The march of history on Manila streets
A personal account of the 40th Anniversary march of EDSA Uno
Tabi, tabi, dadaan kami! My voice breaks, but I know I don’t speak alone. I speak as one thousand, so I say the words from my belly—confident, steady.
Stern mouths protected by riot shields greet us. All of these men in blue could’ve been my older brother, barely thirty according to the skin around their wary eyes. Hard to believe they’re our enemies, capable of cruelty disguised by obedience.
My arm is tucked in C’s arm who I just met that day but feel an intimate protectiveness for. I search the line behind me for A’s colorful bandana, for my other friends whose names I won’t share, not here. I’m unnervingly close to the barricade of policemen flanking us on the left. Behind my sunglasses, I avoid their eyes.
I look to the front instead, waiting for something to stir on our side or theirs; something that might tip the deadlock. It happens when an SUV from our side pulls up to square against the police barricade. Like water through a tight hose, our collective body rushes past the corner of the barricade. We bolt. But then someone in front is shoved to the ground, causing multiple bodies to fall. The force of the march behind us is overwhelming as we were suspended. Back up! C says. A few of us pull the fallen back to their feet, and we rush past the remaining policemen.
A few hundred meters and we make it to the shrine where the program was to occur. I almost hear a collective sigh of relief breathe out—the threat of violence has passed. Before Mary Queen of Peace, under the MRT tracks, a shaft of light spills onto our faces.
Grace is short-lived as I become aware of the uniquely middle-class familiarity with Megamall and its giant digital billboards, one of them featuring Kathryn Bernardo for some eyeglass company. I find it so strange, this blend of neoliberal privatization and traditional Catholicism. I suppose it’s one of the ways I know the city, this city that’s gone through democratic struggle after struggle flattened by history, stratified and labeled after the fact. Just like the pieces of scrap metal melded into the street.
Just like the pieces of scrap metal, we are invisible unless you look closely and you see that we glimmer under the sun.
