On Fire
asantiago@theguidon.com
People have a tendency to always look at the worst. Admittedly, I’m the worst kind of cynic: a 20-year-old ball of apathy and sarcasm. That includes my views of our country’s progress and, since I hold on to the belief that we are going nowhere—the sooner I leave, the better. If my outlook were a rap song, it would be to the tune of Jay-Z and Kanye West’s “No Church in the Wild” (though without the Rolls-Royce Corniche).
A few weeks ago, I registered as a voter for the first time. My attitude then was one of typical pessimism. In a country of 92 million people, at least a third of who would be voting during the upcoming elections, would my one vote really count?
In 2010, I had watched my friends, then 18 and exuberant at being able to vote, troop to the precincts and return with the telltale mark of indelible ink on their fingers. Then I watched again in the two years that have gone by since the last election, watching a senator denounce his own blatant plagiarism. I watched as a former president was arrested, released on bail, then arrested again—all after being voted as a representative to her province.
Recently, I watched on TV as a famous boxer’s wife filed her certificate of candidacy despite not having any political education or experience. And people wonder why I have no desire to vote?
I had begrudgingly allowed myself to be dragged to the Comelec office, despite not having high hopes for this election. However, I found myself pleasantly surprised. Instead of a roomful of people lamenting the loss of voter freedom in this country (as well as the typical long lines in any government office), I found a line of people from different backgrounds—the grandmother shakily filling out her papers, the rowdy group of teenagers, the teacher from Leyte—all in line to have their voices heard in May 2013.
This I had not expected and I’m glad to say that my shell of cynicism cracked a bit that moment.
After filling out the necessary forms, I was led to another room for the Biometrics portion of the registration. There I found employees, cheerful despite the long lines, all glad to play a small part in making sure they brought change to their country. One of them asked me what school I was from, and after chatting a bit about the second Ateneo-UST game (which took place later that day), he asked me whether it was my first time to vote. He nodded solemnly as I said yes. “Tama lang yan. Importante na bumoto tayo. (It’s right and important that we vote.)”
I was floored. Until then, I had held on to the belief that my vote would not make a difference—after all, one person in a sea of 50 million voters is a very small fish. But this complete stranger, who was then pressing my right thumb into a biometric machine—had restored a semblance of the disparaging amount of faith I had in humanity. It was nice knowing that people still cared and were actually optimistic about what the future held.
I know that it’s not going to be a perfect election. The garish posters will still be there, the political dynasties and the trapos—but for once, I’m not going to focus on that.
One vote may be small, but it still makes a difference. And come May 2013, I’m hoping to leave the precinct with ink on my fingers and a voice that has yet to be heard.
