I walked into a roomful of zombies. Everybody had eyes bloodshot red, dishevelled hair, blank stares and were slumped in their chair, like the last time they slept in a horizontal position was three months ago.
“I see you’ve all been campaigning,” I teased my Alpha section, “so I should put these classcards away. No recitation tonight.”
I got no reaction.
“Hmmm…you know, class, nobody said campaigning was easy. We don’t call this whole exercise ‘SUFF’RAGE’ because it’s fun,” I pitched my first joke.
No reaction.
“Anyway, in preparation for this Monday’s election, and this being our last meeting before May 9, I thought we should go over some basic election concepts, you know, just the essentials for the benefit of those of you who might have volunteered to become pollwatchers.”
Still no reaction.
“People out there, when they find out you are law students, they expect you to be able to answer some questions. So it’s always a good idea to be ready to educate the people, so to speak. They look up to you and you can’t disappoint them.”
A few yawns across the room.
I read somewhere that yawning is an involuntary reflex, triggered by the body trying to increase oxygen flow to the brain so as to wake up—or STAY awake. This class is slowly coming out of stupor.
“We don’t hold elections everyday but only once every three years. Of course, at the end of each exercise half the people or even more want to forget what just happened. So it’s to be expected that the level of public awareness about rudimentary electoral concepts is very low,” I started my intro.
“And that’s a shame,” I said, “because direct popular election is at the very heart of the concept of democracy—you know, ONE MAN, ONE VOTE.”
Miss Deema Niwala sprung to life, “sexism, Siiiir!!!”
“It’s good to see you’re still alive, Miss Deema,” I mused, “My God, you look terrible! You look like you got buried and fought your way out from under a mob of 30,000!”
“She really did, sir,” Miss Kata butted in, “she stood in for Senator Leila de Lima at the Takder Kordi Grand rally earlier this week!”
“So I witnessed,” I said, “I was leaning out of the terrace at the SM Skygarden with a pair of binoculars.”
“Oh, you were watching us from a distance, sir!” suddenly the whole class stirred.
“Yes, but I wasn’t getting crushed or getting wet and I had a cup of cappuccino in my hands. You EARN these things, you know,” I teased my students.
The mere mention of “Takder Kordi” seemed to animate them, triggering a wave of high-fiving all across the room.
“So as a reward to Miss Deema I will yield to her objection based on the ground of sexism and take back that ‘one-man-one-vote’ blurb,” I conceded, “in fact, I will let her do the thinking and let her supply us with a better phrase to summarize the core concept of democracy!”
“That’s a REWARD, sir??” Miss Deema frowned, and then rolled her eyes in a counterclockwise orbit.
“Well if anybody in class can do it, I bet it’s you. So take off the pink beanie and put on your thinking cap. Tell us, in a simple definitive phrase, what are elections all about in a thriving democracy?”
“Uh…how about ‘Obtaining the consent of the governed?” Miss Deema pitched, hardly batting an eyelash.
“That’s perfect. Just perfect. You see? Piece of cake,” I gave the girl her much-deserved compliment.
“Now can somebody tell me the significance of CONSENT, in general, not just limiting yourself to election laws? Yes, Mr. Juan Dimacaawat…”
“Sir, consent is an indispensable element of a CONTRACT. So indispensable, in fact, that without CONSENT FREELY GIVEN, there is no contract, even if all the other elements are present.”
“And what is a contract, Juan?”
“Sir, a contract is a ‘meeting of the minds’ to acknowledge an obligation regarding a particular object or matter, called the PRESTATION, and binding the parties to their agreement because of the existence of a JURIDICAL TIE,” Juan continued.
“This ‘juridical tie’ what does it consist of?” I followed up.
“It comprises all the laws defining the rights of the parties and all the procedures and formalities of controlling their relationship,” Juan said.
“That’s perfect, too, Juan. You may sit down,” then I started to tie up those two concepts: election and contract.
