Thank you all for coming here as we say goodbye to my dad. Since he passed, there’s been a flood of messages, flowers, tributes, and letters from around the world — from family, friends, comrades, diplomats, activists, and organizations. Some I knew, many I didn’t. What they all had in common was deep respect and sorrow, and a recognition of the life he lived with unwavering integrity. He inspired many — not with charisma or grand gestures, but with patience, principle, and presence.
It has been more than a week now since dad passed away at the hospital. I am glad and thankful that I was able to see him there. When I arrived at the hospital the brain damage was already severe according to the doctor, but when I would speak to him his eyes would still open and his face would give me the impression that he heard me and recognized me. I am thankful that those moments I was able to thank him for being the dad he has been for me and tell him that I love him.
This last week so many memories of my dad crossed my mind. Of course I have the memories of him in his political role publicly speaking at gatherings, endless meetings or speaking to the press the first time we returned to the Philippines in 1986. But my fondest memories were my times with him, my mom, my wife and the boys, titas and titos, and friends in the Philippines or in Ireland. So I would like to share a few experiences of my father as a family man.
And let me say this clearly: he was not an absentee revolutionary father. Even with the demands of the struggle — the endless meetings, travel, negotiations — he was always present as a father and husband. He was there for my mom and me not just as political exiles, but as a family. He told stories. He made jokes. He showed up — emotionally, intellectually, and physically. It took a lot of logistic juggling, but he tried — and that mattered more than anything. And I appreciate this even more now as a father myself than when I was a child.
Dad was more than a father to me. He was my mentor, my drinking buddy and most of all my best friend. We had our own shorthand, our own rhythm. He gave me space to be myself, and he trusted me with who he truly was, too. I always felt that he would support me and be there for me no matter what. I still remember when I was fourteen years old and had an operation in the hospital, he just stayed beside my bed for hours and hours. I could not speak because of the operation, but he would just sit beside me to be there for me. He did not seem bored and he did not seem to be bothered at all.
As a teenager my dad became more and more of a friend. We would play ping pong together for hours and he would teach me different techniques and styles of play. We would watch basketball games until very late at night. I still remember vividly watching with him the 1991 NBA finals between the Chicago Bulls and the LA Lakers, Magic Johnson vs Michael Jordan. Staying up together until 4 am, watching the game and discussing the plays.
Also we would play basketball almost every week. We would play the Young Ones vs the Once Young. The Young Ones would be the team with my friends, more or less the same age. The Once Young was the team with my dad, Joma, and others. Even though we, the Young Ones, were younger, faster and had much better stamina, it would take us a long time before we figured out how to beat the Once Young who would outsmart us all the time.
My dad would also enjoy having a drink with his family and closest friends. During those moments memories and stories would be shared and of course there would be a lot of laughter. He could laugh so hard, it would fill the room with joy and others would laugh with him.
The last few years my dad was physically getting weaker. He would not be able to walk long distances on his own, so he would have to be supported. He was also a proud man and he did not want to use the walker he had. Because he needed some help walking I also got precious moments walking together with him. We would walk around the park near our house or if he was feeling energetic, we would walk to Fort aan de Klop. During those walks we were able to talk a lot. He would share many memories. One of those was his experience to visit Palestine and meet the Palestinian people. He was so touched by their kindness, but also their fighting spirit. He had visited Sabra and Shatila shortly before the massacre there had taken place in 1982. The fact that many of the people he had met and seen were massacred shortly after his visit, was something he would never forget. He would since then always follow the events in Palestine closely. Until the end he would follow the news on what was happening in Gaza and even keeping track of the number of people killed.
Aside from being a dad, he had an incredible relationship with my wife and our two sons. He was a proud grandfather. To his grandchildren, he is just papa Louie. He delighted in their company, answered their questions with depth like when my son had read his graphic novel and asked him questions about it. He loved them so much. Papa Louie was a big sports fan and nothing gave him more joy than to watch his grandsons play basketball. He would watch as many games as possible and sometimes even two or three games on a day. At a certain point the other parents in my son’s team believed that his presence would bring good luck to the team. They may have been right. That team won all the games that season, except one where Papa Louie was not able to attend. After the games he would analyze and we could talk about it for hours. I surely will miss those talks and moments.
Last weekend my family and I went to Blanes, Spain for an international basketball tournament. Papa Louie and Mama Nena were supposed to be with us. I had already checked them in and my mom had already started packing their bag. Unfortunately Papa Louie had his stroke and would not be able to see the boys represent a Filipino team in that tournament. When I was there in Spain on the balcony of our apartment looking at the sea and looking up to the beautiful sky, I suddenly felt he was there silently with us. I am now confident he did see the boys play beautiful basketball the Filipino way in Spain, puso basketball! As the coach would say: “You play with your heart and with your mind.” I like to believe papa Louie also lived that way.
He lived his life on his own terms, in service of a people he loved, and a cause he believed in deeply. He gave up privilege, position, and personal comfort — not out of bitterness or ideology alone, but out of a deep moral conviction that freedom, justice, and dignity are not privileges for the few, but rights for all.
And he didn’t just say it. He lived it. Every day. For decades.
And for that, I am proud. Very very proud.
And now at this very moment I am also sure dad is with me, just like in the hospital when I was a kid. He is just there beside me all the time being the dad and grandfather he loved to be.
