True Grit

Interview by Shawn Yao

The popular image of Gregorio Honasan, the rebel soldier always on the run known as “Gringo,” continues to endure even if the man himself, now a statesman and senator of the Republic, is already keen to put that legacy firmly into perspective

“I put my money where my mouth is. And I have the wounds, physical, psychological, emotional to show for it.”

January 27, 2011 will go down in history as the day Senator Antonio Trillanes told ex-AFP Chief Angelo Reyes that he had no reputation to uphold, the day Colonel George Rabusa accused the unsuspecting Reyes of partaking in corruption while in the military. The insinuations took the heat off—at least for that day—ex-Comptroller Carlos Garcia.

It was also the day UNO had an audience with Senator Gregorio “Gringo” Honasan, who had inhibited himself from the said hearing, citing the fact that Comptroller Garcia is his “mistah.” As the hearing was being broadcast on television (but on mute in his office) we chat about 1986, life on the field, life on the run, urban myths, family, fitness, and finally being home.

The last time you were caught, you said something to the effect that, “I’m tired of running, I’m old.”

I’m tired of the entire system. It has been an interesting run, 62 years to be exact. Now, I’m working on legacy, not in terms of what positions I’ve held, the notoriety I’ve acquired— rightly or wrongly— but legacy in terms of my children.

There’s an urban legend that has you sky diving with a boa constrictor…

Allow me to tell you a short story. When I was assigned to the Sierra Madre in the ‘70s, there were only 11 of us in a Special Forces team. Our mission was to stop the rebel groups who were bringing in shipments of firearms. There was no entertainment whatsoever, and our transistor radios were unreliable. So, one time, our chickens—part of our early warning system—started making noise all at the same time. We went in to tactical mode: everyone got their firearms and started assessing the situation. So we start moving forward and examining our inner perimeter and, lo and behold, there was a baby python. I asked myself: “What is the use of these animals? Nothing. It feeds every twenty-seven days on live prey. If you want to feed it meat already cut up, you have to force-feed it.” That’s how I ended up with my first baby python.

As legend goes, the snake was wrapped around your body.

No, that’s media. First of all, if I kept it around my neck, there’s a possibility that it would choke me to death because it constricts. Second, it might have fallen off.

It was in my pocket. At that time, I expected that fact that I had my 3-foot python in my pocket, 6000 feet above Fort Masaysay in Nueva Ecija to be downplayed. It was 1986, and there were much more serious stuff.

Did you keep it?

I kept it until this other jump, where it got crushed under a parachute in a little bag. After that, my reputation started becoming public knowledge among the small military community.

How many times have you skydived?

About 3000 times (laughs). And my parachute did not open about seven times.

How did you get through those?

We have a reserve parachute, and of course the first word I utter is not the name of my wife or any of my children, I say “God!” So, I believe in God, yes! (Laughs)

Did you pack your own parachute?

Yes, of course! You still have an 80 percent chance of making a mistake even if you do it right— that’s only a 20 percent chance it will open. That’s like one accident every 10,000 jumps. Those are statistics! I’ve had seven malfunctions out of 3000—not bad! I’m still here in front of you.

Which is more fun, being a soldier or a legislator?

A soldier. There are more variables in being a legislator. Things are not what they seem at face value. You can’t even trust your instincts because it’s a different ball game, another battlefield. When you are a soldier, every thing is cut and dried. There’s an objective, you accomplish it, then you go back and you take R & R. Sleep three days straight and [then] back on your feet again.

As a legislator, you are responsible for making laws. That is an enormous responsibility, and the point of impact is when you vote—for or against—whether you are prepared or not. How you vote will impact people in the long-term. That takes its toll on you. The pressure, responsibility, and impact on what you believe will be the future of your children, grandchildren, and those of other Filipinos who trust you with their lives, with their future.

Would you have wanted to be a general?

Yes, but I didn’t. I was dishonorably discharged for a while—without the breaking of the saber on my shoulder, as we see on TV and movies—because of the uprisings that I participated in for which I have been forgiven through an amnesty proclamation. All benefits had been restored and providentially, I am in an interesting place now as a Senator of the Republic, from the darkness (literally) to the light. No regrets.

In the years after EDSA, how did it feel to be the object of desire while playing a key role in the event? 

You know, I don’t look at it that way. I think one of the most terrible things that happened in my life was my loss of anonymity. It’s hard to bring your children to the mall, though I still did. You can’t do what normal fathers and grandparents do. Your life changes. There’s an analogy, but I don’t want to make that analogy.

