Eman ni Jose F. Lacaba (template)

Template. Writing exercise. For students: first person, Written in the crisp, journalistic, straightforward style of a police reporter but the writer builds emotional tension towards the end, at the same time , exercising extreme restraint

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[Caption by Jose F. Lacaba: “EMAN LACABA, circa late ’60s or early ’70s. Photo by Tikoy Aguiluz.” (image and caption rightclicked from pete lacaba’s site at: kapetesapatalim.blogspot) ]

EMAN

ni Jose F. Lacaba

Noong Marso 18, 1976, si Emmanuel Agapito Flores Lacaba–ang nakababata kong kapatid na si Maneng, mas kilala ng mga kaibigan niya sa palayaw na Emman o Eman–ay pinatay sa Tucaan Balaag, Asuncion, Davao de Norte. Siya’y 27 anyos noon.

Naaalaala ko, na noong hinihintay namin sa isang punerarya sa Pateros ang kabaong niyang inilipad mula sa Davao at sinusundo sa airport, isang nagtatrabaho sa punerarya ang nagtanong sa akin kung ano ang ikinamatay ni Eman. “Tingga,” sagot go. Bagamat wala siyang kaalam-alam tungkol kay Eman, hindi na siya nagtanong pa, at ako nama’y hindi na nagdugtong ng paliwanag.

Hindi naikaila sa mga nakakakilala kay Eman kung paano siya namatay. May lumabas na balita sa diyaryo na isang nagngangalang “Manuel Lacaba” ang kasama ng isang tropa ng mga rebelde ng New People’s Army na napatay sa Tucaan Balaag, at di nagtagal ay nakumpirma na ang “Manuel” na iyon ay si Eman na nga. Gayunman, marami pa ring tanong ang mga kakilala ni Eman–lalo na iyong mga nakakilala sa kanya bilang premyadong matata at kuwentista sa Ingles, bilang hippie na madalas umistambay sa Indios Bravos Café, bilang okultista na mahilig magtigil sa piligi ng mga mistikong sekta sa Bundok Banahaw.

Ang karaniwang tanong ay kung ano ang ginagawa niya sa isang baryo sa Davao noong panahong mapatay siya. Noong 1976, pagkat panahon pa ng pormal na batas militar at mahirap ipaliwanag ang ganitong mga bagay, ang karaniwan kong sagot ay: “Baka nagre-research. Baka nag-iipon ng materyales para sa kanyang mga tula, para sa isang nobela, para sa isang dula.”

Halos isang dekada na ang dumaraan mula nang mapatay si Eman, at palagay ko’y puwede nang aminin ang isang katotohanang parang mahirap pa ring paniwalaan hanggang ngayon: oo, nasa davao si Eman noon pagkat lumahok siya sa digmaang bayan.

Malaki ang pagkakaiba namin ni Eman. Masasakitin ako, dating patpatin, at ayon sa mga kakilala’y masyadong maingat, masyadong pigil. Si Eman ay may matipunong pangangatawan, at sa lahat ng bagay na naisipan niyang pasukin, bigay-todo siya. Sa pag-aaral ay numero uno siya sa klase mula Grade One hanggang fourth year high school, sa Pasig Catholic College; pagdating sa kolehiyo, sa Ateneo de Manila, namantine niya ang full scholarship hanggang sa makatapos. Ako, palibhasa’y hindi gaanong competitive, ay hindi konsistent; nang magtapos ng hayskul, nagkasya na ako sa pagiging honorable mention, at ni hindi ko tinapos ang kurso ko sa kolehiyo. Nang mapadaan kami sa yugtong pa-hippie-hippie, si Eman, balita ko, ay lubus-lubusang nag-eksperimento sa marihuwana, LSD, atbp. Ako’y nakontento na sa mga dalawa o tatlong pagsubok sa damo, at hindi kailanman nakatikim ng mas mabigat na mind-bending drugs. At nang pumasok kami sa yugtong aktibista, ako’y masaya na sa pasulat-sulat at pasalin-salin, pero kay Eman ay hindi puwede ang tampisaw. Tuluyan siyang lumubog sa kilusang manggagawa, at pagkaraan ay nagtuloy sa tinatawag na pinakamataas na antas ng pakikibaka.

