His name was Max

His name was Max. He had the physique of a father; almost lanky, but with the sturdy build of someone who could outrun you if he wanted to. I can’t recall exactly how we became friends. Perhaps it was at one of those press conferences where reporters would huddle together, waiting for a statement that would reshape a headline. What I do remember, with clarity that refuses to fade, are the many small, happy moments that defined him: the way he always went out of his way to collaborate, to mentor, and to connect with younger journalists. Max Limpag left a legacy not just through the stories he wrote but through the compassion he showed in every interaction.

I later learned that he was once part of this newspaper during his early years as a journalist. From here, he moved through other newsrooms, each transition widening his view of the craft. Eventually, freelance work consumed much of his time, not because he didn’t like structure but because the world opened itself to him. Opportunities and more stories came as he pursued them with the sincerity and intensity of someone who understood how fragile truth could be. His time as a writing fellow deepened his understanding of community journalism --the world in which he moved and the world he fiercely defended. Despite producing hard-hitting investigations at the local level, Max’s doors were always open. He extended his hand to anyone willing to learn, collaborate, or simply exchange ideas.

Those of us who had the privilege of sitting with him in quiet cafés or noisy newsrooms know how generous he was with his mind. Our conversations would drift from the rise of disinformation narratives to the ever-evolving role of artificial intelligence and digital tools in modern reporting. He had a fascination for OSINT or open-source investigation which he wielded with remarkable skill. His random messages, often sent at odd hours, contained links to documents, public data, online footprints, and resources he painstakingly gathered. It was his way of reminding us that truth is always out there; you just need to know where to look.

He was a father not only to his two sons with media personality Marlen Limpag but to younger journalists as well. We often came to him with our frustrations like ethical dilemmas, newsroom politics, storytelling struggles and he listened without judgment. Sir Max, as I fondly called him, offered advice that did not impose but guided. He wanted us to walk in his footsteps, even if we always told him his shoes were too big to fill.

Now that Sir Max has left, we find ourselves dumbfounded, unable to stitch together the reasons behind his sudden departure. But grief has a way of reminding us of what remains. What remains is his legacy. It is one built on bravery, on fierce yet compassionate storytelling, and on the belief that culture and heritage form the backbone of our identity.

We will miss him sorely. But we will continue his work, not out of obligation, but out of love for the craft he lived and breathed.