They would cry words 'Homeland' and 'Justice', but neither 'Homeland' nor 'Justice' can shield them from the Law

They would cry words 'Homeland' and 'Justice',

but neither 'Homeland' nor 'Justice' can shield them from the Law

When the guns fell silent and the body counts faded from the headlines, what remained was a deeper question: What did the Philippines sacrifice in the name of order?

For years, the “war on drugs” was sold as a moral crusade — a necessary purge to save the nation from decay. Supporters rallied behind Rodrigo Duterte, insisting that harsh measures were proof of strong leadership. Critics were dismissed as elitists, liberals, or worse — traitors from those who self-described “not Filipino for nothing.”

But beneath the rhetoric of patriotism and public safety lies an uncomfortable truth: when the state abandons due process, it abandons justice itself. 

When the ICC report meant Justice 

Former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte has been slapped with international charges over alleged killings carried out during his notorious “war on drugs,” the International Criminal Court (ICC) revealed Friday. The 16-page report by the ICC’s Office of the Prosecutor accuses Duterte of orchestrating a “widespread and systematic attack against the civilian population” aimed at “neutralizing” suspected criminals, particularly those linked to the country’s illegal drug trade.

The charges span the period from 2013 to 2018, encompassing Duterte’s tenure as mayor of Davao City and his subsequent presidency. The ICC filing details the operations of the Davao Death Squad, a vigilante group alleged to have carried out extrajudicial killings in Duterte’s hometown, and a nationwide police network that reportedly expanded this model when Duterte assumed national office in 2016.

The report specifies 76 murders and two attempted murders as part of the formal charges. However, prosecutors note that the actual scale of killings during this period was “significantly greater,” reflecting a campaign that many human rights advocates have long described as brutal and far-reaching. Victims reportedly ranged from alleged drug dealers and users to ordinary civilians, including minors, many of whom were publicly labeled as criminals by law enforcement before their deaths.

The ICC filing was signed by Deputy Prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang and is dated from The Hague, Netherlands. The document highlights not only Duterte’s alleged role in directing the killings but also the involvement of senior officials and law enforcement agencies, indicating that the alleged campaign was systemic, coordinated, and backed by the structures of state power, rather than isolated incidents of violence.

Observers say the ICC’s formal charges mark a significant development in the long-running debate over the “war on drugs,” which has polarized Philippine society and drawn intense international scrutiny. While Duterte and his supporters have defended the campaign as a necessary measure to combat crime and maintain public order, critics argue that it represents a blatant disregard for due process, human rights, and the rule of law, leaving thousands of families grieving and communities living under fear.

The ICC’s case signals that domestic support or political office does not provide immunity from international legal accountability. The Pre-Trial Chamber will now examine the evidence to determine whether the charges can proceed to trial, while additional documentation submitted by the Prosecution — much of it confidential — is expected to further detail the alleged scope and mechanics of the campaign.

State-backed violence guised as crime deterrence

Several top officials are listed as “co-perpetrators,” including Senators Ronald “Bato” Dela Rosa and Christopher “Bong” Go; former police chiefs Camilo Cascolan, Oscar Albayalde, and Vicente Danao; former justice secretary Vitaliano Aguirre II; and NBI chiefs Dante Gierran and Isidro Lapeña.

Lawyer Kristina Conti, representing families of victims, argued that the inclusion of these officials shows the killings were systematic and state-backed, not random acts of violence.

The ICC categorizes the alleged crimes into three groups:

1. Murder in Davao (2013–2016): 19 victims killed under Duterte’s mayoral watch.

2. High-Value Targets (2016–2017): 14 alleged drug kingpins reportedly killed for secret cash rewards.

3. Barangay Operations (2016–2018): 43 deaths and two attempted murders in local police operations, including three children.

Duterte is accused of designing the policy, ordering killings, and publicly encouraging officers and hired guns, even promising immunity to those who carried them out. The ICC’s Pre-Trial Chamber will now decide whether there is enough evidence to proceed to trial. Meanwhile, prosecutors have quietly added new evidence to the case, though details remain confidential.

Collateral damage is still death- and no justification from authorities

can't overturn the wheels of justice

For years, supporters of Duterte have defended these operations as necessary, framing them as a war the nation had to fight. They have said critics are “not Filipino for nothing,” and dismissed the deaths of innocents as “collateral damage.” Liberals and the left were painted as soft, naïve, or obstructionist for opposing the campaign.

