Sunday, September 24, 2023
3:30 PM |
Dear Anonymous Man Hiding in the Shadows
I bumped into you because I clicked on the YouTube link from the Twitter account of The Weekly Sillimanian, because the title of the video they were teasing intrigued me: “Tingog sa Kahilom: Silliman University During Martial Law.” [ Link ] I know all about voices in grim quiet—that is in essence life in the Philippines—and that was a great hook for a title. It promised to be a short documentary by Silliman campus journalists dealing with a fraught time in the university’s history—with an entire country in darkness as a backdrop—and which remains largely unwritten about and unexplored in local historiography.
I was wondering if the documentary would get the details right.
Things like Rev. Joel Tabada being the first Sillimanian arrested right after Martial Law was proclaimed on September 23, a Saturday. The very next day, because it was his turn to mount the pulpit at the Silliman Church, he delivered a sermon titled “Burn!”—which he based on Luke 24:32, a hopeful message about Christ’s disciples giving each other uplift after his crucifixion. It was a relatively harmless sermon—until the knock came that midnight, and seven fully armed soldiers were at his door to escort him to the PC barracks, with a short detour to his office at the church, where they questioned him about the possible subversive contents of his library. Finally, in the barracks, he was interrogated ceaselessly, and when he was finally placed in the general holding cell, he met many other Silliman students already in detention, who all expressed surprised, and delight, to see him—until a badly mauled man was suddenly thrust into their company. “[The man] was nursing [a] bloodied mouth,” Rev. Tabada wrote of that night. “Then a drunk guard outside shouted invectives against ‘activists’ who were responsible for the present troubles of the Martial Law. He came to the stockade and pointed his gun at us and to the cowering students, shouting: ‘Unsa, mosukol mo? Ha?!’ Then he cocked his gun, but he was prevailed by his companions to leave.” [ Source ]
Things like all media and all the schools all over the country being closed down—and only allowed to open much later, on October 14, at the government’s behest. Silliman University was closed down, which everyone thought was going to be temporary—until the administration found out that it was still being closed down, even when universities were now being permitted to open up. Silliman was one of four schools padlocked during Martial Law, the so-called “Infamous Four,” which included University of the Philippines units (including its Institute of Mass Communication), the Philippine College of Commerce, and the Philippine Science High School.
According to Dr. Crispin Maslog, “Silliman campus activism had caught the attention of Malacañang Palace no less. President Ferdinand Marcos himself scolded the university during a speech in Dumaguete, noting that members of the opposition, including Senator Jovito Salonga, Juan Liwag and Benigno Aquino Jr. were invited to speak on campus. He warned Silliman University: ‘Do not engage in partisan politics because you are supposed to be an academic institution. You may regret it.’ Did we ever regret it.” [ Source ]
It took Acting President Proceso Udarbe all that he could to summon diplomatic skills and beg Malacañan to reopen Silliman. Finally, it was allowed to reopen, contingent on several demands: among them, the resignation of the entire faculty, and the fencing of the campus.
[The fencing of the campus was significant. An American school by design, Silliman was known for having an open campus without any fences—with only gumamela bushes to mark some of its boundaries. For it to be reopened during Martial Law, the bushes were uprooted and in their stead were placed chicken wire fences. It was to restrict the traffic in and out of campus, with official sentries posted in the new gates to monitor everyone’s coming in and going out of the school. There were dissents from the community, but what could it do? It was deemed a necessary compromise. I still remember those chicken wire fences growing up in Dumaguete in the 1980s. I never thought of them as markers of the Martial Law—and when they gave way to the sturdy concrete and wire fences we have now, they closed up the university for good, making it an insular place sometimes removed from the goings-on of Dumaguete life. The fences truly are a dark psychological mark on the Silliman spirit, a remnant of the visible signs of oppression from those murky times.]
Things like the curfew, and not being allowed to meet in groups of five or six or more—with the students somehow finding a way to circumvent all that by doing instant slumber parties in whatever homes they found themselves in for the night when curfew rang; and by gathering at the basement of the Silliman Church, called the Catacombs, where they were able to gather in larger groups in the name of culture-making: hence, the many artists borne of those Catacombs years that thrived in singing, acting, writing, painting, and the like.
Elsewhere in Negros, terror reigned in the next ten years—often underreported or unreported, and often denied—and the tentacles of that climate of fear touched all the levels of society in various ways: the ordinary workers were oppressed and had no voice, and many of them left to die in regular purges by the military who considered their fight to have decent lives “subversive” and “communist”; and the rich who were badly affected abandoned their lands, and those with means migrated to greener shores.
You were the first figure I saw on the video. You were right smack on center screen, the shadows of the room you were in obscuring your face, with the only illumination coming from the lights fleeting in from the blinds behind you. Your voice was distorted. You clearly wanted to hide in the shadows of anonymity.
And, at first, I thought: Are you the literal “tingog sa kahilom” promised by the title? Why is this documentary privileging you by making you its introduction? That bothered me.
When you finally spoke, you made the following points:
First, you said that the Martial Law was “necessary because of the separatist movement in Mindanao,” and that “President Marcos did this for us to remain one and united here in the Philippines.” Second, you said that if it were not for the declaration of Martial Law, “we might be a communist country now, and Joma would be our president.” Third, you said that the Martial Law “was very peaceful,” like what your grandparents told you. Fourth, you said that there was a “significant increase in our economy” during the Martial Law. Fifth, you said that it was a golden period because “different infrastructures [were] built during the Martial Law." Sixth, you said that it was all “very good,” that it was “constitutional,” that it was “for the people,” and “for the country.” And lastly, you made some awkward accommodations, saying that “somewhat some abuses done during the Martial Law, [and] we can never deny that.”
And I found myself sighing, because these were overly generalized positive assertions about the Martial Law I have heard before, which have long since been answered and rebutted by fifty decades of investigation and scholarship. They are lies. But why do these lies resurface again and again? Because that’s the nature of the lie: relentless regurgitation somehow give them a sheen of “truthiness.” It was the Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels who first stumbled on that unfortunate effect: “Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth,” he once said. [ Source ]
There is a reason why in the past decade or so, the machinery behind the Marcos renaissance has deployed a battle of narratives especially through social media—designed to obfuscate truth and render as dubious all the journalism that have been done to document two decades of corruption and abuses.
