I
The city gleamed like it had never before. Wide boulevards lined with streetlamps, new government complexes rising with glass and steel, bridges stretched proudly across the Pasig. The newspapers called it "The Age of Progress."
Everywhere, posters showed Ferdinand Marcos cutting ribbons, shoveling soil, standing tall in a barong beside Imelda. The First Couple was presented not as politicians but as visionaries, shepherds of a new and modern Philippines.
At the grand inauguration of the Cultural Center of the Philippines, Imelda's creation, Rafael sat in the back row among war veterans and civil servants. Glittering chandeliers sparkled above, gowns shimmered, and foreign diplomats whispered admiration.
Imelda took the stage. Her smile was radiant, her words measured and heavy with grandeur.
"We build not only for ourselves, but for the destiny of our nation. This Cultural Center will stand as a beacon of Filipino greatness — proof that we, too, can shine before the world."
Applause thundered. Yet Rafael felt unease. He looked at the polished marble, the imported crystal, and thought of the children he had seen in Pampanga, their ribs sharp beneath thin shirts.
"Golden walls," he muttered, "but the foundation is hunger."
II
In barrios, peasants heard of these projects but saw little change. An old farmer, Mang Simeon, told Rafael bitterly:
"They say Marcos builds bridges. Bridges for whom? I have no shoes to cross them. They say he builds theaters. Can I eat music? Can my children drink cement?"
Yet when elections came, many still raised their hands for Marcos. Some believed his promises of discipline, some feared the power of his machine, and others simply had no other choice.
One evening, Rafael joined a small gathering in a Manila café where journalists debated the spectacle.
"You cannot deny," one argued, "the country looks better. The streets are cleaner, the roads wider. Investors are arriving."
Another countered, lowering his voice: "All image. Behind these projects are debts, favors, cronies fattening themselves. But who dares publish that? The President controls the papers now."
They turned to Rafael. "And you, sir? You fought for this Republic. What do you see?"
Rafael sipped his coffee slowly. "I see a mask. And masks do not last forever."
III
The Marcos machine grew bolder. New airports, expressways, and housing projects, all unveiled with fanfare. At every groundbreaking, the President's speeches swelled with promises of greatness.
"We are not merely building structures," Marcos declared at the opening of the San Juanico Bridge, the longest in the nation. "We are building the very backbone of a New Philippines — disciplined, united, and strong."
Crowds cheered. Radio stations echoed his words for days.
But Rafael, standing among the crowd, noticed the soldiers stationed at every corner, rifles polished and visible. He noticed the farmers brought in by truck to wave flags, their calloused hands trembling, their faces uncertain.
A schoolteacher beside him whispered, "They want us to believe discipline is strength. But discipline, without justice, is only silence."
IV
Imelda's influence expanded further. She traveled abroad, dazzling kings, presidents, and popes. Newspapers called her the "Muse of Asia." She returned with grander visions: hospitals named in her honor, parks, monuments, and entire neighborhoods rebranded as symbols of progress.
At a reception in Malacañang, Rafael overheard Imelda tell a foreign diplomat:
"Other nations may have wealth, but we have beauty. We must show the Filipino soul through culture and grandeur."
The diplomat smiled politely. Rafael, however, saw the price in her eyes — a hunger for power cloaked in poetry.
Later that night, he confided to Manuel, his old comrade:
"They are building not a nation, but a stage. And the people? We are the actors, pushed into roles we never chose."
Manuel exhaled smoke and shrugged. "Actors still eat if the play succeeds. Better a stage than an empty field."
Rafael shook his head. "But when the curtain falls, what remains?"
V
By the early 1970s, the debts for Marcos' projects had grown immense. Loans from abroad poured in, praised as "investments in the nation's future." Cronies controlled cement, steel, shipping, and finance. Contracts were signed in smoke-filled rooms, profits funneled to loyalists.
Rafael wrote in his journal:
"The Republic builds monuments while its stomach is empty. We pave roads for foreign cars while farmers plow with carabaos. We raise towers of glass, but cannot raise the dignity of our poor. This is not progress; it is a smokescreen gilded in gold."
He paused, then added: "The mask glitters, but I can already hear the cracks."
