Uncultural Behavior: An Anthropological Investigation of Suicide in the Southern Philippines (Monographs of the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, Kyoto University, English-Language Series)

A NTHROPOLOGY / S OUTHEAST A SIA To make sense of such a phenomenon, Charles Macdonald probes the beliefs, customs, and...

Author: Charles J-h Macdonald

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A NTHROPOLOGY / S OUTHEAST A SIA

To make sense of such a phenomenon, Charles Macdonald probes the beliefs, customs, and general disposition of this Palawan people, exploring how they live, think, behave, and relate to one another. Early chapters examine group formation and the spatialization of social ties, material culture, marriage, and law, providing an extensive ethnographic account of the Kulbi way of life. The author offers insights into the spiritual world of the community and addresses the local theory of emotions and the words that supply the vocabulary and idiom of indigenous commentaries on suicide. A well-documented case study of a suicide and its aftermath gives readers an idea of how Kulbi people treat suicide and their conflicting views on the subject. Following an analysis of statistical information, the author presents five “profiles,” bringing together motivations, actors, and circumstances. He concludes by examining the perspectives of neurobiology and genetics as well as psychology, sociology, and history. Based on fieldwork spanning three decades, Uncultural Behavior affords a new look at the phenomenon of suicide that will be of interest to Philippinists, Asianists, social anthropologists concerned with comparative and theoretical issues, ethno-psychologists, and all students of suicidal behavior.

Cover design by Santos Barbasa Jr.

UNCULTURAL BEHAVIOR An Anthropological Investigation of Suicide in the Southern Philippines

Macdonald

C J-H M is a social anthropologist specializing in the Philippines and Southeast Asia and a senior research fellow with the French national center for scientific research (CNRS). He has also been associated with the University of Oxford, the University of Kyoto, the International Institute for Asian Studies in Leiden, and the Asia Research Institute in Singapore.

UNCULTURAL BEHAVIOR

Until recently the people of Kulbi-Kenipaqan lived on the fringes of the modern world following traditional customs and beliefs, practicing shifting agriculture, and leading an outwardly peaceful existence in a remote corner of Palawan island. Yet this small community, basically indistinguishable in society and culture from its immediate neighbors to the north, has one of the highest rates of suicide in the world. Why would the comparatively happy and well-off inhabitants of Kulbi fall victim to despair? Uncultural Behavior investigates the mystery of self-inflicted death among this nonviolent and orderly people in the Southern Philippines.

Charles J-H Macdonald

U  H‘ P Honolulu, Hawai‘i 96822-1888

www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

monographs of the center for southeast asian studies, kyoto university, english-language series, no. 21

Uncultural Behavior

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monographs of the center for southeast asian studies, kyoto university, english-language series, no. 21

Uncultural Behavior An Anthropological Investigation of Suicide in the Southern Philippines Charles J-H Macdonald

university of hawai‘i press Honolulu

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The publication of this book was financed in part by a Grant-in-Aid for Publication of Scientific Research Results from the Ministry of Education, Science, and Culture of Japan. ©2007 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 12

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library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Macdonald, Charles J-H. Uncultural behavior : an anthropological investigation of suicide in the southern Philippines / Charles J-H Macdonald. p. cm.—(Monographs of the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, Kyoto University) (English-language series ; no. 21) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-8248-3060-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-8248-3060-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-8248-3103-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-8248-3103-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Palawan (Philippine people) — Suicidal behavior. 2. Palawan (Philippine people) — Psychology. 3. Palawan (Philippine people) — Social conditions. 4. Suicide — Philippines. 5. Ethnopsychology — Philippines. 6. Philippines — Religion. 7. Philippines — Social conditions. I. Title. DS666.P34M23 2007 362.28089'992 — dc22 2006022266 University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Designed by University of Hawai‘i Press Production Staff Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc. The map on the cover is part of the map of Asia by Cornelius de Jode, 1593 (reproduced courtesy of the Kobe City Museum).

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Contents

List of Illustrations List of Tables Acknowledgments Transcription Notes Introduction

vii ix xi xiii 1

part one Palawan Culture and Society 1. The Kulbi-Kenipaqan River Basin and Its People 2. Material Culture and the Symbolic Structure of Everyday Life 3. Social Organization 4. The Spiritual World of the Kulbi People 5. Personhood, Emotions, and Moral Values

11 36 61 91 123

part two Suicide 6. Sumling’s Death 7. Suicide: Case Studies 8. Profiles in Suicide 9. The Anthropological Study of Suicide 10. Explaining Suicide: Concluding Remarks

145 167 198 224 254

Notes References Index

269 289 299

Plates follow page 146

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Illustrations

Maps 1. Study sites in Palawan, the Philippines 2. The Kulbi-Kenipaqan River basin, southern Palawan

3 22

Figures 1. Inland-coastal gradient 2. Age pyramid 3. Settlement types 4. Kinship diagram, Tegpen 5. Kinship diagram, Tegbituk 1989 6. Tegbituk core group in 1994 7. Tuking’s core group, 1976 8. Lilibuten in 1989 9. Genealogical chart, Lilibuten 1989 10. House design and floor plan 11. Diagram for the terms ugang, maman, and menak 12. The biras relationship 13. Settlement nucleus 14. Relationships between humans and spirits 15. Sumling and Durmin’s relatives 16. Related suicides, kin ties 17. Rentima’s kin 18. Multiple suicides, kinship diagram 19. Number of suicide cases per year in Kulbi 20. Male versus female suicide (88 cases) 21. Age curve (79 cases) 22. Male/female suicides per age (79 cases) 23. Male/female suicide per age range, 1978–1989

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15 20 23 26 27 28 30 31 31 38 64 66 75 122 150 178 180 192 204 206 206 206 207

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viii 24. Male/female suicide per age range, 1990–2001 25. Chart showing alleged causes or motivations 26. Case studies versus statistics 27. Distribution of suicide per age among the Maria 28. Aggression, stress, and related dimensions in the anthropological interpretations of suicide

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i i l l u s t r at i o n s

207 210 228 251 260

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Tables

1. 2002 census, Barangay Taburi 2. Population per settlement (partial data) 3. Population structure by age (1989) 4. Mortality rates (1989) 5. Mortality rates (2001) 6. Classification of domestic animals 7. Types of reciprocity and circulation models 8. Price list (sample) 9. Yearly household income 10. Structure of basic emotions in Palawan 11. Suicides cases, main list 12. Yearly rates of suicide in Kulbi (per 100,000) 13. Comparative annual rates (per 100,000) for other non-industrial and tribal peoples 14. Mortality rates for Kulbi 15. Methods used in committing suicide 16. Imputed motivations for 86 suicide cases 17. Social environment of suicide 18. Distribution of suicide cases per local group from list of suicides 19. Distribution of cases per local group from sample (benchmark study) and percentages per group 20. Distribution of major alleged motivations per age group 21. Male and female suicides per age group 22. Causes of suicide among the Maria 23. Comparative data on populations with high suicide rates

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17 18 19 21 21 45 54 58 59 132 200 204 205 205 208 210 211 214 215 216 217 252 263

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Acknowledgments

I would not have been able to conduct this investigation or accomplish the many field trips during which I gathered the data on which this book is based without the support of the National Center for Scientific Research, France (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique [CNRS]), where I am a Senior Research Fellow (Directeur de Recherche). The French Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Cultural Section of the French embassy in Manila sponsored part of this investigation and were particularly supportive of a film project conducted with director Pierre Boccanfuso.1 This led to the completion of a movie titled The Last of the Shamans, scripted, directed, and edited by Boccanfuso. This feature casts many of the characters named in this volume. In the Philippines I was a Visiting Research Associate of the Institute of Philippine Culture (IPC). This institute and the Ateneo de Manila University facilitated and supported my research work in the Philippines in many ways. In 1989–1990 I was the Deakin Fellow at St. Antony’s College, Oxford University, and was thus able to start writing on suicide. I would like to express my gratitude to this college and to my host, Prof. R. Barnes. In 2002 I was invited by Prof. Narifumi Tachimoto to stay at the Center for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS) of Kyoto University for six months. I used this time to finalize most of this book and was able to do so thanks to the wonderful and supportive conditions I found in Kyoto and among the fellow members of the CSEAS. This is where I published a preliminary version of the general conclusions of my study (Macdonald 2003). Among the friends and colleagues with the kindness and patience to help me revise, correct, or amend parts of this volume are Yoko Hayami, Terry Rambo, Jim Eder, and Joel Kuipers. Many other people helped me with their comments and by giving me useful information. Among them are Robert Dentan, Serge Tornay, Michèle Lalive d’Epinay, and Pascale Bonnemère. Among the ministrations of Dominique, my wife, proofreading my manuscript was not the least. Ms. Christine Tatilon helped prepare map 2 and the figures. Map 1 was prepared by CSEAS staff. xi

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xii

acknowledgments

In Kulbi, Taya Ransawi and his family stand out among those I lived with as paramount collaborators and friends. Taya, being literate and endowed with an acute mind, provided many of the data on which I base the conclusions of this research. Among my hosts were the late Umaring the blacksmith and Runtinu (his son), Mangin, Pirmin, Pining, old Pitu, and auntie Unsi, with their children and grandchildren, and all those who are now gone, grandfather Tuking, his two sons Inaring (Aing) and Medsinu, and Babin, whose widow, Djawja, and children became very close friends. The people of Tegbituk, Megkelip, Lilibuten, Beheg, and all those I am not naming here acted as my friends, hosts, and collaborators. My heart goes out to them, this gentle and humorous people whose kindness is so unfairly matched by the vicious attacks of a fatal depression.

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Transcription Notes

The Palawan language belongs to the meso-Philippine group of languages. Its phonemic system has been studied by N. Revel-Macdonald (Revel-Macdonald 1979) and Henry A. Thiessen (Thiessen 1981). It has four vocalic phonemes, which are transcribed /i /, /u /, /a /, and /e /. The phoneme /e /, which I and other authors used to transcribe as /ä /, is a back open vowel similar to the “a” in English “ball.” I chose to use the present transcription with /e / first because it is now used by Palawan informants to write their own language, and second because it is easier to handle with a computer. There are 16 consonants: /p /, /t /, /s /, /k /, /q / (glottal stop), /b /, /d /, /r /, /g /, /w / (semi-vowel), /l /, /j / (semi-vowel), /h /, /m /, /n /, /ng / (velar). An important note must be made regarding the transcription of personal and place names. Since most of the names, ngaran, and family names, apeledo or apelyedo (/apilidu /), are now registered and written down in official documents, and since many of the personal names in use are actually borrowed or directly derive from Spanish-Filipino or even English names, their spelling follows a different writing system. The letter “o” is used instead of “u,” the letter “e” stands for the phoneme /i /, “a” stands for /e /, the letter “y” is used instead of /j /, and “j” instead of /dj /. For instance, my closest collaborator writes his name as “Taya,” which is the equivalent of the phonemic transcript /teje /, and a person whose name I phonemically transcribe as /kuntilju / is written “Kuntilyu.” “Medsino” is /midsinu / or /mitsinu /, “Jawya” is /djawja /, and so on.

xiii

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Introduction

My acquaintance with the Palawan people of Palawan Island in the Philippines dates from 1970. I conducted fieldwork from 1970 to 1972 in the central highlands near Brooke’s Point, in the Mekagwaq and Tamlang River basins. I gathered there most of the data I used for my PhD dissertation and further publications (see Macdonald 1972, 1973, 1974a–c, 1977a–b, 1988a–b, 1996, 2002). In 1972 and in subsequent years I visited several other areas in southern Palawan and observed a number of Palawan subgroups. One section of the Palawan people I visited was located in the southwestern corner of the southernmost portion of the island. It consisted of two adjacent lowland areas located in the KulbiKenipaqan River basins (see map 1). Although this is a lowland or hill area from an environmental and ecological point of view,1 it is and was for centuries inhabited by tribal people practicing shifting agriculture and collecting a variety of products from the forests, rivers, mangroves, and reefs. In the early 1970s there were almost no Christian settlers in this area. Access was difficult. One had to walk across the island, or take a boat, or use a small plane flown by the New Tribes Missions between their main base in Lada, near Brooke’s Point, and Megkelip or Latud, their field stations in southwestern Palawan. The Kulbi-Kenipaqan River basins remain one of the few magic spots I have visited during my lifetime. It floated in remote and hazy confines of the real world. A remarkably fine-looking people inhabited its low, rolling hills and secluded valleys sloping gently towards the South China Sea. Elegant young ladies wearing sequined tops and red scarves, dignified elders in high headgear, and muscular young men in G-strings welcomed the foreign visitor with the usual mixture of endearing warmth and shyness found elsewhere among this indigenous cultural community. Compared to the highland indigenous peoples I had lived with, the peoples established in the Kulbi-Kenipaqan River basins presented to my inquisitive eye 1

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introduction

several unusual traits. One was a developed institution of courtship. Its visible sign was the numerous small huts on high stilts, decorated like dollhouses, where young maidens entertained their suitors, who plied them with sweet words and music from their long, two-stringed lutes (kutjapi ). Another unusual characteristic was the large size of the local settlements, composed of up to fifty houses, in contrast to the tiny highland hamlets that usually contained no more than ten houses. At the center of the area lived Tuking, the great shaman and spiritual leader in Kulbi, heir to such famed and legendary shamans as Pedjat or Nambun.2 People from all corners of the Kulbi-Kenipaqan River basins and beyond would come and visit him to receive his blessings and listen to his prayers, which he dispensed endlessly in the vastness of his large house, open to all visitors. The peoples’ houses, their dress, their settlements, even the way they danced to the music and beat of the gongs, had something that was both familiar and different, more elegant, perhaps, more refined, but equally cheerful. Their religion was marked by large ceremonies of a kind very different from all those observed elsewhere in Palawan (Macdonald 1997). They also spoke a slightly different dialect from the one spoken in the central highlands, but it was not one that I could not understand. There was one single feature, however, that I could not fathom. Ever since I had set foot on that remote corner, I heard constant references to self-inflicted death. I was bewildered by remarks to the effect that “one would just take a length of rattan, tie it to the roof beam and . . . that’s it!” A number of recent occurrences of suicide were pointed out to me. Suicide seemed to be an everpresent topic of conversation. People were threatening to commit suicide and said it with no apparent levity. They could name victims. At the time, in the early 1970s, there was a case of land grabbing that occupied the minds of the people and was of great concern to them. An entrepreneur from Brooke’s Point had appropriated a vast tract of land in the lower Kulbi River basin and had turned it into pastureland for his cattle, water buffaloes that were running wild and threatening people. The danger that local people felt of losing their land was apparently a major concern to them, and people were speaking of killing themselves in connection with this problem. I concluded, of course, that suicide was their reaction to the violent and sudden intrusion of the outside world in the guise of particularly aggressive townspeople and to the danger of losing their land. The fact is, I was not prepared to see suicide as a characteristic feature of the Palawan people or their culture. I had spent almost two years with them and had never come across a case of suicide during my stay, nor could I recall anyone reporting a case or even mentioning the topic.3 Suicide in Kulbi-Kenipaqan, I thought, had to be an exogenous and momentary pathology. I was wrong.


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3

Subsequent visits to the same area in the late 1970s and early and mid-1980s convinced me that suicide was an endemic and enduring phenomenon repeating itself with unusual and stubborn frequency. Land had long reverted to its traditional owners. The threat posed by the cattle breeder had vanished, and his water buffaloes were all dead. True, a mining company had carved a dirt road and was digging for silica on nearby hills, creating runoff and silt deposits that killed populations of sago palms. Christian lowland settlers were slowly invading the land. The old days of remoteness and isolation were coming to an end. But nothing seemed to have shaken the people and their way of life. History was proceeding at a leisurely and gentle pace. There was no cause for great alarm. Yet people killed themselves. Suicide was not something I had ever envisioned as a topic of inquiry that would occupy me full time. But it dawned on me that this was indeed a most intriguing and enduring feature of the Kulbi-Kenipaqan people. As a result, I finally decided to devote some time to the study of this strange and disturbing phenomenon. I spent several months in 1989 studying suicide in Kulbi. I gathered systematic information and made a list of all cases that had happened in recent years as well as all cases that my informants could remember. Numbers indicated a staggering rate of occurrence, which was confirmed by a follow-up on the 1989 study. I continued this survey until 2002.

Map 1 Locations of study sites in Palawan, the Philippines


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Suicide, I was able to establish, was a feature characterized, in this particular area only, by a consistently high rate of occurrence. Figures show that it is probably the highest or second highest rate in the world. Why? Why would suicide, in such staggering numbers, affect those people whose society and culture is in no basic way different from other Palawan people, their immediate and nonsuicidal neighbors in the hills and mountains of southern Palawan? Why would such seemingly happy and comparatively well-off people, going about their lives in orderly fashion, fall victims to despair? The fact of self-inflicted death, with its sheer massive presence, begs some kind of explanation. There is something about the idea of suicide that compels one to ask why and to not rest unless a satisfactory answer is found. Cannibalism and head-hunting may appear to be strange habits, and one could write a book about them without providing any immediate motives for such behavior. It is just, would say a layman, something tribal people do. The anthropologist usually offers a set of beliefs and symbolic arrangements that make sense of such institutions, and the public seems reasonably satisfied that an explanation has been provided. But with suicide, at least the nonprescriptive type, exotic habits or strange customs will not suffice as an explanation. There must be motives. The realm of the psychological must be entered. That is also why this book deals with the wider question of the etiology of suicide, and more particularly as to whether social anthropology or the social sciences more generally can explain it, and to what extent. As for that particular case in Kulbi-Kenipaqan, I could not find any clear answer. The phenomenon was mysterious and a complete puzzle. What was the solution to it, and where could it be found? Being an anthropologist, I have turned to anthropological explanations first, and in this volume I shall review some of those explanations. My first attempts at providing a convincing anthropological account failed. I shall explain why. Other directions will have to be explored, and I shall suggest a few. One of the main points I want to establish here is the fact of suicide as a stable, collective phenomenon among the people of Kulbi. Next I want to understand it better. Who does it? How many do it? How? When? What makes them do it? To answer such questions, it is not enough to list all known occurrences of the phenomenon. Rather, one needs to probe the representations and concepts relating to suicide and death that are current in the language and culture of the area. One must also know how people live, think, behave, and relate to each other. This leads to writing an extensive ethnographic account of the Palawan people from Kulbi-Kenipaqan, and indeed this is another major goal of this book. Suicide cannot be accounted for in any given society without explaining how that society functions. Hence the first part of this book is devoted to analyzing and interpreting the local way of life, values, concepts, and culture of the Palawan people from Kulbi-Kenipaqan. The major focus and central topic


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introduction

5

indeed remains suicide, but considering the generally accepted view that suicide rates reflect social conditions and that suicidal behavior is determined or at least largely influenced by sociological factors, whatever could be said about suicide in this particular group of people has to be matched by a close investigation of its structure, of its present as well as past circumstances. If this is not done, any hypothesis or explanation would be dismissed as not appropriately contextualized, and lingering doubts would remain as to what causes high rates of suicide, with the suspicion that it could be accounted for by unexplored sections of the group’s culture or social life. This again explains the need to provide the reader with a rather detailed and extensive ethnographic description. At first I hesitated. I did not want to put the culture of these people in the light of a collective suicidal obsession. Even if suicide rates are exceptionally high in Kulbi, one has to be reminded that people who actually commit the act are a very small minority. The majority of its population holds on to life-asserting values and expresses a great joy of living. The entire population definitely does not live in gloom and doom—quite the contrary. Moreover, suicide is not a theme around which the local culture is built. Values and rules governing interpersonal conduct, the structure of the family, or religious ceremonies are not focused on death or suicide. As we are going to see, suicide is somewhat of a puzzle for the people of Kulbi themselves. I want, therefore, to present this now fast-vanishing tribal culture in its own terms, as an enduring type of human organization, similar to many that have been described in this part of the world, yet original and independently creative. Part One consists of an ethnographic account of the Kulbi people, much of it presenting traits similar to, or identical with, other sections of the same ethnic group. Chapter 1 will cover the demography, geography, and socioecology of the people living in the Kulbi-Kenipaqan River basins, paying close attention to group formation and the spatialization of social ties. In chapter 2, I will turn my attention to the more material aspects of their culture while scrutinizing semantic and symbolic dimensions of objects and technical activities in the domesticated as well as the nondomesticated realms. Kinship, marriage, and law form the subject matter of chapter 3. Here is where answers are given as to what forms the basis of their collective life. A common thread runs through these chapters, and the reader will discover that within a world of considerable personal autonomy and freedom there are concerns that recur with great constancy and provide the themes around which social life recreates itself in a stable and fairly smooth manner. Chapter 4 provides some insights into the spiritual world of the Palawan people from Kulbi-Kenipaqan. With its share of threatening and hostile supernatural beings, the universe remains one that is inhabited by “humans,” although of a “different sort,” and therefore a world within which it is reasonably safe to live, provided one takes some precautions. Chapter 5


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gets closer to the topic of suicide. It addresses the local theory of emotions and the words that provide the vocabulary and idiom of indigenous commentaries on suicide. There, in the way of a local explanation, we find which character traits or what kind of emotional configuration is supposed to underscore suicidal behavior. This chapter also provides a few insights into personality traits that may be specifically geared towards a process of self-destruction. It is an apposite transition to the second part of the book. Part Two, indeed, focuses on the topic of suicide. It starts with the account of Sumling’s death and its aftermath (chap. 6). Hers is a well-documented case and one to which I devoted long hours of study, asking many questions and taping discussions, which I then translated. The chapter will provide the reader with a notion of how society treats suicide and the conflicting views local people have of it. For some the victim is a passive agent pushed into death by the wrongdoings of someone else; for others it is “fate” or the outcome of unfathomable forces of the heart. This example of a suicide case sets the stage for what follows. In chapter 7 I tackle the problem of suicide in Kulbi by listing all cases that I have been able to document through accounts given by kinsfolk and acquaintances of the victims. This chapter provides the raw data with which chapter 8 is built. Here, statistical information is analyzed according to different variables and dimensions that are combined into typical suicidal patterns. I come up tentatively with five “profiles” that can be taken as recurring scenarios and thus provide a more integrated frame of understanding, bringing together motivations, actors, and circumstances. Still, these profiles are too diverse to hang, so to speak, onto one cultural or sociological peg. At this point two questions need to be raised. First, does there exist a standard explanation for suicide in anthropology? I thus examine, in chapter 9, various approaches to suicide in the specialized anthropological literature. I address first the epistemological issues that are at stake in any approach to the etiology of suicide. I then review a number of cases studied by anthropologists. This review of the specialized literature has another aim—to answer the second question: are there other groups in the world that display high rates of suicide, and if so, what might they have in common? Chapter 9 serves to gather facts in a comparative perspective. In the concluding chapter, I summarize the critical points in the anthropological study of suicide. I find that specific socioanthropological models explain very little or nothing at all when it comes to suicide of the nonprescriptive kind. I find also that when an entire group, or section of an ethnic group, displays a globally high rate of suicide, anthropologists tend, with some exceptions, to account for it through concepts that are inadequate and address only an aspect or part of the phenomenon. I make room for a discussion on aggression and violence, especially the concept of redirected aggression, and express doubts about its explanatory value.


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In the concluding section I present my own hypothesis. It combines several kinds of factors and is based on what is known elsewhere and on works of other scientists in a number of fields. While dismissing an explanation resting solely on cultural or social-structural variables, I propose to look at the phenomenon (a stable and high rate of suicide) from the point of view of neurobiology and genetics as well as from a psychological, social, and historical perspective. Similar cases reported from other parts of the world, where a section of an ethnic group displays an inordinately high rate of suicide, call for a notion of a genetically inherited predisposition within an endogamous population. While such a genetically defined predisposition to suicidal behavior seems to be granted by neurobiology and genetics, it does not explain all. This is where I introduce two concepts that may explain things better. One is a long-term (several generations) propagation of a collective suicidal trend, which I call a “wave” and which I hypothesize could have been initiated by an event of catastrophic nature. This idea rests on the well-documented tendency for suicide rates to be highly epidemic in nature. A sudden and dramatic rise in the mortality rate could have started a spate of suicides. Partial proof of this is provided by a recent skin-ulcer epidemic that raised the mortality and at the same time the suicide rate of the population under study. The other concept also relates to the wave hypothesis. I make the point that young children, because they are exposed to a number of suicidal acts in their close social and family environment, internalize it as an option for crisis situations. This I consider to be part of an ontogenetical socialization process. In a way, suicide is a learned behavior. If one puts together a genetically inherited predisposition, the imitation factor, and the socialization process whereby the suicide option is deeply internalized by most individuals, one might be able to account for this puzzling conundrum. Since specific socialstructural variables are not called into account for the overall rate, and since this type of behavior conflicts with explicitly stated social and cultural values, one could call it “uncultural.” Or is it? Perhaps “culture” as anthropologists look at it, as a symbolic structure or as a set of rules and values, does not really explain all aspects of human behavior and says little about the real inner conflicts that decide individual fate.


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Part One

Palawan Culture and Society


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1 The Kulbi-Kenipaqan River Basin and Its People

Peoples of Southern Palawan The narrow and elongated island of Palawan is home to several autochthonous groups, namely the Tagbanuwa, the Bataks, and the Palawan people (spelled variously as Pala’wan, Pala-wan, Pelawan, etc.).1 In the southern part of the island, stretching over 150 kilometers, live 40 to 50,000 Palawan people.2 They share their homeland with a number of other groups as well, both Muslim and Christian. Among the latter, the Cuyunon, people hailing from Cuyo Island just north of the mainland, were the first to become established (Eder 2004). Christian settlers from all over the archipelago started arriving in number after World War II, but especially in the past 25 years. The island of Palawan is a frontier area where resettlement projects have been established, and representatives of almost all groups of Filipinos can be found on the island, from Kalingas and Ilocanos originating from the northern part of the archipelago to Cebuano-speaking people coming from Mindanao in the south. Among the Muslim settlers, the Jama Mapun, hailing from Cagayan de Jolo, or Pullun Mapun, and a few Maranao and Taosug are the main and older elements present on the southern shores of the island. The lingua franca spoken on the island is Tagalog, or Filipino. A growing number of Palawan speakers have become fluent in this language. The Palawan people form an ethnolinguistic entity, an autochthonous population that has diversified over the course of centuries and whose communities, adapting to various ecological niches from coastal to mountainous, have become to a certain extent culturally and linguistically differentiated. There are no two communities, however, that cannot understand each other, in spite of dialectal variations; the Palawan language is therefore sufficiently homogeneous to serve as a basis of ethnic identity among all its speakers. As elsewhere, it is difficult to capture in one simple definition what is meant by “ethnic identity.” Let us just say that Palawan people everywhere use the term “Palawan” (with some minor 11


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p a r t o n e : p a l awa n c u lt u r e a n d s o c i e t y

phonetic differences according to the dialect, and often a glottal stop, transcribed as ‘ or -, thus Pala’wan or Pala-wan) to describe those who speak the same language and whose ancestors were indigenous people from the island.3 In itself, to be a Palawan carries a meaning of separateness and difference from the Christian and Muslim settlers and neighbors, as well as from other native groups like the Molbog on the southern island of Balabac, or the Tagbanuwa in the north. The awareness of an undivided Palawan ethnic identity including all sections of the linguistic community is a recent phenomenon that was obscured by attention paid to local variations, thus making indigenous speakers see other Palawan communities as more or less alien.4 In the course of my studies I lived and stayed for extended periods of time with five communities in different locations. I came to the conclusion that apart from linguistic differences, local variations were most significant in two areas: 1) ecological and economic orientation along a gradient from the seashore to the middle slopes of the central mountainous system, and 2) beliefs and representations, as well as practices, relating to the supernatural, or what is commonly referred to as “religion.” In all other aspects pertaining to social organization, kinship, residence rules, and customary law, all sections of this ethnic group are remarkably similar. Their social ties are based on cognatic kinship, with a predominance of the monogamous family as the core social and economic unit.5 All Palawan were, up to recent times, shifting agriculturists, while also relying on marine, riverine, and forest products for subsistence and housing, some relying more on hunting and others more on fishing depending on their location on the sea-mountain gradient. They all chanted epics and told myths or legends sharing similar traits in form and content (Macdonald 1988a), they all played more or less the same musical instruments, built the same houses, lived in small settlements or hamlets, were all peaceful and nonviolent, entertained polytheistic beliefs, and made basketry, blowguns, and other artifacts, with some minor variations in style. Material life varied slightly with few exceptions, like the presence or absence of rice wine and the seasonal use of caves and rock shelters as dwelling places, where they existed.6

Ethnohistory and the Inland-Coastal Gradient From an ethnohistorical point of view, it is useful to visualize the inland Palawan indigenous communities as part of a population continuum including various Islamized ethnolinguistic groups living on the coast. This situation has been repeatedly observed in Mindanao, Borneo, and elsewhere, where coastal inhabitants and tribal inland people stand out as two opposite but interacting poles of a social continuum. This is how E. Casino, for instance, summarized the situation


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in the whole region (Mindanao, Sulu, Celebes, Borneo, and Palawan): coastal Muslim groups tend to be organized into large feudal polities, specialized in fishing and trading, while the inland traditionalists follow a tribal model, fall under the hegemony of the former principalities, and are generally upland farmers and hunter-gatherers. “Only seemingly polarized, the two ecological zones actually formed two halves of a single cultural ecosystem bound together through political, economic and cultural exchanges” (Casino 1976, 11; see also Lopez-Gonzaga 1983, 14–55). In his brief summary of the history of Palawan, Robert Fox (1982, 25) concludes that “the Muslims dominated the island . . . and that the Tagbanuwas paid taxes to them.” “A representative of a Muslim datu would come to the village to collect rice, beeswax, ginger, onions, and so forth.” (Fox 1982, 25). Thus a pattern has emerged that tends to oppose coastal states of warriors and traders on the one hand and militarily weak inland tribal people on the other (see Ocampo 1985, 28–31; and Lopez-Gonzaga 1983: 14–55). How completely dependent on each other these social systems were is an interesting issue. T. Gibson suggested that the kind of loose cognatic and egalitarian social structure of the Mindoro tribal people like the Buid (or Taobuid) was directly induced by the threatening presence and frequent raids of the militarily powerful “Moros” (Gibson 1986, 225). Economically speaking, it is assumed that forest products (like beeswax, rattan, honey, damar resin, etc.) were actually essential elements (see Warren, 1985, 8, 43) to the trading system of the Muslim groups. In any case, the general picture that develops is that of two groups and two social systems with completely different ecological and economic orientations: the coastal vs. the inland (or upland), the state vs. the tribe, the traders /fishermen vs. the farmers /hunters /gatherers. In this pattern there is no room for a social category that would fit in-between. Some observers, though, have drawn a finer picture of the various social categories that interact on the coastal scene of southern Palawan. Such, for instance, is the description given by a British biologist, John Whitehead, who visited southern Palawan in 1887 and published his account in 1893 (Whitehead 1893). He stayed from June 18, 1887 (the date of his departure from Labian in North Borneo), to September 5 of the same year (almost three months). He spent most of his time in Tagusao, which is located about ten kilometers north of present-day Brooke’s Point. Thus he had ample time to observe his surroundings and the daily activities of the people around him.7 At this point, one should be reminded that at the time of Whitehead’s visit to Palawan, the Spaniards more or less controlled the sea. They had established a naval station in Puerto Princesa in 1872 so “the coast has been patrolled by the Spanish gun-boats and the piratical invasions [of the Moros] have come to an end” (Sawyer, 311, quoted in R. Fox 1982, 23). At the end of the nineteenth


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century, then, although the major part of the island was still under the sway of the Muslim seafarers, there was enough safety to ensure peaceful trading and the more permanent settlements of the tribal people on the coastal plain. While describing the various ethnic groups, Whitehead made a distinction between four different groups or categories of people. 1. The Sulus, which he described as “mostly emigrants from the Sulu Islands” (129). He also characterized these people as very warlike, feuding with each other, and always wearing weapons (130). 2. The “Orang Sungei,” a Malay expression meaning “people of the river”; he calls them also “half-cast Sulu Dusuns” (130). Like the Sulus, they are “Mohameddans.” Whitehead characterizes them as “not having the trade monopoly” that the Sulus have and as being “poor” (131). They are “badly dressed in Sulu fashion” (131). Elsewhere he characterizes them as a “subclass of the Sulu” (129). I shall return to this matter, but I would like to point out that Whitehead has caught here some of the features of a social category that I will refer to later as “Islam.” 3. The “Dusuns.” There is no question that the so-called “Dusuns” are Palawan people, the same indigenous inland tribal people as those that can be observed today. For instance, Whitehead gives an accurate description of their blowgun, made of an outer tube of decorated bamboo with two inner tubes (see Macdonald 1977b). His description of several cultural traits is fairly accurate. For example, he states that there is only one family per house, and he quotes the correct word for bride price (berjan, which he spells “burrihan”). Their livelihood is based on agriculture. “The Dusuns are the agriculturists” (131), and he notes their “numerous clearings” (131) on the mountain slopes. One very interesting feature is what Whitehead considers to be the natives’ uncooperativeness and even hostility, which prevented him from proceeding very much inland. He also notes that the so-called “Dusun,” that is, Palawan, were then occupying the interior part of the island and the slopes of the first mountain range. Last, Whitehead notes that the “Dusuns” are “tamed” by the Sulus. “All jungle-products must first be brought to the Sulu” (134), “no Dusun being allowed to deal with the Chinese at all.” (134). “The point I cannot understand,” Whitehead writes, “is why the Dusuns are so submissive to the Sulus, whom they vastly outnumber” (134). 4. A brief mention is made of “wild interior tribes,” which Whitehead calls “Orang-Utan” (from the Malay for “forest people”). He


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encounters two of these “wild” men, inhabitants of the mountains, during one of his forays into the interior. The information he gives us about them is what coastal Palawan would tell today: they live “under rocks” (132), eat “roots” (131), “have no clothes” (132), and “run away like fools” if they see any sign of someone suffering from a cold. Last, he describes what is known in anthropological literature as “silent trade” (or barter). In order to obtain rattan or damar from the natives, one has to leave exchange goods at a spot in the forest and the next morning retrieve the equivalent amount of forest products.

All in all, Whitehead’s account offers a generally accurate picture of what was, at the time, the situation between these groups. To a great extent this picture is still valid today, at least in the central highlands8 around Mount Mantalingajan (see fig. 1). As one goes from the innermost part of the island toward the coast, ethnic complexity increases. Even more interesting is the fact that the Palawan (“Dusuns” to Whitehead), far from being composed of one solid, homogeneous cultural substance, are actually made up of three different categories, the third one, the so-called “Orang Sungei” (“half-cast Dusuns” to Whitehead), being a mixed category belonging simultaneously to two different worlds, that of the “inland traditionalists” and that of the coastal, sea-oriented Muslim groups. I submit that Figure 1 Inland-coastal gradient. Arrows indicate a circulation this latter “mixed” category is the of trade goods (ascending) and forest products (descending). product of an ongoing process of ethnogenesis that can still be observed today in various parts of southern Palawan, and especially in the KulbiKenipaqan area. This is the so-called “Islam,” or “Penimusan,” Palawan-speaking Muslims to whom no clear ethnic identity has yet been granted by geographers, administrators, or anthropologists.


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Geography It is then on this backdrop of similarities and continuity that one must envision the particular configuration of the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area and its people. From a geographical point of view the two river basins communicate and form one continuous lowland area connected by the headwaters of the Kulbi River flowing northward and the Kenipaqan River flowing southward. Numerous smaller tributaries with short drainages join the main rivers. The bottoms of these tributaries and main rivers are covered with alluvial soils that are used today for irrigated rice fields and coconut groves. The forest cover in the lowland zone is now minimal, and only patches of primary forest can be found on some hills and knolls. The whole area lies westward of the last section of the central cordillera, which, in this part of the island, reaches an elevation of 1,058 meters at its highest point. Very few communities live on the higher slopes of this central mountain range, and the great majority of people in Kulbi-Kenipaqan are definitely lowland-dwelling Palawan with a coastal orientation, extracting food and other resources from the forest, the reef, and the mangrove, thus supplementing their agricultural output. Palawan Island is generally known for its rich diversity in plant and animal species, its extensive forest cover, and its mangroves and reefs teeming with marine life (Novellino 2000; Eder and Fernandez 1996, 3–4). Various types of residual forest in the lowlands, large tracts of primary forest above 500 meters, and an extensive and well-preserved mangrove forest provide the Kulbi and Kenipaqan inhabitants with food, construction materials, medicinal plants, and other necessities. The climate is warm and humid, with two contrasting seasons: a dry one lasting from January to May and a rainy season lasting from June to December, with various peaks of humidity and rainfall in-between. Planting in the swiddens starts in April and harvesting takes place from August to September. The development of irrigated rice cultivation has changed this yearly cycle with the introduction of two or even three crops a year (see chap. 2).

Administrative Structure and Population Within the administrative structure of the Republic of the Philippines, the Kulbi area is part of Rizal Municipality, Province of Palawan, and comprises an administrative entity called barangay9 Taburi, which includes nine sitio.10 The latter are local communities, small settlements, or hamlets. A sitio may fit the vernacular definition of rurungan (kerurungan or keperurungan, discussed later in the chapter),11 and in the case of the mixed population of the coast it fits the definition of “village.” Such is the case of Tagbita (the main settlement of barangay Taburi),


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which the people in the interior call “the barrio.” This is where most of the Christian population is settled.12 A municipal building, a small dispensary, and an elementary school13 are located in Tagbita, together with a couple of large general stores and a few smaller sari-sari stores. Tagbita has a central square with a basketball court. The road from Rizal has linked Tagbita with the outside world since the end of 2000. A small fishing community is established on the beach, in Tagbita, but there is no real harbor or pier. The place has no electricity or other amenities. In 1972 the silica mining company owned by the Soriano family started operations in Taburi. The company constructed a jetty in the cove behind the present location of the main village and built a dirt road leading to the Kulbi River further inland. Mining operations have since ceased. The administrative structure of the barangay is composed of a barangay captain (Tag. kapitan) and seven councilmen (Tag. kagawad), all elected. Another seven guards (Tag. tanod) form the local police force. Polls take place at the school where electors cast their ballots. In the elections that took place in June 2002, a new barangay captain whose mother is a Palawan native was elected. The former Table 1 2002 census, Barangay Taburi barangay captain was also part Palawan. The Name of sitio No. of inhabitants title of panglima (native judge) is still recogKadawan 332 nized, but under the label of “chieftain.” 466 In the previous barangay team there were Megkelip 793 five Palawan natives, including the captain, two Tagbita Christians (bisaya), and one Islam (Palawan- Apat 93 speaking Muslim). Tegmemaqan 75 A reliable census was conducted from Beheg 140 September to November 2002 for the entire Taburi* 142 barangay. The total population is 2,322. The Panimbawan 37 figures are presented in table 1. (Note that Tegbituk 244 the data in all tables and figures are based on censuses taken by the author, unless otherwise *Taburi is both the name of the barangay and of one its sitios indicated.) Source: survey conducted by barangay officials for the Tagbita, the main population center, has a Bureau of Census mixed population of Palawan natives, Islam, Maranao, and Christians of various origins. In Tagbita, of 172 total households, 32 are Palawan-native households (22%); among a total of 793 individuals, 174 are Palawan natives and 619 are Christians or Muslims, bringing the total native population for the barangay to 1,703 individuals. This figure is still in excess of the real Palawan population since it includes some Muslim and Christian families scattered in other sitios. My own estimate of 1,600 people is then very close to the demographic reality of 2002. The total native (Palawan) population of the entire Kulbi-Kenipaqan area can therefore be estimated to fall in the 3,000–3,500 range.


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18 The administrative structure of one barangay and nine sitios does not reflect the traditional pattern of the native human settlements. When I conducted a survey in 1989, I made a list of 23 hamlets or settlements (rurungan) amounting to a total of 337 households and 1,289 persons, thus encompassing the greatest bulk of the native population, with maybe 200 to 300 individuals at the most not included in this survey. I thus estimated the total population of the Kulbi area to be 1,500 to 1,600 persons (see table 2). A sample of 15 settlements with 978 inhabitants in all gave an average of 3.7 inhabitants per household and 71.9 persons per settlement. Of 23 settlements surveyed, the average settlement (rurungan) contained 14.6 households, with a maximum of 36 and a minimum of 6.

p a r t o n e : p a l awa n c u lt u r e a n d s o c i e t y Table 2 Population per Settlement No. of households

No. of inhabitants

1 Tegbituk

19

68

2 Tegpen

21

65

3 Lambungew

11

37

4 Megkelip

27

96

5 Mepjang (Mintju)

15

44

6 Mepajng (Batad)

21

78

7 Mepjang (Abri)

16

59

8 Mepjang (Tarinta)

–

–

9 Temehilug

17

72

10 Behunbunan

22

73

11 Lilibuten (I to VI)

36

162

12 Geteb

13

50

13 Pinagbugan

20

41

14 Kubtangen

10

42

15 Lumtab (Ambu’t Kewali)

Name of settlement

13

47

15 Kedawan (Bujung)

6

26

17 Kedawan (Tawlej)

17

59

9

–

19 Lumtab (Dinsiq)

12

–

20 Tegmemaqan

17

–

21 Kedawan (Sinta)

15

–

22 Kedawan (Mada)

14

–

6

–

18 Pangetelban

23 Taburiq

Demography and Population Trends Before we look into the settlement pattern and the way local groups are organized, let us examine first the overall demographic structure and its main variables of sex, age, and birth and death rates. From 1989 to 2002, the Palawan population in the Kulbi area seems to have remained stable in size, according to a general count of the population (see preceding section). But are the structural variables pointing towards dynamics of demographic growth or towards demographic stagnation? In terms of the sex ratio, a sample of 860 individuals taken in 1989 provides the following figures: 446 males against 414 females, a sex ratio tipping slightly


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in favor of the men. Thus 51.8% of the popula- Table 3 Population Structure by Age (1989) tion is male and 48.3% female. The population structure per age is given Age Female Male in table 3. The figures are culled from the same 1 1 sample, with data available for a total of 666 85 < 89 80 < 84 1 0 individuals only. The age pyramid found in figure 2 shows 75 < 79 4 6 that although there are more infant girls than 70 < 74 4 4 infant boys, female mortality is higher than 65 < 69 2 5 that of males, therefore accounting for a some- 60 < 64 0 2 what larger male population overall. Females 55 < 59 9 14 die more frequently at ages 4–9, 19–24, and 50 < 54 13 15 44–49; in other words, they die at a very early 45 < 49 9 23 age, or at an age when they are either giving 40 < 44 19 16 birth or are premenopausal or menopausal. 35 < 39 17 22 The Kulbi Palawan population is typically 22 28 young, with an average age of around 24 to 30 < 34 25 < 29 28 30 25 years and a median age of around 21 or 22 20 < 24 30 30 years. 41 29 A short survey I conducted in May 2001 15 < 19 showed that of 46 marriages that had taken 10 < 14 35 51 place from 1991 to 2000, 64 children resulted 54 46 37 per couple. Some years are more productive 314 352 than others in terms of number of new mar- Total riages and fertility. In 1998, for instance, there were 14 new marriages in 5 neighborhoods (rurungan). Each couple had an average of 1.35 children still alive after 3 years, whereas couples married 5 years or more previously had only one child each. These figures do not include children who died shortly after birth, but they are nevertheless rather low, since the couples were only recently married and some may have possibly employed contraceptive measures. In 1989 I conducted a survey of 131 married couples who together and /or with previous spouses had produced more than 454 children, 358 of whom had survived. This makes an average of 2.73 living children per couple.14 Of those couples, 21 were infertile and 110 had an average 3.25 living children, with a maximum of 8. Child mortality is shown—for a sample of 100 couples for whom the data are available—to be in excess of 35%. For 350 births, there were 123 deaths in infancy, thus leading to the conclusion that over a third of all infants die in the first few months. Other short surveys show this figure to be even higher.


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Figure 2 Age pyramid Note: ages for females are given negative values on this chart.

Fertility per couple is probably higher than the previous figures indicate, since many of the couples in the sample were still young, while 46 older couples, who already had married children themselves, had an average of 3.78 children per couple. The maximum number of births per couple was 10. The situation can be summarized thus: the average fertile couple has 3.5 children, one of whom will most probably die in infancy. If the average of 3.5 births per couple is accurate and if child mortality is 35%, the population should increase at a rate of 131.5%. Will mortality figures correct this result significantly? Aggregate figures of deaths gathered in 1989 come to a total of 108 for the years 1961 to 1989. Taking into account the years 1978 to 1989 (12 years), the total is 88, that is, 7.33 per year for the total estimated population (1,550 individuals), thus resulting in a death rate of 0.47%. The year 1978 was marked by a severe epidemic that caused the demise of 68 people, a staggering figure. If only years 1979 to 1988 (10 years) are taken into account, the average number of deaths falls to 2 per year, or 0.12%. Figures gathered in 2001, however, over a period of 12 years (1990–2001) and for a sample of 867 persons, bring the death toll to 101, that is, 8.41 deaths per year, or a 0.97% yearly death rate. The latter figure is definitely higher than that found in 1989, in spite of the surge in casualties brought about by the 1978 epidemic. Despite the fact that the total population figure for the 1989 survey is rather ill defined, the difference between the 1989 figures and the much higher 2001 figures points towards an increase in death rates. In 1997 there were a total of 9 deaths for the whole Kulbi area, and in 1999 13 people died. In both cases the yearly rate is above that found previously (0.58% and 0.83% for a total population of 1,550). It is hard to tell why this should be the case. But a quick examination of the causes of death can perhaps bring an answer.


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Table 4 shows classifications for 108 deaths Table 4 Mortality Rates (1989) my informant and I cataloged in 1989. 57.4 % Compare table 4 with the results of table Sickness 15.7 % 5, based on a total of 101 deaths in 2001, with Old age slightly different categories for cause of death. Suicide 11.1 % Aggregate figures for sickness and old age Child birth 8.3 % taken together remain stable (73.1% in 1989 “Poisoning” 4.5 % and 78.2 % in 2001). Suicide takes second place Violent or accidental death 2.7 % in both instances, with a slight increase from 1989 to 2001. The most significant difference is the drop in deaths linked with childbirth, per- Table 5 Mortality Rates (2001) haps due to the presence of trained midwives in recent years. If “poisoning”15 is merged with Sickness and old age 78.2 % ordinary sickness, all the other main causes Suicide 12.8 % remain stable, with a significant increase also Accidental deaths 3.9 % in death by violent or accidental means.16 Childbirth 2.9 % In any case, if our evaluation of the popula- Violent death (murder) 1.9 % tion growth based on birth rate is correct, the death rate calculated above should not significantly upset the general trend towards growth. For three years—1997 to 1999 (inclusive)—there was a total count of 39 births and 25 deaths for the whole area. We can then safely conclude that the Kulbi population is not stagnant and instead displays a healthy balance between sexes and ages, with a generally young population and a moderate growth rate. These conclusions might be very relevant in terms of the suicide rates that vary according to the general death rates, without of course presenting any real threat to demographic stability. Suicide rates cannot be explained by demographic causes either, as if, for instance, they were alleged to be counterbalancing an inordinately high birth rate or a severe imbalance in the sex ratio.

Spatial Distribution of the Kulbi Population In the course of time, settlements observed in the early 1970s have changed in composition and size. Some have a new location, and there have been individual relocations and shifts in household and hamlet composition in the 1989–2002 period, but most of the settlements have remained in the same location, usually identified by the name of a tributary of the Kulbi River (see map 2). The local settlement (rurungan) is an important social unit primarily based on kinship but expanding into a sociopolitical entity centered on the leadership of an elder. The definition of a rurungan is “neighborhood,” rurung meaning


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“neighbor.” It is a very flexible entity, and its spatial reality varies through time while taking several forms. A tentative typology made on the basis of my 1989 survey results in four main types, as seen in figure 3. Type 1 would correspond to one large (15 or more households), self-contained community with one elder at the center. Temehilug, with 17 houses and Ulapu the elder as its center, is a good example. Type 2 would best be exemplified

I LB KU

ER RIV

Map 2 The Kulbi-Kenipaqan River basin, southern Palawan, the Philippines


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by Lilibuten, at the time the place of residence of Tuking, the spiritual leader of the whole area. (I will discuss Tuking in detail later in this chapter.) With 36 households and 162 people, Lilibuten was the largest community, with one main cluster of houses at the center and five smaller clusters close by. Type 3 would be represented by Tegbituk, a community made of several small, interrelated clusters of neighboring households. Type 4 could be exemplified Figure 3 Settlement types by Lambungew or Tegpen, formed of two mediumsized clusters of houses. These four types would represent the spatial reality of the communities at one point in time, households and clusters of households realigning themselves constantly through time. An example that comes to mind is Lilibuten, the largest settlement in 1989, whose center shifted to Beheg after Tuking’s demise and recreated itself, while shrinking somehow, around his elder son Inaring, who then became the new center of the community. As the core of Lilibuten’s community moved to Beheg, some of its older satellite settlements remained in the Lilibuten area.

Structure of the Local Settlement The rurungan, or sang keperurungan (one unit of neighborhood), as the Kulbi people like to say, is the major unit in the Palawan social organization, right above the level of the domestic family. It possesses a structure based on customary law and rules of kinship, has a locus of authority, and is endowed to a degree with continuity through time, but the unit has no material property as such. The same principles at work in the formation of upland local settlements, such as I have described for the Mekagwaq-Tamlang (Macdonald 1977a, 175–210), apply to those of Kubli-Kenipaqan, with the already noted difference in size. One could muse on various definitions that may apply to such a social unit, from a corporate group to a “house” or house-like entity (see Macdonald 1987b; Carsten and Hugh-Jones 1995). It is probably not one or the other in the strictest


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sense, but neither is it just a temporary aggregation of people thrust together for a medley of fickle reasons. Nor is it only a place where day-to-day interactions occur with greatest frequency, therefore creating social ties between the members of such a local community. It is a unit based on preexisting social ties activated in such a way as to create a social structure, thus allowing closer relationships between its members, frequent interaction, and a sense of community. In the absence of visual markers, and with no formal administrative contours or territorial boundaries, it is hard to recognize in such a cluster of haphazardly scattered shacks a social unit worth its name. But it is a genuine social unit, and one with clearly recognized rules of membership. The inner structure of the local settlement, which consists of a cluster of interrelated households, is based on the rule of uxorilocality, whereby an in-marrying male should live close to his bride’s parents or nearest kinsman with the status of elder. The latter is defined as a legal warden of his daughters /nieces /sisters, and he is expected to “look after” (megmilik) them. This latter part of the rule allows considerable play in its enforcement and makes it possible, for instance, to find an elder brother, an aunt and her husband, or a cousin as a substitute for the parents, therefore widening considerably the choice of residence of the young couple. Let it be noted that an elder female relative will oftentimes serve as the legal warden, the person who is “looking after” her younger relative. Moreover, this rule applies less strictly as one grows older, as one’s immediate in-laws (father- and mother-in-law) are no longer alive, and as one becomes oneself an elder with several married daughters and, as such, the potential or real focus of a local settlement. In brief, women provide the necessary links between households, thus cementing the community. The word used to describe this state of affairs comes from the root -pikit, meaning “to stick, to adhere”; the pinemikitan is the “one to whom one sticks,” that is, typically, the father-in-law. In the past the rule of uxorilocality applied very strictly to all newly married people. It still has considerable force today, even though conditions have changed. In older times people did not own land on a permanent basis, and there were no individually owned plantations save for individual trees scattered here and there. There was no scarcity of land, either. Everywhere there was land to till and a young couple could always cut a swidden in the territory of any new settlement. Today, as even young men own tracts of land, coconut groves, and rice fields, it becomes difficult for them to retain their rights and actively exploit theses resources and at the same time move to a distant hamlet. Actually, some of the suicide cases are supposedly motivated by such a dilemma (e.g., see the case of Dision in chap. 6). Uxorilocality produces small nuclei of kinsmen and in-laws, typically several households of married sisters living next to their father’s household. Several such


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nuclei would be brought together by kinship ties between siblings and relatives at the generation level of the parents, with one of the siblings holding a superordinate position as the leader (pegibuten) on account of his seniority, but mostly because of his ability to conduct hearings (bitsara) and settle disputes (he “knows how to litigate” [kuseud memimitsara]). The status of “leader” entails no coercive power or economic privilege; it is more or less an honorific position combining two dimensions of status, that of “elder” (megurang) and expert in customary law (memimitsara). The title of panglima, now fallen into disuse, was applied to such local leaders /experts in customary law. The status of in-laws as wife givers will be explained further in chapter 3. However, what must be understood at this point is that the status of the wifegiving in-law is compounded by an expertise in customary law, by skills of arbiter and orator, so that in order to be recognized as a leader, one has to draw from several kinds of social entitlements. It is then the combined dimensions of law and kinship that together produce a “unit of neighborhood” (sang keperurungan), which is truly a sociopolitical entity, endowed with economic, legal, moral, and ritual functions.17 The way that the local community or group functions displays all the more complex mechanisms of social life and amounts to the entire social structure. If one were to use the old Durkheimian phrase of “segmentary organization,” the segment would be the local group and the whole of the Palawan people nothing more than the juxtaposition of such groups. The local settlement pattern and the inherent social rules at play in KulbiKenipaqan are basically identical to those I identified in my 1977 monograph on highland communities (Macdonald 1977a, 206–210, 221–230, 255–256). The only major difference is the tendency of local groups to grow bigger than in the central upland areas farther north. This is probably due to demography, with a more densely populated area in the low-lying hills near the coast, and ecological and economic factors allowing for larger concentrations of people in one place. Before moving further and looking above the local settlement to the regional area, it is helpful to examine particular instances of group formation.

Tegpen I give first the example of Tegpen, the community where the events leading to and following Sumling’s suicide occurred. Tegpen, together with Lambungew, a neighboring hamlet, would belong to type 4 (two closely related clusters of medium size) in the provisional typology shown in figure 3. It was, in August 1989, made up of a core nucleus of 12 households that had formed around 6 married siblings, the sons and daughters of Twakal and Bungkur. Siblings Tungkaq and Mensuling married two sisters (Durmin being their brother). Four sisters


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had married outsiders. Five daughters born from these marriages had married, and their households were attached to that of their parents. Another core group around old Pitu, who was related to Twakal and Bungkur, together with Pitu’s three married daughters, was part of the rurungan, plus another female relative and her married daughter. Figure 4 displays the genealogical connections. Figure 4 shows the underlying structure of this local settlement, with several sets of in-marrying men interlocking with each other in a chainlike manner, from the bottom generational level to the apex, Twakal and Pitu. In this scheme of things, the elder married males do not follow the uxorilocal rule anymore. Two large clusters are clearly identified: one around Tungkaq, one of the two leaders, the focal point of a group of eight married couples (himself, his married sisters, daughter, and nieces), and Maring, the other leader with four married couples “attached” to him (those of his sister, daughters, and niece). A third cluster is formed around Pitu and his married daughters. Pitu’s son Saldin is also married to Dasi’s daughter. In the seniority scale, Twakal and Pitu are by far the eldest male members of the community, but neither are experts in customary law, nor have they any apparent taste for leadership, being rather shy and retiring persons. Old age is also one reason they do not take a prominent role in litigation. It is at the parents’ generation that elder male members like Tungkaq and Maring are taking the leading role in matters of law. It should be noted that this role is partly based on kinship, their status as elders (megurang ) resting on the number of households that they already “control,” in a manner of speaking. The sociopolitical structure of such a settlement thus rests on several fault lines and has a complex makeup of solidarities and leadership.

Figure 4 Kinship diagram, Tegpen Note: individuals marked with the same fill belong to a core consanguineal group and form a settlement nucleus around a focal in-law.


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Tegbituk Another example, Tegbituk, is even more complex and provides another good illustration of the dynamics at play in the formation of the rurungan. In August 1989 I identified 20 households in this place, distributed between several clusters: one of 7 households, two of 4 households, one of 3 households, and one of 2 households, fitting type 3 (several small, interrelated clusters of households). Figure 5 shows diagrammatically the genealogical relationships between members of one central cluster whose apical resident member at the grandparental level is Mewalam, a widow. She links the group formed by her first cousin Dasi with her married daughter and married granddaughter on the one hand, and the group formed by her son Kuntilyu and his wife Asing, together with Asing’s sister Ersin, the wife of Taya, and Asing’s brother (Durmin, who came to Tagbituk after Sumling’s suicide) on the other. Babin, older brother of Kuntilyu and the recognized leader, together with Taya, lives nearby in an isolated house. In this particular case, then, the female members of the group play a particularly strong leading role in bringing together members of the rurungan. For instance, it is Asing who has permitted the move of Taya and his wife to Tegbituk. Asing is the one who “looks after them” (megmilik kedja). Dasi, on the other hand, is the cement in the three-generation clusters of uxorilocal marriages of Lingkuqud, Ansuling, and Insinu. Interestingly, Lingkuqund and his in-law Insinu live in the same house, one instance of a two-couple household, with a son-in-law staying with his father-in-law, an arrangement that is rarely seen elsewhere in Palawan, but one that the Kulbi people seem to allow or even favor.18 Other clusters in Tegbituk at the time contained several sons and daughters of Babin and Djawja, making Babin and his mother Mewalam the central focus of this kinship network. At the time, and based on several observations, I clearly identified this set—including Lingkuqud, Ansuling, Babin, Kuntilyu, and Taya— as a cohesive unit of kinship and residence, showing more togetherness between its members than with other members of other clusters in Tegbituk. For instance, Elmita’s (Insinu’s wife; see fig. 5) first social call after her delivery was with Taya

Figure 5 Kinship diagram, Tegbituk 1989


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and Ersin. Babin came to visit Taya and poured out his grief when his son Isad left his wife and when he (Babin) was fearful of being separated from his grandchildren. Gossip was also actively traded, and Kuntilyu came to report to Taya slanderous tales told by Meludji (a new resident in Tegbituk) on Taya’s account. The situation in Tegbituk at the time was even more fluid perhaps than in other local groups because coconut plantations and irrigated rice fields were being established, and therefore land ownership and closeness to one’s land had become paramount Figure 6 Tegbituk core group in 1994 factors. The Tegbituk area was playing the role of a new settlement zone. Clearly Babin and Kuntilyu, and Taya as well, came to Tegbituk (they originally were from other places) because of the land they had acquired or were claiming in the valley. In 1994 the rurungan of Tegbituk had increased in size and contained 30 households. All the members of the core group were present.19 Five households from Tegpen were added; one came from Lambungew, and several more came from Pagapaga (near the seashore). Taya had moved to the other side of the valley, where he established a settlement with his father Pitu and two brothersin-law from Tegpen. A school had been built for elementary grades and the area cultivated by plow and under irrigation had greatly increased. The layout of the main cluster of houses was like the one shown in figure 6. In 2002, there were 27 households in Tegbituk, 3 of them containing two couples or more. The core group of 1989 had split and there had since been two deaths, those of Lingkuqud and Babin (the latter died accidentally), leaving a number of married sons and daughters all living with or near his widow Djawja. Kuntilyu, Taya, and Djawja now formed three separated clusters of houses. Babin, Kuntilyu, and Taya had done remarkably well, and they or their heirs owned land planted with coconut trees or cultivated under irrigation. Tegbituk is actually where economic development and modernization are taking place. This is due partly to its location, with a large amount of land in the alluvial flatbed of


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the Tegbituk stream, and the existence of the old mining company road, which was partly used to build the present road circling the southern tip of the island and linking the Kulbi area to towns in the north. Tegbituk is thus strategically situated from a communications point of view. In 2002, therefore, many important activities had shifted again towards the road and away from the main concentration of houses on the other side of the valley, as it had been in 1994. After 2000, the whole area had become like any Christian lowland area, with a majority of Palawan landowners who had become converts and who had come to share many traits with other Filipino migrants. It is interesting to note at this juncture that Pitu, Taya’s father, and his group decided after 1994 to move back to the interior valleys, in Megkelip, away from the way of life, economic constraints, and advantages of modernity, thereby asserting a preference for a more traditional lifestyle. Taya, meanwhile, had moved closer to the road. Being a Protestant minister, or “pastor,” he goes regularly to Sunday school in Megkelip and thus pays frequent visits to his father, mother, and siblings. He complains about his brothers’ backwardness, as he himself has become a successful entrepreneur in Tegbituk, investing in new machinery and engaging in extensive irrigated cultivation and retail trade. The story of how the population has moved to and away from Tegbituk is therefore revealing of the development and modernization process in Kulbi. Uxorilocality remains one of the basic rules of residence and the main mechanism of group formation. Even the sharing of one house between in-laws, which in 1989 was considered an ideal type of co-residence, is still enforced by Djawja, Babin’s widow, and her sons-in-law.

Lilibuten The story of Lilibuten, which I followed from 1976 to 2001, when the group moved to Beheg, reveals a cohesive, albeit complex, social group whose leader and most conspicuous figure was Tuking. Tuking, who died in 1995, was the last of the great shamans, a healer and arbiter in customary law whose authority and leadership was widely recognized in the whole of the Kulbi area and beyond. The nature of such leadership, both from a political and an ideological point of view, must be understood in the context of the Palawan native culture, which is strictly egalitarian, almost never uses force, and holds on to strong but basically secular moral values. Tuking was first and foremost a healer and a peacekeeper, and he was seen as a major source of social peace and physical health, someone whose spiritual powers and expertise in legal matters were recognized as beneficial and available to all. Rather than give orders, boss people around, or concentrate power—religious, political, economic, or otherwise—Tuking was rather a lenient figure, a source of wellbeing. Thus the terms “chief ” and “priest,” with their hard-edged connotations


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of power over men and control over ritual matters, are not entirely appropriate. The definition of Tuking as a healer and an arbiter captures much better the spirit of his role as a leader. Be that as it may, Tuking’s preeminence was grounded in the normal process of leadership that precisely originates in the position of kinsman—or “focal affine,” as I shall term this position—and leader of a local group. Therefore the story of Lilibuten is relevant to fully understanding the continuity and strength of Tuking’s position. In 1976 Tuking resided in Ketengban, a nearby settlement of 20 households that were grouped into four main clusters. Tuking’s cluster was made up of 6 households, as shown in figure 7. A total of 23 families moved away from Ketengben and resettled in Lilibuten before 1989. Some later split away and went on to other places. Five families, with Twakal and his relatives, went to Tegpen; three families, with Mewalam and Lingkuqud, went to Tegbituk. The “Tegpen group” and the “Tegbituk group” were easily identifiable as separate clusters of families even in 1976, long before they separated and in spite of their spatial closeness at the time. These clusters or nuclei of households, cemented by the ties to the focal in-law (pinemikitan),20 are the real building blocks in the formation of the settlements. The main and largest cluster of households, which I called Lilibuten I, as opposed to other smaller clusters in the vicinity, contained 23 houses, as shown in figure 8. See figure 9 for a genealogical chart for these households. Tuking, by now the old and revered leader, resides in the large house (#1) at the center of the settlement. From the original group around Tuking in 1976, we recognize his older son Inaring (Aing) (#11), who is now the focal point of a small group of households containing his real or classificatory sons-in-law, Mangin (#15) and Tutuj (#21). Inaring has since been joined by Kering (#13), a widow, niece of Umaring, with her two married daughters and their husbands Simpug (or Simpungan) (#12) and Pirmin (#14). Simpug is also the son of Inaring and, as often happens, seems to live virilocally because his pinemikitan, Kering, has decided to settle near his (Simpug’s) own father. As in many cases it looks like the residence rule is both virilocal and uxorilocal. Pirmin, the son of Imbut, himself a resident of Lilibuten and before that of Ketengban, can be said to stay next to his own father while in fact he has strictly followed the uxorilocal residence Figure 7 Tuking’s core group, 1976


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Figure 8 Lilibuten in 1989.

Legend for house numbers 1 Tuking 2 Ulpin 2a Kilsu (pupuq) 3 Intin 4 Ubinu 5 Utun 6 Limpungan 7 Dendi 8 Rusente 9 Alisa 10 Rupinu

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Inaring Simpung(an) Kering Pirmin Mangin Turing Umaring pupuq pupuq Buntaliq Tutuj Miling Perdisju

Figure 9 Geneological chart, Lilibuten 1989. Note: numbers refer to house numbers in figure 8.


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rule. The same cluster of houses contains Sanglitu, himself an old resident from Ketengban, and his two sons-in-law (both intriguingly called by the same name, Rupinu (Upin) (#10 and #2). While the spatial closeness between houses 10 to 14 reflects a social closeness based on kinship and personal ties (Kering is distantly related to Inaring), it is interesting to note that Mangin, husband of Inaring’s daughter, has built his house (#15) some distance away, but still within shouting distance. Rupinu in house 2 is also the son of Intin in house 3, this fact explaining its location. Umaring (#17), the local blacksmith, is the focal in-law of the next cluster of houses, with his two married daughters (#16 and #6) and his wife’s brother Dense (#7). Utun (#5), his unmarried son Buntaliq (#20), and his old widowed mother Miling (#22) form a third cluster of houses, while Dinsinu (Intin), a widower (#3), and his son-in-law Ubinu (#4), together with Intin’s son (#2), compose the fourth residential nucleus. Clearly the settlement as shown in figure 8 contains basically four clusters or nuclei around Inaring, Umaring, Densinu (Intin), and Utun. Tuking is closely related only to Inaring, and to some extent Intin,21 while his nephew (ZS) Piis and niece (ZD) Sumbiling, both aged people, live some distance away. (See chap. 3, note 1, for clarification of kin types.) In sum, then, closely related kinsmen and affines form small residential units (core groups, clusters, or nuclei), whereas kinship plays a less automatic role in bringing together several such nuclei or core groups. A settlement like this one can also accommodate people from outside who are distantly related. Such is the case of Alisa (#9) a widow hailing from Kenipaqan and distantly related to Tuking (who is a classificatory uncle [maman]). The Lilibuten community extends beyond the perimeter shown in figure 8 and includes several other clusters, one around old Musej and her three married daughters, and another around Ering, brother of Utun, and three other attached households. As noted earlier, two of these clusters, a bit more distant but still belonging to the Lilibuten community, are composed of descendants of Aturej, Tuking’s late sister. I checked the situation six years later, in 1995, just after Tuking’s demise. The group as described above was still very much the same. The core groups around Inaring, Umaring, Utun, and Densinu (Intin) had not moved. Several new households had appeared with recent marriages and the coming of age of the children. The granddaughter of Umaring, for instance, was married to Tasju, so Tasju lived uxorilocally near Umaring, while Tasju’s younger sister had also come to live with her husband in Umaring’s core group. Around Inaring also there were new additions, namely Mangin’s niece (Mangin is the son-in-law of Inaring, and they both shared a house) and his son Limpungan, who had married Umaring’s daughter and was therefore living


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both uxorilocally and virilocally. Two new sons-in-law, Asiru and Permisju, had built their houses next to Inaring’s. So Inaring’s core group had grown, as did old Kering’s core group, since she now had five married daughters. There were no radically new realignments, just some individual shifts and basically a growth of the same core groups around the same focal in-laws through the normal play of uxorilocal marriages. Looking back at the kinship nucleus of 1976 around Tuking, one can see that its original members—Inaring, his wife Liksiq, and their in-laws Mangin and Upin—remained the solid core around which new households sprouted, as their daughters grew and married and as some affinal ties between neighboring groups (see, e.g., the marriages of Limpungan and Simpungan) reinforced preexisting links between the focal affines like Inaring, Kering, and Umaring. But in 1995 Tuking died and left behind a community deprived of its real center. Tuking’s two surviving sons could both expect to succeed their father. Medsinu was a competent arbiter and expert in customary law and a healer as well. But he lived elsewhere, formerly in Pinegbuqan, then Tegmemaqan, where he was the leader of a large settlement. Inaring, for his part, was of course living in Lilibuten and was de facto a focal affine and elder (megurang) in his own right, even when Tuking was still alive. For several years, until 1998, things were left as they were, and the big house, where Tuking had lived, performed countless rituals, and cured so many people, was left empty. Inaring had also taken to looking after people, and his fame as a healer and shaman (beljan) was growing. Medsinu, the younger brother, more enterprising and a brilliant orator, seemed fated to fill his father’s position as an overall leader. But things move slowly in Palawan, and there is no rule saying that such a position must be filled, at least immediately.22 What happened was that Inaring came to resemble his father so much, performing the same rituals and prayers and behaving like the great shaman himself, that little doubt was left that he had taken the same position in the community, despite his lack of expertise in customary law and his poor charisma. He had grown his hair long, just like his father, and he needed only to occupy the same big house that his father had. This is what finally happened when the whole community moved from Lilibuten to Beheg, a nearby valley, in 1998. The move was motivated by the fact that many people, especially those like Inaring, Utun, and Umaring, had inherited or claimed land and had coconut plantations in this valley. Beheg was also much better suited to irrigation, with a good supply of water and a flat bottom now being turned into rice fields, whereas Lilibuten was built on a hillock surrounded by coconut groves and other plantations. When I visited Beheg in 2001, I was amazed to see Tuking’s big house (kelang bena) rebuilt identically on the slopes of the Beheg stream and dominating the little valley.23 The house was surrounded by smaller buildings where Inaring, Kering, Umaring, and their children and in-laws were living


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exactly as in the old days of Lilibuten. Inaring now occupied the big house, and his living quarters within were exactly like those occupied by his late father. There were 12 households, including Kering and her married daughters, as well as Umaring and his children. Inaring, his son Simpungan (married to Kering’s daughter), and his two sons-in-law Mangin and Asero formed the central cluster of houses. Just below, at the foot of the hill, almost a stone’s throw away, were Utun and 15 other households more or less dispersed within a radius of about a kilometer. Of course in the process some members of the Lilibuten community had gone—for instance, Densinu had died and his son-in-law Nadju had left for Tegbituk with his brother Djuli—while others came in, but over twothirds of all Beheg households had previously been present in Lilibuten. One can conclude that a rurungan originating in a core nucleus of households 25 years earlier and subsequently expanding into a community of 30 households proves to be a stable community surviving the death of its leader and its transfer to another location. Even without any knowledge of the systematic interplay of marriage, residence, and leadership, and just looking at the same people living side by side for the span of a generation, one realizes that a sense of an enduring community of neighbors is present in this society. In spite of the many individual shifts and transfers, some long term and some temporary, and in spite of the extreme mobility of this population, communities keep a stable membership and recognizable identity through time, an identity that is closely related to their leaders. Although these leaders have no real coercive power, and in spite of a life of great freedom to the point of near anarchy, local communities have a focus of authority; thus they present a clear-cut structure and a durable reality.

The Regional Area At a higher level on the geographical scale, the regional area is usually coterminal with a river basin. At that level there is a sense of loosely formed community, especially and rather exceptionally so in Kulbi because of the presence of the late Tuking, who was a spiritual figure drawing a broad consensus. History will tell whether Inaring will be able to gather so universal a following, but it is doubtful.24 First, he lacks the kind of leadership that goes with litigation skills and a presence in the community as an orator and an arbiter. Second, there is an apparent split in the Kulbi area as far as religious matters are concerned. The panggaw or panggaris ceremony—which is the major ritual event in the KulbiKenipaqan area—conducted by Tuking, was a regional affair bringing together all or almost all communities in the area (see chap. 4). It is now (2004) held independently in Megkelip. Whatever the outcome of these events, it is not likely that Tuking will have a replacement. Let us be reminded that this position (as a spiritual leader of the whole area) had no real political function and


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that what I call the region is in no way structured as the local community (sang keperurungan), with a clear hierarchy and rules of membership. From a different point of view, however, this regional area may be seen as a social entity. It is characterized by a high degree of endogamy. More will be said about it later, but the regional area has two important implications. First, the kinship network covers the whole area. Due to the shallow genealogical memory, as we will see in chapter 3, not all such connections are remembered, but every individual has relatives in almost all other neighborhoods. The second important aspect of this endogamous situation is that almost all of the male labor force is actually kept within the restricted limits of the region. Despite the fact that men marry uxorilocally and therefore move from their residence unit to another, they do so within a rather short radius, the most distant hamlets in one river basin being never more than a few hours’ walk from another. An ablebodied young man can cross the island and return in less than a day, if needed. From a regional point of view and using the terminology used by students of animal behavior, one could say that in spite of female philopatry, male dispersal is minimal (see Rodseth et al. 1991 on this). From a man’s point of view, the ties and close relationships with one’s parents are never completely severed, and in a sense “matrilocal ‘alliances’ are more of a case of ‘agnatic sprawl’: an entire tribe of intermarrying matrilocal communities functions politically as one large fraternal interest group” (Rodseth et al. 1991, 231). As Murdock pointed out, matrilocality does not isolate men from their natal kin (Rodseth et al. 1991, 230). Sociologically, however, it might curb confrontation between males and foster nonviolent behavior (Rodseth et al. 1991, 231). Important aspects of the human communities are thus revealed through their socioecology. A considerable amount of freedom in group affiliation, the existence of stable and comparatively large communities based on emergent leadership, and an ethos of nonviolence are all important characteristics of the KulbiKenipaqan social structure.


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2 Material Culture and the Symbolic Structure of Everyday Life This chapter briefly describes the material and economic basis of the KulbiKenipaqan society. Many of the objects and techniques observed in this area are similar or even identical to those found in other areas, and various accounts have already been published (among others Macdonald 1977b, 1987a, 1988a, 1994b; Revel 1990), including a detailed catalogue of objects that I stored in the Musée de l’Homme in Paris (Macdonald 1974b). Rather than a complete description of the material aspects and technical activities in Kulbi-Kenipaqan, particularly the agricultural and extractive operations required to sustain the everyday existence of the Palawan population, I shall focus my attention on those practical aspects of life that reveal mental habits and symbolic structures. I will thus be interested in arrangements within the living space, for instance, or the way people orient themselves in the domestic and natural world, or the way they categorize domestic animals, or the semantic structure of the meal, or the different types of reciprocity that characterize each class of exchange items. This chapter, then, should document what could be called the symbolic structure of everyday life. The whole Palawan ethnolinguistic population could be roughly divided on the basis of an ecological and economic orientation into two broad subdivisions: 1) the upland or highland groups, and 2) the hill, lowland, and coastal groups. People living in the upriver part of the Tamlang and Mekagwaq River basins, and the so-called Tau’t Batu, living in the Singnapan Valley—people I have done long periods of fieldwork with—live in an environment that has advantages and constraints that are quite specific, resulting from climatic differences dependent on the elevation (between 300 and 800 meters above sea level), from a different type of vegetal cover, and from the general conditions of the biotope. These and other factors result in a paradoxical situation. Although highlanders grow upland dry rice and emphatically claim to be rice agriculturists, in fact they are dependent on tubers and root crops, particularly cassava, and remain at heart

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hunters and predators of the forest. This has been abundantly demonstrated by a study of their cultural and economic behavior (Revel 1990; Macdonald 1974a, 1987a, 1988a). In contrast, tribal people who occupy a coastal or near coastal lowland area (between 0 and 300 meters above sea level) reside in a different kind of natural and social environment, rely on resources not immediately available in the highlands, and have as a result a somewhat different material and economic orientation. Lowland groups that I am familiar with are the people in Punang, Quezon, and Kulbi-Kenipaqan. These groups are or were strategically located not too far from the shore, thus gaining easy access to the mangrove and the reef, extremely rich biotopes.1 As dry upland rice agriculturalists they are more successful than their highland colleagues. Hunting with spears and dogs or with the blowgun is also practiced by the lowlanders but to a lesser extent than in the highlands. The Kulbi-Kenipaqan people were ideally located to exploit the reef, mangrove, rivers, and forest, to cultivate dry upland rice together with other crops, and to hunt and fish and gather wild plants. The biodiversity was considerable and provided for their needs in food, construction material, fuel, and the production of most of their instruments and objects of daily use like containers, blowguns, and traps. They did not produce metal and textiles, but instead bartered with foreign traders and through the Palawan-speaking Muslims (Penimusan), who lived on the shore. This situation existed until the 1960s. The present conditions have considerably changed. From a nonmonetized, subsistence economy based on shifting agriculture, hunting, fishing, and gathering, the Kulbi economy has become one that is monetized, based on irrigated rice production with multiple crops and on copra production; one using mechanical equipment and invaded by industrially produced objects; one with many new commercial networks based on intensified traffic and road transportation; one characterized by the depletion of its natural environment together with a reduction in biodiversity; and, finally, one experiencing an emerging social stratification based on economic inequality. This transformation is an ongoing and, until 2000 at least, slow process.2 In the 1970s and 1980s the area remained protected from foreign influences and kept its traditional way of life, which probably did not differ significantly from previous centuries. Next I shall loosely organize the description of the material and economic life of the people around three conceptual centers, reflecting a basic structure in the vernacular representation of the environment. The three centers are the house (bena), the fields (uma and basakan), and the “bush” (talun). This will allow me to touch on most aspects of material culture but also to expand on activities, habits, and ideas that are closely related to the objects themselves.