Magkasama kami ni Eman sa iisang kuwarto noong nasa kolehiyo ako’t nasa nasa hayskul naman siya. Sa panahong iyon, sa aming magkakapatid ay kaming dalawa ang pinakamalapit. Pero nang tumuntong siya sa kolehiyo ay peryodista na ako at madalas na wala sa bahay, at siya naman ay nagdormitoryo; at dahil dito’y bahagya kaming nalayo sa isa’t isa. Sa kolehiyo at sa sirkulo ng mga manunulat, siya’y naging “kapatid ni Pete” sa simula, at napansin kong hindi siya komportable sa ganitong papel, gusto niyang lumayo sa anino ng kuya at magbuo ng sarili niyang identidad. Kung hindi nagkakamali ang aking alaala, sa panahong ito siya naging Eman. Noong mga panahong iyon ay “Emman” ang baybay niya sa kanyang palayaw–may dalawang “m”–pero sa kalaunan ay mas nagustuhan niya ang Eman. Sa bahay ay nanatili siyang Maneng, samantalang ako, sa mga nakatatanda sa akin, ay nanatiling Pepito. Madalas ko siyang biruin sa palayaw na ibinigay niya sa kanyang sarili, pero sa loob lamang ng ilang taon ay naging Eman na rin siya bahay, at sa ilang sirkulo ay ako naman ang naging “kapatid ni Eman”–patunay na nagtagumpay siya sa pagbubuo ng sariling identidad.

Gayunman, labas sa kanyang mga tula at panulat ay hindi ko nasundan ang development ng kanyang kaisipan at kamulatan. Hindi ko namalayan kung kailan nagsimula ang kanyang pulitikalisasyon, bagamat naaalaala ko na sa isang pagtatalo namin noong 1970 ay kinukuwestiyon na niya ang konsepto ng “pagkubkob mula sa kanayunan” sa isang kapulutang katulad ng Pilipinas. Napansin ko na lamang talaga ang lalim ng kanyang pakikisangkot nang pakiusapan niya akong sumulat, noong 1971, tungkol sa isang welga sa isang maliit na imprenta sa Mandaluyong–isang welgang sinusuportahan ng organisasyong pangmanggagawa na kinabibilangan ni Eman.

Ang direksiyon ng kaisipan ni Eman sa mga panahong ito ay mahihinuha sa mga pangalang ibinigay niya sa dalawa niyang anak na babae. Sa pangalan ng panganay, na isinilang sa unang anibersaryo ng Labanan sa Tulay ng Mendiola, ay makikita ang marami’t magkakasalungat na interes ni Eman: Miriam Manavi Mithi Mezcaline Mendiola. Ang pangalan ng ikalawang anak, na isinilang sa unang Nobyembre ng batas miliar, ay mas simple, mas direkta: Emanwelga Fe.

Nasa tiyan si Emanwelga nang mapasama si Eman sa grupong sumusuporta sa malaking welga sa Presto sa Pasig. Iyon ang isa sa pinakahuling welga bago ideklara ang batas militar. Nagkagulo sa welgang iyon, at napasama si Eman–na sa panahong ito’y nagtuturo ng Rizal’s Life and Works sa Unibersidad ng Piipinas–sa mga binatuta, dinampot, at ikinulong sa Pasig. Salamat sa isang abugadong taga-Pasig, si Rene Saguisag, nailabas sina Eman pagkaraan ng ilang araw. Mga dalawang araw matapos silang lumaya, idineklara ang batas militar.

Maaaring ang pagkakasangkot ni Eman sa welga at ang kanyang pandaling pagkakabilanggo ay naging dahilan kung kaya hindi na ni-renew ang kanyang kontrata sa UP. At maaaring sa panhong ito na mayroon siyang dalawang anak at walang regular natrabaho ay sika naipasiya ni Eman na wala na siyang ibang patutunguhan kundi ang kanayunan, na wala na siyang ibang mapagpipilian kundi ang “mamundok.”

