Still, the United States Remains a Paper Tiger in the Face of a Growing Resistance

Still, the United States Remains a Paper Tiger in the Face of a Growing Resistance

In an era where revolutionary fervor continues to ignite across the world, critics of the United States point to the mounting evidence of its inherent weaknesses. The bloodstained legacy of American interventions grows ever heavier, and the recent escalation against Iran exemplifies this pattern. As U.S. forces, alongside their allies in the Zionist entity, embark on what observers describe as a desperate military gambit, the words of Chairman Mao Zedong echo with renewed relevance: "U.S. imperialism is a paper tiger." On the surface, it projects an aura of invincibility, but beneath lies a fragile entity hastening its own demise. This conflict, far from a show of strength, is portrayed by anti-imperialist voices as the final throes of a crumbling hegemon, one that will only accelerate the global tide of resistance.

The shadows of oppression loom large, yet the revolutionary spirit surges like an unstoppable wave. Analysts and activists alike urge the world's workers, peasants, and oppressed masses to recognize the illusion of U.S.-imposed "freedom" and "democracy." Wherever American military might has intervened—from the scorched earth of Korea and Vietnam, of dirty wars of Latin America and in Southeast Asia, to the rugged terrains of Afghanistan and the sands of Iraq and Syria—the outcome has been consistent: not victory, but piles of rubble, mass graves, and rivers of civilian blood. This assault on Iran, detractors argue, adds yet another chapter to this grim chronicle, illuminated by the harsh light of historical scrutiny. It serves as a stark reminder that imperialism's promises of liberation are mere pretexts for plunder and domination.

The human cost of this war has been immediate and profound, with the deaths of six American service members in the opening salvos drawing widespread condemnation from progressive circles. These fallen soldiers, often hailed as heroes by their compatriots, are seen by critics as tragic victims of the U.S. monopoly capitalist system—a system that exploits its own youth to perpetuate endless conflicts. Prayers and condolences flow to their families, but outrage is directed at the callous response from leadership. The President's casual warning of further casualties, dismissing them with a resigned "that's the way it is," underscores what opponents view as the true nature of U.S. imperialism: a disregard for human life, even among its own ranks, all in service to the profits of oil barons and weapons manufacturers. This indifference, they contend, exposes the hollow rhetoric of patriotism peddled by the ruling elite.

Even more appalling, according to reports from independent sources and human rights observers, are the atrocities inflicted upon the Iranian people. In the war's initial hours, hundreds of schoolchildren reportedly perished in U.S.-led airstrikes, with the administration offering no immediate explanation or remorse. A particularly harrowing incident involved the bombing of an elementary school in Minab, where over 165 children—aged 7 to 12, innocents poised to build their nation's future—were killed amid their studies. Names like Adrina, Fatemeh, Zahra, and Reyhaneh now symbolize the barbarity of these attacks, forever etched into the annals of imperialist infamy. When pressed on this massacre, the U.S. Defense Secretary's terse reply—"We are looking into it"—has been decried as an evasion bordering on criminal negligence. Such acts, critics assert, constitute crimes against humanity, demanding international accountability and fueling global calls for justice.

Drawing on Mao's timeless insight that "all reactionaries are paper tigers"—terrifying in appearance but impotent in essence—observers highlight the internal disarray plaguing the U.S. establishment. Within Congress, conflicting narratives about the war's objectives reveal a fractured command structure. The administration has failed to outline a clear endgame, treating both the American public and legislative bodies as mere footnotes in its strategy. Republican lawmakers offer a cacophony of justifications: some advocate for full regime change in Iran, others for targeted destruction of its nuclear capabilities, while a few push for restraint. The Senate Majority Leader has publicly admitted to confusion, and the House Speaker has gone so far as to suggest that Israeli influence propelled President Trump—whose shadow still looms over policy—into this quagmire. This discord, anti-imperialists argue, is no accident but a symptom of capitalism's inherent contradictions, where factions vie for dominance at the expense of coherent strategy. Meanwhile, efforts to pass resolutions curbing the war have been stymied, exposing U.S. "democracy" as a veneer for the dictatorship of monopoly capital.

Domestically, the war’s repercussions are already burdening ordinary Americans. As fuel prices spike in anticipation of shortages, households brace for higher utility bills, grocery costs, and overall inflation. Global oil markets have reacted sharply: benchmark crude prices have surged past $90 per barrel, marking one of the largest weekly increases in years and raising fears of prolonged energy shortages. Donald Trump’s campaign pledges to slash costs from “day one” and avoid endless wars now ring hollow, critics argue, as his administration’s policies—tariffs, cuts to healthcare programs, and reductions in nutrition assistance—have compounded economic insecurity for millions. Meanwhile, the financial burden of military escalation looms large. Economists estimate that the immediate cost to U.S. taxpayers could range from $40 billion to $210 billion, with projections reaching $1 trillion or more if the conflict drags on for years. These sums, critics note, represent resources that could otherwise fund infrastructure, education, healthcare, or anti-poverty initiatives at home. The war’s economic shockwaves extend far beyond the United States. The Strait of Hormuz, through which roughly one-fifth of the world’s crude oil supply passes, has become a focal point of disruption, driving volatility in energy markets and threatening supply chains worldwide. Oil prices have risen roughly 25–30% in a single week, while European natural gas costs have surged by about 50%, triggering renewed fears of global inflation and recession.

For developing and import-dependent economies, the consequences are particularly severe. Many countries in Asia and Africa rely heavily on Middle Eastern oil imports and have limited fiscal capacity to cushion price shocks.

In Pakistan, for instance, retail fuel prices have already jumped by roughly 20%, triggering panic buying and raising fears of widespread inflation among low-income households. 

In Southeast Asia, the Philippines is among the countries most vulnerable to the surge in global oil prices because it imports around 90% of its crude oil from the Middle East. Analysts warn that disruptions in Gulf supply routes could quickly translate into higher transport, electricity, and food costs across the archipelago. Domestic fuel prices have already risen for eight consecutive weeks for gasoline and ten weeks for diesel, pushing up transportation and logistics costs nationwide. Economists estimate that Philippine inflation—currently around 2.4%—could climb toward 4% in the coming months if energy prices remain elevated, eroding household purchasing power and forcing policymakers to delay interest-rate cuts intended to stimulate economic growth. The impact could be particularly acute because food accounts for nearly 45% of the Philippine consumer price index, meaning higher fuel prices quickly translate into rising food prices through increased transportation and production costs.

Across the developing world, the pattern is similar: higher fuel costs raise electricity prices, drive up fertilizer and transportation expenses, and ultimately push food inflation higher—an especially destabilizing dynamic for populations already facing tight budgets and fragile social safety nets. Even modest oil price increases can significantly widen trade deficits in net-importing economies such as India, Indonesia, Thailand, and Vietnam, threatening currency stability and economic growth.

Thus, while policymakers debate strategic objectives and geopolitical calculations, the immediate consequences are borne disproportionately by ordinary people: commuters paying more at the pump, families struggling with higher food prices, and governments forced to divert scarce resources toward emergency subsidies. The war’s ripple effects—stretching from American households to Southeast Asian markets—underscore the profound economic costs of military escalation in an already fragile global economy.

This conflict, rooted in historical grievances, revives memories of past interventions, such as the 1953 CIA-orchestrated coup against Iranian Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh, who dared to nationalize oil reserves for his people. Iran's current resistance, opponents of the war emphasize, is a sovereign assertion of self-determination, not a threat warranting invasion. The West's insistence on control over Persian resources underscores the hypocrisy of its "freedom" narrative: true democracy cannot coexist with exploitation. As global alliances shift— with nations like China and Russia offering rhetorical and material support to Iran—the U.S. finds itself increasingly isolated, its paper tiger facade crumbling under the weight of overextension.

In conclusion, this war against Iran is not merely a geopolitical misstep but a catalyst for broader awakening. As flames spread, the masses are called to unite against imperialism's illusions. History teaches that empires built on violence and greed inevitably falter, and U.S. hegemony appears no exception. By exposing these contradictions, critics hope to inspire a world where justice, not domination, prevails—proving once more that even the mightiest tigers are made of paper.

