“The Storm of Justice: When Corruption and a Rotten "Modern" System Provokes Rebellion”

“The Storm of Justice: When Corruption 

and a Rotten "Modern" System Provokes Rebellion”

By Kat Ulrike

In the 21st century, in an age that prides itself on “smart” governance and digital sophistication, some still deny the existence of class struggle. Fencesitters—those who insist on caution and moderation—often claim, “Then you are uneducated. Then what? Are you happy to do it? Think first before you do it.” This was the refrain after observers attempted to justify the people’s anger that erupted into the riots in Indonesia. 

The reality, however, is stark: the riots were not random acts of destruction but the result of righteous anger, driven by a government that consistently favors the corrupt status quo at the expense of the impoverished majority. The people have endured years of systemic betrayal, where promises of justice and due process exist only in rhetoric while the elite consolidate wealth and power. Fencesitters, pretending to be critics or moral arbiters, cry for “sobriety” and adherence to procedure—but their concern is often performative. The very people witnessing the injustice understand that the script is broken; repeated adherence to process has delivered neither safety nor accountability. 

It is worth noting that these protesters, while bypassing due process, are ethically navigating a gray area born of desperation. Looting and rioting are not merely acts of anger—they are symbolic acts of reclaiming what has been stolen through corruption and negligence. Yes, chaos is messy. Yes, morality is complex. But the deeper truth remains: public trust in institutions has been systematically depleted. Ordinary citizens have witnessed enough scripted apologies, rehearsed statements, and superficial displays of unity. They are not rebelling for spectacle or personal gain—they are demanding justice, transparency, and meaningful structural change. 

How come this moral urgency is so often dismissed? Many who critique these acts—fencesitters, self-proclaimed moderates, and so-called reformists—cling to the belief that “there’s hope in reforming the system,” as if moral compromise and endless patience can magically restore justice in a structure designed to protect the powerful. They often focus on individual culpability, blaming those deemed corrupt, while ignoring the broader systemic failures that perpetuate inequity and abuse. 

But let the reader consider a deeper question: even in the absence of clearly corrupt individuals, if the system itself continues to institutionalize injustice and protect privilege, does the cycle of oppression truly end? Or is the very structure of governance, law, and economic distribution sufficient to perpetuate inequity, regardless of who sits in office? Those who rise in protest are often motivated by the conviction that another society is possible—a society where accountability, fairness, and dignity are not luxuries but guarantees. 

Does the hope of reform invalidate this moral appeal? Absolutely not. To dismiss the protesters’ actions as rash or illegitimate is to ignore the historical and structural reality that when institutions fail consistently, ethical rebellion becomes a rational and necessary response. The moral weight of protest lies not only in the acts themselves but in their underlying purpose: the persistent and principled demand that governance serve the people, not the privileged few. To ignore this is to prioritize decorum over justice, appearances over reality, and the comfort of the elite over the survival and dignity of the majority. 

Demanding accountability in the face of looming protest 

Consider the Philippine context. Politicians and bureaucrats—some implicated in massive corruption scandals—already occupy the halls of power in Malacañang, Congress, and Local Government Units. Billions of pesos, money intended to protect citizens from calamities and safeguard livelihoods, have been siphoned away. The consequences are not abstract; they affect flood protection, disaster response, public health, and the very safety of millions of Filipinos. The outrage is not about burning buildings or overturning cars. It is about a government that consistently fails to protect its people, betraying not just wealth but life itself. 

One of the most egregious examples involves the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH), which has been at the center of a massive scandal concerning over ₱350 billion allocated for flood control and related infrastructure projects. Investigations by the Commission on Audit (COA) and other oversight bodies revealed that out of 9,855 projects funded under various programs, including the National Irrigation Administration’s rehabilitation efforts, a staggering 6,021 had no clear documentation or evidence of what was actually built, repaired, or rehabilitated. Reports highlighted ghost projects, inflated costs, and substandard or non-existent constructions in flood-prone areas, leaving millions of Filipinos vulnerable to annual typhoons and disasters. This scandal, which came to light in audits covering 2022-2024, has prompted calls for criminal probes and the resignation of key officials, as taxpayers question where their hard-earned money has vanished and why essential safety measures remain unfulfilled despite billions poured into the system. 

Compounding this issue is the ongoing controversy surrounding Vice President Sara Duterte, who faced an impeachment complaint in late 2024 over alleged misuse of confidential and intelligence funds (CIF) totaling over ₱600 million during her tenure as education secretary. Accusations included diverting funds for personal or political purposes, such as lavish expenditures unrelated to national security, alongside threats made against President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. and other officials amid escalating political tensions between the Duterte and Marcos camps. Although the Supreme Court ruled the impeachment process unconstitutional in early 2025, citing procedural flaws and overreach by the House of Representatives, the decision has done little to dispel public skepticism. Critics argue it exemplifies how the elite shield themselves from accountability, further deepening divisions and perceptions of a politicized justice system. 