But patriotism is not obedience to fear. Love of country does not require the suspension of law. The issue has never been the danger of drugs; it has been the abandonment of due process, the disregard for courts, and the instrumentalization of fear to enforce so-called order.

Operations that target civilians under the guise of policy are not justice; they are terror institutionalized. Labeling the dead as “suspects” does not sanctify the act, and incentives for killing do not transform murder into law enforcement. The rule of law is the very foundation of a functioning state — when it is bypassed, no one is safe.

Supporters may claim that order was restored and crime fell. But fear is not stability. Silence is not peace. And for every moment of apparent safety, the institutions that protect rights, investigate crime, and uphold justice are eroded, leaving future generations more vulnerable.

The truth is unflinching: no homeland, no political office, no chorus of supporters can shield anyone from law. International mechanisms exist precisely to hold leaders accountable when domestic systems fail. Rights exist not for convenience, but for protection. And the law exists not to serve fear, but to restrain it.

The debate is no longer simply about drugs. It is about whether a nation chooses fear as its foundation or law as its anchor. Once fear replaces justice, it is not only criminals who live in danger — it is everyone.  

Rodante Marcoleta and the Kalayaan Folly: A Senator, a Slip, and a Typhoon of Words

Rodante Marcoleta and the Kalayaan Folly:

A Senator, a Slip, and a Typhoon of Words

Some men make waves. Others? They create tsunamis with their tongues. Take Senator Rodante Marcoleta, for instance. In a rare lapse of judgment—or perhaps a flair for theatrics—he suggested, ever so delicately, that maybe, just maybe, the Philippines should “give up” the Kalayaan Island Group. One could almost hear the collective gasp from Palawan all the way to Malacañang. 

Marcoleta, of course, rushed to clarify. He did not really mean it, he insisted. His remarks were supposedly “taken out of context.” The phrase “abbreviating the context” has rarely sounded so feeble. According to him, his concern was merely procedural: maps, United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), UN deposits. Somehow, the hypothetical surrender of islands became a bureaucratic thought exercise. And yet, one cannot help but wonder: in a room full of lawmakers, why would the first thought involve surrendering Philippine territory? 

Meanwhile, the residents of Kalayaan were incensed. Vice Mayor MP Albayda put it plainly: “What is the worth of our town? What is the worth of our brave citizens? They have already given up better opportunities elsewhere just to stay here for decades.” Indeed, what good is a senator if he questions the very value of the people he is supposed to represent? These are citizens who have endured storms, hardship, and decades of sacrifice—all to uphold the sovereignty of the Philippines. 

Experts quickly weighed in, shaking their heads. The Philippines’ claim to the Kalayaan Island Group is not based on an arbitrary economic line on a map. It is anchored in decades of law and history: Presidential Decree 1596, the Archipelagic Baseline Law, the Philippine Maritime Zones Act, and the 2016 arbitral ruling—all of which reinforce, in no uncertain terms, that Kalayaan is Philippine territory. To suggest otherwise, even hypothetically, is to flirt with folly. 

Sometimes one wonders why there are those who downplay the Philippines’ sovereign claim over the Kalayaan Island Group. Is it because it is “just water”? Because these are barren rocks and sand, unfit for profit or industry, and therefore deemed not worth defending? Meanwhile, China expands, building artificial islands, militarizing shoals, asserting claims with engineering and sheer audacity. Vietnam does the same, staking its own claim with concrete and determination. And what do the naysayers in Manila do while all this unfolds? They clutch at “trade and investment,” arguing that China is the country’s biggest trading partner, as if commerce somehow outweighs sovereignty, as if territorial integrity could be measured on a balance sheet. They would also raise the flag of anti-Americanism—but when has it ever been practiced with consistency? When have they truly urged the nation to stand on its own, roll up its sleeves, and invest in nation-building brick by brick, port by port, school by school? Rarely, if ever. Their economic policy bears no trace of patriotism except rhetoric. Instead, they leave the fate of the Philippines to the mercy of the Market, that goddamned neoliberal deity that keeps the country dependent on the whims of first-world powers—whether American or Chinese. 

