In 1986, as Filipinos celebrated the end of the Ferdinand Marcos autocracy, our columnist explored the deserted presidential palace.
To work as a reporter in the dying days of the Ferdinand Marcos autocracy in 1986 was to discover the meaning of real fear. Filipinos are friendly, but the mention of his name brought a halt to any conversation.
I went to see a doctor one afternoon and when I told him I was in the country to report on the election, his expression changed. He sprang from his chair, shut the door, locked it and closed all the windows. In a trembling voice he confessed he had decided to vote for challenger Cory Aquino, but intimated if this became known he would be forced from his medical practice, or even worse, lose his life.
Marcos inspired fear and total obedience. He felt the Philippines was his to plunder and stole an estimated $10 billion over his years in office. He and his wife Imelda filled the palace with priceless works of art and vast collections of shoes and designer outfits.
To our surprise, Aquino’s election campaign took off, her rallies attracting thousands. But perhaps the greatest indication the game was up came when, at last, the president began to lose support of the Roman Catholic Church, led by the gloriously named Cardinal Sin.
On the evening of 25 February our quiet hotel burst into life, with people running down the corridors accompanied by wild screams of joy.
Marcos realised he had lost the election and, having failed to get support from the Americans, upon whom he counted, had suddenly left the country. He, his wife Imelda and their entourage, had been given helicopters and allowed to take large crates of money, jewellery and gold with them into exile.
My camera crew and I headed to the presidential palace, where people had begun to gather. Members of the palace security guard, terribly disturbed about their boss’s departure, started firing guns as we tried to get close. I cowered behind a small tree, but when I was joined by a rather large Australian journalist, I decided this tree would not save both our lives and dropped down to the dust. Eventually, my crew and I managed to get nearer the palace doors, which were open, and just walked in – me with the cameraman’s ladder over my head.
Hundreds of inquisitive people were inside, just looking at the enormous rooms in amazement. The Marcos’s exit had been such a shock, it was as if people had gathered here just to make sure they really were gone. There was not that much left of real value – some dishevelled furniture, a few paintings on walls. And, of course, Imelda Marcos’s shoes.
In one room, I saw 50 or 60 pairs in a cupboard; I remember lots of red high heels. I imagine they were the ones they didn’t have time to take or perhaps were not as valuable as others. Later it was claimed that her shoe collection totalled 3,000 pairs; the final count was just over 1,000.
We were inside the palace for around an hour, and even now the whole evening seems utterly surreal. Back at the hotel, I asked my crew, “Did we really see all this? Did it really happen?”
The Marcos regime left millions of Filipinos impoverished and it was not unusual to see people going through public dumps searching for scraps. But the saddest scene I ever witnessed was in the days after the election when a group of people were carefully marking out small areas of common land with sticks and bits of cardboard. They explained that since Aquino had promised them parcels of land, they were simply showing her the bits they would like to claim.
I am not sure these hopeful voters ever had their dreams realised; the promise of political change all those years ago has been long forgotten.
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