“If the press is not free; if speech is not independent and untrammeled; if the mind is shackled or made impotent through fear, it makes no difference under what form of government you live, you are a subject and not a citizen.”
– William Edgar Borah (1936), “Bedrock: Views on Basic National Problems”
On September 12, 1972, Senator Ninoy Aquino revealed “Oplan Sagittarius” to U.S. Embassy officials in Manila. Over lunch, he told them about the government’s plan to impose martial law. [Raymond Bonner, Waltzing with a Dictator: The Marcoses and the Making of American Policy (New York: Times Books, 1987), p. 98.]
On September 13, 1972, Senator Ninoy Aquino delivered a privilege speech on “Oplan Sagittarius.” Speaking to the Senate floor, he said he received a top-secret military plan given by Marcos himself to place Metro Manila and outlying areas under the control of the Philippine Constabulary as a prelude to Martial Law. Marcos will use the bombings, including the Plaza Miranda bombing, in Metro Manila as a justification for his takeover and subsequent authoritarian rule. He claimed that he received this information from the Armed Forces of the Philippines. [Jovito Salonga, A Journey of Struggle and Hope: The Memoir of Jovito R. Salonga (Quezon City: U.P. Center for Leadership, Citizenship and Democracy, 2001), p. 200; Raymond Bonner, Waltzing with a Dictator: The Marcoses and the Making of American Policy (New York: Times Books, 1987), p. 98.]
Between 4:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. on September 13, 1972, I scanned our station’s short-wave radio, looking for news from stations overseas which we can record and handover to our news bureau for transcription and inclusion in the day’s and next day’s scheduled newscasts. That was the best way to get news from overseas because there was no other practical means. We did not have access to foreign wire services. It was costly too. There were no facilities like what we now have in the 2000s. Domestic and international information was pricey and difficult to obtain.
That short wave radio was actually a US government issue, World War II vintage but still functioning. The first time I had a transistorized radio which had four broadcast bands was in the early 80s. It was a Sony. Very handy for monitoring or scanning for anything from any corner of the world, hardworking too. Smooth and easy to operate. That GI short wave radio irritably snorts and squeaks first before letting out the announcer’s voice.
At about 5:00 p.m. Radio Australia got into my scope, still with all its introductory hisses, clatter, and turbulence. In a little while, the signal somehow became coherent and pronounced. The newscaster started talking about “Oplan Sagittarius.” It jolted me as if my point finger slid to an open electric wire and caught on a strong surge of current.
Earlier in the week, we got ear of “Oplan Sagittarius” but in whispers. We did not have even the slightest idea about “Sagittarius” becoming a subject of Senator Ninoy Aquino’s privilege speech in the Senate. Or if ever news about it floated elsewhere, we would be listening about it on national radio or TV perhaps later in the evening or read about it in national papers about noon time the following day.
I excitedly barked at our technician-on-board to roll tape and to immediately hand over a copy to the news bureau. I was able to somehow follow the bark with a mindful “Sorry for the emotion.” Then I composed a flash report and aired it on a magazine program anchored by the late Doming Panesa. After that, I proceeded to the music records library and rummaged for a “Bayan Ko” disc and placed it in the announcer’s booth where every board worker can see and play on his/her program, as he/she wished.
Since that time our announcers talked about “Oplan Sagittarius” and put their minds on what Marcos was doing. Nationalism was in the air. “Bayan Ko” must have topped the station’s music chart, if there was one.
I snootily thought then that Albay owed me one for catching and letting the news out ahead of others, even the national radio and TV which can air anything in a flash. But Radio Australia moved faster than anyone of us. Later in the night, I felt a forceful tug of angst somewhere in the head. What comes next? Other radio stations took notice of “Oplan Sagittarius” next day.
As days went by, we further learned that under “Sagittarius” Greater Manila and the towns of Rizal and the entire Bulacan province would be put under military control as “prelude, maybe, to clamping martial law,” as Senator Ninoy Aquino would put it.
Aquino bewailed about a “devilish plot” when he claimed that the “. . . so-called increased sabotage activities and liquidation plans by urban guerrillas operating in the Greater Manila area is the main cause for the plan. Yet, the plan was conceived even before the bombings,” he emphasized.
For about a week, discourses on “Oplan Sagittarius” and airing “Bayan Ko” became a regular fare for broadcasters in Albay. We felt queasy with the dark prospects and vicious consequences that a dictatorial rule would bring on. The prospect of losing democracy, of our freedoms, of the freedom of speech and the press, especially, dogged us like images of Tasmanian Devils about to be cut loose from some magical shackles. In a blink they would be all over us, feasting on some kind of a delicacy. At least, that was how I felt.
