“Miah, it’s Cold Outside”

“Miah, it’s Cold Outside”

(Apologies to Frank Loesser)

Snow hadn’t quite settled yet, but it threatened to. Outside the tall windows of Albert’s apartment, Manhattan glowed in soft reds and greens—department store lights strung like constellations, taxis sliding through wet streets, a distant Salvation Army bell ringing somewhere below. Christmas was close enough to feel, but not close enough to be loud about it.

Inside, the apartment was warm in that old-fashioned way: a gas fireplace humming quietly, a Christmas tree tucked into the corner with modest ornaments—glass bulbs, tinsel, nothing blinking. A gramophone sat proudly on a low cabinet, its brass horn catching the firelight as the needle traced a familiar melody.

“I really can’t stay…”

Miah stood near the door, gloves still on, her wool coat buttoned tight. Snowflakes clung to the hem like indecision.

“I really should go,” she said, glancing at the window, then at the clock above the bar cart.

Albert leaned against the doorframe, relaxed but attentive, as though the night had placed him exactly there on purpose. “Miah, it’s cold outside.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it again if I have to,” he replied, nodding toward the window. “New York doesn’t mess around in December.”

The gramophone crackled softly as the singer continued, “This evening has been… been hoping that you’d drop in…”

Miah glanced at the record, then back at Albert. “You planned this,” she said.

“Planned what?” Albert asked.

“The song. The fire. The tree.” Miah said.

Albert pushed himself off the doorframe and walked closer. “I planned for it to be warm. Everything else is just good timing.”

She slipped one glove off, then the other. “I was only going to stay a minute.”

“Funny,” he said gently, taking her coat. “That’s not what your hands are saying.” He wrapped his fingers around hers briefly. “They’re just like ice.”

“My mother will start to worry,” Miah said, though she didn’t pull away.

“Beautiful, what’s your hurry?” Albert said, not teasing—more sincere than that. He gestured toward the sofa. “Sit. Warm up.”

She hesitated, then relented, perching at the edge of the couch. “My father will be pacing the floor by now,” she added.

Albert poured two drinks—something amber, modest, old-fashioned—and handed her one. “Listen to the fireplace roar,” he said. “Well… maybe just a half a drink more.”

She took it, exhaling as the warmth spread. “The neighbors might think.”

“Miah, it’s bad out there,” Albert replied smoothly. “And besides—say, what’s in this drink?”

She raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t know, that’s on you.”

Outside, a bus hissed to a stop. Somewhere, someone laughed. The city carried on, unaware of the small drama unfolding several floors above it.

Albert sat beside her, close but not crowding. “I wish I knew how,” he said softly, “to break this spell.” He reached up, removing her knit hat with care. “Your hair looks swell.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I ought to say no. No, no, no.”

“Mind if I move in closer?” he asked.

Miah tilted her head, amused. “You’re very pushy, you know.”

“I like to think of it as… opportunistic,” he replied.

The record continued: “My sister will be suspicious…”

Miah sighed. “She would be.”

“And my brother would be at the door,” Albert said. “If he could get through the snow.”

She laughed quietly. “Gosh… your lips look delicious,” she said, deliberately echoing the lyric.

Albert leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Careful. The song’s doing all the flirting for us.”

“Maybe just a cigarette more?” she teased.

“You don’t smoke.” Albert replied.

“Neither do you.” Miah said. 

“I’ve got to get home,” Miah said again, though she made no move toward the door.

“Miah, you’ll freeze out there.” Albert replied.

She looked down at their hands, now resting close together. “There’s bound to be talk tomorrow. Think of my lifelong sorrow.”

Albert smiled. “At least there’ll be plenty implied if you caught pneumonia and died.”

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth. “That’s awful.”

“But festive,” he said.

The song drifted toward its end, the gramophone slowing just slightly, as if reluctant. Snow had begun to fall properly now, soft and steady, blanketing the street below.

Miah leaned back against the sofa, finally at ease. She looked at Albert, then at the spinning record.
“…You know,” she said, smiling, “we end up making a dialogue out of a song, don’t we?”

Albert met her gaze, warmth in his eyes. “Seems like the best conversation we’ve had all winter.”

Outside, New York turned quietly white. Inside, the record spun on, Christmas hovered just days away, and neither of them seemed in any real hurry to let the night end.

