"Caffeine-laced or Jaäger-driven"

"Caffeine-laced or Jäger-driven"

These set of poems is a set of exploration of thought, hesitation, and the burden of expression, caught between the sharp clarity of caffeine-fueled introspection and the uninhibited honesty of Jägermeister-driven confessions. The poems reflect the struggle of articulating emotions—whether through poetry, sketches, or music—only to face misunderstanding, dismissal, or silence. 

  

Blending the reflective resignation of jisei with the melancholic melody of maqām, the collection captures the tension between wanting to be heard and fearing the consequences of speaking. The recurring motifs of unspoken words, creative vulnerability, and the contrast between overthinking and reckless candor create an atmosphere of quiet conflict. 

At its core, these poems is a meditation on the weight of words—those spoken too soon, those misread, and those left unsaid—caught in the fragile space between clarity and intoxication, between confession and regret.

Fading Ink, Unheard Melodies

The ink fades before the brush can rest,
words wither in silence, unborn verses swept to the tide.
Autumn winds carry their sorrow, yet no branch protests—
some truths should remain unsaid, 

like footprints swallowed by the rising sea.

O river, keeper of stories untold,
where do the lost whispers go?
Do they slip between the reeds
or slumber beneath the moon’s silver hush?

The tune plays in the key of dusk,
a melody stitched with the gold of longing,
low notes cradling exile’s breath,
rising like incense from an unseen flame.

I have watched the sun die a thousand deaths,
its light bleeding upon the sea’s black shroud,
only to return, unwelcome, untouched—
as if night’s silence had never swallowed it whole.

I have traced my name upon glass,
watched it vanish with the breath of the wind.
So too, shall I vanish, and what shall remain?
Only the scent of ink, a memory without a voice.

I have walked the paths of sand and stone,
where echoes of old prayers curl around abandoned shrines,
where names are mere whispers on the tongues of ghosts—
but silence lingers longer than any spoken vow.

My tongue, a prisoner of wisdom’s fear,
halts before the final confession,
for silence, too, is a prayer—
a secret carved in the bones of time.

If I spoke, would the stars tremble?
Would the mountains forget their names?
Would love itself unravel, thread by thread,
until nothing remained but dust and echo?

The call to prayer drifts over distant hills,
yet I do not rise, I do not bow,
for the holiest of words are those left unsung,
scattered among the dunes like lost verses of the wind.

So let the final stroke be unseen,
let my story end in the hush of an unfinished line.
For sometimes, there are words not meant to be said—
some rather end sketched, where ink is but a shadow of the soul.

Did I say wrong?

Did I say wrong?

Did the weight of my breath crack the stillness,

or did silence, too, betray me?

A feather drifts upon the river’s back—

the current swallows, but the sky does not mourn.

Sometimes, fear outweighs the truth of words.

A blade held too long rusts in the hand,

yet the wound it might have carved

still lingers in the spaces between—

a cut without a scar, a wound without blood.

The tune hums in the hollow of my ribs,

a melody threading through my bones,

rising and falling like prayers unsaid,

like ink that dries before it meets the page.

There was a moment—a breath, a pause—

where truth stood waiting at my lips,

but I swallowed it whole,

and in the silence,

I wondered if honesty was ever mine to speak.

The sparrow does not ask why the wind calls it home,

nor does the river question the thirst it quenches.

Yet I, frail as dust, hesitate before the hour’s edge,

knowing that a word spoken too late

is as silent as one never spoken at all.

Let the night carry what I could not say.

Let the ink remain unspilled.

For sometimes, there are words not meant to be said—

some rather end sketched,

half-formed in the hush of an unfinished song.

Over Coffee, Over Liquor, What’s Next?

Over coffee, I spoke in half-truths,
words swirling like steam,
vanishing before they could burn the tongue.
Morning light spilled across the table—
a fleeting mercy, a silent witness.

Over liquor, my lips loosened,
yet the night swallowed my confessions whole.
The glass, warm in my trembling grasp,
knew more of me than I dared to say.

What’s next?
Another dawn? Another dusk?
Another moment stretched between silence and song?
The melodies hums low in my chest,
a tune steeped in regret,
rising, only to fade.

The ink has dried, the letters remain unwritten.
Would they have changed anything?
Would they have stilled the trembling hands,
or only carved the weight deeper?

I have measured life in sips and gulps,
bitter or burning, but never enough—
always seeking, never finding,
until the cup runs empty,
until the bottle holds only air.

So what’s next?
A whisper? A sigh?
A name left unsaid? A road left untaken?
Let the final note linger unheard,
let the last word remain unsung.

For sometimes, there are truths
not meant to be spoken—
some rather end sketched,
half-faded, beneath the weight of silence.

“Why Me?”

She may have heard my words, found them strange,

misread their rhythm, though carefully arranged.

Be it a poem, a sketch, a well-tuned song,

she cast them aside, as if weirdness doesn’t belong.

I spoke in ink, in strokes, in notes—

offered my thoughts like a bird in flight,

yet she turned away, dismissing the weight,

as if my voice was a shadow of the night.

Sometimes I’d rather say sorry, just to dismiss the worry,

just to silence the sighs and the questions that tarry.

Not because I faltered, nor lacked my place,

but because my words felt wasted in space.

Sketch, poem, the fire that churns on,

from my mind, caffeine-fueled or a Jägermeister strong.

Spilled thoughts, scattered lines,

burning through me, yet fading in time.

And so, I hesitate—

not because my words lack fire,

but because her silence extinguishes them

before they ever touch the pyre.

I’m sorry if I spoke, if I dared to say,

rather than be dismissed until the break of day.

Better silence than scorn, better absence than hate,

unless she asked me, “Why me?”

Of all in this goddamned place.

Would she ask, would she care,

or let my echoes vanish into thin air?

For sometimes, there are words not meant to be said—

some rather end sketched, unseen, unsaid,

fading beneath the weight of silence instead.

Their masks have fallen- when fake news churners stand exposed

Their masks have fallen- when fake news churners stand exposed

For years, the architects of deception ruled the digital sphere with impunity. They fashioned themselves as truth-tellers, as champions of the people, as warriors against the so-called “biased media.” They manufactured their lies, spread them like a plague, and drowned the truth beneath a flood of distortion. They were useful instruments of a regime that thrived on falsehoods, the civilian foot soldiers of psychological warfare.

Now, dragged before the House of Representatives- facing the Tri Committee lead by heads representing matters on Public Order and Safety, on Information and Communications Technology, and on Public Information, their masquerade has crumbled. The solons—unyielding, relentless—exposed them in broad daylight. Their lies, their distortions, their fabrications were laid bare. With trembling voices and downcast eyes, they issued their meager apologies, hoping for absolution.

Facing the music

The influencers had initially declined to participate, asserting that the inquiry infringed upon their right to free speech. In their petition to the Supreme Court weeks past, they argued that the congressional investigation was both unconstitutional and unjustly singled out individuals who expressed political views in support of former President Rodrigo Duterte.

But to see vloggers like Krizette Laureta Chu and Mary Jane "MJ" Quiambao-Reyes, once fierce defenders of the Duterte regime, wept before the tri-committee, claiming their outrageous falsehoods were merely “opinions.” A pitiful spectacle! What they once spewed with confidence, they now disown with cowardice. Where was their bravado when they slandered the dead, when they twisted reality to shield their master?

Others spoke of regulation. Richard Mata, a so-called health vlogger, suggested a “neutral body” to oversee vloggers, an idea akin to the Kapisanan ng mga Brodkaster ng Pilipinas (KBP). How rich! They speak now of ethics and accountability, yet they never followed any such principles when they gleefully joined the machinery of deceit.

Nevertheless, these vloggers, particularly Cruz-Angeles and Chu, defended their online content, maintaining that their posts remained within the bounds of free speech. Similarly, Lopez and Mata asserted that their platforms were intended as spaces for political discourse, not as vehicles for spreading misinformation.

However, their assertions do not negate the troubling reality of their actions straying far from their purported purpose. “If lies dominate the feed, even well-intentioned citizens may find themselves misled, manipulated, or misinformed,” Rep. Jude Acidre warned, expressing deep concern over the widespread presence of false information on social media. He pointed out that blatant lies and fake news now overshadow the truth in the social media feeds of many Filipinos.

