A Marhaen resurgent: when protest and righteous anger in Indonesia meant more than saying Enough

A Marhaen resurgent:

when protest and righteous anger in Indonesia

meant more than saying Enough 

The roar of Indonesia’s streets recently echoes a century-old question: who truly rules this republic—the elite or the marhaen? 

The recent protests—sparked by lawmakers awarding themselves 50 million rupiah in monthly housing allowances while the average Jakartan scrapes by on a tenth of that—have been described as riots, chaos, even treason. Yet, what millions witnessed across the archipelago was not mere disorder, but the awakening of Sukarno’s forgotten spirit: Marhaenism, the philosophy that once promised to anchor the nation in the dignity of its ordinary people. 

As the streets of Jakarta and countless cities across Indonesia are burning with anger. Videos of smashed glass, barricades, and armored police vehicles are easy to dismiss as “chaos.” But to reduce the current wave of protests to mere anarchy is to miss the deeper truth: this is not the tantrum of a mob. This is righteous rage, long restrained by the false promises of “order” and “sobriety,” now uncontainable. 

What Sparked the Fire? 

The spark was as scandalous as it was symbolic. Lawmakers quietly secured a housing allowance of 50 million rupiah—nearly $3,000 per month—while the average worker in Jakarta survives on a minimum wage barely a tenth of that. In a country grappling with job losses, austerity cuts, and soaring taxes, this revelation was not just tone-deaf—it was gasoline on dry grass. 

• Over 42,000 factory jobs have disappeared this year.
• Property and land taxes in regions like Java have spiked up to 400–1,000%.
• Cuts in education and healthcare are hitting families hardest, while welfare programs are often poorly targeted. 

For ordinary Indonesians, the message was unmistakable: sacrifice is for the people, perks are for the elite. 

The Marhaen Forgotten 

Years ago, Sukarno met Marhaen, a poor farmer near Bandung, and saw in him the face of Indonesia’s masses—exploited, silenced, yet brimming with dignity. Marhaenism was meant to be the nation’s foundation: sovereignty for the smallholder, justice for the worker, freedom for the poor. 

But recent events would say that the marhaen has been betrayed—not only by elites but by the very system that once claimed to liberate him. The tragic death of 21-year-old Affan Kurniawan, a ride-hailing driver crushed by a police armored vehicle, crystallized this betrayal. Affan was the modern marhaen: precarious, struggling, expendable. His blood on the asphalt became the people’s rallying cry, a brutal reminder that the state often protects its privileges before its people. 

The Numbers Behind the Rage 

(and trying to save an unjust order from a just chaos) 

The scale of the unrest speaks for itself:

• 6–8 dead, more than 469 injured, and over 3,000 arrested.
• Regional parliaments and government buildings torched.
• Tens of thousands taking to the streets in places like Pati Regency, where land-tax hikes reached 250%. 

President Prabowo Subianto has since rolled back the perks, canceled foreign trips, and promised investigations. Yet at the same time, his administration branded some protesters as “rioters,” “treasonous,” or even “terrorists.” Worse, there are fencesitters who, assuming themselves as Critics—particularly from abroad or from the comfort of air-conditioned boardrooms—warn that such unrest will “hurt the economy, scare off investors, damage tourism, and weaken democracy.” 

But let’s be honest: what democracy? One where lawmakers quietly enrich themselves while the majority struggles? One where a gig worker is crushed under the wheels of state machinery? They cry "due process" and "rule of law" as these protesters loot the houses of solons who chose to be aloof over the people's plight- the question is, does these critics really spoke on behalf of these marhaens whose calls as just? Or they are reacting simply because these marhaens gone "violent" after a vehicle ran after a struggling worker? 

The fact is this: the marhaens have sought that scene, anf thus rejected such hypocrisy. It insisted that the measure of a nation was not the comfort of the elite but the dignity of its farmers, workers, and poor. 

More than “Mob Rule” 

To call this “mob rule” is to ignore history. Revolutions, uprisings, and movements for dignity are always messy, always disruptive. But disruption is often the only language left when the state refuses to listen. Indonesia’s protesters are not clamoring for anarchy; they are demanding dignity, accountability, and fairness in a system that has denied them all three. 

If anything is barbaric, it is not the rage of the people—it is the arrogance of elites who loot public wealth and then hide behind the fragile veneer of “order.” Indonesia’s unrest is more than a flash of anger. It is a call to rediscover the moral spine of Marhaenism. This does not mean blind nostalgia or authoritarian appropriation of Sukarno’s image. It means reviving the spirit of justice and equality that gave Indonesia its soul: 

• Re-centering policy on the ordinary citizen, not investors or oligarchs.
• Rejecting austerity that punishes the poor while shielding the powerful.
• Demanding accountability when state violence spills the blood of workers. 

They don't want the scenario that benefited the elites using the veneer of "new order" and its sanitized version of "pancasila" after the tragic events of 30th September. They want to take back nationalism and people's welfare back from those who pretend to be as such- that the marhaen's action is more than just a flash of anger. It is a call to rediscover the moral spine of Marhaenism. This does not mean blind nostalgia or authoritarian appropriation of Sukarno’s image. It means reviving the spirit of justice and equality that gave Indonesia its soul. 

The People’s Verdict 

If the elites continue to ignore this cry, the marhaen will not remain patient. For when oppression deepens, rebellion is no longer a threat—it is a promise. 

Perhaps that is what these protests truly signify: not chaos, but a resurgent Marhaenism, demanding once again that Indonesia belong to its people, not its parasites. 

Torre’s Removal as PNP Chief: A Reformer’s Fall or a Political Purge?

Torre’s Removal as PNP Chief: A Reformer’s Fall or a Political Purge? 

In a move that sparked outrage before the dust could settle, General Nicolas Torre III, the reform-driven Philippine National Police (PNP) chief, was sacked after just three months in office. No laws were broken, no scandals exposed—just a curt order, “effective immediately.” To the public, it wasn’t accountability; it was the system silencing a leader who dared to challenge the status quo. In the Philippines of 2025, people didn’t want another authoritarian cop. They wanted a good one. For a fleeting moment, they thought Torre was it. 

A Clash of Authority

Interior Secretary Jonvic Remulla, also the National Police Commission (Napolcom) commissioner, had grown frustrated with Torre’s bold personnel reshuffles. Napolcom’s Resolution 2025-0531 reminded everyone of its authority, stating it “has the power to review, approve, reverse or modify” the PNP chief’s decisions. Remulla downplayed the conflict, telling the press: “There is no sanction. The Napolcom has not taken any sanctions as a body, nor has it been discussed, nor has it been filed. This is a personal decision of the President.”

Yet his tone betrayed personal grievance. Remulla admitted to calling Torre five times that night and several more the next morning—calls Torre ignored. For Remulla, this wasn’t just rudeness; it was defiance.

Torre, however, dismissed the issue as an “administrative matter” to be handled privately. At an August 18 flag-raising at Camp Crame, he introduced his successor, Gen. Banac, and brushed off the spat: “No order, no obstacle, and no challenge can break our unity and our commitment to the nation,” he told officers—a subtle jab at Napolcom widely noted by observers.

Even amid the rift, Torre retained strong support within the PNP. Directors of the PNP’s 18 regional offices signed a manifesto backing Torre and the chain of command, pointedly omitting mention of Napolcom’s directive.

Why Remove a Reformer?

To the public, Torre wasn’t the problem. He was no saint, but in a system plagued by what one local called “asshole pigs,” he represented a rare chance at reform. His refusal to play by the bureaucracy’s rules earned him enemies in Malacañang but won him admiration on the streets.

