"The Funk to Spark a Revolution"
It was summer, and the Philippines was a place gripped by fear.
Martial law was in full force, and the country lived under the iron fist pretending there's a need for discipline and order. The streets were filled with tension, whispers, and uncertainty. The air seemed to be thick with the pressure of a thousand unspoken words.
Andres, a 25-year-old advertising copywriter by day, lived a life split in two. By morning, he was a well-dressed, corporate man, helping companies sell anything from soap to cars. But by night, he became something else entirely: an artist, a musician, a man with a purpose that could never be expressed in the world of advertising. At night, he’d retreat to his small apartment in Quezon City, where his guitar, notebook, and old vinyl records awaited him. It was in these hours that he found his true self. But it wasn’t just about music—it was about rebellion.
In secret, Andres was part of the underground movement. He had been recruited by a network of people, mostly students and intellectuals, who believed that the only way to fight back against the oppressive regime was through subtlety. The truth couldn’t always be shouted—it had to be hidden. Music, art, and poetry were their weapons. The revolution wouldn’t be televised, but it could be heard in the rhythm, in the words, in the spaces between the beats.
One evening, as he sat in his dimly lit room with the hum of the city outside, Andres heard a familiar voice on his shortwave radio. It was the "Voice of Friendship and Solidarity", a clandestine broadcast originating from Malta, playing "politically-laced" Funk and Disco songs from all over the world. The show often played songs from Libya, songs that Andres had come to adore. He had listened to them many times, drawn in by their catchy melodies and rhythmic beats. There was something about them that spoke to him.
Tonight, one song in particular caught his attention: “Young Men Say It's Okay in Libya Today.” The tune was simple but catchy, a funky groove with a message wrapped up in joy and optimism. It was the kind of song that could make you feel like everything was okay—even when it clearly wasn’t. The singer’s voice was smooth, the rhythm infectious. But the more Andres listened, the more he realized the subtlety in the message.
He stood up, pacing back and forth, his mind racing. What if he could do something similar for Manila? What if he could write a song, hidden beneath layers of funk, that carried a message of hope and resistance? No one would see it coming. He could spread the message without anyone realizing it.
Andres grabbed his guitar, a worn-out instrument with the fingerprints of countless jam sessions. He picked a few chords, adjusting the strings until he was satisfied. The rhythm came naturally. Funky, upbeat, and smooth. And then, the words came. Inspired by what he had heard, he began to rewrite the song in his own way, making it Filipino, making it Manila. But his version would be different—more than just a feel-good tune. It would carry the voice of the people.
As he scribbled down the lyrics, a feeling of excitement washed over him. He had no idea how far this would go, but he knew one thing: this song was the beginning of something bigger.
People say it's okay in Manila today
It's the place where the people take a stand
People say it's okay in Manila today
Let's all work and play hand in hand
Since the people led the revolution
They've shown the world how brave people can be
First they took the armed solution
The unending struggle sets the people free
People say it’s okay in Manila today,
It’s the place where all the hearts rule the land,
People say it’s okay in Manila today,
Let’s all work and play hand in hand.
Singing songs, the revo lives forever
Like the sunset sun that shines upon the bay
Blessed be the Filipino
Manila leads the way, come see how we play
People say it’s okay in Manila today,
It’s the place where all the hearts rule the land,
People say it’s okay in Manila today,
Let’s all work and play hand in hand.
Together we rise, with hope in our hearts
Through every battle, we never back down
From the mountains high to the shores that stretch far
Manila's spirit will always resound
It's okay, in Manila today!
It's okay, in Manila today!
It's okay, in Manila today!
It's okay, in Manila today!
It's okay, in Manila today!
II
It was a warm Manila evening. The city was a mix of chaos and resistance, with street protests happening in the shadows and the people’s anger simmering just beneath the surface. Andres, now three years into his secret life as both a corporate worker and an underground revolutionary, found himself once again in his tiny apartment, surrounded by the music that kept his fire alive.
Tonight, he had gathered his band—his comrades—ready to play the song that had been on his mind for so long. They had been practicing it for weeks, perfecting the groove, the rhythm, the vibe. The funky beat was in place, but the message—the message was what mattered most.
“Alright, alright, listen up!” Andres said, his voice filled with purpose. The band members, lounging on the worn-out couch and adjusting their instruments, looked up. “I’ve got something new. It’s funky, it’s fresh, and—if I’m being honest—it’s the most subversive thing I’ve written.”
