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STUDY GUIDE FOR MODULE NO. 4

LITERATURE ON HUMAN RIGHTS

MODULE OVERVIEW

Are you aware of your rights as a human being? Have you ever experienced having your rights
violated?
These questions are important that only you can answer for yourself. These can have a big impact in your
daily life. Hence, you must be aware of your rights and be able to know when these rights are violated.
Through this module leads you to read and analyze literary texts where human rights are violated. The
question is, “What human rights were violated?” You cannot answer the question without reading the stories
that will make you realize various things in the society.

MODULE LEARNING OBJECTIVES

At the end of this module, the students will be able to:

1. Use the appropriate literary criticism approach in the study and critiquing of literature.
2. Recognize the importance of Filipino customs, values, and traditions through research.
3. Construct an academic paper which deals on the critiquing and discussion of the relevance of a literary
text to the society.

LEARNING CONTENTS (title of the subsection)

4.2. Literature on Human Rights

As defined by United Nations, “human rights are rights inherent to all human beings, regardless of
race, sex, nationality, ethnicity, language, religion, or any other status.” This human rights are bestowed to us
upon conception which is the start of a fundamental right which the right to life. Also this human rights
includes the right to liberty, right to equality, free from discrimination and torture, etc.

In literature, violations in human rights are observed which reflects the happenings in the society. This
opens our mind to be aware of our human rights and fight for them when violated.

4.2.1 Anto

ANTO
by Rogelio L. Ordonez

(Translated by Nur Amir Nonilon V. Queano)

I CHANCED upon Anto during a time of wandering. That was a time when my soul was sort of feverish,
delirious and groping for the stars, while poverty was some kind of a quagmire forever trapping me. The city
edifices then looked like blazing monstrous skeletons; the glaring neon lights seemed to pierce my soul; the
sidewalks were gaping catacombs; the alleys, coffins; the lamp posts, candles standing stiff; and at every

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corner and passageway, I was encountering processions of robots and plastics. It was a time when I felt
nauseated with the debauchery and treachery of city life, and I could no longer recognise a friend from a foe.
Each night, alone in my filthy and narrow rented room within a prostrate ramshackle dwelling beside the ever
stinking estero, I was fervently longing to commune with the rustic scenery, a place where coconut trees
seemed to beckon to me, where the grass seemed to dance with the murmuring breeze, and where the waves
seemed to sing me a familiar lullaby.

Lugging my typewriter and a suitcase of old clothes, I decided to go, one cold and damp dawn, to a far-flung
place in Batangas, away from the howl of exhaust pipes and the cursing of money and what is called modern
civilization. I sought shelter with a family relative, in an ordinary nipa hut near the seashore surrounded by
coconut farmland. And I felt how in such a pristine place, among common, honest folks, even poverty was
exhilarating.

It was there where I met Anto, on a day at twilight when I and my cousin Mando were drinking tuba on a
banca lying idly on the shore. I was getting a bit tipsy when I noticed a burly young man with sunburnt skin
docking near us. He beached his banca effortlessly out of the water and inside the fishing net which he
carried on his shoulder, the fishes flipped and wriggled and I could see he caught a lot enough to overflow if
poured into a bucket.

“Ala’y looks like you made a good haul, Anto?” was my cousin Mando’s greeting.

“Ala’y I made just enough,” Anto answered softly while at the same time laying down the fishnet beside us.
He scooped out some fishes and put them inside the banca on which we were sitting.

“These would go fine with your drinks.” The fishes were still bobbing up and down.

“Come, have a drink,” was my invitation and I filled the glass I was holding with tuba and was about to offer it
to him.

Anto stared at me. I noticed those big eyes which always seemed in a quandary, probing, and as if fitted with
his slightly flat nose and wide tight lips.

“Meet my cousin, Anto,” Mando said. “This is Manong Roger… he’s vacationing here.”

It was only then Anto withdrew his stare.

“No thanks, I don’t drink, Manong,” he said almost whisperingly.

“Cigarettes?” I offered him anew.

“Ala’y neither do I smoke, Manong.”

“Ala’y he’s got no vices except fishing and planting,” Mando said.

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I laughed. Anto did not even smile. He gathered the fishing net and lugged it on his shoulder, glanced at us,
then continued walking. I could not avoid following him with my eyes until the thick clumps of coconut trees in
the near distance hid him from view.

“Anto lives just behind the coconut grove.” Mando seemed to have guessed what was on my mind. “Ala’y
he’s living all by himself now, Manong.”

I drank tuba and my eyes played with the wide expanse of the sea which, by now, was completely calm like a
chest which has ceased to heave. I was even startled to feel one of the fishes left by Anto inside the banca
stirring near my feet.

“Better, Manong,” Mando said, “I’ll bring these home, have them broiled for our pulutan.”

I did not utter a word. I could not explain why, a while back, that brief instance, a kind of mystery seemed to
lurk behind those big eyes and in the way the wide lips which appeared to want to say and shout out
something remained pursed.

