by MLC | Sep 24, 2015 | Martial Law Stories
Source: InterAksyon.com
MANILA, Philippines — Aging victims of the Marcos dictatorship are urging the panel tasked to process their claims for reparation to speed up its work, saying hardly anything has moved in the two years since the law granting them compensation was enacted.
Worse, the Human Rights Victims’ Claims Board will cease to exist by next year based on the law that established it, playwright Bonifacio Ilagan, vice chairman of the Samahan ng Ex-detainees Laban sa Detensyon at Aresto or SELDA, noted.
“Forty-three years since the imposition of the Marcos martial law in the Philippines, and two years after President Noynoy Aquino signed (Republic Act) 10368 into law, the victims of human rights violations have yet to hear from the Human Rights Victims’ Claims Board, the government agency that oversees the reparation and recognition process. What gives?” Ilagan asked.
Ilagan said SELDA members fear a repeat of the problems that hounded the 9,539 claimants in the successful class suit filed against the late dictator Ferdinand Marcos and his family, more than 3,000 of whom have found their names deleted, allegedly on purpose, from the list.
In probably the worst case of deliberate deletion, former University of the Philippines physics professor Guillermo Ponce de Leon, who testified during the trial in Hawaii, is no longer on the list of claimants.
Ilagan himself is no longer on the list, along with Alfonso Sabilano, who was convicted of double murder by the dictatorship but eventually acquitted.
Many of the dictatorship’s victims, such as torture victim Carlos Ortega, have also died before receiving the $1,000 awarded them in the case against the Marcos estate.
Other claimants are also in jail, among them National Democratic Front consultant Alan Jazmines and the couple Benito Tiamzon and Wilma Austria, the alleged chairman and secretary general of the Communist Party of the Philippines, both of whom are sickly.
Many of the elderly victims have also complained about being required to personally appear before the Board to file their claims.
“Noting that many of the victims have succumbed to poverty-driven illnesses, SELDA raises a collective question: ‘Aanhin pa ang damo, kung patay na ang kabayo (What use is the grass if the horse is dead)?’” SELDA said.
“The Facebook account of the Board itself is deluged with posts reiterating immediate reparation and recognition,” Ilagan said.
SELDA said the delay in granting the compensation “reflects how the Aquino government treats human rights victims then and now,” as it noted that instead of diminishing, the number of human rights violations has increased in the waning months of the current administration.
It also pointed out Aquino has yet to name a replacement for former HRVCB member Chito Gascon, who is now chairman of the Commission on Human Rights, causing even more delays in the panel’s work.
by MLC | Sep 23, 2015 | Martial Law Stories
Source: PhilStar.com
MANILA, Philippines —The Philippines commemorates the 43rd anniversary of former President Ferdinand Marcos’s declaration of martial law on Sept. 23,1972.
During the full implementation of martial law under the Marcos regime, several institutions and media outlets were closed down, officials and citizens were arrested and there activists were killed.
Martial law officially ended Jan. 17, 1981 while Marcos remained in office until the historic EDSA People Power Revolution in 1986.
Here’s a look back, by the numbers, at the day when Marcos proclaimed martial law 43 years ago based on the infographic from the Official Gazette.
7: Public utilities were closed including the Manila Electric Company, Philippine Long Distance Telephone Company, National Waterworks and Sewerage Authority, Philippine National Railway, Philippine Airlines, Air Manila, and Filipinas Orient Airways.
292: Radio stations were closed all over the country
66: Community newspapers were closed
11: English weekly magazines were closed
7: Major English dailies were closed
7: Television stations were closed
4: Chinese dailies were closed
3: Filipino dailies were closed
1: English-Filipino daily was closed
1: Spanish daily was closed
But…
3: Media outlets were exempt from martial law – newspaper Daily Express; television station TV Channel 9 and radio station Kanlaon Broadcasting System.
Around 60,000: estimated personnel from the Armed Forces of the Philippines were alerted.
25,000: of which were from the Philippine Constabulary
17,600: Estimated strength of the Philippine Army
9,000: Estimated strength of the Philippine Air Force
8,000: Estimated strength of the Philippine Navy
4: Senators were arrested which include Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino Jr., Jose “Pepe” Diokno, Ramon Mitra Jr. and Francisco “Soc” Rodrigo.
