How the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP) Reorganized in the University of the Philippines 1972-1974

The Philippine Left Reborn: “Legal Struggle”

Many UP students heeded the UP Office of Student Affairs (OSA) memorandum in 1973. The memo called for campus organizations deactivated by martial law to regroup and apply for recognition. The Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP), still smarting from the illegalization of its front organizations, took the cue. The CPP instructed its UP cadres to establish or revive as many legal or non-activist student organizations as possible. Setting aside the propensity of students to organize, this CPP strategy best explains the rapid proliferation of UP student organizations from 1973 to 1974. With apologies to Adam Smith, it was as if an “invisible hand” was guiding the “innocent” UP students to revive their organizations.

This strategic move by the CPP was part of its well worked-out policy, aptly called “legal struggle.” A product of intense internal debate, it meant using legal organizations (LOs) to advance its urban political agenda in UP under martial law. Before martial law, the CPP campaign in UP was shouldered by CPP led “national-democratic mass organizations” like the Kabataang Makabayan (KM)  and Samahang Demokratiko ng Kabataan. (SDK) With these organizations banned outright by Proclamation 1081 and operating stealthily, they could not even approximate their effectiveness in their halcyon days.

In the days of old, recruitment was done almost openly. In the immediate years before martial law, but especially after the First Quarter Storm (FQS), thousands of students and community youth joined the great recruiting machines, ready to be approached by CPP cadres and elevated into formal affiliation with the party. When Marcos derisively called these organizations as “CPP front organizations” he was telling the truth.

New Situation

In one fell swoop, martial law did away with the leftist mass organizations, and squelched the CPP’s hope of further expanding its mass base. Unfamiliar with an unmasked dictatorship, the CPP showed tentativeness when it ordered the now illegal organizations to do their routine, albeit in much shorter durations and with much daring.  These moves failed to generate a groundswell, and severely compromised security. The predicament was characterized by such problems as, swiftly dispersed “lightning” rallies, arrests, underground publications of limited readership, and sluggish recruitment.

Slowly, the awful truth dawned on the CPP ---- the mass organizations had outlived their usefulness. The emerging channels of recruitment and propaganda were organizations that were allowed or tolerated.  These were non-activist and legitimate sounding organizations like academic clubs, fraternities, and community service groups. The CPP documents had a term for these outwardly innocuous societies. It called them “open and legal organizations.”

For the time being, at least in UP, all the CPP had going for it were these organizations.  However, it had to wrestle with their disadvantages. First, they were not by nature political, so propaganda and indoctrination were hamstrung. Second, the membership was limited, so recruitment expectations had to be adjusted. Third, precious cadre time was to be spent on the organizations’ social and leisure events. And fourth, government agents had infiltrated the organizations or were closely monitoring their activities.

But the CPP had no choice; it was these groups or none at all.  It wanted to reach out to the UP students but the groupings it once considered tame and bourgeois were the only route.  The clarion call to its UP cadres, under the template of “legal struggle,” was to “retire” from their obsolete mass organizations and follow a new tack. This was the creation or revival of legal campus organizations.

The CPP cadres were also instructed to create or revive organizations connected to their respective courses, or to which they had natural or justifiable ties. Doing so gave them the necessary legal cover, or, in activist jargon, the “prente."  Once created or revived, their new tasks in these organizations were to “mingle with the masses” and carry out propaganda and recruitment work in vastly innovative ways.

“National-Democratic Core Groups”

And it came to pass that in 1973, the CPP decided that these tasks were to be done by the “national-democratic core group.” (ND core group) Forming these core groups was an essential complement to the CPP call to establish or revive campus organizations. An ND core group was a CPP controlled underground committee that operated secretly within a mother organization.  CPP control was exercised via one or two cadres.  Making up the rest of the group were three to four “national-democratic activists.” The cadres presided over the meetings at first, but relinquished this respected position to the activists once they have demonstrated enough leadership abilities.

After reviving or establishing a legal organization, CPP cadres scouted the membership for possible recruits. They were on the lookout for those who were against martial law (AFs), or against “US imperialism,” (AIs) or against both (NDs). When they had pinpointed their targets, the CPP cadres engaged in person-to-person organizing. They befriended the subjects, helped them with their personal problems, hang around with them, gave them activist reading materials, (“RMs”), and most importantly, discussed politics with them. This laborious and painstaking method was called the “pakutkut” (to slowly chip away) method. It demanded immense organizing skills and patience from the CPP cadres.  

The breakthrough period lasted several months, after which the subjects were introduced to the idea of forming an ND core group. If they agreed, the subjects, who were now considered organized activists (“may ugnay”), were given their respective tasks or assignments. They were congratulated on their new status, and constantly enthused about the worthiness of the cause. The newly formed ND core group, under the direction of the CPP cadres, then proceeded to make a plan of activities, or what was called a “tactical program.” The activities in the tactical program were broadly grouped into three namely: ideological, political, and organizational.  

An ND core group clandestinely tweaked the orientation and activities of a mother organization, along the guidelines set by the CPP. Its basic mission was to make the mother organization conduct propaganda activities that would legally and peacefully follow the political call, or “national-democratic line” espoused by the CPP. Because of the threat of suppression, these propaganda activities had to be low key and subtle.

