“YOU write a lot about people. Why can’t you write about me?”
That was one of his last text messages to me a few months ago. I told him that one day, I would.
I last saw him in January or February. Little did I know that when I finally wrote about him, it would be under circumstances I never imagined … a tribute to a life well lived, a friendship I will forever treasure, and a mentor whose influence will stay with me long after he is gone.
On October 10, 2026, Eduardo Ruedas Fernandez, fondly known to many as Sir Edfer, passed away.
Soon, Facebook was flooded with his name and photographs. Local newspapers paid tribute to him as a veteran and seasoned journalist. His colleagues, students, and friends remembered the writer, the teacher, and the man who had touched so many lives.
And many knew him as Sir Edfer.
But to me, he was more than a respected journalist. He was my best friend and my mentor.
How did we become best friends?
It was not a grand beginning. It started with journalism training sessions, laughter, a book, and a few text messages.
His name was already familiar in the Department of Education. He was a sought-after journalism trainer, often invited to teach and judge student publications and campus journalism competitions. I first saw and heard him during one of those training sessions. I remember laughing almost every time he spoke.
He had a way of making people laugh without losing the substance of what he was teaching. Perhaps that was one reason he became a favorite speaker.
We crossed paths on several occasions. Then one day, he sent me a line from The Little Prince.
I corrected him.
The quotation, I told him, was a mixture of several lines. The exact words were, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
He responded with laughter and a teasing, “Oh! So, you know!”
That was Edfer. He could turn an ordinary exchange into a memorable moment.
Later, he gave me his book, Journalism 101. I read it overnight. It was easy to understand, straightforward, and true to his own teaching philosophy: write plain and simple.
I loved the book, but I also noticed repeated lines and typographical errors. Naturally, I told him.
He laughed and remarked in his characteristically sarcastic yet gentle way, “The nerve of this woman correcting me for the second time!”
Then came another joke. I thought I was older than him, he said, but I was good enough to be his student.
And just like that, a beautiful friendship began.
I became his student in more ways than one.
One day, he asked me to write an editorial. Perhaps he wanted to find out whether I could really write. At the time, I was teaching English part-time at Philippine Women’s College. He often said that English teachers could sometimes become so concerned with grammar that they forgot the more important task of communicating.
He published my article in the Davao Catholic Herald, where he was then editor-in-chief. He had also served as editor-in-chief of Mindanao Times.
That was one of the first doors he opened for me.
He later encouraged me to teach at Ateneo de Davao University (AdDU). I hesitated. I was not sure if I was ready.
Then, one day, he invited me to visit the university to give feedback on the Mass Communication Department’s curriculum. As a Mass Communication graduate myself, I thought I was simply being asked to share my thoughts.
I did not know that he had introduced me to Mr. Elvie Tamayo as a prospective faculty member.
Before I knew it, I was conducting an impromptu demonstration teaching in front of the dean and a panel of seasoned professors. And there, at the back of the room, was Edfer smiling.
He saw something in me that I had not fully seen in myself. He believed I could do more, even when I was uncertain of my own abilities.
That marked the beginning of my beautiful journey at AdDU. As an experienced journalist and professor, he mentored me in many ways. He shared what he knew, challenged me to grow, and encouraged me to take opportunities I might otherwise have avoided.
When he eventually stopped teaching, he told me that the world was his classroom.
He was right. His classroom had no walls, and his lessons were not confined to lectures or textbooks. He taught through conversations, jokes, honest criticism, opportunities, and the way he treated people.
I often called him my best friend and my mentor because that was exactly who he was to me. He helped me come out of my shell. He kept reminding me that I had potential. Little by little, I began to trust myself, to speak with more confidence, and to take on challenges I once thought were beyond me.
Looking back, I realize that sometimes, all a person needs is someone who believes in them before they learn to believe in themselves.
For me, that person was Edfer.
And I know I was not the only one.
He had a gift for recognizing potential in people—in the student journalist struggling to find a voice, in the teacher learning to write, and in the aspiring writer who needed someone to say, “You can do it.”
I often wondered why, wherever he went, people seemed to know him.
Was it his humor? His talent? His generosity? His ability to make people feel comfortable even while correcting them?
Perhaps it was all these things.
Or perhaps it was simply his good heart.
Beyond the byline was a father who loved deeply.
Edfer’s life was not without hardship. When his wife, Ana, passed away from cancer, their children were still growing up. He had to raise Edan, EJ, Koko, and Eanna on his own, carrying the responsibilities of both parents while working hard to provide for them.
He would speak of Ana and the memories they shared. It was clear how deeply he loved her. Even after she was gone, those memories remained a source of strength.
He lived with diabetes and chronic kidney disease. His daughter, Eanna, informed me that he had been hospitalized and that doctors would need to amputate a significant portion of his foot. He had lived with diabetes for a long time, but he had struggled to accept that his kidneys were also failing until the doctor confirmed it.
I wish there had been more time, one more chance to answer his question.
“You write a lot about people. Why can’t you write about me?”
Here I am, Edfer. I am finally writing about you.
But I wish you were still here to read this. I can almost imagine your reaction—the laughter, the teasing, and perhaps a correction from you this time.
You would probably tell me to keep it plain and simple.
Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for the lessons, the opportunities, the laughter, and the friendship.
You spent much of your life helping others find their voices. You taught young writers how to tell stories, and you showed people like me that we had stories worth telling, too.
Now, it is our turn to tell yours.
You were a journalist who wrote about people, a teacher who shaped minds, a mentor who opened doors, and a friend who made life lighter with your humor and kindness. You were also a father who carried his share of life's burdens and kept going for the people he loved.
Perhaps that is what it means to live a life well lived; not to be remembered only for what we accomplished, but for the people we helped, the confidence we nurtured, the laughter we shared, and the love we left behind.
I wish I could have written this while you were still here to read it.
But I hope you know that you were never forgotten, even before these words were written.
To my best friend and mentor, may perpetual light shine upon you. May you find the peace you so richly deserve.
You will always be the Edfer.