Missiles, Myths, and the backpage Manila Dilemma: Beyond Dependency

Missiles, Myths, and the backpage Manila Dilemma: Beyond Dependency 

By the time the microphones cool and social media dust settles, the argument usually shrinks to a headline: 

“Iranian missiles can hit EDCA sites.”

“Hindi abot.”

“Fake news.”

And just like that, a strategic question is reduced to a shouting match. 

In recent days, figures such as Jay Sonza and Rowena Guanzon warned that Iranian missile capabilities could potentially threaten Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA) sites in the Philippines. Their alarm comes at a time when geopolitical tensions are hardly abstract. The 2024–2025 period has seen Iran demonstrate expanded drone and missile reach in its exchanges with Israel, while the United States has deepened rotational access arrangements across Asia. 

In the Philippine context, EDCA — signed in 2014 and expanded in 2023 — now covers additional sites, some of them in northern Luzon facing the Taiwan Strait. Washington frames these as humanitarian logistics and interoperability facilities. Beijing views them through the prism of encirclement. Domestic critics view them as creeping basing rights. 

In this charged atmosphere, any reference to “missiles” triggers Cold War reflexes. 

Technically speaking, however, the critics of the missile claim are correct. Publicly documented Iranian missile systems — even extended-range variants — are designed for regional deterrence within the Middle East and surrounding theaters. The Philippines lies well beyond their established operational range. Moreover, Iran has neither declared hostile intent toward Manila nor identified Southeast Asia as a theater of confrontation. 

Capability without intent is not imminent threat. 

Yet dismissing the concern outright misses a deeper anxiety beneath the rhetoric. The debate is not fundamentally about range tables or launch trajectories. It is about strategic alignment, alliance entanglement, and whether hosting foreign-access facilities — even without formal sovereignty transfer — alters a nation’s exposure in an era of expanding great-power rivalry. 

The ballistic fear may be misplaced.

But the strategic unease is not imaginary. 

The Range Is Not the Question 

The mistake on one side is exaggeration. The mistake on the other is complacency. The issue is not whether an Iranian missile can reach Luzon tomorrow. The issue is what it means for a small maritime state to host facilities accessible to the world’s preeminent military power — a power with global strike capability and the operational flexibility to project force across vast distances. 

Under the 2014 Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA), the legal framework is clear: the sites remain Philippine bases. Sovereignty is not transferred. Ownership does not change hands. Philippine law governs land use, construction, and operations. Formally, these are rotational access arrangements, not permanent basing rights. 

Yet operationally, the story is more subtle. EDCA installations function as forward-operating nodes, equipped to host U.S. forces temporarily or for training exercises, preposition materiel, and enhance joint interoperability. They allow the U.S. to stage humanitarian assistance, disaster relief, and intelligence-sharing missions — but also, by extension, rapid deployment capabilities in case of regional crises. These nodes are modern military multipliers, and their presence changes the strategic calculus for any adversary observing Philippine territory. 

Historically, the Philippines has faced similar dilemmas. During the Cold War, Clark Air Base and Subic Naval Base were sovereign U.S. installations, placing Manila directly in the frontlines of geopolitical competition. When the bases were withdrawn in the early 1990s, critics lauded restored sovereignty, but the vacuum also revealed vulnerabilities — the country had relied for decades on foreign protection without parallel domestic capabilities. EDCA represents a hybrid model: Philippine ownership with embedded foreign operational capacity. 

In strategic terms, this is the modern gray zone. The islands, peninsulas, and airstrips involved remain Philippine soil. But their operational configuration, accessibility, and interoperability give external actors — primarily the United States — capabilities that extend beyond the archipelago. In this sense, perception can matter as much as paperwork: a hypothetical adversary may not be calculating legal ownership, but it will note the potential for allied forces to operate from Philippine territory. 

This duality is the core of the strategic tension: EDCA tries not to make the Philippines a U.S. base in law, but in practice, it enhances foreign reach while maintaining nominal sovereignty. For a nation navigating complex regional disputes, this is neither trivial nor symbolic — it is the difference between appearing neutral on paper and being functionally aligned in practice. 

Does This Diminish Public Opinion? EDCA as a Base Within a Base 

If the strategic discussion narrowly focuses on “range” or “missile reach,” it misses a more visceral question in the Filipino public imagination: What does it feel like to have foreign forces entrenched on Philippine soil? For many, EDCA facilities are not an abstract legal instrument — they are, in popular discourse, a revival of the old concept of U.S. bases within the archipelago. 

Officially, Philippine authorities continue to insist that EDCA sites are Philippine bases under the full ownership, control, and management of the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) and not U.S. military bases in the sovereign sense. The National Security Council emphasized this in its March 2026 statement amid concerns about Middle East tensions, clarifying that rotating access granted to U.S. forces does not transfer sovereignty or imply permanent basing rights. 

Yet public perception often gravitates away from legal technicalities. Critics — from left-leaning lawmakers to nationalist commentators — describe EDCA as “foreign bases within Philippine bases,” arguing that once U.S. personnel and infrastructure are on-site, the distinction between Filipino and foreign presence becomes blurred. This sentiment is echoed in opinion columns, protest rallies, and social media debates where EDCA installations are framed as de facto U.S. facilities even if not de jure. 

One strand of public anxiety hinges on visibility and symbolism: seeing U.S. equipment, seeing foreign troops rotate through a Philippine camp, and hearing about runway upgrades financed by another state conveys a deeper psychological reality than the written treaty. In some regions, particularly those that now host EDCA locations in northern Luzon and Palawan, ordinary residents have expressed unease about being caught in a geopolitical tug-of-war between Washington and Beijing — regardless of the constitutional assurances. 

Beyond symbolism, there is also distrust rooted in historical experience. Memories of the pre-1992 U.S. bases linger in political consciousness — Subic Bay and Clark Air Base were once sovereign American installations with full-time personnel and clear command structures. Though EDCA explicitly forbids permanent foreign bases and retains Philippine command authority, the feel of a foreign military presence — even temporary or rotational — can resonate emotionally as “a US base inside the Philippine base.” 

This subjective sense is compounded by political narratives that frame EDCA as inequality in symbolism if not in law: two flags raised together, two militaries training side by side, and infrastructure improvements funded by the U.S. can seem to the casual observer like a quasi-basing arrangement. This is especially true in digital public spaces where nuanced legal distinctions are often reduced to shorthand slogans, memes, and fear-laden narratives. 

Thus, while the legal architecture of EDCA does preserve Philippine sovereignty, public opinion increasingly treats the facilities as foreign military sites in practice — not because of legal verbiage, but because of how military presence, symbols, and narratives are experienced and interpreted on the ground. 

Why the Tone Feels Political, Not Scholarly 

Here lies a persistent tension in contemporary Philippine discourse. The framing offered by commentators such as Jay Sonza and Rowena Guanzon often appears scholarly at first glance — invoking strategic vocabulary like “EDCA,” “missile reach,” or “alliance risk.” Yet the tone quickly betrays itself: it is not analytical; it is political, often emotive, and at times performative. 

The rhetoric aligns with a broader current that became prominent during the Duterte years: deep skepticism of American alignment, suspicion of Western narratives, and a performative embrace of “independence” in foreign policy. On paper, this posture can resemble non-interventionist or nationalist scholarship. But in practice, it rarely adheres to the rigor of small-state strategic analysis. 

To be clear, there is nothing inherently unacademic about non-interventionism. International relations theory recognizes two classical alliance pitfalls: 

• Abandonment — the ally fails to come to your aid when needed.

• Entrapment — the ally drags you into its wars regardless of your interest.

These are staples of Cold War alliance theory, rigorously analyzed in decades of scholarship. Genuine analysis would proceed with structured reasoning: assessing historical precedent, evaluating military capability, calculating incentives, and situating Philippine policy within regional power dynamics. 

By contrast, much of the current public commentary operates in a different register. It thrives on tone and affect rather than method. It invokes images of imperial patronage, the Philippines as a “little brother,” and foreign bases as instruments of humiliation. It frames the debate in emotive, populist language, emphasizing grievance over evidence. This is not criticism rooted in careful analysis or in socio-national sentiment — it is political whining dressed as strategic concern. 

Ironically, the Duterte administration itself exemplified this transactional pragmatism. While there are those who praised his anti-U.S. posture, his government tolerated and even institutionalized EDCA. Simultaneously, Duterte accommodated China’s economic and strategic overtures, signaling that his so-called “independent” foreign policy was largely transactional, calibrated to extract immediate domestic and diplomatic gains rather than built on principled alignment or strategic doctrine. 

