{"id":6928,"date":"2026-07-12T11:35:20","date_gmt":"2026-07-12T03:35:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/?p=6928"},"modified":"2026-07-12T11:36:51","modified_gmt":"2026-07-12T03:36:51","slug":"child-of-quiapo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/child-of-quiapo\/","title":{"rendered":"Child of Quiapo"},"content":{"rendered":"

Gonaranao B. Musor<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The stench, dirt, pollution, overcrowding, and the pickpockets -\u2013 people may immediately describe Quiapo as such. But Quiapo will always have many other meanings for me.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am reminded of \u201cTrip to Quiapo\u201d<\/em> by National Artist, Ricky Lee. A manual for scriptwriting, it has become my bible when I got accepted in Lee\u2019s scriptwriting workshop after two attempts at applying. Held during the height of the pandemic in 2020 while I was based in Singapore, I was lucky enough that the workshop was conducted online.<\/span><\/p>\n

I also remember watching as a child the film \u201cBatang Quiapo\u201d (Child of Quiapo) <\/em>that starred another National Artist, Fernando Poe, Jr., and Maricel Soriano. I can still recall the song played during the opening credits:<\/span>\u00a0<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cKami mga taga Quiapo sa gitna ng Kamaynilaan,
\n<\/em><\/span>Ang buhay namin sa Quiapo ay di pwedeng pantayan\u2026\u201d
\n<\/em><\/span>(\u201cWe are from Quiapo in the heart of Manila,
\n<\/em><\/span>Our life in Quiapo cannot be compared\u2026\u201d)<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

I am a Batang Quiapo<\/em>. I was born in Santa Ana, Manila and lived for a time at the Islamic Center, or simply called \u201cCenter\u201d (pronounced with a typical Maranao accent as \u201csen-tehr\u201d<\/em>) in Quiapo. It was located along Carlos Palanca Street near the Ayala Bridge and adjacent to the SM Shoemart Headquarters Ruins.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

Known as the \u201cOld Downtown of Manila,\u201d Quiapo was reportedly named after the water cabbage known locally as kiyapo<\/em> that grew abundantly in the Pasig River that borders the district. It is home to the Quiapo Church, where millions of Catholic Filipinos annually converge to attend the feast of the Black Nazarene. Quiapo can be considered a haven for bargain hunters brave enough to venture into its narrow and humid maze of alleyways. But what\u2019s more fascinating are the fortune tellers, faith healers, and peddlers of herbals and amulets surrounding the church that create a seemingly perfect contradiction — paganism alongside the Catholic faith.<\/span><\/p>\n

At the heart of Quiapo, beside the church, is a town square called Plaza Miranda. I\u2019m sure people know Plaza Miranda more for its political rallies, the most tragic of which was the bombing that occurred on 21 August 1971 that killed nine and injured almost 100 civilians, than the person who gave it its name -\u2013 Jose Sandino y Miranda, the country\u2019s secretary of the treasury from 1853 to 1863.<\/span><\/p>\n

The busy Quezon Boulevard fronting the Quiapo Church seems to be a dividing line between two different faiths. Across the street lies the concentration of Muslim settlers. Just as the Catholics converge around the Quiapo Church, the Golden Mosque serves as the center of activity on the other side. The Golden Mosque, or the Masjid Al-Dahab<\/em>, was built in the 1970\u2019s supposedly as a showcase for the visit to the Philippines of the late Libyan Leader Muammar al-Gaddafi that never materialized.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

Pictures kept during our years in Quiapo and the stories told to me by my parents, aunts, uncles, and other relatives who were our neighbors provide a glimpse of our previous life there. My parents were just starting a family, with me as the newest member. Hence, living in Quiapo, although not the most suitable environment, was the only practical option then.<\/span><\/p>\n

