Democracy, only more so

The following remarks were read last Saturday, at the Annual Conference of the American Studies Association of the Philippines, held at the National Computer Center, in the Diliman, Quezon City campus of the University of the Philippines. (Because the conference was running late, and because I was acutely aware that I was mere “front act” to Among Ed Panlilio’s star turn, I skipped some portions of the speech.)

I will post Among Ed’s speech once I get my copy by email.

I am, in a word, happy to be here.

When I received the invitation to speak before you today, I accepted readily—in part because the proposed program scheduled either Gov. Vilma Santos or Gov. Ed Panlilio after me. This, I thought, was an opportunity for me to meet, once again, either the Star for All Seasons, or today’s Man for All Seasons.

Of course, after I wrote in a recent column that a certain George W. Bush was in my view the worst two-term president in US history, I half-expected another email from ASAP, this time politely disinviting me.

I jest, of course, because we all take our founding freedoms seriously; in your case, academic freedom, and in mine, the freedom of the press. I use that freedom primarily as an editorialist; I have written almost 700 editorials since joining the Inquirer in 2001, and every day I am reminded of what a singular privilege it is for a political journalist like me to take active part in the public discourse. That reminder has only become keener, that privilege even more rare, when last July I started writing a weekly column.

But I imagine it is my experience in so-called convergence or multi-platform journalism that recommended me to ASAP. Indeed, my given task this afternoon is to discuss “the role of media in democracy and how the new technologies have changed citizens’ participation.”

I have some experience with these technologies, both old and new. I may have been one of the first editors from so-called mainstream media to start blogging; I have kept at it for over two years now. I have directed two convergence reports for the Inquirer, working with online media, TV, and of course print (both in broadsheet and tabloid format). I have worked closely with, and in 2004 wrestled with the paradoxes of mobile, which is simultaneously transparent and opaque. At the same time, I remain a firm believer in the possibilities of print, having edited newspapers, magazines, and books.

It is from this background, then, that I join the conversation on new media and old democracy.

Allow me to begin with a borrowed idea, cribbed from Henry Jenkins of the Center for Future Civic Media. Let me ask a question: What does our democracy look like? And then let me offer the following image as an answer.


This Agence France Presse photograph was taken on August 12, 2006, when President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo paid a quick visit to Legazpi City to survey preparations at a danger zone under the shadow of a restless Mayon. The next day, I wrote in my Newsstand blog:

“This photo, taken yesterday by the peerless Romy Gacad of AFP in the vicinity of Mayon volcano, spoke to me on so many levels I knew I just had to use it … The composition is so exact it seems almost posed, until you consider the subjects involved: President Arroyo, of course, under the umbrella, facing (or receiving tribute from) Albay Gov. Gonzalez, Reps. Salceda and Lagman, and volcanology institute chief Solidum. (Note the triangle that the officials form.) Other photos, taken by Gacad and by other photographers too, remind us that this particular tableau was very much a product of the moment; in fact, most of the pictures taken at this volcano-gazing event yesterday show either the President by herself or in a huddle with officials. But the veteran lensman saw something different, perhaps a shift in movement, perhaps a blurring and then a coming-into-focus of color. Was it perhaps the presidential umbrella that drew his attention?”

In the 15 months since I wrote that, I have become more and more convinced that this candid portrait of the hierarchy of political power, caught on the wing, tells us something true about democracy, Philippine-style.

But if this is democracy, where are the demos? Three possibilities. The people are implied; the leaders from the executive and the legislative branches are discussing their fate. The people have been warned off; note the sign that can be glimpsed in the space between the President and her umbrella-toting guard. If we fill in the blanks, we can read: Warning Don’t Go Beyond The Line. Not least, the people (and the press) are outside the frame, watching the scene.

You may have other images in mind that illustrate democracy, Philippine-style. Any of the iconic photographs from the four heady days of Edsa Uno, for instance, would be similarly evocative. Familiar images of Philippine elections—yellow ballot box, blue-stained index fingers, seminarians in white—remain resonant. A photograph taken by Inquirer photographer Rem Zamora during special elections last May casts the eternal triangle of ballot box, armed guard, and election volunteer in a new light, literally through a different grid.

But back to Bicol. I hope you will agree with me when I say that the Gacad photo does two things wonderfully well: It captures the elite nature of our representative democracy today, and at the very same time it recalls the datu-and-tribute origins of our history.

