The red sun kisses the mountaintops of Davao de Oro. It is perhaps the final farewell, the kolehiyala finally going down from the guerilla fronts. It is nowhere easy — I have spent four solid years of my life in the embrace of the revolutionary movement of the country.
I remember climbing the hilltops of Southern Mindanao — the only place where the cellular signal is strong enough to make a call — only to hear my mother begging me on the other line to come home. I never budged. In tears, I tried to rationalize and explain that I am doing everything for the masses and the country. I would tell her: “Mommy I’m doing this for us — for our future, for a better society to live in.” She would only cry harder. In my frustration, I would end the call and run down the hillside to a dinner of tuyo and giniling na mais.
The hardships were not able to make me come home. Even when rice was scarce and we would settle for giniling na mais every day; even when we did not have access to water and electricity, I stayed with the masses. Even when I longed for my mother’s embrace, I continued to organize mobilizations and facilitate educational discussions. I tried to see my family’s face in every Inay, Tang, Nanay, Lolo, that I met in the picket lines, haciendas, and rallies.
At night, I would cry sometimes. Deconstructing and reconstructing the idea of love and of family was something I came to do a little too often. Yet my mom always had our home open in case I returned. While I would spend days at home from time to time, it was only after four years that I finally came back home. It wasn’t because I was tired or because I gave up. Hitting rock bottom drove me to go back to my roots.
Lola’s death shattered all the toughness. Arriving in Manila, I remember recoiling as the news washed over me: lola is dead. Lola was the one who taught me the ABaKaDa instead of the ABCs. Lola was the one who fried bananas for me to take to school. Lola was one of the many whose families tried to grapple with the difficulties and hardships of life.
At that moment, all my resolve was gone. Weeping, I dared question the heavens. This is perhaps the price of revolution; the people we are fighting for are dying—leaving us with questions not even the ideologies can answer. My mom hugged me, and I hugged her tighter.
Lola’s death washed over me like ice-cold water. From that moment on, I tried to be more present in my family. My heart will always be big enough to shelter the farmers and workers but I now make extra effort to make sure that my heart also beats steadily for the people who raised me up. At the end of the day, whatever our ideologies are, I realized that we are all human. It is the bare minimum that I show humanity to all.
In a culture where it is either our family or the country, I try to ground myself in love and in home. Love chooses no color, no gender, no class. Home does not close its door to those of different ideologies. My mother and I still sometimes don’t see eye to eye in terms of current issues but instead of not budging, I try to hold her a little tighter. Mommy is one of the many I fought and stood up for. Mommy and the masses have the same face.
Still, coming home never meant the stripping of the identity. I am now a little older. Perhaps no wiser, but I learned a few things from all the mobilizations and immersions I went to. Mommy taught me how to love and I wish to share this love with the world. However, this is not tantamount to leaving my family behind in shambles. Right now, I am relearning how to love, not just the people but also those inside our small one-story house.
Even after I came home, there are times that I still look in the mirror and see the young girl who crossed the raging rivers in Southern Tagalog and climbed the hillsides of Southern Mindanao. I am trying to find home again — not only in the arms of the masses I swore to protect but also in the arms of my mother who never lost hope.
We just marked my grandmother’s death anniversary. I still cry hard every time I remember her. My mom says that I still have to process the hurt and longing. Maybe she’s right. The fight does not end in death. The fight begins with every rising of the sun on the horizon.
The sun continues to shine — a little too brightly sometimes. I’m no longer sunburnt and I already gained some weight. I’m no longer wearing tsinelas while carrying a shoulder bag filled with educational materials. Hell, I’m even holding a job right now. Yet the fight is still inside of me.
Picking up the remnants of my life, I look back. Lola, may we rest not just in power but also in peace.
* * *
Agatha Mercado, 23, is from Quezon province. She is a mental health worker and advocate. In her free time, she reads, writes, and paints.