I do not write for this generation. I am writing for other ages.

Hear, O children of memory and destiny, the immortal words of José Rizal, martyr, visionary, and father of the Filipino nation: “I do not write for this generation. I am writing for other ages. If this could read me, they would burn my books, the work of my whole life. On the other hand, the generation which interprets these writings will be an educated generation; they will understand me and say: ‘Not all were asleep in the nighttime of our grandparents.’” These words, uttered in defiance of oppression, reveal the heart of a man who knew that truth, once written, cannot be confined to his time but becomes a torch passed down to ages yet unborn.

For Rizal lived in an age of colonial darkness, when freedom was strangled and the cry for justice was silenced by fear. His novels, Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, laid bare the corruption and cruelty of his day, not in the shallow hope of immediate reform, but as seeds planted in the soil of history. He foresaw that his contemporaries, still blinded by chains, might reject him, denounce him, even destroy his works. Yet he believed that another generation, awakened by education, would see the light he had kindled and know that he had kept watch while others slept.

This is the meaning of his words: truth is often rejected by the present but embraced by the future. Many prophets, poets, and reformers have lived this fate. Consider Galileo Galilei, who was condemned in his time for proclaiming that the earth moved around the sun. His writings were forbidden, his name tarnished by power. Yet centuries later, mankind hailed him as a pioneer of truth. What Galileo was to science, Rizal was to liberty: misunderstood in the moment, but destined to be understood by generations yet to rise.

There is also in Rizal’s words a profound faith in education. He declares that only an enlightened generation will truly understand him. This is no despairing statement but a hopeful prophecy. He trusted that knowledge would awaken the Filipino people from the stupor of oppression, that one day they would read his words not with fear, but with pride. He saw that learning is not merely the mastery of letters, but the awakening of conscience, the power to see injustice clearly and the courage to resist it.

History fulfilled his prophecy. Though his books were condemned by authorities, they became sacred texts of the Philippine Revolution. Though his life was cut short by execution, his death became a spark that lit the fire of freedom. And the generations that followed have indeed looked back upon him and declared: “Not all were asleep in the nighttime of our grandparents.” Rizal’s words, written with the ink of sacrifice, still stir hearts because they speak not only to his people but to all who struggle in the long night of oppression.

The lesson is clear: speak the truth even if your age rejects you. Write, act, and live not only for the applause of today but for the freedom of tomorrow. Plant seeds of justice even if you will not live to see their harvest. Trust that the future, though it may delay, will recognize the worth of your sacrifice. For every age that suffers has within it the promise of an age that will awaken. And when that awakening comes, your voice will rise again, vindicated and immortal.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: be like Rizal. Do not fear if the world mocks your truth, silences your voice, or burns your words. Live for the ages yet to come, for in their hearts your courage will blossom. Let them look back upon you and say, “Not all were asleep in the nighttime of our grandparents.” Thus shall your life, like Rizal’s, become a beacon—shining not only in your own day, but across the endless march of time.