American History Tellers - Philippine-American War | Acts of Sedition | 4

Episode Date: December 29, 2021

With the war officially over, William Howard Taft took over authority as the Governor of the Philippines. Taft was a deep believer in the U.S. policy of “benevolent assimilation” and turned to schooling and political attraction to draw Filipinos to his mission. But he continued to struggle with pockets of armed resistance and challenges to American rule, including a series of “seditious” plays that hit Manila’s thriving theater scene.Filipinos were caught in a country broken by war, and in the coming years, many migrated to the U.S. to look for jobs, education and a better life. Filipino migrants powered the factories, fields and plantations in Hawaii and the West Coast, but they also faced hardship and discrimination in pursuit of the American dream. Listen to new episodes 1 week early and to all episodes ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App. https://wondery.app.link/historytellersSupport us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's May 14th, 1903. You're a playwright standing in the wings of the Teatro Libertad in Manila. It's a packed house. The crowd fills the seats and spills out into the open doorways. All night they've shown enthusiasm for your play, laughing at the jokes, gasping at the drama,

and stamping their feet during the fighting. It's all more than you could have hoped for. But now you have a problem on your hands. You're huddled with your actors behind the curtain. This is the final scene, the climax. You're all supposed to be in position. But they just look nervously at each other. Well, what's wrong? Finally, your lead actress speaks up. One won't take the stage. You look around frantically and notice for the first time that your lead actor is missing. What's the problem? He's been great.

Yes, but he's afraid to do the scene. He says he can't go through with it. She glances over your shoulder to where an American flag flies high on a wooden pole. You've been rehearsing this final scene for months. Juan's character is supposed to grab the American flag and trample it beneath his feet. Such an act is clearly dangerous, but you wanted to choose a symbol that could not be ignored. You thought Juan was up to the task. Now his cold feet could ruin the show.

The crowd is getting restless. The actress steps forward. Let me go talk to him. I'll convince him to go on. But you know how much you're asking these actors to risk you shake your head no if one doesn't want to continue let him be we've got to find another way look we all knew what we were getting into we must finish this play with or without him so don't close down the theater. So what? It's happened before. We'll find another place. It could be worse this time. We could all be arrested, maybe even exiled. But the actress steps forward defiantly. I will trample the flag. Her eyes are fierce, but you hold up your hand.

You turn and peek around the curtain. The crowd is even bigger than before. It's mostly Filipinos, but there are some Americans there too. You recognize colonial officials in the front row as well. You step back to your actors. No. I wrote the scene. I will play his role. The actors look at you stunned. But before they can say anything, you strip off your shirt and quickly put on a costume. Then you direct the stagehand to open the curtain and turn to your actors. Take your places. You walk to the flag and grip the pole in your hand. The curtain opens and after a quick line,

you bring the flag over your head and crash it down to the floor. There's a moment of shocked silence in the theater. Then, pandemonium. Cheering mixed with shouts, and suddenly there's a stampede to the stage. A policeman grabs you roughly and throws you to the ground. The war in the Philippines may be over, but tonight, you've shown that the battle for your country is still raging. Hey, this is Nick. And this is Jack.

And we just launched a brand new podcast called The Best Idea Yet. You may have heard of it. It's all about the untold origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel? Take out a witness? Paul can do it. I'm your host, Brandon Jinks Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers.

Our history, your story. In May 1903, Filipino author Aurelio Tolentino staged a controversial play in Manila that caused an uproar. It was called Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, and in it, Tolentino called for his lead character to trample the American flag as an act of protest against the crackdown on Philippine independence. When his actor refused to finish the play, Tolentino took the stage in his place, and for his act of defiance, Tolentino was arrested and jailed. With the war officially over, William Howard Taft took over authority as governor of the Philippines. Taft was a deep believer in the U.S. policy of benevolent assimilation and believed that with schooling and political engagement, he could pacify the islands and draw Filipinos to his mission. But he continued to struggle with pockets of armed resistance and protest against American

rule. Filipinos were caught in a country broken by war, and in the coming years, many migrated to the U.S. looking for work and a better life. These Filipino migrants powered the factories, fields, and plantations in Hawaii and the West Coast, but they also faced hardship and discrimination in their pursuit of the American dream. This is Episode 4, Acts of Sedition. By 1902, William Howard Taft felt the time had come to flex his full authority as Governor General of the Philippines. The 44-year-old former judge from Cincinnati was confident and outspoken, and he was impatient to enact his vision for America's newest territory. But he knew that success would not be easy.

