ON AUGUST 10, 1943, in MacArthur’s headquarters in Brisbane,
Australia, Courtney Whitney, then a colonel in charge of the Philippine
section, sought permission to use the slogan, “I Shall
Return—MacArthur,” on articles to be infiltrated into the
Japanese-occupied Philippines. MacArthur responded, in a penciled note
at the bottom of a memo, “No objection.”
But if there was no objection in Brisbane, there was plenty in
Washington. In November 1943, I was asked to head up the Office of World
Information in the southwest Pacific. I agreed on the condition that
General MacArthur, whom I had known in prewar days, actually wanted me
in Australia. When he sent a favorable reply to the Pentagon, I began
preparing for the trip. It was January 1944, before I could get my
shots, select the men who were to go with me, and receive a thorough
briefing on what the OWI had to offer in the way of psychological
warfare. Late in December (1943) I stumbled across the “I Shall
Return—MacArthur” file in the OWI headquarters in New York.
From the file I learned that shortly after Whitney got his clearance
for the slogan, he asked the OWI in Sydney to produce substantial
quantities of cigarettes, chewing gum, chocolate bars, and sewing kits.
All were to be carefully packaged and would bear the “I Shall
Return—MacArthur” slogan along with the crossed Philippine and American
flags. Mike Stivers, who was head of the Sydney OWI office, asked New
York OWI to deliver the goods. Then started a series of orders and
counter-orders that must have set a record.
Every time the production people in New York were ready to award an
order for, say, ten thousand packs of cigarettes with the slogan on
them, the policy people in Washington would stop the order. Washington
OWI claimed it was against national policy to build up a single theater
commander. New York OWI simply wanted to get the job done. The resulting
orders and cancellations must have made the purchasing officer dizzy.
The real objection in Washington, of course, was that MacArthur was a
potential candidate for the presidency. No one with any standing in the
Roosevelt administration wanted to be responsible for anything that
might result in MacArthur’s aggrandizement. The fact that the propaganda
was to be used among Filipinos, who would not vote in the American
elections, did not seem to make any impression on Washington.
I decided I would go to Australia until this issue was settled, and,
if it was settled adversely, I decided I would not go at all. I had no
political interest in the matter, but I knew that Whitney had struck on
the best possible slogan for use in the Philippines. Each time the
slogan “I Shall Return—MacArthur” turned up in the Philippines it would
be worth more than a million words poured into radio transmitters beamed
at a country in which there were very few short wave receiving sets.
After several requests for a top-level conference, I met with Robert
Sherwood, who was director of the overseas branch of OWI, and Joe
Barnes, who was in charge of the Australian operation. As persuasively
as possible I told them of the magic of MacArthur’s name in the
Philippines, and of the need for a slogan that could be understood by 18
million Filipinos speaking scores of different dialects. Both Sherwood
and Barnes knew enough about the ways of publicity to concede the truth
of my argument. But they expressed doubts about the advisability of
boosting a commander in any single theater. I pointed out there was no
comparable situation in any other theater. They said MacArthur might not
survive to return to the Philippines. I said I had a hunch he would be
around for a long time to come. They said we might not go back to Japan
by way of the Philippines. I quoted Roosevelt’s “There are many roads to
Tokyo. We shall neglect none of them. “Finally Joe Barnes turned to
Sherwood and said, “Bob, I think Fritz is right. Let’s O.K. the Sydney
request.”
“O.K.,” said Sherwood. Then to me he said, “At least you ought to get credit for this when you get to Brisbane.”
When I got to Brisbane I found Mike Stivers had done what any
sensible man on the scene would have done. He went ahead and used the
slogan on locally produced chewing gum and non-meltable chocolate bars
specially produced for the tropics. He produced Volume Number I of Free
Philippines, with MacArthur’s picture and the “I Shall Return” slogan on
the cover. There was one mistake on it. The Philippine flag showed the
blue stripe at the top, in spite of a convention that in time of war the
flag is turned upside down and the red stripe is on top.
I never told Sherwood and Barnes that their decision was late if
proper. Nor did I tell MacArthur or Whitney of the foot-dragging in
Washington. We went ahead and got the other supplies from the United
States, and Whitney sent them into the Philippines through Commander
Chick Parson’s submarine fleet. The Free Philippines magazine ran
through 10 numbers. The final issue had one major change. The slogan was
changed to “I Have Returned—MacArthur.”
As history has shown, the political impact of using the slogan was
nil so far as the American vote was concerned. I did convince a lot of
Filipinos that the United States would keep its word. It sparked the
only effective guerrilla movement in the Far East, and one of the most
effective in the entire world.
On one occasion, General Whitney had a little trouble with his radio
network. Lt. George Rowe, an ex-Manilan who served in the Navy during
World War II, volunteered to man a radio station and weather bureau on
Mindoro. He was outfitted in Australia, given a group to work with, and
told to select the call letters for his proposed Mindoro station.
The central radio transmitter for all of the guerrilla stations was
located at MacArthur’s headquarters and used the call letters ISRM. The
significance was clear. The letters meant “I Shall Return—MacArthur.”
Rowe, with a sly exhibition of navy humor, asked that his stations
be assigned the letters IHRR. But Whitney figured out the meaning of
those letters—”I Have Returned—Rowe.”
Lieutenant Rowe was given another set of letters. But he had the
last laugh. When he established his station on Mindoro he called it Camp
Nimitz, after the commander in chief of the American navy forces in the
Pacific. Whitney was too far away to do anything about this exhibition
of lese majesty.
There is one amusing epilogue to the “I Shall Return” story. After
Luzon had been liberated and the Philippine campaign was coming to an
end, the OWI closed up its office in Brisbane. Like the army, it no
longer needed Australia for a base of operations. The Australians, so
happy to see us come, were equally happy to see us go. They were
naturally anxious to get their country back.
The OWI rear echelon—we were quite military for a bunch of
civilians—packed up the furniture and files. One unused bundle of “I
Shall Return—MacArthur” leaflets was tossed on to the truck heading for
the pier. It fell to the ground, and a passing pedestrian beat the OWI
man to the broken bundle. He picked up a leaflet and read, “I Shall
Return—MacArthur.”
“I bloody well hope not,” said the unhappy Aussie
Biyernes, Marso 2, 2012
Nice guys -those columnists, October 23, 1948
BULLETS are not half so effective as an irate columnist’s words,”
declared my friend the other day. No truer words have been spoken. A
columnist is always right. At least, that is what he maintains. No one
is safe from his attack. From the beggar to the so-called –untouchable,”
anyone can be the victim of the columnist’s ire. Never try to argue
with one. You have no chance, brother. He always wins. When he mentions
you in his “menu special,” better dismiss everything with a shrug of the
shoulders and atone for whatever evil you have done. Or else… you know
the rest.
In attempting to pen my humble opinion about some of the columnists, I pray to God that I’ll not be the victim of their “broadsides.”
Since the pre-war days when I began reading Dayrit’s “Good Morning Judge,” I have been an avid reader of columns by different columnists. Since then, noticing their courage in flinging biting invectives against crooked men and their dirty doings, I have maintained a high respect for their constructive criticism. (A fellow who does not have a columnist-phobia will develop it in time. They can make anybody quake in his boots.) However, columnists are sometimes more destructive than constructive, especially when they fly off the handle and give vent to their personal feelings. When they get too personal in their criticism, they become “columnists.” Alfonso Denoga has the right term for it: “character assassination.” This is where the woman-columnist holds the edge over the man. It is, perhaps, due to the feminine touch which she seldom loses, even at the height of her ire.
Among the popular columnists of today are the Manila Chronicle “bright boys.” There is Armando Malay with his famous “With a Grain of Salt.” He is the favorite columnist of letter-writers who have some complaints to make. In brief, concise sentences Malay takes up an issue with a grain of humor and winds up with a “coup de grace.” Once, for his vitriolic attacks against a senator whom he dubbed the solicitor general of “Hong Kong hams,” he was sued in court for libel, by the solon.
Then, there is Ernie del Rosario with his “Off the Beat.” A few times suspected as a Communist, he successfully showed in his column that he is not. He is not for overthrowing the government but for reforming it.
Lest I forget, there is Horacio (Teban) Borromeo of “On the Record” fame. When he wants to drive home a point he often writes, “I don’t say that Mr. So-and-so is a crook or that he did this and that, but, etc. etc.” Of course, he cannot be accused of libel for a thing he does not say. Ironically, however, he implies that Mr. So-and-so is a crook and exposes his shady deals through effective “double talk.” Smart guy, that Teban.
In the Manila Times we find Joaquin Roces and Maria Kalaw Katigbak. The former’s “lafterpiece” is “My Daily Bread” and the latter’s is “Checkpoint.” Both employ satire in their columns. Roces has created a fictitious character called “Maneng” who serves as his Charlie MacCarthy in his witty column.
The Star Reporter has the versatile Arsenic, I mean Arsenio Lacson. He must have been baptized “Arsenic because he spits venom against those who get his goat. “In This Corner” presented “Kid Arsenic” and “Speed Denoga” in the “slambangest” battle of the century. Denoga took up the cudgels for Ford Wilkins, editor of the Manila Bulletin. When Denoga wrote to Lacson, “As a louse will say to another louse, move over, bud,” Lacson came back telling Denoga to delouse himself with DDT. All of these things happened after Wilkins criticized action of some students who picketed the senators who went on a junket at the expense of the people. To date, Wilkins is still subjected occasionally to Arsenic’s stings. Although Lacson was silenced on the radio for his indictment of the corruptions which infested (still infest) our malodorous government, he continued his heavy barrage from a moving vehicle rigged with a microphone. “Here,” he hollered, “they cannot gag me.” Personally I admire Arsenic. He has really the guts to voice what is in his mind. Such guys die with their boots on.
Of course, there is Vicente del Fiero alias “del Fire” with his notes and footnotes. I often read that “del Fire” is fond of lechon. Well, who is not? When it comes to praising his own paper, the Star Reporter, you have got to hand it to del Fierro. Why, he will maintain every chance he has that the Reporter is the widest-read newspaper in the Philippines and that its quips are being quoted throughout the world. So there—hitch your wagon to the Star Reporter.
Columnists, in general, are very singular in their views. They often take great pains praising their paper, either directly or indirectly. That is the spirit. Keep up the good work, brother.