I see your eight points, and I cannot help but feel these are items regurgitated in recent years in a widespread effort to perfume the reputation of the Marcoses, in an effort to rewrite the past, and in an attempt [now proven successful] to reinstate the family in power. They are easily debunked, of course. Hundreds and hundreds of books have been written by our foremost scholars, historians, economists, political leaders, and creative writers that have painted an era that is far from the golden one you espouse. [I can provide you with a substantial list, if you care to read and learn. I compiled a quick bibliography of all these things in 2016 when Duterte said “there are no books about the Martial Law.”]
Points 1 and 2: Marcos did use the “communist threat” posed by the newly founded Communist Party of the Philippines and the “sectarian rebellion” of the Muslim Independence Movement as one of his primary reasons to declare Martial Law—but opposition figures of that time, including eminent statesmen like Jovito Salonga, Lorenzo Tañada, and Jose W. Diokno accused the president of exaggerating these threats, and utilizing them as “a convenient excuse to consolidate power and extend his tenure beyond the two presidential terms allowed by the 1935 constitution”—the real reason for the declaration. [ Source ] In fact, before the 1972 declaration of Martial Law, CPP-NPA-NDF membership was around a measly 60. It ballooned to 25,000 near the end of Martial Law. So statistics and history would point out that the Martial Law actually exacerbated the communist insurgency instead of quelling it. [ Source ]
Point 3: Was the Martial Law period “peaceful”? Marcos liked to dub his martial regime as a kind of dictatorship with a heart. And people now parroting this line usually do refer back to their grandparents when they say that period was “peaceful.” Was it? I guess it was, the way we understand cemeteries to be a bastion of peace and quiet. In an era governed by fear, wouldn’t you be cowed to into silence? And wouldn’t people who did not immediately bear the brunt of the abuses often mistake that silence into peace? There has been debates that “peace and orderliness” of those times was a privilege only enjoyed by those with advantage—but many were not so lucky. In fact, many of those who did run afoul of the regime were suddenly using their connections and privileges to get themselves out of trouble: “Everybody is a cousin of a friend of a public official to exempt themselves [from] the law or gain favors. Kapag may gulo, palakasan ng kakilala sa gobyerno,” one Jacob Alc surmised. [ Source ]
Historian and University of the Philippines Third World Studies Director Ricardo Jose also recalls: “It seemed peaceful for the first few years, maybe the first four or five years, because there was censorship going on, because people were willing to give it a chance actually, because it was so different from the pre-Martial Law days where you had all the rallies going on.” But the regime’s true colors were ultimately revealed, and those who bore the brunt of the quelling of opposition would not consider what happened to them as “peaceful and orderly” at all. [Source]
Point 4: The early years of the Marcos regime saw respectable economic growth, with the GDP growing at an average of almost 6% per year from 1972 to 1980. But studies have shown that the ways of strongman rule actually help the economy [see China today], especially in the initial sprinting stage, because dictatorships often streamline the economic process because of a hostaged bureaucracy—although this remains a controversial position. [ Source ]
But what we need to know is that in the latter years of the Marcos regime, the family’s systemic plundering of the economy [of which there are thousands of evidences, each one more glaring and flabbergasting than the last], alongside that of the greed of their cronies, eventually weakened the economy country. People forget that the dire effects of corruption are not immediate, but is felt in the cumulative. By the early 1980s, the country plunged into its worst postwar economic downturn, with the GDP shrinking by 7.3% for two consecutive years, 1984 and 1985. And this downturn was so large that it took the country more than two decades to recover to the level of GDP per person in 1982. In other words, the glamorous parties that were being thrown in the early days to signal a flimsy success finally gave way for the stark reality to bite everyone’s ass when corruption and systemic economic instability could no longer be denied. [Source]
Point 5: As for the increase in “infrastructure,” many books and articles have been written about the Marcosian edifice complex, which had a hefty price. Economist Emmanuel de Dios wrote in 1984 that the bulk of the construction projects made during the Martial Law “were not very productive and many were outrightly wasteful,” and that while some have cultural value, other projects consisted of “overdesigned bridges, highways, public buildings or large energy projects designed to secure a political constituency, to get a commission, or to corner a contract.” And which required the country to borrow money, which according to expert estimates, will take the country up to 2025 to fully pay the debt incurred during the Martial Law. [Source]
Point 6: Was it all really good, was it for the people, was it for the country? Or was it about a family wanting to extend its powers beyond the limits given to them by the constitution of the country, and amass untold wealth in the process—which has resibo, which has been proven in various court, which has been historically affirmed as true. It was not good at all for the country. [Sources: There are too many, but here’s one that gives a good summary]
And finally, that dismissive acknowledgment of the abuses, dear sir, makes me wonder what kind of morality you have. As if the souls of all those who died, and the troubled memories of all those who suffered but lived to become witnesses, are mere “footnotes” in your insistence of Marcosian glory. The dismissal reminds me of another bloody dictator, Joseph Stalin, who once said: “A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic.”
But here are some statistics, anyway, which I’m sure you will dismiss. The Human Rights Victims’ Claims Board currently recognizes 11,103 victims of the Marcos regime. Out of over 75,000 claimants of martial law victims, 11,103 were processed by the board as eligible persons for financial assistance. [Source]
The numbers for each approved claim are as follows:
Killing and enforced disappearances: 2,326
Torture (rape and forcible abduction): 238
Torture (mutilation, sexual abuse, involving children and minors): 217
Torture (psychological, emotional, and mental harm): 1,467
Cruel, inhumane, and degrading treatment: 182
Detained (more than 6 months): 699
Detention (15 days to 6 months): 1,417
Involuntary exile (violence and illegal takeover of business): 579
Involuntary exile (intimidation and physical injuries): 2,739
Last September 21, to commemorate the 51st anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law, we honored those 11,103.
