It was a warm morning in 1941. A 22-year-old man in his army uniform holding the hands of a young woman—barely 20—her eyes brimming with tears she fought to hold back. They didn’t speak much. What could be said? He was bound for Bataan, conscripted to fight for freedom against the Japanese invaders. She was staying behind, not knowing if they would ever meet again.
That wasn’t a movie.
That was my father, saying goodbye to my mother.
And that is why Independence Day is never just a date on the calendar for me. It is personal. It is sacred.
My grandfather was a Katipunero. My father, a soldier who faced the brutal horrors of war so that future generations could live in freedom. Their sacrifice—like that of thousands of other Filipinos—was not a metaphor. It was real. It was bloody. It was complete.
They were willing to die, so we could be free. And that is why it is almost unbearable—almost unforgivable—to see the freedom they bled for being betrayed. Not by foreign invaders this time…
But by our own leaders—those who swore oaths to serve the people, but who act like kings and colonizers, enriching themselves while our people suffer.
Independence was won with blood. Let us not lose it through silence.
A brave Independence Day to all!
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