To Remember While We Forget

Informant: Mr. Antonio Q. Collado, 89 years old

“He is younger in person,” my mother says to me, as we look at the pictures hanged on the wall. My informant is surrounded by the other veterans, no doubt at a gathering of some sort. It is a bit daunting and surreal to see that they are all normal men on the outside, but they have seen –

(The terror in a comrade’s eyes, or heard the scream of a man. They have seen guns blazing and war on fire; Japanese men fighting for themselves and Americans fighting for the world; Filipinos - that could have even been them - wondering, hearts beating furiously, if it was going to be their last and praying that it wasn’t.)

– things that I never have. As a car parks by the entrance of the Capiz Chapter of the Philippine War Veterans Office, I step out of the building. A man in a Barong Tagalog steps out of the car, and I hastily apologize for the delay after greeting him. Antonio Collado smiles as he leads me and my mother into the office of the Vice President – his office. He explains that after the interview he will be going to a funeral and I –

(Wonder if it’s for someone who fought as well or as much as the man beside me; decades after the war and still serving the country in the ways that he can.)

– nod and say, “Dali-on lang namon. [We’ll try to make this quick.]”

He sits down as he reads through the questions on the paper I have given to him. “’Pila ang edad mo sang tiyempo giyera?’ [What was your age during the war?]” he reads aloud. Collado pauses for a moment before he says, “Eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” I –

(Imagine what would it have been like at the time: everyone wanting to join the army because they did not know what they could do as civilians. There would have been mothers waving their sons goodbye, terrified men not really knowing what they were in for, and people in hiding, always praying and always hoping to wake up to a better tomorrow and not getting it for years.)

– exclaim. “Bilang medyo bata-bata ka pa. [So you were very young.]” I say as he explains that he was a student at the time and continues.

“Ang pagkaintiende ko sang giyera . . . Anong pagkaintiende man naton sang giyera kundi . . . [My understanding of the war. . . What do we understand about war if not that. . .]” Collado stresses, eyebrows creased, “It’s a war between two countries. Kung ano man ang ambition sang Japanese . . . ano ang pagkaintiende naton na it would be a deadly incident. Di bala? [What the ambitions of the Japanese were . . . what we understood was that it would be a deadly incident. Am I correct?]”

I –

(Think about a quote: “This was the first time the public saw that war wasn’t the glorious thing all the movies and books made it out to be. They saw death.” Did anyone truly understand what it was like to be in a war? The Philippines did not participate in WWI. Would they have been fighting without really knowing how?)

– say, “Oo. [Yes.]”

“Patyanay na kami mo. Giyera mo. [We were killing. It was a war.]” Collado says grimly, but matter-of-factly. “Muna ang pagkaintiende mo. [That was your understanding.]”

He reads the next question. “’Paano kamo nakaluwas?’ Wala kami nag-surrender. […] Ano imo ginhimo para makaluwas?’ Kundi nagpanago kami! [‘How did you survive?’ We did not surrender. ‘What did you do to survive?’ We hid!]” Collado laughs here –

(But it should have been terrifying to be a USAFFE soldier. You are separated from your family. You are alone with nothing but strict orders, determination, and soldiers who are as scared as you are. You have to live knowing that any day you could die, that the sun is rising in the Japanese flag and that it only means darkness if they find you. These are what you know, and you have to fight it.)

– and so do I. Collado explains that in the end they did have to fight, but they didn’t die. “Pag-abot sang Hapon, [When the Japanese arrived,]” he says, “Naglagyo kami sa bukid. Amo na. Kag nagporma kami didto sang gerilya. ‘Ang paglantaw mo sa mga kaaway. . .’ Very brutal sila. [We escaped to the mountains. There, we formed a guerrilla force. ‘How you saw the enemies. . .’ They were very brutal.]

“Masyado kalisud sang pangabuhi sadto; wala ka baklan sang pagkaon […] Indi ka libre. Ga palanago ka, biskan diin ka makadto, matan-aw ka kung sa diin ang mga pangontra. Basi kung ara sa likod mo, basi kung . . . [You were too depressed then; nowhere to buy food. You’re not free. You hide, and wherever you go, you look for where the enemies are. They could be behind you, they could be . . .]” He trails off, eyes a bit downcast and hands shaking, and I quietly –

(Remember that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder wasn’t recognized until after the war.)

– say, “Basta makabuhi ka lang. [As long as you live.]”

But they did not, as I know and he recalls. People die in wars and people die in everyday life. He lives until this day, but they do not. He breathes even today, but they do not. He remembers how it felt like to rest because there was peace at the same time he remembers the people who already have. The way that elders droop now makes sense: the only thing they can do now is remember. And Collado remembers the day he was captured by the Japanese.

“Kung wala ko nalagyo, patay ko! [If I didn’t escape, I would have died!]” He says, in the midst of my awe and mild horrification. “Indi ko gid na ya malimtan. [I will not forget that.]”

He continues to tell me about General Macario Peralta, who started the guerilla offenses in Panay. About how the Japanese would point their bayonets on even pregnant women, or how they would slice the heads of Filipinos whenever they felt like it. About how when the Americans came, Panay was finally cleared free of the invaders.

About how the liberation of Panay was celebrated by all, how the people felt like they could finally breathe.

He tells me that the brutality of the Japanese was always the talk of the town. That aside from the term MAKAPILI, the spies were also known as PisiJAPs. That after the war, everything went back to normal as if nothing happened.

“Malipayon ko ya. Naka-survive ako ya, [I was happy. I survived.]” Collado murmurs, a melancholy shine in his eyes as he looks at me. The unspoken words echo throughout the room: I survived, yes. But with great loss too.

People died, he states bluntly. The battle was not as glorious as they said. There was no victory. There was only a temporary end to the fighting. It could start up again, and again, and again, and again. People fight all the time. People die all the time. He lives in the same world as we do; the same world in which everything that is destined to live is also destined to die. However, he realized it when the horror was too real and when the blood was too much; not like us. Not in the safety of our homes nor in the comfort of what we call “peace” – they found the gift of life in death.

He doesn’t hold a grudge against the Japanese. It wasn’t their fault, he says. It is a new generation now. The soldiers he fought against are now old. Time has passed. It is time, as it has long been, to let it go.

Collado looks at me with weary eyes –

(And a weary soul, I realize. He has fought in one of the most gruesome wars in history. It has been seventy years since then and only more wars have happened. He will watch the news and he will see murders and corruption and death; the same things he once saw firsthand. He is old. And while everyone will treat the holidays with glee, he will be only one of the few that remembers why there is one in the first place. Perhaps that is the pain of being a veteran. You fight, you go home, and you rejoice while nobody else remembers why.)

– and he says, “Dapat na waay na giyera. [There should be no more war.]”

He wants everyone to know what happened; all the good things and all the bad. So that people can understand what they celebrate, so that they can feel what they felt. History happened on the ground you step on, he wants us to remember. For they are alone when they remember when the Americans arrived, and they are alone when they remember the taste of freedom. They have fought in wars and seen the horrors of the world; they have heard the screams of the dying and the smell of gunfire is burned in their noses. They have seen the desperation and the depression of the world; they have held weapons with their very hands and forced themselves to aim, to kill. They experience world-weariness every single day of their lives because of what they did. They remember, and we forget.

And after, we will ask them, “Why is there a holiday today?”

When I leave his office, I look back to see that he is wiping off tears.