"Every Brew"

"Every Brew" 
(Or: "Bantayan Blue")

It was a revision of the poem originally entitled “Of Colours That Linger over Coffee,” reworked in a moment of late-hour boredom when time felt elastic and the room was lit more by mood than by necessity. What began casually—almost absent-mindedly—slowly slipped into something more deliberate, as if the words were being rearranged to the hum of an old cassette deck left running in the background.

As the revision took shape, the poem began to feel accompanied by an ’80s lounge-pop / soft jazz atmosphere—warm synth pads, brushed drums, a bassline that never rushes, the kind of music that plays in the background of neon-lit cafés or seaside hotels just after sunset. There’s a quiet nostalgia to it, a sense of looking out through tinted glass at something already passing, where sweetness is restrained and longing is carried in understatement rather than confession.

This version leans into texture and tone—colors, cooling coffee, drifting air—allowing them to echo like a familiar melody you can’t quite place. It lingers the way an old song does on late-night radio: not loud enough to demand attention, not soft enough to disappear, content to exist in that suspended space where memory, mood, and distance gently blur into one. 

Mango yellow in the afternoon sky,

Bantayan blue where the seabirds cry,

Heaven knows I need a moment to breathe,

Caramel ice in my coffee and me.

Why not scarlet red or the grey of the sand,

Why do your colors keep tracing my hand?

Every sweet memory trembles and stirs,

Soft as your laughter, as distant as yours.

Your love is coffee, sweet with the ache,

Mellow and bitter in every heartbreak,

I sip and I wonder if I should have known—

Some kinds of beauty don’t let you go.

Your love is coffee, fading but true,

Warm in the sweetness, cold in the blue,

Even when silence is all that I prove,

I still taste you in every brew.

Streetlight shadows on quiet cafés,

Ocean keeps time in a slow soft sway,

Sugar dissolves but your name remains,

Spinning in circles inside my veins.

Laughter from elsewhere drifts through the air,

Strangers in love like we once were, there—

I stir the ice like I used to your smile,

Trying to cool what still stays awhile.

Your love is coffee, sweet with the ache,

Mellow and bitter in every heartbreak,

I sip and I wonder if I should have known—

Some kinds of beauty don’t let you go.

Your love is coffee, fading but true,

Warm in the sweetness, cold in the blue,

Even when silence is all that I prove,

I still taste you in every brew.

Sometimes I ask if it was a mistake,

Meeting the sun just to watch it break,

If I was foolish to learn your light,

Just to remember it every night.

Joy and sorrow in one slow dance,

One small yes in a long romance,

Now all I own is this quiet view,

And a glass full of what I once knew.

Your love is coffee, sweet with the ache,

Mellow and bitter in every heartbreak,

I sip and I wonder if I should have known—

Some kinds of beauty don’t let you go.

Your love is coffee, fading but true,

Warm in the sweetness, cold in the blue,

Even when silence is all that I prove,

I still taste you in every brew. 

Rise for Rights: Breaking the Chains of State Terror

Rise for Rights: Breaking the Chains of State Terror 

A message for International Human Rights Day 

By Kat Ulrike 

Today, the world marks International Human Rights Day, the 77th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR)—a document born of struggle, blood, and the promise that no human being shall be denied dignity and freedom. 

The UDHR stands not as a relic, but as a battle flag. Its significance is clear against the backdrop of a world where fascism is resurging, where imperial powers and their client states tighten the screws of control, and where liberal democracy gives way to naked oppression. The people must watch, resist, and defend every hard-won right in the relentless pursuit of social justice and liberation. 

In the Philippines, the shadow of state terror looms large. Citizens face harassment, threats, red-tagging, and extrajudicial killings. Those who dare defend the defenseless—human rights defenders—find themselves targeted, vilified, and isolated. 

When domestic laws are twisted into weapons—like the Terrorism Financing Prevention Act of 2012 or the Anti-Terrorism Act of 2020—the path is cleared for unchecked violations of political and civil freedoms. Dissent is criminalized. Activists are lumped together with rebels, as enemies of the state, in blatant defiance of international law. The record of brutality under the current regime and its militarized enforcers is long, cruel, and unmistakable. 

