By Herman M. Lagon

The news of Charlie Kirk’s killing at Utah Valley University felt both far and near. Far, because his brand of American conservatism often sat across the table from my own views. Near, because I had spent hours listening to his debates to understand how the other side thinks. I rarely agreed with his defense of Donald Trump or his takes on race and history. Still, he sometimes argued with enough clarity on inclusivity, limits of affirmative action, and the danger of extremism that I had to admit, quietly, that he had a point. For someone on the far right, he made people like me—left of center, allergic to dogma—stop, reflect, and consider nuance. That is a rare skill. His absence is a loss not only to his camp, but also to those of us who saw him as a worthy adversary.

It is easy to file him under “partisan warrior.” Yet that would miss something. He knew how to keep a crowd listening. Turning Point USA drew criticism, including from me, yet it pulled young people into civic talk where apathy often wins. I once watched him debate a student on transgender policy. It could have spiraled into insults. Instead, it ended with a handshake. In an age that rewards outrage, that small gesture felt big. In our classrooms here, that is the spirit we say we want—strong positions, steady tone, and the grace to shake hands afterward.

The responses to his death made that point clear. Leaders who seldom agree found the same words: no to political violence. That chorus from the Republicans, the Democrats, the democratic socialists, and those in between, may feel routine, but it matters. It reminds us that argument, not ammunition, keeps a democracy alive. The tragedy is not only the loss of a voice. It is the shrinking of a space where hard ideas could collide without bloodshed.

We are familiar with this kind of tension. Our own local debates often melt into name-calling on Facebook and TikTok. We saw it in the fights over K to 12, in jeepney modernization, in the back-and-forth on mass promotion, in quarrels about who should suspend classes during calamities. Local floods in Iloilo become instant blame games before serious talk on drainage, zoning, and climate risk even starts. We need the civic habit that political theorists call respect in disagreement—a discipline of listening without surrendering conviction. Oddly enough, Kirk helped me practice that habit. I did not have to accept his conclusions to admit that his way of engagement kept me at the table.

Choosing to listen to someone you resist is deeply human. In academic deliberations, I have seen teachers lock horns over grading. Voices rise, hands shake, yet the root is care for students. My role was not to declare a winner but to keep the talk honest and focused. Kirk, for all his heat, often argued to persuade rather than humiliate. He could be blunt and wrong. He could also listen and stay on the point. In a time when many cling to a script and ignore unwelcome facts, that mix is worth noting.

Data backs the need for serious adversaries. Surveys in the U.S. show most citizens find debate less respectful now, yet a large majority still say hearing the other side clarifies their own beliefs. We see the same here. During transport strikes, commuters curse delays, but listening reveals fathers and mothers fearing debt and job loss. When teachers resist automatic promotion of students, it is the ache of watching nonreaders pushed up a grade. Listening across lines does not mean giving up your stand. It means leaving the comfort of a silo.

Kirk’s death at 31 is not only a political tragedy but a moral test. If a man who lived by argument is silenced by a bullet in broad daylight, then freedom to speak is fragile. Laws can help, but habits matter more: to hear before hitting “post,” to question our own blind spots, to part ways with respect still intact. This is not mushy centrism. It is conviction with humility, firmness with proportion, courage without contempt.

In teaching debate, I ask students to argue the other side better than their opponent. That exercise forces empathy. Kirk, oddly, helped me do that. His take on DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) grated, yet his push for merit exposed weak spots in my thinking. His defense of guns felt alien, yet his warnings against extremism rang true. He helped me locate myself—moderately progressive, allergic to absolutes. Imagine if our quarrels over federalism, ROTC, confidential funds, inflation, AI, electoral reforms, EJK, WPS, divorce, budget insertion, or flood control were conducted in that spirit: clear claims, fewer slurs, more steel-man arguments, and a handshake at the end. We would still disagree. We would also learn faster.

He was far from spotless. He pushed claims that did not hold, tied himself too tightly to one polarizing demagogue, and leaned into rhetoric that stung. Name me a public figure without a long ledger of pluses and minuses. What I choose to keep is a picture of a man who showed up, took hard questions, and traded reasons in schools, public squares, and the social media spaces that too often fall silent or explode. That is a useful model even for those of us who stood across from him.

A debate that ends in violence, troll attacks, or adversarial rhetoric, is like a class where students stop asking questions. Curiosity flatlines. Growth stalls. To honor someone like Kirk, strange as it sounds, is to keep the argument going—steady voice, sharp mind, open ears. It is to climb out of our mental, spiritual, and political silos, whether we sit in a barangay hall, a faculty meeting, or a Senate hearing. It is to agree to disagree, then show up again tomorrow.

If we can do that—here, not just there—we give our democracy a better chance. We also give our youth a better lesson: that the point of argument is not to crush an enemy, but to seek the truth together, one honest exchange at a time. That is a eulogy worth writing, and a habit worth living.| – Balikas.net

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.| – Balikas.net

The WVSU Cultural Center this Monday afternoon, September 8, was already alive before the program even began. In the lobby, ushers moved briskly, keeping the lines flowing and the rows inside neat and ready. Teachers clutched attendance sheets, ticking names with care, while campus journalists juggled their cameras, eager to get the first shots. Volunteers passed out postcards of the cast and slips asking, “What makes someone a bayani?”—tokens that were part souvenir, part challenge. When the lights dimmed, the hall filled with more than 2,000 students and mentors. My heart lifted seeing familiar faces from many schools and orgs gathered as one.

