I was water-bombed at the SONA
MANILA, Philippines - Every fourth Monday of July, my day starts the same way. Our home is a small but cozy townhouse that rests only a few yards away from Commonwealth Avenue, and every fourth Monday of July, it becomes quieter than any given Sunday morning. It’s the day of the SONA, and the barricades have been set up the night before. The busy cars, trucks and buses are kept at the other side of the road, and the engine roars and honking horns can no longer be heard from my room. It’s nothing new, really. As I’ve said, it happens year in and year out.
For the past four years, I’ve joined the protests outside. In the first year, tensions weren’t at the height they were now. The infancy of P-Noy’s administration saw to that. But we rallied to show that there were actual people who were ready to take it to the streets and yell ourselves hoarse, for a more nationalistic, pro-poor and democratic government. Simply put, we were only exercising our right to free expression, our right to organize, and our right to symbolic action.
Rallying is grounded in both theory and practice; a means to show public discontent. In practice, it’s usually non-violent, not as effective as a bribe or a kidnapping to get what one wants. But yes, it’s the best way for the poor and the powerless majority (read: the ones who can’t pay for a lawyer, or for media attention, or for a Facebook rant, or for their next lunch) to show their grievances. Protesters harness their talents to express themselves. Some sing, some dance, some recite poetry, some give speeches; altogether these actions reflect the problem through different media, resulting in new ways and perspectives to show support for the cause. It is peaceful because its symbolism of dissent and unrest runs deeper than physical violence. Rallying is an absolutely democratic practice that puts the government in its place as “one for and by the people.” Or at least it should be, if the government has an informed conscience.
People have often shooed us away as a bunch of “negas,” “jejes,” or Uruk-Hais who are about to break into Helm’s Deep, and they opt to ignore the legitimacy of our concerns. A lot of times, we’ve been said to be lazy or “paid” so as to discount our credibility. I take these criticisms with an awkward smile. For those who label us as negas, I’d like to think that we rallyists do our homework, reading up on human rights violations, crimes against the Constitution, and the corruption that riddles our government. The people who brand us false need only open their eyes wider, be a bit braver, take the fight out of Facebook, and join a greater and livelier group of persons outside their social class. (Quite a challenge!) As for those who say that we were paid, I can only show them the air that occupies my wallet.
NO BRIBES
Kidding aside, while I haven’t witnessed any instance of bribery — but at the same time can’t really prove its non-existence — the fact that people can be bribed with a sack of rice, as Vice Ganda says, sums up the whole point. These are precisely the social ills a rally aims to make known. It shows that the price of rice has become too high for the poor to afford, and that they’ve become so desperate, they’d join a demonstration for a sorry sack of rice. It’s sad that people think money and material goods, not principle or any undeserved suffering, make people do what they do. You can say that, perhaps, about the lucky few who got millions out of DAP bribes, but not about the tens of thousands in demonstrations nationwide.
This year, I came to the rally expecting nothing out of the ordinary. I wore a maroon shirt, maong pants, and a kuffiyah around my head for the sun; brought P70 and an ID in my pocket — no weapons or protection for any disturbance that may or may not come along. I didn’t know that this year’s rally would be a little different.
The news reports said that there were 10,000 cops and 4,000 military men deployed for the occasion. They set up two layers of shipping containers; two more layers of sharp barbed wire hung on steel fences, and two layers of concrete barriers were there to counter us. It clearly indicated fear on the government’s part: they knew we were coming by the thousands. Perhaps, they knew they’d done something wrong.
After painting the road with water-soluble paint and cleaning up after ourselves, I soon saw myself lining up, arm-in-arm with my fellow rallyists. The stage for the rally was placed around 50 meters away from the barricades and there was a short expanse of road between us and the police. The truck where the stage was placed moved, and our throng marched closer to the barricade. As we approached, my legs shook and my feet wanted to make an about-face because, to be honest, I was scared of a clash. I was scared of getting hurt. The police were hitting their shields in unison to intimidate us. And with their loudspeakers, they were playing novelty music by Willie Revillame to drown our noise out. If we survived their frontliners, there’d be more of them behind the wall. And Batasan remained a good four kilometers away.
But not a single one of us threw a stone. Though we were thousands and we came bearing different grudges, we acted as one. Though we were overcome with passion, we remained in control of ourselves. If we put the concrete barriers down, it was not because we wanted to. We moved as one and we were too many; we simply couldn’t fit into that small space.
Then, the water cannons came.
Water, stronger than any river currents I ever swam in, went straight for my left ear. My hearing felt as if I were in an air-tight room with everyone’s voices muffled. Some people were pushed back, toppling over like pins down a bowling alley, and I couldn’t immediately comprehend what was going on. Some used their placards as shields, making me think that the red water sliding to the concrete was paint that ran from our placards. I would later confirm that the police’s hoses spewed red liquid. At that time, however, all I could understand were people saying “Buti nagdala ako ng shampoo!” and the orders from our frontliners to move back. We complied because it made sense. We complied because we were not Uruk-Hais, and our enemy was not the police — the police who likewise suffered poor wages, an oppressive chain of command, and negligible benefits.
Our clothes were drenched, our hair formed spikes, our skin was cold, but our spirits weren’t dampened one bit. We shook hands and pulled each other up, even if we didn’t know the other’s name. We thanked one another. Then we continued to chant our demands, and eventually, we cried in unison as we dispersed — “Babalik kami nang mas marami!” I would remember those words. We were the people, not a mob, and ours was a fire that could not be watered down.
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