In his brief tenure since replacing Gen. Marbil on June 2, Torre pushed aggressive reforms: a five-minute response rule for Metro Manila patrols, the dismissal of 19 officers for misconduct, and the removal of eight police chiefs for poor performance. These moves made him a target but also a hero to those craving a cleaner PNP.

Mamamayang Liberal Partylist representative Leila de Lima captured the public’s frustration: “What’s happening?! They better have a good reason in doing that to a very popular, much appreciated and high-performing PNP Chief!”

Torre’s ousting backfired, sparking sympathy rather than compliance. Many saw it as retaliation tied to the Dutertes. Torre had dared to arrest their patriarch, and his removal reeked of revenge dressed as policy. Social media buzzed with Duterte supporters praising the decision, claiming the PNP was “better” under “Digong,” when unrestrained tactics—bereft of due process—were dubbed “efficient.” But at what cost? The war on drugs targeted the poor, red-tagging and harassment silenced dissent, and bigwigs escaped scrutiny until media and activists exposed the rot.

Atty. Wilfredo Garrido didn’t mince words: “The dumbest firing ever. That Marcos Jr. did as told is the dumbest decision ever. This is not going to sit well with the PNP, least of all the public.” He added, “If anyone is to be fired, it should be his detractors who wanted his head. They are all replaceable. Torre comes along only once in a long while, like Halley’s comet. What a shabby way to treat a hero, who has less than a year into his retirement. He is not corrupt. He is not abusive. He is not a threat to anybody in power.”

Netizens echoed the sentiment. One wrote, “Why General Torre? He has been a high-performing, a very popular, much appreciated and high-performing PNP Chief. Why not the officials involved in alleged anomalies in flood control be the ones removed not General Torre.” Another alleged, “There was an insertion of 8B procurement for 5.56cal which General Torre refuse to sign thus prompted DILG Sec to relieve him.” A third called it a “diversionary tactic to kill the issue of massive looting of flood control projects funds & irregular 2024 & 2025 national budget.”

Cracks in the Administration?

Torre’s removal exposed deeper fissures. Lawmakers pounced. Deputy Minority Leader Antonio Tinio declared: “The continuous rigodon and quarrels within the PNP prove the deepening rifts inside the Marcos administration. Rival factions are scrambling for power amid massive corruption, collapsing public services, and worsening poverty.”

Kabataan’s Renee Louise Co was more direct: “This is the classic behavior of authoritarian governments — rival elites battling for control while the people suffer. Swapping chiefs won’t fix the PNP’s rot as an instrument of oppression.”

For the opposition, this wasn’t about discipline but a government eating its own to protect entrenched interests. The public’s demand for reform—tackling corrupt cops, scalawags, and the lack of due process—clashed with a system prioritizing control over efficiency.

A Golden Parachute or a Dead End?

For reality's sake, Torre’s removal feels raw, especially amid swirling controversies: corruption allegations against Sara Duterte, flood control project scandals, and tensions over the West Philippine Sea. His ousting seems less about reform and more about political maneuvering.

Malacañang hinted at a new role for Torre, but questions linger: Is it a position befitting his record, or just a golden parachute to quiet the uproar? Legal barriers may limit his options, but the public’s trust in him remains unshaken. In a system crying for reform, Torre’s exit isn’t just a loss—it’s a warning of how quickly change can be stifled. 

Echoes of Valor in a Time of Crisis: On National Heroes Day in a time of scandals

Echoes of Valor in a Time of Crisis:

On National Heroes Day in a time of scandals

On this National Heroes Day, the Philippines finds itself once more in conversation with its own soul. Across monuments, plazas, and schoolyards, the names of Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Apolinario Mabini, Emilio Aguinaldo, Gabriela Silang, and countless others are intoned like sacred verses. Yet their deeds are more than carved letters in stone; they are flames carried forward by generations, reminders that this archipelago’s history was built not by resignation but by resistance. 

It was Lapulapu on the shores of Mactan who first showed that defiance was possible—that even the sharp steel of empire could be met with courage. Centuries later, Bonifacio would raise the banner of Katipunan, Rizal would wield his pen like a weapon, and Luna would marshal both genius and fury for a nation yet unborn. Each name, each sacrifice, forms part of a long river of struggle that flows into the present. 

What that suggests 

Heroism in the Philippine story has always been a response to a moment. In the 16th century, it was the rejection of conquest. In the 19th, it was the demand for dignity and freedom. In the 20th and to the current, it became the fight against occupation, dictatorship, and betrayal. Heroes rose not because they sought titles but because the times required them to stand. 

And as the note of this day reminds that, this oresent setting too are a time of testing: of democracy’s fragility, of economic strain, of lingering shadows of authoritarianism. What the nation's ancestors carried in bolos, rifles, and manifestos, modern Filipinos must carry in service, compassion, and integrity. 

The risks and the rhythm of history 

There is always the danger of treating heroes as distant icons. Marble statues do not bleed, nor do portraits starve. But the men and women they represent once did. They chose discomfort over safety, sacrifice over silence. The nation risks dishonoring them when it forgets that the very same choices confront every generation: The farmer who rises before dawn to feed millions. The nurse who leaves for distant shores to sustain her family. The teacher who walks rivers and hills to reach her students. The worker who resists exploitation with quiet dignity. 

These are not romantic images—they are the living substance of heroism. It is not surprising that the government, with its leaders would praise them for their heroic acts, rehashing statements enough to rally the people especially when they're being sureounded by scandals and crisis unaddressed: Sara Duterte have looked back the examples of names like Rizal or Sultan Kudarat yet can't escape from the issues involving confidential funds and her calls for bloodbath; so is Marcos who spoke about sacrifice yet struggling to address the pressing issues people insist to focus upon to- corruption, subservience to interests, social injustice, and others that hinder the march of development the Philippines has to traverse. 

The task of the present 

The Philippines cannot afford to relegate heroism to the pages of textbooks or the cadence of flag ceremonies. If history is to breathe, it must do so through present acts of courage and unity. The nation’s heroes remind Filipinos that patriotism is not a costume for parades but a daily discipline: rejecting corruption, defending the powerless, building bridges where division festers. 

The true test lies not in remembering what Rizal or Bonifacio did, but in answering whether today’s citizens are ready to act with the same fire in their own sphere of life. 

In this moment of remembrance, the Philippines discovers a truth both unsettling and empowering: heroes are not relics. They are not trapped in 1521, 1896, 1942, 1972, or 1986 and any other years. They live whenever an ordinary Filipino decides to lift others above themselves, if not having the will to die for others. 

National Heroes Day is, therefore, not a holiday about the past but a mirror of the present. And in that mirror, the nation is called to see its own reflection—not as a passive spectator, but as a potential hero waiting for the summons of its time.  

Caffeine Against the Night: When Cafés Become Dancefloors

Caffeine Against the Night: When Cafés Become Dancefloors

For a writer who stumbled into one of these gatherings, the coffee rave was first an oddity, then a revelation. He sat with his drink, notebook open, music pulsing in the background. At first, he watched. Then, he dared himself to move, to let the rhythm tug at his body while caffeine kept his mind sharp. What struck him was not spectacle but reprieve. 

This was no nightclub excess, no blur of alcohol and morning-after regret. The coffee rave carried an intimacy that nightlife often forgets. It promised something unusual: energy without intoxication, community without pretense. Here was a break from both monotony and hedonism, a chance to rediscover the simple joy of music and movement. 

At first, it seemed almost laughably niche. Cafés doubling as dancefloors? People writing on laptops while basslines throbbed? But the longer he stayed, the more it felt coherent. The rave was not escape but engagement. An untapped community craving connection, rhythm, and release in a healthier way. 

