On My Last Walk by the Sea

In the dim light of pinkish dawn, as Cuidad de Manila began to steer clear from the remains of its slumber, I stood neatly dressed, embarking on my last walk by the sea from the fortified walls of Fort Santiago towards the open fields of Bagumbayan. The air was cool, laden with a mix of anticipation and solemnity, a stark contrast to the warmth of the rising sun that painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson. Holding rosary beads handed by my 70 year-old mother after my last supper, I moved with a composed stride, my heart heavy with reflections on my life’s endeavors, my aspirations for my country, and the imminent end, awaiting the year 1896 in the cool month of December 30th.

I was halfway the rosary beads when I first sighted an eagle that seemed to be somewhat lost. I couldn’t tell to where it was flying, yet my thoughts swayed.

Among the gathered crowd, an anonymous young teen watched from a distance, his presence marked by a silent curiosity. Perched atop of Acacia tree for a better view, he represented the eyes of the future, witnessing the culmination of a pivotal chapter in my nation’s history.

The stonewalls of Intramuros, which had nurtured my early academic pursuits at the Ateneo de Manila, now stood as deathly silent sentinels to my final moments. I could almost make out the faces of my alma mater’s ageing gatekeepers, but I wasn’t sure if they were craning their necks to greet me, or simply gleaming at the spectacle of a dead man walking. I could see in their yawns they woke up so early or had little sleep, or both.

As we resumed our walk, the vibrant life of Bagumbayan poured into sight. Seagulls circled overhead, heralding the dawn with their cries, while turtles peeked from the calm waters of Manila Bay, oblivious to the human drama unfolding not in the distance. Calesa and carromata drivers halted their carriages, their passengers standing in silent homage, while the ordinary citizens on barefoot, a diverse tapestry of Filipino and Chinese faces, paused in their daily routines to witness an execution or could it be history in the making?

Not a few mustered the courage to take their hats off, an apparent respect for someone they had known so little, or perhaps an act of defiance to the Crown. Fewer than few had seen my face yet they knew my name more than many — as if I was somehow important. The thrust of my two novels, Noli me Tangere and El Filibusterismo were ingrained on their lips, yet to the many who could neither read nor write.

My procession was preceded by Dominican friars, their solemn faces a reflection of the intertwined paths of faith and nationhood that had shaped the length of my years. They kept their mantras in Spanish, intoning in unison, “Padre nuestro que esta en ciello. Sanctificado sea tu nombre…” Their presence beside me, meant to offer spiritual solace, served as a poignant symbol of the complex dynamics between the church and the colonial state.

I was aware of the mixed emotions around me — the solemn faces of guardia civil, the curious, anxious glances from the gathered crowd, who couldn’t make out who was to be executed. I sensed the weight of their gazes, heavy with unspoken thoughts — as they strained another attempt to make sense of the senseless. Some saw me as a traitor, others, as a martyr. With only a few minutes to live and breathe my last, why should I now care? Amidst this, my heart ached for the Filipino people, still so divided, still struggling for the freedom I so ardently wished for them. Do they really deserve to be free? No hay tiranos donde no hay esclavos! [There are no tyrants where they are no slaves.]

I thought of my dear friend, Andres Bonifacio, and the Katipunan’s fierce call to arms. I admired their passion but grieved for the carnage in its wake. I knew Ka Andres must be hurting after I rebuffed his entreaties when he sent his spies to my exile home in Dapitan, Zamboanga. I only wish he didn’t think I was siding with his rival, Emilio Aguinaldo. Between the two, Kapitan Miniong had the edge of uniting our people. But how many more widows and orphans must bewail?

I believed in reform, in Enlightenment, in awakening. I feared that the bloodshed would only deepen our wounds at a time we could afford it the least.

Recollections of my childhood in Calamba, the laughter and love that filled our summer home in nearby Biñan, the crisp air of my youth, my unquenchable appetite for pork sinigang, contrasted sharply with the solemn march to my execution. My schooling, first at Ateneo, Letran, Universidad de Santo Tomas then abroad, had been a beacon of light, guiding my hopes for my country. As more crowd gather with blank stares, I envisioned Islas de las Filipinas transformed by education, by dignity, by respect for all, regardless of race or creed.

Josephine... My heart ached as I thought of her. My love, my confidante, my wife. Marrying her last night, even as the shadow of death loomed, was my final testament to hope, to the belief that love endures beyond the confines of life and death.

