Of Red Carnations, Yellow Ribbons, and Rosaries:
Notes on Two Revolutions, Their Echoes, and the Burden of What Followed
There are moments in the life of nations when the accumulated weight of history yields not by gradual reform but through rupture—moments when the logic of continuity falters and the question of power is no longer abstract but immediate. Such moments do not emerge from sentiment alone; they are the product of contradictions long embedded within the structure of society—contradictions economic, political, and moral—which, when intensified beyond accommodation, compel a break. These breaks, however, do not carry within themselves their own resolution. They merely open a field of possibility. What follows depends not on the drama of the rupture but on the direction taken thereafter.
On April 25, 1974, in Lisbon, the Carnation Revolution represented such a rupture. The Estado Novo, shaped by António de Oliveira Salazar and sustained by Marcelo Caetano, had long rested on an uneasy equilibrium: a controlled political order, limited economic modernization, and a stubborn insistence on maintaining an imperial presence in Africa. By the late 1960s and early 1970s, this equilibrium had broken down. The colonial wars in Angola, Mozambique, and Guinea-Bissau had become not only militarily untenable but politically corrosive. The war did not simply drain resources; it undermined the ideological coherence of the regime itself.
It was within this context that the Armed Forces Movement emerged—a formation of officers who, having borne the burdens of the colonial wars, recognized the unsustainability of the system they served. Yet even here, one must be precise. The initial intervention of the MFA was not conceived as a social revolution but as a corrective—a removal of a regime that had lost its capacity to govern effectively. What transformed this intervention into a revolution was not its design but its reception. Civilians entered the streets, not as passive observers but as active participants. The symbolic act of placing carnations in the barrels of rifles did more than soften the image of the uprising; it marked the moment when the coercive apparatus of the state ceased to function as intended. The state, confronted with the refusal of its own agents to act decisively, revealed its fragility.
Yet to speak of April 25 as an event is insufficient. Its significance lies in what followed. The Processo Revolucionário Em Curso that unfolded in its aftermath transformed rupture into process. Political authority became diffuse, contested across multiple sites. Workers organized commissions within factories, asserting control over production and challenging managerial authority. In the agrarian south, landless laborers dismantled the latifundia system, redistributing land and reorganizing agricultural production. The state itself became an arena of struggle, with competing factions within the military and civilian leadership articulating divergent visions of the future.
This insistence on process—on the unfolding of contradiction rather than its immediate resolution—distinguishes the Portuguese experience. It was a revolution that did not seek closure but confrontation, that allowed the question of power to remain open. It is for this reason that the phrase “25 de Abril Sempre” continues to carry weight: it invokes not merely a memory but a commitment to an unfinished project.
Twelve years later, in the Philippines, another rupture occurred along Epifanio de los Santos Avenue. The People Power Revolution has since been enshrined as a defining moment in Philippine political history. The dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos, sustained through martial law, patronage, and the selective use of coercion, collapsed in the face of mass mobilization. As in Lisbon, the armed forces hesitated. Soldiers refused to fire upon civilians. The presence of unarmed citizens—many bearing rosaries, invoking faith rather than force—altered the dynamics of confrontation.
At the level of form, the parallels are evident. Both revolutions demonstrated the vulnerability of regimes when their coercive apparatus falters. Both revealed the capacity of collective action to disrupt entrenched systems of power. Yet it is in the aftermath that the divergence becomes most pronounced.
Whereas the Portuguese experience extended itself into a prolonged process of transformation, the Philippine experience appeared to compress itself into a moment of resolution. The objective of EDSA was clear: the removal of a regime and the restoration of democratic institutions. Once achieved, the momentum of the uprising shifted toward stabilization. Under Corazon Aquino, the emphasis was placed on constitutional reform, culminating in the 1987 Constitution. This document restored civil liberties, reestablished institutional checks, and signaled a return to democratic governance.
Yet this return also marked a limit. For while the political superstructure was reconstituted, the underlying socioeconomic structures remained largely intact. The agrarian question—central to the country’s historical contradictions—was addressed only partially. Patterns of land ownership persisted. Economic inequality, though recognized, was not fundamentally altered. The structures of oligarchic influence that had sustained the previous regime were reconfigured but not dismantled.
It is in this context that the post-EDSA experience must be understood. The immediate aftermath of 1986 produced not a consolidated transformation but a vacuum—an absence between expectation and realization. Into this vacuum entered the language of the “spirit of EDSA,” invoked by media institutions, policy advocates, and various sectors as a means of asserting continuity. This spirit was presented as enduring, as a moral and political inheritance that continued to guide the nation.
