Tuesday, September 15, 2009

On the Philippine E-Passport



Last August 11, 2009 the Department of Foreign Affairs launched the Philippine Electronic Passport with President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo as the guest of honor and recipient of the first Philippine E-Passport. The launch was preceded by a ribbon-cutting of an exhibit on the history of the Philippine passport from the Spanish period to the present.

It is gratifying to note that many people found the exhibit interesting. I'm proud to have been its project coordinator just as I am proud of the art work put into it by my friend Gerry Suliguin. Many people contributed their bits and pieces to make the event a success, and to them I give many thanks as well.

Reproduced here is an article by UP Prof. Butch Dalisay in the September 14 issue of the Philippine Star that made mention of the exhibit (and my name!).

Thanks, professor!



Smile - you're on an ePassport
PENMAN By Butch Dalisay
September 14, 2009 12:00 AM


One of the great side benefits of being a writer — in both journalistic and literary capacities — has been the opportunity to do a bit of traveling abroad, something I’d dreamed of feverishly since childhood, when we accompanied a departing neighbor to the old Manila International Airport and when I saw that Pan Am jet take off for the pink horizon.

Many decades and a couple of dozen countries later, I continue to be thrilled by the prospect of travel, despite the aches that now attend every long flight and my general desire to come home after a week or two. I still look forward to — and save up for — my annual visit to my daughter, mother, and sister in America, and am gratified when an invitation comes along (a rarity in these recessionary times) to fly off to some literary festival at the host’s expense.

Thus, one of the things I’m very careful about is my passport, which I keep along with other important documents in a small fireproof box at home. I’ve collected quite a few passports over the years, even given that I started traveling fairly late — at the ripe old age of 26 in 1980, on my first visit to the US. Now and then I look these passports over, and marvel at how such a hairy and reed-thin young man could metamorphose into this fat and balding creature I wince at every morning in the bathroom mirror.

About three weeks ago, I came across a press release from the Department of Foreign Affairs announcing the imminent availability of a new kind of passport — an ePassport, a state-of-the–technology travel document with whiz-bang features aimed at preventing tampering and fraud. As a self-styled techie, I was instantly intrigued. Now, I’ve never lost a passport, and I can’t see anyone wanting to steal my mug, but I’m hopelessly attracted to anything with a computer chip and a hologram, and while I had nowhere interesting to go until mid-October, I convinced myself that a new ePassport was the thing to get and to try. I remembered how my old green one wouldn’t register at the self-check-in kiosks in Stateside airports, requiring some manual intervention by a bleary-eyed clerk.

I noted the date that the DFA was going to begin taking applications for the new ePassport — August 26 — and made an appointment online at the DFA website (www.dfa.gov.ph) to be there on that day and be among the first in the queue.

There are a few things I need to make clear at this point. Since the current number of ePassports is limited, the DFA is giving them out for the time being only for renewals, not for first-time applicants. There’s a list of requirements and some paperwork to complete — all the forms are online — and you do need to make that appointment online and be prepared to appear in person at the DFA office along Roxas Boulevard on the day and time slot reserved for you, as indicated in the e-mailed confirmation you’ll get pretty quickly; this is something your travel agent can’t for you just yet. And don’t forget to bring P950 for the new passport.

Having done all of these, I turned up at 9 a.m. on August 26 at DFA’s Gate 2 (another entrance on the Libertad side), through which all passport applicants pass. I found my way to Window 28, where ePassport applications are received, only to discover that I had filled out the wrong application — the one for the regular maroon machine-readable passport, which remains a valid option for most people until the ePassport can be fully regularized. This, of course, is every paper-chaser’s Kafkaesque nightmare: shuffling around the bureaucracy from window to window, from room to room, only to be apprised of more requirements or to be told the dreaded words that government clerks seem trained to recite in a monotone, “Come back tomorrow.”

Thankfully the clerk who took my form seemed understanding enough, and even smiled when I found the presence of mind to ask to see her supervisor, so I could explain myself. I hadn’t intended to use my media connection to gain any advantage in the process — and indeed, I never do — but having sincerely applied and fallen in line like everybody else, I thought I might as well identify myself as a footloose writer intrigued by this newfangled technology, which I certainly was that morning. I was directed upstairs to the office of the chief of consular affairs, who turned out to be a very pleasant man named Renato Villapando. He and his assistant Fernando Beup seemed to know me from my writing — another happy surprise — and promptly walked me through the rest of the application procedure. (It emerged that I had caused the foul-up by applying a few hours too early — the proper form for the ePassport was uploaded after I went online — so Asst. Sec. Villapando had to approve my modified application personally.)

I took the opportunity to find out more about the DFA’s new baby. Given our country’s position as one of the world’s chief suppliers of skilled labor (not to mention Disneyland tourists and Hong Kong viajeras), the DFA processes an enormous number of passport applications every day — a number that jumped from 500 in 1980 to 3,000 at present. With all this traffic, some passports don’t pass through the DFA — the fake and tampered ones, which often lead to grievous consequences for the holder. Thus, the DFA under Sec. Alberto Romulo has given high priority to improving passport security, leading to the ePassport, an innovation now adopted by more than 60 countries worldwide, including five other Asean countries.

What exactly is so special about the ePassport? The maroon MRP meets minimum global standards for security, but the ePassport has enhanced features like an embedded microchip that contains the photograph and personal data of the bearer. It employs biometric technology, and has invisible digital watermarks readable only under UV light. And here’s one neat trick: your passport photo is actually made up of microletters readable by a special decoding lens. In other words, until the next criminal genius comes along, this document is virtually tamper- and counterfeit-proof.

Oh, yes — when you apply for your ePassport, do come in your Sunday best and with your hair nicely done. Smile — but no teeth showing, please. I discovered that they’ll take your digital picture on the spot; the old passport photo will soon be a thing of the past. I came with my crew cut standing on end and my shirt collar wilted by the morning heat, an ignominy I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my new ePassport’s five-year validity.

It takes a few weeks to receive the new passport, so be sure you’re not going anywhere in the meantime. Also, your old green or maroon passport remains valid until its expiration date, although you can choose to renew and upgrade it to an ePassport now, following the process I outlined earlier.

And if you have time, visit the very interesting exhibit on the history of the Philippine passport — from Rizal’s time to ours — in the DFA lobby. Among other snippets of information, you’ll discover that President Ramon Magsaysay never traveled abroad while he was in MalacaƱang. Apparently, it isn’t just technology that’s radically changed.

* * *

Friday, June 20, 2008

Beautiful "Ploning"



Perhaps the most beautiful Filipino film of 2008, "Ploning" opened in Philippine cinemas with the calm of Cuyo Island in Palawan during the summer. Hardly anyone noticed its opening. But for the fortunate ones who were able to see the film, it was a moment to behold and to be proud, for here at last is a Filipino film that does not wallow in self-pity and masochistic self-flagellation, nor mires itself in the social-realism of third-world cinema that is saturated with slum, grime and crime.

In many respects "Ploning" defies conventions in Philippine cinema by not resorting to melodrama or theatrics. There are no villains here of the vicious kind, no love-interest for the leading lady, no distracting musical score. Here is only cinematic artistry--from first-rate acting to cinematography that captures Philippine setting and sunlight so magnificently as an Amorsolo painting.

"Ploning" is a return to the barrio, to the good, old values of the country folks. It is a glimpse into the lives of people still connected to their community, neighbors, family and friends. Gentleness and kindness thrive here, as if time stood still in order to be seen, perhaps confronted, so that today's generation of Filipinos would know that they were once generous and full of heart for their fellowmen.

Yet, for all its seemingly ideal setting--in a seaside community yet to suffer from the assault of modernity--"Ploning" does not cater to escapism, nor does it cater to idealism. Simply, it is about the pains of everyday life and all the meaningful and beautiful little pieces that can be had from living through it.

Like the calm waters of the Cuyo seas, the lives of the characters ripple with tensions and suppressed emotions. Beneath their strong countenance are their losses, frustrations, anguish and hopes that are so palpable one cannot help but be crushed as the story begins to rush towards a most poignant end.

Lea Salonga in Seoul, June 16

(Lea's poster and information leaflets for her concert in Seoul. Photos grabbed from Seoul Arts Center website).


While every Filipino was busy with life in the Philippines, the country's international star Lea Salonga held a successful concert in Seoul, Korea last June 16. It was attended by approximately 2,000 people. Below is an article written on the concert by Cathy Garcia, a Filipino writer for The Korea Times.


Seoul, South Korea - International Filipino star Lea Salonga received standing ovations from a wildly appreciative Korean audience during her first solo concert here, Monday evening.

Salonga performed 22 Disney and Broadway songs during the two-and-a-half hour concert at the packed Seoul Arts Center. She is the first Filipino to perform in Korea’s foremost complex center dedicated to arts and culture.

