What do we do when fear is instilled in us?
During one of our investigative journalism class discussions, I pondered a wild thought: Is journalism a form of justice? Is there more than what we hear from daily straight news to adaptive news bits reels?
Flipping through the heavy chapters of memory, carnage, and requiem—through the lens of a journalism student—here are three key takeaways from Patricia Evangelista’s “Some People Need Killing: A Memoir of Murder in My Country.”
Being a journalist is not merely standing over a dead body.
The first two years of studying journalism looked like being barged with textbook definitions of things—how one should write news or dramatize a timely feature.
Perhaps that is why magazine show hosts and documentarians have been a more acclaimed demographic of journalists in the country, except for the popular household names on the daily news.
But what piqued my interest most was knowing what happens to those who do not wear buttoned formals and walk through sketchy beats.
Evangelista’s “My job is to go to places where people die. I pack my bags, talk to the survivors, write my stories, then go home to wait for the next catastrophe,” struck me in my tracks. Perhaps journalism is not just changing; it has grown in meaning.
One of the principles of journalistic work is the never-ending reminder of “objectivity.” While resentment is a heavy word, I have always formed this aversion to strictly bootlick objectivity. What would it do when you just interviewed a little girl whose parents were gunned down in front of her? Do you look for the gunmen to verify?
The book did not explicitly describe how one's heart would drop to one’s stomach at the sight of a pool of blood. It opened a different narrative: you do not stop telling the story just because you finished collecting the data for a live tweet thread or submitted your job order for the day.
Amid a war that people choose to water down, a journalist is not just the automated enumerator of dates, of where, when, or how victims die—a journalist is urged to be human enough to look beyond a dead body—because from there, a bigger story lies with an even bigger danger lurking.
Being a journalist is finding one’s voice…even when afraid.
I recall the uproar of questions when we presented our case studies for one class requirement. We raised questions about how we request paper trails or access elusive online trails.
My key memory was how “people trail” was emphasized. There is no better way to know a politician than to immerse oneself in his constituents. There is no better way to get the gist of a tycoon’s character than to connect with his laborers.
Evangelista is right; journalists never own stories. The bylines only indicate who penned and asked, but they never overcome the front-row seats of those who bear witness—those who lived what we can only read.
“Dead is a good word for a journalist in the age of Duterte.”
In a state university with non-existent protection of accord, statements like this refresh a kind of fear that is difficult to admit. What happens when your press ID warrants intimidating looks? How do we write when we are afraid of what happens when we hit publish?
Being a journalist means finding your voice, even when fear lies inside. Even in the face of deaths that do not stop, the deeper you get into the pit of the war, the more you hear the anguish of children who will never celebrate another Father’s Day and the spouses whose families will forever be broken.
You do not find your voice just so you can be as brave as other journalists, but because the reality of the stories precedes your mere existence. They say the Age of Duterte is a dangerous time for journalists, but today, the stories persist. One can be afraid, but can one stop now?
Being a journalist is keeping a record of where justice needs knocking.
“Some people need killing” is a line told by a vigilante to Evangelista.
I remember hearing it for the first time from my professor. I clutched the signed paperback after how many months of contemplating whether I was ready to read it.
“Some people are addicts, dealers, [or] criminals. The execution of their deaths is a performance of duty. All that is required is the determination of who deserves to live,” Evangelista stresses.
What makes a good journalist? This is a recurring question in press forums where seasoned journalists and icons sit on a dignified roundtable. Sure, perhaps most aspire to follow a prototype of success for journalists, but as cliche as it gets, journalism is not a career you pick like one usually does for a career day.
“We’re on the record,” Evangelista loops, and I am uncertain whether the book was a preview of what journalism looks like or rather what it should look like.
It was not a mere retelling of the war on drugs brought about by former President Rodrigo Duterte. It was not a mere contrast between the popularized and the infamous definitions of DDS. It was a depiction of how journalism represented the stories of those killed and the bereaved, whose clamors were shushed.
“I wrote about terrible things that happened because those things shouldn’t have happened and shouldn’t happen again.” The administration and the war on drugs that Evangelista covered are not anywhere near a conclusion.
With the TikTok trend “Piliin Mo Ang Pilipinas,” there are journalists like her with stories that blur the line between safety and demise, but as World Press Freedom Month revisits the calendar—the Philippines does not need an identical prototype for student journalists to mimic; it needs one who takes on the courage to keep the records alive.
Long after we have finished our requirements for our investigative journalism class, the off-the-record reminders do not cease to exist. Journalists belong to the fourth estate—we belong to the people.
So, what do we do when fear is instilled in us?
Through gunshots, bloodbaths, sieges, and silence—we never stop investigating and writing because, often, justice begins when people’s stories are told.
Article: Sharona Nicole Semilla
Graphics: Aldreich Pascual
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