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Chapter 43 - Chapter 43 – A Nation in Fear

The Sound of Silence

The year was 1975, and Manila slept with one eye open.

On every street corner, soldiers stood beneath flickering lamps, their rifles glinting under the humid night. Curfews fell like invisible walls. People walked quietly, voices clipped, eyes lowered. It was said that even the wind carried spies now.

Rafael dela Cruz had grown used to the stillness. It was the kind that did not soothe — it smothered.

Each evening, he locked his door, checked the window shutters, and listened. In the distance, he could always hear it — the sound of engines moving in the dark, a truck stopping, boots on gravel, then silence.

Somewhere, someone was being taken again.

At dawn, he would see the same trucks pass by, lighter now — the burden left behind in some nameless cell. Neighbors whispered but never loudly. The walls, they said, had ears.

One morning, an old woman from the next house knocked on Rafael's door. Her hands trembled as she held out a folded paper.

"Kapitan," she said softly, "they took my son last night. He's only a student — not even part of anything. Please, you know people… help me."

Rafael looked at the crumpled letter — a notice of "protective custody." He had seen many like it. The words were clean, polite even, but behind them was the same cruelty dressed in legality.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I will try, Aling Cora. But I can't promise anything."

She nodded weakly. "Then pray for him, sir. They say prayers are the only things that can pass through walls."

II. The City That Forgot to Breathe

Days bled into weeks. The newspapers told only good news — "Discipline Achieved!" "Crime Rate Down!" "The New Society Marches Forward!"

Yet beneath the headlines, fear gnawed at the city's soul.

Cafés where students once debated politics now played soft love songs to drown suspicion. University corridors that had echoed with chants now carried only the scrape of shoes and the hum of fluorescent lights.

One afternoon, Rafael met Father Miguel's replacement, a younger priest named Father Lucas, who invited him to a gathering disguised as a "prayer meeting." Inside the church's crypt, candles flickered over a small circle of laypeople — teachers, market vendors, tricycle drivers — all with stories to tell.

A man spoke first, his voice steady but hollow. "They came for my brother at midnight. He was accused of spreading rumors. They found pamphlets in his room. He was a janitor, Father. He couldn't even read."

A woman followed. "My daughter disappeared after a rally in '73. Every week I go to the camp gate, every week they tell me the same — no record."

Father Lucas placed his hand over the Bible. "There are names we cannot print, and tears we cannot show. But the Lord sees both. Fear cannot be our master."

Rafael closed his eyes, listening. Fear — yes, it had become the country's new anthem. It hummed in every whisper, every cautious glance, every breath taken too slowly. Yet here, in this small room of trembling candles, it met its quiet resistance — the courage to speak.

III. The Ghosts of Detainees

Rafael walked one morning to a field beyond Fort Bonifacio, where wild grass grew over the ruins of old barracks. It was said that the unmarked graves of "traitors" lay somewhere beneath, men and women who vanished without trial.

He lit a cigarette, though he barely smoked anymore. The smoke curled into the wind like faint prayers.

He whispered, "I could have been one of you."

He remembered the boy from years ago — Lino — the idealist with ink-stained fingers. No word had ever come after that last letter. Only silence.

Rafael began to write again, his hand trembling slightly.

They silence the living, but the dead are louder now.

Each grave hums like a warning, each absence a wound that refuses to heal.

A sudden noise broke his thoughts — a car approaching. Two men stepped out in plain clothes, polite smiles masking authority.

"Mr. dela Cruz?"

"Yes," Rafael said calmly.

"You are requested to appear at Camp Crame for questioning."

"Requested," he repeated dryly. "Does one refuse a request these days?"

The younger agent smiled. "It would be unwise."

Rafael nodded. "Then let's not keep wisdom waiting."

IV. The Interrogation

The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeped through bone. A single bulb hung from the ceiling. Across the table sat Colonel Ramirez, a man whose uniform gleamed more than his eyes.

"You've been attending unsanctioned gatherings," Ramirez began. "You've been seen with known subversives. Do you deny it?"

"I attend masses," Rafael replied evenly. "Since when has prayer been subversion?"

The colonel smirked. "When prayers come with pamphlets."

He slid a folder across the table — photos, letters, names. Among them, Rafael saw a familiar face: Father Lucas.

