A problem of empathy

This past Sunday, I, along with my near-septuagenarian parents, was among those who were trapped in EDSA traffic by members of the Iglesia Ni Cristo. There were tens of thousands of them assembled in the middle of the highway because the NBI dared to investigate an illegal detention complaint filed by one of its expelled ministers. They were mad because the NBI was doing its investigation rather quickly. I guess they were mad because it was being done at all. They were mad at the government and they were holding us hostage.

I’ve already driven in a slow crawl from Guadalupe to Megamall for two hours by the time members of the INC decided to hold an impromptu speech rally, concert, and — as I would later learn — a magic show, in the middle of EDSA. Our car was seven vehicles away from the spectacle and things were looking grim. My mother had to go to the bathroom so I escorted her through the dense throng into Megamall.

When we made our way back to our car that never moved (and would not move for another three-and-a-half hours), a group of large men was shoving us out of the way. They were escorting a couple of spiffy-looking men, who, judging by the ferocity with which the large men were moving people out of the way, seemed to be very important people. When I pointed out to one of them that I was trying to escort my mother, he apologized, but still insisted that they should be given priority.

Back in the car, in full view of the growing rally, rained down by booming chants of “I-N-C!” and “Hus-ti-siya!”and armed with a large amount of dead time I didn’t expect to have, I thought about lots of things. I thought about my parents and their aching joints as they were forced to ride a more cramped than usual MRT after it became clear that there was no end in sight. I thought about the other elder people with worse ailments; the babies and their tired parents; the workers; the bus drivers trying to squeeze out as much income as they can working on a weekend; all of the people who were stuck with me who, unlike me, could not afford to be stuck. I thought about the people walking around the car, most of them young, and wondered what they thought they were fighting for. I thought about justice and what that word even means anymore. I thought about freedom. I thought a lot about freedom.

When freedom becomes scarce

It seems the only time freedom is seriously contemplated on is when it becomes scarce. I couldn’t move for hours and I was growing increasingly claustrophobic as the throng grew thicker and thicker around the car, so of course my thoughts were filled with ideas of freedom. And what I realized, in that moment, was that people in general, and Filipinos in particular, are hardly ever free.

Most of us — I’d even argue that all of us — are dissatisfied with our lives. There’s always something we’d rather be doing, but due to circumstances —  obligations, societal pressures, lack of money, an excess of (and a resultant addiction to) money — we’re chained from ever doing it. We go to work every day selling, or producing, or managing things that are owned by people infinitely richer than us, so we can earn a wage that is barely enough for us to survive every day, most of which are spent selling, or producing, or managing properties we do not own. On our way there, we encounter high traffic volume, which greatly impedes our freedom of movement, freedom of speed, freedom to choose when to start work and when to be home.

Quotidian reminders

Our daily traffic struggles on EDSA are the quotidian reminders that we are forever held back by forces that are beyond our control; in this case, generations of corruption and non-existent urban planning. As I stared at the INC rally in the middle of EDSA, made palpable by their cheering, restless members who somehow decided to inflict on us the most horrible iteration of our worst nightmares, one that they are familiar with because they, too, like us non-INC members, are Filipinos, and most importantly, are humans who are intuitively aware that they are not free, I thought about something perhaps more important than freedom. I thought about empathy.

I wondered: Are we still, as a people, capable of empathy? Do traffic disruptors think of the lives of the people they disrupt? Do church leaders think of their members’ well-being when they ask them to stand in the rain as they wait inside air-conditioned malls with bodyguards by their side? Do politicians think of the people they are abandoning by condoning the behavior of the few?

As election time draws near, as candidates sell more of their souls to the cause of winning, ensuring that there won’t be much left for the cause of leading, the most pressing issue won’t be of freedom, or of justice, both of which are man-made and elusive. It is empathy. Empathy is real and attainable; it is an emotion embedded deep within our instincts, the one trait, apart from ingenuity, that sets us apart from all living things. Empathy is the basic concept upon which civilization stands. Without it, justice and freedom won’t even be possible or real. They will just be things shouted by a mob, unaware of the sea of irony that engulfs them.

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