Why ‘Gat’ Still Commands Respect: Reclaiming the Honorific for the Heroes of the Philippines

Why ‘Gat’ Still Commands Respect: 

Reclaiming the Honorific for the Heroes of the Philippines 

In recent weeks, a curious debate has resurfaced in cultural circles. A self-styled Hispanophile has taken issue with Filipinos who use the venerable honorific “Gat” for national heroes—dismissing it as a supposed modern invention allegedly pushed by “hispanophobic ultranationalists.” But historians, linguists, and cultural advocates quickly point out: the claim collapses the moment it meets the facts.

Long before the arrival of Spain, Prehispanic nobility in the Philippines followed a complex structure of authority and etiquette. Among the maginoo class, men of high rank bore names preceded by Gat—a shortened form of pamagat or pamegat—originally meaning “lord” or “master,” and later “title.” Women of the same social stature carried the companion title Dayang, signifying “lady.” These were not affectations, but markers of lineage, leadership, and respected standing within their communities.

Thus, despite the accusation circulating online, “Gat” is far from a recent invention. It is a genuinely pre-colonial honorific, rooted in the sociopolitical order of Tagalog polities long before European contact. Its modern application to figures such as Andrés Bonifacio, José Rizal, and Marcelo H. del Pilar is neither revisionism nor reactionary posturing—it is a conscious act of cultural remembrance.

Even though it is pre-Hispanic, to use Gat as an honorific for a national hero is fully deserving. Why? Just because these heroes lived in a Spanish era, does that make them unworthy of the title Gat, forcing them instead to be called Don for “historical accuracy”? What’s next—sarcastically insisting that such honorifics are irrelevant in a “democratic society” and relegating them to just "Mr." or even "Manong" or "Mang" for the sake of being "one with the people"? Clearly, the title transcends era; it is about merit, leadership, and the respect they command.

Why do Filipinos continue to use it?

First, it serves as recognition of excellence, an acknowledgment of extraordinary individuals who shaped the nation’s destiny. Second, it offers a cultural connection, linking present generations to the archipelago’s indigenous traditions—traditions often overshadowed by centuries of colonial dominance. And finally, it conveys respect and honor, a dignified tribute to those whose sacrifices helped forge the Philippines as it stands today.

Observers note that the conversation too often devolves into a false dichotomy: Indigenous vs. Hispanic, pre-colonial vs. colonial, authenticity vs. influence. But, as cultural thinkers have argued since the late 20th century, Filipinity is not a battleground between identities—it is a synthesis. Like the concept of Latinidad in the Americas or La Raza as a spiritual-cultural identity, the Filipino experience blends worlds, epochs, and lineages.

In that sense, whether one says Gat, Don, Sir, Mang, Ka, Pre, Dre, or even a casual Psst, the real point lies beyond semantics. The Filipino spirit carries its own continuity, reclaiming the past for the present and projecting the present toward the future.

And so, as this debate cycles across forums and social pages, cultural observers in the 1980s—and today—see the same conclusion taking shape. The attempt to discredit the use of “Gat” falters because the title endures, not as rhetoric, but as memory.

Filipinos continue to use “Gat” with pride—not out of hostility toward any heritage, but out of a deep desire to honor their heroes in a manner rooted in their own story. In the end, the title stands exactly where it always belonged: beside the names of those who helped build a nation.

As the Nation Awakens: No Compromise with the Forces of Plunder Nor its corrupted"Lesser Evil"

As the Nation Awakens: No Compromise with the Forces of Plunder

Nor  its  corrupted"Lesser Evil" 

On this solemn Bonifacio Day, the Filipino people once more demonstrate their steadfast commitment to the Kartilya ng Katipunan's teachings and to the revolutionary spirit embodied by Gat Andres Bonifacio and the nation’s heroic forebears. Through the vast mobilization of the Trillion Pesos March, the masses reaffirm their determination to confront corruption, oppression, and exploitation with unwavering resolve. 

Recent pronouncements from certain groups—calling for President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. to “step up” in order to apprehend the so-called “big fish” of plunder—have revealed an alarming political naiveté. Such appeals, couched in timid reformism, overlook an essential truth widely recognized among the vigilant sectors of society: Marcos Jr. himself stands as the most formidable symbol of systemic corruption. 

To the Filipinos, it is increasingly clear that if corruption were an ocean, Marcos Jr. would be its apex predator. His signature upon last year’s budget, steeped in waste and concealed allocations, set the conditions for the trillion-peso debacle now engulfing the Republic. Under his watch, corruption has not merely survived but flourished, feeding upon the nation’s resources like a parasitic growth. 

The 2025 budget—bloated with “allocable” and “unprogrammed” funds—mirrors the same reactionary decadence displayed in Sara Duterte’s notorious “confidential fund.” Far from representing competing visions, the Marcos and Duterte dynasties appear as twin factions of the same decaying political order. Their rivalry, however heated, does not shield the public from the structural rot that both clans perpetuate. 

To frame the national crisis as a choice between these two families is to insult the intelligence and agency of the Filipino masses. Such a narrative reduces the people to bystanders in a private dispute among elites, demanding obedience rather than participation. The notion of selecting the “lesser evil” serves only to legitimize dynastic domination and to neutralize public outrage. 

The growing sentiment among the people is incontrovertible: what the moment demands is not a Marcos who “steps up,” but a Marcos—and a Duterte—who step down. Only through the removal of corrupt officials and the pursuit of full accountability can the nation reclaim its institutions from the grip of reaction. 

A Transition Council? Why? 

In this context arises the proposal for a People’s Transition Council—a body anchored not in dynastic interests nor in elite accommodation, but in the democratic will of workers, peasants, youth, intellectuals, and all patriotic sectors striving for national emancipation. Such a council would serve as the stabilizing force in a period of profound national renewal: dismantling entrenched corruption, uprooting the structures of plunder, and guiding the state toward a just, humane, and sovereign future no longer dictated by the private whims of political clans. 

This proposal finds its strength precisely because it rejects the deceptive logic peddled by certain commentators who urge the masses to view the current regime as the “lesser evil” in contrast to the Duterte faction. Such arguments, often promoted by timid reformists and opportunistic elements, represent nothing but the recycling of the same reactionary playbook that has long shackled the Filipino nation. 

To portray Marcos as a bulwark against Duterte, or Duterte as a counterforce to Marcos, is to ignore a fundamental truth now evident to the conscious sectors of society: both dynasties are products of the same rotten social order, and both have thrived upon the same machinery of corruption, deception, and injustice. 

They are not antagonists in a struggle for public welfare.

They are competitors in the plunder of the public treasury.

They are not defenders of the people.

They are defenders of their own dynastic survival. 

In truth, the Marcos and Duterte factions are but two sides of a single reactionary coin, each having enriched themselves through systemic exploitation, each having expanded the very networks of patronage and corruption that now suffocate the Republic. Every peso stolen, every institution weakened, every right trampled bears the fingerprints of both dynasties—sometimes acting in partnership, sometimes in rivalry, but always with the same result: the suffering of the Filipino people. 

Thus the call for a People’s Transition Council arises not from abstract theorizing but from historical necessity. The nation can no longer rely on the factional disputes of corrupt elites, nor on the hollow promises of politicians who have already betrayed the public trust. The people cannot liberate themselves by choosing between two varieties of the same decay. 

A Transition Council stands instead as the instrument by which the masses may: 

• Prosecute corruption not selectively but systematically, bringing both Marcos and Duterte to full account.

• Dismantle the dynastic networks that have converted public office into private wealth.

• Reassert democratic sovereignty against foreign manipulation, oligarchic dominance, and political patronage.

• Establish a government rooted in social justice, guided by the collective interest rather than elite survival. 

By rejecting the illusion of the “lesser evil,” the people affirm a deeper principle: evil, even in its more polished form, remains an obstacle to national liberation. The Filipino masses refuse to be conscripted into the internal feuds of reactionary clans; they refuse to become spectators in a dynastic theater whose only purpose is to preserve the power of the few at the expense of the many. 

The People’s Transition Council emerges, therefore, as the necessary bridge between the collapse of corrupt rule and the establishment of a truly democratic, just, and sovereign society. It reflects the historical consciousness of a nation that has suffered enough, and that now insists: no more compromises with corruption, no more submission to dynastic rule, and no more illusions that the people’s freedom can be delivered by those who have built their power upon the people’s misery. 

In this awakening lies the path to genuine renewal—and in the resolve of the people lies the certainty that justice will prevail. 

As the Filipino masses commemorate Bonifacio Day, they stand in continuity with the Katipunan’s legacy of courage and unrelenting struggle. Their aspirations echo across time:

A Philippines free from corruption.

