Pio Valenzuela: Fighter for Freedom
By Jose S. Tomacruz
Published in Philippines Review, April 1957
THE SIXTH DAY of April of this year marks the first anniversary of the death of Dr. Pio Valenzuela. He died of old age, in the hallowed unity of family life surrounded by the loving company of his wife, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends.
The greater part of his life which spanned 86 years, 8 months, and 25 days was as much an adventure of service in war as it was a romance of usefulness in peace.
By all standards, Dr. Valenzuela merits the same podium of honor that is reserved for national heroes. The third towering pillar of the Katipunan, his triumviral allies were Andres Bonifacio, the founder and Supremo, and Emilio Jacinto, the youthful “brains” of the secret society. Guided by the dakilang tatlo or “big three.” The Katipunan lived through the pains and heartaches of its turbulent existence and achieved the unity of the Filipino people in their struggle against tyranny and oppression. The Cry of Balintawak, or more properly perhaps, the Cry of Pugadlawin, like the initial outburst of a seething volcano, sounded the death-knell of Spanish rule in the Philippines.
On the first battle of the Philippine Revolution Dr. Valenzuela obliged with the following story:
“The first clash between the Katipunan and the Guardia Civil took place on August 25, 1896, at Pasong Tamo. Of the original 10,000 Katipuneros who have swelled our ranks, only 1,000 more or less, remained to give battle. The rest were sent away on orders of Bonifacio for it was evident from the report that we outnumbered the enemy 25 to 1.
“The three of us—Bonifacio, Jacinto, and I—rode on horses, barking orders as we galloped toward the enemy. I never expected that, in our apprehension and earnestness, Bonifacio and myself would be put in stitches by the funny sight of Jacinto. The latter fell off his mount two times and made himself look like a circus clown in a pink suit. The poor fellow had to confess that he had never before ridden a horse.
“As native bolos were no match for Spanish rifles our only recourse was to bear upon the ranks of the enemy and tear them apart by sheer weight and force of number. Utterly disregarding the hall of lead that whizzed around us, we urged our men to move on, inch by inch, around the enemy in a solid ring of steel. From all indication, it looked like our strategy would have the desired effect of a tight placer assault.
“The Malabon detachment was doomed. In the space of a few moments the bloody carnage would break and total victory would be, be ours.
“But before we knew that we had relaxed too far in our anticipation of victory the enemy retreated in force. Our men were hot in pursuit, eager as they were, to deliver the coup de grace, but we were stopped dead in our tracks at the ominous sound of flying hoofbeats that broke through the dying echoes of gunfire. Spanish cavalry reinforcements had arrived and our glorious thought of victory was blotted out by the painful certainty of defeat.
“As the last afterglow of sundown faded in the fast approach of the darkening night, we took to our heels, leaving the lifeless forms of two katipuneros and one civil guard on the battlefield as mute witnesses to the confusion of our full dress retreat. Thus was the advantage of courage and numerical strength crushed by the might and power of superior arms.”
As a physician, countless tales depicting Valenzuela’s personal virtues are told by town mates and provincemates alike. It was not enough that he rendered free medical services to the poor. He gave them money to buy medicine, happy at seeing them relieved of misery in a world where medical ore was still a matter of family herbs and magic.
As governor of Bulacan, he had sincerely sought the public welfare in all acts. He could have enriched himself while in office for he was offered huge sums of money by gambling lords and jueteng cliques in the province in exchange for official protection, but he kept his hands clean and warred without truce or compromise against the forces of vice and fraud. After his second term, 1922-1925, he left the government service a poorer man—some of his properties either sold or chocked with mortgages. As a family man, he had attained, no less, the apogee of an enduring connubial bliss. Sire of a great clan that was honored at Malacañan Palace on July 3, 1953, as the “The Family of the Year,” Don Pio, as he was affectionately called by provincemates, together with his wife, was awarded the Presidential Medal of Merit.
