An offense we truly need

By Herman M. Lagon

“Stop being offended by Facebook posts, by a piece of art, by people displaying affection, by what someone said to you. Be offended by war, poverty, greed, injustice.”

This quote by Sue Fitzmaurice landed like a slap and a mirror at once. But it was the longer version shared by my friend, Dr. Liz Olegario of UP Diliman, that made the reflection sting even deeper. In it, she laid bare how we often fire up over the wrong things, while the real dangers quietly keep winning.

Offense now feels like currency. A meme, a shirt, a pride flag, a critical text, a kiss in public, a raised hand with clenched fist—we react fast. Yet that same outrage rarely shows up for unpaid health workers, slashed school budgets, farmers pushed off their land, job order staff doing essential work without benefits, or qualified teacher applicants passed over because someone else had a padrino. We are quick to react to discomfort, but slow to respond to real harm.

This is not a call to stop caring. It is a call to care better. Not all offense is equal. Feeling uneasy is not the same as witnessing injustice. One is about us. The other is about what kind of world we allow and the values we hold dear.

Take the case of Masbate. Rich in land and culture, yet still trapped in cycles of poverty. Why? Corruption, greed, dynastic politics. An old 2011 letter in the Philippine Daily Inquirer blamed ghost projects, stolen funds, and intimidation. More than a decade later, little has changed. And yet, we rage harder online about artists “disrespecting culture” than about public officials robbing it.

It is not that we lack empathy. Filipinos care deeply. But our radar for what deserves moral urgency has been thrown off by noise, digital outrage, and curated sensitivity. We are taught to avoid conflict to keep peace, but peace without justice is just a polite version of silence in favor of the oppressor, repressor, and suppressor. Many of us say “ayaw ko na lang magsalita” as if restraint is virtue. But if no one speaks up, then who will speak for those whose lives—not just feelings—are at stake?

This quiet complicity is especially visible in schools. Teachers are often told to “just teach the module” or “just let them pass.” Avoid controversy. Do not rock the boat. But how do we teach critical thinking while dodging real issues? How do we prepare young minds to lead if we train them to be careful and safe, but not courageous and just?

Fitzmaurice’s quote challenges that. It does not tell us to stop caring. It tells us to care better. To care deeper. To save our outrage for what truly harms lives—not just bruises egos. A rude tweet is not a national crisis. But the fact that 18 million Filipinos still live below the poverty line, according to PSA’s latest data, is. That over 7 out of 10 Filipinos aged 10 to 64 are functionally illiterate, based on recent FLEMMS findings, is even more alarming. Teenage girls dropping out due to pregnancy, with boys unaccountable—that is a crisis. So is a school without toilets, a teacher juggling six subjects, or a tricycle driver paying more for rice and gas while the peso weakens. The weight of inflation is not theoretical when a kilo of onions costs more than a day’s wage. And while the country sinks deeper into trillions of debt, confidential funds swell with no clear accounting. That, not satire or sarcasm, should keep us up at night.

Pope Francis once warned that indifference—especially from those in power—is more dangerous than hate, often cloaked in polite silence. And yet, many of us get louder over a political cartoon than over red-tagging, corruption, or historical distortion. It is a fair question to ask: what exactly are we defending? When outrage is easier over memes than over missed meals or stolen public funds, we lose sight of what truly matters.

We also need to stop treating discomfort like danger. A disagreement is not an attack, and sometimes what offends us just pokes at our pride. If we stay stuck in being offended, we miss the point—and the opportunity to grow. Meanwhile, the real damage slips past quietly. While we argue over tone and hashtags, leaders divert billions to campaign-timed “ayuda,” underfund PhilHealth, and leave classrooms empty. And we hardly notice, distracted by the latest viral drama.

Real offense should lead to real action. If it only results in unfriending someone or posting a clapback quote, then it is not activism. It is ego maintenance. Fitzmaurice is not saying “do not get hurt.” She is saying: check what hurts, and ask why. Does your offense come from truth confronting comfort? Or is it simply the sound of a worldview cracking?

This matters deeply for the young. If we teach them to fear discomfort, we raise followers, not thinkers. Shield them from all friction, and we rob them of the grit needed to grow. Outrage without listening only trains them to shout, not to lead. We say we want them resilient—but how can they be, if we never let them stumble, wrestle, fail, or be challenged? Growth does not happen in echo chambers. It happens in real conversations, hard moments, and choosing to understand, not just react.

Being offended, on its own, is easy. But being disturbed enough to act—that is harder. That is the kind of offense we need more of. One that speaks out against budget cuts, plunder, corruption, and extrajudicial killings—not against protest art, honest self-expression, or people simply standing up for what hurts them. One that demands better policies, not better packaging. One that recognizes that we cannot build a more just society if our energy is spent guarding feelings but ignoring facts.

Let us stop assuming we know who should be offended. Too often, we speak over those simply trying to live with dignity. What they need is space, not our secondhand outrage. And let us admit the double standard: we defend politicians who mock and bully with ease, yet attack artists or activists for challenging the status quo. That is not justice—it is selective offense disguised as loyalty.

As educators and citizens, we owe it to those watching—especially the young—to model better. Albeit difficult, pause before reacting, ask what really matters, speak to clarify, stay quiet when it heals, and step aside when others need the mic. It is not about avoiding offense. It is about not staying stuck in it. Discomfort can be a doorway, not a dead end.

However, silence is not always apathy, and noise is not always courage. At times, the loudest drown out the most needed. Fitzmaurice, through Olegario’s lens, reminds us: offense should not start where our ego stings, but where humanity breaks. That may be the hardest call to answer—but maybe it is the one this country needs most.

So yes, be offended—but let it lead you somewhere better. Let it sharpen how you listen, stretch what you read, and ground what you say. Let it move you to clarity, not just clicks. In a world drowning in noise, thoughtful courage is the quiet revolution we need.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.