Timeless TIWI

Crimson sky at 6:48 p.m. today here in Tiwi, Albay 🌄

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🎌 The Nippongo Experiment in Tiwi

When the Propaganda Corps of the Imperial Japanese Forces published the wartime booklet Fundamental Japanese for Filipinos, their grand strategic goal was clear: dismantle American cultural influence and linguistically integrate the Philippines into the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. The military administration mandated the teaching of Nippongo (the Japanese language) across all schools, government offices, and public spaces.

But history is truly made in the provinces, away from the propaganda offices of . In the municipality of , the reality of this linguistic campaign relied on local educators who found themselves caught in the gears of wartime bureaucracy.

The Educators of Tiwi

To implement the new curriculum, a few select teachers were sent to undergo training to learn the Japanese language. Among this group was Cresenciano Templado—an educator who, decades later, would become the very first administrator of the Tiwi Community College.

This historical intersection was preserved not just in archival texts, but through precious oral history. As a child listening to stories about Tiempo Hapon (the Japanese era), the writer's grandfather, Lolo Pito, recalled this exact linguistic experiment, noting:

“Si Lolo mo Creseng, tatao an mag Nippongo kaito ta nagturo an kaito sa Central." (Your Lolo Creseng knew how to speak back then because he taught it at the Central School).

Passivity as Resistance

Though copies of the booklet found their way into the hands of Tiwi’s schoolteachers, the aggressive push to replace English as the primary mode of instruction ultimately fell flat.

History often highlights active guerrilla warfare, but in Tiwi’s classrooms, resistance took the form of quiet apathy. The local teachers simply were not invested in the occupier's curriculum. Rather than enthusiastically spreading the language of the Empire, they merely went through the motions—doing just enough to comply without truly adopting or enforcing the lessons.

The Pragmatic Garrison: Where Mandate Met Reality

This passive resistance succeeded largely because of the unique dynamics of the local Japanese military presence. The commanding officer of the garrison in Tiwi was famously lax regarding the strict implementation of the Nippongo project.

Remarkably, the commander was fluent in English. Instead of enforcing rigid cultural assimilation, he utilized his English skills to build surprisingly good relationships with many Tiwinhons at the time. This mutual linguistic bridge, combined with the indifference of the local teachers, ensured that while the propaganda booklet remains a stark physical artifact of wartime pressure, its intended impact in Tiwi faded away the moment the occupation ended.

Municipality of Tiwi

The Day an Oven Fell from the Sky: A Tiwi Wartime Mystery

When it comes to Tiempo Hapon (the Japanese era), Tiwi has its share of tales told by the elders. When I was a kid, some old-timers in Basag had their own stories to tell based on what they saw or experienced during World War II. Of course, depending on who was telling the story and the context in which it was shared, prudence dictates that we always take them with a grain of salt.

Some of these stories involve aircraft flying over the skies of . One tale claims a dogfight occurred in the vicinity of in , where a Japanese plane crashed; among the dead pilot’s possessions, locals supposedly found cooked kamoteng kahoy (cassava) kept as his provisions. Another story tells of a Japanese plane that crashed in Joroan; the pilot survived the crash with injuries but was killed by locals and eventually buried at the cemetery. There was also talk of a Japanese seaplane landing in the waters off due to mechanical failure. Of course, without physical evidence, it is hard to confirm the credibility of these storytellers—especially considering that when they spoke of these events, they were usually under the influence of . Still, they were old enough to have lived through the war years.

However, there was one particular story passed down by these elders that I was actually able to confirm years ago. While rummaging through US Army intelligence files, I found a report regarding the event, documented by a guerrilla officer from Tiwi. It detailed a "stove" being dropped in by a US Navy warplane in 1944. The timeline suggests this occurred around or after the Battle of Gulf, or most probably during the Battle of San Bernardino Strait. The plane that dropped that "oven" was likely a carrier-based F4F Wildcat, the most common aircraft in the Navy’s air fleet at the time.

I will have to dig into my archives to find that document again, which was originally reported by a lieutenant in the Tiwi guerrilla movement. Stay tuned for the next update, where I'll share the actual details of that declassified wartime report.

Kun naabotan mo pa ang uniform na ini sa saro sa mga eskwelahan digdi sa Tiwi, sigurado akong mauban ka na man, adi?! 😁

Aber, sain palan na uniporme ini? 🤗🏫

The opening day of school is always a mixed bag, bringing a blend of joy, anticipation, and anxiety for students. It is a rite of passage that nearly everyone experiences. For beginners, it marks the first taste of independence, a time when children start learning to navigate unfamiliar surroundings and find their place in a larger world. For returning students, opening day is a high-energy reunion, filled with the excitement of catching up with old friends and sharing summer stories.

For some, however, the morning arrives with a measure of apprehension. There is always the anticipation, and sometimes the dread, of finding out who their teachers will be. In every school, certain teachers develop reputations that precede them. Some are known for being strict disciplinarians, while others are beloved for their kindness and patience. Students often arrive on opening day carrying stories heard from older siblings, cousins, or neighbors, wondering whether those stories are true and what the coming school year will bring.

Back in Grade One in the , I remember hauling my own chair to school on opening day. I lived about a hundred meters from the school, and there I was, just seven years old, thin-framed and determined, doing my best to carry a heavy wooden dining chair straight to my classroom.

During the late 1970s, schools in suffered from a chronic shortage of furniture, so students were expected to bring their own seats. My temporary dining chair was meant to hold my place until a local carpenter, commissioned by my father, finished building a custom single-seat desk in our backyard.

I was assigned to the class of Mrs. Salvacion Crucillo, housed in one of the newer RP-US Bayanihan buildings at Tiwi Central School. The room was a chaotic gallery of furniture with absolutely no uniformity. Some chairs were sturdy, some wobbly, some painted, and others bare wood. Every chair seemed to tell its own story. My friend Ambet had what was undoubtedly the biggest chair in the room, which remarkably featured a reclining back. The sight of it always amused us, standing out proudly among the collection of mismatched furniture.

Those elementary school years coincided with the geothermal exploration and development of Tiwi. Massive machinery, construction equipment, and industrial supplies arrived almost daily, shipped in huge wooden crates. Once the equipment was unpacked, many of those sturdy wooden containers were left behind at the project sites.

Seeing the waste, an executive at Philippine Geothermal, Inc. ( ) had a practical idea. Instead of letting the discarded lumber go to waste, he saw an opportunity to recycle the materials into school furniture. He arranged for the crates to be dismantled and transformed into school desks and chairs, which were then donated to Tiwi Central School. The morning those newly made wooden chairs were delivered to the school remains a core memory. What had once been industrial shipping crates had been given a second life to support our education.

The students, teachers, and town leaders were deeply grateful for the donation. One morning, our teachers lined us up and led us to the Municipal Terrace to serenade the executive responsible for the project.

To the tune of the traditional song “Thank You, Ang Babait Ninyo,” we sang:

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Howard,
Thank you!”

That simple song carried the sincere gratitude of an entire community. For us children, the gift of a proper chair meant comfort in the classroom. For our teachers, it meant one less problem to worry about. For the town, it was a reminder that even the scraps of a great industrial undertaking could be transformed into something meaningful for future generations.

Nearly five decades later, that memory remains as vivid as ever. Whenever the opening day of school comes around, I cannot help but think of those mismatched chairs, the kindness of strangers, and a little boy carrying a wooden chair down a dusty road in Basag, eager to begin another year of learning.