The bridge was called “Colgante,” which in Spanish means “hanging.” It was a suspension bridge. It linked the two disparate neighborhoods of the city: one poor and in the 70s still rural and another elite. Dayangdang was this other side, quarters to the calesas that plied selected routes in the city; the other side had and still has the Archbishop’s Palace, the convent and school of the Daughters of Charity and old houses scented by old money and older politics.
When Colgante fell down in 1972, the Virgin was going back to her Shrine (there was no Basilica then). When it fell, people went down crashing into the murky waters of the river. More than a hundred died. No one had the right figure of the casualties – a hundred, two hundred, no one knew. No one knows. In this country, as in ships that ferry lives, bridges are not sites where one counts the population that walks over it.
When Colgante fell down, I was with high school friends home for the fiesta. I left home with everyone in the family knowing that we would be just somewhere at the Colgante Bridge to watch the fluvial procession. Reaching Santonja and seeing the crowd, we retreated and thought of an option. We decided to go to the home of Maria Elena Peña, the first girl, the first woman to grace the Blue and Gold school paper. Why she was selected and why we even opted to have a cover girl escapes recall.
At 3 pm, there we were eating peanuts and salad and engaging in conversations as light as the peanuts and salad we were feasting on. And talking with Maria Elena. Like the peanuts and the salad, the conversation went on and on.
Conversations end and bridges fall. That was the lesson we learned as we were walking back to Centro by way of Panganiban. From afar we could see Mang Edong Morales. In those days, there were just two names in photography known to the Catholic schools around the old cathedral: Mang Edong’s and that of the Bragais. No one went to Arevalo’s, that was UNC’s territory.
We approached Mang Edong and realized that he was all wet. Nagaba, Noy an Colgante. I am not sure if we helped him but we rushed to the area. Grief and despair mobbed the scene. Names were being screamed. Roger Diaz, now an officer in the military, remembered the scene as a wet hell.
It was almost past six in the evening when I went home. From the street, I could sense that the house was full of people. All the lights were on. The door was open leading to the stairs going up to the second floor. Someone sensed my movement and looked down. There was a chorus of sounds: a scream, a shout, some crying. My sister was crying. A grandmother’s voice in Tigaonon, went above the din: Ayaw na pag-uriti! (Don’t scold him anymore!)
When the excitement subsided, I was informed that earlier, uncles and a brother and a cousin had already gone to radio stations verifying the Valiente announced as one of those who died in the accident. That they had gone to the provincial hospital and other sites to check the corpses. That it was not easy pulling off a sheet from a body and checking if that was indeed the missing brother. I could not remember anything else at home. I did not even explain where I was for that would have been the most trivial explanation for that day.
Death always eludes explanation. Death, however, on a day of celebration of faith, demands doubts. And when faith remained even with the deaths, life loses all explanations.
A few days after Colgante went crashing down, Martial Law was declared. Years into Martial Law, the Virgin went missing. Days after She disappeared, Malacañang flew in by helicopter one rainy day an image donated by the Marcoses. I was with Archbishop Alberto when we met the image at UNC. The first words he said: Bako ini si Ina. He was referring to the image. I took it literally. That was not the Virgin of this poor land.