As I approached the execution quadrangle, the scent of Manila Bay mingled with the fear and anticipation in the air. The sunrise began to paint the sky, a breathtaking backdrop to the finality of bullets. The ordinary life of Manila continued around us — balut and bibingka vendors setting up for the day, bangus and tilapia fishermen returning with their night’s catch, unaware that a chapter of our nation’s history was drawing to a full close.

In my finest hours, I scribbled My Last Farewell, my final message to the world, secreted away in an alcohol lamp, waiting to be found. Or did my prison guards now discover them? I had poured my soul into those verses, a legacy of love and hope for my countrymen. Yet, I could not tell if it had the ghost of a chance to be read by one soul, or yet not see the light of day.

I professed loyalty to the Spanish monarchy, not out of subservience, but borne of a conviction that the Philippines was not ready to stand alone, or rather be left alone. I admired the cleanliness, self-restraint, discipline and order I had seen in Japan, dreaming of one day such for my own land and people.

As we neared the execution site, the surroundings came into sharper focus; all faces and eyes were now staring directly, glued at me. Yet, I couldn’t tell whether it was pity or sympathy, or somewhere in between. The lush greenery of Bagumbayan was now a backdrop for a somber spectacle, the crowd thickening with anticipation — as if time had now stopped. Young boys perched on trees, their innocent curiosity tinged with the somber realization of the gravity of the event. From afar, I could feel the weight of history unloading on them.

A young Spanish officer who came to my cell last night, introducing himself as Teniente Luis Andrade profusely apologized. I easily spotted him, with his face neatly shaven. Gone was the moustache that moistened with tears flowing he could hardly control in my jail cell. He related when he was told that he’ll be the chief executioner a few days before, he hadn’t had half a good sleep.

The chief of the execution squad, a figure of authority and duty, approached me with a question of final words — a silence was my reply, a testament to the resolve that had guided my actions. When offered the blindfold, a customary gesture to spare the condemned from the finality of their fate, I refused, choosing instead to face my end with eyes wide open. After a moment’s hesitation, my request was grudgingly granted, allowing me the dignity of meeting my fate head-on. I would not be blindfolded.

As my death sentence was re-read aloud, and I faced those who would end my life, I turned, not in fear, but in a silent statement of defiance and dignity. The bullets that would shatter my mortal existence could do little to silence my spirit. I renew my vow to live beyond my remains, hoping to walk with my people on the path to nationhood. The silence that fell over Bagumbayan was now deafening; palpable as the moment of my execution drew near. The chief executioner came to my side, affectionately shook my hands before giving me a look that read to me, he was again asking for forgiveness. Only after I gave a subtle nod, clearing his conscience that he returned to the formation, convinced I bear no grudge to my executioner.

When I was near the center of the quadrangle, the mayor de la plaza, a colonel, announced at the bandillo: “En el nombre del Rey, el que se levante la voz a favor del reo sera ejecutado.” (In the name of the King, he who raises his voice in favor of the criminal will be executed.) A deep silence enshrouded the whole assembly.

Those in the drum corps were about seven paces behind me who then faced the bay. The commanding officer approached the drum corps and told them should I attempt to speak aloud, they should beat their drums hard to drown out my voice. He gave me one last look. I was of regular build, unshaven, quite pale, perhaps as a result of my Fort Santiago cell but I was visibly composed and serene.

A Jesuit priest who was my mentor at the Ateneo de Manila fondly smiled and firmly gripped my left elbow, said a prayer in Latin, sprinkled holy oil and gave me his final blessings. Then a colonel neared me, as the commanding officer gave an order to move two paces backwards, and the firing squad of six Filipinos came forward and took the firing position behind me. With visible effort, I raised my right hand, which was tied and took off my chistera or derby hat. My heartbeat was furious, as must have been in all other executions, I felt tense and nervous. Amidst the silence, I moved my head very slowly up and down, my lips moving as if in prayer. I don’t recall praying so hard.

The chaplain offered me a final prayer, but I, lost in thought, politely declined. “Muchisimas Gracias, El Padre. My final resting place is in the heart of every Filipino.”

As the first light of dawn begins to emerge, a Philippine eagle, majestic and free, soars above. Teniente Andrade: “Doctor, let me ask you one last time: do you wish to be blindfolded?” “No, let me face the end as I have faced life — with my eyes open.” Filipinos soldiers take their positions, their stares locked at the aim, the tension palpable. The moment is interrupted by the swift descent of the Philippine eagle, a moment of nature’s grace.

