Women Were Supposed to be Safe There

I was 20 when I joined the New People’s Army.

I remember how clear everything felt back then. I was angry—righteously angry—at the injustice I saw around me. At the silence of institutions. At the way people like me, people like us, were always expected to endure. So when I found the movement, I thought I had finally found a place where that pain could be turned into something powerful. Something meaningful.

In the beginning, it felt like that. We lived simply, side by side. We shared burdens and beliefs. We read revolutionary texts by flashlight and bathed in rivers when we were lucky enough to find one. There was hardship, yes, but there was also a sense of family.

I believed the mountains would teach me discipline and direction. I thought the struggle would fill the holes that society carved in all of us. And in many ways, it did. I learned how to read terrain, how to move silently, how to sleep with one eye open. I learned what hunger really feels like, how to survive on cold rice, salt, and my treasured pinakurat (sinamak), how to look calm even when gunfire was echoing in the trees.

Our first few encounters were chaotic. Loud. My hands shook, but I moved because everyone else did. I told myself, this is what commitment looks like. The bullets never asked if we were ready. You just reacted, and then you processed it later (if you had the luxury of quiet).

There were days—actually, most of the time—when we’d trek for hours, clothes soaked and bodies sore, yet we still had to keep going because the intel (masa) warned that there were footprints of soldiers nearby, signaling that an encounter could break out at any moment. I’ve seen comrades fall. I left my husband’s body on the battlefield. I’ve stared at the stars at night with the sharp awareness that tomorrow isn’t promised.

But even in all of that despite the firefights and the fear. I still believed we were safer there than in the world we left behind.

𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞.

It wasn’t the armed encounters that scared me the most. It was the silence that followed certain looks. The quiet suffering of some women. The way complaints were folded into “discipline” or “personal matters.” There were things we weren’t supposed to talk about. Things that would “weaken the guerrilla unit.” Things that made women uncomfortable.

I was supposed to be the strongest woman in the unit. I was supposed to be the one who was vocal about it, the one who spoke up and fought back. But I chose not to speak. Not for others—no, I stayed silent for myself. I embraced the doctrine of “politics in command,” believing that personal matters must always be subordinated to politics. “Ang personal ay dapat nakapailalim sa pulitika,” they said. It was part of the patriarchal society we were in—where vulnerability was seen as weakness. My pride became more important than my own welfare. I couldn’t be seen as weak. I couldn’t be seen shedding a tear about what happened.

So we stayed quiet. Or we tried to forget. Or we made ourselves believe it wasn’t that bad.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬.

There are stories I still keep inside. Some because they’re not ready. Some because I’m not.

𝐖𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

And maybe that’s all I can say for now.