I
The rains had come heavily that year, flooding the rice paddies and washing out narrow provincial roads. Yet, even as the rivers swelled, another tide was rising—one no storm could scatter. It was a tide of red flags, of clenched fists, of words whispered in classrooms and shouted in marches.
In the villages, peasants who once bent in silence now muttered openly of land reform betrayed. In the factories, workers spoke of endless shifts while politicians feasted. In the universities, students pored over books not just of history but of revolution.
And in all of these places, one name surfaced again and again: Marcos.
"He builds bridges, yes," a young activist sneered in a cramped Manila café, "but they lead only to his own palace. What has changed for the farmer in Isabela? For the fisherman in Cavite?"
"Nothing," another replied bitterly. "Only our hunger has grown louder."
II
Rafael sat in the gallery of the Assembly, listening as the President's allies defended new measures for "security and stability."
"These extremists," one senator declared, "would drag us back into chaos. They are no different from the Huk bandits of old. The Republic cannot allow its youth to be poisoned by Marxist fantasies!"
The chamber thundered with applause from the loyalists. But Rafael's gaze strayed to a group of student representatives standing outside the doors, their placards half-hidden under raincoats. One bore the words: "Land for the Tillers, Justice for the Poor."
He felt the sharp sting of memory. He had seen this before—in the hungry eyes of Crispin, in the fiery speeches of the Huk commanders. The faces had changed, but the wound remained the same.
III
In Pampanga, a meeting was held under the cover of night. A lantern swung from a bamboo pole, casting restless shadows on the faces gathered.
A young man spoke with fire: "We have written letters. We have marched in the streets. They call us noisy, unruly. So tell me, brothers—how long do we wait? Until our children starve completely? Until every tree is cut, every peso stolen?"
A woman, her hands rough from farm work, rose. "My husband was jailed last month for refusing to give rice to constables. We had nothing left! If this is their Republic, then let it burn."
Murmurs rippled. Then a chant began softly, then louder: "Makibaka! Huwag matakot!"
The red tide spread not only through slogans but through desperation itself.
IV
Rafael visited an old friend, Father Lorenzo, a priest known for siding with the poor. The chapel smelled of candlewax and damp stone.
"They come to me for food," the priest said, his voice weary. "But what bread can I give when the granaries are empty? They come for justice. But what absolution can I offer when the law itself is blind?"
"You risk much, Father," Rafael warned.
Father Lorenzo's eyes glinted. "And what risk is greater than silence? Did Christ not speak against the merchants in the temple? And do we not see merchants now, clothed as leaders?"
Rafael bowed his head. "But if the red tide rises too far, it may drown the Republic itself."
The priest sighed. "Then let the Republic learn to swim—or sink under its own weight."
V
News spread of clashes in the countryside. Constabulary patrols ambushed. Trucks burned. Young men are vanishing from their homes to take up rifles in the hills.
In the city, demonstrations swelled. Students poured into Mendiola, chanting:
"Down with oppression!
Land for the farmers!
Justice for the workers!"
Tear gas answered them. Batons cracked skulls. Blood streaked the streets where once only chants had rung.
From his window in Manila, Rafael watched the smoke curl over the rooftops. His journal lay open, pen trembling in his hand.
"The tide is red not because of ideology alone," he wrote. "It is red with the blood of the people. Marcos builds roads and theaters, but hunger builds armies. If he does not hear this tide, it will sweep away more than his monuments."
VI
One evening, he met with Manuel, now older, his hair graying but his soldier's frame still unbent.
"The communists grow bolder," Manuel muttered, pouring gin into a chipped glass. "They strike faster, fiercer. Even the Americans grow nervous. The CIA whispers of insurgency, of dominoes falling one by one in Asia."
Rafael asked, "And what do you believe?"
Manuel leaned back, eyes heavy. "I believe the people are tired of waiting. And tired men are dangerous men."
He drank, then added in a low voice: "But I also believe Marcos will not let this tide grow unchecked. He will strike hard. Too hard. And then God help us all."
