Accountability for Show, Corruption as Usual: Joyriding the Public Outrage in the Republic of Good Crooks and Bad Crooks

Accountability for Show, Corruption as Usual:

Joyriding the Public Outrage 

in the Republic of Good Crooks and Bad Crooks

In a political landscape where every faction claims moral high ground and every leader wraps themselves in the banner of public virtue, it becomes harder to distinguish principle from opportunism. The sudden surge of “anti-corruption” rhetoric has not clarified the nation’s crisis—it has only exposed how every camp weaponizes outrage when it suits them. What should have been a unified demand for cleansing the bureaucracy has instead become another battlefield for competing interests, each louder than the last, each pretending to speak for the people while guarding their own turf. 

If one would wonder—are they truly against corruption? Are they genuinely for transparency, accountability, justice? Or are they simply defending those implicated, those whose interests happen to align with theirs at the moment? The recent demonstrations made one thing unmistakably clear: they are joyriding on the public’s anger, hijacking legitimate outrage to shield their own networks of power. 

Suddenly everyone is “patriotic.” Suddenly every faction is shouting “transparency” and “accountability” as if the words alone could wash their records clean. Even the notoriously corrupt are pointing fingers at their fellow thieves in suit and in uniform, prompting ordinary people to ask: Who, exactly, is the real crook here— and why does every whistleblower seem to be carrying his own share of stolen goods? 

It is all painfully Avelinian: the nation is again confronted not with the choice between honest and corrupt officials, but between good crooks and bad crooks, each insisting they are the lesser evil. Look at the spectacle of Zaldy Co—long painted as corrupt—suddenly recast as a hero by the Duterte bloc the moment he turned his accusations toward Marcos and Romualdez. Have they forgotten that this same “hero” amassed wealth through bureaucrat capitalism while helming the congressional appropriations machinery for years, under both Duterte and Marcos? 

And what of the senators now implicated—men who speak the language of accountability only to avoid being called what they are? Villanueva who's supposed to be pious also has significant corruption allegations involving the misuse of public funds and alleged kickbacks from government projects. Escudero, the once-poster boy of politics also implicated in corruption charges with recent news accusing him of systematic corruption, misappropriation of public funds, procurement fraud, and gross neglect of duty. Not suprised that Bong Go, a Duterte stooge, also implicated in procurement deals during the pandemic to that of anomalies involving government contracts. These solons, like Co, would try to assume they're innocent- or to sound Avelinian, a "good crook" pointing against the "bad".  

But nevertheless, they're still crooks and those who supporting crooks trying to appeal to many whether it is appeal to morality, reason, heck even patriotism. But such joyriding makes their statements ring hollow. Their indignation is to protect themselves. Their crusade is performance. And so the public again hears echoes of Avelino’s cynical proclamation: some of them are “good crooks,” others “bad crooks”—but crooks all the same. 

From the congressman to the undersecretary, from the agency clerk to the private contractor in cahoots with them, they all siphon public resources while delivering half-baked “services” meant only to impress the world—or pretend to. Infrastructure is built to be photographed, not to last; programs are launched to be announced, not to be felt by the people. Everything is done for optics, never substance. 

These bullshitteries only confirm what the masses increasingly feel—that the system’s hypocrisy is absolute. To borrow Stirner’s words: the state calls its own violence “law,” but the individual’s resistance “crime.” When the powerful plunder, it is “budget utilization,” “public-private partnership,” “program expansion.” When the poor protest, it becomes “instigation,” “unrest,” “destabilization.” 

And so the people look around and see not a government fighting corruption, but factions fighting over corruption—each one desperate to control the narrative, the purse, the power. 

The crisis, then, is not just moral. It is structural. And everyone who feeds on the system—good crook or bad crook—knows it.   

Transparency? Accountability? Or Defending Interest in a time of Controversy?

Transparency? Accountability? 

Or Defending Interest in a time of Controversy?

For three straight days, Manila’s Luneta Park is scattered by white-clad mob. Thousands of devotees, moving in near-militant synchrony, marched under banners and chants orchestrated by their religious leaders. The message from the pulpit was clear: this was a “show of strength” in response to recent political turbulence. 

