Cannot Blame Them for Demanding to Bombard the Headquarters
Across Asia, the rumble of discontent is no longer metaphorical. Recent riots and protest actions show that citizens are literally “bombarding” the headquarters of governance—institutions long infested by injustice and corruption. From Indonesia to Nepal, and even in the Philippines, people are rising not merely to voice dissatisfaction but to demand accountability, reform, and justice that decades of rhetoric have failed to deliver.
The dynamics of these uprisings echo lessons from history. In early Cultural Revolution China, a commentary in Renmin Ribao observed that some leading comrades, from the central to local levels, had adopted “the reactionary stand of the bourgeoisie,” suppressing popular movements and imposing a “white terror.” They “stood facts on their head and juggled black and white, encircled and suppressed revolutionaries, stifled opinions differing from their own… puffed up the arrogance of the bourgeoisie and deflated the morale of the proletariat.” The warning was stark: when elites resist genuine social energy, they demoralize the masses and deepen systemic corruption.
Today, Asia faces an eerily similar pattern.
In Indonesia, widespread protests erupted in August 2025, fueled by rampant corruption and growing economic inequality. Students and ordinary citizens clashed with security forces, resulting in fatalities, as demonstrators demanded an end to government indifference. Public outrage led to the replacement of five cabinet ministers, including Finance Minister Sri Mulyani Indrawati, yet protests persist, highlighting systemic failures that superficial reshuffles cannot resolve. Much like the Chinese commentary warned, half-measures that maintain the status quo only inflate the arrogance of the ruling elite while leaving the public frustrated and powerless.
In Nepal, the scale of the uprising was extraordinary. In September 2025, Prime Minister K.P. Sharma Oli resigned amid violent anti-corruption protests triggered by a government-imposed social media ban. Predominantly led by Gen Z activists, these protests escalated after security forces killed at least 19 demonstrators, sparking widespread arson—including the burning of the parliament building. Social media campaigns like “NepoKid” exposed the lavish lifestyles of political elites’ children amid widespread poverty, igniting public anger. The situation mirrors the historical observation: suppressing dissent and prioritizing elite privilege over justice fuels rebellion rather than quelling it.
In the Philippines, public outrage peaked after revelations of massive corruption in flood-control projects. Billions of pesos meant to protect citizens from flooding were siphoned off through kickbacks involving politicians and contractors. Though President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. launched an anti-corruption campaign, many argue that token measures will not dismantle entrenched networks of elite profiteering. Once again, history warns that half-hearted reform only strengthens public resentment and empowers those exploiting systemic weakness.
The common thread connecting these uprisings is unmistakable: citizens have lost trust in political institutions. They have grown weary of rehashed statements, symbolic gestures, or restrained protests that fail to address systemic injustice. As the Mao's commentary cautioned, when elites adopt reactionary stances and suppress genuine popular movements, they not only stifle progress but also “inflate the arrogance of the bourgeoisie and deflate the morale of the proletariat.” Southeast Asia’s masses, however, are refusing to be deflated.
However, the difference is striking: in Nepal and Indonesia, the people possessed a raw, combustible energy—they chose to confront the corrupt directly, literally “bombarding the headquarters” of power rather than sitting quietly and pleading with authorities under the pretense of faith in the law and due process. There was a fire to their outrage, an immediacy that demanded accountability and action, a refusal to defer justice to distant bureaucratic procedures or symbolic gestures. The anger was direct, unapologetic, and historically consequential; it forced those in power to reckon with the demands of the people in real time.
Filipinos, by contrast, have long relied on institutional and symbolic channels to vent grievances—whether through civil society campaigns, social media activism, petitions, marches, or appeals to legal mechanisms. These forms of protest reflect a deeply ingrained faith in law, due process, and the mechanisms of democratic governance. They have historically provided safety, legitimacy, and continuity, especially in societies wary of violent confrontation. Yet this reliance has shaped the very character of dissent: orderly, mediated, and constrained by procedural norms.
