Whenever I hear of an anti-Duterte rally happening, the first thing that grips me is fear. Still, notwithstanding excuses backed by stark realities of age and health, I have not missed one, or been sorry for having gone.
The Sept. 21 rally was provoked by a crescendo of crises, giving me scarce time to catch my breath in between. And matters were made worse by the irrational, foul-tongued rhetoric surrounding it from a badly raised child. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so scary if the kanto-boy talk didn’t come from the septuagenarian occupying the highest and most powerful office in the country.
I hope someone is keeping a recording of all his pronouncements and their subsequent reversals, because, unheard firsthand and merely told about, these would not be easy to believe.
Golden years
My dad, himself from the golden years of politics when “the provinces sent to Congress only their brightest boys,” could not believe someone like Erap could become president. Political columnist of The Manila Times, law professor, member of Congress for five consecutive terms, the last cut short by martial law, and ambassador to Taipei in Cory’s time, he found himself in a strange land in the final years of his life; he thought he knew it well. And for some reason he liked to hold me accountable.
In and out of dementia, dad one day asked me, “Who is president now?”
“Erap,” I whispered to him.
“Who is Erap?” He had perfect hearing until the end, at 91.
“Joseph Estrada, the actor, ex-mayor of San Juan.”
He had heard enough and suppressing a chuckle asked, “How did you let that happen, kiddo?”
Mercifully, dad lived long enough to see Erap kicked out of office, and I felt almost relieved that he was no longer around when Erap was pardoned by his predecessor, Gloria. Dad was also spared the heartbreak that would have been caused by Erap jumping cities and becoming mayor of Manila, the city closest to dad’s heart.
Loving duty
Dad is just one reason I go to rallies. The other is my husband, who sees it as a loving duty tinged also with guilt—for his perceived failure as a journalist, one privileged with “a front seat as dark history was made” but falling short in helping make the younger generation understand its lessons enough so that it might not be repeated.
He is so convinced that if he had not failed, his generational successors’ minds would not be so fuzzy and easily manipulated by Marcos propaganda.
Alas, the Marcos people are proving themselves much better at distorting history than we are in preserving it. The horrors of martial law have been softened in school texts, easing public acceptance of the Marcos return, now being promoted by President Duterte himself, a professed Marcos worshipper. He has allowed the dictator Ferdinand’s burial as a hero.
Only last Sunday, over a hundred thousand Marcos believers from as far as Marinduque were bussed to the University of the Philippines Los Baños and given a free lunch. They were hoping for big easy money—as much as a million each, split into two payments. All they had to do was register, giving their IDs and ATM bank account numbers, and each of them was promised P10,000 over four years. They didn’t think twice before paying P30 for a pamphlet promoting the false achievements and successes by Ferdinand as martial-law president.
When it became clear no money was forthcoming, they cheerfully dismissed the whole excursion as not a total loss. After all, they got to see UP Los Baños for free! These, I imagine, are exactly the kind of vulnerable people, hoping against hope, who prefer to believe Duterte and stick with him because nobody promises better.
This could be the way he continues to keep his high ratings. Better a happy lie than the cruel truth, anytime. The lowly lugaw is enough bait to make them come to his rallies. Clearly, the enemy isn’t drugs; it’s poverty. And we all know that corruption and greed have been proven the biggest underlying cause.
Not only my husband and I, but possibly many other seniors, feel there are unfinished overwhelming tasks ahead. We don’t really know where to begin or what exactly to do, but my husband goes around speaking, on campuses mainly, trying to make up for his confessed default whenever and however he can.
Sense of mission
At rallies, despite initial fears, we’ll be there, and always with our two indispensable hakot: our driver, King, who looks a very capable sidekick to Vergel, and Lanie, ready with paraphernalia for all kinds of exigency—umbrella, raincoat, bottled water, soda crackers and nuts, anahaw fan, whistle, flashlight, industrial mask, hand towel, and a portable chair for me. We are thus assured simple safety and comfort, lest anyone start ascribing any heroics to our case.
But I ask myself why seniors like us, instead of feeling redundant, remain fueled by some sense of mission in these trying times. Not a few religions say God handpicks people for times of transition, when the earth is expected to make a dramatic shift from the materialistic world of money worship to the spiritual world of righteousness, after which all of us will be transformed to what we really are—children of God!
Well, before we begin to feel special, let’s just listen to our hearts and be brave enough to follow them. Fear should have no place in old hearts.
