A Performative Nation in a Hollow Republic:
The Philippines as a Comfortable Cage
In this continuing past, the Philippines finds itself caught between the promises of nationhood and the reality of its contradictions. Nationalism, democracy, freedom, and pacifism—examples of ideals long invoked as attributes of the Republic—persist more as symbols than as living principles. They are rehearsed in ceremonies, slogans, and civic rituals, yet often fail to take root in the hard ground of social justice, sovereignty, and solidarity. What remains is a nation skilled in performance but uncertain in substance, a republic that exists more in form than in strength.
This hollowing has produced a peculiar atmosphere: one of resilience mistaken for power, contentment mistaken for freedom, peace mistaken for justice. Filipinos are taught to endure rather than to transform, to take pride in survival rather than in sovereignty. The result is a “comfortable cage,” where dependency and compliance are softened by rituals of pride, where the nation appears vibrant on the surface but remains bound to the very structures that prevent its emancipation.
A web of unresoved questions
For sometimes, Filipinos remain caught in a web of unresolved questions: which value should truly stand at the core of our identity as a people? Is it nationalism—the proud assertion of sovereignty rooted in centuries of resistance? Is it democracy—the promise that's reclaimed, fragile yet celebrated as the people’s triumph? Is it freedom—the word most cherished, yet also most misunderstood, often collapsing into individualism? Or is it pacifism—the instinct to endure, to keep peace even at the cost of justice, a habit born from survival through conquest and crisis?
After decades past, these questions remain unsettled. Years like 1898, 1946, 1986, heck even 2001 was supposed to provide clarity, a moral compass to guide nation-building. Instead, it opened a space where ideals jostle with one another, competing for primacy but never reconciling into a coherent vision. Each generation inherits the same unresolved debate: nationalism is invoked but rarely practiced, democracy is praised yet constantly undermined, freedom is prized but shallow, and pacifism sustains resilience but also breeds paralysis.
In this unsettled state, the Filipino identity itself seems suspended—torn between competing ideals, unable to decide which truly deserves to be the foundation of a nation still struggling to define its place in the world.
When nationalism is meant to display
Nationalism is often invoked during moments of crisis. It appeals to the Filipino’s shared history of resistance—our forebears’ defiance against Spain in 1896, the unfinished revolution interrupted by American colonization, the guerilla struggles against Japanese occupation, and the collective courage that toppled a dictatorship in 1986. Each time, nationalism flared up as a unifying cry, a reminder that the nation could stand together against oppression.
Yet outside of these moments of upheaval, nationalism has become largely ornamental. It is performed in parades, ritualized in flag ceremonies, and repeated in slogans, but rarely translated into the hard work of economic independence, institution-building, or the pursuit of genuine sovereignty. Instead, it has been hollowed out, reduced to symbols of pride disconnected from deeper change.
At times, nationalism even becomes consumerist—a marketing label attached to products branded as “proudly Filipino” regardless of who profits from them, or a corporate slogan that substitutes for real investment in the nation’s future. It is also channeled into vicarious victories: the euphoria over beauty queens, athletes, or singers who “put the Philippines on the map” often becomes a substitute for addressing structural failures at home. Overseas labor, meanwhile, is celebrated as the “modern-day heroism” of OFWs, yet this rhetoric masks the uncomfortable truth that labor migration reflects the country’s lack of self-sustaining opportunities. Pride, in these instances, risks becoming a cover for dependence rather than a step toward self-reliance.
Thus, nationalism comforts but does not confront. It offers sentiment rather than strategy, performance rather than program. It celebrates fragments of cultural pride but avoids the difficult, necessary work of shaping an economy and politics that could stand on their own.
In the end, nationalism remains ornamental: a display of pride that consoles a people with symbols while leaving the nation vulnerable to dependence, division, and drift.
Democracy: still fragile, shallow
Democracy, meanwhile, was the great promise of EDSA: a collective voice reclaiming power from tyranny, a nation insisting that sovereignty resides in the people. It was supposed to be the corrective to dictatorship—a return to institutions, accountability, and participatory governance. In the euphoria of 1986, democracy was imagined as the foundation of renewal, the system that would finally allow Filipinos to chart their own future.
