Who is the Philippines?

By Herman M. Lagon

The applause had not yet faded when Dharlene Gan of Dakila and the Active Vista Center stepped onto the stage, her words sharp and steady, a reminder that the afternoon was not only about watching a movie but about confronting the mirrors that history still holds. The September 8 forum, Bayani Ba’To? MLQ: Mga Lingering Questions on Leaders, Legacy, and Liberty, was packed with more than 2,000 teachers, students, and cultural workers. They thought they were just coming to watch Quezon, the next installment after Luna and Goyo. But as Gan began speaking, something deeper stirred. She didn’t talk about actors or battles—she asked about identity: Who are our heroes? And are we living like them?

Her words hit close to home. We’re raised to honor Rizal and Bonifacio, to treat them like saints of the nation. But we often overlook the courage happening in the present—students speaking out, workers sacrificing for their families, leaders doing right when no one’s watching. “Masyado ka namang nagpapakabayani,” we say, as if it is foolish to care beyond oneself. This cultural contradiction is not unique to our time, but in the age of memes and reels, it has become sharper. We click to plant a tree, share hashtags for justice, and then quietly accept the return of old names to power. It is the paradox of a heroic people who sometimes forget to practice heroism in the daily grind.

The Bayani Ba’To? project itself has long pressed this issue. Ten years ago, it startled audiences with Antonio Luna’s fierce cry of “Bayan o Sarili?” The lesson was not subtle: national survival requires sacrifice, but sacrifice demands clarity of choice. In 2018, Gregorio del Pilar’s softer reminder, “Tandaan mo kung sino ka,” urged self-knowledge and integrity before action. This year, TBA Studios—with Dakila, Active Vista, and partners—place Manuel L. Quezon under the lens, not merely as a political figure in textbooks but as a man with contradictions, compromises, and courage. By asking, “Who is the Philippines?” the organizers hand the question back to the audience, refusing to give easy answers.

This resonates strongly with young people today. A 2023 SWS survey showed that 59 percent of Filipino youth still believe a “strong leader” is needed to fix the country, a figure that echoes the old colonial habit of waiting for saviors. Gan’s reminder is timely: leadership is not only the burden of presidents or generals but also of barangay captains who stay during floods, teachers who prepare lessons despite low pay, or student leaders who stand up against bullying in all shapes and forms. Heroism, as she framed it, does not always come with medals or titles. Sometimes it is persistence, a point later echoed by MLQ actor Bodjie Pascua, the beloved “Kuya Bodjie,” who said showing up despite repeated disappointments is already a form of courage.

Concrete examples abound. In Iloilo, small fisherfolk cooperatives who fight to protect municipal waters from encroachment are often labeled as “nagpapakabayani.” Yet their insistence on fairness ensures food security for entire coastal barangays. In Manila, jeepney drivers who organize against sudden policy shifts show how dignity can be defended on the street. In classrooms, countless teachers spend their own money for visual aids or laptops, an act of quiet but real heroism. These are not abstract ideals but lived choices, and Gan’s call reminded the audience that waiting for a messiah blinds us to the courage already around us.

The speech invited an uncomfortable truth: Filipinos can be heroic—but we’re also inconsistent. It’s not criticism, just fact. Studies from the Philippine Institute for Development Studies (PIDS) reveal we show up during elections or disasters, then disappear when it comes to ongoing governance—like budget hearings or local consultations. Gan named this gently but firmly, urging a shift from momentary passion to steady involvement. For students and teachers, the message was clear: classroom debates, multi-disciplinary dialogues, and civic efforts aren’t small—they’re training for lasting change.

What made her words land was timing. She spoke in a moment of national fatigue—rising illiteracy, post-pandemic recovery, and a political climate clouded by systemic disinformation and corruption. To say “we are a heroic people” in that moment was both a proud reminder and a call to stay awake. Pride, because history shows Filipinos have toppled dictators and rebuilt communities after disasters. Warning, because the same history shows we are also vulnerable to forgetting, forgiving too quickly, or surrendering too soon. The line between resilience and resignation is thin, and perhaps that is the test of this generation.

The cinematic lens of Quezon added weight to this point. As Gan noted, films like Luna and Goyo are not just period pieces but provocations. They disturb comfortable myths, showing leaders as flawed yet decisive, principled yet pressured. In Ignatian terms, it is the tension between ideals and reality, discerned through choices made in context. Quezon’s famous declaration, “I am the Philippines,” can be read as egoistic or visionary, depending on perspective. But when reframed as a question—“Who is the Philippines?”—it becomes less about him and more about us. The mirror turns, and suddenly the audience cannot escape the reflection.

They didn’t speak with the mic, but they screamed occasionally and listened mostly like it mattered. The students were still, eyes fixed forward, as the forum unfolded. The themes—corruption, online chaos, social apathy, cognitive dissonance—weren’t just ideas; they were parts of their own lives. In that quiet focus was something powerful: what Filipina sociologist Nicole Curato calls “the democratic imagination”—the sense that politics isn’t only out there in big arenas, but also here, in the choices we make. Gan helped them see: a bayani is not someone from long ago—it’s someone who chooses to care now.

Walking out of the WVSU Cultural Center that afternoon, one could sense that the forum had done more than screen a film clip. It had planted a difficult but hopeful question in every listener: if Quezon once claimed to embody the nation, can ordinary Filipinos today claim the same? For teachers present, the answer might be in shaping students who think critically. For students, it might be in daring to resist cynicism. For community members, it might be in organizing small but firm acts of justice. Gan’s words lingered not because they were poetic, but because they were plain truths many had avoided. Perhaps that is why they struck: they refused to let the comfort of admiration replace the discomfort of action.

The afternoon ended not with a conclusion but with an opening. Gan got her applause before the actual couch talk with the Quezon cast, but the hallway buzz said more. Students were still talking, still turning ideas over. That’s how sparks start—and maybe that’s where heroism begins. Her final question—“Who is the Philippines?”—was left hanging. And maybe that was the point. It should not be answered by one leader or one speech, but by all of us, in the small and stubborn ways we choose to care. If this generation can hold that question long enough to act on it, then perhaps history will remember us not only as a people who scrolled and shrugged, but as a people who stood and built.

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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.