Collective memory as resistance

It takes me about 45 minutes to get to work, depending on traffic. Since I don’t bring a car, those long commutes have become a quiet ritual of conversation with ride-sharing drivers. Often, it starts with small talk about how bad traffic gets at the Bicutan exit, and then it usually progresses into a discussion about their past lives before becoming a driver, their daily motivation for working hard (often to ensure their children finish school), their political beliefs, and their wishes for the country.

Lately, and unsurprisingly, many of these conversations have been about how it is always the common man who bears the brunt of corruption in the country. One story that stayed with me the most came from Kuya Amboy, a driver I met last week. He had just come back from Cebu, after arranging the funerals of 28 family members who perished from the flood brought about by Typhoon “Tino.”

“Naubos pamilya ko, Ma’am. Ako na lang natira.” He lost his mother and all his siblings, but he said the hardest part was burying his nephews and nieces. They excelled in school and could have been very successful in the future. And despite still being in deep grief, he had to rush back to Manila after three weeks because his employer needed the car back on the road and told him that he would be replaced if he didn’t return soon.

He is angry because he knows that their deaths were preventable. But he is also angry because he thinks the news is not doing a good job of capturing the level of suffering that the typhoon victims are experiencing. He told me he fought with a fellow driver who claimed that the videos of cars stacking up because of the floodwaters must be artificial intelligence-generated. “Hindi ako namumulitika, Ma’am. Pero sana lang mas magalit pa ang mga tao.”

In sociology, the collective memory theory reminds us that societies are shaped by shared narratives—from those found in official archives and history books to the different stories we repeat and teach to younger generations. And though the impact of collective memory is not always clear or visible, the kind of stories that a nation chooses to prioritize and remember will define and strengthen its values and identity. However, the opposite also applies to the stories that we choose to neglect or downplay. “Public forgetting” refers to the slow buildup of apathy that occurs when news of scandals is repeatedly met by the public with silence or resignation.

Filipinos have long been criticized for having short memories: quick to “forgive and forget.” For instance, our history shows that being embroiled in corruption does not automatically end a political career. My hope is that this will slowly change given that we live in a time when stories are easily retold and resurfaced. When former Senate President Juan Ponce Enrile recently passed away, many shared warm recollections of him, but just as many pointed out the troubling parts of his legacy.

One way to counter “public forgetting” is to be more deliberate in how we bear witness to the country’s unfolding stories. It is not just about being informed. We need to resist the tendency to have a superficial and distant view of other people’s suffering. Reading about death tolls and damage estimates can tell us the scale, but they rarely tell us the shape and severity of someone’s pain. This requires seeking out and listening to the stories of those whose lives are most affected. Meaningful conversations are the most effective, but bearing witness can also take the form of joining community forums or supporting the work of journalists, researchers, and other creators who are documenting lived experiences on the ground.

This is also why public protests matter, even if they may seem futile at times. Marches interrupt the learned helplessness one could acquire after constantly witnessing scandal after scandal with no clear resolution. The Trillion Peso March sends a visible signal that the public’s threshold for abuse has not been dulled. They help shape a collective memory that refuses to normalize corruption, no matter how entrenched it is in our system, while reminding people that collective action is still possible. When future scandals arise (as they inevitably will, unfortunately), these events become touchstones, reminding those in power that the citizens have resisted before, and are willing to do so again.

Marches may strengthen collective memory, but it is still our everyday choices that sustain it. Part of our shared civic responsibility is remembering what was lost, who was harmed, and what must never be repeated. The question now is: how do we make sure more Filipinos will let these memories guide how we vote, what we demand from public institutions, and how we hold them to account? Only when we have also achieved this shared resolve can we truly say that we are a nation that refuses to look away and refuses to forget.

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eleanor@shetalksasia.com