Short Primer on Martial Law under the 1987 Constitution

Just a short discussion of the provisions of the Constitution governing the proclamation of martial law and the suspension of the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus, for reference during these times.

Article VII, Section 18 of the Constitution begins as follows –

“The President shall be the Commander-in-Chief of all armed forces of the Philippines and whenever it becomes necessary, he may call out such armed forces to prevent or suppress lawless violence, invasion or rebellion. In case of invasion or rebellion, when the public safety requires it, he may, for a period not exceeding sixty days, suspend the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus or place the Philippines or any part thereof under martial law.”

This provision expressly states that the power of the President to proclaim martial law or suspend the privilege of the writ can only be exercised in case of invasion or rebellion and only when public safety demands it. It requires either a foreign military invasion or a public and armed uprising against the government. Under the present Constitution, the grounds for declaring martial law have been limited to “[actual] invasion or rebellion, when the public safety requires it,” in contrast to the 1973 and 1935 Constitutions which provided that “imminent danger” of invasion or rebellion could be a basis for the same. The mere threat of rebellion, therefore, without an actual armed uprising, cannot be a valid justification for declaring martial law or suspending the privilege of the writ.

With regard to the effect of such proclamation or suspension, Section 18 continues by providing that –

“A state of martial law does not suspend the operation of the Constitution, nor supplant the functioning of the civil courts or the legislative assemblies, nor authorize the conferment of jurisdiction on military courts and agencies over civilians where civil courts are able to function, nor automatically suspend the privilege of the writ.”

And further –

“The suspension of the privilege of the writ shall apply only to persons judicially charged for rebellion or offenses inherent in or directly connected with the invasion. During the suspension of the privilege of the writ, any person thus arrested or detained shall be judicially charged within three days, otherwise he shall be released.”

What this means is that martial law shall not lead to a military takeover of all government functions, a suspension of all civil liberties, and the unrestricted authority on the part of the authorities to detain anyone indefinitely. The Constitution, and as a consequence the Bill of Rights, shall continue to have force and effect. Congress, as well as local legislatures, and the regular civilian courts shall remain open and continue to exercise their functions. Persons arrested in connection with the rebellion or invasion can only be held a maximum of three days before they must be formally charged in a civilian court. In other words, martial law under the present Constitution is not intended to result in a complete shutdown of civilian government the same way it did in 1972.

The proclamation is also subject to “review” by both Congress and the Supreme Court. The provision provides –

“Within forty-eight hours from the proclamation of martial law or the suspension of the privilege of writ of habeas corpus, the President shall submit a report in person or in writing to the Congress. The Congress, voting jointly, by a vote of at least a majority of all its Members in regular or special session, may revoke such proclamation or suspension, which revocation shall not be set aside by the President. Upon the initiative of the President, the Congress may, in the same manner, extend such proclamation or suspension for a period to be determined by the Congress, if the invasion or rebellion shall persist and public safety requires it. The Congress, if not in session, shall, within twenty-four hours following such proclamation or suspension, convene in accordance with its rules without any need of a call.”

Likewise –

“The Supreme Court may review, in an appropriate proceeding filed by any citizen, the sufficiency of the factual basis of the proclamation of martial law or the suspension of the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus or the extension thereof, and must promulgate its decision thereon within thirty days from its filing.”

The Executive, therefore, must justify, in a formal report to Congress, the proclamation of martial law or the suspension of the writ. This must be within 48 hours of the proclamation or suspension. Congress, after this, may choose to revoke the proclamation or suspension by majority vote of all members, voting jointly – that is as one chamber, with the vote of a Senator having the same weight as a Representative. Even without the revocation, the proclamation can only last for a maximum of sixty days, after which Congress must concur, by majority vote, to extend it.

Any citizen is also granted standing to question before the Supreme Court the sufficiency of the “factual basis” for the proclamation or suspension – that is, whether there was in fact an actual invasion or rebellion and whether public safety required such proclamation or suspension.

(Extra)ordinary Circumstances

Under ordinary circumstances, I would be completely sympathetic.

Politics in this country being the dirty, dreary, and sordid business it is, I would readily understand why an honest, upright, and intelligent human being like Professor Randy David would not want to get into it, much less stand for election as a candidate. After all, what reasonably decent and relatively sane person would want to? Politics, and elections, in our corner of the world have long since degenerated into the nearly exclusive preserve of the notoriously unqualified and the viciously unscrupulous – not exactly the company one would be interested in joining.

