Remembering Mayor Baby Sanchez (5/28/2025)

A Past Revisited, Connecting the Dots, part 8

Written in conjunction with the Feast of San Fernando (May 30th) and in memory of Mayor Virgilio 'Baby' Sanchez.

(This is unedited and unrefined version. Originally written in Filipino and translated in English by Co-pilot)

As the feast of San Fernando in the province of Pampanga approaches, I would like to share a story about a former mayor from the perspective of one of his high school scholars.

This is also timely because in 2025, the elections in our country, the Philippines, have just concluded, and many are asking why some elected politicians are not deserving, both at the local and national senate levels.

Like previous elections, the dominant and often victorious candidates come from the ranks of traditional politicians, candidates with long strings or money, and those with established names. There are a few candidates who are decent, have the determination to serve the country, and have the ability to lead who won.

In 1969, my interest in politics in the government was sparked. I was one of the seven Mayor Virgilio Sanchez Scholars of the freshman batch 1969-70 of JASHS. I was with Amelia Canlas, June Irene Castillo, Lolita Balilu, Restituta Zapata, Valentina David, and Azucena Guevarra. I was the only male in our batch.

We were called Baby Sanchez Scholar, from the Sanchez Scholarships program established in Jose Abad Santos High School, and granted by Mayor Virgilio “Baby” Sanchez of San Fernando. The scholars reached 40, the target was 10 for each year level, from 1968 to 1971.

Baby was first elected as vice mayor in San Fernando in 1967. He became mayor when he succeeded Mayor Levi Panlilio, who was assassinated on December 28, 1968, in the barangay of Calulut in San Fernando. Calulut was known then as a haven for outlaws and the Barrio Self-Defense Unit (BSDU).

Pampanga was then dubbed as Huklandia due to frequent news of killings involving armed outlaws, these were the syndicate groups of the former Huk (Hukbo ng Mapagpalayang Bayan), called “Beatles” and the prisoners released from prison, armed by the state to fight the Huks, and they were called “Monkees.” The famous foreign band singers then were the rival Beatles of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr, and the Monkees of Davy Jones, Michael Nesmith, Mickey Dolenz, and Peter York. This was before the NPA (New People’s Army) emerged in Luzon.

The political battle then was known as the three Gs: Guns, Goons, and Gold.

Atty. Baby Sanchez was a unique politician. In his new position, he diligently launched programs to help the people of San Fernando. He soon became known as an excellent and capable town manager, not only to the people of San Fernando but also to the people throughout the province.

The advantage of being a Baby Sanchez Scholar, in my view and perhaps not the view and experience of my fellow Baby Scholars, was the opportunity to participate in civic and political activities in the government. These are the important experiences that I will never forget.

Mayor Sanchez was close to the famous and seasoned Senator Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino. Whenever he was invited to speak in San Fernando, we scholars were often given the role of welcoming him. So, even as a child, I saw up close the brilliance, intelligence, and charisma of Senator Aquino in his speeches. Truly admirable.

What I did not fully understand then, even though Mayor Baby and Senator Ninoy were friends and shared the same political views, and Mayor Baby was made the standard bearer of the Liberal Party to challenge the incumbent governor Francisco Nepomuceno. Nepomuceno was a powerful traditional politician in Pampanga.

Baby Sanchez entered politics at a young age. He was a lawyer, born in Ponduan-Baritan, a district of San Jose, near the market of San Fernando. His siblings were known teachers at San Fernando Elementary School and his relatives at the market.

Baby Sanchez was known as a clean and decent politician. He did not have the three Gs to win the election. In fact, when he first ran for office, he did not have a party. He ran for vice mayor, along with four councilors, one of whom was Armando Biliwang. They did not have a candidate for mayor. Perhaps they knew that Levi Panlilio’s candidacy was strong among the voters of San Fernando, the successor of Mayor Jose Quiwa.

Without Gold (Money), Gun (Arms), Goons (thugs), his support in the 1971 election campaign was the combined forces of his classmates at Pampanga High School, childhood friends and neighbors, market vendors, and school teachers.

The role of the Baby Sanchez scholars in his campaign was also unique; we scholars were his receipt of wholehearted help to the poor by providing scholarships to poor but intelligent students. We were also the young volunteers in the campaign, doing sorties and canvassing in towns throughout the province.

