It was about seven o’clock in the morning on September 21, 1972, and I was having breakfast in an eatery in Midsayap, Cotabato, when I heard over the radio the news that President Ferdinand Marcos had declared Martial Law. My immediate reaction was one of anxiety and fear. Having read about violence and atrocities in countries ruled by dictators, I surmised that these too would be happening in our land, especially in Cotabato.
At that time I was a private schools area supervisor whose assignment covered the entire North Cotabato (there were only two provinces then, North and South Cotabato). Unrest and violence were already taking place in that province, what with the Blackshirts, (as the Muslim separatist group was then called) actively operating. What would the scenery be with the military rule?
I was only halfway through with my meal, but suddenly I lost my appetite. I rushed back to the pension house, picked up my stuff and took a ride back to Cotabato City where our office was. “I’ll be on leave, Sir,” I told my agency head. The fellow mumbled something but I couldn’t make out what he said because I was on the phone for my plane reservation. The plane was full, I was told, so I decided to take a bus to Davao city, a 10-hour ride, where I would book a flight to Cebu. That was the longest ride I ever had. At every bus stop swarms of soldiers stood on alert as if expecting an attack. Our cargoes were inspected and in the first stopover we were made to line up and were interrogated. We were searched, and two of our co-passengers were not allowed to re-board the bus.
Arriving in Davao City late in the afternoon, I went straight to the airport. The plane was also crawling with heavily armed troops. Even the plane’s ticket office had soldiers stationed therein and every customer was closely watched. When, later, we lined up for entry to the pre-department area, our luggage were meticulously inspected by the military men themselves who also scrutinized our identity. IDs were asked and those without one were denied entry.
We heaved a sigh of relief when our plane finally took off. But even then a sense of uncertainty lingered as we tried to figure out what was in store for us in the country. There was a talk of a civil war, of mass arrests, and of concentration camps. There was also a talk of mass lay-off for government employees.
It was already dark when our plane touched down at the Mactan airport. As in Davao city, soldiers were everywhere – on the tarmac, in the arrival area and even along the airport roadway. Again our baggage was inspected, and again our identity was looked into. More military personnel were seen in the checkpoints where vehicles were flagged down and carefully searched. We were asked to step out of the taxicab and were bodily searched, and as this was being done we could not help feeling apprehensive that we would not be allowed to pass through.
This did not happen though, and towards eight o’clock I was already home in Bulacao. What a joy to find one’s family safe. Despite the political upheaval, your loved ones were still undisturbed and unaffected. Would there be a knock in the middle of the night? Would there be house searches? These questions were in our mind as we settled down at home and took a respite from the world of work and disturbances outside. At home we listened to what was happening – the mass arrest of opposition leaders, the closure of TV and radio stations, the padlocking of newspaper offices, the closure of colleges and universities, the declaration of curfew hours, etc., etc.
Today, as we savor our freedom – including freedom of the press – we hope and pray that those dark days and in our country’s history will never happen again.