In the meantime, a day hardly passed without news about bombings, riots, rallies, and everything else that made many feel that the country was a social volcano waiting to explode and turn everything into shards and scraps and shreds. Ferdinand Edralin Marcos Sr. painted a scenario where the communists were seriously threatening democracy, and all the institutions Filipinos hold close to their hearts. And they were succeeding! He had to save this nation. He had to crush the communists. And everything, especially in Metro Manila, everything was going the way the would-be dictator envisioned the situation to be, favorable for the declaration of martial law, the seizure of power; to save the nation, to crush the communist bogey.
As history would have it, martial law commenced on September 21, 1972, by virtue of Proclamation No.1081. But many seem to overlook the fact that the proclamation was publicly announced only on the evening of September 23 preceded by a wave of arrests that began shortly before midnight of September 22. And with it, stories of debauchery and deception, cruel death and perdition, dashed hopes and crushed dreams.
A week after Proclamation 1081, Letter of Instruction No.1 was issued authorizing the military to take over the assets of major media outlets and various radio stations across the country. Within the first week of Marcos’ declaration of Martial Law, freedom of speech and of the press in the country was brutally cast into portentous darkness. In Metro Manila, radio and TV stations went off air, the presses stopped rolling for national and local dailies to hit the streets the following day. This happened as if it was orchestrated with a magic wand.
In less than a week, it was also like that in Albay. All the local tabloids and everything else that jostled for a space on the crowded newsstands magically disappeared. The stands, all at the same time, became naked and defiled. The radio stations were plucked off air, one after the other. One can imagine a row of lighted candles whose flames are being violently snuffed out singly. DZRC was still on air though, three or four days after the voice of fellow Bikolano Francisco “Kit” Sarmiento Tatad, who would become Minister of Public Information, bogarted the airwaves. By then, we never failed to cast glances at the gate of the station, forefeeling the arrival of a truckload of battle-ready soldiers suddenly hustling in and shutting us off. Anxiety can gnaw the nervous system like extremely famished mice attacking a bag of peanuts.
CLAMPED DOWN, SHUT OUT
And it came! Less than a week after September 21, 1972, a truck load of M-14 rifle wielding Philippine Constabulary soldiers stealthily halted by the main gate of our station, deployed in the compound while about four of them huffed into the radio station, straight to the Technical Room, put off the electric power and pulled out and took with them the vacuum tubes that give the radio station the power to transmit radio signals. After disabling the radio station they went about face, barked orders that the station should not operate until further notice. Just like that. No hi, no hello, I am soon to be a Colonel, who are you?
They came sans any word about why they came. They left without saying a word as to how long the station will be off the air. They left without saying a word on how the station personnel will go about life now that their source of livelihood has been taken away. My first taste of some martial law spicy dishes: arrogance and heavy handedness. The announcer and technician then on-board remained standing zombie-like for a while, zapped of energy to even put down their quivering butts on their chairs.
DZRC got off the air for what seemed to me to be timeless. I had the creeps that it would never breathe life again. It would go without the signal death rattle. Dead! The station’s grounds appeared ghostly, forlorn, and derelict despite the lonesome voluntary effort of our utility man to sweep off dust and cobwebs, fallen leaves, cigarette butts, candy wrappers and whatever debris there would be—human strewn, windblown.
I would visit randomly, often surreptitiously, going by the shadows, avoiding being seen much more being trackable. Movement patterns were deliberately avoided. Somebody tipped me that I was on the military’s OB (i.e., Order of Battle). I have no idea why, for what. True or fabrication or prank, I found it more prudent to be careful.
I came into broadcasting a little while after college graduation. In college, I got involved with the school publication. My first serious entanglements with print journalism. Here my articles, features, and news stories saw print. One very short, harmless looking news-feature had a powerful City Hall official seemingly doing some thinking on “pulverizing” me. I was going up the second floor of the City Hall and he was descending followed by a squad of sycophants, bodyguards perhaps, when I met him and within earshot, while his eyes were pasted on me, said to the guy behind him, “Marhay kaini pulverison.” At that time student activism in the province was starting to brew, circa 1968. Some politicians became sensitive to it.
There were also the articles about the government of then President Ferdinand Edralin Marcos Sr., the would-be dictator. There was likewise the full-blown feature/cover story on the dark consequences of the 1973 Constitutional Convention which was intensely and intently pushed by Marcos. On hindsight, I could say that authoritarian rule had been in his mind since 1965 when he first ascended to Malacañang as President. Perhaps even earlier. There was something uncanny in his pronounced visions.
