AA Patawaran’s debut novel, ‘Misericordia’, dares to ask: “Why all this struggle?”

Patawaran remembers only three instances in which he joined political rallies: the one for Lean Alejandro, EDSA Dos for the impeachment of former President Joseph Ejercito Estrada and the Million Peso March at Luneta Park, when the Pork Barrel Scam was exposed. Admittedly, he never led student activism, nor was he on its sidelines. But for the celebrated author, there is so much to say about it and why we need to pursue a better future, even if it requires a revolution.

“We all have the power to change things, except that it’s hard,” he says. “I felt during the September 21 rally for the Trillion Peso March against flood control projects, we were just cracking jokes, like there wasn’t much anger. I think we should be angry with what’s happening right now, but there are many reasons why we’re not, or why we choose to accept our reality. We don’t like the alternative leader... we’re also aware that communism fell in other parts of the world... but sometimes we have to go through a shift.”

The author believes that the Philippines is yet to mature, that it has not yet reached a pivotal moment in its history that would shift the balance of power between classes. In Misericordia, it was clear that Patawaran sees a system that must be changed, although there is no perfect one.

“Life is a continuous pursuit of what should be good for our country. And when we find it, we might discover that it’s not really good for us after all,” he shares. It is necessary, for Patawaran, that readers appreciate the perspective of seeing the good in humankind—and that people in power should constantly be held in check, even those with untarnished reputations.

Misericordia dares to expound Marxist, Leninist and Maoist ideals, yet consistently confronts them with questions and perspectives grounded in reality. Seeing Patxi and Armand immersing themselves in a world that is strange to them, the novel reads as both curiosity and intent.

“To this day, I don’t understand how people can easily forget those pure things that we’ve dreamed of in the past. When you’re young, you’re protected from strife because you have parents who will take care of you, and you have the luxury of calling for change. But when you’re already part of the system that needs to be changed, you begin to realise that ‘I’m actually fighting myself,’” Patawaran says.

In this day and age of social media, the author warns the youth against being swept away by others’ opinions—or worse, by ChatGPT’s. As we orbit within each of our echo chambers and the homogenising algorithm of AI, the question of how much we truly know about what we are fighting for is raised upfront.

As Patxi and Armand develop a friendship with Halika and Lito, both born on the other side of the tracks, Patawaran offers a glimpse into the lives of the marginalised, grounded in his real-life experiences and encounters.

Coming from a quintessential middle-class Filipino family, where the home is open to extended relatives, Patawaran became socially aware at an early age. “When I started working in my early 20s, I took under my wing five cousins of mine who were 13, 14 at the time. I would take them to Ateneo, UP and the like because I felt I needed to get them out of poverty consciousness, which I think afflicts most of us in the Philippines,” the author recalls. The history of Lito’s character—as a store helper in Limay, Bataan—also traces back to the author’s childhood, when he remembers personally handing out supplies to members of the leftist movement. The novel’s title, further explained in the opening pages of the book, was inspired by Patawaran’s memory of encountering prostitution firsthand on Misericordia Street in Sta Cruz, Manila.

For him, taking the youth out of poverty, not only in a literal sense, but also in consciousness, is a chance to improve our society, fostering the determination to gain access to opportunities that could improve the way they live.

The protagonist’s journey reflects Patawaran’s belief in mysticism, through which one navigates life as a series of experiences leading to the next, while cosmic forces draw events and people towards the life being built. This is how he explains Patxi’s exploration of what he believes in, what comforts him and what he desires.

“Comfort is a tempting thing. But at least for his part, there’s the intention to ask the right questions,” he says.

Looking back at his career—one that chronicles the affairs of the affluent—and a life surrounded by friends in social and political circles, these experiences propelled him to write Misericordia, where disparity is apparent and the perspective on social realities is deliberately optimistic: Patxi and his friends finding better living in the provinces, the army depicted as just performing their duty and more.

“I never come from a place of expertise but from a place of exploration. If I were writing propaganda, I might have written it in such a way that it would teach people a lesson,” he says. “Life is a series of questions that you’ll never get to answer unless you die.”

Always curious about communism—and, at the same time, its downfall—Patawaran wrote Misericordia, with balance, showing both sides of the same coin while unravelling, or cementing, the roles we each play in life. In the end, the novel speaks more about identity and our exploration of it. Are we Rizal, or are we Bonifacio? Are we Simoun, or are we Ibarra? In exploring identity, Patawaran follows Patxi’s inner debates about his birthright, Filipino roots, future and even sexuality—all of which are shaped by politics, a lingering presence in the novel.

“Communism for me is a utopia,” he says. “Like I wrote in the novel, if there are four of us and we’re to divide the world into our corners, somebody who is hungrier, greedier or whatever, would somehow encroach on the other. It’s human nature to want more... But think, if more of us are well-off, the country is so much better. But that’s the reality—manpower is the State’s machinery.”

Dedicated movingly to the late National Artist F Sionil Jose and his daughter, Brigida Bergkampf, the novel is a significant literary offering, officially made available in stores on December 9, following its premiere at the Frankfurt Book Fair in October. It is a personal project, one that was spurred into being by Jose’s encouragement and finally brought to completion after the author experienced a prolonged writer’s block following the subsequent deaths of both abovementioned friends and mentors. Motivated by Senator Loren Legarda’s invitation to release the book at the Frankfurt Book Fair, Patawaran mustered the courage to return to his manuscript.

Despite the bleak outlook the novel presents, its strength lies in the spaces and cracks Patawaran opens throughout Patxi and his friends’ journey. The pregnant pauses that illustrate the characters’ dreams, beliefs, apprehensions and more magnify and contradict the author’s intricately woven narrativisation of political theory. Patawaran admits that writing is torture, but also a compulsion. For him, writing provides an “intimacy with the world” that allows him to gain a better understanding of universal pain. “We all suffer the same; nobody is exempt from pain, emptiness, but as a writer, you get a better understanding of that truth,” he explains.

*Updated. December 22, 2025; 3.22pm

NOW READ

‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’ Visit some of Manila’s freedom parks

Maria Ressa on Responsible Journalism, Democracy, Purpose—and Facebook

‘Why did they have to die?’: Inside Patricia Evangelista’s ‘Some People Need Killing’