Subversive Lives. Susan F. Quimpo
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My involvement with my co-teachers and students didn’t last for more than two semesters. The students I helped politicize (or who politicized me) soon moved on to various activist factions. At the end of the summer term 1971, our teachers’ group broke up after the school terminated the teaching contracts of two of our members. We were shocked by the dismissals. There was some furor when a member of the school’s Rank and Tenure Committee stated that the case of one of the teachers was tainted by anti-subversion politics. The protests faltered, however, soon after the new school year began. I had a feeling the members of MAGAT were dispirited and unable to pursue the nationalist agenda with the same enthusiasm as before. I thought too that the student interest in campus issues would soon peak. The students could only do so much boycotting of classes. They could then either force the school to close or to expel them. I went about my teaching duties and perceived no sign from school authorities that my own teaching contract was at risk. But I began to wonder if my energies could be better directed to concerns outside the campus.
MY REFORMIST HOPES had died with the 1969 presidential election when Marcos ran for a second term and won. That election saw the usual large-scale intimidation, vote buying, and ballot manipulation that have characterized all Philippine elections after 1945. The difference was that it happened at a crucial stage in my life—when I was at my first job and had high hopes of raising a family in a better economic and political environment. My wife, Bernie, and I had invested a lot of emotion in that election, rooting for the opposition Liberal Party (LP). We were convinced that the LP candidate, Sergio Osmeña Jr., had been cheated of victory.
Norman joined the Ateneo faculty as assistant instructor in mathematics (1967). (Photo by Freddie Ileto)
On hindsight, I think that my feelings resonated with those of large sectors of the population. They were just as disgusted as I was with the economy, the election, and another four-year term for Marcos. The disaffected included a significant number of the youth—high school, college students, and young professionals. They felt the economic pinch. They heard their parents and elders blame the Marcos administration for all the ills of the country. They deemed that changing the government through elections was a hopeless endeavor. They believed, as I did, that a system that allowed such a corrupt regime to enjoy a second term was seriously flawed and needed a radical overhaul.
The FQS brought into the open new and exciting ideas about effecting a fundamental change in the system—ideas about revolution. Teachers and students all over the city read Renato Constantino, Hernando Abaya, and other nationalist writers. These authors wrote Philippine history from a viewpoint different from that espoused in standard textbooks that simply presented a chronological account of events in language that would have gratified any colonial censor. These nationalist writers talked about the invasion by foreign exploiters, a people’s subjugation and slavery, and the Filipinos’ attempts to throw off the foreign yoke, only to be repeatedly frustrated by force with the help of local collaborators.
These writers awakened in me a dormant patriotism. After all, our grade school teachers had raised us on anecdotes about Rizal, Mabini, Luna, and other heroes of the 1896 revolution. The new nationalist literature also reawakened in me a compassion I’ve always had for the common folk. Such feelings went back to my grade school days in Iloilo City, where half of my playmates were the children of rice mill workers. I came to understand that the lot of the common man had been hard in colonial times and remained so in the post-World War II period.
But while many young people, particularly students, were ready to pull out all the stops in their activism, like dropping out of school to become full-time organizers, my personality, background, and head-of-family status held me back. I was a cautious and nervous person. I was used to routine and did not easily adapt to new situations. I was excited by the prospect of change but also fearful that the status quo in Philippine society that I associated with my happy childhood would be upset.
I had been raised a “practicing Catholic.” My mother and her family were devout Catholics; my father’s family was devoutly Protestant, but he converted to Catholicism before marriage. I was steeped in a traditional Catholicism where on Good Friday one expected the whole town to join the procession for the dead Christ.
My Catholic upbringing was strengthened further by 10 years of schooling at Ateneo de Manila, a Jesuit school. Not only did the liberal brand of Catholicism the American Jesuits espoused resonate with me, I also came to appreciate the genuine concern the Jesuits I met showed for me.
The Jesuits built up virtues that my parents had started to instill in their children: a Christian commitment to truth, justice, and duty (that my Dad showed in pointing out the misdeeds of government officials), a passion for excellence (that Dad not only spoke about but also demonstrated in the manner he handled the jobs he accepted), and a concern for the less fortunate (that my Mom showed in helping relatives even poorer than we, indigent acquaintances who needed medical assistance, maids who were treated like family).
I WAS NOW on the lookout for an activist group that was radical but mindful of Christian principles. I examined the position papers, platforms, and manifestos of various activist groups and was quickly dissatisfied with the statements of those who called themselves Social Democrats or SocDems. To me, their formulations sounded imprecise, showed a poor knowledge of Philippine history and a lack of awareness of international politics. Their platform appeared to be the work of an elite few who did not touch base with the populace. I looked elsewhere for answers.
A couple of students from my discussion group in school joined the Malayang Pagkakaisa ng Kabataang Pilipino (MPKP) or Free Union of Filipino Youth, an affiliate of Jesus Lava’s Partido Komunista ng Pilipinas that led the Communist Hukbalahap guerrillas of the 1940s and 1950s. In the rallies that started at the Welcome Rotunda in Quezon City, I remember seeing workers and farmers, rather than students, gathering under MPKP banners near Blumentritt Street. What caught my eye, and that of most people watching on the sidelines, were the more numerous streamers following the red banners of Kabataang Makabayan (KM) and Samahang Demokratiko ng Kabataan (SDK). These groups called themselves National Democrats or NatDems and were believed to be red-infiltrated. They stood out because of their numbers, their radical slogans, and their eagerness to confront the riot police.
KM and SDK branches appeared soon enough in Ateneo’s college and high school, but they were student organizations and I felt awkward about getting involved with them. I tried getting involved with NatDems at my level from outside Ateneo, but my encounters were disconcerting.
Before it dissolved, MAGAT organized a meeting in the one restaurant that then fronted Ateneo, to help teachers from St. Theresa’s College, a Catholic girls’ school, who were being fired. Some UP NatDems led by a young UP teacher asked to be allowed to attend the meeting as observers. By using aggressive language, these radicals managed to take over the meeting. The instructor even delivered a rousing speech to agitate everyone. Without looking closely into the teachers’ individual cases, the NatDems convinced them to start picketing the next day. The picketing fizzled out in a couple of days, but their firebrand advisers had disappeared by then.
I also had a brief stint with a small NatDem group of scientists and researchers based in UP that called itself the Samahan ng mga Makabansang Siyentipiko (SMS) or Association of Patriotic Scientists. The group coalesced around Roger Posadas, the leading light of the UP Physics Department. Joining