“Mr. Lopez, it seems you have not even bothered reading the document,” Marcos said.
“If I disagreed with any of these conditions, would you revise it?” replied the senior Mr. Lopez.
“I don’t think so,” acknowledged Marcos.
“Then, what’s the point?” Mr. Lopez allegedly retorted. He then took the paper and signed the document, effectively giving up the largest broadcasting network in the Philippines at the time to government control. Shortly thereafter, the network was turned over to Marcos’ crony, Roberto Benedicto.
And so began Marcos’ control of newspapers, radio, and TV stations as part of his military rule. Aside from ABS-CBN, Benedicto was also given a newspaper and radio stations to manage. A newspaper, whose name I can’t recall, was effectively banned in my family. We could not imagine reading it. As we complained back then, “Why would anyone read something published by a Marcos’ puppet?” Every time Benedicto’s name came up in family conversations, we never failed to pair it with the word, “tuta,” whose original meaning in Pilipino is ‘puppy dog’ but which in slang meant a lap dog, a crony, or someone who is blindly obedient.
We found that the usual program offerings had been expunged, as stations slowly were brought back on air. In their place were bland and boring reports coming straight out of Malacañang, the presidential residence. The popular news anchors on Philippine television were replaced by the all-too-frequently seen image of Francisco “Kit” Tatad, the presidential press secretary. Every time he went on air, it was to announce the newly signed letters of instructions, executive orders, and special decrees from the president. I still retain a distinct memory of this short, unsmiling, bespectacled man with thick lips and dark black straight hair, martial law’s most visible representative and its most loyal agent.
“Oya na naman ing digpa ning alting tuta ng Marcos,” (There goes that Marcos yes-man again. May he be struck with misfortune), we would bitterly complain and then promptly switch the TV off. At best, Tatad was Marcos’ official spokesperson. At worst, he was the one solid, or sordid, if you will, representation of a system gone mad.
Marcos subsequently signed more than 3,000 of these decrees and executive orders during the course of his regime. There were so many that it was puzzling to me how Filipinos could keep track, or even be aware of them. They would surely not remember them if, like my family, they turned off the set when Tatad routinely took over the airwaves.
The largest newspaper at the time, the Roces family-owned The Manila Times, was also taken over. From then on, the editions published were unrecognizable in terms of the spirit and style of the newspaper we had enjoyed reading in the past. Other newspapers like The Manila Chronicle were also controlled. A new national paper also appeared although it was never regarded as genuine journalism in my family. We all agreed it was more of a Marcos propaganda tool. All along, Marcos’ plan was to restructure Philippine society because, as he claimed, the country needed saving. Strong words. What we could not have known was that the new society that he installed was more repressive, cruel, and violent than the one he discarded.
As Tatang talked, it dawned on me that if Ima’s thoughts had been about impending cruelty and violence, she would not have been wrong. Daily life took on a grim and menacing quality, especially during the early years of martial law. No, my mother was not wrong at all in thinking the worst this time. She did not live to see it end. Although her passing in 1976, less than two yeas after I was released from political detention, was one of the most painful events we endured as a family, it was perhaps fortunate that she did not live to see the misery and the downward spiral the country has taken under Marcos’ regime.
Media companies were the first to go but this was only the beginning. Other industrial enterprises were also seized and handed out as rewards to those who loyally supported him. Having granted Benedicto a big slice of the media pie, he began giving away other companies, first to immediate family members and then to his cronies. The names Cojuangco, Floirendo, Tan, Disini, Romualdez, and Cuenca were bandied about so often in gossip as well as in official news sources, that their names, to my mind, were synonymous with martial law Philippines. When one talks banana monopoly and banana plantations, the name, Antonio Floirendo, was uttered in the same breath. When infrastructure development and the Construction Development Corporation of the Philippines, or CDCP, as everyone called it, were mentioned, the name Rodolfo Cuenca came up. As for automobiles, Ricardo Silverio was the man who revved up its corporate engines. Herminio Disini was tied to tobacco and cigarettes. But many say the biggest and closest crony to Marcos during this period was Eduardo Cojuangco, Jr., who dipped his hands in coconut plantations and also claimed as his own, the Ayala-owned and the country’s largest, San Miguel Corporation. Cojuangco, in a move to consolidate and secure his power, eventually controlled two monopolies: MERALCO for electric power, and PLDT for telecommunications. Years later, after Marcos died, his wife Imelda and their children would try to take over these companies, instigating a protracted legal fight which has not been satisfactorily resolved to this day. It is worthwhile noting here that Cojuangco is a cousin of Corazon Cojuangco Aquino, the woman responsible for finally toppling Marcos in the first People Power revolution in 1986, three years after the tragic assassination of her husband and Marcos’ nemesis, Benigno Aquino, Jr. This is the way politics was played in the Philippines then and one can venture to say it is the way it is played even now as Cory’s and Benigno’s son, also named Benigno, took the reins of the presidency in 2010. The Philippines has been routinely governed by a few prominent Filipino families who are, more often than not, interested in political power as a means to secure and maintain their economic interests.
