The Palace of Friends
By the early years of the new decade, the Republic had learned a dangerous comfort in flattery. Around the President, a circle of businessmen, generals, and ministers began to shape the nation—not through law or conscience, but through convenience. They were called "the President's men." Some wore tailored suits; others bore military medals. But all shared one thing in common: loyalty not to the people, but to power.
Rafael observed this transformation from the sidelines. He had once believed in the promise of discipline, in the dream that order could heal corruption. Yet what he saw instead was the slow birth of a new aristocracy—one that spoke of nationalism while filling its pockets with the nation's lifeblood.
At receptions, he heard their laughter. Deals were made over expensive wine, contracts signed under the chandeliers of the Cultural Center. The nation's wealth, once meant to rebuild the country, now flowed like rivers into private estates and hidden accounts.
"The country is doing well," a minister boasted one evening. "Growth is steady. The economy thrives."
Rafael smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But tell me—who among the poor feels it?"
The man chuckled, brushing him off. "You worry too much. The people need symbols. Roads, bridges, buildings—they give hope."
"Hope without justice," Rafael murmured, "is a palace built on sand."
The New Kings of Industry
From the sugar fields of Negros to the shipping docks of Manila, monopolies grew like vines, choking whatever small enterprise dared to survive.
One man controlled sugar, another cement, another lumber and logging. The ports were leased to "friends of the regime," and banks lent money only to those who already possessed it.
Rafael wrote in his journal:
"We have returned to the time of haciendas—only now they are hidden in corporate papers and government decrees."
He visited the provinces again and found old acquaintances now displaced, their farms absorbed by companies promising "modernization." Tractors replaced carabaos, but the farmers were left without land, without work.
In one dusty barangay, a farmer told him bitterly, "Before, we worked for the landlord. Now, we work for a company that no one has ever met. What's the difference, sir?"
Rafael could only lower his gaze. The Republic had built machines, but it had forgotten men.
III. The Dream and the Debt
The government spoke proudly of loans and infrastructure, of new highways and export zones.
Foreign lenders poured money into Manila, enchanted by promises of stability and growth. Yet for every peso borrowed, another chain was forged.
Rafael attended an economic summit in the capital, invited as an observer. The hall gleamed with imported marble, air-conditioned and bright.
Charts and graphs filled the screens, pointing upward in triumph. "We are on the rise!" a speaker declared. "The Philippines is the next tiger of Asia!"
But as Rafael watched, he saw the fine print beneath those graphs—foreign loans, foreign interest, foreign dependence.
He whispered to himself, "We are buying progress with debt, and selling tomorrow to pay for today."
Outside the building, a group of students protested. They were young, angry, idealistic. Their placards read: The People Are Hungry! and We Cannot Eat Concrete!
When the police arrived, the crowd scattered, their cries echoing through the marble halls like ghosts no one wanted to hear.
A Country of Two Faces
In Manila, the Cultural Center glittered with galas and opera. Imelda, now an icon of grace and ambition, hosted foreign dignitaries as if she ruled a kingdom of dreams. She called it the "New Society of Beauty and Discipline."
But outside the capital, the countryside whispered another name for it—the Gilded Hunger.
Rafael visited Tondo one afternoon and saw the stark contrast. While palaces rose by the bay, families here lived under tin roofs, their floors mud, their water rationed. Children chased paper boats in canals that smelled of rot.
An old woman recognized him. "Sir Rafael," she said softly, "you used to write about hope. Tell me, when will hope come here?"
He had no answer. The silence between them was heavier than any speech.
That night, he wrote again:
"We have become a nation of two faces—one painted in gold, the other in dust. And both pretend not to see each other."
Whispers in the Corridors
By the mid-seventies, rumors swirled through the bureaucracy—stories of generals who owned shipping lines, ministers who received envelopes before signing decrees, foundations that existed only on paper.
A few journalists tried to expose them, but their presses went dark overnight. Those who spoke too loudly found themselves silenced—some through threats, others through "accidents."
