August may be “ghost month” for some, but in the Philippines it is also the season when two of our most beloved presidents—Manuel L. Quezon and Ramon Magsaysay—remind us that the only spirits we ought to raise are those of nationalism and public service.

Quezon was born on Aug. 19; Magsaysay, on Aug. 31. They led in different eras and faced different crises, yet they shared a common political home: the Nacionalista Party, the most storied party in Philippine history. Their birthdays, only days apart, invite us to do more than recall what they achieved—they call us to become the kind of leaders they dared to be, and to build the future their courage imagined.

In 2004, when the late former Vice President Salvador “Doy” Laurel entrusted me with leading and rebuilding the Nacionalista Party, he said he was bequeathing a party of true leadership. Looking back, that moment was itself an act of true leadership: a deliberate choice to ensure that the party he fought for, and the flame of democracy he sacrificed so much to protect, would endure for generations to come.

Quezon and Magsaysay were two Nacionalistas who showed what true leadership looked like in practice. Quezon, the fiery orator from Baler, rose through the party to become the first president of the Commonwealth and its most dominant and iconic figure until his death in 1944. Magsaysay, the humble schoolteacher and governor from Zambales, ran under the Nacionalistas in 1953 and rode a wave of reformist fervor to the presidency, promising—and largely delivering—a government “of the people, by the people, for the people.”

Quezon’s greatness lay in his ability to imagine a nation before it fully existed. As Commonwealth president, he pushed for social justice, national defense, and, most enduringly, a unifying national language. He is rightly called the “Ama ng Wikang Pambansa”—which is why August is also celebrated as the month of the National Language—for championing Filipino as a symbol of unity in a country of many tongues.

Quezon was hardly a saint. He was a shrewd political tactician who knew how to stitch together alliances and outmaneuver his opponents. But there is no question about his patriotism: whatever his moves, they were driven by love of country. He also possessed a profound moral vision. He spoke repeatedly of “spiritual regeneration,” urging Filipinos to stop being subjects of empire and start becoming citizens with dignity and duty. In exile during World War II, he drew a hard line: no collaboration with the Japanese, because the Philippines’ claim to legitimacy depended on loyalty to democratic principles.

If Quezon gave the nation a soul, Magsaysay gave it a heartbeat. Born to a blacksmith father and a teacher mother, he never forgot where he came from. As president, he broke down the barriers between Malacañang and the masses: opening the palace gates, holding press conferences without scripts, and traveling to barrios to listen rather than lecture.

Magsaysay is best known for defeating the Hukbalahap insurgency, but he did so not only with military force. He combined firmness against violence with compassion for the root causes of rebellion—landlessness, injustice, and neglect. He launched agrarian reforms, resettled former rebels, and insisted that government’s principal duty is to serve the “common man.”

His greatness, for me, has always been rooted in authenticity. He wore the barong tagalog in pictures without affectation, spoke without ornament, and carried himself with unforced sincerity. He died young, in a plane crash in 1957. I was only eight then, and I still carry a faint memory of ordinary people weeping in the streets. His short presidency left a lasting imprint: proof that integrity and empathy are not weaknesses in leadership, but its surest foundations.

Quezon and Magsaysay remind us that nationalism is not just about flags and anthems; it is about serving our country and our people. Quezon mastered the political process to shape a vision for the nation; Magsaysay made the people understand, in their hearts, what that vision meant for the country’s future. In a time when politics often feels cynical and divided, their lives offer a different template: leaders who believed in the Philippines enough to fight for it, and who believed in Filipinos enough to trust them.

August gives us two birthdays to remember, but also two questions to answer: What kind of nation did Quezon and Magsaysay dream of? And what kind of nation are we becoming?