he considered us fit only to be their slaves for all time.  Our meals never varied and were very meager; they consisted only of boiled rice of the roughest kind and plain boiled lentils.

Everyday we were assigned to do hard labor on projects that had to be finished at once.  We had to carry loads of soil from one place to another and dig or fill up sites.  Considering the whimsical and unplanned nature of the assignments, we often felt that the tasks were given to punish us, not necessarily to complete some specific project.  However, there was one job that we detested most of all.  Whenever the mailboat arrived, we were mad to repair the road to the wharf and the government house.  These were the only times the road was opened.  In three days we had to level the humps and fill the potholes; this stretch of a road we referred to as “Hell.”

As soon as the boat had docked, we prisoners were lined up at the landing to be ready to unload the ship.  An officer of the boat would hand to Gov. Miguel Marquez the manifest; after the latter had read it, he would put his arms akimbo and then hold up and wave the document.  This was the signal for us to begin unloading the cargo.

With the heavy loads on our backs, we walked down the gangplank and down the road we called Hell.  For on both sides of the road were lined Spanish troops and elements of the Seventy-eight Infantry, who were armed with tough wooden planks or bamboo and rattan sticks, ready to torment us with beatings for such imagined transgressions as not carrying our heavy loads, not walking straight, etc.  And when we stumbled or fell, we also got a beating.  In the interim, between the unloading and the loading of new cargo, we prisoners were made to fill up the potholes and level the road to same vexations as before.  It was not surprising that after each departure of the mailboat, many of us were confined in hospital, suffering from fever, bruises, muscle and nerve fatigue, and abrasions all over the body.

We were convinced that the pain we suffered was not any less that those of our brethren who fell in the night fighting for the Motherland.  And should we die before we could see our dear ones again, we commended to Bathala [Supreme Being in Tagalog mythology] the care of our beloved parents, wives, children, and brothers and sisters.  We also prayed that the love of country be always kept alive in their hearts.

In our desperation, we fervently wished for death.  We were quite certain that it was near at hand for all of us, considering the hardships we were enduring.  We were most despondent every time the mailboat arrived, and to us it became a symbol of our oppression.  It became so that we came to detest its very sight and sound – seeing and hearing it made our flesh creep.  After more than a year of intolerable conditions, we had all fallen ill.  We were emaciated, pale and weak, and the only reason we could still do some work was because of the threat of merciless beatings we would get if we did not obey.

One Sunday, the island became agog with the news that the governor, Maj. Miguel Marquez, would be replaced by a colonel.  And indeed, within a week a battleship arrived in port with the new governor, Col. Salvador Cortes.  Major Marquez boarded the boat to meet his successor.

The poise and physique of Colonel Cortes impressed us.  With a stern visage, he looked at the person he talked to straight in the eye.  This was unlike Governor Marquez, who had a comely face and who had the habit of looking down when talking to people.  The fierce look the new governor’s eyes provoked the following observation: “Well, what do you know!  The one who looks as meek as a lamb made our lives unbearable.  We should know what to expect from that one who looks as fierce as a lion!  Instead of quibbling, let us get ready for any eventuality that should befall us.”

As part of the routine in the turnover of responsibility and position, Major Marquez accompanied Colonel Cortes to the various government offices.  When they came to the prison, we prisoners fell in line and saluted them.  The colonel saluted back enthusiastically.  Going to the kitchen to find out what the prisoners had to eat, he saw the usual fare of boiled rice of the toughest kind and boiled lentils.  He stirred the pot vigorously and asked the attendant what was cooking and for whom.

“That, sir is the prisoners’ food,” the attendant answered.

Taken aback, the colonel sighed and threw a glance at us.  Then he kicked the pots until they broke.  After a while he asked if they were keeping beasts in the place.  His face was red with rage when he said, “Why do you feed your fellowmen with stuff fit only for animals!”

He called the superintendent and lectured to him thus: “I am the new governor replacing Major Marquez.  I order you to give the prisoners decent food.  Procure only good fish and have tasty dishes prepared for them.  The dishes shall be prepared in accordance to the prisoners’ tastes.  Should fresh supplies be lacking, I authorize you to open the pantry and give the prisoners meat and other good food.  And give them only clean rice, not the rough kind I saw today.”