In college I also got into some teach-in episodes. The rallies and protests at the Peñaranda Park and elsewhere in the province were attended whenever possible. As to allegiance to an activist group, I was a maverick. I can’t recall now how I got elected as Secretary-General of the Bikol Union of Students (BUS) during its organizational meeting somewhere in Pili, Camarines Sur. I have no memory of the date and the venue. I have a hazy picture of some of the student leaders who were there. There were seminarians, Atenistas (Naga), Aquinians, anonymous others. It seems that I was the only Divinian. Was it not Jun Arroyo of Aquinas who was elected President?
The BUS was a distant, small time rural cousin of the National Union of Students of the Philippines (NUSP), I thought. But it was here where my friendship with Sotero Llamas, who would later be “Kumander Nognog,” started. He was from Aquinas University of Legazpi, I was from Divine Word College of Legazpi. We came to know each other in Pili! It was also with the BUS that I had a hi-hello-nice meeting you-see you next time encounter with Edgar Jopson and Portia Ilagan, NUSP biggies.
During the peace talks between the CPP-NPA-NDF and the government under President of Cory Aquino, the former found a narrow breathing chamber. Sotero found some ways to get out of his hidey holes. We would meet again by the bye I think twice. First at the St. John the Baptist Church in Tabaco City then in an event in Aquinas University where I would be a university administrator and an Assistant Professor.
While I was engaged in radio broadcasting, I would join rallies whenever possible. While doing coverage work even. Nevertheless, I was far off from being a communist. It was clear to me that communism and freedom of the press can never mix. I enjoyed and practiced that freedom.
There were occasions when I would take the microphone or megaphone and blurt out some things which would be irritating to the Marcos minions spread out to watch over marked elements and everything being said and done. Many times Sotero and I would accidentally bump into each other; exchange hellos, engage in some hurried and light banter or in what is now called, marites. Then go our separate ways and hope to meet again.
NOGNOG GOES TO THE MOUNTAINS
It was in those rallies where Sotero got the monicker “Nognog” and which he used as nom de guerre. “Nognog” was a komiks character, a negrito boy wonder, which appeared in the pages of UNITED Komiks in the 70s. “Nognog” was made into a movie in the 80s starring Niño Muhlach. “Nognog” was a popular character.
Sotero must have attracted public attention, especially from some of those powerful local politicians allied with Marcos. Those politicians also kept under their wings some radio broadcasters (equivalent to today’s bloggers/vloggers in the payroll of the powers that be) who would perform their bidding. One of them started to ferociously and furiously pour scorn on Sotero and called him names. “Nognog” would be abused and repeatedly used on him. Instead of getting cross or embittered, Sotero made use of “Nognog.”
Why was he called “Nognog”? Sotero had curly hair, dark skin, he was chubby, and a little over five feet tall only. The komiks character also had curly hair, dark skin, chubby, and was short. What the name caller forgot to notice was that Sotero was also kind of a “boy wonder” as the komiks character was.
In 1971, a little later from scheduled enrolment time for the school year, I went to Manila to see if I can still enroll in a graduate course in Economics or Business Administration. I came in very late already, so I was told by two universities I chose to enroll in. When I went back to Legazpi, some of my friends were nowhere to be located. “Nognog” being one of them. He had gone up there somewhere. “Nognog” must have ushered a new chapter in Sotero’s life, I mulled.
Sotero, a.k.a. “Ka Teroy” and ‘Kumander Nognog” survived the wars he got into, scored victories and dramatic losses too which are now part of history waiting to be written. Unfortunately, in peace time, while doing everything to integrate himself back into society, he was treacherously gunned down by a motorcycle riding trio, May 29, 2006. End of a Bikol saga.
In the meantime, I was jobless and apprehensive of being in the military watchlist if not in their OB. I would only go home for some basic necessities: bath, change clothes, have meals, nap a little if possible then go off again. I would often spend time in the office of a lawyer-friend where there was a library and a well-ventilated reading room. I would browse over his law books, read my Louis L’Amour western paperbacks and whatever else I would be carrying. His office was at the burned down Legazpi City Public Market where Ayala Malls now stand.
If not in that library, I would be at the Albay Capitol Building, in the office of some friends or in some court sala outside office hours to watch chess games between friends. Sometimes I would join DZRC friends who’d pass time in a room, second floor of the powerhouse, for stories, guitar playing, some gin, some sleep. I shunned the mountains and other lonely places.