I helped DAKILA Dumaguete screen the documentary 11,103, directed by Mike Alcazaren and Jeannette Ifurong, for the Dumaguete community, and we showed the film at the Luce Auditorium. The filmmakers included my family’s story in a separate but powerful segment they’ve titled “Negros Martial Law Stories,” which included the stories of Joel Abong [the boy who died from malnourishment, and became the grim poster boy for the Martial Law shenanigans regarding Negros sugar], the Negros 9, and the Escalanate Massacre. The film itself unspools with the stories and faces of various victims of Martial Law, just a few of the 11,103 or even more that suffered tremendously during those times. They told us stories of torture and hardships and persecutions and massacres by the military. Who knew about the massacres in Mindanao? In Mindoro? In Samar?
I think of these people in the film—and how they readily gave their unwavering witness with their voices undistorted and their faces clearly seen. While you, dear anonymous man in the shadows, prefer to hide your face in shadows and your voice distorted. Which is telling. If you think you have the handle on the “truth,” why hide?
Truth to tell, I’m still overwhelmed by the response to the screening of the 11,103 documentary at the Luce. That Mike and Jeannette were able to beautifully tell the story of my family and the loss of our land during Martial Law is something priceless, and my family is indebted to them for telling our story in a very sensitive way. The Negros Stories portion was all of a piece, and all four stories really managed to paint our island as one of the worst hit in terms of abuse. All the other stories were also compelling, and made me teary-eyed. Who knew?
I’ve written so much already about this subject, so I’m just going to make the remainder of this article about thanksgiving and acknowledgments. A huge thank you, of course, to the filmmakers, and to producers Kara Magsanoc Alikpala and Zonia Bandoy for persevering! Thank you to all friends and students who carved out a portion of their work/school day to commemorate September 21 with this film! [I know it wasn’t easy, and I know that many of them were also denied the chance to see the film because of the authorities immediately above them. Binawalan!] Thank you to Dakila Dumaguete for organizing this, and for making sure everything ran smoothly. And thank you to Diomar Abrio for the graciousness of helping us screen this film at Silliman.
The talkback portion of the program essentially consisted of people wanting to tell their own Martial Law story, and students responding emotionally to the stories on screen—which was all very moving. Mike said something in the end about the film urging all of us to “start small” in our own projects of remembrance, and to “find our own stories” about what happened in our country decades ago, which still divides us all until today.
“Ask your family for their Martial Law stories, like what Ian did,” he said. That is important, I think, because right now, what we face is really a battle of narratives—but the truth of history is in our side. Merong resibo.
But it’s important to find and tell the stories.
Because the stories are what will reach people. People like you, dear anonymous man in the shadows, do not care anymore about facts and statistics—all readily available for you to study, but will probably ignore. But you might care for stories, and you might be moved by them.
Many of the subjects on the film [as well as some of the people who gave their stories during the Q and A] were united by one thing: their Martial Law story was something they never talked about for years and years, until now. [In the documentary, a son tearfully confronted his father on camera: “Why did you never tell us that they put a sack over your head when the military picked you up?” His father's response: “I didn’t say anything because it was too painful to tell.”] And in our audience that day, Atty. Whelma Flores Siton-Yap felt compelled to tell the story of her father [which I won’t repeat here because it is her story to tell]. She said in a rejoinder: “I’ve never told anyone this story before, until now.”
It was the same with my family: kay “family writer” man ko and I was a baby when all these happened, I asked endless questions about the painful chapters of my family’s past to overly reticent members of it, and I dug deeper, and out of that came the viral essay, “Raping Sugarland.” When the documentary crew came over two years ago to film us, I was even surprised to find that my brother Dennis, normally a very quiet and non-political dude, had a lot of things to say about my family’s experience. I saw that as him grabbing the chance to talk about dark things in his past he had long since suppressed.
But there are so many Martial Law stories left untold, and that generation of witnesses are becoming old and dying. For that alone, I’m glad I said yes to taking part of this documentary project.
This is for history, this is for remembrance.
Labels: dumaguete, history, life, Marcos, Martial Law, negros, silliman
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, September 22, 2023
I’m still overwhelmed by the response to this afternoon’s screening of the 11,103 documentary at the Luce. That Mike Alcazaren and Jeannette Ifurung were able to beautifully tell the story of my family and the loss of our land during Martial Law is something priceless, and my family is indebted to them for telling our story in a very sensitive way. The Negros Martial Law Stories portion was all of a piece, and all four stories [which included my family’s story, and that of Joel Abong, the Negros 9, and the Escalante Massacre] really managed to paint our island as one of the worst hit in terms of abuse. All the other stories were also compelling, and made me teary-eyed. Who knew about the massacres in Mindoro, in Samar, in Mindanao?
I’ve written so much already about this subject, so I’m just going to make this post about thanksgiving and acknowledgments. Thank you to the filmmakers, Mike and Jeanette, and producers Kara Magsanoc Alikpala and Zonia Bandoy, for persevering! Thank you to all friends and students who carved out a portion of their work/school day to commemorate this day with this film! [I know it wasn’t easy, and I know that many of you were also denied the chance to see the film because of the authorities immediately above you. Binawalan!] And thank you to Dakila Dumaguete for organizing this, and for making sure everything ran smoothly. And thank you to Diomar Abrio for the graciousness of helping us screen this film at Silliman.
The talkback portion of the program essentially consisted of people wanting to tell their own Martial Law story, and students responding emotionally to the stories on screen — which was all very moving. Mike said something in the end about the film urging all of us to “start small” in our own projects of remembrance, and to “find our own stories” about what happened in our country decades ago, which still divides us all until today. “Ask your family for their Martial Law stories, like what Ian did,” he said. That is important, I think, because right now, what we face is really a battle of narratives — but the truth of history is in our side. Merong resibo.
But it’s important to find and tell the stories.
Many of the subjects on the film [as well as some of the people who gave their stories during the Q&A] were united by one thing: their Martial Law story was something they never talked about for years and years, until now. [One son even tearfully confronted his father on camera: “Why did you never tell us that they put a sack over your head when the military picked you up?” His father’s response: “I didn’t say anything because it was too painful to tell.”]
