We have our own special hero in the Family. He died in June last year. He was my grandfather, but I called him Papa when he was still alive. A graduate of the Philippine Military Academy, he rose to the rank of colonel. He had served abroad as a military attache. He had seen action in Korea, had been to China in the line of duty, had rendered service to his country in Laos before it fell to communists and had been ROTC corps commandant of the University of Sto. Tomas. We still keep his mementos of Pope Paul VI's visit there in the Seventies. I can imagine the joy he must have felt at the time.

According to one or my aunts, when martial law was declared, my grandfather opted who were detained for speaking out against the excesses of the New for a civilian life. A few years later, my mom was one of those who were Society. From their house in Quezon City, Papa and Mama (my grandmother) would go all the way to rehabilitation camp in Bicutan to visit my mother. They rode in jeepneys, buses and tricycles because by then the car he had saved for a long time to buy was beyond repair.

Mom says Papa never sought any special treatment for he, although most of the soldiers, especially the officers in the camp, knew him. There wasn't a dearth of opportunities.

Mom told me that once Papa had a man-to-man talk with a high- ranking military officer whom he knew quite well. The officer had sought out my grandfather after my mother was detained.

She never found out what they talked about, but she says that when Papa next visited her, he was very quiet. On that particular day, he didn't tell her any stories about home to cheer her up. He merely stroked her head as if she were still a child and looked at her with very sad eyes. It's been almost twenty years since it happened, but my mom says she can still clearly remember that look in his eyes.

Papa had only one wife, one family, one house and one car. He never became chairman of the board of any company. He never owned any stocks and never played the rich man's game of golf. To his dying day, he and my grandmother made do with their pensions and whatever their children shared with them. He had his dogs, his small garden, and he had us. He lived a simple life. He wasn't poor, but her wasn't rich. He was just our Papa who happened to play a mean game of chess, the ultimate in war games.

Papa loved God, his family and his country, and sought to serve them in the most honest, courageous and loyal way he knew. When he died his aged comrades came to the funeral parlor. One was nearly senile. A few were feeble. Most offered their sincerest condolences.

There was one who stood out from the rest of them. He was among the few who gave mother their calling cards. A real corporate big shot who talked about his scheduled "Total European Tour' while my grandfather's mortal remains lay in coffin. My mother tore up his card and flushed it down the toilet.

Was Papa a hero? In our hearts and our minds, he is. Heroism isn't just about medals, you know. Neither is it about being rich and famous. It most certainly isn't about people arguing over whether or not he deserved to be buried in the Libingan ng mga Bayani.

Heroism is a life lived meaningfully, positively, admirably.

Heroism is not simply about fighting tough during war, or being a leader, or sacrificing others for the perceived good of the majority, who unfortunately has the proverbial silence of the lambs or the differences of stones.

Heroism is not about hearing paeans to one's greatness or getting reams of copy about one's achievements.

Public adulation doesn't matter, True heroes know this. 

Civilians can be heroic. We see it from day-to-day. The father who toils long and hard and honestly for his family. The mother, who keeps the family together, no matter the sacrifices. Taxi drivers who don't give in to the temptations to run off with valuables their passengers left behind. Students who don't bribe teachers. Teachers who actually teach instead old bluff their way in class. Clergy and laypeople who remain true to the Christian values of honesty and solidarity with the poor, never sacrificing principles for expediency, promoting social justice. Hospital personnel and owners who put saving lives before generating profit. Politicians and government workers who know they are public servants and behave accordingly. Media people who tell the truth even at the risk of ruining their own lives.

Is it any wonder that true heroism is often equated with stupidity? Why take the hard road? Why sacrifice? Why pass up opportunities to put one over one's fellow? Why speak the truth when it is easier and safer to lie or be apathetic? Why not dance to the music? Why be a fool? 

Why, indeed. Only the depraved needs to ask. Heroes are not depraved. 

Heroes are noble. My grandfather was not perfect. But that is exactly why his gallantry shines. In an imperfect world, he strived to do what was good and just before the eyes of his Creator as best as he could. When he made mistakes, he did not deny them nor blame others, he simply asked for forgiveness. He humbled himself for the sake of Someone greater.

We laid Papa to rest in Loyola Memorial Park. There was an offer to bury his remains in the Libingan ng mga Bayani. We passed it up because it's not the cemetery that delines and gives meaning to what he was when he was alive. His legacy of dignity is something we treasure deep within.