These cases are far from isolated; they form part of a broader pattern of corruption that has ensnared multiple agencies and figures in recent years. For instance, the Philippine National Police (PNP) has been embroiled in the so-called “P6.7 billion extortion scandal” uncovered in 2023-2024, where high-ranking officers were accused of running a syndicate that extorted money from illegal Philippine Offshore Gaming Operators (POGOs) and other criminal enterprises. This racket allegedly involved kidnapping, human trafficking, and laundering proceeds, leading to the dismissal of several generals and exposing ties to organized crime within law enforcement. Similarly, the Department of Health (DOH) faced renewed scrutiny in 2024 over the lingering Pharmally scandal from the Duterte era, with fresh audits revealing overpriced medical supplies and procurement irregularities worth billions during the COVID-19 pandemic—issues that continue to haunt the agency amid ongoing Senate hearings. 

Another notable case is the 2023 scandal involving the Bureau of Customs (BOC), where officials were implicated in smuggling operations that allowed billions of pesos worth of illegal goods, including rice and agricultural products, to enter the country unchecked. This not only deprived the government of revenue but also exacerbated food inflation and insecurity for ordinary Filipinos. In the education sector, beyond Duterte’s impeachment woes, there were revelations in 2024 about the misuse of the Department of Education's (DepEd) budget for confidential funds, with ₱90 million reportedly unaccounted for in a single year, sparking investigations into ghost employees and unauthorized disbursements. These scandals collectively highlight a systemic crisis: entrenched corruption, weak oversight mechanisms, and a culture of impunity at the highest levels of government. 

From infrastructure boondoggles that fail to protect communities from natural calamities to the blatant abuse of public funds by elected leaders, the pattern is clear—resources meant for the people’s upliftment are siphoned off, leaving essential services underfunded and vulnerable populations at risk. The Filipino people are not just angry; they are mobilizing through protests, social media campaigns, and calls for international intervention to demand accountability and justice. The question is not whether the system is broken—it unequivocally is—but how much longer the people will tolerate its failure before pushing for radical change, such as stronger anti-corruption laws, independent audits, and electoral reforms to restore faith in governance. As these issues persist into 2025, the pressure mounts for leaders to act decisively or face the consequences of a disillusioned populace. 

The Limits of Sobriety: When Demands Followed by Outrage 

In other countries, the demand for accountability can erupt with even greater intensity, yet critics still cry for “sobriety” and strict adherence to due process, often ignoring the depth and legitimacy of public anger. Recently, in Indonesia, this tension reached a breaking point. Citizens took to the streets in mass protests after news broke that government housing allowances for members of parliament were nearly ten times the minimum wage in Jakarta, a figure that highlighted the stark disparity between lawmakers and ordinary citizens struggling to survive under austerity. 

The public’s fury was compounded by simultaneous government measures under President Prabowo that imposed strict austerity, including cuts to education, healthcare, and public infrastructure projects. These policies disproportionately affected the poor and working class, exacerbating social inequality while elites enjoyed continued privileges. 

The demonstrators were also protesting against what they termed “corrupt elites” within the government and policies that favored conglomerates and the military, according to a press release from the student group Gejayan Memanggil. Their statement reflected growing concern about the expanding role of the military in civilian life under Prabowo’s administration—a trend that many fear undermines democracy and concentrates power in unaccountable institutions. The protests, which began peacefully, quickly spread across the country and escalated into violent confrontations on Friday after the death of 21-year-old delivery driver Affan Kurniawan in Jakarta. Footage circulated showing an armored vehicle belonging to the elite paramilitary police unit running over Affan as it plowed through a crowd of demonstrators late on Thursday. His death became a rallying point for protesters, crystallizing years of accumulated frustration at economic inequality, political favoritism, and state violence. 

It is No “Dinner Party”: Regardless of Attempts to Make it That Way 

These events illustrate the undeniable force of public outrage when institutional accountability fails. They underscore that calls for moderation or patience—however well-meaning in principle—can appear hollow in the face of structural injustice. When people are systematically denied fairness, protection, and representation, anger does not dissipate; it intensifies, often spilling into action that those in power find difficult to contain. The Indonesian protests serve as a stark reminder of the limits of patience and the power of collective moral outrage. 

It is not surprising that people initially hoped for a “peaceful one,” even as the situation became catastrophic, exemplified by the killing of a 21-year-old delivery driver by authorities. Who, in the face of a populace suddenly armed with pitchforks, wanted it to remain a “dinner party”? Obviously, these fencesitters did—they clung to the belief that something could be salvaged within a rotten system, claiming there was still “useful” to extract. But the people knew better. There is nothing of value in a decayed order, a lesson painfully underscored by the staged and ultimately hollow celebrations of EDSA. 

Fencesitters may further insist that those who protest—or especially those who resort to looting—are “paid” or manipulated, as if citizens asserting their rights are puppets of agitators. This argument ignores the root cause: the system itself provoked the people. Corruption, neglect, and impunity are the provocations. The moral calculus is clear—when the elite steal lives, safety, and opportunity, the people’s retribution, though messy, is an understandable and, in many ways, necessary response. Moral high ground alone does not feed the hungry; ethical posturing does not restore lives lost to mismanagement or calamity. 

