When I learned of your father’s arrest, I was stunned.

In Makiling, years ago, you told me your father was an activist, working with peasant unions and leftist organizations. You said there were people who would arrest him on the most flimsy of grounds. I found the idea unfathomable. Why would a man I cheerfully called “tito,” a man with a warm smile who always brought his daughter interesting pasalubong, be arrested?
Only later did I learn that the pasalubong came from Norway, where your father was a negotiator in the peace talks between the government and armed rebels.

You and I were roommates during high school. I still remember the books that littered our tables. I had fantasy novels and short stories; you had the poetry of Emmanuel Lacaba and books about Lenin and Mao. We traded stories over junk food. I excitedly spoke of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. You solemnly recounted the life and death of the poet-activist Lacaba.

Our differences went deeper than our taste in books. My parents both worked in offices; yours had dropped out of college to become full-time activists. I spent my childhood in a Catholic school; you spent your summers with youth organizations, working with the children of those who had been killed or dispossessed of property.

Yet we forged a friendship, the two of us, skinny teenage girls learning to live away from home. On the slopes of Makiling, we immersed ourselves in dorm life and art lessons. Our school was a comforting, isolated bubble; but you never forgot the protracted struggle outside our safe world, the struggle your parents had joined as UP students and never left.

In our writing classes, I was individualistic, and dreamed up lonely characters with personal problems. Meanwhile, you wrote of a family who was forced to kill their dog for food, of a soldier caught between his orders and his conscience. Your work was characterized by social relevance.

I remember us arguing about the concept of “art for art’s sake.” You said it was impossible, because art is defined by its context, and thus all art is conflict. Our class was discussing poetry then, and I could not conceive of the haikus we had written, about sunshine and flowers, as conflict. Perhaps I was too young, or too contented with the artsy atmosphere of our school — for whatever reason, I didn’t understand what you meant until I entered college.

Here in UP, I heard anew the things you had told me in high school, among them stories of Palparan, the NPA, and political prisoners. From you I learned what the term desaparecido meant.

When I joined Kulê, you were delighted. You found time to read my articles, though you were busy joining rallies and becoming a leader of a youth activist organization. You commended my developing consciousness.

Now your own consciousness is further sharpened by the painful cost of the struggle. Your father is behind bars, being tortured, the newspapers say. And you have taken a leave of absence from school to fight for his release.

I came across an article about him yesterday. Unsure of what to say, but unable to remain silent, I immediately sent you a text message asking how you were.

You replied by urging me not to worry. You were fine, you said. You had always known this could happen. This was part of the life you had chosen, and you could handle it.

A little smiley face beamed at the end of each sentence.

I was with a friend when I received your text. Something in my expression must have alerted her, for she asked me if I was all right.

I’m fine, I said, and smiled. I’m fine. # Philippine Collegian

*For Mands

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