DIARY OF A REVOLUTIONARY (kuno!) by Leslie and Carmencita Abelardo

***Written by my Dad with the collaboration of my Mom.

I do not consider myself brave. Only heroes like Ninoy and Tatay are. But, I have known fear intimately enough to grapple with its oftentimes debilitating effects and still manage to stay above water.

It is said that “prudence is the better part of valor.” I try to stick to this dictum as practicable as possible. I even think that this saying is the universal motto of all cowardly types. And that, includes me.

Until the ”snap elections” was called. I did not think I would play a part, though insignificant, in any of the historical events that was to unfold. I felt I did not want any part of it. But, the wife, (Carmencita) thought otherwise.

In October, 1985, Don Jaime Zobel of NAMFREL was looking for volunteers to help man the polls. Thru Cely Lorayes, I volunteered my wife’s name (and reputation) posthaste to avoid having to directly participate myself. At first, I did not want her to supervise the Olympia Village proceedings so as not to antagonize the Marcos loyalists in our area. On second thought, however, I also believed that she would be more effective (and credibly, non-partisan, I hoped) in an area where she is known. Also, I felt we would be operating in relative safety (Yabut bodyguards, notwithstanding).

So, I joined the seminars and briefings, helped coordinate meetings with her constituted group of which I, automatically, became a pillar (ha, ha) of, in a disguised attempt to please the chairperson. My heart, however, was not fully into the act, yet.

Until Melvin Yabut, the nephew of Mayor Nemesio Yabut, tried to dissuade her from pushing through with the Bantay ng Bayan exercise. A seething anger slowly found its way into my political consciousness. The fear, however, of violence marring the proceedings also manifested itself in the face of this real, dangerous threat. Little by little…… much to my discomfiture, I was being inexorably drawn into the social upheaval.

D-Day, February 7, 1986. Most of our apprehensiveness were dramatized into life-sized reality. There was rampant cheating, harassment, a pervading atmosphere of tension. At the lunch hour, NAMFREL’s Over-All Chairman Jose Concepcion declared a “Failure of Elections” and we were ordered to pull out and upon orders of Fernando Zobel De Ayala, our NAMFREL chairman for this side of Makati, we regrouped at the Sanctuario de San Antonio parish hall. Amid the shouting, catcalls, sporadic debates, a general consensus was reached to proceed and stand vigil at the Guadalupe Viejo Elementary School in Barrio Pinagkaisahan, where other beleaguered colleagues were valiantly holding fort. The newspaper accounts of what transpired there should suffice to relate that episode.

Eventually, the road to our freedom fight that day ended at the Makati Municipal Hall quadrangle. Or, should I say, started? From that day on, we stood vigil in a vain attempt to ensure that the true election results would be reflected. During that 2-week or so vigil, the place became a veritable Freedom Park and a holiday plaza of sorts. It was there where the nation’s opposition’s who’s who converged together with the small and insignificant who(?). I recall one gentlemen who prided himself as an advertising man, mouthing sharp, biting radicalisms that were, at times, downright seditious. But, he was not only clearly motivated. He was sincerely committed to the cause of change. He was there everyday and I sort of felt embarrassed if I could not go on vigil a certain day for some reason or another. So, my wife and I spent a memorable, historic, unromantic evening on Valentine’s Day dialoguing with Jojo Binay and Atty. Untalan who were carping about another ineffectual day they had with the local COMELEC.

Our Makati vigil went full cycle the night, or should I say the day (it was already 5:00 am of February 15) we brought the returns to the Batasan. I, myself, was sure of the rigged results and didn’t want to dignify the proceedings by playing out the entire anti-climactic scene. But, for some, foolhardy reason…what the heck. We went.

Back at Olympia Village, all “the king’s men” were strutting about, beating their chests, and singing hallelujahs. Some, bless their hearts, were at least patronizing, if not condescending.

I did not want to show my true color ( yellow—perhaps a bit literally than was the norm) when we joined the TAGUMPAY NG BAYAN walkathon cum rally at the Luneta. In fact, I even surreptitiously emerged from out front gate to avoid the sabi-ko-na-nga-ba dagger looks of the Yabut cohorts.

I loved that march and was proud of it. It was the longest march I walked and although I developed what a nice doctor-friend called a “revolutionary’s knee,” it reminded me of that warm feeling of belonging, as esprit de corps that brings out the brotherhood in every freedom-loving Filipino.

Cory Aquino sounded the clarion for civil disobedience and boycott of crony-associated products and services. I booed against doing without San Miguel Beer for an indefinite period but I tried my best to heed her call.

An awakened, nationalistic spirit needs very little reason to manifest itself. Thus, upon, Cardinal Sin’s appeal for “people power” at Crame, off we immediately hied to lend Enrile and Ramos warm and sacrificial bodies on February 22. At the back of my mind, was the nagging thought that the “authorities” would really do us in—regardless of whether or not we were there for the “We Belong” spirit. I know this was no picnic and if there was going to be real trouble, magkakasubuan na.

We parked our cars near Gate 4 of Camp Aguinaldo and walked along EDSA all the way to the front gate of Camp Crame. We milled about in company of about a few hundred others since this was still the first hour of Cardinal Sin’s call at Radio Veritas, where our ears were glued to radio sets, all the while. A little over an hour had passed and I noticed that the throng was getting larger and multiplying fast! Soon, the crowd was so dense I had difficulty tracking down the members of our little group.

