From Visitation to Sinister Connotations: Attitudes toward Tokhang in Four Cebuano Short Stories Published in Bisaya between 2017 and 2019
* * *
I. Introduction
Every
presidential administration of recent memory seems to bring with it a novel
term, phrase, or expression that ends up getting added to the wider public’s
lexicon. The “Hello, Garci” scandal from the Arroyo administration, for
instance, birthed a meme of sorts in a nascent internet age. During the Aquino
years, the term “pork barrel” entered into popular usage, despite the concept
of it having already existed for years, albeit under different names such as
the Countryside Development Fund, the Congressional Initiative Fund, and—at the
time of the scandal’s revelation—the Priority Development Assistance Fund.[1]
In the case of the current
administration, perhaps no other term has entered into more popular usage than tokhang. A portmanteau of the Cebuano
Bisaya words for knock (toktok) and
plead (hangyo), the term was first employed
exclusively by Davao police and originally referred to law enforcement’s “visitation
of…alleged drug personalities” in certain neighborhoods for the purposes of
persuading the latter to cease with their drug-related activities and “submit
themselves to the government” for recovery.[2]
Since Duterte assumed the presidency, however, and implemented the same policy
on a nationwide scale early in his term, tokhang
has acquired a “more sinister meaning.”[3]
“Natokhang siya,” for example, which
literally translates to “He was tokhang-ed,”
has become a common vernacular expression to refer to someone suspected of drug
activity being gunned down. In a lot of cases, these deaths are framed by
police as “encounter killings,” in which they allege that the drug personality
resisted arrest (“nanlaban”), and
thus officers had to resort to using force. Consequently, because the resulting
death is on full display for onlookers to watch as police process the crime scene,
thereby serving as an indelible warning to the citizenry for what happens when
one engages in drugs, such methods permit the state to “take credit for the
killings as furthering law and order.”[4]
One key aspect of tokhang operations is the drug
watch-list. According to Jayson Lamchek, these questionably sourced lists,
drafted by Barangay Anti-Drug Abuse Councils tasked to identify suspected drug
personalities within their community, appear to place an emphasis on
inclusivity over accuracy—meaning no particular distinctions are made as to
whether those listed are current or past users or peddlers, and one’s inclusion
in said list can even be based on hearsay.[5]
Such a strategy effectively turns surveillance—a task originally reserved for
state agents—“diffuse,” outsourcing it to local communities and even compelling
neighbors and individual households to police their own ranks.
Although it would be easy to see
this metamorphosis of tokhang as a
pejoration of an otherwise neutral term employed by law enforcement from a
specific region, we may also view it as a “strategic naming”[6]
of an unprecedented situation, as Kenneth Burke put it. In his essay,
“Literature as Equipment for Living,” the American scholar and critic writes of
how the emergence of a significantly recurring “pattern of experience[s]”
within a society compels members to “need a word for it.” Once this pattern is
named, societal attitudes toward it start to develop and may even be reflected
in or influenced by works of art created within that society, thereby hinting
at something “communal” and realizing the Burkean concept of “symbolic action.”
For his paper on the gugmang kabus (poor
man’s love) plot formula, scholar and critic Resil Mojares examined some
thirty-four Cebuano short stories published between 1910 and 1940 that utilized
that “most durable and ubiquitous” trope in vernacular fiction of “the poor
boy/girl who loves/is loved by a rich girl/boy.”[7]
He notes down five observations, among these being the ascribing of positive
moral qualities to the poor and negative traits to the wealthy, the “tendency
to see…class division as having the force of a natural condition,”[8]
and the “insistent sense of powerlessness in the characters to change existing
conditions.”[9] Not
only does the popular and enduring nature of such a formula recreate the clear
social divide between the rich and poor in Philippine society, but the
“recessive and quiescent” view of the thirty-four stories speaks to the “sense
of how conditions have remained unchanged through the years.”[10]
If one were to apply a similar
preliminary lens to tokhang, the
strategic naming would come into play following the spate of drug-related
arrests and killings, which coincided with related issues like police impunity
and emboldening rhetoric from state officials. This otherwise unprecedented
phenomenon required a naming, and tokhang—being
the operative name law enforcement used—took on that role. Attitudes toward
these incidents of tokhang beyond
mere “knocking and pleading” then subsequently developed, ultimately making their
way into various media.[11]
In my thesis, “Tales in the Time of Tokhang,” I looked into how police and
military personnel (state agents who’ve come under heavy scrutiny under the
current administration) were represented by fictionists in short stories
published in Bisaya magazine in the
first two full calendar years of Duterte’s presidency, 2017 and 2018. For this
paper, I shall examine how the word tokhang
is used in the Cebuano stories where it appears since gaining widespread usage.
Between the two aforementioned years, I found occurrences of said word in three
stories: two from 2017 and one from 2018. Given the time that has passed since
I wrapped work on my study, I shall also include here the year 2019, where I
found one more instance of the word in the said periodical. This paper, then,
extracts points I made previously in my thesis, while at the same time serving
as an update and modification of the same to a certain extent.
