Intramuros was one of my secret weapons as a rookie teacher. Here, the visual aids were literally larger than life. San Agustin Church, Puerta Isabel, Fort Santiago, Bastion de San Diego, and Puerta Real were part of my half-day walking tours. While my enthusiasm has not waned from 40 years ago, my legs are not what they used to be.
Much of Spanish Manila was destroyed during the 1945 Battle of Manila, and the structures that remained and could have been rebuilt were leveled to the ground in postwar rebuilding. What is left is the footprint of the city, a grid that when drawn resembles a turtle shell, with the tail at Fort Santiago and the head at Puerta Real facing Luneta.
I would show students what was left of the ancient walls, some parts made dark by moss, other parts clean-shaven and kept together by cement. Not much obscene graffiti can be found. Scars and pockmarks left on the walls by World War II are clearly visible, and if you are lucky you can pick out and bring home a souvenir of bullet or shrapnel from the crevices.
Some walls, like that on the corner of Real and Santa Lucia still have the Spanish-era signage made from tiles in different letters. One is easy to find, slightly above modern Mariwasa tiles that read “REAL” but the old sign is faded and lacks the “L” so now reads “R-E-A.” Similar tile street names are still complete and visible across the river from Intramuros, in the streets of San Nicolas. On Santa Lucia Street, on the wall that encloses the back of the San Agustin Church complex, one finds an even older street sign that reads “Calle de San Loren[z]o.” A similar sign I have only seen on a prewar photograph that shows an American sentry guarding a part of Intramuros where the Spanish Coat of Arms is visible on the wall as well as the street name “Calle del Baluarte” now Muralla Street.
There is a gate, the Puerta Santa Lucia, that leads from Real Street toward Bonifacio Drive that is often closed to keep tourists from being hit by golf balls flying on this side of the “Muni[cipal] Golf Course.” A pity because some of the granite that was used by the entrance to the gate had Chinese characters carved on them. Someone told me these are recycled tombstones but I need to validate that. Some of the granite stones on General Luna that lead to the Plaza San Luis complex also carry Chinese characters that need further investigation. Traces of China and Chinese in this Spanish city are represented by the Fu dogs that guard the main entrance to San Agustin Church. These Fu dogs used to ornament the fence or enclosure of the monastery facing General Luna Street.
Inside San Agustin, you will find the tomb of Miguel Lopez de Legazpi, first governor general of the Spanish Philippines. It was emptied by the British when they occupied and held Manila for ransom in 1762-64. Legazpi’s remains were not respected and were thrown about. There are more tombs all around, in niches by the main doors, on the walls, even on the floor. A small mortuary chapel on the left side of the church is filled with Zobel de Ayala ancestors, on the floors I found Jose Rizal’s friend Baldomero Roxas and Leonor Rivera’s relatives. In the main crypt, you have a mixed bag. From the niches, one can read a lot of names made memorable by wealth or social standing. There is a memorial here of people, noncombatants, murdered by the Japanese forces in the closing days of the war. You have historical people, too, from Juan Luna, the illustrious painter, to the nationalist historian Teodoro A. Agoncillo who must be upset being interred in a church, and in Spanish Manila, too.
I have been visiting San Agustin Church and museum for almost four decades now and still find something new, or something I missed on previous visits. By far, my most memorable interaction with a student happened in the crypt of San Agustin.
I brought the class in, pointed out the grave of Juan Luna, and proceeded to the antechamber that was where the Spanish surrendered to the Americans in 1898. It is now a hall that displays Philippine religious imagery in sculpture, relief, and painting collected by the late connoisseur Luis Ma. Araneta and is now known as the Pagrel Collection from the names of Araneta’s children: Patricia, Gregorio and Elvira.
Exiting from the antechamber I saw one of my students left behind, transfixed in front of Luna’s tomb. I told her we were moving on to another part of the museum. She looked at me and asked, “Is this where Juan Luna is buried?” I answered affirmatively. She looked at the tomb again and asked, “Is this really where Juan Luna is buried?” I answered yes again, then she asked: “Ang ibig mong sabihin, totoong tao si Luna?” (You mean to tell me, Luna was a real person?)
I did not know how to respond then. It was a lightbulb moment for the student who had only known Luna as a name in textbooks and lectures. The tomb made him a real person. That encounter made me a teacher.
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