MANILA, Philippines – I was still awake when Cory Aquino died. A friend’s Facebook status popped up. “RIP Cory.”
Oh my God, I said. She’s gone.
It shouldn’t have come as a shock; she had been sick for over a year and had been in the hospital for weeks. But her death still seemed sudden, her goodbye coming too soon.
I tried to think of my Facebook status. I had to say something. Her death was something I couldn’t ignore.
Coldplay’s “Yellow” started playing in my head. But I decided not to post lyrics. Instead, I wrote, “Pam Pastor thinks she’s finally with Ninoy.” It was a beautiful thought, one that offered comfort.
Unlike Michael Jackson’s death, Cory’s passing felt personal. I never met her, she didn’t know who I am, but I felt I had lost someone.
When you think about it, I did. Our lives are linked by history. We believed in the same things, we fought the same battles.
Mourning
When her husband’s body was brought to Sto. Domingo Church, my maternal grandparents were there, just two of the many faces in the crowd, mourning the death of a great man. I was only two then, but my mom and paternal grandmother also took me to Sto. Domingo, so we could pay our last respects to Ninoy.
My maternal grandparents also went to Plaza Moriones for a rally against the dictatorship. Mel Lopez invited my grandfather, an ex-politician slash lawyer, to go there to speak. My grandfather, active in the opposition, would go to wakes of activists and opposition leaders killed by the military.
My uncle, then a student at Ateneo Law School, built a coffin with friends from school. My uncle said the coffin was a symbol of the death of democracy. They built it in my grandparents’ house, unmindful that they were only a few doors away from a precinct.
My uncle, his friends, my grandparents, my great-grandmother, my mom and my aunt brought the coffin to a huge rally at Liwasang Bonifacio. My grandpa once again took the microphone at the rally to speak about Ninoy. What they were doing was dangerous, they knew, but they were fighting for something important.
“It’s different when something hits you emotionally. There, in the middle of the crowd, we forgot about the danger. At that point, we thought, if bombs dropped, then we’d all die together,” said my maternal grandmother.
Out on the streets
In 1986, during the Edsa Revolution, I was only five but I was out on the streets with my mom, my paternal grandmother, my six-year-old cousin, aunt, uncle and three of our helpers. My paternal grandfather was furious—why did they have to expose us children to danger?
But I am thankful they brought us there to be part of history. There, we gave sandwiches to soldiers. I remember being lifted by soldiers to have our photos taken atop one of the tanks, but later, my uncle’s film was accidentally exposed.
I may not have pictures, but I have memories.
We were back in Edsa the year after, for the anniversary of People Power. I was six then, and grandma says I was enthralled by the fireworks.
I was still a child when Cory became president. But she was more than just a name I had to memorize for Social Studies class—and not just because she was a woman.
During the coup attempts against her administration, I remember spending hours in my parents’ dark bedroom, just listening to AM radio to find out what was going on. That memory is embedded deeply in my mind that to this day, I cannot listen to AM radio without thinking of those days.
I was scared—I wasn’t even 10 then—and I found refuge in reading my thick pink Bible. I think Cory would have liked that.
The year 2001 found me on the streets again, in the second Edsa revolution—another peaceful revolution Cory played a key part in. Surrounded by thousands and thousands of people who were fighting for the same thing, I felt an overwhelming love for Filipinos. That was the first time I cried for my country. I was already 20 then.
I was at Edsa practically every day—with my grandma, cousins, writers from this section. When I wasn’t at Edsa, I was home making posters and watching the news.
One of those days, I had to walk from Ayala Avenue to Edsa but I didn’t care. There was also that night we catnapped in a friend’s car. We were exhausted but we didn’t want to go home. We wanted to be there when Erap finally stepped down.
Pillar of faith
Cory was president, a political symbol, a pillar of faith, an icon of democracy. But she was also a mom. And we saw the kind of mom she was every time something big happened in Kris Aquino’s life, or when Noynoy ran for the Senate. Her children are lucky.
The same thought popped in my head as I watched her loved ones give eulogies. They are lucky. Not just her children but her friends as well, her relatives, people who worked with her, people who worked for her. They got to know Cory more, spent time with her, had fun with her, learned from her.
But then I realized, I am lucky, too. Because Cory was part of two of my proudest moments—as a child in the first Edsa Revolution, as an adult in the second.
Because I have her to thank for press freedom, without which I’d be living an entirely different life. Because she showed the world what strong women can do. Because she was always there, always an inspiration, never wavering. Because she made me proud to be Filipino.
Yellow ribbons
Two days after Cory’s death, I sent my grandmother a text message, asking how she felt about it.
She said, “I believe she was the only president not tainted with corruption. It is sad that she suffered so much dealing with her illness and I’m glad she’s above all that now.”
I thought it was beautiful that the whole country is united in love for her.
I feel the same love for Cory, which, sadly, I recognized only after she was gone.
As I write, I can see images of her cortege on TV. The procession isn’t over yet, but it will be soon. I hope her burial wouldn’t be the end of this outpouring of love and unity.
A friend wrote online that he feels as if he’s lost a tita. I cannot call Cory tita, I do not feel like I have the right to. To me, she will always be Cory, the mother of democracy. I’m glad she’s finally with Ninoy again.
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