I did not notice Mando left me. Meanwhile, the rays of the sun had become mere red lashes in the sky when
he returned . The broiled fishes were wrapped in banana leaves, still very hot, aromatic, and how in the
province, the fishes were indeed fresh, and so were the people, unlike in the city where everything, including
philosophies and dreams were rotten.

The fishes tasted sweetish and I should have said thanks to Anto, I thought.

“Did you say he now lives alone?” I asked Mando rather absent mindedly.

“Whom did you mean, Manong?” Mando stopped his tuba drinking.

“Anto.”

“Oh, yes, Manong.”

“What about his parents?”

Mando suddenly took a gulp of tuba. “Oh, Manong, a tragedy befell their family. Ay, putang-ina, it was really
tragic, Manong!”

“What’s so tragic?” I lighted a cigarette.

“Do you see that coconut grove over there?” and Mando pointed to the nearby coconut grove through which
Anto passed a while ago. “They used to own them, Manong. Ala’y their house was rather grand then… over
there,” and Mando again pointed to the coconut grove which by now was blanketed by a thin darkness.

“So where’s the house now?”

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Mando spat out some phlegm.

“Ala’y it was demolished by the new owner. You know, Manong,” Mando continued, “since birth I had known
that Anto’s father was the rightful owner of that coconut farm. Then suddenly, one day, Anto must have been
ten years old then, a fat man with a pig’s face from the town drove in a shiny, black car and angrily told Anto’s
family to vacate the land. He was claiming ownership of the land. Ala’y Anto’s father, Ka Basilio, was fuming
mad. He got his bolo. Ay, putang-ina, Manong…had the fat pig from town not run and got into his car right
away, Ka Basilio could have hacked him to pieces with his bolo.”

“Then?” I emptied my glass of tuba.

“Oh, what else?” continued Mando. “Ala’y they brought the case to the court. Ka Basilio lost the case because
they said he had no title. A few days later, the fat pig returned tugging some policemen along. Ay, Manong, Ka
Benita, Anto’s mother, suffered a heart attack, died right then and there. Ala’y after Ka Benita’s funeral,”
Mando took another swig of tuba, “the man’s henchmen came one day, again accompanied by policemen,
and intended to tear down their house. Ala’y Ka Basilio seethed with rage and drew his bolo. Ay, Manong…
he went after them. He killed two of the bastards before the policemen could shoot him down. The one,
Manong… you should have seen him,” continued Mando with a tone of regret. “Ay, Manong, this got slashed
open!” pointing to his stomach. “He kept hacking and shoving in the bolo…ala’y the intestines spilled out like
long earthworms, bloody and wriggling, and the other one, ala’y the head almost severed from the body. The
policemen could not tear Anto from embracing Ka Basilio’s dead body, and his unmarried sister Juliana
fainted. Ay, Manong, ala’y that Juliana is a lovely girl. In fact, I had set my eyes on her,” Mando sighed.

I drank in quick succession. The tuba seemed to have gone insipid.

“And Juliana?”

“Ay, putang-ina… how tragic, Manong,” Mando seemed on the verge of tears. “So she worked as maidservant
in town in a rich man’s house near the municipal building. Ala’y one day she was found hanging in the
bedroom, hanged herself they said. Ay, putang-ina, Manong. I don’t know, it was said that the rich man’s son
raped her. It was fortunate that Anto found Ka Masyong to take care of him… the old man to whom he goes
home now. Ay, Manong, I’m really moved by what happened to that family. Ay, putang-ina, is that God’s will,
Manong?”

For a long while, I was staring out into the void. The fishes which Anto left with us no longer tasted sweetish. I
found it hard to swallow anymore.

That night, Anto’s big eyes stayed in my pupils and despite a headache, I grabbed my typewriter and under
the gas lamp’s flickering sad light, I was able to compose two lines.

“You are the eyes of my conscience.

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“You are the mouth of my dreams.”

FROM then on, I always waited for Anto’s banca to dock on the shore, and everytime he would find Mando
and I drinking on that idly lying boat, it became like a ritual for him to give us some fishes and for my part to
thank him. From time to time, I kidded him that I was going home to their place to get the most of his
kindness. Sometimes, I even teased him that he might not get a wife if he would spend all his life fishing and
planting because, according to Mando, Anto had not even gone wooing a girl, nor talked to any lady in that
place. In spite of those jokes, Anto never even once laughed nor smiled.

One afternoon, while Mando was in town selling vegetables and coconuts, I was biding time drinking alone on
the shore. Anto docked early as the sea was rough, as if a storm was threatening to blow. His eyes wandered
around when he noticed me but did not hesitate to approach to offer me fish.

“Don’t bother, Anto, thanks,” I refused. “Nobody will broil them. Mando went to town.”