Democracy’s incomparable datu, Thomas Jefferson, famously wrote: “The functionaries of every government have propensities to command at will the liberty and property of their constituents. There is no safe deposit for these but with the people themselves, nor can they be safe with them without information. Where the press is free, and every man able to read, all is safe.”

I would like to suggest that these propensities are greater, more rapacious, harder to control, in what Benedict Anderson calls cacique democracy. And that, correspondingly, in such a limited democracy the need for a free press and universal literacy (“every man able to read”) is all the greater.

So-called Internet democracy has been offered as the cure for many ills; in diagnosing elite domination of both politics and the media, many of democracy’s doctors have suggested that Internet democracy may yet be the best medicine.

There is no doubt that the “revolution” that has come to be associated with the word “Internet” is real in some respects.

Let me quote media theorist Roger Silverstone, who sums up the reality quite nicely. “Firstly, the scale, extent and speed of network connection … Secondly, the opportunity for individuals and groups to create spaces for themselves in what otherwise would be … an enclosed and exclusive media territory commanded by private enterprise and global capital. And, thirdly … the relative freedom of personal movement, perpetual contact and the enhancement of choice enabled by the digital revolution.”

In this light, or in the late great Silverstone’s silver gleam, the Malu Fernandez scandal is most instructive.

Who has not heard of Malu Fernandez? The People Asia and Manila Standard Today society columnist provoked a storm of controversy last August when an article she had written for the magazine was repackaged for the newspaper and then surfaced on the Internet.

In it, she wrote of suffering through a long flight crammed into coach with dozens of Filipino contract workers. The article, marked by the shallow superlatives that pass for social commentary in society columns, can be reduced to the following deathless line: “Meanwhile, I wanted to slash my wrist at the thought of being trapped in a plane with all of them.”

Never mind the wrong idiom (this particular euphemism for suicide is plural: slashing one’s wrists.) It is in the off-handedness, or rather the underhandedness, of that throwaway, enough-about-them-let’s-talk-about-me word, “meanwhile,” that the columnist’s disdain is most acute.

But enough about her. What happened soon after was unprecedented. A virtual storm arose. Blogger Nick of started a boycott campaign (his first post received almost 700 replies). The offending column was circulated by email, and emails denouncing the columnist’s bigotry started bouncing off overloaded inboxes. After Fernandez’s first, defensive response, more bloggers joined the fray. More commenters filled the comment threads. Almost all were personally offended by the column; quite a number went on the offensive against the columnist.

Threats were issued against Fernandez, some implying that a quick death was too good for her. Pictures of the columnist, who is unfortunately on the plump side, were posted, provoking another wave of mean-spirited, pig-in-a-poke, an-Axe-cologne-for-your-Jo-Malone retaliation.

After a couple of weeks, a chastened Fernandez apologized, and then resigned. Her resignation letter, quickly carried by online news sites, acknowledged both the unprecedented scale and unusual source of adverse public opinion.

“I am humbled by the vehement and heated response provoked by my article,” she wrote. “To say that this article was not meant to malign, hurt or express prejudice against the OFWs now sounds hollow after reading through all the blogs from Filipinos all over the world.”

All the blogs. From Filipinos. All over the world. Malu Fernandez must be the first public figure in our history to have been done in by this new combination, this new iron triangle of opinion—and in large part this happened because of the “scale, extent, and speed” of Internet communication.

We should also note that the offending stories came out in mainstream media, within “an enclosed and exclusive media territory,” and that the first responses, and eventually the bulk of responses, were mediated through those “spaces” Internet users have the opportunity to create for themselves. It was precisely because of pressure from these virtual communities that the “real world” (I place that phrase under ironic quotes) took notice of the Fernandez scandal. First, the rest of the mainstream media started devoting airtime and space to it, and then People Asia and Manila Standard Today finally, grudgingly, acknowledged the controversy.

The interesting thing is, the many people Fernandez offended (most but by no means all of them OFWs) had the choice not to read her offending story. That is to say, she was writing for a different public, indeed a different market, and it was only when her article appeared on the Standard website that irate overseas workers started reading it. They chose to read it, and they chose to pass it on in email after email, to link to it in their blogs, to post comment after comment on it.

