Allow me to explain.

I recently discovered that some people were not clear on my “No to martial law” position which I expressed in my article: Will the color of Christmas be camouflage?

After telling my story, it was suggested that I write my personal account of how martial law ruined my family so that people who were oblivious could somehow appreciate the experience of others, particularly family members of journalists. So, allow me to explain…

Like most Filipinos, we were taken by surprise when martial law was declared. “Officially”, Marcos announced the declaration of martial law on Sept 21, 1972. But in truth, he and Juan Ponce Enrile along with General Fabian Ver had already set things into motion on September 19, 1972, as they sent out the Metrocom like storm troopers to arrest all known enemies and critics of the Marcoses and their so-called “tutas” or lap dogs.

I was a fourth year high school student then but had already worked as a “press photographer” and was relatively street smart. By 9 p.m. Friday September 19, I got a call from my parents advising me that Marcos had declared martial law and that I was to gather all my brothers and sisters and proceed to the residence of Manong Ernie Maceda.

From there we eventually moved to the Sampaguita pictures compound that was also the residence of the Vera Perez family. There we became refugees for nearly three months nurtured by the generosity of the entire family.

It was also there where my dad Louie Beltran was fetched by his Kumpadre, who turned him over to the warden of the Crame Hilton named Fidel Ramos.

My father did not stay in detention too long. He was in the Crame Hilton for just a little over two months. But while he was there, we were suddenly “fatherless” and “penniless”. Like a widow with orphans, my Mom Marita called and visited friends and strangers who might possibly be able to intervene on my father’s behalf.

Like an old black and white movie, I have not forgotten a late November afternoon when we visited “Kit” Tatad and hearing my Mom’s plea for help. Just remembering the look of helpless disappointment on her face made me wonder what kind of future we had.

Although my Dad got out in time for Christmas, he lived like a prisoner in the succeeding years of martial law.

He could not get a job for four years because each time someone tried to hire him out of pity or on merit, they would get a phone call and a threat that their company would be shut down if they hired Louie Beltran. Eventually, only the feisty Elena Lim of Solid Industries was brave enough to do so.

To survive, my parents started selling personal belongings they had worked so hard to acquire. We became accustomed to people going through our living room to examine antique jars and plates, paintings and other stuff. It did not take long to clean out our house.

Years later I realized the insensitivity and selfishness of people who did all they could to haggle down prices not even considering that we were a family trying to survive.

The cars all disappeared and so did most of the help except for the loyal carpenter and the loyal houseboy. All we had left were our beloved Dobermans and my fathers’ fighting cocks. That was what we survived on. We became professional cockfighters. We bred them, we sold them or we fought them.

Eventually even that was not enough. With five growing kids and a mortgage to pay, my parents had to sell the adjoining lot that housed our chicken operations. I was supposed to inherit that since I was the only real cock fighter. Well, I had a ringside seat on top of the hollow block fence as I watched workers tear everything down when the property was sold. 

Back then Metro Manila was not as wide as it is now but every time my dad needed to go beyond Paranaque or Novaliches, he needed to apply for a permission to travel outside Metro Manila and report back at Crame. He was never charged yet he lived like a parolee.

For several years he received “invitations” from the BIR. Thank God that my Mom dutifully collected and kept records and receipts because this was what kept those demons off my father’s back.

In dictatorships and in wars, the tormentors are not really the Presidents or the Fuhrers; it’s usually the underlings, the assistants, the mistress or the cousins. As my father use to say: It’s the Kamag-Anak Incorporated who steals the most and hates the most!

Eventually, it was my Mom who kept a job and tried her best to keep her family together. But even a saint could not do that. Martial law had managed to ruin my father, his marriage, as well as his family.

We survived martial law but just like people who survive a war, you’re never the same again. It breaks you and it makes you. For a while most of us were “defeated spirits” although we may not have realized it then. We became sullen, sensitive and quite paranoid.

Most of my college schoolmates dismissed me as a manic depressive or emotionally unstable. I was even accused of being indifferent. When someone asked: Why aren’t you joining the rallies? You should be out there marching instead of hanging around.

I replied: where were you when my dad was in detention? Where were you when we went to the poor house? Where were you when we were being harassed? Where were you in the darkest moments of our lives? We already paid the price.

“But by the grace of God go!”

We have recovered from the nightmare because of God’s love. As Christians we learned to forgive and even break bread with those who caused us so much pain. I only pray that those who have caused all the hurt will somehow have the courage to admit and to confess that they did hurt, even the innocent. That they did it because there was martial law.