Speaking of accidents, one is reminded of a column, that of J. Padilla. (Please, your accidency, I don’t mean any harm.) Padilla is a master of sarcastic phrases. He can make a saint swear with his satirical bombardments. At times very personal, nevertheless, he atones for his subjective views with objective columns. If he gives you the once-over, you will surely cry “Uncle.”
Anent the Evening Herald, there is that fifth columnist, Jose Topacio Nueno. He is obviously sore at Mayor de la Fuente, as manifested in his daily antics. In almost every column of his, he takes to task the mayor. “Poor Maneng,” says “Canto Boy” of the Star Reporter, “he is only doing his rightful duties and he is being blamed for it.”
“Mr. President” by Aproniano Bores, editor of the Herald, deserves mention, too.
Pura-Santillan Castrence of the Manila Bulletin is one of the best women-columnists in the Philippines. “Woman Sense” is the title of her column.
There are columnists galore but it may take volumes if I touch on all of them. Suffice it to say that if ever you have an axe to grind against a columnist, better keep your trap shut. The moment you criticize them they will form a mob and like birds of prey, pounce upon you mercilessly. Look at Senator Confesor. When he stated that columnists are trying to run the affairs of the government, be became the constant target of indiscriminate attacks by them. When a columnist takes you to task, he is prosecutor, jury, and judge at the same time. So, beware lest these columnists (bless their immaculate souls) make a harlequin out of you.
Nice guys—these columnists.
In attempting to pen my humble opinion about some of the columnists, I pray to God that I’ll not be the victim of their “broadsides.”
Since the pre-war days when I began reading Dayrit’s “Good Morning Judge,” I have been an avid reader of columns by different columnists. Since then, noticing their courage in flinging biting invectives against crooked men and their dirty doings, I have maintained a high respect for their constructive criticism. (A fellow who does not have a columnist-phobia will develop it in time. They can make anybody quake in his boots.) However, columnists are sometimes more destructive than constructive, especially when they fly off the handle and give vent to their personal feelings. When they get too personal in their criticism, they become “columnists.” Alfonso Denoga has the right term for it: “character assassination.” This is where the woman-columnist holds the edge over the man. It is, perhaps, due to the feminine touch which she seldom loses, even at the height of her ire.
Among the popular columnists of today are the Manila Chronicle “bright boys.” There is Armando Malay with his famous “With a Grain of Salt.” He is the favorite columnist of letter-writers who have some complaints to make. In brief, concise sentences Malay takes up an issue with a grain of humor and winds up with a “coup de grace.” Once, for his vitriolic attacks against a senator whom he dubbed the solicitor general of “Hong Kong hams,” he was sued in court for libel, by the solon.
Then, there is Ernie del Rosario with his “Off the Beat.” A few times suspected as a Communist, he successfully showed in his column that he is not. He is not for overthrowing the government but for reforming it.
Lest I forget, there is Horacio (Teban) Borromeo of “On the Record” fame. When he wants to drive home a point he often writes, “I don’t say that Mr. So-and-so is a crook or that he did this and that, but, etc. etc.” Of course, he cannot be accused of libel for a thing he does not say. Ironically, however, he implies that Mr. So-and-so is a crook and exposes his shady deals through effective “double talk.” Smart guy, that Teban.
In the Manila Times we find Joaquin Roces and Maria Kalaw Katigbak. The former’s “lafterpiece” is “My Daily Bread” and the latter’s is “Checkpoint.” Both employ satire in their columns. Roces has created a fictitious character called “Maneng” who serves as his Charlie MacCarthy in his witty column.
The Star Reporter has the versatile Arsenic, I mean Arsenio Lacson. He must have been baptized “Arsenic because he spits venom against those who get his goat. “In This Corner” presented “Kid Arsenic” and “Speed Denoga” in the “slambangest” battle of the century. Denoga took up the cudgels for Ford Wilkins, editor of the Manila Bulletin. When Denoga wrote to Lacson, “As a louse will say to another louse, move over, bud,” Lacson came back telling Denoga to delouse himself with DDT. All of these things happened after Wilkins criticized action of some students who picketed the senators who went on a junket at the expense of the people. To date, Wilkins is still subjected occasionally to Arsenic’s stings. Although Lacson was silenced on the radio for his indictment of the corruptions which infested (still infest) our malodorous government, he continued his heavy barrage from a moving vehicle rigged with a microphone. “Here,” he hollered, “they cannot gag me.” Personally I admire Arsenic. He has really the guts to voice what is in his mind. Such guys die with their boots on.
Of course, there is Vicente del Fiero alias “del Fire” with his notes and footnotes. I often read that “del Fire” is fond of lechon. Well, who is not? When it comes to praising his own paper, the Star Reporter, you have got to hand it to del Fierro. Why, he will maintain every chance he has that the Reporter is the widest-read newspaper in the Philippines and that its quips are being quoted throughout the world. So there—hitch your wagon to the Star Reporter.
Columnists, in general, are very singular in their views. They often take great pains praising their paper, either directly or indirectly. That is the spirit. Keep up the good work, brother.
Speaking of accidents, one is reminded of a column, that of J. Padilla. (Please, your accidency, I don’t mean any harm.) Padilla is a master of sarcastic phrases. He can make a saint swear with his satirical bombardments. At times very personal, nevertheless, he atones for his subjective views with objective columns. If he gives you the once-over, you will surely cry “Uncle.”
Anent the Evening Herald, there is that fifth columnist, Jose Topacio Nueno. He is obviously sore at Mayor de la Fuente, as manifested in his daily antics. In almost every column of his, he takes to task the mayor. “Poor Maneng,” says “Canto Boy” of the Star Reporter, “he is only doing his rightful duties and he is being blamed for it.”
“Mr. President” by Aproniano Bores, editor of the Herald, deserves mention, too.
Pura-Santillan Castrence of the Manila Bulletin is one of the best women-columnists in the Philippines. “Woman Sense” is the title of her column.
There are columnists galore but it may take volumes if I touch on all of them. Suffice it to say that if ever you have an axe to grind against a columnist, better keep your trap shut. The moment you criticize them they will form a mob and like birds of prey, pounce upon you mercilessly. Look at Senator Confesor. When he stated that columnists are trying to run the affairs of the government, be became the constant target of indiscriminate attacks by them. When a columnist takes you to task, he is prosecutor, jury, and judge at the same time. So, beware lest these columnists (bless their immaculate souls) make a harlequin out of you.
Nice guys—these columnists.
Too many official cars, August 19, 1950
SOME time ago, Vice-President Fernando Lopez was taken to task by
Rep. Cipriano Allas, of Pangasinan, for allegedly using seven government
cars. Quite naturally, Lopez was stunned. He has been vociferous
against graft and corruption in the government and equally vocal against
extravagant spending of the people’s money, and here he was being
charged with something which he has openly condemned as against public
policy.
After recovering from the shock, Lopez dictated a letter telling the Pangasinan legislator that since he became vice-president, he has been assigned only one official car, a model 1946 Packard which President Quirino used when he was vice-president. He also informed Allas that the other Lopez cars, while also bearing NO. 2 plates, are his own private property and are being operated and maintained with his own personal funds.
In addition the public should know that Lopez is using a privately-owned jeepster for official purposes. He pays the salary of its driver as well as its maintenance expenses. At a recent cabinet meeting, President Quirino directed Budget Commissioner Pio Joven to assign another official car to Lopez because when Quirino was vice-president he also had a small official car besides a big Packard. Obviously, the additional car was for the use of bodyguards. But, as everybody knows, Lopez does not have any bodyguards. The vice-president’s aid rides with him in his only official car.
Only two weeks ago, Lopez wrote Commissioner Joven and asked that the big and expensive Packard car assigned to him be replaced with a “smaller and cheaper one, like a Ford or a Chevrolet.” Not that Lopez does not love expensive cars. But he does not want them at the people’s expense. Among his private cars are a Lincoln Continental and a new 7-passenger De Soto, for the use of his family, and a huge Cadillac, which is reserved for the use of his guests in Iloilo.
But back to the charge of Representative Allas. Undoubtedly, he was motivated by the best of intentions and Lopez complimented him for it. But, to use football parlance, Allas kicked off with the wrong foot. He should have looked around a little closely and he would have found that this government is indeed top-heavy with so-called official cars.
According to Primo Villar, chief of the Motor Vehicles Office, the Philippine government is now operating and maintaining at least 4,000 vehicles. Budget Commissioner Joven himself estimated that the government spends an average of P6,000 a year on each of these cars. That means that government expenditures on official cars alone amount to the staggering total of around P24,000,000 a year. And that does not include the purchase price of the vehicles.
Due perhaps to our sadly depleted finances, high government officials finally awoke recently to this scandalous situation and decided to do something about it. Commissioner Joven initiated a move to limit the use of government cars to as few public officials as possible, and to sell such vehicles as are found in excess of those needed for official purposes. Rep. Miguel Cuenco, of the 5th district of Cebu, was quick to take the cue and last week introduced at the second special session of congress a bill “defining the officers who shall be entitled to use government motor vehicles or to receive an allowance in lieu thereof and providing for the sale of excess government motor vehicles.”
In the explanatory note to his bill, Cuenco said: “It is of common knowledge that government cars are being used by relatives and friends of public officials in going to schools, night clubs, theaters and markets. Such cynical contempt for the principle that public property must be used only for public purpose must be stopped.
“To minimize, if not totally stop, this scandalous misuse of public property and the consequent drain on our national coffers, this bill which would limit the use of such cars to only the highest ranking officials of our government is being introduced. The cabinet is empowered to determine what other officers and what government services may use government cars or to grant such officers an allowance in lieu thereof.
“All motor vehicles in excess of those authorized by this bill shall be sold at public auction to the highest bidder giving preference to the officers at present using them. A commission composed of responsible officials of the government is created to sell said cars.”
Under the bill, the President of the Philippines is authorized to use two government automobiles, as against the half dozen now at the disposal of President Quirino, and the following officials are authorized to use only one official car each: the vice-president, the president of the Senate, the speaker of the House, the chief justice of Supreme Court, the president pro-tempore of the Senate, the speaker pro-tempore of the House, the majority floor leaders of both houses, the department secretaries, the chairmen of the committees on finance and on accounts of the Senate, the chairmen of the committees on appropriations and on accounts of the House, the department undersecretaries, the secretaries of both houses, the chief of staff of the Armed Forces of the Philippines, and the chief of the constabulary.
