The Anting-Anting of Folly and Faith

by Roger B. Rueda

Hope is the only thing stronger than fear. But if you are going to hope, hope wisely. Because hope that is blind, like the misguided faith of men who wore their anting-anting into battle, is nothing more than a polished lie wrapped around the neck like a noose. And as history tells us, no matter how many magical pendants you wear, bullets are not polite enough to turn away.

This is the folly of the anting-anting, a myth that survived the massacre of its believers. The Filipino-American War saw its desperate warriors clutching these talismans, convinced of their divine protection, and yet their bodies fell in droves, riddled with bullets that cared nothing for superstitions. Their faith bled out with them, their amulets reduced to ornaments of the dead.

And yet, Wong Su Ann's poem, Anting-Anting, reminds us that faith—no matter how tragically misplaced—has never needed logic to exist. The poet speaks of a maid who asks, "Were these people wrong to hope?" A question so simple, yet it cleaves through the mind like a bolo through tall grass. It is the same question that has kept humanity staggering forward despite every war, every betrayal, and every heartbreak.

But hope is a treacherous thing. It does not discriminate between those who wield it wisely and those who are deceived by its glittering promises. It is the same hope that makes lovers believe in forever, even when their history is already buried under dust and forgotten letters. In the poem, a necklace—once a symbol of romance—is found hidden beneath photographs and love notes, relics of an affection that once felt invincible. Like the amulet, it was once worn with certainty, kissed into permanence by a lover's devotion. And yet, where is that promise now? Where is the protection, the permanence, the magic?

Herein lies the brutal truth: Neither love nor war will wait for our foolishness. Faith without reason is suicide, and sentimentality without pragmatism is the quickest path to heartbreak. The soldiers who marched into gunfire believing in their anting-anting? They are no different from the dreamers who think a necklace will keep love from fading. In both cases, misplaced hope led to the same conclusion—defeat.

Wong Su Ann does not tell us if the maid's question is answered. Perhaps because the answer is already evident: No, they were not wrong to hope. But they were wrong to mistake faith for armor, and sentiment for certainty. History punishes such errors with blood and regret.

So wear your anting-anting if you must. Keep your old love letters if you wish. But never mistake their presence for protection. Because in the end, war will claim its casualties, and love—like all fragile things—will crumble under the weight of reality. And no amulet, no promise, no hope will ever be enough to stop that.