Fifty years since the day the Marcos family destroyed the Filipino soul.

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@ericgamalinda
Fifty years since the day the Marcos family destroyed the Filipino soul.

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My Sad Republic Redux
Sometime around the late 1980s, I traveled to the island of Calauit in Palawan. Ferdinand Marcos had gifted the island to his only son, Bongbong, and had populated the island with exotic animals from Africa.
After the People Power uprising deposed Marcos and the US airlifted the family to Hawaiâi in 1986, there was some concern about the zebras, gazelles and giraffes that had been abandoned there, and an ecological preservation project was underway.
But the island still reminded me of the excessiveness of the Marcos family, who had all but turned the entire country into their personal playgroundâa kingdom they would rule forever.
When I learned that Bongbong Marcos had won the Philippine presidential elections, I felt a flood of confusing emotions wash over me. Anger and depression, mixed with overwhelming nausea. I felt helplessâfor something that was out of my control. I felt a sense of failureânot mine alone, but shared with my entire country.
To understand how traumatic Bongbongâs victory is for those of us who lived through his fatherâs dictatorship, imagine a Spain with Francoâs family or Chile with Pinochetâs progeny winning national elections.
Jose Rizal famously warned us that âthose who refuse to look at where theyâve been will never move forward.â We studied his works in school ad nauseum but time and again, when I see whatâs been going on in our country, I realize his words have hardly sunk in. I have always suspected that our country is caught in an endless loop, a sinister MĂśbius strip where we are doomed to relive our nightmares over and over.
I am only 11 months older than Bongbong Marcos, so we belong to the same generationâthe lost generation whose formative years were spent under his fatherâs repressive regime. I knew of Bongbong as the privileged son who could easily receive an entire island to serve as his own private safari, while the rest of us struggled to make ends meet. But that was all he was, the countryâs spoiled but not especially bright brat. No one ever imagined him following his fatherâs footsteps. Today, some people imagine that Marcos 2.0 would be a benevolent, enlightened version of his father.
That may be wishful thinking. Bongbong has been quoted as saying that his fatherâs dictatorship was the âgolden ageâ of the country. Golden for whom? His family, no doubt, whose reign had the political and military support of the United States, and who are still alleged to have siphoned nearly 10 billion dollars off the countryâs coffers to their private accounts. Or their cronies, who benefited from his fatherâs largesse and the culture of corruption he had led. But not for the hundreds of thousands whose lives were destroyed, who were incarcerated, tortured, assassinated, or disappeared. Not for the millions of Filipinos who wallowed in deeper penury while his family hosted lavish festivals, mingled with celebrities, and lapped up mansions across the globe.
By denying his familyâs culpability and showing no remorse for the suffering the people had endured, he appears as deluded as his own mother, one-half of the rapacious couple who ruled by fear and terror during the martial law years, who had said, without a hint of irony, that she wanted her epitaph to read, âHere lies love.â
We can blame this landslide victory on voter ignorance, or a naĂŻve nostalgia for the past, or a desire for radical change. I understand when our political analysts say this is the result of decades of exclusion, of unkept promises, of frustration with the countryâs entrenched oligarchism. But to choose a dictatorâs son and hope he would make us ârise again,â as his campaign promised, contradicts everything our revered national hero had told us. We have moved backwards fifty years.
I have been researching on some of the major events that had shaped our country since the beginning of the 20th century and through the 21st for a new novel, and I am amazed at how resilient we always were, if not simply lucky. Our great-grandparents lived through the cholera epidemic of 1902, where over half a million died. World War I left us practically unaffected, and we quickly bounced back from the Great Depression, thanks to a thriving middle class. The Japanese Occupation was possibly the most traumatic episode in our history, three long years of excruciating suffering under a fascist power. This was followed, a couple of decades later, by the dark years of the Marcos dictatorship. We endured all that, and proudly picked up the pieces after. We remained hopeful that we would see the last of Rodrigo Duterte after his term (a hope that has proven false, alas), and we appear to be somehow managing to contain Covid 19, despite shoddy resources.
But another Marcos presidency? Led by a man who has shown no inclination to correct the wrongs done by his family? Who continues to delude himself and his followers about a fabled âgolden ageâ? Would he revisit his private safari in Calauit, and would it remind him of that golden age when his family was virtually omnipotent, their opponents either jailed or dead, their bank accounts awash with the billions they had bilked from us?
The Marcos dynasty might rise again, as Bongbong has promised during his campaign. I donât believe he will âsaveâ the country, but he will certainly save his fatherâs dubious legacy and continue to rewrite it until we get used to the lies, just as his father once tried to do.
It will be another dark chapter of our sad republic.

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Poem by my sister Diana, written in her own hand. Happy birthday, dear sis, wherever you are. #poetry #dianagamalinda
Sod Manila!
From EMPIRE OF MEMORY, 1992 / 2014
AT HALF PAST THREE in the afternoon of July 5, 1966, a mob hired by President Ferdinand Marcos chased the Beatles out of Manila International Airport. I remember the jittery footage of the scene being replayed over and over on The News Tonite on Channel 5. A grim-looking commentator was saying the Fab but Discourteous Four had shamelessly humiliated the First Lady and her children by refusing to pay a courtesy call at MalacaĂąang Palace. Imelda Marcos herself hastily issued a statement saying the Beatles were to be treated humanely despite the snub, but this was said after the factâafter the Beatles had been kicked, spat at, cursed, and chased into a waiting jet.
   Julian Hidalgo, known by the nickname Jun, took me and my sister Delphi to the Beatlesâ concert at Rizal Memorial Stadium. At that time he was courting my sister and was hoping to win me over by playing the older brother. They were both nineteen, and the rituals of this older generation meant nothing to me beyond free passes to a number of movies, where I had to chaperone Delphi. The three of us would witness, not by accident, the Beatles being beaten up at the airport, and for some time we would bond in a special wayâconspirators mystically united by an adventure whose significance would only dawn on us long after the event had passed. Jun explained a few details about this incident to me eighteen years later, when, in the ironic twists of fate that coursed through our lives during the dictatorship, he and I became colleagues once again in the censorship office in MalacaĂąang. But in 1966 we were young, brash, and bold with hope, and like the entire country, we seemed on the verge of a privileged destiny.