A good example is when Lipunang Pangkasaysayan (History Society) or Likas sponsored the first public address by Senator Jose W. Diokno, after he was released from detention on September 11, 1974. However, there was always the option of increasing the activities' level of militancy, if there was an opportunity.

To plan for an anti-martial law activity, an ND core group usually brainstormed in a clandestine meeting, where a CPP memorandum calling for a political campaign would be discussed and explained by cadres. After the concept is ironed out, the ND core group makes a plan on how a project will be carried out, taking pains to adapt the guidelines from the “higher organ” (HO) to the type and orientation of the mother organization. Examples of these activities are symposiums, position papers, newsletters, photo exhibits, movie screenings, and joining issue-based inter-organization alliances.

A more detailed plan is done legally, in a regular or special meeting of the mother organization. Here, the ND core group members would arrange for someone under their influence (usually the club president) to propose the plan to the membership. If the club president was already a member of the ND core group, then this made things a lot easier.

The plan is usually approved, but if there are objections, ND core group members do some role playing in explaining and justifying it. Upon approval of the project or activity, activists and non-activists would be given assignments and roles. The rule of thumb is for the CPP cadres to have minimum participation in the activity, with ND core group members and non-activists doing most of the work. This was the proper way, as the CPP directives would have it, that the ND core group exercised “political leadership” over legal organizations.

The CPP cadres’ tasks however, were not limited to organizing and guiding the ND core group. They were required by the CPP to participate in the day-to-day activities of the organization. These activities, however boring or irrelevant to the “grim and determined” CPP cadres, were what attracted the bona fide members to join the club in the first place.

Specifically, the CPP cadres had to be present in the organization’s “tambayan” or hang out. They had to initiate activities like study groups, birthday get-togethers, and peer counseling.  As with the members of the ND core group, they were even expected to advice club members about their romantic relationships or even financial problems. In CPP jargon, the membership constituted the masses for the cadres, and, following the Maoist dictum, the cadres must not divorce themselves from the masses. Through these activities, the CPP instructed its cadres to establish intimate ties with the membership.

The CPP cadres kept the ND core group members well supplied with leftist reading materials. The activists were instructed to digest these materials well so they can participate actively in underground discussion groups or “ED” sessions. A CPP cadre usually handled these ED sessions as an instructor, but sometimes the non-CPP activists or “NDs” were asked to do so, if they showed proficiency.

The standard fare for these discussion groups were Nilo Tayag’s Komitment, Jose Maria Sison’s Struggle for National Democracy, Mao Zedong’s  Five Golden Rays and Selected Quotation from Chairman Mao Zedong, Amado Guerrero’s Philippine Society and Revolution, and, for the national situation,  occasional copies of the CPP’s official organ Ang Bayan.

Expanding CPP membership was also in the “to do” list of the CPP cadres. They were under instructions to recruit or “elevate” (iangat) activists once they have progressed far enough in their standpoint  (paninindigan), viewpoint (pananaw) and method (pamamaraan). There was a trial period, usually a year, in which the new recruit was a candidate member (kandidatong kasapi or KK).

After this rite of passage, the KK is sworn into full membership (ganap na kasapi or GK). This slow but steady recruitment effort, which greatly expanded CPP membership, insidiously went on under the very noses of the UP authorities, particularly the administration of President Onofre D. Corpuz and his Executive Vice-president, Emanuel V. Soriano.  Before they knew it, they were confronted with a very adept and assertive UP organizational community, one that had fully adapted to martial law, thanks in large part to CPP prodding.  

This was how the Philippine Left morphed its activities in UP, to deal with the realities of a newborn martial law. From now on, its corps of UP cadres was to carry on the fight adroitly concealed in the “pambansang-demokratikong grupong ubod,” as the ND core groups were called in Tagalog. They were further protected by the built-in legal status of the penetrated organization.  For good measure, CPP also deployed cadres in strategic university-wide student bodies like the Consultative Committee on Student Affairs (Concomsa), and the official student publication, the Philippine Collegian. These were very important in conducting campus wide propaganda and agitation campaigns.     

With newfound stealth, the embedded CPP cadres and ND core groups transformed the various UP student organizations into hybrid anti-martial law units. After the party was dealt a stunning blow, the ND core groups were instrumental in enabling the CPP to bounce back as an effective political force in UP during the 1973-1974 period. The CPP initiated stirrings began in 1975, first with campus issues, and then with broad national issues.  By this time, practically all of the 70 or so campus organizations in UP had ND core groups.  

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

How I Began My Activism inside the Classroom

It was History 112, going by the course title “The Philippines: 1900-1946.” It covered the American colonial period in the Philippines, and a little of the post-war years.  It was an elective, so I took it not because I had to, but because it was interesting. Most of us thirty-plus students in the class were either history or political science majors. This best explains our keen interest in the subject. It greatly helped that the instructor was a history professor with a reputation of being liberal. His name was Leslie Bauzon, who had a newly acquired Duke University doctorate tucked under his belt. 

Dr. Bauzon was bespectacled, early-thirties, tall, slightly dark, and heavily built. His English and Tagalog both had a heavy Pangasinan accent. He usually wore light colored and long-sleeved barong-tagalogs. Occasionally, he wore long or short sleeved shirts with a tie.  His was a morning class and scheduled Monday-Wednesday-Friday (MWF). It began at exactly 10 am, and ended at 11:30. Our room was at the first floor of the CAS west wing.