Officially, the leaders insist their intentions are spiritual, not political. “We do not seek to interfere with governance,” they proclaimed, “but to lend the voice of faith to the calls of many of our countrymen condemning the enormous evil involving many government officials.” 

But the optics tell a different story. Anyone observing the chanting crowds, flags and placards raised high, and coordinated movements would be hard-pressed to see anything but politics in action. The sentiment is inherently political; the spectacle is inherently political. The call for “transparency, accountability, and justice” in flood control projects—though phrased in civic terms—cannot be divorced from the political alliances of the group itself. These leaders, and the flock that follows them, have long been associated with administrations now under scrutiny for corruption and mismanagement. 

At first glance, the demands appear reasonable. Who would argue against accountability? But context complicates matters. By aligning with past administrations implicated in questionable deals, and now positioning themselves as moral arbiters, the group’s actions raise questions about the sincerity of their calls. Can faith alone justify selective outrage? Or is the rhetoric a veneer for political continuity—supporting the interests they have historically endorsed? 

The streets near Luneta are crowded with white shirts, but the meaning of the march is anything but uniform. To outsiders, it may appear as a moral crusade, a showcase of unity that's been attributed to them especially during elections with their block voting. But to  those who remember the political loyalties of past years, it reads more like a carefully choreographed expression of partisanship cloaked in the language of piety. 

The timing of the demonstration—coinciding with renewed scrutiny of corruption scandals—hardly seems coincidental. While the leaders insist their aim is spiritual guidance, the political impact is undeniable. The message is being sent: their flock is united, visible, and vocal. The line between prayer and political statement has blurred, and in a city long accustomed to both, the distinction may be lost on few. 

Faith may light the torch, but in Manila, politics carries it through the streets. And in the end, white shirts may proclaim neutrality, but the past events, corresponding actions—and timing—speak louder, if not loudest than their features slogans.  

Reclaiming Moral Courage and Rebuilding a Nation

Reclaiming Moral Courage and Rebuilding a Nation

In today’s public discourse, one phrase is invoked with ritual predictability: that “change begins with the self.” It appears in classrooms, pulpits, speeches, and civic forums, spoken with the solemnity of moral doctrine. Yet, to many observers, its repetition has begun to sound hollow. The phrase demands personal virtue, but personal virtue alone cannot flourish in a sociopolitical environment designed to frustrate it. As Karl Marx once observed, “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please… but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past.” The individual does not stand outside the system; he is shaped—sometimes constrained—by it.

Across the archipelago, Filipinos from every demographic call for integrity and honest governance. Students march for accountability; professionals write earnest letters to newspapers; business groups hold conferences encouraging ethical leadership; religious institutions issue pastoral statements. But despite these varied appeals, corruption grows more resilient. It does not retreat—it adapts, mutates, and survives.

A troubling trend becomes evident in the profiles of many who fall to graft. Numerous figures embroiled in scandals hail from elite educational institutions—schools that proudly proclaim themselves as builders of leaders “for others” or guardians of character. Their alumni networks form the very circles that often condemn corruption in eloquent terms, yet these condemnations rarely produce systemic change. The contradiction between doctrine and deed remains stark. It mirrors Max Stirner’s insight that “the state calls its own violence law, but that of the individual crime,” revealing how entrenched power shields itself while moral language becomes a tool of selective judgment.

National rhetoric frequently extols integrity, responsibility, and accountability. Still, these values are routinely brushed aside by entrenched interests. Grand state formulations—whole-of-government, whole-of-society, whole-of-nation—are invoked in policy memos and public addresses. Yet analysts note a chronic lack of strategic depth within many leadership circles, rendering these frameworks more ceremonial than operational.

Ordinary citizens, meanwhile, find themselves relegated to passive spectators, expressing grievances from the sidelines as the corrupt continue on their way—untouched, unbothered, and often enriched. Public morality becomes a spectacle rather than a standard. Stirner warned how “fixed ideas” can become empty idols when detached from reality; “The sacred is only a fixed idea, and every fixed idea is a spook.” Much of our public discourse has devolved into such spook-talk: slogans repeated without power, ideals invoked without consequence.