Oh please sir…

It’s like losing your virginity. Things changed.

Of course you wouldn’t have been oblivious to the fact that a lot of women found you terribly attractive?

Well, not according to my wife and children who went through a period of culture shock. But it wasn’t that extreme. They just couldn’t understand why I was getting all this attention when all I did was be an ordinary soldier responding to an extraordinary situation.

But you certainly looked the most virile of the iconic EDSA figures.

It’s just doing my job—not only to look the part, but also to be the part. In 1986, we were prepared to die, but we were not prepared to do what was necessary, to become true revolutionaries that would push for fundamental changes. President Marcos, and the next president, and again in 2001. You have to look at more systemic changes for it to be lasting and fundamental. The plan was to attack Malacañang, no concept whatsoever of People Power. We did not want to harm the occupants but present them to our people for judgment. We also wanted a national unification council that would pave the way for a calibrated transition to democracy, not leave the doors open, resulting in the things we observe now.

I had a force of 250 men and had to lead 30 men to assault the palace against 2000 men. Red (Kapunan) was leading a group of about 200 people with the late Congressman Coronel Aguinaldo against 6000 across the Pasig. The odds were not good. We were prepared to die and deliver the message that there were still decent elements inside the armed forces. At the start of meetings, we would find ourselves silent, and we’d look at each other and cry. Special Forces, Rangers, Airbornes—crying. It was a moral dilemma, going against the only president we knew. The problem? We did not die. Big problem. Big, big, problem.

In 1986, when the former president announced that a plot had been uncovered, and he mentioned my name and one of our members in the Reformed Armed Forces Movement, he was telling the truth but his credibility had been lost. My wife was watching and said: “Ano nanaman itong pinaggagagawa ninyo?” I stuttered: “This is something that I have to do, not for myself but for our country and for my people.” She said, “Okay” and gave two conditions: “do not surrender, and do not get caught.” With that, I was bullet proof, shock proof, anti-magnetic. I acquired an aura of invincibility. I went down and talked to some nuns, they asked me what I would do if the forces of the government attacked. I said, “I guess we will have to teach them a lesson.” They started clapping, and I didn’t know why. What’s so spectacular about a group of soldiers?

On the 24th, (then defense minister) Juan Ponce Enrile and Butz Aquino mounted that improvised stage. Enrile started saying, “This all happened because… of some young officers decided to make a stand not against any government but for good government.” And then he pulls me from the group and said, “This is one of them!” And then a million flashbulbs exploded, and I lost my anonymity.

And you have the name. Gringo is perfect. 

Gringo was from my cadet days. My name is Gregorio, after my grandfather. The upperclassmen said that Gregorio was baduy, old-fashioned. So they glamorized it. Spaghetti Westerns with Clint Eastwood were all the rage. “Gringo! I kill you for…”

So that’s really where your name came from?

Yes, that’s my stuntman name, but my friends call me Greg.

What is the secret of hiding well?

Anonymity. Something I lost.

But you lost your anonymity, and you were still able to hide well.

Yes, but I used costumes. One time I was in drag.

Were you in heels?

No, it affects your mobility. So I sat there, relaxing as if all is okay, and this cigarette vendor recognized me. That was the time I had 5 million on my head. I’ve stayed inside a coffin, on a stretcher, pretended to be a priest—which I had wanted to be earlier in life. I’ve given up sunlight, not getting necessary vitamins from it. I’ve woken up sweating, crying, bleeding.

Tell us something that we don’t know about Juan Ponce Enrile.

A father figure to me, but difficult to love as one. When you get to know him, you’ll begin to understand that he will be the best president that we will never have, because he is 86. But he’s Senate President. I feel pride and joy when I call him Mr. President.

On the senate floor…

Yes, but I don’t make that distinction anymore. He is my surrogate father that happens to be president of something. If it were the presidency of the homeowner’s association, I would’ve been just as proud.

How do you address him?

“Sir.” I have never gotten as close as whispering distance from his ears, it has always been straightforward, up front.

You have never called him Manong Johnny?

He insists on my calling him Manong Johnny. I call him Manong Johnny in front of other people because that’s what he wants, but privately, naturally, spontaneously, I call him “Sir.”

Part of a soldier’s work is the taking of lives; do you remember how many people you’ve killed?

I blackout my memory box. It’s not a pleasant experience. Even indirectly, even if it’s constitutional, for national security, self-defense… these are abstract. When you’re there, it’s very different. When I made this transition, this evolution for the better, I realized the value of human life, whatever side you are on. That is why I’m pushing for the peace process; this violence has to stop. But we have some work to do; we have to get a clear sense of our long-term policy.