Years of harsh military campaigns had left Filipinos cynical of American promises. Their countryside was in ruins, their villages destroyed. Taft's challenge would be to convince them that he was there for their own benefit. Taft had first arrived to the islands in June 1900 to head up a group of lawyers and academics called the Philippine Commission. The five-panel board was supposed to set up a new government in the colony, but landed in Manila to find war still raging. Their civil government would have to wait.

Taft grew frustrated, often clashing with headstrong military generals. He saw their blunt use of force as crass and counterproductive. They viewed Judge Taft as arrogant and out of touch and an odd choice for the job. In the years prior, Taft had opposed President William McKinley's position during the Spanish-American War, declaring, I am not and never have been an expansionist. I have always hoped that jurisdiction of our nation would not extend beyond territory between the two oceans. But he did share McKinley's belief in America's noble aims and its racial superiority. Once in the Philippines, he embraced the president's goal of benevolent assimilation with missionary zeal. As governor of the islands, Taft moved into the lavish palace built by the Spanish on the banks

of the Pasig River. His wife, Helen, marveled at the elegance, writing, We are really so grand now. We have five carriages, fourteen ponies, a steam launch, and dear knows how many servants. Taft used the palace to host dinners and parties for Manila's elite. Soon he was confident that his charm was winning over the Filipinos, writing back to Washington, I think I am not misled by flattery when I say that generally

the Filipino people regard me as having more sympathy with them than any other member of the commission. And to extend his popularity, Taft toured the countryside, donning a white suit and wide-brimmed hat, crisscrossing the islands on canoes, carriages, and steamships. He met with local Filipino leaders and posed for a photograph balancing his massive 300-pound frame

on the back of a water buffalo. Publicly, he trumpeted a new era of American policy that would serve Filipinos, whom he fondly called America's Little Brown Brothers. But privately, he held a critical view of Filipinos, telling friends and other U.S. officials that the island's inhabitants were superstitious, ignorant, and cruel. And though he courted and hosted wealthy Filipinos at his events, he found them to be corrupt, two-faced, and as ambitious as Satan. His observations confirmed his conviction that Filipinos were not ready to govern themselves. So when officials in Washington pressed him to give them a timeline for building a civic government, his response shocked many. Taft was adamant that American control of the islands should extend for generations, perhaps even for the next hundred

years or more. In effect, he advocated for a permanent colony. To build his case back home, he depicted a land ripe for investment. He rallied American businesses to fund new steamship lines, highways, factories, farms, and mines. He predicted huge profits and promised millions of new Filipino consumers of American goods. And as governor, his task on the islands was to persuade Filipinos to abandon their calls for independence. So he pursued a careful strategy of attraction that he called Philippines for the Filipinos. He courted the influential Manila press and promised to include Filipino members on the powerful commission board. But he saw the key to

his success in schooling. Only through American-led education, he believed, could Filipinos eventually be competent enough to take control of their own affairs. Under Taft, more than a thousand eager American schoolteachers spread across the island to set up classrooms. They taught their dazed, war-torn Filipino students a vivid lesson. The Philippines of the past was a primitive, chaotic place, but they were now entering a new, modern era as the latest American frontier. Taft's first superintendent of education declared, The Filipino people are like children, and childlike do not know what's best for them. In the ideal spirit of preparing them for the work of governing themselves,

their American guardianship has begun. But for all his lofty ideals, Taft was also practical. He knew that many Filipinos still resisted American efforts. So he created a powerful national police system called the Constabulary and filled its ranks with Filipinos loyal to America's cause. He empowered them to use an iron hand to enforce law and order. They quickly gained a reputation for their corruption and cruelty. Taft also passed a strict law known as the Sedition Act, which made it a crime to encourage, publicize, join, or speak for Philippine independence.

