It should have been a celebration. A barangay fiesta, after all, is more than just a party—it’s a symbol of community, of unity, of shared history and hope. But on the night of May 16 in Barangay Panacan 1, the music was drowned out by a different rhythm: the quick, brutal beat of violence.
Mayor-elect Gerandy Danao, a figure no stranger to political tension in Narra, turned what should’ve been a night of thanksgiving into a public spectacle when he allegedly assaulted Barangay Captain Inan Zaballa onstage during the awarding ceremony.
CCTV footage now making rounds on social media shows Danao walking up to the platform—where Zaballa was peacefully handing out certificates—then suddenly punching him and reportedly choking him with a tie wire.
The incident triggered chaos. The program was cut short. The celebration ended not in applause, but in confusion and fear.
In the aftermath, incoming Vice Mayor Jojo Gastanes offered an explanation: Danao, he said, felt deeply disrespected. His name, apparently, wasn’t included in the official program of the barangay.
What wasn’t said outright, but has become public knowledge in Narra, is that even when Danao was included in a previous activity—just once—that too ended in an altercation between him and Zaballa.
So the question remains: When did we begin mistaking power for privilege? And when did being overlooked become justification for violence?
Respect is not demanded with clenched fists. It is not won by fear or forced through intimidation. Respect begets respect—but only when it’s modeled by those who claim to lead. The kind of respect that holds a community together is quiet, consistent, and deeply rooted in humility.
But humility has no place in the kind of leadership that values control over character.
Jesus once said in Luke 6:29, “If someone slaps you on the cheek, offer the other also.”
That wasn’t a call to weakness—it was a challenge to rise above vengeance. In the culture of the time, to be slapped on the cheek was an insult to one’s dignity. And yet Jesus taught: don’t meet insult with retaliation. Meet it with grace. With strength restrained. That’s not passivity—it’s radical power.
Respect, when stripped to its core, is about how we treat each other—especially when no one’s watching, especially when egos are bruised.
And most of all, it should never be weaponized.
You don’t choke someone because you were left out of a program. You don’t punch someone for making you feel small. You rise above. You lead. Because leadership is not about being honored—it’s about honoring others even when your pride is on the line.
We often say, “Respect begets respect.” And it does. But what we fail to say out loud is that entitlement begets chaos. And what unfolded in Panacan 1 wasn’t just about two officials at odds. It was about power being used not to serve, but to subdue.
And what greater strength can a leader show than refusing to lash out when his pride is bruised?
But here’s what’s more disturbing than the violence itself: the people defending it. The voices in the comment sections who weren’t even there.
The netizens— mostly not from Narra, not from Panacan 1—who weren’t witnesses, but suddenly became experts. Some of them laughed. Some said it was deserved. Some asked, “Eh ano ngayon?”
What has gotten into us?
When did we become so numb that an elected official choking a barangay captain is reduced to trending content? When did public violence become a punchline? When did ego start mattering more than ethics?
As someone from Narra, I am heartbroken. Not just because of what happened, but because of what we’ve allowed ourselves to accept. Because we keep excusing the inexcusable and teaching the next generation that brutality is just part of the game.
I’m not just questioning Mayor Danao. I’m questioning every single one of us.
The ones who saw and stayed quiet. The ones who weren’t there but made excuses. The ones who think violence is part of leadership.
The ones who laugh and scroll past without thinking, what if that was my father, my brother, my neighbor on that stage?
What has gotten into our town? Into our culture? Into our souls?
If this is what we cheer for now—violence instead of dialogue, fear instead of leadership—then God help us all.
Because it’s not just a mayor who forgot his role that night. It’s an entire community forgetting its soul, one fist at a time.
Let this column offend you. Let it challenge you. Let it make you uncomfortable. Because if a man can be assaulted in front of a community, and the community moves on without reckoning—then we are all complicit in our own decay.
