I may be what my enemies desire me to be, yet never an accusation

Host: The rain had been falling since dawn — not in fury, but in that steady, resolute rhythm that feels like confession. The old stone church stood at the end of the street, its cross darkened by age, its bells silent. Inside, candles flickered weakly against the gray light, their flames bending under the soft draft of the past.

Jack sat on a pew near the altar, his hands clasped, though not in prayer. His eyes, pale and sharp, studied the floor’s reflection — fractured, shimmering, uncertain. Jeeny knelt two rows behind him, her head bowed, her hair catching light from the nearest candle. She wasn’t praying either; she was remembering.

Jeeny: “Jose Rizal once wrote, ‘I may be what my enemies desire me to be, yet never an accusation are they able to hurl against me which makes me blush or lower my forehead; and I hope that God will be merciful enough with me, to prevent me from committing one of those faults which would involve my family.’”

Jack: “That’s the kind of thing only a man under siege would say. Dignity sounds noble until you realize how much it costs.”

Host: The wind moaned faintly through the cracks in the stained glass, scattering shadows of saints across the floor. The air smelled of wax, stone, and rain-soaked wood — the scent of solemnity.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t just defending his name, Jack. He was protecting something larger — his family, his people, the idea that a man’s integrity could survive even when his body couldn’t.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t feed the living. You think the Spanish spared his family because he kept his dignity? No. They took everything. That’s the tragedy — the righteous die proud, and their families still suffer.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes his stance powerful? He didn’t let his enemies define his shame. In a world built on humiliation, he kept his head high. That’s not martyrdom. That’s rebellion.”

Host: A drop of rain leaked through the roof, falling onto the wood between them. It spread slowly — a small, expanding circle of water reflecting the flame of a single candle.

Jack: “Rebellion? He was executed, Jeeny. Shot by his own countrymen under Spanish command. You can call it courage, but in the end, he was just another corpse in the dirt — another man swallowed by empire.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing it, Jack. The empire took his life, but not his image. He died unbowed. Do you understand what that means? To face death and still say — ‘You cannot make me ashamed’ — that’s more than survival. That’s immortality of the soul.”

Jack: “Immortality’s overrated. Dead men don’t enjoy their reputations. And as for honor — I’ve seen too many people hide behind it while they ruin others.”

Jeeny: “Honor isn’t hiding. It’s restraint. It’s knowing you could strike back, but choosing not to become what you despise. Rizal didn’t fight with swords — he fought with words, with principles. That’s why his enemies feared him.”

Host: The candles flickered, and the sound of rain deepened into a muted roar. Outside, a church bell tolled once — low and haunting, as if echoing a century-old memory.

Jack: “Principles. That’s easy to talk about when you’re a poet or a saint. But in the real world, principles get you fired, silenced, or worse. You think the world remembers men for their conscience? It remembers them for their power.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we still speak his name, Jack? Why does every Filipino child know who Rizal was? Not because he held power — but because he held his ground. His blood wasn’t just spilled; it was planted. His death fed something that governments couldn’t control — the idea of self-respect.”

Jack: “Respect doesn’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “No. But it makes them meaningful.”

Host: Her words hung in the cold air, trembling like the candle’s flame before catching steady again. Jack looked up — at the cross, at the dim face of Christ, at the carved hands nailed in wood. His jaw tightened, then loosened.

Jack: “So you think dignity’s worth dying for?”

Jeeny: “I think living without it is worse.”

Jack: “And what about his family? He said he hoped he’d never bring them shame — but he brought them grief instead.”

Jeeny: “Maybe grief is cleaner than shame. You can mourn what’s lost, but you can’t live with what’s corrupted. His family carried pain, yes, but also pride. That’s what he left them — a name unblemished.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed open one of the church doors, scattering drops of rain inside. The candles swayed, their flames bending toward the open world beyond.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How enemies define us. Without them, maybe Rizal would’ve been just another doctor, another writer. But because they hated him, he became eternal.”

Jeeny: “Eternal, yes — but not because of their hatred. Because he refused to answer hatred with sin. That’s harder than war. Anyone can fight. Few can forgive.”

Jack: “Forgive? He died facing a firing squad, Jeeny. What forgiveness is there in that?”

Jeeny: “The kind that doesn’t need to be spoken. He faced them without cursing. He faced them standing, not begging. His mercy wasn’t for them — it was for himself, for his own peace.”

Host: The rain slowed, becoming a soft drizzle that whispered against the stone walls. The light in the church dimmed to a kind of holy gray, as if time itself had paused to listen.

Jack: “You really think God cares about that? About how noble we die?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe we care. Maybe that’s how we hold on to meaning — by believing that our choices, even when unseen, define something sacred in us. Rizal believed that faith isn’t in miracles, it’s in conduct.”

Host: Jack stood, the wood creaking beneath his boots. He walked toward the altar, his hand brushing against the old stone font, the cold water touching his skin. He didn’t cross himself — just stared at the crucifix, at the face carved with both suffering and serenity.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought righteousness was arrogance. People who believed too much in their own virtue always ended up judging everyone else. But Rizal… he sounds like a man who feared his own flaws more than his enemies’ hate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s humility — the strength to guard your own heart even when the world spits on your name. That’s why he didn’t blush or lower his head. He knew that shame belongs only to those who deserve it.”

Host: The church bell tolled again — clearer this time, rising through the stillness like a heartbeat. The rain stopped, and the first ray of sunlight broke through the stained glass, painting their faces in fragments of red, gold, and blue.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real rebellion — to stay decent in a world that rewards betrayal.”

Jeeny: “It is. Dignity isn’t a shield, Jack. It’s a mirror. You hold it up, even when it cracks, to remind yourself who you are.”

Host: The camera lingers on them — two silhouettes framed by the faint light of resurrection. Outside, the street glistened, alive with puddles and reflections, the world newly washed yet still the same.

Jack turned to Jeeny, a faint smile breaking through his usual solemnity.

Jack: “So maybe Rizal wasn’t just a hero. Maybe he was proof that goodness can survive being misunderstood.”

Jeeny: “And that no accusation — no matter how loud — can shame a man who walks clean in his own soul.”

Host: The sun broke through fully, scattering the last of the shadows. Dust floated in the light like suspended prayers. And for a fleeting moment, the silence inside the old church felt like forgiveness itself — not from heaven, but from the hearts of two people who finally understood that integrity, once chosen, is a form of freedom no enemy can conquer.