Note: This piece was originally posted on Wattpad on July 6, 2012; Edited & revised for this site, posted on July 16, 2024
June 12, 1898, Kawit, Cavite
I opened my eyes, and an uncanny sense of displacement consumed me: I was out of place, out of time.
The courtyard I stood in bustled with anticipatory energy, the crowd of people surrounding me dressed in classic Filipiniana garb I had only seen in museums and period films. A stately mansion enclosed us, its central tower the object of everyone’s focus as nervous chatter and hushed whispers filled the air. I tugged at my clothes and found myself in the classic saya, the sheer fabric of my sleeves cooling my skin from the humid heat, the tapis holding my attire together. Movement past the capiz shell windows indicated that something significant was about to take place.
Confusion and curiosity warred within my mind as I absorbed the reality that I was in the country I loved, but time and space had somehow whisked me a century behind. Any sense of caution within me dissipated as I reveled at the sight, the sound, the scent of a past that had once only existed in my history books, in the fertility of my imagination.
A woman stepped forward next to me, her shoulder brushing against mine.
“Where are we?” I asked her.
She gave me a nervous laugh that matched the almost giddy anticipation in the air. Upon realizing I was serious, she gave me this deadpan expression that made me question if she would bother answering my question. “Cavite el Viejo,” she said. “General Aguinaldo’s home.”
Her answer made me dizzy. How was this possible? How had I ended up in pre-20th century Philippines, at the epicenter of one of the most momentous events in Philippine history? This was a cornerstone moment of the Philippine revolution, and I was literally in the middle of it.
At the central tower’s balcony, overlooking us, a man who couldn’t be anyone other than Ambrosio Rianzares Bautista proclaimed the Act of the Declaration of Independence. His every word was in Spanish, but my lack of comprehension was eclipsed by history coming to life around me.
One tear trailed another and chills made my skin bristle as the national anthem played, and General Emilio Aguinaldo waved the Philippine flag from the balcony of his ancestral home – a scene so often depicted in history books and Philippine art, it gave me a strange sense of nostalgia: the past making me pine for memories of the future.
This jolt of strangeness distracted me from the glory of this historic moment when, out of my peripheral vision, I spotted a young man — not much older than I — standing at the outskirts of the crowd, his arms folded over his chest. His expression lacked the excitement of his companions. The furrow of his brows and the firm set of his jaw made him seem like a lion surrounded by gazelles.
A nearly unquenchable thirst for a good story demanded I make my way to him, so I jostled through the crowd to reach him. He showed no signs of surprise when I finally did. It was I who was taken aback by his fiery gaze burning right through me, silencing me.
“So much blood has already been shed.” His tone was deep and measured, his words carefully spoken. “The fight for freedom has stripped many of us of our loved ones.” His features hardened, but the lines of his eyes became softer, more tender as he averted his gaze back to the man who would be known throughout history as the first president of the Philippines. “Why does he proclaim independence when we are still slaves? Why should we celebrate a lie, a victory that we hadn’t yet won?”
“A step of faith perhaps,” I wanted to tell him, but he wasn’t done speaking. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be free. Do you stand with this man? Do you believe in your heart of hearts that we can be free? Will we truly someday become a free nation?”
I wanted to give him a hearty yes, to let him know that we would indeed be free, though perhaps he might not live long enough to see that day. It was that reality that tempered my desire to assure him. How was I to respond when I knew it would take another half a century before the Philippines would be granted its independence?
Even then, after receiving our freedom, were we truly free? Had we not become slaves to greed, to corruption, to our loss of identity? A tear threatened to trickle down my cheek but I swallowed it back and shook my head to ward away the melancholy. I gathered all the conviction I could muster and steeled the gaze I shot at him. “I have faith,” I said. “Someday, Kuya. Someday, we will be free.”
The tiniest glimmer of hope sparked in his sad eyes, his weary shoulders firmed up, making him stand taller. That vision of him, I carried with me for the rest of a day that led me on an open field, basking in what remained of the day as a golden glow bathed the plains of Cavite, its patches of farmland and rice fields warm in its hues of amber and tangerine. Silhouettes spotted the flatlands, shadows of the scattered acacia and mango trees standing tall. The descent of the sun made my heart ache for what felt like the never-ending descent into darkness of my motherland.
I shut my eyes.
The glow would soon be overcome by the shadows. Darkness would engulf our islands — war, corruption, crime. Night was inescapable; it was inevitable.
—
I open my eyes and gasp.
I am back in place, back in time. My heart swells at the rays of sunshine embracing me, reminding me that within us all is light. His face, his hope, remain vivid in my head.
My beloved country has seen so much darkness. I will live to see the dawn.