Hypocrisy and Colonial Oppression Theme Analysis

But the justices of the peace and those in the capital refused to side with him. They were afraid of losing their own positions. […] They were not bad men. They were conscientious, moral, good citizens, excellent fathers, good sons; too good, perhaps. They knew Tales’s situation perhaps better than he did himself. Many of them knew the property’s legal and historical background. They knew that because of their own statutes the friars could not have owned the property. They knew all that and more. They also knew that coming from afar, from across the sea with a hard-earned position, trying their best to carry it out with the best of intentions, to lose it because an indio took it into his head that justice was supposed to be the same on earth as it is in heaven, well, what a crazy idea!

“What will you accomplish with Spanish, especially with the few who will actually speak it? Kill off your originality? Subordinate your thoughts to the minds of others and instead of being free, you will really make yourselves into slaves. Nine out of ten of you who think of yourselves as members of the educated upper middle class are renegades to your own country! Those among you would speak that language neglect their own to such an extent that they neither speak it or understand it, and how many of you actually pretend not to understand a single world!”

And they’re not happy with just being unjust, no, or upsetting your country’s traditions […] you have served Spain and the king, but when in their name you ask for justice, they offer no protection. They throw you off your own land without a trial and without even a good reason. They rip you from the arms of your wives and the embrace of your children. Some of you have suffered even more than Cabesang Tales and yet none of you had justice […] without pity or humanity they persecuted you even beyond the grave, as they did to Mariano Herbosa. Cry or laugh on the lonely islands where you wander, unsure of the future. Spain, generous Spain, watches over you and, sooner or later, you will get justice!

“The Tianí schoolmaster,” the secretary went on, as he riffled through his papers, “is looking for a better building—”

“What better building can he have than that warehouse that he has all to himself?” Father Camorra interrupted. […]

“He says there’s no roof,” the secretary replied. “And seeing as how he bought maps and notebooks out of his own pocket, he doesn’t want to expose them to bad weather.”

“That has nothing to do with me,” His Excellency muttered. “Tell him to ask the director of administration, or the provincial governor, or the nuncio.”

“I’ll tell you what, Father Camorra said. “This little schoolmaster is a bit of a filibuster malcontent. The guy’s a heretic! He maintains that a corpse rots the same whether you bury it with a ceremony or without one. Darn! One of these days I’m gonna haul off and slug him.”

The listeners’ enthusiasm became delirious. Isagani hugged Sandoval. Others followed suit. They spoke of their country, of the union, of brotherhood, of fidelity. The Filipinos claimed that if all Spaniards were like Sandoval, everyone in the Philippines would be Sandovals, too. Sandoval’s eyes shone. One might even have believed that if in that moment anyone at all had thrown down a gauntlet, he would have mounted his steed to kill on the Philippines’ behalf.

Only the wet blanket responded. “Fine, very nice, Sandoval. If I were from the Peninsula, I would say the same thing. But since that’s not the case, if I had said half of what you did, you would label me a filibustero.”

“Well, confine yourself to learning how to apply plasters and leeches and don’t try to make your mates’ lot either better or worse. When you get your license, marry a rich, devout young woman, practice well, make money, fly from anything that has to do with the general state of the country, attend mass, go to confession and take communion when everybody else does [...] Always remember that charity begins at home. Man should not seek more than the highest form of his own happiness on this earth, as Bentham says. If you have to tilt at windmills, you will end up with no career, no marriage, nothing. Everyone will abandon you and the first ones to laugh at your naiveté will be those very peasants themselves. Believe me, when you have gray hair like mine—like this!—you’ll remember what I said and see I was right.”

