Carol Ojeda with son, circa 1980s
Born and raised in the Philippines, Carol moved to the US in 1975 with her six-month old son to escape the Marcos dictatorship. Her son's father was killed in 1976, summarily executed by the military in a process called "salvaging." His body was never found.
As a single mother, Carol worked full-time to support her family while she continued her activism as a member of the Anti-Martial Law Alliance and the Union of Democratic Filipinos (KDP) in Los Angeles, California.
Today, Carol is a part-time faculty in the Asian America Studies Program at California State University in Fullerton. She teaches classes about Asian American Women, Filipino American Experience, Creative Expressions and Asian American Families. She continues to be active in community work and is an appointed member of the Los Angeles County Commission on Public Social Services; Filipino American Library (FAL) Board of Directors; and the Pasadena City College President's Asian American Advisory Board to support the school's commitment to the life-long learning goals of Asian and Pacific Islander students and community members.
~~~
Salvaged Love
by Carol Ojeda-Kimbrough
published in the anthology,
Asian American: The Movement and the Moment (2001) edited by Steve Louie and Glenn Omatsu, reprinted with permission by the author, Carol Ojeda-Kimbrough. Copyright 2014 by Carol Ojeda-Kimbrough, all rights reserved.
My life’s journey is like a road
that forked in numerous ways. Political
upheaval in the Philippines in 1972, barely three months into my college
freshman year, opened up what would be the first of many life choices I would
make. That was the year when Ferdinand
Marcos declared martial law in the Philippines.
All of a sudden my world at the university quickly transformed from an
environment of academic freedom to a virtual prison, with buildings surrounded
by barbed wire fences and military personnel posted at all entrances. The repression
within school and outside in the society around me brought the first unplanned
life change that I would make. I had to
choose between continuing my studies in such a stifling atmosphere or drop out
and become a full-time activist against the dictatorship. I chose the latter path because I believed,
perhaps naively, that school could wait and that I could always return as soon
as Marcos was deposed and democracy restored.
I was seventeen and naively thought that wouldn’t take more than six months, tops. So by 1973, I dropped out of school and
joined a small collective of community activists, former college students who
had similarly put a hold on their education.
Our political work involved
organizing the squatters in Quezon City.
The pejorative “squatter” describes the large number of urban poor who
were forced into building shelters illegally on private owned land. Squatters lived under constant threat of
eviction, often through violent confrontations with the private armies of
landowners or the military. With the imposition
of ML and the loss of the democratic process, activists could not organize in
the open; so we did our organizing work underground. We met with small groups of squatters and
discussed basic problems they faced on a day-to-day basis, problems like access
to water, or decent housing. This served
as a prelude to more abstract discussions about the link between ML and foreign
domination of the country’s economy, and therefore the need to overthrow both
in order to have a truly just and democratic society.
Lando
There, I met and fell in love
with Lando. He was a student activist
who actually lived in a neighboring squatters area. He was tall, lean, with
dark wavy hair, and eyes that could convince you to do things your own mother
said not to do. He was the first in his
family to go to college but he too dropped out of school to become a full-time
activist. At first he took delight in
making fun of my sheltered “burgis” class background and challenged me to
become more “proletarian.” To prove that
I was one of the masses, I left the comforts of home and moved in with a group
of activists living in a shanty by the Marikina River.
It
wasn’t long before Lando and I became a couple.
We shared brief moments together and forgot that we were engaged in life
or death activities. But in a strict
Catholic country where artificial contraception was forbidden, it also wasn’t
that much longer when we found out that I was pregnant.
I once more faced a dilemma – how could I possibly take care of a baby and continue my activism, let alone get a college degree? My choices were obvious: get an illegal abortion or keep the baby. I chose the latter, and with that choice I made the decision to accept the responsibility that comes with having a child. It meant stepping back and scaling down on my organizing activities – after all, it was becoming more and more difficult to outrun the military with a bulging belly. My parents were devastated when they heard about my pregnancy but were very supportive. My life as a “revolutionary” shifted to domesticity as I prepared for the birth of my son.