I have a hazy recollection of our house at the Center right beside the basketball court. My Mom, or it could have been my older sister, was holding me as she sat with other family members in front of our house while watching an ongoing game at the basketball court. My older sister, whom I fondly call Atekolay<\/em>, would sometimes tell me how she would regularly wipe the snot from my nose. This would later become a pet peeve whenever she sees adults indifferent to the runny noses of their children.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sepia-tinted memories of life in our simple house in Center include sharing it with my aunt Inamanae<\/em> (older sister of my Mom), uncle Ama Manong<\/em> (my aunt\u2019s husband), and Ate Annie, who was my very first BFF, almost like my older sibling and not just a cousin. My innocent recollection also includes the addition of my younger sister Sandrea to our family.<\/span><\/p>\n

By the time we left Center to settle in Las Pinas, I was already of preschool age and starting to have more vivid memories of life.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

Las Pinas was far different from Quiapo — more suitable for raising a family, cleaner, and definitely a lot safer. We transferred to Las Pinas at a time when one can still see the salt beds along Naga Road, Pulang Lupa upon entering from Diego Cera Avenue and past the cemetery, the tricycle terminal and public school. The salt beds, which were once the defining local industry, have long since gone and eaten up by modernization. In place of the salt beds are concrete structures to make way for increased demand for urban settlements.<\/span><\/p>\n

Further along Naga Road were the talahiban<\/em> fields that have now been developed into residential subdivisions catering to families wanting to lead the typical suburban life in the south of Manila. Our newfound family home was in Camella V<\/em>, which was among the early subdivisions\u00a0 established in the area.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

Despite living already in Las Pinas, my parents, especially my Dad, would always make time to visit Center every weekend to see relatives and other old friends. I guess for my Dad the orderly, more stable lifestyle in Las Pinas can never compare to the familiar chaos of Quiapo. I remember eagerly counting the minutes whenever we were in Quiapo. The only thing I enjoyed was staying at the house of my Mom\u2019s younger sister and playing with my little cousins. My Dad, being the frustrated politician blessed with so much confidence and PR skills, would use these visits as an outlet and take his precious time much to my annoyance.<\/span><\/p>\n

Imagine that it would take almost an hour or even more for us to finally reach the exit of Center from the nearby parking area as our car would repeatedly stop every time my Dad would see someone familiar and make small talk. This so-called small talk would not stop unless me or my younger sister would rudely interrupt them.<\/span><\/p>\n

My Dad also loved eating at the halal restaurants near the Golden Mosque at Globo de Oro Street. The food, mostly Maranao dishes, are already prepared in advance and put inside a glass display for the diner to easily see upon entering the restaurant. Just like a typical carinderia, you just point at your preferred ulam<\/em> — beef rendang <\/em>(beef slow cooked and braised in coconut milk seasoned with palapa<\/em> and muscovado sugar), piaparan a manok<\/em> (chicken cooked in a coconut milk-based broth with herbs and spices), pisawawan a karne <\/em>(beef in turmeric and coconut milk), aruwan<\/em> (mudfish), etc. The waitress will then bring your order to your table served with 2 cups of rice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Yes, not 1 cup or even half-rice but 2 cups. I also noticed the same whenever I eat out in Marawi -\u2013 they always assume that your order goes with two cups of rice. What would Senator Cynthia Villar say with her alleged disapproval of \u2018unli\u2019<\/em> rice?\u00a0 I wouldn\u2019t mind an extra cup, especially if I\u2019m really hungry.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back then, it was a struggle for my Dad to convince me to eat in those restaurants in Quiapo. Being a minority, it was not easy for my parents to inculcate in us a love for our indigenous culture and heritage as we were constantly being mainstreamed and homogenized by society. In the case of food, we were brought up to love McDonald\u2019s<\/em> and Jollibee<\/em> but reject our palapa<\/em> and rendang<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

In 2003, I found myself working at the Presidential Management Staff (PMS) in Malacanang, which was a stone\u2019s throw from Quiapo. Of course, through the years, as part of maturing, I learned to know more and appreciate my identity and heritage as a Muslim and Maranao, including our cuisine. But there was that one particular day -\u2013 it was lunchtime and I went to the PMS cafeteria to check out the food. Turned off by the mostly pork options, I suddenly had this craving for Maranao food and found myself riding the jeep going to the Golden Mosque.<\/span><\/p>\n