A Philippines free from poverty.

A Philippines free from violence and exploitation.

A Philippines where governance serves the people, not a dynastic ambition. 

Trying to uphold the established order, the reactionary forces tremble not at the actions of any single figure, but at the awakening of an entire nation. The people advance, united and conscious of their historic mission. 

The struggle continues, and the future belongs to those who fight for justice. 

Again, the People Demand Justice: Against Systematic Corruption in the Highest Echelons of Power

Again, the People Demand Justice:

Against Systematic Corruption

in the Highest Echelons of Power

EDSA shrine, Luneta park, and Mendiola has once again become the theater of popular resistance. Recent mass mobilizations, now known as the “Trillion Peso March” and “Baha sa Luneta,” have revealed a growing determination among the Filipino people: they will no longer tolerate leaders whose loyalty is to personal enrichment rather than the nation. 

The twin regimes of Marcos Jr. and Duterte have been shaken by mounting allegations of corruption and political scandal. Yet instead of confronting the truth, both factions have sought to deflect responsibility, accusing one another while failing to acknowledge that their interests have long been intertwined. The result is a governance system that serves privilege over the public good, profit over welfare, and patronage over principle. 

Socioeconomic Sabotage at the People’s Expense 

The consequences of this unholy alliance are visible across the nation. Citizens have borne the brunt of substandard infrastructure, poorly executed flood control projects, and recurring disasters exacerbated by political negligence. Construction firms accused of bribing officials for lucrative contracts have delivered shoddy or unbuilt works, leaving communities exposed to preventable calamities. 

Observers note that this is not merely a failure of administration, but a deliberate sabotage of the people’s socioeconomic well-being. The diversion of public funds, mismanagement of the national budget, and prioritization of political cronies have created a system in which the basic rights and security of ordinary Filipinos are systematically subordinated to private interests. 

The Call for Accountability is Clear 

Thousands of citizens have taken to the streets, demanding that those implicated in corruption be prosecuted, without fear or favor. The call is direct: both Marcos and Duterte must face the consequences of their actions. According to Bagong Alyansang Makabayan (BAYAN), President Marcos Jr bears principal responsibility, having proposed, signed, and implemented budgets riddled with corruption and cronyism. “His actions demonstrate a clear betrayal of the public trust, enriching allies and endangering the welfare of the nation,” the group states. 

And contrary to mainline thinking that by removing Marcos jr. meant putting Vice President Duterte to the presidency? Unlikely and cannot be especially for a corrupt appendage who wanted a bloodbath, for BAYAN emphasizes, shemust also be held accountable. Duterte is accused of abusing her authority as vice president, mismanaging confidential and intelligence funds sourced from the public treasury, and exploiting her position to serve personal and political objectives. 

Again, people realise the reality that Marcos and Duterte are both aides of the same coin meant to be discarded. For honestly speaking, why support both corrupt on the basis of lesser against greater evils? The people demand justice that's beyond choosing who's SOB for that long suffering and exploited country such as the Philippines. 

Systematic Cover-Ups and the Betrayal of Justice 

Even more troubling is the systematic cover-up surrounding these investigations. Rolling inquiries into corruption are reportedly designed not to uncover truth or deliver justice, but to shield Marcos and his principal accomplices from prosecution. As BAYAN notes, “The mechanisms of accountability have been deliberately subverted. Investigations serve as smokescreens to perpetuate impunity, ensuring that the architects of corruption evade justice while the people suffer.” 

Such cover-ups and orchestrated blame games only aggravate the tensions faced by the people. For both these ruling factions, pointing fingers or performing saber rattlings is far less about achieving justice and far more about subverting it to serve their own interests. Investigations are delayed, facts are obfuscated, and accountability is continually deferred. 

Figures like Zaldy Co, who have benefited from both the Marcos and Duterte administrations, have become emblematic of this system of opportunism. Once regarded as a competent technocrat by some, he now stands exposed in the eyes of the public as a man whose loyalty lies not with the nation but with personal gain. The people see him exploiting both regimes, manipulating circumstances to enrich himself, and ignoring the welfare of those he was meant to serve. 

The people as the guardians of justice 

In this struggle, the people themselves have become the guardians of justice. Citizens, workers, students, and activists alike have demonstrated vigilance and courage, refusing to be silenced or distracted by political theatrics. Their mobilizations signal a broader awakening: a demand for transparency, integrity, and governance that truly serves the public interest. 

History will remember this moment. The Filipino people have spoken. Marcos and Duterte, their allies, and their enablers have been exposed for their betrayal of public trust. The nation watches, and the call is clear: corruption must be punished, accountability enforced, and leadership restored to those who serve the people rather than exploit them. 

The message from the streets is unequivocal. No office, no title, no lineage can place an individual above the law. The betrayal of public funds, the abuse of authority, and the exploitation of citizens’ trust will not go unchallenged. As the nation rises, it signals that the era of impunity may be at an end. The people demand justice, and justice, sooner or later, will be served. 

When the Nation Lives in the People: Patriotism, Struggle, and Liberation

When the Nation Lives in the People:

Patriotism, Struggle, and Liberation

Nationalism is often imagined as the product of lofty ideals, heroic figures, and the pens of poets or pamphleteers. Yet such a vision is incomplete, even misleading. True national consciousness does not arise in isolation from the lives of the many who labor, suffer, and struggle under the weight of oppression. It is forged in the shared experience of hunger and fear, cold and injustice—by the people whose daily toil and sacrifice shape the course of history. As Andres Bonifacio once asked: “Is there any love that is nobler, purer, and more sublime than the love of the native country? What love is? Certainly none.” When nationalism becomes mass-based, it is no longer a sentimental abstraction but a living force, rooted in the very blood and sweat of those who have the most at stake. Only then can it reflect the authentic spirit of a nation, rather than the romanticized vision of an elite few. 

When nationalism becomes mass-based, it returns to its roots—the lived experience of the people who shape history and determine its destiny. It is shallow and misleading to downplay the role of the working people in favor of a romanticized elite in the formation of nations. The national awakening is not merely a poem, a song, or the sentiment expressed in a pamphlet; it lives in the shared suffering of the masses—the hunger, the cold, the fear imposed by tyrants, both local and foreign—which becomes the fuel that ignites the struggle for emancipation and dissent. 

As Andres Bonifacio so poignantly expressed in Katapusang Hibik ng Pilipinas: 

“Other mothers cannot compare with you:

your children’s comforts are poverty and sorrows;

when they, in appealing to you, prostrate themselves,

your proffered balm is exceedingly painful.” 

Here, Bonifacio evokes the bitter reality of a nation whose people endure hardship while yearning for relief. The love of the native country, he reminds us, is not abstract—it is lived through the suffering and courage of those who bear the weight of injustice. Just like what Bonifacio himself asked, it is this grounded, visceral love—rooted in struggle, sacrifice, and collective endurance—that fuels the rise of a truly national consciousness. 

Nationalism, when embraced by the masses rather than confined to elite imaginings, becomes a living, breathing force. It is forged in the shared pains of the people and animated by their will to resist, to claim, and ultimately to shape the destiny of their nation. Only then can patriotism transcend sentimentality and become the enduring foundation of a nation’s liberation and identity. 

On this day commemorating Andres Bonifacio, one might reflect that while he may not have been a plebeian in the strictest sense, his love of country rooted him deeply in the lives of the common people, making him one in spirit. By the standards of his time—or even ours—he was relatively well-educated and held positions that afforded him social standing. Yet it was his lived experience among the oppressed, his use of the local tongue, and his profound empathy for those dispossessed that aligned him with the masses. In this sense, he was plebeian, if not proletarian, in the truest measure of the term. 

Critics may dismiss such a reading as a travesty, insisting that heroes like Bonifacio or Rizal must be understood through the lens of the idyllic—the former driven by righteous hatred, the latter by lofty idealism. But reality demands more than neat archetypes. True heroism is not nourished by mere pride or personal glory; it is forged in the willingness to leap into the abyss, to risk oneself for a cause greater than oneself. It is this fearless devotion, rooted in solidarity with the people, that compels generations to honor them as heroes—not for their station, but for their sacrifice. 

And in speaking of nationalism and the masses, it is precisely this reality—the lived experience of the people, their suffering, struggle, and courage—that explains why many patriots, historically and today, have found resonance in the ideas of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin, despite critiques labeling these thinkers as “antinational.” Such critiques often mistake the critique of oppressive states and ruling elites for a denial of the nation itself. Yet, as history demonstrates, true nationalism is inseparable from the empowerment of the people who give it life. 

