In the summer of 2003, inside Room 401 of Vinzons Hall, I sat beside a soft-spoken, lanky young man clad in a collared shirt, slacks, and leather shoes. His name was Wendell Gumban. For a while I was concerned that I underdressed for the occasion (the two of us were to be introduced as new writers of the Philippine Collegian, or Kule). It turns out, this was his everyday attire.
Over the next years, we’d navigate the busy life of student-writers together. Presswork nights were always pressure-laden, but Wendell, whom we soon began to call Wanda, took it in stride. To stay awake, he would wear blankets like a Grecian gown, and sashay through the room like a pageant candidate. Occasionally, he would unbutton his shirt and knot the hems together, revealing his chest and midriff. He would dance on the tables in ‘performances’ that delighted us. Now that I think about it, they might have been more for himself than for us. He was coming to terms with a huge part of his persona.
We were at the cusp of adulthood, still developing our taste in fashion, literature, and music, which at the time depended on what we could find in ukay-ukays, thrift bookshops, and Limewire, respectively. But it is a testament to Wanda’s maturity that he soon learned to devote his attention to things far greater than himself.
He never worried about being able to wear branded clothing or hang out at the hip places, as many teenagers are wont to do. Instead, Wendell exemplified simplicity, and spent most of his time doing Kule work or attending his meetings over at the League of Filipino Students. He was fond of walking around the campus to get to his sources, a plastic shopping bag with his things in tow. By most accounts, he never owned a proper bag.
Writing for Kule would expose him to social realities, and further his growth as an activist. During the tribute, Lisa read part of his column which revealed his firm grasp of what it means to write for the people. He knew that his pen was a mighty weapon in the struggle for social justice.
After graduating, I would meet him time and again during big mobilizations, and there was no mistaking it because he was the only person who called me “Meglah!” I saw him last at a SONA rally around five years ago, this time sashaying along Commonwealth Avenue. I learned that he joined the public information department of Kilusang Mayo Uno, but I did not know until last week that he later went to Mindanao, as a fierce red fighter of the New People’s Army.
The ideology Wanda and I embraced puts so much emphasis on possibilities for change, for transformation in both the political and personal realms. But listening to those who met him after college, I was fascinated that there was a Wanda I knew in each story. Somehow, he has changed so much, but also didn’t. And every anecdote pointed to what I have always thought Wanda was: A good person. Isn’t this how we all want to be remembered?
Even during arguments – among writers and activists, these are commonplace – I cannot remember Wendell ever raising his voice or losing his temper, or complaining about the amount of tasks heaped upon him. His was a quiet resolve, one that allowed him to rise above (in Filipino, “igpawan”) disagreements with people, and focus on what truly matters: The Revolution. It was also this resolve that would let other people, especially his own family, understand why and how this revolution must be waged.
I had the great fortune of meeting his parents the other day. I broke down shortly after introducing myself to Nanay Edna, and the mother who just lost a son comforted me (what a disgrace I am to my profession). After regaining my composure, I asked if they had any special request for the set-up. More flowers, perhaps? She said everything was fine, and that more decor would be a waste since they are leaving by 11. “Ayaw pa naman ni Wendell nang may nasasayang.”
To be able to do away with excess and to resist the trappings of money and power are virtues of a Communist, and how Wendell embodied them! I nodded when, at some point in his opening prayer, Pastor Genesis talked about pagtatanggi ng sarili or self-denial for a bigger purpose as a lesson that can be learned from Wanda’s story. Here was a gay man who overcame the expectations of the petty-bourgeois world, as well as the limitations of his eyesight and slight frame. He survived more than five years living with the country’s poor peasants and Lumad, having the simplest meals, carrying himself through the rough terrains of Mt. Diwata. I am sure he often slept with no roof above his head, always cognizant of the possibility of meeting death. But he stayed because he fully understood what the struggle was about.
And so, last Thursday, the chapel was filled with activists old and new, who came to honor Wanda’s ultimate sacrifice, to mourn their loss of a son, a brother, a friend, a comrade, a hero who served the revolution until his last breath. And when Internationale was played, everyone, including Wanda’s family, raised a clenched fist.
Even in death, he lives.
Highest salute, Wanda!
Read more stories about youth martyrs here.
