At 4:00
in the morning of September 21, 1973 -- the first anniversary of martial law --
I and three other seminarians quietly slipped out of the seminary. I wore my jogging
pants and my scout-ranger jacket. We carried some of the leaflets that we
mimeographed the previous nights. These
leaflets contained a denunciation of the martial law and a call for people to
resist the dictatorial regime. We
planned to saturate the city with these leaflets. Other students belonging to various cells
were also doing the same thing in different parts of the city. We went on our separate
ways. As I was walking alone in the dark
and deserted streets of downtown Cebu dropping
leaflets in the doorsteps and mail-boxes, I suddenly felt hands grabbing me
from behind. A man held me by the neck, another by the arms. The third man aimed his .45 caliber pistol at me and said,
"Don't move, you are under
arrest!"
He
frisked me and grabbed the leaflets I tucked inside my jacket. A car suddenly
pulled in beside us and I was shoved inside. I was sandwiched between the two
men while the third sat in front. My whole body froze and my heart raced as the
car sped along Jones Avenue
They
brought me up to the office of the Constabulary Security Unit in third floor
and dumped me inside a small dark windowless room they called the "dragon
room." This was the room where they conducted tactical
interrogations. What happened next
seemed surreal. It was an experience of
pain, shame and humiliation that I tried to forget and did not want talk about.
Years later as I tried to come to terms with the past, I wrote a psalm that
describes what I and many other political prisoners had to go through.
A Prisoner's Psalm
From this dark and damp cell
I cry out to you --
Lord, can your hear my groaning?
I cry to you all day long,
I call out to you in the night
But you are so distant or absent.
My throat is sore, I cannot scream anymore
Day and night they ask me all sorts of
questions,
they strike, punch and kick me when I do not answer.
My fingers are swollen, I cannot clench my
fist
My ribs are broken, I cannot stand erect
My whole body is inflamed, it is getting
numb.
I was thirsty and they forced me to
drink rum.
to loosen my tongue and reveal to them the
truth.
They
stripped me off my clothes and my
dignity.
They are preparing the machine that will electrify
my body.
And now I dread the sound of footsteps and
the opening of the door.
I prefer this darkness than face the glaring
light bulb.
They said only I can end my suffering
if I confess to them everything and betray
those
who oppose this dictatorial regime.
How much longer, do I have to suffer?
How much longer can I hold on?
How much longer can I maintain my sanity?
Will I ever see again the sky and the sun?
Will I ever see again the faces of those I
love and serve?
Or will they make me disappear forever?
Lord, do not abandon me!
Deliver me from these kidnappers and
murderers
who
are trying to maintain peace and order.
Deliver me from these mercenaries
whose
obsession is to defend national security
the
security of this blood-thirsty and power hunger dictator
the
security of his cronies and their big business interest
the
security of his alien lords and their bases and investments.
O, Lord my God,
I know you are neither blind nor deaf.
Your mercy and compassion endure forever.
You have always been a subversive God
you
depose the mighty from their thrones and raise the lowly.
I cry out now to you: subvert this
dictatorial regime!
Let your Spirit fill the hearts of those who
are struggling to build a kingdom
of
justice, peace and freedom.
From this dark and damp cell
I cry out to you, Lord can you hear me?
Into your hands I commend my broken body
and my wavering spirit.
While I was inside the “dragon room”, I felt so
helpless. I cried out to God but he
seemed so distant and absent. I felt abandoned.
Under the glare of a light bulb over my head, the intelligence agents
continued to take turns in interrogating me and hitting my solar plexus, ears,
chest and kidneys every time I refused to answer their questions. I was gasping
for air every time they hit me. The pain became so unbearable that I passed
out. When I regained consciousness I
lost the sense of time since it was dark inside the room. I didn't know whether
it was night or day. I was hungry and thirsty. Instead of giving me water,
somebody forced me to drink Tanduay rum. I became groggy and they continued to
ask me who my comrades were and where they could be found. They thought that
too much alcohol would loosen my tongue.