Memory Turned Into Movement 

To call it a “normal scene” would be misleading as the music carries memory. And whar unfolded in those cafés transformed memory into motion. The beat itself carried echoes of earlier eras. RnB, UK garage, Afrobeats, disco, tech house—genres once confined to nightclubs now surged beneath café lights. The effect was uncanny, a throwback to the pre-pandemic, even pre-millennium, when strangers moved together without irony. Here, in the be it daylight or evening, those rhythms turned coffeehouses into dancefloors, proving that the essentials of joy—sound, company, movement—never required alcohol or mere darkness. 

Not surprised if this can be followed by vaporwave tracks like Come Home Amado, industrial pulses, or the darkwave undercurrents of Nachtmahr and Puanteur de Charnier. Some came to dance, others to create- such as a few who may possibly treated the space like a hybrid co-working session—typing notes over an iced latte or matcha while their feet tapped along. 

The curators understood the balance: “The music has to invite, not overwhelm.” Energy built slowly, syncing with the crowd’s collective pulse. It wasn’t spectacle imposed on an audience. It was conversation—between sound and bodies, between presence and memory. 

Against the Sneer 

And yet, not everyone understood. Outsiders mocked. One friend of the writer shrugged, saying only the “sad” or “frustrated” would waste their time here. How come? Just because it is as same as a usual rave party with all the beats and "fun" around? Don't think so. 

For that sneer missed the point. The coffee rave was not about drowning sorrow—it was about clarity. Not about losing the self—it was about finding the self. 

It was at this point, watching the crowd sway to a garage remix while thoughts end scribbled into the notebook, that the thought crystallized: That the coffee rave is not simply a party. It is a revolt. 

The Embedded Manifesto 

Against hangovers. Against the tyranny of alcohol. Against nights lost to regret. 

In this revolt, no one is poisoned. No one is enslaved to the bottle. They are awake, eyes open, dancing with caffeine in their veins and words in their heads. Some even write manifestos as the bassline shakes the floor. 

This is not weakness. It is strength. To dance without intoxication. To connect without masks. To belong without flex. 

The café rave is not darkness. It is light. It is communion. It is clarity given rhythm. 

Call it small, laugh at its oddness. But from small cafés come great movements. From the beat of one track comes the march of many. From the bitter taste of coffee comes the sweetest revolution. 

This is not escape. This is resistance. 

The Regretless Beat 

For the writer, the discovery was simple yet profound. In an age of overstimulation and routine escapism, here was a space where people gathered to move, breathe, and create—without shame, without regret. 

True that there are those who criticise such events that provide breakthrough- but, since a nightclub might chase excess, the coffee rave insisted on balance. Where the usual party encouraged forgetting, this one allowed remembering. And where other scenes relied on the flex of who drank more, dressed louder, or stayed later, this one rested simply on shared experience—the pulse of music, the taste of coffee, the possibility of finding the self, if only for a song or two. 

Not spectacle, but presence. Not intoxication, but connection. Not mere darkness, but clarity. 

The coffee rave is still new, still fragile, still finding its shape. But as its devotees already know, the beat does not have to be loud to be revolutionary. Sometimes it only has to be heard.  

Unity, Memory, and the Lessons of Ninoy Aquino Day

Unity, Memory, and the Lessons of Ninoy Aquino Day

President Ferdinand R. Marcos Jr., in his message for Ninoy Aquino Day, urged Filipinos to draw lessons from history as a guide for leadership and citizenship. He underscored the values of peace and unity, describing the observance as a chapter in the nation’s shared story that “continues to echo across generations and public memory.”

The President reflected that the passage of time has given Filipinos “greater clarity and deeper perspective” in looking back on Aquino’s legacy. He stressed that commemoration achieves meaning only when the lessons of the past are translated into moral architecture, sound governance, and leadership “shaped by the enduring imperative to choose peace above quarrel, and dignity beyond differences.”

But beneath the rhetoric of reconciliation lies a more troubling contradiction. Marcos spoke of wholeness, sobriety, and foresight, yet his words are delivered at a time when many communities remain besieged by militarization and rights violations. While history, as he said, offers “continuing instruction,” the government today risks repeating the very patterns of suppression that defined the past it seeks to commemorate.

August is also marked as the month of International Humanitarian Law (IHL), the body of rules meant to protect civilians during armed conflicts. Central to IHL are the principles of distinction, proportionality, and protection of non-combatants. These principles were created precisely to prevent atrocities—bombings of villages, arbitrary arrests, torture, forced surrenders, and the weaponization of civilians as guides or human shields. Yet reports across the country tell of civilians falsely branded as combatants, of women and even infants taken as hostages to coerce surrenders, of ordinary people killed and then labeled “terrorists” to sanitize the crime.

The irony is striking. Ninoy Aquino himself was once vilified and silenced by the state, dismissed as a destabilizer, only to be remembered today as a symbol of democratic struggle. His death ignited the 1986 People Power "Revolution"—a moment when Filipinos rejected authoritarianism and reclaimed dignity. To invoke his legacy while pursuing policies that trample upon human rights and popular dissent is to hollow out the very meaning of his sacrifice.

The government’s language of “unity” and “local peace” often masks a relentless campaign of gradual constriction. Communities are militarized, livelihoods strangled, dissenters criminalized, and critics tagged as enemies of the state. In the name of “preventing resurgence” of insurgency, the state risks branding anyone who asserts truth, justice, and social change as a threat to order. This is unity enforced not by consensus but by coercion.

Even the developmental promises cited—projects for health, education, and social services—ring hollow when basic demands remain unmet. Workers continue to press for living wages. Farmers still clamor for genuine land reform. Communities call for dignity, livelihood, and the right to organize without fear. These are not extremist demands; they are the foundations of a just society. Yet they remain overshadowed by political consolidation and subservience to foreign dictates in the spheres of economy, policy, and national security.

If Ninoy Aquino Day is to mean more than ritual remembrance, then it must challenge the nation to see beyond official speeches. It must call leaders to recognize that history is not only about reconciliation with the past, but reckoning with the injustices of the present. To honor Ninoy is to honor the people’s continuing struggle for freedom, justice, and equality.

Unity cannot be built on silencing dissent. Peace cannot be achieved by militarizing communities nor oppressing people because of their aspirations. And commemoration cannot be genuine if the lessons of history are invoked only to serve power, rather than to transform it.

True statecraft begins not with hollow declarations, but with courage to listen to the people’s demands, humility to correct historical wrongs, and resolve to pursue a peace grounded in justice. Only then will history’s continuing instruction bear fruit—not as empty rhetoric, but as living transformation for the generations to come.

The Flood Control Fiasco: Ghost Projects, Ghost Accountability?

The Flood Control Fiasco: Ghost Projects, Ghost Accountability?

Flood control, once a solemn promise of government to its people, has become the latest symbol of public works gone astray. In Bulacan, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s inspection of the P96.4-million Rehabilitation of the River Protection Structure in Calumpit exposed what many residents had long feared: substandard construction, shallow dredging, and half-hearted work presented as complete. 

The President, visibly angered, demanded answers from St. Timothy Construction Corporation, the contractor behind the project. Marcos noted that Bulacan has the highest number of flood control projects in the country—668 in all—yet families still wade through rising waters. He directed scuba divers to inspect the supposed protections, even as local residents wrote to Malacañang alleging weak materials had been used. “What excuse do they have for not doing this?” he asked. His words captured the frustration of a public long accustomed to promises without delivery. 