But that precisely is what the Internet offers, and why so-called Internet democracy excites our imagination. What Silverstone calls “enhancement of choice” is in play; what political organizers call “mobilization” is on display. On the Internet, we are free, and we are many.

But the Malu Fernandez scandal also points to the limits of so-called Internet democracy.

In the first place, the scandal illustrates that “scale, extent, and speed” do not necessarily equate with depth. To be sure, the “vehement and heated” response was justified, but much of it was expressed in bite-sized rants, bursts of angry opinion, expostulations, and of course insults and threats.

Secondly, the scandal proves that our “created spaces” often lead to what communication theorists call group polarization, where discussion among like-minded people tends to move participants to the extreme. Law professor Cass Sunstein describes its impact on the Internet succinctly: “With respect to the Internet, the implication is that groups of people, especially if they are like-minded, will end up thinking the same thing that they thought before—but in more extreme form.” That, I would wager, helps explain why it was hot-knife-cutting-butter easy to move from feeling personally insulted by Fernandez’s expensive crassness to hurling personal insults at her.

Thirdly, the scandal tells us that the “relative freedom of personal movement, perpetual contact and the enhancement of choice” that the digital revolution makes possible still comes up short at times, in part because it remains largely virtual. Case in point: despite the controversy, or rather because of it, her newspaper finally decided not to accept Fernandez’s resignation.

And so, to the question before us this afternoon: What is the role of media in a democracy? This is the kind of question that veteran journalists do not like answering—not because they do not have answers, but because the answers are simultaneously obvious and intimate, like answers to questions about belief in God or love of country.

Fortunately, two journalists have done both the asking and the answering for all of us. In The Elements of Journalism, Kovach and Rosenstiel distill the content of hundreds of conversations with journalists into a simple, all-too-obvious but often-forgotten principle. “The primary purpose of journalism is to provide citizens with the information they need to be free and self-governing.”

In other words, it is all about the informed consent of the governed. Sunstein, a leading theorist of the Internet, identifies two “distinctive requirements” for a citizen-based, information-oriented (that is to say, democratic) society.

“First, people should be exposed to materials that they would not have chosen in advance. Unanticipated encounters, involving topics and points of view that people have not sought out and perhaps find irritating, are central to democracy and even to freedom itself. Second, many or most citizens should have a range of common experiences. Without shared experiences, a heterogeneous society will have a more difficult time addressing social problems and understanding one another.”

In a radical sense, the dramatic improvements in what is now called information and communication technology or ICT allow us to hope for the best. In Sunstein’s formulation, they widen our horizons. But by filtering out information and information carriers we do not like or are not interested in or have never heard of or do not want to be bothered with, we may be undermining democracy itself. The democratic experiment, our own history since the first Philippine Assembly a hundred years ago tells us, depends on both diversity of information and commonality of experience.

I started with one image, let me end with another. What does the future of our democracy look like? I found one possible answer on the blog of Jeremy Wagstaff, who writes on technology for the Wall Street Journal and the BBC. It shows a hospital worker in Jakarta talking on her cellphone while using the space created by an older technology, the phone booth.


It is easy to suppose that the woman is wrapped up in her own little world, oblivious to the world rushing past her. She has taken refuge in the old-fashioned phone booth, in a bid to immerse herself even deeper in her world. But it is also possible, is it not, that she is in fact firmly in two worlds, present and active in each of them. And that the cellphone, that vanguard of the digital revolution, serves as the bridge between them.

The point is: that tension, between greater isolation and greater participation, will continue to mark any citizen’s involvement in democracy. It has ever been thus; it will always be so. In that sense, in that very limited sense, the Internet revolution never happened.



Filed under Readings in Media, Speeches & Workshops

2 responses to “Democracy, only more so

  1. Since 1927, TIME Magazine has chosen a man, woman, or idea that “for better or worse, has most influenced events in the preceding year.”

    Following the tradition of TIME magazine,who in your humble opinion, deserves to be the “Pinoy of the Year ” honor for 2007(the Pinoy who for better or worse,has influenced events in the Philippines in 2007)? Vote in the new poll in my blog.

    In alphabetical order:

    * President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo

    * Ex President Joseph Estrada

    * Manny Pacquiao

    * Gov.”Amang” Ed Panlilio

    * Lea Salonga

    * The Filipino Soldier

    * Senator Antonio Trillanes

    * Overseas Filipino Worker(OFW)

    * Joey De Venecia

    * You(yes ,You and me,the ordinary Pinoy!)

