Days of 1521

Rajah Versus Conquistador by Kahlil Corazo (Pagecraft, 2025)

 

Blood Compact Reimagined (2020) by Herbert S. Pinpino, oil on canvas (Source)

 

The rajah was Rajah Humabon, the conquistador was Ferdinand Magellan. The versus was their fateful encounter in 1521 Cebu when the Spanish and precolonial Philippine cultures went on a collision course. It was a consequential time that would define the culture and history of a country-in-the-making. 

The historical novel was written by Kahlil Corazo who assembled a rich tapestry of historical details and steeped his scenes with the cultural specifics of 16th century pre-Hispanic Philippine society. His fiction was a well-conceived story of an early power struggle between a native leader and a visiting conqueror. The story unfolded in switching registers of diplomacy and war, from psychological warfare to bloody combat, dramatizing what one character called the "complex machinery of statecraft". 

And what a feasible story it was, a narrative grounded in human nature and game theory, borrowing from the tactical strategies of chess and the "prisoner's dilemma" situation. Hovering between the two diametrically opposed characters were two conflicting customs and rites, representing two approaches of political science, that of the binukot's and the baylan's. Humabon's wives, Paraluman and Pilapil, were the proponents of the two forms of power.

"[T]he baylan must control the sacrifice," you explain, your voice carrying absolute certainty. "They understand that the Bakunawa's hunger cannot be denied, but it can be directed. Through their wisdom, the king's power becomes sacred rather than merely brutal. They transform random slaughter into holy ritual."

In contrast to the impulsiveness and violent human offerings of the baylan, the binukot way of seeing things through was a calm and calculated political strategy. Tutored by two strong women in the two ancient ways of sisterhood, Rajah Humabon possessed the two gifts (or skill sets) in his own being. It split his personality and marked him as an exemplar of both statecraft and statesmanship. His legacy as a leader would depend on how he would deal with the Spanish galleons at his doorstep. 

It was the year 1521. An armada of three Spanish ships arrived, captained by a Portuguese. Magellan was another conflicted historical character to be reckoned with. In the background, the hyperbolic figure of Lapulapu, almost stereotypical in his war freak mentality and outsized physique, sword-wielding and ready to enter into any negotiations that involved spilling blood. Amid the direct confrontation between the animist beliefs of the rajah and the Christian virtues of the conquistador, the people of Sugbo were faced with an unusual choice: to be modernized by new Christian beliefs on charity and forgiveness and love or to sustain the old rituals that feature sacrifices of human beings (slaves) to appease the old gods. 

The literary, cinematic, and pop culture recreation of 1521 was never lacking, almost always centering on the Battle of Mactan, with Magellan dying into the hands of the fierce warrior Lapulapu. Novels that tackled the subject include Viajero (1993) by F. Sionil José, Longitude (1998) by Carlos (1998), Conqueror of the Seas: The Story of Magellan (1938) by Stefan Zweig (translated from the German by Eden and Cedar Paul), and  Lapulapu: The Conqueror of Magellan by Vicente Gullas (translated by Erlinda K. Alburo).

The Western perspective of the encounter was perfectly captured by Stefan Zweig in his novel Conqueror of the Seas: The Story of Magellan (also published in a switched title, Magellan: Conqueror of the Seas). Zweig's historical novel was one-sided. His was an arguably romantic, colonialist, and racist account of the first circumnavigation of the world. His motive for writing the novel was driven by a dubious and condescending shame, trickling from the arrogance of comfort and elitism. On the other hand, the novel by Gullas, prefaced by a critical essay by Resil B. Mojares, was a wide-eyed, cartoonish account of Lapulapu's heroics. (For context on why Zweig's novel left a bad taste in my mouth, see this post: Stefan Zweig's shame.)  

Lapu-Lapu by Francisco V. Coching (Images from Unang Labas, Klasika Pelikula)

In the realm of cinema or literature, there was no dearth of Lapulapu extolment. The vintage film Lapu-Lapu (1955, directed by Lamberto V. Avellana) was an adaptation from Francisco V. Coching's comics. It was a very amusing watch (watch in Vimeo) despite the one-dimensional and stereotypical characters and the heavy nationalist slant. After an extended battle scene in the movie's climax, with the Spanish soldiers retreating to their ship, it ended with a stirring speech from the Mactan warrior, played by Mario Montenegro, whose voice was very close to breaking point, while in the background the bars of the national anthem played.