Marx himself emphasized the material basis of collective struggle: “The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles” (Karl Marx, The Communist Manifesto, 1848). National consciousness, when grounded in the working people, cannot be separated from the material conditions and social struggles that define them. A nation is not merely an abstract concept, a flag, or a set of rituals; it is the sum of its people’s labor, endurance, and collective effort. By understanding history through the lens of class struggle, Marx revealed that the liberation of the nation is bound to the liberation of those who produce and sustain it. 

Lenin further clarified the connection between national liberation and the proletariat: “The proletariat of each country, despite all the divisions of nationality, must unite for the overthrow of the bourgeoisie” (Vladimir Lenin, The Right of Nations to Self-Determination, 1914). Here, the “nation” is not an abstract project devised by elites, nor is it defined by sentimental patriotic rhetoric. It is the collective life of the people, whose empowerment—through struggle, solidarity, and self-determination—transforms the very meaning of nationhood. Lenin emphasized that the emancipation of the oppressed classes within a nation strengthens national integrity rather than undermining it, because it roots the nation in justice and shared purpose. 

Stalin, in his own formulation, reinforced the idea that the national question is inseparable from class struggle: “A nation is a historically constituted, stable community of people, formed on the basis of a common language, territory, economic life, and psychological makeup manifested in a common culture” (Joseph Stalin, Marxism and the National Question, 1913). For Stalin, the nation is not an elite ideal or a decorative myth; it is the lived and collective reality of people shaped by shared labor, culture, and struggle. It is in the work, traditions, and social cohesion of ordinary people that the nation truly exists. 

Thus, when Marxist ideas are embraced in the context of patriotism, it is not the nation that is withered away, as critics often fear, but the state as an instrument of oppression and domination. In its place, the working masses—the true creators of history—become the living embodiment of the nation. Through their collective struggle, solidarity, and self-assertion, they transform abstract nationalism into a tangible force, capable of shaping destiny, resisting tyranny, and securing liberation. Nationalism, when rooted in the people rather than in a mythologized elite, finds its most authentic expression not in ceremonial rhetoric, but in the agency, resilience, and will of those who make history happen. 

In this light, mass-based nationalism and Marxist thought converge: both place the people at the center of history, recognizing that the survival, dignity, and agency of the nation are inseparable from the struggles and triumphs of its ordinary citizens. True patriotism, then, is not the passive reverence of symbols but active engagement with the realities of oppression, and the unwavering commitment to empower those whose labor, courage, and sacrifice are the very foundation of the nation itself. 

Before this note concludes, it must be said plainly: reclaiming nationalism from those who exploit its sentiment reveals, unmistakably, the presence of class struggle. Nationalism, when monopolized by elites, becomes a tool of mystification—an ornament used to disguise exploitation, to ask for sacrifice without justice, and to demand loyalty without reciprocity. But when nationalism is taken back by the people, when it is grounded in the lived struggles of workers, peasants, and the marginalized, its true nature emerges: a collective demand not merely for independence in name, but liberation in substance. 

History shows that national liberation cannot be confined to the idea of a territory freed from colonial rule. A nation may raise its flag yet remain shackled by internal structures of injustice, inequality, and exploitation. A truly liberated nation requires not only the casting off of external domination, but the dismantling of oppressive systems within. Social liberation is not an optional addendum to national freedom—it is its necessary completion. 

Yet such a transformation demands enormous courage, effort, and consciousness. The people must come to understand that national freedom without social emancipation is an illusion; that independence without justice is but a change of masters; that patriotism without equality is but a slogan wielded to maintain the status quo. The struggle must therefore be both national and social, both for sovereignty and for dignity, both against foreign tyranny and against the domestic forces that aggravate injustice. 

Bonifacio, in his clarity and conviction, understood this deeply. He wrote: “Reason teaches us that we cannot expect anything but more suffering, more treachery, more insults, and more slavery. Reason teaches us not to waste time hoping for the promised prosperity that will never come and never materialise… Reason teaches us to be united in will, united in thought, and united in purpose that we might have strength to combat the prevailing evil in our Nation.” 

In these words lies a timeless lesson: freedom is not granted by the goodwill of the powerful, nor achieved by waiting for prosperity to trickle down from the promises of those who benefit from inequality. Freedom must be asserted through unity, awakened by reason, and sustained by collective struggle. 

And so, the task of this present time mirrors the task of Bonifacio’s: to awaken a nationalism rooted not in spectacle but in solidarity; not in elite mythmaking but in the aspirations of the masses; not in nostalgia for a sanitized past but in courage to confront the structures that deform the present. To take back nationalism is to return it to its rightful owners—the people—and to insist that the nation cannot be fully free until its people are. 

Against the Spectacle: Reclaiming the Nation's Call for Truth, Justice, Accountability, and Transparency from the Manufactured Machinery of Power guised as Unity

Against the Spectacle: Reclaiming the Nation's Call 

for Truth, Justice, Accountability, and Transparency

from the Manufactured Machinery of Power guised as Unity

In the wake of the recent protests against corruption, a familiar script has resurfaced—one that seeks to downplay public outrage simply because the crowds were not as massive as some expected. Critics mock the demonstrations, treating them as insignificant compared to the “non-partisan activity” of the Iglesia ni Cristo (INC) weeks earlier, which drew larger numbers only to later reveal its own political undertones aligned with another faction of the ruling elite. This comparison—deliberate or not—misses the point entirely. It exposes how power continues to weaponize crowd size, selective morality, and institutional loyalty to delegitimize genuine dissent, while elevating spectacles that serve entrenched political interests. The protests, though smaller, speak to a deeper frustration: a growing refusal among ordinary citizens to accept corruption as normal, and a resistance to narratives that try to make public anger appear trivial simply because it does not enjoy the backing of a well-oiled political machine. 

When someone sneers, “Pa Let Leni Lead pa kayo; di nga kayo maka-10k kahit kasama na lahat ng taga-bundok at party-list na Pink,”* and follows it with the claim that “The Catholic Church cannot lead like INC because the Church is already corrupt,” it reveals more about the political culture than about any religious institution. 

If the accusation is corruption, then the obvious question is: Why, then, did a sect known for bloc voting openly support Marcos and Duterte in 2022—candidates whose own camps were marred by corruption, disinformation, and controversy? The answer lies in the nature of political alliances in the Philippines: they are rarely about morality, accountability, or truth. They are often transactional, premised on short-term gains, negotiated access, and a simplistic narrative packaged as “unity.” 

The idea of “unity” in 2022 was fundamentally shallow by design—it was not unity for justice, reform, or honest governance. It was unity built on avoiding hard questions, reducing complex issues into single-sentence slogans, and appealing to a tired public longing for stability after years of pandemic, crisis, and institutional exhaustion. Many voters—particularly those with limited political engagement—gravitate to the simplest explanation offered to them, especially when amplified by machinery, cash, and charismatic storytelling. 

This is why even communities or institutions accused of corruption can still claim the moral high ground in public discourse: the electorate is conditioned to accept surface-level narratives, not structural critiques. The emphasis is on emotional resonance rather than governance. 

Moreover, sectors like the INC do not operate on the same principle as the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church is internally diverse, decentralized in many respects, and contains progressive, conservative, apolitical, and even indifferent factions. It cannot command a unified political vote. In contrast, bloc-voting groups negotiate directly with powerholders—leading to tactical endorsements that are less about morality and more about political survival and institutional advantage. 

So when observers point out the contradiction—“If you call the Church corrupt, why did you support candidates equally or even more controversial?”—the silence is telling. Because the endorsement was not based on ethics. It was based on: 

• the power of machinery and patronage

• the desire for access to the next administration

• the seductive simplicity of “unity” versus the difficult truths of reform

• and the public’s fatigue toward long, complex explanations, favoring instead quick slogans 

In short, the masses were not mobilized by a deep ideological commitment, but by a narrative engineered to be easy, comforting, and politically advantageous for those who crafted it—even if it was hollow. 

Thus, the real issue is not whether the Catholic Church is corrupt or whether INC can “lead better.” The real issue is that political discourse has been reduced to spectacle, where contradiction, selective morality, and convenient amnesia shape electoral choices. Under such conditions, even institutions accused of corruption can influence national politics—so long as they align with the prevailing machinery of power. 

Lenin once warned that “Politics is the most concentrated expression of economics.” In a landscape where alliances are transactional, endorsements are not moral judgments but economic calculations—bargains struck to preserve influence, visibility, and institutional leverage. 

Marx likewise observed that “The ideas of the ruling class are in every epoch the ruling ideas.” Today, those ruling ideas manifest as the weaponization of crowd size, the normalization of corruption when it benefits the powerful, and the derision of dissent when it challenges the narratives of those in control. 

