The story of Henry Villamor Briguera did not end with his release from a military camp in 1972. For the young journalist, it was merely the end of the first chapter. The true work of his life—the act of remembering—began there, in the grim confines of a detention cell, and would become his most profound contribution to a nation often tempted to forget.
Briguera, a revered lawyer-journalist and stalwart of Bikol media, passed away on September 11, 2025, at 79. But he leaves behind a legacy that is anything but silent: a meticulously kept ledger of memory, a voice from the airwaves that refused to be stifled, and a powerful testament to the idea that a regional story is a national treasure.
His life read like a radio bulletin breaking into a long night: urgent, steady, and anchored in the conviction that memory is a public service. Born in 1945 in Nato, Sagnay, Camarines Sur, Briguera came of age in Naga City just as the Philippines slid into martial law. In 1972, he was among the journalists, lawyers, and activists swept up in the dictatorship’s dragnet, confined at Camp Canuto in Pili.
The detainees, with the wry humor of the imprisoned, named their building “Stalag 1.” Across the way, “Stalag 2” held student activists and labor leaders—names less known, stories more easily overlooked. As a rookie among Bikol’s veteran newsmen, Briguera learned a brutal lesson: truth has a cost, but silence exacts a far greater one.
He would spend the next five decades ensuring that cost was paid in full.
After his release, Briguera channeled his ordeal into purpose. He finished his law degree at the University of Nueva Caceres and returned to his first love: the airwaves. Eventually managing dzGE radio, his program “Isipon Ta” (Let’s Think) became a fixture of Bikol discourse. In print, his opinion column “Bicol Breeze” for the Bicol Mail was a steady force, moving from beat reporting to conscience-keeping. He insisted journalism must be both reasonable and readable, guided always by truth, reason, and justice.
Yet, the debt to those in “Stalag 2” lingered.
In 2010, he published “Bicol Breeze… Stalag 1: Notes of a Martial Law Victim,” an unhurried reckoning with the past. But it was his final act of testimony that cemented his role as a keeper of history. In 2024, semi-paralyzed after a heat stroke and with his eyesight failing, the 78-year-old Briguera raced what he called “pre-departure time.” He dictated into a tape recorder the sequel, “Stalag 2 & Bicol Breeze: Further Notes of a Martial Law Victim.”
It was an act of profound resilience. The book completed the early Camp Canuto story, painstakingly restoring names and narratives to those who might otherwise have remained the “unknown soldiers” of repression. It was archival work infused with intimate urgency—a regional ledger pressed firmly into the national memory.
His public service extended beyond the newsroom. As a Camarines Sur provincial board member and vice-president of the Provincial Board Members Association of the Philippines, he carried his principles into governance. The accolades followed—awards for editorial excellence, community service, and cultural advocacy, including the prestigious St. Peter Baptist Catholic Mass Media Award.
Yet, the accolade he seemed to prize most was remembrance itself. He championed the cause of reparations for martial law victims, urging that the roll of names at the Human Rights Violations Victims’ Memorial Commission never cease, so that those without means would never be without recognition.
“Papa was an inspiration for many Bikolanos,” his four daughters—Katherine, Kim, Karina, and Kristina—said in a joint statement. “He is the definition of a self-made man who helped the needy and spoke for the values of freedom and justice. He was tough and stern, but in the end, he was always a loving father and grandfather.”
Henry V. Briguera’s legacy is clear. To Bikol, he proved that regional journalism is not peripheral but foundational—a breeze that clears the air for all. To the nation, he kept open the ledger of martial law’s harms and insisted on the sacred dignity of naming every victim. And to the world, he showed how one local newsroom, one stubborn voice, can push history toward justice, turning the hurried drafts of yesterday into the durable memory of tomorrow.
His breeze, carrying the stories of Stalags 1 and 2, continues to blow, a lasting reminder that some voices, even after they fall silent, never truly leave the air.#