He looked at his watch, and seeing that it was past eleven o’clock, he ordered the opening of the pantry.  After giving instructions about feeding the prisoners not later than twelve noon, he left together with Major Marquez.

After they had left, the superintendent told us, “Now your noses are up in the air.”

Maj. Miguel Marquez departed from East Yap after the office and responsibility of governing the island had been properly turned over to Col. Salvador Cortes.  He left the same battleship that had brought his successor.

The first of the new governor’s reforms that affected us was his order to the prison superintendent to feed us well.  For breakfast we were to be given lots of good coffee, sugar, newly baked bread, butter, and sardines.  The bounty extended to the other meals as well – lunch, afternoon snack, and dinner.  On Sundays and holidays we had special fare: for breakfast and snacks we had chocolate, bread, cheese ham and fried eggs; for lunch and dinner, delicious dishes of pork, beef, chicken or tasty fish, cooked with abundant vegetables with or without broth, fresh fruits, a goblet of good wine for each, and sweet meats.

We were to be as free as possible, to sleep when we wanted to, to take walks, to amuse ourselves, and if we were so inclined, to work.  The only restrictions imposed were that we could not leave the island and that we must be inside the compound from ten at night to seven in the morning.  We were thankful for a regimen that began at six in the morning with breakfast and ended with supper at six in the evening.  My companions were happy enough in our relative freedom to work when we pleased to spend our time leisurely in promenades or other diversions, and in being well-fed besides.

“Yet,” I explained to them, “we are not truly free.  We are still prisoners on this island.  Of course, we are better off than before, but we should realize that only when our country is free can there be real contentment.  Then everything else – intellectual life, material wealth, nobility of character – will flourish and be sources of pride for us all.”

On Sundays and feast days of Saints, it was customary for everyone on the island to hear mass at the Roman Catholic church on top of a hill.  One such morning, we left our prison compound at seven to go to church.  Midway up the hill we saw on the horizon what looked like a tabo bobbing about at sea.  It was a black object that grew bigger the longer we looked at it.  Then we discerned traces of smoke that became darker as we continued to watch.  Apprehension began to sap our strength so that we could barely climb the hill.  The object we saw coming toward us was the dreaded mailboat!

“Sink! Sink! Damn you, sink!” we chorused, meanwhile raising our fists.

Just then the governor, escorted by some troops, passed us on the road.  He signaled for us to walk faster to the church, where he was also going.  We all heard mass together, and when it was over, the governor told our superintendent to take us prisoners to the wharf.  What we had always dreaded was going to happen again: we were to unload the ship’s cargo.  We trembled with fright at the prospect of the suffering that awaited us.  May companions’ thoughts were more morbid; they suspected that the reason we had been allowed a measure of freedom and given good food was that we were being readied for execution on the island.  Those fears gnawed at us as we stood waiting for the tortures to begin.

Some ten minutes passed before the boat docked.  The captain greeted the governor and handed him a letter.  When he had read the letter, Colonel Cortes reddened and trembled in agitation.  He summoned Vicente Suarez, the prison superintendent, handed him the letter and ordered him to translate it into Tagalog and to be read aloud for our benefit.  The letter read as follows:

Colonel Cortes

Honorable Governor:

Here’s wishing you a pleasant sojourn in Eastern Yap of the Carolines.  May you triumph in the defense of the glory and honor of Spain, our Motherland, in that far-flung outpost of her empire.  The religious corporations wish to remind you that the Filipino rebels now being imprisoned on the island you now administer are traitors to our government and our religion.  Therefore, it is your duty to starve and beat them to death!

(Signature of a friar)

After the letter had been translated into Tagalog and then read to us, the governor took it from Mr. Vicente Suarez.  With a smile he reassured us:

“I am the person in authority here.  No friar has the jurisdiction, mush less power, to give orders to me.  I hereby repudiate all the evil elements like them.  And I intend to punish them should they try to meddle in my territory.  I am appealing to you to help unload the cargo intended for us, but when you do the job tomorrow morning, it will be in a manner that will not be oppressive to you.  And should you get tired on the job, you are free to leave, take a walk, or return to your quarters.  You don’t have to worry about anything because there will not be anyone to watch you or order you about.”

