Genejord Blog

A Walk Through History

I was 9 years old and too tender, perhaps, for the following events that I’ll be narrating to you. This happened in the year 1969 when Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin and Michael Collins had journeyed through the outer space and had conquered the moon. On July 20, 1969, Armstrong and Aldrin stepped on the moon and made that famous phrase “a giant leap for mankind” a reality.

It was also during this time that the First Quarter Storm which was a series of civil protest actions against the US-Marcos regime was brewing. It culminated in January 30, 1970 where 50,000 students and laborers stormed the Malacanan Palace but were later repulsed and dispersed by the joint force of the Philippine Constabulary and Metrocom through volley of gunshots and teargas grenades leaving 4 people dead and hundreds injured. Such events eventually led to Marcos’ declaration of Martial Law on September 11, 1972. A dictatorship that lasted almost 14 years until Marcos was ousted by People’s Power Revolution in February, 1986 more popularly known as the EDSA revolution, an event that was triggered by the assassination of Senator Benigno Aquino Jr. in 1983.

I was in Grade 3 at A. Mabini Elementary School in Quiapo, Manila when I experienced growing up a few inches taller in one day. Our school had a field trip to different historical places such as the Fort Santiago where our national hero Jose Rizal was incarcerated in 1896 by the Spanish regime at the time we were still a colony of Spain.

I was awed while examining items actually used and touched by Rizal during his lifetime. There in the prison cell was the plume he used while writing “Mi Ultimo Adios” (My Last Farewell) the night before he was shot by firing squad. Beside it was the lamp where he hid the copy of his last poem. His book “Noli Me Tangere” (Touch Me Not) which triggered the Philippine revolution against Spain in 1898 was also prominently displayed in a glass box. I was so engrossed marveling on Rizal’s greatness and tragedies that I didn’t notice I lost my wallet; not until we were back at the school.

Without any money for a bus fare (a measly 10 centavos back then) I was faced with the prospect of walking home which was a good nine kilometer walk from Quiapo, Manila to Frisco in Quezon City! Should I borrow money from my classmates or my teachers? But I was too shy to ask and was afraid of being turned down. “What would young Jose Rizal do in a situation like this?” I mused. I decided I would take my chances with the bus drivers.

I walked to the bus stop at Plaza Miranda in front of the Quiapo Church. People were bustling everywhere, plying their wares of herbal medicines, bottled roots for abortion, candles, sweepstakes tickets, and what have you. Some fortune tellers were haggling for the price of fortunes they could foretell from their tarot cards. There were some who were entering the church, down on their knees all the way to the altar of the Black Nazarene begging for some heavenly favors and probably, forgiveness for their earthly sins.

Every time a bus would stop, I would look both at the driver and the conductor, searching their faces for clues if they were the kind to give a free ride to a hapless kid like me but none of them passed my criterion. After awhile, I told myself boldly, “Well, if I can’t get a ride home, I am going to walk home.”

I knew it was not going to be a walk in the park. Although I knew the route by heart, it was from the vantage point of a bus passenger and so when I reached the underpass leading to Espana Boulevard I had to find another way since no pedestrians were allowed down there. Instead, I passed through the university belt along Claro M. Recto Avenue and then turned left to Morayta Street passing through the Far Eastern University down to Espana Blvd.

Every now and then I would notice several groups of riot police holding shield in one hand and truncheon on the other hand standing by, waiting for some actions. The media were buzzing about holding interviews and pointing their cameras here and there. Several fire trucks were placed to block the road leading to Mendiola Bridge which was the gateway to the Malacanan Palace.

I trudged along, passing through the University of Santo Tomas up to the Welcome circle which marked the boundary between Manila and Quezon City. It was in Espana where I met hundreds of college students and workers who were marching toward Mendiola Street where they would be staging their protest rally.

They were shouting and carrying placards with slogans like “Down with US Imperialism” and “Marcos: Puppet of the US”. I merrily watched their parade and wondered why they were carrying red flags and why they were shouting angrily which made me quiver a bit.

I continued walking down Quezon Avenue and there were several instances that cars would suddenly screech to a stop to avoid hitting me especially at intersections.

Once in a while I would stop to drink for I was perspiring and I would get really thirsty. Good thing, my mom put sandwiches and extra bottle of juice in my backpack that morning before I left for the field trip. After a few minutes of rest, I would continue walking down the road.

It took me almost two hours before I finally reached home and my mom who was anxiously waiting at the gate was so glad to see me. I told her the whole story of how I lost my money and that I could not take a bus ride and that I had to walk all the way home. So as not to alleviate her concern, I made no mention of the protest rally and the riot squads I had seen along the way.

My mom who was relieved to see that I had no scratches and that I was all right, looked me in the eyes and advised me not to be shy in asking someone for help. She told me that I should have asked those bus drivers and they would surely allow me to hitch a ride. Maybe, they would, I thought, but I was glad I walked for I was proud of my feat! At that moment, I was standing tall.

After dinner, at the early evening news, right there on the TV screen I saw the group of students and workers being violently dispersed by the riot police squad wielding truncheons and shooting water cannons from the fire trucks. The bloodied and scattered protesters fighting back throwing stones, pill box and Molotov cocktail bombs to the police. It was a battle zone out there and I felt a chill running down my spine. Suddenly I didn’t feel that tall anymore. I embraced my mom and cried.

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