The irony deepens when critics of Duterte lean on narratives of Atlanticist—or more accurately, Pacificist—loyalty, contrasting Manila’s alignment with Western powers against its “Asiatic neighbors.” These critics claim principled opposition to China, yet their commentary often lacks empirical grounding or structured analysis. Instead, it manifests as a reflexive affirmation of political identity: “We are against foreign influence,” or “We should never be a little brother,” without systematically assessing costs, incentives, or regional realities. 

In short: the tone is political because it is reactive, transactional, and narrative-driven. It prioritizes symbolic grievance over methodological rigor, emotional resonance over empirical grounding, and performative nationalism over measured critique. Scholarship, by contrast, interrogates assumptions, tests variables, and situates observations within broader patterns of history and international relations. Political rhetoric can inflame audiences; scholarly criticism illuminates structural dilemmas. The two may share vocabulary, but their discipline — and their stakes — are profoundly different. 

Lessons from Others: Vietnam, Taiwan, Iran 

If the Philippines wishes to move beyond perpetual dependency on alliances, it must first recognize that autonomy is neither given nor easily declared. History offers stark lessons from nations that converted constraint into capability, vulnerability into doctrine, and external pressure into internal innovation. 

Vietnam provides a compelling blueprint. After reunification in 1975, the country confronted an existential paradox: dependent on Moscow for economic and military support, yet geographically and politically vulnerable to China. In 1979, Vietnam confronted this vulnerability directly, fighting a brief but intense war with China — a demonstration that alliance reliance cannot substitute for national will. Simultaneously, Hanoi intervened in Cambodia to oust the Khmer Rouge, again acting independently of any patron. These actions were not gestures; they were embedded in institutionalized capacity: universal conscription, war-hardened leadership, and a nascent domestic defense industry capable of producing artillery, small arms, and tactical logistics support. Vietnam’s autonomy was structural, not symbolic — the state’s machinery of defense, production, and mobilization was calibrated for self-reliance even within the orbit of a superpower. 

The case of the “Other China” — Taiwan — is equally instructive. Abandoned diplomatically by the West after 1971, Taiwan faced the very real possibility of strategic isolation. Instead of capitulation, Taipei turned necessity into innovation. It developed indigenous missile programs, fortified air and naval defenses, and industrialized its semiconductor sector — technologies that underpin both economic leverage and security resilience today. Taiwan’s posture demonstrates a key principle: strategic abandonment can function as a long-term organizing principle, compelling a society to align industrial, military, and civil planning around survival. The lesson is clear — isolation, if internalized, can be an engine for enduring capability. 

Iran provides a third paradigm. Despite decades of sanctions, embargoes, cyberattacks, and periodic air strikes, Iran has developed one of the Middle East’s most advanced missile arsenals, indigenous drone capabilities, and asymmetric naval doctrine in the Persian Gulf. Its leaders treated constraint as an industrial and military policy. In essence, adversity was converted into innovation. The strategic lesson is subtle but profound: capability is often born not from abundance but from the deliberate management of scarcity under existential threat. While one may critique Iran’s ideology or regional ambitions, the technical and organizational achievement cannot be denied. 

Across these examples, a single pattern emerges: adversity internalized as necessity drives autonomy. These nations did not rely on rhetoric or populist grievance; they built institutions, invested in domestic capability, and allowed constraints to become structural imperatives. Autonomy, in each case, was neither performative nor symbolic. It was doctrinal, systemic, and intergenerational. 

For the Philippines, the takeaway is sobering. Hosting EDCA facilities or engaging in alliances is not inherently threatening at first — but neither can the archipelago expect autonomy to emerge from diplomatic platitudes or anti-alliance rhetoric. If Manila seeks to move beyond being a “little brother,” it must be prepared to convert vulnerability into capability, to treat constraints — geographic, economic, and geopolitical — as organizing principles for self-reliance. 

In short, Vietnam, Taiwan, and Iran teach that autonomy is earned through discipline, institutional foresight, and the ruthless internalization of necessity, not through political posturing, populist sentiment, or rhetorical independence. For Manila, the question is not whether the Philippines can host foreign troops, but whether it is willing to build the machinery that makes those troops strategically supplementary rather than determinative. 

Calibration Over Alarm 

Where alarmists often go wrong is in conflating capability with intent. Yes, Iranian missiles exist, but the archipelago does not lie within their operational theater, and Tehran has no declared strategic incentive to strike Manila. The threat, in ballistic terms, is minimal. Yet this fact should not lull policymakers or the public into complacency. 

Strategic exposure in the 21st century is far subtler than the simple trajectory of a missile. Modern vulnerability extends across multiple domains: 

• Cyber vulnerability — critical infrastructure, government networks, and financial systems are increasingly exposed to foreign penetration, sabotage, or influence campaigns.

• Economic coercion — trade, remittances, and foreign investment can be leveraged as instruments of influence, often without kinetic action.

• Diplomatic pressure — alliances and agreements shape a nation’s freedom to maneuver in international fora.

• Proxy conflicts — regional powers may seek influence indirectly, cultivating domestic actors or shaping narratives to serve external agendas.

EDCA, in this sense, is a double-edged sword. It does not automatically invite Iranian missiles to the Philippines. But by signaling alignment with the United States, it situates Manila within broader great-power competitions — exposing the archipelago to structural risk. The exposure is real, persistent, and operationally meaningful, even if it is not immediate or kinetic. 

At the same time, the specter of Chinese aggression looms far closer to the Philippine coastline than Iranian missiles ever could. From incursions in the West Philippine Sea to coercive diplomacy and maritime gray-zone activities, Beijing’s influence and military presence represent tangible, ongoing challenges. Manila’s vulnerability is therefore less a distant hypothetical and more a proximate, practical reality. 

This raises a critical question: Is Cold War–era reliance on external guarantees sufficient in a multipolar, high-tech era? During the Cold War, small states relied on formal treaties, extended deterrence, and patronage networks — tools that presumed rational actors and stable alliances. Today, power projection is diffuse, asymmetric, and multidimensional. Dependence on a singular ally may reduce immediate risk but does not substitute for autonomous capability, strategic foresight, or operational resilience. 

The Philippine challenge is to calibrate threat perception without succumbing to alarmism, balancing legitimate concern with measured assessment. Recognizing structural exposure does not mean overestimating distant adversaries. But it does require treating alliances not as shields of unquestionable safety, but as scaffolding for the development of indigenous capability — a platform to support, not replace, national strategic autonomy. 

In short, missiles may not fly toward Manila from Tehran, but the geopolitical currents, regional power rivalries, and technological vulnerabilities make the archipelago inherently exposed. The question is whether Manila can navigate these currents with prudence, foresight, and calibrated capability, rather than relying exclusively on alliances or reactive rhetoric. 

The “White Kuya” Problem 

A recurring theme in Philippine political psychology is dependency. Gratitude, nostalgia, and fear of abandonment have shaped a national reflex: the perception that Manila is perpetually the “little brother” in the U.S.-Philippine relationship. EDCA, military exercises, and rotating deployments often reinforce this mindset, even when legal sovereignty remains intact. Criticism of this dependency is valid — yet autonomy is not achieved through rhetoric alone, nor through populist slogans denouncing foreign presence. 

Unlike Vietnam or Taiwan, the Philippines lacks recent unifying war experience, a consolidated industrial base, or a deep domestic defense capability. Structural autonomy requires deliberate investment in national infrastructure and security systems:

• Domestic industrialization — shipbuilding, aerospace, missile systems, and maintenance facilities.

• Cybersecurity and intelligence independence — protecting infrastructure and strategic networks from intrusion or coercion. • Phased military capability development — cultivating forces capable of sustained operations beyond reliance on rotational alliances. 

These are hard, deliberate forms of capacity-building, not anti-U.S. theatrics or performative nationalism. 

There were historical opportunities to embrace true independence. In the 1950s, Recto articulated the imperative to industrialize the nation, harness natural resources, and achieve self-reliance. Yet successive policy frameworks — from the postwar import-substitution era to the neoliberal pivot in the 1980s and 1990s — often favored the service sector and foreign-oriented trade, implicitly assuming that the Philippines could “skip” heavy industrialization in favor of integration into Americanized economic and cultural spheres. 

