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The past is never dead. It's not even past

Not Even Past

The Visitor: André Palmeiro and the Jesuits in Asia by Liam Matthew Brockey (2014)

By Abisai Pérez

This book addresses the life of Jesuit father André Palmeiro (1569 [Lisbon] – 1635 [Macau]), who was the first inspector, or Visitor, of the Jesuit Company in India and East Asia with the mission of consolidating and expanding religious conversion in the remote regions of the Portuguese empire. Through the analysis of the Visitor’s experiences, Brockey describes the Jesuit order as an association of men from different countries who shared a feeling of fraternal union but also had contrasting views on how to carry out the preaching of the Gospel. In this book, the author dismantles the stories of solitary heroism in missionary work by evaluating the success and limits of the Jesuits’ strategies of adopting local customs, performing their mission in native languages, and debating with local intellectual elites about religious matters. Brockey argues that pragmatism and cultural adaptation, coupled with Portuguese colonialism, allowed the Jesuits to preach in the most remote regions but also confronted them with the orthodox branch of the Catholic Church.

Through the study of Palmeiro’s diary and correspondence with his superiors –most of the documents located in the Jesuit archive in Rome– Brockey vividly describes the challenges of the Visitor in India and China. He begins by describing Palmeiro’s  formation as a scholar in Portuguese universities, where he stood out for mastering Catholic theology, and his efforts to learn how to run a religious order in a vast multicultural region during his journeys along the Malabar coast and in Sri Lanka. Then he turns to Palmeiro’s last years  in Macau and inland China and analyzes the endeavors of the Visitor in reforming the conduct of his brethren according to Rome’s directions and providing support to his fellows in Japan, where the Jesuits faced extremely violent persecution.

Through this voluminous book, the author addresses three major issues that explain the success and limitations of the Jesuits in spreading Catholicism in Asia. First, while most historians have emphasized the stoic endurance and outstanding preparation of the Jesuits in matters of classical arts and theology, Brockey shows through the Visitor’s eyes that many of the missionaries were earthly men with human weaknesses and personal concerns. Far from being harmonious and focused on cultivating holiness, Brockey depicts the Jesuit missions as sites of conflict and instability. The book contributes to understanding that the dissensions within the order were not necessarily over religious matters based on personal ambitions, conflicts over jurisdiction with ecclesiastical hierarchies, and the unrealistic expectations of a young generation who hoped to convert thousands of souls by the mere act of preaching. Although Palmeiro was neither adventurous nor did he perform miracles like some of his predecessors, his pragmatic vision allowed him to successfully establish friendly ties with the royal courts of Ethiopia and the Mughal empire. Through diplomacy, the Visitor strengthened the proselytizing activities of the Jesuits in places where they only possessed rhetorical skills to survive.

Second, Brockey contrasts pragmatism with the Jesuit method of “cultural accommodation,” that is the adaptation of Catholic doctrine to local cultural conditions. The author challenges the vision that praises as “modern” the Jesuit method of conversion through the preaching in native languages and the embracing of local customs. Palmeiro’s involvement in two controversies over the method of cultural accommodation serves Brockey to explain the limits of that practice. First, when the Visitor arrived at Goa, he played an important role in the prosecution against father Roberto Nobili, who has adopted the lifestyle of Hindu Brahmans by wearing their robes, studying religious texts with them, and sharing meals with them that than his Catholic brethren. Portraying himself as a “Christian Brahman,” Nobili claimed the strategy would allow the conversion of members of the highest Hindu caste and consequently the rest of the population, but the ecclesiastical authorities accused him of heresy. Despite being a well-trained theologian, Palmeiro adopted a pragmatic attitude when he discredited that strategy. The Visitor resolved that its success was not only limited, but it was promoting a schismatic community given that converted Brahmans did not want to be subject to the authority of the Portuguese Church. Palmeiro adopted the same realistic approach when he later arrived in China. Facing the defiant attitude of his brethren who insisted on studying Confucian texts, using Chinese concepts to explain Catholic doctrine, and wearing silk robes like the local elite, Palmeiro prohibited those practices on the grounds that they were not gaining new souls for the Catholic cause. Despite their cultural accommodation, the Jesuits had become recognizable to the Chinese elite as learned men, but not as spiritual leaders. The cases of India and China, Brockey says, demonstrate that over time the Jesuits abandoned the method of cultural accommodation not because of the intolerance of ecclesiastical authorities but because of their practical ineffectiveness in expanding Catholicism.

