Here be Dragons
IT begins, of course, with a once upon a time.
Once upon a time, there was a King, and his fair Queen. They say that the King was once wise and just, but power corrupted him, and the world bowed to him. His Queen, once as poor as a peasant girl, was blinded by the gold and adoration and the glitter of diamonds on her neck. And so for many years, the land wept, those islands many called the pearl of the orient. Many heard the call to battle, the eager young men with fire in their eyes, the grim old soldiers who rose from their rest. Many were lost in the grim battle against the ruthless King.
One warrior, more clever, braver than all the rest, raised his fist against the king and threw down a challenge. For years he held his ground, shouting from a lonely cell in a lonely jail, allowed only moments with the sweet-smiling woman he loved and the small children who called his name. It was a long time, a thousand upon a thousand nights, until the King and Queen sent the warrior away, across the blue Pacific, far away where his name would be forgotten, his shouts muffled with the roaring tides.
But the warrior returned, in spite of his beloved’s pleas, despite threats against his life. His place was there, he said, home in the motherland, under the shadows that cradled a yellow sun. He came home one day, flying home on the wings of morning. When the shots rang out, they found his sprawled body, his arms outstretched, his blood soaking into the land he loved.
There was a new anger in the land, one that began with a murmur, and spread in whispers among the many who felt hope at word of the warrior’s return. They saw his widow, whose sweet smile would never be the same again. They saw how that widow took her stand, how she raised her own fist against the king. So they followed her, thousands of them, millions of them, until that one bright day when the last grand battle was waged on the streets of the city, where roses challenged rifle in the name of the warrior’s widow. They were her soldiers, housewife and clerk, student and father, the old man and the young girl. For her they knelt before dragons and sang beneath swords. Then while the whole world watched, King and his Queen quailed before the warrior’s widow, and fled with their diamonds and their rifles and the voice of the people singing in celebration.
And so it happened in a country they call the pearl of the orient, that a hero’s death awakened a nation, and a woman’s hand set its people free.
* * *
It was the story I heard when I was eight years old, seven years after the revolution in Edsa. I remember sitting in class, in my navy blue skirt and my white blouse with the tiny navy blue ribbon at the neck, sitting beside other little girls in blue skirts and white blouses, listening to the plump Mrs. Chua—who had tiny slanted eyes and wore too much blusher on her cheeks—talk about Ferdinand Marcos and the long grim years of the conjugal dictatorship. I remember carefully copying down in my red-and-blue-lined notebook the names of those she called heroes: Ramos, Enrile, Aquino. I remember how Mrs. Chua talked about her, about Mrs. Aquino—with the reverence of someone who speaks of the Virgin Mary. It was Cory who brought the country together, Cory who was hurt and suffering, whose husband was stolen from her, it was Cory who did not cry.
Fairy tales, says G. K. Chesterton, do not tell children the dragons exist. We already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell us that the dragons can be killed.
I remember the two parallel lines in yellow chalk, on the blackboard right next to the fractions. Edsa, Mrs. Chua said, this is Edsa. I did not know what Edsa was at eight, so understand that my first conception of Epifanio de los Santo Avenue was not of a road, but of a battleground. Surrounded by tanks, crowded with soldiers, crammed with millions of brave fighters, led by a woman both saint and crusader, lover and mother. And it was that woman, bright-smiled, soft-eyed Cory Aquino, who stayed in my mind’s eye at the ringing of the morning bell when the national anthem crackled through the school loudspeaker. Land of the morning, pearl of the east, cradle of the brave. The brave wore yellow in my imagination, yellow dresses and big glasses and had slim white hands. She loomed over my dreams long after Rainbow Brite ran out of magic stars, long after Prince Charming fell off his charger and Arthur stopped being the once and future king. It had all the flavor of magic—the ruthless enemy, the fate of the nation, the bold hero, the pure, white-flamed heroine, and most importantly, the necessary end: good triumphing over evil. And because it was real, it was possible.
There are many things that have changed since I first heard her story told. The story, after all, always depends on who tells it—and for many, the happily-ever-after is still a long time coming. But on days like this, it does not matter. Because of her, I still chase after dragons.