I went to the same restaurant closest to the mosque. The same restaurant where my Dad used to take us, mostly against my will. Since I last ate in that restaurant, some things have changed -\u2013 there is now air-conditioning and newer tables, but still filled with people unmindful of the cramped space.<\/span><\/p>\n

While enjoying my pisawawan a karne<\/em> with my 2 cups of rice and a bottle of ice-cold Coke, I realized I have indeed come so far from that kid who hated eating in Quiapo.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

I grew up never feeling that close to my Dad. I was always a Mama\u2019s boy and my Dad, for me, was either a dominant figure who implemented discipline and punishment or a generous provider who always made sure we had more than enough of what we needed. Don\u2019t get me wrong as I loved my Dad dearly. I knew that the order and discipline he imposed while providing more than what we needed were his language of love.<\/span><\/p>\n

Those times when we were walking around in the streets of Quiapo and I would hold his hand, he would immediately brush it away. I was a child wanting to feel secure through his father\u2019s protective hand. He was a Dad wanting his son to be independent and brave at a young age.<\/span><\/p>\n

My Dad was a man of contradictions. He wanted me to be independent, yet he always had a say on my every decision and action from what I could wear, how I should carry myself, to what dreams I could pursue. The angry outbursts and the spankings with his belt were tempered by the swiftness of his apology and regret at having hurt his son. Many years after that, I found myself saying to my 8 year old daughter how lucky she was that corporal punishment is no longer the norm. How tough is \u2018tough love\u2019 in this modern concept of parenting? I can\u2019t really say.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

I came straight to the National Kidney and Transplant Institute (NKTI) as soon as my plane landed in Manila. It was 2007, almost a year since I left for diplomatic posting in Cairo. I had to rush home to Manila to see my Dad who was hospitalized due to complications from diabetes. He was supposed to follow my Mom to visit me in Cairo, but eventually my Mom had to go back when we learned of my Dad\u2019s deteriorating health.<\/span><\/p>\n

I arrived at the hospital feeling relieved at seeing my Dad just the way he was when he sent me off at the airport last year, or so I thought -\u2013 in the pink of health and eager to go home. He asked me if I could stay the night until we check out tomorrow. I kissed the top of his head and told him I\u2019ll be back first thing in the morning to pick him up. That was my last conversation with him.<\/span><\/p>\n

I have never gone through EDSA as fast as that fateful night after we received the call from Atekolay who was looking after him at NKTI. EDSA, surprisingly, was as calm as the night as we sped through at breakneck speed. Never minding the danger, I can only focus on my Mom\u2019s effort to hold it together. My Dad died peacefully in his sleep due to heart failure. I felt like I disappointed him when I declined to stay with him. My family claims until now that my Dad was only waiting for me to arrive back before he passed away.<\/span><\/p>\n

My Dad\u2019s body was taken to the Ma\u2019had Manila and Islamic Center Mosque<\/em> inside Center itself for the ceremonial washing, before it was wrapped in white cloth and then loaded on a plane to fly him to Mindanao so that he can be buried in his beloved hometown in Palao, Lanao del Sur before sunset, according to Islamic rites.<\/span><\/p>\n

All roads lead to Quiapo. Quiapo was where he started building his family. Quiapo was the last place in Manila he was taken to before his final resting place in Lanao del Sur.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

My Dad was an enigma and I can only try to understand him through Quiapo. I am reminded of him in that basketball court inside Center, or in that area where our old house once stood. I feel my Dad whenever I eat in one of those halal restaurants, with every bite of the beef rendang<\/em> and the turmeric soup that goes with every meal. The familiar dome of the Golden Mosque evokes memories of him praying there. Batang Quiapo<\/em>, resurrected as a TV series courtesy of Coco Martin, will now be a constant reminder for me.<\/span><\/p>\n

