Carmen Guerrero Nakpil went quietly on July 30 at 1:30 a.m. It might seem death sneaked up on her, as they say, like a thief in the night. But that’s hard to imagine. She allowed nothing to happen to her other than on her own terms, and that was how it was: She died in her own bed, in her own home, and, there’s good reason to suspect, in her own time. She bothered no one as she went.
Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, one of the country’s most eminent writers—a columnist, essayist, author, as well as a public servant and international technocrat—died peacefully at 1:30 a.m., July 30, at her
The Battle of Manila (Feb. 3-March 3, 1945), the single deadliest urban warfare fought in the Asiatic-Pacific Theater of World War II, literally annihilated the downtown area of the city and caused an estimated 100,000 noncombatant civilian deaths by ‘Sword and Fire,’ i.e., Japanese mass killings and the indiscriminate shelling of the US.”
On the morning of Sept. 23, 1972, a driver from Graphic magazine, headed by Don Antonio Araneta, called to inform me that our boss, Luis (Morik) Mauricio, had been arrested and that the building had been padlocked. Martial law had been declared, and staffers more radical than I were being hunted down. The military had swung into action.
In high school, four decades before I became a senior citizen, I turned to three writers as models of good writing: Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, Kerima Polotan, and Gilda Cordero Fernando.