    Written By Eero P. Brillantes, Ella Kristina D. Domingo, Les dM. Coronel, Geraldine T. Brillantes as their contribution to the greatness of Andres Bonifacio as the father of the Philippine Revolution

    Andres Bonifacio, the supremo, a self-taught revolutionary, a national hero. Today, we celebrate Bonifacio Day. For other national heroes, their “day” is celebrated on their death, while for Andres Bonifacio, we celebrate his “day” on his birthday because he was killed by his own countryman: a Filipino named Makapagal (Seasite, no date).
    Bonifacio’s masterful use of his communication skills triggered the downfall of the three and a half century Spanish rule over the Philippines. Knowledgeable of spoken Spanish and English languages, Andres was able to conceptualize and apply in the Philippine setting the tenets culled from the French Revolution, as well as literature which elaborated on brotherhood, equality and freedom.
    The website www. dedicates a whole web page on Andres Bonifacio and how communication has molded his principles. Other websites such as Wikipedia, and the SEAsite (Northern Illinois University) made similar claims.
    Lack of formal education never stopped Andres Bonifacio to continue learning and practicing his knowledge. He capitalized on his spoken languages – English and Spanish; and his reading skills to learn the principles of rights and freedom. He read about history, politics, law and religion. Ambeth Ocampo, a historian, mentioned that among Andres Bonifacio’s reading list were: Lives of the Presidents of the United States”; “History of the French Revolution” (two volumes); “La Solidaridad” (three volumes); “Noli Me Tangere”; “El Filibusterismo”; “International Law”; “Civil Code”; “Penal Code”; “Ruins of Palmyra”; “Religion within the Reach of All”; “The Bible” (five volumes); “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo; and “The Wandering Jew” by Eugene Sue (taken from
    Aside from being a voracious reader, Bonifacio wrote poetry, and was a moro-moro actor – very typical of great communicators.
    Based on, Bonifacio was probably one of the greatest motivational writers and speakers of his generation, along with Dr. Jose Rizal. Using his native language, Bonifacio wrote with full passion and compassion.
    “In his essay “What the Filipinos Should Know,” Bonifacio wrote in Tagalog: “Reason tells us that we cannot expect anything but more sufferings, more treachery, more insults, and more slavery. Reason tells us not to fritter away time for the promised prosperity that will never come….Reason teaches us to rely on ourselves and not to depend on others for our living. Reason tells us to be united…that we may have the strength to combat the evils in our country.”
    Bonifacio also wrote about how the Filipinos were tortured by the Spaniards. They were bound, kicked, and hit with gun butts. They were electrocuted and hung upside down like cattle. He said that Filipino prisoners were “thrown into the sea…shot, poisoned….”
    To further illucidate his mastery of verbal and non-verbal communication as a way to agitate for social upheaval, Bonifacio intricately organized an underground movement patterned after the “triangle organizing” concept. In contemporary times, the “triangle” took on many permutations including cell “organizing” for activists, and multi-level marketing as product distribution channels for scams and legitimate businesses. Bonifacio and his disciples couched his organizing work in millenarian revolutionary language and rituals. Conceptual combinations of pagan mysticism, folk Christianity, and symbols/rituals culled from the freemasonry movement provided the organizational culture. The blood compact ritual and the tearing up of the cedula provided heavy drama to the whole effort. It can be deduced that Bonifacio’s organizational communication acumen as applied to revolution was indeed effective. A whole book entitled Pasyon at Rebolusyon by Renato Lleto was dedicated to the subject matter of conjuncture and national consciousness from the point of view of the critical mass during the Spanish occupation. It theorized on folk culture, folk Christianity, and revolutionary fervor against colonial rule as defining ingredients in the Philippine revolution.

    The Beginning
    On the night of July 7, 1892 – the same day he heard that Rizal had been exiled to Dapitan – Bonifacio met his friends secretly, at a house on Azcarraga Street (now Claro M. Recto) in Tondo. Together with his two friends Ladislao Diwa and Teodoro Plata, he formed the first triangle of a secret society which bore the initials K.K.K. The three letters stood for Kataastaasan Kagalang-galang na Katipunan nang manga Anak nang Bayan, or Katipunan
    Instead of using the old Spanish spelling of the letter “c,” Bonifacio used the Tagalog spelling of “k.” Rizal had suggested the change in an article published two years earlier in the newspaper La Solidaridad. The “k,” pronouched ka, was based on the ancient Tagalog script (I). The letter “K” symbolizes revolt by bringing forth into attention that the Filipino culture existed before Spanish hegemony.

