The Burden of President Rodrigo Duterte

A few days ago, I read about the latest statistic in the drug wars. Emmanuel Lorica was a 10th grader of Eusebio High School in Pasig City.

Emman was at the wrongest place at the wrongest possible time and for this he paid dearly. Shot in the head and then and there, all that was Emmanuel Lorica ended completely, irrevocably.

This boy’s dreams, goals, aspirations, loves, passions, what he could have contributed to this world, how he would have manifested himself.

All gone.

And I have read some of you say, you know, it’s just a small percentage — these killings. It is the price we must pay for ridding ourselves of this cancer that has us in its powerful death grip.

And although at some level, I get what they’re saying — that all wars have costs — and usually, these costs are unbearably high, I cannot NOT stare this in the eye and pretend it is something I can be cavalier about.

And even though I find it disingenuous when others say ALL these killings have the nod of the President, I find it just as disingenuous when others claim that NONE of this can be traced to him. I have no direct proof of the former nor of the latter. But this much I know: the buck stops with him.

This is the burden of his Office.

This is the burden President Rodrigo Duterte rightfully carries and for which we must let him carry. He knows this and he takes full responsibility.

And we must let him.

People must never be reduced to faceless, nameless numbers. We must never allow this.

The truth is often somewhere in the middle and as adults we need to be able to bear the tensions of the extremes that pull at us—those who minimize these deaths and those who blow it up to proportions that drag us all down.

And I am not saying we must not let these deaths drag us down. How can they not? I hold these deaths inside me and often they are too painful to hold. But I submit that in order for those deaths to mean something, we must make sure this war is won.

I know the bigger picture speaks of more deaths if this war is not waged and won. And destruction of our beloved Motherland, a certainty, if we do not take on the drug menace with cunning and great courage.

And I only mean to say that Emmanuel Lorica was someone’s son. Someone’s apo. Someone’s nephew. Someone’s best buddy. That he was beloved.

And for them, this one death is one death too many.

As I know it would be for me if this unspeakable tragedy happened to me. As I know it would be for you if this unspeakable tragedy happened to you--even for those who pooh pooh those deaths in an effort to lend support to this war on drugs.

We must never lose our humanity—our ability to feel the pain of others even as we must never succumb to simplistic readings of what really is a highly complicated situation.

Remember Emmanuel Lorica.

Someone's son. Someone's brother. Someone's beloved.