Kris Aquino and 30 years of EDSA

I first met Kris Aquino after the 1986 EDSA Revolution. She had a radio program on Radio Veritas — my sister Mons was producer and she brought me along every time they would go on-air. Clearly, even then, there was already something about her that radiated a palpable sense of something about to happen.

Even as a kid, I could see how people around the studio just looked at her, their eyes beaming by the sight of her and how callers were just beside themselves with excitement just being able to talk to her via the phone patch. She was clearly a star, but unlike any that were around then or even now, not one that could clearly be delineated by the trappings of common celebrity. But she didn’t grow up in common circumstances nor common times.

In 1978, her father Ninoy was a political prisoner under Ferdinand Marcos’ martial law and had to run for public office from his cell. It was left for the six-year-old Kris to speak at his rallies for him. After his assassination in 1983, she returned with the rest of her family to the Philippines. Ever since, Kris has remained in the public spotlight, even as the nation rallied behind her mother Cory as she took up the cudgels from her late husband and eventually ran against Marcos in a snap election. After Cory assumed the presidency after the EDSA People Power Revolution in 1986, Kris became the poster girl of the brave new era, embodying the optimism and idealism and all the excitement of a restored democracy.

Now, 30 years later, Kris is a bigger celebrity than ever, occupying more than just the space of the billboards she appears on along EDSA these days. Her presence is more pervasive than that and her influence even more far reaching and integral than a lot of us would care to admit. In many ways, especially since her mother’s death in 2009, she has become the avatar for the collective dream of what happened in February three decades ago. Which leads one to wonder, given that Kris is still very much a part of our lives, can EDSA be truly a thing of the past, as so many would want us to believe?

Perhaps it’s best to ask the woman herself.

ERWIN ROMULO: You were born 1971, a year before martial law was declared. What was your earliest memory?

KRIS AQUINO: I think the earliest would be when my dad was brought to Laur, in Nueva Ecija. I don’t know how old I was, maybe three. But I just know that I remember clearly that they took away everything, even his glasses. I know that my mom said that he was just taken away without warning, and then I don’t know how many days or weeks without communication we went not knowing where he was.

Defense Sec. Voltaire Gasmin was then a young officer in charge of my dad; he was my dad’s inaaanak. He made puslit a pack of crackers and a case of milk for him because my dad didn’t want to eat what was being given. I remember that the milk they gave him was Nido — it’s a really significant memory because the Nido then had a green scooper inside it. And around that time, I remember only seeing photos of him from his campaign, carrying me as a baby. That was the calendar of the year 1972, and I only remember that because of the pictures.

My earliest memory was of seeing my dad in jail. When I visited him there was barbed wire and everything, nothing but plain white walls around us, exactly like how the movies show solitary confinement. Of course, as a kid, I was scared and for me to come close to my dad, he had to have that green scooper because it was sort of like a toy. That was all he had to connect with me.

You went to visit him weekly.

Half-days on Wednesday and Saturdays, and then the whole day on Sundays. Saturdays was tough for me as a child because that was when my mom would stay with my dad overnight. It was super sad because on Sundays, I had no mom. I was 5 around that time and so Saturdays, my Ate Ballsy and Eldon — they were just dating at that time — they had to take me with them. I was their five-year-old chaperone. I went to so many of Noy’s dates, too. All my siblings would take turns taking care of me every Saturday. Noy would take me to Car Park, where Glorietta is now, and he’d just give me money to play video games all day long so he’d be with his dates, and I was just happy.

It sounds like it wasn’t so bad but those were tough times.

It only hit me in school, when I was in Poveda. I was really talkative ever since kindergarten onwards, and my mom said the only time I went home sad was when I was in grade 1. In school, they asked me, “What does your dad do?” And I couldn’t answer because I was nahihiya to say my dad’s in jail. As a kid, you know that if someone’s in jail, they did something wrong. That’s when my mom had to explain to me the situation. Imagine a six-year-old knowing what a political prisoner is. She just said that your dad didn’t do anything wrong. She said, if you’re asked again, you can say. What she was trying to tell me was na wag ako mahiya that he’s in jail, because it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s there for a higher purpose. Of course, it was in more child friendly language.