Under the bill, the cabinet is empowered to “determine what other officers of the government shall be entitled to use for official business one government automobile each or to grant an allowance in lieu thereof. . .and to authorize the use of motor vehicles by any department, bureau, office, agency or instrumentality of the government” which the cabinet may deem proper.
The bill, if approved, would certainly reduce government expenses on official cars. But it is doubtful if the scandalous misuse of such vehicles will actually be stopped or even minimized. For it has become the rule rather than the exception to use these cars for purposes other than official. Some of those privileged to use—or misuse—government vehicles also seem to have the mistaken idea that cars with the distinctive P1 plates are exempt from the normal operation of traffic rules and regulations, as may be frequently witnessed on the streets of Manila.
And so, we have the questionable group of individuals, relatives and friends of government bigwigs, who sport around with low-numbered plates on their cars. It is a clear case of misrepresentation, but it is tolerated. They accomplish the trick by the simple expedient of registering their cars in the name of some friend or relative who happens to be a senator or a representative and they get a No. 7 or 8 plate as the case may be.
Utmost Courtesy
What is the motive behind this practice? In some instances, the reason may be just plain vanity. Others may derive some fun masquerading around as a big shot in the government, if they can avoid being mistaken for that official’s chauffeur. But the primary intention seems to be to avail themselves of the traditional “courtesy” of traffic police officers. For traffic cops are supposed to extend the utmost courtesy to people using cars bearing plate numbers from 1 to 12.
Strange though it may seem, not all the vehicles bearing those numbers are government cars. Most of the senators and representatives, who are assigned plates No. 7 and 8 respectively, but their own cars. Associate Justices of the supreme court, who are authorized to use No. 9, are not privileged to misuse government cars. Nor are the justices of the court of appeals, who use No. 10 plates, nor the members of the commission on elections, who have been assigned No. 11.
Nevertheless, as pointed out, the government is operating and maintaining 4,000 vehicles. Entirely too many.
After recovering from the shock, Lopez dictated a letter telling the Pangasinan legislator that since he became vice-president, he has been assigned only one official car, a model 1946 Packard which President Quirino used when he was vice-president. He also informed Allas that the other Lopez cars, while also bearing NO. 2 plates, are his own private property and are being operated and maintained with his own personal funds.
In addition the public should know that Lopez is using a privately-owned jeepster for official purposes. He pays the salary of its driver as well as its maintenance expenses. At a recent cabinet meeting, President Quirino directed Budget Commissioner Pio Joven to assign another official car to Lopez because when Quirino was vice-president he also had a small official car besides a big Packard. Obviously, the additional car was for the use of bodyguards. But, as everybody knows, Lopez does not have any bodyguards. The vice-president’s aid rides with him in his only official car.
Only two weeks ago, Lopez wrote Commissioner Joven and asked that the big and expensive Packard car assigned to him be replaced with a “smaller and cheaper one, like a Ford or a Chevrolet.” Not that Lopez does not love expensive cars. But he does not want them at the people’s expense. Among his private cars are a Lincoln Continental and a new 7-passenger De Soto, for the use of his family, and a huge Cadillac, which is reserved for the use of his guests in Iloilo.
But back to the charge of Representative Allas. Undoubtedly, he was motivated by the best of intentions and Lopez complimented him for it. But, to use football parlance, Allas kicked off with the wrong foot. He should have looked around a little closely and he would have found that this government is indeed top-heavy with so-called official cars.
According to Primo Villar, chief of the Motor Vehicles Office, the Philippine government is now operating and maintaining at least 4,000 vehicles. Budget Commissioner Joven himself estimated that the government spends an average of P6,000 a year on each of these cars. That means that government expenditures on official cars alone amount to the staggering total of around P24,000,000 a year. And that does not include the purchase price of the vehicles.
Due perhaps to our sadly depleted finances, high government officials finally awoke recently to this scandalous situation and decided to do something about it. Commissioner Joven initiated a move to limit the use of government cars to as few public officials as possible, and to sell such vehicles as are found in excess of those needed for official purposes. Rep. Miguel Cuenco, of the 5th district of Cebu, was quick to take the cue and last week introduced at the second special session of congress a bill “defining the officers who shall be entitled to use government motor vehicles or to receive an allowance in lieu thereof and providing for the sale of excess government motor vehicles.”
In the explanatory note to his bill, Cuenco said: “It is of common knowledge that government cars are being used by relatives and friends of public officials in going to schools, night clubs, theaters and markets. Such cynical contempt for the principle that public property must be used only for public purpose must be stopped.
“To minimize, if not totally stop, this scandalous misuse of public property and the consequent drain on our national coffers, this bill which would limit the use of such cars to only the highest ranking officials of our government is being introduced. The cabinet is empowered to determine what other officers and what government services may use government cars or to grant such officers an allowance in lieu thereof.
“All motor vehicles in excess of those authorized by this bill shall be sold at public auction to the highest bidder giving preference to the officers at present using them. A commission composed of responsible officials of the government is created to sell said cars.”
Under the bill, the President of the Philippines is authorized to use two government automobiles, as against the half dozen now at the disposal of President Quirino, and the following officials are authorized to use only one official car each: the vice-president, the president of the Senate, the speaker of the House, the chief justice of Supreme Court, the president pro-tempore of the Senate, the speaker pro-tempore of the House, the majority floor leaders of both houses, the department secretaries, the chairmen of the committees on finance and on accounts of the Senate, the chairmen of the committees on appropriations and on accounts of the House, the department undersecretaries, the secretaries of both houses, the chief of staff of the Armed Forces of the Philippines, and the chief of the constabulary.
Under the bill, the cabinet is empowered to “determine what other officers of the government shall be entitled to use for official business one government automobile each or to grant an allowance in lieu thereof. . .and to authorize the use of motor vehicles by any department, bureau, office, agency or instrumentality of the government” which the cabinet may deem proper.
The bill, if approved, would certainly reduce government expenses on official cars. But it is doubtful if the scandalous misuse of such vehicles will actually be stopped or even minimized. For it has become the rule rather than the exception to use these cars for purposes other than official. Some of those privileged to use—or misuse—government vehicles also seem to have the mistaken idea that cars with the distinctive P1 plates are exempt from the normal operation of traffic rules and regulations, as may be frequently witnessed on the streets of Manila.
And so, we have the questionable group of individuals, relatives and friends of government bigwigs, who sport around with low-numbered plates on their cars. It is a clear case of misrepresentation, but it is tolerated. They accomplish the trick by the simple expedient of registering their cars in the name of some friend or relative who happens to be a senator or a representative and they get a No. 7 or 8 plate as the case may be.
Utmost Courtesy
What is the motive behind this practice? In some instances, the reason may be just plain vanity. Others may derive some fun masquerading around as a big shot in the government, if they can avoid being mistaken for that official’s chauffeur. But the primary intention seems to be to avail themselves of the traditional “courtesy” of traffic police officers. For traffic cops are supposed to extend the utmost courtesy to people using cars bearing plate numbers from 1 to 12.
Strange though it may seem, not all the vehicles bearing those numbers are government cars. Most of the senators and representatives, who are assigned plates No. 7 and 8 respectively, but their own cars. Associate Justices of the supreme court, who are authorized to use No. 9, are not privileged to misuse government cars. Nor are the justices of the court of appeals, who use No. 10 plates, nor the members of the commission on elections, who have been assigned No. 11.
Nevertheless, as pointed out, the government is operating and maintaining 4,000 vehicles. Entirely too many.
The January 26 Confrontation: A Highly Personal Account, February 7, 1970
IT WAS FIVE MINUTES PAST FIVE in the afternoon, by the clock on the
Maharnilad tower, when I arrived at Congress. The President was already
delivering his State of the Nation message: loudspeakers on both sides
of the legislative building relayed the familiar voice and the equally
familiar rhetoric to anyone in the streets who cared to listen. In front
of the building, massed from end to end of Burgos Drive, spilling over
to the parking lot and the grassy sidewalk that forms an embankment
above the Muni golf course, were the demonstrators. Few of them cared to
listen to the President. They had brought with them microphones and
loudspeakers of their own and they lent their ears to people they could
see, standing before them, on the raised ground that leads to the steps
of the legislative building, around the flagpole, beneath a flag that
was at half-mast. There were, according to conservative estimates, at
least 20,000 of them, perhaps even 50,000. Beyond
the fringes of this huge convocation stood the uniformed policemen, their long rattan sticks swinging like clocks’ pendulums at their sides; with them were the members of the riot squad, wearing crash helmets and carrying wicker shields.
I came on foot from the Luneta, which was as far as my taxi could go, and made straight for the Congress driveway. A cop at the foot of the driveway took one look at my hair and waved me away, pointing to the demonstrators beyond a row of white hurdles. When I pointed to the special press badge pinned to the breast pocket of my leather jacket, he eyed me suspiciously, but finally let me through the cordon sanitaire. The guard at the door of Congress was no less suspicious, on guard against intruders and infiltrators, and along the corridors it seemed that every man in uniform tightened his grip on his carbine as I passed by, and strained his eyes to read the fine print on my press badge.
The doors of the session hall were locked, presumably to prevent late entrances from disturbing the assembly listening to the President’s message. A clutch of photographers who had arrived late milled outside the session hall, talking with some men in barong Tagalog, pleading and demanding to be let in. The men in barong Tagalog shook their heads, smiled ruefully, and shrugged; they had their orders. I decided to go out and have a look at the demonstration.
Among the demonstrators it was possible to feel at ease. None of them carried guns, they didn’t stand on ceremony, and there was no need for the aura of privilege that a press badge automatically confers on its wearer. I took off the badge, pocketed it, and reflected on the pleasurable sensation that comes from being inconspicuous. It seemed awkward, absurd, to strut around with a label on a lapel proclaiming one’s identity, a feeling doubtless shared by cops who were even then surreptitiously removing their name plates. Also, I was curious. No joiner of demonstrations in my antisocial student days, I now wanted to know how it felt like to be in one, not as journalistic observer but as participant, and I wanted to find out what treatment I could expect from authority in this guise.
I found out soon enough, and the knowledge hurt.