It was a good room for discussions. It was spacious enough, and was bathed by sunlight. The large windows welcomed invigorating breezes from the gardens outside. It also had an old but efficient ceiling fan, whose incessant whirring was no match for the room’s good acoustics.  It also helped that a student’s mind was the sharpest at this time of the morning.  All told, I was expecting a great 4-month long class.

When a well groomed Dr. Bauzon introduced the course and presented his mimeographed syllabus, I judged the topics to be in agreement with my activist sensibilities. The bent was clearly anti-colonial and pro-democratic. I distinctly remember Dr. Bauzon’s reference to Karl Deutsch and John A. Hobson when he introduced the concepts of nationalism and imperialism.

The readings were very interesting. The one I liked most was James H. Blount’s American Occupation of the Philippines, an essential work on the subject by an American soldier and anti-annexationist.   The basic nationalist materials were there, like Teodoro Agoncillo’s path-breaking book History of the Filipino People and Renato Constantino’s anti-colonial pamphlets Miseducation of the Filipino, Origin of a Myth, Dissent and Counter Consciousness, and The Making of a Filipino. The latter book introduced me to Filipino nationalist Claro M. Recto.

Based on Dr. Bauzon’s syllabus, and his place in the leftist grapevine, I told myself I was comfortable to blurt out my anti-martial sentiments in his class. I was not yet an ardent anti-imperialist at that time, so the obvious anti-colonial slant of the course served mainly to reassure me that Dr. Bauzon was not reactionary who would disagree with me, stifle my recitation, and give me a failing grade in due time.

As the course progressed, I noticed that many of my classmates were as fervent as I to release their intimidated opinions in class. Many were activists whom I saw in the riotous rallies before martial law. Given this audience, I was eager to probe if the UP tradition of academic freedom, especially concerning classroom discussions, had survived the depredations of martial law. Will Dr. Bauzon permit anti-Marcos statements in his class? What was the policy of the UP Department of History on free expression in the context of academic discourse? Will the UP police arrest students and faculty who make anti-martial law statements in class?

Dr. Bauzon divided his lectures into the following major topics: a) The Origins of American Colonialism; b) The Aguinaldo Capitulation; c) The Philippine American War; d) American Colonial Government; and e) Philippine-American Post-war Relations. He was at once a good lecturer and a good discussion facilitator. His style was free-wheeling and engaging. He lectured energetically, but welcomed abrupt questions and comments.

He must have felt that he had to give us every chance to recite, because the past year was a bad one for free speech. Most of the class appreciated this, and we reciprocated by behaving well. We all listened intently, politely raised our hands to recite, and disagreed with him and with each other civilly. At least to me, the graciousness of this class was a great departure from the venom of many UP activists barely a year before. Perhaps, I reassured myself, the jolt of martial law was a great mellowing process.

Politicizing Class Recitation

From my first glance at the syllabus, it looked difficult to inject angry anti-martial law statements into the topics. They happened many decades before, could be treated dispassionately, and seemed unconnected with martial law. As it turned out, that history class under Dr. Leslie Bauzon, because of its honesty and openness, was my initiation into the anti-martial law movement.

Not that it made me an organized activist, which was many months away. What happened was, finding the right audience and an accommodating professor, I let loose the accumulated resentment I had been nursing all these months. In the process, I lost my timidity and shyness. My license was academic freedom, and reinforcing me were these kindred spirits. They were just too eager to agree with me.

My “protest” style was simple. If, for example, Dr. Bauzon was lecturing on The Origins of American Colonialism, I would let him talk, and then I would politely raise my hand, comment on his points, and seamlessly inject US support for Marcos’ martial law. For the topic “The Aguinaldo Capitulation,” I injected Marcos’ treachery in selling-out Philippine interests to the US. For the topic “The Philippine American War,” I treaded on the dangerous ground of armed response to martial law. To Dr. Bauzon’s astonishment, I daringly said that the response to martial law was armed rebellion.

The topic “American Colonial Government,” opened the floodgates to so many anti-martial law comments, because I sharply but humorously attacked President Quezon’s classic statement that he’d prefer a government run like hell by Filipinos to one run like heaven by Americans. My excellently delivered punch line “There you have it,” brought the house down. 

There was also a lively discussion on whether the “Commander-in-chief” provision in the US sponsored 1935 Constitution, which Marcos used to declare martial law, should have been put there. I was of the opinion that that provision was misplaced, and many classmates backed me up. Finally, the topic “Philippine- American Post-war Relations” was a perfect one for anti-martial law criticism. It covered the harmful treaties that Marcos was ostensibly protecting, like the Bell and Laurel-Langley trade agreements, the RP-US Mutual Defense Treaty, and the RP-US Military Bases Agreement. These issues were standard activist fare, so we pounced on them like hungry wolves.

In the end, it was a matter of gleaning even a hint of a link between martial law and the various topics and sub-topics, and magnifying them, so that Marcos would get burned, at least in our classroom. We miserable protestors all derived consolation from that small victory.

As I expected, my classmates vented their anger with the same intensity that I did, some even more so. I got noticed as an angry anti-martial law student in this class, but I must admit I was not the most vocal. Many were more vociferous, but I did play the role of happy instigator.

