The Promise of Order
The elections of 1965 filled the air with banners, songs, and speeches. Manila's plazas thundered with rallies, the streets painted with posters bearing the face of Ferdinand Marcos — sharp-eyed, handsome, words dripping with certainty. He spoke of discipline, of reform, of a nation finally to be lifted out of chaos.
Rafael stood at the back of one such rally in Plaza Miranda, listening. The crowd roared as Marcos declared:
"This nation is not destined for weakness. We will rise again, disciplined, strong, respected in the world. But first—corruption must end, laziness must end, indiscipline must end!"
The people shouted his name, their voices rising like a chant.
Beside Rafael, a young student named Arturo whispered, "He sounds like he believes it. And maybe… maybe we should too. We need order. Look around us—scandal, hunger, crime. If anyone can fix it, perhaps it's him."
Rafael's brows furrowed. He had seen leaders rise on waves of hope before. The speeches were familiar, but the sharp glint in Marcos' eyes unsettled him.
A Calculated Campaign
Behind the fiery speeches lay a machine. Marcos' campaign moved like clockwork—funds flowed, alliances cemented, and promises sweetened the air. His young wife, Imelda, turned politics into spectacle. She toured barrios and cities alike, smiling with elegance, her voice warm as she sang and spoke of a brighter tomorrow.
In one barrio gathering, Imelda knelt in the mud to embrace a child, a photographer's flash catching the moment. The image spread like wildfire.
"Look at her," one farmer told Rafael, "like a queen among us. Maybe with her, things will change."
Rafael could not help but see the calculation behind the grace. Imelda's beauty was not just personal—it was weaponized.
III. The Skeptics
In coffeehouses and universities, doubt simmered. Benigno "Ninoy" Aquino, young and sharp-witted, warned of the dangers.
At one late-night forum, Ninoy raised his voice:
"Marcos does not seek merely to govern—he seeks to rule. Mark my words, his hunger is not just for power but for permanence. Discipline is a sweet word, but in the wrong hands, it becomes a chain."
Some laughed at his youth, others nodded gravely. Rafael, seated in the corner, scribbled in his notebook. He remembered his father's warnings about men who promised salvation in exchange for obedience.
Victory at the Polls
When the ballots were counted, the nation thundered with celebration. Marcos had won decisively. Fireworks cracked in Manila, bands played in provincial plazas, and radio announcers hailed him as the leader who would cleanse the republic.
In Malacañang, Marcos raised his hand in oath before the people.
"This is the beginning of the New Society," he proclaimed.
The words sent shivers down Rafael's spine. He felt the crowd's joy, but beneath it he heard an echo of chains.
Shadows in Triumph
That night, Rafael wrote in his journal:
"The people cheer, but I have lived long enough to know that cheers often become cries. Marcos speaks of discipline and strength, yet I have seen what such promises conceal. The republic, fragile and wounded, yearns for a savior. But sometimes it is in yearning that we invite our undoing."
He closed the notebook, the ink still wet, and listened to the city celebrating beyond his window. In the distance, he thought he heard thunder — or perhaps it was only the drums of marching men, already preparing for the years ahead.
Debating the Future
The smoke of cheap cigarettes curled inside the cramped coffeehouse near Escolta. Students huddled around small wooden tables, their voices rising with youthful fervor. Rafael sat quietly in a corner, notebook open, listening.
At the center of the discussion was Ninoy Aquino, his eyes alight with conviction. Though younger than most in the room, he carried himself with a sharpness that cut through noise.
"Marcos," Ninoy declared, his hand slapping the table for emphasis, "is no ordinary politician. He is brilliant, yes, charismatic, yes. But mark me — brilliance without principle is the most dangerous weapon of all."
A student scoffed. "But what of his promise? Discipline, order, progress? Surely you cannot deny the Republic needs it."
Ninoy leaned forward, his voice calm but biting. "Discipline for whom? Order for whom? If order means silencing dissent, if discipline means obedience to one man's will, then we trade one set of chains for another."
Rafael finally spoke, his voice low. "And what do you propose, Ninoy? The people are weary. They hunger not only for food but for certainty. Marcos offers them certainty."
