Whenever I encountered lightning rallies two years ago, my eyes often darted away from the scene, and my feet walked a bit faster. Seeing the placards from Palma Hall steps triggered a feeling of uneasiness that swept over me.
The seemingly unexplainable unease never went away, even as I joined the Collegian during my sophomore year. Covering mobilizations still felt unnerving as I feared that something bad would happen. I couldn’t imagine myself standing with the activists and shouting the same chants. And if I did, I never would’ve thought it would happen over 500 kilometers away from UP Diliman, in heavily militarized Tacloban.
I could reasonably walk along UP Diliman without worrying about intelligence officers watching my every move, but I couldn’t do the same in Tacloban. Paranoia set in everywhere I went, and for good reason–when we, delegates of the 57th convention of the General Assembly of Student Councils, visited some communities, some of us were harassed or even forced to stop our activities.
On August 17, two days after the intimidation in communities, we staged the lightning rally in downtown Tacloban.
The chants started, and we began to descend into the plaza, at the side of the road so that vehicles could still pass through. We held signs condemning the militarization of our campuses and calling for the release of the Tacloban 5, political prisoners who have been held in Tacloban for over four years over fabricated charges of firearm possession.
It was barely minutes later when police started swarming in. The chants were slowly drowned out first by honks, then by megaphones, then by sirens. The cops accused one of the delegates of violating Article 146 of the Revised Penal Code, falsely insinuating that we were armed or inciting rebellion.
When I heard the call to lock arms and run, my legs seemed to move before I could think of anything else. “Wag bibitaw!” I heard someone shout, which I assumed was so that the police who were now running after us couldn’t pluck one of us off. My heart was beating in overdrive, while my thoughts started to shut down.
We were suddenly stopped near Justice Romualdez Street. The police locked us in. They would not let us leave until they obtained a list of our names. We could barely breathe with some 77 of us cramped into a very tight space, surrounded by officers who red-tagged us and threatened to arrest anyone who would leave their blockade.
Some fainted from exhaustion, or fear, or both. A delegate was pushed to the ground and handcuffed. Fear turned into full-blown panic. It was a long two hours, not knowing whether we could get back to campus or would have to extend our stay for days.
The incident demonstrated to me the state’s intimidation playbook. It has manifested in different ways across our campuses: from “peace and security” seminars in UP Baguio to allowing military personnel into UP Diliman grounds for “research cooperation.”
That same playbook contributes to the atmosphere of fear that forms part of the reason for the waning student participation across the system. It connects to the unease I felt around mobilizations as a first-year, too: Both result from a prevailing culture of fear and disillusionment fueled partly by state propaganda and militarization.
During those two hours, I could not walk away or turn my head when I was already in the situation that I feared the most. And so I did the only thing I could do and looked around.
The picture was not one to be fearful of. I saw total strangers now caring for each other, comforting one another, and asking each other if they were okay. I saw people who stepped up and took care of those who needed water, air, or just someone to talk to. Some were laughing, talking about their bets in Drag Race Philippines, cracking jokes. My fear collapsed after witnessing the solidarity around me.
Through overwhelming pressure from supporters, lawyers, and other officials, we were eventually freed. But everyone acknowledged the fear still hanging over them during the debriefing. At the same time, sharing our thoughts and experiences also revealed why we had to push through despite that fear–our collective’s show of force empowered not just those like me who joined a mobilization for the first time, but the community that state attacks had silenced.
That moment affirmed one fact: One signed agreement, one “peace and order” session, or one intimidation from the police alone will not kill activism in UP if its students rely on and reinforce their collective strength.
It is now a challenge for us delegates corralled in Tacloban, and other students across the system, to stir our fellow students to action in the face of state attacks. The events in Tacloban should remind us of the answer to fear and intimidation: hope, emerging from the strength of the collective studentry. ●