Rafael, by then weary but unbroken, kept his notes hidden. He had learned caution in his age, but not surrender. He compiled records, dates, testimonies from forgotten workers and dismissed civil servants. He knew someday these truths would matter, even if no one dared to print them now.
One evening, his old friend Manuel visited him again.
"They say you still write," Manuel whispered. "Be careful, old friend. They have eyes everywhere."
Rafael smiled tiredly. "Then let them watch. History is watching too."
The Warning
Outside, the city glittered as if eternal.
The television showed smiling faces, ribbon cuttings, and parades of military power. "The New Society," the anchors called it—strong, orderly, prosperous.
Yet Rafael knew better. He saw the tremor beneath the marble floors. The debt rising, the prices climbing, the silence deepening.
He looked out his window at the skyline, its towers bathed in electric light, and murmured,
"When the light is too bright, it blinds. And when the music is too loud, it drowns the cries."
He paused, pen in hand, and wrote his final note for that night:
"A nation built on borrowed money and borrowed virtue will one day face its collector. And when that day comes, no title, no monument, and no gilded lie will save it."
The ink dried. The clock ticked on.
Outside, the illusion of progress still glittered.
But deep beneath, unseen, the ground had already begun to crack.
VII. The Cracks Beneath the Marble
By 1976, the New Society gleamed brighter than ever on the surface. The papers spoke of order, the radios sang of progress, and television showed endless parades of soldiers and smiling faces. But behind those rehearsed smiles, whispers began to crawl through the streets like wind through hollow bamboo.
People learned new habits—of silence, of glancing over their shoulders, of lowering their voices when the word government passed their lips. Neighbors greeted each other with forced cheer, but no one lingered too long at another's gate. Somewhere, someone was always listening.
Rafael noticed it first in the eyes of his students and clerks—an unease too deep to name. One afternoon, while reviewing reports at the municipal office, he realized that half the desks were empty. "Transferred," said the clerk beside him. But when Rafael asked where, the man only shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor.
Later that week, he heard that a young journalist had been "invited for questioning." Her articles had spoken too openly of government funds missing from public works. By morning, her name was gone from the paper's masthead. No explanation. No farewell.
Rafael returned home that night to find his typewriter missing—a government aide had "borrowed" it for inspection. He said nothing. He simply sat at his desk, staring at the indent where the machine once stood, as if the absence itself was a warning.
VIII. The Vanishing Voices
A new sound began to haunt the city—the low rumble of trucks passing at midnight, carrying men who would never come home. People called them "the midnight sweepers." Officially, they did not exist. But their tires left marks on the pavement, and the air they left behind smelled faintly of smoke and iron.
One evening, Manuel arrived at Rafael's door, his face grim. "They took Father de Vera," he said quietly. "Dragged him from the rectory. He spoke about land reform last week. They said he was spreading subversion."
Rafael's hand trembled as he poured coffee. "And what of his parish?"
"Empty," Manuel replied. "Even the altar boys are afraid to enter."
Outside, church bells rang the Angelus, but the sound no longer comforted—it felt like mourning.
The Quiet Before the Storm
At the palace, the President appeared on television, smiling under soft lights, his voice calm and paternal. "We are a disciplined people," he declared. "Discipline is the road to freedom." Behind him, Imelda nodded, radiant and serene, as if the nation's pain were merely a shadow to be brushed aside.
But in the slums and the fields, the silence grew unbearable. Markets closed early. Families locked their doors. Every house kept its own small secret—someone hiding, someone missing, someone afraid.
Rafael began writing again, in secret, his words hidden between ledger pages and coded in metaphors. He wrote not for readers but for history itself. He knew the day would come when the truth must speak again.
"Power," he wrote, "is a fire that first warms the hands, then consumes the house."
That night, thunder rolled over Manila. Rain lashed the tin roofs as if the sky itself raged against the silence below. In the distance, the trucks moved again—steady, unhurried, unmerciful.
Rafael blew out his candle, whispering a prayer.
For the nation. For the disappeared. For what was still to come.