Ninoy turned, his sharp gaze falling on Rafael. For a moment, silence reigned.
"The people hunger, yes," Ninoy replied. "But when a starving man is handed poisoned bread, is he fed—or condemned? We must give them bread that sustains, not promises that enslave."
Murmurs spread across the room. Some applauded, others frowned. Rafael closed his notebook slowly. He admired the young man's courage, but he feared that such courage would one day make him a target.
VII. Imelda Ascends
While Marcos built his power with promises of order, Imelda built hers with spectacle. She was more than a wife—she became a symbol, melody, and mirror for the people's yearning.
At a charity concert in Manila, she stood beneath glittering chandeliers, her voice soft as she sang a kundiman. The hall fell silent, even the wealthiest drawn to the humility in her tone. Photographers captured every angle, headlines the next day praised her as "The People's Rose."
Later, Rafael overheard whispers among businessmen:
"She wins hearts while he secures votes."
"A perfect match — beauty and brains, grace and steel."
"Together, they are unstoppable."
In barrios across the provinces, Imelda moved like an actress upon the stage of politics. She knelt beside farmers, ate with her hands from banana leaves, embraced mothers, and sang to children.
A farmer, after seeing her, told Rafael, "If the First Lady cares enough to sit with us, then perhaps this time it will be different."
But Rafael noticed what others missed. The photographers were always there. The timing is always perfect. What seemed like spontaneity was crafted with precision. It was a performance, and the nation was its audience.
VIII. A Private Exchange
One evening, at a reception hosted in Malacañang, Rafael found himself unexpectedly near Imelda. She moved through the crowd like a queen in her element, her gown shimmering, her smile radiant.
When their eyes met, she paused and approached with practiced warmth.
"Señor de la Cruz," she greeted. "I have read some of your essays. You care deeply for this country."
Rafael bowed slightly. "As you do, Señora. Though perhaps in different ways."
Her smile did not falter. "Different, yes. But all paths lead to the same destiny — greatness for our people."
Rafael studied her carefully. "Greatness is a heavy word. The question is, who bears its weight?"
For a flicker, the smile thinned, but then it returned, luminous. "If we must bear it, then we shall. My husband and I are ready. The people are ready."
She glided away, leaving Rafael with an uneasy chill. He realized then that Imelda was not merely an adornment to Marcos' power—she was a pillar of it.
A Warning Unheeded
Weeks later, Rafael met Ninoy again in a dim corridor of Congress, where the young senator walked with brisk purpose.
"Rafael," Ninoy said, clasping his shoulder, "remember what I told you. Watch them closely. Marcos is ambitious, but Imelda—Imelda is his amplifier. She can turn whispers into hymns, doubts into applause. Together, they are not just politicians. They are a dynasty in the making."
Rafael nodded. "And what is to be done?"
Ninoy's face grew somber. "Expose them. Challenge them. Do not be lulled by the music of their promises."
He walked away quickly, his footsteps echoing down the marble hall. Rafael lingered, his heart heavy. He admired Ninoy's courage, but he feared that history had little mercy for men who spoke too plainly against power.
The Republic's Turning
By the year's end, the nation had embraced its new leader. Marcos' rhetoric of discipline resonated, his image of strength inspired. Imelda's charm enchanted rich and poor alike.
Yet in Rafael's journal, the words were darker:
"The Republic cheers its new guardians. But I fear they are not guardians—they are architects of a palace where the people may live not as citizens, but as subjects. And in that palace, the songs of Imelda will drown the cries of the hungry."
He closed his notebook, the ink blotting slightly at the edge of the page. Outside his window, Manila was alive with celebration, drums beating, crowds singing the name of Marcos.
But Rafael heard beneath it all the faintest whisper — a storm gathering, silent but inevitable.
And so, as fireworks burst above the Pasig, Rafael knew the celebration was only the beginning. For tomorrow would bring not just promises, but decrees. Marcos' first term loomed ahead — a stage where discipline would be tested, dreams measured, and the hidden cost of power slowly revealed.