Am 08. Oktober 1897 schrieb Emilio Jacinto, der in der philippinischen Geschichte als das Hirn der Katipunan angesehen wird, „A La Patria“ oder „An das Vaterland“, ein patriotisches Stück inspiriert durch „Mi Ultimo Adios“ oder „Mein letztes Lebe Wohl“, dass von Dr Jose Rizal geschrieben wurde vor seiner Hinrichtung auf dem Bagumbayan Feld, das heute als Rizal oder Luneta Park bekannt ist. Jacinto schrieb das Gedicht unter den Kokospalmen von Sta. Cruz in Laguna.
Jacinto, der das mom de plume „Dimas Ilaw“ trug, war ein ebenso zelebrierter und einflussreicher Schreiber und Dichter, dessen Stücke wesentlich die philippinischen Massen ermahnten, der Revolution gegen Spanien beizutreten und dass jeder Filipino, der die Freiheit liebt, bereit sein sollte Opfer zu bringen für sein Land.
Am 15. Dez. 1875 geboren in Trozo, Manila, gab Jacinto im Alter von 18 Jahren seinen akademischen Plan auf und trat der Katipunan bei, die von dem großen Plebejer Andres Bonifacio am 07. Juli 1892 in Tondo gegründet worden war. Jacinto war das jüngste Mitglied zu diesem Zeitpunkt der Katipunan.
Er schrieb die „Kartilla“, den Leitfaden wie Katipuneros sich im Kampf für die Freiheit gegen die spanischen Kolonisatoren zu verhalten hätten.
Er gab auch die Zeitung „Kalayaan“ oder „Freiheit“ herasus, die Zeitung für die geheime Organisation, welche die Mitgliederschaft der Katipunan von 300 auf 30.000 kurz vor dem Ausbruch der philippinischen Revolution im August 1896 anschwellen liess.
Die Einfachheit des Verständnisses für seinen Schreibstil für die Massen rief Bewunderung unter allen seinen Lesern hervor.
Seine anderen Werke umfassen „Liwanag at Dilim“ oder „Licht und Dunkel“, „Pahayag“ oder „Manifest“, „Sa Mga Kabagayan Ko“ oder „An meine Landleute“, die alle sozialpolitische Ideen von Dr. Jose Rizal und Marcelo H. del Pilar für seinen Rollenmodelle benutzten.
Jacinto hatte unterschiedliche, sensitive Positionen in der Organisation inne, er war Sekretär, Schatzmeister, Herausgeber und später General der Revolutionsstreitkräfte in der Provinz Laguna.
Nach dem Tod von Bonifacio, kämpfte Jacinto weiter gegen die spanischen Kolonisatoren aber lehnte es ab, sich den Streitkräften von General Emilio Aguinaldo anzuschliessen.
Er infizierte sich mit Malaria und starb am 16. April 1899 in Majayjay, in der Provinz Laguna im Alter von 23 Jahren. Seine sterblichen Überreste wurden später zum Manila Nordfriedhof umgebettet.
To the Fatherland (A la Patria)
Hail! oh my native country! more than aught I adore thee,
Whom with so many treasures lavish Nature has blessed;
Eden where flowers more fragrant bloom than in other gardens,
Where with more beautiful colors, rising, the dawn paints the heavens,
And where the poet, enraptured, sees what he elsewhere but dreamt.
Hail! oh thou queen enchanting! Filipinas beloved,
Venus beauty-enshrouded, peerless, beloved land!
Region of light and color, poetry, fragrance, and gaiety,
Regions of fruits delicious and of sweet harmonies, gently
Lulled to sleep by the breezes and the surf of the sea.
Pearl the most precious and dazzling of our Eastern ocean,
Paradise gilt by the splendors of our brilliant sun:
Eagerly do I greet thee, and adoration ardent
Offers my soul with the burning, fervent desire to see thee
Free from thy bitter sorrow, free from the Spaniard’s yoke!
Ah, in the midst of thy splendors, sadly in chains dost thou languish,
That which to thee is most precious-Freedom, thou hast it not!
Ah, to relieve thee, my country, in thy distress, in thy suffering,
Fain would I give my life-blood, gushing forth from my bosom
To the last drop, and oblivion find, and eternal rest.
What should be thine by justice, rights unalienable
Are naught but words vain and hollow, cruelmockery to thee;
Justice is but a deception in thy sad situation,
Bondmaid art thou, though worthy of a queen’s purple instead,
Joy givest thou to thy tyrant, who gives thee gall in return.
