Riding and Resisting Capital’s Universalizing Tendency in Two Gremer Chan Reyes Stories

This paper was originally presented at Mopalawod, Mopalawom: The Sea and Its Transformations in Cebuano Literature, a conference held via Zoom on October 5, 2020. 

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I. Once-Isolated Worlds 

Back in 2018, in the course of doing research for a novel I had already begun writing, I interviewed a priest who told me of his idyllic childhood growing up in the fertile valleys of Tuburan, a town he frequently described as “quiet” and “sleepy,” often overshadowed by its more developed, better-known neighboring municipalities with less stony shorelines. The descriptions he provided played out like vignettes right out of a postcolonial novel: long summer treks to the beach with relatives and friends across hilly terrain, false priests roaming the countryside and performing pseudo-Catholic rituals in the presence of unsuspecting locals, clashes between communist rebels and the military, to name a few. Of particular interest—to my city-born and -bred imagination, so used to traveling along the many roads and highways that snake across our island—was his mention of how certain barangays of his hometown were so far-flung, so isolated, cut off by rivers and streams, that they could only be reached through small boats and footbridges. Over time, however, concrete bridges sturdy enough to support motorized vehicles were constructed along these trails, and the inhabitants of these once-difficult-to-get-to localities were provided greater access to the outside world, and vice versa. 

Incidentally, that same year, and just a Malayan peninsula away, a tiny speck of an island in the Andaman archipelago—a barely noticeable chain of islands flecking the Indian Ocean’s eastern corridor—popped up in the news yet again. Such a phenomenon occurs every few decades or so, whenever the residents of North Sentinel Island, a Stone-Age tribe who’ve managed to maintain a hunter-gatherer lifestyle for thousands of years, emerge from their thick forest and are glimpsed by the outside world. This being the first time in the era of social media, newsfeeds were awash with thumbnails on the twenty-six-year-old American missionary, John Allen Chau, who was last seen by his fishermen guides leaping from their boat and swimming toward the shores of “Satan’s last stronghold,” as he referred to it in his journal, where he chronicled his days leading up to his botched evangelizing mission (Conroy online).

Both the priest’s reminiscence of certain barangays in his hometown and the gristly incident at North Sentinel Island are stark reminders of how bodies of water—although easier to traverse than, say, steep mountain ranges or dense jungle—can serve as natural barriers that isolate, even protect, communities from the influence of the outside world and the myriad laws and systems that govern it. In our highly industrialized, globalized era, where our species is the most connected we’ve ever been, it’s hard for some of us so accustomed to modern living to even comprehend how there are still pockets of the world inhabited by populations so isolated either by natural topographical barriers (their existence constantly under threat of encroachment, as evidenced by the Sentinelese and the hundred or so other, less protected uncontacted tribes), or simply due to their distance from bustling economic centers, with younger generations—discouraged by the penury associated with traditional ways of life—being reeled in by the allures of modernity.

Two stories by Gremer Chan Reyes, an award-winning Cebuano writer, deftly illustrate the latter process, thus giving the reader an intimate, more nuanced look at how notions of modernity clash and blend in the individual’s mind, and manifest in his actions and experiences: “The Child, the Bird, the Man” (original Cebuano title: “Ang Bata, ang Langgam, ang Tawo”) and “The Fish of the Flower of Talikod” (“Ang Isda sa Bulak sa Talikod”), both translated and published in the 2009 anthology, Men at Sea and Other Stories. Although born in Cebu City, Reyes migrated as a child with his family to Lambusan, a remote locale in the north of the province, which he described as a “sleepy fishing village” and “a separate world” that could only be reached by banca (Sabanpan-Yu 8). The celebrated fictionist thus came of age in a rural, largely isolated setting at the fringes of the modern world. His stories are rife with references to Lambusan and other places where he lived, such as Matanhag and Tinagong Dagat. Given how small Cebu is, these places are no doubt within driving distance of the metropolitan center, but they may as well exist in another place and time. However, as these once-isolated worlds become more accessible with various infrastructure projects and new commute routes being established yearly, compounded by our island’s reputation as a tourist destination, one cannot help but express concern that it is only a matter of time before outsiders—including corporate interests that exemplify the market economy undergirding globalization—find their way there.

