In the late ’80s, as the country struggled to rebuild after the Marcos dictatorship, a young John Ruiz from Bohol began asking questions: Why were prices rising? Why were students angry? Why were people still poor?
He was still in high school, Batch ‘86, active from ‘88 to ‘89, when he became a community youth leader. With his peers in their youth circle, they would gather and discuss national issues they heard over the radio.
Driven by this early political awakening, John pursued a degree in Medical Technology at Southwestern University in Cebu. But when his father passed away, he was forced to stop studying and return to Bohol.
There, his leadership continued. He became an SK chairman, later rising to Municipal SK Federation chair. After serving his terms, he returned to Cebu to finish his studies. Upon graduating, he went back to Bohol, this time with even deeper conviction.
In 1999, John became chairman of Anakbayan Bohol, then rose to become Bayan Bohol’s secretary general and later the Bayan Muna coordinator for the province. His organizing skills and dedication eventually led him to serve as Bayan Muna’s regional coordinator for Central Visayas, prompting his return to Cebu once again.
The evolution of activism
“There were no smartphones, no Facebook back then,” he says. “But there were radios, school debates and the streets. That’s where we learned to organize.”
John has witnessed the dramatic shift in activism, from face-to-face forums and street protests to online organizing and social media backlash. He notes how debates that once happened in public halls now unfold in the comment sections, often against anonymous trolls and red-taggers.
Yet, despite the noise, he sees hope.
“Today’s youth are just as active. They’re bombarded with issues, especially the ongoing corruption in government, and they’re choosing to fight back.”
For John, martial law is not just a historical event. It’s a system of silencing that still echoes today.
“We’re still here,” he says. “Because martial law was never just about the 1970s. It’s a system of repression. And we refuse to be silent.”
Before the youth took to the streets, the farmers marched barefoot for land. Greg Perez remembers it well.
It was the 1960s in Kabankalan, Negros Occidental. Even before martial law, injustice was already rooted deep in the soil. Landlords ruled and peasants starved. By the 1980s, Greg was a high school student. In 1983, he was inspired by a teacher, an activist, who opened his eyes to the struggle. Together with classmates, many of them children of farmers, they began joining protests over issues gripping the country.
In 1985, Greg joined local farmers’ groups alongside his parents. That same year, in the heat of hunger and repression, he walked in a 100-kilometer “long march” across Negros, demanding land reform and justice.
“We had no organization names, no banners,” Greg recalls. “Just our voices, our feet and the land we were fighting for.”
The Marcos regime’s military crackdown left scars. Friends disappeared. Some never returned. Even peaceful protests were met with violence and fear.
“During martial law, the situation was strict. We were always afraid of the army,” he says.
Still, they marched.
Why an old fight still matters today
In 1993, Greg moved to Cebu to work as a jeepney driver, continuing to carry with him the struggles of the countryside. In 2006, he joined Piston Cebu, a transport workers’ alliance, and today serves as its chairman.
Now in the streets of Cebu, Greg fights not only for farmers, but for drivers, workers and the poor, still under threat from unjust policies, red-tagging and the erosion of democratic rights.
On Monday, Jaime, John and Greg will once again be on the streets, this time not only to remember the horrors of the past, but to confront the injustices of the present. Together with fellow activists, workers, students and advocates, they show the enduring power of the people. They march to condemn the corruption that festers in government, to resist repression in all its modern forms and to assert that the fight for justice and democracy is far from over.
In the shadows of Marcos Sr.’s martial law, a young Jaime Paglinawan stood defiant.
It was 1982 when Jaime first joined protest rallies against the dictatorship. The streets were tense, the military presence was overwhelming and dissent was dangerous, but Jaime, barely in his 20s, was already unafraid to speak out.
By 1983, just months after the assassination of Ninoy Aquino, AMA Sugbo-KMU (a local labor center) was established in Cebu. Jaime became its vice chairman at just 22 years old. While many young people were still finding their path, Jaime had already chosen his.
Today, at 65, Jaime still marches, still organizes, still fights. As chairman of Bayan Cebu, he continues to lead mass actions against injustice, corruption and repression.
While the country is no longer under official martial law, Jaime warns that the tools of tyranny remain: Red-tagging. The Anti-Terror Law. Surveillance. Harassment.
He is even among the 27 falsely accused in the Cernet terrorist financing case, despite not being a staff member, board member, or in any way involved.
“There is no martial law on now,” he says. “But we see the same tactics, now under the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict. The intent to silence is the same.”
On Monday, Sept. 21, as the nation commemorates the declaration of martial law, Jaime once again joins fellow workers, students and activists in protest. They call for justice for martial law victims, for an end to human rights violations and for accountability in a government mired in corruption.
Jaime also draws a clear line when asked about extreme protests seen abroad like the burning of buildings in Nepal and Indonesia.
“We don’t believe in that,” he says. “Our protest is peaceful. We raise our voices, not our fists. We condemn corruption, but we will not become the violence we resist.”
Four decades later, Jaime Paglinawan is still marching. Not for himself, but for the workers, the poor and the next generation who refuse to forget.
“This is not just about remembering martial law,” he says. “It’s about making sure it never happens again.”
In the late ’80s, as the country struggled to rebuild after the Marcos dictatorship, a young John Ruiz from Bohol began asking questions: Why were prices rising? Why were students angry? Why were people still poor?
He was still in high school, Batch ‘86, active from ‘88 to ‘89, when he became a community youth leader. With his peers in their youth circle, they would gather and discuss national issues they heard over the radio.
Driven by this early political awakening, John pursued a degree in Medical Technology at Southwestern University in Cebu. But when his father passed away, he was forced to stop studying and return to Bohol.
There, his leadership continued. He became an SK chairman, later rising to Municipal SK Federation chair. After serving his terms, he returned to Cebu to finish his studies. Upon graduating, he went back to Bohol, this time with even deeper conviction.
In 1999, John became chairman of Anakbayan Bohol, then rose to become Bayan Bohol’s secretary general and later the Bayan Muna coordinator for the province. His organizing skills and dedication eventually led him to serve as Bayan Muna’s regional coordinator for Central Visayas, prompting his return to Cebu once again.
The evolution of activism
“There were no smartphones, no Facebook back then,” he says. “But there were radios, school debates and the streets. That’s where we learned to organize.”
John has witnessed the dramatic shift in activism, from face-to-face forums and street protests to online organizing and social media backlash. He notes how debates that once happened in public halls now unfold in the comment sections, often against anonymous trolls and red-taggers.
Yet, despite the noise, he sees hope.
“Today’s youth are just as active. They’re bombarded with issues, especially the ongoing corruption in government, and they’re choosing to fight back.”
For John, martial law is not just a historical event. It’s a system of silencing that still echoes today.
“We’re still here,” he says. “Because martial law was never just about the 1970s. It’s a system of repression. And we refuse to be silent.”