by Pamela Joy Mariano
I am writing this in the pre-departure waiting area of NAIA Terminal 2, as I wait for my noon flight to Cagayan de Oro. In the seat directly behind me is a Muslim woman and her companion—their religious affiliations betrayed by the veil that she wears—and she is having an animated conversation in Bisaya with the women across from her, whom I assume are not Muslim. My guess, which is confirmed by the snatches of conversation I overhear, is that she is Maranao. After all, Cagayan de Oro's airport is about 30-40 minutes away from Iligan, Lanao del Norte, and the hills and lakes of Lanao are the homeland of the Maranao tribe, different from the Maguindanao who come from the plains of Cotabato.
It struck me at that moment—these women exemplify the plurality and diversity in Mindanao, and of the Philippines in general, the diversity of views, of religious affiliations, of tribal and regional affiliations and of language communities. A monolithic notion of “Filipino” and “Filipino identity” is impossible to formulate, and yet, that is what both the media and the government seem to project—that Filipino is a category easily defined and circumscribed.
Not unexpectedly, the women behind me are talking about politics in Mindanao, especially in ARMM. As I sat down a few minutes ago, I caught the tail-end of an exchange about the massacre, that I roughly translate here:
“It has nothing to do with religion, and all to do with politics.”
I don't listen to the rest of their conversation—it's impolite to eavesdrop—but I can't help catching snatches of their conversation, just words and phrases at random and out of context: private armies; automated elections; voting; names of presidential candidates.
It made me think of what the events in the small town of Ampatuan have to say to us, what it tells people who live their lives hundreds or thousands of kilometers away, but still exist within the same state. The inhumane killing of 57 people in Ampatuan tells us in the most glaring terms the tenuous nature of Philippine democracy. Despite the supposed democratic nature of our government as enshrined in our constitution, and in groundbreaking laws such as the LGU Act and the IPRA, the principles that these laws are rooted in are often not manifest in reality. The politics of impunity are still prevalent, cases of electoral violence still abound. We forget that the exercise of force and violence *are not exercises of power in politics*. Because of this, many of us feel helplesness and powerlessness.
But our felt helpessness in the face of the Ampatuan Massacre does not have to lead to powerlessness. Power is not a function of how much money you have, nor the size of your private army, nor the number of “influential” people you know. The nature of democracy, in an oversimplified sense, is that power originates in and from the people as a whole. This past week can be a way for us to remember what our democracy is realy supposed to be about—acknowledging that we are the ones who govern ourselves, that our voices are the the ones that should be heard. Part of this requires us to recognize that our country, our state, is one composed of a plurality of groups and affiliations, and how it is necessary for us to giving everyone proper representation and recognition. It is in our voices and thoughts and acts that power resides.
If there is anything positive that we can gain from the heinous massacre of 57 people in Maguindanao, it is the reminder of who we are as a political community, as the democratic state called the Philippines. Our collective revulsion at the heinous acts are reminders of our commitment to respecting and honoring the dignity of every human being; our unorchestrated and yet collective outrage at the massacre is a reminder of our unity in the midst of plurality, that unity need not be confused with conformity nor uniformity; our collective efforts to spread the word and make sure that other Filipinos are well-informed about these events in Maguindanao is a reminder of our commitment to personal participation in holding our public servants accountable to us. All of these are principles that our democracy is based on.
When I first heard the news of what is now called the Ampatuan Massacre, I posted as a status update on my Facebook the following question: “How can I continue to read a [philosophy] book about cosmopolitanism in the face of such heinous acts?” Here too the women seated behind me in the airport again have something to teach me. These women were complete strangers prior to their striking up a conversation with each other while waiting for the airplane to leave. Their new acquaintance, conversation, and even friendship began simply on the basis of a common context—the predeparture area of the airport, the same flight, and a common destination—Cagayan de Oro. The commonality of their context does not erase the fact of their difference, but makes it possible for them to share themselves in each other. It makes it all the more important, then, for us to study—and not just intellectually, but in praxis—things like cosmopolitanism. The possibility of friendship and conversation, recognizing difference, initiating dialogue, and promoting peace happens also on all levels, including the level of theory.
