No words

Broken. From the bottom of my heart, I am so so sorry. I don’t have words.”

Those were the words Ariana Grande tweeted from her heart in the hours after explosions ripped through the Manchester Arena towards the close of her concert there,  killing at least 22 people including children, and injuring more than 50 others. Police have said a lone suicide bomber may be behind the deadly event.

Manchester Arena, according to wire reports, is the largest indoor arena in Europe with a capacity for 21,000 people; it opened in 1995. Grande, who is 23 and rising rapidly through the ranks of pop music royalty, has a young fan base throughout the world, and so one cannot help but wonder why a terrorist group, to which the British police is assigning blame, would choose to target young people out for nothing but a good time.

Witnesses reported hearing “two loud bangs” coming from near the arena’s bars around 10:30 p.m., the blasts “hugely panicking everyone” and sending them scattering to all possible exits.

As this is being written, international news shows are still airing tweets and broadcast appeals from parents who have yet to hear from their children who had bought tickets for the concert.

Reports say the incident is considered “the most deadly terrorist incident in Britain since the London Underground bombings of July 7, 2005.”

No explanations or claims of responsibility have emerged since the bombing. Still, the most vexing question is why a mostly young audience was targeted by the terrorist/s. What political statement could the individual bomber, or group behind him or her, have wanted to deliver by hurting, maiming and killing concert goers whose only goal for that evening was to have a good time?

And what are the adults in the lives of the lost and injured to do in the wake of what seems a most random, reckless attack?

Indeed, the onlooker cannot help but echo Grande’s pained, perplexed words: There are no words indeed.

They were young men, most of them in all probability immigrants from China who came to our shores in search of better opportunities, who had come to love their adopted country and people. As a write-up on them put it, they were “a group of courageous men bound by a common hatred of the Japanese and a burning desire to fight for Philippine freedom.”

The men of the Wha Chi squadron, some 1,000 of them, many in their teens, some in their early 20s, “fought side by side with Filipino guerrillas, snatched weapons from enemy strongholds, liberated prison camps, gathered intelligence information, disseminated propaganda materials and helped evacuate rural folk during heavy encounters with Japanese.”

The Wha Chi squadron was formed on May 19, 1942, their role in the fight against the Japanese forces reduced to a footnote—if at that—in the annals of the struggle against the invaders. According to a chronicler, the Wha Chi persisted for three years in 14 provinces in central and southern Luzon, fought in 260 small and big skirmishes, where 72 of their fighters lost their lives in battles or after capture by the enemy.

Last May 19 came a welcome, if belated, recognition of the men’s participation in the struggle for liberation from Japanese occupation. Dee Khong Hee, 93, the oldest surviving guerrilla, along with other guerrillas from all over the country, joined descendants of Wha Chi members and guests from different parts of Southern China at the Chinese cemetery to commemorate the founding of Wha Chi. This was capped by a grand celebratory dinner, attended by more than 200 people, including representatives from the National Historical Commission, Veterans Association and the academe, at Golden Bay Restaurant.

Said Dee Khong Hee: “We are especially thankful for your presence tonight. We are old and suffering from ill health and this 75th Anniversary may be our last hurrah.” He then exhorted the descendants of Wha Chi to “continue preserving the ideals of integrity, courage and heroic sacrifice for the common good.” Then as now, a patriot and fighter for the betterment of the Philippines.