Becoming

The life I am living now is far from the successful life my 13-year-old self imagined.

Five years ago, after graduation, I decided to devote my time to activism. It was not a dramatic event, no sudden epiphany, or earth-shattering revelation. Instead, it was a slow burn, a gradual awakening to injustices that had always simmered beneath the surface of my comfortable existence. It began with small acts—writing about the “lumad” people for the college publication, signing petitions for free tuition law and against mandatory ROTC, volunteering to teach literacy and numeracy to adults—but soon, a deeper commitment took root. I became a full-time activist despite my parents’ disappointment that I had not found a “real job.”

What is a real job anyway? My days as an activist did not just involve rallies. There were countless visits to schools and engagements with other student organizations regarding student leadership and academic freedom; listening to workers’ experiences and familiarizing myself with the Labor Code to understand their perspectives; learning to plant corn and sharing stories with farmers while eating steamed sweet potatoes. Of all these experiences, teaching lumad mothers and their children to read and write is the most fulfilling. These were real jobs.

Even during the pandemic, my fellow activists and I persevered. However, it was not until the deaths of Kuya Chad and Sir Jurain in 2021 that I began to question whether this was the successful life I had envisioned. Red-tagging became rampant; my organizations were branded as “breeding grounds” for rebels. We received anonymous threats via email and social media, veiled warnings that escalated into explicit threats of violence. I felt eyes watching me, ears listening—a sense of being followed wherever I went. Under the Marcos administration, people I knew or worked with were imprisoned. The fear was real, a gnawing anxiety that never fully subsided.

The constant negativity, the ever-present threat of violence, and the sheer exhaustion of fighting for change took their toll when I was detained this year on a trumped-up charge.

Was this the success I wanted? My 13-year-old self imagined that by now, I would be going to K-pop concerts or eating lots of sushi, not spending some time in jail! After my provisional release, I was determined to isolate myself, and I did.

Scrolling through social media, I saw my schoolmates and acquaintances traveling, dining out, buying cars and expensive laptops. As an activist, I had no money, and I spiraled into questioning my life’s purpose. I became disillusioned with my fight for the cause and even hated the movement. I started doing freelance work, earned a little, felt miserable, and quit. I was not happy.

After a long time, I started journaling. I wrote everything I felt and cried like a baby for several days. This phase lasted for a month until I got tired of crying and decided to read my journal entries. I felt like a disgrace for not meeting my parents’ definition of success, compared myself to others, and felt guilty that my fear and worries had consumed me to isolation. That day, I decided to call one of my brothers in the confraternity, also an activist, and opened up to him. I could not understand what I was going through.

“I understand you and have been in your shoes,” he said. “Our desire for the people’s liberation meant liberating ourselves, too. Only history will vindicate us—whether we did the right thing or were successful.”

I asked him if I was going crazy for having these thoughts, and he laughed. “No, don’t be too hard on yourself or the movement! Take all the time you need to discover yourself and come back stronger. I’m always proud of how strong and brave you are. You’ll get through this. Never lose hope for the people.”

I was quiet for a while, wondering if he meant what he said, and he continued. “After all, the change you need within yourself starts with you. Ask me for any advice you need, but I think you already know what to do.”

One day, while I was scrolling through my social media feed, an issue of corruption in the Office of the Vice President erupted and I felt a surge of pride to see young people being critical of it. I opened my laptop and messaged an activist friend that I was writing a statement on the misuse of confidential funds by a high-ranking politician.

This journey is teaching me that the fight for justice is a continuous process. It included taking care of myself; it was not selfish but a necessary step to sustain my commitment to the cause. I realized that I could not effectively serve the people if I was tormented by uncertainties. Little by little, I came to terms that there are things I may not understand for now. There are also things I needed to let go of like how others think of me.

The threats, the hate, all my fears and worries, my imprisonment—they are all part of my journey, but they would not define me. I am still a work in progress, a becoming. Acknowledging that, I think, is already a success.

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Marielle Pagoto, 26, is a young Mindanawon activist and was a political prisoner. She is doing her best.