‘Bagong luma’

Thoughtful people have asked about my right hand following over seven hours of signing books during the Manila International Book Fair weekend. No carpal tunnel syndrome yet. I won’t complain about having many readers. Wading through the crowds at the book fair, I couldn’t help but wonder why doomsayers insist that “print is dead.”

While we can read from smartphones, tablets, and desktops today, the sensory pleasures of a physical book are legion: the tactile sense of a finger flipping a page, the sight of font on paper, the sound hardcovers closing on pages, the peculiar scent of a newly opened tome, or even the dangerous scent of mold growing on a rare book shelf. After working with digital books and manuscripts I am not nostalgic, I am allergic to book dust.

Last weekend, I held the first copy of “Rizal Lost & Found: The Forgotten Drafts.” My new book is an update or “bagong luma,” possible because one of the virtues of history is its long shelf life. “Makamisa: The Search for Rizal’s Third Novel,” first published in 1992, arrived with a timely new lease on life. This year marks the 70th anniversary of Republic Act No. 1425, or the “Rizal Law,” which mandated courses on Jose Rizal’s life and works in all Philippine colleges and universities. Reflecting on my experience as a student and as an instructor of the Rizal course for four decades, I know Rizal was killed more than once: first by a bullet in the back on Dec. 30, 1896, and repeatedly ever since through K–12 and college courses meant, ironically, to celebrate him.

To rescue Rizal from the Rizal course, we must first know him—and to know Rizal is to read him. He left 25 volumes of writing for a nation that does not read. Rizal is more than school staples: “Noli Me Tángere” and “El Filibusterismo.” His letters, diaries, notebooks, and sketchbooks are essential to understanding the man behind the novels, and appreciating his work more.

While the aims of the Rizal Law were lofty, the main problem lies not in the required subject matter, but in how it is taught. The law failed to prescribe a syllabus, define teacher qualifications, or recommend credible translations of Rizal’s original Spanish works into English or Filipino. Consequently, students stumble through poor translations or rely on chapter summaries rather than complete texts. Class time is wasted memorizing trivial biographical facts, such as his full name, or debating exhausted questions like his alleged retraction. Deprived of the chance to read the novels through for context and relevance, students miss out entirely on Rizal’s laughter.

Nearly four decades have passed since I sat in the Filipiniana Rare Book Room of the National Library of the Philippines, turning the pages of a 245-page handwritten Spanish manuscript mislabeled as a borrador (draft) for “Noli Me Tángere.” I did not realize then that when paired with a separate Tagalog manuscript titled “Makamisa,” I held the drafts for Rizal’s true, elusive third novel. It was simply lost and found—a literary cold case solved.

The first edition of “Rizal Lost & Found” aimed to prove that “Ancient Tagalog Nobility” was not the draft of Rizal’s third novel. In revising the literary canon, I examined forgotten manuscripts locked in the National Library vault and uncovered Rizal’s creative process. Through his erasures and revisions, I witnessed his development as a writer subject to doubt, editorial changes, and writer’s block. Emerging from that creative frustration was his sharpest weapon: satire.

Although Rizal left no provisional title for his third novel, I chose “Makamisa” (After Mass), which was intended as the opening chapter. Written between 1891 and 1892 during his journey to Hong Kong—an extended stopover before returning to Manila—he was at a personal turning point. Breaking away from the Propaganda Movement abroad, he told Marcelo H. del Pilar: “Your work is for Spain, mine is for the Philippines.”

With his sights set on home, Rizal attempted something radically different: a novel portraying Tagalog customs, human flaws, and local town dynamics. He began writing in Tagalog before switching back to Spanish, which he found easier. It is a loss that he never finished this novel, just as he left “Suan’s Animals” and “The Lord Gazes on the Philippines” incomplete. One reviewer of the first edition asked why I did not finish the novel based on my knowledge of Rizal and his style. My response remains simple: I am not Jose Rizal.

Updated and enlarged “Rizal Lost & Found,” includes a sampling of Rizal’s overlooked texts. Often disregarded as mere drafts, these serve as a reminder that history is an endless search for truth. While history demands patience and rigorous archival research, it also relies on the hope that unearthing hitherto unknown data or questioning old assumptions will lead to new discoveries.

The unfinished fragments in the book invite us to see Rizal anew, relish his wicked humor, and meet the lively person behind the cold, dead monuments. Born from curiosity, this book shows that the search for Rizal—much like the search for our national identity—is never truly over.

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Comments are welcome at ambeth.ocampo@inquirer.net