The band exchanged glances. Tony, the bassist, raised an eyebrow.
“Subversive? Man, you know we just play to make people groove, right?” Tony asked with a playful grin.
“I’m serious,” Andres said, looking over at the others. “This isn’t just another funky tune. This one has a message. If we play this right, no one will even know what we’re really saying. But the revolution—it’ll be in the beat. In the rhythm.”
The band members exchanged uncertain looks. They knew Andres had always been about more than just music. His activism was part of who he was. But could a song really make a difference?
Andres stood up and began strumming the opening chords. “Trust me,” he said, as the rest of the band jumped in. “Just follow my lead.”
The rhythm was electric, the bass thumping, the horns kicking in. It was a classic funk groove, smooth and alive. Then, Andres began singing the lyrics.
“People say it’s okay in Manila today
It’s the place where the people take a stand
People say it’s okay in Manila today
Let’s all work and play hand in hand.”
The beat flowed, the melody was catchy, and the energy was contagious. It was just the kind of song that would get a crowd moving. But the words—though joyful on the surface—hid something deeper. It was a call to the people of Manila, a plea for unity, for strength, for resistance.
“Since the people led the revolution
They’ve shown the world how brave people can be
First they took the armed solution
The unending struggle sets the people free.”
The words sent a jolt through the room. Alon, the drummer, stopped playing for a moment.
“Whoa,” Alon said, his eyes wide. “That’s heavy, man. But it sounds... fun. Like a protest, but in a way no one will see coming.”
“That’s the point,” Andres said with a grin. “It’s a cover. People won’t realize what we’re saying. But it’s a message.”
The band continued playing, the music rolling over them like a wave. It was impossible not to get caught up in the rhythm, to feel the energy.
“Singing songs, the revo lives forever
Like the sunset sun that shines upon the bay
Blessed be the Filipino
Manila leads the way, come see how we play.”
As the song came to an end, the room fell silent. The band stared at Andres, the weight of what they had just played sinking in.
“That’s the one,” said Alon, breaking the silence. “It’s got the groove. And I get it. It’s not just about the funk. It’s about the revolution.”
“Exactly,” Andres said, his voice firm. “This is how we do it. We can’t march through the streets with guns. But we can march with music. We can send out a message that no one will hear until it’s too late.”
III
Over the next few weeks, the band played the song in secret, at underground venues and hidden gatherings. The locations were always changing—basements of abandoned buildings, dimly lit bars behind unmarked doors, even warehouses at the edge of the city. These places were alive with whispers of rebellion, the air thick with tension and hope. The song echoed through the spaces, igniting something unspoken in the hearts of the people who heard it.
Andres could see it in their faces: the determination, the fire that the regime had tried to extinguish. The song wasn’t just a melody; it was a call to arms. But with every performance, the risk grew. He felt it like a shadow following him everywhere—one step behind, waiting to strike.
One evening, after an especially electrifying set in a hidden club beneath an old bookstore, the band was packing up their gear. The crowd had dispersed quickly, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleyways as if they’d never been there. Andres was coiling up a microphone cable when Tony, their bassist, pulled him aside.
“You realize what we’re doing, right?” Tony whispered, his voice tense. His eyes darted toward the door as if expecting someone to burst through at any moment. “If the authorities catch on—if they figure out what this song really means—we’re done. It’s over for all of us.”
Andres paused, his fingers tightening around the cable. He looked at Tony, his face calm but resolute.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But this song—it’s too important. The people need to hear it. If we stop now, we lose everything. This is the only way.”
Tony ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “You’re not just risking yourself, Andres. You’re risking all of us. Carla, Ricky, me—hell, even the people who come to listen. You think they won’t come after them, too?”
Andres’s voice softened, but his conviction remained. “I’m not blind to the danger, Tony. But look around you. These people—they’re ready. They’re waiting for something to believe in. If we give them that, maybe—just maybe—it’ll be worth it.”
Before Tony could respond, the door to the bar creaked open. Everyone froze. A man stepped inside, his figure silhouetted against the dim light from the street. He was dressed casually—a jacket, jeans—but there was something about him that set Andres on edge. His gaze swept the room until it landed on Andres.
The man walked over slowly, his steps deliberate. The bar was eerily silent, the only sound the faint hum of the amplifier still cooling down.
“Nice song,” the man said, his voice low and measured. His eyes, sharp and piercing, didn’t waver. “I’ve been listening. I know what you’re doing.”