At about half past five, the demo that had been going on for more than four hours was only beginning to warm up. The colegialas in their well-pressed uniforms were wandering off toward the Luneta, munching on pinipig crunches and dying of boredom. Priests and seminarians lingered at one edge of the crowd, probably discussing the epistemology of dissent. Behind the traffic island in the middle of Burgos Drive, in the negligible shade of the pine trees, ice cream and popsicle carts vied for attention with small tables each laden with paper and envelopes, an improvised cardboard mailbox and a sign that urged: Write Your Congressman. In this outer circle of the demo, things were relatively quiet; but in the inner circle, nearer Congress, right below the mikes, the militants were restless, clamorous, chanting their slogans, carrying the streamers that bore the names of their organizations, waving placards (made out of those controversial Japanese-made
calendars the administration gave away during the campaign) that pictured the President as Hitler, the First Couple as Bonnie and Clyde.
There were two mikes, taped together; and this may sound frivolous, but I think the mikes were the immediate cause of the trouble that ensued. They were in the hands of Edgar Jopson of the National Union of Students of the Philippines, the group that had organized the rally and secured the permit for it. The NUSP dubbed its demonstration “the January 26 Movement”; its chief objective was to demand “a nonpartisan Constitutional Convention in 1971.” Demonstrations, however, are never restricted to members of the organization to which a permit has been issued. They are, according to standard practice, open to all sympathizers who care to join; and to the January 26 Movement the veterans of countless demos sent their representatives. Swelling the numbers of the dissenters were youth organizations like the Kabataang Makabayan, the Samahang Demokratiko ng Kabataan, the Malayang Pagkakaisa ng Kabataang Pilipino, the Kilusan ng Kabataang Makati; labor
groups like the National Association of Trade Unions; peasant associations like the Malayang Samahang Magsasaka.
Now, at about half past five, Jopson, who was in polo barong and sported a red armband with the inscription “J26M,” announced that the next speaker would be Gary Olivar of the SDK and of the University of the Philippines student council. Scads of demonstration leaders stood with Jopson on that raised ground with the Congress flagpole, but Olivar was at this point not to be seen among them. The mikes passed instead to Roger Arienda, the radio commentator and publisher of Bomba. Arienda may sound impressive to his radio listeners, but in person he acts like a parody of a high-school freshman delivering Mark Anthony’s funeral oration. His bombast, complete with expansive gestures, drew laughter and Bronx cheers from the militants up front, who now started chanting: “We want Gary! We want Gary!”
Arienda retreated, the chant grew louder, and someone with glasses who looked like a priest took the mikes and in a fruity, flute-thin voice pleaded for sobriety and silence. “We are all in this together,” he fluted. “We are with you. There is no need for shouting. Let us respect each other.” Or words to that effect. By this time, Olivar was visible, standing next to Jopson. It was about a quarter to six.
When Jopson got the mikes back, however, he did not pass them on to Olivar. Once more he announced: “Ang susunod na magsasalita ay si Gary Olivar.” Olivar stretched out his hand, waiting for the mikes, and the crowd resumed its chant; but Jopson after some hesitation now said: “Aawitin natin ang Bayang Magiliw.” Those seated, squatting, or sprawled on the road rose as one man. Jopson sang the first verse of the national anthem, then paused, as if to let the crowd go on from there: instead he went right on singing into the mikes, drowning out the voices of everybody else, pausing every now and then for breath or to change his pitch.
Olivar stood there with a funny expression on his face, his mouth assuming a shape that was not quite a smile, not quite a scowl. Other demonstration leaders started remonstrating with Jopson, gesturing toward the mikes, but he pointedly ignored them. He repeated his instructions to NUSP members, then started acting busy and looking preoccupied, all the while clutching the mikes to his breast. Manifestoes that had earlier been passed from hand to hand now started flying, in crumpled balls or as paper planes, toward the demonstration leaders’ perch. It was at this point that one of the militants grabbed the mikes from Jopson.
Certainly there can be no justification for the action of the militants. The NUSP leaders had every right to pack up and leave, since their permit gave them only up to six o’clock to demonstrate and they had declared their demonstration formally closed; and since it was their organization that had paid for the use of the microphones and loudspeakers, they had every right to keep these instruments ot themselves. Yet, by refusing to at least lend their mikes to the radicals, the NUSP leaders gave the impression of being too finicky; they acted like an old maid aunt determined not to surrender her Edwardian finery to a hippie niece, knowing that it would be used for more audacious purposes than she had ever intended for it. The radicals would surely demand more than a nonpartisan Constitutional Convention; they would speak of more fundamental, doubtless violent, changes; and it was precisely the prospect of violence that the NUSP feared. The quarrel over
the mikes revealed the class distinctions in the demonstration: on the one hand the exclusive-school kids of the NUSP, bred in comfort, decent, respectful, and timorous; and on the other hand the public-school firebrands of groups like the KM and the SDK, familiar with privation, rowdy, irreverent, troublesome. Naturally, the nice dissenters wanted to dissociate themselves from anything that smelled disreputable, and besides the mikes belonged to them.
Now the mikes had passed to a young man, a labor union leader I had seen before, at another demonstration, whose name I do not know.
It had happened so fast Jopson was caught by surprise; the next thing he knew the mikes were no longer in his possession. This young labor union leader was a terrific speaker. He was obviously some kind of hero to the militants, for they cheered him on as he attacked the “counter-revolutionaries who want to end this demonstration,” going on from there to attack fascists and imperialists in general. By the time he was through, his audience had a new, a more insistent chant: “Rebolusyon! Rebolusyon! Rebolusyon!”
Passions were high, exacerbated by the quarrel over the mikes; and the President had the back luck of coming out of Congress at this particular instant.
WHERE THE DEMONSTRATION LEADERS STOOD, emblems of the enemy were prominently displayed: a cardboard coffin representing the death of democracy at the hands of the goonstabulary in the last elections; a cardboard crocodile, painted green, symbolizing congressmen greedy for allowances; a paper effigy of Ferdinand Marcos. When the President stepped out of Congress, the effigy was set on fire and, according to report, the coffin was pushed toward him, the crocodile hurled at him. From my position down on the street, I saw only the burning of the effigy—a singularly undramatic incident, since it took the effigy so long to catch fire. I could not even see the President and could only deduce the fact of his coming out of Congress from the commotion at the doors, the sudden radiance created by dozens of flashbulbs bursting simultaneously, and the rise in the streets of the cry: “MARcos PUPpet! MARcos PUPpet! MARcos PUPpet!”
Things got so confused at this point that I cannot honestly say which came first: the pebbles flying or the cops charging. I remember only the cops rushing down the steps of Congress, pushing aside the demonstration leaders, and jumping down to the streets, straight into the mass of demonstrators. The cops flailed away, the demonstrators scattered. The cops gave chase to anything that moved, clubbed anyone who resisted, and hauled off those they caught up with. The demonstrators who got as far as the sidewalk that led to the Muni golf links started to pick up pebbles and rocks with which they pelted the police. Very soon, placards had turned into missiles, and the sound of broken glass punctuated the yelling: soft-drink bottles were flying, too. The effigy was down on the ground, still burning.
The first scuffle was brief. By the time it was over, the President and the First Lady must have made good their escape. The cops retreated into Congress with hostages. The demonstrators re-occupied the area they had vacated in their panic. The majority of NUSP members must have been safe in their buses by then, on their way home, but the militants were still in possession of the mikes.
The militants were also in possession of the field. Probably not more than 2,000 remained on Burgos Drive—some of them just hanging around, looking on; many of them raging mad, refusing to be cowed. A small group defiantly sang the Tagalog version of the “Internationale,” no longer bothering now to hide their allegiances. Their slogan was “fight and fear not,” and they made a powerful incantation out of it: “Ma-ki-BAKA! Huwag maTAKOT!” They marched with arms linked together and faced the cops without flinching, baiting them, taunting them.
“Pulis, pulis, titi matulis!”
“Pulis, mukhang kuwarta!”
“Me mga panangga pa, o, akala mo lalaban sa giyera!”
“Takbo kayo nang takbo, baka lumiit ang tiyan n’yo!”
“Baka mangreyp pa kayo, lima-lima na’ng asawa n’yo!”
“Mano-mano lang, o!”
NOTHING MORE CLEARLY REVEALED THE DEPTHS to which the reputation of the supposed enforcers of the law has sunk than this open mocking of the cops. Annual selections of ten outstanding policemen notwithstanding, the cops are generally believed to be corrupt, venal, brutal, vicious, and zealous in their duties only when the alleged lawbreaker is neither rich nor powerful. Those who deplore the loss of respect for the law forget that respect needs to be earned, and anyone is likely to lose respect for the law who has felt the wrath of lawmen or come face to face with their greed.
The students who now hurled insults at the cops around Congress differed from the rest of their countrymen only in that they did not bother to hide their contempt or express it in bitter whispers. In at least two recent demonstrations—one at the US Embassy on the arrival of Agnew, the other at Malacanang to denounce police brutality and the rise of fascism—students had suffered at the hands of the cops, and now the students were in a rage, they were spoiling for trouble, they were in no mood for dinner-party chatter or elocution contents.
In the parliament of the streets, debate takes the form of confrontation.
While the braver radicals flung jeers at the cops in a deliberate attempt to precipitate a riotous confrontation, the rest of the demonstrators gathered in front of the Congress flagpole, listening to various speakers, though more often outshouting them. Senator Emmanuel Pelaez had come out of Congress, dapper in a dark-blue suit, and the mikes were handed over to him. Despite the mikes, his voice could hardly be heard above the din of the demonstrators. Because Pelaez spoke in English, they shouted: “Tagalog! Tagalog!” They had also made up a new chant: “Pakawalan ang hinuli! Pakawalan ang hinuli! Pakawalan ang hinuli!” Not after several minutes of furious waving from student leaders gesturing for quiet did the noise of the throng subside.
Pelaez made an appeal for peace that received an equal amount of cheers and jeers. Then he made the mistake of calling MPD Chief Gerardo Tamayo to his side. The very sight of a uniformed policeman is enough to drive demonstrators into a frenzy; his mere presence is provocation enough. The reaction to Tamayo was unequivocal, unanimous. The moment he appeared, fancy swagger stick in hand, an orgy of boos and catcalls began, sticks and stones and crumpled sheets started to fly again, and Pelaez had to let the police chief beat a hasty retreat.
With Tamayo out of sight, a little quiet descended on the crowd once more. Speeches again, and more speeches. The lull, a period of watchful waiting for the demonstrators, lasted for some time. And then, from the north, from the Maharnilad side of Congress, came the cry: “Eto na naman ang mga pulis!”