For Filipinos who dared question or challenge Taft's policies, the crackdown was fierce. In 1902, Filipino activist Sixto Lopez was exiled in Hong Kong, blocked from returning to the Philippines under Taft's sedition law after he gave pro-independence talks in the U.S. American authorities also seized his family's land and jailed his brothers. Desperate to help them, Lopez turned to his youngest sister, Clemencia. Together, they hatched a plan for Clemencia to sneak into the United States and take their case directly to the American public. Imagine it's May 29th, 1902.

You're an advocate for Filipino independence, and you're about to address the annual meeting for the New England Women's Suffrage Association in Boston. There are hundreds of people packed into the hall. You try to calm your nerves as a reporter approaches. Excuse me, ma'am. Can I have a word? Yes, of course, though I'm due on stage soon. This will only take a moment. That's a beautiful dress, by the way.

I was surprised to see you in modern attire. You decide to ignore the remark. You know the picture of you that's in the papers shows you in traditional Filipino clothing. You take pride in your culture, but the native attire was the photographer's idea. On this visit, you've been wearing dresses just like the other American women here in the crowd. Tonight is no different.

So, where does that the president refuse to respond to your complaint about your family back in the Philippines? Care to comment? Well, I did go to speak with the president. My only intention was to address the injustices back home. My brothers are imprisoned for nothing more than expressing their beliefs. But would you say the president's refusal was an insult? I only hope he reconsiders. But tonight, I'm here to talk about all Filipino people.

After years of war, we only strive to have peace, to have access to a real education, and to determine our own future. Our rights. You can tell the reporter isn't happy with your answer. He smirks as he scribbles in his notebook. And what rights would those be? The rights of life. Of land. Of liberty. I believe you're familiar with those. Sorry, ma'am. The Constitution does not extend to foreign lands, especially one that's in open insurrection. Sir, I am neither allowed to be Filipino, free in my own country, nor am I permitted the rights guaranteed to Americans.

Would you call that fair? Look, I'm sure you mean well, but the war is over. I'm not saying it was all pretty, but we're over there now offering schooling and guidance. How come you're still resisting? You feel a tug on your shoulder as the host urges you to take to the stage. When we have our rights recognized, that is when we will stop resisting. But no sooner. You flash the reporter a smile.

I do hope you'll stay and listen to my speech. I'll do my best to address your concerns. You turn and head to my speech. I'll do my best to address your concerns. You turn and head to the stage. On this trip, you've realized that your challenge is not just about changing policy, but dispelling the harmful myths and stereotypes Americans have about the Philippines, myths that continue to cause suffering for your people. You hope that by speaking out to American audiences like you are tonight, you can help free your brothers and bring your brother Sixto home from exile. But this is bigger than any one family. This is the future of your country.

In 1902, Clemencia Lopez made the long journey from the Philippines to the United States to lobby for the release of her jailed brothers back home. But when her pleas for help were rejected by President Teddy Roosevelt, she turned to broader calls for independence and rights for all Filipinos. The 26-year-old was a sensation with the press, who often commented on her elegant speaking style and poised demeanor. After one interview, the Boston Daily Globe said, Lopez possesses courage, enthusiasm, and high intelligence,

with an electric temperament and eyes that fill with vivacious fire when she talks. Lopez's strong presence and cause earned her allies among the growing suffragist movement. And in return, their advocacy for women's voting rights inspired Lopez. In May 1902, she was invited to be one of the key speakers during their annual meeting in Boston. There, she remarked to the packed audience, I believe that we are both striving for much the same object, you for the right to take part in national life, we for the right to have a national life to take part in. But her advocacy faced an uphill battle. Recently, the Supreme Court had decided that Filipinos were not protected by the

U.S. Constitution. The rulings were known as the Insular Cases and defined the status of residents in territories taken by the U.S. in the Spanish-American War, including the Philippines. With their decision, the court put Filipinos in a novel and vulnerable new class of persons with no meaningful representation in U.S. government. But she would stay on in the U.S. for another year, attending classes at Wellesley College and continuing to speak out for the Filipino cause. When she did return home, she drew on her experiences in the U.S. to found the Philippine Feminist Association, the first organization to fight for a greater role for women in education and civic life in her country.