The final issue that Brockey emphasizes is the close relationship between missionary work and Portuguese colonialism. The Jesuit presence in Asia would have been impossible without the commercial networks and the military presence of the Portuguese empire. The chaotic collapse of the Jesuit missions in Japan serves Brockey to demonstrate that the missionary success of the Jesuits depended heavily on colonial interests. The Visitor’s efforts to provide reinforcements to his fellows immersed in violent persecution in Japan were thwarted by the refusal of Portuguese civil authorities to confront the Japanese shoguns. Commercial interests proved to be more important than God’s desire and the Portuguese authorities did not want to lose the profits obtained from the commercial connection with Japan.

In the end, Mathew Brockey remembers that, contrary to the stories of heroism and miraculous conversion, the Jesuits in Asia always relied on the military support of the Portuguese empire. Not only the Chinese and Japanese experiences but also the parallel collapse of the Jesuit and the Portuguese empire in Asia reflected how the sword facilitated the preaching of the Gospel.

Acapulco-Manila: the Galleon, Asia and Latin America, 1565-1815

by Kristie Flannery

A new exhibition at the Benson Latin American Collection explores the history of the Spanish galleons that sailed across the Pacific Ocean between New Spain (Mexico) and the Philippines almost every year for two and a half centuries. These ships were the ‘umbilical cord’ that sustained the Spanish colonization of the islands and the westward expansion of the Spanish Empire beyond the Americas. 

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Detail: Pedro Murillo Velarde and Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay. Mapa de las yslas Philipinas (1744)

The long voyage from Manila to Acapulco usually lasted five or six months. Galleons  that survived slack winds and tropical storms arrived in Acapulco overflowing with Asian merchandise: spices including pepper, cloves and cinnamon; artwork made of porcelain, ivory, mother-of-pearl and jade; richly crafted wooden furniture; tapestries, screens, and numerous bundles of silk to quench the insatiable demand for taffeta and satin, brocades and damasks, to be sold in the Americas and in Spain. The galleons also brought Asian slaves to Mexico, whose experiences and contributions to Spanish American culture are still being uncovered by historians.

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Detail: Pedro Murillo Velarde and Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay. Mapa de las yslas Philipinas (1744)

Alexander Von Humboldt remarked that Galleon ships sailing from Mexico to the Philippines went loaded with friars and silver. In addition to supplying the the islands with priests and precious metals mined in the Americas, the ships carried cochineal from Oaxaca, cocoa from South America, as well as wine, oil and textiles made in Spain. Moreover, hundreds of Mexican soldiers, many of them convicts, were sent to the Philippines to to fight against the colony’s internal and external enemies. 

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Pedro Murillo Velarde and Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay. Mapa de las yslas Philipinas (1744)

For the first time the Benson’s exhibition shows the Library’s important holdings of rare books, manuscripts, and maps that shed light on the historical connections between Asian and Latin America. A beautiful map of the islands created by the Jesuit Priest Pedro Murillo Velarde and the Tagalog engraver Nicholas de la Cruz Bagay in the early eighteenth century is one of the true highlights of the exhibition. Chinese sampans and Spanish galleon ships appear in the map, alluding to the archipelago’s commercial connections to Asia and Latin America. Other symbols in the map mark the Philippines as a Catholic space, alluding to the religious ties that bound the colony to the global Hispanic monarchy.  Saint Francis Xavier is depicted riding a chariot between the islands of Borneo and Mindanao, waving the Jesuit flag high above his head. The crab grasping a cross standing beside the saint references an episode from the apocryphal history of Philippines Christianity. Legend told that the missionary was once caught at sea in a severe storm in this part of South East Asia. To calm the strong winds and high waves, Francis took the small crucifix he wore on a string around his neck and plunged it into the sea, causing the storm to immediately cease. Another miracle occurred the next day when a crab emerged from the ocean clenching the crucifix in its claws, returning the sacred object to its rightful owner. 

 Members of the public are warmly invited to attend the opening of the exhibition on Thursday, September 9, 2016 from 4.00pm to 7.00pm.
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At 4.00pm Professor López Lázaro (University of Hawaii) will present a guest lecture on Early Modern Law and the Invention of the World: Was the Pacific the Modern World’s Point of Greatest Divergence?” A reception will follow.
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Notes from the Field: The Pope in Manila

By Kristie Flannery

This week my attempts to carry out archival research in Manila have been interrupted by Pope Francis’ visit to the Philippines.