There is a serious talk about the death penalty. Are you for or against it?

No. I have no data that would back up the claim that it would deter or significantly reduce crime. What would significantly reduce crime would be the certainty of resolution, absolution, or a verdict of capital punishment—the laws have to be strengthened. It’s not a burden that we impose only on our justice system or on the police; this is a war against citizenry. The criminals are saying that we can kill, we can murder, we can mutilate, we can burn, and we can detonate bombs and buses without regard. But you know, the most decisive battlefield we have yet to fight and win is the hearts and minds of our people. With their support, we can take it one step further. Imagine the people working with the police throughout the process. Like, when the evidence is filed in court, people have to step up and testify. The police will do its work, not because policy is clear, but in spite of the lack of clarity because the people are there to support them. I agree that any policeman involved in crime be thrown the book after due process. It’s a complex situation because we also have to look at the redress mechanisms, the grievance mechanisms, and the police administrations. Say a harassment case is filed against a policeman in any of a dozen bodies—his whole world must be turned upside down.

Any soldier in history that you look up to?

Not McArthur or Napoleon, maybe Hannibal. He was outnumbered three to one in the Battle of Cannae against the Roman legion, lampaso ‘yung Roman legions. One Filipino. General Isidro Agunod of the Philippine Air Force. He wrote his president a letter that said, “Mr. President, I have to retire one year before my due date because under your administration I have reached my level of incompetence.” He also said, “I am now beginning to be accused of an unexplained poverty.” Idol. He visited me when I was in prison aboard [a] ship and said, “You will not hear this from many people, especially media, but you have to stay the course.” After that, I left the ship with my guards.

How?

I was incarcerated aboard a 300 meter-long ship. My guards were Navy Seals. I was Army, so hindi ito kayang i-recruit ni Honasan. I talked to the team leader on Holy Thursday and said, “Look Lieutenant, I have to leave the ship. You have three choices: you shoot me, no hard feelings, that is your job; second choice is that you stay behind, but if I go and you stay behind, you’ll be court marshaled, but you’ll survive it. The third choice was interesting, I said, “You come with me, it’s an interesting life, no promises but sure as hell what we want for our country. “So he talked to the others, probably got a little drunk, came back. He said, “Sir we have made our decision. We will join you.”

You were the baron of your Philippine Military Academy (PMA) batch, who was the class goat, and where is he now? 

Coronel Tex Balmaseda, my kumpadre who is now in Hawaii, and into real estate. The goat of the class usually gets the most applause because he survives by the skin of his teeth.

Who among your “mistahs” are you closest to?

It’s a small group of senior citizens who do nothing but reminisce on past glories and think about our inability to do the things that we wanted to do, dreaming about being given back 10 or 20 years of our lives. Also, asking ourselves—openly or privately—“has it been worth it?”  And we all say, “Mukhang okey naman” in terms of our history, I think, and I say this without bragging that there will never be a class in the PMA like the notorious Class of 1971. (Both) General Carlos Garcia and Senator Ping Lacson were my classmates.

And can you imagine me sitting in a chamber where my colleague is Senator Bongbong Marcos, son of President Marcos, (and) with a president who is the son of former President Aquino? I have to walk on eggshells because somebody might dig into institutional memory and remember what I was to their parents.

Speaking of Bongbong Marcos, does he talk to you in the senate?

Yes! We like each other; at least, that’s what I think. I attend all his committee hearings. He seems like a nice guy and inclined to move forward.

And you would be okay with that?

Oh, yes. I would be okay with anybody who subscribes tabula rasa—a clean slate. That’s what this country needs is to move forward with less political baggage. Those cases in court with evidence—no problem. But cases like this, there’s more than meets the eye, ‘yung mga kasong alam mo na ang pinanggalingan politika lang, we should bury permanently. It’s the law of physics, if you have more weight, your power to weight ratio suffers. You cannot run as fast. The less political baggage we have, the faster we move. Look to the future instead of dwelling on our parents’ sins. I feel that’s what the Filipino people want, and I’ve said this to almost all presidential candidates in the last elections. It’s beyond the differences, the imaginary boundaries created by the extreme left and the extreme right, who are the minority. The broader mass, right of center or left of center, are decent, law-abiding people. You see the Armed Forces fighting for the people. The leftist CPP-NPA also says they are fighting for the people. So, why are they fighting each other? This escapes me. I may be a little weak in the head, but I don’t buy that. The Philippine Daily Inquirer has insinuated that I may be a little crazy, but I walked the way I talked, went out of my comfort zone, and risked my life. You can question my methodology but you cannot question my consistency. I put my money where my mouth is, and I have the wounds, physical, psychological, emotional to show for it. Our country cannot ask more from me.