In
the meantime, the political situation became even more repressive. Citizens were resigned to the midnight
curfew, military presence everywhere, and the general loss of civil and
democratic rights. By now the military
had also started visiting my parents’ home frequently, asking for me or other
names of activists known to them. My
parents had just immigrated to the US and news of these military visits caused
them untold worries for my safety and my son’s well-being.
Faced with increasing threat of
arrest, I made yet another life-altering decision: to leave the Philippines and move to the
United States. I again rationalized that
I could spend a few months or maybe a couple of years in the US and when the
situation became less “hot” I would return to the Philippines. I also wanted my son to be with my
family. So in February 1975, my son and
I boarded a plane for Los Angeles.
It was not long before I met and
became active with the local anti-Martial Law activists in Los Angeles. I attended many of the meetings of the
Anti-Martial Law Alliance (AMLA), sometimes bringing my son with me. My involvement with a US-based activist group
was premised on the notion that it would only be temporary and that one day I
would go back to the real struggle – in the Philippines. I also dreamed of reuniting with Lando….
And
then the letter came. First it was
cryptic – Kasama (comrade, friend),
it started – “We don’t want to alarm you
and we don’t know anything for sure. But
Lando boarded a train for Bicol last October and we saw him off in
Tutuban. The train arrived in Bicol but
Lando and two women who were travelling with him were not on board. We are working with members of the clergy who
have better access to information. Don’t
worry.” The letter was dated January
(1977), three months after Lando disappeared.
Another letter soon followed, describing what little information our comrades and Lando’s relatives pieced together. He and the two women were last seen in the Quezon province, but no one made it to Bicol. There were many speculations as to what might have occurred, but my comrades chose to spare me from devastating news.
Finally a letter arrived which confirmed what I secretly feared but wouldn’t allow myself to think. Lando and one of the women, Flora Coronacion, were victims of a practice that would later be known as salvaging – the disappearance and subsequent summary execution of suspected “subversives.” The other woman who was with them at the time of disappearance, Adora Faye de Vera, was the only survivor. She was my classmate at UP, and ten years later, in 1986, she would recount their ordeal to me, describing Lando’s fate with his military torturers. She stated that after being detained and tortured for months, the military removed Lando and Flora Coronacion from their location and taken them “somewhere else.” Later on she recounted that the military told her that the other two “did not escape, but you will never see them again.” Additionally she was warned that should she speak about what happened, she will meet the same fate as the other two.
Another letter soon followed, describing what little information our comrades and Lando’s relatives pieced together. He and the two women were last seen in the Quezon province, but no one made it to Bicol. There were many speculations as to what might have occurred, but my comrades chose to spare me from devastating news.
Finally a letter arrived which confirmed what I secretly feared but wouldn’t allow myself to think. Lando and one of the women, Flora Coronacion, were victims of a practice that would later be known as salvaging – the disappearance and subsequent summary execution of suspected “subversives.” The other woman who was with them at the time of disappearance, Adora Faye de Vera, was the only survivor. She was my classmate at UP, and ten years later, in 1986, she would recount their ordeal to me, describing Lando’s fate with his military torturers. She stated that after being detained and tortured for months, the military removed Lando and Flora Coronacion from their location and taken them “somewhere else.” Later on she recounted that the military told her that the other two “did not escape, but you will never see them again.” Additionally she was warned that should she speak about what happened, she will meet the same fate as the other two.
At
the time, however, all I wanted to do was to return to the Philippines and
participate in the search; but I was advised against it by my new “collective”
in Los Angeles, because of the obvious security reasons.
My
sense of loss was compounded by the guilt I felt for having chosen to leave the
Philippines when Lando and other activists could not. Had I stayed, would he have gone on that
trip? My friends wrote that he missed us
so much and to cope with our separation, he took on more and more work just to
keep himself occupied. If we hadn’t
separated, maybe he would still be alive.