I was one of the enthusiastic and always joined the sorties and walks in the campaign. From morning until night, I joined. I learned and discovered a lot from joining the campaign. Even now, my memories of the campaign for Baby Sanchez’s governorship in Pampanga are still fresh.

In the middle of the campaign, it was reported that the national leadership of the Liberal Party dropped Baby as the official candidate of the Party to challenge Nepomuceno. The chosen official candidate was Brigido Valencia, a wealthy businessman who was not well known in Pampanga.

As they say, money talks, those with money are different, and the Liberal Party at the national level had a strong need because the politicians supported by President Marcos’s administration were strong. Even though Baby was a close friend of Ninoy, they could do nothing.

Baby could no longer back out from his candidacy for governor. He did not want to return to San Fernando and run for mayor because his former ally, Councilor Armando Biliwang, was running for mayor. Baby was also forced because his campaign machinery was already in place throughout the province.

So, the gubernatorial election in 1971 was called a three-way fight. Nepomuceno-Valencia-Sanchez. The winner was the wealthy but unknown Brigido Valencia, and Baby came second in the number of votes. He had a significant lead over Nepomuceno. In my mind then, if Valencia had not entered the race, Baby Sanchez would surely have won as governor of Pampanga.

The winner of the mayoral race in San Fernando was Armando Biliwang. He was the mayor when Martial Law was imposed in the country. He was also known as a leader and strong supporter of the Monkees and BSDU, armed forces against the NPA.

Baby disappeared from the political scene. He returned to his private practice and selling insurance. I continued my studies at the University of the Philippines and no longer lived in San Fernando. I became distant from the political developments in our town. Local elections were also halted due to Martial Law.

In 1980, local elections were restored. Baby regained his enthusiasm to run again in the election. He ran for mayor and challenged his former ally and incumbent mayor Armando Biliwang of San Fernando. In Pampanga, Estelito Mendoza, President Marcos’s sharp lawyer, also entered politics as the candidate of the Kilusan ng Bagong Lipunan (KBL) for governor of Pampanga.

I joined Baby’s campaign, serving as a tactician, poll watcher, and member of the Quick Response Team. I used what I had learned from the activist protests. We knew that even though Baby had strong voter support, the administration forces and Biliwang’s armed forces could not be trusted.

We monitored the precinct areas during the election. We watched for any intimidation or vote-buying entering the precinct. We did not hear of any noticeable incidents on election day.

When dusk arrived, the voting was over, and the counting of votes began, armed groups entered the precincts one by one and stopped the teachers and poll clerks from counting. They seized the ballot boxes and took them to the municipality.

Where I was assigned, at the JASHS Library, our QRT tried to confront those who intervened to seize the ballot boxes. A fight almost broke out, and guns were drawn. Instructions came from Baby’s headquarters to back out and proceed to the municipality.

We quickly went to the municipality. It turned out that not only our precinct was robbed of ballot boxes, but many others, and all were brought to the municipality. The municipality was closed, and the ballot boxes were placed in the treasury office.

A few days passed, and Mayor Biliwang was the acting mayor. He was replaced by Atty. Vicente Macalino from 1981-1983.

The teachers who served as poll clerks in the election, led by my former grade 5 teacher, Miss Teresita Tablante, filed a protest against the violence and fraud in the election with the Comelec in Manila. A few years later, the case was won.

In 1983, a special election was held in San Fernando. Baby regained his enthusiasm to run for mayor in the election. He expected support from Governor Estelito Mendoza. It was important for the Governor that the Mayor of the provincial capital was not politically opposed.

Baby invited me to run as a councilor representing the youth on his party ticket. I did not accept. My explanation was that I no longer had residency in San Fernando. I suggested Rosve Henson, a younger Sanchez Scholar than me, to be his choice. He was also a UP Graduate like me. That’s what happened. Baby and Rosve won the election.

However, my regret was the events in our country in 1983, when Ninoy was assassinated at the Tarmac in Manila, and the protest movement Justice for Aquino, Justice for All or JAJA erupted, Baby and Rosve were in the ranks of KBL of Estelito Mendoza. I think, if Baby had used his victory in the violence and fraud in the 1980 election, and imitated the actions of Homobono Adaza of Misamis Oriental, or Nene Pimentel of Cagayan de Oro, Baby’s name would have been nationally recognized as a regional opposition to Ferdinand Marcos’s regime. A missed opportunity in history. Ninoy and Baby were godfathers to each other. Baby’s mayoralty ended in 1986, the time of the 1986 EDSA and the beginning of Cory Aquino’s administration.

