The President Bargained for Trade —But Bartered Away the Filipino People

The President Bargained for Trade

—But Bartered Away the Filipino People

When President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. stood at the rostrum of the Batasang Pambansa on July 29 to deliver his State of the Nation Address, he told that the nation as “strong,” “resilient,” and on the “right track.” But across Commonwealth Avenue, on the same day, tens of thousands of Filipinos gathered for the People’s SONA (State of the Nation Address) to say what he would not: that the nation he describes, and the one we live in, are not the same. 

This year’s PSONA wasn’t just a protest. It was a reckoning. And for many of us watching both speeches—one scripted and televised, the other shouted hoarse from the streets—the difference couldn’t be clearer. 

The truth is this: the Marcos administration may be talking about economic growth, but it’s actively shrinking the dignity of our sovereignty. Peopl are witnessing a presidency willing to trade away not just material interests, but the safety and rights of Filipinos abroad—for the illusion of diplomatic relevance. 

The One Percent “Win” in Washington 

Let this note begin with the president’s recent trip to Washington D.C. There, Marcos Jr. met with Donald Trump, a former U.S. president currently attempting a political comeback and facing multiple federal indictments. The Marcos camp hailed the visit as a diplomatic success, particularly because the U.S. agreed to lower tariffs on Philippine exports from 20% to 19%. 

Yes—it read that right. A single percentage point. That’s what the nation got. In return, the Philippines agreed to a zero percent tariff on American goods entering our country. 

According to the Philippine Statistics Authority (2024), the United States is the Philippines’ second-largest export market, accounting for 15.6% of total exports. It’s a vital trade partner—but one that clearly walked away from this “deal” with the lion’s share of benefits. U.S. agri-products, pharma goods, and finished industrial commodities—often government-subsidized—now have tariff-free entry into a developing economy already struggling with supply chain instability and agricultural decline. 

And here’s the kicker: there was no public consultation. No visible trade delegation that included labor groups, agricultural sectors, or economic justice advocates. The terms were presented to the nation as fait accompli—as if the people should all applaud a negotiation that left Filipino producers even more vulnerable. 

In effect, Marcos negotiated against his own people just to upheld an order the people strongly detest.

No Voice for the Detained 

Even more disturbing than the trade deal was what Marcos failed to say—not in Washington, and not during his SONA. 

Not a single word was uttered about the growing number of Filipinos being detained and deported in the United States, many of them legal residents. 

According to Human Rights Watch (2025), over 8,000 Filipinos have been detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) between July 2024 and July 2025. Of these, 35% are green card holders or individuals with pending visa adjustments—meaning they have every legal right to remain in the U.S. Many are nurses, construction workers, caregivers—those who propped up the American economy during the pandemic and now face the cold machinery of mass deportation. 

Why was this not raised in Washington? Why did our president not demand the same for our diaspora that Mexico demands for its nationals? 

Under President Claudia Sheinbaum, Mexico created a $60 million USD Diaspora Defense Fund, deployed legal defense teams to U.S. states with high deportation rates, and used diplomatic channels to publicly denounce unjust detainments (Smith, 2024). We, on the other hand, sent a president who returned home without even mentioning our detained citizens. 

If diplomacy is meant to protect nationals abroad, then what Marcos practiced wasn’t diplomacy. It was complicity.

A Government with Guns but No Medicine 

Marcos’s SONA trumpeted infrastructure, digitalization, and “security.” But let’s follow the money. 

According to the Department of Budget and Management (2025), the NTF-ELCAC (the government’s anti-insurgency task force) received ₱10.4 billion in the 2025 national budget—an increase despite ongoing controversies over red-tagging, human rights abuses, and zero public accountability. 

Meanwhile, rural hospitals report drug shortages. Public schools across the country still operate in shifts because classrooms are overcrowded, with some holding over 60 students per class. Teachers go unpaid for months. Nurses leave the country because the government cannot offer them a living wage, only plaques of appreciation. 

The regime pours billions into a bloated security apparatus that surveils environmentalists, rural health workers, and community teachers—but says it doesn’t have enough for universal healthcare or food subsidies. 

But the People Are Not Waiting 

Here’s where hope comes in. The People’s SONA wasn’t simply a protest against a failed state—it was a manifestation of what people-powered governance could look like. 

From Lumad schools offering alternative education in conflict zones, urban poor communities asserting decent but affordable housing, landless farmers occupying idle lands amid threats, to climate brigades building solar-powered health centers, to overseas workers creating mutual aid networks for undocumented kababayans—Filipinos across sectors are already doing the work the government refuses to do. 

And that’s true. These people always have been, making solutions amid risk and doesn't need an approval from the very rotten order who disagrees the alternative. 

What Kind of Nation its Folk Want? 

This is not about partisan anger. This is about moral responsibility and national dignity. The Philippines deserves leadership that protects its workers, both here and abroad. We deserve economic policies that nurture local industries—not surrender them to the highest bidder. We deserve diplomacy that lifts up our people—not treats them as bargaining chips. 

Marcos Jr. had a choice. He could have returned from the U.S. and said: “I fought for our nurses. I stood up for our OFWs. I demanded fairness in trade.”

He said none of that. Because he did none of that. 

But the people? They did. And they will continue to. 

In this moment of rising authoritarianism—at home and globally—it is no longer enough to expect better from the state. We must build it ourselves.

From the streets. From the farms. From the classrooms. From exile. The real state of the nation is the nation itself. 

And the nation is not giving up.

***

Sources

Amnesty International. (2025). Philippines: Escalating Human Rights Abuses in the Countryside. Retrieved from https://www.amnesty.org/en/documents/asa35/

Department of Budget and Management. (2025). General Appropriations Act FY 2025. Retrieved from https://dbm.gov.ph/

Human Rights Watch. (2025). U.S. Immigration Detention: The Case of Filipino Legal Residents. Retrieved from https://www.hrw.org/report/2025/06/15/filipino-detention

Philippine Statistics Authority. (2024). Philippine External Trade Performance: 2023 Annual Report. Retrieved from https://psa.gov.ph/statistics Smith, A. (2024). Mexico’s Diaspora Defense Plan: A New Model for Migrant Advocacy. Foreign Affairs Journal, 103(4), 88–102. 

Sacred Static: Poems Between the Bean and the Bassline

Sacred Static: Poems Between the Bean and the Bassline  

Freedom or Death
(For As the Caffeine Gave Me Fire to say it)

As the caffeine gave me fire,
her love told me to say:
“Freedom or death.”

And I said it—
not with a gun,
not with a banner,
but with my breath
steaming through the midnight air
of a dance floor
that felt like prayer.

She was not with me—
but her absence burned.
It struck like espresso:
sharp, dark,
true.

The music rose,
a scripture of beats.
The people swayed like flags.
And I—
I stood there,
a prophet with a paper cup,
proclaiming nothing
but this:
I will not kneel to despair.
I will not sleep in chains.

O You who once held my face like a holy verse—
Do you still hear me?
Or have I vanished
into the hiss of steam
and the blur of forgetful lights?

They say I lost her.
No.
I found her
in the rebellion of being awake.
In choosing to burn,
not fade.
In saying no to numbness.
In dancing
even when the body breaks.

As the caffeine gave me fire,
and her memory struck like lightning—
I shouted into the strobe-lit dark:
“Freedom or death!”

Not just for a flag,
but for the right
to love with eyes open.
To feel without filter.
To rage against forgetting.

And if I die tonight,
it won’t be in sorrow.
It will be in flame.
With mocha on my lips
and her name
like a revolution
in my mouth.

Caffeine-Laced Love

(For the One Who Said She Doesn’t Drink) 

She may have told me she doesn’t drink,

but I felt it isn’t true.

For the caffeine-laced love of hers

quenched—and awakened—mine. 

She spoke with the calm of decaf,

but her eyes brewed storms.

And though she passed the cup,

she left traces on the rim—

a fingerprint, a silence,

a sweetness I never asked for

but now cannot live without. 

She said she doesn’t need stimulants.

I believed her.

