THROUGH THE STORM: IN MEMORY OF NINOY'S

SUPREME SACRIFICE FOR FREEDOM

By: Alvin T. Claridades

It started out as a very promising day, peaceful and serene. The sun peeped
through the oriental horizon with an impish smile. The early skylarks sang sweet songs
as they soared high above the clouds cast over the blue sky. The crystal-clear water of
the Manila bay lay quiet and still before every peace-loving Indio! With hardly a small
curling wave etched on the ocean’s surface, nobody, not even an adept meteorologist
could have hinted that a storm was shaping up in its midst.

The disturbance came shortly after midday. The occurrence was, all throughout,
unanticipated. It turned up when everyone in the household was buried under his
sleeping quarters taking his siesta.

A loud, thunderous bang and suddenly, everybody was up on his feet.

Elsewhere, there was commotion. A pandemonium was clearly in the offing.

The storm boomed in its ferocious might. It was all upon us. One could only
mumble blasphemous words in utter disbelief at how such an unseen creature could
unleash its fury at the sturdy branches of a tree and whip its leaves with stubborn
wrath. An eyeblink later, a huge tree was weeded out from the womb of the earth, fell
flat on its side and lay prostrate on the ground, cold and dreary.

The wind grew wilder and fiercer at each turn. One big shove sent an unusually
great, destructive wave inshore that was enough to drown the sobbing and the
screaming of a mother whose son was sacrificed to the gods of the revolution.
Everything was thrown in disarray. And Manila was never back in its old form.

The windows of the houses went on trembling as if to grumble against the brute
force of the wind that occasionally ran smack into their sober faces. But there was
nothing else they could do to avert the tumultuous outrage.

A volley of thunderbolts ensued and another hapless tree fell prey to the nature’s
vicious whims. Its trunks slouched at the least puff and its entire heft dropped heavily
across the battered torso of the other which was made to bear the brunt of the unkind
reckoning.

The scenario was one pre-hatched plot of a wretched tragedy where the villain,
the perpetrator of the crime, gets out of the mess unscathed, leaving his victim in the
custody of the dogs in an avenue where the word justice is as alien as its name; where
the sight of a bull-headed toughie is an eyesore and is enough to send the whole
neighborhood scurrying away for safety; where might lords it over one’s rights.

The story ended thus. The mock actors had played their parts. And there were
only dumb windows to take the witness’ stand.

As the sun buried itself ocean-deep, the whole scene was one of ear-splitting
quietude. Except for the shrill croaking of the frogs that subdued the muffled tolling of
the church bells, no other noise could be heard from afar. The mushrooming of the
weeds at the foot of the fallen trees could be eyed in a distance. They seemed like
wreaths laid around the body of a dead leader.

If only those frogs could talk and those weeds walk, they would have lightened
the load of grief filling the tearful pavement of the earth. If only. . .

It looked like as though the sky would never be bright again, as though the sun
had kissed the world goodbye. No one, nobody knew.

The tension that gripped the land one Sunday of August may have somewhat
eased out today. But no one can tell what lies ahead. The ebbing of the tension may
just be a lull before another storm.

- 30 –

[This unpublished work was written by the author in his own hand nearly 30 years ago
or a few days after the cold-blooded murder of former Senator Ninoy Aquino at the
tarmac of the Manila International Airport on August 21, 1983. He was then an 18-year
old student activist and a budding, crusading writer. He is making public this piece
straight from the dusty files he has kept in his “baul” for decades in time for the
commemoration of the 30th death anniversary of our freedom hero and deliverer from
the clutches of dictatorship, Ninoy, whose martyrdom inspired this writing. The author
now works at the Housing and Urban Development Coordinating Council (HUDCC) and
teaches at the PUP College of Law.]