Every revolution has a generation to thank for, and another to blame. For those of us young enough to remember Edsa not as a nuanced political exercise but as a fairy tale, it was clear that our parents had accomplished something incredible. Of course, we could not have understood much of what had happened. As far as we know, there were tanks and soldiers and nuns and rosaries, and talks of democracy restored and dictators deposed.
I myself have no memories of those four fateful days in February, but I do remember the days afterwards. I remember because of the joy I felt but did not understand. I suppose I have a better sense of it now, 37 years later. And while I still cannot quite adequately grasp the details in my mind, I do recognize the feeling now: It was that of self-respect.
It was a familiar feeling throughout my childhood, and I marvel at that, for I was part of what may be called the Filipino middle class—the one before the great diaspora, the ones who were neither privileged nor disenfranchised. I marvel at the thought only because I now know what a rare commodity self-respect has become in our society, and even more astonishing to think that within the bounds of that austere upbringing, I had found it and kept it.
Even as my family began our new life abroad, and questions on identity rose in response to my new surroundings, I took that sense of self-respect and wove it around my own identity as a Filipino in a foreign land. I remember the first few days in school, when the local kids were testing me, I had stood my ground because I simply thought that was what a Filipino should do. It seemed then that the simplest reasoning made the most sense.
I took that sense of self-respect and wove it around my own identity as a Filipino in a foreign land
But there is nothing simple about Edsa now—not its memory, not its spirit. As the years passed, and those of my generation left our childhood behind, we began to strip away the romance and adventure of those days and replace it with the sober realization that the revolution was, in fact, a restoration and that People Power was, perhaps, a paradox. And as our own frustrations kicked in—about politics, about the systemic dysfunction of Philippine society—it was only a matter of time before we looked at the generation before us, the ones that looked the dictator in the eye and stood their ground, and know they had squandered the opportunity of their lifetime.
Of course, it is easy enough to say; it always is in hindsight. But to view People Power now as a failed political project is to look at the events that happened at EDSA through a looking glass. The truth is that no one could have predicted the events that happened—not the rebel soldiers who had retreated from an aborted coup, not the tired old political opposition who had dragged a step behind, not Marcos or even Cory, and certainly not our parents.
What that generation knew, and what they discovered, was that there were limits to what a Filipino could take; that avarice and impunity could only be tolerated for so long; and that self-respect could be found in the most unlikely of places, and in the most uncertain of times. To point out what they could not have known, or to hold them to account for whatever missed opportunities came afterwards, is as unreasonable as to expect future generations to hold the memory of EDSA with the same zeal and reverence as those who had made it happen.
EDSA will be forgotten, somehow, someday. But while it is still remembered and celebrated, let us remember it for what it was, not what it should have been. And for those of us who can still recall with childlike wonder the afterglow of those days, isn’t it enough that EDSA provided us the gift of self-worth? For that alone, it certainly seems revolutionary.
