When then President Ferdinand E. Marcos declared military rule on TV by reading Proclamation No. 1081 on September 23, 1972, we were in the town of Compostela, inside a bakery, with colleagues from Junior Free Farmers (JFF), the youth arm of the Federation of Free Farmers (FFF), a peasant organization founded by Jeremias Montemayor.
News of proclamation only sank in the evening after the elders, in what was supposed to be an evolving underground movement, briefed us on the implication of the event. As a young idealist who was mystified by activism and was willing to take the risk of taking up arms, the impact of the Marcos declaration only became real a month later when news of the military rounding up young men with hippie hairs started to seep in.
Then in my second year as a Juniorist with the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, our clique decided to move to the interior regions where military activity was practically unknown. Because it was semester’s break, there was time for us to do cross-country and recruit new members.
Our first foray, if my memory serves me right, commenced at the junction of barangays Concepcion and New Visayas, in the town of Montevista, Compostela Valley Province. Taking a trail that closely followed the meanders of Manat River, we made our noontime stop at a house owned by a Falcone, who treated us to a sumptuous lunch of stewed free-range chicken.
We were not just teenagers who were on a bivouac; we were toy soldiers carrying a vintage Springfield rifle, long knives, and an assortment of clothings neatly packed in a worn-out shoulder bag. With no prescheduled destination, our feet brought us to interior settlements in Monkayo, like barrio Inambatan, which were accessible only by a canoe-type watercraft.
To secure us for the evening, the choice was to see the barrio school principal who, upon seeing her youthful visitors, invited us to dinner and offered a neat classroom for overnight stay. The gesture of hospitality was repeated the following morning when she took us to her residence for an early breakfast of scrambled egg, dried fish, and native coffee.
Except for some variations, the routine was practically the same until the news of our colleagues’ arrest reached us. Sad to say, the pursuers eventually caught up with them at Cabalinan, New Bataan. They were hauled into military trucks and brought to the Philippine Constabulary (PC) stockade at Tagum City. For my part, I skirted the soldiers and returned safely to the formation house at the seminary grounds in Catalunan Grande, Davao City.
During summer vacation, we recruit new members from the interior regions, reaching as far as Union, in Monkayo, and the villages at the boundary of the town of Maragusan. Reaching Maragusan by foot from San Fernando, New Bataan, was a day-long hike that brought us to obscure settlements like Baras-baras, while depending for food on fruits the residents gave.
Life beyond 1972 as an activist was even more compelling. At school, during a weekend break, I met a young lady named Mae Monteclaro, who was on a visit to the seminary. Simple and unassuming, she was an ideologue. Even while the abuses of the military were on the rise, she was not afraid to stand for her philosophy, which eventually cost her internment.
While detained at Camp Domingo Leonor, she would request her colleagues to smuggle a brief note to me. Often it was a small piece of paper folded to thumb size so it could not be seen by the scrutinizing jail wardens. In a day or two, the message would be delivered at the dormitory by someone who did not even introduce himself.
The exchange of ‘inspirational’ notes would go on for months until the military guards, in a surprise inspection, opened piece by piece the luggages of the detainees at the PC barracks. To keep my latest note from being discovered Mae kept the letter, the size of small cellphone, under the pleats of her dress. Upon her release from custody, she would regal me with stories on how she was nearly forced to spill the beans and expose my connection.
Mae, with her freedom regained, continued her nursing studies until she passed the Board exam. She became one of the sponsors of my eldest daughter during Baptism. It would take years before I bumped into her again and had a fleeting chat. She looked happy but I knew the fire of activism was still burning inside her. This chance meeting took place after Terry Marasigan, a common friend and also an activist, died in a bus accident at Santa Cruz, Davao del Sur.
Nothing has been heard ever since from the fighting nurse. There were reports she had returned to the mountains and became an amazon operating in Agusan del Sur, and there are also unconfirmed accounts she got married and has since settled outside the glare of militancy.
Unlike in Marcos-era martial law, the 1987 Constitution is equipped with more safeguards to deal with the military imposition President Rodrigo Duterte announced on May 23, 2017 for the whole island of Mindanao. At a time when terrorism, extremism, and extortion by insurgents have become social menaces, placing an entire region that has been consumed by bullets and blood for decades is a last resort.
For those who have observed the rise of Davao City under an iron-fisted leader, Duterte’s martial law proclamation, hopefully, will mirror the effectiveness he showed as a leader of a city that was once the hotbed of insurgency in the region.