They speak of pragmatism, of realism, yet all their “realism” boils down to cowardice dressed in economic jargon. Sovereignty is not a commodity. It cannot be traded, bartered, or abandoned for a temporary balance in trade statistics. To suggest otherwise is to insult the sacrifices of those who live on Kalayaan, and to belittle the very idea of the Filipino nation. The truth is simple: defending what is theirs does not require the blessing of commerce or the nod of foreign powers. It requires will, law, and courage. Until the country learns to value its own sovereignty above the comforts of trade numbers or the allure of foreign investment, it will remain adrift—watching others claim what is theirs, while pretending that rocks and water are somehow dispensable. 

The optics grow worse when one considers Marcoleta’s historical alignment. Retired Supreme Court Justice Antonio Carpio remarked that if Marcoleta continues echoing China’s positions, he might as well register as a foreign agent. Whether deliberate or accidental, the impression is clear: his statements are strikingly reminiscent of the China-friendly policies of past administrations. 

Palace officials reminded the public that no part of Philippine territory will be surrendered. Communications Undersecretary Claire Castro offered a metaphorical warning: “You reap a storm if you sow winds.” But the wind has already blown, and Marcoleta is left trying to patch a hole in a hull that will take more than words to fix. 

The gaffe is not merely embarrassing. It is a warning: patriotism does not tolerate careless phrasing, especially when it comes to islands, shoals, and seabeds settled, defended, and codified by law. Marcoleta may have thought he was raising a technical point about maps and maritime boundaries, but in the court of public opinion, he has raised a red flag in a typhoon. Remember: both Left and right are seriously fighting each other ideologically, but when a matter involves sovereignty being infringed expect that feud be set aside to take traitors- especially that Marcoleta's slip taken seriously and evenly. 

The lesson is simple: the Kalayaan Island Group is Filipino, its distance and residents are Filipino, and even history is also Filipino. Words, however, can still stir tempests—and Marcoleta has just learned that the Philippine sea- whether it is west or east, does not forgive lightly.

As If Nothing

"As If Nothing"

Sometimes,
life divides itself
into shadow and shadow—
a deep pit,
a darkened path.

Eyes reach,
gentle and unsteady,
grasping at people,
ideas,
thoughts pressed close,
only to be set aside,
feared, dismissed,
like petals carried
by a passing wind.

Pardon if words linger,
pouring softly, wandering,
like streams tracing the hills,
ramblings that confuse
yet hold the weight of meaning
for those who listen quietly.

Behind them—
the faint glow of beauty,
the steady pull of reality—
the heart turns,
seeks its own order,
and learns to rest,
softly awake,
if left unbothered.

Even in shadows,
even in fear,
a choice is made:
to fall, to walk,
to pause in the space between,
where the night stretches long
but stars remain.

Seeing you—
the heart corrects itself,
as a robe finds its proper drape
before the hush of morning.

No teaching spoken.
Still, the path straightens;
the feet remember
what the soul once knew.

Words fall from the mouth—
quietly radiant—
not chosen,
but breathed,
as blossoms open
when the moon loosens its hold.

Quietly radiant—
fruit ripens in silence,
sweetness arriving
not to be tasted,
but to prove the season true.

Some beauty does not seek a name.
It is a sign,
not the destination—
a lamp lit briefly
to show the road.

It restores order in the chest,
turns the dust of the heart to gold,
then leaves,
like the Beloved passing
close enough to wake you,
not close enough to stay. 

Sometimes I think—

let them keep their borrowed light,

for joy survives best

when untouched by my sight.

I know this truth, however kind,

to step too near is to unbind

the fragile peace that hearts defend,

and turn beginnings into ends. 

So I choose silence, soft and thin,

a careful art of not stepping in.

I draw my lines where shadows stay,

believing distance clears the way—

that limiting each word, each glance,

might quiet rumor, chance, or chance,

and cleanse intent of names unmeant,

until desire learns consent. 

Sometimes I think, if we should speak,

my thoughts would spill, no longer meek.

So pardon me if I appear

inspired beyond what’s proper here.

Is it your beauty, calm, or grace,

or love that lingers in that face?

No wonder such a glow, so rare,

is called strange by those unaware. 

For in these days, when careful minds

mistake the pure for poorly timed,

even the loveliest of words

are judged as shame, or thought absurd.

Yet what is strange in petals blown,

or twilight claiming sea alone?

