In fact, although customary etiquette prescribes appropriate behavior within shrine precincts, a legally binding code of conduct is also established by statute. Pursuant to Article 188 of the Penal Code, titled Desecration of Places of Worship; Interference with Religious Services, the following legal penalties are stipulated: “A person who openly desecrates a shrine, temple, cemetery or any other place of worship shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than six months or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen. A person who interferes with a sermon, worship or a funeral service shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than 1 year or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen.”
Saturday, 4 October 2025
Beyond the Checklist: Traveling with Respect and Reverence
In fact, although customary etiquette prescribes appropriate behavior within shrine precincts, a legally binding code of conduct is also established by statute. Pursuant to Article 188 of the Penal Code, titled Desecration of Places of Worship; Interference with Religious Services, the following legal penalties are stipulated: “A person who openly desecrates a shrine, temple, cemetery or any other place of worship shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than six months or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen. A person who interferes with a sermon, worship or a funeral service shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than 1 year or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen.”
Friday, 3 October 2025
Of Coup Rumors and the Crisis of Credibility: Between Loyalty and Opportunism amongst the “Men in Uniform”
Thursday, 2 October 2025
The Urgent Need for Technological Transparency in Curbing Corruption
“It’s really unbelievable to me how corrupt this institution has become,” Dizon said. “The decay stems from a total lack of transparency. DPWH is a very decentralized organization; 300 district offices, 20,000 to 25,000 projects every year and no monitoring. Nobody has eyes on the process. They are their own little kingdoms, and they are the kings. But hopefully with this [blockchain], that will change.”
“Simply put, blockchain provides a lot of eyes on something. There are multiple eyes, and they don’t know each other. They can’t collude,” the Secretary added.
From his words, it is clear that adopting future technologies is part of a broader effort to reform institutions riddled with corruption such as the DPWH. “This is what the whole government needs, not just DPWH,” Dizon said. “From the budget process to procurement, to awarding contracts, to project implementation and payment; everyone should be watching.”
The answer will define not just the fight against corruption, but the very nature of governance and public trust in the years to come.
“Eye for an Eye: When Systemic Betrayal and the Moral Bankrupcy of Power Breeds Rebellion”
Thursday, 25 September 2025
A Performative Nation in a Hollow Republic: The Philippines as a Comfortable Cage
A Performative Nation in a Hollow Republic:
The Philippines as a Comfortable Cage
In this continuing past, the Philippines finds itself caught between the promises of nationhood and the reality of its contradictions. Nationalism, democracy, freedom, and pacifism—examples of ideals long invoked as attributes of the Republic—persist more as symbols than as living principles. They are rehearsed in ceremonies, slogans, and civic rituals, yet often fail to take root in the hard ground of social justice, sovereignty, and solidarity. What remains is a nation skilled in performance but uncertain in substance, a republic that exists more in form than in strength.
This hollowing has produced a peculiar atmosphere: one of resilience mistaken for power, contentment mistaken for freedom, peace mistaken for justice. Filipinos are taught to endure rather than to transform, to take pride in survival rather than in sovereignty. The result is a “comfortable cage,” where dependency and compliance are softened by rituals of pride, where the nation appears vibrant on the surface but remains bound to the very structures that prevent its emancipation.
A web of unresoved questions
For sometimes, Filipinos remain caught in a web of unresolved questions: which value should truly stand at the core of our identity as a people? Is it nationalism—the proud assertion of sovereignty rooted in centuries of resistance? Is it democracy—the promise that's reclaimed, fragile yet celebrated as the people’s triumph? Is it freedom—the word most cherished, yet also most misunderstood, often collapsing into individualism? Or is it pacifism—the instinct to endure, to keep peace even at the cost of justice, a habit born from survival through conquest and crisis?
After decades past, these questions remain unsettled. Years like 1898, 1946, 1986, heck even 2001 was supposed to provide clarity, a moral compass to guide nation-building. Instead, it opened a space where ideals jostle with one another, competing for primacy but never reconciling into a coherent vision. Each generation inherits the same unresolved debate: nationalism is invoked but rarely practiced, democracy is praised yet constantly undermined, freedom is prized but shallow, and pacifism sustains resilience but also breeds paralysis.
