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THE
ralliers rushed down the short stretch of Epifanio de los
Santos Avenue from Boni Serrano Street to Ortigas Avenue,
as if they were in a hurry to catch up with a long-lost
legacy.
And maybe
they were.
Down Edsa,
scores of protesters marched past the billboard of Krispy
Kreme announcing the First Couple’s family credo: “Share
the love.”
THE man who calls himself
Christ the King, flanked by his subalterns, lends color to
the February 25 rally.
--RED CONSTANTINO
The
ralliers had broken through the first barricade earlier,
around half-past 2 in the afternoon. Exploiting breaches
in the police line just in front of
Camp Aguinaldo,
the marchers raced to reach the shrine built to
commemorate the uprising that toppled the Marcos
dictatorship 22 years ago.
It was a
modest-sized rally with high emotions and far from
diffident battle cries. Almost every third person seemed
to be holding an organizational flag or placard bearing
the face of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo and words such as
“corrupt,” “evil” and “thief.”
Signs it
was to be a peculiar day were everywhere.
Beneath a
billboard advertising the services of The Facial Spa,
which guaranteed a new you, two protesters pause, tired
from running and carrying aloft a large banner painted
with “No to Gloria! No to Noli!” while shouting slogans
against another round of cosmetic changes in the
government.
Just
before the flyover to
Rosario Boulevard,
right below the billboard of Toy Kingdom: The Amazing
Toy Store, policemen unload shiny shields and truncheons,
and position a bright-red firetruck to block the ralliers.
But the
obstruction is permeable and the demonstrators stream
through.
Minutes
later, at the foot of the Edsa Shrine, the march reaches
its limit. The police have an easier time securing the
shrine’s perimeter, with the help of a hallowed
device—around the monument constructed to celebrate the
anti-Marcos protests, a steel fence keeps out protesters.
A huge
sign in obscene fuchsia warns pedestrians and protesters
alike: “Walang Tawiran: Nakamamatay”—“Deadly: No
Crossing.” On the wall of a mall behind the monument, a
Convergys ad counsels a dissenting view: “Break through!”
The
marchers heed neither message. They occupy the entire
street, then break out into clusters. Some chant messages
against the Arroyo government, while others exchange
stories and eat peanuts and grilled dried squid.
Many are
laughing, though most are angry. Which is normal. They are
from the Philippines. They are as Filipino as the small
bizarre group dressed in sandals and religious garb
singing strange hymns and straddling the island in the
middle of the street.
I approach
them to listen to their songs and stand beside a man with
long black hair, clothed in a white cassock with golden
piping. He leans closer, and whispers they are all
representatives of the Holy Spirit Divine Government. Then
he introduces me to the tall, gaunt man beside him: “This
is Christ the King.”
Okay.
Christ the
King has long scruffy white hair and a Ho Chi Minh-style
goatee. He is wearing a very red hat with white trimming
and yellow vestments beneath a flowing crimson robe. He is
holding a wooden staff in one hand; the other is raised
and shaking to the rhythm of the singing.
“Hello
there,” I say with a slight bow. Christ the King smiles
back. He has no teeth. No, holy cow, he has three.
Where are
you from, I ask. “I am everywhere,” he answers.
“Christ,”
I mumble. “Yes,” he nods, still smiling.
Christ the
King tells me later that he grew up in Bulacan, but that
he is now based in Cubao. I smile; it’s nice to know
we’re both connected to an earthly abode.
The King
points to the long-haired man on his left. “This is Ave
Grajo. He is my right-hand man.” He points to the woman on
his right and introduces me: “This is Santisima Trinidad.
She is in charge of joy and light.”
I see.
“You do?”
Ave asked. “Christ the King can perform miracles through
the Nazareno,” Ave said. Show me, I tell Mr. King. The
King nods and stretches out an arm. He points to the
dark, cloud-heavy sky. His eyes flutter and he mutters:
“There will be rain.”
Why are
you here, I ask the King.
“The
deluge to end all calamities is near,” he answers. “It is
time to repent. It is time to acknowledge the true King.”
And who
might that be?
“Me.”
Don’t you
think people will find you crazy, I ask.
“Who is
crazy?” Christ the King replies.
It’s a
fair question, actually.
In front
of a protest shrine, there is someone who calls himself
Jesus Christ. And in a mansion by a river, someone calls
herself President. And she’s still there. |
