By Ruby E. Carlino

I have a vivid memory of sitting in a swing under a tree in our backyard when my father came home and said, “We’re now under martial law.”

I was about eight years old, in a country far, far away. I did not really know what had happened until years later. but I could sense a dark foreboding. When the People Power revolution finally came about in 1986, it took all of four days to drive the dictator out of office. With two aircraft provided by the United States, he flew with his family and 90 of his closest friends to find refuge in the islands of Hawaii.

For whatever reason, I recently started reading again the history and chronology of those events. On Sept. 21,1972 the infamous Philippine strongman had signed the Martial Law proclamation, though it was not announced until two days later. That same day, opposition leaders were arrested and detained with other “subversives.”

The precipitating causes for martial law reportedly were street violence, bombings, the communist insurgency, and the purported ambush of his defense minister. Scholarly reviews later confirmed that the regime used bombings and fear to condition the public prior to its declaration of martial law.

Growing up in a small island town where nothing significant happened, I was largely insulated from all that, except at school. There, all rooms had photos of the dictator and his first lady. Before the first class each day all students had to tend their vegetable gardens, part of the first lady’s project called the “Green Revolution.” I have no recollection of singing the New Society song. There were no protests in my old town.

The first lady visited our small island once. My aunt later told me she was afraid the first lady would take a liking to her Spanish-era tabletop crucifix and ask for it. The first lady came, saw the crucifix, and said she had one just like it except the nails on her cross were made of diamonds. So, that was a big relief.

The years that followed were marked by the dictator’s ruling by decree, by warrantless arrests, by the systemic torture of detainees, and by killings documented by Amnesty International. Journalists, activists, and political rivals were arrested.

Following the declaration of martial law, the regime took over and controlled all privately owned mass media.

In 1981, the regime ordered increased penalties for rebellion, sedition, and related crimes: “… death shall be imposed upon any person … any of the acts which constitute sedition, by means of speeches, proclamations, writings, emblems, cartoons, banners, or other representations tending to the same end, or upon any person or persons who shall utter seditious words or speeches, write, publish, or circulate scurrilous libels against the Government…”

The regime, of course, absent an independent judiciary, had the power to interpret what it considered “seditious.”

Living in such an environment, one develops the habit of self restraint in many aspects of daily life. People do not speak freely for fear of getting into trouble. People learn to whisper, as you never know who might be listening.

Culture was vetted – movies, plays, and other live performances had to adhere to regime standards. Books and exposés unfavorable to the regime were considered “subversive.” Publishing houses were raided. Publishers were jailed. I grew up reading only harmless juvenile mysteries and romance books with happy endings, and one set of ancient encyclopedia.

This was the world before the Internet, of course. People had limited sources of information, as only regime-friendly outlets were allowed to operate. TV and radio networks were owned by cronies of the regime. Editors and publishers either had to clear their stories with a censorship board or they self-censored. They soon learned what not to print, and writers learned what not to write. Even when martial law was “lifted” censorship continued through government control of media ownership and licensing.

This also was the time when artists could be arrested for staging musicals and plays that protested the regime. But they did it anyway, and they were not alone. Political detainees composed songs in jail and shared them when they got out.

I am just rediscovering a folk rock group that had their records confiscated for protest songs like “Balita” (News), “Magnanakaw” (Thief) and “Masdan mo ang Kapaligiran” (Observe Your Surroundings). A patriotic song, “Bayan Ko” (My Country), originally written by an army general in 1929, was considered seditious. Public performances of that song were banned, and violators risked fines and detention. The song later became the unofficial anthem during the country’s 1986 revolution that overthrew the dictator.

These are now just recollections from a distant time and place. I’ve often wondered how people lived through that long shadow of national trauma we collectively suffered. Two decades of corruption and oppression does something to people. I now think we coped by learning to laugh at our miseries and at our secret jokes; at small comedies that slide past the ears of spineless officials, and in that process we found pockets of air to breathe.

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Ruby E. Carlino is a published writer with over a decade of blogging experience and a background as a technology analyst. She has lived in Sequim since 2018, after spending years in Asia, Central America, Europe, and the Washington, D.C. area. She can be reached at nextchaptercolumn@proton.me.