Andres’s heart raced, but he didn’t let it show. He met the man’s gaze, his posture steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his tone neutral.
The man smirked, leaning in slightly. “Relax. I’m not here to arrest you. But you need to be careful. There are ears everywhere, and not everyone’s as understanding as me.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “The song is powerful, but power draws attention. Make sure you’re ready for what’s coming.”
Before Andres could reply, the man straightened and turned toward the door. “Good luck,” he said over his shoulder.
Then he was gone, disappearing into the night as quickly as he had appeared.
The silence in the bar stretched long after the door had closed. Carla broke it, her voice trembling. “Who the hell was that?”
“No idea,” Tony muttered, glancing at Andres. “But if he’s right, we’re running out of time.”
Andres set the microphone cable down carefully, his mind racing. The man’s words echoed in his head. Make sure you’re ready for what’s coming.
He looked at his band, their faces a mix of fear and determination.
“We keep moving,” he said firmly. “We change venues, stay one step ahead. But we don’t stop. Not now.”
Carla let out a shaky laugh, shaking her head. “You’re gonna get us killed, you know that?”
Andres smiled faintly. “Maybe. But if we don’t fight now, we’ll lose everything anyway.”
The band exchanged glances, the weight of their decision sinking in. One by one, they nodded. They knew the risks, but they also knew the power of the song.
As they left the bar, the faint sound of someone humming their tune carried on the wind. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it was there. The song was alive, and it was spreading. For better or worse, the revolution had found its anthem—and its warriors..
IV
The days grew darker, and the tension in the air became palpable. The authorities had begun cracking down harder on anyone suspected of being part of the underground. But despite the danger, Andres and his band kept playing. The song had taken on a life of its own, spreading like wildfire. In smoky clubs, dim-lit bars, and hushed gatherings, people hummed its catchy tune, defying the government with every note. Music had become a language of rebellion, one the regime couldn’t control.
One night, after a particularly tense gig, the band was packing up their instruments in the alley behind the club. The dim neon sign flickered, casting erratic shadows. Andres’ phone buzzed. He stepped aside to answer, his face hardening as he recognized the voice on the other end.
“You need to stop,” the resistance leader said urgently. “They’re watching you. They’re onto the music. If they connect you to the revolution, it’s over. For all of us.”
Andres felt the weight of the words. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about all they had done, all they had risked.
“I can’t,” Andres replied, his voice steady but filled with conviction. “We’ve come too far. This song is too important. The people are singing it. We can’t stop now.”
The silence on the other end was thick. Finally, the voice spoke again. “You’ve made your choice. Just remember—this song is a weapon. Use it wisely.”
Andres hung up and turned back to his band. Carla, the drummer, lit a cigarette, her hands shaking slightly. “That call you got—was it from the resistance?”
Andres nodded, his jaw tight.
“What did they say?” Ricky, the saxophonist, asked.
“They want us to stop.” Andres replied,
Ricky laughed bitterly, his breath visible in the cool night air. “Stop? Are they out of their minds? We’re giving people hope. You can see it in their faces every time we play.”
“They’re not wrong to be scared,” Carla said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I saw plainclothes officers in the crowd tonight. Two of them. They weren’t there to enjoy the music.”
Andres looked at them both, his voice calm but edged with steel. “You think I don’t know the risks? Every note we play, every time someone sings our song, it’s a risk. But this isn’t just about us anymore. It’s bigger than us.”
Carla flicked her cigarette to the ground, crushing it under her boot. “Bigger than us? That’s great and all, but what good is a revolution if we’re dead?”
Before Andres could respond, a shadow emerged from the alley. Everyone froze.
“It’s me,” said a familiar voice. Mateo, one of the resistance leaders, stepped forward, his face grim. “We need to talk.”
Andres crossed his arms. “I already got the message. And my answer hasn’t changed.” Mateo sighed, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being watched.
“You’re playing with fire, Andres. They’ve started arresting people just for humming that tune. You know what they do to people in those cells. Do you really want that blood on your hands?”
Andres stepped closer, his voice low but fierce. “People are already bleeding, Mateo. They’re already suffering. Our song—our music—is the one thing they have left. I can’t take that away from them.”
Mateo stared at him, his eyes searching for a crack in Andres’ resolve. Finding none, he shook his head. “You’re stubborn. Always have been. But remember this, Andres—when they come for you, they won’t just come for you. They’ll come for everyone you’ve ever cared about.”
