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.

Beyond the Checklist: Traveling with Respect and Reverence

Beyond the Checklist: Traveling with Respect and Reverence

At first glance, this note conveys a deep sense of gratitude toward those with a genuine interest in exploring the world, admiring the beauty and uniqueness of each nation’s traditions. Countries that proudly display their wonders carry not only picturesque vistas but also profound histories and rich cultural heritage—yet, sadly, these treasures too often become fodder for careless consumption. 

There exist places that are not theme parks, no matter how photogenic or trendy they may appear. Churches, temples, shrines, ancient ruins, even graves, demand respect. They are living testaments to a people’s beliefs and histories, not mere backdrops for a social media post or a passing glance. 

In Japan, signs like “No Circus Performance Here” or “No Hanging from Torii Gates” serve as gentle, yet firm, reminders of this principle. The torii gate, a graceful threshold from the ordinary into the sacred, carries profound spiritual meaning in Shinto practice. Those who disregard it—or worse, treat it as an object of entertainment—risk not only cultural insensitivity but a disconnection from the reverence the space commands. Observers might feel worry more than anger toward such transgressions, for it reflects a lack of awareness rather than malice. 

In fact, although customary etiquette prescribes appropriate behavior within shrine precincts, a legally binding code of conduct is also established by statute. Pursuant to Article 188 of the Penal Code, titled Desecration of Places of Worship; Interference with Religious Services, the following legal penalties are stipulated: “A person who openly desecrates a shrine, temple, cemetery or any other place of worship shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than six months or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen. A person who interferes with a sermon, worship or a funeral service shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than 1 year or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen.”

Often, such disregard arises from a superficial encounter—a visitor who professes spirituality yet is primarily motivated by aesthetic curiosity, or one who approaches without any belief or understanding at all. From a local perspective, however, the divine presences inhabiting these sacred spaces—whether gods, spirits, or ancestral beings—are not perceived as tolerant of irreverence or careless conduct. Within this worldview, even the torii gate is not merely an architectural symbol but a liminal threshold, a passage between the human and the divine realms, silently reminding all who cross it to proceed with humility and mindfulness. Consequently, shrines, like the torii themselves and other culturally significant sites, merit profound respect and preservation. They embody centuries of tradition, devotion, and collective memory, serving as living expressions of a community’s spiritual and cultural identity. To honor these spaces is to recognize the continuity between past and present, ensuring that future generations may experience the same sense of awe, reverence, and connection that their predecessors once felt. Therefore, travelers and visitors alike are urged to act with sensitivity, avoiding behaviors that may inadvertently diminish or dishonor the sacredness of the communities that protect and sustain these revered sites.

Or perhaps, to put it bluntly: if a tourist journey is undertaken solely for the sake of shopping, dining, beaches, nightlife, or other fleeting pleasures, travelers should recognize it for what it truly is: either respect it or leave them alone and focus on the intent from the bucketlist. There is no shame in seeking enjoyment, but such pursuits should not come at the expense of local life or traditions. The generation steeped in consumerism has reduced the significance of belief and its interpretations to little more than an aesthetic, secondary to material intent and conveniently labeled “enjoyment.” One might ask: do the majority of tourists really visit Thailand for the temples, ruins, and museums, or is it for the mall, the marijuana shop, the beach, and even the red-light district? The people who live in these places have invested their time, devotion, and care into preserving their culture, and they rightly expect visitors to tread lightly. To treat sacred temples, historic landmarks, or living cultural spaces as mere checklist items or brief stops along a superficial itinerary is to squander the rare opportunity for meaningful engagement. True travel is more than consumption; it is learning, observing, and connecting. It calls for patience, humility, and an awareness that each step in a foreign land carries weight. Respectful engagement ensures that cultural heritage remains alive, vibrant, and inspirational, rather than reduced to background scenery for passing amusement. 

Ultimately, the note urges travelers to embrace culture with humility and care. To do otherwise is to risk reducing centuries of history and spiritual practice to nothing more than a passing spectacle. Respect ensures that culture remains a source of inspiration, connection, and wonder for all who follow.  

Of Coup Rumors and the Crisis of Credibility: Between Loyalty and Opportunism amongst the “Men in Uniform”

Of Coup Rumors and the Crisis of Credibility:

Between Loyalty and Opportunism amongst the “Men in Uniform”

Recent coup rumors have once again stirred the political discourse in the Philippines, but the Department of National Defense (DND) has swiftly belied such claims, calling them "baseless," "unfounded," and "far removed from reality." Describing the talk of destabilization as “another desperate attempt” to sow discord among Filipinos, the department’s response underscores a growing frustration with those who continue to exploit national crises to forward personal or partisan agendas. 

The idea of a coup in the current climate seems not only implausible but also cynical. These rumors often link the country’s ongoing sociopolitical scandals—particularly those affecting both the administration and opposition—as a pretext to "restore" certain individuals to power. At the heart of this narrative is a concerning attempt to paint discontent as patriotism. However, beneath the surface, the movement appears less like a principled call to action and more like a coordinated power grab by disillusioned elites—retired generals, pseudo-partisan actors, and remnants of a regime that lost its moral legitimacy. 