Acidre also highlighted the psychological consequences of repeated falsehoods, stating, “Modern psychologists call it the ‘illusion of truth’ effect: when people hear something over and over again—whether it’s true or not—they begin to believe it.”

But among them were those who would not dare appear—those too arrogant, too exposed to even face their reckoning. Sass Rogando Sasot, one of the most virulent propagandists of the past administration, chose to flee rather than answer for her crimes against truth. She dismissed the hearings as a “kangaroo court.” What else could she say? Confronted with the weight of her own fabrications, what defense remained but to slither away and hurl insults from a distance?

Why changing the tune? Cry after facing evidence?

Under the unrelenting scrutiny of the solons, their bravado crumbled into pathetic whimpers. 

When amongst the solons in the Tri Committee, Manila 6th District Representative Benny Abante struck at the heart of their lies, exposing them for what they truly are—agents of deception, peddlers of misinformation, with Chu and Quiambao-Reyes as examples. 

Krizette Laureta Chu, once a loud and proud defender of the past administration, was forced to admit that she had no proof when questioned about her post claiming that police and military personnel were resigning en masse following the hypothetical arrest of former President Rodrigo Duterte by the International Criminal Court (ICC). She had based her claims on nothing but whispers from the cesspool of social media.

Abante then pressed further. What about her claim that lawmakers were sending their children to Europe for schooling? Who were these lawmakers? Where was her evidence? Chu had none. Confronted with her own lies, she was left stammering. The legislator, feeling insulted, demanded an apology. And Chu promptly complied—like a frightened child caught in the act.

But the spectacle was not over. Abante turned his focus to vlogger MJ Quiambao-Reyes, who had claimed that reports of deaths in Duterte’s drug war were a “massive hoax.” The lawmaker did not let this disgraceful falsehood stand. He reminded her that the Commission on Human Rights (CHR) and the House Quad Committee had records proving the extent of the killings—records that no amount of vlogger spin could erase.

The weight of the truth crushed her. Reyes broke down in tears. Like Chu, she, too, was forced to apologize. But were these apologies sincere? No—they were the sobs of cornered liars, not of remorseful souls. 

Not surprised that with the grilling people like Sasot, Celiz, and Badoy didn't join in and downplay the entire proceedings as a "kangaroo court". 

The Civilianization of Psychological Warfare

What the house inquiry exposes was not just individual deception but an example of what may call a civilianization of psychological warfare- a deliberate and systematic effort to manufacture reality. These so-called "influencers" were not innocent actors caught in the chaos of social media; they served as one of the contributors, if not vanguards of a disinformation campaign, working to blur the lines between truth and fiction, turning into viral content. 

Make no mistake—these individuals were not mere “content creators.” They were combatants in a war of the mind, waging psychological operations against their own people. For years they attacked mainstream media outlets, journalists, human rights defenders, and dismissed the victims of state violence as fabricated statistics. They turned lies into national narratives, justifying the past administration's rule by flooding the digital space with distortions and denials. Their mission was clear: to turn the state’s crimes into virtue, to make truth indistinguishable from lies, to condition the masses into submission. They attacked journalists, demonized dissenters, and wove grand myths to justify the bloodstained legacy of their patron.

Now, when they stand exposed, faced with evidence, they scramble to redefine themselves. They beg for understanding, claiming ignorance, pretending they, too, were misled. Lies! They knew exactly what they were doing. Every slander they uttered, every falsehood they shared, was a deliberate weapon—and they wielded it without remorse.

Should they be forgiven for the lies? Tears will not save them

But now the tide has turned. Their dominion is collapsing, their influence eroding. No more shall they reign unchallenged. No more shall they twist the narrative without resistance. They weep, they beg, they run—but their time has come.

Tears will not wash away their crimes. Apologies will not undo the damage they have done. Their defense of the past administration was never about truth, only about power—copium for those who cannot accept that the world has moved forward without them.

But history will remember them not as truth-tellers, not as brave warriors, but as conspirators in the greatest deceit of our time. Their names shall be written in shame, and their cowardice shall be their epitaph.

The masquerade is over. The people see them for what they truly are. And there shall be no redemption. 

The Culinary Capital Debate: A National Identity Beyond Titles

The Culinary Capital Debate: A National Identity Beyond Titles

The recent veto of the bill to declare Pampanga the Culinary Capital of the Philippines has sparked a much-needed debate about the true essence of Filipino cuisine. President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. rejected the bill, not because he sought to diminish Pampanga’s culinary heritage, but to prevent the dangerous precedent of reducing the nation’s diverse food culture to a singular regional identity. In this case, his decision may have been exactly what the country needed. 

One might ask: does a nation’s food truly depend on one region? The declaration of Pampanga as the “Culinary Capital” creates the impression that the foundation of Filipino cuisine lies solely in this province. But what does that mean for the rest of the country? What about the culinary traditions of Ilocos, the Tagalog region, the Visayas, or Mindanao, each of which offers a unique contribution to the richness of Filipino food culture? Just as China’s cuisine, renowned worldwide for its vast diversity, cannot be defined by the standards of one province, Filipino cuisine should not be reduced to one region’s flavor. 

China’s culinary heritage features eight prominent regional traditions, including Sichuan, Cantonese, and Shandong, each with its own distinct flavors, ingredients, and cooking methods. A declaration that only one of these traditions represents the “culinary capital” of the country would ignore the richness of the others. In the same way, Filipino cuisine is a patchwork of diverse regional dishes—from the sinigang of the Tagalog region to the laing of Bicol and the seafood feasts of Mindanao. Every province has its own unique contribution, and each should be celebrated equally. 

This debate also mirrors another ongoing discussion in Filipino food culture: the question of the “best” adobo. There is no definitive answer because each household, each region, has its own version of the dish. Some prefer it sour, others sweet; some enjoy it with coconut milk, others without. There is no universal standard, and that is what makes Filipino cuisine so unique and personal. Imposing a single version of any dish or even declaring one region as the pinnacle of Filipino food disregards this diversity. 

The issue with declaring a culinary capital is not just the lack of historical context or a comprehensive study to back it up; it is the potential for it to undermine the contributions of other regions. Elevating Pampanga above all other provinces risks overshadowing the uniqueness of other culinary traditions. It could create unnecessary competition, exclusion, and division within the country. Filipino food is not a contest; it is a shared experience, and no one region should claim superiority over the others. 

Perhaps the most important question to ask is: Does the designation of a culinary capital even matter? In a country as diverse as the Philippines, one region cannot possibly represent all that Filipino cuisine encompasses. Food culture is a collective experience that spans across the nation, and there is no need to pit one region against another for a title. 

More crucially, such titles do not address the real problems that many Filipinos face, such as hunger and poverty. No amount of culinary recognition will solve the pressing issues of food insecurity in the country. Rather than focusing on competitive titles, energy and resources should be channeled into sustainable policies that address these fundamental issues, supporting local food systems and uplifting communities. As Chef Jam Melchor wisely stated, the focus should be on ensuring a “stronger, more sustainable future for Filipino food.” 

Filipino cuisine is not about titles or accolades; it is about shared history, innovation, and regional pride. The real strength of Filipino food lies in its diversity, and it is this diversity that should be celebrated. The government should focus on policies that promote sustainability, support local farmers and chefs, and elevate Filipino food in a way that acknowledges and respects all regions equally. 

While the veto may have been a setback for Pampanga’s claim, it ultimately serves as an opportunity for the country to reassess its approach to Filipino cuisine. Rather than pursuing empty titles, the Philippines should focus on preserving and celebrating its culinary heritage in a way that honors all regions. After all, Filipino food is not defined by one province—it is a tapestry woven from every corner of the archipelago. 

"When Faith Must Not Be Used as a Tool by some Interests"

"When Faith Must Not Be Used as a Tool by some Interests"

In the encyclical Mit Brennender Sorge, Pope Pius XI warned against the dangers of distorting religion to serve political ends. Though written in response to the totalitarianism of the 1930s, its warning remains relevant today:

 “He who distorts religious truth to serve his own interests corrupts the faith and abuses the trust of the people.” 

