Tight Huddles and Hushed Conversations (for Benjamin Alamon on the Occasion of his 66th Bday)

Have I touched your life,
has the wind from the mountain of my soul
rustled through your leaves
like mayas on a ledge
moving like rhythmical mannequins,
have I rested your tired eyes?
After the first torrent
amidst a sky foreboding further ill,
has my chirping chipped the stillness—
Tell me:
Have I given?

- from Clarita Roja’s “The People’s Poem”

I was a wide-eyed “promdi” freshman basking in my first University experiences when I first read this poem. It was printed on a mounted poster and was hung at the University Student Council office at Vinzon’s where I was a student volunteer. During my first year, like the generations before me, I was learning about activism from my peers.

To my mind, activism is the grandest of the University’s traditions. When I first entered the University from Katipunan thirteen years ago, it was perhaps fitting that the first building in campus that I ever saw was Vinzons with the Bonifacio monument gracing its front. Because, I would later on discover, within its hallowed halls walked generations of the country’s brightest youths who answered the call of Bonifacio, the revolutionary. Instead of the official and passive Oblation, it is Bonifacio with his outstretched arms and wielding a bolo that best represents the history of activism against tyranny and injustice waged by generations of the University’s students where it matters most - outside the four-walls of the classroom.

I have since then never left the University, even when the University has practically pushed me away. Neither have I exactly heeded Bonifacio’s challenge of realizing an activism outside the confines of the University. Wasn’t it him who supposedly shouted “Sugod mga kapatid!”? (strange that this revolutionary call is now a dionysian cry for a night of partying rock and roll style, thanks to sandwich - the band). After all, though belatedly realized, the natural logic of activism is to go beyond the academe, away from the technocrats and gigantic academic egos who fuss over their little Diliman republic while the rest of the country continues to teeter on the edge of a social volcano. And the heat of the on-going social turmoil is now felt even in urban areas, relatively far from the countryside where a movement for change being waged by brave young men and women is met by State violence with impunity.

The daily news tally the increasing number of the dead and the missing but these numbers do not tell the real stories of comrades, friends, and family who will never be seen again. Instead, their quiet heroisms are spoken about in tight huddles and hushed conversations by those who were fortunate enough to have witnessed these. Amidst the climate of controlled fear and the put-on hubris of activists convincing themselves that they are probably far from the military’s order of battle, these stories are welcome encouragements for continued militance and hope.

There is the story of a popular figure in the University who has earned for herself a stature that only the respected in the academe attain. One would think that with her intellect and experience, nothing could unsettle her. Being a veteran of earlier struggles, she displayed skepticism about the persistent logic of the revolution that continues to draw in the young for a cause that seemed to her to be old and tired. She was particularly disapproving of her nephews and nieces’ activism, a number of which took on a revolutionary conviction for change. Echoing the thoughts of many who have turned their backs against the movement, she probably thought to herself that this “revolution” wastes the talent and innocence of those who die for it. But it was the violent yet honorable death of her niece that would touch her perhaps in ways that she never expected.

Her niece was a 20 year-old red fighter who was killed in a military raid just a couple of months ago. It was when they retrieved her body from the community where her niece served that she finally understood what was it that kept her from going home, far from her mother and the comforts of a middle class existence. She learned that her niece belonged to a medical unit of the NPA who used alternative medical practices like acupuncture and herbal medicine and administered these to poor farming communities that needed them most. Her death was deeply felt by the community. They carefully brought her bullet-riddled body down from the site of the raid and then had her washed and embalmed. In a gesture that was perhaps meant to erase the indignity of her death, the town folk then collectively pitched in to buy, for their well-loved Blondie – a moniker she earned because of her light brown hair and mestiza features, a decent ukay-ukay dress from the local thriftshop to adorn her gutted body. It was this outpouring of love and respect for Blondie from the community that allowed her Aunt to witness this other face of the “revolution”.

It is indeed tragically poignant that more than a hundred years since our nation was first imagined in the minds of our revolutionary forefathers, here we are, still in a painful bloodletting just to realize that same dream, where the young and the brightest still offer their lives to fulfill the parched aspirations of this “sad republic”. However, it is precisely the certainty of the young across generations about the possibility and necessity for change that provides us with hope. Edel Garcellano intimated this idea in his piece “Bali-balita” on Karen and Sherlyn, the two UP students who remain missing to this day. Reflecting on the courage of these two as they take the less beaten and treacherous path in serving the people, he writes: “Marahil anuman ang mangyayari, inisip nilang baka pagsisihan sa dakong huli ang di pagsunod sa kutob at lohika ng nararapat sa mundo.” Such an observation captures the steeled determination of those who find themselves on the side of change. This conviction is embodied in their selfless offering of life, trusting that their lives and deaths, no matter how short, violent, and gruesome, would correspond to a nimble yet sure step towards attaining our collective aspirations.

Blondie’s death has already made a dent in the worldview of her Aunt. She now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with students and colleagues in the campaigns against political killings on campus and outside, understanding perhaps that her niece was very much a victim of the same State violence that continues to target dreamers like Blondie, Karen, and Sherlyn together with the 744 victims of this present administration. She may even find herself reassessing her own stance towards activists and even revolutionaries. Because, despite what those who have turned their backs against the revolution say because of its mistakes, this enduring revolution still beats with the hearts of the young and the righteous. Just like them at some point in their lives, they continue to be convinced that there is no other way. And they are correct; there is no other way. Blondie’s death and the UP students’ continuing disappearance are an affirmation of this political truth.

And so I am reminded of this poem by Clarita Roja whenever I hear stories like these in our tight huddles and hushed conversations, whenever I come across people with the boundless love of those who side with change, whenever I hear about how a life no matter how short yet so well-spent is capable of putting fire in the hearts of legions. Among the many ills that plague this nation, let us count ourselves fortunate for there are still those like Blondie, Karen and Sherlyn, who, in my mind, after giving their everything for the future of this nation, still ask the question: “Tell me, have I given?”