This is just a recollection. My reminiscence is timely for the San Fernando Town Fiesta.

To be continued… Abangan ang susunod na kabanata…

May 28,2025 FB

A father's message to her daughter

A Past Revisited, Connecting the Dots part 7

( A father's message to her daughter, May 5,2025, La Grande Estate, Oakley California)

The wedding of my eldest daughter Angel to Cholo Santos is very momentous.

The event is very momentous not only to the newlywed couple but to our family members as well.

My family drove seven hours from Southern California in a 12-seater van, and my sibling and wife flew in to be here today. Thank you for celebrating this special event with Angel and Cholo.

I wonder if anyone of you knows the full name of the bride?

My name is MC, the father of the bride, Angel.

My full name is MAMERTO CALALANG CANLAS JR. I was named after my father.

Growing up in the Philippines, as a child, I preferred not to be called Jun, Jojo, or Junior. Instead, I used the initials of my full name and became known as MC. The initials are spelled MC, not emcee as in Master Ceremony.

Angel’s full name is EMCY ANGEL SY CANLAS.

However, Angel was not named after me.

Angel was born under different circumstances. When I married her mother, Emily, in 1995, she already had three daughters: Cielo, Maan, and Desiree Joyce. Despite her doctor's advice against having another child due to her physical condition, Emily wished to become pregnant as a gesture of her love to me. Angel's birth was a testament to our relationship and a significant milestone.

Eventually, she became pregnant. Her doctor warned that during delivery, either she or the baby might survive. As the birth approached, there were mixed emotions; both joy and concern prevailed. Emily was in San Francisco Del Monte, in the Philippines, while I was in Daly City, in California. Because of our distance, I could not provide the necessary emotional support leading up to the day.

On the day of delivery, I was informed that Emily survived but was unconscious. The newborn was unresponsive initially and placed in an incubator. Shortly after, the nurses expressed joy and announced, "an Angel is here!" Thus, we named our child Angel.

The original name was EMSY, derived from her mother’s full name, Emily Sy.

When the newborn baby's name was registered, it was listed as EMCY ANGEL SY CANLAS. Emcy was spelled with a "C" instead of an "S", aligning more closely with my nickname, MC.

Angel mentioned to me that when people hear her full name, they frequently inquire if she is related to me, MC Canlas, the historian and community strategist in San Francisco.

As a proud father, I am pleased to see that Angel has embraced her role as the elder sister to Sophia and Sean with great responsibility. Emily now has six children, five Marias and one Sean.

I extend my heartfelt congratulations to Angel and Cholo on these significant events in their lives. You are now a couple, embarking on a new chapter, building your own family and continuing your family lineage. Welcome to our family.

As previously stated, this is a highly significant event for our family, including our extended intergenerational family—my siblings, your uncles and aunts, their children, your cousins and their spouses, as well as their grandchildren who are delighted to be here with you and Cholo. Your wedding offers our family a valuable opportunity to come together, foster stronger relationships, and importantly, to recognize our family's history and heritage. It allows us to gain a deeper understanding of our identity, our origins, and our future aspirations. Of who we are and where we came from.

Since we share the same initials, it carries a profound meaning. MC stands for "Moment Counts". Live your life together as a couple and as a family to the fullest. As in every moment counts.

Allow me to share with you my philosophy: Living life Open, Sincere, and True. The initials spell LOST. If you get lost or feel uncertain, remember LOST will always guide you to find your way.

Always communicate with openness, sincerity, and truth. Maintain mutual trust.

Congrats and best wishes.

May 26,2025 FB

Post Birthday Reflections (5/24/2025)

Post-Birthday Reflections

It is Saturday morning here in San Francisco. I am gearing up for tomorrow's wedding of my eldest daughter Angel. I did not go out on the day of my birthday (May 22) to celebrate. I spent my entire day writing and researching for this series. The next day, yesterday, I started writing about my formative years, 1969-73, my high school years, but I paused and I could not continue the flow of my writings. As I have mentioned in part 5 that I became activist in high school and that I have written about it in Tibak Rising : Activism in the Days of Martial Law, Ferdinand C. Llanes, Editor (Anvil Publishing, Inc, Manila, 2012). It was, however, in Filipino/Tagalog. I tried to get some excerpts and write them in English to include in my series.

