“But sadly, the more good you do for your fellow Filipinos in this country, the sooner you get to your grave.” — Mae Paner

by Pablo Tariman

She could have been my daughter

Or a neighbor’s sister.

Who would think of even

Killing her Monday night

On her way to a boarding house?

She is a church worker

And mother of an 11-year old girl.

How do you break the sad news

Of her mother’s death

And the bullets that riddled

Her young body?

She could have been a good teacher

In any rural school.

But she chose to live

With farm hands

Living an exploited life.

To her

There is more nobility

With just being

The voice of courage

In a hungry, poverty-driven milieu

But life has better things

To teach her.

She found strength

Just living with the poor

And finding ways to empower them.

She knew she had it coming

When she lived a life

Inside detention cell

For two hapless years of her life.

It was then that

She learned to fear no one

While coping with death threats

In the remaining days

Of her life.

She probably drew fortitude

From the death

Of constituents

Whose lives also ended

Biting cold bullets

In their last working day

On earth.

She didn’t fear

The state’s death squad

Inspired by a leader

Caught showing a dirty finger

On national television

On the day her life ended

With a rain of bullets.

I cannot imagine

How her daughter’s life

Would proceed without her.

Gone are the motherly nights

When she’d find courage

Just reading stories

To her dear little one

Still hopeful

For a better day.

She has remained

A profile of courage

Even as she has lost count

Of more dead friends

Waging a good fight

In the countryside.

I like her brand of courage

And the nobility of her mission

Which you cannot say

Of that mad man

Running this country.

Not even the deadly virus

And threats of bullets

Could stop her

From finding strength and solidarity

With her exploited people.

She will find tears useless

On the day her coffin

Is lowered to her modest grave.

To be sure

She can use roses

Falling on her coffin.

The gentle thud of soil

Falling on her grave

Is enough to remind one and all:

She lived a brave struggle

Even during the dark days

Of the deadly virus

And of a brand of leadership

That has gone down

In such state of disrepute.

Yes

Her bravery was one of a kind.

And her name was Zara Alvarez.

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