EDSA memories

This time of year is always a sentimental one for those of us who graduated in 1986, or almost didn’t. It’s been 25 years since my generation plunged into a sea of humanity that took its destiny into its own hands for four days in February. There was the possibility of mortal danger, not to mention uncertainty of the future, yet there we were.

Like most people of that age, a part of me wanted to ignore the events unfolding around me, because it meant I would have to address them, at least in my mind, at most with the people around me. We vividly remembered one day when we’re about seven, when we turned on the television and there was nothing on but static. Newspapers vanished, and everyone seemed tense for no reason we could fathom.

Another reason I was reluctant to immerse myself in the times was that I was unsure how my grandfather would feel. He was a classmate and old friend of Pres. Ferdinand Marcos, dating back to their UP Law class of 1939. This gave him great opportunities to provide for the family – no, the entire clan – and being the first-born grandchild whom he treated like a son, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or let me down.

He was always there for me, providing everything. He and my mother made sure I got my start in sports, which propped up my poor health and spurred me to spend my life giving back to sport. As I hit my teen years, his steady support during stressful identity searches and conflict with my stepfather made me feel even more indebted. Above all, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Little did I know (and he would later admit) that he respected and admired me for making the decision to go to EDSA and express my beliefs.

Yet, from the information pouring into us at school to the injustices we started seeing everywhere, we could no longer stand idle. I remember the Monday after Ninoy Aquino was assassinated, how somber and silent the Ateneo de Manila campus was. Nobody wanted to talk, but you could feel sadness and rage welling up in each of us. What was even more unforgettable for me was the look on the face of my best friend Vince Concio, the only son of Ninoy’s sister, Lupita. It was a mixture of grief and indignation, pain and confusion that was impossible to weigh. My fear was that the dark cloud would hang over us until we graduated. I also locked arms with Vince and a bunch of strangers outside the Aquino home on Times St., helping to herd sweaty hundreds who desperately longed to fuel their anger further by peering into the coffin of their bloodied martyr.

The next point of critical mass came when I took the invitation of the now-famous writer Alya Honasan, Col. Gringo Honasan’s only sister, to march to the Batasang Pambansa and watch the counting of the ballots of the snap elections. The rowdy mix of students, teachers, professionals and rural folk shouted in mockery of the proceedings, as the first down or so sets of election returns were deemed tampered and therefore, invalid.

The times cried out, and we could no longer ignore their plea.

In the waning week of February, we heard that Sec. Juan Ponce Enrile and Gen. Fidel Ramos had been whisked to safety by their junior officers, first to Camp Aguinaldo, then to the smaller (and hence, more easily secured) Camp Crame across EDSA. That first evening, Jaime Cardinal Sin went on the radio to call for our people to “protect our soldiers”. In a matter of hours, a throbbing, walking mass of Filipinos trickled, then flowed onto EDSA, forming a belt of protection around both camps.

The next days were a gigantic street party, broken only by the occasional roar of aircraft engines (to which Gen. Ramos would go on the radio and assure us that we weren’t about to be strafed because they had defected to our side). But each time we were warned of an imminent attack, our procedure was the same: wet handkerchiefs (in case of tear gas), lock arms, say a prayer along with our goodbyes, and stand our ground. Fortunately, no harm ever befell us. A month before graduation, and we were risking our lives against someone and something we had grown up as part of life. We stationed ourselves by the bus stop at Camp Aguinaldo’s Gate 5. Our duty, to feed the people filling the country’s main artery, so they wouldn’t leave.

What happened next was a miracle in itself. Total strangers would drive up when possible, open their trunks, and hand us sack of lechon manok, boxes of hamburgers, dozens of hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches, more than enough to feed the spontaneous army. Every two hours, on the nose, we would order the throngs to line up, and hand them the rations of manna. What struck me the most was how magical Cory Aquino’s name was. Each time we needed to restore order, we would merely invoke her name, and everyone would literally fall in line. The next evening, we were urged to troop to all the churches nearby and gather whatever religious images we could find, and use them as shield against the tanks, bayonets and bullets we were sure would come. I was impressed by the organized chaos.

So in the last 25 years, I have managed to create a decent life and build a career giving back to sport, and filled the passing time with many unforgettable moments and two incredibly amazing sons who mean the world to me. I have the best job in the world, and have formed friendships with many transcendent people There has really been little need to revisit those unbelievable days a quarter of a century ago.

There was really no need to. Our job was done, mission accomplished.