Sometimes though, politics is too important to leave to the politicians. And as numerous advocates, analysts, and public intellectuals – including Professor David – have pointed out repeatedly, this is one of those times.

Eight years of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo have made clear to even the most apathetic, disinterested, and apolitical among us just how rotten politics in the Philippines has become. We have been forced to come face to face with the awful truth of how corrupt our Congress is, how weak our public institutions are, and how infinitely malleable our laws can be made to be. In the end there can be only one conclusion: we need new leaders.

It was amid this clamor for new blood, for better options, for more acceptable choices, that Professor David’s announcement that he would run against GMA if she sought election to Congress in the second district of Pampanga came to electrify the nation and give us all some measure of hope. Predictably, the more cynical immediately deemed it a lost cause from the outset – a David versus Gloriath scenario where David had absolutely no chance of prevailing.

But the likelihood or unlikelihood of winning was never the point. It was always simply the idea that a well-respected academic and public intellectual was willing to step out of his comfort zone and take a stand, futile or not, for what he believed to be right. It allowed the rest of us to believe in the assertion that politics need not be left to the politicians, but could be reclaimed by honest, upright, and principled citizens who found the courage to throw themselves into the fray.

Simply put, what David versus Gloriath gave us was hope. Hope that there were still good men and women ready to stand up to the tyranny of politics-as-usual. Hope that in the end, this might even be enough to pull our nation out of the quagmire of corruption and opportunism it had fallen into.

And it is because I cannot bear to see this hope wither away that I cannot bring myself to sympathize with Professor David’s decision not to run.

I understand that he is being asked to take on a massive burden, that he is being asked to risk a career and reputation painstakingly built through decades of hard work, that he is being asked exchange the comfort and familiarity of the academe for the harshness and uncertainty of politics.

I understand that it is not easy, but I must nonetheless ask.

Because I believe that our nation, and our people, need to believe that there are those among us willing to pay the price for principle. That for every Gloria Macapagal Arroyo that rises to embark upon a career of rapacity, there will always be a Randy David ready to stand in the way.

These are not ordinary circumstances, and as such ordinary people – workers, teachers, and yes, even public intellectuals – are called upon to take on extraordinary challenges. I hope we are up to them.

Remembering Hope

Two Saturdays ago, I heard of Cory Aquino’s death and was rather surprised to find myself deeply affected. I was gripped by a feeling that was part sadness, part nostalgia, and part… something else. It took me a while to identify what that “something else” was, but eventually I recognized it for what it was — the faint, bittersweet remembrance of youthful hope.

Cory Aquino’s presidential campaign and the popular uprising that followed it 23 years ago probably means a lot of things to different people. But for me, it will always be the time that I fell in love, fatally and irrevocably, with the idea of what our country could be.

I suppose it was unavoidable that my impressionable 12-year old mind would become enamored with the excitement for change that so charged the air then. Cory’s candidacy at the time did not only represent something better than the status quo, i.e. an improvement from the Marcos regime, but was a beacon for the nation’s long pent-up enthusiasm for change. And when the EDSA uprising came and catapulted Cory to the presidency, despite the best (or perhaps worst) efforts of the forces supporting the old regime, it seemed the perfect affirmation of our faith in the boundless possibilities of such enthusiasm.

Of course, later, the disappointments would come. The massacre at Mendiola, the (re)institution of the total war policy, the unthinking assumption of illegitimate public debts – these and other decisions by “President Cory” would eventually dampen even the seemingly limitless enthusiasm of the campaign and at EDSA. The “Cory magic” would eventually fade in the face of harsh, unforgiving Philippine reality.

Still, having felt that wonder once, I never quite looked at that “reality” the same way. The most serious social problems were simply challenges that would inevitably be overcome, obstacles to be swept aside by sheer effort of will, by our indefatigable belief in ourselves and in the power of our collective enthusiasm. No matter how overwhelming our nation’s troubles seemed, the hope, no, the conviction, that that better community, that better country, that better world we craved, always remained within our grasp if we worked hard enough, if we trusted in ourselves and in our fellows enough, never faltered.

Half a decade after EDSA, when as an undergraduate at the University of the Philippines I marched against the Cory government’s plan to extend the Bases Agreement with the United States, it was, quite ironically, this selfsame conviction, born during the Cory campaign, that lay at the heart of my motivations.