This is precisely the danger people face when seeing the Holy Mass being misrepresented as a rallying point for the political rehabilitation of former President Rodrigo Duterte. Recently, the Archdiocese of Cagayan de Oro had to issue a formal clarification in response to claims that the Cathedral was holding a special daily Mass for Duterte’s health and return to the Philippines. This assertion was false, but it raises a deeper question: how did the Eucharist—a sacrament of unity, mercy, and divine love—become associated with a figure who once called God “stupid” and waged a war on human dignity? 

Faith Cannot Be Used as a Political Shield 

Duterte has a long history of antagonism toward the Church. He has mocked priests, bishops, and even the very idea of God. He publicly called God “stupid,” insulted the Virgin Mary, and dismissed Catholic doctrines as foolishness. He even incited violence against clergy members, once telling his followers that they should “rob and kill” bishops. 

Yet, today, people see his supporters invoking the Church’s name, using Mass attendance as a political spectacle. While the Holy Mass is indeed for all, it is not an instrument for political propaganda. The Lord Himself made it clear:

 “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples” (Isaiah 56:7). 

It is not a stage for political rehabilitation. It is not a rally ground for those seeking to evade accountability. 

The Mass is the central act of worship in the Catholic faith. It is where the faithful encounter the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. To use it as a tool for political manipulation is to profane what is sacred. St. Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 11:27: 

“Whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord.” 

False Devotion is Not Repentance 

Some may argue that those who now seek the Church’s blessings are merely returning to the faith. But true repentance requires humility, not public displays of religiosity for political survival. The prodigal son did not demand that his father’s house celebrate him while he still wallowed in his pride—he returned in genuine humility (Luke 15:18-19). 

Genuine reconciliation with the Church does not begin with public relations stunts. It begins with an acknowledgment of past wrongs and a sincere effort to make amends. Duterte’s administration is responsible for thousands of deaths in a bloody drug war that often targeted the poor while sparing the powerful. Until there is real accountability for these actions, the attempt to drape his image in the Church’s sacred garments remains an insult to the Gospel itself. 

Pope Pius XI’s Mit Brennender Sorge also warned against leaders who co-opt religious language while violating its deepest moral imperatives: 

“None but superficial minds can stumble into error on the score of the difference between genuine religious faith and the counterfeit coinage of religious semblance. He who seeks to separate faith from morality abuses religion.”

 A person who once dismissed the faith as useless cannot suddenly claim its protection when convenient. Faith is not a tool to be picked up when needed and discarded when it no longer serves one’s interests. 

The Church Stands for Truth, Not Power 

The Church has always been clear: she prays for all, but she does not endorse wrongdoing. As the encyclical Veritas in Caritate rightly emphasizes, the Church is a mother to all but will not allow herself to be used as a political shield. She stands with the oppressed, the victims of violence, and those who seek justice. 

Canon Law (Canon 1368) warns against inciting hatred against the Church, and Duterte’s history of threats against priests falls squarely into this category. His supporters’ sudden appeals to Catholic faith are not signs of spiritual awakening but calculated attempts to rewrite history. The Church must not fall for this deception. 

Jesus warned about those who say “Lord, Lord” while refusing to follow His teachings: 

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 7:21). 

Duterte and his followers may now seek the Church’s presence, but without genuine conversion, their actions remain hollow. The Church cannot be blind to the danger of lending moral credibility to someone whose rule was marked by cruelty, corruption, and contempt for the very faith he now seeks to invoke. 

A Call for True Discernment 

As the Lenten season reminds us, true faith demands self-examination. The faithful must ask themselves: "Are we being manipulated? Are we allowing the sacred to be reduced to a political tool? Are we upholding the integrity of our faith, or are the people complicit in its distortion?"

bet those who justify will still banner the words peace and reconciliation without addressing the need for justice. Otherwise people, including those from the clergy treat faith as a spiritual matter and disregard the social teaching as a matter of charity. 

The Mass belongs to no political figure. It belongs to Christ. Those who seek to exploit it for their own ends must remember that faith is not a shield from judgment—it is a call to accountability. Let this moment serve as a call for greater discernment among the faithful. Who truly upholds the values of the Gospel? Who seeks the good of the people rather than their own interests? Who treats human life with reverence rather than as a disposable commodity? These are the questions one must ask, and the answers will guide toward a future of genuine peace and reconciliation. 

May the words of St. Augustine guide those with concern:

“Peace should be your goal; war should only be a necessity.” 

And may his wisdom inspire toward true reconciliation and harmony. 

May the Church remain steadfast in her mission to proclaim truth, reject falsehood, and ensure that the sacred remains untarnished by the ambitions of this world. 

Veil of Friendship

Veil of Friendship

Perhaps, we are all

but strangers behind veils spun

of laughter and trust—

ghosts who wear each other’s names

until silence calls us home.

Did you know my heart,

or only the echoes cast

by my borrowed smile?

A river flows between us,

but we mistook it for land.

Tell me, O fleeting moon,

when the dawn takes back the stars,

will my name remain?

Or am I but drifting mist,

a sigh lost to breathless seas?

I have worn faces,

borrowed from love and longing,

from joy and sorrow—

a traveler draped in moments,

never still, never my own.

I have left nothing—

only footprints on soft sand,

a song half-sung low,

scattered words in dying light,

a shadow folding inward.

The wind takes my breath,

and in the hush of dusk’s prayer,

I hear the old songs.

Who was I before this face?

Who will I be after dawn?

No name will follow,

no tether of old embraces,

no step retraces—

only the hush of still seas,

only the sky’s endless breath.

O sky, take my weight,

let me rise as falling leaves

dancing without name.

No more veils, no more voices—

only wind, only silence.

So I walk weightless,

a ripple upon the stream,

a leaf in the wind,

falling toward the unseen shore,

where all names fade into one. 

"Notes and Rhymes left at Ralphs"

"Notes and Rhymes left at Ralphs"

This post is a collection of poems inspired by moments shared at Ralph’s Wines and Liquors, a place where conversations flow as freely as the drinks. The verses capture fleeting thoughts, heartfelt confessions, and poetic musings scribbled down between sips of wine and clinking glasses. Each poem reflects the ambiance of the space—its dim-lit intimacy, the camaraderie of strangers, and the unfiltered emotions that surface in the warmth of a well-poured drink. Whether contemplative, melancholic, or celebratory, these poems are remnants of nights spent in deep thought and lighthearted revelry, immortalizing the spirit of Ralph’s in ink.

Take Me to Ralph’s

In this time of trouble, take me to Ralph’s,
Where bottles gleam under fluorescent halts.
Wine, beer, and liquor lined up in rows,
Each with a story that only it knows.
Laughter spills near the warm asphalt,
Strangers and friends with glasses exalt.

Various brands from famous lands,
Whispering promises with outstretched hands.
French Bordeaux, rich and aged,
Or a smoky Scotch, bold and engaged.
Japanese Suntory, smooth as silk,
Or Italian Prosecco, light as milk.
Enticing labels, a buyer’s dream,
Expensive tastes in a golden gleam.

A few thousand for a Merlot’s grace,
Several more for Hennessy’s embrace.
Would it be foolish, would it be wise,
To spend for the comfort of midnight sighs?
To chase away this lonesome view,
In the depths of amber, in sips I pursue.

Some would say San Miguel is enough,
That Ginebra is divine, strong and tough.
A drink for the bold, the brave at heart,
A toast to beginnings, to ends, to starts.
A mug of Sapporo, crisp and light,
Will do for me on this weary night.

Take me to Ralph’s where the bottles gleam,
Where echoes of laughter fill my dream.
Where liquid gold in glasses sways,
And bittersweet thoughts melt away.
For in this time of trouble, just for a while,
Let me forget and drink with a smile. 

What If She Were Here?

How wishful I am that she were here for a glass,

Red or white, or even green—bittersweet for a lass.

A toast beneath the Makati night,

City lights flickering, burning bright.

As neon reflections dance on the street,

I wonder if here, our hands would meet.