II. Analysis
The
discussions for each story are arranged in chronological order, starting with
Marcelo Baterna’s “Tokhang,” published
in the March 27, 2017, issue of Bisaya; followed
by Lucita Aviles’s “Si Lola Kap,”
from the December 13, 2017, issue; R. Joseph Dazo’s flash fiction (sugikilblat) piece “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel, Magmotor” (When the Angels Descend,
They Shall Be on Motorbikes), published on August 22, 2018; and lastly, Art E.
Canares’s “Ang Idolo” (The Idol),
published on January 9, 2019.
Although one may make the argument
that a mere four stories out of several published in Bisaya over the course of three years doesn’t exactly amount to a
sufficient recurrence of tokhang, the
fact that these stories are written by different authors is indicative enough
of how artworks have the potential to single out “a pattern of experience that
is adequately representative of social structure.”[12]
That these four stories also have different takes on the term illustrates how
differing attitudes have since developed in the wake of the strategic naming of
the referent that is drug-related arrests and killings post-2016.
A.
“Tokhang” by Marcelo Baterna
It’s
impossible to imagine Marcelo Baterna’s “Tokhang”
having ever been written had Duterte not come to power. Published just
under a year into the former Davao mayor’s presidency, the story exudes a
wariness over the controversial drug-war policy from which it derives its name,
but at the same time, there are certain lines that highlight the novelty of the
term that was no doubt contemporaneous with the story’s composition.
“Tokhang”
is told entirely in third-person, from the perspective of two very close
friends, Daniel and Petro, two laborers who turn to selling drugs in their
rural community. The opening sentences adequately flesh out both central
characters, immediately rendering them sympathetic in the eyes of the reader,
who is expected to understand what compelled them to make such a shared
dangerous decision.
Both Daniel and Petro work as
sugarcane harvesters (“motapas sa tubo”[13]),
never graduated high school (“igo rang
nakatapos sa elementerya”[14]),
are the sole breadwinners of their families, and thus have a brood of mouths to
feed, with Daniel having four children and Petro five. Drugs are described like
an entity that creeps into their locality, intruding into their otherwise
law-abiding lives. Petro, who is presented as a tenacious foil to the more
cautious Daniel, and presumably because he has more children, is the first
between the two to abandon their harvesting job to start selling drugs. It’s
also mentioned that he has a cousin from the city who is already engaged in the
business—a useful connection for his career switch.
Petro’s upward mobility gradually
becomes more apparent to others in their community. He starts to look a lot
cleaner than his former coworkers, he carries around more money and has greater
freedom in choosing to buy what he wants, and he even harbors plans to have a
new home built for his family. His new station in life, though, leaves many of
his peers baffled—envious even—but Petro decides to confide in only one person
the secret to his newfound success, with the goal of recruiting him: his best
friend, Daniel.
When Daniel receives the invite, he
is stunned and even thinks it a joke. It is only when Petro assures him that
someone of the law will protect them (“Labot
pa, wa kitay angay kabalak-an kay protektado ta sa nagdala sa balaod”[15]
[Besides, we have nothing to worry about because someone of the law will
protect us[16]])
that Daniel is swayed, though he maintains his prudent attitude all throughout
the narrative. Neighbors also eventually catch wind of what they do, but they
are easily silenced by Daniel and Petro’s generosity and good will.
This dynamic, however, abruptly hits
a wall with the election of a new president, who, although unnamed, is a clear
reference to Duterte, with Baterna making mention of a campaign promise to end
crime and drugs.
Pagkahuman sa
eleksiyon, dinha na nila mamatikod ang dakong hulga sa ilang panginabuhi dihang
mipahibalo ang bag-ong napili nga presidente sa nasod nga
tinud-on niini ang iyang gisaad panahon sa kampanya nga mao ang pagsumpo sa
kriminalidad ug ginadiling droga.[17]
With
the elections over, they realized the great danger their livelihood posed, upon
finding out that the new president of the
country would seriously follow through on his campaign promise to put an end to
criminality and illegal drugs.[18]
News of drug pushers and users getting killed under questionable circumstances quickly floods the airwaves. These events may transpire in the distant city, but the reader takes such updates in as a form of foreshadowing—that it’s only a matter of time before the violence spills over into the countryside.
What is especially notable about “Tokhang” is that Baterna takes the time to weave in a brief description of the newly introduced policy, thereby allowing the story to orient the reader on the origins of the term:
Gawas sa
gipamuno nga mga malapason, ang uban gihangyo nga motahan aron malikay sa
kamatayon. Mao kini ang gitawag tokhang nga naglambigit sa duha ka
pulong—tuktok ug hangyo—nga maoy gigamit sa kapolisan diin sila motuktok sa
panimalay sa hingtungdan aron hangyoon nga mobiya na sa ilang kalihokan nga
gidili sa balaod.[19]
Besides
big-name criminals, others were asked to surrender in order to avoid death.