Matapos siyang mawala sa UP, nabalitaan ko na lamang na muli na namang lumalabas si Eman bilang artista sa tanghalang PETA, na sumusulat siya ng dula, na nag-aaral siya ng martial arts, na sinusulat niya ang titik ng theme song ng pelikulang Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang, na tumutulong siya sa ilang produksiyong pampelikula. Akala ko’y ibubuhos naman niya ang buo niyang katauhan sa bagong larangang ito, pero bandang katapusan ng 1974, noong ako naman ang bilanggong pulitikal sa Kampo Crame, dinalaw niya ako para magpaalam. Papunta na siya sa Mindanao.

May pang-akit ang Mindanao sa amin sapagkat doon kami ipinanganak–sa lunsod ng Cagayan de Oro–at sapagkat ang aming amang Boholano ay sa Mindanao kumilos bilang gerilya, sa yunit ni Fertig, sa USAFFE, noong panahon ng Hapon.

Pagkatapos ng dalaw sa akin ni Eman ay wala na akong tinanggap na anumang balita tungkol o mula sa kanya. Ang sumunod ko na lamang na nabalitaan ay ang kanyang pagkamatay. Sa mismong araw na nakatakda akong palayain, lumabas ang ulat tungkol kay “Manuel Lacaba.” Natatandaan ko, na bago iabot sa akin ni Heneral Fidel Ramos ang aking notice of temporary release, tinanong niya kung kaaano-ano ko ang Lacabang nasa front page ng diyaryo.

Sa kabaong ko na muling nakita si Eman, pero mula sa mga kuwento ng iba’t ibang tao ay napagtagni-tagni ko ang mga pangyayari sa mga huling araw ng makatang naging mandirigma.

Ang unang lugar na pinuntahan ni Eman, bilang miyembro ng isang tinatawag na semi-legal expansion team, ay ang lunsod ng General Santos sa Timog Cotabato. Tatlo sila sa nasabing team. Ang dalawa ay naunang pumasok sa kanayunan para humanap ng kontak. Si Eman ay naiwan sa siyudad. Pagkat kailangan din nila ng pera para mabuhay, sinabihan siyang maghanapbuhay na muna, at kasabay nito’y pag-aralan ang mga ruta sa siyudad. Ito marahil ang dahilan kung kaya konduktor sa minibus ang unang trabahong pinasok ni Eman.

Di nagtagal, pumasok si Eman bilang janitor sa isang karate club. Dito, ayon sa kuwento na nagiging bahagi na ng kanyang alamat sa Mindanao, inapi-api siya ng isang boy na kasmahan niya sa trabaho. Kinausap ni Eman ang boy: “Ako, hindi mo kilala, huwag mo akong api-apihin.” Pagkatapos ay pinakitaan niya ito ng nalalaman niya sa martial arts. Natakot sa kanya ang boy, at mula noon at iginalang at inilagan na siya nito.

Pagkaraan ng ilang buwan, pumasok na rin si Eman–o “lumabas,” depende sa iyong punto de bista–sa kanayunan ng Timog Cotabato. Ang ginamit niyang “pangalan sa pakikibaka” dito ay Popoy–isang alusyon sa isang tauhan sa komiks, si Popoy Dakuykoy, na naging persona ni Eman sa dalawang mahabang tulang sinulat niya noong dekada ’60.

Maraming kuwento tungkol kay Popoy. Ang mga unang pinasok ng kanyang pangkat ay mga lugar ng mga Bilaan. Dahil hindi sila magkaintindihan, idinodrowing ni Popoy ang mga katutubo at ang mga bagay na gusto niyang malaman kung ano. Sa pamamagitan ng pagdodrowing, sa loob lamang isa’t kalahating buwan ay natutuhan niya ang lengguwahe ng mga Bilaan.

Natuto rin siyang kumain ng isang espesyalidad ng mga katutubo. Kapag nakahuli ng baboy-damo ang mga Bilaan, ang karne nito’y isinisilid nila sa buho ng kawayan at tinatakpan ng dahon ng saging. Mga dalawang linggo itong binubulok sa loob ng buho, pinapauod, pinapabaho. Pag nangangamoy na, nililinis ito, tinatanggalan ng uod, at iniihaw. Si Popoy lamang sa grupo ang natutong kumain nito. Tuwang-tuwa sa kanya ang mga Bilaan.