Or maybe I would have fallen victim to this military practice as
well. There are times when I replay this
scene in my mind and there’s little comfort in knowing that things turned out
the way they did because of the choices we made. But we move on.
~~~
Who was Rolando Federis ?
[The following is a reprint from
the Bantayog ng mga Bayani file used in considering the inclusion of Rolando
Federis in the Wall of Heroes and Martyrs of the Marcos Dictatorship. Sources include the following:
- Written account of Carol Ojeda-Kimbrough
- Interview with Federis sisters Vilma Mira and Delia Pineda, and brother-in-law Pidoy Pineda
- “The chosen road,” by Carol Ojeda-Kimbrough, from The Movement and the Moment, pp. 65-73
- “Open testimony of Adora Faye de Vera,” typewritten, 4 pages
- “Remembering the activist,” Ang Katipunan, May 1985, p. 13
- In Memory of Rolando Federis, by Hector Logrono, friend
- My Recollections of Rolando Federis, by Remedios Mercado Endozo]
Rolando Federis came from a poor
family. His father Dionisio once owned a tailoring shop in Camarines Norte. His
wife contracted cancer and died early, leaving him to raise his extended family
himself. Dionisio left for Manila, where he hoped to find better employment. He
found work as a master cutter in a tailoring shop in Cubao, rented a small
place in Project 4, Quezon City, and brought his children one by one from Bicol
to live with him. (He later remarried.)
Life during Rolando’s childhood
was usually difficult and the going always hard. Nevertheless, Rolando (or
“Lando” as he was called) managed to get to college, the first in his family to
do so.
At PSBA, he started to become
politically involved. He joined discussion groups where he sought to understand
the roots of his family’s poverty, the same relentless poverty that seemed to
burden thousands of other Filipino families, from which there seemed no escape,
even as evidently a few privileged families did not face the same fate. Even as
Rolando studied what activists called the “three–isms,” he started organizing
the youth in his community to join the youth movement. He joined the Kabataang
Makabayan (KM).
Imelda and Ferdinand Marcos
When Marcos imposed martial law
in 1972, Rolando went underground. He joined a collective of activists in his
community, secretly organizing to build resistance against martial law. He
focused his organizing efforts on three communities of informal settlers, often
faced with eviction threats as the martial law regime pushed for
“beautification” of Metro Manila. Rolando
sought to help enlighten the community on their basic rights, including
the right to decent housing. When civilian armed groups were sent by the regime
to harass and evict these “squatters,” Rolando also sought to organize the
residents for resistance.
Needless to say, Rolando lived
dangerously, putting himself always at risk of being abducted or arrested. But
because he was an “insider,” or one among the people, he had the advantage of
being known to the people he worked with, and he enjoyed their trust and
cooperation. He even gained the respect of the community thugs and those who
made a living by fencing or petty thievery. His friends included ones with
fearsome aliases like “Boy Pilay,” and once, a gang leader tried to donate to
the movement some bicycles he had earlier stolen!
Yet, Lando never pandered to
these friends, and always tried to explain to them in ways they appreciated
that stealing was not the answer to poverty.
In 1973, Lando married another
activist, Carol Ojeda, and eventually had a son by her. Carol Ojeda came from a
much more prosperous background but she was full of admiration for the tall and
charming activist, who challenged her to “transcend” her privileged background
and helped her deal with the realities of working with the poor.
Later, Carol became the target of
military harassment, and she decided to leave for the States with their son,
hoping to return when the situation improved. The couple exchanged letters.
The year before he disappeared,
Lando took an assignment as courier, bringing letters and ferrying people and
packages to and from the city to the countryside. In one of these trips, in
October 1976, he was with two women activists he was to accompany to Bicol.
One of these women, Adora Faye de
Vera, a student from the University of the Philippines, would later reveal that
the three of them were seized by plainclothes operatives at Lucena City en
route to their destination, dragged into an ambulance, and taken to an
apartment, and later to other places, in that city. The three were subjected to
torture continuously for more than two weeks, the women raped and abused
repeatedly. The last time Adora saw Lando and Flora alive, Adora stated, the
two were being “transferred” elsewhere.