This strategy was referred to as tokhang,
a combination of the two words—knock and plead—wherein the police would
knock on the homes of persons of interest and ask them to abandon their illegal
ways.
This seemingly harmless side of tokhang—i.e., knocking and
pleading—however, is contravened several paragraphs later, where the author
mentions how even pushers who have surrendered are later killed as they
eventually resume with their drug-peddling ways (“mibalik sa naandang kalihokan”[20]).
This thus hints at the author’s criticism of tokhang, both as a law enforcement measure and as a long-term means
of addressing the drug problem.
When the tokhang policy comes to town, Daniel and Petro willingly turn themselves in, even signing a document that effectively codifies their disavowal of drugs. Afterward, the two engage in a lengthy debate on whether or not to continue with their illicit trade, considering that going back to the backbreaking and poorly compensated occupation of sugarcane harvesting is far from enticing. To Daniel, though, it is certainly better than ending up in prison or dead. Petro, on the other hand, gutsy as always, decides to carry on, albeit more covertly, while leaving the door open to his friend. Not long after, the killings in the city escalate in brutality. A drug lord is killed even while in custody, allegedly because he resisted (“misukol”) the officers watching over him. With this, Baterna further drives home the point of the tokhang policy’s lethality—that it isn’t about visitation by law enforcement and government-mandated rehabilitation anymore but can very well encompass “nanlaban” killings as well.
The climax of this story is of
particular interest because it features what I would like to refer to as a “tokhang in reverse,” where it is the
drug personality who does the knocking and pleading. After Petro’s law-enforcer
protector is replaced in a provincial reshuffling of police chief posts[21]
(“gihulipan ang mga hepe sa
nagkalainlaing lungsod”[22]), Petro finds himself being pursued one
night by a more emboldened but clandestine police. Daniel wakes up to a frantic
pounding on his door. From the outside, Petro desperately pleads to be let in as
he claims there are “cops after him” (“naay
mga polis nga nagsunod nako!”[23]).
The mention of police presence alone is enough to give Daniel pause. The
possibility that he may be tagged as an accomplice if he accommodates his
friend enters his mind.
Petro pleads one more time, and
Daniel turns to his sleeping family—a sight that leads him to his fateful
decision. Without a word, Daniel switches off the light and heads back to bed.
It’s a scene that is as unfortunate as it is ironic: just as family underpinned
both men’s decision to enter the drug business, it is also the factor that
condemns one of them to death. Petro’s fleeing footfalls are picked up by
Daniel, followed by the crack of firearms. Vehicles—presumably police cars—are
then heard driving away.
B.
“Si Lola Kap” (Lola Kap) by Lucita
Aviles
Narration
in “Si Lola Kap” comes courtesy of
the first-person perspective of Caloy, a young man whose dreams of becoming a
seaman are dashed by a descent into drug addiction—an illness (to use the
story’s words, “usa ka sakit”[24])
to which he is on the road to recovery. The first-person point of view is
significant because the story can also be read as a testimony on Caloy’s part
attesting to the supposed effectivity and benevolence of the tokhang policy, as it is depicted in
this story.
Caloy may not be the breadwinner of
his family in the same way Daniel and Petro from Baterna’s story are, but a lot
of hope is nevertheless placed in him for the family’s future, as his mother
confides:
“Caloy,
ikaw ray bugtong kong paglaom nga makalingkawas ning atong kahimtang karon.
Gusto na unta kong dili na molangyaw. Busa pagbinuotan sa imong pag-eskuyla.”[25]
“Caloy, you are the only one in whom I place hope to lift us from
our current station in life. I don’t wish to go abroad anymore. Thus, be
diligent in your schooling.”
The passage can be read just as much
as a plea to Caloy as it is an exhortation to the youth in general, who are
typically viewed as the country’s hope and must therefore focus on their
studies in order to forge a path for both individual success and national
prosperity. As the first few paragraphs paint an image of Caloy’s home life,
the reader is able to draw that link between the modest family and larger
society, and how illegal drugs intrude in otherwise harmonious dynamics. Just
like many other families in our country, Caloy’s is poor, relying only on one
breadwinner—his father, a construction worker—who is barely at home, but they
are visibly hopeful, with Caloy personifying the notion that better days lie
ahead, more so in the story’s present, where he has taken the necessary preliminary
steps toward sobriety.
Caloy then heads to the barangay
hall where the reader is introduced to the titular character. “Lola Kap,” it
turns out, is the Ang Probinsyano-inspired
nickname of barangay captain Manolita M. Sevila, a retired doctor of education
who implements the newly instituted tokhang
policy religiously—both in a literal and figurative sense. Lola Kap is
consistently spoken of highly by Caloy; toward the end, for example, he credits
her for being the “instrument of the Lord who got him and other former drug
dependents back on the straight and narrow” (“ang
instrumento sa Diyos aron matuli-id ang hiwi namong dalan”[26]). Her being a woman and a
doctorate-holder may be viewed as unexpected demographic support for a policy
that critics revile for being extremely macho and poorly backed up by
scientific data.