In our audience today, Atty. Whelma Flores Siton-Yap felt compelled to tell the story of her father [which I won’t repeat here because it is her story to tell]. She said in a rejoinder: “I’ve never told anyone this story before, until now.”
It was the same with my family: kay “family writer” man ko and I was a baby when all these happened, I asked endless questions about the painful chapters of my family’s past to overly reticent members of it, and I dug deeper, and out of that came the essay, “Raping Sugarland,” which went viral When the documentary crew came over two years ago to film us, I was even surprised to find that my brother Dennis, normally a very quiet and non-political dude, had a lot of things to say about my family’s experience. I saw that as him grabbing the chance to talk about dark things in his past he had long since suppressed.
But there are so many Martial Law stories left untold, and that generation of witnesses are becoming old and dying. For that alone, I’m glad I said yes to taking part of this initiative. This is for history, this is for remembrance.
[Photo by Joan May T. Cordova] Labels: film, life, Martial Law
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Thursday, September 08, 2022
The film is finally here!
The filmmakers behind 11,103 have been making this film for a long time, and my family is honored to have been part of this project, although we’re not in the final cut. (We will be in a separate feature.) The film features survivor stories of state-sponsored violence during the martial law years of dictator Ferdinand Marcos, and our contribution is our family's story. It will premiere in the U.S. on the 50th anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law in the Philippines, September 17, in Redwood City.
Congratulations, Mike Alcazaren and Jeannette Ifurung!Labels: documentaries, family, film, life, Martial Law, philippine history
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, May 18, 2022
1:00 PM |
A Bibliography of Martial Law Literature in the Philippines [With Links]
GRAPHIC BY RAPPLER
I first compiled this list in 2016 to help counter the notion put forth by Duterte that “there were no books or films about the Martial Law.” Exactly six years later [sigh], I’ve decided to update this — complete with [legitimate] links to most of the books, films, and music listed. In doing this though, I’ve discovered this sad truth: most of the items here are [1] out of print, [2] hard to find [
even the movies!], and [3] being sold at sometimes extravagant prices by third-party sellers, no wonder we’re not helping in countering the disinformation. Even the most avid researcher will find it hard to get their hands on these. There’s also not a lot that would be considered “pop literature,”
pang-masa. This is a challenge for authors, publishers, and distributors.
All items arranged alphabetically according to authors’ surnames. All links lead to legitimate publishers’ and/or retailers’ sites. If I have missed out on a title, please email me at icasocot@gmail.com.
NOVELS
Salingkit: A 1986 Diary by Cyan Abad-JugoDangadang by Aurelio Solver AgcaoiliBibliolepsy by Gina ApostolGun Dealer’s Daughter by Gina ApostolCanal de la Reina by Liwayway A. ArceoCanal de la Reina: English Translation by Liwayway Arceo and translated by Soledad S. ReyesBata, Bata … Paano Ka Ginawa? by Lualhati BautistaDekada ’70 by Lualhati BautistaDesaparesidos by Lualhati BautistaFish-Hair Woman by Merlinda BobisColon by Rogelio Braga
Satanas sa Lupa
by Celso Al. CarununganEating Fire and Drinking Water by Arlene J. ChaiThe Last Time I Saw Mother by Arlene J. ChaiKilling Time in a Warm Place by Jose Y. Dalisay Jr.Ano Ngayon, Ricky? by Rosario de Guzman-LingatKung Wala na ang Tag-araw by Rosario de Guzman-LingatThe Activist by Antonio Enriquez
Gera
by Ruth FirmezaEmpire of Memory by Eric Gamalinda
Ficcion
by Edel GarcellanoDogeaters by Jessica HagedornDream Jungle by Jessica HagedornMass by F. Sionil JoseKa Gaby, Nom de Guerre by Paulino Lim Jr.Sparrows Don’t Sing in the Philippines by Paulino Lim Jr.Requiem for a Rebel Priest by Paulino Lim Jr.Tiger Orchids of Mt. Mayon by Paulino Lim Jr.Rolling the R’s by R. Zamora LinmarkThe Betrayed by Reine Arcache MelvinThe Secrets of the Seven Mansions by Mario Miclat
Ugma Puhon, Junjun
by Melchor M. MoranteThe Umbrella Country by Bino S. Realuyo Armando by Jun Cruz Reyes
Tutubi Tutubi Wag Kang Magpahuli sa Mamang Salbahe by Jun Cruz ReyesState of War by Ninotchka RoscaTwice Blessed by Ninotchka Rosca The Jupiter Effect by Katrina TuveraAwaiting Trespass by Linda Ty-CasperDream Eden by Linda Ty-CasperA Small Garden Party by Linda Ty-CasperBamboo in the Wind by Azucena Grajo UranzaThe Great Philippine Jungle Energy Cafe by Alfred Yuson
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
The Magic Arrow by Bolet Banal and Korinne BanalBrocka: The Filmmaker Without Fear by Jose T. GamboaEdjop: A Child of the Storm by Ed Maranan and Ariel SantillanThe Pangat, the Mountains, and the River by Luz Maranan and Ariel SantillanA Voice in a Time of Darkness (The Songs of Susan Fernandez-Magno) by Luchie Maranan and Shan Maurice JoseEDSA by Russell Molina and Sergio Bumatay IIIIto ang Diktadura by Equipo Plantel and Mikel CasalIsang Harding Papel by Augie Rivera and Rommel JosonSi Jhun-Jhun, Noong Bago Ideklara ang Batas Militar by Augie Rivera and Brian VallesterosA Life With the Poor by Didith Tan Rodrigo and Mheri-Anne AndesAt the School Gate by Sandra Nicole Roldan and Nina Martinez