   Three days before the concert, Jun rushed to our house with three front-row tickets. Delphiâs eyes widened like 45s. âWhere did you get the money this time, ha?â she asked incredulously.    âThe First Lady gave them to me,â Jun said proudly. And, in response to our howls of disbelief, âWell, actually, this reporter from the Manila Times gave them to me. The First Lady was giving away sacks of rice and tickets last week. This reporter owed me for a tip I gave him years ago, the one that got him the Press Club award. He wanted the rice, I asked for the tickets. He was one of those Perry Como types.â    Imelda Marcos had flown in friends and media to celebrate her birthday on her native island of Leyte. There was roast suckling pig and a rondalla playing all day. She herself obliged requests for a song with a tearful ballad in the dialect, âAng Irog Nga Tuna,â My Motherland. To commemorate the sentimental reunion, each guest went home with the rice and tickets.    âNow thatâs style,â Delphi said. Then, upon reflection: âThey wonât let Alfonso in.â    âOf course they would!â I protested. I was just thirteen but I was already as tall as she was.    âThatâs not the point,â Jun said impatiently. âIâm going to get myself assigned to cover the Beatles and we can talk to them ourselves.â    âAll the other reporters will beat you to it,â I said. Jun was stringing for the Manila Times and was convinced that getting an exclusive interview would land him a job as a staff reporter.    âAll the other reporters listen to nothing but Ray Conniff,â he said. âBesides, nobody knows where theyâre staying. But I do.â    Junâs modus operandi wasnât going to be that easy. He managed to get stage passes for the three of us, which turned out to be inutile. It was the official pass, printed and distributed in London, that we had to wangle if we were to get near the Beatles.    âGo ahead and do your job,â Delphi told him icily. âWeâll see you at the stadium.â    âI can still get you the pass,â Jun said. âSomehow.â He was beginning to realize that concert security would directly affect his personal relationships. But not even his religious coverage of pre-concert press briefings seemed to help. Local promoters announced that the Beatlesâ only press conference was going to be held at the War Room of the Philippine Navy headquarters, and that the concert was being staged, not by coincidence, on the fourth of July as a birthday gift to the Republic (July 4th) and the First Lady (July 2nd).    Other questions were left unanswered. Had the Beatles secretly arrived by submarine? âThatâs confidential.â Were they actually going to stay at the Palace? âThatâs confidential.â In the end somebody asked if the Beatles actually existed, and the joke was that that, too, was confidential.    The excitement was further fueled by a series of wire stories the dailies ran on page one, including coverage of the Beatlesâ world tour, warnings of possible riots all over the world, and a rare discordant moment in Tokyo, where a reporter asked the group, âWhat are you going to be when you grow up?â The reply: âIf you grow up yourself youâd know better than to ask that question.â    Radio stations kept playing the Beatlesâ hits (most requested: âYesterdayâ and âHelp!â), and DZUW, Rainy Day Radio, preempted everyone and began playing the new single, âPaperback Writer.â The Philippine Security Corporation created the biggest stir when it insured the Beatles for a million pesos. Two hundred Philippine Constabulary troopers, seven hundred policemen, detachments from the Pasay City and ParaĂąaque police, the Civil Aeronautics Administration, the Bureau of Customs, and the Marines were on red alert. The First Lady bought fifteen hundred tickets and distributed them to volunteer recruits to Vietnam, who were going to be the showâs guests of honor. Pro-Beatle fan clubs were staging rallies, counterpointed by anti-Beatle demonstrations where placards said, âNo one is more popular than Jesus!!!â Government bureaucrats had to drive away contractors who were bribing them with concert tickets. On the eve of the Beatlesâ arrival, a young colegiala threatened to jump off the roof of the Bank of the Philippine Islands building unless she was granted a private audience with the band.    Backstage at the Rizal Memorial Stadium, an air-conditioned dressing room was hastily installed a day before the concert, complete with state-of-the-art TV monitors and audio equipment. Quarter-page ads appeared in the dailies for a week, announcing concert schedules and sponsors. Finally, on July 3, the day of the Beatlesâ arrival, a full-page splash appeared in all the dailies:
LIVE! THE BEST IN THE WORLD! THE BEATLES IN MANILA With Asiaâs Queen of Songs Pilita Corales Carding Cruz and his Orchestra The Wing Duo The Lemons Three Dale Adriatico The Reycard Duet and Eddie Reyes & The Downbeats!
   Early that morning, Jun called us up. âGet dressed, both of you. Weâre meeting the Beatles at the airport.â    âWhat do you mean, we?â Delphi asked.    âI told you weâd talk to them, didnât I?â Jun said. âDid I ever break a promise?â    On many occasions, yes, but this was one promise for which Delphi was willing to risk her lifeâand mine, if need be. She drove our parentsâ 1964 Ford to the airport as though she wanted to mow down everything in our way, laughing as irate motorists yelled obscenities at us.    When we finally met Jun at the parking lot, he handed us a pile of obviously used porter uniforms. âI paid the guy twenty pesos to rent them,â he said proudly.    âDoes this guy know what youâre renting them for?â Delphi asked, crinkling her nose as she daintily held her uniform away.    Jun held up a bootleg 45, pressed in Hong Kong, in red vinyl. âIf I get an autograph, we get a refund.â
THE CATHAY PACIFIC jet swooped in at half past four. The airport was jam-packed with the biggest crowd I had ever seen in my life: girls in bobby socks and leatherette miniskirts and boys in seersucker suits, all perspiring and scrunched against a chain-link fence. This was definitely the wrong place to be. As the jet taxied in, we tore ourselves away from the crowd and wormed our way to one of the departure exits, just in time to catch a baggage trolley rattling toward the plane. Jun hopped on, and Delphi and I awkwardly clambered after him. I was afraid Delphiâs bobbed hair would spill out of the cap she was wearing and blow our cover. But, having regained her composure, she stood handsomely in the last car, gripping the rail; it was no wonder Jun risked life, limb, and career for her. Â Â Â The trolley rattled past armored cars, fire trucks, riot squads, and troops of motorcycle police who were wearing special cowboy hats for this occasion. As soon as the trolley cranked to a stop under the jet, Jun hopped off. He was about to head toward the stairs when a limousine careened and cut him off. Three official-looking men dressed in formal barong Tagalog got off the limousine and rushed up to the plane. What followed was an interminable, bated-breath pause. Jun walked up the stairs and saw the officials arguing with passengers near the planeâs exit. Somebody was saying, âIs there a war going on?â Â Â Â Finally, one official tentatively walked out of the plane. This was enough to excite the increasingly impatient crowd, and immediately a cacophony of screams burst from the viewing deck. The screams grew louder as other officials and soldiers walked out of the plane. By the time Brian Epstein groggily stepped out, the screaming had reached earsplitting levelâno matter that the soldiers surrounded the Beatles from jet to limousine and we caught glimpses of them only through spaces in the cordon sanitaire: George Harrison, his hair tousled by the humid wind, his red blazer flashing like a signal of distress, Ringo Starr in peppermint stripes and flapping foulard, Paul McCartney, round-eyed and baby-faced, and John Lennon, hiding behind dark glasses. Â Â Â Jun hurried down the stairs and motioned for us to follow him. Â Â Â âWhat happened in there?â Delphi asked him. Â Â Â âI donât know,â Jun said. âAll I heard was a lot of words your folks wouldnât want you to hear.â Â Â Â âWhat does that mean?â Delphi asked. Â Â Â âNothing we canât find out,â said Jun.
