Captivating risks
why Rizal’s ghost was present at Duterte’s inauguration
Isometimes wonder why we bother naming roads after historical figures. EDSA is a daily corridor, but few of us pass through it wondering who Epifanio de los Santos was. There is Ayala avenue and Quezon city circle, Taft avenue and McKinley road. Many street signs of our cramped metropolis are filled with names of almost anonymous ghosts. I’m not suggesting we take better stock of the history behind them, though. This will take too much time. Besides, big chunks of our everyday are already stolen by the greedy traffic thief. But I do mention the observation because one similarly christened place caught my attention the other day: Malacañang’s Rizal hall where Duterte took his presidential oath. It was a refreshing and admirable break with tradition since the ceremony is usually held at the Quirino grandstand in Rizal park. The grandstand would have been roomier, but also more costly. Nevertheless, whether it’s Duterte’s way or tradition’s, the Philippine presidency begins somewhere linked to that famed doctor from Kalamba.
Why is political tradition such that the presidency comes to term in a room or park named after a martyred non-politician? Why isn’t the oath taken somewhere named for Aguinaldo, our first president, or Bonifacio, the less snooty revolutionary? Why is Rizal viewed above the rest, when his greatest work were two novels that few have actually read, and was ambiguous about whether he wanted independence for our nation? What does this practice reveal about our nation’s ideals of political leadership?
Rizal, past the monuments and baptized rooms, was a quirky individual, as many celebrated patriots are. He was learned, no doubt. He could pick up a new language in a few months, in a century that knew nothing of duolingo or google translate. He fenced, wore a European overcoat, and managed to get an Englishwoman to fall in love with him despite being at most five feet tall and dark-skinned. (You can imagine him like a slightly shorter Ogie Alcasid in the nineteenth century, just nerdy, and I’m not sure he could sing.) Oh, and he didn’t mind starving to get a political message across. (The chapter “Reluctant Revolutionary” from Leon Ma. Guerrero’s detailed biography gives the full story of how the hero fasted to save money to publish El Fili.) Needless to say, he was a natural idealist.
His utopian trait shines through in a diary entry I found in Rafael Palma’s Biografía de Rizal. In this excerpt, Rizal nostalgically remembers his mother’s fable of the foolish butterfly who died because it flew too close to the flame. The tale is cliché and predictable, but Rizal’s commentary following the summary is the juicy part. It gives us an intimate glimpse into his young soul.
He writes:
No me apercibí cuando terminó la fábula. Mi atención estaba fija en lo que pasó al insecto. Lo observé con toda mi alma. Me dí a pensar. Él murió victima de sus iluciones.
My translation: I did not notice when the fable ended. My attention was fixed on what happened to the insect. I observed it with all of my soul. It gave me cause to think. It died a victim of its dreams.
He then continues:
Cuando me llevó a la cama, mi madre me dijo: “No te portes como la joven mariposa. No seas desobediente, o perecerás en la llama como le pasó a ella.” No sé si contesté o no. No sé si prometí algo o lloré. Pero recuerdo que tardó mucho antes de que yo pudiera dormir. El cuento me revaló muchas cosas que ignoraba. Las mariposas no eran ya para mí insignificantes criaturas. Hablaban, sabían dar advertencias y consejos como mi madre. La luz me pareció muy bella, creció ante mi vista más subyugadora y atrayente. Supe qué las mariposas revoloteaban hacia la llama.
My translation: When she tucked me into bed, my mother told me “Do not behave like the young butterfly. Do not be disobedient or you will perish in the flame as she did. I do not know if I answered or not. I do not know if I promised something or cried. But I do remember that it took awhile before I could sleep. The story revealed many things that I ignored. The butterflies were no longer insignificant creatures for me. They spoke, knew how to give warnings and advice like my mother. The light appeared to me very beautiful, it grew before my gaze more captivating and attractive. I knew that the butterflies hovered toward the flame.
Source: Palma, Rafael. Biografía de Rizal. Manila: Bureau of Printing, 1949 (9). (This is from a later publication of the original manuscript written in 1939.)
His reflections reveal his poetic sensibility. He treats a common fable and a homely anecdote with an awe that unlocks deeper layers of meaning. His sense of wonder is palpable in the rhythm of his words, signalling that the moth’s tragic adventure must have moved him beyond surface sentimentality:
“The butterflies were no longer insignificant creatures for me,” he wrote.
