Blessed Are the Ignorant
Life Under the Cartilla
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21 August 2025 Feature | Surigao Historical Society | Local History
By the closing years of the Spanish colonial era, Surigao had been under Iberian rule for nearly three centuries. Yet, for all the prayers intoned, taxes collected, and labor extracted, the people of the province remained mired in ignorance, an ignorance not accidental but engineered.
As Dr. Fernando A. Almeda Jr. recounts in Surigao Across the Years (Chapter 11: Cartilla: Blessed Are the Ignorant), the cartilla, a simple primer that should have opened doors to knowledge, was instead used as a ceiling that kept minds confined. With it, the Spanish friars and officials imparted the barest literacy, just enough to read prayers or recite catechism, but never enough to challenge the structures of power that bound Surigaonons to tribute and submission.
Ignorance was not just tolerated; it was policy.
The colonial machine in Surigao was fueled not by Spanish investment but by the toil of its people. Natives were compelled to pay tributes, often in agricultural produce, gold, or cash. Beyond this, they rendered polo y servicios, forced labor for forty days a year (later reduced, but still burdensome).
This labor built the province’s churches, conventos, military barracks, and bridges. Almeda emphasizes that everything, from the convents of Gigaquit and Tandag to the fortifications of Surigao, stood as silent monuments not to Spanish generosity but to the sweat of unpaid Surigaonons.
At the top of this system were the encomenderos: individuals granted rights by the Spanish Crown to extract labor and tribute from designated areas. Many were rewarded for past service in war or administration. The people owed them obedience, yet received little protection in return.
Surigao was governed as one of six politico-military districts of Mindanao, administered directly by officers who held dual authority: civil governance and military command.
Civil governors, appointed by royal decree, were often retired military men or administrators with decades of service. They acted as the representatives of the Governor-General in Manila, with near-absolute authority over life in the province.
Thus, the colonial state in Surigao was less a government of development than of control, ensuring tributes were collected, labor rendered, and order maintained.
As if the weight of tribute and labor were not enough, Surigao in the late 19th century was ravaged by epidemics of cholera, smallpox, and typhoid. With medicine scarce and hospitals absent, entire villages were depopulated in a matter of weeks.
The colonial government, militarized as it was, could do little more than record the dead. Almeda describes with haunting detail how survivors often abandoned their stricken kin to caves along the coastlines, Tinago, Placer, Dinagat, Hikdop, Claver, Gigaquit, Cantilan, Siargao—where the sick perished in darkness.
Even today, bones remain in “dismal heaps,” a chilling reminder of a people who died not just from disease but from neglect. Spain had collected their tribute, demanded their labor, but when plague struck, left them to fend for themselves.
The cartilla was the basic primer meant to teach reading, writing, and catechism. In theory, it could have been the foundation of popular education. In practice, it was hollow.
By the 1890s, very few schools existed in Surigao. Most were run by friars, and teaching rarely went beyond rote memorization of prayers. Teachers were often untrained locals, elderly men and women who knew little more than their students.
The result was that widespread literacy never took root. As Almeda writes, after centuries of rule, “the people got very little in terms of physical development and education at the end of the Spanish rule”. Ignorance was not a failure of the system, it was the intended outcome. A literate population might question tribute, might resist forced labor, might demand representation. Better to keep them docile.
When Spain finally crumbled in 1898, Surigao was left:
Economically drained by centuries of tribute.
Demographically scarred by plagues that emptied villages.
Culturally stunted by a sham education system.
The cartilla, symbol of what might have been, came to represent what was denied: the chance for enlightenment. Instead of schools, the people had caves of bones; instead of books, they bore tribute receipts.
And yet, the resilience of Surigaonons endured. The very communities that survived tribute and epidemic would soon face the next upheaval—the Revolution and the coming of the Americans—with hard-earned endurance.
The story of the cartilla is not one of progress but of survival. It reminds us that history is not only about what was gained but also about what was withheld. Surigao’s people, “blessed” only in the irony of their imposed ignorance, endured three centuries of neglect and still carried forward their culture, their language, and their will to live.
As we revisit this chapter today, the caves, the ruins, and the forgotten names whisper the same lesson: ignorance imposed is never destiny, but resilience is always legacy.
What specific content was included in the cartilla used in Surigao, and how effective was it in promoting literacy?
How did the politico-military structure in Surigao compare with civilian provinces under Spanish rule?
What archaeological or anthropological evidence remains in the epidemic caves today?
How did tribute obligations affect the everyday economy of Surigaonons in the 19th century?
To what extent did this legacy of ignorance shape Surigao’s transition to American colonial education?
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