Dr. Pio Valenzuela was born of a family of means on July 11, 1869 in the comparatively small and peaceful town of Polo, in the province of Bulacan. The fourth child of Don Francisco Valenzuela and Doña Lorenza Alejandrino, he had two brothers and two sisters namely Agustina (born 1861), Severo (1865), Feliciana (1867) and Tomas (1871).
As a boy, Pio remained in the backwash of the rustic elements peculiar to other youngsters of his age and sex. He limited himself to the company of his relatives for his playmates and by striking a fancy in the cage of birds and flowering plants. Showed a distinct taste for seclusion in individual enterprise. Invariably in the background, nobody cared to pick up a quarrel with this typical specimen of a timid and refined youngster. Indeed, it could hardly be imagined that in his later years patriotism and heroism would meet in his life to give fire and puissance to the noble cause of the Philippine Revolution.
Young Pio learned his first letters from Rafael Flores at the age of six. He continued his studies in Quingua, now Plaridel, Bulacan, in the private school of Telesforo Evangelista. His father transferred him to Manila where he finished his secondary course in San Juan de Letran College in 1888. He enrolled in the preparatory course in medicine in the University of Santo Tomas, the following academic year. On March 12, 1895, he was conferred the degree of Licentiate in Medicine and Surgery, one of the fourteen students who successfully passed the course.
Among those who joined the ranks of the Katipunan in its carly days was Pio Valenzuela, then a fourth year medical student. A man of prosperous circumstances and high academic training, he had become a notable exception in the Katipunan the rank and file of which was composed of plebeians—clerks, native soldiers, peasants, shoemakers, woodcutters, street vendors, fishermen, and laundrymen—without college education. Explaining his side on the question of why and when he joined the secret society, he says:
I could not swallow the fact of Rizal’s arrest and imprisonment on the basis of ridiculous charges and fabricated evidence. I was burning with resentment over the apparent injustice of the Spanish authorities so I joined the folds of the Katipunan on July 15, 1892, the day Rizal was deported to Dapitan.
Valenzuela’s capacity for leadership brought him to the top echelon of the Katipunan hierarchy. He became a member of the Kataastaasang Sanggunian (Supreme Council) and the Camara Negra (Black Chamber), the former vested with executive and legislative powers, the latter with judicial authority. Incidentally, the Camara Negra, composed of the triumviral entrepreneurs – Bonifacio, Jacinto, and Valenzuela – was a secret chamber within a secret organization, feared by every katipunero because it could prescribe the death penalty upon anyone who dared betray the Katipunan oath.
The degree of intimacy that had existed between Andres Bonifacio and Dr. Valenzuela was certainly of the closest personal attachment. Of the seed of acquaintance, planted by Teodoro Plata, which spruced up and blossomed into a beautiful flower of friendship, the doctor reflects in the following narration:
Bonifacio and I came to know each other through Teodoro Plata, his brother-in-law and my sponsor in the initiation rites of the Katipunan, Conscious only of my oath and aware of the duties imposed upon me as a member, I worked hard to spread the revolutionary ideologies of the society, neither expecting nor hoping to gain recognition or favor of any kind. The Katipunan was the creation of Bonifacio’s patriotic genius, and as such he was quick to appreciate the value of any effort made in the direction of enhancing its noble cause. In my case, his gratitude found expression in the manifestation of his confidence and friendly affection. If I had risen to the topmost echelon of the Katipunan, I owed it not so much to the natural stimulus of ambitious design as to the gracious blessing of his personal sanction.
“Thus we became true friends. Even as we were already bound by the strongest ties of friendship, he chose to have me stand as godfather to his son-Andres-at baptism.
“Bonifacio lost his house in a big fire in Manila, on Oroquieta and Dulong-bayan Streets. That was on Good Friday, in April, 1896. The Supremo, his brother, Procorpio, Jacinto, and I were in Cavite at the time, organizing branches of the Katipunan. Upon our return, we learned of his misfortune and found that his wife, Gregoria de Jesus and child, Andres – about two months old – had moved to my house on Lavezares Street. Since then we all lived together under the same roof. Unfortunately, the baby died of small box two months later. After my return from Dapitan towards the end of June, 1896 Bonifacio and his wife and I moved to another house on San Jose Street.