And it is here that the words Andres Bonifacio did resonate: “Reason teaches us that we must be united in will, united in thought, and that we might have strength to search out the reigning evil in our Nation. This is the time for the light of truth to surface; this is the time for us to show that we have our own sentiments, have honour, have shame, and have solidarity.” 

Bonifacio’s call was not for blind obedience to authority, but for the courage to resist any system—colonial or local—that treats the people as mere accessories to power. 

Placed alongside today’s context, these words echo sharply: A people cannot be expected to accept corruption, hypocrisy, or transactional politics simply because those in power say it is normal. Nor can dissent be dismissed simply because it lacks the machinery of groups aligned with the ruling factions. 

To paraphrase the spirit of Lenin, Marx, and Bonifacio: "The struggle is always between those who benefit from maintaining illusions and those who insist on exposing them."

And in this struggle, even small protests matter—not because of their size, but because they refuse to let the narrative be dictated solely by the machinery of the powerful. 

Against the machinery of power, unity grounded in ethical clarity—not slogans—becomes its own form of resistance. Even small protests matter, not because of the numbers they gather, but because they refuse to surrender truth to spectacle, or conscience to convenience. 

***

*“Go ahead and let Leni lead; you still won’t reach 10,000 even if all the people from the mountains and all the Pink party-lists join.”

The ₱500 "Noche Buena" budget: Official Claims or Another Mockery of Filipino Families?

The ₱500 "Noche Buena"  budget:

Official Claims or Another Mockery of Filipino Families? 

The Department of Trade and Industry (DTI) recently reaffirmed that a budget of ₱500 is sufficient to provide a Noche Buena feast for a family of four, citing current market prices and a standard family composition of mother, father, and two children. 

According to DTI’s Noche Buena price guide, the proposed budget covers essential festive items: Christmas ham (₱170), spaghetti (₱78.50), macaroni salad (₱152.45), fruit salad (₱98.25), and ten pieces of Pinoy pandesal (₱27.75). A simplified version omitting some items can reduce the cost to ₱374.50, leaving families additional funds to purchase luncheon meat, corned beef, or other staples. Secretary Cristina Roque explained that these prices reflect the “usual” items on a Filipino Christmas table and are in line with President Marcos Jr.’s directive to ensure affordable prices. 

Yet, the claim has provoked widespread criticism. Social media users, legislators, and watchdog groups have called the ₱500 budget “absurd” and “out of touch with reality.” Ibon Foundation Executive Director Sonny Africa denounced the figure as obviously false, labeling it a part of government propaganda: “The DTI knows this is not true. To claim that ₱500 can sustain a family’s festive meal is a cover-up of the worsening economic situation,” Africa said. 

Indeed, the arithmetic alone tells a clear and unforgiving story: the total cost of even the most basic Noche Buena already exceeds ₱500, and any additional items—barbecue, extra meat, or even the simplest holiday treats—push the expense much higher. To claim otherwise is not merely misguided; it comes dangerously close to mocking the everyday struggles of Filipino households, which continue to grapple with rising prices for food, rent, utilities, and other essentials. This, in truth, is nothing less than a cynical exercise in austerity theater. It is not an expression of genuine concern for Filipino families, but an attempt to manufacture an illusion of affordability—an illusion meant to suggest that government policy can stretch a family’s purchasing power even as inflation tightens around them. By insisting that ₱500 can sustain a festive meal, officials project the image of a state capable of delivering comfort through frugality, while the reality outside their statements tells a different story: ordinary households facing the unrelenting climb of food costs. 

Critics—from social media users to economists and watchdog organizations—are not exaggerating when they describe the claim as “obviously false” and propagandistic. The Ibon Foundation, among others, has repeatedly emphasized that such pronouncements do not reflect conditions on the ground. Their objections underline a broader truth: that policies framed as relief too often become tools for political messaging, papering over hardships rather than addressing them. 

Christmas is a season meant for joy, abundance, and shared meals. To frame a ₱500 feast as sufficient is austerity dressed up as festive cheer, an official gesture that fails to acknowledge the lived realities of ordinary Filipinos. Rather than offering meaningful support, it risks presenting the government as disconnected and indifferent to real needs. And while Secretary Roque insists that manufacturers have cooperated to maintain affordable prices, emphasizing that families can buy ham and prepare spaghetti and macaroni salad within this budget. Still, critics argue that this guidance is detached from actual market dynamics and serves more as a public relations exercise than a practical solution. 

The ₱500 Noche Buena budget, while intended to showcase government efficiency, ultimately raises questions about priorities. Genuine measures—price stability, food subsidies, and direct support for struggling households—would do far more to ensure a joyful Christmas for all Filipinos than relying on a symbolic, implausible budget figure. Until then, the ₱500 Noche Buena remains what it is: an empty promise and another insult to families trying to make ends meet.  

Neither Marcos nor Duterte: Grassroots Politics vs. Managed Dissent

Neither Marcos nor Duterte: Renewing Calls

for Grassroots Politics vs. Managed Dissent

The Philippine political stage today is dominated by spectacle and illusion.

In a recent broadcast excerpt, former senator Antonio Trillanes laid bare what he described as the agenda of the so-called mainstream opposition: an attempt to forge an alliance with President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.—a maneuver that, to many observers, appears deeply embarrassing for a faction that purports to oppose his administration.

Labeling this opposition as “dominant” may sound paradoxical at first, yet within the Philippine political landscape, it is accurate. This faction represents the acceptable face of dissent, a performative opposition whose primary function is less about transformative change and more about containment. By framing the political battlefield on terms convenient to itself, it channels genuine discontent into safe, manageable outlets, ensuring that truly transformative forces from below never gain meaningful traction.

Trillanes himself, in an interview, reduced the Philippine political scene to a quartet of forces: the pro-Marcos camp, the pro-Duterte camp, the Kakampinks—a coalition of Liberals and social democrats—and the so-called “unaligned” masses. From the perspective of political theory, this is a textbook example of what Antonio Gramsci termed a passive revolution: a strategy whereby dominant groups absorb dissent, control the narrative, and exclude radical alternatives from legitimate discourse (Gramsci, 1971). Similarly, Chantal Mouffe’s work on “hegemonic pluralism” underscores how liberal democracies often manufacture consent through a controlled opposition that prevents the emergence of antagonistic politics capable of disrupting entrenched hierarchies (Mouffe, 2005).

Yet this manufactured framework conceals more than it reveals. Opposition is not monolithic. Many reject both Marcos and Duterte outright. It is unsurprising, some argue, that such citizens are willing to go beyond the narrow parameters of legality if that is what is required to realize true nationalism and systemic reform. Trillanes, it seems, has forgotten that he was once a coup‑plotter inspired by the ideas of a “Filipino Ideology” and a “National Recovery Program”—visions in which the ills of society, including systemic corruption, were to be surgically excised. Ironically, his current rhetoric minimizes the very principles he once embraced.

Perhaps, however, his strategy is calculated: a “revolution from the center,” an attempt to rescue the political center by performing the appearance of radical opposition while preserving the underlying system. In this light, Trillanes’s maneuver resembles a neo‑Marcosian tactic: aligning the so-called “liberals” and “pinks” with a figure he opposed as recently as 2022, while framing it as principled resistance. By doing so, the dominant opposition claims moral high ground, yet in practice leaves the deeper structures of corruption untouched.

This is consistent with wider patterns identified in comparative political science. As James C. Scott has observed in Domination and the Arts of Resistance, state power often relies on controlling the visible and symbolic forms of dissent, while quietly neutralizing the capacity of the subordinate to mobilize transformative change (Scott, 1990). Similarly, the work of Boaventura de Sousa Santos reminds us that dominant legal-political frameworks often marginalize “subaltern counterpublics,” rendering their knowledge and praxis invisible, even when their movements embody systemic critique (Santos, 2002).

Not surprisingly, when Marcos is positioned as the lesser evil relative to Duterte, the administration’s past misdeeds are quietly relegated to footnotes—convenient omissions in a narrative that prioritizes political optics over accountability. The result is a theatre of controlled dissent: citizens are presented with the illusion of choice while the entrenched elite maintain their grip on power. The radical aspirations of students, workers, and organized communities are marginalized, dismissed, or pathologized as “extreme”—even as these very forces confront the systemic failures left unresolved by both Marcos and Duterte.

The irony is sharp: Trillanes, a coup plotter during the Arroyo era, once sought to surgically remove corruption, to confront systemic injustice decisively. Today, by performing a safe, centralized opposition, he may be inadvertently perpetuating the very problems he once vowed to eradicate. The gap between past principle and present strategy is stark, and it is being noticed—by citizens who refuse to be contained within the narrow parameters of elite-managed politics.

