BY the end of the simple and moving funeral of President Aquino, Bayan Ko was played, a song that had not been played for a long time.
The movement that involved the announcement of the former president’s demise, the procedure leading to the cremation and the wake at this leader’s beloved university was indeed brief. And yet, there was a feeling the night seemed to lengthen as people from all walks of life started to mourn for the man. When the day of the final departure arrived, the display of water cannons as tribute was answered by people going out into the streets, raising up photos of the deceased for all the living to see, waving their hands tied with yellow ribbons—these were communities proud once more to show their real color, persons unashamed to cry for this person, who, they thought now, led them with propriety.
The yellow color has been despised for many long years by a populace embracing a new order, bullied and unexpectedly silenced by the vociferous discourses proclaiming ad hominem a senseless past against a present that only makes sense because it is there.
Nationalism being suspect and a nation unsteady amidst the structured inequalities, the death of a leader is the closest a territory called the Philippines can approach the notion and praxis of a union. A common vision, a felt sense of belonging to allied horizons and identity, even if for empirical moments, and a persuasive pride about histories—all these and more could have happened with the sorrow and sincere gratitude. After the first torrent of emotions and shock—after all this president had opted to efface rather than effect a magisterial political patronage—came, however, the critique not only of the deceased but of the entire system of politics that had been dominant in this island republic.
It was as if life ephemeral had opened a portal into intellectual discourses; it was as if death did lift the sign divined to segue into debates on economics.
What it was that was apparent then, immediately a day after the official news of the death, was this: we did not know how to mourn the passing of a person. There was no poetry in the loss; there was only the acerbic prose of recriminations. Which is not saying that we should lie about leader’s flaws and faults. But traditions, as we know them, allows a few days for wakes and vigils, after which, no one can stop anyone from commenting on the one who is not with us anymore. We can write papers about his failed administration or, balancing the bad with the good, analyze what went wrong and what should have been. The intellect will never fail us when it comes to making sense of a presidency or capturing the inutility of policies and administrations.
But, for heaven’s sake, no one offers condolences with criticisms, prayers with perusal, and sympathies with subtle inquisitions.
Picture this: You are entering a funeral parlor or a home. You meet the bereaved and you extend your arms, or in this present pandemic, make a gesture of bereavement. Allowed to speak, you begin with the condolence, followed by an enumeration of the faults of the dead person.
The absurdity of the scene I imagined above was anticipated by many in social media. Hours after the knowledge of Aquino’s death, netizens posted warnings how they will “unfriend” or “block” anybody who spoke ill of the former president. In a society keen about rites of grieving, there was no need for that warning. And yet, the events that transpired days ago only displayed how the boundaries between the personal/social had already been dissipated by the trenchant in us, by this sense of entitlement to ideation of politics and power prompted in all our actions. The bracketing of the quotidian life had altogether disappeared, leaving in its wake the men and women who needed to speak up, and speak up with arrogance and anger anytime, and always.
Thus, in social media again, a vast sector tended to imply there was a correct and proper manner of speaking of the dead. This group frowned entirely on the caveats that attended the comments released by those who admired Aquino despite his “imperfections.” While many of us may personally not favor this approach, it was not the time to censure the hearts and minds of those who were attempting to find solace in the memory of a person, perhaps not loved but respected, perhaps admired but, manifesting a recognition, which, like the political processes common during the time of another Aquino, reflected the critical “Yes.”
Deaths could unify. But, this death, as of last week and this week, seems not to rally for unification but division. And yet, it must be said, we feel a stirring. Yellow ribbons are appearing all over parks and streets of towns and cities. To the “imperfections” of Aquino, the president, we should add our own imperfections, and allow those from all classes to express their imperfect sympathies and, those of the intelligentsia, their divergent, dissenting readings of class biases in political memories.
In the meantime, there is Bayan Ko to sing, in our imperfect, resurrected human voice.
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