The Walk of a Patriot

Dear Maria Isabel,

I never understood what shoes were for. I liked feeling the earth under my feet, its bumps like hiccups etched at the soles of my feet as I walked the forest floor of my beloved Sierra Madre. I never learned how to read but my buddy, Miguel, did. He was a year younger. Some American soldier gave him a book written by a fellow named Thoreau who apparently also liked to walk, to saunter. Thoreau even guessed that maybe "to saunter" came from the phrase "Saint Terre" (Holy Land). Wise fellow, this Thoreau. He said that every walk, short or long, is a crusade since you owe it to the world to know it. He seemed to have walked his entire piece of land there in America. I think I know what he meant when he said that every walk is a crusade. I especially felt it when we would head north to the Sierra Madre, my favored mountain range of all. You see, since World War II came to our country two years ago, I joined the guerrillas and we often hiked to the Sierra Madre. I was then nine and I was already an orphan.

The home I left was built by my father, used to be cared for daily by my mother and by the green cloak of vines and branches of the big ancient trees that had roots that clung to the earth like some mythical creature’s claws. I used to climb those trees and from there watched for myself how my horizons shift! My house was also set near Laguna de Bai, the large basin of blue water drawn from the lands surrounding it. Its beauty sank in my inner depths even as I would float on the lake on a small boat. I once asked Miguel to read to me how Rizal in El Filibusterismo described Laguna de Bai:

"Before them lay the beautiful lake circled by green shores, and blue mountains, like a colossal mirror with a border of emeralds and sapphires, in whose moon heaven could look at her image. To the right, extended its lower shore, forming small bays with gracious curves."

Can you tell me how my precious lake is now?

The war gave rise to many kinds of walks: death walks, liberation walks, clandestine walks. Many stories have been told about those but I will tell you about another kind of walk when I joined the guerrillas, the kind that happened in those transitions between episodes of gunfire and bombings. I remember the long arduous walk to Manila and being there for the first time, overwhelmed by this mighty river, the Pasig River, which formed the city of Manila, the city that we defended with all our might. Did you know that Manila is the delta formed by the ebbs and flows of the Pasig River? Thus, the Pasig River is literally the life of that city. Could you please tell me how it is now? Is it still as powerfully inspiring? In one of the rare silent hours, I once sat by the riverbank among young Tondo poets who filled the rare moment with fluid odes to the great river.

But I now have to tell you about the Sierra Madre. They were very long, difficult hikes but I really did not mind. This particular hike, I heard our leader say we could rest. Each crusader picked out his favorite tree for rest and shade. We leaned on the trees and there, also deposited our dreams hoping that like water through its trunk, surely, our dreams would also reach upward. I heard a running stream and rushed there but not before I passed my hands through luscious forest fern that all seemed to conspire at one spot in this forest. I secretly wished our leader would let us stay the night here so I could see fireflies. They were sure to be here since we would be near the stream. I looked back at our group and saw our leader with his rifle slung on his shoulder, in confrontation with an odd-looking wildflower, an orchid, with the arch of the orchid’s silken lip reaching out toward the tip of his nose. This "lip" was graciously crafted by nature to temporarily trap the insects that would carry the orchid’s seeds when the insects finally escape. I headed toward the stream but was not there for ten minutes when I heard our leader call. We resumed the hike. It took us six days more to reach the spot in the Sierra Madre we considered our base. The vista was both breathtaking and invigorating all at once! Here you are reminded that our archipelago is as much a gift from the turquoise oceans as much as a green harvest from the emerald seeds of our forests. My buddy Miguel waited for me to do what I always did as soon as we reached this part of our journey. You see, I had a favorite spot in this base. It was at the edge of this peak where I had a rock I stood on and there, I breathed as deeply as I can. I breathed them all, all that I have sensed and loved – people, earth, tree, flower, animal, grass, rock, water, cloud, rain, wind – in my holy walk leading to this spot. And I would shout, amplified in magnitudes that can drown the loudest gunfire roar and cannon boom: "Mahal Kita, Pilipinas!"

You see, I was killed by Japanese soldiers right after that hike in the Sierra Madre. I know you have heard many courageous personal stories about the war but aside from assigning the name of the place to honor the many battles won and lost by patriots in our history, I wanted you to also remember what the place was about. When we fought back then, it was not only to honor the way we kissed, made love, thought, laughed, wept and partook of rice among family, neighbors, friends, countrymen. We also breathed the air, sailed the seas, cruised the rivers, flew our kites, grazed the ground, climbed the trees, swam in the waters, smelled and plucked the flowers, plowed the land, listened to birdsongs, fished the seas, scaled its mountains, and forded its rivers. And on clear nights, we also looked up our corner of the heavens and studied the stars from this piece of land we called home and marveled endlessly in song.

We also died for these.

Do you remember the way we walked?

Arcadio

(Note: This letter is my interpretation of a true story about "Arcadio" shared with me by his buddy I named "Miguel" who survived the war and is now trying to endure the current grave political bickerings. "Arcadio" is not the real name of the "letter-writer," but that he fell in love with the Sierra Madre, ended his trips to that mountain range atop a rock shouting "Mahal Kita Pilipinas!" and that he was killed by the Japanese soldiers at 11 years of age, are the lasting truths we now receive.)