Rage against the Globalist Baal: Islamic Iran on the Edge of Collapse

Rage against the Globalist Baal: Islamic Iran on the Edge of Collapse

The strategic moment was no longer simply political — it had become existential. Iran stood at the crossroads of unraveling structures, both internal and external. Domestically, decades of economic mismanagement, brutal ideological enforcement, and the systematic suppression of dissent had hollowed out belief in reform; every promise of change had been either co‑opted or crushed. Outwardly, the world appeared unanchored by rules, treaties, or the fragile norms that once governed international relations. 

The crisis had been accelerated by unprecedented external interventions. In Latin America, the shock of the forceful U.S. operation against Venezuela — marked by the seizure of President Nicolás Maduro and the installation of direct external control over the state — set a stark precedent for the use of military force in the name of order and influence. 

Then came the assault on Iran itself. In a sweeping campaign of air strikes launched by U.S. and Israeli forces, Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and key figures of its military and political command were killed. Its extensive leadership corps — including several top commanders — was deliberately targeted in what Western capitals hailed as decisive blows intended to break Tehran’s strategic will. 

Diplomacy, once teetering on the edge, collapsed amid the thunder of bombers and missiles. Peace talks had been underway as recently as late February, with indirect negotiations mediated in Geneva — but within days, the offensive wiped away much of the regime’s leadership and with it any near‑term hope of a negotiated settlement. 

For many inside Iran, there were three conflicting realities at once. The Islamic Republic — once a dominant force in Middle Eastern geopolitics — now appeared morally and politically bankrupt. Yet the alternatives offered by foreign powers were not redemption; they promised, instead, the specter of collapse. The ghosts of Iraq, Libya, Syria, and Afghanistan — states torn apart after Western intervention — loomed large in the collective memory. Freedom, in the discourse of distant capitals, often translated into vacuum, fire, and permanent instability. 

The paradox was stark. A bad government, however oppressive, was survivable; no government at all was not. And in the cold calculus of power, the right of the swift seemed sovereign — it was not law, treaties, or diplomacy that decided fates any longer but the speed of the strike and the weight of the blow. 

Iran’s response was fierce and sustained. Retaliatory missiles and drones streaked across the region, hitting U.S. bases, allies, and even civilian infrastructure in Gulf states. Hezbollah and other allied militias joined the fight, widening the conflict well beyond Iran’s borders. Global energy markets jittered, oil prices climbed, and the once‑stable corridors of international travel and commerce teetered on the brink of disruption. 

Observers in the West — from capitals in Washington to strategic think tanks in Europe — assessed a grim truth: regime decapitation rarely produces orderly transformation. Even without Khamenei at the helm, hardliners and security apparatuses remained intact. Estimates of internal resilience suggested that a collapse of the regime was far from certain; Iran’s provisional leadership had already begun consolidating power amid fierce resistance. 

In this world without norms, the concern was not just for Iran, but for the West itself. If Iran continued to fight under new leadership — refusing to capitulate, to raise a white flag, or to bow to external pressure — the situation could devolve into protracted conflict with grave consequences for the United States, NATO states, and global stability. Conversely, if Tehran’s military fractured or a new leadership chose to surrender, then the crisis might be short, echoing the pattern seen in Venezuela. 

And so, the world spun on a knife‑edge — a house that Iran’s people hated, surrounded by fires they feared even more.  

“Justice vs. the Corrupt: Or Should We Blow Up Their Headquarters?”

“Justice vs. the Corrupt: Or Should We Blow Up Their Headquarters?”

It is both fitting and just that the Filipino people commemorate the 40th anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution—that four-day civic rising in February 1986 which delivered the final blow to a fourteen-year authoritarian rule under Ferdinand Marcos Sr., and marked the culmination of a long and costly struggle to restore constitutional democracy in this Republic.

To mark EDSA in 2026 is not merely to revisit a triumph of memory, but to confront the burdens of history that remain unresolved. The anniversary is being observed not in a climate of settled confidence, but in an atmosphere thick with public disquiet—over mounting allegations of corruption in major infrastructure and flood control undertakings, and the apparent dissipation of public funds meant to safeguard lives, livelihoods, and communities from disaster.

