When the Elephants Dance

“This one has honor. He not like rest.”

Honor, an individual code of moral integrity, defines heroism here. The Japanese soldiers are impressed by young Alejandro’s refusal to crack under pressure of torture. “Karangalan” is a Tagalog word for honor. 

“I merely give them freedom to be themselves. I encourage them to speak their deepest desires.”

Esmeralda, the central figure in the novel’s first extended story, is reputed to be a witch with great powers. However, she merely listens to the troubles and fears of her neighbors and mixes up harmless potions to help them believe such troubles can be vanquished. Honesty, trust, and communication not magic become the defining elements of the emerging Filipino culture. 

“My infatuation with Esmeralda started small ripples in the quiet of her life that soon turned into a tidal wave of misfortune.”

Carlito, who tells the story of the doomed Esmeralda and whose adoration for the beautiful, mysterious woman inadvertently costs her everything, offers a complex world view in which the smallest actions can bring major consequences. 

“You said you wished we had some kind of magic that could rid us of the Japanese soldiers. I have never seen it used for good. Think of the Japanese soldiers with all their power. It has eroded their hearts and their souls.”

The novel juxtaposes the real and the fabulous, that is the world of the war and the world conjured by the stories told in the cellar. Holthe cannot pretend that magic can make the real-world evil simply vanish. The Filipinos are not up against magical creatures or monsters but rather people whose hearts and souls have been destroyed by power.

“I think of the three of us fishing together someday, me, Roderick, and my sister, Isabelle. I send God a prayer to watch after her and Papa wherever they are.”

Young Alejandro cannot fall asleep worrying about his missing sister. In the closing weeks of the Japanese occupation, Alejandro comes to represent the future of the Filipino culture. Here he voices his faith in the future, a simple world of family and faith that he is sure will follow the devastation and suffering of the war. 

“Her father spoils her with ideas. He encourages her to climb high, reach for the heavens. But who is there to catch her when she falls?”

In the frequent clashes between Isabelle and her mother, Holthe examines the movement into the new era that promises Filipino women more opportunities outside marriage and family. Early on, the two argue. Only in the end do the two generations reconcile promising the beginnings of the modern Philippines. 

“I hate him. I hate him for making me feel guilty. What has he ever done but worry his wife and cast suspicion and danger upon our house?”

During the horrific experiences in the last days of the occupation, Isabelle develops a most compassionate and forgiving heart. Here she demonstrates the beginnings of that evolution. Even as Isabelle passes harsh judgment on Domingo because of his affair, her heart cannot refuse to help him, wounded in the streets by the Japanese. 

“I feel scared, and lonely, and proud somehow.”

When Isabelle arrives in the guerillas’ jungle encampment, she is not sure how to feel. The guerillas represent to her a threat as the Japanese have used the movement to punish Manila civilians. The adjectives she uses, however, indicate her movement toward admiration, even respect for these misfit commandos who dream of a free Philippines. 

“They want to break the only thing we have left, our spirits. I will not let them.”

As Isabelle is held by the Japanese in the hotel complex, she hears the screams from other women (and young girls) being humiliated, tortured, and raped. She edges toward despair when another prisoner, an older woman, cradles her lovingly and maternally and calmly advises Isabelle to not let the Japanese destroy her spirit.

“I hear a tearing sound. It is my soul.”

Isabelle’s account of her gang rape at the hands of the Japanese soldiers is graphic and immediate. Even as the hands tear roughly at her clothes, even as she smells their dirt and sweat, even as she hears their laughter, what is taken so roughly, so violently is not only her virginity but indeed her soul. 

“Do not hold on to the bitterness, Isabelle, it will eat your body like worms, and you will ruin your future because of it.”

This is the difficult wisdom that Isabelle, the victim of the rape, needs to hear. The lesson can be applied as well to the Filipino culture that faces, after the war, the opportunity to build a future if it lets go of the pain and anger over the past. 