Moving about had risks. One can be picked up any moment by military personnel who may be anywhere at any time, for any charge the latter may be capable of inventing. At night one can only be out until about twelve midnight otherwise curfew can shove you into one of the stockades of a military camp. Once in a stockade, you can’t get out without complying with whatever the military would want you to do. There would be the obligatory send off—”rabnot amorseko” (Andropogon aciculatus Retz) until the palms got sore.
No one in our broadcasting circle had any inkling when radio stations in Albay would be able to go on-air again, how they would function again. Marcos had set up his own mass media. He had his own definition of press freedom. He had succeeded at suppressing political opposition and prevented criticism of his administration. Among the 400 jailed in the first hours of Martial were the most prominent television and newspaper reporters, publishers, columnists, and media owners.
More fell into the Marcos dragnet in the succeeding days. In the meantime, newspapers owned by his cronies were the only ones allowed to publish in the immediate aftermath of the declaration. Media companies taken over by Marcos’s close associates became the dominant media outlets. They would later be tagged as the “crony press.” I couldn’t hope to get back on-air with Marcos still breathing.
THREATS NEUTRALIZED, NEUTERED
The media field was then deemed “cleared” of threats against the burgeoning Marcos dictatorship—all the perceived communist supporters arrested, jailed, neutralized, and neutered as the protectors of the regime saw fit—yet the shackles on the media remained ever tight. The Lopez’s ABS-CBN was not only extirpated but even handed out, almost lock, stock, and barrel, to a leading crony, Roberto Benedicto, whose Kanlaon Broadcasting Network (KBN), not too far past, was choking in its death gasps.
The KBN by some kind of heavenly grace got back its breath and pulse beat as if through a stem cell implant. What it got from ABS CBN transformed it to spanking, haughty Radio Philippines Network (RPN). Some of ABS CBN assets would also go to the government operated Maharlika Broadcasting System now airing as People’s Television Network.
Simultaneous with the clamp down and takeover of ABS CBN was the seizure and sequestration of another large broadcasting corporation, ABS CBN’s closest rival, the Associated Broadcasting Corporation (ABC). These two corporations were charged of being actively engaged in activities subverting the government and promoting the Communist Party of the Philippines. The takeover included all facilities owned and operated by ABS CBN and ABC.
Marcos somehow soon felt secure with all his safety nets firmly standing on the ground. Press Secretary Francisco Tatad and Secretary of National Defense Juan Ponce Enrile had successfully and securely taken over all the assets of privately owned media companies. There no longer remained anyone conspiring “to seize political and state power” or capable of using mass media for “purposes that sought to undermine the government.” Letter of Instruction No. 1 signed on September 22, 1972, gave Tatad and Enrile the power to do what Marcos wanted done.
Incidentally, on September 22, the operations of RPN, KBN, the Voice of the Philippines, Philippine Broadcasting System and the national daily Daily Express were allowed (was it ordered?) to operate under Letter of Authority No. 1. Congress used to exercise the authority to grant franchises to operate broadcasting stations. Congress has now disappeared.
On September 25, the Department of Public Information under Tatad issued guidelines and policies to be strictly observed by news media and that only “news reports of positive national value” were to be aired aside from seeking clearance from the MPI prior to broadcast or publication. This was under Department Order No. 1.
To firm up control over broadcast and other mass media, the Bureau of Standards for Mass Media was created under Letter of Implement-ation No. 12 signed on November 1, 1972.
Control was made even tighter with the creation of the Media Advisory Council (MAC) under Presidential Decree No. 191 signed on May 11, 1973. The MAC would review all applications for mass media entities to operate. No entity may broadcast or publish without first getting a Certificate of Authority to Operate from the MAC. Marcos himself would approve the certificate to be valid and effective. The certificate would have to be renewed every six months.
But the MAC became sensitive to foreign criticisms on the regime’s curtailment of freedoms which did not spare foreign newsmen. Presidential Decree no. 576 signed on November 9, 1972, abolished the MAC but created regulatory councils for print and broadcast media. The councils were authorized to formulate and enforce policies, guidelines, rules, and regulations for all media activities within their authority. The decree specified that no mass media group or entity that had been closed or sequestered in September 1972 in line with the martial law declaration can be granted a certificate of registration. The move was intended to project an image overseas.