As he said the last sentence, he gave a meaningful look to his troops.  He told them that the prisoners would police themselves.  He dismissed his troops and again spoke to us.

“As far as I am concerned, you are free to do as you please on this island; you may promenade or rest in your quarters as you wish.  No schedules or guards will interfere with you.  The only discipline I impose is that at mealtimes you should all eat together.  And don’t forget my appeal for help in unloading and loading of cargo in the mailboat tomorrow morning.  You will work shoulder to shoulder with the soldiers, and nobody will wield the stick and neither will anyone be beaten.  You may now walk around or rest in your quarters.  You are free to do as you please….”

He smiled at us again and then saluted.  We returned the salute with great pleasure.

Under the aegis of Governor Cortes, our stint as exiles on the island passed happily.  And were it not for our concern for the freedom of our native land and for our families back home, our contentment would have been complete.  Aside from the kindness he had already demonstrated, the governor also ordered that our rations of good food and drink be increased.  Thus for lunch on Sundays and holidays we were given an extra plateful of arroz a la valenciana and a cup of fine wine.  Where before we were weak and pale because of lack of sleep and nourishing food and because of the merciless beatings endured, under the benign regimen of Governor Cortes we regained our health, vitality, and zest for life.

One day news reached us that the Caroline Islands, East Yap, Bonaparte, and Saipan were to be ceded by the Spanish government to the Germans.  True enough, two ships, the Uranusand the Alba, soon arrived on our shores to take us away.  The Uranus was to take us prisoners back to the Philippines; and when we were all aboard Governor Cortes spoke to us.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “we shall now part ways.  You will go back to your own country and we to ours.  May God grant that we reach our destination safely.  You must realize that I am a soldier whose duty is to uphold the Spanish government.  In that role, I am a Spaniard wherever I might be, whether here or in Spain or anywhere else.  In truth, however, I am French by birth, race, and origin.  But fate had it that I should marry a Spanish woman of Cartagena.  I came to love the place, and that was where we made our home until I was assigned this onerous responsibility.

“However, this assignment gave me an opportunity to meet and make friends with you.  You must have been very surprised at the comradeship and leniency I showed you.  But you must know, as I have already told you, that I am a Frenchman and not a Spaniard who kneels and kisses the hands of the friars.  I can never work as a secret assassin for those who pretend to be holy.  I feel compassion for my fellowmen because God has given me the capacity to think and to sympathize with others.  I thank God that you still had some strength remaining, although you were perilously close to death when I arrived.  I am also grateful that you were able to regain you strength and vitality.

“You may all go back to your own homes, for you are free from now on.  You need not be ashamed of anything, for you were imprisoned only because of your love for your native land and your desire to defend her liberty.  By risking your life and blood unstintingly like you did, you have earned the respect of your fellowmen.  This is the highest honor a patriot could aspire to, and it should be written into our historical record as a source of inspiration for all.”

After this short speech, Governor Cortes shook hands with all of us while shouts of “Bon Voyage!” filled the air.  Then the good governor took his leave of us and joined his troops on the other ship, the Alba, which was to take him back to Spain.  Our ship, the Uranus, about to depart, we and the passengers on the other ship cried out to each other, “Farewell! Farewell!”

But as the distance widened between us, the last distinct sounds we heard from the other ship were shouts of “Long live Spain!”

That provoked in us a surge of patriotic fervor and we could do no less that shout back, “Long live the Philippines!”

But no sooner had we uttered the cry than we began to regret having done so.  Our other companions, carried away no doubt by the heady feeling that we were finally free, echoed the cry again and again.

We had forgotten temporarily that there were Spanish troops with us on board.  Already they were looking annoyed over what we had done.  What if they decided not to take us to Manila but to another island where we would again be exiled?  Then we would suffer the same tortures we had undergone on East Yap.  However, nothing of the sort happened and we reached Manila uneventfully.

SOURCE:

Alvarez, Santiago: “The Katipunan and the Revolution, Memoirs of a General,” Ateneo de Manila University Press, Quezon City, 1992

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