Croisade (Translation: Crusade)
"Mom was a revolutionary."
Marce couldn't help but smile at the highly romanticized words. It was definitely now part of the Dimatulac-Benitez family lore. Everyone in the clan knew now about how Liway D. Benitez had defied her overbearing husband, set down her babies for the first (and last time in many years) just to join the multitude who had blockaded off a main road in the heart of the city. Of course no one failed to remark on how this 'fiery spirit' had been passed down to her third daughter, the child born four years after the revolution.
"Born for the wrong time."
"If she'd been a teenager in the 70s, she surely would have taken to the hills."
"Activist from the cradle, huh?"
To this very day, the words still echoed in Marce's ears, even as she adjusted her hold on her own infant daughter. "But I don't want to burden you with that, Alix," she whispered in her child's ear. It had been thirty-two years since the revolution, but many of the same problems; the same political impunity and oppression still remained. In fact Marce's own scarred body was a testament to the still lingering specters of the past. She used her free hand to adjust her top to cover the numerous lines on her shoulders and back before returning to bouncing the still fussy child.
"Mama!" another voice chirped. Marce smiled as she sat down on a low chair so that her eldest child, Andrei, could climb on her lap. At a year and a half, the boy was a force of nature, with enough energy to wear his parents out on most days. He had the same impish grin as his father had, and promised to turn out with the same sense of humor.
"What have you got there?" she asked him.
"Yellow!" Andrei replied, holding up a sheet of paper streaked with yellow. "There!" he added, pointing to the fluttering pennants outside.
The young prosecutor bit her lip on seeing what her son was pointing to. "A double edged motif," she whispered. Thirty-two years ago, that had been a symbol of freedom. Today, it was a fading mockery of the cause, a reminder of the oligarchy that still had a hold on the country. "Will you two ever be free of it?" she wondered silently as she hugged her son close.
She knew as early as now that people would be telling her children the same things that she'd been told about her own mother. "But I don't fight to save my life," she thought. If ever, saving her own life would have meant living quietly, settling for a living as a lawyer in a private firm, or perhaps doing something else. Yet she'd chosen to go into the public arena, to work as a fiscal and prosecutor in a regional trial court. The post was fraught with far too much danger for most people's liking. "But if it means a safer world for my kids, then I'll do it," she reminded herself.
She dared to hope, for a moment, that the crusade would end with her. Maybe her grandchildren would be hearing different things about their own parents. If she played her cards right and all went well.
Marce couldn't help but smile at the highly romanticized words. It was definitely now part of the Dimatulac-Benitez family lore. Everyone in the clan knew now about how Liway D. Benitez had defied her overbearing husband, set down her babies for the first (and last time in many years) just to join the multitude who had blockaded off a main road in the heart of the city. Of course no one failed to remark on how this 'fiery spirit' had been passed down to her third daughter, the child born four years after the revolution.
"Born for the wrong time."
"If she'd been a teenager in the 70s, she surely would have taken to the hills."
"Activist from the cradle, huh?"
To this very day, the words still echoed in Marce's ears, even as she adjusted her hold on her own infant daughter. "But I don't want to burden you with that, Alix," she whispered in her child's ear. It had been thirty-two years since the revolution, but many of the same problems; the same political impunity and oppression still remained. In fact Marce's own scarred body was a testament to the still lingering specters of the past. She used her free hand to adjust her top to cover the numerous lines on her shoulders and back before returning to bouncing the still fussy child.
"Mama!" another voice chirped. Marce smiled as she sat down on a low chair so that her eldest child, Andrei, could climb on her lap. At a year and a half, the boy was a force of nature, with enough energy to wear his parents out on most days. He had the same impish grin as his father had, and promised to turn out with the same sense of humor.
"What have you got there?" she asked him.
"Yellow!" Andrei replied, holding up a sheet of paper streaked with yellow. "There!" he added, pointing to the fluttering pennants outside.
The young prosecutor bit her lip on seeing what her son was pointing to. "A double edged motif," she whispered. Thirty-two years ago, that had been a symbol of freedom. Today, it was a fading mockery of the cause, a reminder of the oligarchy that still had a hold on the country. "Will you two ever be free of it?" she wondered silently as she hugged her son close.
She knew as early as now that people would be telling her children the same things that she'd been told about her own mother. "But I don't fight to save my life," she thought. If ever, saving her own life would have meant living quietly, settling for a living as a lawyer in a private firm, or perhaps doing something else. Yet she'd chosen to go into the public arena, to work as a fiscal and prosecutor in a regional trial court. The post was fraught with far too much danger for most people's liking. "But if it means a safer world for my kids, then I'll do it," she reminded herself.
She dared to hope, for a moment, that the crusade would end with her. Maybe her grandchildren would be hearing different things about their own parents. If she played her cards right and all went well.