Sisa remembers

By Noel Galon de Leon

We urgently need films of this kind, works that confront us with the shameless brutality of American colonial rule. Films like Sisa (2025, June Robles Lana, The IdeaFirst Company) do not merely entertain but instead provoke the intellect and disturb the conscience. They unsettle the gut and compel us to reckon with a historical truth often softened by time and propaganda.

This is not a film that seeks approval or comfort from its audience. It refuses the polished nostalgia that often defines mainstream historical narratives. Instead, it embraces discomfort as a political and artistic necessity.

What struck me first was how personal the violence feels. The film does not treat history as distant but as something intimate and lived. It insists that colonial trauma is not finished but continues to echo in the present.

I watched Sisa not as a detached viewer but as someone implicated in its memory. There is an accusation embedded in every frame. It asks what we have forgotten and why we have allowed ourselves to forget.

The narrative follows loss not as an isolated event but as a condition of life. “Nawalan ng pamilya dahil sa digmaan” becomes not just a line but a recurring wound. The film understands grief as something that multiplies rather than fades.

There is a suffocating sense that the suffering has no endpoint. “Walang katapusan ang dalamhating ito” is not metaphorical but literal in the world of the film. Each scene deepens the emotional exhaustion rather than resolving it.

The portrayal of women is especially devastating and precise. “Binago ang isip natin lalo na ng mga babae ang isip” becomes a thematic anchor. The film examines how colonial power reshapes not just bodies but consciousness.

Sisa herself emerges as both character and symbol. “Naligaw siya sa sariling lugar,” a displacement that feels psychological as much as physical. Her wandering becomes a map of a nation disoriented by foreign control.

Her encounter with American soldiers is staged with chilling restraint. There is no need for spectacle because the imbalance of power is already overwhelming. The silence around the violence becomes its own form of testimony.

Delia, portrayed with aching vulnerability, embodies the fragile resilience of survival. Her presence grounds the film in the everyday struggles of women under occupation. She is neither heroic nor weak but painfully human.

Nena, her child, represents a generation caught between indoctrination and resistance. Her warning not to be blinded by Americans carries urgency that cuts through the narrative. It feels like a plea that echoes beyond the film.

Opel’s decision to lie about her husband being alive reveals the emotional strategies of survival. Hope becomes something that must be fabricated to keep moving forward. The film treats this lie not as deceit but as necessity.

Ms. Warren stands as a chilling representation of cultural assimilation. Her lessons on civility are framed as benevolence but function as erasure. The baile she organizes becomes a performance of imposed identity.

The film’s critique of education as a colonial tool is particularly sharp. Language becomes a weapon rather than a bridge. Harrison’s command that children learn English is framed as both policy and violence.

Leonor’s storyline is one of the most harrowing. Her relationship with Harrison collapses into brutality when she is assaulted by a soldier. The film refuses to romanticize proximity to power.

There is a deliberate contrast between public order and private suffering. The Americans impose structure while chaos seeps into Filipino lives. This duality exposes the hypocrisy of colonial governance.

What makes Sisa powerful is its refusal to isolate events. Each character’s pain is connected to a broader system. The film insists that these are not accidents but consequences.

The cinematography mirrors this fragmentation. Spaces feel both open and suffocating at the same time. The land itself seems occupied and restless.

The use of sound sustains tension without ever letting the viewer relax. Moments that should feel still are charged with unease. Even absence becomes something heavy that presses against the body.

I found myself repeatedly unsettled by how familiar the themes felt. The past does not feel distant but eerily continuous. The film suggests that colonial mentality persists in subtle forms.

There is also an undercurrent of resistance throughout. “Makakaasa ang Hukbo” is not presented as empty rhetoric. It becomes a fragile but persistent thread of hope.

Yet the film is careful not to romanticize resistance. Struggle is depicted as messy, painful, and uncertain. Victory is never guaranteed and often feels out of reach.

What lingers most is the emotional residue. The film does not provide closure or comfort. It leaves the viewer carrying its weight long after it ends.

Sisa functions as both remembrance and warning. It challenges sanitized histories and forces confrontation. It demands that we rethink what we have been taught.

This is not just a film but an intervention. It calls for political memory and ethical clarity. It reminds us that liberation must be claimed, and if we fail to claim it, we remain inside the story it is trying to end.