And with the absence of dissent and relentless violations of political and civil freedoms so is the aggravation of institutional corruption and exploitation by bureaucrats, despotic landlords, and compradores alike, using the laws meant to maim the people and claiming about having "rights" and "freedoms" abound in a pretentious, performative society. The recent scandals involving abuse of public funds exposed relentless self-interest that betrayed public trust, and in it also meant aggravating repression as people starting to seek truth from facts, exposing the rot, and asserting the need for justice.

Across history, and across continents, the pattern is clear. In advanced capitalist states, authoritarianism creeps in through “national security” and “counterterrorism.” In colonial and neo-colonial states, oppression wears the mask of law and order. The people everywhere have risen in protest, sometimes violently, often peacefully—but always with the fire of resistance in their hearts. The Philippines is no exception. The struggle is long, arduous, and perilous—but it is a struggle that must continue. 

Call it idealism, heck even downplaying the fact that people has to go beyond the parameters to assert what's right and just, but regardless of the risks, the threats, and the incidents that trying to bend people's aspirations, the struggle is not over. Solidarity is urgent. The people cannot rely on the state to uphold their rights, for the reactionary machinery has never recognized them willingly. Justice for past abuses must be pursued relentlessly. Impunity must be shattered. Every extrajudicial killing, every unlawful detention, every act of harassment and intimidation must be documented, exposed, and answered for. This is not just a legal struggle—it is a moral imperative, a duty of conscience, and a fight for humanity itself. The people must demand that the government place human rights at the center of policy. Justice for past abuses must be pursued relentlessly. Impunity must be crushed. 

The chains of violence and oppression can be broken only by unity and action. The masses, united, can reclaim the dignity, the freedom, and the rights that are theirs by birth. International Human Rights Day is a call to rise, resist, and reclaim humanity itself. The fight continues—undaunted, unbroken, uncompromising.  

Again, Over Coffee, Under Night

Again, Over Coffee, Under Night

"The Etiquette of Burning Quietly"

Inspire me still—let my heart burn again with your fire;
Even embers recall how they once rose higher in fire.

Though disappointment threads through the spaces of your words,
I hush my grief, for even ashes conspire with fire.

What am I but nothing, until your grace gave me form?
From dust I was carved, shaped by your desire for fire.

Your messages falter—are they distance, or gentleness withheld?
A cold moon glimmers, reflecting a shyer fire.

Once your presence alone made the world feel newly born—
Now absence grows tall, casting its entire fire.

If your voice brought music, now the silence brings a discipline;
A monk in a ruined hall must still admire fire.

Even your hesitation becomes a scripture I study at night—
For saints, too, were scorched by a teacher’s prior fire.

Yet I wonder at times if my devotion burdens your breath;
If I speak too much to a soul whose choir is fire.

Still, from you I learned to aspire, even when all else fell dark;
You lit the wick beneath a sky without a single spire of fire.

Let hell come—your memory alone tempers the heat;
Your kindness once forged in me a sapphire of fire.

The world turns rough; its cruelty grows sharper each dawn—
But your fleeting warmth taught me how to respire in fire.

Your presence was no gift, but a quiet revolution of being;
Your absence, too, is a teacher with an entire fire.

If longing is weakness, then let me be weak and alive;
For even weak hands can cradle a fragile pyre of fire.

I write these lines half-resigned, half-burning, split between fates—
This is Ashraf’s path: to walk the edge of the lyre in fire.

And if someday you read this and feel a moment’s warmth,
Let it be known: your smallest mercy overtook my empire of fire.

"Bitter Steam Silent Fire"

The sun sets as I prepare my brew,

recalling your beauty, the quiet charm from you.

Despite your sarcastic, almost careless replies,

I remember each word, though it almost bruised me through.

Dismissive comments linger, edges sharp and thin,

I wonder—did I err? Am I worth being dismissable to you?

The coffee grows bitter in my cup,

milk and sugar unable to soften the thoughts I rue.

I trace your shadow in the rising steam,

a ghost of laughter that once felt true.

Even silence seems to speak of your absence,

the weight of things unsaid, of a glance I never knew.

The aroma reminds me of mornings I never shared,

of warmth I imagined and the cold reality I brew.

I fold my longing into each sip,

letting it settle, quiet, as if I knew.

