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FOR ZAMBOANGA CITY DIVISION USE ONLY

NOT FOR SALE

11/12
21st Century Literature from the
Philippines and the World

QUARTER 1
WEEK 4

Capsulized Self-Learning Empowerment Toolkit

Schools Division Office of Zamboanga City

Region IX – Zamboanga Peninsula
Zamboanga City

“Unido, Junto avanza con el EduKalidad Cree, junto junto puede!”

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 1

CapSLET
Capsulized Self-Learning Empowerment Toolkit

21st Century
Literature
from the
SUBJECT & Philippines
QUARTER 1 WEEK 4 DAY
GRADE/LEVEL and the ----------------------
dd/mm/yyyy
World

Grade 11/12
TOPIC A Reading from Mindanao
Identify representative texts and authors from each region (e.g.
engage in oral history research with focus on key personalities
from the students’ region/province/town).
Objectives:
LEARNING Code:
∗ Deduct from a text evidences of common themes of
COMPETENCY EN12Lit-Ie-28
contemporary Mindanao Literature; and
∗ recognize the value of Mindanao literary artists in the
development of national literature.

IMPORTANT: Do not write anything on this material.

UNDERSTAND
Representative Text from Mindanao

Contemporary literatures from Mindanao often have any of the following themes: landlessness,
war and displacement. These reflect the history of the island through many of the foreign powers
that tried to control it, from the Spaniards to the Americans. From the 1920s to the 1950s many
families from Luzon and the Visayas migrated to Mindanao to work in farms or mines owned by
multinational companies. This greatly affected the many indigenous peoples of Mindanao as many of
them became landless or were displaced from their lands, resulting in years of conflict and internal
war. Many writers have sought to capture in their writings the unique experience of life in Mindanao,
including its history and tradition. Moreover, these literary pieces seek to portray Mindanao and its
people to foster peace through intercultural dialogue and understanding.

IBRAHIM A. JUBAIRA (1933-2003) was born in 1920 to an Arab father and a Tausug mother.
In 1933, his parents sent him to Singapore to live with his uncles. Within a year, he moved to
Zamboanga City, where completed the teacher training course at Zamboanga Normal School
(now Western Mindanao State University), and he also graduated from Zamboanga A.E. Colleges
(now Universidad de Zamboanga). He was editor of the Crescent Review Magazine and the
Zamboanga Collegian, as well as a columnist for the Zamboanga City Inquirer and Muslim
Times. Coming of age under the colonial American government, his English language education
led him to government service: first as a teacher in Zamboanga and later with the Department of
Foreign Affairs, which took him to Sri Lanka (1969-78) and Pakistan (1982-85). In 1970, Jubaira
received the Presidential Medal of Merit in Literature from Ferdinand Marcos. Ibrahim Jubaira
died in 2003.

SAQ-1: What is the value of recognizing Mindanao literary artists and their works?
SAQ-2: How can you contribute to the promotion of Mindanao literature?

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 2

Let’s Practice! (Write your answer on a separate sheet.)

This is c.1930 photo of the Astana

Darul Jambangan (“Palace of
Flowers” in Tausug) is the royal
residence of the Sultan of Sulu in
Maimbung, Sulu. What was life like for
the people who lived in such a house?

First published in 1941 and written by Ibrahim A. Jubaira, Blue Blood of the Big Astana
begins with a brief background of Jaafar, a young orphan in Sulu. Jaafar is raised by his aunt, who
weaves mats for a living, but she cannot support him, and so she appeals to a noble or a “blue blood”
with the title of datu to take him into his household as a servant. The Datu agrees, and the boy
becomes the servant of the Datu’s daughter. Jaafar becomes infatuated with the Datu’s daughter,
whom he refers to as “Dayang-Dayang,” the title of a young noblewoman. The two grow up together,
but then Dayang-Dayang marries the son of another Datu in Sulu.

Directions: Read the following excerpt from Ibrahim A. Jubaira’s Blue Blood of the Big Astana and
answer the questions that follow.

