I’ve always been fond of using the word “character” to describe
something I like. That chair has “character”, that shirt has “character”, that
building has “character”. I’m not sure where I picked that up, but I enjoy
describing things or people that way. I guess it’s because, in my head
anyway, when something has “character”, it means that it has a story to tell,
as opposed to, for example, a chair that is really just a chair, or a shirt
that is really just a shirt, or a building that is really just a building.
Which is one of the reasons why I’ve always found the notion of
a “simple” life fascinating. How is it possible? Even a person who has
practically nothing in life, and who has never left his house, is still a
complex individual, if only because of his reasons for having nothing, or for
not wanting anything. No one is ever truly simple; we are made up of
rationalizations, impetuses, emotions, thoughts and ideas, so much so that to
ascribe the word “simple” to any of us is to insult the very nature of our
humanity. Even people who do not think are complex, if only we take the time to
understand why they do not think in the first place.
I remember my grandfather, the son of a married man and his
mistress, who grew up in one of the poorer towns of Pampanga. He was a farmer,
who managed to raise 8 children properly, all with college degrees, and who all
work as professionals. He lived a “simple” life, simple in the sense that he is
not greedy, or lustful, or ambitious. He just wanted to give his children a better
life than he had. So I’ve always thought of him as a simple man, one not
prone to self-aggrandizing stories, or ambitious dreams. He preferred the
sidelines, always shining the spotlight on everyone else except himself.
And then he told me this one story, during the
Japanese-American-Philippine war, when he joined
the Hukbalahap movement, which was then a military arm of the
Communist Party of the Philippines. He was a rebel soldier, one of many who
wanted to fight against the Japanese empire’s invasion of the Philippines in
WWII. He never elaborated on his reasons why he went and joined the Huks,
only that he did, because, as he said, he felt it was the right thing to do at
the time.
And he recalled the time when he was caught by Japanese
soldiers, and he and his comrades were arranged neatly in a row so that they
could all be killed efficiently. He was kneeling on the ground, with a rifle
pointed at his head. He was waiting for what probably seemed like the
inevitable when the soldier shot the gun and, of all
things, tripped. My grandfather swore he felt a bullet fly next
to his head. He thought it was the most amazing thing.
Then chaos ensued. My grandfather realized that another group
of Huks came in before the soldier could try shooting at him again.
Some more fighting went on. My grandfather kept his head and ran, seeking
cover. He was astonished that he managed to make it out of there alive. He
could not believe his luck.
And he told me that that is the reason why he considers his
life, and my dad, and uncles, and aunts, and his grandsons and his
granddaughters’ lives as gifts. He was supposed to have died, and yet he
didn’t.
After that story, I could never look at my grandfather the same
way again. How can someone I thought was so simple have a story so wonderful
and complex? I learned, once again, how people, even the ones you know, can
surprise you.
I realized simplicity is an illusion. To be human, necessarily,
is to be complicated.
Featured photo taken here.