Adora identified the officers,
from the colonels down to the enlisted men, who were personally involved in
their abuse and torture. Still, the government never revealed the whereabouts
of the two missing activists. It is believed the area where they had likely
been buried has since been cleared and made into a paved roadway. The bodies
of the two have never been found.
~~~
Carol
Ojeda-Kimbrough Statement for
Bantayog
ng mga Bayani
Rolando
Federis, or Lando as he was called, came from an urban poor family in Project
4, Quezon City. His political
involvement started as a student in college where he participated in discussion
groups (DGs) and joined demonstrations calling for an end to foreign control of
the Philippine economy and the establishment of national democracy. Unlike many student activists who talked of
the contradictions in society in the abstract, Rolando’s life experience
enabled him to understand the concepts of the “evils of Philippine society” –
imperialism, feudalism and bureaucrat capitalism – more profoundly and deepened
his resolve and commitment to effect change in society.
Rolando
became a community organizer after martial law was declared in 1972, dropping
out of college as many other student activists who believed that fighting the
Marcos dictatorship was a higher calling than pursuing an academic degree. Lando
became a full-time community organizer in our neighborhood of Project 4, Quezon
City. In the beginning he was part of
the Project 4/Murphy (Cubao) collective of activists. He worked to organize the squatters in three
different areas within the Project 4/ Murphy neighborhoods. Squatters
were often faced with the threat of eviction and Rolando’s task was to
educate the residents of these areas on their rights to shelter (housing) and
other basic human rights, and to organize and mobilize them against
paramilitary (private armies) or the military forces who were periodically sent
to harass and evict these squatters.
Organizing
in the pre-martial law years was not an easy task but at least the activists
were guaranteed a democratic space to conduct their organizing work. The declaration of martial law and suspension
of civil liberties made organizing work that much more difficult and
dangerous. Activists could not just
enter an area and get on their soap box; they run the risk of being reported to
the authorities and be subject to arrest.
But
Rolando’s experience of having grown up in a squatter’s area gave him an insider’s advantage. This, coupled with his natural leadership
skills, allowed him to enter these neighborhoods without fear of being
betrayed. Rolando used his contacts
within the different squatters’ areas to get to know other residents. He established his identity as one of them
and to gain acceptance, he also hung out with the local lumpen elements or kanto boys. Some of these kanto boys were the unofficial
authorities in the squatters’ areas and would not hesitate to harm anyone who
crossed them or got in their way.
Rolando
spent many days and nights drinking and holding DGs with these men; he often
joked that he sacrificed his liver just so he can reach these men who have lost
faith in the system and turned into petty thieves or gangsters. He believed in organizing even these
seemingly hard-core and anti-social elements, while others in his collective
remained skeptical and stayed away from engaging these men for fear of being
betrayed to the military.
Lando
was moved to a higher organizational level around 1973 and became responsible
for overseeing organizing work in a larger geographical area. But he continued to visit and provide
consistent presence in the Project 4/Murphy area. His new tasks involved providing guidance to
other community activists. He challenged
those activists who came from more affluent background to live in the areas
where they were assigned to organize.
In
recruiting and training cadres, Rolando looked beyond the obvious and did not
let a person’s limitation get in the way.
He carefully nurtured and provided guidance to all activists; although I
could see that he was partial to people who shared his class background. He was very close to people with names like
Boy Marikina or Boy Pilay. He even changed the name a tailor who was
recruited by Lando to join the movement.
This tailor became known to us as Bayani
(hero) because Rolando thought that was an appropriate name for what this man
was about to contribute to the movement.
During
meetings of the collective of activists, Rolando used humor and teasing to
engage people in the discussion. He
loved to tease the petiburgis
activists whenever we complained of the hardship of living in the
underground. Although it came in the
form of joking and teasing, I felt that Rolando was asking us to acknowledge or
confront the privileges of our class background while being very supportive of
the (class) position we have taken as community activists. Between 1975-1976 he worked as a courier
between the urban movement and the armed resistance in the countryside.