Since September 2025, protest actions have grown in scale and frequency across the archipelago. The people’s anger—long restrained by fatigue, division, or the passage of time—has once again found expression in the civic square. There is, in the temper of the moment, a familiar cadence: the insistence that public office is a public trust, and that those entrusted with authority must be answerable to the sovereign people from whom that authority is derived.

Forty years after 1986, another Marcos—Ferdinand Marcos Jr.—stands at the center of public scrutiny. Renewed calls for accountability have reached to the highest levels of government, following reports suggesting collusion between officials of Malacañang and the Department of Public Works and Highways in the alleged orchestration of kickback schemes tied to infrastructure disbursements.

Recent congressional action—notably the dismissal of impeachment complaints—has drawn criticism from sectors concerned that avenues for public disclosure and institutional redress may have been prematurely foreclosed. Questions persist over the alleged delivery of illicit funds amounting to as much as ₱8 billion to private residences in Forbes Park, reportedly linked to figures such as Martin Romualdez. Various political formations, including Akbayan, have advanced competing narratives of reform and responsibility, even as the national discourse becomes increasingly polarized.

Yet it must be said with clarity: opposition to one political formation does not imply endorsement of another. The controversies surrounding Vice President Sara Duterte—particularly in relation to the use and liquidation of confidential funds by the Office of the Vice President and the Department of Education—have likewise stirred grave public concern.

Unexplained wealth allegations have been linked to broader claims of irregular confidential fund disbursements amounting to at least ₱612.5 million from December 2022 to the third quarter of 2023, covering both offices. In 2023 alone, the Office of the President recorded the largest expenditures of both confidential and intelligence funds—₱2.25 billion and ₱2.31 billion respectively—according to the annual financial report of the Commission on Audit on national government agencies. A breakdown by the same constitutional body showed that ₱4.4 billion in confidential funds and another ₱6.02 billion in intelligence funds were spent by the entire national government last year, or a total of ₱10.4 billion. Of this, ₱375 million in confidential funds was disbursed by the Office of the Vice President in 2023.

The complaint likewise cites the rapid encashment of ₱125 million in December 2022—allegedly liquidated within eleven days—and subsequent findings by the Commission on Audit flagging irregularities. Notices of suspension and disallowance were later issued covering ₱73.287 million in questioned expenditures, including allegedly fabricated or defective receipts, unverifiable payees, and duplicated entries, as well as sworn affidavits describing the transport of large sums of cash in duffel bags.

Again, the bullshirtry is not all about who's really the "corruptest amongst the corrupt". Duterte supporters would cry that the president who's "high on drugs" benefited from the flood control scandal yet the ones involved were already there during the time Duterte boasted his "Build Build Build". Marcos supporters would cry about Sara Duterte's abuse of public funds in the Office of the Vice President and in the Department of Education, yet mum on Marcos's tax issues prior to his assumption as president. Again, who's the corruptest amongst the corrupt? Or should revisit again the late Jose Avelino's term "good and bad crooks"?

This pattern is not without precedent. Across successive administrations, scandal has too often intruded upon governance: from misuse of JICA funds, "Kamaganak Inc.", PEA-Amari to Jueteng, from NBN-ZTE to pork barrel abuses, all to the Pharmally procurement controversy. Each episode has deepened the perception—whether justified or not—that the institutions of the state remain vulnerable to the corrosions of patronage, influence, and private accumulation- hence, this bullshitry makes a concerned expressed the need to "blow up the headquarters" as the "headquarters" itself is jampacked with the corrupt and self-centric bureaucrats, officials, politicians, and personalities trying to siphon from the laboring masses. 