THE MANILA TIMES ran a story about the press conference at the War Room. Jun fumed over his colleagueâs story, saying, âThis idiot did little more than transcribe the Q&A.â It turned out, however, that the Beatlesâ replies would be uncannily prophetic.
   THE BEATLES! YEAH!    By Bobby Tan
   When did you last get a haircut?    In 1933.    Would you be as popular without your long hair?    We can always wear wigs.    How much taxes do you pay?    Too much.    What attracted you to your wives?    Sex.    Do you feel you deserve the Order of the British Empire?    Yeah. But when youâre between 20 and 23, there are bound to be some criticisms.    How will you solve the Vietnam War?    Give it back to whoever deserves it.    Whatâs your latest song?    âPhilippine Blues.â    Mr. Lennon, what did you mean by Spaniard in your latest book?    Have you read it?    No.    Then read it.    If there should come a time when you have to choose between the Beatles and your family, whom would you choose?    We never let our families come between us.    What is your favorite song?    âGod Save the King.â    But itâs the Queen now.    âGod Save the Queenâ then.    What will you be doing ten years from now?    Why bother about ten years from now? We donât even know if weâll be around tomorrow.
ON THE EVE of July 4, Philippine-American Friendship Day, President Ferdinand Marcos urged Filipinos to ârecall the lasting and valuable friendship between America and the Philippinesâ and issued a statement saying a revamp of the government bureaucracy was imminent. âHeads Will Roll!â the dailies shrilled, their bold prediction thrust audaciously by homeless street children against car windows along Highway 54. At the Quirino Grandstand the next day, the President sat in the sweltering heat as troops paraded before him. Three stations covered the Friendship Day rites, but Channel 5 ignored it completely, running instead a 24-hour update on the Beatles. Marcos seethed on the grandstand, and cameras caught the expression on his face that might have said: Damned Trillos, they really get my goat. The Trillos owned the Manila Times and many broadcast stations and refused to accommodate the First Familyâs whims. But Marcos had the last laugh. On this very afternoon, back at the Palace, Imelda and the children would be having lunch with the Beatles. All television stations and newspapers had been invited for a five-minute photo opportunityâall, that is, except the Trillo network. Marcos tried to stifle a smirk as he saluted the troops. Proud and dignified in his white suit, he stood out like some sartorial titan: people said you could tell he was going in for a second term.
CALLA LILIES were brought in at nine by Emma Fernandez, one of the Blue Ladies, so-called because Imelda Marcos had them wear nothing but blue. The flowers adorned the corridors of the palace all the way to the formal dining hall, where about a hundred youngsters, ages three to fifteen, listlessly waited for the Beatles. Imee, the eldest of the Marcos children, sporting a new bobcut hairdo, sat at the head of the table. Her younger sister Irene sat beside her, reticent and uncomfortable in Sunday clothes. Ferdinand Junior, master Bongbong to one and all, was wearing a bowtie and a starched cotton shirt, and his attire apparently made him restless, as he kept sliding off his seat to pace the floor. Around them were children of ministers, generals, business tycoons, and friends of the family, sitting under buntings of red, white, and blue and paper flags of the United States and the Philippines. Â Â Â Imelda Marcos walked in at exactly eleven. Emma Fernandez approached her, wringing her hands, and whispered in her ear: âTheyâre late!â Imelda brushed her off, an imperceptible smile parting her lips. She kissed the children one by one, Imee dodging and receiving instead a red smear on the ear. She inspected the cutlery, the lilies, the nameplates: two Râs each for Harrison and Starr, check; two Nâs for Lennon; and no A in Mc. She scanned the room proudly, deflecting the grateful, expectant faces, the small fingers clutching cardboard tickets to the concert. Â Â Â At half past eleven the children began complaining, so breadsticks and some juice were served. Imelda walked around the hall, stopping to strike a pose for the palace photographers. âGood shot, Madame!â The photographers were the best in the field, plucked out of the newsrooms to accompany her on all her itineraries. They had been sufficiently instructed on which angle to shoot from and which side to take, and anyone who took the wrong shot was dismissed posthaste, his camera and negatives confiscated. The children were more difficult to shoot: bratty and impatient, they always came out pouting, with their chins stuck out. It was always best to avoid them. Â Â Â Unknown to this gathering, a commotion was going on at the lobby of the Manila Hotel. On hand were Brian Epstein and members of the concert crew; Colonel Justin Flores and Captain Nilo Cunanan of the Philippine Constabulary; Sonny Balatbat, the teenage son of Secretary of State Roberto Balatbat; Captain Fred Santos of the Presidential Guard; Major Tommy Young and Colonel Efren Morales of the Manila Police District; and local promoter Rene Amos. Â Â Â âWe had an agreement,â Colonel Flores was saying. âWe sent a telegram to Tokyo.â Â Â Â âI donât know about any fucking telegram,â Epstein replied. Â Â Â âThe First Lady and the children have been waiting all morning.â Â Â Â âNobody told them to wait.â Â Â Â âThe First Lady will be very, very disappointed.â Â Â Â Brian Epstein looked the colonel in the eye and said, âIf they want to see the Beatles, let them come here.â Â Â Â At the stroke of noon, Imelda Marcos rose from her chair and walked out of the dining hall. âThe children can wait,â she said, âbut I have more important things to do.â Â Â Â As soon as she was gone, Imee pushed back her chair, fished out her ticket, and tore it in two. The other children followed, and for a few seconds there was no sound in the hall but the sound of tickets being torn. Bongbong hovered near the plate that had been reserved for John Lennon. âI really much prefer the Rolling Stones,â he said. Photographers caught the young master at that moment, his eyes wide and blank. Imee looked at him and remarked, âThe only Beatles song I liked was âRun for Your Life.ââ She looked around the hall defiantly. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. People always said that among the three Marcos children, she was the sensitive one. That morning she seemed she was about to cry.