Anto did not speak. He threw the fishes back into the net. The fishes wriggled and flipped as soon as they hit
the net’s bottom, as if overjoyed that I would not be having them for pulutan. Anto left silently and I thought
perhaps he felt slighted by my refusal.

The sky was growing dark as nimbostratus collected. My mind was being gradually numbed by tuba when I
was roused from behind by that soft and cold voice which seemed to blend with the blowing wind and could
not be defeated by the sounds of the rushing waves.

“Here, Manong, for your pulutan,” Anto was beside me now.

“This is too much,” I said. “You took pains to broil them for me.”

Anto merely stared at me and sat on the edge of the banca, glanced at the sea and raised his head towards
the sky.

“Ala’y it’s going to rain, Manong. This rain will be heavy, Manong,” he said as if absent mindedly.

I took in a pinch of fish. I felt the heat on my fingers and tongue.

“You broil fish deliciously, Anto.”

He looked straight at me as if mirroring in my eyes the truth about my statement, and I noticed a tinge of
satisfaction in those big eyes. It seemed like this was the only time he heard words of praise, of recognition for
what he has done.

“Ala’y I’m so sorry, Manong. I caught only a few today,” was Anto’s seemingly shy but earnest remark.

“But in fact… I should consider this my luck,” I quipped. “Do you know, Anto, that in Manila I had to content
myself always with canned or dried fish or stale milkfish every once in a while. We had nothing but a whistle

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for our pulutan, of if there was a spare cash, we broiled dried squid which tasted like a shoe hide.”

Anto seemed incredulous of what he heard, especially from one like me whom he knew came from the
reputedly rich city. I was about to pick a cigarette from the pack but it was empty and he noticed it.

“Don’t bother, Anto. When Mando comes home from town, he would surely bring home some cigarettes.”

“But he’ll be late, Manong, particularly if he gets caught in the rain. Ala’y you would have no more cigarettes.”

“In fact I could last for days without smoking,” I explained I know that the store was far away, some half
kilometer from Mando’s house perhaps and, one thing more, I had no money in my pocket.

Anto did not insist any further. Again, he looked out to the wide expanse of the sea which has now become
violent, exploding at the galloping of giant waves. The dark clouds had grown thicker and thicker, threatening
to fall anytime. In fact, it was already drizzling here and there, but I have not consumed half the gallon of tuba
which Mando left a while ago before he went to town yet there was only one more fish left on the banana
leaves.

“Ala’y it will be better, Manong, for you to drink at home. You’ll surely get wet here,” Anto suggested.

“It’s all right. I like to bathe in the rain. The problem is you don’t even want to have a sip. It gives you a good
feeling to drink, Anto, especially when you ask yourself who you are, what you are, and for what purpose you
are.” I was being carried away by my thought perhaps because of the influence of tuba.

Anto stared at me, as if trying to fathom what I meant. Suddenly there was a downpour, the raindrops were
compact and large like arrows shot from space. I thought that Anto was going to leave me but he did not
budge from his seat; eyeing me while I poured tuba into my glass.

“Take a sip so you don’t feel cold,” I told him.

“Ala’y I really don’t drink, Manong.”

The tuba has almost taken complete control of my senses and I did not even feel cold despite the continuous
onslaught of heavy rains. I suddenly became conscious, amidst the rains, to the accompaniment of the
pounding of the waves, before Anto who was completely drenched and shivering, that I was telling him stories
about the harshness and shamelessness of city life, the exploitation which I suffered in the various jobs which
I took on. the incidents which forced me to abandon my course which I wrestled arduously through five years
in a university, then fully devoted myself to writing fiction, articles, commentaries, and poems. I must have told
him everything, including my dismissal from the Editorial Board of a national magazine because I learned to
fight for the rights of my fellow workers, until often times I suffered hunger.

“You know, Anto,” I remember having said to him then. “You won’t be spared by hunger and poverty in the city

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if you never learn how to keep pace with the music and the trend of thought and of the kind of society there.”

I do not know how long Anto and I stayed in the rain but I remember, after I told my stories, Anto’s big eyes
were reddening, blinking.

The day after, I had colds and fever, and Anto heard about it. He readily came to Mando’s house, carrying a
bottle of goat’s milk for me. From that time on, Anto was not only an acquaintance — he became a friend to
me.

“Ala’y I’m amazed at you, Manong,” Mando once said. “He has become so close to you. Anto does not
befriend anybody here. Why… he looks like an elusive wild cock whom you’ve tamed.”

“I’m amazed myself,” I said.

But what puzzled me most, despite the days that he would spend time with Mando and me, especially when I
was inebriated and told nonsensical and humorous stories, Anto never even laughed nor let go a grin or a
smile.

Always, he would simply stare at us, observing our drinking, listening intently to our conversation and if he
noticed that we needed anything, such as cigarettes or drinks, he would quickly move and serve us like it was
his duty to do so. He would not budge except when he had something to offer me. And not once, did he ever
mention the bitter tragic incident which happened to their family which I consciously avoided inquiring about.

