Amid the chaos of war, the world is often seen through the eyes of generals and historians, who document strategies and outcomes, yet the most poignant stories emerge from those whose voices are rarely heard—the children, whose lives are shaped by the immediate and often brutal realities of conflict. This collection of memories offers a rare and intimate glimpse into the life of a young boy growing up in Iligan City, Philippines, during the tumultuous years of the Japanese Occupation in World War II, a period marked by widespread suffering, resilience, and profound social upheaval across the Philippines.
My late father, Romeo Trinidad Villanea (17 December 1930 – 9 June 2022), shared these personal recollections not as a historian or autobiographer, but as a child whose world was profoundly shaped by extraordinary events. These are not polished narratives but fragments of memory, raw and unfiltered, set against the backdrop of a nation struggling under occupation, seen through the eyes of a boy navigating the upheaval of war. Through his perspective, we experience the fear and confusion of sudden changes, the small joys that provided fleeting comfort, and the indelible marks left by acts of both cruelty and unexpected kindness. His memories capture the resilience of a child’s spirit, adapting to a reality where innocence and conflict uneasily coexist.
This collection is not intended to be a comprehensive history of the Japanese Occupation in Iligan City. Rather, it is a testament to the enduring power of memory and the importance of preserving individual stories. By sharing his unique perspective, my father’s recollections remind us of the human cost of war and the ways in which even the youngest among us bear witness to history unfolding.
Japanese Invasion of Iligan
The Japanese invasion of the municipality of Iligan on May 5, 1942, was a significant event in the Philippines during World War II. It occurred just a day before the fall of Corregidor, a key stronghold of the Allied forces and the final bastion of organized resistance in the country. The capture of Iligan marked another step in the Japanese campaign to consolidate control over the Philippines, which had been a strategic target due to its location and resources.
The fall of Corregidor on May 6, 1942, signified the complete occupation of the Philippines by Japanese forces at that time. This period was marked by widespread suffering, resistance movements, and efforts by Filipinos and Allied forces to counter Japanese occupation. Iligan, like many other areas, likely experienced significant challenges during this occupation, including economic hardship and disruptions to daily life.
My father, barely 12 years old at the time, scarcely registered the monumental events unfolding around him – the Japanese invasion of Iligan, the fall of Corregidor – his young mind more preoccupied with the simpler concerns of childhood.
The grand narrative of war—its strategies, battles, and political implications—was likely overshadowed by the personal and tangible experiences that directly impacted his daily life. While these events shaped the course of history, his memories of the time were less about the sweeping movements of armies and more about the intimate, human interactions that stood out amidst the chaos.
In the midst of fear and uncertainty, it was the small, poignant moments that left the deepest marks on his young heart. For instance, prior to the Japanese invasion, he vividly recalled the good-natured, towering American soldiers who defended Iligan. To him, they were larger-than-life figures who brought light into a dark time. They handed out cigarettes, chocolates, and comic books, and even taught the local children how to play baseball.
Years later, when my father was diagnosed with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD), he fondly recounted to his doctor the moment he first tried smoking. With a nostalgic smile, he described how an American soldier, grinning warmly, had offered him his first cigarette. He would often burst into laughter, jestingly blaming that G.I. for his condition—only to be interrupted by a coughing spell that left him wheezing. Yet even through the discomfort, his eyes twinkled with joy, as if reliving a moment frozen in time. The memory, laced with both humor and irony, seemed to transport him back to those tumultuous years, when even the smallest gestures felt monumental.
Even the habits formed during those chaotic times carried a deeper meaning. That cigarette, along with the chocolates, comic books, and baseball lessons, was more than just a vice—it was a reminder of a fleeting moment of kindness and humanity that had helped him navigate a world turned upside down.
These memories, however, were not all bright and comforting. Among the darker shades of his recollections was the haunting memory of witnessing the execution of a rebel soldier. Although my father vividly recalls this event, I will not go into detail as it is a rather indelicate matter. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of the American soldiers’ gestures, a reminder of the harsh realities that shaped his childhood and the complex tapestry of experiences that defined his life.
Japanese Occupation of Iligan
The fear that gripped the municipality of Iligan couldn’t stop life from moving forward, however haltingly. To solidify their hold on the Philippines, the Japanese military authorities swiftly established a new government framework, seeking to co-opt Filipino officials and elites into positions of power.