Marcos not only clamped down or sequestered radio stations and whatever caught his fancy or fear, he also institutionalized the use of threats through his decrees and other issuances. For instance, Presidential Decree No. 1737 signed on September 12, 1980 provided that the President or Prime Minister or any other public officer can order the closure of subversive publications or regulate modes of entertainment or exhibition of the same nature or seize any document or property without being responsible or liable in any civil, criminal or other proceeding for any act or order issued or performed while in office pursuant to the provisions of this Act.
On January 16, 1981, he issued Presidential Decree No. 1834 which increased the penalties for rebellion, sedition, and related crimes. Speeches, proclamations, writings, emblems, banners, and other materials interpreted as inciting to rebellion or sedition were made punishable with reclusion perpetua (carries a maximum sentence of 40 years) to death. It happened that rebellion and sedition were the most common or most popular crimes committed then.
With all those safety nets, safeguards, contraptions, and however they were called by the dictatorship, the time came for provincial radio stations to go on-air again. So were other mass media permitted to go public anew. Not at the same time though. Each had to secure respective clearances, comply with whatever they were asked to. But this did not hold true with those closed and sequestered on September 22, 1972.
For radio stations, it appeared to me that clearance was granted in the order of least threat posed against the regime. The clearance would be handed over by a Manila-based office. In Albay, DZGB was the first to return on-air. My memory is foggy as to the exact date. If my memory serves me right, DZRC came up next then DWZR. And all the rest went on-air again.
I was back on air, assumed my boarding tasks and field work, gingerly somehow, after getting soaked up on the dictates of the Broadcast Media Council. After trying hard to understand the need to be a friend to the Ministry of Public Information which would later morph into the Department of Public Information. After learning how not to shiver in the presence of The Almighty Francisco “Kit” Tatad. Certainly, I thought, it would be to the best interest of our radio station and everyone who rely on its graces for their daily nutrition and maintenance, to efficiently figure out the do’s and don’ts, but more of the latter, that the regime decreed the mass media to be seriously conscious of.
With the eyes and ears of the Ministry of Public Information and all the intelligence units and psy war experts of Camp Ibalon (now Camp Simeon A. Ola) being anywhere they wish to be, I couldn’t help visiting and uttering a fawning hi to Big Brother MPI/DPI (as in George Orwell’s dystopian novel “1984”).
FEELING FETTERED
When one is deterred from doing a task which by constant practice has become a gift, a breath of life, the feeling is that of being smothered even denied of a vital life support. I constantly yearned to be on-air once again. Thus, when the notice came that DZRC could broadcast once more, I swooshed to the station faster than The Flash. I could hardly wait for the regulatory period in heating up the vacuum tubes before the transmitters could be put on. Incidentally, the vacuum tubes pulled out by the military never found their way back to the station, I had so much to say, so many stories to share with my dear listeners. But what a difference it made when the dictates of the Broadcast Media Council came to mind. Taking stock of the PDs and LOIs, the spies and snoops who wanted to please a boss suddenly doused the surging anima.
The mind and mouth seemed to have lost whatever kinship that closely bound them when the microphone was switched on, ready to take on even a gasp, a cough, a sigh, a breath. The mind could only prompt the eyes to read scripts which the mouth could vocalize but which came out more like wild grunts and squeaks.
The scripts always needed some signature of someone certifying that the material is “Fit for broadcast.” And aside from that constricting “Fit for broadcast” stamp, there was that DPI regional chief who in the afternoon of any weekday would regularly go to the station. He wasn’t after any personnel or any announced business. He’d go direct to the Technician’s Booth, as if he owned the radio station, and sit facing the announcer on-board, stay there as long as he wished. How would an announcer feel with such an intimidating presence? How would a son-in-law feel being watched by an exacting and captious mother-in-law while performing regular chores?
The days when we delivered reports based on key words or outlines seem to have lost their challenge, their charm. Ah, even the commas and the periods could no longer hide on the creases of the paper where the report was typewritten. The days of scribbles on crumpled sheets had gone too. The adage that if we have “nothing good to say, better play good music” cannot even work now. Good music had a new definition… it would be best if it were an Original Pilipino Music but, umm, never with lyrics like that of “Bayan Ko.” The more gibberish it was, the better. By the way, “Bayan Ko” was written by revolutionary Gen. Jose Alejandrino in Spanish and translated into Tagalog some three decades later by the poet Jose Corazon de Jesus. The song was deemed seditious during the Marcos regime. I then hesitated airing Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind.”
As a broadcaster then, my feeling was that of being shackled with highly elastic rubberized fetters. I was allowed to take a strenuously stretched step or two forward only to be violently pulled back and get slammed to an iron post where the fetters were fastened.