In an interview before the concert, Salonga said she wasn’t sure how many people would attend.

"I have no idea how many people would actually come to the concert. If we’re going to be able to fill up the concert or if there will be only 10 people,” she said.

"My attitude is, if there are 10 people there, these are the 10 people who really want to see you. So you do you best for them no matter what,” she added.

Salonga didn’t have to worry about the attendance because more than 2,000 people, mostly Koreans, attended her first solo concert here.

Wearing a deep brown pantsuit, Salonga started the show with a stirring performance of “Go The Distance” from the Disney animated film “Hercules.”

She sang songs like “Circle of Life” from “The Lion King,” “Part of Your World” from “The Little Mermaid” and “Reflection” from “Mulan.”

Since the song “A Whole New World” from the animated film “Aladdin,” is a duet, Salonga picked a Korean man from the audience to sing with her.

For the second part of the show, Salonga appeared on stage wearing a long blue gown and performed Broadway hits like “On My Own” and “I Dreamed a Dream” from “Les Miserables”; “Nothing” from “A Chorus Line” and “Something’s Coming” from “The West Side Story.”

The Korean audience was very appreciative of Salonga’s performance, enthusiastically cheering and clapping after every song.

Salonga gave a heartfelt rendition of “I’d Give My Life For You” from “Miss Saigon.” She told the audience that since she gave birth to her daughter Nicole in 2006, she had a stronger feel for the song’s lyrics.

After her final song “Everybody Says Don’t” from “Anyone Can Whistle,” the audience gave thunderous applause and a standing ovation for Salonga.

Three encores

The exuberant response from the Korean crowd obviously surprised Salonga so much, that she returned not just for one encore, but three encores.

Salonga was also surprised to learn her wedding song “Two Words” is popular among her Korean fans. The song was not originally on her program, but was a last-minute addition due to her fans’ special request.

When she came out for the third time, Salonga laughingly said, “We ran out of songs.” She gave the audience a repeat performance of “Everybody Says Don’t.”

After the show, around a hundred Korean fans and handful of Filipinos lined up to get Salonga’s autograph.

Chung-ah Lee, a 22-year old student, said she was a big fan of Salonga’s after listening to her songs in Disney films “Aladdin” and “Mulan.”

(Lea's concert poster in Korean).
"I had goose bumps while listening to her sing ‘Reflection’ and ‘A Whole New World.’ Her voice was so clear and strong. She is very pretty. I hope she comes back soon,” Lee said, after the concert.

There were only a few Filipinos in the audience, including Philippine Ambassador to Korea Luis Cruz and embassy staff.

Alfonso Delgado, a Filipino accountant, said Salonga’s performance blew everyone away.
“The highlight for me was when she sang the song from ‘Miss Saigon.’ Her story about having a child made the song more personal. Her performance was a real showstopper,” Delgado said.

Concert organizers said ticket sales for Salonga’s concert were quite good for an artist who has not released an album in Korea. Tickets ranged from 30,000 won (P1,275) to 180,000 won (P7,650).

Her brother Gerard was also the concert’s musical director and conductor. The all-Korean Mostly Philharmonic Orchestra accompanied Salonga’s performance.

Also performing with the orchestra were Joey Quirino on piano, Robert Dennis De Guzman on guitar, Joji Magadia on bass and Jorge San Jose on drums.


Cathy Rose A. Garcia, GMANews.TV




Wednesday, June 18, 2008

The University of the Philippines at 100


(The UP Oblation. Photo grabbed from J. Dalisay's blog).

One hundred years ago today, June 18, 1908, the University of the Philippines (UP) was founded. It was perhaps, and still is, the best gift to a country that has always been hungry for knowledge. From the day of its founding to the present, the UP remains the premier institution of higher learning in the Philippines. It is in fact the flag bearer of Philippine education. Many of the most notable personalities of the country trace their roots to this university, among them are Presidents, scientists, senators, educators, diplomats and national artists. No person can be so proud as not to belong (or want to belong) to this institution that has produced the most eminent intellectuals and public figures.

Yet for all its glories and accomplishments, the UP has also been criticized for having nurtured the most "subversive" of minds and even those considered to be the most corrupt. The founders of the many radical political and social groups have studied here, and many powerful politicians accused of graft and corruption trace their education here as well. Some carry this case to the extreme, arguing that the Philippines would perhaps be better off without the brainy people of this university. After all, if the country is run mostly by the smart ones from the UP, why is it in so miserable a condition?

But think of the Philippines without the UP. For all its faults and deficiences, it is undeniable that this institution has done more than any other in helping the country achieve its goals for a better future. A large chunk of the country's scientific research outputs are from the UP; the most esteemed and influential scholarly journals and publications are from here as well. All these have helped push the Philippine agenda for development in more ways than one.

Perhaps it is worth noting that it is the UP alumni themselves who are the most critical of the university. This is not surprising given its strong tradition of intellectual freedom. The UP is a university that respects and adheres to the philosophy of diversity of opinions. In fact, it is known that when you pose a question in class, you get a hundred different opinions and arguments in return. Such dynamism is undoubtedly proof of the university's strong intellectual base, and this will surely continue to be its bedrock of strength in the next 100 years.

UP, ang galing mo!

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Let Me Brood

I sit all day brooding. If I could make a fortune out of it, I would already be a billionaire. But since I couldn't, the least I could wish is for brooding to be cool and fashionable. Yes, even without the wealth of this world, I could at least be desirable, the object of every silly girl's affection who think that because I look vulnerable I would make for a fine friend, or a sweetheart maybe. Or perhaps because they think I couldn't hurt them more than I could hurt myself. Oh, yes, I'm the handsome poster boy of loneliness on every adoring girl's bedroom walls. I'm so pretty it hurts.

I see myself in pictures brooding, in monochrome, beside the sea, with the sunset as backdrop, or wading waist-deep in a pond, in the jungle, or a stream maybe, or framed by a window of a dilapidated bus somewhere in Manchuria, or leaning against a worn-down lighthouse, perhaps contemplating the meanness of the world, or my own.

I'm lonely, and everyone sees it in my eyes. I stare far into the distance, and my eyes reflect my thoughts, some think my soul. It's an old soul they see. No, he's just a boy. What could this old soul or boy be thinking? No one knows. For no one understands. The brooding beauty is burdened, for he has to carry the weight of the ugly world.

To brood is to work. It's a difficult job. Or a mission. Brooders convey the bleakness of the ordinary. They aspire for a kinder world and hope for the kindness of strangers. They open the eyes of people, inspire them to sympathy and affection, even protection. They plea for your heart and your soul. They plea for your own salvation. So let me brood.








(Brooding beauties, from top to bottom: River Phoenix, James Dean, and Winona Ryder).

Friday, June 13, 2008

Discovering the ASEAN



For all the campaigns aimed at promoting awareness of the ASEAN, ordinary Filipinos still remain largely unaware of their neighboring countries. The Philippines with its colonial heritage still leans heavily towards the West. This Western bias is reflected in every aspect of Philippine society and can never be missed in the content of the country's mass media. When in the Philippines, hardly can you escape the heavy influence of the West, from the silver screen to the airwaves. You would think this were Europe or America--especially America--in Asia.

Important moves have been made to address this lack of awareness about the ASEAN. Social studies textbooks tackle the ASEAN as a regional organization, cultural and educational exchanges are being done, athletic competitions are being held, etc. Still, these are not enough. Compared to the knowledge ASEAN peoples have of more prosperous East Asian countries like Japan and Korea, their knowledge of fellow Southeast Asians is miniscule. The economic status of these prosperous countries could be the main reason for their long outward reach. It appears that as a country becomes prosperous it attracts more attention, consequently drawing interests to its popular culture. Take the case of Japan's cuisine, manga, and Hello Kitty, or even Korea's hallyu that has swept much of Asia. Even China and Chinese culture are starting to appear hot again owing to its rising economy and its hosting of the 2008 Olympic Games.

While working for the big economic boom, ASEAN countries could give more focus on cultural exchanges to foster more knowledge about member countries. A good starting point is through a liberal exchange of artists to showcase their talents within ASEAN. Southeast Asian movies could be shown in theaters in the region, singers could hold concerts in any city, writers can do book-signing in any place they choose, etc.

The benefits of such a program would be enormous: It could facilitate and hasten the opportunities for understanding better than what textbooks can do. This is because the power of actual contact and interaction with other people is much more immediate and lasting. The truth is, until the people themselves comprising the ASEAN take interest in each other's cultures and peoples, the hope for a working regional grouping would still have a long way to go.

So who are the personalities that can jumpstart the ASEAN fever? Let the Southeast Asians decide.

Stars from and for ASEAN (from top to bottom): Lea Salonga (Filipino), Vanessa Mae (Malaysian), Witwisit "Pchy" Hiranyawongkul (Thai).