Instead, I wailed like a little child.
After a while, another intelligence
agent was assigned to interrogate me. He treated me like I was his younger
brother. He spoke softly and told me that the torture would stop if I just give
them the information they wanted. He also brought me food. I was wondering if I
could withstand another session of torture. Yet I was also imagining the faces
of my comrades, especially Magno and Cynthia. If I reveal their names they
would also be picked up, tortured and imprisoned. I told myself that I would
never reveal any information that would lead to their arrest. Yet I had to tell
them something that would make them believe that they have broken me and that I
have finally cooperated. So I finally said, "Please, don't hurt me anymore.
I will tell you everything I know."
I wanted the
torture to stop and at the same time protect the real identity of my
companions. To mislead them, I finally
gave them the name of a popular student activist – Tina Rosello - who belonged
to a radical leftist student group. I
presumed she had already gone underground and they would not be able to arrest
her. They seemed to believe me and the torture
stopped. They were glad that I was finally cooperating with them. They asked me
if I was willing to work as an informer if they released me. I said yes. I was
thinking that I would just hide once I get out.
The following night or was it day, I
heard the scream of a young woman in another room. An agent told me that they
had picked up Tina and was interrogating her. He told me that they would use me
as a witness if she was going to be
tried by a military tribunal. I was seized with remorse. I was saying to
myself, "What have I done? In order to save myself and my comrades I gave
them her name and she is now suffering because of my false story."
When I
met the major, I told him that
everything I revealed to them was a lie and that I was retracting my statement.
So Tina was immediately released. My conscience would continue to haunt me for
the despicable act of falsely implicating a girl in order to save my skin. It
was the worst sin that I have ever committed.
I felt I was being sucked deeper and
deeper into a black hole in which there was no escape. When I went to the
comfort room, accompanied by a guard, I saw an open window and all I thought
was to jump out of it. We were on the third floor but I didn't care. All I
wanted was to end it all. But I didn't have a chance to do it since the guard
was just beside me.
I was
sent back to the dragon room for further interrogation. They were mad at me for
lying to them. The torture continued. I was like a punching bag and a soccer
ball. But I refused to tell them anything.
After so many days of torture, my body and mind became numb. I couldn't
feel anymore. Even when one of the
interrogators put the barrel of his .45 caliber pistol in my mouth and cocked
it, I didn't care anymore if he pulled the trigger. My interrogators out of
exasperation told me that they would be using the electric shock to force out
information from me. They showed me a machine with the electrodes that they
would attach to the different parts of my body. I was suddenly filled with
terror.
I
finally told them, "OK, I give up, I can't stand it anymore. I will tell
you everything." They believed that
I had finally reached my breaking point.
This is the gist of the story I told them:
"I had been recruited by Ed Garcia and Sam Javelosa to the Lakasdiwa in the early seventies. With
the declaration of Martial Law the members of the Lakasdiwa decided to lie low. I was trying to revive the movement
in Cebu and I started by organizing a cell in
the seminary. We produced the leaflets ourselves using the seminary
mimeographing machine and distributed these ourselves. We didn't have any
contact with any group. We were on our own."
I gave
them the names of the seminarians who helped me produce and distribute the
leaflets (Rex Fernandez, Dwight Alcantar and Reynold Pigar). This story was close to the truth to be credible. Strangely enough,
the interrogators seemed to believe me. In order to check out my story, they
invited for questioning the three seminarians. Since all they knew was about
the production and distribution of the leaflets, they were sent home
immediately. So finally the torture and
tactical interrogation was over. I survived. I protected the identity of my
comrades and friends. I was turned over to the Regional Command for the
Administration of Detainees for formal investigation.