Why "blow up the headquarters"? Sorry to use Mao's "big character poster" that pointly against the "capitialist roaders" with all its arrogance against the people, urging the masses to "bombard the headquarters". But come to think of this- the headquarters itself was and is riddled with corruption, injustice, self-interest at the expense of the people, will the people just stand by and seeing authorities "distort" ideas for their interest? Just imagine how Marcoses peddled the idea of a "New Philippines" the way Duterte peddled that his "Change" came to the hearts and minds of Filipinos- and yet scandals like flood control, Pharmally, the abuse of confidential funds in 11 days, come to think of this- all in that same headquarters meant to be to "serve the people"? Yes, may as well "bombard the headquarters" as the people have enough of their arrogance while deflate the morale of the people who wished for a better way of life. 

It is also in this light that the commemoration of EDSA must be understood—not as an exercise in nostalgia, nor as a ritual of self-congratulation—but as a civic reckoning. The promise of 1986 was not solely the restoration of simply "democratic" values such as electoral processes, or the renewal of public faith in the probity of institutions, but also the primacy of law and justice, and the accountability of those who govern.

Today, amid rising commodity prices, precarious employment, uneven recovery, and the mounting toll of environmental distress, the call—especially from the youth and the laboring citizenry—is once more for reform that is substantive rather than symbolic, for accountability that is systemic rather than selective, and for a political order that reflects not merely the arithmetic of power, but the ethics of service.

In the measured yet unmistakable language of another era, the 40th anniversary of EDSA in 2026 is not only a remembrance of what was won—but a reminder of what remains to be fulfilled.  

Static on the Airwaves: EDSA at Forty (Redux)

Static on the Airwaves: EDSA at Forty (Redux) 

or: "On Selective Memory, Manufactured Amnesia, 

and the Politics of Relevance" 

“I find it hard to understand why this bloodless revolution has become the standard definition of freedom for our country and this standard is forced down our throats by a certain group of individuals who think they are better than everyone else.”
— Sara Duterte, then Mayor of Davao City, February 24, 2017

“People must have already forgotten the essence of the 1986 EDSA Revolution. That is why those who march or organize do not really know what message they are bringing to the public—because they themselves have forgotten what the message was in 1986.”

— Sara Duterte, Vice President, February 24, 2026 

Forty years on, the signal from EDSA still cuts through the static—though not without interference from those who now find themselves politically stranded between memory and ambition. 

The attempt to downgrade the 1986 People Power Revolution into an elitist catechism—an imposition of the sanctimonious few upon the pliant many—would be laughable if it were not so calculated. What we are witnessing is not a debate over historical interpretation but a contest over relevance. And relevance, in these times, is a scarce commodity among those who once mistook proximity to power for permanence within it. 

It is no accident that the renewed commentary from Vice President Duterte arrives at a moment when opposition voices—long fragmented, long dismissed—have begun to find common cause in the language of accountability. Nor is it incidental that the refrain now echoing through the streets—“All those involved must be held accountable”—has been selectively heard, as though it were a coded message aimed exclusively at one family name. 

Yet history, unlike politics, is not so easily compartmentalized. 

When progressive blocs and civic formations pressed forward toward the EDSA Shrine this week—despite police efforts to halt their advance—they did so not merely to commemorate the fall of one dictatorship, but to interrogate the persistence of its logic in new guises. Among those present were members of Bagong Alyansang Makabayan and the Kilusang Bayan Kontra Kurakot, groups whose political memory extends well beyond the convenience of electoral cycles. 

Their slogans—"Never Again, Never Forget"—were not nostalgic invocations. They were warnings. 

Warnings that impunity, once normalized, does not remain confined to the era that produced it. That the culture of unaccountability cultivated under one administration may find eager heirs in the next—or the previous. That the call to hold “all those involved” to account cannot, by its very phrasing, exempt those who now seek to position themselves as critics of the very order they helped consolidate. 

For the Vice President’s lament—that today’s marchers have forgotten the essence of EDSA—betrays an anxiety less about historical amnesia than about historical recall. The recall of policies defended. Of excesses rationalized. Of institutions bent toward expediency in the name of security. The recall of a political climate in which dissent was treated as destabilization, and accountability as obstructionism. 

In such a climate, the invocation of EDSA becomes less an act of remembrance than an act of reclamation—by those who would narrow its meaning to a single chapter safely closed, and by those who insist that its unfinished sentences continue to be written in the present tense. 