This orientation has had symbolic consequences as well. Despite its geographical location in Southeast Asia, the Philippines has often been socially and politically framed as a Pacific-leaning outlier, classified in some circles as a “Pacific Islander” culture rather than fully Asian. This classification reinforced dependency, encouraging deference to Western powers and diminishing the perceived necessity of structural autonomy. 

The irony is stark when compared to historical Filipino foresight. Manuel L. Quezon, said in 1935, captured the enduring principle: “I would rather have a country run like hell by Filipinos than a country run like heaven by the Americans, because however a bad Filipino government might be, we can always change it.” 

This quote is not rhetorical flourish; it is a roadmap for sovereignty as agency. The lesson is clear: real independence is measured not by ceremonial symbolism or legal agreements, but by the nation’s ability to chart, defend, and sustain its own strategic course. 

In short, the “White Kuya” problem is as much psychological as structural. True autonomy demands that the Philippines internalize sovereignty as capability, rather than outsource it to gratitude, nostalgia, or fear of external abandonment. Only then can Manila move beyond the reflexive posture of a “little brother” and engage alliances as a partner, not a dependent. 

Beyond Alliances: A Strategic Imperative 

The mature debate is not whether to abandon the United States, nor whether alarmists are credible. The question is more profound: how can the Philippines maximize autonomy while still leveraging alliances? Alliances are tools — transitional scaffolding — not ends in themselves. Independence, strategic self-reliance, and institutional resilience must be the final objective. 

Strategic transformation is neither symbolic nor rhetorical; it requires deliberate, phased, and structural action: Strategic autonomy is not declared; it is constructed. For the Philippines to move beyond symbolic sovereignty and into operational independence, transformation must occur across four structural domains. 

1. Domestic Industrialization and Defense Capability

True independence begins with material capacity. A nation that cannot produce, repair, or sustain its own critical assets remains strategically dependent, regardless of alliance guarantees.

For the Philippines, this means cultivating shipbuilding, aerospace maintenance, missile development, cyber-defense systems, and integrated logistics infrastructure. As an archipelagic state, maritime capability is not optional — it is existential. Domestic shipyards capable of producing and servicing naval vessels, coast guard cutters, and auxiliary ships reduce reliance on foreign maintenance cycles. Aerospace capability — even if initially limited to maintenance, repair, and overhaul — builds technical depth that can evolve into indigenous production over time.

Missile and drone technology, often misunderstood as aggressive tools, are in fact instruments of deterrence. States such as Vietnam have demonstrated that even modest but credible anti-access capabilities can alter strategic calculations of larger powers. The lesson is not militarization for prestige, but capacity for denial.

Industrialization also extends beyond defense manufacturing. Steel production, semiconductor assembly, telecommunications infrastructure, and energy resilience are dual-use foundations of national power. Without them, autonomy remains rhetorical. With them, it becomes structural.

2. Diversified Alliances to Avoid Dependency

(A friend to all, enemy to none)

Alliances are tools, not identities. A mature foreign policy avoids binary alignments and instead pursues calibrated diversification. The objective is not neutrality born of passivity, but flexibility born of leverage.

The Philippines’ geographic position makes it central to Indo-Pacific dynamics. Engaging multiple partners — regional neighbors, middle powers, and global actors — prevents overreliance on a single security guarantor. Diversification reduces vulnerability to political shifts in any one capital.

History offers examples of strategic hedging. Taiwan, despite deep security ties with the United States, invested heavily in domestic defense production when it anticipated fluctuating external support. Iran, after experiencing sanctions and isolation, developed hybridized systems combining foreign acquisition with indigenous innovation to prevent total vulnerability.

Diversification does not imply antagonism toward existing allies. Rather, it ensures that partnerships are reciprocal and resilient. Strategic flexibility enhances bargaining power. Dependence erodes it.

3. Long-Term Fiscal Discipline and Political Coherence

Autonomy demands resources — and resources demand discipline. Defense industrialization, infrastructure modernization, and technological development require sustained investment across decades, not electoral cycles.

Without fiscal coherence, modernization becomes fragmented procurement — impressive announcements followed by underfunded maintenance. Without political stability, strategic planning dissolves into factional contestation. A divided political environment undermines long-term doctrine, making continuity impossible.

Countries that have built credible deterrence did so through institutional consistency. Vietnam’s defense posture evolved gradually but deliberately, guided by a unified strategic outlook rather than short-term populism. Industrial development was synchronized with national security doctrine.

For the Philippines, fiscal discipline must mean prioritizing capability over symbolism. Investments in research institutions, technical education, and infrastructure must align with strategic objectives. Autonomy cannot survive chronic budgetary volatility or patronage-driven procurement.

Strategic patience is as important as strategic ambition.

4. Civil–Military Integration for Resilience

(Toward an Effective People’s Defense System)

Modern conflict rarely begins with missiles. It begins with cyber disruptions, energy shortages, disinformation campaigns, and supply chain shocks. National defense today extends beyond uniformed personnel; it encompasses infrastructure, civil society, and technological networks.

An effective people’s defense system does not imply mass militarization. It implies coordination. Civil agencies, private industry, telecommunications providers, transport systems, and local governments must be capable of operating under stress or partial isolation.

Vietnam institutionalized total defense principles rooted in territorial resilience. Taiwan expanded civil defense training and continuity-of-government planning in response to rising cross-strait tensions. Iran integrated asymmetric doctrine into both state and quasi-state structures to compensate for conventional disadvantages.

The Philippine context differs, yet the underlying principle remains applicable: resilience requires integration. Energy grids must be hardened. Cyber infrastructure must be domestically secured. Logistics chains must be redundant. Civil defense must be rehearsed, not improvised.

A military that stands alone is vulnerable. A society prepared to sustain itself under pressure transforms deterrence from theory into credibility.

Autonomy cannot be aesthetic. It cannot be claimed through slogans, ceremonial symbolism, or temporary access agreements. It must be structural, institutional, and intergenerational. Missiles, drones, and rotational deployments are symbols; the true battlefield lies in capacity, governance, and industrial depth. 

History illustrates why this is not theoretical. Vietnam succeeded in resisting Chinese aggression despite minimal Soviet support because its military, political, and industrial systems were internally disciplined and structurally resilient. Similarly, Taiwan understood that reliance on U.S. aid would not be eternal, and built indigenous missile programs, semiconductor capacity, and layered defense doctrines as a hedge against abandonment. 

Iran presents the most instructive case for constraint-driven innovation. Though initially supported by Western powers in limited spheres, decades of embargoes, sanctions, and attacks forced the regime to self-reliantly develop missiles, drones, and hybridized weapon systems. The Iranian military-industrial complex did not simply acquire technology; it adapted and hybridized it, anticipating a scenario in which neither East nor West would intervene. Constraint became doctrine, adversity became industrial strategy. 

For the Philippines, the lesson is clear: alliances are necessary but insufficient. Strategic autonomy requires transforming dependency into capability, vulnerability into organizational foresight, and external scaffolding into internal infrastructure. Without this, a country will still rely on EDCA facilities, foreign rotations, while a symbolic sovereignty remain just that: symbols. Real security — political, economic, and military — is built at home, over decades, through disciplined policy, industrial capacity, and societal consensus. 

Independence is not nostalgia. It is strategy realized through action, tested over time, and anchored in national capability rather than external goodwill. For Manila, the question is not whether the United States will remain a partner, but whether the Philippines can ensure that when external guarantees fade, the nation will stand on its own. 

Conclusion: The Manila Dilemma 

Missiles may not reach Philippine soil, but geopolitics invariably does. The archipelago exists at the intersection of great-power competition, regional maritime tensions, and evolving technological threats. The cases of Vietnam, Taiwan, and Iran demonstrate that adversity — whether real, perceived, or structural — can serve as a powerful catalyst for self-reliance, innovation, and strategic depth. These nations illustrate that independence is not granted; it is engineered through necessity, foresight, and institutional rigor. 

For the Philippines, admiration of these lessons must go beyond rhetorical nods. Dramatic warnings, performative nationalist postures, or alarmist narratives may capture attention, but they do little to cultivate the structural autonomy required for enduring security. True strategic maturity demands converting vulnerabilities — geographic, economic, or diplomatic — into actionable doctrine, rather than treating them as episodic anxieties or symbolic grievances. 