At present, countless citizens are actively engaged: students, farmers, workers, women, Indigenous Peoples, LGBTQIA+ communities, faith-based groups, and professional associations. The mainstream opposition, Trillanes included, seeks to shrink politics to a comfortably abstract game, one that ignores the concrete conditions shaping people’s lives. As Gaston Bachelard observed, “the world in which one thinks is not necessarily the world in which one lives” (Bachelard, 1984). This disconnect explains why these factions dismiss massive, sustained mobilizations—from the September 21st actions to the approaching “Baha sa Luneta 2.0” on November 30th—movements fueled by floods, government scandals, and a growing awareness of Marcos Jr.’s central role in the nation’s crises.

Established powers—from Malacañang to the Kakampinks, including the police and military—view these grassroots forces with suspicion. They are accustomed to dealing with compliant masses: bodies to be swayed, ridiculed, disciplined, or suppressed. These organizers are different. They are aligned, principled, and refuse to become collateral damage in a decayed political system. The only concession to Trillanes’s framework is his critique of the Duterte faction; a resurgence on their part, he warns, would bring devastation.

Observers note a troubling pattern: a tendency to see politics as a choice between lesser evils, arguing that removing Marcos alone is insufficient because Duterte’s faction remains a looming threat. Yet corruption thrives across both camps, often shared by the same personalities who benefited under both administrations. Selective finger-pointing obscures the systemic rot at the heart of governance.

The grassroots are resolute. By refusing to name them, dominant forces hope to erase them from the narrative. But they will make themselves visible—vivid, undeniable, and unignored. Their presence will be felt in Luneta on November 30th, as students, workers, organizers, and citizens converge to demand justice, accountability, and systemic change. They demand neither Marcos nor Duterte. In doing so, they embody a politics that the mainstream opposition cannot contain: a vision of nationalism, reform, and systemic justice that refuses to be hemmed in by legalistic limitations or performative politics.

As Helmut Schmidt dryly observed, “Those who don’t talk won’t be heard” (Schmidt, 1987). In the streets, in the barrios, in factories and campuses, the people intend to make themselves heard. They will not settle for the hollow scripts of the established “opposition.” In this city of power and performance, they remind the nation that true politics emerges from below, not from the carefully curated illusions of privileged dissent—a truth echoed by Paulo Freire in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, who argued that liberation arises from the conscientization of the oppressed, not the benevolence of the powerful (Freire, 1970).

In the Philippines today, the question is not simply who governs, but whether governance will ever be accountable to the people themselves. And in the streets of Luneta, the answer may finally be making itself unmistakably clear.

***

References

Bachelard, G. (1984). The New Scientific Spirit. Beacon Press.
Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Continuum.
Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the Prison Notebooks. International Publishers.
Mouffe, C. (2005). On the Political. Routledge.
Santos, B. de S. (2002). Toward a New Legal Common Sense: Law, Globalization, and Emancipation. Butterworths.
Schmidt, H. (1987). Memoirs: Politics and Power in Germany. Pantheon.
Scott, J. C. (1990). Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. Yale University Press.

“The Coffee, the Night, and the Unspoken”

“The Coffee, the Night, and the Unspoken”

 “To Love Quietly, While the City Screams”

The noontime coffee still cold
Sitting on the wooden table,
Ice making the latte colder.
Kaughter drifts from the market below,
Shouts of vendors, clatter of carts,
Voices bouncing off brick walls
Like children chasing echoes.

I sip slowly, pretending the warmth
Fills more than my cup.
But inside, a quiet gnaw,
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
Hidden behind a smile that no one sees.

Somewhere in the crowd
Someone’s fingers brush,
Hands lift a glass,
Toast to a neighbor’s bargain—
I imagine your hand instead,
Fingers grazing mine
In a private ritual no one witnesses,
A secret carved in the margin of this ordinary day.

The breeze carries the smell of coffee grounds,
Grilled meat, and sunlight—
The smells that once could summon you
from memory,
And I clutch the cup tighter,
Afraid if I let go
Even a drop of longing might spill
across the tiles,
Visible to the world.

Afternoon drifts into evening,
The market fades, lights flicker on,
Music pulses from a nearby rave.
The bass shakes the pavement,
And a drunk tries to dance,
Stumbling, arms flailing,
But still laughing—
And I watch him,
Letting the chaos pull at the edges of my mind
While your absence settles deeper in my chest.

The night smells of sweat and fried food,
Plastic cups clinking,
Voices overlapping like broken harmonies.
I pretend the bitter taste of my coffee
Is all there is,
Yet behind my ribs
The echo of your voice
Threads the gaps between the thump of bass,
Pulling at me like a hidden chord,
A melody no one else hears.

Stars prick the black sky,
Lights swinging from rigged scaffolds,
I fold the heat of the day
And the pulse of the night over my shoulders,
Pretend it is enough,
Pretend I am full,
Pretend the memory of you
Is just a shadow in the crowd.

But when I close my eyes,
Your face drifts past the drunken laughter,
Past the thrumming speakers, past the swaying bodies—
And I let the silence hold me
Because silence is the only place
Where longing can breathe
Without being noticed,
Without betraying itself.

The cup is empty now,
The rave fades toward midnight,
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table,
Letting the hours spill forward
While I carry the weight behind my chest,
A quiet love no one will touch,
A farewell that never names itself,
The secret pulse of the world
That I leave behind in every breath.

 

“Questions Left on a Coffee Rim”

When was there room to see your presence—

Not wrapped in offerings or easy gestures,

But standing on its own,

Weight enough to anchor a trembling day?

Your voice once softened the sharpest hours,

A low flame moving through the air—

I search for it now

In the hush between breaths.

Coffee cools against my palms,

Steam already surrendered.

The rave’s distant bass

Presses against the walls and ribs alike,

A borrowed heartbeat

That will not settle.

A drunk man sways beneath neon,

Arms opening to no one—

His laughter fracturing,

Yet he keeps time with a rhythm

Only he can hear.

I study him like scripture,

As if he might teach me

How to hold desire without breaking.

You brought music once—

Not the kind that ends with applause,

But the kind that stains the silence after,

Leaving the room forever changed.

No courtesy could compare.

I sip what’s left,

As if warmth might return,

As if memory could be reheated.

Inside, an ache curls inward,

Small, disciplined, obedient—

A guest who knows it will never be introduced.

Night gathers its shawl.

Windows glitter,

The bass deepens into something tidal.

I follow your outline through the dark—

Not a body, not a face,

Just a familiar shift in the air,

A note held too long,

Unresolved.

The dancer refuses gravity,

Spinning grief into comedy,

And for a moment I wish

I could be as unashamed—

To stagger toward joy

Without fearing who might watch.

I close my eyes.

The music dissolves into drone,

Into prayer,

Into an incantation that knows my name.

You return there, briefly—

Not as memory,

But as possibility.

I open them again

And find you scattered—

A car’s passing gleam,

A silhouette blurred by strobe,

A stranger’s half-forgotten laugh.

Each vanishes before I can touch it.

The cup is empty.

The night thins.

The dancer disappears into shadow.

I rise without ceremony,

Folding the moment closed.

No confession.

No plea.

Only the quiet,

Only the breath,

Only the love carried inward—

Unwritten, unnamed,

But tuned perfectly

To the key of goodbye.

“Dancing Alone in the Echo of You”

The noon sun slants across the table,
Coffee cooling in my hands,
The foam a pale memory of warmth.
Bass hums faintly down the street,
A pulse that moves like blood
Through the veins of the city.
Your absence hovers over it all,
More tangible than any gift,
More insistent than any friendly gesture.

When was the time to see your loving presence,
To feel the quiet weight of you
Press against the ribs of my day,
More than laughter, more than smiles,
More than a fleeting “hello”
That can be cast aside like a leaf in the wind?

The music grows,
Staccato lights slicing through shadows,
A drunk man tries to dance,
Arms flailing, feet stumbling,
Yet he moves with a strange courage
I cannot summon.
How easily joy can slip from the sober heart,
How lightly it can be worn by someone who does not know longing.

I sip, pretending the warmth fills more than my cup,
But inside, a quiet gnaw—
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
A secret I hide even from myself.

Your voice, if it came now,
Would thread through the bass like a silver thread
Through black silk—
An elegy, a song too fragile for the clamor of the world.
When did you bring music to my life,
True music,
That lingered longer than laughter
And stronger than the friendliness
That others give without thought?

The shadows lengthen,
The sun dips behind rooftops,
Strobe lights begin to pulse,
The rave grows into a living tide of sound.
I watch the drunk man again,
His body a clumsy river flowing in rhythm
With a tide only he feels.
I envy him the simplicity of his surrender,
While I clutch memory like a talisman,
Afraid to release even a note of longing
For fear it might vanish into the night.