I HAD stayed almost a month in Mando’s house, in that quiet place which was a paradise of coconut trees and
kissing companion of the waves. And I felt like a newly born, infused with new strength, with new small
dreams, with a new steadfastness to face any challenges in life. The image of the city which I left had become
hazy, splintered and carried away by the waves. Then, one day, on that banca which lay idly on the shore, in
front of a gallon of tuba, before Mando and Anto, I said, “I’ll probably say goodbye to you on Sunday.”

“Ala’y we’re not asking you to go, Manong,” Mando said. “Or perhaps you’re getting lonely here and are
missing the life in the city?”

“No, not that. The truth is I already hate living in Manila. I could just go home, to Itay’s province, to the farm.”

Anto no longer watched our drinking anymore. Often times, his eyes were focused on the wide sea and he
looked spiritless as he broiled fishes for our pulutan. After a while, Anto sought permission to leave saying he
had to buy something from the store. It took a long time before he returned, the tuba which we were drinking
was almost consumed. Anto brought me a pack of cigarettes.

“This is for you, Manong,” he spoke in a very soft voice.

As soon as he handed me the cigarettes, he turned away, walked towards the coconut grove through which

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he passed on his way home.

I did not see him for two days and I thought he did not go fishing because of the bad weather, the wind was
gusty and the waves were wakening up. That Saturday, however, the day before my departure for my
birthplace in Cavite, it was very early yet when Anto suddenly appeared in my cousin’s house.

Anto was carrying a gallon of tuba on his left hand and on his shoulder was a newly butchered goat which had
not yet been skinned. He was already shouting while still at the gate. And that was the only time I heard him
shout; the voice was full, and cold, as though it harbored a mystery which was difficult to fathom.

“Manong Roger! Manong Roger!”

“But why? What’s that for? We’re not having a party here,” was how I greeted him.

“Ala’y before you leave us tomorrow, at least, you should have tasted one of my goats.” His big eyes were
glittering. “Manong Mando and I will cook kaldereta. I’m good at cooking kaldereta, Manong.”

Mando even sent someone to buy one more gallon of tuba. We would really have a good time drinking, he
said, and one thing more, he followed up that we should fully indulge in our buzz because I was leaving the
following day. Meanwhile, Anto was busy butchering the goat, while Mando in preparing the spices.

With gallons of tuba and steaming and fragrant kaldereta, I did not know how to express thanks to a man who
attended to me almost like a servant for reasons I could not grasp. I did not know in those days when Anto
was drawn close to me, he saw perhaps in my eyes my deep understanding of the tragedy which befell their
family.

“I hope to repay your kindness someday, Anto,” I said to him. He did not say anything, merely glanced at me,
while munching a piece of kaldereta, but I noticed that he seemed in deep thought; from time to time, he
would gaze at the seashore and, often, stare awhile at the nearby coconut plantation which used to belong to
them.

I had taken a lot and the tuba drink was coming to my brain, and I thought of taking a walk along the shore, to
survey that serene surroundings which I had learned to love but which I would leave behind the next day. I
noticed that Anto followed me and when he had gone a little farther away from where Mando was, he walked
alongside me.

“Manong, I’d like to ask you a favour,” Anto’s voice sounded pleading. I stopped.

“With me you don’t have to plead,” I said smilingly.

“Ala’y you really mean that, Manong?” Anto’s eyes grew even bigger. I nodded.

“Can you bring me along with you tomorrow?”

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“Is that all? Yes, sure.”

“Ay, but you don’t understand, Manong.”

I stared at him. He bowed his head.

“What I mean,” it was as if Anto would choke, “is, ala’y, I’d like to live in your house, Manong.”

I gaped.

THE NEXT day, the rays of the sun had not penetrated the coconut grove when Anto appeared near the stairs
of Mando’s house, carrying a bayong of old clothes. The white polo shirt which he wore, though clean,
seemed almost ready to burst open as it hugged his body. His faded denim pants hanged short and he wore
rubber shoes though without socks. Nonetheless, Anto’s long hair was very neat, properly combed, parted on
one side, and daubed with pomade.

Before we finally walked to town, I convinced him to take me to where he was staying, Ka Masyong’s house,
so that, as I told him, I might be able to pay my respects to the old man.

“Ala’y son,” Ka Masyong said to me, “I hope you take care of that boy. Ala’y I don’t understand what that boy
must have eaten that he can’t be dissuaded from going. Ala’y I have not scolded him or anything. If after a
while he won’t like to stay with you anymore, son, ala’y I would beg you to please bring him back here.”

Ka Masyong was in tears when we left him.

I noticed that Anto stared awhile at that thick coconut plantation which they used to own beside Ka Masyong’s
farm.

It was as if a momentary fierceness visited those big eyes which were always questioning, searching.

