My parents’ ban was not so much due to any political bias; 16, they argued, was too young. My threats to run away to the rally were dismissed; they assumed I would bow to parental authority. They were wrong. What stopped me was that I couldn’t figure out where Edsa was.
I’d like to explain how it was to live during that time, when afternoon television meant watching the news with my father and cheering with each pound of the gavel. The world shrank into the Senate Hall, cafeteria conversation with my best friends revolved around Loren Legarda’s pearls and Miriam Defensor-Santiago’s latest bombastic speech. It was, to all of us children who were babies during the 1986 People Power Revolution, like living on the cusp of history, and realizing that myth and legend and the grand old lessons in history books were real. Understand, at that time, right and wrong were as clear as night and day, and most of us were confident that when the time came to take a stand, we would not fail. All those text messages, all the noise barrages, all the letters to the editor and long patriotic essays, all of them were part of the ride. Estrada was the squinty-eyed, mustachioed villain, trying to break past the stalwart soldiers of the people. There were princesses in tears, dark knights with gold teeth, and a white-winged, fire-breathing dragon named Joker Arroyo. It was a time, I like to think, when we believed in heroes.
I’ve heard much of the commentary about the youth and their role in the post-Edsa II state. There have been accusations of apathy, many questions as to the depth of sincerity. It’s fine, say pundits, for the older generation to be silent. They are battle-weary, tired of the long, hard ride to freedom. Perhaps a different reason, if not justification, must be applied for the generation called Gen Y. Many of those who cheered on Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s step to power were virgins to socio-political involvement, teenagers in pajamas whooping down the length of Katipunan, zipping off text messages howling for truth, justice, and Estrada and jail.
Six years down the road, the heroes have sold their capes and masks. Joker Arroyo has put aside his grand ideals for the sake of political machinery. Loren Legarda, who cried at the Senate vote not to open the controversial second envelope, ran for the Senate in the 2007 elections with the blessing of the same man she wanted put to justice in 2001. Manuel Villar has gone a-courting in Tanay, and GMA, who stepped in as the brilliant new hope for a buoyant citizenry, now heads a smiling government with blood on its hands.
And where, many ask, is that bright-eyed bunch toting sandwiches and boom boxes to Edsa? Typing away in corporate cubicles, manning call center units, volunteering for causes, studying for the bar exams. They are the fresh nurses who were caught up in the nursing board scandal, the college kids still scraping away to pay tuition. And if they’re asked if they have faith in government, many will say no. And it’s reasonable—after all, they stood, at the first blush of idealism, and saw what they stood for systematically and unapologetically destroyed.
I write this to explain, if only to myself, why I feel very little vindication at Estrada’s conviction last Wednesday. That he is guilty I have no doubt, and have had little doubt since Clarissa Ocampo and Manuel Curato took the stand. But justice isn’t the application of the law on a single culprit, it is the application of law on every culprit. Without that consistency, that impartiality to class, religion, position and connection, the law’s capacity to deter only applies to those without power, or to those who have alienated the reigning power. The fact that laws are clear on right and wrong does very little when the application of that right and wrong is murky at best. And during the glorified regime of Gloria, very much is murky, murkiest of all is the application of the rule of law.
In many cases, to believe in the rule of law as spouted by military and government is to believe that leftists and activists were responsible for each others’ murders, and that truth must only come at the behest of the Chief Executive. Any fair-minded individual who reads the papers today will note the spate of unexplained deaths favorable to the administration, the shopping list of questionable financial deals, the entire range of resolutions and pronouncements that gleefully crush individual rights, as well as the motley crew of thugs, lapdogs and pompous politicos that run freely.
It would be easier to celebrate Estrada’s conviction in a vacuum, more comfortable to leave to the military and the courts and the various institutions questions of innocence and guilt. But to do so would fly in the face of logic and newspaper headlines. To celebrate the rule of law in the Philippines is not simply to stand on the side of right. The rule of law is buffeted by those that pull strings from above, and those who shove promises into judicial pockets. It is a complex creature, and one that is by no means loyal to the Filipino people.
I like to think I have enough idealism, enough faith to believe that there’s more to Estrada’s conviction than political maneuvering. Many of those who have read the justices’ decision have applauded their bravery and fairness. But maybe that’s the problem—politics and justice reduced to faith don’t really amount to much in the face of current realities. And that’s what I learned from Edsa II, six years down the road. There are no heroes, and those who pretend to be have their masks ripped off eventually.