How was your interaction with your father?

I really just got to know him in the States. He had to carve out time for me because nga to me he was a stranger so reading books was a way for him to get close to me. I always would say the only memories etched in my mind was that we read the whole children’s bible together. I remember I questioned Abraham sacrificing Isaac. I was like, “Huh? So you’d do that to me?” And he said, “Of course. You have to sacrifice and whatever God asks of you, you will give.”

There’s the famous story when your father ran in 1978, you volunteered to campaign for him.

Yeah, it’s true. I was six and when they were asking my family who was going to speak, I said “me.” (laughs)

Did you know at that time what you were signing up for?

Nope, clueless. But the guy really responsible for putting the words down into easily understandable language was Doy del Castillo. He was a radio personality and he was the one who asked me what I wanted to say. He put together those thoughts in Tagalog. I remember being trained to say po and opo after every single sentence.

Is it true you were carried on (people’s) shoulders during campaigns?

Well, not sa shoulders, but yes because as a kid, I couldn’t wade through the crowds, so they had to carry me and prop me up onto chairs so I could reach the mic. I remember, that from super small crowds, how big exponentially they became. But, and this is the part that was always edited out: I really got super sick with a 42-degree fever. I got the mumps, because it was my first time to be exposed to so many people. I even remember being given an ice bath because I was having convulsions na.

How many rallies would you do in a day?

You have to remember, it was a different time back then. Before, you had to be so brave to start and join rallies. The one thing I distinctly recall was that the one to introduce me would always be either Tito Ernie Maceda or Tito Nene Pimentel. Sila yung forever. There would be 21 candidates and at the end of each speech, I had to memorize and say all the names. Remember I was just a little kid, and na namemorize ko lahat yun. I thought it was a big deal.

And you were the one who arguably popularized the Laban sign?

They taught it to me. At first it was supposed to be a clenched fist, but my mom didn’t want a kid to be doing that. She said, “hindi bagay sa bata.” I don’t know the reasons why but yes, they said “mag-Laban sign na lang siya.”

Anything memorable from that campaign that most of us wouldn’t have heard yet?

Memorable? Maybe that throughout the ‘78 campaign, I wasn’t in any newscast, any newspaper in the Philippines, but I made it onto the cover of The New York Times. And that was a super big deal for my mom, especially because at that time I was a kid. I was like, “what’s The New York Times?” The other thing I remember then was that on the other side of the campaign, the KBL side had Niño Muhlach.

And kasikatan pa niya nun.

Super. And he was my favorite pa then, and after that, parang hindi na. (laughs)

You mentioned your time in Boston. That’s where you really bonded with your father.

I think he was a dad to me there in a way that he wasn’t able to be to my siblings. He was available, he went to all my school plays, that kind of dad. Sa akin nabigay yun. My siblings never got that because he was always so busy as a politician back then.

Did your dad teach or tell you anything in Boston? He said on record that out of all his children, you were the one most like him.

Watching The Nightly News was our bonding. That time we were there in Boston, it was election season in America and then Jimmy Carter lost. And my dad told me that Carter was so instrumental in helping him get to the States. That was the first time rin I understood what was going on in Israel and Palestine, which was already the big issue then. And I remember he’d always explain it to me like an adult. We also subscribed to Time and Newsweek so as early as the age of nine, we would read it.

When did you know he was going to go back to the Philippines?

Early enough. Maybe around New Year’s of 1983. Because I knew living in Boston wasn’t permanent but I wanted it to be permanent.

Did he talk to you personally about leaving?

Well, that’s the difference now, I think. Now, with my children, I consult with them about everything. But di ba before, our parents didn’t consult with us. It was really different. During our time kasi, it was understood that our parents made the decisions, no questions asked.

Do you remember the last time you saw your father?

Vaguely. Kasi rin, when he died, people were telling us bakit parang okay lang kayo? And it was because we had our mom. But I do know that I really had a dream where my dad was killed, and my mom knew this. I told her talaga na I dreamt he was killed.

How was your mom back then when it was all happening?