Approximately 8,000: Individuals were also arrested. Among these are the 1971 Constitutional Convention delegates, journalists, students, labor leaders and a few members of the elite families.
12: Iglesia Ni Cristo security guards were killed.
All of these numbers happened in one day according to reports.
by MLC | Sep 22, 2015 | Martial Law Stories
Source: Rappler
The Globe Steel strike in Cainta, Rizal, mounted by militant unionists in 1984, would last for 4 years – making it the longest worker’s strike in Philippine history, writes Susan Quimpo
MANILA, Philippines – In commemoration of the dark years of martial law, declared on September 21, 1972, we are running excerpts from the book Subversive Lives: A Family Memoir of the Marcos Years edited by Susan F. Quimpo and Nathan Gilbert Quimpo.
“P___ ina,” I swore repeatedly as I fumbled with my camera lens. I peered into the viewfinder, it was cloudy. “Don’t fail me now!” I quietly chastised the equipment and, desperate to clear my view, rubbed its lens with the helm of my shirt. Again, I pressed the viewfinder against my eye, its rim was moist. There was nothing wrong with the camera. I just could not focus; there were tears in my eyes.
September 25, 1984 – the day started innocently enough. It was a dry, hot day, dust clouds rose from the jeepney’s tires as it maneuvered the Angono-Cainta route. It was unfortunate that my cousin Candy Quimpo could not borrow her father’s car. To get to the suburban steel factory meant taking two jeepney rides for two hours and needing two, scarf-sized handkerchiefs to protect one’s face from the billowing dust.
For weeks, Candy and I were planning to shoot a short amateur film about the factory strike at the 10-hectare compound of Globe Steel Incorporated. Candy and I were in our early twenties, a couple of freelance writers who met while working for a children’s television show.
That warm September morning, we planned on taking still pictures of the strike area in preparation for the film. We arrived an hour or two before the noonday sun would be too harsh for our pictures. The workers and their wives welcomed us like old friends. Candy showed photographs of the workers she had taken during a recent protest march. The mood was jubilant despite the dire consequences brought about by the strike.
It had been nearly three months since the Globe Steel workers heeded the call for a “work stoppage.” At three in the morning, the evening shift laid down their tools and walked away from their assigned posts. For the first time in its 25 years of existence, the steel mill was quiet and void of the human energy that operated its 10- and 15-ton smelters.
Globe Steel’s management favored employing migrant workers from Bicol and the Visayas. Desperate for jobs, these workers and their families lived in squalid shantytowns that dotted Metro Manila. They were only too eager to trade their manual labor for less than the minimum wage. Globe Steel workers were hired as “casuals” whose contracts were renewed every six months.
It was not unusual for workers to still be on the casual payroll even after five years of continued service. On their first day of the job, workers were asked to sign a blank sheet of paper. And in the future, should the worker be a source of “trouble,” the signed document would re-surface with a “letter of resignation” appearing above the employee’s signature.
Management sought mostly illiterate workers; those with a high school diploma were considered “overqualified.” It was common among the manufacturing industries to hire workers from Manila’s slum districts. The truism – the less educated and the more marginalized, the less likely to organize and protest – was one management adhered to.
But at Globe Steel, even the most docile of employees were fully aware of their exploitation. Labor organizers affiliated with the most militant of Manila’s labor unions joined the ranks of the steel workers.
Skilled and experienced, the organizers soon had the workers demanding a union that would press for fairer conditions. Management refused and terminated the would-be officers. On June 27, armed only with resolve, 528 workers had walked past the baffled security guards and out the factory gates to begin a long and tenacious battle for their rights.
CAUGHT. Globe Steel workers are arrested by police. Photo by Susan F. Quimpo
Unable to afford rent, the workers and their families erected shelters of cardboard and scrap wood outside the factory walls. A large canvas tent stretched over bamboo poles became the “new union headquarters.” Without wages, the workers had to forego even the barest necessities.
Their families were dressed in rags; malnutrition was evident in pot-bellied children with gaunt limbs. The wild cogon grass that flourished on the sides of the road leading to the factory was cleared to make room for kangkong. Food was scarce and potable water unavailable.