“O,” it said, shaking disconsolately, “I loved a young woman, the daughter of a priest, pure as light, as a just-opened lotus flower. The young priest of Abydos coveted her as well and plotted a mutiny using my name and several papyruses I had dedicated to my beloved. The mutiny unfolded just as a furious Cambyses returned from the disasters of his unfortunate campaign. I was branded a rebel and imprisoned. When I was able to escape, during the pursuit I died in Lake Moeris. From eternity I watched as imposture triumphed, I saw as the priest of Abydos pursued the poor virgin day and night, even after she had taken refuge in a temple of Isis on the Island of Philoe. I saw him pursue her and hunt her down even into the caverns, drive her mad from terror and suffering, like a giant bat and a white dove.”

Once he was advised to return to Spain to be cured of a liver ailment and the newspapers spoke of him as if he were Antaeus needing to set foot in the mother county to renew his strength, though this Antaeus found himself small and insignificant at court. He was a nobody there and he missed his beloved adjectives. He had no relations with the first families, his lack of education afforded him no prominence in the scientific or academic communities, and his backwardness and friary politics came off simplistic in those circles. So, disgusted and put out, he took nothing from it except that there they kicked sand in your face and played rough. He missed the submissive houseman in Manila who suffered all his impertinence and who now seemed preferrable.

“The French language really doesn’t have the rich sonority or the varied and elegant cadences of the Castilian language. I cannot fathom, I cannot imagine, I cannot formulate an idea of French orators and I doubt they have ever existed, nor could they exist in the true sense of the word, in the strict sense of the idea.”

But Paulita had heard that to get to Isagani’s village you had to go through mountains where there was an abundance of little leeches and just thinking about it made the coward in her tremble convulsively. Spoiled and indulged, she simply said that she would only travel there by coach or train.

Isagani, who had by then forgotten all his pessimism and now could see everywhere only roses without thorns, said to her, “Soon every island will be crisscrossed by a network of steel, ‘Where rapid / and fleeting / locomotives / speeding will go,’ as someone once said. Then the most beautiful corners of the archipelago will be open to everyone.”

“Then? When? When I’m old?”

“Oh, you have no idea what we’ll be able to do in just a few years,” Isagani replied.

“Get rid of them and the indio will cease to exist. The friar is the father, the indio is the word! The friar is the sculptor, the indio the statue, because everything we are, everything we think, and everything we do we owe to the friars, to their patience, to their work, to their three centuries of modification of what Nature afforded us. And in a Philippines without friars or indios, what will happen to the poor government, in the hands of the Chinese?”

“I agree with you that we have our defects. But whose fault is that? Yours, after three and a half centuries of our education in your hands, or ours, when we bow down in the face of everything? If after three and a half centuries the sculptor has only been able to create a caricature, it will almost definitely come out poorly done.”

“Or perhaps the clay is inadequate…”

“Even less adept then, because if the clay is so inadequate, why waste the time? But he’s not only inept, he’s a fraud and a thief, because even knowing that his work is useless, he continues to do it just to get paid. And he’s not only inept and a thief, he’s corrupt, because he opposes any other sculptor who wants to try out his own talent to see if it’s worth the effort. The fatal jealousy of the incompetent!”

“Oh, God, oh, God!” said a poor woman, emaciated from hunger. “Before You there is no rich or poor, no white or black, bring us justice!”

“Yes,” her husband answered. “The God they preach about is pure invention, a trick. They’re the first ones to not believe in Him!”

“What will the world say when they see such carnage?”

“The world will applaud, like it always does, saying that the strongest, and the most violent, are in the right,” Simoun answered with a cruel smile. “Europe applauded when the Western nations sacrificed millions of Indians in the Americas, and surely there are not to be found much more moral or peaceful nations. […] Europe applauded when a powerful Portugal despoiled the Moluccan Islands, it applauds as England destroys the primitive peoples in the Pacific to implant its emigrants there. Europe will applaud the way it applauds the end of a play, the end of a tragedy. The masses will hardly take notice, in the end, and will see only the effect. Commit a crime well and you will be admired and you’ll end up with more supporters than you would have had you committed a virtuous act, carried out with timidity and modesty.”