21/09/2026
๐๐๐๐ง๐ข๐ฅ๐๐๐ | โ๐ก๐ฒ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐๐ด๐ฎ๐ถ๐ปโโ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ช๐ฒ ๐๐ผ ๐๐ด๐ฎ๐ถ๐ป.
Filipino countrymen fought for our democracy. They marched through the streets, raised their voices, and stood up to a government that had silenced the very freedoms it was meant to protect. They protested here, there, and everywhereโnot because resistance was easy, but because remaining silent was no longer an option.
And yet, here we are again.
Decades have passed since the declaration of Martial Law, but we should never let memories of that dark period fade. On September 21, 1972, Ferdinand Marcos Sr. signed Proclamation No. 1081, placing the Philippines under Martial Law. What followed was a period marked by fear, censorship, arrests, torture, killings, and widespread human rights violations. Thousands of Filipinos suffered, while many others were forced to live in silence because speaking against those in power could come at a terrible cost.
And the numbers make that cost impossible to ignore. Around 70,000 Filipinos were arrested, 34,000 were tortured, and 3,240 were killed. These are not exaggerated figures; they are figures cited by Amnesty International and documented in historical accounts. Behind every number was a Filipino who had a name, a family, and a life that was changed or taken away.
But repression was not limited to the people who were arrested. It also controlled what Filipinos could see, hear, and say. After Martial Law was declared, newspapers, radio stations, and television networks were shut down. Imagine waking up in a country where the government decides which news you are allowed to read, which broadcasts you are allowed to hear, and which criticisms are allowed to reach the public. That was not simply censorship. It was a government controlling the information available to the people it governed.
Power was also pulled toward one place: the presidency. Congress was dissolved after the declaration of Martial Law, while Marcos governed extensively through presidential decrees and other executive issuances. Thousands of these issuances were made during his rule. When the same government can restrict the press, suppress opposition, control information, and exercise extraordinary executive power, the question is no longer simply whether the government is strong. The question is who is strong enough to hold that government accountable.
That is why Martial Law should never be reduced to a debate about whether one generation likes or dislikes the Marcoses. There are historical records. There are survivors. There are documented victims. Some numbers cannot simply be dismissed because they make us uncomfortable. We can argue about politics, but we cannot honestly argue that nothing happened.
And yet, history has a way of becoming less real as the people who lived through it grow older. For younger Filipinos, Martial Law happened before our phones, before social media, and for many of us, before our parents were even adults.
In 1986, millions of Filipinos gathered during the People Power Revolution and demanded an end to Marcos Sr.'s rule. They did not simply stand in the streets to change the person occupying Malacaรฑang. They were demanding something much bigger: the restoration of democratic government after years of authoritarian rule.
And decades later, a Marcos is once again in Malacaรฑang. Ferdinand Marcos Jr. is not Ferdinand Marcos Sr. That distinction matters. We cannot hold one person personally responsible for every action committed by another simply because they share a surname. But we also cannot pretend that the return of the Marcos family to the presidency carries no historical significance. After everything that happened under Marcos Sr., Filipinos have every reason to examine that history critically rather than treating it as something that should simply be left in the past. Because this is where "Never Again" becomes more than two words.
It is not a demand that Filipinos live forever in 1972. It is not an excuse to hate an entire family. And it should not mean blindly repeating a political slogan without knowing the history behind it. It means remembering what happened when political power became concentrated, when criticism was suppressed, when the press was controlled, and when thousands of Filipinos paid the price.
We cannot change the past. But we can decide whether we learn from it. And if we choose to forget simply because the past is uncomfortable, then we risk turning history into something that can be rewritten whenever those in power find it convenient. That is why we remember. That is why we question. And that is why, decades later, we still say: "Never Again."
But after everything our ancestors fought for, after everything they suffered, and after everything we promised ourselves we would rememberโhere we go again.
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๐๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ธ๐ด ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ถ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ด ๐ข๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ข๐ณ๐ณ๐ช๐ฐ๐ณ๐ดโ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ช๐ต๐บ, ๐ง๐ฐ๐ญ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ถ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฐ๐ง๐ง๐ช๐ค๐ช๐ข๐ญ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ค๐ช๐ข๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ช๐ข ๐ฑ๐ข๐จ๐ฆ๐ด:
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