Andres didn’t flinch. “They already are. That’s why we fight.”
Mateo glanced at the rest of the band, who stood silently, their faces a mix of fear and defiance. “Fine,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But if you’re going to keep playing, you need to be smarter about it. Change venues. Use code words. Don’t let the song die—but don’t let them catch you, either.”
Andres nodded. “We’ll be careful. But we won’t stop.”
Mateo turned to leave, then paused. “One more thing—if you see a man with a scar above his right eye, run. He’s one of their enforcers. And he’s been asking about you.”
With that, Mateo disappeared into the shadows, leaving the band to stand in the eerie quiet of the alley.
Carla broke the silence. “So what now?”
Andres picked up his guitar case, slinging it over his shoulder. “Now we play. And we play louder.”
The band exchanged glances, their fear momentarily overshadowed by a shared determination.
As they walked off into the night, Andres began to hum the song, low and steady. One by one, the others joined in, their voices mingling with the wind.
The revolution wasn’t just in their hands—it was in their voices, their instruments, their music. And they wouldn’t let it be silenced.
Music was becoming a language of defiance, a language they couldn’t control.
V
One evening, after another gig in a tucked-away bar on the outskirts of Manila, Andres felt a cold chill down his spine. Something was wrong. The usual crew was packing up their instruments in the back when Andres noticed a man in the corner of the bar—a stranger, sitting alone. His eyes seemed to be locked on Andres, calculating, observing.
Andres was no stranger to danger; his entire life was a tightrope walk between his daytime role as an advertiser and his nightly role as an underground revolutionary. But tonight, the air felt heavier than usual.
“Tony,” Andres whispered to his bassist. “Something’s off. You see that guy?”
Tony looked in the direction Andres was nodding toward and squinted. “Yeah, I see him. Don’t think he’s just a regular—”
Before Tony could finish, the man stood up and walked toward the door, his footsteps deliberate, calculated. Andres didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He grabbed his guitar and stormed out the back door, heading for the alley.
The cold night air slapped him in the face, but his thoughts raced. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were closing in. Within minutes, he was speeding through the back streets of Manila on his motorbike, the city’s neon lights blurring behind him. His mind was set—he had to disappear. Not just for a night, but for good.
That night, Andres didn’t go home. He disappeared into the night, his only thoughts of safety, of survival.
The following morning, Andres received a call from his contact within the underground movement. The news was worse than he feared.
“They’ve linked the song to you,” the voice crackled over the line. “They’re coming for you. The police have raided the recording studio. They’ve got the tapes. You’re on their radar now.”
Andres’ heart sank. The song. His song. The one that had been his escape, his secret weapon for change. It was now the thing that could bring it all crashing down.
He knew the drill. Arrest, torture, interrogation—the government had methods to extract information from anyone they suspected of subversion. The heat was unbearable.
In a panic, Andres locked up his apartment, took only what he could carry, and fled. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going—not even his bandmates. He couldn’t risk it. Not now.
That afternoon, the door to his apartment was kicked open by government soldiers. They had come for him, but he was already gone.
A week later, the adrenaline began to fade. Andres found himself sitting in a small, dimly lit office, a coffee cup in front of him. He was back at his old advertising job, the place that once felt like a prison to his true self. The air-conditioning hummed, the faint murmur of his colleagues chattering in the background, but Andres couldn’t shake the feeling of being a stranger in his own life.
He hadn’t gone back to the apartment. He hadn’t looked over his shoulder yet. But he knew the risks hadn’t gone away. He was still on the government’s list, and they were still watching.
The job was a distraction, a way to survive. He answered calls, pitched ad campaigns, and typed out slogans with the same precision he had always done—but his mind was elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting to the window, to the city beyond, where his song had once echoed. It was like living in two worlds at once.
“Hey, Andres,” came a voice from the doorway. It was Mila, a colleague who had no idea of his double life. “You alright? You’ve been kinda spaced out today.”
Andres smiled, trying to hide the weight of his thoughts. “Yeah, just a bit tired, you know? Long week.”
“Long week, huh?” Mila said, her voice light. “Well, you’re still the best copywriter we have. If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thanks, Mila,” he said, forcing a smile. “I appreciate it.”
But as soon as she left, his smile faded. His revolution, his music, felt so far away now. The song—the message he had worked so hard to create—was out there, but it was also out of his reach. And he was stuck here, in a life that no longer felt like his own.
