Someone asked me in a forum some time ago: Whatever happened to the patriotism of the Filipino? It wasn’t too long ago when we were willing to die for country. Indeed it wasn’t too long ago when we admired Ninoy Aquino for saying “The Filipino is worth dying for.” When will we get that spirit back? Or can we still do so?

I said: True enough, we seem to have become a nation of fence-sitters, if not a nation of cowards. A nation of dodgers, if not a nation of deserters. After a couple of EDSA revolts, we seem to have lost our mojo. Despite being governed shabbily, or indeed despite being used and abused, pressed and oppressed, we’ve said nothing and done nothing, taking it like a dog.

But horrible as that is, I continued, there is something worse. The real question in fact is not, “Will we ever want to die for the country again?” It is: “Will we ever want to live for the country at all?”

The last line of Martin Nievera’s favorite song, “Lupang Hinirang,” says it all: “Ang mamatay nang dahil sa iyo.” That has always been our understanding of patriotism, that has always been our practice of patriotism. Patriotism is what we show in the midst of war or the heat of battle. Patriotism is what we show when threatened by a foreign invader or a local tyrant. Patriotism is rising when called upon to resist that foreign invader. Patriotism is rising when called upon to fight the local dictator. Enough to lay down your life for it.

Julian Felipe himself composed “Lupang Hinirang” in those circumstances, in the heat of battle, in the midst of war, in time for the declaration of independence in Kawit 111 years ago on Friday. The lyrics were added the following year, and such was its fervor burning (as the English translation later put it) that the anthem was banned by the Americans from being played or sung by Filipinos under the Flag Law.

Ang mamatay ng dahil sa iyo is not without its dazzling aspects. It is not without its heroic aspects. Heaven knows we have been called upon again and again to show it. We’ve had no lack of oppressive rules, local and foreign. There was Spanish rule, there was American rule, there was Japanese rule, there was Ferdinand Marcos’ rule (at least during martial law), and there is Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s rule (from start to finish, and it looks nowhere near to finishing). The last two EDSAs are proof of our capacity to heed the call, ang mamatay ng dahil sa iyo.

That is our glory. But that is also our tragedy.

The willingness to die for country is larger than life. But it is larger than life only because it happens in spurts, in, as Whitney Houston’s song puts it, one moment in time. Which is probably why we love it. Though dying for country seems forbidding, it calls on us to exert ourselves only in spurts, only at some points in time. And for most of us anyway, it is merely the appearance of being willing to die for country—an appearance established by PR or rewriting history (look at all the self-proclaimed heroes of the two EDSAs)—that does the trick. The grand gesture—it’s all very Spanish, it’s all very Filipino. We probably got it from the Spanish anyway throughout their centuries of rule.

In-between the grand gesture, preceding it and proceeding from it, surrounding it and suffusing it, there is a lifetime of living life in not very quiet mediocrity and obscurity. That is our glory and tragedy. We are not unwilling to die for country, we are simply unwilling to live for it. We are able in dazzling moments to become larger than life, but we are reduced for interminable periods to being smaller than life.

Infinitely harder than dying for country is living for country. We have no problems joining EDSA, joining rebellions, or joining coups—or so in the past (we do have problems there today). But we have problems protesting the arrest and jailing of Jun Lozada, the threatened candidacies of Virgilio Garcillano and Joc-joc Bolante, the epic thievery that is routinely being exposed in the Senate hearings. We have problems taking to the streets to protest the killings of journalists and political activists, the ascension of Jovito Palparan to Congress, the “salvaging” of suspects in Davao and elsewhere. We have problems doing something about a legal system that now rewards the wicked and punishes the good.

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, Wendell Philips once said. Unfortunately, eternal vigilance is not particularly dramatic. It is not particularly colorful, it is not particularly glorious. It is grinding, it is day-to-day, it is the long, dull, and repetitive walk back and forth a watchman does when he keeps watch at the turrets. But it is what gets things done. It is what saves the fort from the marauding forces. It’s good to be larger than life in moments that call for it. But it’s better to just be the measure of life the rest of the way. Its rewards are plentiful, even if they do not always come in the form of medals, posthumous or otherwise. You are willing to pay the price of eternal vigilance, you probably wouldn’t need EDSA at all.

I remember a story my father used to tell me (I don’t quite know if he invented it himself to drive home the point): Three drivers were being interviewed to drive for a rich man. Asked how good a driver they were, the first answered: “Sir, if I were your driver, even if one wheel of our car juts out into the cliff on a mountain road, I will make sure to save us.” The second answered: “Sir, if I were your driver, even if both wheels of our car juts out into the cliff on a mountain road, I will make sure to save us.” The third answered: “Sir, if I were your driver, I will make sure we do not get into that situation.”

Often enough, if you just lived for country, you need not die for it.