After I would bash Marcos, they would all follow my cue and say their pieces. As one spoke, another would agree, and then another, and then yet another, in a livid crescendo of anti-martial law sentiments. Sometimes, the exchange would interrupt Dr. Bauzon for close to half-an-hour in mid- lecture, but he did not seem to mind. He just stood with arms akimbo on the foot-high platform and watched us with a concealed smile. He must have been too glad that the class was so interested in his lectures and so prepared for every discussion. But I also suspected it was a smile of satisfaction, for having done his duty as UP faculty.

My First Encounter

Unsurprisingly, my participation in the recitations, especially my brash remarks about the armed response to martial law, was enough to catch the eye of the covert leftist organizers in that class. I was sure that if there was a government agent among my classmates, he or she would have marked me as well -----I was so outspoken.  Soon, a classmate, whom I knew to be a political science major, whispered something to me.  She encouraged me in what I was doing.

She also told me she was going to introduce me to a contact, or as the activists called it, an “ugnay.”  I knew there and then that she was an organizer. It was 1973, and I was eighteen years old. My career as an organized activist was dawning. Today, almost 40 years later, hindsight tells me many anti-martial law UP students were probably initiated this way. I don’t know if we all passed Dr. Leslie Bauzon’s course, but at that point in our lives, that was a small problem.

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.  

When Martial Law Was Declared : University of the Philippines (UP)

Introduction

It was a Saturday, September 23, 1972. I woke up at about 5 am. I half-consciously settled my bathroom business. I then put on my newly pressed, fatigue Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) uniform. Next came the struggle with the painful combat boots. I noticed there were no broadcasts on TV, just static, which was very unusual. I did not pay attention to this anomaly because I was such in a hurry.

In those days, it took me only an hour to commute 37 kilometers by bus from our sleepy town, Bulacan, Bulacan, to the sprawling UP Campus. I reached UP at about 7:30 AM. Our Military Science classes started at 8 AM, but because there were routine briefings, we were required to be at the UP Department of Military Science and Tactics (UPDMST) premises, which was behind Abelardo Hall, a few minutes before that. 

When the red JD bus stopped in front of the University Theater, I jumped out and ran about 50 meters to find my co-cadets already starting to gather around. When we were already in neat military formation, our ROTC commandant, in heavy Ilocano accent, began his routine address to the hundred or so cadets: "This is our first training under martial law," he declared in a menacing tone.

Martial Law Changed the Course of My Life

In fact, I told myself, that remark was anything but routine. It took some minutes for it to sink in, but my senses were telling me that this thug was proudly declaring to our faces that starting today, his ilk was in charge of our luckless lives. I bit my lower lip and tried to digest all the implications.

What everyone was expecting or predicting the past two years or so had happened. Little did I know, however, that that day would change the course of my life. I began to assess what would happen next to the Philippines. Of course rumors flew thick and fast, and we youths lined-up in the September sun managed to talk secretly among ourselves.

Each of us caught and passed around rumors as fast as they came.  Ninoy Aquino had been arrested. Enrile had been ambushed. There was a firefight between government and rebel forces in the nearby Iglesia ni Cristo compound. This and that professor had been arrested. There was a 12 midnight curfew imposed by the military, with the violators to be hauled to Camp Crame. The New People’s Army would lead an uprising in Manila.

However, the rumor that we talked about the most was the forced “white side wall” hair-cuts forced by the military on any adult male who sported long hair, and was unfortunate enough to be accosted on the streets. In the early Seventies, lest we have forgotten, hippie culture was still in, and long hair for males was the norm. The aforementioned considered, the number of dudes whose hair was cut by the authorities must have been huge. A spin-off rumor to this one was that huge mounds of hair more than a meter high had built up in odd places in the thoroughfares of Manila and Quezon City.

On my way home that afternoon, the EDSA stretch between Balintawak Cloverleaf and the Bonifacio monument, where I got my bus to Bulacan, Bulacan, was very close to deserted. I considered myself lucky when my “F. Nito” bus came along, after more than an hour of waiting. I squeezed myself into the running board of the jam-packed vehicle and endured the ride home. I remember the poor bus’ diesel engine groaned as it made its way through the Manila North Diversion Road, as NLEX was called in those days.

Marcos Threatens, Tatad Orates

When I got home that evening, Information Secretary Francisco Tatad was already reading Presidential Proclamation 1081 on TV. The only channel that was airing was KBS Channel 9, which, I knew, belonged to Marcos crony Roberto Benedicto. After the long and laborious Tatad oration, a replay of that landmark address by Marcos telling the nation that he had declared martial law came up. This one got my undivided attention. His opening Iine was chilling: “My countrymen, as of the twenty-first of this month, I signed Proclamation № 1081 placing the entire Philippines under Martial Law...” I was surprised to hear him reveal that he had declared martial law two days before.  

I settled down in our kitchen to eat dinner. I continued listening to Marcos. Marcos said that he was declaring martial law through the powers given to him by the Philippine constitution as “commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces of the Philippines.” (AFP) He explained that the declaration was his move against the “oligarchs” who were trying to control the government and that it was expedited by a failed ambush of defense secretary Juan Ponce Enrile.