Then came your big wedding. People had crowded your astana early in the day to help in the
religious slaughtering of cows and goats. To aid, too, in the voracious consumption of your
wedding feast. Some more people came as evening drew near. Those who could not be
accommodated upstairs had to stay below.

Torches fashioned out of dried coconut leaves blazed in the night. Half-clad natives kindled
them over the cooking fire. Some pounded rice for cakes. And their brown glossy bodies sweated
profusely.

Out in the astana yard, the young Datu’s subjects danced in great circles. Village swains
danced with grace, now swaying sensuously their shapely hips, now twisting their pliant arms.
Their feet moved deftly and almost imperceptibly.

Male dancers would crouch low, with a wooden spear, a kris, or a barong in one hand, and a
wooden shield in the other. They stimulated bloody warfare by dashing through the circle of other
dancers and clashing against each other. Native flutes, drums, gabangs, agongs, and kulintangs
contributed much to the musical gaiety of the night. Dance. Sing in delight. Music. Noise.
Laughter. Music swelled out into the world like a heart full of blood, vibrant, palpitating. But it was
my heart that swelled with pain. The people would cheer: “Long live the Dayang-Dayang and the
Datu, Muramuraan!” at every intermission. And I would cheer, too—mechanically, before I knew.
I would be missing you so....

People rushed and elbowed their way up into your astana as the young Datu was led to you.
Being small, I succeeded in squeezing in near enough to catch a full view of you. You, Dayang-
Dayang. Your moon-shaped face was meticulously powdered with pulverized rice. Your hair was
skewered up toweringly at the center of your head, and studded with glittering gold hair-pins. Your
tight, gleaming black dress was covered with a flimsy mantle of the faintest conceivable pink. Gold
buttons embellished your wedding garments. You sat rigidly on a mattress, with native,
embroidered pillows piled carefully at the back. Candlelight mellowed your face so beautifully you
were like a goddess perceived in dreams. You looked steadily down.

The moment arrived. The turbaned pandita, talking in a voice of silk, led the young Datu to
you, while maidens kept chanting songs from behind. The pandita grasped the Datu’s forefinger,
and made it touch thrice the space between your eyebrows. And every time that was done, my
breast heaved and my lips worked.

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 3

Remember? You were about to cry, Dayang-Dayang. For, as the people said, you would soon
be separated from your parents. Your husband would soon take you to Bonbon, and you would live
there like a countrywoman. But as you unexpectedly caught a glimpse of me, you smiled once, a
little. And I knew why: my harelip amused you again. I smiled back at you, and withdrew at once. I
withdrew at once because I could not bear further seeing you sitting beside the young Datu, and
knowing fully well that I who had sweated, labored, and served you like a dog... No, no, shame on
me to think of all that at all. For was it not but a servant’s duty?

But I escaped that night, pretty Blue Blood. Where to? Anywhere. That was exactly seven
years ago. And those years did wonderful things for me. I am no longer a lunatic dwarf, although
my harelip remains as it has always been.

Too, I had amassed a little fortune after years of sweating. I could have taken two or three
wives, but I had not yet found anyone resembling you, lovely Blue Blood. So, single I remained.

And Allah’s Wheel of Time kept on turning, kept on turning. And lo, one day your husband
was transported to San Ramon Penal Farm, Zamboanga. He had raised his hand against the
Christian government. He has wished to establish his own government. He wanted to show his
petty power by refusing to pay land taxes, on the ground that the lands he had were by legitimate
inheritance his own absolutely. He did not understand that the little amount he should have given in
the form of taxes would be utilized to protect him and his people from swindlers. He did not
discern that he was in fact a part of the Christian government himself. Consequently, his subjects
lost their lives fighting for a wrong cause. Your Appah, too, was drawn into the mess and perished
with the others. His possessions were confiscated. And your Amboh died of a broken heart. Your
husband, to save his life, had to surrender. His lands, too, were confiscated. Only a little portion
was left for you to cultivate and live on.

