Instead of passively commemorating Rizal Day (strangely, the day of his execution and not his birth), we decided to drive to Calamba for a first-time visit to the Rizal Shrine, the national hero’s ancestral home.

I only knew Calamba previously as the town we pass by during the countless times we visit Los Baños. It wasn’t the quiet town I pictured in my mind. Calamba was a sprawling, crowded provincial “city” that had noisy vehicle terminals, fast food chains, traffic congestion. “Rizal Shrine” sounded foreign to the tricycle drivers we accosted for directions, but they lit up when asked about “Bahay ni Rizal.” The house was located in a quieter interior area literally beside Calamba Church, away from the commercial district along the national highway.

It was apparent from the house’s location and size that Rizal’s family belonged to a more educated and propertied section of society. Still indio, but privileged nonetheless. The Mercado/Rizal residence was a stone’s throw from the Catholic house of worship. This was significant during the Spanish colonial era, when Church and State were considered one and inseparable. At a time when typical Filipino houses were small and constructed of cheap wood and thatched straw or leaves, the Rizal abode was a sturdy, up-and-down bahay na bato. 

There were proper dining, relaxation sleeping sections, plus a separate cooking area with a banggerahan that protruded from the outer wall, its function being a washing and drying area for kitchenware. I was amused at seeing an arinola (chamber pot) in one of the two sleeping rooms – the pot was something my late paternal grandmother owned and used, and spoke much about the potty habits of generations past.

Further proof of the house’s amenities were the small but separate toilet and bath “rooms.” Even many contemporary houses lack this set-up.

This was a restored and rebuilt house, and I’m not sure if any of the displayed furnishings originally belonged to the Rizal family. I’m also not comfortable with the apparent lack of effort to ensure that restorations stay true to the structure’s old look and spirit. The cement used for the stone foundation at one outside section looked as if it was set mere months ago. The semi-transparent plastic roof in the awning-like upper portion looked out of place in a house that’s supposed to be much older than one’s great-grandparents. Heritage conservation should be more responsible and respectful than this.

The shrine doesn’t offer visitors much of an insight into Rizal as hero. That function is better served by Fort Santiago in Intramuros, Manila. But the Rizal house gives a very enlightening glimpse at life during the waning decades of Spanish occupation. My mother was a high school history teacher and I’ve always been fascinated by history.

Rizal is a relic, a person from the past, and that was made painfully obvious by the lack of commemorative signs or lively celebrations on Rizal Day itself, in Rizal’s own hometown. I’m honestly quite ashamed it took me forty years to visit this place. For atonement, I’ll make sure my children and my children’s children give this house its rightful, sacred place in our altar of remembrance. Rizal’s relevance should outlive all of us.