Meeting a Master Storyteller : Philippine Historian Ambeth Ocampo

I am incredibly grateful for the unforgettable experience of meeting Professor Ambeth Ocampo! As a longtime admirer of his works on Philippine history and  of his writings, I was beyond thrilled to finally see him in person. For those who may not be familiar, Ocampo is a renowned Filipino historian, writer, and columnist, best known for his engaging and accessible approach to Philippine history. His books and essays, particularly on figures like José Rizal, have inspired many—including myself—to appreciate our nation’s past in a more personal and meaningful way.

He gave two fascinating lectures during his visit, organized by the Philippine Embassy in Vienna and Island Tides Initiative, an interdisciplinary Philippine Research Program at the Department of Artistic Strategies in Vienna’s University of Applied Arts. The first, titled “The Philippines, Maps, and the Emergence of the Nation,” was held on March 27 at the University of Vienna shedding light on the role of cartography in shaping national identity.

 

“The Philippines is a young nation with an old history,” Ocampo began—setting the stage for a deeper exploration of how the archipelago, with its fragmented geography, gradually came to be imagined as a single political and cultural entity. Through a historical lens, he traced how the idea of the Philippines evolved, not just through political movements or revolutions, but through something as seemingly mundane yet powerful as maps.

Starting in the 16th century, when early Spanish explorers first began charting the islands, maps became a way of defining and visualizing what we now know as the Philippine nation. These maps were not merely geographic tools; they were political instruments. They reflected how foreign powers viewed and claimed the islands, and over time, how Filipinos began to see themselves as part of one collective space.

Professor Ocampo examined various historical maps that revealed shifts in boundaries, names, and even omissions—highlighting how these changes mirrored broader colonial, political, and cultural transformations. The act of mapping, he emphasized, was also an act of imagining the nation. One featured was the 1734 Murillo Velarde Map, often referred to as the “Mother of all Philippine maps,” is the earliest and most important scientific map of the Philippines. It was created by Jesuit priest Pedro Murillo Velarde, along with engraver Francisco Suárez and artist Nicolás de la Cruz Bagay. Published in Manila in 1734, it represents a major milestone in Philippine cartography and history.

Professor Ocampo remarked, “School taught me that the Philippines was an archipelago of islands separated by water, but… they should be a group of islands connected by water.”

This simple yet profound statement challenges how we have traditionally been taught to perceive our geography—and, by extension, our identity as a nation.

In classrooms, maps often emphasize separation. The Philippines is shown as over 7,000 islands scattered across the sea, reinforcing the idea of division—by region, by dialect, by geography. This framing subtly influences how Filipinos might see themselves: fragmented, distant from one another, bound by provincialism and difference.

But Ocampo invites us to flip that perspective. Instead of viewing water as something that divides, we can see it as something that connects—a medium through which people, ideas, goods, and culture have always flowed. For centuries, our ancestors traveled these waters by boat, creating trade routes, kinship networks, and shared traditions long before colonizers drew boundaries on maps. The sea, far from being a barrier, was a bridge.

Reframing our geography this way has deep implications. It encourages national unity over regionalism, shared identity over fragmentation. It also reflects a more indigenous and maritime understanding of our space—one in which the waters are not obstacles, but lifelines.

Ocampo’s insight is not just geographic—it is political and philosophical. It’s a call to rethink how we tell our own story: not as isolated islands trying to connect, but as a naturally linked people rediscovering the ties that have always bound us together.

Ultimately, the lecture offered more than a history of cartography—it provided insight into the Philippines’ complex journey toward self-definition. By understanding how our land was drawn, named, and framed on paper, we also understand how our identity as a people was shaped.

When Professor Ocampo said, “The magic of history lies in its connections,” he captured one of the most profound truths about studying the past: history is not a disconnected series of dates, names, and events—it is a living web of relationships, patterns, and cause-and-effect that stretches across time and space.

This “magic” lies in the way a single artifact, place, or historical figure can link us to broader global currents, hidden narratives, or even our present-day realities. A map from the 16th century, for example, is not just a drawing of islands—it’s a snapshot of colonial ambition, evolving identity, and the early imagining of a nation.

I had the opportunity to ask him a question about the depiction of “Borne” on the 1734 Murillo Velarde Map, which led to a brief but memorable exchange.

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The second lecture, “Rizal: The Hero as Traveller,” took place on March 28 at the University of Applied Arts, offering fresh insights into José Rizal’s life and journeys that shaped his identity and nationalism. It is not a secret that Rizal came to Vienna during his Europe travels, and Sir Ambeth went to see the commemorative plaque that the city of Vienna installed at the building where the hotel Rizal stayed at used to stand. He even mentioned trying Pho from the neighboring restaurant and said, he was thankful that at least it’s not a lingerie shop like in another city. (See the plaque and other details of Rizal’s visit in Vienna here.)

This lecture offered fresh and deeply engaging insights into José Rizal’s life as a global thinker, cultural observer, and reform-minded nationalist, emphasizing how his extensive travels across Europe and Asia profoundly shaped his identity, worldview, and ultimately, his mission for the Philippines.

More than just a wandering intellectual, Rizal was a purposeful traveler. His journeys through Spain, France, Germany, Austria, and other parts of Europe were not for leisure, but for learning. He immersed himself in diverse environments—studying medicine in Madrid and Paris, exploring museums and libraries in Berlin, conversing with reformists, scientists, and artists—and absorbed the philosophies and systems of progressive societies.