Events during the months of May and June, 1896 rose to the fore in the shape of the secret meetings and conferences. Behind the scenes of the meeting in Pasig. The Japanese-Filipino conference in Manila and the historic conference between Rizal and Valenzuela in Dapitan, the dynamic figure of the patriot appeared as an active participant of a heroic role.
Nor were Bonifacio, Jacinto, and Valenzuela confined to the limits of their executive, legislative, and judicial authority. These three men, forming the Filipino counterpart of the French revolutionary writers – Volatire, Rousseau, and Montesquieu – wrote stirring literature in Ang Kalayaan (Freedom) the organ of the Katipunan. And true enough the patriotic sentiments flooding the lines of their prose and poetry propounded the libertarian ideals of the association and awakened the dormant nationalism of the people.
Valenzuela’s report on his Dapitan mission (June 15-26, 1896) echoed the spirit of the Rizalian logic – no arms, no revolution. Convinced of the prudence of Rizal’s advice, Bonifacio accepted it calmly without scruple or reproach.
But even as the Katipunan had yielded to Rizal’s creed of moderation, the unexpected turn of events precipitated the outbreak of the armed uprising. Teodoro Patiño, a Visayan katipunero, had betrayed the existence of the Katipunan plot to Father Gil of Tondo. And the makeshift interlude of peace ended as the tragic drama of blood and fire began.
Contrary to the textbook version of the incident which had found popular acceptance as a fact in Philippine History, the first cry of the Philippine Revolution was raised at Pugad Lawin on August 23, 1896, and not at Balintawak on August 26, 1896. Symbolic of the big way in which he had stood on his own personal conviction, regardless of what others have said or written about the matter, Valenzuela endeavors to paint the real picture of the event in its true color and perspective:
“It was at Pugad Lawin, in the house, storehouse, and yard of Juan Ramos, son of Melchora Aquino, where over 1000 members of the Katipunan met and carried considerable debate and discussion on August 23, 1896. The discussion was on whether or not the revolution against the Spanish government should be started on August 29, 1896. Only one man protested and fought against the carly war, and that was Teodoro Plata. Besides the persons named above, among those present at that meeting were Enrique, Cipriano, and Alfonso Pacheco, Tomas Remigio, Sinforoso San Pedro, and others. After the tumultuous meeting many of those present tore their cedula certificates and shouted “Long Live the Philippines!”
It was Valenzuela’s ill fortunate that he should fall into the hands of the enemy at the time when the Revolution was still in the early stage of gathering momentum. The subject of his alleged surrender forms another controversial point in Philippine annals Wenceslao E. Retana, a Spanish writer, in his archivo del bibliofilo Filipino. Vol. III asserts that Valenzuela surrendered to the Spanish authorities to take advantage of Governor Ramon Blanco’s amnesty proclamation. Be that as it might have been, it would seem rather funny, if not utterly strange that Governor Blanco should suffer from amnesia and deny the grant of oblivion or general pardon for the crime if there really was any surrender made. Nibbling at the past through his years of his life, Valenzuela recounts the painful experience of his arrest:
“From Balara, Bonifacio sent me to Laguna with orders to advise the katipuneros to start the fight in that province. I took a boat from Manila to Pateros, where a Filipino priest, Father Victor Ramos, gave me a rifle on the night of my arrival—August 29, 1896. From Pateros, I proceeded by land to Laguna, reaching Biñan on the following day. After contacting Father Silvino Manalo, coadjutor of Biñan and a native of Pateros, I returned to Manila by boat arriving in the city I the afternoon of September 3, 1896. Near Malacañan Palace, I was arrested by a spy as I was about to board a calesa. I was taken to the palace, then to Governor Blanco, in Intramuros who ordered my incarceration at Fort Santiago.”
