The Conjugal Dictatorship of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos
Chapter I A Summer Night in Washington, D.C. The capital of the United States of America had always incited in me the inner feelings of love of country, a feeling which I seem to overlook while I am actually in my own terra firma on Philippine soil; it is as if one is given a sudden urge of imbibing, and seeking to belong to a vital footnote to, history. Except for this latest trip of mine which I was pondering this sultry summer night on June 16, 1975, every time I visited Washington, D.C. which, to me, stands out not only as the capital of the United States but also of the democratic western world as well as the*J.S. allies in Asia, I always felt that I was invested with a sense of mission for my country, even though my trips to this capital of the world had always been undertaken by me in my capacity as a simple newspaperman. So it was the way I felt in June, 1958, when, as a young reporter for the now defunct Manila Chronicle, I first set foot on Washington, D.C. My first trip to Washington, D.C. was in connection with my coverage of the state visit of then President Carlos P. Garcia. The thought alone of going to Washington, D.C., that square mass of land carved out of the territories of the states of Maryland and Virginia, becomes awe-inspiring; being in D.C. itself gives one a sense of history. As two great journalist-observers of Washington, D.C. put it, “the numerous national monuments that give Washington, its physical and spiritual identity are as revered by the home folks as they are by the thousands of tourists who come streaming in every year at cherry-blossom time.” Indeed, a great many people attempt to make it to Washington, D.C. not only because they seek to honor America’s great national heritage, but also because they want to be part of it, in however small a way. But on this summer night of June 16, 1975,1 felt that somehow I just might be a part of the history of the United States and of my country, the Philippines, or perhaps as an insignificant footnote, but certainly a part of the historical record of one of the chambers of the bicameral Congress of the United States of America. In the midst of such heady thought, I was, however, sobered up by a warning given earlier by former Senator Raul S. Manglapus, president of the “Movement for a Free Philippines,” that I should not expect too much — presumably by way of publicity — out of this visit to Washington, D.C. I should rather think of my mission in Washington, D.C., Manglapus suggested, as a bold strike for a great national struggle being waged by Filipinos back home in the Philippines. I told Manglapus that I was going to Washington, D.C. in response to an invitation of a committee of the United States Congress. I will not be seeking headlines. I am not going to perform any heroics. I told myself that I almost did not make this trip to the U.S. capital, were it not for the foresight and valued assessment of a greying Bataan warrior who, while his colleagues are enjoying the blissful luxury of retirement and quiet life, has taken on a second struggle for the freedom of his country. It was Col. Narciso L. Manzano (USA Retired), a Bataan war hero whose exploits are documented by Gen. Carlos P. Romulo in his book, “I Saw the Fall of the Primitivo Mijares
Page 10