President Bongbong Marcos may occupy Malacañang today, but the grammar of power that EDSA sought to disrupt remains conjugated across administrations. The demand that “all those involved must be held accountable” is not a partisan cudgel. It is a civic imperative. And it applies with equal force to yesterday’s allies and today’s adversaries alike. 

That some now feign surprise at this inclusivity is itself revealing. 

For EDSA was never a monument to selective justice. It was, and remains, an argument—one that refuses to distinguish between the abuses of the past and those of the present based on convenience or coalition. An argument that sovereignty resides not in the reputations of families but in the vigilance of citizens. An argument that freedom, if it is to endure, must be defended not only against the ghosts of dictatorship but against its reincarnations in democratic attire. 

And so the marchers came—not as custodians of a forgotten message, but as its latest authors. 

They came not because they had misunderstood 1986, but because they understood 2026 all too well. 

The Filipino Conscience and desire for Justice versus Relentless Impunity: Thoughts after the pre-Trial at The Hague

The Filipino Conscience and desire for Justice versus Relentless Impunity: 

Thoughts after the pre-Trial at The Hague

The pre-trial proceedings at the International Criminal Court (ICC) against former President Rodrigo Duterte have placed the Philippines under an unforgiving international spotlight. Allegations of crimes against humanity—spanning from 2013 to 2018, covering murders and attempted murders during his tenure as Davao City mayor and as President—are now being scrutinized by the impartial eyes of the world. For Manila, for its citizens, and for global observers, this is more than a legal inquiry; it is a moral reckoning, a judgment on the very soul of governance in the Duterte era. 

ICC Prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang laid out the prosecution’s case in stark terms. Duterte, prosecutors allege, was not merely a distant overseer but “at the very heart of the common plan to neutralize alleged criminals in the Philippines, including through murders.” He allegedly identified targets, provided moral and financial support, and facilitated the flow of weapons and logistical aid to those who carried out the killings. Victims, many of them ordinary citizens, were summarily executed in operations marked by brutality and impunity. 

“Unlike Mr. Duterte, who is represented by his counsel here today, they were deprived of any form of due process. The loss of every single one of these victims had the most profound impact on their families, their friends, and ultimately their communities,” Niang said. 

Representing these victims, lawyer Joel Butuyan spoke of profound disappointment and lingering fear. Duterte’s absence from the proceedings, Butuyan argued, is more than a procedural detail: it is a symbol of the persistent climate of terror that characterized his administration. 

“We communicate the very deep disappointment of the victims at the decision allowing Rodrigo Duterte not to be present in this stage of confirmation of charges,” Butuyan said. “In fact, if Mr. Duterte could threaten to slap the judges of this Court [the ICC], imagine the kind of terror-filled threats and violent actions that can easily be used against the victims if the suspect walks free from this Court.” 

On the other hand, the defense team, led by lawyer Nicholas Kaufman, has sought to reframe Duterte’s rhetoric as non-lethal—a calculated tool to instill fear and obedience, not to commit murder. They argue the speeches targeted only those “poisoning society” through drugs, not individuals, and were part of a broader campaign to assert authority. 

Yet this argument illuminates the central moral and political crisis of the Duterte era. When fear is wielded as a substitute for law, when obedience is enforced through terror, justice is hollow. The Duterte administration displayed a clear pattern: ordinary citizens faced the knife of extrajudicial killings, while high-profile perpetrators, political allies, and “big fishes” implicated in the drug trade largely remained untouched. Law was no longer a shield for all; it became a weapon to enforce compliance. Euphemisms—“deterrence to crime,” “collateral damage,” “shit happens”—masked acts of state violence, reducing legality to rhetoric and morality to convenience. 

Even in the ICC courtroom, the echoes of the Duterte-style rhetoric persist. Kaufman’s opening statement, observers note, eulogized Duterte while casting victims and human rights defenders as adversaries, mirroring the president’s familiar posture. The defense offered neither substantive rebuttal to the allegations nor acknowledgment of the human toll. As one would likely to remarked, “Now we know why Duterte tried to derail the confirmation hearing. He has no credible defense. Kaufman eulogized Duterte, demonized the victims and human rights organizations, and did everything except present a credible defense. At this rate, Duterte’s fate before the Court seems inevitable.” 