Manila’s challenge is clear: it must determine whether it is willing to invest in the institutional, industrial, and civil-military capacities that underpin autonomy. Until such investment occurs, being a “little brother” in regional or global alignments is not merely a symbolic label — it is a structural reality, embedded in policy, economic dependence, and military posture. 

The path to strategic independence is neither simple nor rapid. It is long, costly, and exacting, requiring coordinated statecraft, disciplined leadership, and intergenerational commitment. Yet the examples of nations that have innovated under siege show that such transformation is achievable. By internalizing adversity as a strategic imperative, cultivating domestic capability, and leveraging alliances as scaffolding rather than crutches, the Philippines can move beyond dependency. In doing so, it would turn the Manila Dilemma from a perennial question of vulnerability into a blueprint for measured, sustainable autonomy, guided by discipline, foresight, and courage. 

Rage against the Globalist Baal: Islamic Iran on the Edge of Collapse

Rage against the Globalist Baal: Islamic Iran on the Edge of Collapse

The strategic moment was no longer simply political — it had become existential. Iran stood at the crossroads of unraveling structures, both internal and external. Domestically, decades of economic mismanagement, brutal ideological enforcement, and the systematic suppression of dissent had hollowed out belief in reform; every promise of change had been either co‑opted or crushed. Outwardly, the world appeared unanchored by rules, treaties, or the fragile norms that once governed international relations. 

The crisis had been accelerated by unprecedented external interventions. In Latin America, the shock of the forceful U.S. operation against Venezuela — marked by the seizure of President Nicolás Maduro and the installation of direct external control over the state — set a stark precedent for the use of military force in the name of order and influence. 

Then came the assault on Iran itself. In a sweeping campaign of air strikes launched by U.S. and Israeli forces, Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and key figures of its military and political command were killed. Its extensive leadership corps — including several top commanders — was deliberately targeted in what Western capitals hailed as decisive blows intended to break Tehran’s strategic will. 

Diplomacy, once teetering on the edge, collapsed amid the thunder of bombers and missiles. Peace talks had been underway as recently as late February, with indirect negotiations mediated in Geneva — but within days, the offensive wiped away much of the regime’s leadership and with it any near‑term hope of a negotiated settlement. 

For many inside Iran, there were three conflicting realities at once. The Islamic Republic — once a dominant force in Middle Eastern geopolitics — now appeared morally and politically bankrupt. Yet the alternatives offered by foreign powers were not redemption; they promised, instead, the specter of collapse. The ghosts of Iraq, Libya, Syria, and Afghanistan — states torn apart after Western intervention — loomed large in the collective memory. Freedom, in the discourse of distant capitals, often translated into vacuum, fire, and permanent instability. 

The paradox was stark. A bad government, however oppressive, was survivable; no government at all was not. And in the cold calculus of power, the right of the swift seemed sovereign — it was not law, treaties, or diplomacy that decided fates any longer but the speed of the strike and the weight of the blow. 

Iran’s response was fierce and sustained. Retaliatory missiles and drones streaked across the region, hitting U.S. bases, allies, and even civilian infrastructure in Gulf states. Hezbollah and other allied militias joined the fight, widening the conflict well beyond Iran’s borders. Global energy markets jittered, oil prices climbed, and the once‑stable corridors of international travel and commerce teetered on the brink of disruption. 

Observers in the West — from capitals in Washington to strategic think tanks in Europe — assessed a grim truth: regime decapitation rarely produces orderly transformation. Even without Khamenei at the helm, hardliners and security apparatuses remained intact. Estimates of internal resilience suggested that a collapse of the regime was far from certain; Iran’s provisional leadership had already begun consolidating power amid fierce resistance. 

In this world without norms, the concern was not just for Iran, but for the West itself. If Iran continued to fight under new leadership — refusing to capitulate, to raise a white flag, or to bow to external pressure — the situation could devolve into protracted conflict with grave consequences for the United States, NATO states, and global stability. Conversely, if Tehran’s military fractured or a new leadership chose to surrender, then the crisis might be short, echoing the pattern seen in Venezuela. 

And so, the world spun on a knife‑edge — a house that Iran’s people hated, surrounded by fires they feared even more.  

“Justice vs. the Corrupt: Or Should We Blow Up Their Headquarters?”

“Justice vs. the Corrupt: Or Should We Blow Up Their Headquarters?”

It is both fitting and just that the Filipino people commemorate the 40th anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution—that four-day civic rising in February 1986 which delivered the final blow to a fourteen-year authoritarian rule under Ferdinand Marcos Sr., and marked the culmination of a long and costly struggle to restore constitutional democracy in this Republic.

To mark EDSA in 2026 is not merely to revisit a triumph of memory, but to confront the burdens of history that remain unresolved. The anniversary is being observed not in a climate of settled confidence, but in an atmosphere thick with public disquiet—over mounting allegations of corruption in major infrastructure and flood control undertakings, and the apparent dissipation of public funds meant to safeguard lives, livelihoods, and communities from disaster.

Since September 2025, protest actions have grown in scale and frequency across the archipelago. The people’s anger—long restrained by fatigue, division, or the passage of time—has once again found expression in the civic square. There is, in the temper of the moment, a familiar cadence: the insistence that public office is a public trust, and that those entrusted with authority must be answerable to the sovereign people from whom that authority is derived.

Forty years after 1986, another Marcos—Ferdinand Marcos Jr.—stands at the center of public scrutiny. Renewed calls for accountability have reached to the highest levels of government, following reports suggesting collusion between officials of Malacañang and the Department of Public Works and Highways in the alleged orchestration of kickback schemes tied to infrastructure disbursements.

Recent congressional action—notably the dismissal of impeachment complaints—has drawn criticism from sectors concerned that avenues for public disclosure and institutional redress may have been prematurely foreclosed. Questions persist over the alleged delivery of illicit funds amounting to as much as ₱8 billion to private residences in Forbes Park, reportedly linked to figures such as Martin Romualdez. Various political formations, including Akbayan, have advanced competing narratives of reform and responsibility, even as the national discourse becomes increasingly polarized.

Yet it must be said with clarity: opposition to one political formation does not imply endorsement of another. The controversies surrounding Vice President Sara Duterte—particularly in relation to the use and liquidation of confidential funds by the Office of the Vice President and the Department of Education—have likewise stirred grave public concern.

Unexplained wealth allegations have been linked to broader claims of irregular confidential fund disbursements amounting to at least ₱612.5 million from December 2022 to the third quarter of 2023, covering both offices. In 2023 alone, the Office of the President recorded the largest expenditures of both confidential and intelligence funds—₱2.25 billion and ₱2.31 billion respectively—according to the annual financial report of the Commission on Audit on national government agencies. A breakdown by the same constitutional body showed that ₱4.4 billion in confidential funds and another ₱6.02 billion in intelligence funds were spent by the entire national government last year, or a total of ₱10.4 billion. Of this, ₱375 million in confidential funds was disbursed by the Office of the Vice President in 2023.

The complaint likewise cites the rapid encashment of ₱125 million in December 2022—allegedly liquidated within eleven days—and subsequent findings by the Commission on Audit flagging irregularities. Notices of suspension and disallowance were later issued covering ₱73.287 million in questioned expenditures, including allegedly fabricated or defective receipts, unverifiable payees, and duplicated entries, as well as sworn affidavits describing the transport of large sums of cash in duffel bags.

Again, the bullshirtry is not all about who's really the "corruptest amongst the corrupt". Duterte supporters would cry that the president who's "high on drugs" benefited from the flood control scandal yet the ones involved were already there during the time Duterte boasted his "Build Build Build". Marcos supporters would cry about Sara Duterte's abuse of public funds in the Office of the Vice President and in the Department of Education, yet mum on Marcos's tax issues prior to his assumption as president. Again, who's the corruptest amongst the corrupt? Or should revisit again the late Jose Avelino's term "good and bad crooks"?