SINCE that time, Anto became not only my acquaintance, nor just my friend, but also my brother. The truth is
that I really did not have a brother and, I thought, he would be of help to Itay in tending the gardens, in plowing
the piece of land which we had inherited from grandpa.

As soon as Anto woke up an hour after the roosters crowed at dawn, it became his habit to clean the yard,
sweep the fallen dry leaves of the mango trees, and clear off any undergrowth or thicket. Afterwards, he would
water Itay’s vegetable plants. Before breakfast, he would have fed the three pigs which we raised, and also
the chickens. Almost often, I just stayed in the house, in front of my typewriter, while Anto helped Itay in the
farm. Once in a while, I went to Manila to submit my articles and articles for publication, and not a few times
did I tell Anto to go with me so, I thought, he could at least see the City.

“Ala’y let me just stay here, Manong. No one will be left to help Itay,” was the excuse he would give each time
in that full, cold voice.

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I could see that Anto seemed happy and content living with us; Itay treated him nicely like his own son. Yet,
despite all, I had not seen him laugh or even smile. The wide mouth seemed to have been totally deserted by
even a slight grin.

“Anto is an industrious boy,” Itay said to me one time. The only trouble with him is I don’t see him laugh.”

“So you noticed that too,” I said.

“Is he really like that?” Itay seemed incredulous.

After that season’s harvest and when Itay had sold some cavans of palay, and also the three pigs which grew
almost entirely under the care of Anto, he bought some clothes for Anto, and two hundred chicks for Anto’s
pasttime because Anto did not even go out with friends, would not care to watch movies in town on Sundays
and, most of all, would not drink. At night, he would just listen to the radio for a while, to songs and music, and
then go to sleep.

Anto took very good care of the chicks; he would not even allow ants to crawl on their cages or houses which
he himself built from bamboos which he himself cut, but one morning, just almost after having woke up, I
heard Anto’s voice, not soft but loud, not cool but angry.

“Ala’y putang-ina!” that was the first time I heard him cursing. “Ala’y I’ll kill those rats!”

There were some five chicks which lay dead inside the cage, bitten by the rats. And that night, Anto did not go
to sleep. Carrying a flashlight, and a piece of wood, I saw him entered and sat down on one corner of the
cage.

When I woke up the following morning, I was greeted by the sight of Anto grinning from ear to ear, seeming to
want to laugh, while holding on the tail two big, badly beaten rats.

“Ala’y, Manong… I killed the putang-ina!” Anto quipped. “Do you see these?” and he even slightly brandished
the dead rats.

I gaped stupefied.

Then one afternoon, after Anto arrived from the farm, I sent him to buy Ginebra gin at a store near us. I could
not continue with what I was writing then; my mind was like water that would not flow; it was as if a load of
steel lay on my chest. In a short while, Anto rushed in, bringing a bottle of Ginebra, letting out a grin and his
big eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Did you hear that news, Manong?” he immediately asked me.

“Which?”

“Ay, Manong,” his whole gums almost exposed while grinning. “What else? Ala’y Ka Berta has died, that old

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usurer in our place. They say she died in her sleep, and that her face was contorted. Ay, Manong, they say
that she was even biting her tongue!”

The more I was unable to continue my writing, the more I drank. And we ate supper together with Itay, Anto
was full of appetite; he took in big mouthfuls of food in succession.

It took some time before I could sleep that night. Anto’s grin danced in my mind.

The incident was repeated one day when I came home from Manila after submitting a story to an allegedly
well-known magazine. As I was lucky to have been paid for an article I published, I thought of buying Anto a
pair of rubber shoes and two pairs of socks so that, it occurred to me, if he thought of going to town to have a
good time, he would have something presentable to wear because his old pair was already full of holes and
seemed hardly fitted for his big feet.

Anto readily met me, he was grinning, with eyes seeming to laugh as well.

“I bought this for you, Anto.” But he did not even bother about what I was offering him.

“Ay, Manong Roger,” he seemed to want to break in a guffaw. “Ay, Manong… am sure you haven’t heard yet.
Ala’y Ka Ignacio’s house burned down a while ago, completely reduced to ashes. Not even their clothing was
saved. Ala’y they say has not stopped crying till now… they say he’s almost insane.”

Anto was referring to one of the rich landowners who owned a thousand or so hectares of ricefields in our
place and who brought home even the chaff, would haul off his tenant’s share even if they were left with
nothing especially if they could not pay their debts right away.

Anto did not even bother to open the shoe box. He did not ask either about what they were.

SOMEHOW it seemed like misfortune was our lot, our twin; indeed it is difficult to escape from povery; it is like
a shadow which follows you around, then attacks, whenever or wherever without warning, not respecting any
feeling or thought.