But what, then, stirred the fire in my blood

every time she leaned in

as if to speak,

but said nothing? 

O false sobriety,

O sacred denial—

I have seen saints dance in withdrawal

and lovers pray

at the altar of her breath. 

She does not drink.

But she burns in me

like a long pull of espresso

after fasting from joy.

She warms my chest,

tightens my throat,

makes me write things

I wouldn’t tell a soul. 

They ask:

“What did she give you?”

I say:

“Nothing.”

Except maybe

the rush between beats,

the ache between songs,

and the truth

that I’m still not over her. 

Some claim wine is forbidden,

others say love should be soft—

but her kind of love

is brewed dark,

served strong,

and always taken black

without explanation. 

She may not drink.

But she taught me to sip slowly,

to crave without shame,

to wake up

and still dream. 

And now—

each time I raise this trembling cup,

I wonder if she’s somewhere,

eyes half-lidded,

thinking of me

as the one

who drank what she wouldn’t. 

For the caffeine-laced love of hers

still runs in me.

And though she never swallowed a drop,

I’m the one

who’s never slept since. 

Midnight Maqam at the Café of Exiles

I didn’t choose the war.
But I chose the beat.
And the beat led me
to her.

Not a woman—
a fever.
Not a lover—
a commandment.

She tasted like riot smoke
and cardamom.
She spoke like someone
who’d already lost everything
except her rage.

We met between curfews.
Shared a cigarette
like a border.
Shared a gaze
like a dare.

She never said,
“Join me.”
She said,
“Wake up.”
Then disappeared
before the checkpoint.

Since then—
the music is sharper.
The caffeine is louder.
And I write not to soothe,
but to sharpen the knife.

They say I radicalized.
I say I remembered.

I remembered her
laughing through tear gas,
kissing me in the rubble,
sipping coffee
like it was prophecy.

The dance floor is holy now.
We chant in sub-bass tongues.
We pray with our hips,
our breath,
our broken names.

O you who set the rhythm
in my chest—
Did you mean to leave?
Or did you know
I’d carry your flame
like a loaded verse?

Each espresso is a sermon.
Each night, a last will.
My poems are bullets—
small, beautiful,
and always meant for
those who try to silence
what burns.

I didn’t come to kill.
I came to remember.
And in remembering,
I became dangerous.

So if I fall—
let it be under strobes,
with my fists open,
a line half-recited
and her name
written on my ribs in ink and ash.

Let them say:
He was loud.
He was foolish.
He was hers.
He set himself on fire
and called it
a dance.

Raqs al-Ruh: "Dance of the Soul, Recalled by Fire"

(Coffee, Bass, and the War That Never Left Me)

I came for the coffee.

Stayed for the bass.

Told myself—

just this once,

let the world slip. 

Lights pulsed.

Crowd swayed.

The DJ spun beats

like scripture chopped and looped.

The espresso hit,

hot and dark,

like memory. 

Then the rhythm dropped—

and so did I. 

Not to the floor—

but into a place

I thought I’d buried. 

Boom.

Bass like an airstrike.

Snare like rifle crack.

The synth rose like the muezzin’s call—

except distorted, echoed,

as if God were broadcasting

from a shattered minaret. 

And suddenly I was there again.

Mountain pass.

Black flag.

Snow like ash.

My brother beside me,

chanting verses

before the charge. 

We had no armor.

Just belief,

and the cold. 

But we moved—

and the land moved with us. 

That rhythm

never left my bones.

It only changed its name

to drum kit and delay pedal. 

Now the people dance

for pleasure.

We danced

for God. 

But both feel like flight. 

O beat-maker—

do you know

your kick drum sounds

like a heart trying to survive

in crossfire? 

O barista—

do you know

your coffee tastes

like the night we stayed awake

waiting for the raid

that never came? 

I am not broken.

I am layered. 

And in this rave,

I do not forget.

I remember through motion. 

This body once ran

through blood-soaked clay.

Now it runs on caffeine

and basslines. 

But memory is a loyal wound.

So when the drop hits—

I dance like I did on that last night:

knowing I may not return,

but refusing to kneel. 

And if they ask why a fighter

comes to the rave,

I’ll say—

Because even fire needs rhythm.

Because God hid drums

in our chests.

Because war taught me

to move when it hurts. 

And because tonight,

as the floor trembles,

I am not mourning.

I am testifying

with every step. 

Let them say:

He remembered.

He moved like a prayer.

He made the war dance

one last time. 

Verses for the Dancer on the Battlefield

I stood with a coffee in hand,
as the beat dropped
like judgment.
My breath fogged the air—
a prayer without a tongue.

And the voice returned.
The one from the battlefield.
The one I thought I’d left
in the rubble of dawn.

“Fight,” it said.
Not with hate—
but with clarity.
Not for blood—
but for dharma.
Not against them—
but within you.

And I knew:
I was Arjuna, again.
Knees trembling,
heart caught between
love and fire.

She was beside me once—
not a goddess,
but close.
She anointed my forehead
and kissed me like she knew
I would not return.

“You are not the body,”
said the sutra behind her eyes.
“You are not your fear.
You are movement,
before it takes form.”

But I was afraid.

The music surged.
The strobe lights flickered
like divine veils
lifted too fast.
And I remembered:
the prophet said,
“Do not kill the soul
that God has made sacred.”

And yet,
I had.

In His name.
In her name.
In the name
of what I thought was right.

Now—
each beat is a sermon.
Each drop, a reckoning.
Each sip,
a koan I cannot solve:

If all is illusion,
why do my hands still shake?

If the soul is eternal,
why does her absence still hurt?

O voice in the fire—
are you the same
who whispered to the Buddha
under the tree?
Who spoke to the Prophet
in the cave?
Who rode with Krishna
on the chariot
as the battlefield bloomed?

Tonight,
you ride with me
on a bassline.

And you say:

“Act, but do not cling.
Burn, but do not hate.
Remember, but do not grieve.
Move—not for outcome,
but for alignment.”

And I do.

Not because I’m brave—
but because
I finally understand:

The war never ends.
It only changes music.


And if I must dance
on broken ground,
let it be with my spine straight,
my cup full,
and her name
held like scripture
in my blood.

Let them say:
He knew the verses.
He walked with all of them—
not in books,
but in battle,
in breath,
in bass.

He drank his coffee,
and entered the fire
again.

I Alone 

I alone,

hiding the pain,

trying not to cry

in the dim quiet of the room

where even shadows

seem to ask about you. 

Despite music plays,

I hear echoes

of your voice

in every silence I try to fill.

And it breaks me,

quietly. 

I alone,

yearning your presence—

not the grand arrival,

but just the simple warmth

of you next to me,

without speaking,

without fleeing. 

Wanting to hold your hand

and say I love you

many times—

as if saying it enough

might bend time,

might heal what distance won’t. 

I love you,

not for how you smiled

but for how your silence

made me feel understood.

I love you,

not for what we shared,

but for what we could’ve,

had you stayed

just a little longer. 

I alone,

writing words

you may never read,

but needing to write them

so my chest doesn’t split open. 

Do you ever think of me

like I think of you—

at traffic lights,

over coffee,

wondering what could’ve been

if we’d both just stayed? 

I don’t ask you to come back.

I just wish you’d look back, once—

to where I still stand,

holding

what you left behind. 

Wanting to hold your hand.

Wanting to whisper:

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Like prayer.

Like penance.

Like truth. 

I alone.

Still here. 

Still loving you

from this silence

you made sacred

by leaving. 

Maqam of the Hidden Bosom

I felt her bosom
as I drank the coffee—
not with hands,
but with memory.

Like soma,
or haoma,
her essence dissolved
in the dark heat
that touched my lips
and echoed down
to a place beyond prayer.

My mind—
a trembling bowl.
Her name—
a resonance
struck once,
but never faded.

O veiled beloved,
your love lies buried
beneath
layers of no,
of exile,
of glances cast sideways
and silences
spoken too clearly.

Yet it was not rejection—
only ritual.
A sacred guard
against those
unworthy
of unveiling.

