Faith, Performance, and the Politics of Prayers: A Reckoning with "Events Place" Catholicism

Faith, Performance, and the Politics of Prayers: 

A Reckoning with "Events Place" Catholicism

There’s a disquiet in the air—echoing through churches, scrolling across timelines, murmured in family dinners, and shouted in online comment sections. It’s the kind of disquiet that comes when faith meets façade, when religion is paraded louder than it is practiced. And nowhere is this clearer than in the strange contradiction of Filipino Catholicism today—especially when the faithful mourn a pope, cheer for a new one, and simultaneously defend a blasphemous leader who has mocked that very same Church. 

Recently, Vice President Sara Duterte joined the Catholic community in mourning the death of Pope Francis. She called him “the shepherd who taught us to be compassionate, forgiving, and merciful in a world poisoned by social inequities, greed, hate and wars.” It was a solemn statement. Measured. Respectful. As expected, it was met with praise from her supporters—many of whom identify as “devout Catholics.” 

And yet, the contradiction is impossible to ignore. 

These same “devout” individuals continue to idolize and defend Rodrigo Duterte, a man who once cursed the Pope, suggested bishops should be killed, and belittled God as “stupid”—later waving it off as “just a joke.” And now, these same believers pray to God for Duterte’s freedom following his arrest and detention in The Hague. They light candles, share verses, post prayers online. But for whom? And to what end? 

This isn’t faith. It’s theater. 

It is Events Place Catholicism: religion as spectacle, performance, and costume. These are the Catholics who post selfies inside St. Peter’s Basilica, marvel at Rome’s architecture, and dream of a Filipino pope—but stay silent about injustice, poverty, or the moral rot in their own neighborhoods. They fill churches for weddings and baptisms but defend oppression and corruption as long as it suits their political alignment. And when their faith is questioned, they weaponize scripture or claim “free will,” as if that excuses allegiance to tyranny. 

Recently, as rumors swirled about the next pope, the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines (CBCP) urged the faithful not to campaign publicly for Cardinal Tagle. Their concern? That such acts could be misconstrued as attempts to influence the conclave. But in making that plea, they themselves implied what they feared—that the faithful were too naive to know better. That their prayers could be interpreted as manipulation rather than devotion. 

To many, this wasn’t just tone-deaf—it was patronizing. 

Are the Filipino faithful really so immature that their prayers for Tagle would scandalize the Vatican? One commentator responded with precision: “To you misguided priests and bishops of the CBCP, the prayers of the Filipino for a Filipino to be chosen pope are not directed at the electoral college in the Vatican. The prayers are to God, as all prayers are to God.” 

That is the heart of it. Prayers are not campaigns. They are not press releases or political rallies. They are expressions of hope. They are spiritual longings, not nationalist slogans. So sure—pray for Tagle. Hope for him. But also hope that your faith is not merely a performance. Not an aesthetic. Not a curated collection of religious habits detached from the radical demands of the Gospel. 

Because here’s the deeper question: If you can hope for a Filipino pope, can you also hope for justice in this forsaken nation? Can you long for a Church that doesn’t just shine in Rome, but speaks out in Manila, in Davao, in Caloocan? 

Or, more bluntly: Which is better—a Filipino pope, or Duterte? 

It’s appalling to see Catholics cry at the beauty of papal liturgies while defending the violence, misogyny, and mockery that Duterte has unleashed. This is not a mere political contradiction. It is a spiritual one. And it demands reckoning. 

Don’t talk about “choice” as if that settles it. Don’t invoke free will as a defense when choices run against the very Gospel claiming to uphold. If one is Christian—what more a Catholic— one's choices are not meant to align with one's convenience. They are meant to reflect Christ. And yes, painfully, one's choice can go against God’s. 

Expect now the babbling defenses of sola scriptura or sola fide—as if latching onto isolated verses or proclaiming “faith alone” could shield you from accountability. But Catholicism has never operated on loopholes. Faith without works is dead. And faith that only moves lips and not lives is little more than noise. 

So let this be said clearly: If one wants a Filipino pope, then live as if believing in the Church he would lead. If one mourns a pope, then carry his message beyond the funeral. If one prays, then pray also for courage—to speak truth, to stand with the poor, to call out the wolves in shepherd’s clothing. 

Because faith is not meant to flatter one's nationalism. It is meant to challenge one's soul. 

The true scandal is not in the prayers of the faithful. The scandal is in a Church that fears those prayers, dismisses them, or worse, lets them co-exist with tyranny. The scandal is in the silence that follows murder, the applause that greets cruelty, the blessings that crown corruption. 

The Filipino people do not need another pageant of piety. They need truth. They need faith with a backbone. They need a Church that lives what it preaches and preaches what it dares to live. 

Until then, all the chanting, praying, and weeping will be little more than performance. And heaven is not moved by performance. 

"A Man for Others, Beyond the Controversies"

"A Man for Others, Beyond the Controversies"

(A note after the death of Pope Francis in the eyes of many)

By Kat Ulrike

Pope Francis, who passed away on April 22, 2025, was a pontiff who redefined what it meant to be a religious leader in the modern world. While his legacy is far from free of controversy, especially among critics who often labeled him as "radical," he will be remembered by many as a pope who truly embodied the spirit of "A Man for Others"—a concept that goes beyond the walls of the church and directly into the lives of those he served.

In the days following his death, many Filipinos expressed their grief online, showing a deep appreciation for a man whose leadership resonated with the faithful and non-faithful alike. “So sad, it seems he completed the Holy Week before he passed. Farewell, Pope Francis,” wrote Janice U., reflecting on how the Pope’s passing came right after Easter, symbolically completing the liturgical cycle of suffering, death, and resurrection. Others echoed sentiments of faith and hope in the face of loss. Rolanda A. Y. expressed, “While the Catholic Church mourns your passing, heaven rejoices in welcoming you.” And there were even non-Catholics, like actress Angel Locsin, who expressed their condolences, acknowledging the Pope’s profound impact on the world: “I’m not Catholic, but I love Pope Francis! Thank you for showing what love and kindness are.”

For many Filipinos, Pope Francis was not just a figurehead of the Catholic Church; he represented the values of inclusivity, humility, and compassion that are at the core of their faith. In a nation where Catholicism is deeply ingrained in daily life, the Pope’s connection with ordinary people, especially the marginalized, was a source of inspiration. His actions, from his concern for the poor to his efforts to bring the church closer to the people, often felt more tangible than those of any other pope in modern history.

Yet, not everyone was enamored with Francis. His calls for reform, his embrace of LGBTQ+ rights, and his vocal support for climate action often put him at odds with conservative elements both inside and outside the church. Critics saw him as too radical, challenging long-standing doctrines, especially when it came to issues like celibacy, contraception, and the role of women in the church. His approach was viewed by some as a threat to traditional values, and many dismissed him as a pope who was too eager to blend religious teachings with political and social issues.

But perhaps that was precisely why Pope Francis’ leadership was so powerful: he understood that faith cannot exist in a vacuum. It cannot be confined to theological discussions in ivory towers or sealed within the walls of church buildings. Pope Francis brought faith into the streets, into the homes, and into the lives of the people who needed it most. He saw the "church" not just as a building, but as a living, breathing community, grounded in compassion and action.

In this way, Pope Francis truly embodied the concept of "A Man for Others," a phrase coined by St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus (Jesuits), the order to which Francis belongs. Being a man for others means giving oneself in service, often without regard for personal comfort or gain, and Pope Francis lived this out in every aspect of his pontificate. Whether it was visiting the poorest corners of the world, speaking out against inequality, or advocating for the protection of the environment, his actions were always rooted in the idea that faith is about love and service to others, especially the marginalized.

Critics may argue that his papacy was too focused on social issues and not enough on traditional church teachings. But for those who followed him closely, it was evident that Pope Francis was always grounded in the teachings of Christ—love, compassion, and justice for all. He was a pontiff who sought to bring the church closer to the world, not as an institution of power, but as a source of healing and hope.

