How I Became a UP Student Activist Part I Memoirs of UP Diliman 1972-1974

A “Lightning Rally” in the UP College of Arts and Sciences

In late 1972, an incident convinced me that anti-martial law activists in the University of the Philippines were committing a big mistake.  I was attending my Pilipino 13 “Pagbasa at Pagsulat” class under Prof. Apolonio Chua. Our classroom was on the fourth floor of the west wing of the CAS. The airy corridor outside, paved with red ceramic tiles each about four square inches, had a commanding view of the verdant campus.

In those days, the corridor had no walls to prevent students falling four floors down. Instead, three parallel horizontal steel tubes, painted green and about 4 inches in diameter, served this purpose. They were aligned such that students could comfortably sit on two facing outside, with one tube serving as a backrest.  The tubes ran the length of the corridor, which was about 20 meters. They were supported by brackets attached to several short vertical steel posts that were planted on a low concrete platform which slanted inwards.  On clear days, I used to sit on the tubes clutching my “Catleya” notebook. I would rest my feet on the platform, not mind the heights, and just gaze at the acacia trees.

If you stood at CAS portion of the academic oval and looked up, the corridor was very visible. Its five large classrooms, all in a row, were packed with students on weekdays. It was a perfect place for a loud protest action, with the students as a captive audience. Suddenly, to the right of our classroom, we heard shouting.  Sitting near the door, I immediately stood up and stuck my head outside. I saw ten to fifteen students assembled at the end of the corridor. I returned to my chair. At that point, one of my classmates told me the activists were carrying out a “lightning rally.”

I kept looking outside the classroom door, anticipating something to happen. The protesters, now marching, began to pass our door, with the whole class, including Prof. Chua, now watching.   They shouted slogans that at that time were already illegal. I remember slogans like “Marcos-Hitler-Diktador-Tuta,” (Marcos-Hitler-Dictator-Lapdog) Ibagsak ang Batas Militar,” (Down with Martial Law)  and “Rebolusyon Sagot sa Martial Law.” (Revolution Response to Martial Law)

One of the marchers was my classmate.  In an instant, she ducked into our room, as if she knew that the police would come anytime. Our class was now effectively interrupted.  All of us were now standing  near the door and just outside it, to witness the “lightning rally.” We managed to watch the event for some thirty seconds, as the march proceeded to our left. The activists went down the corridor, and towards the stairs. They were still shouting, and punching the air with their clenched fists. We all followed them with our startled eyes, as they reached the corridor’s end and descended the stairs. Now, there was silence. We assumed they had dispersed.

As these magnificent derring-dos scampered to safety, I got out of our room and surveyed the academic oval, my palms resting on the railings. I wanted to see if the police were coming. Sure enough, a UP Police car suddenly pulled up at the foot of the AS steps. Out jumped about four UP policemen with truncheons. They all looked up to where I was standing on the fourth floor, then hurriedly went up the AS steps. I assumed they were already alerted and were out to arrest the intrepid marchers.

The speed with which the authorities responded to this display of bravado told me that the “lightning rally” created more problems than it solved.  It was apparent that the momentary propaganda opportunity created by the lightning rally was not worth the threat of arrest and incarceration it created. The activists have to think of safer protest methods, I told myself.

A “Pillbox” Explodes in the College

Another incident that showed me the futility of pre-martial law protest methods. It happened one sunny morning in 1973. This time, a “pill box” exploded, just when I was having my bag checked at one of the CAS entrances. It was a habitual entry point, the door near the UP Faculty Center. I was going to a morning class. A “pillbox”   is only slightly more powerful than a firecracker, but the deafening sound it made terrified the riot police during the pre-martial law rallies.

As the guard went on a sightseeing tour of my bag, we heard an earsplitting explosion that came from the direction of the first floor lobby, about twenty-five meters away. The suddenness and loudness of the explosion created a commotion in that part of the college. The guard immediately ended the inspection, talked to his walkie-talkie, and quickly pushed a big table across the entrance, as if to prevent entry or exit.