“It is not forgiveness, not yet, but it is as if a window has been opened. A small crack.”

This turning point epiphany begins Isabelle’s evolution toward authentic healing through the agency of Feliciano. Isabelle listened to Ana’s story and regards Feliciano with pity because he has no family, no friends. That gesture marks the beginning of Isabelle’s recovery.

“Morality has cheated me in many ways, so I take what I can.”

Domingo admits he is conflicted. Because of his bastard status, conventional morality has never defined him. He was born outside society, and this position has given him the opportunity to think boldly outside the lines of society and, in turn, to commit to the radical idea of a free Philippines. 

“I wish to protect her always. I know they will be happy to have their daughter back, to marry her off to a more appropriate candidate. And I know, no matter how painful, that she will be better loved, happier.”

Domingo speaks lovingly of a wife he is openly cheating on. The most complicated relationship in the novel is between Domingo and his family in town and Domingo and his mistress and adopted son in the hills. He loves them both fiercely and, in the end, loses both completely.

“You remind me of how much I value this family. I would rather die than lose them. But I have other obligations.”

Here Domingo confesses his deep moral dilemma. As with many iconic tragic figures, Domingo is honest enough about his heart to leave him no viable way to happiness. Like tragic heroes from literature since Oedipus, Domingo must navigate in the world of either/or and in the end must lose everything. 

“But if one does not fight, then what becomes of our families?”

Domingo is the conscience of the emerging Filipino nation. Fredrico, one of the elderly men in the cellar, cautions Domingo not to forget the commitment he made to his wife and children. For Domingo, however, there is far more at stake. 

“I dreamt that I woke up in the jungle and that my skin was dark brown. I was one of the natives, and I wore deerhide trousers and carried a spear.”

The story of Fredrico the artist introduces into the novel a narrative of the reclamation of indigenous Filipino culture. As a Filipino who has accepted the Spanish identity, Fredrico discovers in his experiences in the Filipino village an identity he has never felt. 

“I locked myself in my gallery for five days. I painted with so much passion, I could barely stand it. I would wake each morning with a new scene to paint burning in my hands.”

For Holthe, the rediscovery of Filipino identity through her family animated her own development into a writer. Fredrico experiences a similar enlightenment as an artist. 

“These are people, they have families, they smile, laugh, just like us. Who decided that we should lord over them?”

Fredrico speaks on behalf of the Filipino people lost through centuries of cultural oppression, military occupation, and economic exploitation. Alejandro will express a similar theme in the novel’s closing two paragraphs. 

“I try at every opportunity to convince them of the simplest matter: that we can be stronger together.”

The challenge facing post-war Philippines is that, without a central organizing government (for centuries provided by foreign countries), the Philippines might descend into chaos as the country might splinter into warring tribes. Domingo understands the threat facing an independent Philippines does not come from Japan or America but from within. 

“Always our coming together is desperate, fed on borrowed time. I blow out the candle and our hands swim in the dark over the ocean of our bodies.”

The reader is conflicted. Domingo and Nina make love in a cave for what will be the last time. According to conventional morality and the Church, their action is a grievous sin, but the tectonic energy of the two undermines that moral certainty and prepares the reader to embrace rather than judge others.  

“I cannot do it. But I know I must. I grit my teeth, and my hands shake horribly […] She closes her beautiful eyes. I look to the heavens, pull the trigger, and scream.”

Save for the section in which Isabelle recounts her rape, this scene, when Domingo must shoot his mistress, is the novel’s most powerful and disturbing moment. Domingo who frets over his indecision here decides with courage and selflessness to end Nina’s suffering. 

“‘Mabuhay!’ he shouts, ‘Long life!’”

Domingo departs alone, walking off into the sunrise. His last declamation, part English, part Tagalog, moves the narrative to its affirmation of the new era for the Philippines—long life is wished not only for the characters but for their culture, their country.