 

II. Capital’s Universalizing Tendency

Progressive voices argue that the current economic system that benefits a select privileged few while disenfranchising vast swaths of the population, more so those in the Global South, is not a historical fluke or accident but a deliberate mechanism thrust upon all of us. In what he refers to as the “Conventional Story,” Chibber lays down a succinct history of the origins and rise of global capitalism and its successful spread across the world. 

According to this narrative, modern-day capitalism’s origins can be traced back to Western Europe—particularly to colonial powers such as England and France. The bourgeoisie, “a class of incipient capitalists functioning in the interstices of feudal society” (10), spearheaded an anti-feudal coalition through a series of revolutions that resulted in the removal or reduction of influence of the old order’s hegemons: monarchs, lords, and royal families. The moment the bourgeois secured power, they set about transforming traditional economic and political institutions. Most notable among these reforms was the recognition of certain rights, many of which we take for granted today, such as citizenship, the right to own property, and the disavowal of the divinity of kings. 

Once their hold had been firmly established in Europe, the proponents of capital, given their “need of a constantly expanding market” (Marx and Engels 659), set about in search of new sources of wealth, and in effect propagated their profit-centric ideology out into the world. Just as capitalism deposed the old feudal order in Europe, Chibber explains, it too would do the same to the local pre-capitalist societal relations it encountered on other continents, with colonialism serving as the “handmaiden of historical progress,” accelerating the establishment of market economies and modern political practices throughout the globe (11). 

The islands that would come to be known as the Philippines were, of course, not spared from this general pattern. As the Spaniards gradually consolidated their rule over our archipelago, they did away with the precolonial barter economy, privatized communal land (Fenner 42), and established pueblos in the lowlands so previously disparate populations would be easier to convert and administer (58). The opening of Manila to world trade and the revitalization of regional ports like those in Cebu and Iloilo, primarily for the benefit of the Spanish Crown, were also key developments that accelerated the Philippines’s incorporation into the global economy. 

With this new, more interconnected, more interdependent order also came the reproduction of the capitalist class mindset: the single-minded accumulation of more capital (Chibber 111). So normalized is this mode of thinking in the modern era that it’s barely even ruminated upon by the average person. How often, for example, are we inundated on a daily basis with ads that ask us if we want to increase our earning potential or if we’re interested in starting a small business? Or what student hasn’t been encouraged by their parents to pursue a “practical” degree that promises a well-paying career? This then is the tendency that capitalism universalizes, inculcating into each and every one of us the idea that we exist for the sole purpose of profit, whether generating it ourselves through our own labor, or extracting it from others through means such as rent or employment.

  

III. Riding the Modernity Wave 

The germination of this universalizing tendency is well apparent in “The Fish of the Flower of Talikod.” Set in the rural, coastal locale of Matanhag, far removed from the concrete and congestion of the provincial capital, Reyes’s story features two characters two generations apart: Tatang, the first-person narrator who has lived off the sea all his life, as his forebears have before him, and his grandson, Dodo, a fresh graduate initially expected by many in the family—his grandfather included—to leave for the States. Throughout the narrative, Reyes makes every effort to set the two men apart—each fascinated by the differences that mark the other’s generation. 

Although certainly not old enough to have experienced what a pre-capitalist era must have been like, Tatang is still unequivocally anchored or better attuned to the expansive waters of their locality. He is, for example, well aware of the best time to reel in an abundant catch (“‘…when the east turned light and the tide had not yet receded’” [Reyes, “The Fish” 12]), how to carefully observe the waves (“‘It is important that [the fisherman] knows the ebb and flow of the tide as well as the nature of the current’”), and even expresses a certain contentment with not knowing the causes behind certain phenomena, most notably with respect to the titular fish and flower (“‘There are many strange happenings that I don’t understand so I just take these as mysteries of life’” [117]). 