Must all that passes softly through

be labeled fault for being true? 

I cannot deny—nor will I feign—

your presence stirred my quiet grain.

As though my thoughts, too long at rest,

rose briefly, then dissolved to mist.

Call it embarrassment, if you must—

yet what disgrace lies in the dust

of blossoms carried by the air,

or sunsets fading, unaware? 

If this be my last offered line,

let it be clean, without design:

I came, I felt, I let it go,

as all fine moments choose to flow.

No vow was sworn, no bond undone—

only the grace of having known

that once, before the light withdrew,

the heart was moved—and that was true.

She passed like dusk on river stone,

a breath of light, then I was alone.

Her scent—hyssop, wild and deep,

still lingers where the willows weep.

If I must go, then let me fade

beneath the bloom her hands once made.

No words remain, just silent rain

and rose that blossoms once, then wanes.

A blossom brushed across my chest,

a cherry flower—no time to rest.

I held her smile like morning sun,

but even spring must come undone.

If I must go, then let me fade

beneath the bloom her hands once made.

No words remain, just silent rain

and rose that blossoms once, then wanes.

Now folded hands and lowered gaze,

a prayer wrapped in the evening haze.

She never knew how much she stayed

in all the things I never said.

If I must go, then leave me near

the scent she left, still faint, still clear.

Let hyssop grow where I lie still—

its breath the echo of her will.

“The Price of Teaching and Civil Servantship in a Corrupt System”

“The Price of Teaching and Civil Servantship in a Corrupt System”

In the shadow of grand promises and polished speeches, a quiet crisis deepens across public schools and government offices. As shown by recent protest actions, teachers and civil servants voices out concern if not opposition as serious issues ranging from low salaries, less benefits, to that of rampant corruption in the bureaucracy and social injustices that really affects them as government employees. However, it is not surprising that being civil servants, it is predictable to those who are "against voicing their concerns" end sounding "they shouldn't bite the hands that feed them". And the accusations come swiftly and predictably:

“You’re always against the government.”
“This isn’t even about teachers, is it?” 

These lines are weaponized whenever educators, or any public servants, dare to speak out—delivered with a casual dismissiveness that paints legitimate concern as mere personal animosity or political bias. As if demanding accountability were a vendetta, or as if teachers had somehow violated an unspoken rule by refusing to stay silent in the face of systemic neglect.

But the truth is far simpler and more urgent: this has never been about blind opposition. It has always been about survival, dignity, and the relentless erosion of a profession—and a public sector—that shoulders immense societal responsibility while being stripped of basic protections, fair compensation, and job security.

In 2026, the challenges for educators and government workers have intensified rather than eased. Policies enacted in prior years are now taking full effect, exposing their real human costs under the guise of reform and fiscal prudence.

Central to this is Republic Act No. 12231, the Government Optimization Act (often referred to as the Government Optimization Law), signed into law by President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. on August 4, 2025. Marketed as a tool for “efficiency,” “streamlining,” and “optimizing” the national government for better public service delivery, the law grants the President authority over a five-year period to reorganize the executive branch. This includes merging, consolidating, transferring, splitting, scaling down, abolishing, or creating agencies to eliminate redundancies and overlapping functions.

While proponents highlight potential improvements in transparency, agility, and service delivery through digitalization and e-governance, critics—including labor groups and affected workers—warn that it opens the door to widespread displacement. Thousands of public servants who have long sustained under-resourced institutions now confront uncertainty, potential layoffs, or forced retirement, even as the law excludes teaching positions, military, and uniformed personnel from its coverage. What is presented as modernization risks becoming a mechanism for downsizing without adequately addressing chronic understaffing or providing genuine pathways to stability.

Compounding this insecurity is CSC-COA-DBM Joint Circular No. 1, series of 2025, issued on December 15, 2025. This revised set of rules governs the engagement of Contract of Service (COS) and Job Order (JO) workers across government agencies. Far from advancing regularization—as long demanded by unions and advocates—the circular effectively caps the number of COS and JO workers at end-2025 levels while allowing continued hiring within that limit. In practice, it perpetuates subcontractual arrangements through third-party agencies or manpower providers, sidestepping meaningful absorption into regular plantilla positions.

