The Legacy of José Rizal: Why does his death matter more than most leaders?

Every December 30th, the Philippines commemorates someone many consider their national hero: José Rizal. But amidst the year-end hustle, few stop to truly ask who this man was and why his name continues to resonate more than a century after his execution. The answer is not in a distant myth nor in another holiday on the calendar, but in a conscious decision he made: choosing consistency over survival.

The Man Who Rejected His Own Rescue

In 1896, when José Rizal was awaiting in prison, his allies from the Katipunan offered him something that seemed impossible to refuse: freedom. Andrés Bonifacio, the insurgency leader, personally invited him to escape his exile in Dapitan and help lead the revolution that was already gaining momentum.

Rizal rejected both offers.

His logic was almost pragmatic to the point of cynicism: he believed that his country lacked the resources and preparation to wage a war that would only end in bloodshed. Here emerges the central paradox of José Rizal: he inspired a revolutionary movement that he later publicly condemned. On December 15, 1896, he stated: “I condemn this uprising, which dishonors us Filipinos and discredits those who could defend our cause.”

Such contradiction has sparked debates among historians. Renato Constantino described him as a limited “enlightened” individual: someone who fought for national unity but feared revolution. However, Constantino also recognized something crucial: although Rizal never wielded a weapon, his propaganda work did something no revolution could have done alone: it cultivated a national consciousness. “Instead of bringing the Filipino closer to Spain, propaganda took root in separation,” wrote the historian.

From Assimilation to Awakening: The Evolution of a Thinker

For much of his life, Rizal genuinely believed that the Philippines could be assimilated by Spain, that Hispanization was not only possible but desirable. He deeply admired European art, culture, and liberal ideas. But repeated encounters with racial and economic injustice eroded that faith.

The territorial dispute in Calamba with the Dominican friars marked a turning point. In a letter to Blumentritt in 1887, Rizal wrote: “The Filipino has desired Hispanization for a long time and they were mistaken in aspiring to it.”

Constantino interpreted this shift as Rizal’s transition to a “consciousness without movement.” But that phrase contains the true tragedy: Rizal could see injustice clearly, articulate his criticisms with elegance and precision, but he could not—or would not—translate that consciousness into revolutionary action. His work did. “His writings were part of the protest tradition that flourished in revolution, in a separatist movement. His original goal transformed into its opposite,” concluded Constantino.

The Execution That Changed Everything

On December 30, 1896, at Luneta Park in Manila, Spain pulled the trigger. José Rizal fell. But what emerged was much greater than any individual.

Historian Ambeth Ocampo called him a “conscious hero” not because he sought martyrdom, but because he deliberately walked toward his destiny without illusions. It is said that his heart rate was normal before the execution. Rizal himself explained his choice in a letter: “I want to show those who deny us patriotism that we know how to die for our duty and our convictions. What does death matter if one dies for what one loves?”

His death intensified the popular longing for independence, unified fragmented movements, and gave the insurgency a moral clarity that would otherwise have taken years to achieve. Would the revolution have happened without him? Probably yes, but in a less coherent way, less rooted in articulated ideals, less universal.

The Questions That Still Matter

Today, Rizal is often remembered as a saint, a distant figure covered in conceptual marble. Part of that sainthood comes from colonial narratives by the Americans: Theodore Friend pointed out that the United States favored Rizal because other leaders like Bonifacio were “too radical” and Aguinaldo “too militant” for colonial interests.

But humanizing Rizal instead of canonizing him allows for more fruitful questions. Which of his principles remain relevant? Which have become obsolete?

Constantino proposed an uncomfortable but necessary answer: “Rizal’s personal objectives were always aligned with what he considered to be the best interest of the country.” Rizal’s true obsolescence will come when corruption and injustice disappear from Filipino political life. As long as they persist, his example remains a mirror that citizens cannot afford to ignore.

In a world where conformity is encouraged and dissent is punished, José Rizal’s final lesson resonates strongly: maintain moral consistency without betraying ideals, even when the price is one’s own life. That is the legacy no calendar can summarize.