I found myself impatiently waiting just outside the entrance, leaning on the table. A few seconds later, I saw a male classmate of mine, whose name was Rey Aguas, being hauled, one arm apiece, by two UP policemen. Memories fade after four decades, but I remember Rey looking like your stereotype Kabataang Makabayan (KM) activist --- thin, scruffy, long hair, “maong” (denim) jacket, with the optional Ray-Ban sunglasses. His type was, of course, the police’s “usual suspect.”

The tangling trio appeared to have gone down the stairs from the CAS second floor, which was to the left of the entrance I was facing. The guard who had just searched my bag pushed the blocking table just enough to create an opening.  With utmost facility, and with a middling crowd viewing, the cops  pushed their catch out the building.

The scuffle continued on the wide and terraced walk of the lush CAS gardens.  Rey wildly resisted the officers’ tight hold on the moss covered pavement, at times almost escaping.  He repeatedly yelled that he was not the one who threw the pillbox. He was jammed into a waiting UP police car, parked on the street sandwiched by the CAS and the UP Faculty Center.

Campus rumors would later point to the real culprit. He was a jovial and mischievous Alpha Sigma Fraternity member, which frat incidentally, I would join the following year. He threw the pillbox from their second floor lobby “tambayan” (hangout) to the first floor lobby entrance as a practical joke. Realizing their mistake, the UP Police released Rey Aguas a few weeks later.  

Rey could not protest, much less sue, because civil liberties were suspended. There was no free press or media to report on it either. This incident reminded me that martial law was indeed in effect. Again, I saw the aggressiveness of the authorities. The activists had to be more creative, I told myself.

I Reconsider my Politics

With martial law tightening its grip on UP, I started to rethink my politics. The persistent teaching from my parents that freedom was very precious was now resurfacing.   I became disillusioned because democracy had so easily ended in my country. I then began to question what I was originally in UP for: to graduate, pursue a law career, and earn a decent living. I feared that even if I graduated from UP, my career would have no future in a Philippines under military rule. 

I then decided to try on a new perspective.  From a political bystander, I wanted to be a participant.  This new outlook pushed me to shift from AB Journalism to AB Political Science.  I shifted because I thought I needed to understand politics better. Another reason was that I wanted to be closer to the glamorous leftists, who I thought, greatly populated the political science department.  

Gradually, the radicals no longer appeared to me as totalitarian bosses or godless communists. Their social analysis deserved a second look, I fancied. In fallacious logic, I argued to myself: how can the premises of such dedicated individuals be wrong? Russia and China were improved by communism, why can’t the Philippines? In the stifling atmosphere of martial law, the radicals were not yet my heroes, but they had become at least a necessary evil.  They were worth a try. Marcos was pushing me to believe them. 

Much of the propaganda the rallies had crammed into my ears for two years in UP were ringing true. Marcos had indeed become a tyrant, the US had seemingly approved it, and the Philippines was worse off. Predictably, I felt empathy for those who were arrested, detained, or killed. I did not care if they were traditional politicians or communists or social democrats. To me, they were all Filipinos given a bad deal by Marcos. I even prayed for Ninoy Aquino and Jose W. Diokno. I wanted to take up the cudgels for them and their anti-martial law crusade. I even felt an intense sense of loss for the sacrifices our heroes had made in setting up our democracy. 

I could not, however, express my seething anger against Marcos’ dictatorship. I felt my pent-up hatred had to have an outlet lest I do something impulsive.  I was not afraid of leftist ideology anymore, I  yearned to be an activist. But Marcos had clearly won the day. Camps Bonifacio and Crame were teeming with detainees. Communist cadres were being brought to nightmarish “safe houses” or “salvaged” outright.  Demonstrations and militant organizations were banned. The radicals who had escaped arrest were on the run. The media was effectively muzzled. The anticipated general uprising was a non-event. Intelligence agents were everywhere.

In this situation, my misfortune was that I was utterly unaffiliated. I hardly socialized with my classmates and went straight home after classes.  I did not belong to an academic organization or a fraternity.  I did not even have a “barkada” or peer group; my gang was in my hometown. I was raring to join the fight but I did not know what to do; the channels for action were beyond my reach. This aspiring activist was an unabashed individualist when collective feats were necessary. Things, however, were to change.  Opportunity beaconed when my disgruntled professors started to include topics like nationalism, freedom and democracy in their classes.