This pattern is not without precedent. Across successive administrations, scandal has too often intruded upon governance: from misuse of JICA funds, "Kamaganak Inc.", PEA-Amari to Jueteng, from NBN-ZTE to pork barrel abuses, all to the Pharmally procurement controversy. Each episode has deepened the perception—whether justified or not—that the institutions of the state remain vulnerable to the corrosions of patronage, influence, and private accumulation- hence, this bullshitry makes a concerned expressed the need to "blow up the headquarters" as the "headquarters" itself is jampacked with the corrupt and self-centric bureaucrats, officials, politicians, and personalities trying to siphon from the laboring masses. 

Why "blow up the headquarters"? Sorry to use Mao's "big character poster" that pointly against the "capitialist roaders" with all its arrogance against the people, urging the masses to "bombard the headquarters". But come to think of this- the headquarters itself was and is riddled with corruption, injustice, self-interest at the expense of the people, will the people just stand by and seeing authorities "distort" ideas for their interest? Just imagine how Marcoses peddled the idea of a "New Philippines" the way Duterte peddled that his "Change" came to the hearts and minds of Filipinos- and yet scandals like flood control, Pharmally, the abuse of confidential funds in 11 days, come to think of this- all in that same headquarters meant to be to "serve the people"? Yes, may as well "bombard the headquarters" as the people have enough of their arrogance while deflate the morale of the people who wished for a better way of life. 

It is also in this light that the commemoration of EDSA must be understood—not as an exercise in nostalgia, nor as a ritual of self-congratulation—but as a civic reckoning. The promise of 1986 was not solely the restoration of simply "democratic" values such as electoral processes, or the renewal of public faith in the probity of institutions, but also the primacy of law and justice, and the accountability of those who govern.

Today, amid rising commodity prices, precarious employment, uneven recovery, and the mounting toll of environmental distress, the call—especially from the youth and the laboring citizenry—is once more for reform that is substantive rather than symbolic, for accountability that is systemic rather than selective, and for a political order that reflects not merely the arithmetic of power, but the ethics of service.

In the measured yet unmistakable language of another era, the 40th anniversary of EDSA in 2026 is not only a remembrance of what was won—but a reminder of what remains to be fulfilled.  

Static on the Airwaves: EDSA at Forty (Redux)

Static on the Airwaves: EDSA at Forty (Redux) 

or: "On Selective Memory, Manufactured Amnesia, 

and the Politics of Relevance" 

“I find it hard to understand why this bloodless revolution has become the standard definition of freedom for our country and this standard is forced down our throats by a certain group of individuals who think they are better than everyone else.”
— Sara Duterte, then Mayor of Davao City, February 24, 2017

“People must have already forgotten the essence of the 1986 EDSA Revolution. That is why those who march or organize do not really know what message they are bringing to the public—because they themselves have forgotten what the message was in 1986.”

— Sara Duterte, Vice President, February 24, 2026 

Forty years on, the signal from EDSA still cuts through the static—though not without interference from those who now find themselves politically stranded between memory and ambition. 

The attempt to downgrade the 1986 People Power Revolution into an elitist catechism—an imposition of the sanctimonious few upon the pliant many—would be laughable if it were not so calculated. What we are witnessing is not a debate over historical interpretation but a contest over relevance. And relevance, in these times, is a scarce commodity among those who once mistook proximity to power for permanence within it. 

It is no accident that the renewed commentary from Vice President Duterte arrives at a moment when opposition voices—long fragmented, long dismissed—have begun to find common cause in the language of accountability. Nor is it incidental that the refrain now echoing through the streets—“All those involved must be held accountable”—has been selectively heard, as though it were a coded message aimed exclusively at one family name. 

Yet history, unlike politics, is not so easily compartmentalized. 

When progressive blocs and civic formations pressed forward toward the EDSA Shrine this week—despite police efforts to halt their advance—they did so not merely to commemorate the fall of one dictatorship, but to interrogate the persistence of its logic in new guises. Among those present were members of Bagong Alyansang Makabayan and the Kilusang Bayan Kontra Kurakot, groups whose political memory extends well beyond the convenience of electoral cycles. 

Their slogans—"Never Again, Never Forget"—were not nostalgic invocations. They were warnings. 

Warnings that impunity, once normalized, does not remain confined to the era that produced it. That the culture of unaccountability cultivated under one administration may find eager heirs in the next—or the previous. That the call to hold “all those involved” to account cannot, by its very phrasing, exempt those who now seek to position themselves as critics of the very order they helped consolidate. 

For the Vice President’s lament—that today’s marchers have forgotten the essence of EDSA—betrays an anxiety less about historical amnesia than about historical recall. The recall of policies defended. Of excesses rationalized. Of institutions bent toward expediency in the name of security. The recall of a political climate in which dissent was treated as destabilization, and accountability as obstructionism. 

In such a climate, the invocation of EDSA becomes less an act of remembrance than an act of reclamation—by those who would narrow its meaning to a single chapter safely closed, and by those who insist that its unfinished sentences continue to be written in the present tense. 

President Bongbong Marcos may occupy Malacañang today, but the grammar of power that EDSA sought to disrupt remains conjugated across administrations. The demand that “all those involved must be held accountable” is not a partisan cudgel. It is a civic imperative. And it applies with equal force to yesterday’s allies and today’s adversaries alike. 

That some now feign surprise at this inclusivity is itself revealing. 

For EDSA was never a monument to selective justice. It was, and remains, an argument—one that refuses to distinguish between the abuses of the past and those of the present based on convenience or coalition. An argument that sovereignty resides not in the reputations of families but in the vigilance of citizens. An argument that freedom, if it is to endure, must be defended not only against the ghosts of dictatorship but against its reincarnations in democratic attire. 

And so the marchers came—not as custodians of a forgotten message, but as its latest authors. 

They came not because they had misunderstood 1986, but because they understood 2026 all too well. 

The Filipino Conscience and desire for Justice versus Relentless Impunity: Thoughts after the pre-Trial at The Hague

The Filipino Conscience and desire for Justice versus Relentless Impunity: 

Thoughts after the pre-Trial at The Hague

The pre-trial proceedings at the International Criminal Court (ICC) against former President Rodrigo Duterte have placed the Philippines under an unforgiving international spotlight. Allegations of crimes against humanity—spanning from 2013 to 2018, covering murders and attempted murders during his tenure as Davao City mayor and as President—are now being scrutinized by the impartial eyes of the world. For Manila, for its citizens, and for global observers, this is more than a legal inquiry; it is a moral reckoning, a judgment on the very soul of governance in the Duterte era. 

ICC Prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang laid out the prosecution’s case in stark terms. Duterte, prosecutors allege, was not merely a distant overseer but “at the very heart of the common plan to neutralize alleged criminals in the Philippines, including through murders.” He allegedly identified targets, provided moral and financial support, and facilitated the flow of weapons and logistical aid to those who carried out the killings. Victims, many of them ordinary citizens, were summarily executed in operations marked by brutality and impunity. 

“Unlike Mr. Duterte, who is represented by his counsel here today, they were deprived of any form of due process. The loss of every single one of these victims had the most profound impact on their families, their friends, and ultimately their communities,” Niang said. 

Representing these victims, lawyer Joel Butuyan spoke of profound disappointment and lingering fear. Duterte’s absence from the proceedings, Butuyan argued, is more than a procedural detail: it is a symbol of the persistent climate of terror that characterized his administration. 

“We communicate the very deep disappointment of the victims at the decision allowing Rodrigo Duterte not to be present in this stage of confirmation of charges,” Butuyan said. “In fact, if Mr. Duterte could threaten to slap the judges of this Court [the ICC], imagine the kind of terror-filled threats and violent actions that can easily be used against the victims if the suspect walks free from this Court.” 

On the other hand, the defense team, led by lawyer Nicholas Kaufman, has sought to reframe Duterte’s rhetoric as non-lethal—a calculated tool to instill fear and obedience, not to commit murder. They argue the speeches targeted only those “poisoning society” through drugs, not individuals, and were part of a broader campaign to assert authority. 

Yet this argument illuminates the central moral and political crisis of the Duterte era. When fear is wielded as a substitute for law, when obedience is enforced through terror, justice is hollow. The Duterte administration displayed a clear pattern: ordinary citizens faced the knife of extrajudicial killings, while high-profile perpetrators, political allies, and “big fishes” implicated in the drug trade largely remained untouched. Law was no longer a shield for all; it became a weapon to enforce compliance. Euphemisms—“deterrence to crime,” “collateral damage,” “shit happens”—masked acts of state violence, reducing legality to rhetoric and morality to convenience. 