Bertdey ni Guido
by Rene O. Villanueva and John Crisostomo
POETRY
Why Cage Pigeons? by Mila Aguilar
“Liham sa Kaarawan ni Pinang”
by Tomas F. Agulto
“Doktrinang Anakpawis”
by Rio Alma
“The Bells Count in Our Blood”
by Merlie AlunanHagkis ng Talahib by Lamberto Antonio
“Dead Weight: In Memoriam”
by Cirilo Bautista
“For Emmanuel”
by Luis Cabalquinto
“Young Rebels”
by Luis Cabalquinto
“Etiopia Idiay Negros, Ngem Saan a Negros Iti Etiopia”
by Peter La. Julian
“Pagdiriwang”
by Emmanuel Lacaba
“The People’s Warrior”
by Emmanuel Lacaba
“An Open Letter to Filipino Artists”
by Emmanuel Lacaba
[Note: Emmanuel Lacaba’s poems are collected in
Salvaged Poems]
“Prometheus Unbound”
by Pete Lacaba [as Ruben Cuevas]
“Santong Paspasan”
by Pete Lacaba
[Note: Pete Lacaba’s poems are collected in
Mga Kagilagilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran]
“Paglilimi ng Isang Empleyado sa Gobyerno”
by Loreta M. MedinaClearing: Poems of People’s Struggles in Northern Luzon by Jason Montana
“Brave Woman”
by Grace R. Monte de Ramos
“Paghiwagas sa Bilangoan”
by Don Pagusara
“Kuwarenta”
by Benjamin Pimentel
“The Story I Would Have Wanted to Tell You Had I Met You Yesterday”
by Lina Sagaral Reyes
“A Survivor Talks to Her Ghost-Husband”
by Lina Sagaral Reyes
“Sister Home for the Weekend”
by Patria RiveraVersus: Philippine Protest Poetry, 1983–1986 edited by Alfrredo Navarro Salanga [Note: poems from this anthology are not listed here]
“Tumatayog, Lumalawak ang mga Bilding at Resort”
by Romulo Sandoval
“Sa Ala-ala ni Sister Bernard Tahimik na Tagapaglingkod ng mga Detenidong Pulitikal”
by Isagani R. Serrano
“List(ing) Poem: Towards the New Filipino Society”
by Eileen Tabios
“My City of Baguio”
by Eileen Tabios
“The Rebel’s Son”
by Eileen Tabios
“What Can A Daughter Say?”
by Eileen Tabios
SHORT STORIES
“Pugante” by Bayani Z. Abadilla
“Daluyong sa llaya”
by Efren Abueg
“The Red Wagon”
by Estrella D. Alfon
“In the Country”
by Mia Alvar
“A Tall Woman from Leyte”
by Gina Apostol
“A Tale of Two Diaries”
by Cesar Ruiz Aquino
“A Taste for the Fine Whiskey of the Bourgeoisie”
by Gregorio Brillantes
“You Got It All”
by Ian Rosales Casocot
“Mga Lamat sa Moog”
by Danilo A. Consumido
“Amnesty”
by Jose Y. Dalisay Jr.
“In the Garden”
by Jose Y. Dalisay Jr.Bukal ng Tubig at Apoy by Levy Balgos dela Cruz
“Paalam sa Buwan”
by Levy Balgos dela Cruz
“A Theory of Relatives”
by Daryll Jane Delgado
“Fallout”
by Maria L.M. Fres-Felix
“Mading and Pepito”
by Allen Gaborro
“Alamat ng Sapang Bato”
by Fanny A. Garcia
“Red Roses for Rebo”
by Amadís Ma. Guerrero
“Sino Man Sa Atin: Kwentong-Kambal ng Magkahilerang Kamalayan”
by Chi Balmaceda Gutierrez
“Ang Pagdating ni Elias Plaridel”
by Ave Perez Jacob
“Dugo sa Kanyang Pagsilang”
by Domingo S. Landico
“Kabilang sa mga Nawawala”
by Ricky Lee
“Si Tatang, Si Tandang Senyong, Si Freddie at Iba Pang Tauhan ng Aking Kuwento”
by Ricky Lee
“Tipaklong, Tipaklong, Bakit Bulkang Sumabog ang Dibdib ni Quintin Balajadia?”
by Alfonso S. Mendoza
“Sulat Mula sa Pritil”
by Norma O. Miraflor
“A Sickness in the Towns”
by Resil B. Mojares
“Isang Araw sa Buhay ni Juan Lazaro”
by Jose Rey Munsayac
“Back of the March”
by Denis Murphy
“The Execution”
by Charlson Ong
“Syeyring”
by Jun Cruz Reyes
“Utos ng Hari”
by Jun Cruz Reyes
“Langit-Langitang Kumunoy”
by Victor Antonio Reyes
“At The School Gate”
by Sandra Nicole Roldan
“The Safe House”
by Sandra Nicole Roldan
Bitter Country and Other Stories by Ninotchka Rosca
“Generations”
by Ninotchka Rosca
“The Southern Seas”
by Ninotchka Rosca
“Insurrecto”
by Joel Pablo Salud
“Good Intentions 101: SY ‘72-‘73”
by Menchu Aquino Sarmiento
“Negros”
by Eileen R. Tabios
“Force Majeure”
by Eileen Tabios
“The Man in a White Suit”
by Eileen Tabios
“Pork”
by Eileen Tabios
“Redeeming Memory”
by Eileen Tabios
“The Bridge”
by Yvette Tan
“Maria, Ang Iyong Anak”
by Wilfredo Pa. Virtucio
“Ang Suhito”
by Januar Yap
ESSAYS
“The Millennial’s Guide to Martial Law”
by Mike Alcarazen
“
Raping Sugarland”
by Ian Rosales Casocot
“
Ten Songs That Remind Us of the Martial Law Years”
by Frank Cimatu
“A Wedding, A Divorce, A Profession and Two Funerals”
by Karl M. Gaspar
“From Yeh Yeh to Go Go”
by Nick Joaquin [as Quijano de Manila]
“Once Upon a Time in Manila”
by Alfredo P. Hernandez
“
Against the Dying of the Light: The Filipino Writer and Martial Law”
by Ed Maranan
Earth, Fire, and Air: Essays of a Decade
by Sylvia L. MayugaSpy In My Own Country by Sylvia L. Mayuga
“
The Marcos-Era Resistance Poem that Smuggled a Hidden Message into State Media”
by Paolo Enrico Melendez
“
The Marcos Restoration: 30 Years in the Making”
by Manuel L. Quezon III
“
Sa Loob”
by Sandra Nicole Roldan
“Of Feelings, Pain, and Ordeal”
by Gene M. Romero and Nikko Zapanta
COMICS
Martial Law Babies: A Graphic Novel by Arnold Arre12:01 by Russell Molina and Kajo Baldisimo
DRAMA
Bonsai
by Reuel Molina Aguila
Ligalig
by Reuel Molina Aguila
Maliw
by Reuel Molina Aguila
Satirika
by Reuel Molina Aguila
Esprit de Corps
by Auraeus Solito
So Sanggibo A Ranon Na Piyatay O Satiman A Tadman
by Rogelio Braga
Here Lies Love
by David Byrne and Fatboy Slim
Pambansang Bayan
by Bon Ilagan
Ang Panunuluyan ng Birheng Maria at San Jose Sa Cubao, Ayala, Plazamiranda Atbp., Sa Loob at Labas ng Metro Manila
by Alan Glinoga, Al Santos, and Rody Vera
Anatomiya ng Korupsyon
by Malou Leviste Jacob
Juan Tamban
by Malou Leviste Jacob
Macli-ing
by Malou Leviste Jacob
Isang Makabagong Pantomina Sa Tawi-Tawi, Cotabato At Iba Pang Pulo
by Anton Juan Jr.
