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Outside populist spheres, the academe is far more nitpicky, and still not as successful.
Ocampo takes this point further in another book, Meaning and History: The Rizal Lectures:
Our problem is that we now have two Rizals in our consciousness,
one is a historical Rizal and the other a mythical one, and it is the
latter that dominates the popular consciousness. Rizal reflects the
way we [Filipinos] think as a people. And, seeing how he has
been… interpreted and misinterpreted, is a symptom of our
obsessive search for an elusive national identity. Rizal is a central
figure in the development of Philippine nationalism and yet,
paradoxically, remains the greatest obstacle to its fulfillment.
One could argue that the quandaries and implications of Rizalian studies only further
estrange José Rizal from his humanity. In a Heideggerian sense, as with most human beings,
his life has nonetheless more meaning because it is time-bound. From a historian’s point of
view, at least, Rizal’s life is best defined by his death.
If Rizal were allowed to speak for himself more often, i.e. through primary sources instead of
via secondary sources, this might distill his insights on certain universal topics – for instance,
death. A quote often cited by students comes from the character Elias in the novel Noli me
tangere:
I die without seeing the dawn break on my country… You who are
about to see it, greet her… [Do] not forget those who have fallen
during the night!
When José Rizal is discussed in the same breath as death, it is usually in light of his
nationalistic contributions for the country. However, when Rizal himself mentions death in
his letters, it has a more universal application. It would seem that he often contemplated
death as an opportunity to create meaning. For instance, a more personal insight is mixed in
with financial problems in a missive dated July 9, 1890 to a propagandist friend Mariano
Ponce:
One only dies once and if one does not die well, a good opportunity
is lost and does not present itself again.
Another Madrid portrait of Rizal is not as widely reproduced,
although a copy is known to have survived with his friend Baldomero Roxas. If Rizal had indeed
destroyed other copies of this less flattering photo, as Ambeth Ocampo suggests, does that make the
former prophetic, conscious, or merely vain?
Two years after, Rizal was arrested for possessing anti-friar propaganda and was deported to
Dapitan, in Mindanao. At this point, he surmised that his death was imminent, resulting in a
farewell letter dated June 20, 1892 addressed to not one but all Filipinos. This take on death
is charged with purpose, almost indignantly:
I wish to show those who deny us patriotism that we know how to
die for our duty and our convictions. What matters death if one dies
for what one loves, for native land and adored beings?
The letter ends with a dubious command:
A legacy is that which is passed on to the next users of the planet; nationalism may or may
not be Rizal’s. At the very least, his life bids us to remember that heroes are also human. His
approach towards his life and death embody a simple, poignant truth, which is captured in
the Latin expression memento mori. People who embroil themselves in worldly worries
would do well to take comfort in the fact that in the end, there is rest.
Memento mori: remember you must die. This reminder of mortality may be morbid, though it
may also be construed as a reminder to live. One’s death will only acquire meaning if one’s
life has had meaning.