As many of those in the countryside and beyond joined the CPP and the NPA, the organizations’ leadership in later years eventually came from the peasant class. Kumander Dante was one. It was a name that everyone knew in the 1970s. He was a mysterious figure, heard about but never seen until his capture in 1976. Stories of his battles with the military abounded; his exploits in the field, though not broadcast in traditional media, were passed around in the “right” circles in San Fernando and beyond. Many accorded him hero status. I even wondered at some point if he was with Olalia when the latter was gunned down in battle. After being hunted by the military for years, his capture was a big achievement for Marcos. Did this mean then that Marcos was winning the war? Did it mean that the movement would now collapse? What did we really know about how many were involved in the underground and how close or how far were they in taking control of the country? These are the questions that we asked. But no one I knew had the answers. The ones that do know were busy fighting in the hills and mountainsides across the Philippines’ seven thousand islands.
There was one thing I learned much later about Kumander Dante’s capture. I found out about it when I was at TFDP’s offices in the winter of 2008. I had called the organization from the U.S. to arrange a meeting with them since I was planning a visit to the Philippines. They said that they had a library that contained much of the information I wanted. When I got there, the librarian warmly welcomed me and gave me full access to their records and library holdings. She even arranged for me to interview an ex-detainee the next afternoon. They had thousands and thousands of pages of reports about political prisoners and the abuses they suffered at the hands of the military. I now possess a copy of a report prepared by a TFDP staff on a visit to Kumander Dante, the alias of Bernabe Buscayno at the military camp and the torture he suffered. The account began.
“Bernabe Buscayno was doing social investigation work and helping peasants organize associations and cooperatives in the barrios of Pampanga when he was arrested by government security forces…
He was tortured during and immediately after his arrest and while undergoing interrogation at the CSU-2 headquarters at Camp Olivas. Among the physical punishments he was subjected to were body punching, kicking and jabbing with rifle muzzles, repeated clapping of his ears, pulling and squeezing his scrotum, calculated strangulation squeezing and karate chopping of his throat, cigarette burning of his nape and forearms, squirting the inside of his nose with an intoxicating fluid, manacling of his hands for months on the railing of a bed. He was also repeatedly threatened with death or “salvaging,” for refusing to give in to their demands.”
Reading the account made it all so real to me again after all those years. But it also cemented the negative regard I had of the Philippine military. It was worthwhile knowing that I was not wrong about the anger I felt. As validating as it was, here I was, literally facing my demons. They were back. There they were in the dark room with me, rearing their ugly heads once again. I could not breathe; I had to get out. I hastily said my goodbye, mumbling something about returning the following day. Quickly gathering my things, I knew I needed to manage what my body was making me go through again. I got out of the building as quickly as I could. I was almost blinded by the bright sunshine outside after the dark room I was in. I heard a voice telling me to watch my back as I walked towards the corner to hail a taxicab that would take me back to the hotel. Was that a real voice or was it my imagination? As I sat in the back seat, I was beginning to become undone. But, remarkably, I noticed that the symptoms that I manifested in such circumstances failed to appear this time. I focused on my breath and tried to forget everything else. Moments later, I noticed that my palms were not sweaty and my heart was not beating so wildly. I was relieved to realize that the therapeutic work I had done on this aspect of my life had not been put to waste. I silently thanked the people who had worked with me as the car sped towards the hotel. I continued to focus on my breath, but I could not help feeling distracted because the radio in the car was on and it was loud. The program being aired was a congressional hearing on the alleged corruption of President Gloria Arroyo’s husband to the tune of more than $200 million on a broadband network development contract with the Chinese. I could not help but think how some things never change in the Philippines. Corruption will always be a mainstay of political drama. Soon, I was at the hotel, comforted that I was back, but also stronger in the belief that I might just finally be over what had dogged and terrorized me for years.