Perhaps the heart always misreads kindness,

or reads too much into gestures few construe.

Your memory drifts through the window light,

long afternoon shadows bending with my rue.

Time passes slowly in the café,

each minute folding into the next, unnoticed.

I watch the streets glow under a fading sun,

cars humming, distant voices threading the evening.

The sky deepens to violet,

as if painted with the brush of a lonely god.

I write, I sketch, I make poems unseen,

small offerings of a soul no one knew.

Even the simplest cup now tastes of reflection,

every sip a meditation on absence.

I think of your laughter,

not loud, not brash, but the kind that lingers quietly,

turning corners of memory into rooms of longing.

I wonder if you ever think of me,

or if all my careful attention dissolves

into the world as nothing at all.

The first stars appear, hesitant and pale,

and I imagine you standing among them,

a distant light I cannot touch.

The coffee grows cold, yet I do not mind,

its bitterness matching the quiet ache in my chest.

Each shadow across the table whispers your name,

though no one else could hear it,

no one else could know the weight of it.

Perhaps the world is always too bright for longing,

too full of motion to hold a silent pulse of fire.

I rise to stretch,

but the room seems smaller without you,

the chairs and tables bending inward,

pressing me toward memories I cannot release.

The evening deepens,

neon flickers faintly through the glass,

and I think of the ways you made small moments

feel like revelations I could never speak aloud.

I fold my hands over the empty cup,

letting the silence seep between my fingers,

and for the first time,

I accept that some warmth exists only in memory.

I will leave this place tonight,

the table smooth, the coffee gone,

but the quiet fire remains—

a pulse no one will touch,

a farewell never spoken,

a love I carry only in the hours

when longing is permitted to breathe.

"Ultraviolet Rose"

Pardon if I made you a poem,

Especially if your beauty resonates.

Especially when your charm is tempered

By the wit I have encountered,

A love of Mecha and the sword,

As if you try to confront the world alone.

A rose, red as that of blood,

With thorns, stingy as the world surrounds.

My thoughts play dark, industrial—

Machines whirring in endless loops,

As your movements end like ultraviolet,

Sharp, precise, almost mechanical.

Your background once chemical, pharmaceutical,

Designed in labs of logic and precision;

Now I see you in the cabin, aeronautical,

A pilot in the skies of my imagination.

I do not know why your beauty makes me ponder

These impossible alignments of thought;

Instead of seeing the yellow over blue,

M mind draws pitch black and red,

Dystopian sketches and neon shadows,

Like sci-fi pages from forgotten notes.

Yet in these colors, I trace your presence,

A pulse in dark machinery,

A melody hidden in mechanical hums,

A quiet fire behind ultraviolet eyes.

I write, I sketch, I fold you into verse,

A rose that cannot bloom except in thought,

A blade I wield against nothing,

A love that exists in margins and silence.

Every stanza, a breath in a sealed cabin,

Every line, a heartbeat against the world,

Every imagined movement, a secret signal

No one else can read, no one else can see.

And so I leave this poem behind,

A dark industrial melody,

A rose in ultraviolet,

A ghost in chemic skies,

A jisei for the beauty I carry alone.

"Of Colors That Linger Over Coffee”

Mango yellow,

the sun spills across the sky,

Bantayan blue drifts softly,

clouds floating as if reluctant to move.

Heaven, I pray, grant me a moment

to hold a cup of warmth,

iced coffee caramel-laced,

its bitterness tempered by sweetness.

These colors haunt my mind—

not scarlet red, nor pitch black,

nor river-sand grey that the evening brings.

Instead, your memory rises,

sweet yet sharp,

like a taste that lingers on the tongue.

The wind shakes the blossoms,

and I remember your smile,

a fleeting warmth in spring sunlight.

Even the coffee in my hand trembles

like a reflection of what was yours,

softly tempered by distance and time.

Pardon my wondering,

for thoughts are restless and untamed,

drifting like petals across the pond.

Your presence brought both joy and sorrow,

a fleeting fragrance I cannot keep,

like dew evaporating in the first morning light.

Sometimes I ask myself—

was it folly to encounter you,

to behold the beauty and charm

that lingers even now,

in mango-colored skies,

in iced caramel coffee,

in a breeze that shakes the trees?