After hearing the bit about Sec. Enrile, I told myself that at least, one of the rumors that went around that morning was true. The Marcos announcement went on for about another thirty minutes, as he railed against communists and rich people alike.  He then read several “General Orders.” (GOs)

I remember that in these GOs Marcos ordered the arrest of certain people included in a “list.”  I also remember him ordering a ban on all forms of group actions, and imposing a curfew from 12 midnight until 4 am. After hearing the curfew announcement, I told myself --- “that’s another rumor confirmed.”  As I finished my meal, I heard Marcos utter what I would remember most from his announcement. He said he was doing all of this ------ "to save the Republic and reform society." 

Classes Resume: Tutorial Method and Mass Promotions

After Marcos' announcement, classes were suspended for several weeks in UP. During that period, I stayed at home, out of my parents concern for my safety. I just followed developments as they appeared on KBS Channel 9, and on the only newspaper permitted to publish, a very thick tabloid called The Daily Express. It sold for ten centavos a copy. When I returned to UP when classes resumed, more rumors were confirmed.  I learned that not a few student leaders and faculty had gone underground or had been arrested.

I also learned that the student council had been abolished, the Philippine Collegian padlocked, and the university radio station DZUP shut down.   Marcos also banned all UP college based student councils and publications, and all forms of student organizations.   Many faculty members, because of the abnormal situation, opted to conduct their classes "tutorial" style. This meant that they just met their classes occasionally and gave their students uniform passing grades. The latter practice was also called “mass promotion.”

The semester was about to end. None of my professors had favored the “tutorial” method, so I prepared myself for a hectic semestral homestretch. I had an 18 unit load, consisting of English III, Natural Science 1, Pilipino 13, Political Science 11, Social and Political Thought, and Spanish 12.  I remember the first class I attended was Social and Political Thought under the comely and diminutive professor Natalia Miñeque of the   Political Science department.

Martial Law Muzzles Free Discussion

Of course, the first and only thing we discussed in the initial meeting was the recent declaration. Predictably, no one in the room, least of all the instructor, dared to criticize martial law. For us students, we were afraid to speak up and condemn the martial law regime even if we were itching to. For the first time in our lives, the threat of arrest was real. However, in the subsequent meetings, some of my classmates dared criticize the regime, but only briefly.

The “Soc-Pol Thought” class met only for about seven times, as it was already mid-October. The recitations and exams were perfunctory.  The new conditions hung in the air so thick that it was impossible to pretend things were back to normal. We knew, though, that it was not in our professor’s heart to fail us. We knew that she knew that we had missed the semester against our will, and that the current emergency in itself, was a very educative course in politics.

Things were pretty much the same in my other classes ------ the topic of martial law also kept cropping up, with the professor playing it safe. As the semester wore on, however, most of us UP students managed to muster enough daring.  One by one, we began to voice our opinions in class, albeit very judiciously.  All of my professors except one gave us final exams, which I barely passed because my mind was not into studying anymore.

The one who did not give the final exam was an activist physics professor named Victor Manarang, who, we were told, went into hiding a few days after the declaration of martial law. I later learned that Victor Manarang was a former editor of the Philippine Collegian.  I will never forget Prof. Manarang’s exam question regarding the trajectory of thrown objects, in which the example he used was the trajectory of pillbox bombs thrown by irate demonstrators at riot policemen.

From Oblation to Emasculation

Marcos made sure that the broad student movement in UP would be emasculated. It had been a major thorn in his side ever since he assumed the presidency in January 1966. UP students, especially those belonging to the leftist Kabataang Makabayan (KM), formed the spearhead in the rowdy demonstrations against the Manila Summit Conference of 1966, and against Philippine involvement in the Vietnam War. To add insult to injury, the UP Student Council, led by its chairman, Enrique “Voltaire” Garcia, even staged a huge anti-Vietnam War rally in front of Malacañang on September 11, 1966. It was Marcos’ first birthday as president.

UP students also participated heavily in the so-called “Battle of Mendiola” on January 30, 1970, which led to the historic rallies in the first three months of that year called the “First Quarter Storm” (FQS).  These demonstrations from the country’s best and brightest succeeded in depicting his administration as a beleaguered regime. Worse, the Diliman Commune of February 1-9 1971 showed that for one brief moment, UP students could brazenly put up a rebel government right under Marcos’ bloodied nose.  The archetype UP student activist was a double-edged sword. He/she had the brain to understand complex issues and explain these widely; he/she also had the physical jaggedness vital for the rough and tumble parliament of the streets.

From this media-magnified arena, UP student activists effectively contributed to a negative public opinion against Marcos’ administration, by skillfully articulating on the burning issues. This became   apparent after the November 11, 1969 Philippine presidential elections, when the Philippine economy nosedived because of Marcos’ campaign overspending. After this election, student demonstrations increased in frequency, size, and intensity, with the media giving extensive coverage.  

Quick Witted UP Students

The fact that radical students were gaining access to mass media showed that a budding alliance was forming between the radicals and the mass media owners, whom Marcos referred to as the “oligarchs.” Marcos knew this, and that early, he already had in his cross-hairs the Lopez family, who owned ABS-CBN Channels 2 and 4 and the Manila Chronicle, and the Roces family, who owned ABC Channel 5 and the influential Manila Times. For similar reasons, also earning Marcos’ ire at this time was the Teodoro Locsin family, who owned the then very credible Philippines Free Press.