Through the narration, Caloy reveals
himself to be one of sixty personalities included in their barangay’s drug
watch-list, fifty-two of whom surrendered when Oplan Tokhang[27]
came into full swing:
Sa
saysenta nga naapil sa drug
watchlist sa among barangay, singkuwentay
dos ang boluntaryo nga mingsurender human ipahigayon ang Oplan Tokhang. Ug usa
ko sa mga batan-ong biktima sa droga. Maong wala na ko makapadayon sa
pag-eskuyla human sa akong gradwesyon sa hayskol.[28]
Of the sixty individuals who were included in our
barangay’s drug watch-list, fifty-two voluntarily surrendered once Oplan
Tokhang came into effect. I was one of those younger victims of drugs. This was
why I wasn’t able to continue with my schooling after graduating high school.
Similar to the previous story, the implementation of tokhang here, now referred to as a
full-fledged state operation, is what compels the drug personalities to turn
themselves in. However, whereas “Tokhang”
took a more critical stance on the term, “Si
Lola Kap” appears to view it largely in a more optimistic light. That Caloy
expresses his thanks to an unnamed president for his ramping up of drug-war
efforts (“Salamat nga gipangisgan sa
atong presidente ang gera batok droga”[29] [Thank you to our president for ramping
up efforts in the war against drugs]), which is stated right after the above passage,
makes this clear enough. Also, there is the easy-to-overlook fact that the
story refuses to interrogate or look into how exactly the local drug watch-list
was sourced. Considering the substantial number of individuals included
(sixty), this no doubt would have required a significant degree of “outsourced
surveillance” within their community.
Caloy’s reason for dropping by the
barangay hall is to attend a seminar on “Spirituality and Moral Recovery of
Tokhang Personalities,” a series of lectures constituting part of Lola Kap’s tokhang implementation, which
complements and elaborates further on the original visitation/knock-and-plead
origins of the term, while at the same time countering the sinister, more
violent connotations that had already attached themselves to the word, as made
evident in “Tokhang.”
In her opening remarks for the
current session, Lola Kap likens drug addiction to a malaise that needs curing
and emphasizes the importance of discipline, tough love, and religiosity in the
rehabilitation process. She is then followed by the guest lecturer, Padre
Ronald, a young Catholic priest whose words, which stress the importance of
“loving ourselves because we are loved by the Lord” (“Kay gihigugma kita sa Diyos, busa ato usab nga higugmaon ang atong
kaugalingon”[30]),
compel Caloy to feel his own flesh, and he is thus reminded of his effeteness.
The story then momentarily segues into flashbacks, where Caloy explains how his
parents’ ceaseless fighting at home led him to experimenting with illegal drugs
with friends.
During the next session, an older former
addict named Jaylord Ang describes his own road to recovery. He stresses the
usual warnings about illegal substances and the drug life, such as “Once
tasted, always wanted” and “Kon dili
mosurender, duha ra ang paingnan—presohan ug lubnganan”[31] (If you do not surrender, only two
fates await you—prison or the grave), then provides his own testimony that
teases a passing awareness by the author of the dark side of tokhang:
“Hangtod
nga gi-raid ang among paboritong lugar. Napatay ang duha ko ka kauban. Samtang ako
usa sa nadakpan og nabalhog sa bilanggoan. Walay piyansa. Walay igong katulgan.
Naay pagkaon nga mas lamian pa ang lawog sa among iro nga Dalmatian. Walay usa
nga miduaw nako sa selda…”[32]
“And then our favorite
hangout was raided. Two of my companions died. I was the only one arrested and
sent to jail without bail. I couldn’t sleep right. There may have been food,
but the gruel we fed our Dalmatian tasted better. No one visited me in prison…”
These brutal realities that have also been associated with tokhang—killings, squalid penal conditions, isolation—are unfortunately not further explored.
Of the four stories under analysis, “Si Lola Kap” is the only one with an ending that is unapologetically optimistic, in the sense that it argues for the continued enforcement of tokhang. The Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency (PDEA) certifies their barangay as drug-clear, and Lola Kap is conferred an award by the mayor for her efforts. Caloy watches the entire ceremony on TV, and remains eternally grateful to the barangay captain. He then leaves the house to congratulate her personally, though given the perilous nature of one’s inclusion in the watch-list, as pointed out in “Tokhang,” a skeptical reader cannot help but wonder if the young man is truly safe.
Critics of tokhang may easily view Aviles’s story as an overly optimistic take on the drug war—which, in a number of ways, it is—but the methods the fictionist details here are based on actual drug rehabilitation programs that cropped up in the wake of Operation Tokhang’s implementation.