Yet in practice, democracy here remains fragile and shallow. It has been captured by personalities and dynasties, reducing politics to a family enterprise where surnames matter more than platforms. Campaigns are dominated by celebrity appeal, regional loyalties, and patronage networks rather than programmatic visions of change. Elections—while regular and often lively—become spectacles of popularity, money, and manipulation. The people participate, but rarely decide in meaningful terms; choices are structured by entrenched elites who monopolize both resources and narratives. In recent years, this fragility has deepened. The rise of social media has made disinformation a powerful political weapon, spreading lies faster than truth and reshaping public opinion through engineered narratives. Instead of fostering informed citizens, the digital sphere often amplifies division and manipulation. Political discourse, once confined to rallies and debates, is now waged through algorithms and troll farms, drowning out reason with noise.
At the same time, nostalgia for strongman rule has crept back into public life. Disillusioned with the slow grind of democratic institutions, many Filipinos long for decisive leadership—even at the cost of accountability and rights. This yearning reveals the shallow roots of democracy: when institutions fail to deliver justice and prosperity, authoritarian solutions regain their appeal.
Thus, the democracy born decades oast still struggles to mature. It has given Filipinos the form of choice but not always the substance of power. It risks becoming a stage where old elites and new demagogues alike perform under the guise of democracy, while the people are left with spectacle instead of sovereignty.
Freedom: a celebrated word "taken for granted"
Freedom is perhaps the most celebrated word in the Filipino vocabulary, the legacy of 1986 and earlier struggles for independence. It is spoken of with pride, remembered as the people’s triumph over tyranny, and held up as proof that the nation could reclaim its destiny. Freedom is seen as the highest prize of the Filipino spirit—something for which generations sacrificed their lives.
But in practice, freedom here too often collapses into individualism. It becomes less about collective empowerment and more about the pursuit of personal survival, comfort, or expression—even at the expense of community. For many, freedom means “minding one’s own business,” carving out a private space of safety or opportunity while leaving the larger social fabric frayed. It is prized, but responsibility is neglected. This tendency has deepened in the contemporary era.
Civil rights, like Freedom of speech and the press, once a hard-won right, is now exercised carelessly in a digital landscape flooded with misinformation, harassment, and polarized noise. The ideal of free expression, meant to safeguard truth and accountability, is frequently twisted into the freedom to spread lies or attack others without consequence. The democratic promise of a marketplace of ideas is undermined by the unchecked power of algorithms that reward outrage over reason.
Even political freedom risks being hollowed out. Voting is celebrated as the ultimate exercise of liberty, yet when elections are driven by patronage, dynasty, or disinformation, choice becomes an illusion, worse, driven by the material perks than as exercise in the right to choose. Freedom here is procedural, not transformative.
Economic freedom, meanwhile, is heavily emphasized, especially in a government whose continuing past has meant reinforcing the feudal order with capitalist efficiency. The landlord has simply become a “manager,” wages remain low, yet prices are still unaffordable. The push for “foreign investment” often requires immense concessions to foreign interests, reducing sovereignty to bargaining chips. And yet this is paraded as progress, as if “economic freedom” under these terms is the ideal the people should accept. In truth, this is the freedom that the current corrupt order wants—one that benefits elites while sacrificing social justice. It has also become synonymous with mobility: the right to seek work abroad, to migrate, to find opportunity wherever it may exist. While this has given many families a lifeline, it also reflects a painful paradox—that Filipinos often find their sense of freedom not at home but in leaving the country. The state celebrates this migration as “heroism,” but in reality, it reveals a society unable to sustain its own citizens.
Thus, freedom in the Philippines often functions as escape rather than engagement. It allegedly "liberates" the individual but weakens the collective. It offers the semblance of dignity, but without the discipline and responsibility needed to strengthen community and nation. In the end, freedom remains cherished in rhetoric but dangerously incomplete in practice—an inheritance treasured, but not fully understood or nurtured.
Pacifism: another word for choosing silence and compliance?
Pacifism, finally, runs deep in the Filipino psyche. It is the instinct to avoid confrontation, to endure hardship with patience, to keep the peace even at the cost of justice. It comes from a long history of survival—centuries of colonization, repeated cycles of disaster, poverty, and political upheaval—that conditioned the Filipino to “make do” rather than to fight back. This instinct has created the much-praised trait of resilience, celebrated in media as the ability to smile through calamity. But behind the smile often lies resignation.