   The Beatles: Mass Hysteria!    By Jun Hidalgo
   Eighty thousand hysterical fans cramped into Rizal Memorial Stadium to watch the Beatles, the largest crowd Manila has seen since the Elorde-Ortiz boxing match in the same stadium.    While traffic snarled to a standstill along Dakota Street, 720 policemen, 35 special detectives and the entire contingent of the Manila Fire Department stood guard as the Liverpool quartet performed their hits before thousands of cheering and screaming fans, many of whom had waited to get inside the stadium since early morningâŚ
WHEN THE GATES finally opened, all hell broke loose. I held on to Delphi, who held on to Jun, and the three of us braved the onslaught as we squeezed past security and found ourselves, miraculously intact, on the front row beside the Vox speakers. Â Â Â âI donât want to sit here,â Delphi protested. âWeâre going to blast our ears off!â Â Â Â âRelax,â Jun said. âEverybodyâll be screaming anyway. We have the best seats in the house.â Â Â Â Everyone in the stadium was a mophead, except the Vietnam volunteers sitting in our row, whose heads had been cleanly shaved. They were young men plucked from the provinces, and many of them were never coming home again. I was so relieved I had grown my hair longer that summer. My hair was a clear sign that, despite my young age, I had gained honorary membership in the exclusive cabal of this generation. You could tell who the pigs were: they were the ones who roamed around, their ears pink and their heads shaved clean like the Vietnam volunteers. Some of them had guns under into their belts; they had been warned that a riot could break out.
   âŚSoaked in sweat, Beatles fans impatiently heckled the opening acts, and emcees had to threaten the crowd that the Beatles would not perform until the audience simmered down.
And when the Beatles finally opened with âI Wanna Be Your Man,â you could feel the excitement ripping through you, a detonation of such magnitude your entire being seemed to explode. I couldnât hear anything except a long, extended shrillâthe whole stadium screaming its lungs out. I looked at Delphi. She was holding her head between her hands and her eyes were bulging out and her mouth was stretched to an 0, and all I could hear was this long, high-pitched scream coming out of her mouth. I had never seen Delphi like that before, and I would never, for the rest of her life, see her as remorselessly young as she was that afternoon.
THE MORNING AFTER the concert, Jun asked Delphi if we could take the Ford to Manila Hotel. Â Â Â âWhy do you have to take us along?â Delphi asked him. It was clear that for her the concert had been the high point of our adventure. Â Â Â âWe still have to get that interview, donât we?â Jun reminded her. âBesides,â he added, âI need you to cover for me,â Jun said. Â Â Â âCover?â asked Delphi. âAs in war?â Â Â Â âLooks like war itâs going to be,â said Jun. Â Â Â Jun had bribed someone from room service to let him take a snack to the Beatles. I was going to pose as a bellhop. Delphi was going to be a chambermaid. Apparently our plan was to swoop down on them in the name of impeccable service, with Jun secretly recording this invasion with the help of a pocket-sized tape recorder. As usual, he had the uniforms ready, rented for the day for half his monthâs wages. âThe hotel laundry boyâs a childhood friend of mine.â Â Â Â âYouâre the company you keep,â Delphi teased him, because she knew it tortured him whenever she did that. Â Â Â I wore the monkey suit perfectly, but somehow it still didnât feel right. I looked at myself in the menâs room mirror and knew I was too young for the role. And Delphi looked incongruous as the chambermaid: her bob cut was too in. Â Â Â As it turned out, all my misgivings would be proven true. We crossed the lobby to the service elevator. Jun walked several paces ahead of us, nonchalantly jiggling the car keys, but I kept glancing nervously around. Â Â Â âHoy, where you going?â Â Â Â Jun didnât seem to hear the house detective call us, or maybe the detective didnât notice him walking past. I felt a hand grab my collar and pull me aside. Immediately, Delphi was all over the detective, hitting him with her fists: âYou take your hands off my brother or Iâll kick your teeth in!â Struggling out of the detectiveâs chokehold, I could see Jun hesitating by the elevator. I motioned for him to go. The detective dragged Delphi and me out to a backroom where several other detectives were playing poker. âOy, got two more right here!â
AS HE RECALLED LATER, Jun wheeled the tray into Suite 402 expecting to find telltale debris of a post-concert party (and hence an excuse for us to mop up). What he came upon was something less festive. Â Â Â âCompliments of the house, sir,â he announced cheerfully as he came in. Â Â Â George Harrison and Brian Epstein were sitting on the sofa, and Paul McCartney was precariously perched on the TV set, brooding. The three of them apparently had been having an argument and they all looked up, surprised, at the intruder. Â Â Â âAll right,â Epstein said, curtly. âBring it in.â Â Â Â âIâll have to mix the dip here, sir,â Jun said, to prolong the intrusion. âHouse specialty.â Â Â Â Nobody seemed to hear him. George Harrison continued the conversation, âWe came here to sing. We didnât come here to drink tea and shake hands.â Â Â Â âThatâs precisely the reason weâve got to pay customs the bond for the equipment,â said Epstein. Â Â Â âLet them keep the money then,â Paul said. âEveryone says here come those rich mopheads to make more money. We donât care about the money.â Â Â Â âWe didnât even want to come here,â George reminded them. Â Â Â âThe only reason we came here,â added Paul, âwas because these people were always saying why donât you come over here? We didnât want to offend anyone, did we? We just came here to sing. You there,â indicating Jun, who jumped with surprise. âDo you speak English?â Â Â Â âFairly well,â replied Jun. Â Â Â âDoes the government control the press here, as they do the customs people, the airport managers, and the police?â Â Â Â âNot yet,â said Jun. Â Â Â Paul then observed that everything was âso American in this country, itâs eerie, man!â He also remarked that many people were exploited by a wealthy and powerful few. Epstein wanted to know how he knew that, as the others had simply not heard of the country before, and Paul replied that he had been reading one of the local papers. Â Â Â âWhat are we supposed to do?â he asked. âShow up and say, âWell, here we are, weâre sorry weâre late!â We werenât supposed to be here in the first place. Why should we apologize for something thatâs not our fault?â Â Â Â At that point John Lennon and Ringo Starr, who had been booked in the adjacent suite, walked in. Ringo, sweating and tousled, plopped into the sofa between Epstein and George Harrison. John Lennon, wearing his dark glasses, walked straight to the window and looked out. âWeâve got a few things to learn about the Philippines, lads,â he said. âFirst of all is how to get out.â