Yet even if brief,

the taste, the sight, the sighs,

remain pressed upon my heart,

not bitter enough to turn away,

not sweet enough to ease the ache,

but enough to remind me

that impermanence itself

can hold a kind of love.

The petals fall,

coffee cools in the cup,

and I sit quietly,

watching the sun fade behind Bantayan blue,

knowing that some colors,

some memories,

linger as softly and stubbornly

as your absence in my heart.

Embers in the Quiet Hours

Embers in the Quiet Hours

"Frost at Dusk, Words Unsaid"

To speak plainly now—

disappointment settles in

like evening frost.

Your messages fall lightly,

yet cut clean through the quiet.

The one who inspired

now sends words that tremble,

awkward and thin—

I steady my breath and watch

how meaning slips away.

I question myself:

was the flame imagined, or

merely misplaced?

Intentions once luminous

dim into distant embers.

Your replies arrive

as if meant to scatter me,

to unmake warmth—

I bow to the truth of it,

cold but without bitterness.

So I let it fade,

this small ache that once reached out

toward your light.

Inspiration stands alone now,

no longer asking to be held.

"Sorry if I was inspired"

Sorry if I was inspired—

if the small tremor of your presence

turned my thoughts into sketch and song,

if a single moment with you

rang longer than I expected.

When your presence resonates,

the world grows strangely clearer—

shadows stretch,

colors gather themselves,

and even silence seems to hum.

I never meant for this spark

to trouble anyone,

least of all you;

yet it rose naturally,

as breath rises

from a cup of tea at dusk.

Forgive the way I followed

that brief warmth,

mistaking it for invitation,

or for a path meant to continue.

A foolishness, perhaps—

but even fools bow to beauty.

Now I let the evening settle.

Your face drifts like smoke

through the last unhurried thought;

I watch it fade

without reaching out.

What inspiration remains

I will keep quietly,

folded inside the sleeve

of an ordinary day—

a fire reduced to embers

that no longer seek to rise.

If love was ever there,

it stands at a respectful distance now,

offering no burden,

asking for nothing

but the right to have once burned.

And in this stillness,

I bow once more

to the briefness of all things—

to the way even longing

must learn how to leave gently,

like autumn light

slipping down a final wall.

"A visit that lives only in thought"

Sometimes I feel

that all I wish for

is for you to visit once—

to step into the coffeeshop

where my latte cools in my hands,

and softly ask

for a flat white of your own.

To be honest,

this may seem impossible even to me.

I know you aren’t into such ideas—

you’d laugh it off,

dismiss it lightly,

or answer with that small trace

of sarcasm you use

when something touches too close

to the heart you hide.

Yet in my mind,

marred by loneliness

and softened by years of quiet longing,

I still wonder—

what if you visited that place?

What if you stepped through those old doors,

the ones polished by decades of passing hands,

as in decades-past old,

so old they glow

with the memory of time itself?

It would become a place of wonder,

a place remade simply

because you breathed its air.

Maybe this sounds strange,

but being an old soul

makes me carry thoughts like these—

thoughts that drift like incense smoke,

fragile and persistent,

unable to be scattered.

They turn into poems,

into sketches on worn notebooks,

into quiet dedications folded

between research notes,

hidden in essays,

masked by footnotes,

disguised as arguments

but written with a pulse

the world cannot see.

Your beauty, your charm,

your quiet gravity—

they resonate every time I enter this place.

Even as the years shift,

the wooden beams creak the same way,

the afternoon light falls

through the same dusty glass,

and somehow it feels

as though you had just been there—

a breath before me,

a ghost of warmth ahead.

So I sit,

letting the steam rise like prayer

from the surface of my cup,

and write another quiet verse

for someone who will never know

how deeply their shadow

moves across my inner landscape.

In the end,

I place these thoughts gently down—

as one sets aside

a fading blossom or a silk sleeve

kept only for the memory of touch.

Accepting its sweetness,

its ache,

its irretrievability.

Yet even in acceptance,

even in this final stillness,

I cannot help but wish

you might walk in once—

just once—

so the loneliness beside me

could finally learn

how to breathe.

"Embers in the Quiet Hours"

To be honest,

I feel disappointed—

especially when messages arrive,

awkward and clumsy,

from the one who once inspired me.

