Chapter 3 The Breakfast Club or Sulog

From the street level, San Carlos university was an imposing building. It occupied the entire block, from one corner to the other corner of a long street, with its bricks painted impressive green and dirty white. A magnificent structure that reflected knowledge, history, and years and years of labor in molding students to become one whole being, it was the meeting place of a secret organization. In one of the rooms, concern, and worry pervaded in the air. Not too large with a wide window facing the street, the room smelled of antique furnishings and old books. Along the walls were shelves stacked with legal and political tomes which suggested higher learning in the field. Lodged in the main building where the Dean of Law held office, two of the highest-ranking officers held their emergency meeting. 

“This is getting out of hand,” Mr. Anton Silva said, pacing back and forth along the length of the room. He was a university professor, the leader of the group, and was well esteemed by all the members. He was bespectacled with a kind face and a little streak of grey hair above the ears made him looked more respectable. His real name was hidden behind the nom de guerre Enlightened.

“They have eventually penetrated our ranks,” answered back Terry Falconer whose nom de plume was brother Freedom, one of the higher officers. He was also a professor of Law. With hands folded at the back, he was attentive to the elder man.

“Do we have a confirmation it was them again?” asked Enlightened. 

“Who else would do that? Brother Art was already out in the light, exposing himself unnecessarily, without regard for his safety,” said Fr. Sin, another member who was a representative of the faithful who always wore a white polyester cassock with a cross in front.

“But we always use pseudonyms,” said Enlightened confidently. His eyes became glassy. He removed his glasses then wiped them with his handkerchief.

“They must have tracked him down through his style of writing,” answered Fr. Sin. “Or . . . there must have been a leak from our group.”

“I'm doubtful. But, if there's somebody who gave him away, we should know who,” said the old man. “But why in a crowd? They could have done it somewhere else, without witnesses!”

“That was a big question. Perhaps they wanted publicity, to let people know they are still in control,” Freedom said.

Fr. Sin said, “Or they wanted to see if there was a reaction on our part. That way it would be easier to track all of us down.”

Enlightened put his glasses back on. “We have to keep the lid tight.”

“Right…Or all of us will be wiped out, one by one.” Freedom was worried. His head stooped, he was reflecting for reasons and the answers to what's happening recently.

“And I want you to be on the lookout for whoever gave him out,” said Enlightened.

“We should always be vigilant,” retorted Fr. Sin.

This clandestine movement evolved naturally. They started from among a few friends then grew to become the voice of the people. Their attack was non-violent. Their weapon was their intelligence, their bullets their words. As their number grew so did their influence. Most of them came from the academe. They were university professors, intellectuals, religious people, and writers who were vocal against this government they called monsters. Their connection with the media to redress injustices was a subtle one, which gradually pierced a gnawing hole into the monstrous rule. They had writers who wrote striking articles in local newspapers under fictitious names to shield themselves from reprisals and radio commentators who used innuendos or indirect criticisms of the government to reach the majority of the people, extending out to the neighboring towns and villages. Their voice was little but the authoritarian rule had begun to feel their presence. They called themselves Sulog, aptly translated as the current of the river.

The members of Sulog found a common ground to be angry. They had relatives and friends who were victims of this despotic regime.

Enlightened clenched his hand into a fist. “An election should be convened immediately. Somebody must take his place,” he said, his eyes somber.

Lips pursed, Freedom approached the elder man. “As is customary, we'll have to do it during the Breakfast Club meeting, won't we?” he suggested. He was thinking of how he could say it to the members.

If each member had pseudonyms, Sulog had too. It was also called the Breakfast Club, to hide its true identity and that of the members. Breakfast Club was what people knew them openly. Breakfast Club or Sulog, they were one and the same

They never made themselves known or bragged about their accomplishments, ever. Among themselves, they were proud to have induced the people to whisper against the oppressors and the monster. But they kept themselves in the dark. Intellectuals as they were, they were the current, the voice, and the movers who whispered to the people.

“Be sure everybody comes,” said Enlightened.

Fr. Sin and Freedom nodded their heads in agreement.

Fr. Sin volunteered. “Most of the higher ranks will be there. I will send the coded message to each and everyone.”

“By the way, has the article come out yet?” the old man was wondering.

“It will be out tomorrow.” Slowly, Freedom responded.

“I would like to review it before it goes out. Have you contacted our radio commentator?”

“That's done.”

“Let's let people know about this blatant oppression,” Enlightened continued.

“I think they will have it whitewashed,” said Fr. Sin, after listening for a while.

“It's very certain.”

“What's important is for people to know the truth, through our means and we're gaining headway.”

Enlightened asked, “Have we been in touch with his family? I'm sure they would like to know the reason.”

“Yeah, that's done,” Freedom answered. "Also, we should console the wife who´s all the time crying. He was the only breadwinner with four children."

This time, again the monster had shown it was still in charge, devouring anyone who stood in the way. Arthur Marquez was just a pawn on the board. With a heavy heart, they parted ways. But what pleasure would they have other than to see their land being free from the clutches of the monster? They had no other choice but to keep on with the crusade they had started. As they always said the pen was mightier than the guns- a well-greased vehicle for penetrating the minds of the people, to convince them that there was no letting up, that they had to continue fighting for freedom. 

THE WITNESS' ACCOUNT 

I'm a housewife and I have two children. Today is Sinulog festival . . . I've been preparing myself to watch the parade . . . I was excited to see it . . . I bathed my children so that they too could see it with me. After talking with my mother, I decided finally to leave the little one behind with her and went walking with my other daughter to school, where I knew the parade would pass. We stationed ourselves on the spot where I wanted to watch the dancers. It was so sweaty hot because the sun was up in the sky, but we stayed on. Perhaps two hours passed before I expected to see my favorite group. My daughter was complaining of the heat. In that area where we stayed, there were so many people. She used them as a shade from the sun. Most of them were my neighbors. I noticed Arthur Marquez beside me. He was a nice guy, about fifty. I know his family because we lived next to their house. He had four children. I don't know where he worked. But my neighbors said that he was a writer in one of the newspapers in town. I remarked that I like the African tribe and I heard him say that he too liked them. About five hundred meters from us, the group was coming. Then I felt the crowd pushing each other to get a good view. I pity the fat policeman who was controlling the crowd because nobody listened to him. Some sneered at him. You know . . . people misbehave especially when they're in a group. Then suddenly, I saw Arthur Marquez slump on the pavement. I had no clues as to what was happening to him. People said that perhaps he passed out or he must have been drunk. But when I saw blood coming out from his head spread on the pavement, I 

knew it was not the case. So, I moved backward far away from him pulling my daughter with me. when I saw two young men who also backed away on a motorcycle which was parked against the wall on the school ground. I couldn't identify them because they were wearing helmets. Then I saw them speed away from us on that motorcycle. They were young in their twenties. I could tell so because of their appearance: they wore blue jeans and shirts, and they're slim. One was fatter though, but I could still say that he's young.