A rally to remember

The slogans chanted haven’t changed: "Makibaka…," "Magkaisa…," "Patalsikin…." They are the same mantras mouthed. I never shouted these slogans, but I established friendships with those in crimson, burgundy, and pinks. I often asked myself, "Is this for real?"

Once, I was rallying with arms linked with my street comrades. We were a fraternity of well-meaning souls, with love of country fervently burning in our hearts. A dedicated group of people from the lowly, rich, and middle echelons of society, we all worked without class distinction, bound by kinship in the common goal of fighting a dictator.

Rally days during the Marcos regime meant we could die as honorable street parliamentarians with borrowed gas masks and towelettes, carrying lemon juice and water to protect us from tear gas. The army and the PNP were most certainly frightening and fierce, so we took precautions.

We met before we marched. Did we have a rally permit? Did we have a commander? Did he have a cool-headed committee on standby as negotiators? We knew that to participate in rallies meant shoving and pushing from friends, unfamiliar participants, law enforcers, infiltrators, and even rowdy troublemakers from our own ranks. We listened to instructions: stay behind the roped areas, or pretend there’s one. Did we have a place for sanctuary to hide or regroup around the rally area ?

* * *

With the avalanche of discussions on present-day rallyists and the forces of the law called in to disperse demonstrators, comparing past rallies and today’s is an interesting historical exercise. I can tell you from experience the law enforcers today are "gentler" than in the past. One more point is that rallyists then didn’t have enough fora to unburden the abuses of the authorities then. Today, there are the houses of Congress, the Commission on Human Rights, the civil service, the National Police Commission, law courts, etc.

So, let me tell you about the unforgettable rally I joined during the Marcos era, which has been immortalized in a publication.

* * *

That day at España Rotonda, we lined up at our assigned positions, behind the composites. To this day, I don’t know why they called them that, but they were experienced student rallyists, and they belonged to the urban poor and were students. Butz Aquino, Senator Lorenzo Tañada, and Chino Roces stood behind them, and behind the frontliners, the women ranks followed. It was a strategy – the experienced ahead, the women right after.

We locked arms tightly to keep from breaking ranks, and we counted how many we were in the line. We did not spill on to the sides of the road to give us space for an escape.

We stood for an hour or so, and we hadn’t gotten a chance to heat up our vocal chords when suddenly, the water hoses were turned on us. Yet, we did not break our ranks. A few minutes later, I heard cans fall on the pavement and smoke blocked my vision. Elmer Mercado, the president of the League of Filipino Students and our front commander, shouted, "Retreat!" And we ran for cover to the right side. Meanwhile, our leaders negotiated with General Yson, whose men occupied the left and right lanes of Quezon Boulevard, boxing us in. While regrouping, we were told that those who wished to leave should do so. We of AWARE – Mariel, Winnie, Guila, Narz, Ching, Dede, Betty, Phyllis with UP’s Dauphne, Katrina, Odette and Nikki – opted to stay. We had committed ourselves as frontliners. How could we let others fight for us?

* * *

It was now 4:30 p.m. and an hour after, we were on the left side of Quezon Boulevard and stood pat. We put lemon on our faces as protection for the tear gas, and passed some to the composite group behind us. One of the students lost his handkerchief during the dispersal, so I gave him mine, wet from the water hosing, with prints of tiny, multi-colored hearts. A toughie with colored hearts on his face: that was a ticklish relief amid the tension.

Suddenly, a student shouted, "Armalites!" I saw a long gun behind a shield carried by a fatigue-clad uniformed man. They were advancing slowly towards us in a kind of rhythm, and we were now boxed in on that wide boulevard. I took a deep breath for courage. There were fire trucks and hundreds of truncheon-and-shield-bearing soldiers, or where they police? We didn’t know the difference.

A big stone wrapped in newspaper fell in front of me. "Infiltrators!" someone shouted, or was it provocation from the front. Then, another stone fell on the first group of marchers where the group of Butz Aquino and the 86-year old Senator Tañada, wearing a helmet, were stationed. Their companions, four men, promptly protected them, acting as shields on their persons.

