Before Sept. 7.

(From Philippine Daily Inquirer)

Byline: Ina Alleco R. Silverio

MY dad, Florentino Silos Silverio, died last Sept. 7 of an aneurysm. He was 55. He would have been 56 last Oct. 16. Days before that day, instead of panicking over what book, CD, shirt or shoes we would get him, my mother and elder sister Majalla gathered fragile, yellow flowers to put on his grave in Santiago, Isabela. Yellow was my father's favorite color.

He gave me my name. I was six when he first told me what my mouthful of a name meant: "Ina" means "Little Girl" (I forget in which language. When he gave my kitten Mariah her name, he said it meant "wind."); "Alleco" is the combination of the first name and surname of a dear friend, political officer Alexander Cristoforo who was killed during martial law; and "Allende" is obviously lifted from the name of Chile's President Salvador Gossens Allende who was assassinated by orders of the United States government.

He took charge of my religious upbringing. He taught me the tenets of Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism and Judaism when I was growing up. He didn't allow me to be baptized in the Catholic Church right away, making my mom afraid her youngest daughter would go straight to hell. Papa always said children should be allowed to choose their religious beliefs, if they wanted to have any. He said children should be taught the differences between ideology, faith and religion first-these and the differences between religions right down to the historic and political contexts that formed them.

For a time I wanted to practice the Jewish faith. I had read "The Diary of Anne Frank" and liked the idea of Hannukah, with the dreidels, potato latkes and shining brass menorahs. But then Dad told me all about Gaza, the anti-Zionist movement, the Palestinian struggle and how young children fought alongside their parents with bows and arrows, rocks and slingshots to defend their side of the border.

Then I wanted to be a Buddhist, and got interested in the idea of reincarnation. I was ready to shave my head and walk around with a begging bowl. But Dad said I was too picky with food, and much too headstrong and proud to rely on the kindness of strangers. He also said that there was such a thing as class exploitation, and if reincarnation were true, most of the cockroaches and other pests must be big businessmen and landlords in their original lives feed off the sweat of others. What clinched the argument for me, though, was his warning that if I were ever to reincarnate, given all the headaches I had caused my yayas, I'd be reborn as a tick or a termite.