11/11 Remembrance

opulencevision
Nov 14
11 min read

Updated: Nov 15

The Portal of the Past is the Key to Gratitude for the Present

On 11/11, as some of the world paused to remember the soldiers who gave their lives for our freedom, I found myself thinking about my grandfather and his younger brother — two young men from Bataan, Philippines, who lived through one of the darkest chapters in human history.

During World War II, they were stationed in Bataan when the Japanese invaded. They fought until the very end, and when surrender came, when the Japanese overtook the soldiers in Bataan, they were taken as prisoners and forced to march alongside thousands (approx 78,000 Filipino & American soldiers) in what history remembers as the Bataan Death March. More details on can be found in the National Museum of the United States Airforce website.

On 11/11, we remember the men and women who endured the wars that shaped the world we live in today. Though there are still many problems in the world, this day reminds us to pause - to honour the sacrifices made by those who came before us, and to reflect on how their courage helped lay the foundation for the freedoms we have now.

I know I’ve taken some time off from writing here. There’s been a lot going on, and to be honest, I felt blocked from continuing Dear Humans—which is strange, considering how Dragon Fuel flowed right out of me, with its visions so vivid in my mind.

As 11/11 approached, I had all these ideas of what I wanted to do (go to events, organize my own, or even just do an Instagram Live) but for whatever reason, my body wanted to dance and meditate in my own safe corner of the world, and go inward. So instead of doing all the things, I took the time to reflect on my grandfather’s life for Remembrance Day, as he served in the Philippines during WWII—some of the darkest times in the history of their province.

As the youngest cousin on my dad’s side, I didn’t get to know my grandpa (yes, that's what I called him lol) as well as I wish I had now that I’m older. From the time I could remember, he was always really sick, always needing his oxygen tank nearby. My dad and his brothers took turns caring for him, so I’d only see him during our visits.

Even though we didn’t speak the same language, I always felt so much love from him. I remember playing cards with him and my lola (who lived with us), and how he taught me to play Chinese checkers. I don’t remember much of what he said, but I know he tried to tell me stories about the Philippines whenever we were together. He died when I was in the second grade, and though I was so young and maybe not as close to him as some of my other older cousins, I remember I couldn't stop crying. It was the first time I ever felt the pain of mourning.

I wish I could go back with the maturity I have now—to treat him with more reverence, to truly understand what he went through, and to let him know how much I respect and admire the strength he had to fight and survive. But I’m grateful that I can talk to my dad now, to ask him what he remembers about his father—especially his time during the war.

The Bataan Death March

My grandparents met on Corregidor Island, one of the final strongholds of the Philippines during World War II. My grandfather was stationed there as part of the defending forces, while my grandmother (who died way before I was born) lived on the island with her father, who was also serving in the military. Corregidor was more than just a fortress — it was a world unto itself, filled with soldiers, families, and unbreakable resolve against impossible odds. Last time I visited the Philippines, my great uncle gave us a tour of the island - it had a heavy feeling thoughout the tour, as he would show us the places in which they would hide and strategize against their enemy, and also where they struggled.

As the siege intensified and the Japanese forces closed in, the island became a living symbol of endurance. My grandparents’ paths crossed in those tense days — two souls finding connection in the middle of chaos. When the inevitable surrender came, she had to watch the man she loved be taken prisoner, forced into unimaginable conditions under the enemy’s rule.

I can only imagine what it must have felt like for her — to stand on that island, surrounded by smoke and sorrow, praying for the survival of the man who would one day become my grandfather. Their love endured past the war’s brutality, a quiet testament to the resilience and hope that somehow survived when everything else seemed lost.

Thousands of soldiers were brutally murdered during the Death March, and my grandpa and his brother endured the entirety of it, every gruelling and cruel step. They were forced to walk about 100km on foot, under the brutal tropical sun, with little water and food given. Malaria, dengue fever, and other diseases started to spread among them, and when anyone would slow down or stop, they were instantly shot. When the villagers would try to help them, both the soldiers and civillians were murdered if caught. They were forced to march by the Japanese as a way to trasport them from one base to another, but also as a sign of dominance over the Filipino people.