Thunder of feet, tumult of images and sounds. White smooth round crash helmets advancing like a fleet of flying saucers in the growing darkness. The tread of marching feet, the rat-tat-tat of fearful feet on the run, the shuffle of hesitant feet unable to decide whether to stand fast or flee. From loudspeakers, an angry voice: “Mga pulis! Pakiusap lang! Tahimik na kami rito! Huwag na kayong makialam!” And everywhere, a confusion of shouts: Walang tatakbo! Walang uurong! Balik! Balik! Walang mambabato! Tigil ang batuhan! Link arms, link arms! Ma-ki-BAKA! Huwag maTAKOT!
The khaki contingent broke into a run. The demonstrators fled in all directions, each man for himself. Some merely stepped aside, hugging the Congress walls, clustering around trees. The cops at this time went only after those who ran, bypassing all who stood still. Three cops cornered one demonstrator against a traffic sign and clubbed him until the signpost gave way and fell with a crash. One cop caught up with a demonstrator and grabbed him by the collar, but the demonstrator wriggled free of his shirt and made a new dash for freedom in his undershirt. One cop lost his quarry near the golf course and found himself surrounded by other demonstrators; they didn’t touch him—“Nag-iisa’yan, pabayaan n’yo”—but they taunted him mercilessly. This was a Metrocom cop, not an unarmed trainee, and finding himself surrounded by laughing sneering faces, he drew his .45 in anger, his eyes flashing, his teeth bared. He kept his gun pointed to the ground,
however, and the laughter and sneers continued until he backed off slowly, trying to maintain whatever remaining dignity he could muster.
The demonstrators who had fled regrouped, on the Luneta side of Congress, and with holler and whoop they charged. The cops slowly retreated before this surging mass, then ran, ran for their lives, pursued by rage, rocks, and burning placard handles. Now it was the students giving chase, exhilarated by the unexpected turnabout. The momentum of their charge, however, took them only up to the center of Burgos Drive; either there was a failure of nerve or their intention was merely to regain ground they had lost, without really charging into the very ranks of the police.
Once again, the lines of battle were as before: the students in the center, the cops at the northern end of Burgos Drive.
In the next two hours, the pattern of battle would be set. The cops would charge, the demonstrators would retreat; the demonstrators would regroup and come forward again, the cops would back off to their former position. At certain times, however, the lines of battle would shift, with the cops holding all of the area right in front of Congress and the students facing them across the street, with three areas of retreat—north toward Maharnilad, south toward the Luneta, and west toward the golf course and Intramuros. There were about seven waves of attack and retreat by both sides, each attack preceded by a tense noisy lull, during which there would be sporadic stoning, by both cops and demonstrators.
Sometime during the lull in the clashes, two fire trucks appeared in the north. They inched their way forward, flanked by the cops, and when they were near the center of Burgos Drive they trained their hoses on the scattered bonfires the students had made with their placards and manifestoes. Students who held their ground, getting wet in the weak stream, yelled: “Mahal ang tubig! Isauli n’yo na ’yan sa Nawasa!” Other demonstrators, emboldened by the lack of force of the jets of water, came forward with rocks to hurl at the fire trucks. The trucks hurriedly backed away from the barrage and soon made themselves scarce.
At one student attack, the demonstrators managed to occupy the northern portion the cops had held throughout the battle. When the cops started moving forward, from the Congress driveway where they had taken shelter, the demonstrators backed away one by one, until only three brave and foolhardy souls remained, standing fast, holding aloft, by its three poles, a streamer that carried the name of the Kabataang Makabayan. There they stood, those three, no one behind them and the cops coming toward them slowly, menacingly. Without a warning, some cops dashed forward, about ten of them, and in full view of the horrified crowd flailed away at the three who held their ground, unable to resist. The two kids holding the side poles either managed to flee or were hauled off to the legislative building to join everybody else who had the misfortune of being caught. The boy in the center crumpled to the ground and stayed there cringing, bundled up like a foetus, his legs to his chest and his arms over his head. The cops made a small tight circle around him, and then all that could be seen were the rattan sticks moving up and down and from side to side in seeming rhythm. When they were through, the cops walked away nonchalantly, leaving the boy on the ground. One cop, before leaving, gave one last aimless swing of his stick as a parting shot, hitting his target in the knees.
The cops really had it in for the Kabataang Makabayan. The fallen standard was picked up by six or seven KM boys and carried to the center of Burgos Drive, where it stood beside another streamer, held up by members of the Kilusan ng Kabataang Makati, bearing the words: “Ibagsak ang imperyalismo at piyudalismo!” When the cops made another attack and everybody in the center of Burgos Drive scattered, the KM boys again held their ground. The cops gave them so severe a beating one of the wooden poles broke in half.
I had taken shelter beneath the Kilusan ng Kabataang Makati streamer during the attack; we were left untouched. The KM boys had to abandon their streamer. One of them, limping, joined us, and when the cops had gone he asked me, probably thinking I was another KM member, to help him pick up the streamer. I thought it was the least I could do for the poor bastards, so I took hold of the broken pole and helped the KM boy carry the streamer a little closer to the Congress walls. There I stood, thinking of the awkwardness of my position, being neither demonstrator nor KM member, until a few other guys began to gather around us. I handed the broken pole to someone who nodded when I asked him if he belonged to the KM.
About this time, or sometime afterwards, Pelaez was down on the street, surrounded by aides and students all talking at the same time, complaining to him about missing nameplates and arrested comrades. He was probably still down there when the cops advanced once again. Panic spread, and I found myself running, too. In previous attacks I had merely stepped aside and watched; but I had already seen what had happened to the KM boys who refused to flee, and I had seen policemen, walking back to their lines after a futile chase, club or haul off anyone standing by who just happened to be in their way, or who seemed to have a look of gloating and triumph on their faces; and I realized it was no longer safe to remain motionless. I had completely forgotten the press badge in my pocket.
Meanwhile, it seemed that certain distinguished personages trapped inside the legislative building had grown restless and wanted to get on to their mansions or their favorite night clubs or some parties in their honor, but cars were parked up front. At any rate, some cars started moving up the driveway to pick up passengers. The sight of those long sleek limousines infuriated the demonstrators all the more; the sight of those beautiful air-conditioned limousines was like a haughty voice saying, “Let them eat cake.” Cries of “Kotse! Kotse!” were followed by “Batuhin! Batuhin!” Down the driveway came the cars, and whizz went the rocks. Some cars even had the effrontery of driving down Burgos Drive straight into the lines of the demonstrators, as though meaning to disperse them. All the cars got stoned.
One apple-green Mercedes-Benz, belonging to Senator Jose Roy, screeched to a stop when the rocks thudded on its roofs and sides. The driver got out and started picking up rocks himself, throwing them at the students. A few cops had to brave the rain of stones that ensued to save the poor driver who had only tried to defend his master’s car. The demonstrators then surged forward with sticks and stones and beat the hell out of the car, stopping only when it was a total wreck. “Sunugin!” rose the cry, but by then the cops were coming in force.
The demonstrators had hired a jeepney in which rode some of their leaders. It had two loudspeakers on its roof, was surrounded by students, and inched its way forward and backward throughout the melee. The cops, seemingly maddened by the destruction of a senator’s Model 1970 Mercedes-Benz, swooped down on the jeepney with their rattan sticks, striking out at the students who surrounded it until they fled, then venting their rage some more on those inside the jeepney who could not get out to run. The shrill screams of women inside the jeepney rent the air. The driver, bloody all over, managed to stagger out; the cops quickly grabbed him.
When the cops were through beating up the jeepney’s passengers, they backed away. Some stayed behind, trying to drag out those who were still inside the jeepney, from which came endless shrieks, sobs, curses, wails, and the sound of weeping. It was impossible to remain detached and uninvolved now, to be a spectator forever. When the screams for help became unendurable, I started to walk toward the jeepney, and was only four or five steps away when, from the other side of the jeepney, crash helmet, khaki uniform, and rattan stick came charging at me. The cop’s hands gripped his stick at both ends. “O, isa ka pa, lalapit-lapit ka pa!” he cried as he swung at me. I stepped back, feeling the wind from the swing of his stick ruffle the front of my shirt. In stepping back I lost my balance. Before I realized what had happened, I was down on my back and the cop was lunging at me, still holding his stick at both ends. I caught the middle of the stick
with my hands and, well, under the circumstances, I don’t think I can be blamed for losing my cool. “Putangnamo,” I shouted at him, “tutulong ako do’n, e!”
I jumped to my feet, dusted myself off angrily, and glared at my would-be tormentor. If my eyes had the gift of a triple whammy, he would be dust and ashes now. We stared at each other for a few seconds, but when I dropped my glance down to his breast, to see no nameplate there, he turned his back and slowly walked away. I had no intention of doing a Norman Mailer and getting arrested, so I let him go. By this time, the jeepney’s passengers had decided, screaming and swearing and sobbing all the while, to abandon their vehicle with its load of mimeographed manifestoes and various literature, and to look for a safer place from which to deliver their exhortations to their fellow demonstrators.
On two other occasions, I found myself running with the demonstrators. Once I jumped down with them to the golf course and got as far as the fence of the mini-golf range. Behind us, the cops were firing into the air. When it was the students’ turn to charge, I found my way back to the street. Another time, running along the sidewalk down rows of pine trees toward the Luneta, I saw a girl a few meters away from me stumble and fall. I stopped running, with the intention of helping her up, when whack! I felt the sting of a blow just below my belt and above my ass. When I turned around the cop was gone; he was swinging wildly as he ran and I just happened to be in the way of his rattan. The girl, too, was nowhere to be seen; there was no longer anyone to play Good Samaritan to.
As I stood there, rubbing that part of me where I was hit, I heard more screaming and curses from the golf course. A boy and two girls, who had decided to sit out the attack on a mound, had been set upon by the cops. People inside the mini-golf enclosure were yelling at the cops, shaking their golf clubs in helpless fury. “Tena, tulungan natin!” cried one demonstrator; but the cops had retreated by the time we got to the trio on the mound. The two girls were cursing through their tears; the boy was calm, consoling them in his fashion. “This is just part of the class struggle,” he said, and one girl sobbed, “I know, I know. Pero putangna nila, me araw din sila!”
IT WAS NOW EIGHT O’CLOCK. The battle of Burgos Drive was over, Burgos Drive was open to traffic once more. I decided it was time to go to the Philippine General Hospital for a change of scene. Crossing the street, on my way to Taft Avenue, I saw for the first time, on the Luneta side of the traffic island, a row of horses behind a squad of uniformed men.
