The shadows of Martial Law

It is the eve of the 40th anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law. For days now, my Facebook homepage has been flooded with comments and status updates reminding people of that dark era when Ferdinand E. Marcos placed the entire nation under military rule. The familiar black and red posters have been all over the social networking sites acting as reminders, declarations, sworn statements, and assurances that this must never be allowed to happen again.

 

Invitations to talks, forums, and parades have been posted all over to celebrate this sense of sovereignty people have now as former victims empowered enough to declare that Martial Law was but never will be again, not on their watch at least. Concert announcements have been made with a lineup of Filipino artists known for the nationalistic flavor in their songs. 

 

I was imagining some of the songs that would be played. I can still remember the words to some of the revolutionary songs that took the place of Brahms lullaby when my mother would sing songs at bedtime. The lyrics were sad but back then they were soothing as they succeeded in lulling me to sleep. I think my mother felt that by singing those songs to me, I would be able understand why she could only stay with me for the song and not for the night. The songs were probably meant to communicate the importance of what she was doing and why this had to take precedence over what I didn’t know I needed that time, the assurance that she would still be there after her special lullaby. I was five years old back then.

 

Online news portals were also posting interviews with victims of military atrocities, ex-political detainees who spoke openly about their experiences in the hands of their captors and torturers. People were sharing these links left and right. Some of them attached their own messages of condemnation for the regime that was responsible for these violent experiences. “Never again!” and “We must not forget!” were two of the messages I took note of. My thought balloon came up in an instant – “Do I really want to remember everything?” I glossed over the links thinking I already knew what they were going to talk about.

 

“I have a lot to say,” I heard myself thinking, but I consciously decided to quietly reconnect with all of these sensations and memories in silence. That was the plan anyway up until I saw that one of the interviews involved my mother and her experience of incarceration and torture. I clicked on the link and listened to her relay her story once more, a story that sounded all too familiar. It was like turning on a tap, memories just started to flow in my mind. Thought balloon number two came up – “Never forget? – Speak for yourself!”

 

I remember some things all too clearly that September, 40 years ago, maybe to a fault. There was that day spent grabbing books from the closet and digging in the ground to bury them. I remember the books. They were covered in red, some in white plastic with the face of Mao Tse-tung etched in the front cover. Some I think had the face or name of Karl Marx in gold print. The vision seems clear but it may not be accurate. Feelings are much sharper. I don’t remember the feeling as something strange back then, it was as if we’ve been that way for so long – adults whispering and looking vigilant talking about something or someone.

 

In my memory, they all looked quietly serious and alert. My father, my lola, my aunties, and my uncle who worked with the military intelligence at that time were huddled in a circle and whispering to each other. They were doing this while digging, while searching for other books in my mother’s room, and while having coffee and cigarette breaks in the dining room in between the searching and digging. They were worried about my mother. That much I gathered by watching them and catching the odd phrase here and there. No one was really talking to me. 

 

One distinct recollection I have now is about a gaping feeling I had as a child, around this time, 40 years ago. It was a very strong sense of being incomplete. There were always people around, family members, something was constantly going on—but where was Mama? I guess I expected her to be the one to tell me what was going on. But, quite often, that’s all I had—a gaping, hollow feeling. It wasn’t unfamiliar nor was it painful but it was intense.

 

I could almost feel the same pangs after watching the interview of my mother online but I don’t feel that this is the only thing I have now, not anymore. Age does wonders with our ability to analyze and synthesize life experiences. Having children of my own, I know that the sense of security I give to my own kids is something primal. It isn’t something that can be replaced but the damages caused by its absence can be mitigated. My loving and nurturing family then and now must have spelled the difference for me, this I also know now. 

 

My innocence back then must have protected me from comprehending the danger she was in. Having said that, my youth was also what made it so difficult to process everything that I was sensing. The hollowness was so palpable but I did not know what it was. All I knew was that it has always been there. It wasn’t going to go away. It was my shadow, my constant companion. And so after 40 years, I recognize and greet it once more—this time with a little bit more understanding and insight. 

 

My mother was hiding from the military during the build-up to the declaration of Martial Law, around this time 40 years ago. She was not allowed to see us because it would expose her whereabouts and ultimately risk the exposure of her comrades as well. But she was a mother and a wife, and she had to see her family. Mama got caught and eventually tortured because she defied the rules and decided to be with us, even if it was just for a little while. 

 

I guess my shadow friend never really left. I think I’m ok with that. While it strikes a sad and desolate chord, it also reminds me of the sacrifice that was laid that night as I watched the big bad men take my mother away. It will be here with me, in my waking moments and at night before I go to sleep reassuring me that it will stay with me … even after the lullabies.

 

Richie Rosales Parr is the daughter of Commission on Human Rights Chairperson  Etta Rosales, a political detainee during Martial Law. She teaches in the Department of Psychology of Miriam College in Quezon City.