“They spoke, knew how to give warnings and advice like my mother. The light appeared to me very beautiful, it grew before my gaze more captivating and attractive.”
His lyrical prose tells how he discovered, through his mother’s myth, the magnetic power of that which is both beautiful and dangerous. His young soul heard wisdom whisper that there were some things in life, certain dreams, that were worth hovering towards, even if it meant risking death. For the butterfly, that captivating risk was to be able to tell an exciting story to her clique of butterflies about how she managed to look at the alluring flame up close. Interestingly, for the older Rizal, his “captivating risk” would also involve telling provocative stories.
Perhaps one reason we ask our presidents to take oaths in the presence of Rizal’s ghost is to remind them that good leadership requires more than just a commitment to efficient implementation. Competency matters a lot, of course. Experience has taught us what happens when we ignore this qualification in a president. But political leadership also goes beyond measurable results, it’s equally about the flame — a metaphor for ideals that are both inspiring and risky.
Uncharacteristic for an intellectual, Rizal is straightforward when he explains what he saw as his “flame” in a letter to Blumentritt, dated March 29, 1891, written from Biarritz, France (quoted in Leon Ma. Guerrero’s biography, p. 287). In this correspondence, Rizal tells Blumentritt that he feels called to defend the rights of oppressed Tagalogs. He admits it is a small and homely ideal, but despite its unassuming size, he felt it to be more than worth his devotion. What is admirable is not only his willingness to suffer for this dream, but his disinterest as to whether this pursuit would win for him fame.
Despite Rizal’s staunch and selfless convictions, nearly 120 years after his martyrdom, oppression remains. Like poverty, it is an insidious social habit, but now wearing different clothes. We no longer have caucasian tyrants taunting us for our brown skin and uncivilized ways. Injustice is subtler today because those who promote it have friendlier faces, the same suntanned phenotype, and often speak in that sweet melodious accent that we associate with niceness and decency.
These contemporary oppressors no longer demand from workers labor without pay, but often use legalese to protect their conglomerates from the just demands of labor laws. Today’s dons also pay household staff salaries so low that the latter are forced into chronic and dehumanizing debt for basic needs such as healthcare, home repairs, and education. Then, there are those who after climbing the ladder of power wield authority on the basis of factional loyalties, instead of impartial, authentic justice. A related historical aside: Dante Alleghieri thought that factionalism was the deeper root of suffering in a society. Our political experience, especially of recent years, confirms his wisdom.
These stories are only a few examples of how oppression continues to lurk beneath the placid surface of Philippine society. As you can probably tell, today’s tyrants (thankfully) are less brutal, and friendlier than Rizal’s Damaso. At times, they even sport democratic masks and technocratic credentials, but they are nonetheless real, and continue to inflict pain on those who don’t deserve to suffer.
Our current experience confirms the ominous prophecy in El Fili that yesterday’s slaves become tomorrow’s tyrants if we do not work to deserve our freedom by honing virtue and investing in moral education. Looking back, Rizal’s apprehensions about independence were worth listening to. His reservations offer the sagacious insight that liberty is a much deeper, broader project than achieving national sovereignty.
Since habits of oppression run deep in our country — a societal vice that has become almost as natural as the air we breath — finding a leader who will live up to Rizal’s “flame” is perhaps a difficult, quixotic task. It will require taking many risks and sacrifices. The first of these will be to resist the temptation to accept the status quo as the last word, and challenge the hopelessness and exploitation we see around us with worthy ideals we believe are worth turning into reality. One such ideal is a socio-political order that persistently and thoroughly resists oppression. Wouldn’t this be a “flame” worth flying towards?
Another translation for the Spanish word for flame, llama, is passion. We usually experience passions as intense desires that move us to act, almost like a flame within propelling us to transcend and transform what surrounds us, even if it requires facing danger.
To pursue the flame of an oppression-free society, we need to ignite an inner flame: our passion for deep-rooted justice. Remembering to notice the suffering around us is one way to light that inner wick. Once lit, that inner flame will move us to dream of new leaders. Leaders who will use power and talent with benevolence and wisdom. They will be brave enough to resist the subtle greed and self-interest that cripples not only government, but many of our institutions. But aside from bravery, their virtue will inspire us to deserve the freedom Rizal fought and died painfully for. Such “philosopher-kings” might not exist, but if they do, don’t you think attempting to find them (or maybe to create them) would be a captivating risk worth taking?
If so, we ought to begin the quest now, for six years goes by far quicker than we realize.
