13 JAN 2018 Uprising

13 JAN 2018

When the Revolution comes, that is, during the Revolution, the People would storm the Palace, and then they would corner the First Family in one of the opulent rooms filled with glass and gold and shining metal. A profile of the First Family: there’s a video of them shot a couple of decades ago, and it was this party. People were dancing and drinking, there were foreigners and actors and actresses. There were the richest businessmen, and the most powerful supposed leaders and or representatives of the people. I remember the most decadent part of this whole affair was when the giant cake was brought out. It was so large that it was wheeled into the center of the dancing hall. Then the singing of happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, blowing out of the candles, and surprise out of this cake emerges this big fat man, a full-grown adult, dressed only in bib and diaper, clutching a bottle of milk, saying ‘mama’ ‘mama’, fat pudgy arms reaching out, to the delight of the First Lady. And people were laughing, and the music was so loud, and the lights were multi-colored and too bright to be decent.

The royal family would plead, but the pleading comes later, at first the Old Man is too proud to admit that he was betrayed by his own generals. They’re outside the Palace, the Generals, and they have pledged allegiance to the People earlier. Opportunistic bastards these Generals. It was only when the tide was too strong, when the movement have become unstoppable that they switched sides. This effectively divided the army. There were those who were loyal to the Old Man, and there were those who were followers of these two Generals.

Later outside the Gates of the palace, on the tall aluminum lamp posts, the Royal Family is hanged one by one – one person per lamp post. There we see the fat pudgy man crying as the noose is placed around his neck. Then he is pushed from the platform and there is a crack as his neck is broken, and then the people rejoiced. Next is the First Lady herself, patron of the arts, known for her vast collection of shoes, dresses and jewelry. They were gifts to me, she would say, they are my personal property. We did not steal a cent from the People, but the people hear her and she is booed and trash and mud are thrown at her. The noose is placed down her fat neck, and she is pushed from the platform and then she struggles like a chicken whose neck has just been slashed, writhing here and there for everyone to see. She truggles in full view of her other children and the Old Man President For Life, and the people, and all the military people who sided with the people.

The Old Man President for Life is up on the platform and he is looking angry, and as he is about to say something, the executioner slaps him on the face, places the noose around his neck, and then pushes him. Maybe because the push was too forceful, maybe the rope was just too weak, the rope breaks, the Old Man falls headfirst onto the concrete and there is an audible crack as he skull is crushed by his own weight.

The Palace is burned. All the paintings and documents, all the wonderful furnishings and historical things went up in smoke. The smoke filled the sky above the country, darkening everything for half a year. The crops could not grow, and there was a bit of a crop failure, but the people thought this was okay, so long as the First Family is no longer there and lording it over everyone, stealing the people’s hard earned taxes, spending it on lavish parties and things, using it to pay the soldiers and police who beat innocent people to death, but not before torturing and raping some of them. A young student-activist fails to turn up home one night and her body is found days later in a morgue. It was brought their by the police, the morgue’s manager said. The body was in an awful state. There were signs of sexual abuse and physical torture – the head was half-bashed in, there is a huge gash below the rib-cage, there were bite-marks and cigarette burns on her arms and legs. The family could only stand and watch as the morgue owner explained the wounds and bruises on her body, too shocked to cry. The crying would come days later once the body had been properly buried. They’re lucky, as far as luck goes in this miserable world, that they ever found the body of their loved one, though one could say that maybe it would have been better had they never seen the body. Most people just disappeared, and their families were left in this gray Purgatory of wondering what has happened to their son or daughter or sister or brother or father or mother … The police claimed that she was a member of the outlawed Communist Party, that she was a member of an organization that sought to undermine the security of the duly-elected Government of the country. She was killed in a shoot-out, they claimed, she was carrying an AK-47 they said.

The bodies of the First Family were left there, no one were allowed to touch it, not the priests who said that these people are still Roman Catholics and they have souls and their bodies should be respected and be given a proper funeral, not the relatives who were rich and fearing for their lives so that they were nowhere to be found anyway, maybe they already fled the country into someplace they think safe, not the few loyalists who were claiming that the First Family did nothing wrong, that although the regime brought some hardships for a few, overall it was a good government for most. The bodies were exposed to rain and sun. The smell was overwhelming. It fizzed out of the bodies with a sickly green color and permeated the country. But it was okay, the people said, we could do without smelling ever again, so long as we are constantly reminded that the First Family is no longer there.