Claims that the armed forces and police are siding with the past administration only serve to muddy the waters. Such assertions not only discredit the institutions that have sworn to protect the republic but also suggest a dangerous erosion of democratic norms. Invoking “patriotic” intent while backing whether the vice president or a potential “civil-military junta” is regressive. It evokes a time when executive power was wielded extrajudicially, often with the support of the military, to suppress dissent in the name of national stability. 

To be clear, the military today appears more concerned with asserting Philippine sovereignty in the face of external threats. Maritime cooperation with like-minded allies, joint and multilateral sails, and frequent military exercises both locally and abroad underscore this shift. The Army is undergoing significant restructuring, while the Navy and Air Force continue to modernize, acquiring new vessels, aircraft, and ammunition. These developments suggest that the armed forces are increasingly outward-looking—rightly channeling their nationalism toward defending territorial integrity rather than meddling in internal power plays. However, the military remains a microcosm of the broader society it serves. Within its ranks, there still exist factions clinging to a dated doctrine of internal security, one that prioritizes the protection of entrenched interests over the genuine welfare of the people. This mercenary tradition, rooted in historical alliances with political patrons, weakens the very oath to protect the republic. It fosters a mindset where political intervention, rather than democratic resilience, becomes a perceived solution to governance crises. 

The persistence of coup rumors is symptomatic of a deeper issue: a lack of institutional trust and a political culture that often turns to extralegal means in moments of instability. Such narratives gain ground not because they are plausible, but because scandal—especially when it touches both the ruling coalition and the opposition—leaves the public grasping for explanations, however conspiratorial. In truth, these rumors may not gain real traction. The public, while disillusioned, remains wary of repeating past mistakes. The military, despite its internal contradictions, has not signaled any coherent desire to return to the era of political adventurism. But the noise will persist—as it always does—particularly under a regime grappling with scandals that serve as political fodder for both sides of the aisle. 

In the end, national defense cannot be divorced from political responsibility. To truly uphold their oath, the armed forces must reject not only the act of destabilization, but also the lingering traditions that make such rumors even remotely credible. Democracy cannot be defended by those still entangled in nostalgia for authoritarian power. 

The Myth Behind the Coup Rhetoric 

To be fair, one cannot entirely blame the so-called plotters for being tempted to act amid rising public discontent. The country is, after all, grappling with yet another wave of sociopolitical scandals—rampant corruption, both at national and local levels, involving elected and appointed officials alike. Add to that the persistent reality of the state’s subservience to foreign and entrenched interests, and you begin to understand why the environment feels ripe for unrest. But the deeper question remains: are these alleged moves truly driven by patriotism and a genuine love for the people? Or are they, once again, a calculated power grab—one wrapped in the language of nationalism, using scandal as a convenient pretext to seize control? 

History gives this reader a clue. Past attempts at regime change under the guise of “patriotic duty” have too often revealed themselves to be hollow. Plotters and ideologues have promised new orders, only to offer fragmented solutions masked by patriotic-populist rhetoric. Decades ago, there were those who championed the call to “internalize the Filipino ideology,” anchored on political liberation, economic emancipation, and social unity. Noble as it sounds, this slogan was nothing new—it echoed the very ideology propagated during the Marcos dictatorship. That regime, too, claimed to be anti-oligarchic while nurturing its own network of cronies. It waved the flag of nationalism while aligning with foreign powers, especially the United States. It promised reform but upheld a system that enriched the ruling elite and unleashed state violence on the people. So what became of that promise of political liberation, economic emancipation, and social unity? It collapsed—not because the people lacked will, but because the regime's actions betrayed its words. And when the people finally rejected that order in 1986, what replaced it was a system that gradually embraced the neoliberal world order—globalization, privatization, deregulation—even when these came at the cost of national interests and social welfare. 

Today, people see echoes of that past in the present. The current climate of scandal and dysfunction has become fertile ground for opportunists—those who posture as patriots, but whose real motives are power, protection, and nostalgia for a discredited regime. These actors claim to defend the nation but offer no real alternative beyond blame games, disinformation, and calls to "restore order" through authoritarian means. Their version of patriotism is suspect: shallow, performative, and eerily trying to be that to the very kind of "radicalism" they once vilified—except theirs is devoid of substance, driven not by ideology but by resentment, revenge, and entitlement. However, their supposed “patrons” is mired in corruption scandals, and so are many of their allies. Yet they package their movement as a moral crusade. This is not patriotism. It’s political cosplay masquerading as national salvation. It's a bid to harness the frustration of the people not to uplift them, but to restore a regime known for bloodied policies and systemic abuse—all under the pretense of fixing a broken order. Yes, the people are discontented. Yes, the government is plagued by dysfunction. But what’s being peddled in the name of patriotism is just another version of elite capture—weaponizing nationalism to preserve the power of a few, not to serve the many. 

Until people learn to see through this rhetoric and demand not just change, but meaningful, inclusive reform rooted in accountability, history will keep repeating itself. Not as redemption—but as farce.  

