AS a five-year-old girl, sunset meant to me the end of a fun-filled day, a time to pack up our toys and part ways with playmates.

It was after one of those sunsets that I came home and called out to my mother. Mama would hug me every time I came home in spite of my awful smell, sweaty face and smutty oversized shirt. But this time, after calling out her name three times, it seemed she had not heard me. I dropped the two big dolls I held in my arms and ran to the back door of the kitchen, but it was closed. I banged at the door, but still no one came to open it from inside our house.

I was getting impatient, almost desperate. I pressed an ear against the wooden door in order to find out what was going on. I listened intently for few minutes, but I could not hear anything, not even a tiny voice. There was total silence.

Tears started to well in my eyes. Where was Mama? Why they did leave? I started to sob silently and slowly sat on the ground, going over the possibilities.

The moment I began to take hold of my emotions, I realized that I was not sitting on flat concrete as I thought. I looked down and saw a clutter of slippers near the back door. Each was caked with dried, brownish mud.

I remembered the time Papa brought me on a long drive. We left after breakfast and traveled on a long asphalt road. I enjoyed the view of green forest after we turned into a narrow unpaved road. It seemed as if we were driving in the middle of a thick forest. I could hear the chirping of birds as well as gushing of water from springs.

After following the unpaved road for half an hour, we stopped in front of a small nipa hut with walls made from bamboo. As I jumped out from the car, I could feel the cool breeze on my arms and my cheeks. I landed on soggy mud and Papa reached for my hand. We started to walk, but my feet felt very heavy. When I looked to find out what was wrong, I saw my slippers and feet covered with soggy mud.

When we reached home that day, the mud had already dried on my feet and my slippers. It took me a while to remove mud at the water pump.

That was the same soggy mud I saw on the slippers left near our kitchen. Most were worn out.

As the years passed, I forgot the incident. Papa and Mama sent me to a college four hours away from home.

But one day when I came home for the semestral break, I saw slippers again -- not in front of the back door of our kitchen like before, but the main door. I opened the door but found no one in our living room. Curious, I began to search for the visitors who had left their slippers outside our house.

The kitchen was empty and unused. There was no sign of cooking. The bedrooms looked tidy. There was no trace of visitors. In the backyard, I saw only white bed sheets on the clothesline.

I went down to the basement and turned the doorknob. It was locked from the inside. I pressed my ear against the door, but I could not hear anything. I knocked on the door three times, and Mama opened it.

The basement was illuminated by a single florescent bulb. And they were all there, the visitors I was looking for. They were staring at me in silence.

I was astounded. I stood unmoving until Mama pulled me inside and closed the door again. I walked slowly to the back of the room where our visitors were seated on the floor with their legs crossed. I joined them and sat beside Mama, also crossing my legs like everybody else.

Papa was standing in front of our visitors. As soon as I was seated, he resumed his speech while the visitors listened intently.

I looked around. There were about 30 people in the room. They looked like beggars in their worn-out clothes. Their sunburned skin was dry and wrinkled. Most were men and had a lanky physique.

I hardly understood what Papa was talking. I was too surprised by the presence of visitors and many confusing thoughts were running in my head.

The meeting was already about to finish when I joined them, so that in a short while, the visitors got up to leave. They acted as if nothing had happened in the basement. I did not witness them making small talk or celebrating. All of them looked serious and determined. They filed out silently, some in pairs, others singly. Then they were all gone.

That night I heard a revelation that had never entered my mind throughout my life. Those visitors were militants and they had come to attend one of the many secret meetings they had been holding in our house for years. They had come all the way from the mountains. Papa, who was a public official, holding an elective position, was a key leader of the militant group. He was informed about every move the group planned to make and he had the final say on it.

I never asked Papa any questions. Politics never held any fascination for me. Besides I knew deep inside me that Papa was doing only what he thought would be best for our society.

Cyra Miles Valdez, 28, works as a secretary in a hotel in Dubai, United Arab Emirates.