AN ESSAY ON ESTRADA
by Allen Gaborro

When Joseph Estrada became president in 1998, contrasting views arose about the wisdom of his election. Estrada for starters, in accord with his grassroots movie persona, rode into office vowing that he would stand alongside with the impoverished masses and fight for them. Proudly self-proclaimed as a man given more to social conscience than to being an intellectual theorist in any sense, Estrada—or “Erap” as he is popularly called—offered himself up as the champion for the poor, a group bitterly disillusioned with the incessant machinations of its political representatives and with the narrow self-interests of the moneyed elite, a group more in need of a miracle than any other in the country.

Faced with the overwhelming mandate of the voters—the votes of the lower class glaringly conspicuous amongst the millions of votes—not a small number of experts of the Philippine political scene agreed to suspend their concerns about Estrada and try to scrutinize him without evoking his supposed lack of intelligence and English, his extramarital dalliances and relationships, or his countless other character flaws. As a gesture of evenhandedness and acquiescence, these experts gave the new pangulo what was in essence, the benefit of the doubt. Clearly, they could not help but listen to the loud appeals of the poor who believed that Estrada and Estrada alone could succeed where his successors had repeatedly fallen short; as a movie screen idol, Estrada symbolized their feelings, their hopes, their angst, their alienation, their desire to make something of their lives. Not since Diosdado Macapagal in the mid-1960’s had a pangulo spoken so earnestly on the poor’s behalf. Evidently, the maltreated and malnourished masses, thirsting for a savior, were confident that they had found the man capable of breaking the historical chain of presidential disappointments. 

On the other hand, Estrada’s truest detractors recognized from the outset the fraud that he really was. A wide spectrum of Philippine society—ranging from the Roman Catholic Church, to the business community, and to the non-governmental organizations and leftist groups that would ultimately spearhead the call for his resignation—saw through his cinematic image, his folksy charisma, his easy promises, and feared everything that the others had chosen to ignore. They were vociferous in charging that  “Erap” was simply not qualified to be an effective president. For them, Estrada was hardly more than a former movie star pretending as though life were basically one epic motion picture, a technicolored fantasy where everyone adores him and where he prevails against his enemies in the end. But, not wanting to confront the harsh reality surrounding him, it was the only way “Erap” could function in so powerful a post as the chief executive of the nation, as if he were a naïve adolescent in a happy dream, turning his back on what he could not identify with. Little did those oppositionists realize that they had just touched the tip of the iceberg. 

History, regardless of what country or era you speak of, has a way of replicating itself, of playing a cruel joke in other words, on those trusting in the pronouncement of a new beginning. Estrada, in spite of his assertions of a fresh start for Philippine society, proved that history does indeed come back to haunt all of us. Filipinos thought they had finished with the deceptions and iniquities that marked the Marcos regime. But they had to question this when they began to hear about the resurgence of many of those same evils, evils that were once thought to be rotting away in the waste receptacle of Philippine history. The rampant cronyism and corruption that prevailed during the Marcos period it turned out, was alive and well in the Estrada administration. What was truly alarming was that the undermining of Philippine law, morality, and ethics by Estrada and his cronies had in fact become fundamental to the ethos of his administration. Astoundingly, Estrada’s presidency fed on the deceit and corruption like a newborn infant to his mother’s breast. To wean him away from these sources of strength would have meant tearing Estrada away from a world he was all-too familiar with: the world of caricature and illusion. It was a world that had served him well for many years, and it had brought him to the height of political power, yet it would be the same world that would bring him down.

The illusion which was his life in the public realm rendered Estrada ill-prepared for the complex exigencies of the country. Instead of dealing responsibly with the issues dominating the national arena, he complacently fell back on his populist movie image thinking that he was irreproachable in the eyes of the masses, but forgetting at the same time that he had to brace that image with tangible accomplishments. Estrada also resorted to old methods and stratagems that led him astray from his duty as president. These dubious ways and means were preferred by him because they constituted his modus operandi; nurtured in the Byzantine culture of traditional Philippine politics, these stratagems and methods came naturally to Estrada. Therefore, they were easier for him to comprehend and to justify in his own mind. Playing by his own rules, Estrada believed that his deeds of omission and commission, of aiding and abetting felonious acts by his family and cronies, and finally, of giving into temptation himself and dipping into the trough of looted riches, would not do harm to a declared theme of his: Erap para sa mahirap. But that theme soon settled into a motif of socio-economic inertia and unbridled criminality, which Estrada attempted to hide behind the aura of his image. However, Estrada would bank on that image once too often without putting it into action. The people had waited far too long for him to cash in on his pledges. When it came to answer the call of accountability, all Estrada could do was shift blame to his enemies, both real and perceived.

To this day, Estrada has failed to come to grips with his downfall as he has refused to accept that he is no longer president—partly perhaps for constitutional and/or legal reasons—and continues to ponder quietly in the dark recesses of his mind the causes of his political demise. Deluded as ever, Estrada insists on conspiracy theories to explain his fall from power, but also to amend his tarnished image as an advocate of the people. Charging collusion among his opponents, he has targeted everyone from Cardinal Jaime Sin, former presidents Corazon Aquino and Fidel Ramos, members of the elite and of the Makati Business Club, and what he deems are jealous politicians and malicious journalists for plotting together, in the context of mob rule, to overthrow his administration. Estrada would like to think that these groups and individuals never wanted him to succeed from the very beginning. His assessment was that he represented a threat to them because he molded himself not as a lackey to their exclusive interests, but as a man of the people and for the people. On more than one occasion, Estrada made an effort to sow conflict between the classes, desperately trying to attract attention away from his culpability. However, he left traces of his guilt in the form of unrelenting reports alleging the existence of his ill-gotten wealth. These traces soon expanded into a revealing exposé that would mean the end not just of a presidency, but the destruction of a once-beloved, public persona. 

If image was everything for Estrada, then the disintegration of his carefully-crafted persona meant the fragmenting of his political legitimacy. In living by profits and pretense, Estrada died by profits and pretense. His image, now beyond repair, will always conjure up thoughts of transgression and betrayal. One of the lessons of the Estrada period is that a modern country should never be run on images, no matter how comforting to the mind and spirit, for they cannot feed the country’s starving inhabitants, nor provide adequate housing or employment for them, nor give them a chance for a better future. Those goals can only be accomplished by those honest and innovative minds who are committed to concrete action and who propound a conscientious socio-political statecraft, as well as an economic course based on ethical and moral principles, but more importantly, on a deep-seated compassion for the poor.

The Philippines is not a hopeless case, far from it. But to avoid watching the country degenerate into a greater social, political, and economic tragedy, debilitating reactionary perspectives and attitudes have to be changed, EDSA II being just the first step. For Filipinos, there are no rainbows to chase, no superhuman heroes to come to the rescue, and no magic solutions to entreat. There is only their faith, perseverance, determination, and integrity to draw from in order to realize what they are truly capable of.

 

Allen Gaborro works as an business information content editor and as a freelance writer.  He resides in San Francisco, California and holds a Bachelor’s Degree in History and Political Science from the College of Notre Dame in Belmont, Northern California. He is thirty-five years old. Gaborro has written several essays and book reviews for Filipinas Magazine, the San Francisco-based Philippine News, and for several Internet publications.
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