After my Dad died, he left a legacy that was difficult for me to live up to. He was both a stern and generous father; but to the many people and family he helped, he was a compassionate man. Yes, he was a frustrated politician, but he never needed a formal title to help people. Despite the many years that passed since his death, every familiar face I meet in Quiapo still always brings up their fond memories of my Dad.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s been almost 17 years since my Dad passed. After he left us, many people were expecting my Mom to follow soon given her frail condition and having not experienced adult life without her husband. She was already married to my Dad while transitioning from teenager to adult. Nonetheless, God was merciful enough to give me 10 years to enjoy my mother\u2019s company and take care of her. Just recently, my younger sister also passed away. I would have technically considered myself an orphan, if not for the presence of my own family now – a wife and a daughter.<\/span><\/p>\n

After all these years, visiting Quiapo seems like a homecoming, even if it\u2019s just a few hours away from my home in Las Pinas. In some aspects, it remains the same \u2013 the landmarks embedded in my childhood memories that will forever remind me of the Quiapo trips with my father. The Golden Mosque is still there, albeit with a few renovations, but still largely belying the association that something \u201cgolden\u201d is expensive and even ostentatious.<\/span><\/p>\n

Of course, the stench, dirt, pollution, overcrowding, and even the pickpockets will always be there.<\/span><\/p>\n

But there are also those changes to Quiapo, even nuances I can easily discern given my ties to the place. It\u2019s the same feeling I get whenever I go home to the Philippines from overseas posting. The changes, no matter how small, are initially disorienting, but you get over it as familiarity slowly takes over. Indeed, going to Quiapo is always a homecoming.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The restaurant near the Golden mosque is still there, but I can no longer recognize it based on how I remember it. I\u2019ve not gone inside to eat since the last time I did during my PMS days. Many other halal restaurants have sprouted around the area and we now go to a different, newer restaurant where I still get to enjoy my beef rendang<\/em> and turmeric soup.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are now a lot of Maranao entrepreneurs selling \u201cMuslim-appropriate\u201d clothes, including hijabs<\/em> and modest apparel for women. Previously, it was pirated DVDs that were sold until they were eventually overtaken by technology as people moved on to streaming services.<\/span>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

No matter how much we try to stay the same, we move on. Life goes on in Quiapo after Dad left, and we change. Nonetheless, even if the Quiapo in my memories with Dad may slowly fade, snippets will remain. Just buried, waiting to be unearthed and never really going away.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

I am still trying to understand what Quiapo meant to my Dad or who my Dad was through Quiapo. So far, I\u2019ve realized that you can take us away from Quiapo, but you can never take Quiapo away from us. Amidst the homogenization and mainstreaming, we cannot deny what is in our very core. We long for something familiar when forced upon us something foreign and even something forbidden. We will always look for that familiarity that brings comfort. Perhaps, that was why I was suddenly craving for comfort food when left with no choice but haram<\/em> (forbidden in Islam) options at the cafeteria. That was why my Dad kept coming back to Quiapo despite my protests.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ricky Lee said in his book that there are many ways to get to Quiapo. You may take the direct route — from point A to point B. You may choose to have many stopovers or take a circuitous route before finally arriving in Quiapo. It doesn\u2019t really matter how and when as long as you eventually reach your destination. I am still trying to reach the end of my journey to the real <\/em>\u00a0Quiapo or maybe I just keep on coming back to Quiapo until I find out what I am really looking for.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Gonaranao B. Musor The stench, dirt, pollution, overcrowding, and the pickpockets -\u2013 people may immediately describe Quiapo as such. But Quiapo will always have many other meanings for me. I am reminded of \u201cTrip to Quiapo\u201d by National Artist, Ricky … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[22],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6928","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essay"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":false,"jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6928","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6928"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6928\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6931,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6928\/revisions\/6931"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6928"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6928"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6928"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}