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The House and Domestic Life The domestic universe is certainly centered on the house (bena),3 but its boundaries are not obvious. It took me years to actually recognize that the house—or the inhabited space, rather—comprised also the house yard (legwas), an open space that surrounds the house proper and contains cultivated plants. This space is actually a nondescript expanse of dirt with a vegetal confusion in the corners that the Western visitor would not be prepared to call a garden. Moreover, the house yard is usually not surrounded by a fence or any material marker, but in the minds of the people it has a very clear boundary and in truth is already part of the house. Proof of this is given when a visitor arrives and he or she stops at the “entrance of the house yard” (besulan) and calls the landlord or the landlady from there and no farther. It is at the threshold (besulan) of Figure 10 House design and floor plan God’s house that, some say, the souls of the departed wait until they are invited inside (see chap. 4). As with the apparently random dispersal of houses in a local group, which the foreigner has a difficult time envisioning as a solidly structured unit, the house and its immediate surroundings do not impress the stranger with their clearly outlined spatial organization. Once the visitor has entered the house yard he will then be invited to “climb” (inik or tindal, as the people always say), meaning that he will have to go into the house by climbing the ladder or the notched log that leads to the elevated floor inside the dwelling. Houses are always on stilts, in Kulbi as elsewhere in Palawan, and generally in Southeast Asia, where this type of architecture is frequent and has been discussed at length by various authors since the pioneering work of Nguyen Van Huyen (1934).4 The basic architectural design of the Palawan house, together with a typical floor plan, is shown in figure 10. The house5 is made entirely of vegetal materials, tied together with rattan bindings. Nails and galvanized iron are used now if people can afford the cost of these imported items. The floor plan varies tremendously from house to house, as do the dimensions and number of partitions in the house. In essence, one has


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to see the house as constantly evolving through time, losing one part and gaining another as the whims and needs of the dwellers change. Since most of the construction materials are readily available from the nearby mangrove vegetation and forest and/or from the newly cleared swidden, houses are in a constant state of repair, or disrepair, as one likes. People are not too finicky about the quality and strength of their houses, which are impermanent structures anyway. The thatching, made from nipa (Nipa fruticans) leaves or those from other palm trees like the gumbja (Metroxylon sagu), has to be replaced every other year. The materials decay and break easily and need replacement. Walls generally take a lot of time to be installed, and the occupants of the house never seem to be sure whether they want any or not. Many people have several houses, with one near the field where they would reside especially in late July and August to watch over the growing rice. A temporary dwelling might become at one point the main habitation, so the status of houses changes constantly, from a simple shack to a more permanent and solidly built structure. Most houses, then, are little structures—three by four meters—that contain one family: husband, wife, and children. The floor of these houses is about one meter above the ground, but again the length, width, and height and number of inner partitions vary from house to house, but also through time for the same house. The house is certainly a “living” thing, as Waterson (1990) so aptly phrased it, and is constantly changing its shape and size. In some places local architects display a certain amount of creativity. In Megkelip, for instance, heart of the traditional Palawan culture, one can see houses with two stories and elevated gables in imitation of styles brought into the area by other ethnic Filipinos. A central floor is usually surrounded on two or three sides by slightly higher platforms that serve as benches. Traditionally the furniture is very scant, with only a wooden chest for “hiding” (taguq) prized possessions and a few shelves for storing plates. Sometimes a large bin (lakut) made out of bark, containing paddy or corn, occupies some of the floor space. People stick most of their objects, like knifes, blowguns, spears, and ladles, between the vegetal tiles of the roof and hang their pots under the eaves. Baskets hang from the rafters or are tied to the posts and serve as containers for food and domestic implements. The floor, made of split bamboo, can be a bed or a table. As in so many other Southeast Asian cultures, men squat or sit cross-legged with legs bent in front of them, women with legs bent together on one side. Because people squat they do not need furniture, like chairs and tables. A fireplace (dapugan), used for cooking, is located on one side of the house, and the heat of the fire gives some warmth to the people sleeping next to it during the rather cold nights of the dry season. In a number of societies, in Southeast Asia and beyond, houses may display a very strict and complex symbolic grid both in their orientation and in the spatial distribution of things and activities taking place inside the house, sometimes


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with a strict gender division (see J. J. Fox 1993). In many cases, then, the religious symbolism is thick; the location and orientation of the main posts, the fireplace, the roof beam, the entrance, and so on, are loaded with meaning and symbolic value. In complete contrast with this situation, the Palawan house is almost entirely devoid of symbolism, religious or otherwise. Some general and weakly enforced stipulations exist, however. In Kulbi it is said that the lengthwise orientation of the house should be east-west, with the entrance to the east, facing the rising sun. This is in accordance with a general orientation of the universe, the west and the setting sun pointing to the direction of the land of the dead, whereas the direction of the rising sun is that of the spirits or deities (diwata) and the “Powerful Ones”; one accomplishes the rituals by facing them (see chap. 4). This rule is often disregarded nevertheless, in spite of another belief saying that if the roof beam crosses the path of the sun lengthwise, it will cause the owner of the house to be devoured by the crocodile. In the immediate surroundings of the house, the house yard (legwas), grow all sorts of edible, medicinal, ritual, and ornamental plants (e.g., eggplants, cucumbers, and other cucurbitaceous vegetables), basilica, rukuruku (Ocimum sanctum), sulasi or kulasi (Ocimum officinale), beans,6 trees (e.g., papaya, areca, and banana), several species of taro, chili pepper, sugarcane, lemongrass, ginger, curcuma, cordyline, pineapple, and so on. This is a real garden containing dozens of different species not arranged in any geometric pattern, but imitating, rather, the general haphazard profusion and diversity of the tropical vegetation. The space under the house is in a way the “cellar” of this type of structure; firewood and various tools are placed there. This is where small children play and where the chicken, dogs, and pigs roam during the day. The house is thus a very private place and at the same time is not completely closed; visitors come and go quite freely. Its weak symbolic structure, its impermanent nature and constant transformation, and the real but immaterial boundaries that surround it could be a metaphor for the Palawan ethos, which is hospitable and sociable, with no defenses against violence, combining a strong sense of privacy with an extroverted disposition, great informality mixed with a keen observance of propriety, a somewhat minimalist outlook in matters of comfort, and an acceptance of the transient nature of human and material affairs. Other types of structures are mentioned elsewhere in this volume (see chap. 3). One is the “big house” (kelang bena), which is essentially a bigger dwelling owned by one person or family but serves as a communal house for discussions and public hearings (bitsara) and rituals like the panggaw or panggaris (a major ceremony in this area; see chap. 4), in which case an open platform is built outside facing east. This is where people play the gongs (basal), dance (tarek), and experience a trance while performing the ritual chanting (deruhan). The big house is also where people meet daily to chat, gossip, and entertain each other,


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and where the shaman can attend to his numerous patients. Tuking’s house was 10 meters wide and 15 meters long, had huge posts, and was entirely built with rattan bindings; it had a beautiful curved roof with a vegetal cover of gumbja, wide lateral platforms, and a spacious central floor. Tuking lived in one corner behind a little partition, next to the fireplace located in the deep part of the house (facing west). This type of structure is not only much bigger and much stronger, mainly because it has to support the weight of up to a hundred people or more (as with weddings), but is also more strictly oriented on an east-west axis, for reasons already explained, and is also more permanent. After Tuking’s death, his house was taken apart, transported, and rebuilt with the same materials, especially the posts, in Beheg, where his son Inaring lived. Inaring had located himself in the exact spot as his father, in the far corner of the house (see chap. 1 for details). Another structure of great social significance will be discussed in greater detail in chapter 3. Seen in figure 8 (see chap. 1), this little house (pupuq) is built for girls as a venue for courtship sessions. The pupuq is an elegant little dollhouse attached to the house of the parents, from which they can more or less monitor the proceedings and check on the comings and goings of suitors. This type of house varies in style and dimension but is always small and built next to the parent’s dwelling. Young bachelors are wont to build their own little houses up in the trees, and one can see today such elevated structures far above the ground. These small houses do nothing more, however, than advertise the existence of eligible young men; nothing, apparently, happens in these individually owned pupuq, or kupuq, as they are called. There are two additional structures found in hamlets and neighborhoods. One is the rice granary, used to store rice and other possessions. It is always detached from the main dwelling but at some point can be accommodated to serve as a temporary dwelling. Like the pupuq, it is a little house on stilts, and I have confused this structure many times with the courtship houses of young girls. The other structure that is occasionally found is called the kubu. It is interesting for two reasons. First, it is the only type of dwelling that is not on stilts. Instead, it is a simple, protective, shed-like building with a triangular frame made of heavy logs, resting directly on the ground and covered with leaves. Second, its intended use, as a shelter against typhoons and strong winds, is unusual because typhoons are indeed very rare in this part of the island, since their paths cross the Philippine archipelago at a much higher latitude. People insist, nonetheless, on having this kind of protection near at hand, although I have never seen it used and—even more interesting—have never seen such a structure in the northern part of the Palawan group, where the risk of typhoons is higher. This fact demonstrates that the world of material things reflects sometimes deep-seated needs not resulting from purely practical considerations.7 Among all Palawan people


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a fear of thunder, strong rains, and tempestuous winds is always present, and, it must be admitted, climatic conditions sometimes pose a real threat to the life of the people. Moving from the outer construction and placement of Palawan houses, let us look now at what is found inside in terms of objects and activities. A typical list would include several types of baskets of different shape and size, big ceramic jars, bush knives with their scabbards, carving knives, one fighting knife or sword, spears, big and small gongs, a couple of blowguns and dart quivers, a fishing net and a fishing rod, several cotton blankets, several empty gallon containers, ceramic plates, cooking pots, a large frying pan, and a huge wooden propeller. Such household inventories often include the two-stringed lute (kusjapi or kutjapi ) used to accompany the singing (geniqgeniq) in courtship. Ring flutes, Jew’s harps, and the bamboo zither are present and are played as in the highlands (see Maceda and Revel 1991). “Big houses” would never be complete without a set of boss gongs, at least one large gong (agung ) and several smaller ones (sanang ). The drum is most of the time an empty plastic gallon. This is an incomplete but more or less typical list of objects owned by a family. It gives us a glimpse at the kind of possessions and activities that are related to them. Material wealth is composed of such heirlooms (pusakaq) as large ceramic jars, gongs, fighting knives, and also objects of copper, pewter, and cast iron such as trays, pots, and betel boxes, all traditionally acquired through trade with Muslim merchants. Locally made metal tools such as spears, the ever-present bush knives (tukew), and the all-purpose carving knives (peqis) are considered valuable but not heirloom property. Tools and weapons for hunting and fishing such as blowguns, decorated dart quivers, and fishnets can also be traded or exchanged and have now some monetary value. Textiles were never locally made, and there is no history of the loom in Palawan, a subject that is not well explained. Some elderly people remember how in ancient times, in the time of their childhood or before, one wore bark-cloth garments, like the G-string, when cotton was rare and expensive. Few people, too, remember the craft of pottery, another vanished practice. The simple earthenware pots (kuren)8 of earlier times, baked over an open fire, were smaller and more fragile than the cast-iron pots used today for cooking rice. Interestingly, the kuren was used as a unit of time, measuring how long it took to cook a pot of rice (see Macdonald 2004). Among the artifacts always found in private homes and produced by the inhabitants are bamboo and rattan baskets (bakaq or bakaqbakaq) used for storage and transportation, winnowing trays (niguq), and various other containers, such as the bamboo container (alep) for tobacco. Everyday tools like the curved knife with a long handle and agricultural tools like bush knives, axes (wasej ),9 and spears10 are crafted locally on a so-called “Malay forge.” There is one blacksmith for every other hamlet or local group, and his is the only specialized craft. The


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blacksmith (megselsal or pandaj) earns money or is compensated for his work, but he does not have special status. His tools include a pair of pliers, a couple of hammers and an anvil, a file, and a good supply of locally made charcoal—fuel for the fire that is fanned by two wooden bellows whose pistons are manned by an aide, generally a young boy. One should note that most objects and tools connected with agriculture are supposed to have a life or personality of sorts, and in some districts the mortar and pestle, baskets, and bush knives are “fed” ritually at harvest time, lest they become angry and revolt against their masters.11 Like blacksmithing, woodcarving is another craft at which some are more adept than others. Old Pitu from Megkelip, for instance, is still the official carver of the little human figure (tawtaw) for the panggaris ceremony. He, like many others, produces carved handles for the quiver (kereban), nicely shaped ladles (luluwag ), the mortar and pestle (lesung and laqlu) for pounding rice, handles (puluq) for the bush knife, and the decorated wooden propeller found in many houses. This last item is both a toy and a ritual object of great comparative interest, since it is found in many different cultures of Southeast Asia, both insular and mainland.12 One can see these propellers fastened atop high trees around the fields, where they gyrate like pinwheels and emit a humming sound. They are called djagadjaga, which means “little protectors.”13 Other craftsmen use their skills to make blowguns (for hunting), the manufacturing details of which I have described elsewhere (see Macdonald 1977b). This item is made of two tubes of two different species of bamboo, one inserted in the other. Blowing forcefully into it propels small darts (beslej or berawang ), made of the stem of a palm tree. People do not make or use bows and arrows. Small submarine guns (timbak), made out of wood and a thick rubber band, are used for fishing in the rivers or on the reefs. Plenty of industrially manufactured objects are now found lying inside and around houses. One sees all sorts of containers made of plastic or aluminum, such as plates, pails, washbasins, bowls, cups, and boxes. Toys, plastic combs, and many other trinkets are a common sight as well. Among possessions bought from the market and shops or bartered with traders that are considered valuable are clocks, watches, radios, and cassette recorders, as well as the occasional camera, karaoke machine, and bicycle. Agriculture is becoming more mechanized, and some successful Palawan agriculturists, such as Taya or Kuntilyu, who have irrigated rice fields, own tractors and even engine-powered rice mills. The families who have developed new agricultural techniques, whose resources are based on irrigated rice and copra production, and who are located near the barrio or close to the road have certainly entered the world of mass consumption. •


•

•

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animal husbandry plays an important economic role today in Palwan culture, but in earlier times, before World War II at least, the only domesticated animal bred for food was the chicken. In all of insular Southeast Asia the chicken is the archetypal domestic animal.14 It is very much an inhabitant of the domestic universe and plays a prominent symbolic role since it represents the human soul, at least in the context of ritual bartering with supernatural agencies (see chap. 4). Other animals that are now bred for food and play a role in economic transactions are pigs, goats, cows, and ducks. Cattle is good currency, and many families own several, as well as the all-important water buffalo—increasingly helpful in the context of plowed agriculture. The Palawan have dogs and cats and also keep pet monkeys and birds such as parrots and mynahs, plus flying squirrels, which they sell to lowlanders. Generally speaking, the animals living in or near houses have an economic as well as symbolic significance. Cows, goats, and pigs are bred and kept for food and economic reasons; they represent capital and can be sold at any time or consumed during feasts, especially marriages. Water buffaloes are bred as draft animals and for their economic value as well. Chickens are valued as food (the eggs and the animal itself ) and also as items to be sold or bartered. Dogs and cats are kept as pets in the house, and the dog is also useful as a scavenger, house guardian, and hunting companion. These pets/companions are not considered food. Puppies are sold or exchanged, but buying or selling a cat is prohibited. Contrary to common assumptions, the world of the domestic animal is internally contrasted, and it is not enough to oppose “wild” against “domestic” in order to understand the symbolic value of animals. Table 6 consists of a grid wherein two broad categories of domestic animals stand out: those that live in the house and the house yard (legwas) and those that live outside. Pigs, goats, and buffaloes are not usually allowed to sleep under the house, much less inside. Chickens, in contrast, are mostly house dwellers, and chicken coops are installed under the eaves of the house. At sundown, chickens perch on the roof of the house and on posts or trees in the house yard. Within the category “Animals that live outside the house,” there are two subcategories: those that are tame (megwep) and do not run away, and those that do run away (meklag). Dogs, cats, and other pets belong to the first category, chickens to the second. Note also that chickens belong to a class marked by two sets of opposite values: 1) they are “domestic” (live in the house) and “wild” (they run away); and 2) they are pets, but they are also food (unlike other pets). Therefore, the chicken has kept its unique and distinctive classificatory position and as such is entitled to a unique symbolic value. Chickens are “good to think” because they are both domestic and wild, pets and food, house dwellers yet still linked to the forest and the bush (talun). They live inside the human domestic world, of which they are part, but retain an untamed and wild character. Therefore, they are ideally located in the conceptual world


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to shuttle between the domestic and the wild, the human and the supernatural. One should not forget that until recently the chicken was the only domesticated animal among the Palawan people. The market value of these domesticated animals is based on various factors, particularly size and age. In 2001 a mature water buffalo was worth around 11,000 pesos, a young one 5,000. A cow was estimated at 7,000 pesos, a calf at 4,000. A chicken costs around 50 pesos, more if it is a large, egg-laying hen or a cock. Some cocks are trained to fight and are therefore more expensive. The price of meat is comparatively high. One sack of paddy costs 250 pesos, and the price of a water buffalo is more or less that of the most prized heirloom, the big gong (agung). I will discuss further the estimated value of certain items later in this chapter. In any case, animal husbandry is important and indicates dietary habits that include meat. Most meals, however, remain largely plant based, and the diet is predominantly vegetarian. The eating habits of the Kulbi people are similar to those of the highland Palawan analyzed in a previous publication (Macdonald and Revel-Macdonald 1974; Macdonald 1978). Meals are synchronically structured, with all food types mixed together and eaten simultaneously, not diachronically, in which a succession of dishes is served one after the other. Eating is based on a triad of recognized needs: hunger (urap), appetite (seblek), and the (need for) taste (rasa). Types of food are organized within a meal so as to meet these needs. Hunger is mostly satisfied by cooked rice (linaga)15 or by substitutes such as cassava, taro, yams (wild and domesticated), plantains, sago, corn, and Table 6 Classification of Domestic Animals Type of Live outside Live inside Run away Do not run away Main economic Main economic use: animal the house the house (not tethered) (tethered) use: food other than food Water buffalo

+

Pig

+

+ +

+ +

Cattle

+

Ducks

+

+

+

+

+

Goat

+

+

+

+

+

Chicken

+

Cat

+

+

+

Dog

+

+

+

Pets (monkeys, birds)

+

+

+


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sweet potatoes. This is the starchy, filling part of the meal, the kekanen. The appetite is satisfied by meats or viands (isdaqan), which complement the rice or what passes as kekanen. The viands (isdaqan) consist of fish (sedaq) or meat16 or vegetables (sajur).17 The isdaqan18 adds taste to the rather bland kekanen and provides proteins not included in the kekanen. To satisfy the need for taste, people add salt19 and various herbs and spices that add flavor and perfume (like ginger, lemongrass, onions, chili pepper, basil, small tomatoes, and a variety of other plants growing in the house yard). A complete meal comprising these three elements is prepared very early in the morning. Women get up before dawn to revive the fire and start cooking the first meal. A second large meal is cooked at the end of the day or by late afternoon. People often eat another full meal at noon. Supplementing the main meals are a number of snacks eaten during the day, including bananas, other types of fruits, cassava or sweet potatoes, and various other foods. It seems clear, then, that food is not scarce. People may complain of being hungry (peguqurap), but this simply means they have not eaten the preferred food, rice. Real hunger—lack of any food for several days in a row or severe, chronic undernourishment—is rare, unless one undergoes voluntary fasting, as when seeking the help of a spirit in the forest (tarak; see chap. 4). The vegetal biodiversity of the natural environment, the swidden, and the house garden was reflected—and still is to a great extent—in the daily meals. The progressive disappearance of the swidden (uma), characterized by intercropping and a great variety of cultigens (Conklin 1957; Geertz 1963), and the increasing importance of monocropping in the irrigated and plowed fields (basakan) is and will be increasingly reflected in a diminished number of food types and a probable deterioration of the daily diet. Different ways of cooking are known to the Palawan (see Macdonald 1978). Boiling (inglajen, sangsangen, legaqan)20 remains the most common method, but frying with coconut or other types of cooking oil (rindangen) is another way to prepare food, especially rice cakes (penijaram).21 Cooking in bamboo tubes (lutluten) with curcuma and coconut milk (getaqan) is another traditional means of preparation, but it is reserved for ceremonial foods. Curing meats on a fire is tepaqan; roasting directly in the fire or the ashes is tambuken (the latter is done for snacks of plantains or sweet potatoes); roasting slowly above the fire is pinejnejnajan and is mostly reserved for the wild boar’s meat and for fish. The main food type (kekanen) is typically boiled, whereas the viands (isdaqan) are normally roasted or fried. Rice is always cooked without salt; conversely, vegetables and meats are boiled with salt, along with various spices. Glutamates (bitsin), bought in stores, are much appreciated today. Cooking is done on the fireplace (dapugan) located on the lower side of the central floor, and people eat next to it, squatting on the floor or sitting on the side platforms. There is no formal sitting or serving arrangement. Perhaps because of the synchronic structure of the meal,


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food is dispatched speedily, with little verbal interaction. Guests gobble up their food, then take long drafts of water and sit back. After the meal one smokes cigarettes (pupud ) made out of tobacco (sigup) rolled in nipa leaves. Men and women chew the betel quid composed, as elsewhere, of lime from various shells, the leaves of Piper betle, and the nut of Areca catechu, the latter two grown in the house yard.22 Toothless elders pound these ingredients in a miniature mortar. Smoking and betel chewing are the activities attendant to socializing. The exchange of tobacco between men and the offering of betel between men and women typically signal two types of bonding: friendship and marriage.23 Whereas smoking and betel chewing are culturally and socially important to the Palawan, the Kulpi-Kenipaqan area is distinctively marked by the absence of rice wine (tinapej ) and honey wine (simbug ). All the main ritual events elsewhere are marked by the consumption of either rice wine or honey wine (see chap. 4; Macdonald 1993b). This probably explains the very low incidence of alcohol consumption and alcoholism in this area. This topic is relevant to the study of suicide here, since many suicides in different countries are linked to alcohol consumption or alcohol abuse (see Hawton and van Heeringen 2000, 135–146).24 The description of the domestic world would be incomplete without two other aspects of the daily life: dress and music. Women traditionally wore (and at times still do) long skirts (tapis) and an open, narrow shirt with sleeves (sigpit) or a top on which sequins were sewn. Around the house and in the field they went bare breasted, a habit now generally avoided due to the prejudice of neighboring Christian settlers.25 They traditionally wore their hair long and knotted in a bun, but many today keep it short. Jewelry and ornaments include earplugs with a mother-of-pearl inlay, finger rings, copper or tin bracelets, and glass-bead necklaces of foreign origin. Wooden (and today plastic) combs, makeup, and perfume are worn during gatherings. The eyebrows and hair fringes are carefully trimmed and the teeth sometimes filed so as to make them even. Like the women, men used to go barefoot and covered only the lower part of their bodies with the traditional G-string (baqag ), now replaced by short or long pants. The traditionally open shirts have been replaced by printed T-shirts. The male headgear used to be a high, tubular turban (still worn by older men). Men today cut their hair, but shamans, like Inaring, used to let their hair grow to their waists,26 a sign of magical potency (see chap. 4), usually knotted in a bun and hidden under the turban. Today nothing in the dress of Palawan men and women distinguishes them from other lowlanders—short skirts for women, short haircuts, and all the trappings of teenage fashion for school pupils who in any case must wear uniforms to school. Going barefoot is stigmatized in lowland culture—a general rule in lowland Southeast Asia—and anybody venturing into the barrio will wear sneakers, boots, sandals, or flip-flops.


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Agriculture People in Kulbi-Kenipaqan are agriculturists who now live in a transition between shifting (or slash-and-burn) agriculture and irrigated rice agriculture, between the swidden (uma) and the irrigated rice field (basakan). Agriculture is the basis of their livelihood and provides most of their food requirements. There are four main types of agricultural production. Two are traditional and ancient (swidden agriculture and sago production); the other two are new but of increasingly vital economic significance (irrigated rice production and the coconut plantation). I will not go into a detailed description of any of the techniques involved. The ratio of cultivated land under swidden compared to irrigated field methods varies from place to place. In Tegbituk, I estimated in 2001 that about 25% of the farmers had irrigated rice fields, some of them engaging also in swidden agriculture to some extent, and that 75% still relied mainly on slashand-burn agriculture. In Megkelip, a place farther inland where people say it is more difficult to capture streams and build a network of irrigation canals, there is no irrigated rice field yet, and everybody still relies on shifting agriculture. Some areas are obviously more suited to irrigation, especially for agriculturists who are still beginners in this new and complex technology. It is, however, progressing at a steady pace, and such places as the valley bottom of Beheg, where no irrigated fields existed ten years ago, are now almost completely converted to wet agriculture. Swidden agriculture was of course an entirely suitable method of land use in the whole Kulbi-Kenipaqan area, considering the low population density and extent of available land until the second half of the 20th century. Cycles of 10 to 20 years of fallow were possible, allowing for the restoration of the vegetative cover. With the influx of migrants and the rise in population density this system is no longer feasible. From another point of view as well, swidden agriculture is incompatible with modern conditions. To function properly swidden agriculture requires not only long periods of fallow, but also a lot of free available land. This resulted in the rule of non-ownership of land, a good that was considered essentially free, not to be privately appropriated for any length of time after the oneyear, sometimes two-year, period of cultivation. Only crops and fruit-bearing trees that had been planted were owned privately, not the land itself. The incoming lowland Christian settlers are predominantly land-hungry farmers practicing irrigated rice cultivation. They started in the late 1970s to permanently occupy and appropriate tracts of land. The only recourse for the native Palawan population, in order to protect itself from a complete takeover, was to start owning land, and the best way to own land is to cultivate it. That is why irrigated rice field agriculture is so vital today for the material and cultural survival of the native population. The Palawan are now doing this without government help,


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displaying a certain level of ingenuity and resilience, an ability to change that is commonly denied to upland indigenous communities. Swidden agriculture is characterized by a yearly cycle starting around late December or January and ending around September or early October. This cycle used to be the time frame around which social and ritual activities were structured, culminating at harvest time, when the new rice was stored and eaten, major rituals held, and people lived concentrated in settlements. Many activities took place during October, November, and December, including productive activities like trapping, fishing, and house building. The rest of the year, from January to August, was mostly devoted to the care of crops, and people used to spend a lot of time dispersed in their field huts, especially when rice was nearing fruition. The swidden cycle is divided in Kulbi into nine stages. Rituals attending to this process are described in chapter 4. 1. Ternaban: selecting the field. In late December or January the field is selected and its boundaries are drawn. In the old days, but much more rarely today, fields were opened in the primary forest (gebaq). Almost all swidden (uma) are now cut in the secondary growth (banglej). 2. Ririk: clearing the bushes and the low vegetation; slashing the undergrowth (January–February). 3. Penenbeng: felling trees. Trees are felled around March in the forest, earlier in the secondary growth. 4. Tutungan: burning the field. The cut vegetation is allowed to dry until April, when a suitably dry, sunny, and possibly windy day is chosen for burning. 5. Sesadan: planting (April). This is a collective activity involving all the inhabitants of a settlement, with the men in front poking holes in the ground with a planting stick (tugdaq) and women behind depositing seeds in the holes; a mock battle between men and women is ritually enacted. 6. Mengilamun: weeding (April to August). This is the longest and most tedious part of the agricultural cycle. More weeding is needed for fields cut in secondary growth, less for those made in the forest. 7. Peninimpad et maqis: corn planting (July). 8. Pangteb: harvest (August and September). 9. Pengengawat: planting a new garden in the field. After the rice has been harvested, a number of cultigens (sweet potatoes, taro, corn, yam, cassava, pineapple, pepper, etc.) are planted in one section of the field (September–October).


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The swidden (uma) is really a garden characterized by intercropping and a mixture of cultigens, including taro, cassava, sweet potato, yam, banana, millet, sorghum, watermelon, and sugarcane. Several rice varieties are planted. In my studies of upland agriculture in the central highlands, I concluded that rice varieties, being carefully segregated in the field, were seen as clones. Revel has listed 71 named varieties (1990, 1:339). A number of factors, among them the diminishing carrying capacity of the land, the disappearance of the primary forest, land scarcity, climatic changes, pests, and possibly other tactics, render the swidden less and less productive. In this sense the irrigated rice field (basakan)27 is a much more profitable proposition, with two to three crops a year. Families who own wet rice fields emphatically assert that unlike the old days, they now never lack for rice. As explained by one Palawan farmer who practices wet-rice agriculture, there are fourteen steps to be followed in the process of preparing the rice field (basakan). 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

Megrebas: clearing the field, weeding, and cleaning the surface. Megtuqud: digging out all the roots and stumps. Megaradu: plowing. Epilepilan: repairing the dikes. Padanuman: filling the rice field (basakan) with water. Besagen: harrowing. Peetetan: lowering the water level. Pelinagan: treading the field. Plansaqan: leveling the mud with a wooden board. Sabugan: broadcasting. Sprijan: spraying with pesticide. Pedanuman: filling the field with water. Sprijan: spraying with another kind of pesticide. Gepasan: harvesting.

One should note that the process does not include planting seedlings in separate beds, nor seedling transplantation. This important phase in the growth of wet rice is skipped by some agriculturists, probably due to the fact that fields are mostly rain fed and that irrigation technology with artificial water adduction is not yet completely mastered. From the above, several characteristics of this new method of agricultural production become apparent. One is that it entails imported equipment and supplies (fertilizers, pesticides). The plow and the harrow are tools that must be


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51

bought from shops or require welding equipment absent from the traditional blacksmith’s tools. The process also involves animal traction or mechanized tools that are now also bought in the town’s markets and shops. Such purchases require a capital investment that a traditional swidden agriculturist would not have been capable of making. The whole process also requires mustering the know-how and skills for building dikes, irrigation canals, dams, and locks, and for generally controlling the water level in the field. How, then, did the people create the capital required to start this new type of production? The answer is most probably copra production. Coconut plantation predates by at least 20 years the start of wet-rice agriculture in this area. Coconut trees require no other technology and tools beyond those that are available locally. The process of gathering the coconuts, splitting them, drying the pulp, and then selling the copra did not require new, expensive equipment outside of a bush knife and a tool to separate the husk from the shell, a cart and a draft animal to carry the coconuts, and sacks to package the copra. The most timeconsuming step in copra production is drying the pulp over a fire, but the fuel is provided by the coconut itself. The sale of copra gave local agriculturists access to the market and enough money to buy new tools.28 Coconut plantation and copra production are today important activities, and a significant portion of the land is reserved for coconut groves. The problem facing the local farmers is that they started using the best land, that most suited for irrigated rice fields, to plant coconut trees, so today they have to convert new land or coconut plantations into rice fields. Among the land types that traditionally had economic value were swampy or wet river bottoms (geneb), where sago palms (gumbja; Metroxylon sagu) grew. These sago palms were and still are cultivated or protected, and they yield starch—sago—locally consumed in more significant quantities than in other lowland or highland areas. The extraction of the edible starch from the sago palm involves splitting the stem and pounding its fibers, which are then pressed and soaked in water. The water is strained through a sieve and the paste thus obtained is boiled or fried. Special equipment is used, including a wooden adze (pepaluq), a beater (kekelkal ), and a strainer (suruq) made out of wood and bark. This is an entirely traditional technology, and sago production is probably very ancient in this part of Southeast Asia. Indeed, it is mentioned in various myths and legends (Macdonald 1979, 1987a, 1988a). Sago is a highly valued type of food but ambiguously connoted as a substitute food resource in time of scarcity, especially before rice is harvested in the swidden (see Macdonald 1987a). Sago palm is also a semi-domesticated plant and, like the chicken, belongs to two worlds (the wild and the domesticated), hence its role as a symbolic operator in mythology. Sago is an artifact but is also, like honey, a gift of nature.


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52


The Gifts of Nature Extractive activities that take place “in the wild” or in “nature” (talun) are actually quite numerous and varied. They occur in specific compartments of the natural environment: primary forest (gebaq),29 mangrove (ketenggan), estuaries (kwala), streams, (danum), and various parts of the marine biotope (the coral reef, beach, tidal flat, and deep sea [dagat, lawed ]). Such activities include several types of hunting techniques, the use of numerous trapping devices, exact knowledge of forest products, and various techniques of fishing in freshwater streams, as well as of deep-sea fishing; important extractive activities also take place in the mangrove. Animal and vegetal products—from seashells to wild honey, from marine fishes to wild boars, from seaweeds to wild yams—supplement the diet based on agricultural products. A detailed description of all these activities and their products would take considerable space. The following is a short sampling. Hunting is done with the blowgun (for birds and squirrels) and the spear and dog (for wild boar, the only large game to be had). People in Kulbi-Kenipaqan are true “lowlanders,” that is, their hunting skills with the spear or with the blowgun are limited (at least compared to central highlanders), and most of their prey is trapped rather than hunted or actively tracked down. They use several kinds of traps: loop traps (bilagung) for wild chickens and birds, and the classic pig trap (baweg), found throughout Southeast Asia, consisting of a sharpened bamboo spear propelled by a wooden spring and triggered by a string crossing the wild boar’s trail. Nowadays the most popular device is the “pig-bomb,” a homemade explosive wrapped in a piece of cassava or other kind of bait. At the end of the dry season, the migratory bird bisker (Rallina fasciata) arrives and stays for two months. Popular belief is that it “comes down” from the sky or migrates from the islands somewhere off the coast. This bird is a favorite prey, and it is caught in a row of loop traps laid down on the ground, with a little fence to force the bird’s passage in the traps. At night one hears the people trying to lure them by imitating the bird’s call, “kekekekek . . . kwiiiiiirrrr.” Hunting is mostly practiced with air guns (digumba) and/or homemade shotguns (paltik), weapons mostly responsible for the progressive demise of the blowgun and the spear, which, nevertheless, are still commonly manufactured. Freshwater fishing is an important activity. The use of tuba (Derris elliptica)30 in shallow waters is an occasion for large, collective fishing parties. Men spear the fish with the two-pronged harpoon (sangkap) and women scoop up the stunned fishes in the hand net (sjud ), one of the most frequently seen objects in Palawan and a supremely female instrument. Elaborate dams (lantaj ) and various kinds of fish traps (asag, bubu, tangeb) are placed in the middle of the streams to catch eels (kesili ), carps (peqit), and catfish (sumbilang ). Little creeks, water holes, and wet-rice fields are systematically searched and tiny freshwater crabs (kejengget),


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53

shrimps, and fishes are scooped up with the hand net. In the brackish waters of the mangrove, crabs (ajuju; Scylla serata), mangrove eels, shrimps, and seashells are actively sought. At the lowest tide of the lunar cycle people used to form parties and go to the reef and stun fish with tuba. Some people build and paddle little dugouts and go deep-sea fishing with hook and line. Nowadays fishermen use nets bought in town and engage in this kind of activity during periods of less intense agricultural work. Palawan people are very fond of sea turtle (bekeq) and freshwater turtle (labi). They sometimes barter paddy with the Islamized Palawan for shark, the liver of which is considered a treat. Forest products are numerous and include wild honey (deges), which is a highly desirable food and perhaps the most symbolically meaningful gift of nature. The entire panggaris ritual seems to hinge on honey and on its production by several species of wild bees, especially the species mugdun (see chap. 4). Swarms of bees are closely watched, and when a swarm is spotted in a tree it is claimed and reserved by its discoverer. The hive is smoked and the honey is brought down in a special kind of basket made of bark (kapal). Other economic resources of the forest include rattan, orchids, and wild birds such as parrots and mynahs—items that are sold to lowlanders. Only one person in Kulbi owns almacega trees (begtik; Agathis philippinensis), a resource that proves much more important in the central highlands. Among the many plant species that grow in the forest are wild yams, many species of fruit trees, and palm trees whose stems are edible.

Redistribution, Trade, Markets Products are shared, given, distributed, exchanged, or sold according to the nature of the object thus shared or sold and the social group within which the transaction occurs. Within the household general reciprocity and sharing is the rule, although husband and wife keep some of their privately owned property, like cattle or heirlooms, separate. Within the local group (rurungan) the redistribution model is dominant, pooling at the center and then redistributing resources. There is, however, a major difference between the way the agricultural product (paddy, root crops, vegetables) is allocated between the members of the group and the way game—and to a certain extent other wild products like honey or fishes—are redistributed in the same group. Essentially, swiddens were privately cultivated and their product privately owned by each household. However, I observed that sisters, who are the main agents in gathering these products, would tend to share their crops, visiting each other’s fields together, gathering the products together, and partitioning them among themselves. In this way, through an exchange between siblings, the main dietary items, namely root crops and other vegetables,


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would circulate between households. Rice, on the other hand, the most prized item, was stored and not automatically redistributed but could be exchanged or sold. As for meat, especially the meat of the wild boar, I will give in chapter 3 a detailed account of its redistributive process. In general, the meat is entrusted to the senior in-law, who partitions it among members of his local group and other local groups with whom there is an ongoing exchange of meat. In other words, and as shown in table 7, in the traditional way of doing things, rice was not an object of immediate sharing or redistribution, vegetables and root crops were immediately circulated or shared, and meat was pooled and redistributed. This happened, respectively, within the household, the sibling group, and the local group. Before the advent of copra production and irrigated rice agriculture, and before the advent of a completely monetized system of exchange, table 7 could well be used as a blueprint for the economic life of the whole society. Today, of course, a monetized and market economy, one in which everything has a price tag, changes the rules of the game. Many agricultural products are sold in the outside markets, and many items, including food—for instance, dried fish—are bought from stores in the barrio. Rice production in wet fields is so productive that its position as a rare good is changing, but it remains a marketable item not freely shared by their owners. As local groups lose their cohesiveness, especially those who live very near or inside the barrio, pooling and redistribution loses its relevance. One has to be reminded also that the most important good—land—is now an object of private ownership; it can be sold and bought. In itself this is a revolution in the mental and behavioral habits of the people and has wide ranging effects on the social fabric itself. At this point there is a concept that needs some attention, because it is one widely discussed in social sciences regarding Philippine society (see Racelis Hollnsteiner 1975, 1:87–91), one that belongs to economics but holds a moral and sociological significance as well. The concept of “debt” (utang) is a crucial dimension of economic—but also social and moral—transactions between lowlanders. Moral indebtedness (utang na loob), I contend, is not as central to the Palawan way of life as it is to the lowlanders’. The development of moral indebtedness, with its patron/client relationship framework, is basically alien to the Palawan Table 7 Types of Reciprocity and Circulation Models Type of grouping

Type of reciprocity

Product

General reciprocity within and negative reciprocity without

Rice, paddy

Siblings (sister group)

Sharing or general reciprocity

Vegetables, root crops

Local group (in-laws)

Pooling and redistribution (balanced reciprocity)

Meat, game

Household (parents, children)


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55

people. They use instead the general concept of ingasiq, which refers also to the type of general reciprocity that exists within the sibling groups and the local group (see table 7 and chap. 5). The traditional Palawan way of life could be seen as a world of general or positive reciprocity, set against a world of negative reciprocity, a world of ingasiq set against utang. The notion of debt is not unknown, however. Of course, now (as in the old days) if you borrow something you have to give it back. If someone helps, you reciprocate. But social relations were not constructed around indebtedness, especially of the economic or material kind. They were, rather, constructed around sharing and giving.31 There is one institution that possesses special interest from the point of view discussed here and regarding the transition between ancient and new socioeconomic structures. I refer to the market (tabuq), an institution whose antiquity among indigenous communities of southern Palawan is possible but uncertain (see Macdonald in press; Hall 1985). The market fulfills two obvious functions and, in my analysis, two covert functions. The most apparent is the economic or commercial function, buying and selling goods. The other obvious role of the market is to enable people to socialize: they meet, discuss various affairs, trade gossip, and play; eligible and potential marriage partners appraise each other; and various transactions are conducted and entertainment is provided.32 The covert functions that markets seem to fulfill pertain to the structuring of time and of space. Finally, one may add, they provide the best occasion for interethnic meetings and interaction. Throughout southern Palawan, markets exist but vary in size, attendance, location, and the volume of goods offered. Markets and marketplaces (tatabuan) constantly change place; small markets may last several months and then fold up completely, while others come into existence at some other location nearby. The history of markets in insular Southeast Asia reveals the existence of a hierarchy of markets, from the main trading areas on the coast to the inland exchange and bartering points (Hall 1985, 16). Such a hierarchy holds true for Palawan markets as well, but with a number of variants (Macdonald in press). In the Kulbi area, the main market was until recently located on the east coast in Malatgao, next to the road. This is where people went to buy the goods they most needed and where they sold some of their products. It is in Malatgao that, until 2000 at least, local Palawan retailers went to buy the goods that were then sold back in the small local markets of Kulbi. Nowadays, however, the road on the west coast provides access to goods that were not readily available in the past. A marketplace is a very simple affair consisting of a number of shacks or stands serving as stalls located around a central square where cockfighting takes place. These small stands are hastily put together and offer minimal protection against sun or rain. The marketplace is owned by one person who collects a fee—


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a few pesos at most—from each merchant. Each market is held once a week, on the same day. For instance, there were three markets in the Kulbi area in 2001, in Megkelip, in Besej near Kubtangen, and in Lumtab (see chap. 1, map 2); they were held, respectively, on Fridays, Mondays, and Tuesdays. People in the same area could thus attend the three events, but usually they went to one. In 2002 this situation changed to four market days, in Tegmemaqan on Mondays, in Besej on Tuesdays, in Megkelip on Fridays, and in Tegbituk on Saturdays. Thus one market had closed and two new ones had come to life. Other bigger market days were Wednesdays in Malatgao and Thursdays in Panas, both far away. The Megkelip market was old; it had started in the 1960s or even before and attracted a huge crowd in the 1980s when I observed it. The new Tegmemaqan market near the road became the most popular in Kulbi in 2002, and up to 150 people could be seen milling around or gathered around the cockpit, betting on their favorite animal. Goods sold in the market are mainly items of daily consumption or even what one might call “luxury” goods. It is a paradoxical fact that this institution dedicated to commerce is not the place where the—economically speaking— most essential goods, such as paddy, copra, and cattle, are exchanged or sold. Instead, the goods displayed are cakes of soap, tins of sardines, dried fish, packets of sugar, instant coffee powder, cans of condensed milk, biscuits, candies, packs of cigarettes, sticks of chewing tobacco, newspapers used as cigarette wrappers, batteries, snacks (like rice cakes and fried bananas), hot coffee, and bottles of soda. Also sold in the market are imported batik (the material for sarongs), clothes such as cotton T-shirts or pants, plastic combs, perfumes, and other cheap, industrially made items. Retail prices for such items are higher than current prices in the main markets, like Malatgao, since the goods are bought there and traders have to make a profit on the items they sell. For instance, in Megkelip in 2001 a bar of laundry soap was worth 6 pesos, a tin of sardines was 12 pesos, 200 grams of sugar was 15 pesos, 2 pieces of candy were 1 peso, a stick of chewing tobacco was 6 pesos, a sheet of newspaper was 1 peso, and so on. In local markets a few farm products are also sold, like eggs, vegetables, bananas, and sugarcane, along with medicines such as cold tablets and anti-malaria drugs. A few enterprising persons have, in places like Megkelip, started operating small shops known everywhere in the Philippines as sari-sari stores. They sell the same kinds of goods as in the markets (tabuq). The tabuq could thus be defined as a sari-sari operation conducted by several people at the same time, on the same day, and at the same place. The role of these retails shops, like that of the market, is to provide people with items of daily consumption not available locally, like soap, candies, coffee, dried fish, cold tablets, batik, and so on. The market has, therefore, a utilitarian function and fulfills needs. It provides a meager income to retailers who sometimes are so unused to commercial transactions that—as


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57

I witnessed in one case—they sell their goods at a cheaper price than the one they paid! Aside from buying and selling, the need to socialize is clearly a major incentive in attending markets. As mentioned before, public hearings (bitsara) are conducted in the marketplace, and all sorts of other verbal transactions take place, with the necessary amount of jesting and joking that characterize social interaction among Palawan people. Gambling and betting are also favorite pastimes, as is cockfighting, a sport practiced without the use of artificial spurs. The fight thus lasts a long time, and the defeated cock is not killed. Therein lies the main difference between the Palawan and the Christian lowlander’s cockfighting. Informants claim that the art of cockfighting among them is ancient and dates back from ancestral times. The marketplace provides a venue for encounters between boys and girls and facilitates discreet meetings between them. All this helps tighten the social fabric. Two covert functions of the market were mentioned earlier. Small local markets in the highlands, as well as larger marketplaces in the foothills, were the only markers of a weekly cycle, one that is not based on any natural time frame in the native time-reckoning system (see Macdonald 2004).34 The situation is very much what I observed in Kulbi-Kenipaqan. The market at the time created a sense of a weekly periodicity and contributed very strongly to giving a tempo to social life that would not have existed without it. The other covert function pertains to the creation or outward manifestation of “social spaces.” I use this term, which I borrow from Condominas (1980, 14), in the narrow sense of “mapping out social networks.” Large marketplaces like Malatgao would, for instance, attract people from all over the Kulbi area, therefore lending the notion of “region” a certain amount of objectivity. This was especially true in the highlands. As we know, Kulbi had a center of authority and, due to the panggaris ceremony, a certain unity. The relevance of the market to signify regional unity is less marked in Kulbi as a result. Attendance at smaller markets, like those in Megkelip or, more recently, Tegmemaqan, creates spaces of social interaction between a limited number of local groups or hamlets and therefore partitions the area into clusters of hamlets sharing the same marketplace. Informants can tell which neighborhoods or hamlets “attend” (minagap) such and such marketplace (tatabuqan). This then results in a partitioning of the regional space. For instance, the Tegmemaqan market is attended by people from Suminuru, Beheg, Apat, Pengetelban, Pangekej, Kilin’s neighbors, Tegmemaqan proper, and Lumtab. This would more or less create a lower Kulbi River area, as against all groups sponsoring the Megkelip market, which would then appear as the center of a Kulbi headwaters area. Like the local group itself, and even more so, such clustering evolves rapidly through time as conditions change—especially as new roads are being built—and as marketplaces move around. Apat, near


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58


where Tuking lived in the 1980s and early 1990s, was an important subregional meeting point. Tuking’s death, the transfer of his local group to Beheg, and the opening of the main road spelled the demise of Apat as a marketplace and the emergence of Tegmemaqan, on the roadside, as the new commercial center for the lower Kulbi area.

Household Income In 2001 and 2002, I conducted a household income survey. By then almost all items had a more or less fixed price tag; thus an evaluation in pesos of most products and goods was possible. I computed Table 8 Price List (Sample) the total yearly income for Unit Price per unit (pesos) 50 households based on the Type of good peso value of 1) all agricul- Paddy sack (kedut) 250 tural production (rice field, Copra sack (kedut) 225 swidden, copra production, Bananas bunch (bulig) 10 commercial plantations like Water buffalo mature 11,000 banana and pineapple, and Water buffalo young 5,000 vegetables sold in the market Pig kilogram (kilu) 40 or in town); 2) cattle (includmature 7,000 ing water buffalo) and other Cow Cow young 4,000 domestic animals (pigs, kilogram (kilu) 50 chicken, ducks, and goats); Chicken mature 500 3) salaried work when there Goat was any; and 4) household Goat young 250 items and heirlooms like the Big gong (agung) 1 11,000 gong, betel box, radio, plates, Small gong (sanang) 1 1,000 and the like. I used a random Betel box (selapa) 1 500 sample of households from Fighting knife (badung) 1 200 ten different local groups, Plate ( pinggan) 1 25 some interior like Megkelip, Pressure lantern petromax 1 1,200 some closer to the barrio like Tegbituk (see chap. 1, map 2). Rice and copra production were thus evaluated by the estimated or actual number of sacks (kedut) produced on the corresponding cultivated surface. The yearly net value of each household is the added values of all these items at their current market price. I based the value of items, products, and possessions so recorded on a table of estimated prices per unit currently used in daily commercial transactions. Thus, for example, a sack of paddy is worth 250 pesos; a sack of copra is worth


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225 pesos; one bunch of bananas is worth 10 pesos. Table 8 displays samples of such prices.35 The household income survey, shown as table 9, leaves out a number of products and activities—such as gathering wild, edible plants, fishing, or trapping—that are unaccounted for. Since the general mode of production is still partly based on a mixed economy, including, as we have seen, extractive activities from a rich and varied environment, domesticated, semidomesticated (like sago production), and wild, this survey does not provide a completely accurate picture of the net product of each household. It does, however, provide a good Table 9 Yearly Household Income. Total worth (pesos) of agricultural products, goods, domestic animals. Agricultural products

Goods

Domestic animals

Total revenue

Agricultural products

Goods

Domestic animals

Total revenue

1

1,100

925

950

2,975

26

9,250

6,830

8,150

24,230

2

600

570

800

3,470

27

8,350

3,250

13,250

24,850

3

1,200

525

200

4,425

28

2,025

12,495

6,000

25,520

4

3,100

400

150

4,650

29

11,250

4,150

10,150

25,550

5

4,425

475

400

5,300

30

8,250

3,700

16,100

28,850

6

4,375

800

–

5,675

31

13,000

2,905

13,225

29,130

7

4,950

800

–

5,750

32

6,950

7,075

16,150

30,175

8

5,250

900

200

6,350

33

16,750

2,240

12,300

31,290

9

2,375

5,820

450

8,645

34

13,000

10,000

9,800

32,800

10

3,000

1,000

1,650

8,650

35

16,700

8,060

8,100

33,310

11

5,250

2,110

1,500

8,860

36

4,475

900

31,000

36,375

12

4,900

4,075

250

9,225

37

11,040

3,600

23,200

37,840

13

2,400

4,450

–

10,350

38

7,500

9,200

21,300

38,000

14

4,350

6,050

–

10,400

39

7,250

14,680

8,200

38,130

15

5,850

3,700

300

11,350

40

12,600

6,000

20,250

38,850

16

9,500

225

–

12,475

41

16,125

7,500

15,300

39,925

17

11,950

2,600

300

14,850

42

14,850

3,350

21,850

40,050

18

10,200

2,800

2,400

15,400

43

30,400

7,100

4,200

41,700

19

3,850

8,150

–

16,100

44

2,900

1,000

300

42,200

20

1,700

3,950

8,000

16,150

45

12,650

8,480

34,000

55,130

21

1,875

9,500

–

16,375

46

35,000

5,500

20,500

61,000

22

8,800

3,400

–

17,200

47

23,000

9,950

24,000

68,300

23

6,950

2,000

8,250

17,200

48

44,950

8,025

21,500

74,475

24

1,600

200

18,000

19,800

49

28,700

27,000

18,500

81,400

25

15,800

6,250

–

22,050

50

16,500

8,580

66,250

91,330


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indication of the economic differences between households in terms of monetary revenue and can be used to further test the emergence of a new situation of social inequality. The yearly maximum income has been thus evaluated at 91,330 pesos and the minimum at 2,975 pesos, the difference ranging from 1 to 30—definitely a huge gap. The average is 21,000 pesos, and the median is 22,000 pesos. One should note that the total revenue of each household is not always the sum of the total worth of agricultural products, goods, and domestic animals. For instance, the high income of household #44, with a total revenue of 42,200 pesos, is the result of salaried work and the manufacturing of vegetal tiles using gumbja (Metroxylon sp.) palm leaves. Items primarily responsible for differences in wealth are irrigated rice production and copra production; animal husbandry and heirlooms or precious property come second. Nine out of ten of the richest families thus own irrigated rice fields, whereas only one out of the ten poorest families owns an irrigated rice field. The ten richest households average 3.7 members, whereas the ten poorest average 3.9, indicating that wealth is not based on the number of productive members of the household but on the type or mode of production. Differences in wealth are certainly conducive to internal social stratification. One could speculate on the consequences resulting from such a situation. This is, however, a relatively recent phenomenon, one that has become conspicuous only since the 1990s and that has not yet resulted in a consistently stratified social structure. Only the near future can tell whether the local ethos of general reciprocity and ingasiq will prevail over that of negative reciprocity and utang.


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3 Social Organization

In chapter 1, I discussed one major dimension of the Palawan social order—the creation of stable local groups. This aggregation of individuals forming a local group results from a strategy largely based on bonds of kinship. Uxorilocality, as we have seen, is a basic rule accounting for the special kind of spatial alignment observed in one form or another in all hamlets and local settlements among the Palawan people, in Kulbi and elsewhere. This rule is itself part of the rights and duties existing between kinsmen. We need to understand how this particular code of conduct functions and on which principles. Kinship remains, among the Palawan people, the main device for social identification. Typically, any two persons who meet and do not know each other will go through their kinship network in search of some connecting point between them and with a view to identifying each other as kinsmen. To recognize someone as kin or non-kin, as a relative through marriage or through descent, as an uncle, sister-in-law, grandchild, or cousin remains the first and most important question whenever one identifies another person and establishes one’s proper behavior regarding this person’s role and status in society. The only other major determinants of status are sex and age. Profession, wealth, position in a government office, and education did not, until very recently, exist as social markers, no more than any inherited status derived from social stratification or class formation. Wisdom, kindness, industriousness, relative wealth, skills as a healer or blacksmith or, most important, as a litigator and arbiter in matters of traditional justice, and, finally, the authority bestowed upon one by a large following of younger in-laws were factors determining social status. But these elements were more—and to a great extent still are—like incremental qualifications than basic status markers. Most important, they are not inherited, and neither do they result in any form of enduring social stratification. Palawan kinship is bilateral or cognatic, as are many other Southeast Asian societies, especially those located in the Philippines and Borneo. Anthropologists 61


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have been successful—or at least appeared to be successful—in showing that a clear unilineal descent principle provided a structure on which rested the social system of many tribal groups. Descent groups were seen as the building blocks of the whole social edifice, and individual members of society were more or less automatically distributed, at birth, among such descent groups (Fortes 1969). The problem with cognatic or bilateral systems is that they recognize all descent lines trough males and females and therefore do not automatically determine membership in a social group at birth, but leave open a great number of possible affiliations. In brief, cognatic systems do not create groups. True enough groups that exist in these societies are groups of kinsmen, persons related by blood or marriage, but their formation is not an automatic outcome of birth. Descent that is seemingly such a powerful tool for group formation just does not work. For the same reason, the “alliance theory,” so convincingly advocated by LéviStrauss and others, a theory according to which the most essential binding force in society is the exchange or circulation of marriage partners (Lévi-Stauss 1967), cannot explain anything any better, in this particular instance, the reason being that if one does not have descent groups or at least some kind of descent line between which the exchange is organized from one generation to another, one cannot have an enduring exchange pattern. It may exist in one generation, but with no rule stating how the collective entities will survive to the next, there can be no discernible surviving exchange structure. The central problem, then, with cognatic systems like the Palawan one is how to produce an enduring kind of social order based on a kinship system that is not group generating. It is a paradox that few anthropologists have really come to terms with. The problem is compounded by the fact that in a simple, egalitarian tribal society like this, there are no other visible means of organizing things in the long term. As I said, there are no social classes or categories that will remain as the solid poles around which people and institutions can move. And that is what people and things do—move all the time. But fluidity and erratic motion is not exactly a satisfying way to explain social structure. Palawan society, however, a society I observed over a period of 30 years, is not a chaotic scrambling of individuals pursuing conflicting goals. Local settlements and kin groups possess stability over a number of years. Without the use of force and physical coercion, justice is maintained. Circulation and redistribution of goods proceed in an orderly fashion, and marriage partners move between groups according to established rules.

Kinship Terminology There are eighteen basic kinship terms of reference, all of which lend themselves to a more or less exact English translation: amaq = father; induq = mother;


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minan = aunt; maman = uncle; upuq = grandparent, grandchild; ibun = child; menak = nephew, niece; tipused = brother, sister; ukaq = elder brother /sister; ariq = younger brother /sister; egsa = cousin; esawa = husband, wife; pengibanan = father /mother-in-law; bajaw = brother-in-law (man speaking); ipag = brother / sister-in-law (woman speaking), sister-in-law (man speaking); nenampil = son / daughter-in-law; ugang = in-law; biras = co-sibling-in-law. True to its bilateral or cognatic nature, the system does not distinguish between male and female lines. In other words, kin terms such as maman and minan include kin types such as FB and MB, and MZ and FZ, respectively.1 They include as well kin types like FFBS and MFZD and “uncles and aunts by marriage” like FBW or MZH. The term upuq collapses both generations of grandfather and grandson, grandmother and granddaughter. The word ibun is a dialectal variant of the word jegang used elsewhere,2 and it means “child,” both son and daughter. Like maman and minan, menak (nephew, niece) includes kin types like BS, BD, ZS, and ZD and is likewise extended collaterally to include the sons and daughters of cousins. In Ego’s generation, things look equally straightforward with a contrast between sibling (tipused) and cousin (egsa) as in English, but there is a covert, albeit essential, distinction between first and second cousin. The term egsa is extended bilaterally, and the words kasa, kedwa, ketlu (first, second, third, etc.) are added to it. In this fashion a first cousin (egsang kasa: FBS, FBD, FZS, FZD, MBS, MBD, MZS, MZD) can be distinguished from a true sibling (tipused: B, Z). However, a first cousin is almost always referred to as “sibling.” This is also expressed by the use of the words applied both in address and in reference to older and younger siblings, ukaq and ariq. A first cousin is thus called ukaq if he /she is older than the speaker, ariq if he /she is younger. This fits with the strict prohibition against marrying a first cousin, whereas a second cousin can become a spouse. Here is a clear instance of how kinship terminology stricto sensu—defined by kin types alone—only partly matches real social categories. We will find another example of this imperfect matching between word and status with the affinal terminology. An intriguing feature is the strict distinction made between male and female speakers when talking or referring to brothersand sisters-in-law (BW, ZH, WB, WZ for male speakers; BW, ZH, HB, HZ for female speakers). This feature is present in many other kinship systems throughout this area and requires a complex explanation. Why do women use one term, ipag, erasing any distinction between sex of kin, whereas men use two terms, ipag and bajaw, and make such a distinction? Having pondered this question at length I have concluded that this particular feature could be accounted for only by the interplay of linguistic and communicational factors evolving over time. Kinship terminologies are first of all lexical sets that more or less (the emphasis is on more or less) reflect what is going on between social actors using those terms


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and the nature of the relationship between them. Kinship terminologies—that is, words—change through time but probably not at a pace equal to the actual social changes occurring at various points in the history of the group. Therefore, terminologies may reflect past states of a society, not present ones. Finally, and most important, kinship terminologies are constrained not only by social factors—which they are supposed to express or reveal—but also by purely communicational and linguistic forces. Therefore, due to these various distorting factors, some terms present a semantic bias and do not reflect the named relation accurately. Although kin terms are semantically defined by kin types first, they also contain as a basic semantic component a status dimension. Constraints that, for instance, limit the number of kin terms result sometimes in a conflation of traits—as in ugang, below—therefore creating analytical confusion. Another aspect of the brother-in-law /sister-in-law terminology is a case in point. I am referring here to the fact that the same term, bajaw, seems to imply both reciprocity and symmetry between ZH and WB, since both are referred to and addressed with the same term. In actual fact the kin types ZH and WB represent two opposite social roles. From the point of view of Ego (a male), his wife’s brother is a person of higher status whose personal name he cannot speak lest he be afflicted with a severe illness (kebusung). His sister’s husband, on the other hand, is one whose personal name Ego can use freely and from whom he expects subservience and respect. Therefore, the appearance of reciprocity and symmetry implied by the kinship term is spurious; it actually applies to a deeply asymmetrical and nonreciprocal relationship. Ugang is another term that requires some clarification. It applies both to spouse’s uncles, aunts, and grandparents and to nephews’ and nieces’ spouses. As a generic appellation it can cover the kin types HF, HM, WF, and WM, usually referred to as pengibanan. The term ugang is used quite frequently both in address and in reference and involves a loaded social content. Either one refers

Figure 11 Diagram showing the distribution of the terms ugang, maman, and menak


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to or addresses the spouse’s kinsmen to whom respect and subservience is due, or the spouses of one’s nephew or niece regarded as junior persons. Like bajaw, ugang covers two opposite social roles, but there is more to it. Comparing the use of ugang, maman, and menak among the upland people of the central mountainous area (Macdonald 1977a, 86), I was led to some interesting conclusions that apply as well to the Kulbi-Kenipaqan people. I shall reproduce the same analysis here since it illuminates the very core of the Palawan kinship system (see fig. 11). The problem arises from the apparently random distribution of the terms. The kin term ugang is an affinal one and applies to relatives through marriage. Why, then, would WBS not be an “in-law” (ugang) but a “nephew” (menak)? Likewise, if the wife’s uncle (WFB) is an ugang, why not the aunt’s husband, who is actually called “uncle” (maman)? Similarly, it could be expected that BDH should be a “nephew” (menak), like WBS, when in actual fact he is an “in-law” (ugang). Why are some kin related through marriage not considered in-laws? And why, since some of these relatives are defined as “uncles” and “nephews,” should they not all be so defined? There is a simple way to solve this puzzle. The entire configuration makes sense once the parameters of generation and marriage asymmetry are factored in as components, or basic dimensions, of the kinship status thus signified. If we consider that the “wife giver” (the person whose consanguineal kin the speaker has married) is somehow in a superior position to the “wife taker” (the person who has married the speaker’s relative), and if we posit that a relative of a higher generation is likewise superior to a relative of the generation below, and if we note this system of kinship-based statuses with the signs + and −, this is what we get: ugang is either + + or − −, whereas maman is + − and menak is − +. In other words, what ugang means is “affinal kin of a superior or inferior status to the speaker,” whereas the two other consanguineal kin terms mean “relatives who are neither higher nor lower than the speaker.” The person who gave me his niece and is of a higher generation is twice marked as a person of superior status, whereas the person who has “given” his aunt away but is of a lower generation is in a neutral position vis-à-vis the speaker, neither higher nor lower. The first lesson we learn from this is that kin terms are defined by kin types and at the same time by status values. It is necessary, I repeat, to see kin terms as having relative status among their basic semantic dimensions. Thus the traits “higher generation” and “wife giving” entail a superior status, while the traits “lower generation” and “wife taking” entail an inferior status. This simple and most elementary of all status-assigning schemes is, I contend, at the very core of the Palawan social organization. It enables social actors to place each other in simple dyadic configurations in which one is superior, inferior, or equal to the other. The fact that this system of asymmetric status assignment does not


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result in the formation of any kind of enduring social hierarchy or stratification is not one of the least paradoxes offered by this deceivingly “simple” social organization. Another lesson to be learned from this example is the way kin terms actually reveal aspects of social reality. As Figure 12 The biras relationship noted earlier, they do and do not display contrasts that are significant in terms of social behavior. The basic divide between an affinal term (ugang) and a consanguineal term (maman or menak) is a direct expression of status assignment contrasting those with whom a markedly asymmetrical relationship is established and the others. But the term ugang in itself covers two opposite statuses: the very high and the very low, thus disguising social otherness under linguistic sameness. The same observation can be made with other kin terms, such as bajaw (brother-in-law) and upuq (grandparent and grandchild). A word has to be said about the term biras, which is an important kinship position in terms of the Palawan social and residential organization. Among the Austronesian-speaking groups with bilateral kinship of insular Southeast Asia, the same term (biras, bilas, etc.) is often encountered. It is translated as “cosibling-in-law” and applies to the spouses of siblings (WZH, HBW), but most typically to men having married sisters (WZH; see figure 12). The biras are the usual partners of everyday social interaction, since uxorilocality keeps the sisters together and brings in their respective husbands who are, by the same token, biras to each other. They are neighbors in the same hamlet and share the same position as sons-in-law of the same father-in-law to whom they have to report. Their wives cooperate and go to the field together. As hunters, the biras bring in their share of meat to be divided between their and other neighboring households. A number of tales are told portraying the “good” and the “bad” biras, thus revealing a situation of potential conflict between these close partners in everyday social life. My field observations did not support the notion that these people are constantly at odds with each other, but that a situation of potentially unresolved conflict could arise. My guess is that the Palawan people are ill at ease with a situation of complete equality between close partners of social interaction, since this is what the biras are, completely equal to each other, with none being slightly superior or inferior in terms of marriage exchange, generation, or any other trait save perhaps age. Actually they are strangers (non-kin) and at the same time close associates in the local group with a daily face-to-face relationship. A similar situation applies to bejs (beqis, beqisan), who are the co-parents-in-law (parents of wife and parents of husband)


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but in this case not necessarily members of the same local group, and therefore not closely associated in practical dealings of daily occurrence. The biras kin term refers also to an atypical kinship status since it is neither a consanguineal nor an affinal one, at least not in the same sense as the other affinal terms (ugang, bajaw, ipag, pengibanan, nenampil ), since the combination of kin types is basically different (they are related through two marriages, not one). The term biras, it must be noted, is used both in reference and in address, and there is no ban on the use of personal names. It remains, however, a source of potential conflict.3 But again, the most important conclusion I suggest is the following: at the core of all dyadic social relations there is an element of asymmetry, without which the relationship becomes awkward or hard to manage.

Basic Structural Dimensions of Social Organization The main underlying dimensions of the social system, as a system of dyadic relations, are then defined within the realm of kinship. The analysis of kin terms reveals a structural arrangement of kin types in partial agreement with a structural organization of social roles. These are ordered along three main lines. 1. Consanguineal vs. affinal kinship (i.e., by blood vs. by marriage). 2. Age and generation (i.e., older vs. younger). 3. Collateral distance (i.e., close vs. distant).

Sex or gender does not play a primary role. If we look at the kin terms with a gender component, only those for father and mother (amaq /induq), uncle and aunt (maman /minan), and brother-in-law and sister-in-law (bajaw /ipag ) (male speakers only) are so marked. Even the term for husband /wife is not. When the sex of the relative is mentioned, say a male or a female cousin (egsa), the terms “woman” (libun) and “man” (lelaki or mengelaki ) are added. Gender asymmetry is not strongly emphasized, and roles have no sharply defined frontiers. Roles and activities are gendered to a certain extent (women do cook and weed the field, men do hunt and fell trees), but there are no prohibitions or clearly drawn lines between the spheres of male and female activities. Women are supposed to be more fragile and weaker than men; however, this does not result in a situation of overall male dominance. If we limit ourselves to an analysis of kinship status, the dominant in-law, the one whom the others “follow,” is oftentimes an older lady. Rules governing name use are identical for men and women.4 I therefore tend to see the gender /sex dimension as significant in terms of social and kinship roles, but perhaps not the most important as far as the kinship /social structure is concerned. Men and women’s social identities are equally defined by the three other dimensions mentioned above. Sex or gender is an


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added dimension. Status results, therefore, from the interplay of three dimensions resulting in a simple and elementary status assignation.

Consanguinity and affinity Bilateral kinship terminologies in the Philippines do or do not separate kin by marriage from kin by blood or descent. The Palawan system separates it very distinctively by, for instance, never referring to or addressing a “father-in-law” (pengibanan) with the kin term for “uncle” (maman) or “father” (amaq). A man will say “her father,” meaning his wife’s father. Oftentimes the same person can be related through blood and marriage, and, depending on the closeness of the respective ties, a consanguineal term might be preferred to an affinal one. One example is Stiq, who is both the nephew-in-law (WZS) and the brotherin-law (MFDH) of Taya. Stiq calls Taya bajaw and Taya calls Stiq menak. Stiq, having married Taya’s first cousin, should be called bajaw. On the other hand, being Taya’s wife’s nephew, he is a menak. By calling him “nephew” (menak) Taya emphasizes the lower status of Stiq, resulting from his being a ZH and belonging to a junior generation. But Stiq does not call Taya “uncle” (maman) and recognizes his subordinate affinal position and Taya’s status as a classificatory older brother of his wife. This does not mean that consanguineal ties can be substituted with affinal ties. The uncle of a spouse is an “in-law” (ugang) and never an “uncle” (maman). Affinal terms form a distinctive set and thus reflect the importance given to relations established through marriage with the relatives of the spouse. The son-in-law moves upon marriage to his wife’s parents’ hamlet or settlement and must show respect and subservience to his parents-in-law. The Palawan address system provides us with a very clear indicator of status in the guise of name avoidance. Generally speaking, one avoids using the name (ngaran) of all people of a higher generation, but the prohibition against using the name of the in-laws is strongest. Breaching this very strict rule results in punishment by swelling of the stomach (kebusung), an illness that can be fatal. It is seen as a direct outcome of disrespect and gross misbehavior, to be followed by an unavoidable punishment. The pengibanan’s name is thus never uttered by the nenampil, in reference or in address. The use of names provides another indicator of social status. The reciprocal name type lalew is used between two persons and can be defined as a dyadic reciprocal nickname. It implies reciprocity, symmetry, equality, closeness, affection, and friendship (see Macdonald 1977a, 93–95; Macdonald 1999c). R. Needham called this name type among the Punan of Borneo the “friendship name” (Needham 1971). Relatives who use this name type between themselves can typically be co-brothers-in-law (biras), cousins, and sometimes uncles and nephews, aunts and nephews /nieces, husbands and wives. The use of lalew between consanguineal kin and the strict avoidance of lalew between affines is further proof that a deep divide separates these two categories of kin.


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Affinity is the realm of strongly stressed asymmetrical ties with two opposite categories of in-laws: for example, those who have married one of Ego’s close kin, a sister, a daughter, a first cousin (this applies symmetrically to a son, a brother, a male first cousin), and those whose sister, daughter, and so on, Ego has married. The former have a minus status, the latter a plus status, both, I repeat, markedly asymmetrical. Consanguineal relations are marked by a finer and less conspicuous gradient of asymmetry. The separateness of the two sets, those who are in-laws and those who are related by blood, is unquestionably one of the most basic principles of Palawan kinship. Words like kampung and kekampungan (kindred and “of the same kindred,” respectively) or sugsugan and kesugsugan (descent line and “from the same descent line”) apply to consanguineal kin. The word tubuq means “descent, offspring, blood relations.”5 No such generic description exists to my knowledge for all the in-laws.6 Kin terms and the way they classify kin types are sufficient indicators nevertheless, together with the contextual use of kin terms (never substituting a consanguineal term for an affinal one). Kin by blood and through bilateral descent form a much larger set of kinsmen than in-laws, who, by the local definition, belong to a very close range of relatives in this and the next two generations.7 Blood kin, on the other hand, extend out to a limit created only by one’s memory. It is another striking and significant trait of the Palawan kinship system, however, that genealogies are short and that genealogical memory is extremely shallow. Oftentimes people do not remember the names of their four grandparents. As in other languages of the Philippines, one finds such generic terms as upuq tukud, meaning great-grandparents (literally “grandparents of the elbow”) or upuq talinga, or great-great-grand-parents (literally “grandparents of the ears”), but this is purely theoretical, and in actual fact, except for a few patches of genealogical knowledge applying to past leaders or shamans of renown, people just forget the names and identities beyond the generation of their grandparents. At times they can remember, though, that so and so was a cousin of a grandfather, for instance, thus extending the collateral reach of their kinship network. Such a phenomenon of genealogical amnesia is consistent with other aspects of the Palawan way of thinking, namely its minimal concern with death and the afterlife (see chap. 4), as well as its forgetfulness of one’s age. The Palawan people live in the present. How old one is in number of years, where one’s forebears are buried, and what were the names of one’s greatgrandparents are questions of little import to which most people know not the answers. In any case, such questions seem irrelevant to them. Returning to kinship matters, this very shallow recollection of one’s pedigree narrows down the set of recognized kinsmen. I tried with one Kulbi informant to sum up all possible genealogical connections he could remember. He was able to name 35 first cousins, of whom 17 were on the father’s side, 18 on the mother’s; he was able also to trace 39 second cousins, 27 on the father’s side, 12 on the mother’s.


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He could not name any third cousins. He could name his four grandparents and their siblings—or at least eight of them—but only one great-grandparent, his MFF. His wife could name 21 first cousins but no second cousins at all. She remembered the names of three out of her four grandparents but could not name their siblings. She could not name any of her great-grandparents. Therefore, while the kindred (defined here as all bilaterally recognized kin) of a person can include up to a hundred or more relatives, the affinal kin are restricted to one’s spouse’s parents and siblings on the one hand, and one’s siblings’ and first cousins’ spouses, and one children’s spouses on the other. All these would perhaps total an average of twelve people, more if all first cousins are included in the computation. In sum, the Palawan kinship system distinguishes two categories of kin: the affines and the consanguines. The former is characterized by strong status asymmetry and small membership, the second by a broader range of status assignation and large membership extending bilaterally and including the second degree of cousinship.

Age and generation As in almost all Southeast Asian societies, age difference is a most essential component of relative status. Biological age, however, resting on an approximate computation of years, is not the only factor. We should speak instead of social age or seniority, especially when a generation difference entails seniority. An “uncle” can be younger than the speaker, but he is nevertheless a senior person. For example, normally birth order in Ego’s generation commands a distinction between older (ukaq) and younger (ariq) siblings and first cousins. Within Ego’s generation and beyond the second degree, age does not seem to be a primary determinant of status, and I have never heard mention of an “older” or “younger” second or third cousin in reference. When addressing each other, however, distantly related kin or strangers will insist on calling the other ukaq (older brother /sister, older first cousin), maman (uncle), and even upuq (grandfather, grandmother) as a show of courtesy, especially, of course, when it is given due to an obvious age difference. The status factor is here also a basic semantic component of kin terms, and in actual social intercourse terms like maman and minan should be translated as “Mr.” and “Mrs.” (respectful) and upuq translated as “Madam” or “Sir” (very respectful). Once I asked Imbut how he was related, if at all, to Tuking. They were both elders, but Tuking was clearly the senior. Imbut said that Tuking was his uncle (maman) based on the fact that his father and Tuking’s father were close (mekabi). I asked Imbut whether they could not rather be egsa. His answer was that Tuking was his uncle “because he is the leader, he is the elder” (ja pegibuten, ja megurang). The semantic content of the word maman cannot be better


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illustrated. Tuking is Imbut’s uncle partly as a result of his kin type but, most important, because of his social position. The use of kin terms in the address system refers both to the actual kin type of the person whom one addresses and also and in some cases to the putative kin type corresponding to the social position one wishes the hearer to hold. Perfect equality is rendered by the reciprocal use of the terms egsa (cousin in the sense of distantly related kin of the same age and generation), extreme asymmetry by the reciprocal term upuq (grandparent, grandchild), and moderately asymmetrical relations on a gradient from ukaq /ariq (older /younger sibling) to maman /menak (uncle /nephew), and so on. Marriage between members of two different generations is seen as improper and even incestuous (sumbang). It does indeed go against the role structure between in-laws. A man marrying his niece (for instance, his FFBSSD, or even his FBSD) would have for his father-in-law a classificatory brother or cousin, and such a symmetrical relation would contradict the strongly asymmetrical one that exists between in-laws. Age and seniority combine with affinity to create, as seen above, the social category of ugang. Among affines, an older sibling of the wife is equally marked with higher status, but this is not apparent in the terminology, the same term (bajaw) applying to both eWB(ms) and yWB(ms).

Collateral distance Affinity, as we have seen, is relevant only within the most immediate circle of kin (one’s spouse’s siblings and parents, one’s siblings’ and children’s spouses, with a classificatory extension to first-degree cousins, nephews, and nieces). But this computation of how closely or distantly related is another relative is important in the realm of consanguinity, even if the maximum collateral distance does not reach beyond the third degree of cousinship. For instance, two persons will search their respective pedigree and find out that two of their grandparents were cousins; they therefore will have established the fact that they themselves are cousins, although they will not be able to tell exactly how distantly. If the father of one and the grandfather of the other were nephew and uncle, then they will themselves be in the relation of nephew to uncle. More often, even, people will declare that they are “close” (mekabi) to each other without probing deeper into their respective genealogies. Declaring this will suffice.8 The words usba and waris, meaning “distant” and “close” kin, respectively, reflect this dichotomy. The usba kinship circle extends from and includes the second degree, while the waris includes the siblings and the first cousins.9 The usba /waris distinction matches the permitted /prohibited distinction for marriage partners. Among closely related people, within the second degree, a clear-cut boundary is marked between the first degree (a first cousin is a sibling) and the second degree (a second cousin is a cousin). A strict incest (sumbang )


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prohibition applies to the former, while unions between second cousins are tolerated and amount to 3% or more of all the marriages (see “Marriage” section in this chapter). As one becomes more distantly related, the asymmetrical relation diminishes and the age /generation gap fades away. For instance, one’s immediate grandparents are owed extreme respect and subservience (mixed with a great deal of affection), whereas people belonging to the grandparents’ generation but standing in the third or more degree of collateral distance are not due any particular respect save for their age. Likewise a father is due more respect than an uncle (the prohibition on the use of the personal name is proof of it), a child is more subservient than a nephew, and so on. To conclude this section I shall summarize briefly what the Palawan kinship amounts to. It serves as a device to identify people socially and assign them a social role or position vis-à-vis the speaker. It enables one to locate others on a fine scale and grade them according to their status as equal, superior, or inferior. Three parameters enter this equation: seniority, affinity, and collateral distance, which combined produce a status value. This is indeed a very basic form of status assignation and can be seen as an elementary form of social order. It rests entirely on kinship, with no other form of social ordering like wealth or power prevailing.10 The above remarks require some further clarification. Palawan social life is composed of many more variables than kinship, and actual relations are tinged with all sorts of parameters pertaining to village-life politics, law, economics, and religious beliefs. What has been said of status assignment based on kinship is, so to speak, the hidden architecture of social intercourse. Moreover, the so-called asymmetrical relations, which seem to underlie all relations (the symmetrical ones being a type of asymptotical limit of the former), are only potentially a source of inequality between people. All it says about the relationship between any two individuals is that one is formally superior and the other formally inferior. Among all such relations, one in particular is endowed with great potentiality and generates a type of group that is at the core of the Palawan order of things: this is the father-in-law /son-in-law relationship, to which another rule is attached, that of uxorilocal residence. A degree of subservience is expected in strongly asymmetrical relations, but to an extent that never entails extreme forms of dependency like, say, domestic slavery. A degree of respect and authority is due elders but not to the extent of their holding autocratic power.

Kin Groups and Politics As observed above, kinship among the Palawan people serves as a means to establish reciprocal roles; it is not primarily a group recruitment device. People do, however, form groups, and members of such groups are kinsmen. Kinship


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therefore provides the personnel, if not the system, of group formation. Some groups have a concrete corporate-like existence and stability through time; others are more like networks occasionally activated or from which concrete groups draw their membership. The situation is quite simple, really. There are only two groups that have a stable and corporate-like existence: the household, composed of the nuclear family, a couple, and their offspring; and the local settlement, which is more complex. On the other hand, there are at least two circles of bilateral kin. The first is what I tentatively called the “extended family,” including all bilaterally recognized kin within the first degree of cousinship and centered on the siblings; the second is what I called the kindred, including all kin within the second degree of cousinship, since exact connections are lost beyond that point. One could recognize a third virtual category, which I called “extended kinship,” potentially including all those who are considered distant relatives at a greater collateral distance than the second degree. The sibling group is a most central set of kin and one that plays an essential role in ordering social relations. It is around the female sibling group that the local settlement (rurungan) is formed, and it is male siblings who arrange legal matters and share inherited property (pusakaq). Relations of positive reciprocity and generous sharing are the rule between siblings. Siblings are also organized in a strict hierarchy of birth order. The legal case and series of litigation that ensued from Sumling’s suicide (see chap. 6) illustrate the centrality of the sibling set, but also the fact that it can very well harbor internal tensions and conflicting loyalties. As chapter 6 shows, Tungkaq and Mensuling, two brothers, were strongly united against Durmin. But Durmin’s sibling group was split between those sisters who were siding with the two aggrieved brothers in Tegpen and those who were staying in Tegbituk and did not entirely share the formers’ hostility towards Durmin. Since siblingship is extended to first cousins, with the same incest prohibition applying at least in principle between them, kinsmen who are siblings of both parents, their offspring, and their offspring’s offspring, up to the generation of the grandchildren, form what I call the “extended family,” although this is not a corporate group, does not exist save for specific and temporary purposes, and is perhaps never activated in its entirety. The kindred would then consist of all relatives up to and including the second degree, that is, the descendants of all great-grandparents. As we have seen, kinship is recognized beyond the second degree but in a hazy and putative fashion. I would call this maximum extension of kinship reckoning the “extended kinship.” The exact limit of the kindred is a moot question, actually. As noted before, people use the words kampung and kekempungan (all those related, all kinsmen) in the sense of “extended kinship” or distantly related kin (usba).


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A question that has been discussed in the literature on cognatic kinship is whether spouses are included in the kindred (Freeman 1961). The Palawan answer to this has been clearly indicated by their kinship terminology. An aunt’s husband is clearly an “uncle” and is considered to have the status of a blood relative. A niece’s husband, however, is an affine (ugang) and not considered part of the kindred. Again the very concept of kindred has little significance among the Palawan. What counts is how closely related one is and whether one belongs to the narrowly defined circle of first-degree blood relatives and their spouses. If not, one looks at a possible kinship relation and whether it can be said to be within the second degree or not. Beyond that, one establishes a putative relation that situates the other person in a distant range of kinship. One is then “immediate family,” or kin—more or less distantly related—or a stranger. These kinship circles do not form groups endowed with rights and duties, living a corporatelike existence and remaining stable through time. In contradistinction with the preceding categories, two groups have a concrete and enduring existence, last over the span of one generation or more: the household and the settlement (or local group, rurungan). Economic and social life centers on these two forms of grouping. Palawan houses usually contain no more than one couple. The Kulbi people, however, allow and even prefer to have a young married couple stay in the same house as the parents of the bride, at least before children are born to the young couple. Generally speaking, one household contains a married couple and its unmarried children. Elderly persons, even when disabled, have their own small, private dwellings. The domestic family is the basic economic and social unit and is largely independent. It is ideally self-sufficient and produces its own means of livelihood through agriculture and various other activities (trade, wage labor, hunting and gathering, fishing, copra production, etc.; see chap. 2). What is produced by the household is largely if not exclusively consumed within the household. As we have seen, the average household contains 3.7 inhabitants. Households are bound together through female siblings and are part of a settlement with a locus of authority above that of the households, but each domestic family can decide to move out of the settlement and establish a new residence elsewhere according to its own wishes, provided they meet with the agreement of other relatives and in-laws and provided also that the couple, if young, goes to a place where a substitute “warden” can be found. The household is thus essentially free and to an extent independent from any superior authority. The rule that causes the settlement to coalesce and become a social unit—not just a collection of separate households in pure spatial proximity—is the rule of the pinemikitan (the one to whom one sticks to), namely the father-in-law of the groom or any person who will take the place of the bride’s father (her mother, her uncle, her older brother or sister). This person is regarded as the “warden”


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or “legal custodian,” he (or she) who “looks after” (megmilik) the woman. A young married couple must move close to where the parents of the bride live or to some place where a substitute “warden” can be found (the parent’s siblings, for instance). This uxorilocal residence rule results in groups of female siblings living together and thus forming residential nuclei containing several households and having as their warden the father-in-law of all the in-marrying males, as shown in figure 13. Figure 13 shows the structure of the settlement nucleus. As seen in chapter 1, settlements, especially in the Kulbi-Kenipaan area, are much larger and contain many more than three or four households. Larger settlements are then made of a number of such smaller units. The principles guiding such larger groupings owe less to kinship alone. A dimension of political and judicial power emerges at this level. People gather around a leader who is an adat law expert and orator (memimisara), someone who is an arbiter and litigator of acknowledged experience and skill. Traditionally such a leader was called a panglima Figure 13 Settlement nucleus or pegibutan.11 Nowadays new administrative titles, such as kunsjal or kagawad (counselor or councilman) are used instead. Tuking, the late leading figure in Kulbi, was referred to as the one who others “followed” (pegibuten), he who looked after, took care of (megmilik, mgedjaga, megipat) the others, especially as a result of his skills and ability as a healer. He was, above all, a memimisara, an expert arbiter in dispute settlements and judge in judicial matters. From the residential nucleus shown in figure 13, based essentially on kinship (which provides a limited degree of choice), one moves up the ladder of complexity towards the emergence of large settlements or villages, based on a consensus largely independent of kinship. From one level to the next, kinship is somehow replaced by politics. But what people understand by that is actually seen as a matter of traditional law aiming at settling disputes and rearranging disturbed social relations. The role of leader is cast in terms of law rather than power, of justice instead of government. Kinship, at this stage, does not provide the mechanism for status formation, but provides the ideology with which to clothe these new functions. Tuking was thus primarily described as an “elder” (megurang ), an “uncle” (maman), or a “grandfather” (upuq).


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There is no village council, so to speak, at least not one that is formally organized. But in such small communities and with such sociable and talkative people, matters of public or community concern are discussed ad libitum; people gather in the “big house” (kelang bena) to swap information and throw opinions back and forth unceasingly. There is one thing Palawan people in Kulbi as elsewhere like to do, and that is talk. The weekly marketplace, countless encounters between neighbors during the evenings, semiformal gatherings called by an elder, any occasion whatsoever to meet and talk will serve as a forum to discuss matters of village life. On top of that, there are formal gatherings called to litigate and settle specific cases. It is against the backdrop of litigation and disputes, and with a view to finding a referee with enough authority to spell out the just resolution of conflicts, that large communities are formed. The leader will actually never be more than an arbiter and a “protector,” someone who will be more loved than feared. Such is the way informants present the politics of Palawan village life. Strife and conflict are village politics’ breeding ground, but consensus through discussions and negotiations under the moral and judicial authority of one wise leader are the solutions sought to restore order and find a balance in the volatile affairs of a community. Absolute authority or autocratic power does not result from this process. So when we speak of politics in the context of Palawan communities, it is best to think in terms of moral and judicial authority, coupled in some cases with the fact that an emergent leader is already the head of a settlement nucleus, with a following of junior in-laws. Leadership is then forever an emergent phenomenon. A dominant male elder in the community is not a boss or a chief. Rules of membership remain highly flexible. At any point in time a large settlement with a leader can disintegrate or lose some of its elements—heads of households who will decide to live elsewhere. As in even smaller and simpler societies, like bands of hunters-gatherers, the choice, so to speak, is between total consensus and splitting away. The fact that we have moved from kinship to politics, “from status to contract,” as Henry Maine would have probably said, reflects a sociological process of deep significance. As I came to understand it, there are, or were, three statuses working separately. The first one is that of “elder” (megurang), the second that of “wife-giving in-law” (pinemikitan), and the third that of expert in customary law (memimisara). One can be one or the other, but leadership seems to rest on all three. The person who is a “warden” for several married women builds up a following of real or classificatory sons-in-law; he will capitalize on this if he is an able orator. He thus becomes a leader within his local group. His authority, however, will remain sustained and limited at the same time by his status of senior relative and in-law, so much so that the full-blown status of leader based on the sole capacity of influencing decisions of other people in a wider circle never manifests itself completely. With the substance of the leadership being essentially


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in the nature of kinship, the circle within which such a kinship-based authority can be considered a political power is narrow. Authority and expertise in judicial matters will extend it beyond this narrow circle, from a core residential group to a larger neighborhood or to several neighborhoods, but not much beyond. The unity of the local group and its kinship-based structure cannot be better illustrated than in the sharing of meat. Traditionally, meat was obtained from game only, since the only domesticated animal until the second half of the 20th century was the chicken. The largest wild animal in Palawan is the wild boar, and it was hunted with spears and dogs or trapped in a device known throughout Southeast Asia called baweg (see chap. 2). Today people hunt wild boar with homemade guns and what they call “pig bombs,” a homemade explosive device. Catching a boar before guns were used was a rare event providing an unusually large supply of meat. The rule was that the hunter would give his catch (periq), or at least a large part of it, to his father-in-law; the father-in-law would then divide it and distribute the shares among kin and neighbors. I witnessed such a distribution in 1989, when Sajmi, husband of Pitu’s daughter, brought back a wild boar in Lambungew, where Pitu, together with several couples who were his junior in-laws, was living. Sajmi at the time was staying in another and rather distant settlement, Tegbituk. The sharing of the meat proceeded as follows. First, the pig was divided in half so that Sajmi could bring back one-half to his neighbors in Tegbituk. Then Pitu proceeded to cut the other half of the meat; he prepared 42 “shares” (tahak) to be apportioned among 28 neighboring households (bena or sengkebenwanan) belonging to Lambungew, and to two other clusters of houses, in Megkelip and Tegpen. All households in Lambungew received one or more shares.12 Other households in the neighboring hamlets of Megkelip and Tegpen were given shares based on kinship (tubuq) and affinal ties, and also on the basis of a previous history of reciprocal meat sharing (megiras). Most of the people for whom Pitu had prepared shares were described as his in-laws (pikitan). So of the 28 households that were beneficiaries, 14 were related as in-laws (ugang, bajew, nenampil ). All of the others were Pitu’s blood relatives (egsa, menak, ibun, and upuq). One was in the category of co-parent-in-law (bejis). This example illustrates several principles at work in the formation of local groups. 1. Equal redistribution of surplus goods (meat) among all neighbors within a residential nucleus on the basis of kinship ties. 2. Sharing of surplus goods within a larger local community, including several clusters of houses, on the basis of kinship but mostly affinal ties. 3. Control over the surplus goods by the senior in-law.