13 JAN 2018

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05 JAN 2018 Mostly Politics, Mostly Bullshit

This year, this current hellscape. The year started with increases in the price of everything. It was a way by the government to gain revenue from low-income informal sector workers, who mostly do not pay income tax. So what the government did was raise the overall tax on foodstuffs and drinkables. They said that it would benefit the poor and the middle class, I don’t really know. They said that the increase in taxes for sugary beverages was for the consumer’s health, but they also increased the taxes on beverages that do not contain sugar, so clearly it wasn’t for that.

The government, in my opinion, has no right to collect any sort of taxes so long as corruption exists. Lots of corruption cases are still stuck in the legal system, and it has taken so very long, and people are dying, and those who know have become so hopeless that at night they dream of total collapse of the Government so that the country could start anew. In the morning they work and toil and sweat, and during the afternoon break they would watch those goddamn stupid noontime shows just for the mental comfort, because it could contribute anything else besides. And then back to work, and the taxes are still being siphoned into the pockets of the various lords and leaders who claim to be representing and leading the people.

Etc. etc.

But let’s think of something else. These fuckers aren’t worth so much of our precious energies and attention. We should turn towards things now that are actually of our interest, which is the future, and the future is that the heads of these politicians and so-called leaders, and all the lords – the crimelords, the warlords, the druglords, would all be separated from their bodies so that it would decorate the gate of the People’s Hall, which in this hypothetical future is where the new syndicalist government would he headquartered.

The Authoritarian Left in the Philippines, it’s an interesting topic. I don’t think they’ve failed yet, as they are still extant. And even if they would no longer exist, which seems unlikely given how long they’ve been waging their armed revolutionary struggle against the so-called government of the Philippines, they would leave a legacy, a presence, and I think it would be enough. For all the warped form that it took, European Enlightenment ideas did come into the Philippines. Revolutionary socialism is a product of the European Enlightenment, which is why it is so ironic and incorrect when some nationalist folks would disparage anything ‘Western’ as ‘colonial mentality’.

‘Tending to one’s garden’ would be something the ancient Stoics would probably say regarding politics. It is just added mental pain to continue worrying about things that you have little to no control over. The rich and powerful class have captured the Government, and there’s nothing much that you can do about it, except vote every once in a while in elections hoping for some change to happen. This doesn’t happen because the people that keep getting elected are those from the class that benefit greatly in keeping the people down. So what’s next? What is there to do? I don’t really have an answer. I’m just asking questions here.

Today is sunny. I went out earlier for a brief sunbath. I am hoping that it would help improve my condition. I read somewhere on the internet that it actually helps, only one shouldn’t overdo it. If only there is someplace where I could sunbathe where there are no other people, no animals to worry about. It’s just me and the sun, and somewhere there’s a shade, and in the shade is a cooler filled with all sort of non-caloric softdrinks. I’d just spend the day in that space, reading and writing maybe, and watching anime. Preferably, I would also be wearing shades. One must never underestimate the damage the sun can do to one’s eyes. I need to be able to see for my anime shows and books. If only it is possible to consume media by absorbing them through the skin.

The problem when I think about politics in this country is that my mind gets very apocalyptic. My solution is just to not have any people at all. No people, no politics. I say just cut the mistake at the root. It is a very lazy way to think about politics. It is anti-human, and does not help at all. But my mind falls to it again and again. There is something attractive about the idea that there would just be no people at all in this world. I guess the issue at its root is philosophical and temperamental. I think that life is painful. This is true for me physically, having had physical problems most of my life. When I look at people constructing structures, plotting about the future, it all looks so extravagant to me. My concern is very immediate – the cessation of pain right now. Beyond that it’s all mostly bullshit. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe I’ll come back to this idea later. How did the existentialists, or at least those of the pessimistic philosophical schools look at politics? Take Schopenhauer for example. I can’t remember what his political position was. Was he liberal or conservative? How would he assess the ideas of the anarchists, or the fascists? Would he agree or disagree with them? I know he talked a lot about metaphysics and aesthetics, at the level of societal criticism, it was mostly about proper behavior that he looked at. He has been called a misogynist because of his ideas about women, but then he was just as excoriating against men and their behavior. How about Nietzsche? Can Nietzsche be considered pessimistic? Anyway, with regards to how Schopenhauer regarded human beings and human nature, it is hard to see him as an anarchist. Anarchists believe that people are ultimately good and that they can be rational enough to want an egalitarian society. Schopenhauer definitely does not see human nature and human beings this way.