Over one million contractual government workers nationwide feel the impact most acutely. Instead of pathways to secure employment with benefits, tenure, and retirement protections, they face deepened precarity: no job security, limited or no access to social benefits, and vulnerability to abrupt termination. What officials frame as “sustainable workforce planning” and “fiscal discipline” amounts, in reality, to institutionalized instability—flexibilization of labor that shifts risks onto workers while shielding agencies from long-term commitments.

The proposed (and ratified) 2026 national budget further entrenches this retreat from public sector responsibility. Key concerns include reductions or realignments in the Miscellaneous Personnel Benefits Fund (MPBF), which funds salary adjustments, benefits, and new positions. Reports of slashes—such as over P34 billion in some allocations—threaten even the modest third-tranche increases under Salary Standardization Law VI (implemented via related executive orders and budget circulars). These cuts limit new regular hires, exacerbate reliance on contractual labor, and jeopardize timely release of allowances and other entitlements.

A stark betrayal preceded this: roughly ₱43 billion originally earmarked for personnel services—including salary upgrades (around P10.77 billion) and retirement/terminal leave benefits (around P32.47 billion)—was transferred from guaranteed programmed funds to unprogrammed appropriations in the final budget process. President Marcos later vetoed a related line item under unprogrammed funds labeled “Payment of Personnel Services Requirements.” Official explanations cited fiscal constraints and realignments (e.g., to agency-specific budgets or subsistence allowances for uniformed personnel), with assurances that existing salaries and benefits remain secure.

Yet the contradiction remains glaring. There is never “no money” for priorities that benefit the powerful or connected—vast infrastructure projects often riddled with allegations of padded costs, ghost projects, substandard materials, and patronage. These ventures, frequently criticized as fertile ground for corruption, receive billions while educators and civil servants are told to tighten belts. That ₱43 billion could have delivered tangible relief: an additional ₱3,000–₱4,000 monthly for teachers, or a doubling of the Personnel Economic Relief Allowance (PERA) from ₱2,000 to ₱4,000 for government workers. These were modest, survival-level demands—enough to offset inflation, cover out-of-pocket classroom supplies, reduce debt burdens, and ease the daily grind of unpaid overtime and personal subsidies to education.

Instead, teachers continue absorbing the system’s shortfalls: funding supplies from their own pockets, managing overcrowded classrooms, and accepting wages eroded by rising costs—all while being lauded as “heroes” or “nation-builders.” Symbolic praise costs nothing; structural support does.

This pattern reflects broader neoliberal approaches under the Marcos Jr. administration: hollowing out public services, flexibilizing labor through contractualization and outsourcing, and weakening social protections in the name of efficiency and growth. Promises of economic progress remain disconnected from the lived realities of ordinary Filipinos, who face deepening hardship amid persistent inequality. Corruption, meanwhile, escapes genuine accountability. Scandals—from infrastructure anomalies to misused funds—drain resources that could fund wages, benefits, and services. Instead of prosecution and reform, the system often shields those who benefit from poverty and patronage, while bolstering repressive measures against dissent.

Educators are uniquely positioned as custodians of truth and critical thinking. Public servants, in turn, hold the public trust. When systemic corruption and precarity become normalized, neutrality is complicity. Speaking out is not partisanship—it is civic duty. Calling for accountability rejects the notion that exploitation equals efficiency, layoffs equal reform, and corruption is an inevitable byproduct of governance.

The fight against corruption is inseparable from the fight for decent wages, job security, humane conditions, and a public sector that serves rather than sacrifices its workers.

A government claiming fiscal poverty while enabling theft cannot demand trust. A state undermining its educators cannot credibly champion education or national development.

This is not opposition for opposition’s sake. It is a demand for responsibility, justice, and a future where public service means dignity not endless sacrifice and enforced silence. When corruption goes unchallenged, it steals far more than funds. It robs stability, dignity, and the promise of a better tomorrow especially for those shaping the next generation and those who promised efficient service.

Educators—and all government workers—cannot, and will not, look away.

"Passing Faces, Quiet Truths"

"Passing Faces, Quiet Truths"


As I got older,

I learned that loyalty without honesty has no weight.

It stands, but it does not endure.

I no longer follow names, titles, or the comfort of belonging.

Friends, family—when something is wrong, it must be named.

Not to wound, not to humiliate,

but because growth does not come from being spared the truth.

Those who truly care are rarely the loudest.

They speak quietly.

They risk silence.

