“Whispers of the Flame”

“Whispers of the Flame”

a message for All Hallows Day 

On All Hallows’ Day, the note speaks. It speaks not with the voice of the living, nor with the flourish of a proclamation, but with the quiet authority of memory and shadow. It speaks of those who walked before, whose footsteps carved paths where courage met adversity, whose lives were ordinary yet made extraordinary by the weight of their commitment. These are the saints of the soil, not robed in gold nor venerated, but forged in streets and fields where silence was sometimes the loudest language, and resistance the most enduring prayer. 

It carries the whispers of the fallen, voices folded into the wind, into the flicker of candlelight on grave and hearth alike. It speaks of All Saints, those who labored without expectation of recognition, whose names were not recorded in history but who are remembered in the rhythm of resolve and the heartbeat of the living. It speaks of All Souls, the unseen companions of the struggle, whose presence is felt in shadowed corners, in the quiet watching of those who remain, in the echo of promises made and never broken. 

The note speaks of continuity. Time may move, regimes may rise and fall, and the maps of power may be redrawn—but the flame it carries is eternal. Each remembrance, each silent honoring, becomes a signal. Every candle lit, every quiet reflection, every act of fidelity to memory is a mark on a map invisible to those who would not understand. The note does not shout; it does not seek the spectacle. It waits, patient, certain that its meaning will reach those who listen, those who have learned to hear between the lines, between the stones, between the living and the dead. 

It speaks of vigilance, of the tireless tending of the spirit that cannot be extinguished. It speaks of those who carry the weight of the task forward, who walk in the shadow of memory with steady hands and unwavering eyes. The note honors the fallen not with words alone, but in the recognition that their sacrifice is both guide and mandate: that the work is not complete, that the story is not concluded, that the flame of purpose endures in silence as well as in action. 

On this day, let the note speak further still. Let it speak in the quiet moments between dusk and dark, when the veil is thin and the past presses against the present. Let it remind the living that those departed are not gone, that every act of courage, every quiet fidelity, every unseen hand shaping the course of events, is witnessed. Let it speak of remembrance that is also resolve, of memory that is also direction, of absence that is also presence. 

Let those who read it know: the note does not seek applause. It does not promise reckoning to those who would never listen. It exists in the spaces between, in the shadows and the light, in the moments of contemplation and the movements of the unseen. It is witness, guide, and companion. It is a flame passed from hand to hand, from soul to soul, and from past into future. On this occasion, it speaks, and those who hear it are called to remember, to act, and to honor the continuity of a struggle that time cannot diminish. 

Of Moonlight, Lanterns, and Mangoes: Poems for Samhain

Of Moonlight, Lanterns, and Mangoes: Poems for Samhain

In this collection, Manila’s nights come alive through the quiet pulse of city streets, where the moonlight, lanterns, and urban lights illuminate both place and memory. Lanterns—from the moonlight, glowing windows, street lamps, and fleeting reflections—capture the rhythm of the city, moments of introspection, and the subtle remembrance that lingers at the edge of night, echoing the reflective spirit of Samhain (or Halloween). Mangoes—the lingering taste of summer fruit—carry the warmth of sensory memory, fleeting sweetness, and personal intimacy, embodying moments that refuse to fade even as time moves on. 

Together, lanterns and mangoes weave a tapestry of the seen and the felt: the urban glow and the human heart, the quiet streets and private recollections, the passage of night and the persistence of memory. The poems explore the space between day and evening, between loss and hope, between the ordinary and the luminous. In them, Manila breathes with the subtle music of remembrance, the fleeting touch of sweetness, and the gentle, enduring light of what one carries—visible or unseen—through every passing night. 

After Seeing the Crescent Moon

As I rode towards home,
I saw a silv’ry crescent moon,
Shining o’er the dark night sky,
Swaying to a heavenly tune.

It shimmered above Manila’s skyline,
Like calm after a fleeting drizzle;
A hush of breeze broke the weary heat
Of the sun’s last golden sizzle.

Jeepneys hummed their usual song,
Headlights flickered like fireflies’ gleam;
And puddles mirrored neon lights,
Turning asphalt into a dream.

The city stretched, unchanged, the same—
Far from its painted postcards’ grace;
A past that lingers, half in shame,
Still reaching for a brighter place.

Rust gathers on forgotten gates,
And billboards fade with stories told;
Yet in each shadowed street remains
A pulse, unbroken, faint but bold.