I spent almost a week in a small cell inside the Provost Marshall's
office. It was like a cage. This was the
holding cell for those undergoing formal investigation. The investigator
assigned to take my sworn statement was Sgt. Allega. He was assisted by an
attractive female staff. All I did was
to repeat the story I told my interrogators. The female constabulary soldier
typed everything I said. From time to time Sgt. Allega would ask for more
information but I stuck to my story, making sure that I would not implicate my
comrades. After our last session, the investigator told me I would be sent to the detention center and
undergo "rehabilitation."
So
on October 3, 1973, I and two other prisoners were put on a military truck and
taken to Lahug Detention
Center
I
was the first one to answer, "I am Amado Picardal and I am a political
prisoner."
A dark young man with a shaved
head approached me and said, "Come with me. Nobody's going to harm you.
You are exempted from this initiation. They respect political prisoners here. I
am Hugo and I am also a political prisoner."
The two other new prisoners with me had
criminal offenses. They were just teenagers. They were immediately subjected to
the initiation rite for new prisoners. It was called “the baptism.” So the two
young prisoners were brought to the toilet and their faces were dunked into the
toilet bowl filled with urine and excrements. Then the other prisoner took
turns in punching them. Later that night several sex-starved prisoners
sodomized them. And I thought all these
could have happened to me too.
I
found it difficult to sleep on my first night. There was a lot of bantering
among prisoners who were drinking and playing cards. Others were arguing and I
thought a fight could erupt at any moment. I was perspiring and every time I
breathe the smell of sweat, urine and excrement filled my nostrils. Thankfully,
I was tired and I dozed off. At around four in the morning I woke up. I tried to convince myself that I was back in
my bed in the seminary and all that had happened was just a bad dream. But the
stench reminded me that I was still in prison. I wiped the tears in my cheeks
and went back to sleep.
Dear
Ma,
It
is a month now since I was arrested and detained by the intelligence operatives
of the Constabulary Security Unit. After a week of tactical interrogation and
solitary confinement I was transferred to a prison cell at Camp Sergio
A
couple of weeks ago, I celebrated my 18th birthday. Fr. Jesena and some
classmates came for a visit. They brought me a birthday cake.
Yesterday,
I met Colonel Santua and he told me that I will be transferred to the political
detention center at Camp
Lapulapu
By
the way, Fr. Rudy Abao and Bro. Ben Alforque, MSC were arrested two weeks ago.
This is once again a proof of the fascist character of the Marcos dictatorial
regime. Anybody who dares to criticize, expose and oppose this "New
Society" will be arrested. But it does not matter. What is important is
that not all can be fooled by the lies and deceit of this regime. Not all are
asleep in these dark days of our motherland.
Please
don't worry about me, I will survive this ordeal. Don't be ashamed about my being in prison. To
struggle for freedom is not a crime.
It was frightening to be placed on the same
cell with thieves, murderers, rapists and carnappers, etc. I was lucky there
was one other political prisoner -- Hugo. He had earned the respect of the
other prisoners and took me under his wings.
We were able to befriend the toughest criminal whom everyone addressed
as the "Mayor." He was
regarded as the big boss, so nobody
dared to harm or molest us. In return I
acted as his secretary. He would ask me to write letters to his mother and to
his various girlfriends outside. Mayor
was a Mama's boy. In the early hours of
the morning I would hear him crying and calling out to his mother.
Life in prison was dull. The
guards would wake us up before six every morning and open the doors of our cells and order us to
proceed to the courtyard where we would
be exposed to the morning sun as they made the roll call. After a breakfast of black coffee and two pieces of bread, we would go back to our bunks and do
nothing. We spent most of our time waiting
for our next meal and dreaming of the delicious food that we would eat once we
were released. Others had their bodies tattooed. A crude design of a clenched fist with a
number 1081 was tattooed on my left arm. We would also gather in small groups
sharing our stories. Some even shared
the tricks of their trade (how to pick a pocket or how to rob a house). Others
shared with us how they killed their victims.