Yet, if this writer may venture a controversial observation, one might argue that former PNP Chief Ronald “Bato” Dela Rosa’s infamous declaration—“Shit happens”—rings with a grim honesty that Kaufman’s legal gymnastics can never achieve. Why so? Because Dela Rosa, in his blunt, unsparing way, acknowledged the undeniable reality of Duterte’s war on drugs. Operations Tokhang and Double Barrel did not exist in rhetoric alone—they left bodies, scars, and lives in their wake. There were killings, arrests, and punishments meted out, however selective, however brutal. 

 The starkness of Dela Rosa’s phrase—coarse, shocking, unvarnished—spoke truth in a way that Kaufman’s defense, with its flowery claims of “fear without intent” and moralized rhetoric, cannot. The operations themselves testified to the reality of Duterte’s campaign: thousands of deaths, many innocent, many guilty in ways only the state determined. The consequences were real, immediate, and devastating. Words could no longer obscure the facts. In contrast, Kaufman’s opening statement before the ICC sounded more like a paean than a defense—eloquent, polished, and yet strangely untethered from the brutal reality on the ground. It praised Duterte, demonized victims, and attacked human rights organizations, but it said nothing about the bodies that lay in the streets, the families shattered, the ordinary citizens terrorized. It was legal theater without moral substance, a defense in theory but not in truth. 

 Dela Rosa’s blunt admission, repulsive though it may seem to many, at least recognized that actions have consequences. The killings, the terror, the fear—these were real, and they demanded acknowledgment, if not justification. Kaufman’s rhetoric, by contrast, sought to paper over that reality, to deny the plain evidence before the eyes of the world. In the end, the honesty of a coarse phrase may reveal more about governance, accountability, and moral responsibility than all the eloquence of a courtroom speech delivered thousands of miles from the victims themselves. It is a bitter lesson: the truth of deeds cannot be erased by the polish of words, however carefully arranged.

Back to the topic, this ICC proceedings serve a dual purpose. Legally, they will determine whether charges of crimes against humanity proceed to trial. Politically and morally, they expose the fragility of a system where legality is subordinated to fear, spectacle, and personal power. They remind the world—and the Philippines—that justice cannot be selective, that the rule of law cannot coexist with a climate of terror, and that the moral authority of governance rests on protecting, not terrorizing, the citizenry. 

For Manila, the case lays bare a central question: can a nation uphold the rule of law when law is treated as optional, when fear becomes the primary instrument of governance? The answer is emerging not in Malacañang, not in political rallies or speeches, but in a courtroom far from the Philippines, where Duterte’s legacy is being measured not by votes, applause, or bluster, but by the cold, unyielding logic of international justice. 

The ICC is more than a legal theater; it is a mirror to the Philippines, reflecting a painful truth: governance that relies on fear and spectacle leaves a nation morally bankrupt, and accountability, no matter how delayed, is the only path to restoring faith in justice.  

Bluster, Bloodshed, and the Bench: Duterte Before The Hague

Bluster, Bloodshed, and the Bench: Duterte Before The Hague

The distance between Manila and The Hague is measured not only in kilometres but in the weight of history now pressing down on former Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte. In the austere chambers of the International Criminal Court (ICC), pre-trial proceedings have begun to determine whether the charges of crimes against humanity against him will proceed to full trial — a legal and political spectacle that would have been unthinkable in the rough-and-tumble world of Philippine strongman politics only a decade ago. 

The prosecution alleges that Duterte played a central role in killings linked to anti-drug operations carried out between 2013 and 2018, from his time as mayor of Davao City to his presidency. ICC Prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang told the chamber that Duterte’s contribution to the alleged campaign was decisive. 

“His contribution was essential as he was at the very heart of the common plan to neutralize alleged criminals in the Philippines, including through murders,” Niang said in his opening statement. 

Niang further alleged that Duterte personally identified some targets and provided moral, financial, and logistical support for operations that resulted in victims being “brutally murdered.” 

