Letter of a Wife to Her Husband

 

MY DEAREST COMRADE,

It is 3:45 a.m. and it is raining again.  It must be raining all over now; in the city streets outside these prison walls, forming a heavy curtain in the highway, over plains of rice paddy, over valleys and hills and mountains forests.  I am reminded of trudging in the rain with comrades at other times, other place. With you.

I received your letter dated almost two months ago.  Communications are so slow.  But at least I received it, and thank you so much.  It was good and bracing for me to be so vividly reminded of the work outside.

You gave few details about the comrades—how are they? Until now sometimes I wake up in the morning a litter startled I am in prison when just a few minutes ago I am with Squad Tree, and we are just taking leave of Nay Lucing and Tay Pedring and most everybody else in Barrio Jacinto. I am adjusting my pack and Nay Andring comes hurrying, slips sweet potatoes, still hot, inside my pocket with and urgent whisper, “Take care!” Ka Bino calls out, “Team B, get ready!” And there goes Ka Ompong and I fall in right behind him.

And we walk on the late afternoon sun to Barrio Domingo.  And I wake up to four prison walls.

“…I love you,” you write in your usual terse writing.  “I will wait for you until you are free. I cannot help you now.”  It goes round and round my mind the whole day.  I miss you and need you more than ever, and you cannot help me.  I have to admit it is when I think of you that I am reminded most painfully that I am in prison.  Prison is the sensation of being helpless, of falling prey to uncertainties.  And the uncertainty of ever seeing you again is one of my prison bars.

To break may prison bars is to “pluck up one’s courage and see the bright future ahead.”  From what do I pluck up to revolutionary optimism?  From the boundless enthusiasm of our Red fighters to learn new things, the openness and frank affection of the masses for us, their hatred for this system.  I have trust in you, that you have learned well and wisely from our experiences.  I learn from your calmness and decisiveness, my comrade, the active way you get the better of any situation.

Yes, there are no absolute sureties, we are still learning, there will be accidents—yet this is all the preparation for the future that we can do.  It is presumptions to ask for absolutes, even if I think I am asking for only one small absolute, and that is to see you alive when I am free! Thus my lesson in materialism here in prison.

“There is only one way now I can make my love for you felt, and that is to persevere in developing our forces, to persevere in the cause which united us in the first place.” And yes, how strong I feel when I am reminded of the fact that you are outside in the field gathering up strength into one gigantic force that will one day topple this arrogant enemy.  How boldly proud, now utterly defiant I feel!

And when we have our child.  He is beginning to make sounds with his tongue, learning to recognize dogs and birds, clucking his tongue in anticipation at cereal-feeding time.  He is such a great comfort.  Because of him, the future is something much more solid to work for: “We are planting the tree so our children can enjoy the shade.”

But I cannot help feeling sometimes that he is also a temptation to “lie-low” because I’m beginning to feel I want to watch him grow. A temptation to be less daring in making revolutionary demands of myself.  Those of us who are mothers (here in prison) often discuss this, unburdening ourselves to each other.

Before, there was this common guild that our children won’t have “normal” upbringing, deprived of the continuous guidance of mothers and fathers.  You can just imagine how painfully Auntie Letty paints this in my mind, accusing me of being “irresponsible.”

But I am sure of at least one thing: Only a revolution guided by conscious elements can fundamentally change this oppressive system. This is our highest responsibility, to make a revolution, and all other responsibilities are subordinate.

Do I put it too clearly?  But it is an everyday, ceaseless struggle in each of us, may be more so to us mothers.

Tell me, did you have just the hint of a feat that I might change, forget the revolution, when I get our of prison?  Or at least, that it crossed you mind and lingered for a while or two before your trust in me took over?  I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you did—remoulding is a constant struggle and the enemy fully intends one’s will to be broken by prison.

But do not worry. I still want to do many things for the revolution, a hundred, a thousand things.  To teach you and learn from you and from each other.

It is still raining, and it’s already 5:30 a.m.  I remembers how the rain feels to us out there.  One starts out feeling cold and damp, marching a bit desultorily as the cold seeps into your bones.  The damps seeps into your backpack making it heavier, and you are momentarily dismayed that the water is going to wet all your clothes.  But sometime later your do not mind the cold anymore—instead there is exhilaration, a feeling that since everything is already wet, you can’t get any wetter and colder.  You know that as you go on walking in the cold, you will soon feel warm.  You body refuses to believe this at first but as you go on walking it is convinced.  The warmth is something the cold cannot take away.  Especially warm is the thought that when you reach the next barrio, the masses will provide you dry clothes to change into.

I love you.

                                                                   Your comrade and wife