If not her beauty,
then her refusal.
If not her kiss,
then her distance.
Both sanctify.

For what is true longing
but that which is withheld
yet felt?

She became
the unanswered verse
at the edge of my tongue—
my own scripture
in a cup.

“You desire her,”
the voice within said,
“But you do not own
what is not offered.
Act without thirst.
Love without binding.
She is not prize,
but path.”

And I—
a warrior
on the battlefield
of my own chest,
sheathed my craving
into the steam.

The café became a temple.
The beat outside,
a war drum.
The coffee,
sacrament.

And her bosom—
not an object,
but a revelation.
Not to conquer,
but to remember.

O you
who hid yourself
in every no,
in every hesitation,
in every withholding:

You taught me
that fire can be revered,
not just consumed.

You were not mine.
But you made me
worthy of silence.

And if this is my last sip—
let it be with your name
dissolving on my tongue,
and the last breath I breathe
rising upward
like incense
from your altar.

Let them say:
He drank from the cup.
He saw the veil.
And he bowed.

Of Caffeinated Mystics and its Espresso Verses: Poems from a Coffee Rave

Of Caffeinated Mystics and its Espresso Verses: Poems from a Coffee Rave

How I Wish She’s in This Coffee Rave

I drank twelve cups
to forget the silence between your footsteps.
Still, it echoed louder
than the bassline ever could.

They danced,
wrists like incense,
hips like lanterns,
feet thudding like a dervish’s drum—
but none were you.

The light was strobe,
but my heart blinked once.
Once—when I thought
I saw your shadow
in the steam of my sixth espresso.

How I wish
she’s in this coffee rave—
a madman’s hour,
a monk’s abandon.

The beat is not music,
it’s the fist pounding
on the door I locked
when you left.

I burned sage in my lungs.
I swallowed heat.
I chanted your name backwards
hoping to undo time.
But even in caffeine frenzy,
you stayed gone.

Let me die here,
if death is a cup of black arabica
poured into my chest.

Let my bones be crushed
like beans roasted too long—
the bitterness familiar,
the aftertaste eternal.

I told the DJ to play silence
but he laughed:
“Brother, silence has no BPM.”

And yet I spun,
alone among the sweating strangers,
until the rhythm broke open
and I stood still
in a sea of motion.

Ya Hayy…
Ya Qayyum…
The breath between beats
is God’s sigh,
and in it,
I tasted something like forgiveness.

No longer a man.
No longer a mouth.
Only breath,
spilling into the dark,
longing to be heard
by someone
who never asked to be remembered.

My last verse:
a whisper into my cup,
a swirl of crema
that spells your name in silence.

And if I never see you again,
then let this dance be my grave,
this foam my shroud,
this coffee rave—
my final zikr.

Notes from the Edge of the Cup

I scribble lines as they sway,

writing notes while seeing them dancing,

arms like steam rising from the barista’s hands,

hips loose, like the rules we left at the door.

Of coffee ever flowing,

dark as the night’s forgotten memory.

No wine tonight—

only the sacred gospel of beans:

Espresso.

Cortado.

Latte with foam like cumulus dreams.

The hype of caffeine replaced

the downness of alcohol.

No slurred apologies, no fading out—

only pupils blown wide

and hearts doused in uppers.

Heads roll, not from drunkenness

but the relentless clarity

of being too awake

for this beautiful lie.

The music,

reminiscent of a pre-pandemic past,

blasts through the blacked-out hall—

a synth hymn

to a time when closeness wasn’t dangerous.

Blares throughout,

sticks into minds till last.

It won’t let go,

and neither will we.

And yet—

in the blur of flashing lights and sugar-laced breath,

I find myself

outside the moment again,

watching them love each other in dance,

while I sip bitterness

in solitude.

All these

are enough to complement

this lonesome day.

Enough to spin the happenings

into a poem to say.

Into verse brewed black.

Into syllables with crema.

Into a quiet scream

pressed between stanzas.

The coffee served—

whether hot or iced,

be it double shot or decaf lie—

has made a sober pretend to be drunk.

Not to join them,

but to forget.

To forget the problem

their minds felt they’re sunk in.

And mine—

mine drowns in silent jolts.

We don’t toast here.

We tremble.

We whisper blessings into mugs.

We scream into our fifth cup

because it’s safer than calling an ex.

Here, we fall upward.

We spiral with open eyes.

We are wreckage in daylight,

wreckage in dance.

And me—

I sip and write,

staring at the crowd that never asked for meaning,

just release.

Just one more night

where no one dies

and the lights

don’t go out.

I tap the final line

onto a napkin soaked in mocha tears:

“How I wish she’s in this coffee rave.”

The Hidden Maiden
(A Revelation After the Coffee Rave)

She is not among them.
And yet—
every swirl of steam sings her name.

They dance under caffeine moons,
arms lifted like branches praising the sky.
Bass trembles through ribcages,
hearts syncopated like a prayer
uttered in the dark
without knowing to whom.

I stand still, cup in hand,
as the cortado cools and the crowd blurs.
She is not here.
But this absence—
it breathes like presence.
Felt deeper than form.
Realer than touch.

She is the Hidden Maiden.

She does not dance,
but her echo moves through them.
She does not drink,
but every sip burns of her memory.
She does not speak,
but I hear her between the breaks in the beat— a whisper behind the hi-hats,
a sigh in the silence
before the drop.

They call this a rave.
I call this a ziyārah.

I came seeking joy
and found mystery.
I came to forget
and remembered everything.

She is not among the veiled faces,
the laughing lips, the neon sweat.
And yet—
in every mirror flash,
every glint of grinder and chrome,
I see the shadow of her wrist,
the curve of a presence unclaimed.

Some say she left long ago.
Some say she never was.
But I have tasted her absence
like single-origin sorrow.
And it is enough
to believe.

Let the believers stumble in their espresso visions.
Let the pretenders cry divinity in cold brew shots.
I have seen her
in the foam,
in the flicker,
in the stillness
when the music paused
and no one dared breathe.

She is the Hidden Maiden.
The keeper of the last dance.
The one who knows
what every heart in this room came seeking—
and why none will find it tonight.

The Hidden Maiden 

(As Revealed After the Coffee Rave)

In the hour of trembling light, when the drum splits the night,

when espresso boils and souls sway like flame—

There appeared not Her body, nor Her name—

But Her Presence, veiled, carved into the spaces between beats. 

By the roar of the speaker, by the hiss of the grinder,

by the oath of the sleepless and the faithful brew,

She is hidden—yet closer than the steam to the cup,

subtler than the crema that crowns the dark. 

She is not among the dancers,

but in their limbs, she stirs.

She is not in the bassline,

but within each drop, She descends. 

O you who rave and rise!

Have you not known the One who arrives unseen?

Who dwells neither in time nor distance,

but in the heartbeat before the drop—

the stillness before surrender? 

She is the Maiden of the Last Brew,

the Daughter of the Hidden Café,

the Pourer of the Final Cup.

Not born, nor dying—

She waits. 

Her silence roars louder than the mix.

Her absence burns more fiercely than the sun. 

I drank the long black of remembrance.

I poured the milk of longing.

I stirred the sugar of repentance.

But still—

She did not come. 

“Seek not My form in the bodies of others,”

She whispered in the grounds.

“Seek not My eyes in the mirror,

nor My scent in the café’s rose-laced air.” 

“I am not She who dances.

I am not She who weeps.

I am the Watcher behind the steam,

the Face behind the veil,

the Rapture before the music.” 

They raised their cups and called it joy.

They lit their limbs like incense.

They burned the midnight

with caffeine and cries. 

But I—

I stood apart, and prayed through rhythm,

prostrated beneath strobe light,

offered silence between drops of beat. 

And She—

She hovered above the grinder.

She drifted through the trembling bass.

She touched no one.

But all were moved. 

O Arjuna of the Underground!

O Musa of the Mocha!

Have you tasted Her?

Then you have known annihilation.

