When I was a child I felt that it takes nothing to grow older to gain true freedom. I thought it was only a matter of age when I would be in the state of making decisions of my own. One day, when already adult, I would no longer obey to what is not mine. I would break free, would be independent in my thinking, in my judging, in my values and norms, in my decisions and in my doing. One day I would be free!
But time does not only make us grow older; it also educates us. We get to understand more and better our surrounding, our society, our environment, our political and cultural background, so we soon realize that there is more about freedom than ever we knew when we were still young. Not only does the awareness of what all freedom can mean grow with knowledge and understanding of the world, we also get to realize that to gain or maintain freedom we need to care well and often times even fight for it. Freedom can never be taken for granted as it is a value for all and thus it is always limited by the freedom of the other: Every one may gain happiness in his own way, if only by pursuing this he does not encroach on the freedom of the other in gaining the same for his life. Thus freedom is not just expression of the self but needs to be understood in social context. The demand is high and among all, those in power are tempted and endangered most in extending their freedom on account of others. Yet wherever and whenever leaders antagonize their peoples' freedom this would generate a fertile breeding ground for this human yearning.
Every now and then there would suddenly be simple people who dare stand up and fight for freedom. People we hardly ever know and whose number is huge: Some students of universities, someone's brother, someone's cousin, wife or friend, someone's neighbour or son. Just ordinary people who are ready to use their abilities to in their ways fight for freedom. Philosophers have elaborated on its phenomenon and definition, scientists have analysed conditions in which freedom is possible, artists have increased their audiences' sensitivity and awareness for it, writers have poured out on their readers some attitude and consciousness of freedom.
Many times however these very people, whom we consider heroes, have to face prosecution as the freedom they stand up for challenges the might and influence of those in power. These heroes have in all times contributed to the freedom we have the grace to know about and maybe even live. And by the time we get aware of their efforts and sacrifices we celebrate them as their effect on our life in remarkable. Yet equally true is that these heroes many times sacrifice and suffer much. Their path is a painful one.
Such a hero we were bound to meet on that rainy April day. Heavy clouds would darken the spring time sun and I felt reminded of gloomy and cold winter which I had hoped to have already overcome by then. We were heading for Wilhelmsfeld that day. My company was another German and two Filipinos. It was Saturday and we had only that one day off, and it was raining. Also it was our first time to go there, and we did not know the place, so while I was driving my companions tried hard to read the simple map we had to guide me there. The roads were narrow and signs to tell the way were rare. We were travelling the countryside and it appeared to me we were the only ones there. But we were all set to reach our destination, despite those wet and pattering drops on the screen of the van. Finally we made it and we passed by the orange-yellow sign that says "Wilhelmsfeld." It is not a really big place, so I felt convinced we would find the park we sought all by ourselves. However we accidentally entered at least two wrong junctions and a school yard. I had to make a u-turn, and while I was still busy handling the steering wheel one of my Filipino friends suddenly cried out: "There he is! I just saw him!"
So I parked the van and we stepped out into the rain, opened our umbrellas and walked into the park. And indeed, there he was, this little Asian man who did not appear that small to me. There he stood, holding an academic book and a pen for his writing. He was with his academic mentors Otto Becker and Rudolf Virchow and his friends Karl Ullmer and Ferdinand Blumentritt. Josè Rizal, just a doctor of medicine, an eye specialist. A person who stood up to fight, to write for freedom. A poet, a simple man ready to sacrifice.
I approached the statue, looked at it for a while. Indeed, heroes sacrifice much, their path is one of pains. And then, as I walked closer, I saw it: the tear coming from Rizal's eye running down his face.