The Faith of Ophelia

On the internet there is a peculiar feeling where it seems to be a holiest argument.

Not about doctrine. Not about theology.

It is about what a woman should do with her life.

In the Philippines, basketball scores or beauty pageants are not just the candor we debated.

Sometimes, we also debate hemlines as if salvation depended on them. Then we quote scripture with the confidence of apostles, conveniently skipping the verses about love, dignity, and humility.

Recently, Alvin Aragon, husband of former SexBomb Girls member Izzy Trazona, has been called out by the women’s alliance Gabriela. Apparently, his statements framed in morality went viral—shaming women for their career choices and policing their behavior.

The kind that sounds righteous at first glance. The kind that claps loudly in comment sections.

But control sneaks in, somewhere between “concern” and “conviction.”

In the realm of his remarks, it did not stop at his wife. It also happened to Izzy’s transgender child where discriminatory statements echoed louder than they used to be. 

And suddenly, this was no longer about modesty.

It was about authority. About who gets to define identity. About who gets to decide whose existence is acceptable. And that is where the faith of Ophelia quietly enters the room.

From the literature of Shakespeare, Ophelia, from Hamlet, was obedient. Gentle. Devoted.

She followed her father’s instructions. She endured Hamlet’s cruelty. She carried everyone’s expectations like a bouquet of invisible flowers.

And still, she drowned. Not because she was sinful. Not because she was rebellious.

But because she was trapped in a world where men decided what she should feel, whom she should love, and how she should behave.

Beneath these scenarios, it ripples at the present time.

When selective readings of religious scripture are weaponized, women are reduced to footnotes in their own lives. Because verses become verdicts, and faith becomes a fence.

Suddenly, “submission” is emphasized louder than compassion. And “obedience” is highlighted brighter than justice. 

Those who question were labeled immoral. Disrespectful. Ungodly.

Ironically speaking, the same faith that teaches love thy neighbor becomes a manual for limiting her wardrobe.

Let’s be clear: This is not an attack on religion. It is a critique of its misuse. Because, scripture, like literature, demands context. It demands humility. It demands responsibility.

Because when belief is imposed to pacify harmful remarks—when it becomes a shield for misogyny—it stops being faith. It becomes convenience.

Now, we are in the month of March. Wherein we celebrate National Women’s Month with purple ribbons and empowering hashtags.

Yet in the same breath, some still insist women must stay inside a neatly defined box.

Be empowered, but not too loud.

Be ambitious, but not too visible.

Be faithful, but only in the way the society approves.

Yet, the box becomes even smaller for transgender women. Because their womanhood was debated like a public referendum. Their dignity is subjected to comment-section theology.

However, womanhood is not a committee decision. Whether naturally born women or women who have transitioned, they are not projects to be managed. Not reputations to be guarded. Not properties to be confined.

And the tragedy of Ophelia was not madness. It was pure suffocation. A slow drowning in expectations she did not author.

Let these lingers in our emotions and thoughts: How many modern Ophelias are we creating when we normalize sexist jokes at dinner tables? When do we justify control using cherry-picked verses? When do we mistake dominance for devotion?

Because if faith is powerful, and it is, then it should liberate, not limit. It should comfort, not control. It should expand dignity, not shrink it to fit someone else’s insecurity.

For the records,

Alvin Aragon is not the first man to impose belief as authority. He will not be the last. Across the Philippines and around the globe, many women still negotiate their freedom within systems that claim to protect them while quietly restricting them.

Perhaps it was a tumultuous danger happening in silence.

Because oppression rarely announces itself dramatically. Sometimes it comes dressed as “guidance.” Sometimes it smiles and says, “I just want what’s best for you.”

As we celebrate National Women’s Month, the real reflection was about how we are nurturing their faith in themselves or we are just demanding faith in cages we built for them.

When Ophelia floated among flowers because the world around her refused to let her breathe. Let us not romanticize another drowning.

The real practice of faith is that women—every woman—are not fragile ornaments of morality.

They are authors of their own lives.

And no verse, no man, no culture should ever rewrite that for them.