On the Anniversary of Martial Law
Dear Dad,
I read somewhere that earth is the only planet that has mornings. I’m not sure of the scientific accuracy of that statement, so don’t take it too heart. But if we were to take it squarely for its metaphorical essence then it’s fitting for what this day means: a new beginning.
Ironically, in trying to capture the perfect balance of eloquence and militancy, I’ve written and re-written the beginning of this letter several times over, failing at each new attempt. I know there’s a lesson to be learned here, but if my learning is anything like my writing, it will be a slow and arduous undertaking. It would be easier to just call and tell you everything I want to say, but then that would be too easy. Or not. Or maybe the tricky choice between a letter and a phone call reflects the heaviness of this day. It’s difficult to summarize the full extent of something that is so monumental and transformative—Revolution—is at the same time as concrete and tangible as the people that embody it.
But here I go.
In less than 6 months I’ll be 30.
This upcoming milestone has everything to do and nothing to do with my reflective mood the last few weeks leading up to today, the anniversary of Martial Law. As my youth rapidly closes, I can’t help but think of yours and how it was undeniably shaped under the monstrosity of a dictatorship--and the fearless determination of ordinary-turned- extraordinary people who resisted it. I can only imagine the ideological conflicts you wrestled with as you and countless other youth struggled with the uncertainty and certainty of failure in the pursuit of unknown freedom. I’d like to think that I lived my young life and what remains of it in the best of struggles, like you did, but I don’t have it in me. Or maybe I do, and I’ve yet to challenge my humanity as you challenged yours all those years ago.
I don’t feel it necessary to narrate your life story to you. It’s not the point of this letter anyway. I’m also not going to recount the dark days of Martial Law—the outpour of statements and the kindle of vigils tonight will cover all that. Nevertheless, I want you to understand how profound this day is for me, and how proud I am of you. I’m proud to have a father who participated selflessly under unimaginable historical forces; who was able to act beyond his own fears despite the bloodshed and real possibility of death; who was able to surrender his unshakeable faith to his comrades under trying times; who was able to keep his humility and youthful idealism up to middle age, and I suspect well into old age.
This is of course, not what people see. Because to look at you, is to not see very much: a body made thin by the scourge of diabetes, the too dark skin and the accent that doesn’t belong. In a country intolerant of colour and low bank accounts, people see the lazy immigrant, not the father; the foreign parasite, not the person. They judge your failures, not your effort; they scrutinize your poverty, not the wealth derived from your praxis of simple living, hard struggle.
You taught me that such behaviour and actions are constructs of a system in contradiction, fragments of the new world emerging and at times colliding with the old world; that human “nature” changes as social conventions change. That fighting for social change demands a change in ourselves—and that social change whether it’s a demand for proper health care or overthrowing a dictator may from time to time produce heroes, but transforms humanity in the long run.
It would be nice of course, for the world to see this and everything that you are and everything you are not; to appreciate your intellectual capacity to swallow books whole and your wordsmith mastery over the English language. I want people to listen to the storyteller always giving his children a full cup of stories to drink from, to learn from the grassroots professor joking while theorizing the necessary process towards a classless society. I want people to know the remarkable human being behind the not so perfect individual: your ability to shrink every load of laundry is striking if not down-right annoying, and your inability to understand my grumpy tone when you call at 5 in the morning just to say hello would be completely irritating if wasn’t just slightly endearing.
Most of all, it would be wonderful for the world to appreciate the youthful idealism you possess, the one that was first rooted in the stormy period of the First Quarter Storm and then strengthened during the carnage of Martial Law. It carried you through your prison days, and was at your side during your migration voyage. It may not be the most important lesson of Martial Law, or even the bravest sentiment to uphold during this time of remembrance and re-affirmation. But it’s a crucial facet nonetheless, especially if we are determined to continue the long march towards freedom and democracy (and there’s still so much to do to get there!).
You may not like what I’ve written here. Or maybe you will, what do I know? In any case, I hope your morning stirred when the sun broke. On any given day, it would make a good beginning--but on this day especially.