Any plans to return to your trim 1986 body?

When I am motivated. I lost 50 to 60 pounds underground. And while incarcerated, I was given exercise time. Right now, I have to look the part so as not to draw attention. I have to look happy with the system, even if I’m not. I have to look harmless because of the political situation. That’s when I won after only three weeks campaigning as an independent. Modesty aside, [I was] the first truly independent senator to win. Nobody highlights this because it’s not good for media to highlight the success of serial coup planners. I digress—we’re talking about weight, no? So after winning in December, siyempre bagong senador ‘di ba? Andiyan lahat ng kakanin, and I ate all of it so I regained 50 pounds in a short period.

Who was the most annoying interviewee that the senate has ever invited for an inquiry?

I wouldn’t say annoying, but I look at him as a case-in-point and hope he doesn’t mind. Remember Jocjoc Bolante? You see senators saying to his face that he is guilty before due process and he says, “Mr. Senators please do not judge me in a hearing of legislation.” That’s what I call composure. This guy has managed— again, not annoying— to separate the acoustics that go with televised hearings with substance. He realized that until a case is filed against you, everything is white noise

I think a lot of them forget that it’s “in aid of legislation”. 

It’s not my style to pass judgment on the motives of my colleagues. You want reliable information from these witnesses but end up rattling them. In aid of legislation, Jocjoc Bolante was not effective. We weren’t able to extract anything from him. The purpose of the hearing is to get corroborating testimony. If you are not happy with what one person is giving you, and you have doubts about it, you match it with testimony of other people, then come up with a committee report. Senators are not here as soldiers, lawyers, or disciplines of where we came from. We came here to vote. When that moment comes, you better be sure you’re serious as a legislator; that you vote according to your best judgment. You must be a product of study, of experience, of your constantly re-calibrated moral compass, which is not located in your brain. Your brain is a product of what you see and what you hear, what is whispered to you, and what you feel. However, your heart feels for itself, and we Filipinos are geniuses at that. Like the French, we think with our hearts and occasionally, it brings us to the side of truth. I learned this from the late Senator Raul Roco,

Would you then say that you use your gut more than your head?

My heart. My gut is closer to an area where some people bring their mental and emotional functions. That muscle doesn’t even have ears and eyes. It’s just activated by an extra supply of blood, and it would be tragic if we would allow that to happen. But, I agree. Ideologies are propelled by the stomach. Somebody said, “An army moves on its stomach.” If you indoctrinate your men’s souls with just ideology, once they’re hungry, they’ll probably say, “Sir, can we have lunch first? We haven’t eaten in four days.” Practical considerations I’ve learned in a previous discipline are accomplishment of your mission and the welfare of your men, neither one of which can go without the other. You concentrate on your mission—your entire battalion is whipped out. If you concentrate too much on the welfare of your men—you will not accomplish your mission.

Least favorite politician?

Organized hypocrites. You cannot give what you cannot have. And it is not the monopoly of politicians. Politics per se is good, but too much partisan politics is bad. If you take sides when in fact you should only be on the side of public interest, that’s when something hits the fan.

How did you end up the senate’s biggest spender?

I work hard. I’m Chairman of three Committees, and I used to be Chairman of Energy and Agrarian Reform. The Freedom of Information Bill will fall in my lap because I’m Chairman of the Committee of Media and Public Information. I’m also Chairman of Public Order and Illegal Drugs, which are under one committee and a very big problem. I may spend more, but I don’t mind because if you notice, the difference between the others—and I’m inclined to compare—is about a few zeros from the decimal point. What I’m saying is, when I send people out to the field, I equip them. I want quality work. You really need to invest. Modestly aside, I will match my legislative record qualitatively, hindi naman ito paramihan, in terms of long-term impact on the lives of our people.

Take Agrarian Reform, it’s a centerpiece program that has been going on for generations that we forgot to monitor. If we’re serious about development, we must undertake land reform; not just distribute the land itself, but to redistribute the means of production. First step for the social issue, give them ownership. Democracy to me is not 50 percent plus 1, but choice. When we deprive them of that choice, democracy ceases to exist—that’s why we hate dictators. After ownership, we educate, train, and organize them into agrarian reform communities that would address the issue of economy of scales. I don’t want to convert Hacienda Luisita into a political issue because the president is part of the family that owns it.

