40. NINOY WOKE UP THE FILIPINO IN ME

NINOY WOKE UP THE FILIPINO IN ME

Dr. Troy Alexander G. Miano

21 August 2017

The death of Ninoy, drastically changed the political environment of our country. From then on, widespread protests and rallies during the era became a staple venue throughout the metropolis, where the common tao aired their grievances against social ills. For the first time, both the rich and the poor join hands not only to protest the brutal slaying of Ninoy but to finally end the leadership of the conjugal dictators and tyrants in Malacañang.

The assassination of former Senator Benigno “Ninoy” S. Aquino, Jr. was a prelude to the popular People Power Revolution of 1986, a bloodless revolt of suppressed people, the Filipino cry for freedom and democracy that echoed in all corners of the globe.

In 2002, on the occasion of the 19^th death anniversary of Ninoy, I scribbled my recollection of the beginning from that fateful day of August 21, 1983, until the evening of the day when the fallen modern-day hero was finally laid to rest.

Through this personal experience, the readers of this young generation is transported into that time in our history as a people, allowing them to experience and to understand Ninoy’s struggle and his untimely death galvanized the nation and became the first step for us, Filipinos to regain our long lost liberty…

My usual maong pants and checkered polo shirt never felt as crisp and smelled clean as when my Mom dressed me up that fateful third Sunday of August. It came as a pleasant surprise that we were not visiting a historical place in Manila this time, as what our family usually does on weekends. Instead, Dad would be bringing me to Uncle Ricky’s condominium unit along Katipunan Road in front of Ateneo in Quezon City. Trips to Uncle Ricky (I call him “uncle” although he is in fact my cousin and a grandson of former Senate President Jose D. Avelino) always evoked fond memories of playing tag and running around in careless, wild abandon with niece and nephews – Orange, Blue and Red. I could barely contain my excitement on the way to uncle Ricky’s, not knowing that this day in 1983 would change my life, the lives of every Filipino and the course of Philippine history.

So there we were, Orange, Blue and Red and myself, whiling the time away with our impish child’s play. At a little past four, Dad and Uncle Ricky came charging through the door, quickly sat near the stereo and tuned it to Radio Veritas. Tension filled the dry afternoon air as they strained to listen to every word on the radio report. Suddenly, tears began to fall on their cheeks. It was such a puzzle to me that two grown men were sobbing so shamelessly, and we kids could only look at each other in dazzled awe. I was later told that Dad and Uncle Ricky had just arrived from the Manila International Airport where they joined a small crowd in welcoming back to his motherland their political idol – Ninoy Aquino. They gladly went to join the celebrated homecoming of a free-spirited, freedom loving Filipino, but they came home as angry and disillusioned nationalists. They never had a glimpse of their leader for Ninoy was shot dead, falling down on the tarmac, arms stretched as if embracing the homeland he has continuously been denied of.

An eerie of deafening silence filled the room as I was left wondering who this Ninoy was and why his death moved Dad and Uncle Ricky to tears. This curiosity and the many questions brewing in my young mind slowly started the seeds of nationalism grow in me, as I became more politically concerned with the issues of my time. I began asking around and started reading the newspapers, especially the Malaya, which we regularly subscribe at home. At my age, my juvenile mind was able to grasp opinionated articles that, while using figures of speech, clearly pointed out that the dictator had Senator Aquino assassinated.

On the third night of Ninoy’s death, my parents joined the multitude of Filipinos who paid their respect to the fallen hero. I tagged along at the Aquino residence in West Triangle in Quezon City. We started the long walk from Times Street going around the block at Quezon Avenue, reaching the gate of the once happy abode of the Aquinos, now enveloped in a dark cloud of sorrow and mourning. It was a long, agonizing walk for a nine-year old, a virtual death march where I complained of hunger and thirst. The sight of people wearing yellow headbands, t-shirts and mourning pins with the inscription Hindi Ka Nag-iisa diverted my attention and lessened the hunger pangs. Later, a young lady gave me a round pin with the silhouette of Ninoy’s face, which I proudly pinned on my chest.

As we entered the residence’ main door, the thought of seeing a coffin sent shivers down my spine so I held tightly on Mom’s hand until we reached the sala where the coffin was. Dad carried me over his shoulders so I could take a better glimpse of the remains of the martyr. It was my first time to see Ninoy personally. I was terrified because he was very different from the Ninoy I saw in the Malaya. It was a revolting sight to see the dead man with his pristine white shirt browned by dirt and by his own blood.