But she was always acutely aware that she was a person without a country, and that her exiled and imprisoned brothers had been robbed of their rights. In the summer of 1902, even as Clemencia Lopez was speaking out for Philippine independence, Governor Taft was hit by multiple crises in the Philippines. American troops were drawing down, but they had left the countryside shattered. Tens of thousands of civilians were still huddled in unsafe and crowded refugee camps. Their farms were destroyed and their health in jeopardy. Soon a cholera epidemic swept the country, killing Filipinos and endangering the remaining American soldiers. The casualties were so vast that Taft's medical teams had a hard time tallying the loss,

but estimated that as many as 200,000 Filipinos died. Skirmishes with armed rebel groups also flared up again. Taft responded by empowering police to arrest any band of three or more rebels and punish them with at least 20 years in prison or even death. Given these orders, the corrupt police cracked down even harder, terrorizing the population. Taft's efforts to put a kinder, more benevolent face on American rule were unraveling. His strategy of attraction had drawn Filipino elites to his side, but many more Filipinos still resisted his efforts, and some were even willing to continue armed rebellion. American officials critical of Taft's methods grew louder, and soon his policies would prompt

a backlash that would erupt again into open warfare. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reached the age of 10 that would still have heard it. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls

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and ad-free on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. As 1902 came to a close, the fiery Filipino rebel Apilonario Mabini was still exiled on the remote Pacific island of Guam. He had been captured and jailed under the American military occupation. But Governor Taft's new policies gave him hope that he could finally return home.

In the last months of 1902, Mabini watched his fellow prisoners be released one by one. He wrote to American authorities to petition for his own release, but his requests were denied. Taft still considered Mabini a dangerous threat and had urged the War Department and the leadership in Washington to block his release. He called Mabini the most prominent irreconcilable among the Filipinos and warned that he was a consistent opponent of American sovereignty and a persistent inspirer of rebellion and insurrection. Though Mabini was restricted to a chair because of his polio paralysis and had never lifted a gun in the revolution, his writings and uncompromising

stance were seen as potent weapons in the resistance. So Mabini continued to be confined in Guam, 1,600 miles away from the Philippines. On that distant island, the U.S. had built a crude prison on the former site of a leper hospital. Prisoners were confined to 28 square feet and guarded by a squadron of Marines. Mabini's health suffered from the frequent food shortages and the scorching heat. But with his release denied, he turned once again to his writing, to reflect on the failed revolution that had once given him so much hope. Though he criticized the Americans for their betrayal, he reserved his most damning blame

for his fellow Filipino leaders. He especially singled out Emilio Aguinaldo, the former revolutionary president, who he said doomed the cause with his jealousy and appetite for power. Early the next year, in February 1903, with Mabini's health failing, American authorities finally relented and allowed him to return to the Philippines. But they insisted on a condition that they hoped would break his spirit. If he wanted to set a foot back on his home soil, he would have to swear an oath to the United States. Mabini agonized over the decision, but he finally gave in. He longed to see his country with his own eyes again, and he had unfinished business at home.

Imagine it's March 1903. You're an assistant at El Reynos y Miento, the most radical newspaper in Manila. Today, you're happy to be out of the muggy offices and closer to the banks of the Pasig River. Your office has come under more pressure from authorities, and you're starting to lose hope that the paper will continue. You're here at the banks of the river to collect the latest article from your most famous contributor, Apolinario Mabini. Unlike other men of his stature, he doesn't live in a grand mansion or estate. After his return from exile, he came back to this small grass hut by the river. You step into his small office, which is cramped and covered with books and papers. Mabini sits, as usual, at his desk, peering at a sheet of paper.

Good afternoon, sir. How are you feeling today? Mabini lifts his face from his desk, looking gaunt and frail. His health has been poor since his return from exile. You've gotten in the habit of bringing him food, hoping it will help him regain his strength. You place a package on his desk and unwrap a warm banana leaf. A pile of sweet, steaming rice falls out. Mubini's face brightens as he takes a deep breath, inhaling the aroma. Thank you. You have no idea how much stale and rotten food I've had to endure in exile.