Many of the prisoners seemed to
be pious. Many wore the rosary around their neck. One even had a tattoo of the
Mother of Perpetual Help on his back. Every evening after supper the prisoners
would come together and pray the rosary.
Later, they would gather and drink rum.
By midnight many would be drunk and there would be a brawl among various
gang members. Whenever a fight broke out, I would immediately scamper to a safe
haven near the bunk of Mayor and Hugo.
Hugo was my constant companion.
He was a student activist before martial law was declared. He told me that he
joined the NPA (New People's Army) after the declaration of martial rule. He was caught while visiting his brother in Cebu . Hugo and I
would often argue about the existence of God.
He was a Marxist and an atheist. He told me there was no material basis
for God's existence and that religion was the opium of the people. He was very convincing and I felt so
inadequate because I did not know how to prove the existence of God. I could not make an account of my faith. The seed of doubt was planted in my mind.
I was very fortunate that Fr.
Jesena , the seminary director, visited me three times a week and followed up
my case. He regularly wrote my mother
and father to give them updates about me and my case. On October 26, he wrote this letter:
Dear
Engr. and Mrs. Picardal,
Thank you for your letter. I hope things are fine with you and the children.
Amado
is doing well. He has been helping other prisoners by looking into their cases
and presenting those who need help to the officer in charge of the Detention Center
The wheels of justice still moves
very slowly even with the PC [Philippine Constabulary]. I have been following
up Amado's case also everyday and I haven't gone very far. The recommendation
for his transfer to Camp
Lapulapu
My letter to General Amor was not
handed directly to him but it is being circulated among different offices. I
have lost track of it. I have to find out where. It seems to be playing hide
and seek. So I think we have to be very patient.
Today, I was investigated myself. I
have to raise my hands to swear to the truth of my statements - or else?!? I
was told to return Monday for another session.
So will you be patient? I'll tell
Nonie about your message. I am visiting Amado almost every two days and I think
I can be taken now for one of the detainees. I always bring him something to
eat when I visit him. Frs. Suico and Sullivan and Bro. Gerard had also visited
him. He still has money with me. I'll be writing every week to give you info.
God bless.
On
October 28, 1973, I was transferred to the political detention center in Camp Lapulapu
Dearest
Ma,
Two
weeks ago, I was transferred to this camp and so far I have no difficulty
adjusting to this environment. All those imprisoned here are political
detainees. There are more than 80 of us here.
Ten of them are ex-seminarians. My former professor in Philosophy at
the University of
San Carlos
Our
detention barracks, which is inside the army camp, is enclosed by walls and
barbed wires. It is heavily guarded and there is a watch tower. We are living a
very regimented way of life. We wake up at 4:45 in the morning for reveille and calisthenics followed
by the cleaning of the place. We have rehabilitation classes and manual labor
in the morning and athletics in the afternoon. I am a member of the detention
basketball team. I am also in the card-making committee - we're making cards
for Christmas that we will sell. We have a library, cooperative store, parlor
games, tailoring, medical committee, food committee, etc. Next week, we will be
starting our chess and ping-pong tournaments.
As
you can see, we are by ourselves a little community. We are trying to improve
the prison conditions and to make ourselves
at home. It is not enough to merely adjust to prison life. We have to
transform the condition into a more humane and dignified one as well.
I
don't know when I will be released. I am still under
"rehabilitation." My detention is indefinite -- it could be for seven
months or seven years.
Being
detained and losing my freedom is the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
But to quote from the beautiful card you sent me: "Happy are they who
dream dreams and are willing to pay the price to make them come true."
It
is true that my detention is really a bad thing in terms of wasted time (my
studies). I'm already behind my batch and I won't be able to finish my
education for the priesthood within six years. But we have to look at this
situation positively. This is the time when I can assess and evaluate my life.