THE MANILA HOTEL DETECTIVES deftly disposed of Delphi and me with a push via the back door, where a sign said THROUGH THIS DOOR PASS THE MOST COURTEOUS EMPLOYEES OF MANILA. Â Â Â We walked back to the Ford in the parking lot and waited for less than an hour when Jun, struggling out of the hotel uniform and back to mufti, sprinted toward us and hopped into the driverâs seat. âGet in!â he shouted. âWeâre going to the airport!â Â Â Â âDid you get the interview?â Delphi asked. Â Â Â âBetter,â Jun said. âThe Beatles are going to try to leave this afternoon. Theyâre paying something like forty-five thousand dollars as a bond or something. Customs is charging them so much money in taxes for the concert.â Â Â Â âWait a minute,â Delphi protested. âIs that legal?â Â Â Â âWho cares?â Jun said. âAll I know is theyâre paying the bond and now all they want to do is to get out. But they think somethingâs going to happen at the airport. Thereâs been talk of arrest and detention.â Â Â Â âWho said that?â Delphi asked. Â Â Â âJohn Lennon, I think. I donât know. I was mixing that stupid dip.â Â Â Â We were driving toward the south highway now, past the mammoth hulls of ships docked at Manila Bay. âYou know all those people whoâve been trying to get the Beatles to go to the palace? You know why they were so keen on bringing the band over to Imeldaâs luncheon?â Â Â Â âCanât waste all that food, right?â Delphi said. Â Â Â âBright girl, but no. Thereâs going to be a major revamp soon. Itâs all over the papers, if youâve been paying attention. All these guys are going to get the top posts. Well, most of them were, until the Beatles screwed everything up.â Â Â Â âWhat guys? Who?â Â Â Â âThat Colonel Fred Santos, the one who led the group to talk to Epstein, heâs being groomed to head the Presidential Guard. Real heavy-duty position, accompanying the First Family all over the world, luxury apartment at the Palace, the works. Thereâs one Colonel Flores, Justin Flores I think, whoâs bound to be chief of the constabulary. Then thereâs Colonel Efren Morales, most likely head of the Manila Police.â Â Â Â âBut these are junior officers,â Delphi said. âMarcos canât just promote them to top posts.â Â Â Â âThatâs the point. Marcos is going to bypass everybody and build up an army of his own. All these new guys will be licking his boots and thereâs nothing the generals can do about it. That young mophead, the son of Balatbat, he was there for his father, whoâs going to be reappointed secretary of state. And if Iâm not mistaken, Salvador Roda, the airport manager, wants to take over customs. The manâs going to be a millionaire, kickbacks and all.â Â Â Â âHow do you know all that?â Delphi demanded. Â Â Â âHomework,â Jun said, swerving the car toward the airport, his reply drowned out by the droning of jets. âIâm the best damned reporter in the city, and everybodyâs going to find out why.â
SALVADOR RODA was briefing the press agitatedly at the VIP lounge of the airport that afternoon, explaining why the republic was withdrawing security for the Beatles and why customs had slapped a hundred-thousand-peso tax on Liverpudlian income. âToo much Filipino money wasted on such a paltry entourage, gentlemen of the press, and not one centavo of the profits going to the nation. Puta, that doesnât make sense, di ba?â Â Â Â We walked up the escalators to the second floor to change into our porter uniforms, which we had lugged in backpacks. Â Â Â âThis airport gets worse every time I come here,â Delphi complained. âNothingâs working.â Â Â Â âAnd thereâs nobody around,â observed Jun. The entire second floor was deserted. âLucky for us,â he said, pushing Delphi into the ladiesâ room and then pulling me into the adjoining gentsâ. We changed into the uniforms and stuffed our clothes above the water tanks. Â Â Â âYou think thereâs going to be trouble?â I asked Jun. Â Â Â âWill you guys back out if I told you there might?â Â Â Â I had to give that some thought. In the past Jun had taken Delphi and me on some insane adventures, mostly juvenile pranks that left us breathlessly exhilarated, but with no real sense of danger. For the first time I was afraid we were up against something, well, real. Â Â Â âWeâll stick around,â I said, tentatively. Â Â Â He put his arm around me and said, âKapatid! Thatâs my brother!â
JULY 5, 2 P.M. THE BEATLES arrived at the airport in a Manila Hotel taxi. They werenât wasting any time. They ran straight up the escalators, their crew lugging whatever equipment they could carry. At the foot of the escalators a group of womenâsociety matrons and young college girlsâhad managed to slip past the deserted security posts and, seeing the Beatles arrive, they lunged for the group, screaming and tearing at the bandâs clothes. Flashbulbs blinded the band as photographers crowded at the top of the stairs. It would have taken a miracle for the band to tear themselves away from the mob and to reach, as they did in a bedraggled way, the only booth open for passport clearance, where Roda had been waiting with the manifest for Flight CX 196. Â Â Â âBeatles here!â he hollered imperiously, and the band followed his voice meekly, almost contritely. Behind the booth a crowd that had checked in earlier restlessly ogled. Â Â Â âThose arenât passengers,â Jun observed as we stole past a booth. âThey look like the people we saw earlier with Roda.â Â Â Â âBeatles out!