On the other hand, Dodo personifies a more modern, more “cosmopolitan” upbringing and outlook. Unlike Tatang, Dodo is a college graduate, having attained his Chemical Engineering degree at some unnamed school in the city. As mentioned above, he also bears long-term plans of migrating to the US—history’s greatest bastion of capitalism—where no doubt a promising career awaits him (along with a lucrative salary). He also possesses quite the go-getter attitude: a trait one must proudly exhibit and practice in order to succeed in a hyper-connected, highly competitive world. Besides proclaiming how he wanted to finish college “at the earliest possible time” (113), he also boldly states how he would gladly marry the “beautiful woman” whom no one wants that is Matanhag (a metaphor Tatang uses to describe their picturesque hometown’s lack of opportunities). Where Tatang seems all right with certain mysteries of life remaining so, Dodo is irrepressibly curious—a trait not undesirable in itself, but when paired with a mindset intent on accruing more capital, it is suspicious at the very least, dangerous at worst. When a thing and its properties are better known and understood, the figuring of ways by which it can be profited off of will surely follow. 

With Dodo’s apparent gutsiness, though, also comes an admirable eagerness to understand not just the traditional ways of living off the sea, but also immersing himself in the overall rural life, just as his now-deceased father did before. Dodo tells his grandfather at one point, “A man who reaches other parts of the world and has not seen the home of his ancestors is a hypocrite” (113). Hence, his decision to stay in Matanhag for an extra two years, delaying his migration plans but also—or so he hopes—impressing into his mind memories fonder than those the “lie” of the city left him with (114). 

Tatang, meanwhile, is visibly stunned. The fisherman may be more traditional in his way of life, but having already been exposed to modern notions of “advancement,” “social mobility,” and “progress,” he only sees moribundity in remaining in Matanhag, going so far as to describe it as “the home of people without dreams.” His grandson’s seemingly impulsive choice remains a continued source of bafflement and concern for him—feelings that don’t necessarily dissipate by story’s end. 

While his sentiments are understandable—expected even, from an older generation that wants nothing less than a better life for their progeny—Ortega warns of how such hopes, typically brought about by the pressures of an encroaching modern world, could lead to a younger generation’s abandonment of local customs and traditions in their assimilation into the “market-based ecology” governing the global economy (281). Dodo may be the first of his family to be recruited into the labor market, but his move, in all likelihood, sets a precedent for others in Matanhag down the line. His experience is not a unique one. Many others of a similar rural background across the world (the children of farmers or indigenous people, for example) are set to follow or have already followed a trajectory such as his, assimilating and subjecting themselves to the rules of the market while their homelands lose subsequent generations, thus putting at risk their traditional claims. 

Tatang’s failure to see things this way, though not his fault by any means, is nevertheless illustrative of how normalized the “compulsions of market dependence” (Chibber 125) have become, having taken root in a man who’s lived his life largely isolated from the greater world. 

It is in this way that both characters are imbued with nuance by the author: Tatang is not wholly traditional, and Dodo is not above learning more about his own heritage. Arguably, Dodo is also emblematic of the “woke” younger generations of several “othered” communities: eager to unlearn many of the ideas forced on them by a Eurocentric education and perspective, and at the same time relearning old customs and traditions; in the process preserving unique worldviews at risk of dying out in an increasingly homogenizing world. Their being part of a global order, however, is already an inescapable fact.

  

IV. The Consequences of Resisting Modernity

Like any enduring narrative, major upheavals and moments in history are best remembered by their conflict. Two sides hold two opposing goals, with one typically being more powerful than the other. It may seem like an inevitable, insatiable force, but capital’s “ceaseless quest for hegemony” (Chibber 12) across the world does not go unresisted. Native populations that have long lived in harmony with their environment fight off loggers, ranchers, and other state-backed corporate developments on a daily basis. Though they are occasionally given the option to profit off such incursions (by selling off or renting their land for cheap, or by working as day laborers), such deals come at a great detrimental cost. 

