When stories end too soon

By Noel Galon de Leon

I remember the first time I read a short story in which the protagonist ended their life by hanging. I was still young then, and instead of grasping the depth of the character’s despair, what lingered in my mind was only the image of the rope hanging from the ceiling. I could not yet comprehend the weight of the struggle, so what remained with me was fear and confusion. It was at that moment that I realized literature holds the power to transmit emotions and images far more strongly than a reader might expect. And if this power is used carelessly, it can wound rather than heal. This is also why, every September, we commemorate Suicide Prevention Month in the Philippines, as a reminder that these stories, whether lived or written, carry the potential either to open doors of hope or to reinforce doors of despair.

In the history of Philippine literature, the theme of suicide is not unfamiliar. In epics and legends, we find characters who choose to end their lives as an act of honor, sacrifice, or escape from unbearable suffering. In José Rizal’s novels, María Clara is often interpreted as a symbol of women trapped in a patriarchal and colonial society. While Rizal does not explicitly narrate her suicide, her withdrawal into the convent, which some critics view as a form of social death, serves as an allegory of suffocation and hopelessness. In more contemporary works, we also encounter novels and poems that portray young people consumed by depression, characters who drift into silence, and lives that end abruptly.

But here lies the critical question: what is the role of literature in addressing suicide in a country like the Philippines?

From a personal standpoint, I believe literature is a mirror of our shared pain and struggles. Stories of those who wrestle with the desire to end everything should not be erased or hidden. On the other hand, writers also bear a profound responsibility. In an age where children and young readers can so easily access books, poems, films, and even social media posts, we can no longer dismiss the impact of every image, every metaphor, and every line.

It is important to write about suicide because it reflects a truth in our society. According to the 2021 Young Adult Fertility and Sexuality Study (YAFS5), funded by the Department of Health, the proportion of Filipino youth who have attempted suicide more than doubled, from 3 percent in 2013 to 7.5 percent in 2021, affecting nearly 1.5 million young people. When literature tells these stories, it gives us the courage to face what society often silences. However, this is also where the conversation turns political. Not every representation of suicide is helpful.

If, for instance, a novel depicts suicide as a romantic ending, what message does that leave a young or vulnerable reader with? They might come to think of it as noble, poetic, or the only way to escape suffering. If a poem describes methods of dying in excessive detail, it risks becoming a “how-to manual” rather than an invitation to reflection. At that point, the writing no longer functions as art but instead becomes a potential source of harm.

There are, however, writers who attempt to use literature as a bridge to healing. For example, spoken word poets in the Philippines often narrate their battles with depression and anxiety but conclude their performances with an invitation to fight on, to endure. In such works, literature becomes not only an expression of pain but also an act of building community. By revealing the wound, they open the possibility of collective healing.

For me, the true challenge of the Filipino writer is how to narrate suicide without turning the text into a catalyst for further tragedy. This is especially important in children’s literature. Children can vividly picture an image but are not yet capable of fully understanding its context. If a story for children features a character who dies by suicide, then the narrative must also clearly show the grief it causes, the reality of the struggle, and most importantly, an alternative path toward hope.

This is why I say that writing about suicide is both a personal and political act. It is personal because it is often drawn from lived experience, either one’s own or those witnessed in others. It is political because it shapes the public conversation, as literature has the power to alter how readers perceive life and death, to either silence the discourse or open it.

I do not argue that literature should avoid the subject of suicide. Instead, it should confront it with full awareness: every character who chooses to end their life is not only fictional but also a reflection of real people, some of whom might be reading in the midst of their own darkness. Every paragraph might become their last straw, or it could become their bridge to survival.

As writers, we are not gods who decide who lives and who dies within our pages. We are storytellers, entrusted with a responsibility to our readers. If we choose to write about suicide, we must do so with care, compassion, and accountability. In the end, literature is not merely the art of words; it is also the art of life. And in a time when so many of our young people are struggling with the desire to end everything, the most radical act of writing is to insist on painting reasons to stay alive.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.