O is for Orasyon (The Angelus, A Call to Prayer)
The ABCs of Recovering Ilocano (#15 of 26)
The siren from the Baguio City Hall blared at six o’clock in the evening. I used to walk down Session Road, the city’s main thoroughfare. Everything stopped—jeepneys on the road, pedestrians mid-street, boys hawking the Baguio Midland Courier, and vendors cooking garlic peanuts and banana-que. Beggars paused strumming their guitars and wailing on their harmonicas.
When the siren ceased, silence blanketed the city. A random voice would lead the Angelus.
“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary…”
The crowd answered, “And she conceived by the Holy Spirit.”
The leader and the crowd went back and forth with a Hail Mary and a short prayer.
The Angelus marked my evenings growing up. We stopped, no matter what. It rained most days, and we scrambled for shelter under the eaves of nearby businesses. The prayer lasted about a minute, and when it ended, life resumed as if a switch was turned on. People who shared umbrellas during that brief interlude parted like strangers or started new friendships.
Somehow, the siren stopped ringing during my college years in the late 1980s, and I had probably been too busy to notice.
Recently, I read an article from 2017 describing a proposal to bring back the siren, a tradition from the good old days.
The Baguio City Hall was built after World War II, and I imagine that before it blasted the siren, the Cathedral bells must have sounded the call for prayer. Built in 1920 and completed in 1936, the Cathedral has always symbolized strength for the Baguio residents. It sheltered the city’s residents during the carpet bombing when American planes razed the city in the hunt for General Yamashita. He had fled to the northern mountains of Kalinga by then.
The initiative to bring back the Angelus was branded “The Six O’Clock Habit.” The proposal was written in a language that catered to a broader swath of the population.
The siren still sounds at 6 o’clock every evening but local leaders now ask for a pause for all, Catholic, Muslim, Christians to pray and applying the siren and the pause for all enhances the provisions of Article III, Section 5 of the 1987 Constitution which provides that the free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or preference, shall forever be allowed.
Herald Express, December 6, 2017
I was excited to read the article and contacted a childhood friend who remained in Baguio. This is her response:
Yes, the City Hall sirens at 12NN and 6PM, but people do not stop nowadays, it simply has become indicative of “lunchtime” and “time to go home” from work. Baguio Cathedral even has loudspeakers for the Angelus but very few pause in prayer…it’s not the same we practiced before.
It saddens me to think that a minute is too much to ask. In the fast pace of life, a moment of silence has no currency. It’s wishful thinking for Baguio to return to the idealized city of my childhood. I often hear that it’s not the same anymore. Too crowded. Too much traffic. SM Megamall cut the pine trees. It’s not even cold anymore. You stand still at Session, and no one you know passes by. But many defend the city. It has grown, it’s a gastronomical and cultural mecca. It’s an Instagrammable city. You will enjoy Panagbenga, the Flower Festival. You should see the new murals at Carantes Street. Baguio is still worth a trip.
In my mind, I have made that trip a million times. Baguio remains in my heart. If I close my eyes and sit still, it isn’t hard to conjure the pine trees rustling in the cool air, the juice of luscious strawberries dribbling down my cheeks, the sayote growing wild in the yard, and the sunflowers following the light’s trajectory.
If there is one place that still prays the Angelus, I would surmise it to be my mother’s hometown in San Esteban, Ilocos Sur. Like many towns in the northern provinces, the center is the Catholic Church and the Presidencia, or the Municipal Hall.
The Church in San Esteban was built in 1625, one of the oldest in the Diocese of Nueva Segovia. I spent a quarter of my life in Ilocos, where we summered in March until May every year. We returned to Baguio in June in time for the school year to begin. After three months under the sun, my skin turned as dark as my lowland cousins. I learned to eat with my hands, agkammet, and live without electricity or indoor plumbing.