On our first visit, the workers graciously offered us lunch. They said we had picked a special day to visit – for once they had meat which they readily served. Candy and I later learned that they had found a dog that died from an infection and its carcass had been made into stew.
But today, as usual, the workers were in high spirits, smiling sheepishly as their wives scrutinized Candy’s pictures.
“Mga truck, mga truck!” an alarmed voice interrupted the women’s cajoling. A convoy of seven trucks with a delivery of raw materials for the steel mills was spotted headed for the factory gates. Some of the trucks bore human cargo – scabs. Escorting the trucks were jeeps and small buses of nearly 200 armed personnel in Philippine Constabulary uniforms. The trucks stopped about 50 meters from the factory gate, their drivers awaiting further orders from their military escorts.
As protest mounted against the state’s anti-labor laws, it became common to use the police and military to break picketlines to protect “vital industries.” Eventually, it became apparent that all industries were vital to national interests, and that all strikes, though often warranted, were in effect, illegal.
The union officials pleaded with the PC Lieutenant in charge of the troops. The other workers knew it was futile. “They will use force,” one of the workers cautioned.
Candy handed me one of her press IDs, one that did not have her picture; I fastened it conspicuously on my chest. It was a ritual we often repeated when confronted with potential trouble with the police. Though it was no guarantee, we hoped that press cards would help deter injury or arrest. With our cameras cradled in our hands, we took our positions.
It was then I heard women sobbing softly, almost inaudibly. The boisterous sound of the truck mufflers drowned out everything else. A curious sight was unfolding before me, first filling me with awe, then horror as I grasped its full intensity. In trickles, men and women laid their bodies on the asphalt road, hugging the dust in front of the first truck. “Do not retaliate, do not fight back,” they repeated amongst themselves.
In quiet defiance, they formed three barricades, three lines of human flesh. The women formed the first blockage, scorning the machismo of the men in uniform. A woman with salt-and-pepper hair had suspended herself from the truck’s fender, positioning her head close to one of its front wheels.
“I have only one child,” she cried. “You are killing us slowly with hunger. It is better that you kill me now, it will be a quick death. Go ahead,” she continued between sobs, “order the driver to start your trucks!” Inspired by her courage, more women left their toddlers at the wayside to join the barricade.
The PC lieutenant seemed unnerved. He convened with a few of his men, a courier was dispatched and within minutes, a number of policewomen were summoned. The workers’ wives were dragged away from the barricades while the PC’s sneered victoriously. From the ranks of the policemen who ogled the arrests, I overheard, “I’ll take than one, yes, that young woman!”
“Kapitbisig!” Link arms. The men on the ground, forming the second barricade, steeled themselves. The police responded by forming a single file, brandishing metal shields in front of them. They moved forward toward the human barricade, aligning their shields like a solid wall, pressing the steel frames close against the workers heads. A steady thud emanated from behind those shields, like the sound of hammers on metal sheets.
“He’s bleeding!” gasped a bystander. Blood was trickling down a worker’s forehead, staining the shield pressed against his face. By then it was apparent, the steady thud I heard were truncheons, solid batons that the police hammered against the shields, hitting heads with doubled potency.
As the workers weakened and the police hauled them away by their waistbands; but comrades took their vacated spot on the asphalt road. The human barricade was holding for it seemed there was no lack of volunteers eager to take the blows. Frustration was etched on the policemen’s faces, and tempers rose, overpowering their restraint.
Truncheons, now without the camouflage of metal shields, struck heads and shoulders with full severity. Some truncheons were laced with barbed wire, causing the skin to rip on contact. At the corner of my eye, I saw electric sparks searing the arms of the workers. Later I learned, the police used cattle prods that emitted charges potent enough to burn human flesh, potent enough to break the hold of human arms linked in a common struggle.
That was when I realized I was weeping, overwhelmed by the flagrant brutality displayed before me. I fumbled with my camera, unable to take more pictures.
“Miss, take cover, now!” a worker whispered in my ear as he attempted to pull me away from the melee. I was surrounded by truncheon-wielding cops bashing the shriveling bodies that lay at my feet. The noonday sun was in my eyes, metal shields, swinging sticks, ripped shirts on sweat-drenched bodies, sipped skin. A collective moan rose as the truncheons fell with increased frequency. “Stop, stop. Enough, please!” I muttered as I slowly retreated fully expecting a blow to my head.