They choose the difficult kindness of correction

over the easy warmth of applause.

I do not seek yes-men.

I seek those who can tell me where I failed,

and who can stand beside me while naming their own.

Comfort passes. Approval fades.

Only accountability remains.

If honesty keeps a friendship real, I choose it—

even at the cost of ease, even at the cost of what once was.

Sometimes, if that means standing alone, so be it.

People come and go.

At first there is greeting and recognition.

Later, there is distance.

Sometimes even forgetting—who are you?—

spoken not from confusion, but from the desire to

erase a past that no longer fits.

Sometimes, a stranger- even a Whore,

can show more kindness

than someone who once called themselves a friend.

Some pass through gently,

asking nothing, leaving no wound.

Others stay longer,

learn your name, share your table—

and still treat you like a moment they never meant to keep.

I accept this without resentment.

All meetings are temporary.

All partings are already written into the meeting.

When truth is spoken with care, it is not meant to shame.

It is meant to prepare the ground.

And when I am left with only myself

and what I have chosen to carry,

let it be honesty,

let it be clarity,

let it be the quiet knowledge that I lived

without betraying what I knew to be true.

Unending Thanks, Unending Praise

Unending Thanks, Unending Praise

There is something unmistakably electric about faith when it spills into the streets. In the glow of streetlights and dawn, amid sweat, chants, and the low hum of devotion, the Traslacion of Nuestro Padre Jesús Nazareno once again proved that belief—when shared by millions—becomes a force of its own. 

This year, however, the force did not know when to stop. 

What followed was an intense, post-Traslacion reckoning. By every measure, this edition may stand as the longest in history. It has never been unusual for the Poon to find His way home only when the sun rises the next day. But this was different. The procession crossed the twenty-four-hour mark, turning endurance into excess and ritual into a test of human limits. 

Church authorities, reading the signs, made a difficult call. With volunteers collapsing from fatigue, medical teams stretched thin, and injuries mounting, the announcement came: the image would temporarily remain at the Minor Basilica of San Sebastian. It was a pause meant to protect life, a moment of restraint in a city running on faith alone. 

And then, almost instantly, the ropes pulled back. 

As the andas neared the church, the Hijos del Nazareno and devotees redirected it toward the old, familiar route—back to Quiapo Church. Tradition took the wheel. “Hindi puwedeng baliin ang tradisyon,” (You cannot break tradition) they said. Long before today’s devotees were born, the promise had already been made. The Nazarene goes home, no matter the hour, no matter the cost. This was not defiance, they insisted. This was panata. 

By the time the procession moved forward again, nearly eight million devotees had joined the tide. The numbers were staggering, the energy undeniable. Yet alongside the faith came something else—something harder to name. The sheer volume of people, the rising edge of what some called “aggressiveness,” demanded attention. Not condemnation, but understanding. 

This is where the conversation must widen. Beyond crowd control and barricades, experts must begin talking about social behavior during the Traslacion. What happens when devotion meets exhaustion? How does heat, humidity, or sudden rain change collective behavior? How has the character of the procession evolved as numbers grow year after year? These are not questions that weaken faith—they are questions that help it survive. 

Because devotion, in the Christian sense, has never been about force. It is about love. And love listens. 

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” Christ says (John 14:15). Not pull harder. Not endure longer. But obey. 

The Scriptures have warned us about this tension before. “To obey is better than sacrifice” (1 Samuel 15:22). Sacrifice is dramatic. Obedience is disciplined. One makes noise; the other makes change. 

Some voices called what happened unshakable faith. Others called it stubbornness—"katigasan ng ulo" (hard-headedness). Still others saw troubling signs of disobedience. Perhaps all were reacting to the same truth: when devotion becomes louder than discernment, something essential is at risk. 

If the Poon could speak above the chants and the strain, one wonders if He would ask for more suffering—or for more conversion. Christ was never unclear about the core of devotion: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37–39). That neighbor includes the volunteer who hasn’t slept, the medic running on adrenaline, the responder whose devotion is quiet, unseen, and no less real. 

The Traslacion remains a raw, powerful expression of Filipino faith—unfiltered, emotional, and deeply rooted. But tradition was never meant to overpower compassion. Praise was never meant to silence wisdom. 

“For I desire mercy, not sacrifice,” the Lord reminds us (Matthew 9:13). 