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The meat thus goes from the hunter to the hunter’s father-in-law, who then redistributes it within the local settlement and in a wider circle according to ties largely dependent on affinal links. This process is similar to the pooling and distribution of resources I analyzed previously in the context of rice sharing during the ritual feast of tambilew in the highlands (Macdonald 1977a, 213–221). On such occasions the settlement or local group displays its internal structure, complete with a center, a senior in-law, and a redistribution mechanism that ensures both equal sharing within the groups and a certain amount of sharing with outside groups. In sum, one can say that kinship provides the basic principles, the idiom, and the values on which Palawan society is built. It provides also the pools from which members will be drawn to form groups: households and groups of households. A growing complexity is seen at the level of local communities, resting on principles of law and moral consensus, thus introducing social order into the realm of politics in its most elementary form. Palawan society cannot be said to be permissive. It is as coercive as any, and its “musts” and “don’ts” are as morally constraining as elsewhere in the outer world. Its social order is the result of an unceasing pressure exerted by the opinions and judgments of all its members.

Marriage Marriage is the single most important social device for society to reproduce itself not only biologically but sociologically as well. As we have seen, the two most important groups are the domestic family, based on a married couple, and the local settlement, based on a series of marriages and the resulting affinal links. In the life cycle of a person marriage marks the most crucial step, one that separates the young from the adults. Its importance is also signaled by a comparatively well-developed wedding ritual, including a long discussion conducted by elders and experts in customary law, the payment of a bride price, and a symbolic display of the transfer of the groom to his bride’s group. Finally, marital relations are apparently a very significant factor in suicide etiology: crises leading to selfinflicted death are often triggered by quarrels between husband and wife, jealousy, divorce, or a failure to marry or remarry someone (see chaps. 7 and 8). Let us examine first the sociological implications of marriage. In a survey I conducted in 1989, out of 137 unions I computed 13.8% of marriages with third cousins, 3.6% with second cousins, and 1.4% with closer relatives or relatives in a prohibited degree (sumbang), mostly classified as ugang (in-law) or upuq (people in the grandparent /grandchildren generations). All other marriage partners, 81%, were defined as distantly related or not at all (meraju).


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If we look now at the ethnic and geographical origin of the spouses, based on a survey I conducted in 2001, out of 54 marriages a good quarter (25.9%) are contracted within the same local group, while the majority (57.4%) are between members of different neighboring communities within the same area (Kulbi). Nine out of 54 marriages were with complete strangers either ethnically (six were Christian or Muslims) or geographically (people from more distant valleys like Kenipaqan and Kulisjan). In 1989, I had already noted that a very small number of marriages took place with people coming from more distant places, and I found that only eight Palawan people out of the 210 surveyed at the time came from the east coast (places like Batarasa, Malatgao, and Rio Tuba). River basins or adjacent lowland areas previously functioned more or less as endogamous areas. Marriages took place between members of different but neighboring communities. In sum, then, the average couple is made up of people who are distantly related or not at all, who are from the same region (namely the Kulbi River basin) but from different hamlets. Since residence is uxorilocal, it is the men who move from one hamlet to another, but since distances between hamlets within a region are short, a general principle of philopatry still exists. Another conclusion that can be drawn from this situation is that relationships are extending over the region so as to form an intricate and crisscrossing web of affinal and kinship ties linking members of all local groups to almost all other groups. In view of the several dozen cousins an informant can name, this cousin population spreads out to every corner of the Kulbi basin. The tendency of the geographical region to be an endogamous unit is the statistical result of all individual marriages, not of an explicit prescription to marry within the region. The exogamy of local groups results also from their size, too small to contain enough marriageable partners. The sociological and spatial distance between spouses tends to conform to the law of “neither too far, nor too close.” The divorce rate is rather high, around 45% or more. I found out in 1989 that in a sample of 210 persons, 96 had divorced and remarried. In a sample of 100 individuals, 46 had never divorced, 25 had divorced once, and 29 had divorced twice or more. Unions tend to be more stable, as it often happens elsewhere, after children are born. Marriages contracted at a very early age (8 years old for girls, 11 years for boys) are extremely unstable. Such marriages are either trial ones between very young boys and girls or rare cases of those between a young girl and an older man who is supposed to take care of his child bride until she is old enough to engage in sexual relations. However, in my first sample (from 1989), 30% of all persons having divorced had children at the time of the divorce. The presence of children, then, is not a deterrent to separation. Often people divorce but get back together shortly thereafter. Some people change partners frequently,


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from two to seven times in a lifetime. More or less half the population has had more than one spouse. Divorce (tiqdeng) is neither favored nor frowned upon as a personal failure or social disgrace. As in other upland societies in the Philippines, divorce can be seen as much as a disruptive factor in the fabric of society as, conversely, an added thread to the social web by supplementing the kinship network with extra step-relations (Gibson 1986, 86–87, 120). Polygyny is permitted but not prevalent. In 1989 I counted eight cases in all for the Kulbi area, all marriages with two wives, four of them sororal (the wives being sisters). In 2001, I found nine cases, one with three wives. Most cases involve an older man (50 years or older). The first wife is called the puqun (trunk or stem), the second one the duwej (from duwa, “two”). A marriage with a second wife involves the agreement of the first one. Many polygynous marriages fail and result in divorce or sometimes even suicide (see chap. 8). The success of such an arrangement is ensured if the two wives are sisters; in most other cases one wife leaves. The co-wives may or may not live together in the same house. For example, Kilin, a leader and barrio councilman who lived near Apat, was married to Belma, who lived separately in Tegbituk. Older people, like Ulapu, had their two wives stay in the same house. The polygynous husband is mostly an elder person with good status in the community and with the material and economic means to support his wives. In former times some men reportedly had up to 8 duwej, but this must have been exceptional. In at least half the cases, cowives have children with the man they have both married.

From Courtship to Wedding Unlike other sections of the same ethnic group, the people in Kulbi-Kenipaqan, but mostly in Kulbi, have an established custom of courting between young unmarried boys and girls (budjang).13 This custom, known as sulag (courtship, courting), is performed in pupuq, small houses built for the girls next to, or more often attached to, their parent’s houses (see chap. 2). These “dollhouses,” elevated on high stilts, sometimes decorated with carvings of birds, topped by elegant roofs with extended gable horns and wide eaves, are constructed for very young girls to entertain and be entertained by their suitors, boys from the neighborhood and other villages who come to spend time—sometimes even the night—with the girls. Suitors invite themselves and girls readily comply, but parents are nearby and are supposed to keep an eye on the proceedings.14 Parents deny that sexual intercourse takes place, but kissing and petting are permitted. Boys come with small presents (damak) of sweets, perfume, or other baubles, bringing a musical instrument, the long, two-stringed kusjapi or a flute (beberek). Two boys can entertain two girls. They sing love songs (geniqgeniq) of the old ginadeng, kesumbaq, or tigeman type, or in the more modern style of the inding


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variety. In the inding form, responsorial chanting can occur with two or more boys and girls answering each other in turn. The words are meant to praise, in metaphoric style (megsindir), the girl and express longing, desire, and unrequited love. My thoughts are heavy when I am near the tawlej tree. If I die my heart will carry her memory O my beloved. O my beloved, This djanbangan flower, growing in Kenipaqan, How I wanted to pick it, but alas she did not like me, and I did not undertake the trip.

Or the girl will sing these words, O my beloved, my djambangan flower in Kenipaqan, my heart is troubled, my mind is gone.

To which the boy may reply, O sweetheart, Did I travel in vain, When I went to the distant town? I had not a care When I was reaching the city.

One of my informants said he started courting when he was 12 years old and could remember visiting the pupuq of a dozen girls in half a dozen neighborhoods. He denied having had sex but said others did it and that it was customary, at least up to the 1970s, for boys to visit and entertain girls in the pupuq, but girls never went to the bachelor’s houses (kupuq or maligaj ). The same informant ironically never courted his own wife in this manner. The custom still exists today, in 2003, and a number of pupuq can be seen, although perhaps not as elaborately decorated or finely built as in the past. The development of this institution is intriguing. It appears to be a local specialty, with no equivalent in other parts of the island. Since the existence of these maiden (bachelor) houses is clearly a striking visual device advertising the presence of eligible partners, I hypothesized that it was meant to attract suitors from


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outside, especially places like Kenipaqan or on the eastern side of the island. This idea was suggested to me by the fact that boys who came to court girls in the pupuq of Kulbi hailed from distant places such as Rio Tuba and as far as Mainit, near Brooke’s Point, and Kulisjan, up north on the west coast. But facts do not support this hypothesis, and the Kulbi area remains predominantly endogamous. Besides, many marriages with foreigners nowadays take place with Muslim or Christian boys who do not engage in this very indigenous courtship system. May this institution have been born out of a need to attract suitors due to an imbalance in the sex ratio? At this point it is difficult to explain this cultural exception by a specific adaptive function, since in many ways it could have suited the entire Palawan culture in which sexual relations between unmarried—especially young and unmarried—people go quite unhampered, and where it is in the interest of the parents to gain a following of as many sons-in-law as they have daughters. One is of course reminded of the Hanunoo culture of Mindoro described by Conklin (1957) and Postma, a culture that highlights through elaborate dressing, sophisticated written poetry (Postma 1989), and intense involvement a “courtship culture,” the epitome of a person’s life cycle. Albeit less developed in Kulbi, the phenomenon is quite similar and exemplifies the inventiveness and independent creativity of a local culture that has allowed one of its dimensions, dormant elsewhere, to grow into a full-fledged cultural institution. When the partners have decided to get married, a ceremony of betrothal (megtunang) is held at the bride’s home with her and the groom’s parents, and a short discussion is conducted. Gifts, like a ring or a comb, are given by the groom to the bride. A week or so later relatives and neighbors are invited for a formal presentation (megsequdsequd ) of the couple and a discussion is held, the aim being to ascertain the good qualities of the groom and to introduce the new couple to the community. The formal wedding ceremony (tinahag ) will take place more than a month later. It is a big affair, consisting of a symbolic ritual action, a large meal, and a long, formal discussion or debate (bitsara) aimed at establishing the exact amount of the bride-price (ungsud or berjan), the place of residence of the newlyweds, and various other points of practical significance. The next day the groom offers a gift to his mother-in-law, called the “price of courtship” (kesulagan). Another gift to the father-in-law is offered by the groom, the “price to enter the house” (ketindalan).

The Wedding Ceremony In an article published in 1972 I described the wedding ceremony as I had observed it in the central highland area (Macdonald 1972). The present-day weddings in Kulbi lack some of the features observed among the people living in the mountains near Brooke’s Point, one of the most conspicuous being the absence


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of a procession of grotesquely disguised characters, introducing an element of buffoonery and jest in the otherwise very serious proceedings. In spite of this and other details, the marriage ceremony essentially centers on three main points: a large gathering of people, a symbolic display of the couple sitting side by side15 after the groom has ceremoniously entered the bride’s house, and an elaborate, formal discussion (bitsara), which is aimed not only at settling practical matters, but also at establishing public acceptance of the new couple and the marriage arrangement in general. When Alma, from Tegbituk, married Simsun from Ipilan on May 30, 2001, there were clearly some foreign influences at hand, since the groom’s father was of Jama Mapun (Cagayan) ancestry and his mother was a Penimusan, or Islam (Islamized Palawan, or Palawan-speaking Muslim). For instance, the custom of carrying the bride and groom on the shoulders of relatives is probably an influence of Islamized groups. The dresses, makeup, and gaudy ornamentation of the ceremonial bench on which the couple would be seated in full view of the audience bore a distinctive non-Palawan style. So did the display of wrapped gifts and the karaoke that stood prominently in front of the nuptial seat. In spite of these changes, the basic structure of the Palawan wedding ceremony remained the same: the bride, being prepared in a secluded corner of the house (the singled ), awaits the arrival of the groom.16 The bride and groom are then seated side by side on the wedding bench, where they remain quiet and silent, while the marriage discussion (bitsara) proceeds. After an agreement has been reached, a symbolic gesture is performed by the newlyweds, who offer food to each other. The symbolic transfer of the groom to the bride’s parents’ house, the public display of the young couple, and, most important, the discussion between the representatives and the parents17 of the groom and bride incorporate the essential symbolic meaning of the ceremony, which is clearly a contract under customary law aimed at creating a new household whose members are bound to each other and to other members of their respective kinship network by rights and duties. The wedding of Rupina and Iplinu, in Tuking’s place back in September 1989 had a distinctly more traditional flavor. On the evening of September 6, people gathered in the big house of Lilibuten to witness the proceedings of the wedding. It was started by a discussion (bitsara et pegtinahag ), with Tuking, the old leader, interrogating the mother of the bride,18 the father of the groom, and other senior members of the community. During that evening only a preliminary discussion was held in order to confirm the marriage proposal and introduce (pesequdsequd ) the new couple to all present. The discussion was followed by dancing and gong playing (basal ). The next morning the discussion was resumed. It was followed by an offering to Empuq, the Supreme Being, and to the dead,19 by the ritual offering of the “price of courtship” and the “price to enter the house” by the


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groom to his new parents-in-law,20 and the blessing of the newlyweds by the mother of the bride.21 Finally, Tuking performed a simple preventive healing ceremony (literally “seeing the liver” [biniriq atej ]) for the young couple, to ensure their physical and emotional well-being. There were clearly some religious elements in this ceremony, with prayers and offerings—money, a betel-nut container (selapaq), gongs, and a sword (badung)— to Empuq and to the spirits of departed relatives. In so doing Tuking was acting in both capacities as judge and ritual leader, functions he constantly fulfilled in his daily activities. The spiritual and the judicial aspects of the ceremony were closely associated. Rather than see marriage as a sacrament in the Christian Catholic sense of the word, one could see the ritual as an all-encompassing social contract, bringing together the visible and the unseen actors, as ensuring the well-being of the newly married couple and peaceful relations within the community as a whole, including the recently departed relatives. The long marriage discussion, the ritual announcement of name avoidance between in-laws, and the official acknowledgment of the couple by the bride’s mother and by the community are basic elements of a social and secular process, which is seen as largely independent of the actions of supernatural agencies. The solemnity and paramount social significance of the wedding were certainly emphasized and magnified by the appeal to supernatural forces, but they did not turn the ceremony into a purely religious event. Returning to the marriage discussion, which is the main part of the whole proceeding, the point repeatedly made by Tuking was to have all parties explicitly and loudly acknowledge the wedding arrangement. He thus started the proceedings by addressing Kering, the groom’s father, and Sasiq, the bride’s mother. “Speak up [Ipeterusaq mju mene]!” said Tuking. Did they agree (megheget) or not to the union of their children? In a marriage discussion that was recorded in the highlands and that I have analyzed in detail (Macdonald 1974c), the point of the debate was not, as I had expected, to haggle over the bride-price, but rather to display social consensus. The bride’s parents, who were in the position to demand a higher bride-price, actually disparaged their daughter and pretended she was not a good prospect. Marriage discussions in Kulbi and Kenipaqan are not as long-winded and elaborate as in the highland area, and they do not rely as extensively on metaphors and stylistic elaborations, but they do entail a rhetorical exercise of sorts and proceed slowly to build up an active consensus between both parties, in the presence of as many close relatives as possible. In Rupina and Iplinu’s wedding, aside from Tuking, the mother of the bride, and the father of the groom, there were fourteen other participants who spoke at one time or another during the marriage discussion. They included the bride’s brother, the groom’s mother, the bride’s uncles (FB), and several elders and senior neighbors more distantly related, or not related, to either party.


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At some point in the discussion, the bride-price (berjan) is discussed. In the most recent case observed, in 2001, the bride-price given for Alma by Simsun’s parents amounted to 5,000 pesos, not including the expenses of the ceremony (another 5,000 pesos). In this case no traditional heirlooms (pusakaq) were part of the bride-price. This is a departure from custom, especially since the brideprice of the daughter was calculated on the basis of that given for the mother. At the time of her marriage, Djawja, mother of Alma, commanded a bride-price of 2 large gongs (agung ), 2 small gongs (sanang), 2 spears (budjak), and 12 plates (pinggan). In a case observed in 1994, the marriage of Nadju to Djulina, the bride-price included 1 small gong, 1 betel box (selapaq), 6 plates (rajaq or pinggan), 1 spear, and 1 sword (badong ). Two pieces of clothing (tadjung ) were given as the “price of courtship” and “the price to enter the house,” respectively. The total value of these goods was estimated at 3,600 pesos. A pig and 1 sack of rice were also thrown in (1,586 pesos). To marry Sumling, way back in the 1970s, Durmin and his parents had to give 1 small gong, 1 frying pan, 2 betel boxes, 1 spear, 2 swords, 1 bush knife, 10 plates, 6 blankets, and 1 cooking pot. To these goods, with a total value of several thousands of pesos, 10 sacks of paddy were added. The average amount of the bride-price makes it an economically important transaction, which is rarely paid up front. It takes months and even years for the debt to be settled in its entirety. As is apparent, the bride-price includes heirlooms such as betel boxes, spears, swords, and gongs. These items have a market value but mainly a symbolic and prestige value, since all these goods were and still are of foreign origin, inherited, and not useful in the strictest sense. The bride-price also includes items of purely practical value, such as bush knives and pots. Before the peso, the plate (pinggan or rajaq) functioned as a standard unit of value (elad ), and the total value of the bride-price was calculated in such units. The bride-price tended to remain stable and was calculated on the basis of previously paid amounts. Changes nowadays concern the way it is calculated, the type of goods involved, and the total amount in currency. An inflationary tendency, although not a very marked one, can be observed. To begin with, the marriage arrangement is not essentially a financial transaction. A very high bride-price could function as a deterrent to marriage. I have recorded only one instance of a candidate for matrimony being turned down for economic reasons (see the case of Uwan in chap. 7). Other reasons, of a moral nature, are given, such as laziness or thievery, to rebuke a prospective son-in-law (see chap. 7). Therefore bride-prices tend to remain indexed on the available wealth of the families. One has to be reminded also that uxorilocality results in the transfer of the male workforce to the wife’s group; this is a major economic gain from the latter’s point of view. When neolocal or patrilocal residence is chosen, a formal


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litigation takes place, called bitsara et tangad, and payment is requested by the relatives of the wife in order to compensate for the loss of their daughter or sister. With the increasing pressure on husbands to cultivate their coconut plantations or their irrigated rice fields, uxorilocal residence meets with impracticalities, and this might have an influence on the bride-price, increasing it as a result of the loss incurred by the girl’s parents. The marriage ceremony is obviously an important social affair, as it can be surmised by the sheer size of the gathering—usually more than a hundred people—to be probably the most important social event next to the panggaris ceremony. It creates a new household, the basic social unit of Palawan society, and adds a new structural element to the local group, the next most basic social entity. Two main aspects can be singled out. First, it is the only “rite de passage” marking the transition into adulthood. Young people, by getting married, become senior people (megurang), adult members of the community. It gives them the status of fully socialized persons, and no other achievement or process, ritual or otherwise, provides this transformation into adulthood. Old bachelors are very rare, as are spinsters. Men who remain single late into adulthood are called kukuk and are suspected to be kinukuk, that is, wedded to creatures of the forest, evil spirits who take the appearance of beautiful women and capture their souls. I have not recorded a single case of homosexuality. Second, marriage has public and judicial significance. It is, in a way, a recreation of society and a ritual affirmation of the transfer of the groom from one group to another. Offerings and prayers addressed to supernatural entities emphasize the all-encompassing significance of the marriage ceremony, but it remains a formal agreement between social actors and a contract sanctioned by custom (adat). The formal negotiation (bitsara) remains the most important part of the entire ceremony. Since divorce occurs frequently, the procedure to undo the marriage is the same as the procedure to establish the marriage, in reverse. A negotiation will be conducted to establish responsibilities and restitution of the bride-price, in case of the wife’s failure—that is, if she fails to meet her duties (e.g., goes away, never cooks, etc.); fines even can be demanded.

Adat Law: Preliminary Considerations Customary law (adat or saraq) is the formal mechanism of social control and, in Palawan society, a way of life. All aspects of social relations and all types of behavior fall under adat. The word, known throughout the Malay-Indonesian world, has several meanings. First it means “the law” and refers therefore to a legal code, a set of rules. It bears some resemblance to the Western legal and judicial system. It also means “custom” and “tradition,” and to translate it as “customary law” seems entirely appropriate. Finally, adat means “manners, character” and can be


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used to describe individual behavior. Someone has a good or bad adat, meaning that he /she has a good or bad character or behaves properly or improperly. As in other neighboring societies of insular Southeast Asia, and particularly the southern Philippines (see Schlegel 1970), the concept of adat refers primarily to a process of oral litigation, called a “discussion” (bitsara). Bitsara also means “legal case.” In this culture of the spoken word, which knows but does not use the written word, things are constantly discussed, and there is all manner of bitsara, but the word usually means a public hearing or public formal discussion, one that is conducted under the guidance of experts. Such experts are called ukum or memitsara, and I shall analyze their roles below. In a society with no organized violence and one in which actual physical aggression is very rare, the threat of violence paradoxically looms large, and people see the formal process of litigation as a way to prevent physical violence, be it murder or suicide, and to ensure peaceful and nonviolent relations between all members of society. People often engage in litigation, this being a normal and usual way to respond to disagreements and conflicts, to correct perceived slights, and to obtain retribution, but more generally to settle matters and establish a contract, as in the marriage discussion, which is a type of legal bitsara, among others. Normally a plaintiff will report (megsumbung) the case to a judge (memitsara, ukum, or pegibuten), and a public hearing will be called involving both parties and their representatives, one or several experts in customary law, and other people—neighbors and kin—acting as witnesses (saksiq). There are several necessary conditions to the legality of the whole proceeding. First, it has to be public, because witnesses can be called to testify to the outcome of the case and social pressure can thus be built up to enforce a legal decision. Also, the case has to be thoroughly covered in great detail, hence the discussion must be punctilious and as such can be very repetitious. All concerned will be asked to say something, and the same points may be mentioned time and again. Since things are discussed before the final and formal litigation that settles the case is conducted, people seem to repeat the same arguments endlessly. There are probably good reasons for that. One is to saturate the case by analyzing it ad libitum, thus making sure that no stone has been left unturned, that no aspect of the case has been left out. But there is another aspect to it. One has to remember that in all cases the final decision will have to be agreed upon by both parties, even though one may be found guilty. Therefore, a real consensus has to be produced. The process thus aims at bringing together rather than splitting apart the concerned parties. This requires a slow, painstaking, skillful process that will discriminate between right and wrong, but at the same time will promote a spirit of mutual agreement. The experts in customary law are thus seen as arbiters and consensus builders, ready to pardon and weary of handing out heavy fines, lest they create rather than terminate strife and division. The means by which this


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is achieved is the oratorical skill of the speakers. Litigation has its own formal verbal style, some kind of “legalese” that has to be mastered by the experts in customary law. This expert is a judge, and he is called memitsara (literally “litigator”), but sometimes also, as in English, “justice” (ukum; see Macdonald 1996). The word pegibuten, best glossed perhaps as “chief ” or “leader,” applies to the same role, a leader being essentially someone who knows adat and can speak expertly in a public hearing, reaching a judgment that other people will approve of. He is the one who “knows how to litigate” (kusequd memitsara). “It is to him, and no one else, that all bitsara are brought [Ketinindalan et barang et bitsara itije lang ].” As such, he is also a panglima, a title found in this and other areas with various local meanings, in this case synonymous with pegibuten and megurang, in the sense of a senior person and moral authority in the local group. In 1989, there were around 16 such recognized judges and leaders for 12 local groups, each local group having at least one, sometimes two, such leaders. Among all these leaders, Tuking was unanimously referred to as the paramount leader of the Kulbi area (pegibuten atut Kulbi). His grandfather, Rumsaq, in his time had also been the overall leader in Kulbi. His authority reached even the groups in the Kenipaqan River basin, as did to some extent Tuking’s. Like Tuking, Rumsaq was also a great shaman (beljan), healer, and ritual specialist. Most other judges or local group leaders are not necessarily known as healers or shamans. After Tuking’s death, one of his sons succeeded him as the paramount healer and shaman, and another son, also known for his healing skills, was a recognized leader (see chap. 1). The situation in Kulbi in 2001 was described thus to me by an informant: there were two main leaders in the Kulbi headwater, and another two in the lower part of the river basin; they held distinct positions compared to Inaring, the paramount religious authority but not himself a judge or person with legal or judicial competence. In other words, in 2001 Tuking’s role as the number-one religious and political leader had been split five ways, between four different specialists in customary law and one expert in religious matters.22 The status of judge is acquired and entails no special economic or political advantage, except a certain amount of prestige, but there is no marked deferential treatment for the memitsara or pegibuten in ordinary dealings. When a fine (binesa or murta) is imposed, the judge partakes of it, but such small amounts do not amount to any significant wealth. Healers (beljan) can ask for payment; likewise, judges usually receive compensation. Significantly, Tuking was not the richest man in Kulbi, nor was his grandfather, Rumsaq. The responsibility of the judge or leader, in many instances, such as quarrels between husband and wife or malicious gossip, is to instruct (sinduq, usjat) and lecture people on their duties: working hard, not being idle, being respectful to elders, not indulging in gambling or drinking, and so on.


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Cases are referred to by general categories, such as marriage discussion (bitsara et pegtinahag ), divorce case (bitsara et pegtiqdeng ), case of compensation for the death of someone (bitsara et kebangunan), case of homicide (bitsara et bunuq), case of neolocal residence (bitsara et tangad ), case of theft (bitsara et takew), and so on. Fines are imposed according to the importance of the wrongdoing or the damage incurred, but also according to a complex system of evaluation that would need a long study to explain in detail. As we will see in the case of Sumling’s suicide, the fines demanded by the plaintiffs were considerably reduced. The discussion is partly haggling over what has to be given as a fine. In this case also other parties were found guilty, like Pawlin, who had consorted with Durmin. She was to pay 500 pesos as a fine, but she had to be helped by her brother-in-law and her uncle, who had to contribute to the amount (see chap. 6). Precedents are used to settle cases, and once a fine is paid to compensate for a particular deed, the same will have to be given in the future for an identical case. Judges must have good recall of all cases in order to refer to previous judgments to justify their own sentences and have them accepted by the community. The bitsara can be held almost anywhere—outdoors, in the marketplace, or in somebody’s house, but generally, especially if it is an important affair, it is held at night in the big house of the community leader—for example, Tuking’s house—which is meant to be a venue for important occasions, whether weddings or litigation. There are small and big bitsara, of course, and cases involving a death or divorce will be prepared beforehand by shorter legal discussions. When a judge is apprised of a new case, this also involves a small bitsara. The judge will most frequently go to a village or local group where he has been summoned to help solve a case or settle a dispute. There is a great deal of informality in the setting and no decorum at all. The speakers, the judges, and the parties all sit on the platform surrounding the central floor of the house, or on the floor itself. There is no formal attire for the judge, and the places occupied by all participants are randomly selected. The proceedings start with questions of a rhetorical nature, and the judge will ask the participants the reason for the gathering. These introductory remarks are more or less elaborate, but the judge will come to the point in due time and all participants—defendant, plaintiff, and witnesses—will be asked to come in later. A bitsara can last several hours or even days. A public hearing should not be brief, and, as we have seen, it should cover all ground as extensively and completely as possible. The judgments rendered by a local judge can be appealed, and a judge of higher standing or renown can be approached to hear the case again, but the likelihood that the decision will be reversed is minimal, and judgments are rarely appealed. Very serious cases, such as homicides, are brought to the tribunal located at the municipality in Rizal, and the convicted murderer serves a term in the prison


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there. This is what happened in the case of Kering, who murdered Madjuri in 1977. I recorded only six cases of murder committed by a Palawan person before 1989 and two additional cases since. Only three cases were the result of a quarrel (between a jealous husband and his wife, over land in the case involving Kering, and because of amorous rivalry between two young men over a girl). One case was the ritual murder, sanctioned by custom, of an incestuous couple and their immediate kin and neighbors in 1962. Two cases involved the approved killing of a mentally deranged and violent person (gilaq). Two other cases were perpetrated apparently in self-defense against a stranger. Cases are not automatically reported to the authorities in town. Ludinan, who in 2000 murdered Abrin because of his love for Delmeta, his own sister-in-law, was fined 12,000 pesos but was not jailed. In another recent case, Pugi, who defended himself and his daughter against a Visayan rapist, went to jail for four months. As much as possible, cases involving only Palawan people are not reported to authorities, but the prospect of being convicted by the tribunal and serving a jail term acts as a powerful deterrent. It is actually the threat of external violence that intimidates people, and this threat is used by the arbiters and judges to ensure that people obey the law. The Palawan system controls its internal social order by using a system of reference borrowed from foreign dominant groups. Titles like panglima have been borrowed from the petty sultanates that ruled over southern Palawan. Today the title of kagawad, which is the official Tagalog term for the elected barangay councilman, has taken the place of panglima, which is still more or less in use and has become synonymous with memitsara and ukum. The old Palawan term bugedar is used in reference to a person of great authority, such as Tuking. The point is that titles come from outside and that Palawan society has no real hierarchical structure. Titles and references to an apparatus of power are essentially exogenous. The local society is working out its own way to solve conflicts and to monitor social order by using this foreign apparatus of power to morally coerce its subjects. As the two legal and judicial systems—the external and internal, the new and old—overlap and operate now simultaneously, a contradiction is seen between them, the traditional system (adat tagnaq) and the new system, referred to as the “law of the Visayan” (adat Bisaja) or the “law of the prison” (adat et perinta, adat et pegprisuan). Each system has its supporters among the experts. Alex, a respected councilman and memitsara, was in favor of adopting the new law as far as Sumling’s suicide was concerned, whereas Gab and Tungkaq were in favor of the traditional system.


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4 The Spiritual World of the Kulbi People

Is There a Palawan Religion? In this chapter I shall discuss matters that are usually considered part of what is called “religion.” In the Palawan language the word for “religion,” egama, is of Sanskrit origin and should probably be considered a foreign notion applying to world religions, like Islam and Christianity, and ill adapted to belief systems of the kind discussed here. When asked about their beliefs and ritual practices, people prefer to speak of customs handed down by their ancestors (adat et kegurangurangan). By so doing they merge all sorts of habits and notions that in a Western sense have no religious meaning—for instance, rules of etiquette or judicial matters. To describe the spiritual world of a culture such as the Palawan, there are actually many reasons to use the word “religion” with great caution. The complex and integrated belief systems known as “religions” in the sense of organized religions with their fixed codes of ethics, theodicy, and eschatology, not to mention a clergy structured like a bureaucracy, simply have no equivalent among people like the traditional inhabitants of the Kulbi-Kenpipaqan area. In a true sense, then, there is no Palawan “religion.” For one, beliefs may vary tremendously from one person to another, and there is little or no dogmatic unity, no canon to speak of. A list containing names and identities of spiritual beings taken from one informant rarely matches exactly the list given by another. Ritual practices pertaining to healing, the formulas and prayers used when curing someone, differ from one healer to another. Conflicting answers will be given to the question of the exact number of “souls” (kurudwa) that each person possesses. Speaking of the ritual specialist, the beljan, one should also be warned against comparing it to the concept of “priest,” borrowed likewise from organized religions. The beljan is not a sacred person having a superior status; his calling as 91


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a healer does not entail a regular salary or full-time activity. Actually, there is an interesting detail concerning the use of “beljan.” During my investigations, when I asked someone who had been referred to me as beljan if indeed he was a beljan, the answer was almost always “no.” The reason is that the word suggests the notion of “expert in matters of the unseen,” “religious virtuoso” in the Weberian sense, a certain sense of superiority and mastery. Thus it is out of shyness and a fear of being boastful that healers and experts in ritual matters refuse to call themselves beljan, in the same way Westerners might avoid using, out of modesty, the title of “Master.” In Palawan society, moreover, everybody is a healer in some way; everybody knows something about the plants that cure and the prayers that restore health. The very idea of a “priest” as it is used in the Catholic Church, for instance, is absolutely irrelevant when applied to the Palawan beljan. The Western idea of religion is also associated with the concept of “faith,” which I find difficult to use in the Palawan context. People believe in a certain number of propositions—for instance, there are divinities, a Supreme Being called Empuq, “the Lord,” creatures living in the forest, recipes and powers harnessed by shamans to heal people, and so on—but not in the sense associated with what the West would call “faith.” I find equally difficult, if not downright improper, the use of the concept of “sacred” even in its strictly Durkheimian sense of “separated” and “forbidden.” Kindred notions, like the mystical, the numinous, the ecstatic, and so forth, do seem irrelevant also, at least concerning the culture studied in these pages. For instance, a number of elements that the West regards as core aspects of any religion, such as myths explaining the origin of the world, have no religious meaning in the Palawan context and carry no “sacred” value, nor, again, do they entail any position of “faith.” For the Palawan people, myths are not true stories coming from the ancestors, but simply stories that were in truth told by the ancestors, and not invented by the present narrator (see Macdonald 1988a). The concept and reality of death is another aspect of the spiritual life of people in general that is the object of religious attention. I discuss it here and and later in this chapter because it bears on the general subject matter of this book—suicide. The way people consider and ritualize death, treat dead people, and entertain beliefs concerning the afterlife may influence or shape suicidal ideation (see Catedra 1992, 355). This concept could be argued both ways.1 Not unlike ancient Visayan people described by Alcina (Bernad 1972, 131), the people in Kulbi, as elsewhere in southern Palawan, pay very little attention to the afterlife. What happens to the soul after death is encapsulated in some representations that elicit little concern. Indeed, one of the most striking characteristics of this culture, not only in Kulbi but also among all Palawan people, is the degree to which the idea of death is ignored. One particular aspect of this is the


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amnesia that characterizes the living in their treatment of the departed. Palawan religion is not centered on a cult of the ancestors, and there is actually no such cult. Although ancestors and dead relatives are mentioned as kegurangurangan or kegungurangan, meaning “the ancient ones,” and are presented with offerings in a number of ritual events, they are left as an unstructured and fuzzy set of dead people, unless one recently dead relative must be addressed, as was the case concerning Madjuri, who had been recently murdered and needed placating (see chap. 3). No elaborate funerary rituals turn the dead into venerated ancestors, as happens sometime in other societies of insular Southeast Asia. As mentioned earlier, people have difficulty remembering the names of their own grandparents, and for those who died before, not a trace is left in the memories of the living. Looking at a grave—a simple hole in the ground covered with a few branches and leaves, destined to decay and disappear under new growth, not to be found again—one realizes that people in this area let the dead sink rather quickly into oblivion. Another aspect of what Westerners tend to miss, guided as they are by misconceptions born out of their bias toward world religion, is the loose connection, if any, between ethics and religious beliefs. Although there is a certain amount of justification for good behavior in some eschatological representations, the very core of morality and ethics, as far as the Palawan people are concerned, depends on proper social behavior, on the value of “compassion” (ingasiq)2 and on a code of conduct that is enshrined not in religion, but in adat law. Anthropologists now recognize that in an evolutionary sense, ethics—things that one should or should not do to be a good person—has no real religious foundation.3 Some observations might belie this principle,4 but there is reason to see in the concept of punishments met in a sort of hell (narkaq) by people guilty of committing sins (dusaq) a belief that is most certainly borrowed from Islam, and later confirmed by Christian missionaries. Generally speaking, society is ruled by laws and principles that are not inspired by or based on religious ideas. Marriage, for instance, probably the most important institution in Palawan society, is essentially a social contract, even if it contains ritual moments (offerings to the ancestors and prayers uttered in all solemn circumstances). A few taboos exist, and people will not, for instance, undertake a journey if they hear the call of the saped bird or other portents of ill fate. But there is very little that is prohibited in people’s daily lives. The most important prohibition concerns using the names of senior in-laws (see chap. 3), but the sanction punishing a breach of this taboo (the swelling of the stomach called busung or kebusung) is explicitly and emphatically explained by informants as resulting directly from the named person, not from a supernatural agency. Religious duties are few; except in the rare event of a panggaris ceremony (discussed later in this chapter), ritual matters are simple, do not take a lot of time,


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and are mixed with feasting and rejoicing; they are sometimes even defined as pure “play” (usik; Macdonald 1997). In sum, it could be said that we have entirely deconstructed the concept of religion among the Palawan, to the point of leaving little to consider. There is no unified set of beliefs, no priest, no faith or sense of the sacred; death is disregarded, eschatology is scant, and ethics is of little concern. Finally, society is secular and people rather unconcerned with the supernatural. Almost everything that makes up a “religion” is missing. Now of course, Palawan people do have a spiritual life, perform rituals, and believe in forces and beings that exist in the universe and influence the course of their lives. Their spiritual world is very much a part of their lives, and its elements are quite present and numerous, organized differently, however, than in world religions. In order to grasp the general outline of the Palawan ritual and spiritual life, let me briefly repeat the conclusions I reached after years of fieldwork among several other sections of the Palawan ethnic group (Macdonald 1993b).

The “Ulit Complex” How do ritual traits and religious /ideological values combine to form the motley pattern of the Palawan religious life?5 Taking into account mainly three different subcultures, one from the east coast (Punang), one from the west coast (Quezon), and one from the highland area (Mekagwaq-Tamlang), I have shown that a nucleus of traits that I call the “ulit complex”6 forms the stable basis, the substratum as it were, of ritual forms. This substratum is analytically composed of the following dimensions: 1) the use of a specialized ritual language (usually called ulit); 2) the combined use of musical instruments, dancing, and singing; 3) the communication with spirits, either directly or indirectly; and 4) the development of the dramatic and theatrical dimensions of ritual play. Through an examination of seven main aspects of the ritual variation in the three subcultures, I have attempted to show that ritual forms of the ulit complex could be seen as transforms of a basic pattern. In the total range of contrasted forms, one observes, then, a fundamental polarization between 1) rituals based on, so to speak, “introspective shamanism,” with an emphasis on the inner power of a ritual specialist; and 2) rituals based on stage performance, with emphasis on the quality and complexity of the ritual drama. Philosophy and art as two approaches to religion could be one way, albeit oversimplified, to say it. Where do the Kulbi-Kenipaqan rituals and belief system fit in this scheme of things? As far as the deruhan chanting (see below) is concerned—and the deruhan belongs unquestionably to the ulit complex—I am strongly inclined to place the phenomenon towards the “shamanistic” pole of the spectrum. I have one major reason for this: the ritual specialists and healers are always male and


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usually senior people, as opposed to the lowland areas, like Quezon and Punang, where the ritual performers are female and sometimes very young. In the core shamanistic area, beljan are always male and senior people. They, too, a bit like Tuking himself, “look after,” “protect” (medjaga, megmilik) the regional community. What the Kulbi beljan does not really undertake is the shamanistic trip to the upper world. The vision of a universe vertically organized into many different levels is in a way a conceptual corollary of the first proposition, the shamanistic (cosmic) trip. One needs a vertically organized and multilayered universe in order to perform the cosmic voyage that is so much a part of “pure” shamanism—if there is such a thing. In the minds of the Kulbi people the universe is rather flat—except for the symbolically important mountain peaks—and if the beljan undertakes a trip to another world, it will instead be to the underworld (see below). Another trait that is more readily a part of the stage-performance end of the ritual spectrum is possession. The deruhan is clearly a case of possession, although a lot of ambiguity is attached to this definition.7 The conceptual net in which this chapter is trying to capture all shades of the spiritual life of the people has certainly too wide a mesh. It would be accurate to say that the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area borrows traits belonging to both the highland shamanistic world and the lowland possession /stage-performance style of ritual. This holds true for the performance of the deruhan, but the panggaris ceremony, which is described below, belongs in a class of its own. In other words, the local ritual ideology combines male shamanism with spirit possession. In any case, these ancient forms of ritual performance and the beliefs that go with them belong more and more to the past, for reasons that will be explained. It is thus necessary to set things in their proper perspective and see the whole picture as it looks today.

Christian Missions At the beginning of the 21st century, the whole Kulbi-Kenipaqan area is becoming culturally similar to the outside world. A new religious outlook, brought by other Filipino Christian migrants and by Protestant missionaries, is winning the day. The latter—mainly an organization called the New Tribes Mission—came to the area in the 1960s and established a number of missions where American and Australian ministers started evangelizing the natives (see Macdonald 1993a). They efficiently translated the New Testament in the vernacular and trained substitute native missionaries, whom they left behind after returning home themselves. The Catholic Church did not proselytize in this area, and only in recent years, with the advent of a huge migration wave and the development of a barangay settlement, has the Catholic Church developed a presence—there is a Catholic


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chapel in the barrio, although there is no resident Catholic priest outside the town of Rizal. Evangelical missions have proliferated, and Protestant missionaries saw in this last spiritual frontier great prospects for reclaiming souls from the grip of the devil. In 2001 I counted six protestant denominations in Tagbita alone, all belonging to so-called “Evangelical churches.”8 There were at least four temples or places of worship in the barangay. Some of these denominations target mainly native converts, whereas a denomination like the Baptists has a mixed following of native Palawan people and other Filipino settlers. In Tegbituk a majority of inhabitants now attend Sunday church and sing from hymnals distributed by the New Tribes Mission. The words to “Indani ko Cristo” [sic] (“I Am Weak but Thou Art Strong”) or “Kelilo-lilong Ingasi” [sic] (“Amazing Grace”) are intoned before excerpts of the New Testament are read in Palawan by a native minister. Rather than seeing the conversion process as a displacement of an ancient belief system by a new one, I see it as the introduction of a new ideological system that is mostly alien, to a certain extent irrelevant to the previous definition of the supernatural, and therefore existing in its own ideological niche. This seems to be particularly true of Protestant ideology, with its focus on morality and its strong connection between eschatology and ethics. Traditionally, good behavior was not a matter of religious concern but a question of adat law, good manners (hatur), and a generous disposition (ingasiq). More generally, one can understand the conversion process as resulting from a general trend towards culture change, from an overall transformation of the way of life. Attendance at an ethnically mixed school, with its peer pressure and the moral authority of Christian teachers, a large population of Christian settlers with whom the native Palawan people interact more and more intensely, and many other factors force the local culture to join the mainstream. Christianity is part of a larger package called “modernity” that is willy-nilly adopted wholesale (see also Macdonald 1993a).

The Spiritual World of the Beljan The beljan or tungkul is the main religious agent connecting the seen and the unseen. He is primarily defined as a healer and is always male. His main activity is to “see” (memiriq) and extract sickness from the bodies of his patients. He does so by passing over the body, especially the sick part, leaves of rukuruku (Ocimum sanctum), by rubbing the skin with lime mixed with saliva, by extracting with his fingers the impurities causing the sickness,9 and by invoking supernatural beings, especially Empuq, “Master” or “Lord,” praying for his help. Performance of such healing activities by confirmed beljan is very frequent, and the healing session takes only a few minutes. After the prayer during which the power of


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the divinities is introduced in the rukuruku, the beljan performs the actions just described while mumbling some words.10 The session is concluded by the traditional cracking of the joints and by pulling an eyelash, gestures whose meanings remain mysterious.11 This short process can be repeated for the same patient many times as long as the sick person is still suffering. Tuking was also adept at “looking in the palm of the hand” (memimiriq palad). He thus examined the hands of a mother in order to know and possibly prevent the deaths of her children. As a healer the beljan has expertise in medicinal plants and collects them in the forest, sometimes asking invisible beings living in special places, such as groves and large ficus trees, for medicinal plants. He knows which plants are owned by which spiritual entities. The wild reeds perukpuk and tenaki, growing on the banks of the rivers, are the rice and sugarcane, respectively, of the “owners of disease” (empu’t sakit), known also as “people from the other side” (taw pelijawan). The areca and various species of rattan are their plants. Specific areas are thus defined as the territory of evil spirits (sejtan)—riverbanks, swampy bottoms, and forested highlands. These wild plants, the perukpuk reeds in particular, are seasonal and planted by the owners of seasonal epidemics. When the flowering season comes, the owners visit their fields, and if they see they have been destroyed by humans, they capture their souls, which are like white chickens to them. Tuking insisted that it was important to gather wild plants, especially rattan, sparingly, for fear of angering their supernatural owners and becoming sick. The beljan is also a person who performs—infrequently—a trance séance called deruhan. This is done at night, as the gongs are being played, in the big house and in front of an audience. The beljan, whose head is covered with special headgear and who dons a sarong, performs a dance (tarek) and then chants words that come from the “powerful being” (taqaw kewasa or diwata) by whom he is, according to native theory, “possessed” (tumun, suminuled). Most people, men and women, young and old, dance to the music of the gongs while holding thick bundles of plaited leaves of silad (Licuala spinosa). While dancing (megtarek), they seem to stagger and fall as the spirits (taw kewasa or diwata) come near them, without necessarily lapsing into a trance, although there is a general style of dancing that indicates, by stumbling motions and loss of balance, a lack of control over one’s body. They feel—or so they say—as if a strong wind is blowing on their chests. But those who are not beljan do not perform the deruhan, the chanted discourse that spells out the will of the spirits. The sound of the gongs induces a trance-like state in most ordinary people, but prolonged verbal contact with divinities can be achieved only by the beljan. Deruhan chanting belongs to a genre called ulit elsewhere in Palawan. Its melody is similar to epic singing (see Revel 2001, 135–148), and its specialized vocabulary makes it an esoteric kind of discourse. In a séance that I recorded in


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1988, two beljan, Tukaring and Ulapu, performed in turn, and their chanting was answered by people attending the ceremony, thus starting a dialogue between the diwata and the humans. For instance, Ulapu would say, “You Meliwanen [name of the diwata] what are the causes of concern?”12 and a person attending would say, “As we say, there is something wrong with this place.”13 To which the beljan answered, “Friend [says the diwata], something very wrong happened to this world long ago, the world then came to grief.”14 A little later the beljan uttered reassuring words from the diwata: “Younger brother, I’ll take care of all illnesses.”15 And voices in the crowd said, “Please help us [Kaj mju pebebejaqi ].” In this brief example any Palawan speaker will immediately perceive the difference between the everyday kind of speech (e.g., salaq ne i lungsud, meaning “there is something wrong with the world, or with this place”) and the esoteric language of the diwata expressed in terms like salaq neng bunsala et beretagnaq naq mebulud—words with the same meaning. Not unlike what one hears in other parts of Palawan, the ritual speech remains vague and centers on the dangers that might threaten the people, such as natural disasters and, above all, illnesses. To which the diwata usually gives an answer like, “Indeed the world and the well-being of the people are threatened, so beware, but I /we will look after you.” The point of this séance is clearly to establish a physical connection with the invisible powers. This is done through the agency of the beljan, whose body and mind are invaded by the spirit. The word suled, or suminled, is used to describe the state of the performer, and the word clearly means “to enter /be entered, penetrated.” The performer is described as being oblivious to his surroundings. The beljan performing the deruhan is also helped by a double or familiar called a gimbaran. According to Tuking, everybody has a gimbaran, but the beljan has several. The gimbaran are entities who speak through the beljan, each using a different tune. We find here the theory underlying the epic singing as well as the same kind of verbal and musical expression (peliligan). The gimbaran is equated with the “Poweful One” (taw kewasa) and the heroic character appearing in epic singing (tutultulen). In the trance séance the gimbaran “enters” (megsuled ) the shaman. He is capable of dealing with the world of spirits not only because he has several gimbaran, but also because these “doubles” own powerful magic (udjimat). The theory of the spirit familiar, with whom the shaman or medium has a personal and intimate relationship, is one entirely similar to the belief described in connection with the quest (tarak) in the mountains (see below). In actual life, healers and shamans learn their trade from other people, and it is often the case that the skill and knowledge of healing pass from father to son, as was the case with Tuking, who passed on part of his expertise to his two sons and one of his grandsons, who all became “able to see” (kusewd memiriq). To acquire the necessary knowledge depends also on the help of invisible beings, the


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double of the healer, and from information received in dreams. There is no single entrance examination or test that decides who will be a beljan. The apprenticeship is a lifetime, voluntary learning process triggered by the call of a spirit (taw kewasa or gimbaran). One way to acquire the knowledge of certain plants and to develop one’s curing power is to seek help from the “Powerful Ones” (taqaw kewasa), people who live in the mountains (taqaw et bukid ). This quest must be solitary, and he who undertakes it must not wear clothes and must remain in the forest for eight nights, fasting, until he hears a call and is met by a supernatural human being who inquires as to the purpose of the visit. Eventually the Powerful One will grant his help, show which medicinal plants to use, and even become a ritual brother of the beljan. A solitary quest in the forest, up in the mountains, is a practice found throughout Palawan and is in accordance with the general belief that the natural environment is the dwelling place of a large population of invisible and powerful beings, ready to help but also capable of harming those who trespass on their territory and destroy their plantations. Some prominent beljan act as ritual specialists for the major ceremony that is held in the area, the panggaw or panggaris (the latter word meaning “cutting” or “slicing”) ritual. Once a year, this ceremony brings together people from all corners of the territory, and its general aim is to “cleanse the earth” and promote a general state of welfare for the entire area and its inhabitants. As I was interviewing Tuking’s son Medsinu in 1995 on the meaning of the panggaw ceremony, he gave me some surprising and highly illuminating answers that provided an unsuspected depth to the spiritual world of the beljan. Medsinu was himself a ritual specialist and healer whose abilities were widely recognized in the area, albeit less so than his late father. In any case, he had been raised and nurtured in this religious culture, had taken part in a number of panggaw ceremonies as a helper or co-performer, and was a good authority on the subject. This is what he told me then. The meaning of the panggaw is about our sustenance, as long as you do things right. Meaning what? First, that no one who has been stained by incest enters the house where the panggaw is being performed, lest the world becomes dark and night falls at the moment of piercing the earth. [The incest] is what we call the “bitter thing.” If women have their periods they cannot enter the house. This would prevent you [from performing] the ritual piercing of the earth.

Medsinu went on to state the ritual prohibitions on sexual relations with one’s wife and the consumption of meat, particularly pig’s meat, for the eight days during which the ritual is staged. He then proceeded, following his own train of thought, to say the following.


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During the panggaw you must think deeply (ujekkinen), you must focus your mind on your sustenance, your food, then on something else, like the fruit-bearing trees. You must remember everything, including honeybees (mugdun),16 everything that concerns mankind here in this world (suku ne ga’t menusiaq etuqe et dunjaq ituqe). All kinds of things in this world, the stones, the trees, you must remember everything. And the land, yes, that’s the first thing that you have to recall. You must pronounce the name of your land when you start performing the ritual. If your land has been stained by incest, don’t proceed any further! It would come to naught. . . . Everything, even these weeds, everything, it’s the hair of the earth, the down of the earth. The stones are the bones, the ribs of the earth. Under the ground you find the flints with which you make fire: that’s what you should remember (rendemen mu), what you should keep in mind (etejen mu). But before all, you must remember your food, rice, and then the trees, the stones, everything, but your wife, your possessions, your house, don’t think about it! Focus your mind on everything else, including the fruits in the trees, the honeybees, the land (bawang), the mountains, the valleys, the sea, the rain, everything, focus your mind on all this.

Medsinu then expanded a bit on what kind of behavior should be avoided while conducting the ceremony: lovemaking, horseplay, and other types of disorderly behavior. This kind of proper conduct has to be observed in order for the ancestors to come and help, to think highly of you, so that they will say, “This one is brave (meiseg), he remembers everything, let’s help him out!” It is particularly important, said Medsinu, to remember the names of all things. All of Medsinu’s statements above are rather extraordinary, pointing towards a kind of spiritual learning more familiar to world religions than to shamanistic cults. Medsinu was advocating a type of practice based on focused and reflective thinking. Such thinking promoted an inner state of consciousness characterized by the following traits. 1. Cleanliness or purity: abstaining from sex and not eating meat are linked also to the avoidance of all things “dirty” (meriddi), obscene, or ridiculous. 2. Receptivity: the empty mind reminiscent of the Buddhist Zen school and conducive to an awareness of the external world in its total diversity. The words used are rendemen and etejen, concepts having a wider semantic compass than simply “thinking” or “feeling”—especially rendemen, which means both “remembering” and “feeling,” particularly in its use in “remembering with longing,” a sort of nostalgia, or Heimweh. The verb etejen comes from atej (liver) and can be translated as “feeling inside one-


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self, in one’s heart.” The word for “deep or intense reflection” (ujek kinen) is slightly unusual, one that not everybody understands. 3. Selflessness: one has to direct one’s thoughts away from self. The idea is to focus on the external world and forget about one’s possessions or desires (for sex, meat, etc.), about things that have a personal meaning, that are related to the self.

The object of one’s reflective thinking is no less interesting. Medsinu’s comments about the blades of grass being the “hair” of the earth and the stones its “bones” point to the notion of an animated, living earth. The main ritual act of the panggaw ceremony, as we will see, is to cut, or pierce, the ground, and therefore wound a living being. Here we get close to what Medsinu probably had in mind, which is to sustain a certain type of relationship with the world (earth), as if it were a living thing, a human being, even. In this sense, the kind of thinking advocated here is a way to show respect and to atone for one’s offensive behavior towards the earth. The description of the earth-cleansing ceremony will make clearer some of the points mentioned above. For now, it is possible to tentatively summarize some of the central dimensions of the beljan’s role and activity in the community. He is essentially defined as a healer whose abilities derive from various sources. One is a simple learning process under the guidance of more experienced healers and experts in medicinal plants; another is a special acquaintance with “Powerful Ones.” The relationship with such spirits or powers occurs during séances, including trances and possessions, and during one or several trips to the forest entailing prolonged quests for the help of the unseen inhabitants of the wild. Finally, there is a central concept relating to the ritual state of the world, based on the idea of cleanliness and purity and also on the notion that vital forces permeating the universe are at work, affecting the well-being of all living creatures, humans included. It is those forces and this ritual state of the universe that the beljan, as the ritual leader in the panggaris ceremony, is meant to maintain and promote.

Divinities Who are the supernatural beings—spirits or gods—believed to exist and influence the lives of humans? The best way to answer this question is to examine prayers and invocations (tegtag). To whom are they addressed? Beljan like Tukaring from Kenipaqan, Tuking, his son Inaring, and others always start a prayer by invoking Empuq, the Supreme Being, with words to the effect that from him comes everything, all creatures big and small, and especially the power to heal. “Everything on this earth would not exist but for Empuq [Bisan lang tanan atut


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dunjaq tuq baq diki Empuq].” (Tukaring, prayer recorded in 1988). “This person would not exist if it weren’t for Empuq [Diki nengjadi itue baq diki Empuq].” (Tuking, recorded in 1988).17 The word empuq means “master, owner” and can be used to refer to a person in this sense. In speech events like prayers “Empuq” may be translated as “Lord” or “God.” He is described as the creator of all things, the Supreme Being in every sense. But next to Empuq, one finds in the same prayers entities called taqaw (taw) kewasa and diwata. Both appear in the same context and are synonymous. Taqaw kewasa is also followed by the words taw et bukid (people or spirits from the mountains, living on mountaintops). The word diwata is of course a term that is widely distributed in insular Southeast Asia, whereas taw kewasa and taw et bukid are vernacular terms that are descriptive and generic, the “Powerful Ones” and “those who stay on the mountain peaks.” In Tuking’s prayer the following words are used: “I ask [the help] of diwata, I ask [the help] of Empuq [Engaten ku et diwata, engaten ku et empuq]” and also “the power of diwata Empuq [guna et diwata empuq],” thus making a closer association between the name of Empuq and the term diwata, which can be used in the sense of “divinity” or “god,” synonymous either with the highest divinity or with lesser divinities like the spirits living on mountains. The identity of the “Powerful Ones” or “Powerful Human Beings” (taw kewasa) is not immediately clear. They are oftentimes said to be “people of the mountains”; sometimes they are spirits or divinities living in the sky (dut langew). Another term, belbalan, is also used. In all cases they are described as “persons” or “human beings” (taw [taqaw]), whereas Empuq is never said to be a taqaw. Another general category of spirits is also defined as “human beings” and lives in the forest (gebaq). They are described as evil or at least dangerous, whereas the taw kewasa are always benevolent and helpful. The spirit world is thus organized according to a simple dichotomy between mountains (in the sense of high mountains or mountain peaks) and forests (in the sense of primary forest, not secondary growth, called banglej ). Between both categories are a number of subspecies or individually named spirits. For instance, there is Selegnen, who is also a character appearing in a chanted epic (tultul ) and who is described as a “Powerful One” and as a hero of old who fought against the traditional enemies, the Ilanen. He, like all the old shamans, wore his hair long, as Tuking and his son Inaring did, a sign of supernatural power. We encounter another idea, that of ketungkulan (great shamans of yore). The word tungkul is indeed used only in this sense in other areas. This is a “super shaman” capable of performing miracles and, when dead, becomes a spirit helping and empowering living shamans. The Kulbi people use the word interchangeably with beljan, but the concept of “miracle worker” is very present and functions as a companion category for “Powerful Ones,” “people of the mountain peaks,” and diwata. Selegnen is defined as a single person (Selegnen bugtungbugtung), but is sometimes also described as a


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group of seven or eight brothers (Selegnen na walu). Other individually named “invisible persons” are Derengagan, a close ally of Selegnen; IluIlu, a very famous character in epic songs and the very name of one of the highest peaks in the central highland area; and others like the “Lady of the Creation” (linamin et mengguguna). Among the “people of the forest” are several subcategories also. The Meliwanen are people of great beauty bent on seducing normal people, causing their deaths. They live in parts of the forest that are “taboo” (lihjen), and if they fall in love with a person they cause him to be stricken by thunder or devoured by crocodiles. Another group of “people of the forest,” called the Mengeringen, inhabit rocky places equally off-limits and are responsible for causing leprosy if someone cuts their plants. But the most common category of beings living in the forest are called simply lenggam or sejtan; they are definitely hostile demons and man-eaters, evil creatures causing people to fall sick or engage in fatal behavior, such as murder, madness, and suicide. The natural environment is thus heavily occupied by a large number of invisible beings. The most sensitive areas are areas of the forest that are off-limits because they are occupied by individuals who are either evil (lenggam) or good (taw et bukid ), but equally apt to become very irate if their fields (uma) or, even worse, their houses, are destroyed by an unsuspecting intruder, in which case the latter is rendered sick when the forest people order their dogs to bite the trespasser. One has to pay a fine or compensation in the form of a white cock, the usual symbolic equivalent of the soul (kurudwa) of the real person. Offerings of a gong and a betel box may also be made. A cultivator who wants to cut a portion of the forest that is the abode of forest people like the Mengeringen must know the magic that will repel (sukang ) them. All of these “people” are defined as “owners” of specific plants, like large ficus trees and vines (nunuk and belugu). The sea is also a domain owned by a master (empuq et dagat), and one must behave properly when one rides a canoe out to sea. If one talks loudly and out of purpose, he will capsize the boat, and the passengers will be swallowed by a huge sea snake. It is, however, possible to prevent this outcome either by using proper words to address the “master of the sea” or by spitting ginger. In sum, there are two general categories of invisible beings, all described as human (taw or taqaw), the evil ones living in the wild but immediate environment, the forest (gebaq), and the good ones living in the wild but remote and elevated environment, the summits of the central range of mountains (bukid or bulud ). On this basic dichotomy many variations are possible, as are different shades in the wickedness versus goodness of various subcategories of spirits. Among the benevolent or at least potentially helpful spirits is a semantic continuum between the concepts of spirits of the mountains, higher divinities or divinities of the sky,


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dead super shamans, epic heroes, and spirit familiars. All the above-mentioned divinities or spirits are “human” (taqaw). In this respect they are all different from animal-like, monstrous creatures also living in the forest and dangerous to man. The natural world that surrounds the Palawan people is therefore both dangerous and protective. Because the creatures that live in and “own” the world are “human” in the sense of being sociable and approachable, they can always be tamed and placated through gifts and words. The representation of a humanized, natural world, extending to the sea, the forest, and the mountains, stands in contradistinction to the vision of nonhuman natural forces that are at play in the panggaris ceremony.

Life-cycle Rituals There are only three ritually marked moments in the life cycle of a Palawan individual: birth, marriage, and death. The marriage ceremony, already described, is not primarily a religious ceremony, but gifts and offerings to dead relatives, as well as prayers, add a spiritual dimension to the social contract. Birth and death are mirror images of each other. At birth, the body is alive, but its vital principle, or “soul,” is not yet firmly attached to the body. Immediately after death, the body is lifeless, but the soul is still present and very active. Therefore, the ritual concern is to attach the soul at birth and detach it after death. A newborn is already in possession of a soul (kurudwa), but this soul is not yet firmly secured to the body, particularly to the top of the head (erimpuru) where the fontanels (bubun) are located, and the soul must be protected or retrieved if it falls from the head. The beljan protects the kurudwa by putting it back on the top of the infant’s head, should it “fall” (likwang). The infant has one or even several kurudwa but only one nakem, which can be translated as “intelligence” or “mind.” The nakem will grow and develop in later years. The ritual acts performed at birth are mainly defenses against the aggression of evil spirits or ghouls (timbalun), who are attracted by the blood spilled during delivery. The blood that falls on the ground under the house during the delivery is fenced in by a ritual barrier of uwag18 and covered by leaves of delapas (Coyx lachrimajobi ). The umbilical cord (pused ) is wrapped in a piece of cloth and kept in a secret spot inside the house. The placenta (bulung) is also wrapped in a piece of cloth but suspended from a tree in the bush (talun). The infant’s name is given at birth or sometime later. Death is surrounded by somewhat more elaborate ritual precautions than at birth, yet they remain very simple. The body is interred as soon as possible—the same day, sometimes a couple of hours after death, or the next morning if death occurs in the evening. The body is then laid to rest inside the house, on the floor. The corpse is itself dangerous and must be closely watched lest an evil


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spirit (lenggam) enters the body. Relatives of the dead are informed, and they gather in the house, keeping vigil during the night. Just after death and until the final separation marked by the keluwatan ritual (see below), a certain number of actions must be avoided (pelihi ). Children must not go out of the house after dark, lest the dead person’s soul see them and make them sick. It is best to avoid working, since if one is wounded, the blood will not coagulate. It is advisable also not to take out the rice seeds and plant them, lest the crop not prosper. One should avoid working in the field especially on the third day after death, when the eyes of the corpse are bursting (lepek), because all crops will burst open and decay. Sometimes the house in which the death has occurred is abandoned and destroyed. The corpse is wrapped in a bamboo lattice—there is no coffin—and carried on a stretcher to a place located either in the house yard (legwas) or in the secondary growth (banglej )—never in the forest (gebaq). The location of the grave is often chosen beforehand by the departed, who, for instance, may have said he /she wanted to be buried next to a sibling, child, or spouse. The grave is never very far from the houses. It is a rectangular hole in the ground about a yard or so deep—literally “above the knee” (pemetued )—and a light bamboo flooring (datag ) is laid at the bottom. The body is placed on this surface, supine, the head towards the rising sun,19 and another layer of bamboo is placed atop the body so as to protect it from direct contact with the dirt. The grave is then filled with earth20 and covered with a roof—actually an imitation of a real roof, complete with a beam, rafters, and grass covering. This is supposed to be the “house” (bena) of the dead person. A fence called sasak 21 is erected around the grave, and care is taken not to use the wood of a tree having flowers from which bees are feeding.22 Various items belonging to the dead person, especially his /her bush knife, pot, some clothes, baskets, mat, and so on, are placed atop the grave. Just before burial, one opens the eyes of the dead a final time and says to him /her, “This is the last time you see the sky, you will be covered with earth.” After the burial is completed and when the relatives are back at the entrance of the house, they address the dead person again and say, “Do not come back here, stay where you are with the other dead people, you have now become a Powerful One (taw kewasa).” Four nights after the death has occurred, the ritual called keluwatan is performed; it is meant to separate the dead from his /her spouse and the rest of the living. Until then the kurudwa hovers near the body; it is a ghost (bangun) and remains a threat to the living. A beljan will most likely perform this ceremony. A ritual meal is prepared and the beljan announces, “This is the last time that you [the dead person and his /her spouse] will eat from the same plate.” The separation thus pronounced enables the widow or widower to forego the numerous prohibitions he /she would have to follow otherwise, such as not going far from


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the house, not combing one’s hair, not using perfume, not singing songs, not eating new rice, and so on. The keluwatan—sometimes called also kelimaqan, when it is performed on the fifth day after death—marks the point at which the body is at an advanced stage of decay, and it is the last time that any ritual interaction is performed with the dead. The keluwatan essentially consists of a meal, the last one to be partaken by the departed and his /her relatives. It is important to bring the departed this last meal, including the food he /she likes—cooked rice, pig’s meat, a bottle of soda, and the like—lest one provoke his /her anger (sungal ), which is specifically the anger of the dead leading him /her to curse (ubasi ) the living or utter words (buagbuag ) that make them sick. Sometimes a coconut tree is planted next to the grave, but this is the only marker that will remain visible for years to come. No visit will be paid to the grave after the keluwatan, and in one year’s time, according to informants, it will disappear completely—especially the “house” and the fence around it. People thus do not keep track of where their relatives, especially at the grandparents’ generation and above, are buried. Once the final separation has been accomplished, the kurudwa of the dead person is supposed to go somewhere, but where? Informants usually give the following answer: “Who knows? Probably to Empuq [Ambe mesewadan, dun et Empuq]” or “We don’t know for sure. Where does the soul of the dead go? Above, below? We don’t know, to Empuq [Kara mekesewadan, baq ambe kurudwa et patej. Digbat buq sirib? Kara mesewdan kurudwa, dut Empuq]?” Some say that the souls of the departed go to the house of Empuq but have to wait for 44 days at the entrance of the house yard (besulan) before being admitted inside. Others mention a place called kulibegang or kelebegang, which is the dwelling place of the departed and is located towards the setting sun. People who have committed many sins go to narka, a hell where they burn in a huge fire. In the kelebegang, dead people are grouped according to how they died: those who died from accidents go to one place, those from epidemics another place, from murder another, from poisoning another, from suicide yet another. The land of the dead is seen as a valley or river basin, and all these places or groups are located on either side of the river. There is plenty of food, and the dead continue to lead a normal kind of life. One characteristic of the land of the dead that is almost always mentioned is that everything is upside down or inverted. River water is red and flows from downstream to upstream, pots are filled from the bottom, baskets are carried upside down, and so on. In everyday life people are wary of any contact with the souls of the dead or their ghosts (bangun), who sometimes call them, causing the living to suffer from headaches. To see a dead relative in a dream (teginep) and be offered food by him /her is very dangerous. One will die if one accepts the food in the dream. What is seen in the dream is the “image” or “appearance” (ledjawan) of the dead person. It is his /her kurudwa. Tuking used to tell me how in various dreams he


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saw people he had known, like his co-parent-in-law (beqis), the late Insik, who in the dream was fixing his house in preparation for a banquet. “Whom for?” asked Tuking. “For your grandson Galin and yourself,” was the answer. Indeed, Galin died sometime after that. Then Insik offered a fruit to Tuking, who refused to take it. Another time Tuking dreamt of Pedjat, a famed beljan, the father of Nambun, a great healer himself. Upon awakening there was a white chicken under Tuking’s house, probably a sign that the soul of Pedjat had indeed come for a visit. Another dead person, Nunsja, appeared in a dream offering Tuking a large amount of food, which he again refused to eat. But finally Tuking dreamt of his own late wife. She had roasted a white dog and handed him a morsel, which he took and ate. Upon awakening he felt better. In this case the food was a medicine, whereas in the other dreams the food was a deadly poison. In spite of the few images that provide structure to the representation of death, such as the keluwatan ritual and the belief in the kelebegang, the attitude towards death in general is one of total avoidance. People do not want to hear about death and soon forget about the dead. The graves leave no sign of their presence, the names of the departed are forgotten, and any contact with the wandering souls is best avoided. The concept of the “ancient ones” (kegurangunrangan) is somewhat misleading if one expects a structured representation of ancestry and a fully developed cult of the dead. There are only two ways that the dead are remembered, either as individuals having died recently, or as an undetermined set of all forebears. One should also note that suicides elicit no special funerary treatment and pose no special threat to the living. All souls of the dead are threatening, but it is not the case that suicides or victims of murder are especially so.

The Panggaris Ceremony The main ceremony and religious feast of the Palawan is a ritual called panggaw (meaning “a platform”), or more specifically panggaris or penggaris (meaning “cutting” or “slicing”).23 Once a year, it brings together people from all corners of the territory; its general aim is to “cleanse (besaqan) the earth” and bring a general state of welfare to the entire area and its inhabitants. This ritual takes place at most once a year in this area, and only a few specialists can perform it. Each specialist will hold the ceremony at his place of residence only once every two to four years. It is held after harvesting and before clearing the new fields, approximately during the months of October through November. It should coincide with the flowering of the tewlej tree (Ulmaceae) and with the season when certain other trees, such as the durian tree or the melaga tree (Wendlandia densiflora) or the bunsikag (Anacardiaceae?) tree bear fruit—no later and no sooner. Of particular importance is the flowering of the


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tewlej tree because its flowers provide the nectar that the mugdun bees will transform into honey. Informants have repeatedly stated that the timing should be respected, when bees are about to form hives and attach themselves (mekepel ) under the limbs of forest trees. One of the explicit aims of the panggaris ritual is to ensure a large production of wild honey. The main part of the ceremony consists of a specific performance by the beljan that lasts only a moment at sunrise, but it is preceded by a long period of continuous gong playing (basal )24 and ritual dancing (tarek). A large house is selected for the ceremony, usually the house inhabited by one of the few main performers and ritual specialists in the area. Since the ceremony takes place only once a year in the entire Kulbi-Kenipaqan area, the location varies from year to year, and there is a loose agreement that it should alternate between Kulbi and Kenipaqan. In the 1980s there were two prominent ritual leaders in the area, Tukaring of Kenipaqan and Tuking of Kulbi, and they would perform the penggaris in turn. Some years the penggaris ritual is not performed at all. The building where the people gather and where the gong and drum playing will take place is partly renovated—enlarged if necessary—and decorated, and, most important, a platform (pantaw or panggaw) is erected in front of the house, facing east. This platform and the rooftop are decorated with bundles of leaves from certain fruit-bearing trees. Wooden carvings of human figures (tawtaw)—a man bearing a fighting knife and a woman—are placed on the platform and attached to the crossbeam. Such human representation is unique in that I have never seen in the whole of Palawan another carving in the form of a human being. This is meant to protect or help protect the world (ipedjaga et lungsud ) and to attract the attention of the deities (diwata), who will lower their gazes and look down (digwangan) on the earth.25 Carvings of beehives will also be attached to the platform. A beljan 26 conducts the ritual, but many other people, both male and female, perform ritual dances with or without trance. During the phase of “piercing or opening the earth”—the panggaris, properly speaking—a young girl is asked to dance on the spot where the “opening of the earth” has occurred. As already mentioned, the performance of the penggaris ceremony is preceded by a long period of gong playing, with occasional dancing. The gongs and drum should in theory be heard for a period of 8 days (or 16 days) continuously. Everywhere among lowland Palawan people, gong beating is synonymous with the ritual calling of the deities (diwata) or “Powerful Ones” (kewasa). On the eighth night a long session of dancing with ritual chanting (deruhan) is held, performed by the main ritual specialist as well as other members of the community, in turn. The deruhan is not a specific part of this ceremony. It occurs at various times during the year and consists of dancing and chanting. During the panggaris


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ceremony, as in other circumstances, the deruhan and the dancing are performed on the floor of the meeting house, and the spirits or divinities are said to come close and even enter the performer, who experiences a trance-like state. During this period of gong playing and dancing, but especially on the eve of the panggaris, the one who conducts the ceremony will dance on the platform and on the main floor of the house, going back and forth between the outside platform and the inner part of the house. He holds bundles of silad leaves (Licuala spinosa Wurmb.) in his hands and is clad in a sarong or skirt, his head covered by a scarf or headdress. At various times he will invoke the divinities Empuq (the Supreme Being) and the “Powerful Ones,” as well as the ancestors (keguranggurangan), and he will chant the deruhan while facing east. The sequence of actions—invoking the spirits, dancing, chanting—follows a usual pattern found elsewhere in the island. At sunrise on the ninth day, the beljan will start dancing on the floor of the house and on the platform to the accompaniment of the gongs and drum. After a short while he steps down from the house and starts dancing on the ground, at the foot of the platform. Shortly thereafter an entirely new action takes place. The performer now holds a spear and jumps back and forth and sideways, mimicking an attack or a fight. He is surrounded by a crowd of male onlookers. Some put their hands over their heads, in a gesture of atonement and beseeching. They all shout and utter wild cries while the performer goes through these jumping motions and while brandishing his weapon. After a while, the beljan grabs a sword and proceeds to slice the ground eight times or more with the blade, all this amid a general atmosphere of apparent confusion and even panic. This is the opening, the “wounding” (gerisan) of the earth. Finally, he drives the point of the sword into the ground, piercing it and making a hole. Immediately thereafter he pours some oil (lana) in this hole and sticks a small branch of rukuruku (Ocimum sanctum) in it. At this point no women or children can be seen near the place where the action is occurring, but now a young girl is summoned and is made to dance on the spot where the ground has been opened. She performs the dance (tarek) for a short while, gyrating and moving to the beat of the gongs and drum that have played constantly and with an accelerated rhythm during the piercing of the earth. There is a sequence of dancing by the beljan and then again by another girl on the same spot marked by a branch of rukuruku. Next, rice grains are thrown on the ground and the beljan bends down and puts some soil on his head. Another man performs the tarek one more time, just before the sequence ends with an acceleration of the drum and gongs’ tempo and more shouts from the crowd.33 Then everybody promptly goes back inside the house. The ceremony has not ended, though. First, prayers are recited on the platform by the beljan while he points the sword toward the east. After that, he


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goes back into the house and proceeds to distribute his “blessings” by touching women and children on the head with the sword, which is inside the scabbard. At this point a new ritual sequence is about to begin. A young woman is asked to come forth and stand on the platform, where she is made to face the rising sun. Her long hair is undone. Another woman stands behind the first one and starts combing her hair while the beljan, who is standing behind, acts as if he is receiving and then holding something invisible from the girl’s hair. The invisible object is thus passed along a line of people until it reaches the last person inside the house, where it is finally dropped on the floor. This whole performance is made to look like the transmission, from hand to hand, of an object—or a substance, rather—oozing from the girl’s hair through a chain of people to the last one in line. While this strange action takes place, shouts are heard and the noise is a reminder of the former sequence of “piercing” the earth, when everybody was shouting. To end this particular sequence a man performs a ritual dance around the two women while holding bundles of silad leaves above their heads. A ritual offering of rice follows. This is accomplished by the beljan and several other people, on the platform, around a large winnowing tray where unhusked rice (begas) has been poured in a heap. This ritual offering of the community’s newly harvested rice (everyone brings his share) to the deities and ancestors actually started just before the “combing” sequence, but it is now completed by the utterance of invocations and prayers and the formal presentation of the harvest to the spirits. The ceremony is now nearing its end. One man rubs the carvings of beehives with rukuruku leaves. Everybody then helps him /herself to some of the heap of rice on the platform and goes back in the house, holding his /her share of the offering. A meal is served later and the whole ceremony is then over. Guests who have come from distant villages will begin the trek home. To briefly summarize the proceedings: 1) The first main sequence is the “cutting and piercing of the earth,” followed by the pouring of oil and the dancing of the young girl. 2) The second main sequence is the “pointing of the sword” on the platform, followed by the “blessing with the sword” of women and children. 3) The third sequence is the “combing of the girl’s hair” and the bringing of its substance inside the house. 4) The fourth and final sequence is the offering of the newly harvested rice and the prayers to the spirits. Several informants explained to me that the main point of the ritual process in this case is to “cleanse” (besaqan) the earth, and the whole world, of all things dirty (meriddi) lest a monster (galap or tandajag) swallow the whole country or make it disappear in a hole or a lake, where it would sink, with all its denizens. Among the things that are considered impure or dirty, incestuous behavior (marriage or sexual relations with a sibling or parent or first cousin) ranks highest. It is the “smell” (abu) of incest that will attract the dragon from the bottom of the sea


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and cause it to annihilate the place and its inhabitants. The beljan is responsible for what is happening and should be able to fight the monster and drive it away or be put to death himself! It is at the very moment when the ground is being cut and pierced that the monster could spring out and waters spurt and flood the entire area. It is also at this very moment that incestuous people hidden in the crowd could be detected and then be put to death, hence the weapons that are meant both as a protection against the attack of the monster and as a threat against the guilty persons. This is also why the sequence of the piercing of the earth is filled with so much threatening noise, such clamor and cries uttered by adult males, such menacing gestures and brandishing of weapons. What is happening is the preparation for battle—if it is not already a battle—and the anxious awaiting of imminent death for the incestuous people, the beljan himself, and everyone concerned. I should also point out also that the earth appears essentially as something human that has been wounded and slashed by man. The oil that is poured is both an ointment and a cleansing device. In some cases, the oil is poured not directly on the ground, but first on the hair of the young girl who performed the ritual dance. The oil is then made to drip down from her hair upon the ground. It is my interpretation that the puzzling “combing sequence” described earlier is nothing more than a variation on this theme. The oil poured on the girl’s hair is a ritual cleansing substance that is brought back and symbolically applied to the human community. It is meant as the healing of a wound, the mending of symbolic violence. The importance of the themes that emerge in relation to incest, battling, and death should not obscure the fact that many symbolic elements point towards themes of fertility and the life-giving process, mainly those connected with the flowering of wild trees and the production of honey. These themes indicate a very strong relationship with the annual cycle of reproduction, with the wild, undomesticated aspect of the natural reproductive process. It is also true that this ritual includes other elements as well, such as the offering of the newly harvested rice. One could then consider this ceremony a device to enhance all productive forces that are at work in the forest and in the field, in the undomesticated as well as in the cultivated part of the environment. The all-encompassing aim of the ritual process is therefore well established. The cutting of the earth is connected elsewhere with the letting off of “heat” and the cooling of the soil, as in the healing of sickness. Other informants still stress that the panggaw (or panggaris) ceremony helps keep the universe in an orderly and balanced state, makes the earth cool and fertile, prevents sickness, and ensures plentiful harvests. In this vein the panggaw ceremony belongs to the general category of ulit rituals, the aim of which is a general state of welfare, abundance, and sustenance of life.


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Among the traits that help establish the identity of a ritual event, the prescriptions and prohibitions about behavior, particularly food consumption, are among the most significant. In the panggaw ritual, it is always stated that no pig or wild boar meat should be eaten. Sea turtle meat is also prohibited. These kinds of meat are supposed to be a “repellent against the Powerful Ones” (sukang et taw kewasa). A number of other activities, particularly sexual relations, are prohibited for the same reason. The idea of impure or dirty (meriddiq) things is strongly emphasized and applies to menstruating women and menstrual blood, and generally to all other kinds of blood. This is why the young girl performing the dance after the cutting or piercing of the ground should be premenstrual. Other activities, such as buying and selling things or changing one’s shirt or making jokes may be prohibited for reasons not connected with the idea of impurity. Changing one’s shirt, for example, is believed to cause bees to fly away and fruit to fall to the ground. Alcohol consumption is forbidden. This particular prohibition is extremely significant in a comparative perspective. All rituals of the ulit type in other areas in Palawan are connected with the making and consumption of rice wine or honey wine. The fact that no alcohol is permitted during the panggaw ceremony sets this ritual phenomenon apart from all other rituals of a similar kind on the rest of the island. According to informants, among the items mentioned on the list of prohibitions is the kind of wood used in making the ritual structure. The informants explicitly stated that this wood should not be the same as that used to build fences around graves. Prayers and offerings during the ceremony are addressed to the whole pantheon, from Empuq to the lesser divinities. These acts also address the ancestors. No divinity or spirit is singled out to be specifically honored. One is reminded instead of a general call to arms against the forces of evil in a battle that pits the positive forces of life and reproduction against the destructive powers lurking both in the human community and inside the earth. Rather than speak of individual spiritual figures, one might instead think in terms of natural forces. Indeed, the main supernatural being around which the ceremony is centered is not a human-like spiritual being, but rather a monster living under the earth and threatening the human community with cataclysmic violence. The objective of the ritual is precisely to clean the land of its impurities. Medsinu and others explain that incest is cured by the spilling of blood. What is spilled, then, when the ground is pierced is the blood of the earth, so to speak. When performing the panggaw ritual, one pierces the earth, or the land made impure by the crime of incest. The earth is actually a living body, a human person, even. Therefore one is wounding a person, spilling his blood.27 It is a cleansing act, but it is also an aggressive gesture, and one should atone for it. By performing it with purity of mind, with selflessness, which is an atonement of


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sorts, one deflects the ultimate wrath of the destructive powers looming beneath the surface (the monster galap or tandajag). There is certainly more to say about this unusual ceremony, a ritual showing some similarity with other ulit type rituals in Palawan, but it is the only one that stages such a battle with natural and supernatural destructive forces and the only one that so highlights the reproductive cycle of the wild plants and animals, focusing on the production of honey. A Levi-Straussian-inspired analysis would certainly take into account substances like blood, oil, and honey and develop an interpretive scheme based on this semantic triangle. It would also include an opposition between destructive forces located under the earth (the dragon, things that are interred, like the body in the grave) and life-giving forces above the ground (the bees that fly), between the direction of the rising sun whence the positive forces issue forth and the direction of the setting sun, where the dead reside. I have also explained elsewhere (Macdonald 1997) the special role played by sexuality in this ritual context. These and other dimensions can and should be called in to draw a completely satisfying interpretation of this complex ritual event. It is enough for the time being to let the matter rest with the explicit meaning given to it by informants: a general healing of the world and a fostering of the wild, reproductive forces of nature. The earth is a living body in need of cleansing and cooling lest it be destroyed by corruption and death.