I never want to see a tin can again in my life. You take a seat by him as he picks up some rice with his hand. Sir, the editor is not sure how much longer we'll be able to keep printing. Our offices were raided last week. Yes, I heard. We'll have to find another way. There's always another way. You don't like the sound of a beanie's cough.

You know cholera and tuberculosis are rampant in this part of town. Sir, why don't you find somewhere else to live? I know money is tight, but you could get a job with the American government. One with more security. No. When I finally returned home, I searched my soul. I took their oath, but I refused to take any position in their rule. But why not? Maybe from the inside, you could change something.

The beanie breaks his gaze to rummage through the papers on his desk, before lifting one up to you. Because if I did, I would not be able to write this. You take the paper, glancing down to see the opening lines of his latest article, A Renewed Cry for Justice, written with a passion undiminished by his hardships. You fold it neatly and place it in your bag. You rise to leave, but then turn back suddenly. What do you think will happen to our country? Mabini sits forward in his chair, his eyes suddenly blazing. That is for you to decide. You climb down the steps from his hut, heading back into the bustling street.

You're not sure what's going to happen with the newspaper, or whether you'll still have a job in a week. But today you're determined to get back to your office and get this article to the people. Maybe it's just a small act of resistance, but if there's one thing you've learned from Mabini, it's that sometimes, small acts can make all the difference. Apolinario Mabini returned to Manila in February 1903. He took the oath that the U.S. insisted on as his price of return, but rejected an offer to work in the government. Instead, he went back to his small house

in the Sampalic neighborhood of Manila. It was the same modest home where, as a young, idealistic law student, he had helped launch the revolution. He hoped to continue the fight, but his health was failing. In May, less than four months after his return, he died of cholera at the age of 38. In one of his final writings, he said,

The aspiration for independence beat strongly at the bottom of all hearts. Its denial, and the threats and violent acts of the government, only served to affirm this feeling and keep it alive. We did not fight and suffer for it, for nothing. Now that Mabini was gone, Governor Taft hoped that the last embers of the Philippine Revolution were finally extinguished. The schools, Taft ordered, were up and running, and he was busy grooming a small circle of Filipino elites to fill his government. Meanwhile, out in the streets, with outright rebellion criminalized, Filipinos turned to the arts to agitate for change. Aurelio Tolentino's incendiary play Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

was just one of several works by daring playwrights and actors that became known under Taft's rule as the seditious dramas. Armed with little more than makeshift costumes and props, these artists packed the playhouses and stirred up a passionate response among their Filipino and American audiences. Their work pushed the boundaries and drew the wrath of the police. But playwrights like Tolentino were relentless. During his lifetime, Tolentino was thrown in prison nine times for violating Taft's sedition law. Outside of the theaters, in the halls of power, things were changing at the top.

In 1904, Taft left his position as governor of the Philippines to head up President Teddy Roosevelt's busy War Department. As Secretary of War, Taft maintained his keen interest in the island colony and in August 1905 made a special trip to the southernmost area of the Philippines, Mindanao. There, armed rebels continued to resist American control. Their uprisings had undermined Taft's efforts to pacify the colony and he was determined to finally stamp them out. The Mindanao island chain is filled with dense jungles and high mountains and stretches across 35,000 square miles. Its rich mineral deposits

made it valuable to American business interests, but it was also home to fiercely independent Muslim and indigenous groups known as Moros, the name given to them under Spanish colonial rule. During most of the war, American generals had focused their forces to the north, leaving a scarce presence on the islands to deal with the Moros. But as American troops pushed further south, followed by school teachers and administrators, clashes erupted. On August 18, 1905, Taff visited with Muslim and tribal leaders on a small island in Mindanao called Holo.