These travels opened Rizal’s eyes to how nations could be built through education, civic responsibility, and cultural pride. He saw firsthand the importance of public health systems, organized cities, access to knowledge, and most importantly, the power of national consciousness. Rizal did not just admire these from afar—he took notes, asked questions, and envisioned how such ideals could be adapted back home.

When he was later exiled to Dapitan (or tamed, if you prefer) from 1892 to 1896, Rizal did not merely reflect on these lessons—he implemented them. Dapitan became his ground for reform. He opened a school where he taught boys in the spirit of liberal European education, covering practical and humanistic subjects. He applied modern scientific farming techniques, constructed a water system to improve public health, and served as the town’s doctor using the medical knowledge he had gained abroad.

In Dapitan, Rizal embodied the fusion of thought and action. He proved that the ideals he encountered in Europe were not abstract concepts but applicable tools for community upliftment. Through his travels, he had become not just a student of nations, but a builder of one. If your school campus has an acacia or any large, shady tree that offers a cool spot to rest or serves as your base during games like “sekyu/sikyo,” you have Dr. José Rizal to thank. During his exile in Dapitan, Rizal planted an acacia tree at the town plaza, and more meaningfully, a native Baluno tree within the grounds of his school—a tree that still stands today, a living symbol of his lasting impact on education, nature, and community life.

During the lecture, Professor Ocampo brought his wit and humor to the discussion, often poking fun at the more human and lesser-known sides of José Rizal bringing us to laughter so often. In contrast to the usual reverence with which the national hero is portrayed, Ocampo showed how Rizal—like anyone—had his moments of awkwardness and imperfection.

He shared images of statues of Rizal, many of which were unintentionally unflattering—some with disproportioned features, others with expressions far from heroic. These humorous depictions sparked laughter from the audience, reminding everyone that even our greatest heroes aren’t immune to the occasional sculpting mishap.

Ocampo also showed rare photos of Rizal, where he appeared less composed, even playful—offering a refreshing break from the typical serious, stoic image found in textbooks and monuments. These glimpses into a more relaxed, human Rizal allowed the audience to connect with him more personally.

To cap off the light-hearted segment, Ocampo presented AI-generated images of Rizal with modernized looks, including one with a K-pop-inspired hairstyle, drawing chuckles and amazement. It was a clever way to bridge history with the present, showing how Rizal’s image can evolve and be reimagined while still honoring his legacy.

Another fascinating point raised during Ocampo’s lecture was the enduring influence of José Rizal in Philippine culture—not just in history books or monuments, but in everyday branding and public life. Ocampo humorously yet thoughtfully illustrated how Rizal’s name has become so embedded in the national consciousness that it now appears in the most unexpected and ordinary places.

He pointed out how Rizal’s name is everywhere: streets, towns, provinces, parks, schools, banks, hospitals, shopping centers, and even local eateries. From “Rizal Avenue” in major cities to Rizal High School, Rizal Park, Rizal Memorial Stadium, and the entire province of Rizal, the national hero’s name has become a kind of national brand—recognizable across generations and regions.

Ocampo added a touch of humor by showcasing examples of businesses and products named after Rizal, including Rizal matches, Rizal cigarettes, Rizal cerveza/beer, and even Rizal cement—making the audience laugh while also reflecting on how deeply ingrained his legacy is in both formal institutions and casual, everyday spaces.

But behind the light-hearted tone was a serious observation: Rizal’s name carries symbolic weight. People use it because it signifies trust, honor, and patriotism—even if the product or service has nothing to do with the man himself. It speaks to how Rizal has transcended history and become a cultural icon, not just remembered, but commercialized, localized, and reimagined over time.

In presenting this, Ocampo cleverly emphasized that Rizal is not just frozen in the past—he is still part of the present, woven into the identity and branding of the country in ways both reverent and amusing.

Finally, he laid to rest two rumors – one, that Rizal is Hitler’s father. Citing historical facts and proofs, Ocampo simply stated Rizal was in London in May 1888 to March 1889, he was not in Vienna at the time the latter was conceived (Rizal stayed in Vienna on May 20-25, 1887, Hitler was born on April 20 1889 so conception date falls closely on July 14,1888 🥴) – he was in the British Library. This led to the second rumor, that he is Jack the Ripper! ^_^ Fake news is indeed as old as history.

This lecture reminds us that Rizal’s greatness lay not only in his writings or martyrdom, but in his relentless pursuit of knowledge and his willingness to transform what he had learned into meaningful, tangible change. His story as a traveler is not about distance covered, but about insight gained—and the courage to act upon it. Most importantly, his being human and having fun here and there.

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What made the experience  special was that Sir Ambeth took the time to chat with us after the lectures. To my immense delight, he gave me a copy of one of his brilliant books—and even personally signed it! Holding that book, with his autograph inside, felt surreal—like holding a small but tangible piece of history in my hands.

To my immense delight, he gave me a copy of one of his brilliant books—and even personally signed it! Holding that book, with his autograph inside, felt surreal—like holding a small but tangible piece of history in my hands.

Meeting Sir Ambeth R. Ocampo was truly a dream come true and an inspiring reminder of the power of storytelling in keeping history alive.

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