All of a sudden, one afternoon, Anto led home Itay who was writhing because of severe abdominal pains, his
body wholly cold. Since the town was too far and there was no doctor in our barrio, I asked Anto to fetch Ka
Mentong, an herbolario. We roasted rice, made into a coffee-like brew, and served it to Itay. Ka Mentong even
asked for some banaba leaves, heated them, then placed them on Itay’s abdomen as a poultice. But Ka
Mentong’s herbal powers proved ineffective.

Very early next day, I took out from a small chest box in a corner of the bedroom the small amount which Itay
had saved. I hired a karitela and Anto and I carried Itay into it, brought him to town to an allegedly good
doctor. The doctor, however, simply advised us to bring Itay to the hospital; his ulcer was acute and needed
an operation. Itay was brought in the municipal ambulance to the provincial hospital. We were forced to

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mortgage to Ka Mamerto, also another landowner in our town, the piece of land which was Itay’s inheritance
from his father. I was forced to sign up, upon permission from Itay himself,an agreement which stipulated lthat
if we redeem the land following harvest season, Ka Mamerto had a right to confiscate it, foreclose it.

Itay was well now, had been discharged from the hospital, but needed to rest at home for a few months so
that it was Anto who assumed the work in the farm. I saw in Anto’s face the strong resolve to do all he could,
fully take care of the plants, rid them of insect pests, clear the harmful weeds. He would always come home
when the sun had already set.

The beautiful harvest was redolent, the palay full, the vegetables healthy, and Anto’s chickens fat. Hope was
simply there, dangling on, and just waiting to be picked in due time.

But, barely a month before harvest time, misfortune, as if brought about by chance or allegedly by will of God,
was like a monstrous crocodile which attacked, pounced upon and gnawed away at the smallest fiber of our
hope. A strong typhoon wrought havoc, the floods came, and Itay’s crops were totally destroyed, and Anto’s
chickens caught a pest, weakened one by one and died.

“We’ll be fine,” Itay’s faith remained strong. I’ll request Ka Mamerto to allow us to postpone payment of our
debts until the next harvest season. He’ll understand.”

From that time on, Anto lost his appetite. He hardly bother about eating. Mornings, he no longer spent time
sweeping the yard and often he would stop and stare out blankly. At the farm, whenever he accompanied Itay
in weeding out what the floods destroyed, it was often he would just sit on the dikes, stare at the void. He no
longer listened to the radio at night, would lie down immediately and bury his face in the pillow.

Itay failed with Ka Mamerto.

“Ala’y what will happen to us now, Manong? Where else do we go?”

Anto’s voice was no longer cool that night, about three days before Ka Mamerto would confiscate that land
which Anto seemed to have learned to love very much. Itay sat near the window, hands on chin, like he was
figuring something out in the dark sky.

“Come what may!” I said absent mindedly. Go, buy me a bottle of Ginebra.”

“Ala’y let me drink this time, Manong. Give me just two shots.” Anto was emphatic and there was violence in
his big eyes.

I consumed two bottles of Ginebra that night and I did not recall if Anto did drink or not.

The next day the news reverberated that Ka Mamerto was killed, his throat slashed, his abdomen hacked and,
allegedly, the intestines spilled out.

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Since that day Anto had disappeared.

I now have a wife and five children.

And I am still looking for him.

About the Author:

Rogelio Lunasco Ordoñez was born on September 24, 1940 in Imus, Cavite. He
is also known as “Ka Roger O.” He obtained a BS in Civil Engineering from Manuel L.
Quezon University, and an MA in Mass Communications from the Polytechnic University
of the Philippines.

The story of Anto is an example on how human rights, particularly among the ordinary members of
the society in the Philippines, are promoted. After decades and decades of settling in the area where their
family lives and earn their living, Anto’s family was being driven away by a rich man with a title in hand. The
family of Anto is a reflection of families who are landless and are settling on idle/abandoned lands across the
Philippines. Although the gruesome outcome of Anto’s family is not always true in real life (let us hope not),
the situations, the events, and the plight of the family members of Anto are somewhat similar, if not totally
similar to events in our society.
Pre-colonial societies were communal in ownership of land where some families were granted
usufruct rights to a piece of land in exchange of public services like helping the ruler tend his fields and
manage his home, and for some other by serving as warriors or even babaylans; others practice the feudal-
like system where community rulers (they owned all the land) and the warrior class do not work since they
lived on the produce of the timawas and the alipins, though our feudal system is very much different from its
counterpart in Europe since the rulers of pre-colonial Philippines and the timawas equally divide the produce,
as well, the slaves were given a share - a complete opposite of the western feudal system (Vargas, 2003:4).
With the colonization of the Philippines, the land ended up being owned by the colonizers. And to
legalize them owning the land, they introduced the legal title to land or the private ownership of a piece of land
(Riedinger, 1995 as cited by Vargas, 2003:4) which resulted to the elite (colonizers) – domination of societies
in the Philippines leaving the pre-colonial Filipinos displaced and landless (Vargas, 2003:3). And this is how
the sad plight of ordinary Filipinos started.
Laws to remember:
Civil Code Chapter 3 Article 555 #1 on the case of the rich man.
Art. 555. A possessor may lose his possession:
(1) By the abandonment of the thing;
(2) By an assignment made to another either by onerous or gratuitous title;
(3) By the destruction or total loss of the thing, or because it goes out of commerce;
(4) By the possession of another, subject to the provisions of Article 537, if the new possession has
lasted longer than one year. But the real right of possession is not lost till after the lapse of ten years.
Civil Code Article 1137, Article 1118
Art. 1137. Ownership and other real rights over immovables also prescribe through uninterrupted
adverse possession thereof for thirty years, without need of title or of good faith.
Art. 1118. Possession has to be in the concept of an owner, public, peaceful and uninterrupted.
Article 13 Section 10 Philippine Constitution