Governor Daniel Fernando echoed this dismay. He admitted that some projects had been implemented without the provincial government’s review or even knowledge. Shocked by what the President himself saw, the governor announced an executive order requiring all flood control works in Bulacan to undergo provincial scrutiny. Fernando emphasized that several structures had already been declared “completed” despite their obvious flaws, vowing legal action against those responsible. 

Beyond Bulacan, the problem appears systemic. Baguio City Mayor Benjamin Magalong described bidding for flood control projects as “luto”—rigged. He alleged that district engineers, chosen by politicians, act as de facto contractors, handling everything from planning and design to awarding and implementation. According to Magalong, their true role is not merely technical oversight but also the delivery of political payoffs. 

Such allegations sharpen public suspicion. It was earlier revealed that 20 percent of the P545-billion flood control budget was awarded to only 15 contractors, among them St. Timothy. Past controversies involving incomplete roads, overpriced laptops, and questionable incorporators tied to these firms only deepen doubts about whether the people’s money has been hijacked by vested interests. 

Senator JV Ejercito has warned of a “special place in hell” for those who profit from ghost projects while ordinary Filipinos suffer from floods. For his part, Public Works Secretary Manny Bonoan acknowledged ongoing irregularities and said district engineers were already being rotated, citing a three-year reassignment policy meant to prevent entrenched collusion. Yet rotation alone may not be enough to cure what many see as systemic rot. 

The implications go beyond contracts. Floods do not yield to ceremonies or paper compliance. They demand defenses that work—dikes that hold, cement that lasts, waterways cleared of obstruction. When projects collapse, it is not contractors or engineers who pay the price, but the families left submerged in murky waters. 

The unfolding controversy is more than an indictment of one company or one province. It raises a broader question: whether public works in the Philippines still serve the public, or whether they have been reduced to private schemes dressed up as infrastructure. 

The people deserve protection, not deception. Unless accountability is enforced and reforms pursued, the billions spent on “flood control” may continue to vanish like so much rainwater—swallowed by corruption, leaving only the floods behind.  

Youth, Justice, and the Cost of Machismo: Why Criminalizing Ten-Year-Olds is a Folly Robin Padilla Forgot

Youth, Justice, and the Cost of Machismo: 

Why Criminalizing Ten-Year-Olds is a Folly Robin Padilla Forgot

In recent months, a controversial proposal has ignited public debate: lowering the age of criminal liability to ten years old. At the forefront of this push is Senator Robin Padilla, a figure whose own past brushes with the law are well-known. While many see this as a call for discipline, it raises profound questions about justice, youth development, and the responsibilities of society to guide its youngest members. Before applauding or condemning such a measure, it is worth examining the man advocating for it—and the lessons his own life might offer about second chances, privilege, and the very purpose of the law.

In 1994, Robin Padilla was twenty-five years old when the Regional Trial Court convicted him for possession of high-powered firearms, a crime carrying a maximum sentence of twenty-one years. By 1997, public lobbying, media attention, and legal advocacy led to an amendment of the law—now known as the “Robin Padilla Law”—and a conditional pardon from President Ramos, commuting his sentence after only four years. Raised in relative privilege and already twenty-three when he committed his offenses, Padilla benefited from interventions that countless other youths, born into poverty or violence, are never afforded. 

It is therefore jarring, if not outright hypocritical, that Padilla now pushes to lower the age of criminal liability to ten years old. He, of all people, knows that young people sometimes make poor choices, but it is precisely during this formative stage that guidance, opportunity, and rehabilitation are most critical. Punishing children—many of whom grow up in squalor or under abuse—is not justice; it is a double punishment: first by circumstance, then by the law. 

Padilla’s perception seems narrow, rooted in a brand of machismo that mirrors his political ally, Dela Rosa, who openly claims that “hazing creates warriors.” Lowering the age of criminal liability in the name of discipline reflects a mindset that forgets the essential principles of nurturing, education, and moral guidance. Worse, it risks casting children as part of a prison-industrial complex reminiscent of earlier eras, when agencies like the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology were bluntly known as the “Bureau of Prisons.” This is not discipline—it is institutionalized punishment. 

If granted that Padilla’s idea is adopted, so be it—but society must also invest in a deeper understanding of human behavior. Schools and communities should cultivate knowledge in psychology and behavioral science to guide the youth properly. Children must be made aware of the consequences of actions and provided with the proper moral, emotional, and intellectual guidance. 

Greater attention must be paid to mental health, behavioral patterns, and the early signs of character or psychological disorders that, if unaddressed, may drive individuals toward crime. In a world growing ever more complex and progressive, young minds are exposed to knowledge and influences without sufficient guidance or direction. It is therefore imperative that government officials, academics, and parents alike gain literacy in behavioral science, to identify and address hidden risks before they develop into criminal behavior. 

The proposed law, however well-intentioned, focuses on punishing the symptom rather than curing the disease. Syndicates exploit children, yet the response should be to target the exploiters, not the exploited. Lowering the criminal age is like bailing water from a flood without turning off the tap: the problem persists while innocent lives are needlessly burdened. 

Robin Padilla’s own story demonstrates the value of intervention, support, and second chances. If society truly wants to break the cycle of crime, it must treat children as potential, not criminals-in-waiting. Give them guidance, education, and hope. Do not make them prisoners of a system that has already failed them.  

Blind Loyalty, Fractured Governance: The Failure of ‘Whateverism’ in the Marcos Era

Blind Loyalty, Fractured Governance: 

The Failure of ‘Whateverism’ in the Marcos Era

Recent analyses and news reports have painted a vivid picture of the unraveling of the so-called “Uniteam,” the political alliance between Ferdinand Marcos Jr. and Sara Duterte, which defined the early years of the Marcos administration in the Philippines. This coalition, initially heralded as a formidable partnership built on the momentum of the 2022 elections, was underpinned by a peculiar phenomenon described by political observers as “whateverist” loyalty. This mindset, characterized by an unwavering commitment to uphold and follow the policies and directives of former President Rodrigo Duterte—regardless of their merit, morality, or consequences—shaped the motivations of a significant portion of the Marcos–Duterte voter base. Supporters of the tandem, particularly those loyal to Duterte, embraced a resolute allegiance to his legacy, often dismissing or downplaying the controversies, abuses, and systemic failures that marked his administration. This “whateverist” impulse, cloaked in populist rhetoric and promises of continuity, ultimately proved to be a shallow and inadequate substitute for substantive governance, failing to address the public’s growing demands for justice, transparency, and accountability. 

The “whateverist” loyalty was not merely a passive endorsement of Duterte’s policies but a deliberate choice by many supporters to prioritize political fidelity over critical scrutiny. Duterte’s presidency (2016–2022) was defined by polarizing policies, including a brutal war on drugs that led to thousands of extrajudicial killings, a foreign policy pivot toward China that raised concerns about national sovereignty, and the opaque handling of public funds, including the controversial use of confidential and intelligence funds. Despite these issues, Duterte’s populist charisma and his image as a strong, decisive leader cultivated a loyal base that viewed his approach as a necessary antidote to the perceived elitism and inefficiency of prior administrations. When Marcos Jr., running alongside Sara Duterte, campaigned on a platform of continuity, promising to build on Duterte’s legacy, this resonated deeply with voters who saw in the Uniteam a continuation of the “Dutertist” revolution. However, this loyalty was less about ideological alignment and more about a reflexive, almost dogmatic adherence to Duterte’s persona and directives, regardless of their practical or ethical implications. 

