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Faith and fate of Francis Divinagracia Krissy Conti October 2, 2012 Many stories and escapades people had

off college are meant to be kept secret: told only among friends and conspirators, remembered when the raw sensations have mellowed and the pleasant sentiments are left. But I have one from a man with a song in his heart and twinkle in his eyes that deserves to be shared. Francisco Divinagracia, 22, started growing his hair out, partly for the hippie vibe and partly to make a statement. Arrested by the military in 1982 along with 13 others in Nueva Vizcaya, he vowed not to cut his hair until he was released. He thought he could wait out the imprisonment, sort of make it moot for his family when he came back. Already a veteran youth organizer, he knew how to stand by decisions and how to be independent. It was frayed underwear that did him in, trimmed down the cool, and brought him back to his mother. Francis mother, the only one who could be counted on to bring him fresh briefs, only knew about his predicament a year into his imprisonment. She would eventually manage to visit twice, daunted by the distance and the dangers of venturing into Tugegarao, Cagayan, in a camp nestled in the curves of the Sierra Madre. It started with a cat. The detainees, who had little meat in their diet, took to game-hunting to supplement their meals. They devised intricate strategies to catch any stray cat who managed to sneak into the prison walls. Each man was assigned to a battle station, an opening window, crack or crevice that they had to seal off, at once, at the clang of a warning bell. The alarm was sounded early one morning. Francis sleepily climbed up to his window, and with heavy lidded eyes, waved off the cat with a broom. Up in his perch, everybody could see where his briefs began to unravel and tumble down in strings. Francis was calm and collected; after all, it was his second time in prison. His first stint in jail was in his hometown of Bacolod, and lasted about a year. More street smart the second time around, Neri Colmenares had taken on the name Francis Divinagracia when he was arrested in Central Luzon. Its a crafty way to protect both oneself, from the penalties of recidivism, and ones family, from the agony again. It is, likewise, a testament to things that defined Neri. Divinagracia is a nod to his old chess coach, a sport he embraced with fervor and loved him back. Francis is the name of a friend who died in Bacolod, arrested, tortured for information and buried alive in a drum by the military. Francis died not because of the gunshot wound. He was placed in a drum, which was then welded shut. He was buried alive, Neri says. And then we digress, talking about fingernail scratches and oxygen deprivation, and the desperate feeling of being wrapped in darkness, literally and figuratively, inside and outside of that clammy catacomb, months into the declaration of Martial Law.

Neri was 18 when he was first picked up for being too conspicuous, too close to Marcos opposition. I was chairman of the entire Visayas for Student Catholic Action. I was definitely not a rebel, he says. Marcos was then looking for Negros Bishop Antonio Fortich, and Neri was nevertheless a logical secondary target. He had been an activist at the age of 15, starting in third year high school. He insists, Being part of the struggle was the fate of a socially-minded student. Its said that students come to a crossroads upon graduation, that have two choices in life: a life of wealth and comfort, or a life with the people but you have to go without. But during martial law, there no options. There was a slim chance that you could make it well because the system was very exploitative. Even if you were lucky fresh off school, the oppressive conditions will really ensure that you will not enjoy your life anyway. Back then, they thought Martial Law was forever. The Marcoses were everywhere: politics, business, television, in the social pages. And it was harder to forget them when a gun is pressed to your temple, lodged into your mouth, or put between your eyes. As the youngest among the detainees in both his arrests, he was often last and least sent out for beating, squatting, shouting. Barely out of his teens, Neri however thought the psychological games were the most excruciating. In one, a fellow detainee was hooked to wires, through his penis, and repeatedly electrocuted. Neri was made to watch everything, and told he was up next. In another, a guard muzzled a pistol into his mouth and told him to say his prayers. The guard clicked on the trigger twice, one blank after the other. Its a terror that stays for good. Until today, Neri cannot sleep without all the lights on. He cringes everytime someone denies that there were human rights violations. What are we, frauds? The talk of the Marcoses, Imelda and Bongbong, that there was no dictatorship is hogwash. The three branches of government under one person there is no other name for it but dictatorship, he says. Then they are asking for reconciliation but not admitting any fault, any sin, or any crime. This is whats unacceptable for victims. Theres an air of arrogance, to say that Martial Law was Gods gift to the Filipino nation. With a world-weary sigh he echo what everyone else has said, Not one of the Marcoses have been made to account until now. Many seem to have forgetten, and some have even demanded to bury Ferdinand Marcos in the Libingan ng mga Bayani. What kind of people are we, to overthrow a dictator and later fete him as a hero? Yet Neri refuses to dwell on the past and has unyielding faith that justice will one day be served, not just for himself, but for all others too. He barely flinched when, in the anti-Arroyo struggle, he found himself working with Imee Marcos. Activists have a long time ago have been taught that the issue of exploitation and oppression is a systemic problem. So there is no individual hatred, he simply says. Released about three years after his second arrest, Neri eventually cut his hair, shaved and cleaned up, and worked towards a law degree. Partly inspired by his lawyers from the Free Legal Assistance Group led by the venerable Lorenzo Tanda and Jose W. Diokno he took up human rights cases and other advocacies in practice. He helped found the National Union of Peoples Lawyers, a group

which serves the marginalized. In 2009, he joined Bayan Munas two other nominees to work in Congress, moving more closer to the law and lawmaking. Was there ever a time he wanted out? I mean, did he ever want to just live like he had before, not burdened with saving the world? Ah yes, he says in slow, measured tones. After his first release he was bundled up by his family into the normal and ordinary school, church, home. To brighten the days, he sang, evoking rockstar dreams when he had a band called The Peaches. Then one day while waiting to cross a busy street, he saw a small street urchin dodging the traffic to get food that had rolled down the road. When he came closer I saw he looked like my younger brother, he says. It could have been my brother. He went back to organizing and became Francisco Divinagracia. In a world that makes someone so young, so fragile live on the streets, you make it a mission to seek out solutions you fight back against wrong, you try to help make things better, without haste or hesitatation. ======= Atty. Neri Colmenares is president of the National Union of Peoples Lawyers (NUPL), and is a representative in Congress for the party-list Bayan Muna. Krissy Conti is the law student representative of NUPL.

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