At one point during the long 14-year martial law period, someone described the Filipino people as 47 million cowards led by one son of a bitch. For most of the martial law years, I was one of those 47 million cowards. But thanks to my mother and my daughters, I was part of the peaceful EDSA revolution that defeated martial law and ousted the hated President Marcos, his family and his cronies. Like most middle class Filipinos, at first I was defiant, then I learned to live with the rules, albeit restlessly, until the long arm of the dictatorship struck at my home, and I found that I had it in me to fight a powerful dictator.
FINDING HER VOICE. A journalist recounts her journey from silence to protest. Illustration by Analyn Perez
Waking up to martial law on September 23, 1972, and realizing that the government had taken over my newspaper and jailed my editors, I was seething. Trying to enter the Chronicle building on that Saturday morning, I hissed at the armed soldiers guarding the padlocked doors. Back in the car, I shouted invectives at them as we drove away. So this was martial law. It had been the subject of much speculation for several weeks. Ninoy Aquino even delivered a privilege speech warning against it in the Senate just a couple of days before. We would find out later in the day that President Marcos had actually signed the decree declaring martial law on September 21 but the order to start implementing it came only on the evening of September 22. And the announcement by the press secretary, Francisco ‘Kit’ Tatad, came on September 23. The leaders of the opposition were rounded up, along with activists, intellectuals, journalists and other critics of Marcos. They would remain behind bars for weeks, months, and in the case of Ninoy Aquino, seven years and seven months. Friends and family who feared they were on the “list" scampered for safety, looking for safe havens from the dreaded agents of the state. In an attempt to fit in with the rest of society, activists shed their long hair for neat crew-cuts, discarded their Mao jackets and caps, and tucked in their shirts. I remember running into the firebrand Behn Cervantes and barely recognizing him with his short hair, and wearing slacks and a long sleeved shirt that made him look like an Ayala executive. I helped when and who I could, sending fruitcakes and cookies to those in detention at Christmastime, and housing, aiding and abetting people who opted to fight the dictatorship by going underground. It was the least I could do to get back at the regime that robbed me of my job, and our people, of our freedoms. A new newspaper cropped up using the facilities of the Chronicle, but it was owned by Imelda Marcos’ brother, and although I needed a job badly, I refused to apply, opting to change careers rather than buckle down to writing paeans to the dictator. But in time, I got used to martial law. Although life was just humdrum, it didn’t seem that bad. There was order in the streets and criminality seemed to be under control. I was offered a job in government drafting memos and speeches for the Secretary of Agriculture, Bong Tanco, who was a family friend. It was good work; I was well paid as part of a bright group of young MBAs and fresh college graduates called the Management Staff. We worked hard, had the opportunity to travel abroad, played hard, and partied a lot, coming home at dawn, protected by curfew passes that government officials and their underlings were entitled to. But there was something forced, desperate even, about our revelry. To me, it was as if the loud music, the liquor, and the occasional drag on a joint were my passport to oblivion. There was much I had to forget if I was to continue serving a boss I loved in a system I despised. Later, I was asked to co-edit Goodman, a bi-monthly magazine published by a multinational. It was a sleek award-winning publication that many writers wanted to be part of. It should have been a dream come true to a journalist like myself, but we had to make sure we published only safe, non-political stories, and soon, even that got old.
(My mother's arrest next page) Then early morning on Christmas Eve in 1979, I was stunned to hear that my mother, Ester Misa Jimenez, and stepfather, Otto Jimenez, had been arrested the night before. The Metrocom had raided my parents’ home, dug up the yard and took them, their cars and other valuables from the house. I was told that my feisty mom had insisted on driving herself to Camp Crame rather than ride a police vehicle. I was frightened. I had no idea what the arrest was about. It was hard to believe the Metrocom’s allegation that my mother had plotted against the life of the dictator. They mentioned other names of prominent academics and politicians here and abroad who were allegedly in on the plot. As the story unfolded, my siblings and I realized that our mother did join the Light-a-Fire movement, a group of middle class professionals who sought to destabilize the dictatorship by planting bombs in government buildings and in properties owned by Marcos cronies, lighting fires in places like the Comelec office, the Floating Casino and Sulo Hotel. “Why, Mom?" we asked, incredulous. “Why not?" she replied defiantly. “Martial law has gone on long enough. Somebody had to do something."
My politicization was swift and thorough. With my mother in detention, I became an advocate of freedom for political prisoners.
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