The years, of course, eventually took their toll even on this remnant of hope that I took from EDSA. Though I forsook academic achievement and a mainstream career in favor of continued involvement in what can only be broadly called “the progressive movement” (in a vague, distant sort of tribute to something briefly glimpsed in 1986), disappointment, frustration, cynicism, and plain weariness ultimately reduced that fierce, vibrant hope into a dull throb of dissatisfaction. Enthusiasm for change gave way to anger with the status quo. It became more important to crush the oppressors than to build a future for the oppressed. Hope became hate.

Every so often, though, that dull ache of dissatisfaction would flare up, somewhat painfully, into a semblance of the old, lost optimism.

Two Saturdays ago was one such moment.

Cory Aquino’s death opened the way for a celebration of her life. And fairly or unfairly, it once again reemphasized for many, including myself, that 23 years ago, she symbolized the power of possibility. Her passing, and the outpouring of support and gratitude that emerged in response to it, helped me remember that at the core of our dissatisfaction with our current leaders, at the heart of our frustration with our country’s woes, is that belief, deeply buried though it may be, that we still can build a better world.

I would like to think that in the end, the social change so many of us crave will not be brought about by the jaded cynics, but by those who continue to hope, and to dream. Cory’s triumph in 1986 proved that those who hope can wage a successful struggle. Cory’s passing now reminds us that those who struggle must not neglect to hope.

A rainy afternoon in Bulacan

Monday last week, braving pouring rain and heavy traffic, I made my way to a small community in Norzagaray, Bulacan. I had been invited by a group of sometime clients to a celebration. After over a decade of effort, they had finally signed an agreement which would grant them formal rights over the land on which they had their homes, and they wanted to mark the occasion with food, alcohol, and, of course, the inevitable round of videoke songs, in the company of friends and associates — a circle which included me, their sometime lawyer.

And it was there in Bulacan, under a tarpaulin leaking rainwater, over steaming bowls of lomi and bottles of lukewarm Red Horse Beer, listening to my companions talk animatedly about their plans for the future of their community, that I was once again reminded of why I became a public interest lawyer.

It was not so much the fact that I was overwhelmed by the copious (though in my opinion, largely undeserved) thanks they gave me (though I was overwhelmed, believe me). Nor was it the chance to bask in the pleasant afterglow of a long and hard-fought legal victory. It was simply the rare opportunity to be part of something that actually felt genuine.

You could see it in their eyes, a shine that was equal parts hope and confidence, the realization that they, through their own efforts, had managed to secure a place for themselves despite all the disadvantages of poverty and lack of influence. It was a wonder, and a privilege, to behold.

The cynics among us will always maintain that everything we do is ultimately done out of self-interest. If this is true, then that rainy afternoon in Bulacan was one of the few times I fulfilled mine — to witness, firsthand, the overwhelming humanity of a group of ordinary people winning for themselves a long-sought and much-deserved measure of dignity and security.

Thursday blues

There was a time, not so long ago, that I looked forward to Thursday.

Every Thursday evening I would meet a small group of my closest friends at Taby’s — a small establishment along Maginhawa Street in Sikatuna Village — to engage in long, drawn-out conversations  over seemingly endless rounds of San Mig Light. Our discussions would cover a diverse array of topics, ranging from the profound to the prosaic to the obscene to the downright obscene, and they would last, as most drunken conversations do, well past the time decent, law-abiding, god-fearing citizens would be expected to be home in bed.

These Thursday “appointments” were kept with a commitment bordering on religious fervor. Neither typhoons nor coup attempts nor the explicit disapproval of spouses and girlfriends could keep us from our Thursday beer and conversation.

But sadly, those days are gone. Life and local politics have conspired to deprive us of these Thursday gatherings, and I, for one, believe we are the poorer for it.

To start, Taby’s closed down a few months ago, after some homeowners in the area apparently complained to barangay officials. Something regarding noise and a consequent lack of sleep, or some other, equally unreasonable, issue. After all, how can you put the alleged need for sleep on the same plane as the incontestible necessity to have drunken discussions with one’s friends? At any rate, though we’ve tried to look for an alternate venue, we have yet to find one as comfortable or convenient.

Work schedules for some of my friends have also shifted, making it less convenient for them to meet on Thursday evenings. So the Thursday gathering, observed so religiously before, has become a far less certain affair. The near blasphemous idea of shifting to Wednesday has even been raised; I mean who ever heard of drinking on a Wednesday?