The Urgent Need for Technological Transparency in Curbing Corruption

The Urgent Need for Technological Transparency in Curbing Corruption 

Now, discussions are turning to future technologies—but the pressing question remains: are the institutions and individuals involved prepared to confront the blunt reality that these tools reveal? 

The recent spate of corruption scandals in the Philippines has highlighted the urgent need for technological solutions that can enforce transparency and accountability. In a country where billions of pesos have disappeared into “ghost projects” and mismanaged funds, the limitations of traditional oversight mechanisms are glaringly obvious. Citizens are increasingly asking: how could such vast sums, funded by taxpayers, slip through the cracks so easily? How could systemic inefficiencies, negligence, or deliberate malfeasance go unchecked despite audits, reports, and supposedly strict regulations? 

One promising avenue lies in the adoption of blockchain technology. At its core, blockchain offers permanent, transparent, and verifiable records of transactions. Once a record is entered, it cannot be altered or erased without leaving a trace. This immutability, combined with decentralization, creates a system where corruption is not only harder to conceal but also easier to trace and audit. Applied to government procurement, land registries, supply chains, and other sectors prone to fraud, blockchain could dramatically reduce opportunities for embezzlement, bribery, or counterfeiting. By ensuring that records are automatically verifiable and publicly auditable, the technology fosters both accountability and trust. 

For Public Works and Highways Secretary Vince Dizon, adopting future technologies such as blockchain could play a crucial role in tracking government projects and ensuring transparency and accountability—especially given the magnitude of the challenge he inherited.

“It’s really unbelievable to me how corrupt this institution has become,” Dizon said. “The decay stems from a total lack of transparency. DPWH is a very decentralized organization; 300 district offices, 20,000 to 25,000 projects every year and no monitoring. Nobody has eyes on the process. They are their own little kingdoms, and they are the kings. But hopefully with this [blockchain], that will change.”

“Simply put, blockchain provides a lot of eyes on something. There are multiple eyes, and they don’t know each other. They can’t collude,” the Secretary added.

From his words, it is clear that adopting future technologies is part of a broader effort to reform institutions riddled with corruption such as the DPWH. “This is what the whole government needs, not just DPWH,” Dizon said. “From the budget process to procurement, to awarding contracts, to project implementation and payment; everyone should be watching.” 

Yet, technology alone is not a cure-all. Corrupt actors will inevitably seek new loopholes, and without proper governance, oversight, and political will, even the most sophisticated system can be undermined. Resistance is common, often disguised as skepticism about costs, feasibility, or the disruption of existing processes. History provides clear examples: Project NOAH, the government’s disaster-monitoring and early-warning initiative, was repeatedly underfunded and, at one point, cut despite its demonstrable value in predicting calamities and saving lives. If the state hesitates to invest in life-saving technologies, one can hardly expect wholehearted adoption of systems that could expose corruption. 

The stakes are high. Beyond financial losses, unchecked corruption erodes public trust, weakens institutions, and compromises development. Every peso siphoned away from public projects represents roads unbuilt, hospitals under-equipped, and citizens deprived of essential services. Future technologies like blockchain offer a pathway to restore credibility, but their adoption requires more than infrastructure—it demands courage, discipline, and an unwavering commitment to transparency from all levels of government. 

As the Philippines grapples with the fallout from DPWH ghost projects and other scandals, the nation faces a critical decision. Will it embrace future technologies fully, recognizing the uncomfortable truths they reveal, or will these innovations be treated half-heartedly, diluted by bureaucracy and cost concerns, leaving the door open for yet another cycle of inefficiency and fraud? 

The answer will define not just the fight against corruption, but the very nature of governance and public trust in the years to come.  

“Eye for an Eye: When Systemic Betrayal and the Moral Bankrupcy of Power Breeds Rebellion”

“Eye for an Eye: When Systemic Betrayal

and the Moral Bankrupcy of Power Breeds Rebellion”

By Kat Ulrike

Pardon for being too direct, for if crooks in the bureaucracy and in the legislature are able to abuse public trust and siphon off the people’s money with impunity, one might, regrettably, argue that the people themselves have a moral claim to reclaim what is theirs—akin to the infamous Tiflis bank robbery orchestrated under Stalin’s direction. Call it “eye for an eye” if you will; thank heavens society at large has mostly turned a blind eye to such impulses. Yet for the marginalized and the impoverished, who have endured endless exploitation and systemic neglect, the temptation to act may arise at any moment, far exceeding the unrest witnessed during the Mendiola riots amid the September 21 protest action. How could this note be written in such a way? At first glance, it may sound threatening, but it speaks to a reality the masses have long recognized: populism as practiced by the elite treats short-term fixes as mere “salves” to soothe popular anger without addressing the structural injustices beneath. The elites offer a loaf of bread in one hand, feigning concern and generosity, while the other wields a metaphorical big stick—the inconvenient truth that the people are meant to endure systemic injustice, cloaked under the guise of law. That bread represents temporary, superficial solutions, while the big stick symbolizes the harsh realities and punitive measures that reinforce the very inequalities they claim to remedy. 

