Like many, I’ve been fixated by the real-life dramas of our country’s ruling families, sparking some intense hate permeating social media spaces, and reaching a climax with the overseas incarceration of one padre de familia.
While recent events have been stunning, some of us have long been numbed by the profanity, misogyny, and general grossness we’ve heard from on high, echoed by partisans down the food chain. Many again are defending, and even applauding, the tsunami of brutal killings in the name of public safety.
All of this has been heard and witnessed by impressionable young people, many of whom have only known two or three presidents in their lifetimes.
As a frequent speaker at schools, I’ve often wondered how our youngest citizens can keep their faith in their elders, in the nation, and in humanity as a whole. Sociologists may want to examine entire generations for psychological scars.
It hasn’t been that much easier for the rest of us, particular those in the working press. Covering street slaughters and corruption scandals, and then being branded liars have traumatized not a few of my colleagues.
I think it traumatized me, back in 2016-2017 when I would roam dark streets with an intrepid group of photojournalists calling themselves the “Nightcrawlers.” Night after night we would encounter dead bodies murdered in similar ways. Indifferent investigators would file reports that rarely ended up as evidence in court trials, as if resolution of these types of crimes was not worth pursuing.
One of those night crawlers, the investigative journalist and book author extraordinaire Patricia Evangelista, has taken to calling herself a “trauma journalist.” She’s cautioned that even our best reportorial work would probably not stop atrocities. It’s a shattering thought, that risking life, limb and sanity could have no impact at all.
By covering the trauma of so many, those of her kind risk traumatizing themselves.
We all have our coping mechanisms to save our minds while continuing to perform our jobs.
In my nearly four decades of documenting disasters, massacres, and conflicts, my go-to coping strategy has been to occasionally retreat deep into history.
Doing stories about Philippine history helps scratch a lifelong itch to know about the past.
But just as importantly, as I say when people ask why I still do stories about Rizal, “it’s good for my mental health.”
When any of our leaders and their followers plumb a new depth of depravity in language or deed, I read about Rizal and his steely resolve to deploy his genius in the service of an emerging nation. It lifts me up to know there is such a man in our DNA, that we’re still a work in progress en route to his vision.
More recently, just as we’ve all been mesmerized by an existential game of thrones, I had the good fortune of getting another history assignment.
As part of a reset of my podcast, I’ve been researching and interviewing about Ramon Magsaysay, the nation’s seventh president and the third after independence.
So I’ve been toggling between the news in our dystopian present and readings about the promising 1950s, Magsaysay’s era.
The Philippines was just emerging from a devastating world war. Magsaysay was a charismatic guerrilla leader known to his friends as Monching. He distinguished himself as a governor, congressman and defense secretary, before winning the presidency by a landslide in 1953. He was just 46, a model for a fresh-faced American president of similar age in the next decade of the 1960s, John F. Kennedy.
A former bus mechanic who didn’t even finish college, Magsaysay had a common touch with unique leadership skills. He spoke Tagalog like ordinary folks, popularized barongs, and made honesty cool.
He set a precedent by declaring his assets and encouraged his Cabinet to do the same, so the public could see whose wealth increased while in office. He was careful to pay for expenses not connected to his official duties. He donated gifts to charity and banned relatives from government positions. He created an office in Malacañang to personally hear complaints from citizens.
His campaign and presidency exuded youth. The era’s soundtrack was the unforgettably danceable “Mambo Magsaysay,” his campaign jingle with its catchy, postmodern Taglish lyrics. His first Cabinet appointment was his youngest appointee, the 28-year-old news reporter J.V. Cruz as press secretary.
What struck me most was what I learned from Francis Manglapus, the son of former Senator Raul Manglapus, a close associate of Magsaysay.
Manglapus was a young and talented writer and composer when Magsaysay tapped him to join his presidential campaign in 1953. Rather than summon Manglapus to his office, as most men of stature would, Magsaysay instead paid a visit to the Manglapus home in a humble act of recruitment.
I later read in the mammoth Magsaysay biography by Jose V. Abueva that Magsaysay had a personal habit of recruiting the best and the brightest by indeed going to their homes. In one instance he even drove his own car to the home of the elderly lawyer he wanted to appoint justice secretary.
Much of this was new to me. Magsaysay was never discussed in class when I was in school except for a passing mention that he was president. According to several educators I asked this week, Magsaysay is still not tackled in basic education as an example of a political leader. There are streets and towns named Magsaysay, but few will know much about the man.
That’s a pity today when prominent leaders avoid paying taxes, refuse to explain their expenses, and flaunt the fruits of their corruption. Young voters may think all these are perfectly normal, since the news and social media brim with examples of these perfidies
Why not teach the lives of leaders with exceptional character to present a different kind of model? Students can then go home and talk to parents and other family members about a president who once made honesty cool. Might even be good for everyone’s mental health.
