A Life After December 26

I used to mark December 26 with quiet pride.

While most families were still gathered around leftover ham and laughter, I was somewhere in the mountains, mud on my boots, a rifle on my shoulder, convinced that this day meant history, sacrifice, and purpose. 

The anniversary of the Communist Party of the Philippines was, for me, a reminder that I was on the “right side” of history, that I had chosen the hard but noble path, the path that would end the suffering of our people and finally bring a system of governance that genuinely served them.

For almost three decades, I believed that with my whole being.

I missed Christmases. I missed birthdays. I missed my children growing up, their small hands, their school performances, their questions of why I was never around. I told myself, and was told, that this was selflessness. That serving the revolution meant serving my family too. That one day, when victory came, my children would understand why I wasn’t there to tuck them in at night.

I loved my country fiercely. I was willing to die for it. And for a long time, I thought that love justified everything.

December 26, back then, was not just a date. It was a constant validation. It was reassurance that all the pain, hunger, fear, and separation were necessary steps toward a promised future. We sang revolutionary songs with conviction. We spoke of the masses as if we were inseparable from them. We believed that suffering purified us, that doubt was weakness, and that obedience was discipline.

But years of war have a way of stripping slogans bare.

I saw comrades break, not because of the enemy, but because of internal cruelty, arrogance, and silence. I witnessed debates that were never truly debates, only rehearsals of who could echo the Party line better. I saw how principles were preached loudly but practiced selectively. We claimed to serve the masses, yet slowly, painfully, we became distant from them, deciding for them without listening, speaking in their name without standing beside them.

The hardest truth to accept was that the revolution did not fail mainly because of external forces. It failed because of our own weaknesses. Because even the most basic principles we swore to uphold such as collective leadership, accountability, respect for the people were violated again and again. Because criticism was punished, not welcomed. Because fear replaced conscience. Because somewhere along the way, the movement began protecting itself instead of the people it claimed to serve.

And in that process, we lost our humanity.

Today, December 26 means something entirely different to me. It is no longer a celebration. It is a reckoning.

It is the day I remember the cost of blind belief. The years I cannot return. The Christmases I will never relive. The wounds, visible and invisible, that war left on my body and soul. It is the day I acknowledge that loving your country should never require abandoning your family, silencing your doubts, or surrendering your moral compass.

To the young ones reading this, especially those who feel angry, idealistic, and desperate for change, I understand you. I was you. Your passion is not wrong. Your desire for justice is not wrong. But do not let anyone tell you that sacrifice must mean losing yourself, your family, your friends or your ability to think.

Do not confuse suffering with righteousness. Do not confuse discipline with fear. And do not believe that a movement that cannot correct itself can ever truly liberate others.

Real change is not built on romanticized war anniversaries or inherited slogans. It is built on truth, accountability, compassion, and the courage to admit when a path is no longer right.

This December 26, I choose reflection over celebration. Healing over heroics. And a love for country that begins with honesty, so the next generation will not have to learn these lessons the hard way, as I did. Now, I end this story on a different note, one of light. 

Today, I happily celebrate the Christmas season with my family, with my children whose laughter now fills the spaces that once echoed with absence. I celebrate with relatives, friends, and even co-workers, sharing meals, stories, and ordinary moments that I once thought I had to sacrifice forever.

I still believe deeply in loving this country and the Filipino people, but that love has found a healthier, more grounded expression. In my own small ways, I continue to contribute to the push for good governance as a government employee serving not through war, but through work, integrity, and accountability. 

As Christmas comes, I now pass by December 26 quietly, as a day of hard-earned lessons rather than celebration. And as the year turns, I always welcome the New Year with renewed excitement, carrying with me faith, hope, and above all, love, genuine love Pro Deo Et Patria. Yes, for God and Country.