As Thomas Aquinas wrote on the morality of war: “A war is just if it is declared and waged by the proper authority, for a just cause, and with the right intention.” While Aquinas addressed warfare, the principle is instructive here: action taken against a corrupt and unjust authority, with the aim of protecting the innocent and restoring justice, aligns with the moral framework of a “just cause.” The protests and uprisings, then, are not mere chaos—they are an ethically grounded assertion of justice against systemic wrongdoing. 

Let people admit the inconvenient truth: class struggle persists, regardless of the rhetoric of “democracy,” “good governance,” or “capitalist fairness.” Semi-feudalism, cronyism, and the consolidation of political and economic power cannot erase the inequities that drive the oppressed to action. Those who riot or rebel are not merely violent—they are asserting their humanity against a system designed to deny it. And if the people’s anger reaches its peak, if the elite continue to provoke and exploit, the eruption of unrest becomes not only inevitable but morally justified. 

At its core, this is a simple but profound principle: when governance fails its people, rebellion is not only a right—it is a necessity.

When (the system-sponsored) "Democracy" Fails its Script: The People’s Right to Rise

When (the system-sponsored) "Democracy" Fails its Script: 

The People’s Right to Rise

In the wake of Indonesia’s recent protests, some voices in the Philippines have rushed to caution against emulating such upheaval. “People shouldn’t do what the Indonesians did,” they say. “If this violence and chaos happens in the Philippines, it will only hurt the economy, tourism, and investor confidence. Communist China could also take advantage of the violence and chaos to undermine our state institutions. We should seek to solve our corruption problems in a judicious and peaceful manner, like a true working democracy, instead of mob rule and anarchy like in Indonesia.” 

It is a familiar refrain: calm, orderly, and moralizing, as if the suffering and indignation of ordinary citizens could be silenced by appeals to market stability or international perception. Yet such admonitions risk misunderstanding the depth of public frustration. What if the Filipino people have reached a breaking point? What if the storm of anger is not just inevitable, but morally and politically justified? In a society where scandals, mismanagement, and elite impunity have persisted for decades, the patience of the populace cannot be measured solely by appeals to civility. To insist that the people simply “wait” or “trust the system” is to ignore the lived reality of injustice—the erosion of public trust, the betrayal of social contracts, and the repeated failures of due process to deliver actual justice. 

The warning against chaos may sound prudent on paper, but on the ground, it risks dismissing a legitimate moral and civic outrage as mere disorder. For many Filipinos, the question is no longer whether reform is possible through conventional channels—it is whether justice can be achieved at all, and if the system has failed, what other avenues remain to demand accountability. In this light, the anger, even if explosive, becomes not a threat to democracy but a reaffirmation of the people’s right to insist that governance serve the public, not the privileged few. 

The Erosion of Trust 

In recent months, the Philippines has witnessed a series of events that have deeply shaken public trust in its institutions, revealing systemic issues of corruption, mismanagement, and a lack of accountability. 

The Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH) has been embroiled in a scandal involving over ₱350 billion allocated for flood control projects. Investigations revealed that 6,021 out of 9,855 projects had no clear record of what was actually built, repaired, or rehabilitated . This revelation has left citizens questioning where their hard-earned taxes have gone and why their safety remains compromised. Furthermore, reports indicate that only 15 contractors secured nearly 20% of the total ₱545.65 billion allocation for the government’s flood control program . This concentration of contracts raises concerns about monopolistic practices and the lack of competition, which can lead to substandard work and inflated costs. 

Simultaneously, Vice President Sara Duterte faced an impeachment complaint over alleged misuse of public funds and threats against President Marcos and other officials. Progressive groups accused Duterte of betraying public trust by misusing over ₱612 million in confidential funds, citing violations of laws, false reports, and obstruction of investigations . Despite these serious allegations, the Supreme Court declared the impeachment unconstitutional, citing a constitutional rule prohibiting multiple impeachment filings against the same official within a year . This decision has done little to quell public skepticism about the political elite’s accountability. 

These events have underscored a growing perception among the public that those in power are not held to the same standards as ordinary citizens. The lack of transparency, coupled with the dismissal of serious allegations, has eroded trust in the very institutions meant to serve and protect the people. As the gap between the governed and the governing widens, the calls for accountability and justice grow louder, signaling a potential turning point in the nation’s political landscape. 

The Case for Righteous Anger 

Critics who dismiss the idea of public unrest fail to recognize the depth and persistence of frustration that many Filipinos feel. When the system is perceived as corrupt, unresponsive, and self-serving; when elites and politicians appear untouchable; and when justice is endlessly delayed or denied, what recourse remains for the people? The Bible speaks of righteous anger, and history confirms it: when justice is postponed, rebellion becomes not only understandable but morally imperative. 

The familiar refrain of “peaceful reform” or the invocation of a “true working democracy” is hollow in a nation where accountability, transparency, and fairness have been systematically undermined. Those who suggest that Filipinos should emulate a sanitized, orderly democracy conveniently ignore the very foundations of governance that have been eroded: institutions are captured, due process is selective, and privileges accrue to the few while the many are left to endure injustice. 

