When I first saw the Duterte standees, I almost cried laughing. Even funnier is how his supporters have made different versions of “Tatay Digs”—such as the thin and flimsy one, faded under the sun, in front of their supposed pobre residence in Davao City; the one at the head of a table somewhere in the Netherlands, wearing several layers of clothing plus a scarf and a bonnet; and the one sitting cross-legged and appearing to enjoy a cup of coffee at an al fresco café in Amsterdam, with which the visiting Sen. Robinhood Padilla posed.
I couldn’t help but think of popular examples of mute and inanimate objects being assigned to put some sense into troubled human beings, like the worthy Wilson in Tom Hanks’ Cast Away, or Helga Pataki’s bubblegum shrine of Arnold from Hey Arnold!, or, most recently, AI sex bots for losers online.
But the thing about these inanimate objects consecrated to life is that they are made to move, to speak in silence, because they have no choice and no volition whatsoever. Puppets, simply put. On the other hand, the actual Rodrigo Duterte, who has been found fit to stand trial, chooses not to show up at the International Criminal Court’s (ICC) confirmation of charges hearings set to begin on Feb. 23.
We can make assumptions why. Is it because, still running on macho bravado and still intoxicated with power, Duterte may make more admissions of guilt, as he had done many times before in Philippine congressional inquiries, at the ICC hearings? As the saying goes, you can’t teach an old fascist new tricks. And anyone with some knowledge of how trial courts work would know that keeping himself in his room in a hissy fit against the ICC—a court which his supporters allege to be incompetent and lacking jurisdiction over him—won’t increase his chances of acquittal.
But Duterte does not need a standee because he can show up if he wants to. No state or force is barring him from appearing on the livestream on this occasion. It is he himself who no longer wants to be seen in public, he himself who does not want to go on trial and be seen as what he truly is. Much like his friend and ally, Sen. Bato dela Rosa, the best he can do is hide.
What his camp wants its audience to do is to fictionalize the image of the old man in jail as “frail,” so the public can forget about the old rascal on trial, the same old rascal who, in a congressional hearing, thrice declared that he’d kick the ICC: “Sipain ko pa sila, ma’am.” Hence the scattering of Duterte standees, which are treated like idols a la the Laughing Buddha or the Waving Lucky Cat in sari-sari stores.
Taken together, the standees are creating an image of the demagogue in retirement as harmless and amicable. In that sense, the standees are doing their job.
Campaign season
During the 2022 election campaign, when we were carrying around a standee of the then senator Leila de Lima—which we christened #StandeeLima—we clearly imagined the impressions it should be able to leave. The main message was: that the then senator had been unjustly silenced and jailed by President Duterte and his men, that she was not present but she was carrying on and making her fight felt.
The standee’s right hand was raised high, as though waving to the crowd—the way we often saw the actual Leila de Lima hemmed in on all sides by heavily armed police as she made her way to the hearings of her cases at the Muntinlupa City Regional Trial Court. We encouraged people to take photographs with the standee, to raise their hands high as well, and to show their five fingers for De Lima and for justice: Hustisya!
We stood for the persecuted senator. Her lawyer, Dino de Leon, spoke bravely and eloquently for her on the campaign stage. But not for a moment did we think that #StandeeLima was herself, or was sacred.
We took care of the messaging, but it didn’t mean that we didn’t have fun with the standee. We had a version split right above the hip, a more portable type which, in groups, looked like a crowd of Senator Leilas marching forward. We fondly called that version the “manananggal,” and we made sure it was carried over our heads, floating and standing out in the sea of demonstrators. A quiet hello to the crowd, as if to say that, although she was not present, many of us believed in what she was fighting for.
I recall an incident at the “Pasiglaban” rally when the second version of the life-sized standee—which portrayed De Lima pleasantly smiling and dressed in motherly clothing—was in one of the holding tents, fresh from the printers and still covered in cling wrap, photobombing presidential candidate Leni Robredo and Angel Locsin as they were exchanging pleasantries. Users on X (formerly Twitter) called for the immediate removal of the plastic wrap over #StandeeLima’s face lest it “suffocate.”
But, of course, #StandeeLima was not exempted from criticism and even harassment. At one point, when our team was making a courtesy call on the mayor at the Cotabato City Hall, an employee asked to have his picture taken with the standee. I obliged, until I heard him say in Bisaya, “Maybe I’ll pass for one of her boyfriends.” Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t understand. I stopped the photo op and, in Bisaya, asked him his name. He said he was only kidding. I told him I expected more from a government employee. He apologized with his head down and his right hand shielding his ID from my view, and quickly left.
In Bayugan City, Agusan del Sur, a #StandeeLima was left unattended. A man took a video of the standee out by the road, in the dark, and posted it on TikTok, punctuated by his giggles. This incident prompted us to send instructions to all our campaigners to secure the standees at the end of every campaign day or night. As it often is in real life, men of the usual mold chafed in the presence of a strong woman.
Exceptional treatment
I guess this is what I find appalling with a Duterte standee: His supporters seem to give it such exceptional treatment. They seem to give more premium to standees made of cardboard and plastic ink than to actual human beings. It’s strange to me how his supporters seem to bestow human rights on these inanimate objects and yet cry out that people who use drugs forfeit their rights immediately.
What makes these Duterte standees so special to Duterte supporters? What (il)logic do the supporters follow in thinking that the standees deserve warmth from the cold, freedom from the stale air indoors, and even a cup of coffee at an al fresco café in Amsterdam?
The attempt to revise the man’s image through the standees is shameless. Even worse is the penchant to clothe a piece of cardboard like some oversized Labubu. Is there a connection between the cardboard standees and the “cardboard justice” in the war on drugs, when supposed users and pushers were found dead on sidewalks with pieces of cardboard explaining why the killing was justified?
For the sake of argument, let’s entertain the possibility of life being kind to Rodrigo Duterte. Let’s imagine the outcome hoped for by his supporters, expressed through these freely roving standees, the kind of life that was taken in the thousands of extrajudicial killings. Imagine the horror of his supporters when they see him, the actual Rodrigo Duterte, healthier than ever, his hair cut to the proper length, and, because he has been spending most of his time indoors, his skin radiant and fair as our tropical sunrise. Imagine how confuzzled they would be when they begin to understand how they’ve been lied to by his children, Harry Roque, and his lawyer Nicholas Kaufman, when they realize that it’s actually The Hague where he belongs. CS