Children’s laughter, muffled, drifts
Through alleys lined with candle smoke;
A vendor hums a mournful hymn,
Of love and hunger interwoke.

And there—the crescent, pure and bright,
Adorns the sky with patient fire;
It speaks of endings, speaks of light,
And whispers softly to inspire.

It tells of lives that came and passed,
Of hands once warm, now cold and still;
Of vows once whispered, meant to last,
Now echoes down a silent hill.

Tonight the veil grows thin and near,
And memories breathe the evening air;
Each flickering flame, each whispered prayer,
Recalls the souls we hold most dear.

Yet still, beneath that silver glow,
This weary city dares to dream;
Each window flickers—hopes that show
Through cracked concrete and broken seams.

Still it counters all the blight of morrow,
A quiet song through streets of sorrow.
Its silver glow upon the urban seam
Whispers of life that dares to dream.

Through alleys worn, through fading light,
It hums of hope within the night.
Though shadows stretch and old scars stay,
The crescent keeps the dark at bay.

Each window flickers, faint but true,
A gentle pulse, a promise new.
The city breathes beneath its gleam,
And stirs again, as in a dream.

So I watch, pen in hand, and know,
Though time moves on, and winds may blow,
This lunar flame, though soft and small,
Still guards the life that binds us all.  

Samhain Night in Manila

The night spills slow across Manila streets,

Streetlamps flicker, neon hums and greets.

I sip my coffee, bitter, warm, and deep,

Watching the city stir but never sleep. 

Smoke from vendors curls into the dark,

A faint aroma of sweat, spice, and bark.

Jeepneys pass, their headlights sharp and brief,

Tracing tired arcs through asphalt and grief. 

Above, a crescent leans toward the east,

Silver witness to a day released.

It whispers softly of the times gone by,

Of voices lost beneath the urban sky. 

Windows flicker in apartment towers,

Each a quiet glow, a fragile power.

Families speak, or laugh, or sit in pause,

Connected to life, to memory, to cause. 

I stir my cup and feel the quiet hum,

Of lives that lived, of battles lost and won.

Samhain in the city—soft, not grand,

A gentle nod to past that holds my hand. 

The night is long, but not unkind,

It holds the weight of all behind.

Coffee warms, the streets breathe low,

And Manila waits for morning’s glow. 

I sit, I sip, I watch, I write,

The dark, the city, the fading light.

A simple night, a quiet rite,

A fleeting moment on Samhain night. 

Summer Fruit Lingers in the Night 

The heat of day has bled away,
Yet sweetness clings upon the air.
The night, half-tired, half-awake,
Breathes softly through the city’s glare.

A cup of coffee cools beside
The windowpane of fog and light;
Manila hums its sleepless tune,
Old dreams return, then fade from sight.

The crescent moon above the City
Watches lovers part, or stay;
Its silver glaze on roofs and glass
Makes even grief seem far away.

I taste the ghost of summer fruit—
Ripe mango, sun-warm, tender, slow;
It lingers still upon my tongue,
A memory too sweet to go.

Perhaps it’s love that never left,
Perhaps it’s time that will not yield;
Each night recalls a fragrant dusk,
Each dawn renews what once was sealed.

The rain begins its quiet song,
Across the tin, the stone, the vine;
And though the city wears its scars,
Its breath still mingles close with mine.

So here I sit between two seasons—
Where warmth and sorrow intertwine;
The summer fruit still lingers on,
Its taste—like memory—divine.

When she walked through the night 

The night carried her name like a whisper,

soft as steam rising from a cup.

The City was half-asleep,

but she walked as if the streets remembered. 

Her shadow passed beneath the lamps—

gold spilling over damp stone,

and the scent of rain-washed air

mingled with something sweet—

perhaps perfume, perhaps memory. 

She paused by a café window,

where someone’s pen scratched faintly on paper,

and the hum of conversation

fell quiet for a breath. 

She once said the city felt alive at night,

when everyone else had given up pretending.

She loved the way the lights

hid the broken places,

the way coffee and smoke

felt like warmth in borrowed time. 

The moon leaned low, a silver eyelid,

watching her cross the intersection

like the last dream of summer—

soft, deliberate, gone too soon. 

And though the hours folded into silence,

something of her lingered—

like ripe fruit left on a table,

still fragrant even in the dark,

still reminding the air

of sunlight and of home. 