There was no semblance of free circulation of information, an important feature of democracy. People had no way of knowing what was happening in the country, what their leaders were up to, how all those events affected them. We in the media, with all our resourcefulness, may be able to know what may be happening but we cannot get all the significant details or if we might have known we couldn’t share it with the public without the compulsory “Fit for broadcast” stamp.
Local media practitioners, of course, know that they play an important role in keeping the public abreast with important events and developments. They know too that they could not perform this important role under the obtaining circumstances. The decision to release or reject information has been taken away from them. They can only do what their “masters” allow them to do. “Fit for broadcast.”
GETTING GAGGED
The situation was ponderously suffocating yet we could only gnash our teeth behind the backs of the guardians and minions of the powers-that-be hoped that they don’t have eyes somewhere back there. Those Januses! We had our own voices but there was no way we can even let a whisper slip through guardedly relaxed lips.
When the Media Advisory Council (MAC) took over the Broadcast Media Council (BMC) there was nothing to celebrate or be glad about. In fact, the MAC even had more sharp sawing teeth than the BMC. There would be a ray of hope or some sigh of relief when Teodoro F. Valencia started conversing with ranking officers of the broadcast corporations on how best some semblance of press freedom could be exercised in the clamped down media field.
Valencia, who had access to Marcos, expounded on matters like professional and ethical standards among media practitioners which for me was no different from telling us to learn how to sugar coat or better still toss to the garbage bin reports which are not pleasing to the ears of the powers that be no matter how truthful the report could be. He also tirelessly discoursed on regulations and guidelines for news, public affairs, commentaries, political broadcasts, and about almost everything else that airs including advertisements.
The circle that heeded the call of Mr. Valencia kept on getting wider and larger until on April 27, 1973, the Kapisanan ng mga Brodkaster sa Pilipinas (KBP) was organized initially with 19 members. Within a few months KBP would count in practically all radio and TV broadcast stations nationwide. I would be part of the first wave that heeded the call of Mr. Valencia representing DZRC having been appointed as Station Manager thereof in late 1972. Our network, the Filipinas Broadcasting Network, went with Valencia at the earliest. Incidentally, Teodoro F. Valencia, a.k.a. “Ka Doroy” was popular as a Manila Times “Over a Cup of Coffee” columnist. He was also a radio news commentator, but his broadcasts hardly got out of Metro Manila boundaries.
When the KBP came into being. Valencia rejoiced. Perhaps all the others close to him, rejoiced too. Marcos must have rejoiced also. The KBP would be his. I don’t know how the rest felt. Me? I thought I was a good observer. Afterall, never was my voice heard in any of KBP’s gatherings. At my early 20’s I see that the voices I was hearing, particularly that of Vero Perfecto, then in his late 50s or early 60s, were so mellow, so deep, so low-toned, so intimidating. I wanted to have that kind of tone and serenity before I opened my mouth in this gathering. And I was only in my 20s and my voice could still squeak unguardedly. I quivered at the thought of that happening with Vero around not even if I declared that mine was way better sounding than Ka Doroy’s. At least he did not squeak. Vero Perfecto, in his younger years, used to work in a Naga City radio station. Bikolano? He had the looks and build of Hollywood’s Anthony Quinn.
At that time KBP worked with BMC and later with MAC, and so we were into formulation and implementation of policies for the “development” of Philippine broadcast media. I still remember Antonio Bareiro and Baby Camomot (such a “baby”!) assisting Doroy Valencia. I remember Vero Perfecto and Leon O. Ty. Venerable giants of the Philippine broadcast industry. Theirs, especially Leon’s, were the voices that echoed all over the archipelago as the nation sought deliverance from the cruelty of the invading Japanese Imperial forces during World War II. Looking at them and listening to them speaking were the highest rewards I earned from attending conferences called by Doroy Valencia. I must have been the youngest at the gathering. Sal Fortuno can attest to that. He was my immediate superior. Much later, Sal would be elected as Vice-Governor of Camarines Sur and then as a member of the Philippine House of Representatives, (5th District, Camarines Sur). And reelected so many times in a row, as the law allowed. Before becoming a Congressman, Sal was bossman of FBN DZGE and FBN DZRC.
Even with all the efforts of Doroy Valencia and company to “free” the broadcast industry, we were still undoubtedly controlled. Philippine mass media was in Marcos’ hold and fold. We could not freely discuss matters we then felt needed discussing. Martial Law was still very much in the air. Our throats would often dry and choke when dealing with issues we felt were spicy enough for local and national officials to be confronted with. That perhaps was what “responsible broadcasting” was all about.