For example, at the height of the FQS and the Diliman Commune, UP student leaders Gary Olivar, who was then the chairman of the Movement for a Democratic Philippines (MDP), and Fernando “Jerry” Barican, who was the chairman of the UP Student Council, became household words because of their frequent TV appearances.  The Philippine Collegian, under fearless editors like Antonio Tagamolila and Oscar Yabes, was often quoted by the mainstream press. UP President Salvador Lopez himself at one point had the boldness to lead an anti-Marcos demonstration.

I recall one incident in February 1971 on DZBB Channel 7. It showed the kind of logic and mental grasp UP students of those days were capable of. The Diliman Commune was a few days old. In one late-time TV talk show on Channel 7 which was hosted by Bob Stewart, a motley group of Marcos cabinet members and pro-Marcos congressmen were trying to befuddle UP student leader Raymond Altarejos on the oil issue. I am not sure but one of the tormentors must have been Leonardo Perez.

The quick witted Altarejos was seated in the middle of a row of folding chairs, flanked by two or three Marcos underlings. Altarejos was not even considered a heavyweight in the movement. He was earlier left to his lonesome after his famous companions suddenly left the set. The pro-Marcos side raised question after puzzling question, in a vain effort to pin down Altarejos. They wanted to out argue Altarejos into admitting that the students’ demand for an oil price rollback was unreasonable. Altarejos, who was an engineering student, did not flinch under pressure. For more than thirty minutes, he coherently answered or otherwise parried every question. Altarejos ended up patiently giving the elders a lecture.

Because UP students had become such a public opinion force, muzzling the voice of the “Diliman Republic” became Marcos’ obsession. Once the instruments of dictatorship were in place, Marcos did what he had drooled to do since the Sixties --- put those Maoist UP professors and students behind bars. To him, they had masqueraded as nationalists long enough. They had to be put in their place. UP had to be pacified, if his still shaky martial law regime were to fully stabilize. Ironically, Marcos himself was a product of this vexatious institution, whose pleasantly wooded campus lay in geographic proximity to the foot of the Sierra Madre Mountains, the lair of the emerging rebel forces.

Salvador Lopez Plays Dictator and Democrat

To both activist and non-activist UP students who wanted to join or establish organizations, 1973 was a year of adjustment. They had to adjust to regulation. Gone were the days when student power ruled the campus and they could do and say almost anything. It was not the case that the UP administration, now under a tamed Salvador P. Lopez, was out to eliminate student organizations and activism outright. “SP” Lopez knew better than that. He knew in his heart that if stopping the activities of young people was next to impossible, what more in the case of UP students with their tradition of rebellion?

They were incorrigibly political and outspoken. Besides, I was not convinced that Lopez, who sincerely took the cudgels for the students during the Diliman Commune, had completely decamped to Marcos. To me, he was too much of a democrat to act as the campus fascist. Besides, Lopez loved UP too much. This affection showed in his landmark policies. Later in his tenure, he fashioned UP into a “UP System” and allowed the faculty and personnel to participate in UP’s decision making processes.

What the Lopez “admin” did in the early martial law years was allow the existence of non-militant UP organizations and publications, but heavily regulate their activities and publications. Egged on by the military, it also implemented an absolute ban on all pre-martial law leftist organizations like the KM, the Samahang Demokratiko ng Kabataan, (SDK), and the Student Alliance for National Democracy (STAND).  Also prohibited were all forms of political demonstrations and manifestations, regardless of the issue. This ban included class boycotts which had become a standard activist weapon, and a revered UP ritual.

President Lopez was obviously doing a balancing act, between Malacañang and his constituents. I vividly remember him trembling, holding his anger as he spoke, during one of the numerous meetings he had with haughty student leaders. Looking closer, I remember imagining smoke coming from his bald pate. At this point, I surmised, all this highly lettered man wanted  as his legacy was a well maintained and peaceful university. His overarching aim was to prevent UP activism of the Diliman Commune type to rematerialize. This principle would best explain what the Lopez administration did starting in 1973, vis-à-vis student affairs.

Student Council Abolished, Enter Concomsa

First, the student council was to remain suspended, because apparently this was not negotiable with Malacañang. For an indefinite period, the council could not be allowed to exist. However, there was also a need to create an air of normalcy in the campus, because many still felt jittery on the effects of martial law. With these conditions in mind, the UP Office of Student Affairs (OSA), under Prof. Armando Malay and his assistant, Prof. Oscar “Vangge” Evangelista, created a body that would approximate, even remotely, a genuine student council. They called it the Consultative Committee for Student Affairs ---- “Concomsa” for short.

The word “consultative” said it all: Concomsa was not to be the independent, and self-determining UP Student Council of old. Concomsa would have no power to make decisions on its own. It was to be merely consulted by the UP administration, or make recommendations on its own.  The UP Administration was to make all the final decisions on matters heretofore within the purview of the UP Student Council. However, President Lopez allowed the Concomsa to represent the students in the policy-making bodies of the University. He also ordered that funds be allotted to the body for student welfare projects.

The Concomsa projects I like the most were Pasiklab ‘74, a musical number contest for the organizations, and Palakas ‘74, a sports fest with the same participants. In Pasiklab ’74, I was a member of the UP Political Science Club singing group which sang a merry patriotic song. It was held in the early evening, at the cavernous University Theater. In Palakas ’74, I played for the UP Lipunang Pangkasaysayan (Likas) basketball team. I remember that when we played against the Campus Crusade for Christ (CCC) team on the asphalt court just outside the old gym, we gave the "born agains" a serious drubbing.