Friday, April 18, 2008

The Food Crisis and the New Crisis of Capitalism

By F.V. Beup Jr.

We knew it had to come sooner or later: food would have to precede everything else. After humans have exhausted the world's resources to churn out goods for the market, in the end what really matters is survival.

If we pause and think for a while, the common notion of progress is that we have all the material means to make our life easier and more convenient. Capitalism has responded to this notion very successfully by providing not only the tools and talents for the manufacture of goods for utility but more so for providing the incentives necessary for these tools and talents to be maximally exploited. Progress has almost become synonymous with wealth created from the sale of goods in the market for profit. To create more wealth, you must always have something to sell. It is in this manner that capitalism is credited for having lifted millions out of poverty, making it the most successful economic system man has ever deviced. But how far can you go into manufacturing and selling before you exhaust the market? More importantly, how far can you go through this practice without exhausting your resources to produce goods?

The latter part of the 20th century (and the present) seemingly circumvented this problem by entering the age of "knowledge economy" whereby people could make profits not only by selling material goods but by selling ideas (intellectual goods, if you may) as well. For a moment it appears that there is a whole new world where money, or wealth, can be made without ever having to sell something tactile. The mouse-clicking, idea-selling salarymen or entrepreneurs sell and shop in their offices, bringing the market into their computers where everything appears infinite, inexhaustible. Many of those who belong to this "knowledge" generation have nary an idea that there is a real world out there where goods that find their way to the supermarkets and the cybermarket have their very origins from the ground, that is to say the earth. And the earth's resources are finite. This appears unimaginable particularly to those who have not been to the countryside and observed how the most basic of commodities are produced, particularly food. For these people food shortage is nothing but surreal.

How did it come to this?

It used to be that wealth could be made with the sale of the land's produce, and so owning land was something that everyone was willing to die for. Industrialization slowly pushed away the importance of land in favor of manufactured goods, and subsequent developments in technology further relegated it to the far recesses of man's memory. Manufacturing earned far better profits than farming. Besides, food could be grown in great quantities, more than enough to feed the world, thanks to agricultural research and scientific food production. In addition, food could be processed, preserved and stored more efficiently. Food could also be imported from agriculturally productive countries, thanks to market liberalization. Altogether, these have spawned a culture so utterly detached from the processes involved in growing food that almost a whole generation has grown believing that everything can be had if one has the money. Perhaps the ultimate sin of the knowledge economy is its overdependence on cash and near-complete indifference to land and its cultivation.

In the meantime industries have to keep on producing goods for consumption to pursue the ever-urgent demand for growth. But after everything else has been produced and bought, after every need and urge has been satiated (if ever it could be satiated), where do we look for further stimuli to growth? Let us pause for a while and think of the earth's resources having been completely exhausted. There is nothing more to produce as there is nothing more resource left to be used as raw material. Does this mean the end of growth and economic development?

While indeed capitalism has created unprecedented wealth for billions of people worldwide, it has also been criticized for having failed to lift the rest out of poverty. This, people point out, is the crisis of capitalism. In a sense this is true, but what else do we have for alternative? The present food crisis presents a new problem for capitalism in that it poses a grave choice between sustaining economic growth and human survival.

Perhaps the crisis of capitalism lies not so much in its failure to lift everyone out of poverty as in its failure to define what is enough for itself. Food, and the lack of it, may just spell the end of capitalism, or at least wound its bloated pride. Historically, however, capitalism's tenacity to adapt and survive challenges has always been astounding. Let's see how it hurdles this one.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Rice

By F. V. Beup Jr.

In my very brief stint as a History teacher a year ago, I once discussed in class the importance of rice as a staple in Asia. Looking now at the problem of rice shortage in the Philippines and elsewhere, I'm so glad I delivered that lecture at a time when no one seemed to care about this precious grain.

I remember that at the end of the semester I asked my students to write an essay on what they had learned from my class. Out of 200 or so students, at least one said that she learned from my class how important rice was. Which is to say, that my effort at imparting some knowledge and responsibility among the young toward this staple had not been completely lost. Especially on this one student.

(Rice fields of the International Rice
Research Institute. Photo grabbed
from BBC website).


The history of rice as an important source of nourishment goes back several thousand years. Historians credit its discovery and widespread cultivation as one of the major social, political and economic movers of rice-consuming Asia. This is so because rice-cultivation entails the harnessing of water to irrigate the paddies, and this in turn requires an enormous amount of human labor to accomplish. The maintenance of the paddies as well as the backbreaking task of planting and harvesting rice make social organization and cooperation imperative. Rice became so important that, in some cases, it could take the place of money. In pre-modern China and Japan, debts and taxes could be paid in rice.

More importantly, however, rice made it possible to feed more people. With more of this grain cultivated, harvested and stored, people could afford to have and support more children. In turn, the children themselves became useful in the tilling of the fields. Occassionally, there would be some problems with the harvests creating social and political unrest. It is for this reason that rice becomes a very political commodity.

Yet it is not so much of the shortage in rice that is the problem than the rapid population growth. Historically, the supply of rice has never kept up with the rise in population. The French historian Fernand Braudel in his book, The Structures of Everday Life: Civilization and Capitalism, 15th-18th Century, saw rice as a victim of its own success: by being able to feed more people, rice also made possible the rapid population growth that would outstrip its production. Braudel made that comment several decades ago. That comment may as well have been made at present, specifically with reference to the Philippines.

In Asia rice does not only function as a staple. It is also the center of many rituals pointing to its great importance. This is not surprising at all. The Japanese's mythical goddess Amaterasu was said to have cultivated the rice fields to feed the Japanese people. That is to say that rice plays a very important role not only in the survival of the Japanese but it also occupies a special place in their consciousness. Rice cakes made from glutinous rice are used by the Japanese on special occassions particularly during Japanese New Year. This is also true in China and Korea where various traditional rice cakes are served on special occassions. To some extent (particularly in the provinces), Filipinos also like to prepare sticky rice delicacies (ex. biko, ibos, sapin-sapin, etc.) on special days like All Souls Day and Christmas. I have not yet come across a history of Philippine rice delicacies, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they really take their cue from cultures that have a long tradition of rice-cultivation.

Not surprisingly, the old civilizations of Asia are also the ones that show more respect for rice. For example, you can rarely see, if at all, Japanese and Koreans wasting rice. They cook and eat what is enough for them. This observation has led me to comment in my History class that these countries eat rice as if they were poor. Compared to them, the Filipinos eat rice as if they were wealthy. My comment of course is not without basis. The (Philippines)Bureau of Agricultural Statistics and the Food and Nutrition Research Institute estimates that each Filipino wastes 1 spoonful of rice everyday. That amounts to 22 million pesos and can feed the Filipino population for 14 days. I do not need more proof to believe that information. I look around me every meal and I see the wasteful practice everytime.

So, what can we learn from these? First, we know that rice can feed huge populations, but it cannot always do this when population grows at a much faster pace. Rice shortage is obviously not just a problem of supply. Which brings me to the question of how the Philippines manages its population (if at all). Second, we know that respect accorded to rice is rooted in culture, and respect for the staple eventually works in favor of the people through savings and, yes, the concomitant responsibility. How then can we help solve the rice shortage problem? You're a good student; you already know.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Ad-ding Us Up:Advertisements can tell so much about our society

Ad-ding Us Up:
Advertisements can tell so much about our society

F.V. Beup Jr

The thought hit me during my stay in Seoul, Korea. Not having much to do, sometimes I would watch and try catching the alien words on Korean television. For months I struggled to listen, hoping that I would naturally acquire the ear to discern words spoken by “real” Koreans. I made very little progress. I heard little and barely understood the spoken language, save for some words and sentences I learned at Seoul National University. Faced with this problem, it’s amazing how the mind makes up for the handicap by maximizing its potential to generate meanings from what the eyes see. It seemed to me that as my ears lost the ability to hear meaningful utterances, my eyes became keener, supplying my mind with plenty of visual information to process. And because my ear could not make out what I hear, watching TV became a guessing game. The most interesting shows (because they were easier to understand) were the ones with the least talk; the most boring ones were, naturally, the talk shows. When watching sitcoms I laughed at visual cues that seemed funny (to me). In soap operas, I focused on the faces of the actors and actresses: I like the way she turns that pretty head, Korean men are as pretty (sometimes prettier) than the women, My! Where do they get such fine complexion? The director sure knows how to portray sadness here, etc.

