What was it like when the donkey cart bearing the once powerful to their execution by hanging, by garrote or beheading, made its way through crowds pelting spit or stones or eggs which, when they broke open, dripped like viscousmuc… | Luisa A. Igloria June 17 | What was it like when the donkey cart bearing the once powerful to their execution by hanging, by garrote or beheading, made its way through crowds pelting spit or stones or eggs which, when they broke open, dripped like viscous mucus down the once impeccably powdered face of the woman who scornfully wanted to throw pastry at these peasant tormentors? I wasn't there, but I remember the EDSA Revolution of 1986: thousands poured into the streets—nuns and civil servants, holding hands with activists at the frontline. For days, my literature teacher made hundreds of sandwiches to hand out to all, including armed and mute-faced soldiers: soggy tuna salad on white bread, fakely pink rounds of salami and cheese sweating in their cellophane wrappers in the electric heat of that day. While crowds scaled the palace walls, the dictator and his family scrambled into helicopters to be airlifted to Hawai'i; exiled. People poured into their previous fortress, losing themselves in wardrobes and closets; a horde of bees stunned inside a forest made of thousands of shoes, hung with useless tapestries of gossamer and pearl. | | | |
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