Why did Rizal refuse to escape and choose to face death?

Over a hundred years ago, at the end of December, in Luneta Park, Manila, one man greeted the gunfire with an unusual calm. That man was José Rizal—Philippines’ national hero. He could have escaped, but he did not.

A Hero Misremembered

Ironically, December 30th, Rizal’s memorial day, has become just another date on the calendar. For many Filipinos, it might be a paid holiday to sleep in and binge-watch shows. But this precisely explains why Rizal’s story continues to ferment—because we have truly forgotten what he wanted to say.

In an era already full of daily struggles, who still cares about a figure from the 19th century? The answer is: precisely because of this, Rizal’s life and death remain relevant.

Why didn’t he run?

In the months leading up to December 1896, Katipunan (a Filipino revolutionary organization) attempted to rescue Rizal from his exile in Dapitan. Revolutionary leader Andres Bonifacio even invited him to lead the uprising.

Rizal refused.

His reasoning was pragmatic: he believed his compatriots were not yet ready to launch a full-scale revolt, and rash action would only lead to unnecessary bloodshed. This was not cowardice, but a realistic judgment.

Rizal and Katipunan pursued different paths to freedom. Rizal sought liberation through reform, while Katipunan chose revolution for independence. Two roads, same destination.

But this disagreement ultimately decided Rizal’s fate. Although his propaganda unwittingly inspired revolutionary spirit, in an open statement in December 1896, he bluntly condemned the uprising:

“I indeed condemn this uprising—it brings shame upon us Filipinos. I detest its criminal methods and deny any part in it.”

This stance made him a threat in the eyes of the Spanish colonial regime.

Why did his refusal actually change everything?

Historian Renato Constantino made a brilliant observation: Rizal’s writings did not bring Filipinos closer to Spain; instead, they rooted in separatist consciousness. The push for Spanishization turned into a awakening of a unique national identity.

Rizal himself believed that Spanishization was possible—he admired European art, culture, and liberal ideas. But reality repeatedly taught him that assimilation was a fantasy. In the Calamba land dispute, conflicts with local Augustinian friars and his family made this clear. In 1887, he wrote to a friend:

“The Filipinos have long hoped for Spanishization, but this desire is mistaken.”

Constantino describes Rizal as a “consciousness without movement”—he did not lead an uprising, but he awakened the people’s consciousness. His works as a social critic became part of a protest tradition, which eventually evolved into revolution.

What did the gunfire of 1896 change?

When the gunfire rang out, José Rizal fell. But what rose was something greater than himself.

His execution strengthened the people’s desire for independence, united scattered movements, and gave moral certainty to the revolution. Without Rizal, the uprising might still have happened, but it would have been more fragmented, incoherent, and lacking spiritual support.

Historian Ambeth Ocampo recorded Rizal’s unsettling calm before death. It is said his pulse was still normal before execution. He even personally explained why he did not try to save himself:

“I want to show those who deny our patriotism that we know how to die for responsibility and conviction. To die for the country we love—what is death anyway?”

Ocampo called him a “conscious hero”—because Rizal fully understood the consequences of his choice.

Contemporary lessons: Is Rizal outdated?

Today, Rizal is often portrayed as a sacred, officially recognized hero. The historical narrative from the American colonial period shaped part of his legacy. Some scholars openly state that Americans admired Rizal because he “was less warlike than Aguinaldo and less radical than Bonifacio”—he is a more manageable hero figure.

But Rizal himself does not need this official title to prove his worth.

The key is to humanize Rizal, not deify him. Only then can we ask better questions: which of his choices are still worth learning from? Which are outdated?

Constantino, in his essay “Our Task: Making Rizal Outdated,” said that as long as corruption and injustice persist, Rizal’s example remains relevant. Once the nation truly eradicates these flaws, his mission will be complete.

But clearly, this country is far from that state.

The final lesson

Rizal’s true legacy is not how he died, but why he refused to save himself—why he would rather die than betray his beliefs.

In an age full of temptations and pressures, this may be the most enduring lesson: steadfast resistance to compromise.

Rizal did not die for heroism. He simply refused to betray himself.