A few weeks after concluding work on my thesis, I was given the opportunity by Catholic foundation Dilaab to write a couple of articles on recovered drug dependents who enrolled in a program similar to the one Caloy undergoes in the story. According to the coordinator assigned to me, Dilaab had been tapped by a local barangay captain to help out with the unexpectedly high number of drug personalities who turned themselves in following Duterte’s election to the presidency in 2016.[33] Because the LGU had virtually no program in place beforehand to deal with such an overwhelming number, government officials required the help of different sectors, such as the local archdiocese, schools, and law enforcement. The result was the Lahat Bangon (“Everyone, Arise”) or Labang program, which aimed for the rehabilitation and holistic development of recovering drug dependents, and therefore included both psychosocial and spiritual elements. The said program has since expanded to several other parishes and barangays within the Cebu metropolitan area. Prior to the pandemic, enrollees into the Labang program (informally referred to as Labangers) were expected to attend regular Monday-to-Saturday sessions held at the barangay hall or an agreed-upon venue to engage in different activities aimed at both distracting them from their addiction and rehabilitating them physically, psychologically, and spiritually.
Lectio Divina (sacred reading) sessions comprise a notable part of the Labang program’s spiritual dimension. In these sessions, the recovering drug dependent shares their insights for the week’s gospel with a group and relates the reading’s lessons with their own lives. In some cases, a priest facilitates these discussions, perhaps not unlike what Padre Ronald did in “Si Lola Kap.” Labangers who have successfully passed the six- to eight-month-long program and have remained clean after monitoring for one to two years may help out with the program as well by recounting their own stories of recovery, as Jaylord Ang did in Aviles’s story. The long-term effectivity of the Labang program, however, has yet to be studied. My source pointed out that Dilaab’s own rough estimate is that about 35 percent of Labangers have remained clean since the program’s inception, but the foundation hopes to someday partner with a local university or research institute to really study their methods and place a scientific stamp on these.
As for tokhang, this word is not used formally within the program, perhaps because of its controversial connotations; instead, more technical terms are employed. Drug dependents who willfully turn themselves in to authorities, for example, are referred to as “surrenderers.” Meanwhile, “person/s deprived of liberty” (PDL) applies to those who were previously incarcerated for not-too-grievous drug charges and availed of a plea-bargain agreement introduced by the Duterte administration, which stipulates that release is contingent on the PDL’s attendance in a rehabilitation program.
C.
“Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel, Magmotor” (When
the Angels Descend, They Shall Be on Motorbikes) by R. Joseph Dazo
R.
Joseph Dazo’s “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel,
Magmotor” differs from the two previous stories in two respects. For one,
whereas both “Tokhang” and “Si Lola Kap” merely alluded to a certain
president who instigated the tokhang policy,
“Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel” makes
explicit mention of Duterte. Also, where the two aforementioned stories had to
go through the trouble of elaborating on different facets of tokhang, both in terms of its origins
and implementation, Dazo’s story uses the word more casually, as a verb. The
protagonist here is Sofia Rivas—born Armando Solon—a queer salon owner whom the
author describes as someone with lofty, expensive goals, which includes a long
trip to Thailand for an operation and future participation in a prestigious
beauty pageant.
Sofia also initially waxes
indifferent to the pro-Duterte political discourse that her customers engage
in. In true supporter fashion, her customers single out Duterte’s fierceness as
a Bisaya (“Ah, isog kaayo uy! Ingon ana
gyod nang mga Bisdak”[34]
[Ah, (he’s) so fierce! That’s how Bisdaks[35]
are]), cite Davao as a model born of his good governance (“Awa ang Davao, malinawon kaayo” [Look at Davao, how peaceful (it
is)]), echo his campaign promise of ending the drug problem in three to six
months via tokhang (“Tulo ka buwan, mapapas nis mapa sa Pilipinas
ang mga adik. Tokhangon, uy” [In three months, all the addicts in the
Philippines will be wiped off the map. They shall be tokhang-ed]), and also see futility in the rehabilitation of drug
personalities, believing them to be more deserving of death (“Patyon gyod nang mga adik, pusher, ug drug lords. Di na madalag rehab” (Those
addicts, pushers, and drug lords ought to be killed. Rehab can no longer help
them). On top of all these, they heap praise on motorcycle-riding gunmen,
calling them “cleansers of society” (“molimpyo
sa katilingban”[36])—a
point that will figure later in the story.
As exemplified by one of the lines
above, the term tokhang is now used
by the time of the story’s writing in a much broader, if not gristlier, sense.
No longer does it refer to simple knocking and pleading, nor as a law
enforcement measure, but it can now mean the outright killing of a drug
personality. This enlarged scope, along with a societal acclimation to the
violence associated with tokhang, is
demonstrated in another line uttered a few paragraphs later by another of
Sofia’s customers. The response by the salon owner may initially be one of
shock, and she even raises the possibility that the tokhang victim may be a user, but the concluding line reveals
Sofia’s thoughts on the drug war, which are no doubt influenced by the banter
of her customers:
“Gitokhang si Noy
Ramir, sa?” sa babaye sa gawas nga nagbarog dili layo sa iyang salon. “Ay,
katong mamaligya og butong ba duol sa flyover.”
“Kakuyaw god.
Mosuyop sad diay to siya?”
“Mao bitawng midaot lang siyag
kalit.”