After weeks of watching TV, I thought that my effort at understanding Korean language was futile. I made sense of my surroundings visually, all my energy now concentrated on a singular goal: to understand Korean society in visual terms. It was then when I discovered the pleasures of watching television commercials. In Korea, television ads are not plugged in the middle of TV dramas, nor are they shown in breaks during newscasts. Advertisements comprise a whole segment, a major break before or after a show that is shown uninterrupted from beginning to end. The advertisements are quite a spectacle: the latest car from Hyundai, the widest and flattest TV screen from Samsung, Anycall cellular phones, a special refrigerator for kimchi, LG credit cards, Korean Air, Hite beer, cosmetics, computers—everything the mostly middle-class Koreans can buy. I note the near-absence of food commercials; and I was awed by the number of high-ticket items being sold onscreen. Who’s going to buy all these? Koreans must be really rich.

So, there, in front of the television, something dawned upon me, a revelation so obvious I should have known about it ages ago: TV ads speak more about our society than we care to notice. Philippine TV ads are composed mainly of food products and basic necessities—canned sardines, soy sauce, bath soap, detergent soap, toothpaste, shampoo, etc. Our necessities are simple, pointing to an economy that is barely out of subsistence level. Many items such as shampoo are sold in sachets, powder laundry soap in small packets, vinegar in budget packs, instant coffee in “stick” packets. The list goes on. What it says about Filipinos is that they are poor, that they can only afford something to last them for a day. It’s about survival, really. Getting by until the next pay-day.

Try going to Manila bay at the end of a storm and check out the garbage that is dumped on the shore. Plastics of all shapes and sizes, most of them meant to package something that small money can afford. Multiply that by the millions of plastic-throwing households and what you get is 7,107 islands floating on plastic. Manila itself owes much of its floods to plastic clogging the drainage system. If Manilans don’t die for want of food, they will soon drown in floods courtesy of the plastics they throw away.

It does not get any better. Judging by the number of infant milk formula advertisements on Philippine TV, you can be sure that there are still more plastic-throwing Filipinos being born every minute. Why else would they advertise milk formulas if we don’t like making babies? You see, TV ads say something about a country’s demographics, too. I’m not surprised why I did not see such kind of advertisements on Korean TV: Korea has falling birth rates. Either that or they breast-feed. And what do we feed our children? It’s all on TV: corn chips, potato chips, candies, canned sardines, instant noodles, pop soda. Ah, this is our concept of children’s paradise. And it’s all in those ads.

Maybe it’s not survival we Filipinos are really after. Just slow death.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Why We Need to Rewrite Philippine History

Why We Need To Rewrite Philippine History
(First Part)

As a teacher of History, I am perhaps better equipped than many people to have an informed opinion of Philippine society and what ails it. But of course, my analysis is not the only one out there, nor is it the most correct. Historians themselves do not share a common view of things, much less a perfect one; it is simply unlikely given their individualities, personal beliefs and convictions and different range of knowledge. G.R. Elton, a historian-philosopher, pointed this out when he said that history changes depending on how much knowledge and evidence you have at hand. The more you know, the more accurate your history becomes. But add to that your own interpretations of the data and you become—whatever profession you are in—a historian in your own right.

But what kind of historian? Here now lies the problem for it is at this point where ideas diverge, and where the amateur historians are sifted from the professionals. For Elton, at least, history must not be subordinated to one’s ideology or personal politics. One may interpret, but one must not suit history to his or her preconceived answers. Your facts and evidence must reign supreme. Eventually, they will yield the answers to the questions posed. So far, so good.
If only it were that simple.

Philippine history—the type taught in our colleges—provides a very good example of this type of problem where a particular framework is made to explain the flow of history. Take a look at the most popular textbooks that are currently used in Philippine schools. They mostly follow a framework that explains Philippine society in materialist terms, correctly pointing out its social, political and economic ills but sorely failing in its project, whether overt or covert, to change Philippine society hopefully for the better. By a “better” society I mean that the people who comprise it share a common goal of providing everyone the opportunity to realize their utmost potential by putting the interest of the greater majority above anything else. By implication, this means that personal agenda and competing ideologies must take the back seat and surrender to the dominant social and political values that the people freely find most acceptable and beneficial to their well-being.

Why has Philippine history—and the teaching of it—has failed to strengthen Philippine society into a “better” one is an interesting and a highly volatile topic. One has to go over the entire history of the country from pre-colonization to post-colonization in order to have a good grasp of the country’s present problems. One also has to face up to the established historians and their loyal followers who are revered by many as giants in their field, giants who are perhaps to be occasionally questioned but never challenged.

Filipino materialist historians in particular have made the themes of exploitation, oppression and class struggle as the focal points of Philippine history, depicting the foreign colonizers as the first oppressors who handed down their ill practices and ill-gotten privileges to their Filipino “cohorts” who insatiably perpetuated these practices down the line. This is fairly accurate interpretation, but one that is also fraught with dangers. For one, it has the strong tendency to discredit the legitimate efforts of the upper class to push for a free and equitable Philippine society. Secondly, it institutionalizes the victim mentality in the citizenry, making them prone to blaming others for the failures of their society. Not surprisingly, this type of history has left in its wake Filipino heroes divided along class lines, the Jose Rizal versus Andres Bonifacio hoopla being the most prominent example. To this very day, class division permeates nationalist discussions whether in the streets or in universities. Inevitably, it is easy for the themes to be exploited by ideologically-based groups in advancing their own interests to the detriment of the emergence of a united and strong nation. Like any other class-defined histories, this portrayal offers very little room for alternative solutions to social problems other than the final overthrow of the ruling class through violent means. Instead of helping crystallize the shared values that should serve as guide for the emergence of a “better” Philippine society, the present type of historical writing does very little to realize that goal.

(To be continued)

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Why Are Filipinos Stressed-Out

Why Filipinos are Stressed Out

In a survey conducted in August 2006 by the Reader’s Digest and Nielsen Media Research, Filipinos are ranked as the most stressed-out people in Asia. The survey included seven countries—the Philippines, Hong Kong (for China), India, Malaysia, Singapore, Taiwan and Thailand.

Really now?

If this is indeed true, I wonder what Filipinos are so stressed-out of. Is it the work? Is it their miserable condition? Sure, there are so many things that can give you stress in the Philippines. And since the news article did not explain the source of this stress, I might as well relate it to my own experience. Personally, I don’t think Filipinos are stressed-out because of work (although, I’m willing to concede, some indeed are). Filipinos are stressed-out because the quality of life in the Philippines, particularly in the urban areas, is simply bad. Living in Manila, for example, exposes you to numerous stressful conditions. Polluted air greets you from the moment you step onto the road. Sidewalks are very narrow, occupied by vendors, dumped with garbage, or even nonexistent. If you commute from home to work and vice-versa, your condition does not get any better. Bus stops don’t exist. And where they do, they are simply ignored. Commuters don’t line up to take a ride, nor do jeepneys and buses when they pick up passengers. At the loading stations barkers abound. They shout, nay, they “bark” at you as if you’re an idiot who needs to be told of your destination. Behind you, beside you—all over you—the jeepneys, tricycles, motorcycles, buses and cars assault you with incessant blowing of horns. They zoom past you, they spew black smoke at you. You are shoved. You are mobbed. Your pocket is picked. You’re nothing now but a wasted and abused worker, and you haven’t even reached your office yet. You are stressed-out.

Monday, April 09, 2007

The Lonely Japanese

Fernando V. Beup Jr.

Japanese Studies 100



THE LONELY JAPANESE
An Impression and Interpretation of Japan’s Representation of its Lonely Self

Every culture is unique. This is notwithstanding the fact that some cultures do share many things in common owing to the countries' geographical proximity or historical commonality. The reasons of a culture’s uniqueness are varied, but these can be more or less divided into two broad categories: natural and artificial. For our purpose, the natural causes of a country’s uniqueness will be defined as those that are inherent to the country that cannot be created nor altered through human intervention. These factors include a country’s geography, climate and, to some extent, racial homogeneity. On the other hand, artificial causes include those that are caused by humans themselves—factors such as cultural influences brought from outside of a people’s immediate geographical location. These may happen as a result of socialization, migration, or better yet, as a result of some historical accident of which contact with some foreign entities is a necessary antecedent. Natural causes are therefore necessary, while artificial causes are largely adoptive if not adaptive.
Japan is a country whose uniqueness is drawn from, among others, these two factors. But to define its uniqueness solely on these two can be problematic without elaboration because it does not offer us any new information about the subject. Hence, it would be more helpful to pinpoint some specific uniqueness of the Japanese so that a more meaningful discourse can be made that can lead to the better understanding of the people in relation to the factors mentioned above.
It is the purpose of this paper to point out one specific characteristic of the Japanese where the natural and artificial causes meet to produce a kind of cultural expression that most non-Japanese would find rather interesting or peculiar. The paper will deal mostly with impressions derived from such characteristic and will proffer interpretations based on empirical and theoretical knowledge. This characteristic, oftentimes present in Japanese cultural expression but largely overlooked, is loneliness.

