A German translation of this interview is available here.
You translate authors like Rilke, Kafka, Borges, and Wilde into Bikol and Filipino. What draws you personally to translating these classic Western voices into a Philippine language?
The divide between Western and the rest of the world seems to be a problematic way of seeing the order of things. I’d like to explain my point particularly that you refer Rilke, Kafka, Wilde and Borges as classic Western voices. Are there Eastern voices? Am I an Eastern writer? Is this East-West terminology similar to the ‘Global North’, ‘Global South’ discourse that we hear nowadays? We can go on and on about this kind of splitting the world into a binary.
But let me digress: This kind of division I first learned in a history class when a papal bull was issued by Alexander VI in 1493 which in similar fashion rendered the world into two sides: that which belongs to Portugal and that which belongs to Spain. In our class, I remember how our teacher tried to explain that this bull, which appears like a divine mandate, marked the fate of the Philippines to rightfully belong to Spain. Did we become part of the West with the bull? Or will it take another colonizer, another empire to mis-educate us, their little brown brothers, with the American way of life to finally turn us into Westerners of the East?
So when you read or translate literature, such distinctions don’t really matter?
I am raising these questions because most of the time many of us fall into this simplistic categorization that we fail to see the intricacies of relations in our histories, in our languages, in our translation practices –be that as it may, let me answer the question of what drew me to these writers. I must first consider that what I read from these three writers except for Wilde – were all English translations from the original German and the Spanish. So you see, despite three centuries of Spanish rule, the current generation of Filipinos no longer affiliate with Spanish.
The case is different with English. Was it the translations of Rilke and Kafka into English that drew me to them—and made me imagine how these words and worlds might affect the languages of my birth and imagination, Filipino and Bikol? I’d like to believe that yes, this could be the reason.. It was the English translations of Rilke that made me feel as if my heart beat in unison with the texts, particularly his Book of the Hours that appealed to me like new psalms. To quote Rilke, I circle around God, around the primordial tower. I’ve been circling for thousands of years and I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song? And having been schooled in a Catholic seminary, the poems of Rilke came to bea gentle voice of dissidence. A new De Profundis that comes out from the depths of one’s sense of being lost, which resonated with me tremendously.
Could you elaborate on the ways Rilke has influenced you at various stages of your life?
Looking back, I can say that these writers and my work of translating their works reflect certain moments in my life when I needed a kind of literary guide that would help me navigate my personal circumstances – a Virgil to my Dante. Rilke was with me when I finally decided to abandon the idea of becoming a priest. Kafka helped me go through the difficulties of the bureaucratic life in academia (which I continue to detest up to now) while Borges and Wilde are special commissioned projects that have helped me see how the work of translation ensures that literature will continue to be vital and life-giving.
Literature – whether classified as Western or Eastern, or from the North or South – has always been a kind of mirror and map for me. I also recognize how English, as a colonial language, has become my way of accessing works in translation. I only wish that, through our translation projects, the next generation of Filipino readers will have the opportunity to read these authors in our local languages. And from there proceed to chart their own paths.
What motivated you to learn German and engage with German culture in the first place?
I do not think I have the voice or enough brain cells to study the German language. Although my ears would immediately recognize its sounds, I deeply treasure the friendships and memories I share with a small circle of German friends, in particular Robin Brehm and Sebastian Burger, who as young students came to Bikol for an exchange program. I have known them since 2009, and they have been very supportive of our creative pursuits through the bookshop Savage Mind. In Frankfurt, I would stay at Sebastian’s place, and it always feels very much like home. Robin, on the other hand, helped us translate the Filipino children’s song Bahay Kubo into German. I hope that in time I will muster enough energy to return to Rilke and perhaps also Hesse, and bring their works into Bikol.
How does a text like Rilke’s poetry or Kafka’s prose change when rendered into Bikol – not only linguistically, but culturally?
I translated the works of Rilke and Kafka into a language which we call Bikol-Naga, the language of the ecclesiastical centre of the region. Yet, aside from this lingua franca, other languages and dialects exist in a region composed of five million people, politically divided into six provinces. Bikol-Naga is in my opinion a language engineered by the Catholic church, which remains the major stakeholder of this linguistic tradition that is also used to refer to our regional identity. Having said this, Rilke’s poetry, as I mentioned, feels like new psalms to me, often in dialogue or argument with an imagined higher being called God. In translating Rilke, it was as if I had seen Bikol in a new light, revealing an immense possibility of spiritual imagination. I think this is how I can best contribute to the ongoing language-building and meaning-making among the Bikol people.
Translation allows us to experience the graces that our languages can hold. It turns our languages into vessels, and I am particularly attracted to this image of a cup and this idea of a cusp. In Kafka, I explored this further by employing another Bikol language in my translation of The Metamorphosis. When Samsa starts talking in what is described to be a gibberish language, I chose to let him speak in Rinconada, a highly oral language still spoken in my home city. For me, this represents the kind of metamorphosis in our languages that I always dreamed of. I particularly enjoyed employing two Bikol languages in my Kafka translation, considering that there there is no previous instance in our history of such an attempt.