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Section 10. Urban or rural poor dwellers shall not be evicted nor their dwelling demolished, except in
accordance with law and in a just and humane manner.
No resettlement of urban or rural dwellers shall be undertaken without adequate consultation with them and
the communities where they are to be relocated.

The following are notes on Adverse Possessions lifted from NOLO

Legal Requirements for an Adverse Possession Claim to Land

When courts look at adverse possession claims, they apply a four-factor test. To qualify as adverse
possession, the trespasser’s occupation of the land must be:

Hostile Claim

The word "hostile" doesn’t mean that the trespasser rides in on a horse with six-guns blazing. Instead, courts
follow one of three legal definitions of "hostile" when it comes to adverse possession.
Simple occupation. This rule (followed by most states today) defines "hostile" as the mere occupation of the
land. The trespasser doesn’t have to know that the land belongs to someone else.
Awareness of trespassing. This rule requires that the trespasser be aware that his or her use of the property
amounts to trespassing (meaning the trespasser has no legal right to be on the property).
Good faith mistake. A few states follow this rule, which requires the trespasser to have made an innocent
good faith mistake in occupying the property in the first place, such as by relying on an invalid or incorrect
deed.
Actual Possession of the Land
The second prong of the test that courts apply requires that the trespasser actually possess the property (be
physically present) and treat it as if he or she were an owner. This can be established by documenting the
trespasser's efforts to maintain and make improvements to the property.
Open and Notorious Possession
"Open and notorious" means that it must be obvious to anyone -- including a property owner who makes a
reasonable effort to investigate -- that a trespasser is on the land. Examples would be a neighbor who puts a
fence up slightly on the next-door property or who poured a concreted driveway two feet over the boundary
line.
Exclusive and Continuous Possession
The trespasser must possess the land exclusively (that means the trespasser cannot share possession with
strangers or the owner) and without interruption for a certain period of time. (That means the trespasser
cannot give up use of the property, return to it later, and try to count the time that the property was abandoned
as part of the "continuous" possession time period.) The time period that's required varies by state.
The behavior of Anto can be assessed by the used of The Psychoanalytic Theory of Sigmund Freud. Freud
made four (4) Major Assumptions in his theory:
1. The power of the unconscious
2. Human mind has three (3) provinces:
a. Id- Desire, Pleasure
b. Ego- Sense of Self, Realistic
c. Superego-Controls the impulsiveness, Conscience
3. Personality is shaped by early childhood experience
4. Defense Mechanisms:

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a. Repression- is a type of psychological defense mechanism that involves keeping certain thoughts,
feelings, or urges out of conscious awareness.
b. Reaction Formation- is a psychological defense mechanism in which a person goes beyond
denial and behaves in the opposite way to which he or she thinks or feels.

LEARNING ACTIVITY 1
LEARNING CONTENTS (title of the subsection)

4.2.2 My Father Goes To Court

My Father Goes To Court
(Carlos Bulusan)

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of Luzon.
Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so several years afterwards
we all lived in the town though he preferred living in the country. We had as a next door neighbour a very rich
man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sang in
the sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could
look in the window of our house and watched us played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the
house to eat.

Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was
wafted down to us form the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smells of the
food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s
house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when
our neighbour’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that
dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odour. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds
and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.

Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as
though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun and bathed in the cool
water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the
house before we went to play. We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other
neighbours who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in laughter.

As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anaemic, while we grew even more robust and full
of life. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night;
then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough, one after
the other. At night their coughing sounded like the barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows
and listened to them. We wondered what happened. We knew that they were not sick from the lack of
nourishment because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.

One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had
grown fat in laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest
tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through his house, shutting all the windows.

From that day on, the windows of our neighbour’s house were always closed. The children did not come out
anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were
shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.

One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had
filed a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it
was about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and
food.

When the day came for us to appear in court, father brushed his old Army uniform and borrowed a pair of
shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the centre of the
courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept
jumping up from his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though we were defending himself before an
imaginary jury.

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The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his
young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high
chair. We stood in a hurry and then sat down again.

After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge looked at the Father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.