In the Philippines, where the Pope made a historic visit in 2015, his death has left a void, but it has also sparked a renewed reflection on what it means to live out one’s faith. Pope Francis will be remembered not as a perfect man—he was, after all, a product of his time—but as a figure who saw the church for what it could be: a living expression of faith, one that is meant to reach beyond the altar and touch the lives of those in need. His commitment to social justice, humility, and love will continue to inspire Catholics and non-Catholics alike for years to come.

In the end, Pope Francis was not just a religious leader, but a symbol of how faith can transcend the confines of institutions and inspire real-world change. He may have been seen as "radical" by some, but in the eyes of many, he was a shepherd who cared for his flock, a man who lived out the words of Jesus: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”

And in that, Pope Francis truly was a man for others. 

Pope Francis: The Jesuit Who Dared to Challenge the Status Quo

Pope Francis:
The Jesuit Pontiff Who Dared to Challenge the Status Quo

Anthony VanArsdale, Pope Francis Portrait (2013).

Photo: Anthony VanArsdale.

To be brutally honest, Pope Francis' papacy often faced the harshest criticism not simply because of his actions, but because of his identity as a Jesuit. There was something about him that stirred discomfort in a church that had long been accustomed to seeing popes who were, quite plainly, "papal." Traditional, conservative, and distant in a way that made them symbols of an otherworldly church, separate from the struggles and realities of everyday life. The Pope was supposed to be the divine figurehead of a hierarchical institution, embodying transcendence. But Pope Francis was different: he chose to be a man for the people, walking with them, challenging them, and calling them to act on the problems that were more structural than they were spiritual. And this dissonance is where the critiques—especially those that labeled him as a "radical" or "communist"—began.

The critics’ primary gripe wasn’t so much with Francis as a person, but with the way he represented a shift in what many believed the Church was meant to be. The Church, they thought, was supposed to be about morality, charity, and the preservation of tradition. Pope Francis was seen as someone who, with his Jesuit background, had the gall to suggest that charity and morality were only part of the picture. What the world needed was a fundamental rethinking of the structure itself. Too many were accustomed to seeing the Church as a structure that existed in the clouds—away from the dirt of real-world problems. The focus had long been on personal sin and the moral choices of individuals. Pope Francis, on the other hand, would argue that the problems facing humanity, particularly the marginalized, weren't simply about personal choices or discipline—they were structural issues deeply rooted in unjust systems.

Some critics went even further, dismissing him as a "communist," a label that seemed to stick despite the fact that it was often misapplied and out of context. But if one were to look at the essence of what was being said, one could draw a parallel between his ideas and the concepts of Marxism—not in its political or revolutionary sense, but in the way it sought to address the needs of the poor and the disenfranchised. If you strip away the loaded ideological terms, you see a subtle resonance with a notion that has existed in both Christian theology and Marxist thought: “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” Marx may have coined the phrase, but St. Paul had already said something remarkably similar, “neither work, neither eat” (2 Thessalonians 3:10), pointing to the same principle that the fruits of labor should serve the needs of the people, and that injustice in the distribution of resources is a moral failing, not just an economic one.

But here’s where the difference lies. St. Paul was direct, almost brutally frank in his phrasing. He did not soften his words. The idea that “if you don’t work, you don’t eat” was a clear and stark condemnation of those who were unwilling to contribute to the community. His message was uncompromising and sharp. Marx, on the other hand, took that same core idea and “humanized” it. He made it sound more like a call for cooperation and fairness—a shared responsibility, rather than a moral judgment. If St. Paul were alive today, he might very well be “red-tagged” for his honesty. In an era that is quick to label, his bluntness could easily have been twisted into something more nefarious than the gospel message it was meant to convey.

Pope Francis made it clear that the issues of poverty, inequality, and social injustice weren’t simply problems of individual indiscipline or a matter of bad choices. They were symptoms of something deeper, something systemic. He called for a radical rethinking of the economic and social systems that perpetuate these injustices, reminding the Church and the world that the teachings of Christ demanded action in the face of suffering, not passive charity or moralizing. It’s no wonder then that his ideas were sometimes seen as controversial, because they threatened to upend the established way of thinking that relegated the Church to a moralizing institution while leaving the real-world issues to others.

And yet, despite the criticisms, there’s no denying that Pope Francis’ vision for the Church resonated deeply with many—especially in the Global South, where he was seen as a champion for the poor, the oppressed, and the marginalized. His papacy brought the Church back down to earth, reminding Catholics and non-Catholics alike that faith without works is dead, that belief in God cannot simply be about private devotion but must be expressed in active solidarity with those who suffer.

But perhaps one of the most symbolic gestures of Pope Francis’ papacy was his decision to choose the name “Francis.” When he first announced his papacy, the world was already familiar with names like “Pius,” “Innocent,” “Clement,” and “Sixtus”—names that carried with them a certain gravitas, a sense of tradition, and sometimes an austere commitment to the institutional Church. Then came “Francis,” a name that immediately invoked the spirit of St. Francis of Assisi—known for his humility, his care for the poor, and his revolutionary approach to the gospel. Choosing this name was not just a nod to a saint, but a deliberate rejection of the high offices of papal tradition. It was a declaration that this pope would walk among the people, not above them. His choice of name set the tone for everything he would do: Pope Francis would not be the Pope of the status quo. He would be the Pope of change, of solidarity, of humility.

In fact, one might argue that “John Paul” sounded modern, a bridge between the past and the future, but names like “Pius” were stern, representing a papacy that swore to uphold the order—even if it meant criticising the forces that threatened that order. Pope Francis’ name, by contrast, was a radical shift, aligning him with the idea of a humble servant leader rather than a ruler who presided over an empire. His papacy, then, was both an embrace of St. Francis’ radical humility and a rejection of the more “stern” papacies that had preceded him.

To understand Pope Francis’ approach is to recognize that he never denied the spiritual aspect of the Church. But his Jesuit lens pushed him to broaden the scope of Christian faith. For him, the gospel was not just a set of personal commandments or private piety—it was a call to confront the powers that be, to challenge unjust systems, and to stand in solidarity with the suffering. Pope Francis’ legacy, then, is not defined by whether or not one agrees with his particular stances, but by his insistence on placing the Church squarely in the world of real-world suffering, instead of allowing it to retreat into a spiritual ivory tower.

In the end, critics who dismissed him as “too radical” or "communist" may have missed the point entirely. Pope Francis wasn't trying to impose a political ideology onto the Church; rather, he was attempting to guide it back to its core mission: to be a force for change in a world that too often chooses comfort over justice. He was not a pope who wanted to be disconnected from the world. Instead, he wanted the Church to face the world as it was—full of suffering, full of need—and ask what it could do to change that. He wanted the Church to be a “Church of the Poor,” and in that sense, his work was not only faithful to the gospel but also faithful to the principles that run through both the Christian and Marxist ideals of justice, solidarity, and equality.

Pope Francis wasn’t a man for those who only wanted the Church to provide an escape from the world. He was a man for those who believed the Church should be deeply involved in the work of transforming it. Whether or not you agreed with all of his stances, his legacy will stand as a testament to a Pope who dared to challenge the comfortable, privileged, and often unjust systems that governed the Church and the world. In that sense, he was the kind of Pope the world needed: a man who understood that faith without justice was incomplete, and that the work of the Church was not just to save souls, but to serve the world. 

"NON SIT CONFUSIO"

"NON SIT CONFUSIO" 

On the Distortion of Christ’s Passion 

in the Justification of Power and Violence 

A Palm Sunday Reflection 

The Triumph of the Cross, Not the Sword 

As the folk raise palms to commemorate the Lord’s entrance into Jerusalem, the Church calls the faithful to remember that the Messiah this world follow is not one of worldly domination, but of humble suffering and self-sacrificing love. Christ’s Passion is not a political metaphor—it is the culmination of divine mercy meeting human violence. 