How do you experience Bikol as a regional language – in your literary practice, as well as culturally and historically – and what role does translation play in this?
When I first started writing poetry and fiction in Bikol, the sense that this was a dying language pervaded the air. English and Filipino languages were seen as the culprits of this impending death of Bikol. This was further aggravated by the fact that the structures of powers and businesses continue to conduct their operations in English and Filipino, which many consider a con-language of the Tagalogs. Bikol, while used in church literature and by most radio stations, is not the language of law or high commerce. It is popular, but it is not the language of the academe. And when you are a young writer, and the scent of death clings to a language you have just discovered, you muster all your energies and concentrate on your efforts to bring it to new life – or at least to sustain its breathing.
This morbid outlook on Bikol initially shaped my orientation towards the kind of work I do. Our language is our memento mori. Later, however, I came to realize that the death of a language is not only determined by external factors. I have also seen how a language can truly die, not because of a lack of speakers and publications and readers, but because its people – its artists and writers – refuse to turn it into a shared vessel. Some of them see themselves as vanguards, keeping the language pure but disengaged, and I do not subscribe to this way of thinking. Regionalism can be detrimental to one’s language and can hasten its death if it continues to cling to the line of exoticism and parochialism. This is where translation comes into the picture. Translation allows languages to be conduits of hospitality and hybridity. In that sense, it becomes the bloodline of any language, of any literature. It renders the future of a languages a giving present.
You are currently working on Bikol translations of José Rizal’s novels. How do you approach this national legacy?
The Rizal project will have to wait, as I have been reading new historical studies related to the novels. I’d like to particularly investigate the role of the three women characters – Maria Clara, Sisa and Salome – as the fulcra of the first novel. But certainly, this is a project I am committed to, as I am eager to show, through these translations, the evolving visual and sound structures of the Bikol language. The first Bikol translation of José Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere is said to have appeared in 1921. The work is attributed to Jose Figueroa. Except for bibliographical references about this first translation, I have not yet seen a copy. What we do have is the 1961 translation of the two novels, which I constantly re-read in light of my own novelistic aspirations. I must admit that I am not concerned with its national legacy; instead I’d like to channel the Rizalian imagination into my own creative projects – by re-reading previous Bikol texts, filling in gaps and pauses, and from there conduct my own writings-in-progress on their own odyssey.
How do you navigate the tension between fidelity to the original and creative freedom in literary translation, in relation to your own writing?
I think of translation as the best way to read a literary text. When you reada poem or any other work, you allow it it to enter your life, to enter your system. You react to it. You are no longer the same person after each book you read. This has been my experience with translation: It is a heightened form of reading, and I would like to keep it that way. While fidelity and freedom are constant issues in the practice of translation, I think of it as a form of reading that allows me to forge new ways of interpretation, sometimes even betraying the texts or the author’s intentions. But since I am also writing my ‘own’ poetry and fictions and essays, I occupy an authorial position that allows me to be interpreted and, to some extent betrayed, by my translators. But I do not burden myself with this issue of betrayal anymore, I am not writing a sacred text, so I am open to all possible readings in as much as I also open myself every time, I find myself playing the role of that of a translator.
What role does translation play in the Philippine literary landscape, especially in the context of the country’s linguistic diversity?
The Philippines wakes up to more than a hundred languages spoken across the whole archipelago, and switching from one language to another is a common reality. Despite this linguistic diversity, we still must strengthen these languages by producing more literary works in the local languages and by fostering more cross-regional collaborations. In a population of 120 million, the typical print run for a literary title remains at 500‑1000 copies, and this seems to be accepted as normal. This should not be the case. We need to create new communities and affinities to really elevate the practice of translation and publishing to a new level.
At the Ateneo de Naga University Press, where I serve as the university press director, we have expanded our reach by publishing not only titles in and on Bikol but even works from other regions, particularly in the Visayas. We would like to set an example that it is possible for a regional press to broaden its scope by publishing titles from other regions. While we translate literary works from other parts of the world into our local languages, we must ensure that internal interaction among regions is encouraged and supported. A translation studies program should be established alongside other area studies specialization, which are already well-developed in the Philippines. For instance, there is the Cordillera Studies Centre in the University of the Philippines in Baguio, the Kapampangan Studies Centre of the Holy Angel University, the Cebuano Studies Centre of the University of San Carlos. But what is still lacking, however, is meaningful collaboration between these centres.
How do your other projects, such as your initial ventures into filmmaking and the founding of the bookstore Savage Mind, influence your identity as a translator and artist?