My father’s family, driven by necessity—or perhaps a calculated instinct for survival—chose to collaborate with the occupying forces. It was a difficult decision, but not an uncommon one. In times of war, the line between pragmatism and betrayal blurred, and survival often took precedence over ideology. This shifting power dynamic, where the occupied learned to navigate life under their occupiers, bred quiet but persistent internal conflict.
The Japanese, eager to solidify their rule, presented themselves as liberators, emphasizing shared Asian heritage and promising prosperity. They contrasted their governance with the previous American colonization, highlighting past injustices. Through controlled media and censorship, they carefully crafted an illusion of benevolence—one designed to obscure the grim reality of occupation.
But these somber reflections weren’t my father’s. He was a child then, and his memories of the occupation were surprisingly vivid, often tinged with an almost impossible joy. Perhaps it is the gravity of their collaboration with the Japanese that compels me to intrude on his narrative, to layer his memories with my own adult understanding. I feel these reflections are necessary—to provide context, to frame his experiences within the broader historical context, and to bridge the inevitable gaps between a child’s perception and the documented realities of war.
My father recounted his memories with a child’s bright-eyed enthusiasm, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. Every morning, he’d say, the town square would transform into a sea of bodies diligently performing Radio Taiso. Then, with a playful grin, he would throw his arms out and mimic the Japanese officer’s booming command: “Rajio taisō daīchi undō — hajimeru! Ichi, ni, san…” His voice would echo with exaggerated imitation. Radio Taiso is a series of simple, standardized physical exercises performed to music broadcast on the radio. It originated in the United States in the 1920s and was adopted by Japan in 1928.
He’d explain how they were taught to read and write Japanese, before launching into a rapid-fire recitation of the Hiragana chart. He would playfully blurt out, “a-i-u-e-o, ka-ki-ku-ke-ko…” followed by “a-ka-sa-ra-wa, ta-na-ha-ma-ya…”—the syllables tumbling out in perfect sequence, a testament to the rote drills of his childhood. And after each flawless recitation, a quiet pride would bloom on his face, not just for remembering, but for holding onto a piece of the past. Only later, when I learned Hiragana myself, did I truly grasp the precision of his childhood recitation.
The Japanese soldiers portrayed in his stories were often kind and civil, a stark contrast to the well-documented atrocities committed by the Japanese military during World War II. Was this kindness genuine, or merely a calculated facade? Has time softened his perception? Or did the Japanese extend special treatment to the families of collaborators, ensuring their loyalty through carefully measured gestures?
There is one story my father often recalled, usually while cooling down after a workout or unwinding from a long day of building things around the house. He would reminisce about how the Japanese soldiers invited him and his peers to enjoy hot baths – after, of course, the officers and enlisted men had finished, and the children had meticulously cleaned the bathing area.
“They took their bathing very seriously,” my father would chuckle, explaining how the soldiers, with almost ceremonial precision, would guide them through the meticulous process. First, a thorough scrub outside the tub, ensuring not a speck of dirt remained. Then, and only then, could they slip into the steaming water, careful not to disturb its pristine clarity. It was a ritual, he explained, passed down through generations, a practice deeply ingrained in Japanese culture. In this simple act of sharing their bathing tradition, I see a glimpse of shared humanity, a recognition of the basic human need for comfort and connection, even amidst the turmoil of war. It was a gesture of kindness that transcended the complexities of their situation, a moment of unexpected grace in the midst of occupation.
This dissonance between my father’s memories and the historical record underscores the complexities of personal experience during wartime. His stories, shimmering with an almost impossible joy, stand in stark relief against the grim backdrop of occupation, a testament to the enduring resilience of the human spirit, especially in the heart of a child. It reminds me that history is not just a chronicle of events, but a tapestry woven from individual experiences, emotions, and perspectives—each thread contributing to the richness of the whole.
Japanese Withdrawal from Iligan – Guerilla Retribution
On October 20, 1944, General Douglas MacArthur addressed the Filipino people by radio from a beach on the island of Leyte.
“People of the Philippines, I have returned! By the grace of Almighty God, our forces stand again on Philippine soil—soil consecrated in the blood of our two peoples.”
This moment marked a turning point in the liberation of the Philippines during World War II. The campaign to liberate the Philippines was the largest campaign of the Pacific War. After enduring years of brutal Japanese occupation, the Filipino people saw the Allied forces’ return as a beacon of hope. The Japanese occupation, beginning in 1942, had been marked by widespread suffering, forced labor, food shortages, and violent repression. Yet, resistance thrived as guerrilla movements across the islands defied the occupiers, gathering intelligence and undermining Japanese control in preparation for the Allies’ return.
