Edsa and student activism

Raul Ilogon .

THIRTY-TWO years ago, the Marcos regime was toppled by a bloodless people power revolution. I was in the right place at the right time, and this is my story:

On the day Ninoy was killed, I was at an overpass crossing Edsa, going to my elder brother’s condo. The highway was almost deserted. I noticed the fast-moving convoy of cars with blinking hazard lights speeding towards the airport. Soon, news spread that Ninoy was shot dead.

I was a student in Manila when Ninoy Aquino was assassinated in 1983. Prior to his assassination, there where no street rallies. I only got to learn about Ninoy from student activists who would board public bus transport to conduct lightning one-minute rallies. They would disappear as fast as they appeared. Pamphlets about Ninoy and tape recordings of his speeches were secretly passed on from student to student in dormitories and boarding houses.

When he was assassinated, student-activists became bold and daring. Student activism was active in all universities and colleges. In the beginning, it started with lightning rallies inside the campuses and then dispersion before school authorities knew what was happening. When it gathered strength and momentum, rallies moved outside campuses. Purposely, I enrolled in morning and early afternoon classes only so I can join late afternoon rallies.

Our favorite rally venue was the Liwasang Bonifacio in front of the Manila post office where all student-activists from the University Belt gathered and took turns in lambasting the regime. Then as if by cue, a long line would form at the back. It was a sight to see, red-lettered streamers waving amid the sea of student-activists, megaphones blaring anti-Marcos slogans.

The sights and sounds also meant trouble ahead, but we still marched on. Like a column of ants we would march towards Malacañang and stop at the barricades in Mendiola. There were thousands of student-activists on one side and hundreds of police officers with shields and batons, plus water cannons and tear gas, on the other side.

“Makibaka, ’wag matakot!” was the only weapon we had. Chanted in unison by thousands of student-activists, it made you feel invincible. Nerve-cracking scene would soon ensue between two forces which always ended up with tear gas in our eyes. We would get drenched to the bones by water cannons. Sometimes shots were fired. To the lucky few at the front, some suffered only a bloodied face. Some were unlucky, got apprehended, and some never to be heard of from again.

Police ordered the rallyists to disperse, students refused and held their ground. The police attacked with swinging batons; students retaliated with stones. The pattern repeated itself at every rally in Mendiola. The word, maximum tolerance, was unheard of then.

Soon, I became an expert in escape and evasion. I knew where to run and hide. To avoid being caught in postally random police checks, I changed to dry clothes which I carried in my bag, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag.

Then Edsa came and it was different. No stones were thrown; no swinging batons; no shots fired; it was the mother of all maximum tolerance. We have shown the world that dictatorship can be toppled without firing a shot.

When Marcos fled, Mercy, my future wife, and I were one of the many who pushed open the gates of Malacañang. While they ransacked and were busy throwing things out of the window, I was busy with my date. Mercy and I lovingly sat down by the riverbank at the back of Malacañang, whispering sweet nothings. Mission accomplished. I have done my part. It was time for some loving-loving.