Later, the name Lucio Tan became closely associated with the nation’s dominant carrier, the Philippine Airlines. He was Marcos’ friend and partner in crime. The daily newspapers splashed pictures of the two and other crony friends playing golf at the Wack Wack Country and Golf Club or places where the rich and famous gathered. Crony capitalism has begun in earnest. In my teenage mind, these men were the accursed enemies.
Marcos’ predilection for corruption and, subsequently, for violence, had started long before he placed the country under martial law. I learned early as a young girl that this was a man who had been accused of murdering his father’s political opponent. Tried and convicted, he was later pardoned by former president and WWII Japanese collaborator, Jose Laurel. I remember this story because the adults in my family talked about it when Diosdado Macapagal, a fellow Kapampangan, lost to Marcos in a presidential election in the mid-1960s. By the time of the presidential election of 1969, Marcos had strong-armed his way to reelection using goons, guns, and lots of money. He outspent his opponent in the dirtiest election the country had seen, keeping in mind that Philippine elections were generally dirty, dishonest, and violent. An article published in Time Magazine expressed precisely this sentiment upon reporting on the events of the 1971 Plaza Miranda bombing. It began,
“Settling scores with bullets rather than ballots is nothing new in the Philippines, where personal vendettas are frequently settled in the heat of campaigning.”
It could not have been put any better. In this regard, Marcos was no exception; in fact he hijacked elections and became a master at it. By the end of his second term, he was keen to remain president despite the prohibition of third terms in office as stipulated by the constitution. He set up a constitutional convention to amend the constitution that would then pave the way for him to stay in power. He also orchestrated events in order to convince Filipinos that the country was balancing on the brink of political and economic collapse. He further escalated his play for power by resorting to even more violent tactics in hiring goons to bomb public places. He sent in the riot police into rallies and demonstrations even if these were peaceful and legal. It was said that he hired people to intentionally create chaos in these public protests so he would have reason to arrest its organizers.
/> One of the defining events of this period was the Plaza Miranda bombing, the same event reported by the Time Magazine article. I remember it to this day as one of the most horrifying events of the period before martial law. On the evening of August 21, 1971, the Liberal Party, the opposition counterpart to Marcos’ Nacionalista Party, staged a miting de avance, a final political rally before the elections. Congressional and local elections had already been scheduled to commence just a few days later. As the speeches began, two grenades were tossed onto the stage and seriously injured prominent Liberal Party members like Senators Jovito Salonga and Sergio Osmeña, Jr., as well as Manila mayor, Ramon Bagatsing. I listened to the news on the radio and waited anxiously for the program host to announce who had died. My family was loyal to the Liberal Party and strongly supported its candidates for this election. The bombing killed nine instantly and injured about a hundred in the audience as one of the grenades had landed where the crowds were gathered. Senator Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino, Jr. was one of the key speakers of the evening, but had narrowly escaped injury because he had yet to arrive when the grenades exploded. Speculations abounded that Aquino was a principal target since he had become a pain in Marcos’ backside.
Around this time, the underground dissident movement also began to gain traction. The January 30, 1970 student demonstration, known as The First Quarter Storm, resulted in the deaths of four students. The First Quarter Storm—so named by student leaders and activists of the period, and which emerged out of the tree-lined avenues and hallowed halls of the state university and exclusive private academic institutions—signaled the unfolding social and political strife. Many upper-and middle-class students comprised its leadership and ranks. After the bombing, its membership increased dramatically, as did its dissident activities. The armed counterpart of the Communist Party known as the New People’s Army or NPA took advantage of the country’s instability. At the time, I thought they were not capable of the same violence that Marcos exacted on his enemies, and I admit that I was sympathetic to their cause. I was not alone. Countless Filipinos sympathized with them even if they were afraid to say so. People were tired of Marcos’ political manipulations and were hoping that the underground movement presented a just and humane alternative. Evidence began to surface in the post-Marcos years that the left was not exactly innocent of violence and brutality. Some have even speculated that they were responsible for the Plaza Miranda bombing, though the accuracy of such an accusation remains a longstanding and divisive controversy. Increasingly, the two sides blamed each other for every bombing and riot, which were growing more frequent in many parts of the country. While the NPA waged war against the government in the countryside, Marcos began orchestrating a war against a growing number of Filipinos whom he saw as disloyal.
With the line on both sides of the political spectrum clearly demarcated, civilians were caught in the crossfire. For many, this untenable situation only made it easier to take one side or the other. For others, they were left without a choice, easily becoming victims of atrocities committed by both sides. Soon, we saw a country sliding away from the kind of democracy envisioned by Americans when they handed Filipinos their independence after the Second World War.
Many Filipinos believed that the Plaza Miranda bombing was a watershed moment in the country’s political history—violence, savagery, and brutality had intensified to a previously unseen level. It remains a mystery to me as to who was responsible but in the following year, Marcos declared martial law. In the ensuing months, Marcos did not simply make a policy of repression; he institutionalized it. By 1973, when soldiers picked me up at my school, I too had become its victim.
