I
The wind blew warm over Manila in 1961, carrying with it campaign jingles, posters pasted on walls, and promises shouted from plazas. Diosdado Macapagal, son of Lubao, Pampanga, was hailed as "the poor boy from Lubao who rose by his own merit." His victory was framed as a triumph of the common man.
Rafael watched the rallies unfold with both admiration and caution. In Macapagal's speeches he heard echoes of sincerity, yet also the strains of desperation.
"My friends!" Macapagal declared before thousands in Plaza Miranda, his voice quivering with conviction. "I was not born into wealth. I know the sting of hunger, the weight of poverty. I promise you a presidency for the poor, a government that lifts the weakest first!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Housewives waved handkerchiefs, jeepney drivers raised clenched fists, and students shouted, "Mabuhay si Macapagal!"
Rafael whispered to Manuel, who stood beside him in the crowd. "The people want a father, not just a president. The question is — can he be both?"
II
Months later, the presidency began in earnest. Macapagal introduced the "Five-Year Socio-Economic Development Program" and shifted the Independence Day celebration from July 4 to June 12, honoring Aguinaldo's 1898 proclamation. Newspapers praised the symbolism.
Yet, in the rice fields of Central Luzon, symbols did not fill empty stomachs. Farmers grumbled as middlemen still took the lion's share of harvest profits.
In one meeting in Pampanga, Rafael listened as Mang Lucas, a tenant farmer, raised his voice.
"Kung tunay siyang anak ng mahirap," Mang Lucas said, "bakit hindi niya maramdaman ang sakit ng tiyan naming walang makain?" (If he is truly the son of the poor, why can't he feel the hunger in our bellies?)
A younger farmer countered, "At least he is one of us, not like those rich landlords. Give him time."
But Rafael saw the doubt growing. Symbolism was not enough.
III
In Malacañang Palace, Macapagal struggled. The peso weakened against the dollar. The government shifted from fixed to free currency exchange under the advice of economists and American consultants. International investors praised the policy as modern. But in the wet markets of Manila, housewives cursed the rising prices of rice and fish.
Rafael attended a session in Congress as debates grew heated.
One congressman thundered: "This free-market policy is strangling our own people! Prices soar while foreign businessmen laugh their way to the bank!"
Another shouted back: "We must modernize! Do you want us left behind while the world advances?"
Rafael scribbled in his notebook: Here lies the tragedy — leaders argue in marble halls while the poor haggle over scraps in palengkes.
IV
Amid the economic unrest, Macapagal remained earnest. He spoke often of honesty and incorruptibility, contrasting himself with past presidents.
One evening, Rafael was invited to a small gathering of civil servants where Macapagal himself appeared. The president, soft-spoken and modest in demeanor, addressed them directly.
"I know the burden of poverty," he said. "I know what it means to eat only salt with rice. I do not wish for any Filipino to live as I once did. But reforms take time. Discipline is needed. Sacrifice is needed. Bear with me, for the reward will come."
Some nodded. Others sighed, weary of promises. Rafael remained silent, struck by the man's sincerity — yet aware that sincerity alone could not calm inflation, nor stop hunger.
V
In the countryside, discontent simmered. The Huk movement, though weakened, still lurked. Farmers still whispered about unfulfilled promises of land reform.
During one visit to Pampanga, Rafael was confronted by Crispin, the fiery peasant he had once met years earlier. Now older, his face lined but his eyes still sharp, Crispin sneered.
"So this is the Republic's savior? A poor boy turned landlord's puppet? The poor remain poor, Rafael. Don't tell me you still believe these speeches."
Rafael sighed. "Crispin, the nation is young. Change cannot come all at once."
Crispin spat on the ground. "Then it will never come at all."
The words pierced Rafael deeply, for he saw truth in them.
VI
Abroad, the Cold War deepened. American envoys praised Macapagal's loyalty to democratic ideals. Military aid flowed, but economic dependency grew sharper. U.S. bases remained, and with them both protection and controversy.
Rafael reflected in his journal:
We stand as allies of the free world, but at home we remain captives of our own weakness. The Americans extend their hand, but our leaders fumble, and our people stumble. Values must be stronger than dependency — or history will see us as a nation always waiting to be lifted.
VII
By 1963, the peso crisis and inflation stirred widespread unrest. Jeepney drivers protested fuel prices. Market vendors marched in the streets.
In one demonstration near Liwasang Bonifacio, Rafael watched as students carried banners:
"Land to the Tillers!"
"Jobs for the Poor!"
"No More Hunger!"
Police clashed with protesters, truncheons rising, shouts echoing. Rafael stood helpless, caught between the cries of the youth and the commands of authority.
That night, he wrote in his journal again:
Macapagal rose as the poor boy who would lead the poor. But poverty is not only his enemy — it is the Republic's. And it will not fall to speeches. It will fall only when courage and honesty are matched by discipline and resolve in every heart, not just in one man's promises.
