Once A Moth
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Right after I sent in Once a Moth for replication, I got a message from Justin of OCN who said: you can’t put 40 pages in a booklet because the case won’t close.
So! Just so your blu-rays close (and now I finally understand why slipcovers exists— it’s to keep blu-rays with thicc booklets closed), we had to cut into Aaron Hunt’s interview with screenwriter Marina Feleo-Gonzalez.
But because this is the internet and there is (less of a) physical restriction, I’m republishing the interview here in its entirety. Enjoy!
An interview with screenwriter Marina Feleo-Gonzalez
by A.E. Hunt
Short of nurses after World War II, the US implemented the Exchange Visitor Program (1948) (and later the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965) to expedite the immigration process for a compensatory workforce from the Philippines. As a former US colony with an Americanized nursing curriculum, the country continues to supply the bullish empire with labor power as needed, at a bargain—the US opens its veins to Filipino immigrants only when it serves its material impulses, which rarely if ever serve the Philippine’s best interests. That nearly a third of the nurses who died from coronavirus in the US are Filipino is one consequence, in a knotted web of them, of such rushed labor exports.
Lupita Aquino’s Minsa’y Isang Gamu-gamo (Once a Moth, 1976) takes place during the Philippine nurse migration that was propelled by the Vietnam War. Riding on the brutally efficient structure of Marina Feleo-Gonzalez’s script, the film follows Corazon de la Cruz (Nora Aunor) as she petitions for a US visa to earn more as an overseas nurse and better support her family. For the time being, she resides with her grandfather, mother, and younger brother in Crow Valley beside the US’s Clark Air Base, then active as a strategic foothold in the Vietnam War—where the US exported munitions and thousands of Filipinos for military, medical, and civil operations. Today, more than seven decades after the Philippines gained independence from the US, the former occupant continues to be—more than a specter—a lingering parasite that siphons life from the country and distinctly devastates the people living nearest the military bases. On February 2nd, 2023 the Philippines agreed to the installation of four more American bases and increased American military personnel; and from April 11-28th, the two nations hosted the largest ever Balikatan (“shoulder-to-shoulder”), an exercise in interoperable counterterrorism between the Philippines, the US, and Australia. The Philippine Armed Forces then employ such training, as well as the billions of dollars and high-tech weaponry provided by the US, to annihilate government dissenters and reformists.
Inspired by screenwriter Feleo-Gonzalez’s research and interviews with families in Crow Valley, Once a Moth shows how the US military’s “extraterritorial immunity” allowed GIs to kill Filipino civilians without consequence. As such crimes often went unreported at the time and persist to this day, the film remains a rare surviving record, in the form of the finest melodrama, of the Crow Valley people who stood up to a bloodletting empire.
I talked with Feleo-Gonzales about her engagements with the Crow Valley community, the censorship of the film (complicated by the military’s fear of banning a movie directed by the sister of senator Ninoy Aquino, who Marcos would have assassinated in 1983), and her life—as well as her script’s life—in the aftermath.
What did your research for the script look like?
I witnessed a handful of students protesting in front of the US Embassy and being chased by Filipino policemen. I wondered what it was all about. Because this was not in the papers, somebody told me later on that the students were saying, “Yankees go home!” They were protesting about the bases.
And I didn’t know anything about the bases, so I asked some historians about them because I was naive. I was already writing, but I was writing love stories. Then somebody brought me to the houses in Crow Valley where the bases are, where the mothers told me about sons or nephews who had been shot and killed by the American soldiers, and told me that when they protested they were given dollars and PX goods.
I asked my brother’s lawyer, how come this is not in the papers? He said the Philippines has no jurisdiction over Clark Air Base. So little by little I went to Crow Valley by myself, trying to understand what it was about. Finally, I learned that Crow Valley was once upon a time inhabited by Aeta people, but they were [displaced and] given the “right” to scavenge the garbage. The garbage pile is located right outside of the base.
The little boys were attracted to the scavenges—by the apples and cheese. Those who lived on the land were now scavengers. The guards, Yankees, and even young American kids who were not soldiers, would shoot the boys [who were scavenging] for target practice. Right next to that place where kids were being shot is a kind of monument to the Bataan Death March [the infamous 65 mile transfer of Philippine and US POWS by the Japanese Imperial Army that resulted in several thousand deaths and innumerable human rights violations]. I was interested in the proximity between Crow Valley and the Death March.