VI
The cold, fluorescent lights of the office felt like a stark contrast to the smoky, dimly lit bars where his music had once come alive. The hum of air-conditioning was a far cry from the pulse of basslines and the rhythmic stomp of feet on makeshift dance floors. Here, in this sanitized world, Andres was a ghost of himself, a man playing a part he no longer believed in.
He stared at the blinking cursor on his screen, the words of a new campaign half-formed in his mind but refusing to materialize. What does this even mean anymore? he thought, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. The slogans he used to craft with pride now felt hollow, stripped of any real purpose.
The truth was, he wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He was here because he had nowhere else to go. The revolution had forced him into exile—not just from the city streets and hidden venues, but from himself.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast long shadows across the office floor, Andres lingered at his desk. The others had gone home, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
The song haunted him. He could hear it in his head, the melody looping endlessly like a stubborn echo. It wasn’t just a song anymore—it had become something bigger, something alive. And yet, here he was, trapped in the mundanity of a nine-to-five existence, pretending that life could go back to what it was before.
What am I even doing? he wondered, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
The phone on his desk buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen. It was a number he didn’t recognize. His heart skipped a beat.
He hesitated for a moment, then picked up. “Hello?”
“Andres,” a voice whispered on the other end. It was shaky, nervous. “It’s me, Carla.”
His grip tightened on the phone. “Carla? What the hell are you doing? This line—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted. “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important. Listen, we need you back. The movement’s falling apart without you. The song—it’s still out there, but people need to see the face behind it. They need you.”
Andres closed his eyes, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “Carla, I can’t. They’re watching me. They’ve already raided my place. If I show my face—”
“Do you think we don’t know that?” she snapped, her voice cracking with frustration. “But you’re the reason people are still fighting. You said it yourself—this song is bigger than you. So act like it.”
Silence stretched between them. For a moment, Andres could hear the distant hum of the office building, the faint sound of cars passing below.
“I’m just trying to stay alive,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“And for what?” Carla shot back. “To sit in that office and write ads for products no one cares about? To hide behind a desk while everything we fought for burns?”
Her words cut deeper than he cared to admit. He wanted to argue, to push back, but he couldn’t. She was right.
“Andres,” she said, her tone softening. “The world doesn’t need another advertiser. It needs you. The real you.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his head in his hands. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he admitted.
“You can,” she said firmly. “You already have. Just… think about it, okay? We’ll be waiting.”
The line went dead, leaving Andres alone with his thoughts once again. He stared at the phone in his hand, his mind racing.
Could he do it? Could he risk everything again?
He glanced out the window, the city lights flickering in the distance. Somewhere out there, his song was still being sung, still being whispered in secret, still giving people hope.
And here he was, hiding in the safety of anonymity, pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
He stubbed out his cigarette and stood, grabbing his jacket. As he stepped out into the cool night air, the melody of his song hummed in the back of his mind.
Maybe Carla was right. Maybe it was time to stop hiding.
The streets were quieter than usual, a deceptive calm blanketing the city. Andres walked aimlessly, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, the weight of Carla’s words gnawing at him. His steps carried him through familiar alleyways, past graffiti-covered walls where his song’s lyrics had been scrawled by anonymous hands.
“This is bigger than you.”
Her voice echoed in his mind. Each time he tried to shake it off, the words clung to him like a second skin.
Eventually, he found himself outside a rundown café that doubled as a safe house for the underground. The door was slightly ajar, light spilling onto the sidewalk. He hesitated. He hadn’t been here since the raids began. Walking in felt like stepping back into a world he’d tried to leave behind.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. The room fell silent. Familiar faces turned to him, their expressions a mix of relief and skepticism.
“Andres,” Tony said, breaking the silence. He was sitting at a table in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Figured you’d crawl back eventually.”
Andres ignored the jab and slid into a chair opposite him. “What’s the situation?”
Tony exhaled a plume of smoke, studying him for a moment before speaking. “Bad. The studio’s gone. Carla’s been lying low since the raid, but the network’s falling apart. People are scared. And the song… it’s still out there, but we’ve lost control of it. The authorities are using it to bait us now.”
Andres frowned. “How?”
“They’re broadcasting it,” Tony said bitterly. “Low volume, just enough to catch attention. They’ve figured out it’s a signal for gatherings, so they’re setting traps. People show up, thinking it’s us—and they’re met with soldiers instead.”
