Healing

Renato Corona says it’s persecution—that is, the Bureau of Internal Revenue filing tax evasion charges against him. No so, and not so fast, says BIR chief Kim Henares. The case is backed by prima facie evidence that came to light in his impeachment trial.

He himself took the huge gamble of admitting to his dollar deposits, going through great contortions to explain them, and waiving his right to secrecy. He gambled, and lost. Now, beyond the glare of the media, he has revoked his waiver in an attempt to block further prosecution of him. Alas, too late.

I have heard people, who are not naturally sympathetic to him, say, “Sobra naman, bagsak na ’yong tao tinatadyakan pa.” Typically Pinoy, but which is also typically a guarantee of never being able to say “Never again!” Typically Pinoy, but which is also typically an assurance of iniquity happening again and again.

Justice does not happen once a tyrant, petit or grand, is ousted. Which, for the strangest reasons, is how we’ve always appreciated it.

Ferdinand Marcos is overthrown and sent into exile, and the effort to prosecute him, his family, and his cronies is called persecution. And the effort to recover the loot he stole from the country, which is now being enjoyed by his family and cronies, is called persecution. And the effort to make the country recall the hell he put it through is called persecution. And called so not just by them but by many Filipinos, too.

Erap is overthrown and sent into 5-star detention, and the effort to recover the loot he stole from his country is called persecution. And the effort to make the country recall the dark night he let fall on it, ruled by the aswang in the midnight Cabinet, is called persecution. And not just by him but many Filipinos, too. Hell, if P-Noy hadn’t been there, he might have been president again.

Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo finally goes, having been prevented from clinging to power by an Edsa revolt masquerading as an election, and the effort to prosecute her, her husband, and her cronies is called persecution. And the effort to recover the things she stole from the country, which isn’t just loot but life, which isn’t just the nation’s till but the voters’ will, is called persecution. And the effort to make the country recall the murder and mayhem, quite apart from the lying, cheating, and stealing she inflicted on it, is called persecution. And called so not just by her and her allies but, well, at least some Filipinos, the lack of more widespread awa owing not to the extent of her crimes but to the extent of her charms, or utter lack of them.

Not quite incidentally, the folk of Iloilo have just given us a stunning reminder of the last. The kin of 202 missing activists have just put up a sculpture in tribute to them. It is an astonishing work of art, the images of the disappeared, including those of Maria Luisa Posa-Dominado and Nilo Arado who were abducted by thugs in April 2007 and never seen again, carved on three spear-shaped poles. Which has both inspired and disturbed the living, the disturbance particularly afflicting the kin who are forced to remember their loved ones again without benefit of closure. It’s a reminder of Arroyo’s atrocious and cynical war against rebellion in her time, which was never meant to end rebellion, which was merely meant to extend usurpation.

And now Corona is wailing persecution.

The point is simple: Simply being ousted is not punishment enough for those who have done the country wrong. Restitution helps. Jail helps. Being reviled for what they did helps.

Our problem has never been the ability to rise up and topple tyrants. It has always been the capacity to punish them afterward. Our problem has never been the ability to say, “tama na, sobra na, palitan na,” it has always been the capacity to say, “parusahan na, pagbayarin na, huwag nang pairalin pa.”

That takes special resonance in light of Sept. 21 being the 40th anniversary of the declaration of martial law. It’s not just time that has allowed the Marcoses to erode, if not erase, the stigma of martial law, and threaten to come back in a big way—if they have not done so already: Bongbong is a senator, Imelda is a representative, and Imee is a governor. It is also the fact that they were not punished. It is also the fact that they were not prosecuted, they were not deprived of their ill-gotten wealth (or at least much of it), they were not jailed. Which has allowed them to rewrite history, or attempt to. Which has allowed them to come back to power, or threaten to. The specter that has always haunted this land is not communism, it is tyranny.

What idiocy, the notion that pursuing the Marcoses, Erap, and Arroyo—the first and last above all, the second committing lesser crimes and more out of ignorance than out of malice—and their coconspirators like Corona, is vindictiveness. The opposite in fact is true. Not doing so is vindictiveness. Or more accurately, not doing so is spitefulness.

Not prosecuting them is being spiteful to the people, many of them in the first flush of life, who were spirited away never to be seen again. Not hounding them to the ends of the earth is being spiteful to the people they’ve lied to, cheated, and stolen from, quite apart from given heart attacks and strokes from apoplexy, from uyam, from oppression at the mere sight of them. Not following through after ousting them by sending them to jail, or, as in Erap’s case, keeping him there, is being spiteful to a nation they repressed with mind-boggling fury, and, yes, vindictiveness, and, yes, spite.

Not doing so is allowing an open wound to fester in the heart of the land. I’m glad that the kin of the disappeared in Iloilo have given us something to remember things by. Art soothes.

But in the end, it is only justice that heals.