The
report of an Amnesty International
Mission to the Republic of the Philippines (November 28, 1981) contains the
statement of Adora Faye de Vera (pages 106-109) and details their capture,
torture and the summary execution of Rolando Federis and Flora Coronacion. Additionally, a report published in the Political Detainees in the Philippines, Book
II, published by the Association of Major Religious Superios in the
Philippines (Manila, March 31, 1977) likewise contain details of the arrest,
torture and killing of Rolando Federis and Flora Coronacion.
When
I was finally able to return to the Philippines in 1986 (right after Marcos was
deposed), I sought, and found, Adora Faye de Vera who recounted the ordeal and
torture they went through. Adora Faye
mentioned in our discussion that after the two were killed, the soldiers who
carried out the order seemed very listless and nervous. Adora Faye told me that at night, when
everyone was asleep, she would rattle her chains and hear the soldiers wake up
and talking in hushed tones. She felt
that in some way, the soldiers were made aware that the “ghosts of Rolando and
Flora” were haunting them for their actions.
Adora wanted justice for her comrades and received some satisfaction
through the haunting of the soldiers.
Based
on our discussion of the events, Adora Faye and I concluded that Rolando
Federis and Flora Coronacion were probably the first victims of the practice of
salvaging or summary execution of suspected
rebels or subversives. Adora Faye
commented that the soldiers’ fear of the ghosts of Rolando and Flora after the
killings showed that they have never done this before. But that after this event, the practice of salvaging became more common and reports
of other summary executions made the news.
The
bodies of Rolando Federis and Flora Coronacion were never found. Adora Faye believed
that the area where they were taken, and where the two were killed and buried,
has since been cleared and turned into a paved roadway. She believes that there is probably no
possibility of locating where the bodies are buried.
On
February 15, 2011, I received a letter from Attorney Robert Swift and a check
for $1,000 as settlement and monetary compensation for the death of Rolando
Federis. Even in death, the Marcos
family and estate has succeeded in insulting survivors and families of those
tortured and killed during this dark period of our history by fixing the value
of a Filipino’s life at PhP 40,000 or $1,000.
Rolando
Federis and other ordinary Filipinos stood up for democracy and paid the
ultimate price for their beliefs. By
honoring Rolando Federis, the Bantayog ng mga Bayani honor the countless and often nameless Filipino heroes who did not go quietly into that good night and
instead raged against the dying of the light – the death of our democratic
rights under the Marcos regime.
On November 30, 2011, I returned to the Philippines to attend the Bantayog ng mga Bayani Annual Honoring of Martyrs and Heroes ceremony where Rolando Federis' name would be included in the Bantayog Wall of Martyrs and Heroes. Rolando's heroism and sacrifice is now memorialized for other Filipinos to emulate.
On November 30, 2011, I returned to the Philippines to attend the Bantayog ng mga Bayani Annual Honoring of Martyrs and Heroes ceremony where Rolando Federis' name would be included in the Bantayog Wall of Martyrs and Heroes. Rolando's heroism and sacrifice is now memorialized for other Filipinos to emulate.
Pictures are courtesy of Carol Ojeda Kimbrough:
§ Pictures of the Bantayog ceremony, including Carol (right) and Lando's sister Delia Pineda;
§ Letter from Atty Robert Swift and
checks from the Marcos Estate
Links related to this article are below.
Links related to this article are below.
§ Victims or relatives of victims
of human rights violations during ML can apply for monetary compensation with
the Human Rights Victims Claims Board – deadline is Nov. 10, 2014
~
Carol Ojeda-Kimbrough
Read also
Tags: Ferdinand Marcos, Marcos dictatorship, Philippines, Martial Law, Philippine, Filipino, history, politics, Rolando Federis, hero, salvaged, Bantayog ng mga Bayani
This is all for now,
Cecilia
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