And remember? I went one day to Bonbon on business. And I saw you on your bit of land
with your children. At first, I could not believe it was you. Then you looked long and deep into me.
Soon the familiar eyes of Blue Blood of years ago arrested the faculties of the erstwhile servant.
And you could not believe your eyes either. You could not recognize me at once. But when you
saw my harelip smiling at you, rather hesitantly, you knew me at least. And I was so glad you did.

“Oh, Jaafar,” you gasped, dropping your janap, your primitive trowel, instinctively. And you
thought I was no longer living, you said. Curse, curse. It was still your frank, outspoken way. It was
like you were able to jest even when sorrow was on the verge of removing the last vestiges of your
loveliness. You could somehow conceal your pain and grief beneath banter and laughter. And I was
glad of that, too.

Well, I was about to tell you that the Jafaar you saw now was a very different—a much-
improved—Jaafar. Indeed. But instead: “Oh, Dayang-Dayang,” I mumbled, distressed to have seen
you working. You who had been reared in ease and luxury. However, I tried very much not to show
traces of understanding your deplorable situation.

One of your sons came running and asked who I was. Well, I was, I was....

“Your old servant,” I said promptly. Your son said oh, and kept quiet, returning at last to
resume his work. Work, work, Eting. Work, son. Bundle the firewood and take it to the kitchen.
Don’t mind your old servant. He won’t turn young again. Poor little Datu, working so hard. Poor
pretty Blue Blood, also working hard.

We kept strangely silent for a long time. And then: By the way, where was I living now? In
Kanagi. My business here in Bonbon today? To see Panglima Hussin about the cows he intended to
sell, Dayang-Dayang. Cows? Was I a landsman already? Well, if the pretty Blue Blood could live
like a countrywoman, why not a man like your old servant? You see, luck was against me in sea-
roving activities, so I had to turn to buying and selling cattle. Oh, you said. And then you laughed.
And I laughed with you. My laughter was dry. Or was it yours? However, you asked what was the
matter. Oh, nothing. Really, nothing serious. But you see...
Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 4

And you seemed to understand as I stood there in front of you, leaning against a mango tree,
doing nothing but stare and stare at you.

I observed that your present self was only the ragged reminder, the mere ghost, of the Blue
Blood of the big astana. Your resources of vitality and loveliness and strength seemed to have
drained out of your old arresting self, poured into the little farm you were working in. Of course, I
did not expect you to be as lovely as you had been. But you should have retained at least a fair
portion of it—of the old days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark rings; not dull, dry hair; not a
sunburned complexion; not wrinkled, callous hands; not....

You seemed to understand more and more. Why was I looking at you like that? Was it
because I had not seen you for so long? Or was it something else? Oh, Dayang-Dayang, was not the
terrible change in you the old servant’s concern? You suddenly turned your eyes away from me.
You picked up your janap and began troubling the soft earth. It seemed you could not utter another
word without breaking into tears. You turned your back toward me because you hated having me
see you in tears.

And I tried to make out why: seeing me now revived old memories. Seeing me, talking with
me, poking fun at me, was seeing, talking, and joking as in the old days at the vivacious astana.
And you sobbed as I was thinking thus. I knew you sobbed, because your shoulders shook. But I
tried to appear as though I was not aware of your controlled weeping. I hated myself for coming to
you and making you cry....

“May I go now, Dayang-Dayang?” I said softly, trying hard to hold back my own tears. You
did not say yes. And you did not say no, either. But the nodding of your head was enough to make
me understand and go. Go where? Was there a place to go? Of course. There were many places to
go to. Only seldom was there a place to which one would like to return.

