Subversive Lives. Susan F. Quimpo

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      About 50,000 people assembled for a “people’s congress” organized by the Movement of Concerned Citizens for Civil Liberties at Plaza Miranda (September 13, 1971). (Photo from the Lopez Memorial Museum Collection)

      That evening, after delivering press releases to various newspaper offices in downtown Manila, I learned from other kasama that the writ of habeas corpus had been suspended throughout the country. They had just heard the news over the radio. In Proclamation 889, Marcos also ordered the arrest of leaders of radical organizations, which he branded as subversive communist fronts. I had to ask others what suspension of the writ meant: that a prisoner could no longer be guaranteed an appearance before a court to challenge the legality of his or her detention. Marcos said he had suspended the writ within a few hours of the Plaza Miranda bombing. It occurred to me that we had been picketing the whole day without knowing that, with the writ already suspended, we could all have been picked up by the police and indefinitely detained.

      Nevertheless, the strike continued. Some student activists stayed overnight with the workers to man the picket. I didn’t join them and instead slept at Cervini. I was worried about a sudden raid by the police or the military and also unsure whether I could endure the hardship of sleeping in a tent or in the open, without pillows and blankets, side by side with workers and other activists who were dusty and grimy from a day at the picket. The next morning, I was back there with other student activists. We wrote statements condemning the writ suspension and the growing repression in the country. We prepared papeldikit (posters) to put up in the nearby town of Marikina, daubing slogans in red paint on old newspapers. All day we felt anxious, half-expecting truckloads of men in khaki or fatigues to arrive suddenly. But nothing happened.

      Virtually all sectors of Philippine society condemned the Plaza Miranda bombing. The writ suspension was also very widely denounced by radicals and moderate activists, progressive Con-Con delegates, prominent political opposition figures, civil libertarians, respected newspaper editors and columnists, and other opinion leaders. Civil libertarians headed by Sen. Jose W. Diokno saw the writ suspension as a dangerous move that was bound to lead to further suppression of civil liberties. The CPP and radical activist groups went further, accusing Marcos of masterminding the bombing himself. The CPP asserted that Marcos was plotting to perpetuate himself in power in a one-man dictatorship, and that the Plaza Miranda bombing was a part of the plot, meant to justify the imposition of repressive laws and measures.² The CPP warned that the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus was a prelude to the declaration of martial law.

      THAT EVENING, AFTER supper at Cervini, I drove out to Marikina with three fellow KM activists—Bill Begg, Kiko Villanueva, and Danny Nicolas. With our papeldikit, we brought along pails of homemade paste, starch dissolved in boiling water. We put up our papeldikit every few hundred meters along Marikina’s major roads and thoroughfares, on lampposts and walls, regardless of signs warning “Post no bill,” but always on the lookout for patrolling police or military vehicles. We were almost done when a police jeep passed. The police had seen us! We rushed into the car and Bill stepped on the gas. We needn’t have bothered. Bill’s rickety, dirty white station wagon was no match for the brand new police vehicle. We were caught red-handed, with a messy, sticky mixture of red paint, black newsprint ink, and paste on our hands.

      At a police station near Marikina’s town hall, we were booked for malicious mischief, photographed, and made to “play the piano”—activist slang for having fingerprints taken. The police interrogated us without bothering to inform us of our rights. Bill—intense, indefatigable, and sometimes brash—kept answering their queries insolently, and one of them punched him in the stomach. However, when they learned that we were Ateneo students, they began treating us with kid gloves and allowed us to phone our parents, friends, or lawyers for help. None of us wanted to phone our parents; I didn’t dare call Dad. Instead we called friends at the Ateneo who were not too closely identified with activism and who we knew had connections in high places. They arrived shortly and assured us that they were doing what they could to get us out quickly. But we still had to spend the night in a small jail cell, where we hardly slept.

      The next morning, we were brought before a judge in a small courtroom nearby. There were few people around and the judge called us up immediately. In a low voice, he admonished us and advised us not to commit such a misdemeanor again. Then he let us go and all charges were later dropped.

      We may have been among the first political activists apprehended after the writ suspension. During this period, scores of activists were rounded up, mostly in military raids on the headquarters of activist organizations. We were lucky to have been released from detention quickly. Of course, the four of us were just ordinary activists, not leaders of national organizations, and not on the military’s “wanted” list. But many other ordinary activists picked up spent days or weeks in jail. The well-known personalities caught in the military’s net, such as KM secretary-general Luzvimindo David and Movement for a Democratic Philippines spokesman Gary Olivar, suffered much worse fates—months and months in detention. We got off lightly, though there was more fallout to come.

      THOUGH THE ATENEO workers tried to continue their strike, the writ suspension eventually proved disastrous. We had counted on the total disruption of classes, but with reports of military raids and the arrest of activists, apprehension and uncertainty spread among the strikers and their supporters and the numbers on the picket dwindled. Funds collected for the strike were reduced to a trickle. The strike was losing its force.

      The workers ended their strike on September 1. In the return-to-work agreement, the Ateneo administration agreed to reinstate one of the dismissed workers and submit to voluntary arbitration on a wage increase. They also agreed to release the workers’ union and life insurance dues but without formally recognizing the workers’ union and its affiliation with KASAMA. The workers and their supporters tried to put on a cheerful face, but we all knew that the nine-day strike had accomplished little, much less than we had confidently expected at the start.

      IN PROTEST OVER the writ suspension and the heightening repression, a new nationwide coalition headed by Senator Diokno was formed. The Movement of Concerned Citizens for Civil Liberties (MCCCL) consisted of a very broad array of groups and personalities—moderate and radical activist groups of youth and students, workers’ federations, peasant organizations, urban poor associations, women’s groups, organizations of teachers, artists, lawyers and other professionals, religious groups and personalities, civil libertarians, progressive Con-Con delegates, and a few politicians. For the first time, NatDem and SocDem groups, as well as groups aligned with the pro-Soviet PKP, got together under a single umbrella. The MCCCL staged rally upon rally, calling for the lifting of the writ suspension and the release of all political prisoners and vowing to resist any plan СКАЧАТЬ