The Legacy of Jose Rizal: Why His Birthday Still Demands Our Reflection

As December 30 approaches each year, most Filipinos recognize it as Rizal Day—a national holiday marking the birthday and execution of Jose Rizal. Yet for many, the date has become little more than a calendar notation, sandwiched conveniently between year-end celebrations, offering little more than an extra day of rest. The man whose life shaped the nation’s trajectory has faded into historical abstraction, his actual significance diluted by time and apathy.

But this amnesia may be precisely why Rizal’s choices—both his refusal to join armed revolt and his decision to face execution rather than compromise—remain urgently relevant today.

A Conscious Choice, Not Inevitable Fate

Rizal did not stumble toward his death by accident. In the months preceding his execution, the Katipunan—the revolutionary movement fighting for independence—offered him an escape route from exile. Andres Bonifacio personally solicited him to join and help lead the armed struggle against Spanish colonial rule. Rizal declined both invitations.

His reasoning was neither cowardice nor political convenience, but a sober assessment of the moment. He believed his people lacked the resources and preparation for a violent uprising, and that premature revolution would only multiply suffering without yielding results. The Katipunan and Rizal pursued Filipino freedom through divergent paths: one through revolutionary action, the other through systematic reform and intellectual awakening.

Even while the revolution unfolded, Rizal issued his now-infamous manifesto on December 15, 1896, explicitly condemning the uprising. “I do condemn this uprising—which dishonors us Filipinos and discredits those that could plead our cause,” he declared, his words marking him as at odds with the very movement his writings had helped inspire.

The Propaganda That Sparked Separation

The apparent paradox deepens when we examine what actually occurred. Though Rizal championed reform within the colonial system and openly opposed violent insurrection, his intellectual work—his novels, essays, and social commentary—cultivated a national consciousness that made separation from Spain inevitable.

Historian Renato Constantino observed this contradiction incisively: the very propaganda movement intended to bring Filipinos closer to Spanish civilization instead “gave root to separation. The drive for Hispanization was transformed into the development of a distinct national consciousness.”

For much of his life, Rizal genuinely believed assimilation with Spain was both possible and desirable. He admired European art, philosophy, and liberal political thought. But repeated encounters with racism, injustice, and systemic oppression—especially during the Calamba land dispute with Dominican friars—eroded these illusions. By 1887, he confessed to a correspondent that assimilation had failed: “The Filipino has long wished for Hispanization and they were wrong in aspiring for it.”

The Man Who Became More Than Himself

When Spain executed Rizal at Luneta Park in Manila in 1896, something larger than any individual rose in response. His death transformed him from a nuanced reformer into a symbol of moral defiance. His execution galvanized the population’s desire for separation, unified fractured movements, and gave the revolutionary cause moral authority it had previously lacked.

Yet this outcome was never inevitable. Without Rizal, Filipino independence might still have occurred—but likely in a more fragmented, less coherent, and morally ambiguous form. His life and death precipitated systemic change, not because he sought martyrdom, but because he refused to abandon his principles when offered escape.

Historian Ambeth Ocampo has emphasized this aspect of Rizal’s character: he was a “conscious hero,” someone who deliberately made his choices and fully comprehended their consequences. Ocampo notes the remarkable calm with which he proceeded to execution—his pulse rate reportedly remained normal. Before his death, Rizal himself articulated his reasoning in written words: “Moreover I wish to show those who deny us patriotism that we know how to die for our duty and for our convictions. What matters death if one dies for what one loves, for one’s country and for those whom he loves?”

Humanizing the Hero for Our Time

The irony of Rizal’s current position is that he has been domesticated by history. American colonial authorities favored him precisely because he represented a safer form of heroism compared to the militant Aguinaldo or the radical Bonifacio. His legacy was shaped, in part, by the very colonial power his resistance helped dislodge.

Yet national hero status requires no official constitutional designation. Rizal’s influence endures independent of such labels.

More productive than venerating Rizal as a saint is humanizing him as a complex figure whose example invites difficult questions: Which aspects of his stance apply to contemporary challenges? Which have become obsolete? Constantino posed this most sharply: the goal should be to “make Rizal obsolete”—meaning that once corruption is genuinely eradicated and justice truly prevails, symbolic heroes become unnecessary. Their work is complete.

The Philippines remains far from such a condition. As long as injustice persists and institutional corruption thrives, Rizal’s refusal to compromise—his steadfast commitment to principle despite personal cost—retains its power to instruct and inspire.

This, perhaps, is why his birthday warrants more than passive acknowledgment. On December 30, Filipinos are called not merely to remember how Rizal died, but to contemplate why he refused to save himself—and what that choice demands of those who inherit the freedoms his conviction helped secure.