What does it help thee, my country, sad, bowed by dire misfortune,
That thou hast skies like the turquoise, clear and diaphanous,
That of thy moon the silvery beams are of matchless beauty:
What does it help thee, who, weeping, sighing in bitter bondage,
Hast for four centuries been suffering-what is the good to thee?
Aid what avail thee the flowers covering thy smiling meadows,
What the birds‘ carols that sweetly in your forests resound?
Ah, the same breete that their fragrance bears and their songs harmonious,
Bears on its wings cries and sobbing, weeping and bitter complaints,
That fill the soul with anguish and the mind with sad thoughts.
What is the good of thy splendor, pearl of virginal beauty,
What of the wealth oriental of thy alluring charms,
If all thy grace and beauty tyrants have cruelly blighted,
Bound with mortiferous irons, fetters of hardness unequalled,
Drawing enjoyment and pleasure from thy anguish and woe?
What is the good of thy fertile soil and its matchless exuberance,
That it brings forth fruit delicious, manifold, bountiful?
If all thy generous heavens smile down upon and shelter
Is claimed as his by the Spaniard, who stepping boldly forward,
Insolent in his vileness, loudly proclaims his right?
But to an end comes all silence, end must all servile patience,
Now, that the tocsin resounding calls us to fight for thee,
And without fear, without mercy, openly, crush the vile serpent
That with its venom has poisoned thy embittered existence:
Fatherland, here we are, ready, anxious, to die for thee!
All, the idolized mother, and the wife whom we worship,
Even the babe whom his father loves like a piece of his soul,
In the defence of thycause we abandon them, leaving behind us
Happiness, love, and hope: all we hold dear we give up,
All our fondest dreams, our illusions all.
And lo! throughout the country heroes spring up by enchantment,
Burning with love of their country, radiant with virtue’s light,
Fighting with ardor that only death will defeat and vanquish,
And even dying they will utter thy sacred name,
Fatherland, wishing thee happiness, still with their dying breath.
Numerous like stars in the heavens, thousands of noble heroes
Lay on thy sacred altars willingly down their lives,
And when ye hear of the combats and of the desperate charges,
Fervent prayers to heaven send up, ye children, ye aged,
And ye women, that victory may be with our hosts!
Midst the most horrible tortures cruelty can imagine,
Only because they have loved thee and desired thy good,
Countless martyrs have suffered, yet in the midst of their torments
Blessings for thee have risen from their pure souls, and even
Those who were slain met death with a last wish for thee.
What does it matter that hundreds, thousands of sons of thine perish,
In the unequal struggle, in the tremendous strife,
And that their precious life-blood flows till it seems like an ocean?
Is it not spilt in defending thee and thy sacred homes?
Little it matters if fighting bravely, they die in thy cause!
Little it matters if exile is our fate, and the prison,
Or even torture, with savage fury inflicted on us,
For at the sacred altar that in his heart each patriot
To thee has raised, have we all, one and all have we sworn
Fealty to our cause, and our honor pledged.
And if we forth from the fight come with the laurels of glory,
And our self-sacrificing labor is crowned with success,
Future ages will honor heap upon honor and crown thee
Queen of the realm of the free, pure and unblemished queen,
And all the peoples on earth mute and admiring will stand.
On the horizon slowly rises the dawn, most brilliant,
Of a new day of freedom, love and prosperity,
And of those who have fallen in the dark night of the struggle
Never let perish the memory, and in their graves, cold and humble,
Happy their slumber will be, happiness being thine.
But if the crown of the victor should be the spoil of the Spaniard,
And if the fickle fortune should turn its back on thee,
Yet we shall always be brethren-be what it may the outcome,
Liberty will always have champions while there are tyrants alive.
And our faith will not perish-while there is life, there is hope!
Silent forces are working while a false calm is reigning,
Calm that precedes the storm-soon will the hurricane rage,
And with more firmness, more prudence will our work we continue
And start the struggle again, but with more ardor and strength,
Till in the end we shall triumph, till dried your tears shall be.
Fatherland, idolized, precious, as your sorrows are growing
So our love grows amain, our affection for thee,
Do not lose hope or courage, for from the wound, the gaping,
Always the blood will flow, while there is life in us,
And we shall never forget thee in eternity’s space!
DIMAS-ILAW. Sta. Cruz, Laguna, October 8, 1897
(Translated from Spanish by Epifanio delos Santos)
