What Comes After “Sorry”?

“We are deeply, truly sorry.” These were the words of Fr. Bobby Yap, SJ, President of Ateneo de Manila University, repeated in different spaces. The repetition of this apology across multiple forums signaled not only remorse, but recognition—an acknowledgment that something significant had gone wrong, and that the institution must confront it with honesty and responsibility.

Perhaps the repetition matters. Not because the words themselves change, but because the reality they attempt to carry is too heavy to be said only once.

But the question remains: what comes after “sorry”?

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At the center of this moment is not the institution, nor the public response, but the family who has lost their children. We remember their names—Rene Baterbonia and Divine Adili.

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No apology, however sincere, can reach the depth of that loss. No statement can undo what has happened. The grief remains—quiet, heavy, and enduring.

If anything is to guide what comes next, it must begin here.

Before we speak of accountability or reform, we must recognize that there is a pain that does not simply seek explanation, but acknowledgment—a loss that asks not only for answers, but for respect, presence, and truth. What comes after “sorry” cannot be driven first by institutional need; it must be shaped by an honest encounter with human suffering.

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In moments like this, emotions rise naturally. There is anger, confusion, sorrow, and a desire to understand. These are not disruptions to be managed; they are signs that people care deeply—that something of value has been lost. But while these emotions are real, they cannot, on their own, guide what comes next.

What is needed is something quieter, but more difficult: reflection.

So again, the question: what comes after “sorry”?

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If apology is the beginning, then responsibility must follow—not only responsibility for what has happened, but responsibility for what must change. Accountability cannot end with words; it must take shape in action—careful, thoughtful, and grounded in truth and values.

It is easy to think of accountability as punishment—the assignment of blame and the imposition of consequences. That is important. But in moments like this, that understanding feels incomplete.

What is required is something deeper, and more human.

Accountability must begin with honoring the dignity of those who have suffered. It must ensure that what has been lost is not forgotten as we move forward. And it must commit, in concrete ways, to prevent such loss from happening again.

This requires more than reaction. It requires discernment—the willingness to pause, to ask difficult questions, and to listen, even when the answers are uncomfortable.

What does this moment reveal about how we care for others? About how decisions are made? About whether the values we claim are truly lived in practice?

What comes after “sorry” is the courage to ask these questions—and to stay with them long enough for them to shape real change.

Values such as integrity, fairness, and responsibility cannot remain as ideals. They must be visible in what is done: in how truth is spoken, in how responsibility is taken, and in how systems are re-examined and, when necessary, reformed.

But beyond systems and decisions, there is also the question of presence.

What comes after “sorry” is not only correction, but care. Not only policy, but attention. A willingness to remain present to loss—not to resolve it, but to recognize it. To listen. To remember.

If there is healing to come, it will not be immediate. It will not come from a single decision or a single act. It will come slowly—from honesty, from consistency, and from a sustained effort to do better.

This moment, difficult as it is, asks something more of the institution. Not perfection, but sincerity. Not defensiveness, but humility. Not quick answers, but careful and deliberate action.

And so, we return to the question: what comes after “sorry”?

What comes after is responsibility.What comes after is reflection.What comes after is the difficult work of aligning actions with values.What comes after is the decision to carry forward not only lessons learned, but the memory of what has been lost.

It must be clear, however, that reflection and legal accountability are not mutually exclusive. True reflection requires the clarity that comes from allowing the truth to emerge through the proper channels, and honoring the memory of Rene and Divine is strengthened, not hindered, by our commitment to follow the legal process through to its conclusion.

Because in the end, institutional maturity is not measured by how well we apologize, but by how deeply we allow moments like this to change us, how we listen, how we learn, and how we choose to move forward, more aware, more careful, and more faithful to what truly matters.

And so, we return to where we must begin—not with the institution, but with Rene and Divine. Their names, their lives, and the love that surrounds them cannot be reduced to a moment, nor their loss to a turning point. If anything is to endure, it must be our commitment to remember them not only in word, but in the way we choose to act—more careful, more just, and more faithful to the responsibility of caring for one another.

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About the Author:  Dr. Jennifer Santiago Oreta is the Dean of the Ateneo School of Government (ASOG). She is an expert in security governance and peacebuilding, having served as Assistant Secretary for Policy at the Office of the Presidential Adviser on the Peace Process (OPAPP).