Society repeatedly arrives at critical junctures but chooses the easier path: the path of silence, convenience, and moral fatigue. Public advocacy remains largely confined to speeches, opinion columns, and symbolic gestures—insufficient to confront a deeply rooted system of patronage and impunity.

Here and there, individuals and small groups attempt reform. Civic activists, whistleblowers, reformist officials, and community leaders take risks. Yet these efforts are scattered and isolated, unable to form the critical mass necessary to shift national momentum. Minor successes are hailed as breakthroughs, but they seldom alter the broader landscape.

The persistence of corruption stems from more than flawed individuals; it reflects structural, cultural, and institutional weaknesses. Analysts argue that reducing the crisis to a matter of private moral failings risks obscuring its systemic nature. Marx, too, insisted that ideals cannot transcend their institutional base: “Right can never be higher than the economic structure of society and its cultural development conditioned thereby.” Without transforming the foundations of power, appeals to virtue remain aspirational but impotent.

Commentators of the period increasingly identify two parallel fronts requiring simultaneous advancement:

1. Socio-personal transformation, understood not as rhetoric but as sustained moral discipline.
2. Systemic overhaul, grounded in reliable institutions, a functional justice system, and a rule of law applied uniformly.

The nation’s future hinges on both. Neither alone is sufficient. Stirner’s exhortation—“Whoever will be free must make himself free”—captures only half the equation; personal resolve matters, but it cannot substitute for the construction of institutions capable of restraining impunity and empowering the public.

The path forward, as articulated by reform thinkers of the era, requires:

— a reformed and fully functioning criminal justice system,

— fearless, impartial law enforcement, free from social or political exemptions, and

— the cultivation of moral courage as a public standard, not merely a private virtue.

These elements must move in unison. Delay only deepens the burden inherited by future generations.

As time progresses, the country stands at a moral and political threshold. The slogans have been uttered, the manifestos published, the speeches delivered. What remains uncertain is whether the nation can transform moral conviction into collective action—whether it can transcend hollow exhortations and forge a movement strong enough to challenge and change the structures that have long resisted reform.

In this crossroads moment, the promise of genuine national renewal depends not on the repetition of familiar phrases, but on the capacity to rebuild the institutions, habits, and moral foundations of public life. Only then can the word change regain its meaning—no longer a slogan, but a shared destiny.

"Over New Wave and Coffeebreak"

"Over New Wave and Coffeebreak"

"Two Days in Taihoku"

I saw you first at Gate 29
Just a blur in the crowd, but your eyes met mine
A flight attendant with winds on her skin
And me with a journal, just taking it in
We said our hellos, like time never went
From chalkboard days to where all those letters went
And we laughed like we did in our old school hall
But this was a city that knew how to stall

Then you said you’d be walking through town
Just two days to burn, till you’re outbound
We met near the market where lanterns glow
By the tea shops and bikes in a steady flow
You wore the night like a soft perfume
I spoke of poems and hotel rooms
We traded the hours for glances and grace
Each moment a brushstroke, each word in its place

Two days in Taihoku, and the sky turned slow
Like a song from youth we used to know
One touch and the past fell into frame
No promises made, no one to blame
We were just two names the world forgot
Till time gave us this quiet shot
No maps, no covers—
Just love from a layover

You whispered, “Tomorrow, I fly at noon”
But the silence between us filled up the room
We danced through the shadows of Shilin streets
With hearts that were careful, yet skipped their beats
No baggage claimed, no future drawn
But something eternal was passing on
You left with a smile, no need for goodbyes
But I kept your name where the plum trees rise

Two days in Taihoku, and the sky turned slow
Like a song from youth we used to know
One touch and the past fell into frame
No promises made, no one to blame
We were just two names the world forgot
Till time gave us this quiet shot
No maps, no covers—
Just love from a layover

“Cream Without a Crown” 

