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LEPROSY
In a place where leprosy was treated as a crime, love found a way to endure and change the world.
THE YEAR IS 1932. At the northern tip of Palawan lies the island of Culion, miles and miles away from any kind of civilization.
Under the American commonwealth of the Philippines, the island had served a leprosarium. Created by virtue of an executive order, its sole purpose was to segregate those afflicted with leprosy, which was at the time an incurable disease, carrying with it a stigma as painful as its affliction.
Violent waves and relentless winds served as barriers, keeping the thousands of its residents effectively imprisoned. The island was, in essence, a heavily-guarded jail, a cold institution, where patients were taken to be contained and treated.
The worst imprisonment, however, was the restrictive regulations that prohibited marriage between those who lived there.
But everything would soon change with a rebellion that would target what would seem to be the unlikeliest place: the Hijas De Marias, a dormitory where women afflicted by leprosy lived under the strict eye of nuns.
The Maya Hotel was once the Hijas de Marias dormitory. Jessica Bartolome
THESE DAYS, VISITORS WOULD KNOW the Hijas de Maria as the Maya Hotel. It underscores the transformation of the island; what was once a prison without walls is now emerging as a tourist destination.
Inside, the afternoon sun and pink curtains sheds a sepia-tinted light into the room, a stark contrast against the gray and blue ocean in view below. But the place, beautiful as it is, retains an eerie ambiance.
The history of Culion as a leprosarium remains personal for Hermie “Pastor” Villanueva, a resident and tour guide. He is 47 now, but he was a mere teenager when a cure for leprosy finally reached the island.
His late grandmother, Rosalia, had been afflicted with leprosy.
Due in large part to a lack of understanding of the disease at the time, persons with leprosy were treated like a criminal. Victims of the crippling illness were snatched from their families and exiled to Culion. Every aspect of their lives were regulated, including marriage and family life.
“Kontrolado sila ng batas... Parang gano’n ang lumalabas. Kasi they were separated from their families, parang Tokhang. Then they take them here, very little possibility na ikaw ay makikita ng family mo,” he says.
(“The law basically controled them. They’re separated from families, like in anti-drug operations. Then they take them here, where there is very little possibility that your family would ever see you.”)
Hermie “Pastor” Villanueva, a resident and tour guide in Culion.
Rosalia, Pastor's grandmother who was afflicted by leprosy.
WHEN CULION OPENED IN 1906, authorities had planned to separate men and women. But deciding that would be impractical, they decided to prohibit marriage instead.
They had been concerned about possible Culion-born children, who would be susceptible to leprosy, and whose birth would add to the struggles of managing the island. They also did not want lasting relationships between “lepers” due to the emotional toll if they were to be separated.
Such instincts, however, proved impossible to tamp down.
Despite the ban, sex relations and concubinage among patients ran rampant, resulting in 70 children being born from 1906 to 1910, and an island-wide moral crisis.
Separate houses and dorms were built for men and women.
In early 1910, the patients presented a set of formal demands, which boils down to wanting the freedom to marry and have children. That September, the government decided to allow marriage in the colony; 13 couples were wed before the end of the year.
But that wasn’t the end of it, unfortunately. Concerned about the increasing number of born children in the island, as well as the stress of pregnancy and motherhood on the inmates, marriage was once again prohibited in 1927.
This led to deep resentment from inmates, and the discontent came to an explosive head in 1932.
A GROUP OF MEN CLIMBED the windows of the Hijas de Maria. They were able to escape with some 30 to 40 women and flee the island. The women who lived in the dormitory even helped the men with their mission to invade and escape.
Throughout Culion, men raided dormitories for women and began an exodus, threatening to burn down the buildings as they went. Some women went willingly, while around 600 others left their dorms out of fear.
Armed with pistols, bolos, and sticks, hundreds of men were part of the rebellion. It was a brief reign of terror driven by desperation.
The whole event was called “The Manchuria,” alluding to the infamous Japanese invasion of Chinese territory.
The uprising eventually died out. It is not clear what happened to the gang’s ringleader, a certain Crisostomo, after the uprising was quelled: if he escaped the island with his lover and the rest of the rebels, or if he paid for his crimes.
Pastor, the guide, believes Crisologo was caught by authorities and publicly shot by a firing squad.
In any case, the following year, the ban on marriage was lifted and 67 couples were wed in the first month of 1933 alone.
“Love prevails, kahit saan. Hindi mo kayang pigilan. To the point na may mamamatay na para lang ipaglaban ang pag-ibig,” Pastor says.
(“Love prevails, anywhere. There is no stopping it. To the point that people will die fighting for love.”)
Still, those couples paid a heavy toll — they had to give up their children right after birth. These children were brought up in a nursery and later placed in a dormitory. Some were sent to Manila and were later adopted.
These days, Culion is emerging as a tourist destination. Jessica Bartolome
PASTOR IS A PROUD RESIDENT of Culion today, but this was not always the case.
“Sinasabi ko noon [taga-Coron] ako. Now I'm proud to say I’m from Culion,” he says.
(“I used to say I was from Coron. Now I'm proud to say I’m from Culion.”)
Since his grandmother was afflicted with leprosy, she was taken to Culion, effectively being separated from his son — Pastor's father. Pastor was born in Manila.
“When I was studying in Manila... tinitignan nila ako, baka meron kang [ketong],” Pastor says.
(“When I was studying in Manila, they would look at me if I had leprosy.”)
In time, regulations started to loosen up, allowing families to be reunited. His father moved to Culion, and Pastor was able to go to the island as well in 1987. By the time he was in college, he was making frequent visits to see his grandmother.
He remembers volunteering for the community and cooking for the patients.
He was also present when the cure eventually reached the island.
“It gave hope. ‘Yun talaga ang ultimate hope na ng mga tao, na once and for all magiging leprosy-free na ang Culion,” he says.
(“It gave hope. That is really what gives ultimate hope, that Culion could be free of leprosy.”)
Leprosy survivor Isidro Bulagao still lives in Culion, helping maintain the local museum.
Isidro's hands were deformed because of leprosy. Jessica Bartolome
DRIVEN BY HOPE, the patients would slowly claim back their lives on the island. In 1992, it was declared a municipality.
In 2006, Culion was officially declared leprosy-free by World Health Organization. Today, the leprosarium is but a whisper in Philippine history.
But its past will always be remembered by those who lived it, and those who loved them.
Pastor's grandmother has passed away due to old age, but Pastor remains in the island he chose, serving as a guide in large part, to tell people about the dark past of Culion.
“I’m part of the history. It’s my people,” he says. “It's my duty to tell their history.”
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