As I stood resolute, the twilight hours of my life upon me, a cacophony of memories flooded my mind, each one a haunting melody of a life that was soon to dissipate like mist over Bagumbayan. My childhood years in Calamba, where the Laguna de Bay’s endless horizon promised untold tales of Mariang Makiling and adventures, whispered to my empty ears. The innocence of my youth, the joyous cries amidst the verdant fields, and the stern yet comforting gaze of my father and brother — all flickered through my consciousness like the soft flicker of lantern light.

“Father, did I live with the honor you taught me?” my inner voice quivered, seeking the comfort of parental guidance one last time. “My friends, my compatriots, will history be kind to me?” I pondered, the bond of brotherhood stretching across the chasm of time. “To the Filipino youth, may you know a life of peace, may you forgive the failures of my generation,” my heart ached with a father’s love, a poignant counterpoint to the staccato beat of impending finality. And the Philippines, a land that had become both my charge and my wonder — a land of beauty and resilience, of people whose spirit had both defied and moved me.

Teniente Andrade: (loudly) “Ready... Aim...” “Philippines, forgive me. For the suffering, for the tears, may you find it in your heart to forgive.” My respect for the people and the land I had come to know was as sincere as it was fraught with sorrows. The chief raised his saber, a signal that time had suspended its march. Drums were now beating with full crescendo, as if awaiting one word. Teniente Andrade: (loudly) “F-I-R-E…!”

“FUEGO!” as his saber pointed to the blue skies, signaled the firing squad to aim at the man in black. Strangely, I could vividly see the wailing eyes of the six Filipinos in the firing team. I could feel their breathing was labored; their posture was trembling. They gave me the look to mean they’d rather be doing something else. Then the saber dropped and there was another simultaneous crack of rifle fire that shattered the stillness of the morning. I wheeled in one last effort and toppled forward with a thud, my face towards the sky and my derby hat tossed out. I had fallen in the direction of the bay, slumped into the soils of Mother Earth — as dust is returned to whence it came: dust. Oddly, no shots came from the Spanish squad behind the Filipino executioners but their rifles were loaded. Did I miss something? Even as I fell, my spirit soared, free from the bonds of earthly pain and suffering. I watched as a small dog circled my fallen body, its presence a poignant reminder of the innocent lives caught in the crossfire of human conflicts.

As my body lay upon the dew-kissed grass of Bagumbayan, my soul lingered, watching the sunrise on a new day for the Philippines. My death was not an end, but a new beginning — not quite the crack of dawn. A spark that I hoped would ignite the flame of freedom and unity. From the realm of spirits, I vow to watch over my beloved Fatherland and its people, ever hopeful for the day when the Pearl of the Orient Seas will soon emerge, proud and free, from the shadows of oppression and slavery. My love for my country, my hopes for our youth, my dreams of peace and freedom, remain unsoiled. Yet, even as I fell, my spirit remained, observing the aftermath, the dispersion of the crowd, and the young observer descending from his arboreal perch, a witness to history. My legacy, intertwined with the hopes and aspirations of my countrymen, transcended the finality of the hour.

From this ethereal vantage, I can now make out my lifeless body pinned motionless to the ground. As I depart on a higher plane, I could see the Capitan Militar de la Sanidad (medical officer) stepping forward, kneeling before the fallen man in dark suit, and felt my pulse. Looking up, he beckoned to the Filipino firing squad to come forward and give the final tiro de gracia, another shot done at close range. I thought I saw a faint haze rise from my dead man’s coat, but it might have been a wisp of the morning mist. Many thoughts had been spent, still I kept guessing. Seeing my own corpse before me, I felt suddenly weak and devastated. Both the Spanish and Filipino squads fell in formation and marched to the cadence and drums of the Spanish national anthem: La Marcha Real! “Viva España” “Viva El Rey!”

Strangely, the execution scene was again replaying on its own, as if it had to be retold in granular graphic depiction — a few more times: The shots rang out, a final thunderous decree, and as my life ebbed away, my inner voice, once a chorus of youthful dreams and ambitions, now faded to a poignant silence — a silence that would echo in the annals of time, long after Mauser rifles had cooled and the rain had washed my bloodstains on the Bagumbayan greens. Shots echo through the void, a stark finale to my last stand. As my hat falls, the eagle swiftly claims it, disappearing into the gloomy skies. The symbol of my life is carried away, lost to the gale of history, where it was yet to be found. But something was not uncertain. I was dead.

Vee David, Prisoner of Literature, Writer by-the-sea, Miyazaki, Japan, Tuesday, 2 April 2024