But something transfixed me in my tracks after walking a mile or so. There was something of
an impulse that strove to drive me back to you, making me forget Panglima Hussin’s cattle. Every
instinct told me it was right for me to go back to you and do something—perhaps beg you to
remember your old Jaafar’s harelip, just so you could smile and be happy again. I wanted to rush
back and wipe away the tears from your eyes with my headdress. I wanted to get fresh water and
rinse your dry, ruffled hair, that it might be restored to flowing smoothness and glorious luster. I
wanted to trim your fingernails, stroke your callused hand. I yearned to tell you that the land and
the cattle I owned were all yours. And above all, I burned to whirl back to you and beg you and
your children to come home with me. Although the simple house I lived in was not as big as your
astana at Patikul, it would at least be a happy, temporary haven while you waited for your
husband’s release.

That urge to go back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was strong. But I did not go back for a sudden
qualm seized: I had no blue blood. I had only a harelip. Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could
weave us, even now, into equality.

1. Why is this story considered as a representative text of Mindanao?

Identify pieces of evidence in the story that support this claim.
2. Which of the common themes of contemporary Mindanao literature
(see page 1) is explored in this short story? Use lines from the story
to support your answer.
3. Explain the last line of the story: Not even the fingers of Allah
perhaps could weave us, even now, into equality.

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 5

REMEMBER
Key Points

• Contemporary Mindanao literature often depicts subjects that revolve around themes of
landlessness, war, and displacement. Landlessness refers to people who do not possess land,
usually pertaining to farmers or tillers of land they do not own. War is the product of armed
conflict, and displacement is the way how families and/or individuals are forced to leave their
location because of conflict or calamity.
• Ibrahim A. Jubaira’s Blue Blood of the Big Astana is considered a representative text of
Mindanao not only because of its setting and presentation of Tausug culture, but also because
of its theme.

TRY
Let’s see how much have you learned today!

Direction: Read each item carefully and answer the following questions. (Answer on a separate
sheet.)

Write the letter of the correct answer on the lines Read the following paragraph from the story, and
provided for items 1-5. identify whether the underlined part is a case of:
A. displacement
1. The ‘blue blood’ in the story refers to: B. landlessness
A. illiteracy C. royalty C. war
B. poverty D. simplicity
And lo, one day (6) your husband was
2. The narrator of Blue Blood of the Big Astana transported to San Ramon Penal Farm,
A. Datu Zamboanga. (7) He had raised his hand against
B. Dayang-Dayang the Christian government. He has wished to
C. Jaafar establish his own government. He wanted to
D. Panglima Hussin show his petty power by (8) refusing to pay land
taxes, on the ground that the lands he had were
3. Where was the Dayang-Dayang’s husband by legitimate inheritance his own absolutely. He
imprisoned? did not understand that the little amount he
A. San Jose Penal Farm should have given in the form of taxes would be
B. San Juan Penal Farm utilized to protect him and his people from
C. San Ramon Penal Farm swindlers. He did not discern that he was in fact a
D. San Roque Penal Farm part of the Christian government himself.
Consequently, (9) his subjects lost their lives
4. The astana was located in? fighting for a wrong cause. Your Appah, too, was
A. Bonbon C. Maimbung drawn into the mess and perished with the others.
B. Jolo D. Patikul His possessions were confiscated. And your
Amboh died of a broken heart. Your husband, to
5. What was Jaafar’s role in the astana? save his life, had to surrender. (10) His lands,
A. farmer C. servant too, were confiscated. Only a little portion was
B. tutor D. soldier left for you to cultivate and live on.

TOPIC
Literary Icon from Zamboanga City
Identify representative texts and authors from each region (e.g.
engage in oral history research with focus on key personalities
LEARNING Code: from the students’ region/province/town).
COMPETENCY EN12Lit-Ie-28 Objectives:
∗ Empathize with the thoughts, actions, and feelings of a
character from a literary text; and

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 6

∗ recognize the achievements of renowned

Zamboangueño literary artists.

UNDERSTAND
Representative Text from Zamboanga City

Zamboanga City as a cosmopolitan city of an exotic mix of indigenous heritage –Subanen,

Tausug, Badjao, Yakan and many others –migrant Visayan speakers and a rich Spanish colonial past.
Zamboanga City is also home to Chavacano –the only Spanish-based creole in Asia. Zamboangueño
literary artists have enriched Philippine literature by creating works that mirror the unique socio-
cultural identity of Zamboanga City and its people.

