National historical markers. Not many of us probably understand their import, except perhaps for the educational meaning of their texts and what they signify for our past.
In the light of the recent Supreme Court decision on Torre de Manila, which some have derisively called in this age of selfies a “photobomber,” one curiously asks what national historical markers can do to protect a historical site from visual harm or, worse, from destruction.
Manila and Luzon have a panoply of national historical markers. They are a dime a dozen in Intramuros and in the old districts. But they also put our scope of national history in a bind: Did national history take place only in Manila and Luzon?
Last week, a trip was made to a town whose name belongs to the century of 19-forgotten. It is called Caraga. Not to be confused with the region of the same name in northeastern Mindanao, Caraga is a town in Davao Oriental, which faces the Pacific. To reach the place, one must traverse a scenic highway that meanders over mountains and sea cliffs for a good two hours’ drive from the capital city of Mati.
There in that languid town is an old church built under the watch of the Jesuit missionary chronicler Pablo Pastells in 1886. There was an earlier mission church, but this was the one that survived the ravages of time. A marker of the National Historical Commission of the Philippines tells you its history.
At a time in world history when there was no Suez Canal, Spanish travel to the Philippines was made across the Pacific Ocean. Eastern Mindanao was among its first landfalls. That is the importance of that marker: a seemingly forlorn place by today’s standards, but signifying that this was once a place of proximal contact with the outside world. This was, in fact, the original Davao, not the city of the same name today that was then nothing but backwaters.
The church is anything but embellished. Squat and unadorned, its thick walls of limestone blocks are covered with lime stucco. On one sidewall, the lime paletada had fallen off, exposing one wall constructed of tabique pampango, a construction method then in vogue.
Few have probably heard of Caraga town. Its white sand beaches embracing aquamarine waters are enticing. But tourist lodges don’t abound here. Which simply highlights the fact that the distance from the provinces of our national cultural agencies is a serious governance deficiency we have yet to address.
In the provinces, scientific conservation of historical objects is Greek. In the Caraga convent, there are copies of old canonical books. Archival and museum collectors refer to them as Libros de Bautismos—a registry of all sacramental baptisms performed in that church. It is not just an old book; it contains names that may provide links to contemporary personages and events.
The books also tell us, in a painful graphic way, that our conservation experts are all centered in Manila. Kept inside a glass escaparate, they languish in extreme humidity. Given a few more years, these books will be gone forever.
There is also a real fear in the provinces that material objects of history, once reported to Manila, will be brought out never to be returned to their place of provenance. Of late, however, the National Museum of the Philippines under Jeremy Barns has made a dynamic effort to establish more regional museums.
National cultural agencies can contemplate a devolution of functions. Even museum workers need a travel order from Manila to attend regional museum summits in their own locality.
What then are national historical markers? These heavy tablets of cast iron signify important persons, events and places in our national history. They effectively mark a site as an “Important Cultural Property,” an official designation under the National Cultural Heritage Law.
But for those in the provinces, even a request for a marker faces a bureaucratic hurdle, but that will be another story. It takes only a simple act to reform Manila centrism: a collaborative approach toward listening to those on the ground.