Today, however, some seek to distort this mystery. They claim that political leaders—particularly former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte, who now faces investigation by the International Criminal Court (ICC)—are modern-day Christs, persecuted not for wrongdoing but for standing firm. Such comparisons are not only misplaced—they are blasphemous distortions of the Gospel. 

Christ did not spill the blood of others. He shed His own. He was not a master of vengeance, but the Lamb who forgave His executioners 

(cf. Luke 23:34). 

“He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth… By oppression and judgment he was taken away.”

— Isaiah 53:7–8 

The Record of Power and the Cry of the Innocent 

Duterte’s legacy is marked by a campaign of state violence that resulted in thousands of deaths, most among the poor. Reports from Human Rights Watch, Rappler, and Amnesty International estimate over 12,000 extrajudicial killings during the so-called “war on drugs.” No trials. No mercy. No due process. 

In 2018, Duterte stated: 

“My only sin is the extrajudicial killings.”

— (Speech in Malacañang Palace, September 27, 2018) 

He later infamously mocked the faithful, saying: 

“Your God is stupid.”

— (Davao City, June 22, 2018) 

Let it be made clear: Christ said, 

“Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone.” 

— John 8:7

Yet Duterte not only cast stones—he encouraged others to do so, rejoicing in their flight. 

The ICC’s investigation is not persecution, but an attempt to uphold international justice and human dignity. The Rome Statute, signed by the Philippines in 2000, commits nations to confront crimes against humanity wherever they occur. 

“Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees.”
— Isaiah 10:1–2 

Political Messianism and the Abuse of Holy Symbols

The temptation to fashion messiahs out of strongmen is not new. The crowd that welcomed Jesus with palms cried “Hosanna!” one day and “Crucify Him!” the next. They were confused between the power of Caesar and the mercy of Christ.

Christ’s crown was of thorns, not military medals. His power was thatfrom the Father, not the distortion of the law nor the gun. 

In Fratelli Tutti, Pope Francis warns of this confusion:

“The best way to dominate and gain control over people is to spread despair and discourage hope… this strategy of domination weakens them and opens the way to demagoguery.”
— Fratelli Tutti, §15

Likewise, in Evangelii Gaudium, he writes:

“It is not the task of religion to offer a substitute for politics… but neither should it remain silent in the face of injustice.”
— Evangelii Gaudium, §183 

The Cross is Not for Tyrants 

To compare the trials of Duterte to the Passion of Christ is to mock Calvary itself. The Cross is not a cover for the sins of the powerful. It is the place where sin is exposed and mercy reigns. 

Those who died without justice—the children, the innocent, the poor—are the ones whose suffering bears closer resemblance to Christ than any political figure. 

To twist Palm Sunday into a political myth is to once again choose Barabbas, the insurrectionist, over Christ, the Lamb. 

“Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.”

— Galatians 6:7 

Call to Vigilance and Truth 

Let every priest, catechist, teacher, and preacher speak truth this Holy Week. Silence in the face of this distortion is complicity. 

Palm Sunday is not a celebration of empty spectacle—it is a pledge to walk the road of justice with Christ. That road leads not to the palace of tyrants, but to the Cross of love. 

To those who wave palms yet defend cruelty, hear the words of Christ: 

“Why do you call me ‘Lord, Lord,’ and not do what I tell you?”

— Luke 6:46 

Final Admonition 

The Cross is not a prop. It is not a shield for rulers nor a stage for spectacle. It is the measure of love. 

Let the folk raise palms for the true Christ—not the one made in the image of political convenience, but the one who lays down His life for the least of these. 

Let this Holy Week be one of clarity, repentance, and resolve. 

“Whatever you did to the least of these, you did to Me.”

— Matthew 25:40

“As people raise the palms for the Lord, raise the fist against the tyrant!”

“As people raise the palms for the Lord,
Raise the fist against the tyrant!”

On that day, Jerusalem trembled—not from fear, but from hope. The people gathered at the gates, waving palm branches and laying their cloaks before the donkey that bore not a warrior, but a carpenter from Nazareth. “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (John 12:13) they cried. Their cheers echoed like a hymn of liberation. Yet beneath the jubilation lay something deeper: a quiet revolution. 

Christ did not come to uphold the status quo. He came to overturn it. 

He entered not with swords but with truth. And truth, when spoken clearly, is always dangerous to tyrants. 

Palm Sunday is often romanticized as a peaceful procession, but it is in fact a bold political and spiritual declaration. Jesus, hailed as king, presented a kingship unlike any seen before—a reign of justice, compassion, and truth. “He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives,” He declared in the synagogue of Nazareth (Luke 4:18). His very presence unsettled the powerful. 

And as the Church remembers this day, it must ask: is the folk merely waving palms, or prepared to raise voices—and yes, fists—against the oppression that crucifies truth in every age? 

Scripture is clear in its demand for justice: 

“Woe to those who decree iniquitous decrees, and the writers who keep writing oppression.” 

— Isaiah 10:1

“Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

— Amos 5:24 

Christ’s followers are not called to silence. They are not called to passive observance. They are called to act. 

The Church’s teaching is equally clear. In Rerum Novarum, Pope Leo XIII denounced the exploitation of the working poor and insisted on the dignity of labor, declaring: 

“The oppression of the working classes… is a flagrant violation of justice.”

 — Rerum Novarum, §5 

Pope Francis, in Fratelli Tutti, insists that fraternity must be built not on vague goodwill, but on confronting structures of sin: 

“A healthy politics is… one truly at the service of the common good.”

 — Fratelli Tutti, §154 

He warns of a “throwaway culture,” where people—especially the poor—are cast aside. And he echoes Christ’s own prophetic anger when He overturned the tables in the temple: 

“My house shall be a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.” 

— Matthew 21:13 

In Evangelii Gaudium, Francis exhorts the Church: 

“Peace in society cannot be understood as pacification or the mere absence of violence… Peace calls for a society founded on truth, justice and solidarity.” 

— Evangelii Gaudium, §218 

So as believers wave palms this Sunday, they must do so with conscience. For the palm branch is not only a symbol of peace—it is a protest against empire. And the fist, raised not in hatred, but in defiance of tyranny, is a gesture that echoes Christ’s own challenge to the powers of His time. 

Palm Sunday reminds the world that true kingship belongs not to the Caesars, but to the Lamb. That the meek will inherit the earth. That the truth will not stay buried, even behind a stone. 

May the folk wave the palm with praise—and raise the fist with purpose. 

For to cry “Hosanna” and remain silent in the face of injustice is to betray the very one we welcome.  

“Building a Better Nation: Lessons from Bataan for Today’s Challenges”

“Building a Better Nation: 

Lessons from Bataan for Today’s Challenges”

In light of the recent news about the Philippine exports to the US facing a 17-percent tariff starting April 9, it becomes clear that the country is at a critical juncture. While the tariff rate on the Philippines seems relatively modest compared to its Southeast Asian competitors—Vietnam at 46 percent, Thailand at 36 percent, Indonesia at 32 percent, Malaysia at 24 percent, and Cambodia at 49 percent—it still signals a significant challenge that requires a thoughtful response. 

This situation serves as a stark reminder of the pressing need to “build a better nation.” The historical context of Bataan and Corregidor illustrates how the Filipino people have always chosen to fight—not for the approval of external powers, but to assert their independence and strength. The battles fought on these grounds were not just about surviving oppression but about defending the dignity and sovereignty of the nation. Although many endured untold suffering in the aftermath, the spirit of resilience never wavered. 

But is resilience enough in today’s global economic landscape? The answer is no. Resilience alone cannot guarantee the long-term survival of a nation in the face of shifting economic realities. To truly build a better nation, the Philippines must prepare for the challenges ahead—whether from tariffs or other unforeseen crises. While the 17-percent tariff might seem “low” in comparison to the steeper rates imposed on its neighbors, it is precisely in these seemingly small challenges that the seeds for a greater national response can be planted. 