Interestingly, just two weeks prior to General MacArthur’s historic landing, on October 7, 1944, the people of Iligan experienced a curious and unexpected event. The Japanese forces, who had maintained a firm grip on the municipality, suddenly withdrew. Their departure, though mysterious, was likely a strategic retreat in the face of the Allies’ growing dominance in the Pacific. It may have been prompted by pressure from local guerrilla forces or a redeployment of troops in anticipation of the Leyte landings. Whatever the reason, the Japanese forces vanished from Iligan, leaving the town in a state of anticipation for the liberation to come.
While these momentous events signaled hope and freedom for the nation, they did not leave a lasting impression on my father. His story begins shortly after this period, amidst the shifting tides of war and the uncertainty of the times.
As the Japanese retreated, they left behind a power vacuum that the returning Filipino guerrillas quickly filled. In the euphoria of liberation, collaborators who had worked with the Japanese occupiers became targets of retribution. While the rest of Iligan celebrated with thanksgiving masses and street dances, the guerrillas sought to punish those branded as traitors. My father’s family found themselves caught in this wave of vengeance.
The issue of collaboration during the Japanese occupation remains a thorny one even today. Filipinos, facing unimaginable hardship and fear, made agonizing choices. Some, driven by desperation, took jobs with the Japanese administration simply to feed their families. Others, coerced through threats or violence, provided information they wished they could have kept secret. Still others, disillusioned with the Commonwealth government or seduced by Japan’s pan-Asian propaganda, actively supported the occupation. These choices, born of necessity, fear, or misguided hope, created deep fissures within Filipino society, blurring the lines between collaboration and survival.
In the chaotic aftermath of the Japanese withdrawal, those who had endured the occupation faced a new set of challenges. The guerrillas, hardened by years of fighting in the mountains, emerged from the shadows to assume the roles of judge and jury. Justice, dispensed swiftly and often harshly, was meted out to those accused of collaborating with the enemy.
My grandfather, Rafael Aberilla Villanea (24 Oct 1891 – 31 Mar 1980), had been a respected figure in the community. However, he was accused of treason and sentenced to death. My father watched in horror as my grandfather was forced to kneel, a bayonet pressed against his shoulder, aimed at his heart. Time seemed to freeze. Just as the executioner prepared to thrust the blade, a guerrilla officer who knew my grandfather’s true character intervened, sparing his life. As a testament to my grandfather’s character, after the Philippines gained independence from the United States on July 4, 1946, he was appointed as the first municipal mayor of Iligan, serving from 1946 to 1947.
Despite this reprieve, my grandfather was imprisoned alongside other accused collaborators. My grandmother, Anisia Castro Trinidad (14 Nov 1900 – 12 Nov 1973), faced with the daunting task of providing for a family of twelve, took on the role of breadwinner while her husband languished in prison. The Japanese had withdrawn from Iligan, but the war was far from over, and life for the family was a daily struggle. Meager rations had to be stretched to feed everyone, yet my grandmother’s resolve never wavered. From what little provisions they had, she prepared meals not only for my grandfather but also for his fellow prisoners.
One of my father’s daily chores was delivering these meals to the prison. Well, not exactly a daily chore—it was one he often traded for with his siblings. You see, in their household, chores were like a currency, and one of the most sought-after commodities was the privilege of sitting next to their mother during story time. My father fondly recalled how their mother would recount Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo by heart, weaving the tale with such vivid detail that it became a cherished escape from their harsh reality.
His eyes would twinkle with joy during these recollections, for my father was a voracious devourer of literature. I could never keep up with the rate he consumed books, even with the help of audiobooks. After reading the latest bestsellers and rereading our favorite classics—which we discussed often—my father would run out of material to read. During these dry times, he would turn to the half-a-foot-thick Webster’s Dictionary. He would probably read the old Betamax manual if there were a plot in it.
But I digress. My father traded for the task of delivering lunch to the prison not out of altruism, but because he found the prison to be a surprisingly lively place. “It wasn’t as bad as it seemed,” he explained to me. “Grandfather wasn’t lonely—he had the company of fellow collaborators, and they were such a spirited bunch.” Despite their grim circumstances, these prisoners formed a community of resilience and camaraderie, sharing stories and laughter to endure their plight.
Through it all, my grandmother remained the steadfast anchor of the family, her quiet strength a beacon of hope in those uncertain times. And though my father and his siblings faced hardship and fear, they also found moments of joy and comfort—in the warmth of their mother’s stories, in the bonds they shared as siblings, and even in the unexpected vitality of a prison yard filled with unlikely friendships. These fragments of life, interwoven with history, paint a portrait of a family’s unyielding spirit during one of the darkest chapters of their lives.