For decades, the memory of EDSA—its “magic” as some call it—has been invoked as a template for civic action. Yet the shallow rhetoric of national unity, applause for symbolic heroism, and staged celebrations cannot stop the inherent anger of the people against a system that continues to fail them. EDSA’s message of unity may pacify some, but it cannot extinguish the radical yearning for change, nor can it restrain the collective desire for justice. No law, no heavenly decree, no curated ceremonial remembrance can contain the people’s innate drive for liberation when oppression becomes unbearable. 

As an observer, one cannot help but see that this righteous anger has been long overdue. It stems not only from the failings of local elites but also from decades of exploitation by both imperialist powers—east and west—and by domestic tyrants and opportunists who have profited from the nation’s hardship. The anger is cumulative: a response to years of unpunished wrongdoing, economic betrayal, and political manipulation. 

This is not a call for indiscriminate violence. Unlike the recent Indonesian protests, where looting and firebombing occurred, the Filipino people do not necessarily seek destruction as an end in itself. Yet, if tyrants and despots continue to strike against citizens whose hopes are rooted in national liberation and social justice, such measures could become an unavoidable expression of accumulated grievance. The flames of righteous anger, long smoldering beneath the surface, may erupt if the system refuses to answer its people’s demands for accountability and equity. 

In essence, the moral and historical record affirms this: when a society’s governing structures are persistently corrupt, when laws serve only the powerful, and when avenues for redress are systematically blocked, the people’s anger is not merely emotion—it is justice insisting on its own terms. In the Philippine context, where corruption scandals, political favoritism, and systemic neglect have persisted for decades, this anger is neither random nor irrational. It is a necessary, overdue force demanding that the nation reckon with its failures and strive for genuine liberation and social equity. 

Patience Has Its Limits:

When Rebellion Becomes Justifiable,

and the Anger makes the Riot Necessariable 

The recent events in Indonesia serve as a stark reminder that the patience of ordinary citizens has boundaries. A population can endure injustice, corruption, and ineffectual governance for only so long before its suppressed frustrations manifest as collective action. While the Philippines has not yet witnessed widespread protests of similar scale, the structural conditions that provoke such unrest are all too familiar: political favoritism, unchecked scandals, economic mismanagement, and a pervasive sense that the system protects the elite at the expense of the people. The question, therefore, is no longer if the Filipino people will rise—it is when and how they will do so. 

History demonstrates that prolonged injustice inevitably produces social pressure. The repeated scandals—from the mismanaged ₱350 billion DPWH flood control program to selective enforcement of accountability in high-level political disputes—have compounded public frustration. Citizens observe the slow or nonexistent consequences for powerful individuals while ordinary citizens struggle with rising costs, natural disasters, and systemic neglect. Such conditions make the notion of peaceful patience increasingly untenable. 

It is not only moral but rational to recognize that, under these circumstances, rebellion becomes justifiable. When legal channels fail, when oversight mechanisms are weakened, and when promises of reform remain unfulfilled, the people are left with limited avenues to assert their rights and demand justice. This is not an advocacy of indiscriminate violence; rather, it is an acknowledgment of the inherent legitimacy of anger in response to persistent oppression. The very act of demanding accountability can, at times, require confrontation. 

For the Filipino people, the imperative is clear: they must demand more than symbolic gestures, hollow promises, or staged public displays of unity. They must insist on genuine accountability, transparent governance, and policies that serve the interests of all citizens rather than a privileged few. If the political elite continues to ignore, dismiss, or deflect these calls, they risk provoking the very storm of discontent they claim to fear. 

Patience is not infinite, and injustice is not eternal. The anger of the people is not merely reactionary—it is a moral barometer signaling that governance has failed. To disregard it is to invite upheaval; to recognize it is to confront the urgent need for meaningful reform. The storm, long building beneath the surface, may yet arrive, and when it does, it will not be a question of choice but of necessity. 

A Marhaen resurgent: when protest and righteous anger in Indonesia meant more than saying Enough

A Marhaen resurgent:

when protest and righteous anger in Indonesia

meant more than saying Enough 

The roar of Indonesia’s streets recently echoes a century-old question: who truly rules this republic—the elite or the marhaen? 

The recent protests—sparked by lawmakers awarding themselves 50 million rupiah in monthly housing allowances while the average Jakartan scrapes by on a tenth of that—have been described as riots, chaos, even treason. Yet, what millions witnessed across the archipelago was not mere disorder, but the awakening of Sukarno’s forgotten spirit: Marhaenism, the philosophy that once promised to anchor the nation in the dignity of its ordinary people. 

As the streets of Jakarta and countless cities across Indonesia are burning with anger. Videos of smashed glass, barricades, and armored police vehicles are easy to dismiss as “chaos.” But to reduce the current wave of protests to mere anarchy is to miss the deeper truth: this is not the tantrum of a mob. This is righteous rage, long restrained by the false promises of “order” and “sobriety,” now uncontainable. 

What Sparked the Fire? 

The spark was as scandalous as it was symbolic. Lawmakers quietly secured a housing allowance of 50 million rupiah—nearly $3,000 per month—while the average worker in Jakarta survives on a minimum wage barely a tenth of that. In a country grappling with job losses, austerity cuts, and soaring taxes, this revelation was not just tone-deaf—it was gasoline on dry grass. 