A hail of stones
In a split second, a hail of huge stones descended, hurled from both sides of the road and aimed at the men in uniform. The laborers’ wives and children who initially stood inert broke their vow of passive resistance. Horror was replaced by anger and fists were unclenched to grab and hurl stones barely missing my face. I sank knee-deep in mud, protected by sharp sheaths of cogon, thankful for my temporary refuge.
“Candy!” my thoughts raced wildly as I distanced myself from the police who were scampering toward the factory gates warding off the barrage of stones with their shields. Her journalist instincts served Candy well; she was a safe distance away from the fracas among the reserve police corps.
I waddled through the mud toward Candy. She displayed the calm yet near-arrogant air of authority, a façade that journalists used as a measure of protection from the irreverent police. Candy’s face softened with relief when I emerged from the paddy, distraught, dirty buy unscathed.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “Where were you?”
“I got out before the stoning started. I’m out of film,” she said. We expected our visit to the factory to be uneventful and it did not occur to us to carry spare rolls of film.
“Here, I have about six shots left. You’re bound to take better pictures,” I replied, handing Candy my camera, deferring to her experience.
Strange hollow, popping sounds suddenly emanated from the factory gates. The police reserve corps dropped their mocking stares and assumed defensive positions behind their military jeeps.
“What was that?” Candy surveyed the gates.
“Gunfire!” I answered, again feeling the panic swell inside me.
“They have guns! They have guns!” cried a policeman pointing to a clutch of women and children nursing their wounded kin. I drew my gaze in the direction he was pointing to and saw women and children armed only with stones. The only guns I spotted were those in the hands of men in uniform.
At that point I felt a body brush against me and instinctively I stepped aside. A stocky man from the ranks of the police had stepped right in front of us and, with tenacity, drew his revolver from his black leather holster. With his arm straight and steady, he aimed at a fleeing worker then pulled the trigger, thrice.
“Candy!” I signaled my cousin to take the man’s picture. She already did. Still with the pistol in his hand, the man turned toward us. He then realized that a camera had documented his deliberate aim. He grimaced and sought a quick exit.
The man’s arrogance and conscious disregard for human life triggered something within me. I grew up hearing words like “state fascism, police brutality, dictatorship…” said in hushed tones during clandestine meetings and later incorporated into angry chants and slogans repeated at protest rallies.
Torture and illegal imprisonment, stories of summary executions and the disappearances of student and labor leaders – all the abuses of the state were made possible by men like this who could, without flinching, take deliberate aim and fire at unarmed civilians.
At that particular moment, the cries and advocacy of “Rebolusyon!” had made perfect sense; indeed, there seemed no other recourse in a country so visibly militarized. The graphic scenes I witnessed that afternoon had been unprecedented in my experience – these affixed a hard face on oppression. I felt I had to do something.
“Hey, you…wait!” I was at the man’s heels quite unsure of what I was doing. I caught up with the man, grabbed him by his collar and shook him repeatedly. I glanced at his nameplate, “Diaz,” it read.
“Diaz! Diaz, so that’s your name! Those weren’t warning shots you fired back there… you took direct aim. You were firing directly at that worker; we have pictures to prove it! You’ll see your pictures in the papers!” I loudly admonished him, my grip tightening around his collar, forcing him to face me. I was trembling, my words delivered in choking phrases. But I correctly gambled that Patrolman Diaz would be too stunned upon hearing my colegiala English, that he would be unable to respond or hurt me.
Candy was pulling my sleeve. “Susan, stop it. Let it go!” she pleaded. The man still had his revolver in his right hand and the impetuous scowl on his face. I expected him to pull the trigger on me and, for a moment, I didn’t care. I was more upset than afraid. Candy dragged me away from the scene while Diaz disappeared into the crowd.
The barricade had been broken. Candy and I watched all seven trucks roll through the factory gates amidst the cheers of the military.
Twelve workers were seriously hurt that afternoon. Their friends and family brought them to the Angono General Hospital for treatment. There they were met by members of the same PC battalion. The military waited until the strikers received medical treatment then arrested them for “direct assault on persons of authority.” That same evening, these strikers were mauled by their arresting officers.