The Scent That Stayed Until Morning

 
The night unfolds, half-quiet, half-awake,
A city breathing through its scars.
I sit with coffee gone to cold,
While streetlights hum like distant stars.

Outside, the drizzle veils the glass,
And every drop recalls a face—
a voice that softened every pause,
a warmth the years could not erase.

The air still holds that fleeting trace—
a summer scent, both shy and sweet;
perhaps from memory, perhaps from grace,
it lingers long where loss and hope meet.

The breeze that moves through narrow streets
seems borrowed from another time,
when laughter crossed from lips to rain,
and love was simple, near, sublime.

Now shadows drift through dim cafés,
the tables still, the hours slow;
but something tender, unresolved,
remains in places hearts still go.

And though the night will soon retreat,
its silver fades, its music dies—
the scent that stayed until the dawn
still hums beneath the urban sky.

Moonlight and Caffeine

Looking at the moonlight,

I reminisce your presence,

Your beauty, warmth, and charm,

More than an evanescence.

Your love, as if like caffeine,

Wakens my restless mind,

A spark that burns eternal,

No shadows could ever bind.

The night wind whispers softly,

It carries your gentle voice,

Each memory a melody,

Each thought a tender choice.

Stars glimmer like your laughter,

Each beam a silver thread,

That weaves around my aching heart,

Where every hope is fed.

In dreams, I chase your figure,

Through gardens drenched in light,

Where roses bloom eternal,

And darkness yields to night.

Your eyes, twin constellations,

Guide me through every storm,

Your love, a boundless ocean,

Forever keeping me warm. 

Even as the dawn approaches,

And moonlight fades away,

Your essence lingers deeply,

To color all my day.

So here beneath the heavens,

I whisper, soft and true:

No time, no space, no distance

Could dim my love for you.

“Pride, Profit, and Principle: The Philippines at the Frankfurt Book Fair”

“Pride, Profit, and Principle: The Philippines at the Frankfurt Book Fair”

 By Lualhati Madlangawa Guererro 

The Philippines’ presence as Guest of Honor at the 2025 Frankfurt Book Fair has been hailed as a historic milestone, a “momentous time for Filipinos.” The Philippine Pavilion, under the banner “The imagination peoples the air,” stands proudly amid the sprawling halls of this global publishing hub, celebrating the boldness, creativity, and reflective spirit of Filipino literature. Through speeches, curated exhibitions, performances, and panel discussions, the country presents itself as a literary force, showcasing imagination and intellect that can inspire dialogue and transformation. 

Yet beneath the applause and fanfare lies a troubling tension, one that many choose to overlook. The Frankfurt Book Fair is not merely a cultural celebration—it is a marketplace, a commercial engine where publishing rights are traded and visibility translates into profit. In this arena, critics argue, moral responsibility and ethical concern are often subordinate to sales, fame, and international recognition. 

Indeed, the fair has drawn sharp criticism for its complicity in Israel’s ongoing actions in Palestine, with Palestinian voices deplatformed and silenced while others, politically aligned with the perpetrators, enjoy global acclaim. Calls for boycott by independent publishers and human-rights advocates remain vocal, yet they are dismissed or downplayed by mainstream participants. Many writers and presses appear unfazed, perhaps because the local literary scene is under constant pressure: declining readership, low literacy rates, and economic constraints push writers and publishers to pursue sensational stories that will sell. In such a context, the Frankfurt Book Fair offers a rare lifeline—a chance to gain exposure, marketability, and international recognition. 

But this pursuit of fame and profit comes at a cost. Writers who once risked their names and reputations to speak truth to power, who exposed injustice and state violence at home, now find themselves participating in an event whose political complicity cannot be ignored. Books that once served as instruments of conscience risk being repackaged as exportable commodities, celebrated abroad while their moral weight is diluted. Political resistance, once sharp and urgent, becomes a product to be consumed—a soft power tool that benefits markets more than the oppressed. 

Within the Filipino literary community, this tension is deepened by self-interest and selective concern. Too often, praise is showered upon those whose works sell briskly or whose names gain international visibility, while colleagues who are silenced, marginalized, or deplatformed are quietly dismissed as irrelevant. The issue is not merely commercial—it is profoundly ethical. Some writers attempt to depoliticize the fair, insisting that it is simply a cultural or commercial event. Others profess solidarity with the oppressed yet behave as if morality can be suspended when inconvenient, ignoring, belittling, or even red-tagging those who take principled stands. In such an environment, Pinoy pride, once a noble sentiment, risks turning hollow—reduced to a display of vanity rather than a testament to truth or justice. 

