Diwata

Soiled
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Ezoic
2003-02-14 06:08:00 (UTC)

my dear enrique

MY dear Enrique,

It has been more than a month since I last held you. In my
dreams you haunt me. In my heart you live on.

Your father and mother came to take your things yesterday.
Mother tried to offer them orange juice but they refused.
They refused to talk to us. They do not like us, Enrique.
They blame us for your death.

When their Benz pulled away from our house, I tried hard
not to cry. I have nothing now to remind me of you. I only
have my memories. Your memories. And how precious few they
are.

Things have been quieter since you left. Father is not as
jolly and does not talk as much. Mother has become more
withdrawn. Even Paolo is silent most of the time. We all
miss you.

Paolo has decided to become a teacher in the school here
although he has not given up his dream of becoming a
priest. He has decided to put that dream on hold for now,
and wait, perhaps for the next calling.

I still continue to go to the market. Mother hardly joins
me anymore. That was when I decided to join this group.
This group whom the country and the bourgeoisie (I'm not
sure if I spelled that right) mistake as terrorists. But we
are not terrorists. You know that, Enrique. We are simply
people who want justice and social change. Some of us
believe in the legitimacy and the power of violence. We
must spark a revolution to rid society of its cancer. The
cancer that is not embodied by foreigners or American
imperialists, but by our fellow countrymen. The oligarchy,
the elite. The people who are not willing to sacrifice
their own comfort for those less fortunate than they. The
people who have no sense of unity, no sense of nation. The
people who are here simply to drain our country of its
wealth; and to use this wealth for their own selfish
desires.

I must admit I do not fully believe that revolution is the
answer. I do not want more bloodshed. I have not engaged in
any guerilla warfare. I, being a woman, have only cooked
for them and talked to them. But I know, and they know, that I
will do more. I can do more. And if necessary, I will pick
up a knife, a bolo, a gun; and continue to fight for the
cause that you so justly believe in.

I am yours even in death. I am yours in the life to come.
Thank you for your memories. My heart, my mind, and my soul
will always belong to you and you alone. You have shown me
love. Now let me show my country love.

Always,
Maricar


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