A bottle uncorked, the stories flow,

Whispers of vineyards from lands I don’t know.

Möet for laughter, Carlo Rossi so sweet,

Henriot whispers where lovers once meet.

Jägermeister, bold and wild,

Suntory smooth, aged and styled.

Chivas Regal, golden and deep,

Jameson warming where secrets keep.

Singleton swirling, amber in hue,

Each sip a memory—one lost, one new.

Pardon my musings, alone at this table,

Trapped in a moment, both fragile and stable.

A mug of Sapporo, crisp and true,

Drowning echoes of a past we once knew.

The weight of a bottle, the scent of the air,

Would she have held it, with elegance rare?

Would she have smiled, with mischief or grace,

Letting the night paint dreams on her face?

Glasses clinking, laughter untamed,

Music alive, yet I feel unnamed.

For among these brands, these bottles and hues,

I find myself lost in thoughts of you.

If only you were here to drink and delight,

To wander with me through this Makati night.

If She Doesn’t Like Coffee

If she doesn’t like coffee, then what will suffice?
Perhaps a deep red merlot in the glow of dim lights,
Or a glass of cabernet sauvignon, rich, bold, and divine,
To wash down the troubles that weigh on her mind.
A mug of Sapporo, golden and true,
Letting the bubbles chase sorrow anew.
For in times of crisis, when moments feel hollow,
We drink to our lives, be it joy or sorrow.

She likes the way to hold a bottle, fingers tracing its shape,
A moment of silence, a slow sip to take.
Is it for comfort, for solace, for fun?
Or just for the weight of the glass in the sun?
A quiet distraction, a habit unspoken,
A drink half-forgotten, a thought left unbroken.

If she doesn’t like coffee, then maybe instead
A mug filled with warmth, where cocoa is spread.
With marshmallows floating, melting so slow,
A comfort she holds when the cold winds blow.
Or perhaps a fine tea, a delicate art,
Earl Grey with bergamot, awakening the heart.
Oolong, so fragrant, with whispers of leaves,
Or chamomile’s softness, like silk in the breeze.

Yet I wonder aloud, as I gaze at the frame,
A picture of her with a mug in her name.
What secret it holds, dark liquid inside,
Is it coffee or something she’s chosen to hide?
Not water, not cocoa, not tea, yet it lingers,
A mystery cradled between her small fingers.
If she doesn’t like coffee, then what could it be?
A drink of her choosing—uncharted, unseen.

A Sip of Margarita

A sip of summer,

salted rim against my lips,

bitter, sweet, and bright—

a moment held on my tongue,

melting before I can breathe.

O fleeting sunset,

will the sea remember me

when my glass runs dry?

Or am I just passing foam,

a wave swallowed by the tide?

Laughter drifts away,

ghosts clink glasses in the dusk,

shadows on the sand.

Did I drink or was I drunk,

was I here or was I gone?

Lime lingers, fading—

like voices, like warm embraces,

like names on the shore.

No more thirst, no more longing,

only wind, only silence.

So I take my leave,

one last sip of golden light,

one last grain of salt,

falling toward the endless sea,

where all tides return as one.

Duterte’s Antics in the ICC: Is He Worth Salvageable?

Duterte’s Antics in the ICC: Is He Worth Salvageable?

For years, Rodrigo Duterte thrived on bravado. His image as the tough-talking, no-nonsense leader who could bend institutions to his will was central to his political brand. But now, facing the International Criminal Court (ICC), stripped of power and privilege, we see a different Duterte—one that appears frail, hesitant, and fearful. 

It is a stark contrast to the man who once boasted about ordering killings, cursed world leaders, and swore he would never be held accountable by an international body. His sudden frailty, his legal team’s desperate maneuvers, and the insistence that his transfer to ICC custody was akin to kidnapping all suggest an attempt to elicit sympathy. But the question remains: is this performance convincing? And more importantly, is it salvageable? 

Theatrics for a Domestic Audience 

Duterte’s legal team, led by former spokesperson Harry Roque, is making a predictable argument: that the Philippines’ withdrawal from the Rome Statute in 2019 nullifies the ICC’s jurisdiction. But the law is clear—under Article 127(2) of the Rome Statute, crimes committed while the Philippines was still a member (from 2011 to 2019) remain within the court’s purview. 

Legal experts know this. Duterte’s defenders know this. Even Duterte likely knows this. Yet, his allies persist, not necessarily because they believe they can win in court, but because they are appealing to a domestic audience. 

Duterte’s performances—his trembling hands, weak voice, and uncharacteristic silence—are not aimed at the ICC judges. European prosecutors do not care for theatrics; they care about evidence and procedure. The real audience is back home in the Philippines, where his supporters still cling to the myth of “Tatay Digong,” the fearless warrior against crime and corruption. 

Kyle Parada puts it succinctly: “Let’s get one thing clear, those theatrics weren’t for the ICC. It wasn’t for the ‘whites’ who care nothing about the country’s politics and have already made their judgment. No, Medialdea’s manifestation and the old man’s performance were for a more domestic audience.” 

The Myth of Fearlessness, Exposed 

For years, Duterte’s defenders have painted him as a man who fears nothing. He would, they claimed, slap ICC judges if they dared come after him. He would, they insisted, rather die than surrender. Yet, when the moment of reckoning arrived, Duterte did not slap anyone. He did not hurl expletives at the court. Instead, he looked visibly shaken, muttering in a feeble voice. 

As Carlo P. Carlon put it: “For the first time, we saw ‘Tatay Digs’ looking scared. His voice was trembling, and it seemed like his tongue shrank. The courage disappeared. I thought he would slap and kick the judges. But he just showed typical bully behavior—he backed down when faced with someone stronger.” 

“What you need to realize, DDS, is that the myth of your brave and fearless ‘Tatay’ is just that—a myth. His tough act was just a front, and he is actually a coward.” 

What we are witnessing is not just the fall of Duterte’s legal defense but the collapse of his entire public persona. The tough-guy image that once commanded fear and admiration is disintegrating before our eyes. Florin Hilbay captures it best: “With Rody’s deflated self in full display, the world witnessed the real person behind the persona.” 

The Limits of Political Theater 

Of course, we have seen this strategy before. From Ferdinand Marcos in his dying days to Joseph Estrada’s hospital visits during his plunder trial, Philippine politicians have long used physical weakness as a shield against accountability. The playbook is old: appear frail, claim mistreatment, and hope that public sentiment turns in your favor. 

But this time, it may not work. The ICC is not a local court susceptible to political pressure. It does not operate based on media narratives or popular opinion. Unlike Senate hearings or domestic trials where Duterte could grandstand, the ICC functions on rigorous legal processes that are immune to sentimental appeals. 

Moreover, as Iloilo Representative Janette Garin pointed out, Duterte’s allies are spreading misleading claims about his supposed mistreatment in custody. 

“I was really surprised when I saw the news yesterday, when the former executive secretary said that Duterte was not being given medicine or food, that he was very weak and needed to be brought to a hospital… and that he was allegedly missing,” Garin said. 

Having worked with the Dutch government, Garin dismissed these allegations outright. “I know that the ICC is a straightforward institution. When it comes to matters like health, they are very considerate.” 

She also suggested that Medialdea’s statements might be a deliberate ploy to stir public emotions. “It’s either one of two things,” she said. “Maybe he is not thinking straight because of his emotions… or it could be intentional, to ignite the emotions of the people.” 

Duterte’s Next Move: A Final Gambit? 

Duterte’s options are dwindling. The legal arguments against ICC jurisdiction have been exhausted. The claim that he is being mistreated has been debunked. His apparent frailty, while effective for short-term sympathy, will not halt the proceedings. 

So what is left? 

His final gambit is to turn this into a political battle rather than a legal one. By framing his ICC ordeal as a foreign attack on Philippine sovereignty, his camp hopes to rally nationalist sentiment. We can expect more appeals to emotion, more conspiracy theories, and more attempts to paint him as a victim. 

But at this point, Duterte is no longer in control. The court’s process will continue regardless of his theatrics. As Ninotchka Rosca bluntly put it: “He’s done for. Get used to it.” 

