The “fiesta” that was Edsa 1986 was certainly no picnic.
Even as the world hailed it as a bloodless revolution, and the throng that filled the country’s most famous highway for four glorious days was in a joyful mood, the Edsa People Power Revolution was fraught with hardship and danger.
To begin with, there was hardly any food. News photos showing packed meals brought by Good Samaritans were mostly for rebel soldiers, civilians and journalists holed up in Camp Aguinaldo and Camp Crame.
The rest of us who answered Jaime Cardinal Sin’s call to surround Aguinaldo and Crame to protect then Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile and then AFP Vice of Chief of Staff Lt. Gen. Fidel Ramos from Marcos loyalist forces, had to endure hunger and thirst and sleepless nights.
I had no idea that I would be spending the next few days and nights on Edsa. Besides, I lived in Sun Valley, Parañaque City—too far just to get clothes, food and other essentials and missing precious moments of history unfolding on that highway.
Drinking in Ermita
When word about the reformist military mutiny spread early Sunday night, Feb. 22, I was in Ermita in Manila for some drinks with Mike Mendoza, a high school buddy at La Salle Green Hills.
We were then seniors in college—he in UP Manila, and I in La Salle Taft—but I was on leave due to the volatile political climate. I had joined protest rallies in Ayala, Liwasang Bonifacio, and La Salle Taft following the assassination of Ninoy Aquino in 1983.
Mike had a few hundred pesos, his allowance given to him by his dad just hours earlier, some of which we had planned to spend on beer at our favorite club in Ermita that night. We were walking on M.H. del Pilar Street when we heard the radio report from the shops along the road.
We forgot the drinks, proceeded to Cubao, and walked along the stretch of Edsa toward the camps and Ortigas Avenue.
We were separated for a few hours as Mike wanted to keep on walking and I had to stop to pee.
We forgot about dinner, too, as the whole evening filled up with energy and good vibes from college professors and more schoolmates that we bumped into.
Frontliners at barricades
On the first two nights, we joined the frontliners manning the Edsa sandbag barricades at Santolan and Ortigas.
On the third night, I tried to catch a few winks while lying in the grass in front of Crame, but, as we say in the vernacular, “ayaw akong dalawin ng antok.”
In the afternoon of Feb. 23, we rushed to Ortigas, where Robinsons Galleria now stands, to support crowds trying to stop a column of tanks poised to attack the camps.
I went through a mix of emotions—anger at Philippine Marines commandant Artemio Tadiar for pressing their planned attack, and fear when one of the tanks started revving its engine. I was cursing Tadiar and crying at the same time while people five rows in front of me blocked one of the tanks.
Early the next morning, while I was still pumped up with adrenaline despite having no sleep, breakfast or a bath, I heard June Keithley’s voice over clandestine Radyo Bandido warning that loyalist troops were approaching the Santolan side of Aguinaldo.
Ready for attack
We quickly braced for an attack. For the first time, the thought of ending up as a sacrificial lamb crossed my mind.
Somebody, a veteran of demos, I presumed, handed me a ball full of nails—an improvised weapon to flatten tires. Before I could figure out how to use it, another schoolmate, his eyes red and his nose covered with a wet hanky, came running in our direction and shouting, “Tear gas, tear gas!”
Tension gripped us. But for some reason the loyalist soldiers halted their advance toward Edsa.
Before noon, Keithley announced that Marcos was gone and celebrated his departure by playing The Zombies’ hit single “She’s Not There,” modifying the lyrics.
That’s it! I told Mike we can now go home.
Marcoses flee
From a bus, we saw people in Guadalupe, Makati, rejoicing.
Back at home, while lying in bed with the flu starting to creep through my aching body and too weak to sit up, I watched the TV showing, horror of horrors, Marcos still in Malacañang! Thankfully, it was a short-lived appearance.
I had to stay home while people power triumphed and Marcos and his family fled Malacañang on Feb. 25.
Yesterday, I called Mike to ask how we survived hunger and thirst for three straight days. He said, “We wanted to be free.”
“Oh,” he added, “the nights were cold, it hardly mattered that we didn’t take a bath.”