Long after they left, and after I had conquered some of my fear, I remained puzzled as to why I was arrested. It was neither explained to me what charges were being brought against me nor was I informed about the laws I violated. There were thousands and thousands of Filipinos during that period whose fate was similar to mine, clueless as to why we were sent to prison and defenseless against what we endured.
Remembering
In the 1970s, San Fernando was a typical Filipino town—with its Spanish influence receding and an American influence taking its place—yet it was, to my mind, also distinctly Kapampangan. It was Kapampangan in its proud mix of Spanish, Chinese, and Malay culinary heritage. When I was growing up, it was a modestly sized town despite being the capital of Pampanga. Even then, one could sense it was going to become a busy and prosperous place. Business was brisk; the place was growing and would attain city-status years later.
Pampanga was known for three things in the Philippines: its renowned cuisine; its Good Friday Lenten celebrations, where tourists flocked to see a living man nailed to a cross in San Fernando; and, for the huge lantern festival at Christmas time. A very old province of more than 400 years, its land mass used to include the provinces of Bataan, Tarlac, and some experts argue, even parts of Zambales. One of its towns, Bacolor, was also very briefly the capital of the country during the Revolutionary Period before the nation’s independence. San Fernando’s neighboring city of Angeles was also then home to the largest American military installation outside the United States, Clark Air Force Base.
At the same time that Kapampangans were intensely devoted to their Catholic faith; they also tried to combine their cultural practices with a penchant for things American. This was not difficult to do in San Fernando. Being less than a half hour away from Clark Air Force Base in Angeles, they saw American GIs on a regular basis. Many Kapampangans were also employed at Clark and could shop at its commissary. They ate American chocolates and candies, smoked Marlboro cigarettes, and watched an endless stream of American programs on their TV screens. Moreover, Hollywood movies showed one after the other at the Estrella and Frida movie theaters and then at the Miranda and Edros movie houses downtown.
For sure, anti-imperialist sentiments were growing, with America as its central target, but still in the minds of Kapampangans, America remained the enduring symbol of success. When you talked American, people listened. When you ate American chocolates and candies, in a small way, you showed how ‘American’ you were. For us, the word, ‘American’ did not merely refer to the people. The word had come to denote something to strive for, an argot for everything that was enticing and in good taste. Like our Roman Catholic faith, we became devotees of Americanism, whether it was pop music, dance, fashion, or Hollywood movies. My generation copied everything that was American. When you did, there was no question you were part of the in-crowd. You were someone with expensive Western tastes, you were not ‘bana’ (low class), and a word conjured up by the colegialas (one who attends a private school) at St. Scholastica’s and by the boys at Don Bosco, to describe the ordinary folks, particularly those below them in social or economic status. The two national cultures existed side by side and growing up in San Fernando frequently meant living in both.
This was an era of long-haired young men and mini-skirted young women in America, so we copied that style. We wore bell-bottomed pants and psychedelic-designed and colorfully patterned shirts and blouses, never mind that this was also a time of weak economy. Many would skimp on food just so they could parade down the streets dressed in fashionable outfits. We also gave free love in Europe and America a lot of attention, even though we knew that it would be frowned upon in a town that had not completely shed its straight-laced, pre-Vatican II Catholic piety. We blasted our radios to listen to American pop music that blared from the local airwaves. We considered ourselves too sophisticated for local Filipino rock, a genre of music we sneeringly believe only interested the die-hard fans of popular movie star, Nora Aunor, many of whom belonged to the working class or the poor. The Scholasticans and the Bosconians of the town’s exclusive private schools would simply not have anything to do with this low-class culture.
Hippies, marijuana, the oil crisis of 1973, Kissinger and Nixon in China, the strongman Gaddafi in Libya, the butcher Idi Amin in Uganda, the military juntas in Chile and Argentina were some of the international events that were prominently covered by the Philippine press, but for some of us, we were more attuned to local happenings and were concerned that our own backyard was burning. This was a time of intense student activism, one when I heard from my sister, C., who was then a student at the University of the Philippines, talked about study groups, clandestine lectures, and sit-ins organized by student activists and classes that were continually disrupted because of the demonstrations. It was a common occurrence for Ima and Tatang to drive to Manila to pick her up to protect her from the uproar and disturbances of the halls and avenues of UP and other city colleges and universities. Labor strikes, farmer demonstrations, land-grabbing politicians, Molotov cocktails, and the riot police were images I saw frequently on the news. It was also the time of the catastrophic floods that paralyzed Central Luzon in 1972.
This was also an era when those who demonstrated on the streets looked upon the rich and the prominent in the town with suspicion. I often heard the word, ‘burgis’ the Filipinized version of bourgeoisie. If you were one of the burgis, you would have to prove that you understood the plight of the masses. Even the elite, who talked about it in the same way they discussed the latest fashion, hairstyle, or the trendiest club, uttered it frequently in those days. The word was bandied about as if it was the latest battle cry. The good news was that even those in the political and economic center began to be concerned about what was happening to the country. The bad news was that it would be unusual for those in the center to fully comprehend the conditions under which the overwhelming majority lived.