I am writing this in the pre-departure waiting area of NAIA Terminal 2, as I wait for my noon flight to Cagayan de Oro. In the seat directly behind me is a Muslim woman and her companion—their religious affiliations betrayed by the veil that she wears—and she is having an animated conversation in Bisaya with the women across from her, whom I assume are not Muslim. My guess, which is confirmed by the snatches of conversation I overhear, is that she is Maranao. After all, Cagayan de Oro's airport is about 30-40 minutes away from Iligan, Lanao del Norte, and the hills and lakes of Lanao are the homeland of the Maranao tribe, different from the Maguindanao who come from the plains of Cotabato.
It struck me at that moment—these women exemplify the plurality and diversity in Mindanao, and of the Philippines in general, the diversity of views, of religious affiliations, of tribal and regional affiliations and of language communities. A monolithic notion of “Filipino” and “Filipino identity” is impossible to formulate, and yet, that is what both the media and the government seem to project—that Filipino is a category easily defined and circumscribed.
Not unexpectedly, the women behind me are talking about politics in Mindanao, especially in ARMM. As I sat down a few minutes ago, I caught the tail-end of an exchange about the massacre, that I roughly translate here:
“It has nothing to do with religion, and all to do with politics.”
I don't listen to the rest of their conversation—it's impolite to eavesdrop—but I can't help catching snatches of their conversation, just words and phrases at random and out of context: private armies; automated elections; voting; names of presidential candidates.
It made me think of what the events in the small town of Ampatuan have to say to us, what it tells people who live their lives hundreds or thousands of kilometers away, but still exist within the same state. The inhumane killing of 57 people in Ampatuan tells us in the most glaring terms the tenuous nature of Philippine democracy. Despite the supposed democratic nature of our government as enshrined in our constitution, and in groundbreaking laws such as the LGU Act and the IPRA, the principles that these laws are rooted in are often not manifest in reality. The politics of impunity are still prevalent, cases of electoral violence still abound. We forget that the exercise of force and violence *are not exercises of power in politics*. Because of this, many of us feel helplesness and powerlessness.
But our felt helpessness in the face of the Ampatuan Massacre does not have to lead to powerlessness. Power is not a function of how much money you have, nor the size of your private army, nor the number of “influential” people you know. The nature of democracy, in an oversimplified sense, is that power originates in and from the people as a whole. This past week can be a way for us to remember what our democracy is realy supposed to be about—acknowledging that we are the ones who govern ourselves, that our voices are the the ones that should be heard. Part of this requires us to recognize that our country, our state, is one composed of a plurality of groups and affiliations, and how it is necessary for us to giving everyone proper representation and recognition. It is in our voices and thoughts and acts that power resides.
If there is anything positive that we can gain from the heinous massacre of 57 people in Maguindanao, it is the reminder of who we are as a political community, as the democratic state called the Philippines. Our collective revulsion at the heinous acts are reminders of our commitment to respecting and honoring the dignity of every human being; our unorchestrated and yet collective outrage at the massacre is a reminder of our unity in the midst of plurality, that unity need not be confused with conformity nor uniformity; our collective efforts to spread the word and make sure that other Filipinos are well-informed about these events in Maguindanao is a reminder of our commitment to personal participation in holding our public servants accountable to us. All of these are principles that our democracy is based on.
When I first heard the news of what is now called the Ampatuan Massacre, I posted as a status update on my Facebook the following question: “How can I continue to read a [philosophy] book about cosmopolitanism in the face of such heinous acts?” Here too the women seated behind me in the airport again have something to teach me. These women were complete strangers prior to their striking up a conversation with each other while waiting for the airplane to leave. Their new acquaintance, conversation, and even friendship began simply on the basis of a common context—the predeparture area of the airport, the same flight, and a common destination—Cagayan de Oro. The commonality of their context does not erase the fact of their difference, but makes it possible for them to share themselves in each other. It makes it all the more important, then, for us to study—and not just intellectually, but in praxis—things like cosmopolitanism. The possibility of friendship and conversation, recognizing difference, initiating dialogue, and promoting peace happens also on all levels, including the level of theory.
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