Lips unsealed: A colorful tradition of whistleblowing

Early in boyhood or girlhood, we learned to regard snitches as among the lowest of the low — fair-weather friends whose loyalty became suspect because they couldn't go along with a caper, or worse, abide by that honorable code of secrecy for which we were to learn, much later in life, that the dreaded Mafia had an ominous-sounding word: omerta. Vow of silence. That is what everyone expected of everyone else who was in on some mischief or misdeed. If someone broke a prized vase in the house, we pretended not to know anything about the accident. We feigned innocence upon interrogation. And wise was the parent who did not insist on dividing a brood — by recalling his or her own reluctance, in younger days, to betray a sibling, cousin or neighbor. "Sumbong, sumbong, 'habang tumbong," we chanted in derision — however nonsensical it seemed, even as it rhymed — at anyone feckless enough to violate the tacit code of conduct among peers. How an unmentionable orifice could be imagined to gain in length did not matter. A tell-all was a tell-all, lacking in the virtues of camaraderie however questionable. We never liked to lose face among a peer group. We didn't want to be left out of fun games, so that even when adventures took dubious directions as to propriety, we went along. We served as lookouts if we weren't inclined to be direct perpetrators. We may not have cheered a criminal act along, but by gum, we would never sing like a canary when the ordure hit the fan. Of course we all grow up, and more realities set in. We begin to appreciate every development in context. We are not so easily shepherded as indistinguishable parts of an indivisible mass. Neither do we now feel so beholden to tribe mentality, whether it's for joining any bandwagon or automatically helping out in circling the wagons. Sometimes we resolve to buck the very principle of moving with the flow. While we don't have to go to the extreme and say each man or woman to him/herself, we now acknowledge an important qualification — "Well, it depends..." — when it came to tight-lipped loyalty. These days, blowing the whistle — since the practice was made more practicable in recent years — appears to have become rather vogue. A lengthening parade of whistleblowers keeps us enthralled. Their days shine like anything under the media sun. They are regarded as heroes or heroines, for the most part — given that everyone's so sick of corruption in government, so that any exposé is met with interest, and the wild hope that whatever is revealed could become another nail on the coffin of petty graft or plunder. Yes, that by-now abused word that owes its provenance to Ferdinand E. Marcos. The names of Heidi Mendoza and (ret.) Lt. Col. George Rabusa currently enter household awareness, as the latest in that roster of possibly well-meaning individuals who said so long to mum's the word. Their lips have been unsealed. In mouthing off, they join the likes of Jun Lozada, whistleblower of the decade, whose testimony failed to convince his friend, a discredited technocrat, to sing along, but who gained for himself the company and protection of nuns. Some take to snitching to save their own skin. This is now said of Rabusa. Or some are convinced to go out in the open for a prize. Senators are particularly effective in offering such trade-offs as might even include the ambit of something else that has entered our post-modernist ken: the Witness Protection Program. Turning into a "state witness" may promise getting off the hook — in exchange for valid info that will pin down the major perp. Such as a General whose two doltish sons just had to try to get around US Customs regulations — thus opening yet another Pandora's Box for a perennially titillated country where congressional hearings and court proceedings have become sub-prime TV entertainment. Out of that pan-endemic box have leapt spiraling revelations that once again expose the needless vulnerability of what ought to be a venerable institution — that of our military, which always seems to land in the limelight not for heroism but adventurism of all stripes, now inclusive of send-off money and dollar-salting. How it will all pan out remains to be seen. Suffice it to say that our pantheon of whistleblowers has just welcomed fresh entries — into a league that has not always been exclusive to illustrious ladies and gentlemen. Heidi Mendoza now reminds us of "the Crying Lady" — given to constant emo recitation of noble objectives, such as showing everyone that not all Pinoy G-men or Pinay G-women are to the manner of corruption born. If she stays composed, as a numbers technocrat she can be likened to Clarissa Ocampo — whose class act during Erap's unraveling still shines in the mind. Speaking of which, we have said that the field of dream-team snitches hasn't exactly been illustrious. Why? Well, for one, it includes the likes of Chavit Singson, who only began to sing when he felt he was being eased out of gaming proceeds, and feared for his life when his van met some threatening traffic. We have had Tweedledee-Tweedledum names like Cesar Mancao and Glenn Dumlao flitting in and out of omerta's radius, chanting and recanting like frivolous winds of change... of testimony — thus continuously buffeting the fortunes of one senator-in-hiding, as well as the unexpired eight-year-old fable subjected to constant twists and turns, otherwise known as the Dacer-Corbito double murder case. And what do we now make of Jessica Alfaro, who pinned down Hubert Webb et al. with what is now alleged to have been largely metafiction, maybe due to lovers' fall-out or whatnot, maybe the glare of spotlights, who knows? Why is it, too, that most tattletales seem to be on the "off" side? Remember Philip Medel, who led us all through a wild goose chase anent the murder of Nida Blanca, even as he pointed to himself, then recanted? Then there was that young fellow everyone called "Babalu" — whose name escapes us now — who also sang an epic tale of convolution, as prodded by then Palace do-it-all Mike Defensor. Why, it even involved a chopper ride from Tagaytay, if memory serves right. And it also had to do with "Pung!" - pinning down Ping Lacson. Oh, such boyhood games and pranks we play. The military has been involved quite a bit in these revelatory sing-alongs. There was Capt. Ricardo Morales trundled up by Gen. Fabian Ver right before Macoy behind his mahogany desk on national TV, confessing to a coup plot — and it all led to a breakaway that engendered EDSA 1 as a stunning global precedent. There was Jibin Arula, that plucky fellow who in 1968 escaped with a knee wound from Corregidor, clung to driftwood and floated across polluted Manila Bay towards Cavite, was rescued by fishermen, and managed to tell all about the Jabidah Massacre. Who were those Filipinos who agreed to don bayongs with cutouts for their eyes, and made random turo-turo across a line-up of suspected guerrillas, maybe in return for some bento boxes during the Japanese Occupation? What was the name of that Indio again, who by dint of the confessional exposed the Katipunan? Going further back in time, who were the Visayan chieftains who told Magellan of Lapulapu's intransigence, and caused the European voyager's death on the shores of Mactan? It's a long list of sumbongeros we've had, and one that will continue to draw more applicants by the season. Our contemporary history, revolving around shenanigans and anomalies as it does, will always offer more than just 15 minutes of celebrity or notoriety to anyone with the courage, conviction, panache or chutzpah to spill one's guts, whether to drag someone else farther down, topple the bigger target, or nobly serve the national cause of truth-telling. Indeed, the truth is out there. But oftentimes it's the singer, not the song, who will propel us closer to credulity. Why, it's like religion, this tradition. - GMA News Online