Subversive Lives. Susan F. Quimpo

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СКАЧАТЬ Renato Constantino, Amado Hernandez, and Claro M. Recto. Movements outside the Philippines also inspired us, including the anti-Vietnam War movement, the student movement of the late 1960s in Paris and other parts of the world, and Mao’s Cultural Revolution in China.

      But the most influential for me were Jose Maria Sison’s articles. I found his book Struggle for National Democracy, or SND, to be nationalistic, comprehensive, exuding confidence and certainty. In my eyes, no other book or document bore such clarity on the history, the current crisis, and the future of the Philippines. It convinced me that “national democracy” was the blueprint for a free, democratic, and prosperous nation.

      I found it a bit exaggerated that Sison called reform-oriented groups and the Jesuits “clerico-fascists” in his article “Sophism of the Christian Social Movement.” However, his principal message was that the ruling elite in the country, led by Marcos and his cronies, would never share their wealth and power through peaceful means. Neither would they do it through “profit-sharing” or “constitutional reforms.”

      WHILE SND AND other earlier articles by Sison did not explicitly advocate revolution modeled after China, his writings indirectly advocated the ideas of Mao Tse-tung. Sison espoused Mao’s writings as the most “advanced outlook” that could guide the revolution and avoid the problems in leadership.

      Dr. Jalbuena had a collection of Mao books from what was then known as “Red China” which he bought when he visited there as a tourist. He bragged about his visit and was proud of his Mao collection because at that time it was rare for Filipinos to visit a communist state like China. One of the books he lent me was a little red book titled Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung.

      One day I brought the little red book to school. I sat on one of the benches fronting the San Beda auditorium and began reading the first chapters. One of the passages that hit me was the famous Mao quote:

      A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.

      Gerundio “Bogs” Bonifacio, a classmate and close friend of my elder brother Nathan, passed by, greeted me, and asked what I was reading. When I showed him the book, he said, “A philosophy takes a lifetime.” Then he left, as abruptly as he arrived, leaving me to reflect on his words.

      Mao’s little red book was translated into English and Pilipino. It was openly sold in a few bookstores in Manila and during various forums that catered to activists until martial law curtailed its circulation in 1972. KM first succeeded in recruiting low-income students from San Beda’s College of Law, then expanded to other departments and eventually to its high school. Believing in the cause of “national democracy,” I joined the KM chapter of San Beda High School in August 1970. I was 14 going on 15. There were just a handful of us in the KM chapter. One of our first projects was the publication of selected excerpts from Amado Guerrero’s (aka Jose Maria Sison), “The Philippine Crisis” in our high school paper, the Cub Recorder. Apparently, the issue reached the prosecutor’s office and the whole newspaper staff of about 20 students were summoned to a lecture at the Manila City Hall on the “dangers of communism.” We dismissed the lecture and warning as mere anticommunist propaganda that had no intellectual merit. But to avoid repression, we gave another name to our local KM chapter. We called it the Bedan National Democratic Movement.

      Not long after joining KM, I got a firsthand taste of state violence when our peaceful picket along Mendiola Street opposing oil price hikes was dispersed by the military. An army jeep manned by three soldiers rode right into our human barricade, shooting live bullets from a machine gun. With my heavy steel braces on my polio-stricken legs, I was left alone on the road as my comrades took refuge inside the San Beda campus. One of the soldiers in the jeep aimed his pistol at me. He was about to shoot, perhaps thinking that the crumpled manifesto in my hand was a handmade pillbox. Fortunately for me, a pillbox from a military helicopter that was encircling the area targeting the protesting students, fell near the advancing jeep, missing the students and distracting the soldier who was about to shoot me. That gave me the opportunity to slip inside the school gates. “Akala ko yari ka na! (I thought you were a goner!),” said one of the school’s private guards who had been watching everything through the grilled gates.

      Policemen beat demonstrators with truncheons during a rally in front of the Philippine Congress (January 1970). (Photo from the Lopez Memorial Museum Collection)

      In the two years that followed, I continued to join protest actions. But in every demonstration or protest march, I tried to anticipate any violence by positioning myself in a “safe” area or making arrangements so I could leave early when danger was imminent. I didn’t know it at the time, but this pattern of anticipating danger and preparing for different possibilities would strongly influence my behavior for the rest of my life.

      The Mendiola experience underscored what I was getting into—a revolution. And it certainly was not a “dinner party.” It dawned on me that someone with a disability like myself had perhaps little chance of surviving a revolution, much less a protracted one. Like countless others, however, I saw no other path to social change, and tried to muster the courage needed to face the challenges of the day.

      In November of 1970, I attended the second national congress of KM in Abelardo Hall at the University of the Philippines campus in Diliman. As congress delegates registered their presence and obtained kits, I was informed that someone had taken my slot. It initially irritated me that a kasama could do such a thing, but upon discovering who it was, I laughed. It was Nathan, who had come with Jan! Until then, it was only Jan who was known to the family as a KM radical activist. This chance meeting of brothers was not only a reunion; it also gave us an opportunity to seal a pact of secrecy—to hide our political undertakings from Dad.

      Our secret did not last long. My father was suspicious and was observing our movements, especially when big rallies were announced. “I know there is a scheduled rally,” he said as the first anniversary of the FQS approached. “If any of you goes to that rally, you’d better not set foot in this house again.”

      Jan went to the anniversary rally without hesitation. Nathan went too. But I hesitated. I knew that my father meant what he said, and I pondered the consequences of my active involvement. Jan and Nathan had their tuition, dormitory fees, and part of their stipends covered by their respective scholarships. Nathan had a scholarship from the insurance firm Insular Life, while Jan was a Philippine Science High School scholar. I had no resources whatsoever. If I left home, Dad would most likely forbid me to even seek refuge at the Jalbuena residence. Where would I sleep? At 15, could I fend for myself? Could a handicapped person like me live like the activists I met at the KM national headquarters²?

      I had no answers to these questions. So I stayed home and missed the rally.

      NOTES

      ¹ The peso-dollar rate in 1970 was 6.44 pesos to 1 dollar.

      ² The national headquarters of the Kabataang Makabayan was then located at the penthouse of a building on Quezon Boulevard.

      A Christian’s Choice

      7

      NORMAN F. QUIMPO

      WHEN THE STUDENT PROTESTS began in 1970, I was a 24-year-old assistant instructor in mathematics at the Jesuit-run Ateneo de Manila University. Like many other teachers in school, I couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