Resisting modernity, then, in many cases leads to the marginalization of social agents who exhibit “forms of consciousness” that do not conform to European-imposed expectations and ideas of developmentalism. Often it is understood that these agents had not been “fully subjected to the cleansing effect of capitalist relations,” though Chibber admits the prudent course would simply be to wait: It is only a matter of time before capitalism inculcates into them a “modern orientation.” In the hyper-connectedness and interdependency of today’s world, populations can only survive in isolation for so long. 

In “The Child, the Bird, the Man,” Reyes illuminates the consequences an individual faces in resisting modernity and capital. When Along, the protagonist, wakes up one morning to a day “awash with light” (“The Child” 89), his immediate emotion is a “tug of anxiety,” brought about by the realization of his failure to wake up early “to comb the shore for bunog to use as bait for catching swordfish.” Had he caught said fish, he would have then sold it for a hefty price to buy vitamins for his sickly son. 

His wife airs her disappointment with him when he heads down to the kitchen—not that she expected him to follow through on his swordfish excursion anyway. In an unvoiced retort by Along, we learn that he harbors much resentment not just toward his wife, but at the fact that he’s even married: 

            Why did I marry you? The taunt echoed wild and loud in his head. He wished he could slap the taunt back in his wife’s face as he trudged down to the shore. Wasn’t he from the city and the scion of parents who had high hopes for their son? Why of all women in this world did he choose to marry a barrio lass? Why was he married to a termagant of a woman who was noisy and quarrelsome? If there were any misgivings, he ought to be the one filled with regret. Yes, why did he get married? He whose mind was restless, itinerant, and wandering? Why did he get into this mess? What happened to him? What happened? (90) 

“Restless,” “itinerant,” and “wandering” aren’t exactly qualities one would associate with—let alone see as conforming to—a modern orientation. As we grow up, pressure mounts for us to arrive at that stable career, find the right partner, and settle into a permanent home. Along, because of his marriage and his child, is forced to conform to modern notions of stability and permanence, at the expense of the three above traits that greatly contributed to his individuality, his uniqueness. And because he is unable to see things from a much larger perspective—specifically how modern expectations of marriage and finance are a product of colonial history and a global market economy—he falls into the trap of blaming himself for his impoverished, day-to-day situation, somehow feeling like a “prisoner who would no longer live to see the day of liberation.” 

Viewed through a Marxist lens, marriage is a practice serving a primarily economic purpose. In such a union, man and woman cohabitate to produce the next generation of workers or property owners, thereby perpetuating an economically unjust system stratified along class lines. Both spouses are expected to fulfill certain gender-specific roles: the wife, traditionally charged with domestic affairs, is designated the caregiver, while the husband provides as the breadwinner. Because it is the latter who rakes in the income which the family relies on to survive, he is seen as the “hard worker,” putting the former at a disadvantage. This thus creates a dynamic in the household analogous to industrial society at large, where it is the husband who is the exploitative bourgeoisie and the wife the oppressed proletariat (Engels 744). In Reyes’s story, the author shakes things up a bit and shows how Along’s failure as a breadwinner—and therefore failing to meet the aforementioned expectations—essentially shoehorns him into a subservient position, turning him into a proverbial henpecked husband.

Further instances of Along’s inability or unwillingness to conform to modern capitalist expectations—and enduring the sidelining that comes with it—are brought to the fore in flashback scenes. Along recalls how his father, though well-meaning, displayed a penchant for unfairly comparing him to ostensibly more successful classmates who’ve since become doctors and engineers, with some even landing jobs abroad (Reyes, “The Child” 91). 

