i'm really still in prison, and my love she holds the key
I remember the 1986 EDSA Revolution vividly. Or at least, I remember watching it on the TV. I was in the provinces then with my family, safe from the noise and the trouble. All the radios and TV sets in the neighborhood were on, including ours.
My father was in front of the television. He called me over. "Watch this, child," he said. Then he said in English, "This is a piece of history."
I looked and on the screen was an aerial shot of a wide street I didn't recognize. It was packed with people who looked like little dots from so high above. There were tanks and helicopters and different voices were talking all at once.
Unfortunately, I was too clueless at the time. All I understood of the Revolution was that there was a bad guy (Marcos) and a good guy (Ninoy). The bad guy killed the good guy, so the good guy's wife (Cory) led the revolt against him.
Being the horrible older sister that I was, I taught my toddler sister to make the Marcos sign (fore and middle fingers up to make a "V") and shout "MAR-COS!", while I made the Ninoy sign (thumb and forefinger up to make an "L", which stands for "laban", fight) and shouted "CO-RY!", and we marched in circles around the living room chanting "MAR-COS! CO-RY! MAR-COS! CO-RY!".
I was the good guy, of course.
...Well, I thought it was clever.
I remember that in high school, fresh out of my innocent years in the Marcos regime, I was surrounded with stories about martial law. That was only when it became clear to me that I had lived my early childhood hidden away from the turmoil.
In the middle of lecture, my teachers would suddenly start talking about neighbors and beloved family members who would take up arms and sneak past the patrols in the middle of the night to join the rebels in the mountains ("namundok" was the term) because they were fed up with living in fear. Or who would disappear without a trace, taken from their homes or their workplaces without a word of warning.
One of the stories that I recall to this day was the one about the military in Malolos rounding up elderly people for no good reason. They were made to march a very long distance to a place called Sapang Palay, where they were made to kneel in the ankle-deep muddy water of the rice paddies and sing "Lupang Hinirang" at gunpoint. Those who could not remember the lyrics (and there were some who didn't, being senile or scared) were made to sing over and over until they got it right. Some were so afraid that they cried themselves unconscious. Those who refused to sing were beaten up.
I've gathered quite a few stories from people who survived the Marcos administration. Those who entered the Cory administration with broken teeth, broken limbs, dead wives, dead children, but it is not my place to tell their stories right now.
During the Marcos administration, artists could only paint subjects and scenes that glorified the Philippines. Writers could only write love poems and stories; any hint of a subversive message could get them jailed. People starved or were shot to death in the provinces, while the cities were primped up for international dignitaries; billions upon billions were spent on drawing the attention away from the massacre.
When I heard those stories, I couldn't help but feel that it was a good thing the Marcos administration was gone. We may have been obviously poorer as a people in the Aquino administration, and constantly troubled because the political and extra-political dynasties that Marcos had meticulously brought into power together were (and still are) violently struggling to keep their seats. The economy plummeted. Brown-outs and black-outs were so commonplace that we came to be surprised whenever a whole day went by without a power outage. We were constantly in fear of a well-orchestrated coup d'etat that would bring a Marcos crony back into power.
And yet.
I came to acknowledge that this was the price we paid for freedom. This was - and still is - what we traded in for the mere chance to not live in fear anymore.
And we struggle on.
I'm just going to echo something that better writers have said: she was not a perfect president. Hers was not a perfect administration. But she was up to the end a good woman, and it is she we are mourning, not the mess that she had stepped up to inherit.
She was a symbol of hope, and it is because of her that we fought, and continue to fight, for justice and freedom.
We're mourning for her.
I can't help but pity people who don't get that.
I can't help but pity the people who harp on the fact that the Philippines has been going downhill in the eyes of global economic advisors since Marcos lost power. How much do you expect from a fragmented nation still coming to terms with its own independence? Are your criteria for progress all that narrow? Above all, What are you doing to help?
If democracy - or at least this hint of democracy - were not in place, we would not be as free right now to gripe as we want about how corrupt the current administration is. We would not even have the Internet, or at least we would have a strictly censored version of it. We would not be able to easily share information, or at the very least air out our discontent.
You wouldn't be able to read, much less write, the stories that you love so much, at least not so freely.
She made all this possible for us. She was there as our inspiration and our guide. She was not a strong leader if what you want is a Marcos or a Stalin - but her own brand of strength, the strength to step up when she was needed, this strength driven by love and not political motivation, is something that even future generations have to look up to.
