A nation of fools
Last night, I found myself joining photojournalists and broadcast journalists covering the night shift. It was mainly for work, but it was also something I would’ve gladly done on my own.
We dropped by the wake of Kris de los Reyes, 30, a photographer in Manila Zoo. I saw my fellow members of the media flocking to Kris’s sister and uncle, asking details about his death. I saw a group taking a video of Kris’s wife, as she recalls the death of her husband, shares her worries, and hugs his husband’s death cerificate wrapped in clear plastic. There was a television producer taking a cell phone photo of Kris’s children, nieces and nephews, all smiling, seemingly incognizant of the tragic affair of their family.
I stood quietly, observing the silent fiasco happening before my eyes. Most of these journalists are here because they were witnesses to how news of Kris’s death unfolded in the evening of March 27, which, by a sad twist of fate, happens to be the first birthday of Kris’s youngest child. When I asked, my fellow night-shift journos said they’re here because they don’t want to stop at on-the-spot reporting. I nodded; I understood what they meant. These are lives of people, after all.
I sat in the nearly empty chapel, while all the others were bidding goodbyes and preparing to take leave. A young lad, Kris’s nephew, sat beside me. He mentioned that Kris’s fifth child, of a brood of six, saw the ghost of his father some nights ago. I asked, “Does Francis (the young boy) know and understand that his father has died?” He said no.
Kris’s mother joined me. She asked, in a voice so calm, “Ate, bakit po kayo (media) nagpuntahan dito? Nagtatanong ako kasi nalilito lang ako.”
I was dumbfounded. But it made sense to me. It’s easy to think that we were there simply because it’s news coverage. I don’t even know if any of us actually — sincerely and genuinely — showed compassion, more than consolation, to the de los Reyes family. Were we here to get a bit of information, in the pretense that we’re continuing the story of this killing?
My teammates called me. All the others have left, apparently. I bid my goodbye. I promised to be in touch.
En route the wake of another victim of the killings, we received a report of someone shot dead in Quezon City. We rushed to the place but found ourselves some minutes too late. Police officers have arrived, and they have cordoned the crime scene.
It’s a given: we had to ask details about the victim and the incident. The victim’s sister-in-law had been gracious enough to entertain us, to answer our questions.
John Junar Rivera’s family were still in a daze. They witnessed how three or four gunmen barged into their home, as they were watching a comedy show on television that night.
Now, John Junar will be just a memory, a name added to the number of victims in this administration’s war on drugs.
There are more than seven thousand victims now. Killings have become a normal part of the evening coverage. Still, Filipinos would rather turn a blind eye and deaf ears to this blatant disregard of human rights.
It’s a pity. From a nation of heroes, how have we become a nation of fools? •
We dropped by the wake of Kris de los Reyes, 30, a photographer in Manila Zoo. I saw my fellow members of the media flocking to Kris’s sister and uncle, asking details about his death. I saw a group taking a video of Kris’s wife, as she recalls the death of her husband, shares her worries, and hugs his husband’s death cerificate wrapped in clear plastic. There was a television producer taking a cell phone photo of Kris’s children, nieces and nephews, all smiling, seemingly incognizant of the tragic affair of their family.
I stood quietly, observing the silent fiasco happening before my eyes. Most of these journalists are here because they were witnesses to how news of Kris’s death unfolded in the evening of March 27, which, by a sad twist of fate, happens to be the first birthday of Kris’s youngest child. When I asked, my fellow night-shift journos said they’re here because they don’t want to stop at on-the-spot reporting. I nodded; I understood what they meant. These are lives of people, after all.
I sat in the nearly empty chapel, while all the others were bidding goodbyes and preparing to take leave. A young lad, Kris’s nephew, sat beside me. He mentioned that Kris’s fifth child, of a brood of six, saw the ghost of his father some nights ago. I asked, “Does Francis (the young boy) know and understand that his father has died?” He said no.
Kris’s mother joined me. She asked, in a voice so calm, “Ate, bakit po kayo (media) nagpuntahan dito? Nagtatanong ako kasi nalilito lang ako.”
I was dumbfounded. But it made sense to me. It’s easy to think that we were there simply because it’s news coverage. I don’t even know if any of us actually — sincerely and genuinely — showed compassion, more than consolation, to the de los Reyes family. Were we here to get a bit of information, in the pretense that we’re continuing the story of this killing?
My teammates called me. All the others have left, apparently. I bid my goodbye. I promised to be in touch.
En route the wake of another victim of the killings, we received a report of someone shot dead in Quezon City. We rushed to the place but found ourselves some minutes too late. Police officers have arrived, and they have cordoned the crime scene.
It’s a given: we had to ask details about the victim and the incident. The victim’s sister-in-law had been gracious enough to entertain us, to answer our questions.
John Junar Rivera’s family were still in a daze. They witnessed how three or four gunmen barged into their home, as they were watching a comedy show on television that night.
Now, John Junar will be just a memory, a name added to the number of victims in this administration’s war on drugs.
There are more than seven thousand victims now. Killings have become a normal part of the evening coverage. Still, Filipinos would rather turn a blind eye and deaf ears to this blatant disregard of human rights.
It’s a pity. From a nation of heroes, how have we become a nation of fools? •