This “whateverist” stance provided a form of political comfort—a kind of “copium,” as critics have termed it—for those unwilling or unable to grapple with the unresolved issues of the Duterte era. Human rights violations, including the deaths of thousands in the drug war, remained largely unaddressed, with the International Criminal Court’s (ICC) investigation into these killings facing resistance from Philippine authorities. Arbitrary detentions, red-tagging of activists, and attacks on press freedom persisted as lingering stains on the nation’s democratic fabric. Controversial foreign policy decisions, such as the pivot toward China at the expense of traditional alliances like the United States, raised questions about long-term national interests. Additionally, allegations of corruption, including the misuse of public funds and the protection of politically connected figures, continued to erode public trust. Yet, the rhetoric of “resolute upholding” and “unswerving following” of Duterte’s policies was offered as a panacea, a way to maintain the illusion of stability and progress without confronting these uncomfortable truths.

The fragility of this approach became increasingly evident as the Marcos–Duterte alliance began to fracture in the early years of the administration, with public cracks emerging as early as 2024. What was once portrayed as a monolithic partnership, unified under the banner of Dutertism, revealed itself to be a coalition of convenience, built on fragile compromises rather than shared principles. High-profile cabinet disputes, often centered on policy disagreements or competing political agendas, exposed deep rifts within the administration. Legislative gridlock stalled key reforms, as allies of Marcos and Duterte clashed over priorities, further undermining the narrative of unity. Resignations of key officials, some citing irreconcilable differences with the administration’s direction, became public spectacles that highlighted the instability of the Uniteam. These events underscored a critical flaw in the “whateverist” approach: loyalty to a predecessor’s legacy, without a clear and principled vision for the future, could not sustain a functional governing coalition.

The failure of this approach was perhaps most starkly illustrated in the administration’s handling of major controversies, particularly those inherited from the Duterte era. The Philippine Offshore Gaming Operations (POGOs), widely criticized for their links to organized crime, human trafficking, and money laundering, became a lightning rod for public discontent. Investigations into POGOs revealed systemic failures in regulation and enforcement, with allegations that powerful political figures had shielded these operations from scrutiny. Similarly, the use of confidential and intelligence funds—large, discretionary budgets with minimal oversight—came under intense scrutiny, as reports surfaced of mismanagement and potential abuse. These controversies, rather than being addressed with transparency and accountability, were often met with deflections or justifications rooted in the “whateverist” defense of Duterte’s policies. This uncritical adherence to the past did not deliver the promised order or efficiency but instead served to protect entrenched interests and perpetuate a culture of impunity.

Public sentiment, as reflected in polling data and civic activism, began to shift in response to these failures. By 2024, surveys indicated growing disillusionment with the Marcos administration’s inability to move beyond symbolic gestures of continuity. Ordinary Filipinos, particularly those outside the hardcore Dutertist base, expressed frustration with the lack of meaningful reforms. They demanded greater transparency in governance, stronger protections for human rights, and concrete action against corruption. Grassroots movements and civil society organizations became increasingly vocal, calling for accountability for past abuses and a clear break from the divisive tactics of the Duterte era. Yet, the “whateverist” posture of the administration and its supporters encouraged conformity over dialogue, stifling dissent and framing criticism as disloyalty to the Uniteam’s vision. This approach turned the rhetoric of unity into a tool for preserving political advantage rather than fostering genuine societal cohesion.

The broader implications of this dynamic were profound. The early years of the Marcos administration revealed a central tension in Philippine politics: continuity for its own sake, particularly when tied to a polarizing figure like Duterte, was insufficient to meet the needs of a democratic society. Real unity, as scholars and activists argued, required more than rhetorical pledges or loyalty to a predecessor’s legacy. It demanded a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, including the human cost of Duterte’s policies and the systemic weaknesses they exposed. It required correcting past mistakes, whether through legal accountability for human rights violations or robust reforms to prevent corruption. Above all, it necessitated prioritizing the public interest over factional loyalty or political expediency.

The “whateverist” approach, however, offered none of these. Instead, it provided a façade—a superficial reassurance that comforted loyalists while leaving the nation’s deeper divisions unaddressed. This political copium may have temporarily sustained the Marcos–Duterte alliance, but it came at the cost of eroding public trust and exacerbating governance challenges. As the administration moved forward, it faced a critical choice: to continue clinging to the illusion of unity through blind loyalty to the past, or to embrace a more inclusive, transparent, and accountable approach to governance that could truly unify the nation. The early evidence suggested that the former path was not only unsustainable but also detrimental to the democratic aspirations of the Filipino people. Only by reckoning with the failures of “whateverism” could the administration hope to build a legacy that transcended the shadows of its predecessor.  

"Stimulant Hedonism?" or "Sober Fun?": Thoughts after the Coffee Rave at Cafe 32nd St.

"Stimulant Hedonism?" or "Sober Fun?": 

Thoughts after the Coffee Rave at Cafe 32nd St.

The recent coffee rave at Cafe 32nd St., hosted by the Caffeine Club, has sparked a fascinating conversation about the intersection of social rituals, sensory experiences, and personal expression. For those who participated, the experience transcended a simple love for coffee, good company, or even the music itself. Instead, it was about the unique synergy created when these elements collided, offering a new kind of space for creativity and connection. 

The usual association of coffee, tea, or cocoa with quiet mornings, focused work, and peaceful contemplation is deeply ingrained in everyday culture. It is a beverage of solitude and productivity, a gentle ritual to ease into the day. The coffee rave, however, turns this on its head. It is a playful, almost rebellious act of subversion, taking a substance known for its contemplative qualities and infusing it with the high-octane energy of house, techno, or trance music. This blending of the mundane and the euphoric creates a chaotic yet captivating remix of daily rituals. The caffeine kick, instead of powering a quiet work session, fuels a collective jive on the dance floor, blurring the lines between a morning pick-me-up and a midday or evening party.

For those who are both dedicated coffee drinkers and avid listeners of electronic music, this fusion feels less like a novelty and more like a natural evolution. It is a "stimulant hedonism" that offers an alternative to the traditional nightlife scene. Swapping alcohol-induced hangovers for the jittery comedown of a caffeine high may not sound ideal to everyone, but it speaks to a desire for a different kind of thrill. It is about seeking out an alternative comfort, a space where the warmth of a perfectly brewed Americano or the creamy embrace of a latte can coexist with the pulsating beats of a DJ. This combination offers a unique kind of diversion, a way to chase a high without the debilitating after-effects of alcohol, all while celebrating two beloved passions simultaneously.

The appeal of the coffee rave is rooted in its ability to satisfy a deeply human need for connection and stimulation. In an increasingly digital and isolated world, these events provide a tangible, shared experience. The collective energy of a group of people, all fueled by caffeine and moving to the same rhythm, creates a powerful sense of camaraderie. It is a space where strangers can bond over a shared love for a good brew and a killer beat. The music, a universal language in its own right, becomes a catalyst for connection, while the coffee serves as a social lubricant, facilitating conversations and fostering a sense of community. This dynamic is a powerful draw for those who are seeking genuine, in-person interactions that go beyond the superficial.

Of course, this innovative concept is not without its critics. Some may dismiss the idea as absurd, a misguided attempt to "fix" something that isn't broken. They might cling to the usual view of a coffee shop as a sanctuary of quiet reflection and a rave as a space exclusively for alcohol-fueled revelry. However, for those who embrace the "sober curious" movement and the idea that "sober is the new drunk," these critiques are easily dismissed. The coffee rave isn't about replacing alcohol; it's about creating a new choice. It's about offering a space where you can have your own kind of fun, with an espresso machine humming in the background instead of a bar shaker, and a DJ spinning house tracks instead of a jukebox playing top 40 hits. The heckling from others doesn't matter because the core participants have found something they truly crave: a unique blend of energy, community, and creative expression that feels both exhilarating and familiar. Or to keep it honest: coffee raves is no different from the endless debates and poetry nights inside the coffeeshop! 