It would not be an understatement to say that violence in the political arena started much earlier than the student activism. At least, that was the case in San Fernando where politically motivated murders have become common by the late 1960s. Guns were often used to settle political scores. And they have always frightened me. As a child and before I turned eleven, I lived through a violent period when San Fernando became a nesting ground for politicians’ private armies and their petty conflicts. Local politicians were murdered so often that for periods at a time we were left without a mayor or other local council leaders. Gunshots were heard regularly when dusk settled across town in San Fernando’s version of the Wild West. Later, the NPA joined in the tumultuous fracas with their own killing squads that rivaled those of the government. Rebels, though many did not know it, were a constant presence in San Fernando. As their numbers increased, they spread throughout Pampanga and beyond.
As children, we quickly learned not to talk about what was happening. When we played outside, we were instructed to return home as soon as it became dark. Soon after we closed our doors, we would hear gunshots ringing through the darkness across the rice fields behind the public school that was across the street from our house. The next day, neighbors would pass along the news of who had been killed or who had disappeared.
In particular, I remember one mayor we had in the late 1960s. His name was Levi Panlilio. He was a popular, decent fellow whose family we knew rather well. My grandma, Lola Palu, or Apu, as we commonly call her, was very good friends with his wife. One morning, my cousin, Koyang N., came barging into grandma’s mahogany-paneled living room as my mother’s sister, Imang Dandy, Apu, and some other cousins and siblings, were getting ready for Segundo, the traditional mid-morning snack. My cousin could barely contain his distress. With his eyes that widened with the telling, he announced,
“I just heard in the palenque that Mayor Panlilio was taken away last night and that he might have been killed.”
“Hesusmaryosep,” Grandma exclaimed, clutching her hands to her heart. “How do
you know? When did it happen?” she asked.
My cousin said he did not know the details, he had just heard passengers on his way to town talking about it. He went on to say he heard people discussing the mayor again when he was at his mother’s shop.
Days later, they found Levi Panlilio’s tortured body. Apu Pa shared the grief of his widow as if it was her own. We all mourned the loss of a dear friend who had been like family, particularly to Grandma. How this could happen to such a good man was on everyone’s mind.
Mrs. Panlilio’s grief seemed endless. Not entirely sure how to comfort her friend, Apu Pa suggested that a vacation to the summer capital of Baguio would do her good. As plans for the trip were underway, Apu Pa asked me if I would join them. She said I could be a playmate to the widow’s youngest daughter, who was my junior by two years. I was excited to go, since I had never been to Baguio and it was a summer when I had little else to do. It was my chance for a big trip away from the only place I had ever known.
The sight of the widow’s grief-stricken face and her daily shedding of tears quickly dashed any notion of a happy, fun-filled trip. I thought she would never stop crying; she did so at all hours of the day and night. I was sad to see it and was perplexed that anyone could be so anguished. I had not seen that kind of crushing sorrow until then. The year was 1968 and I was ten years old.
The political violence that plagued San Fernando in the 1960s continued on to the next decade and it soon spread to other parts of the country. In the end, greed, corruption, military murders, and crony capitalism from those with political power and the violence and the lack of transparency from the underground movement were all that would irrevocably define this period in the country’s history. While Marcos and his men exercised barbarism and perpetuated corruption with impunity, the Maoist-influenced NPA came up with their own distinct method of assassination, carried out by the euphemistically named “Sparrow Units.” An extended period of insurgency by the left and the attacks of orchestrated mayhem and atrocity by the right gradually devolved into a wild and deadly game between the two. This impinged on the daily lives of Kapampangans and Filipinos in the rest of the country. Civilians were caught in the middle and eventually many chose to, or were forced, to take sides. So, it became a time when, you knew—though it was considered unwise to voice this—which side you were on. This was increasingly the case for many of the town’s residents except for many of the girls at my school.
While all this was going on in the world around me, there were also the things that were going on inside my teenage head. I did not recognize it then, of course, but like any normal teen, I was going through the angst and confusion of my age. I did not heed these feelings as my attention was more focused on exploring the nascent stirrings of social injustice around me. At least that was what I thought. Yet, I would be lying if I said that teenage preoccupations did not bother me. Once I listened to my discontent, angst, anger, and frustration, I had become, without a doubt, a very confused and angry teenager. From time to time, the nuns at St. Scholastica’s Academy suppressed my disquiet. I still followed the rules and acquiesced to the discipline imposed by the German nuns at school, but little did they really know of the turmoil inside my head. Had I told them, I imagine their advice would have been simply to pray and to keep praying.