In this unsettled state, the Filipino identity itself seems suspended—torn between competing ideals, unable to decide which truly deserves to be the foundation of a nation still struggling to define its place in the world.
When nationalism is meant to display
Nationalism is often invoked during moments of crisis. It appeals to the Filipino’s shared history of resistance—our forebears’ defiance against Spain in 1896, the unfinished revolution interrupted by American colonization, the guerilla struggles against Japanese occupation, and the collective courage that toppled a dictatorship in 1986. Each time, nationalism flared up as a unifying cry, a reminder that the nation could stand together against oppression.
Democracy, meanwhile, was the great promise of EDSA: a collective voice reclaiming power from tyranny, a nation insisting that sovereignty resides in the people. It was supposed to be the corrective to dictatorship—a return to institutions, accountability, and participatory governance. In the euphoria of 1986, democracy was imagined as the foundation of renewal, the system that would finally allow Filipinos to chart their own future.
Freedom is perhaps the most celebrated word in the Filipino vocabulary, the legacy of 1986 and earlier struggles for independence. It is spoken of with pride, remembered as the people’s triumph over tyranny, and held up as proof that the nation could reclaim its destiny. Freedom is seen as the highest prize of the Filipino spirit—something for which generations sacrificed their lives.
Pacifism, finally, runs deep in the Filipino psyche. It is the instinct to avoid confrontation, to endure hardship with patience, to keep the peace even at the cost of justice. It comes from a long history of survival—centuries of colonization, repeated cycles of disaster, poverty, and political upheaval—that conditioned the Filipino to “make do” rather than to fight back. This instinct has created the much-praised trait of resilience, celebrated in media as the ability to smile through calamity. But behind the smile often lies resignation.
Altogether, these contradictions create an atmosphere that suffocates genuine nation-building—a comfortable cage whose atmosphere is that of performativism, contentment, and dependence. It is the air the Filipino breathes daily: rituals of pride and resilience, slogans of democracy and freedom, ceremonies of peace and harmony, all projected outward as if to convince the world, and ourselves, that the nation is strong and whole. Yet beneath the surface lies an inconvenient truth: the country’s strength is fragile, its independence compromised, its ideals hollowed out.
Nationalism exists, but too often it is nationalism that bends to the whims of the oppressor. It survives in parades, mottos, and “Filipino pride” moments, while the economy, defense, and culture remain entangled in dependence on foreign powers and local elites.
Democracy is performed with enthusiasm—ballots cast, speeches made, candidates cheered—but it is democracy stripped of substance, where dynasties monopolize power, money buys loyalty, and justice is unevenly applied. It is a democracy that entertains, but rarely emancipates.
Freedom, celebrated as the crowning legacy of revolutions and uprisings, has become a thin veneer for exploitation. It is invoked to justify the free flow of capital, goods, and labor, but in practice it means the freedom of oligarchs, landlords, and corporations to profit—while ordinary Filipinos remain shackled by poverty and precarity.
Pacifism, lauded as peace-loving resilience, too often masks passivity and dependence. It is the instinct to endure instead of resist, to avoid conflict even at the cost of dignity. The rhetoric of “resilience” and “keeping the peace” has become a tool to pacify demands for justice, ensuring that exploitation remains unchallenged.
Taken together, these ideals—once the promises of a renewed nation—now risk becoming shadows of themselves. They soothe, but they do not empower. They inspire, but they do not transform. The Philippines presents itself as a nation of proud, free, democratic, peace-loving people, but the lived reality reveals a harsher picture: a people asked to be proud without sovereignty, free without justice, democratic without equality, and peaceful without strength.
Until these contradictions are confronted—not with rituals, but with real structural change—nation-building will remain stalled in this limbo: trapped between the story the Philippines tells about itself, and the truth it cannot escape.