STP,
Dear Dad,
I read somewhere that earth is the only planet that has mornings. I’m not sure of the scientific accuracy of that statement, so don’t take it too heart. But if we were to take it squarely for its metaphorical essence then it’s fitting for what this day means: a new beginning.
Ironically, in trying to capture the perfect balance of eloquence and militancy, I’ve written and re-written the beginning of this letter several times over, failing at each new attempt. I know there’s a lesson to be learned here, but if my learning is anything like my writing, it will be a slow and arduous undertaking. It would be easier to just call and tell you everything I want to say, but then that would be too easy. Or not. Or maybe the tricky choice between a letter and a phone call reflects the heaviness of this day. It’s difficult to summarize the full extent of something that is so monumental and transformative—Revolution—is at the same time as concrete and tangible as the people that embody it.
But here I go.
In less than 6 months I’ll be 30.
This upcoming milestone has everything to do and nothing to do with my reflective mood the last few weeks leading up to today, the anniversary of Martial Law. As my youth rapidly closes, I can’t help but think of yours and how it was undeniably shaped under the monstrosity of a dictatorship--and the fearless determination of ordinary-turned- extraordinary people who resisted it. I can only imagine the ideological conflicts you wrestled with as you and countless other youth struggled with the uncertainty and certainty of failure in the pursuit of unknown freedom. I’d like to think that I lived my young life and what remains of it in the best of struggles, like you did, but I don’t have it in me. Or maybe I do, and I’ve yet to challenge my humanity as you challenged yours all those years ago.
I don’t feel it necessary to narrate your life story to you. It’s not the point of this letter anyway. I’m also not going to recount the dark days of Martial Law—the outpour of statements and the kindle of vigils tonight will cover all that. Nevertheless, I want you to understand how profound this day is for me, and how proud I am of you. I’m proud to have a father who participated selflessly under unimaginable historical forces; who was able to act beyond his own fears despite the bloodshed and real possibility of death; who was able to surrender his unshakeable faith to his comrades under trying times; who was able to keep his humility and youthful idealism up to middle age, and I suspect well into old age.
This is of course, not what people see. Because to look at you, is to not see very much: a body made thin by the scourge of diabetes, the too dark skin and the accent that doesn’t belong. In a country intolerant of colour and low bank accounts, people see the lazy immigrant, not the father; the foreign parasite, not the person. They judge your failures, not your effort; they scrutinize your poverty, not the wealth derived from your praxis of simple living, hard struggle.
You taught me that such behaviour and actions are constructs of a system in contradiction, fragments of the new world emerging and at times colliding with the old world; that human “nature” changes as social conventions change. That fighting for social change demands a change in ourselves—and that social change whether it’s a demand for proper health care or overthrowing a dictator may from time to time produce heroes, but transforms humanity in the long run.
It would be nice of course, for the world to see this and everything that you are and everything you are not; to appreciate your intellectual capacity to swallow books whole and your wordsmith mastery over the English language. I want people to listen to the storyteller always giving his children a full cup of stories to drink from, to learn from the grassroots professor joking while theorizing the necessary process towards a classless society. I want people to know the remarkable human being behind the not so perfect individual: your ability to shrink every load of laundry is striking if not down-right annoying, and your inability to understand my grumpy tone when you call at 5 in the morning just to say hello would be completely irritating if wasn’t just slightly endearing.
Most of all, it would be wonderful for the world to appreciate the youthful idealism you possess, the one that was first rooted in the stormy period of the First Quarter Storm and then strengthened during the carnage of Martial Law. It carried you through your prison days, and was at your side during your migration voyage. It may not be the most important lesson of Martial Law, or even the bravest sentiment to uphold during this time of remembrance and re-affirmation. But it’s a crucial facet nonetheless, especially if we are determined to continue the long march towards freedom and democracy (and there’s still so much to do to get there!).
You may not like what I’ve written here. Or maybe you will, what do I know? In any case, I hope your morning stirred when the sun broke. On any given day, it would make a good beginning--but on this day especially.
STP,
Inday
1 comment:
Well done, Char. Well done.
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