Andres felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “They’re using my work to destroy everything we’ve built,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Tony said. “And the worst part? It’s working.”
Silence settled over the room. Andres leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked finally.
Tony leaned forward, his voice low and serious. “We need you to finish what you started. The song gave people hope, but now they need direction. We need a new signal, something the authorities won’t understand. You’re the only one who can do it.”
Andres stared at him, the weight of the request sinking in. He wanted to say no, to walk away and leave it all behind. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t.
“This isn’t about the song anymore,” Tony continued. “It’s about the movement. It’s about the people. You can either keep running, or you can stand and fight.”
Andres closed his eyes, the familiar melody of his song playing in his head. It wasn’t just a song. Not anymore. It was a weapon, a lifeline, a beacon.
He opened his eyes, meeting Tony’s gaze. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s do it. But this time, we do it on my terms.”
Tony smirked, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “That’s the Andres I remember.”
Over the next few hours, they mapped out a plan. Andres would compose a new song—a coded message that would bypass the government’s traps. It would be risky, but it was their best shot.
As the first rays of dawn broke through the windows, Andres sat at a battered piano in the corner of the room, his fingers dancing over the keys. The melody came to him slowly, a haunting tune that carried both hope and defiance.
It wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a call to arms, a promise that the fight wasn’t over.
And as the notes filled the room, Andres felt a spark of purpose reignite within him. He wasn’t just an advertiser. He wasn’t just a musician. He was a voice for the voiceless, a force the regime couldn’t silence.
For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.
Andres slumped into the corner of his apartment, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as the faint hum of his shortwave radio buzzed on the table. The faint crackle of a station from halfway around the world—Malta, if he remembered correctly—filtered into the room. The voices speaking in a language he didn’t understand gave him a strange comfort, a kind of escape from the chaos he had helped stir.
“I’m just listening to a shortwave station from Malta,” he muttered to himself, as if trying to justify his choices to the empty room. His voice carried a dismissive tone, as if this were just another late night in his ad-man life, tuning out the world after a long day.
That’s what he told himself most of the time. That his involvement with the underground, the secret gigs, the songs whispered through darkened streets—it was all just another creative outlet. A way to stretch his musical muscles, to prove he could create something that people would actually feel. Something that wasn’t a jingle or a tagline for soap or soft drinks.
“Advertising,” he muttered, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “This is no different. It’s just… messaging.”
But deep down, Andres knew it wasn’t that simple. The world outside his apartment was suffocating, a place where fear was the air people breathed. And his song—his damn song—had become the soundtrack to that fear, and to the resistance against it.
He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but every time he picked up his guitar and played those chords, he felt something stir in him. A purpose he didn’t want to name. Still, he clung to the idea that he was apolitical, asocietal. Just a musician, just a guy writing tunes.
“It’s just music,” he’d tell Tony when the bassist tried to warn him about the risks. “Nobody’s getting arrested for singing a song. That’s ridiculous.”
Tony had given him a look then, the kind that said you’re lying to yourself, but I’ll let you figure it out.
But here, now, with the Maltese station buzzing in the background and the city’s tension pressing against his window, Andres couldn’t escape the truth any longer. His song wasn’t just music anymore. It had outgrown him, slipping from his grasp and finding its way into places he’d never intended. Into the hearts of people who needed it, into the ears of those who feared it, into the hands of the regime trying to twist it into a trap.
“Imagine this is just about work,” he muttered, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with evidence of his restless nights. “Just another campaign. Just another pitch.”
But the lie felt thinner with every passing moment.
Andres leaned back in his chair, staring at the shortwave radio as it buzzed softly, filling the room with a low hum. His guitar sat propped against the wall, taunting him with the weight of what it had created. The song had spread like wildfire, and now the flames were licking at his heels. He took a deep breath, dragging his hand down his face.
“I will try to play it back,” he said to himself, his voice quiet but determined. “One more time. Just one.”
He wasn’t sure who he was convincing—himself, maybe, or the ghost of the life he thought he’d be living when he first strummed those chords. He picked up his guitar, the strings cold beneath his fingers, and began plucking out the melody. The room filled with the familiar tune, and for a moment, it was just music again. Just a song.
But the weight of it wouldn’t let him go. He knew what it had become. It wasn’t just music anymore—it was a call to arms, a whisper of rebellion that had grown into a roar.