The Geography of Loneliness

The Japanese are a lonely people. This is partly due to the fact that Japan is a country fairly isolated from mainland Asia to which it claims its cultural roots, China. From its east to its southwest is located the Pacific Ocean where powerful typhoons form to whip the country in summer, and to its north is the eastern tip of Russia where it shares much of the punishing cold of winter. To its immediate west the Korean peninsula, like a jealous brother, blocks Japan direct access to China. In a sense, Japan's relative distance from its acknowledged cultural motherland gives it a picture of an abandoned child constantly in peril of being quashed by climatic forces.
This is not to say, of course, that the Japanese are lonely in a sense that they are deprived of happiness. The loneliness that will be referred to from here on is a concept derived from a complex synthesis of geographical and conceptual isolation, encompassing physical and philosophical dimensions. The dynamics of proxemics spills over to many aspects of Japanese culture, as we shall soon see.
Foremost, Japan’s geographical distance from mainland Asia seems to have had a profound impact on the Japanese as it replicated itself in the recurring themes of loss and longing in Japanese culture. Indeed, its stories are replete with themes of separation, from the geisha who has to leave her family at a tender age, to the modern salaryman alienated from society by rapid industrialization. It appears then that this recurrent Japanese theme is one that puts the person in the center of things but at the same time distant or not quite a part of them: The geisha, in the pursuit of her profession as entertainer of the highest breeeding and caliber meant to “sell fantasy” to her clients must distance herself from the rest of society as if to sustain her world of make-believe; while the salaryman, after a long day at work, must retreat to his tiny abode and shut himself from the competitive world outside. The Japanese seems to stand all alone, ironically unassisted by even the Confucian emphasis on the group which he is almost always committed to uphold but in which he is oftentimes denied a right to be himself.
The paradoxical nature of the Japanese’s relation to his family and society— of being one with them and yet not belonging to them—tends to reinforce the drive to secure one’s roots if only through historical records, as if this can give him comfort and solace. Hence, the concept of ie or “household” and the importance given to family registry function not only to put one in his respective social class but more so because they provide the bases for one’s origins, a sense of belonging, of rootedness, not to the present that is within his grasp, but to the distant past.
The search for the Japanese past takes on an interesting twist when viewed in relation to the theme of loss and longing previously mentioned. For the Japanese, the forgotten past is a loss, and the search for his roots is an expression of longing for a home. Perhaps no other evidence of the desire of the Japanese to solve the puzzle of their origins can be stronger than the amount of work they put into anthropological research, most notably in the origins and practice of rice cultivation.

Rice as Self

The myth of Amatersu, the Sun Goddess from whom the Japanese believe themselves to have originated provides a very promising key to unlocking the mystery of their historical and cultural origins through a most ubiquitous commodity: rice.
Rice is believed by the Japanese to have been a gift from Amaterasu and is said to possess her spirit. This makes rice so vital to the Japanese that it even serves as an object of worship even to this day. The rites associated with the object has become a subject of study for Japanese anthropologists as rice becomes an important point of reference in tracing the roots of the Japanese. By being able to determine how rice reached and started to be cultivated in Japan, anthropologists hope to provide answers to questions on the history of the Japanese people.
This search for the Japanese roots through rice arouses curiousity when viewed in relation to the country’s long assertion of its uniqueness as incorporated in the Nihonjin ron. Through the Nihonjin ron, the Japanese articulate their uniqueness as a consequence of their having been descended from the Sun Goddess Amaterasu. Yet, as a consequence of their intrest in tracing their origins through rice which they theorize to have come from southern China, are the Japanese now ready to see their uniqueness not so much as a result of having been descended from Amaterasu as having been descended from a human ancestor? The longing of the Japanese for their past while at the same time asserting their uniqueness has been a paradox all along. The road to the cultural home that the Japanese have been longing for seems to be within sight; and home seems to inevitably lead to China.
How the scholars will give their verdict on the studies still remains to be seen, but certainly the theme of loss and longing is played out again as Japan tries to discover its true self by going back to its past. In other words, its objective seems to be to bridge the geographic and conceptual distance which historically separated it from mainland Asia and the rest of the world so that it will finally come to terms with its isolation and, ultimately, with the loneliness of being Japanese.

Loneliness as Cultural Expression

The Japanese story could easily have been lifted from a melodrama, a story of loss and longing for a home, only it is tempered by Confucian restraint and Buddhist stoicism. It is therefore not surprising that the Japanese language would possess words that tend to romanticize, more than to merely express, sadness or loneliness. The word sabashii serves as a good example. Sabashii has been described by Boye Lafayette De Mente as “an acute sense of loneliness, of an ‘ocean of nothingness,’ which was most common in the fall when the fading and falling of leaves was a powerful reminder of the fate of all things.”[1] Another word related to sabashii is shinmiri, a concept integrated into Japanese arts and translated into English as “serene sadness,” or “lonely tranquility.” De Mente further writes about this word:

The shinmiri concept in [Japanese] culture…became an essential ingredient in art, handicrafts, music and literature. In order to be truly Japanese and evoke expected feelings, a piece of art, a handicraft or a poem had to incorporate the essence of shinmiri.
Shinmiri remains a common colloquial term in modern-day Japan, regularly used to express the kind of intimate tranquility and sad contentment that is a key part of the atmosphere of a Japanese-style room overlooking a garden, the ocean, or a mountain ravine—especially on rainy days.[2]


It is at once obvious that the concepts of sabishii and shinmiri have direct references to nature or environment, unavoidably pointing to the cultural spaces created by the fusion of geography (necessary cause), and Buddhism and animist tradition of Japan (adoptive causes).
The feeling of loneliness that one gets when contemplating the postcards or “nature” calendars of Japan is not merely accidental but a product of the projection of the Japanese’s idea of their unique sensibilities. The image of tranquil mountains or quaint inns on the hillsides, the image of snow-capped mountains, of cherry blossoms or of autumn foliage as a bullet train “quietly” speeds through them create a sense of isolation, contemplation, even sorrow. This observation acquires greater significance when one relates the concept of loneliness to Japan's minimalist art where a simple point of interest is put in relation to the overall emptiness of a given space. Here, the subject is positioned in relative isolation from other components, consequently highlighting its "singleness" and creating a sense of identification of the observer with the subject. Minimalism is, in effect, an “aestheticization” of loneliness, if not a method of the observer of distancing himself through the subject so that he may see himself in isolation and in relation to his surroundings. Somehow the art of bonsai or dwarf trees may also have a bearing on the desire to see oneself in relation to one's natural surroundings. Where this is impossible to do in one's natural setting, the Japanese may have opted to reproduce nature in miniatures in an attempt to visualize himself in it.
Of course, some scholars hold different opinions on this. Edwin O. Reischauer, an eminent professor of Japanese history, is inclined to believe that the practice of miniaturization of trees may have to do with the preponderance of mountains in Japan which makes it imperative for the Japanese, who are ardent nature lovers, to replicate nature in small forms.[3]
Be that as it may, it does not diminish the fact that the Japanese always put themselves in intimate relation with their environment. They almost always appear as part of the landscape, most likely because the Japanese, being farmers, have always been a people closely tied to the land. For instance, a look at some pictures of their fishing villages would give the impression that these people would most likely come back to the comforts of their home after a fishing expedition as opposed to their Western counterparts who appear likely to venture far out into the sea. Hence, it appears as no coincidence that it would be the West that would spearhead the colonization of other lands, while Japan would sleep through most of the period of Western expansion.
Perhaps the sensitivity of the Japanese to their surroundings cannot be more evident than in their literature. The works of some of Japan’s most famous writers (i.e., Yasunari Kawabata and Yukio Mishima) are uniquely Japanese in their keen awareness of the most trivial details of nature and how these relate to the emotional and psychological states of their fictional characters.
The haiku poetry, remarkable for its creativeness and brevity, commonly deals with sudden sparks of illumination derived from the writer’s acute sensitivity to his surroundings. In this regard, the isolation of the Japanese tends to fuel the imaginative drive resulting in works that are distinctively lonely and melancholic, if not outstanding in their spatial economy and magnification of the minute.
For the Japanese, the faintest movements or gestures can reveal meanings—some kind of Freudian slips—that are otherwise insignificant to the inattentive. The noh theater is a good study regarding this subject, as well as the profession of the geisha whose part of the job it is to study and exercise the faintest nuances in her gestures as she serves tea and entertains her guest.