Agrarian Rituals Whereas the rituals just described are the affair of experts, the small rituals and ceremonies marking the life cycle of the rice are performed by every agriculturist, not religious specialists. The following account is based on a written document prepared by one informant, Taya Ransawi from Tegbituk. In this text he recorded, in the native language,28 the ancient tradition of the Kulbi people as he learned them from his father Pitu and others. It is more than likely that his statements could be at odds with the practices of other people in the area. Let us remember that there is no unified canon of religious law and that beliefs and practices vary widely. What is so interesting in Taya’s account is the step-by-step recording of the ritual events marking each stage of the annual agricultural cycle. It gives us information concerning the whole cycle, showing it to possess a conceptual structure of its own. The first stage in the cycle is the selection of a place to make the swidden (uma). Divination is practiced following the kumbang procedure, which is also used before building a house or a granary. Eight pieces of the limuken vine, each tied in a ring, are placed in the ground where the field will be located, and the hole is filled and covered with compacted earth. While this is done a spell (nengnang) is pronounced: “I am filling this hole with earth; if someone will


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get sick or die, attach these rings together (ipegsulungaq), if not, let them loose (ipegtebasaq).” Another divination procedure is called luslusan. It enables the owner of the field to know if the crop will be successful. A length of one span of the buldung plant (Amarantha donax cannaeformis) is cut and each end is planted in the field eight times. Then one rubs the stem while blowing on it. The length is measured again, and if the stem does not exceed its former measurement of one span (depaq) the crop will fail, whereas if it exceeds one depaq by one or two “fingers” (tulduq) the crop will be plentiful and the granary that will be filled with rice will be as wide as the number of fingers added. Once the field has been selected, the next stage is the felling of the trees. This used to be a difficult and dangerous process. A pilanghat 29 tree must be selected and a spell uttered: “I am about to cut this pilanghat tree. May all sicknesses affecting the rice be repelled, may all weeds die out, and may that be!” Once the ground has been sufficiently cleared and before cutting the large trees, one tree must be selected and felled before the others, but one should make sure that this particular tree falls directly to the ground, unimpeded and without becoming entangled in surrounding trees. A short prayer is pronounced in order to obtain this result with all other trees in the field. Before setting fire to the dry vegetation on the now cleared field, one must draw the image of a monitor lizard (pileqpileq) on a winnowing tray and attach the tray to one’s door. A prayer is then addressed to the master of the east wind (utaraq): “Look here Bulalakaw [the name of this divinity], look at this lizard here above my door. Come down because I am going to burn my field today. Take away all the dry vegetation!” Once the fire has been lit at noon—when the heat is most intense—with a torch of rice stems, the owner of the field says, “Rrrukaj, don’t be lazy, go ahead, your master [the one saying the prayer and holding the torch] is lazy, but you, don’t spare your efforts, go ahead!” As the fire spreads one shouts, “Get it! Get it!” and also “Eat! Live! Eat! Live!” the last words meaning that as the fire devours the dry vegetation, it will help bring the new crop to life. The connection between the monitor lizard and the fire has not been explained, and the name of the northeasterly tradewinds master, Bulalakaw, is not often mentioned. The next and ritually most important stage is the building of a structure (pinedungan) in the middle of the field just before planting rice. The pinedungan is literally the “seat” of the rice spirit. Its construction is a ritual performed among all subsections of the Palawan ethnic group (Macdonald 1987a). A small stand, looking more or less like a little table, is built in the center of the field and a ritual is conducted there. One uses first a stem of the wild banana tree (agutej ) and a leaf of the pandanus palm (ulangu) because they are “cold” plants; a prayer is said asking for the root of the rice to be as cool as these plants. Then, right under the pinedungan one buries two kinds of magic plants or pieces of wood that act


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as repellents (panulak) against the dangerous effects of incest on the one hand and against the words of other people on the other hand. These magic plants are kept secret. A prayer is then addressed to the Master of the Rice (Empu’t parej) and the Master of the Land (Empu’t lugta).30 The prayer is also meant for the ancestors (kagurangurangan). Seeds are planted all around the pinedungan, and the owner of the field must go to the border of the field in the direction of the setting sun. There he puts rice seeds in eight holes. It is an offering to the dead (ipemgej et patej et taw), also called lihej. The location of the patch where the rice is thus planted must be surrounded by a fence so as not to be harvested with the rest of the crop. It is reserved for the ancestors. They, the forebears (tubuq), would be angry if they were not offered their share of the rice and would cause the crop to be destroyed by pests, such as birds and rats. When harvest time arrives one should put a head louse31 in beeswax (limbutan) and place it at the bottom of a basket, wrapped in a piece of cloth. Then one goes to the field and finds four male and four female rice heads, which will be put in the same piece of cloth, which will eventually be placed in the rice granary, attached to the roof beam. Meanwhile, one must tie in bundles the eight rice clumps that have been ritually planted around the pinedungan. A dibbling stick, used for planting, is fastened in the center of the pinedungan and the ritual rice stalks are fastened to it. Only then can the harvest really start. As long as the rice is being harvested, there are a number of prohibitions to be followed. For instance, while in the field and harvesting one must avoid talking to another person; if talking must take place, the owner of the field must be the first to speak. Some words have to be avoided: for example, for the sea (dagat) one says “the clear one” (metlang ), for the water (danum) one says “the cold one” (meramig ). It is forbidden to name the wind; doing so will cause it to blow fiercely. It is also important not to put a bush knife too close to the baskets filled with the new rice; doing so will frighten the Master of the Rice. As he (or she?) watches over the newly harvested rice, he causes the grains to grow and fill the baskets. When the newly harvested rice is brought to the rice granary, one should be careful, before storing it, to introduce the new rice to the rice of the previous year. One thus formally presents the new grains and, while depositing them carefully in the rice granary, says, “What a good thing, you meet now!” And then one announces that the four male and four female rice panicles will be fastened to the roof beam in the granary. While doing this one says, “You will go up to there, for sure!” so that the new harvest will fill the rice granary to the brim. It is important also to insert some rice heads between the leaves of the roof so as to permit the newly harvested rice to look outside and watch the rice of the following year. While the harvest is still in progress one should not peep inside the granary or hit the stilts lest one suffer from an eye sickness called uringet and a sickness in the limbs called abat. It is also forbidden at this time to sell the new rice. While threshing


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the rice it is also mandatory that the one who is threshing not be spoken to unless he speaks first when addressing a visitor. At this point one performs the pengamas ritual: some earth is put under a large winnowing tray and this prayer is uttered—“I put this earth under the tray, may the rice do the same and be as plentiful as the earth itself.” One should remember that the panggaris ceremony functions also as a harvest festival and that a ritual offering of the newly harvested rice to the deities and ancestors is staged at some point during the ceremony. From the preceding descriptions it becomes clear that rice is endowed with a soul and is an animated being whose life cycle dominates the life of the community. As new techniques of irrigated rice production are now spreading, with several harvests a year, the entire time structure on which the ritual life of the community was based collapses. Seasonal production of dry rice in the swidden was part of a forest environment and entailed dramatic operations, such as the felling of large trees and the use of fire. The old seasonal and ritual cycle is now becoming more and more a thing of the past, and the ancient ritual calendar is becoming obsolete. Since so much in the ritual and religious life of the community depended on the yearly natural and agricultural cycle, one can foretell its demise in the near future. Moreover, natural resources, particularly wild honeybees and the flowering of certain species of trees, are also disappearing with dwindling forest coverage and climatic changes. This also will affect the panggaris ceremony, which is so completely connected to the forest environment. It is indeed the connection between the natural yearly cycle of the forest and the cultural yearly cycle of the field that makes this ceremony unique, and new conditions prevailing today undermine the entire ritual framework.

The World of Myths and Epics A large sample of Palawan oral literature has already been published. Revel has devoted the major part of her studies to epics and has published two complete texts, those of Kudaman and Mamiminbin (Revel-Macdonald 1983; Revel and Intaray 2000), with their translation and an analysis of their content. I have also published a collection of Palawan myths with their translation and their analysis (Macdonald 1988a). The people in the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area belong to the same oral tradition as that represented in the above-mentioned volumes, and they, too, chant epics and tell stories of the ancient times. I shall examine briefly both types clearly distinguished by their names, tuturan, which I gloss as “myth,”32 and tultul, glossed as “epic,” and by their style, simply narrated in the first case and chanted in the second. The relationship between oral literature and religious beliefs is characterized by a paradoxical truth. Epics have, in Palawan, a profound connection with the


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spiritual world, whereas there is absolutely nothing sacred about myths, and their relationship to religion is quite problematic. Myths, or legends (tuturan), are tales and stories that have been handed down from ancestors, and the word literally means “story” or “information,” even. The epic (tultul ), on the other hand, is closely related to the ulit, which in Palawan means “ritual chanting.”33 The style and tune of the ulit often resembles that used in the epic. The deruhan, moreover, is exactly like epic chanting since it is a vocal and melodic performance that varies according to the spirit, or gimbaran, possessing the shaman or medium. Epic singing and possession trance are thus functionally very similar; this has been confirmed numerous times by informants who have said that the knowledge of epic texts and tunes is given by spirits. Finally and perhaps most important, epic heroes, characters that play a prominent role in theses stories, bear often, if not always, the name of minor deities (diwata) and, as the Kulbi people say, “Powerful Ones” (kewasa). In contradistinction, an important mythical hero like Tambug, who shaped the world, is not considered essentially divine and is certainly not an object of worship. In form and content the epic (tultul) can be considered a spiritual if not religious event. A singer who is visited by the characters of his story, like a medium by his familiars, is telling the tale of divine or quasi-divine beings, whereas the narrator of a myth is simply telling, in plain, everyday language, a story concerning past episodes of the world, and in a way explaining why things are the way they are. But this information is no more sacred or religious than a picture of the solar system in a classroom. It is probably the form rather than the content that matters. Throughout southern Palawan, ritual ulit (or deruhan) singing is essentially an aesthetic phenomenon and a show meant for the public. It borrows its style from a limited repertory of musical forms. Nothing, however, is very clear-cut. There are borderline cases, and some tuturan are in content like tultul stories and display themes and motifs that are popular in epics, like the fighting against the traditional enemies, the Ilanen and the Bangingi, and the quest for a wife. Some myths do contain a certain amount of religious truth, and later I shall give a couple examples of this. As for epics, I shall give a brief synopsis of the first part of a tultul chanted by Taya Ransawi. The name of the epic is “[The Lord of ] the Forest of Agathis Trees” (Kebektikan), which is the name of the main epic hero (taw tutultulen). His fiancée is the Lady of the Waves of the Sea (Linamin et Kegumbangan). Kebektikan undertakes a trip to the town of Pelijawan, the city on the other side of the world, where he intends to meet the Grandfather of the Ogres, Upuq et Geregasi. Along the way he has to repel an attack by the Ilanen pirates. He stops at the forbidden city of Liljungan and meets the Lady of Liljungan, whom he takes home with him in order to compare her beauty to that of his fiancée. But the latter is angry and hides “at the navel of the sea” and starts a terrible tempest.


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Kebektikan understands that this was caused by the wrath of his fiancée. The Lady of Liljungan volunteers to go and bring back the Lady of the Waves of the Sea, who, upon her return form the 18th submarine level, declares herself jealous of the Lady of Liljungan and refuses to marry Kebektikan. But he proposes a contest. She who is able to find his twin sister in the sky will become his wife. The Lady of the Waves of the Sea succeeds but still refuses to become Kebektikan’s wife. Two new characters show up: Belju and Djaributan. Belju and the Lady of the Waves of the Sea fall in love. This angers Kebektikan, who grabs Belju by the shoulders and tears him apart like a betel leaf. Belju recovers, however, and Kebektikan is unable to kill him. A new character arrives, a lady called Selimbangan. She wants to marry Kebektikan. In the meantime, Belju declares himself a friend to Kebektikan and renounces the Lady of the Waves of the Sea. Belju and Kebektikan become blood brothers. Kebektiakan then undertakes his long journey on the seas. The plot is a very classical one. The fiancée is actually, as shown in other similar tales, the sister of the hero, and his undertakings consist essentially of finding someone who is as pretty as she is and eventually marrying her. The war against the piratical Ilanen and the fights between two warriors in the grandest tradition of chivalry, ending in a blood compact, are usual themes that the Palawan public never tires of hearing. There are actually many more characters, and Taya Ransawi was able to mention at least 41 of them. This cast of characters is relevant to a discussion of local religious beliefs since some of them, at least, are quoted elsewhere as the spirits or genii (taw kewasa) whom ordinary people cannot see but who inhabit the earth and with whom the shaman may interact. Among them are diwatas (people of the heights) like Selegnen, Limbuhanen, and Ilu Ilu, who are the forces of good, and others like Uwagnen, women who go about naked and have vaginas equipped with teeth (the classical vagina dentata), or the Sultan of the Ogres (Surutan et Geregasi), both of whom are the forces of evil. They are all characterized by distinctive traits. Thus Mynah Bird (Tjew) is a child, evil, and feeds on wild bananas; Puljeg has huge testicles and a big penis; Swift (Serang) is a lady of great beauty, owner of the swifts; Changeling (Salimbangan) is a woman warrior capable of becoming a man; Galung is an old woman, and so on. Some characters are foreigners, such as Penimusan, an Ilanen, or Mangindanawen, obviously a member of the Magindanaon ethnic group from Mindanao. The characters also go by groups, being either companions or relatives, like brother and sister, husband and wife. Finally, each character is supposed to have his /her own “voice,” and the epic singer must interpret each character with a different tune and style. All of this is strongly reminiscent of, if not completely similar to, the cast of the diwatas in the sinsin ritual cycle, which I have described elsewhere (Macdonald 1990). Limbuhanen is also a divine figure in the mythology of the central


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highland area (Macdonald 1974a, 1988a). In a comparative perspective, then, all these “people” “invisible human beings on this earth” (taw na diki megkebiri atu’t dunja) are part of a spiritual world that is sometimes expressed in epics, sometimes in myths, and sometimes in beliefs concerning the universe and its “spirits” or “genii.” Their identification with one category only, say “epic hero” or “spirit of the heights,” is not fixed, and the Kulbi people, as all the others, do not erect a barrier between the narrative world and the religious world, between heroes and gods. Their spiritual world is characterized by a proliferation of human-like characters who are approached in shamanistic rituals or celebrated in poetry. This is one of the reasons it is so difficult to qualify the spiritual world of the Palawan as a “religion” or as containing a completely separate section of purely “religious beliefs” as opposed to literature, poetry, and the realm of the just imagined. Several myths (tuturan) that were narrated to me by old Djuari in 1976 provide a nice transition between the world of epics and the world of mythology. In the myth of Lugmaj, pirates—in this case Bangingi people—capture the hero, who is still a child, and kill his father. The sister of Lugmaj is taken as a wife by the chief of the pirates. A Samal, companion of Lugmaj’s late father, brings him back to Palawan. As he returns home, he finds a big house inhabited by people who give him a magical stone. He finds his mother and resolves to avenge his father. He then challenges the chief of the pirates, now his sister’s husband. Since the pirate is made invulnerable by a magical shirt, the only way is to kill him is by thrusting a sword in his anus. After he has thus killed the pirate, Lugmaj proceeds to organize a protection of the island against all piratical raids. He builds a house, but a tremor tells him that something is going on under the earth. There is a lake or a swamp nearby and he dives at the bottom of this hole and creates a new river. He catches also a giant turtle [labi; softshell turtle] and a giant eel. Once old, he loses some of his powers and the evil beings [sajtan34 and lenggam] attack him. One of them is able to wound him in the heart with his sword but, before dying, Lugmaj pulls the sword out and kills the devil.

Several motifs are clearly recognizable and appear frequently elsewhere. The fight against the pirates—enemies from outside—is nicely balanced by the fight against the sajtan (or lenggam)—enemies from inside, so to speak. As with the hero Tambug, who is invulnerable (Macdonald 1988a), the method of killing through the anus is also a familiar theme. Maybe the sexual element is important—Lugmaj kills the man who has penetrated his sister, so it could be seen as a homosexual rape revenge. The most interesting aspect of this tale is probably


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the description of the shamanistic powers of Lugmaj, clearly a beljan or tungkul. He receives his magical power from above (the stone in the story is dropped by an eagle) and goes underground, apparently fighting subterranean forces, as does the beljan in the panggaris ceremony discussed earlier. It is just this kind of tale that defines the powers and actions of the beljan but also demonstrates the semantic continuum between mythical characters, epic heroes, super shamans, and eventually spirits or divinities. When Lugmaj fights pirates, who come from beyond the sea, he is an epic hero. When he fights the devils of the forest and from below the earth, he is a shaman. After his death he goes above and becomes a Powerful One. Kambed is another mythical character. He consorts with the spirits of trees and waterholes, who give him betel and tobacco. He eventually becomes one of them. According to Tuking, Sunek was a healer who was able to cure her children and grandchildren (upuq)35 when the sajtan had not yet “cooked their flesh.” She used to gather all of the body parts and bring them together.36 Once, somebody wanted to test the power of Sunek and made her cure a dead dog, pretending it was a sick child. She performed the deruhan and the dog was revived, but the third dead dog that was presented to Sunek became living carrion that sent maggots flying all over, and Sunek disappeared for good. Keringking is another character that has crossed over to the realm of the spirits. Like a classic epic hero, he goes on a quest to find a wife. He finds a woman’s hair floating in a river and takes it with him. He then looks for the woman with hair as long as this one but finds none except for his younger sister. He marries her and has to withstand the attack of men who want to kill him because he has committed the crime of incest. He likewise repels the attack of a dragon or giant fish (tandajag), which he kills. A great flood threatens, and he practices spirit possession (negtumung) in order to stop the rain. He has a son with his sister, and when he is old enough they fight one another, just for fun. They then go fishing and rescue a child from the hands of pirates. On the way back they stop at a tributary of the Kulbi River and kill a monster caterpillar that poisons the water. Following this, Keringking and his son embark on a punitive raid against the belintaden (demons with spurs like cocks). They find them in a cave and, after playing the gongs and dancing the tarek, block the entrance of the cave with a big rock so the belintaden cannot harm human beings ever again. To conclude I shall give the synopsis of one myth that opens another window on a very important aspect of the spiritual world of the Palawan people: the myth of the wild boars (bijek). The wild boars have a chief, they say, a big boar with two heads, one in front, one behind. They also have a house. Once upon a time, a man is laying traps for wild chicken. What he catches in one of his traps makes


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him very afraid. It is a real testicle (butuq na butuq)! The testicle starts to speak and says, “Grandson, don’t be afraid and get closer. Untie me please. Then come with me to my place.” The man carries the testicle on his back and they come to a high cliff. The testicle addresses the rock and says, “Open up, we will come inside, me and my grandson. He who is good let him go through, he who is bad crush him!” The cliff opens and they go inside. It is full of snakes and centipedes, but they become humans and the man realizes they are the children of the testicle, who is none other than the Master of the place. After a meal is prepared and offered to the man, they go to bed. The man is invited to sleep near the virgin daughter of the Master of the house. They lie very close, their bodies touching, but she has placed on the banana leaf that they use as a mat a bowl of water full to the brim, and the next morning not a drop has been spilled. The children of the house, four boys and four girls, accompany the man back to his place. They again order the cliff to open and they jump through its open jaws. Once they have arrived near the man’s home, they separate, but the girl next to whom the man has slept asks him for his ring, as a remembrance. She bids him good-bye and they leave, but shortly thereafter the man hears the grunting of wild boars, and when he looks he can see indeed that his companions have become fat boars. Alas, they go straight to his cassava garden where he had placed pig traps. He hears the sound of the trap releasing the spear, kepak ! A wild boar is indeed lying dead on the spot. Later, when he is at home and has told the story to his wife, they butcher the wild boar and they see the ring aglitter amidst the pieces of meat. The eyes of the man fill with tears and he says, “So, truly they were human, these animals! Alas, she was so beautiful!”

Nowhere in Palawan mythology have I seen a testicle (butuq) being the metonymic representation of a character, and I have no explanation for its narrative use in this particular tale. However, wild boars that are in fact human beings is a very common motif in the Palawan mythology and belief system.37 As the devils (sajtan or lenggam) prey on humans so are human hunters preying on other humans. Men are the prey of the devils, just as real wild animals are prey to humans. In this food chain, man eats man, and the human beings stand inbetween two invisible worlds that are a mirror image of each other, one where they kill other humans and one where they are killed by humans “of a different race” (ibang bangsa). This is certainly a representation that fits the shamanistic world of a hunting society. But it is only one of its meaningful dimensions. The romantic streak in the above story, the chaste love affair that is developing between the hunter and the female pig, renders the other dimension of the relationship


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even more obvious. The different races (bangsa) that coexist in the universe will not only hunt each other, but also marry each other.

Relationships between Humans and Spirits Several interpretative models can be suggested in order to account for and encapsulate the relationships between humans and “spirits,” with the understanding that the word “spirit” refers to all those human beings that ordinary humans cannot see or that Figure 14 Relationships between humans and spirits cannot be seen in ordinary circumstances. Among the spirits, there are, as we have seen, two main categories: the forest spirits, basically dangerous and harmful, and the mountain or even celestial spirits, more likely to prove benevolent and helpful. A third agency is represented by the creature living beneath the surface of the earth and threatening human communities, the creature that the panggaris ritual is meant to control. Figure 14 presents a conceptual blueprint for the indigenous theory.38 The spiritual world is compartmentalized, and the relationships with supernatural agencies are characterized by two major dimensions. The first one exists between humans and forest spirits. It is marked by predatory and /or marital relations. Both the humans and the forest spirits have animal substitutes; the animal substitute for humans is oftentimes the chicken—the equivalent of the human soul (kurudwa), which can be retrieved from the spirit world by the healer. The animal substitute of the forest spirits is, paradigmatically, the wild boar. The second and distinct dimension is the shamanistic intercession that goes in two directions in the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area, as a communion with spirits from above (mountains, sky) in the deruhan trance, or as a fight against a beast from below in the panggaris ceremony.


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5 Personhood, Emotions, and Moral Values

Since the major concern of this book is suicide, there is a need to look at one section of Palawan ethnography that we have only touched on in the preceding chapters and that has not been fully considered yet: the realm of ideas concerning the structure of the person, the emotional and moral life as conceptualized locally. By discussing this we will then be in a better position to see how suicide and the very notion of killing oneself fits, or does not fit, into the local theory of personhood and moral action, how it agrees with or goes against the grain of sustained values about self. The idea is to start from and examine the vernacular language of personhood in order to understand the indigenous way of looking at the structure of human action. I should repeat that our interest is governed by a desire to better understand the way Palawan people deal with, explain, or account for suicidal behavior. Indeed, to explain or account for suicidal acts, they use ideas and concepts relating to emotional life. Like us (i.e., Westerners), they explain suicide with words for grief, despair, anxiety, anger, jealousy, and so on. Like any other people, the Palawan from Kulbi have concepts regarding the person, its material and nonmaterial components, its emotional life, and, in a more general way, the basic mechanisms of human behavior; they have some clear ideas about reasons and motives that make people do what they do; they possess a theory of action—or an outline of it—embedded in the words they use to describe it. In this section, I shall lay out the foundation of such a theory of action and personhood by first exploring the vocabulary relating to it. This is a simple exercise in ethnopsychology.1 The notion of personhood is also closely related to notions pertaining to social and interpersonal relations, to society and its network of ties linking individuals in mutual bonds of rights and duties, respect and avoidance, closeness and estrangement. Some aspects of the Palawan society and its values will have to be examined. What is a person as an individual agent, to what extent is he /she autonomous and singular? How is he /she identified by others? In order 123


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to answer these queries, I shall examine ways in which individuals are given a social identity and how they should conform to a prevailing system of ethical and social values. Local people do not live in a “culture of suicide.” They lack an all-encompassing explanation for it—one, for instance, that would be based on the workings of supernatural agencies, as perhaps in African sorcery or witchcraft.2 They do not indulge in complex ceremonies or rituals dedicated to placating the souls of suicides or to preventing other such events. What indeed is so startling about this situation is that suicide is, so to speak, outside the reach and concern of Palawan culture. It is also contrary to it. People are generally adverse to the idea of killing oneself under any circumstance, and when it happens they are shocked and helpless and have little recourse in the way of religious or ideological consolation.

Basic Components of the Person Like other Palawan people elsewhere on the island, the inhabitants of Kulbi hold that the main component parts of the person are 1) the kurudwa (souls); 2) the ginawa (breath, life); 3) the nakem (awareness, consciousness, mind); and 4) the atej (liver, seat of some of the main emotions, the “heart” in the moral sense of the word), the place whence love, generosity, anger, and so on, originate. There is also the physical body (bilug), with all its functions.

Kurudwa The kurudwa are the spiritual components of the person, entities that survive the individual’s demise and make it possible to continue its existence after death. There are several kurudwa, and usually they are located by informants at the top of the head and in various parts of the body, especially the joints. People do not agree on the exact number of kurudwa. One is always located at the top of the head, others are variously described as being in the elbows or other joints. One informant held that there were only two kurudwa, one on top of the head, the other and most important one located under the soles of the feet. As in many other cultures in Southeast Asia, the concept of soul multiplicity is part of a more general theory of personhood, health, sickness, curing, and the spiritual life.3 The departure of one or more souls explains sickness, and the usual curative recourse consists of its retrieval by a therapist or shaman.4 Death is explained either by the departure of all souls or the main one. Dreams and visionary experiences are likewise explained by the wandering about of the soul during sleep or trance. Every newborn baby has a kurudwa, but not yet a mind (nakem). The kurudwa of the baby is loosely attached to the top of the head, and it can “fall” (likwang ), which will require the intervention of the beljan, the local physician /shaman.


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This belief underlies the extreme precautions parents take never to startle a child. It also leads to the treatment of children with great consideration for fear their kurudwa will depart. There is one aspect of the concept that is more difficult to capture with Western notions. As it is, the kurudwa is clearly what Westerners would call a supernatural and /or spiritual entity. It is distinct from mental activities or capabilities (nakem) and different from the life-giving energy (ginawa). It survives the person after death and is independent of him /her. At the same time, it is a completely material entity typically embodied in the common hair louse (kutu). In other Palawan subcultures, one speaks of kurudwa as having a material existence in various insects and animals, especially the chicken, which appears as the main mythical representation of the human soul. The kurudwa—all, or at least the main one—survives the person and goes to a place where it lives with other dead people. It is not clear whether it becomes a ghost (bangun) that visits the living occasionally. The kurudwa, thus, is an entity that exists independently from the human body; it has a distinct material life form and, at the same time, is an entity that belongs to the spiritual world and is intimately tied to the life and survival of the individual person. The English word “soul” used to describe it is therefore inadequate.5 Such an entity is also different from imps, spirit familiars (lapis, gimbaran), and other supernatural agents that may help the shaman in the performance of a spiritual journey, although shamans are sometimes credited with either more numerous or more powerful kurudwa than the common man. Taqaw This discussion on the human person as being made of supernatural and natural elements or, more aptly, visible an invisible components, calls for a quick note on the word for “person” or “human being.” The word taqaw (pronounced variously as [taqaw], [taaw], or just [taw]) applies to all human beings but also to what Westerners might call spirits or supernatural beings. The world is full of such invisible “human beings,” living in trees, groves, rocks, and streams, on top of hills and mountains, on islands off the coast, and so on. Nature is thus replete with invisible humans of a different “sort” (bangsa). A number of other terms are used for more specific categories of supernatural or invisible beings, such as deities (diwata)—usually located in the upper world—powerful persons (taw kewasa), evil spirits and devils (belbalan, sajtan, and lenggam), and a host of “evil creatures of the wild” (ramuramu). But the generic term for what Westerners generally call “spirits” remains taqaw, or “human being, person,” and there is no other generic term that would match the English “spirit” or the French “génie.”6 Hence a few general conclusions may be suggested, as far as the concept of the human person is concerned.


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1. The multiplicity and materiality of the kurudwa as an essential component of living human beings7 implies that the individual has no essential unity but rather that personhood results from the interconnection of different life forms, each gifted with a certain degree of autonomy. The permanence of individual life is essentially problematic, and personal identity is plural. 2. Moreover, from what has been said of the concept of the human being (taqaw), one can infer that humankind extends its boundaries more widely and with “people” of far different makeup than ordinary Palawan people. Humanity is thus more material and less spiritual than Westerners’, but at the same time their spiritual world—the world of spirits—is more human.

Whether these views influence the way indigenous people feel about themselves is another question. Their being part of a web of natural forces, and their existence less premised on a single enduring spiritual entity, does not necessarily entail that they value their individual lives differently or have less regard for them. Suicide in this respect is a measure of how valuable life is. Ideological considerations and the metaphysics of the person are but “vues de l’esprit” that may not affect an inner sense of urgency when it comes to life preservation or, conversely, destruction.

Ginawa, nakem The kurudwa is a life principle that enables people to be part of a wider, invisible universe, whereas other components of the person relate to purely physical or physiological properties. Such is the ginawa (breath, breath of life). It is simply breathing in the physiological sense, although according to myths, it was imparted to matter at the beginning of time, when spirits or deities (diwata) created the first human beings (Macdonald 1974a). Ginawa does not survive the demise of the person, no more than the mind (nakem) does. This and the atej are the faculties that make people wholly human. The nakem is linked with the ability to work and speak. Newborns have no nakem yet; they acquire it progressively. Another word in this connection is pikir, a verb meaning “to think, to reflect,” with the noun pikiran meaning “thought.” But if pikir, pikiran denote thinking and intellectual capacity first, these notions encompass feeling and emotion The nakem can then be translated as “spirit, mind,” containing both the ability to think and to feel, both the intellectual and the emotional life. The emotional and mental life of a person is also made possible by rendem, which means both memory and feeling. The form rendeman translates more or less to the concept of “memory,” but other verbal forms derived from rendem


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refer to the ability to recollect past events and also to harbor various feelings, to have an emotion. Its antonym is lipat, or to forget, to the point of loosing consciousness, as in a trance. There is an interesting word for “deep thinking, meditation, intellectual concentration”: ujekkinen. Physical sensitivity (rasa) is related to emotions like anger and grief. Rasa, from Sanskrit, denotes primarily sensitivity to food tastes and to other physical stimuli. Its broader meanings include appreciation and judgment. Emotions like sorrow and anger affect people physically (megkerasa’t bilug; literally “are impressions of the body, are felt by the body”).

Atej As in many other languages, including ancient Greek, it is the liver (atej ), rather than the heart (pusuq), that is the seat of feelings and emotions like anger, love, desire and so on.8 The concept of “liver” is very similar to that of “heart” in English, in all its moral connotations. To be “good-hearted” in English, for instance, is to be “cool-livered” in Palawan. But the liver is the origin of more than just feelings; it is also the place where thinking (pikir), occurs. It is where decisions, such as committing suicide, are made. Various descriptions and expressions for the liver will be examined later in this chapter in connection with concepts for emotions. The word mepeatej means “feeling, sensitivity, having a feeling for or an intuition of.” It is more or less synonymous with erimerim and rendem. It is in the atej that this most valued of all social dispositions, ingasiq (compassion, kindness), originates. The various states of mental and emotional life seem to fall under two main headings, the mind and the heart (nakem and atej ). This conceptual landscape is in many ways similar to the West’s, but it differs in some important respects. Mental and emotional capabilities are not ordered in the same fashion, and the boundaries between purely intellectual or rational thinking, emotional life, and physical life are not drawn as sharply. Emotional states are not separated from ideas and judgments. There is no absolute dichotomy between cognitive and affective states. The ability to comprehend, to remember, to reflect, and to feel are referred to by the same concepts of rendeman, pikiran, and mepeatej. In other words, there is a continuum between what Westerners see as separate domains: the mental, the emotional, and the physical. Words like rendem and rasa, for instance, blur the boundaries that one might be tempted to draw between these domains.

Emotions The study of emotions belongs to the fields of ethnopsychology and ethnopsychiatry as well as to ethnosemantics and lexicography. Anthropologists have


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paid a certain amount of attention to the emotional life of the people they have studied, but as a distinct subfield the anthropology of affect has been late in coming of age. After a pioneering study by H. Geertz (1959), several books were devoted to the topic of emotions, including, most notably, the work of M. Z. Rosaldo (1980), White and Kirkpatrick (1985), Lutz (1988), Epstein (1992), and Besnier (1995). Emotions in connection with language and cognition have been further explored in Taylor and MacLaury (1995). I shall present below a brief ethnosemantic study of the vocabulary of emotions in Palawan. As Epstein aptly wrote with respect to Rosaldo’s study, emotions “are viewed as guideposts to cultural knowledge” (Epstein 1992, 56), and that is what I am aiming to do. Anthropologists today are aware, more than they were before, of the limits of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis (Crick 1982, 288). The lexical elements and the lexicological study may not produce a completely true image of the deep cognitive structure at work. Words and concepts might actually be two different things altogether (Bloch 1998–1999, 53). There might be, among other problems, covert concepts not revealed by a list of terms. But in any case, the lexicon is a starting point and one that has the merit of being primarily based on indigenous views. Local knowledge about the emotional life is obviously connected with concepts regarding suicidal ideation. As noted before, people explain suicidal acts by affect. I provide below a list of terms that are most commonly used to describe and name emotions and affects. It might not be a complete list, but it contains the most frequently used words. For presentation’s sake I have regrouped them according to categories that are not necessarily indigenous generic categories. The identification and classification of emotions pose evidently numerous problems, which would require lengthy and detailed explanations. Is surprise an emotion? Is worry closer to fear or to unhappiness? Are there basic emotions, and how many? Psychologists and other social scientists have dealt with these and many other questions (see Ortony, Clore, and Collins 1988), and I shall try to make sense of the terminology by addressing some of these methodological issues.

Terminology Unhappiness, distress bugew: unhappiness, sorrow, pain (moral), mourning ruruk: unhappiness, disappointment, depression, regret, nostalgia gewaq: same as ruruk (but linked to loss or absence of someone dear) susa: grief, worry kesusaqan: worries, disturbing thoughts


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sasaw: trouble, concern, bother kegerantang: same as sasaw subet: despair tulus: nostalgia, longing (after someone absent) megselsel: contrite, repentant mesajang: feeling sorry for

Happiness meseg ja: happy, joyous (syn. mesaja, mesanang)

Fear takut: fear kebaq: frightening surprise, being startled (verbal compound nekbaqan, syn. neklatan) rahas: anxiety, anguish

Anger iseg: anger, aggressiveness, bravery, fierceness idekidek: anger, irritation, rage, exasperation, being unnerved siqik: resentment, hatred bangis: anger, irritation, foul mood bakak: irritation, impatience lukub: fit of rage, violent anger, murderous drive, going amok

Love ireg: love, fondness, desire, passion (syn. lusig) ingasiq: sympathy, compassion, having a desire to help, affection (syn. ubrej, parangaj) imun: jealousy

Social emotions lequ: shame, embarrassment, humiliation, shyness imbeng: envy bantug: admiration, respect, praise, fame, honor, reputation

Some of the above terms pose a problem of identification. Is ingasiq (based on kasiq, which means “gift,” therefore a “giving disposition”) an emotion or a disposition, a moral attitude? Lequ is another classic case of semantic trickery. As in Tagalog hiya, the semantic field is broad and refers to a wide spectrum of affects, from a social construct akin to dishonor, loss of face, and shame, to a subtle feeling of embarrassment or awkwardness; it applies to the special feeling of being


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belittled by someone who is behaving disparagingly and arrogantly (medakag) towards one, and also to a sense of shyness or of being socially inappropriate. The English translation “shame” is admittedly an inadequate gloss. Another point to be noted is the much larger vocabulary applying to negative feelings or unpleasant emotions (unhappiness) compared to the terminology for pleasant feelings and happiness.9 Whether language recognizes more ways to be unhappy than to be happy, or whether the human mind analyzes better shades of negative affects than it does positive, the terminology for negative feelings provides more clues to the ethnopsychology of affect than positive feelings do. As suicidal ideation is linked with negative feelings, this situation can be used to our advantage.

Susa, iseg, imun, ireg, takut Within the terminology listed above, the following are most often quoted as main components in the psychodynamic process of suicide: susa (grief ) comes first, followed by iseg (anger) and imun (jealousy); then comes ireg (passionate love), and finally takut (fear). Other words are also used in this connection, but somehow less frequently: tulus (nostalgia; more or less synonymous with rendem) and longing (lequ), embarrassment, shame. The fact that ireg (love) is frequently given as the motive of suicide is evidently a shortcut to “thwarted love,” as the suicide cases connected with it make clear (see chaps. 7 and 8). But there is no specific emotion named by the Palawan language that would match the feeling caused by rejection or “prohibition to consort with the object of desire.” It does, however, refer to a concept that is clearly present in the minds of informants and that one could perhaps render as “frustrated love.” Sorrow and anger stand out as the two most frequently quoted emotions linked with suicidal behavior, and at the same time they possess the most numerous terms. One should therefore pay special attention to these states. The word susa is actually the one quoted more frequently, but other more or less synonymous terms like gewaq and tulus refer to the central experience of loss, absence, severance of affective tie. Susa is also the lexical basis of the compound kesusaqan, which refers to worries and things that “trouble the mind” (epeglibuqan et pikiran). Other terms such as bugew, ruruk, and subet refer to states of depression and the “blues,” with varying degrees of intensity. In all, three major dimensions are present: loss, cognitive disorder, and depression /anxiety. Among those, loss is more frequently associated with suicidal behavior. The term susa seems to encompass all three. The next major component is anger. Iseg seems to be also a generic term covering all the main dimensions of this cluster of emotional states whose common denominator is an aggressive relationship with another person. It can be translated with the words for “anger” and “aggressiveness,” but also “fierceness”


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and “bravery.” The adjectival form meiseg applies, for instance, as in other Philippine languages, to penile erection (mejseg ej utin). It is a virile emotion linked with a fighting spirit. At the same time, it contains a negative moral content and is closely linked with evil character, as that displayed by a person being medakag—that is, “overbearing, arrogant, pretentious, offensive.” Special states of hostile stances like siqik (referring to resentment), idek or idekidek (irritation against, exasperation), and lukub (fit of murderous anger akin to “amok”) describe various shades and aspects of the same basic disposition, which always implies an aggressive feeling towards another person. Based on the criteria of frequency and lexical wealth, sorrow and anger are the most salient negative emotions, but an underlying opposition divides them. Sorrow and the kind of emotional pain implied by cognate terms, as well as the context to which they are related, focus on the experience of loss especially caused by the deaths of beloved spouses and children. Anger is quite the opposite, for several reasons. First, it obviously refers to the opposite of love and affection, which underlies the affects of the first cluster (loss, sorrow). Second, it entails the presence of and the active relationship with another person. Sadness (distress, grief, etc.) and anger (rage, etc.) are probably basic or fundamental emotions, if there is such a thing,10 and are two poles of emotional life. Anger involves an active relationship with another person; sadness involves the severance of a relationship. One can be said to be interpersonal, the other nonpersonal. In the Palawan vocabulary words like gewaq, bugaw, and so on, relate to loneliness, solitude, and isolation. Close behind sorrow and anger are (frustrated, thwarted) love (ireg), jealousy (imun), and fear (takut), which are next in importance and salience at least as far as suicidal behavior is concerned. As we have already observed, what is at stake in connection with the feeling of love, and particularly passionate love, as far as suicidal behavior is concerned is the obstruction to its fulfillment and the resulting feelings of frustration. Clearly jealousy (imun), often mentioned in connection with suicide, is both an obstacle to and a product of love. Whether exclusive access to the object of desire is threatened, or whether it is forbidden altogether (as in the case of incestuous love; see “Profile 3,” chap. 8), the situation involves the same category of affect. Fear, in this perspective, stands towards jealousy and love as sorrow stands towards anger. Threatening persons may cause fear, but fear is clearly, in Palawan as in other languages, caused by nonpersonal agents. Taking to the high seas or to being caught in a storm can cause fear in the same way that being threatened with death or injury by someone can. As a result, and as shown in table 10, we can see fear, anger, sorrow, and jealousy (with its twin “thwarted love”) as the cardinal directions on the compass of negative emotions, related to the experience of loss, threatened or actual. On one side are sorrow and fear, which are essentially reactive feelings with occasional


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interpersonal content, and on Table 10 Structure of Basic Emotions in Palawan the other side are anger and Relational /proactive Non-relational / jealousy, which are proactive (in the liver [atej ]) reactive and essentially interpersonal.11 Anger Sorrow As for sorrow and anger, we Actual loss find again that feelings of love Threatened loss Jealousy Fear Frustrated love are associated with the liver, whereas fear is not. The semantic and lexicographic elements presented above show that table 10 is partly supported by observable data.12 There is a need, however, to gather further evidence in order to better elicit the semantic dimensions of emotions as conceptualized by Palawan thought. This can be done by listing phrases and situations that typically characterize specific emotions.

Emotions and the liver In this connection a number of metaphorical expressions relate to various states of the “liver” (atej) as the seat of emotions. Meramig pegatej dimu: “I have a cold liver for you,” meaning “I have good, friendly feelings for you.” (Similarly, Waraj menungang nakem ku dimu [“I like you,” literally, “There is good stuff in my mind towards you.”]) Meinit atej ku: “My liver is hot,” meaning “being angry.” Megangan atej ku: “My liver is light,” meaning “being without shame or embarrassment,” having friendly, sympathetic feelings towards someone. Mebegat atej ku: “My liver is heavy,” meaning “I have feelings of uneasiness, shame, embarrassment.” Sakit atej ku dimu: “My liver is sick towards you,” meaning “I hate you, I am angry with you.” (Similarly, Waraj raqat et nakem ku dimu [“I hate you,” literally, “There is bad stuff in my mind towards you.”])

These phrases are based on the hot /cold and heavy /light pairs. As in many other cultures of Southeast Asia and the Pacific, the general contrast between hot and cold is associated with the dry /wet contrast (see Barrau 1965). Sickness and death are associated with hot and dry, the absence of humidity and water; life and health are associated with humidity, freshness, and water, as in green leaves and young plants. Thus illness (sakit) is tantamount to being hot. Both ill health and hot temperature are linked with anger towards someone, hatred, resentment. Coolness and lightness are associated with friendly feelings and sympathy


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(ingasiq). The above phrases seem to associate more closely hot /cold with anger / sympathy, friendliness, and heavy /light with the distinction between uneasiness and easiness in interpersonal relations. The first opposition indicates strong and deep feelings; the latter seems to refer to the more superficial easygoing or un-easygoing quality of a social relation.13 The atej is the seat of emotions that can be violent. The phrase igibas atej means “to give in to one’s heart’s desire, to abandon oneself to passion.” Finally, there is a regular pairing of feelings of happiness and joy with noise (gibek), boisterous clamor (rijuriju) on the one hand, and silence and solitude with loss, mourning, and unhappiness on the other. The ultimate expression of social life is laughter (kesit), banter, the noise made by a crowd of people laughing and joking (megluluj ) with each other, or again with the sound of speech (hampang ), words (beres), and conversation (urung ). Sorrow, being essentially silent, has a manifest nonrelational quality. In this connection it is worth noting that mourning is never expressed by loud wailing. Crying and other expressions of grief are quite common but not staged in a loud manner and, more important, not required. A sense of loneliness, silence, isolation is linked with sorrow (gewaq) and may be a sign that one is nengahaq et bjag (fed up with life). Inasmuch as suicidal ideation is explicitly and frequently linked by informants to feelings of susa, bugew, and gewaq, it indicates a link with a retiring attitude and asocial behavior. The case of Saqaj (see chap. 7) illustrates this point well and confirms the notion that solitude, loneliness, and isolation are taken by informants as symptoms of suicidal ideation. Interestingly, among the Buid of Mindoro, suicidal depression (sungun) is also characterized by sulking, withdrawal, and isolation (Gibson 1989, 67). At this point a slight clarification should be made to the above discussion, lest the reader get the impression that Palawan people are given to hysterical expressions of joy. Emotional displays are frequent but should be kept within limits. Children screaming and excessively loud laughter are dangerous and excite the wrath of thunder (Macdonald 1988b). Grief, joy, pleasure, and other feelings are generally kept in check in the company of others, and emotions should be controlled. In sum, the deportment of the Palawan people, at least in Kulbi, is characterized by frequent but controlled displays of both joyous and sad feelings, but especially the joyous, friendly, sociable expression of sentiment, and a tendency to suppress or downgrade any display of anger. •


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Morality And Social Life This section is a follow-up to the discussion about emotions inasmuch as dispositions and feelings conducive to good or bad social behavior are examined more closely in the following pages. Being a good person (menungang taqaw, mehubrej neng taqaw) is evaluated in terms of how much a person’s (whether male or female) behavior fits into the categories of meluluj, mepangnaq, and meingasiq (respectively, “prone to joking,” “hard working,” and “generous”).

Gender Relations It may be useful at this point to briefly note male and female standards of conduct and norms of behavior. Palawan society is one of the least asymmetrical in terms of male and female status. Moral standards such as those given earlier apply equally to men and women. Patience and tolerance, as well as love and affection, are required in equal amounts from both sexes. Female behavior, as far as young pubescent or prepubescent girls are concerned, is marked by extreme shyness and coyness, but this is not required from older, married women. There is a general avoidance of mixing while bathing or taking a shower, and women will always send signals when they go bathing (which is done in the nude) so as to warn men not to go there. Modesty is required from males and females alike. As in other lowland areas among Palawan natives, female behavior is more outgoing and assertive than it is among the retiring and shy upland groups. In Punang and Kulbi I could always talk freely with women, who would answer with poise and confidence, whereas in the highlands, like the Mekagwaq and Tamlang valleys, women of all ages would blush and retreat in embarrassment whenever I addressed them, no matter how long I had been staying in the community. But women are never prevented from participating in any activity, including hunting, performing rituals, and taking part in litigation, although these are more markedly male activities. There are male and female tasks according to a well-established division of labor, especially in the swidden. Men cut trees and women do the weeding—the first task more dangerous, the second more tedious. At home women cook, but so do husbands when the wife is still working in the field.14 As mothers, women do most of the caring for newborn infants and children, but fathers care for children as well, playing with them and carrying them on the hip, a familiar sight at the end of the day, when people gather to chat and gossip in front of their houses. In sum, it is clear that male and female behavior and activities are distinct and complementary, that women have a less visible role in public life, and that the ideology makes them more passive and vulnerable agents than men, but this situation cannot be construed as one of marked subservience or inferiority. As


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in the general field of Palawan social relations, asymmetrical status results in an aggregate sum of reciprocal dimensions that balance each other (see chap. 3). Women are also considered as autonomous as men when it comes to crucial decisions such as those concerning marriage and divorce. Their explicit wishes are always required and have to be publicly stated before marriage or divorce is pronounced.

Joking and the Art of Social Bonding Let us now return to the social personality traits introduced earlier. The ability and propensity to joke and entertain other people is related to a moral disposition, but also to linguistic skills. The word luluj refers to jesting and joking in a manner that teases the fellow speaker. In some areas outside Kulbi, there is an interesting classification of types of joking relationships according to whether they involve the person spoken to or a third party, and whether they apply to persons with whom an avoidance relationship is the rule, like in-laws (Macdonald 1999a, 180). Conversations and informal verbal exchanges are replete with outrageous references to one’s own or the other person’s supposed behavior. In a scene filmed in the marketplace,15 Medsinu, an older and respected leader but one of the most hilarious jesters of the Kulbi area, loudly announced that he was “smelling women,” and as he approached a young maiden he started guffawing and pretended he had not recognized his (classificatory) granddaughter because her fragrance had caused him to go mad with lust. He was absolutely ready to commit incest, he warned everyone. This and other lewd remarks had the assembly in stitches. Sexual references of the crudest type are freely and abundantly mentioned and create a state of collective and companionable merriment. When remarking on the behavior of strangers, particularly Christian lowlanders, Palawans often point out that they ignore or are unable to practice the fine art of luluj. To be megluluj is then more than just an agreeable trait of character or grace of manners; instead, it points to an ability to be part of the community and to bond deeply with the people around oneself. In connection with this practice, it is fitting to mention another important institution in terms of pairing and bonding. The practice of reciprocal naming (meglalew) is often based on a joke, a mispronounced word, or an amusing circumstance that two persons will commemorate by calling each other by the same name reminiscent of that mispronunciation or circumstance. The use of the reciprocal name (lalew) is akin to the English use of the “Christian” name and the French use of the pronoun tu instead of vous. The reciprocal naming practice has been called “friendship name” by Needham (1971), a hint also that the institution of friendship should shed some light on the native construction of personhood.


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Friendship The word iba means “companion, friend,” and there are several other dialectal variants, but the institution as such is not named. The Palawan concept of friendship as I have shown elsewhere (Macdonald 1999a) is based on a notion of symmetrical reciprocity and as such is peripheral to the main field of social relations defined by kinship ties. The latter are always asymmetrical, with the exception of two specific affinal-consanguineal ties (see chap. 3). I concluded my analysis of the Palawan concept of friendship by stressing its ambiguous nature: it is viewed either as a positive social link, but on the condition that it eventually becomes a kinship tie, or it is viewed as a potentially antisocial relation binding accomplices, and bachelors not bound by regular ties of kinship and given to mischief. Although friendship does not acquire the status of a full social institution in its own right, friendship, I concluded, is an ingredient most often found in social and interpersonal ties (Macdonald 1999a, 185–186).

Compassion, Sympathy, Love As opposed to friendship, the concept of ingasiq possesses particular saliency as a generic notion used to define a norm of behavior. As mentioned previously, it covers the fields of emotion such as “love,” “sympathy,” “empathy,” and “pity” and the moral dispositions “generosity,” “kindness,” “compassion,” “forgiveness,” and “goodness.” It is definitely a value frequently quoted by informants in various contexts when defining the character of a person (being meingasiq, “generous, compassionate, forgiving”) or of an action (ingasiq as a “gift,” things being given to someone). When talking to strangers, foreign visitors, or Christian lowlanders, Palawan people may be wont to bring out the ingasiq of the listener by mentioning their own native state of complete poverty, of being utterly bereft of any material possession, of being miskin banar (extremely poor). The word for gift, kasiq, which serves as the root word, provides the basic meaning from which other denotations seem to derive. To give succor (durug) or extend help (tabang or tulung) is a trait par excellence of a person who is meingasiq. The good performance of an expert and judge in customary law is also evaluated based on his ability to be meingasiq, or lenient, forgiving, tolerant. Affectionate feelings are also included in this notion. For instance, to explain why people were providing for the needs of old Tuking, the spiritual leader of Kulbi, his son would say that people just felt much affection (ingasiq) for him and therefore would bring him food and take care (ipat) of him. Ingasiq as a concept based on the idea of “gift” is not coterminal with concepts of sharing and exchange. The sharing of meat, for instance, particularly the sharing of the wild boar among kin and neighbors, is called tahak (parting, dividing into shares). It is an altogether different concept, albeit one that is equally important and relevant to the structure of the social group. Giving and sharing are indeed two entirely different acts, inasmuch as one is creating a debt,


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the other not. Ingasiq creates a bond between the creditor and the debtor, but in Palawan society, the concept of debt (utang) is not as developed as in the Christian lowland society. In this respect, it is interesting to note that to collect debts is prohibited while the panggaw ceremony is in progress. One might conclude from what has just been said that ingasiq as a basic value of Palawan society is an attitude required from everyone and does not necessarily entail repayment; in other words, it is, ideally at least, compulsory and selfless. “Being good to other people” is probably the best gloss for it. Ingasiq is linked with ireg inasmuch as the latter covers feelings not exclusively linked with sexual desire; not only “eros,” but also “agape.” Ireg has some relevance to moral conduct to the extent that it also induces a protective attitude towards other people. Words meaning “to take care” (ipat, djaga) and other idioms like indanen, meles (to protect) are used to describe the care given by a mother to her child,16 but also to define the guardianship or stewardship of elders (megurang) towards the local community and particularly the group composed of their married daughters or nieces with their respective husbands and children. In a spiritual sense, Tuking, and after him his son Inaring, are “protecting the land” (pegipat et lungsud); so does the shaman leading the panggaw ceremony (see chap. 4). The ideas of protection and care are thus essential dimensions of leadership, both political and religious.

Nonviolence Brief mention should be made of an area of behavior and morality that has great significance in relation to the local psychology and ethics. Palawan people are extremely nonviolent and do not resort to force and fighting even when confronted with an external threat to their lives and land. Like some other upland peoples in the Philippines (Gibson 1986, 1989), Palawan people usually prefer to hide, run away, or just wait for the danger to disappear. There is an essentially nonviolent quality to all of their social dealings and interpersonal contacts. At the collective level, violence is never organized, and if it was in the past, it was only in connection with the punishment of incest. But fear of violence is very present in all social dealings, and the always thinly disguised threat of inflicting physical harm can be used as a weapon to intimidate others, as the discussion concerning Sumling’s death abundantly confirms (see chap. 6). In a way, potential violence is always looming large; fighting and murder are impending dangers, but in actual fact, they are rare occurrences. In all likelihood it is fear of violence that prevents violence. If violent feelings are present, the Palawan express them through speech and litigation, not physical aggression. Aggression and hostility leading to physical harm are contained in the word for anger (iseg ) and other semantic cognates like idek, bangis, and so on. The word bunuq means both “murder” and “war,” a time when the country becomes “tight” (mesigpit) and things “painful, difficult” (metiksaq). In Punang, major rituals are performed


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to ensure peace and tranquility in the land, together with health and prosperity (Macdonald 1990). In Kulbi the concern with peace and tranquility (metanam) is abundantly present also. The “care” (ipat) lavished by the spiritual leader and shaman guarantees health and peace in equal amounts, and these two notions become one. There is a great simplicity to the demands made to the supernatural agencies in all major rituals: safety, health, and food—in the form of abundant harvests of rice. In a way, the same requirements are made of humans, and good moral behavior means giving others food, medicine, and protection, and this is what ingasiq is all about. Peacefulness, nonaggressiveness, and nonviolence bear heavily on the discussion of suicide since, as will be shown later in the discussion concerning the etiology of suicide (chaps. 9 and 10), aggression, especially the concept of “redirected aggression,” plays a major role in some theories. If, indeed, people are inherently aggressive, as Freud would have it (Freud 1939, quoted in Howell and Willis 1989, 6), suicide could be seen as an indirect expression of this drive otherwise suppressed by society, but “redirected” against self. Violence and aggression may be conceptualized from three different perspectives—social institutions, moral values, or inner dispositions—which in turn may be nothing but several aspects of the same phenomenon. Still, the question may be asked whether the Palawan people have a peaceful disposition, or whether their society has no way to organize violence, or, again, whether they look down on violence /aggression as a negative and immoral type of behavior. The answer is probably “yes” to all three questions. Compared to other societies in the region, placed on a violent /peaceful spectrum, the Palawan unquestionably would fall at the peaceful end, together with the Chewong (Howell 1989) and Buid (Gibson 1989), while the Taosug (Kiefer 1972, quoted in Gibson 1989, 67–68) and the Ilongot (M. Rosaldo 1980, 45–53 and passim) would be located at the opposite end. The Ilongot values relating to “anger” (liget)—a term encompassing a broader semantic area, which Rosaldo glosses as “energy” and “passion” (1980, 247)—are particularly interesting as they contrast so clearly with the notion of anger among the Palawan and the Chewong. Perhaps the raw emotional state termed iseg among the Palawan and liget among the Ilongot is the same but its social use is not. Whereas “anger” is repressed or tightly controlled among the former, the latter find that when effectively channeled—particularly in headhunting raids—it is conducive to “satisfaction and renown” (M. Rosaldo 1980, 53).17 This is not, however, the time or place to discuss the functional role of violence in society. What matters is the impact that organized violence and positively valued aggression might have on suicide rates. Among the Ilongot, suicide does not seem to be present in any significant manner,18 and this would tend to vindicate the contenders of the redirected aggression theory of suicide. Since


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people—males, rather—can so freely give vent to their aggressive drives, there is no need for them to redirect it against themselves. But if we look at the Chewong and the Buid, where violence is not permitted and where peace and tranquility are prominent both as personal qualities and moral values, suicide does not seem to be frequently encountered either.19 Conversely, this would give the lie to the redirected aggression theorists, since in any society where aggression is repressed it should manifest itself in a much higher suicide rate. In the Palawan, as well as in the Chewong, Buhid, and Semai cases,20 we are faced with cultures that discourage any show of anger or violence, who value a meek and even “fearful” deportment, where confrontation is always minimized and where violence is seen always as an external phenomenon, belonging to outsiders and aliens. As such, virtual violence /aggression is seen as a threat to social and moral order. But, in spite of these very similar traits, these societies or sections thereof differ in their suicide rates and proclivity for suicidal behavior. The nonviolent quality of their social lives does not seem, therefore, to have great predictive value concerning the incidence of self-inflicted death.

Good and Bad Manners Since the discussion concerning the constitutive traits of personhood provides a gateway to the domain of social relations, it also seems important to discuss manners and etiquette as they are essentially related to personal qualities on the one hand, and to rules of interpersonal behavior on the other. The general term that applies to a person’s standing and reputation in the community is bantug, with compounds like bantugen and kebantugen meaning laudatory words or remarks about someone, “celebrity,” “fame,” “respect.” This applies to mythical heroes like Tambug (Macdonald 1988a, 19–93) and to famed super shamans (tungkul) like Pedjat or Nambun. Bantug is also akin to the concept of “face”; loss of face or the threat thereof may be part of the complex motivation behind suicidal behavior, as Tutuq’s and Meransinu’s cases indicate (see chap. 7). With its low stress on social differentiation, Palawan society does not put a lot of stock in honor and pride; meekness and mild manners (metemen) are valued to a high degree, contrary to assertiveness and arrogance (dakag), which are the epitome of offensive behavior. Accusations of “acting superior” (melbi, lumusdak) are quite common. One’s good name and the regard in which people want to be held are, however, important dimensions in the social evaluation of personhood. A good person (mehubrej), someone who has good manners or character (adat), should therefore behave according to rules of politeness (hatur) and act politely (menginluluk). One should be careful to show proper manners (perurus, peguntabiq), execute the correct gesture, and say the right words when passing in front of someone.21 Likewise, one should always greet someone standing at the foot of the ladder leading into one’s house and invite him /her to come in, lest gossip


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(limut) and criticisms (sawej) be circulated in the community against one and people say that one is aloof and full of contempt (merangrutrengrut). Cursing (surew) is exemplified by phrases like “The pox [Pangkut]!” and “By the devil [Lenggam]!” Verbal offenses (seruruq, udjuq) against another person can be made to his /her face, such as accusing someone of being lazy22 or saying that his /her child is ugly.23 Insults or swear words (turawa) hurled at someone are essentially death threats. One favorite and potent insult is, “Get eaten by the crocodile [Sibaqan ke’t bwaja]!” Another is “Swell [Bagaq]!” (as in skin ulcers, berahak) Since people are free to use all sorts of sexual references in the context of banter and joking (luluj ), insults never include sexual references. Indirect offenses, that is, insults or disparaging words that are not expressed in front of the offended person, take numerous forms and are referred to as plain gossip (limut), accusations of having committed a crime (kudew), blame (taksir), criticism (sawej ). Rumors and stories are of course constantly circulated, and people are mindful of what others are saying. Resentment and anger against other people has no other outlet than litigation. In some areas, like the Palawan communities near Quezon, up north, there is talk of recourse to black magic and hexing people, but not in Kulbi. It is perhaps relevant to mention in this connection the widespread belief in the use of poison (rastun), a practice unfailingly attributed to foreign groups and especially local Muslim people (Islam). The use of deadly poison in food is actually something of a belief measuring social distance between groups rather than an actual practice.

Personal Autonomy One dimension remains to be explored, and that is the degree to which a person is considered autonomous. I have argued elsewhere (Macdonald 2002) that Palawan people, not unlike some of their neighbors, such as the Temiar of Malaysia (Benjamin 1994, 51) or the Buhid of Mindoro (Gibson 1994, 199), tend to believe that a person’s will is an uninfringeable ground and that even children cannot be forced to obey orders, or be given orders, even. This capacity to disobey, which actually amounts to the right to countermand any order given to one, expresses itself in the Palawan phrases mandi, umpeq, meaning “don’t want,” “refuse,” “say no.” It is a surprising sight to observe parents looking at each other with pained resignation after their eight-year-old son or daughter has refused their order or request with the simple words mandiq ku, umpeq ku. Palawan parents, as anyone else in this society, must take no for an answer. In actual fact, orders are given, demands are pressed upon members of society, and a certain amount of moral coercion is exercised in the course of judicial or public affairs. Still, the individual enjoys a right to take refuge in a capsule of denial from which no order or command can dislodge him /her. This I construct


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as a much higher degree of personal autonomy than in other societies on a scale of social systems including authoritarian systems wherein social actors have to obey without a hint of hesitation, to the point where personal autonomy is denied altogether. In a classless society with no habit of subordination or no position of domination, personal autonomy is congruent with the norm of equality.24 I have noted earlier the lesser weight given to the relationship of indebtedness in Palawan as opposed to lowland Christian society. The equal weakness of values such as “face” or “honor” is again congruent with the general norm of free and equal interpersonal relations. In sum, then, persons have an unlimited ability to set their own course of action, and in this respect I would characterize Palawan society as highly individualistic. But as I have suggested elsewhere (Macdonald 2002), obedience and disobedience do not necessarily result form a hierarchical relation of authority or power. It can be interpreted in the context of the rules of politeness. People do the things they are told not always because others have means to constrain them, but simply because it suits proper manners.

Conclusion Enough evidence has been gathered in this chapter to ascertain some basic dimensions of personhood. A person is thus defined by multiple components and has no essential spiritual unity. His /her emotional and intellectual life is characterized by a continuum of states combining rational and emotional aspects that are not clearly separated. Emotions are mostly located in the liver, whence they originate, sometimes overpowering the person. Negative feelings are dominated by anger and grief and to a degree by frustration and fear. Social life demands that feelings be kept within limits and that physical integrity, including the immediate personal space of other persons, be respected punctiliously. Social life also demands joy, happiness, and the noise produced by the expression of good feelings through joking, banter, and laughter. Friendship, love, and affection are the necessary ingredients of human relations, all converging in the cardinal values of compassion and generosity. Relations between people should be considerate and should avoid expressions of superiority or aloofness. Life is fragile, feelings are volatile, the world is full of gossip, and dealings with other people require abundant caution. If this analysis is correct, pointing as it does to values most commonly recognized by people, it allows little space or ground for explaining suicidal ideation or suicidal behavior. The person is not defined essentially as aspiring to an early demise, nor are the fundamental characteristics of human relations essentially threatening or destructive. Social life is, in Palawan as everywhere, constraining,


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but it is not life threatening. On the contrary, it can be easily construed as life enhancing. Anger, grief, and other negative emotions do not, by definition, lead to suicide, although they obviously can. The discussion on autonomy might shed some light on another aspect of the problem. If the person is basically an autonomous agent, cut from other agents and locked, as it were, in his /her individual sphere of consciousness and volition, then motivations that are personal will be more important as determining factors than values or rules coming from the group. This, in a way, is the reasoning behind Durkheim and his followers such as Mary Douglas (1970, 84). In her terms, the “grid” becomes more important than the “group.” In Durkheim’s terms, regulation becomes more important than integration. How does that improve our understanding of suicidal behavior? If social norms have to be reinterpreted in psychological terms, it is as I have said before: permission is given to the individual to do as he /she chooses. He /she then will adopt a course of action and select options that are not necessarily those explicitly recommended by the social discourse. This is what obtains in Kulbi. In spite of the disparaging view taken on suicide—as a useless, wrong, regrettable, wasteful choice—such an option remains one that may and will be chosen. If we look at the traits that are deemed to be culturally preferable, in the typical Palawan ethos marked by nonviolence and a lack (or concealment) of aggressive feelings, we find a cluster of those matching the so-called melancholy profile, or typus melancholicus, described by psychologists as one that is meticulous, considerate, with a strong sense of duty, mindful of proper conduct, conservative, conventional, with a tendency to feel guilty, demanding of self, prone to anxiety, but somehow passive and unimaginative (Tellenbach 1987, 398–399). It is a moral type also characterized by high ideals, a strict adherence to a socially approved code of conduct, and emotional insecurities. I will present later in this book a number of cases, such as those of Saqaj and Merensinu (chap. 7), that fit this description. I will also show that such a profile has been described, in connection with suicide, in different but equally peaceful cultures such as the Eskimos of Alaska, the Vaqueiros of Spain, and the Semai of Malaysia (see chap. 9). Anthropologists have used phrases such as “learned helplessness” (Dentan 2000, 32), “detachment” (Catedra 1992, 202), “fatalism,” and “passive tolerance” (Hippler 1974, 454) to describe the mental and emotional state leading to suicide in these cultures. I will return to this, but one should be warned that if the local culture allows for—encourages, even—a modal personality of this kind, by itself it does not account for all suicide cases. Many, as we will see, do not fit the typus melancholicus at all.


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Part Two

Suicide


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6 Sumling’s Death

Sumling’s Suicide Sumling, a young woman in her late twenties and married to Durmin, hanged herself on August 9, 1989, in Tegpen, shortly before my arrival in Kulbi that year. Durmin, whom I knew well, described to me the circumstances of her death. At about noon that day, Sumling went to the river to wash clothes, or so she announced. She did not say anything about committing suicide, nor did she seem upset or angry. Durmin was at home, and when she told him she was going out, he asked her to stay and have lunch, as the meal was cooking. But she went anyway. Not seeing her come home after a while, Durmin set out to look for her and soon saw her hanging from a low branch of a tree right at the edge of the field. He ran towards her, but too late! Durmin, a little later, attempted to commit suicide himself. He tied a string (a thick fishing line) around his neck, but the string broke when he tried to hang himself, and I could see for several weeks thereafter a deep red mark around his neck. Why did Sumling kill herself? She was angry (meiseg) and jealous (meimun) because, reportedly, her husband was having an affair with Pawlina, the young wife of Saldin. Durmin indeed was suspected of seeing her secretly and giving her small presents. Although Durmin might have had an affair with another woman, Tama, before that, Sumling resented the reported affair or flirtation with Pawlina more acutely, and she was said to have a “deep anger inside her” (mesled neng iseg), although she did not show it and was rather demure. She was not prone to violent behavior, or even extreme jealousy. Sumling, according to all accounts, was a pretty, healthy, and mentally sane person. She was hard working, and their household was comparatively well off, with two water buffaloes and plenty of rice. She and Durmin had three children,

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all in good health. Aside from the resentment conceivably accumulating within Sumling in recent weeks and months, she and her husband did not usually quarrel. None of her parents, grandparents, or siblings had committed suicide,1 and there was no particular problem in these relationships, except again with Mensuling, her elder brother, who was prone to anger. I always felt myself a certain apprehension towards Mensuling and found him a rather intimidating character. Three months before Sumling had left her husband and had come to stay for a while with her sister-in-law and her husband Taya. It was then known to Sumling that Durmin had visited Pawlina while the latter’s husband Saldin was away. Durmin was even reported to have had offered some money to Pawlina. When Saldin came back from the marketplace on the east coast, where he sold copra, he confronted Pawlina. As a result litigation was initiated, pitting Sumling’s older brothers, particularly Mensuling, against Durmin, who was then threatened with divorce. In spite of this, Durmin continued to see Pawlina and reportedly met her near the river and again gave her money. Sumling was apprised of this and confronted her husband, who said that he was prepared to divorce her and leave. But Sumling could not stand the idea of being separated from Durmin and beseeched him not to divorce her and to keep her as his wife even if he wanted to move out. In the meantime, Sumling’s elder brothers, Tungkaq and Mensuling, wanted to pronounce Durmin and Sumling divorced, or to have Taya, as a judge, repudiate Durmin. Sumling could not bear it and again told Durmin that she could not leave him or see him leave her. The next day Sumling went to the field to harvest rice and, at noon, hanged herself. I was able to witness and record the many discussions that took place in the aftermath of Sumling’s death (presented later in this chapter). Her family, and particularly her brothers, were enraged and accused Durmin of homicide. The latter had to leave his home and stay with his sister in another hamlet. I shall come back to this later. The main point about Sumling’s story, as far as her decision to end her life is concerned, seems to rest on two main emotional currents. The first one is based on jealousy (imun), grief (susa), and anger (iseg) when confronted with her husband’s ineradicable womanizing. The second is apparently one of despair (subet) at being cornered by the relentless pressure of her angry elder brothers, chiefly Mensuling, whom Sumling did not like, who forced the issue by making a decision that, as “legal wardens”2 of their younger sister, they were entitled to make and enforce. It may be this insistence on separating the couple—in other words, the social pressure itself—that ultimately accounted for Sumling’s desperate move.


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The Aftermath of Sumling’s Suicide Just after Sumling had committed suicide on August 9, 1989, I was staying in Taya’s house in Tegbituk. Durmin, the widower, was living next to Taya and his wife Ersin (who was Durmin’s sister), and I saw him frequently. After Sumling’s suicide, Durmin had to leave Tegpen, where they were living. Their three children stayed with Sumling’s parents, Twakal and Bungkur. In the following weeks Durmin went back and forth between Tegpen and Tegbituk (an hour’s walk, maybe) in order to see his children, aged 8 to 12, and to tend his field. Taya himself was involved in the case and took part in the process of litigation, which I observed and recorded. Subsequently I transcribed and translated large extracts from these discussions, which took place some in Tegbituk, some in Tegpen, but the main one in Lilibuten, in Tuking’s house, a place that served as a venue for large gatherings of people. During this time I interviewed Taya, Durmin, Ersin, and others, thus gaining considerable insight into the case. One should be reminded that Durmin was accused of causing his wife Sumling to kill herself because of his unfaithfulness. It had become public knowledge that he had had an affair with his neighbor’s wife, Pawlina (or Pawlin), actually Taya’s sister-in-law (BW). Sumling was a young woman in her late twenties; she loved Durmin and could not accept the prospect of losing him. Sumling’s parents and brothers, especially Mensuling, an older brother, were fiercely opposed to Durmin remaining her husband, and they threw all their weight behind an attempt to have them divorced. Apparently Durmin—in my opinion, at least—was ready to leave Sumling, but this precisely is what made Sumling desperate. The events that preceded the suicide can be summarized thus. 1. Around three months before, in May, Durmin is accused of adultery with Pawlina, and a discussion or litigation (bitsara) takes place. Durmin is not fined but warned that he will have to cease being Sumling’s husband if he does it again. 2. Durmin is caught again around August 6 or 7. Tungkaq and Mensuling announce that they are going to terminate Durmin’s marriage with their sister. Durmin and Sumling have a talk. She begs him not to abandon her. 3. The next day Sumling hangs herself. Durmin attempts to commit suicide. 4. After his attempted suicide Durmin moves out, afraid that Mensuling will kill him, especially since Mensuling had already assaulted him. He then seeks protection from the mining company’s security guards3 and stays in their shelter for two or three nights before moving to Tegbituk


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with his two other sisters and their husbands (Taya and Kuntilyu). His three children stay with their grandparents in Tegpen.

Sumling’s suicide may fit into the type psychologists call “cry of pain” (Williams and Pollock 2000, 88–89). The victim is trapped in a situation from which he /she sees no exit, no escape, with no support from anyone. Especially, other people will not “rescue” him /her. Clearly, Sumling’s family could not be trusted to stop Durmin from leaving her, and that is what truly distressed her. It may well be Sumling’s brothers who were the cause of Durmin’s decision to leave her. This is how I came to understand Sumling’s decision, as the result of pressure exerted by her parents and siblings rather than as a reaction caused by jealousy alone, or even anger against her unfaithful husband. She could cope with that, but not with total separation from him. Love, jealousy, anger, helplessness, and hopelessness all played a part in her decision to bring her life to an abrupt and untimely end.

The litigation process What happened after Sumling’s death can be seen as a carryover of what preceded, namely a series of litigations between Durmin and Mensuling, the chief plaintiff. In the latter’s eyes Durmin was guilty of adultery and also, at least indirectly, of murder. In the community where Durmin lived, the general feeling was probably that he was guilty and responsible for his wife’s desperate gesture. Self-righteous anger among Sumling’s kin, and particularly Mensuling, made it unsafe for Durmin to be seen around too much. Mensuling had physically threatened Durmin and had even hit him, just after Sumling’s death—without inflicting any serious injuries, however. The anger and fear were real, as it was publicly admitted later, so everything made it impossible for Durmin to stay. On August 25 a first bitsara (discussion, public hearing) took place in Tegpen. This discussion concerned the problem of the children’s custody (pegipaten ibun). On September 3 a second important bitsara took place in Tuking’s house in Lilibuten, with the same plaintiffs and defendants. This one was the really important discussion aimed at deciding whether Durmin had to be fined a kebangunan (the price paid for having caused the death of another person) and how much. Before and in between these major public hearings, during which matters were discussed and settled in front of elders from neighboring hamlets and communities, smaller sessions took place on each side in anticipation of the major gatherings. One such discussion, for instance, was held in Tegbituk on August 31 with Taya and Kuntilyu, in preparation for the September 3 meeting in Lilibuten.


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Events from August 20 to 25 I now return to when I picked up the story as it

unfolded after I arrived in Tegbituk, on August 20, 11 days after the tragic events had taken place. Several negotiations were going on. One concerned Saldin and Pawlina. After the reported affair between Pawlina and Durmim—which triggered the events that led to Sumling’s suicide—there was a hearing in Tegpen on August 22 with Saldin and Pawlina. Saldin was considering divorce and was being questioned in front of other elders and kinsmen, like Taya, by his ugang Maring (Pawlina’s MB). “Do you want to separate or not [Megpebutas kew bu diki?]?” asked Maring. “Maybe, uncle-in-law, that is what is going to happen [Enu ga be langku ugang tenaqan je in],” answered Saldin. “But you don’t seem to be really decided, and I don’t want that, indecision [itinegkepain], so I am going to interrogate you further, all of you,” said Maring. In the exchange that followed Saldin explained that he did not really want to divorce Pawlina. He admitted having been “irritated” (iqidekidek) by Pawlina’s behavior and had wanted to “return” (dinatun) her to her parents. But now he did not wish to divorce Pawlina. So that aspect of the situation was settled. Pawlina, whether she had had a fling with Durmin or not, remained married to Saldin, and no fine was asked. In the meantime, Durmin was in Tegbituk, having to face the loss of his wife, the separation from his children, and the wrath of his in-laws. A fine (kebangunan) had already been demanded. Taya was ready to advance the sum. But it had been decided that the case should be brought to Tuking, who was the ultimate judge in this matter. I asked Durmin what he thought of the situation. He told me he was not guilty as far as the affair with Pawlina was concerned, and he denied having consorted with her. He did not deny, however, that Sumling killed herself because of jealousy (imun). Talking privately with Taya on other occasions, I became convinced that at least something was afoot between Durmin and Pawlina. At some point, Durmin acknowledged the gift of candies and cigarettes to Pawlina, but not that of money. It is clear that Durmin wanted to protect himself against legal action, but it should be remembered also that he was in deep mourning. The mark on his neck, made by the thick fishing line he had used to attempt suicide by hanging, was a good reminder of the fact. On the night of August 22, Durmin heard a voice in the night calling his name. Sumling’s? He was not sure. The next morning, after a sleepless night, he went to Tegpen in order to see his children. He spoke to Twakal, Sumling’s father. Twakal told him that he was going to keep the children with him until the day of the bitsara (August 25) but that in any case he would keep the eldest, Esmida (or Ismida), 12 years old, because Bungkur, his wife (grandmother of Esmida) would hang herself (tekleq) were she to be separated from her grandchild. Also,


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Durmin had to pay 1,000 pesos and leave behind his water buffaloes and part of the harvest. Actually, this issue would be discussed later in the bitsara deciding Durmin’s guilt regarding the suicide. So the day of the bitsara arrived, the public hearing concerning Figure 15 Sumling’s and Durmin’s relatives the custody of the children (pegipaten ibun). Durmin, Taya, myself, and a few other companions—including a water buffalo, a cow, two parrots, and a couple of Christian settlers—left Tegbituk at the end of the day for the bitsara that was to take place in the evening in Tegpen. The discussion concerning the custody of the children , August 25 Those who took part

in the discussion and spoke most of the time were Tungkaq, Mensuling, and Taya. Taya was the spokesman for Durmin in his capacity as kinsman4 and as expert in customary law, and also as a community leader (pegibuten). Tungkaq was also a leader and an orator (memimitsara). Other people took part in the proceedings, especially people like Alex, another pegibuten and expert in customary law, and Pining, a younger memimitsara, as well as various kinsmen who acted as witnesses, such as Ersin, Asing, Kuntilyu, and others. To understand why these individuals are involved in the proceedings and to what extent, one must first consult figure 15. Durmin has four sisters. Two older sisters, Awing and Ida, are married, respectively, to Tungkaq and Mensuling, the chief plaintiffs. In this respect the situation is that of an exchange of sisters, since Durmin married Sumling, Tungkaq’s and Mensuling’s sister. This situation is described by the Palawan phrase negdegdag kapal.5 Underlying rules result in a theoretically balanced relationship between Durmin and his brothers-in-law. But Tungkaq and Mensuling are still the husbands of the elder sisters, thus being in a superordinate position of elders compared to Durmin. Durmin’s other two sisters, Asing and Ersin, are married, respectively, to Kuntilyu and Taya, and they both live in Tegbituk. The sibling group is split in two. On one side, the plaintiff’s, are the two oldest sisters, living with their husbands in Tegpen.6 On the other side are the two younger sisters, with whom the defendant is now staying in Tegbituk. Kinship, residence, and a host of other factors create a situation of great complexity, with overlapping and conflicting loyalties, blood and marriage relations folding upon themselves several times.


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Everything is contained in the narrow limits of a very small group of persons who are both kinsmen and affines at the same time. We find an equal conflation of roles in the part played by the main orators. Tungkaq speaks in the capacity of a “lawyer” (memimisara), a recognized expert in customary law, but of course he is a plaintiff. The same can be said of Taya, namely that he is both judge and party. Alex and Pining, who are more distantly related to the parties involved, and, one must add, the rest of the community attending the hearing, are there to ensure that the law is respected. Tungkaq starts by rhetorically dismissing rumors according to which he or Mensuling had any intention to kill Durmin. He addresses Alex, the other judge, “People go about saying that if Durmin came here we would kill him! That, in-law [ugang], that would be bad indeed!” He has called to the meeting Taya, his biras (WZH), Asing, Ersin, and the others in order to talk about a decision concerning Durmin’s children. He, Tungkaq, is willing to make an arrangement so as to let Durmin have them part of the time, or in turn, provided that one remains with the grandmother, Bungkur. She had told Esmida, indeed, “Imid [Esmida], if all of you [my grandchildren] leave and follow your father, then my life isn’t worth anything anymore.”7 “Now,” continues Tungkaq, “if Durmin had done otherwise, if he had listened to me and had given my sister back to me, we would not be discussing this.” The case would not be worth discussing “any more than the death of a dog [tijat minatej beng ideng].” Taya proceeds to answer Tungkaq with a polite preamble (perurus). It is up to Durmin and himself to listen, not to tell other people what to do. Whatever the decision, whether the children stay with the grandmother or with him, Taya, it is fine with him. “Exactly,” says Tungkaq, “that is exactly what I want to hear, because, look, my mother, how long does she have to live? And even if we raise the children, they will eventually come back to their father.” Taya and Tungkaq agree on this point, and Tungkaq repeatedly assures Taya of his desire to take care of the children. In the meantime, Durmin may come and visit them; he may also take two of them with him as long as he leaves one with Sumling’s parents. At this point Asing comes in and says, “Now, Tungkaq, what if he [the father] takes two of his children away from your mother and she hangs herself? What then?” Ersin concurs. “Well,” says Tungkaq, “if she hangs herself, and she still has one of her grandchildren with her, then nothing, we’ll just bury her.” Alex offers the same opinion; there would be no case against Durmin were Bungkur to commit suicide.


