Every year, I have a problem celebrating Philippine Independence on June 12. I vividly remember it happening on July 4, 1946. That was a historic date for me, and, I guess, for our entire family who gathered around the radio (no television then) to listen to the colorful description of what was happening that morning. We tried to visualize what the radio announcer reported with such detail and drama.
Spectators in Luneta Park
It was raining. There were hundreds of thousands of spectators gathered in Luneta Park on that Fourth of July. Most carried umbrellas, but many just covered their heads with newspapers or towels, hoping to get as close as possible to the action. Independence Grandstand, designed by architect Juan Arellano, was built especially for that day.
High government officials and foreign dignitaries and their ladies were in attendance. There was optimism in the air. Filipinos looked forward to a new era of prosperity and peace.
Newly elected President Manuel A. Roxas took his oath of office that morning as the first president of the third Philippine Republic. His Vice President, Elpidio Quirino, whose family had suffered untold horrors during the very recent liberation of Manila, was at his side.
Ambassador Paul McNutt, once the High Commissioner of the Philippine Commonwealth, delivered a message on behalf of US President Harry S. Truman. He spoke about Philippine Independence as a voluntary act of the United States and pledged “America’s continued support.”
General Douglas MacArthur, the gigantic hero of the Filipino people during the war, delivered a moving message about the mantle of American sovereignty that had fallen on the Philippines 48 years earlier; and about America’s promise to grant us our independence when they deemed it safe to do so.
In dramatic and heartfelt tones, he declared: “America has never wavered, and today redeems that pledge.” He referred to the Philippines as “this land and this people that I have known so long and loved so well.” His speech was rewarded with thunderous applause.
Moved to tears
I remember the grownups were moved to tears. This was the man who, at the onset of World War II, said: “I shall return.” And he did! Filipinos had hung on to those three words throughout the war and had drawn hope and strength from that promise. For us, MacArthur was Uncle Sam. He stood for liberation and for peace.
We were not aware then that behind those sentimental and reassuring promises, there could have been shrewd strategizing and savvy politics. The commentator on radio that day had mentioned reparation payments and trade concessions. I knew nothing about those things then.
Over the years, some writers have surmised that the “voluntary act” had come with strings attached; that the US had retained sovereignty over the bases; that the Bell Act, which prohibited the Philippines, once independent, to engage in any business that was in competition with the US, may have been used as some kind of leverage.
They based their opinions on the fact that after the war our nation was bankrupt; that people in the countryside were starving and we were truly in desperate need of rehabilitation money.
Heated debates
I remember hearing the grownups having discussions and heated debates about the idea of independence. I loved listening to the Balagtasan on radio. I understood very little but thoroughly enjoyed the histrionics.
My father thought it was too soon after the war. American liberation forces had arrived in February of 1945. The country was still reeling from the destruction and trauma of war. Manila was in shambles. It seemed that this was not the best time for blind and passionate nationalism; that maybe we should wait.
At home, like in most families we knew, we had our share of colonials with ridiculous concerns. My old maid aunt was worried about where our “mantequillamarca Anchor” (“ch” as in church) would now come from, and where to buy Kraft cheese. Quebarbaridad! The breakfast table would never be the same again.
Milestones in history
Anyway, back to Luneta Park. The clouds and rain failed to dampen the spirit of the Filipinos who came to witness this milestone in their history.
It was a stirring and emotional moment when “Star-Spangled Banner” was played and the American flag (then with only 48 stars), drenched from the steady rain, was slowly lowered.
There was a catch in the voice of the radio announcer as he described the scene that followed.
The constabulary band struck up the strains of our National Anthem. The Philippine flag was solemnly raised. People cheered, and many wept, as she waved, proud and finally free.
What a moment that must have been for those who braved the rain. I remember that at home, my father quietly stood from his chair. We followed his lead and were on our feet, all of us. Yes, even the colonials.
I was too shy to sing out, but I could hear it loud and clear in my heart. “Land of the morning, child of the sun returning, with fervor burning, thee do our souls adore. Land dear and holy, cradle of noble heroes; ne’er shall invaders trample thy sacred shores.”
I had learned it in English. It was then known as the Philippine Hymn. We called it “Land of the Morning.” Today, it is “Lupang Hinirang”; also “Bayang Magiliw” to some. The melody composed by Julian Felipe in 1898 was first just a march. Then it was given Spanish lyrics taken from a poem by José Palma, with the opening words “Tierra adorada.”
In any language, the anthem has always spoken of a beautiful and beloved land and a people worth dying for. I wonder how many of us remember the significance of those words or take them to heart.
For me, July 4, 1946 was Independence Day. As we crowded around the radio, we heard the incessant joyful pealing of church bells. This was history. For the first time in our generation, the Philippine flag was flying alone in her own sky. What a sight that was to behold.
The ceremonies, which started at 9:15 in the morning, were over a little after noon. As we walked to the dining room for a late lunch, I remember Papa telling us that this was indeed a moment to be proud of, a day never to be forgotten.
And I haven’t.