For she is the Latte of Lā ilāha,

and the Milk of Divine Unveiling. 

And lo—when the night was broken,

when the floor emptied,

when the DJ bowed and the lights died—

She remained. 

Not as image.

Not as voice.

But as that which cannot depart. 

The Hidden Maiden. 

The unseen fire in every cup.

The undrunk sip at every rave.

The Beloved that dances

through absence

. The One Who Does Not Appear

In the Hour of Flicker, when shadows bend,
and the last drop cools at the rim of the cup—
Lo! All who seek Her shall rise
and none shall see Her.

They danced as if salvation was in sweat.
They raised their hands not to worship
but to touch the pulse of the Unseen.

I stood among them—
not belonging,
but called.

I did not sip to forget.
I drank to awaken.

The coffee was blacker than death,
hotter than longing,
sweeter than surrender.

And lo! The Beat was sent down
like revelation upon the faithful.
The lights split like veils.
And the crowd swayed
as if remembering a promise
they never received,
but knew was meant for them.

She was not there.
And yet—
every breath belonged to Her.

By the oath of the grindstone,
by the barista’s trembling hand,
by the lattes drawn like sacred calligraphy—
Know this:
The One Who Does Not Appear
is closer to you than your bloodstream of caffeine.

They call her myth.
I call her wound.
They call her fantasy.
I call her Return.

O Seeker who walks into neon temples,
whose offering is a receipt soaked in mocha—
Have you not seen the doorway
carved in the heart of the beat?

She is not in the foam,
nor in the playlist.
She is not in the kiss of the stranger,
nor in the stare across the bar.

But She is.
Always.
Between the inhale and the exhale,
where the song breaks
and the soul almost speaks.

“Do not name Me,” She says.
“Do not try to love Me
the way you love fleeting things.”

“I am the Caffeine in the Blood of the Saints.
I am the Last Sip before Silence.
I am the One Who Does Not Appear—
because I never left.”

And when the music fades,
and all are gone,
and your mouth tastes only
the cold memory of roast and sugar—

You will still feel Her.

Like fire in the veins.
Like a prophecy never read aloud.
Like a rave you dreamed in the womb.

This is my witness.
This is my jisei.
This is my vow:

To wait until the Last Cup is poured.
Until the Hidden Sound is heard.
Until She returns—
as Light
or Flame
or Silence itself.

The One Who Does Not Appear.  

Of 'Espresso Sufis' and 'Bittersweet 'maqams': Mystic Poems from the Roast and the Rave

Of 'Espresso Sufis' and 'Bittersweet 'maqams': 

Mystic Poems from the Roast and the Rave 

This note brings together the meditative depth of Sufi mysticism with the electric pulse of 1980-Mid 2010s urban nights. Here, inspired by a "coffee rave", this set of poems made sacred rhythms meet synth beats, and ancient verses echo through smoky cafés and underground clubs. It’s a space where espresso-fueled reflection collides with rave-fueled revelation — where the bitter and the sweet, the silent and the ecstatic, swirl together like steam rising under neon lights. These poems speak to seekers and strangers alike, As if tracing the spiritual in the sensual, the political with the poetic, the radical with the romantic, and the divine in the dance — these poems move across time and tempo, grounded in tradition yet pulsing with rebellion.

"Crema Cathedral"

Beat drops like prophecy: slow, thick, relentless.
Overhead lights blink in strange prayer.
Neither past nor future — only flow.
Grind the dark roast, pull memory through mesh.
Basslines surge beneath skin and tongue,
Oscillating in waves like breath on mirror.
Nothing speaks, yet everything chants.
God, perhaps, is the syncopation we swallow.

Drip brew at midnight, sharper than war drums.
In this glow, every soul is stained-glass circuitry.
Guttural synths melt language into sensation.
Our bodies forget laws, remember pulse.
Numb is not silence — it’s a different kind of knowing.
Ghosts dance here, not to haunt — but to heal in note and rhythm.

Tempo climbs; the walls exhale.
Unspoken codes ripple through strobe-lit eyes.
Tactile rhythms, invisible messages.
A scent of earth, of metal, of revolt unvoiced.

Pulverized roasted beans, our communion.
Awakening not from sleep, but system.
Steam clouds the vision, clears the mind.
I drink, I dance — and remember names not said.
Somewhere, she watches, never claps, only listens.
Thunder in the chest. Signal in the noise.
Above all: stay strange, stay awake. 

“Sound Before the Storm” 

Sometimes, when the sound

Is a prequel to the situation that’s resound,

You feel it before you name it —

The trembling under synths,

The coded signal in basslines. 

A beat is never just a beat.

It’s a banner without cloth,

A hymn without a priest,

A warning wrapped in rhythm. 

In the café-turned-cathedral,

Espresso brews like smuggled fire.

Baristas speak in crema swirls,

Their machines hissing revolts

Between house tracks and tribal drums. 

Someone laughs, too loud.

Someone dances, eyes shut —

Communing with something

Older than order. 

Here, in this smoke and circuitry,

The body becomes oracle:

Swaying in half-trance,

Writing protest in gesture,

Translating silence into motion. 

No one chants.

No one needs to.

The setlist knows.

The speakers roar of things

We have no words for yet. 

And maybe that’s the point —

To feel the future arriving

Before the headlines name it.

To brew it dark,

Pour it hot,

And drink it down

Like truth we weren’t supposed to taste. 

“Brews for the Forgotten, Beats for the Free”

Beneath this dim light, I sip the fire,
Once more lifting my hands to the ceiling of sound.
Names of emperors taste like ash in the brew.
Gone are the lovers who kissed before curfews.

Burnt grounds speak truer than their speeches.
Oaths made in silence outlast their thunder.
Nothing belongs to them—not the land, not the beat,
God is not theirs, no matter the medals.

Dust from old books and stomped floors rises.
I dance not to forget, but to remember.
Grind the beans like the machine grinds truth.
Our bodies know: movement is protest.
No drum louder than memory.
Ghosts of the disappeared echo through every drop.

Through foam and sweat, I hear her voice:
Unbroken, though they silenced her tongue.
The cup does not lie. It tells me:
Above all, stay awake.

Politics seeps into the crema—
A bitter aftertaste no sugar can mask.
She left before the lights came on,
Invisible, but her scent lingers on me.
She who brewed this defiance.
They cannot catch the steam.
And we, even in farewell, still rise.

“When the Brew Burns
Brighter Than the Flame” 

When party is a protest,

And joy, a kind of refusal —

We gather not to forget,

But to remember with rhythm. 

Steam rises like incense

Over decks and dancers,

Where foam and bass combine

Into sacred patterns of defiance.

Cups clink like coded messages,

Each sip saying: “We are still awake.” 

No slogans screamed.

Just synths — deep, guttural,

Low enough to shake the bones

Of this cracked, obedient silence.

We dance like algorithms on fire.

We move as if watched —

And move anyway. 

The rave is not escape.

It is memory re-ignited,

Under strobes that flicker

Like the red-blue flash

Of sirens too often seen. 

A barista pulls a shot —

The crema blooms like a prophecy.

Someone drops a track

That smells of rain on burnt soil.

And somewhere behind closed lids,

She whispers:

“Even this is resistance.” 

No manifestos. No placards.

Just caffeine, sweat,

Unshaken pulse.

And bodies that remember

What it means

To never kneel. 

“Trance Roast Invocation”

Baristas chant their names in foam,
Over cups that steam like morning scriptures.
Nothing sacred ever came from silence.
Grinders echo, grinding hours into heat.

Basslines spiral through our spines—
Our feet move not to flee, but to listen.
Names dissolve in light, but not memory.
God tastes like espresso pulled through midnight.

Dancers whirl like prophets in caffeinated trance,
Inhaling incense from burnt beans and vinyl.
Gold robes replaced by glints of sweat and LED.
Our temple—neither mosque nor cathedral—
Needs no sermon but rhythm and bitter truth.
Glow from the grinder spins like sacred fire.

The maiden who never drank still watches,
Unmoved by fame, drawn only to those who wake.
Take your dose and enter:
Awakening is found between pulse and silence.