At the PGH, confusion reigned. More than thirty demonstrators with bloody heads and broken wrists had been or were being treated along with three or four policemen hit by rocks. Other students kept coming, looking for companions, bringing news from the field. The battle was not over yet, they said, it had merely shifted ground. The cops were chasing demonstrators right up to Intramuros, all the way to Plaza Lawton; were even boarding jeepneys and buses to haul down demonstrators on their way home. There was a rumor that two or three students had been killed—did anyone know anything about it? (It proved to be a false alarm.) Even NUSP members were at the PGH. Some of them had called up Executive Secretary Ernesto Maceda, and he came in a long black car, mapungay eyes, slicked-down hair, newly pressed barong Tagalog, and all, accompanied by a photographer and scads of technical assistants or security men.
The next day came the post-mortems, the breast-beating, the press releases, the alibis.
“We maintain,” said MPD Deputy Chief James Barbers, “that the police acted swiftly at a particular time when the life of the President of the Republic—and that of the First Lady—was being endangered by the vicious and unscrupulous elements among the student demonstrators. One can just imagine what would have resulted had something happened to the First Lady!” Barbers did not bother to explain why the rampage continued after the President being protected had gone.
Manila Mayor Antonio J. Villegas commended Tamayo and his men for their “exemplary behavior and courage” and reportedly gave them a day off. Then he announced that Manila policemen would henceforth stay away from demonstration sites. “I’m doing this to protect Manila policemen from unfair criticism and to avoid friction between the MPD and student groups.”
“The night of January 26,” said UP president S.P. Lopez, “must be regarded as a night of grave portent for the future of the nation. It has brought us face to face with the fundamental question: Is it still possible to transform our society by peaceful means so that the many who are poor, oppressed, sick, and ignorant may be released from their misery, by the actual operation of law and government, rather than by waiting in vain for the empty promise of ‘social justice’ in our Constitution?”
The faculty of the University of the Philippines issued a declaration denouncing “the use of brutal force by state authorities against the student demonstrators” and supporting “unqualifiedly the students’ exercise of democratic rights in their struggle for revolutionary change.” The declaration went on to say: “It is with the gravest concern that the faculty views the January 26 event as part of an emerging pattern of repression of the democratic rights of the people. This pattern is evident in the formation of paramilitary units such as the Home Defense Forces, the politicalization of the Armed Forces, the existence of private armies, foreign interference in internal security, and the use of specially trained police for purposes of suppression.”
From the Lyceum faculty came another strongly worded statement: “Above the sadism and inhumanity of the action of the police, we fear that the brutal treatment of the idealistic students has done irreparable harm to our society. For it is true that the skirmish was won by the policemen and the riot soldiers. But if we view the battle in the correct perspective of the struggle for the hearts and minds of our youth, we cannot help but realize that the senseless, brutal, and uncalled-for acts of the police have forever alienated many of our young people from our society. The police will have to realize that in winning the battles, they are losing the war for our society.”
While he deplored the “abusive language” he read in some of the demonstrators’ placards, Senator Gil J. Puyat said, “I regret the use of unnecessary force by the police when they could have used a less harmful method.” IF the police had “kept their cool,” said Senator Benigno Aquino, there would have been no violence—“it takes two to fight.” Senator Salvador Laurel said he had witnessed “with my own eyes the reported brutalities perpetrated by a number of [police officers] upon unarmed students, some of them helpless women.” Senator Eva Kalaw warned: “The students set the emotional powderkeg that may become the signal for wave upon wave of unrest in the streets, in the factories, on the campuses, in our farms.”
“Students,” said President Ferdinand Marcos, “have a legitimate right to manifest their grievances in public and we shall support their just demands, but we do not consider violence a legitimate instrument of democratic dissent, and we expect the students to cooperate with government in making sure that their demonstrations are not marred by violence.”
Some of the students began talking of arming themselves the next time with molotov cocktails and pillboxes, of using dos-por-dos as placard handles, of wearing crash helmets. Everyone agreed that the January 26 confrontation was the longest and most violent in the history of the Philippine student movement.
the fringes of this huge convocation stood the uniformed policemen, their long rattan sticks swinging like clocks’ pendulums at their sides; with them were the members of the riot squad, wearing crash helmets and carrying wicker shields.
I came on foot from the Luneta, which was as far as my taxi could go, and made straight for the Congress driveway. A cop at the foot of the driveway took one look at my hair and waved me away, pointing to the demonstrators beyond a row of white hurdles. When I pointed to the special press badge pinned to the breast pocket of my leather jacket, he eyed me suspiciously, but finally let me through the cordon sanitaire. The guard at the door of Congress was no less suspicious, on guard against intruders and infiltrators, and along the corridors it seemed that every man in uniform tightened his grip on his carbine as I passed by, and strained his eyes to read the fine print on my press badge.
The doors of the session hall were locked, presumably to prevent late entrances from disturbing the assembly listening to the President’s message. A clutch of photographers who had arrived late milled outside the session hall, talking with some men in barong Tagalog, pleading and demanding to be let in. The men in barong Tagalog shook their heads, smiled ruefully, and shrugged; they had their orders. I decided to go out and have a look at the demonstration.
Among the demonstrators it was possible to feel at ease. None of them carried guns, they didn’t stand on ceremony, and there was no need for the aura of privilege that a press badge automatically confers on its wearer. I took off the badge, pocketed it, and reflected on the pleasurable sensation that comes from being inconspicuous. It seemed awkward, absurd, to strut around with a label on a lapel proclaiming one’s identity, a feeling doubtless shared by cops who were even then surreptitiously removing their name plates. Also, I was curious. No joiner of demonstrations in my antisocial student days, I now wanted to know how it felt like to be in one, not as journalistic observer but as participant, and I wanted to find out what treatment I could expect from authority in this guise.
I found out soon enough, and the knowledge hurt.
At about half past five, the demo that had been going on for more than four hours was only beginning to warm up. The colegialas in their well-pressed uniforms were wandering off toward the Luneta, munching on pinipig crunches and dying of boredom. Priests and seminarians lingered at one edge of the crowd, probably discussing the epistemology of dissent. Behind the traffic island in the middle of Burgos Drive, in the negligible shade of the pine trees, ice cream and popsicle carts vied for attention with small tables each laden with paper and envelopes, an improvised cardboard mailbox and a sign that urged: Write Your Congressman. In this outer circle of the demo, things were relatively quiet; but in the inner circle, nearer Congress, right below the mikes, the militants were restless, clamorous, chanting their slogans, carrying the streamers that bore the names of their organizations, waving placards (made out of those controversial Japanese-made
calendars the administration gave away during the campaign) that pictured the President as Hitler, the First Couple as Bonnie and Clyde.
There were two mikes, taped together; and this may sound frivolous, but I think the mikes were the immediate cause of the trouble that ensued. They were in the hands of Edgar Jopson of the National Union of Students of the Philippines, the group that had organized the rally and secured the permit for it. The NUSP dubbed its demonstration “the January 26 Movement”; its chief objective was to demand “a nonpartisan Constitutional Convention in 1971.” Demonstrations, however, are never restricted to members of the organization to which a permit has been issued. They are, according to standard practice, open to all sympathizers who care to join; and to the January 26 Movement the veterans of countless demos sent their representatives. Swelling the numbers of the dissenters were youth organizations like the Kabataang Makabayan, the Samahang Demokratiko ng Kabataan, the Malayang Pagkakaisa ng Kabataang Pilipino, the Kilusan ng Kabataang Makati; labor
groups like the National Association of Trade Unions; peasant associations like the Malayang Samahang Magsasaka.
Now, at about half past five, Jopson, who was in polo barong and sported a red armband with the inscription “J26M,” announced that the next speaker would be Gary Olivar of the SDK and of the University of the Philippines student council. Scads of demonstration leaders stood with Jopson on that raised ground with the Congress flagpole, but Olivar was at this point not to be seen among them. The mikes passed instead to Roger Arienda, the radio commentator and publisher of Bomba. Arienda may sound impressive to his radio listeners, but in person he acts like a parody of a high-school freshman delivering Mark Anthony’s funeral oration. His bombast, complete with expansive gestures, drew laughter and Bronx cheers from the militants up front, who now started chanting: “We want Gary! We want Gary!”
Arienda retreated, the chant grew louder, and someone with glasses who looked like a priest took the mikes and in a fruity, flute-thin voice pleaded for sobriety and silence. “We are all in this together,” he fluted. “We are with you. There is no need for shouting. Let us respect each other.” Or words to that effect. By this time, Olivar was visible, standing next to Jopson. It was about a quarter to six.
When Jopson got the mikes back, however, he did not pass them on to Olivar. Once more he announced: “Ang susunod na magsasalita ay si Gary Olivar.” Olivar stretched out his hand, waiting for the mikes, and the crowd resumed its chant; but Jopson after some hesitation now said: “Aawitin natin ang Bayang Magiliw.” Those seated, squatting, or sprawled on the road rose as one man. Jopson sang the first verse of the national anthem, then paused, as if to let the crowd go on from there: instead he went right on singing into the mikes, drowning out the voices of everybody else, pausing every now and then for breath or to change his pitch.
Olivar stood there with a funny expression on his face, his mouth assuming a shape that was not quite a smile, not quite a scowl. Other demonstration leaders started remonstrating with Jopson, gesturing toward the mikes, but he pointedly ignored them. He repeated his instructions to NUSP members, then started acting busy and looking preoccupied, all the while clutching the mikes to his breast. Manifestoes that had earlier been passed from hand to hand now started flying, in crumpled balls or as paper planes, toward the demonstration leaders’ perch. It was at this point that one of the militants grabbed the mikes from Jopson.
Certainly there can be no justification for the action of the militants. The NUSP leaders had every right to pack up and leave, since their permit gave them only up to six o’clock to demonstrate and they had declared their demonstration formally closed; and since it was their organization that had paid for the use of the microphones and loudspeakers, they had every right to keep these instruments ot themselves. Yet, by refusing to at least lend their mikes to the radicals, the NUSP leaders gave the impression of being too finicky; they acted like an old maid aunt determined not to surrender her Edwardian finery to a hippie niece, knowing that it would be used for more audacious purposes than she had ever intended for it. The radicals would surely demand more than a nonpartisan Constitutional Convention; they would speak of more fundamental, doubtless violent, changes; and it was precisely the prospect of violence that the NUSP feared. The quarrel over
the mikes revealed the class distinctions in the demonstration: on the one hand the exclusive-school kids of the NUSP, bred in comfort, decent, respectful, and timorous; and on the other hand the public-school firebrands of groups like the KM and the SDK, familiar with privation, rowdy, irreverent, troublesome. Naturally, the nice dissenters wanted to dissociate themselves from anything that smelled disreputable, and besides the mikes belonged to them.
