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