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Mensuling comes in at this point and says, “Asing, I wanted you and the others to come in order to let you know that if Mother could not keep one of her grandchildren, she would hang herself. I don’t want to intimidate you. I just acted the way I did because I had warned my brother-in-law [Durmin] before; we told him, but he did not heed our advice. That is why we got angry [neraqat kaj ne].” Durmin and Kuntilyu voice their agreement. “But, Mensuling goes on, as for Mother, there will be no complaint, since we have agreed on it today.” If Bungkur decides to commit suicide, there will be no cause for litigation. “However, if we had not come together to agree today on what to do, and if Mother had hanged herself, then, yes, Durmin would have her death on his conscience also.” Mensuling wants to be reassuring and adds, “Why would she die? It is senseless.” Tungkaq warns, however, that if Durmin were to take all his children with him and not bring them back when asked to do so by Bunkgur, and were she to hang herself, then he, Tungkaq, would accuse Durmin of causing her death. It is then decided that Durmin and Bungkur will share the responsibility of taking care of the children and that Durmin will have to bring them back to Bungkur whenever she asks for them. The discussion moves on to the topic of the work in the swidden, since rice is ready to be harvested. Everyone, says Tungkaq, is going to take care of his own field, but Awing and Ida, Durmin’s older sisters, will help him bring in the harvest. Actually, they had already started harvesting Durmin’s crop. He was away and it could not wait. This point being settled, people start more openly sharing their feelings. Tungkaq assures Durmin that he should not be afraid anymore. He reminds him, however, that Mensuling had to be restrained at the beginning because he wanted to kill him. Asing, also, was angry at Durmin. She herself tells everyone present that when he came to her, in Tegbituk, just after Sumling’s death, she had told him, “Durmin, what did you do? Get out, go hang yourself near your wife!” Tungkaq also recollects the time he heard about his sister’s death. He was away in Mepjang, and somebody told him that there was a death at home. He asked whom, and how. She had died, somebody said, from the heart. Mensuling addresses Durmin and asks him pointblank, “Is it true that you are afraid of me?” “It’s true,” answers Durmin. Relentlessly, Mensuling reminds Durmin of what happened a fortnight ago, when he had warned him. “What did I tell you then? That morning? So before today, I was angry, I didn’t want you around too much.” Durmin sheepishly agrees. Mensuling keeps on reassuring Durmin, “But today, I feel in better disposition towards you. And if I did not follow suit [ipinequnung; matching the death


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of my sister with another one] then, when she was not buried yet, why should I do it today?” Tungkaq and then Twakal, who has so far remained silent, ask Durmin not to move out of Kulbi. They know he has a relative near the town of Brooke’s Point on the east coast, and they are concerned that he might take his children there. But Durmin is going to stay, he says, near his sisters, Asing and Ersin, although he has not settled down yet. In the meantime they, rather than he, will accompany the children to visit their grandparents. Tungkaq and Kuntilju continue to warn Durmin not to abandon his children, not to misbehave, not to go drinking in the village. . . . Mensuling reminds the others that the reason they had taken custody of the children after Sumling’s suicide is because they were afraid Durmin would kill them also in his grief. Durmin had been heard saying to Dirsun, the boy, “Come, we are going to follow your mother.” Mensuling’s comment prompts remarks from the assistants and Alex exclaims, “Innocent children at that!” Kuntilyu is not satisfied, and he wants to hear what would happen in case Durmin decided otherwise. “If he did like Nari,8 what would we do? It’s true though that he has cooled down now, but . . .” Kuntilyu fears that he, his wife, and Taya will be held responsible for whatever happens to Durmin’s children when Durmin is staying with them in Tegbituk. Mensuling and Tungkaq assure him that there would be “no more case than for a dead dog.” Kuntilyu insists, “If, God forbid, he was possessed by a devil [beq tigeblang pemeneldaqat sajtan] . . .” Tungkaq echoes this feeling, saying, “Durmin might be tempted, as he is now deprived of the support of his elder sisters, Awing and Ida, to get rid of his children. . . .” All these fears seem to be allayed by Durmin’s compliance with the demands made upon him. Pining, the younger expert, who has not said much so far, introduces another issue: what transpired of this case outside. It was known that a security guard9 had been apprised of the case. Durmin had met him after the events, and Pining wants to know what Durmin told him. “I did not report to him,” answers Durmin. “It’s like that only. Let me explain it to you. In brief, when I went to Asing [in Tegbituk], Edgar10 asked me, ‘Where are you going?’ “ ‘I am just going home,’ I said. “ ‘What’s up?’ “ ‘Nothing. My wife, she just hanged herself.’ “ ‘Why?’ “ ‘Well, we quarreled.’ “ ‘What happened to your neck?’11


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“ ‘I tried to hang myself, but the cord broke.’ “ ‘Why did you hang yourself ?’ “ ‘I wanted to. That’s our way here [adat kaj damen]. That’s what we do, when we get angry, we just do that, we follow suit and match the death of our spouse with our own [kwantin be tija’t meiseg te lang, peunung te’t esawa te].’ “ ‘You are stupid,’ he said. “So I did not tell anything else, just that I had tried to hang myself.” Tungkaq takes issue with this. Actually, Durmin should not have reported to other people; he should have consulted the elders in the community, such as Maring. It is believed that Durmin, being afraid of Mensuling’s reprisal, had complained about Mensuling and had asked the security guards to protect him. Alex reminds people that soldiers like the Marines do not interfere unless they are asked to by the barrio captain (official village headman). Tungkaq summarizes the whole discussion so far by saying, “Now that my brothers-in-law [mengebiras (spouse’s sibling’s spouses)] are present, and you Asing are here, this is what you should know: he [Durmin] will take care of his field, and of his coconut trees, and his children. If for instance, they want to stay for the night at his place, let it be; let him take care of them since mother is weak. And you, Durmin, don’t be afraid of us since we have settled our case; don’t be afraid of Mensuling, or of me. We might be summoned again as we still have some unfinished business. But we will not have a discussion in this place. We will have to refer the case to senior people; we are too young [itekitekan] and too confused [pegjungjungan (to reach such an important decision)]. I want indeed to bring the case to Kilin,12 and I want you, Alex, to be present, and I want Tuking our leader [pegibuten teju] to hear the case. Indeed, we are not able to decide what is right or wrong according to the law [negkesaraq]. Who has the right to decide for us [sinu i mulag damen] but you, Alex, and Tuking?” This is more or less how the bitsara ended. There were a few more points concerning practical matters such as whether Durmin could sleep in his house in Tegpen after working his field. That request was not granted. Durmin was permitted to take his children with him the next day but had to bring them back soon again. It was decided that Durmin would take two children with him and always leave one with Bungkur. What Tungkaq was saying, of course, was that the big issue of the kebangunan was still pending. He referred to himself and his brother as “small children,” a figure of speech to imply that they were minor acknowledged experts, which was a fact. The preceding discussion dealt with a somewhat secondary issue and was intended to settle pressing practical problems: where would the children stay, who would provide for them, how was the harvest going to be brought in. The issue of suicide, and particularly of Sumling’s suicide, was not centrally


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addressed, but the topic of suicide, its likelihood, and threatening presence loomed large in the discussion, especially regarding Bungkur. If the discourse of the survivors is to be seen as a commentary on suicide in general, then the underlying notion is that suicide is a logical step in a chain of events, the result of a situation of no choice. In the case of Bungkur it is used as an argument—a kind of blackmail, we would be tempted to say—by Tungkaq to force the issue of the children’s custody. If Durmin insists on taking the children away, he will, again, be held responsible for another death. Bungkur, being deprived of her grandchildren, will have no choice but to kill herself. She is indeed quoted as saying that her life will be worthless, meaning that suicide is her only choice. This point is presented as a logical outcome of the situation at hand, an inescapable fatality. Durmin’s life, on the other hand, is also considered to be at risk. They fear he might not only take his own life but that of his children as well. The fact that Nari’s case was mentioned in connection with this is telling. This particular case of murder-suicide happened more than 20 years before and would happen again later.13 Durmin had already tried to take his own life. As he is now going to settle in Tegbituk under the supervision of his sisters and brothers-in-law, Kuntilyu and Taya, the latter will be held responsible if it happens again. Suicide as a natural outcome of a situation of stress and loss is then considered a very real risk at this juncture. The possibility of the added murder of the children is also taken into consideration, and this seems to show a remarkable foresight and understanding of suicidal behavior.14 If the survivors want to prevent it somehow, their main concern remains to protect themselves against the accusation of causing or allowing the suicide of others. Suicide is also mentioned in two different contexts. At one point Asing uses it as a rebuke hurled at Durmin. In another context, which was described by Durmin in his reported exchange with the Christian security guard, suicide is seen as a “custom” (adat), something that is specifically Palawan and that outsiders cannot comprehend. Suicide then appears to be conceptualized as both a natural and a cultural process. Finally, Tungkaq’s and Mensuling’s unchallenged argument is that, essentially, suicide will not be an issue if it happens outside the purview of legal arrangements. Durmin had been duly warned, he breached the law, and he is guilty. Underlying such statements is the belief that suicide will not happen if rules are respected. If Durmin had obeyed his brother-in-law, Sumling would be alive. If the grandchildren stay with her, Bungkur will not commit suicide. There is still, however, the possibility of a supernatural agency, a devil (sejtan), seizing the mind of the victim. This is what Tuking is inclined to believe, and this brings us to the next stage of the proceedings.


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Events from August 26 to September 3 The bitsara of September 3, during which the fine for having caused the suicide (kebangunan) was to be decided, had been prepared by numerous interviews and preliminary talks between the participants. On August 26, Taya had conferred with his father Pitu about the kebangunan. Pitu’s mother Ambisan had committed suicide some 30 years previously, and a kebangunan had been demanded, but Pitu did not want to collect it.15 On August 31 Taya discussed the case again with Kuntilyu. The latter was prepared to sell a cow, but Taya told him to wait and see what Tuking would decide. Taya himself was prepared to contribute by giving 3,500 pesos. At any rate, Taya reminded Kuntilyu of Ambisan’s precedent. He also said to me that as far as the justice system of the Philippine state was concerned, no charge could be brought against Durmin and that Durmin was ready to face a court of law if need be. Another aspect of the case also had to be addressed. Mensuling was now demanding that Pawlina pay a fine equivalent to a small gong (sanang)16 for having accepted Durmin’s gifts and having flirted with him. Saldin, brother of Taya and husband of Pawlina, came to Tegbituk on September 1 to consult with his brother about this matter. Taya was of the opinion that Mensuling was too greedy and that his demands would not be granted by elders like Tuking, but in any case Saldin had better prepare for it and get the amount of the fine ready. The discussion concerning the fine, September 3 On the evening of September 3 we all gathered in Tuking’s house in Lilibuten. Many people were present; the big house was packed with people from all around, perhaps 80 or more. Among them was Gabriel Batul, or “Gab,” an ex-barrio captain and still a very respected community leader and to some extent a representative of the administration’s views both in his capacity as formerly elected municipal officer and as an expert in traditional law.17 Medsinu, one of Tuking’s sons, was there also. A respected local leader (pegibuten) himself, Medsinu was a skilled orator. Both Gab and Medsinu were going to take an active part in the discussion. We were waiting for the plaintiff, Tungkaq, who arrived late, apologizing and saying he had trouble with his eyes—which was true. The hearing then started immediately and lasted for two and a half hours. The whole society, it seemed to me, was gathered to hear and decide something that went beyond a simple individual misbehavior and had to do with the foundation and renewal of social order. It started thus: Tungkaq “You were waiting for me.” Tuking “Go ahead and tell us [tuturaq lang].” Tungkaq “I will explain to all brothers and sisters, to all elders and


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parents. . . . I came here, Tuking, because of Durmin; I’ll tell all, not just one or two things.” Tuking “All here are sitting hearing you.”

Tungkaq reminds them of the first warning he gave Durmin. He thought Durmin understood and that he would not repeat his mistake. If Durmin had come back to his wife, it could all have come to rest. He forgave Durmin then, thinking it would not occur again, but he was wrong (nelimpetes). But, he says, it happened again, three times. Although names are not given, it is known that Durmin had an affair with Tama before. The second time, continues Tungkaq, well, it was hidden from him; his neighbors kept it secret (ikinilulum et pegrurung ). They did not tell him, he says, because they were afraid he would kill them. But now here they are with Taya and Kuntilyu, Tungkaq’s biras, all the neighbors, and also Durmin. “Now I tell you,” Tungkaq says, “Durmin is not able to change his behavior.”18 Tungkaq recalls the meeting they had with Mensuling as Durmin came back from his work, still wearing his bush knife. According to Tungkaq, the meeting proceeded like this: Tungkaq shouted at Durmin, saying, “Hey Durmin, what is it you are doing? Will you stop or what? I am not discussing with you, I am telling you.” Durmin started to cry. He did not have any excuse (Tag. katuwiran) to offer. Tungkaq continued, “I warn you, you do it again, I’ll have you divorced [butasen ku ga ne ikew]; you will have to get away from my sister [ipeqesen ku it tipused ku]. You already have done it twice. Durmin, you and Sumling you are going to divorce, is that it? Or do you have more than one wife [pegbeqisan]?” Sumling, according to Tungkaq, went along with her brother’s entreaties, saying that Durmin’s unfaithfulness was unceasing.19 If, Tungkaq said, Durmin had told him, “Here is your sister, I don’t want her anymore because my heart desires another woman [sabab nelinggang nej atej ku’t ibang libun],” then he, Tungkaq, would have taken his sister back and there would have been no cause for litigation. Tungkaq said, “Having taken custody of my sister [gineqeng ne tipused ku], if she had hanged herself in my house, this would have been like the death of a dog [tijat minatej na ideng ]; I would have taken responsibility [milik] for her. . . . You must know that when my sister killed herself I was absent. But if I had been apprised of what was going on, then I would have done something. I have been negligent. But now she is dead and I don’t want to forgive. . . . Ah, Uncle Tuking, if only Durmin had given my sister back to me. . . .”


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“This used to be the custom,” responded Tuking. Mensuling takes the floor and addresses Tuking and says, “I am now going to answer my brother. Look at Durmin. He is truly our brother; we exchanged our sisters [negsunuqsunuq kaj ]. . . . I thought then that Durmin was on our side [gapi kaj ], but no, he isn’t. Indeed he is murdering [assaulting] us [memunuq damen].” He goes on to accuse Durmin of having thrown away 50 pesos, the money Durmin gave to his other woman. He sarcastically calls Durmin a rich man (pegkedejahan je). Warned that he would be fined for his misbehavior, Durmin, according to his accuser, just laughed it off, saying he had a water buffalo. Mensuling “And now, Durmin, since you are rich, how many water buffaloes do you own—how many, tell me? I tell you, you pay for my sister [tipused ku tiban bejadiq ne]. I will not tell you how much; my father will. Listen to him; he will say how much you owe him for his daughter.” Twakal “The price for my daughter is 30,000. He was not dutiful. . . .” Tungkaq “He did not show any respect.”

Mensuling, all worked up, continues in the same heated vein, hurling reproaches and accusations at Durmin, who paid no attention whatsoever to what he was told, kept running after other women, and so on. This style of discourse reminds one of a “trial for murder” (bitsara bunuq) or “trial of hatred” (bitsara iseg). Tuking stops Mensuling and asks Dumin to speak up. Dumin is Mensuling and Tungkaq’s younger brother living in Lumtab. He was not with them in Tegpen at the time of the events, so he has maintained a very discreet presence and distances himself from his aggressive older brother. “I have nothing else to say,” Dumin responds, “since I have no knowledge of what happened.” Hearing that, Mensuling gets really angry at his brother and commands, “Dumin, I forbid you. . . . You must know, Sumling came to see you. . . . If you have any feeling left for your sister, don’t let us down [kas mu kami pelingsaqan].” Tungkaq goes on, reminding Dumin that he had been told and knew of the accusation against his brother-in-law, Durmin. Would there be anything else Dumin needed to know? Tungkaq doubts it and asks Dumin not to behave as a stranger. Actually, Dumin does not want to follow the hard line taken by his elder brothers, who are really put off by this attitude. Tungkaq continues, “If you have to be critical of us [tumaksir], do it privately, not in front of all these people.”


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Mensuling, very agitated, tells Dumin that he is not part of their sibling group anymore. Dumin, thus terrorized by his brother, hastily goes on to say that he had been wrong to say what he said and would not add anything else. The next to speak is Kemad, another of Tungkaq and Mensuling’s younger brothers. Tuking turns to Kemad and asks him to speak up. Kemad agrees with his elder brothers and suggests the sum of 10,000 pesos to be paid as compensation (kebangunan) for Sumling’s death. Mensuling spells it out ever so clearly. “Councilman [panglima (traditional title for a local leader)], Durmin has to pay for the death of a person [pebajadan kaj ne ki Durmin ej patej et taw].” Tuking does not want to commit himself to a final judgment and asks the participants to continue presenting their case. “Go around me,” he says. Mensuling repeats the accusation to Durmin’s face. “You went womanizing week after week, and how would our sister not die from it? If she had done the same, wouldn’t it have driven you crazy [diki metpuqan ke’t nakem]? So, pay 10,000 pesos.” Tuking interjects, “Do you have them, nephew, or not?” He anticipates Durmin’s answer by adding, “He doesn’t have that sum any more than I have it, I can tell you that right away.” Answering Mensuling, who insists that Durmin is at fault and must pay, Tuking makes a rather lengthy but cautious and roundabout speech. He has no objection to what has been said so far, although the amount demanded by the plaintiffs seems too high. “One cannot know when it is time to die [diki pegkekpeten ej umur]. My niece was fated to die [isinukud et menak kung libun]. True, nothing would have happened if they had followed the advice of their elders, but who hasn’t made such mistakes? I acted thus badly myself before [aku be ituq pinequnan et kedupangan aku]. Let it be; it’s fate [keje lang alangalang sukud ].” Tuking indeed had been known in his youth for his trysts with women. He and Durmin are equal in this respect, he says. Interestingly, at this point Tuking quotes Sumling, or rather her ghost, as telling him that she had no desire for or interest in any other man and that it was her fate to die so. In his capacity as shaman and healer (beljan), and the most highly regarded at that, and having acknowledged access to the unseen, Tuking brings in a new dimension in order to support his claim that Sumling’s death was not really caused by another person’s actions, but by the workings of destiny. Turning towards Tungkaq and especially Mensuling, Tuking asks them what, when the time comes, their children will think of them, what their reputations (kebantugan) will be. Isn’t it time to go back and revise (riburan) their judgment and pronounce a more balanced, or moderate (metinimbang) sentence, so that “his [Tuking’s] ears and his liver would be pierced [touched, convinced] by their words [sebaliq megladjak et telinga ku atej ku]?”


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At this point in the proceedings, a subtle tug-of-war goes on between Tuking, who tries to lower the demands of Mensuling and Tungkaq—he warns them not to have a “rotten way of thinking [gebu pikiran]”— and the latter, who persistently claim that grievous damage has been done by Durmin. Although he does not spell it out in so many words during the discussion, Tuking indeed is of the opinion that suicide is the result of unseen forces, the “people of beyond” (taw’t pelijawan). Mensuling is unmoved and displays unusual aggressiveness. He hints that if the “bosses” (bugerar)20 do not grant him the fine he is asking, he will seek his own justice. Other participants in the discussion were appalled and at the same time intimidated by such threats of violence and the display of this violent attitude. Asing, Durmin’s sister, for instance, said she was ready to pay whatever amount Mensuling demanded rather than put her brother at risk. Tuking’s entreaties—he reminds Mensuling that he and Durmin are relatives—result eventually in the lowering of the fine (3,000 pesos and one water buffalo). Tuking, again, mentions the fact that he had seen the ghost of Sumling; she spoke to him, saying, “This is fate; let it pass [sukud, alangalang].” Durmin had come to Tuking just after the suicide and had also expressed his fear that Mensuling would kill his children, especially after Mensuling had started beating him up. Mensuling accuses his biras and sisters-in law, particularly Taya and Ersin, of speaking ill of him. They, especially Ersin, are slandering him, saying that he is naughty or evil (bejek), that he will not care for his nephews and nieces. Ersin denies having said that. The argument goes on. Tungkaq questions Ida. Taya counterattacks and says that Mensuling had accused Taya and Ersin of having encouraged Durmin in his evil ways. This exchange exposes the tensions and unspoken hostilities existing in the sibling group. Interestingly, it shows that realignment of loyalties follows the lines of the local settlement pattern, pitting, so to speak, those from Tegpen against those from Tegbituk (see chap. 1, fig. 1). The talk now turns to the question of Pawlina’s role in Sumling’s suicide. Tungkaq wants to hear the relatives of Pawlina—old Mistar, her upuq (MBMB), and Maring, her uncle (MB). They are also guilty, insists Tungkaq. Saldin (Pawlina’s husband) as well should answer because he did not tell Tungkaq what had happened between his wife and Durmin. Saldin and Pawlina are thus, according to Tungkaq, party to the conspiracy against him. Therefore she should bear part of the fine. The sum of 1,500 pesos is quoted. Kuntinu, Pawlina’s brother-in-law (ZH), comes in to say that he is on neither side. He appeals to Maring to speak freely (“may his liver not be knotted [djangan isimpul et atej je]”). Tungkaq reminds Maring of where things stand at this point: his niece has been fined 1,500 pesos; Durmin will have to pay the


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remaining 1,500 pesos and a water buffalo. Maring agrees and is ready to pay, but he does not have the money now. Mistar appears to be unaware of the charge against his upuq Pawlina. Tungkaq gruffly reminds him that she accepted money—as much as 50 pesos—and cigarettes from Durmin. That is why Pawlina is suspected of having done something with Durmin. Tungkaq goes on, “If there was nothing between them, how would she accept it [meqnung keradja kwantin baq diki wara kedje]?” He repeats the same arguments, that if he had known better he would have taken his sister back, and so on. He works himself into a frenzy of anger while recollecting the events that led to Sumling’s suicide. It appears that another person, Ensuling, one of Tungkaq and Mensuling’s cousins, had told Sumling about Durmin’s infidelity. Ensuling, who is at the bitsara, corrects Tungkaq. His advice to Sumling was to go back to her mother and father, but she had said to him, “I don’t want to separate.” Never mind who said what, Tungkaq continues; he should have been told, then he would have acted preventively and taken his sister back so that there would be “no more cause for litigation than for the death of a dog,” apparently a favorite expression of his. Note again that the taking of his sister from Durmin is not presented as a preventive action against suicide, but merely a move that would have precluded any further legal action. Saldin explains why he did not say anything to Tungkaq. There was another aspect to the relationship between his wife and Durmin. Actually, Durmin was distantly related to Pawlina, which made their relationship somewhat incestuous (Durmin was the MMMBS of Pawlina). Tungkaq insists that, nevertheless, Pawlina’s mother, Dasiq, should have spoken up. Old Mistar asks who was the first woman with whom Durmin committed adultery. It is Tama, answers Tungkaq, who reminds them that they had had a bitsara three months ago concerning this affair. Durmin had acted arrogantly, showing himself superior to them (lumimbiq eset damen), saying, “What’s all this noise about [bulingew ku gain]?” It had been decided that if Durmin went away to stay with his own people (kekampungan), it would be over—he and Sumling would be divorced. If, however, Durmin came back to his wife, the marriage would hold. (And that is of course what happened.) The next morning, very early (“when you barely see the feathers of the chicken [butuk meketunan ej bulbul ]”), here comes Durmin to Tungkaq, presenting him with a betel box and saying, “I am staying with your sister.” Mistar asks, “How did you know about Pawlina, then?” Tungkaq replies, “Dasiq told me, but she told it to me after Sumling died.” Mensuling then interjects, “The rumor had been going around but nobody told us, really. Everybody knew except us.”


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So Mistar turns to Durmin and asks him directly, “Cousin, I ask you, this rumor, was it true? Have you two done something really?” This is the first time in the discussion that Durmin is asked anything. His answer is both cautious and vague: “Now that [Sumling] is dead, nobody will believe me if I say that nothing happened between [Pawlina and me]; that is why I don’t want to say anything anymore.” The next section of the discussion addresses the issue of what Durmin really gave to Pawlina, this piece of evidence being considered sure proof of adultery. Durmin had already denied giving money but admitted giving just cigarettes; whether there was money or not, and for whom the money was intended—Durmin said it was money to be brought to Taya—is immaterial, says Tungkaq, since giving anything to another man’s wife is a breach of custom and a sign of evil intentions. Mistar agrees. “It is not correct [kara sara],” he says. Since enough evidence seems to have been presented, it is time to reach a decision, a final judgement (kitab). The experts and senior people come in. Medsinu, son of Tuking, is the first to speak: “How are you going to finalize this?” Mensuling sums up the successive points. Twakal, his father, had asked for a “price” (betang) of 30,000 pesos; Kemad, his younger brother, would be content with 10,000 pesos; Tuking (in order to lower the fine further) had reminded them of the close ties between Durmin and them. In any case, Durmin has to pay. So the final price is this: 3,000 pesos and one water buffalo (karabaw). Medsinu asks, “Is that all right with you? No further reduction? We should ask for Father [Tuking] to pronounce the sentence. Indeed, the preys of the hunter [pineri] must be shared [one must defer to the judgment of others in a case like this].” Medsinu goes back to Durmin and asks him again if he can pay. “I’ll borrow,” Durmin replies. After a certain amount of subtle haggling between Medsinu and Tungkaq, Medsinu concludes, “Well then, that’s all.” The barrio councilmen, Alex and Kilin, are then called in to give their opinions. No objection is raised at first and Tungkaq concludes, “So you all agree that my bother-in-law [Durmin] should be fined [nebtang et sara].” Kilin responds, “If what I am saying hurts your ears, one must then ask the barrio captain [kapitan] to decide. The elder [Tuking] is showing us the way. Anyhow, according to the ways of the Christians [adat bisaja],21 there is nothing to pay, even the tip of the finger; that is my judgment. If he had killed her, then yes, you could have him sentenced all you want. But as we are here, at the Old Man’s place [Tuking’s], then we should have him say what the final judgment is. As for me, if I were him [Durmin], I would not pay anything.”


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Coming from a respected community leader, this stiff rebuke goes down without too much protest from Tungkaq, who says, nevertheless, “Well, then in this case one could do anything.” The point must be made that the whole hearing is based on a traditional indigenous way of settling disputes, one that has no legal basis in the judicial system of the Republic of the Philippines (referred to above as adat bisaja). This is clear to everyone present, but there was a need at some point to remind people of this fact in order to bring the demands of the plaintiffs to a reasonable level. Kilin, in his double capacity as expert in traditional adat law and representative of the administration, was in the best position to make this statement, as a reminder of the extent of power detained by this native court of justice and as a strategy for counteracting the claims made by Sumling’s siblings. Gab, however, is of the opinion that a kebangunan should be given, if only because it is the time-honored law of old (sara tagnaq). They should not go and ask the present barrio captain for his decision22 because he could not impose such a fine. Kilin warns, however, that if a very high-priced kebangunan is demanded from Durmin, this will become a precedent. A short discussion ensues between Tungkaq, Tuking, and Medsinu to the effect that there would be no fine if the suicide had occurred as a result of pain and sickness—for example, Awing, Tungkaq’s wife, had hanged herself because of her inability to withstand physical pain (et kara nesendaran je). There would have been a fine if the suicide had been caused by Tungkaq’s infidelity or misconduct (dupang). Kilin speaks. “So then, there will be a kebangunan, but according to which scale are we going to determine its amount?” Mensuling repeats that he wants the full amount: 3,000 pesos and the water buffalo (karabaw), or else. He goes on to say that according to him the traditional customary law grants him as much, but the Christian legal system (adat perinta) would grant him even more—up to 12,000 pesos, he says. Kilin disagrees totally and says that they should just entrust old Tuking with the decision. As for himself, Kilin says, he would not pay a cent if Durmin were his son. He would bring the case to the barrio captain. Things would be different if Durmin had hit or beaten (inelima) Sumling and there had been any witnesses. These words upset old Twakal very much. He is seized by a fit of violent, almost convulsive, anger (lukub).23 He claps his hands and shouts, “Let them bring back my daughter [bikjaten dje ibun ku]! Shit, bring her back to life [atut, bjagaq mju]!” But Kilin repeats that Tuking has to pronounce the final judgment. Eventually the amount is lowered to 1,000 pesos, to be paid by Pawlina and Durmin. The water buffalo is still included.


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Medsinu wants a final point cleared up. If Pawlina pays, will that mean that she becomes Durmin’s wife? No, say Tungkaq and Alex, she will just pay part of the fine and that is all. In the event that she wants to marry Durmin, then she will have to pay 12,000 pesos, and that is a different case (lejn neng bitsara) altogether. Mensuling is quick to remind them that their marriage would be incestuous and that he would rather kill them than allow it. More is said about the amount to be paid, the value of the buffalo, and other details. Tuking tries again to lower the amount to 600 pesos, half of it to be paid by Durmin and half by Pawlina. Kilin repeats that they have to make a choice between the law of the lowlands and their own way. And even then, says Kilin, the price paid for a case like that would not amount to 1,000 pesos. But Mensuling opposes a last-minute reduction, although Tungkaq is ready to compromise at 400 pesos each. Another brouhaha flares up and Mensuling, still irate and almost shouting, vents his spleen against those who have slandered him, including other neighbors like old Pitu and Bering, who had left the hamlet to avoid Mensuling’s bad temper. But for Mensuling it is Durmin who is truly the cause of all the trouble. Interestingly, Mensuling still points out that Durmin is “acting superior to us [meglebi ne be lalu damen],” which indicates that his “aggravation” (pegidekidek) has been caused by a behavior he perceives as personally offensive. Asing, who is on Durmin’s side, advises Durmin to pay the full amount so as not to aggravate Mensuling further and for fear that Mensuling might do serious harm to Durmin. Everybody is more or less weary of the ravings of Mensuling, so Gab warns that it is time to pay. Durmin gives 500 pesos. Another 500 pesos are lent by Kuntilyu and given on behalf of Pawlina. The judges (Medsinu, Gab, Alex, and Kilin), all senior experts, are given 100 pesos each and Tuking 200 pesos. Medsinu refuses to take his share, so the remainder, 500 pesos, is given to Twakal. The buffalo goes to Twakal also. The price of the buffalo and the 500 pesos must be further and privately shared among the siblings—Tungkaq, Mensuling, and the younger brothers. The formal hearing is over, but people still want to clear up several points. One group, including Kuntilyu and Dasiq, raises the issue of Durmin’s fate and whether he is now safe. Mensuling has to assure them that he does not want to see Durmin dead; he just wanted him to account for his actions. As if in afterthought, Tungkaq wonders if there is not another fine to be paid, the keledaqan, which is a compensation given for the death of the wife when she has died from sickness or accident. “What do you want?” Tuking asks. “There will be no keledaqan; in case of suicide there is no keledaqan. An accidental death caused by a fall, or by crocodiles,


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that is the will of Empuq. And to be killed by another person, it is also the will of Empuq.” Finally, provisions are made concerning the rice that has been harvested. A share goes to Bungkur, since she has done part of the harvesting herself. It is also decided that all the coconut trees planted by Durmin will go to his and Sumling’s children.

Epilogue Years later, after the whole affair had come to pass, and as I recollected it with Taya, it appeared in hindsight that indeed Mensuling, so adamant in his selfrighteous anger, had been the one to cause Sumling’s death by forcing the issue and terminating the marriage. Durmin had never really wanted to divorce Sumling. This sad paradox was never brought up in Durmin’s trial. The underlying psychodynamic process, or at least the one that I was able to reconstruct, never emerged in the discussion. Nobody ever said, “What if you, Tungkaq, and you, Mensuling had caused your sister to kill herself because you were set so against Durmin, whom she loved?” The consensus was and remained instead that Durmin’s actions were at the root of the tragedy.24 There were, however, diverging opinions concerning the legality of the sentence. On the one hand, according to Kilin—and Taya shared this opinion— from the point of view of modern law (the judicial system of the Philippine state), there was no fault and no fine to pay. On the other hand, Tuking felt it was of a spiritual or religious nature: it was fate, like sickness or accidental death, in which case also Durmin should be exonerated. But Tungkaq and Mensuling were able to prevail not only in fining Durmin, but also in maintaining their rather high level of financial demands. True enough, from the 30,000 pesos originally demanded by Twakal to the 1,000 pesos plus one water buffalo actually paid by Durmin and his relatives, the drop is staggering, but still not enough to satisfy other legal minds. I had the opportunity to discuss the case with Gab, the ex-barrio captain. He firmly stated that the kebangunan had been too high, considering that traditionally its price is measured by one big gong (agung). One buffalo, worth more than 3,000 pesos, and a cash fine of 1,000 pesos was far too much. Gab feared that this would cause Durmin to be resentful and get back at Mensuling one way or another. In case either of Mensuling’s or Tungkaq’s wives committed suicide—a likely event in Kulbi, after all—Durmin was sure to demand and obtain a similar kebangunan. Moreover, considering that Durmin was their wives’ brother (they had namikit25 to him), their requirements seemed extravagant. The final judgment was not balanced (kara netimbang), according to Gab.


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So why did Sumling’s brothers have their way? It was really the sheer force of their anger, something that “was in their liver” (wara dut atej dje), that won the day for them. Intimidation, fear of revenge, and the possibility of violence resulted in a compromise aimed at dousing the wrath of the plaintiffs. It seemed wiser than turning their request down. So it is that in Palawan society the threat of violence carries such a tremendous impact that everyone is ready to compromise in order to neutralize any motive that would lead to its emergence. But what does it say of the status of suicide? From indirect murder to decision of the gods, its status is never clearly defined. The kebangunan may be an institutionalized attempt at forcing this irrational and unpredictable type of action into the matrix of morality and law and define it, albeit negatively, as a consequence of a breach of the legal structure of society. In the other cases involving a kebangunan, those of Tutuq, Ambisan, Rentima, and Ipat (see chap. 7), it is always sexual relations, adultery, and incest that are at stake. Those closest to the victim are held responsible for the misconduct leading to the drama. Thus suicide is constructed as an aspect of a general breakdown of social relations and particularly those—the most sensitive of all, perhaps—revolving around marriage and sex. In the bitsara, Sumling’s silent ghost testified to her role as passive victim of adultery. At no point did she appear as an agent whose decision shaped the events. She was represented as having no choice, cast in the role of the helpless victim. The representation of the suicide victim as a passive agent is, I submit, a ploy to make suicide part of an identifiable moral structure, amenable to social negotiation. The giving of the kebangunan restores a normal state of morality disrupted by misconduct. Thus is suicide conceptually neutralized. After Sumling’s death, Durmin remained unmarried for one year. He then married Dina, a girl of 17. They had no children because Durmin had had a vasectomy. Their marriage was chaotic. Durmin had several affairs and flirtations leading to litigation. Dina had herself at least four lovers while she was married to Durmin. They divorced after ten years, in 2001. Mensuling and Tungkaq feel no more resentment toward Durmin; Mensuling came to live in Tegbituk. But Durmin had to pay the entire kebengunan. In place of the buffalo he had to give Sumling’s brothers a rice field worth the same amount. There were no other suicides among those involved in this case.


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7 Suicide Case Studies

The cases described in this chapter have been documented after the fact based on information from respondents who knew the victims well or had firsthand knowledge of the circumstances or a recollection of events as reported to them. I collected these data from interviews conducted during fieldwork from 1989 onwards. My main informant and collaborator, Taya Ransawi, provided himself much information, but he often had to inquire further and get data from other persons. Some cases that are recorded in the main list of suicide cases (see table 11) do not appear here for lack of more precise information. Some cases are better documented than others—Sumling’s suicide, for instance, discussed in chapter 6. On the other hand, cases that happened well before 1989 did not yield as many details. Only the reported motivations and general circumstances could be obtained. Such is the case with Merensinu’s suicide, which occurred in 1959. Cases that occurred in more distant areas such as Kedawan (see chap. 1, map 2) or just outside the Kulbi area tend also to be less completely documented. In some instances, contradictory indications are given on the manner or cause of suicide (see case of Umar later in this chapter). In most cases the age of the person is at best an approximation, since Palawan people do not measure their age in years. Only for children can they remember the number of harvests since birth. Things are changing, of course, and more “educated” people such as Taya Ransawi and his son Ruben keep an exact count of their own and their children’s ages.1 I cannot exclude some uncertainties on the dates of some suicides. I have ordered the cases in this chapter in several obvious categories, such as old age, jealousy, quarrel between husband and wife, love affairs, and the like. Those captions reflect the alleged motivations for the act of suicide, as reported by my informants. Let me stress that all these reasons and motivations are of course reported ex post facto, that they are always “alleged,” and that even if factually true, there can be other, less obvious reasons at work in the intricate 167


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personal circumstances that lead to suicide. Most likely, what drives people to act is a complex combination of motivations, feelings, and emotions—not just one, although, again, one might be dominant. In any case the categories can be taken as a fair indication of what the precipitating circumstances were. The cases are presented chronologically within each category. The order of the categories is arbitrary.

Old Age and Sickness Ranjew (1982) Ranjew was a widower, aged 70. He was sick and suffered from almost total blindness. That is why, they say, he committed suicide. As the informant puts it, “He was in constant pain [or difficulty] because of not being able to see [Metiksaq lang et kaja meketuqun].”

Arek and Telnang (1960 and 1983) Arek, a 70-year-old man (or thereabouts), suffered in his old age. He was weak (lama) and could not work anymore. He then killed himself. Likewise, his father Telnang committed suicide in the early 1960s (also at the age of 70) for the same reasons and also because he suffered from a bad leg. Comment Informants presented both suicides as typical and customary (adat) for

old people unable to lead an active life. The motivation is not really the inability to support oneself, as children and grandchildren will provide for the disabled elder, but rather the suffering and discomfort (metiksaq) or pain (sakit) that often comes with old age.

Sansiq (1989) This older woman in her late sixties ended her life because she was crippled by sickness and half paralyzed since the age of 30. She was a widow, and her grandchildren took care (pegipat) of her. She used a piece of rattan and tied it to her neck and hanged herself in a sitting position. It happened in April.

Musej (1996) Musej was an elderly widow, aged 64. When I interviewed her on November 3, 1995, in Lilibuten, she looked lively and was apparently very healthy save for a problem with her eyesight. She said she could not see anymore and that her son-in-law was taking care of her. She actually expressed the wish to die, but, she said, “I cannot muster the courage to hang myself [Tekleq diki pegkeurem ku].” Hearing that, Taya, who was with me, then said, “God would send you to hell,” to which she answered, “May He do as He wants, once I’m dead [Bejaq je baq


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patej ku na in]!” She added these words: “I don’t have the heart [to kill myself ]. Even after death you don’t find your husband anymore.” One can hardly find a clearer statement indicating a total lack of eschatological perspective. In spite of these expressed beliefs, and of her fear of killing herself, she committed suicide a few months later. Previously, during our conversation, she did mention her husband and the fact that “he did not take her with him when he died.” She told us about a dream she had had the day after her husband’s demise. She had visited him in her dream. He was in a house together with a crowd of other persons, in the land of the dead (kelebegang), but he did not even look at her. If he had she would have died, since direct contact with the dead causes the living to die. She commented that she had better cease living. This conversation sheds a certain amount of light on her suicidal motivations. She certainly was suffering from her increasing blindness and inability to support herself, but her loneliness and the loss of her husband were very much part of her possible depressive state. This shows again that one cannot attribute only one reason for a suicide. Looking at the notes I took in my diary the day of Musej’s interview, I realize how much life she had in her. As Taya was chiding her about her love life in former days, she recalled the beaux who came to see her “every other day.” One was so handsome, she said, “his eyebrows were almost invisible” (having very narrow and fine eyebrows is a sign of beauty for the Palawan). As she was thus recollecting, her eyes were alight and her posture was erect, and the pretty, young lass courted by eager suitors of Kulbi and Kenipaqan was visible under the wrinkled skin.

Strife between Husband and Wife Ungkuq (1967) Ungkuq was a woman of 34 who killed herself because she had had a quarrel with her husband about her work. He complained that she was lazy (mejahuq) and reproached her for not finishing the harvest in time. Apparently he scolded her many times rather violently and even threw a pestle at her. She finally committed suicide in 1967. Comment Accusing one of “laziness” (mejahuq) is one of the most severe judg-

ments that one can level at another in the Palawan culture. Being hard working (mepangnaq) is one of the chief personal values held by men and women alike. It is clear, however, that behind the quarreling there could have been other problems. In any case, there was severe friction between this husband and wife.


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Tilej (1986) Tilej, a man of 28, committed suicide after quarrelling with his wife. He shot himself in the heart with an air gun. It took him six hours to die. Comment This is, of course, a most uncommon way to kill oneself, and the slow,

painful death is vividly recollected by informants in Kedawan. One could perhaps hypothesize that Tilej wanted only to attempt suicide, in which case one could construct it as a failed suicide attempt. However, Palawan hunters go after wild boars with air guns and say that if their aim is accurate, they can kill such a thick-skinned animal with this kind of weapon.

Pula (1988) Pula, a woman of 47, hanged herself over a quarrel concerning rice. Pula’s husband had harvested a good amount of rice and wanted to use part of it to pay back his debts. Pula wanted to keep all of the rice. This led to a quarrel, and Pula committed suicide as a result. The alleged motivation is anger (iseg) and quarreling (banta).

Landa (1995) Landa hanged himself at the age of 44. His wife did not or had ceased to love him. “She refused to care for him [Mandiq ipesajaw esawa je].” He was jealous of her too. She had shown her dislike for him and had even shot him with an air gun. He went deep in the bush and hanged himself. His body, when found, was already decomposing.

Jealousy, Desertion of Spouse Masja (1967) Masja hanged herself because her husband had left her for a woman from Balabac Island, probably a Molbog.2 It was not possible to establish Masja’s exact age; she was in her thirties or forties.

Sumling (1989) See chapter 6.

Nalde (1993) This young man committed suicide by drinking poison (tejudan). His wife Rusida, a very pretty girl, was somewhat promiscuous. She was older than he was (she was 28, he 22), and she had two children from a previous marriage but none with Nalde. The alleged reason for Nalde’s suicide is jealousy (imun).


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Tutuq (1995) Tutuq was a man in his mid-fifties or older. He was married and had five adult children. He was comparatively wealthy, having a big coconut plantation. Actually, a wad of banknotes amounting to 150,000 pesos was reportedly found in his trousers after his death.3 He was a widower and had remarried Antim, a much younger woman from Kedawan. They were living in Beheg. After two years she left him and went back to her father’s place. Tutuq wanted her to come back, but she refused. She had reportedly left him because he was jealous (meimun) and prone to anger (meiseg). Upon hearing that she definitely would not come back to him, Tutuq tied a rope used to tether the cow to a rafter and hanged himself. The day before he committed suicide he had had a long talk with his children, urging them to behave but not disclosing his intention to end his life, except by saying that “maybe he was going to be sick [kaluq wara mesakit].” Since he was unwell and suffering from toothaches, his children thought nothing of it. He hanged himself in the wee hours of the next morning; his son Djuli found him. Comment Informants say that Tutuq was a good man but a rather dull person—

not very outgoing, not one to speak up in meetings or litigation. They commented that his wife, who was in her mid-twenties, probably wanted to meet other, younger people. Tutuq had no history of attempted suicide. In any case, Antim was fined one small gong (sanang; equivalent to 500 pesos) as kebangunan for having abandoned her husband at a time when he was feeling unwell and for having consorted—or wanting to consort—with other men. Another fact was reported to me. Kilin, one of the important customary law arbiters in the area, was about to talk to Tutuq sometime before Tutuq’s demise and upbraid him for his outbursts of anger against Antim. Tutuq was weary of that and did not want, at his age—he was a senior person (megurang)—to be subjected to a lecture on good manners. Actually, what Kilin wanted to do was help Tutuq get his wife back, but in order to smooth things over he had to raise the issue of Tutuq’s anger. Tutuq’s behavior, particularly the fact that he had summoned his children to give them his last directions and will, makes one think that his suicide was highly premeditated and conducted with the kind of melancholy determination seen in others, such as Merensinu, who likewise did not want to be lectured about misbehavior. The main motivation remains worry and sadness (susa). “His love could not go away [Ireg je diki mugad],” they say.

Kereng (1977) Kereng, from Tegmamaqan, was a young man in his twenties; he killed himself in April 1977 because his wife Lita was having an affair with another man. He


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was jealous (meimun) and angry (meiseg). He sued Lita and litigation was initiated, but no judgment was reached because there was no proof of Lita’s infidelity. Puru, cousin of Kereng, supported him. Less than a month after the hearing (bitsara), Kereng drank the poison (tuba). Just before he did it, he and Lita had quarreled, but he did not hit her. Instead he left, went to the stream near his field, drank the poison, and came back to his house. Lita was there. He had convulsions, and it took him an hour to die. Comment Kereng’s wife Lita was also involved in Marsada’s case (discussed later

in the chapter). She had been married to Kereng before her affair with Marsada. She is thus connected to two suicides. Whether she is considered the cause of both is moot. There is, however, another parallel. Like Marsada, Kereng was a somewhat disreputable character, reportedly lazy and inadequate. He was poor, owned nothing, and did not work hard. His father-in-law had upbraided him for that. He was impolite (kurang galang)4 and ill mannered (kaj kusewd menginluluk),5 and his behavior (adat) was definitely wanting. One can therefore suspect that Lita was attracted to misfits who would end up as suicides anyway, rather than see her as a “femme fatale” who drove men to despair. Besides jealousy, my informant mentions anger as a chief cause in Kereng’s suicidal behavior. The same informant offered the view that Kereng, instead of being violent with his wife, redirected his anger against himself. This of course would satisfy students of suicide who tend to consider it a form of violent behavior and as redirected murder. We will discuss later the connection between suicide and homicide and suicide and violence (see chap. 10). I shall say here that cases presented in this section do not really support the view that suicide is regularly or significantly linked to violence and homicide, although informants often stressed the relevance of anger in almost every case of self-inflicted death.

Sorrow and Loss, Bereavement Asja (1965) Wife of Ansajaw, Asja committed suicide by hanging because her husband had killed himself (see Ansajaw’s case later in this chapter).

Duminu and Tulina (1980) Duminu was a young father, aged 21. He and his wife Tulina, who was about 20 years of age, drank pesticide (tejudan) after their son (and youngest child) Selsu died in an accident, crushed under a falling tree. He did not die right away. After the accident his father carried him home; he died later that day. When Duminu learned about his son’s death he said, “That is better, at least he does not suffer


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anymore.” He went to see Tuking, who said that is was God’s will; it was his fate to die. But later Duminu drank the tejudan and warned his neighbors not to get near him.

Ubinu (1987) Ubinu hanged himself because of his sorrow (gewaq) and longing (tulus) over the death of his granddaughter Ambrijan, who had died from sickness. As the informant puts it, “He regretted his grandchild and was longing for her [Pegrendeman je megtulus et upuq je].” Ubinu was around 60 years old and was married to Sasiq. He was the father of Kilin, who became a successful local leader. He hanged himself in a rather curious way: he tied a vine around his neck and climbed a tall tree on the hill of Pinenginuman near Beheg. He then tied the other end of the vine to the very top of the tree.

Umar (1994) Umar, a man in his forties, committed suicide in 1994 by hanging. The alleged reason is that his wife Ambak was very sick and had almost died, and this drove him to the extremes of grief. They had been married for 25 years. He went out pretending he was going to relieve himself and half an hour later was found hanging from a branch. Whatever happened, his wife ironically recovered one week after his death. Comment Umar had a good character and was also a hard worker. He was

described as a kind, but composed or calm (pateng), person. There was, however, a suspicion that he was in love with another woman, although that was a rumor (kudew) only. Why, then, did he not wait for his wife’s demise in order to consort with the other woman? Maybe, people said, because the woman he was suspected of being in love with was “near” (mekabiq), meaning too close a relative to be married, making it a case of incest (sumbang). Other people speculated that he had become somewhat insane (meggilaqgilaq). This case is hard to categorize, and some contradictory information is circulated concerning the way he committed suicide: by drinking poison, some say.

Saqaj (2002) Pirmin, from Beheg, told me the story of Saqaj in March 2002. I am quoting his exact words after a transcript I made of his narrative. Saqaj, a man of 65, had just committed suicide on February 18. I am going to start at the beginning, when Saqaj told his son Pirdisiu, “You should sell the land [planted with coconut trees]6 to Rimes [a lowlander7 who wanted to purchase this piece of land].”


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Pirdisiu answered, “Don’t, Father, don’t do that because this land is like an heirloom that you will leave to us.” “It doesn’t matter,” said Saqaj, “just go and get this ‘Visayan’ [the lowlander].” He asked the same thing to Pirdisiu three times, but Pirdisiu did not want to obey. He then went to Udju [his older son] and told him to sell it. “Yes, Father, I will sell it,” said Udju. “But you must sell it for 90,000 pesos.” Saqaj in truth was selling the land as if against his own will. Some time later, when Pirdisiu went to see his father, Saqaj told him, “Your elder brother just sold the coconut grove. Ah, if I could, I would just hang myself.” “Now, why aren’t you telling the truth [why are you hiding your true feelings?] As for myself I don’t agree with what you are doing.” Pirdisiu, myself [Pirmin, the narrator], and Kilin, we went to Rimes and asked him whether it was true that the land had been sold to him by Udju. “We haven’t decided yet,” he said, “but I would buy it for 16,000 pesos if you agree with the price.” “No,” said Pirdisiu, “Father doesn’t want to sell.” Kilin at this point said to Rimes, “Boss [sic], their father is going to hang himself.” “What! No!” said the Visayan. “After all, if they want to sell it for 90,000 pesos, I don’t buy it.” When we came back, Pirdisiu went to his father and told him, “Father I canceled the sale; I canceled it and Udju won’t sell the coconut grove.” “So you are lying to me. Pirdisiu you are lying to me; you and your brother are deceiving me.” “Father, I did not agree with Udju, nor with you. But truly we have canceled the sale.” “I shall wait to talk to you and to your older brother tomorrow in my place.” Saqaj was like that, even before the death of his wife; he worried about everything. He had also told his son, “Pirdisiu, I am not yet consoled of the sorrow of having lost your mother and the worry concerning this sale just deepens my grief.” He worried because of what he had promised his wife [to join her in death]. The next day Pirdisiu went to see his father. “Where is Father?” he


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asked, seeing that the door was locked. The door is locked and as long as I stayed in this house the door was never locked. He told me to wait for him, so I shall wait. Inggin, his older sister, came also with her children. “Where is our father?” asked Pirdisiu “He must be in the field.” “Wait,” said Pirdisiu, “because Udju will arrive. Oming [Inggin’s son], come with me.” Saqaj’s grandson then accompanied Pirdisu and they went to the field, but when they reached it they saw no one. When they came back to the house, he wasn’t there either. Pirdisiu was nonplussed. “Father is nowhere to be found. He must then have found the courage to kill himself.” “Let’s look in your father’s house, Brother-in-law,” said Dumin [Ingin’s husband]. When they got to the door they saw that it had been shut and secured from the inside with a wooden plank tied with a rope. Pirdisiu tried again and again to push it open but could not succeed. Finally he kicked it and the rope broke. As he looked inside he saw his father in a crouching position on the floor, his body covered with a blanket. He had one leg lifted above the floor. So was Saqaj, under a blanket. Pirdisiu ran towards his father. “Father did hang himself after all!” He put his hand on his father’s chest, and what? “He is cold like lead!” He said to his brother-in-law, “Dumin, help me. Father is gone. He hanged himself.” Dumin went and untied the rope that strangled Saqaj. “He is dead indeed, our father.” He then went back home and left the body where it was. The next day, as the time came to bury him, Pirdisiu did not want to go. “I will leave it to Udju; I won’t go there and spend the night. I leave it to Udju to mourn the dead.” So only Udju attended the wake. Who came too? There was Upin, Udju, Loti, it seems to me. Marting [a neighbor] and the others came to my house; they told me, “Your uncle is no more. He killed himself. Go and see Pirdisiu.” I went there and I asked him, “Are you going to go to you father’s house?” “If you go I come along with you,” he said. “Now,” I said, “if you and your brother quarrel, I don’t want to go. I am going to stay here.” “No, I have no intention to do so; if I go there to quarrel, what is the use of it? None.”


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They then buried him. Back at the house of Dumin, Udju asked his brother, “Why didn’t you come when you were told we were burying him?” “I would not have come at all if it weren’t for Pirmin, who accompanied me.” That’s the story.

•

•

•

when nuligej died —that was Saqaj’s wife—Saqaj said, “I don’t have the strength to hang myself and join her.” That is what he told his children. But he added, “I’ll wait some because we have an appointment with your mother, two years from now.” After his wife died he went regularly on the hill where his spouse was buried; he brought her food, cassava, uncooked rice, sweet potatoes. His children asked him, “Why are you bringing all this food to the dead, Father?” “Shut up!” he answered. He brought her bananas, clothes; he brought all that to the grave. He had built a shack there and he slept sometimes in it during the day. He then had a house built next to the grave of his wife. After that, when Pirdisiu and his brother went to see him, he told them, “Your mother died two years ago, isn’t it?” Pirdisiu answered, “Not yet. Why are you asking?” “I cannot stand it anymore. I cannot forget your mother. I see her in my dreams; we are together, but alas I cannot stand it—why?” So you see he was unable to get rid of the longing [tulus] he had for his wife and the desire to be with her. He had such longing that he was dreaming that he was with her. After two years had passed, he said to his son, “Now then, two years have passed by since your mother died.” “Yes.” However, he did not say then that he had an appointment with his wife. It was just two years, and he killed himself. He mustered the courage to do it. Comment I have given Pirmin’s narrative in full, although it would seem to a

Western reader that the first part of the story—the squabble about the land sale—is irrelevant to Saqaj’s decision to commit suicide. However, this is how Pirmin approaches the events leading to Saqaj’s demise; that is how he grounds his perception of Saqaj’s commitment to end his life. The fact that he decided to sell “as against his own will [tijat santang negselsel]” and his constant “worrying”


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(pegsususaan) about everything point to some kind of departure from the expected behavior of someone who wants to go on living. Also, the fact that Pirmin, the narrator, was directly involved in the process of the land sale and was on very friendly terms with Pirdisiu makes his testimony reliable. One can also observe the constant use of direct speech. When relating events and interactions, narrators always use dialogue in a simplified, direct form. This conveys a notion of authenticity and reliability to the audience. Saqaj’s suicide is then related in a matter-of-fact way, without any comments or signs to the effect that the narrator approves or disapproves of his behavior. The “courage” or “strength” (negkeurem) mentioned by Pirmin is not a laudatory remark, but merely a statement of fact and a quotation of Saqaj’s words (“If I have the courage I’ll hang myself [Be keurem ku megtekleq]”). The entire narrative is meant to establish the fact that Saqaj’s decision had been made long ago and that he carried out a firmly established plan. His involvement with the dead and his obsession and unshakable grief are rendered vividly, and they make his suicidal behavior all the more poignant and self-explanatory.

Love Affairs Merensinu (1959?) Merensinu, an elder in the community (he was around 50 years old), was already married but fell in love with Ipa, Mistar’s (see chap. 6) mother-in-law. Ipa also loved him, and they had an affair. But it became known and litigation ensued. Merensinu duly apologized and was fined. However, his daughters, Munsina and Liksi, scolded him severely and reproachfully berated his behavior. “You are the one who should set an example,” they said, “and why are you behaving like that?” “Yes, yes,” answered Merensinu, “I am guilty, but never mind. . . .” One day after being thus scolded by his daughters, Merensinu went to see Mistar and asked him to help bring these accusations to a stop. After talking with Mistar, he left and went to the forest, where he hanged himself. Before doing it he sat down and smoked. We know this because there were leaves of silad 8 and cigarettes left on that spot. It is also believed that he went to see Mistar as an excuse to have one last look at his beloved Ipa and say good-bye to her. It happened during planting season, in April. Comment As this case is quite old, not many details could be retrieved. Thus the

memories of my informants have perhaps faded with time, making this story, in its brevity, read like an elegy of love and death. As Merensinu pauses before tying the rope, as he sits down and inhales the smoke of a last cigarette, he seems to reflect on life. He is about to set in motion the mechanism of death, cooperating placidly with fate. Fully recognizing the utter impropriety of his own love for


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Ipa, there seems to be no revolt or anger, but instead a melancholy surrender to fate after a last and apologetic look at his paramour. There were comments from my informants that love (ireg) and shame (lequ) were the basic emotions explaining Merensinu’s suicide. It was also suggested that he wanted Ipa as a second wife in a polygamous marriage. Undoubtedly there were many discussions, many episodes, that are not related, and the full story does not emerge. However, the kind of melancholia that Merensinu seems to have displayed is quite typical of a number of other stories featuring older men (in their forties, fifties or older).9

Ambisan (1967?) This 67-year-old woman10 committed suicide a long time ago over a case involving her husband Surat and her daughter Bukug. Her husband was in love with the latter, who is Ambisan’s daughter from a first marriage. It was believed that incest (sumbang) had been committed between Surat and Bukug. Ambisan was devastated and ended her life. Informants attribute her suicide by hanging to both jealousy (imun) and her reaction against kudew.11 Comment The idea of kudew (being charged with wrongdoing) is a result of

Ambisan’s close connection to both culprits, the incestuous Bukug and Surat, which makes her appear instrumental in their crime, even if she did not know about the affair. One can easily surmise that the shock of discovering her daughter and husband conspiring against her, plus the shame of being implicated in such a scandalous affair, did cause major distress.

Figure 16 Related suicides, kin ties Note: suicides and year when committed; Ambisan and Adlis are closely related to all other suicides who are their children and classificatory grandchildren, except Mitsja and Taga


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Later on, this case pitted Mari (nephew of Ambisan) against Surat. He claimed that Surat and Bukug’s affair was tantamount to homicide since Ambisan had died from it. Therefore, he demanded the payment of a fine (kebangunan). The fine was not paid, however, because Pitu, brother of Bukug, opposed it. Ironically, this case was used as a reference in the litigations that followed Sumling’s suicide, when Mensuling and the others demanded a huge kebangunan from Durmin (see Sumling’s case, chap. 6). Pitu argued in Durmin’s case that he had refused to ask for a fine back in Ambisan’s case, thus that was reason enough not to demand it from Durmin. Another interesting aspect of the case is that not only is Sumling, granddaughter of Surat and daughter of Bungkur, a suicide herself, but Mari himself committed suicide, as well as Adlis, his own mother. This is a typical aspect of the phenomenon: it happens often in a small circle of kin, as shown in figure 16.

Aslin and Bintis (1991) Aslin, a woman of 34, was Bintis’ aunt (minan) (actually Bintis’ FBW). Bintis was a young man of 23, divorced and without children. Aslin was married to Runtinu. They all lived in Mepjang. Aslin and Bintis were lovers in spite of the ban on sexual relations between nephew and aunt, this making it technically a case of incest (sumbang). They met secretly in the bush (talun). Their affair lasted for about four months. They were exposed (megkeseridaq) and were to be fined four big gongs (agung) and four small gongs (sanang) to “cover the incest” (sapew et sumbang). When the litigation took place, people gathered from neighboring hamlets in Batad’s house and waited for the accused to arrive, but they did not show up. Ensuling, who had the official role of barangay tanod,12 sought them out. He went to Aslin’s house and called her out. She answered that she was coming. Ensuling went back to Batad’s house (the meeting place). They all wait. Finally Aslin and Bintis show up at the edge of Batad’s courtyard. They stop there and drink from a small bottle. It is water mixed with pesticide (tejudan), a deadly poison. They then proceed to enter Batad’s house and declare that they have drunk the poison because they refuse to be punished (mebinasa). Bintis, already feeling faint from the poison, declares, “Punish me now [Binesanaq mju ne aku]!” Soon they both fall down and start having convulsions (nenggibek). They die shortly thereafter. Bintis dies before Aslin while grasping Kuntinu’s hand. They are buried separately near the house of Mintju (Aslin’s father). Comment My informant commented, “How pitiful were these people [Keingasiq

atin taqew].” Being an eyewitness himself he related how heartrending it was to watch the scene and how difficult it was to convey the dramatic impact of the events.


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The case is not defined as adultery but as incest. The social condemnation of this affair clearly addresses the ban on incest. Aslin is both a close relative and, as wife of her lover’s uncle (FB), is considered a consanguineal—not affinal—kin (see chap. 3 and Macdonald 1977a, 86). Moreover, it is considered most inappropriate to have sexual relations with someone of a different generation—“generation” here being always expressed in kinship terms, not as an age gap. Therefore, the relationship is truly one that is severely condemned under Palawan customary law. Seeing that their love affair had no possible future, one can speculate that they committed suicide out of sheer despair. The utterance of Bintis and the declaration that they did not want to be “punished” obviously cannot be taken as fear of paying a fine, but as a refusal to admit that their affair was utterly doomed.

Rentima (Entima) (2000) Rentima (from Mepjang) drank poison (tuba) in August 2000 because of a love affair with her nephew Nursiti (or Uti). He was only 16 and she was in her late forties. They made a suicide pact and drank the tuba together, but Uti survived. This was a case of incest (sumbang), and they had done the most improper thing (nemengdupang).13 Uti was Rentima’s husband’s nephew (HBS). They had been lovers for a month. Rentinu, father of Uti, discovered the affair and wanted Rentima to leave. She refused, wanting to kill herself rather than give up her love for Uti, so they drank the poison together in the forest. They were found lying near a stream. Uti had drunk only a little of the poison and thus survived. Interview In May 2001, with the help of Taya, I interviewed Rusita, Karniliu, and

Ruang, kin of Rentinu who were closely related to the case (see fig. 17). Their answers to our questions are quoted here. Q How did you know Rentima was in love with her nephew? Karniliu She had given him a ring. . . . At the start she was just giving him the glad eye; after that she gave him rings.

Figure 17 Rentima’s kin


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Rusita Yes, indeed we realized what was going on because of the way she was looking at him, and later when she gave him the ring I asked her, “Why do you do it?” “Nothing,” she said, “it’s just so.” “Don’t do it again,” I said. “It’s bad, if you do; I’ll hit your nephew.” “Don’t get angry with me,” she said, “because you have a husband and I don’t.” [Interestingly, Rentima used the term umawej, which means “young virgin.” Her quip to Rusita, who is her sister and her former husband’s second wife, can be seen as her way of lashing back at the woman who took her husband. Note that Rentima had agreed to Tunut’s marrying her sister and making her his duwej, but Rentima subsequently left him.] I reported the facts to Kurin [Rentima’s brother] and told him that I could not put any sense in Arapdua’s [Rentima’s lalew 14 ] head. I brought Rentima to Kurin. He cried, he was so upset. . . . He said, “Don’t lie, please,” but I went with her to Titing and there she did not tell the truth. He asked her, “Are you going to move in here?” “No, I’ll go back to Rusita.” On the way back she met Uti, who was busy picking fruits on a tree. She whistled and he came down. They talked together. They agreed to meet on that spot the next morning at dawn. So the next day they eloped. People were looking for them but could not find them. Once they were discovered near the stream they were already in a daze because they had drunk the poison. Karniliu When we found Uti we asked him what had happened. “This is what we ended up doing . . . but what can we do now? It’s done, it’s fate, it’s our bad luck.” Rentima [who apparently was still able to speak somehow] said, “Even if I didn’t drink the poison today I could not have given up on my feelings [diki kwanje metngawan].” That’s when my motherin-law started to die. Uti didn’t die because he drank only little. It was market’s day in Megkelip. My mother-in-law drank without restraint. I went to the market and told my uncle Piingan that she had drunk the poison. “Ah yes, with whom?” “With Uti. It’s bad,” I said, “because they went together; it’s kind of an incest.” So Piingan came and we had a discussion. Piingan threatened to fine us a kebangunan, and if Rentinu didn’t pay he would send him to jail. “Don’t!” exclaimed Rentinu. “I’ll pay, of course!” So Piingan imposed a fine of 1 small gong [sanang] and 12 plates. [Piingan is another local judge and has some officially recognized authority. He is, besides, Rentima’s cousin.] So we all paid; all of us brothers and sisters of Rentima. Q How old was Uti? Rusita He might have been twelve. He was sexually mature [sangpet ]; maybe he was older—thirteen? Q Did you cry after Rentima committed suicide and died?


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Rusita How can you not have cried [Enu ga taq diki suminjak]? Karniliu Tunut didn’t. Rentima had come back to live with us after she had divorced him. Her children cried; so did my wife [Rentima’s daughter]. Ruang I knew nothing. I came to know about it only when they drank the poison in the forest. Q Were you sad? Ruang Yes, I was sad [ruruk]; I grieved for two days. I had told Rentima, “Don’t act foolishly,” but she did not listen. “So,” I said, “it’s up to you.” Next thing I heard she had drunk the poison. My sister didn’t want to listen to me. I told her, but too bad, she did it! She was angry with me when I confronted her. “Where are you going?” I asked, and she did not even stop. At the end she went in the bush to drink tuba. After that, Kurin asked me to help with the kebengunan, but I refused. I was so ashamed. Let Kurin find the money. Erpin and Rentinu’s relatives helped with the fine; they all gave a lot. It amounted to one gong [sanang], one water buffalo, money. . . . Q In the end how much was it? Ruang One sanang and 12 plates. But I gave nothing. It all went to Piingan and Meringan [the other judge]. I told Kurin, “You give; I am not giving anything.” I had warned her, but she was above my advice [feeling superior (pinelusdak)], and see, she committed suicide.

Lindu (2000) Lindu, a man of about 45, killed his sister-in-law (WZ) after allegedly raping her. He hanged himself afterward. He was married but had no children. It happened in Kedawan. Comment Details are lacking. Lindu was in love with his sister-in-law, but whether

he actually raped her is not confirmed.

Madong and Norina (2001) This is how Taya described Madong’s circumstances and suicide. Madong killed himself together with Norina because of love [ireg ]. He loved Norina in spite of her being his niece [menak (MBSD)]. This relative you cannot marry; it is sumbang. When Norina discovered that she was pregnant, she and Madong talked and they said, “Let’s drink poison [tuba] at Dusi’s house.” Dusi was Madong’s elder brother, but he and his family were away, threshing rice here with us. He left a letter to his


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brother in order to inform him [of his predicament], saying they could not stand the pain [kesusaqan] they were in, and that’s why they had left a note. Norina also had left a note on the wall saying, “Mother, I leave you now; I cannot endure the sorrow I am in.” She then told her brother Silmin, “I won’t be long, I am just going to weed my plantation of sugarcanes.” Her mother and her father, Isti, were with us threshing rice. But Norina did not go to her field; she met Madong in Dusi’s house. Later, when Silmin looked for his sister and as she had not come back, he started calling for her. Not finding her, he came to us and informed his parents that Norina had not been seen anymore. Therefore they went and looked for her. When Isti arrived at Dusi’s house, there they were, both of them, dead! Both of them, Norina and Madong! Actually, they were still breathing but they died shortly thereafter. That is all, about Madong. Comment Madong and Norina killed themselves on October 28, 2001, in Lem-

bungaw. Madong was a bachelor, 25 years old, and Norina was 18. Their love had been a well-guarded secret. Taya, however, had told Madong not to go near Norina. The parents apparently knew nothing. The kin tie between Norina and Madong made their relation doubly forbidden (sumbang), first because they were close (Isit, Norina’s father, is a “brother” to Madong)15 and second because they were of different generational levels (Madong is in the full sense an uncle [maman] to Norina). However, this kind of prohibition is one that is deemed “coverable” (sepawan); that is, it can be canceled by the payment of four small and four big gongs. The question as to whether they could have married after all is one that remains unanswered. Madong was described as a happy young man, quick-tempered, though, and a bit lazy, and Norina as a normal girl, diligent and clever.

Rejection by In-Laws Cases presented here fall under the category of “intention or desire to marry someone” (kupengasawa) and “coming back to (one’s former wife)” (kepenguliq).

Uwan (1973) Uwan was a young man of Kubtangen who committed suicide by hanging. He wanted to remarry the same girl after being rejected by his in-laws, who accused him of laziness and of not being able to raise the amount of the bride price. He used a string from a snare. The string broke, but death had already occurred.


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Comment Around age 22, Uwan is typical of a class of young suicides that are

unable to marry or are rejected by their in-laws and unable to remarry. The conflict with the in-laws is the central theme of these cases.

Kandang (1989) On August 23, 1989, in the marketplace near Tegbituk, Kulbi, news spread that Kandang, a man from the Pinelingaqan River basin (just outside Kulbi proper) had killed himself after murdering his ugang (WPB) and slashing his wife 12 times with his bush knife. The events had happened just five days before. Kandang was only 18 or 20. The case was reported as one of kepenguliq (“wanting to come back to his former wife and resuming the married life”). Comment Homicide is rarely associated with suicide, but see Ipat’s case later in

this chapter.

Lijap (1995) Lijap left his wife Ilin and then came back to her. But his brother-in-law Ikin (Ilin’s brother) did not want him around anymore and started beating Lijap. As a result, Lijap drank pesticide (tejudan) and died. He was 22. Ikin was fined a kebangunan and had to pay two gongs to compensate for the loss of his brotherin-law’s life.

Marsada (1997) This young bachelor of 19 was in love with Lita of Lambungew. Lita’s uncle Bering (actually her FZH) opposed (sinagkaq) the marriage, accusing Mersad (Marsada’s nickname) of laziness (mejahuq) and gluttony (metakew).16 Mersad and Lita were lovers already, and Lita’s parents, Keje and Lusina, were not absolutely opposed to the marriage; only Bering was set against it. They discussed the case with Ansili, father of Mersad. It so happened that Ansili was also very much against the idea of Mersad marrying Lita because he shared the opinion that his son was no good, lazy, and prone to petty thievery. After hearing what Bering and his father had said about him, Mersad decided to commit suicide. Two days later, he went to the edge of the Tegbituk stream and drank tuba. After drinking the poison he came back home and started vomiting and had convulsions; it took him half an hour to die. Comment Marsada’s bad manners were known, and informants say he was not a

likeable character. He had stolen some chicken and gotten drunk. He had never attempted suicide previously and was not reported to be violent—just somewhat unruly. Note that the opposition to his marriage came from a rather distant relative, albeit defined as maman (uncle [PB]).


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Dision (2002) Dision loved Milba, a girl from Kementian, and wanted to marry her. But Dision was from Behunbunan, and he wanted to live there with his wife-to-be because he owned a piece of land planted with coconut trees. Milba’s parents opposed this wish, refused to let her move away from them (mandi tangaden), and demanded that she stay with them in Kementian. As a result, Dision drank tuba on March 1, 2002. He was only 15. Comment The prospective in-laws did not object to the marriage per se; rather,

they objected, typically, to the choice of residence, insisting on a strict observance of the uxorilocal /matrilocal rule (see chap. 3). The boy’s very young age explains his rash behavior, perhaps, but one can suspect that another kind of rejection was behind the refusal of Milba’s parents. The emotional reason for suicide in this case is given as anger (iseg ).

Fear Kandang (1978) Kandang was only a child, no older than 13. He accidentally caught his grandmother’s chicken in his snare (bilagung). His elder brother and sister frightened him by telling him that his grandmother would catch and hang him. He was so terrified that he hanged himself. Comment This is not the only case of a child or young teenager committing

suicide over a trifle and panicking for fear of reprisal by a parent. See the cases of Kambung and Tarsinu. (Note above that another person named Kandang committed suicide in 1989.)

Galin (1979) This case resembles that of Intab (see later in this chapter). Galin, 19 years old or so, committed suicide for the same reasons as Intab—because soldiers (the marines, a small detachment of which was stationed in the Kulbi area at the time) had stolen his chicken—and did it a few months after Intab. Reportedly, he had an extreme fear of the marines, whom he believed were threatening him.

Upit and Tebeg (1979) Upit was the mother of Tebeg; she had forced her son-in-law to divorce Tebeg. Her son-in-law was from Mepjang, and Imbul, who was the leader in Mepjang, threatened to call the marines if Upit refused to take her son-in-law back. Both women were so frightened that they hanged themselves from the same tree and died together.


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Comment The main motivation behind the suicide is said to be fear (takut). The

threat of the “marines” was a move to intimidate, but it actually had no substance. Such a threat, however, shows the kind of fear generated by the possibility of an agency like the Marine Corps intervening in domestic affairs. But they never took sides or intervened in affairs such as marriage or divorce. Like the rest of the Palawan people, the Kulbi people could appeal to outside agencies such as the court of justice or the police in cases of unsettled disputes, or in cases of homicide. Thus the threat to bring in the police or the army could prove very effective and can be seen as the structural equivalent of internal physical violence (see chap. 3).

Kambung (1997) Kambung was obviously a very suggestible or gullible young boy of 13. His father Ingkawang had told him that there was going to be a war, that soldiers would come in a plane and drop bombs. Ingkawang had heard such news from someone and was merely repeating the story. Kambung talked with his father a long time and said, “If there is war, I will not be able to stand it; I shall commit suicide.” The next morning he drank poison (tuba) and died, convulsing, in his parent’s house, in front of his father and other relatives. Bering, his uncle, tried to help Kambung by making him drink an antidote to the poison, but the boy nevertheless died half an hour later. Comment First of all, it might well be that the most gullible person in this case

was Ingkawang himself. Stories and rumors of this kind circulate constantly in the whole area and are mostly unfounded hearsay. The southern part of Palawan has been peaceful except for a few incidents involving the Moro National Liberation Front in the past 20 years. In 1997, the year of Kambung’s suicide, there was no cause for alarm. Kambung was described to me as a composed, serious-looking fellow, shy and not very talkative or playful, but active and a good hunter. He had never attempted suicide previously. One of his great-great-uncles (FFFB) had been mentally ill (gilaqgilaq). Kambung’s mother Retiq had died some years before from natural causes.

Getting a Second Wife Asdali (1945?) Asdali committed suicide a long time ago because he had had a quarrel with his second wife (duwej). His first wife in this polygynous marriage became angry at him. Informants could not remember why. Asdali was the father of Retju (whose


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case is presented later in this chapter). They committed suicide “one after the other” (sunsun).

Dariu (1968) In 1968, Dariu wanted to marry a second wife (duwej) in a polygynous marriage, but he did not dare speak about it to his first wife (puqun). In the meantime his lastborn baby died; it was the third consecutive one that they had lost. On the night of the wake, as his family and relatives were gathered in his in-laws’ house, he went out. He then came back stealthily, tied a rope to a floor joist, and hanged himself close to the ground. His body was found the next morning. Comment It seems incredible that Dariu could hang himself right below the bam-

boo floor where other people where sleeping—a few inches away, actually. To hang oneself in a sitting or crouching position is not uncommon (see Saqaj’s and Sansiq’s cases earlier in this chapter). The person leans forward, offering no resistance to gravity, and the resulting pressure on the throat causes strangulation and death. The deed is accomplished with great discretion, and care is taken not to wake up anyone. My informant commented that the real reason for Dariu’s suicide was his unrequited love (ireg) for another woman, no matter how much grief he felt at the loss of his lastborn child.

Gari (1975) Gari had permission from his first wife (puqun) to marry a second wife. He had already given the prospective bride a token gift of cloth. Having thus proceeded with an official betrothal, he went home, only to discover that his first wife had changed her mind and wanted a divorce. The following morning Gari hanged himself.

Accusation, Slander Retju (1955?) Retju was accused (kinudew) of being stingy (meimut) by his uncle Meles and his children because he did not give them their fair share of fish. It was said that his sharing (pegirasan) was improper or unfair. Actually, what happened was that Meles became angry because Retju had decided to share a catch of fish on his own authority, whereas Meles thought it should have been up to him, a senior kinsman, to apportion the catch. When Retju divided up the catch and sent some to Meles, the latter was incensed and sent back his share (tahak) of the fish to Retju, who subsequently was so ashamed that he killed himself.


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The case happened a long time ago, between 1950 and 1955, and not many details have survived. Retju’s age could not be ascertained, although it is known that he hanged himself. The motivations that could have led to his suicide are, according to informants, shame (lequ) as well as anger (iseg ) at being accused and thus insulted. Comment Retju’s father Asdali had committed suicide some years before (1945?);

see his case earlier in this chapter.

Sickness and Pain Ansajaw (1965) Ansajaw was the younger brother of Tuking, the great shaman, medicine man, and overall spiritual leader of the whole Kulbi area. He committed suicide because of sickness (sakit berahak)—a particularly painful, albeit common, disease in which the main symptom was festering sores on the skin. His wife Asja committed suicide just after he hanged himself (see Asja’s case earlier in this chapter). Comment When I asked Tuking about suicide and what he thought of it, I could

see that he was particularly sensitive to the issue, although he never mentioned his younger brother’s death. Other informants repeatedly reminded me of this event in Tuking’s history.

Meringan (1993) This man of about 50 hanged himself in Behunbunan; the reported motivation was sickness. He could hardly walk anymore and had suffered from severe pain in the legs (arthritis?) for a couple of years. He then warned his wife, “As I cannot work anymore nor provide [meipat] for our child, I shall hang myself.” Three days later he carried out his promise. He went into the bush (banglej )17 and chose a tree with a suitable branch protruding at a right angle from the trunk (alag). He used a rope made of the bark of the tegep tree (Artocarpus elastica). His 13-year-old son Dirsun found him. Reportedly, he and his mother cried bitterly over the loss of their father and husband. Comment Taya, my informant, knew Meringan well and commented on the excel-

lent disposition of the man—hard working (mepangnaq), goodhearted (mehubrej ), and with a great sense of humor (melinuluj ). He had never attempted suicide previously either but had often complained and was unhappy (meruruk) and worried (mesusa) because of his health. Interestingly, another woman, Awing, Taya’s sister-in-law, had talked about


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suicide because she suffered from the same ailment. In 2001 I gave her medicine. She had previously attempted suicide because of a toothache.

Loss of Property Munsinga (1992) Old Munsinga, who was about 80 years old, let herself burn in her house. This happened in Mepjang. Her husband Kuren accidentally burned their entire harvest. The house also caught fire, and Munsinga decided to stay inside and let herself be consumed by the flames and thus end her life. Kuren wanted to get her out and pulled her by the arm. But she resisted, saying, “Why live if we don’t have any seed anymore [Bjag te ganaq baq kara ne pungu te]!” Kuren survived. Comment I visited Mepjang in 1989 and took a picture of Munsinga. She was a

handsome old woman.

Anger Intab (1978) Intab, from Behunbunan, committed suicide in 1978. Soldiers (the marines referred to in Galin’s and Upit’s cases, above) stole his chicken. He was so infuriated by this—he was said to be a person prone to anger—that he wanted to kill the soldiers but thought better of it and instead killed himself by hanging. He was about 68 and a rather rich man according to local standards. He had sold his land for a staggering 18,000 pesos.18 A widower with two children, he was in good health. He killed himself early in the morning, without warning. Comment Informants described the psychological process that led to his death

as follows. First, he was so angered that he wanted to murder the soldiers using a blowgun. But then he had “second thoughts” (tapus et pikir, kenep et piker). Rather than cause the marines to take revenge on his children should he commit murder, he decided to kill himself. Fear of what might happen led to his decision to commit suicide. This could be a case of redirected anger. A similar case in this respect is that of Kereng (see above).

Ispilin (1997) This suicide reportedly occurred over a case of land grabbing. Ispilin and his brother-in-law Surente (husband of Ispilin’s first cousin) fought over a piece of land that belonged to Ispilin but on which Surente had planted coconut trees. Ispilin was 48, married, and had five children. The reason for his suicide,


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according to the person who told me the story, was “anger over a stolen piece of land [iseg lugtaq je pegegawen].”

Pinantad (2000) Pinantad hanged himself because he had had a quarrel with Terining (his first cousin’s husband) over one of his chickens that Terining had caught in a snare. Pinantad insisted that Terining should pay for the chicken, but the latter refused. So Pinantad was reported to cry out, “Why live—I cannot do anything! I cannot stand this; better kill myself [Bjag ku gana, kaja ne usaha ku, kara nej tigsaq ku]!” He was about 50 and was married with six children. Anger caused his gesture, was the general opinion. Comment The loss of a chicken cannot reasonably account for the suicide of this

man. It is, rather, extreme frustration and perhaps a mixture of humiliation and anger at being denied just compensation that explain his act.

Angguk (2000) Angguk was Ispilin’s daughter (see Ispilin’s case above). She committed suicide at age 14. She hanged herself in anger for apparently being cornered into a polygynous marriage with Ripidu. Comment Unfortunately, I could not get more details on this case, but the fact

that Angguk was the daughter of Ispilin, who had also committed suicide in anger three years earlier, is very significant in this case. As a rule, women have free choice in selecting their husbands, but social and parental pressure can be exerted. Angguk was apparently very young and suggestible. Her behavior seems to have been an escape from what appeared to her as a threatening and uncontrollable situation.

Possible Disguised Homicide Ruminti (1978) Rumiu had had an affair with Ruminti’s wife. Rumiu and Ruminti were second cousins. Ruminti started a row, telling his wife she had not prepared dinner because she was busy with her lover. He then left and drank alcohol. Upon returning home, he resumed the quarrel and beat his wife senseless. His brother-in-law Lungkas (his wife’s brother) happened to be around and punched Ruminti, who ran away to Elal, where he had another house. He hanged himself there.


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Comment The case is not entirely clear; it might well be a case of homicide, as the

body of Ruminti was covered with bruises, and he may have died from the beating given by Lungkas, aided by his bothers-in-law Perto and Itak. If Ruminti had indeed been murdered, his body could have been brought to Elal and hanged in order to disguise the murder as suicide. There is a strong suspicion that this actually was the case, but it was not reported to the police and informants can only guess at the true cause of Ruminti’s death.

Ipat (1992) Ipat, a 41-year-old man from Lumtab, was jealous and had actually found out that his wife Nurinda was unfaithful to him. On May 12, after voting in the national elections,19 he went back home and stabbed his 10-year-old daughter and then his wife with a knife (peqis).20 His wife was wounded, but she escaped and ran to her brother Ruminu in Apat and told him what happened. In the meantime, Ipat searched for his wife and arrived at Ruminu’s house. He inquired about Nurinda; Ruminu told him that he did not know where she was. He advised Ipat to go back home. For what happens next, the scenario has been described thus: Ipat goes back home and attempts to stab himself in the heart with the point of a bush knife, but apparently does not succeed. He then takes the rope used to tie the cattle and hangs himself with it. Ruminu reported the case to the marines; they discovered the body. Because it bore a wound, they thought it was a murder, and litigation thus ensued. The brother and uncle of Ipat, who were from across the island in Sumbiling, accused Ruminu of murder. In the end the village headman (barangay captain) concluded that there was no proof of guilt and that Ruminu was therefore innocent. Comment My informant Taya thinks that this case actually was a murder. Accord-

ing to Taya and other witnesses, Ipat bore a wound that he could hardly have inflicted upon himself. A spear (budjak), not a bush knife (tukew), was the likely weapon. Litigation (bitsara) took place and was conducted by Kilin, a barrio councilman and specialist in customary law. As a result, a fine for having caused the suicide (kebangunan) was demanded from Nurinda and her lover Sadin. They had to give two cows because they were the cause of the deaths of two persons, Ipat and his daughter. As in Kandang’s case above (1989), the suicide victim was apparently overtaken by a thirst for killing. As noted earlier, the combination of suicide with violent homicidal behavior is restricted to a few cases.