More than that, we have to recapture our long sense of policy-making regardless of who is president. It’s a legacy issue, and a policy issue. I was telling some cabinet secretaries up for confirmation that you have to draw on the wisdom and experience of past administrations, learn from their painful and stupid mistakes so the next administration has something to build on—that is called legacy; that is called continuity; that’s called sustainability and that is also called, in a practical sense, insulating the institutions from the ravages of partisan politics. It’s why this conversation is more important to me because in a hearing, I’m just helping to form a quorum. Here, I’m telling you my story.

We asked you about Senator Marcos. Of course you were also colleagues in the chamber with Noy-Noy Aquino before he got elected president last year. Is it true that you shot him?

No. (That’s an) urban legend. I want to put it on record because some witnesses are still alive. The president’s son was shot by a group of 15 marines defecting to our side in 1987. They were moving to our side. I know because I was there. The same problem: we were willing to die but not willing to kill so I gave our troops 15 minutes to accomplish the mission without hurting the president. We could not withstand the public opinion globally if we took life. The same parameters that I used in ‘86. We did not want to harm former President Marcos so we applied the same. Now, eto, 15 marines defecting to our side and here comes a convoy, mabilis, e siyempre nataranta ang marines so they fired. Ganun yun. 

The legend goes that it was you personally who shot him, and media has reported it that way. 

Yes, that’s the legend. It’s just like a lie told a thousand times told to a media that’s taking sides. It’s perceived as the truth, what can I do?

How did you react then when you found out that he was shot?

Well of course I was sad because this was totally unnecessary—if we were given good government after ‘86. But you know, this is the 25th anniversary of EDSA, I don’t want to raise old wounds, and it’s not practical, politically.

Any regrets with family? You’ve been on the run a lot of times.

One regret is that I have been an absentee father and husband. I have no regrets with what they went through, that was beyond my control. I left my eldest son one time when he was 12. I said goodbye and said I had to do something. It was difficult to explain to a boy that if I don’t come back, you have to assume the role of the dad. I came back to them when he was 19. Can you imagine the time lost? My two daughters, when I was underground for seven years, my wife trained them to call me some other name but not Papa, Dad, or Tatay—they called me “Sweetheart.” When I rejoined them on the surface, they told their mom, “Mama, meron pala kaming papa?” They were only two or three years old. These are little pockets of regret that, given another chance, I would reconfigure.

Hopefully (and) not because of any violent objections from my wife, none of them will become politicians, soldiers, or rebels. That is why I became a politician, soldier, and rebel, so none of them would go through that. I’m very proud of them.

You’ve had many homes, how would you define a home now?

Home is where my wife, my five children, their wives, my daughters-in-law, my two grandchildren are—wherever they are. I’m not talking about their physical location, I’m talking about their virtual location, and where they are is where home is. I will find them, wherever they are.

And this has been your definition all throughout these years?

I may sound corny or baduy, but God, country, or family—all or nothing.

Did you ever consider any of your cells as home? 

Never. I felt strongly, even under those conditions, that I would go home sooner or later, vertically, or horizontally.

Now that you’re a senator, what do you enjoy most about being home?

The freedom where nobody can impose upon me to attend this or that.

But at home?

I’m ignored! I’m nobody at home. The superstars there—the senators and the presidents—are my wife, my daughters, and two grandchildren.

How is it at home with your children, accomplished artists in their own right? (His son Martin is an acclaimed painter while his other son, Karel, is one of the country’s best bass players and currently plays for jazz-funk-soul quartet Yosha with his wife. – Ed.)

Ah, that is something that you should attend one of these days. Whenever my wife and I would like to listen to live music, everybody gets together with his or her friends, and we have live music for free.

But two pieces of advice, I hope you don’t mind. When I was incarcerated, all doctors came to me, brain doctors, heart doctors, orthopedic doctors because I could not afford to die in detention. Their advice? Avoid stress—easy to say, hard to do. Life is stressful. Make time for exercise. Watch your diet and medication, whether corrective or supplementary. By the way, that’s all or nothing, like God, country, and family. Second, do not get sick—physically, psychologically, (and) emotionally. Once you get sick, everything stops. You cannot  work, you cannot think, you cannot sleep, so what good are you to your family, to your country, or to your God?

Photos by Juan Caguicla

Published in the March 2011 issue of UNO Magazine