MANILA, Philippines - Two minutes, two times. This is how I will always remember Cory Aquino. I was born in 1985, in an era overrun by massive political, economic and moral turmoil. These were dark times — under the cloak of Martial Law, reports of bombings, disappearances and clandestine torture ran rampant. The pulse of the nation throbbed with both fear and a longing for justice, a quiet but burgeoning fire burning under its collective skin. Many fought valiantly, but it seemed like the war could not be won — until she came along, garbed in the color of sunlight and hands raised high in a symbol that would galvanize an entire nation and, subsequently, inspire the admiration of the world. In a revolution the likes of which had never before been witnessed in history, Cory Aquino stood at the forefront of change, an enduring emblem of hope, peace, and a freedom so elusive it had once seemed impossible. It was the best of times, and the best time to be a Filipino.
This is the Cory I read about in history books, the iconic image of the woman so lovingly carved into our national memory. But this is not the Cory I remember.
I belong to a generation that was born amidst the fire of idealism and political passion but grew up bearing a national mindset blurred by doubt and hazy recollections of democracies past. Like most of my peers, my memories of the first EDSA Revolution consist of black-and-white photographs printed on the rough, granite-colored pages of history books and hour-long documentaries in white-walled AV Rooms, where we watched grainy footage of various news segments chronicling those momentous events. We relied on the stories of our parents and teachers, piecing together disjointed narratives in an effort to see what they had seen; to feel what they had felt. Yet still, to a generation that had learned the meaning of the word “corruption” before even being taught all the different facets of democracy, the EDSA Revolution was a moment in the past — a glorious one, without a doubt — but one that seemed to exist in another time, far from our then-present reality. Far, that is, save for the woman in yellow.
Cory Aquino endured. She endured countless hardships and tragedies before, during, and after her term as president, but more than anything, she endured in our hearts long after she left the Palace. For those of us born in those turbulent times, she was the heroine of the story; the savior of our nation’s freedom. She was democracy, personified. Yet behind this exterior of courage and strength was a woman, simple, humble and kind — an image that many sought to take advantage of, but was fundamentally and inextricably her. This is the Cory I met. This is the Cory I remember.
My first two minutes with Tita Cory happened by accident. At the time, Malacañang was open to the public, and visitors were allowed to take a tour of the Palace. My parents, entertaining a couple of Japanese guests, decided to take them to see it; my older sister and I tagged along, willing accessories. Standing in a cavernous, wood-paneled room carpeted in crimson, I held my mother’s hand as we waited, first in line behind a velvet rope, for our turn to take the tour. The room was a mix of sounds, sharp bursts of laughter occasionally punctuating the surrounding murmurs of conversation. Then all of a sudden, a singular din rose around us. I looked up to see a woman, the apparent cause of this excitement, enter the room flanked by several men and women. To my young eyes, she looked important. She was the President, I learned from my mother, but at the time that title meant little to me. I was six years old, all of two feet, and I didn’t realize the significance of the moment. She was just passing by on her way to a meeting on the other side of the Palace, a guard informed us, and we clapped politely as she entered, keeping a safe distance from her on our side of the rope.
To our surprise, she stopped. Bending down slightly, she asked me what my name was. I was painfully shy, and I couldn’t answer; my mother answered for me. She then asked my sister, who readily replied, and even engaged her in conversation about the picture of the guy on the shirt she wore (his name was Archie Andrews, by the way). She was down-to-earth and completely without airs. Cameras flashed as she spoke to the both of us, and suddenly she was ushered out, and it was over just as quickly as it had happened. I had just spent two minutes with one of the greatest icons of Philippine democracy, but my six-year-old mind didn’t register this. All I could remember was her face, framed by black, squarish glasses, and a smile that was kind and gentle.
As I grew up, watching (and re-watching) the Batas Militar documentary several times over the course of my elementary and high school years, I couldn’t believe that I had once met the woman in yellow on the TV screen in front of me. I had stood in front of the catalyst of modern Philippine democracy, the “Ina ng Bayan,” the woman whose strength and courage brought a nation to the streets — and in those two fleeting minutes, I hadn’t been able to say a single word.
Beyond all doubt, Cory Aquino was an extraordinary woman. So extraordinary, in fact, that I owe much, if not all, of the freedom I now enjoy to the sacrifices she made for our country. She had done so much and asked for so little in return, and my only regret, after all these years, was that I never took the chance to thank her — and I promised myself that if I ever got to meet her again, I would do just that.
Like the first time, the next two minutes happened by accident early this year, in an elevator in a Pasig City hospital. By that time, we had known of her illness for a little over a year, and her struggle with cancer was of national concern. But as my mom and I rode down the elevator by ourselves that day, inconspicuously stopping at a lower floor and standing aside to let the new riders in, the last person we expected to see as the doors slid open was Tita Cory, dressed in yellow, smiling widely as she stepped into the elevator, her black glasses framing her face as it did so clearly in my mind all those years ago. Her daughter and two guards stepped in behind her, completely without fanfare. She, and everything about her, was just as I remembered. As the elevator doors closed, I was struck by the realization that I was once again in front of her, as I was that day in the wood-paneled, red-carpeted hall of the Malacañang, but this time I knew all I had to know, I was aware of so much more, and, more importantly, I was grateful beyond words could express. But the six-year-old in me resurfaced. I hesitated — and just as it had been so many years ago, the elevator doors suddenly swung open at the ground floor, Tita Cory stepped out, and the moment was over before it began. I had lost my chance once again. Little did I know it would also be my last.
I met Cory twice in my life, for two minutes each time, and both times I said nothing. Now that I know she can hear me from her perch in heaven, I want to take this opportunity to say those four words that I never got a chance to say: thank you, Tita Cory. You will always, always be in our hearts, and believe me when I say that this generation owes our happiness to your sacrifice and your strength.
Amidst the haze and gray asphalt of Manila’s streets, rain dances down like tears from the heavens as Tita Cory slowly makes her last pilgrimage among the Filipino people; the people she loved most, unifying a country up to the very end. Just as she had once led us to the streets of EDSA, aglow in yellow and the promise of redemption, we take to the streets once again to celebrate her life and her legacy. Today, we have lost a star, and the world shines a little less brightly. Yet because she lived, this nation — and the Filipino people — are free. Thank you, Tita Cory, for dedicating your life to our freedom. You are, and will always be, our Mother.