EDSA Dos Story 4: From Isarog to EDSA Shrine

          Leaning on the left side window of Naga-bound bus as it made its ascent on the Ortigas fly-over, I saw Edsa Shrine. It was a Monday evening of January 22nd of 2001.

            Five days ago, people swarmed this momentous place. Sparked by the infamous decision of the impeachment court, the throng swelled to multitudes of Filipinos disowning a President, the 11 senators, and those who believed in the impeachment process. The Shrine was the most metaphorical place for that collective anguish and dismay, being the birthplace and living witness to the peaceful People Power revolution not so long ago. As if Mother Mary, both hands open sideways, were calling Her flock to assembly and take Her refuge in times of grief to the death of the national search for truth and justice. Like a true Mother whose patience and understanding preceded any rationale of the situation finally said, “enough is enough, come to Me and We will do it again.”

            “Viva La Virgen! Viva!” Our Ina, the Lady of Peñafrancia, was with us all the way and all the time from Bicol to Edsa. With Ina, history would be good, history would be kind to us.

            A roaring cloud of enlightened heads massed at the intersection of Ortigas and Edsa blackening the whole area, waiting to burst like a storm sending signs of its impending strength and power. The clamor was clear, the portent was an ominous end of the sitting duck, the cry was resounding, and the direction certainly was Malacañang.

            Edsa was just the meeting point, the Gethsemane where people prayed to gather internal and external forces to sustain the fated culmination. The Shrine was the rock, all absorbing the people’ sentiments, disappointments, and the bid to the will of the Lord. And those who went to Edsa Shrine, physically or spiritually, were called to act to save the nation.

            The new President was being sworn in by the Chief Justice. Our new President is a daughter of a former President. Somewhere across the Pacific, another President was being sworn in. he was the son of a former President. All at the same day.

            Fourteen years ago, I was just 11 years old. We had no TV then but the people and radio kept us abreast of what was happening then at Edsa. They wanted to oust Marcos from office while all I wanted was to oust the can out from the circle. I was playing a kid's game- tumba-lata in Bikol or tumbang preso in Tagalog. When finally I hit it with my slipper, it tumbled down many times too far from the circle and my playmates who waited for me expectedly all went frenzy over that incident. They could finally run back to the base. (Hawaii, I suppose, is far enough) I could say, I made that happen. The joy of causing others to be free was felt at my young age.

            Two days ago (Jan. 20), I was part of the Bicol caravan that left Naga City at around 6 A.M. to join our fellow Filipinos at Edsa. We ventured into an eight-hour trip to be part of national struggle against corruption, nepotism, and cronyism. It was exactly the same time and day our Bicolano Senator Raul S. Roco had set for the march to Mendiola. If 14 years ago I was denied to hit that great point in our history to target, this time I would make sure that I would be there, or so I thought.

            Sad enough, I was almost there at Edsa when the furor was still hovering, when the thumb-down sign would still matter, when my scream would reverberate with the thousand voices of one call, probably also at the Jerichoan march to Mendiola when the people decided to besiege the standing block to the road to reformation and renewal, but I together with the contingent from Bicol arrived when Erap had already resigned and Gloria had already been sworn in for the Precidency. Nonetheless we caught up the thanksgiving mass being celebrated by Cardinal Sin.

            We were not late. No time was prescribed for us to be there. Who would have thought that Erap would give up so soon? He must have heard about our coming. He could have been scared, frantic, panicky and drunk. Understandably, who would not? Not unless Jose Velarde surfaced at Edsa.

            Many battles were won not necessarily due to the actual number of victors but to the cognizance of the fallen leader that legions of resolved people were coming to get him. That was our consolation to our journey from Isarog to Edsa Shrine.

            Seemingly unmindful of the historic event two days ago, the rush of shoppers and buses along Edsa affront the Galleria indicated that things were back to normal. I tilted back to my seat, my seatmate asked me in Bikol language – saen ka sa Bicol? (Where do I stay in Bicol). As my senses suddenly dawned on me, I became aware for the first time that I was going to Bicol, Camarines Sur, Milaor – home, as the bus made its descent on the Ortigas fly-over.