Worse still, this brand of pride, flaunted as cultural triumph, borders on the cringeworthy. It echoes an attitude of indifference—“Who cares about Adania Shibli or Roberto Saviano?”—as though the deplatforming of others is of no consequence so long as one’s own name shines. For these writers, what matters is not the moral ground they stand upon, but the market value of their work. In the end, this posture exposes a troubling impulse: the tendency to downplay serious, criticisable issues in favor of a self-centered narrative—the “how about me?” refrain that eclipses conscience. The suffering of others becomes “not their problem,” even as calls from independent publishers to boycott the event over its complicity in genocide grow louder, joined by the voices of their own concerned colleagues. 

The fair illustrates a fundamental truth about the global literary marketplace: profit consistently outweighs principle. Visibility, awards, and foreign recognition are seductive, but they cannot substitute for conscience. Writers who aim to inspire reflection and dialogue must reckon with the moral dimensions of their participation. Can a platform that silences some voices while celebrating others truly serve literature? Or does it merely transform works of conscience into exportable products, stripping them of context, urgency, and ethical force? 

At the end of the day, the Frankfurt Book Fair is a marketplace—powerful, influential, and undeniably global. Yet Philippine literature, in its highest form, must not bow to market pressures alone. It must retain courage, conscience, and moral clarity. It must reflect not only the brilliance of Filipino imagination but also the struggles, truths, and principles of the nation. To participate without reflection, without weighing the ethical costs, is to risk turning culture into spectacle, conscience into commodity, and pride into mere self-promotion. 

The question for Filipino writers, publishers, and cultural leaders is urgent and inescapable: will Philippine literature be celebrated only for its marketability, or will it remain a voice for conscience, a mirror of society, and a force for truth, justice, and reflection—at home and abroad? Recognition is fleeting; acclaim is temporary. But principle, courage, and conscience endure. 

To Run Like Hell: On The Burden of Independence and the Weight of Integrity

To Run Like Hell: On The Burden of Independence and the Weight of Integrity

After Watching Jerold Tarrog's “Quezon” 

By Lualhati Madlangawa-Guererro  

In the eyes of the nation, independence is a banner. But in the conscience of the citizen, it is a burden. Those who watch Jerrold Tarog’s Quezon cannot help but see the truth that history has long concealed: that behind the great men and women of the Republic were, in fact, ordinary politicians, human in their ambition, human in their weakness, often clinging to power as if survival itself depended upon it. Their principles were not always strong; their convictions were tempered by pragmatism that too often slipped into opportunism. And the people, left to witness, are forced to ask: is this the inheritance of freedom? 

A concerned would have said then, as he might now: that if corruption has become tradition, if shortcuts and compromises define public life, the revolution the Philippines needs cannot be enacted by law, by decree, or by rhetoric alone. Integrity is not something written in statutes; it is something lived—every day, without applause, without witness, with the stubbornness of conscience. 

The citizens of the nation must rediscover the meaning of civic virtue. They must speak when silence is convenient; they must vote when apathy tempts them to abstain; they must respect rules not out of fear of penalty but because the common good demands it. And here lies a bitter irony: even Manuel L. Quezon, even in his time, understood this. He issued a code of ethics—not as mere paper, not as ceremonial gesture, but as a mirror to reflect the conscience of every public servant. But, in seeing his code becomes performative as that of the pledge of allegiance, even contradicting to laws such as "Have faith in Divine Providence that guides the destinies of men and nations" when people talk about separation of church and state. So is "Value your honor as you value your life. Poverty with honor is preferable to wealth with dishonor" when one see prominent personalities tiptoeing between how to maintain image and how to upheld integrity- for image and integrity are still way different despite at times overlapped. 

History is relentless in its lessons. Heneral Luna warned: “Mayroon tayong mas malaking kaaway kaysa mga Amerikano—ang ating sarili.” (“We have a greater enemy than the Americans—ourselves.”) He mocked the self-deception of the weak: “Para kayong mga birheng naniniwala sa pag-ibig ng isang puta!” (“You are like virgins who believe in the love of a whore!”) And he asked the ultimate question: “Negosyo o Kalayaan? Bayan o Sarili? Mamili ka!” (“Business or Freedom? The Nation or Yourself? Make your choice!”) These lines, though uttered in that movie done years ago, still echo in the halls of the present. For the greatest enemy of the Republic is not foreign power, not the distant hand of influence, but the Filipino himself—indifferent, distracted, morally lazy. 