05 JAN 2018

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09 JAN 2018 Attempted Lesbian Erotica

09 JAN 2018

It is always useful to bring up concrete examples when arguing your side. I was thinking earlier about this discussion/thread on reddit.com/r/writing. The poster was asking why the subreddit’s focus seem to be mostly on writing the novel and not so much on the short story. There weren’t that many interesting replies, and some were outright not useful at all. One posted that short stories are harder to write than novels, for example. I disagree with this. I’ve written short stories, and I couldn’t even imagine how I would write a novel. I can’t write based on chapters it seems, maybe I should try it one of these days. My point is that I should have brought up William Gibson into the discussion. William Gibson wrote novels and short stories. I think he is equally known for both of these types of narrative works. I have read I think four of his novels, and several of his short stories. They are all equally wonderful. He writes the most poetic, breathtaking lines. He has this amazing skill of describing things – like the watch in ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ for example, or the personality of the assassin character.

In the end they are all just words. One sentence at a time, as Stephen King once said. The difference is length – a novel has around one hundred thousand words. A short story can go from one thousand to seven thousand words. It’s not the production of words that is the problem, it is the structuring of these words so that they make sense, so that they are engaging to the reader. I think I have proven now, it’s been five days since I started, that writing a thousand words a day isn’t that hard. What is difficult is writing a thousand words a day that is actually meaningful. And I’m not even talking yet about writing actual fiction with characters interacting in the world created. These are all just writing ‘at the sides’.

She’s tired of it all, being stuck here in this place, subject to the whims of her audience, who most probably are all fat, hairy and have questionable hygiene. But not tired enough of it that she would go out into the outside world and engage with it like a real normal human being. She wonders how her classmates back in elementary are doing right now. Maybe they’re dealing with the world so much better than her. She feels envious of them, and this time, thinking this, she actually means it. She just wants to melt into the crowd, live a different timeline, disappear into normality. Instead she faces the unblinking metal eye of the camera day in and day out.

After her session for the day, she goes out into the nearby cafe where she’s a regular, and the workers recognize her. Some even try to befriend her, but she’s cold towards them because she just wants to be left alone, reading her book, sipping her coffee, gazing at the world. The world being the street where vehicles and pedestrians pass on by, not looking at her, not minding her. It is she who is looking at the world now. In the story she’s reading, the Dark Lord of the Universe has finished another genocide. It is to pacify the galaxy, he claims to the multitude he is addressing. His speech is broadcast to all the worlds of the system that he has ‘pacified’, on massive screens, projected onto sides of buildings, etc. This latest speech, more of a harangue really, has been going on for six imperial hours now. This triumph of the army is the triumph of the people. You are all my children, you are in my heart, I think about you day and night, and even when I sleep I think of all of you, those who have been in my care for a long time, and those of you who are recently arrived. Then he starts to sing, this is the sign that he is about to end his speech. The latest song is a version of a war poem that is taught to all schools in the imperial world system.

“Here’s your coffee ma’am” the waiter said.

“Thank you” she replied. She turns to the next page of the book.

The poem on which the song is based tells the story of a soldier who came from a backwoods settlement in some insignificant little planet. The soldier is young and strong, as his world is an agricultural planet where they grow various crops and these crops require manual labor, and it is being engaged with hard labor growing these crops since he was old enough to walk that has molded his physique all through the years. Then he is conscripted along with hundreds of young men in his town to the planetary army, then there is a selection process assessing strength, mental and physical, and those who pass this is sent off-world for continued training into one of the military planets. He passes these all with flying colors. His first assignment is to a rebellious colony, where he is wounded.

She turns the next page, and the girl behind the counter is looking at her. She is short, petite, cute, short hair, kind of curvy in all the right places. In short, she is just her type. The girl behind the counter smiles at her. She winks back at her and continues to read on.