His father had also previously urged him to return to the city, where Along and his family can be better taken care of. Just like Dodo, however, Along has no love for urban spaces, and the mere thought of settling in a domain where capitalist relations are so entrenched is enough to send bile rising to his stomach. Along’s adoption of provincial mannerisms and speech, which he picked up from his domineering wife, have also since distanced him from his city friends, who now see him as backward, even “lethargic.” Because there’s just no convincing Along, his father sends him money instead, which he then uses to purchase a subiran (“a small and narrow outriggered boat used for trolling” [Woolf]) so he can live off the sea and lessen his dependence on modern amenities. 

This buying of a traditional vessel for catching fish, the refusal to move back to the city and face incorporation into capitalistic relations, and his adoption of barrio-folk ways can be read as his own little ways of resisting capital and modernity. It may not be deliberate in the sense that he is able to identify dominating ideologies and mechanisms as the root cause of his marginalization—but these are acts of resistance nevertheless, to sate, however momentarily, that restless, itinerant, wandering part of him. He may encounter challenges in this resisting life—the infrequency of an income stream, false steps in learning how to fish, and the ridicule of fellow fishermen—but he seems more than willing to endure or hurdle these. 

Toward the end, Along’s “non-conformist” muster is put to the test when a dentist from the city, a regular visitor who conducts check-ups on the local children, shows up at their house, offering to buy a seagull Along accidentally caught while out at sea, on the same day he failed to get up early. The bird is now a source of pride and happiness for his son—so much so that the boy’s health dramatically improves, thus forgoing with the need for Along to buy vitamins (an inkling perhaps of Reyes’s preference for natural, less chemical therapeutic methods). Seeing how happy his son is, Along is accordingly reluctant to accept the man’s offer, but his wife—who sees the bird as an added “burden to their impoverished situation” (96)—eagerly snatches the money from the dentist’s hand. In this abrupt way, she succumbs to a tangible representation of capital, cash, with the act proving deleterious to their child, who bawls implacably upon finding out the bird is gone. 

When she witnesses how Along is forced to lie to their son that the gull had escaped, she concedes she has made a mistake and urges her husband to run after the dentist and return the money to him. Reyes doesn’t confirm if the protagonist succeeds in his retrieval, but he does instill Along’s run with a certain liberating air: “His feet almost did not touch the ground in his race with the bill in his hand to bring back the bird” (97). It is almost as if, in returning the amount, in this one final act of resistance, however modest and meager, Along is able to savor at least some measure of freedom.

  

V. The Sea: Sustenance and Resistance 

In the 2018 Gina Apostol novel, Insurrecto, one of the characters, Chiara, muses at one point how she feels “stuck in someone’s movie” (50), as if some indecisive filmmaker is dictating her every step, albeit somewhat haphazardly. This imaginary individual, according to Chiara, had already planned out a beginning, but he has yet to piece together a cohesive narrative and an ending from the “scraps of script” lying around and the “two million feet” of footage he’s already shot multiple times. 

The dual role of unwitting audience and actor appears to be a perfectly apt metaphor for the three characters discussed above and the subalterns from which Reyes drew inspiration in crafting them: rural fishermen and coastal folk at the global economy’s periphery. The way they react to this capital-driven mechanism varies, and depends on their age, attitude, and past experiences. Tatang, though the oldest among the three, and also the most adept at traditional Visayan sea life, appears to be the most receptive to modernity’s overtures. Though he admires the beauty of his hometown, he recognizes the impracticality, the fruitlessness of remaining there. He sees no problem with—or doesn’t see the long-term consequences in—the departure of young folks like his grandson from their traditional homelands and the abandonment of generations-old ways. Meanwhile, Dodo exhibits an eagerness to immerse himself in the rural, coastal life, learn the ways of his forebears—however fleeting two years may be—before he is eventually recruited back into the labor process. Modernity has not made Dodo disdainful of tradition, but rather has augmented his appreciation for it. Along, for his part, is the most deliberately averse to modernity, but his being a husband and father—coupled with expectations ingrained into the patriarchal tool that is capital—compel him to be practical at times. 

