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| Photo by Mia Seleccion |
Disclaimer: This collection of letters is a work of fiction intended to put into perspective what Dr. Rizal's loved ones would've written for him during his last days. Picture that these never made it to his hands—simply showing you fragments of people who loved him.
To Pepe,
I pray that this letter arrives
to you safely and that through it I can give you the love that they have
deprived this poor woman of giving you. Anak, I wish with all my heart that I
can go to you in this letter’s place, and try to wrap my arms around you for
one last time, without the painful hands of Spanish soldiers pulling me away from you. My
faith in the Lord has never dwindled, but ever since your arrest I have cried
every night, begging Heaven for one last time to allow me to hold you in my
embrace, my beloved child. That may have been the only time I have cried out the Lord's name in vain, but as a mother please do not fault me for wishing to see you again, may it be for the last time.
In your letter, you have asked for forgiveness, but
there is nothing to forgive. A mother’s love sees no fault in her child, yes,
but my heart reaches for you even amidst the allegations of your crimes, for I
know that you of all people wish not for death between enemies, and your dream
of education and reform shall go unheard. Appeals for your freedom have been
cried out, but the government is stubborn; they allow you no pity, and I grieve
for you as early as now, my child of innocence.
I am not sure if the Spaniards
will let this letter reach you, but I pray that you do not hold yourself of
guilt and that no matter what happens, let this foolish woman grieve you to
the best of her abilities, and let me embrace the memories of simpler times of
when you were merely a child that clung unto my skirts, with nothing but a love
for learning and the country in his heart. Hopefully, the Lord will appeal to
my meager wish of meeting you in Heaven, where I can cry out in joy at seeing
my child again, even in Death.
Your mother,
Teodora
. . . . . .
Dearest Pepe,
You may tell
us not to worry, but we do regardless, you are my younger brother, and with that
comes the burden and duty of worrying and wanting to see you safe and with our
parents. I remember when you were a lad, and in your dreams of
youth, full of vigor to attain, that you were to see the gem of the Orient Sea.
You have returned home to us, but at the cost of our dark eyes wet, crumpled
brow held together to a high plane, try as we might without a frown, wrinkles,
nor shame without stain.
Worry not for
our parents, let the gentle light of the moon guide us and lead us into dawn’s
fleeting, brilliant light as we pray for the winds to carry our forlorn sighs.
Brother
dearest, you have done us all proud with your works and poetry and although
that talent has only been blessed upon you, let your older sister pride herself
in remembering what she can and littering this with allegories and references
you would be familiar with in the hopes of bringing you joy in the
penitentiary.
And should a
bird descend on your cross alight, intone a song of peace over your burial
site, we shall clamor your return to the pure and peaceful sky, as we shed our
tears over our beloved brother’s early demise. You were taken from us far too
soon but we shall be alright, what I worry about is how you would stay in the
hopes of dying without fear.
On quiet
afternoons we shall gather and pray, cry and mourn for what we have lost and
someday laugh and smile for what we have gained, we care not for the hero you had
become, but for our beloved Pepe who had humbly left but in spirit had
remained.
Beloved Ate,
Sisa
. . . . . .
My beloved Jose,
My hands are shaking and my eyes
are blurry, but I hope that this letter is legible regardless. Josefa had just
dropped me off at our house, and the quiet air of the home leaves me a sobbing
mess. I hold the book you gave me close to my chest, to my heart. I shall
cherish this book, the dedication, but most of all I shall cherish the happy months
you have given me as my husband, my lover and my friend.
I wish to go back to you, to
reassure you that throughout our relationship, I was not unhappy; my sorrow only
comes from being away from you, and from you being taken away from me. Guilt-ridden, reproachful, pitiful, but never unhappy. How I wish that our child had
survived, so that I may have looked at his eyes and seen you in them, but our
charade of a peaceful family had apparently never been meant to last.
A copy of your books was hidden
away, meager drafts of paper tied together in my hands, and I anguish at the
thought of the reformation you had hoped for may never come to fruition, but
selfishly I anguish at the words of affection Maria Clara is written
with. In
another life, I wish to believe that our wishes would finally be fulfilled, having been allowed to grow old
together, with children at our side and love in our hearts. I shall try to
be as inspiring as you are my love, and that you may forgive not only me but
also yourself for any transgressions you have blamed yourself for.
Forever yours,
Josephine
. . . . . .
My Dearest Brother,
My dearest friend, my closest brother, I know that you shall die an innocent man, a free man in that your conscience is clear and your mind tranquil. I know of your great love for your mother nation and your countrymen, and that the only sin you have ever committed would be of loving them greatly, too greatly. We are brothers not through blood, but through the academe. Through writing, I shall mourn and celebrate your legacy. Through writing, I shall remember you fondly. You may have made the first attempt at our lifelong friendship, but I shall be the one to carry out the legacy of our friendship and aspirations through the pen, the way you would have intended.
You have
mentioned time and time again on how I influenced you, and I want to tell
you that it is the same for me. You may have looked for my approval time and
time again, but it was never needed for your judgment in itself was sound
enough, a talent in the academe and in writing. Through the pen, you have
inspired countless lives and forged a path of brilliance ahead, myself
included.
I have and
forever will remember you as a good man, a man that did all that he could for
his country and raised his banners up proudly, yet never sacrificing his
morals. Fear not, my friend, I shall never think ill of you, when you have done
all that you could to be good and just, choosing the path that would lead to
the least bloodshed. You were never one for violence so I shall mourn quietly,
somberly, quiet in my days until I see you again.
Adieu, my dearest friend,
Blumentritt