Ang isa pang naaalaala tungkol kay Popoy ay ang walang-tigil niyang pagsusulat. Kung wala nang papel, sumusulat siya sa likod ng palara ng sigarilyo. Lahat ay sinusulat niya, detalyadong-detalyado–ang malabo niyang mata, ang hirap na dinaranas niya sa masukal na daan, pati ang problema niya sa pagtae. Isang gabi, ayon sa kanyang palara diary, tumigil sila pagkat kailangan niyang magbawas. nang hindi pa siya bumabalik pagkaraan ng 20 minuto, hinanap na siya ng kanyang mga kasamahan. Iyon pala, naligaw na siya sa dilim.

Nang matuto na siya ng Bisaya, nilapatan niya ng bago, rebolusyonaryong titik ang ilang popular na awiting-bayan. Hanggang ngayon ay kinakanta pa raw doon ang mga liriks niya.

Maaaring dito sa Timog Cotabato galing ang isang sulat na ipinadala ni Eman sa isang kaibigan. Sa sulat, ikinuwento niya na nagmuntik-muntikanan na nilang makaengkuwentro ang isang mas malaking pangkat ng Lost Command at CHDF. Isang indikasyon ng pinagmulan ni Eman ang koment niya tungkol sa nasabing karanasan, isang koment na hindi mo aasahan sa karaniwang rebelde: “As the Book of Changes says, our minds are sharpened by the contact with danger.”

Ang sumunod na mga linya mula sa sulat na iyon ay indikasyon naman ng mga pagbabagong nangyayari sa kalooban ni Eman: “I am very happy here, such experiences notwithstanding–I think I belong here… I feel no sadness anymore; I only remember… the world we left behind, whose wiles of momentary farce and luxurious living we have to continue to struggle against.”

Sa panahong ito nagsimula ang isang bagong yugto sa panulaan ni Eman. Dati’y komplikado, siksik sa alusyon, at mahirap intindihin ang kanyang mga tula. Sa mga tulang Ingles at Pilipino na sinulat niya sa Mindanao, mararamdaman mo ang tensiyong bunga ng pagtatangka niyang tumalikod sa dating estilo para maging simple, direkta, malinaw. Sa tula niyang “Open Letters to Filipino Artists,” na madalas magamit ngayon sa mga antolohiya, makikita ang ganitong tensiyon sa paghahalo niya ng mga salitang “di-matulain,” pang-aktibista, sa mga talinghaga’t pahiwatig na di agad masasabol sa unang dinig:

We are tribeless and all tribes are ours.
We are homeless and all homes are ours.
We are nameless and all names are ours.
To the fascists we are the faceless enemy
Who come like thieves in the night, angels of death;
The ever moving, shining, secret eye of the storm.

Bago natapos ang 1975, inilipat ng destino si Eman. Sa pinaglipatan, sa Davao del Norte, dumating sa kanya ang kamatayan na madalas maging ng kanyang mga tula.

Ayon sa mga salaysay, isang kasama nila sa kilusan, kilala sa pangalang Martin, ang nahuli ng militar at “nakumbinsing” bumaligtad. Sinamahan nito ang isang pangkat ng PC-CHDF papunta sa baryong alam niyang hihimpilan ng grupo nina Eman.

Apat sina Eman sa grupo. Kasama nila ang isang buntis na babaeng 18 anyos. Wala silang kamalay-malay na nahuli na si Martin, at nang umabot sa kanila ang pasa-bilis na balitang may dumarating na kaaway, kampanteng-kampante sila. Dadaan lang ang mga iyon, nasabi nila. Hindi sila umalis sa bahay ng masang tinulugan nila. Ni hindi nila inalis sa labas ng bahay ang pinatutuyo nilang mga damit at sapatos na nabasa sa nakaraang ulan.

Isang masakit na leksiyon ang natutunan ng mga gerilyang sumunod kina Eman: huwag mag-iwan ng damit sa labas. Nang dumating si Martin na may ginigiyahang pangkat ng PC-CHDF, namataan niya at agad na nakilala ang mga pinatutuyong damit.