• Over 42,000 factory jobs have disappeared this year.
• Property and land taxes in regions like Java have spiked up to 400–1,000%.
• Cuts in education and healthcare are hitting families hardest, while welfare programs are often poorly targeted. 

For ordinary Indonesians, the message was unmistakable: sacrifice is for the people, perks are for the elite. 

The Marhaen Forgotten 

Years ago, Sukarno met Marhaen, a poor farmer near Bandung, and saw in him the face of Indonesia’s masses—exploited, silenced, yet brimming with dignity. Marhaenism was meant to be the nation’s foundation: sovereignty for the smallholder, justice for the worker, freedom for the poor. 

But recent events would say that the marhaen has been betrayed—not only by elites but by the very system that once claimed to liberate him. The tragic death of 21-year-old Affan Kurniawan, a ride-hailing driver crushed by a police armored vehicle, crystallized this betrayal. Affan was the modern marhaen: precarious, struggling, expendable. His blood on the asphalt became the people’s rallying cry, a brutal reminder that the state often protects its privileges before its people. 

The Numbers Behind the Rage 

(and trying to save an unjust order from a just chaos) 

The scale of the unrest speaks for itself:

• 6–8 dead, more than 469 injured, and over 3,000 arrested.
• Regional parliaments and government buildings torched.
• Tens of thousands taking to the streets in places like Pati Regency, where land-tax hikes reached 250%. 

President Prabowo Subianto has since rolled back the perks, canceled foreign trips, and promised investigations. Yet at the same time, his administration branded some protesters as “rioters,” “treasonous,” or even “terrorists.” Worse, there are fencesitters who, assuming themselves as Critics—particularly from abroad or from the comfort of air-conditioned boardrooms—warn that such unrest will “hurt the economy, scare off investors, damage tourism, and weaken democracy.” 

But let’s be honest: what democracy? One where lawmakers quietly enrich themselves while the majority struggles? One where a gig worker is crushed under the wheels of state machinery? They cry "due process" and "rule of law" as these protesters loot the houses of solons who chose to be aloof over the people's plight- the question is, does these critics really spoke on behalf of these marhaens whose calls as just? Or they are reacting simply because these marhaens gone "violent" after a vehicle ran after a struggling worker? 

The fact is this: the marhaens have sought that scene, anf thus rejected such hypocrisy. It insisted that the measure of a nation was not the comfort of the elite but the dignity of its farmers, workers, and poor. 

More than “Mob Rule” 

To call this “mob rule” is to ignore history. Revolutions, uprisings, and movements for dignity are always messy, always disruptive. But disruption is often the only language left when the state refuses to listen. Indonesia’s protesters are not clamoring for anarchy; they are demanding dignity, accountability, and fairness in a system that has denied them all three. 

If anything is barbaric, it is not the rage of the people—it is the arrogance of elites who loot public wealth and then hide behind the fragile veneer of “order.” Indonesia’s unrest is more than a flash of anger. It is a call to rediscover the moral spine of Marhaenism. This does not mean blind nostalgia or authoritarian appropriation of Sukarno’s image. It means reviving the spirit of justice and equality that gave Indonesia its soul: 

• Re-centering policy on the ordinary citizen, not investors or oligarchs.
• Rejecting austerity that punishes the poor while shielding the powerful.
• Demanding accountability when state violence spills the blood of workers. 

They don't want the scenario that benefited the elites using the veneer of "new order" and its sanitized version of "pancasila" after the tragic events of 30th September. They want to take back nationalism and people's welfare back from those who pretend to be as such- that the marhaen's action is more than just a flash of anger. It is a call to rediscover the moral spine of Marhaenism. This does not mean blind nostalgia or authoritarian appropriation of Sukarno’s image. It means reviving the spirit of justice and equality that gave Indonesia its soul. 

The People’s Verdict 

If the elites continue to ignore this cry, the marhaen will not remain patient. For when oppression deepens, rebellion is no longer a threat—it is a promise. 

Perhaps that is what these protests truly signify: not chaos, but a resurgent Marhaenism, demanding once again that Indonesia belong to its people, not its parasites. 

Torre’s Removal as PNP Chief: A Reformer’s Fall or a Political Purge?

Torre’s Removal as PNP Chief: A Reformer’s Fall or a Political Purge? 

In a move that sparked outrage before the dust could settle, General Nicolas Torre III, the reform-driven Philippine National Police (PNP) chief, was sacked after just three months in office. No laws were broken, no scandals exposed—just a curt order, “effective immediately.” To the public, it wasn’t accountability; it was the system silencing a leader who dared to challenge the status quo. In the Philippines of 2025, people didn’t want another authoritarian cop. They wanted a good one. For a fleeting moment, they thought Torre was it. 

A Clash of Authority

Interior Secretary Jonvic Remulla, also the National Police Commission (Napolcom) commissioner, had grown frustrated with Torre’s bold personnel reshuffles. Napolcom’s Resolution 2025-0531 reminded everyone of its authority, stating it “has the power to review, approve, reverse or modify” the PNP chief’s decisions. Remulla downplayed the conflict, telling the press: “There is no sanction. The Napolcom has not taken any sanctions as a body, nor has it been discussed, nor has it been filed. This is a personal decision of the President.”