The following morning, the remaining workers were back at their picketline restoring the tent that covered their makeshift headquarters. The Globe Steel strike would hold strong for four years making it the longest worker’s strike in Philippine history.
I kept my promise to Patrolman Diaz. His picture – scowl, gun and all, together with our other pictures of the strikebust, had made to the papers.
by MLC | Sep 22, 2015 | Martial Law Stories
Source: Rappler
The Great Lean Run honors the life of iconic UP student leader Lean Alejandro and commemorates the 43rd anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law
MANILA, Philippines – Do you remember the Martial Law years?
On Saturday, September 19, Martial Law victims, human rights activists, and students of the University of the Philippines (UP) participated in the Great Lean Run, a fun run that relives the abuses done during the Martial Law and honors the life of the late iconic UP student leader Lean Alejandro.
This year marks the 43rd anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law.
David Lozada reports.
Students are chased by policemen with batons. Some are hit with water cannons while some go through rough barricades.
For some alumni of the University of the Philippines, these scenes are all too familiar.
This is the Great Lean Run, organized by the Sandigan para sa Mag-aaral at Sambayanan Party or SAMASA to pay tribute to the late iconic UP student leader Lean Alejandro, who fought the Martial Law alongside legendary nationalists Senators Jose Diokno and Lorenzo Tanada.
But 18 months after Cory Aquino assumed power, the leftist leader was assassinated in front of the Bagong Alyansang Makabayan office.
The participants get to experience the hardships that activists like Lean went through to commemorate the declaration of Martial Law.
According to Liddy Alejandro, the run brings fond memories of her late husband.
LIDDY ALEJANDRO, WIFE OF LEAN ALEJANDRO: Nakakaantig din ng puso kasi siyempre lalong nagiging vivid yung memories ko nung panahon namin ni Lean kaya lalong nakaka-miss kasi wala siya dito ngayon. Marami sa aking memories ay yung magkasama kami sa kilusan laban sa diktadura.
(It’s heartwarming to be in this event because it brings back the memories in Lean. I miss his presence. Most of my memories of him were those times when we were fighting the dictatorship.)
More and more netizens have been expressing pro-Martial Law sentiments in recent years.
Some even call the dictatorship the best years of the country, despite the glaring number of human rights violations and corruption cases.
Alejandro says this is why the youth should be reminded of the harsh realities during the Marcos dictatorship.
LIDDY ALEJANDRO: Mahalagang ibunyag kung ano ang katotohanan noong mga panahon na yon kasi ayaw nating maulit ulit. Kailangan magkaroon ng ganung pang-unawa ang kabataan natin para alam nila yung mga hindi dapat nang maulit at dapat pigilan, anong klaseng lider ang kailangan ng bansa at hindi kailangan ng bansa.
(It’s important that we show the truth of what really happened during those times so they won’t be repeated. Our youth today need to have that knowledge of history so they know what mistakes not to repeat and avoid, what kind of leader the country needs and doesn’t need.)
For UP journalism student Dulfo Dulfo, the run’s difficulty is nothing compared to the real-life struggles of activists like Lean Alejandro.
DULFO DULFO: Nakita naman natin kanina sa run na maraming struggles, maraming hurdles sa pagiging aktibista. Isasakripisyo mo ang iyong buhay mismo bago marating ang finish line which is democracy.
(There are many struggles in being an activist. You really have to sacrifice your life before you reach the finish line, which is democracy.)
But not all UP students share the same sentiment.
VICKY DELDIO, UP STUDENT: About sa Martial Law, hindi ako against sa Martial Law dahil sa pagkakaalam ko, naging maganda yung ekonomiya and kahit naging dictadurial siya, napabuti yung bansa.
(I’m not against the Martial Law period because, from what I know, the country’s economy became better than. Although Marcos was dictatorial, the country fluorished.)
Organizers of the great lean run emphasize the importance of educating younger generation of Filipinos about the abuses done during the Martial Law period. As the Philippines commemorates the 43rd anniversary of one of the worst events in Philippine history, human rights advocates say we need to remember martyrs like Lean Alejandro to never let another dictatorship come into power.
by MLC | Sep 21, 2015 | Martial Law Stories
Source: ABS-CBN
MANILA – A martial law veteran and a University of the Philippines political analyst lament how people have moved on from the martial law era for different reasons.