True independence is not the waving of a flag. It is not the ceremonial signing of treaties or the pomp of parades. It is the hard labor of the soul. It demands a maturity of character, a pride that is principled and sustained, a courage to choose what is right when no one is watching. Pinoy Pride, if it is to survive, must be more than a catchphrase or a hollow cheer. It must be the practice of honesty, the exercise of empathy, the devotion to civic responsibility. Without moral grounding, pride is merely noise—a hollow echo of what Lu Xun called the spirit of Ah Q: the cowardice that congratulates itself for small victories, the self-deception that excuses laziness, the opportunism that masquerades as cleverness. Too often, it is a reflection of the Filipino who prefers spiritual victory over true effort, who praises himself while avoiding duty. 

The lesson is clear, unyielding, and uncomfortable. To be free, the Filipino must rise not only in protest but in principle. The nation’s fight is not won only in armed struggle or in political maneuvering. It begins, every day, in the hearts of citizens who refuse to look the other way, who insist upon decency even when it is inconvenient, who hold themselves accountable to standards higher than personal gain. As Quezon himself declared, “I would rather have a government run like hell by Filipinos than a government run like heaven by Americans.” At first, one might hate him for the bluntness of this statement. Yet in that bluntness lies understanding of human nature in its rawest form. Quezon knew that Filipinos, flawed though they might be, possessed the potential for self-correction, for growth, for improvement. He added, often forgotten in its entirety: “Because no matter how bad, a Filipino government might be improved.” It is a call to responsibility, a call to engage, a reminder that the work of nation-building begins with the courage to act within one’s own people, one’s own society, and one’s own conscience. 

Independence is a burden that tests character. It is a call to courage, to conscience, to moral vigilance. It demands of every Filipino the patience to build, the honesty to endure, and the integrity to persevere. Without these, freedom is no more than a word; without these, the flag flies over a hollow house. Only when citizens choose principle over expedience, duty over convenience, and conscience over comfort, can the Philippines claim the independence it celebrates, the sovereignty it demands, and the dignity it deserves. Otherwise, with all the performativism so often displayed, one cannot help but wonder: is the Filipino truly fit for independence? Perhaps Leonard Wood was right when he said that the Filipino must first learn the very meaning of independence. Yet Quezon and his circle refused to wait. They chose to learn independence the hard way, knowing that since 1896 or 1898, the Filipino people had understood it, and that this understanding now had to be translated into policy—not through an American lens, but through a distinctly Filipino perspective. 

To be honest, as an observer, one cannot help but note that Filipinos have often become shallow in their approach to nation-building. It becomes performativism, a display of rhetoric without depth or consequence. In such moments, one might ask: is the Philippines truly a nation, or merely a “cultural community”? The question is sharpened when observing those who wish for the country to become the 51st state of the United States—an idea that would make Puerto Rico’s claim to independence seem both justified and urgent, if not for the leadership of Muñoz-Marín, who, like Quezon, understood that independence is not merely a status, but a hard-won practice of governance, identity, and moral responsibility. The difference was this- Quezon believed in self-determination as a nation and thus deserve the independence even it meant going through hell, Muñoz-Marin quashed the idea and prefers seeing his country a cultural community "under the auspices of the Americans". 

Why look back at history? After watching "Quezon", even its ealier ones "Goyo" and "Heneral Luna", and observing at the present situation, one cannot help but see that behind the appearances of order and stability, old problems continue to creep into daily life. These are the problems that many would rather dismiss, forget, or call irrelevant—but they persist, shaping the nation’s reality. Imperialism—whether American, Chinese, or even Filipinos themselves exercising authority over the people—remains a shadow over sovereignty. Bureaucratic capitalism, with personalities past and present alike, still reeks of corruption, often hidden behind layers of performativism. Feudalism lingers, with landlessness continuing to plague the common folk, whose clamor for social justice echoes the very struggles Quezon himself faced. Many would dismiss these socio-political challenges as “passé,” as if the past no longer matters. But in truth, the Philippines’ past is ever present, feeding the hollow performances of the present and shaping the fragility of the future. Until these issues are confronted not in rhetoric but in principle and action, independence remains incomplete—celebrated in word, but not yet realized in deed.

