Unfair for Ricky Lee

By Noel Galon de Leon

I was fortunate to meet Ricky Lee in person when he visited U.P. High School in Iloilo last year. Before my students met him, I introduced him as a National Artist and one of the most influential writers in Philippine cinema and literature. What stayed with me most was not his fame, but his humility and the quiet depth of his wisdom. When I shook his hand and listened to him speak, I encountered a man who carried both gentleness and firm conviction. That moment stayed with me. That is why it was deeply painful and infuriating to see him questioned and attacked online simply because he could not give some aspiring writers what they wanted by including them in his annual workshop.

Ricky Lee is not just a writer. He is a cultural worker, a storyteller of the Filipino spirit, and a mentor to generations. He was shaped by hardship, and he carried that truth into his work, creating stories that speak honestly about poverty, oppression, love, faith, and moral conflict. His screenplays such as Himala and Moral, and his novels like Para Kay B and Si Amapola sa 65 na Kabanata, are not merely popular works. They are cultural texts that shaped how Filipinos understand themselves. He uses art not to escape reality, but to confront it.

It is important for every Filipino to know who Ricky Lee is because he represents a kind of intellectual and moral courage that is rare in any generation. His work teaches us to think critically about society, power, and identity. He does not offer easy comfort. Instead, he asks difficult questions that force readers and viewers to reflect. In a country where historical amnesia and shallow entertainment are slowly becoming normalized, voices like his are not optional. They are essential.

Supporting Ricky Lee is not about blind loyalty to a personality. It is about defending the values he stands for. He chooses to teach for free, to mentor without expecting anything in return, and to open doors for those who are often excluded from creative spaces. Supporting him means supporting an ethical model of art, one that prioritizes service, truth, and community over profit and personal branding.

The unfair attacks against him reveal a troubling pattern in our digital culture. People are quick to judge without context and even quicker to spread outrage than to seek understanding. This is not only an attack on one man. It is an attack on the idea that art can be generous, critical, and independent from political power. When we allow misinformation and cruelty to dominate public discourse, we become complicit in the erosion of respect for intellectual work and cultural labor.

National Artists matter because they are guardians of a nation’s memory and conscience. They record our struggles, doubts, hopes, and contradictions through their art. They give shape to what we often cannot name. Without them, a country becomes culturally shallow and spiritually disconnected. Respecting them is not simply ceremonial. It is a form of self-respect for a people who claim to have a meaningful history and identity.

Valuing National Artists also means understanding the cost of their work. Behind every masterpiece are years of discipline, silence, rejection, and risk. They choose paths that are rarely easy and often thankless. In a world that celebrates instant fame and viral success, their lives remind us that true art demands patience, integrity, and sacrifice. Recognizing this protects us from confusing popularity with substance.

To the youth, Ricky Lee’s life is a powerful reminder that your voice matters, even if you begin with nothing. You do not need wealth, connections, or perfection to create meaningful work. What you need is honesty, courage, and empathy. Writing, filmmaking, and storytelling are not luxuries. They are tools for truth telling and social participation. Use them not to impress, but to express and to question.

For those who love Filipino films and literature, Ricky Lee’s work shows that our stories are worthy of seriousness and respect. We do not need to imitate foreign narratives to feel validated. Our own realities, languages, and struggles are rich enough to carry complex and beautiful stories. Supporting writers like him is an act of cultural patriotism, not in a shallow sense, but in a deeply reflective way.

Criticism is part of a healthy society, but there is a clear difference between critical engagement and character assassination. Ricky Lee’s ideas, like those of any thinker, can be questioned and discussed. Reducing him to malicious caricatures and false narratives is intellectually dishonest and morally lazy. If we want a society that values dialogue, we must also value fairness.

On a personal level, seeing someone I met and admired treated so unjustly was deeply painful. It felt like watching a teacher be mocked, not because he failed, but because he refused to conform to ugliness. It reminded me that silence in moments of injustice is a form of agreement. Writing this is not only an act of defense. It is an act of conscience.

Defending Ricky Lee, in the end, is about defending the role of art in a struggling democracy. When artists are silenced, mocked, or discredited, society becomes easier to manipulate. Art is not a luxury in times of crisis. It is a necessity. It remains one of the last spaces where truth can still be spoken in human language.

My message to the youth and to everyone who loves Filipino literature and cinema is simple. Read deeply. Watch critically. Question bravely. Defend artists who stand for truth and compassion. Do not let noise replace thinking or cruelty replace conversation. Protect your cultural workers, because they are protecting your stories, your memory, and your future.