The question now is not whether Duterte can escape accountability—he likely cannot. The real question is whether his final performance will be enough to secure a political future for his children and allies. 

For Duterte himself, the show may be over. But for his supporters, the script is still being written. The real test is whether the Filipino people will buy into yet another performance. 

Revisiting Duterte’s War on Drugs: A War on Crime or a War for Control?

Revisiting Duterte’s War on Drugs: 

A War on Crime or a War for Control? 

Rodrigo Duterte’s war on drugs was launched with an iron fist, branded as a decisive move to protect Filipinos from the perils of illegal narcotics. Yet, as the years passed, the reality became clear: it was less a war on drugs and more a war on the poor. With thousands of extrajudicial killings, a compromised justice system, and rampant corruption within law enforcement, Duterte’s campaign became a grim spectacle of state-sanctioned violence. Now that he is under arrest and facing trial at the International Criminal Court (ICC), his supporters decry the move as “kidnapping,” while ignoring the thousands who were kidnapped from life itself—killed without trial, without defense, and without justice. 

This raises critical questions: Was the war on drugs ever truly about eradicating the drug menace, or was it a means to control the drug trade, eliminate competition, and consolidate political power? More importantly, does Duterte’s arrest signal a step toward justice, or does it merely scratch the surface of a deeper, more systemic problem of impunity in the Philippines? 

The War on Drugs: Who Really Benefited? 

Duterte’s drug war was framed as a necessary measure to cleanse the country of criminal elements. But a closer look reveals that those who suffered the most were not the major drug lords or syndicate bosses but the most vulnerable members of society—small-time drug users, petty dealers, and the urban poor. 

Police operations frequently targeted low-income communities, with many of the victims unable to afford legal defense or bribe their way to safety. Thousands were executed on mere suspicion, often based on dubious “watch lists” compiled by local officials. Meanwhile, high-profile figures involved in the drug trade, including politicians and law enforcement officers, faced little to no consequences. 

Consider the case of Michael Yang, Duterte’s former economic adviser, who was linked to the illegal drug trade. Despite allegations and evidence pointing to his involvement, he remained untouchable, shielded by his political connections. Similarly, the notorious “ninja cops”—police officers who recycled confiscated drugs back into circulation—continued their operations with impunity, with some even receiving promotions. 

If Duterte’s war on drugs was truly about eliminating the drug menace, why did it overwhelmingly target the powerless while allowing those with influence to thrive? The answer is simple: the war was not about ending drugs—it was about controlling who could profit from them. 

Dura Lex Sed Lex: A Law Misused and Abused 

Supporters of Duterte’s drug war frequently invoked the Latin phrase Dura lex, sed lex—“The law is harsh, but it is the law”—to justify the extreme measures taken by the administration. But this interpretation was flawed from the start. 

The true meaning of Dura lex, sed lex is that the law must be applied fairly and consistently, regardless of one’s status. However, Duterte’s approach perverted this principle by enforcing the law selectively. The poor bore the full brunt of the campaign, while those with political or financial power were either spared or given a second chance. 

Moreover, many of the killings were carried out extrajudicially, meaning they were outside the boundaries of the legal system entirely. Due process was disregarded, and law enforcement became both judge and executioner. The courts, which should have been the final arbiter of justice, became complicit through their inaction, failing to investigate cases of wrongful deaths. 

By the time Duterte left office, the war on drugs had created a parallel justice system where accusations alone could be a death sentence. The law was not harsh—it was weaponized against those least capable of defending themselves. 

The ICC and the Failure of the Philippine Justice System 

With Duterte now facing trial at the ICC, his defenders argue that the Philippines has its own judiciary and does not need international intervention. However, this claim collapses when one examines the state of the local justice system. 

Despite the thousands of documented killings, only a handful of police officers have been convicted for abuses related to the drug war. Even then, convictions only occurred in cases where media attention made it impossible to ignore the injustices. For the vast majority of victims, no justice was served. 

The ICC operates under the principle of complementarity, meaning it only steps in when a country is unwilling or unable to prosecute crimes against humanity. The fact that the ICC had to take action at all is an indictment of the Philippine legal system’s failure to hold its own leaders accountable. 

Yet, Duterte’s supporters refuse to acknowledge this reality. Instead, they paint his arrest as an attack on national sovereignty, ignoring that sovereignty is meaningless when the state itself has failed to protect its citizens from unlawful killings. 

Duterte’s Arrest: A Step Forward, But Not Enough 

While Duterte’s arrest is a significant step toward accountability, it does not undo the damage caused by his policies. The institutions that enabled his drug war remain intact. Law enforcement agencies still operate with a culture of impunity, and the political climate still rewards strongman tactics over genuine governance. 

Moreover, Duterte’s brand of populism has left a lasting impact. His rhetoric of violence and lawlessness has been adopted by other politicians, who see fear and coercion as legitimate tools of leadership. His arrest may remove him from power, but it does not dismantle the machinery of oppression that he helped build. 

For true justice to be achieved, the following steps must be taken: 

 1. Comprehensive Investigations – Every case of extrajudicial killing must be properly investigated, with those responsible held accountable, regardless of rank or status.

2. Judicial Reforms – The courts must be strengthened to ensure independence and integrity, preventing future leaders from exploiting the system.

3. Police and Military Oversight – Law enforcement agencies must undergo significant reforms to eliminate corruption and abuse of power.

4. Victim Reparations – Families of victims must receive compensation and support to rebuild their lives after the injustices they suffered. 

Until these steps are taken, Duterte’s arrest will remain largely symbolic—an important move, but not a complete reckoning. 

Beyond Duterte: The Fight Against Impunity Continues 

Duterte’s war on drugs was never truly about public safety; it was about consolidating control, silencing dissent, and reshaping the country’s political landscape through fear. His arrest by the ICC is a long-overdue response to the atrocities committed under his administration, but it is not the end of the struggle. 

The biggest threat is that another Duterte may rise—another leader who will exploit the same rhetoric, the same tactics, and the same disregard for human rights. If Filipinos do not demand deeper institutional reforms, history may repeat itself. 

The war on drugs was not just Duterte’s war. It was a systemic war against the powerless, a war that used the facade of law and order to justify mass killings. If the country fails to learn from this dark chapter, then Duterte’s arrest will be just another political footnote, rather than a turning point toward real justice. 

The real question remains: Will the Philippines finally break the cycle of impunity, or will it allow the next strongman to rewrite the same bloodstained script? 

Neither Marcos Nor Duterte: Only the Conscienced Must Decide

Neither Marcos Nor Duterte: Only the Conscienced Must Decide

The recent debates surrounding the International Criminal Court’s move against Duterte have reignited the long-standing divide between his supporters and detractors. On one side, his loyalists passionately defend his so-called “legacy,” treating his governance as though it were a patron’s generosity rather than the duty of a civil servant. On the other, those who once tolerated him now shift toward his former ally, replacing one personality cult with another, favoring the Marcosian narrative in a desperate attempt to erase Duterte’s influence. 

Yet, those who have been critical from the beginning—those driven not by partisanship but by genuine concern for the country—see through this spectacle. They recognize that the controversies, abuses, and impunity of his regime vastly outweigh whatever infrastructure, policies, or reforms his supporters banner. A longer passport validity, a cleaner Manila Bay, and rehabilitated infrastructure may be noted, but they cannot serve as a counterweight to the bloodied history of extrajudicial killings, threats against dissenters, and the erosion of democratic institutions. 

The Feud of Two Tyrants 

At its core, this conflict is not about principles—it is about consolidating power. Both Marcos and Duterte claim to be against the oligarchy, yet they are deeply entrenched within it, funded by the same powerful elite they pretend to oppose. Karl Marx famously wrote in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past.” 

The Philippines today is not simply under the rule of Marcos or Duterte—it remains trapped in a system of elite domination that long predates them. Their supposed opposition to one another is, in truth, a power struggle between factions of the same ruling class, between those who swear loyalty to different patrons but ultimately serve the same interests. It is a feud not between justice and tyranny, but between two tyrants who seek to preserve their grip on power. 