Indeed, the populism the elite peddle is a hollow, pretentious performance, a tool for consolidating their own interests and, often, for lining their pockets amid the ever-present cycle of corruption scandals. For those who suffer the consequences of these betrayals—the scandals, the embezzlements, the abuses of power—the so-called “rule of law” may appear less like protection and more like a mechanism to enforce compliance while shielding the guilty. Meanwhile, the so-called “thinking class” continues to pontificate about the sanctity of the rule of law, insisting that justice must be pursued through orderly channels. But the masses, who shoulder the real cost of disorder and state incompetence, increasingly find themselves trapped in a liminal space of neither law nor heaven. They are implicated in every form of societal disruption, yet left unprotected against the systemic abuse that perpetuates their suffering. 

And as a concerned observer of this “neither law nor heaven” scenario, one cannot ignore that the people, pushed to the brink by systemic betrayal, may find justification in actions the state would label as “crime.” As Louise Michel said: “The people will rise. They may be oppressed, imprisoned, punished, but they will rise again, for injustice is intolerable.” When the structures meant to safeguard justice themselves perpetuate injustice, the moral line between legality and righteousness blurs. In such a context, popular outrage is not mere chaos—it is the predictable, human response to a society that has long ignored their suffering. And the state would be wise not to underestimate this potential for upheaval, for the consequences of ignoring both the abuses of the elite and the grievances of the masses may one day reach a scale that even the most powerful cannot contain. Of course they would hear to and fro the relevance of Gandhi's Amhisa, or Rizal's need for education and character building, but, reality becomes Malcolm X's "by any means necessarily"; and if they hear about Francis Magalona's "You can't talk peace and have a gun" end rather like Yasser Arafat's "Do not let the green branch fall from my hand" quote. 

The events of September 21 and the subsequent imprisonment of politically aware youth—dismissed by some as “used” or expendable—could easily become a spark, a catalyst for outrage. God forbid it comes to that, yet history and reality have repeatedly exposed the double standard: “The state calls its own violence law, but that of the individual, crime.” This hypocrisy is compounded by bureaucrats who, having siphoned the coffers of the people, turn around to arrest those who merely demand a loaf of bread. In such a climate of systemic theft masquerading as governance, acts of expropriation—what the state labels “thievery”—become not only foreseeable but, in the eyes of the oppressed, morally justified as peaceful demands and righteous anger be replied with repression- making the line between legality and righteousness blur. As Stalin once remarked, “The only real power is that which is seized and defended by force; property stolen from the exploiters is never theft.” Indeed, the very order the state claims to uphold risks igniting the disorder it professes to fear. 

If the people genuinely desire the rule of law to prevail, then the law must reflect the will of the people. Otherwise, it becomes little more than an opiate peddled by the elite—no different from the distractions of the media, the superficialities of the arts, or, in earlier times, the dogmas of religion—used to pacify the masses while consolidating power and protecting privilege. Law divorced from popular interest ceases to be a safeguard of justice; it becomes a tool of control, a veneer of legitimacy covering the systematic exploitation of those it claims to serve.    

A Performative Nation in a Hollow Republic: The Philippines as a Comfortable Cage

A Performative Nation in a Hollow Republic:
The Philippines as a Comfortable Cage

In this continuing past, the Philippines finds itself caught between the promises of nationhood and the reality of its contradictions. Nationalism, democracy, freedom, and pacifism—examples of ideals long invoked as attributes of the Republic—persist more as symbols than as living principles. They are rehearsed in ceremonies, slogans, and civic rituals, yet often fail to take root in the hard ground of social justice, sovereignty, and solidarity. What remains is a nation skilled in performance but uncertain in substance, a republic that exists more in form than in strength.

This hollowing has produced a peculiar atmosphere: one of resilience mistaken for power, contentment mistaken for freedom, peace mistaken for justice. Filipinos are taught to endure rather than to transform, to take pride in survival rather than in sovereignty. The result is a “comfortable cage,” where dependency and compliance are softened by rituals of pride, where the nation appears vibrant on the surface but remains bound to the very structures that prevent its emancipation.

A web of unresoved questions

For sometimes, Filipinos remain caught in a web of unresolved questions: which value should truly stand at the core of our identity as a people? Is it nationalism—the proud assertion of sovereignty rooted in centuries of resistance? Is it democracy—the promise that's reclaimed, fragile yet celebrated as the people’s triumph? Is it freedom—the word most cherished, yet also most misunderstood, often collapsing into individualism? Or is it pacifism—the instinct to endure, to keep peace even at the cost of justice, a habit born from survival through conquest and crisis?

After decades past, these questions remain unsettled. Years like 1898, 1946, 1986, heck even 2001 was supposed to provide clarity, a moral compass to guide nation-building. Instead, it opened a space where ideals jostle with one another, competing for primacy but never reconciling into a coherent vision. Each generation inherits the same unresolved debate: nationalism is invoked but rarely practiced, democracy is praised yet constantly undermined, freedom is prized but shallow, and pacifism sustains resilience but also breeds paralysis.