Umagang-umaga pa lang noon, wala pang alas sais. Nagkakape ang grupo nina Eman nang umabot sa kanila ang ulat na nasa baryo na ang kaaway. Hindi pa rin sila gaanong naligalig. May pagkakataon pa sana silang tumakas, ero sa tingin nila’y dumadaan lang ang PC-CHDF, nagpapatrol, walang tiyak na misyon. Nakiramdam na lamang sila, naghanda sa anumang posibleng mangyari. Hindi pa rin nila alam na wala na sa panig nila si Martin.

Nang ituro ni Marin ang bahay na tinitigilan nina Eman–“Nariyan ang damit, nariyan sila”–agad na bumanat ang militar. Nagdapaan ang mga nasa bahay, pumosisyon. Ang CO, o commanding officer, nina Eman ay tumayo pa sa may pinto, hawak ang kanyang AK-47, at nakipagbanatan. Hindi malinaw sa mga kuwento kung may armas si Eman. Noon kasing panahong iyon, nakatakda na siyang “bumaba” sa siyudad para muling ilipat ng trabaho–isang trabahong kakailanganin ang kanyang kaalaman sa pagsulat.

Nang matapos ang putukan, ang CO at isa pang kagrupo ni Eman ang patay. Si Eman mismo at ang tinedyer na babae ay sugatan lamang. Inutusan ng militar ang mga tagabaryo na bitbitin ang mga patay papuntang Tagum. Si Eman, na may tama sa hita at iika-ika, ay inialalayan pa ni Martin.

May ilang kilometro pagkalabas ng baryo, tumigil ang buong grupo. “Hindi na lang tayo magdadala ng buháy,” sabi raw ng sarhento na CO ng militar. Unang pinatay ang babaeng buntis. Si Eman ay iniupo sa malaking bato. Pagkatapos ay inabutan si Martin ng .45 at sinabihan, “O, barilin mo.”

Ayaw pang tumalima ni Martin sa simula. Pero mapilit ang militar, at sa bandang huli, ayon sa mga kuwento, si Eman na mismo ang nagsabi: “Sige, Martin, banatan mo na ako.”

Isinubo ni Martin ang .45 sa bibig ni Eman at pinaputok iyon. Sabog ang likod ng ulo ni Eman. Pagbagsak niya, minsan pa siyang pinaputukan. Sa dibdib naman tumama ang punglo.

Pagdating sa Tagum, ang apat na disidente ay inihulog sa iisang hukay. Nang pabuksan ang hukay pagkaraan ng ilang linggo sa harap ng aking ina, nakitang may lubid sa paa ni Eman–isang indikasyon na parang tiniban, parang hayop na hinila ang kanyang bangkay sa daan. Agnas na ang mukha at mga kamay ni Eman, pero buo pa ang mga parte ng katawan niyang nakapaloob sa damit. Nakilala siya ng aking ina sa pamamagitan ng kanyang mga nunal; at kinumpirma ng ilang magsasaka, batay sa suot niyang damit, na iyon nga ang bangkay ng lalaking mahilig sumulat sa palara, marunong tumula, nagtuturo ng mga bagong titik para sa mga dating kanta, nagkukuwento tungkol sa kanyang nakaraan bilang welgista at instruktor sa kolehiyo at artista sa tanghalan.

Iyon na nga si Popoy Dakuykoy, ang “mahiyaing kabataang makata na lagi’t lagi na lamang sumusulat ng huling tula,” ang “kayumangging Rimbaud” na sa kalaunan ay naging “mandirigmang bayan.”

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Eman
by Jose F. Lacaba
(original in Filipino, English translation also by Jose F. Lacaba)

On 18 March 1976, Emmanuel Agapito Flores Lacaba—my younger brother Maneng, better known to friends by the nickname Eman or Emman—was killed in the barrio of Tucaan Balaag, Asuncion town, Davao del Norte province. He was 27 years old.

I remember waiting in a funeral parlor in Pateros, our hometown, for the coffin that was being flown from Davao and fetched at the airport. One of the funeral attendants asked what Eman had died of. “Tingga,” I said. He didn’t ask any more questions.