So now, Thursday is just another day, when we might or might not meet for drinks and conversation. Just another day indistinguishable from the rest of the humdrum week. One more pillar of stability in an otherwise chaotic existence toppled and forgotten.

How does one cope with such meaninglessness?

Stifling free speech in the workplace

An article I wrote on a recent Supreme Court decision and its implications on free speech in the workplace just came out on Newsbreak. Here is the link to the original article. The full text follows –

The freedoms of speech and of expression have long been acknowledged as indispensable to a democratic society. The eminent American jurist, Benjamin N. Cardozo, speaking for the United States Supreme Court, stated that the freedom of thought and speech “is the matrix, the indispensable condition, of nearly every other form of freedom.”  Our own high court has characterized the freedom of expression as being “a fundamental postulate of our constitutional system.”

International human rights law likewise recognizes the fundamental importance of free expression. Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights proclaims that “Everyone has the right to freedom of expression and opinion” and that this right includes the freedom “to seek, receive, and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.”

But despite this widely recognized primacy of the freedom of expression, the Philippine Supreme Court, in a decision handed down by its Second Division last November, has laid down a new doctrine that threatens to seriously undermine the exercise of this essential right in the context of labor relations.

The said decision concerned a labor dispute between the management of Dusit Hotel Nikko and members of its employees’ union. In the course of the dispute, several employees came to work with shaved heads and were prevented from working by the hotel. Speaking through Associate Justice Presbitero J. Velasco, Jr., the Court, in its decision in the case of NUWHRAIN-APL-IUF Dusit Hotel Nikko Chapter v. Court of Appeals,  ruled that the act of several hotel employees in reporting for work with shaved heads, ostensibly in violation of the hotel’s grooming standards, constituted an illegal strike and was “not a protected action;” in other words, that the act of shaving one’s head as a means of protest transgressed the limits of freedom of expression and could validly be restricted by law.

The Constitution and law recognize two types of activities that can be undertaken by workers collectively – strikes and other peaceful concerted activities.

A “strike” is explicitly defined as “any temporary stoppage of work by the concerted action of employees as a result of an industrial dispute.”  The right to strike is recognized under the Constitution,  but may only be exercised “in accordance with law,” that is in the manner prescribed and with due observance of the requirements set forth under the Labor Code.

Any other “peaceful concerted activities” short of a strike are not, however, subject to the same degree of regulation. These concerted activities fall under the mantle of the constitutionally protected freedoms of speech, expression, and assembly, and may only be prevented or restricted upon a clear showing that a “clear and present danger” to public interest exists.

The legally allowable degree of regulation, therefore, is determined by how a particular act is characterized: Is it a strike, in which case more stringent restrictions may be applied? Or is it another type of peaceful concerted activity, which can only be restricted when there is a clear danger to public interest?

In finding that the act of coming to work with a shaved head, even without an express refusal to work, amounted to a strike as it forced the hotel to “choose between allowing its inappropriately hair styled employees to continue working, to the detriment of its reputation, or to refuse them work,” the Supreme Court has dramatically expanded the legal definition of strike. It has characterized speech which is “detrimental to the employer’s reputation” as amounting to a strike and therefore subject to more stringent restriction. In so doing, it has opened the door to more intrusive regulation of activities which in the past would be considered as protected under the freedom of speech and expression guarantees of the Constitution.

In past years, the Supreme Court has exercised a tremendous amount of care in order to avoid precisely this kind of encroachment into the constitutionally protected sphere. In one decision, the Court upheld the primacy of freedom of expression over property rights, and allowed workers to join a rally even during working hours. According to the Court:

“As heretofore stated, the primacy of human rights — freedom of expression, of peaceful assembly and of petition for redress of grievances — over property rights has been sustained. Emphatic reiteration of this basic tenet as a coveted boon — at once the shield and armor of the dignity and worth of the human personality, the all-consuming ideal of our enlightened civilization — becomes Our duty, if freedom and social justice have any meaning at all for him who toils so that capital can produce economic goods that can generate happiness for all.”

In fact, even in cases where the Court has found an illegal strike to have occurred, it has taken pains to distinguish between the invalidity of the strike – for having failed to adhere to the process required under the Labor Code – and the protected character of specific acts done during the strike. For instance, in one case where the Court declared a strike at a hospital illegal, it nonetheless clarified that the “wearing of armbands” and “putting up of placards” cannot be construed as illegal, as “they are within the mantle of constitutional protection under freedom of speech.”