Another movie, Lapu-Lapu (2002, directed by William G. Mayo) was top-billed by Senator Lito Lapid. The miniseries Boundless (directed by Simon West, trailer), starring Rodrigo Santoro as Magellan and Álvaro Morte as Juan Sebastián Elcano, appeared in 2022, dramatizing the perils and human folly of circumnavigating the globe. Add to this roster of visual propaganda the film 1521 (directed by Michael Copon, 2023, trailer).  

Earlier this year, slow cinema auteur Lav Diaz edited and released the Gael García Bernal–starrer Magellan in Cannes (teaser). It was a 2.5-hour movie, culled from a projected nine-hour director's cut. Lav Diaz shared in interviews that, based on his years of research, he came with the conclusion that Lapulapu was not a historical figure, that he was just a mere invention of Rajah Humabon. (The things a researcher unearths.)

Gael García Bernal in Magellan (2025, directed by Lav Diaz). Photo by: Hazel Orencio (The POST)

The "primary source" of all these historical intrigues was Pigafetta, the scribe who put to paper his subjective observations, and perhaps Enrique too, the translator who bridged the communication between the Spaniards and the pre-Filipinos. Who could say a version of history was revisionist if in the first place the original speaker and the original writer already colored their accounts with their own biases?

An alternative to these dubious literary and cinematic versions of history was Kahlil Corazo's first novel, no less biased perhaps for its own chosen historical slant. It differed in many respects to the Magellan-Humabon-Lapulapu biographical and fictional historiography.

Kahlil Corazo took on the two viewpoints: the native rajah's and the Portuguese conqueror's. He even had the gumption to use the second-person point of view in the two alternating narratives of his larger-than-life characters. Corazo provided ample psychological grounding to his version of events, rooted in behavioral and political sciences. 

He focused on the dueling psyches or split personalities of Humabon, as well as on Magellan's missionary zealotry and self-delusion: a crafty device to propel the logic of his history. While the novel did not have the bombast and purple prose of Zweig, it did attempt a balanced perspective where each character was given equal billing to tell their side of history. 

A far cry from the colonialist and elitist viewpoint of Zweig and his stereotypical portrait of the ignoble savage, Corazo's retelling of events in the first half of 1521 was no less savage in its neo-animist perspective, which rather made for a postcolonial treatment of history (including every baggage that comes with the word postcolonial). Where Zweig manifested the figure of Lapulapu as "a ludicrous human insect", Corazo's image of Lapulapu, from the point of view of Magellan, was no less reductive.

Though the Kapitan cannot understand Lapulapu's words, something primal in him responds to the warrior's presence. Like a deer at a river's edge sensing a crocodile beneath the still waters, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. You see how he straightens in his white garments, as if the purity of his cloth could shield him against this tattooed giant who moves with the deceptive calm of an ancient predator. Even through your fear, you recognize that instinctive reaction – the moment when one hunter realizes he has become prey. 

As a "crocodile" or "tattooed giant who moves with the deceptive calm of an ancient predator", Lapulapu was still every inch a stereotypical venerated warrior-hero he had always been, but the novelist had at least imbued his tragic figure with all-too-human motives and comic possibilities. In fact, the three major characters in this passion play – Magellan, Humabon, and Lapulapu – were all tragicomic figures. The novelist was not after historical facts, he was going after psychological nuance and political ideas.

Final insight: the true circumnavigation is not of the world but of the soul, returning at last to its Creator, having learned what could only be taught through the journey itself.   

Corazo's research went a long way to dramatize not only the human motivations but the political economy of pre-Hispanic Philippines, even giving a portrait of early free market capitalism which foreshadowed the unquenchable thirst of greed capitalism.

"There is one diwata emerging in our ports," Handuraw said as you walked. "The Hokkien merchants call it wealth, the Gujarati call it trade, but these are merely faces it wears, like masks at a ritual. The baylan call him Sapî. He grows alongside the old powers, feeding not on blood like the spirits of raid and war, but on desire itself." 