The lessons of Bataan remind the Filipino people that the battle for a nation’s future requires more than just endurance; it requires a readiness to face hardship head-on with determination and strategic foresight. It is time for the country to roll up its sleeves and show the world that it is capable of standing on its own two feet. This is not Bataan, but the lessons of Bataan are not confined to bloodshed—they are about fortitude, iron will, and the unshakable desire to defend and build a nation for future generations.  

In this moment, the Philippines must recognize that true strength is not only found in facing adversity but in preparing for it. The coming months will test the nation’s resolve, but it must rise to the challenge with the same spirit that once defied colonial powers and marched forward to a better future. The journey to building a better nation begins with the collective efforts of its people, and it starts today. 

“Skyletters to Nowhere”

“Skyletters to Nowhere”

"Back to Escolta"

(to the melody of "Война Лотерея")

Verse 1:

Who remembers Escolta nights,  

Café lights and dress shoes bright?  

You wore pearls and I wore borrowed courage.  

There you stood by Berg’s display,  

Hair done up like yesterday,  

In your smile, my heart found its refuge.

Verse 2:

We would walk past Capitol,  

Neon signs and jazz so full,  

Every glance between us said together.  

But the world moved much too fast,  

Trams went quiet, time won’t last—  

And we lost those days we thought we’d treasure.

Chorus:  

But love is like a film reel fading slow,  

And I keep rewinding every scene.  

Now I see your photo my heart says don’t let go,  

Wish I held your hand again at seventeen.  

Now I see your photo my heart says don’t let go,  

Wish I walked with you again through Escolta's dream.

Verse 3:

Postcards and old ticket stubs,  

Cold Magnolia in paper cups,  

You'd tease me with a wink outside the movies.  

Rusting gates and faded stone,  

But this heart won't leave it alone—  

Every street recalls you, soft and gloomy.

Verse 4:

We had nothing but young eyes,  

Dreams like kites in Pasig skies,  

You said love was all we’d ever need.  

But you left with father's rules,  

Told to marry, told to choose—  

Now the past is just a vinyl on repeat.

Chorus repeat

Verse 5:

I still walk by Botica Boie,

Hear you laugh in memory's joy.

But the laughter’s now a ghost in every scene—

Reflected in a windowpane,

A fleeting scent, a touch of rain,

Your absence lingers like a closing dream.

Verse 6:

They’ve torn the posters and changed the names,

But some old songs still play the same.

And when they do, I see you clear as day.

A phantom in a summer dress,

Her youth in heels and silk finesse—

And I still turn around like you might stay.

Final Chorus:

Yes, love is like a dance hall closed too soon,  

And I still sway beneath a silver screen.  

Now I see your shadow by the full May moon—  

Wish I held you once again where we had been.  

Now I see your shadow by the full May moon—  

Wish I loved you once again… in Escolta’s dream.

"Tell My love"

 

(to the melody of "Привет сестрёнка")

Just tell my love, that I am in the uprising, 

Fighting for tomorrow, though the cost is frightening. 

Tell her I’m not scared, though I am far from home, 
We’re battling together, but I am feel so alone.

She’s flying above the clouds, where the world’s so wide, 

She's serving coffee and smiles while I am here, far aside. 

Her face on the screen, as I write in the dark, 

She’s the dream in my heart, the light in the spark.

Tell her the nights are cold, and the days are long, 

But I keep pushing forward, staying brave, staying strong. 

I’m writing these letters, hoping she’ll understand, 

That I’m standing here, holding the line for this land.

While she’s out on the runways, where the planes always fly, 

I’m stuck in the trenches, trying not to cry. 

Tell her the thought of her keeps me alive, 

Her voice in my dreams helps me survive.

Just tell my love, that I’m keeping the faith, 

Through the smoke and fire, I’ll keep my pace. 

Tell her I’m thinking of her every day, 

And when this fight is over, I’ll come back her way.

In the skies above, she moves through the air, 

But the war keeps pulling me, it’s too much to bear. 

She’s a flight attendant, drifting through the night, 

I’m on the ground, holding the line, staying in the fight.

Tell her I’m proud of her, the way she keeps going, 

Her heart is a compass, always knowing. 

While I’m here with the rifles, the sound of the drums, 

She’s flying the world, waiting for when I come.

The world’s on fire, but my heart’s still hers, 

I’ll send her my love through the chaos and the blur. 

I’ll hold her in my dreams, till the day I return, 

Until then, she’s in my heart, and I’ll never yearn.

Tell her she’s brave, in her sky-high world, 

While I fight for tomorrow, my flag unfurled. 

The missions get harder, the end’s out of sight, 

But I think of her always, she’s my guiding light.

Just tell my love, I’m fighting with pride, 

That I’m doing this for us, for the world we’ll guide. 

Tell her I’m brave, and my spirit’s still high, 

And one day soon, we’ll see the sun in the sky.

As the world spins on, in a blur of air and land, 

Tell her I’ll be waiting with a rose in my hand. 

She’s the hope I carry as I stand on this ground, 

She’s the love I fight for, she’s the reason I’m found.

Tell my love, when this battle’s done, 

We’ll dance in the streets under the setting sun. 

Until that day, though the war keeps rising, 

Just tell my love, that I am in the uprising.

Summer soon will be over

(using the song "Скоро кончится лето")

Verse 1

She’s going to Fukuoka, I’m heading to Taipei,

We messaged both goodbye, otherwise, come what may.

But the throwbacking thoughts still keep me wondering,

Seven thousand for a ticket, no way of returning.

She said we’d meet again, but I know that’s a lie,

Just like the summer nights, we left them behind.

I tried to say goodbye, but the words didn’t fly,

Now I’m stuck with these memories, asking why.

Chorus

I’m waiting for an answer,

There’s nothing left to choose.

Скоро кончится лето,

Это, это.

Verse 2

Her suitcase rolled away, and the streets felt so bare,

I stayed behind with nothing, just my thoughts everywhere.

I watched the planes take off, saw her leave in the light,

And now I’m left with silence, staring into the night.

I sent one last message, “Take care of yourself,”

But I’m counting the seconds, my heart’s on the shelf.

The city keeps on turning, but it feels like a lie,

I look up at the sky, but I don’t know why.

Chorus

I’m waiting for an answer,

There’s nothing left to choose.

Скоро кончится лето,

Это, это.

Verse 3

Neon lights flicker in some faraway place,

I wonder if she thinks of me or if I’ve been erased.

I walk through empty alleys, passing through the night,

I miss the way she looked at me, but it doesn’t feel right.

Seven thousand miles, but it feels like a dream,

I stare at the stars, nothing’s as it seems.

I thought we had forever, now I’m alone in this space,

Waiting for a signal, but I don’t know where to place.

Chorus

I’m waiting for an answer,

There’s nothing left to choose.

Скоро кончится лето,

Это.

Final Chorus

I’m waiting for an answer,

There’s nothing left to choose.

Summer soon will be over,

Sooner

"Flor de Abril"

"Flor de Abril"

(Partially based from the song "Depois do Adeus")

I

Lisbon, early April 1974 

Pablo had asked himself a hundred times who he was. A soldier, yes. But more than that? He wasn’t sure anymore. 

The uniform he wore had begun to feel like a shackle, not just on his body, but on his very soul. He had been trained to obey, to follow orders without hesitation. Yet lately, the weight of his actions felt unbearable. In the stillness of the barracks, when the others talked of loyalty and duty, he found himself questioning everything — not just his place in the military, but his place in the world. 

That was when he met Astrid. 

Astrid was unlike anyone he had ever known. A woman who lived between the lines of poetry, philosophy, and revolution. She worked at a small bookshop near the Convento do Carmo, an intimate space that felt more like a refuge than a place of commerce. The smell of old paper and ink, mingling with the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee from the shop’s corner, seemed to pull him in whenever he walked by. 