Yet his tone betrayed personal grievance. Remulla admitted to calling Torre five times that night and several more the next morning—calls Torre ignored. For Remulla, this wasn’t just rudeness; it was defiance.

Torre, however, dismissed the issue as an “administrative matter” to be handled privately. At an August 18 flag-raising at Camp Crame, he introduced his successor, Gen. Banac, and brushed off the spat: “No order, no obstacle, and no challenge can break our unity and our commitment to the nation,” he told officers—a subtle jab at Napolcom widely noted by observers.

Even amid the rift, Torre retained strong support within the PNP. Directors of the PNP’s 18 regional offices signed a manifesto backing Torre and the chain of command, pointedly omitting mention of Napolcom’s directive.

Why Remove a Reformer?

To the public, Torre wasn’t the problem. He was no saint, but in a system plagued by what one local called “asshole pigs,” he represented a rare chance at reform. His refusal to play by the bureaucracy’s rules earned him enemies in Malacañang but won him admiration on the streets.

In his brief tenure since replacing Gen. Marbil on June 2, Torre pushed aggressive reforms: a five-minute response rule for Metro Manila patrols, the dismissal of 19 officers for misconduct, and the removal of eight police chiefs for poor performance. These moves made him a target but also a hero to those craving a cleaner PNP.

Mamamayang Liberal Partylist representative Leila de Lima captured the public’s frustration: “What’s happening?! They better have a good reason in doing that to a very popular, much appreciated and high-performing PNP Chief!”

Torre’s ousting backfired, sparking sympathy rather than compliance. Many saw it as retaliation tied to the Dutertes. Torre had dared to arrest their patriarch, and his removal reeked of revenge dressed as policy. Social media buzzed with Duterte supporters praising the decision, claiming the PNP was “better” under “Digong,” when unrestrained tactics—bereft of due process—were dubbed “efficient.” But at what cost? The war on drugs targeted the poor, red-tagging and harassment silenced dissent, and bigwigs escaped scrutiny until media and activists exposed the rot.

Atty. Wilfredo Garrido didn’t mince words: “The dumbest firing ever. That Marcos Jr. did as told is the dumbest decision ever. This is not going to sit well with the PNP, least of all the public.” He added, “If anyone is to be fired, it should be his detractors who wanted his head. They are all replaceable. Torre comes along only once in a long while, like Halley’s comet. What a shabby way to treat a hero, who has less than a year into his retirement. He is not corrupt. He is not abusive. He is not a threat to anybody in power.”

Netizens echoed the sentiment. One wrote, “Why General Torre? He has been a high-performing, a very popular, much appreciated and high-performing PNP Chief. Why not the officials involved in alleged anomalies in flood control be the ones removed not General Torre.” Another alleged, “There was an insertion of 8B procurement for 5.56cal which General Torre refuse to sign thus prompted DILG Sec to relieve him.” A third called it a “diversionary tactic to kill the issue of massive looting of flood control projects funds & irregular 2024 & 2025 national budget.”

Cracks in the Administration?

Torre’s removal exposed deeper fissures. Lawmakers pounced. Deputy Minority Leader Antonio Tinio declared: “The continuous rigodon and quarrels within the PNP prove the deepening rifts inside the Marcos administration. Rival factions are scrambling for power amid massive corruption, collapsing public services, and worsening poverty.”

Kabataan’s Renee Louise Co was more direct: “This is the classic behavior of authoritarian governments — rival elites battling for control while the people suffer. Swapping chiefs won’t fix the PNP’s rot as an instrument of oppression.”

For the opposition, this wasn’t about discipline but a government eating its own to protect entrenched interests. The public’s demand for reform—tackling corrupt cops, scalawags, and the lack of due process—clashed with a system prioritizing control over efficiency.

A Golden Parachute or a Dead End?

For reality's sake, Torre’s removal feels raw, especially amid swirling controversies: corruption allegations against Sara Duterte, flood control project scandals, and tensions over the West Philippine Sea. His ousting seems less about reform and more about political maneuvering.

Malacañang hinted at a new role for Torre, but questions linger: Is it a position befitting his record, or just a golden parachute to quiet the uproar? Legal barriers may limit his options, but the public’s trust in him remains unshaken. In a system crying for reform, Torre’s exit isn’t just a loss—it’s a warning of how quickly change can be stifled. 

Echoes of Valor in a Time of Crisis: On National Heroes Day in a time of scandals

Echoes of Valor in a Time of Crisis:

On National Heroes Day in a time of scandals

On this National Heroes Day, the Philippines finds itself once more in conversation with its own soul. Across monuments, plazas, and schoolyards, the names of Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Apolinario Mabini, Emilio Aguinaldo, Gabriela Silang, and countless others are intoned like sacred verses. Yet their deeds are more than carved letters in stone; they are flames carried forward by generations, reminders that this archipelago’s history was built not by resignation but by resistance. 

It was Lapulapu on the shores of Mactan who first showed that defiance was possible—that even the sharp steel of empire could be met with courage. Centuries later, Bonifacio would raise the banner of Katipunan, Rizal would wield his pen like a weapon, and Luna would marshal both genius and fury for a nation yet unborn. Each name, each sacrifice, forms part of a long river of struggle that flows into the present. 