And yet, I hear you in the pauses,
In the silence between beats,
A lament drifting over the pulse of bass,
Soft as a sigh in a Heian garden,
Delicate as cherry blossoms
Falling into a pond that reflects nothing but emptiness.
Your face drifts past the flashing lights,
Past the sweating bodies,
Past the echoing laughter,
And I let the silence hold me,
Because silence is the only place
Where love can breathe,
Without being stolen,
Or mistaken for mere friendship.

The coffee cup is empty now,
The bass fades to memory,
The drunk man stumbles into the darkness,
And the world exhales its pulse.
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table with careful hands,
Letting the hours spill forward
While carrying the weight behind my chest—
A love no one will touch,
A farewell never named,
The secret pulse of longing
That threads through every breath I take.

And though the night stretches toward its end,
The memory of you moves through it like smoke,
Tender and relentless,
A lament half-spell, half-song,
A melody of what was never ours,
Yet remains mine,
In every shadow, every echo, every sigh
Between the beats of a rave
And the cooling rim of a coffee cup.

When Family Members Also Show Rift — Resulting in Desperate Measures

When Family Members Also Show Rift — Resulting in Desperate Measures

In the life of a nation, as in the life of a ruling family, unity is never a luxury. It is a structural requirement for stable governance. A household divided—especially one that sits at the summit of state power—weakens institutions, invites opportunism, and endangers the collective well-being of the people. Today, the Philippines confronts a perilous spectacle: a ruling family ruptured from within. 

Speaking before a rally of Iglesia ni Cristo devotees assembled allegedly "against corruption in government" at the Quirino Grandstand Monday evening, the nation watched as Senator Imee Marcos publicly accused her own brother, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr., of a supposed long-standing struggle with drug dependence. She went further, implicating the First Lady by asserting that his alleged condition had worsened because “they were both the same.” Her plea—“end your suffering and the suffering of the nation, come home and seek treatment”—was delivered in full public view. 

On its surface, such a statement may pass as maternal concern. Yet the timing, the political environment, and the public stage chosen reveal far more: a calculated blow presented as compassion, an internal strike shrouded in the language of moral intervention. 

Malacañang’s Firm Response 

The Presidential Communications Office, through Undersecretary Claire Castro, condemned the senator’s statements as a “desperate move” and demanded clarity regarding her motives. 

She noted that the rally in question was about alleged corruption—not personal attacks against the President. Her question cut directly into the controversy: “What reason does Senator Imee have to malign her own brother?” 

Castro reiterated the verified facts: President Marcos voluntarily underwent a drug test before the 2022 elections, with results confirmed negative by St. Luke’s Medical Center. She cited the official statement: “President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. did test negative for cocaine in 2021.” 

Her reminder of the senator’s selective outrage was pointed: “Why is she now concerned about alleged drug use when former President Duterte openly admitted to marijuana and fentanyl? She never called him out.” 

Thus, the claim of moral urgency collapses under the weight of political context. 

The Political Context of 2025 

This breakdown within the ruling family did not emerge from chance or emotion. Its roots lie in the political maneuvers surrounding the 2025 elections. Senator Marcos withdrew from the coalition supported by her brother—the Alyansa para sa Bagong Pilipinas (Alliance for the New Philippines)—shortly after the government surrendered former President Rodrigo Duterte to the International Criminal Court. Long known as a staunch Duterte ally, she repositioned herself almost immediately, securing the endorsement of Vice President Sara Duterte, with whom President Marcos had already experienced a profound political rupture.

The pattern reflects calculation rather than conscience. It is a familiar choreography in Philippine politics: ambition clothed in the language of concern, rivalry disguised as duty. Her decision did more than create a split within the ruling family—it fractured the loyalist bloc itself. The once-unified constituency that had supported both Marcos and Duterte in 2016 found itself divided, with many choosing to align with the former president out of sentiment, grievance, or ideological convenience. Some even rationalized this pivot as an act of “true loyalism,” arguing that Senator Imee’s siding with the Dutertes carried greater legitimacy precisely because she bore the Marcos name.

Such a realignment reveals the deeper truth: this was not a moral stand but a political wager, executed in full awareness of its consequences for both family and nation..

The Son’s Response: A Defiant Stand for Family and State 

If the senator intended to weaken her brother, she underestimated the resolve of the President’s immediate family. House Majority Leader Sandro Marcos responded with clarity and firmness. 

He expressed sorrow over the senator’s descent into fabrication: “It pains me to see how low she has gone, resorting to a web of lies aimed at destabilizing this government to advance her political ambitions.” 

He called the allegations dangerously irresponsible, noting that they now targeted not just the President and First Lady, but himself and even younger family members. The betrayal was personal as well as political: “We always agreed that whatever happened between our parents, we would not drag ourselves into it. For her to betray her own family brings me great sadness.” 

He delivered the final judgment with unequivocal severity: “This is not the behavior of a true sister.” 

The Lesson for the Nation 

History has repeatedly shown that divided leadership results in weakened governance. When a family entrusted with power fractures, the consequences extend far beyond private grievances—weakening state structures, emboldening opportunists, and attracting foreign exploitation. 

Senator Imee Marcos’s accusations were not an act of familial concern. They were a deliberate escalation of political conflict, concealed beneath the language of public duty. Her alignment with the Duterte bloc intensifies the implications. 

Yet nevertheless, this rift does not erase a deeper reality: the members of this ruling family swore to uphold an order that has long been corroded. As the late Senator José Avelino once remarked, there are “Good Crooks” and “Bad Crooks” within the bureaucracy—if not within society as a whole. This maxim, cynical yet accurate, illuminates the present moment: internal strife does not exempt the ruling class from complicity in a system already bent under the weight of its own decay. 

Even so, desperate measures—once unleashed—never remain confined to the family. They spill outward, eroding governance and fraying the unity of the state itself. 

Thus, the President, his family, and those loyal to the stability of the state must had to stand firm—undeterred by internal efforts at destabilization. 

Let the public record stand: Loyalty, integrity, and unity remain the pillars of legitimate authority. Betrayal, even from within the same bloodline, imperils not only a family but the nation it governs. 

For a people to endure, their leaders must endure together. And when internal fractures threaten national coherence, the guardians of the order must act decisively against those who divide for private gain.  

Accountability for Show, Corruption as Usual: Joyriding the Public Outrage in the Republic of Good Crooks and Bad Crooks

Accountability for Show, Corruption as Usual:

Joyriding the Public Outrage 

in the Republic of Good Crooks and Bad Crooks

In a political landscape where every faction claims moral high ground and every leader wraps themselves in the banner of public virtue, it becomes harder to distinguish principle from opportunism. The sudden surge of “anti-corruption” rhetoric has not clarified the nation’s crisis—it has only exposed how every camp weaponizes outrage when it suits them. What should have been a unified demand for cleansing the bureaucracy has instead become another battlefield for competing interests, each louder than the last, each pretending to speak for the people while guarding their own turf. 

If one would wonder—are they truly against corruption? Are they genuinely for transparency, accountability, justice? Or are they simply defending those implicated, those whose interests happen to align with theirs at the moment? The recent demonstrations made one thing unmistakably clear: they are joyriding on the public’s anger, hijacking legitimate outrage to shield their own networks of power. 

Suddenly everyone is “patriotic.” Suddenly every faction is shouting “transparency” and “accountability” as if the words alone could wash their records clean. Even the notoriously corrupt are pointing fingers at their fellow thieves in suit and in uniform, prompting ordinary people to ask: Who, exactly, is the real crook here— and why does every whistleblower seem to be carrying his own share of stolen goods? 

It is all painfully Avelinian: the nation is again confronted not with the choice between honest and corrupt officials, but between good crooks and bad crooks, each insisting they are the lesser evil. Look at the spectacle of Zaldy Co—long painted as corrupt—suddenly recast as a hero by the Duterte bloc the moment he turned his accusations toward Marcos and Romualdez. Have they forgotten that this same “hero” amassed wealth through bureaucrat capitalism while helming the congressional appropriations machinery for years, under both Duterte and Marcos? 

And what of the senators now implicated—men who speak the language of accountability only to avoid being called what they are? Villanueva who's supposed to be pious also has significant corruption allegations involving the misuse of public funds and alleged kickbacks from government projects. Escudero, the once-poster boy of politics also implicated in corruption charges with recent news accusing him of systematic corruption, misappropriation of public funds, procurement fraud, and gross neglect of duty. Not suprised that Bong Go, a Duterte stooge, also implicated in procurement deals during the pandemic to that of anomalies involving government contracts. These solons, like Co, would try to assume they're innocent- or to sound Avelinian, a "good crook" pointing against the "bad".  