It was a rainy afternoon when they first spoke. She was standing at a tram stop, holding a pile of books as though they were more precious than gold, while the rain soaked her clothes. Pablo had been walking by, lost in thought, when he noticed her — drenched, but smiling softly as though the rain didn’t bother her. 

Without thinking, he offered her his coat. She glanced at it, then at him, before shaking her head gently. 

“You’re kind,” she said, her voice soft but strong, “but I’ve weathered worse storms.” 

It was an innocent remark, but one that stayed with him long after the rain had stopped. She didn’t just survive; she thrived in the storm. 

They began meeting regularly at Café A Brasileira, a popular spot where the city’s intellectuals gathered, their conversations spilling out into the streets. At first, their meetings felt accidental, as though fate had a hand in them. But soon, it became routine, and Pablo found himself longing for the sound of her voice, the sharpness of her wit, the way she could speak about freedom and injustice as if they were one and the same. 

Astrid spoke of change often, knowing after the long years of dictatorship, of the people’s silent suffering. She spoke of Portugal’s future, of what they could be if only they dared to break free from the chains that had bound them for so long. But Pablo spoke little of his own role. He had been part of the MFA, the Military Revolutionary Movement that had quietly been planning the coup for months. 

Though they grew closer, he never told her the truth — that the revolution, the change she longed for, was in part his doing. He feared her disappointment. But there was something in the way she looked at him, as though she already knew. 

One evening, as they walked along the Tejo, the river quietly reflecting the dimming sky, she turned to him and asked, “Do you believe this country can be free?” 

Pablo hesitated. His heart felt heavy. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “but I hope so.” 

“But you’re doing something,” she replied, her gaze unwavering. “I can feel it.” 

He kissed her then, not as an answer to her question, but as a way to quiet the turmoil inside him. But even in her kiss, he felt the weight of the truth pressing against him. 

II 

April 23, 1974 

The night was quiet, the air still. Lisbon’s streets, often filled with the hum of trams and the bustle of late-night conversations, now seemed to hold their breath. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver light across the city, bathing it in a soft, ethereal glow. Inside the small apartment that Pablo had come to call home for the past few months, the only sound was the gentle rhythm of their breathing. 

Astrid lay beside him, her head resting against his chest. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, warm and steady, matching his own. The scent of her hair, like wildflowers after a spring rain, lingered in the air. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers, her body curled into his in the familiar comfort of their shared intimacy. The weight of the world seemed to vanish in this moment, as if time itself had momentarily frozen. 

But even in this silence, Pablo could feel the weight of the coming storm pressing down on him. He had been waiting for this night — the night when everything would change. His heart pounded not just from the closeness of her body, but from the knowledge of the choice that lay ahead. The revolution was coming. The mission was clear. And yet, as he held her, he wondered how much he could truly leave behind. 

“I had a dream,” Astrid whispered, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of sadness in it, as though the words were pulled from a place of deep vulnerability. “That you left, and I stayed. And when you came back, we had become strangers.” 

Pablo’s chest tightened at the thought. He had never heard her speak like this before. Her words felt like a weight pressing down on him, like a secret truth that had been buried deep in his heart, one he hadn’t wanted to confront. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer, as if trying to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace before the chaos of the next few days. 

“I’ll never leave you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren’t entirely true. Not in the way she meant. The revolution was already in motion. He was part of something much larger than himself now. And when it was over, he feared it would change everything. It would change them. It had to. 

The night before, Pablo had received the final orders: the coup would begin at midnight. The signal would be the first notes of the song “E Depois do Adeus” playing on the radio — a symbol of resistance, of hope, of the freedom they had all been waiting for. At the first sound of those notes, he and his comrades would move quickly, seizing key positions in the city — the airport, the radio stations, the military barracks. They would carry their gun- only to see people beside them carrying flowers. Carnations, the symbol of peace and revolution. It would be a bloodless coup, a revolution not born of hatred, but of the quiet, determined will to break free from the chains that had bound the country for so long. 

But as he held Astrid in his arms, he felt a deep sorrow creeping into his heart. He was not just fighting for a better future for Portugal. He was fighting for her, for the life they had begun to build together, a life that had been born in the shadow of a repressive regime. He was fighting to give her the freedom to live without fear, to speak her mind without looking over her shoulder. But he knew this fight would come at a cost. The revolution, for all its promise, would leave scars. And one of those scars might very well be the one that came between them. 

“Partir é morrer,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, almost a whisper. “Leaving is dying a little.” 

Her words echoed in the silence of the room, like the soft tolling of a distant bell. Pablo’s heart clenched at the truth of them. He had heard it before — in books, in the speeches of revolutionaries, in the quiet conversations of the people who had suffered under the dictatorship for so long. But hearing it from her, hearing it in this moment, made it feel all the more real. 

Astrid was right. Leaving would mean leaving behind not just a part of himself, but a part of her, too. It would mean stepping into a world where they would be changed forever, where the love they had built — tentative, fragile, but real — would be torn apart and rebuilt in ways neither of them could predict. She had already seen it. She had already felt it. She knew, in the depths of her soul, what the revolution would cost. 

Pablo brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, his fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe that leaving her, even for a noble cause, would change everything. But the truth was undeniable. The revolution would demand sacrifices. It would demand more from him than he had ever been willing to give. 

“I’ll come back,” he promised, though his words felt hollow even as he said them. He wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe that he would return to her, that they would pick up where they left off, that the world would return to its rightful balance and they could be together again. But deep down, he knew better. He had already made the decision. He had already crossed the line. 

This night would be the last time they were truly together, the last time they could hold each other without fear, without the weight of history pressing down on them. 

“Promise me something,” Astrid said, her voice breaking through his thoughts. 

“Anything,” Pablo replied, his voice thick with emotion. 

“Promise me that when the revolution is over, when everything is finished, we will find each other again. No matter what happens, no matter where we are, we will find our way back to each other.” 

Pablo hesitated, his mind swirling with the uncertainty of the future. He wanted to promise her that, to give her the comfort of those words, but the truth was that he wasn’t sure he would survive the coming days. He wasn’t sure if they would ever have the chance to find each other again. 

But in that moment, he made a decision. He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I promise,” he whispered, though even as he spoke, he knew that promises were fragile things. The world had a way of shattering even the strongest ones. 

They lay together in silence after that, their bodies entwined, as the clock ticked toward midnight. The weight of the coming revolution pressed heavily on them both, but for a few fleeting moments, it was just the two of them — two souls caught in the web of history, bound by love and the fragile hope of a future that had yet to be written. 

And as the first notes of “E Depois do Adeus” began to play on the radio, they both knew that the moment had come. The world outside was about to change. And so were they. 

III 

April 25, 1974 

The dawn broke cold, the first light of morning creeping slowly over the city of Lisbon. The streets, usually filled with the hum of life, lay eerily still. The usual sounds — the cries of street vendors, the clattering of trams, the chatter of workers and families preparing for their day — were absent. Instead, the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the city itself were waiting for something to happen. The sun’s pale fingers stretched across the rooftops, casting long shadows along the cobbled streets. It was as if time had slowed, holding on to that fragile moment between the night and the day — a moment that would mark the end of an era. 

Pablo and his fellow officers moved swiftly, their steps purposeful, their faces set with the quiet determination of men who knew that history was about to unfold in ways that would change everything. The plan had been set for months, each movement, each action meticulously timed. The signal was simple — a song, played on the radio, the familiar and defiant notes of “E Depois do Adeus” and "Grandola Vila Morena", songs that had become a symbol of the resistance. The message was clear: freedom had arrived. 