Ang Kagila-Gilalas Na Pakikipagsapalaran Ni Juan De La Cruz
by Emmanuel Lacaba
Ang Panahon ni Cristy
by Ed Maranan
Buwan at Baril in Eb Major
by Chris Millado
Batang PRO
by Bienvenido Noriega Jr.
Bongbong at Kris
by Bienvenido Noriega Jr.
Sinalimba
by Don Pagusara and Fe Remotigue
Bombita
by Tony Perez
Isang Araw sa Karnabal
by Nicolas Pichay
Alipato
by Nonilon Queaño
Ang Sistema ni Propesor Tuko
by Al Santos
Oratoryo Ng Bayan (People’s Oratorio)
by Rody Vera and Allan Glinoga
Burles
by Rene O. Villanueva
Kaaway sa Sulod
by Rene O. Villanueva
May Isang Sundalo
by Rene O. Villanueva
Sigwa
by Rene O. Villanueva
Kaaway sa Sulod
by Rene O. Villanueva and Rolando S. de la Cruz
MIXED ANTHOLOGIES
Mondo Marcos: Writings on Martial Law and the Marcos Babies edited by Frank Cimatu and Roland B. TolentinoMondo Marcos: Mga Panulat sa Batas Militar at ng Marcos Babies edited by Frank Cimatu and Roland B. Tolentino
In Memoriam
edited by the Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC)
The Politics of Culture: The Philippine Experience
edited and introduced by Nicanor TiongsonKamao: Panitikan ng Protesta 1970–1986 edited by Alfrredo Navarro Salangga, Lilia Quindoza-Santigao, Reuel Molina Aguilar, and Herminio S. Beltran Jr.
STR: Sa Tagumpay ng Rebolusyon: Mga Tula Mula sa Kanayunan
(no editor indicated)
MUSIC
“
Masdan Mo ang Kapaligiran”
by Asin
Ibong Malaya: Songs of Freedom and Struggle from Philippine Prisons
by the Resource Center for Philippine Concerns
FILMS AND TELEVISION
Pureza: The Story of Negros Sugar by Jay Abello
Tandaan, Kalayaan, Alagan Video Series by Arnold Arre and Gang Badoy
So Why Samar? by the Commission on Human Rights of the Philippines Sa Gitna ng Lungsod by Ivan Cortez
Dahling Nick by Sari Dalena
Ka Oryang
by Sari Dalena
The Guerrilla is a Poet
by Sari Dalena and Kiri Dalena
Batch ’81
by Mike de Leon
Citizen Jake
by Mike de LeonKangkungan: A Video by Mike de Leon
Kisapmata
by Mike de Leon
Sister Stella L.
by Mike de LeonBatang West Side by Lav Diaz
Ebolusyon ng Pamilyang Filipino by Lav Diaz
Mula Sa Kung Ano Ang Noon by Lav Diaz
Ang Panahon ng Halimaw by Lav Diaz
Imelda by Ramona Diaz
Moral
by Marilou Diaz-AbayaBatas Militar by the Foundation for Worldwide People Power Scorpio Nights
by Peque Gallaga
The Kingmaker by Lauren GreenfieldBakit May Kahapon Pa? by Joel Lamangan
Dukot by Joel Lamangan
Lihis by Joel Lamangan
Sigwa by Joel Lamangan
Barber’s Tales
by Jun LanaBukas Na Lang Sapagkat Gabi Na
by Jet Leyco
Dekada ’70 by Chito RoñoEskapo by Chito Roño
Aparisyon
by Isabel SandovalBobby de la Paz by Al Santos
Der lachende Stern [The Laughing Star] by Werner Schroeter
Ang Kagat ng Mosquito Press [i-Witness]
by Howie Severino
Esprit de Corps
by Auraeus Solito [as Kanakan Balintagos]Pisay by Auraeus Solito
The Arrogance of Power by Lito TiongsonAquino vs. Marcos: The Grand Collision by Manuel F. Martinez
More Assassinations and Conspiracies by Manuel F. Martinez
Labels: books, Marcos, Martial Law, philippine history, philippine literature
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, May 04, 2022
7:08 PM |
Raping Sugarland
My family lost everything because of Marcos—our house, our car, our lives.
This was in the mid-1970s, right around the time I was born—and because I was a newborn at the time the New Society was being touted as the “saving grace” to a troubled country and because I only stumbled on this information in my adult years, I was never able to ask the proper probing questions, until now.
My father and mother in Hacienda Roca, Bayawan in 1971.
No one in my family ever talked about it either, except in broad strokes that told a simple story of lost fortune: that once we had an extensive sugar plantation in the rich farmlands of Bayawan with the opulent lifestyle [and a vast circle of friends] that went with it, and then we lost it all. No one mentioned Marcos, and I attributed the story to quirks of fate. Bad things happen to good people.