Loneliness and “Japonism”

It is obvious that there are distinctively Japanese manners of expression. As has been pointed out in the foregoing, isolation, loneliness, introspection and economy of spatial and material elements—all interrelated—are especially significant and cannot escape notice.
This distinctive character of Japanese culture was obviously and inevitably brought to the world’s attention with the “discovery” of Japan by the West and the country’s subsequent rise to economic and military power. The attention given to many things Japanese would result in the fusion of Japanese cultural elements particularly in the arts with foreign ones, and vice versa. This process of mixing Japanese elements with foreign ones has come to be known as Japonism, a term that, despite its reflexivity, implies more of cultural inspiration taken from Japan.
Japonism was first coined by the French to refer to the artistic inspiration taken from the Japanese. Hence, Japonism is at once a perception derived from either side of the fence: of the foreigners about the Japanese, and later, in reverse, of the Japanese about themselves. Japonism has been employed largely in the field of fashion and other arts, but it has been used in the field of literature as well. In an apparent display of Japonism in literature Snow Falling on Cedars, a novel that deals with Japanese immigrants in the United States presents a very good example. Here, Japanese sensibility and imagery has been incorporated into the work by its American author David Guterson. Obviously, as a tribute perhaps to the Japanese characters in the novel (who are incidentally ordinary farmers and fisher folks), Guterson has created a very atmospheric novel reminiscent of the winter images in Mishima’s Spring Snow.
The palpable coldness and sense of isolation in the novel is at once a reference to the bitter immigrant experience, but more than that it is an allusion to the image of the Japanese as cold, distant, and different—an image reinforced no doubt by the Japanese representation of themselves in their culture and arts as lonely, isolated, restrained. Hence, it is not surprising that the paperback edition of Snow Falling would picture a mountain covered with trees engulfed in fog—a lonely image most likely lifted from Japanese paintings if not from pictures of some distant Japanese countryside suffused with shinmiri atmosphere. Kazuo Ishiguro, a British writer of Japanese descent, comes extremely close to this “Japonist” writing style by the attendant placidness and picturesque-ness of his works, noticeable by merely looking at their titles: A Pale View of Hills and The Remains of the Day, among others.

Conclusion

So far it has been established that the Japanese are unique as a consequence of several factors, among them their environment and historical experience. They are unique but not in a sense that they are special or “chosen”, but because they have developed a distinctive way of expressing themselves. The Japanese appear to possess a remarkable talent of transforming the most ordinary thing into something significant by magnifying its simplicity and imbuing it with “life.” This may in part be attributed to the synthesis of its animist tradition and Zen Buddhism; and partly, this may also be attributed to its geographical distance from mainland Asia which prodded it to make the most of the cultural “residues” from China as it had been filtered through Korea. (Here, it is worth noting that the grandiosity, color and pomp of Chinese culture appear to become more and more subdued as it spreads eastward, with Japan receiving the least of this dispersion).
The impression that one can get from the Japanese experience is that they have always been in search of a figure to emulate, or to absorb as much as they can those which their geography had denied them access. This may perhaps explain why the Japanese have always been accused of being prodigious imitators. Nevertheless, the Japanese, by the very scarcity of cultural influences from outside, have remarkably created a distinctive character. The image of the abandoned child looms large in their cultural expression of loneliness, isolation, distance, stoicism and serenity. It is no wonder then why the geisha served an important purpose in ancient Japan; that is, to sell fantasy as if, even just for a moment, one can get away from the sadness and isolation of it all.
Indeed, the Japanese are an extremely lonely people, but instead of wallowing in that loneliness, they instead chose to accept it as a way of life, an inevitable fact that does not merit resistance. Loneliness has in fact been elevated by the Japanese into an art where it assumes a sublime and ethereal character.
Japan’s lonely self is of course present in all humankind, though it is largely seen as a negative force by most cultures: The Japanese’s sense of isolation and outlook about the precariousness of life is comparable to Nietszche’s idea of his existence as absurd; Jean Paul Sartre’s existentialist philosophy as elaborated in his Being and Nothingness meets its counterpart in Keiji Nishitari’s Religion and Nothingness, both of which deal with questions of faith, existence and the meaning of life; the moment of illumination in the Japanese haiku is no different from James Joyce’s “epiphanies.”
These parallels are not readily apparent, nor do they take a one-to-one correspondence with remarkable exactitude. Yet it is undeniable that the Japanese aestheticization of loneliness all points to the bigger and universal question of life, its origins and meanings. This is not in the least surprising as the representation of the Japanese of his lonely self has, in many ways, been a product of philosophy. One need only contemplate a Japanese Zen garden, or sit under the autumn foliage alone in order to make sense of Japanese loneliness and why they consider it “serene sadness.” For some cultures, this may appear to be a masochistic act, but one can come closer to understanding the concept when one has grasped the meaning of “bittersweet,” of what might and could have been, or when one has experienced standing on top of a mountain at dusk or dawn—in silence, when there is no word to describe the innermost thoughts and feelings. In other words, to be really alone with oneself.
There is a Japanese in every culture, yet it took only the Japanese to elevate these feelings, sentiments, and “absurdities” of life to the realm of the beautiful. As in most cultures, people are in constant search of the umbilical chord that connects them to their origins, but in the end they will all go back to the land, as a Japanese farmer would to his farm. Perhaps, as the Japanese continue to search for themselves in their past, it will become clearer to us why the Japanese have chosen to find beauty in what is otherwise painful and emotionally troubling to many. If only for this, the Japanese can be considered undeniably unique. This interesting facet of the Japanese deserves more attention and careful analysis in order to gain a better understanding of this fascinating people, and perhaps of ourselves. As finally everything will end in death, the world can take a lesson from the Japanese even if only in gracefully and beautifully surrendering to the grand plan with the heart of a samurai.

***

[1] Boye Lafayette De Mente, NTC’s Dictionary of Japan’s Cultural Code Words (Lincolnwood, Illinois: National Textbook Co., 1994), 310.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Edwin O. Reischauer, The Japanese ( Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 1981), 10.



SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

De Mente, Boye. 1994. NTC’s Dictionary of Japan’s Cultural Code Words. Lincolnwood, Ill.: National Textbook Co.

Guterson, David. 1995. Snow Falling on Cedars. New York: Vintage Books.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. 1990. A Pale View of Hills. New York: Vintage Books.

Kawabata, Yasunari, trans. by Edward M. Seidensticker. 1970. The Sound of the Mountain. New York: Knopf.

Mishima, Yukio, trans. by Michael Gallagher. 1968. Spring Snow. New York: Pocket Books.

Nishitari, Keiji, trans. by Jon Van Bragt. 1982. Religion and Nothingness. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Reischauer, Edwin O. 1981. The Japanese. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press.

Sartre, Jean Paul, trans. by Hazel E. Barnes. 1956. Being and Nothingness. New York: Philosophical Library.

The Korean Writing System

Fernando V. Beup, Jr.

History 151



The Korean Writing System: Its History and Role in the Rise of Korean Nationalism and Korea's Modernization


The study of languages and writing systems is a concern under the domains of linguistics. And, as most linguists would agree, a nation's sense of identity and consciousness are chiefly shaped by its language. This is best discerned from a language's ability to convey ideas, emotions and nuances that are unique to the culture where it belongs.
Languages possess certain powers by their ability to capture the wide range of a culture's spectrum of thought and feelings and convey these effectively. If the chief purpose of language is for communication, as indeed it is, then it must be able to communicate these things not only verbally but also through a set of symbols; hence, the necessity of a writing system.
The need for a writing system cannot be under-emphasized. It is well known that where people have the ability to read and write, the greater is the chance for them to achieve a high degree of development. The importance that modern society places on literacy is one clear proof that it is an indispensable tool for improving the lives of its people and advancing its level of development.
Obviously, a writing system makes it easier for people to communicate without the use of spoken language. The transmission of information, their multiplication as well as their storage can be tremendously enhanced only through the written word. It is beyond doubt that the ancient writings of the Egyptians and other ancient civilizations all served the purpose of communication, without which it would have been impossible for us to decipher the mysteries of the past.
Yet for all the languages man has studied and catalogued, no particular writing system in the world has ever been known to have been invented and implemented. Except, of course, for the writing system of Korea.
The Korean writing system, or hangul, stands as most unique in the world for being the only known writing system to possess a clear origin. Moreover, it is the only known writing system to have been developed for the special use of the Korean people with the purpose of bringing literacy down to the most common people. Since its adoption, hangul has been credited for its significant contribution to the development of Korea as well as in the shaping of a nation that is imbued with strong nationalism and great pride in its history.
It is the purpose of this paper to explore the origins and development of the Korean alphabet, the motivations for its invention and how it has been used through Korean history to ultimately contribute to the Koreans' sense of nationalism, pride, and rapid advance to modernization.
Like Japan, Korea's history and culture is strongly linked to China. This cultural link is obvious not only in the predominance of Confucianism and Buddhism in the said countries but also in the arts as well as in their languages. This is not to say, however, that Korean language and Chinese are the same. Gustaf John Rumstedt writes:
As the Koreans have been under Chinese cultural and political influence for thousands of years it is natural that, like the Japanese and the Annamese, they should have adopted the Chinese mode of writing… The Korean language lacks words for more abstract ideas, and from the oldest times many Chinese words and expressions have been borrowed. Of what the language earlier possessed much may have been lost during the passing of the centuries.[1]