The San Esteban church of my youth was a crumbling structure. I held my grandfather’s hand so he would not trip on the uneven tiles. The pews creaked, and I sat still so I would not draw attention to my fidgeting. The priest proclaimed Mass in Ilocano, and I understood it due to my familiarity with the Catholic rite. Standing, kneeling, sitting, and receiving communion are universal languages. Ilocano, not so much, but I knew enough to fill in the meaning of difficult words like tarigagay (desire or hope), wayawaya (free will), and kappia (peace).
What I remember most about this church was the bells. My cousin, the bell ringer, often disappeared mid-play to do his hourly duty. I marveled at his skill in changing the tune and rhythm. We could hear the ringing from every corner of town, as far as the fields in Caronoan, the last of our family’s land which boasted a bamboo and mango grove. The bells reached the white sand beaches at Pantalan or Apatot, where we spent endless afternoons. From the beat and tempo, we could differentiate the regular summons to morning mass, a joyful wedding announcement, or a slow knell signifying a procession to the cemetery. The town had one telephone in the Municipio, and the bells were the main harbinger of news.
At six o’clock in the evening, the bells tolled, one beat for each hour of the night. It was a signal to run home. In Lola’s house, missing dinner was a mortal sin.
So again, I reached out to a resident, a cousin who lives across from my Lola’s house. We used to roam the fields together, looking for lomboy, or small purple plum-like fruit. She was a good climber and could go up the highest branches without breaking them. From there, she would shake the tree, and my sister and I would gather the fruit, popping them into our pockets and mouths as fast as we could. Our tongues turned blue from the fruit’s dye.
In June, the rains started and saluyot grew wild in the backyard. I detested that slimy jute vegetable and couldn’t wait to return to the fresh vegetables Papa cooked for chop suey. Yet, I bade a teary farewell to the beach at Pantalan for I would not see it until we returned for the San Esteban fiesta after Christmas. I resumed city life in the landlocked Cordillera mountains, wearing my white and blue uniform and shiny black shoes.
I messaged my cousin and inquired about age-old practice. “Manang, do they still ring the bells in San Esteban for the Angelus?”
Her reply crushed me.
No more, not even before masses or burial. They said the bell cracked.
I contacted my Uncle Padi, now the parish priest in Santa Catalina, one hour north of San Esteban. He was ordained in the same church forty years ago, the first native son to honor the town with such distinction. I asked again, “Uncle, do they still ring the bells for the Angelus?”
No more, the bell is broken.
My heart sank at the news of the bells, cracked and broken like the illusion of my childhood memories.
The churches had been remodeled with stained glass and bright frescoes, thanks to many benevolent relatives in the diaspora. Yet, their upkeep competes with many urgent priorities—leaking roofs, flood damage, and the congregation’s needs. These days, phones and computers keep time and bring the news to the townspeople at lightning speed. While bells are quaint and nostalgic, they have become decorative or symbolic of a bygone era.
I often think of these words from a fellow immigrant:
“We drift from the safe places of our childhood. There is no going back. Like stories, villages and cities are always growing or fading or melding into each other. We are all immigrants from the past, and home lives inside the memory, where we lock it up and pretend it is unchanged.”
The Ungrateful Refugee, Dina Nayeri
Indeed, I am an immigrant of the past, and I am grateful for the gift of memory.
To listen to the Angelus in Ilokano recorded by the Most Rev. Renato P. Mayugba, Bishop of Laoag, Ilocos Norte, click on this Youtube link:
Recommended Reading:
What PH Bishops did to Revive the ‘Angelus’
6 pm daily prayer in city revived
Thanks for this post, Rachielle. And I love the doodles that are helping you to remember and appreciate these things from your childhood! It's also interesting for me to think about what sounds, smells and rituals (if any) punctuate one's memories -- and how these things might go into shaping a person as they age. I have nothing like church bells to remember from my youth. The closest I can come to that is the sound of the train rumbling by on the railroad tracks very near our house, at night; the squeal of breaks as it stopped near the cannery across the street from us, and the sound of produce being loaded into the cars. It would've been very different if our family had remained in San Francisco, where we lived just a block away from the church I was baptized at near Chinatown.