But nevertheless, they're still crooks and those who supporting crooks trying to appeal to many whether it is appeal to morality, reason, heck even patriotism. But such joyriding makes their statements ring hollow. Their indignation is to protect themselves. Their crusade is performance. And so the public again hears echoes of Avelino’s cynical proclamation: some of them are “good crooks,” others “bad crooks”—but crooks all the same. 

From the congressman to the undersecretary, from the agency clerk to the private contractor in cahoots with them, they all siphon public resources while delivering half-baked “services” meant only to impress the world—or pretend to. Infrastructure is built to be photographed, not to last; programs are launched to be announced, not to be felt by the people. Everything is done for optics, never substance. 

These bullshitteries only confirm what the masses increasingly feel—that the system’s hypocrisy is absolute. To borrow Stirner’s words: the state calls its own violence “law,” but the individual’s resistance “crime.” When the powerful plunder, it is “budget utilization,” “public-private partnership,” “program expansion.” When the poor protest, it becomes “instigation,” “unrest,” “destabilization.” 

And so the people look around and see not a government fighting corruption, but factions fighting over corruption—each one desperate to control the narrative, the purse, the power. 

The crisis, then, is not just moral. It is structural. And everyone who feeds on the system—good crook or bad crook—knows it.   

Transparency? Accountability? Or Defending Interest in a time of Controversy?

Transparency? Accountability? 

Or Defending Interest in a time of Controversy?

For three straight days, Manila’s Luneta Park is scattered by white-clad mob. Thousands of devotees, moving in near-militant synchrony, marched under banners and chants orchestrated by their religious leaders. The message from the pulpit was clear: this was a “show of strength” in response to recent political turbulence. 

Officially, the leaders insist their intentions are spiritual, not political. “We do not seek to interfere with governance,” they proclaimed, “but to lend the voice of faith to the calls of many of our countrymen condemning the enormous evil involving many government officials.” 

But the optics tell a different story. Anyone observing the chanting crowds, flags and placards raised high, and coordinated movements would be hard-pressed to see anything but politics in action. The sentiment is inherently political; the spectacle is inherently political. The call for “transparency, accountability, and justice” in flood control projects—though phrased in civic terms—cannot be divorced from the political alliances of the group itself. These leaders, and the flock that follows them, have long been associated with administrations now under scrutiny for corruption and mismanagement. 

At first glance, the demands appear reasonable. Who would argue against accountability? But context complicates matters. By aligning with past administrations implicated in questionable deals, and now positioning themselves as moral arbiters, the group’s actions raise questions about the sincerity of their calls. Can faith alone justify selective outrage? Or is the rhetoric a veneer for political continuity—supporting the interests they have historically endorsed? 

The streets near Luneta are crowded with white shirts, but the meaning of the march is anything but uniform. To outsiders, it may appear as a moral crusade, a showcase of unity that's been attributed to them especially during elections with their block voting. But to  those who remember the political loyalties of past years, it reads more like a carefully choreographed expression of partisanship cloaked in the language of piety. 

The timing of the demonstration—coinciding with renewed scrutiny of corruption scandals—hardly seems coincidental. While the leaders insist their aim is spiritual guidance, the political impact is undeniable. The message is being sent: their flock is united, visible, and vocal. The line between prayer and political statement has blurred, and in a city long accustomed to both, the distinction may be lost on few. 

Faith may light the torch, but in Manila, politics carries it through the streets. And in the end, white shirts may proclaim neutrality, but the past events, corresponding actions—and timing—speak louder, if not loudest than their features slogans.  

Reclaiming Moral Courage and Rebuilding a Nation

Reclaiming Moral Courage and Rebuilding a Nation

In today’s public discourse, one phrase is invoked with ritual predictability: that “change begins with the self.” It appears in classrooms, pulpits, speeches, and civic forums, spoken with the solemnity of moral doctrine. Yet, to many observers, its repetition has begun to sound hollow. The phrase demands personal virtue, but personal virtue alone cannot flourish in a sociopolitical environment designed to frustrate it. As Karl Marx once observed, “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please… but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past.” The individual does not stand outside the system; he is shaped—sometimes constrained—by it.

Across the archipelago, Filipinos from every demographic call for integrity and honest governance. Students march for accountability; professionals write earnest letters to newspapers; business groups hold conferences encouraging ethical leadership; religious institutions issue pastoral statements. But despite these varied appeals, corruption grows more resilient. It does not retreat—it adapts, mutates, and survives.

A troubling trend becomes evident in the profiles of many who fall to graft. Numerous figures embroiled in scandals hail from elite educational institutions—schools that proudly proclaim themselves as builders of leaders “for others” or guardians of character. Their alumni networks form the very circles that often condemn corruption in eloquent terms, yet these condemnations rarely produce systemic change. The contradiction between doctrine and deed remains stark. It mirrors Max Stirner’s insight that “the state calls its own violence law, but that of the individual crime,” revealing how entrenched power shields itself while moral language becomes a tool of selective judgment.

National rhetoric frequently extols integrity, responsibility, and accountability. Still, these values are routinely brushed aside by entrenched interests. Grand state formulations—whole-of-government, whole-of-society, whole-of-nation—are invoked in policy memos and public addresses. Yet analysts note a chronic lack of strategic depth within many leadership circles, rendering these frameworks more ceremonial than operational.

Ordinary citizens, meanwhile, find themselves relegated to passive spectators, expressing grievances from the sidelines as the corrupt continue on their way—untouched, unbothered, and often enriched. Public morality becomes a spectacle rather than a standard. Stirner warned how “fixed ideas” can become empty idols when detached from reality; “The sacred is only a fixed idea, and every fixed idea is a spook.” Much of our public discourse has devolved into such spook-talk: slogans repeated without power, ideals invoked without consequence.

Society repeatedly arrives at critical junctures but chooses the easier path: the path of silence, convenience, and moral fatigue. Public advocacy remains largely confined to speeches, opinion columns, and symbolic gestures—insufficient to confront a deeply rooted system of patronage and impunity.

Here and there, individuals and small groups attempt reform. Civic activists, whistleblowers, reformist officials, and community leaders take risks. Yet these efforts are scattered and isolated, unable to form the critical mass necessary to shift national momentum. Minor successes are hailed as breakthroughs, but they seldom alter the broader landscape.

The persistence of corruption stems from more than flawed individuals; it reflects structural, cultural, and institutional weaknesses. Analysts argue that reducing the crisis to a matter of private moral failings risks obscuring its systemic nature. Marx, too, insisted that ideals cannot transcend their institutional base: “Right can never be higher than the economic structure of society and its cultural development conditioned thereby.” Without transforming the foundations of power, appeals to virtue remain aspirational but impotent.

Commentators of the period increasingly identify two parallel fronts requiring simultaneous advancement:

1. Socio-personal transformation, understood not as rhetoric but as sustained moral discipline.
2. Systemic overhaul, grounded in reliable institutions, a functional justice system, and a rule of law applied uniformly.

The nation’s future hinges on both. Neither alone is sufficient. Stirner’s exhortation—“Whoever will be free must make himself free”—captures only half the equation; personal resolve matters, but it cannot substitute for the construction of institutions capable of restraining impunity and empowering the public.

The path forward, as articulated by reform thinkers of the era, requires:

— a reformed and fully functioning criminal justice system,

— fearless, impartial law enforcement, free from social or political exemptions, and

— the cultivation of moral courage as a public standard, not merely a private virtue.

These elements must move in unison. Delay only deepens the burden inherited by future generations.

As time progresses, the country stands at a moral and political threshold. The slogans have been uttered, the manifestos published, the speeches delivered. What remains uncertain is whether the nation can transform moral conviction into collective action—whether it can transcend hollow exhortations and forge a movement strong enough to challenge and change the structures that have long resisted reform.

In this crossroads moment, the promise of genuine national renewal depends not on the repetition of familiar phrases, but on the capacity to rebuild the institutions, habits, and moral foundations of public life. Only then can the word change regain its meaning—no longer a slogan, but a shared destiny.

Of Riding the Tiger and the Politics of Appearance: Reflections on Power, Principle, and Survival

Of Riding the Tiger and the Politics of Appearance:

Reflections on Power, Principle, and Survival

Before asking whether today’s loudest voices are truly against corruption—championing transparency, accountability, and justice—it is necessary to understand the political environment that has made such claims convenient. The sudden wave of indignation, erupting in synchronized chorus, signals less a principled stand and more a moment of political “joyriding”: a calculated attempt to ride public anger without sharing its ethical burden. 