The fire trucks were now 35 meters away, with the advancing troops keeping with the slow pace of the Humvee. More rocks, more cans, more smoke arose. Still, we didn’t move. Then pop… pop… pop…. Gunshots were fired.

* * *

"Run!" was the command. My buddy, Guila Maramba, linked arms with me. Ray Leñada of the Philippine Democratic Party—Laban linked his arm with mine because I had lost Guila in the melee. We ran like we were flying, I didn’t think my feet ever touched the pavement. I never really felt the ground. We might have been a thousand rallyists running to Kanlaon, Apo and many other side streets, running for cover. Scampering to the left, Ray and I knocked at a beauty parlor to let us in; instead the occupants closed their curtains. The next house locked their doors. Tiny tears were falling on my cheeks for the unkindness. Again. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! sounding like popcorn from my kitchen. Those weren’t smoke bombs. Those men were firing at us. God!

At this point, I later learned it was UP student Fidel Nemenzo who overtook us and fell. What’s that? A man on the cement! "Nabaril? Nahulog?" Blood! Blood was gushing from his chest. Two students picked him up and dragged him to a nearby gate, which Rey and I were trying to enter together. They kicked it open. Twelve of us ran in between two rows of apartments. We momentarily leaned on the walls exhausted and catching our breath while listening to soldiers’ feet thumping on the asphalt road. So, we ran again to the farthest end of the houses for safety and for dear life.

The apartments were locked, and it was deathly quiet except for the last one. Its owner was hurriedly closing the door. I put my hands on her screen door and pleaded: "I beg you, let us in, please, please." She recognized me and answered: "Okay, but only you. Someone called earlier not to let anyone in."

"No!" I answered. "I have an injured boy with me."

I pushed the door wide open before she could answer, and Art and Maricor carried Fidel inside. Fidel’s white pants where now crimson. Grabbing a chair, he was made to sit. It must have been an ordeal because he moaned, "Ayee!" Bernarao and Dingdong removed Fidel’s shirt and the lady of the house gave us a bucket with water to wash him. Art applied bandages on Fidel.

* * *

We must have been nursing Fidel, hiding, jumpy, and afraid for about 30 to 40 minutes when I decided to run and take a peek under the gate. I saw the soldiers walking back to Quezon Boulevard and then silence: endless minutes of quiet. Finally, Sonny Belmonte’s pickup arrived. He shoved me into the front seat. The boys carried Fidel on the folding bed, and gently laid him on the back seat. United Doctors Medical Center was waiting for casualties. Fidel was whisked to the operating room.

That anecdote never fails to arouse my emotions, which distresses, tortures, and torments my heart. In fact, I reprint it here only because of a reader’s request.

* * *

Lesson learned? You want to join rally? Get a permit. Show it to the ground commander of the PNP or army. Never presume you are safe and off the hook unless you want to be arrested, or intentionally provoke so as to be "taken in" for media coverage and to file a human rights complaint against public safety officers. Always have a lawyer nearby.

In retrospect, I’ve always wondered the phenomenon or experience of rallying when our spirits soared and our throats dried up from shouting. But then again, was the impact ever lasting? I have nothing against protests or rallies for these are expressions of freedom, but the one who’ll remember most, to its fullest, will only be ourselves, and we don’t want to brag about it as an ego trip. I have put a closure to that. Most of my companions have picked up the pieces of their youth to be productive outside the streets and reminisce those days of protest.

Martial law was vicious, mad, and frightening, and the military and public safety officers during that time were the fiercest ever, enforcing arrest and seizure orders and causing people to "disappear." Even humor was prohibited. Do you remember Ariel Ureta, popular noontime show emcee? Well, he mocked a government slogan at that time when he jokingly said, "Sa ikauunlad ng bayan, bisikleta ang kailangan." Well, he didn’t appear in his noontime show one noon time. He was ordered to ride a bike the whole day who knows where, Aguinaldo or Crame or some military camp. And Ninoy’s driver Teody was made to eat Ninoy’s picture. Tell you what, those days are extremely different from the situation today. Today’s rally environment is just a piece of cake compared to the horrors of rallying in the early Eighties.