Pablo felt the weight of it all, pressing on him like a physical force. He had never imagined that it would feel this heavy. There was no turning back now. His hands, usually steady, now trembled slightly as he held the radio to his ear, waiting for the first sounds to echo out into the morning air. He could hear the low hum of the transmission, the static that preceded the moment of change. And then, the first notes of the song began to play, cutting through the stillness of the early hour. 

It was as if the music itself was a call to arms, not with violence, but with hope. The soldiers who had gathered in their positions — once instruments of the regime — began to move. Some took their places at the strategic points, ready to follow through with the plan. But others, eyes wide and faces taut with the weight of a country’s pain, hesitated. And then, something incredible happened. The people — the ordinary citizens, the ones who had lived their lives in quiet suffering under the regime — were already moving, too. They had heard the song. They knew what it meant. It wasn’t just a signal to the soldiers; it was a signal to them as well. 

And so, the revolution began — not with the clash of weapons, not with the roar of gunfire, but with flowers. 

Carnations — simple, humble flowers — were thrust into the barrels of rifles. Soldiers who had once feared defying the regime looked at the flowers, then at the people, and in a moment of clarity, they stepped aside. Some soldiers, their faces weathered with years of obedience and regret, joined the crowds, their arms raised in solidarity, their rifles now discarded. The streets of Lisbon filled with the sound of people singing, shouting, weeping, laughing — emotions unburdened for the first time in so long. The air was thick with the scent of carnations, the scent of something new, something alive, something full of promise. 

The revolution was unfolding before him, and yet, despite the swelling tide of joy and triumph, Pablo’s heart felt tight with unease. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Amidst the crowd, amidst the cries of victory and the weight of history shifting in the air, he couldn’t find her. 

Astrid. 

Her absence was like a dark cloud hanging over him, threatening to overshadow the brightness of the moment. He had promised her he would return, that he would find her again. But now, as he moved through the streets, the crowds swelling around him, he began to fear that promise was already broken. 

The revolution had come, but it had also taken something from him. 

The night before, as they lay together, Astrid had been so sure, so resolute. Her voice had echoed in his mind, still haunting him — “Promise me that when the revolution is over, when everything is finished, we will find each other again.” He had promised her. He had made the promise, but now it felt like a cruel joke. 

His feet carried him through the streets, a part of him driven by the same desire for freedom that fueled the masses, but another part of him, the part that had truly loved her, was pulling him in a different direction. The revolution was happening, but she wasn’t there to see it. She wasn’t there to experience the joy of the city finally breathing free. 

By mid-afternoon, the city had transformed. Those who defend the past regime had surrendered, the last pockets of resistance crushed under the weight of the people’s demand for change. The government that had reigned for decades had crumbled. It was a bloodless coup. It was beautiful. 

But it was also incomplete. 

Pablo knew he had to find her. He had to know where she was, if she was safe, if she had been caught up in the chaos of it all. He ran toward the bookshop where they had spent so many hours talking, planning, dreaming of a future that no longer seemed so far away. 

But when he arrived, the door was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer. His breath caught in his chest. The windows, once filled with the warm light of late afternoons, were dark. Inside, everything was still. He peered through the cracks in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her — the familiar sight of her behind the counter, the books stacked high, the warm smile that had made him feel like there was still beauty in a broken world. 

But the shelves were empty. The bookshop that had once felt like a safe haven, a place of hope in a time of despair, was now hollow, a shell of its former self. It was as if she had disappeared along with the regime, vanishing into the ether like a memory too precious to hold onto. 

His heart sank, and for the first time that day, he felt the weight of the revolution not as triumph, but as loss. 

Where was she? 

The revolution had come, and the world had changed. But what of the promises they had made? What of the love they had shared? 

The streets of Lisbon were filled with people celebrating, with laughter and music, with the promise of a new beginning. But for Pablo, that promise was incomplete without her. 

He searched the city for days. He spoke to friends, to revolutionaries, to anyone who might have seen her. He walked the alleys, sat in the cafés where they had once shared whispered conversations. But she was gone. No one had seen her. No one knew where she had gone. It was as if the revolution had taken her as well. 

And so, Pablo was left standing in the midst of the city that had risen up against its oppressors, surrounded by the jubilant crowds, but with an emptiness in his chest that no amount of victory could fill. 

IV 

Weeks Later 

The city had settled into its new rhythm, the weight of its past finally beginning to lift, though the scars still remained, etched into the minds of those who had lived through the years of darkness. But for Pablo, the world around him felt heavier than ever. The revolution had come, and the world had changed. Yet, there was a void within him — a wound that no amount of political freedom or social transformation could heal. 

Through a friend in the underground, Pablo learned the truth. The truth about Astrid. 

She had been a part of the resistance. Not the way he had imagined — not as someone who had simply stood by, who had passively supported from the sidelines. No, she had been deeply involved. Her bookshop, the very place where he had first met her, where they had shared dreams and whispered promises, had been a cover. A façade. Beneath the shelves of carefully curated literature and the soft, warm light of the lamps, there had been something more. 

She had been carrying messages. Documents. Plans. Names of those who had risked their lives to challenge the regime. She had been a vital part of the network, her role more critical than he could ever have known. Every day, as she had smiled at customers, recommended books, and laughed softly with him, she had been carrying the weight of a nation’s rebellion in her bags, in her heart. 

Pablo had never suspected. He had never known. She had kept it hidden — even from him. The betrayal, or perhaps the love, had been in the silence. Perhaps she hadn’t trusted him, or perhaps she had loved him so deeply that she had kept him out of the danger she lived with every day. A danger that had been both her greatest strength and the deepest burden she had carried. 

And now, in the wake of the revolution, Pablo felt the sharp sting of that silence. He had never truly known her. He had only known the parts of her that she had allowed him to see. But there were layers, hidden behind her laughter, her books, her eyes. Layers that had been a part of the resistance, of a fight she had chosen to face alone. 

For days, Pablo walked the city. He asked anyone who might have known her, anyone who might have seen her after the dust of revolution had settled. He visited the old cafés where they had shared countless moments, the riverside benches where they had sat, their hands intertwined, talking of a future they both thought was assured. He searched the streets, the corners of the city where they had once found solace. He wandered through the parks, beneath the flowering trees, the scent of blossoms heavy in the air, but there was no trace of her. No sign that the woman he had loved — the woman who had carried the weight of revolution in her heart — had ever existed. 

Lisbon had changed. The dictatorship was a distant memory, fading into the past like a bad dream. The sound of music filled the air, the kind that once had been forbidden, now echoing freely from the radios and in the hearts of the people. The streets were no longer filled with whispers and fear, but with song and laughter. The revolution had succeeded, and the world had opened up, but it felt like a world she was no longer a part of. 

The bookshop near Convento do Carmo — the one that had been their meeting place, their sanctuary — was still there. But now, it was run by a young woman, someone who didn’t know the history of the place, or the stories that had been told within its walls. The shelves were still lined with the same books, the same dusty pages, but everything had changed. Everything except the memory of Astrid. 

Behind the counter, a faded photograph caught Pablo’s eye. It was a picture of Astrid, smiling brightly, her arms filled with books, her face framed by the soft light of the shop. She was so alive in that photo, so full of promise and hope. But now, that hope felt distant, like a dream fading in the early morning mist. 

Pablo never told the young woman who he was. He didn’t need to. He didn’t want to disturb the illusion that the place still held for him. He simply sat in the corner, ordering coffee, letting the bittersweet aroma fill the air around him. He read Neruda, though the words no longer carried the same meaning they once had. They felt like ghosts now, echoes of things he had lost. 

In the quiet of the café, as the sun filtered through the windows and the sound of the city flowed in around him, he could feel her presence. It wasn’t tangible. It wasn’t something he could hold. But it was there, in the corners of the room, in the soft turn of a page, in the stillness of the air. She was still with him, even though she wasn’t. 

The revolution had given him freedom. It had given the people of Lisbon something they had longed for. A future without fear. A future without oppression. It had given them life. 