VIII
As 1965 neared, the nation's mood soured. Macapagal's presidency, once filled with hope, was seen as weak and faltering. His reforms lacked teeth. His sincerity was buried under rising prices and discontent.
Rafael sat by Manila Bay one evening, watching fishermen mend their nets under the fading light. Children played on the shore, their laughter carrying over the waves. Despite poverty, life endured.
"The people will endure," Rafael whispered. "But how long must they endure under leaders who promise much yet deliver so little?"
The sea answered only with its endless rhythm, eternal, indifferent.
IX
The cracks in Macapagal's promise began not in the city, but in the farmlands. In Central Luzon, fields stretched endlessly, golden under the sun — yet they bore no relief for the farmers who worked them. Tenants remained bound to landlords through debts as old as their fathers. Fertilizer prices rose, while the value of rice stagnated.
Rafael visited one such barrio in Tarlac. The farmers gathered beneath a withered acacia tree, faces gaunt, calloused hands clutching their woven hats.
"Kapitan," one farmer said, his voice brittle as husks, "we give half our harvest to the landlord, then the rest to the trader who lends us seed. By the time our children eat, nothing remains. Tell me, where is this freedom the president speaks of?"
Rafael could not answer. He saw in their eyes the same hunger he had witnessed after the war. Hunger that did not fade with independence. Hunger that now returned in peacetime, sharper than any enemy bayonet.
X
In Pampanga, during a civic gathering, Macapagal gave a speech about his land reform plans. His voice was steady, his words polished, but the crowd's faces revealed weariness.
"Land to the tillers," he promised. "This is my pledge. No Filipino farmer shall remain a slave on the very soil he tills."
Applause followed, but it was faint, like raindrops on dry earth. Farmers had heard these words before — from Quezon, from Roxas, from Quirino. Yet their lives remained unchanged.
Rafael turned to Manuel afterward. "The problem is not promises. The problem is that every promise is written on paper, not on soil."
Manuel nodded grimly. "And the soil grows tired of waiting."
XI
The peso crisis worsened the situation. Imports became more expensive, while the countryside saw little investment. Sugar and rice producers demanded government relief, but aid moved slowly, tangled in bureaucracy. Middlemen profited, while tenant farmers sank deeper into debt.
One evening, Rafael walked with Mang Pedro, an aging farmer he had known since youth. They stopped by a nearly barren field where stalks bent under disease.
"When the price of fertilizer doubled," Mang Pedro said, "we could no longer buy enough. When the price of rice rose, the traders took more. And when we asked for relief, the officials gave us speeches. Hunger grows, Kapitan — not only in our bellies, but in our patience."
His words struck Rafael with the weight of prophecy. Hunger was no longer merely the absence of food. It was the seed of rebellion, the tinder for fire yet to come.
XII
In Manila, the newspapers spoke of modernization. Editorials praised Macapagal's foreign policies and international stature. But in small columns, buried beneath headlines, were reports of children fainting in schools, of mothers stretching one ganta of rice to feed a family of six.
Rafael clipped one such article and tucked it into his journal. If leaders do not hear hunger, hunger will speak in ways they cannot ignore.
At night, he could not sleep. He remembered the words of the peasant woman years ago, when he had confronted Huk gatherings: "Without arms, we are invisible. Without struggle, we are already dead."
Now, those words echoed louder, carried not just by rebels, but by every hollow stomach across Luzon.
XIII
Even within the halls of Malacañang, whispers grew. Advisers urged Macapagal to be firmer with landlords, to push reforms beyond rhetoric. But politics chained his hands. Many congressmen were landlords themselves. Bills crawled and stalled.
During one late-night debate in the House, Rafael listened as one lawmaker exclaimed:
"We cannot rush land reform — it will destabilize our economy!"
Another shot back, "Our economy is already destabilized! Hungry men do not wait politely for bread."
The chamber erupted in shouts. Rafael, from the gallery, wrote again in his notebook: The Republic fights itself while the people fight hunger. How long before hunger wins?
XIV
By 1964, discontent began to ripple like cracks on a parched field. Farmers in Bulacan held silent marches. Women in Nueva Ecija banged empty pots in front of municipal halls. Priests wrote pastoral letters warning of famine in barrios.
Rafael traveled between Manila and the provinces, his heart heavy with contradictions. In the city, he saw bright lights, department stores filled with imported goods, politicians boasting of progress. In the countryside, he saw gaunt children, dry fields, and despair.
Two Philippines, he thought. One that shines for the world, and one that starves in silence.
XV
Toward the end of Macapagal's term, murmurs of another leader rose. A man of discipline, a man of law and order, who promised to bring strength where weakness prevailed. Rafael heard his name whispered in the corridors of power, in the markets, even in the barrios. Ferdinand Marcos.
The tide was shifting. And though Rafael sensed danger in the yearning for a "strongman," he also understood why people longed for it. Hunger made men desperate for change, even if that change wore iron chains.