"Sapî grows stronger with each generation," Handuraw continued. "He feeds on the endless hunger for things from distant shores. The Hokkien bring porcelain, the Gujarati bring cloth, the Siamese bring gold – and with each trade, Sapî's power grows." 

It was more than just portraits of two leaders on opposite sides; it was a love letter to 16th century Sugbo (Cebu) society, an early imagining of a community of nation and a nation of community.

“Sugbo binds thousands to an idea,” she said. “This is a different kind of power, one that grows stronger rather than weaker as it spreads.” 

You saw how this force, this diwata called Sugbo, could grow beyond the limits of personal loyalty or physical coercion. A datu might command a hundred warriors through force of personality, but Sugbo could move thousands through pride of belonging. 

The implications staggered you. If what Handuraw said was true, then the real power of a port lay not just in its weapons or wealth, but in its ability to capture the imagination of its people. Every feast you hosted, every display of prosperity and strength, every act of justice or generosity that enhanced Sugbo’s reputation— these were not just tools of power but offerings to this new kind of diwata.

The Rajah Humabon side of history was here no longer an untold, shameful "side story" deliberately skirted around in Philippine narratives. It was here front and center in all its moral and historical ramifications. The reckoning of history was often always a reckoning of inconvenient trickery and massacres. While Humabon was treated as a secondary figure in the charades of history, Corazo gave him a voice of someone who in fact occupied a focal point in, a maker of, history. 

Corazo also interwove previously hidden feminist aspects of culture and history where women were active participants in historical destinies. In a "fictional" afterword, the novelist talked about the theme of the novel: the gendered nature of power.

We also hope this translation offers Western readers a glimpse into how history looks when viewed not from the deck of a Spanish galleon but from behind the woven walls of a payag, where women who never appeared in colonial chronicles nevertheless shaped the course of events through their influence on powerful men and their own direct wielding of power. 

The undercurrents of politics were the novel's golden currency. Rich with ideas on politics and cunning, tactical prowess in war and diplomacy, the slow burning decision map inside Humabon's head followed the branching of chess moves and countermoves. 

"Four virtues," you [Humabon] muse, "and not one for cunning." 

* * * 

You've learned from Handuraw that true power grows in the spaces between order and chaos. The serpent within you writhes in anticipation of how this foreign faith might crack open the rigid structures of your society. Like a lover's touch that begins gentle but promises exquisite passion, these small disruptions will spread through your domain, creating delicious new possibilities for those who know how to ride the storm. Just as Handuraw taught you to savor the moment when katsubong first enters the blood – that sweet instant between wholeness and corruption – you understand that true power flows from controlled transgression. Each small disorder you introduce only makes your eventual dominion stronger, more complete. 

The prudence of Rajah Humabon was Machiavellian. His tactics were deployed through statecraft and delicious cunning and deception. Naked power reared its timeless hydra head.

In Rajah Versus Conquistador, Corazo delivered a nuanced interpretation of history: heady, inspired, and feasible. It was a compelling version and vision of 1521, a provocative addendum to the national imaginary. In it, the characters interact not wholly in words but in body language. Every gesture was of fatal import, and power wore the skin of a chameleon. It was a refreshing counterpoint to the hagiographic and colonialist biographies and films of Magellan or the nationalist myth-rendering of Lapulapu in novels and films. 

Filmmakers and novelists had projected a lot of things on the characters of history, including their own biases and prejudices. We had consumed a lot of history appropriated and distorted in various permutations. They had been misguided in depicting, and we had been inept in perceiving, the "other", favoring the truths of our own culture and civilization because our comfort zone could no longer imagine beyond our second nature and primal urges. We could no longer look beyond our own points of view. 

"The most effective lies are those wrapped around a core of truth", wrote Corazo in the novel. Perhaps only the untethered imagination of fiction, and fiction of imagination, could allow us to view historical events with a grain of truth. Corazo's recovery of Humabon through fiction was a recovery of a lost point of view.

Restoration of Rajah Humabon statue in Cebu (Image from SunStar Cebu)