The recent demonstrations illustrate this phenomenon clearly. What should have been a sober reckoning with bureaucratic rot was instead seized upon as a stage for reinvention. Individuals who had long ignored institutional decay suddenly rebranded themselves as defenders of probity and nationalism. Their “patriotism” arrived not from conviction but from opportunity​—the kind that flourishes when the public eye is elsewhere. 

One would have said—were it not for the accident of his being Asian, specifically Filipino—that he could easily have passed for a pan-European ideologue of the Neue Rechte: a man whose rhetoric, posture, and provocation bore the unmistakable stamp of right-wing apologetics. His defenders cast him as a cultural critic; his detractors saw an opportunist in borrowed political clothing. Yet the contradiction remained: his identity marked him outside the European New Right’s ethnocentric fold even as his arguments aligned him intimately with its contours. That tension—between origin and aspiration—revealed not a thinker of conviction, but a figure searching for ideological shelter wherever it offered the most visibility. 

It is in this context that this note return to Juan Ponce Enrile, who passed on November 13, 2025, aged 101 (or 103 according to some). At first glance, the statesman’s life may appear simply a series of political maneuvers, legal victories, and national controversies. But those who listened closely to his 2012 UP College of Law Alumni Homecoming keynote will recognize a deeper, almost prophetic pattern. In that speech, Enrile—then 88—spoke not merely to alumni but to the existential challenge of modernity itself. 

Amid tributes to faculty, references to historic firsts in the Supreme Court, and recollections of his own formative years, Enrile invoked the Italian traditionalist philosopher Julius Evola. He warned that the forces of change—technological, political, and cultural—cannot be halted or resisted in conventional ways. Instead, one must “ride the tiger”: grasp the destructive currents of the modern world and let them carry you forward, remaining inwardly sovereign and unbroken. 

Perhaps the speechwriter behind that work captured what Enrile truly thought: being in an advanced age, trying to ride the tiger, it would not be surprising if Enrile had never read Evola. Yet his experiences—of wars survived, regimes navigated, coups endured, and revolutions witnessed—embody an Evolan mindset. He stood in the ruins of a world increasingly unmoored, as if living in what traditionalists might call the Kali Yuga, a Dark Age where materialistic appetites and unbridled desires reign supreme. Without needing to know the texts, Enrile’s life enacted the very philosophy Evola describes: the disciplined, sovereign individual confronting the inexorable currents of a collapsing moral and political order. 

Few men of his generation embodied this principle more literally. He survived wars, insurrections, coups, impeachments, and revolutions—not by fleeing, not by submitting, but by standing upright, mastering circumstance while retaining an unbowed interior life. The metaphor of the tiger, once philosophical, became autobiographical. The 2012 speech, in hindsight, reads as a quietly prophetic testament: a message to the legal mind, to the student, and to the citizenry—that survival in chaotic times requires discipline, clarity, and mastery of oneself. 

Enrile’s life, like Evola’s tiger, reminds people that modernity is a force that consumes the unprepared. He did not merely cope with it; he transformed its turbulence into endurance. As Constantin von Hoffmeister might have observed, he enacted a form of “aristocratic lucidity”: a conscious alignment of the inner self with the demands of the outer world, even when that world had grown unrecognizably fast and complex. 

And yet, as the political critique illustrates, such mastery is rare. Many today mistake proximity for principle, performance for conviction. The loudest voices in contemporary public discourse—rhetoricians of moral indignation—often ride the tiger of public sentiment without the internal discipline to survive its course. Their patriotism is borrowed, contingent, and performative; their courage, theatrical. 

Enrile’s example stands in sharp contrast. He demonstrates that the tiger may be ridden without surrender, that chaotic forces may be transmuted into stability, and that enduring institutions—whether a law school or a republic—require individuals capable of confronting the tempest without being devoured. 

The lesson is twofold: for the citizen, it is a warning to discern performance from principle; for the statesman, it is a summons to cultivate inner sovereignty. In a world of manufactured outrage, fleeting heroics, and ideological mimicry, Juan Ponce Enrile’s life and words remain a testament to a different mode of being: to ride the tiger, to endure, and to stand upright when all around him flails. 

In reflecting on both his life and the modern political moment, we are reminded that the true battle is interior. And so, it is not surprising that there are those honor him not merely for what he did in politics or law, but for the formidable interior courage that allowed him to survive, thrive, and leave a legacy of philosophical and practical insight—one that challenges the rest to confront the tiger with the same steadiness and clarity. 

"Over New Wave and Coffeebreak"

"Over New Wave and Coffeebreak"

"Two Days in Taihoku"

I saw you first at Gate 29
Just a blur in the crowd, but your eyes met mine
A flight attendant with winds on her skin
And me with a journal, just taking it in
We said our hellos, like time never went
From chalkboard days to where all those letters went
And we laughed like we did in our old school hall
But this was a city that knew how to stall

Then you said you’d be walking through town
Just two days to burn, till you’re outbound
We met near the market where lanterns glow
By the tea shops and bikes in a steady flow
You wore the night like a soft perfume
I spoke of poems and hotel rooms
We traded the hours for glances and grace
Each moment a brushstroke, each word in its place

Two days in Taihoku, and the sky turned slow
Like a song from youth we used to know
One touch and the past fell into frame
No promises made, no one to blame
We were just two names the world forgot
Till time gave us this quiet shot
No maps, no covers—
Just love from a layover

You whispered, “Tomorrow, I fly at noon”
But the silence between us filled up the room
We danced through the shadows of Shilin streets
With hearts that were careful, yet skipped their beats
No baggage claimed, no future drawn
But something eternal was passing on
You left with a smile, no need for goodbyes
But I kept your name where the plum trees rise

Two days in Taihoku, and the sky turned slow
Like a song from youth we used to know
One touch and the past fell into frame
No promises made, no one to blame
We were just two names the world forgot
Till time gave us this quiet shot
No maps, no covers—
Just love from a layover

“Cream Without a Crown” 

Morning broke without a whisper

Coffee cooled, and time stood still

You left your coat on the back of a chair

Like you meant to come back—but never will

The steam forgot to rise today

Like hope that lost its way

I watched the cup turn solemn, calm

Where once love danced in foam and charm

And now it’s cream without a crown

A quiet fall, no trumpet sound

You smiled, but not for me

So I drank the emptiness

Dignified, but breaking down

It’s cream without a crown

I used to trace your name in spirals

In every swirl, I found a sign

But now the barista barely looks

And the milk forgets to shine

There’s no crescendo in this song

No saxophone to lead me on

Just porcelain truths and whispered lies

As your shadow slips outside

It’s cream without a crown

No curtain call, no gold renown

You spoke, and I heard fate

In a voice I was too late

And I drank the silence down

Like cream without a crown 

We don’t lose love all at once

It fades like sugar left unstirred

No goodbye, no final touch

Just the ache of what we heard 

Now it’s cream without a crown

Where hearts once flew, they now fall down

You were never mine to lose

But I dressed up just to bruise

And I sipped it like a vow…

This cream without a crown 

No froth to rise…

Just the hush where love once lied…

Cream without… a crown…

"The Day The Flat White Lost Its Froth" 

Walked into the café
Same seat, same song, same dream
Thought I’d see you smiling
But you were leaning in too deep
He touched your hand and laughed
You looked away, then back
And in that slow-motion silence
I felt the world go flat

Barista asked “The usual?”
Yeah, but nothing felt the same
No swirl, no rise, no shimmer—
Just coffee, cold and plain

The day the flat white lost its froth
You said you had a boyfriend, I felt off
No spark, no lift, no sugar lie
Just truth dripping like a cloudy sky
And I sat there, trying not to show
How everything turned monochrome
The day, the day
The flat white lost its froth

You didn’t see me falter
Didn’t notice I was there
You laughed like it was summer
While I froze inside my chair
I held the cup too tightly
Like it could explain the sting
But love don’t float forever
And some milk just doesn’t cling

She stirred his name into her lips
Like sweet and bitter cream
And I drank mine in silence
Swallowing the dream

The day the flat white lost its froth
You told me what I feared, and I got lost
No art, no bloom, no secret sign
Just a name I’ll hate for all of time
And I sipped it down, played it cool
Burnt my tongue pretending I’m no fool
The day, the day
The flat white lost its froth

I thought maybe, just maybe
You’d see me standing there
But maybe’s just a word we use
When we know they never cared

The day the flat white lost its froth
She had a boyfriend, I took the loss
No foam to float, no wish to keep
Just hot regret and bitter steep
And I walked out into the rain
Let the city spell your name again
The day, the day
The flat white lost its froth

I’ll still drink it tomorrow…
But it won’t taste the same.