When we no longer cry
Extrajudicial killings have been in the news for so long that they’re beginning to lose their newsworthiness. Not significant enough to be reported separately, they are increasingly lumped together in now-routine reports that grow farther and farther away from the front page not just of newspapers but also of our imaginations. “6 more drug suspects slain,” one headline reads; “25 drug suspects killed in 5 days” goes another. Stripped of their individuality, the victims are now mere statistics. Stripped of its intrinsic novelty, the drama now lies in the math: “1 killed every hour in Bulacan.”
Only when it is a young one, or a government official, or someone related to a famous person that gets killed does the personhood of the dead surface: “British aristocrat’s daughter killed in Philippines’ war on drugs”; “5-yr-old girl latest fatality in drug war.” Otherwise, the dead are faceless and nameless, suspected drug pushers or users all, deprived even of the final dignity of a decent death: in place of a solemn white cloth, a crude piece of cardboard: “Drug pusher ako. Wag tularan.” Like the severed heads displayed in front of castles to stifle dissent during medieval times, the dead are recruited to perform the labor of intimidation.
“Stop talking about these things! Let’s talk about happier topics. Look at how beautiful the new Miss International is!” your friends might say. “Think of the positive! Look, we can now export bananas to China. And smoking will soon be banned in public places. Aren’t these great?”
Then there are those who would accuse you of not wanting the administration to succeed.
You want to tell them you agree that the drug problem is serious, and what you disagree with is the way it is being dealt with. You want to stress that you, too, would like to see the country and the President succeed. And you remind them that you are not accusing anyone of the killings, only that the murderers be found—and punished.
But you have become too tired to repeatedly explain your specific concern.
Who wouldn’t be tired by now? Who wouldn’t be weary of an environment where, for some people, criticism is more reprehensible than murder?
And who wouldn’t want to give in to the friend who tells you to just dwell on other things? It is far more pleasant—and safe—to think and write about the good and the beautiful.
Finally, there is an argument that can give anyone pause: that of (ir)relevance: “What’s the use? You’ve already said your piece, right? Will anyone still listen to you?”
Today, as the death toll continues to rise—and as the killings remain unsolved and uninvestigated—people are becoming inured to them, numb to the ramifications of condoning, or even just tolerating, the murder of our countrymen. And just as martial law has been unjustly reduced to a clash between two families, the war on drugs has been reduced to a political issue, even as it has become a fight for our collective conscience—the heart and soul of our nation.
In the face of this crisis, the least we can do is to preserve our sense of right and wrong: to recognize evil as evil; to remain indignant at things that require indignation; to condemn acts that call for condemnation. And in the face of routine violence, to reject the notion that it is normal for people to get killed.
It is sad enough that people begging for mercy receive no mercy, and that people crying for justice are met with injustice. It is sad enough that children have to weep for their parents, deprived even of knowledge of who killed them, or why. It is sad enough that parents have to mourn their dead children, the loss of their families’ best and brightest dreams.
But there is hope for as long as we regard the killings as wrong, and as deserving of rebuke, reprehension, or sorrow. There is hope when we weep with those who weep, for there are tears that can move us to action, tears that can cleanse and open our eyes to the truths we refuse to see.
A greater tragedy is when we no longer cry.
Gideon Lasco (www.gideonlasco.com) is a medical doctor and anthropologist.