I will not go into too much detail, especially since I didn't get the details firsthand and because the full details are brutally violent, but you can find more information HERE. I wish I could have one more conversation with my grandfather today, there are so many questions I would ask. How was he treated? Did he lose anyone he loved? How many people did he lose? What kept him going? How did he endure such brutal torture, and how did he come back alive?

What I’ve realized over this past week, through researching and asking my dad questions, is that both my grandpa and his brother found the loves of their lives before they were captured. And knowing how endlessly romantic Filipinos can be, I can’t help but wonder: did they find strength in the love they carried in their hearts? Did the love their women felt for them act as a shield — something invisible yet powerful — that gave them the will to survive and make it back home? Did the love and hope for a future waiting back home give all of these soldiers the courage and strength to endure such unimaginable conditions?

Because what they endured was almost beyond imagination. The Bataan Death March was later acknowledged as an international war crime committed by the Imperial Japanese Army, due to its sheer brutality and the staggering number of deaths. Yet my grandpa and his brother survived — and shortly after, they began to rebuild their lives and start their families.

When I think about it now, I can’t help but feel that the love my grandparents found in each other might be the very reason I’m breathing right now — not just biologically, but spiritually. Their love, their courage, and their will to survive is the reason why my entire family is alive today.

As a little side note, I actually started reflecting and writing this post on Monday night (11/11). And at exactly 11:11 PM, I stumbled on an article about my grandpa’s brother — my great Lolo Carding. That’s when I knew I was on the right path… and that I had to share this (yes, I’m totally that girl 😜). You can read the article HERE.

After the war, he was awarded a Medal of Honour by General MacArthur, something he carried with so much pride. It was always the cutest thing — whenever the medal came up in conversation, his whole face would light up.

One thing everyone knew about Lolo Carding was how deeply loyal he was — a proud patriot of both the Philippines and America. American soldiers fought shoulder to shoulder with him and his comrades, and that bond shaped a generation. When people wonder why Filipinos often hold America in such high regard, this is why: because, during the darkest times, they were allies and friends.

The Comfort Women

As I was researching more about the Bataan Death March and the Philippines during WW2, my rabbit hole directed me to what they called, "Comfort Women".

The “Comfort Women” were women and girls, many of them Filipina, Korean, Chinese, and Indonesian, who were forced into sexual slavery by the Imperial Japanese Army during World War II. The term “comfort women” is a euphemism the Japanese military used — it hides the brutal truth of what happened.

In the Philippines, the Japanese occupation (1942–1945) was especially harsh in areas like Bataan and Mariveles (the province and city my entire lineage is from), because these were key military zones. When the Japanese invaded, local women were often taken from their homes or captured during raids, then imprisoned in “comfort stations” or military garrisons, sometimes in private homes that had been seized.

In Mariveles, as it was a coastal and strategic point (remember, it’s where the Death March began), the Japanese had a strong presence. There are documented cases, though not all officially recorded, of women and girls from Bataan being held there. Many were tortured, raped, and silenced, and the trauma lingered for generations.

Even decades later, many survivors couldn’t speak out due to shame, fear, or stigma, especially in traditional Filipino society. It wasn’t until the 1990s that brave Filipino women began to come forward publicly as part of the Lolas Kampanyera or Malaya Lolas (“Free Grandmothers”) movements, demanding justice and recognition.

I found an article and podcast published by NPR, which you can find HERE. I'm not going to lie, reading this last night had me in tears - my heart was breaking for all of them. I grew up with my lola, and looking back, I know I took her for granted. I don’t know what my grandmothers or the other women in my family went through during the war — the only clear stories we have are of my grandfather and his brother. But considering where they lived and what was happening around them, it’s not far-fetched to imagine that some of the women in my bloodline may have endured the horrors described in that article.

When I look at the faces of the women in those photographs, they look like any tita or lola — they literally look like family to me. And it made me wonder: all the women in my own family, the ones I hugged, kissed, laughed with, and was lovingly fed by… what did they witness and endure during that time? Because the way they loved others, the way they embraced life, you would never guess they carried the weight of that kind of trauma.