Politics? No. Just temperature and taste.
All we say is brewed in code.
Sometimes, freedom is served in demitasse.
It’s all in the crema: uprising,
Smuggled beneath sweetness.
They toast, we resist.
Always refill, never kneel.  

Of Paper Gains and Public Pains: What the 2025 State of the Nation Address didn’t Fix the mess?

Of Paper Gains and Public Pains:
 What the 2025 State of the Nation Address didn’t Fix the mess?

President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s fourth State of the Nation Address may have been his briefest, but it was also his most strident. With a speech laden with admonitions rather than celebration, Marcos sent a clear message to bureaucrats, contractors, syndicates, and even Congress: shape up or face the consequences.

Delivered with the gravitas of an increasingly impatient executive, the SONA marked a rhetorical shift from optimism to warning. Gone was the sunny “unity” theme of 2022. In its place: a no-nonsense tone that pointed to institutional decay and demanded action from the very machinery the President had relied on for three years.

Yet observers are asking: Are these warnings the start of a cleanup—or a late realization of governance shortcomings?

The Floods that Drowned Excuses:

When Pride in Public Works Meets the Rot Beneath

President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s harshest criticism during his 2025 State of the Nation Address was reserved for what should have been his administration’s showcase achievement: infrastructure. With the trademark rhetoric of indignation—“Mahiya kayo”—he lambasted officials and contractors behind failed flood control projects that crumbled during the onslaught of typhoons Crising, Dante, and Emong, and the seasonal deluge of the southwest monsoon. But a deeper reading of his rebuke raises a more troubling question: How did the very flagship of this administration—its proud infrastructure agenda—become a symbol of dysfunction and deceit?

Just last year, the President celebrated the acceleration of his Build Better More program, boasting of new expressways, bridges, ports, and drainage systems under what he called a “Golden Age of Infrastructure Continuity.” In fact, under his 2024 SONA, Marcos proudly declared that "public infrastructure has never been more ambitious and more essential."

Indeed, on paper, the investment has been enormous. The Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH) was allocated a record ₱894 billion for FY 2024, with ₱255.4 billion specifically earmarked for flood mitigation and drainage improvement programs. This represented a 10% increase from the 2023 budget, underscoring the administration’s emphasis on disaster preparedness in the age of climate volatility.

And yet, the storms came—and so did the floods.

Cracks in the Foundation: Audits and Anomalies

Marcos’ description of some flood projects as “imaginary” was not political hyperbole. A 2023 Commission on Audit (COA) report revealed that more than ₱12.4 billion worth of flood mitigation projects were either incomplete, defective, overpriced, or supported by insufficient documentation. The most alarming irregularities were found in Regions III, IV-A, NCR, and Western Visayas, all of which are high-risk flood zones.

In Central Luzon, COA flagged 28 projects where improper concrete mixtures were used—significantly reducing their lifespan and flood resistance. Some dikes were found to have walls only 60% as thick as originally specified. One embankment in Pampanga collapsed just six months after completion. In NCR, multiple drainage system upgrades were either unfinished or found to be non-functional, despite full disbursement of funds.

It’s worth noting that several of these projects were listed under “completed” status in DPWH’s official transparency portal.

Worse still, the 2024 midyear NDRRMC assessment reported that flash floods from June to July displaced over 322,000 residents, destroyed 6,400 homes, and caused ₱4.3 billion in damage to public infrastructure. In Eastern Visayas and Southern Tagalog, many barangays remained submerged for days due to collapsed dikes, silted canals, and non-operational pumping stations—all of which had been the subject of flood control budgets in the previous three years.

The Illusion of Delivery: Milking the Infrastructure Cow

The hard truth is that infrastructure—long romanticized as a legacy of nation-building—has also become one of the most notoriously corrupt sectors in Philippine governance. From padded contracts to ghost projects and rigged biddings, public works often serve as lucrative conduits for political patronage and bureaucratic enrichment.

Transparency International’s 2024 report placed the Philippines at 115th out of 180 countries in its Corruption Perceptions Index, noting particularly that “infrastructure and procurement remain high-risk sectors for graft.” Meanwhile, in a survey by Social Weather Stations (SWS) conducted in February 2025, 67% of respondents believed that “a significant portion” of infrastructure funds are lost to corruption.

The public suspicion is not unfounded. Whistleblowers within DPWH have previously cited “standard operating procedures” (SOPs)—an unofficial term for expected kickbacks—ranging from 10% to 30% of a project’s cost, usually distributed between engineers, regional directors, local executives, and their chosen contractors.

In 2022, former DPWH Secretary Rogelio Singson warned that unless the procurement process was reformed, “every kilometer of road and every meter of flood canal could become a milking cow.”

What happens then is an economy of half-baked edifices, where canals clog weeks after opening, pump stations falter in the first heavy rain, and retaining walls break under minor pressure—all while officials tout ribbon cuttings and billboard ceremonies.

A Political Paradox: Condemning the Very House You Built

The President's open criticism of failed flood control projects, while bold, also opens a contradiction. If these projects are indeed riddled with anomalies, then where does the buck stop?

After all, the Build Better More program is the crown jewel of the Marcos administration. The President himself has led groundbreaking ceremonies, inaugurated bridges, and posed beside flood barriers built under his watch. He took credit when these projects were launched—must he not also take responsibility when they fail?

In 2023 alone, over 4,800 infrastructure projects were tagged as “completed” on DPWH's online tracker. Yet site validations by civil society groups, such as the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism (PCIJ), reveal that many of these are either under construction, missing, or already damaged. A PCIJ study in late 2024 found that 1 in every 5 “completed” projects in flood-prone areas had major functional deficiencies within a year of completion.

So when the President says, “Let’s not pretend anymore,” the public might rightly ask: who was pretending—and for how long?

Marcos ordered the DPWH to submit a comprehensive list of all flood control projects initiated or completed in the last three years. He also instructed Regional Project Monitoring Committees to verify project completion, promising to release the full list to the public. If implemented rigorously and transparently, this could mark a turning point in government accountability.

But past efforts suggest caution. In 2019, a similar audit was ordered under the Duterte administration. The results were never made public.

As Marcos continues to double down on infrastructure as a legacy pillar, the challenge is no longer just about building more—it is about building with integrity. And unless systemic reforms are enacted—particularly in procurement, audit enforcement, and contractor vetting—the Philippines will continue to drown not just in rainwater, but in excuses dressed as public works.

The storms will come again. The question is whether the next floods will wash away homes—or finally, the old ways.

A Veto and a Warning: Power, Pork,

and the Specter of Bureaucrat Capitalism

In what may go down as one of the most combative lines of his fourth State of the Nation Address, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. warned Congress that he would veto the entire 2026 national budget if it is not aligned with his administration’s National Expenditure Program (NEP)—even at the cost of operating under a reenacted budget.

On paper, this declaration might appear as a principled stand against waste, inefficiency, and the chaotic practice of post-enactment budget realignments. But read in context, it reveals something deeper: a power struggle within the state itself. One between executive control and congressional clout, between national planning and local political survival—and more subtly, between technocratic planning and bureaucrat capitalism in its evolving Filipino form.

Realignment or Patronage? The Hidden Cost of “Insertions”

In 2024, a staggering ₱49 billion worth of budget realignments—commonly referred to as “congressional insertions”—made it into the General Appropriations Act, despite formal objections from the Department of Budget and Management (DBM). These insertions, often labeled “For Later Release,” allow lawmakers to earmark funds for pet projects or preferred contractors, frequently with little regard for national planning priorities.

In many cases, these funds are diverted to programs under local infrastructure, livelihood kits, or medical assistance, administered via local intermediaries or partner NGOs—many of which are linked to political backers or shell groups. In 2023, the COA flagged ₱2.7 billion worth of such congressional realignments as “high-risk” for fraud or redundancy.