They pressed Taff to recognize their independence. He then continued his travels through Mindanao, stopping in other cities along the way. Later, he reported to President Roosevelt that the people of Mindanao were warlike and hostile. He concluded, They have no conception of a republican form of government. The only government which they know is autocratic. Taft said the only thing keeping them from open warfare was because they have been subjugated to military power and are controlled with firmness and justice, which they appreciate. But after his visit, a cycle of violence ensued. As American troops continued pushing south, deadly battles escalated into an ongoing conflict that would

come to be called the Moro Wars. On March 9, 1906, American forces stepped up their attack on the island of Holo. They surrounded a small settlement and killed 900 Muslim Filipinos, including women and children. The American public was shocked and confused when a grisly photograph appeared in newspapers showing American troops standing over a trench filled with bodies. Most Americans had all but forgotten the Philippines. The sight of a massacre caused a brief uproar, and Taft was forced to say that local commanders had acted without his approval. Then, the following year, in July 1907, Taft finally had a success he could point to.

The first national legislature, the Philippine Assembly, was elected. Many of the Filipinos who filled the assembly seats were Taft's allies, whom he had fostered since his first days in Manila. Though the American-appointed commissioners and the governor-general would still have the ultimate power, the election was the first step toward a national government, and Taft hailed it as a milestone. But due to strict voting rules tied to literacy and land ownership, only a fraction of Filipinos were allowed to participate. Out of a population of more than 7 million, less than 2% actually voted. Still, Taft's work in the Philippines built him a reputation as a skilled administrator. In 1908, his popularity at home helped propel him to the White House. During his tenure,

he kept a close eye on the Philippines and frequently intervened to stamp out calls for independence. In December 1912, in his final address as president, the islands were still fixed on his mind when he said, In the Philippine Islands, we have embarked upon an experiment unprecedented in dealing with dependent people. We are developing their conditions exclusively for their own welfare, but our work is far from done. Our duty to the Filipinos is far from discharged. Taft's ongoing efforts would help delay Philippine independence for years.

But his dedication to schooling in the islands would have complex and unintended consequences, especially when it came to education in English, American civics, and history. In the Philippines, a new generation was growing up under American rule. They were raised on the ideals of liberty and justice, but were quickly finding out that their own independence remained far out of reach. Their parents had fought and died in a failed war for freedom, but a new era lay ahead, and a new generation of Filipinos would define it. Are you in trouble with the law? Need a lawyer who will fight like hell to keep you out of jail?

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You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. In November 1991, media tycoon Robert Maxwell mysteriously vanished from his luxury yacht in the Canary Islands. But it wasn't just his body that would come to the surface in the days that followed.

It soon emerged that Robert's business was on the brink of collapse, and behind his facade of wealth and success was a litany of bad investments, mounting debt, and multi-million dollar fraud. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that define their journey, and the ideas that transform the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young refugee fleeing the Nazis arrives in Britain determined to make something of his life.

Taking the name Robert Maxwell, he builds a publishing and newspaper empire that spans the globe. But ambition eventually curdles into desperation, and Robert's determination to succeed turns into a willingness to do anything to get ahead. Follow Business Movers wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app. In April 1910, U.S. government workers fanned out across America's cities and towns to conduct a census. The face of America was changing, and after a turbulent decade of immigration and expansion abroad, officials wanted to know more about the newest arrivals to America's shores.

So just a month before the census began, they added a new question to find out the mother tongue and nationality of all foreign-born residents. One of the smallest groups were Filipinos. Across the entire country, census takers counted just 160 of them. But that number was about to rise, dramatically, as the Philippines became a key source of migrant labor. In the early 20th century, America's fast-growing farms and factories were desperate for cheap workers. For years, California's agriculture had depended on migrant labor, many of them Chinese and Japanese workers. But in the 1920s, anti-Asian sentiment grew. And in 1924, Congress passed a national immigration law that, for the first time,

banned people from all Asian countries from entering the U.S. The Philippines, however, were still under American authority, meaning that Filipinos could not be blocked by Congress's new law. Soon, recruiters and businesses stepped in to bring thousands of Filipino immigrants to the U.S. By 1926, some 150,000 Filipinos had migrated to the U.S. to work, mostly in the farms and factories of the West Coast. But most found that their new life in America was filled with uncertainty, especially after the stock market crash of 1929 and the coming of the Great Depression Imagine it's July 22nd, 1930. You're a teenager from a small town in the Philippines, and you've just arrived from the port in Seattle, Washington.

