Bolos and Bones: Re[dis]covering Bonifacio with Ambeth Ocampo

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By John Anthony S. Estolloso

November 30 is fast approaching, and as observed annually, the country on that day celebrates Andres Bonifacio: Supremo of the Katipunan, patriot and revolutionary, and poet of some literary capacity. But other than what our history textbooks have managed to cram in one chapter about the Philippine Revolution, what else do we remember about him?

Last November 14, noted historian Ambeth Ocampo resurfaced these questions surrounding the Supremo’s life and times in the 5^th Kahilwayan History Talk held at Ateneo de Iloilo – Santa Maria Catholic School. As was usual of Prof. Ocampo’s lectures, the school’s auditorium was jam-packed with students and faculty from various institutions and the throng of Ilonggo history buffs who never fail to be amused by the obscura of the past, more so of Bonifacio’s contested narrative.

Admittedly, most of us know but tidbits about Andres Bonifacio. Our textbooks, with its familiar iconography, tell us that he was the Supremo of the Katipunan, that he ‘officiated’ the Cry of Balintawak (or Pugad Lawin, as some sources would say), that he fought the Spanish forces with varying degrees of success, that he turned violent during the ill-met Tejeros Convention, that he was executed in some vague mountain – and just like that, he fades from the pages. He then reappears as a statue, complete with bolo, flagpole, and rolled-up trousers, in some of our plazas and public spaces. Together with Rizal, we placed him on a pedestal for everyone to see and gradually forget in plain sight.

Prof. Ocampo was right to point out that this leaves us a lot of old questions demanding fresh answers: Why is he always depicted in our monuments and paintings as wearing red pantaloons furled at the knees and white camisa de chino, with matching bandana around the neck? What exactly did Bonifacio shout during the ‘Cry’ of Balintawak? Did he actually wield a bolo in his encounters with the Spanish? What happened to his revolver? Which personal effects did he leave us for (or were lost to) posterity? Where are the Supremo’s bones and his final resting place? And how did he get himself into our currency? On a more dismal note, what happened to his loved ones after his execution?

While it is not our required task – and for some, not their interest at all – to nitpick the fibers and minutiae of our past, it is always a worthwhile enterprise to take time to understand our heroes and the time they lived in. Prof. Ocampo’s documentary, semiotic, and narrative references always make for interesting scrutiny, and the manner with which he brings them to life in his lectures humanizes and revitalizes these characters, long consigned in the dusty shelves of history. We can take for granted the recurring icons and symbols in our heroes’ monuments and artworks, but they take on a significant relevance once we understand why they were included in the portrayal. It is one thing to read about conflicting accounts in a thick and dull volume; it is a different experience altogether to hear about banter and bilge from the scions of these national figures.

Perhaps the crucial takeaway from his discussion is that we Filipinos have to come to terms with the flaws of our national figures, especially those whom we enshrine as heroes. Enmeshed in similar traps and trappings of powerplay we experience today, Bonifacio and his contemporaries played the political game, for whatever consequence this has brought to the nation. In questioning why we face the same social ills and political rifts now, one need but look back to our past to understand whence these came from.

In Bones of Contention, Prof. Ocampo’s compendium of lectures about Bonifacio, he writes that “if memory gives us our individual identities, then history will contribute to a national memory and eventually that elusive thing we call national identity. History gives us a way of looking at the world and dealing with it and its problems. History contributes to our being Filipino, whatever that means.” Verily, it would appear that the only way we can truly move forward as a nation is to look back.

(The writer is a language and literature in one of the private schools of the city. Photos by Mariana Cacho and Tomas Fermindoza; the poster is from Discover Santa Barbara Iloilo’s FB page.)