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Multiple Suicides Mitsja, Nari, Taga (1978) Mitsja’s and Nari’s daughter died in the 1978 epidemic of epras (boils). Out of grief Mitsja hanged herself and Nari stabbed himself after killing his son. Then Taga, Mitsja’s father, killed himself by pricking his tongue with a dart dipped in poison (used for hunting). Hence there were actually four victims in this case, including one homicide. Comment The method used by the grandfather is unique, although this kind of

deadly poison (ditaq), extracted from Antiaris toxicaria, is easily available and widely used for hunting. It is probably avoided because of the pain it may cause the victim (violent convulsions, vomiting), whereas tuba (Derris elliptica) supposedly causes a painless death.

Eje, Ampalis, Ruminsi (2001) This is how Taya reported the events in a letter. You [the anthropologist] had just left [at the end of May 2001], when four of them did it together in Mepjang. That was because Mensiri’s fiveyear-old daughter, Djaira [Jayra], had died from vomiting and diarrhea. When Eje, her mother, saw that Djaira had died she immediately ran in the bush with her last-born son and there she strangled him [before killing herself ]. His name was Duming and he was 2 years old. When Eje’s father Ampalis and Eje’s mother Ruminsi [Rumintiq] looked for them [Eje, Mensiri, and the children], and when they saw that their daughter and also their grandchildren had died, they immediately hanged themselves, both of them, and they died, both of them. Mensiri also tried to kill himself by hanging but he survived, thanks to his eldest daughter who was still alive. Comment Five people died in all: 5-year-old

Djaira, who had dysentery; her younger brother Duming, strangled by their mother Eje; Eje herself; and both grandparents, Ampalis and Ruminsi. One must also include Mensiri’s attempted suicide. That makes six casualties, a staggering count (see fig. 18 for a chart). First the girl dies and then her mother decides to kill herself, but, fearing that her


Figure 18 Multiple suicides, kinship diagram

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youngest child will not be able to survive when she is gone, she decides to kill him before ending her own life. This tragedy results in the death of both grandparents, who are unable to endure the loss of their child and grandchildren. Mensiri attempts to commit suicide but is restrained by the thought of his eldest child, a girl of maybe 9 or 10 who needs her father. Thus does the scenario unfold, according to Taya. It is a case of the almost complete extinction of a family line (unung or negpeunung). All of the suicides were by hanging. Ampalis was 62, Rumintiq 60; they committed suicide at the same time, even hanging themselves from the same tree. Eje was in her late thirties. Mensiri was around 48 and coincidentally had been the husband of Sambawej, who had committed suicide in 1996. All of these suicides happened on the same day, June 1. Other cases of multiple suicides (see Asdali and Retju, Duminu and his wife, Aslin and Bintis, Upit and Tebeg, Adlis and her children, among others) either involved less numerous victims or happened at wider intervals. A collective suicide of this magnitude is rare indeed and is matched only by the preceding case (Nari, Mitsja, and Taga), which is strikingly similar. In both cases, the scenario follows a domino pattern: the death of an ailing child causes acute grief among close kin; one parent kills the surviving child, than kills him /herself, followed by the suicide of the spouse, then of the grandparent(s).

Scolding by Parents Tarsinu and Nejngan (1999) Tarsinu, son of Nejngan and Ranguna, was a boy of 12 or 13; he drank pesticide (tejudan) mixed with coconut juice and died. He did it because his father had scolded him and had hit him with the handle of a bush knife. Tarsinu tried to hang himself but was prevented from doing so by his younger brother. He later found the pesticide and was thus able to kill himself right away. When Nejngan discovered that his son had killed himself, he committed suicide, also by poison (tejudan). He was 53. It happened in Mepjang. Comment Perhaps fear and anger caused Tarsinu’s suicide. As for his father, it was said to be anguish and misery (susa) that drove him to such an extreme. It is important to note that Tarsinu kept trying to commit suicide in spite of being prevented once. The act was thus carried out with steady determination; it was not merely a sudden reaction to a frightening or startling event. Palawan children are very rarely beaten or scolded, and one is careful never to startle (nekbaqan or neklatan) infants for fear that their souls will leave and not return. Children are considered autonomous agents who may refuse to take orders (see Macdonald 2002).


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Emita (Imita) (2002) Emita, daughter of Maring, drank tuba and died because her father had scolded her, rebuking her for what he called her misbehavior. She had gone to a dance (sajaw)21 and had been seen consorting with a boy in a dark corner of the meeting ground. Her sister Keting reported this to their father, and he accused Emita of behaving shamelessly. So Emita left the house at night and drank the poison. They found her body the next day at noon. She was 14 years old. It happened on February 21, 2002. Comment Emita allegedly killed herself because of shame (lequ) and probably

anger at both her father and her sister, who appeared to be her bitterest critic.

Insanity Kuwentas (Kulintas) (1997) In April 1997, Kuwentas from Mepjang hanged himself in his house. He was 34. Taya summarized what he knew of the case in the following words. The beginning of what led to Kuwentas’ suicide is that he entered a cave that Pedjat—a renowned shaman of yore—had declared forbidden. He went into the cave to hunt for bats [nememenigar et panuj]. There were two of them entering the cave. Upon coming back home he fell ill right away. He was sick for one month. He was so sick that his in-law Abri said, “You should move to another house.” Abri carried Kuwentas and brought him to Sajapu’s house, Kuwentas’ biras [WZH]. When he was in Sajapu’s house he started to rant and rave, saying over and over again, “This person is worthless [Kara nej pulus et itueng taaw].” Five days later, he said, “Stop passing by my house and just go to work” or “This person is worthless.” His wife had left him to go outside, and when she came back she saw him hanging above the floor. He had hanged himself, yes indeed, right there in Sajapu’s house. The companion who entered the cave with him also died. He was the one who actually caught the bats [suminagur].22 They caught lots of them, two bucket loads. Comment This is the only unquestionable case of suicide resulting from mental

illness; it is explained by the transgression of a ban imposed by the long dead shaman Pedjat.


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Kuwentas was a very joyful and humorous person, and the picture I took of him some time before his death shows his happy disposition. He had four children. He was also said to be quite poor (miskin). The other person involved died a natural death.

Attempted Suicides I give here a few cases of attempted suicide, although the list is far less inclusive than the preceding catalogue of completed suicides.

Pirsita and Mansuling Pirsita tried to kill herself by drinking poison (tuba) in September 2001. She was 17 or 18 years old. The reason was that she was in love with Ikil (or Miskil), who was 21 years old and the son of Mansuling. She had given him a ring but he did not take it. Pirsita was married to Dudang. Her father Ansuling and her older brother scolded her for that and even beat her with the scabbard of a bush knife. Pirsita had promised to stop pursuing Ikil, but on the next day Dudang spoke to her and said he was going to leave her because he did not believe she was going to stop loving Ikil. Towards noon Pirsita went to the river looking for tuba. Her younger sister Rulin saw her and reported this to her mother Mislin. Mislin then went to the river and immediately saw Pirsita, who had covered herself with a blanket and was holding a can full of poison. Pirsita looked behind, and when she saw her mother, she started swallowing the contents of the can. Her mother grabbed her and tried to wrest the can out of her hands and dump out the remaining poison. Although she was able to keep Pirstia from drinking all the poison, she had already swallowed some of it. They went back to the house of Mansuling, and Mislin made Pirsita drink a counter-poison. When Ansuling found out about his daughter taking the poison, he wanted to kill himself by drinking some pesticide that he had concealed somewhere, but he was prevented from doing so by his wife and Mansuling. Pirsita did not die, but it took her about eight hours to recover. Mansuling had tried to commit suicide before, in 1986, after quarreling with his wife. He hanged himself but was saved by his younger sister. Ansuling also had attempted suicide some years before when his son died.

Rupid Rupid, a young man of about 25, drank tuba because he was in love with a woman who did not love him. In fact, she so disliked him that she actually spat on him. So he drank the poison and thought he was going to die, but others made him swallow sugar, which saved his life. It happened in Tegmemaqan in September 2001.


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Ikring Ikring, from Megkelip, was 26 or 27. He had found his wife Natrin with his younger brother. After a discussion and hearings “without anger” (kines), proof of adultery was established and Natrin had to give one big gong to Ikring as a fine. Then Ikring took his bush knife and set out to kill his brother, but then thought better of it. He would be put in jail, he figured, so better to just hang himself—which he did, from a tree, but his brother-in-law, who was looking for him, found him in time and cut the rope. Natrin’s father Blasting had had an affair with his sister-in-law (WZ) Insina. They had made a pact to commit suicide by drinking poison. Insina, however, refused to proceed with the plan at the last minute. Blasting and Insina’s love affair had lasted for a year, and Insina became pregnant. None of these adulterous affairs resulted in divorce.

Awing Awing, a woman of 49, tried to strangle herself because she had a severe case of toothache. She constantly cried in pain, and her wailing was heard all around.

Rumi Rumi, a leper in Megkelip, tried to hang himself, but somebody was able to untie the noose before he died.

Manil In March 2002, in Simerak, Manil, a young man of 17, tried to kill himself by drinking poison (tuba). The reason given was a quarrel he had had with his wife, who refused to have sex with him.

Ersin Ersin, wife of Taya, tried to commit suicide in April 1995 because she had fallen in love with Pablo. They had a passionate love affair. After being confronted by her husband, she drank pesticide and was seized with pains and vomiting for more than 24 hours. Pablo did not try to kill himself, but he was in a rage and wanted to kill Taya. He had a sword (badung) but was disarmed by a neighbor, Kuntilju. Litigation was initiated, and Pablo’s father had to pay 100 pesos and give one big gong for what his son did. Taya, however, said he did not want to accept the fine. The children were in tears during this affair, and Ersin’s sister was very angry—to the point of hitting Ersin and saying, “You are disgusting [Negdupang ke]!” Ersin was 37 when this happened.


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197

Eltina Eltina, a girl of 16, drank tuba in February 2002. It all started because she had kicked her brother Kibin’s dog. Kibin became really angry at her and threatened to hit her with a spear. Eltina got very scared and ran away. She was found by her elder sister near a stream, where she had ingested the poison. The sister called the parents, and their father Perinta made Eltina drink a counter-poison (piawas).23

Durmin Durmin made at least two suicide attempts. The first took place right after his wife Sumling committed suicide in 1989 (see chap. 6); the second took place in 1995, after a quarrel with his new, younger wife Dina, who later left him. In the second attempt he tried to kill himself with a locally made shotgun (paltik). As he placed the barrel end against his heart and prepared to pull the trigger with his toe, his sister Ersin saw what was happening and grabbed the gun, tearing it away from Durmin. Apparently jealousy and anger were the motives behind this attempt, although the quarrel Durmin had had with his wife was trifling. He had asked her to come back home to cook rice, but she told him to wait, as she was picking up coconuts. Apparently she was enjoying herself playing with some young boys (other than her husband, that is, and did not pay attention to her husband’s request. Comments Attempted suicides seem to share the same profiles as completed sui-

cides. Motives reported seem to be identical and cover the same range of affects and emotions, namely unrequited love, grief, jealousy, pain and sickness, quarreling between husband and wife, and fear. However, the sample of attempted suicides gathered thus far is not large enough to make statistical inferences and parallels with the completed suicides.


8/10/06 3:58:24 PM

8 Profiles in Suicide

Looking at such an exceptionally high number of suicides, one is tempted to draw conclusions and define a pattern that would hold for the whole population. Is there one typical profile of the suicide victim? Is there one variable or dimension that overrides all others? One would like to come up with a quick answer to the question of why people commit suicide so often. But inevitably in Palawan as elsewhere, the student of suicide and suicidal behavior is confronted with a complicated situation. Not all suicides are the same. People kill themselves, apparently, at least, for a great variety of reasons. Personality traits differ widely from one case to another. The people from Kulbi are no exception to this truth. Not being able to provide one simple answer that fits all, one goes to the next stage and seeks partial answers. Are there cases that bear a family resemblance to each other? If so, could one define “profiles” or “types” based on recurring variables? This is the beginning of the slippery road to typology building, an endeavor exposed to the risk of ending up with as many types as there are individual cases. This is nevertheless what the following section attempts to do, because this is the obvious way to start organizing the data and sort out facts into manageable clusters providing the dimensions on which an interpretation can be based. The starting point is the definition of variables. In table 11 below, 10 such variables have been culled from field data. From there, and within the sample of documented cases, one proceeds to ask questions such as, Are there any variables that remain constant? Which status variables are most often associated with suicide cases? Do suicides follow a seasonal pattern? Is suicide related to violence or homicide? These and other questions will be examined in the course of chapter 9. I will, however, proceed in two steps. After a quick examination of the overall rate of suicide for the Kulbi population, I shall survey the rate of occurrences of single variables and see what this will yield and whether some conclusions can be 198


8/10/06 3:58:56 PM

8. profiles in suicide

199

drawn from such a one-dimensional, single-variable analysis. In the second step, I shall endeavor to establish profiles from a number of variables taken together in clusters. This multidimensional analysis will enable us, hopefully, to gain depth and evaluate the psychodynamic processes and personality types behind suicidal events. This will lead us to further examine these findings against the backdrop of the Kulbi cultural context, with a view to developing an anthropological explanation of suicide. The reference sample is provided by 87 cases listed in table 11, with 10 variables for each named case: age, sex, year,1 reason, method, place, marital status, clustering or multiple suicide, homicide, and social environment. Each of these variables will be carefully examined in the following paragraphs. More details on the cases listed are provided in chapter 7. Table 11 has been sorted by year, chronologically, from 1945 onward.2

General Statistics for Kulbi Figure 19 provides an overview of the actual number of cases per year of completed suicides over a period of 25 years, from January 1978 to March 2002, this being the period for which accurate and complete data were gathered for Kulbi proper. Cases collected for the period 1945 to 1977 (see table 11) do not form an equally reliable set, and there are too many uncertainties to put them on the same footing as the post-1978 data. Let me note that I collected systematic data on suicide in 1989 only and that the memories of my informants were shallow enough to make any accurate projection on a period before 1978 highly questionable. The 24 or 25 cases retrieved for the 1945–1978 period show that in spite of its gross underestimated rate, occurrences of suicide during this period were already very high, comparatively speaking, and that suicide was in no conceivable way an entirely new phenomenon in the 1970s. Informants agree also that suicide was a common practice in old times, even if they could not give names and point to individual cases. Figure 19 shows that over the period covered, between one and five people killed themselves each year, with the exception of 1978. That year’s peak number is partly accounted for, according to informants, by an epidemic of sores (epras) that killed many people and caused such grief among survivors that it triggered a significantly higher number of suicides than in the following years. Three cases out of nine resulted directly from such circumstances. During two years only there were no suicides (1981 and 1990), meaning that in a 25-year period, at least one person fell victim to suicide almost every year. What is the rate in relative terms compared to the population from which these figures are taken? Since 1989, I have kept a record of casualties and have made a number of visits to check data, the last ones in May and October 2001 and March 2002. In 1989,


8/10/06 3:58:56 PM


8/10/06 3:58:57 PM

M

M

19 Ruminu

20 Asik

21 Sugaring

F

M

18 Pasja

23 Punti

F

17 Muking

M

M

16 Dariu

22 Anggaw

F

M

15 Ungkuq

F

M

14 Sisi

F

13 Masja

F

12 Ambisan

F

M

7 Adlis

8 Telnang

11 Asja

M

6 Merensinu

M

M

5 Retju

M

F

4 Uluq

9 Alusag

62

F

3 Luwas

10 Ansajaw

50

M

2 Madang

49

18

19

57

42

35

18

35

34

67

70

48

17

18

M

1 Asdali

Age

Sex

# Name

1973

1973

1972

1970

1969

1969

1969

1968

1967

1967

1967

1967

1965

1965

1961

1960

1960

1959

1955

1948

1948

1947

1945

Year

Table 11 Suicide Cases—Main List

Fear

Sickness

H

H

H

Desire to marry10 Attempt to remarry same spouse

H

H

H

explosive

Sickness

Sickness

Jealousy

Love

? H

Love9

H

H

H

H

H

H

H

H

H

H

H

Quarreling, slander

Jealousy

Jealousy

Jealousy, slander

Suicide of wife

Sickness

Sickness

Sickness

Attempt to remarry same spouse

Shame, anger, slander

Jealousy

H

Pangetelban

Behunbunan

Kubtangen

Megkelip

Mepjang

Lilibuten

Paga Paga

Lambungew

Mepjang

Lambungew

TandukTanduk

Lilibuten

Megkelip

Mepjang

Pangetelban

Impinan

Lumtab

Behunbunan

Behunbunan

Simerak

H7


Lumtab

?

Quarreling (spouse)5

Place

Method

Motive

Y

N

N

D

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

W

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

?

Y

D

N

?

M1

Mari, etc.

Adlis

Ansajaw

Asja

Arek

Mari, etc.

Asdali

Retju

Clustering2

Violence3

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple, child), neighbors

NF

NF, neighbors, lovers

Ext. fam.8

NF (couple)

NF

NF6 (couple)

Social Environment4


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62

61

F

M

M

M

44 Lasaj

45 Tikding

46 Tilej

47 Dumanda

F

M

F

M

40 Ranjew

41 Arek

42 Atja

F

39 Tulina

43 Lansiq

70

M

38 Duminu

28

15

41

42

70

20

21

52

16

F

F

19

37 Upit

35 Galin

32

34

39

65

62

13

68

21

43

22

Age

36 Tebeg

M

M

34 Taga

M

M

F

31 Mitsja

33 Ruminti

M

30 Mari

32 Nari

M

M

M

27 Intab

29 Luhadji

M

26 Dumlin

28 Kandang

M

M

24 Uwan

25 Gari

Sex

# Name

1987

1986

1986

1986

1985

1984

1983

1982

1980

1980

1979

1979

1979

1978

1978

1978

1978

1978

1978

1978

1978

1978

1975

1973

Year

Quarrel

Love, desire to marry

Jealousy

Jealousy

Sickness

Sickness

Sickness

id (wife of Duminu)

Death of child

Fear

Fear

Fear

Death of child

Jealousy, quarreling, anger (?)

Death of child and wife

Death of child

Sickness

Sickness

Fear

Anger, Fear

Sickness

P-pest.

Air-gun

?

H

?

H

?

?

P-pest.

P-pest.11

H

H

H

Used hunting poison

H

Stabbing

H

H

H

H

H

H

H H

Desire to marry10

Method

Fight with in-law, desire to marry

Motive

Kedawan

Simerak

Mepjang

Kubtangen

Pangetelban

Mepjang

Mepjang

Udjung

Udjung

Behunbunan

Pangetelban

Elal

Pangetelban

Pangetelban

Pangetelban

Mepjang

Udjung

Behunbunan

Megkelip

Mepjang

Kubtangen

Place

Y

N

Y

Y

W

W

W

Y

Y

W

N

N

W

Y

W

Y

Y

Y

N

W

Y

Y

N

M

Telnang

Duminu

Tulina

Tebeg

Upit

Intab

Mitsja

Mitsja

Nari

Adlis, etc.

Galin

Clustering

marines

NF (couple)

NF (child)

NF (couple)

strangers

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

Social Environment

NF (couple)

NF

NF

Ext. fam. (in-law, marines)

Ext. fam. (in-law, marines)

beating (wife, in-law)

Violence


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F

M

M

55 Aslin

56 Bintis

57 Ipat

M 29 (20) 1997

1997

1997

70 Kereng

48

13

M

M

1996

1996

1995

1995

1995

1995

1994

1993

1993

1992

1992

1991

1991

1989

1989

1989

1989

1988

1987

1987

Year

69 Kambung

52

64

58

50

24

44

42

17

50

80

41

23

34

21

30

68

20

47

60

47

Age

68 Ispilin

F

F

M

65 Tutuq

67 Sambawej

M

64 Susan

66 Musej

M

M

63 Lijap

61 Umar

62 Landa

M

M

60 Nalde

F

M

54 Suwerte

M

F

53 Sumling

59 Meringan

F

52 Sansiq

58 Munsinga

F

M

51 Kandang

49 Ubinu

50 Pula

F

M

48 Kusina

Sex

# Name

Jealousy, anger

Fear

Anger, quarrel about land

Worry, Sorrow, death of child

Sickness (blindness)

Worry about wife

Worry, Sorrow, death of child

Divorce

Jealousy

Worry about wife’s health, love (?)

Fear

Sickness

Poverty, loss of property

Jealousy

Love, incestuous relationship

Love, incestuous relationship

Jealousy, anger

Jealousy

Sickness


Quarrel, anger

Sorrow (death of grandchild)

Sickness

Motive

Tegmemaqan

Tegpen P-t

Kedawan

H

Mepjang

Lilibuten

Beheg

Kedawan

Kementijan

Kedawan

Behunbunan

Udjung

Behunbunan

Mepjang

Epat

Mepjang

Mepjang

Penas

Tegpen

Tegmemaqan

Pinelingaqan

Kemantijan

Beheg

Megkelip

Place

P-t12

H

H

H

H

P-pest.

H

H

P-pest.

H

Fire

H

P-pest.

P-pest.

H

H

H

H

H

H

?

Method

Y

N

Y

Y

W

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

N

Y

Y

Y

N

Y

Y

Y

W

N

Y

Y

Y

M

Angguk

Asli

Bintis

Ambisan

Clustering

beating by in-law

minor violence

attempted murder?

murder (child)

murder (in-law)

Violence

NF (couple)

in-law

?

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

lovers

lovers

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

NF (couple)

Ext. fam (grandchild)

Social Environment


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Notes

65

14

15

58

18

25

35

60

48

50

45

14

13

53

16

20

34

Age

2002

2002

2002

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2000

2000

2000

2000

1999

1999

1998

1997

1997

Year

Sorrow

Anger, shame

Anger (in-law) H

P-t

P-t

H

P-t

P-t

H

H

P-t

H

H

H

P-pest.

P-pest.

P-pest.

P-t

H

Method

Lumtab

Megkelip

Behunbunan

Mepjang

Lembungew

Lembungew

Mepjang

Mepjang

Mepjang

Kedawan

Kedawan

Penas

Mepjang

Mepjang

Kementijan

Tegbituk

Mepjang

Place

5. Strife between husband and wife concerning a second polygynous marriage 6. NF= nuclear family (husband, wife, parents, children) ; couple= married couple, husband and wife 7. H= hanging

Death of children, grandchildren; sorrow

Love

Love, fear of punishment (incestuous relationship)

Death of children, sorrow

Death of children, grandchildren; sorrow

Love (incestuous relationship)

Anger, quarrel over theft of chicken

Love

Anger, refusal to become second wife (polygynous marriage)

Victim of father’s anger

Worry, sorrow (suicide of child)

Stress resulting from commercial deal

Desire to marry

Sickness (mental)

Motive

1. M = married ; Y/N = yes/no ; D = divorced ; W = widow/widower 2. Indicating suicides in same family or kinship circle 3. Indicating suicide has been committed with violence towards another person 4. Indicating immediate social context leading to suicidal act

M

87 Saqaj

82 Madong

F

M

81 Eje

M

F

80 Ampalis

85 Disiun

M

79 Rentima (Entima)

86 Emita

F

78 Pinantad

F

M

77 Lindu

F

M

76 Angguk

84 Rumintiq

F

75 Tarsinu

83 Norina

M

M

74 Nejngan

M

M

73 Dunding

M

71 Kuwentas

72 Marsada

Sex

# Name

W

N

Y

Y

N

N

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

N

N

Y

N

N

Y

M

8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

homicide (child)

Social Environment

NF (couple)

NF

in-law

NF, Ext fam

lovers

lovers

NF

NF, Ext. fam

lovers

Ext. fam (in-law)

lovers (Z-in-l)

NF, Ext. fam?

NF

NF

NF (father), prosperous in-law

murder of in-law

minor violence

Violence

Ext. fam.= extended family Desire to marry a second wife –polygynous marriage Desire to marry a second wife –polygynous marriage Poison (pesticide) Poison (using tuba, Derris elliptica)

Ampaslis, Eje

Madong

Norina

Ampalis, Ruminsi

Eje, Ruminsi

Ispilin

Nejgnan

Tarsinu

Clustering

204


Figure 19 Number of suicide cases per year in Kulbi

I made a benchmark study, drawing a list of 867 living people, thus forming a cohort. This was actually a complete population census for 16 local communities, more than half the actual population of the Kulbi River basin, which I was able to estimate in the range of 1,500 to 1,600. The annual rates per 100,000 that I obtained (see table 12) are then calculated over several periods, as indicated in the table, and for three population sets: 1) the total estimated population of 1,500; 2) the total estimated population of 1,600 (in order to indicate a safe margin of computation); and 3) an actual population of 867 people (cohort). Rates per 100,000 range from 136.3 to 173. The latter rate is the average over a period of 12 years for a cohort of 867 individuals.3 Of the 867 people listed at the end of 1989, 18 had killed themselves by the end of 2001. Note in table 12 that the rates for the estimated population of 1,600 and for the benchmark study population for the same period (1990–2000) are almost identical (136.36 vs. 136.31). Table 12 Yearly Rates of Suicide in Kulbi per 100,000 Population

No. of cases

No. of years

No./year

General rate per 100,000

1945–1989

est. 1,500 est. 1,600

55 55

45 45

1.22 1.22

81.48 76.39

1978–1989

est. 1,500 est. 1,600

29 29

12 12

2.42 2.42

161.11 151.04

1990–2000

est. 1,500 est. 1,600

24 24

11 11

2.18 2.18

145.45 136.36

1979–2000

est. 1,500 est. 1,600

28 28

12 12

2.33 2.33

155.56 145.83

Benchmark study / cohort 1990–2000

867

13

11

1.18

136.31

1990–2001

867

18

12

1.50

173.01


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205

8. profiles in suicide Table 13 Comparative Annual Rates of Suicide per 100,000 for Other Nonindustrial and Tribal Peoples (various sources) Aguaruna (Jivaro, Peru) Palawan (Kulbi)

Table 14 Mortality Rates for Kulbi Causes of mortality rates (1989), estimated 1,500–1600 persons

180.0 136.0–173.0

Apache (North America)

133.0

Shoshone (North America)

100.0

Per 100

Sickness and old age

73

Suicide

11

Childbirth

8

Accidental poisoning

5

Accidents, violent death

3

Baruya (Melanesia)

96.0

Maenge (Melanasia)

59.0

Tikopia (Polynesia)

53.0

Truk (Micronesia)

30.0

Sickness and old age

78

Vaqueiros (Spain)

28.0

Causes of mortality rates (1989–2001), benchmark study, 867 persons

Per 100

Suicide

13

8.0

Accidental

4

Maria (India)

5.3

Childbirth

3

Gisu (Africa)

2.4

Violent death (homicide)

2

Navajo (North America)

Considering that from 1978 on all the rates are higher than 136, I suggest settling for an estimated yearly rate in the range of 136 to 173. This gives us a safe margin. It can thus be confirmed that, for the total actual population of Kulbi (let us say 1,550 persons), two persons will, on average, kill themselves each year.4 Not only are those rates very high compared to any other group or population in the world, as table 13 shows for other non-industrial or tribal people, but suicide is also a major cause of mortality, compared to other causes in the same population set, as table 14 clearly indicates. The mortality rates estimated in table 14 show that suicide is always the second-highest cause of mortality.5

Variables: One-Dimensional Analysis Returning now to the data presented in table 11, I shall examine the rate of occurrence of each variable, separately, with the exception of age and sex considered together.

Sex and age Let us turn now our attention to the identities of those who commit suicide. Figure 20 displays graphically the proportion of suicide by sex; figure 21 displays the proportion of suicide by age. A breakdown by age and sex is given in figure 22, with a simultaneous view of the male and female curve per age.


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206


In sum, men commit suicide much more often than women, and young people, especially young men, kill themselves at a higher rate than older people. The first result (male > female) is the norm among a majority of human societies. The second result (young > old) is more unusual. Industrialized and urban countries for which we Figure 20 Male versus female suicide (88 cases) have available rates show a curve that invariably is the reverse of that found in Palawan. As a rule elsewhere, older people commit suicide more often than young people.6 The contrast between the two curves in figure 22 is interesting. Men and women do not seem to commit suicide at the same age. I suggested a sociocultural interpretation of suicide in Kulbi on the basis of this sex and age variation (see Macdonald 1999b; and chap. 9). The data gathered in 1989 produced the diagram seen in figure 23 for the distribution per sex and age. The kind of interpretation I offered (Macdonald 1999b) was the typical sociopsychological (SP) role situation interpretation of suicide (see chap. 9). In this interpretation I suggested that two peaks of male and female suicide curves per age could be explained by sociostructural variables associated with marital status. Young men committed suicide, I contended, because they were not able to marry (a number of instances showed this to be the case);7 middle-aged women killed themselves because they had lost or were about to lose a husband (this again seemed to be supported by a number of occurrences). This explanation seemed

Figure 21 Age curve (79 cases)


Figure 22 Male/female suicide per age (79 cases)

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207

to be a sound one because it accounted for a fair number of cases—two out of the three peaks of the age /sex curves—but mainly because it tied stress, role situation, and the most important variable in terms of Palawan social structure, namely marriage and affinity. This hypothesis seemed to agree nicely with the facts. Unfortunately, a sound-looking interpretation that seems to agree with the facts is no proof that it is a good explanation. Actually, it turns out not to be a good explanation at all. Why? First, because the curves of suicide for males and females in the next period, from 1989 to 2001, started to diverge and display a completely different pattern, as shown in figure 24. In this period, young men continued to commit suicide, but not middle-aged women. The female curve flattened completely, and the drop in the male curve at middle age disappeared. The contrast on which I had based my interpretation existed no more. A further element that weakens this interpretation is of a statistical order. Figures are too small and the chi square computation at 5% does not provide a meaningful difference in probability between the distributions of male and female from the first to the second period.8 In any case the interpretation based on the 1989 data for male and female suicide per age provided only a partial explanation. It left out a number of cases and did not account for such categories as older men or young women and old women. This points to a major aspect of the problem. What is needed is a consideration of the overall yearly rate as an object of investigation in itself. Marital problems such as those described for Kulbi-Kenipaqan and stress resulting from situations involving prospective unions or divorces are identically experienced by the Palawan people in the central highlands, in Punang, Quezon, or the Singnapan Valley. Now, the latter simply do not commit suicide over such matters. Since the culture, social structure, and general way of life in Kulbi-Kenipaqan are not essentially different from other sections of the same ethnic group, where no suicides or a very low incidence thereof are reported, the major difficulty and

Figure 23 Male/female suicide per age range, 1978–1989


Figure 24 Male/female suicide per age range, 1990–2001

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208


most important question in this connection is this: Why, under similar circumstances and under the same social /cultural conditions, would members of one group commit suicide, and to such an extent at that, while members of the other will not? Again, this points to the need to account for a consistently high rate of suicide affecting one whole section of the total ethnic population.

Method The Palawan who wanted to commit suicide did it almost always by hanging, very rarely by other methods. Suicide by drinking poison either tuba (the juice from Derris elliptica) or tejudan (an industrial pesticide) has become more frequent in recent years.9 Hanging is often, though not always, done in the way described by Hezel for Truk (Hezel 1984, 195). The victim does it in a kneeling or sitting position and simply leans into the rope. Death is due to anoxia. The difference between poison and hanging is an obvious reflection on the different types of suicide. A younger population of suicides nowadays drinks poison, and the act Table 15 Methods Used in takes an exhibitionist form, with the victims Committing Suicide showing up in front of their families and stag- Method No. of cases ing their deaths (see cases of Kereng, Aslin and 57 Bintis, Marsada, and Kambung in chap. 7). Hanging 10 Table 15 gives a breakdown of suicide method- Poison (tejudan) Poison (tuba) 8 ology for 87 cases. There are a few isolated instances of com- Other 5 mitting suicide differently: by shooting oneself Data not available 7 in the heart with an air gun, by using an exploTotal 87 sive, by stabbing oneself, by wounding oneself with hunting poison (ditaq), and by fire. There are no instances of jumping from high places or of drownings. Nor do we find any use of firearms, although locally made shotguns (paltik) are available. In most cases, lacking precise information on the method of death, I surmise that hanging is the most likely method used. One can conclude from the above information that Kulbi people are quite conservative when it comes to methods of suicide. As another point, the ways people kill themselves seem to be nonviolent. Methods resulting in deep wounds, dismemberment, disembowelment, spilling of large quantities of blood, and the like, are not chosen. Hanging causes death by slow asphyxiation or anoxia, and death by poisoning with tuba is reportedly painless—the victim becomes sleepy and dazed. There is no significant difference for men and women as far as the method is concerned, save perhaps for a male preference for pesticide, owing possibly to the more painful kind of death associated with this chemical. Nine men versus three woman have chosen pesticide, while tuba, the vegetal poison


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used to stun fishes, has been swallowed by five men versus three women. Hanging is observed in 29 male suicides (36 when including uncertain cases) and 18 female suicides (21 when including uncertain cases). This proportion reflects the higher number of male versus female suicides in general, rather than a preference for this method by males. Poison, whether tuba or the industrial pesticide tejudan, has become more common in recent times, the former used since 1997 only and the latter since 1980. Interestingly, tuba, which is older and more readily available, has become more common only after the recent and less available tejudan became the usual way to commit suicide. Among poison users there is a majority of young people—6 under 25 years old among the 8 suicides using tuba, and 6 under 24 years old for the 10 victims of poisoning by pesticide. Poisoning could thus be contrasted with hanging as a “modern” versus “traditional” way of committing suicide.

Alleged motivations Table 16 lists alleged causes of suicide couched in the language of simple psychology, although used by the informants in their own terms (see chap. 5). Precipitating circumstances—such as a quarrel or the sudden death of a close relative—are usually part of the alleged causes, and they add up to give a plausible explanation for the fatal act of the victim. It is understood that the sudden death of a child, for example, causes the mother to commit suicide out of extreme grief. The information we have is reliable enough, I believe, and the reported alleged causes plausible enough for table 16 to reflect something of what actually happened. In no way can the information be taken as an accurate and final explanation for suicide in Kulbi, but it helps to illuminate the variety of imputed motivations behind completed suicides. As figure 25 shows, old age, sickness, grief, anger, and jealousy together make up more than half of the alleged causes or motivations for suicide. In a number of cases, informants give more than one reason—for instance, anger is often combined with jealousy. Clearly, reality is complex and stories disclose an intricate pattern of grief, anger, shame, jealousy, and various other affects, emotions, and feelings. But one thing is clear: apart from physical pain and extreme discomfort brought about by ailments, often due to old age,10 the great majority of cases result from tensions originating in a narrow circle of closely related people, such as spouses, or parents and children, or lovers. This last proposition is examined in a following section. Let me repeat that the projection shown in figure 25 cannot be taken as more than a very rough approximation of the complex mental and emotional landscape of suicide among the Palawan of Kulbi. A much more detailed study is needed. Besides, the categorizing used in table 16 and figure 25 could also


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be rearranged so as to make Table 16 Imputed Motivations for 86 Suicide Cases (with multiple the overall priority of causes motivations per case) look somewhat different. Alleged causes or motivations No. of occurrences For instance, love and incest 17 could be merged, resulting a Old age, sickness 15 in a category labeled “love b Grief (over death of close kin/spouse) affairs” (16 cases) ranking sec- c Anger 13 ond behind old age. Likewise, d Jealousy 13 jealousy and strife between e Love 11 husband and wife could be f Fear 9 brought together under the g Thwarted desire to marry or remarry 8 category “marital stress,” h Strife 7 resulting in 20 cases, making i Love with partner defined as incest 5 it the most important alleged j Marrying a second spouse 4 cause for suicide. While some k Shame 2 categories could be merged, 1 others could as well be sub- l Madness m Slander 1 divided and cases redistrib1 uted elsewhere, because in n Loss of property cases involving a number of Total 107 apparent motivations it is a matter of a somewhat subjective appreciation to decide which is most apposite for a definition of the case (shame or anger rather than jealousy among various motivational arrangements). This again would result in an altogether different profiling of the overall motivational pattern. In my view there is no need to probe much further Figure 25 Chart showing alleged causes or motivations for 86 into this, since emotions and suicide cases (table 16) mental states referred to are a matter of subjective appreciation and, furthermore, because we have obviously no direct access to what the victims actually felt and thought when they committed suicide.11 Another way to tackle this question, one that is less subject to arbitrariness and subjectivity, is to consider the immediate social environment of the suicide.


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Immediate social environment By “immediate social environment” I mean the significant relations with other actors in terms of suicidal motivation (see table 17). In other words, we want to know who are the persons involved in the case that led the victim to commit his / her act, inasmuch as the relation with the other person(s) was part of the alleged motivation. Grief over the death of a child, quarrel with a spouse, scolding by a father are all relations contained within the nuclear family (NF). Those amount to 46 cases. Relations with members of a wider circle of kin (extended family) are responsible Table 17 Social Environment of Suicide for about 5 cases, while relations with in-laws No. of cases are the main reason that three people com- Relationship mitted suicide. Love suicides accounted for Nuclear family 46 7 cases. Only three people committed suicide No relations 21 apparently as a result of hard feelings against, Lovers 7 or fear of, total strangers; 21 cases—mostly Extended family 5 when suicides were sick or elderly persons— 3 involved some emotion or shock unrelated to In-law Strangers 3 any other person in particular. 2 It is obvious, then, that a vast majority of Unknown suicides result from some kind of stressful or Total 87 conflicting relationship. Adding all close relations, including in-laws and extended family, about 71% of all cases12 result from stress arising in the context of very close relations. At least 62% of all cases arise in the context of intense familiarity (parent-child, spouses, lovers). If we compare all cases involving a relation-related suicide—thus excluding all 21 cases of mostly sickness-related suicides—71% are contained in the nuclear family and involve either a parent-child relation or a husband-wife relation. The latter accounts for 52% of all cases involving a relation with someone close or more distantly related. In all, less than 13% of all suicides are caused by difficulties or stress in relation to distantly related people or strangers. It is clear, therefore, that intensely familiar and close relations have a high potential for suicidal consequences.

Marital status Since a number of suicide cases involve marital problems, it is not surprising to see a number of married people among the victims. There are 52 cases of married people, versus 19 unmarried, 11 widows or widowers, and 2 divorcees. These results are not as significant as they might be in another culture. Amongst the Palawan, as a rule everybody is married at an early age, around 14 for girls and 18


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for boys. Among the 19 unmarried people who committed suicide, 14 are aged 13 to 19 years. People who are not married are thus either very young or elderly widows and widowers, or they are temporarily between marriages, divorce being rather frequent, especially if the couple is young and there are no children. A high divorce rate (45.7% according to a survey I conducted in 1989) is not only typical of the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area, but is also normal for other sections of the same ethnic group.13 Marital status and age match as well for widows and widowers, with 9 out of 11 being between 52 and 70 years of age. Marital status is not per se a significant variable. A majority of the married people who committed suicide did so not because they were married but for other reasons, some unrelated to matrimony, such as sickness (12 cases among 52) or loss of property. Unmarried people tend to be young and commit suicide for a variety of reasons, such as fear and the desire to marry or remarry. At any rate, marriage is not a protection against suicide risks; quite the contrary, in fact.

Violence and homicide Over the entire set of suicides, only nine cases are definitely violence related, with two very minor acts of violence (a father hitting his child and a wife wounding her husband with an air gun), two severe beatings, and four homicides (two against a child and two against an in-law), plus one possible rape. There is one reported but unconfirmed case of attempted homicide. Two of the suicides connected with violence could have actually been murders. Physical violence precedes suicide in only 10% of all cases, and homicide in only 4.5% of all cases. This is not very significant. Suicide in Kulbi does not seem to be part of aggressive behavior, at least against people other than the victims themselves. To what extent can one consider suicide an act of violence is debatable, and this is examined in chapter 9. Inasmuch as it ends life by physical means, it can be called a violent act. But to define suicide as inherently aggressive is questionable (see chap. 10). Facts indicate that suicide in Kulbi is, in the vast majority of cases, a self-oriented gesture aimed at ending the victim’s life without involving another party. Homicides of children preceding suicide are not, according to informants, committed in anger but as a preventive action (see Eje’s case, chap. 7). It may be relevant to note that there is only one alcohol-related case (see Ruminti, chap. 7), which was associated with violence. These findings are consistent with the nonviolent ethos and abstemious habits of the Kulbi-Kenipaqan culture.

Multiple suicides Suicides do occur in clusters or follow each other, but we need here to distinguish between simultaneous suicides, suicides that occur in quick succession


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(within the same day), and suicides that occur in the same circle of kin but at intervals stretching over months or even years. There are 29 documented suicide cases in my sample that are connected to at least one other suicide, either as cause or part of the precipitating circumstances of another suicide, or as a result of a previous suicide, or as one in a line of suicides among closely related kin. Suicides that follow each other (sunsun) may occur in quick succession (as in the cases of Nari, Taga, and Mitsja, or Eje, Ampalis, and Ruminsi) or may occur over a wider interval. Interestingly, some people will commit suicide a few years after their fathers (as with Arek and Telnang, and Angguk and Ispilin) or neighbors (as with Galin and Intab) and for the same reason. A number of double suicides are due to the grief caused by the death of a spouse (Asja and Ansajaw) or child (Nejngan and Tarsinu). Love suicides, such as those of Aslin and Bintis, and Norina and Madong, occur of course simultaneously, as do dual suicides of mother and daughter (as in the case of Tebeg and Upit). More distantly related cases such as Sumling’s suicide 22 years after her grandmother Ambisan’s (see fig. 16) are probably more numerous in reality than in my records. A short survey done in 1989 shows that at least every other person in a community has a suicide among his or her kin. So every new suicide has a very high probability of repeating the fate of a kinsman. The circumstances and sequences vary significantly in all cases of closely related suicides. Those that occur in quick succession or simultaneously are those of lovers, spouses, parent, and child. In all cases of successive but not simultaneous suicides, the victims are variously related as siblings, children, or grandchildren. This pattern of delayed suicide does not encompass more than eight people in the entire list. Although simultaneous suicides or suicides following a domino pattern are numerous (16 people in all, including the suicides that triggered the others) the numbers are not high enough to account for the overall rate of suicide in itself.

Place In each case the place, hamlet, or local settlement where the suicide occurred has been recorded. This provides us with an interesting lead. One has to remember that the local settlement or community (rurungan) is the largest structural unit in the Palawan social organization (see chap. 3). It is among neighbors, most of whom are relatives by blood or marriage, that social life unfolds in its greater and more intense complexity. Although local communities’ membership varies through time, and although such communities cannot be seen as tightly enclosed, they possess a somewhat enduring identity and stable organization (see chap. 1). Communities such as those that were identified in the 1989 benchmark study, in spite of many shifts and changes in composition, have retained the same core


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arrangement and fixed location. Statistical figures for these communities might tell something about microlocal conditions and suicidal trends. In breaking down the totals for the area as a whole, we might identify significant differences between local communities. Table 18 shows the distribution of suicide cases per local group or community for all cases recorded for a period covering 47 years or so. Table 19 provides the same kind of information, but for a smaller sample taken from the list drawn in 1989 (the benchmark study). The benchmark / cohort study provides a precise rate of occurTable 18 Distribution of Suicide Cases rence since the population figure for each local per Local Group from List of Suicides group or hamlet is given. Given the mobility of the population, cases Name of local group No. of cases that are reported in table 18 may have simply happened in that particular place, without the Mepjang 19 suicide being a long-term resident of the said Behunbunan 8 community. Moreover, the size of the sample Pangetelban 7 is too small to have any statistical validity for a Kedawan 6 larger population. However, the data in table Megkelip 5 19 and table 18 do match to a certain degree. Lambungew 4 The two places for which the highest rates are Udjung 4 reported, namely Mepjang (including several Kemantijan 3 hamlets) and Behunbunan (see chap. 1, map 2), are at the top of the list in both tables. Kubtangen 3 Conversely, places that have a lower rate, such Lilibuten 3 as Tegmemaqan, or a zero rate, like Geteb, do Lumtab 3 show up at the bottom of the list, or not at all Beheg 2 in table 18. Note that Lilibuten, a very large Penas 2 settlement and the residence of the spiritual Simerak 2 leader Tuking, has only one recorded case (or Tegmemaqan 2 two if we include Epat, a nearby hamlet). Tegpen 2 In this area, then, there are communities Elal 1 where suicides occur frequently, others where Epat 1 suicides are rare or nonexistent. This seems to Impinan 1 support the idea that close proximity and a Paga Paga 1 high degree of familiarity play a determining Pinelingaqan 1 role. This is consistent with the often-observed epidemic property of this phenomenon. ImiTanduk Tanduk 1 tation or suggestion is definitely an important Tegbituk 1 factor, and the higher rate in some local comTotal 82 munities seems again to support the hypothesis


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8. profiles in suicide Table 19 Distribution of Suicide Cases per Local Group from Sample (Benchmark Study) and Percentages of Suicide Cases per Group Group

Population

Mepjang

177

Behunbunan Lambungew

No. of suicides

Percent

Per 100,000 (12 years)

9

5.08

423.73

73

2

2.74

228.31

37

1

2.70

225.23

Pinegbuqan

41

1

2.44

203.25

Tegpen

83

2

2.41

200.80

Tegbituk

66

1

1.52

126.26

Kadawan

67

1

1.49

124.38

Lilibuten

136

1

0.74

61.27

Ambut Kewaliq

47

0

0.00

0.00

Geteb

50

0

0.00

0.00

Kubtangen

44

0

0.00

0.00

Tegmemaqan

47

0

0.00

0.00

868

18

Total

that people are more likely to commit suicide if they have been exposed recently to one or several cases in their circle of social relations, family, or neighborhood.

Time: Month of the year Suicide studies almost always pay attention to this aspect of the phenomenon; because of Durkheim’s remarks concerning the influence the time of year may have on suicidal behavior, I have recorded 35 dates of suicides to the day and month. The results seem to show an evenly distributed dispersal, with a peak in April (five cases), another one in June (six cases), and another in October (six cases). If one were to give serious attention to this variable, one would look for a higher or lower occurrence of suicides according to the intensity of social interaction during different months of the year. The “social” season spans from September to December, when the rice has been harvested in the swidden and when feasts and religious ceremonies take place—a fast-changing situation (see chap. 2). From April to August people are hard at work and live scattered, staying close to their fields. In my sample 17 suicides occurred during these months, while 16 suicides happened from September to February. No conclusion can be drawn from these figures, and the period of the year does not seem to be a significant variable.


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Profiles: A Multi-variable Analysis In the following section I shall try to bring together a certain number of variables and see whether they can help define meaningful and recurring patterns in suicidal behavior. It has been already established that some categories stand out. For instance, young people, especially young men, commit suicide more frequently, for reasons seemingly related to love affairs, and the method chosen is often drinking poison. Could there be a meaningful relation between these three out of four variables such as age, sex, reason, and method? Can a pattern involving, let us say, young men drinking poison as a result of being heartbroken be contrasted with one involving old people hanging themselves because they are sick or disabled? Finally, can we account for all, or a great majority of, cases in the sample by using such clusters of variables, each cluster hopefully matching a psychodynamic profile?

Age group, sex, and reasons Age boundaries are vague, and Palawan people make sure to blur the edges of age groups. So it is with a certain degree of arbitrariness and uncertainty that lines are drawn between the age clusters shown in table 20. There are obvious contrasts between the extremes. Very young people kill themselves over desire and frustrated love, never because of sickness. Very old people commit suicide because they are ill, never because they are in love. The methods used are also different. Seven out of 17 teenagers use poison, but none of the very old does. Young adults and middle-aged people commit suicide for a greater variety of reasons, the majority of motives having to do with marriage and love. Desperation occurs when one is unable to marry at a very young age, or, when older, one is about to be left by one’s spouse or experiences severe marital Table 20 Distribution of Major Alleged Motivations per Age Group* Age group

No.

Fear

Anger, strife, jealousy

13 to 19

17

6 (4 M, 2 F)

4 (2 M, 2 F)

20 to 39

20

0

7 (5 M, 2 F)

Sickness, old age

Sorrow, mourning

Love, desire to (re)marry

0

0

7 (5 M, 2 F)

1 (M)

5 (2 M, 3 F)

7 (6 M, 1 F)

40 to 58

24

1 (F)

8 (4 M, 4 F)

5 (3 M, 2 F)

6 (4 M, 2 F)

4 (M)

60 to 80

16

1 (M)

1 (F)

10 (5 M, 5 F)

4 (M)

0

* This table is based on a sample of 77 cases. Cases that are left out from the complete list of 87 cases are either due to other causes (such as mental illness) or for lack of sufficient information. Figures for most frequently alleged causes in each row are highlighted. M = male; F = female


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difficulties. Grief caused by the death of close kin seems evenly distributed over the three age groups above 20. Interestingly, fear is a main cause of suicide for the youngest, but appears in older age groups as well, 40 and above. In the span from youth to old age, one is more likely to commit suicide first over fear and love, then marital problems and grief, then sickness and physical misery. There is clearly a pattern in the chosen reasons for suicide in each age group, but the figures show that motivations are so distributed in each that an explanation based on one single impetus for each group is not sufficient. Establishing types based on age and motivation alone does not provide profiles fine enough to fit the reality of the cases. At all ages, there are more male than female suicides. But as young male suicides greatly outnumber young female ones, the sex ratio tends to even out as one goes up in years (see fig. 22 above and table 21). Returning to table 20, and looking at the figures for male and female suicides in each slot, one can draw the following conclusions. In only one instance do women outnumber men, and that is when a child dies and the mother is young or middle-aged (between 20 and 39 years of age). In one Table 21 Male and Female Suicides per Age Group* category men greatly surpass Age group Male suicides Female suicides women: love and /or a desire to marry or remarry (passion, 13 to 19 11 6 in other words), especially 20 to 39 14 6 when young, although this 40 to 58 15 9 holds true in every age group. 60 to 80 10 6 Older men (age 40 and above) also commit suicide more fre- *From the same sample as table 20. Figure 22 is based on the total number of cases. quently out of grief. In three cases men and women are equally at risk: when they are old and sick, and under circumstances of strife, jealousy, and anger in the 13–19 and 40–58 age groups. In all, men and women do not seem to differ too significantly in the combined areas of anger, marital problems, sickness and, to a point, grief, which together are the alleged motivation for the greatest number of suicides (51 cases). Both sexes are equally affected by the same circumstances, save for love and a desire to secure a spouse. The female suicide rate, however, is in general lower than the male rate. The forgoing conclusions have to be taken with caution, however. Alleged causes and motivations are not as clear-cut and objective as the tables make them appear. As stated previously, numerous motivations come together to bring about the final decision to end one’s life. Even if the available information were absolutely reliable—which is not always the case—it would still be moot to attribute each death to one cause or motivation only. Behind this situation lies


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the problem of psychological cause. To what extent can a factor like a conflict with a spouse or the loss of a child be deemed the “cause” of a suicidal act? Such events may be merely the triggering incident that sets in motion the final act already programmed in the personal makeup of the victim. In this perspective, any event will do and none will be the real cause of the suicide—the real cause being the hidden, internal psychodynamic process taking place in the victim’s mental and emotional setup. I have no way to answer this question for the time being, however, so I shall endeavor to make the most of the available life stories, using other details and aspects of these narratives in order to gain a more precise view and a deeper insight into the phenomenon. I will therefore present below a series of profiles meant to capture some kindred resemblance and perhaps a deeper connection between cases. It is again with the same cautionary remarks in mind that I will proceed to present these profiles. In establishing the following I am guided by a notion of style and manner in the performance of the act. Some suicides are clearly premeditated, planned, and carried out with a calm determination. Others are done on the spur of the moment, apparently with rashness, the victim being under extreme emotional stress. Other aspects and factors, such as the sequence of events unfolding prior to the death of the victim, the involvement of a third party, or the presence of physical violence, will also be used in constructing these profiles. They are not to be considered a final and complete classification, but simply as one way to sort out cases according to salient features.

Profile 1: Melancholy suicides A decision to die as a result of rational calculation seems to be a common trait among all suicides connected with old age and illness. Great discomfort or suffering and no real hope of improvement make for a dim perspective. Perhaps “despair” is the appropriate term. I am, however, linking these cases with those that apparently result from a similar kind of protracted impairment, but in emotional rather than physical terms. Suicide in these cases is planned far in advance. Musej, for instance, had thought about it and said so in the interview I conducted two years prior to her demise. Saqaj had the idea for many years of joining his wife in death. The manner in which suicide is carried out and the kind of planned agenda and considerate manner that characterize the act seem also to reflect a personality type defined as melancholy: humble, considerate, introverted, with a keen sense of duty and propriety. People such as Merensinu or Saqaj, or even Tutuq, are all senior persons who carried out their own deaths according to careful planning. They bid farewell to their children and loved ones but were careful not to reveal their intentions. The common threads in these cases together are age, premeditation, rationality, and consideration of others.


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They are end-of-the-line and despair cases in which the victims believe there is no other way to go. Such people firmly commit themselves to ending their lives and are determined to make a final and unobtrusive exit. I see 14 cases fitting this profile, namely those of Merensinu, Saqaj, Umar, Ubinu, Tutuq, Landa, Ranjew, Arek, Telnang, Sansiq, Musej, Meringan, Ansajaw, and Munsinga.

Profile 2: Gender relation suicides There is a series of cases that involved, as we know, jealousy and infidelity. Aside from the emotional aspect of these cases, what seems to bring them together is that suicide is the result of a protracted process involving litigation and lengthy negotiation between the parties. A number of these also involve the use of poison. I am tempted to put in the same “bag,” as it were, all cases of second, polygynous marriages gone sour. An unhappy marriage, strife, and quarrelling between spouses are equally the product of a history of troubled relations. Because one in the couple does not like the other, does not like him /her enough, or does not like him /her anymore, or because he /she likes someone else better, a situation of extreme stress is created, and suicide occurs. Including Ambisan, a complex case, there are at least 10 such cases fitting the profile (Pula, Tilej, Ungkuq, Gari, Dariu, Asdali, Kereng, Nalde, and Sumling). The actors belong to the middle age brackets, from the early twenties to the late fifties.

Profile 3: Passionate and angry suicides All cases involving lovers engaged in a forbidden passion, whether condemned by society or opposed by relatives, seem to belong to the same category. Six people were thus involved in a relationship that was defined as incestuous because of its closeness and because it was intergenerational. Note that in two of the three incestuous couples the man was very young and the woman much older. Rentima was in her late forties, and her young lover was a teenager. In one case for which details are lacking (that of Lindu), the object of love, Lindu’s sister-in-law, is murdered. Other relations that are defined by a thwarted passion and physical violence include a conflict with in-laws who oppose the marriage. Or, physical violence is used as a result of jealousy and is directed against the spouse and /or the in-laws. The combination of passionate love, actual or potential violence, and the role of in-laws (who forbid, prevent, or oppose the marriage) come together to create a specific suicidal situation. Aslin and Bintis, Rentima, Madong and Norina, Lindu, Lijap, Kandang, Uwan, Ipat, Ruminti, Dision, and Marsada are the 13 victims in cases involving this particular combination of events. I am tempted to link other cases, such as Pinantad’s and Ispilin’s, involving a serious conflict with in-laws to the above cases on the basis of the social context and because they contain a strong component of anger and fear. This would in turn provide a link with the redirected anger syndrome found in instances of


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either jealousy (see Kereng’s case) or conflict with strangers (Intab’s and Galin’s cases). This, however, would lead us away from the forbidden love affairs that provide the starting point in defining this kind of profile. May that be a caveat against too much weight given to the profiles as defined in this section. The complexity and fluidity of human emotions prevent us from neatly pigeonholing the cases.

Profile 4: Multiple suicides out of grief Multiple suicides resulting from grief due to the death of a loved one (child, spouse, or grandchild) have already been discussed. A distinction was made between simultaneous or quasi-simultaneous suicides and those that happen at a greater interval of time. At least 9 suicides did happen soon after the initiating event. The quick decision to commit suicide seems to make up a different psychodynamic process than that found in profile 1, such as the widower joining his departed wife many years later. There are two cases involving the murder of a child, but apparently the act of homicide is not done in anger. People are beside themselves with grief; the sorrow and despair reach a peak of intensity, and loss appears unbearable. The suicide and homicide victims belong to the same nuclear or extended family. At least 10 casualties are accounted thus, not including attempted suicides happening at the same time for the same reason (Eje, Ampalis, Ruminsi, Mitsja, Nari, Taga, Duminu, Tulina, Asja, and Nejngan). In such cases, all related to loss, the normal mourning process does not take place and is replaced by a frenzy of despair. It goes without saying that with child mortality being traditionally high, the death of an infant or small child is rarely followed by the parents’ suicide. As in all cases the visible external circumstances leave open the question of the real cause of the act.

Profile 5: Impulsive suicides of teenagers There are 17 cases of teenage suicide (ages 13 to 19, inclusive), or 11.5% of all cases. In Palawan, teenage suicides seem to fit the description made by researchers elsewhere, and they seem also to belong to a class in itself (as in Micronesia, for instance; see Rubinstein 1992). The specificity of teenage suicide may be due to three considerations pertaining to its rate, its manner, and its motives. The first is that the rate can reach exceptional heights; this is the case in Kulbi. It also seems to fluctuate more freely than in other age groups. Second, young people seem to kill themselves more often as the result of a sudden decision, while they are under extreme stress often caused by a conflict with their parents or other close relatives. Rashness is a characteristic aspect of their acts as opposed to the premeditated suicide of older people.14 Third, what makes teenage suicide different from the others is its apparent absurdity. Young suicides seem always more irrational and wasteful. They waste, so to speak, a large amount of life


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expectancy. To despair of life while so full of its promise seems always to be a dreadfully irrational decision. Rejection and family conflicts appear trifling from the perspective of a lifetime of opportunities, or compared with dramatic circumstances like losing one’s family or becoming blind and paralyzed. Suicide in these cases seems out of all proportion with the incident it responds to. Other aspects make teenage suicide somewhat different, such as the method used, with a preference for poisoning. Teenage suicides that fit the description of being impulsive and committed either in fear of, or in anger against, a parent or close relative amounts to at most 10 cases. The other cases—7 in all—of teenage suicide are connected to love and the desire to marry. I have thus far considered love suicides as belonging to another profile, but perhaps this is not valid for teenage suicides. Whichever, if we conflate all teenage suicide cases or if put those caused by rejection aside, we have a profile that stands out distinctly.

Conclusion All the categorization and profiling done so far is subject to a number of questions and possible objections. The categorization does not account for all cases. Some are left out because they fit nowhere. There are also other ways of regrouping the cases, ways that haven’t been explored. The profiles suggested above could be redefined. Precise lines cannot always be drawn. As I said, the complexity and fluidity of human emotions prevent us from neatly pigeonholing the cases. A firm conclusion as to the etiology of the phenomenon based on one or a cluster of variables cannot be reached. But directions can be indicated. Some avenues do not seem to hold promising prospects. Others are worth exploring. Let us proceed first by elimination. In his typology of suicidal behavior, Baechler sees four main categories: the escapist, the aggressive, the oblative, and the ludic (1979, 59 and ff.). I would be tempted, if I were to use Baechler’s typology, to put all or nearly all Palawan suicides in the first category. People want to end a state of psychological or physical misery. There is obviously something final in every completed suicide, which can be seen as an end to everything. In other societies, however, the context suggests retaliation or vengeance, blackmail or self-sacrifice, duty or glorification. In my opinion, the case studies scrutinized so far involve no such meaning, or very marginally so. The victims simply want to go. They refuse to be confronted by others. They don’t mean to change things. Likewise, I would exclude aggressiveness and keep stress as the major factor in the emotional and mental setup of the victims. Indeed, the common denominator of all cases examined here is pain or stress—physical, mental, or emotional. The suicide wants to stop hurting.


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In the next chapter, the search for causes will be pursued, but for the time being we will be satisfied with descriptive statements. I want to make thus several closing remarks. First, I want to acknowledge the fact that a single- or multiple-variable explanation has eluded us so far. If we push things to extremes, there are two—and only two—broad and encompassing categories of self-inflicted death in Kulbi, one resulting from the fracture of the basic social cell, the other resulting from weariness in the face of pain and old age. More or less the first accounts for around 60% of all cases, the second for around 40%. I cannot think now of one single, convincing explanation that would account for both kinds of suicide, except by repeating the obvious—namely that suffering is accountable for the tragedy. The second remark is that the victims seemed to fear society. They refused to be confronted by critics or judges. They were convinced that they were going to be punished, fined, rejected, or crushed. Their condemnation seemed certain. They expected a heavy sentence. The Kulbi-Kenipaqan social structure is indeed rather solid. Its laws are enforced through the agency of elders, public hearings, and sometimes government agencies, but never by force. It remains a nonviolent, tolerant, and flexible society where dissent is always made possible and freedom of movement granted. Individuals are highly autonomous, hierarchy is minimal, and there is no arbitrary power forcing people to act against their wishes. The fact remains, however, that social relations are constraining. In no way is this society the subject of “anomie” in the sense of having weak rules or no rules. In Durkheim’s words, we should call the Palawan suicide egoistical, certainly not anomic. The third remark concerns an aspect of suicide that has been already pointed out—namely the importance of suggestion and imitation. Again this has been observed elsewhere, and it is certainly one of the most paradoxical aspects of the phenomenon and one of the most consistent. The much higher rate of suicide in some local communities over others seems to prove this point. In the final quest for an explanation this dimension will be mentioned again. My hypothesis is that a constantly high rate of suicide is best explained as the result of a wave that propagates itself through successive generations. This will be explained in the final chapter of this book. Last, but certainly not least, I want to repeat what appears as the central issue of this research. We will not be able to explain the high suicide rate in this area by offering an explanation based on one type or category of suicide. As we have seen just now, there is considerable variety in suicidal situations; even when reduced to five profiles or less, the typological heterogeneity can hardly be further reduced. It is plain also that what makes people commit suicide in Kulbi


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is similarly experienced by all other Palawan people, who are subjected to an equal amount of stress and are confronted by the same dilemmas and problems, marital and otherwise, without killing themselves at the same rate. Because one explanation will not fit all and because we are faced with a massive phenomenon affecting, year in and year out, without fail, all sectors of society, all ages, and both sexes, an explanation needs to be global. It is the overall rate of suicide—the 136–170 per 100,000 rate—that has to be accounted for.


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9 The Anthropological Study of Suicide

Anthropological Literature on Suicide In this chapter I shall review a number of anthropological approaches to suicide concerning premodern, non-industrial, or tribal societies. I do not include works dealing with urban and industrial societies, such as Japan, although obviously anthropological approaches can and have been conducted on them (see Iga 1986). However, studies on industrial and urban societies are mostly sociological in their scope and methodology.1 Suicide is a topic that has attracted a lot of attention in the fields of sociology, psychology, law, criminology, and philosophy. Anthropologists have occasionally dealt with suicide and suicidal behavior, but much less frequently than their colleagues in the other social sciences, especially sociologists and psychologists. Going back to the 1960s, the anthropological literature on suicide is not very extensive. True enough, a number of studies have been published (articles rather than books) on certain areas or groups where suicide rates have been observed to be high or higher than elsewhere, as with Micronesia and other island people in the Pacific, North American Indians, and Australian Aborigines. Among the few book-length anthropological studies devoted to the topic of suicide, some that should be mentioned are the classic work of Elwin on the Muria (1991 [1943]), the collective volume published by Bohannan on Africa (1960a), Devereux’s study on the Mohave (1961), and the more recent book by Catedra on the Vaqueiros of northern Spain (1993).2 Other than that, a number of papers or short essays have been published in specialized journals together with passing references to suicide in various ethnographic studies. We shall have a closer look at some of them in the following pages in order to assess the kind of interpretation they propose, the nature of the explanatory models they offer, and the degree to which they offer scientifically plausible accounts for the phenomenon.

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The Study of Suicide: Preliminary Remarks A number of preliminary remarks must be made, however trite they might seem. From an epistemological point of view it is not entirely besides the point to say that the notion of suicide is familiar to everyone. Who could spend his entire life without thinking at some point, however fleetingly, of ending his life, or wishing to die—not to mention the actual occurrence of such an event among one’s relatives, friends, or acquaintances. Also, media accounts of suicide play an important role in propagating conventional notions about this phenomenon. Actually, the very familiarity of the concept of suicide is a major epistemological obstacle. Almost everyone has experienced suicidal ideation temporarily. Emotions and moods linked to it—despair, grief, depression, emotional exhaustion, and the like—seem to be the commonsensical and inescapable explanation for suicide in general.3 As will be seen, anthropologists are not immune to this commonsensical and unscientific temptation. The next remark has been so aptly formulated by Durkheim: “Everybody dies, few people kill themselves” (1997, 340). Because few people kill themselves, demographers and sociologists always express the rates as per 100,000, not in percentages. Suicide rates, even when high—for the vast majority of countries in the world they are below 50 per 100,000—never threaten the demographic balance of the general population.4 In groups where suicide rates are extremely high, the general mood and deportment of the majority of the people do not reflect the gloom and depression of a few potential suicides. It is important to keep in mind that suicides, however frequent, are nevertheless statistically a rarity.5 Rare as they are, however, their rate remains consistent and stable over long periods of time for any given group or population that has been systematically observed. It is this fact that makes suicide a desirable subject of scientific study. Indeed, Durkheim made the following observation, which explains why he and countless other social scientists were interested in this phenomenon: “[Quetelet] took for granted that consistency was to be found only in the most general aspects of human behavior; but it can be found at the same rate in sporadic manifestations that are being observed in rare and isolated sectors of the social field” (1997, 340, my trans.). The stability of suicide rates over periods extending from 10 to 50 years is an astounding fact, one that has been recorded once more among the people investigated in this volume and in previously published works (Macdonald 1999b, 2003). Why would such a highly individual and fickle event, once included in a statistical count, develop into such a steadfast and predictable phenomenon? This, of course, is the fundamental question from which stems the entire sociological investigation.


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Suicide and Suicidal Behavior Two main and somewhat diverging courses of theorizing are open to the student of suicide. One is the study of suicide cases in themselves—that is, a study in behavior leaning towards the psychological. The other course is the study of statistics and suicide rates, which is conducive to a sociological explanation. Each course starts from a different definition. The first goes like this: “Suicide denotes all behavior that seeks and finds the solution to an existential problem by making an attempt on the life of the subject” (Baechler 1979, 11). The other is more like Durkheim’s statement: “The term ‘suicide’ is applied to all cases of death resulting directly or indirectly from a positive or negative act of the victim himself, which he knows will produce the result” (1997, 5). In the first instance, one is led to study a certain type of behavior in the living, whether it results in actual death or not. The object of the study is suicidal behavior including various closely related aspects such as risk-taking activities, self-damaging behavior, and attempted suicides. In the second instance, one counts bodies. Of course, this is academic. Both approaches overlap and intersect in many ways and at many points. But the titles of Baechler’s and Durkheim’s (respectively) works just quoted make this point clear: Suicides versus The Suicide. Baechler’s definition supposes an internal and complicated logic to a certain type, or many types, of behavior; Durkheim’s supposes the plain fact of death caused by the willing victim. The first approach is likely to result in a typology of different kinds of suicidal behavior, resting on a psychological theory, while the second will result in a sociopsychological theory based on correlations between aggregate figures of suicide and various sociostructural elements and variables (such as divorce rate, birth and mortality rates, economic indexes, membership in groups or categories, socioeconomic status, income levels, religious affiliation, etc.) The case study approach leans towards a more holistic explanation, with a methodological preference for induction; the statistical approach is oriented towards a sociological study as the result of a deductive way of reasoning. The first is more likely to call in internal factors, variables that are inherent to the psychodynamics of individual deportment, whereas the second will call in external factors belonging to the social field. But again, both will resort to various kinds of factors in their final interpretation, and concepts such as “suicidal tendencies” (psychological) and “suicide waves” (sociological) are intermingled in each explanatory model of whichever persuasion. In fine, whether one starts from the internal logic of case studies or from the aggregate figures of completed suicides correlated to external variables, one is likely to end up with an interpretation that includes all kinds of factors pertaining to various fields, but always including a psychological dimension, no matter how strong a disclaimer sociologists like Durkheim made against psychological explanations.


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Case Study Analyses versus Statistics For a better understanding of any explanatory model on suicide, let us get to the bottom of things. The bedrock of all explanations on suicide is made of a usually implicit construction of cases as self-contained sequences of events on the one hand, and the assumption that there is a common element between sequences of events leading to suicidal death on the other. How is that? Any case analysis takes a sequence of events. It is a narrative, just like a life story. It could be diagrammatically represented as a sequence of events as follows. 1. . . . . . 2. . . . . . 3. . . . . . 4. . . . . . 5. . . . . . 6. . . . . . 7. . . . . . n. . n+1

1, 2, 3, and so on, represent events, circumstances, and affects or ideations linked to these events (such as seeking a spouse, experiencing several rejections, marrying, being jealous of one’s spouse, being faced with the spouse’s unfaithfulness, being angry and /or ashamed as a result, etc.). The lowercase “n” represents the precipitating circumstances (in the example just given it could be the final separation from the spouse; in other cases it could be the death of a loved one, a quarrel, the loss of a job, a public insult, etc.), and n+1 is the actual fact of inflicting death upon oneself. When narrated, these case studies are supposed to be self-contained and in a way self-explanatory. This unhappy turn of events and those iteratively stressful feelings and /or negative emotions lead eventually to the suicide of the subject, as in a classical Greek tragedy. Suppose now that the same case or sequence of events is told, but omitting the final n+1—then what? The whole case vanishes altogether as a suicide story, but it remains a perfectly plausible life story, perhaps sad, but not ending in death.6 Obviously the biographical elements 1 to n were given the meaning of “potential suicidal elements,” geared towards the final n+1, based on the very presence of n+1. If you take n+1 away, the whole suicide case or sequence loses its meaning as a suicidal story and disappears as such. It has been constructed as such ex post facto by injecting into the story the final n+1, not by explaining it solely on the basis of a self-contained psychodynamic process. This is what can be termed the “case study fallacy,” which invites most authors, as will be seen below, to take for granted that stressful situations explain suicide. It is assumed that the connection between n and events preceding n, on the one hand, and n+1, on the other, is self-explanatory, which it is not. Many stories containing n (such as the death of child, or abandonment by spouse, or any other personal tragedy) do not result in suicide. Whether adding a lot of other slots (personal tragedies) to n will increase the probability of suicide (n+1) remains to be proved. Suppose now that this commonsense fallacy is remedied by a fully detailed account of a case including personality traits, life circumstances, family his-


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tory, psychotic determinants, and so on, forming a causal chain—we would then obtain a highly idiosyncratic combination of traits and events, the like described by psychoanalysts after probing into the dream life, personal fantasies, and repressed memories of their patients.7 The complexity Figure 26 Case studies versus statistics and informational wealth of each case would make it stand out as a singular sequence, identical to no other. How, then, would one want to compare this case to any other and make inferences leading to generalizations? The very unique idiosyncrasy of each case defeats any possible inference on the likelihood of this case explaining a collective category of suicides.8 This is precisely what renders the status and scientific validity of statistical studies questionable. On the grounds that a corpse is a corpse and that death has been caused with intent by the subject, aggregate figures count only n and n+1,9 as represented in figure 26. On the basis of such a count, aggregate figures are those of n and n+1, or just n+1, and cannot be construed as a count of whole case studies. When one says that suicides caused by jealousy or grief form one category, at the most one counts dead people who intended to die as a result of jealousy or grief and not as a result of any other personality traits or events in their life stories. So the statistical approach puts in one bag, so to speak, things that are incommensurate. The global mortality rate by suicide is nothing but a mixture of different phenomena, as if no further distinction were made between the causes of death in a usual mortality rate. This could be termed the “statistical fallacy” inasmuch as one takes aggregate figures as simple indexes of reality. One ends up, then, with these alternatives: either one explains individual suicide cases but cannot make any inference on any other suicide case (and there are as many types as there are single occurrences), or one counts bodies and nothing much besides. In the first instance one elucidates a single case after another without ever being able to reach any level of generalization; in the other case one counts something, without knowing what, exactly. Such comments obviously push things to the limit. Something of the psychodynamic process is left as a residual element in the final count of cases, and aggregate figures must say something of suicides and types of suicides. On the other hand, nobody is so different that observations that are valid in one case would not be in any other. There must be in the individual sequences of events


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that result in suicide something that repeats itself. The assessment made so far at the level of logical assumptions, on which rests the scientific status of explanations and causal factors—by case studies and by aggregate figures—does not mean that psychological and sociological studies are irrelevant and entirely mistaken. Rather, it is a caveat against the idea that we can fully explain suicide on the basis of psychosociological inferences and correlations. We are left with an element of uncertainty that will always call for further interpretation and deeper investigation. Scientific investigation is probably an approximation of truth at best, as are sociological and psychological theories of suicide. However, the degree to which they approximate truth is too low in some instances to be considered scientifically valid. These instances are those where the case studies fallacy and the statistical fallacy go unchecked. Yet again, numbers and rates must mean something. Suppose, then, that these numbers and rates count an x-factor contained in each case. Suppose also that they count a certain type of mortality rate, a type defined by this x-factor. What, then, is the nature of this unknown factor? And what is the relationship between the x-factor and the quantity resulting from aggregate figures? Sociologists, psychologists, and anthropologists alike have to answer this question. Let us turn now towards the anthropological approach.

African Suicide In two separate contributions to the seminal volume African Homicide and Suicide, which he edited, Bohannan suggested a study of suicide based on a twofold approach: through “role situations” on the one hand and through indigenous models of motivations on the other. The anthropological study of suicide thus received its main agenda (1960b, 3–29; and 1960c, 230–266). Suicide, as suggested by the titles of Bohannan’s contributions, was intimately linked to homicide. He thus wrote, “Durkheim’s classification of suicide can be applied almost as it stands to homicide” (1960b, 12). Whether correlations for homicide and suicide be positive or negative, “aggression” is their common denominator and accounts for both in equal manner. The amalgamation of homicide and suicide in the same interpretative or explanatory framework is an assumption that requires a very critical examination. But I shall come to that later. Explaining suicide, Bohannan writes, consists mainly of pointing out the meaningful correlation of suicide with a life crisis or a social situation in terms of social structural variables. To quote: “By far the greatest number of suicides in our samples occurred in domestic institutions. That is to say, a large proportion of women committed suicide as wives; a smaller but sizeable number of men committed suicide as husbands. There were a few other kinship roles mentioned—


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son, mother, father, co-wife.” (1960c, 261). In other words, suicide is understood as an action that reflects a role situation, or several conflicting roles played by the same person. In this sense suicide is a “function of.” It reflects or is a result of a role situation and is an outcome of social variables. Quite naturally, therefore, Bohannan uses Durkheim’s typology and refers to integration as a main dimension in the etiology of suicide. Another question is raised in this respect: can suicide have a function (instead of being just a “function of ”)? Bohannan’s remark that “the major division is between suicide as a counteraction or correction and suicide as a breach of norms” (1960c, 260) points to the assumption that suicide can actually change the system or modify the functioning of the system. It could thus break or correct, adjust or counteract social norms and /or mechanisms. There is one type of suicide at least that fits this definition, the so-called Samsonic suicide, which is retaliatory in nature and serves as a punitive sanction.10 Basically, Bohannan’s approach remained Durkheimian and partly functionalist in the Malinowskian sense. Suicide is an outcome of social variables, roles, and institutions. On the other hand, Bohannan advocated, in a major departure from the Durkheimian precepts, a study of indigenous models including motivations and alleged causes as part of a comprehensive cultural model illuminating the phenomenon both within the culture itself and for cross-cultural purposes. “[Suicide] necessarily takes place in terms of culture and just as necessarily is evaluated culturally” (Bohannan 1960b, 28). Other anthropologists have taken this lead (e.g., see Catedra’s work, discussed later). True to their calling, anthropologists strive to describe and analyze the indigenous models and concepts with which locals understand, explain, and interpret suicide and suicidal behavior. A very good example of the role situation approach is given by La Fontaine (1960). Studying the Gisu of Uganda, she finds that suicide curves peak at age 15 or before for men and between ages 25 and 40 for women; the male suicide rate is also much higher than the female rate. She explains the discrepancy between the male and female charts by matching high rates per age and sex with the corresponding role models, and with the prevailing cultural and social conditions for actors fitting the description. Thus she comes up with the following conclusions. 1. Young boys are isolated and have no social status before circumcision. They are to be considered, so to speak, dispensable and disposable. 2. Men between ages 25 and 40 find themselves in a highly conflicting and competitive position due to tensions between older and younger generations. This also implies inner contradictions in the role model and between rules, such as intralineage solidarity versus fierce competition for status and wealth between members of the same lineage.


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Those men who commit suicide between ages 24 and 40 do so over tensions arising from their social status or role models. 3. For the women, the situation is altogether different. Their status is essentially defined in terms of motherhood. Anxieties deemed to lead to suicide are centered on their role as mothers, and suicide rates typically peak at the age when they reach menopause—and thus, one is to understand, lose their social value and become, like young boys, disposable.

Convincing as this functionalist type of explanation may seem, and even if it provides a good account for the reasons that may cause stress and enhance chances of suicidal behavior,11 it fails to show why those who commit suicide do so. The role models used as an explanatory tool are true for all members of the same categories (young men and menopausal women), but of course not all of them kill themselves because of these role models. Moreover, this specific explanation leaves all suicides not falling in the said categories unaccounted for. As will be seen, the same oversight and inadequacy is consistently present in other anthropological accounts.

Mohave Ethnography, Ethnopsychiatry, and the Psychoanalytical Model Devereux’s study of the Mohave Indians (1961)12 was published just one year after Bohannan’s African Suicide and Homicide. In this huge and detailed study, Devereux purports to write a treaty of Mohave psychiatry (Devereux 1996, 37). Suicide occupies one large section of the book. A very long and detailed analysis of his work would be necessary in order to do justice to this enormous and original contribution to the field of ethnopsychiatry. I will try here mainly to understand the basic assumptions and concepts used by Devereux and also take this opportunity to evaluate the gain from such an approach. The author’s dual approach is based on complementary models: the psychoanalytical model of personality traits and the cultural model of beliefs and institutions. Insofar as the psychological or psychoanalytical model is concerned, the theoretical framework is provided by Freud’s theory of mourning and melancholia.13 Devereux grounds his analysis and interpretation of suicide on an ethnic personality pattern. Such a pattern, for the Mohave, is defined by traits like “warm and mercurial temperament,” “adaptability,” and “determination” (1996, 506). Some other aspects of the Mohave personality show traits that may be conducive to suicide, such as a preoccupation with autistic processes (e.g., dreams) combined with reality directedness, a thirst for intense experiences, and a sense of aimlessness. It is therefore suggested that suicide could be in most


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cases a product of depression and an escape from, or substitute for, a severe psychotic break (Devereux 1961, 301). Although the personality model defined by the author is already a cultural one (it is a Mohave one, not an American or a Japanese one), other elements associated with beliefs and institutions play a role in the psychodynamics of suicide cases. First, suicide involves an “operationally definable idea of death” (1961, 289). A Mohave myth reports the emergence of death as the result of a suicide committed by a mythical hero. The first ever death was a suicide. Second, some native notions broaden and qualify the idea of suicide—such are the concepts related to prenatal memory and intrauterine consciousness. Some individuals, for instance, do not wish to be born and, while adults, retain memories of their intrauterine life. Mohave etiology of suicide involves such memories. Third, certain institutions, such as witchcraft, provide a favorable milieu for suicidal behavior. Victims of witches are considered willing, so that their bewitched deaths are tantamount to suicide. Witches themselves proceed to manipulate situations so as to induce other people to kill them (the witches). Killing witches is a prescribed course of action, and witches are supposed to commit a vicarious type of suicide by provoking their own death sentence. It is difficult to follow all of Devereux’s instructions and also include in a workable, comparative definition of suicide murdered witches and stillborn babies. This is not, however, the main aspect of the question that needs to be addressed. Rather, the main aspect is the psychoanalytical—Freudian—model used to interpret suicidal behavior. This kind of interpretation has been used by other anthropologists (see Panoff below and, to a lesser extent, Dentan below), and the Freudian concepts are part of their toolkits. I shall then address this question by using another sophisticated interpretation of suicide premised on Freud’s theory of melancholia and mourning; Robinson’s article on Tiwi suicide (1990) provides a good opportunity to do so. I shall also review briefly Reser’s response to Robinson’s interpretation (Reser 1990). In Robinson’s article, the author purports to explain suicide among the Tiwi, a group of Aborigines of northern Australia, by a psychodynamic process. The process involves as its core a “talion principle,” which posits that any aggression should be followed by a retaliatory response (1990, 164). Death is seen as aggression against a member of the group. Therefore, feelings of guilt are activated among the latter and retaliation is sought. Mourning and ritual expressions of grief by “externalizing talion anxieties” are a way to bring about equilibrium and psychological stability (165). Suicide is seen as an outcome of mourning processes that are—it is not entirely clear—protracted, excessive, or incomplete. The redirected aggression principle is an important part of this process, and Robinson speaks of “retaliation against the self ” (165) and analyzes the process through which “the anger aroused by the death turns now against the self ” (168).