You have only one small suitcase and 20 cents in your pocket. Now you stand in a dirty hotel room in Chinatown, which is also where many of the city's Filipino immigrants live. It's the home of your friend Marcelo, who's also from your village. You're overjoyed to be reunited with him, especially after the grueling voyage at sea, but you're shocked at the squalid conditions around you. Marcelo notes your face. Hey, I'm sorry about the place, and I wish I could offer you a good meal. It's just, I haven't been paid in weeks. You try to disguise your disappointment. Oh, no, we shared rooms smaller than this

with our families back home, right? Listen, you'll soon find out that things here aren't like what you've heard, or what they teach in the American schools back home. Things are different. He glances at the small, worn suitcase by your side. It holds all you own in the world. But hey, you just arrived. Plenty of time for that later. How was the trip? It was fine. We got to go up on deck in Honolulu for fresh air.

I've never seen such a beautiful place. Reminded me of home. You decide not to mention the outbreak of meningitis in the crowded bunks below deck that killed some of your fellow passengers, or the harsh treatment from the American officials. And how are your parents? I plan to send money back home as soon as I get my first paycheck. Maybe they can afford to send my little sister to school. You're interrupted by a loud knock on the door, you exchange nervous glances with Marcello. When he hesitates to answer, the door bursts open and a tall man glowers at you both.

Okay, boys. Time's up. I know there's a bunch of you living in here and rent is past due. Where is it? Marcello says nothing, so you step forward, testing your limited English. Sir, I'm sorry. We don't have it right now. The man whips his gaze to you. You just arrived? Can you work? Yes, I'm strong and I can work. Well, your cousin here owes me a month's rent. Can you help him work it off? Yes, I can. Fine, fine, all right. In one hour, my man will be back to get you. And you boys better be ready. You turn to take your suitcase, but the man yells at you.

Oh, no. You boys are in debt to me now. I'll hold on to that until you're done with your work. And where are we going to work? Alaska. Their canning season is getting started. If you work hard, you may make it back here in time for the apple harvest. Now, like I said, one hour.

The man grabs your suitcase and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. Marcello stays quiet and slowly begins to pack a few clothes. You're not sure how far away Alaska is or how long you'll be gone, but you're determined to do the best you can. Marcello was right. You have a feeling things here are very different from what you've heard.

In July 1930, Carlos Bulasan arrived in Seattle, Washington after a long trip crossing the Pacific Ocean. The 17-year-old came from a small farming village in the province of Pangasinan on the Philippines' biggest island, Luzon. The hills and fields nearby were where, just a decade earlier, revolutionary fighters, including Bulasan's own father, had clashed with American troops. Bulasan's parents put great faith in education. Neither of them could read or write, but they devoted their meager earnings to send Carlos' oldest brother

to the only American high school in their province, 25 miles away. The family could only afford the expenses for one student, though, so Carlos and his other siblings joined their parents farming in the fields instead. Still, Carlos was eager to learn. When his older brother told him about his lessons, Carlos was fascinated, especially with the tale of the famous American president Abraham Lincoln. Here was a man who was born into poverty and had risen to lead his nation and sacrifice his own life to end slavery.

Carlos thought that surely a nation of such ideals and courage could offer opportunity and hope for him, too. So when he was 17, Bulosan scraped together what money he could and bought a bus ticket to Manila and then a place on a steamship bound for the U.S. He was determined to earn money that he could send back home to his struggling family. But he soon faced the tough realities of migrant life. Upon his arrival, he was forced to sign a contract that immediately put him into debt and sent up to work in the canneries of Alaska to pay it off. When he returned to Washington,

he picked apples in the Yakima Valley and soon joined the throngs of Filipino men working the fields and orchards up and down the West Coast. Filipino workers were given the most grueling, dangerous jobs and were paid less than their white counterparts. Many were tricked into signing confusing contracts, which kept them in cycles of debt. And they faced racist discrimination in cafes, restaurants, and out in the streets. In San Jose, California, Bulasan and three other Filipinos were attacked and beaten by a white mob barely escaping with their lives. Bulasan reflected, I feel like a criminal running away from a crime I did not commit, and this crime is that I am a Filipino in America. As he traveled and learned