The beauty and blessings of being born in the 50s and still active today, in the age of AI (Artificial Intelligence), you have many tools and reliable assistants in your projects. Co-pilot is my researcher, editor, proof-reader, and my translator. Gee. Co-Pilot made my day today. My essay in Tibak "Mga Unang Sabado ng Martial Law" can now be read in English. I am sharing the direct translation done by Co-pilot. Even Co-Pilot admits "This translation keeps the urgency, tension, and personal insight of your original writing while making sure it flows naturally in English. Let me know if you need any refinements! Your essay is an intense, striking recollection of Martial Law’s early days." Pardon the errors in translations. In the coming days I will review and refine this essay in English. The original essay is in my homepage mccanlast.com's Published Writings.

I appreciate your greetings for my Platinum Birthday. This is my gift to you. (pardon the length in Facebook)

A Past Revisited, Connecting the Dots, part 6

The First Saturdays under Martial Law

How many of us Filipinos still remember the first days and months after the imposition of Martial Law? In our current era of text messaging, cell phones, the internet, cable TV, and various other information technology gadgets, it is difficult to imagine or visualize how Martial Law could be effectively declared in the country.

From the perspective of an activist in the province, I can recount the first days and months under Martial Law, especially what happened on that Saturday in our town of San Fernando, Pampanga.

Our town is not far from Manila—66 kilometers—and only an hour’s journey away. Unlike many college students studying in Manila who only return to our province on Saturdays, I studied at Jose Abad Santos High School—formerly Pampanga High School—in San Fernando and traveled to Manila every Saturday.

It was Saturday, September 23, 1972, when Martial Law was declared, although the date recorded in textbooks and official documents is September 21, Thursday. (Marcos signed the declaration on the 21st but implemented it on the 23rd due to his superstition regarding numbers; his lucky numbers were 7, 11, and 21).

Among all the days of the week, Saturdays felt different to me. From Monday to Friday, school was in session, requiring early mornings and structured routines. We would wake up to the crowing of roosters, the noise of PNR trains, the clanking of Pasudeco wagons, and the echoing news reports on the radio. Saturdays were never this rushed.

Yet every day, even on Saturdays, the most awaited radio program was “EveryReady Balita” by Johnny De Leon, along with Ngongo’s patented pronunciation of “Bataan Matamis.” Other popular radio programs at the time included “Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny,” “Lundagin mo, baby,” “Dear Kuya Cesar,” “Ito ang inyong Tiya Dely,” and, for us Kapampangans, the news and commentaries of Paeng Yabut.

The radio was the most important appliance in every household.

Upon waking up, it was inevitable to listen to the radio—waiting for new announcements, like the storm signal number or a sudden school cancellation, even if there was no storm. Often, people even checked the time using the radio, since few households in our area owned a watch or an alarm clock.

Saturday, September 23—I woke up earlier than usual. Not to the crowing of a rooster, not to the noise of passing trains, and certainly not to the echoes of news from the radio. The transistor radio couldn’t pick up a single station. The radio and batteries were working fine, but there was nothing, not even static, on the AM or FM bands. Strange.

Puzzling. This morning was not normal.

The only sounds outside the house were the voices of neighbors: “Where did Johnny De Leon go?” “What’s happening here?” “Why is there no news on the radio?” “What’s wrong with my radio?” “Do you have any news from Manila?”

Endless questions and inquiries filled the neighborhood. Everyone felt the strangeness of the day. It seemed like something inexplicable was happening. The morning did not feel like any ordinary morning.

With no news on the radio, there was even less to watch on television. Where could people find out what was happening? Some rushed to the town market, hoping to pick up news, gossip, or any explanation for the radio silence. What was truly happening in the country?

Despite everything, I tried to make this Saturday feel normal—I packed my clothes for my trip to Manila and tucked my treasured book into my bag—Lipunang Rebolusyong Pilipino (LRP). Later, I would explain why I valued the Tagalog version of Philippine Society and Revolution by Amado Guerrero.

I went to the town center, avoiding discussions with people, quickly boarding a Philippine Rabbit bus bound for Manila.

On the bus, I ignored the chatter of the other passengers.