Right after the war, the Filipinos hid the American soldiers from Bataan and Corregidor from the Japanese. The Americans made a commemorative monument a stone’s throw from where young Filipino boys were being shot for scavenging in Crow’s Valley. And the scavenges were actually [considered] a “gift” from the US Army. Regalos for the people of Crow Valley who they displaced. We are Filipinos living in the Philippines, and yet we are being given these as “gifts” to scavenge in the garbage? The boys would get rotten apples—whatever they threw into the garbage pile. Then the soldiers would play target practice and shoot the boys.
But nobody would listen to me. I had no place to write the story. But that changed when I met, at the Metro Manila Film Festival, Digna Santiago of Premiere Productions and Lupita Aquino, the sister of Ninoy Aquino. She called me up and said do you want to do a film? I’d write the script for them, but they need it in two weeks. So I wrote Once a Moth in two weeks because the story was all in my head.
Premiere Productions told me the film had to give roles to Nora Aunor, Jay Illagan, Gloria Sevilla, and Perla Bautista. I was not really free to write what I wanted to write. I followed their one-page instruction on what to include in the film. The moment Lupita and Digna got my script they got worried. Nobody has spoken against the Americans. I said, “I’m not speaking against anyone. I’m declaring a fact.” And since there was time pressure and they had to come up with a film, they shot Once a Moth in two weeks.
There’s a line in my story, “My brother is not a pig.” When they confront [the American soldiers], “Why did you shoot this young man?” [And they say], “I thought he was just a pig.” I consider that an insult to all of us. That line—I heard it in my heart—has become quite popular.
It was martial law, and because they could not ignore the film because of Nora Aunor, the superstar, I was summoned to Camp Bonifacio by the military and I had to defend the film. When they saw me they said, “Oh, I was expecting an amazon.” I felt insulted that they didn’t think someone who looked as ordinary as me could write Once a Moth.
With all due respect po, sabi ko, “Kayo po na naka-uniporme ‘di po niyo alam itong istorya? Akala ko ba kayo—I thought kayo ang mga gwardya ng Pilipinas?” [I said, you are the ones wearing a uniform but you don’t know the story? I thought you were the Philippine guards?] They knew, bali yun na. “Marina! We never thought that a housewife like you could talk this way!” Para akong iniinsulto nila na—dati ganon ‘eh. [It felt like they were insulting me–back then it was like that.] They looked down on young women who spoke about serious matters.
So they decided to censor the film. It was not going to be shown at the festival. But then, it being censored would involve a lot of politics, because Lupita Aquino is the sister of Ninoy. The military said, “We could probably just show it during our Christmas party,” [laughs] so that they would not be accused of banning a film by Lupita. So it was shown at the military Christmas party.
When word got around about the film, they finally said they would show it at the Metro Manila Film Festival, but with cuts. They cut several boys being shot.
The place where I did some research told me, “Be quiet Marina, let them be happy with that cut so your film will be shown.” So I kept quiet. Then one of the members of the board of censors hugged me afterward almost in tears. I wondered why a member of the board of censors would be in tears after seeing my film. [Laughs].
So it was shown, and I didn’t realize how much attention it got until I received interviews not only from the Philippines but from the US and London. They came to my house and I was so scared. Then the base commander of the US Embassy invited me to Manila, and the base commander of Subic came, and there was another Consul. They were asking me questions and I said, “I think you know the answers more than I do.” Because word got around, it got shown. It didn’t do well at the box office because it was censored, but I’m really happy that the film is still alive. [Laughs].
Were there cuts at the script level when you presented it to Premiere?
Yes, but they knew me for someone who always wrote about controversial issues like Aguinaldo, Andres Bonifacio, Rizal, and Josephine Bracken.They decided to do the film in spite of it being controversial. It was Digna, Lupita Aquino, and Marina Feleo-Gonzales—so three women dared. Iba ang babae na disidido. [A woman who is determined is different.]
When I was interviewed, I was too shy to answer. I couldn’t explain what I wrote. I said, “I’m not a good oral storyteller. [Laughs] I have to write.”
What are some of the things that they cut or wanted to cut?