Now kasi you’re allowed to show emotions but before, not so much. For her kasi, courage was keeping everything in and not being an added burden. And I remember she didn’t show us fear or stress. When the news came, the first time she was informed, she didn’t tell us muna. But before it happened she had a feeling something was going to happen, because the night before, in our guest room, when she turned on all the lights, they all suddenly exploded. There’s an explanation raw for that, because when certain people are really close to you, there’s an electro-magnetic field or something. So yeah, until she was sure of the news about my dad, she didn’t tell us until she believed.

How was it like going back to the Philippines?

It was really that you were leaving everything behind, saying goodbye to the life you knew, and going somewhere where you’re not really sure what was going to happen.

And you knew you were never going back to Boston then?

Well, paano naman? My dream then was to go back, and go to boarding school and live there again. Before my dad always told me if I ever wanted to go to Harvard, I had to go to Exeter or Hanover, and at that time, that was the dream. But my mom taught us resiliency — hindi pwede na for our lives here to just stop.

A lot has been documented about Aug. 21, 1983 and Feb. 25, 1986, but not a lot about those three years in between. How was life then for you?

My Lola Ma (Demetria S. Cojuangco), the mom of our mom, she took me in during those years. My mom had to keep going to so many places, so from Sunday night to Thursday night I would stay with my Lola Ma. She looked after me.

You knew already then that you weren’t going to be living a normal life? 

To me it was normal, because that’s what your environment is, that’s what’s normal for you. So when we got home, there was this one feature on me and people had an awareness of who I was, and that was what was normal. The same way with my kids now, they’ve never known what it’s like to be not known. If your first memory is that you were a highly politicized family, then that’s normal for you.

You never wished for what your classmates had? Like going out and stuff like that?

Ah no. It wasn’t as tough but I guess the thing that really hit us around that time was when my Lola Ma died in July of 1985. It really hit my mom because Lola Ma was 100 percent supportive of  my dad throughout his career. And I remember when my mom became President she missed Lola Ma, and (she)said something like, “she would’ve loved to be here.” But yes, throughout those years, I really had a strong support system at home so things like that weren’t an issue.

You mentioned your mom. How do you remember her at that time?

I had the hubris of youth. I never doubted she’d win because di ba, when you’re young you think you can really do anything, kaya I was the only one sa siblings who wanted her to run. But I admit that at that time, I didn’t fully understand just how much she was up against. From my side, there weren’t a lot of memories of the difficulty, because in my mind it was inevitable. But in hindsight, siyempre at that time there were no political ads, no free press, no money. Now I realize what a risk certain people took to stand by her because they could lose so much. Now that I think of it, when you have things to protect, from where I am, ang hirap talaga ng ginawa nila and ang tatapang nila. From the businessmen, to the people who went around with her, to the ones who organized and all, you think of it now na, they were like, sige, we’ll risk it all. Those things, you think of it, and now ask yourself if you’d have that kind of courage.

Anything that struck you during your mom’s campaign?

I remember that it was such a big deal that Tito, Vic, and Joey, who were already sikat that time, said no to endorsing and campaigning for Marcos. I remember they even got to some fights with other celebrities — I won’t mention their names na — but di ba now when you’re a celebrity, it’s always safer to just be neutral or you have that understanding that campaigning for someone is just work like an endorsement deal. So yeah, at that time for Tito, Vic, and Joey to do that, was such a big deal.

How do you see EDSA now? Because to be frank, there seems to be little appreciation or understanding of it now.

Okay, ganito, I want to say this because a lot of people now say that ang galing ng mga Marcoses, and at the same time you hit the Binays from head to toe because you feel they stole so much. Not that I’m defending the Binays, but what the Marcoses did… do you realize the magnitude of what these people stole? I’m not even talking about the larger civil liberties but just taxes, the very basic. And I want to ask if you really want to put back in power those who used the Central Bank as a personal checking account. ATM nila yun. I can’t argue what I personally lost because that will seem selfish, but I can argue as a taxpayer, which we all are. So do you want someone without checks and balances? Dun ako nabo-bother talaga.

But it can be argued that those allegations and those cases have not prospered. No Marcos is in jail.

When you hear from other countries say that in their country, it would be unheard of to bring back to power people like them.

But you can’t just blame the millennials because even people my age or even older have forgiven them. People who should know better seem to have changed their minds.