Some of these Zamboangueño writers who have achieved national and international acclaim
include Emigdio Alvarez Enriquez (1925- ) who wrote White Horse of Alih, poet César Ruiz
Aquino (1943- ) who was a student of three National Artists for Literature [Edith Tiempo, Francisco
Arcellana and Nick Joaquin], and the late Palanca Hall of Famer Francis C. Macansantos (1949-
2017) who published Balsa: Poemas Chabacanos in 2011. The succeeding pages feature a short
story from another literary icon of Zamboanga City –Antonio R. Enriquez.

Antonio Reyes Enriquez (1936-2014) was born and raised in

Zamboanga City and educated at Ateneo de Zamboanga. He is a
much-awarded writer, among the notable awards: UMPHIL –
Writer; University of the Philippines National Fellow for
Literature lifetime award; South East Asia Write Award;
Hawthornden International Retreat for Writers Fellowship; and
Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for the short story and its
grand prize for the novel.

SAQ-1: What is the value of recognizing Zamboangueño literary artists and their works?
SAQ-2: How can you contribute to the promotion of literatures from Zamboanga City?

Let’s Practice! (Write your answer on a separate sheet.)

Asocena was first published in 1989 in a book collection of short stories by Antonio R.
Enriquez titled The Night I Cry and Other Stories. Set in Labuan (where the author spent most of his
childhood at his grandfather’s farm), this story tells about Ingo as he struggles to explain to his son
Chu why he did not fight Tomas Dayrit –the person they suspect and believe made an asocena (dish
made of dog meat) out of Leal, Chu’s pet dog.

Directions: Read the following excerpt from Antonio R. Enriquez’ Asocena and fill out the empathy
table below.

Chu’s father looked past ‘Ñor Pedro and beyond the now-idle, rope-twining machine toward
the orchard. He saw his son walking under the papaya and banana trees and down to the point of
the granite ledge. The newly cut banana branches hung like stumps, and their latex was still half-
fresh around the ends. Below the ledge he knew was a deep ravine, and during rain the river bed
would roar with water from the mountains.

With his neck stretched, its thick veins swollen like roots, Ingo shouted to his son, “Don’t go
out too far on the ledge, Chu.”

“You’re lucky to have such a buen hijo,” said ‘Ñor Pedro. “A good son.”

“Indeed, I am lucky.”
Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 7

“I envy you very much, Ingo.”

‘Ñor Pedro had no son of his own, a rare thing, for the people of the barrios were usually
blessed with eight or ten children. Somewhere in the squat nipa house was his barren wife.

Chu’s father said then, “That’s why I came here.”

“What is it?” ‘Ñor Pedro asked.

Ingo told him, speaking slowly, although the veins in his neck swelled as though he were
shouting again to his son. “I am quite worried about him. Really, I am.”

“Es nada,” ‘Ñor Pedro said. “He’s just a boy.”

“He must have been terribly hurt,” said Ingo, “when he saw his own father being bullied in
front of Tomas and his barcada --- gang.”

The other farmer, squatting on his wiry legs, said, “Maybe it was not as bad as you see it
now, Ingo.”

But Ingo shook his head, then jerked it suddenly toward the farmer, and said, “Tell me
frankly, ‘Ñor Pedro. Does my son think I’m maybe a coward? I mean, because I didn’t stand up to
Tomas.”

“No, I don’t think so, Ingo,” said ‘Ñor Pedro. He paused for a moment, shifted his weight to
one leg, and his sinewy muscles rippled up his limbs. “But what can I do to help the boy?” He did
not want anything to hurt the boy. He knew that if he had a son, he would not want him hurt.

“Could I now get the puppy you promised me?”

The two of them rose and walked around the house. Underneath, in a dust hole, the little
puppies lay with their paws pressed against the bitch’s swollen paps. Once in a while, their small,
fluff-covered heads jerked back as they made suckling sounds with their tongues. Now the two
farmers bent down under the low bamboo floor of the house. ‘Ñor Pedro said, “The puppies are too
young to wean.”

