Salingkit

growing up during martial law“MARTIAL Law Babies”—that’s what they called those of us born in the seventies, or around the time of Martial Law. I wasn’t even a year old when President Ferdinand E Marcos declared Martial Law on 21 September 1972. So I did not know what it meant and hardly paid it any attention, even when older members of the family—my parents, aunts, and uncles—discussed it over family dinners, or when teachers mentioned it in school. Still, some of their talk must have sunk in. My father worked for the government’s state university. He witnessed a lot of student demonstrations; possibly, he even joined some of them. I had terrible dreams of my father missing, or of being tortured, of coming home flattened by a steamroller, with one arm left. The dreams might reflect that I lived in confusing, turbulent times. This was in fact the reason given as to why Martial Law was declared: there was too much unrest in the streets, too much brawling, even some bombing. People went missing. Public order had to be restored; newspapers were closed down and new rules were established, including a curfew to observe. People had to be in their houses by twelve o’clock midnight. MARTIAL LAW is the exercise of power in which the executive branch of government establishes military jurisdiction over civilians. It is declared when there are “serious public emergencies such as insurrection, rebellion, invasion or imminent danger thereof” (Aquino v. Enrile). There have been lots of talk since the seventies about the character of Ferdinand Marcos. Some accuse him of contributing to the unrest going on, to give him an excuse to declare Martial Law and suspend the elections that were supposed to happen in 1973. With the draft of a new constitution approved by November 1972, Marcos found a way to stay in power indefinitely. In the seventies I was too young to understand all of these. At first I thought Marcos a wonderful man; I would see him on TV with the First Lady, surrounded by children who looked very happy and very lucky to be there at all. His eldest daughter had interesting shows on TV as well, shows that were meant for kids. But then one day I came home from school to find my favorite program cancelled. By the end of March 1978, Voltes V, along with all the other Japanese robot cartoons, had been banned from Philippine TV. The official reason given for the banning of these shows had to do with the students’ poor performance in school. They were becoming too distracted by all these cartoons on TV. But some believe that Marcos had these shows cancelled to lower the ratings of his rival channel, a channel he could not control completely; others believe it was because the stories and themes in Voltes V began to match too closely what was happening in the Philippines (“Voltes V”). A mighty and alien oppressor named Prince Zardos, along with his Lady, general, and other supporters, brought ruin and despair throughout the land, and only the Voltes V team protected the people and kept them from utter destruction. Who was going to be the country’s Voltes V? Voltes V became a symbol of resistance and hope for the people. I remember attending UP Diliman’s Lantern Parade and cheering along with the rest of the crowd because, there, among all the other floats, was a huge mock-up of my favorite robot, and very near my father too, who was marching and smiling and waving. Then something happened on 21 August 1983 that changed the course of Philippine history forever. I remember waking up to a very dark and full house, every eye glued to the television, which made the only noise. I gathered that someone named Ninoy had been shot, and had died on the tarmac of the Manila International Airport. In the days to come, we would see images in the news, of his body in a coffin, his face still disfigured by a bullet and his shirt still bloody from the assassination. On 31 August, a funeral Mass was said by the Manila Archbishop, Jaime Cardinal Sin, followed by a funeral parade attended by two million people on a 26-kilometer route, from Sto Domingo Church to the Manila Memorial Park (Sumpay 29). We followed the funeral on the radio; nobody in the house seemed able to talk about anything else except that which had to do with Ninoy. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. A few days later my older cousins would tell me that my father and their father were second cousins to this dead man. But I had never seen him before, my father must have barely known him in life, why would he be so affected by him in death? It was of course very sad and moving to see photographs of the man’s family gather round him, and cry or pray. The youngest girl, particularly, caught my eye because she was the same age as me. I could not bear to think of my father’s own death; I could only imagine how much of a nightmare it must have been for her.