This, as the country marks the 43rd year since the declaration of martial law.
Thousands of Filipinos were said to have fallen victim to human rights abuses while the Marcoses allegedly amassed millions of dollars during the martial law era.
The Marcos regime was finally overthrown in the wave of protest movements that culminated in the EDSA People Power revolution in 1986 and restored democracy to the country.
Former Senator Rene Saguisag lamented that Filipinos are too forgiving.
“Filipinos have short memories. Ngayon, bumisita Japanese [prime minister] sa war shrine, there would be rioting in [South Korea] and China. Tayo, mga 1950s pa lang pinatawad na ang mga Hapon. Yung mga Hudyo, hina-hunting pa yung mga Nazi abusers. Kaya to me, we should tell the youth Marcos ravaged our institutions, our values, our processes. We don’t take seriously George Santayana’s warning [that] those who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” he said.
University of the Philippines public administration and governance Prof. Prospero de Vera said people tend to forget the difference between martial law and the time after it because there really was no difference in the lives of the people.
De Vera said people’s lives did not really improve after martial law. All that’s left are the physical infrastructures built during the martial law era, which have become reminders of the grandeur.
“I don’t think people have forgotten. Problem is – their lives have not improved. The poor are still poor. Infrastructure has not improved and governance has not improved so people are unable to differentiate between martial law and subsequent administrations. Therefore, when you try to create people’s anger against what happened towards martial law, anger is dissipated because they are still as angry now as before about the problems that have not been solved,” he said.
De Vera added: “In a sense, there is a softening…we don’t discuss it as much and we’re not able to discuss it because things have not been dramatically…”
“What people see and associate are the infrastructure built during the martial law period. These are the symbols. They are still there. Unfortunately, they seem to look more grandiose and better than infrastructure built after martial law. The physical manifestations and symbolism of martial law, unfortunately, are appreciated by a lot.”
The UP professor said people must continue to discuss martial law and hold leaders accountable for long festering problems.
“We must tell some of problems of martial law are problems we have not attended to till now. Presidents have failed to address problems that occur during martial law,” he said.
NOT THE RIGHT DATE
Saguisag said people don’t even commemorate the right day when martial law was put into effect, marking September 21 instead of September 23 of each year. Then President Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law on September 23, 1972 but he later on claimed it was declared on September 21, 1973.
The former senator said September 21, 1972 was an ordinary day for him. He said he monitored a political rally at Plaza Miranda on that date.
The next day, September 22, 1972, was also uneventful, which is when then Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile was allegedly ambushed. It become one of the bases for the martial law declaration.
Saguisag said it was actually on September 23 when radio and TV stations stopped broadcasting. He recalled getting a phone call from the late Raul Roco who suggested they stay together in case they get arrested.
When they reported for class at San Beda College that day, only two students showed up – Byron Bocar and Alex Almario.
It was in the evening of September 23 when they watched then information minister Francisco Tatad reading the declaration of martial law on TV.
Saguisag said he called then Senator Jovito Salonga at the Senate and found out that the Senate had been shut down.
“I hope next year, pagcommemorate, September 23 dahil dito naniniwala sa numerology si Macoy (Marcos). One of his favorite numbers is 7. 21 is multiple of 7 but September 21, 1972 was a very ordinary day. Nothing unusual occurred. It wasn’t until the 23rd [ng] hatinggabi inaresto sina Ninoy [Aquinp], Ka Pepe Diokno, Soc Rodrigo, Monching Mitra and so many others.”
Asked if he thought martial law would have turned out differently had social media been in existence back then, Saguisag can only speculate. “Well, I don’t know what social media could have done.”
He also pointed out Marcos was determined to extend his term.
“Kaya I don’t know what difference it would have made. Maybe it could have spelled the difference but that’s just conjecture and speculation on my part,” he said.
De Vera expressed doubts any martial law declaration would fly in the age of social media.
“I’m sure the ones running government would try to do it. I don’t think it would be successful because it’s so difficult to control mass media especially because Filipinos are adept at finding ways of dissent,” he said.
Saguisag also lamented the missed opportunities of martial law.