We did not talk about the origins of our reduced circumstances, perhaps out of shame. I, on the other hand, would have been the one person in the family to ask the terrible questions for the sake of writing—but I simply did not know.
What could not be denied, however, was the state my family was in those later years in the 1970s, and especially more so throughout the trying decade of the 1980s. I did not feel much the hardship because I was too young to notice anything beyond the regular hunger pangs I felt—but I know now that my older brothers, all five of them, must have. They bore the brunt of my family’s sudden poverty because they were aware firsthand of what they’d lost. When I’d go through old photos in family albums, I see them enjoying lavish birthday parties. My brothers in those photos had birthday cakes and birthday candles, always surrounded by an assortment of people I didn’t recognize hogging tables laden with abundant feasts. I never had a birthday party—but I honestly didn’t know what I was missing until my 30th birthday when friends surprised me with a birthday cake, and only then did I realize I had never blown a birthday candle my entire life.
My brother Dennis enjoying his second birthday in 1969.
We were very poor, we could barely eat three square meals a day. Things became so hard that when the family was finally forced to sell off our Bayawan house and our car [a yellow Sakbayan] to avoid the stigma of foreclosure, the only recourse was for the family to move to Dumaguete City in 1980. This was when the financial crunch was finally tightening around the illusion of Marcos’ New Society.
We lived like nomads in that decade, moving from one house to the next in search of cheap rent. This is what I remember most from my childhood—all the houses we stayed in, from a small compound at the Capitol Area to a wooden house with many rooms in Calle Sta. Rosa, from an upstairs apartment overlooking Holy Cross High School to a secluded one in an alley off Silliman Avenue, from various apartments in Bantayan to a virtual zaguan of a rickety old house in the bowels of Tubod.
My mother, who was once a society belle in her hometown of Bayawan in the flush years of the 1950s and 1960s, was reduced to a skeleton of a woman darkened by the sun as she went from house to house selling peanut butter she herself made—just to be able to feed us. She still kept in touch with many of her old friends, some of them still well-off, and most helped her out by buying her peanut butter. And when one of them would throw birthday parties, she’d take me along—her youngest child—just so I could have a proper meal. My mother still loves to tell this particular story from that time: that once, when I was 11 or 12, I was so hungry after not being able to eat the whole day that I woke her up in the middle of the night, urging her to pray with me, so that God would listen and give us food. A miracle came: the next day, an anonymous friend sent us a whole bag of groceries. Until now, that sautéed sardines my mother prepared remains the best meal in memory.
In the 1980s, my mother would take me around with her to attend friends’ birthday parties just so I could eat properly.
Our reprieve came with the usual story of many Filipino families. One of my brothers managed to work abroad just as the 1990s came along—and only then, with the remittances he sent the family, could we breathe properly again. I remember buying our first refrigerator. I remember buying our first TV. I remember buying our first Christmas tree. I remember our first car. I remember moving into our new house we didn’t have to rent anymore.
Where does Marcos come into the story?
* * *
“The personal is political,” so the old mantra goes. This truism is an honest accounting: our personal circumstances and experiences are rooted in, or invariably dictated by, the politics that surround us, especially in issues of inequality.
This was my prompt, and when I used this as the framework with which to see my family’s history, I stumbled into a rabbit’s hole. When I went deeper, I was confronted by facts that had not been readily told to me, not even by my family. The twist in my family’s personal history—our descent into indignity—came about because of the late dictator’s rape of Sugarlandia in the 1970s.
Here’s a bit of history.
Negros enjoyed decades of untold wealth because of one crop that grew abundantly on the island: sugarcane. All over the provinces of Negros Occidental and Negros Oriental, landed families controlled haciendas that produced sugar for export, particularly to the United States. You can still see remnants of this gilded age: the beautiful houses of Silay City and Bais City, even the famous “sugar houses” of Dumaguete, the small seaside mansions of Negrense landowners that line the Rizal Boulevard.
Families of more modest means—including mine—were also able to tap into this market with sizable landholdings devoted to the crop. Our plantation in Bayawan was named Hacienda Roca—after “Rosales Casocot”—and for many years, it sustained my family and catapulted it to the higher echelons of Bayawan society.
And then the United States ended its sugar quota in 1974, after which Ferdinand Marcos—only two years after declaring Martial Law in the country (and thus having the power of life and death over everyone, even rich hacenderos)—appointed cronies “to head a state-owned marketing and trading monopoly” of the sugar industry, writes Inday Espina-Varona for Licas News.
On paper, Marcos and his economic advisers argued that it was a necessary move, because “pervasive market failures were the root cause of the decline of the sugar industry”—this, according to a 2001 paper by Gerald Meier—and that in order to rescue the industry, “central coordination was crucial.” Marcos called for the government to replace the market “in order to stimulate the market development of the sugar industry.” He established the Philippine Sugar Commission or PHILSUCOM in 1976, as well as its trading subsidiary, the National Sugar Trading Corporation or NASUTRA, to do the job.
NASUTRA was given the sole power to buy and sell sugar, set prices paid to planters and millers, and purchase companies connected to the sugar industry. In May 1978, the Republic Planters Bank was established “to provide adequate and timely financing to the sugar industry.”
Except that this was all illusion, good only on paper: Marcos and his cronies never paid back the planters—including my family—for the sugar NASUTRA got from them. All the money went to the pockets of Marcos and his cronies.
Inday Espina-Varona further writes: “[Marcos and his cronies] robbed sugar planters, taking advantage of fluctuating global prices and drowning landowners in debt. That, coupled with centuries of irresponsible lifestyles and a feudal system that reserved land only for the rich, led to the collapse of the island’s economy.”
And then that financial disaster blew up into an even bigger one:
“On Negros’ vast plains, man—not nature—ushered in famine,” Inday Espina-Varona writes. “Almost 200,000 workers lost their jobs. Hacienda owners, facing bankruptcy, fled to the safety of cities, abandoning families that had served them for generations. Unemployed workers on paper enjoyed some social amelioration. Those who actually received this were the exception. Corrupt officials had siphoned off funds to personal coffers or to bankroll the extravagant habits of the dictator’s family. Farm labor flooded the cities to scrabble for work but there was little to be had.
