Ours wasn’t a “normal nuclear family” where mom and dad were always around to cook breakfast, take you to school, and tuck you to bed at night. I and my sibling were born to revolutionary parents and grew up without them by our side. We were in the city and they were in the countryside, in a guerrilla zone as part of the armed revolutionary movement.
There were neither weekend pasyal, nor the usual gatherings with relatives. So, on my part, I would usually spend my weekends at home with my Ate (nanny) and watch all the shows on TV.
My boring and sedentary childhood would be spiced up with once or twice a year of “exclusive time” with my parents. We would go to the beach for a few days. My Tatay would prepare my favorite meals and Nanay would pamper us with hugs and kisses. Sometimes, my parents’ comrades would hang around. They played with us, or help us out with anything and everything. These were also the times when our parents explained to us so many things about the life they chose, which I would only fully understand and appreciate later in life.
My parents would tell us they took a different path in life for a greater cause—to change the world by eliminating class oppression (big words for a small child then!). It was a necessary sacrifice on their part to be away from us but it does not mean we were not loved. Later in life, I would realize that it is actually out of love that made them do what they do. They love this country and they can’t stand seeing the masses suffer under the rotten system. It is also because of their love to us, their children, that they continue to fight. They don’t want us and their apo to inherit this kind of society. Now, i have come to realize that it has become our responsibility to ensure the struggle stays in the correct path.
More than my parents’ explanations, I love those special days because both my parents and I would squeeze in all the times we’d missed in one weekend and make up for the lost months away from each other. Of course, it wasn’t always happy, especially when the weekend meet-up was almost over. I would always insist we stay longer even if I know they couldn’t.
At a very early age, I learned my first lesson: Because we were not a “normal” family I must practice discretion to keep the monster blind. I should not tell anyone about what my parents do, where we went, and who we were with us because this will put my safety and theirs in danger. And, that could mean not seeing them anymore.
In a majestic forest
When I was old enough to walk by myself for a few hours, I was told that it’s time for me and my sibling to go and visit my parents in a guerrilla zone.
Thus, one summer, a handwritten letter from my parents was delivered by a comrade. They set up a visit for us. We were given a whole list of things to bring and persons to coordinate with. Also in the letter, we were told to start preparing ourselves for a long walk by going for a 15-minute jog everyday. But, I don’t actually remember doing it.
My young mind’s imagination of a New People’s Army camp, a war-stricken place, immediately changed into a happy community in a majestic forest when I saw my parents’ comrades—the revolutionary forces and the masses together. Yet, to get to that “paradise”, the few hours of walk, as I was originally informed, turned out be a whole day of mountain climbing. I was proud of myself that I didn’t cry out of exhaustion and desperation. But, yes, I was complaining the whole time.
Those visits were an adventure for me. It was like going to a summer camp only you see men and women with rifles and hear a lot of political discussions. But they sing, too—songs of freedom. I shared meals with 20 to 30 other comrades who all wore warm smiles on their faces. There were occasions for dancing and reading poems. I witnessed a wedding, literacy and numeracy classes, and educational discussions. These all happened in the camp’s dining area.
Our visits would be repeated a few more times. I loved it except for the part where I had to walk non-stop. But now I realized those visit, despite the long walks, were very fruitful because I saw the communities my parents were serving. I also would like to think the long walks made me stronger physically and mentally. I especially loved the hike across rugged trails that led us to hidden waterfalls.
Beloved guardian
When these summer visits end, my sibling and I would go back to a relative who took care of us—our Auntie Jane. She is our closest relative who was willing to take on the responsibility of taking in children not her own. I grew up under her wings up to my college days. It was because of her that I learned the value of simplicity in all aspects of life. I am grateful that she not only respected the convictions of my parents, but she also embraced them. She understands the people’s struggle and she regarded the liberation movement highly. For her, taking care of us is her contribution to the revolution.
In between visits, letters from my parents sustained us. Coming in periodically, the letters mostly consisted of stories. My parents talked about books to read, news commentaries, films to watch, their “adventures” and even stories about people met in our visits. There were times when we get sad news of comrades we met who passed away because of an armed encounter or an unfortunate accident. And, instead of life advice, they poured in a lot of questions, which I tried to answer immediately (except for questions about my school grades.)
Despite the distance
At times people ask me if I resent my parents for leaving us while we were growing up. But I don’t remember having any ill feelings. Yes, there were times when I would be sad but it didn’t stay too long. Through the years, friends, relatives and close family friends treated me like family. I guess, I am lucky to have them. Compared to other teenage kids, I believe I had a better relationship with my parents, though “long-distance.” I had classmates who complained about their parents, sometimes even crying because they were always fighting saying their parents don’t understand them; while I seldom had arguments, let alone fights with my parents. Minsan na lang kami magkita, mag-aaway pa ba kami?
There were many discussions on our choices and life decisions. As parents, they surely had some preference on what they wanted us to be. It was a struggle on both sides. But in the end, just like what they did with their own lives, they let us choose. Yet, in many significant choices I made, I know I was always influenced by them, consciously or unconsciously.
While my parents are not physically present to guide us in life, they trust that we will make the right judgement and decisions. Thinking about it now, they were indirectly telling us to make the right decisions—study hard, stay away from drugs and bad influences. I think it was also their way of assuring themselves that despite the distance we will grow up to be good people. It actually worked. Although I had a limited time bonding with them, I did study my lessons and finished my homework.
The choice is mine
I became an activist because of my parents’ (not-so-gentle) push. I was referred to a college-based organization supporting basic sectors. I know I could have said no. But I didn’t. Somehow, I felt that embracing the same principles my parents lived by is the closest thing to being with them. Yet, as I become more involved, my actions and commitment no longer came from them. I was no longer serving the people because of my parents. It has become the product of the people’s situation that I came to fully understand.
It was a slow self-realization that our society is in dire need of revolutionary change—that there are so many people suffering from hunger while a few possess obscene wealth enough to feed the whole country; that there is such a thing as oppression and exploitation. With the community immersions, education discussions, the books and articles I read and studied with comrades, I have become aware of the ills of our society, the suffering of mankind and, yes, the need to change it through armed revolution.
The things that I described as “a happy community in a majestic forest” when i was young were, in reality, the seeds of people’s democratic republic—the organs of political power my parents helped build in the countryside. Little did I know then that these have become the expression of people’s resistance, empowerment, and self-determination. And this is what my parents chose to do by becoming part of the Communist Party of the Philippines and wage a class war through the New People’s Army.
When I was a kid, I tried to understand my parents’ choice because I love them. But now, I understand them because I undoubtedly understand. This makes me even prouder to have revolutionary parents.
I remember my Tatay telling me, during one of our favorite road trips that, “it is true that you became a revolutionary because you are our daughter. But your decision to stay and commit to continue with the struggle will be your decision alone. We, as your parents, are inconsequential to that decision.” (Mia Andres) ###
