The military now occupied both lanes, the left lane and the right side of Quezon Boulevard. About a thousand people protesting the Marcos rule stood their ground. We were in the third row. Then we saw fire trucks and truncheons and shield-bearing soldiers slowly moving towards us. A stone wrapped in newspaper landed in front of me. The fire trucks continued advancing and were now 35 meters away. I saw soldiers keeping pace with the fire truck walking on both sides of the truck. Suddenly I heard cans fall on the ground and I saw smoke rising. Still, we didn’t move and merely stood pat. More smoke bombs were hurled and more rocks. Fearing we would get hurt, a shout came from our marshals, Lean Alejandro and Elmer Mercado,"Run!" Guila Maramba and I linked arms as instructed in case of emergency but somehow Guila had gotten lost in the bedlam and Ray Llenada of the PDP or Philippine Democratic Party Laban-Quezon City chapter saw me and grabbed my arm as everyone ran in all directions.. Ray held me as we ran for our lives. It seemed I was floating in air. Past Kanlaon St., Apo St., into Speaker Perez St. We begged people in two establishments to open their doors for us but they ran inside, locked up and closed the curtains.
Tears ran down my cheeks as I thought, "Is this a fellow Filipino shooting at us?" I heard a pop-pop-pop sound not unlike the popcorn popping in my kitchen. They were no smoke bombs. They were guns being fired at us. God! I remembered my small children. Then more pop-pop-pop-pop! Again, my choppy thoughts turned to my five girls. "I can get shot in the back! I’m wearing a thin T-shirt," I thought.
At this point, UP student Fidel Nemenzo overtook us. Suddenly, merely a foot away, he just fell. As he fell he turned around to look behind before falling forward. Apparently a bullet had hit him on the back. Ray and I saw blood gushing from Fidel’s chest as his friends dragged him to a gate on the left side of the road where we went as well! In the meanwhile we were still dodging rocks being hurled at us. We shouted for the occupants to open their locked gate. Getting no reply we pushed it while Fidel’s friends kicked the steel gate open. Twelve of us ran in further inside between the two rows of apartments for cover. We leaned on the walls of the last apartment panting, listening to the soldiers’ boots thumping on the cemented road.
Restless while Fidel’s friends nursed him, I ran to the gate and opened it a wee bit to peep out. I hid behind by the cement post of the gate so my feet wouldn’t be seen. There I saw just a few feet away the soldiers walking back to Quezon Boulevard. Soon after, surprisingly, a car forced its way inside the gate. Sonny Belmonte had called for a pick-up. He opened the car’s door and shoved me into the front seat where he sat beside me. The boys were called to hurry up and they carried Fidel on the folding bed, and laid him gently in the backseat.
Nurses at the United Doctors Medical Center were waiting for us. Protestors had been brought in either for first aid or just to hide. Where to bring Fidel? Up to the operating room. Luckily my obstetrician was a doctor at UDMC and could vouch for my true identity. My hand held his necklace. Live! I prayed.
We saw UP student leader Lean Alejandro checking on casualties. He asked that I walk around to check on anyone being picked up at random. I did, with Wally of PDP-Laban. The mayhem was over. The soldiers outside the hospital stared at us – it must have been my necklace, a tear gas mask around my neck!
Tingting,
I’m still terribly in love with our country and people. After all, four years ago, I wasn’t just a young, idealistic dreamer who "played with fire," and eventually, would "grow up." The same vision, dream and commitment still inspire me in everything I do, and pursue. Maybe, I’ll never outgrow the parliament of the streets, the streets where the people are.
But here in Japan, I’m forcibly cut off from the present, I can only look forward or look back and reminisce about those days in UP, and in the streets, when we did put our lives at stake in our quest for a cherished dream.
Last month, September 27, some friends greeted me "Happy Birthday." After all, they said, I was "born again" on that day. Maybe, all of us are "reborn" in such times of difficulty and realization because experiences infuse us with much more insight, energy and determination. I remember how I met you, in the most unforgettable of circumstances, on September 27, 1984. As men were dragging my wounded body into that compound, I faintly heard you knocking and introducing yourself to the house owners. The distress and sense of urgency in your voice were clear, but I asked myself, "Is that really Tingting Cojuangco?" I couldn’t see well (the first time I remember seeing you was at the intensive care unit, a day or two after the incident) but it didn’t matter then. What mattered was that someone took the responsibility of making sure I got the help I needed.
Back in 1983, September 21, I remember you standing on top of a Hi-Ace (or was it a VW combi?) in Liwasang Bonifacio. There were hundreds of thousands of people then, as we marked the first month after Ninoy’s death and the 11th year of martial law. But, of course, you stood out, in your bright yellow T-shirt. To tell you the truth, how I admired you then. (I even took a picture). For I saw you, not in a magazine or the society pages of the newspaper, but in a political demonstration, with us. I felt both admiration and wonder then. But you were Tingting Cojuangco and I was just one of those UP student leaders, so I never imagined meeting you in any circumstance. But maybe, the situation was so bad then that people from different backgrounds had to get together . . .
Anyway, that was years ago, and I still am grateful to and fond of you. Our separate paths did cross, in a most unforgettable way. I’ll keep in touch with you.
– Fidel Nemenzo