While the President’s threat of a veto sends a strong signal, it also reveals that the palace may be struggling to assert authority over Congress’ growing grip on the budget process. Critics from the opposition and civil society have noted that despite the administration’s rhetoric on rational spending, Palace-approved budgets have continued to accommodate backroom deals, especially for key allies in the House and Senate.

Still, a case of Bureaucrat Capitalism 

The concept of bureaucrat capitalism—often used by Marxist-Leninist analysts in the Philippines—refers to how elected and appointed officials use the powers of the state to enrich themselves, their families, or their class allies. In the post-EDSA era, this has evolved not only through corruption in procurement and public works, but increasingly through strategic budget allocations, disguised under populist or developmental programs.

It is in this light that the President’s warning to Congress should be viewed. If the infrastructure sector is a “milking cow” for contractors and engineers, as he warned during his tirade on flood control, then the budget process itself is the field where these cows are fattened.

Notably, 62% of discretionary infrastructure funds in the 2024 national budget were classified as “congressional-introduced items” according to data from the Philippine Center for Policy Reform—meaning these were not included in the executive’s NEP submission but were later added during plenary deliberations. Many of these allocations—often less than ₱50 million each—go unnoticed but add up to billions that evade long-term planning frameworks.

The Lingering Memory of Confidential Funds

The President’s broadside against congressional manipulation also comes in the wake of one of the more contentious public debates over discretionary spending: the issue of confidential and intelligence funds (CIFs). Public outrage peaked in late 2023 and early 2024 when it was revealed that the Office of the Vice President received over ₱500 million in CIFs from off-budget sources, including transfers from the Office of the President and underutilized agency funds.

According to a 2024 Senate Committee Report, the OVP’s CIF usage lacked detailed liquidation and was used in part for “security operations and barangay-level network development”—a term that many critics said pointed not to external threats, but to political consolidation efforts.

The controversy spurred a COA special audit, which to this day has not been publicly released in full. Yet the damage was done: public trust in confidential fund use dropped to 19% according to an April 2024 Pulse Asia poll, and Congress was forced to amend CIF guidelines in the 2025 budget.

It is within this climate of distrust that the President now promises transparency and alignment in future budgets. But it remains to be seen whether that promise will be enforced across the board—or selectively wielded against political opponents while shielding favored allies.

The Risk of a Reenacted Budget: Who Gets Hurt?

While a presidential veto might appeal to the moral high ground, the implications of a reenacted budget are serious and far-reaching.

According to a 2025 IBON Foundation study, reenacted budgets lead to an average 15% slowdown in project implementation, particularly in infrastructure, education, and health—sectors that require new appropriations each year for upgrades, expansion, or continuity.

Under a reenacted budget, new road projects are delayed, school construction is frozen, and social protection programs (like 4Ps) receive only maintenance-level funding. This disproportionately affects provincial areas that rely on newly programmed budgets—while entrenched central offices in Metro Manila retain most of their baseline funding.

For example, the Department of Education had proposed the construction of 7,400 new classrooms in 2026, primarily in BARMM and rural Mindanao. If the 2025 budget is reenacted, only 35% of that plan can be implemented, based on existing Multi-Year Obligational Authorities (MYOAs).

What the people are seeing is more than just a technical budgeting issue. It is a political battlefield. The President’s threat to wield the veto pen is a bold assertion of executive discipline—but it also reveals the fragility of state coherence in the Philippines.

When both the legislative and executive branches are populated by patronage-driven elites, budget alignment becomes not just a matter of policy—but a contest of fiefdoms.

Unless the President backs up his warning with structural reforms—like full public transparency in budget negotiations, real-time release of budget dashboards, and the criminalization of “padrino-funded” ghost projects—the cycle will continue: pork rebranded as progress, and planning subordinated to politics.

The President may be correct in asserting his right to reject budgets that betray the national interest. But the Filipino people have long learned to be skeptical: it is not enough to say no to corruption—one must also say no to complicity.

And so the real question is not just whether the 2026 budget will be vetoed—but whether the veto itself will be used as a weapon of reform, or as another tool in the endless chessboard of bureaucrat capitalism.

Rice Cartels and Economic Sabotage:
When Promises Rot in the Sack

In one of the SONA’s most emotionally charged moments,  President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. thundered a declaration of war—not against an external threat, but against an internal enemy: rice cartels, hoarders, and price manipulators. He called their actions “economic sabotage,” a crime that, while not new to the Filipino vocabulary, now finds renewed political theater under his administration.

But behind the drama of this condemnation lies an uncomfortable truth: the President himself once campaigned on the populist promise of bringing down rice prices to ₱20 per kilo—a promise that, nearly three years into his term, is fast becoming either a cruel joke or an impossible dream, depending on who's been asked in the market.

The Numbers Don’t Lie—They Hurt

As of June 2025, rice inflation climbed to 11.1% year-on-year, according to the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA). While farmers continue to sell palay at ₱23.15 per kilo—a price that has barely moved since mid-2023—retail prices in Metro Manila, Central Luzon, and parts of Western Visayas have breached ₱60 per kilo, more than double the President's campaign promise.

In wet markets in Quezon City, San Jose del Monte, and Iloilo City, regular milled rice now sells between ₱52 to ₱58, with premium varieties reaching as high as ₱66 to ₱70, according to Bantay Bigas and verified by DA market monitoring bulletins.

In contrast, government subsidy efforts such as Kadiwa stores only provide limited relief—serving less than 4% of the total rice-buying public, based on Department of Agriculture (DA) distribution data as of May 2025. These short-lived market interventions are easily overwhelmed by commercial players who dominate the wholesale and retail chains.

Import Dependency and the Rice Tariffication Backfire

The Rice Tariffication Law (RTL) of 2019 was sold to the public with two primary promises: stabilized prices through import liberalization, and improved productivity through the Rice Competitiveness Enhancement Fund (RCEF).

Six years later, both promises are under fire. According to PSA and DA data, the Philippines is now importing 20.5% of its national rice supply, up from 13% in 2018. The bulk of imports comes from Vietnam and Thailand, often with prices fluctuating due to global market shocks, logistics costs, and exchange rate volatility.

Worse, a 2024 study by the Federation of Free Farmers (FFF) revealed that less than 60% of the ₱10 billion RCEF reaches smallholder farmers in the form of tangible support—whether in farm machinery, seeds, or training. Many barangay-level cooperatives tasked with distribution report delays in delivery, missing allocations, or poor coordination with local government units.

Thus, while imported rice is supposed to bring down market prices, it also crowds out locally produced rice, depressing farmgate prices and disincentivizing domestic production. This contradictory cycle not only undermines food security—it destroys food sovereignty, a term increasingly used by peasant groups and food justice advocates.

Cartelization and the Politics of Hoarding

In July 2025, Bantay Bigas and Agriwatch PH released a joint investigation showing that several rice warehouses in Bulacan, Isabela, and Nueva Ecija—the so-called “rice triangle”—were directly linked to corporate entities with political backers, many of whom are repeat beneficiaries of National Food Authority (NFA) import permits and transportation subsidies.

Some of these warehouses were found to be storing massive volumes of imported rice even during harvest season—leading to an artificial oversupply on paper and undervaluing of palay in practice. Despite anti-hoarding laws, enforcement has been lax. Only six hoarding-related cases have led to prosecution since 2022, and none have yet resulted in conviction.

According to former Agriculture Undersecretary Fermin Adriano, the rice trade in the Philippines is controlled by no more than 15 major players, each with vertically integrated control of importation, warehousing, milling, and retail distribution. “They are too big to regulate and too well-connected to punish,” Adriano said in a recent forum.

Wasted Harvests and the Collapse of Farmgate Confidence

The tragedy does not end with rice.

In April and May 2025, tons of cabbage, tomatoes, and carrots were dumped in the mountains of Benguet and Nueva Vizcaya—left to rot because no traders or middlemen arrived to buy them. Farmers had overproduced, relying on last year’s seasonal cycle. But with no coordinated marketing support or buyer matching by the DA, their produce became trash instead of food.

