Fred Padernos 
I never imagined that October 18, 2025, would be the last time I’d hear her laughter.
That morning, as we stepped into her home in Montaño Village—Chay Lira from Bombo Radyo, Jazmin Bonifacio from Rappler, Jaime Gravador from K5 News, and I—Ma’am Bernardita “Bering” Benedicto-Valenzuela welcomed us just like she always did: with a warm, gentle smile, a light tap on the arm, and a plate of snacks already laid out on the table.
“Naga-antos kamo hit gana?” she playfully asked.
You’re starving, aren’t you?
She said it with that delightful blend of humor and motherly concern that made you feel like you were stepping into the home of someone who had been eagerly awaiting your arrival—not just an interviewee, but a dear friend.
She had just turned 96 a month earlier, yet her eyes still sparkled with a timeless vibrancy. She politely declined video recording, saying, “Audio and notes will do, anak. I am too old for the camera.”
It felt like she had all the time in the world to share.
None of us could have predicted that just seven weeks later—on December 03, 2025—we would be writing tributes instead of preparing follow-up questions.
A Woman Who Led With Her Heart
Growing up, I often heard the name “Ma’am Bering” spoken with deep respect. She wasn’t loud or imposing, nor was she political—yet she commanded authority through decades of humble service to Tacloban.
When she led the City Information Office, she didn’t do it from behind a desk. She led from her kitchen.
Every morning, she cooked meals for her staff and brought them to the office.
“Come,” she would say.
“Let’s eat together.”
And people did. Because with her, you felt safe. You felt seen. You felt like you truly mattered.
One former staff member once shared with me, “I’ll take this personally—she defended us like we were family. She never scolded. Never intimidated. Never humiliated. She carried herself with kindness but stood her ground with dignity.”
That was a rare quality.
Her Philosophy: Simple, Sharp, Unforgettable
There was a phrase she often repeated, and I remember hearing it again that October morning when I asked her how she managed the political shifts at City Hall.
She leaned back, took a moment to think, and then said:
“Whose bread I eat, his song I’ll sing.”
She explained it in her unique way—slowly, clearly, and with a quiet strength.
“It’s not about blind loyalty,” she told us. “It’s about respect. Dignity. If you disagree, speak up honestly. But when you serve, do so with integrity. Never betray the table where you sit.”
Those words carried the weight of her generation—people who had weathered wars, rebuilt their city, and worked hard without seeking recognition.
That was Ma’am Bering. She spoke softly, but her words lingered long after you left her presence.
Her Final Stories
During our interview, she shared her memories of surviving the Leyte Landing—the fear, the hunger, the distant sounds of gunfire, and how Tacloban shook but still stood strong.
As I listened, it felt like the room transformed. Time seemed to fold back on itself. She wasn’t just recounting history; she was living it again.
After the interview, we hung around a little longer. None of us wanted to leave just yet. Jazmin later wrote that there was something special about that day—like we were witnessing the end of a chapter we weren’t ready to close.
Now I see why it felt that way.
Writing 30 at 96
When the news broke that she had passed away on December 3, Tacloban mourned the loss of a second mother, a quiet warrior, and a living archive of its struggles and dreams.
City Hall felt a little emptier. The Senior Citizens Association lost one of its most dedicated board members. And we—the journalists whose lives she touched—lost a woman who showed us kindness we didn’t always deserve.
Her remains were cremated at Cebu Rolling Hills Funeral Home in Brgy. 95, Caibaan. Friends, colleagues, and former staff gathered for her two-day wake. Some cried, while others smiled as they shared stories. Everyone felt the heavy loss of someone truly irreplaceable.
Her ashes were flown to Cebu, making one last journey home to be reunited with her family.
What She Leaves Us
I’ve had the privilege of interviewing countless officials, icons, and survivors. But Ma’am Bering stood apart.
She didn’t just share stories of the past.
She truly embodied it.
She didn’t merely serve the city.
She nurtured it with love.
She didn’t just teach lessons.
She lived them every day.
Now, when I reflect on her words—
“Whose bread I eat, his song I’ll sing”—
they resonate with me in a whole new way.
It’s not about picking a side.
It’s about embracing gratitude.
Embracing honor.
Choosing to serve with all your heart.
Ma’am Bering penned her final 30 at the age of 96.
But the song she sang—
a melody of integrity, loyalty, and love—
will resonate in Tacloban for generations to come.