“Well, kasi kung si Macoy naging Lee Kwan Yew, kapakanan pambayan, hindi pansarili, pampamilya, pang-crony, we might have progressed and we in the human rights movement might have been in the fringes. Naging problema, umasenso Singapore. Tayo naging basket case,” he said.
by MLC | Sep 21, 2015 | Martial Law Stories
Source: Rappler
Kabataan, kung akala mo’y walang kinalaman sa mundo mo ang martial law, narito ang 7 buzzwords na pamana – o sumpa – sa iyo ng rehimeng Marcos
Twenty-something ka ba? ‘Di ka pa ipinapanganak nang naganap ang batas militar. Narito ang 7 dahilan bakit apektado ka ng madilim na yugto ng kasaysayan.
1. The Butcher. Si Jovito Palparan aka “Berdugo” ang Johnny-come-lately sa kapatiran ng mga torturer. Siya ang itinuturong nagpadukot at nagpa-torture sa mga estudyante ng University of the Philippines (UP) na sina Sherlyn Cadapan and Karen Empeno noong 2006.
Produkto si Palparan ng mahabang rekord ng abduction, torture, at summary execution ng pulis at militar sa ilalim ng batas-militar. Halos 50,000 ang dokumentadong kaso ng pang-aabuso sa karapatang pangtao noong panahon ng martial law; 75,000 ang nag-apply na claimant bilang biktima ng martial law.
1973. Isang 23-year-old na editor in chief ng student publication ng Pamantasan ng Lungsod ng Maynila ang dinukot, ginahasa, at pinainom ng muriatic acid. Siya si Liliosa Hilao.
1973. Buntis nang inaresto ng militar ang dating UP student at women organizer na si Maria Lorena Barros. Nakunan siya sa tindi ng torture.
1983. Inautopsya ng isang doktor ang katawan ng kapwa niya doktor. Ang konklusyon: bali-bali ang buto at malinaw na pinahirapan. Ang biktima ay ang bantog na researcher ng kanser sa UP Philippine General Hospital na si Dr Juan Escandor.
1984. Bago mawala, under surveillance si La Salle student Immanuel Obispo. Natagpuan siya ng kanyang pamilya sa ospital, matapos masagasaan ng tren, putol ang isang paa at agaw-buhay. Namatay siya kinabukasan. Hinihinala na dinukot si Obispo, tinorture at sinet-up ang kanyang pagkamatay.
2. Impunity. Exemption from punishment. Sa Filipino: hindi masisingil ng batas. Sariwa pa sa henerasyon natin ang 2009 Maguindanao massacre, ang walang habas na pagpatay sa 58 sibilyan at mamamahayag.
Itinuturong utak ng masaker ang warlord na si Andal Ampatuan Sr. Habang si Gloria Arroyo ang nagluklok sa tugatog ng kapangyarihan kay Andal Senior, paano nagka-break sa pulitika ang dating police informant at gun-for-hire? In-appoint siya ni Presidente Marcos na mayor at officer in charge ng bayan ng Maganoy (ngayon ay Shariff Aguak).
Martial law ang ang pinagmulan ng culture of impunity na umiiral hanggang ngayon. Ano ‘ka mo ‘yun? Hindi lang ito ‘yung nakakalusot ang “mean girls” sa iyong klase na pula ang buhok at maiikli ang palda dahil dinadalhan nila ng cupcakes ang titser. Ito ‘yung wagas na pagbaluktot ng hustisya kaya nagiging pipi at bingi ang lahat ng tao sa kabulukan at kahayupan ng may kapangyarihan. Kakambal ng “culture of impunity” ang “culture of fear.”
Ilan lamang ang mga sumusunod na mass murders na nabaon na sa limot:
1981. Daet Massacre. Pinaulanan ng bala ng Philippine Constabulary ang mga magsasaka na nagmamartsa patungo ng Freedom Park ng Daet sa Bicol; 4 ang namatay.
1985. Escalante Massacre. Pinagbabaril ang nagra-rally sa harapan ng Escalante town hall sa Negros Occidental. Karamihan sa kanila ay mga sakada sa tubuhan; 20 ang namatay.
3. Friends with benefits. Hindi ito sex sa pagitan ng magkakabarkada. Think Janet Napoles. Nakipagbestpren siya sa mga senador at mga pinuno ng ahensya na may access sa kaban ng bayan. “It’s not what you can do, but who you know.”