Duterte’s defenders argue that he brought progress, but this claim is a mirage. Apolinario Mabini, in La Revolución Filipina, wrote, “The revolution has not yet succeeded because those who should serve the country are thinking of serving only themselves.” Indeed, while Duterte’s administration showcased some visible developments, they served as tools of political patronage rather than true systemic change. What use is a well-paved road if it leads to a nation still under the rule of landlords, warlords, and oligarchs? What is the point of modern infrastructure if the very institutions that guarantee justice and human rights are crumbling? 

The Reality Beyond Their Narratives 

If one may ask: those who are truly concerned have long seen the reality—some even critically supported either Marcos or Duterte at certain points, only to later reject them when their betrayals became clear. Those who are driven by genuine concern do not simply praise nor dismiss policies based on personality but instead weigh them against the broader conditions of justice and governance. 

But what has this so-called “new Philippines” under Duterte or Marcos brought? The same ruling elite remains. The same system of oppression persists. The same cycle of deception continues. Their supporters, blind to the larger historical forces at play, treat their chosen leader as a messianic figure, refusing to acknowledge that both factions ultimately serve the same class interests. 

Max Stirner once wrote in The Ego and Its Own, “The state calls its own violence law, but that of the individual crime.” This statement rings especially true for Duterte’s regime. Under his rule, extrajudicial killings were justified under the guise of “peace and order,” while those who resisted—activists, journalists, and even ordinary citizens—were branded as criminals. Yet, those who pulled the triggers, those who orchestrated the bloodshed, those who silenced dissent, were never held accountable. The same principle applies to the Marcoses, whose historical crimes are now being rewritten as achievements, their return to power justified under the banner of national unity. 

The True Opposition Lies Elsewhere 

Amidst this chaos, the real opposition is neither Duterte’s critics-turned-Marcos loyalists nor Marcos’ revisionists-turned-Duterte critics. The real opposition lies with those who see beyond the illusion, who refuse to be forced into choosing between two faces of the same decaying system. 

Apolinario Mabini once wrote, “He who desires to be served instead of serve, to command instead of obey, belongs to the enemy.” Both Marcos and Duterte have built their rule on the expectation of servitude—whether from their political allies, bureaucrats, or the people themselves. They demand loyalty not to the country, but to their own political dynasties. Governance, in their eyes, is not an act of public service but an assertion of power, turning the nation into a personal fiefdom where the people are vassals, expected to obey and glorify their lords. 

Karl Marx, in The Communist Manifesto, argued that “the executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie.” This rings true in the Philippines, where the state—regardless of who sits in power—operates not for the masses but for the ruling elite. The supposed opposition between Marcos and Duterte is but a quarrel between factions of the same ruling class, both seeking to consolidate their grip on power while the working class remains marginalized, their demands drowned out by political theater. 

History repeats itself not as a tragedy, but as a farce. Every administration that claims to bring change merely reshuffles the same power structures, with new faces but the same exploitative system. The masses are given the illusion of choice, but the system itself remains intact—warlords still rule, landlords still prevail, oligarchs still exploit. The Philippines they present as “new” is nothing but the same old Philippines, wrapped in different propaganda. 

As José Rizal once wrote in El Filibusterismo, “Woe to the nation whose destiny is entrusted to men whose past is clouded with crime.” Both Marcos and Duterte have built their reigns on impunity—one through martial law, the other through extrajudicial killings. To accept either of them as the rightful rulers of the nation is to accept a future built on bloodshed, deception, and submission. 

It is the conscienced folk—those driven by genuine concern for the country—who recognize that neither Duterte nor Marcos should decide the nation’s future. To break free from this cycle, one must challenge not just the leaders but the very system that enables them. The question is not who among them is better, but why the people are forced to choose between them at all. 

For what is this feud but a distraction? The same oligarchs who have long funded and benefited from these administrations continue to pull the strings. Are Duterte and Marcos truly at odds, or is this just another calculated move to keep the people divided? True opposition does not lie in choosing a side between them—it lies in rejecting the very system that keeps them in power. 

Beyond the Illusion of Choice 

If history has proven anything, it is that true change cannot come from those who are themselves products of a broken system. The people are not simply trapped between Marcos and Duterte; they are trapped within a political order that perpetuates their rule. The real question is not who should lead among them, but why the people continue to allow such figures to dominate national politics. 

The Philippines has long been presented with a false choice—Duterte or Marcos, dictatorship or populism, lawlessness or strongman rule. But for those who see beyond these illusions, the answer is clear: neither of them deserve to dictate the country’s future. The only ones who can truly lead the nation toward justice and democracy are those who reject the cycle of political patronage altogether. 

As Marx warned, “The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class shall misrepresent them in parliament.” So long as the country continues to fall into this trap, nothing will change. The conscienced folk—those who refuse to be forced into choosing between two evils—must be the ones to break the cycle. 

For what is this feud but a carefully crafted illusion? Marcos and Duterte pretend to be at odds, yet they are two sides of the same coin. The oligarchs who fund them remain untouched. The landlords who profit from the people’s misery continue to thrive. The warlords who silence dissent still hold power. 

Thus, the fight is not between Marcos and Duterte, nor is it between their supporters. The true battle is between those who see the world as it is and those who continue to believe in the illusions of power. And in that battle, only the conscienced must decide. 

Sovereignty and Accountability: A Nation’s Test of Integrity

Sovereignty and Accountability: 

A Nation’s Test of Integrity

Recent discussions on Philippine sovereignty have taken center stage as the possibility of former President Rodrigo Duterte facing accountability before an international tribunal gains traction. Nationalist rhetoric has resurged, with many insisting that only the Filipino people should decide the fate of their own leaders. Yet, the same voices were silent when foreign powers encroached on the country’s territory, constructed infrastructure on its lands, and undermined its national interests. This selective invocation of sovereignty raises a crucial question: is sovereignty about protecting the nation, or is it merely being used to shield individuals from accountability? 

The Limits of Sovereignty in a Globalized World 

The notion that international legal mechanisms infringe upon national sovereignty disregards the reality of a globalized legal order. The Philippines, like many other nations, has voluntarily entered treaties that impose specific obligations—one of which is participation in Interpol, an entity that facilitates international cooperation in law enforcement. If adherence to such agreements is truly an attack on sovereignty, then withdrawing from the International Criminal Court (ICC) should have been accompanied by severing ties with Interpol and similar institutions. 

More importantly, the Philippines did not arbitrarily join the ICC—it incorporated the Rome Statute into its legal system as part of its commitment to the principles promoted by the United Nations. To hear people now invoke sovereignty simply because a controversial figure is involved raises an unsettling question: does sovereignty mean blindly defending a leader regardless of their actions? If one were Haitian, would they support Papa Doc Duvalier simply because he was Haitian, despite the atrocities he committed? Nationality alone does not absolve a leader from responsibility. 

Accountability Is Not a Threat to Sovereignty 

The argument that international legal action against Duterte constitutes a violation of Philippine sovereignty overlooks a fundamental truth: the ICC does not interfere in nations where justice functions impartially. If the courts were truly independent, if justice were dispensed fairly, and if the welfare of the people was the highest law, there would be no need for entities like the ICC. Theoretically, people may always find reasons to complain, but in reality, when justice systems fail to act on widespread abuses—such as the use of the war on drugs as a war against the poor—international mechanisms become necessary. 

The ICC only steps in when a nation is unwilling or unable to prosecute serious crimes on its own. Duterte’s administration had years to ensure that the country’s judicial institutions remained credible and effective. Instead, the government obstructed investigations, dismissed accountability measures, and rejected scrutiny. Now, when the consequences of these choices emerge, the same leaders who failed to strengthen the justice system decry foreign intervention. 

Nationalism and the Integrity of Nation-Building 

As an observer, to use nationalism to defend a leader known for his abuses is itself a mockery of those who genuinely stood for nationalism and the desire for nation-building. Nationalism is not about blind loyalty to a leader—it is about building a nation based on justice, accountability, and the rule of law. Those who claim to stand for the country while supporting someone who disregarded legal and moral principles are, in reality, undermining the very foundation of the nation they claim to protect. 