“In trickles, and then streams of misery, children began arriving in hospitals with swollen bellies, stick limbs, and eyes that drooped or stared sightless from pain. Some were too weak to talk; many could not walk.”
Negros suddenly became known worldwide for its starving children. Some of you might still recall the 1980s campaign that screamed: “Feed the Hungry Children of Negros.” In the public grade school I attended in Dumaguete in the early 1980s—during the last years of the Marcos regime—I remember well what that entailed: being fed pospas every day during recess. I hated pospas.
The most infamous of these “hungry children of Negros” was a boy named Joel Abong whose skin-and-bone visage appeared “on the front pages of newspapers and the covers of magazine,” writes Inday Espina-Varona, who covered the ill-fated child’s last days.
A photo taken on 4 May 1985 by Kim Komenich of young malnutrition victim Joel Abong, which has become iconic of the situation in Negros during the 1980s.
She notes: “Joel had pneumonia and tuberculosis. He was brought in with bones so brittle doctors had to wrap padding around his limbs. Joel’s body was the size of a baby. Stringy hair the yellow-brown of severe malnutrition lay limp on a head that seemed grotesquely big. A rattling sound accompanied every breath. His father was one of those who had fled the cane fields. On an island where people joked about shoveling money from the ground, Joel’s family had literally starved. My mother headed that hospital’s pediatric department. She came home every night in a silent rage. Some nights she could hardly eat; food was a reminder of her patients. Doctors couldn’t save Joel. He was not alone.”
By 1985, ten percent of Negros’ children were suffering third-degree malnutrition, according to Dr. Violeta Gonzaga of La Salle College in Bacolod.
* * *
So, is this the “golden age” people talk about when they crow about the Marcos years? Years of starving children? Years of financial mismanagement? Years of lining the coffers of cronies while whole industries suffered?
But the bigger question has got to be this: how come we don’t know many of these things?
How come I had to dig deeper to understand where my family’s misfortune came from?
How come these things are not taught in our history classes—so much so that historical revisionism threatens to overwhelm us all?
And lastly: how come people have come to ignore how Marcos virtually raped our localities, our provinces, our regions—and believe instead YouTube and TikTok videos about “the glory years” of the dictator’s grip on power?
That last one came to me when I was chatting with Frank Cimatu, a writer/friend and journalist based in Baguio. We were talking over Messenger about the person who heckled Jillian Robredo as she went about a Baguio market on a campaign for her mother’s presidential run.
“Hirap kasi sa Benguet,” Frank told me. “Anlakas ng [he who must not be named].”
That took me aback.
“Even with the Chico Dam controversy and the murder of Macli-ing Dulag?” I asked.
[Historical aside: In 1973, a year after Martial Law was declared, the Marcos regime proposed the Chico River Dam Project, a hydroelectric power generation project involving the Chico river system that encompassed the regions of Cordillera and Cagayan Valley—without consulting the lumads in the area. Locals, notably the Kalinga people, resisted fiercely because of the project’s threat to their residences, livelihood, and culture—and the project was soon after shelved in the 1980s after public outrage in the wake of the murder of opposition leader Macli-ing Dulag. It is now considered a landmark case study concerning ancestral domain issues in the Philippines.]
“Clueless,” Frank said. “Even Sagada is hati.”
I thought back to what Marcos did to Negros in the 1970s—and I blinked from the sheer exhaustion I felt after realizing that even people from a land that has been raped [or threatened with it, as was the case of the Cordilleras] could still be so enamored by the son of that rapist, someone who insists to this day that no rape ever happened.
* * *
I doubt my mother—who is now 89 years old—still chases fanciful dreams of a return to the old splendor she enjoyed in Bayawan in the gilded age. I know she has come to a place of peace, having come to a reckoning with that past and the immediate catastrophe that followed it that saw her destitute and that saw her struggle so hard to feed her family [although she still managed to put through six sons studying at the very expensive Silliman University]. The hardship ultimately strengthened her, and for that she is grateful.
But to forgive Marcos and what he had wrought?
Never.
Labels: dumaguete, family, life, Marcos, Martial Law, negros, politics
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Saturday, November 26, 2016
8:33 PM |
Notes From the 2016 Cebu LitFest
1.
A Conversation With Resil Mojares
I was told by the Cebu LitFest organizer Hendri Go, "One of your panels today is a one-on-one conversation with Resil Mojares about Cebuano theatre." My insides turned to knots. Not because I know virtually next to nothing about Cebuano drama; I could easily draw on scholarship and some stock knowledge about regional theatre for that. But because the prospect of interviewing a great man was quite intimidating for me. Sir Resil is one of only a few people I most admire in Philippine literary circles; I love his fiction; his essays are ones I find myself constantly being in awe of; and his continuing historical research on local literature has become a necessary template -- and the standard to be measured against -- for my own. We talked about the development of Philippine drama, and then settled on a discussion about the
zarzuela. I learned a lot in that thirty minute talk.
2.
A Reckoning With a Willful Voice
Novelist Rogelio ("Ogie") Braga and I treaded dangerous waters paneling Protest Literature for the festival. I loved Rogelio's measured calm especially when a pro-Duterte person -- a random shopper in Ayala -- stormed the open forum after our pannel, delivered an impassioned spiel, practically dropped mic, and walked off without listening to our responses. Ogie said, "We need now the grace to listen to that voice. That is part of the process."
What Ogie said about practicing dissent in a public space still remains with me after that panel. He encouraged everyone listening to be opinionated and know that you're backed up by history and data. Study and know where you stand, he said, and when people ask -- around the dinner table, in a classroom, in a busy Ayala mall with a mic with hundreds of people staring at you [which we experienced, Ogie and I] -- speak up and learn to swallow fear and intimidation. Practice feeling the angry stares of everyone who disagrees with you, know how to embrace their loud voices, listen carefully and with patience.
And then calmly reply.
Labels: issues, Marcos, Martial Law, philippine literature, theatre, writers
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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