My ending was changed. In my ending, the actual families of the children who were shot by the Clark Air Base guards would unfurl a placard. Nora Aunor and Jay Ilagan would hold a crudely made placard that read, “Sons of America, what are you doing on Philippine soil?” That was cut. They would not allow it.
Did the production actually shoot on location at Clark Air Base?
The shooting of the boys were grab-shots. There was a young American actor who lived in Forest Park, a friend of Lupita’s, who agreed to play the guard. The boy who was shot was of course the brother of Nora Aunor. They shot this on location, and they had only one shot to get it. They had no time to practice because it was an off-limits area. After all was said and done, we were scolded by our elders. [Laughs]. “The three of you went to Clark Air Base?” Yes, we did!
We were all very young then.
Are the PX scenes shot on a set?
They thought we were doing a love story, so Lupita was able to get permission to shoot inside the air base. So that scene where Perla Bautista is frisked by the guard was shot at Clark Air Base. They did not have to submit any [materials from the film]. And because Lupita Aquino and Digna Santiago were well known—I was not well known—they were allowed to shoot there. The base commander didn’t know what he was allowing them to shoot. So after the film was made I was summoned by the US Embassy people, where [they didn’t believe that American soldiers had said to the families of children who were slain] “I’m sorry, I thought it was a pig.” But I had research material, and I was able to get printed materials. So it was not just a figment of my imagination. It really happened.
I would listen to their stories. I wanted to be sure that it really happened. They would say, “Opo, yung anak ko nabaril, ang sabi ‘akala ko Baboy ramo.’” [Yes, my child was shot. He said they thought it was a wild boar.]
And then one family will say when I ask them, why won’t you bring it to court? “We are only given a few dollars and some PX goods.” They were cowed. They could not speak up to the Americans.
My friend Gil Quito said that, upon release, the film was very influential in the movement against the American military bases. Can you speak to any such tangible effect of the release?
Oh my god, you know. I did not expect it myself. People were crying for justice. And they wanted to meet me. Then they would see I am this young woman and say, “You wrote this? How did you learn about it?” I always had with me my voluminous research. I got it from my lawyer friend, and some activists helped me as well.
Just a few days ago, the US and PH signed a deal to build four more US military bases in the Philippines. And Filipino nurses have been disproportionately affected by COVID-19. Once a Moth shows some of the roots of these issues.
It’s continuing. It’s a continuing dominance. Pampanga was declared the R&R of the soldiers in Vietnam. So they would go there and of course, they would have their Filipina girlfriends and have Fil-Am babies. People started buying the mestiza babies. It’s another story that needs to be told—that a lot of them would go to Pampanga and look for women who were girlfriends of Americans and contract them and say. “When the baby is born I will buy it for $500.00.”
There was a big demand for babies who are light-skinned.
When my adoptive grandparents were looking to adopt a Filipino baby and someone offered to sell one to them, they were very offended. My grandmother sobbed for days because, she told me, as a descendant of slaves, she could not fathom buying a person.
They were empathetic. It’s another story that has to be told.
There are some beautifully direct transitions in the scripts throughout like cutting from “Ms. De La Cruz, do you also want to see snow?” to the visual of the flavored ice shavings—“How can your sister stand the cold weather in America?”
The old man and the grandfather are eating shaved ice and the young boy says, “When my sister goes to America, you think she will grow whiter because she’s brown?” Nora is brown. The grandfather says, “Don’t you know the Americans do sunbathing because they want brown skin?” You’re left with this dichotomy about what color means. It’s not just epidermis, it’s deeper than that. But I don’t want my characters to pontificate, I just put the question out as we would, and leave the audience to think about it.
I appreciated that you see the story in all its aspects, including the racism and colorism.
I’m well aware of the color of skin being a big thing among us. As a young woman, I knew of a beauty parlor—well known and very expensive—to whiten your skin. Do not stay in the sun, bring umbrellas so your skin will not burn. Even in my family, my mother is very fair and I am brown, like my father. My fair skin sisters look down on me. They call me baluga. When you’re dark skinned they call you baluga. So I grew up thinking I was ugly because I was dark. In the movie industry, all the actors and actresses are fair-skinned. They’re mestizos, except Nora Aunor. [Laughs.]