Those who knew Eman know how he died. A report came out in the papers that a certain “Manuel Lacaba” was with a group of New People’s Army rebel killed in Tucaan Balaag, and not long after, it was confirmed that the “Manuel” in the news was indeed Eman. Still, questions were asked by those who knew Eman—especially by those who knew him as an award-winning poet and short story writer in English, as a flower child who hung out at the hippie Indios Bravos Café, as an occultist who liked staying with the messianic sets on Mount Banahaw.

The most-often asked question was what he was doing in that remote Davao barrio at the time of his death. In 1976, when martial law was still formally in force and it was difficult to explain these things, my usual answer was: “Perhaps he was doing research. Perhaps he was gathering material for his poems, for a novel, for a play.”

As I write, nearly a decade has passed since Eman’s death, and I guess it is now possible to admit a truth that even now seems difficult to believe: yes, Eman was in Davao because he had decided to cast his lot with the armed struggle.

Eman and I differed in many ways. I used to be reed-thin, I’ve always been sickly, and friends say I am too careful, too restrained; Eman had a fine physique developed through isometric exercises, soccer, and track and field, and in everything he did or went into, he gave his all. In school he was at the top of his class from Grade One to fourth year high school, at the Pasig Catholic College; and when he went on to college, at the Ateneo de Manila University, I believe he managed to maintain his full scholarship until graduation. I, on the other hand, not being as competitive as Eman, was not as consistent a scholar; when I graduated from high school, I was content to get an honorable mention,
and I did not even bother to finish my college course, having lost my scholarship as
a result of low grades.

When Eman and I went through our counter-culture stage, Eman, I heard (we never discussed these things), went into the obligatory experiments with marijuana, LSD, and other mind-bending drugs. I was content with two or three marijuana sessions, and didn’t dare try the harder stuff. And when finally we entered our activist stage, I was content to write polemical tracts and do translations, but for Eman, wading was not enough. He immersed himself totally in the labor movement, and
afterwards he moved on to what activists call the highest level of struggle.

When I was in college and Eman was in high school, we shared a room in Pateros. Four years and a sister came between us, but we were, in the Lacaba brood of six, the closest. When he reached college, I was already in journalism and was often out of the house, and he himself was staying at the Ateneo dorm, and as a result we drifted away from each other. In college and in writing circles, he became “Pete’s brother” at the start, and I noticed how uncomfortable he was in this role; he wanted to get away from the elder brother’s shadow and establish his own identity. If I remember correctly, it was at
this time that he became Eman. He spelled it Emman in those days—with a double m—
though he later came to prefer Eman. At home he remained Maneng, just as I remained
Pepito. I remember kidding him about the new nickname he had chosen to give himself,
but in a few years he had become Eman at home, too, just as I had become Pete; and in
some circles, it was I who came to be known as “Eman’s brother.”

Outside of his poems and other writings, I failed to keep track of the development in his thinking and consciousness. I don’t know exactly when his politicization began, although I remember an argument we had in 1970, when he questioned the concept of “encircling from the countryside” as inapplicable in an archipelago like the Philippines. I probably became aware of the depth of his commitment when he requested me, in 1971, to write on a strike in a small printing press in Mandaluyong—a strike
supported by a working-class alliance to which Eman belonged.

Signposts in the route Eman was taking are the names of his two daughters. In the name of the first, born on the first anniversary of the “battle of Mendiola Bridge” and the siege of the presidential palace by student activists, may be seen the varied and conflicting interests of Eman in those days: Miriam Manavi Mithi Mezcaline Mendiola. The second daughter, born two months after the imposition of martial law, had a simpler, more direct name: Emanwelga Fe.

Emanwelga was in her mother’s womb when Eman joined a support group that beefed up a strike in a Pasig factory. That was one of the last trade-union activities before martial law. The strike was broken up by the police; and Eman—who at this time was teaching Rizal’s Life and Works at the University of the Philippines—was among those truncheoned, arrested, and locked up in the Pasig town jail. Thanks to human-rights lawyer Rene Saguisag, then a Pasig resident, Eman and the others were released. A
couple of days after their release, martial law was declared, and strikes were banned.

Eman’s involvement in the strike, plus his brief incarceration, may have been one reason why his contract as a state university lecturer was not renewed. And it may have been at this time, when he had two children of his own and no regular job, that Eman decided he had nowhere to go but the countryside, no option but to “take to the hills.”