In the end, the coffee rave at Cafe 32nd St. was more than just a party; it was a testament to the evolving nature of social gatherings and the human desire to constantly innovate and find new ways to connect. It was a space where the rich aroma of coffee mingled with the vibrant sounds of electronic music, creating a multisensory experience that stimulated not just the body, but the imagination. It proved that sometimes, the most profound experiences are found in the unexpected collision of two seemingly disparate worlds.  

The Mirage of Unity: Marcos, Duterte, and the Fractured Promise of Continuity

The Mirage of Unity: Marcos, Duterte, 

and the Fractured Promise of Continuity

When Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. ascended to the presidency in 2022, his first and greatest pledge to the people was not a program of reform, not a plan of reconstruction, not a break with the injustices of the past. It was a vow to freeze the past in place.

“We will resolutely uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made,

and unswervingly follow whatever instructions Duterte gave.”

This phrase was not improvised; it was a line tempered and polished in the forges of campaign calculation. It was uttered by ministers and surrogates as if it were scripture, a declaration so unambiguous that even the dullest political operative could repeat it without error.

It was, in essence, an insurance policy. For Duterte’s loyalists in the police, the military, the bureaucracy, and in Congress, it guaranteed immunity: there would be no reckoning for the dead of the drug war, no scrutiny of contracts signed in haste or in darkness, no dismantling of the machinery of coercion built over six years. For the inner circle of Duterte’s rule, it promised that the hand of the state would remain their shield.

This was the cunning of the slogan: in a country where each administration traditionally tramples the legacy of its predecessor, “continuity” was dressed up as the highest virtue. It was sold as stability — no sudden changes in foreign policy, no interruption of the so-called “war on drugs,” no pause in the cement and steel of Duterte-era infrastructure.

But in its very construction, the slogan carried its fatal flaw. It rested on the assumption that unity could be manufactured not through the people’s will, not through democratic consensus, but through the embalming of a single leader’s choices. It mistook the political corpse of the previous administration for the living body of the nation.

And history does not lie still. To attempt to halt it is to invite rupture. The Marcos camp imagined they had built a bridge to the future; in truth, they had built a dam, and behind it the waters of change were already rising.

Foreign Policy: From Apparent Inheritance

to Complete Reorientation

In the early years of his presidency, Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. appeared poised to carry forward Duterte’s pro-China tilt. Yet within months, he unveiled a decisive pivot that reversed several pillars of his predecessor’s foreign policy—particularly in defense and alliance-building.

• EDCA Expansion: Four New Bases Added

Marcos approved four new Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA) sites in April 2023, supplementing the original five bases agreed in 2016. The new locations—Balabac Island (Palawan), Camp Melchor Dela Cruz (Isabela), Lal-lo Airport (Cagayan), and Naval Base Camilo Osias (Santa Ana, Cagayan)—significantly enhanced U.S. access across northern Luzon and the western flank of the Philippines.

• Joint Military Exercises Surge

The annual Balikatan (shoulder-to-shoulder) exercises under Marcos swelled dramatically—from roughly 5,100 U.S. and 3,800 Filipino troops in 2022, to over 17,600 participants in 2023, including contingents from Japan and Australia. Moreover, Marcos elevated the total joint exercises from approximately 300 in 2022 to 500 in 2023.

• “Full Battle Test” Drills and Missile Deployments

By April 2025, Balikatan evolved into its first “full battle test”—complete with simulated missile strikes, island-defence war games, and operations in the Taiwan Strait and South China Sea. This included deploying U.S. anti-ship missiles in the Luzon Strait and integrating Japanese and Australian forces for the first time in live drills.

• Deepening Security Agreements 

Marcos also revisited long-standing defense frameworks. In 2023, he endorsed updates to the 1951 Mutual Defense Treaty, ensuring non-military provocations (e.g., attacks on Philippine Coast Guard vessels) would still trigger U.S. defense commitments. Additionally, the U.S. and the Philippines signed the General Security of Military Information Agreement, enabling secure intelligence sharing and arms cooperation—covering missile systems and satellite surveillance—highlighting the growing sophistication of their military partnership.

This reorientation marked a clear break from Duterte’s era of strategic balancing. While Duterte downplayed the 2016 arbitral ruling and favored closer ties with Beijing, Marcos:

• Reinvigorated U.S. military presence via EDCA expansion;
• Multiplied joint military exercises—both in scale and complexity;
• Activated “full battle test” drills to stress-test operational readiness;
• Enhanced intelligence-sharing frameworks and treaty protections. 

For Duterte loyalists, Marcos’s moves appeared to violate the early pledge to “uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made.” For critics, they demonstrated that blanket “continuity” was impossible in a rapidly changing geopolitical environment.

Even in the economy,  Marcos himself had to continue vassalage towards the United States, such as recently when President Donald Trump said he and Marcos Jr. of the Philippines have reached a trade agreement: that calls for 19% tariffs on goods the US imports from the two countries, paid by American businesses, while American goods shipped there won’t be charged a tariff. But come to think- while increasing tariffs on Philippine exports from 17 to 19 percent, Marcos disingenuously foisted on the Filipino people as a “significant achievement” in bilateral relations with the country’s “strongest, closest, most reliable ally.” What does this mean? turning the Philippines into a “dumping ground” for American products, as in exchange for the one percent point reduction on the tariffs for Philippine products entering the US, while some US products that will be exported to the Philippines will have zero tariffs?

So much for that ironclad relationship that's obviously a vassalage, like how Duterte tried to the Chinese while maintaining existing agreements with the Americans. Duterte's pivot to China is all but vassalage using unequal agreements. Otherwise, his foreign policy is an apathetic one: don't interfere with domestic matters (particularly human rights, war on drugs, among others of controversial nature) and stick to economic ones even it meant unequal and compradore in character. 

The Fracture of the Covenant:

From Pact to Political Civil War?

The Marcos–Duterte alliance, hailed in 2022 as the “Unity Ticket,” was never a genuine fusion of forces. It was a temporary truce between rival warlords of the political oligarchy, each commanding their own regional base, patronage network, and loyal bureaucracy. Its sole unifying aim was victory in the presidential race and the mutual guarantee of survival afterward.

From the first day of the new administration, the seeds of rupture were already sown. Marcos, backed by the northern and Ilocano machinery, occupied the apex of the state. Sara Duterte, commanding the southern Mindanao base and the loyalty of much of the national police and key military figures, stood as the indispensable junior partner. But the logic of Philippine politics is ruthless: once the prize is secured, the allies of yesterday become the obstacles of tomorrow.

By mid-2024, the split was no longer theoretical. The spark came with Vice President Sara Duterte’s resignation from her cabinet positions, delivered under the antiseptic phrase “differences in governance priorities.” It was, in truth, a declaration of political independence—an unmistakable refusal to be bound by the President’s authority.

From there, the façade collapsed with remarkable speed:

• Legislative paralysis — Coordination between the two camps in Congress disintegrated. Committees stalled; bills died without a vote; joint priorities vanished from the agenda.
• Fragmented party machinery — Operatives loyal to each camp blocked the projects of the other, diverted funds, and used local offices to undermine rival initiatives.
• Information warfare — Social media surrogates, once united in chorus, now sang dueling anthems, trading accusations of betrayal, corruption, and incompetence.

By early 2025, the “Unity Ticket” had transformed into a cold civil war within the ruling bloc. Public sniping replaced private negotiation. The once-formidable campaign machine split into two rival electoral armies, each quietly forging alliances in anticipation of the next presidential contest.

The breach, far from healing with time, deepened into a structural schism. No longer a mere clash of personalities, it became a contest between two political dynasties for control over the commanding heights of the state. Each sought to seize the organs of security, the levers of budgetary power, and the loyalty of the local government network.