“Unlike Mr. Duterte, who is represented by his counsel here today, they were deprived of any form of due process. The loss of every single one of these victims had the most profound impact on their families, their friends, and ultimately their communities,” he said. “Bring a sense of justice.” 

Representing the victims, Joel Butuyan expressed disappointment at the decision allowing Duterte to be absent during the confirmation of charges hearing. 

“We communicate the very deep disappointment of the victims at the decision allowing Rodrigo Duterte not to be present in this stage of confirmation of charges,” Butuyan said. “In fact, if Mr. Duterte could threaten to slap the judges of this Court [the ICC], imagine the kind of terror-filled threats and the violent actions that can easily be used against the victims if the suspect walks free from this Court.” 

Duterte’s defence team, however, urged the ICC’s Pre-Trial Chamber I to dismiss the charges, which they described as “grievously misplaced” and “politically-motivated.” His counsel, Nicholas Kaufman, acknowledged Duterte as “a unique phenomenon” who was “gung-ho in his ways” and prone to “hyperbole, bluster and rhetoric,” but insisted that his speeches did not amount to criminal intent. 

“… We hope that when you conclude your deliberations, Your Honors, that you’ll dismiss these grievously misplaced and politically motivated charges. We will ask you to send Rodrigo Duterte back to his family, and we will ask you to give back to the Filipino people their Tatay Digong,” Kaufman said. 

He maintained that Duterte’s rhetoric was intended to instil fear in criminals rather than to order killings. “Rodrigo Duterte’s language was aimed not at suspected drug pushers, as the prosecution would have it, but directly at those poisoning society with their substances, and not, I stress, with lethal intent. His rhetoric was calculated to arouse fear and obedience… Nothing more, nothing less. That was his intent, and it was not criminal. He stands by his legacy resolutely, and he maintains his innocence absolutely.” 

Kaufman further argued that prosecutors had failed to produce any cooperating witness who could confirm that Duterte personally issued an order to kill. “Gung-ho in his ways and with a belligerent tone, he spoke the tough tongue of the street. He said what the people wanted to hear, but he said it in a way that offended the sensibilities of world leaders unaccustomed to hearing it. One in particular, and that was what set him on the slippery slope to a prison cell in The Hague.” 

Outside the courtroom, however, some observers contend that the defence’s strategy has so far leaned more heavily on political framing than on legal rebuttal. They argue that Kaufman’s opening remarks appeared to mirror Duterte’s familiar rhetorical posture — criticising victims’ advocates and human rights organisations — while offering limited substantive challenge to the prosecution’s allegations. 

In their assessment, Kaufman’s statement read less like a legal defence than a political tribute, reinforcing the perception that Duterte’s team faces an uphill battle as the proceedings move forward. 

The ICC’s judges must now determine whether the evidence presented meets the threshold required for trial. Their decision will shape not only Duterte’s legal fate but also the broader question of how far domestic political authority extends when weighed against the demands of international justice. 

For Manila — and for a watching world — the proceedings represent a deeply confrontational and polarising moment, laden with consequences that may yet redefine the boundaries of law, justice, power and accountability.

On the Fortieth Year: The Busy Road, the Beleaguered Republic, and the People's Right to Remember

On the Fortieth Year: The Busy Road, the Beleaguered Republic,
and the People's Right to Remember

In the fortieth year since the Filipino people assembled themselves upon a highway and transformed it into an instrument of sovereignty, a curious development has taken place: the road once consecrated by collective courage has been declared off-limits to the very citizens whose presence made it historic.

The Trillion Peso March Part 3 has been scheduled for February 25, and its convenors have spoken in the language of procedural civility. All sectors are welcome, they assure the public, provided that there are no calls for violence, no appeals to the armed forces, and no suggestions that unelected bodies assume power. Such statements, rendered in the tone of responsible guardianship, are offered as proof that the lessons of the past have been learned.

Yet the past itself resists such neat containment- as February 25 does not belong to regulation. It belongs to rupture.

An Anniversary gone Contained?