more, Bulasan joined his fellow migrants in fighting back against the discrimination they endured. In 1939, they founded the Filipino Agricultural Laborers Association and launched strikes and petitions to secure better wages and working conditions. Their early victories laid the groundwork for the farmworkers' unions that would emerge in the coming years. But five years prior to founding the Filipino Agricultural Laborers Association, and just four years after Bulasan's arrival in the U.S., Congress passed the Tidings-McDuffie Act in 1934, making the Philippines a commonwealth and promising to recognize its independence within a decade. The following year, the Philippines held elections for the president of the commonwealth. One of the candidates who ran was Emilio Aguinaldo,

the former leader of the Revolutionary Army. But the 66-year-old Aguinaldo lost. In 1957, Aguinaldo broke his long silence about the events leading up to the war with the U.S. In a book called A Second Look at America, he maintained that top American officials had repeatedly promised independence to him but broke their word. Still, he had grown to believe that America had a role to play in his country, saying we were all caught by the accident of history. Aguinaldo lived for another decade, dying at the age of 94 in Cavite, saying we were all caught by the accident of history. Aguinaldo lived for another decade, dying at the age of 94 in Cavite, where he had first joined the early battles for independence. In 1946, the United States finally recognized Philippine independence,

but it added two important provisions. The first, called the Parity Amendment, would guarantee special rights to U.S. investors on the island, allowing them strong control over the local economy. The second, called the Military Bases Agreement, guaranteed that the American military could keep their forces on the island for the next 99 years. Still, families like those of Carlos Bulasan cheered the long-awaited moment. That same year, in 1946, Bulasan published his major life's work, a memoir based on his experiences in the Philippines and the U.S., called America is in the Heart.

In it, he wrote, It came to me that no man, no one at all, could destroy my faith in America. It was something that had grown out of my defeats and successes, out of the sacrifices and loneliness of my friends, of my brothers in America, and my family in the Philippines. Something that grew out of our desire to know America and to become part of her great tradition and to contribute something toward her final fulfillment. Bulu San died from tuberculosis in 1956 in Seattle, Washington. He was 43 years old. He never returned to his homeland, the Philippines,

and he never became an American citizen, blocked by the laws and restrictions of his era. Still, Bulusan and other Filipino migrants helped to redefine the relationship between the Philippines and the United States. The Philippine-American War forever changed both nations. For the U.S., it was the first step towards becoming a global superpower and sparked a heated debate between U.S. ideals of democracy and ambitions for empire that has never fully been resolved.

For the Philippines, it was a collective trauma that also forged a path towards national identity and eventually independence. For both nations, the legacy of the war lingers on. But so does the close relationship between the two countries, a relationship personified by more than 4 million Filipino-Americans, who today call the United States home. From Wondery, this is Episode 4 of the Philippine-American War from American History Tellers. On the next episode, I speak with Dr. Vicente Rafael, professor of history and Southeast Asian studies at the University of Washington.

We'll discuss the legacy of the Philippine-American War, how Filipinos view that war today, and Dr. Rafael's own experiences immigrating from the Philippines to the United States. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. If you'd like to learn more about the Philippine-American War,

we recommend Vestiges of War, edited by Angel Velasco Shaw and Louise Francia. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Bach. Sound design by Derek Perrins. Music by Lindsey Graham. Voice acting by Randy Guiaia and Cynthia San Luis. This episode is written by Dorian Marina. Our senior producer is Andy Herman.

Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marshall Louis for Wondery. For more than two centuries, the White House has been the stage for some of the most dramatic scenes in American history. Inspired by the hit podcast American History Tellers, Wondery and William Morrow present the new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, the world-altering decisions, and shocking scandals that have shaped our nation. You'll be there when the very foundations of the White House are laid in 1792, and you'll watch as the British burn it down in 1814. Then you'll hear the intimate conversations between FDR and Winston Churchill as they make plans to defeat Nazi forces in 1941.

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