Character building is nation-building. A society that tolerates impunity, excuses lawlessness, and justifies abuses as necessary evils weakens its own moral fabric. If a leader’s actions are excused despite their clear violations of the rule of law, it is not just governance that suffers, but the very character of the nation itself. 

A Lesson in Consequence 

Duterte and his legal team had the opportunity to insulate the Philippines from international legal scrutiny by withdrawing from all related agreements. However, they failed to do so. Now, faced with the possibility of international accountability, they argue that sovereignty is under attack. But true sovereignty is not about shielding individuals from justice—it is about ensuring that justice is served within the nation’s own institutions. 

This situation is more than just a legal dispute; it is a test of the nation’s integrity. If the Philippines had upheld justice impartially, there would be no reason for the ICC to be involved. The fact that international legal mechanisms are even being considered is an indictment of the country’s own failure to hold its leaders accountable. In the end, the question is not why the ICC exists—it is why the Philippines failed to render justice before the international community had to step in. 

Crimson Rose

Crimson Rose

(melody: Upp Till Den Morgon - Up Until The Morning)

Amidst the dust, so dry and bare,

A crimson rose blooms bright and fair.

Its petals dance in day's golden light,

A beacon glowing in the dark night.

'Tis this red blossom of beauty and love,

A gift from the heavens above.

Its crimson glow shall never fade,

Within my heart, forever stayed.

Though barren land may stretch so wide,

It stands in beauty, full of pride.

A scarlet flame, so rich, so red,

Where hope and dreams are softly spread.

'Tis this red blossom of beauty and grace,

A symbol no time could erase.

Its crimson glow shall never fade,

Within my heart, forever stayed.

Through winds that howl and skies so gray,

The rose still shines, it finds a way.

A symbol true, of strength untold,

A tale of life in petals bold.

'Tis this red blossom, fierce and true,

A flame that time could not subdue.

Its crimson glow will never fade,

Within my heart, forever stayed.

Its crimson glow will never fade,

Within my heart, forever stayed.

IS JUSTICE REALLY SERVED? OR WAITING FOR HELL TO BREAK LOOSE?

IS JUSTICE REALLY SERVED? OR WAITING FOR HELL TO BREAK LOOSE?

Justice, they say, is the foundation of any democracy. But if recent events are any indicator, justice in the Philippines is nothing more than a smokescreen, a battlefield where the powerful play their cards while the victims remain voiceless, their cries drowned out by political grandstanding. The arrest of former President Rodrigo Duterte has become less of a legal proceeding and more of a spectacle—a tragedy turned into a soap opera, with his supporters wailing at the injustice of their fallen idol while conveniently ignoring the blood-soaked reality of his regime.

The Illusion of Sovereignty

Duterte, facing charges of crimes against humanity due to his administration’s war on drugs, has labeled his detention as illegal. Flanked by former officials and allies, the ex-president stood at Villamor Airbase, demanding legal justification for his arrest, as if the crimes he stands accused of were mere fabrications. Former Executive Secretary Salvador Medialdea echoed Duterte’s stance, emphasizing that the Philippines had withdrawn from the International Criminal Court (ICC), suggesting that the country should no longer be bound by its authority. But here lies the irony—sovereignty is not a shield for impunity. If the Philippine justice system had done its job, international intervention would not have been necessary.

For years, justice was selective. Victims of extrajudicial killings never had their day in court. Due process was an afterthought as police carried out drug war operations, often resulting in bloodstained streets and lifeless bodies branded as collateral damage. Now that the legal machinery has finally caught up to Duterte, his allies cry foul, as though due process is suddenly sacred. The hypocrisy is deafening.

To be honest, it's easier to say that his arrest was redescribed as a "death of sovereignty" when in fact it isn't. The failure to put him and his ilk into justice, the downplaying of truths in favor of their narratives, begs the question: does justice in the country truly address the problem, especially for those who are the end victims of the drug war and other actions brought by the past administration? Yes, "God Save the Philippines" as they say, trying to appeal to God for that situation, yet in fact putting scorn upon the victims, pretending they're collateral damage—if not making the concerned recall that the God whom they're pleading to is the same "stupid God" their patron babbled about years ago.

The Fanatics in Disarray

As Duterte’s supporters scramble to salvage his image, their responses oscillate between melodrama and outright absurdity. Former NTF-ELCAC spokesperson Lorraine Badoy dismisses the charges, comparing the Interpol notice to a forged document from Recto—a ridiculous attempt at downplaying international legal mechanisms. Meanwhile, former presidential spokesperson Harry Roque calls on the masses to gather at EDSA, as if another People Power revolution would materialize to shield a leader accused of crimes against humanity.

Then there’s Senator Bong Go, taking a more passive approach by urging the public to pray. But pray for what? The victims of the drug war, who will never see justice? Or the man who once mocked religion, calling God “stupid,” only for his supporters to invoke divine intervention on his behalf? The contradictions are laughable, the desperation palpable.

Sorry if this can't get over as news is churned to and fro about the situation. But to hear from his supporters, their whining only adds ridicule or pity for them. One calls for prayer, another to mobilize in the streets, one blames the administration and the opposition, the other blames the law. Damn, is this a Stirner moment? Regardless of their statements, of their threats, the justice system "sucks," simple as that. It took an international entity to do so.

A Justice System That “Sucks”

Regardless of the noise from both sides, one thing is clear: the Philippine justice system remains a dysfunctional entity. It took an international body to push forward the case against Duterte—an indictment of the country’s inability (or unwillingness) to hold the powerful accountable.

Justice, in its true sense, is not about political allegiances. It is not about loyalty to a fallen leader. It is about the people—the countless Filipinos whose lives were shattered by state-sanctioned violence. The arrest of Duterte is not the “death of sovereignty,” as his allies proclaim. It is a long-overdue reckoning. The real question is: Will the country finally embrace accountability, or will justice remain an elusive concept, manipulated by those who wield power?

The answer remains bleak. And yet, the wheels of justice, slow and imperfect as they may be, have begun to turn. Whether they crush Duterte or falter once more under the weight of political influence—that remains to be seen. But if history is any indication, the powerful always find a way to escape, while the powerless are left to rot.

God save the Philippines, indeed. Because at this rate, no one else will.

The Unfolding Chaos

It is not surprising that with these situations, hell may break loose. Remember: not all supporters of his are willing to be sober. Will they just pray? Contented in "parliaments of social media"? Will they just chant their idol's name, calling for justice as they march to EDSA and other major streets? It is not surprising that they'll clamor for a coup, as there are soldiers, policemen, and civilian volunteers who are supportive of the past administration and its bloodied actions. Who cares about rule of law anyway when their political will prevails over those pieces of paper, the same way Duterte downplayed his own country's victory over China in the West Philippine Sea dispute?

And that is the terrifying part: justice may not be the only thing that is ignored. With frustrations mounting and Duterte’s loyalists fueling the flames of dissent, one has to wonder—how far will they go? Will people witness history repeating itself? Will it be another display of mob rule masquerading as political will? Will the country's stability crumble under the weight of fanaticism and political violence?

Wait and see, as one may say, for within these situations, expect all hell to break loose. It did happen in 2001 if one may recall the anger after Estrada's ouster. It did also happen in Washington, DC, in 2021 out of their fanatical support for Trump, and from these examples, it may happen again. And if it does, the cost will not be shouldered by the powerful, but by the ordinary citizens caught in the crossfire of political chaos and blind loyalty.

 

China’s Defense of Duterte against ICC Exposes Its Own Hypocrisy —And Its True View of Him

China’s Defense of Duterte against ICC Exposes Its Own Hypocrisy

—And Its True View of Him

China has issued a statement warning against the “politicization” and “double standards” of the International Criminal Court (ICC) following the arrest of former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte. But in doing so, Beijing unwittingly exposes its own contradictions. How can a state that upholds Mao Zedong’s words—“to rebel is justified”—now rush to defend a man whose rule was built on suppressing rebellion through brute force?

For years, Duterte waged his so-called war on drugs under the shadow of extrajudicial killings, summary executions, and state violence masked as law enforcement. His infamous “Tokhang” and “Double Barrel” operations were nothing short of a militarized assault on the Filipino people—disproportionately targeting the poor while leaving the political and economic elite untouched. Now that the ICC is moving to hold Duterte accountable, Beijing dares to call this justice system “politicized.” Yet, what was Duterte’s campaign of bloodshed if not an exercise in political power?

