Leaving in Silence
Niño Saavedra Manaog
Naga City
April 1999

The day Raul Bonoan, S.J. died, members of the Ateneo
community and those around him and even those who only
knew him were deeply grieved, and virtually most
members of the Ateneo de Naga University—students,
teachers, administrators, and alumni—were utterly
devastated. The sad news was broadcast in several
radio stations around the city for days, until the
time the body was brought from Baguio to the library
of the new university, the academic institution which
he had gradually revived through a decade of hard work
that realized a long-term vision.

During the wake, the open yard was in deep mourning—a
black cloth draped the four pillars, a hollow silence
roamed the new pavements and long resided in the empty
hallways, and an arcane stillness sprawled in the
campus. As has always been, death again invited
silence into the sprawling domain, and immensely
evoked reflection from every person who knew him, or
whom he knew. Everyone who went to his wake—from his
family to his friends—had a story to tell, brief or
bold, to anyone, or to everyone else. Each of them had
his story, very uniquely his own. No one could ever
tell him of any truth, or what meaning he could derive
from such a fact—the head Jesuit is dead.

How does a Jesuit die? It is a question not everybody
in Ateneo can answer, not because it does require a
definite answer, but because one need not be an
Atenean in order to provide a good one. Yes, anybody
who knows a Jesuit by heart can most probably tell a
story about that Jesuit whom he or she knows—his or
her moments with him, whether trivial or significant,
are indubitably worth telling—and can further share
insights from these experiences. He or she only has to
be honest with himself or herself in order to do so.

To know a Jesuit by heart is to know a person who
brandishes soft-heartedness, displays strong will, and
exudes generosity. To know one by heart is to know
oneself and how it is set to experience wonderful
moments from vivacity, maintain zest for life, and
nurture hopefulness amidst dillusionment and
affliction. It is to be perennially moved and even
haunted by a lofty vision which can be foreseen in
oneself. To initially know a Jesuit is to watch
oneself grieve as that Jesuit leaves in silence. It is
then to be greatly assured that something is beyond
this grief, or that grief renders something more. To
really know this Jesuit by heart is to constantly die
with him and ultimately, resurrect with him.

When Father Rolly left in silence, his death did not
only convey sorrow, morbidity or grief to those he
left behind. It also yielded inner peace,
tranquillity, and insightful anticipation among the
constituents of the community which he virtually
reestablished—the open yard called Ateneo. Ateneo is
the yard which he chose to adorn and eventually
perpetuate; it is the same yard whose good
constituents will later immortalize him. Later, later.

But why did Father Rolly leave in silence? Simple, in
silence he chose to depart because it was necessary
for him. Silence may have meant many things to him and
one—a solemn communion with the Divine, his foremost
Superior for Whom he had constantly worked all his
life. Frankly it would have been so difficult for him
to leave that way, especially when through life all
that he had done was to make people realize awesome
things about themselves—recognize and enhance their
talents, pursue their lofty dreams, and go back to
where they come from, where they could serve their
fellowmen.

When this Jesuit died, he left everyone around him his
enormous silence. He had to leave that way anyway, not
because his great time was already through, but
because greater things for him have yet started. Now
he has a longer way to go, and now all that they have
is his silence. This silence, however, may in essence
mean a whole lot of things to them, but they are all
great and good. Certainly, all great and good.

But how does a Jesuit die, really? How does a
strong-willed person die? And how does the softhearted
mortal evolve into something higher than itself? Why
does life take away its one wonderful blessing? Does
it really take that blessing away? Or does it provide
something more to take its place? Does it not take so
much effort to gain back a spirit worthy of emulation,
or a soul deserving of eternal exaltation? Does it not
create so much exhaustion because the strong-willed
person has become a stubborn soul who would not
abruptly leave his mortal body? Does it not grieve the
Creator Himself to see that soul’s earthly dominion
decay, and watch his friends die in weeping? Have his
friends wept enough? How else can they weep? Is it
enough to weep? Isn’t it greater to do something more
than weep? Someone said mere grief is not enough. The
mourner, whoever he or she may be, would soon realize
something beyond grief. Sooner, sooner.

Life is bluntly painful. More bluntly, death is even
more. In death, all the pains suffered through life
come to culmination. On this occasion the mortal gets
to experience an agonizing yet ecstatic moment to
regain itself. It has to regain itself because all the
life’s harsh circumstances have soiled, marred, and
transformed his inner good self into an ill one—one
that now needs healing, one that now needs redemption.
No one ever knows whether one’s movements and efforts
in his life can by themselves redeem the soul to
eternal glory. No one really knows how Somebody higher
than we all are does it. Not one of us. And it is this
agony and ecstasy that create the devastating pain
which in due time kills the mortal body; the same
affliction that gives birth to, or rather
appropriately, frees the soul to eternity.

Yes, life is painful, and death is even more painful
because it entails something more. Something beyond
all this pain, something beyond here and now. What is
beyond this painful present is what they often call
“Life Part Two,” or what Dolores O’Riordan calls a
“higher dimension,” something largely beyond what is
barely known. Let us not talk about death. We do not
deserve to talk about it, for we have never been
there. Not yet. It is always deemed wiser to talk
about things we really know more, or much about. Let
us talk about death’s better half.

Let us pursue life and be inspired by one of its
wonderful blessings—Father Rolly. We know more about
this man than his death or anything it entails. Let us
talk more about this man, for we may not know much
about him but, to the very least, we know something
about him. Certainly, whatever that may be, it is
constantly worth telling.

nino manuel saavedra manaog jr
April  6, is the fifth year of Fr. Raul Bonoan's death.
This is Niño's tribute to the man who resurrected Ateneo de Naga from its ashes.