â Roda boomed. Â Â Â And then it happened. Â Â Â As the Beatles and their crew filed past the booth, the crowd that had been waiting there seemed to swell like a wave and engulfed the band, pulling them into an undertow of fists and knee jabs. There was a thudâEpstein falling groggily, then being dragged to his feet by security police. Someone was cursing in Tagalog: Hetoâng sa âyo bwakang inang putang inang tarantado ka! Take that you m*#f@%ing*@^*r!!! Paul McCartney surfaced for air, his chubby face crunched in unmistakable terror. He pulled away from the crowd, and the other three staggered behind him. Somebody gave Ringo Starr a loud whack on the shoulder and pulled at John Lennon, who yanked his arm away, tearing his coat sleeve. Â Â Â That was when we started running after themâthe three of us, and the whole mob. Â Â Â The crowd overtook Delphi, who was shoved aside brusquely. They were inching in on me when the exit doors flew open into the searing afternoon. From the view deck hundreds of fans who had been waiting for hours started screaming. The band clambered up the plane. I kept my eye on the plane, where Jun was already catching up with John Lennon. Â Â Â âPlease, Mr. Lennon,â he pleaded. âLet me help you with your bags!â Â Â Â At the foot of the stairs a panting John Lennon turned to him and said, âA friendly soul, for a change. Thanks, but weâre leaving.â Â Â Â âIâm sorry,â Jun said, trembling. Â Â Â John Lennon bolted up the stairs. At the top he stopped and took off his coat and threw it down to Jun. Â Â Â âHere,â he said. âTell your friends the Beatles gave it to you.â
A FEW WEEKS after the Beatlesâ frantic egress from Manila, Taal Volcano erupted, perhaps by way of divine castigation, as happens often in this inscrutable, illogical archipelago. The eruption buried three towns and shrouded Manila in sulfuric ash for days. A month later a lake emerged from what had been the volcanoâs craterâa boiling, putrefied, honey-yellow liquefaction. Â Â Â The Beatles flew to New Delhi, where they were to encounter two figures that would change their lives and music: the corpulent, swaying Maharishi, and the droning, mesmerizing sitar. Back in London later, a swarm of fans greeted them carrying placards with mostly one message:
SOD MANILA!
   Manilaâs columnists took umbrage, and the side of the offended First Lady. Said Teodoro Valencia, who would later become the spokesman of the Marcos press: âThose Beatles are knights of the Crown of England. Now we have a more realistic understanding of what knights are. Theyâre snobs. But we are probably more to blame than the Beatles. We gave them too much importance.â And columnist Joe Guevarra added: âWhat if 80,000 people saw the Beatles? Theyâre too young to vote against Marcos anyway!â    Imelda Marcos later announced to the lavishly sympathetic press that the incident âwas regrettable. This has been a breach of Filipino hospitality.â She added that when she heard of a plot to maul the Beatles, she herself asked her brother, the tourism secretary, to make sure the Beatles got out of the airport safely.    But her magnanimity did little to lessen the outrage. The Manila Bulletin declared that MalacaĂąang Palace had received no less than two hundred letters denouncing the Beatles by that weekend. Manila councilor Gerino Tolentino proposed that the Beatles âshould be banned from the city in perpetuity.â Caloocan City passed an ordinance prohibiting the sale, display, and playing of Beatles records. And Quezon City passed a law declaring the Beatlesâ music satanic and the mophead hairstyle illegal.    Jun Hidalgo wrote his story about the Beatlesâ departure, with insider quotes taped, as an editorâs introduction to the story revealed, âwhile undercover as a hotel employee.â A few weeks later he was accepted into the Manila Times, where he played rookie, as was the custom then, in the snake pit of the local press: the police beat. He gave John Lennonâs coat to Delphi, who dutifully mended the sleeve, and they went steady for a while. But like most youthful relationships, the series of melodramatic misunderstandings, periodic separations, and predictable reunions finally ended in tears, and many unprintable words. My sister, older and more healthily cynical, later immigrated to the United States, from where she sent me postcards and booksâand once, a note replying to one of my continuous requests for records, saying she had lost interest in the Beatles when they went psychedelic. I myself, being the obligatory late bloomer, only then began to appreciate the magical, mysterious orchestrations and raga-like trances of the band.    Delphi left John Lennonâs coat with me, and I became known in school as the keeper of a holy relic. Like the martyrs, I was the object of much admiration and also much envy. One afternoon, armed with a copy of an ordinance recently passed in Manila, directors of the school rounded up several mophead boys, including myself. In one vacant classroom we were made to sit on hardboard chairs as the directors snipped our hair. I sat stolidly under the scissors, watching my hair fall in clutches on the bare cement floor.    Back in my room that evening, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. Then I folded John Lennonâs jacket tightly, stuffed it in a box, and tucked it under my books and clothes. I felt no bitterness at all. I knew that something irrevocable in my life had ended.
When I asked photographer Ed Zurbano to send me more photographs of the Ninoy assassination leading to the People Power uprising in 1986, we had a brief phone call on what we wanted to say, or what I wanted him to say about the photos. We wound up talking about memory, and how so few of us seem to remember what that era was like â the sorrow and the fear, but also the courage of many and the glorious buoyancy we felt for months after we finally kicked the dictator out. Ed said we need to constantly remind ourselves, and the generations after us, of those events and the ideals that many of us shared back then. Iâm hoping these photos, of the funeral march and the spontaneous âyellow confettiâ parades that swarmed the streets of Makati after, will at least prompt us to ask what happened then, and what is happening now. Democracy is a fragile thing, and it needs constant vigilance to make it strong. And memory â collective memory â which defines us, and gives us the vision to forge a future we all deserve.