VII
In the slums of Tondo, Rafael walked among shanties where children played in mud. A boy ran up, tugging his sleeve.
"Kuya," the boy said, "is it true? They say the Red Army is coming. They will give us rice. Is it true?"
Rafael knelt, his throat tight. "What you need, anak, is a future where rice is not given as charity, but grown and eaten by your own family."
The boy frowned. "But when will that come?"
Rafael had no answer. The boy ran off laughing, chasing a tin can with other children, their play echoing against the walls of rusted iron.
He turned away, muttering to himself: "Perhaps this is why the tide rises. For in hunger, hope is not asked—it is seized."
VIII
At Malacañang, Marcos convened his council. Maps spread across the long table, pins marking provinces of unrest.
"We must move decisively," he declared. "The enemy hides among peasants, among students, even among priests. If we hesitate, the tide will overwhelm us."
Imelda, seated beside him, touched his arm. "But remember, Ferdinand—the people still love you. You are their father. Show them strength, but also compassion."
He smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed calculation. "Compassion builds no empires. History remembers the strong, not the merciful."
Outside the palace gates, chants grew louder every day. Inside, the chandeliers sparkled, but shadows deepened.
IX
Rafael's final journal entry for that year was brief, scrawled in haste as gunfire echoed from a distant barrio:
"The tide rises. Whether it carries us to renewal or drags us into ruin, I cannot say. But I fear the Republic is learning too late—that hunger makes soldiers of even the meekest souls."
X
The tide, Rafael realized, was not made of one river but of many streams.
He saw it first in the countryside, where peasants whispered of land reform and broken promises. Alone, their cries were weak, scattered like grains of rice spilled on the ground. But when their words were carried by activists to Manila, they became louder, sharper. The student leaders translated hunger into slogans, slogans into marches, marches into movements.
Father Lorenzo, too, had seen this. In the chapel one evening, he spoke to Rafael.
"Individually, they are too small to be heard. A peasant in Nueva Ecija shouts, and no one listens. A worker strikes in Cavite, and he is jailed. A student waves a banner in Manila, and the police scatter him. But together, hijo—together, they form a chorus too loud to silence."
Rafael frowned. "But if they unite, Marcos will crush them all at once."
The priest shook his head, candlelight dancing across his face. "Perhaps. But even an iron hand cannot crush an ocean. If the tide rises high enough, it does not matter how strong the dam is. It will break."
XI
In a crowded student dormitory, Rafael sat quietly as the youth debated with passion.
"Farmers starve because landlords bleed them dry," one shouted.
"Workers are paid crumbs while cronies grow rich," another countered.
"And we, the students, are beaten when we demand justice," a girl added.
An older activist leaned forward. "Then stop thinking of yourselves as separate. What is a farmer without a worker to carry his grain to market? What is a worker without food from the farmer? What are students without the people they claim to serve? If we fight alone, we fall alone. But if we fight as one…"
He raised his hand, clenched in a fist. The others followed. "We become a storm."
Rafael could feel it—the fire of youth, the power of solidarity. He admired their courage, though his soldier's heart whispered of the dangers ahead.
XII
Even within the constabulary ranks, murmurs spread. Some officers confided to Rafael that they, too, came from farms, from barrios where their parents still paid rent to landlords.
"We wear these uniforms, Kapitan," one young corporal said, "but when we return home, we are still sons of peasants. If the Republic forgets them, how long before it forgets us, too?"
Rafael clasped the young man's shoulder but did not answer. The truth was too heavy to speak.
XIII
On his last patrol of the season, Rafael watched a gathering in a sugarcane field. Farmers, students, and even factory workers stood side by side, their faces illuminated by a single kerosene lamp. A banner scrawled in charcoal flapped in the night breeze:
"Isang Bayan, Isang Laban."
They spoke not of communism or ideology, but of bread, of rent, of dignity.
As Rafael turned away into the shadows, the words of Father Lorenzo returned to him: "A tide of streams becomes a flood."
And he knew then why they gathered—because, divided, they were silent. But together, they might be heard.