This is the challenge. This is the burden. And in answering it, the Filipino proves not merely that the country is free, but that the country is worthy of freedom.  

Japan’s Contradiction: Between Capitalist “Coprosperity” and Domestic Contempt

Japan’s Contradiction: Between Capitalist “Coprosperity” and Domestic Contempt

This writer recently came across an article about Japan’s international development aid—its partnerships, training programs, and cultural exchanges. Yet beneath the optimism lay a familiar unease: the tension between Japan’s global ambitions and its guarded domestic outlook.

When longtime Kanagawa resident Jigyan Kumar Thapa, a Nepali who has lived in Japan for twenty-five years, boarded a train one day wearing his traditional topi, he did not expect hostility. A Japanese passenger shouted, “Stop bringing foreign culture!” Thapa, who has spent decades promoting Japan-Nepal friendship, was left silent.

His story spread across social media but drew little sympathy. Instead, many blamed foreigners for Japan’s “social problems.” It was a revealing echo of a rising mood—one that cloaks anxiety in patriotism and uses “manners” as a mask for prejudice.

The irony is striking. Japan speaks of “coprosperity” through agencies like the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), while relying ever more on foreign labor to sustain its industries. Yet resentment festers toward the very people keeping its economy alive. An aging, shrinking Japan depends on outsiders for survival but struggles to see them as part of its community.

If Japan cannot reconcile its global image with its domestic attitudes, it must pause and reflect. A nation cannot preach “coprosperity” abroad while cultivating quiet suspicion at home. It cannot invite workers to share in its progress, then draw invisible lines when they arrive.

What Japan needs is not more programs or slogans, but honesty—an admission that beneath its outward warmth lies discomfort with difference. If that cannot be faced, then perhaps the old isolation of sakoku would at least be more consistent than a partnership built on half-truths.

To embrace the world while rejecting its presence is not diplomacy—it is theater. The danger lies not in closing one’s doors, but in pretending they are open while keeping them locked.

This contradiction is not new. Japan has long wrestled with the balance between imported modernity and native moral tradition. Thinkers like Ikki Kita and Yukio Mishima, though separated by time, shared the fear that Japan’s soul was being diluted by Western ideas. They called for a return to Shūgi—a moral discipline rooted in loyalty, sincerity, and labor.

Ironically, Shūgi once drew Western admiration. Commentators praised Japan’s “work ethic” as the secret of its postwar recovery, contrasting it with their own welfare systems. Yet this praise was hollow: the West desired the results of Shūgi—efficiency and productivity—without its spirit of duty and sacrifice. Work was reduced to transaction, hardship to “choice,” and inequality to morality.

That spirit of Shūgi built modern Japan’s work ethic. But global capitalism hollowed it out. The ethic remains, the soul is gone. Efficiency replaced empathy, hierarchy replaced dialogue, and discipline replaced understanding. Shūgi became a corporate slogan, stripped of moral depth.

So when society blames immigrants for its discomforts, perhaps the problem lies deeper—in the system that created them. The foreigner becomes a scapegoat for the machine that demands endless output and denies humanity. It is not Thapa, nor the Nepali worker, nor the Filipino entertainer who unravels Japan’s balance—but the relentless pursuit of efficiency that turns people into instruments.

There is bitter irony in Thapa’s experience. The Vedic-Buddhist ideals that once shaped Japan’s moral culture came from the same world Thapa represents—Nepal, India, the Himalayas. Yet in today’s Japan, that shared heritage is forgotten. The man who told Thapa to stop “bringing foreign culture” did not realize that Japan’s own ethical foundations trace back to that very source.

Modern capitalism turns ideals into slogans. Multiculturalism becomes a word without meaning; efficiency, a false god. When citizens tell foreigners to leave, the question should not be about the foreigners—but the system itself. Why does Japan depend on migrant labor instead of improving life for its citizens? Why invite others under the name of friendship, only to humiliate them? Why speak of “global cooperation” while tolerating quiet xenophobia?

If Japan truly believes in Shūgi, it should practice it honestly—not as propaganda, but as living philosophy: discipline balanced by compassion, pride tempered by humility. Shūgi without compassion becomes tyranny; “coprosperity” without sincerity, hypocrisy.