Morning broke without a whisper

Coffee cooled, and time stood still

You left your coat on the back of a chair

Like you meant to come back—but never will

The steam forgot to rise today

Like hope that lost its way

I watched the cup turn solemn, calm

Where once love danced in foam and charm

And now it’s cream without a crown

A quiet fall, no trumpet sound

You smiled, but not for me

So I drank the emptiness

Dignified, but breaking down

It’s cream without a crown

I used to trace your name in spirals

In every swirl, I found a sign

But now the barista barely looks

And the milk forgets to shine

There’s no crescendo in this song

No saxophone to lead me on

Just porcelain truths and whispered lies

As your shadow slips outside

It’s cream without a crown

No curtain call, no gold renown

You spoke, and I heard fate

In a voice I was too late

And I drank the silence down

Like cream without a crown 

We don’t lose love all at once

It fades like sugar left unstirred

No goodbye, no final touch

Just the ache of what we heard 

Now it’s cream without a crown

Where hearts once flew, they now fall down

You were never mine to lose

But I dressed up just to bruise

And I sipped it like a vow…

This cream without a crown 

No froth to rise…

Just the hush where love once lied…

Cream without… a crown…

"The Day The Flat White Lost Its Froth" 

Walked into the café
Same seat, same song, same dream
Thought I’d see you smiling
But you were leaning in too deep
He touched your hand and laughed
You looked away, then back
And in that slow-motion silence
I felt the world go flat

Barista asked “The usual?”
Yeah, but nothing felt the same
No swirl, no rise, no shimmer—
Just coffee, cold and plain

The day the flat white lost its froth
You said you had a boyfriend, I felt off
No spark, no lift, no sugar lie
Just truth dripping like a cloudy sky
And I sat there, trying not to show
How everything turned monochrome
The day, the day
The flat white lost its froth

You didn’t see me falter
Didn’t notice I was there
You laughed like it was summer
While I froze inside my chair
I held the cup too tightly
Like it could explain the sting
But love don’t float forever
And some milk just doesn’t cling

She stirred his name into her lips
Like sweet and bitter cream
And I drank mine in silence
Swallowing the dream

The day the flat white lost its froth
You told me what I feared, and I got lost
No art, no bloom, no secret sign
Just a name I’ll hate for all of time
And I sipped it down, played it cool
Burnt my tongue pretending I’m no fool
The day, the day
The flat white lost its froth

I thought maybe, just maybe
You’d see me standing there
But maybe’s just a word we use
When we know they never cared

The day the flat white lost its froth
She had a boyfriend, I took the loss
No foam to float, no wish to keep
Just hot regret and bitter steep
And I walked out into the rain
Let the city spell your name again
The day, the day
The flat white lost its froth

I’ll still drink it tomorrow…
But it won’t taste the same.

Mamdani’s Win: Rethinking Populism and Progressivism in America

Mamdani’s Win: Rethinking Populism and Progressivism in America

Zohran Mamdani’s recent victory as New York City Mayor is more than a local political story. It is a fissure in the frozen landscape of American politics. For years, progressives have chipped at the hardened structures of establishment power, but Mamdani’s win signals that the ice is finally shifting. 

To be honest, Donald Trump’s rhetoric, while flashy and appealing to the notion of “greatness,” never truly disrupted the system. His promises to “drain the swamp” or “downsize” government left the machinery intact — in some ways, they made it worse. Scandals, dysfunction, and entrenched inequities persisted. Trump’s politics was spectacle; Mamdani’s politics is substance. 

Why did Mamdani succeed where Cuomo, other Democrats, and even Trump could not? The answer lies partly in the spirit of progressivism itself. But remember: over the decades, progressivism has often been torn between two conflicting impulses: the urgent need to craft real, implementable policies that address systemic problems, and the comfort of signaling correctness — the “current thing” of politics, where virtue is measured more by rhetoric than results. In some quarters, this has morphed into a preference for staying with the status quo, content to maintain appearances rather than challenge entrenched power. The consequence is that the progressive movement often appears frozen, paralyzed by optics, consensus, and the fear of making waves. In such a climate, it is no wonder that ordinary voters, frustrated by stagnation, might be tempted to jump on the Trump bandwagon, drawn by the promise of immediate, if short-term, satisfaction — the allure of disruption even if it lacks substance. By prioritizing signaling over substance, progressivism risks alienating those it seeks to serve, leaving a vacuum that spectacle-driven populism can easily exploit. 