The Dusit decision, unfortunately, does away with such fine distinctions, and raises concerns about the way in which the freedoms of speech and expression will be construed within the workplace in the coming years.

To begin with, it is an abrupt turnaround from the recognition of the primacy of the freedom of speech particularly with respect to property rights. Dusit implies that if workers’ speech is detrimental to an employer’s reputation – in other words, it “embarrasses” the employer – then it may be disallowed, and, in fact, punished. This reverses the long-established hierarchy of rights that give more weight to free speech than to property interests.

Furthermore, by expanding the definition of a strike, and, as a consequence, the range of workers’ activities that may be subject to more stringent regulation, it severely limits the freedom of workers to speak and express themselves within the workplace. It is easy to envision that Dusit may eventually be used to restrict activities such as wearing of pins or armbands or displaying placards or signs.

For employees in the public sector, this expanded definition has even direr consequences. Since public employees are allowed to organize and engage in peaceful concerted activities but are prohibited by law from conducting strikes, expanding the notion of “strike” to cover not only cases of actual work stoppage but also any action “embarrassing” to the employer may eventually lead to a total restriction on any type of activity critical of or in protest against the government.

This will undoubtedly constitute a significant erosion of these fundamental freedoms. The mere possibility that the Dusit decision may signal a sea change in the State policy on freedom of expression within the workplace is threat enough. For as pointed out by the Court:

“Because these freedoms are “delicate and vulnerable, as well as supremely precious in our society” and the “threat of sanctions may deter their exercise almost as potently as the actual application of sanctions,” they “need breathing space to survive,” permitting government regulation only “with narrow specificity.”"

If we are to continue to uphold the tenets of our democratic society, we should strive our utmost to ensure that that crucial “breathing space” continues to be respected by our courts.

Institutionalizing morality

An interesting, if not exactly novel, point was raised in a forum I was at yesterday. In essence, it contends that the more serious concern with respect to the Philippine government and legal system is not the inadequacy or inefficacy of our current laws, but the character of the public officials implementing them.

Now normally, as I’ve indicated, this would hardly be a new argument. After all, I’ve heard it, perhaps phrased slightly differently, from countless fellow citizens, usually as a prelude to some appeal for greater “spirituality” in society. But with no less than the Chief Justice, our highest judicial officer, stating just last week that what the country needed was “moral force,” I think that the position merits some discussion.

To start with, I have to say that on the most basic, instinctive level, I find the first part of the argument appealing. Who wouldn’t, particularly in a country where public “servants” already awash in cash have no qualms about dipping further into an already depleted national treasury while cash-strapped taxi drivers, for all their poverty, nonetheless see fit to return thousands of pesos inadvertently left in their cabs. It’s easy enough to see that personal “character” and “morals” must play a role there somewhere.

But it is with the other component of the position that I have some difficulty with. I mean sure, we could certainly use more honest and upright women and men in government, but does this necessarily have to preclude changing the existing legal system as well?

Ideally, laws are in place precisely to encourage certain kinds of behavior and to discourage others. Granted, law and language being as subject to “interpretation” as they are, they will not always be used or followed in the manner originally “intended.” However, I do not think that this “uncertainty” in legal text unavoidably implies that one law (or one way of phrasing a law) is as good as any other. In other words, the impossibility of coming up with an ultimately idiot-proof (or perhaps, tyrant-proof) legal text should not be a justification for not striving to come up with a tighter formulation.

Just take the case of many of our public laws, a significant portion of which were enacted under the less than ideal conditions of the Martial Law regime. Or take the case of our law on inciting to sedition, which is still largely based on statutes enacted by the Americans during the early years of colonization. These laws, which we continue to observe to this day, given their context and original purpose, are, quite unsurprisingly, heavily biased toward upholding executive power as against the power of a popularly elected legislature, and the right of citizens to free speech.

I suppose we can argue that if we had a “good” President, who had a strong personal commitment to democratic ideals, it would not matter if these laws were still on the books — she or he would simply not apply them in a manner which tended to stifle democratic discourse. But that does that mean we should leave them as is, crossing our fingers that that “good” President comes to power? Or do we try and change them, making it more difficult for these laws to be “interpreted” in an abusive or oppressive manner, just in case we get a “bad” President?

