 |
| The principal architects of Martial Law |
But that day we stayed at the apartment and listened to the news, expecting the military to suddenly swoop down on us. The radios were silent, and only one daily newspaper circulated that day - the Daily Express. Since the paper was associated with the dictatorship, we felt that everything it wrote had to be suspect. So we looked for other information sources….and there was none. Our own communication lines in the movement had been severed, and no one knew what to do, where to go or who to go with.
Rumors were thick that a small agaw armas group was operating in Tondo, disarming policemen in preparation for an urban insurrection of sorts. Much as we wanted to believe that it was happening, in reality the guys in Tondo also stayed put because they too didn't know what to do, they told us later. It was too dangerous to even resume organizing work in the communities, uncertain as we were about the real sentiments of the people were organizing. One could never be too sure about security issues in those days.
I think the initial impact of the declaration martial law was political paralysis. It was a fear of the unknown that drove us deeper into the shadows. The suspension of the writ in 1971 had forewarned us about the terrors of martial law, but we didn't expect the paralysis to be as crippling. The massive demobilization of legal mass organizations were definite indications of the amount of fear that had crept into our collective psyche. Added to that were news of unwarranted and arbitrary arrests of the leaders of the political opposition, the likes of Diokno, Roces and Tañada. If they could do that to such powerful figures, they could also do that to anybody, we thought. So for several days and maybe even weeks, it was going to be like that. We were like rats in the sewer, wary of the slightest movements above the ground.
 |
| Iphone 7 plus |
But young as were then, we refused to be cowed into inactivity. So our small group trained ourselves in preparation for some future military action that might come our way. It was best to be prepared, we told ourselves. My growing compilation of books already had something by Marighela, the Topamaros, 'War of the Flea' and Che Guevarra. Mao was the still our principal guiding light, but I felt those guys had creatively adopted Marxism-Leninism in their respected area and came up with their unique brand of insurrection.
We started our morning jogs that took us to Roxas Boulevard, often trying to keep pace with boxers on training, with the Cultural Center as our turning point, before heading back for our Malibay residence. We often stopped by the Pasay wet market at the corner of Libertad and Taft to buy galunggong. It used to cost only P3 a kilo.
After breakfast, the three of us dispersed to different martial arts schools then occupying unused portions of old buildings in Quiapo and Santa Cruz. I went to YMCA for karate classes scheduled from 9:00 to 12:00 three times a week. On weekends, we had lessons in Aikido in an apartment at Project 4, lessons we were getting for free, thanks to some allies. Back at the Malibay apartment, we hanged a punching bag from the mezzanine so we could practice in our spare time. We were more interested in quick crippling moves that could immobilize opponents. We had to invent these ourselves in preparation for some imaginary insurrectionary future.
That never came of course. A month after the declaration of martial law, our higher organs told us to continue organizing work in our old areas, dashing our hopes of a more exciting, if bloodier, confrontation with the enemy. Still we continued with our lessons in martial arts during day time and at night, I would walk around the gang-infested plaza in Malibay with a chaku tucked in my waist, hoping to test the skills I had. Bruce Lee was showing in the cinemas of Sta. Cruz then. That, too, inspired me no end in my dreams of becoming a fighting machine. But many of the thugs in Malibay had attended our orientation for the urban poor. So hindi ako katalo. They let me roam around unperturbed and sometimes would even offer me a shot of the drinks they passed around. After that, I passed by the place at night unarmed, confident nobody would take undue interest in my small frame.
Our stint in Malibay would suddenly end in February 1973 when the military intelligence got wind of our organizing work. Fortunately I was In Cebu at that time. I would receive a cable saying they had taken Sisa. Poor dog. I wonder what they did with her. Since I kept what little I had always with me - a small portable typewriter, a few clothes and books - they had no evidence linking me to the place. All they had were testimonies of their spies. When I returned to Manila, my PO told me to stay in a house in Quezon City. The host, the husband of a former student activist, operated an amateur radio hub which kept on crackling silly messages at night. Very soon I moved out, this time to Makati, an apartment near J.P. Rizal occupied by some old friends in the youth movement. The military was always raiding apartments and houses to no end just by following couriers who did know not they were been followed.
Finally, on the first week of June that year, strange men in civilian clothes came knocking at the apartment door, looking for no one in particular. All of us occupants were hauled off to Camp Crame and subjected to interrogation and light torture. I was told to squat and stretch my arms forward while questions, most of them threatening, were being shouted at me. I was still quite sturdy and athletic then, so I lasted for about thirty minutes before my legs shook and my arms felt like they were carrying something very heavy.
They had found my books, and one of them was 'subversive', Mao Tse Tung's Red Book. To us in the movement then, it was like the Holy Bible, showing us the correct path to political righteousness. I had no documents to indicate who I was in the list of wanted elements, I was an unknown. After a few hours of detention, they released my other companions. But they kept me for further interrogation and more torture. But I simply had nothing to tell them. I was a dead end in the line of raided houses, and they could not find a top ranking communist at the end of their trail. I guess they decided to keep me as they continued watching the apartment, hoping someone would go there, and they would pick up the trail again. They did not know that I was never part of that trail. I just happened to live there among old friends.
That mistake cost me precious 13 months in YRC at Fort Bonifacio, a month of which was spent in Crame. The Fort Bonifacio sojourn put me in league with the hard core of the movement then. There were the old guards - Jesus Lava, Peregrino Taruc, Kumander Liwanag and other members of the old Party, occupying the posterior end of the large cell block. The other detainees were halved into two large dormitories enclosed by hogwires. The likes of Jalandoni, Verzosa, Tayag and Baylosis, the stalwarts of the new party, kept us updated on the political developments outside our cellblocks. Some of them had already figured prominently in the movement and were already considered legends, but the young stars were also there. Today Versoza is said to be the party chairman.
Life in detention was like life in a seminary with fixed schedules. We woke up at 6:00, had breakfast at 7:00, card making or pendant making at 8:00 to 12:00, then a quick lunch and siesta. In the afternoon, it was basketball or martial arts, whatever caught our fancy. The doors to our cell blocks were open the whole day to 9:00 in the evening, that we could do anything we wanted. Boredom was our main enemy. To people whose lives outside the prison were hives of activity, to be suddenly inactive was like unending torture.
 |
| Samsung A50 |
On weekends we got visitors who brought canned goods. The collective kept these to be mixed with the vegetables we cooked in the evenings to sustain our diet of thick fat, bland soup and rice that smelled of preservatives. Very soon, life inside detention became more and more tolerable as our activities - the rigorous physical exercises especially - sapped our energies. We were dead tired at night, and by 9:00 pm, we were snoring.
My detention would probably remain indelible in my memory as these months encapsulate my own direct experience with the terrors of martial rule. Probably I had one of the least colourful since many of my companions underwent more terrifying ordeals like water cure, exposing their bodies to blocks of ice and the usual electric shocks on one's genitals. Many became victims of 'salvaging' or summary executions perpetrated by the military intelligence. Others simply disappeared. The notorious ones included a Lt. Abadilla of the Metrocom and Lt. Aguinaldo of the Constabulary Security Unit under Col. Aure. Sen. Gringo Honasan was said to be part of the unit that arrested, tortured and in some cases raped women activists.
best of times, it was the worst of times
Senate President Enrile was the Secretary Of National Defense, one of the Martial Law triumvirate that included the infamous Gen. Ver and the dictator Marcos himself. Years later, Enrile, Ramos and Honasan would bolt out of the group because of some personal differences as the regime started to crumble that was triggered by Ninoy Aquino's assasination.
In the words of Charles Dickens: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity..."
No comments:
Post a Comment