(A Tribute to Sir Ermin Garcia Jr.)

By Eva C Visperas

 

SOMETIME in 1991, a young woman walked into the doors of The Sunday PUNCH — unsure, unpolished, and quite frankly, terrified. That woman was me.

But Sir Ermin opened the door wide — not just literally, but also figuratively. He took a chance on me. He believed in me when all I had was raw passion and a dream to write. That was the beginning of my journey as a journalist in print media. He didn’t just give me a job — he gave me purpose. He gave me a home.

Sir Ermin didn’t push. He guided. Gently.

He sent me to seminar-workshops of the Philippine Press Institute so I could grow, so I could understand journalism beyond the headlines. He wanted his team to be the best — not for prestige, but because he believed that good journalism was public service.

He was our boss, yes. But to many of us — especially to me— he was a big brother. A kuya who truly listened. Who cared about how our day went. Who laughed at our stories from the field. The ever-curious newspaper man in him always thirsted for the kwento sa likod ng kwento — the side stories, the human stories, the ones we almost left out, but he always saw as the heart of it all.

He mentored me. He defended me when others tried to break my spirit. He told me never to back down from the truth. “Laban lang. ‘Wag kang matakot magsabi ng totoo.” That wasn’t just advice. That was his life mantra. And I carry it with me to this day.

There were times I had to stop writing for The PUNCH because of conflicts with my job at The Philippine Star. But each time, he waited. Patiently. And each time, he would ask again, “Kailan ka babalik?” He wouldn’t stop until I said yes.

To clear the path for my return, he even reached out to The Star’s President and CEO, Boss Miguel Belmonte, just so I could write again for The PUNCH while staying with The Star. Who does that? Only someone who truly believes in you. Only someone who sees your worth and refuses to let it go to waste.

In 2023, when I resigned as CIO of Dagupan, he was one of the first to reach out. He kept messaging me, asking when I was coming home to Pangasinan. I said, “In two weeks.” And in those two weeks, he already arranged to meet me at a small bakeshop near The Punch office.

When I saw him, he looked at me with tired but kind eyes. They were red. He was holding back tears. It was there he told me about his illness. And he asked me to keep it a secret. I did. He asked me to come back to The PUNCH. Again.

Even in illness, he didn’t stop writing. He fought his battles with dignity, peace, and unwavering commitment to his mission.

He was fearless — even when it meant confronting the powerful or revealing uncomfortable truths. And his Punchline column — my God — it was always the most-awaited section of our paper. People read The Sunday PUNCH every week because of him. Because they knew he would say what needed to be said, with courage, clarity, and conviction.

And now, here we are. Saying goodbye to the man who gave so much of himself so that others could find their voice. Saying goodbye to someone I owe so much to for who I am.

It’s hard. It hurts. Because this world —  The Sunday PUNCH — will never be the same without you, Sir.

But your voice, your words, your courage — they live on in all of us. Every time we chase the truth. Every time we stand our ground. Every time we beat the deadline.

Thank you, Sir Ermin. You were — and always will be — the heart and soul of The Sunday PUNCH.

And for me, you’ll always be the one who believed when I was just beginning to believe in myself.You are — and will always be — an icon of truth in Pangasinan.

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