Given Filipinos’ major disappointment with the CPP and the left after the 1986 People Power that drove Marcos out of the country, one begins to wonder how long they intended to wait until taking over the reins of government. Alternately, were they even capable of taking over, given that they lost their chance to do so when Corazon Aquino became president? Many critics believed that the left squandered this opportunity and that internal party struggles had marred the organization. One might even venture to ask: Has dissidence simply become a well-worn career path for budding communists or leftist guerillas? Or some might wonder: have they lost their way, as they increasingly beat a path towards criminality? In their early years, they gave hope to countless masses that joined the leftist fold because Filipinos were in dire need of a political alternative. But the dogma became, over time, increasingly distanced from what was actually happening on the ground. Lives were not getting any better, even for those in areas of the country under the protection of the NPA. Economic statistics from the period, spanning from the late 1960s to the time that Marcos fled the country in 1986, showed that poverty had increased. While the CPP is not being blamed for the growing poverty since this is as much the fault of Marcos’ failed economic policies as well as the unsuccessful intervention measures brought about by international monetary institutions such as the World Bank and the IMF, it indicated that the CPP was too remote and distant to ever truly become a significant factor in the economic and political life of the country. In other words, they had not become a crucial ‘player,’ specifically not in the way they would be able to influence significant social change, and perhaps not even in any real sense so that the lives of those they purportedly protected would have gotten better after many years of patient waiting. The left remained outside the mainstream, and while this was deliberate—being seen as ‘the other’ a pre-determined stance since its inception—many years of armed struggle have only strengthened the government’s resolve to extinguish them from existence. Furthermore, the CPP had not made it their mission to put a stop to the oligarchic politics that had been entrenched in the country since independence in 1946. They believed, as Mao did in China, which was the initial model that they adapted, like Castro in Cuba, and then the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, that the struggle must begin in the countryside and from there, fan out to the urban areas of the country. While some success was achieved in certain areas, I wondered why it is taking so long for the CPP to do the same across the country. Something else must be operating. Over time I have had my own speculations about this but I did not give it the space necessary in my thinking because like many of the experiences I had there, I relegated it to the deep recesses of my mind once I left the Philippines in 1979. It was convenient for me to do that. I needed to block the pain. I needed to live my life in a way that I could ignore the undesirable, the fearful, and the dark side, despite my nagging wish that the country would improve. But even more importantly, I was still reeling from the hold the military had on me, despite my being physically released from political detention. For five long years, they monitored my presence by requiring me to report to the camp as if I was on parole. All that was too nerve wracking for me as I moved from being a teenager into adulthood.
By 1986, the people of the Philippines decided they had had enough of Marcos. When they finally took to the streets and drove Marcos away without any bloodshed, it illustrated that the country could instruct the world a lesson or two in overthrowing a despot through peaceful means. Meanwhile, t
he CPP stayed in the background and Corazon Aquino became president. Much as she was loved, got the mandate to rule the country, and the admiration of the world, her presidency maintained a long-standing political tradition: oligarchic politics was alive and well in the Philippines. The family you came from could well dictate your role in society. Aside from being the widow of slain Benigno Aquino, Jr., President Aquino was a member of the wealthy, land-owning Cojuangco family, a part of the land-owning class that has often times used political power to maintain their economic interests, and, to a considerable degree, expand these assets while in power. Being part of the elite in the Philippines has always meant being privileged both in economic and political terms, with the two never far apart. Herein lies the difference between the elite in the developing world and those in developed economies. Bill Gates in the US may well be part of the economic elite but it would be wrong to say he is part of the political elite. In the Philippines, the Aquinos were well ensconced in both. This was also true with the Cojuangcos, the Marcoses, the Romualdezes, etc., and the select few oligarchic families that have ruled the country for generations and continue to rule to this day. Then when Gloria Macapagal Arroyo became president, it was not surprising, as she herself is the daughter of a former president, Diosdado Macapagal. Furthermore, Corazon Aquino’s son, Benigno III won in the last presidential election in 2010. I am beginning to wonder why the left continues to ignore this destructive pattern in politics. They were asleep at the wheel at the time of the People Power and have remained sleeping now, only to wake up every now and again in order to wreck havoc and violence and show people that they, too, are capable of violence. Now how does that make them different from Marcos or other political leaders?