Yet such invocations raise a critical question: can a spirit persist in the absence of structural change?
For even as the rhetoric of EDSA was sustained, the material conditions that had given rise to the uprising remained. Movements advocating for land reform, labor rights, and national sovereignty encountered resistance. In certain cases, these movements were delegitimized, their concerns dismissed as disruptive or subversive. The language used—branding dissenters as extremists, as threats to order—served to marginalize rather than engage.
This dynamic suggests a tension between the ideals articulated during the uprising and the practices that followed. If EDSA represented a collective assertion against injustice, then the subsequent marginalization of demands for structural reform indicates a narrowing of its scope.
The economic trajectory of the Philippines further complicates this picture. In the decades following EDSA, the country increasingly aligned with global neoliberal frameworks. Policies of liberalization, privatization, and market integration were pursued as strategies for development. While these policies contributed to certain forms of growth, they also reinforced existing inequalities and introduced new forms of dependency. The concentration of wealth persisted, and the structural conditions underlying poverty remained largely unchanged.
One must therefore ask whether this trajectory represents a continuation of the spirit of EDSA or a departure from it. If the uprising was, in part, a response to systemic inequities, then the persistence of those inequities raises questions about the extent to which its transformative potential was realized.
The contrast with Portugal becomes particularly instructive when examining the role of counter-movements. In Portugal, reactionary forces emerged in the aftermath of the revolution, including groups such as the Movimento Democrático de Libertação de Portugal, Movimento Maria Da Fonte, Comandos Operacionais de Defesa da Civilização Ocidental, and the Exército de Libertação de Portugal. These groups sought to reverse the gains of the revolutionary process. However, their efforts were largely contained within the broader dynamics of the revolution. The attempted coup of March 1975 failed, and the subsequent consolidation of authority occurred within a relatively defined timeframe.
In the Philippines, by contrast, the post-EDSA period was marked by a series of coup attempts that extended over several years. Military factions such as the Reform the Armed Forces Movement (RAM), the Soldiers of the Filipino People (SFP), the so-called "Nationalist Army of the Philippines" (NAP), and the Young Officers Union repeatedly challenged the authority of the civilian government. These groups framed their actions in terms of reform and national interest, yet their interventions contributed to a prolonged period of instability.
Unlike Portugal, where counter-movements were addressed within a compressed revolutionary timeframe, the Philippine experience required sustained engagement with internal challenges. This prolonged instability reflects the incomplete nature of the transition, suggesting that the rupture of 1986 did not fully resolve the contradictions that had given rise to it.
It is in this light that contemporary developments must be considered. The return of Ferdinand Marcos Jr. to Malacañang Palace, alongside figures such as Sara Duterte, invites reflection on the durability of the post-EDSA order. It raises questions about the extent to which the transformations of 1986 were institutionalized and whether the conditions that produced the uprising have been adequately addressed.
The persistence of inequality, the marginalization of dissent, and the reemergence of political dynasties suggest that the work initiated in 1986 remains incomplete. The invocation of the “spirit of EDSA” thus risks becoming a substitute for substantive engagement with these issues—a rhetorical device that obscures rather than clarifies.
Pardon this writer for returning, perhaps insistently, to comparison. It is not intended as a definitive judgment but as a means of illuminating trajectories. The Portuguese experience, encapsulated in the enduring phrase “25 de Abril Sempre,” continues to evoke a commitment to transformation, even as its outcomes have been moderated. The Philippine experience, by contrast, often treats EDSA as a concluded chapter, emphasizing restoration over continuation.
In the final analysis, the relationship between the Carnation Revolution and EDSA is not one of direct causation but of historical resonance. Both demonstrate the capacity of collective action to disrupt entrenched systems of power. Both reveal the contingency of authority when confronted by unified resistance. Yet they also illustrate the divergent paths that such moments can take—one extending into a process of transformation, the other resolving into a restoration of order.
The enduring question, therefore, is not whether one inspired the other, but what each reveals about the possibilities and limits of revolutionary change. For if the spirit of any revolution is to endure, it must be grounded not only in memory but in the ongoing effort to align political institutions with social realities.
Red Carnations in Lisbon. Yellow Ribbons and Rosaries in Manila. Between them lies not a simple narrative of inspiration, but a complex dialogue—one that continues to unfold, and whose conclusions remain, even now, unsettled.