In memory of my Father, Beato Aguirre Dela Cruz

By; Guidon Dela Cruz

KALIBO, Aklan – Today, December 31, I remember my father, Beato Aguirre Dela Cruz—more than four decades since he left us, during one of the darkest and most dangerous chapters of our nation’s history.

I was newly graduated then, fresh from university, eager to return home to Kalibo and begin the next chapter of my life. It was October when my uncle, Dr. Ciriaco Icamina Jr., quietly told me that my father was gravely ill. I remember the heaviness of that moment—the kind that settles in the chest long before the mind can fully accept it.

My father was many things: a bright teacher, a gifted writer, a historian, a poet, and a disciplined educator. But above all, he was a man of principle. He came from a poor carpenter’s family, and through grit, sacrifice, and faith in education, he lifted himself from poverty. He believed deeply in learning as liberation, in discipline as dignity, and in truth as duty.

To me, he was strict—sometimes fearsome—but always just. I feared disappointing him more than anything. I obeyed him not out of fear alone, but out of respect. Only later did I realize how much love was embedded in that discipline.

The final months of 1982 were not only painful for our family but frightening for our town. Kalibo was living under the shadow of fear. Stories of the so-called “Lost Command” circulated—paramilitary elements allegedly led by a local constabulary official, enforcing silence through terror. Death threats whispered through households. People disappeared. The air itself felt heavy with danger.

Our family was not spared from that fear. My uncle, Roman Dela Cruz, who published a local newspaper, became a target for speaking out. Manila papers carried stories of unrest in Aklan. One morning, as I prepared to bring my ailing father to the clinic, I opened our gate and saw human waste deliberately left there—a message meant to humiliate and intimidate. The same was done to my uncle’s home.

It was a warning: be silent.

But my uncle Roman refused to bow. I still remember his words—how he told his brothers he would stand his ground, even if it meant dying in his own home. At the time, I could not fully grasp the weight of that courage. My world revolved around my father’s weakening body, around medicine bottles, quiet prayers, and the fear of losing him.

I never imagined that those final months of 1982 would be our last together.

On December 31, 1982, my father passed away.

Eight months later, the nation would awaken to another tragedy—the assassination of Ninoy Aquino. Only then did many fully understand the darkness we had already been living through.

Today, as I remember my father, I remember not only his life, but the era that shaped it and took him from us. I remember a man who chose integrity in dangerous times, who raised his children to value education, courage, and conscience. I remember a father who lived quietly but stood firmly for what was right.

And as the years pass, I realize that his greatest legacy was not just what he wrote or taught—but the strength he planted in us to endure, to speak, and to remember.