More People Power photographs by Ed Zurbano.
[Untitled]
many times the clear liquid truths run through my fingersâforever elusive. though i bare my soul and lash my back my head thrown back and up, eyes open, only a glimpse is afforded me⌠to one as dull as i, a moment is not enough. i need a passing look, a sudden touch, a bit of light in doubtâs darkness.
-- Diana T. Gamalinda

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Just another footnote
I get it. Only someone who hasnât had the inestimable pleasure of a face-to-face encounter with American racism would say this: âAs for Ericâs own occasionally problematic experience with international publishers, I am sure that his multitudinal skills will eventually prevail, and gain their nod, the way more and more of our compatriots are doing. On which, by the by, I do not recognize their worth only because they were vetted by the West, but rather due to my own reading appreciation (still ongoing) of most of them.â I really donât want to belabor the point, but âoccasionally problematic experience with international publishersâ bothers me, because no, the problem is not occasional but systemic, and this statement rather trivializes (unintentionally, I hope) what many of us have to endure, and makes it sound like my statements about institutions such as the mainstream American publishing industry are nothing more than the petulant rant of someone who feels he hasnât received his due. But to try to explain how, despite our multitudinous âskillsâ, we are still subject to the prevailing biases, preconceptions and ignorance of the industry, demands more than a column, or a response to a column. After all, so many cultural analysts have adequately addressed this issue, which circles back to Americaâs historically racialized perception of the Filipino. Indeed, this issue pertains to all writers of color, who have to carve a space in the public sphere inexorably controlled by the white majority; for reference, consider the recent case of American Dirt and the eternal problem of stereotyping and misrepresentation that Chicano writersâand the Mexican communityâhave always had to deal with:Â
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/jan/30/american-dirt-book-controversy-latinx-writers-angry
Our situation is not much different; in order to âgain the nodâ of the industryâs hegemony, we are often told to stick to the recognizable stereotypes, the images that define our identity as far as the mainstream establishment is concerned, and ensure that we remain the âOther,â exotic, inferior, and bizarre. It is not a matter of âgaining their nod,â but a question of how far we are willing to compromise, to play the game, to swallow our pride and accept the persistent racial codes that pervade this culture. That is what many of us wish to address; we are not here to âgain their nod,â or to get a pat on the head; once again, this implies that our self-worth is completely dependent on the dominant cultureâs assent, and it really makes the stomach turn. Which brings me to another bothersome phrase. When we are described as having been âvetted by the West,â what exactly does that mean? If âto vetâ means âto appraise, verify, or check for accuracy, authenticity, validity, etc.â (see Dictionary.com), then one is prompted to say that the industry gatekeepers who do feel compelled to âvetâ our works to make us conform to the stereotypical (and therefore non-threatening) image they have of us, who want to dictate our âauthenticityâ by mansplaining our history and culture for us, by telling us what narratives we are allowed to say, are part of the (much larger) problem. What does being âvetted by the Westâ mean (and isnât that in itself âbinaryâ)? Does it mean we have received the âWestâsâ imprimatur, and are thereby worthy? Let us not forget what Gabriel Garcia Marquez said: âThe interpretation of our reality through patterns not our own, serves only to make us ever more unknown, ever less free, ever more solitary.â But I get it. Some of us still believe that American racism, with all its deeply coded iterations, does not apply to us, or simply does not exist; we are, after all, the âlittle brown brother,â the âpensionado,â the faithful ally. Truly, ignorance is bliss.
Doesnât matter if weâre Filipino or Fil-Am: we contain multitudes
First off, a disclaimer. Krip Yuson has always been a friend of mine and I will always be grateful to him for convincing the Philippine Literary Arts Council to take me under its wing. And I appreciate his constant praise of Filipino and Fil-Am writers in the US, and his latest kudos in his recent column in the Philippine Star.
I must, however, take issue with some of his closing remarks, where he compares Fil-Am writers against those based in the Philippines. He situates this connection as a competition, with Fil-Am writers having an edge in âproficiency and excellenceâ by the mere fact of the âtraining they get in their adopted environment, competing with the natives.â
This reminds me of something that has always bothered me about the Filipino mindset: that we think we are worthy only as far as America (or the West) says so. We celebrate those who âmake itâ abroad, and by reference we imply that those who publish at home are inferior, and not worth as much of our attention. We see the same phenomenon in almost all aspects of our culture: consider Lea Salonga, Manny Pacquiao, Arnel Pineda, even Miss Universeâthe list goes onâpeople we started to celebrate once the West said it was OK to do so.
This is our infantile neurosis: that we believe we are respectable only when the dominant culture says so. We believe a writer has âmade itâ once she has been published outside Philippine territory. We are still so enamored by our colonial master that we view anything âwritten in Americaâ as superior and more desirable. This is the self-hating attitude embedded in us by our contact with the Spanish and American racists, and we continue to internalize it as absolute truth. Bewitched by the falsehoods they waterboarded upon us, we cannot look at anything American beyond its dazzling glamourâin other words, its magical illusion. Â
But think about the âenvironmentâ a Fil-Am writer has to live with. Fil-Am writers, indeed all writers of color, have to contend with the racism and condescension of the American publishing industry, where whiteness is considered eminently marketable. Thereâs a likely chance that nearly all Fil-Am writers have once been told that nobody is interested in the Philippines or a Filipino narrative or in Filipino characters. At best, they may be accepted by the mainstream for being âexotic.â The publishing industry discriminates against the Filipino narrative, and therefore the Filipino. This problem extends way beyond geography, regardless of whether one is Fil-Am or Filipino. It is an indelible part of our common history.
A national literature, a literary identity and heritage, must encompass all texts written within that ânation,â which in todayâs global world, and considering the Philippinesâ long history of diaspora, is a fluid concept, and cannot and should not be considered in the binary perceptions of Filipino and Fil-Am. It is not a âcompetition,â and it is not a zero sum game. A writer contributes to a collective voice that seeks and defines who we are and where we are heading. Ours is a complicated history, as we all know, and we contain multitudes.
