I promised not to cry. That is, if I could help it. But should you notice tears cascade from my eyes… should you hear my voice crack… should I suddenly break down… I know you will excuse me. I know you understand. I know you share the grief that I and the rest of my family feel.

Now I must tell you what I need to say.

We are all grieving, for in that casket lies the body of a husband, father, friend, and leader. Lifeless that he is now, but he remains alive in our hearts and in our minds.

Should you ask me to extol the qualities of that man as a husband, father, and friend, I could give you a thousand reasons why he is so beloved. But how was he as a leader? Ask me not — I am his son; what do you expect me to say? So, be the judge.

I dare you — speak in this gathering now. Tell me. Divulge it before this assembly. Has he done anything that tarnished the supposedly good image of a public servant? Has he accepted a single bribe from anyone here? Has any of you ever received five hundred pesos, or a thousand, so you would write his name on the ballot? Don’t be silent. Tell me my father lied when, the night before he died, he assured us that he had never committed an act that would ruin the good name of our family.

I have to admit — there were many times when I was young that I begrudged his being a leader. Why? Because wanting to serve you took away so much time that should have been ours. I’m sorry. I was selfish. I did not like sharing my father’s love and attention

 I begrudged the fact that the families of my father’s fellow public servants went from rags to riches — instant millionaires. Their houses grew bigger while we stayed in the old house my mother inherited from her parents. They drove new cars while my father kept his old owner-type jeep, the same one with the door that never quite closed right, that we had to tie shut with a rope on rainy days. Their children graduated from prestigious universities while I endured the rigors of being a scholar and working student at our state university. I remember how I almost hated my father when the university president offered to admit me as a scholar without an entrance exam — as a courtesy to him. My father refused the offer on my behalf. He said I would go through the same process as everyone else. It’s a scholarship, he told me. I would earn it, or I would not have it at all.

One time, when my family faced a severe financial crisis, I confronted him. “I heard about the bidding for that road project,” I said. “Why don’t you just accept a commission from one of the bidders? Just once, Dad. It would solve everything.” The only response I got was a slap across the face. I would have gotten more had my mother not stepped between us.

Then, from being the head of this town, the people of this province urged him to lead all of it. He accepted the challenge. And then he rocked the boat. What he did for our town, he promised to do for the whole province — rid it of illegal gambling, drugs, and corruption; stop the quarrying tearing up our mountains and rivers; bring our province back onto the map of significance.

The latest surveys showed him leading by a mile. His opponents grew nervous.

Then, a week ago, while he was speaking with some supporters at our house, a visitor arrived — a man flanked by a slew of bodyguards. One of them carried a large traveling bag. He asked us to simply call him Mr. Chua. My father’s supporters stepped outside when the conversation began. I stayed. I was asked to open the bag, and there I saw bundles of crisp thousand-peso bills.

“Withdraw from the race, and all of this is yours,” Mr. Chua said. “There’s another bag like it in my van, if this isn’t enough. Refuse, and you know what happens.”

My father looked at me. Then he stood, walked over to Mr. Chua, and slapped him across the face. “How dare you bribe me in my own house — in front of my son.”

Mr. Chua wiped the blood from his lip. “You made your choice,” he said.

The visitors left, and took their money with them.

(pause)

The following day, while delivering a talk at a public meeting — what I had feared was coming, what I had somehow always known was inevitable — came to pass. My father met his tragic end. A hail of bullets, reportedly from two gunmen, took his life.

Now we are grieving. Crying. Lost. A flock left without its shepherd.

You have asked me if I will continue my father’s fight. I told you, once, that my father asked me never to follow in his footsteps.

(pause — let this land before continuing)

But for the first time in my life, I will go against my father’s wish. Forgive me, Father — but I feel obliged to continue what you started. They killed you, but the flame of change you kindled will not be extinguished by the bullets they sprayed on you. Your blood spilled is not water poured to douse that flame — it is gasoline that will keep it burning.

My father will not carry his reforms to the grave. I will run in his place. His vision for a better life for all of us in this province will not die with him.

It will live in me.

One time when my family faced a severe financial crisis, I confronted my father and said, “I heard about that bidding for that road project. Why don’t you just accept a commission from one of the bidders so our problem will be solved? Just once, Dad!” The only response I got from him was a slap in the face. I would have gotten more had my mother not intervened.

Then, from being the head of this town, you urged him to lead the whole province. He accepted the challenge. Then he rocked the boat. What he did in our town he promised to do to the province…rid it of illegal gambling, drugs and corruption…stop the quarrying being done in the mountains and rivers…bring our province back to the map of significance.

The latest surveys show him leading by a mile. His opponents got very nervous.

Then a week ago, while talking to some supporters, a visitor came to our house, a man accompanied by a slew of bodyguards. One of them was carrying a large traveling bag. He wanted us to just call him Mr. Chua. The supporters of my father went out when the talk started. I stayed. I was requested to open the traveling bag, and there I saw bundles of crisp thousand-dollar bills.

“Withdraw from the race, and you’ll have all of these. There’s another traveling bag in my van, if that is not enough. Refuse it, and you know what will happen.” Mr. Chua said.

My father looked at me. He stood and approached Mr. Chua, then slapped him. “How dare you bribe me in my house and in front of my son?”

As Mr. Chua wiped the blood from his lips, he said, “You made your choice.”

The visitors left with their money.

The following day, while delivering a talk in a meeting… what I considered inevitable… what I feared was certain to happen… came to pass. My father met his tragic end. A hail of bullets, reportedly from two gunmen, killed him.

Now we are grieving. Crying. Lost. A flock left by a shepherd.  You asked me if I could continue my father’s fight. I told you that my father asked me never to follow in his footsteps.

But for the first time in my life, I will go against my father’s desire. Forgive me, father…But I feel obliged to continue what you started. They killed you, but the flame of change which you kindled will not be extinguished by the bullet they sprayed on you. Your blood spilled is not water doused on that flame but gasoline that will keep it burning.

My father will not bring to his grave the reforms he sought. His visions for a better life for all of us in this province will not die with him.

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(NOTE: Used by the BULPRISA for their 2016 declamation contest – High School Level.)