VI
Still, Marcos' star continued to rise. International leaders praised his eloquence, his vision, and his discipline. Foreign magazines featured him as Asia's "strongman." At home, however, tensions boiled: strikes in factories, protests in universities, whispers of rebellion in the countryside.
One night, at a student rally, Rafael listened as a young activist shouted into the megaphone:
"Do not be blinded by their bridges! Do not be silenced by their theaters! The Republic does not live in marble halls but in the stomachs of its people — and the people are starving!"
Police charged soon after, dispersing the rally with truncheons. Rafael pulled one bleeding student to safety. The boy looked at him, dazed.
"Why do they beat us, sir? Are we not their children, too?"
Rafael had no answer. He only felt the heavy weight of the smokescreen closing in.
VII
At Malacañang, the President gave another speech. His voice was sharp, commanding, and calculated.
"We are building a nation of order. We will not be distracted by the noise of a few agitators. Let it be known: the Republic will not tolerate chaos."
The hall erupted in applause. Imelda beamed beside him, draped in jewels, her presence a second crown.
Rafael, watching from afar, muttered: "The applause grows louder. And with it, so does the silence."
He closed his journal that night with trembling hands:
"Marcos builds palaces, but the Republic trembles beneath them. If this is progress, then progress itself is a prison. The smoke thickens. The people cheer. But soon, they will realize that gold cannot hide chains."
VIII
The glow of Marcos' projects could not conceal the darkness that spread in the countryside. Beneath the wide new highways, whispers carried across the fields. Farmers in Pampanga, peasants in Isabela, workers in Manila — all spoke of land, hunger, and promises that never arrived.
One evening, Rafael visited his friend Mang Pedro in the province. The old man's hut leaned against the wind, its thatched roof patched with plastic. His wife cooked rice that barely filled one bowl.
"Kapitan," Mang Pedro said with a bitter smile, "I hear Manila shines brighter than ever. New bridges, new palaces. They say we live in a golden age."
Rafael looked at the pot of rice; its steam was faint. "And what do you say?"
Mang Pedro's eyes hardened. "I say hunger makes better rebels than speeches. If Marcos builds theaters for music, then the stomach builds drums of war. And soon, hijo, you will hear them."
The words clung to Rafael as he rode back to the city.
IX
In Manila's universities, students pored over leaflets printed in secret, quoting Marx, Lenin, and Mao. Graffiti bloomed on walls overnight: "Down with Imperialism!" "Land to the Tillers!"
At a dimly lit café near Avenida, Rafael overheard two young activists.
"They show us the San Juanico Bridge," one scoffed, "but what of the bridge between rich and poor? That chasm widens every day."
The other leaned forward, voice low. "The people will not march forever behind banners. One day, they will march with rifles. And then, the golden walls will burn."
Rafael gripped his cup. He felt again the same unease he had felt decades ago when the Huks rose in Central Luzon. Only now, it was not a handful of guerrillas — it was a tide swelling across the land.
X
At the barracks, Manuel showed him the confiscated pamphlets. The covers were red, the slogans sharp: "Revolution is the Answer!"
"These are not peasants with bolos anymore," Manuel muttered. "These are students, workers, priests, even. They read books, they organize. They are not scattered like the Huks — they are disciplined, calculating."
"And what does the government do?" Rafael asked.
Manuel's mouth twisted. "The government builds bridges, parades, theaters, and holds banquets. They act as if concrete can silence hunger."
Rafael took one pamphlet, reading its words by candlelight that night. They echoed too closely the cries he had heard from the fields years ago. Hunger had not ended. Justice had not come. Only the slogans had changed.
XI
In Malacañang, Marcos spoke again:
"We must remain vigilant. Enemies of the state gather in shadows, waving the flag of ideology. But know this: no red tide will drown the New Philippines."
His voice thundered, the audience applauded, and Imelda smiled at his side. But outside the gates, a different applause began — the sound of feet gathering, fists rising, voices chanting.
Rafael stood between both worlds, watching. On one side, chandeliers and proclamations. On the other hand, hunger and defiance.
And as the night deepened, he knew: the tide was rising. The smokescreen was beginning to thin, and behind it loomed a storm red as blood.