In medical school, we are given countless lectures on ethics, anatomy, and patient care. But my most profound education did not happen in a lecture hall; it happened quietly, at the bedside, watching my mentor.
He never preached to us about social justice. Instead, he lived it. I watched him navigate the clinical needs of his patients with immense sensitivity, and when he realized a family lacked the resources to pay, his fee would simply vanish. Through those quiet actions, he conscientized an entire generation of future doctors. Medicine, he taught us, was caught, not taught.
To say his practice was broad would be an understatement; he was quite simply everybody’s doctor. On any given day, you could see the incredible spectrum of his impact. Affluent families spoke of him with deep pride as their trusted family physician, while people from all walks of life—especially the most marginalized sectors of society—found in him a fierce ally who protected their health and dignity. He walked seamlessly between these worlds because his social activism wasn’t an afterthought to his medical career; it was the very heart of it.
He wasn’t just a comforting presence; he was a razor-sharp defender of the exploited who weaponized his medical authority for justice. I vividly remember a case where a local hotel worker was on the verge of being fired simply because he had Hepatitis B. A friend in the labor movement reached out to him for help, and he responded with a letter to the prominent hotel’s management that I still remember for its brilliant, “crispy” sarcasm. Rather than pleading for mercy, he used his authority as a physician to school the administration on the actual epidemiology of Hepatitis B in the Philippines, questioning the wisdom behind their move and defending the worker’s right to dignity. He used science to expose their stigma.
But his definition of clinical exposure went far beyond hospital wards. His rounds extended into the dark corners of society, into prisons where political detainees were isolated from their friends and families. He paid a heavy price for that unwavering moral compass, eventually enduring his own imprisonment for about six months because of his activism. Yet, a jail cell could not diminish his spirit. By locking him up, the system only solidified what we already knew: he was a man who would gladly walk among the shackled if it meant standing up for the people.
To be his student was to be invited into this larger, more courageous world. I still remember the quiet honor I felt when he began introducing me to prominent activist friends in the social movement. He didn’t introduce me as a mere student standing in the shadows; he introduced me with pride as a “doctor soon to be,” validating my future before I had even fully stepped into it. In quieter moments, he would share the raw, human histories of the people we met—what they had to go through and how they became activists. He was teaching me the weight of the white coat when it is worn in service of the masses.
Years later, that “doctor soon to be” became a reality. I chose the path of anesthesiology and became involved in surgical missions providing free care to children with cleft lips, palates, and other facial deformities. When he learned about the work I was doing, he didn’t just offer words of praise—true to form, he acted, sending a generous financial donation to support the organization. It felt like a quiet blessing, an acknowledgment that the seeds he had planted all those years ago had finally borne fruit.
Even when life took him across the ocean—migrating to Texas to secure a safe and stable future for his family—our bond remained unbroken. I had the privilege of visiting him there, where he proudly showed me his medical school and clinic. He welcomed me into his home, where I finally got to meet his whole family. It was during that stay that I saw a completely different side of the fierce activist: a man of pure joy and unexpected artistry. Eager to entertain his guest from home, he brought out an array of musical instruments, performing a solo concert just for me. He moved from the violin to the clarinet with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy, while his wife laughed and teased him that this was the very first time he had ever tried to “show off” all his musical talents to a visitor. In that living room, surrounded by music and laughter, I saw the complete man.
The ultimate testament to his character happened when he finally came home to Davao. His priority wasn’t leisure; it was connection. He made sure to seek out his old friends and comrades in the social movement—the people who had shared the trenches with him. And to my profound surprise and honor, he came straight to the hospital just to visit me. Seeing him stand there, in the middle of my own clinical world, was an incredibly inspiring moment that I will carry with me forever. He had gone across the world, but his roots, his loyalty, and his love for his fellow healers never wavered.
I know that words on a page are simply not enough to describe the true depth of my appreciation for him. He had his flaws, as we all do, but he was a wonderfully flawed, yet utterly brilliant human being. He was the doctor of the masses because he possessed the rare ability to see the dignity in everyone—from the affluent families who claimed him, to the hotel workers he defended, to the young medical students he lifted up. He showed us that medicine is inseparable from justice. We, his students, are the living continuation of his unwritten prescriptions. And as long as we continue to use our knowledge to heal both the patient and the society they live in, his melody will never truly fade.
It is hard to say goodbye to one who has always been on the same side of life’s struggles. Rest in power and justice, Dr. Dante Escalante, doctor of the masses. See you on the other side when my time comes.(davaotoday.com)