You fill the script with metaphors—a pot clashing against a jar, a fly atop a carabao, etc. There is the dehumanizing metaphor of mistaking murdered children for animals, and empowering ones like the eponymous moth unafraid of the eagle.
Those were Filipino adages. The fly who steps on the back of a carabao thinks it’s bigger than the carabao. The national hero, José Rizal, had likened us to a moth, attracted by light. We are changed by the light, by the fire. Those were my characters speaking through me—“Mabuting malaman nila, dito sa atin minsa’y isang gamu-gamo ang hindi natakot sa lawin.” [It is good for them to know that, here among us, once, a Moth was not afraid of eagles.] I liken [American] airplanes to eagles.
I found the lolo (grandfather) character very interesting: his love for Bonifacio and the Philippines contrasted against his love for American war-action movies.
Yes, Combat! He likened it to Bataan and Corregidor. Bataan and Corregidor were not our fights. It was the Americans’ fight against the Japanese. But because they’re there in our country we were raided and affected. I like when the lolo says, when the Americans plant their flag on the moon, “Sa kanila na rin ba ang buwan?” [Is the moon theirs too?]
Do you make an outline? Do you make profiles of the characters before they begin talking to you?
I don’t make an outline. The characters begin to inhabit me and talk to me even in my sleep. When I wake up they’re there. I can see faces and hear voices. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy. So I write furiously and can finish a script in two weeks. Then I do not want to look at my script anymore. So for instance, [when] on Once a Moth Digna Santiago said, “Marina,” you have an allusion here to Rizal,” I said, which one? She said, the one about the moth. And I told her, “We’ve learned that since we were kids in school—I wasn’t even aware that it was there.” She said, “But yours are fighting words.”
I would wake up and tell my daughter, you know, Corazon said this or that. She would smile and say, “Mother, it’s not Corazon who said it, it’s you!” I’m not aware that I’m the one writing this. I thought they take over me.
But do you have to develop them on paper to get them to talk to you?
They come alive as I write. I have no outline, I have no draft. What you see is my first draft. And after I’ve finished it I don’t want to revisit it. I submit it to my producer, and they’ll say to me, “On such and such page so and so said”—but I have no memory. I don’t know why I’m like that. I know the ending before the beginning. So I always start with an ending in mind and walk towards that ending. I’m strange that way.
What do you think of the current ending, which is the motorcycle accident?
Yes, that was Lupita’s change. My ending is not like that. Her ending says, will the nurse now help the American? She puts the nurse on the spot.
My ending is a handful of probinsyanos [people from the province] who are real parents of the kids [gathering to make the placard]. So I merely recognized what they told me. But because it was Martial Law it was censored.
Were you involved in the writing of the song numbers?
I worked closely with my songwriter and composer Chi Costes and Restie Umalis. I would write a short poem, say, “This is what I want.” And then they would put that to music.
Since the film is about a nurse who is radicalized and decides not to move to the US, I want to know more about when and why you moved to the US.
I’m not part of the brain drain. I worked in Philippine Universities. My mother and my sister both got ill. My sister was terminal, she got cancer, and my mother had a stroke. She asked me, “Why don’t you want to come to visit me? You’re the only one I have not seen.”
I said, “Well you know, mother, I do not want to go to America. And she said something to me that I value: “I thought you were a writer?” First I’ll say it in Tagalog. “Ang manunulat ay hindi sinasagkaan ang kanyang sarili. Ang daigdig ay para sa ating lahat.” [A writer does not hinder themself. The world is for us all.”] Do not put barriers on yourself. I kept that in mind. It’s really true, I can go anywhere.
When I went to visit my mother with a letter from the Embassy allowing me [into the US] because my mother and sister were sick. At the port of entry in Honolulu, there was a poster of my film Once a Moth. The consul called me, and got me from the long line, and offered me a car to take us out of there. But this was the port of entry to the plane and I said no.
And the Americans at the port of entry said, “Mrs. Gonzalez, are you going to America to write another Once a Moth?” I said, “I have not been there yet, who knows?”
“We have a car waiting for you.”
“No thank you, we’ll take the bus.”
A.E. Hunt is a cameraperson in doc/narrative production, a film critic in publications such as Criterion, Film Comment, Sight & Sound, GQ, Rappler, and CNN Philippines, a freelance programmer and a theatrical distributor.
Tagalog translated & transcribed by Betina delos Reyes
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