Never forget, never again.
Even when history seems to repeat itself, especially when history demands to be repeated.
“Never forget, never again.”
When I was a child, we learned that the 1970s and 1980s were the “Golden Age.” Milk and honey were flowing as if we were Israelites conquering the promised land. The economy was said to be at its peak, justice and order were in check, and everything was at peace. The kids played outside, the adults worked their 9–5s, and everything was “just right.”
(They didn’t say that the debt rose from 600 million to 28.3 billion dollars, or how unemployment skyrocketed, or how the economy collapsed with hyperinflation.)
“Ipaglaban and demokrasya!” sigaw ng mga tao.
(Fight for democracy! — the people chant.)
When my dad was a kid, the only reason he disliked Marcos was because he never got to watch his favorite TV show. Whenever the climax of the episode came along, it would get interrupted by his speech on the television, and that annoyed him. But, “life was good.” He and his friends would play at the streets until 5pm, then head home for some good television. Life was easy, simple, peaceful. And I was the daughter listening to his stories. If my father said life was good, then it must be, right?
(We didn’t know that the darkness was where the crimes took place — the missing people, the tortured screams, the odd metallic scent along with the breeze, or the faint red hues on the side of the road.)
“Marcos, Hitler, Diktador, Tuta!” sigaw ng mga galit na kaluluwa, mga kaluluwa na pinatay.
(Marcos, Hitler, Dictator, Puppet — the angry screams of the souls unjustly killed.)
My mom’s dad was a soldier. He fought for this country, for better or for worse. If my mom’s mom was the wife, the nation was his mistress. And if the dictator was the husband of the country I call my home, he treated all the loyal subjects well. How would you not? They would protect your wife with anything and everything, and with the people giving up on the vision the president laid down, you’d want to keep the military under your command. And that was what he did: food on the table, money on the banks. My mom had a great life, because her dad was a soldier protecting the president. It came with costs, but the cost was wearing shades filled with gold. Life was peaceful. Because nobody dared to cross their path. Life was peaceful, because my grandfather could kill.
“Tama na, sobra na, palitan na!” iyak ng kabataan.
(Enough! It’s too much, It’s time for a change! — the youths cry)
They say there are three big Ps to keep a dictator in power, and he needs two to remain in control— people, power, and police. But in 1986, we witness the people remembering that they were in control once again: how it was always theirs in the first place, and they had the power to take down those in control — it only matters how desperate they want it. We hear them remember the past sins of the President who swore to protect them had committed— how the 3,257 ghosts haunt and demand for justice to be served, how 35,000 souls scream with pain and torture after demanding for basic human rights, how 70,000 people were forced to leave their homes and made prisoner for stating their thoughts, for going into another person’s home, for the simple act of being “suspicious.” On February 25, 1986, we witnessed how we need not bloodshed to throw a dictator away, when the united cries of the dead, the tortured, and the living are enough.
“Never forget, never again!”
Thirty-nine years later, the cries remain the same, but somehow, how is it that the son’s dictator has become the president of the nation that once drove them away?
The battlecry remains the same, but somehow, why do the youths who’ve never seen the bloodshed of their ancestors chant this louder than the ones who’ve lived to tell the tale? Have they still been wearing gold-stained shades? Do they not see the red ebbing across the streets? Do they still mistake the screams of the haunted for the cheers of the corrupt?
“Never forget, never again!” — the chant grows louder as we fight for history to stay in the past. When the revolution refuses to be acknowledged by the ones in power, it is our responsibility — as Filipinos — to write it on the walls, chant it across the streets, tell the stories to everyone who would listen, and state the facts to anyone who would be open to hear:
Ferdinand Marcos is the 12th president of the Philippines. He stayed in power for 21 years. On September 21, 1972, he declared Martial Law on the whole country. During this time, he has committed several international human rights violations. 3,257 lives were killed, 35,000 people were tortured, 70,000 humans were imprisoned, and over 700 bodies were never found and declared missing. A majority of the victims were activists, journalists, students, and political opponents of the Marcos regime. No, none of the victims were “coincidental.” On February 22, 1986, one to two million Filipinos gathered for four days of protests, demanding the power return to the people. No gunshot was fired, no blood was shed on the streets.
There needn’t be blood to be shed anymore — when so many people have already paid for it. And on February 25th, 1986, Marcos stepped down. The people regained it power. And on that day, we swore to never let a dictator step into power again.
“Never forget. Never again.”
Even when the elders choose to turn their eyes.
“Never forget. Never again.”
Remove the emotions from the equation and reveal the stories with statistics. One way or another, the truth always comes out.
“Never forget. Never again.”
Especially when the future of our nation is in our hands.
“Never forget. Never again.”
Even when history seems to repeat itself, especially when history demands to be repeated.
“Never forget. Never again.”