Mamdani refused to settle. He engaged directly with the concerns of ordinary people, building solutions that were both principled and practical. He reminded voters that democratic socialism is not ideology for its own sake; it is a framework for making life better here and now. 

Some critics will say this is populism. The answer is yes — but of a very different stripe. Trump-style populism thrives on fear, anger, and symbolic disruption, often turning frustration into division. Mamdani’s populism, by contrast, emphasizes solidarity, empowerment, and community. It seeks reform through real engagement with the “common people,” rather than pitting them against one another. The difference is the vector: one divides, the other organizes; one agitates, the other builds. It is also not surprising that progressivism has its populist roots — after all, the movement has always sought to be with the people, to channel their concerns into tangible change. But it is also not surprising that progressivism, when trapped in the “current thing” of politics, creates a contented, almost complacent political setup. In such a setup, the pursuit of justice, development, and peace is often reduced to rhetoric or piecemeal measures — gestures far less ambitious than the New Deal or the Great Society. The risk is that progressivism, when it substitutes signaling and incrementalism for substantive action, leaves a vacuum that can be filled by spectacle-driven populism, while the deeper structural problems of society remain unaddressed. 

Why did it take a minority candidate like Mamdani to break through? The answer is as much about the limitations of the political system as it is about Mamdani himself. Some would argue that a Trump of 1999, in a different political moment, might have achieved something similar — promising to tax the rich, even himself, to cut taxes for the middle class, or to explore policies like universal healthcare — before he became ensnared by the “anti-establishment establishment” and seduced by nationalism and the grandiose promise of making America “great.” At that time, the currents of frustration and desire for change were present, but the trajectory of leaders and institutions often diverted potential reform into spectacle or symbolic gestures. 

Mamdani’s triumph, by contrast, reflects a convergence of principle, strategy, and attentiveness to ordinary people. He did not simply ride a wave of dissatisfaction; he built structures of engagement, listened to communities, and proposed tangible policies that directly addressed systemic inequities. This combination — vision paired with operational discipline and genuine connection to the electorate — has been missing in both the old Democratic establishment and the spectacle-driven right. The establishment too often prioritizes optics, consensus, or incrementalism, while the right emphasizes drama and symbolic disruption over substantive reform. Mamdani’s breakthrough demonstrates that meaningful change can come not from the loudest voice or the most theatrical promise, but from a disciplined, principled, and people-centered approach — even when the candidate comes from a minority background in a system historically dominated by majority elites. 

As an observer, one can’t help but notice a deeper tension. People longed for a Roosevelt, a Kennedy, or a Lyndon Johnson — leaders capable of translating popular aspirations into concrete policy. But in the age of Reagan’s “peace through strength,” where controversies were polished away and dissent often minimized, one might ask: has progressivism reached its limits? Has populism lost its rhetorical power, reduced to slogans and spectacle? 

Mamdani’s victory answers both questions. Progressivism is not exhausted; it thrives when it pairs ideals with strategy and substance. Populism remains potent, but only when rooted in opportunity rather than fear, engagement rather than resentment. Mamdani succeeded because he did not simply echo frustration; he listened, organized, and acted. 

This victory is not an endpoint. It is a crack in the ice of American political conformity. It reminds us that change is never smooth, but courage, principle, and attentiveness to the common good can shift the terrain. For progressives, the lesson is clear: engage the people, deliver results, and do not let optics or correctness dictate action. 