Returning Home
“Rocking around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday. Everyone’s dancing merrily…” sang a male voice, his voice drowned out as the massive door of the camp opened. The sound had been coming from a radio in a jeepney that sped down the street, preventing me from catching the next lines of the song. Then I heard another Christmas tune as another jeepney careened past government buildings.
I’d been at the camp for several weeks now. Christmas is approaching. When I walked to father’s office yesterday, I noticed the colorful Christmas lights strung along building facades and Christmas trees adorning their entrances. The few private homes on this street were similarly festive. The chilly air that usually came at this time of year had arrived. I wondered if I was going to make it home to celebrate Christmas with my family. I could not help but think about the holiday and how we celebrated it over the years.
Filipinos love Christmas; they love the very idea of it. It is perhaps the most avidly awaited holiday for Catholic Filipinos. It is a time when everyone on the street seems to wear a smile. A time when every kid I knew gleefully anticipated the seemingly endless days of Christmas carols, rice cakes, and other delicacies reserved for the holiday, when their homemade bamboo cannons crackled and boomed from dusk till dawn, and, when hanging their white cotton socks in windows, they wondered if it would be stuffed with cash or a present, and would be doubly happy when it was both. It was the season for adults and children to observe devotions of the nine-day Catholic novena of early morning masses called simbang bengi. Or for the more Spanish inclined, misa de gallo, so christened because it was the mass said just as the rooster crowed in the wee hours of the morning.
My family was no exception in celebrating Christmas in a big way. I remember it as an endless singing of Christmas songs which stations aired on the radio just as soon as each of the ‘ber’ months: September, October, November, or December, commenced. I remember the holiday as having a lot of color and lots of food but also plenty of noise. The colorful Christmas lights twinkling in the darkness of night mesmerized me, finding their twinkle reassuring because I was afraid of the dark. I imagined these lights were alive, these joyful souls talking to me, imploring me to be happy too. I also enjoyed looking at the parols, traditional Christmas lanterns crafted by hometown artisans, which were perched in the front windows of homes. These small ones that were hung in private homes were either made of Japanese paper or Capiz seashells. The Japanese paper lanterns were less expensive. Households that could afford it chose the more durable and more complicated Capiz parols, whose shells were cut in various shapes, forms, and sizes, and then dyed in every color and hue. On the eve of Christmas, San Fernando hosted what has become a very popular Christmas lantern festival.
As we walked the crowded streets, my heart would always seem to beat in tandem with the loud music that accompanied the thousands upon thousands of colorful lights emanating from giant Christmas lanterns that sat atop of the trucks that paraded around town for the annual festival. While the different giant parols were displayed around town, we would talk about what we liked and disliked about each entry, all the while wishing that our barrio’s own entry would win. The prize was highly coveted and the competition was fierce as every single one of San Fernando’s barrios participated and proudly showcased the talents of its artisans. Over the years the festival grew in popularity and became renown across the country. The biblical themes of the parols’ designs were the handiwork of local artisans whose skills were passed down from one generation to the next. Years later, the winning entries were sent to be displayed to foreign tourists and other Filipinos at the grounds of the Cultural Center of the Philippines in Manila.
Equally unforgettable were the homemade bamboo cannons, the ones that sometimes got us into trouble with the adults, especially when fingers, bare toes, or other body parts got burned. My siblings and cousins would sneak out of the house when we got wind of plans that other children in the neighborhood were making them to set off as soon as it got dark. We eagerly awaited the crackle and boom the cannons made, clapping our hands over our ears to protect them from the thunderous noise the cannons produced. We watched the glow of the fire from kerosene-fueled torches touching the mouth of the cannon as it traveled down through the bamboo tube, making a hissing sound before it exploded into the air. Our enchantment at seeing the cannons fired again and again would sometimes be dampened by our dismay when a kid got burned as he lit the cannon and it misfired. When children got tired of the cannons, they went back to their homes, ate dinner, and got ready for Christmas caroling. The little bit of cash they received from caroling, they immediately spent buying traditional rice cakes from vendors who lined the main street.