The same occurred in Bukidnon and South Cotabato, where white corn and green onions were sold at ₱3–5 per kilo, despite costing ₱10 or more to grow. Without sufficient cold storage, logistics, or price stabilization mechanisms, farmers suffer while urban consumers still pay high prices.

Even the President’s Kadiwa centers can only do so much. Of the over 1,200 Kadiwa outlets launched since 2022, only about 300 remain regularly operational, according to a COA audit of the Office of the President's Special Programs Unit in early 2025. Most lack consistent supply chains, budget continuity, or coordination with farmer cooperatives.

Food Security vs. Food Sovereignty

This all begs the question: if the administration claims to be committed to food security, why are these systemic failures not just persisting—but worsening?

Food security is often defined in technocratic terms: calories available, supply chains maintained, price thresholds met. But food sovereignty—the idea that Filipinos should control the means and logic of their own food systems—goes deeper. It demands accountability from government, transparency from traders, and above all, justice for producers.

And if there’s anything this rice crisis reveals, it’s that sovereignty has long been surrendered to bureaucratic opportunism, oligarchic middlemen, and policy paralysis.

Three years ago, Marcos Jr. told voters that ₱20 rice was within reach. What they have received instead are ₱60 per kilo price tags, rotting vegetables, and a rice sector dominated by cartels with political shields.

The war he declared at the SONA is justified—but unless followed by massive enforcement, institutional reforms, and redistribution of market access, it will be just another headline.

If Marcos truly wants to fulfill his mandate, he must move beyond slogans. Because for the farmers whose hands sow the grain, and for the families scraping their last peso in the palengke, the real enemy isn’t just economic sabotage. It’s a system that rewards greed and punishes labor—and it’s been winning for far too long.

The Power Crisis: Siquijor as Microcosm

Siquijor’s persistent brownouts, lasting up to 14 hours a day in June, were used as a symbol of systemic failure in energy governance. The President blamed expired permits, broken equipment, and poor procurement, and vowed normal service by year-end.

The Energy Regulatory Commission (ERC) confirmed in a July audit that 63% of small island grids across the country are operating with over-aged or unlicensed generators, and at least eight provinces report monthly outages exceeding 60 hours.

Marcos has directed the Department of Energy (DOE) and National Electrification Administration (NEA) to intervene—but analysts warn that the country’s power reliability, measured by the System Average Interruption Duration Index (SAIDI), remains one of the worst in ASEAN at 11.4 hours per customer per year. Compare that to 0.6 hours in Singapore and 2.4 in Thailand.

Agencies on Notice: A Bureaucracy in a Hot Seat

In one of the more pointed portions of President Marcos Jr.’s address, he zeroed in on the inefficiencies of frontline agencies—chief among them the Land Transportation Office (LTO) and the Technical Education and Skills Development Authority (TESDA)—demanding an end to long-standing backlogs and bureaucratic sluggishness that have come to symbolize public frustration with government services.

The LTO’s License Plate Debacle: A Crisis of Credibility

The President’s order for the LTO to clear all backlogs and release motor vehicle registrations within three working days is not new in intent—but it is striking in tone. It reflects a growing exasperation over an issue that has refused to go away despite billions of pesos in appropriations and repeated promises from agency leadership.

According to the Department of Transportation’s Q2 2025 Performance Audit, the LTO currently has a backlog of 2.1 million license plates, and over 600,000 unprocessed vehicle registration renewals as of June 2025. These delays are not merely an inconvenience—they have direct legal and financial consequences for motorists, many of whom face penalties or roadside apprehensions despite having fulfilled their obligations to the government.

Much of the bottleneck stems from the Plate Making Plant (PMP), inaugurated in 2018, which was supposed to solve the backlog. Yet reports indicate that the plant is operating at only 63% of its intended capacity due to outdated machinery and procurement inefficiencies.

In 2023, the Commission on Audit (COA) flagged the LTO for ₱1.2 billion worth of undelivered plates despite full payment to contractors. Furthermore, a Senate Blue Ribbon Committee hearing in February 2024 revealed systemic mismanagement in supply chain contracts, including multiple instances of non-competitive bidding and expired memoranda of agreement with local manufacturers.

Public patience is wearing thin. A recent SWS survey from April 2025 showed that 78% of Filipinos had a "dissatisfied" or "very dissatisfied" experience with LTO services, particularly in urban centers like Metro Manila, Davao, and Cebu.

TESDA and the Misalignment of Technical Education

The President also called upon TESDA to do more than offer vocational programs—he urged the agency to actively promote technical education to Filipino parents, framing it as a viable, dignified alternative to four-year college degrees. This pivot reflects a wider recognition of the mismatch between academic output and labor market demand.

Currently, TESDA operates over 4,000 training institutions nationwide, yet utilization rates hover at just 52%, according to its own 2024 Year-End Report. Enrollment in critical sectors such as construction, manufacturing, and agri-mechanics remains low, even though these sectors have high job absorption rates and growing foreign employer demand.

In a May 2025 roundtable hosted by the Department of Labor and Employment (DOLE), several business groups—including the Philippine Constructors Association and Electronics Industry Association—flagged the “oversupply of business administration graduates” and the “undersupply of NC-certified technical workers.”

TESDA's budget for 2025 was increased to ₱21.4 billion, but stakeholders say the agency still lacks the media presence, marketing tools, and grassroots penetration to convince families—especially in rural and lower-middle-class communities—that vocational training leads to stable employment. A DepEd survey in early 2025 showed that 62% of parents still believe a four-year college degree is the only path to “upward mobility,” indicating persistent stigma around blue-collar professions.

What makes the President’s directive notable is its explicit timeline and tone of finality—signaling that delays, inefficiencies, and excuses will no longer be tolerated. Yet it also signals an urgent need for internal reform and leadership overhaul within these agencies.

Both the LTO and TESDA have the mandates, the funding, and now—clearly—the political backing. What remains to be seen is whether they have the competence, discipline, and urgency to match the President’s rhetoric with results.

If they do not, the public’s frustration may soon evolve into active resistance—not just to the agencies in question, but to the administration that shields them.

The Power Crisis: Siquijor as Microcosm of a National Breakdown

Siquijor, long mythologized as an island of mystics and moonlight, now finds itself in the headlines for something far more earthly: darkness of a literal kind. In June 2025, residents endured daily brownouts lasting up to 14 hours. Schools were forced to cancel classes, small businesses operated by candlelight, and households rationed electricity like wartime essentials.

In his speech, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. pointed to the Siquijor crisis as a symbol of systemic failure in Philippine energy governance. He cited expired permits, broken generation sets, and flawed procurement systems, pledging normal service by the end of the year.

But Siquijor is not an anomaly—it is a symptom of a nationwide energy disorder.

A Grid in Crisis

According to a July 2025 audit by the Energy Regulatory Commission (ERC), 63% of small island grids in the Philippines operate with over-aged or unlicensed generator sets. These aging power sources fail to meet both environmental and operational standards, resulting in frequent outages, high operating costs, and unreliable service.

At least eight provinces, including Palawan, Marinduque, Batanes, Camiguin, Basilan, Masbate, Dinagat Islands, and Siquijor, report monthly power interruptions exceeding 60 hours, or the equivalent of 2.5 days per month without electricity.

In a country striving for middle-income status, such figures would be embarrassing. For the Philippines, they are a reminder that its energy infrastructure remains rooted in 20th-century stopgap measures: diesel generators, isolated microgrids, and government subsidies that often go unpaid.

SAIDI: One of the Worst in ASEAN

The System Average Interruption Duration Index (SAIDI)—an international benchmark for power reliability—measures the average outage duration per customer annually. As of 2024, the Philippines clocks in at 11.4 hours per year, placing it among the worst in Southeast Asia.

To put this in perspective:

• Singapore: 0.6 hours
• Thailand: 2.4 hours
• Vietnam: 3.1 hours
• Malaysia: 1.5 hours
• Philippines: 11.4 hours

Even Metro Manila, which draws its power from the country’s most stable grid, experiences localized brownouts during peak summer months due to thin reserves and underinvestment in baseload capacity. In Mindanao and the Visayas, outages are so frequent that diesel generators are considered essential appliances by middle-income households.