To imply that one becomes a better writer because of oneâs proximity to the colonial masters is truly sickening. It does a great disservice to the work being done by our own educators in the Philippines and the prodigious output of writers based at home. I have met some of these writers and I have read some of their works, and to imply that they cannot âcompeteâ with those âschooled abroadâ is disheartening, if not untrue. When I joined PLAC, I personally felt such growth in my artistic and intellectual education through my conversations with the likes of Gemino Abad, Cirilo Bautista, Rayvi Sunico, Marjorie Evasco, and others. I have not found such inspiration from the ânativesâ this article refers to. We must not forget the impact we may have, whether we are conscious of it or not, among our juniors or peers.
The only difference between the Fil-Am and Filipino writer is that their publishersâand their marketing and distribution capabilitiesâare unequal on many levels, due to a number of reasons. There are many ways we can suggest to alleviate this. Why not create a more effective system of publishing and distribution, and offer help to our local publishers so that they can open themselves to an international market, and audiences abroad can finally appreciate the remarkable talent we have at home? Why not support recognition that truly honors our writers? Why should we expect America to celebrate our own writers when we ourselves are reluctant to do so, unless they are published abroad? Why wait for the Westâwhich has its innate biasesâto recognize our worth? Our problem is not geography but invisibility. The issue is not proficiency or excellence but self-hate and shame.
Writing is a personal journey, and oneâs development as a writer is influenced more by oneâs determination to be so. Environment matters, of course, if only as a source of raw material, but the nature of that experience cannot be judged by oneâs exotic or foreign location alone. There is an eminent role played by memory, identity, beliefs, and values, which are intrinsic to our soul.
You donât become a âbetterâ writer by moving abroad, or by rubbing elbows with the colonial elite. You do so by deeply examining your own values, reevaluating your history and your place in it, and speaking your truth.
In honor of the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing, I am sharing my poem, Zero Gravity (from the collection of the same name, Alice James Books 1999), inspired by that moment shared with millions around the world. Peace for all mankind--believe that it is still possible.Â
Poems by my sister, Diana T. Gamalinda, appeared in The Manila Review 14, March 1978, edited by Gregorio Brillantes. Also in the issue were works by Ricaredo Demetillo, Domingo C. de Guzman, Mara PL. Lanot, Augusta de Almedda, Wilfrido D. Nolledo, and Conrado de Quiros, among others. Cover art by Fernando Modesto, Dombriones, Benjie Cabangis, and Evelyn Collantes. Dianaâs poems were published in the journal when she was just 19 years old; she died the following month.
I was a teenager when I read Cirilo Bautistaâs The Archipelago, perhaps in The Manila Review if I remember correctly. I was stunned by the magic and majesty of it. I was desperate to get hold of more of the poetâs work and was finally rewarded, years later, when I found a copy of his new book, Telex Moon. I think I found it at Eggie Apostolâs Ermita bookshop, Ex Libris. I had never been so excited to find a book by a Filipino poet before. Ciriloâs work changed the way I looked at poetry, and I realized poetry was an effective way to explore Filipino history and identity. I was shocked when he and the other founders of the Philippine Literary Arts Council invited me to join the group, but they all quickly became not just mentors but close friends. Cirilo, along with Jimmy Abad, convinced me to read Derrida, Spivak, Barthes, Eagleton and many, many others. I can say his work and his frequent reading recommendations directly influenced how my own work developed. But more than a profound philosophical and creative mentor, Cirilo was also one of the most down to earth people Iâd ever met, and had a really wild sense of humor. He would often drive me home from PLAC meetings and in his car our conversation always shifted from poetry, theory, to wacky jokes that had me in stitches. The photo above is the only one I have of Ciriloâs, who sits on the lower step in the center. Itâs from one of our Chromatext exhibitions at the Pinaglabanan Galleries, and we had decided to scribble graffiti on the walls of one of the galleries and pose like kanto boys for the pic (we thought weâd deliberately misspell âgraffitiâ for laughs). Cirilo Bautista, poet, mentor, great pal. We have lost one of our greats.

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Divan #256
This is my adaptation of a poem from Jalal al-Din Rumiâs Divan-e Shams, based on the translation by Professor A.J. Arberry. Obviously, nothing matches Professor Arberryâs version, but I just had to give it a try.
256
I heard that you were going away: please donât. That you love someone else: no, donât.
You are a stranger to the world, but why be a stranger to me? My heart is already wounded, and you wound it further still: I ask you, donât.
I catch you stealing glances at other boys. Please donât. I donât know whatâs up or down. You make me crazy like the moon: donât.
Donât promise this or swear by that, donât let your promises hold back something you canât give.
You have led me to this paradise. But donât let anyone turn it into a curse for the wicked.
For the sweetness between us can make sugar seem like poison. Donât let anyone turn it to poison.
My soul burns and burns and burns. If you leave I will smolder to nothing the way fire melts gold: please donât.
All right, go ahead and leave. Let me lie awake moonstruck in the gloom of your eclipse: or donât.
My lips are dry, my eyes flood with tears. All because of you: donât.
Love is a fetter, you chafe at it, but do you really think logic can untangle this confusion? Just donât.
You donât feed a fever, you canât hurt me any further when I am sick with the fever that is you. Donât.
I am criminal, my eyes have stolen away with your beauty. Beloved, you want my eyes to keep on stealing you: I beseech you, donât.
Go, my friend, I have nothing more to say. You can keep resisting this bewilderment called love. But donât.
Dreamers
The earth is my country.
My place of birth is love. My language is music that anyone can sing.
My faith is the one that says the light of heaven shines on all.
My color is the color of everything that is beautiful to me.
I belong to one people, the race of you and me.
Is this the world of dreams, or the world of possibilities?
The earth is my country, I look after it as it looks after me,
and for everything Iâve lost something else is given back in full.
I will name it Here and Now. I will leave all roads open
and hope that I will find you, or you will find me.
I will keep the light on and wait for you to enter the dream.
*âDreamersâ was written as the lyrics for a musical composition by Arturo OâFarrill entitled âBorderless.â