"As long as the Filipino people have not enough spirit to proclaim, brow held high and breast bared, their right to a free society, and to maintain it with their sacrifices, with their very blood; as long as we see our countrymen privately ashamed, hearing the cries of their revolted and protesting conscience, but silent in public, or joining the oppressor in mocking the oppressed; as long as we see them wrapping themselves up in their selfishness and praising the most iniquitous acts with forced smiles, begging with their eyes for a share of the booty, why give them freedom?"
--El Filibusterismo by Jose Rizal
I remember reading an English "El Filibusterismo" (translated by Leon Ma. Guerrero) back in college when I was at the height of being radical and ideal. When I so wanted to give a fuck about anything, to do something, and to make a change.
Jose Rizal and El Filibusterismo entered my life. I read of a man's desire to free his nation. El Filibusterismo was a living proof that pen is mightier than sword.
And more than ever I dreamed to be a writer, a little like Rizal minus the greatness and international fame. I dreamed to make simple, little changes through words. I wanted pen and paper to become my tool for expression, and also, to always write with a message.
Maybe that's what true heroes do. They teach you one of your life greatest lessons. They inspire you.
***
Excerpt from "The First Filipino" by Leon Ma. Guerrero:
Once inside the square something of the searing realization of what death would mean went through him.
"Oh, Father, how terrible it is to die! he exclaimed. "How one suffers . . . "
Then: "Father, I forgive everyone from the bottom of my heart."
How strange he must have looked, in his black European suit and black derby, facing the eight Filipinos of the firing-squad in their tropical campaign uniforms and straw hats. It was almost as if this somberly garbed man between the two lamp-posts had been indeed a foreign agent from some cold hostile kingdom, and his executioners the true defenders of their native land.
"My orders are to shoot you in the back.
"But I am not a traitor, either to my own country or to the Spanish nations!"
"My duty is to follow orders."
Rizal shrugged his shoulders, refused a blindfold, and would not kneel. He asked that his head be spared, and this time the request was granted.
He clasped the hand of his defense counsel, and then said goodbye to the Jesuits who gave him a crucifix to kiss. The army doctor on duty asked to feel his pulse. It was admirably steady.
He took his stand facing the bay, his back to the rising sun. The drums rolled, the shout of command was given, the Remingtons of the 70th fired. With one last convulsive effort of the will Rizal twisted his body rightward as he fell, his last sight being perhaps the hard empty eyes of the professional soldiers, companion in arms of those who had impassively lowered Tarsilo down the well and hunted down Elias as he swam in his own blood.
He was facing the dawn now, but this he was not to see.
"Viva España!" screamed Doña Victorina in her elegant carriege.
"Viva España!" shouted Father Damaso and added, shaking his fist, "Y murean los traidores!"
"Long live Spain and death to traitors!" But as the last Spaniards gave their ragged cheer, and the band of battalion of volunteers struck up, with unconscious irony, that hymn to human rights and constitutional liberties, the Marcha de Cadiz, the quiet crowd of Filipinos broke through the square, to make sure, said the Spanish correspondent, that the mythical, the godlike Rizal was really dead, or according to others, to snatch away a relic and keepsake and dip their handkerchiefs in a hero's blood.
If he had seen them, the first Filipino would have known that he was not the last.
