"If it took over a century to create the mess we’re in, we may not be entitled to a quick fix shorter than that."
This Friday, a fairly large crowd of veterans of the so-called First Quarter Storm of 1970 is expected to descend upon the precincts of a well-known sports and social club in Greenhills to celebrate the golden anniversary of their life-changing experiences on the evenings of Jan. 26—before the old Congress building—and Jan. 30—in front of Malacañan Palace—way back in 1970.
With or without his leave, I’ll thank our generous host for the event, Len Oreta Jr., the amiable husband of former Senator Tessie Oreta, one of the sisters of the late Ninoy Aquino. Not many may know that Len was actually thrown into the Camp Crame stockade twice—first after habeas corpus was suspended in August 1971, then again after martial law was declared in September 1972—allegedly for running guns for his brother-in-law.
As with other such get-togethers, I expect to see a lot of us trying to recognize each other’s faces after the ravages of half a century, trading war stories together with advice on how to cope with arthritis and diabetes, and—of course—arguing about sundry issues of the day. If anything, ours was a very argumentative generation.
We may also be remembering friends from the past—the company we kept on the battlements—who’ve passed on, especially those killed during the martial law years. No matter what one may think now about who was right and who was wrong during those years, everyone of us carries a memory—locked away in our hearts—of at least one person who meant something to us back then, but who is no longer with us.
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My own involvement started much earlier, in the ripeness of my second year in high school, when I was recruited into Kabataang Makabayan by the legendary Arthur Garcia, who would soon perish in a military encounter in Tarlac. I learned about the Left at the feet of the even more legendary Joma Sison, in his cramped little apartment on Retiro Street. I cut my teeth on the violent rally of October 1966 at the height of the Vietnam War, when policemen chased us away from the Manila Hotel where US president LBJ was then visiting.
In December 1969, at a rally before the US Embassy against another visiting dignitary, US vice president Agnew, I was picked up with others and thrown into a cell of what was then police precinct 8 on UN Avenue. Back then, our tolerance for being roughed up was still pretty low. So it was ostensibly mass indignation over our arrest that became a reason for several rallies the following January, leading up to the one before Congress on the 26th, where President Marcos was delivering his State of the Nation Address.
My only vivid memory from that day was getting up on the driveway balustrade in front of the crowd, grabbing the microphone from “moderate” student leader Ed Jopson (who, by supreme irony, would go on to become an even more committed leftist than I ever was), then—just moments into my speech—seeing a cardboard coffin sail overhead from the crowd towards Marcos as he was making his way to his car. Of course the riot police reacted as expected, and the rest of it—including the even larger indignation rally before Malacañan on the 31st—has entered history’s books.
A couple of years later, in November 1971 while habeas corpus was suspended, I found myself inside the Crame stockade on charges of subversion—a capital crime then–where I would meet Len Oreta and many old friends as well as new ones. This happened even before martial law was declared the following September. It only confirmed my unfortunate knack for getting into trouble ahead of others.
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Quickly enough, the mass actions that took place from January to March of 1970 were labeled a “first quarter storm”, borrowing—not for the first time—from a similar period during the Maoist upheaval in China. Today, 50 years on, what are we to make of those events that have spawned books, movies, and an overly romanticized assessment?
At the most basic level, going through any kind of life-threatening experience—especially when part of demonstrably historic events—is bound to leave quite an impression on young and malleable minds. For many of us, it was possibly the most exciting time of our lives, certainly enough to trade war stories over this Friday.
The historicity of it all, though, is quite another matter. Over half a century, many revisionist views have come up—many of which I agree with: about the legitimacy of the martial-law crackdown, about the extent of complicity behind the circumstances leading to martial law that implicates various parties on both sides of the political divide, about the legacy left behind by Marcos.
Were all the casualties of that era, as well as the misdirection of lives even if not lost—were they worth it? Fifty years on, I find myself still infuriated over many of the same issues we were raising back then. The only comfort I can find lies in the thought that perhaps my timeline is too short, and thus my expectations too high. If it took over a century to create the mess we’re in, we may not be entitled to a quick fix shorter than that.
What gives me hope is the interior changes that took place in most of my generation as a result of that period. Some of us—not many—have persisted with the old ideological nostrums, their moral indignation seemingly impervious to mounting evidence that those nostrums don’t work. Many others have taken up ordinary lives, raised families, pursued careers—content that their individual contributions, no matter how small or undramatic, can collectively help to build a better nation.
Not too many have gone into politics. There were just too many who died or were killed. Political leadership skipped an entire generation.
A surprising number, though, have become spiritual and even returned to organized religion, especially Christian. I would like to think that this reflects their realization—purchased at such a great cost—that the world can’t be perfected by human will, talent, or good intentions alone. It’s this kind of insight—passed on from one generation to the next within families—where redemption, and vindication, may alone lie.
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