Now the mikes had passed to a young man, a labor union leader I had seen before, at another demonstration, whose name I do not know.
It had happened so fast Jopson was caught by surprise; the next thing he knew the mikes were no longer in his possession. This young labor union leader was a terrific speaker. He was obviously some kind of hero to the militants, for they cheered him on as he attacked the “counter-revolutionaries who want to end this demonstration,” going on from there to attack fascists and imperialists in general. By the time he was through, his audience had a new, a more insistent chant: “Rebolusyon! Rebolusyon! Rebolusyon!”
Passions were high, exacerbated by the quarrel over the mikes; and the President had the back luck of coming out of Congress at this particular instant.
WHERE THE DEMONSTRATION LEADERS STOOD, emblems of the enemy were prominently displayed: a cardboard coffin representing the death of democracy at the hands of the goonstabulary in the last elections; a cardboard crocodile, painted green, symbolizing congressmen greedy for allowances; a paper effigy of Ferdinand Marcos. When the President stepped out of Congress, the effigy was set on fire and, according to report, the coffin was pushed toward him, the crocodile hurled at him. From my position down on the street, I saw only the burning of the effigy—a singularly undramatic incident, since it took the effigy so long to catch fire. I could not even see the President and could only deduce the fact of his coming out of Congress from the commotion at the doors, the sudden radiance created by dozens of flashbulbs bursting simultaneously, and the rise in the streets of the cry: “MARcos PUPpet! MARcos PUPpet! MARcos PUPpet!”
Things got so confused at this point that I cannot honestly say which came first: the pebbles flying or the cops charging. I remember only the cops rushing down the steps of Congress, pushing aside the demonstration leaders, and jumping down to the streets, straight into the mass of demonstrators. The cops flailed away, the demonstrators scattered. The cops gave chase to anything that moved, clubbed anyone who resisted, and hauled off those they caught up with. The demonstrators who got as far as the sidewalk that led to the Muni golf links started to pick up pebbles and rocks with which they pelted the police. Very soon, placards had turned into missiles, and the sound of broken glass punctuated the yelling: soft-drink bottles were flying, too. The effigy was down on the ground, still burning.
The first scuffle was brief. By the time it was over, the President and the First Lady must have made good their escape. The cops retreated into Congress with hostages. The demonstrators re-occupied the area they had vacated in their panic. The majority of NUSP members must have been safe in their buses by then, on their way home, but the militants were still in possession of the mikes.
The militants were also in possession of the field. Probably not more than 2,000 remained on Burgos Drive—some of them just hanging around, looking on; many of them raging mad, refusing to be cowed. A small group defiantly sang the Tagalog version of the “Internationale,” no longer bothering now to hide their allegiances. Their slogan was “fight and fear not,” and they made a powerful incantation out of it: “Ma-ki-BAKA! Huwag maTAKOT!” They marched with arms linked together and faced the cops without flinching, baiting them, taunting them.
“Pulis, pulis, titi matulis!”
“Pulis, mukhang kuwarta!”
“Me mga panangga pa, o, akala mo lalaban sa giyera!”
“Takbo kayo nang takbo, baka lumiit ang tiyan n’yo!”
“Baka mangreyp pa kayo, lima-lima na’ng asawa n’yo!”
“Mano-mano lang, o!”
NOTHING MORE CLEARLY REVEALED THE DEPTHS to which the reputation of the supposed enforcers of the law has sunk than this open mocking of the cops. Annual selections of ten outstanding policemen notwithstanding, the cops are generally believed to be corrupt, venal, brutal, vicious, and zealous in their duties only when the alleged lawbreaker is neither rich nor powerful. Those who deplore the loss of respect for the law forget that respect needs to be earned, and anyone is likely to lose respect for the law who has felt the wrath of lawmen or come face to face with their greed.
The students who now hurled insults at the cops around Congress differed from the rest of their countrymen only in that they did not bother to hide their contempt or express it in bitter whispers. In at least two recent demonstrations—one at the US Embassy on the arrival of Agnew, the other at Malacanang to denounce police brutality and the rise of fascism—students had suffered at the hands of the cops, and now the students were in a rage, they were spoiling for trouble, they were in no mood for dinner-party chatter or elocution contents.
In the parliament of the streets, debate takes the form of confrontation.
While the braver radicals flung jeers at the cops in a deliberate attempt to precipitate a riotous confrontation, the rest of the demonstrators gathered in front of the Congress flagpole, listening to various speakers, though more often outshouting them. Senator Emmanuel Pelaez had come out of Congress, dapper in a dark-blue suit, and the mikes were handed over to him. Despite the mikes, his voice could hardly be heard above the din of the demonstrators. Because Pelaez spoke in English, they shouted: “Tagalog! Tagalog!” They had also made up a new chant: “Pakawalan ang hinuli! Pakawalan ang hinuli! Pakawalan ang hinuli!” Not after several minutes of furious waving from student leaders gesturing for quiet did the noise of the throng subside.
Pelaez made an appeal for peace that received an equal amount of cheers and jeers. Then he made the mistake of calling MPD Chief Gerardo Tamayo to his side. The very sight of a uniformed policeman is enough to drive demonstrators into a frenzy; his mere presence is provocation enough. The reaction to Tamayo was unequivocal, unanimous. The moment he appeared, fancy swagger stick in hand, an orgy of boos and catcalls began, sticks and stones and crumpled sheets started to fly again, and Pelaez had to let the police chief beat a hasty retreat.
With Tamayo out of sight, a little quiet descended on the crowd once more. Speeches again, and more speeches. The lull, a period of watchful waiting for the demonstrators, lasted for some time. And then, from the north, from the Maharnilad side of Congress, came the cry: “Eto na naman ang mga pulis!”
Thunder of feet, tumult of images and sounds. White smooth round crash helmets advancing like a fleet of flying saucers in the growing darkness. The tread of marching feet, the rat-tat-tat of fearful feet on the run, the shuffle of hesitant feet unable to decide whether to stand fast or flee. From loudspeakers, an angry voice: “Mga pulis! Pakiusap lang! Tahimik na kami rito! Huwag na kayong makialam!” And everywhere, a confusion of shouts: Walang tatakbo! Walang uurong! Balik! Balik! Walang mambabato! Tigil ang batuhan! Link arms, link arms! Ma-ki-BAKA! Huwag maTAKOT!
The khaki contingent broke into a run. The demonstrators fled in all directions, each man for himself. Some merely stepped aside, hugging the Congress walls, clustering around trees. The cops at this time went only after those who ran, bypassing all who stood still. Three cops cornered one demonstrator against a traffic sign and clubbed him until the signpost gave way and fell with a crash. One cop caught up with a demonstrator and grabbed him by the collar, but the demonstrator wriggled free of his shirt and made a new dash for freedom in his undershirt. One cop lost his quarry near the golf course and found himself surrounded by other demonstrators; they didn’t touch him—“Nag-iisa’yan, pabayaan n’yo”—but they taunted him mercilessly. This was a Metrocom cop, not an unarmed trainee, and finding himself surrounded by laughing sneering faces, he drew his .45 in anger, his eyes flashing, his teeth bared. He kept his gun pointed to the ground,
however, and the laughter and sneers continued until he backed off slowly, trying to maintain whatever remaining dignity he could muster.
The demonstrators who had fled regrouped, on the Luneta side of Congress, and with holler and whoop they charged. The cops slowly retreated before this surging mass, then ran, ran for their lives, pursued by rage, rocks, and burning placard handles. Now it was the students giving chase, exhilarated by the unexpected turnabout. The momentum of their charge, however, took them only up to the center of Burgos Drive; either there was a failure of nerve or their intention was merely to regain ground they had lost, without really charging into the very ranks of the police.
Once again, the lines of battle were as before: the students in the center, the cops at the northern end of Burgos Drive.
In the next two hours, the pattern of battle would be set. The cops would charge, the demonstrators would retreat; the demonstrators would regroup and come forward again, the cops would back off to their former position. At certain times, however, the lines of battle would shift, with the cops holding all of the area right in front of Congress and the students facing them across the street, with three areas of retreat—north toward Maharnilad, south toward the Luneta, and west toward the golf course and Intramuros. There were about seven waves of attack and retreat by both sides, each attack preceded by a tense noisy lull, during which there would be sporadic stoning, by both cops and demonstrators.
Sometime during the lull in the clashes, two fire trucks appeared in the north. They inched their way forward, flanked by the cops, and when they were near the center of Burgos Drive they trained their hoses on the scattered bonfires the students had made with their placards and manifestoes. Students who held their ground, getting wet in the weak stream, yelled: “Mahal ang tubig! Isauli n’yo na ’yan sa Nawasa!” Other demonstrators, emboldened by the lack of force of the jets of water, came forward with rocks to hurl at the fire trucks. The trucks hurriedly backed away from the barrage and soon made themselves scarce.
At one student attack, the demonstrators managed to occupy the northern portion the cops had held throughout the battle. When the cops started moving forward, from the Congress driveway where they had taken shelter, the demonstrators backed away one by one, until only three brave and foolhardy souls remained, standing fast, holding aloft, by its three poles, a streamer that carried the name of the Kabataang Makabayan. There they stood, those three, no one behind them and the cops coming toward them slowly, menacingly. Without a warning, some cops dashed forward, about ten of them, and in full view of the horrified crowd flailed away at the three who held their ground, unable to resist. The two kids holding the side poles either managed to flee or were hauled off to the legislative building to join everybody else who had the misfortune of being caught. The boy in the center crumpled to the ground and stayed there cringing, bundled up like a foetus, his legs to his chest and his arms over his head. The cops made a small tight circle around him, and then all that could be seen were the rattan sticks moving up and down and from side to side in seeming rhythm. When they were through, the cops walked away nonchalantly, leaving the boy on the ground. One cop, before leaving, gave one last aimless swing of his stick as a parting shot, hitting his target in the knees.
