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The novel begins and ends with the narrative voice of 13-year-old Alejandro. He evolves into a proud young Filipino who, in the novel’s closing paragraph, defiantly proclaims his unwavering allegiance to his native country. He serves as the novel’s thematic center. If neither Isabelle or Domingo, the book’s other two narrators, rise above the brutal circumstances of the war, Alejandro emerges as the best and brightest hope for his family, his country, and his culture.
In the opening section, Alejandro demonstrates that he is anything but a normal boy. He works the bombed-out streets with savvy confidence, bartering for food scraps for his family. Because his father is sick with malaria, Alejandro confidently assumes the responsibility of providing for his family and his neighbors in the cellar. Again and again, he demonstrates his resilience, his resourcefulness, and his keen ability to respond quickly to the ever-changing threats all around him. At the same time, he reveals moments of genuine tenderness; unlike many of his friends, the experience of the war has not calloused his heart. He comforts his traumatized sister after her return from her rape and later reminds a devasted Domingo of his heroic role in the rescue of those trapped in the warehouse.
Alejandro’s family name—Karangalan—is Tagalog for “honor.” This is the boy’s defining character trait. When the Japanese soldiers twist the boy’s fingers to get him to rat out whoever killed one of their officers, Alejandro offers them nothing. When the Japanese release him, the commander points at Alejandro and says, with respect, “This one has honor, not like the rest. He rather die than give up his friend. This is rare in his country” (20). That exemplary honor is why in the last hours of the Japanese occupation, even as the city implodes, Alejandro emerges from the experience of war’s atrocities and its chaos with his hope and his moral integrity intact. He alone of the three narrators is gifted with a future. He becomes Holthe’s template for the new generation that emerges after the war: compassionate, caring, and proud of their Filipino identity.
While Alejandro embodies the bold spirit of post-war Philippines, Isabelle represents its vulnerable heart. Her narrative is a chronicle of her fall from independence, her emerging awareness of her need for others, and her discovery of the authentic blessings of community, both family and neighbors. Isabelle begins her narrative confident in the promise of her future. She does not merely dream of being a doctor—her dream is actually a goal. Even if that ambition puts her at odds with the patriarchal nature of the Filipino culture, she is not a feminist crusader; her career ambition suggests her compassion.
The first action of her narrative is her decision, while out scavenging for food, to help the wounded Domingo despite the risk to her own safety. Her heart overrules her own reasoning. When the two arrive at the base camp for the insurgents, Isabelle must ascend to a cave where the leaders gather. To do so, she must rely on the guerillas to maneuver an elaborate rope contraption. She is initially terrified but feels assured by the tight webbing as she ascends; thus, she begins her lesson in the need for connection.
When Isabelle returns to the cellar after the rape, her innocence is destroyed along with her independence. She wants only to hide from others, ashamed and bitter. It is the story told by Feliciano’s mother that turns Isabelle from such bitter isolation and allows her to recover emotionally and spiritually. This evolution is measured by Isabelle’s changing relationship with Feliciano. Early on, Isabelle confesses she has always found Feliciano and his adoration for her annoying. Initially, her perception of him as a collaborator reflects her naïve view of the war. After Feliciano rescues her and sacrifices his own safety to secure the freedom of her family (and suffers at the hands of the same Japanese who terrorized her), Isabelle reflects her growth into genuine compassion.
She feels something for Feliciano that she cannot define. It is her first experience of genuine empathy, and she admits, “It is not complete forgiveness […] but it is as if a window has been opened. A small crack” (206). That movement toward her emotional reclamation is completed later: Amid the chaos of the warehouse, she tends to the bloody Feliciano instead of running to safety.
The brave and ruggedly handsome Domingo is caught between loyalty to his family and loyalty to the cause of liberating the Philippines from all foreign interests. That emotional dilemma is suggested by how torn Domingo is between the love and sense of duty he feels for his wife and children hiding in the cellar and the passion and admiration he feels for Nina, his mistress, a comrade in arms living in the hills and fighting for a free Philippines. Domingo cannot embrace one identity without sacrificing the other. He cannot in the end be father, lover, husband, and patriot. That reality sets up Domingo as the narrative’s tragic hero who loses everything.
Defining the dimensions of that dilemma begins with understanding the implications of Domingo’s birth. Domingo is both Filipino and Spanish. He was the bastard child of a wealthy Spanish lawyer, his mother one of his house servants, a Filipino. Domingo grew up in foster care. As a young man, he attempted to meet his father only to be rebuffed. He never met his mother. He had hoped marrying the wealthy Lorna, a woman who did not share his political idealism, might raise him in his father’s estimation, but that failed. His affair with Nina, however, violates the canon laws of his church. His passion for her is a mortal sin. Although he wants to bond with his son, he feels far closer to a young orphan boy committed to the fight who lives in the camp.
When Domingo decides to return to the hills to help the guerillas fend off the Japanese, he cannot commit to that decision. He is torn by guilt over leaving his family behind in the warehouse. He tries to rescue them only to arrive too late. In the process of that rescue, he must kill Nina, mortally wounded by the Japanese, and then cradle his son, bayoneted by the Japanese, as he dies. After the Americans free Manila, Domingo cannot join in the neighbors’ celebrations even though he is recognized for his part in their liberation from the warehouse. He is devastated and spiritually distant. Holthe gives him a hero’s exit—he slowly walks off, alone, into the hills, a shadow framed by the sunrise, to begin the difficult and perhaps impossible work of recovering his heart. Alejandro’s father tells the boy, “The war has spared our family, and God has blessed us with a home. But others still have many miles to go” (367).
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