Even in the ICC courtroom, the echoes of the Duterte-style rhetoric persist. Kaufman’s opening statement, observers note, eulogized Duterte while casting victims and human rights defenders as adversaries, mirroring the president’s familiar posture. The defense offered neither substantive rebuttal to the allegations nor acknowledgment of the human toll. As one would likely to remarked, “Now we know why Duterte tried to derail the confirmation hearing. He has no credible defense. Kaufman eulogized Duterte, demonized the victims and human rights organizations, and did everything except present a credible defense. At this rate, Duterte’s fate before the Court seems inevitable.” 

Yet, if this writer may venture a controversial observation, one might argue that former PNP Chief Ronald “Bato” Dela Rosa’s infamous declaration—“Shit happens”—rings with a grim honesty that Kaufman’s legal gymnastics can never achieve. Why so? Because Dela Rosa, in his blunt, unsparing way, acknowledged the undeniable reality of Duterte’s war on drugs. Operations Tokhang and Double Barrel did not exist in rhetoric alone—they left bodies, scars, and lives in their wake. There were killings, arrests, and punishments meted out, however selective, however brutal. 

 The starkness of Dela Rosa’s phrase—coarse, shocking, unvarnished—spoke truth in a way that Kaufman’s defense, with its flowery claims of “fear without intent” and moralized rhetoric, cannot. The operations themselves testified to the reality of Duterte’s campaign: thousands of deaths, many innocent, many guilty in ways only the state determined. The consequences were real, immediate, and devastating. Words could no longer obscure the facts. In contrast, Kaufman’s opening statement before the ICC sounded more like a paean than a defense—eloquent, polished, and yet strangely untethered from the brutal reality on the ground. It praised Duterte, demonized victims, and attacked human rights organizations, but it said nothing about the bodies that lay in the streets, the families shattered, the ordinary citizens terrorized. It was legal theater without moral substance, a defense in theory but not in truth. 

 Dela Rosa’s blunt admission, repulsive though it may seem to many, at least recognized that actions have consequences. The killings, the terror, the fear—these were real, and they demanded acknowledgment, if not justification. Kaufman’s rhetoric, by contrast, sought to paper over that reality, to deny the plain evidence before the eyes of the world. In the end, the honesty of a coarse phrase may reveal more about governance, accountability, and moral responsibility than all the eloquence of a courtroom speech delivered thousands of miles from the victims themselves. It is a bitter lesson: the truth of deeds cannot be erased by the polish of words, however carefully arranged.

Back to the topic, this ICC proceedings serve a dual purpose. Legally, they will determine whether charges of crimes against humanity proceed to trial. Politically and morally, they expose the fragility of a system where legality is subordinated to fear, spectacle, and personal power. They remind the world—and the Philippines—that justice cannot be selective, that the rule of law cannot coexist with a climate of terror, and that the moral authority of governance rests on protecting, not terrorizing, the citizenry. 

For Manila, the case lays bare a central question: can a nation uphold the rule of law when law is treated as optional, when fear becomes the primary instrument of governance? The answer is emerging not in Malacañang, not in political rallies or speeches, but in a courtroom far from the Philippines, where Duterte’s legacy is being measured not by votes, applause, or bluster, but by the cold, unyielding logic of international justice. 

The ICC is more than a legal theater; it is a mirror to the Philippines, reflecting a painful truth: governance that relies on fear and spectacle leaves a nation morally bankrupt, and accountability, no matter how delayed, is the only path to restoring faith in justice.  

Bluster, Bloodshed, and the Bench: Duterte Before The Hague

Bluster, Bloodshed, and the Bench: Duterte Before The Hague

The distance between Manila and The Hague is measured not only in kilometres but in the weight of history now pressing down on former Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte. In the austere chambers of the International Criminal Court (ICC), pre-trial proceedings have begun to determine whether the charges of crimes against humanity against him will proceed to full trial — a legal and political spectacle that would have been unthinkable in the rough-and-tumble world of Philippine strongman politics only a decade ago. 

The prosecution alleges that Duterte played a central role in killings linked to anti-drug operations carried out between 2013 and 2018, from his time as mayor of Davao City to his presidency. ICC Prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang told the chamber that Duterte’s contribution to the alleged campaign was decisive. 

“His contribution was essential as he was at the very heart of the common plan to neutralize alleged criminals in the Philippines, including through murders,” Niang said in his opening statement. 

Niang further alleged that Duterte personally identified some targets and provided moral, financial, and logistical support for operations that resulted in victims being “brutally murdered.” 

“Unlike Mr. Duterte, who is represented by his counsel here today, they were deprived of any form of due process. The loss of every single one of these victims had the most profound impact on their families, their friends, and ultimately their communities,” he said. “Bring a sense of justice.” 

Representing the victims, Joel Butuyan expressed disappointment at the decision allowing Duterte to be absent during the confirmation of charges hearing. 

“We communicate the very deep disappointment of the victims at the decision allowing Rodrigo Duterte not to be present in this stage of confirmation of charges,” Butuyan said. “In fact, if Mr. Duterte could threaten to slap the judges of this Court [the ICC], imagine the kind of terror-filled threats and the violent actions that can easily be used against the victims if the suspect walks free from this Court.” 

Duterte’s defence team, however, urged the ICC’s Pre-Trial Chamber I to dismiss the charges, which they described as “grievously misplaced” and “politically-motivated.” His counsel, Nicholas Kaufman, acknowledged Duterte as “a unique phenomenon” who was “gung-ho in his ways” and prone to “hyperbole, bluster and rhetoric,” but insisted that his speeches did not amount to criminal intent. 

“… We hope that when you conclude your deliberations, Your Honors, that you’ll dismiss these grievously misplaced and politically motivated charges. We will ask you to send Rodrigo Duterte back to his family, and we will ask you to give back to the Filipino people their Tatay Digong,” Kaufman said. 

He maintained that Duterte’s rhetoric was intended to instil fear in criminals rather than to order killings. “Rodrigo Duterte’s language was aimed not at suspected drug pushers, as the prosecution would have it, but directly at those poisoning society with their substances, and not, I stress, with lethal intent. His rhetoric was calculated to arouse fear and obedience… Nothing more, nothing less. That was his intent, and it was not criminal. He stands by his legacy resolutely, and he maintains his innocence absolutely.” 

Kaufman further argued that prosecutors had failed to produce any cooperating witness who could confirm that Duterte personally issued an order to kill. “Gung-ho in his ways and with a belligerent tone, he spoke the tough tongue of the street. He said what the people wanted to hear, but he said it in a way that offended the sensibilities of world leaders unaccustomed to hearing it. One in particular, and that was what set him on the slippery slope to a prison cell in The Hague.” 

Outside the courtroom, however, some observers contend that the defence’s strategy has so far leaned more heavily on political framing than on legal rebuttal. They argue that Kaufman’s opening remarks appeared to mirror Duterte’s familiar rhetorical posture — criticising victims’ advocates and human rights organisations — while offering limited substantive challenge to the prosecution’s allegations. 

In their assessment, Kaufman’s statement read less like a legal defence than a political tribute, reinforcing the perception that Duterte’s team faces an uphill battle as the proceedings move forward. 

The ICC’s judges must now determine whether the evidence presented meets the threshold required for trial. Their decision will shape not only Duterte’s legal fate but also the broader question of how far domestic political authority extends when weighed against the demands of international justice. 

For Manila — and for a watching world — the proceedings represent a deeply confrontational and polarising moment, laden with consequences that may yet redefine the boundaries of law, justice, power and accountability.

On the Fortieth Year: The Busy Road, the Beleaguered Republic, and the People's Right to Remember

On the Fortieth Year: The Busy Road, the Beleaguered Republic,
and the People's Right to Remember

In the fortieth year since the Filipino people assembled themselves upon a highway and transformed it into an instrument of sovereignty, a curious development has taken place: the road once consecrated by collective courage has been declared off-limits to the very citizens whose presence made it historic.

The Trillion Peso March Part 3 has been scheduled for February 25, and its convenors have spoken in the language of procedural civility. All sectors are welcome, they assure the public, provided that there are no calls for violence, no appeals to the armed forces, and no suggestions that unelected bodies assume power. Such statements, rendered in the tone of responsible guardianship, are offered as proof that the lessons of the past have been learned.

