Cholo Goitia writes 43: 'Most complete human being'

MANILA, Philippines – French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre was noted for describing legendary Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara as “the most complete human being of our age”. Sure, some of those that belong to my generation were once fascinated by El Che, a badass of a man and a Swiss Army knife of talent, whose face still adorns countless posters and pieces of clothing rocked by many who idolize him to this day.

I am no way a philosophical stalwart like Sartre nor someone radical enough to look up to Guevara, only a silently grieving individual who a few days ago learned that the most complete human being I know is no more.

In this piece, this writer looks back at a relatively short but very meaningful friendship — with an individual I adored the most.

I met Juan Pocholo Martin Goitia — “Cholo” to most of us — in 2001 in college, when we became part of a pioneering Journalism major batch at the University of Santo Tomas. And it didn’t take long for us to band together with some others who love to smoke in between classes and down gin-pomelo shots or Red Horse bottles when the day was done.

It was from that freshman year onwards when we all bore witness to Cholo’s immense talent. He was proficient both in poetry and prose, winning literary prizes along the way and serving as president of the Thomasian Writers Guild. At The Flame — UST Faculty of Arts & Letters’ official student paper — he was our executive editor before eventually becoming editor-in-chief.

For Cholo, writing came as natural as breathing. He was so prolific and articulate that he was always the tip of the spear whenever we camped out at his house in Roxas District, Quezon City, to procrastinate on a group term paper or visual presentation. In basketball parlance, Cholo was our tiga-buhat; the Justin Brownlee to a desperate Barangay Ginebra or Gilas Pilipinas squad trying to mount a rally and needing someone to bail us out at crunch time.

It was in that humble Roxas District home where I spent a significant number of college after-hours. Cholo was simply too gracious a host; I’ve lost count of how many times I spent the night there, either too lazy or too drunk to make the long commute home after a marathon-research-slash-writing-slash-drinking-session.

“Okay na tayo. Ako na bahala. Magaling ka naman mag-cut eh,” I remember him telling me in jest as I was about to leave his house, because all I was able to contribute to a presentation was to simply cut out clippings. We both burst in laughter — that was a Tyrese Haliburton Paris Olympic moment for me, being someone who barely helped but still got to dangle a gold, thanks to Steph Curry.

As great a writer as Cholo was, he was also a great singer. As previously mentioned, the man was likewise a Swiss Army knife of tricks. He was a showman, a debater, a storyteller, a spoken word artist, a listener, and most of all, a dependable friend. So dependable that he, on the same day I asked, agreed to donate blood to my sister’s high school blood-letting drive — traveling with me all the way from Espana, Manila, to Las Pinas without hesitation and without asking anything in return.

“Pinakamabait na taong kilala ko,” I remember a classmate saying in similar praise of Cholo.

After briefly becoming co-workers at a copy-editing firm, he found his way to the field of political communications, first serving in the communications staff of then-Vice Presidential candidate Mar Roxas, then eventually at Malacanang under the late President Benigno Aquino III.

He helmed the Official Gazette as its managing editor, even developing a historic style guide for Palace communications.

By then, we’ve lost touch, with social media — apart from occasional posting and scrolling on X — not really my cup of tea, and Cholo finding work overseas after his stint with the Aquino administration. I only learned recently that he quit regular work and returned home to focus on writing a novel. No surprises there.

On July 25, 2026, Juan Pocholo Martin Goitia succumbed to acute coronary syndrome, after spending 11 days in the ICU. He was 43.

Hearing the news was like being hit by a haymaker of an uppercut to the solar plexus. But instead of staying down for the count, I pick up the pieces, knowing Cholo is in a peaceful place now. His problems are over, while mine and yours — doomed to live longer — still persist.

Our UST Journalism Batch 2005 may have produced many talented individuals, but none better than Cholo. For me, he was the franchise player. He may have had issues with class tardiness after battering the keyboard from pillar to post all night just to meet deadlines, but he was simply a big fish in a small pond. I picture him as Allen Iverson ranting that the classroom was just “practice”.

His face might not adorn posters and be emblazoned on shirts all over the world like El Che, and you can laugh all you want at the Sartre reference, but it will be one of my life’s greatest honors to personally know completeness.

Juan Pocholo Martin Goitia was an anomaly, a generational talent, and the world has become a worse place without him.