Valenzuela was tried by a military tribunal sometime in November, 1896, found guilty of sedition and rebellion, and sentenced to life imprisonment: Having survived the horrors of Fort Santiago it was his added good fortune that final judgement had already been passed on him when General Camilo de Polavieja arrived to assume the governorship. Unlike Governor Blanco, Polavieja was bloodthirsty from who no “traitor” could so much as expect any bargain or leniency.
Sometime in February, 1897, Valenzuela and some 15 other political prisoners, including Antonio Luna and Juan Castañeda, where shipped to Spain. Away from home, family friends in a strange and foreign land, the patriot bore the pain and bitterness of exile in mute desolation. That he had survived the living death was a tribute to his gallant fortitude and abiding faith in Divine Providence. Without showing any sign of eyebrows meeting in a slow effort of reflection, Valenzuela gathers a few intimate glimpses of his days in exile.
“Upon our arrival in Barcelona thousands of curious people lined up the piers and streets, eager to see ‘Indios having tails’ who rose in arms against Spain. On my part, I saw me in the crowds wearing skirts and it surprised me to know, a little later, that only the rich could afford the distinction and luxury of wearing trousers.
Our stay in Spain was only temporary. In Barcelona, our friend Antonio Luna, surprised us with his knowledge of the culinary art when he dished out some kind of special meals for us. We did not long enjoy his pleasant companionship because he was freed by the authorities through the help of his many friends in Europe. The rest of us in the original group were shifted from one prison to another, each hop, a painful stretch of space and time farther away from home: first, Barcelona where we were held for 90 days; then Madrid for 30 days; and Malaga for 9 days. From the Malaga stockade, we were taken aboard a Spanish vessel and hustled to Melilla, a solitary outpost in Spanish Morocco.
Life in Melilla was not so bad. Being a physician, I was sent to the garrison hospital to attend to the sick. Outside of busy hours, usually in the afternoon, I was allowed to have the comforting moments of a promenade within the confines of the walled city. All my movements were, of course, held in leash by the shadow of an armed guard. “Incidentally, a Filipino exile, whose name I do not now remember, died in Melilla.”
The treaty of Paris, signed on December 10, 1898, ended the Spanish-American War and furnished the occasion for the release of Valenzuela and his fellow Filipino prisoners. Allowed to return to their homeland, the Filipino exiles, about 60 of them coming from different prison camps, boarded a vessel bound for Manila sometime in April, 1899.
Meanwhile the Filipino-American War broke out. Fought bitterly through the years of terror and destruction (February 4, 1899-April 16, 1902), the hostilities ended in the ultimate victory of America’s military might.
Upon their arrival in Manila, all the exiles were released except Valenzuela and Castañeda who both taken to Intramuros and placed under American custody. Valenzuela recalled his confinement in the Walled City as follows:
“It was Archbishop Bernardino Nozaleda who warned the Americans that Castañeda and I were dangerous, so that in following the former’s line of caution we were both held in Intramuros while the others were sent home. We were quartered in a house within shouting distance of my Alma Mater, San Juan De Letran College.
“One day a friend, Dr. Jose Jerez Burgos, came to intercede for our freedom. Under promise of good behavior and cooperation, Castañeda got his release papers. On my part, I preferred to stay in confinement rather than submit to the requirement of taking a formal oath. I did not care to go free if I should later be held in leash by the strings attached to the grant of freedom. I was determined to keep my appointment with General Antonio Luna but not at the cost of using fraud and subterfuge to serve my purpose.
“But the lust for power, again at Cabanatuan as at Mount Buntis, crucified national patriotism on the cross of perfidy and violence. First, it was Andres Bonifacio, now it was Luna, the death of the later following the same vivid pattern of the tragedy that took the life of the former. With the tragic death of General Antonio Luna, died all my hope of joining the fight against the Americans.
“I obtained my freedom on the heels of a lucky break, in the original style that I had wanted it to be—unconditional, no formal oath. Incidentally, news came to the city that an epidemic broke out in my native Polo. Offering my services as a doctor, the American authorities readily nodded approval and opened to me the sentried gates of Intramuros in August, 1899.”
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