The storm comes and shapes us.   The storm destroys the rice grains in the fields and the corn in the farm; blows down the fragile huts. But after the storm, the peasant battered and left by the storm puts up his fallen hut again, harvests whatever is left of the rice grains and the corn, looks forward to the coming planting season; he is never helpless with the destruction wrought by the storm.   A storm, Too, is this that took place on 17 December in Bitag Grande. You were felled, Comrade Jacky, while exchanging fire with the enemy; your M-16 rifle was taken away, even the three backpacks, some classified documents and information on the zone; and the propaganda and peasant campaign plan went in disarray.   But like the peasant battered and left by the storm, we shall rise again, Comrade Jacky, analyze the errors we committed, find out what is left for us to reap, what is left for us to put up again; we shall look to the brightness of the sun and the one thousand and one possibilities and hopes it brings.   We shall not be defeated by the storm, by the hardships of struggle, because we are no longer the petty bourgeois who can be very weak who for every blow of the westerly wind merely stands in his house or seeks protection under the skirt of his doting mother, we are the revolutionaries determined to overcome every storm.   Isn't it so, that life The struggle, Is a storm, one coming after the other?   (J.M.A.)