Philippine connections: Madrid

Retracing Rizal’s footsteps in Madrid yet again, I do so now imagining him in Madrid in 2025. Would he be posting on Facebook, Instagram, or X? Or would he prefer writing long-form on a blog or recording on a vlog? I know he won’t gyrate shamelessly like Harry Roque on TikTok. With social media, Rizal would not have left the 25 volumes of writing on which I made my career. Social media posts require more critical reading because these are deliberate, curated. Rizal’s handwritten diaries, on the other hand, were very private, meant for his eyes alone, and yet he still hid passages in code. This begs the question: What did he leave out?

Rizal’s earliest journal, “Memorias de un estudiante de Manila,” is not an autobiography, not a full accounting of his life, but a memoir. He selected significant episodes from his life, from childhood to his teens. The original manuscript is in a notebook, with a title page where Rizal hid under the pseudonym “P. Jacinto.” He provided his date of birth, June 19, 1861, on the first line, but crossed out Calamba, his birthplace. We know this notebook-memoir is authentic not from internal evidence but from a signature. He brought the notebook on his first trip to Europe, filling some blank pages with Egyptian hieroglyphics. On another page, he drafted a letter to his family from Germany in 1886 and signed it with his real name.

If Rizal were in Madrid in 2025, he would have a smartphone. With a phone, tablet, or computer, Rizal might not have left half as much physical writing, and I would have no career. All those letters to his family reeking of homesickness would have been replaced by texts, emails, and voice and video calls. His second biggest expense in Madrid, after books, was postage stamps. His monthly allowance and tuition sometimes arrived late because physical cash (together with jars of bagoong, pickled mangoes, guava jaleya, and miki noodles) was sent through a Filipino steward on a steamer that made regular trips from Manila to Europe.

Today, Rizal has many options: electronic bank transfer, Pera Padala, Western Union, or GCash. There are many “alimentacion” or convenience stores run by Asians that have cooking essentials from soy sauce to banana leaves. One run by a Filipina in central Madrid has a wider selection of Philippine products—everything from chichirya like Chippy or Boy Bawang, to cooking essentials like patis, sinigang mix, and Magic Sarap. She also sells processed meats: tapa, tocino, longganisa, and daing na bangus—that all come with a bonus of Pinoy gossip.

Walking aimlessly in Madrid, I find many historical connections. There is an Avenida de Filipinas where the replica of the Rizal monument in Luneta is located. The closest subway stop is called Islas Filipinas. There is a Calle Jose Rizal that I have to check out on this trip. I see buses going toward a place called Legazpi, not in Bicolandia. There is a street Calle de Voluntarios Macabebes. Walking in the “sosyal” barrio of Salamanca, I passed through Calle del General Oraa, whose full name is Xavier Antonio Marcelino Oraa Lecumberri (1788 to 1851). He was the governor general from 1841 to 1843 who put down two famous revolts led by Apolinario de la Cruz, better known as “Hermano Pule.” Someone can probably write a thesis on Philippine history from street names in Madrid.

On this short trip, I steered clear of the Biblioteca Nacional, the Museo Naval, the Archivo Historico Nacional, and the Franciscan archives. But then, even on vacation, a Filipino historian cannot find rest from finding and thinking about historical connections. I thought I would be lost in art at the Prado Museum until I came across contemporary portraits (paintings and sculptures) of Philip II, after whom our country is named. It was a treat to put a face to the name, and my only regret is that I cannot share images or videos with my students, because unlike other, more generous museums elsewhere, the Prado has a no-photo policy.

I went over the galleries that feature the works of Diego de Velasquez, one of the greatest painters of Spain. I avoided the tourists who make a beeline to the grand hall filled with royal portraits and crowd around “Las Meninas.” I found the portraits of the court jesters, a handful of whom were dwarves, more engaging not for their deformities, but for the sensibility the artist drew from them. These individuals were depicted with more humanity than the stiff portraits of the king, queen, prince, and princess they entertained.

Then, in a hall of Velasquez’s early work was the terrifying portrait of a stern nun. She stares at the viewer, threatening us, seemingly wielding a crucifix in her right hand. This portrait of Jeronima de la Fuente was painted in Seville in 1620, shortly before the 66-year-old nun sailed to the Philippines. She founded and was the first abbess of the Monasterio de Santa Clara de la Concepcion in Intramuros, which has since been relocated to Quezon City. This is the place to offer eggs for good weather. Madre Jeronima made me realize that even when I refuse to do work on vacation, I will find connections to Philippine history everywhere in Madrid.

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