I took out my red LRP book. Even though I had read it multiple times, I kept flipping through the pages, as if proudly showing it to my seatmate or anyone who might notice. I was a true activist.

I didn’t know if anyone noticed my red LRP. Nothing happened until we reached the Rabbit terminal on Avenida Rizal, near Odeon Theater.

I got off the bus and walked toward the JD Transit stop going to Makati. As I passed my usual shortcut—a street in Recto, through Ongpin to the Santa Cruz Church—I saw a large publishing house, The Manila Times.

This Saturday looked different. Soldiers wielding large firearms stood guard at the publishing house. My thoughts raced—was there a war or a raid?

Something felt off about what I saw. I had a bad feeling about this unusual Saturday.

A passerby, just like me, whispered, “It’s Martial Law, son. Go home. And hide that book you’re carrying. You’re in danger.”

Martial Law? I didn’t even look to see who had spoken. It was better not to get involved.

I quickened my pace, hid my book inside my clothes in my bag, and immediately boarded a jeep bound for Makati.

When I arrived home, I finally connected the dots—Martial Law had begun. Saturday was the first day of Martial Law.

My parents decided that I should not return to the province while classes remained suspended.

A few days later, my closest friend, childhood companion, and housemate from San Fernando, Pericles, arrived at our home in Makati. On the Saturday that I traveled to Manila, according to Pericles, our fellow activists—our comrades in the Samahang Demokratikong Kabataan (SDK)—had been searching for us. Winston, one of our younger comrades, had been causing a scene in our neighborhood, shouting in Kapampangan:

"Where is MC? I thought a people’s war was the answer to Martial Law—why don’t I have a weapon? Where is my gun? I want to be a guerrilla, where do I go? Damn this Martial Law! Let’s fight! Let’s go to the mountains!"

Even though Winston seemed deranged in the streets, many of our childhood friends in the village—some of whom were fellow SDK members—became scared and went into hiding. It was difficult.

Even if you wanted to escape to the mountains, there was nowhere to go. The idea of retreating to Mount Arayat seemed impractical.

Another piece of news from Pericles—SDK’s regional headquarters in San Fernando had been raided by the military. However, he was confident that not a single document had been seized. The members had cleaned up everything before the raid occurred.

In the days leading up to Martial Law, we were already forbidden from visiting the SDK headquarters. We were instructed to evacuate all documents, posters, and literature. Full-time SDK members rarely used the HQ as a sleeping place anymore.

It was likely that the SDK headquarters in San Fernando—located in front of our high school—had already been marked by the military. In a short time, it had created numerous stories, not just within our school and town but across other provinces in Central Luzon.

What had begun as a simple hangout for our newly formed group, the Democratic Student Association of JASHS in 1971, quickly grew in membership and became the birthplace of the first SDK chapter in San Fernando. Within months, the movement expanded to the provincial level, forming multiple SDK chapters in Pampanga and Bataan, and establishing connections with chapters in Tarlac and Angeles. Eventually, it became SDK’s regional headquarters.

Before Martial Law, the center of activism in our province was in Angeles City, largely led by Kabataang Makabayan (KM). The stronghold of KM was in the colleges and youth-filled communities. KM activists were known for their fearless and aggressive stance.

In San Fernando, the KM chapter was based at Assumption College.

Our high school group decided to affiliate with SDK instead of KM because of two University of the Philippines students—Kong Pitong and Tony.

Kong Pitong, a Kapampangan who lived in Quezon City, was an excellent SDK organizer. He was incredibly persistent, visiting our school regularly—every enrollment period, he was there, more devoted than a suitor, just to recruit us into the SDK chapter.

Tony, on the other hand, was a UP freshman, a graduate of our high school, childhood friend, and neighbor. He came home every Saturday, always bringing copies of the UP Collegian and various activist readings. Every Saturday and Sunday, we held teach-ins at his house, even if only five or ten friends showed up—our discussions were always lively and passionate.

When we became an SDK chapter, thanks to Kong Pitong’s determination, we rented an HQ—an apartment near our school. It became home for full-time SDK organizers and a hangout for our high school group.

Life at the HQ was sustainable, so many became organizers and full-timers. From what I knew, the rent was funded by elderly Huks like Baking and Dioco. For daily food, vendors at the local market regularly contributed. If an organizer came from the countryside, they often brought vegetables or fruits. Whenever we hosted teach-ins—inviting fellow students to learn about the School of National Democracy—some would donate money or food to the HQ’s collection boxes.

