Today is the 100th birthday of my father, Jesus Alejandro Paredes Jr. We have not seen him in 58 years. On the occasion of his birthday, my siblings and I have gotten together to reflect on his life and death. Nine out of 10 of us made it to an intense two-week reunion that ends tonight with a siblings’ dinner — and surely a lot of singing and laughter — in his honor.
Our reunion began on March 17, the 58th anniversary of the airplane crash that took his life, along with President Magsaysay’s and 25 others on a lonely mountain outside Cebu City. Then on March 19, the nine of us who made it to the reunion, with some cousins and nieces, made the trek to Mount Manunggal to see the crash site.
One of my brothers had been there 11 years ago and he’d been telling that we should go. It was cathartic for him, he said, to be in the place where Dad perished, and in the quiet of the mountainside, contemplate his life and death. This year, it finally happened. Nine out of 10 siblings flew to Cebu in two batches, where we drove in three cars up and down a winding road on a beautiful highway, and turned off into a dirt road that led to a clearing on Mt. Manunggal from where we would take the trek down to the crash site.
It didn’t even cross our minds that we were all seniors aged 63 to 77 and in varying stages of health and physical flexibility. We just had to do this. It was time.
Going down to the crash site was easy enough. In rubber shoes and uniform T-shirts produced by the next generation (who call themselves the Paredes mafia) commemorating their grandfather’s life, we gamely began our trek. It was not a long hike down. There are concrete steps that mark the trail along a ravine, and railings in some parts. The ridge is deep with lush vegetation of tall trees and giant fern and there are signs in Cebuano asking trekkers not to touch the plants and help keep the mountain green. We were at the marker in a few minutes.
The marker is the plane’s engine cast in concrete and set on a small shady clearing. Old and unkempt, it is not an official marker of the National Historical Commission and the concrete is chipped and cracked in many places. But unlike other historical markers in unseen and unguarded places, there was no graffiti on it. On its side is a list of those who perished and their designations. Another panel with a citation telling the story of the crash with another list of the fatalities is posted on the mountain side.
There were cabinet members, military officers, a senator, a congressman, a relative of the president, some security personnel and various other presidential assistants on the flight. My dad was wrongly identified as “Capt. Jesus Paredes” with the designation, “pilot.” Some non-historian had played a guessing game! My guess is, since as presidential speechwriter, Dad didn’t fall into an easy category, whoever made up the list decided it would be safe to assume he was someone who had flown with the president with an official designation. Hence, a pilot?
It was awesome being on that tiny clearing shaded by trees with my siblings (except our brother in Florida who could not make it to the reunion), each of us dealing with our own emotions. We spoke in hushed tones, unable to finish our sentences. On the way there, as I viewed the ridge, I tried to imagine my dad at the moment of the crash. Did he panic? Did he pray? Was he thrown out of the airplane at the moment of impact? Did he suffer? But here, at the monument that marked the end of his life, I closed my eyes and saw with my mind’s eye, Dad smiling at us, telling us that all is well, and blessing us, the children he left behind, who are now way older than he was when he died.
Our eldest brother Jesse led a short prayer, and Jim, who was five when Dad left us, spoke fervently, addressing Dad directly. It was a tearful, cathartic moment. I held on to the concrete marker, wanting to embrace it for its connection to my father. My heart felt like it would burst out of its cage. Then it was over. I could finally let go of my grief.
Lower down the trail, we encountered a sitio with a larger clearing on which was a monument to President Magsaysay built by a local university and a local government unit. We posed for pictures and started on the trek back.
The climb back to the top took longer than going down. It was clear who were more physically fit among us. The more able stayed close to those who could lose their balance and slip into the ravine. Tictac, who at 72 is an avid walker, bested all of us. It was the first time I saw Jesse, who at 77 can outlast anyone on the dance floor, pale and out of breath. However, the biggest emergency was the search for a place where we could help fertilize the forest before the long drive back to the city.
One would expect that the place where a beloved president perished would be officially recognized by the National Historical Commission and maintained by the Department of Tourism for its historical and ecological value. But this should be done without disturbing the hush of Mt. Manunggal, without littering its trails or destroying its lush greenery, and without desecrating the site where 58 years ago, our father perished with President Magsaysay and 25 others in the service of our country.