As the last note hung in the air, Andres set the guitar down and exhaled. He grabbed his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder as he glanced back at the room one last time.
“Then I’ll leave this country before it reaches me,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. The words felt heavy, but they carried a strange finality.
He didn’t know where he’d go. Somewhere far, where the regime couldn’t reach him, where his name wasn’t whispered in dark corners and printed on wanted posters. Somewhere he could pretend he was just a musician, just a guy who wrote songs.
But as he walked out into the night, the city’s pulse humming beneath his feet, Andres couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving wouldn’t be so easy. The song was out there now, and it carried a piece of him with it. No matter where he went, it would follow.
VII
The days passed in a haze, but the pressure continued to mount. Each time he walked the streets of Manila, he was more conscious of the eyes that might be on him. He couldn’t escape it—the government had already begun cracking down on anyone involved in the underground movement. They were methodical, relentless. And Andres was no fool. He knew it was only a matter of time before they came for him again.
One evening, while walking home from work, Andres passed a group of military police. They were standing outside a shop, laughing, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. One of them caught his eye, and for a split second, Andres felt the weight of his secret life—the weight of the revolution pressing down on him.
He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t risk his life—and the lives of those around him—just to be a symbol. He had to leave.
Later that night, after a long conversation with one of his underground contacts, Andres made the decision: he would go. He would leave Manila, leave the Philippines "for a time being". There was a place where he could hide, where he could continue to live, continue to fight the revolution, but in a way that would be safe. He would go to Malta- or even Tripoli in Libya.
In the quiet, Mediterranean streets of Malta, Andres found a strange sense of relief. The small island was far removed from the political turbulence of Manila. No one knew who he was here. No one knew about the song, the revolution, the underground movement he had been part of. He was just another foreigner, trying to carve out a life in the bustling markets and narrow alleys.
But Malta wasn’t just a refuge for Andres. It was a new opportunity to continue his work. It was here, in the heart of the Mediterranean, that he found new connections to underground groups who had been fighting similar battles in their own countries. Malta, after all, was where the Voice of Friendship and Solidarity had broadcast its revolutionary messages.
One night, as he sat in a small café, sipping on a cup of coffee, he heard a familiar tune on the radio. The song that had once been his anthem—the one he had turned into something uniquely Manila—was playing. It was still being broadcast to the world, its revolutionary message still alive.
A smile crept across his face.
“I never left,” he whispered to himself. “It’s never over.”
And so, in the quiet streets of Malta, far from the danger of Manila, Andres continued his work. He played his music, continued to write, and built a life surrounded by those who understood what he had done—and why. The revolution hadn’t ended. It had only taken a new form.
And in his heart, he knew: It’s okay. Manila will rise again, even from a distance.
VIII
It had been a few months since Andres arrived in Malta, hiding from the oppressive regime in the Philippines. He had settled into his new life, living quietly and cautiously, but always with a yearning for something more. The revolution, the music, the fight—he couldn’t shake it. The song that had once been his act of defiance still echoed in his mind, and now, in a strange twist of fate, it seemed to be pulling him closer to something larger.
One evening, Andres received a tip from one of his new underground contacts. There was a gathering in the heart of Valletta, Malta’s capital, at a small but popular café that had become a hub for revolutionaries, artists, and intellectuals from across the globe. It wasn’t just any meeting—it was the Voice of Friendship and Solidarity’s radio station. The very station that had first inspired him to write his song.
“They’re playing the song tonight,” his contact had said cryptically. “You’ll want to hear it.”
Andres’ pulse quickened. He had to go. He knew this was no ordinary opportunity. It was a chance to reconnect with the people behind the very revolution that had awakened his spirit. The voices that had shaped his path were about to come together again, and this time, it would be different. “People Say It’s Okay in Manila Today” would take on new meaning.
The radio station was housed in a humble building, tucked between narrow, cobblestone streets. Andres approached it slowly, feeling the weight of what was about to happen. As he entered, the familiar sound of reggae and funky beats hummed through the air, with a touch of Latin percussion blending into the room. It felt like home. There was something about this place—the energy was infectious, the same kind of energy he had felt back in Manila when the song first came alive.
As he walked inside, a few heads turned. He was used to being a stranger, even now. But then he saw them—Alfred Sant and Raymond Agius. These were the men behind the original song, “Young Men Say It’s Okay in Libya Today.” They were more than just creators—they were revolutionaries, artists who had used music to galvanize resistance in Libya and beyond. And now, they were here, playing the same role in Malta.