What that suggests 

Heroism in the Philippine story has always been a response to a moment. In the 16th century, it was the rejection of conquest. In the 19th, it was the demand for dignity and freedom. In the 20th and to the current, it became the fight against occupation, dictatorship, and betrayal. Heroes rose not because they sought titles but because the times required them to stand. 

And as the note of this day reminds that, this oresent setting too are a time of testing: of democracy’s fragility, of economic strain, of lingering shadows of authoritarianism. What the nation's ancestors carried in bolos, rifles, and manifestos, modern Filipinos must carry in service, compassion, and integrity. 

The risks and the rhythm of history 

There is always the danger of treating heroes as distant icons. Marble statues do not bleed, nor do portraits starve. But the men and women they represent once did. They chose discomfort over safety, sacrifice over silence. The nation risks dishonoring them when it forgets that the very same choices confront every generation: The farmer who rises before dawn to feed millions. The nurse who leaves for distant shores to sustain her family. The teacher who walks rivers and hills to reach her students. The worker who resists exploitation with quiet dignity. 

These are not romantic images—they are the living substance of heroism. It is not surprising that the government, with its leaders would praise them for their heroic acts, rehashing statements enough to rally the people especially when they're being sureounded by scandals and crisis unaddressed: Sara Duterte have looked back the examples of names like Rizal or Sultan Kudarat yet can't escape from the issues involving confidential funds and her calls for bloodbath; so is Marcos who spoke about sacrifice yet struggling to address the pressing issues people insist to focus upon to- corruption, subservience to interests, social injustice, and others that hinder the march of development the Philippines has to traverse. 

The task of the present 

The Philippines cannot afford to relegate heroism to the pages of textbooks or the cadence of flag ceremonies. If history is to breathe, it must do so through present acts of courage and unity. The nation’s heroes remind Filipinos that patriotism is not a costume for parades but a daily discipline: rejecting corruption, defending the powerless, building bridges where division festers. 

The true test lies not in remembering what Rizal or Bonifacio did, but in answering whether today’s citizens are ready to act with the same fire in their own sphere of life. 

In this moment of remembrance, the Philippines discovers a truth both unsettling and empowering: heroes are not relics. They are not trapped in 1521, 1896, 1942, 1972, or 1986 and any other years. They live whenever an ordinary Filipino decides to lift others above themselves, if not having the will to die for others. 

National Heroes Day is, therefore, not a holiday about the past but a mirror of the present. And in that mirror, the nation is called to see its own reflection—not as a passive spectator, but as a potential hero waiting for the summons of its time.  

Caffeine Against the Night: When Cafés Become Dancefloors

Caffeine Against the Night: When Cafés Become Dancefloors

For a writer who stumbled into one of these gatherings, the coffee rave was first an oddity, then a revelation. He sat with his drink, notebook open, music pulsing in the background. At first, he watched. Then, he dared himself to move, to let the rhythm tug at his body while caffeine kept his mind sharp. What struck him was not spectacle but reprieve. 

This was no nightclub excess, no blur of alcohol and morning-after regret. The coffee rave carried an intimacy that nightlife often forgets. It promised something unusual: energy without intoxication, community without pretense. Here was a break from both monotony and hedonism, a chance to rediscover the simple joy of music and movement. 

At first, it seemed almost laughably niche. Cafés doubling as dancefloors? People writing on laptops while basslines throbbed? But the longer he stayed, the more it felt coherent. The rave was not escape but engagement. An untapped community craving connection, rhythm, and release in a healthier way. 

Memory Turned Into Movement 

To call it a “normal scene” would be misleading as the music carries memory. And whar unfolded in those cafés transformed memory into motion. The beat itself carried echoes of earlier eras. RnB, UK garage, Afrobeats, disco, tech house—genres once confined to nightclubs now surged beneath café lights. The effect was uncanny, a throwback to the pre-pandemic, even pre-millennium, when strangers moved together without irony. Here, in the be it daylight or evening, those rhythms turned coffeehouses into dancefloors, proving that the essentials of joy—sound, company, movement—never required alcohol or mere darkness. 

Not surprised if this can be followed by vaporwave tracks like Come Home Amado, industrial pulses, or the darkwave undercurrents of Nachtmahr and Puanteur de Charnier. Some came to dance, others to create- such as a few who may possibly treated the space like a hybrid co-working session—typing notes over an iced latte or matcha while their feet tapped along. 

The curators understood the balance: “The music has to invite, not overwhelm.” Energy built slowly, syncing with the crowd’s collective pulse. It wasn’t spectacle imposed on an audience. It was conversation—between sound and bodies, between presence and memory. 

Against the Sneer 

And yet, not everyone understood. Outsiders mocked. One friend of the writer shrugged, saying only the “sad” or “frustrated” would waste their time here. How come? Just because it is as same as a usual rave party with all the beats and "fun" around? Don't think so. 

For that sneer missed the point. The coffee rave was not about drowning sorrow—it was about clarity. Not about losing the self—it was about finding the self. 