Did they dismiss the spark I carried?

Or did they simply forget

the weight of presence?

Sorry if I was inspired—

if the tremor of your presence

turned my thoughts into sketches and songs,

if a fleeting glance

or a whisper of your voice

rippled through the stillness

and made me something more than myself.

Coffee cools in my hands,

steam gone, rim touching my lips like memory.

The bass from the rave down the street

presses against the walls,

shakes the air in slow pulses,

a borrowed heartbeat

I cannot touch,

yet follow with my own quiet rhythm.

Inspire me, I want to say,

let my heart burn with your fire again,

for even embers remember the shape of flame.

Your presence once brought music—

a note that lingered after laughter,

more lasting than any gift,

more alive than friendliness

that drifts away like smoke.

I sip slowly, pretending warmth

fills more than the empty cup.

Inside, a hollow curls quietly,

folded into the foam,

hidden behind a smile

that no one sees,

that perhaps you never noticed.

When did your voice become a silent song?

When did your light leave its lessons in echoes?

I trace your memory over every beat of the music,

every tremor of neon and shadow,

and I imagine your hand brushing mine

as a secret, a note folded into an ordinary day.

Even your hesitation,

even the awkwardness of your words,

teaches me—

I have learned to aspire,

to continue writing, thinking, dreaming,

even when warmth fades,

even when love retreats

into shadow.

Against the cold machinery of the world,

you once lit the wick beneath a sky

that offered no other fire.

And though you are absent now,

the ember remains,

quiet, steady, untouchable—

a small rebellion against nothingness.

The night thickens,

lights flicker across darkened windows,

the rave becomes a distant memory,

and I let the quiet hold me—

the only space where longing

can breathe,

where love can exist

without being noticed,

without betraying itself.

The cup is empty,

the bass fades,

and I rise slowly,

folding the weight of longing behind my chest.

No confession, no plea,

only a quiet love

that no one will touch,

a farewell never named,

a pulse in the still hours

that I leave behind in every breath.

I bow, finally,

to the fleeting perfection of it all:

the brief flare of your inspiration,

the impossible warmth of presence,

the small fire I carry now alone—

a testament to the world

and to the heart that once burned.

No Applause for a Stolen Century

No Applause for a Stolen Century

 (Or: "How Del Monte Made Exploitation Appears Benevolent") 

by Salvador Del Monte 

One must refuse to believe the landowners’ oldest refrain—that farmers already receive what they deserve. It is a line repeated so often it has begun to sound like truth, but it isn’t. The injustice is obvious, even without theory or rhetoric: the land is held by corporations and landlords, not by the people who till it. That single fact gives the lie away. 

In the case of Del Monte, the contradiction is especially stark. The company insists it provides for the needs of farmworkers—employment, assistance, development—yet it continues to seize, consolidate, and control lands that rightfully belong to farmers and indigenous communities. This is not support. It is exploitation, carefully packaged as corporate benevolence. It is land grabbing with a polished smile and a well-funded public relations machine. 

When the bluntness of History strips away the gloss. 

What multinational agribusiness did in the Philippines was not the abolition of landlordism, but its reinvention. 

Del Monte’s Philippine story begins in the 1920s, when pineapple estates expanded into one of the world’s largest integrated plantation systems. They consider the fertile land of the south as better than that of Hawaii: rich, volcanic, suitable for plantation farming that only benfited the few in the guise of agricultural-based countrside development. That expansion required land—lots of it—and much of it came from peasant communities and Lumad territories. What followed was a familiar export-oriented monocrop model: chemical-intensive farming, tight corporate control, and a labor regime designed to keep costs down and voices quiet. 

Old feudal relations were “managerialized,” reshaped to serve capitalist expansion. When Luis “Moro” Lorenzo took over local operations from the Americans, Del Monte did not become less extractive—it became more efficient. Expansion accelerated. Control deepened. And other than pineapples, partner-plantations like Lapanday farms (that also acquired by Lorenzo from the Ayala and Aboitiz) were drawn into Del Monte’s supply chain, producing bananas for export, and that same Lapanday remains notorious for land grabbing and the exploitation of its workers. 