In this unsettled state, the Filipino identity itself seems suspended—torn between competing ideals, unable to decide which truly deserves to be the foundation of a nation still struggling to define its place in the world.

When nationalism is meant to display

Nationalism is often invoked during moments of crisis. It appeals to the Filipino’s shared history of resistance—our forebears’ defiance against Spain in 1896, the unfinished revolution interrupted by American colonization, the guerilla struggles against Japanese occupation, and the collective courage that toppled a dictatorship in 1986. Each time, nationalism flared up as a unifying cry, a reminder that the nation could stand together against oppression.

Yet outside of these moments of upheaval, nationalism has become largely ornamental. It is performed in parades, ritualized in flag ceremonies, and repeated in slogans, but rarely translated into the hard work of economic independence, institution-building, or the pursuit of genuine sovereignty. Instead, it has been hollowed out, reduced to symbols of pride disconnected from deeper change. 

At times, nationalism even becomes consumerist—a marketing label attached to products branded as “proudly Filipino” regardless of who profits from them, or a corporate slogan that substitutes for real investment in the nation’s future. It is also channeled into vicarious victories: the euphoria over beauty queens, athletes, or singers who “put the Philippines on the map” often becomes a substitute for addressing structural failures at home. Overseas labor, meanwhile, is celebrated as the “modern-day heroism” of OFWs, yet this rhetoric masks the uncomfortable truth that labor migration reflects the country’s lack of self-sustaining opportunities. Pride, in these instances, risks becoming a cover for dependence rather than a step toward self-reliance. 

Thus, nationalism comforts but does not confront. It offers sentiment rather than strategy, performance rather than program. It celebrates fragments of cultural pride but avoids the difficult, necessary work of shaping an economy and politics that could stand on their own.

In the end, nationalism remains ornamental: a display of pride that consoles a people with symbols while leaving the nation vulnerable to dependence, division, and drift.

Democracy: still fragile, shallow

Democracy, meanwhile, was the great promise of EDSA: a collective voice reclaiming power from tyranny, a nation insisting that sovereignty resides in the people. It was supposed to be the corrective to dictatorship—a return to institutions, accountability, and participatory governance. In the euphoria of 1986, democracy was imagined as the foundation of renewal, the system that would finally allow Filipinos to chart their own future.

Yet in practice, democracy here remains fragile and shallow. It has been captured by personalities and dynasties, reducing politics to a family enterprise where surnames matter more than platforms. Campaigns are dominated by celebrity appeal, regional loyalties, and patronage networks rather than programmatic visions of change. Elections—while regular and often lively—become spectacles of popularity, money, and manipulation. The people participate, but rarely decide in meaningful terms; choices are structured by entrenched elites who monopolize both resources and narratives. In recent years, this fragility has deepened. The rise of social media has made disinformation a powerful political weapon, spreading lies faster than truth and reshaping public opinion through engineered narratives. Instead of fostering informed citizens, the digital sphere often amplifies division and manipulation. Political discourse, once confined to rallies and debates, is now waged through algorithms and troll farms, drowning out reason with noise. 

At the same time, nostalgia for strongman rule has crept back into public life. Disillusioned with the slow grind of democratic institutions, many Filipinos long for decisive leadership—even at the cost of accountability and rights. This yearning reveals the shallow roots of democracy: when institutions fail to deliver justice and prosperity, authoritarian solutions regain their appeal.

Thus, the democracy born decades oast still struggles to mature. It has given Filipinos the form of choice but not always the substance of power. It risks becoming a stage where old elites and new demagogues alike perform under the guise of democracy, while the people are left with spectacle instead of sovereignty.

Freedom: a celebrated word "taken for granted"

Freedom is perhaps the most celebrated word in the Filipino vocabulary, the legacy of 1986 and earlier struggles for independence. It is spoken of with pride, remembered as the people’s triumph over tyranny, and held up as proof that the nation could reclaim its destiny. Freedom is seen as the highest prize of the Filipino spirit—something for which generations sacrificed their lives.

But in practice, freedom here too often collapses into individualism. It becomes less about collective empowerment and more about the pursuit of personal survival, comfort, or expression—even at the expense of community. For many, freedom means “minding one’s own business,” carving out a private space of safety or opportunity while leaving the larger social fabric frayed. It is prized, but responsibility is neglected. This tendency has deepened in the contemporary era. 

Civil rights, like Freedom of speech and the press, once a hard-won right, is now exercised carelessly in a digital landscape flooded with misinformation, harassment, and polarized noise. The ideal of free expression, meant to safeguard truth and accountability, is frequently twisted into the freedom to spread lies or attack others without consequence. The democratic promise of a marketplace of ideas is undermined by the unchecked power of algorithms that reward outrage over reason. 

Even political freedom risks being hollowed out. Voting is celebrated as the ultimate exercise of liberty, yet when elections are driven by patronage, dynasty, or disinformation, choice becomes an illusion, worse, driven by the material perks than as exercise in the right to choose. Freedom here is procedural, not transformative. 