“Mirisi. Maayo nuon nga pamatyon na
sila.”[37]
“Noy Ramir was tokhang-ed,
right?” said the woman as she stood outside, not too far from [Sofia’s] salon.
“Ay, the one who would sell coconut juice by the flyover.”
“Oh my, was he into drugs too?” [Sofia asked.]
“That’s why he lost a lot of weight all of a sudden.”
“Serves him right. They all ought to be killed.”
In the succeeding scene, just as
Sofia closes shop, a young man, her significant other, shows up with a black
bag and leaves it in the back room. Following a short conversation between him
and Sofia, the man takes his leave with the vague question “Pila ka gramo?” (“How many grams?”)—a throwaway line clearly meant
to plant in the reader a suspicion as to the bag’s contents. A few minutes
after, some motorcycle-riding gunmen break into the salon and gun Sofia down.
Considering the slight tease Dazo worked in before the protagonist’s demise, as
well as the sinister air tokhang has already
taken on, the reader can thus say Sofia is a victim of tokhang—that is, a drug-related killing.
D.
“Ang Idolo” (The Idol) by Art E.
Canares
The
word tokhang may only appear once in
Art E. Canares’s “Ang Idolo,” but similar
to its singular occurrence in “Si Lola
Kap,” it is used as a proper noun, in reference to the operation and not
the coined verb. Additionally, this story is rather unique among the four in
that it’s the only one that features a wealthy person—specifically, a
millionaire mayor from Cebu—as the central character.
When fifty-five-year-old Donald
finds out he has been “included in the list of politicians with drug ties” (“apil siya sa listahan sa mga politico
nalambigit sa mga droga”[38]),
and because leaving the country is the last thing he wants to do, he decides to
undergo cosmetic surgery in the hopes of avoiding the same fate as other, less
fortunate peers of his:
Wala
sa iyang hunahuna nga mobiya sa Pilipinas. Wa siyay plano nga biyaan ang Sugbo.
Dinhi siya natawo ug nahimong milyonaryo. Anhi siya magsugod og laing kinabuhi
nga magtago sa ilawom sa bag-ong nawong.[39]
He harbored no thoughts
of leaving the Philippines. He had no plans of leaving Cebu. He was born and
became a millionaire here. Here he would begin a new life, concealed beneath a
new visage.
“Ang
Idolo” begins just as the surgery has concluded. Donald gazes at the
mirror, admiring the surgeon’s impressive work, rendering him almost unrecognizable.
His new face reminds him of that of a certain actor, but he can’t place exactly
who. Donald then leaves the private clinic and hops into his BMW. Even his
driver is stunned at how different his boss looks.
They drive through the SRP (South
Road Properties) to go to SM Seaside, and Donald notes how the grand
reclamation project was once “their” (presumably meaning his and his family’s)
bailiwick prior to Duterte becoming president (“Balwarte nila ang SRP kaniadto sa wa pa magpresidente si Duterte”[40]).
The story does not exactly delve deeper into how exactly Donald lost his hold
over the SRP, but the mention of the president’s name here is relevant in two
respects: (1) it hints at the disruption Duterte’s presidency has had on
Donald’s standing, which differs from the other stories in that he is able to
evade any immediate consequences (whether it be having to turn himself in or
being summarily executed) for his drug affiliations; and (2) it puts “Ang Idolo” in the company of “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel” in its
explicit naming of Duterte.
When Donald arrives at the mall, he
is mistaken for a celebrity by movie fans, and the cries of “Piolo Pascual”
call to mind the actor he resembled but couldn’t name back at the clinic. He
attempts to escape the crowd but ends up being swarmed by them. The word tokhang makes its appearance in the last
sentence, which has an ironic and somewhat humorous tone:
Nakaikyas
man tuod siya sa Operation Tokhang apan wala siya makaeskapo sa panon sa mga
tawo nga mikupog sa idolo nga dili mao.[41]
He managed to evade
Operation Tokhang, but he failed to escape the swarm of people who pounced on a
false idol.
The use of the word mikupog is interesting. According to
Woolf, the root word, kupog, can mean
for something to “crumble into ruins” (Woolf); whereas Binisaya.com says it can also mean to “pounce.” In the given
context, it denotes a succumbing by a public to the allures of a false idol. One
may look at this last line as an attempt of critique by Canares directed at
celebrity worship. However, taking into consideration the prior mention of
Duterte in the story, and the fact that a number of politicians who had ridden
on his popularity by aligning with him on the campaign trail still found
themselves in the drug lists he publicized as president, one may also look at
this line as the author’s subtle jab at the adoration crowds tend to exhibit
for certain individuals who masquerade as idols. Nevertheless, the casual
mention of tokhang, is, as with
Dazo’s story, emblematic of how the word has completely metamorphosed by this
point from a regional police term for a visitation policy to a nationwide
operation that even people of privilege must fear.
III. Conclusion
In
concluding “Literature as Equipment for Living,” Burke writes of how artworks
can be appreciated even more by the society for which they are created if these
artworks are viewed through a lens that stresses their “relation to typical
situations.”[42] On
the surface, these four stories appear to meet the basic formalistic criteria
for what makes a short story—from the word count to the believable characters.