“An election is really a hiring process, class, you are hiring a contractual employee for a limited employment period of either 3 or 6 years only. So I want you to look at your election laws not as a freestanding subject in itself, but as the ‘juridical tie’ in the larger concept of establishing a contract. That contract is between us, the voters, and someone we will authorize to govern us, upon whom we will impose a very heavy obligation to serve us with competence and honesty."
“But what if one job applicant refuses to go through a job interview, sir?” Miss Laarnee Iwasan asked.
“I’d tell him to jump out through the window, Miss Laarnee, to hell with the sanamagan,” I minced no words, “if you want to govern the People, then you ask for THEIR consent on THEIR terms, not yours.” The class went a long, “Oooooohhh….!”
“Mind you, there’s one element your classmate Juan skipped in giving the definition of a contract. What is it, Miss Hannah Maala?”
“Valuable consideration, sir, a contract must be supported by something given in exchange for the object delivered, or the service rendered,” the girl from Buguias with a palindromic name said.
“Of course,” I said, “you cannot force anybody to serve against his will. That would be involuntary servitude. In fact, when we hire our officials by electing them, we actually PAY them handsomely. THAT is the correct interpretation of ‘valuable consideration’ when we’re going through an election process. We are the ones giving these officials money—millions of it—do you know what I’m trying to say, Miss Deema?”
“I have an idea, sir,” the girl everyone swears reminds them of Winona Ryder said, “candidates have it the OTHER way around, using ‘valuable consideration’ to procure the support of voters…”
“Spit out the common term, Miss Deema!” I barked.
“—to BUY VOTES, sir!”
“That’s more like it,” I said, “and these paltry few hundreds, or even thousands of pesos given out by candidates is what voters see. It’s ALL they see. They forget that we, the voters, give these candidates, once they get elected, more money in one month than most of you and I earn in three years.”
My students look at one another, then shrug their shoulders as if to say, “what’s new?”
“Now most of you look at vote-buying as a violation of election law. So you expect your COMELEC to do something about it—”
“Good luck!” Miss Deema interrupted.
“You don’t need luck on this one, Miss Deema. When people receive money from a candidate, they become beholden to him and, therefore, find it difficult to say no to him. So what just happened there, Jack?”
Jack Makataruz stood up, ran his fingers through his mohawk hair a few strokes then figured out, “sir, it corrupted their consent.”
“And what happens if consent is vitiated in a contract?”
“The contract is voidable, sir.” There erupted a lot of loud murmurings back and forth at Jack’s very controversial point. I had to bang the blackboard to refocus everybody.
“Realize one thing class, like I said, don’t look at your election laws in isolation. If you commit vote-buying, you not only violate election law, you invalidate your very contract with the people, for obtaining their consent through corruption. Even if you won, you should lose your office.”
“And money isn’t the only way the voters’ consent is vitiated, sir,” Miss Deema chimed in.
“Tell us, what are the other ways, Miss Deema,” I said.
“Candidates lie about their qualifications, sometimes they even fake their resumés, or they use goons to threaten or intimidate voters. Worse of all, they steal credit for publicly-funded projects, or welfare programs, putting beneficiaries in a difficult position. If they spurn these candidates, they might lose their benefits,” Miss Deema enumerated the different foul tactics, her classmates’ eyes growing ever bigger with each addition to the list.
“So just remember class, any time consent is vitiated by any of these means in an election, the contract can be rescinded by the People. I will not go into the details how.”
“Miss Deema gave quite a long list, sir, it will take an effort to remember all of it,” Jack said.
“My funny valentine is ugly,” I said.
“WHO’S ugly, sir??” Juan asked.
“It’s a mnemonic guide, people, sir is using a mnemonic guide,” Miss Deema caught on right away, “the first letters in what sir said are MFVIU.”
“And those letters stand for what, Miss Deema?” I asked, fully expecting her to know.
“MISTAKE, FRAUD, VIOLENCE, INTIMIDATION, UNDUE INFLUENCE, sir.
I let it sink slowly, giving my students ample quiet time to remember all the experiences they encountered on the campaign trail—and for them to realize how much easier it is to determine if something is wrong, even if you haven’t memorized your election law.
Then I gave them a provocative wink before saying, “class dismissed.”*
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