Healing Ancestral Trauma

One of the big buzzwords tossed around in spiritual circles is “healing ancestral trauma.” It can sound vague or overused, but there is something real underneath the concept. Many people live only for the present or the future, barely thinking about the past—but our ancestors’ experiences live within us in ways we don’t always realize. Their memories aren’t stored as stories, but as patterns encoded in our DNA. And with every generation, that DNA becomes even more complex.

Science now calls this epigenetics — the idea that our genes carry not only biological information, but energetic imprints from the lives before us. Our bodies remember more than we realize. They remember hunger, fear, loss… and also love, hope, and faith. I believe that within all of us live both the wounds and the strengths of those who came before — and through our lives, we have the opportunity to heal and rewrite the story written in our DNA. But it starts with understanding the fabric of that DNA.

To me, understanding where you come from isn’t about turning yourself into a victim of what your ancestors endured. It’s about seeing your life more clearly—recognizing how the past might echo through your thoughts, your reactions, your fears, and even your strengths. When you see the patterns, you start to understand your story on a deeper level.

As I learned more about the Comfort Women — especially knowing many were taken from the same region my family comes from — something in me cracked open. It made sense of why, in the last year, I’ve felt this deep instinct to protect women and speak up about women’s safety, even when it made me unpopular or cost me community.

This isn’t about blaming men or creating division. It’s about acknowledging something real: throughout history, women’s bodies have been controlled, silenced, used, and dismissed. That doesn’t mean all men are perpetrators — far from it. It means the pattern exists, and the echoes of those traumas ripple across generations. And it shows up in how we relate to each other, and even how we see ourselves.

And when women today say, ‘I feel unsafe,’ or ‘Something doesn’t feel right,’ they’re often still dismissed and not heard.

Understanding my own lineage — the war, the suffering, the silence — helped me understand why I respond the way I do, why I’m sensitive to these things, and why I feel called to speak up. It’s not coming from anger. It’s coming from love, empathy, and a desire for healing and protection.

Healing ancestral trauma isn’t about reliving old wounds. It’s about finally giving voice to the things generations before us had to hide in silence and shame, so that the cycle doesn’t continue. It’s not just about stopping the cycle, but acknowledging the truth of the past and transforming that inherited pain into strength. That’s how we evolve.

Maybe that buried pain shows up as trust issues, insecurity, self-consciousness, or people-pleasing tendencies. When we understand the trauma that was passed down to us, we can soften a little — because some of the traits we judge so harshly in ourselves aren’t “failures.” They’re echoes. They’re emotional fingerprints left by the ones who came before us.

And although carrying that weight may feel overwhelming, the fact that you’re here reading this means something important: your ancestors got you far enough in life that you now have the safety, freedom, and tools they never had. You are the turning point they prayed for. You are the one who gets to heal what they could not.

The more I learned — about my grandfather’s fight for Corregidor, my great-uncle’s survival and pride, the love stories that bloomed in the shadow of war, and the unspeakable suffering of the women in Bataan — the more I realized that none of this is separate from me. Their strength, their silence, their wounds, and their hopes… they live in my blood.

And whether we acknowledge it or not, all of us are carrying something from the people who came before us. Some of it empowers us. Some of it weighs us down. But all of it shapes us.

Remembering them isn’t about getting stuck in the past — it’s about finally understanding the present. It’s about seeing why we feel the things we feel, why certain patterns show up in our lives, why certain fears or sensitivities run so deep.

This journey into my family history cracked something open in me — not just grief, but clarity. It reminded me that healing doesn’t always start with fixing the future. Sometimes it starts by turning around, lighting a candle for the ones who never got to tell their stories, and saying: I see you. I honour you. And this cycle ends with me, as a new cycle begins.

Explore Your Own Ancestral Story

If anything in my story resonated with you, maybe this is your moment to look back too… not to reopen wounds, but to reclaim the strength and wisdom hidden behind them. Here are some steps you can explore to get started:

1. Ask: What stories do I actually know?

What are the oldest stories I remember hearing about my family?
What stories were told openly… and what topics were avoided?
What did the women in my family endure? What did the men endure?

2. Map your emotional inheritance.

Write down:

traits you’ve “always had”
patterns that keep showing up
fears or sensitivities you can’t logically explain

Then ask:
Could this have started before me? Do you see a connection between your patterns and your ancestry?