Prior to declaring martial law, Marcos suspended the writ of Habeas Corpus. I remember my family sitting around the dinner table one evening, with the adults having a vigorous discussion about the meaning of the writ of Habeas Corpus. As I listened, I wondered what these words even meant. These sounded like big words to me and so I decided to look them up in a dictionary. How were they even spelled? I needed to ask a grown-up. Flipping through the pages of an old dictionary, I looked for the phrase, “writ of Habeas Corpus.” ‘Writ,’ according to the dictionary, was a “legal document, which prohibits.” I guessed it must be something related to legality, but what it prohibits, I could not guess. Then I looked up the phrase, “habeas corpus,” and discovered that it meant that “a prisoner be brought before a court at a stated time and place to determine the legality of detention or imprisonment.” So suspending the writ meant what again? I asked myself again and again. I was annoyed at my inability to understand. I was fourteen years old at the time and I hoped that I would understand it better when I was older. I did not have to wait too long. Soon, some of the most prominent politicians of the opposition, student leaders, labor activists, farmers, priests, nuns, etc., found themselves in prison, as the writ faded from my mind.
Not long after the writ’s suspension, massive flooding inundated Central Luzon, a region that included my province, Pampanga. It is difficult for me to forget these floods even now. The loss of life, the destruction of property, and the devastation of a wide swath of natural resources caused great suffering to hundreds of thousands of residents. An extended monsoon period brought lengthy and massive amounts of rain. Older folks in our neighborhood complained bitterly about our denuded forests, which they claimed contributed to the flooding. They believed just as their ancestors did, that trees helped in preventing floods. Others criticized the ineptitude and corruption of politicians and government overseers, but more importantly, decried their inability to build and manage efficient waterways and sewage systems that could divert the floodwaters. Though some water canals had been built, these were used to dump garbage because trash collection was never done on a regular basis. Thinking about it so many years later, I am transported back.
I hear the sound of water splashing, whirling, and battering Apu Pa’s house. It’s been raining for days now. Rains like we’ve never seen before. Monsoon rains, from around May to September, are usual at this time of year. Farmers favor the monsoon; it signals to them that the rice-and sugar-growing season has commenced. Throughout the low lying plains of Central Luzon, which is the country’s major producer of rice, sugar, and other grains, it is common to see farmers, bent over in rice fields, planting seedlings in muddy paddies with their legs steeped in sludgy water that rose midway up their calves.
This time it is different. These are not the steady rains that last for days and cease when the tropical sun comes out again the next day. The rains come in wild torrents for hours at a time. And then there are only brief let-ups in-between. Then the rains fall again, battering everything in sight. It seems as though the rains are angry, carrying on an indefinite temper tantrum. Weeks go by. The grounds are saturated. Water has nowhere to go. Then the floods came.
The sound of rain hitting the metal roof of Apu Pa’s house turns into a constant background noise. The raindrops are big, forming fog-like as far as the eye can see. I decide to venture out of doors. I am desperate to be out for I am tired of being kept indoors. I can hardly see in front of me. My umbrella is useless. The rains are now accompanied by strong winds. My umbrella buckles from the rain’s pressure, its ribs splitting away from the water-resistant fabric. The umbrella hangs limply in my hand. I am soaked to my skin and can’t wait to get back inside.
Big, heavy raindrops keep pounding the region. Flood waters continued to rise and so did our apprehensions. Water seeps into everything. I now see houses tumble. People in them have nowhere to go. Many have already taken shelter in schoolhouses and other public buildings. Government officials say they can no longer accommodate any more people. We keep our ears tuned to news reports from Radyo Patrol, the program that has become our lifeline for information. There is no good news. Imang Dandy’s favorite program host, Orly Mercado, reports seemingly non-stop, traveling across the region but telling the same story again and again. Flooding, rains, and more rains expected. The crisis
intensifies and so does Radyo Patrol’s reporting.
Both Apu Pa and Imang Dandy are now worried that the floods will soon reach our neighborhood. Sure enough, water begins flowing into the first floor of Grandma’s house, a sturdy, well-built house that has stood on the same spot since the turn of the last century. Water begins to seep in first through the crawl space below the ground floor despite the sandbags piled at the gate. Imang Dandy, with her wet kimona clinging to her body, stands in a foot of water in the kitchen. She directs my cousin, R., and me to start removing furniture and appliances. We scramble to get it done, barely managing in the nick of time. Luckily, the second floor of the house is spacious enough to bring up the extra furniture and furnishings from below. We asked male neighbors to help us in lifting the bigger appliances. All of us are now soaked and exhausted.
The floodwaters, which were only about an inch high hours ago, have now reached a depth of about five feet inside the house. I stand at the top of the stairs on the second floor. The only thing I can see is the upper part of the walls and the ceiling of the floor below. The water itself is muddy brown, not unlike the river water we see at the back of the house. I can see that the Pampanga River has overflowed, sending its waters into all the houses along its banks.
I change into dry clothes and tune once again to Radyo Patrol for the latest. It is not much better in other places, the radio reports. Flooding has now consumed the plains of Central Luzon. From the province of Bulacan on the southern side of Pampanga, the waters are skirting north and northwest towards the provinces of Nueva Ecija, Bataan, and Zambales, leaving no place safe for miles and miles.
A Thousand Little Deaths Page 6