Truth be told, I wanted to become an astronaut or some kind of scientist guy, but that opportunity was never offered to me. I keep this childhood dream alive by becoming, among other things, a writer and an occasional filmmaker and translator. Within these creative practices, I am happy to note that I constantly return to this little child who wanted to be an astronaut in my attempts to live a creative life. I may not have the spaceships, but the languages I work with are moving vehicles, generous enough to give me free rides.
It warms my heart that we now have films in the Bikol language. For me, this is something of a discovery and a special kind of alchemy that brings kinesis to our languages. Cinema is visual, aural, and popular, and one can only imagine how the images and sounds in Bikol are conjured and refracted on the screen. This is the same high I get every time I commence writing in our local languages. And with this kind of grace, we envisioned Savage Mind not just a bookshop but a space that promotes rhapsodies of ideas and imagination – allowing our languages to reach new thresholds of meaning through translation, publishing, and filmmaking. Establishing Savage Mind is part of the path I have charted to continue witnessing the workings of memory and imagination.
In Western publishing and on international festivals, only certain voices from the Global South tend to be heard. Do you feel that Philippine literature is often reduced to stereotypical themes?
The upcoming book fair in Frankfurt is one way to at least begin overcoming all these stereotypes, and to create a new sense of discovering the Filipino people, as reflected in our writings, that are borne out of our struggles and our deepest sense of hope. While we will continue to be typecast as caregivers, as nurses and seafarers, and entertainers, we are hopeful that with this stage we can listen to other stories that truly humanize us. In a film that I watched together with some of my colleagues in Stellenbosch, an old woman watches through her windows how the Israeli military continues to bomb her homeland. Meanwhile, her caregiver is singing Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”. I commented that the caregiver could only be a Filipina and told my colleagues that she had probably left a war-torn village in the Philippines. But what she sings, to me, is indicative of hope. We need to listen to Filipino stories, not only those about our bounties and bottomless laughter, but also those that we tend to push aside or ignore.
Are there topics or voices you feel are still severely underrepresented in translation – whether between Philippine languages or on the global stage?
There are many more stories and ways of living that we need to learn from our indigenous communities. For the longest time, they have existed on the peripheries, and their presence is a spectre that continues to elude us. In the latest film we made, Mga Nakabuhing Agi-Agi (Found Objects, Freed Stories), we worked closely with the Agta, an indigenous community in the Rinconada area and I must say that I have learned so many things from these people, who have long beenmaligned and marginalized. I hope to continue working with them and learning from them, and I believe we need to hear more of their narratives.
Many writers from the Global South need to be recognized abroad before they are taken seriously at home. How do you view this imbalance – and what needs to change in the global literary system to address it?
I’d like to frame my answer through the allegory of the cave – one frees himself, discovers the truth of light, and returns to the cave to announce it to his fellows, only to be killed by the same people who adore and believe in shadows rather than the newly discovered light. This allegory could well resonate with the experience of many writers and artists who may feel underappreciated and undervalued in their own places. But I do not want to dwell on this kind of tragic story. Nor do I wish to comment on the global literary system, which in many aspects remains a capitalist endeavour. Instead, I’d like to see how the small and caring and creative communities that we are building in the Philippines – like Savage Mind – continue to make significant efforts, developing insights and practices that will help us create a new ecology both for our artistic work and for life itself.
At an international stage like the Frankfurt Book Fair: What hopes or expectations do you associate with giving visibility to literature in Bikol or Filipino?
I’d like to pin my faith on hope rather than on expectations. Hope, as Dickinson would say it, is a thing with feathers. It flies; it moves. And certainly, our being the guest of honor in Frankfurt is a special kind of movement, a kind of energy that I hope will not only give us visibility, but also ensure continuing presence. The Philippines is a young nation with noble aspirations, which make us a community of good people. We continue to sing our poetry despite the many storms in our lives, both natural and political. I hope that even when we are no longer the guest of honour, the memory of us remains, as we bring to the world’s attention the creative imagination that is Filipino, an imagination that peoples the air, we feel this presence, like the air that we breathe. A presence felt and celebrated, a presence sustained and generously shared.
KRISTIAN SENDON CORDERO is a poet, fictionist, essayist, translator, and independent filmmaker. He has written five poetry collections in the Philippine languages Bikol and Rinconada, the last two of which were awarded the National Book Award for Poetry in Filipino and Bikol in 2014. As a translator, he rendered selected poems by Rainer Maria Rilke (Minatubod Ako Sa Diklom), Franz Kafka’s Die Verwandlung (An Pakagimata ni Gregor Samsa in Bikol and An Mapara Sa Kinaban/Ang Maglaho Sa Mundo), as well as selected poems by Jorge Luis Borges into Bikol and Filipino, as part of a translation grant from the Programa Sur of the Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores y Culto of the Republic of Argentina. In 2022, he was named one of the “Ten Outstanding Young Men of the Philippines for Arts and Letters.” He is co-chair of the translation committee for the Philippine Guest of Honor at the Frankfurt Book Fair 2025 and director of the Ateneo de Naga University Press.