Second, and this hurt as much as the first, the new Concomsa was not to be elected at large. It was to be composed of representatives from student organizations. At this time, the OSA had approved about fifty or so organizations, and it deemed that this number was big enough to constitute a base for even a make-believe student council. These representatives were to be nominated by the organizations themselves, with the OSA approving or disapproving the nominations.

I remember that when the first Concomsa was convened in March 1974, its chairman was Roberto “Bobby” Crisol who was, at that time, the Lord Chancellor of the UP Alpha Sigma fraternity.  The son of Magsaysay psywar expert and Marcos defense undersecretary Jose Crisol, Bobby was probably representing the fraternity sector.

Other Concomsa members whom I can recall were Elizabeth Protacio (UP Psychology Society), Renato S. Velasco (UP Likas and UP Alpha Sigma Fraternity), Ramon de la Llana (UP Economics Society), Maria Carmen Jimenez (UP Psychology Society) Oliver Jumao-as (Beta Sigma Fraternity), Arturo Calaguas (Epsilon Chi Fraternity), Jose Maria Nolasco (UP Political Science Club and UP Tau Gamma Fraternity), Regina Padilla (UP Beta Rho Sorority and UP Political Science Club), and Bibeth Orteza (Samahan ng mga Magaaral sa Komunikasyon or Samaskom). 

New Breed of Student Leaders

The Concomsa represented the new breed of UP activists, tempered by the conditions of repression. These “martial law babies” were made of sterner stuff, because they chose to be activists under the peril of military rule. They could be unceremoniously arrested, tortured, or executed. Less driven by fame, their work was harder. Less articulate, they nevertheless were calmer in demeanor, more patient, less confrontational, and better dressers than their predecessors. They waged their struggle not in tumult of the streets, but in the slog of countless meetings, consultations, and "position papers."  And, unlike their celebrated forerunners, they were practically unknown outside UP. For obvious reasons, the martial law media ignored them.

This “non-elected” nature of the Concomsa went against a sixty-year UP tradition, that of UP students directly electing the members of their council. In effect, President Salvador Lopez and Dean Armando Malay were trying to give the fiercely independent UP student body of the early Seventies an insipid student council, one that lacked authentic power and mandate. It was a “consuelo de bobo” that was being foisted on a heroic studentry.  These kids had recently waged one of the most eloquent and ferocious anti-dictatorship struggles in the Third World at that time.

Armando Malay and the OSA

Third, students seeking to revive suspended organizations or create new ones had to go through a tedious screening and approval process conducted by the OSA, no doubt with the military looking over its shoulders. To get approved, the organizers had to submit to the OSA the name, list of officers and members, the constitution or by-laws, and set of activities of the organization. Most UP student organizations fell under the following types:  academic (the most numerous), fraternities and sororities, “varsitarian (based on provincial-linguistic origin),” and dormitory councils. Other types of organizations that I can remember included socio-civic, religious, recreational, and special interest.

All of these had to go through the sieve of accreditation. Complicating matters was that many student leaders had gone underground or were arrested or killed, so that those applying with the OSA were relatively greenhorns.  This meant they had to catch up on their organizing and leadership skills, and faced the daunting challenge of recruiting new members. Another problem was that since many organizations lost many documents and records in the confusion of the emergency, the new organizers had to write new constitutions and by-laws and think up new concepts. In short, most of them were starting from scratch.

Once the organization was set up and functioning, the regulation did not stop. Major public presentations, like a symposium, a play, or a debate, including the posters announcing these, had to be green-lighted by the OSA. I remember all posters on the CAS walls bearing on one of their corners the familiar three-inch long, oval shaped, violet, and rubber-stamped OSA seal of approval. OSA held its office at Vinzons Hall, and that is where I often saw Dean Malay pacing about in the corridor like the wise old man, bushy eyebrows and all. I also frequently bumped into the amiable and goateed Oscar Evangelista, who cheerily greeted everyone in the hallways.

DZUP’s Demise

Fourth, DZUP, the official AM radio station of UP, which had been broadcasting since 1957, was to remain off the air. Its studio was raided and its equipment destroyed with sledge hammers and axes by the Philippine Constabulary Metropolitan Command (PC-Metrocom) in those momentous dawn hours of September 23, 1972.

The military had good reason to put down DZUP, as it had a tactical value to the communists. The latter could have used it to relay vital information to their armed units. They could have broadcast calls for massive demonstrations. Worse still for Marcos, DZUP could have been a rallying point for the broad but scattered opposition.  Letting DZUP broadcast anew, even under a new management, was a risk the new military government could not take.

However, I don’t remember my fellow students being particularly concerned about the station’s demise. I certainly did not miss it. By hindsight, I surmise that DZUP’s credibility at this time was already compromised. It had become essentially a communist mouthpiece. This had been the case since the Diliman Commune.

The station did not even have the tongue-in-cheek to broadcast mainstream local and foreign songs, which it doubtless denigrated as bourgeois. It catered to a significant but limited audience, and alienated quite a lot.  I was put off by its constant fare of Tagalog revolutionary songs, which included a Tagalog version of the Internationale.  The vast majority of UP students could not identify with it.