It marks the day when governance by decree—sustained by censorship, intimidation, and the calculated normalization of fear—was finally challenged by a citizenry that had exhausted every avenue of polite petition available within the narrow confines permitted by authoritarian rule. It marks the culmination of years in which constitutional guarantees were suspended in practice if not always in name; when the press was disciplined into silence, assemblies were treated as conspiracies, and dissent was reframed as subversion.

It marks the moment when the Filipino people ceased to be mere spectators to their own dispossession—no longer passive recipients of policy imposed without consultation, nor quiet witnesses to the steady erosion of their political and economic rights—and instead became active participants in the reconstitution of their republic. Upon that highway, sovereignty was not invoked rhetorically but exercised materially, as citizens assumed responsibility for restoring institutions that had been hollowed out by patronage, militarization, and decree.

It marks, in short, the point at which legitimacy ceased to flow downward from entrenched authority and began once more to rise upward from collective will.

And it is precisely on this date—so freighted with the memory of reclaimed agency—that the present administration has chosen to impose an “EDSA no-rally zone,” effectively restricting access to the very site where democratic legitimacy was last renegotiated in full public view.

Thus is the fortieth anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution commemorated by the son of the very dictator whose rule defined governance through the blanket gagging of the press, the criminalization of independent organization, and the systematic suffocation of both individual and collective expression: by blocking the historic highway to those who refuse to treat accountability and justice as negotiable abstractions, or to subordinate historical memory to the conveniences of present authority.

In so doing, the state risks transforming an anniversary of emancipation into an exercise in managed remembrance—permitting celebration while circumscribing its meaning, and honoring participation only insofar as it does not challenge the structures that People Power was once mobilized to confront.

The symbolism is unmistakable. A road made sacred by dissent is rendered inaccessible in the name of order. Slogans once shouted in defense of liberty are now deemed suspect, their utterance shadowed by allegations of sedition. It becomes a tribute to memory that now demands performativism if not silence. 

Still, the noise of dissent against the system doesn't stop

In response, various sectors of civil society have resolved to march toward EDSA-Ortigas on February 25—not merely to commemorate the past but to assert the continuing necessity of People Power as a political principle. They argue that it is impossible to remember EDSA without confronting the fascism, corruption, and subservience that characterized the Marcos dictatorship, or without acknowledging the vast quantities of stolen wealth that remain unreturned to the Filipino people.

Questions persist with institutional stubbornness: where is the ₱203 billion in unpaid estate tax owed by the Marcos family? Where are the billions in ill-gotten assets that continue to generate private benefit from public loss? Is Marcos Jr. really serious in resolving that goddamned corruption issue that harmed both his and Duterte's circle? True that the call is "all those involved be held accountable", but in truth- how about the urge to "bombard that corruption-riddled headquarters"? To commemorate EDSA without posing these questions would be to transform history into ceremony and ceremony into performativism without understanding, if not amnesia.

Equally, they contend that the present cannot be detached from the past. Allegations of corruption amounting to billions in public funds, supported by documentary evidence presented in legislative inquiries, have exposed the continuities between the former dictatorship and the current administration. In the logic of political inheritance, "kung ano ang puno, siya ring bunga"—the nature of the tree determines the nature of its fruit.

The declaration of EDSA as a no-rally zone is therefore not merely administrative; it is ideological. It contradicts the foundational premise of the uprising it purports to honor: that sovereignty resides not in institutions alone but in the organized action of the citizenry.  And in speaking of "peaceful assembly" as insisted by authorities, that assembly cannot be meaningfully celebrated by limiting the freedoms that sustain it especially with "permits", Nor can the lessons of EDSA be invoked to justify the suppression of criticism or the narrowing of political alternatives to those sanctioned by entrenched elites.

The fortieth anniversary also arrives amid renewed political maneuverings, in which alliances are assembled and dissolved with an eye toward forthcoming electoral contests. In such an environment, the struggle against corruption risks being reduced to an instrument of campaign strategy—a means of securing office rather than transforming the system that renders corruption profitable.