We're still struggling. Thanks to her. I'm sorry that you forget. But the rest of us won't.
My father was in front of the television. He called me over. "Watch this, child," he said. Then he said in English, "This is a piece of history."
I looked and on the screen was an aerial shot of a wide street I didn't recognize. It was packed with people who looked like little dots from so high above. There were tanks and helicopters and different voices were talking all at once.
Unfortunately, I was too clueless at the time. All I understood of the Revolution was that there was a bad guy (Marcos) and a good guy (Ninoy). The bad guy killed the good guy, so the good guy's wife (Cory) led the revolt against him.
Being the horrible older sister that I was, I taught my toddler sister to make the Marcos sign (fore and middle fingers up to make a "V") and shout "MAR-COS!", while I made the Ninoy sign (thumb and forefinger up to make an "L", which stands for "laban", fight) and shouted "CO-RY!", and we marched in circles around the living room chanting "MAR-COS! CO-RY! MAR-COS! CO-RY!".
I was the good guy, of course.
...Well, I thought it was clever.
I remember that in high school, fresh out of my innocent years in the Marcos regime, I was surrounded with stories about martial law. That was only when it became clear to me that I had lived my early childhood hidden away from the turmoil.
In the middle of lecture, my teachers would suddenly start talking about neighbors and beloved family members who would take up arms and sneak past the patrols in the middle of the night to join the rebels in the mountains ("namundok" was the term) because they were fed up with living in fear. Or who would disappear without a trace, taken from their homes or their workplaces without a word of warning.
One of the stories that I recall to this day was the one about the military in Malolos rounding up elderly people for no good reason. They were made to march a very long distance to a place called Sapang Palay, where they were made to kneel in the ankle-deep muddy water of the rice paddies and sing "Lupang Hinirang" at gunpoint. Those who could not remember the lyrics (and there were some who didn't, being senile or scared) were made to sing over and over until they got it right. Some were so afraid that they cried themselves unconscious. Those who refused to sing were beaten up.
I've gathered quite a few stories from people who survived the Marcos administration. Those who entered the Cory administration with broken teeth, broken limbs, dead wives, dead children, but it is not my place to tell their stories right now.
During the Marcos administration, artists could only paint subjects and scenes that glorified the Philippines. Writers could only write love poems and stories; any hint of a subversive message could get them jailed. People starved or were shot to death in the provinces, while the cities were primped up for international dignitaries; billions upon billions were spent on drawing the attention away from the massacre.
When I heard those stories, I couldn't help but feel that it was a good thing the Marcos administration was gone. We may have been obviously poorer as a people in the Aquino administration, and constantly troubled because the political and extra-political dynasties that Marcos had meticulously brought into power together were (and still are) violently struggling to keep their seats. The economy plummeted. Brown-outs and black-outs were so commonplace that we came to be surprised whenever a whole day went by without a power outage. We were constantly in fear of a well-orchestrated coup d'etat that would bring a Marcos crony back into power.
And yet.
I came to acknowledge that this was the price we paid for freedom. This was - and still is - what we traded in for the mere chance to not live in fear anymore.
And we struggle on.
I'm just going to echo something that better writers have said: she was not a perfect president. Hers was not a perfect administration. But she was up to the end a good woman, and it is she we are mourning, not the mess that she had stepped up to inherit.
She was a symbol of hope, and it is because of her that we fought, and continue to fight, for justice and freedom.
We're mourning for her.
I can't help but pity people who don't get that.
I can't help but pity the people who harp on the fact that the Philippines has been going downhill in the eyes of global economic advisors since Marcos lost power. How much do you expect from a fragmented nation still coming to terms with its own independence? Are your criteria for progress all that narrow? Above all, What are you doing to help?
If democracy - or at least this hint of democracy - were not in place, we would not be as free right now to gripe as we want about how corrupt the current administration is. We would not even have the Internet, or at least we would have a strictly censored version of it. We would not be able to easily share information, or at the very least air out our discontent.
You wouldn't be able to read, much less write, the stories that you love so much, at least not so freely.
She made all this possible for us. She was there as our inspiration and our guide. She was not a strong leader if what you want is a Marcos or a Stalin - but her own brand of strength, the strength to step up when she was needed, this strength driven by love and not political motivation, is something that even future generations have to look up to.
We're still struggling. Thanks to her. I'm sorry that you forget. But the rest of us won't.