Pages upon pages later, and now the people are revolting against the Dark Lord of the Universe. To quell the uprising, he sent out his clandestine torture squad. Young men and women are captured and tortured for no apparent reason at all. They didn’t even ask whether they were part of the resistance or not. The unit just picked them off the street and then later on had their mutilated bodies dumped in the middle of the street so that everyone could see what happens to those who even disagree with how the Dark Lord of the Universe phrases his sentences. Families lost sons and daughters, fathers and mothers. Friends lost friends. Lovers lost the ones they most valued in the world.

This is getting dark, she thinks, and so puts the book down. She looks up and the girl is sitting on the other side of the table. THe girl has changed from work clothes into a blank white t-shirt and tight-fitting blue jeans.

“So how was it?” she said to her.

“This book is terrible” she replied.

“Let’s go?”


And they go back to her apartment, to her room, and they take off their clothes, get into the bed and watch some anime in the girl’s laptop.

09 JAN 2018

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Horror fantasy dream. 03JAN2016 afternoon, sometime around two pm.

It was my first day as a cub reporter in this newspaper. I was hired because of my connections. My two friends were already working there. In the universe/logic of the dream, before the paper could print, they have to first pay the printer with their own personal money. This is why they always carry a lot of cash. One of the first things given to me was a small bag filled with a bundle of cash, supposedly advance payment for my services which I have yet to render, and spending money for when we are following a story somewhere.

The very day when I arrived and given the small bag, the Editor-in-Chief was in a hurry to the printers to pay them. He didn’t have enough cash so the staff collected valuables – cash and jewellery to give to him. Another thing that is necessary for the printing of the paper was the sacrifice of a body. It turns out this was a tedious and painful process and it was the Editor in Chief’s turn, and the lazy bastard was stalling for time. So one of the established reporters collected the valuables, and went out in place of the lazy bastard Editor in Chief.

We, the three of us friends, found her mutilated body later outside in a cement bench in a nearby plaza. It was slumped unceremoniously and covered in red occult markings. Then we went back to the office and immediately after us, the senior reporter whom we just saw dead entered. She looked exactly like before she was mutilated. She sat down on her desk and said ‘now that wasn’t too hard was it?’ before continuing with her work.

In the logic of the dream, people don’t really die. Their soul just transfers to another body which is already summoned or prepared for them. This body can be made to look exactly like the previous body.

My friends and I were assigned to follow a story together. It was a killing, and not just any killing, but a non-resurrection-type killing. We were outside of a large church, and inside there were a lot of people. Someone has just informed one of the parishioners of the killing. It turns out that the parishioner who was just informed is the aunt of the one who was killed. She broke down crying, but only for a while. She stood up, composed herself, and went out of the church. We followed her as she went out and offered her our services.

It was me who was able to quickly track down the killer. I only managed a glimpse but I knew it was the killer. It or he or she, I didn’t get a long look, vanished into a small wooden shed. The parishioner followed me, then my friends, and we scoured the place but we couldn’t find the killer. He was gone. That was then I noticed something odd. On the corner of the shed were the smoldering embers of a fire. Among the charcoal was a burnt out shell of what looked like a large spider. There were some things, small and red, wriggling inside of it. It turned out to be smaller spiders.

The parishioner approached me and picked up the shell/casing with the small spiders inside. She picked up one and swallowed it. My friends shouted for her to stop, but it was too late.

Then we were transported into this other place. It was dark and cold and had lots of big corridors. It turned out to be some sort of restaurant. The hunt for the killer continues here. The small red spider which the parishioner consumed is a gateway. By eating it, we have followed the trail of the killer. But a side effect of the gateway spider is madness and for the eater to turn into a monster. I was standing in front of the parishioner when she started changing. The right side of her face and body started to morph and bloat into a grotesque form. Her eyes went bloodshot and wide. She grew fangs and her hair became longer. My friends and I ran.

I don’t know if my friends escaped. I managed to run as far away from the monster as possible, until I reached one end of the vast restaurant. There was a free-standing utility room there, made of thick cement and had pipes snaking around and sticking out of it. It looked very secure to me. I entered and locked myself inside.

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Review and Musings Upon Finishing Nick Joaquin’s ‘May Day Eve.’

Review and Musings Upon Finishing Nick Joaquin’s ‘May Day Eve.’

