Seated quietly on the balcony of our home in Bonuan Binloc, just a few meters from the Lingayen Gulf, memories come rushing back like the tide. Now long retired from public office, we find ourself returning not to the thunder of parliamentary debates or the corridors of diplomacy, but to the soft echoes of childhood — to Dagupan as it once was.

We were 10 years old when our humble town became a city on June 20, 1947, by virtue of Republic Act No. 170, the City Charter of Dagupan, authored by the illustrious Pangasinense Eugenio Perez, Speaker of the House during the First and Second Congresses of the Republic and co-founder of the Liberal Party with President Manuel Roxas. Even then, history seemed to quietly unfold around us, though we were too young to grasp its full weight.

Our earliest memories of Dagupan were shaped by wide lowlands and muddy swamps cradled by the West Philippine Sea. With my brothers and cousins, we spent sun-soaked days chasing bangus, crabs, and shrimps in the fishponds before the summer rains arrived. These were days of mud-streaked faces, scraped knees, and unrestrained laughter — days of freedom, independence, and youthful daring. We would sell our modest catch at the market, proud of the few coins we earned with our own hands.

At the corner of the ground floor of our two-story home, we set up a wooden pool table, rented out by the hour. Alongside it were comic books and worn magazines for curious readers willing to part with a few centavos. Money was always scarce, but our small ventures taught us early lessons in imagination, enterprise, and survival.

Before we even turned ten, we had already seen the best and the worst of life. We survived the terror of World War II. But only months after General Douglas MacArthur’s landing in our town, we lost our beloved mother, Casimira, to tuberculosis. She was only 45. Her passing left a silence in our home that no celebration of victory could ever fill.

Our childhood home in Pogo Grande stood only a short walk from the Lingayen Gulf, the very shoreline where General MacArthur landed on January 9, 1945, and where General Masaharu Homma had come ashore on December 22, 1941. In the days leading to liberation, American planes attacked enemy positions in the Lingayen airfield while warships thundered from the sea. Dagupan shook under shellfire, and many innocent lives were lost, perhaps because the fleet did not yet know that the Japanese troops had already fled toward the Mountain Province.

Still, amid the smoke and ruin, one unforgettable image remains etched in our heart — General MacArthur himself, standing at the Home Economics building of our wartime school, now West Central Elementary School, smiling and waving at the crowd. We were only nine, but we knew we were witnessing history. We were also delighted by the kindness of American soldiers who handed out chocolates to us, who spoke English and eagerly pointed the way to streets and landmarks.

When the war first swept northward, we were only five. As Japanese troops advanced toward Pangasinan, our family joined the sea of evacuees fleeing Dagupan. Our father believed the safest refuge was our family farm in Santa Barbara, 15 kilometers away. We left our home in a horse-drawn calesa, carrying only a few belongings — and our fear, clutched tightly in small hands.

Years later, it would be our son, Congressman Christopher, who would champion the restoration of the now-famous “MacArthur House,” transforming it into a heritage site so future generations might remember what was fought for on our soil.

Today, as we look out upon the calm waters of the gulf from our balcony in Bonuan Binloc, it is almost impossible to reconcile those fragile old memories with the Dagupan of today. The city has grown into a vibrant, bustling center — famous for the world’s finest bangus — and alive with colors and lights. This is no longer merely a city that survived history. It is a city that transformed adversity into energy, hardship into hope.

Dagupan’s story is our story, a testament to the resilience of Dagupenos who learned to rise after every fall. Its journey mirrors the unbroken spirit of its people. And as the city continues to grow and evolve, we are comforted by the thought that its legacy of courage and perseverance will endure, guiding future generations, just as memory now quietly guides an old man seated by the sea.

Listening to the waves, we realized that in the end, all roads — no matter how far they take us — still lead back to where we first learned how to dream.