Dark as these chapters may have been, my father always painted them bright with boyish enthusiasm and naivete in his recollections—all except one. This particular story always felt incongruous with the rest of his narrative, perhaps because of the undeniable pang in his demeanor whenever he recounted it. During mandatory flag ceremonies, the whole town would gather at the plaza. Before singing the national anthem as the flag was raised, the silence was broken by the announcement ordering all collaborators to turn their backs to the flag and remain so until the end of the ceremony. Every recollection of this story ended the same way—his back turned to the flag, and he would go no further.
In recalling this story, half-smiling, of course, for it was in his very nature, there was always a sense of melancholic reverie in his eyes. An unfathomable reflection I dared not disturb. It wasn’t that we didn’t talk about our feelings, but perhaps we both felt a certain awkwardness around this subject.
My father was a profoundly compassionate man. One of the classic works of literature we both loved was Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc by Mark Twain – in fact, the title of this piece is styled in homage to that illustrious masterpiece. Of all the classics we’ve read and reread several times, he only got through the second part of Joan of Arc once. He confessed to me that he could never bring himself to read about the inhumanities and persecution she experienced during her trial, sentenced by priests from her own country to be burned alive at the stake. He had a similar struggle with The Count of Monte Cristo. He could barely stomach the part where Edmond Dantes, disguised as Abbé Busoni, learned from Gaspard Caderousse about his father’s horrid death from starvation.
When revisiting the adventures of our childhood heroes in Alexandre Dumas’ The D’Artagnan Romances, more widely known as The Three Musketeers, his heart would break over the fate of noble Athos, the Count de la Fère, following the demise of his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. With a deep sigh, he would say to no one in particular, “Poor Athos, poor Athos…”
This was a man who felt genuine concern for an ant laboriously dragging a three-inch long piece of useless hair across a vertical surface, evidently heading for the top of the sink but failing half the time. He’d watch this ant’s cargo, disheveled and collecting dust along the way, adding to its burden, and then he would deeply ponder the dilemma of our “divine-ish” intercession in improving the ant’s conditions. “If we help the ant get to the top of the sink,” he’d muse, “it will surely drop its precious cargo, forcing it to retrace its steps – down the sink and all – searching for its lost treasure. Failing to find it, it will most surely find something else even more useless and cumbersome, a rusty nail perhaps. And then it will probably lose this rusty nail after getting it to the top of the sink and return to its family empty-handed.”
To illustrate how invested we were in this ant’s well-being – to this day, I find myself scrolling through thousands of photos on my cloud storage, hoping to stumble upon a picture of that ant. How I wish I could show you! I bet you’re now invested in its well-being too, wondering what became of our little friend.
My father, bless his empathetic soul, couldn’t bear watching the ant’s struggle. He retreated to his room, and sat engaged on finding a solution to the ethical quandary he’d created for himself. Me? I’m a biologist. Watching paint dry or grass grow is practically a job requirement. So, I stayed with the ant, ostensibly observing. But honestly? I was quivering like jelly, my sides aching from suppressed laughter. Not at the ant, mind you, but at the sheer absurdity of the situation it had elected itself into. I didn’t want to disturb the ant in its labors, or my father in his philosophical wrestling match.
Against all odds, the ant eventually made it to the top of the sink with its dust-speckled prize. But just as victory seemed within reach, its cargo tangled with a stray piece of thread, forming a Gordian knot of hair and fiber far beyond the ant’s ability to unravel. After a few frantic tugs and pulls, the ant, with the heartbreaking indifference of its kind, abandoned its prize and wandered off in search of entertainment elsewhere. We, equally fickle, lost interest and sought entertainment elsewhere as well.
Once again, I hope my dear readers will pardon this offense of intruding my own reflections into my father’s narrative. I felt it necessary to understand why this last story still stung my father decades later. My father, although two years older when the war started, was still a boy—perhaps the boy was becoming a man. However, there was no hint of this throughout the narrative until that fateful moment. I could only surmise that the sense of patriotism—not learned from books but forged in the crucible of war—was awakened in that boy with his back turned to the Philippine flag gallantly rising. It’s hard to imagine the mix of emotions: pride, shame, anger, resentment… perhaps… Perhaps it’s best not to go on, for these are my reflections, not my father’s. He never spoke of them.