Ang papel sang politiko sa rally

By Noel Galon de Leon

September 21 is never a neutral date in our political memory. It is the day we remember the horrors of Martial Law, the silencing of voices, and the suffocation of dissent. In Iloilo City this year, the Kahublagan Kontra Korapsyon (KKK) calls for a gathering that returns the microphone to the sectors most silenced by poverty, exploitation, and neglect. It is not a day for spectacle, not a carnival of tarpaulins and slogans, but a space where the oppressed are finally allowed to speak without being overshadowed. For this reason, the role of politicians becomes unusual, almost unnatural: they are invited to attend, but only as listeners. They are asked to be present, but stripped of the power to dominate. They must occupy the humble position of sitting among the people, their voices muted, their egos checked, their names not emblazoned on banners.

This silence being demanded of them is not weakness, nor is it an insult to their positions of power. In fact, it is the opposite—it is a discipline that few in politics can muster. Politicians are trained to believe that every stage is theirs to conquer, every microphone theirs to control, every gathering theirs to command. The idea that they should come to a rally, stand behind no podium, and take no credit is almost an act of rebellion against their very instincts. Yet it is precisely this restraint that is necessary, because the communities who will speak on September 21 do not need another promise from another politician. What they need is recognition that their pain, their hunger, their anger are valid truths that cannot be glossed over by political rhetoric. To keep silent in this context is not to vanish but to make space for the poor to articulate their lives without interruption.

The act of listening, which Ilonggos understand as “pamati”, is never passive. It is not simply hearing words and nodding along. To listen, in our culture, is to acknowledge, to give weight, to absorb another’s truth as one’s own responsibility. For the politicians who wish to attend this rally, their listening must be full and undistracted—no cameras flashing for photo-ops, no strategic handshakes for campaign mileage, no whispered promises of assistance while the program unfolds. Listening here means being confronted with discomfort, absorbing the raw testimonies of laborers, vendors, farmers, jeepney drivers, and urban poor families who will speak of their daily survival in a system that has failed them. It means enduring criticism and anger that will be directed at the very structures politicians embody. This is not listening as a campaign strategy; this is listening as moral obligation.

And it is precisely this demand that makes the event controversial. By denying politicians the chance to take the stage, the organizers are stripping them of their favorite weapon—visibility. Epality has long plagued Iloilo politics, where every fiesta tarpaulin is a campaign poster, every road project bears the smiling face of an incumbent, every disaster relief operation is stamped with a politician’s name. Politicians thrive in visibility because it translates into power. The KKK’s warning—“Welcome kamo mag attend apang wala kamo lugar kag wala kamo kahigayunan mang-agaw bilang manughambal”—is a radical disruption of this culture of spectacle. For once, politicians are not saviors. They are not there to be thanked. They are not there to steal the show. They are merely one among the crowd, learning, absorbing, and being reminded that they are servants, not kings.

This inversion of the stage is the most powerful element of the September 21 rally. Normally, rallies become platforms for politicians to project authority, to rehearse their speeches, to wave and smile and make promises. But in Iloilo this time, the stage belongs entirely to the marginalized. The ones who have been silenced in legislative halls, ignored in city planning, and treated as background noise in governance will finally stand front and center. They will speak in raw language, not polished by consultants or mediated by press releases. Their words will carry the weight of lived experience, not policy briefs. For the politician sitting in the audience, this reversal is a form of education—an uncomfortable but necessary reordering of the hierarchy where, for once, the powerless speak and the powerful must keep quiet.

In the end, the challenge being posed to politicians is simple yet profound: humility. Their presence is welcome, but their power is not. They are invited to witness but not to intervene, to hear but not to hijack, to support but not to dominate. In a political culture where microphone-grabbing and credit-claiming have become second nature, this is perhaps the most difficult demand of all. But it is also the most urgent. For if politicians cannot learn to listen—truly listen—to the voices of those who live at the margins, then they have no right to speak in their name, no right to claim representation, and no right to call themselves leaders.

On September 21, Iloilo will not be another stage for political vanity. It will not be a parade of slogans and promises, nor a spectacle of faces plastered on tarpaulins. It will be a day of memory, mourning, and militancy. It will be a day where history’s wounds are recalled and today’s injustices are named. And the most radical, the most powerful, and perhaps the most human thing a politician can do in that space is to sit down, stay quiet, and open their ears to the voices they have long ignored.