Even the crudest reading of history reveals that violence, when wielded by the state, is always political. It was Duterte himself who justified his campaign in the name of governance, peace, and order—classic pretexts for state terror. His open flirtation-yet gutter-level interpretation with the idea that “political power grows from the barrel of the gun” was not just rhetoric; it was operationalized into policy. But unlike those who wielded such power to overthrow oppression, Duterte used it to enforce the will of the powerful upon the powerless. If rebellion against oppression is justified, then what is left for those Duterte oppressed?

And yet, China, which claims to oppose imperialist intervention and upholds sovereignty, now intervenes in the name of a leader who openly aligned himself with foreign powers—whether through his subservience to Beijing’s interests in the West Philippine Sea or his military cooperation with the United States when it suited him. Duterte played all sides, selling sovereignty to the highest bidder while crushing any internal dissent. Beijing’s defense of him reveals not a commitment to justice, but a desperate attempt to shield its own model of repression from international scrutiny.

But here lies the greater lesson: If it was true that Duterte sought asylum from China and was turned down, then that moment exposes an undeniable truth—one that Duterte himself failed to grasp. The Middle Kingdom perspective is clear: You are only good for as long as you are useful. And if you are not of the Middle Kingdom, you are disposable.

Duterte, who once declared his “love” for China, who once boasted that he would set aside Philippine territorial claims in the South China Sea in favor of Beijing, who once denounced the United States while pivoting towards Chinese patronage—now finds himself cast aside. Beijing, ever pragmatic, has no loyalty to fallen figures. It used Duterte while he was in power, while he could weaken Philippine institutions, while he could provide cover for Chinese expansionism. But now, with no power left to offer, he is of no further use.

To call the ICC’s actions “politicized” is to ignore the plain truth: Duterte’s crimes were inherently political. His rule was marked by a deliberate war against the marginalized, a consolidation of power through fear, and an outright defiance of international law. His arrest is not a question of politics versus justice—it is a case of justice finally catching up to politics.

The world saw the brutality of Duterte’s war. The scenes of the crime, the graves, the orphaned children, the silenced critics—these were not the fabrications of some foreign conspiracy but the grim reality of his regime. That Beijing now rushes to defend him under the guise of opposing “politicization” only reveals the true nature of its concerns. It is not about justice. It is about power.

If China truly stood by its revolutionary past, it would recognize Duterte for what he is: a reactionary whose rule was an affront to the very principles of justice, self-determination, and people’s struggle. Instead, Beijing’s reaction to his arrest reveals only its fear—that one day, the forces of accountability and justice might also turn their gaze upon it.

Manila at a Crossroads: The Path to Truth and Justice?

Manila at a Crossroads: The Path to Truth and Justice?

As Rodrigo Duterte sits in custody, the Philippines faces a moment of reckoning. His arrest is more than the fall of a political figure—it is a test of the nation’s commitment to truth, justice, and accountability. Will Manila confront the past and uphold the rule of law, or will it descend into a dangerous cycle of impunity and retaliation? The lessons of history are clear: without accountability, violent ideologies do not disappear—they evolve into something far more insidious.

From DDS to a Lawless Underground? 
(A hypothetical thought)

The Davao Death Squad (DDS), once a localized vigilante group under Duterte’s rule in Davao City, became the template for his national war on drugs. Reports from Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch document how thousands of suspected drug users and small-time dealers were gunned down, often by masked assailants riding motorcycles. These killings, conducted with police collusion or direct involvement, terrorized the urban poor while leaving high-level drug traffickers largely untouched.

Duterte’s governance was rooted in a deeply flawed interpretation of justice—one that prioritized brute force over due process. His rhetoric reflected this, frequently invoking violent imagery and encouraging extrajudicial executions. He seemed to embrace a distorted version of Mao Zedong’s famous assertion that “political power grows out of the barrel of a gun,” but failing to acknowledge Mao’s crucial caveat: “The Party commands the gun, and the gun must never be allowed to command the Party.” Duterte’s approach bore closer resemblance to the Khmer Rouge’s chilling mantra under Pol Pot: “To keep is no benefit, to lose is no loss.” His policies treated suspected drug offenders as disposable, dehumanized targets rather than citizens with rights.

With Duterte’s arrest, his most ardent supporters—those who viewed his strongman tactics as necessary for order—may refuse to accept the legitimacy of the charges against him. If emboldened factions within the DDS or security forces reject the authority of the state, they could morph into a rogue paramilitary force, operating outside the law and targeting perceived enemies. Just imagine the DDS becoming that, yearning for a reckoning similar to the Interahamwe’s infamous call to “cut the tall trees,” blaming the Tutsis for their woes. The DDS also shares this kind of mindset, not just channeling their fury through the so-called “war on drugs,” but also blaming the opposition, the media, the left—anyone who stands in their way of imposing their rule. This is a dangerous inflection point for the Philippines. Many of Duterte’s supporters have shown a willingness to disregard legal frameworks in pursuit of what they see as decisive action. Their votes for figures like Bato dela Rosa and Robin Padilla—both champions of Duterte’s law-and-order approach—reflect this demand for “action,” even if it lacks reasoned policy backing.

The reactions of Duterte’s allies further demonstrate this mindset. Former National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-ELCAC) spokesperson Lorraine Badoy accused President Ferdinand "Bongbong" Marcos Jr. of authoritarianism, stating, "The Marcos administration, Bongbong, has shown its true face. Fascist, dictator, we should all be afraid." Meanwhile, former presidential spokesperson Harry Roque has urged Filipinos to take to the streets and assemble at EDSA in protest of Duterte’s detention, calling for mass demonstrations to challenge what he labeled an “illegal arrest.”

The Interahamwe Parallel: A Warning from History

A historical precedent for this kind of violent evolution exists in Rwanda’s Interahamwe militia. Initially a youth wing of the ruling MRND party, the Interahamwe were radicalized by government propaganda that framed the Tutsi population as an existential threat. Once the genocide began in 1994, these militias, armed with machetes and state backing, carried out mass killings with horrifying efficiency.

A key similarity emerges: the Interahamwe were not rogue actors. They operated with the tacit approval, and often the direct support, of the Rwandan state apparatus. Likewise, in the Philippines, Duterte’s war on drugs was not an underground movement—it was state policy. The police, emboldened by Duterte’s fiery rhetoric and promises of legal protection, acted as executioners. The question now is whether elements of that machinery will persist even without Duterte at the helm.

The Path Forward: The Need to Seek Truth and Justice from Facts

To avoid the descent into unchecked violence, the Philippines must follow a different model—one rooted in accountability, transparency, and a firm commitment to truth. Rwanda, despite its tragic past, offers an example of how a nation can confront its darkest history and emerge stronger. The Rwandan government established truth and reconciliation commissions, prosecuted key perpetrators, and invested in rebuilding national unity. The Philippines must take a similar approach, ensuring that justice does not stop at Duterte but extends to all who enabled the violence.

The first step is to seek truth from facts. The Duterte years must be examined with honesty, free from revisionist narratives that attempt to sanitize his administration’s excesses. This means acknowledging the victims, investigating abuses, and ensuring that those responsible—whether policymakers, police officers, or vigilante enforcers—are held to account.

Furthermore, the government must reinforce its institutions to prevent the emergence of lawless factions. This includes reforming the police force, ensuring independent oversight of law enforcement, and upholding human rights protections. Without these safeguards, the remnants of Duterte’s war on drugs could evolve into a more dangerous, decentralized form of violence.

A Defining Choice for the Nation

Manila now faces a defining choice. Will it embrace the rule of law and accountability, or will it allow Duterte’s legacy to fuel further lawlessness? The international community is watching, but more importantly, the Filipino people—especially those who have suffered under the drug war—deserve justice.

Duterte himself once declared, “You will just have to kill me.” His bravado aside, justice does not demand his death—it demands accountability. The Philippines must now decide whether it will stand for truth or allow the shadows of its past to dictate its future.