FROM WATCH DOG TO BARKING DOG
Before the shutdown and takeover of the mass media, the press in the country enjoyed the reputation of being the freest in Asia. Filipino journalists rode high on the accolade. Some bragging rights there. Filipino mass media lived strong and lively on being called the Fourth Estate. For that, the members of the press could not be cowed from taking on an adversarial stance towards the government. Or any stance, for that matter. That was how the Fourth Estate was understood.
The working press seriously performed the responsibilities of being the Fourth Estate, the watch dog over the other powerful estates of the State: the Executive, Legislative, and Judiciary. These three estates can collude against the people and deprive them of their rights or jeopardize their welfare.
The state survives as long as the elements of territory, sovereignty, government, and people are present. Unfortunately, government and people are not always in harmony with each other especially when government is in the hands of a devilish “leader.” Government has the money and the power, the military and all the resources needed to be in control of everything. People only have public opinion, amplified through the mass media, to counter the abuse of power. Yes, government and people are not one and the same. Ask any lawyer or student of law and political science worth his salt.
When the people would have no one to turn to—no legislature to protect them with needed laws, no judiciary to listen to their grievances—they turn to the Fourth Estate, the mass media, to seek peaceful redress for their grievances. Public opinion becomes their shield against a government that has no heart and mind for the people’s weal. When the Fourth Estate fails the people, then they can resort to all means available to protect themselves from the abuses of the government.
Thus, mass media in the Philippines lived up to the spirit of being in the Fourth Estate until Marcos shoved them to a dirty corner, clamped them down and shut them out. And replaced them with a new breed of mass media, his crony press.
Those who survived the clamp down and shut out and allowed to go on-the-air once more or again to circulate in the streets or get displayed on newsstands by the beneficence of The Man in Malacañang, lost whatever pride or swagger or bite they once prided themselves with. And then “envelopmental journalism” blitzed in. This completed the humiliation and insult. Bribe silenced the vociferous, weakened the courageous, stiffened the vacillating, drove away the true and the serious. Censorship has mutated. More pathetically, the feared watchdog became a wretched barking dog.
In 1978 I left broadcasting but later I would engage in print journalism. I got into the civil service by seeking employment in the government. I was fortunately taken in as one of the pioneering employees of the newly set up Philippine Ports Authority in Legazpi Port, Legazpi City. Of course, after passing the reglementary admission or aptitude or grammar and history, I can’t remember now, test, interview, and whatever else were asked of me.
In my case it was never easy entering the civil service. I had to secure clearance from the National Intelligence Coordinating Agency (NICA) through a nerve-wracking interview. Actually, an interrogation, if shorn of some civilities between the “interviewer” and me. Somehow, I was able to put some know-how on using broadcast tools to good use. I was conscious of the compact tape recorder my interviewer/ interrogator placed somewhere on or under the table. As our exchange went on, I was always finger tapping on the table. I was intensely hoping that when the recorder was replayed there’d be more tap tap tap than clear recorded human voice. What was I doing all those past months? That was one question I still remember.
BROADCASTING SERVICE UNDER MARTIAL LAW IN FULL CIRCLE
In 1985 I got out of civil service and rejoined the broadcast industry hoping to conveniently finish my academic pursuits. By then I was “pirated” from PPA by another government agency with a regional office nearby. My workplace covered the entire region and sometimes even extended up elsewhere. I gave up my graduate studies, shifted to Law where I would already spend over a decade due to repeated study leaves.
Mr. Jorge Bayona with his daughter, Brenda, took me in as Station Manager of DZGB in Legazpi City. I did not expect anything unusual in my return. I was about to finish my Law studies. My attention was divided.
But, of all surprises, in February 1986 the EDSA People Power revolt flared up. For days I would serve as main anchor as we carried out non-stop coverage of unfolding nerve-wracking events. We gathered reports from the domestic, national, and international scenes. We kept watch on the movements of the Camp Ibalon-based military elements, we kept watch over the Legazpi City airport. We listened to what was happening in other regions, especially in the National Capital Region. We eavesdropped on what others, overseas, were saying about the Philippines under the crisis that rampaged like a crazed roller-coaster.
