The phone call came at five in the morning. It was my husband’s secretary. “Turn on the radio,” she said. “Marcos just declared martial law.”
That’s how it happens, without warning.
For the next two hours, my husband sat on the floor in his shorts and undershirt, switching from station to station, calling his colleagues and friends, and trying to get more information from the Filipinos and local Chinese he knew.
“Stay inside,” he told us. Eugene knew all about danger. He had lived through war and occupation.
And yet … At 11:30, with nothing new on the radio or phone, curiosity got the better of him. We packed up the kids and drove around. The usually crowded streets were eerily quiet. We drove through Makati, down Ayala Avenue, and onto EDSA.
We could have eaten anywhere, but Eugene turned into the parking lot of a favorite Filipino restaurant, Barrio Fiesta. He couldn’t have chosen a better place to find some action. We sat down and ordered our pancit, kare kare, and fruit salad. And sure enough, before our food arrived, soldiers from the Philippine Constabulary walked in the door, their hips heavy with weapons, their boots and uniforms shouting their power. They sat down not far from us, and waved for menus. And then we all ate.
It was September, 1972, less than a year after we’d moved to the Philippines. When I think about the nine years of martial law, what I remember is the midnight curfew, the soldiers with assault rifles stationed outside banks and department stores, and the newspapers, so strenuously controlled that they were no longer worth reading.
For some Filipinos, the imposition of martial law had more serious consequences than it did for us.
Last week on my blog I wrote about “Old Girl,” a story in Mia Alvar’s short story collection, In the Country. It’s an excellent story that gives us an inside look at Senator Benigno Aquino before his assassination from the viewpoint of his wife, Cory.
Another of my favorites in the same book was a novella, the title story, “In the Country.” On page one, we meet a young nurse, Milagros. She has organized a nurses’ strike and Jaime, an idealistic journalist has come to cover it. From the beginning, politics and history cast a shadow over the couple’s love story.
They move in together and Milagros gets pregnant. Then Marcos declares martial law, and Jaime (Jim) is carried off to a military prison, where he will stay until the lifting of martial law nine years later.
… four khaki-uniformed officers led Jim out of 26 Avalon Row to a Metrocom car. … “What’s the charge?” Jim asked. He looked Milagros in the eye, as if the question was for her. “Gentlemen? The charge?” …
“Just come with us, boss,” said the officers, in the voice one uses with a senile or demented man.
The story ends fourteen years, two children, and a tragedy later during the People Power Revolution that ended the rule of President Ferdinand Marcos.
In 1986, after twenty years in power, Marcos was old and in poor health. He was brought down by a combination of things—widely held suspicions of election fraud, an aborted military coup, and a Catholic cardinal who sided with the rebels.
With the plotters holed up in a military camp, Cardinal Sin got on the air on Radio Veritas and exhorted the people to come out on the streets and support the rebels. Almost immediately, thousands of citizens flooded the highway.
The People Power Revolution lasted four days, the crowd growing to more than a million strong. Soldiers switched sides, and in the end, Marcos was forced to fly off to Hawaii for medical care.
So how did the Revolution affect the fictional nurse and journalist? I’ll just say that Milagros didn’t go to the streets. She had her reasons.
You can read all about it in In the Country by Mia Alvar.