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The interpretation proposed by Robinson is much more complex than what has been sketchily outlined. It involves processes such as regression, narcissistic identification with the deceased (166 and passim), narcissistic display of the self (167), and a complex channeling of anger and aggression (167 and passim). To perhaps try and encapsulate the meandering argument of Robinson in a sentence, I quote: “Again and again [by repeated participation in mourning ceremonies], they reenact the ambivalent extremes of feeling between these ritually marked polarities: the angry, despairing, desperate crying of the child-who-haslost, and the restitutive identification with the giver, the nurturer, the accepter of demands, the mother” (169). So suicide is, at least in one case study to which Robinson devotes some space (169– 175), a process of “pathological mourning” (169). Whether this explanation accounts for all or some suicides only, or if it accounts for a rise in the suicide rate or for a more traditional pattern of suicide is not made clear. No figures are given, and there is no indication permitting an assessment of the frequency of such events. The ethnography is rather scant. A Tiwi myth accounting for the origin of death is given in the first pages together with an exegesis of it. Observations are provided on mourning rituals and on some aspects of Tiwi social life, as well as details of the life story of one individual. As for the explanatory value of such an interpretation, I fully agree with Reser (1990). Robinson’s interpretation is almost entirely based on the uncritical and dogmatic regurgitation of a Freudian mythology (which parallels the Tiwi mythology quoted by the author), creating a fantasy world of supposed Tiwi psychology. Moreover, it barely addresses the premises of ethnographic reality, or whether suicide is frequent or rare, committed by men rather than women, and so on.14 Notwithstanding its particular weaknesses, Robinson’s article is interesting for the insight it gives to the underpinnings of such an interpretation, one being the centrality of the “redirected aggression” principle.15 This I shall examine further in the conclusion of this chapter. But the other main failure of this kind of explanation, as far as we are concerned, is the complete lack of attention paid to the frequency of occurrences, to the rate of suicides and suicide types, and to their stability and distribution through time. This is so because of the very nature of this kind of explanation, which is so highly idiosyncratic and densely filled with unconscious drama and hidden personality traits—to the point of stretching the imagination to its furthest limits—that no such individual case can pretend to empirically represent any number of other cases. I recognize here, of course, the “case study fallacy” discussed in this chapter. Psychoanalysis, together with a culture and personality perspective, has led to other interesting interpretations of suicidal behavior. One could mention Hippler’s essays, particularly on the Eskimos (1969, 1080–1081; and 1974). After positing that suicide results either from fusion (a desire for union with


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the mother) or frustration (aggression against the self and an introjection of punishing attitudes) (1969, 1074, 1076), Hippler goes on to another interpretative level by following Devereux and developing the notion of modal or cultural personality based on child socialization (Hippler 1974, 452). The resulting cultural personality pattern offered for the Eskimos is particularly interesting here, as they display traits that are strongly reminiscent of the Palawan case. For instance, the “extremely lenient socialization practices, . . . non-interfering cooperative attitude among adults, . . . lack of formal leaders, . . . avoidance of aggression, . . . sharing of goods” (1974, 453) are all typical and culturally enforced traits among the Palawan people, and we could say, as Hippler, that “in seeming paradox” (453) suicide is common in both instances. This cross-cultural parallelism is striking even if the two groups are at variance on a number of points, namely intergroup violence, frequency of murder, witchcraft, the idea of reincarnation, and so on. Also, among the Eskimos, “many suicides are for the purpose of making someone feel guilty” (Hippler 1969, 1081). The track followed by Hippler and others (e.g., Honigman 1949) leads back to aggression as one of the central themes explaining suicidal behavior, especially as in the Eskimo case, where aggression is supposedly redirected against the self to provoke suicidal acts, in spite of or because social control over it is severe. The other methodological aspect of this approach, especially the part relating to the cultural or social personality model, is the complicated “emotional logic” (Hippler 1969, 1082) that has to be devised in order to explain psychodynamic processes, especially how aggressive feelings become intrapunitive (1084). The psychological or psychoanalytical scenario offered as an interpretation for collective behavior is admittedly based on inferences taken from case studies and recurring cultural motives forming a pattern that is arbitrarily generalized to the whole group, with little empirical checking on the number of occurrences that justify such statements.

Suicides in Oceania In an article published in 1977, the French anthropologist M. Panoff described and analyzed what is probably the purest case of a high rate of suicide almost fully accounted for by a combination of social and psychological factors. The Maenge of New Britain, a Papuan people Panoff studied between 1966 and 1970, show a suicide rate of 59 per 100,000—quite an impressive figure, comparatively speaking. The population for which this estimate is calculated comprises an average of 700 people only, and the period spans from 1910 to 1970—60 years in all, during which 25 cases occurred (Panoff 1977, 49). All suicides were committed by hanging (49), and distribution per sex shows male suicide to be higher than female: 14 versus 11 (not a big difference). The


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author gives no precise data concerning the distribution per age. Turning to cultural and social factors, Panoff explains occurrences of male suicide by the prevalence of cases related to orphans, marginal characters, and “rubbish men.” These groups are the target of ridicule and scorn from the other members of society, but mainly from bullying “big men.” A model of subservience and humiliation is embedded in collective representations and is linked to sexual relations. “[T]his system of external prohibitions and threats, of self-repression and fears, will account for several phenomena relevant to the suicide problem” (51). What Panoff wants to say is that society concentrates in specific categories of people the repressive and anxiety-generating forces of its cultural edicts. Thus orphans are banned from sexual relations and are so victimized that they are driven to despair. Apart from that, warfare and sorcery were traditionally “effective outlets for aggressiveness” (53). Aggression and violence are indeed widespread institutions in Melanesia (53). But sorcery, at least in its most lethal form, black magic, was not available to women. Warfare, likewise, was not readily available to orphans and other marginal men. Thus women and rubbish men, particularly orphans, were barred from institutional activities involving violence and hence barred from releasing their inherent aggressive instincts.16 “Here again, what is really important in regard to suicide is that not all members of Maenge society had access to this means of liberating repressed aggressiveness” (54, emphasis added). As far as the explanation is concerned, Maenge suicide is very much like Aguaruna suicide (discussed later), and the concept of redirected violence to explain suicide is the cornerstone of this explanatory model. To quote Panoff again: “[T]he two categories to which nearly all suicidal persons belonged are precisely those whose members have the fewest opportunities to pour out their aggressiveness” (55, emphasis added). Hence suicide here is mainly redirected aggressiveness—violence that is turned against self. Anticipating somewhat my review of this kind of explanation in chapter 10 of this volume, let me just say that this whole “redirected aggressiveness and violence” model relies on two assumptions: 1) a relation to another is mentally, emotionally, and psychologically identical to the relationship to self; and 2) violence or aggression is a kind of material energy endowed with its own momentum. Both are very questionable assumptions. But let us proceed. Panoff notes some other interesting features, namely the degree to which the society is, in Durkheimian parlance, “integrated” (Panoff 1977, 58), therefore making an explanation through anomia irrelevant. He points out also, in this respect, that contact with the outside world has not resulted in any significant increase in the suicide rate (52). One of the most remarkable characteristics of Maenge suicide remains its almost complete fit with the model proposed by Panoff, one that is based on “a


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commingling of impulses” characteristic of rubbish men and women only, with only two cases not belonging to these categories.17 The Maenge example is one against which it is difficult to level the criticism of not explaining the overall rate of suicide by presenting only specific categories of suicide. The specific categories are broad enough (e.g., all females), it is true, but they do contain all, or almost all, cases of suicide. Individual cases seem indeed to point towards situations of extreme stress caused by the marginal and inferior position in society of the victims. A socialcultural explanation of suicide seems therefore quite convincing. By heaping all sorts of psychological and emotional reasons (humiliation, rejection, threat, anxiety-generating representations, frustration, denial of access to means of expressing oneself ), Panoff seems to cogently demonstrate that society and culture conspire to put the victims in a desperate position, condemning them to death, as it were. The situation described by another French anthropologist, P. Bonnemère, is an apposite footnote to the Maenge case (Bonnemère 1992). The Anga in Papua New Guinea are an ethnolinguistic group composed of several tribal subsections, among which are the Baruya and the Ankave. They are all characterized by a high degree of violence and all engage in warfare (Bonnemère 1992, 19). Another conspicuous trait of this culture is its extremely asymmetrical gender relations, making women the target of male violence, both physical and symbolic (1992, 19–20; and Godelier 1982, 60). This is particularly true for the Baruya, with a high occurrence of female suicide (Bonnemère 1992, 20). As for the Ankave, the situation is somewhat at variance. Gender asymmetry is less marked; there is no suicide, and violence takes the form of male homicide (20). Why such a contrast, asks the author, since both Ankave and Baruya have the same genetic stock, come from the same place, speak closely related dialects, and possess a culture that is basically similar (20). Among the Baruya, suicides amount to 3.6% of all cases of violent death (1992, 27) and 8.8% of all cases of female death (1992, 29), coming only after warfare (9.5%) and before homicide (1.5%). Among the Ankave there are no records of suicide at all. As far as violence is concerned, homicide is more important among the Ankave than warfare. More Ankave men die from murder than on the battlefield; more Baruya men die in war than from murder. Internal violence is more important among the Ankave, while external violence is the main form among the Baruya. The contrast between the presence and absence of suicide in both groups prompts Bonnemère to write, “To find such a contrast in the life of peoples whose cultures are so close does indeed come as a surprise to the anthropologist” (1992, 29, my translation). Baruya suicide displays the following pattern (Bonnemère 1992, 30; Godelier 1982, 235, 248): it is the second cause of violent death overall but the first cause


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of violent death among women. In other words, more women commit suicide (which is done by hanging) than men. Alleged motivations are, first, interpersonal conflicts, then shame, grief, and, last, sickness and old age. One of the main differences between men and women in this respect is the prevalence of quarrelling and strife—mainly between affines—as a cause of suicide among women, versus shame as the major cause of suicide among men. Since the shame leading to male suicide is mostly provoked by the wives’ attitudes, Bonnemère constructs male suicide as a kind of homicide perpetrated by women (32). When a woman commits suicide, it is similarly constructed as a retaliatory act (32). Souls of suicides are considered vengeful entities that attack those responsible for the demise of the victims. Moreover, suicide is constructed as homicide by society, and the kin of the deceased will sue the survivors (32). Female suicide appears then to be of the “Samsonic,” retaliatory type, a form of vengeance (33). Other examples from New Guinea18 show that suicide, particularly female suicide, is committed by powerless individuals, done with the intention to harm other people or to seek vengeance as a form of protest. The complete absence of Ankave suicide thus is understood to mean that the act is unnecessary, since women are empowered with other means of resistance against male domination, including acts of domestic sanctions, blows, and divorce. Bonnemère, true to form, constructs a general cultural model accounting for suicide among the Baruya and its absence among the Ankave. It looks a bit like a “redirected violence” type of explanation, but one that is not grounded on psychoanalytical considerations (as Panoff, e.g., would have it for a similar case). Bonnemère’s model is based on socialization processes that produce male solidarity and extreme gender asymmetry in the Baruya case. This accounts for the absence or low occurrence of homicide and frequency of violent acts against women, who commit suicide in order to avenge themselves. Suicide is thus a form of outwardly directed violence (not violence redirected against self only). Baruya men kill themselves by “shame,” thus suicide appears as another outcome of male solidarity. “Men avoid embarrassing each other,” writes Bonnemère (38). As far as the Ankave are concerned, they do not have the kind of initiation ceremonies that produce a high degree of female bondage and gender asymmetry. Women are more autonomous and do not need to kill themselves to prove their point. Lack of male solidarity also explains the prevalence of homicide (internal violence between males) versus warfare (external violence between males) among the Baruya. In other words, forms of violence—namely homicide, warfare, and suicide—fill the slots of a cross-cultural grid: warfare and suicide belong to those groups wherein males bond against their women and fight against other men; homicide is reserved for those other groups where males and females engage in some sort of an internal free-for-all. They kill each other but do not kill themselves.


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Clearly the presence of suicide is better accounted for than its absence. Bonnemère’s model, as well devised and solidly documented as it is, does actually account for homicide and warfare better than it does for suicide. If Ankave men have cause to kill each other, why not kill themselves as well? True enough, the Baruya versus Ankave example shows that suicide is linked to a more violent rather than a less violent society. Still, the problem hinges on defining suicide as a phenomenon intrinsically similar to homicide and warfare. It is once more the question raised by the assumption of suicide as a form of violence. Let us recap some salient aspects of the phenomenon of suicide in the Melanesian cases seen so far. 1. They are characterized by comparatively high rates (Maenge) contrasting with neighboring groups (Baruya vs. Ankave). 2. People who commit suicide are victims and powerless individuals. 3. Groups showing high rates of suicide are small, endogamous island and upland groups. 4. Violence in the form of warfare and homicide is prevalent in such societies, which are also male dominated and highly competitive.

Firth wrote an oft-quoted piece on suicide among the Tikopia islanders (1971). In this tiny society of less than 2,000 people (1971, 200) inhabiting a speck of land in 40,000 square miles of ocean, the suicide rate is high—53 per 100,000. This figure is based on a 23-year study, from 1929 to 1951; the total population for which it is calculated is 1,500 (1971, 205). Due to the nature of suicidal behavior among the natives, this figure could be increased to 70 if some of the casualties resulting from voyages at sea are considered deliberate suicidal attempts (206). Although Firth does not give a breakdown per age and sex, it is very clear that most suicides are males (205), since canoe voyaging is typically a male means of committing suicide and swimming out to sea an exclusively female one (201). So the male to female ratio is 4 to 1 or thereabouts. Among these islanders, people commit suicide either by hanging or by taking to the high seas. The higher number of cases involving canoe voyaging and the proclivity of young men to undertake such a high-risk activity (202) seem to indicate a higher suicide rate for the young versus the old. It is the very nature of the method used to commit suicide, especially for men, that makes suicide problematic. Most deaths result from an act that can be defined as a risk-taking activity rather than from a deliberate decision to kill oneself. As Firth points out, correctly, this blurs the edges of the suicide concept and instead invites an analysis of suicidal behavior. Men who take to the high seas may be prompted to do so by a thirst for adventure and discovery, with the knowledge that their survival chances are very


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slim. Conversely, they might disguise a desire to die by pretending to undertake a voyage. Or again they might want both—escape their society and discover new land. Women who swim out to sea and who are rescued during a suicide attempt can easily pretend they were merely taking a swim, to hide the fact that they were trying to commit suicide. The nature of society’s safeguards and rescue operations is such that swimming out or canoeing meet with a good chance of being prevented or aborted. Society’s attitude towards suicide is a rather tolerant one, and it is considered much more a silly and unreasonable act than a criminal one (208). Alleged reasons for committing suicide are, in decreasing order of importance, 1. Grief or despair (unrequited love, bereavement). 2. Anger (from domestic discord, revolt against parental authority). 3. Shame (pregnancy of unmarried girls). 4. Loyalty (friendship, peer-group attachment).

Firth notes a few other characteristics of suicide in Tikopia, one being its clustering (suicides occurring one after another, in quick succession, and among related people) in peer-group attachment, another the presence of prescribed suicide (e.g., following an aristocrat in death or offering to take to the sea in a small canoe when guilty or accused of a crime). Suicide is generally characterized by the very large spectrum of alleged motivations, a spectrum ranging from grief to shame and loyalty, including illness and old age, and from individualistic, nonprescribed suicide to collective, prescribed suicide. Society, while very strictly ordered and conservative, offers a number of ways to deal with stress and interpersonal conflict and to deal with personal problems such as unwanted pregnancy (219). Major changes, namely the advent of Christianity, left the suicide rate unaffected (212). Risk taking and the strategy of suicidal people relying on rescue systems do indeed introduce an important bias and make suicide counts more questionable. Still, suicide in its simplest form (death caused by the victim him /herself, whose intention is to die) remains an important aspect of life in Tikopia, threatening all persons under stress. Firth does not offer a global psychological or sociological explanation and indeed takes a noncommittal and extremely critical stance towards either explanation. Three of his methodological warnings are worth remembering. One warning is against the idea that suicide is an index of deviance (198). Not only is it a tautology, but the underlying model explaining the relationship between social rigidity and suicide is that of “society seen as a kind of vessel with apertures” (198).19 The other caveat is Firth’s disclaimer of the Durkheimian typology of


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suicide, which he calls “too naïve” (212). The final point is the author’s contention, which I find equally true, “that the incidence of suicide is not a simple variable that can be correlated directly with another single feature of the society” (221). Let us now turn towards another geographical sector where suicides have been recorded in great numbers and systematically studied. According to Hezel, Truk islanders perhaps had a traditionally high rate of suicide, like the rest of Micronesia, but it is one that has dramatically increased since the 1970s (Hezel 1984, 193). “Indisputably, then, suicide is endemic to Truk, as it is to the rest of Micronesia and quite possibly much of the Pacific beyond.” Suicide in Truk is 30 per 100,000 (over a period from 1971 to 1983). The profile shows an overwhelmingly greater rate for male suicide compared to female (10 to 1, or 93%) and for young versus old. Seventy percent of all suicides occur among young males between ages 15 and 30 (1984, 195); forty percent of female suicides occur between ages 15 to 19. The main method is hanging.20 Hezel notes the incidence of alcohol consumption in relation to suicide. Motivations are centered on family relations. Conflict with a parent or older relative is the precipitating cause in a great number or even a majority of suicides. Although there is an impulsive aspect to suicides among young men, Hezel shows convincingly that accumulated resentment and a history of family trouble account for most cases (197). Motives and precipitating events lead to the conclusion that there is a pattern to Trukese suicide, which Hezel describes as follows: “the victim, usually a young man and often intoxicated, hangs himself after he is scolded, refused a request, or otherwise rebuffed by parents or an older sibling” (198). In psychiatric parlance this is what is called “retroflective anger.”21 Anger suicides (74 cases out of 129) are the most common, followed by shame suicides (15 cases out of 129) (199). Some psychotic suicides (only 7 out of 129 cases) are observed also. Interestingly, the Trukese use a strategy called amwunumwun, by which, through withdrawal and self-abasement, one shows hurt feelings. It is intended to signal to loved ones a state of distress, anger, or frustration, not a desire to take revenge. This strategy does seem to bear a resemblance to what Dentan calls “learned helplessness” (Dentan 2000, 32) among the Semai (discussed later in the chapter). Most young Trukese suicides thus result from or are amwunumwun. Anger and a desire to reconcile seem to lie at the heart of this kind of suicide. Another category of suicide is that motivated by shame, but such suicides bear a close resemblance to the preceding ones inasmuch as they result from a threat against a critical family relationship. Being the cause of disgrace to one’s family appears to be the main reason that people, especially young boys, commit suicide. Hezel interestingly identifies a cluster of suicides—that of “very young boys” below 16 years old (203)—that bears a strong resemblance to the “fear” suicides seen among the Palawan people in Kulbi.


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A third major category of suicides is the psychotic. Mentally disturbed people diagnosed with schizophrenia present an altogether different etiology than those discussed above (204). After a further note on clustering (suicides committed in quick succession, one after the other) that is reminiscent of what is happening in Palawan, Hezel concludes that although suicide rates among the Trukese are on the rise, they cannot be significantly correlated with either urbanization or acculturation. “Trukese suicide is . . . a culturally patterned response to certain conflict situations” (205). He notes further that “suicide victims in Truk almost without exception accept the centrality of the traditional family relationships” (205). In spite of these remarks, the author remains convinced that the rise in suicide rates bears a connection with modernization; the nature of this connection, however, remains mysterious. It is possible to summarize Hezel’s argument in the following manner: suicides are mostly committed by young males. They do it because of a cultural pattern. The centrality of family relationships is such that, when threatened, stress is maximized and leads to suicide. Hence suicide is “explained” by the cultural and psychological intensity of family relationships when strained. A number of studies have been conducted since the publication of Hezel’s paper (see Hezel, Rubinstein, and White, 1985). Suicidal patterns of Pacific islanders, particularly those of Micronesia, have come under the scrutiny of various other observers (see Purcell 1991), most contributions resulting from the acknowledgment of and concern for the dramatic increase of suicide rates in this area. For the sake of brevity, I shall focus on an article published by Rubinstein (1992) that precisely and most conveniently offers a critical survey of the literature on suicide in the Pacific. In it, the author reflects upon the explanations proposed so far and purports to “contribute more generally to the logical analysis of ethnographic arguments” (1992, 52). Starting from the widely accepted view that suicide has increased dramatically in this area, Rubinstein reviews the major explanatory models, namely those that are based on or stem from the following dimensions. 1. Loss of traditional family functions. 2. Structural change towards the nuclear family. 3. Blocked opportunity. 4. Adolescent socialization.

Points 1 and 2 deal with the family. Rubinstein borrows the first argument from an earlier paper by Hezel (1976, quoted in Rubinstein 1992), in complete contradiction to Hezel’s subsequent 1984 article. In the 1976 paper Hezel contends


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that the weakening of family and /or community ties is responsible for an increase in the number of suicides. Since it is, as has already been shown, the very centrality and therefore importance of family ties that explain suicide, their weakening should result in a decrease of suicide rates. If family ties are responsible for suicide, they should be equally responsible for increasing and decreasing its rate. Rubinstein, however, notes the revision that Hezel’s argument had to undergo, which leads to point 2 above, which Hezel developed in subsequent papers (1987, 1989, quoted by Rubinstein 1992) and which he believed to hold true for Micronesia as a whole. “Families have not lost their traditional roles, but rather have gained new functions and responsibilities” (Rubinstein 1992, 54). The reasoning is quite interesting and is grounded on a fine anthropological analysis. In an oversimplified form, it goes like this: in Micronesia, the lineage system controlled resources, particularly land. Monetization—with a rise in the cash income of the father of the family (54)—undermines the role of the lineage and increases that of the nuclear family, making the father of the family the sole purveyor of both authority and economic support. This increased authority of the father heightens potential conflicts between him and his sons, resulting in adolescent male suicide (55). True enough—a conflict opposing a male adolescent against his parents triggered 52% of 620 Micronesian suicides observed between 1960 and 1989 (56). But this is still a partial explanation; what about the other 48%? Moreover, this model is not valid for all of Micronesia, particularly in the eastern and western periphery, where marital and love conflicts are prevalent (56). Going back to the central role newly vested in the father versus the mother’s brother in a matrilineal society, Rubinstein notes that its impact on suicide is questionable, since in traditional society it is not clear whether the maternal uncle had such a balancing role (57–58). There is yet another objection. If stress results from heightened conflict between fathers and sons, fathers also should bear much of it and commit suicide more often. But that does not seem to be the case (58). Finally, as pointed out again by the author, the role of monetization is also debatable, since economic changes and social changes did not happen in Micronesia at the same time. Asynchronicity defeats the economic part of the argument. Rubinstein’s conclusion at this point is quite revealing. Data, he writes, “clearly require an explanation grounded in family psychology” (59). Now, in the face of the failure of this family-sociology explanation, as the author himself recognizes,22 why would one cling to it? First, because it is a partial failure: it may not account for suicides in the Marshall Islands, but it does for Chuuk or Pohnpei (56, 59); and second, because a finer explanation will eventually vindicate it (see below). For the time being, then:


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1. A number of suicides are thus accounted for (mainly male adolescent), but not all. 2. Family psychology is shown to explain stress, but not why stress should lead to suicide. 3. Social change is postulated as being responsible for increasing suicide rates, but how and why is not made clear.

Rubinstein goes on to discuss the two other lines of reasoning mentioned earlier. The first is the blocked-opportunity model developed by Macpherson for Samoa (Macpherson 1984, and Macpherson and Macpherson 1987, both quoted in Rubinstein 1992, 60–63). The gist of this line of reasoning is that social factors in a changing society raise the aspirations of youth but deny them opportunities for jobs and the fulfillment of their expectations, hence their frustration, anger, and eventually suicide. Rubinstein has an easy time dismissing this model as both unconvincing and ineffective, at least for Truk. Among the objections is the fact that the same combination of demographic and social factors has been observed in other Pacific countries without any of the suicidal consequences experienced in Samoa (Rubinstein 1992, 63). Even more convincing as far as Truk is concerned is that in spite of many opportunities offered to youth, suicide rates kept rising (64). The last explanatory model is one that the author himself devised. It combines socialization, sociology of the family, and anomie (64). First, Rubinstein is cautious and honest enough to warn the reader that this model explains some aspects only, particularly the rise in suicide rates among male adolescents (64). The explanation hinges on the transition from traditional socialization, which was group oriented and provided adolescents with social and psychological support from widening circles of kin (“compensatory mechanisms” [66]), to modern conditions, which leave youth in a vacuum, so to speak, confining them in the space of the nuclear family, where parent-child and father-son conflicts intensify. This is then a recycled version of “Hezel’s family change explanation” (68). Rubinstein, a rigorous and honest scholar, provides us with all the arguments to conclude that this last hypothesis is no more valid as an explanatory model than the others (68–70). Let me probe a little deeper for the sake of methodological clarification. The author states, “The high suicide rate among young men aged 15–24 accords well with an explanation based on changes in adolescent male socialization” (68). True enough, but it would “accord well” with any number of explanations or interpretations. Social scientists are quick to congratulate themselves on a job well done on the basis of their model “according well” with their data. The problem is essentially that “according well” is no proof that their model is correct. Indeed, thanks to evidence provided by Rubinstein, we learn that youth


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suicide, instead of decreasing as a result of adaptation to new conditions, has again risen dramatically (68). We are also apprised of the fact that the geographic distribution indicates a higher rate of suicide in non-urban or near-urban communities rather than urban communities, thus showing that support institutions are not to be found in the family but in such institutions as “pool halls, basketball courts, and drinking circles” (70). Drinking and playing pool are then viewed as devices that protect young people against suicide. It leaves one wondering. In a final rout of the models, Rubinstein confesses that not only do the interpretative models explain very little (only central Micronesia, only change, only male adolescents), but they do not do it very well either. The reader is dumbfounded to read at last that “at the broader level of a social group, however, there are discernible patterns in suicidal behavior; this point was Durkheim’s lasting contribution” (71). Precisely, there are no discernible patterns, or rather those that have been detected were found wanting. Durkheim’s contribution is not vindicated, but forsaken.

The Aguaruna Case In a carefully documented and argued article published in 1986, M. F. Brown, a student of Jivaroan culture, discusses a most interesting and highly exceptional case. The Aguarunas, a section of the Jivaroan people who live in Peru (see M. F. Brown 1985, 27), display what is probably the highest suicide rate ever recorded in the world: 180 per 100,000 (1986, 312).23 Brown’s questions and approach to the etiology of suicide are the usual ones, namely 1) How can we explain frequent occurrences of suicide in general? (“why respond to personal crises with self-destructive acts” [311]) and 2) Why are some specific categories of people (in the Aguarana case “women and young men” [311]) more likely to kill themselves than others? Typically, the answer to question 2, framed in the idiom of role situations and social institutions, will pass as an answer to question 1, even if the author is careful to indicate his understanding of the complexity of social and possibly nonsocial causes of suicide in general (326). The explanation he offers, however, hinges on the usual concept—something we have come to recognize as a cliché in suicide studies—of redirected violence. In Jivaroan culture, aggression and violence are an established and permissible if not preferred course of social action, but one open to adult men, not young men or women. As a result, the latter resort to violence directed against themselves.24 The Aguaruna Jivaros are tribal horticulturalists and hunters living in the forest. Their economic situation was deemed by Brown to be rather favorable at the time of study. Their social organization was still strong in spite of the inroads of modernity. The very high rate of suicide for which Brown and others (312) have gathered evidence is unusual not only for Amazonian Indians but also for


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the Jivaroan people as a whole. Accounts by other observers tend to establish the fact that a high rate of suicide was prevalent in the early 20th century (352–353) and that suicide therefore is not an outcome of the recent encounter between a traditional way of life and modernity, in spite of an increase in female and male suicide in more recent years (353). In other words, suicidal tendencies were there to begin with. Social change accounts, therefore, for an increase in suicide rates, but not for its very existence (353). A sample of 86 suicides from 1941 to 1981 shows the following patterns (353–354). 1. Female suicide exceeds male suicide by a ratio of 2 to 1 or even 3 to 1. 2. Male and female suicide is predominantly among the young (teens for boys, teens and early twenties for girls), with no middle-aged male suicide. 3. The major methods are firearms and poison, with a few instances of hanging (only 4%, compared to 48% by firearms for men; for women, only 8% compared to 85% by poisoning).

Case studies show that grief and marital conflict are major motivations for suicide (315–316), and the precipitating circumstances more frequently observed are drinking heavily, being engaged in an illicit love affair, and fighting with kinsmen for men; quarreling with a spouse or kinsman, being engaged in an illicit love affair, and drinking heavily for women.

Anger, grief over the death of a relative, denial of access to a wife, and abandonment by a spouse are also quoted (317). In a striking parallel to the Palawan case, Brown writes that “the Aguaruna tend to link male suicides to situations in which a young man is . . . denied access to a potential spouse. . . . Female suicides occur at marital crises: a woman . . . is abused or abandoned by her husband; . . . her husband takes a second wife” (317). Likewise, the Aguaruna do not value suicide any more than the Palawan people in Kulbi do, and informants speak of the “victim’s inferior thinking” (317).25 Another interesting parallel with the Palawan case is the social treatment of suicide. “The surviving kinsmen of a suicide victim attempt to blame the death on someone who inflicted emotional injury on the deceased” (318).26 In many ways, but not all, Aguaruna suicide offers analogies and similarities to the Palawan case.27 Aguaruna society and Palawan society do also present some structural variables that are identical: an essentially egalitarian type of society with some loose intervillage organization and no central locus of power for a whole region (but the Aguaruna seem to possess a stronger system of intervillage


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organization). A major and radical difference is the use and occurrence of aggressive and physically violent behavior and the social use of homicide among the Aguaruna. In this respect, the Aguaruna and the Palawan are unquestionably at opposite ends of the violence spectrum.28 When discussing the psychological profile of the Aguaruna, “known for their bellicosity” (M. F. Brown 1985, 27), their tendency to express emotions forcefully is pointed out (1985, 322). Anger and grief are publicly and conspicuously displayed. Brown quotes another ethnographer, Karsten, describing the Jivaros as being “impulsive and choleric.” Although “a subtle melancholy” (323) is noted, desperation and impulse are seen as forming the emotional spring of self-destructive behavior, especially in the case of women, whose actions are a response to their husbands’ abuse or overbearing behavior.29 The Palawan do not really fit this description. They, too, are indeed emotional people, but stricter control over the expression of emotions seems to be socially preferred, and signs of anger or extreme assertiveness are avoided. At least outwardly, Palawan people seem milder mannered. In actual fact, of course, they are not warlike, aggressive, or bellicose at all. Another point worth mentioning is the use of alcohol, present among the Aguaruna and absent until recently among the Palawan of the KubliKenipaqan River basins. Brown does not provide enough data on male suicide, and other details are lacking so that a fine-grained comparison is not possible. However, some points are of great significance. 1. The Aguaruna are a section or part of a bigger culture or ethnic group with low or minimal rates of suicide. 2. Suicide is not a preferred cultural model of behavior; rather, it is spurned. 3. Suicide is explained by the informants in terms of emotions, with anger and grief being important alleged motivations. 4. Some of the precipitating circumstances are similarly related to typical life crises associated with marriage.

The anthropologist’s interpretation in this case is a well-constructed one and looks as sound as it can be: namely, suicide is essentially an outcome of inner emotional violence that cannot be deflected or aimed (by means of vision quest and /or homicide) at others, and therefore is redirected against self. Specific social categories (young men and women) are precisely those denied access to socially acceptable violence (as indicated earlier). The similarity with the Maenge case and Panoff’s explanation is striking. Let us note again that specific categories are used to explain all categories. True enough, the statistical prevalence of very young male and female suicides accounts for a high percentage of all cases, but what about old men and middle-


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aged women? They do not fit the model. The massive general rate of suicide that has to be explained in the first place is left unaccounted for.

The Vaqueiros of Spain The Spanish Vaqueiros (cowboys) of Asturias have been studied by the anthropologist Maria Catedra. She published a paper (1993) and a book (1992) on the topic of suicide among these people and has provided ample information on this phenomenon. At first glance, suicide among the Vaqueiros is, comparatively speaking (but especially for Spain), inordinately high at 28 or more per 100,000 (1992, 157; and 1993, 59), while the average for Spain is barely 7 per 100,000.30 The Vaqueiros de Alzada are pastoralists of the Cantabrian Mountains in northern Spain. They number around 15,000 or less (1992, 7). Most relevant for our discussion is the self-contained character of their demography. With a long history of cultural specificity, going back to the 15th century and before (1992, 9), they were discriminated against and seen as backward hillbillies of some sort. Like so-called “Gypsies” (1992, 10), they were considered outsiders due to their distinct itinerant way of life. But what is more relevant is the history of endogamy that resulted from this situation of exclusion vis-à-vis the settled farmers of the lowlands. “With this virtual prohibition on mixing in the main arena of local courtship, it is no surprise that for centuries Vaqueiros of necessity have been endogamous” (1992, 11). Suicide among the Vaqueiros is characterized as follows: it is done mainly by hanging (1993, 58). Male suicide is higher than female (the ratio being about 5 to 3) and is committed for the alleged reasons of mental and physical illness and economic conflicts (men) and mental and physical illness and family or marital problems (women) (1992, 161). A distribution of suicide per age shows a higher number for young than old, and also a different pattern for men and women. There are three peaks for male suicide, between ages 21 and 30, 41 and 50, and 61 and 70, and one peak for women between ages 21 and 30 (1992, 164). Thus young women and men of all ages (but especially young men) are more likely to commit suicide. Some of the alleged causes are strikingly similar to the Palawan case and are framed likewise in the idiom of basic emotions and feelings: fear, pain due to physical illness (especially in old age), marital strife—the latter being especially relevant for women (1993, 61). Catedra also notes the occurrence of a special kind of melancholy behavior (1993, 58; see discussion below). Explaining the high and increasing rates of suicide for young women in their twenties, Catedra points to the structure of the household and to the tensions resulting from one specific institution: the inheritance rule that favors the male firstborn, leaving all other members of the household, especially young, in-


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marrying women31 and older, distant male relatives, “defenseless and vulnerable” (1993, 63). Tensions between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are part of the explanation. It is the structural status of women that makes them likely victims of a suicidal fate. Older men who are not heirs to the family estate are also in a weak position. It is these structural social variables that account for the peaks of suicide per age and sex (1993, 65).32 This is, of course, another typical instance of an anthropological model accounting for specific suicides in terms of social roles, life crises, and institutional outlets for stress. The relevance of this model is an obvious cultural fact, and native informants seem to confirm the connection between the social variables and the occurrences of suicidal behavior. Catedra performs a fine ethnographic job in showing this connection, but in no way is she “explaining” suicide,33 first because, as I shall repeat, partial explanations do not stand in for global explanations when a global explanation is called for, and second because it describes situations of stress but not why stress should lead to suicide. Finally, there is the possibility, as the Palawan case has shown, that over a long period of time these high points in the suicide distribution change completely, nullifying even these partial explanations of the phenomenon. At one point in her 1993 article, however, Catedra focuses on a native view of suicide that, unlike other views, seems to subsume all forms of suicide under one general category: that of melancholia (aburrimiento). She writes that this term is used in all cases of suicide. A melancholy disposition is attributed to all potential or actual cases of suicide, whether young women or young /old men, whether because of money or because of existential or emotional problems. Aburrimiento culminates in arrepentimiento, which implies “an irrevocable renunciation to life” (1993, 68). I submit that the Vaqueiros have themselves recognized the need for a global explanation of suicide and have just expressed in their own words what is common to all suicide, namely a congenitally low threshold of resistance to pain and an equally high proclivity to renounce life—two sides of the same coin. In any event, the Vaqueiros’ suicidal behavior and Catedra’s excellent study of it provide invaluable data to our comparative study of suicide.

The Semai of Malaysia A recent paper by Dentan also provides a set of extremely relevant data and illuminating comments on the subject (2000). Studying suicide and emotions leading to it among the Semai of Malaysia (whose culture is very similar indeed to the Palawan culture),34 the author deals mainly with the emotional determinants of suicide (2000, 32). Unfortunately, there are no available rates, and frequency of occurrence is not estimated. No figures are given. The simple fact,


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however, that the author devotes an article to this subject seems to indicate that suicide is not uncommon among the Semai. A number of case studies are proof enough that suicide is very much part of the social and psychological landscape of the Semai, who indeed offer many instances of suicidal acts, mostly by drinking poison.35 The gist of Dentan’s argument is that Semai people possess a mental /emotional profile that includes as one of its prominent traits “learned helplessness” (32), which is characterized by passivity, nonaggression, and powerlessness.36 This attitude, which could perhaps be glossed as negative fatalism, leads to despair and eventually suicide. The analysis presented by Dentan is therefore a study of suicidal behavior rather than a study of suicide, with a threefold approach. One approach is psychological and ethnopsychiatric. In this respect depression as a clinical concept used by Western psychiatrists is examined and its relevance to Semai ethnopsychology is evaluated. It seems that the so-called learned helplessness does indeed predispose people to depression (33). The second approach is the construction of an indigenous model based on discourse and values related to love, grief, bereavement, loneliness, and indigenous concepts of mind and feelings. The Semai attitude to, and theory of, suicide is based on the notion that severance of personal bonds is dangerous and even lethal. Classically, suicide is meant “to relieve psychic pain” (36). What the author says about the Semai reminds one of the Palawan views on the subject, with two major differences. One is the role of anger, deemed important among the Palawan and nonexistent among the Semai. Another difference concerns the connection between mental illness and suicide. Dentan’s discussion of delusional disorders (37)37 seems to point to a strong link between the two, inasmuch as snasaaw (mental disorder) originates in desertion, rejection, or bereavement (37) and therefore leads to grief and depression, which in turn leads to suicide. The phrase “program for feeling” (quoted from Schieffelin in Dentan 2000) is most appropriate. Therefore, we see a kind of culture-bound complex of syndromes bringing together learned helplessness, grief, depression, mental disorders, and suicide. Finally, Dentan brings in social variables, namely the disruptive factors of modernity, the encroachment on Semai traditional community values by foreign values and social dimensions such as pauperization, the increase in the authority structure (emergent patriarchy), the greater disparity between men and women, and the multiplication of situations of crisis (42–44). In sum, the author provides a complex and convincing model accounting for suicidal behavior. The major problem that I have with this analysis, at least for comparative purposes, is the absence of any quantitative data and of even a rough statistical profile of suicides (male vs. female, young vs. old). Moreover, the psychiatric or psychological analysis founders on the same


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conceptual shoal as all other similar explanations, namely it explains stress and not the reason stress should lead to suicide. A very good example of this is the role of weaning (41). Like Semai children, Palawan children and most other children in Southeast Asia (see Koubi and Massard-Vincent 1994) are confronted with the traumatic experience of rejection when a younger sibling is born and consequently garners the full attention of the mother, to the exclusion of the older one. But this is not accompanied by high suicide rates among the majority of Southeast Asian people; quite the contrary, in fact. Weaning is part of the wider pattern described by Dentan, and its role in increasing stress and anxiety among the Semai is something I don’t doubt, but the causal link with suicide is a thin one. Another question I have concerning the social determinants of suicide among the Semai concerns the history of suicide among them. Can it be considered an enduring and stable phenomenon going back several generations, or is it entirely due to factors of disruption brought about by “capitalist individualism” (44), as the author phrases it? The merit of Dentan’s approach lies, in my view, in its comprehensive ethnopsychiatric and sociopsychological portrayal of suicidal behavior, grounded in indigenous values and concepts. This enables one to get closer to what would be a global account of suicidal behavior. It is perhaps the very absence of statistical data that made the author spurn the rolesituation treatment used by other anthropologists such as M. F. Brown, Catedra, or La Fontaine, thus providing a holistic interpretation of a pervasive behavioral pattern.

The Maria of India Elwin’s famous study on homicide and suicide among the Bison-horn Maria of Bastar, in India (1991 [1943]), provides us with a number of illuminating observations and insights into the phenomenon of self-inflicted death and its relation to homicide among a premodern people. The Maria numbered 175,000 at the time of the study, in 1941. They are shifting agriculturists and forest hunters and gatherers. They live in a society divided in phratries and clans and observe a nonHinduistic religious system with a well-developed cult of the dead. Homicide and suicide are significantly higher than among other groups in the same part of India. Compared to their neighbors—the Ghotul Muria, for example—the Bison-horn Maria display a much higher rate of violence, with a homicide rate of 6.9 per 100,000; suicide is 5.3 per 100,000, also higher than in the surrounding population of Bastar.38 Although 5.3 is not a very high rate, it is significant enough compared to other groups, tribes, or castes in this part of the Indian subcontinent (1991 [1943], 47). “The incidence of 69 homicides to the million among Bison-horn Maria,” writes Elwin, “seems very high, but it must


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be remembered that the inhabitants of this part of India are among the most peaceful people on this planet” (38). The method of suicide is mostly by hanging. Homicide and suicide are not only associated because of their high rate of incidence, but also for two other reasons. First, according to Elwin, the reasons to commit one or the other coincide (46); second, the Maria themselves identify one with the other (46). A sample of 50 cases provides the following profile. Male and female suicides are almost equal (26 men, 24 women), and remarkably there are as many suicides of young people (under 25 years) as there are for older people (25 and above). The suicide curve per age takes the shape shown in figure 27. Elwin does not provide a breakdown per age and sex, but he makes an interesting observation concerning the comparative rates of homicide and suicide with respect to the sex ratio (5% vs. 48%) (49). This means that women are more likely to commit suicide rather than murder, while men will commit one or the other in almost equal proportion. There is nothing remarkable about that, since in most societies male homicide is higher than female, but it undermines an argument put forward by other anthropologists. Because Baruya, Aguaruna, and Maenge men practice warfare or engage in institutionalized violence, anthropologists believe that their women resort to suicide, since they cannot avail themselves of any other means to engage in violent behavior (e.g., see Panoff quoted earlier in the chapter). The much higher rate of homicide for men among the Maria and the corresponding lower rate of homicide for women are not correlated with a higher rate of suicide for women or a low suicide rate for men. Clearly, homicide and suicide are two different phenomena and not just one. Violence or aggression is not a fluid that fills Figure 27 Distribution of suicide per age among the Maria two communal vases. That such conclusions should be drawn from Maria statistics is all the more paradoxical since, as we have seen above, homicides and suicides are so strongly associated in this society. Suicide is considered by the Maria as a “wretched deed” (57) but is seen as an outcome of rational thinking (“it is caused by an all too clear vision of the future” [57]). The Maria of course can see the difference between suicides caused by mental illness and those committed by mentally sane victims. Over 50 cases recorded for the Maria over a period of 10 years, from 1931 to 1940, the following alleged causes are reported, as shown in table 22.


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There is no one case due to sexual jealousy (58), but marital strife is a major cause or precipitating event, something that appears with remarkable consistency throughout our cross-cultural sample (see Bohannan above). Elwin summarizes his findings thus: “the majority seem to have been caused by a desire to escape from a physical or domestic situation that had become intolerable” (58). The “physical or domestic” alternative is indeed strongly reminiscent of the Palawan situation where, similarly, husband-wife relations and physical pain due to disease or old age rank among the highest alleged causes. Elwin makes a note also of the impact of insult, loss of face, and shame (resentment at rebuke). Causes and alleged motivation for suicide are varied and stem not only from social situations but from physical circumstances as well.39 The author explains the merging of disease and fear of magic with the belief among the Maria that some illnesses are caused by magic. The failure of the magician to effect a cure creates an atmosphere of helplessness, gloom, and apprehension (80). Infidelity, on the contrary, rarely leads to suicide, nor do economic Table 22 Causes of Suicide among the Maria causes. Causes No. of cases Although infidelity is not 9 a cause for suicide, a troubled Disease/fear of magic 9 marriage is. To the Maria, Antagonism between wife and husband marriage is not seen mainly Insanity 7 as a means for exclusive Resentment at rebuke 7 sexual rights of the spouse, Grief, loneliness 4 but rather as “a real partner- Intolerable home 4 ship in living” (105). Of all Regret for harsh behavior 3 homicide cases involving kin Special cases 3 and relatives, wives killed by Fear of officials 2 husbands account for 18% of Intoxication 1 such, while husbands killed 1 by wives account for 3%. Of Economic causes the nine cases of suicide precipitated by husband-wife disputes, at least four of the victims are wives and three are husbands. Clearly, in this major area of suicidogenic and homicidal relations, women are the most frequent victims. On polygamy and alcohol, Elwin remains cautious and is of the opinion that neither has a high degree of influence on homicide or suicide rates. Indeed, only one case of suicide is listed as directly caused by intoxication. In their funeral ceremonies, the Maria treat suicides as they do those who have died from natural causes, but interestingly, they cremate not the body but the clothes and ornaments of the suicide victim. The ghost of the suicide is like that of a murderer and becomes a type of spirit who lives in an anthill and who


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is dangerous to the living. He /she may possess a member of the family, who as a result will commit suicide (206). In his general conclusion, Elwin does not offer an explanation for all Maria suicides and murders. His portrayal of Maria character as “jealous, quicktempered, passionate, revengeful” confirms their addiction to a certain level of aggressiveness, in sharp contrast to the neighboring population (216). In a recap of major causes of homicide Elwin cites alcohol and jealousy (216– 217). These factors do not seem to be major determinants. Disease /fear of magic are. Motivations in homicides and suicides are not the same or do not rank in the same order. Yet the connection between murder and suicide remains significant in the Maria case. Because of the obvious parallel in comparative rates, and because of the current views of most other anthropologists at the time (see Bohannan above), Elwin must have considered homicide and suicide two sides of the same coin even if he carefully described and analyzed two separate series of events. More important, he provided the evidence showing that homicide and suicide were not co-variant dimensions.


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10 Explaining Suicide Concluding Remarks

The dozen or so approaches to suicide and the explanatory models that have so far been summarized and commented on here may not represent all actual anthropological studies of suicide, but they form a significant cross-section, and some valid inferences can be made as to the kinds of assumptions, methodology, and conclusions reached by anthropologists. At the outset of this survey one is aware that anthropologists can choose two very different tacks. The first and most frequently chosen one in our sample is clearly what one could term the sociopsychological (henceforth SP); the other is the ethnopsychiatric (henceforth EP), represented in our sample by Devereux, Dentan, Robinson, Hippler, and to some extent Panoff. Unsurprisingly, these two different approaches are premised on a statistical versus case-study definition of the object of study. Characteristically, EP studies pay very little or no attention to statistics; they are involved in figuring out the internal logic of psychodynamic processes. SP studies may not be mainly based on statistics, but they do count cases and start from there. Two important contributions to the subject, those of Elwin and Firth, do not propose full-fledged explanatory models and remain descriptive. Within the general SP class of models, a great variety of individual models are proposed, each combining in a slightly different manner a number of structural variables drawn from various fields, mainly social or sociological (e.g., role situation), cultural (e.g., institutional violence), and psychological (e.g., personality traits such as choleric or melancholy). The conceptual foundation of such an approach is firmly grounded on a correlation between suicide rates in one social category (usually defined by age and sex) and social structural variables (La Fontaine’s example is the most typical). It has repeatedly been remarked in the this volume that this aspect of the SP explanatory model fails to account for all cases of suicide while pretending, more or less explicitly, to do so. At this point there is a need to introduce a major bifurcation in explanatory models of the SP and, to a great extent, the EP persuasions as well. Anthropologists, 254


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in order to account for suicide and suicidal behavior, premise their theories on two major conceptual clusters. One is stress, with all its variants (grief, sadness, despair, mourning, depression, etc.), and the other is aggression, with the related notions of violence, anger, rage, hostility, and so forth. I shall examine the latter first because it has a chronological priority over the other, since earlier studies on suicide threw homicide and suicide into the same ring, more or less, as if they were kindred phenomena.

Aggression and Violence To begin with, suicide and homicide have been equated on two bases. The first is both historical and judicial. Suicide was, especially in Britain but in other European countries as well, considered a crime, exactly as homicide was. Therefore, criminologists studied both phenomena as belonging to the same class of deviant behavior. Anthropologists followed suit. In Elwin’s book, as shown in the title, as well as in Bohannan’s volume, homicide and suicide are twin objects of study. The second basis for equating the two is semantic. The words “sui-cide” and “homi-cide” are constructed on the same root “-cide,” from the Latin occidere (to kill, to cause the death of ). The suicide is an auto-homicide, as he is a delinquent (felo de se) according to the British common law. Since homicide is “murder of other” and suicide is “murder of self,” both acts constitute, by definition, violent, aggressive acts—two sides of the same coin, so to speak. Thus violence and aggression were at the very core of the definition of suicide from the word go. There are other reasons that, even after divorcing the concept of suicide from that of homicide, anthropologists and psychiatrists have kept together the idea of aggression and violence and have applied it to suicide. The more technical one belongs to the field of psychiatry and psychoanalysis and is referred to as “redirected aggression,” which was proposed by Freud and then Menninger and others. This concept posits that frustrated aggression against another can rebound and be redirected against self. Violence against self has proved to be an attractive interpretation1 when dealing with a society that organizes and regularly displays acts of collective aggression and violence.2 Let us be reminded that the concepts of “violence” and “aggression,” albeit commonly used in the social sciences, pose numerous problems in terms of definition (see discussion in Howell and Willis 1989, 3–6; Schmidt and Schroeder 2001, 1–21). As far as anthropologists are concerned, this idea of redirected violence /aggression has been uncritically adopted when aggression and violence are prevalent in the culture being studied.3 We have seen clear examples in Panoff, Brown, and to some extent Bonnemère of groups practicing warfare or feuding—that is, people who engage in violent confrontations on a regular basis. It is then assumed that those individuals who cannot engage in


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violent action against others will do it against themselves. I submit here—a point that I find of critical salience—that violence and /or aggression are not always clearly defined concepts but oftentimes intuitive and commonsensical notions that preclude and obstruct rather than clarify and facilitate scientific discourse. The notion of violence or aggression is essentially based on the “hydraulic metaphor” used to talk about anger (Lutz and White 1986, 419).4 Violence is thus some sort of material energy that fills a container, as a fluid would do—to use Firth’s apt phrase—and follows its own momentum, filling any vacant space that happens to be in its way. Individuals and society are nothing but “containers” being filled by a “fluid” or “energy.” Women can thus be seized by violence, since violence is the energy that so freely floats in that society and has to be “liberated,” like gas trapped inside a “container,” lest the container “explode.” The notion that violence is an energy that “fills” subjects who then either liberate it or hold it in, hence making them “explode” (as in suicide), is nothing, of course, than the most naïve, uncritical, metaphoric, intuitive, and unscientific notion. I submit that a great deal of the anthropological “explanation” of suicide is premised on this very primitive kind of metaphor.5 Of course, the discussion bearing on the conceptual status and methodological validity of violence and aggression goes far beyond the few remarks just made. Let us be reminded at this point that the concepts are not coterminal. There are different kinds of violence and aggression, and there is violence without aggression. Ethologists have long made a distinction between intraspecific violence (aggressive) and interspecific violence (nonaggressive). Aggression, as well as violence, is a form taken by a relationship between actors. This points again to the question of the status of violence /aggression as a material substance or energy. If it is the form taken by a relationship, rather than some kind of property of the physical world, then the whole argument of redirected violence collapses. In the Aguaruna case, for instance, what kind of psychological evidence is provided to show that aggression or violence—hostility, rather—displayed against an enemy in warfare by a mature male warrior is the same as the violence or aggression perpetrated by young men against either their potential in-laws or themselves? The first kind of aggression looks more like anger and a desire to competitively beat another person (competitor, enemy), whereas the second kind seems more like “disintegrative anxiety,” to use Dentan’s phrase. What about wives? The actors change, the relationship changes, the context changes—why, then, would “violence” remain a stable property always? The same question can be asked of the Eskimos, the Baruya, or the Maenge, or of any situation accounted for in terms of redirected violence or spent aggression.6 This whole discussion goes back to its starting point, namely to the equation or equivalence posited between suicide and homicide. On the surface, and according


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to what definition one gives these words, suicide is a violent act, displaying aggression against self. True enough, suicide kills and is a physical act. Aside from the manner in which violence is applied (sometimes in a mild and almost nonviolent way, similar to a medical act that does “violence” to the body without inflicting pain; see strangulation by anoxia in the Trukese and Palawan suicide), the real question concerns the effect and the mental and emotional content of the relationship. This is an open field of inquiry. Suicidal acts are definitely bound to aggression and violence in at least two cases: when it is a murdersuicide (kamikaze or amok type) or when it is definitely retaliatory or Samsonic, as in the many Oceanic instances examined by anthropologists (see chap. 9). The Palawan files suggest that suicide is mostly devoid of any aggression in the sense of a desire to suppress a figure of authority, or hatred against a foe, or hostility in warfare, or any of the situations marked by what psychologists call aggression. This contention is based on evidence and documented by facts (see chaps. 7 and 8). If homicide and suicide were really the same thing, motivations and objects should be identical: suicides would be committed out of hatred or jealousy against the object of hatred or jealousy. But if A kills B because B is the object of A’s hatred or jealousy, when A kills A, he kills the subject of hatred or jealousy. Can one be “jealous of oneself ” as one is jealous of another? “Hating oneself ” is merely a phrase, and it is very doubtful that hatred against self and hatred against another have the same mental and emotional content. Suicide, I conclude, is a specific act, not directly related to homicide, not necessarily including or implying aggression and violence, not explained by other acts of violence present in the same group, and not accounted for in terms of redirected aggression.7 Suicide, because it is a relationship to self, cannot be accounted for solely in terms of relationship to another. Violence and aggression are confused notions that are not helpful in understanding suicide.

Stress and Loss Since no real suicide has ever been motivated by happiness or joy—except perhaps in some fictional situation8—and since most observers and informants alike overwhelmingly agree on the importance of feelings such as sadness, grief, mourning, despair, anxiety, and stress to explain suicidal acts, it is the most important link between personal histories, social and cultural situations (internal and external variables), and the final act of self-destruction. In chapter 5, I examined in some detail the components of personhood and the vocabulary of emotional states in the Kulbi Palawan context. For the time being, I shall continue to review the anthropological literature on the subject.


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The lay vocabulary of emotions that is used to describe and analyze the psychological states is admittedly approximate and commonsensical. Words like “grief,” “pain,” “sadness,” “despondency,” “despair,” “anxiety,” “unhappiness,” “hopelessness,” and so on, convey hues and nuances that may in some cases reflect quite different emotional states. In the absence, however, of a consistent theory of emotions, at least one that would be used as a common grid of reference by anthropologists, I suggest using the generic term “stress” to describe a family of terms or notions denoting similar emotional and mental states.9 Grief, sadness, despair, and loss being at the core of emotions and mental states being discussed in this section, are seen as endowed with self-destructive power over the subject. It is this self-destructive power inherent in stress—in the sense just given—that “explains” suicide. This power is probably taken for granted and defined no further when associated with completed suicide. “So-and-so was so dreadfully unhappy that he killed himself ” is, after all, the catchall proposition that satisfies layman and anthropologist alike. But there is another related emotional state that has self-destructive power, and that is depression. I take it that depression and depressive states are much better known and better defined concepts in modern psychiatry. It is “the name given to behaviors that result from the loss of major sources of reinforcement” (Dentan 2000, 41, quoting Akiskal and McKinney 1973). We also know that clinical observations and not only theories tend to show a very strong correlation between suicide and acute endogenous depression (see Lönnqvist 2000). In particular, psychological autopsy studies show that “depression is found in 29–88% [more than half ] of all suicides, and moreover that depressive symptoms are connected with almost all these tragic cases” (Lönnqvist 2000, 114). As we have seen, authors repeatedly link stress with suicide and strive to show that typical situations—resulting from social structural variables—are stress laden and therefore suicidogenic.10 It has also been repeatedly remarked that stress is probably a necessary condition to suicide but not a sufficient condition. Stress cannot fully explain suicide, but at least it provides a favorable mental and emotional context for it. The very overwhelming majority of cases and observations show indeed that unhappy feelings and stress provide the grounds for completed suicides. If stress is clinically defined as a state of acute depression, then observation and theory have provided the psychological causal link between social structural variables and death. The problem here would be to demonstrate that the kind of stress leading to suicide is of an acutely depressive nature, and in many cases that I have investigated it is impossible to know for sure. In some instances stress may not be of a depressive nature. So at best we have both a strong connection between stress and suicide, at worst a weak one inasmuch as the nature of stress is hard to ascertain, and therefore the causal link with suicide problematic. I shall conclude, however, that the causal link between stress and suicide is much


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stronger than with aggression or violence and that, therefore, we should investigate stress even more closely.

Social Structural Variables Leading to Stress and the Anthropological Models for Suicide We look now at the link between stress and the social structural variables that are supposed to create it. What are those variables? Studies examined in chapter 9 show that each individual anthropological model or interpretation is made of a mixture of several types of structural variables and cultural determinants. Each author follows a slightly different recipe with a choice among the same ingredients, which can be more or less regrouped into four categories. 1. Social structural: role situation, life crisis and life cycle, competition, kinship groups, descent, motherhood, gender asymmetry, authority and hierarchy, family relations, role of maternal uncle and father, father-son relations, in-law relations, egalitarian or stratified social structure, and power. 2. Ideological: myth, eschatology, ideological models of behavior, morality, shame, and honor. 3. Economic: access to economic resources, inheritance. 4. Specific cultural institutions: warfare, murder and institutional violence, sorcery, initiation rituals, and funerary rituals.

As we have seen, each author draws from several categories and combines the factors in an integrated model according to his /her own interpretative style and evaluation. For example, the Aguaruna redirect violence, which is one characteristic trait of their social and cultural world, in the context of disputes between spouses or close kinsmen; Vaqueiros marginalize some family members through the inheritance system; Trukese heighten intrafamily conflict as a result of the loss of the traditional support system and economic access to resources through lineages; Maenge redirect violence and marginalize further, with reference to mythical models of morality, some actors that are already marginalized by birth. The final simplified configuration of the anthropological explanation or interpretation of suicide is diagrammatically represented in figure 28. I will conclude this section by suggesting that in spite of themselves and of their best efforts, anthropologists have gathered valuable information to prove that there is little in their toolkit to account for suicide. Among all situations leading to suicide, those of conflict stemming from family and marital situations are the most frequent, no matter what kind of family system and kinship


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organization prevails; general studies such as those conducted by Bohannan and Elwin seem to confirm this point. Another major reason for suicide as shown in the sample is grief and despair caused by bereavement and loss. A third major “cause” of suicide is physical pain and acute discomfort due to ailments and /or old age. Simply stated, most socially and culturally qualified “causes” of suicide can be defined thus: stress is caused by grief over the loss of, and conflict between, closely related people. In spite of widely diverging cultural systems complete with a whole range of exotic and primitive-looking institutions—think of the head-shrinking practices of the Jivaros and the wild feasts of the Bison-horn Marias—all the colorful customs, exotic habits, strange beliefs, and alien ways of life are of little use in explaining disappointingly trite and banal situations of loss and tension, mourning and quarrelling, and basic emotions of love and despair arising from dysfunctional familiarity. The whole gamut of sociocultural variables, such as whether the society practices headhunting, whether it is matrilineal or patrilineal, whether social hierarchy is developed or not, or even what kind of morality is prevalent, simply do not seem to explain much more. More often than not, conflicts leading to suicidal acts stem from close family and marital relations not dependent on the kinship organization or descent system characteristic of the society being studied. If violence and aggression are definitely faulty concepts that ought to be discarded in the interpretation of suicidal processes, and if, on the other hand, stress is a usable concept, and if most situations and relations that lead to suicide belong not to the field of specific cultural constructs but to quasi-universal situations defined by stress resulting from close proximity, what should one conclude? The answer is thus: that situations of stress accounting for the overwhelming number of cases of suicide are largely independent of specific cultural institutions, and that the sophisticated apparatus of sociocultural structural variables is largely unsuitable or irrelevant to explain a majority of suicides.11 One must conclude that the main alleged causes of suicide reported by anthropologists are, if not culture-free—nothing is, perhaps—weakly determined by specific sociocultural variables. Figure 28 Aggression, stress, and related dimensions in anthropological interpretive models


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Explaining Suicide in Kulbi I have just pointed out that if cultures created specific situations of stress, the most general conditions leading to suicide were those linked to loss and /or conflict with closely related people—spouses and immediate kin—no matter what kind of kinship system or social structure prevailed. As for the Palawan ethnic group as a whole, specific conditions such as marital problems like those described for Kulbi-Kenipaqan and stress resulting from situations involving prospective unions or divorces are identically experienced in the central highlands and elsewhere, whether in Punang, Quezon, or the Singnapan Valley. Now, I repeat once more that in the latter areas, people just don’t commit suicide over such matters.12 Since the culture, social structure, and general way of life in Kulbi-Kenipaqan are not essentially different from other sections of the same ethnic group, where no suicides or a very low incidence thereof are reported, the major difficulty and most important question in this connection is this: Why, under similar circumstances and under the same social /cultural conditions, would members of one group commit suicide, and to such an extent at that, while members of the other will not? Again, the point is to account for a consistently high rate of suicide affecting one whole section of the total ethnic population. Partial explanations will not suffice. Worst of all, social structural variables and cultural ones stand in great danger of being found irrelevant. What then?

Kulbi in a Comparative Perspective The Kulbi situation provides us with a unique natural experiment. Unexpectedly, a section of a rather homogeneous ethnic group, for no apparent reason, displays a tremendously high and fairly constant rate of suicide, completely unlike the other neighboring groups. Does it happen elsewhere? Actually it does. As shown in chapter 9, The Aguaruna from Peru and the Vaqueiros from northern Spain are strikingly similar in this respect. Together with small island societies, such as the Tikopia, Maenge, and possibly other Micronesian societies in the past, they are self-contained, endogamous, and relatively isolated populations. The Baruya, a people of highland New Guinea studied by Godelier (1982) (see Bonnemère 1992, and chap. 5), might very well be such a case also. Over a 40-year period, with a population of 2,500, their yearly suicide rate has been calculated to be as high as 96 per 100,000,13 which contrasts in a most dramatic way with their fellow Anga-speaking neighbors and distant cousins, the Ankave, whose suicide rate is zero. Two other similar instances have been reported. In 1991 a newspaper article told the story of an unusually high rate of suicide among a group of Guarani


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Indians, the Kaiowa, observed in a Brazilian reservation located near the town of Dourados (Sevilla 1991). The Guarani Indians, who reportedly committed suicide very frequently, were in the same reservation as an Arawak Indian group, the Terena, and shared with them the same difficult conditions (loss of ancestral land, cultural dislocation, and alcoholism). What is so striking in this particular case is that while the Kaiowas fell victim to suicide, the Terenas did not. These two groups were, it is true, different culturally, but the fact is that they encountered the same problems within the reservation. Another case is equally intriguing. In the magazine India Today, a reporter penned a story about a strikingly high rate of suicide among some villagers in West Bengal (Banerjee 1993). While the annual suicide rate of India was reported to be 9 per 100,000 and that of West Bengal 19 per 100,000, the village of Ichhabatagram, where this suicidal trend was observed, had a rate of 200 per 100,000. Nearby villages were also reportedly affected by the suicide syndrome, but the phenomenon seemed to be narrowly localized. All these groups, then, exhibit inordinately high rates of suicide compared to their closest neighbors and to the surrounding population. These facts lead to the conclusion that possibly some small, endogamous, and relatively isolated populations have a predisposition to suicide not dependent on their culture or social structure. Before considering other possible factors to explain this surprising conclusion—never brought, as far as I know, to the attention of social scientists—I shall go back briefly to the facts that support this result. Table 23 summarizes the major points of interest in this regard. Table 23 is divided in two parts. On the left are four columns with demographic and suicide rate indicators. The endogamy factor, which is consistently high, does to a degree measure the physical isolation of the population, due to the geography, which is obvious in cases such as Tikopia, and less marked, perhaps, as far as other highland groups are concerned. On the right side are four dimensions or factors that somehow measure cultural variation, namely whether we deal with societies of warriors and fighters or not, whether gender relations are marked by very strong male authority or not, whether the society is tribal or rural and whether it is very strictly egalitarian or marked by some kind of hierarchy or social competition, and finally whether beliefs in the afterlife endow the soul of the suicide with some special negative power over the living. One could think of many other indicators, but in my view these suffice to tell whether the societies at hand are very similar or quite different in their ethos, way of life, social structure, and religious beliefs. On the basis, then, of such indicators and notwithstanding the lack of decisiveness in inferences that can be made on the basis of this small sample, there is no question that the six societies presented in the table are wholly divergent in their way of life and social structure, while being extremely similar as far as the demographic


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10. explaining suicide Table 23 Comparative Data on Populations with High Suicide Rates Name of Group

Suicide Rate

Outside Rate

Aguaruna

180

VL (same group)

1,500

H

Y

H

Te

N

Palawan

136–173

VL (same group)

3,000

H

N

L

Te

N

Baruya Maenge

96 59

0 (Ankave)

2,500 700

H H

Y Y

H H

Ts Ts

Y Y

2,000

H

N

M

Ts

N

7 (Spain)

15,000

H

N

M

Re

Y

Tikopia Vaqueiros

53 28–63

Population

Endogamy Violence

Gender

Society Beliefs

Table indicators: Suicide rate: per 100,000 Outside rate: general suicide rate of surrounding population or immediate neighbours (VL = very low) Population: estimated population on which the suicide rate has been established Endogamy: frequency of marriages contracted between members of the same group (H /L = high /low) Violence: presence or absence of organized violence (duelling, feuding, warfare) (Y /N = yes /no) Gender: high or low degree of asymmetry in man /woman relations (H /L /M = high /low /medium) Society: type of social structure (rural /tribal; egalitarian /stratified; the concept of “stratified society” is loosely applied to such social formations displaying a measure of status asymmetry, internal social competition, and “big men”) (R = rural, T = tribal, e = egalitarian, s = stratified) Beliefs: soul of suicide harmful and /or vengeful (Y /N = yes /no)

and comparative suicide rates are concerned. This kind of evidence casts very serious doubt on the search for an ultimate “cultural” or “social” explanation of suicide. There is no need to belabor this point further. Only future research will decide whether the aforementioned conclusions are valid on the basis of a larger sample, a more detailed grid of indicators, and further direct observations of a biogenetic order.

Biological and Genetic Aspects of Suicidal Behavior Inevitably, this line of inquiry will lead one to raise the heredity-factor question. Could suicide be a hereditary property of a genetic pool maintained in the same endogamous population for generations?14 Recent findings have shown that genetic and biological factors are at work. The role of the serotonin system in the prefrontal cortex has been shown to be crucial in the pathogenesis of suicidal behavior (van Heeringen, Hawton, and Williams 2000, 227), and studies by neuroscientists show the importance of genetic factors involving the serotonergic system. “It is postulated that at least part of the genetically determined risk for suicidal behaviour is mediated via the serotonergic system” (Träskman-Bendz and Mann 2000, 73). “Findings from genetic and, more recently, molecular biological research, add to [psychological and other] models the possibility of a


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genetically defined predisposition to suicidal behaviour” (Hawton and van Heeringen 2000, 3; emphasis added). Genetic susceptibility to suicide seems to have thus been demonstrated. “The evidence now seems incontrovertible that there is a genetic contribution to suicidal behaviour” (Roy et al. 2000, 210). “In summary a large body of clinical data from family, twin and adoption studies now shows that there is a genetic susceptibility to suicide” (Roy et al. 2000, 218). A genetic study of isolated populations and sections of ethnic groups, such as the Kubli-Kenipaqan set, is therefore needed in order to ascertain this genetic predisposition, but in view of the present conclusions of neuroscientists and geneticists it can be expected that such a predisposition exists among them.

The Wave Hypothesis Genetic factors remain probabilistic in nature, however, and suicide can never be attributed to a single cause; as genetic and biological factors may explain a predisposition to suicide, stressors of different order, psychological and otherwise, will activate it. In this line of research, I suggest looking into what I call the “wave hypothesis.” This kind of interpretation is premised on the observation that suicide is a highly epidemiological phenomenon. All students of suicide have remarked on the high susceptibility to imitation15 and the frequent clustering effect of this phenomenon. This is well established for the Palawan case (see chaps. 6 and 7). But the wave hypothesis is not essentially premised on direct imitation, but rather on the kind of process that is brought about by longterm socialization. Suicidal behavior is learned. As Bille-Brahe writes, “Suicidal behaviour is learned as a special kind of communication and means of problem solving, and several studies have shown that if a person has experienced suicidal behaviour in his /her family, this increases the risk of the person eventually him / herself committing suicide or trying to do so” (2000, 201). The point here is that examples set by close relatives or by people with whom there was frequent or occasional contact need not be culturally enforced to show the way and entice emulation. In other words, there is no need for suicide to be explicitly accepted or valued for its own sake and to become internalized as a potential choice. Without being a norm it can become an option, just because others have done so. I suggest the phrase “subliminal archetype” for this mental disposition. I also surmise that such an “archetype” is acquired during childhood. In a small society such as the Kulbi population set, every child grows up exposed to the occurrences of suicide and suicidal behavior among a very close circle of kin and neighbors. The child grows up accustomed to the idea. He /she sees or hears about elders, uncles, aunts, older cousins, and friends’ parents killing themselves. Let us be reminded of Mapjang and Behunbunan, two local settlements where suicide rates were highest (see chap. 7). Even if the “official”


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explicit social discourse speaks disparagingly of it, an unspoken and intimate acceptance of the idea of suicide might prevail in the minds of the young.16 Thus suicide becomes an accepted model of behavior, an option open to the individual, albeit one that may be condemned by explicit social and cultural rules. The fact that Palawan culture is rather tolerant of the deed might increase the acceptability of it. Direct imitation and clustering will then look more like “wavelets” that add a superficial turbulence to waves propagating themselves through successive generations. Or, to use a kindred metaphor, it can possibly have a “snowball effect” (Bille-Brahe 2000, 202). At this juncture another concept can be of relevance, that of the “tipping point,” which has been used by other students in connection with suicide. It implies that there is a threshold at which there is a dramatic increase in the behavior. “Its implications are strikingly similar to a model of suicide based on studies of chaos theory, dynamic systems and self-organization.” (Goldney 2000, 99). The concept of a tipping point can also be of great interest in connection with the question of the origin of the suicide epidemic. Let us say that there is a base rate in the Palawan ethnic group as a whole and that at some turn a tipping point was reached when an increase in the number of stressors affected a section of the whole group, thus precipitating an abrupt change in the structure of the phenomenon. Indeed, what in the first place can explain a suicide wave of the kind outlined above? In order to produce a wave one needs a commotion or turbulence of some kind that will cause the wave to swell and then propagate itself. Propagation might be accounted for by socialization and /or imitation, but wave formation must be accounted for by a sudden event of a catastrophic nature, such as an epidemic of cholera or some such. We know for sure that there was such an occurrence in 1978, causing a sharp rise in suicides. But older informants and narratives of an ethnohistorical nature record the advent of an even worse epidemic at the beginning of the 20th century, or earlier, allegedly responsible for a significant demographic drop. Other records confirm the fact that the archipelago began to be hit by epidemics from 1860 onward (de Bevoise 1995, 10). An especially devastating cholera epidemic spread at this time in the Philippines from the Middle East via Borneo and Jolo (de Bevoise 1995, 168). There are no written records to document the impact of these epidemic waves on Palawan itself, so it is difficult or impossible to prove, but we have an indication at least that such a suicidal wave could have originated then. It does not actually matter what kind of catastrophic event caused a surge in suicide; it could have been an epidemic or something else. We know, for instance, that slave raiding took place until the end of the 19th century and that such raids were demographically devastating (Warren 1985, 210). The KulbiKenipaqan area, being a near-coastal lowland area, was even more vulnerable to


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hostile incursions than was the better protected central highland area. The connection that we have established between sudden surges in general mortality and suicide rates could apply to different kinds of disasters, natural or man-made.

Cultural Factors In the etiological model I propose, all variables are accounted for, including cultural ones. It is not their existence that must be denied, but their impact and status as contributing factors that must be seriously reevaluated. If genetic factors create the terrain, the soil on which suicidal behavior will flourish and maintain itself over several generations, then imitation and what I have called socialization—the subconscious acquisition of a behavioral option not necessarily approved by society (i.e., “subliminal archetype”)—take the relay.17 Incidentally, among the stressors that will precipitate the decision are the sociocultural variables that increase stress, situations that are culturally defined as critical, such as those connected with marriage, as was shown in chapter 9. There might be an individual tipping point—as opposed to a collective one—that accelerates or even triggers the self-destructive process. A lingering question remains to be addressed. Aside from critical situations and culturally defined situations, some cultures, like the Palawan, could be conceived as optimizing the pathway to suicidal behavior. This could be phrased either in cultural or psychological terms. We saw in chapter 5 that important dimensions of the cultural personality were associated with personal autonomy, compassion for others, control over aggressive impulses, bonding with others through joking and laughter, respect and subservience to elders, an absence of a rigid authority structure or formal leadership, and the sharing of goods. These aspects of personhood as culturally constructed can be correlated, on the one hand, with some other aspects of social structure, such as strong sibling solidarity, an egocentric kinship system, and relaxed attention to propriety in manners, and, on the other hand, with child-rearing practices characterized among the Palawans as highly nurturing, with a generally warm, supportive, and intimate contact with parents. All of this is, as noted earlier, highly reminiscent of patterns observed elsewhere, particularly among the Alaska Eskimos (Hippler 1969 and 1974). This, in turn, would lead one to conclude, for example, that suicide is an outcome of a cultural personality type characterized by a desire to reunite with the mother and /or other objects of love. Furthermore, this would seem to be confirmed by the analysis of suicide profiles as described in chapter 8. There is indeed a certain amount of fit between profiles 1 (melancholy suicides) and 4 (multiple suicides out of grief ) and the above-mentioned psychocultural dimensions. But even then culture proves not to be the key that unlocks the whole conundrum;


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it is just one incremental factor creating a favorable environment. If, say, a “Palawan-Eskimo” cultural personality type could be seen as suicide prone, what then of the larger part of the Palawan population that fits the same personality pattern and is not suicide prone? Displacing the conceptual locus from “culture” to “personality” does not provide a better answer. Social life is probably always stressful, and the general definition of what is particularly stressful is, as seen in chapter 9, almost universally shared by human groups, namely conflict or loss of very close kin, not to mention simple physical distress. Inasmuch as this can be verified, then singular cultural traits play a lesser role in the general etiology of suicide. In other words, no amount of descriptive and analytical accounts of the Palawan culture and social structure, however detailed, can fully “explain” suicide among the Kulbi people. Let me briefly recap the whole argument. 1. The first conclusion is that cultural and social factors do not account very well for general rates of suicide; they may account for a rise here and there in the suicide curve, but they don’t explain why a whole population presents a suicide rate that is at the same time fairly steady and very high. 2. Second, we observe that small, isolated populations in the world, culturally very different from each other and not necessarily tribal, display a strangely intense suicidal behavior compared to their immediate neighbors and fellow members of the same culture. 3. Considering that these demographic isolates are endogamous populations, we ask the question as to whether there is something that could be genetically accounted for. We are apprised of the fact that, indeed, there might be such a “genetically defined predisposition.” 4. Knowing that a predisposition is not a direct cause and that the influence of biology is probabilistic, and knowing also that suicide is a complex phenomenon, we look at various psychological processes. One is the presence of specific culturally determined stressors that modify the shape of the curve. Culture-bound psychodynamics may explain why certain crises may cause specific actors to become casualties. Learning and imitation, on the other hand, will account for the stability over a period of time of observed rates of suicide.18 5. Having more or less accounted for the propagation of the phenomenon, and perhaps for its specific shape in a given period of time, we need to look for a prime mover. What precipitates a suicide epidemic in the first place? This is where we hypothesize that a sudden rise in the general mortality rate, in the form of a catastrophe, may be the answer.


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Culture and Behavior With the problem of suicide we have been faced by a profound paradox. On the one hand, the very complexity of its motivations makes it appear as a completely free and individual act; its statistical properties, on the other hand, make it appear as an entirely determined and collective phenomenon. Truly, its determinacy /indeterminacy both spur and undermine the anthropological project. Epstein, referring to a spate of strange occurrences observed in southern Rhodesia in the early 1950s, makes the following remark: “From one point of view these [bizarre events] appear as random events that, since they concerned behavior of a non-institutionalized type, lie beyond the scope of anthropological analysis” (1992, 26; emphasis added). I submit that suicides belong to the category of “bizarre events of a non-institutionalized type.”19 But people who commit suicide, even if they display a bizarre behavior of a non-institutionalized type, are generally not crazy at all; indeed, suicidal behavior can be shown to be, in many instances, a rational type of behavior. Since Durkheim, social scientists hold firmly to the belief that ultimately social causes will prove to be the main determining factors. Social anthropologists have followed suit. My own study tends to disprove this assumption. It also places many of the explanatory models brought forward in a very dubious light. Generally speaking, then, we find an instance where cultural models do not explain or account for a recurrently occurring type of behavior—that should be explained thus, and is not. This could mean two things: that we haven’t found the appropriate cultural models to account for specific types of behavior, or that the springs of human behavior lie elsewhere, beyond the scope of what social scientists call culture or social structure. It may mean that the anthropologists’ and sociologists’ views of human behavior are at times too shallow and too deterministic. Or rather, it may be that social scientists paid attention to roles and statuses and other cultural artifacts, such as symbolic structures, unaware of the gap separating the actors from their roles, the real emotional and moral life of individuals from the ideological superstructures, their actual moral judgment—what makes them do what they do—from a set of abstract values. It is also very likely that our understanding of human behavior needs to probe deeper into the narrative construction of identity, a dynamic and unending process of self-invention. People may be less culture bound and less dependent on explicit norms of conduct, and large portions of human behavior may be better accounted for by probabilistic paradigms, chaos theory, and complex cognitive systems largely submerged under the superficial veneer of language and culture.


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Notes

Acknowledgments 1. The Last of the Shamans, Gédéon Programmes Production, distributed by Europe Images International, 1 Rond Point Victor Hugo, 92130 Issy-les-Moulineaux, France. [email protected]. This 56-minute feature was released in 1998.

Introduction 1. As opposed to what I call the central highland area, a definitely more mountainous habitat (between 500 m and 800 m in elevation). 2. Names of famous shamans having lived one to three generations ago in southern Palawan. 3. In May 2001 I checked with an informant from the Mekagwaq area on possible cases of suicide in this area and found seven cases, all male, over the past ten years. Apparently there has been an increase in the number of suicides in recent years, but reaching a definitely much lower rate than in Kulbi.

Chapter 1. The Kulbi-Kenipaqan River Basin and Its People 1. Various other fancy ethnonyms can be found in the literature, like Palawano, Palawanun, Palawanin, Pinalawan, etc. 2. I have arrived at the higher figure by multiplying the number of river valleys on both coasts by an estimated average number of people in each. E. Brown (in Eder and Fernandez 1996, 99) questions the figure of 60,000 given earlier by Revel-Macdonald but does not suggest any other estimate and provides no reliable figure of her own. The 1995 census of the National Office of Statistics gives 633,584 as the total population of the province of Palawan, 6.10% of which are Palawan natives, thus bringing their number to 38,648. This figure is probably inaccurate and underestimates the real number of the total Palawan population. The 1995 census puts the Palawan population of the five municipalities where they live (Bataraza, Brooke’s Point, Quezon, Rizal, and Espanola) at 36,006—according to percentages given in the census. If one applies the 1995 percentages to the 2000 census, the total Palawan population of these five municipalities comes to 43,949. 3. Foreign visitors are frequently asked, “And in your country, are there any Palawan people?” This could point to the concept of “Palawan-ness” as being mainly defined by a way of life shared by upland-shifting agriculturists everywhere in the world.

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n ot e s to pag e s 1 2 – 1 7

4. Some items of dialectal variation were used to name other groups, hence the name Kinarawa applied to people who used the morpheme karawa (instead of kaja or kara). The ethnonym Keney found in the literature originates from the pronoun ke and the interrogative particle nej, or possibly the adverb ne plus -i, as in “Ambe ke nej?” (“Where are you [going]” or “Where are you now [going]?”) This linguistic trait of the upland people from around Mount Mantalingajan was found so distinctive that it was presented to visitors as the name of an upland people and gave rise to the belief that the so-called Keney were a distinct tribe. Other ethnonyms or quasi-ethnonyms like Tau’t Deram (People of Many), Tau’t Ljew (People from the Other Side), or Tau’t Batu or Taw Batu (People from the Rocks) had a more or less successful career. 5. The use of the ethnographic present is somewhat questionable as many communities blend into the mainstream Christian lowland culture and as departures from the common ancestral rules become more numerous. Even in places like Kulbi and Punang, where intermarriages become more numerous and the influence of immediate Christian and Muslim neighbors is more pressing, most of these rules still apply. Among the many new trends I noticed in recent periods of fieldwork (2001–2002), one is a transformation in the kinship vocabulary, with, for example, the English-derived word for “uncle” (ungkel ) replacing the kin term maman. 6. Most notably in the Singnapan Valley and Kandawaga Valley on the west coast (Macdonald and de Vallombreuse 1994). 7. Actually Whitehead was stranded, and he lived in a Chinese store, an excellent vantage point to observe the nexus of commercial dealings between the Muslim traders and the indigenous people. 8. The last category, that of the “wildest” kind of natives, did reflect the existence of groups living—as some still do today—in the more remote valleys of the central mountain range, at an elevation of 500 meters and above. Such upland-dwelling groups are absent from the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area, except for a few scattered families. 9. Barangay (or balangay) is a Tagalog word meaning “community, group, crew (in a boat)” (English 1986). The denomination was given by the Marcos administration to an administrative unit, inherited from the colonial administration and formerly called “barrio,” thus making it appear as an ancient Austronesian /Filipino institution. 10. Like the word “barrio” (etymologically “a quarter, a part of a town”), the word sitio is Spanish and refers to a section of a barrio. In the census, however, several communities were lumped together, as in the case of Megkelip, which includes the rurungan of Megkelip proper, Mepjang, Tegpen, and Behunbunan. 11. In the Kulbi dialect the phrase sang keperurungan (one [social] unit of neighborhood) is always used to refer to a set of households forming a social unit. The terms rurungan (neighbors) and kerurungan (the collective entity of neighbors) can be used as well. I will use rurungan for the sake of simplicity and in the sense of a social unit of neighborhood, as described in chap. 3. 12. Toponyms can be quite confusing. The main “village” of Tagbita is almost always referred to as Pagapaga (an ancient place name) or Taburi, which was an older site of the barrio. Tagbita is an alteration of the Palawan name Tegbituk, which refers to another place nearby (and which will be discussed in detail later in the chapter). 13. The school was opened in 1980 and had 318 pupils in 1989 from grade one to grade six. There were about 30 Palawan children among the pupils.