But if one were to approach these stories with, say, the developments relating
to tokhang and the drug war
underpinning their reading, then new layers will no doubt reveal themselves,
particularly pertaining to the author’s take on the subject. Depending on the
skill of the author, as well as the receptiveness of the reader, the literary
work may even convince the latter to agree with the former. It is in this way
that a creative possesses the power to sway public opinion on certain new and
unprecedented matters, thus validating what Burke stated in another essay:
“Aesthetical values are intermingled with ethical values.”[43]
So given the confusion that still
tends to shroud around tokhang—whether
it’s a well-intentioned visitation policy or a lethal, state-sanctioned measure—what
exactly do the four analyzed stories say about the contentious term?
Firstly, the abovementioned
metamorphosis of tokhang is very much
reflected in the stories. Although “Tokhang,”
the first story of the bunch, exudes a concern or criticality for ramped-up
drug war efforts, there is nevertheless an acknowledgment of tokhang’s knock-and-plead origins, as
shown in the paragraph where Baterna explains how the term came about as a fusing
(naglambigit) of
two innocent words together.
The next story, “Si Lola Kap,” while
differing in its views, still goes into detail on the process a drug dependent
undergoes following their willful surrender. Compare this treatment to the
latter two stories, where one, “Kon
Monaog ang Mga Anghel,” uses the contentious term as a verb to refer to the
killing or arrest of alleged drug personalities, and the other, “Ang Idolo,” mentions the term
consequentially, in a paragraph meant to highlight the irony that closes the
narrative.
Also apparent among the four stories
is an initial reluctance to name Duterte, as seen with the two stories from
2017. This, I believe, is likely on account of the focus of both “Tokhang” and “Si Lola Kap.” Because tokhang
(and by this I mean both the word and the operation) was still fairly new
then, this required an explicating by Baterna and Aviles to acquaint the
readers with the term. By 2018 (presumably when “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel” and “Ang
Idolo” were written), it had probably become obvious to both the writers
and the general public that tokhang and
the current administration were inextricable from one another, hence the
eschewing of mere references by Dazo and Canares in favor of outright
identifying the chief executive.
Based on the endings, which are an
especially crucial part for any analysis rooted in symbolic action, one can say
that the writers convey a general attitude of wariness in relation to tokhang. This is most evident in the
conclusions of “Tokhang” and “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel,” where the central
characters are killed without being afforded due process. There are also questions
left hanging—such as those pertaining to Petro’s pursuers (was it really the
police who were after him?) and Sofia’s innocence (was the salon owner really
making money on the side by selling drugs?)—that could have been answered had
due process been afforded these individuals. This, one may argue, mirrors the
unanswered questions real-life drug-related killings leave on the wider public.
In “Ang Idolo,” meanwhile, the
alleged drug personality may not end up dead (because his wealth affords him a
significant degree of protection via cosmetic surgery), but Canares’s adoption
of an ironic tone in the closing paragraph—as in, Donald was able to evade
Operation Tokhang but not a throng of fans—also suggests a pessimistic view of
the term. On the other hand, “Si Lola
Kap” may tout an undeniably optimistic ending, but Jaylord’s earlier
testimony hints at an acknowledgment, albeit not further explored nor
critiqued, into the darker realities of tokhang.
Kintanar-Alburo writes that a
literary analysis based on symbolic action can at best “offer a deeper
understanding of the subject” at hand.[44]
In my analyzing of the four Cebuano short stories where tokhang has occurred since its incorporation into mainstream
discourse, I hope I have not only articulated the intentions and views of the
authors involved, but that I have also shed some light on a term and phenomenon
that a number of people initially expressed support for but have, at the very
least, likely recognized the violence that has since affixed itself to that
word.
Works Cited
Aviles, Lucita M. “Si Lola Kap.” Bisaya, 13 December 2017,
pp. 8–11.
Baterna, Marcelo. “Tokhang.” Bisaya, 29 March 2017, pp.
8–11.
Burke, Kenneth.
“Literature as Equipment for Living.” The
Philosophy of Literary Form. Vintage, 1957, pp. 253–262.
----.
“War, Response, and Contradiction.” The
Philosophy of Literary Form. Vintage, 1957, pp. 201–220.
Canares, Art E. “Ang Idolo.” Bisaya, 9 January 2019, pp.
8–9.
Cordova, Calvin.
“Controversial Espenido surfaces, thanks Duterte for standing by him.” Manila Bulletin, 28 February 2020. https://news.mb.com.ph/2020/02/18/controversial-espenido-surfaces-thanks-duterte-for-standing-by-him/.
Accessed 1 June 2020.
Dazo, R. Joseph. “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel, Magmotor.”
Bisaya, 22 August 2018, pp. 12–13.
