The legend of the Yamashita Treasure is one of the tales often recounted with eager eyes among Filipinos. During the war, the Japanese were said to have looted museums, commercial buildings, private homes, and places of worship around South East Asia, in search for valuables to help them fund their war. The collection they amassed is what people now call the Yamashita Treasure.
By the end of the war, most of the treasures left in the Philippines were hidden in caves, underground complexes, and buried in the countryside. Even Imelda Marcos, Ferdinand Marcos’ widow, claimed that most of their wealth came from the Yamashita Treasure. The legendary loot has eluded treasure hunters all over the world for over 50 years. There is no concrete evidence if it’s even real or not or if the American liberators conspired with the remaining Japanese war criminals to extract and hide some of the treasures. What’s left are stories and accounts from people passed on from generation to generation. This is one of those stories.
When I was small, my mom told us a story about her cousin’s husband witnessing how the Japanese buried two barrel-full of treasures. This story was passed on to her by her cousin—the wife of the man who spent his entire life finding this treasure.
He could hear the rustling of the grass. He was lying face down trying not to be seen by a group of armed Japanese military passing by. They had their rifles up against a group of Filipinos transporting two large barrels full of countless pieces of jewelry, diamonds as huge as fists, and gold bars. Among them was a crown of a Virgin Mary statue. He tried to control his breathing. Trying to calm his nerves. His back getting baked under the heat of the sun. Enduring the call of his empty stomach. Getting seen would mean imminent death—or worse, days and days of torture. By this time, the Japanese have grown weary and desperate; the war in the Pacific was nearing its end. The year was 1944, and no one was safe against the Japanese. Not even him, who was no longer a boy. He could already be considered a man capable of being part of a guerrilla group fighting the Japanese colonizers.
He couldn’t move. He just stayed still in his hiding place—watching. Watched as they ordered their captives to start digging a large hole. Watched as they shot their prisoners dead when the hole became deep enough to reach past their heads. After that, the Japanese poured cement into the hole, concealing the corpses and the barrels. Waited for it to harden and further hid it with dirt to cover their secrets.
It was getting dark before the Japanese army left. A mix of fear and excitement got into him. Not minding his hunger and thirst, he decided to mark it by re-planting a Nara tree.
A few years flew by, he got married to my Aunt. Starting his own family, he dreamed of a better life for them. That’s when he decided that it’s time to start digging. He cut down the Nara tree and started digging at night to avoid suspicion. The marked location is under his property but he wanted to be more cautious, not wanting to catch attention from his neighbors. It will take him until dawn shoveling but still no sight of the buried treasure. He would dig around the surrounding mark to no avail. It became his obsession. He knew the loot is there. Probably, moved in different directions throughout the years. Perhaps it's gotten much deeper from the weight of the stone that encased it. But nothing can prevent him from digging most nights desperately looking for it. It would take years before he would finally see the cemented part of the buried treasure. All the back-breaking work has paid off. He finds relief that ultimately, he got it. By daylight, he’ll cover it slightly with dirt to conceal it from prying eyes. When he gets back to it at night, the cemented treasure is gone.
It was maddening, knowing that it was there this morning. Was the soil too soft for it to be swallowed again? Is an unknown force moves it in a different part of his property? He couldn’t pass the chance anymore, he was so close to getting his hands on it. So he would keep digging again and again until it surfaces. He’d try breaking through the cement with a pick-ax, but it was too hard for him to even scrape it. He’d keep hammering all night trying to break even a considerable part of the cement. All his efforts are futile. Every time he finds the cemented treasure, he would get blisters on his feet. Gaping wounds and rashes would appear and his feet would smell of rotten flesh. It would get worst every time. His physical body suffered immensely from countless hours of digging and hammering trying to break through. Eventually, he is forced to enlist all his kids to help him out with the search. Digging and shoveling until they see it and by the next day, it will be gone. This cycle kept going as if the corpses buried with treasure were playing with them. As if, they are the rightful owner or guardian of the loot. Taunting them on each move. His health worsens over time. The hole keeps getting deeper and wider. After 30 long years, death took him and his dream of getting his hands on those treasures–gone. His kids who had been dragged to all this madness decided to give up on the search.
Few years after his death, my Aunt finally opened up to everyone in the family about the buried treasure, it peaked everyone’s interest. My mom’s older brothers and sisters would help with the dig. They’d fund pieces of equipment and manpower for the search. They’d obsessed over the stories and the thought of dozens of diamonds and gold bars as their future possessions. They poured all their savings for the chance of unearthing the buried treasures. They’d recoup a hundredfold if they succeed. Doesn’t matter if they sacrifice everything–their time and money for the promise of getting the entire family rich beyond their imagination. Unfortunately, they too were defeated by the elusive treasure. Up until now, the land where it’s buried lay dormant. No one has attempted to search for it again. The property where it was buried will never be sold. It will be passed on to generations of our family.
I wonder if the next generation would be keen enough to start the hunt again. I wonder if the stories are even true. No one alive knows if it’s real. My Aunt died a long time ago. Only the stories are left to keep it alive.
This is Stories from the Barrio. Hi, I am Nate. Thank you for listening.