It is not surprising that the government of the third largest Catholic country in the world would declare the days of the Pope’s visit “Special non-working days” in the national capital. All non-essential government activities (including the national archives) are closed, all school and university classes have been cancelled, and many businesses will not open their doors. The enforced holiday is supposed to clear usually congested roads of cars and jeepneys so the Pope and pilgrims move more easily from A to B.

For the outsider, Pope Francis’ visit to the Philippines this week provides interesting insight into the present social, political, and cultural dynamics of this country.

In addition to displaying the committed Catholicism of many Filipinos (over 5 million are expected to attend the public papal mass on Sunday), the papal visit has shed light on some of the tensions that exist between the country’s ruling elite and everyone else.

Dante Hipolito's painting of the Pope's visit, courtesy of The Adobo Chronicles.

Dante Hipolito’s painting of the Pope’s visit, courtesy of The Adobo Chronicles.

This painting by Filipino artist Dante Hipolito went viral on facebook and twitter this week, days ahead of the Pope’s arrival in Manila.

Pope Francis is depicted riding a Carabao-driven cart driven by Vilma Santos, a famous Filipina soapie-star and current Governor of the Batangas Province. Hipolito’s painting includes the hyper-real likenesses of several other famous Filipino politicians and celebrities who smile and wave at the Holy Father, including Senator Grace Poe, Marian Rivera (Film star and singer), Kris Aquino (talk-show host and sister of President Aquino), Coco Martin (actor), and Gary Valenciano (singer).

The artwork has aroused controversy. Journalists have attacked the portrayal of all of these rich and fabulous Filipinos as farm workers, who are counted among the poorest people in the Philippines.

Michael Beltran, the chair of the artists group, Karatula Kabataang Artista para sa Tunay na Kalayaan, said that “The painting… shows nothing about the submerged reality of the nation’s agricultural workers,” and it failed to reflect “the turmoil that many Filipinos experience in their social and economic lives.” Beltran also pointed to the irony of Kris Aquino dressed as a farm worker when she has interests in Hacienda Luisita, the sugar plantation where seven striking farm workers were massacred a decade ago.

But some cultural commentators suggest that the artwork is subversive satire: it mocks the celebrities posed with the Pope.

Instead of uniting the country under the banner of the cross, the papal visit has exposed the divide between politicians, elites, and the Filipino people.

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Film Review – Amigo (2011)

imageby Sarah Steinbock-Pratt

As an historian of American empire at the turn of the last century, I am constantly surprised by the number of people who have never heard that the United States annexed the Philippines at the end of the Spanish-American War in 1899.  When I tell people about my research, they often have no idea this nation was in fact a formal empire from 1899 until 1946, when the Philippines achieved independence. This ignorance, perhaps, should not be shocking.  Most textbooks and classes at the primary and secondary levels gloss over this crucial period of American history.  Our popular culture has also all but ignored the Philippines as an American colonial possession. Empire does not fit into the narrative of the United States as a land of freedom and representative democracy; thus, it is left out.  This is a disturbing omission precisely because most Americans, for better or worse, get much of their knowledge about the past from popular culture.  Throughout the twentieth century, films like Birth of a Nation, Gone With the Wind, Saving Private Ryan, The Patriot, and even Forrest Gump have shaped the way that we remember and understand our past.

Into this void steps John Sayles’ Amigo, a beautiful film about the experience of one town during the Philippine-American War.  The film opens in 1900 in San Isidro, on the island of Luzon.  The Philippines have been annexed by the United States, and the Philippine Revolutionary Army has taken up arms again to fight its new colonial master.  Rafael Dacanay (Joel Torre), the mayor of San Isidro, tries desperately to protect his town after American troops establish a garrison under the head of Lieutenant Compton (Garret Dillahunt).  With his brother, Simón (Ronnie Lazaro), fighting with the Philippine Army, Rafael must walk an increasingly impossible line between his loyalties to the nationalist cause and the need to keep the Americans happy in order to shield himself and those he loves.

In depicting an events that have been generally ignored in popular culture, Sayles takes on a herculean task. Knowing that his audience likely lacks the historical knowledge to put this film in context, Sayles keeps Amigo moving along at a brisk pace, fitting an impressive amount of information into his story.  And Sayles has clearly done his homework – there are many moments in the film that feel authentic, including the playing of “A Hot Time in the Old Town,” which, anecdotal references attest, was played so often by American troops that some Filipinos believed it to be the national anthem.