Hincks, Joseph. “A New
Netflix Series Tells the Story of the Philippines’ Drug War. But Its Critics
Are Condemning Amo as Propaganda.” Time, 8 May 2018, https://time.com/5249981/netflix-brillante-mendoza-amo-duterte-drug-war/.
Accessed 2 January 2020.
Kintanar-Alburo,
Erlinda. Sugilambong: The Prewar Cebuano
Novel. NCCA, 2021.
“Kupog.” Binisaya.com, http://www.binisaya.com/node/21?search=binisaya&word=kupog.
Accessed 27 July 2021.
Lamchek, Jayson S. “A
Mandate for Mass Killings?: Public Support for Duterte’s War on Drugs.” A Duterte Reader: Critical Essays on Rodrigo
Duterte’s Early Presidency, edited by Nicole Curato, BUGHAW, 2017, pp.
199–218.
Lusica, Ma. Thesa.
Personal interview. 27 July 2021.
Mateo, Janvic. “Tokhang Reflects Current Reality in
Philippine Society.” PhilStar.com, 5 November
2018. https://www.philstar.com/headlines/2018/11/05/1865953/tokhang-reflects-current-reality-philippine-society.
Accessed 27 June 2019.
Mojares, Resil. “Gugmang Kabus: Symbolic Action in
Cebuano Fiction.” The Resil Mojares Reader,
edited by Hope Sabanpan-Yu, USC UP, 2015, pp. 20–32.
“OPLAN.”
TheFreeDictionary.com, Farlex, https://www.thefreedictionary.com/operation+plan.
Accessed 13 January 2021.
Peralta-Malonzo, Third
Anne. “What You Need to Know about Oplan Tokhang.” SunStar, 28 January 2018. https://www.sunstar.com.ph/article/416123.
Accessed 27 June 2019.
Quimco, Ver. “Ang Walay Kamatayong Pork Barrel.” Bisaya, 26
January 2019, pp. 26–27.
Woolf, John U. Cebuano Dictionary for Android. Version 1.3, Cornell, 2013.
Notes
[1] Ver Quimco, “Ang Walay Kamatayong Pork Barrel,” 26.
[2] Third Anne Peralta-Malonzo, “What
You Need to Know about Oplan Tokhang.”
[3] Janvic Mateo, “Tokhang Reflects Current Reality in Philippine Society.”
[4] Jayson Lamchek, “A Mandate for
Mass Killings?” 205.
[5] Lamchek 212.
[6] Kenneth Burke, “Literature as
Equipment for Living,” 259.
[7] Resil Mojares, “Gugmang Kabus: Symbolic Action in Cebuano
Fiction,” 21.
[8] Mojares 25.
[9] Mojares 26.
[10] Mojares 28.
[11] Two recent films, for example,
2017’s Respeto and 2019’s Dead Kids have used the term tokhang, however briefly mentioned,
within the context of police-linked killings. Meanwhile, the 2018 Netflix
series Amo has faced criticism for
reinforcing the idea that the Philippines is “so irredeemably corrupted by the
‘drug menace’ that it requires a strongman like Duterte to take action”
(Hincks, “A New Netflix Series Tells the Story of the Philippines’ Drug War.”).
[12] Erlinda Kintanar-Alburo, Sugilambong: The Prewar Cebuano Novel,
16.
[13] Marcelo Baterna, “Tokhang,” 8.
[14] Baterna 8.
[15] Baterna 9.
[16] All translations of story titles
and excerpts are by the researcher.
[17] Baterna 9.
[18] Emphasis mine.
[19] Baterna 9–10.
[20] Baterna 10.
[21] This development in the story
mirrors a real-world tactic in which, at the height of the drug war, the Duterte
administration would assign high-ranking police personnel with aggressive
anti-drug track records to provinces where illegal substances were said to run
rampant. Chief Inspector Jovie Espenido’s postings in Albuera, Leyte, and
Ozamiz in Mindanao, for example, saw the deaths of these local government
units’ mayors on account of their alleged drug affiliations (Cordova,
“Controversial Espenido surfaces”).
[22] Baterna 10.
[23] Baterna 11.
[24] Lucita M. Aviles, “Si Lola Kap,” 9.
[25] Aviles 8.
[26] Aviles 11.
[27] Operation Plan: Knock and Plead.
From The FreeDictionary.com.
[28] Aviles 9.
[29] Aviles 9.
[30] Aviles 9.
[31] Aviles 10.
[32] Aviles 10.
[33] Ma. Thesa Lusica, personal
interview.
[34] R. Joseph Dazo, “Kon Monaog ang Mga Anghel, Magmotor,”
13.
[35] Portmanteau of the words Bisaya and dako (large), meaning someone typically of Visayan ethnicity with a
knowledge of deep or archaic terms in the Cebuano language.
[36] Dazo 13.
[37] Dazo 13.
[38] Art E. Canares, “Ang Idolo,” 8.
[39] Canares 8–9.
[40] Canares 9.
[41] Canares 9.
[42] Burke 262.
[43] Burke, “War, Response, and
Contradiction,” 201.
[44] Kintanar-Alburo 156.
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