Out of this experience I hope to emerge a better man with a deeper
understanding of reality. I do not expect to go through life smoothly, I have
to pass through many trials and difficulties. This is the harsh reality of life
and I have to accept it with the hope that something good can come out of it.
You
must have been joking when you wrote that you dream of me becoming a bishop or
cardinal someday. That's an impossible dream. I don't have any desire for these
high positions. I only want to be a
simple priest, working among the poor, facing life with them.
Please
give my regards to all,
Two weeks later, I received a
cheerful and very consoling letter from my mother, written in English, as usual:
Dearest
Mading,
I've almost bitten up all my
fingernails with impatience waiting for your letter. Everybody was happy when
your letter arrived.
I am very glad that there's never a
dull moment in your life there, what with all the things you like --
basketball, chess, ping-pong, and a library, too (the best of all)! You know
dear, I'm afraid that you'd want to live there permanently if you are feeling
very comfortable. Ouch? I'm only kidding you.
You know, I was just joking when I
said that I would like you to be a bishop or a cardinal someday. Well, who
knows? It's not a crime to dream dreams, is it?
If
you don't mind being out of school for one semester or more, it's okay with me.
I only hope that you'll not be too unhappy about it. Remember, I have given you
to our Lord when you first entered the seminary and I know that the Lord will
take good care of you. I'm only very sorry that we could not visit you -- I'm
certain that you understand our situation now. Nonie and Fr. Jesena are always
visiting you aren't they? I wish I could send you something you'd like to eat,
mind telling me your preference?
Did they shave your head? I hope not. You've
got to maintain your personal grooming even though you are in prison. I think
you have some ladies for cellmates, haven't you? I'd like to picture my boy looking
"spick and span" and handsome. ehem. Gosh, not that I'd love you less
if you were cross-eyed or hare-lip and very ugly. That reminds me of a
description I came across once -- "He has a face that only a mother could
love." Quite a beautiful thing a mother's love is, isn't it?
By
the way, do you know that you've become dearer to me since you gave me a fright
by landing yourself in jail? It's only now I know how brave and courageous you
are. I'm really blessed having a son as fine as you are. Ouch! do you think
there's any possibility that I'll land in prison by merely saying that? What a
cruel world!
I
am now an active member of the Cursillo movement. We have ultreyas every
Wednesday. Every Friday evening we also have "School of Leaders
So
long dear -- your Papa and your brods and sisters are sending you their love.
Be seeing you in my dreams.
Love
lots,
Mama
I
never expected that I would end up as a prisoner in Camp Lapulapu Central Visayas ). Most were leaders of the radical student
movement -- the KM-SDK, some were leading cadres of the Communist Party of the Philippines
The prison condition was not that harsh. We
were treated well most of the time. However, there were times when the guards
would pick up some of our fellow prisoners in the middle of the night and when
they came back they would be groaning or crying after a night of torture. The
last incident happened a week before Christmas. Many of us felt that the
practice should stop. So we all decided to hold a hunger strike. On the first
day of the hunger strike, the guards brought
fried chicken and pork adobo. Our mouths watered as we gazed at
the food on the table. We were never served such delicious meals before. But we
refused to take them. Instead we banged
our mess kits and had a noise barrage which reverberated all over the camp the
whole day. By evening time, I felt very hungry. This was the first time that I
missed breakfast, lunch and supper. I
drank a lot of water and went to bed early. On the second day, the guards
called out the names of eight political
prisoners. Among these were Mario Bolasco, Menandro Villanueva, Fr. Rudy Abao,
Bro. Ben Alforque and myself. We were told to pack up our bags and get on the
military truck. We were brought to Camp
Sergio Osmeña and placed inside a small cell. The prison authorities suspected
us of being the leaders of the hunger strike and wanted to isolate us.