    “Katipuneros” : Symbologists
    The Katipunan thrived as an underground society through the use of secret codes and passwords. Keeping secrets from the Spaniards during those times was very difficult. To keep the whole organization from being discovered, Katipunan employed the triangle method: a system of enlistment wherein a recruiter would ask only two members to join. Only the recruiter would know the names of both recruits while the recruits would not each other. Thus, the organization is encapsulated into three-man units and a direct command chain resulting to a very efficient personnel management.
    Though some members were middle class, the Katipunan membership is dominantly from the poor and working classes, thus its membership grew to the thousands.
    The Katipunan had three aims:
    • First, it wanted to free the Philippines from Spain, by force of arms if necessary. Its members, called Katipuneros, were taught to make and use weapons.
    • Second is the the moral, or spiritual, aim. The Katipunan saw all men, rich or poor, as equals.
    • Third, the Katipuneros were taught to care for one another in times of sickness and need. The society took care of its sick. If a member died, the Katipunan helped to pay the cost of a simple funeral.
    After October 1892, all Katipuneros could recruit as many members as they could.
    To prove courage and sincerity, any man who wanted to join the Katipunan had to pass a number of tests. One of them are answering these questions:
    (1) In what condition did the Spaniards find the Filipino people when they came?
    (2) In what condition do they find themselves now?
    (3) What hope do the Filipino people have for the future?
    The final test was the “sandugo” (blood compact). The recruit was asked to make a small cut on his left forearm with a sharp knife, then sign the Katipunan oath in his own blood. Afterwards, the new member chose a symbolic name for himself. For example, Bonifacio was called “May pag-asa” (Hopeful).

    Women and Revolution
    About thirty women, limited to wives, daughters and close relatives of the Katipuneros, joined the Katipunan. The women’s chapter of the Katipunan was formed in July 1893. However, the women did not have to seal their membership with a blood compact. During Katipunan meetings, they wore green masks, and white sashes with green borders. Sometimes they carried revolvers or daggers. They usually served as look-outs in the outer sala (living room) while the men held their secret meetings in the backroom.
    The Discovery
    The Katipunan was discovered before they were ready for a full-armed struggle. Father Mariano Gil, the Augustinian parish priest of Tondo, learned it from Teodoro Patino, an unhappy member of the Katipunan. The Spanish police moved quickly to stop the revolution. Many Filipinos were arrested, jailed, and shot. But Bonifacio knew that the die had been cast. There was no turning back. The time had come for the Filipino people to engage the enemy in battle.
    Bonifacio met with other Katipunan leaders in a place called Pugadlawin, on August 23, 1896. They tore up their cedulas (residence tax papers) and cried “Long Live the Philippines!” They vowed to fight the Spaniards down to the last man.
    Following these stories are insights that make Andres Bonifacio, one heck of a communicator. The organization of Katipunan is filled with symbols and communication models that are actually perfect means in delivering messages and understanding among its members. His target members, the poor and Filipinos, showed that a strong critical mass against Filipino oppression was more than felt during that time.
    Interactions, tactics and strategies are highly based on communication patterns and symbols. Employing the triangle method, asking patriotic questions, The Sandugo and the Cry of Pugadlawin are symbolic actions of freedom and revolt. The role of women in the revolution was never neglected. More importantly, Bonifacio started all these with the communication skills basics: spoken language, reading, and writing. Though Jose Rizal and his cohorts had formal education, Bonifacio, a natural genius, did well very well through self-study. Bonifacio, was able to listen to the cries of the oppressed Filipinos.
    Connecting meanings in among the members of an organized society is essential to its potential success. Bonifacio, an idealist, was able to apply his readings into a historic revolution. Having tangible focus, his faith on the Filipinos was so immense and he was somehow thought of a as a fool by the formally educated. Bonifacio knew what Filipinos wanted that time. And through his strategic plans, innate communication skills, he was able to organize the poor, the uneducated, the masses and together, they fought for freedom. Without the Katipunan, did you ever ask where will we be now?

    SEAsite, Northern Illinois University,

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