I have just read Nick Joaquin’s ‘May Day Eve.’ It’s a short story written in 1947. I didn’t get much of the plot, as it was deliberately confusing. I only got that there was this mirror and there was this girl, and she was told this urban legend about asking the mirror during midnight about who she’ll marry one day, and then the next moment she’s in front of the mirror, and then she’s old and telling the story to this young boy who is her child, and there was symmetry of events because her husband also asked the mirror when he was younger, or was this another person? I can’t remember, there were a lot of typos on the text which I read, and again the story was deliberately non-linear, and thus confusing. What I really liked was the atmosphere, both the psychology of the characters, and the setting of the story. It was dark and dream-like. There was the use of an urban legend, there were repetition of events and stories. The same urban legend, although in a modified form was told to the young boy who then asked the mirror for the face of the girl whom he would marry someday. Also, I like that there were only snippets of larger things that were presented, hints at some greater events happening at the background. The detail of the crier during the night shouting the hour is interesting. Agueda and the male character both live in the same house? Are they related? What is the connection between them that they both live in the same house with other people. That older lady who told Agueda the urban legend about the mirror also lived with her in that house. There were also other girls who lived in that house. I liked that the story tells that the young men went to Europe, and that the local girls felt they couldn’t compare to the more fiesty Seville girls, or the more classy Parisian girls, stuff like that. It connects the story to Europe, old Europe, where the Gothic trope came from.

The story has been described as ‘magic realism’. But another way to understand the story is to say that it is weird and supernatural, or fantastic. Literary academic folks would also use the term ‘speculative’ but these aren’t nothing new. The tone for example of the story is reminiscent of Gothic horror fiction of the type written by the Americans Edgar Allan Poe and Ambrose Bierce. The use of the urban legend superstition ritual is folksy in a way. Gabriel Garcia Marquez also writes like this. I think the term is ‘folkloric.’ Is it folklore when the setting is urban, and not the countryside? rural places? non-city? I think it is. The story could also be understood as some sort of ghost story. What is the ghost here? Maybe something metaphorical, like the ghost of optimism. Optimism and kindness and youth died, replaced by its ghost, it’s mirror image, a mirage, a shadow, an echo something that pales in comparison to the real thing. Agueda as old lady isn’t the same person any more as Agueda the young girl. She is described as mean and hard-hearted. I like the part where within all that hardness and sadness and misery, she told the story to her child about the Devil which appeared to her, and she described the Devil in beautiful terms, like a lover, full of beauty and all things which she seemed to have lost through time until that moment when she is speaking to her child.

I think I may have now discovered a new favorite writer in English – Nick Joaquin. Our interests, I think are more aligned. For the longest time, which is to say, until now since I read his stories more than fifteen years ago, my favorite Filipino writer in English was Carlos Bulosan. I wrote a term paper on the guy. I liked his prose, which was social realist and called for justice to the working class and the poor and the migrants and vagabonds in 1930s United States. Joaquin seems to focus more on the fantastic, something that I feel isn’t discussed much in the literary history of the country. In high school you’re just taught about the ancient epics, then some Tagalog short stories, which are usually social realist, the novels Noli me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, those huge pillars of Philippine literary architecture, are more or less social realist. A lot of the writings in the Philippines seem to be really political and social-realist.

Overall, the reading of the story was spurred on by my desire to read more local stuff. To connect to the literary scene in the country. The main problem is that I have little to no access to these writings.

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Profile of the Girl in Creative Writing Class Back in College

Profile of the Girl in Creative Writing Class Back in College

-She was pale, frail and sweet. She spoke softly and carefully.

-This girl was so shy, she had to stop talking a few times, and was told by the instructor to relax and breathe a little, to continue explaining her story to us.

-Her story was about this girl in a relationship. She’s being abused by this guy, husband? boyfriend? and the story isn’t really a story but more of a scene. It is about this girl, looking at the clock and thinking about what she’s going to do next. The clock is described in detail. It is a big old wooden clock, of the type with a swinging pendulum at the bottom.

-She described the bruises on the body of the girl. She described the girl as frail and pale. There were roses in the story as well, I don’t know how it was incorporated there. Overall the language was descriptive and melodramatic.

-Basically, the character in her story was her. No doubt about it.