Nevertheless, we decided to continue our hunger strike in solidarity with our
fellow political prisoners who were left behind. On Christmas eve, as we heard
the sound of firecrackers outside and imagined our families and friends
enjoying their Christmas dinner, we continued our hunger strike. Although I felt a bit weak , I didn´t feel
the hunger fangs anymore. We greeted one another a Merry Christmas. On December
27, a
week after the start of the hunger strike, the prison authorities gave in to
our demands. However, those of us in the isolation cell were told that we would
be not be sent back to Camp
Lapu-lapu Fort Bonifacio in Manila
Dear
Ma,
How
was your Christmas? I hope you have not given up hope wishing for a better one.
I know how miserable it is to be deprived of our basic needs and rights.
Anyway, we have to be thankful that we're still alive.
I
received the foodstuffs you sent me the other day. I was really touched by the
Christmas cards and letters from my brothers and sisters. I'm just sorry that I
could not send them gifts this Christmas like I used to. Anyway, it is not the gift that counts. What is
important is that we are one in spirit in celebrating this Christmas and we
hope that we will go through these hardships together.
You probably heard that we had a hunger strike
from December 19 to 27. After the first day of the hunger strike, eight of us
(including Fr. Rudy Abao and Bro. Ben Alforque) were transferred to the
Provost Marshall's stockade at Camp
Sergio Fort
Bonifacio in Manila Manila Ft. Bonifacio Camp
Lapulapu Manila
At
present I'm working on my philosophy term paper. I hope to take the special
exams by February. You don't have to worry about my studies, I can still catch
up with my batch if I'm released before summer.
Please
give my warmest regards to everyone. I'm including you in my prayers. I hope
you will keep on praying for a better tomorrow.
Life in the political detention
camp went back to normal. The guards
were more friendly. The practice of
picking up and torturing prisoners stopped. We spent more time playing
basketball, chess and ping-pong. We also
spent a lot of time discussing various topics: politics, philosophy, science
and religion. Most of these were discussed from a Marxist perspective. What
affected me most was the discussion on religion. For the first time in my life
I lived in an environment where the majority took it for granted that God did
not exist and that religion was the opium of the people. For many of my fellow political prisoners,
the "Marxist-Leninist-Mao Tse Tung Thought" could explain everything.
For them, it provides a rational-scientific explanation of how everything came
to be, how society has developed, and what the future of humankind will be.
They asserted that “dialectical historical materialism” can more adequately
explain the origin and direction of all reality rather than religion or theology. Thus, this scientific
view of reality precludes belief in God.
As
I listened to the discussion among my fellow political prisoners, I became more
and more aware of the possibility that God may not exist at all, that God may
just be the product of our imagination, and that we human beings may have
created God in our own image and likeness.
The critique of religion as the
opium of the people seemed to be reasonable to me. I began to agree with them
that religion can provide solace to the oppressed, especially with the promise
of heaven. It makes all the suffering and oppression bearable. Because of this,
people will no longer struggle for liberation.
Thus, for many of my fellow political prisoners to be a revolutionary
meant to be an atheist. The song from
the Internationale sums this up: “Wala
tayong maaasahan, Bathala o Manunubos…” (There is no one we can put
our hope or trust in, neither a God or a
Savior). Instead of believing in God, we
need to believe in the people - the masses. Instead of hoping for a divine liberator, we
have to liberate ourselves.
In
spite of the atheism that many professed, they continued to attend the regular
Sunday Mass which was presided by Captain Oquendo, the military chaplain. I
could sense the skepticism of many which I began to imbibe. Like others, I doubted whether it was really
the word of God that we heard, and that
whether the bread and wine was really transformed into the body and blood of
Christ. It became more and more
difficult for me to believe. It was easier not to believe. What made it more
difficult was that I did not feel God’s presence in prison.
