Soliman Santos, Jr. – a retired judge, a lawyer by profession – possessed a unique understanding of the Communist Party of the Philippines and its complex history. Had fate led him to academia, he might have become the definitive chronicler of this pivotal movement, a historian capturing its essence with unparalleled insight.
For over half a century, Sol, known affectionately as “Booj,” has meticulously documented the revolutionary struggle, not as an outsider, but as a participant. Beginning as a high school activist, he evolved into a propagandist and cadre within the Samahang Demokratiko ng Kabataan, a “militant and groovy” mass organization that shaped his early convictions.
Though self-described as an amateur, Sol approached history with a rare blend of objectivity, intellectual honesty, and a healthy skepticism. He compensated for any lack of formal polish with a “labor of love,” driven by a deep commitment to understanding the forces that shaped his nation.
His home in Canaman, Camarines Sur, isn’t merely a residence; it’s an archive. Stacks of original CPP documents and treasured memorabilia fill the space, much to the playful exasperation of his wife, Doods. For Sol, these aren’t relics to be discarded, but vital reminders of a “continuing past” – a history that demands to be remembered.
This “continuing past” isn’t confined to the pages of history books for Sol. His activism didn’t end with the restoration of democracy after the Marcos dictatorship; it simply transformed. He continues to closely follow the CPP, regularly sharing insights and analyses with friends, urging them to engage with the movement’s evolving ideology.
Recently, he circulated the CPP’s 57th anniversary statement, prompting a renewed examination of its current direction. The document revealed a period of “rectification” and a renewed emphasis on study – a moment ripe for historical reflection.
This prompted a return to Sol’s own work, specifically his book *Tigaon 1969*. It’s a compelling account of the CPP’s formative years in the Bicol region, detailing how a small group of activists laid the groundwork for a powerful movement in a region defined by stark inequality and political control.
Tigaon, a poor agricultural town, was dominated by powerful landlords and entrenched political dynasties. It was within this volatile environment that five individuals – Marco Baduria, Nonito Zape, David Brucelas, Francisco Portem, and Ibarra Tubaniosa – began to sow the seeds of revolution.
Rereading *Tigaon 1969*, striking parallels emerged between the conditions preceding Ferdinand Marcos Sr.’s declaration of martial law in 1972 and the current political climate. A sense of déjà vu settled in, a chilling echo of past crises.
In 1969, the nation was reeling from a contested election marred by “guns, goons, and gold.” The resulting economic instability fueled widespread protests, driven by fears that Marcos Sr. sought to extend his rule beyond constitutional limits. The youth spearheaded this movement, gaining support from the middle class and opposition politicians.
Today, the Marcos Jr. administration faces a similar wave of discontent, sparked by allegations of gross greed, corruption, and misgovernance. Massive budget violations and political patronage have ignited public outrage, mirroring the economic anxieties of the past.
Once again, the youth are at the forefront of protests, echoing the activism of the late 1960s and early 1970s. While largely peaceful, the potential for escalation looms, fueled by political fractures and the threat of intervention.
The political landscape is deeply divided. The rift between the Marcoses and the Dutertes is irreparable, and internal conflicts within the Marcos circle are intensifying, evidenced by recent resignations of key figures. This instability mirrors the conditions that preceded the declaration of martial law.
It is this comparative backdrop that lends *Tigaon 1969* its renewed relevance. The book offers crucial lessons for any movement seeking to navigate the complexities of political change.
Sol’s primary goal was to document the founding of the Bicol CPP, challenging the official narrative with compelling primary evidence. But the book’s true power lies in its broader insights.
First, the importance of a compelling narrative – a “political line” – capable of igniting popular support. The “first five” in Tigaon succeeded not through extensive training or weaponry, but through their unwavering commitment to connecting with the local community and articulating a message of resistance.
They understood that a powerful narrative – the necessity of armed revolution to address oppression and improve lives – was their most potent weapon. They were “molecules” in the movement, largely unknown figures who nonetheless made history.
Sol emphasizes the need to recognize these “small voices,” these unsung heroes whose contributions are often overlooked in grand historical narratives. He consciously sought to amplify their stories, ensuring they wouldn’t be “forever shut out.”
The lessons of Tigaon 1969 are clear: shape a narrative that resonates with the present mood and trust in the capacity of ordinary people to drive change. Today, the Dutertes and Marcoses command such narratives, while revolutionary and liberal movements struggle with outdated ideologies and fragmented leadership.
The search for a new unifying figure continues, but *Tigaon 1969* reminds us that leadership can emerge from unexpected places – from the ranks of committed, inspired individuals willing to dedicate themselves to a cause.