Economic freedom, meanwhile, is heavily emphasized, especially in a government whose continuing past has meant reinforcing the feudal order with capitalist efficiency. The landlord has simply become a “manager,” wages remain low, yet prices are still unaffordable. The push for “foreign investment” often requires immense concessions to foreign interests, reducing sovereignty to bargaining chips. And yet this is paraded as progress, as if “economic freedom” under these terms is the ideal the people should accept. In truth, this is the freedom that the current corrupt order wants—one that benefits elites while sacrificing social justice. It has also become synonymous with mobility: the right to seek work abroad, to migrate, to find opportunity wherever it may exist. While this has given many families a lifeline, it also reflects a painful paradox—that Filipinos often find their sense of freedom not at home but in leaving the country. The state celebrates this migration as “heroism,” but in reality, it reveals a society unable to sustain its own citizens. 

Thus, freedom in the Philippines often functions as escape rather than engagement. It allegedly "liberates" the individual but weakens the collective. It offers the semblance of dignity, but without the discipline and responsibility needed to strengthen community and nation. In the end, freedom remains cherished in rhetoric but dangerously incomplete in practice—an inheritance treasured, but not fully understood or nurtured.

Pacifism: another word for choosing silence and compliance?

Pacifism, finally, runs deep in the Filipino psyche. It is the instinct to avoid confrontation, to endure hardship with patience, to keep the peace even at the cost of justice. It comes from a long history of survival—centuries of colonization, repeated cycles of disaster, poverty, and political upheaval—that conditioned the Filipino to “make do” rather than to fight back. This instinct has created the much-praised trait of resilience, celebrated in media as the ability to smile through calamity. But behind the smile often lies resignation.

In everyday life, this pacifism appears in the refusal to “interfere” with others’ problems, even when intervention could mean solidarity. It manifests as the habit of choosing silence in the face of abuse or corruption, rationalized as “ayaw ko ng gulo” (“I don’t want trouble”). While this instinct preserves harmony, it also enables impunity: wrongdoers thrive because few dare to challenge them. In politics, the same pattern holds. Filipinos often endure the failures of government with gritted teeth, adapting to dysfunction rather than demanding accountability. Leaders exploit this patience, knowing that outrage will eventually fade into acceptance. 

The rhetoric of peace is used to soften resistance, while citizens are told to be content with “resilience” instead of real reform. Even in foreign relations, this pacifist instinct has consequences. The desire to avoid conflict has made the Philippines pliant to stronger powers, especially the West. Whereas Nationalism, stripped of strategic will, is reduced to symbolic gestures, while in practice the state concedes immense ground to foreign interests—whether in trade, military agreements, or resource exploitation. “Keeping the peace” becomes the excuse for dependence. Just imagine: to say “proudly Filipino made” often means products assembled by Filipino hands but under brands owned by multinationals and local oligarchs. Labor remains cheap, wages are kept low, and authorities preach “industrial peace” while suppressing workers who demand fairness in pay and workplace conditions. 

In matters of national defense, the contrast is stark. While the Philippines runs toward the West for protection, neighbors like Vietnam and Indonesia—and even the so-called “rebel province” Taiwan—have rolled up their sleeves to build credible self-defense. They “protect the peace” on their own terms, while the Philippines too often delegates its sovereignty, content to be shielded by others if not claiming "it is their problem" as basis to justify their imagined peace.

What is celebrated as a peaceful character can, in truth, become a dangerous complacency. Pacifism sustains survival, but it also breeds compliance. It allows systemic injustice to persist unchallenged and reduces sovereignty to accommodation. The Filipino prides themselves on endurance, but endurance alone does not build a nation. Until this instinct for peace is transformed into active solidarity—peace rooted in justice, not silence—pacifism will remain a strength that doubles as a weakness.

"A Comfortable Cage"

Altogether, these contradictions create an atmosphere that suffocates genuine nation-building—a comfortable cage whose atmosphere is that of performativism, contentment, and dependence. It is the air the Filipino breathes daily: rituals of pride and resilience, slogans of democracy and freedom, ceremonies of peace and harmony, all projected outward as if to convince the world, and ourselves, that the nation is strong and whole. Yet beneath the surface lies an inconvenient truth: the country’s strength is fragile, its independence compromised, its ideals hollowed out.

Nationalism exists, but too often it is nationalism that bends to the whims of the oppressor. It survives in parades, mottos, and “Filipino pride” moments, while the economy, defense, and culture remain entangled in dependence on foreign powers and local elites. 

Democracy is performed with enthusiasm—ballots cast, speeches made, candidates cheered—but it is democracy stripped of substance, where dynasties monopolize power, money buys loyalty, and justice is unevenly applied. It is a democracy that entertains, but rarely emancipates. 

Freedom, celebrated as the crowning legacy of revolutions and uprisings, has become a thin veneer for exploitation. It is invoked to justify the free flow of capital, goods, and labor, but in practice it means the freedom of oligarchs, landlords, and corporations to profit—while ordinary Filipinos remain shackled by poverty and precarity. 

Pacifism, lauded as peace-loving resilience, too often masks passivity and dependence. It is the instinct to endure instead of resist, to avoid conflict even at the cost of dignity. The rhetoric of “resilience” and “keeping the peace” has become a tool to pacify demands for justice, ensuring that exploitation remains unchallenged. 