"You protect these people," Ramirez said. "Why?"

Rafael leaned back. "Because they are Filipinos. Because I fought for this country once, and I remember what it meant."

Ramirez's voice hardened. "You're too sentimental. The President is saving this nation from itself. Discipline must come before democracy."

Rafael met his gaze. "Discipline without conscience is only fear in uniform."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Ramirez stood. "You're old, dela Cruz. We don't need martyrs, only examples. You'll stay tonight for observation."

Rafael smiled faintly. "Then I'll pray you observe carefully."

They kept him three days. No beating, no chains — just silence, isolation, and the cold hum of fluorescent light.

On the fourth day, they released him without explanation. As he stepped outside, the sun felt like forgiveness — brief, blinding, undeserved.

V. The Return Home

His small apartment looked untouched, yet he could tell they had been there — the books slightly out of place, a drawer left ajar, his journal moved a few inches on the table.

He sat and opened it. The last page was blank. He began to write again, the pen scratching softly.

Fear has become our currency. We spend it daily — in silence, in compliance, in survival. Yet even fear, when stretched too thin, begins to tear. Perhaps that is how freedom returns — through the cracks.

That night, he heard singing outside. A faint melody — students, maybe two or three, walking past curfew, humming an old protest song under their breath. It was reckless, foolish… and beautiful.

He smiled, whispering to the darkness, "You can't jail a song."

VI. The Visit

A week later, Aling Cora came again. This time she brought no letter, only a small photograph. Her son, gaunt but smiling weakly, had been released.

"They sent him home, sir," she said. "He won't speak about what happened. He just sits in the corner, staring. But he's alive."

Rafael nodded. "Alive is enough for now."

She placed the photo on his table. "He said someone inside told him you had spoken for him. Thank you."

Rafael frowned. "I didn't. Perhaps someone else—"

But Aling Cora only smiled. "Then maybe God still moves in strange ways."

After she left, Rafael looked at the photograph again. Behind the young man's smile, he saw the same haunted eyes that now filled the nation — eyes that had seen too much, spoken too little.

He wrote beneath the photo in his journal: Survival is not victory, but it is the soil where courage may grow again.

VII. Echoes in the Radio

Months later, a crackling voice reached the city through the shortwave radios that people hid beneath their beds.

"This is Voice of the Underground," it said. "To those who listen in silence — you are not alone. To those who fear — courage is contagious."

The broadcast lasted less than five minutes before it was jammed. But that was enough. The next night, another broadcast came from Cebu. Then from Davao.

The nation was learning to speak again — in fragments, in frequencies, in whispers disguised as static.

Rafael smiled as he listened. Somewhere, someone was still fighting not with guns, but with words — the same weapon he had once chosen.

VIII. The Nation That Waited

By 1978, the economy was failing. Prices rose, jobs vanished, and the grand promises of the "New Society" began to crack.

Still, the posters remained — "Progress, Peace, Discipline." The President smiled from every corner, his wife beside him, radiant in pearls. The people smiled back, but their smiles no longer reached their eyes.

Rafael traveled once more to Pampanga. The fields were the same as ever — green on the surface, hungry beneath. The farmers bowed politely when they saw him, but none dared speak of politics. Even the land seemed afraid to raise its voice.

At a small roadside eatery, he overheard two men whispering.

"They say the Americans are beginning to turn away," one said.

The other shrugged. "They always come and go. But us? We're the ones who stay, the ones who endure."

Rafael turned toward them. "And maybe," he said softly, "the ones who remember."

They looked at him curiously, unsure if he was friend or spy. He paid for his meal and walked out before they could ask.

The horizon glowed orange with sunset. The light touched the sugarcane fields like fire. Somewhere beyond, thunder rumbled.

IX. The peek at next chp

Back in Manila, Rafael stood by his window as rain began to fall — slow, heavy drops that darkened the street below.

The city's lights flickered. The air carried the smell of earth, dust, and something electric — the scent of change not yet born but waiting.

He closed his journal, whispering, "A nation in fear cannot last forever. Even the most obedient silence will one day learn to shout."

Outside, a child ran through the rain, laughing. Soldiers watched but did not stop him. For a brief moment, the city breathed again.

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