The dramatic moment of the Marcos presidency came just past 9 a.m. on February 24, 1986, after he finished addressing the nation over the government television station, MBS-4, announcing the imposition of a state of emergency.
Unaware that the cameras were still rolling, President Marcos and General Fabian Ver argued over the use of force against the rebels. The Philippines Daily Express recounted the exchange with this transcription in its March 2, 1986, issue:
Ver: We have to immobilize the helicopters they’ve got. We have two fighter planes flying now to strike at any time, sir.
Marcos: My order is not to attack.
Ver: They are massing civilians near our troops and we cannot keep on withdrawing. You asked me to withdraw yesterday…
Marcos: My order is to disperse (the civilians) without shooting them.
Ver: We cannot withdraw all the time…
Marcos: No, no, no! You disperse the crowd without shooting them. You may use any other weapon.
This was President Marcos at his finest, in his hour of greatest peril. That his survival in power was now at stake became clear when, at noon, the mutineers’ helicopter gunships bombarded Malacañang Palace with rockets. Marcos exposed US material involvement in this attack, in Trilogy:
There were actually more than three rockets (which according to our Air Force officer who inspected the fragments were not found in the inventory of the Philippine Armed Forces) fired against us. This was confirmed by Col. Antonio Sotelo when he said in conversation with Bryan Johnson [author of The Four Days of Courage], “we sent one helicopter, one pass and he fired six rockets…
I want them gassed up now! And I want fuel for my choppers, too, was the demand of Col. Antonio Sotelo to the Clark Air Base authorities… Bryan Johnson further wrote that Clark’s US officer responded to this demand in the time-honored manner: they dumped the whole thing in Washington’s lap… Finally, just before 4 a.m., the Pentagon’s bureaucrats handed down the decisive ruling: Yes… All along Juan Ponce Enrile and Cardinal Sin were on the phone both to the base and Ambassador Bosworth.
Still, disdaining violence, Marcos refused to authorize, much more order, the slaughter of his enemies.
More than the threatened cut-off of American aid, he feared a civil war between his followers and foes. Neither side would prevail without grievous losses in a civil war. But the communists, with their guerrillas and armed partisans better prepared to strike, would most likely grab power. He cannot accept a communist takeover as a consequence of defending his tenure. The people have already given him their votes; he cannot ask for the blood of those who did not.
He knew that it would be within the law to suppress the rebellion with force. But higher than the decrees of men, higher than law, is sacred life.
He knew the consequence of not using force against the rebels: his loss of power, and perhaps his own life. In contemplation, the decision not to use firepower would be a prelude to a strategic retreat. He could depart Malacañang, temporarily. While the upheaval subsided, he would rebuild and consolidate his forces in his northern strongholds, for a counter-attack to retake Malacañang.
The basis of that counteroffensive would be his duty to uphold the results of the snap elections, the mandate of the people and the defense of the will of the majority. But even such a legitimate cause cannot justify civil war. In the first place, elections are supposed to be a more civil substitute for war. That the losing side refuses to honor the results of an election, should be a matter for law, not guns, to resolve.
The strategic retreat he would make should be in preparation for court battles, not armed conflict.
Ergo, he would have to forswear a massive armed comeback, for that would only be today’s slaughter postponed for tomorrow, and there would still be civil war. If he now declines to fire the cannons, he would have to silence them for the rest of his life. Once he leaves Malacañang, the only way he could reclaim it would be through the force of law, not guns.
History required Marcos to summon greater courage—to resist recourse to violence. As a soldier during the Second World War, his exploits in combat earned him medals so plenty they aroused envious spirits. Valor in war, however, seemed to pale in comparison to the courage the national interest now demanded of him.
Yet, the situation seemed all so logical to the rational thinker that Marcos was: if in war he had risked his life for his country, it would make no sense this time to risk his country for his life. Patriotism is not a transient act, but a commitment for a lifetime. He steeled himself: when history makes a ponderous turn, it seldom does so neatly.
In that moment, Ferdinand E. Marcos was no longer just Malakas (strong); he also became Maganda (beautiful). He became a mother, protective of her children, including those who were foolishly misbehaving.
Marcos felt that if he was to yield power, it should be done honorably. If his enemies deny him a graceful exit, they should, following the code of chivalry among warriors, allow him at least an honorable one. By the ancient code, the victors should be magnanimous. Cory Aquino had dangled the lure of magnanimity. After taking her ambiguous oath of office later that day, Cory Aquino would affirm: “I would like to repeat that I am very magnanimous in victory.”
But he knew she had been fickle, and could be again—how many times did she assure Doy Laurel that she was not going to run for president even if nominated? Furthermore, was she in control of the forces seeking his ouster, or would it be better to discuss the terms of his exit with the mutiny’s leader, Minister Enrile?
He went for Enrile, whom he knew better, and who, as a fellow lawyer, could more competently discuss the legal implications of his proposals than Cory can. There were several possibilities. Marcos could nullify the results of the snap elections, call for new elections in which he would not be a candidate, and complete his current term, up to noon of June 30, 1987, when he shall turn over the government to the new president-elect.
Or he could share power in a coalition government. Or he could accept powerless but honorific roles—as figurehead or adviser—in a transition government where the actual power would be in Enrile’s hands. Any of these would be legal, and would avert a constitutional crisis by doing away with the need for a revolutionary government.
But by early morning of February 25, it was too late to bargain. Enrile had already publicly committed himself to accept election loser Cory Aquino as president who was scheduled to take her oath of office that morning.
Denied any role in a coalition or transition government, Marcos had no choice but to proceed with his own oath taking, although he knew that it would not keep him in power. The oath he took had become familiar, for it was his fourth time to recite it. Yet it was the most meaningful, if most somber, of his oath takings.
The situation added a tragic dimension as he intoned the closing portion of the prescribed oath: …and consecrate myself to the service of the nation.
In the context of history, that consecration meant sacrificing himself, for a divided nation, that it may be one again.
To reach the writer, e-mail cecilio.arillo@gmail.com.