ON Wednesday, June 12, the Philippines will mark the 104th anniversary of its declaration of independence. Once again, Manila’s kleptocrats will be falling over themselves as they praise the nation’s “new heroes.” It was the administration of Fidel V. Ramos (1992-1998) and his party of thieves—who are back in power courtesy of the coup last year—that first described overseas Filipino workers as “bagong bayani,” or new heroes. Based on this definition, “old heroism” entails risking one’s life for the sake of the nation. “New heroism,” by contrast, merely involves sending dollars to your relatives back home.
This is Malacañang’s way of showing its gratitude to the millions of Filipinos whose dollar remittances help pay for their government’s abysmal incompetence. The Philippine government is probably hoping that all this melodramatic, platitudinous drivel about “new heroism” could help us forget that almost 106 years after the outbreak of the revolution against Spain, and after more than 50 years of political independence, the state of Philippine society and economy remains a bottomless source of grief and sorrow for Filipinos.
Besides kidnappings, summary killings, freak accidents and a tourism industry that seems to attract only Caucasian pedophiles and Islamic fanatics, the Philippines is also now known as one of the world’s prime exporters of humans. This is, to quote Metallica, sad but true.
What is tragic, however, is the devaluation of the concept of heroism in the Philippines. Why should sending money to one’s relatives constitute heroism? This is ridiculous. We spit on the memories of our heroes everytime we are tempted to believe this “bagong bayani” nonsense.
The “old heroes” faced exile on Guam, unspeakable torture at Fort Santiago and the firing squad at Bagumbayan, but they knew that their duty to Las Islas Filipinas involved risking their own lives and that patriotism was its own reward.
In Dec. 1899, Gen. Gregorio del Pilar, the 24-year-old commander of President Emilio Aguinaldo’s rear guard had to take a stand against pursuing American troops to allow our nation’s hopelessly inept first president to escape. Del Pilar and his 60 barefoot soldiers had to square off with more than 300 well-trained, better-armed American soldiers. It was a suicide mission, and del Pilar knew it. His final diary entry, written in magnificent Spanish, read: “I realize what a terrible task has been given me. And yet I felt that this is the most glorious moment of my life. What I do is done for my beloved country. No sacrifice can be too great.”
In the spring of 1942, the commander of the Japanese forces told Supreme Court Chief Justice Jose Abad Santos to collaborate with the new military regime. Abad Santos said he would rather die than be a traitor to the U.S. and the Philippines. The Japanese decided to execute him. Before being led to the firing squad, Abad Santos scolded his young son who was, at that point, crying. “Do not cry,” he told the child. “Show these people that you are brave. It is a rare opportunity for me to die for our country. Not everyone is given that chance.”
With the Japanese army in Manila and the Americans in Australia, the Filipinos were left “with nothing but their ‘d***s in their hands’ and a promise in their hearts that MacArthur would return.” But for the communist Hukbong Bayan Laban sa Hapon (the People’s Army Against Japan), armed resistance was the only option for those that claimed to aspire for independence. And so the Huks carried on “one of the greatest guerrilla wars in history.” Highly disciplined and intensely motivated, “the Huks kept the Japanese grip on the country unsteady throughout the Occupation and collaborationists on tenterhooks.” The Huks “became the symbol of liberation among Filipinos who had [b**ls].” Their reward after the war was government-sanctioned repression.
In 1986, shortly after the ouster of Marcos, President Cory Aquino asked newspaper publisher Joe Burgos if he needed anything from her administration—loans from government banks, advertisements, anything. Burgos owned the only opposition newspaper during the Martial Law regime. (Which was in itself a feat considering the dictatorship’s penchant for torturing and executing dissidents.) Burgos’s reply to Aquino’s offer was: “I didn’t risk my life fighting the dictator just so I could get favors from the new government.”
I could go on and on. Perhaps those of us who are already gagging over this “new heroes” crock should until our government finally stops b***s******g us.