But it had also taken something from him — something irreplaceable. Something that no amount of political change could ever return. 

He thought about the way she had come into his life, like a sudden bloom in the middle of winter, vibrant and full of life. She had come in bloom, a bright light in a dark world, and he had picked her too soon. He had loved her without fully understanding the depth of that love, without seeing the full weight of what she carried. 

He had given her nothing — nothing compared to what she had given him. She had risked everything. She had fought for freedom, for a future that he could only dream of, and yet, in the end, he had been a passive participant. He had stood by, unaware of the danger, unaware of the sacrifice she had made. 

Love, Pablo realized, was a paradox. It was both winning and losing. It was the sweetest joy and the deepest sorrow. And in the end, he had lost her. Not because she had left him, but because he had never truly known her. He had never understood the weight of her love, the depths of her sacrifice. 

But in that loss, something had changed within him. He had been reborn. The revolution, as much as it had taken from him, had also given him something else — a new understanding of what it meant to love, to fight, to sacrifice. It had shown him the importance of living with integrity, of choosing something greater than oneself, even when the cost was unbearable. 

And so, he continued to walk the city, a city that was no longer the same, and neither was he. He would never forget her, never forget the way she had made him feel alive. But he would also never forget the lessons she had taught him. That love was not just about possession, not about clinging to something or someone. It was about freedom, about choice, about sacrifice. 

In the quiet of the café, in the smell of old pages, in the soft bloom of April flowers, he felt her presence again. Though she was gone, she had left behind a legacy in him. The revolution had come, and he had lost her. But through that loss, he had gained something even more precious: the understanding that love, real love, was the force that moved the world. 

*** 

Reunion: A Love Reborn 

Lisbon, Spring 1978 

The city had changed, but Pablo hadn’t. 

The streets that once seemed so alive with the pulse of revolution, the air now filled with the vibrant sounds of freedom and possibility, were no longer the same. The world around him was unrecognizable in some ways. The revolution had come and gone, leaving behind a Lisbon that was no longer weighed down by the shadows of dictatorship. People laughed, sang, and moved through the city without fear, but for Pablo, there was still a quiet yearning deep in his chest — a longing he couldn’t shake. 

He had spent years searching for her, but it had been a search that grew quieter with each passing day. His heart had once been set on finding her — Astrid. The woman who had been both his everything and his lost dream. She had vanished into the fog of history, and with her disappearance, a piece of him had gone, too. 

Pablo had searched tirelessly. He had visited the old bookshop near Convento do Carmo, retracing the steps of their first meeting, the places they had laughed and talked about their hopes for a future that now seemed so distant. He had walked the familiar streets, asking anyone who might know her, but no one had. The years wore on, and the answers grew fewer, the questions more painful. But in the silence, in the absence of her, he had learned to carry on. He had built a new life, one that fit the new Lisbon — one that was free, vibrant, and full of life. But still, there was that ache, that emptiness that no revolution, no victory, could fill. 

He had given up on ever seeing her again. Yet, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that somehow, in some way, she might be out there. That one day, their paths would cross again. But as time passed, even that hope began to fade. 

Then, one quiet afternoon, everything changed. 

Pablo entered Café A Brasileira, a place he often visited to sit, to think, to remember. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, and the low murmur of conversation filled the space. The café was bustling, as usual, with people coming and going, laughing and sharing stories. He found a seat by the window, a familiar spot where he could watch the world go by, where he could let the city’s rhythm lull him into a rare peace. 

He wasn’t expecting anything, not really. He had long since accepted that the world had moved on, and so had he. But then, as if the world had shifted its course, he saw her. 

She stood across the room, her figure framed by the soft light filtering through the window. At first, it was like a mirage, a trick of the light. But no — it was her. Astrid. She hadn’t changed. At least, not in the ways that mattered. Her blue dress was the same one she had worn all those years ago. Her hair, though longer now, still cascaded in soft waves around her shoulders, the same deep brown. She was older, her face marked by time, but she was still the woman he had loved, the woman who had haunted his every thought. 

When their eyes met, everything else in the café seemed to fade away. The noise, the movement, the chatter — it all dissolved. For a moment, time stopped, and it was just the two of them, standing in that quiet space, both uncertain, both searching for something that had been lost. 

She didn’t smile immediately. She just stood there, staring at him, her eyes searching for something, perhaps for confirmation that he was real. That this moment was real. And then, slowly, as though the weight of years had pressed down on her, she began to walk toward him. 

Pablo stood up, his heart pounding in his chest. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, but now that it was here, words seemed inadequate. What could he say? What could ever be enough after everything that had passed? 

“Você ainda espera por mim?” she asked, her voice a melody that carried with it the weight of all the unspoken things between them. “Do you still wait for me?” 

Pablo’s throat tightened. He nodded, his voice failing him. How could he explain the years of searching, of longing? How could he convey the ache that had lived in him all this time? All he could do was nod, the words trapped somewhere deep inside him. 

She sat down across from him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, silently measuring the distance between them — the time that had passed, the things that had changed, the things that hadn’t. 

“You disappeared,” Pablo finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I searched for you everywhere. I couldn’t find you.” 

Astrid’s eyes softened, a shadow of sadness crossing her face. “I had to go,” she said quietly. “There were things I couldn’t share. Not then. Not with you.” 

Pablo shook his head, the frustration of all those years of unanswered questions coming to the surface. “But why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me enough to let me in?” 

“I couldn’t risk it,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t risk losing you, not when I knew what was coming. The revolution. The danger. The fight. I had my part to play, and you had yours. I couldn’t pull you into that world.” 

“But I would have understood,” he said, his heart breaking with the unspoken truth that had hovered between them for so long. “I would’ve been with you. Always.” 

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I didn’t know if I could ever come back, Pablo. I didn’t know if I could face you again, knowing everything I had seen, everything I had done. But when the city began to change, when I felt the pulse of a new Lisbon, I knew I had to find you. I had to see you again.” 

“Why now?” Pablo asked, his heart racing, each beat pulling him deeper into the moment. 

She smiled, a small, bittersweet smile, and for a moment, she seemed to let go of the weight of the past. “Because, after all the revolutions — after all the victories and the losses — I realized something. Love is not just about winning or losing. It’s about remembering. And I remember you, Pablo. I remember us.” 

Pablo reached across the table, his hand trembling slightly as he took hers in his. For a long moment, they simply held each other’s hand, the warmth of her touch anchoring him in a way that he hadn’t known he needed. “You came back to me in bloom,” he whispered, the words coming back to him like a forgotten song. 

Astrid squeezed his hand gently, her eyes filled with a quiet hope. “And I hope I can stay. In the bloom of this new world, in this new Lisbon, I hope we can start again.” 

Pablo didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He just held her hand, feeling the weight of everything that had passed, the years of waiting, the pain, the love — and now, the chance to begin again. In that moment, he understood. Love wasn’t about perfect timing. It wasn’t about waiting for everything to fall into place. It was about finding someone who could carry your heart, even when it seemed lost, even when the world seemed to be falling apart. And then, when you were lucky enough, you could let the world come together again, piece by piece. 

“Astrid,” he said, finally finding the words he had needed all this time. “I’ll wait for you again. Always.” 

Her smile, though small, was full of all the things that had been lost and found between them. And for the first time in years, Pablo felt at peace. The revolution had come and gone. The city had transformed, but so had they. And in the quiet of that reunion, they both knew that the revolution wasn’t just in the streets. It was in them. It was in the love they had lost and found again. 

And that was the greatest victory of all. 