“It’s important that I have the puppy now,” said Ingo. “You understand, of course.”

“Si,” said ‘Ñor Pedro. “Maybe it will help the boy to forget, hah?”

“He’s a very sensitive boy, ‘Ñor Pedro.”

Then the father called, looking toward the orchard. “Oh, Chu, come over here. I have a
surprise for you.”

The boy came over from the orchard. He went under the house and looked down into the dust
hole where the puppies were suckling.

‘Ñor Pedro said, “Which one do you want, Chu?”

The boy said nothing.

“Do you want that brownish one?” his father asked.

Still he said nothing.

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 8

‘Ñor Pedro leaned down and took one of the small puppies. The bitch rose, and the puppies
hung desperately on to her paps and some fell back into the hole. The bitch watched ‘Ñor Pedro for
a while and then lay down, and the puppies scrambled back and began suckling again. Setting the
puppy in the boy’s arms, ‘Ñor Pedro said, “It’s a male.”

“Are they eating already?” asked Ingo.

“Not yet,” ‘Ñor Pedro replied. “You can give him milk with boiled rice.”

“Chu will take care of him,” he said. “Won’t you, hijo?” Ingo passed a hand down the
puppy’s back. The puppy was soft and small under his calloused hand. “He’s nice, no?” Then, “Say
thank you to your tio --- uncle.”

“Muchas gracias, tio,” said Chu.

Then the three of them went back to the front yard, the boy following behind with the puppy
in his arms. Ingo stood beside the empty cart in the yard. Behind it, ‘Ñor Pedro’s carabao was tied
to the scarred trunk of an old guyabano fruit tree. And beside the tree was old dung which was
caked dry on the top and lay on the ground like tiny crusted anthills.

“You must come more often,” said ‘Ñor Pedro. “And Chu, you also.”

“Si,” said the boy. “I’ll come with Papa.”

“Come here any time you want another puppy.”

‘Ñor Pedro smiled at the boy. But there was nothing in the boy’s face to tell what was now
going on in his little mind. He wished he could help him.

“We’ll go now,” said the father. “Say good-bye, Chu.”

“Adios, Tio Pedro.”

“Take good care of your puppy, Chu,” said ‘Ñor Pedro.

“Yes,” said the boy. Still there was nothing in his face, not even in his voice.

The father and his son left the yard, smelling the fresh, warm dung, and then went down the
hill the same way they had come. Then the father felt it. He felt it, somehow, without the boy
saying anything. He felt it while going down the slope and turning around the mountain and going
easily down the footpath, as he felt the wind blowing on the top of the trees and down in the brush
below the small forest.

“Don’t you want the puppy Tio Pedro gave you?” he asked.

“Pa,” said the boy. “Papa ------ “and he stopped speaking.

The farmer felt it again, now feeling it and hearing it clearly in his son’s voice, quiet and
soft, not even rising above a whisper. “Qué pasa, hijo?”

“Is he a brave puppy?”

“Valiente?”

“Si, so when he becomes big, he’ll bite ‘Ñor Tomas.”

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 9

So that’s it, Ingo thought. The thing with Tomas Dayrit earlier this afternoon is not yet over
with him. All the time talking there with ‘Ñor Pedro I thought it was all over, finished. But here it
is now, and how do you handle it? --- saying, “Are you still thinking of your dog Leal, hijo?”

“Si, Papa.”

“I’m sorry about it, Chu. Truly I am.”

Now they went on without talking. Coming back seemed to the father to take them much
longer than going up. He wished he could see his own house now. Then he heard the boy say, his
voice seeming to come from a long way away, soft, still quiet: “Why didn’t you fight him, Pa? Leal
would have bitten ‘Ñor Tomas if he knew he was going to harm us.”

“It would not change anything,” said Ingo. “Fighting with Tomas would not bring Leal back
to life.”