It was at this point, watching the crowd sway to a garage remix while thoughts end scribbled into the notebook, that the thought crystallized: That the coffee rave is not simply a party. It is a revolt. 

The Embedded Manifesto 

Against hangovers. Against the tyranny of alcohol. Against nights lost to regret. 

In this revolt, no one is poisoned. No one is enslaved to the bottle. They are awake, eyes open, dancing with caffeine in their veins and words in their heads. Some even write manifestos as the bassline shakes the floor. 

This is not weakness. It is strength. To dance without intoxication. To connect without masks. To belong without flex. 

The café rave is not darkness. It is light. It is communion. It is clarity given rhythm. 

Call it small, laugh at its oddness. But from small cafés come great movements. From the beat of one track comes the march of many. From the bitter taste of coffee comes the sweetest revolution. 

This is not escape. This is resistance. 

The Regretless Beat 

For the writer, the discovery was simple yet profound. In an age of overstimulation and routine escapism, here was a space where people gathered to move, breathe, and create—without shame, without regret. 

True that there are those who criticise such events that provide breakthrough- but, since a nightclub might chase excess, the coffee rave insisted on balance. Where the usual party encouraged forgetting, this one allowed remembering. And where other scenes relied on the flex of who drank more, dressed louder, or stayed later, this one rested simply on shared experience—the pulse of music, the taste of coffee, the possibility of finding the self, if only for a song or two. 

Not spectacle, but presence. Not intoxication, but connection. Not mere darkness, but clarity. 

The coffee rave is still new, still fragile, still finding its shape. But as its devotees already know, the beat does not have to be loud to be revolutionary. Sometimes it only has to be heard.  

Unity, Memory, and the Lessons of Ninoy Aquino Day

Unity, Memory, and the Lessons of Ninoy Aquino Day

President Ferdinand R. Marcos Jr., in his message for Ninoy Aquino Day, urged Filipinos to draw lessons from history as a guide for leadership and citizenship. He underscored the values of peace and unity, describing the observance as a chapter in the nation’s shared story that “continues to echo across generations and public memory.”

The President reflected that the passage of time has given Filipinos “greater clarity and deeper perspective” in looking back on Aquino’s legacy. He stressed that commemoration achieves meaning only when the lessons of the past are translated into moral architecture, sound governance, and leadership “shaped by the enduring imperative to choose peace above quarrel, and dignity beyond differences.”

But beneath the rhetoric of reconciliation lies a more troubling contradiction. Marcos spoke of wholeness, sobriety, and foresight, yet his words are delivered at a time when many communities remain besieged by militarization and rights violations. While history, as he said, offers “continuing instruction,” the government today risks repeating the very patterns of suppression that defined the past it seeks to commemorate.

August is also marked as the month of International Humanitarian Law (IHL), the body of rules meant to protect civilians during armed conflicts. Central to IHL are the principles of distinction, proportionality, and protection of non-combatants. These principles were created precisely to prevent atrocities—bombings of villages, arbitrary arrests, torture, forced surrenders, and the weaponization of civilians as guides or human shields. Yet reports across the country tell of civilians falsely branded as combatants, of women and even infants taken as hostages to coerce surrenders, of ordinary people killed and then labeled “terrorists” to sanitize the crime.

The irony is striking. Ninoy Aquino himself was once vilified and silenced by the state, dismissed as a destabilizer, only to be remembered today as a symbol of democratic struggle. His death ignited the 1986 People Power "Revolution"—a moment when Filipinos rejected authoritarianism and reclaimed dignity. To invoke his legacy while pursuing policies that trample upon human rights and popular dissent is to hollow out the very meaning of his sacrifice.

The government’s language of “unity” and “local peace” often masks a relentless campaign of gradual constriction. Communities are militarized, livelihoods strangled, dissenters criminalized, and critics tagged as enemies of the state. In the name of “preventing resurgence” of insurgency, the state risks branding anyone who asserts truth, justice, and social change as a threat to order. This is unity enforced not by consensus but by coercion.

Even the developmental promises cited—projects for health, education, and social services—ring hollow when basic demands remain unmet. Workers continue to press for living wages. Farmers still clamor for genuine land reform. Communities call for dignity, livelihood, and the right to organize without fear. These are not extremist demands; they are the foundations of a just society. Yet they remain overshadowed by political consolidation and subservience to foreign dictates in the spheres of economy, policy, and national security.

If Ninoy Aquino Day is to mean more than ritual remembrance, then it must challenge the nation to see beyond official speeches. It must call leaders to recognize that history is not only about reconciliation with the past, but reckoning with the injustices of the present. To honor Ninoy is to honor the people’s continuing struggle for freedom, justice, and equality.

Unity cannot be built on silencing dissent. Peace cannot be achieved by militarizing communities nor oppressing people because of their aspirations. And commemoration cannot be genuine if the lessons of history are invoked only to serve power, rather than to transform it.

True statecraft begins not with hollow declarations, but with courage to listen to the people’s demands, humility to correct historical wrongs, and resolve to pursue a peace grounded in justice. Only then will history’s continuing instruction bear fruit—not as empty rhetoric, but as living transformation for the generations to come.