People like Tony, college students from San Fernando studying in Manila, also greatly helped maintain the HQ. Before leaving for Manila, they would drop off all the food, cooked meals, rice, and groceries their parents had prepared for them for the week.

By Saturday, when they returned to San Fernando, they brought back books and materials from Manila and the National HQ as their contribution.

I’ll never forget Kong Pitong because every Saturday, he had reading materials for me. It started with Renato Constantino’s pamphlet series—The Miseducation of the Filipino People, Origin of the Myth, Veneration Without Understanding, and others. Later, he shared articles by Jose Ma. Sison from Struggle for National Democracy, Mao Tse Tung’s Red Book, and writings by Victor Perlo, Felix Greene, Leon Wolf, and other progressive authors.

It was an enriching learning experience. In school, studying wasn’t challenging—textbooks were read chapter by chapter. Even novels like Florante at Laura and Noli Me Tangere couldn’t be read continuously; we had to wait for the next chapter in the lesson plan. A whole school year was spent reading a single book.

With Kong Pitong, it was different. If I told him I finished the reading, he immediately gave me another. The faster I read, the more pamphlets and books I collected.

Then came the day he handed me a copy of the LRP, which was rare at the time. His instruction was clear—treasure the book, read it thoroughly, memorize and internalize every page. I felt honored when he told me I was the only activist he had entrusted with an LRP copy. He said only a select few deserved to have one.

He added that if someone was caught carrying the book, the enemy’s punishment was brutal—they would sprinkle salt on every page and force the person to eat it whole.

This is why I cherished the LRP. Even on the Saturday when Martial Law was declared, I still held on to the book that Kong Pitong had given me.

More than a month had passed since Martial Law was declared, and classes remained suspended. The reopening of school was causing anxiety among teachers, staff, and the principal of Jose Abad Santos High School.

The harsh orders from Kit Tadtad and the Department of Education were broadcast over the radio: Letter of Instruction Number 5—any school found admitting or supporting activist students would be shut down.

Drastic changes had taken hold in our high school, especially in relationships between teachers and students, and even among the teachers themselves. Everyone seemed cautious, balancing their words and actions.

Trust had disappeared. People avoided conversations about current events, especially the ongoing arrests in Manila. The fear and hesitation were evident in their faces.

Rumor-mongering was punishable by law. Gossip was forbidden. Even casual gatherings—whether among friends or classmates—were discouraged. The principal and some teachers were deeply troubled by the government’s demand to “cleanse schools of activists.” If they failed, the entire school would be shut down.

The principal and teachers were already aware that SDK had a strong presence in our school. They knew the student leaders—and I was at the forefront, given my involvement in the student council, the school paper, and our frequent stays at SDK’s regional headquarters.

Would they really turn me and my fellow activists in, despite knowing me as an honor student and an exemplary pupil at school?

To play it safe, the principal took a diplomatic approach—almost like Pontius Pilate washing his hands of responsibility:

"We won’t expel you from school, but you must first obtain clearance from the military before we allow you to attend classes."

Another Saturday morning arrived. Instead of traveling back to Manila, my friends and I decided to process our military clearances. Five of us headed to the Pampanga Command of the Philippine Army, near the Capitol and close to our school.

We felt confident entering the camp to secure our clearance, knowing that the raid on our HQ hadn’t yielded any documents. Our records were clean.

That confidence quickly faded when the clerk checked our names against the list they held. Suddenly, more soldiers arrived, and we were no longer allowed to leave—just Pericles and me.

We were confused—there were five of us, yet three weren’t on the list. Who provided this list? Who submitted our names?

By Saturday afternoon, Pericles and I were left behind in the military barracks, which had been converted into a detention area after Martial Law was declared. The Pampanga Command’s cells were overflowing with detainees. We were crammed into a tiny barrack, barely half the size of a classroom.

There was no bathroom, faucet, or toilet. No beds or cots. We had to sleep on the cold cement, competing for space.

No matter what happened, Pericles and I vowed to stick together.

Various people had been arrested and detained with us: A man picked up for having long hair; someone caught stealing railroad tracks; an AWOL soldier; a man with the surname Olalia (same name as the wanted Olalia from Cabalantian); a drunk returning home; and a neighbor who got into a fight.