The next thing I heard, after Eman had lost his UP job, was that he was appearing as stage actor for the Philippine Educational Theater Association, he was writing plays, he was studying martial arts, he was writing the lyrics of the theme song of the Lino Brocka film Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang, he was helping out in some film productions. I thought he had found a new field of activity to which he would devote all his energies, but toward the end of 1974, when I was already a political prisoner in Camp Crame, he visited me to say goodbye. He was going to Mindanao.

Mindanao, specifically Cagayan de Oro City, is where Eman and I and all but one of our siblings were born. Mindanao is where my parents met and married. Mindanao is where my father served as a guerrilla in Fertig’s USAFFE unit during the Japanese occupation. Mindanao is not alien territory for us.

After his brief visit, I heard nothing more from Eman, or about him. The next piece of news I got was the one about his death. The day I was scheduled to be released was the very day that papers came out with the news about “Manuel Lacaba.” I remember that General Fidel Ramos, then chief of the Philippine Constabulary, when he handed me my notice of temporary release, asked how I was related to the Lacaba who was front-page news.

I next saw Eman in a coffin, but from the stories of different people I have pieced together the events in the last days of the poet-turned-warrior.

The first place Eman went to, as a member of what was called a semi-legal expansion team, was the city of General Santos in North Cotabato. There were three of them on the team. Two went ahead to the countryside to look for contacts; Eman remained in the city.
Because they needed money to survive, he was instructed to get a job and at the same time study the ins and outs of the city. This may have been the reason why Eman worked first as a conductor on a minibus.

Not long afterwards, Eman got work as a janitor in a karate club. Here, according to a story that is beginning to be part of the Eman legend in Mindanao, a guy working in the same club made life difficult for him. Eman took the guy aside and said: “Look, you don’t know me, so don’t bully me around.” Eman then demonstrated what he knew of the martial arts. It must have been a sufficiently impressive demonstration, because from that time on the bully steered clear of Eman.

After a few months, Eman “went in”—or out, depending on your point of view— to the countryside of North Cotabato. The nom de guerre he assumed was Popoy—an allusion to a comic-book character, Popoy Dakuykoy, who was Eman’s persona in an epic poem that Eman wrote in the Sixties.

Many stories are told of Popoy. The first places his team visited were part of Bilaan territory. Because neither the Bilaan tribe nor the guerrilla unit spoke each other’s language, Popoy would draw the natives and the things he wanted to identify. Through his drawings he learned the Bilaan language in a month and a half.

He also learned to eat a Bilaan delicacy. When native hunters caught a wild boar, they would store the meat in bamboo tubes covered with banana leaves. The meat would be left to rot in the tubes for about two weeks, after which it would be crawling with worms and smell to high heavens. It would then be cleaned, dewormed, and roasted. Popoy was the only one in his group who had the stomach for it. The Bilaans loved him.

Another memory of Popoy is that he was endlessly writing. When there was no more paper to write on, he would write on the backs of cigarette tinfoil. He wrote about everything, and in great detail—his astigmatism, the difficulties he experience in the bush, even the problem with moving his bowels. One day, according to his tinfoil diary, the team had to stop because Eman needed to take a shit. When he had not returned after twenty minutes, his comrades started to look for him. It turned out he had lost his way in the dark.

When he learned to speak Visayan (or rather, relearned it, since it was the language of the first seven years of his life), he put new revolutionary lyrics to some popular songs. The lyrics he wrote are still being sung today.

It may have been from North Cotabato that Eman wrote to a college friend. In the letter, he narrated how his team almost had an encounter with a much bigger group composed of elements from the Lost Command and the Civilian Home Defense Forces (CHDF). An indication of Eman’s background is his comment on the experience, a comment one would not expect from the usual rebel: “As the Book of Changes says, our minds are sharpened by the contact with danger.”

The next lines from the same letter are an indication of the changes that had occurred in Eman’s consciousness: “I am very happy here, such experiences notwithstanding— I think I belong here…. I feel no sadness anymore; I only remember … the world we left behind, whose wiles of momentary farce and luxurious living we have to continue to struggle against.

