MY NEW semifriends recently invited me to a drink. For the first time in months, I allowed myself to mingle with people other than my landlord, my boss, and the people I had to deal with to get my work done.
So there we were at a nearby pub, drinking malt and puffing on menthols and reds. I sat quietly, immensely entertained by their egoistic remarks. After a bucket, the night became less amusing and somewhat annoying. They started whining about the things I had chosen to ignore. Then they shared their sentiments on how the government had kept failing the Filipino people, and how apathetic some of these people had become.
I replied with casual nods and, when expected to give an opinion, I just shrugged, took a sip of my beer, or pretended that I was texting. They responded with a glare, with a dash of pity, which I later came to realize was a conclusion of disgrace (mine), and they proceeded with their promising goals for the country. After a few more howls, I decided to leave. I would have stayed if they asked, but they didn’t.
When I got home, I felt a little bad for not participating in the conversation that I had eagerly escaped. I examined myself and thought of their comments on and violent reactions to some “important” issues—the violent dispersal of protesting farmers in Kidapawan, the May 9 elections, the lumad killings, the Islamic State, the discrimination against the LGBT. What bothered me most was that I wasn’t bothered by these at all—the mishaps, the injustice, the incompetence of the administration. It seemed to me that I was among the Filipino people they mentioned—those who wake up in the morning with no hint of despair despite the fact that the Philippines is on the verge of collapse.
I wasn’t always like this, though. I wasn’t OK with an administration that failed us more than it succeeded. I did not tolerate prejudice, transgression or fraud. I even joined rallies, forums and programs addressing the setbacks our country had been trying to overcome for so long.
I had written a number of pieces on how we could save our planet and ease the decline of humanity. I had acted upon the beliefs I stood for and certainly did not settle for just posting about them on social media or debating with people I’d find on my newsfeed. I had left my comfort zone and gone out there. I had volunteered in any way possible, not only to encourage others but also to instill integrity and compassion in them. I did everything I could as an honorable, law-abiding Filipino.
I wasn’t supposed to turn out like this—apathetic, as they said. I used to care. I really did. I used to long for a better world—a world in accord even if at times it required us to endure a slight disarray. I had hoped for a world where hunger, violence, unemployment, illiteracy and discrimination were minimal. I had aspired to lead a better nation, creating the better world I had in mind. See, I used to have a dream—not only for myself but for everyone.
But as time passed, from Estrada to Arroyo to Aquino, my big dream got smaller and smaller, until I was on the brink of giving up on myself—my hopes, dreams and aspirations. From leading a nation, a community, the people around me, I was ineffective. From sharing my knowledge and sentiments on global warming, history and nationalism, to tuition increases, I was unheard. From simply respecting pedestrian lanes to segregating trash to conserving water and energy, I was ignored. I felt like I was a mockery and a failure.
I finally got tired of exerting effort and eventually stopped trying to be the change I wanted to see. For me, it was pointless to even try, because it seemed that in a way we were all satisfied at how things were and no one really wanted to compromise, no one really wanted change.
So here: I write to denounce my apathy and declare my defeat. I give up on worrying what our country, our world, our future will be. As much as I want to pursue my dream of making the world a better place, I no longer can. Because in every attempt I make, I just hear the song by Typecast play—“So what’s the point in all of this/ when you will never change?”
P.S. May this be your sign, your reminder, your wake-up call.
Sia Calibre, 23, is a freelance writer and a part-time book clerk.