“I don’t need any lawyer, Judge,” he said.

“Proceed,” said the judge.

The rich man’s lawyer jumped up and pointed his finger at Father. “Do you or you do not agree that you have
been stealing the spirit of the complaint’s wealth and food?”

“I do not!” Father said.

“Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lamb or young
chicken breast you and your family hung outside his windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?”

“I agree.” Father said.

“Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint and his children grew sickly and tubercular you and your
family became strong of limb and fair in complexion?”

“I agree.” Father said.

“How do you account for that?”

Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the
children of complaint, Judge.”

“Bring in the children of the complaint.”

They came in shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands, they were so amazed to see the
children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They
stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.

Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should
like to cross – examine the complaint.”

“Proceed.”

“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became
morose and sad?” Father said.

“Yes.”
“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your food by hanging outside your windows when your servants
cooked it?” Father said.
“Yes.”
“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on
the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out of his
pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change.

“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a few minutes, Judge?” Father said.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you,” father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins.
The doors of both rooms were wide open.

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“Are you ready?” Father called.

“Proceed.” The judge said.
The sweet tinkle of the coins carried beautifully in the courtroom. The spectators turned their faces toward the
sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complaint.

“Did you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?” the man asked.
“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are paid,” Father said.

The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid.
The judge pounded his gravel.

“Case dismissed.” He said.

Father strutted around the courtroom the judge even came down from his high chair to shake hands with him.
“By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”

“You like to hear my family laugh, Judge?” Father asked?

“Why not?”

“Did you hear that children?” father said.

My sisters started it. The rest of us followed them soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their
bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.

About the Author:

Carlos Sampayan Bulosan was a Filipino American author, poet, and activist.
He was born on November 24, 1913 in Binalonan, Pangasinan. He died on
September 11, 1956 because of Tuberculosis.

In the story, My Father goes to Court, it is evident that the narrator and
his family are poor, and the socio-economic circumstance shows- the farm
which the father tended as their primary source of income was destroyed by a
flash flood, forcing them to move from the countryside to the town.

The rich neighbor they had was, in Tagalog parlance, matapobre (one
who shows disdain to the poor), as evidenced by this line: “Some days the rich man appeared at a window
and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us”.

Despite the material poverty the narrator and his family were in, they seemed to be contented with what
they have, contrary to stereotyped depictions of the poor who would do anything (legally and illegally, I must
say) to uplift their lot.

And to make up for their lack of material needs, they have a good sense of humor, characterized by the
depiction of them being amused by practical jokes, and a profound sense of happiness in which they are
happy even in the simplest of things.

If we are going to answer the Marxist question “Whom does it benefit?”, it can be safely assumed that the
story leans in favor of the poor family which the narrator belongs to, because even though they are bereft
of material comforts which their rich neighbor has, they are portrayed in a very positive light (refer to point no.
4 above).

There is a significant ‘oppression’ of sorts of the poor by the rich, as clearly depicted in the story in which
they were charged of stealing the spirit of the rich man’s wealth and food.

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Even the way which they were oppressed was, for a lack of better word, RIDICULOUS. To think they would
be charged with ‘stealing the spirit of wealth and food’, that is something unheard of, if not illogical in the first
place.

The ending of the story, which ended in favor of the poor family, shows in a way that they are not in the
wrong in the first place, but merely a victim of the paranoia, if not insanity of the rich man.

And the bottom line of the story, which the narrator and his family exemplified would be:

“Money is not everything”

LE

SUMMARY

Human Rights are natural rights bestowed to us upon conception. These rights are also universal in
nature regardless of sex, gender, religion, race, and ethnicity. Some of the human rights include the right to
life, and liberty, right to equality, free from discrimination and torture, etc.

Anto portrays a character of a man who have gone through a whirlwind journey of a childhood and on
how it affects his life in the present time. Rogelio Ordoñez magnificently written the “Si Anto” taking in mind
different issues on social injustice. Human rights are evidently violated in the story.

My Father Goes to Court is a noteworthy story where you can notice Filipino traits. It mainly focus on
a poor father accused of stealing the spirit of food and wealth and was able to defend himself and prove the
rich man wrong. Carlos Bulusan implies in his story that “Money is not everything.”

REFERENCES

Lumbera, B. L., and Lumbera C. N. 2005. Philippine Literature: A History and Anthology. Anvil Publishing Co.
Mcleod S. (2018). What are the most interesting ideas of Sigmund Freud? Retrieved from:
[Link]

Official Gazette. 1987 Constitution of the Republic of the Philippines. Retrieved from
[Link]
philippines/the-1987-constitution-of-the-republic-of-the-philippines-article-iii/
Saymo, Apolinario S. And Judy Imelda L. [Link] Literature. Bulacan: Trinitas Publishing Inc.
United Nations. Human Rights. Retrieved from [Link]

United Nations. What are Human Rights? Retrieved from

[Link]

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