The West, too, hides its self-interest behind rhetoric of “development” and “democracy.” It preaches partnership but demands imitation; offers aid but ensures dependence. It celebrates work ethic not out of respect for labor, but to preserve hierarchy. It is easy to tell others to “work harder” when the system rewards ownership over toil.

Now, that contradiction grips all advanced economies. Societies that glorified effort are collapsing under the efficiency they worshiped. The shortage of workers in Europe, the U.S., and Japan is not just demographic—it is moral. The cultures that once praised sacrifice now refuse to bear it, outsourcing both labor and conscience, then blaming immigrants for the fractures that follow.

The West admired Shūgi only when it served convenience—a disciplined ethic without communal duty. But Shūgi, in its pure form, is not nationalism or capitalism. It is the moral dignity of labor, the belief that work carries meaning beyond wages or metrics. That is what both Japan and the West have lost in their chase for productivity.

So when Japan invokes “coprosperity,” one must ask: prosperity for whom? If the nation seeks a moral role, it must lead by example, not by slogans. Let Shūgi be practiced with sincerity, not performed for applause. Only then can Japan offer something more than aid or trade—perhaps a spiritual correction to a world that mistakes material growth for moral progress.

When Thapa quietly removed his topi on that train, it became a symbol of Japan’s crisis of identity—a nation that once drew from Asia’s spiritual breadth, now shrinking within its own fences. His silence spoke volumes: a society proud of its order, yet uncertain of its humanity.

The Forbes Flop: When Their Protest Becomes Performance

The Forbes Flop: When Their Protest Becomes Performance

Last Sunday night, October 12, about a hundred "Diehard Duterte Supporters" (DDS) gathered in Forbes Park, led by Cavite Representative Kiko Barzaga, ostensibly to demand accountability from the Marcos administration over alleged corruption. They chanted, waved banners, and made a show of defiance—but let’s call it what it was: a flop. 

From the start, things were telling. The “rally” didn’t kick off until 11:00 p.m.—apparently, traffic delayed the revolution. The streets were crawling with police and vloggers, yet the actual rallyists were scarce. Barzaga himself arrived late, gave a quick interview, and was gone in under an hour. By midnight, the square had emptied, leaving only a handful of content creators to document the ghost of a protest. Across Manila, there were minor demonstrations elsewhere, but nothing that remotely resembled a movement in Forbes. 

To top it off, diehard DDS influencers are pointing fingers at Chavit Singson for failing to send ships to transport “thousands” of supporters to Manila. And when the numbers didn’t materialize, they turned to fake videos and photos—some from last September 21, some from as far away as Nepal—trying to convince the world that the streets were teeming with these self-proclaimed "revolutionaries". Spoiler alert: they weren’t. The noise was online, not on the streets. 

And here’s the irony: they claim to be “against corruption,” yet their loyalty remains with a regime that is itself steeped in it. Being “opposed” seems less about justice and more about factional allegiance—protesting not because officials are implicated in scandal, but because they dared investigate a favored patron. That’s not dissent; that’s theater. 

If these self-proclaimed diehards were serious, they would take a page from history—where the brave didn’t just post online or pose for cameras. Think of Guatemala’s Jueves Negro, when ordinary citizens, armed with machetes, clubs, and even guns, descended on the capital in a violent, merciless push for power. The diehard, in those moments, was remorseless, uncompromising, and utterly committed to the cause, come what may. That kind of grit—the willingness to risk everything—is what separates true rebellion from performativism. 

Or perhaps one should ask—was it almost? If to recall, one speaker at Liwasang Bonifacio last September 21 was caught on camera declaring, before the group proceeded to Mendiola, that they were “ready to storm the gates” and “willing to die for their cause.” Another voice followed, urging the crowd to “prepare your lighters.” Later, when a riot broke out in Mendiola and their attempt to unseat the President failed, the same group suddenly played innocent. They claimed that the earlier call to “prepare the lighters” was only meant for a candle-lighting and prayer vigil. 

But really—if it were just that, they could have said “light the candles.” Why, then, were so many carrying lighters, and why use the word storm? The language itself betrayed their intent. No one storms for prayer; people storm for confrontation. And in that brief, televised moment, their own words ignited more than any candle ever could. But in fairness, that expresses something beyond the parameter "prepare your lighter" and "willing to storm the gates". 