I was impressed
by the zeal and commitment of my fellow political prisoners who regarded
themselves as National Democrats and Communists. They viewed their imprisonment
as a temporary setback and dreamed of the day when they would be back in the
countryside continuing the struggle for freedom and liberation. They were full
of hope and they truly believed that someday the forces of revolution would be
victorious. There were slogans they kept
on repeating that dictated how they should behave: Serve the People, Simple
living- hard struggle, Struggle against selfishness and personal interest, etc. For a people who
were regarded as atheists, it seemed that they were full of faith, hope and charity. They may not believe in God or his kingdom,
but they believed in the people and hoped for the coming of a new and
transformed world where there will be no more injustice, exploitation or
oppression. They were ready to offer their whole life for the sake of the
people's cause. Later, I remembered them in a poem I wrote:
THE ATHEIST
You call me godless just because I don't believe
in the god you adore, a dictator who decrees:
Blessed are the rich and the mighty
they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are the poor and the weak
they shall inherit the sky.
Blessed are the children of the rich
they shall live happily after birth.
Blessed are the children of the poor
they shall live happily after death.
Woe to you who subvert this sacred order
you shall be called godless and you will be crucified.
I
don't believe in your god
who dwell in your golden tabernacles
and marble cathedrals,
who cannot see the misery of the poor
in the slums, farms and factories,
who cannot hear the groaning and the howling
of the oppressed in this vast prison,
in the cells, safehouses and streets,
an impotent god.
I
don't believe in your god. I don't believe in your idols.
You call me godless
just because I don't believe in the gods you worship,
the god you accumulate day and night and keep in the tabernacle of your bank,
the god you wield that enables you to
dictate the destiny of others
the god that puts you on a pedestal.
I
don't believe in your gods. I don't
believe in your idols.
I
have seen the suffering of the poor,
I
have heard the cry of the oppressed,
I
have joined them in their struggle for liberation
and I am ready to sacrifice my body and
blood for their total salvation,
and for this you call me godless.
While I admired their dedication and
zeal, I also was alarmed by the ruthlessness of some of those who considered
themselves revolutionaries. This became apparent in an incident that I
witnessed one night. The lights were
already out and I was sleeping in my bunk when
was awakened by a cry for help. I immediately stood up and saw Siano --
a sickly political prisoner -- being beaten and kicked by six other political
prisoners. His face was already bloodied. The other prisoners just watched. I pleaded,
"Please stop that … why are you doing this to him?".
Instead one of them approached me
and threatened to punch me. "This demon has been informing on us. Are you
going to help him?"
I backed down and remained silent
as they kept on beating him to a pulp. Nobody dared to stop them. When it was
over, we all went back to bed. I found it difficult to sleep. I was horrified
at seeing a sickly prisoner being beaten up by other fellow prisoners on the
suspicion that he had informed on them.
Dear
Ma,
I
sent you a letter two weeks ago but it was intercepted and censored by the camp
guards. So here I am again making another try.
Fr.
McHugh visited me recently. Fr. Tancinco also came and brought the radio and
the foodstuffs you sent me. The radio is really a big help. I can now listen to
the beautiful music which dispels the boredom and loneliness.
You
don't have to apologize for not informing me about Lolo's death. I heard about
it anyway from Fr. Jesena.
Everything
is alright here. I have just been assigned to work with the medical team and
the library. I'm still with the piggery committee but unfortunately we have
just lost one of our pigs who died of pneumonia. We have drills and marching
every day. Finally we harvested camote from our Green Revolution project. Just
recently the OCR (Office for Civil Relation) asked us to take psychological
tests.
How's
everybody back there? I hope Papa has
already started his work. I have been praying for him lately. Please give my
warmest regards to everyone.
Around the
middle of February, a prison guard told me to proceed to the visitor’s area.
I presumed that my visitor was Fr.
Jesena. I was surprised and delighted to see Papa. He seemed to have grown older
with most of the hair on his head gone. I never expected him to visit me after
Mama told me that he was disappointed with me and blamed her for allowing me to
get involved in student activism that consequently led to my arrest. We were seating at the opposite side of the
table with a guard constantly watching us. There was no smile in his face. He seemed cold and distant. “How are you?”He
asked.