This front page of the Philippine Collegian pretty much sums it up for the role of the paper during martial law in the Philippines. It spoke not only for the UP students, but also for the entire silenced nation. Kudos to managing editor Fides M. Lim who conceptualized the cover, and who was the moving, albeit silent spirit behind the Collegian of these heady days. It happened during the editorship of Abraham "Ditto" Sarmiento Jr. who, in fairness to the man, also gave his own brand of courage to the Collegian. For his actions against the dictatorship, Sarmiento was imprisoned for a long time, an experience which contributed to his health problems. Ditto Sarmiento died prematurely at age 27, of a heart attack.  

 

The Philippine Collegian Rises

The only bright spot was the Philippine Collegian, that symbol of free and critical expression, that criterion of journalistic excellence. The paper did not undergo restraints as debilitating as those imposed on the student council, or as brutal and brazen as that which bludgeoned DZUP.  Unlike the UP Student Council, the Collegian was permitted to operate, after about three months in the freezer. I surmised that the paper was treated with kid gloves because its editor, Oscar Yabes, was not identified that closely  with the radicals. Yabes also belonged to the College of Law based UP Sigma Rho Fraternity, and was therefore a “brod” of defense secretary Juan Ponce Enrile. It is nearly certain his brods interceded for him, fast tracking the resumption of the Collegian.

The paper’s nearly seamless return was certainly good tidings to many, not in the least because the Collegian, in 1972, was celebrating the 50th anniversary of its establishment. What can be more propitious in celebrating a paper’s golden birthday then, than to see it survive a vicious clamp-down and be reborn under martial law?   The Collegian was fortunate. In contrast to the fire breathing DZUP, the paper in recent years had not become thoroughly radical, at least in form. It had not estranged many. The big difference was that many Collegian writers, though closet Marxists, were able to present Left ideology in intellectual or academic terms. By doing so, they preserved the paper’s long-standing respectability and credibility.  

Mr. Yabes himself was only briefly “detained” by the authorities, during which the UP College of Law student was given a pro-martial law lecture by Col. Noe Andaya of the Camp Aguinaldo based AFP Office for Community Relations (OCR). Finding him amply connected, a mild threat to the state, and perhaps as a concession to Collegian continuity and campus normalization, the OSA permitted Yabes to serve out his term. It ended in 1974. In fairness to Yabes, the Collegian that he edited in the first two years of martial law was not the servile paper many people had expected.

To Yabes’ credit, he devoted many Collegian pages to student rights and welfare.  Its content, though, had to be approved by the OSA, and by the government’s notorious Mass Media Council. For good measure, the OSA later appointed a faculty adviser, in the person of literary giant Prof. Francisco “Franz” Arcellana, to observe the Collegian’s operations. Even this was a blessing, because as it turned out, Dr. Arcellana was more the doting parent to the Collegian staff than the petrifying censor. The Collegian staffers I talk to today still refer to “Franz” with fondness and respect.

Campus Under Siege ---- For a While At Least

Aside from putting up with restrictions on their organizational life, UP students also had to adjust to restrictions on their personal movement. UP police and security guards began to inspect bags, attaché cases, and notebooks at the college entrances. I distinctly recall a bald headed member of the UP police who was nicknamed “Kojak” by the students. He was tall and slender, walked with a swagger in his almost skin-tight khaki uniform, and always wore bikini sunglasses. His black shoes were always immaculately shiny. He was particularly arrogant. The students never took him seriously though, and often laughed behind his back.

The security guards were under instructions to confiscate weapons, explosives, and underground publications or documents. Most of us did not carry these items, but the hassle of having to go through persons with new-found superiority was annoying in the least. Of course, the Filipino “ningas cogon” mentality prevailed soon enough ---- the moronic guards began to wave in students in droves as the year wore on. The Lopez administration also imposed a 10 p.m. to 6. a.m curfew in the colleges, which was progressively relaxed until it disappeared unnoticed.

With the rallies and boycotts gone, and the firebrands silenced, UP students also had to adjust to a quiet and uneventful campus --- at least for the time being. The second semester of school year 72-73 was the first uninterrupted one in decades, during which class syllabi content was fulfilled 100% by most faculty.

The conservative students who were indifferent to the activists exulted at this new situation. Now they could pay full attention to their studies, which, to them, was what UP life was all about. This was nowhere more true than in the College of Business Administration (CBA), where students, enticed by the prospect of high paying jobs in big corporations, were the most pro-capitalist in UP.

Faculty Disappearances

In the critical second semester in ‘72-‘73, UP students continued experiencing having their professors unceremoniously disappear in the middle of the semester, and be replaced by another. This was because military surveillance and harassment continued in school and in their homes. More UP faculty members are known to have gone underground in those uncertain days, in addition to those who hid immediately before and after the declaration.  Some were to resurface a few years later.

Aside from my aforesaid natural science instructor, another professor of mine also vanished: Prof. Vivencio “Vencio” Jose, who handled my English I course. Vencio was identified with the Moscow leaning Filipino communists. He was one of my best professors. I was told that Prof. Jose was so hounded by the military that he decided to take a leave.

Prof. Jose was replaced by Prof. Elmer Ordoñez who finished the course quite hurriedly and gave us glowing grades. I later learned that shortly after that semester, Prof. Ordoñez packed up his bags to join the US based anti-Marcos opposition. I also remember my political science adviser doing the disappearing act: he by the name of Prof. Temario “Temy” Rivera. We would later meet again in 1979  as co-detainees at the Bicutan Rehabilitation Center (BRC).