By the start of 2025, local party operatives aligned with either camp actively obstructed each other’s initiatives, while national legislation became mired in partisan obstruction. Grassroots organizers complained of mixed messaging and dwindling resources, even as social media surrogates amplified the feud daily. What began as a controlled rift escalated into a sustained political cold war.

The events of 2024–2025 have proven a lesson written countless times in the history of bourgeois politics: alliances forged for office cannot withstand the strain of governance. Without a common program, without shared principles, they dissolve at the first serious test, leaving behind not unity but mutual sabotage.

Here the mirage stands exposed: what was promised to the nation as stability was nothing more than a ceasefire between oligarchic clans—a ceasefire that ended the moment one side moved to consolidate power at the expense of the other. Today, both camps are entrenched, trading jabs in public forums while the “unity” brand of 2022 survives only as a cautionary tale in Philippine politics—a reminder that expediency in alliance is purchased at the cost of eventual mistrust and open warfare.

Rights, Freedoms, and the Continuation of Old Patterns

Civil society organizations noted that in several respects, the old order had not changed at all. Reports of attacks on activists, harassment of journalists, and pressure on independent institutions persisted well into the early months of Marcos’s term, echoing the Duterte era’s hardline law-and-order ethos. For many, the atmosphere felt less like a fresh start and more like an unbroken continuum of repression.

During his campaign and in early statements as president, Marcos had said he would “uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made,” a remark that—while intended by his team as a gesture of continuity—landed heavily with human rights advocates. To victims’ families and survivors of past abuses, it was not a reassurance but a warning: that the same culture of impunity that flourished under Duterte would remain untouched under his successor.

Advocacy groups pointed out that without accountability for extrajudicial killings, arbitrary arrests, and the intimidation of political dissenters, no amount of rhetorical unity could close the nation’s wounds. The past was not just lingering—it was being normalized. “We are being told to move on,” one rights worker said, “but the killings, the harassment, the fear—these are not things you just move on from.”

Observers also noted a subtle but significant difference in style. Unlike Duterte, whose bluntness and public tirades left no doubt about his stance, Marcos adopted a softer, more calculated tone. He downplayed the controversial legacy of his predecessor while signaling no intention of reversing it. The promise to maintain “whatever” Duterte had put in place became a political balancing act—appeasing the former president’s base while avoiding overt rhetoric that might alienate foreign allies or revive scrutiny of ongoing International Criminal Court (ICC) investigations.

That balancing act, however, did not change the underlying reality. For victims’ families, the ICC’s move to arrest and prosecute Duterte for alleged crimes against humanity was a rare glimmer of justice in an otherwise stagnant field. Yet even here, Marcos’s cautious language and deliberate avoidance of confronting the ICC matter head-on raised doubts about whether his administration would cooperate—or whether it would quietly shield Duterte under the banner of national sovereignty.

In the eyes of critics, the issue of human rights in the Philippines had not entered a new chapter at all. Rather, it was a continuation of the same script, with a different lead actor. The vocabulary was gentler, the stagecraft more polished, but the machinery of state power—the one that could be used to silence, intimidate, and erase—remained firmly in place.

And so, as the months passed, many Filipinos wondered if the country had truly moved forward, or if it was simply learning to live with an unchanging truth: that promises of unity meant little without justice, and that “whatever” policy decisions of the past could also mean “whatever” consequences for those who dared to challenge them.

Corruption, Dynasty, and the Eclipse of Governance

Let the record stand: the promise of continuity quickly proved to be a smokescreen for the preservation—not the reform—of a political order suffocated by patronage, impunity, and dynastic ambition. Beneath the fine phrases about unity lay the real meaning of “continuity” in the Philippine context: the uninterrupted rule of entrenched families, the unbroken protection of corrupt allies, and the unchallenged operation of the state’s coercive machinery.

This was not stability in the service of the people. It was stability in the service of the ruling class.

• The Vice President on Trial — Literally 

By December 2024, the second highest office in the land was under siege. Vice President Sara Duterte faced a barrage of impeachment complaints, each more damning than the last: graft, misuse of confidential funds, betrayal of public trust, and even allegations of plotting the assassination of President Marcos Jr. What began as scattered grievances in the House of Representatives quickly gathered momentum, uniting lawmakers from Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao in a rare, if temporary, alignment of political will.

By February 2025, this wave of accusations culminated in a formal impeachment vote in the House—a remarkable moment in Philippine politics where the legislative branch moved against a sitting vice president from the ruling coalition itself.

Yet the unity against Duterte was fleeting. Once the case reached the Senate, procedural delays—framed as adherence to due process—effectively froze the proceedings. This stalling was more than a calendar game; it was a calculation. The longer the trial was delayed, the greater the opportunity for backroom negotiation, media spin, and political realignment.

In July 2025, the Supreme Court delivered the decisive intervention, declaring the impeachment complaint unconstitutional. It was a legal reprieve that did not absolve Sara Duterte of wrongdoing, but it robbed the impeachment process of its teeth. In the public eye, she emerged not exonerated, but re-energized—proof that in a dynastic system, defeat in one arena often signals a counterattack in another.

• Rodrigo Duterte’s Arrest — and the Family’s Enduring Grip 

If the vice president’s survival was an example of elite impunity, her father’s continued influence was an even starker one. Former President Rodrigo Duterte, detained in The Hague under International Criminal Court charges for crimes against humanity, should have been politically finished. Instead, he used his detention as a political stage.

In the 2025 midterms, Duterte ran for—and won—the mayorship of Davao City from abroad. His son took the vice mayoralty, ensuring that the family’s control over their southern stronghold remained unbroken.

Nor was the Duterte network confined to Davao. In the Senate, loyalists like Christopher “Bong” Go and Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa secured top positions, proving that the dynasty’s reach extended from the jail cells of The Hague to the legislative halls of Manila. Here, “continuity” revealed itself for what it was: not a commitment to policy, but a guarantee that power, once accumulated by a family, would not be surrendered—no matter the venue, no matter the charges.

• A Nation of Dynasties, Not a Democracy 

The 2025 elections made plain what political scientists had long warned: the Philippines remains less a representative democracy than a confederation of family fiefdoms. Of the 253 congressional districts, 216 were held by members of political dynasties. These clans rule like private kingdoms, passing seats from parent to child, sibling to sibling, cousin to cousin.

This reality makes constitutional prohibitions against dynasties not merely ineffective, but openly mocked. The ruling class sustains itself through the rotation of surnames, not the rotation of policies.

In 2024, the so-called People’s Initiative movement for constitutional change was exposed as yet another instrument of oligarchic engineering. Villagers were reportedly paid between ₱100 and ₱10,000 to sign petitions—petitions organized not by genuine grassroots advocates, but by political brokers with deep ties to both ruling camps. “Unity” here meant unity of method: whether in Marcos territory or Duterte country, the cash-for-signatures tactic was the same.

• Budget Battles as Political Theatre 

The 2025 national budget became a battlefield not for the allocation of resources, but for the performance of power. Civil society leaders labeled it “the most corrupt in history,” condemning cuts to health and education while pork and patronage projects flourished.

One flagship initiative, the “Ayuda para sa Kapos ang Kita” (AKAP) program, was ostensibly a social assistance scheme for low-income households. In practice, critics argued, it functioned as a vote-buying mechanism—its rollouts conveniently timed with political campaigns, its beneficiaries often selected through partisan channels. Lawmakers close to Speaker Martin Romualdez were accused of weaponizing AKAP to secure loyalty in local constituencies, proving that in the patronage state, even welfare is a political weapon.