I told him I
was OK.
“When are you
going to be released?”
I answered
that I didn’t know but that I hoped that it would be soon. We had little to
talk about. He didn’t stay very long. As
he left, I felt that he was deeply worried and disappointed with me. How else
should a father feel seeing his son in prison? Nevertheless, I was glad that he
came to visit me even if it was just for a brief moment.
Dearest
Ma,
Last
week, my request for a special pass was granted and so I went to the University
to take my special exams accompanied by an armed guard. I am probably the first political prisoner to
do this. Fr. Jesena had made the arrangement beforehand with my
professors. I was glad to see them. It took the whole morning doing the exams in
history, chemistry, and philosophy.
I
met Nonie. We had lunch at the monastery where I was warmly welcomed by the
Redemptorist community. The Fathers were very supportive and sympathetic. After
lunch I was able to convince my guard that we see a movie before going back to
the camp. Well, it was good to be out of prison even for a day. I'm longing for
the day when I will be released from this prison camp.
Two weeks later I received a
letter from Mama:
Dearest
Mading,
Hullo there! How was the results of
your exams? I hope you got a passing mark or I'll make you change your middle
name.
Nonie
has been telling me that you've grown sidewise -- bitaw, to say it in her own
words, you're growing fat. I'm not happy at all about it . Know why? I'm
suspecting that you’re having a "beri-beri." I've heard before that
your occupation was to wait for the next meal.
My poor son, your relatives do not
approve of what you have done. If I were in their shoes, I'd do the same. Your
uncles and aunts are worried about me. They are afraid that I will be the first
in the family to go to Mandaluyong if the strain is too much for me. They are
marveling at my remarkable endurance. I think
I have our Lord to thank for it.
I am intending to ask your uncle
Pitoy [Colonel Nadorra] to write to General Amor and plead for your release.
Any objection? You see dear, you have already overstayed in prison. The
government is wasting money for your board and lodging when the money could
have been invested in some useful cause. Besides that, I really want you to
finish your studies without delay. You know how priests are badly needed in our
country today.
Your brods, sisters and most of all
your Papa are sending you their love. I hope you will be the no. 1 model
prisoner in prison. I'd surely come and pin your ribbon if you will just let me
know.
I
just couldn't believe that my little boy has grown up to be a man. The
last time you kissed me goodbye when you were leaving for Cebu
was more than a couple of years ago. But now you don't kiss me anymore because
you are already grown up. But to me you are still my boy. So long dear.
On April 15, 1974 , I was brought to the office of
General Luis Amor, the III PC Zone commander.
Mama and my youngest sister, Cely, were there. My uncle (Mama's
brother-in-law), retired Colonel Jose Nadorra, had earlier written General Amor
asking him to release me under his custody.
My uncle was General Amor's former commanding officer from way back. So
finally, General Amor acceded to my uncle's request. After giving us a long lecture, the General signed my release paper. He told me that I was just a temporarily released detainee
and that I have been placed under city
arrest, which meant that I could not leave the city of Cebu
My prison ordeal ended after
seven months. I survived.
Yet somehow I was a different person.
I had been hardened by the
torture, the isolation, the prison violence, the boredom, the hunger strike,
etc. In order to survive I learned to
dull my senses and my feelings. I was no longer sure of my faith. I became paranoid -- I was suspicious of
strangers around me, thinking I was still under surveillance. I was afraid to meet my old friends and
comrades. I began to experience
recurring nightmares.
So I was free at last. But I was released to a bigger prison -- the
Philippine society under a dictatorial rule.
2 comments:
May the sadness forget you. God bless you 'Dre. Stay healthy. You are always in our prayers.
Amazing story of resilience and commitment to your faith and cause in such a horrific situation. Thank you for sharing, I hope you and all the victims of human rights get justice. Your story reminds me of Father Rudy Romano, whatever happened to his case?
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