Historical parallels?

The current Senate drama has turned from amusing to toe-curling and revolting. Taking the long view of the historian, none of this is new. Unparliamentary behavior. Suspected criminals hiding within institutional walls to escape accountability. Innocence is proven in a court of law, not through press releases or self-serving posts on social media. To understand the current circus, skip social media and return to history books. History does not repeat itself; we repeat it like a broken record. Our politicians are merely repeating scripts played out long ago in the Arzobispado de Manila in Intramuros, and an estate house in Tejeros, Cavite. Had they been present or awake during history class, maybe we would not be in this sorry mess.

In May 1636, Spanish Manila was the scene of a macho showdown between Church and state. No guns, sheriffs, and bandits here, just a standoff between then Manila Archbishop Hernando Paez Guerrero and Governor General Sebastián Hurtado de Corcuera. Their natural stubbornness was amplified by their position. The spark was a dispute over “ecclesiastical immunity,” the same principle invoked by the Senate president who took custody over a senator facing an international arrest warrant and later allowed him to go fugitive. Second time around, he was ignored, and a local warrant was served against the senator who was arrested inside the once august, but now tarnished walls of the Senate. This is “epal,” not once, but twice over.

Let’s return to 1636. A Spanish soldier was having an affair with a “slave” named Maria. To preserve morals, the archbishop advised the soldier to sell the slave. When he refused, Maria was forcibly taken from him and placed in the service of the governor’s wife. The soldier stalked the slave, and coming across her in the street, he proposed marriage. When Maria refused, the soldier stabbed her to death and sought sanctuary in San Agustin church. Agents of the law could not effect an arrest, and the church refused to “surrender” him. Corcuera cut through the delaying tactics by ordering soldiers to barge into the church. They forcibly took the soldier outside and executed him forthwith in the yard now marked by a Unesco World Heritage plaque.

Guerrero excommunicated all those involved in defying ecclesiastical immunity. Corcuera responded by ordering the arrest of the bishop and his banishment to Mariveles. Manila Cathedral and the Arzobispado were cordoned off by soldiers. Then, the Blessed Sacrament, in a monstrance, was carried in procession from the Franciscan church to the Arzobispado. Soldiers took off their caps, some bowed, others got on their knees, allowing the sacrament to pass into the hands of the bishop. With a monstrance in hand, wearing full regalia, the bishop did not run nor hide; he sat on his throne and dared the governor to arrest him. He did not require a neck brace or an alleged knee problem as an excuse because he had a weapon greater than all the governor’s soldiers. He had God.

It must have been hot under the cope and gloves. What if he wanted to pee? In time, he grew tired and let go. As the Bible says: “the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.” The bishop was promptly arrested and marched into a boat for exile. The method of evasion may have been different in 1636, but the intent remains exactly the same in 2026; the powerful try to evade the law.

Parallels don’t stop there. In 2026 and 1897, an academic or professional title was used to belittle someone. On March 22, 1897, the Magdiwang and Magdalo factions of the Katipunan met in Tejeros and decided to hold elections for a revolutionary government that would replace the Katipunan. Andres Bonifacio, as head of the Katipunan, presided over this “snap election” naively confident that his leadership would win him reelection. Emilio Aguinaldo was elected over him. Aguinaldo was not present; he was the only Magdalo in a slate filled with Magdiwang. Bonifacio was politically marginalized, but they threw him scraps from the table, the post of director of the Interior. He accepted without complaint, but then Daniel Tirona, a lawyer, challenged the election and declared:

“The position of director of the Interior is very great and should not be occupied by one who is not a lawyer. We have in our province a lawyer, Jose del Rosario, who is more qualified!”

Everything that Bonifacio fought for until that moment meant nothing, simply because he lacked a piece of paper—a law degree. It was a classic elitist move to push the simple working man in his place. Bonifacio drew his revolver. Tirona hid in the crowd. Bonifacio declared the election results null and void and stormed out. Academic snobbery sealed Bonifacio’s fate. Today, the specter of Tirona haunts the Senate in Sen. Rodante Marcoleta, who, as a bigwig (literally and figuratively), could not take a challenge from a lady senator and resorted to credentials, belittling all the other nonlawyers in the Senate.

How do we liberate ourselves from history so the present will stop reading like the past?

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