There will be those who cling to the memory of that glorious moment, just as there will be those who mourn the demise of one good thing Filipinos can truly be proud of in contemporary times. Still there will be those who wonder what is going on.
This will not be about how I or anyone should celebrate. Instead I will try to recall the moment as it happened in Cebu, for the benefit of those who, under 25, make up more than half of the present population and do not, therefore, know what the heck I am talking about.
First off, no recollection of mine would be complete without stating the fact that if there was one person in Cebu who was angry on such a joyous night when Marcos fled into exile, it was my editor-in-chief then, Mr. Juanito Jabat, now the publisher of this paper.
Mr. Jabat was angry not because he had any affection for Marcos. No. Far from it. He was angry because he was the only living soul left in the office to close the paper. The rest of the staff, including myself, just abandoned everything and left to celebrate.
When the news was flashed on radio and television confirming the departure of Marcos, the first instinct of people was to rush to Camp Sergio Osmeña, the regional headquarters of the then Philippine Constabulary, and therefore the symbol of Marcos' authoritarian might.
I do not know why this was so, but people just began massing in front of the gates to the camp, screaming their heads off and dancing. Pretty soon they were shaking hands and kissing even though they were strangers to one another.
I cannot recall exactly what time the crowds began to build. Time was of no essence to me then. I was just swallowed up by the moment. I did notice, though, that within minutes of massing in front of the camp, the crowds began to fill up Osmeña Boulevard.
I can vividly recall small groups adding their numbers to the expanding human sea, giving me the impression from their varying degrees of bodily garb that they were students from nearby boarding houses, banging on pots and pans, and waving, believe me, what looked like blankets.
Pretty soon, the entire stretch of Osmeña Boulevard, from the corner of P. del Rosario up to Fuente and beyond, to the Capitol, was filled with a heaving mass of noisy, sweaty humanity. And as if preordained, the ubiquitous vendors were there with their peanuts, ice water, etc.
Much of the marching orders for the people to come out and gather were being given by the news anchors of most radio stations. The transistor radio which somebody just plucked from the office and took with us was tuned to a simultaneous broadcast of sister stations DYRC and DYBU.
I cannot remember exactly who, but from their voices I presume Rolly Chica, Roy Ladiona and Rex Ricarte were making their own broadcast history by drinking live on air and screaming themselves silly in celebration. From fading memory, I can still hear the clinking of glasses.
For one who never learned to drink, the moment was intoxicating nevertheless, and I could not have forgiven myself if I had let the moment pass without imbibing it with family. So I had myself whisked home by photographer Wendell Yulo in his car to fetch my wife of one year, Arlene.
Arlene was reluctant to come, having just given birth the month before to our first born, Carmel Jamaica. I don't know if I told her we can make more babies later but that this was too precious a moment to pass up, but I eventually succeeded in persuading her to come.
A native of Leyte, where sentiments were naturally hot for Imelda, my wife initially hesitated to whoop it up with us strange Cebuanos. In the end, though, she had enough sense of history to be part of it, and we danced the night away up and down Osmeña Boulevard.
It was one moment in my life where everybody was a friend. You step on people's toes, you get elbowed on the ribs, you kiss somebody else's girlfriend. Nothing. No rancor. It was as if everything was free. And indeed we were. Nothing is more liberating than freedom.