Like in the Makati vigil, the same familiar personalities were there: Leah Navarro, Celeste Legaspi and hubby, June Keithley, Jaime Ongpin and the superstar herself, Nora Aunor who promptly got the booing of her life.

Despite the radio sets almost everyone were lugging around, communicating information was harried and passed by primitive word-of-mouth. We left EDSA, trod our way along Santolan and installed ourselves in front of the gate of the MND Building when frantic calls for support to barricade was transmitted along the grapevine.

My thoughts then were: 1.) my poor car could be trampled over a by tank coming out of Gate 4 and here I was helplessly way off on the opposite side; 2.) We could also be ran over by other tanks coming out of the Santolan side of the camp. As the hours ticked away, it was, to me, getting to be serious. We may even get to be seriously dead.

Suddenly, a bright idea flashed as I fussed over the dilemma of holding out with the barricading multitude. The rumbling of my stomach gave me a convenient excuse to strongly suggest a temporary pull-out. “Let’s have snacks and coffee at my in-laws place at Project 4,” I declared. Everyone succumbed to the call of nature, hunger included, when I assured them we would be back after relieving ourselves, (from hunger, too!).

I commandeered a passing taxicab, piled all eight of us into the vehicle, and amidst the wailing protestations of the driver, proceeded to out destination. We stayed long enough to savor a few tarts, coffee, and lots of encouragement from the olds, who were beglowing with pride. I thought, “God, they do seem really happy sending me to my certain doom. Why is it I feel real creepy about this impending martyrdom?”

Back at the frontlines between the EDSA gates of Camps Crame and Aguinaldo. It was almost five o’clock am of February 23 and the ranks look depleted by the retreat of large groups who were either losing heart, like me, or intended to shore up on courage and provisions. Again, it literally dawned upon me that it was a good enough excuse for us to be heading back for home. Without looking too eager, I suggested we hear mass first before we make our way back since a makeshift platform was already set up for the forthcoming rite.

I was still without sleep as I kept my regular Sunday tennis appointment. My tennis cronies were surprisingly lukewarm to my announcement that I came from EDSA, alive and playing the game of my life. Well, perhaps it was because they were so used to the graphic accounts of my NAMFREL exploits…but then, reminiscing, I now realize they were merely reacting normally, like the closet loyalists they must be. Then again, it’s alright because we play apolitical tennis, naman.

I slept and stayed home for the day, Sunday, February 24 content with following the events over the radio and on TV, whatever information was being shown. My wife, I was to learn from her later, went back to EDSA and bought a vanful of huge cigarette shippers to use as sleeping mats for some nuns and NAMFREL volunteers.

As I prepared for the office Monday morning of February 25, I switched on the TV, hoping to get news of the traffic situation going to Cubao. Pres. Marcos and the entire family were displayed onscreen. As I was about to turn up the volume, the phone rings. Rudy Corpuz agitately announces there is dancing and merriment in the streets, particularly along Ayala Avenue, right in front of Insular Life. “Marcos is gone!” he shouts into the receiver. “What? How is that possible?” I shouted back.

“It’s all over the radio, man. Aren’t you awake yet?” he chides.

I snapped back, “Well, you better check again because here I am with the TV and the guy and his flock is also all over the screen, a bit haggard and drowsy, but very much alive with his grandchildren prancing about!”

He was still unconvinced suggesting that what was on TV was just a reply of some old tape, etc., even as I gave him a running commentary on what was flashing before me. Finally, we agreed on meeting after lunch and hike to EDSA.

All the while, I wondered where the wife was, fleetingly worried for her safety and perished the thought just as quickly. (I found out later that she stayed all day and all night in Malacanang and was there at the exact time that the Marcoses left. She even brought home with her documents from Malacanang and some cuttings from the wires (concertinas) used as barricades).

There were four of us from Insular Life (Amado Resurreccion, Rudy Corpuz, Agustin Fabon and I ) on that fateful journey. We first took a jeepney ride up to the Guadalupe Bridge from our place at Olympia Village. Once there, a bus took us only up to Shaw Blvd. From that point, we walked.

It was a long walk. But, it was a memorable walk. Barricades were already up at the Ortigas-EDSA junction, some not-so-human (steel railings, cement blocks, sandbags, tree branches, cars, trucks, etc). People were coming and going, but mostly going to the Crame-Aguinaldo portion of the highway. I have never seen so many people in my life congregated altogether in one place. There were student groups, doctor groups, peasant (and Red?) types, it seemed all of Metro Manila wanted to be there.

There was hardly any breathing room as we reached Crame’s EDSA gate. I saw Marilou Diaz Abaya directing the filming of the spectacle atop a pick-up. I was so near suffocation, however, to dally and catch the camera’s attention.

We inched our way up to Camp Panopio gate where we tried getting in in the guise of food volunteers. No way. We spent some time dawdling about until we decided to move on towards the Horseshoe Drive. From there, we took a left, and made our way back to Makati. I was so tired I couldn’t even carry a conversation. But I thought, “Marcos is doomed. There is no way he can disperse this crowd now. It’s only a matter of time. The people have, at least, spoken, and won!”

Each one, surprisingly, share the same belief and felt victory will soon be at hand. So what did we do? We celebrated and got inebriated. Was it just because we were looking for a convenient excuse to forego the beer boycott? Perhaps it was. But, I was also so happy then. The waitresses even warned us a curfew was then in effect. No one gave a hoot. We chorused, “Oh, really?” So, let them arrest us!”

We continued drinking and celebrated our freedom one full day ahead of history.

Photo by: Clyde Manzano

Love letters and idealisms by Noel Abelardo