The limits of collective dissent

Dissent is a wonderful thing. It spits at convention, laughs in the face of neutrality, bravely walks the road less traveled, and challenges the tyranny of prevailing conditions with an eye towards the future. It is the surest mark of a healthy citizenry, carrying with it the solemn reassurance that the country, this country, can be rescued from its government.

Make no mistake, however: dissent is only as powerful as the means used to propel it. It is, after all, “polite disagreement” in its most conservative sense, intrinsically useless without the agitation to drive the point home. And thus, those who profess a desire for change while cringing at the thought of actual protest are those want to have their cake and eat it, too. They want music without the pulse of drums, thunder without its accompanying roar and rumble.

The exposé on the government’s pork barrel scam has made voracious dissenters out of the Filipino public — a confluence of people from different social classes, ages, and beliefs coming together to express their discontent. The shameless poaching of taxpayers’ money being the crux of the issue, it was inevitable that everyone had something to say. Unlike the usual humdrum of issues — US bases in the Philippines, the displacement of indigenous peoples, budget cuts in health and education, the illegal dismissal of our nation’s steelworkers — the pork barrel scandal needed very little to no prodding at all. Public outrage was swift, immediate, and absolute. The divide between militant activists and the ordinary band of employees, students, and professionals was suddenly overcome, at least for the moment. What did it matter if one group wanted the total abolition of the Priority Development Assistant Fund while others believed in its possible reformation? Here were people jolted out of their reverie, angry enough to leap over that divide.

Over the last month, the string of public rallies organized by various groups has served as an outlet for accumulated tensions. Despite the continuing demonstrations and other active forms of dissent (among others, Tuesday’s anti-pork barrel flash mob; Wednesday’s “EDSA Tayo” rally; today’s “Rock and Rage Against Pork” Luneta concert), last August’s “Million People March” remains, by far, the highlight of them all. 

The ambitious moniker and anonymous/non-partisan organizer ensured that the event would be picked up by mass media, and speculated about to no end. And so, armed with the knowledge that at least the rally fell on a holiday, people from all walks and backgrounds converged at Luneta.

It was carnivalesque protest at best, purposeless loitering at worst.

Onstage, Cardinal Tagle led a prayer rally and sing-a-long; to the left and right, various militant and conservative groups held their own programs and educational discussions; in the center, white-clad demonstrators laid down rattan mats and commenced their own picnics; behind, aimless participants posed while taking pictures around Luneta Park; everywhere else, street vendors hawked their wares, detached from the very issue contributing to their poverty.

One could say the rally was devoid of any consciousness of purpose, except, of course, for the fact that everyone present (roughly 400,000 in all; other estimates are much lower) was there to denounce the pork. The numbers speak for themselves, and, conscious or not, numbers are always the crown of any public demonstration.

For many, the “Milllion People March” was their first taste of protest culture. They walked away from the site with the satisfaction of having done something bigger than themselves, soaked in the giddiness of a first-time “transgression.” For stepping outside their comfort zone, the elation is well-deserved. Theory, nuance, and practice can come later.

It has to be said, however, that participation in a public demonstration is not revolutionary or radical in itself. Or at all.

During a rally, public spaces are seized by the common people. Order gives way to disorder, mockery, anger, festivity; accepted norms are temporarily suspended. The class-based hierarchy of society comes apart at the seams, if only for this captured moment. Here, a peasant leader can give a speech on the state of his union, the stagnancy of their wages, and he’d find among his listeners students with a daily allowance worth more than his monthly salary. People can freely stalk the grounds in costumes and masks, loaded with placards to suit the occasion. Impromptu performances, street painting, and other forms of art abound, while the collective chants of protestors can be heard echoing in the distance.

Yet, for all of that, the streets never become “our streets,” liberation is never fully embraced, and the laws are never really broken. Once the last demonstrator has left and the abandoned placards swept up by kindly street sweepers, once the first pedestrian sets foot on the previously occupied strip of space, and once the traffic roars back to life, normalcy resumes, unperturbed.

Public demonstrations are popular precisely because they stop just at the point of becoming truly radical. Annihilate the system? Or just endlessly displace it? Ironically, demonstration is only possible if one remains within the ambit of state consent. Permits are needed, policemen and civil servants rove to keep an eye on events. It allows the diffusion of discontent, channeling grievances within a limited space, in a limited amount of time.

Thus, despite the power of a dissenting public, government officials are only subject to the people’s will for as long as the rally lasts. Their sins are reborn the day after the carnival. And while protest is an invaluable conduit towards social change, the question remains.

Are we satisfied with repetitive displacement? Or can we transform our dissent into something more?