THE ACTIVISM OF MONICA FERIA

By Philip M. Lustre Jr.

THE late journalist Monica Feria and I are friends; we get along well. Incidentally, I prefer to use the present tense because, despite her sudden demise, I sincerely feel she has not left us.

Because we did not have the chance to work together in a single news outfit, or because we did not stay in a single beat for a long time, Monica and I are not particularly that close. But we are kindred spirits. That's what matters, as far as I am concerned.

I know where Monica stands from an intellectual standpoint. Because we were born on the same year (1954) and only separated by a few months, Monica and I belong to the same generation, which the Marcos dictatorship had sought to destroy just to cling to political power.

In brief, Monica and I share the same worldview. I know her politics; she knows mine. We do not have to meet often to prove where we stand politically; we’re always comfortable with each other’s politics.

Monica Feria, a woman of integrity and intellectual prowess, has always been politically honest. I could not recall she has shown any intellectual dishonesty and pretension. What she shows is exactly what you get. Monica has always been Monica.

I first saw Monica during the turbulent days of 1971, when every student worth his salt took to the streets to protest the emerging dictatorship. The intellectual ferment of that period enabled us to walk side by side in pursuit of the same political objectives, beliefs, and advocacy.

It was easy to spot Monica from the throngs of humanity, who joined the emerging “parliament of the streets” of those days. A mestiza beauty with a near perfect shaped body honed by years of gymnastics made her a standout from the rest of prostesters, most of whom had sun-burned skin, a legacy of the frequent street demonstrations and rallies against the Marcos rule. She did not know me during those days, but I knew her.

She did not belong to the delegations of perfumed “collegialas” from exclusive schools or the sweeaty "makamasa" groups from the lesser schools; she came from where else but the University of the Philippines, then a hotbed of student dissidence during the Marcos years.

In 1977, or the year I started my journalism career, I met Monica in a news coverage, introduced myself, and sat on the same table to hear the news makers. I told Monica that I knew her during our student activism days because I always saw her during those street protest demonstrations. 

I told her I knew his father Rodrigo, an English literature teacher, who was among those maverick teachers, who were dismissed by the University of the East (I was a student there and my friend Roger Mangahas was included in the group) upon declaration of martial law in 1972.   

Monica did not talk. I understood perfectly well. She was working in the crony newspaper, the Daily Express; I was with a business newspaper. It was the height of the Marcos dictatorship and anyone who showed some anti-Marcos tendencies faced any of the two possibilities: imprisonment or summary execution. But she gave me a sweet smile, as if to say it was perfectly fine and confirm we were to be friends henceforth.

Piqued by the repressive environment in the crony paper, Monica joined the Agence France Press and worked in its Manila bureau along with Teddy Benigno, its bureau chief, and Mario Baluyot, an equally  intrepid journalist, who was Ralph Baylosis’s seatmate at UP. By that time, I joined the Manila bureau of Jiji Press, the Japanese news agency.

It was during the early 1980s that I came to know Monica a little better. We frequently covered the same events, circulated in basically the same circles of friends and colleagues (until now, we do), and, oftentimes, compared notes on many topics. By this time, I had come to confirm and reconfirm that Monica had not changed her politics. I am sure that Monica has understood too that neither did I change my politics.

In brief, we were realistic to understand that we have to take our activism not to the mountains to pursue what was described the “unfinished revolution,” but to the journalistic profession, where we aptly belong. There were times we discussed our politics and we agreed on many issues and points.

We both adhere to politics of change. We like to see our country to take off economically and get rid of the mass poverty that keeps on gripping the country until now. We believe that we have to use our pen to change the world and the country to become a little better.

I swear before the graveyards of my beloved grandmother, who raised me, and my mother to say that Monica did not in any way support or cavort with the Marcos dictatorship, which personified everything that was evil in the country. We have shared the same disdain for the misery and mass poverty that the dictatorship had given us to this day.

I have understood later that Monica had settled after those turbulent years to a life of domesticity to raise a family. But she has rejoined a few years ago to work as desk editor in the Philippine Daily Inquirer. She could have chosen to retire. But I know it’s the activist in her that had pushed her to work again.

Just to prove her activism and, of course, sense of fairness and objectivity as a journalist, Monica called up to get my side on the controversy triggered by my Facebook post that the sick old man from the South had throat cancer. 

I did not bother to know where she got my cell phone number, which came mostly likely from one of my editor-friends there, but the point was Monica, as desk editor, wanted to present a balanced news account of the controversy. That was sometime in September, 2015.

I gave my side by text message, of course, but Monica left the word for me to save her cell phone numbers so that I could reach her if any necessity comes. She even admonished for the lost contact we had for years. “Nandiyan ka lang pala (you’re only there),” she told me with an air of sisterly affection.

My statement, in its entirety (no word was changed or erased), came out of the Philippine Daily Inquirer report the following day. In fact, it was the only paper that carried my side. Yes, it was handiwork of Monica, the activist I have known for more than four decades. 

Her activism will always be remembered.  Rest in peace, Monica.