It was not convenient, however, for the Koreans to use Chinese characters in writing Korean words. Not quite incidentally, the words represented in Chinese characters had to have two pronunciations--one in Korean, and the other in Chinese.[2] This fundamental difference, as well as the acknowledged complexity of the Chinese writing system obviously made it difficult for many Koreans to be literate. If many of them had to read and write, there must be a way for them to do so in a far easier way.
King Sejong of the Yi Dynasty recognized the difficulty of ordinary Koreans to write in Chinese. Sejong's concern about the Koreans’ difficulty in adopting China’s writing system was not without justification. It is said that prior to the introduction of hangul, many Koreans wrote in ordinary Chinese, and their methods indicated that it was difficult for them to use.[3] Obviously disturbed by this problem, Sejong commissioned in 1440 a team of scholars to devise a system of writing to express the Korean language which that he then promulgated in 1446. [4]
The implications of King Sejong's action are tremendously important. First, it showed his deep concern for his people to be able to participate in the interactions of society; and second, it conveyed his strong desire to free his people from the bondage of ignorance. Sejong's preface to Hunmin Jeongum, or "Correct Sounds for Teaching the Korean Language Properly to the People," on the promulgation of the Korean writing system in 1446 reveals his benevolent, liberal, independent and democratic mind:
The sounds of our language differ from those of Chinese and are not easily communicated by using Chinese graphs. Many among the ignorant, therefore, though they wish to express their sentiments in writing, have been unable to communicate. Considering this situation with compassion, I have newly devised twenty-eight letters. I wish only that the people will learn them easily and use them conveniently in their daily life. [5]

The simplicity of the completed Korean alphabet in combining Korean sounds was remarkable. So simple in fact was the system that in a postscript to King Sejong’s words, Chong Inji, an official who helped invent the alphabet, wrote that “a clever man can learn them in one morning while a dull man may take ten days to study them.” [6] The accuracy of its symbols in rendering the sounds of the Korean language and the ease by which it can be learned are one of makes hangul as perhaps the most scientific writing system in the world currently in use.[7]
As could be expected, such utter simplicity of hangul did not easily suit many of the learned class. Indeed, it did not gain much acceptance during its first years of existence. Many of those opposed to its use looked down on the new writing system, deeming it inferior to Chinese. Ch’oe Malli (a scholar-official), in a straightforward letter of opposition to the use of hangul, wrote:
It has been said that the barbarians are transformed only by means of adopting the Chinese ways; we have never heard of the Chinese ways being transformed by the barbarians. Historically, China has always regarded our country as the state that has maintained the virtuous customs bequeathed by the sage-king Kija and has viewed our literature, rituals, and music as similar to its own. Now, however, our country is devising a Korean script separately in order to discard the Chinese, and thus we are willingly reduced to the status of barbarians.
….This Korean script is nothing more than a novelty. It is harmful to learning and useless to the government. No matter how one looks at it, one cannot find any good in it…[8]

That King Sejong would be enthralled to devise a writing system that the educated class would find “barbaric” is curious, for Sejong himself belonged on top of this privileged class.
It is highly probable that Sejong’s resolve to bring literacy to his people may have gone beyond mere concern for the welfare of his people and may in fact have been the very first tangible expression of asserting Korea’s cultural achievements distinguishable from that of China. Indeed, Sejong was known to possess a strong sense of patriotism and independence and demonstrated this in his leadership. Among the things he envisioned during his reign was to strengthen the Korean monarchy and elevate its status and prestige to that of China’s.[9] In an apparent move to reinforce Korea's stature and uniqueness, Sejong also asked a scholar to write an essay which stated that Korean kings, just as their Chinese counterparts, also had been given the Mandate of Heaven.[10]
Despite the minimal success of hangul in its first few years of use, it began to be increasingly adopted by the Koreans as time went by. Partly responsible for its slow initial progress was due to domestic problems. In the years between 1450 and 1500, the progress of hangul suffered a setback as it was severely persecuted because of political turmoil during the reign of Yonsan-gun.[11]
Considered in Korean history as the country's most reprobate ruler, Yonsan-gun banned the use of hangul and ordered to search and destroy "everything and anything that could be found written in it."[12]
The progress of hangul was perhaps better realized than Sejong had hoped. But perhaps the most remarkable effect to have resulted from the use of hangul could not have made him any happier, for then the movement of the Korean script through the different periods of history indicated that his vision of a proud, culturally unique and independent Korea was inching closer to being realized. Slowly, hangul, more than just a simplified writing system meant to educate the people, was starting to take a life of its own as a major instrument for expressing cultural identity and nationalism. It is noted, for instance, that in the seventeenth century, following the two Japanese invasions of Korea from 1597, folk literature increased and hangul began to be used not only among ordinary people but also in the court and in the palace. During this time verses, sijo (a form of poetry), and novels came to be expressed in hangul as well. By the sixteenth century, hangul had become fixed as the Korean script and scholars began using it widely in composing lyrics and poems.[13]
Once this was achieved, the spread of hangul could no longer be denied nor stopped. By the eighteenth century, during the reigns of King Yonjo and King Chongjo, hangul began to achieve widespread use by the people, and literary works written in it were widely read by ordinary citizens and those belonging to the aristocracy. [14] Around this time, authorship also changed from the yangban or the upper class to those of lower social class.[15] To a significant extent, the widespread use of the Korean script indicated that many people had already become adapted to its use and that literacy had been enhanced so that by the latter half of the century when the West was starting to make its presence felt in Korea, the country was already ripe for further learning from the outside. Korea began to be stimulated to write on different fields of learning, and hangul began to be widely used in newspapers, magazines and textbooks. With the creation of the Office of Publication in 1883, lead type also came to be used for hangul. [16]
What King Sejong set about to bringing learning to the most ordinary Koreans had now been significantly realized. But the other real impact of hangul was just starting to work itself into the psyche of Koreans. With learning now at the beckon of everyone, it became inevitable that the Korean script now symbolized a crowning achievement of Korean culture and civilization, consequently bringing more pride and confidence in the country which had been culturally dependent on China for most of its history.
Such pride of the Koreans had been well known. It does not therefore come as a surprise that when it was annexed by Japan in 1910, it felt itself badly humiliated by "a nation that, in its [Korea] flattering opinion of itself, had previously looked down on Japan as backward…"[17]
Understandably, the occupation of Japan proved disastrous for the development of hangul and the Korean language as the Japanese exercised control on literary freedom and imposed their own language on the Korean people. Indeed, it was the Japanese language that was at the very core of the educational policy that Japan imposed on the country. [18] It was this oppressive government that would serve as a pivot for hangul and the Korean language to become an instrument and reference point, among others, from which Koreans would draw their nationalism and patriotism. Indeed, there are plenty of references in Korea's history that point to this. The impact of hangul and the Korean language on the Koreans' consciousness had now been made obvious:
When Korea was moving from the "new literature" into the era of modern literature…there was a proud awakening to the fact that Korea, while a member in good standing of the cultural sphere in which the Chinese written word held sway, had its own culture and its own script, which, even under oppressive Japanese rule, was, among other things, a symbol of nationalism (emphasis mine). [19]

Even prior to Japan's annexation of Korea, the Japanese aggression, it appears, had already prompted the Koreans to be more patriotic. It was during this period that Korean newspapers like The Independent, first founded in 1896, began writing in hangul alphabet providing news and simultaneously fighting for the preservation of Korea's independence. Other newspapers like the Capital Gazette (1898), published in mixed Chinese-hangul script, was at the forefront of the resistance against the Japanese aggression.
The years preceding and following the Japanese occupation saw many expressions of nationalism centered around hangul and the Korean language. It is acknowledged that the nationalistic ethos surrounding the enlightenment movement in the 1900's identified Korean language, along with Korean history, as essential ingredients to the movement's success.[20] In affirmation of this, some Koreans under the leadership of Chu- Si-gyong inaugurated in 1921 the Society for the Study of the Korean Language (renamed in 1937 as the Korean Language Society). Composed of Korean linguists, the organization popularized the use of hangul through its monthly journal, Hangul. It also contributed immensely in the standardization of the Korean alphabet's orthography and usage, the compilation of a dictionary of the Korean language, the standardization of spelling, and many others. The Society also enhanced the appreciation of Korean culture by setting a date to commemorate the day when the Korean alphabet was first promulgated.[21]
Not quite incidentally, the Japanese authorities branded the Korean Language Society a subversive group that was working for Korea's independence. As a result, twenty-nine of its members were arrested with a dozen of them convicted and sentenced.[22]
The pride and high regard the Korean Language Society had for hangul was unmistakable. The inaugural editorial of the Society's journal is evident of this:
At present when all fields of science, scholarship, and culture of the society are progressing daily, everything depends on the spoken and written word. We need not belabor how important and precious speech and scripts [hangul] are in our life and how indispensable they are every minute of the day. Every nation has its own speech and scripts, which its people love greatly.
We, the Koreans, have a fine speech and scripts. Our scripts, hangul in particular, are excellent; they have unchanging sounds, they look attractive, and they are easy to learn and use….
We are happy for the sake of the future of hangul that some forty years ago, Chu Sigyong, our great teacher, opened the right path which not a few disciples chose to follow with the full intention of working diligently for the promotion of hangul.[23]
………………………………………………………………………

