FOR THE rest of the task force members, it was all a matter of keeping in step and learning by rote. Various forms of cruelty were developed. The standard methods of torture were mauling, slapping and the more imaginative "flag ceremony" where the victim is made to stand with her wrists tied together while she is hoisted up from the ground. This can last a few hours to a few days.

There were other forms of brutality. At times, they slit the captives' skin with a knife or shaved off their eyebrows for fun. Sometimes, the victims' legs were forced apart and the torturers sat on their thighs. Other times, the torturers seared the skin of their victims with a lamp.

They also experimented with various combinations of physical and psychological terror tactics. Cecil described how they hit her, hung her on a tree, showed her how they beat up other victims, undressed her and made her listen to the taped voices of her children. This last tactic is reminiscent of the Bolshevik revolutionary Nikolai Bukharin's prison experience under Stalin.

We were treated cruelly not only by our interrogators and their subordinates but by the detention guards themselves. Many of these guards used to be shy and gentle guerrillas, but they believed they needed to be "proactive" to prove their worth and to avoid suspicion. They treated us with revulsion. They cursed and shouted at us, made fun of everyone and inflicted punishment whenever they pleased.

One of the worst punishments we endured was the denial of food. We were fed just enough to keep us alive: no more than a teaspoonful of rice at mealtime, although there were times we were not fed at all. The rain was partly a blessing, as we could drink from pools of collected water. All of us became all skin and bones in a matter of time. During idle moments, we dreamt of food, getting delirious with the mere thought of eating. We spared not a single grain of rice. Some begged the guards for their leftover fish tails and bones.

To our minds, the choices had been narrowed down to either owning up to the accusations against us or enduring the suffering until we died from it. By the time it was our turn to be interrogated, those who had undergone the ordeal before us advised us to own up, concoct a tale early in the game and spare ourselves further from suffering.

Those who did not catch on to this or else refused to "cooperate" altogether were eventually killed. This fact was utilized as a psychological weapon designed to terrorize the uncooperative ones to submission. One of the early detainees, Ka Paulito, had endured torture for two months. Still, he held on, believing that all would be cleared up in the end, and he would be proven innocent. The last straw for him was when he was made to witness cold-blooded murder. This is what he said:

"I was brought to the execution site together with a handful of other detainees. At that time, my senses were almost deadened by the torture I had received. I could barely feel anything anymore. But what I saw brought me new shock and completely erased any hope I had that all this would turn out alright in the end.

"One of our companions was brought in front of us. They then turned him around while we waited in suspense. Next thing we knew, the back of his head was hit with a large wooden club. He fell down, then shouted: "Wala akong kasalanan, mga kasama!" (Comrades, I'm innocent!). He repeated this line incessantly, as if in a chant. He was groggy but was still able to stand up. Again, he was hit on the same spot but he remained standing. With the third blow on his head, his skull cracked open, and he lay dead on the ground.

"I wasn't able to utter a single word after that. It would have been more bearable a sight if they shot him or even stabbed him, but this was such a gruesome spectacle. At that point, all my defenses broke down and I decided to spin whatever story I could think of."

OUR BIZZARE situation brought us to a state of emotional turbulence, something probably approaching derangement. In a feeble attempt to capture that state in words, I outlined them in a rough set of what I refer to as "emotional phases." The reality was by no means linear as this might suggest, nor does this mirror the entirety of emotions. It merely approximates the volatile emotional state each of us went through at the time.

The first stage was the inevitable shock. As revolutionaries, we were by and large psychologically prepared for danger, but we were totally unprepared to experience such suffering from our own comrades' hands.

After we got over the initial shock, we were then consumed by either rage or fear. Because of the proximity of pain and death, more of us were gripped by fear compared to those consumed by anger. Moreover, our interrogators had very little patience to indulge outbursts of rage, and they dealt with these swiftly and decisively.

The fear or anger soon gave way to bouts of depression, regret and self-pity. As Cecil said: "I felt sorry for my life. I often went back to how I began getting involved with the movement, how easily I decided and how quickly I left my family. I had so many struggles with them. My father beat me up. I chose the movement over my family and this is where I end up."

"What have I done to deserve this?" lamented the others. "All my sacrifices amount to this?" Such were the depths of self-pity that many felt a growing emotional numbness and hardening of disposition.

Although most of us were eventually freed from the clutches of self-pity and regret, our emotional state deteriorated into submission and fatalistic resignation. A kind of numb acceptance kicks in when your integrity is snatched away, your sense of trust is completely shattered and the possibility of pain and intimidation is constant and imminent. By then, our disempowerment was complete.

"It's okay for me to die," said Cecil. "I already assumed I would no longer see my children. All I wanted was for my tormentors to eventually realize the truth behind this thing that I cannot for the life of me accept."

"If I should go this way, then so be it," sighed the rest.

Despite such fatalism, however, the instinct for survival remained strong. Amid our helplessness and despair, we found ways to carry on. Some resorted to faith, others to fantasy.

Lina, who had always been a devout Catholic, went back to the traditional form of prayer: "I prayed three 'Our Fathers,' three 'Hail Mary's,' three 'Glory Be's.' I prayed when they were about to kill me. I think I felt a miracle - I saw some light and sensed some warmth above: I felt some sort of a halo. I said to God that I don't want to die this way, and hope that I could help in fixing this problem."

I remember spending nights in detention listening to the prayers murmured by my companions. I managed to quietly follow on, calling out and invoking: "Lord, if indeed you're really out there, please help us."

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