We gradually lessened our efforts to gather and report information in the locality as we focused on the National Capital Region centering on Malacañang Palace where Marcos was supposed to be and in Camp Crame and Camp Aguinaldo where Gen. Fidel V. Ramos and Secretary Juan Ponce Enrile and the rebelling military soldiers were holed in. We also tightened our watch on TV stations which were still airing reports and radio stations so alive with gripping narratives as episode after episode, scene after scene unfolded. The last military troops from Camp Ibalon, perhaps from elsewhere, who for hours stood by the Legazpi City Airport had then flown out, reportedly NCR-bound.
It was fortunate that Sr. Annie Abion and Jocelle Chua were in Manila then. Sr. Annie is a close friend of the Bayona’s. Jocelle was an organic staff of DZGB. A sweet young lady, modest, frail-looking but strong-willed and intelligent. On ordinary days she was an announcer, sometimes a disc jockey, sometimes a news reader or field reporter. She would be a great revelation during our coverage. Her voice, cool and modulated, reverberated in every corner of the province and even down in some parts of the Visayas where DZGB was still audible. It was likewise fortunate that Mr. Jorge Bayona was with Sr. Annie and Jocelle. He got their reports clearly through from Metro Manila to DZGB in Legazpi by cable or wireless means. Some of the members of the Bayona household in Metro Manila extended helping hands, in so many little ways, to the broadcast coverage in the NCR segment. Together they steadily, tirelessly, and courageously fed us with information on the unfolding events. Without Sr. Annie and Jocelle and the others, the relevance and significance of our broadcasts could have been seriously dampened. As the young ones say today, it could have been “boring.”
While we were concentrated on the DZGB emergency broadcasts, somebody tipped me about a military vehicle which had been surveying the area where the station is located. That got me worried, seriously. It would take only one rocket propelled grenade to silence us forever. We had nothing to defend ourselves with. What we had were ballpens and paper as we jotted down data and kept track of developments. Our technicians had screwdrivers and pliers which were always at hand for any technical need as we continued broadcasting. We had no security at the gates of the station. We had no lookout downstairs. There was an aging dog snoring in one corner. Apparently, it has already forgotten how his bark sounds, even unmindful if something nearby smelled differently. Fortunately, nothing untoward happened. The military surveying the area were said to be “friendly” and ordered to see to it that our broadcasts were unimpeded.
In the meantime, I have not been home for many days and nights. My children, three of them then, the eldest, a daughter, only seven years old had only their brave mother, then heavy with our fourth child, caring for them. I have taken a bath only once, I think. I survived with quick splashes of water on my face more to keep me awake than removing the grime which may have found my skin pores a comfortable place to hide away from all the troubles then going on.
Broadcasting in Albay has long gone back to normal. The swagger, the rashness, the hardihood, the air are back on air.
I have long silently if sorely left my bond with radio broadcasting in some wayside. I have retired and forgotten many things and some interesting characters I met along the way. Many stories that call for retelling have likewise escaped my memory. It even took me time to remember and reconstruct the episodes I included here but I could hardly forget the emotions involved in many incidents.
For fourteen years, from September 1972 to February 1986, the freedom of speech and of the press was an outrageous, disgraceful skullduggery. It was a period when pretense led the airwaves by the nose and mockery placed the printed page under its thumb. That was a time when propaganda was spelled freedom.
The header features the graphic illustration from the article “How Marcos silenced, controlled the media during Martial Law,” September 19, 2020. (credit: Rappler)
About the author:
RAFFI BANZUELA (Rafael A. Banzuela Jr.) is an essayist, fictionist, poet, translator, historian. He studied at the Divine Word College and Aquinas University of Legazpi; taught at the Bicol University and Aquinas University; and did stints in government work, journalism, and radio broadcasting. His radio program “Satuya Ini” (This Is Ours) was named the Best Program Promoting Culture and the Arts, Radio Provincial Area category, at the 8th KBP Golden Dove Awards.
His published works also include: Selebra (Celebrate), 2011, a collection of poems, and Albay Viejo (Old Albay), 2010, a collection of prose works on Albay. His recent book for Bansay Bikolnon is a mini biography of Potenciano V. Gregorio Sr., the composer of the song Sarong Banggi. He also edited works by known Bikol poets and an anthology by young writers. He was honored with these awards: Outstanding Albayano Artist (Literary Arts) in 2013; the NCCA Writers’ Prize in 2013; Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas in 2015 by the Unyon ng nga Manunulat ng Pikipinas; and Gawad Kampeon ng Wika by the Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino in 2017.
Fellow Bicol writers look up to Banzuela as living proof that writing in Bicol can persevere. His writing, rooted in his love for Bicol, is notable for his rich vocabulary and blend of reminiscence, folktale, history, and essay, sharpened by untiring historical research.