Yet the past itself resists such neat containment- as February 25 does not belong to regulation. It belongs to rupture.

An Anniversary gone Contained?

It marks the day when governance by decree—sustained by censorship, intimidation, and the calculated normalization of fear—was finally challenged by a citizenry that had exhausted every avenue of polite petition available within the narrow confines permitted by authoritarian rule. It marks the culmination of years in which constitutional guarantees were suspended in practice if not always in name; when the press was disciplined into silence, assemblies were treated as conspiracies, and dissent was reframed as subversion.

It marks the moment when the Filipino people ceased to be mere spectators to their own dispossession—no longer passive recipients of policy imposed without consultation, nor quiet witnesses to the steady erosion of their political and economic rights—and instead became active participants in the reconstitution of their republic. Upon that highway, sovereignty was not invoked rhetorically but exercised materially, as citizens assumed responsibility for restoring institutions that had been hollowed out by patronage, militarization, and decree.

It marks, in short, the point at which legitimacy ceased to flow downward from entrenched authority and began once more to rise upward from collective will.

And it is precisely on this date—so freighted with the memory of reclaimed agency—that the present administration has chosen to impose an “EDSA no-rally zone,” effectively restricting access to the very site where democratic legitimacy was last renegotiated in full public view.

Thus is the fortieth anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution commemorated by the son of the very dictator whose rule defined governance through the blanket gagging of the press, the criminalization of independent organization, and the systematic suffocation of both individual and collective expression: by blocking the historic highway to those who refuse to treat accountability and justice as negotiable abstractions, or to subordinate historical memory to the conveniences of present authority.

In so doing, the state risks transforming an anniversary of emancipation into an exercise in managed remembrance—permitting celebration while circumscribing its meaning, and honoring participation only insofar as it does not challenge the structures that People Power was once mobilized to confront.

The symbolism is unmistakable. A road made sacred by dissent is rendered inaccessible in the name of order. Slogans once shouted in defense of liberty are now deemed suspect, their utterance shadowed by allegations of sedition. It becomes a tribute to memory that now demands performativism if not silence. 

Still, the noise of dissent against the system doesn't stop

In response, various sectors of civil society have resolved to march toward EDSA-Ortigas on February 25—not merely to commemorate the past but to assert the continuing necessity of People Power as a political principle. They argue that it is impossible to remember EDSA without confronting the fascism, corruption, and subservience that characterized the Marcos dictatorship, or without acknowledging the vast quantities of stolen wealth that remain unreturned to the Filipino people.

Questions persist with institutional stubbornness: where is the ₱203 billion in unpaid estate tax owed by the Marcos family? Where are the billions in ill-gotten assets that continue to generate private benefit from public loss? Is Marcos Jr. really serious in resolving that goddamned corruption issue that harmed both his and Duterte's circle? True that the call is "all those involved be held accountable", but in truth- how about the urge to "bombard that corruption-riddled headquarters"? To commemorate EDSA without posing these questions would be to transform history into ceremony and ceremony into performativism without understanding, if not amnesia.

Equally, they contend that the present cannot be detached from the past. Allegations of corruption amounting to billions in public funds, supported by documentary evidence presented in legislative inquiries, have exposed the continuities between the former dictatorship and the current administration. In the logic of political inheritance, "kung ano ang puno, siya ring bunga"—the nature of the tree determines the nature of its fruit.

The declaration of EDSA as a no-rally zone is therefore not merely administrative; it is ideological. It contradicts the foundational premise of the uprising it purports to honor: that sovereignty resides not in institutions alone but in the organized action of the citizenry.  And in speaking of "peaceful assembly" as insisted by authorities, that assembly cannot be meaningfully celebrated by limiting the freedoms that sustain it especially with "permits", Nor can the lessons of EDSA be invoked to justify the suppression of criticism or the narrowing of political alternatives to those sanctioned by entrenched elites.

The fortieth anniversary also arrives amid renewed political maneuverings, in which alliances are assembled and dissolved with an eye toward forthcoming electoral contests. In such an environment, the struggle against corruption risks being reduced to an instrument of campaign strategy—a means of securing office rather than transforming the system that renders corruption profitable.

History offers a cautionary precedent. The events of 1986, and later those of 2001, demonstrated that the mere replacement of leadership at the summit of power does not in itself resolve structural crises. The question confronting the nation is therefore not only who shall govern, but under what system governance shall proceed.

To substitute one occupant for another without altering the conditions that produced both is to mistake rotation for reform. For this reason, those who will assemble on February 25 insist that the work initiated at EDSA remains unfinished. The promises of genuine freedom, democratic accountability, social justice, and equitable development—invoked in the fervor of those four days—have yet to be fully realized.

They march to assert that the commemoration of EDSA must be measured not by ceremonial observance but by substantive progress toward these ends.

They march in the conviction that the true power of the republic resides not in political dynasties, nor in the transactional accommodations of professional politicians, but in the collective capacity of its citizens to demand and enact change.

And they march in the belief that the memory of People Power cannot be confined to anniversaries or appropriated for spectacle.

It must instead be exercised.

Until the promises made upon that highway are fulfilled, the road remains open in principle—whatever barriers may be erected in practice.  

"Where Were You When People Power Was Real?"

"Where Were You When People Power Was Real?"

The Trillion Peso March Part 3 was announced for February 25. Kiko Aquino Dee spoke with civility, measured tone: all protest groups welcome, as long as they refrained from calls for violence, avoided urging the armed forces, and respected the sanctity of elected power. On paper, it sounded democratic, inclusive, safe. But the streets remember differently. 

A sacred date, etched in the sweat, blood, and barricades of a people who would not bow to tyranny, is now declared a no-rally zone. Slogans that once shook the walls of Malacañang are forbidden. “Sedition,” they whisper. Sedition, as if speaking truth to power is a crime. And suddenly, the careful admonitions of modern organizers are offered as wisdom. 

Where were these voices when the streets ran with fear and fury alike? 

The digital landscape is dominated by state actors, by PR campaigns, by the polished, sanitized spin of those who prefer optics over struggle. Criticism of one man, one family, one dynasty—and everyone recoils. Yet where was the same “care” when protesters faced water cannons, truncheons, and tear gas? When hospital emergency rooms overflowed with the injured from the four days of February 1986? When BAYAN had to fight year after year just for a permit to voice dissent during the State of the Nation Address (SONA)? 

Words without action are cheap. Marching in shoes unscathed by fear, watching a sanitized stage performance of People Power—it becomes theater, veneration without understanding, spectacle without courage. The word change is cherished; the work, risk, and sacrifice that demand it are ignored. Opportunism sits comfortably in polite applause. 

The first People Power toppled thieves, liars, murderers. Ferdinand Marcos was ousted, Corazon Aquino assumed office, and the streets bore witness to a nation’s collective courage. Yet today, some ask why Kiko Aquino Dee avoids holding Marcos accountable in the narrative of EDSA@40. They point to the stolen wealth, the unreturned plunder, the violence, the impunity. And the question lingers: is BBM truly “clean”? Is Sara untouchable? The slap to the people’s face echoes even in 2026. 

History does not lie. Both Marcos and Duterte represent the same corrosion: corruption, abuse, disregard for life, and the oppression of ordinary citizens. Wanting decent wages, regular work, affordable goods, functional healthcare, modern transport, sustainable agriculture, land reform, clean housing, and a livable environment—these are not radical ideals. These are survival, dignity, common sense. Yet in polite discourse, these are labeled “leftist idealism.” It is an insult to those who sweated in the streets so that such demands could even be voiced. 

And the modern organizers, cautious and careful, may not see that People Power was never meant to be polite. It was risk, it was sweat, it was courage threaded with fear. It demanded facing authorities armed with more than PR—they faced truncheons, tear gas, and the threat of death. Anything less is theater. Anything less is performative. Anything less is opportunism dressed as patriotism. 

So as the march approaches, the streets remember. They remember who bled for freedom, who stood when every police formation, every armored vehicle, every cannon of tear gas tried to silence the people. They remember the courage that made the first People Power real. And they watch, quietly, skeptically, the marchers of today: who walks with the fire, and who walks politely in shoes that have never felt the asphalt under a tyrant’s gaze. 

History, as always, will remember.