I remember waking up for early morning mass. With sleepy eyes, I would excitedly get ready in the dark and, shivering in the cool December air, walk the short distance to church from my parent’s house. Then my family headed back to grandma’s house, the roadside already filled with vendors peddling their wares and traditional rice cakes. A wide variety of these cakes and delicacies awaited us: puto bumbong, tamales, puto lason, bibingka, cuchinta, tibuk-tibuk, kalame, and more. The bibingka and tamales were my favorites. To make a bibingka, the vendor first spreads the batter on top of a fresh round-cut banana leaf, and when it is almost cooked, the vendor browns the top by covering it with burning charcoal from a metal grill. It is browned to perfection and then sprinkled with freshly grated coconut. The piping hot bibingka, served in brown paper bags warmed our hands, and we would smell its sweet aroma of ground sticky rice batter wafting through the chilly early morning air. Apu Pa never failed to buy the tightly wrapped steamed tamales in banana leaf. Its ground sweet rice flour batter was flavored with chicken broth and coconut cream and then cooked. When it had cooled and congealed, it was molded into squares, wrapped with banana leaf, and topped with bits of roasted meat, bits and pieces of fermented salted duck egg, and a few roasted peanuts, similar to the lotus leaf-wrapped ‘Seven Treasures,’ offered in Dim Sum restaurants. After being folded, these were tied with a string and steamed. I relished each tamales’ flavor and texture. It was pure bliss as it melted in my mouth. We Kapampangans were especially picky about our tamales. My family disdained those prepared by people from other
regions. Hands down—home style wins. We’d always felt confident that Kapampangans made food better than any other Filipino. This feeling of superiority only grew when it came to the specialty foods we made during holidays. Go figure, I thought. Can anyone rival Imang Dandy’s tibuk-tibuk: the white creamy-with-a-hint-of-lime-and-vanilla rice cake topped with latik, the first pressing of coconut cream that was cooked until it hardened into golden brown, nutty, and crunchy curds? Her nieces and nephews would watch in fascination as the delicacy was churned in huge vats over a fire that blazed in makeshift pits behind grandma’s house. It took hours for it to be done to both Apu Pa and Imang Dandy’s satisfaction. Wood-and-coconut-shell ladles were used to keep up with the constant stirring. We were fed with the bits and pieces that stuck to the ladles, contentment and satisfaction written all over our young faces as we sat around the fire.
The time-honored visits to Grandma at her Spanish-style ancestral house at Christmas meant partaking in an endless eating ritual, punctuated by offerings of gifts and hugs, followed by a cacophony of excited voices that had savored the culinary delights that Grandma and my aunt had painstakingly prepared. We never failed to complement Imang Dandy after yet another round of smashingly delicious tibuk-tibuk, after filling our stomachs with her exquisite rendition of the typical stew called sarciado, or cured meats, cheeses, breads, rice, and other dishes. No one was allowed to leave without sampling at least some of each offering from the Christmas table. The tibuk-tibuk was followed by generous helpings of leche flan, a cream caramel custard, and then kalame, a purple yam/sticky rice dessert reserved for Christmas. If we slept over at her house and promised to attend misa de gallo, we would be treated with puto bumbong (purple rice and coconut creamed mixture forced into freshly cut bamboo tubes and then steamed), cuchinta (steamed round brown jelly-like rice cakes infused with lye and rosewater), and tamales with our breakfast bought from the vendors lining the street from the church to her house.
A Thousand Little Deaths Page 11