Not everyone was an activist.

We only recognized two others in the barracks—Alex and Alan, both SDK members from San Fernando, and our close friends. They had been detained a day earlier than us. Despite knowing each other, we avoided speaking to prevent suspicion.

I couldn’t sleep. My stomach was empty. I worried if our families knew where we were. It was Saturday, no offices were open at the camp—it would be hard to trace our whereabouts.

Our situation was incredibly uncertain. We didn’t know what would happen next. Sleep was impossible. I lay still, pretending to sleep. Even if I wanted to talk, there was no one to talk to—maybe they were asleep or pretending, just like me.

At 2 AM, when the darkness still blanketed the camp, someone entered our barracks.

Alex and Alan were taken away.

Pericles and I became even more restless, fearing that we might be next. We waited for their return, hoping to learn what was happening to them.

At 6 AM, they were brought back. They quietly gathered their belongings. A few minutes later, their escorts returned, and they were loaded into a military truck.

We didn’t even get a chance to talk.

I read the only words Alan silently mouthed as he was led away: “Damn them.”

We felt a deep sadness and fear for what had just happened to Alex and Alan.

Would the same fate await us?

One of our fellow detainees approached us. "Your two friends are being taken to YRC," he told us. "To the Youth Rehabilitation Center in Camp Olivas. They’ll be there for a long time."

He introduced himself, revealing that he had been stuck in the barracks for two weeks without being transferred to YRC. Alex and Alan had only been here two days before being sent off.

"Their mistake," he whispered, "was admitting they were members of KM and SDK—and whatever accusations were thrown at them.

"The military knows nothing. Even under Martial Law, they have no real intelligence on people. They’re only now gathering information—coming straight from the mouths of those they interrogate."

"So if you admit to nothing, it’s up to them to prove you’re hiding something." "Deny everything. You know nothing about what they accuse you of."

Sunday night—I couldn’t sleep. I suspected there was an informant inside our barracks.

Just when exhaustion finally crept in and I dozed off for a few minutes, soldiers suddenly arrived to escort us to the same place where Alan and Alex had been taken.

Between Pericles and me, I was the first one taken. I was led into a dark room, lit only by a single overhead bulb. Six soldiers were inside. Two had their feet up on the table, all of them smoking. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

I was seated in the center, directly under the harsh light—just like in police interrogation scenes from movies.

One by one, they claimed to recognize me. One said he had seen me at a rally in Clark. Another insisted he knew of my activities and asked if I knew the names they were mentioning.

I remained firm in my answers: I don’t know. I have no idea.

I regained my confidence when I challenged them to check my school records—my attendance was perfect, as I was a candidate for honors at our graduation.

They got nothing out of me, and the interrogation ended quickly.

Next, they took Pericles. He also remained consistent. He justified his involvement by saying he was only helping me increase our extracurricular activities at school.

When Pericles was finished, just like me, he didn’t have to go through the “piano” procedure (fingerprinting), nor was he sent to the Youth Rehabilitation Center (YRC).

Monday and Tuesday passed. News spread in school that we had been detained. One of our teachers took the risk of visiting the camp to look for us. Pericles’ relatives also reached out to the vice-governor to advocate for our release.

Nearly a week later, just before Saturday arrived, Pericles and I were finally released. The only condition—we had to report to the camp every Saturday.

We did this for several Saturdays.

On one Saturday, ten students arrived together at the camp office to report.

All of us were SDK members, but when the clerk asked if we knew each other, everyone pretended not to—so much so that the clerk took the initiative to introduce us to each other.

Later, we learned that a teacher had submitted the list, fearing that our school would be shut down due to Martial Law’s Letter of Instruction and the Department of Education’s directive.

But the teacher didn’t actually know who the activists were or who belonged to SDK—so the list they submitted to the military was simply a roster of honor students and Section One students from every year level.

They likely thought that in doing so, we’d easily receive military clearance.

Fortunately, no full-time SDK members were caught.

Alan and Alex were released six months later from Camp Olivas.

Inside detention, they had claimed to be the founders of SDK—even though it wasn’t true—after seeing that Pericles and I had been arrested as well that Saturday afternoon.

These were my first Saturdays of Martial Law.

To be continued... Abangan ang susunod na kabanata...

May 24,2025 FB