Mamdani’s win is both a symbol and a challenge. It asks whether American progressivism can reassert itself as a force for meaningful change — not through spectacle, but through persistent, principled engagement with the realities of everyday life. In an era dominated by media-driven politics and entrenched interests, his triumph is a reminder that real progress comes not from disruption alone, but from the courage to see, hear, and fight for the common 

108 Years Since the Great October Socialist Revolution: The Torch That Still Illuminates the Path of Humanity

108 Years Since the Great October Socialist Revolution: 

The Torch That Still Illuminates the Path of Humanity

Today marks the 108th anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution—a world-shaking event that forever changed the course of human history. On this day in 1917, under the leadership of the great Vladimir Ilyich Lenin and the Bolshevik Party, the working class of Russia rose in victorious struggle, overthrowing the bourgeois Provisional Government and establishing the world’s first state of workers and peasants. 

With the immortal slogan “Peace, Land, and Bread,” the Bolsheviks rallied millions of workers, soldiers, and peasants to take their destiny into their own hands. For the first time, an exploited class seized political power and began the construction of a new social order—free from oppression, exploitation, and imperialist domination. The triumph of October laid the foundation for the socialist transformation of society: the nationalization of industry, the redistribution of land to the tillers, and the establishment of equality and dignity for the laboring masses. 

As Lenin wrote in The State and Revolution: “The replacement of the bourgeois state by the proletarian state is impossible without a violent revolution. The abolition of the proletarian state, that is, of all states, is only possible through withering away.” 

The October Revolution did not merely change Russia—it transformed the entire world. From the first decree of Soviet power to the heroic defense of the socialist motherland against imperialist intervention, from the electrification of the country to the triumphs of Soviet science and space exploration, the path opened by Lenin and the Bolsheviks became the beacon for the oppressed and exploited across the globe. The formation of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in 1922 signified not merely the consolidation of a state, but the triumph of a socialist community founded on the unity of peoples and the creative labor of millions. 

Lenin foresaw the world-historic importance of this victory when he declared in 1918: “We have begun the work. When, in what time-frame, the proletarians of other countries will complete it, it is not for us to know. But we are certain that they will complete it, and that socialism will triumph in all countries.” 

The words of Lenin — “Without revolutionary theory there can be no revolutionary movement” was also shown by Stalin's leadership, which turned his predecessor's teachings into practice. As Comrade Stalin taught: “The victory of socialism in our country means the victory of Leninism, the victory of the Leninist theory of proletarian revolution.” 

Such actions that brought inmense results has inspired anti-imperialist and liberation movements across Asia, Africa, and Latin America, awakening oppressed peoples to the possibility of a just and sovereign future. From the factories of Petrograd to the sugar fields of Cuba, from the plains of China to the jungles of Vietnam, the flame of October burned brightly, guiding generations of revolutionaries in their struggle against colonialism and exploitation. 

Even today, amid the crises of decaying capitalism, the teachings of Lenin and the legacy of the October Revolution retain their power and relevance. As inequality deepens and imperialist wars threaten humanity, the ideals of 1917—social justice, peace, and the supremacy of labor over capital—resonate ever more strongly among peoples of the world. 

However, it is expected that the defenders of the ruling order insist that the Great October Socialist Revolution was and is "a disruption" — a failed experiment whose ideals have supposedly been buried by the triumphs of capitalism. That by usinh words like "democracy" and "freedom" are all but hollow phrases meant to snare people from the realities of injustice. But one such attribute of diverting from the truth is how they point to the glittering wonders of the 21st century — its technology, its markets, its conveniences — as proof that the capitalist system has prevailed and that humanity has reached the height of progress. 

And yet beneath this polished façade, the same centuries-old structures of oppression and exploitation persist. The working masses continue to bear the weight of economic insecurity and social inequality. Technology, instead of liberating humankind, is often wielded as an instrument of surveillance, control, and dehumanization. Around the world, millions are denied stable housing and dignified employment; wages stagnate while profits soar; and the basic rights of labor are undermined in the name of efficiency and competition. 

As Lenin warned more than a century ago: “So long as there is capitalism, the working people live in slavery. The only way out of this is to fight against capitalism, to overthrow it.” His words ring with renewed force today. For all its technological sophistication and its promises of endless growth, capitalism continues to reproduce the very injustices the October Revolution sought to abolish. 