“Alfred… Raymond,” Andres said, his voice steady but his heart racing. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
The two men turned, their eyes immediately assessing him. There was a brief pause, a shared understanding passing between them before Alfred stepped forward, a welcoming smile on his face.
“Ah, you must be the one who gave the tune a new twist,” Alfred said, his voice warm but curious. “We’ve heard about you—Manila, right?”
Andres smiled, grateful for the recognition. "Yes," he said, nodding. “I took your song and changed the words—‘People Say It’s Okay in Manila Today.’ It felt like the perfect way to express what was happening back home. You inspired me.”
Raymond, quieter and more reserved than Alfred, studied Andres for a moment, then spoke.
“It’s incredible to know that the song has found a new life,” Raymond said. “It’s what music should do—connect people across borders, inspire them to fight for what’s right, even in the most oppressive of times.”
Andres felt his chest tighten with emotion. “That’s exactly it. Your song—your message—was the spark. I just gave it a different voice, a different place to speak from.”
Before they could talk further, a small group of people in the back corner of the room started gathering around. The air was thick with excitement. It was time. The radio broadcast was about to begin.
Andres found a seat near the back of the room, his heart pounding as the radio crew prepared the broadcast. Alfred and Raymond set up their instruments—guitars, bass, drums, and a keyboard—all ready to recreate the spirit of revolution once again.
The atmosphere grew electric as the voices around him grew quieter. People whispered, excited to hear what was about to unfold. In a corner of the room, a shortwave radio was tuned to the 'Voice of Friendship and Solidarity' station, its crackling sound a constant reminder of the broadcast’s reach.
“We’ll play it again tonight,” Alfred announced to the gathered crowd. “But this time, we’re going to change the words. It’s not just Libya anymore. It’s the people of Manila, the Philippines. It’s their turn to be heard.”
Andres’ hands trembled slightly as he watched them prepare. He had lived with this song in his mind, in his soul, for so long. Now, he was about to hear it again, this time with the words he had written—People Say It’s Okay in Manila Today. He had always known this was bigger than just a song. It was the heartbeat of a movement that had transcended borders.
IX
The music began, slow at first, the familiar funky rhythm filling the room. The beat kicked in, and it felt like the ground was shaking beneath his feet.
“People say it’s okay in Manila today
It’s the place where the people take a stand
People say it’s okay in Manila today
Let’s all work and play hand in hand.”
The lyrics flowed, altered but still carrying the same energy, the same defiant spirit that had made the original so powerful. But now, the world was shifting—this wasn’t just Libya anymore. It was a new story, a new revolution.
“Since the people led the revolution
They’ve shown the world how brave people can be
First they took the armed solution
The unending struggle sets the people free.”
Andres closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over him. This was more than just a song. This was their shared resistance, a voice rising above oppression and fear. His song was now part of a greater movement, echoing in this room and beyond.
As the music played, the energy grew. The crowd swayed, tapping their feet, caught in the rhythm. And for a moment, it didn’t matter where they were. Whether it was Malta, Manila, or anywhere else—the people were united by this music, this fight.
“Singing songs, the revo lives forever
Like the sunset sun that shines upon the bay
Blessed be the Filipino
Manila leads the way, come see how we play.”
As the song reached its climax, Andres stood up, joining in the chorus, singing along. He wasn’t just a witness; he was part of something larger now. The revolution, the song, the music—it all felt like one continuous force, unstoppable, alive.
When the final note was played, the room erupted in applause. The moment was brief, but powerful. The broadcast was over, but its impact had only just begun.
Alfred turned to Andres, a grin spreading across his face. “That was it,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “Your revolution, from the heart of the Filipino, all loud and clear.”
Andres smiled, his heart racing. “I never thought I’d hear this song again—especially not like this. But it feels right. It feels like... we’re not done yet.”
Raymond nodded. “This song will live on. We’re all part of it now. It’s more than just a message. It’s a legacy.”
Andres looked around the room, the faces of people he had never met but who now felt like comrades. The revolution had crossed continents, and no matter where they went, no matter the dangers they faced, the message was the same: The fight for freedom, the fight for justice, would never be silenced.
And with that, Andres knew one thing: the revolution wasn’t just a part of his past—it was alive, beating in the heart of every person who had ever sung that song. The revolution would never stop. And neither would the music.