“I wish you had fought him though, Papa,” said his son.

The farmer Ingo was groping for the right words to say to his son, but before he could find
them, he saw their house at the foot of the slope. He quickened his steps, as though he were chasing
the sun which was already low in the sky. When they reached home, it was already dusk and a little
gas lamp shone in the sala window.

Choose either Ingo or Chu from the excerpt of Asocena on pages 6-9. Think as if you were this
character, and then fill out the empathy table.
Name of Character
What are you thinking?
What are you feeling?
What are you seeing?
What are you saying?
What are you doing?

REMEMBER
Key Points

• The City of Zamboanga is a fertile ground for inspiring literature because of its unique
identity and history. It is a cosmopolitan city of diverse cultures of indigenous and migrant
peoples. Because of its Spanish colonial past, Zamboanga City is also home to Chavacano –
the only Spanish-based creole in Asia.
• As a literary setting, Zamboanga City and its people have been featured in the works of many
contemporary literary artists like Emigdio Alvarez Enriquez, César Ruiz Aquino, Francis C.
Macansantos and Antonio R. Enriquez.

TRY
Let’s see how much have you learned today!

Direction: Write the letter of the correct answer for the following items (Answer on a separate
sheet.)

Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
 10

1. It is considered as the only Spanish-based 5. Why was Chu upset at his father?
creole in Asia. A. His father did not bring him to town.
A. Aklanon C. Hiligaynon B. His father did not fight Ñor Tomas.
B. Chavacano D. Ilocano C. His father did not give him a puppy.
D. His father did not save Leal.
2. Because of the diversity of the cultures of its
people, Zamboanga City has been described 6. Tio Pedro envies Ingo because _______
as a _______ city. A. He does not have a child.
A. cosmopolitan C. neopolitan B. He is old and can no longer farm.
B. metropolitan D. tripolitan C. He does not a wife.
D. He is sick and can no longer work.
3. The author of White Horse of Alih.
A. Antonio Reyes Enriquez 7. The setting of Asocena.
B. Cesar Ruiz Aquino A. Curuan C. Manicahan
C. Emigdio Alvarez Enriquez B. Labuan D. Tetuan
D. Francis C. Macansantos
8. Asocena was first published in the book ____
4. The narrator of Asocena. A. The Night I Cry and Other Stories
A. Chu C. not named B. The Night I Die and Other Stories
B. Ingo D. the author C. The Night I Fly and Other Stories
D. The Night I Lie and Other Stories

For further readings:

WEBSITES
Source: Antonio R. Enriquez, “Asocena,” Zamboanga, 2007, accessed July 15, 2020.
https://zamboanga.com/Literature/index_fiction1.htm

Source: “Cesar Ruiz Aquino,” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 2018, accessed July 15,
2020, https://www.asiancha.com/content/view/2038

Source: “Blue Blood of the Big Astana – Ibrahim A. Jubaira,” Kyoto Review, 2004,
accessed July 14, 2020, https://kyotoreview.org/issue-5/blue-blood-of-the-big-astana-

Source: Sherwin Mendoza, “Landlessness, War, and Displacement in Literatures of

REFERENCE/S Mindanao and Sulu,” Kritika Kultura 25, no. 141(2015): 1-53.
http://kritikakultura.ateneo.net

IMAGES
Source: Ateneo de Zamboanga University, Antonio Enriquez, photograph, n.d., accessed
July 15, 2020. https://www.adzu.edu.ph

Source: Pushkin, Illustration of a Pencil Character Giving Thumb’s Up, digital art, n.d.,
accessed July 03, 2020, www.shutterstock.com/image-vector/illustration-pencil-character-
giving-thumbs-75925126

Source: Reddit, Astana Darul Jambangan, photograph, 1930, accessed July 14, 2020.
https://www.reddit.com/r/Philippines/comments/aif1ut/daru_jambangan_the_royal_palace

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Written by: JOSEPH E. DELOS REYES (SST-II) & MARION B. GUERRERO (SST-II)
DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School