Taken together, these ideals—once the promises of a renewed nation—now risk becoming shadows of themselves. They soothe, but they do not empower. They inspire, but they do not transform. The Philippines presents itself as a nation of proud, free, democratic, peace-loving people, but the lived reality reveals a harsher picture: a people asked to be proud without sovereignty, free without justice, democratic without equality, and peaceful without strength.

Until these contradictions are confronted—not with rituals, but with real structural change—nation-building will remain stalled in this limbo: trapped between the story the Philippines tells about itself, and the truth it cannot escape.

Of Walls and Wails: The Unbroken Yearning for Justice in Palestine

Of Walls and Wails: The Unbroken Yearning for Justice in Palestine

Whereas the Jew stands before the Western Wall, whispering with fervent devotion, “Next year in Jerusalem,” the Palestinian Arab faces a different monument: the cold, gray concrete of the West Bank barrier and at Gaza strip, a jagged scar slicing through ancestral lands. This wall, bristling with barbed wire, stands as a mute witness to dispossession, its every block a testament to homes, orchards, and fields wrested away by the Zionist project decades ago. As a writer who has walked these lands as a pilgrim, this writer have stood before this barrier and felt its weight—not just of stone and steel, but of lives interrupted. In its shadow, one can almost hear the quiet, unyielding cries of those yearning to return, their voices rising like prayers, not from ancient shrines alone but from the hearts of the displaced. 

This concrete barrier, for many, has become a new Wailing Wall, its surface a canvas of anguish and defiance. Graffiti and murals—declarations of freedom, pleas for return, demands for dignity—scar its expanse, each spray-painted word a sacred cry as potent as any whispered at Jerusalem’s ancient stones. These are not mere slogans but the weight of generations denied their place, a secular yet hallowed echo of “Next year in Jerusalem,” urgent and unyielding. The wall is more than a physical divide; it is a monument to absence, to longing, and to a human will that refuses erasure. 

In Gaza, this same longing finds a fiercer voice, piercing the blackouts and enforced silences that seek to smother it. The UN’s declaration of famine, gripping 2.1 million souls since late August 2025, lays bare the scale of suffering. Yet the Palestinian multitudes—deemed expendable in the occupier’s ledger—roar for justice with a ferocity that drowns out crafted narratives. Every iron sword, brandished as “defense,” rusts under the flood of righteous anger. In Gaza City, where 51 lives were snuffed out in 48 hours of airstrikes on residential havens between September 19 and 20, 2025, and 85 more fell in the days that followed, the dispossessed refuse to forget each crater, each sniper’s taunt from the watchtowers. A UN commission’s searing verdict names this not mere war, but a systematic annihilation of Palestinian life, etched in rubble and resolve. 

Should any soul ask, “Is this biblical?” let no scripture’s verse obscure the raw truth: the starved, the cornered, the dispossessed do not yearn in vain. As Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas declared to the UN General Assembly on September 25, 2025, from a U.S.-imposed video-link exile, “We will not break.” From the West Bank’s graffitied barrier to Gaza’s bombarded streets, the cries for justice—whether whispered in prayer or scrawled in defiance—are the pulse of a people who endure. The walls, both ancient and modern, bear witness not to myth but to the living, who demand the world heed their flood of hope and rage. 

Policing the Lens: Press Freedom Under Threat During the September 21 Protests

Policing the Lens: Press Freedom Under Threat

During the September 21 Protests

The events that unfolded during the September 21 protests in Manila are more than just a cause for concern—they reflect a deep and dangerous disregard for the very freedoms that authorities are sworn to uphold. Reports and images from the ground reveal not policemen “maintaining peace and order,” but rather forces acting with intimidation and hostility toward those documenting the truth.

Several photojournalists were reportedly ordered by authorities to “stop taking pictures,” with one officer even brandishing his baton toward a photographer while issuing threats. Such actions are starkly at odds with the constitutional guarantees of free press and free expression—rights that are most crucial in moments of civic unrest and public dissent. Instead of ensuring accountability, these acts of obstruction and intimidation cast a chilling effect, sending a message that truth-telling is punishable when it displeases those in power.

Authorities, in their eagerness to “restore order,” appear to have forgotten that the law not only grants them authority but also limits it. Their duty is not to suppress, but to safeguard rights—even, and especially, in times of protest. Yet what has been on display is the opposite: a display of power that prioritizes image over integrity, and control over accountability.

It is unsurprising that such incidents “tarnish the image” of law enforcement. But the greater danger is that these actions betray their sworn role, reducing them from protectors of peace to enforcers of fear. The deployment of tear gas and even the reported use of live ammunition against protesters—dismissively labeled “rioters”—further underscores the peril of unchecked power.

The right to protest, the right to document, and the right to speak freely are not privileges to be granted or withdrawn at the whim of those in uniform. They are fundamental human rights. And when authorities treat the press as enemies and peaceful assembly as a crime, they reveal themselves not as guardians of law and order, but as adversaries of democracy itself and as consolidators of entrenched interests in power. 

