The casual cruelty
There are stories you inherit unwillingly—stories that twist and churn long after they are told. One of mine surfaced when my mother, hands trembling, finally shared a memory she had carried alone.
When my father died in a political conflict, our family was thrust into a kind of difficulty we never imagined. We had grief, unpaid bills, and a surname that suddenly felt too heavy—so heavy it put our lives at risk and pushed us into hiding. Out of desperation, my mother sought help wherever she could. A cousin connected to a powerful political family in Maguindanao offered to bring her to ask for assistance.
My mother went—because widowhood leaves no room for pride—hoping someone might show mercy.
But when her cousin explained what had happened, this was the response she heard:
“Kamag-anak niyo pala ’yun. Sana sinabi niyo—eh ‘di sana nasabi namin na ’wag ipaligpit.” (He was your relative? You should have told us—then we could have said not to have him taken out.)
Said casually. Said without remorse. Said like a task someone forgot to relay.
I sat in silence as she retold it, stunned by how lightly those words had been spoken—how easily someone could admit that my father’s life had been negotiable. That if the right person had whispered to the right person, he might have been spared.
I grew up hearing about political corruption in the abstract—the way civics lessons and news reports reduce it to numbers, statistics, scandals. But nothing prepares you for the moment corruption becomes personal. Nothing prepares you for the moment it reveals itself not as a headline, but as a shrug offered over your father’s death.
There is a certain grief reserved for those killed by the powerful—a grief made of silence, caution, and the knowledge that justice is more of a theory than a promise. You learn not to ask too many questions. You learn that truth is expensive—and some families can afford to silence it.
My father had exposed corruption. He was honest to a fault. And in our hometown, honesty is a dangerous occupation when power is inherited like an old piece of furniture—passed down, polished, and protected.
For years, I believed ours was just another quiet tragedy swallowed by a system too entrenched to challenge. But when Congress reopened debates on the proposed antipolitical dynasty law, I found myself watching the news with a mix of hope and bitterness.
This is why I pay attention when lawmakers debate technicalities—second degree, fourth degree, simultaneous terms, national vs local jurisdictions. They may sound procedural, even boring.
But to families like mine, they define something intimately human: Who gets protection, and who does not. Who can challenge power, and who must stay quiet. Who is spared and who can be taken out.
I do not romanticize what an antipolitical dynasty law can achieve. Dynasties are not weeds you can simply uproot. They are ecosystems—deep, sprawling, resilient—woven into the very soil of our political landscape. They’ve shaped our governance so long that many mistake their presence for the natural order. But even the oldest ecosystems can be rebalanced. And this law, cautious as some would prefer it to be, is a beginning.
Still, I wonder: If such a law existed back then—if power had not been concentrated in the hands of a few—would my father still be alive? Would his honesty have been less dangerous? Would his life have mattered to them in a way that wasn’t dependent on whether he was “one of theirs”? I will never know.
But I know this: Casual cruelty thrives where power goes unquestioned. Lives are reduced to a piece of furniture when influence outruns accountability. And democracy breaks—not through one violent act, but through a hundred quiet, offhand statements like the one my mother heard.
I am not writing to accuse. I am not seeking vengeance. I am resisting forgetting. Because political dynasties are not just a policy issue. To some of us, they are a personal wound.
The bills in Congress may pass or they may not. They may arrive cautious, incomplete, or compromised. But they are at least a recognition: That power concentrated in too few hands can warp a country, destroy families, and make men like my father seem small and insignificant. But he was neither small nor insignificant. And he didn’t deserve to be spoken about like a missed instruction.
If this country finally passes an antipolitical dynasty law that matters, it should be drafted with courage—not caution. It should protect the honest, not the influential.
Above all, it must do more than define; it must bite—clear enforcement, early screening, and safeguards strong enough to break the cycle, not merely name it.
Some stories churn your stomach because of their cruelty. Mine churns because of how casually that cruelty was spoken.
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Rio Alyssa Gevieso Sioson, 28, is a writer-lawyer who loves crafting stories rooted in truth and empathy. She hopes to use her voice to shed light on issues often left unspoken.