Still, the yearning exists among Filipinos to act with the same intensity and immediacy seen in Indonesia and Nepal, where public anger has, at times, escalated into movements that toppled governments or forced drastic reforms. Beneath the surface of resignation lies a deep well of frustration—a recognition that symbolic gestures are not enough, that corruption and abuse require more than hashtags, rallies, or press conferences to uproot. And yet, time and again, collective outrage in the Philippines is absorbed and diffused into the rhythms of elections, media spectacles, civil society forums, and the fleeting churn of digital platforms. The result is dissent that becomes performative: visible but contained, cathartic but rarely transformative. It is a ritual of outrage where citizens chant, march, and post, only for their voices to fade as the machinery of politics reasserts itself. Worse, when protests are reduced into bite-sized, consumable forms—hashtags, brief video clips, fiery commentary posts—they become part of the attention economy, easily overshadowed by entertainment, scandal, or the next trending outrage. The moral weight of grievances is diminished, leaving citizens with the sense that they have spoken out, yet little has changed.
If the yearning for genuine action truly exists, why does it not breach the parameters of symbolic dissent? Part of the answer lies in history: Filipinos have been conditioned by the legacies of authoritarian repression, counterinsurgency, and the co-optation of movements by elites. Protest has long been tolerated—up to a point. Marches are allowed as long as they remain within designated spaces; criticisms are aired as long as they are framed as opinion, not disruption, worse, not even criticism at all. Crossing these lines has often meant violent dispersals, arrests, or even killings. The boundary is thus clear, and fear of reprisal keeps many within it.
Another factor is the entanglement of dissent with electoral politics. Mass anger often finds its outlet in voting, which is framed as the “legitimate” and safe means of change. Politicians, ever aware of this, are quick to ride on public discontent, promising reforms during campaigns only to fold back into the system once in power. The cycle repeats: outrage, elections, disillusionment, and once again, muted outrage.
Finally, there is the question of livelihood and survival. For many Filipinos, the costs of sustained protest—time away from work, risk of retaliation, exposure to harassment—are simply too high. Symbolic dissent becomes the safer choice: to rage online, to march for a day, to sign a petition, and then return to the immediate struggle of earning a living.
Another factor is the entanglement of dissent with electoral politics. Mass anger often finds its outlet in voting, which is framed as the “legitimate” and safe means of change. Politicians, ever aware of this, are quick to ride on public discontent, promising reforms during campaigns only to fold back into the system once in power. The cycle repeats: outrage, elections, disillusionment, and once again, muted outrage.
Finally, there is the question of livelihood and survival. For many Filipinos, the costs of sustained protest—time away from work, risk of retaliation, exposure to harassment—are simply too high. Symbolic dissent becomes the safer choice: to rage online, to march for a day, to sign a petition, and then return to the immediate struggle of earning a living.
The paradox is stark: the yearning for decisive, transformative action is real, but the structures of power, fear, and everyday survival keep it fenced in. To go beyond the parameter requires not just outrage, but organization; not just hashtags, but sustained movements that can withstand repression and resist co-optation. Without this, dissent remains what the powerful expect it to be—loud, visible, but ultimately containable.
Nevertheless, these protests are a clear signal that governments ignoring deep-seated corruption and inequality risk far more than civil unrest—they risk losing legitimacy entirely. Citizens are demanding decisive action, transparency, and accountability. Superficial reforms, like the superficial reshuffles of ministers or symbolic investigations, will not suffice. The public is, metaphorically—and at times literally—“bombarding the headquarters.” And history teaches us, as the Chinese commentary underscored, that when the people rise against injustice, their cause is morally justified and historically inevitable.
To dismiss these movements as disorderly or irrational is to misunderstand a fundamental truth: when governance fails repeatedly and institutions serve the few at the expense of the many, the people have little recourse—and little patience left. Asia’s citizens are wide awake.
And frankly, it is hard to blame them.