Unending thanks.

Unending praise. 

 But in the neon-lit aftermath of faith pushed to its limits, perhaps the truest act of devotion is learning when to listen—and when to let love lead the way home. 

Clinging to Faith as to Pulling the Ropes: Faith, Suffering, and the Pull Towards Jesus the Nazarene

Clinging to Faith as to Pulling the Ropes: 

Faith, Suffering, and the Pull Towards Jesus the Nazarene

In the early hours of January, before the city fully wakes, Manila already knows what is coming. Streets are sealed, radios issue warnings, and old arguments resurface—about safety, excess, faith gone too far. From balconies and sidewalks, observers will later watch the mass of bodies move as one, dark and restless, like a tide pulled by something unseen. It is a ritual repeated every year, both familiar and unsettling, drawing devotion and disbelief in equal measure.

To some, it is an anachronism—a remnant of an older, rougher Catholicism that refuses to modernize. To others, it is a public inconvenience, or worse, a preventable tragedy waiting to happen. But for those who walk barefoot on hot asphalt, who press forward despite the heat and the crush, the procession is not an idea to be debated. It is an encounter they believe must be risked.

The procession is scarred by injuries and, at times, by death. Still, every year the crowd thickens. Under the harsh Manila sun and the flicker of streetlights, devotees surge along the nearly seven-kilometer route, pushing and pulling their way toward the carroza. Towels are hurled into the air, vanishing briefly before returning—creased, darkened, and transformed into amulets. It is dangerous, chaotic, and relentless. And yet it grows. 

Why? Fr. Francis Lucas, president of the Catholic Media Network, points to the same reasons heard year after year: miracles claimed and retold, bodies healed, lives put back together, and a profound identification with the suffering Christ. For devotees, this is spirituality lived in the body, not merely spoken in prayer. But to dismiss it as fanaticism—or worse, idolatry—is to miss its deeper pulse. 

This devotion is not driven by faith alone. It is driven by struggle. 

In every pull of the rope, there is a life straining against its limits. In every hand reaching to touch the Nazarene, there is an echo of the woman in the Gospel who whispered to herself, “If I shall touch only his garment, I shall be healed” (Matthew 9:21, Douay-Rheims). Christ’s reply still hangs in the air of Quiapo, amplified by sweat and shouts: “Be of good heart, daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole” (Matthew 9:22). 

For many, wiping the image with a towel is not superstition but translation—a way of turning invisible prayer into something tangible. The cloth becomes proof that suffering has been noticed, that hope has weight. It is both plea and promise, both prayer and gamble. 

The majority of those who walk—and are crushed—in this procession come from the working class. They arrive burdened by debts, illness, precarious work, and quiet despair. To them, the Black Nazarene is not distant or triumphant. He is the Christ described by Isaiah: “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with infirmity… Surely he hath borne our infirmities and carried our sorrows” (Isaiah 53:3–4). His bruises are not symbols but credentials. “By his bruises we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5). 

The danger of the procession mirrors their daily lives. Injury is familiar. Risk is routine. When Christ says, “Come to me, all you that labour, and are burdened, and I will refresh you” (Matthew 11:28), it sounds less like poetry and more like an invitation meant specifically for them. They believe this Christ understands exhaustion because he bears it. 

Critics see chaos; devotees see communion. Where outsiders see bodies colliding, they see the truth spoken plainly in the Psalms: “Many are the afflictions of the just; but out of them all will the Lord deliver them” (Psalm 34:19). And when logic collapses under the weight of the crowd, faith reaches for the impossible, trusting the promise: “With men it is impossible; but not with God: for all things are possible with God” (Mark 10:27). 

In the end, this is not a procession seeking spectacle. It is a procession seeking contact. A people reaching for a God they believe can still be touched—“a high priest who cannot have compassion on our infirmities” (Hebrews 4:15)—and approaching him, as the letter urges, “with confidence to the throne of grace: that we may obtain mercy, and find grace in seasonable aid” (Hebrews 4:16). Like so much of the realities—raw, crowded, loud, and aching for meaning—the devotion to the Black Nazarene is messy and excessive, unpolished and sincere. It is faith with calloused hands and sweat-soaked shirts. It is hope dragged through the streets, refusing to stay quiet, insisting—again and again—that even in pain, grace might still break through.