Nightmares are not worth recalling. That may be true if they occur in the privacy of our rooms, wrap in the eerie silence of the night.
But political nightmares deserved to be reminisced, debated upon, and reflected on, if we have to move forward as a nation. A nation that has no common historical memory is just a hodge-podge of tribes without national identity.
On a personal level, I did not want to recall life under martial law. The experiences were bad enough, and defying risks that went with the rallies were chilling to repeat.
But the innocent question of my ever precocious eight-year old boy changed the temper of yesterday’s 37th martial law anniversary.
He asked: “What is martial law? “ The lawyer in me wanted to parrot the constitutional basis of martial law, and the decisions rendered by the Supreme Court on the issue. Of course, I would not have to discuss with my boy in a grandiose manner. That would be Latin for him.
As I was about to tell my son what happened during the Marcos era, my fourteen-year old daughter proudly volunteered that according to the textbook, martial law was declared by then President Ferdinand Marcos on September 21, 1972.
That saved me from the cross-examination type questions of my boy. He has the innocent knack of firing questions until you are left without answer.
But the incident led me to realize that while I, having experienced the horrors of martial law, could relate with increasing pulse rates and sweaty hands the dark years of Marcos dictatorship, the generation next to me, my daughter, has nothing but facts and statistics of the era, enough for her to win any quiz bee contest.
If only for my kids, I need to write this, to recall the events I personally experienced and the insights I learned under martial law in the hope that next time around, it is not only the facts but the full range of the tragic drama that was Marcos, must like the portrayal of the Greek dramas played out in the greater drama called life, that the succeeding generations could recount.
I was still seven years old and thirteen days when martial was declared. There was no cable news, no newspapers in our barrio. There were only one or two transistor radios where the folks huddled to listen to the declaration of martial law.
Despite the innocence, I knew then there was some big news that day. My father who kept a rifle hurriedly buried it somewhere. Other folks did bury theirs too. Days after, soldiers inspected all the houses. When they arrived in the house, I cowered in fear. I only glimpsed at the uniformed men, but I could hear the thuds of their boots, like the sound of the hooves of horsemen.
The beauty of pure innocence is that despite the horrors martial law wrought upon the people, I had carefree frolics with my friends in the pristine river, and the mountain treks in the then virginal forest, unmindful of the terror that gripped the people.
The burden with knowledge is the loss of innocence, and living in a gay abandon eludes forever. Innocence is replaced with the angst for not acting on the dictates of what is right.
The high school years at the old Ateneo school just right there at the heartland of the city were spent reading books, and learning so many things from all fields. The Jesuit-run school inspired critical thinking, the ability to see the issue in the broader perspective, as it were, in an eagle’s view.
Despite the adventures and misadventures of puberty though, the incarceration of the mayor of Cagayan de Oro Nene Pimentel in 1981 fired-up the protests of the already opposition-inclined people. That too echoed in the corners of our classrooms. Without political acumen or organization, we did have boycotts from our classes. The reasons for our boycotts may have varied, but it reflected the over-all sentiment of the Cagayanons whose mayor was placed behind bars.
The horror of martial law was not anymore in somebody’s doorsteps but right there in the City Hall, the last citadel of democracy. It was an affront to the proud Cagayanons whose political pedigree came from the local heroes who fought many wars in the past.
Different folks have different ways of protesting. In the stage where the opposition was not yet so organized, the protesters were like sticks hoping to form a broom so they could have concerted and effective actions. Meanwhile that the protest movement was still disorganized, opposition to martial law took different shapes, colors, and hues. But the seed of revolution was unmistakably there already ready to explode in the most opportune time.
The martial law terror was unabated. There was Elma, a relative who was shot on mere suspicion of being a sympathizer of the communists.
A good friend, the editor of the student publication of Ateneo de Davao was abducted, and no one knew what happened. Just like other students who were missing, she was another statistics of the martial law terror.
Killing fields were not only popular in North Vietnam. We also shared the infamy.
The guns were blazing too in areas like Claveria, Salay, Lantad, Taglimao, and almost everywhere. In all these areas, human rights abuses were the norm rather than the exception.
Power is intoxicating. It can be delusional. After having wielded power without accountability, the powers-that-be are emboldened, and regard themselves as invincible, that they could commit abuses with impunity.
When the rulers do not see anymore the limits to their powers their doom begins.
Right before the glare of national and international opinion, Ninoy Aquino was martyred on August 21, 1983 as he deplaned from his exile in the US. That was stupid thing to do. But drank with power, the rulers did not see it coming the start of their defeat with the mortal shot at Ninoy’s body. The mortal body died, but the immutable ideals came to life.
That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
Suddenly, the disorganized protests had a common voice, a rallying point from which to launch their battle against the government, a battle plan drawn-out within the framework of the ideals of democracy.
I found myself co-founding a student political party at Xavier Universit. The student party was founded on the precept that the students cannot live in the ivory tower of the academe but must lead the people in the struggle against the dictatorship.
There were rallies, civil disobedience, and other forms of protest. And just like all other student leaders who dared challenged the dictatorship, the “red tag” was written in my forehead by the military, a tag that meant I could be “salvaged”, misnomer for assassination.
It was most unfortunate. I knew of students who abhorred communism as much as they deplored Marcos dictatorship. But in a war-like situation, the protagonists become color-blind. Infiltration of the ranks of the students by the military and the reds were rampant. Many were killed on mere suspicions.
I just laughed off the “red tag”, the communist label. I have thoroughly studied Marxism in its primary sources and read the history of communism. The flaws of the communist ideology are just glaring to ignore. Embracing communism would be prostituting knowledge for expediency.
Expediency, I knew so many brilliant students who joined the communist’s movement for that reason. They joined the communist movement because it offered them concrete plans with which they could topple the dictator. But I did not judge the folly or brilliance of their decisions. Instead of judging, there were tactical alliances of students from different colors in the political spectrum joining hands just to oust the dictator.
The students have the time, the mental prowess, and the fire in the belly to mount concerted actions against the dictator. Organizing the students in Cagayan de Oro was the most logical thing to do and our group, composed of leaders from the left to the center, did manage to awaken the students.
The streets of Cagayan de Oro saw mass actions, protest marches, prayer rallies, and the famous “Welga Ng Bayan”. Xavier University students joined with students from Don Mariano, Cagayan de Oro College, Liceo de Cagayan and Lourdes College.
Activism was mainstream. The rising tide of dissent could not be doused anymore.
Ninoy was not the only martyr. The casualties were many. Several of the student leaders were gone, either they went underground, or they were invited by the military henchmen and never to return again. Those were brilliant students whose whereabouts I have not heard of since.
For my daughter, my missing friends would just be mere statistics. But after she reads this piece, hopefully, she may feel the pulse of life, and the tears of pain Martial Law has shed in the Philippine landscape.