Rewind to Makoy’s era: ito ang “crony capitalism.” Ayon sa political scientists, ito ang kalakaran sa ekonomya na nababakuran ng iilang kaibigang negosyante ng pangulo ang mga kontrata at benepisyo mula sa gubyerno. Meron naman nang crony capitalism bago namuno si Marcos, pero ni-level-up niya ito.
4. Kleptocracy. Plunder – malalim ang kahulugan nito, ayon sa dictionary, “to loot, ravage, ransack, despoil.” Tinatanyang umaabot sa $5 billion hanggang $30 billion ang ill-gotten wealth ng mga Marcoses. Mula sa pagkakaroon ng “promising economy” matapos ang World War II, 57% ng Pinoy ay sadlak sa kahirapan noong 1975.
$7.5 billion ang tinatantsang halaga ng nakatagong yaman ng mga Marcoses sa mga Swiss banks. Maliit na porsyento lamang ang narekober: 15 mink coats, 508 gowns, 1,000 handbags, at 1,000 pares ng sapatos (may nagsasabing 7,500 na pares), mga alahas na nagkakahalaga noong 1986 ng $8 million, at dalawang Claude Monet paintings.
5. Brain drain and the ‘motherless generation.’ Ayon sa estadistika ng 2012, tinatantsang 10.5 million workers or 11% ng populasyon ang nasa abroad.
Wala sa Pilipinas ang “best and brightest.” Hindi ang bayan ang lubos na nakikinabang sa utak ng ating mga propesyonal at bagong gradweyt. Mas masaklap, wala rin sa Pilipinas ang marami sa mga ina ng tahanan.
Saan nagsimula ang tinatawag na diaspora? Habang marami nang Pilipino ang nagkipagsapalaran sa ibang bansa mula 1950s, sa panahon ni Marcos nagsimula ang sistematikong pagluluwas ng ating mga manggagawa. Noong 1975, ipinatupad ni Marcos ang “Development Diplomacy” na nagpokus sa pag-e-export ng “surplus labor.” Pagpasok ng 1985, namayagpag ang bilang ng overseas Filipino workers – umabot sa 75% kumpara sa nakaraang taon.
6. Collective amnesia. Natanong minsan ang anak ng diktador na si Bongbong Marcos: kung tatakbo siyang bise presidente o presidente, hihingi ba siya ng tawad sa korupsyon at human rights abuses ng rehimen ng kanyang ama?
Matapos ilatag ang nagawa ng ama tulad ng infrastructure, rice self-sufficiency, power generation, at high literacy, dugtong niya: “What am I to say sorry about?”
Ang sagot ng foundation para sa mga biktima ng martial law, ang Bantayog ng mga Bayani, kay Bongbong: “Ferdinand Marcos wrecked Congress, the courts, and the bureaucracy. He prostituted the military. He shackled the country with debts. Your parents stole billions of the people’s money and from their political opponents. He had a nuclear plant built that never operated but which the country has to pay for in loans. He had thousands jailed, abducted, tortured, or killed.”
Madaling makalimot lalo na’t 43 taon na ang nakalilipas. Para sa bagong henerasyon, kuwento lang ang lahat ng ito.
7. Foreign debt. Millennial, kung wala kang pakialam sa kasaysayan, ‘di pantay na hustisya, pagyurak sa karapatang pantao, o korupsyon, ito ang isyung dapat mong pansinin.
Nang napalayas ang dikatdor noong 1986, nag-iwan siya ng $28 billion foreign debt, mula sa $1 billion nang nagsimula siya manungkulan. Tinatantsang 33% o $8 billon ng mga utang na ito’y ibinulsa ni Marcos at ng kanyang mga alipores.
Ang utang panlabas na binabayaran nating ngayon: $75.3 billion. Magkano ang utang mo, Millennial? Nasa P61,000.
Medyo self-absorbed daw ang bagong henerasyon. Pero meron ding nagsasabing ang Millennial ang susi sa pagbabago. Sa anibersaryo ng Batas Militar sa Setyembre 21, ito ang bilin ng Rappler: mag-aral, matuto, huwag lumimot.