The ruling order would continue to insist that people accept this condition as “reality,” as if exploitation were a natural law. Yet no amount of propaganda or technological spectacle can conceal the truth: that the system remains built upon the subjugation of the many by the few. The continuing struggles of workers, the poor, and the marginalized testify that the spirit of resistance awakened in October 1917 has not been extinguished. 

The Great October Socialist Revolution remains not only a historical milestone but a living testament to the creative power of the working class and the unyielding march of history toward socialism.   

“Whispers of the Flame”

“Whispers of the Flame”

a message for All Hallows Day 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Moonlight, Lanterns, and Mangoes: Poems for Samhain

Of Moonlight, Lanterns, and Mangoes: Poems for Samhain

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

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

After Seeing the Crescent Moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samhain Night in Manila

The night spills slow across Manila streets,

Streetlamps flicker, neon hums and greets.

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

Watching the city stir but never sleep. 

Smoke from vendors curls into the dark,

A faint aroma of sweat, spice, and bark.

Jeepneys pass, their headlights sharp and brief,

Tracing tired arcs through asphalt and grief. 

Above, a crescent leans toward the east,

Silver witness to a day released.

It whispers softly of the times gone by,

Of voices lost beneath the urban sky. 

Windows flicker in apartment towers,

Each a quiet glow, a fragile power.

Families speak, or laugh, or sit in pause,

Connected to life, to memory, to cause. 

I stir my cup and feel the quiet hum,

Of lives that lived, of battles lost and won.

Samhain in the city—soft, not grand,

A gentle nod to past that holds my hand. 

The night is long, but not unkind,

It holds the weight of all behind.

Coffee warms, the streets breathe low,

And Manila waits for morning’s glow. 

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

The dark, the city, the fading light.

A simple night, a quiet rite,

A fleeting moment on Samhain night. 

Summer Fruit Lingers in the Night 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When she walked through the night 

The night carried her name like a whisper,

soft as steam rising from a cup.

The City was half-asleep,

but she walked as if the streets remembered. 

Her shadow passed beneath the lamps—

gold spilling over damp stone,

and the scent of rain-washed air

mingled with something sweet—

perhaps perfume, perhaps memory. 

She paused by a café window,

where someone’s pen scratched faintly on paper,

and the hum of conversation

fell quiet for a breath. 

She once said the city felt alive at night,

when everyone else had given up pretending.

She loved the way the lights

hid the broken places,

the way coffee and smoke

felt like warmth in borrowed time. 

The moon leaned low, a silver eyelid,

watching her cross the intersection

like the last dream of summer—

soft, deliberate, gone too soon. 

And though the hours folded into silence,

something of her lingered—

like ripe fruit left on a table,

still fragrant even in the dark,

still reminding the air

of sunlight and of home. 

The Scent That Stayed Until Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moonlight and Caffeine

Looking at the moonlight,

I reminisce your presence,

Your beauty, warmth, and charm,

More than an evanescence.

Your love, as if like caffeine,

Wakens my restless mind,

A spark that burns eternal,

No shadows could ever bind.

The night wind whispers softly,

It carries your gentle voice,

Each memory a melody,

Each thought a tender choice.

Stars glimmer like your laughter,

Each beam a silver thread,

That weaves around my aching heart,

Where every hope is fed.

In dreams, I chase your figure,

Through gardens drenched in light,

Where roses bloom eternal,

And darkness yields to night.

Your eyes, twin constellations,

Guide me through every storm,

Your love, a boundless ocean,

Forever keeping me warm. 

Even as the dawn approaches,

And moonlight fades away,

Your essence lingers deeply,

To color all my day.

So here beneath the heavens,

I whisper, soft and true:

No time, no space, no distance

Could dim my love for you.

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

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

 By Lualhati Madlangawa Guererro 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After Watching Jerold Tarrog's “Quezon” 

By Lualhati Madlangawa-Guererro  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Forbes Flop: When Their Protest Becomes Performance

The Forbes Flop: When Their Protest Becomes Performance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The law he once claimed to command has spoken plainly.

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

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.