It was at this time that a new stage in Eman’s poetry began. His early poems were highly complex, allusive, hermetic, obscure; we had, after all, nurtured our verse on objective correlatives and the seven levels of ambiguity. In the English and Tagalog poems that Eman wrote in Mindanao, you can feel the tension created by his attempt to turn his back on his former style and to work for greater simplicity, directness, and clarity. In “Open Letters to Filipino Artists,” for instance, you can feel this kind of tension in his blending of “non-poetic” activist words and the metaphors and allusions
that do not reveal their meanings at first reading:

We are tribeless and all tribes are ours.
We are homeless and all homes are ours.
To the fascists we are the faceless enemy
Who come like thieves in the night, angels of death:
The ever moving, shining, secret eye of the storm.

Before the end of 1975, Eman was transferred to Davao del Norte. It was here that death, a frequent subject of his poems, came for him.

According to the stories told of Eman, a comrade of his in the movement, a certain Martin, was arrested by the military and “persuaded” to be a turncoat. He guided a PC-CHDF unit toward a barrio that he knew to be one of the stops of Eman’s team.

There were three others with Eman; one was a pregnant eighteen-year-old woman. They were not aware that Martin had fallen into enemy hands; and when they received word by courier that an enemy unit was coming their way, they were not unduly alarmed. It was just a unit on routine patrol, they reasoned. They did not bother to leave the peasant house where they had spent the night. They did not even bring in their wet clothes and shoes, which they had left outside to dry.

A bitter lesson was learned by the guerrillas who came after Eman: never leave your clothes outside the house. When Martin arrived with the PC-CHDF unit, he saw the clothes and shoes left out to dry, and immediately recognized them.

It was early dawn, before six in the morning. Eman’s group was having coffee when they learned that the enemy unit was already inside the barrio. The news didn’t bother them. There was still time for them to make a getaway, but they were confident that the PC-CHDF team was just passing through and did not have a specific mission. They simply kept their senses and their trigger fingers alert, ready for any eventuality. They did not know that Martin had been caught and was no longer on their side.

When Martin pointed to the house where Eman’s team was quartered—“Those are their clothes, they’re in there”—the military immediately opened fire. There was no call for surrender, no warning shot. The people in the house took cover and deployed themselves in battle positions. The commanding officer (CO) of Eman’s team positioned himself by the door and shot it out with his AK-47. It is not clear from the stories of the villagers whether Eman was armed. At that time, he was scheduled to “go down” to the city for a new assignment—a task that would have made use of his writing skills.

When the shooting stopped, the CO and one other comrade lay dead. Eman himself and the pregnant teenager were wounded but alive. The military ordered the barrio folk to carry the corpses to Tagum town. Eman, hit in the thigh and limping, was helped along by Martin.

A few kilometers outside the barrio, the group paused. “Let’s not bring back anyone alive,” the sergeant commanding the PC-CHDF unit is supposed to have said. The pregnant woman was first to be shot dead. Eman was seated on a rock. The sergeant handed a .45 to Martin and said, “Okay, shoot him.”

At first Martin hesitated. But the sergeant was insistent, and in the end, according to the story, Eman himself said: “Go ahead, Martin, finish me off.”

Martin put the .45 in Eman’s mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet on exit shattered the back of Eman’s skull. When he fell, he was shot once more. The second bullet hit him in the chest.

When the PC-CHDF unit reached Tagum, the four dissidents were thrown into a mass grave. When the grave was dug up a few weeks later in my mother’s presence, a rope was still tied around Eman’s ankles—a sign that his body had been dragged like an animal’s carcass along the road. Eman’s face and hands had begun to decompose, but the part of his body covered by clothes was still intact. My mother recognized him by the distinct configuration of moles on his body; and a few peasants confirmed, on the basis of the clothes he wore, that it was indeed the body of the young man who wrote endlessly on tinfoil, who could write and recite poetry, who taught them new lyrics for their old tunes, who told of his experiences as a striker at the picketline, an instructor in college, an actor
on stage.

There was no reason to doubt that it was the body of Popoy Dakuykoy, the “shy young poet forever writing last poem after last poem,” the “brown Rimbaud” who had been transformed into a “people’s warrior.” (Jose F. Lacaba, 1985)