I really just feel that we as a society value social media and our rights to free expression, so I want to ask if, for them, it’s okay na baka tanggalin yun? I think it’s because we take things that are present for granted, and you’ll really only realize what it is when you’ve lost it. The thing is, huwag naman natin hintayin mawala.

I’d like to ask what’s your take on EDSA, and what you feel about those who try to take away credit from your mother. People in power, away from power, academic scholars, so many have tried to put down the role of Corazon Aquino. They even say she was in Cebu.

She was brave enough to go against Marcos, and for me, that’s the main thing. For me, it really starts with courage. If anyone has or had the courage to make a stand, then you deserve the credit.

But does it make you angry that some people subscribe to that idea?

No, because I’m really cool about it, and I learned to just surrender everything to God. That’s what my mom did and it turned out the way it did for her. She was steadfast. She was faithful. She didn’t do it to amass wealth or to power trip. In some ways I see it in with my brother. When the attacks are just non-stop, I text him and he just replies, “RELAX,” in all-caps talaga. And that’s how I really feel about this whole thing. I don’t get pikon or anything.

There are a lot of people who seem content to just go about all their action via social media. What are your thoughts on that?

I think it does make everybody accountable. It makes you have to answer. Go ahead and rant because I think at some point it will be heard, but do it respectfully. If it’s puro mura or baseless, or medyo baliw na, hindi na binabasa ‘yun. Trust me. Ang binabasa ay yung well thought out, well written, and may points talaga. Yun ang aabot sa kanila. It’s really about using your voice wisely.

But the reality is people just tend to mouth off on social media.

Well, you have to read up before you can say anything. That’s also the problem I think that with so much freedom — it’s an excuse to just go full stream-of-consciousness writing, and that’s wrong.

The media has played time and again the idea that you and Bongbong Marcos are okay or are friendly with one another. How true is that?

Manila is just really small so marami nang beses na naging ninong at ninang kami sa mga kasal. It’s just a reality that you will bump into each other or will have social interaction. I don’t think we can ever be the best of friends for the rest of our lives. I don’t think our families will ever run under the same ticket.

His view of martial law is totally opposite from your own.

We’ve never discussed it. We’ve never had that time or long dinner where we got to talk or whatever.

Would you want to have that dinner?

No, not really interested. I don’t think we’re good now, but I think what’s there is peaceful coexistence. Ganito, I’ve only endorsed one candidate and I think I’m sticking to that. I said I’m for Leni Robredo for Vice President.

Okay, but about EDSA, I’ve read many times that EDSA was a failure. Even Juan Ponce Enrile has apologized and said it was a mistake and a lot of people who made their names after EDSA said it was a mistake. What would you say to that?

I’m really “care bears” sa opinion nila. When it comes to those things you have to let it slide and at the end of the day you have to have faith na maliliwanagan ang majority. Those people who say that, yan na ang opinion nila and nothing I say or do will change that. But if EDSA never happened… you have to relate it with how it will personally affect you or I. So if ever (it didn’t happen), baka our Facebook, Instagram, and social media might be similar to China, where they aren’t allowed and they just made their own version. Kung congressman or mayor or senator ka ngayon, there wasn’t really a congress or senate (then). Even something like TV, how many channels do we have now? If you had no democracy, everything will be filtered.

I guess that might be likened to a scenario like what happened in Tiananmen Square following EDSA —

Where people were shot.

Yes. Most young people in China now don’t know about the 1989 uprising that followed our own. Or who Tankman (an anonymous dissident who stood alone in front of a fleet of tanks) is.

Even in Hong Kong a couple of years ago, where they just wanted to choose their own candidates and not the ones selected by China… Here in the Philippines, come election time, say what you will, but every three years all these people will be courting votes. They’ll give you so many things and listen to what you have to say because they need your votes. I’m saying this in the most pragmatic sense, that during these times, you, the people, are most important. All of us want to feel needed and important. And looking back now, kung walang EDSA hindi talaga tayo liligawan ng politiko, because you won’t be given importance. You’re won’t be necessary.

That’s all I want to say at its core and at its simplest — you want your voice to be heard. You want to be heard and respected. And that’s what EDSA gave to the Filipinos.