Sayles also stresses the link between the Philippine-American War and America’s previous imperial struggle – the conquest of Native American tribes on the frontier.  The last major battle of the Indian Wars was the massacre at Wounded Knee in 1890, only a decade before the United States turned its eyes toward a Pacific empire.  Sayles highlights the fact that many of the soldiers and officers fought against Native Americans in the West were later sent to fight in the Philippines.  This experience fighting on the frontier provided a lens through which the military understood their role in the islands, as shown by an early scene in the film, in which a soldier complains to Colonel Hardacre, “It’s awful hard to tell the Indians from the Amigos.”

Sayles doesn’t demonize the American soldiers, however; indeed, his portrayal is perhaps a little too sympathetic.  If the movie has a villain, it could be the Dickensian-named, hard-boiled Colonel Hardacre, who informs Lieutenant Compton that he is there “to make war on these people.” But for the most part, one is left with the impression that the soldiers and townspeople could have come together to rebuild San Isidro if they’d just been left alone by the military higher ups.  Mention is made of burning down houses, which did happen early on as a counterinsurgent technique and then later as part of a sanitation campaign against cholera, but we never see this act of violence being carried out.

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The Occupation of San Isidro in Amigo

Equally absent is the violence that was directed at Filipino women during the occupation.  The sweet, awkward romance between Gil and Azalea, ignores the violence involved in many such encounters, either directly, through the raping of Filipino women, or through the coercive power of money and food on families that were desperate and starving.  This toned-down portrayal of the soldiers may have been necessary for them to be accepted as sympathetic figures – it is hard to see the humanity of a man who kills or rapes an innocent civilian.  But it ignores the abuses of power that occurred at the local level, on the initiative of individual soldiers and officers — a very real part of the true horror of war.

Also missing from the film is a sense of the varied cast of characters that would have been present during this period.  We see white American soldiers, Tagalog-speaking Filipinos, Chinese workers, and several Spaniards.  There is some mention of intermarriage between Filipinos and Chinese, and Macabebe Scouts are present in the film.  But a full sense of the utter complexity encompassed by the marker “Filipino,” is not really depicted.  Despite the real tensions between all three groups, Filipinos, Spaniards, and the Chinese had been intermarrying for generations.  And that’s not even taking into account the hundreds of different ethnic and language groups spread throughout the islands.

The movie also leaves out the fact that four regular regiments of African American soldiers were sent to the Philippines: the 9th and 10th Cavalry Regiments, and the 24th and 25th Infantry Regiments, as well as several other volunteer regiments.  These soldiers faced a difficult situation, charged with waging war on a colonized population while racial violence was on the rise at home.  The link between the oppression of African Americans and Filipinos was clear in the tendency of white soldiers to use the epithet “nigger” to refer to Filipinos as well as their black compatriots.  The 24th Infantry, moreover, participated in the capture of San Isidro in 1899, and was stationed in Nueva Ecija.  Indeed, the famed David Fagen, an African American who defected to the Philippine Army, was a member of the 24th Infantry, and operated as a leader of Filipino guerilla forces in that province until his supposed death in 1901.

Sayles is most deeply interested in the impossible situations in which the characters find themselves: the residents of San Isidro, who must negotiate between both the revolutionaries and the American military, and the soldiers themselves, who come under increased pressure to pacify the town and end the armed resistance.  This is highlighted in a scene which cuts back and forth between Lieutenant Compton reading General Order 100 and a general in the Philippine Army reading out an order from Emilio Aguinaldo, both of which threaten death as retribution for civilians caught aiding the other, aptly capturing the ultimate, bloody tragedy of war: there are no innocent bystanders, and civilians caught between two armies often suffer the greatest losses.

Despite its flaws, Amigo is a remarkable film, especially because of its focus on a Filipino character, its strong Filipino cast and the use of Tagalog for at least half of the dialogue of the film.  There have been only three other American films made to date about the Philippine-American War: The Real Glory (1939), Cavalry Command (1963), and This Bloody Blundering Business (1971), none of which used Filipino actors.

Amigo will be no blockbuster, but it ought to be required viewing for all Americans.  Not only does the film do a better job than most historical dramas in accurately depicting the past, its relevance to the present is clear.  As an historian, I sincerely hope that I am wrong, and that Amigo will garner the attention and accolades it deserves.  If it does, perhaps the next time that I explain my dissertation to a new friend, they’ll nod and say, “Oh, sure.  I know about that.”

Official Website of Amigo

 

Photo Credits:

All photos from the official Amigo website

 

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