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14. I have counted only married couples at the time but have included children from previous marriages. 15. The category “poisoning” is an important local representation that explains deaths caused by actions supposedly taken by Islam (Palawan Muslims). Descriptions of those actions resemble what might be called in other contexts sorcery or witchcraft. 16. Most of the time violent deaths by murder or assault are disguised as accidental deaths. One person, for instance, was found dead at the foot of a coconut tree; an accident was officially reported, but there was strong suspicion that foul play was involved. 17. The economic and ritual functions of the rurungan in the highlands will be explained in chap. 3. 18. It was said to be an example of good behavior with or towards the father-in-law (menungang adat megpengibanan) because, as it was explained, “no matter how small the prey brought by the son-in-law (bisan ibunibun pineri ), he would have to show it to his father-in-law, and there would be no gossip (limut).” 19. Babin, Kuntilyu, Mewalam, Taya, Durmin, Lingkuqud, Ansuling, Insinu, and their spouses. 20. Discussed earlier in this chapter; see also chap. 3. 21. Intin was married to Tuking’s grandniece (FBDD)—in other words, the daughter of Tuking’s first cousin—which is close enough to make Tuking the ugang and pinemikitan of Intin. 22. This story has been told in a documentary movie made by P. Boccanfuso, Les deux fils du Chaman (The last of the shamans). 23. Most of the posts and beams had been carried from the old house and reused in building the new one, which in design and size was identical to the one in Lilibuten. 24. As this book goes to print, both Medsinu and Inaring have passed away, thus history is being made anew.

Chapter 2. Material Culture and the Symbolic Structure of Everyday Life 1. This is a rough description of the situation. For instance, highland people had access to the shore and did some fishing and reef gathering, but to a much smaller extent. Let us also be reminded that the so-called “coastal” inhabitant did not live on the shore but somewhat inland and upland too. Note also that the “highland” dimension of the culture should not be understood in any essentialist way. For instance, although the quasi-totality of the Kulbi-Kenipaqan people lives in the hills and near the coast at no more than an average of 100 to 200 meters of elevation, I have visited one small group of five families living in the mountain range, above the Kulbi River basin, at a considerably higher elevation (around 500 meters) and in conditions that are typical of a mountain environment. This group practices upland shifting agriculture and lives apart from the others. One is reminded of a small cluster of stragglers. The lowland cultures also had their highlanders, like an urban culture can be home to more or less nomadic people. This does not impinge on the discussion going on today regarding the highland vs. lowland distinction, one deemed by politically correct postmodernists to be artificial and inspired only by a colonialist viewpoint. This is not, of course, what I am saying here. 2. I am choosing 2000 as a milestone year because the dirt road linking Tagbita to Rizal and, farther north, to Quezon and Puerto Princesa, was finished then. In spite of the still mediocre condition of the road, which is impassable during the rainy season, at


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least to vehicles not equipped with a four-wheel drive, it rather dramatically opened up the region to the rest of the island. 3. This is a clear dialectal variant; “house” is benwa or banwa in most other dialects. The meaning of the reflex term in the group of languages spoken in and around Palawan is clearly “inhabited space.” The reconstructed Malayo-Polynesian term is *banua, meaning “land . . . settlement, inhabited territory, village” (Fox 1993, 12). 4. See, e.g., Waterson 1990; Fox 1993. 5. I have discussed the Palawan house elsewhere (Macdonald 1987a). The description was based on more or less similar observations made in the Quezon area. 6. One finds the ever-present antak (Vigna sesquipedalis), kedjas (Cajanus cajan), and munggu (Phaseolus radiatus or Phaseolus lunatus), together with Dolichos lablab and the uribang (Psophocarpus tetragonolobus). The identification of the plants and their Latin names, here and elsewhere in this volume, are based on identifications made by botanists and published by Revel (1990, 1:335–353). The aforementioned botanical identifications were made on a collection of dried specimens gathered in the field by Revel and myself from 1970 to 1972. Other identifications are taken from Merrill 1946 and Brown 1950, 1951, 1957, and University of the Philippines 1971. 7. I have argued in a study of the cave-dwelling people of the Singanapan Valley that their frequentation and seasonal use of caves reflected an emotional and subconscious need for shelter not only against thunderstorms as they say, but also as a result of a secretive and seminomadic way of life (Macdonald and de Vallombreuse 1994). 8. This kind of pottery-making technique has been demonstrated to me and is known throughout this part of insular Southeast Asia, including Borneo, where I have seen the same pots among the Kenyah. 9. Technically the wasej is both an ax and an adze, since its blade pivots in the shafting. Its shape is strongly reminiscent of its probable stone-tool origin. 10. Three kinds of spears are named and distinguished by the shape of their heads: triangular (budjak), with two symmetrical barbs (surajang), and with one barb and a detachable point like a harpoon (kelawit). The budjak has a wooden shaft, the kelawit a rattan shaft. 11. This is a belief extending far beyond Southeast Asia. See also Macdonald 1987a for a description of this custom in the Quezon area. 12. I have seen such propellers elsewhere in Palawan as well as in Bali, southern Thailand, and southern Vietnam. Among the Raglai of South-Central Vietnam the propeller is equipped with a rattle. It is probably a very ancient instrument having a ritual meaning in connection with the wind and the agricultural cycle. 13. Another and much smaller type is called kanduran; it is equipped with a bow that emits a humming sound when the wind causes its string to vibrate. 14. The word for chicken is manuk. The word ajam, which means “pet” in Palawan, is the word found in many other Malayo-Polynesian languages meaning “chicken” or “domesticated animal.” 15. The word amej is used in other dialects. 16. The word uned plus the name of the animal is used. Nowadays one hears the Filipino carne, especially for canned beef. 17. Other words like ituk, inglajen, and tulnuq are used in other dialects.


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18. The root -isdaq means “fish” in other Philippine languages. This highlights the importance of fish as a secondary food type, thus forming part of the ever-present food triad: rice + fish + salt as the basic structure of the Southeast Asian meal (see Krowolski and Simon-Barouh 1993). 19. Salt is now bought in shops and markets, but elsewhere in Palawan salt was manufactured according to a method described by A. Postma for Mindoro (Postma 1977). Probably salt was manufactured in this way in Kulbi-Kenipaqan as well. The salt produced thus was rock salt (a slab of hardened marine salt). Contrary to Christian and other lowland and /or maritime people in Southeast Asia, Palawan natives like hard salt and dislike fish paste and brine like the Filipino patis. 20. The verb legaqan applies specifically to rice; inglajen to other types of food, like vegetables, fish, and meat; sangsangen to cassava, taro, corn, and other vegetables. 21. Frying is a sign of wealth. Highlanders almost never fry food, whereas coastal people do it frequently. Frying is essentially made possible by coconut plantations and the local manufacture of cooking oil from coconut pulp. 22. Generally in Southeast Asia indigenous highland people vary in their dietary habits from lowlanders as hard salt consumers vs. liquid brine consumers (Le Roux 1993); likewise highland people tend to be predominantly cigarette or pipe smokers whereas lowland people smoke tobacco and chew betel. 23. Smoke and the juice produced by betel chewing are in a way “anti-food,” since they are not ingested but rather at least partly rejected. In this sense they may be construed as more “cultural,” whereas food is more “natural.” Ingesting food is an organic process through and through; in contrast, chewing betel or smoking cigarettes appear as “civilized” activities. The study of mythology confirms the observation that betel chewing is conceptualized as the antithesis of food and linked to immortality (Macdonald 2005). 24. The divide between fermented beverages and the absence thereof follows a line transecting the island south of the main cordillera; it is not an upland /lowland phenomenon. People living in the upper reaches of the Mekagwaq River or coastal dwellers in Punang are all alcohol consumers. Apparently, however, Kulbi people know how to make yeast cakes (purad ). 25. Palawan women are definitely very modest, but what is intimate and must remain hidden in the female body is not conceptualized in the same way. Breasts can be seen and can be touched during courtship. Thighs, buttocks, and genitals must be hidden. Pubic hair is considered particularly dirty. 26. Like Tuking and Inaring did, instructed as they were by the deity Selegnen (see chap. 5). 27. The word basakan is a newly introduced term; the word geneb, meaning “swamp” or “marsh,” is still used sometimes to mean wet rice field. 28. In 2001, I calculated, for instance, that an average piece of land planted with 280 coconut trees would yield a total yearly revenue of 15,120 pesos. This is a significant amount, and the owner of such a coconut plantation accumulates enough capital to invest in a new agricultural operation. 29. To a certain extent also the secondary growth (banglej ) is a space used for foraging activities and hunting.


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30. The poison used for fishing is obtained by beating the vine, which is a cultigen; the sap is then poured into the water. This type of fishing is a collective activity, and large parties engage in it. The same is done in shallow pools on the coral reef. People commit suicide by drinking tuba (see chaps. 7 and 8). It causes death via a slow but painless paralysis, resembling the symptoms suffered by Socrates, who drank deadly hemlock, as described by Plato in Phaedo. 31. Asymmetrical relations will be shown (see chap. 3) to be constitutive of the Palawan social structure. The most central of these is the affinal tie between the real or classificatory father-in-law and son-in-law. Although this relation essentially must be interpreted as resulting from the gift of a daughter, thus creating a debt, Palawan morality never phrases it that way, instead using the idiom “care” (milik, djaga, ipat )—i.e., senior members of the community are obligated, in a sense, to “care for” the junior members. 32. Among the games that are most popular are cockfighting (tampuran or saweng ) and cards (sugal ). Betting and gambling are associated with both. 33. By “huge crowd” I mean around 120 people, a considerable number for local conditions. 34. Measurement of time is based on the daily cycle, the lunar cycle, and the yearly solar cycle subdivided by seasonal markers (movement of stars and flowering of wild species of trees). The week is foreign to this native conceptual framework. 35. In 2001 the U.S. dollar was worth about 50 pesos.

Chapter 3. Social Organization 1. Kin types are noted thus: B = brother, Z = sister, F = father, M = mother, P = parent (father and /or mother), S = son, D = daughter, W = wife, H = husband, e = elder, y = younger, ms = man speaking, and ws = woman speaking. 2. Where ibun means “offspring of an animal.” 3. The customary law (adat) is a conflict-solving process. The neutralization of a conflict rests on a predetermined solution. Statistically, in the highlands, judgments favor the senior in-law. In the absence of a senior person, settlement of a dispute is a delicate matter. See also my article on friendship (Macdonald 1999b). 4. Children born of the same mother but of different fathers are called “dog siblings” (tipused ideng ), probably to emphasize the biological link between them, whereas children born of different mothers but the same father are called “split intestines” (bugtuq tinej ). 5. It derives from a botanical term meaning “offshoot.” 6. The Palawan language, however, can form collectives with the proper affixes. So one could speak of the keugangan (all those who are ugang ). 7. Note, however, that the spouse’s upuq is an ugang. 8. See Imbut’s and Tuking’s relation earlier in the chapter. 9. On the concepts usba and waris in the central highland area, see Macdonald 1977a, 50. I was led to present a somewhat different analysis, one that probably would need correcting. The fact is that such concepts are very abstract views on kinship. Informants are confused when discussing them and offer conflicting views. The one I give earlier in the chapter seems one of the most straightforward and one that tallies the general view on first versus second degree of cousinship.


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10. At this point the use of ethnographic present is somehow questionable. In the past 20 years, a market economy, newcomers settling in the area, administrative functions, differences in wealth, and other aspects of modernity have had a strong impact on traditional role organization (see chap. 2). Kinship ties and the roles attached to them remain prevalent, however. 11. The word bugedar (bugerar) was also used. 12. A share (tahak) consists of about 20 to 25 pieces of meat taken from various parts of the animal, the skin, the fat, the liver, the intestines, etc. All shares are more or less equal. One or more shares are given according to the number of members of the household. The system ensures a strictly even distribution of the meat among all residents, including children. 13. The word budjang applies to both unmarried young men and women. The word subur refers to a young adult, male or female, and sangpet refers to a young teenager having reached puberty. A budjang nebulnutan is a virgin. 14. Some pupuq were equipped with a special device, a squeaking hinge, that caused the doors of the little houses to creak so as to alert the parents to the comings and goings of visitors. 15. The word bulun, meaning “to sit side by side” or “to be gathered together,” is used in the highlands to mean “marriage ceremony.” 16. The groom is carried on the shoulders of his brother-in-law (Simsun’s sister’s husband) and ceremonially enters the house of the bride at the end of the day. Then the couple is brought out in front of the cheering crowd and the groom this time is carried on his wife’s brother’s shoulders. 17. Important community leaders took part in the discussion, such as Gab, the barrio captain. The father of the groom was present with the mother of the bride, a widow. In that occasion the discussion was rather short and to the point, a far cry from the lengthy and convoluted display of rhetorical skills characteristic of the highland area (see Macdonald 1974c). 18. The father died in 1987. He was a suicide. See Ubinu, chap. 7. 19. In that particular case a large gong (agung) was presented to Medjuri’s soul, a man Kering, the father of the groom, had killed. 20. These gifts traditionally consist of pieces of new material. This marks the last time the groom is allowed to pronounce the name of his parents-in-law (netimpusan et beres je), lest he become afflicted with kebusung, a swelling of the stomach that can be lethal. 21. This is accomplished by touching eight times the heads of both the girl and the boy with the folded material. 22. As explained earlier in the chapter, a political leader is first of all a peacemaker and an arbiter. It is certainly the conflation of both roles, that of judge and of healer, in the same person that provides the necessary conditions for a figure of authority such as Tuking to emerge. As was apparent in the marriage procedure, he used his spiritual powers to complement his judicial expertise and bring together the moral, legal, and religious elements into one unified field of expertise. Apparently few individuals can achieve this, and the Kulbi-Kenipaqan area remains exceptional in Palawan culture for this kind of unified authority extending over a population of more than 1,000 persons.


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Chapter 4. The Spiritual World of the Kulbi People 1. One could defend the idea that a religion with an eschatology that promises severe punishment for the sinner might prevent people from committing suicide. Psychoanalysts, however, seem to believe that an extreme fear of death might trigger a suicidal decision (Lalive d’Epinay, personal communication). The whole argument seems pointless as long as clinical evidence is not provided. 2. The word can be glossed also as “pity, sympathy, empathy, disposition to help, feeling of solidarity, etc.” To be meingasiq means to be “generous, compassionate, giving.” The concept is used all the time to describe good social behavior, to define just and proper interpersonal conduct (see chap. 3). Good behavior in this sense is also justified by the fact that it is done according to rules laid down by “God and the ancestors” (Empuq bu kegurangurangan). The connection exists in the minds of the people between religion and social behavior, but is limited to this kind of statement. 3. The cognitive apparatus that enables people to decide whether an action is good or bad is geared towards and by social action and is sui generis. The association of moral judgment with supernatural agencies is a secondary process (see Boyer 2001, 270–272). 4. See note 2 above. 5. This could include also the Tagbanuwa pagdiwata (Fox 1982, 219) 6. On the meaning of the word ulit, see Macdonald 1993b, 26. Elsewhere in the Philippines the same word means “epic“ (Manuel 1958). 7. Even in the Mekagwaq, home of the true shaman traveling through the air, I have witnessed performances that could be entirely defined as possession séances. Conceptually, shamanism and possession are, as Luc de Heush so admirably analyzed, antithetic notions: the soul of the shaman goes out of his body and meets the spirits in their world, while the possessed person is penetrated by the spirits who come to her, and not her to them (de Heusch 1971, 226–244). The grammatical gender used here is intentional. Possession trance is usually characterized in Southeast Asia by female or effeminate performers, and shamans are usually male. In spite of this very useful analytical distinction, in real life it is hard to force all elements of information into one or the other of these categories. In Kulbi, for instance, words to the effect that the person is “entered” (suminled ) by the spirit are in fact used, but at the same time the spirit or force is not fully invading the person and remains like “a wind blowing on one’s chest.” 8. The denominations are the Baptists, the Assembly of God, the New Testament, the New Tribes Mission, the Christian Fellowship, and the Bible Church. 9. These impurities or foreign bodies that cause the person to be ill are sometimes referred to as “hair” (buwek). Tuking used rukuruku leaves, which he rubbed against the sick part of the body. He would then stick the point of a blowgun dart (berawang ) in the leaves in order to kill the parasite (ramuramu). The lime is used to “burn” (mansur) the sickness. The basil leaves (rukuruku) are used to “wipe” (rijab) the sickness away. 10. The words thus pronounced are a duwaq, or usul, a secret formula that is injected in the body by blowing it (tepjug ) with the mouth. 11. Cracking one’s fingers’ joints (kerpuq) and pulling an eyelash (kineprekan) are explained as something that has been taught by the ancestors and that concludes the healing session. It ensures its successful outcome. Pulling an eyelash and burning it, or singeing a strand of hair, is a protection against thunder (Macdonald 1988b).


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12. Meliwanen ke ne enu i epegujuqan. 13. Kwan kaj damen salaq ne i lungsud ituwe. 14. Pegujuqan kaj kesigid salaq neng bunsala et beretagnaq na mebulud nerundaqag ne kesigid. 15. Misan ba aku ariq enu bej belingejngej sedangsedangaq kerundaqag ne dimu. 16. Honeybees figure most prominently in the panggaw ritual. People recognize at least four main species of honey-producing bees: ketiketi, megdun, putjukan, and nigwan. See Novellino 2002 for further references on honeybees in Palawan culture. 17. The full text of both prayers has been given and analyzed in a previous publication (Macdonald 1992). 18. Unidentified species. 19. The idea implied is that when the dead person rises and stands up, he will face west, the direction in which the land of the dead is located. 20. According to an informant, the secret name of the earth has to be pronounced before the grave is filled, lest the earth squeeze the dead person and crush him /her. 21. Different from the usual word for fence, bakud. 22. One uses the wood of the besak or the pilawag (unidentified). 23. Part of the description of this ceremony has been published in Macdonald 1997. 24. Usually 8 full days, or even 2 × 8 days. In one case the ritual period is defined as 10 days. The number 8 in this area is a symbolically significant number (whereas 7 is the important symbolic number in the central highland culture). 25. The Sama of Tawi-Tawi hold a ceremony with a carved wooden image called Ta’u-Ta’u (Nimmo 2001, 161). This ceremony is quite unique to this group, according to the author. The Sama carving is used to transfer sickness from an ailing person to the wooden image. In both cases the wooden figure bears weapons. In the Palawan case the tawtaw might be a representation of the shaman or a character acting as guardian of the house. It is installed on a crossbeam facing outside. The tawtaw is not an idol in the sense that it is not supposed to represent a diwata or any supernatural being, and it is not an object of worship. After the ceremony the wooden carving is left in place or discarded. It has no sacred value. 26. The following description is based on footage made in October 1994, at Metildeng, a place in the Kenipaqan River basin. The master of ceremonies and main performer’s name is Ansisik. 27. As far as the substances used or mentioned during the ritual are concerned, oil figures prominently. It is likely that blood is the structural equivalent of oil and that the oil poured during the ceremony (on the ground, on the hair of the young woman) is metaphorical blood. 28. Taya Ransawi is literate and has learned to use a transcription taught to him by Protestant missionaries doing linguistic work. 29. Unidentified species. 30. In this ritual context, the “Master of the Land or Earth” might just be the spirit owning this particular piece of land. 31. The soul (kurudwa) takes the form of a head louse. 32. The word “legend” could apply. Just-so stories and tales specifically devised for entertainment are called susugiden.


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33. As mentioned before, the word ulit is also used elsewhere in the Philippines to mean “epic” (Manuel 1958). The word ulit is not used in Kulbi, at least with this meaning. The word deruhan applies to ritual chanting. In the central highlands the word lumbaga is used, and what I am saying here about the similarity of shamanistic singing and epic singing did not escape Revel in her analysis of the epics (Revel and Intaray 2000, 300). 34. The word sajtan is synonymous with lenggam and is of course another clear borrowing from Islam, directly or indirectly, through Islamized people having come to the shores of the island during the past several centuries. 35. The word upuq means here all the people younger in age and living in the same group. 36. Sick people are actually prey of the sajtan, who catch them in the same way human hunters catch a wild boar. They then share the meat among themselves and cook it. 37. For comparative purposes, it is interesting to note that the cliff opens and closes like a jaw, threatening to crush those who cross over. This very peculiar image is found in myths from the southern Philippines and marks the passage between earth and sky (see Macdonald 2005). 38. A somewhat similar model has been proposed by Revel (1998, 77). There are major differences, however. First, the concept of chasse généralisée, referring to LéviStrauss’ échange généralisé (circulating connubium), does not apply. The situation is that of direct exchange, rather (one should have said chasse restreinte instead). Second, even if Revel’s interpretation is based on and refers to data collected in the highlands near Brooke’s Point, it still does not account for the fact that shamanistic intercession must be seen as essentially distinct from a relationship with the spirits of the forest. My data from this area support this point. The shaman in the trance séance does not contact spirits of the forest, but celestial spirits. I think that Revel’s model essentially misrepresents the Palawan view, including the highland’s version of it.

Chapter 5. Personhood, Emotions, and Moral Values 1. See Epstein 1992, 9, 21, on the “lexical issue”; and Besnier 1990. 2. One must, however, be reminded that evil forces are sometimes invoked as a possible explanation by Tuking and other informants. Suicide thus appears as the work of a sajtan. Such an explanation is not incompatible with the view that an emotional state causes the person to commit suicide. 3. In Southeast Asia the idea of a multiplicity of souls is commonly found. The Raglai, for instance, an Austronesian-speaking group of southern Vietnam, hold that every individual has three souls, each linked with a specific function (Macdonald 2001). In the Malay world the concept of “symbolic siblings” born with the child has been frequently described (see Headley 1987, 137; Carsten 1997, 83). 4. For instance, if the soul of the top of the head (erimpuru) is stolen by an evil spirit, it can be retrieved by the shaman in exchange for a chicken. If the main soul—in this case that of the sole of the feet (palad tiked )—is taken away, then the person dies. 5. Revel translates it as “double” on the grounds that the root word is -duwa (two) (Revel 1998, 72). 6. This situation is peculiar. In Southeast Asia a majority of cultures do not use the same word for human beings and invisible “spirits.” However, some people are similar


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to the Palawan in this respect, particularly the Chewong, inasmuch as they use the same word for real human beings and invisible “people” (Howell 1989, 46). 7. As a rule only humans and rice have kurudwa. Novellino quotes informants as saying that animals have kurudwa, but this is not something I have recorded (Novellino 2002). 8. Technically the Palawan language usually locates the vital center of the body at the “head of the liver” (ulu’t atej ). When informants point to its location, it coincides anatomically with the heart. Interestingly, if the liver is the seat of emotions, the brain (utek) is not the seat of thoughts or anything linked to emotional and mental life. 9. The exact point is made by Black for Tobian islanders (1985, 276) and by Lutz for the Ifaluk (1985, 73, n. 26). This perhaps is due to a general law applying to the marked and the unmarked, and to saliency. It is often the case that terms for bad or negative qualities are more numerous than for good or positive qualities. In the Palawan language there are more terms for unpleasant smells than for pleasant or fragrant smells, more for unpleasant-tasting food than for pleasant, tasty food, and so on. 10. See Ortony, Clore, and Collins 1988, 25–26, for a critical discussion of the concept of basic or fundamental emotion. 11. In this discussion I pay attention to the interpersonal dimension of emotions as it bears on the social nature of suicidal ideation. Emotions like love and hate seem to be essentially directed towards another human being, whereas fear is basically a reaction than is not essentially or necessarily produced by another person. The problem lies in the metaphorical extension of emotion terms and their use in semantic fields that are not originally theirs. In this respect one can, in English, “love” good food or “hate” a situation. 12. It can be objected, too, that loss in some cases is not an operational criterion since one can see the object of mourning (a dead relative, for instance) as being in an interpersonal relationship with the subject. Conversely, one can hate a dead person and anger can thus be seen as having no direct relational or interpersonal content (see Ortony, Clore, and Collins 1988, 27). 13. This is reminiscent of the famous SIP (Smooth Inter-personal Relationship) of the Ateneo school of Philippine sociology (see Racelis Hollnsteiner 1975). 14. I have heard an elder lecture a young husband and urge him not to become impatient with his wife if the meal wasn’t ready on time, but instead start cooking it himself. 15. A documentary film by P. Boccanfuso (Boccanfuso 1998). 16. The verbal timrangen is more specific and means to minister to an infant or sick person. 17. What makes the comparison between Palawan and Ilongot particularly interesting is that they do not differ significantly as far as their basic social organization is concerned, so that the “cultural choice” appears to be more clearly outlined. Among the Tausug, where violence is part of an organized system of warfare and feuding and where the ethos of social relations is clearly hierarchical, the emotional factor is perhaps less determining. But among the Ilongot the pure quality of “passion” seems the only thing that matters, while its functional role in society does not seem to be clearly established. 18. This I infer from the fact that suicide is, to my knowledge, never mentioned in Ilongot ethnography. The word “suicide” does not appear in M. Rosaldo’s index nor in R. Rosaldo’s index (1980).


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19. This again I infer from the fact that suicide is rarely or never mentioned by the authors. I am not sure about the Chewong, but Gibson never mentions suicide in his 1986 monograph’s index. There is one already-quoted reference to suicidal ideation in his 1989 paper (Gibson 1989, 67). 20. There are degrees within this group of societies to which the norm of peacefulness is applied and conceptualized, with the Chewong and Buid seemingly the most nonviolent and the Palawan probably less so inasmuch as, for instance, they do not value fearfulness as positively as the Chewong. 21. Behaviors that consist, as in so many southeast Asian cultures, when passing in front of someone, of adopting a crouching position, “shielding” oneself with both palms extended, and saying, “I am passing, excuse me” (literally “your eyes” [mata mu]). The space in front of someone has to be treated with caution and avoidance: one should avoid passing in front of someone; one never steps over another person’s legs when that person is seated with extended legs. Avoidance of any threatening signs can go as far as apologizing, when meeting someone on a path, for carrying a bush knife or sword. One never enters a house uninvited. In the highlands, before entering a house one asks if no one is sick and under treatment (since medicine can be counteracted by the presence of a stranger). 22. A sentence like “Just use your arm” (literally, “Straighten your arm” [Ipegtangaq ej siku mu]) is considered to be extremely insulting. 23. For instance, saying that a baby has “big” or “bulging” eyes (melaqput mata) is extremely offensive. 24. But it is not with the noted asymmetrical nature of basic kinship relations (see chap. 3). This I understand as an inherent contradiction in a dialectical process.

Chapter 6. Sumling’s Death 1. With the exception of her classificatory grandmother (MFW), Ambisan (see fig. 16, chap. 7). 2. In-laws have such traditionally recognized authority over their real or classificatory sons-in-law. They are said to “protect, look after, guard” (megmilik, timrangen, megdiaga) their real or classificatory daughter or younger sister /cousin. As such they have the power to terminate a marriage and force the couple to separate. It is actually one of the fundamental principles of Palawan social structure (see Macdonald 1977a, 68–69; and chap. 3). 3. This is the silica mining operation that was operated by the San Miguel Corporation. The mining site was an open pit located nearby, between Tegbituk and Tegpen. In order to collect gravel, the company had built and maintained a dirt road that went from the seashore to the middle Kulbi River basin. 4. This is a bit difficult to understand if one is not familiar with Palawan customs. Durmin has no close blood relation in the upper generation, except Tuking, first cousin of his father. His sister Ersin is then his next of kin, but as a woman she is best represented by Taya, her husband, Durmin’s ZH. So Taya acts as Durmin’s representative and elder kinsman in charge. Taya is then assimilated, in spite of his being an in-law (bayaw), as an uncle (maman). 5. Literally translated as “the axe fell.” No informant ever was able to explain to me the meaning of this phrase.


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6. This looks like a breach in the uxorilocal rule of residence. One has to remember that these women do not have any close male kin in the upper generation anymore. Tungkaq—or better, Twakal—then becomes the elder kinsman in charge. 7. Imid, baq majaq kewng tanan ginawa tuq diki mahal. 8. See Nari’s case in chap. 7. In 1978, Nari stabbed his son to death before committing suicide. 9. The silica mining company that was operating nearby at the time had security guards who were armed and were seen as potential meddlers. This is where Durmin hid right after Sumling’s death. 10. The security guard he met on the way. Actually, right after Sumling’s suicide and Durmin’s attempted suicide, the latter went into hiding in Edgar’s place, on the mining site. 11. As noted before, Durmin had attempted suicide by hanging, and the nylon cord he had used left a mark on his neck. 12. A municipal councilman (kunsjal ) and expert in customary law. 13. See Eje, Ampalis, and Ruminsi’s case in 2001 (chap. 7). 14. See Nock and Marzuk 2000, 444–448. 15. See case studies, Ambisan, and fig. 16, chap. 7. The kebangunan Sumling’s family reportedly demanded seemed to increase with time. Sumling’s family was speaking of 5,000 pesos at this point, but later the amount increased again. 16. Worth 500 pesos. 17. Gab became barrio captain (or barangay captain) again in later years. 18. diki je meketngawan je adat jeng itwe. 19. Discussing this point with Taya later, it appears that Tungkaq is not telling the exact truth. Sumling was not ready to divorce Durmin, although she certainly could have complained about his behavior. 20. The word bugerar or bugedar is a traditional term for leaders (pegibuten) who have exceptional authority or display exceptionally authoritarian characteristics. Mensuling is referring more specifically to Alex and Kilin (barrio counselors and experts in customary law). 21. Kilin refers to the judiciary system of the lowlanders (bisaja). 22. The barrio captain at the time was a Christian, not well aware of the Palawan customs and legal procedures. 23. In another context the word could be translated as “amok” or juramentado, a crisis during which the person becomes homicidal (see chap. 8). 24. I met Tungkaq in November 2003 and we reminisced about this case. He exclaimed, “My child was murdered!” 25. This word (from -pikit) is the technical term for the relationship of a sonor brother-in-law following and being obedient to his wife’s brother or father (see chap. 3).

Chapter 7. Suicide: Case Studies 1. Typically one is a child (jegang ), then an adolescent (sengpet ), then “of age” (megurang ). One is then megurang from the time of one’s marriage (early or late teens for a girl, late teens or early twenties for a boy) onward. One becomes “very old” (megurang banar)


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toward the end of one’s life. Informants invariably show a complete indifference to people’s real age (defined by an exact count of years). Megurang as a noun means “senior person.” 2. Name of an indigenous group inhabiting the island of Balabac. The Molbog people are known for their love charms. 3. Probably apocryphal. The amount seems far too large. Other people say he had 16,000 pesos on him, which is in itself a large sum of money. Interestingly, however, the money was buried with him. His children said that it was his will to take the money with him into the beyond. 4. Literally “lack of respect.” 5. Literally “did not know how to be polite, have respectful manners.” 6. In brackets are my comments and explanations, which were checked by an informant who helped me translate the Palawan transcript. 7. All Christian settlers in the area are called “Visayan” (bisaja) by the Palawan people, whether actually from the Visayas or from anywhere else in the Philippines. Thus an Ilokano is a bisaja. 8. Licuala spinosa, used for making cigarette paper. 9. See Saqaj’s story, for instance. 10. Here, as elsewhere before 1978, ages are at best an approximation. 11. Kudew primarily means “to accuse or report wrongdoing.” It has the further meaning of “false accusation,” hence “slander.” 12. A title conferred by the local government; the person with this title functions as a police officer. 13. From -dupang, meaning “dirty,” “obscene,” “forbidden,” etc. 14. The lalew is a nickname, or friendship name, used reciprocally by two persons to show closeness and affection. 15. First cousins are said to be brother and sister, or true siblings (tipused ), as opposed to second cousin (egsa) (see chap. 3 and Macdonald 1977a, 41). 16. Adjective meaning “greedy,” “insatiable,” “immoderate,” “prone to thievery.” 17. Secondary growth. 18. The San Miguel Corporation bought this particular piece of land. They had opened a silica mining operation and used Intab’s land as a landing strip (see chaps. 1 and 7). 19. Palawan people from Kulbi, Rizal municipality, cast their ballots in the high school precinct in Paga Paga (Tagbita). 20. A knife with a short blade and a long handle used for everyday work; not a weapon. 21. This kind of gathering, where young people dance to the tunes of a radio player in the Western fashion, has become frequent and is of course an occasion for boys and girls to meet and engage in flirtation or more. 22. Method for catching bats with a swat. This is a very common technique used by the people from the Singnapan Valley known as Taw Batu or Tao’t Batu. See Macdonald and de Vallombreuse 1994. 23. The piawas can be a mixture of plants and is administered together with special words (batjaq). In this case Perinta gave his daughter raw chicken blood, which causes the poisoning victim to throw up.


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Chapter 8. Profiles in Suicide 1. Months of the year are given separately and are examined briefly later. 2. An approximation based on the World War II landmark. Informants recall “the end of the war” (tepus et gira), which I place at 1945. 3. The rate for this cohort is actually computed with 867 as a fixed total over a period of n years. 4. In the United States, by comparison, the national rate is 11.3 per 100,000, or 15.7 times less than in Kulbi. There is only one instance in the world that I know to show a higher rate: the one calculated for the Aguarunas of Peru (M. F. Brown 1985). See chap. 9. 5. In the United States, suicide is only the ninth leading cause of death. Of course, if heart disease and cancer are considered two separate causes of death, ranking does not have the same meaning in Kulbi and in the United States. 6. However, a sample of non-industrial and traditional societies including Truk, Aguaruna Jivaros, Maria from India, Vaqueiros from Spain, Tikopia, and some others displays an equal or higher rate of suicide for the young than for the old. The higher rate for the young seems to be a variable pointing to a very important property of suicidal trends. 7. The cause is usually rejection by prospective in-laws. 8. I am indebted to Myriam de Loenzien, research fellow at the Institut de Recherche pour le Développement (IRD), Paris, for a statistical interpretation of this set of data. 9. Tejudan (or tajudan) is a pesticide possibly containing cyanide; it was banned in 2002. 10. It is not old age per se that is a cause of suicide, but sickness, disability, discomfort, or pain. 11. Relations with in-laws are involved in at least six cases. 12. Over a total of 85 cases. 13. In the central highlands divorce is less frequent, between 12 and 20% (Macdonald 1977a, 157), but in the lowland and near-coastal sections of the Palawan group it is significantly higher. 14. Conflicts with parents may actually have a longer history so that the rashness of the act is apparent but not real.

Chapter 9. The Anthropological Study of Suicide 1. There are borderline cases, obviously, such as the studies on Truk, a Micronesian society that has undergone profound change and urbanization. See Hezel 1984 and Rubinstein 1992. 2. After writing this chapter I was informed of the publication of a new book on suicide in a Canadian Indian community, the Mamit-Innuat (Eveno 2003). It is an interesting contribution to the topic—one, however, that is of little comparative use here since the author deals with a population where suicide rates are comparatively low (Eveno 2003, 39–42, 291). The main thrust of Eveno’s book is to account for the apparently outof-proportion concern shown by society and local authorities regarding the incidence of this phenomenon in local communities. 3. Another consequence of the widespread approximation of knowledge about


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suicide is the strong and dramatic impression that it inevitably makes on the public, not to mention values and judgments made about its morality. 4. An exception would be the case of the Tobi islanders, who number only around 60 (Black 1985, 266). The four recorded suicides among this small Micronesian population can be construed as tipping the demographic balance, in view of the limited adult male workforce and the equally limited number of eligible young marriage partners. This is an extreme case, due to severe depopulation and specific island habitat. 5. Sometimes newspapers articles on “epidemics of suicides among teenagers” leave the impression that the entire younger population of a country is about to be wiped out. 6. Mutatis mutandis; the same can be said of attempted suicide. 7. We have in mind here Freud’s celebrated case studies such as the “Rat Man,” the “Wolf Man,” “little Hans,” and others. 8. Apparently Freud used categories already established by other psychiatrists such as Charcot. 9. One could also say that statistics count only n+1, that is, only the intention to kill oneself, nothing else. 10. See Jeffreys 1952. Malinowski, in Crime and Custom in Savage Society (1932 [1926], 98), writes that suicide “affords a means of escape and rehabilitation.” So suicide, like sorcery, is a tool to keep natives in strict obedience of the law. This highly functionalist approach, seeing suicide as a means to an end—more precisely to help enforce law and order—is not found in later anthropological interpretations of suicide. 11. Here as elsewhere I will argue that the causal link between stress and suicide is missing inasmuch as stress by itself does not sufficiently explain suicide. There is, however, a connection between stress and suicide. 12. I quote also the French translation, published in 1996. 13. Actually, Freud produced two theories of suicide, one in Mourning and Melancholia (1917) and another in The Ego and the Id (1922). The latter postulates a primary instinct of self-aggression, a death instinct. The first approach is based on a theory of mourning and redirected aggression. It involves the following sequence: libidinal needs, frustration, aggression directed against an external object, frustration or inhibition of aggression, aggression directed towards self. (Devereux 1961, 295–296). 14. There is no need to repeat the arguments of Reser’s rather detailed critical response to Robinson (Reser 1990). Since Robinson offers a number of models interwoven with each other, there would be a need to disentangle them and critically review their internal logic or lack of it. But the basic flaw is the total disregard for factual observations, a few of them being used here and there only as alibis. Robinson’s ignorance is also indicated by his opinion that “suicide [is] highly uncharacteristic of Aboriginal societies” (1990, 164), a view that is patently wrong according to Reser: “it is clear that Aboriginal suicide and suicide attempts are endemic in many communities throughout Australia and have been for the past decade, and in some regions for much longer” (Reser 1989, 44). 15. In a comment on Robinson’s article, a psychiatrist, K. Koller, makes the following remarks: “the difference between anger /aggression and rage is that anger and aggression are directed against objects, people or things which are experienced as autonomous centers of initiative, not against an internal self-object. When the unhealthy self experiences


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a disruption of self-object relationship or a narcissistic insult, the self experiences a great depression or a disintegrative anxiety. There follows a response to restore coherence or wholeness even if the response is self-defeating and self-destructive” (1991, 356). In other words, the object of anger /aggression and the object of rage leading to self-destructive behavior are different. So aggression is not redirected. We deal with two different reactions to two different objects. 16. I use the word “instinct” on purpose. The author does not use this term, which he certainly would spurn, but his approach to aggressiveness makes implicit use of the concept of inherent force or drive akin to an instinctual mechanism. Panoff uses elsewhere phrases like “aggressive energies” (1977, 55) and “impulses” (61). 17. Which are, potentially, according to Panoff, cases of finding oneself in an orphan position (1977, 61) 18. See Counts 1980, 1984; Johnson 1981; Stewart and Strathern 2003. 19. This outlet being a hole in a container and pressure being the force exerted by a fluid or gas trying to escape its container. The fluid or gas in question is, of course, none other than “aggression,” “violence,” “anger,” etc. This is the “hydraulic metaphor” (see Lutz and White 1986, 419). 20. The author makes a remark that would exactly fit a number of Palawan cases: “the victim often simply leans into the rope until he passes out and dies of anoxia” (195). 21. Alcohol, it is noted, will heighten rather than abate the anger (199). 22. “[The model of family structural change] . . . has an appealing logical-causal form . . . however [it] is based on several assumptions for which the evidence is ambiguous or absent” (Rubinstein 1992, 59). 23. In a footnote Brown explains how he came up with this figure, revising it downward from a prior higher figure. His remark that “any suicide rate calculations based on a population of only 1500 are bound to contain a high margin of error” (1986, 326) is questionable. It is indeed true if the population of 1,500 is used as a representative sample for a total population of, say, 25,000 (the estimated Aguaruna population), but it is highly accurate if the population under study is these same 1,500 people. This means that we can indeed doubt that the rate indicated for the entire Aguaruna people is 180, but we can just assume that it is the actual rate for the Aguaruna subsection under scrutiny. It is then possible that not even all Aguaruna have such a high rate of suicide, a projection that can be made on the basis of the comparatively low rate of suicide for the rest of the Jivaroan people (see Brown 1986, 325, 326, n. 2; Descola 1993, 216). Brown, however, uses data covering four years only. 24. “When women translate their anger into suicidal acts, they demonstrate their social impotence” (Brown 1986, 326). See also the explanation on p. 319 of the same article. 25. This kind of observation leads the author to link suicide with “personal power and control” (Brown 1986, 318), something I find highly questionable since the demise of self cannot very well stand for control of self over others. A problem is not under control if it is simply canceled out. 26. This again is interpreted by the author as a thing “political,” whereas in the Palawan case I am just using the concept of “judicial,” “pertaining to the law.”


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27. Incidentally, Aguaruna eschatology seems to provide the same indications regarding the soul of the victim: “the soul of a suicide victim [does not] come back to torment those who made her suffer” (Brown 1986, 321). 28. Here defined as the collective, socially acceptable use of physical force to kill people. 29. The “fundamental emotional asymmetry between the sexes” (Brown 1986, 324) is a trait that I think is shared by the Palawan as well, but without the kind of female subservience or victimization observed among Amazonian Indians. 30. Data from 1965 or before. Actually, if one follows what the author says about figures gathered by Soto Vasquez, namely a population of less than 15,000, rates are significantly higher. The rate for a population of 7,000 would be 63 per 100,000; the rate for a population of 10,000 would be 44 per 100,000. 31. Residence is patrilocal. 32. She writes, “Certains cas de suicide prennent alors tout leur sens dans l’environnement domestique traversé de tensions imposé [sic] par ce système d’héritage” (Catedra 1993, 65). 33. She apparently is not arguing to do so and is careful to address the issue of cultural meaning rather than downright “causes.” This is what I am tempted to call the “wrapping” technique, by which the anthropologist places the problem (here the etiology of suicide) in an attractive wrapper, being careful not to open the package in which the central issue is thus enclosed. 34. In a private communication Dentan wrote that my characterization of Palawan social order could just as easily pass as a description of the Semai. I wrote, “Their social life, efficiently organized, rests on a secular—not religious—and individualistic code of ethics based on compassion. Conflict resolution is done by way of talking, not violence. Social order is further organized along the lines of statuses and roles based on sex, age, and closeness in terms of consanguinity and marriage.” See Macdonald 1999a and b; and Dentan 2000, 46, n. 7. 35. I cannot find national statistics for Malaysia, but suicide rates are presumably low. The author, however, seems to indicate that lowlanders commit suicide more often than highlanders (Dentan 2000, 36). 36. In a footnote (Dentan 2000, 45, n. 3), the author compares “learned helplessness” to contemplative peace in Buddhism and to step 1 of the 12-step program of Alcoholics Anonymous. This is, I think, questionable. 37. The Semai word for it is s(n)asaaw. The term gilaa’, cognate to Palawan gilaq, is used in contrast for “violently crazy” (Dentan 2000, 39). The discussion on latah is most interesting and provides another comparative ground for the construction of affects and their relation to suicide among various groups in insular Southeast Asia. Latah-like syndromes (echolalia or corprolalia) are indeed present among the Palawan, but their incidence is low. 38. It is worth noting that Elwin uses official statistics and police records. 39. Marital tension, rebuke, and shame are social causes; pain, mental disorder, and the death of loved ones are physical, although they can be construed as cultural.


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Chapter 10. Explaining Suicide: Concluding Remarks 1. This view is that of “displacement.” As one commentator of Durkheim wrote, “suicide is most often a form of ‘displacement,’ that is, the desire to kill someone . . . is turned back on the individual himself ” (G. Simpson, introduction to the English translation of Durkheim’s Suicide.) It is tantamount to saying that a soccer player, unable to score against the opposing team, will resort to scoring against his own! Why would a thwarted desire to kill someone else become a desire to kill oneself? 2. “The Aguaruna view homicide as an eminently social act” (Brown 1986, 314). 3. It has also been embraced by ethnopsychologists like Hippler (see chap. 9) when aggression and violence are repressed in cases of rather nonviolent cultures like the Alaska Eskimos. 4. Lutz and White quote the study by Solomon on this topic (Solomon 1978). 5. As for the psychiatric and psychoanalytical variant of the aggression /violence theme (notions of “impulse,” “drive,” etc.), my guess is that it is equally unwarranted and premised on the same naïve intuitive notion of a material “energy” being “channeled” like a stream. The discussion regarding Robinson’s paper and the comment made by Koller (see chap. 9, n. 15) clearly indicate that the very notion of redirected aggression has to be critically examined, in psychoanalytical terms as well, before being accepted by social scientists. 6. The prevalence of this misconception is exemplified again in a recent article concerning suicide and violence among the Yukpa Indians. The author writes, “Obviously, suicide is like vendetta, a form of violence that aims to kill” (Halbmayer 2001, 63). 7. It is understood that in this whole chapter I have been dealing with the individual, nonprescriptive type of suicide. 8. André Gide in one of his novels has a character who commits suicide as a result of being overjoyed. 9. It could be useful, furthermore, to distinguish between the kind of stress denoted by terms like “grief,” “sadness,” etc., and stress that results from strong reactive feelings like “anger” and “fear.” I suggest calling the former “inward-oriented stress” and the latter “outward-oriented stress.” Anxiety thus may contrast with despair, as fear would, compared to sadness. Going beyond this simple opposition one could construct an EP model by drawing a triangle of negative emotions, adding fear and anxiety as an intermediate state between anger and grief. The dimensions along which this emotional triangle would be constructed are 1) reactiveness to an external object, and 2) inward-oriented affects. 10. Trukese, Vaqueiros, and Semai would be the most relevant examples. 11. Actually, anthropologists—especially with EP leanings—tend to explain too much rather than not enough, and the evidence they bring forward to prove their case is generally superfluous. A good example of an “overkill” sort of explanation is that of Panoff for the Maenge (see chap. 9). Not only is it demonstrated that the victims of suicide are poor, wretched souls deprived of status, wealth, and sex and humiliated and bullied to the core by big men, and not only are they utterly trashed, but they must also rise in anger and display aggressive or bellicose qualities normally denied to them. Actually, they should commit suicide many times over. The Semai example is another instance


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where the author, rather like a gourmet chef, throws at the last minute into his brew a pinch of intrusive foreign values and a dash of weaning practices so that the main dish of “learned helplessness” becomes even more palatable. 12. In the Mekagwaq River basin area I checked on suicides in 2001 and found 7 cases in all for the 10 preceding years. This would represent a rate of 46 per 100,000 if the general population of the Mekegwaq area is estimated at 1,500 persons. This is already quite a high figure, probably a new trend since the 1970–1972 period. At that time I did not record any cases. I checked on the suicide situation in two other places in 2002. In Punang, only one case could be recalled in living memory. In Panas, a place next to Kulbi on the eastern part of the island, informants could name only three cases for the past 15 years. 13. P. Bonnemère, personal communication. 14. In no way am I suggesting a scenario such as those proposed by sociobiologists whose teleological mode of reasoning produces arbitrary and absurd hypotheses. A good example is de Catanzaro’s proposition that suicide occurs where it has “little impact on the gene pool” by eliminating individuals with impairments in reproductive capacity (de Catanzaro 1981, 66), whereas it is obvious that in many societies like Micronesia, Palawan, and elsewhere, the population most affected by suicide is composed of teenagers and young people at the peak of their reproductive capacities. To say that suicides have a reduced “coping capacity” is plain tautology. By the way, one could come up with a number of much cleverer, if equally arbitrary, scenarios proving that suicides promote or optimize the reproduction of the gene pool. 15. Rubinstein in a recent paper writes, “And once begun, the suicidal acts seem to have acquired a psychological contagion of their own” (2002, 40). 16. Again, Rubinstein writes, in a striking parallel with my own conclusions, “Evidently the idea of suicide has become increasingly commonplace and compelling, and young children are now acquiring this idea at earlier ages” (2002, 40). 17. If indeed genetic factors explain a predisposition to suicide, and if those factors are transmitted from one generation to the next, those who commit suicide when young —there is precisely a high rate of suicide among the young—and before having children themselves will cause those genetic factors to be lost. Suicide among the young may then be a device found by nature to cause the suicide wave to subside. 18. Epidemiology and imitation have been concepts forcefully defended by anthropologists such as Sperber (1996). The contagion this author is referring to is of an ideological kind. Facts that we are dealing with here are behavioral in nature. To what extent contagious behavior can be accounted for on the basis of a contagion of representations is a question that would require further discussion and a critical appraisal of cognitive psychology. 19. Let me repeat once more that suicides of the hara-kiri or suttee type are institutionalized events of a prescriptive nature, entirely distinct from the type of suicides studied in this book. Prescribed suicides of this kind are more like death sentences passed by society.


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Index

References to tables are in boldface type. adat, 75, 86–88, 90–93, 96, 139, 154– 155, 162–163, 168, 172, 274n3. See also bitsara; customary law; litigation adolescent, 199, 242, 243. See also teenager adultery, 147–148, 161–162, 166, 180, 196 affect. See emotion affinal kin, 30, 33, 63, 65–70, 74, 77– 79, 136. See also in-law affinity, 68, 71–72, 207. See also in-law age: group, 19, 19, 206–207, 206–207, 216–218, 216, 217, 220, 251, 251; old, 21, 167–168, 209–210, 218, 222, 237, 239, 247, 252, 260; pyramid, 19, 20, 20 aggression, 87, 104, 137, 229, 251, 254, 259, 260, 260; redirected, 6, 138– 139, 232–235, 255–257, 284n13, 287n5. See also anger; violence; violent behavior aggressive: acts, 253, 255; behavior, 212, 241; drives, 139; feelings, 131, 142, 234; impulses, 266; suicide, 212, 221 aggressiveness, 129, 130, 160, 221, 235, 253 agriculture, 14, 37, 43–44, 48–51, 54, 74; shifting, 37, 48, 62. See also harvest; irrigation; rice field; swidden

Aguaruna, 235, 244–245, 251, 254, 256, 263, 263, 283n6, 285n23, 286n27, 287n2 alcohol, 47, 190, 212, 240, 246, 252, 253, 273n24, 285n21. See also rice wine ancestors, 12, 91–93, 100–110, 112, 115–117 Anga, 236, 261 anger: and aggression, 139, 255–256, 284n15; as cause of suicide, 123, 130, 142, 145–146, 148, 170, 172, 185, 188–190, 193–194, 197, 200–203, 239–240, 243, 245–246, 249; convulsive/murderous (lukub), 131, 161, 163; of the dead, 106; and the liver, 124, 127, 166; redirected, 172, 189, 232–233, 240; words for, 129, 137 animals, 113, 121, 125, 144. See domestic animal. See also cattle; chicken; crocodile; dog; fish; honeybees; pig Ankave, 236–238, 261 anoxia, 208, 257 anxiety, 123, 129–130, 232, 235–236, 250, 256–257 Arawak, 262 architecture, 38, 72 art, 57, 94, 96, 135 asymmetrical relations, 64, 66, 69, 71–72, 134–136, 236 Austronesian, 66, 144

299


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300 bachelor, 183–184 barrio, 17, 17, 43, 47, 54, 58, 80, 96, 162, 191 barter, 15, 44, 53. See also trade Baruya, 236–238, 251, 256, 261, 263, 263 beliefs, 4, 12, 72, 91–96, 113, 116, 118– 119, 121, 169, 231, 260, 262–263, 263 benchmark study, 204, 213–214 betel, 42, 47, 58, 84–85, 103, 118, 120, 161, 273n23 biodiversity, 37, 46 biotope, 36, 52 birth, 18, 19, 21, 62, 70, 73, 104, 167, 226, 259 bitsara: for causing the death of someone, 89, 148, 150, 156; for the custody of children, 148, 154; defined as discussion, 82–83, 87; defined as legal case, 87, 164; defined as public hearing, 25, 40, 57; divorce case, 89, 172; homicide case, 89, 158, 191; for neolocal residence, 86, 89; types of, 89. See also adat; litigation; public hearing blacksmith, 32, 42, 61 blowgun, 14, 37, 52, 189 bride-price, 78, 82, 84–85 Buid, 13 cattle, 2–3, 53, 56, 58, 191 Cebuano, 11 ceremony: aim of panggaw / panggaris, 111; description of panggaw / panggaris, 107–113; main ritual act of panggaw / panggaris, 101, 112; meaning of panggaw / panggaris, 99–100, 107; panggaw / panggaris and prohibitions, 112, 137; place where panggaw / panggaris is performed, 40, 99, 108; wedding, 82–86, 104. See also religion; ritual; shaman; shamanism


index

chanting, 94, 97, 108–109, 117, 278n33 Chewong, 279n6 chicken, 40, 44–45, 51–52, 58, 77, 107, 120, 125, 144, 161, 184–185, 189–190, 272n14 Christian Catholic, 84, 92, 95; missionaries, 93, 95; settlers, 1, 3, 11–12, 47–48, 57, 96, 150 Christianity, 91, 96, 239 cloth, 42, 104, 115, 187 cockfighting, 55, 57, 274n32 cohort, 204, 214 collateral distance, 67, 71–73 commerce, 56. See also market comparative study, 6, 112, 119, 248– 249, 261, 263, 263 compassion, 127, 129, 136, 141, 266, 276n2 conflict, 66, 76, 92, 184, 218–220, 239, 241–242, 245, 259–261, 260, 267 consanguinity, 65–69, 71, 136 consensus, 34, 75–78, 84, 87, 165 cooking, 39, 42, 46, 85, 145, 273n20 copra, 37, 43, 51, 54, 56, 58, 60, 74, 146, 273n28 councilman, 75, 80, 90, 191 courtship, 2, 41–42, 80, 82–83, 247 crocodile, 40, 103, 140 cross-cultural perspective, 230, 234, 237, 252 cultigens, 46, 49–50, 272n16. See also plants cultural model/pattern, 230–231, 237, 241, 246, 268 cultural personality, 232, 234, 266–267 curing: act of, 91; and multiple soul, 124; power, 99 custom, 80–81, 83, 85–86, 90, 155, 158 customary law: definition of, 86, 274n3; expert in, 25–26, 33, 76–78, 87–88, 136, 150–151, 171, 191; and local group, 23; traditional, 163, 180. See also adat; bitsara; litigation Cuyunon, 11

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index

dance: ritual (tarek), 40, 83, 94, 97, 108–112, 120; western (sajaw), 194, 282n21 death: and the afterlife, 69, 92, 104, 120, 124–125, 169 (see also eschatology); attitude towards, 69, 92, 94, 107, 154; rates, 18, 20, 21; ritual, 5, 92, 104–106. See also funerary; mortality debt, 54, 85, 136 demography, 5, 17, 18, 21, 25, 225, 243, 247, 262–263, 265, 267 depression, 128, 130, 169, 225, 232, 249, 255, 258 descent, 12–13, 61–63, 68–69, 74, 259, 260 despair: caused by bereavement, 260; as explanation for suicide, 123, 146, 180, 219, 225, 239, 249, 255, 257–258; and homicide, 220; and melancholy, 218; victim of, 4, 235. See also grief; sorrow disease. See illness divinities, 92, 97, 102–103, 109, 112, 120 divorce, 78–80, 86, 89, 135, 146, 149, 157, 165, 185–187, 196, 212, 226, 237, 283n13 dog, 44, 92, 107, 120, 151, 153, 157, 161, 197 domestic animal, 36, 44–45, 45, 58–59, 59, 60, 77; versus wild, 44–45. See also cattle; chicken; dog; pig domestic life, 38, 44, 47, 237, 239, 252 dream, 106, 169, 228 dress, 2, 47, 109 Dusun, 14–15 dwelling, 12, 16, 38–39, 41, 99, 106 ecology, 1, 11, 13, 25, 36 economic: exchanges/transactions, 13, 44, 54, 85; inequality, 37, 60; life, 37, 54, 74; orientation, 12–13, 36–37; resources, 53, 259; unit, 12,


301 74; value, 44, 48, 51, 56. See also income; price; trade egalitarian society, 13, 29, 62, 245, 259, 262, 263, 263 elections, 17, 191 emotion, 126–131, 211, 279n11, 287n7. See also anger; fear; feeling; grief; happiness; jealousy; shame; sorrow endogamy, 35, 247, 262–263, 263 environment, 36–37, 46, 52, 59, 62, 99, 103, 111, 116, 199, 210–211, 267 epic, 93, 97, 98, 102, 104, 116–120, 278n33 epic hero, 104, 117, 119, 120 epidemic, 20, 192, 199, 214, 265, 267 equality, 66, 68, 71, 141 eschatology, 91, 93–94, 96, 259, 286n27 Eskimos, 233, 254, 256, 266, 287n3 ethics, 91, 93–94, 96, 137, 276n3. See also moral values; morality ethnic group, 5, 12, 14, 80, 94, 114, 118, 207, 212, 246, 261, 264–265 ethnic identity, 11, 15 ethnography, 4–5, 123, 224, 231, 233, 241, 248 ethnolinguistic group, 11–12, 236 ethnopsychiatry, 127, 231 ethos, 35, 40, 60, 212, 262 etiology, 4, 78, 221, 230, 232, 241, 266–267 etiquette, 91, 139, 280n21. See also manners family: domestic, 23, 74, 78; extended, 73, 211, 220; nuclear, 73, 211, 211, 241, 242, 243 fear: as cause of suicide, 185–186, 189, 193, 197, 200–203, 210–212, 216, 216–217, 219, 221, 235, 240, 247; of something, 42, 92, 97, 137, 166, 169, 180, 222, 252, 252–253 feast, 78, 107 feeling, 93, 100, 126–127, 129–131,

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302 148, 153, 158, 171, 179, 182, 233, 249. See also emotion fertility, 19, 111 field. See agriculture; rice field; swidden fine (compensation or payment), 88–89, 103, 149, 156, 160, 162–165, 179, 181–182, 191, 196 fish, 37, 46, 52, 54, 56, 120, 187, 273n18 fishing, 12–13, 17, 37, 42–43, 49, 52, 59, 62, 74, 120, 145, 149, 274n30 food: animals bred for, 44–45, 45; consumption of, 46–47, 112; and the dead, 106–107, 176; and forest products, 16, 53; offerings of, 83, 107, 136, 138, 176; preparation of, 46, 273n20, 273n21; requirements, 37, 48; and rice, 46, 138; types, 45–46, 51, 273n18 forest: and burial, 105; cover, 16, 116; and honeybees, 108; and huntinggathering, 37, 250; as part of natural world, 104, 111, 116; primary, 16, 49–50, 52, 102–103; products, 1, 12–13, 15, 15, 39, 52–53; quest in, 99, 101; spirits of the, 46, 86, 92, 97, 99, 101–104, 117, 120, 122, 122, 278n38; where suicide takes place, 180, 182 friendship, 47, 68, 92, 135–136, 239 frustration, 131, 141, 190, 234, 236, 240, 243 garden, 38, 40, 46, 49–50, 121 gender, 40, 67, 134, 236–237, 259, 262–263, 263. See also status, male/ female generation, 25–27, 34, 62–63, 65–74, 106, 168 genetic factors, 263–264, 266, 288n17 genetic predisposition, 7, 264, 288n17 ghost, 105–106, 159, 160, 166, 252 Gisu, 230 gossip, 40, 55, 88, 134, 140–141, 271n18


index

grave, 105–106, 112–113, 176 grief: definition of, 127, 131, 141, 249; expression of, 28, 133, 246; as main cause of suicide, 130, 146, 173, 177, 192–193, 209, 220, 239, 245–246, 260; and multiple suicide, 213, 220, 266 Guarani, 262 guilt, 150, 191, 232 hanging (suicide by): among the Aguaruna, 245; among the Maria, 251; in Oceania, 234, 238, 240; among the Palawan, 145, 149, 172–173, 183, 189, 192–194, 200–203, 208, 208– 209, 216; among the Vaqueiros, 247 Hanunoo, 82 happiness, 130, 133, 141, 257 harvest, 43, 49, 110, 115–116, 146, 150, 152, 154, 169, 189 healer, 29–30, 33, 61, 75, 88, 91–92, 96–97, 99, 101, 107, 120, 122, 159, 275n22 healing, 84, 88, 91, 96, 98, 111, 113, 276n9 heart: (anat.), 119, 170, 191, 197, 208; (psy.), 81, 101, 124, 127, 157. See also liver heirloom, 42, 45, 58, 60, 174 hell, 93, 106, 168 hierarchy, 35, 55, 66, 73, 90, 141, 222, 259–260, 262 highlands, 1, 2, 37, 42, 50, 53, 57, 78, 84, 92, 97, 134, 207, 261, 269n1, 270n8, 271n1 history, 13, 42, 55, 64, 77, 171, 188, 219, 228, 240, 247, 250 homicide: accusation of, 146, 179; disguised, 190–191; and suicide, 172, 184, 192, 198–199, 203, 212, 220, 229, 236–238, 250–251, 253–257; and the tribunal, 89, 186; and warfare, 237–238 honey, 13, 47, 51–53, 100, 108, 111– 113, 116

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303

index

honeybees, 53, 100, 105, 108, 112–113, 116, 277n16 hostility, 14, 73, 137, 255–257 house: bachelor’s, 2, 41, 80–81; big, 2, 30, 33–34, 40–42, 76, 83, 89, 97, 108, 119, 156; as inhabited space, 38–41; inventory of, 42–44; occupation of, 14, 18, 27, 29, 74, 80; structure of, 2, 12, 38, 38–39; symbolic aspects of, 39–40, 108; types of, 39–41 household, 18, 21, 24–25, 27, 42, 53–54, 54, 58–60, 59, 73–74, 83, 86, 145, 247 hunger, 45–46 hunting, 12, 37, 42, 44, 52, 67, 74, 121–122, 134, 192, 194, 208 husbandry, 44, 45, 60 Ifaluk, 279n9 illness: as cause of suicide, 218, 239, 247; mental, 194, 216, 216, 249, 251; swelling of the stomach (kebusung), 64, 68 Ilongot, 279n17 impurity, 96, 110, 112 incest: between cousins, 71–72; cure for, 112, 115; death for, 90, 111, 120, 137, 164; and love affair, 131, 161, 210; and ritual, 99–100, 110, 112; and suicide cases, 166, 173, 178– 181, 202–203, 210, 210, 219 income, 56, 58, 60, 226, 242; per household, 59, 59 inequality, 37, 60, 72 in-law: focal, 26, 30, 32; rejection by, 183–185, 219; relations between, 24, 29, 54, 135, 280n2; relations between—and suicide, 201–203, 211, 211, 219, 248, 259. See also affinal kin; affinity integration, 142, 230 irrigation, 16, 28–29, 33, 37, 43, 46, 48, 50–51, 54, 60, 86, 116 Islam, 14–15, 15, 17, 83, 91, 93, 140


Islamized, 12, 53, 83 Jama Mapun, 11, 83 jealousy: as cause of suicide, 78, 123, 130–131, 145–146, 148–149, 167, 170, 172, 178, 191, 197, 200–202, 209–210, 216, 216–217, 219–220, 228, 252–253, 257; definition of, 131–132, 132, 257 Jivaro, 244, 246, 260 joking, 57, 133–135, 140–141, 266 judge, 17, 75, 84, 87–89, 136, 146, 149, 151, 181–182 judgement, 88, 127, 162, 172 justice, 61, 62, 186, 231 Kaiowa, 262 kindred, 69, 70, 73, 74, 218, 255, 265 kinship: bilateral/cognatic, 12, 61–63, 66, 68–69, 73, 77; network, 27, 35, 61; and residence, 21, 23, 25, 27, 32, 61; status, 65–67, 72, 75, 77; terms, 62–67, 69, 70, 74, 180. See also affinity; consanguinity; family; inlaw; kindred; marriage; spouse law. See adat; bitsara; customary law; judge; judgement; justice; litigation leadership, 21, 26, 29–30, 34–35, 76, 137, 266, 275n22 life-cycle, 104, 113, 116 literature, 6, 15, 74, 116, 119, 224, 241, 257, 277n32 litigation: ability to engage in, 26, 34, 134, 171; and adultery, 172, 177, 196; outlet of anger/aggression, 137, 140; role of, 76, 87; and suicide, 179, 219; and Sumling’s case, 73, 76, 146–148, 152. See also bitsara liver, 53, 84, 100, 124, 127, 132, 141, 159, 160, 279n8 local group. See settlement love affairs, 121, 167, 177–184, 195–196, 210, 216, 220, 245; as cause of suicide, 131, 148, 171, 173,

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304 177–183, 187, 197, 200–203, 210, 210–211, 213, 216, 216–217, 221, 239, 260; passionate, 130–131, 219; thwarted, 130–131, 195, 216. See also jealousy lowlands, 1, 3, 16, 29, 36–37, 47, 51, 62, 79, 95, 108, 134, 137, 141, 164, 247, 271n1 Maenge, 234–236, 238, 246, 251, 256, 259, 261, 263, 263, 287n11 magic, 1, 98, 103, 114, 140, 235, 252–253 Mamit-Innuat, 283n2 mangrove, 16, 37, 39, 52, 53 manners, 86–87, 96, 135, 139, 141, 171, 184, 199, 266. See also etiquette Maranao, 11, 17 Maria, 247, 250–251, 253, 283n6 market, 43, 45, 51, 54–58, 76, 85, 89, 135, 146, 181, 184 marriage: ceremony, 83–84, 86, 104; children born from, 19, 26; between cousins, 72, 78; discussion, 83–84, 87, 89; opposition by in-laws, 184– 185, 219; partners, 55, 62, 71, 78– 79; polygamous, 80, 178, 186–187, 190, 203, 219; between prohibited degrees, 78, 164; relations created by, 61–63, 65, 67–68, 150, 166, 213; as rite of passage, 78, 104; and social structure, 78, 86, 93, 207; between strangers, 79, 82; and suicide, 212, 216, 219, 246, 252, 266; uxorilocal, 27, 33 married couple, 19, 26, 74–75, 78, 84 meat, 45–46, 54, 54, 66, 77–78, 99, 100–101, 106, 112, 121, 272n16 melancholia, 178, 231–232, 248 melancholy disposition, 246, 248, 254 memory, 35, 69, 81, 126, 232 methodology, 224, 254 mind: as component of person, 124, 126–127; concept of, 104, 124, 126, 249; trouble, 130, 132, 155


index

Mohave, 224, 231–232 Molbog, 12, 170, 199, 282n2 money, 43, 51, 84, 146, 149, 158, 161– 162, 182, 199, 248 moral values, 29, 123. See also ethics morality, 93, 137, 166, 259–260, 274n31 Moros, 13 mortality, 19, 20–21, 21, 205, 205, 220, 226, 228–229, 267 mourning, 128, 133, 149, 220, 231, 232–233, 255, 257, 260 murder: as cause of mortality, 21; disguised, 148, 166, 191; redirected, 172, 189; and suicide, 202–203, 220, 251, 253, 255, 259; victims, 106, 107; and violence, 87, 137; and war, 137, 236. See also homicide murder-suicide, 155, 257 Muria, 224, 250, 252 music, 2, 47, 97–98, 117 musical instruments, 12, 80, 97 Muslim, 11–15, 17, 42, 82–83, 140 myth, 12, 51, 92, 116–117, 119–120, 126, 232–233, 259 mythical hero, 117, 139, 232 mythology, 51, 118, 119, 121, 233 name: avoidance of, 68, 84; friendship, 68, 135, 282n15; nickname, 68 neighborhood, 21, 23, 25, 77, 80, 215, 270n11 nonviolent: behavior, 35; culture/society, 87, 137, 139, 222, 280n20, 287n3; ethos, 212; people, 12, 137; way of committing suicide, 208, 257 paddy, 39, 45, 53, 56, 58, 85. See also rice pain: cry of, 148; moral, 128, 131, 183, 249; physical, 163, 168, 170, 188, 192, 196–197, 208–209, 221–222, 247, 252, 257, 260; resistance to, 248 Penimusan, 37, 83, 118

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index

personal autonomy, 5, 141, 266 personal names, 67. See also name personality type, 199, 218, 266–267 personhood, 123–127, 135, 139, 141, 257, 266 philopatry, 35, 79 pig, 52, 77, 85, 121 pirates, 117, 120 piratical Ilanen, 118; raids, 13, 119 plants, 16, 37, 38, 53, 59, 92, 97, 99, 101, 103, 113–114, 132, 272n6. See also cultigens poison: cause of mortality, 21, 21, 205, 205; for fishing (tuba), 52–53, 208, 274n30; and food (rastun), 107, 140, 271n15; for hunting (ditaq), 192, 208; used in suicide, 170, 172–173, 179–182, 184, 186, 192–197, 201– 203, 208, 208–209, 216, 219, 221, 245, 249 polite /politeness, 139, 151, 199 political leadership, 29, 34, 88, 137 political power, 29, 75, 77 politics, 72, 75–76, 78 population: isolated, 261–262, 264, 267; Kulbi-Kenipaqan, 5, 7, 17–21, 198, 204–205, 264; mobility of, 29, 34, 214; of Palawan, 11–12, 17, 36, 48, 267, 269n2; structure, 16–19, 17, 18, 19, 215; trends, 18, 20–21. See also demography; settlement prayer, 96, 101, 114, 116 predisposition, 7, 262, 264, 267 price, 14, 45, 54, 57–58, 58, 82–85, 148, 158, 162, 164–165, 174, 183, 287n5 property, 23, 42, 53, 60, 73, 202, 212, 214, 256, 263 psychoanalysis, 231–232, 234, 237, 254–255 psychodynamic process, 130, 165, 199, 218, 220, 227–228, 232, 234, 254 psychological: explanation, 226, 229, 231, 239, 249–250, 258, 263, 266; factors, 226, 234, 264; perspective,


305 7, 142, 148, 226; process, 189, 234, 267; state, 221, 232 psychology: and aggression, 256–257; and causes of suicide, 209, 218; and emotions, 128, 236, 258; ethno, 123, 127, 130, 249; family, 242–243; and melancholy, 142, 154; sociopsychology, 206, 226 psychotic, 228, 232, 240, 241 public hearing, 40, 87, 88, 89, 148, 150, 222. See also bitsara purity, 100–101, 112 quarrel between husband and wife, 78, 88, 90, 146, 153, 167, 169, 170, 172, 186, 190, 195–197, 200–203, 211, 215, 245 Raglai, 278n3 reciprocity, 36, 53–55, 54, 60, 64, 68, 73, 136 redistribution, 53–54, 62, 77–78 reef, 16, 37, 52–53, 62 regional area, 25, 34–35 religion, 2, 12, 91–94, 117, 119. See also ceremony; ritual; shaman; shamanism; spirits religious beliefs, 72, 93, 116, 118–119, 262 reputation, 129, 139, 159 retaliation, 221, 230, 232, 237, 257 revenge, 119, 166, 189, 240 rice: cultivation, 16, 36, 48, 50; as exchange item, 13, 54, 54, 78; field, 16, 24, 28, 33, 43, 48, 50, 86, 166, 273n27; newly harvested, 49, 51, 110–111, 115–116; production, 37, 48, 54, 58, 60, 116; rituals, 113–116; wine, 12, 47, 112. See also agriculture; harvest; irrigation; paddy; swidden ritual: agrarian, 43, 49, 78, 113–116; chanting, 40, 108, 117; cleansing, 110–113; cycle, 104, 116, 118; dancing, 108, 110, 111; death/mourning,

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306 92–93, 105–107, 124, 233, 259; funerary, 93, 259; major, 34, 49, 137–138; offering, 83, 110, 116; specialist, 84, 88, 91–92, 94–95, 99, 101, 108; types of, 94, 111–113. See also ceremony; religion; shaman; shamanism sago, 3, 45, 48, 51, 59 Sama, 277n25 Samoa, 243 Semai, 248, 249, 250, 286n34, 287n11 semantics, 5, 36, 64–65, 70, 100, 103, 113, 120, 129, 132, 137, 255 settlement: center of, 24, 30, 73; leader of, 76; nucleus, 26, 26, 75, 75; population per, 18, 18, 30; and redistribution, 54, 54, 78; stability in time, 74, 76; as structured social unit, 21, 23–24, 26, 32, 73–74, 78, 160; and suicide rates, 214–215, 214, 215; types of, 23, 23; unity of, 49, 74. See also population; village sex: ratio, 18, 21, 82, 217, 251; as a variable in statistics, 18, 21, 199, 200–203, 205–207, 216–217, 217, 230, 234, 238, 248, 251, 254. See also gender sexual jokes, 135, 140. See also joking sexual relations, 79–82, 99, 110, 112, 166, 179–180, 235 shaman, 2, 33, 88, 93, 98, 102, 117– 118, 120, 124–125, 137–138, 144, 159, 188, 194 shamanism, 93–95, 122, 122, 276n7, 278n38 shame, 129–130, 132, 178, 188, 194, 200–203, 209–210, 237, 239–240, 252, 259 sharing, 12, 29, 53, 55, 57, 73, 77–78, 136, 187, 234, 266, 275n12 siblings, 25, 29, 53–54, 54, 63, 66, 70–71, 73–75, 92, 144, 146, 148, 163, 213 sickness. See illness


index

slander, 160, 199–203, 200, 203 social organization, 12, 23, 65, 67, 213, 244 social structure: egalitarian, 13, 259; and kinship, 67, 261, 266; KulbiKenipaqan, 35, 207, 222, 261; of local group, 24–25; Palawan, 207, 267, 274n31, 280n2; stratified, 60, 259; type of, 263, 263 socioecology, 5, 35 songs, 80, 106 sorcery, 124, 235, 259 sorrow, 127–128, 131, 133, 173–174, 183, 201–203, 220 soul, 44, 86, 92, 93, 103–107, 116, 122, 124–125, 144, 193, 262, 277n31, 278n4 spirit, 84, 94, 97, 101–103, 109–110, 117–120, 122, 122, 125–126, 276n7; evil, 86, 104–105, 125, 144; spirit familiar, 98, 104, 125. See also religion spouse, 63, 68, 80, 105, 154, 176, 193, 213, 217–220, 227, 245, 252 statistics, 199, 226–228, 228, 251, 254 status: assignation, 65–66, 68, 70, 72, 74; asymmetry, 64–66, 69–70, 72, 135, 263, 274n31; of elder, 24–26, 76; and kinship, 63–70, 72, 74–75; of leader, 25, 76; male/female, 134, 231, 248; marital, 199, 206, 211– 212; social, 61, 68, 230, 231 stress: and close relations, 211, 242–243, 260; extreme, 218–220, 236; as major factor in suicide motivation, 221, 241, 255, 258, 260, 260; and marriage, 207, 210, 223; nature of, 258, 287n9; as possible/problematic factor in suicide motivation, 231, 243, 248, 250, 257–258, 284n11; situation of, 155, 248, 261; and sociostructural variables, 259, 266 suicidal behavior: accounting for, 123, 141–142, 155, 198, 226, 230–234, 249–250, 255; and emotions, 6,

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307

index

130–131, 172, 177; and genetic factors, 263, 266; and isolated populations, 267; and learning, 264; patterns of, 216, 244; and sociocultural factors, 5, 266; types of, 221, 226 suicidal ideation, 92, 128, 130, 133, 141, 225, 279n11 suicide: anthropological explanation of, 4, 6, 199, 224, 229, 231, 242, 246, 248, 256, 259–260, 287n11; attempted, 147, 171, 184, 186, 188–189, 192, 195, 197, 220, 226; melancholy, 218, 266; multiple, 193, 266; wave, 222, 264–265 suicide rates: per age, 206–207, 206– 207, 231, 238, 243; comparative, 205, 205, 234, 238, 247, 251, 253, 263, 263; and death rates, 7, 21, 225, 266; exceptionally high, 5, 224, 225, 244, 263, 263–264; general, 222, 234, 238, 244, 261–263, 263, 285n23; increase in, 235, 241, 245; reflect social conditions, 5, 226, 254; per settlement, 215, 215; per sex, 206–207, 206–207, 217, 217, 230, 251; and social change, 239, 241, 243; and violence, 138–139; yearly (Kulbi), 204, 204 sun, 40, 55, 105, 106, 110, 113, 115 swidden, 24, 39, 46, 48–51, 58, 113, 116, 134, 152, 215. See also rice symbolic: aspects of daily life, 5, 36; definition of culture, 7, 268; of house, 39–40; of marriage ceremony, 78, 82–83, 85; value of animals, 44, 103; violence, 111, 236 sympathy, 93, 129, 133, 136 Tagalog, 11, 90, 129 Taobuid, 13 Taosug, 11 teenager, 185, 219, 275n13. See also adolescent Terena, 262 thunder, 42, 103, 133


Tikopia, 238–239, 261–263, 263 Tiwi, 232–233 tobacco, 42, 47, 56, 120 Tobi, 279n9, 284n4 trade, 13–15, 15, 29, 42, 53, 55, 74, 98, 114. See also economic exchanges trance, 40, 97–98, 101, 108–109, 117, 122, 124, 127, 276n7 Truk /Trukese, 208, 240–241, 243, 257, 259, 283n1, 283n6 typology, 22, 25, 198, 221, 226, 230, 239 uxorilocality, 24, 66, 85, 281n6 Vaqueiros, 224, 247–248, 259, 261, 263, 263, 283n6 vegetables, 40, 46, 53–54, 54, 56, 58 village, 13, 16, 72, 76, 89, 154, 191, 246, 262. See also settlement violence: and aggression, 6, 138, 142, 235, 244, 251, 255–257, 259–260; external, 90, 139, 236–237; fear of, 87, 137, 160, 166, 186; institutional/ organized, 87, 137, 138, 251, 254, 259, 263, 263, 279n17; potential, 137, 139, 166, 219; and suicide, 172, 191, 198, 201–203, 212, 219, 235, 238, 255, 257, 260, 260. See also aggression; anger; homicide; nonviolent violent: behavior, 35, 145, 172, 246, 251; death, 21, 205, 236–237, 271n16; emotions/feelings, 129, 133, 137, 163, 235, 246 war, 118, 137, 160, 186, 236 warfare, 235–238, 251, 255–257, 259 wealth, 42, 60, 61, 72, 85, 88, 131, 228, 230 wedding, 78, 80, 82–84. See also marriage, ceremony witchcraft, 124, 232, 234 yearly cycle, 16, 49, 116, 274n34

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monographs of the center for southeast asian studies, kyoto university

English-language Series 1. Takashi Sato, Field Crops in Thailand, 1966 2. Tadayo Watabe, Glutinous Rice in Northern Thailand, 1967 3. Kiyoshi Takimoto (ed.), Geology and Mineral Resources in Thailand and Malaya, 1969 4. Keizaburo Kawaguchi and Kazutake Kyuma, Lowland Rice Soils in Thailand, 1969 5. Keizaburo Kawaguchi and Kazutake Kyuma, Lowland Rice Soils in Malaya, 1969 6. Kiyoshige Maeda, Alor Janggus: A Chinese Community in Malaya, 1967 7. Shinichi Ichimura (ed.), The Economic Development of East and Southeast Asia, 1975 8. Masashi Nishihara, The Japanese and Sukarno’s Indonesia, 1976 9. Shinichi Ichimura (ed.), Southeast Asia: Nature, Society and Development, 1977 10. Keizaburo Kawaguchi and Kazutake Kyuma, Paddy Soils in Tropical Asia, 1977 11. Kunio Yoshihara, Japanese Investment in Southeast Asia, 1978 12. Yoneo Ishii (ed.), Thailand: A Rice-Growing Society, 1978 13. Lee-Jay Cho and Kazumasa Kobayashi (eds.), Fertility Transitions of the East Asian Populations, 1979 14. Kuchiba, Tsubouchi and Maeda, Three Malay Villages: A Sociology of Paddy Growers in West Malaysia, 1979 15. Cho, Suharto, McNicoll and Mamas, Population Growth of Indonesia, 1980 16. Yoneo, Ishii, Sangha, State and Society: Thai Buddhism in History, 1986 17. Yoshikazu Takaya, Agricultural Development of a Tropical Delta, 1987 18. Kenji Tsuchiya, Democracy and Leadership: The Rise of the Taman Siswa Movement in Indonesia, 1987 19. Hayao Fukui, Food and Population in a Northeast Thai Village, 1993 20. Isamu Yamada, Tropical Rainforests of Southeast Asia: A Forest Ecologist’s View, 1997


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Japanese-language Series Available from the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, Kyoto, Japan. 1. Joji Tanase, Primitive Form of the Idea of the Other World, 1966 2. Toru Yano, Modern Political History of Thailand and Burma, 1968 3. Takeshi Motooka, Agricultural Development of Southeast Asia, 1968 4. Yoshihiro and Reiko Tsubouchi, Divorce, 1970 5. Shigeru Iijima, Social and Cultural Change of Karens, 1971 6. H. Storz (trans. by H. Nogami), Burma: Land, History and Economy, 1974 7. Shinichi Ichimura (ed.), Southeast Asia: Nature, Society and Economy, 1974 8. Yoneo Ishii, Thailand: A Rice-Growing Society, 1975 9. Yoneo Ishii, Political Sociology of Theravada Buddhism, 1975 10. Shinichi Ichimura (ed.), The Economic Development of East and Southeast Asia, 1975 11. Takeshi Motooka, Rice in Indonesia, 1975 12. Kuchiba, Tsubouchi and Maeda, The Structure and Change of Malayan Villages, 1976 13. Masashi Nishihara (ed.), Political Corruption in Southeast Asia, 1976 14. A. Eckstein (trans. by S. Ichimura et al.), Economic Trends in Communist China, 1979 15. Tadayo Watabe (ed.), The World of Southeast Asia: Verification of Its Images, 1980 16. Koichi Mizuno, Social Organization of Thai Villages, 1980 17. Kenji Tsuchiya, A Study of Indonesian Nationalism: Evolution and Development of Taman Siswa, 1982 18. Yoshikazu Takaya, Agricultural Evolution in the Tropical Delta: The Case of the Menam Chao Phraya Delta, 1982 19. Kazumasa Kobayashi, Population in Southeast Asia, 1984 20. Yoneo Ishii (ed.), The Structure and Change of Southeast Asia, 1986 21. Yumio Sakurai, The Formation of a Vietnamese Village Community with Special Reference to the Historical Development of the Communal Padi-Field or the Cong-Dien, 1987 22. Hayao Fukui, Don Daeng: Agroecology of a Northeast Thai Village, 1988 23. Masuo Kuchiba (ed.), Traditional Structure and Its Change in Don Daeng Village, 1990 24. Isamu Yamada, Tropical Rain Forest World in Southeast Asia, 1991


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About the Author

Charles Macdonald is a social anthropologist specializing in the Philippines and Southeast Asia. He received his PhD from the Sorbonne in Paris and is a senior research fellow at the French National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS), though presently based in Marseilles at the Université de la Méditerranée. His major fieldwork has been in the Philippines (Palawan island), Indonesia, and South Central Vietnam. He has published several books and many articles, most in French, on mythology, social structure, religion and rituals, and kinship. His current research is on personal naming systems in Asia.


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Production Notes for Macdonald, Uncultural Behavior

Cover and interior designed by University of Hawai‘i Press Production Staff Text set in Adobe Garamond with display type in Myriad Book composition by Diane Gleba Hall Printing and binding by Sheridan Books Printed on 60 lb. house white opaque, 500 ppi


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8/10/06 4:01:17 PM

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