However, the Lorenzos eventually replaced by the Camposes, who also owned another food conglomerate NutriAsia. In 2018, NutriAsia workers protesting contractualization were violently dispersed by company security and police in Marilao, Bulacan. Hundreds of outsourced workers had walked out over decades of insecurity and illegal termination. Different factory. Same playbook. 

Different era. Same structure. Same victims. 

From the distance of a glossy anniversary brochure, the plantations of Bukidnon and Misamis Oriental look like green prosperity stretching to the horizon. Up close, they look different: barbed-wire boundaries cutting through ancestral memory, rivers dulled by runoff, communities living with soldiers where there should have been schools, clinics, and peace. 

But does this end the problem of food security? Social justice? And development in the countryside? The actions rather showed a tangible kind of pretension. Agrarian reform was supposed to change that, but, as minocrop-based plantation systems were presented as "keys to countryside development" this made landlords shifted from subsistence to cash crops particularly prior to passage of PD27 during the Marcos era.

Even the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program pushed many beneficiaries into leasing arrangements and long-term “contract growing agreements” stacked in favor of agribusiness. Production decisions, pricing, and risk flowed upward; precarity flowed down. In 2019, a Global Witness investigation pointed to Del Monte’s commercial ties with landholders and public officials accused of land grabbing and intimidation.

The company denied wrongdoing. The conflicts remained. 

In 2017, Lumad leader Renato Anglao was shot dead on his way home with his wife and child in Quezon, Bukidnon. Anglao was Manobo–Pulangihon, a defender of ancestral land long threatened by encroachment and plantation expansion. His killing did not happen in a vacuum. It landed in a decade-spanning pattern of harassment, red-tagging, and violence against indigenous peoples and peasant leaders whose lands stood inconveniently in the way of “development.” 

That same year, Mindanao went under Martial Law. From 2017 to 2018, communities in Bukidnon and Misamis Oriental—areas where Del Monte operates—reported threats, illegal arrests, indiscriminate firing, bombings, and repeated evacuations. When Executive Order 70 folded counterinsurgency into civilian governance in 2019, the pressure intensified. The message was clear: dissent would be treated as enemy action. Land defense became a liability. Survival became resistance. 

Fast-forward to the present track, and the needle hasn’t lifted. Under the Marcos administration, militarization continues. In 2024, KMU labor organizer William Lariosa was forcibly taken by soldiers in Quezon, Bukidnon. Different decade, same refrain. 

Even the environment was also affected by this explotative venture. In 2008, when the Princess of the Stars ferry sank, it was carrying ten tons of the toxic pesticide endosulfan bound for Del Monte plantations—despite restrictions on transporting such chemicals on passenger vessels. Hundreds died. Accountability dissolved into the sea. 

To sum it all, the legacy rings hollow. The land on which its plantations stand was not freely given or innocently acquired—it was taken, that its people exploited. And a century later, the consequences remain. Communities are displaced. Farmers labor on land that once sustained their families. Crops are grown for foreign markets while food insecurity persists at home. No amount of "social responsibility" or its old term, "benevolent paternalism" addresses the core problem: a plantation model built on contested land, enforced by militarization, sustained by precarious labor, and paid for by ecosystems that do not recover on a quarterly schedule. 

Foreign agribusiness prospers. Farmers are told to be patient. 

The insult deepens when gratitude is demanded. Imagine being robbed of your house, then being told to thank the thieves for “allowing” you to stay. That is the logic being sold as development. It is not generosity. It is coercion wrapped in courtesy. 

The centennial narrative asks the public to admire longevity and forget the cost. But memory is not so easily erased. Farmers remember. Indigenous peoples remember. Workers remember. Beneath the celebratory slogans lies a long record of dispossession, repression, and resistance. 

There is nothing progressive about a plantation system built on stolen land and cheap labor. There is nothing sustainable about export-oriented monocropping that undermines local food security. And there is nothing worthy of celebration in a hundred years of injustice rebranded as success. 

The demand remains unchanged, as urgent now as it was decades ago: genuine land reform, the return of land to those who till it, and an end to the exploitation of farmers and workers. 

Until that happens, a centennial is not a milestone—it is a reminder. 

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

Why ‘Gat’ Still Commands Respect: 

Reclaiming the Honorific for the Heroes of the Philippines 

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

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

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

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

Why do Filipinos continue to use it?

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

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

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

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

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