Personally, I’d rather we hedge our bets.

Rights and wrongs

The start of another year! So I suppose this is a good a time as any to resume posting.

For the past few weeks, the headlines — and for that matter, most of the inside pages as well — have been dominated by news about the Alabang 3 and the alleged million peso bribes offered to agents of the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency (PDEA) and prosecutors of the Department of Justice (DOJ) to secure their release. For the most part, the emphasis in the news articles and opinion columns written on the matter has been on the heroism and steadfastness of the PDEA officers who refused the bribes and rebuffed attempts by DOJ prosecutors (who, most would suppose, actually succumbed to bribery) to have the three suspects released. Even my own professor, former UP Law Dean Raul Pangalangan,  characterized the issue, in his column in the Inquirer, as a demonstration of “how the legitimate safeguards of due process can be misused.”

I must admit that from all appearances the issue seems fairly cut and dried. Those involved eve readily fulfill the stereotypical roles we have all come to expect in relation to the local justice system — the rich and privileged suspects, arrogant in their assumption that they can buy their way out of anything; the corrupt government lawyers, only to willing the twist the letter of the law for personal monetary gain; the sleazy private practitioner, adept at using bribes and connections to get his guilty clients off; and standing alone against this tide of iniquity, the idealistic and incorruptible law enforcement officer, a rare gem of virtue amid the decay of the criminal justice system.

But while I do not discount the bravery and integrity of Major Ferdinand Marcelino of the PDEA (or for that matter, do I doubt the corruption that pervades so much of the justice system), I cannot help but be disturbed by the fact that in the wake of this entire affair, concepts such as “due process” and “rights of the accused” have seemingly become inextricably linked to corruption and tolerance for crime; “legal gobbledygook” that repulsively smooth lawyers use as overly technical excuses to get privileged suspects off the hook.

One thing that immediately struck me when this story hit the headlines was the fact that the PDEA refused to release the suspects despite an order from the DOJ, claiming that said order was still subject to “automatic review.” Now while most of us may believe that the suspects were “really” guilty, and that the DOJ order was “really” prompted not by sound legal considerations but by cold, hard monetary ones, should we really be happy at the thought that, in this particular case, instead of seeking recourse through the proper legal venues, the arresting officers simply chose to ignore what on its face was a legal order of release from a duly empowered civilian authority?

Article 125 of the Revised Penal Code requires that suspects arrested without a warrant (as in this case) can only be kept in police custody for a maximum of 36 hours before formal charges must be brought against them in court. In this case, formal charges were not brought precisely because the office that was tasked to bring them, the DOJ, found, at least ostensibly, that the arrest, and consequent search, of the suspects was invalid. Yet notwithstanding this, the PDEA chose to keep the suspects in custody well beyond the legally permitted 36-hour period.

Now I may not exactly be the biggest fan of the DOJ (or more precisely, this particular DOJ), but I am certainly less inclined to allow on-the-ground law enforcement agencies like the PDEA to ignore clearly established legal rules and act in whatever manner they feel is “right,” laws and rules be damned.

While I strongly agree that the corruption in the criminal justice system urgently needs to be addressed, I feel just as, if not more, firmly that simply ignoring procedure is definitely not the way to go.

Two legal wrongs will not certainly make a right.

Post illness ramblings

I’ve been home for a week, grappling with a particularly vicious and unrelenting case of the flu. I suppose this comes as a forceful reminder of how good it feels to simply not be sick. To be able to take a deep, cleansing breath and not hear the rattling of phlegm or succumb to another agonizing bout of coughing. Oh well, at least I have time to write again.

I have to admit it’s been a while. A long while. My last entry was over half a year ago, made in the aftermath of my latest entanglement with the inequities (iniquities?) of this administration. Many months have passed since then, and I’d like to think I’ve come to live a quieter sort of life. Or relatively quieter, to be more accurate — at least I’ve managed to avoid appearing in further televised inquests at Camp Crame…

Not that I haven’t been up to the odd bit of “subversive activity” — to borrow a term from my last tongue-in-cheek conversation with my former professor, Philip Alston. I have continued to participate in the usual legal engagements with the government and its officials (always on the other side, which of course, is invariably and inevitably the “right” side, just ask any of my clients). For the most part, however, I’ve come to devote more time to teaching and research, the bread and butter concerns of my academic persona.