But back to the main point—their actions amounted to nothing. It was noise masquerading as conviction, a spectacle staged for relevance. They seized on the corruption scandal as a convenient excuse to call for their patron’s “return home,” or worse, his “return to power,” dressing up nostalgia as righteousness and glorifying a past that was anything but clean—an “order” built on blood, fear, and scandal. Yet in the end, it was a flop, plain and simple. No matter how hard they spin it, the public saw it for what it truly was: barely a hundred diehard loyalists meeting for an “eyeball,” not a movement. 

What happened in both Rajah Sulayman Park in Malate and Forbes Park on October 12 was less a protest and more a parody—a hollow echo of defiance. The Alsa Masa spirit they so proudly invoke? It flickered for a moment, then disappeared before it ever truly began.  

Neither His Patriotism nor the "Law" Could Save Duterte from the Truth

Neither His Patriotism nor the "Law" Could Save Duterte from the Truth

In the end, neither his brand of patriotism nor the “law” could save Rodrigo Duterte and his circle from the truth.

The International Criminal Court’s Pre-Trial Chamber I, in a decision dated 26 September and made public days later, left no ambiguity: “The detention of Mr. Duterte is required so as to ensure his appearance in these proceedings, that he does not obstruct or endanger the investigation or the Court’s proceedings, and to prevent the commission of related crimes within the jurisdiction of the Court.”

The judges made clear that Duterte’s enduring influence — once the foundation of his political dominance — remains potent enough to threaten the process of justice. His family’s open defiance, they noted, reflected “the will to help him elude detention and prosecution.”

That defiance was most vividly embodied by Vice President Sara Duterte. Her public vow to “break [her father] out” of detention and her accusation that the ICC and the Philippine government relied on “fake witnesses” were not treated as rhetoric but as evidence that “Mr. Duterte continues to command loyalty and political power strong enough to undermine future proceedings.”

When the defense proposed his release under strict conditions — electronic monitoring, communication limits, and a pledge to remain abroad — the court was unconvinced. The country that offered to host him, the ruling said, “lacked infrastructure for electronic monitoring,” rendering the plan unworkable.

Nor did the judges accept arguments about his age or health. “The Defence does not have the requisite expertise to draw such a conclusion — and as such, [its claims] are purely speculative and without basis.” Duterte’s alleged frailty, the court concluded, did nothing to diminish his reach or his capacity to influence others.

More damning was the chamber’s warning about his return to Davao City: “Should he return to Davao City, Mr. Duterte would be placed in the very position that allowed him to commit the crimes for which his arrest and surrender to the Court was initially sought.”

The judges also cited his 2024 campaign remark pledging to “double the killings” if elected again — proof, they said, of the ongoing danger he poses.

What was once power is now proof. The same networks that lifted Duterte from Davao’s city hall to the presidency — the machinery of loyalty, fear, and family — have become the grounds for his continued confinement.

The court found that his re-election as Davao City mayor placed him “once again at the helm of the city where many of the alleged drug war killings occurred.” His son, Sebastian “Baste” Duterte, now serves as vice mayor, while his daughter, Vice President Sara Duterte, wields national power and has repeatedly vowed to defend him. Together, these ties give Duterte “the necessary political contacts … that may help him abscond.”

For the judges, even offhand statements by Sara Duterte confirmed the family’s intent to shield the former president. Her vow to “break him out” and her accusations of “fake witnesses” were taken as proof that Duterte’s network remains active and dangerous.

These findings dismantle the myth Duterte long cultivated — that of the iron-willed patriot who brought “discipline” to a broken republic. For years, he cloaked brutality in the language of duty and nationalism, insisting his methods served the greater good. “My only sin,” he once boasted in 2018, “is the extrajudicial killings.” What was once bravado now reads as confession.

Today, both patriotism and law — his twin shields — stand as witnesses against him. The flag he claimed to defend can no longer protect him. The legal system he once manipulated has yielded to an international court beyond his control.

Like the strongmen before him, Duterte faces the reckoning that comes when slogans fail to disguise the weight of truth. History now regards him as it did those who ruled by decree and silenced dissent in the name of order — only to discover that no ideology outlasts justice.

The ICC’s words close the circle of his legacy: “The detention of Mr. Duterte is required so as to ensure his appearance in these proceedings, that he does not obstruct or endanger the investigation or the Court’s proceedings, and to prevent the commission of related crimes.”

The law he once claimed to command has spoken plainly.

And neither patriotism nor law could save Rodrigo Duterte from the truth.