-Before class one day, we got to talking. The instructor was late, and the class before us was having a test, and they extended their time. I don’t know how it was that she became so comfortable talking to me. These were real personal stuff she was sharing with me. How she doesn’t like her family, how she feels like an outsider, how they exclude her all the time. She still lives at home, and there is supposedly a lot of drama in the house. Their family, from what I gathered, is rich. Her greatest issue at that time was whether she would go with her family to vacation in Hong Kong.

-She told me growing up she had a lot of physical problems. I think we bonded over the discovery that we both have asthma. She also has allergies, like me. But her biggest physical issue was her scoliosis. It’s no longer that visible, but it was really bad when she was younger. She told me she had to wear this brace for her spine, and that it was awful and made her feel bad.

-Beyond that, we never talked much again. A few hi’s and hello’s, catching up to the latest assignments before that little sliver of time before class, and that was it. We never met again after that semester. I can’t even remember her name now. Not much of her physical attributes. She was fine-featured, short and petite, really pale, so pale that I could see the blue veins on her wrists, she’s also pale because her parents don’t let her engage in much physical activities outside in the sun, one time she showed up with red blotches on her arms and face because of allergies, she had short black hair.

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Some Thoughts on the Marcos Clandestine Burial Issue

Some Thoughts on the Marcos Clandestine Burial Issue

-Morally speaking, he shouldn’t have been allowed to be buried in Philippine soil.

-But legally speaking, because he was President, and for a very long time too, he deserves to be buried in the Libingan ng Mga Bayani.

-Morals and law contradict.

-Jose Maria Sison said: it is not a Libingan ng Mga Bayani, it is a Libingan ng Mga Reaksyunaryo.

-I agree with Sison. Most of the state officials buried there followed policies that were anti-democratic and probably themselves were highly involved in the human rights violations that happened, not just during the Martial Law Period, but throughout the history of the country.

-So, this is just the State appropriating for itself the concept of what a ‘hero’ is. Anti-government agitators for example, who were heroic, I doubt would be allowed (and would even want) to be buried there. It’s all military and state bureaucrats. It’s a right-wing cemetery, full of right-wing decaying organic once-alive human matter.

-So what does it matter then that the biggest reactionary and human rights violator of them all would be buried there?

-But there may be actual heroes in that cemetery, ones that did not engage in human rights violations and did not support policies which allowed for the violation of human rights. Who knows.

-A much much bigger issue is the power that the Marcoses and the other political dynasties continue to hold in this country. This has been the the bane of the country for the longest time. The wealth that should have been spent for economic and social development were funneled into the personal coffers of the Marcoses and their cronies. Taxpayer money is still being clandestinely siphoned into the personal coffers of the various political dynasties. These people are still alive. These people should be made to account. These are the ones that the living should be chasing.

-There should be constant updates and news about progress on the recovery of the wealth, which amounted to more than one hundred billion pesos, that were stolen during the Marcos regime.

-People should be shown the luxuries that the Marcoses and their cronies, and the political dynasties enjoyed, or are currently enjoying, while the country mostly remains poor.

-I have often seen how the poor and the middle class defend Marcos, saying that he did all these projects, that the streets were safer then, etc.. The irony of a thief being praised by those whom he stole money from.

-The money used to build these government projects came from the taxpayers, or were borrowed from international banks which would be later on repaid with interest, again of course, by the taxpayers.

-Some of these poor and middle class defenders of the dead multi-billionaire thief say that the streets were safer then. That they felt safe, and that’s all that matters.

-This is a narrow-minded sort of thinking. It’s how sheep and followers think. They think in terms of safety and comfort.

-While they felt safe, others didn’t. The constant poverty and hunger, while the rich and powerful led luxurious lives in their mansions, drove thousands of people to join anti-government movements like the Moro National Liberation Front, and the Communist Party of the Philippines. There were pockets of brutality scattered all throughout the country, but mostly concentrated on Muslim Mindanao and the rural areas.

-It was not a safe time at all.

-The Philippine Constabulary could barge into homes and arrest suspected communist and communist sympathizers. And then what could the families of the accused do? Could they protest, and be further subjected to state terror through the police and the military?

-These people did not feel safe.

-Defenders of Marcos now would then say: these anti-government students and activists deserved it, that these protesters who were tortured and killed deserved it, for what? For their safety of course.

-Again, the mentality of the sheep and follower. Unquestioning obedience, seeker of safety and comfort no matter the cost.

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