In everyday life, this pacifism appears in the refusal to “interfere” with others’ problems, even when intervention could mean solidarity. It manifests as the habit of choosing silence in the face of abuse or corruption, rationalized as “ayaw ko ng gulo” (“I don’t want trouble”). While this instinct preserves harmony, it also enables impunity: wrongdoers thrive because few dare to challenge them. In politics, the same pattern holds. Filipinos often endure the failures of government with gritted teeth, adapting to dysfunction rather than demanding accountability. Leaders exploit this patience, knowing that outrage will eventually fade into acceptance.
The rhetoric of peace is used to soften resistance, while citizens are told to be content with “resilience” instead of real reform. Even in foreign relations, this pacifist instinct has consequences. The desire to avoid conflict has made the Philippines pliant to stronger powers, especially the West. Whereas Nationalism, stripped of strategic will, is reduced to symbolic gestures, while in practice the state concedes immense ground to foreign interests—whether in trade, military agreements, or resource exploitation. “Keeping the peace” becomes the excuse for dependence. Just imagine: to say “proudly Filipino made” often means products assembled by Filipino hands but under brands owned by multinationals and local oligarchs. Labor remains cheap, wages are kept low, and authorities preach “industrial peace” while suppressing workers who demand fairness in pay and workplace conditions.
In matters of national defense, the contrast is stark. While the Philippines runs toward the West for protection, neighbors like Vietnam and Indonesia—and even the so-called “rebel province” Taiwan—have rolled up their sleeves to build credible self-defense. They “protect the peace” on their own terms, while the Philippines too often delegates its sovereignty, content to be shielded by others if not claiming "it is their problem" as basis to justify their imagined peace.
What is celebrated as a peaceful character can, in truth, become a dangerous complacency. Pacifism sustains survival, but it also breeds compliance. It allows systemic injustice to persist unchallenged and reduces sovereignty to accommodation. The Filipino prides themselves on endurance, but endurance alone does not build a nation. Until this instinct for peace is transformed into active solidarity—peace rooted in justice, not silence—pacifism will remain a strength that doubles as a weakness.
"A Comfortable Cage"
Altogether, these contradictions create an atmosphere that suffocates genuine nation-building—a comfortable cage whose atmosphere is that of performativism, contentment, and dependence. It is the air the Filipino breathes daily: rituals of pride and resilience, slogans of democracy and freedom, ceremonies of peace and harmony, all projected outward as if to convince the world, and ourselves, that the nation is strong and whole. Yet beneath the surface lies an inconvenient truth: the country’s strength is fragile, its independence compromised, its ideals hollowed out.
Nationalism exists, but too often it is nationalism that bends to the whims of the oppressor. It survives in parades, mottos, and “Filipino pride” moments, while the economy, defense, and culture remain entangled in dependence on foreign powers and local elites.
Democracy is performed with enthusiasm—ballots cast, speeches made, candidates cheered—but it is democracy stripped of substance, where dynasties monopolize power, money buys loyalty, and justice is unevenly applied. It is a democracy that entertains, but rarely emancipates.
Freedom, celebrated as the crowning legacy of revolutions and uprisings, has become a thin veneer for exploitation. It is invoked to justify the free flow of capital, goods, and labor, but in practice it means the freedom of oligarchs, landlords, and corporations to profit—while ordinary Filipinos remain shackled by poverty and precarity.
Pacifism, lauded as peace-loving resilience, too often masks passivity and dependence. It is the instinct to endure instead of resist, to avoid conflict even at the cost of dignity. The rhetoric of “resilience” and “keeping the peace” has become a tool to pacify demands for justice, ensuring that exploitation remains unchallenged.
Taken together, these ideals—once the promises of a renewed nation—now risk becoming shadows of themselves. They soothe, but they do not empower. They inspire, but they do not transform. The Philippines presents itself as a nation of proud, free, democratic, peace-loving people, but the lived reality reveals a harsher picture: a people asked to be proud without sovereignty, free without justice, democratic without equality, and peaceful without strength.
Until these contradictions are confronted—not with rituals, but with real structural change—nation-building will remain stalled in this limbo: trapped between the story the Philippines tells about itself, and the truth it cannot escape.