“After Dragged Through the Streets: The Riot the Elites Ignored”

 “After Dragged Through the Streets: The Riot the Elites Ignored”

In the aftermath of the Mendiola clash, a deeper truth emerged. The state and its surrogates had painted the detained protesters as “paid actors” or “used pawns,” stripped of agency, dismissed as expendable. The police swept through the smoke-choked streets like a merciless tide, dragging protesters into vans as onlookers whispered and pointed fingers. The riot was over before the world could catch its breath, yet none of the so-called organizers, none of the social media saviors, lifted a finger to help. 

It was not their supposed “users” who came to the rescue. But instead, were activist-lawyers—quiet, fearless, stubborn—someone who had spent years fighting for human rights. Risking reputation and security, these lawyers cut through red tape and fear, saving one rioter from the maw of the state. In that moment, politics, loyalty, and ideology meant nothing. What mattered was principle: no one deserved to be abandoned to a corrupt system. 

The irony was brutal. The detainee might have been a supporter of Duterte or some "gangster", someone easily dismissed by liberal opinion-makers and Marcos Loyalists, heck, even Duterte Supporters  as a pawn or a troublemaker, even a "communist". But in that moment, politics, party loyalty, and ideology meant nothing. Principle alone mattered: no one deserved to be abandoned to a corrupt system. 

No one should be surprised. The events at EDSA was filled with the well-off, the respectable crowd, the ones who still say “just stick to the topic” while sipping coffee and scrolling their feeds. But Luneta and Mendiola were different. These weren’t polite rallies with themed shirts and photogenic sound bites. These were the angry, the dispossessed, the ones who want to tear out the roots of the system — and its ringleaders, whether they sit on the throne or rant about their own relevance in leadership.

Corruption and injustice here aren’t subtle. They’re blatant, like neon on a rainy night. And in the smoke and stones of the street, irony and provocation become weapons. What Limonov once called outrageousness and detachment isn’t just theater anymore — it’s a survival tactic, a way to puncture the liberal-conservative establishment and its ritual hypocrisies

Meanwhile, the liberal elites were fast to proclaim: “We weren’t there. We were at EDSA!” And they were right. The posh activists, the boardroom radicals, the "armchair revolutionaries", had indeed stayed far from the mud and blood of Mendiola. The class divide was glaring. They refused the poor. They refused the “uneducated,” the “non-tax-payers,” the “squammies” and “addicts.” They feared the force the poor could become, a force capable of shattering the very order the elites cherished—the gated villages, the polished boardrooms, the matcha lattes and the self-proclaimed "civil society".  Their comforts and privileges are built on the broken backs of the poorest Filipinos. That is why they fear the poor—and why the poor will one day sweep them aside. 

To be fair, it’s easy to see why the critics play it safe. It’s their discretion, their livelihood, their families. But to downplay the riots is cringe. These are not just “paid pawns” or “supporters of Duterte” being ferried to jail; they are human beings risking arrest and death in full view of a state that does not blink. The question of who funds them or what they believe becomes secondary when batons swing and bullets fly. 

Some even seem to be daring the state to finish them — a kind of reckless courage echoing Jakarta or in Kathmandu. In Mendiola, among the banners and makeshift shields, a few waved Straw Hat Pirates flags as if declaring, in the open, “yes to death.” It was gallows humor and defiance at once, a performance that made their point clearer than any speech: they would not beg for legitimacy from the people who had already stolen their future.

The legal rescue of a single rioter also exposes a deeper hypocrisy. Corruption is not only theft of public funds. It is the corrosion of public morality: the manipulation of citizens for political theater, the calculated abandonment of those very citizens once cameras are off. Saving even one life in such a system is a quiet rebellion, a refusal to participate in the politics of disposal. 

Such moments pry open the question of legitimacy. If the supposed defenders of the people are absent, and the critics of the regime still show up for the vulnerable, the familiar binaries of left/right, pro/anti, Duterte vs. opposition no longer hold- but rather the people against the system, the society against the order. And the act of defense on the side of the oppressed becomes a moral challenge to the architecture of the system itself. The riot’s story shifts—it stops being about disorder and becomes about disclosure. It reveals that corruption is a totalizing system that weaponizes loyalty, breeds cynicism, and discards lives. Their privileges were built on the backs of the broken, and they knew it. That is why they feared the poor. That is why the poor would, one day, sweep them aside. 

The act of saving one life was more than legal maneuvering. It was a spotlight on the rot beneath the surface. Corruption was not just stolen funds; it was stolen morality, the manipulation of citizens for political theater, the abandonment of those same citizens when the cameras turned away. 

In the end, the riot’s story shifted. It was no longer only about chaos. It became a mirror. It reflected the failures of a system that uses human beings as props, discards them at will, and counts on the silence of the privileged. If even one person could be saved amid the carnage, it begged the question: who truly defends the people, and who only plays at it? 

The answer was simple, sharp, and unmistakable: not the elites. Not the ones with safe EDSA protests. Not the ones sipping lattes in climate-controlled offices. The defense came from those who dared to speak truth to power—and, when the time came, to stand in the gap.