I’m not sure how long this phase will last, of course. For one, I cannot honestly say that I have accepted — or perhaps more accurately, resigned myself to — living out my days as a cantankerous college professor, striving to spice up my writing and conversation with a bit of Left (though not too Left) politics, all the while working on building up a respectable paunch on faculty luncheons and seminar buffets. In addition, I do not know if I can actually live with myself if I sit out all the good fights I am sure will come. I’ve never been able to simply sit on the sidelines and cheer while others engaged in what I felt were worthy struggles. My one big vice, unfortunately, and my undoing in all likelihood.

Well, what will come, will come. In the meantime, I suppose I should focus on shaking off the last stubborn vestiges of the flu, and getting back to work and, hopefully this time, regular writing.

Friday Night Lights

Last Friday, somewhat to my surprise and slightly against my initial inclinations, I found myself at the detention center in Camp Crame, visiting the detainees from the Manila Peninsula incident of the previous day. I had come to act as counsel in the inquest proceedings set for that evening, representing Dodong Nemenzo, the former UP President, and a man I personally held in the highest esteem, both for his ideas and his ideals.

While waiting for the inquest to start (it was scheduled for 8 PM, but consistent with typical “Filipino-time,” actually began almost two hours later) I stayed inside the detention center and talked with some of the other detainees. Far from being the dour and serious affairs most people would probably expect (after all, we were in a detention area in the middle of a military camp, surrounded by several thousand armed police officers, and the people I was with stood accused, rightly or wrongly, of attempting to overthrow the government), the conversation was, for the most part, light and even humorous. A perfect complement, I suppose, to the surreal fact that from the Crame detention center, you could clearly see the lights from the bars and restaurants in nearby Greenhills. This probably stands as proof positive that we Filipinos are a cheerful, or at the very least, a resilient people — we can find it in ourselves to laugh and trade bad puns while undergoing detention for rebellion.

Of course, not all the conversations I had that Friday evening involved joking around. One which stands out in particular is the talk I had with the sometimes admired, oftentimes reviled icon of anti-administration sentiment, Senator Antonio Trillanes IV.

I must confess at the outset that when I came to Crame that Friday, I did not really count myself as a Trillanes fan. I mean, yeah, I was thrilled that more than 11 million Filipinos voted him into the Senate last May (if the COMELEC hadn’t “misplaced” my voter record, I would probably have even cast my lot with them). But this was really more because I saw him as a symbol of resistance, rather than actually agreeing with the actions he had chosen to undertake. Taking over a luxury residence in Makati, and then surrendering after 23 hours is not exactly my notion of effective political action. And the events of the previous day had not exactly done much to lessen my cynicism. If anything, Manila Pen in 2007 seemed a smaller-scale, less successful (if there is such a thing) version of Oakwood in 2003.

That said, however, despite a full supply of cynicism and lawyerly skepticism, I came away from Crame last Friday, counting myself as a Trillanes fan.

I do not mean that I agree with what he did (however various observers may choose to construe it). But I’d like to think that I at least came to understand in part why he did it. And it is for those reasons that I have come to admire the man.

What struck me most was Trillanes’ overwhelming, overpowering sincerity. The man is a believer. Not simply in the righteousness of his own cause, after all, even Jovito Palparan is probably completely convinced of his own virtue, but more significantly, in the capacity of Filipinos to recognize what is right and act accordingly. Responding to a point raised about the difficulty in getting people to mass up at a distant, inaccessible Makati hotel on a rainy Thursday, Trillanes quite simply stated that he believed that “people should be willing to walk a mile in the rain for their country.” Up to now, I am awed by such faith in us Filipinos.

While many of us may criticize the impracticality, or even the outright naivety, of this view, we have to acknowledge its compelling character. For two and a half years, efforts to stand up to the GMA regime — a regime that has consistently proven itself to be ruthless, corrupt, and utterly bereft of moral or legal scruples — have been bedeviled by questions of practicality and expediency. Who, or what, do we replace her with? How do we go about it? Who do we accept as allies? Without necessarily dismissing the legitimacy of these concerns, I think the time has come to ask ourselves if in focusing on the logistics of the struggle, we have wavered in our conviction to wage it in the first place.

And maybe that is why, last Friday, I became a Trillanes fan. For despite all our condescension towards his “political naivety,” and all our snide remarks regarding the “inept” way he carried out the Manila Peninsula affair, he remains a man who dared to act on the outrage that still roars so fiercely in our hearts.