History offers a cautionary precedent. The events of 1986, and later those of 2001, demonstrated that the mere replacement of leadership at the summit of power does not in itself resolve structural crises. The question confronting the nation is therefore not only who shall govern, but under what system governance shall proceed.

To substitute one occupant for another without altering the conditions that produced both is to mistake rotation for reform. For this reason, those who will assemble on February 25 insist that the work initiated at EDSA remains unfinished. The promises of genuine freedom, democratic accountability, social justice, and equitable development—invoked in the fervor of those four days—have yet to be fully realized.

They march to assert that the commemoration of EDSA must be measured not by ceremonial observance but by substantive progress toward these ends.

They march in the conviction that the true power of the republic resides not in political dynasties, nor in the transactional accommodations of professional politicians, but in the collective capacity of its citizens to demand and enact change.

And they march in the belief that the memory of People Power cannot be confined to anniversaries or appropriated for spectacle.

It must instead be exercised.

Until the promises made upon that highway are fulfilled, the road remains open in principle—whatever barriers may be erected in practice.  

"Where Were You When People Power Was Real?"

"Where Were You When People Power Was Real?"

The Trillion Peso March Part 3 was announced for February 25. Kiko Aquino Dee spoke with civility, measured tone: all protest groups welcome, as long as they refrained from calls for violence, avoided urging the armed forces, and respected the sanctity of elected power. On paper, it sounded democratic, inclusive, safe. But the streets remember differently. 

A sacred date, etched in the sweat, blood, and barricades of a people who would not bow to tyranny, is now declared a no-rally zone. Slogans that once shook the walls of Malacañang are forbidden. “Sedition,” they whisper. Sedition, as if speaking truth to power is a crime. And suddenly, the careful admonitions of modern organizers are offered as wisdom. 

Where were these voices when the streets ran with fear and fury alike? 

The digital landscape is dominated by state actors, by PR campaigns, by the polished, sanitized spin of those who prefer optics over struggle. Criticism of one man, one family, one dynasty—and everyone recoils. Yet where was the same “care” when protesters faced water cannons, truncheons, and tear gas? When hospital emergency rooms overflowed with the injured from the four days of February 1986? When BAYAN had to fight year after year just for a permit to voice dissent during the State of the Nation Address (SONA)? 

Words without action are cheap. Marching in shoes unscathed by fear, watching a sanitized stage performance of People Power—it becomes theater, veneration without understanding, spectacle without courage. The word change is cherished; the work, risk, and sacrifice that demand it are ignored. Opportunism sits comfortably in polite applause. 

The first People Power toppled thieves, liars, murderers. Ferdinand Marcos was ousted, Corazon Aquino assumed office, and the streets bore witness to a nation’s collective courage. Yet today, some ask why Kiko Aquino Dee avoids holding Marcos accountable in the narrative of EDSA@40. They point to the stolen wealth, the unreturned plunder, the violence, the impunity. And the question lingers: is BBM truly “clean”? Is Sara untouchable? The slap to the people’s face echoes even in 2026. 

History does not lie. Both Marcos and Duterte represent the same corrosion: corruption, abuse, disregard for life, and the oppression of ordinary citizens. Wanting decent wages, regular work, affordable goods, functional healthcare, modern transport, sustainable agriculture, land reform, clean housing, and a livable environment—these are not radical ideals. These are survival, dignity, common sense. Yet in polite discourse, these are labeled “leftist idealism.” It is an insult to those who sweated in the streets so that such demands could even be voiced. 

And the modern organizers, cautious and careful, may not see that People Power was never meant to be polite. It was risk, it was sweat, it was courage threaded with fear. It demanded facing authorities armed with more than PR—they faced truncheons, tear gas, and the threat of death. Anything less is theater. Anything less is performative. Anything less is opportunism dressed as patriotism. 

So as the march approaches, the streets remember. They remember who bled for freedom, who stood when every police formation, every armored vehicle, every cannon of tear gas tried to silence the people. They remember the courage that made the first People Power real. And they watch, quietly, skeptically, the marchers of today: who walks with the fire, and who walks politely in shoes that have never felt the asphalt under a tyrant’s gaze. 

History, as always, will remember.