Good-bye Cory

After watching people in yellow, who have lined up for three, four, five hours, and soaking in the rain—some eating whatever they could buy from vendors in lieu of dinner, lunch or breakfast—holding up yellow ribbons, balloons, and hand-made posters expressing their deep gratitude to President Cory and their grief on her passing, there was no excuse good enough for us to miss saying good-bye in the streets where Cory made her call for the restoration of democracy.

That sentence is the longest I have permitted myself to write, ever.

It is matched only by the long funeral march the country watched non-stop on TV for over nine hours, in addition to the two-hour necrological service. In the workplace, that would have meant, employees skipped a lunch hour and two coffee breaks, worked overtime, and grumbled.

There was zero grumbling on August 5. It was a day of sobs, and reminiscences of the late 80's and early 90's, and celebratory Cory! Cory! Cory! with matching laban (fight) hand sign.

There was also zero reason not to be counted. While the rain poured, Tony and I decided to wait for the cortège at the Manila Memorial Park entrance. But, to our surprise, we got invited in and before we could say thank you, we slogged through slosh and soaked grass, and made our way to the tent where the 200 invited relatives and guests were to be seated, 15 meters away from the tomb.


At that hour, 12:30 PM, there were already over 2,000 people milling about in the area, despite the very strict entry procedures at the gate which remained tightly guarded to keep out the massive crowd that had gathered as early as 5:00 AM, extending many kilometers on both sides of the road. Deja vu.

The funeral convoy wouldn’t arrive till 7:30 PM. But as in EDSA 1, people were patient, warm, sharing their food and water, expressing their respect for fellowmen, as though everyone has been a friend for years. In the same tent were one head of state (Jose Ramos Horta of East Timor, Nobel Peace prize awardee), government officials, journalists, nuns, priests, movie stars, memorial park agents, employees, Juan de la Cruz, an adman and his wife, an author.

As Cory would have wanted it, there was no seating hierarchy. The intermittent rain played no favorites either. All TV cameras were wrapped with plastic and the media vehicles were refuge to the on-camera talents and production crew.

Huge video walls updated us on the progress of the funeral convoy. It was heartwarming and heartbreaking to watch multitudes waiting for a glimpse of the flatbed truck bearing the remains of the reluctant leader who mobilized a nation to unleash its power in changing the circumstances that bound it.

As in life, Cory's last march was at once majestic and basic. After the canon boomed 21 times, and the army, police, marine, and air force marched and saluted the carriage in perfect cadence, a throng, a horde of people, many of them barefooted, surged forward like a dam had suddenly burst. They quickly inundated one area across the place of rites in record speed.


On one side was the discipline of ritual. "Ten-shun!"

On the other was the spontaneity of love. "Cory! Cory! Cory!"

As Tony and I walked away from the tomb, I took a shot of the now-empty flatbed truck occupied by young people flashing the laban sign.


Hundreds more raptly watched a replay of the funeral rites on video walls. And at the gate, there were dozens of all kinds of slippers, lost and left in the mad rush to get in, when the gate was opened for the cortege.

Like her husband's, Cory's tomb is stark. There is no epitaph on the unpretentious resting place. Just her name, the date of her birth and death, and "Cory."

That's more than enough.

When we read or hear the name "Cory," we each draw from that part of our heart where we write epitaphs—words of grace that make us remember, in our own personal way, the rare icons who have made us feel better, oh-so-much-better, about our country.