The preliminaries did more than extend a welcome; they gave the occasion depth. Organizers from Dakila, Active Vista, and TBA Studios reminded everyone that this was not just another screening or school trip. Quezon was to be a mirror and a spark—an invitation to revisit history while weighing its echoes in the present. They spoke of liberty, leadership, and legacy as questions that still needed answering. The gathering, they said, was historic in itself: the largest civic-history forum of its kind in years.

Darlene Gan of Dakila and the Active Vista Center deepened that welcome with a challenge. Speaking on behalf of the organizers, she reminded the students that Bayani Ba’To? was never just about films or famous names. For more than a decade, the project has asked hard questions about heroism—Bayan o Sarili? (Heneral Luna), Tandaan mo kung sino ka (Goyo: ang Batang Heneral), and now, through Quezon, Who is the Philippines? She urged the crowd not to wait for saviors but to see themselves as part of the nation’s story, proud to be heroes in their own right.

UP historian Alvin Campomanes then stepped up to frame Manuel L. Quezon not as a distant figure but as a leader wrestling with contradictions in colonial politics. He pointed out how power, then as now, often flows through stories—whether through newspapers in Quezon’s time or digital feeds today. Narratives, he reminded the students, can normalize corruption or courage depending on who tells them. His words primed the audience well, and when the preview clip of Quezon rolled, the hall was sharp with laughter at witty lines and suddenly hushed at the gravity of key moments.

As the clip ended, the spotlight shifted from screen to stage. The cast entered in turn, each name met with a cheer that blended excitement with familiarity. They were household names to many, yet on this stage they stood not as distant icons but as partners in dialogue. That signaled the opening of the MLQ Forum, which I was humbled to guide as moderator. My role was to hold together the threads—history’s lessons, the film’s sparks, and the voices of the youth waiting to be heard.

When the lights returned, Jericho Rosales leaned in—toward the microphone, then closer to the starstruck participants—as though reaching across the space between us. He turns 45 on September 22, but the moment was not about years lived; it was about the urgency of his words: we all matter, and we must help change the story. His voice carried no distance, no superiority—only a shared challenge. Instead, he spoke like a peer but with a gravitas of Quezon, urging the students to believe that their voices, choices, and stories count.

After him, 70-year-old Bodjie Pascua—“Kuya Bodjie” to generations—took the floor with his familiar warmth. He reminded everyone that heroism isn’t about perfection but persistence: the courage to keep showing up even when society disappoints. As Ilonggo patriot Raymundo Melliza, Bodjie’s presence was electric. His voice broke at times, eyes glistening, as if the playful Kuya Bodjie from Batibot had returned—yet this time with the gravity of years, speaking of persistence and grit. He embodied someone who had weathered both promise and disappointment but who refused to stop believing in the youth as bearers of the flame.

Then came Therese Malvar, the youngest of the cast at 24, whose words resonated not with distance, but with the nearness of shared youth. Her role as Joven’s daughter, apprenticing under the trilogy’s familiar photographer, taught her the value of seeing clearly and telling the truth, against all odds. She told the young crown this was also her personal message: that as a young woman she was proud to be counted, and she hoped they, too, would refuse to be left out of history’s frame.

Berks Joseph Tan grounded the conversation in the local, urging the youth to start where they stood. Iloilo, he said, had its own stories of leadership and civic courage—examples that proved one need not look far to find models of bayani. Producer Daphne Chiu-Soon added a behind-the-scenes honesty about the challenges of making historical films in a landscape that often prefers spectacle over substance. Her reminder was clear: storytelling itself is a form of activism when it bridges past and present.

The students listened with focus—some writing for their school papers, others nodding quietly to each other. You could feel it: this was more than curiosity; it was recognition that the stage was speaking to their own lives.

What stayed with me most was the refrain that kept returning: history is not finished. Liberty is not guaranteed. Heroism isn’t carved in stone; it’s lived in choices made daily. Seeing so many young people gather—some my own students past and present—was proof that the questions of leadership, legacy, and liberty are alive and urgent.

Moderating didn’t feel like guiding—it felt like watching dialogue bloom among artists, historians, teachers, and students. The laughter, the pauses, the leaning in reminded me: civic spirit isn’t just made in great revolutions. It’s also born in stages and rooms like this, where ideas are shared and carried back into our schools and homes.

The postcards asked, “What makes someone a bayani?” By the end of the forum, the answers were no longer confined to paper. They were alive in the room: in Jericho’s call to matter, in Kuya Bodjie’s plea to persist, in Therese’s reminder to care, in Berks’s push to act locally, in Daphne’s defense of storytelling, and in the quiet resolve of the young crowd to bring those lessons home.

It felt less like a conclusion than a beginning. Quezon’s time will always be measured by history, but the harder question is how it will measure ours. As Darlene Gan had asked at the very start, “Who is the Philippines?”—the answer rests with these young people. Leaving the stage, I knew the response belongs to them, if they take what they heard not as lines from a movie, but as choices and convictions in their own unfolding lives.|