The cops really had it in for the Kabataang Makabayan. The fallen standard was picked up by six or seven KM boys and carried to the center of Burgos Drive, where it stood beside another streamer, held up by members of the Kilusan ng Kabataang Makati, bearing the words: “Ibagsak ang imperyalismo at piyudalismo!” When the cops made another attack and everybody in the center of Burgos Drive scattered, the KM boys again held their ground. The cops gave them so severe a beating one of the wooden poles broke in half.
I had taken shelter beneath the Kilusan ng Kabataang Makati streamer during the attack; we were left untouched. The KM boys had to abandon their streamer. One of them, limping, joined us, and when the cops had gone he asked me, probably thinking I was another KM member, to help him pick up the streamer. I thought it was the least I could do for the poor bastards, so I took hold of the broken pole and helped the KM boy carry the streamer a little closer to the Congress walls. There I stood, thinking of the awkwardness of my position, being neither demonstrator nor KM member, until a few other guys began to gather around us. I handed the broken pole to someone who nodded when I asked him if he belonged to the KM.
About this time, or sometime afterwards, Pelaez was down on the street, surrounded by aides and students all talking at the same time, complaining to him about missing nameplates and arrested comrades. He was probably still down there when the cops advanced once again. Panic spread, and I found myself running, too. In previous attacks I had merely stepped aside and watched; but I had already seen what had happened to the KM boys who refused to flee, and I had seen policemen, walking back to their lines after a futile chase, club or haul off anyone standing by who just happened to be in their way, or who seemed to have a look of gloating and triumph on their faces; and I realized it was no longer safe to remain motionless. I had completely forgotten the press badge in my pocket.
Meanwhile, it seemed that certain distinguished personages trapped inside the legislative building had grown restless and wanted to get on to their mansions or their favorite night clubs or some parties in their honor, but cars were parked up front. At any rate, some cars started moving up the driveway to pick up passengers. The sight of those long sleek limousines infuriated the demonstrators all the more; the sight of those beautiful air-conditioned limousines was like a haughty voice saying, “Let them eat cake.” Cries of “Kotse! Kotse!” were followed by “Batuhin! Batuhin!” Down the driveway came the cars, and whizz went the rocks. Some cars even had the effrontery of driving down Burgos Drive straight into the lines of the demonstrators, as though meaning to disperse them. All the cars got stoned.
One apple-green Mercedes-Benz, belonging to Senator Jose Roy, screeched to a stop when the rocks thudded on its roofs and sides. The driver got out and started picking up rocks himself, throwing them at the students. A few cops had to brave the rain of stones that ensued to save the poor driver who had only tried to defend his master’s car. The demonstrators then surged forward with sticks and stones and beat the hell out of the car, stopping only when it was a total wreck. “Sunugin!” rose the cry, but by then the cops were coming in force.
The demonstrators had hired a jeepney in which rode some of their leaders. It had two loudspeakers on its roof, was surrounded by students, and inched its way forward and backward throughout the melee. The cops, seemingly maddened by the destruction of a senator’s Model 1970 Mercedes-Benz, swooped down on the jeepney with their rattan sticks, striking out at the students who surrounded it until they fled, then venting their rage some more on those inside the jeepney who could not get out to run. The shrill screams of women inside the jeepney rent the air. The driver, bloody all over, managed to stagger out; the cops quickly grabbed him.
When the cops were through beating up the jeepney’s passengers, they backed away. Some stayed behind, trying to drag out those who were still inside the jeepney, from which came endless shrieks, sobs, curses, wails, and the sound of weeping. It was impossible to remain detached and uninvolved now, to be a spectator forever. When the screams for help became unendurable, I started to walk toward the jeepney, and was only four or five steps away when, from the other side of the jeepney, crash helmet, khaki uniform, and rattan stick came charging at me. The cop’s hands gripped his stick at both ends. “O, isa ka pa, lalapit-lapit ka pa!” he cried as he swung at me. I stepped back, feeling the wind from the swing of his stick ruffle the front of my shirt. In stepping back I lost my balance. Before I realized what had happened, I was down on my back and the cop was lunging at me, still holding his stick at both ends. I caught the middle of the stick
with my hands and, well, under the circumstances, I don’t think I can be blamed for losing my cool. “Putangnamo,” I shouted at him, “tutulong ako do’n, e!”
I jumped to my feet, dusted myself off angrily, and glared at my would-be tormentor. If my eyes had the gift of a triple whammy, he would be dust and ashes now. We stared at each other for a few seconds, but when I dropped my glance down to his breast, to see no nameplate there, he turned his back and slowly walked away. I had no intention of doing a Norman Mailer and getting arrested, so I let him go. By this time, the jeepney’s passengers had decided, screaming and swearing and sobbing all the while, to abandon their vehicle with its load of mimeographed manifestoes and various literature, and to look for a safer place from which to deliver their exhortations to their fellow demonstrators.
On two other occasions, I found myself running with the demonstrators. Once I jumped down with them to the golf course and got as far as the fence of the mini-golf range. Behind us, the cops were firing into the air. When it was the students’ turn to charge, I found my way back to the street. Another time, running along the sidewalk down rows of pine trees toward the Luneta, I saw a girl a few meters away from me stumble and fall. I stopped running, with the intention of helping her up, when whack! I felt the sting of a blow just below my belt and above my ass. When I turned around the cop was gone; he was swinging wildly as he ran and I just happened to be in the way of his rattan. The girl, too, was nowhere to be seen; there was no longer anyone to play Good Samaritan to.
As I stood there, rubbing that part of me where I was hit, I heard more screaming and curses from the golf course. A boy and two girls, who had decided to sit out the attack on a mound, had been set upon by the cops. People inside the mini-golf enclosure were yelling at the cops, shaking their golf clubs in helpless fury. “Tena, tulungan natin!” cried one demonstrator; but the cops had retreated by the time we got to the trio on the mound. The two girls were cursing through their tears; the boy was calm, consoling them in his fashion. “This is just part of the class struggle,” he said, and one girl sobbed, “I know, I know. Pero putangna nila, me araw din sila!”
IT WAS NOW EIGHT O’CLOCK. The battle of Burgos Drive was over, Burgos Drive was open to traffic once more. I decided it was time to go to the Philippine General Hospital for a change of scene. Crossing the street, on my way to Taft Avenue, I saw for the first time, on the Luneta side of the traffic island, a row of horses behind a squad of uniformed men.
At the PGH, confusion reigned. More than thirty demonstrators with bloody heads and broken wrists had been or were being treated along with three or four policemen hit by rocks. Other students kept coming, looking for companions, bringing news from the field. The battle was not over yet, they said, it had merely shifted ground. The cops were chasing demonstrators right up to Intramuros, all the way to Plaza Lawton; were even boarding jeepneys and buses to haul down demonstrators on their way home. There was a rumor that two or three students had been killed—did anyone know anything about it? (It proved to be a false alarm.) Even NUSP members were at the PGH. Some of them had called up Executive Secretary Ernesto Maceda, and he came in a long black car, mapungay eyes, slicked-down hair, newly pressed barong Tagalog, and all, accompanied by a photographer and scads of technical assistants or security men.
The next day came the post-mortems, the breast-beating, the press releases, the alibis.
“We maintain,” said MPD Deputy Chief James Barbers, “that the police acted swiftly at a particular time when the life of the President of the Republic—and that of the First Lady—was being endangered by the vicious and unscrupulous elements among the student demonstrators. One can just imagine what would have resulted had something happened to the First Lady!” Barbers did not bother to explain why the rampage continued after the President being protected had gone.
Manila Mayor Antonio J. Villegas commended Tamayo and his men for their “exemplary behavior and courage” and reportedly gave them a day off. Then he announced that Manila policemen would henceforth stay away from demonstration sites. “I’m doing this to protect Manila policemen from unfair criticism and to avoid friction between the MPD and student groups.”
“The night of January 26,” said UP president S.P. Lopez, “must be regarded as a night of grave portent for the future of the nation. It has brought us face to face with the fundamental question: Is it still possible to transform our society by peaceful means so that the many who are poor, oppressed, sick, and ignorant may be released from their misery, by the actual operation of law and government, rather than by waiting in vain for the empty promise of ‘social justice’ in our Constitution?”
The faculty of the University of the Philippines issued a declaration denouncing “the use of brutal force by state authorities against the student demonstrators” and supporting “unqualifiedly the students’ exercise of democratic rights in their struggle for revolutionary change.” The declaration went on to say: “It is with the gravest concern that the faculty views the January 26 event as part of an emerging pattern of repression of the democratic rights of the people. This pattern is evident in the formation of paramilitary units such as the Home Defense Forces, the politicalization of the Armed Forces, the existence of private armies, foreign interference in internal security, and the use of specially trained police for purposes of suppression.”
From the Lyceum faculty came another strongly worded statement: “Above the sadism and inhumanity of the action of the police, we fear that the brutal treatment of the idealistic students has done irreparable harm to our society. For it is true that the skirmish was won by the policemen and the riot soldiers. But if we view the battle in the correct perspective of the struggle for the hearts and minds of our youth, we cannot help but realize that the senseless, brutal, and uncalled-for acts of the police have forever alienated many of our young people from our society. The police will have to realize that in winning the battles, they are losing the war for our society.”
While he deplored the “abusive language” he read in some of the demonstrators’ placards, Senator Gil J. Puyat said, “I regret the use of unnecessary force by the police when they could have used a less harmful method.” IF the police had “kept their cool,” said Senator Benigno Aquino, there would have been no violence—“it takes two to fight.” Senator Salvador Laurel said he had witnessed “with my own eyes the reported brutalities perpetrated by a number of [police officers] upon unarmed students, some of them helpless women.” Senator Eva Kalaw warned: “The students set the emotional powderkeg that may become the signal for wave upon wave of unrest in the streets, in the factories, on the campuses, in our farms.”
“Students,” said President Ferdinand Marcos, “have a legitimate right to manifest their grievances in public and we shall support their just demands, but we do not consider violence a legitimate instrument of democratic dissent, and we expect the students to cooperate with government in making sure that their demonstrations are not marred by violence.”
Some of the students began talking of arming themselves the next time with molotov cocktails and pillboxes, of using dos-por-dos as placard handles, of wearing crash helmets. Everyone agreed that the January 26 confrontation was the longest and most violent in the history of the Philippine student movement.
Huwebes, Marso 1, 2012
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