Like many adolescents, I questioned if I had any real friends at school. It was a time of lonely walks in an emotional desert, with me often feeling like an inconsequential, small and invisible bug. It became painfully clear that I was different, very different from everyone around me. That was at least how it felt. I did not belong. I thought differently from the herd. In the dry, sandy desert that was my school, I talked about different things than the other schoolgirls. I rejected my schoolmates’ ‘frivolities.’ And for their part, I was deemed too serious. When they girlishly giggled and gossiped about teenage crushes and stylish hairdos, I felt like an outsider. I found it frustrating that they were only interested in who they were going to go to the movies with on the weekend. My sympathies were clearly with the disenfranchised, while the girls at my school worried about the dresses they would wear at the weekend parties. Or maybe the huge crushes they bestowed upon the high school boys at Don Bosco Academy. I was annoyed at their complacence and their nauseatingly positive view of the world. How, I thought, did one even begin to think that ours was a safe and happy community? I was puzzled as to why these girls could not focus on more serious stuff. Why didn’t they care that the town we lived in was becoming a violent and unjust place? Why did our society favor those who already had the means and the power, and then left the disadvantaged on the periphery? Why did they call themselves good Catholics if they allowed the poor to suffer? As I wondered about these issues, I also began to question my Catholic faith for the first time. I was beginning to feel disgruntled with what I saw as the Catholic Church’s predilection for rituals rather than making concerted attempts to keep pace with the social conditions of our times. It would be a few more years until I learned liberation theology from the Jesuits.
I wished that my schoolmates took sides, and in my own selfish thinking, I wanted them on the side of those burdened by society’s injustices. I reasoned that the lines were already drawn. If you and your social class identified with the powerful, with those who had the control of the country’s resources, either economic or political, then you were naturally against the other side. If you identified with the disadvantaged, the countless masses, then you saw those in power as the enemy. As a teenager, I still viewed things in black and white. There was to be no shifting between the powerful and the powerless. To change sides was an unthinkable deed. You should never jump a picket line, nor should you regard Marcos as a good leader. To me, there was no such thing as ‘staying neutral,’ especially when blood had already been spilled. The stakes were simply too high. To keep neutral was to stay asleep, to sleepwalk through life, and that was unacceptable. I aligned myself with the activist zeal embodied by historian, activist and author, Howard Zinn, who titled his memoir, You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train. That was what I thought. In my own teenage arrogance, I regarded as naïve, or worse, stupid, the colegialas in my school who thought it best to keep quiet. At the time, I was too angry to care. I justified my anger as nothing personal but something that everyone should express for the sake of the country and the mess it was in.
In the Shadows
“Here are two cots,” announced the guard on duty as he ushered me and another young woman into the Commander’s office. Due to lack of space, the room would be my sleeping quarters for the rest of my incarceration.
The other young woman was about 20 years old. She was also pregnant.
“Did you tell your family to bring bedclothes for you?” the guard asked.
I nodded while the young woman replied; “My husband will be here bringing my stuff soon.”
“What about food? You know, we don’t feed you here. It is up to your family to supply you with your meals. If they can’t, that’s too bad,” he continued. He was not interested in talking to us. He was simply giving orders.
“Mine is on its way,” I said.
He left as soon as he settled the cots on the floor. I looked around the room and then out through a window. The building was a plain structure made of cinder blocks and concrete. Its exterior was painted a dirty white color but the paint was peeling off, leaving the naked gray concrete visible in places. It was one of an array of government buildings on a street in the neighborhood of Santo Niño. Around the corner was the more imposing Capitol Building, home to the provincial government offices of Pampanga. Its sweeping entrance overlooked a park that was bordered by manicured hedges and rows of flowering perennials. At its center was an amphitheater. The rest of the structures surrounding this green space were regional offices of government agencies. In bold black letters, the building names read: Bureau of Internal Revenue, Bureau of Agriculture, Commission on Elections, as well as that of my father’s office. His
agency was called the National Administration of Cottage Industries Development Authority, or, for its acronym, NACIDA. My father was its regional director. His building stood directly across the street and ran perpendicular to the military camp.
It was dusk on the first day by the time the soldiers completed my interrogation. Ima and Tatang had already left. I was dispatched to a conference room where I saw several men chatting, reading, or sleeping. These men were, I discerned quickly, other political prisoners. Picked up in various towns and barrios of Central Luzon, they had been detained here for varying lengths of time. Some had arrived just a few days ago while others had been here longer. I wondered which one had been here the longest. Three men, talking in soft voices, were sitting on the chairs around a huge table. After the usual perfunctory hellos, the men went back to their conversations. A few of them were sitting on the floor with their backs leaning against the wall. I was introduced to everyone in the room by the guard, though their names hardly registered with me.
“This camp is not providing us with food, so please call your family and let them know they need to bring your meals regularly,” a lanky man informed me as a cigarette dangled from his mouth. At the same time, he extended his hand and introduced himself.
“Thank you, I will,” I replied.
“Gosh, you look so young. How old are you anyway?” another man curiously asked.
I told him. Everyone within hearing distance started shaking his head. I looked around me and realized I was the youngest person in the room. I was also the only female.
I didn’t want to dwell on this. I excused myself, darted out of the room, and asked the soldier by the door if I could use the phone to call home. When I did, Tang answered. He and Ima had just arrived at the house. I told him what I needed.
A Thousand Little Deaths Page 2