An Open Letter to the Disciples of Art
We don’t have tribes, all tribes are ours.
We don’t have houses, all homes are ours.
We don’t have names, all names are ours.
For fascists, we are the enemy that has no face
Like assassins, we come out at night, angels of death
We are always on the move, shining, eyes of a storm.
We took the path rarely traveled
Because of that, all things, everything changed.
Sooner or later, we must become
Barefoot army of the forests. Awake, the masses become the Redeemer.
Here, with the workers, farmers, our Lost Generation have found their true, and only, home.
– Emmanuel F. Lacaba (1948-1976)
(Isang Bukas na Liham Para sa Mga Alagad ng Sining. Translated from Filipino. Translation mine.)
Today is August 21.
The significance of this date may be lost to a whole generation of selfies, texters, twitters, acolytes of Mark Zuckerberg — the Prince of Cool.
I was 3 years old when it happened.
Now, it has become the stuff of urban myths, disconnected legends, stories that may (or may not) have been twisted out of proportion.
He was just as bourgeois as Jeane Napoles — okay, Janet too.
The difference with him and them was that he died.
No matter what story anyone submits, the fact is, he is dead and you (and me) are alive.
The whys and wherefores of his death — well, he left that for us to deal with.