Their myriad differences aside, these three men are bound together by the sea, which plays setting to several scenes in both stories. It also serves as a source of sustenance for the characters, who live off what they catch—or in Dodo’s case, who plans to live off what he catches when he commences with his sojourn. The sea is also a wellspring of fascination, more so for Dodo, who has an endearing encounter with the elusive flower of Talikod. Because the sea provides and captivates, it reduces the characters’ reliance on modern utilities. This is especially true for Along, who actually used the money acquired by his father in the city to purchase his own subiran. The sea in these two Reyes stories can then be said to function also as a site of resistance, allowing the characters to nourish their hunger and curiosity, while keeping modernity at bay in their own little ways.

Additionally, their shared failure to identify a larger mechanism or ideology at work—one which prizes an accumulation of wealth above all else—belies capital’s insidious nature. It’s not hard to imagine—as more young people follow a similar path as Dodo, or replicate modern orientations that view Along’s resistive gestures as “backward”—future generations seeing as natural, even eventual, the erosion of otherwise distinct customs and sustainable practices, along with the abandonment of their traditional dwellings. This consequently leaves the door open for exemplars of capital interests—real-estate companies, for instance—to encroach and “develop” the locale in a manner that is profitable for themselves.

Hence, when delving into topics that pit the traditional and the modern, or the past and the present, we shouldn’t simply see such comparisons as mere binary, black-and-white dichotomies. As Reyes has shown, the experiences of those navigating through the vicissitudes of two worlds and epochs meeting tend to be more nuanced than we initially think. Traditional isn’t always a hundred-percent favored by the old, and modernity isn’t entirely embraced either by the young. At the same time, modernity doesn’t necessarily have to be something rural communities must be constantly wary of: The dentist’s regular check-ups on the children in Along’s locality are certainly a great boon to them, and perhaps Along could have been spared the trouble of having to catch a swordfish to begin with if only a well-funded government hospital were within their vicinity. It is thus important to look into capital’s influence in periods of transition. How is its accumulation—or an aversion to it—linked to a fictional characters’ motivations, or even an actual historical figures’ decisions? 

Given its universalizing tendency, and its pervasive nature across global institutions, every one of us feels its machinations to varying degrees. By this stage in humanity’s story, not one person is left exempt, however isolated. True, it may seem myopic to pin the blame of every failed social phenomenon solely on capital, but as Chibber avers, “to deny its salience where it is in fact a relevant causal agent” is no less objectionable (123–124).

Works Cited 

Apostol, Gina. Insurrecto. Soho, 2018.

Chibber, Vivek. Postcolonial Theory and the Specter of Capital. Verso, 2013.

Conroy, J. Oliver. “The life and death of John Chau, the man who tried to convert his killers.” The Guardian, 3 February 2019, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/feb/03/john-chau-christian-missionary-death-sentinelese. Accessed 7 August 2020. 

Engels, Friedrich. “The Origin of Family, Private Property, and State.” The Marx-Engels Reader, 2nd ed., edited by Robert C. Tucker, Norton, 1978, pp. 734–759. 

Fenner, Bruce L. Cebu under the Spanish Flag (1521–1896): An Economic and Social History. University of San Carlos UP, 2014. 

Marx, Karl and Friedrich Engels. “From The Communist Manifesto.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, 2nd ed., edited by Leitch, et. al., Norton, 2010, pp. 657–660.

Ortega, Arnisson Andre. Neoliberalizing Spaces in the Philippines. Ateneo de Manila UP, 2018. 

Reyes, Gremer Chan. “The Child, the Bird, the Man.” Men at Sea and Other Stories. Translated by Hope Sabanpan-Yu, NCCA, 2009, pp. 89–97. 

----. “The Fish of the Flower of Talikod.” Men at Sea and Other Stories. Translated by Hope Sabanpan-Yu, NCCA, 2009, pp. 111–117. 

Sabanpan-Yu, Hope. “Gremer Chan Reyes and His Work.” Men at Sea and Other Stories. NCCA, 2009, pp. 8–15. 

Woolf, John U. Cebuano Dictionary for Android. Version 1.3, Cornell, 2013.