 

Rolling Up Sleeves for the Nation's sake: Treating Trump's MAGA as a Challenge to the Philippines Amid Tariff Changes and Geopolitical Tensions

Rolling Up Sleeves for the Nation's sake: 

Treating Trump's MAGA as a Challenge to the Philippines

 Amid Tariff Changes and Geopolitical Tensions

In an era marked by shifting global power dynamics, U.S. President Donald Trump’s announcement of a 17 percent tariff on Philippine goods starting April 9 presents both a challenge and an opportunity for the Philippines. The move, part of Trump’s “Liberation Day” tariff policy, is designed to strengthen the U.S. economy and protect American workers. While this policy may initially hurt Filipino exporters, it also serves as a wake-up call—a challenge for the Philippines to chart its own course and reassess its place in the world, especially amid rising Sino-American tensions over the Pacific. 

At a time when the U.S. and China engage in saber-rattling, and the Philippines finds itself caught in the crossfire, the country can no longer afford to be passive. It must take ownership of its future—economically and geopolitically—and consider Trump’s “Make America Great Again” (MAGA) principles not as a doctrine to follow but as a challenge to adapt and apply. Trump’s policies offer a unique opportunity for the Philippines to reassess its reliance on foreign powers and consider how it might carve out a path of self-sufficiency, independence, and resilience in the face of global uncertainties. 

Trump’s MAGA: A Challenge, Not a Blueprint 

Trump’s MAGA agenda has focused on economic self-sufficiency, seeking to rebuild America’s manufacturing sector and reduce its dependence on foreign imports. This vision, while understandable for the U.S., is not a one-size-fits-all solution for every nation. His approach to tariffs—designed to protect American industries at the expense of foreign trade partners—echoes the protectionist rhetoric of President Warren Harding in the 1920s and the nationalist sentiments of President Ronald Reagan, who championed American strength during the Cold War. However, Trump’s policies diverge from both Harding’s and Reagan’s approaches, especially in terms of their underlying motivations. 

Harding’s “Return to Normalcy” aimed to bring stability after the First World War, while Reagan focused on global leadership and spreading American values. Trump’s policies, in contrast, are more transactional and focused on securing short-term victories. His “America First” agenda often sacrifices long-term diplomatic relationships for immediate economic gains, particularly in terms of trade imbalances. As such, while MAGA may provide some useful lessons for the Philippines, it is not a model to follow blindly. Instead, the Philippines must view it as a challenge—an opportunity to reassess its own economic policies and forge a path that is suited to its unique circumstances. 

The Philippines’ Path to Economic Independence 

If Trump’s policies push the U.S. toward economic self-sufficiency, the Philippines should consider how it might adopt similar principles to fortify its own economy. While the tariffs may hurt Filipino exporters in the short term, they also expose the fragility of an economy heavily reliant on external markets, especially the U.S. The Philippines cannot afford to remain dependent on a volatile global marketplace or a single trading partner. Now is the time for the country to focus on building a more resilient, self-sustaining economy. 

Dindo Manhit, president of the Manila-based think tank Stratbase ADR Institute, highlighted that the relatively low tariff of 17% imposed on the Philippines “presents both risks and opportunities for the country.” While this move could make Philippine products less competitive in the U.S. market, it also opens doors for new trade and investment prospects. “The Philippines, with a comparatively lower tariff rate, could position itself as an attractive alternative for businesses looking to diversify their supply chains,” Manhit said.

This presents an exciting opportunity for the Philippines. The country could leverage the 17 percent tariff as a way to entice businesses seeking alternatives to China or other regions that may be facing escalating geopolitical risks. By positioning itself as a viable and cost-effective trade partner, the Philippines could draw new investments and diversify its export markets beyond the U.S. and China. This not only mitigates the risk of relying too heavily on any single trading partner but also allows the country to solidify its position in the broader global economy.

The Philippines’ economic structure has long been shaped by trade, with a significant emphasis on raw materials and basic manufacturing exports. However, this dependence makes it vulnerable to global market fluctuations and shifts in foreign policy. To foster true economic independence, the Philippines must invest in advanced industries such as renewable energy, high-value electronics, and defense manufacturing. By focusing on sectors that are not only resilient to external shocks but also competitive in the global marketplace, the Philippines can build an economy that stands strong on its own—much as Trump aims for the U.S. to do. 

The Case for a Shift Toward Domestic Industrialization 

and Agricultural Development

However, the right response to these tariffs must go beyond simply chasing new trade deals or relying on foreign investment. Sonny Africa, of the IBON Foundation, stressed the need for the Philippines to focus on domestic-based development, particularly in agriculture and manufacturing, instead of further deepening its dependence on foreign imports. “The right response to Trump’s tariffs isn’t to yearn for a bygone world of lower tariffs nor to fall over ourselves to please foreign investment,” Africa argued. “Doing this for the last 45 years just made PH manufacturing and agriculture fall to historic low shares of the economy, worsened our import-dependence, and made cheap labor our biggest export.”

Africa’s comments underscore a critical truth: the Philippines’ past approach of relying on foreign markets has led to systemic weaknesses in its domestic industries. The country must pivot away from a model that has placed cheap labor and import dependency at the forefront. Instead, Africa calls for a return to “real agricultural development and national industrialization.” Filipino farms and industrial firms need protection and support—not the fairy tale of free markets that has, in effect, undermined local industries and deepened dependency.

“The right response is to deal with the looming inflationary pressures, but also to look far beyond to real agricultural development and national industrialization,” Africa said. The Philippines cannot afford to let its industries wither while competing in a global market that favors efficiency over local resilience. Supporting domestic industries—especially agriculture and manufacturing—will be key to securing long-term economic stability and reducing vulnerability to global market fluctuations.

The Need for a Stronger, Independent Foreign Policy 

Geopolitically, the Philippines finds itself caught between two superpowers—the U.S. and China—as tensions over the South China Sea and the broader Pacific region continue to escalate. In this environment, the Philippines cannot afford to remain passive or overly reliant on any single ally. As the situation unfolds, it is clear that the country must adopt a foreign policy that is grounded in its own national interests, one that asserts its sovereignty and independence rather than depending on an external ally to dictate its actions. 

To do so, the Philippines must look beyond the traditional East-West divide and explore diplomatic and economic partnerships that align with its own interests. While the relationship with the U.S. remains vital, the Philippines should consider diversifying its alliances with countries such as India, Japan, Russia, and other ASEAN members. In doing so, the Philippines can better protect its territorial claims and assert its independence in a region where competition for influence is intensifying. 

By fostering stronger ties with emerging global powers, the Philippines can avoid the risks of being caught in the middle of a U.S.-China rivalry. This strategic diversification will allow the country to play a more active and influential role in shaping regional security, ensuring that it is not beholden to any one nation for its defense or economic wellbeing. 

Military Self-Reliance and Sovereignty 

In the face of growing regional tensions, it is increasingly clear that the Philippines must prioritize military self-reliance. While the U.S. remains a critical defense partner, the country can no longer afford to solely depend on external powers for its security. The Philippines must take steps to modernize its military, particularly its maritime capabilities, to protect its territorial integrity in the South China Sea. 

Building a more self-sufficient military force does not mean severing ties with traditional allies, but rather enhancing the Philippines’ ability to defend itself. By investing in defense technology, infrastructure, and personnel, the Philippines can ensure that it is prepared to protect its national interests without waiting for external assistance. This approach is in line with Trump’s MAGA principles, which emphasize self-reliance and reducing dependence on foreign powers—lessons the Philippines can adapt for its own defense needs. 

A Call for Action: Embrace the Challenge 

Trump’s MAGA policies may have driven the U.S. toward economic self-sufficiency, but the Philippines should view these changes not as a threat, but as a challenge to rise to. The country cannot afford to remain passive or wait for its “ally” to intervene when the stakes are high. Instead, it must take proactive steps to build a more resilient economy, assert its independence in foreign policy, and strengthen its defense capabilities. 

The Philippines stands at a crossroads. The path forward will require both bold action and strategic foresight—rolling up sleeves to create an economy and defense system that is not dependent on external forces. By embracing the challenge of self-reliance and sovereignty, the Philippines can emerge as a stronger, more independent player on the world stage, capable of navigating the complexities of a rapidly changing geopolitical landscape.