We left the Aquino residence and settled in the other side of the road in front of the house. Minutes later, a vehicle arrived and the slain senator’s mother, Doña Aurora, alighted from the car. Suddenly the lights went off and the crowd went into a slight panic. But when flashlights and candles were lit, darkness slowly parted its curtains and revealed a warm, gracious and enchanting glow. The faint singing of Bayan Ko filled the cool evening breeze as the crowd sang the national anthem of the opposition movement. The almost whispering rhythm of the song spread through the crowd like wildfire and at this intense moment, it was as if time stood still and for the first time, I sang this kundiman with so much emotion, almost bearing my heart and soul. People around me were in tears. Others sang with clenched fists.

It was past midnight and I was already drowsy when I heard a young boy ask his dad who Ninoy was. I listened as the father told his son the accomplishments of the man dubbed as the modern-day Rizal. From him, I learned that Ninoy was a Manila Times foreign correspondent in the Korean War; special assistants to President Ramon Magsaysay, Carlos P. Garcia and Diosdado Macapagal; youngest elected mayor of Concepcion, Tarlac; press officer of the Philippine Military Bases Agreement negotiation; served as administrator of Hacienda Luisita and Tarlac Development Corporation; youngest elected vice governor and governor of Tarlac; served as project director of the Tarlac Project Spread; and the youngest elected senator in Philippine history. As the faint glow of sunlight on the horizon signaled the coming of a new day, we headed for home. That night, I was convinced that Ninoy, the longest held prisoner among Marcos’ political rivals and critics, was indeed a Filipino hero. That night too, an inner self began to embrace the cause of freedom and democracy. From that night on, something in me changed and I knew I would never be the same again. With a career that showed an unwavering struggle for the Filipino people, Ninoy’s life became my inspiration. He became my idol, my hero.

In the early morning of August 31, Mom woke me up to witness history. I could barely contain my excitement to once again see the remains of my idol, not thinking of my own welfare and security. We rode on a jeepney bound for Welcome Rotonda at the boundary of Manila and Quezon City to attend a Mass for Ninoy at the Santo Domingo Church along Quezon Avenue. Traffic was so heavy that we decided to walk from Pantranco Bus Station until we reached the Church half an hour later. A mammoth crowd greeted us as we came nearer. It was the most touching farewell of a grateful nation to a great leader. An endless sea of people escorted Ninoy to his final resting place. Moments later, the truck carrying the coffin of the Hero of Tarmac passed through Rizal Park. I was struck by the historic unfolding of events as two heroes of different eras came face to face with each other. I looked up at Rizal’s proud statue and then at Ninoy’s lifeless body. Both felled with bullets of those who suppressed our democratic liberties. Both were loved by the people of their respective generations. Two historic figures who lived a hundred years apart, both suffered the same fate in the hands of their foes, but both emerged as heroes of their land.

Again, we were not able to come closer to Ninoy as the crowd seemed to grow even thicker by the hour. Instead of forcing our way closer to the truck, we decided to move ahead and meet the cortege at the Manila Memorial Park in Sucat, Parañaque. After almost six hours of walking, my feet were killing me. Exhausted, we rested for a while near the Flash Elorde Gym. It was late afternoon when the funeral procession arrived and the mammoth crowd started shouting “Ninoy!, Ninoy!” Some were crying while others were cursing the dictator. Emotions were high and the temper of mourners flared until Ninoy’s tomb was finally sealed. We went home before the ceremonies ended but we returned the following day to have a full view of the burying ground of my hero. As I stood in front of the tombstones, I murmured a hundred times Ninoy’s famous nationalistic words, “The Filipino Is Worth Dying For.”

Days went by and I continued reading the Malaya, the exponent of truth during the Marcos era. I thoroughly read every article twice to make sure I understood the message of every columnist. Each passing day, my love for country and democracy kept getting stronger and firmer, like an undying flame burning from within. As I grew up, the ideals and vision of Ninoy guided my search for true nationalism. He opened my eyes and allowed me to discover the cruelties of the Marcos regime and the many realities of the society we live in. It gave me a rallying cause, a conviction – that I would fight for my country and my people, not only for my sake, but more for my children’s. Ninoy woke up the Filipino in me.