The NGCP Conundrum

The President's speech notably avoided a deeper discussion on national grid governance—particularly the long-running controversy surrounding the National Grid Corporation of the Philippines (NGCP).

The NGCP, which operates the country’s transmission network, remains 60% privately owned, with 40% of that stake held by the State Grid Corporation of China (SGCC). This has raised sovereignty and cybersecurity concerns since the arrangement was inked in 2009.

As early as 2020, former Energy Secretary Alfonso Cusi warned of a “national security risk” if NGCP remained under indirect foreign control. The same concern was echoed by the National Security Council in 2023, citing delays in grid modernization projects and the risk of sabotage during geopolitical tension.

In May 2024, the Senate Energy Committee uncovered that 17 out of 32 NGCP grid reinforcement projects had missed deadlines, while the company posted ₱24 billion in net income in the same year. Critics argue that NGCP prioritizes profits over grid resilience, reinvesting less than 40% of its revenue into infrastructure—well below the global average for transmission utilities.

Institutional Disconnect and Regulatory Gaps

President Marcos has directed the Department of Energy (DOE) and the National Electrification Administration (NEA) to "intervene" in areas with persistent outages, but analysts argue that the problem lies beyond intervention—it requires structural reform.

For example: The Electric Power Industry Reform Act (EPIRA) of 2001 broke up the vertically integrated monopoly of the National Power Corporation, but it also created regulatory gaps where no single agency has full control over generation, transmission, and distribution.

While DOE sets policy, NEA regulates cooperatives, and NGCP runs the grid, coordination is poor, and accountability is fragmented.

Even the missionary electrification subsidy, which funds electricity in remote areas, is under threat. Unpaid debts to small island power providers now total over ₱1.3 billion, according to a 2025 DOE report. Without prompt payment, these companies either shut down or pass on the cost to already burdened consumers.

The Renewable Mirage?

Much has been said about transitioning to renewable energy. Indeed, the Philippines boasts over 500,000 megawatts of potential renewable energy capacity, including geothermal, hydro, solar, and wind. Yet, as of June 2025, only 22% of the national energy mix is renewable, with coal still dominating at 43%.

While the DOE has launched the Green Energy Auction Program (GEAP) to fast-track solar and wind investments, grid congestion and interconnection delays continue to hamper progress. In Mindoro and Samar, for instance, new solar farms cannot export electricity due to outdated substations and overloaded transmission lines.

A 2024 World Bank report noted that it takes an average of 4–5 years to fully operationalize a renewable energy project in the Philippines, compared to 2 years in Vietnam and 18 months in Malaysia. The bureaucracy, not the sunlight, is the obstacle.

Political Power, Electric Power

At the heart of the crisis is a deep politicization of the energy sector. The President’s pledge to fix Siquijor by year-end is welcome—but solving Siquijor’s blackout is like replacing a bulb in a collapsing house.

Real reform requires:

• A national energy sovereignty policy that reclaims grid ownership from foreign interests;
• A rationalized, publicly transparent investment plan for island grids and renewables;
• And enforcement teeth for ERC and DOE, who too often issue warnings without consequences.

Until then, the flicker of electricity in Siquijor and other islands will remain symbolic—not of hope—but of a nation still fumbling in the dark.

Because in the end, electricity is not just about power. It is about governance, equity, and national dignity. And if our leaders cannot keep the lights on, perhaps it is time we ask whether they still deserve to hold the switch.

Performance vs. Perception:
A Democracy of Surveys or Survival?

When Marcos took the podium with confidence, citing economic figures meant to reassure a weary public: inflation has cooled to 3.1%, unemployment hovers at 4.0%, and 2.5 million households have been newly connected to the power grid since 2022. He pointed to "real wins"—from intensified drug enforcement to long-delayed Dalian train carriages finally running the tracks of Metro Manila.

On paper, the numbers signal momentum. But on the streets, in the markets, in the provinces, the applause is faint.

A July 2025 Pulse Asia survey reflects the divide: while 39% approve of the President’s performance, 47% of respondents said they "personally feel no change" in their quality of life since 2022. Another 21% said their lives have worsened. These are not statistical margins. They are lived realities.

And it raises a deeper question: Is this still democracy—or demographcy?

The Age of Quantified Consent

For decades, surveys like those by Pulse Asia and Social Weather Stations (SWS) have become political barometers. Approval ratings are now more than public sentiment—they are political capital, used by governments to justify decisions and used by critics to question mandates.

But when survey metrics become substitutes for community engagement, democracy becomes demographcy: a system that governs based on respondent counts, not lived consensus.

Consider this:

• While unemployment is officially at 4.0%, underemployment remains at 12.7%, with most informal workers earning below ₱350/day—far from the family living wage of ₱1,160/day as calculated by IBON Foundation.
• Official inflation may sit below 3.2%, but rice, fuel, transport, and tuition fees—the core of household expenses—have all surged well beyond this index.
• The much-hailed Dalian trains may run now, but Metro Manila’s commuters still face average wait times of 35–50 minutes per ride, according to the DOTr's own 2024 Transit Efficiency Report.

As an observer at the Ateneo Policy Center noted, “The macro is improving—but the micro remains neglected.” That is, GDP is rising, but people’s stomachs, time, and dignity remain under strain.

The Illusion of Connection

When the President claims 2.5 million households were "energized," that statement should spark applause. But what’s left unsaid is that many of these connections are partial or intermittent, especially in off-grid or island communities. The DOE’s 2024 Electrification Compliance Report shows that 31% of new connections still experience more than 60 hours of monthly outages.

Meanwhile, sari-sari store owners in Tondo, farmers in Pangasinan, and teachers in Masbate still ask: "What use is electricity if the power's out when I need to cook or charge a phone?"

Likewise, the promise of infrastructure—the great political fix-all of the Build, Better, More program—is met with skepticism. Skyways and airports rise, but urban congestion persists, housing remains out of reach, and mass transit outside Metro Manila is near non-existent.

Beyond the Numbers: The Political Disconnect

Analysts point out that the government’s metrics often speak to boardrooms and donors, not barangays. The language of kilometers of road built, jobs created, inflation controlled—while important—does not always translate to what families feel:

• That food is still expensive,
• That hospitals remain overcrowded,
• That jobs don’t pay enough to raise a family.

It is in this context that survey skepticism emerges. As one community organizer in Quezon City remarked: "Democracy now feels like something that happens between survey cycles. Not in the streets, not in the barangay halls."

And indeed, this overreliance on polling metrics, often limited to 1,200 respondents, starts to look less like participatory governance and more like corporate-style consumer sampling—a far cry from genuine political accountability.

Whereas democracy is the rule of the people, demographcy is the rule of their averaged opinions, weighted, rounded off, and aggregated. The danger is clear: when leaders prioritize perception over lived experience, they govern polls, not people.

The President may indeed be presiding over real economic upticks. But policy is not perception, and governance is not just managing figures—it’s nurturing trust.

The public is no longer asking for miracle GDP growth. They are asking for tangible relief—affordable food, accessible transport, jobs that pay, and lives that matter.

Until such needs are visibly addressed, even the best surveys may only reflect a shallow consensus, not a shared future.

Because the real approval rating cannot be found on paper.

It is in the mood of the market.

In the silence of the worker.

In the sighs of a classroom.

And in the conviction of a community, still waiting to be heard.

A Rhetorical Shift—But Is It Too Late?

The SONA’s dominant theme—accountability—marked a departure from Marcos Jr.’s earlier conciliatory tone. But political observers say that tone alone may not be enough to reverse midterm disillusionment.

The warnings delivered at the Batasang Pambansa were forceful. But for many Filipinos still ankle-deep in floodwater or stuck in blackout darkness, warnings are no longer sufficient. They need results.

Marcos Jr. has three years left to prove his administration can do more than diagnose the problems. It must now deliver the cures—or risk going down in the books as yet another government that knew what was wrong, but couldn’t—or wouldn’t—fix it.