• Structural Decay in Civic Space 

The same state that could mobilize billions for patronage aid was relentless in using its coercive apparatus against dissent. Since 2024, terrorism financing charges—often without credible basis—against civil society actors have skyrocketed from 14 to 66 cases. Human rights defenders were red-tagged; NGOs saw their bank accounts frozen.

Laws designed to combat terrorism were thus transformed into tools of political policing. In a grim irony, while the state struggled to dismantle criminal syndicates embedded in local governments, it showed ruthless efficiency in dismantling the capacity of activists and watchdog groups to operate.

Even public service delivery itself became hostage to the Marcos–Duterte feud. Political scientists warned that the distribution of cash aid and essential services was being weaponized by both camps to mobilize electoral support. In this climate, a citizen’s access to relief could depend less on need than on which faction’s colors flew in their barangay.

Under Marcos Jr., unity meant the preservation of the power structures of the past—shielding political families, shielding corrupt actors, and preserving coercive state mechanisms. It meant that dynastic immunity remained the operating principle of governance.

Yet the scandals of 2024–2025 show that continuity built on privilege is a lie. When the marionettes of “unity” begin to pull their strings in different directions, the façade collapses, and the machinery of shared domination is laid bare for all to see.

In such a system, reform is not a policy disagreement—it is an existential threat. And when unity is bought, enforced, and hereditary, the legitimacy of the state becomes a hollow echo, incapable of commanding true loyalty from the people.

The Collapse of the Continuity Myth

What began as a campaign promise of “continuity” and “unity” quickly unraveled into a political arrangement more concerned with preserving the legacy and power networks of the past than addressing the needs of the present. On paper, the incoming leadership vowed to maintain stability, honor previous achievements, and ensure a smooth transition. In practice, it became a tightrope act—appeasing entrenched allies while navigating a growing tide of public dissatisfaction.

The so-called unity project was never a cohesive vision. Instead, it was a patchwork of competing loyalties and backroom understandings, where policy direction was often dictated by what would keep fragile alliances intact. Reforms were watered down or shelved entirely if they risked upsetting key power brokers. “Continuity” became a coded assurance to the old guard: the same rules, the same privileges, the same protection from accountability.

This arrangement also demanded a peculiar kind of public messaging—carefully staged speeches, symbolic gestures, and a refusal to directly address glaring contradictions. When pressed about unresolved scandals or unmet promises, the answer was often reduced to the dismissive shrug of “whatever keeps the peace.” It was unity, but only in the shallow sense of everyone avoiding open conflict while quietly protecting their own interests.

Over time, the cost of this arrangement became clear. Economic inequities widened, corruption persisted, and the justice system remained selectively applied. The rhetoric of harmony masked a political stalemate, where decision-making was paralyzed by fear of alienating any faction of the old order.

The nation found itself trapped between two incompatible realities: the ceremonial performance of loyalty to a bygone administration, and the urgent demands of a public hungry for genuine change. By clinging to a corrupted version of unity, the administration not only risked alienating its own base—it steadily eroded the legitimacy of the state itself, undermining the very development, justice, and peace it claimed to champion.

Unity vs. Conformity

The early pledge to “unswervingly follow whatever instructions Duterte gave” presumed the political past could be simply frozen in place. Yet the messy realities of governance—volatile geopolitics, personal rivalries, mounting public discontent—made such a promise unattainable.

That collapse of the “continuity” narrative revealed a harsh lesson: unity isn’t something that can be declared or forced upon a fragmented political landscape. True unity demands accountability, tangible reforms, and inclusive politics—none of which were sufficiently embraced. What instead emerged was a veneer of unity that masked worsening institutional dysfunction and fractured public trust.

• Midterm Election Fallout and Cabinet Reshuffle 

The May 2025 midterm elections served as a stark referendum on the administration’s unity-by-continuity strategy. Support for Marcos’s slate plunged—his allies won only half of the contested Senate seats—while Vice President Sara Duterte’s camp surged, revealing deep political polarization and weakening the president’s mandate.

In response, Marcos ordered a sweeping reset: all cabinet secretaries and heads of agencies were asked to submit courtesy resignations. This “bold reset” aimed to realign governance with public expectations but also underscored the failure of cohesion and unity as effective governance tools.

• Outcry Over Corruption, Poverty, and Accountability

Growing frustrations over corruption and inequality also punctured the narrative of unity. Massive rallies in early 2025 called out high-profile abuses—such as Vice President Duterte’s P612 million confidential fund spending in just 11 days—highlighting popular outrage over the privileging of the few over citizens’ welfare. 

 

This matter involving the Vice President's misuse of Public Funds also brought recent calls for her impeachment by concerned legislators, that rather end "archived" by the solons who obviously wanted to junk the complaint "all in the name of rule of law" even at the expense of "accountability" and "transparency" as public servants. 

These protests illustrated that superficial unity—one that glosses over corruption—cannot withstand a public hunger for responsive and transparent governance.

• Strained Institutions and Exclusionary Symbolism 

Recent decisions further revealed how the administration treats unity more as optics than inclusivity. Executive Order 81 reorganized the National Security Council, notably excluding Vice President Duterte and past presidents—traditional positions intended to symbolize institutional checks and balance. Critics called it a centralizing move that may deepen political rifts rather than unify. 

 

Even patriotic gestures were criticized as performative—an echo of Marcos Sr.’s Martial Law-era symbolism, rather than a unifying future-building effort. But, it's also no different from Duterte's performativism too - but sans the braggadocio Marcos jr's predecessor did during his presidential term.

Conclusion: The Shattered Formula of 'Unity' as 'Continuity'

Again, the Marcos Jr. administration began with a message that, while never officially phrased in these exact words, could be distilled into a single, unambiguous formula:

“We will resolutely uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made,
and unswervingly follow whatever instructions Duterte gave.”

This was the political shorthand of the early months — the concentrated essence of every statement, press briefing, and ceremonial handover. It was the reassurance offered to Duterte’s loyalists in the military, the police, the bureaucracy, and the provincial dynasties: there will be no reckoning, no reversal, no dismantling of what has been built.

But a formula of this kind, rooted not in a program for the people but in a pact between factions of the ruling class, contains the seeds of its own destruction. To “unswervingly follow” a predecessor’s line is possible only so long as doing so serves the ambitions of the incumbent. The moment the paths of the two dynasties diverge, the unity collapses into open rivalry — and the pledge, once repeated as political scripture, becomes a hollow memory.

The events of 2023 to 2025 have stripped away the pretence. The foreign policy reorientation toward the United States, the vice president’s resignation from cabinet posts, the impeachment battles, the budget wars, the street protests, and the entrenchment of dynasties all revealed what the “continuity” promise truly was: a temporary ceasefire between two camps, never a shared vision for the nation.

By the time the 2025 midterm elections dealt Marcos a stinging rebuke, the façade had already crumbled. Cabinet purges replaced consensus. Institutional centralization replaced power-sharing. Symbolic theatrics — anthems, pledges, slogans — replaced substantive reform. What was sold as unity had, in practice, served as a protective shell for entrenched political interests, now split into rival camps more concerned with each other’s destruction than with the country’s welfare.

This is why the distilled slogan stands today not as a testament to political stability, but as proof of the bankruptcy of unity-by-continuity. Without accountability, without dismantling the machinery of dynastic privilege, without a program that addresses the needs of the people rather than the preservation of elite networks, “continuity” can only mean the perpetuation of the past’s failures.

Thus, the early message — so simple, so confident — now reads as the epitaph of its own promise: a political mirage that, once touched by the heat of reality, dissolved to reveal the unchanging desert beneath.