The enthusiasm by which the Koreans embraced their language and system of writing had far-reaching consequences. As one clear example of its significant results, Andrew C. Nahm writes: "…The Korean language newspapers which appeared after 1919 and survived until 1940 contributed much to the increase of literacy and the expansion of the public awareness of Korea's social and economic ills and nationalistic cultural interests, particularly the struggle of the Koreans to preserve their own language (emphasis mine)."[24]
We can very well assume that there were numerous other positive results that came out of the Koreans' fervent support for their language, and that these can rightfully be attributed to King Sejong himself who, with his enlightened leadership, brought not only the hangul alphabet and literacy but, in so doing, also instilled pride and nationalism among his people.
As has been shown in this paper, the introduction of the Korean alphabet system has brought incalculable benefits to the people of Korea, foremost of which is the democratization of education. By giving the people the ability to read and write in their own language, knowledge became widespread and social awareness was enhanced. Yet, the legacy of hangul does not end there. With the coming of the Japanese, not only hangul and the Korean language served as a tool for communication; more than that, hangul served as a symbol of Korea as a nation with a unique culture that had to be protected, preserved and developed. In times of oppression, it became a symbol of defiance of a nation that looked back to its history and saw it as glorious and comparable to that of the ancient civilizations of its neighbors, particularly China. With the advent of this newfound confidence, the Koreans realized and strongly asserted their innate capability to develop and become great on their own, so that even if Japan was not defeated by the Allied Powers in World War II and driven out of Korea, it would have likely toppled the Japanese colonial government on its own given the intense nationalism and sense of independence its people possess.
To this day, Korea stands as a nation still very proud as it was thousands of years ago. It is as if its people still see the world in the eyes of King Sejong when he first thought of devising the Korean alphabet thinking that he could accomplish what then was thought of as insane and impossible--to digress from the cultural standards set by the ancient civilization of China. Though at first it seems to appear as a very simple plan that Sejong had for his kingdom, it cannot be denied that his independent way of thinking eventually paved the way for what future generations of Koreans would take in dealing with the world.
Indeed, the nature of criticisms Koreans hurl at what they perceive as foreign interference in their national affairs, particularly on the issue of Korea's unification, subtly show their independent mind and abhorrence for being dictated on by foreign powers.
Sejong may not have anticipated the numerous influences his leadership and alphabetic system would bring to different spheres of Korean society, but if he were alive today, he himself would be surprised at how far his genius has gone in terms of winning recognition from all over the world, reaping honors and accolades for his country and his people. On top of that, he would be surprised to know that the alphabet system that was once looked down on by the aristocratic class has proven to be a tremendous social leveler with its use in all levels of educational system and in just about any printed matter that one encounters in present-day Korea.
Today, hangul is widely acknowledged to be the world's most scientific system of writing with its ability to approximate just about any sound from any language. The ease with which it can be learned is well-known and its use has been recognized by the United Nations Education, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) for its role in fighting illiteracy. UNESCO has also created an award, the King Sejong Literacy Prize, for outstanding achievements in combating illiteracy.[25]
In Korea itself, hangul has been credited for making Korea as having one of the highest literacy rates in the world. In addition, the ease with which hangul can be adopted for the use of computers and other electronic equipment has enabled Koreans to be highly skilled in the realm of information technology. Today, Korea boasts as being the most wired country in the world,[26]with almost every household having access to the world wide web. This is an unsurpassed feat for any country and acquires special significance when viewed in consideration of the fact that English is known to be the lingua franca of information technology.
Hangul has also invaded the realm of the arts. In dance, typography, sculpture and calligraphy, Korean artists are continuously trying to explore the possibilities for the creative expression of the Korean script.[27] The fervor with which Koreans embrace and transform hangul reveals their strong attachment to this cultural icon. Indeed, the average Korean needs no reminding that theirs is the only writing system in the world that has ever been invented through a royal decree. Similarly, they are also quick to point out hangul's simplicity and accuracy.
From education to the fight for independence, from literary expression to digital and artistic transformations, hangul doubtlessly predominates in the Korean psyche. It is to Koreans a legacy that performs specific functions relative to their needs and aspirations. There is no doubt that this legacy has tremendously helped in shaping the consciousness of the Koreans, giving them a strong foundation on which they can turn to when they need confidence, inspiration, and tangible proof that Koreans can excel and are capable of accomplishing greater things.
Hangul has proven to the Korean people that it is possible to be independent from powerful countries. If it has been done with hangul in relation to Chinese, it can also be done in other realms like the arts, science, economy and technology. Modern Korea has demonstrated that great things are possible to accomplish, and they only needed one great example to set things in motion. Indeed, it has accomplished so much than perhaps King Sejong, its originator, had hoped for.
Cho Inji, one of the most trusted scholars of King Sejong, once wrote what today Koreans can only call very prophetic: "Although our country has existed in the eastern corner of the world for a long period of time, not until today has the great wisdom of cultivating a new enlightenment and completing its task been realized."[28]

***


[1] Gustaf John Rumstedt. A Korean Grammar (The Netherlands: Anthropological Publications, 1968), 1.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Jacob Chang –ui Kim. Pictorial Sino-Korean Characters: Fun with Hancha (Seoul: Hollym International Corp., 1982), 22.
[4] Bruce K Grant. A Guide to Korean Characters, 2nd revised ed. (Seoul: Hollym, 1982), p. 11.
[5]Peter H. Lee, ed. Sourcebook of Korean Civilization (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), 1:516-517.
[6] Lee, Ibid. 518.
[7] Grant, Ibid.
[8] Ibid. 519-520.
[9] Andrew C. Nahm. Korea: Tradition and Transformation (Western Michigan University: Hollym, 1988), 116.
[10] Ibid.
[11] Kim Jin-Pyong, "The Letterforms of Han'gul: It's Origin and Process of Transformation" in The Korean Language, The Korean National Commission for UNESCO, ed. (USA: Pace International Research, Inc., 1983), 87.
[12] Michael Keon, Korean Phoenix: A Nation from the Ashes (New Jersey: Prentice Hall International, 1977), 27.
[13] Kim, Ibid., 91-92.
[14] Ibid., 93.
[15] Ki-baik Lee, translated by Edward W. Wagner with Edward J. Shultz, A New History of Korea (Seoul: Ichokak Publishers, 1984), 238.
[16] Ibid., 95.
[17] Kim Donguk, "History of Korean Literature," in East Asian Cultural Studies Series, No. 20, translated by Leon Hurvitz (Tokyo: The Center for East Asian Cultural Studies, 1980), 290-291.
[18] P. Lee, Ibid., 334.
[19]Ibid., 329.
[20] Ibid., 2:414.
[21] Lee, A New History of Korea, 369.
[22] P. H. Lee, Sourcebook, 488.
[23] Ibid., 489.
[24] Nahm, Ibid., 300.
[25] Ministry of Culture and Tourism, Republic of Korea, The Korean Alphabet: Hangeul (Seoul: Ministry of Culture and Tourism, 1999), VHS format.
[26] Ibid.
[27] Ibid.
[28]P. H. Lee, Sourcebook, 1:518.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Grant, Bruce K. A Guide to Korean Characters, 2nd revised ed. Seoul: Hollym, 1982.

Keon, Michael. Korean Phoenix: A Nation from the Ashes. New Jersey: Prentice Hall International, 1977.

Kim, Donguk. "History of Korean Literature," in East Asian Cultural Studies Series, No. 20, translated by Leon Hurvitz. Tokyo: The Center for East Asian Cultural Studies, 1980), 290-291.

Kim, Jacob Chang –ui. Pictorial Sino-Korean Characters: Fun with Hancha. Seoul: Hollym International Corp., 1982.

Kim Jin-Pyong, "The Letterforms of Han'gul: It's Origin and Process of Transformation" in The Korean Language, The Korean National Commission for UNESCO, ed. USA: Pace International Research, Inc., 1983.

Lee, Ki-baik, translated by Edward W. Wagner with Edward J. Shultz. A New History of Korea Seoul: Ichokak Publishers, 1984.

Lee, Peter H., ed. Sourcebook of Korean Civilization. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

Ministry of Culture and Tourism, Republic of Korea, The Korean Alphabet: Hangeul. Seoul: Ministry of Culture and Tourism, 1999, VHS format.