“Pride, Profit, and Principle: The Philippines at the Frankfurt Book Fair”

“Pride, Profit, and Principle: The Philippines at the Frankfurt Book Fair”

 By Lualhati Madlangawa Guererro 

The Philippines’ presence as Guest of Honor at the 2025 Frankfurt Book Fair has been hailed as a historic milestone, a “momentous time for Filipinos.” The Philippine Pavilion, under the banner “The imagination peoples the air,” stands proudly amid the sprawling halls of this global publishing hub, celebrating the boldness, creativity, and reflective spirit of Filipino literature. Through speeches, curated exhibitions, performances, and panel discussions, the country presents itself as a literary force, showcasing imagination and intellect that can inspire dialogue and transformation. 

Yet beneath the applause and fanfare lies a troubling tension, one that many choose to overlook. The Frankfurt Book Fair is not merely a cultural celebration—it is a marketplace, a commercial engine where publishing rights are traded and visibility translates into profit. In this arena, critics argue, moral responsibility and ethical concern are often subordinate to sales, fame, and international recognition. 

Indeed, the fair has drawn sharp criticism for its complicity in Israel’s ongoing actions in Palestine, with Palestinian voices deplatformed and silenced while others, politically aligned with the perpetrators, enjoy global acclaim. Calls for boycott by independent publishers and human-rights advocates remain vocal, yet they are dismissed or downplayed by mainstream participants. Many writers and presses appear unfazed, perhaps because the local literary scene is under constant pressure: declining readership, low literacy rates, and economic constraints push writers and publishers to pursue sensational stories that will sell. In such a context, the Frankfurt Book Fair offers a rare lifeline—a chance to gain exposure, marketability, and international recognition. 

But this pursuit of fame and profit comes at a cost. Writers who once risked their names and reputations to speak truth to power, who exposed injustice and state violence at home, now find themselves participating in an event whose political complicity cannot be ignored. Books that once served as instruments of conscience risk being repackaged as exportable commodities, celebrated abroad while their moral weight is diluted. Political resistance, once sharp and urgent, becomes a product to be consumed—a soft power tool that benefits markets more than the oppressed. 

Within the Filipino literary community, this tension is deepened by self-interest and selective concern. Too often, praise is showered upon those whose works sell briskly or whose names gain international visibility, while colleagues who are silenced, marginalized, or deplatformed are quietly dismissed as irrelevant. The issue is not merely commercial—it is profoundly ethical. Some writers attempt to depoliticize the fair, insisting that it is simply a cultural or commercial event. Others profess solidarity with the oppressed yet behave as if morality can be suspended when inconvenient, ignoring, belittling, or even red-tagging those who take principled stands. In such an environment, Pinoy pride, once a noble sentiment, risks turning hollow—reduced to a display of vanity rather than a testament to truth or justice. 

Worse still, this brand of pride, flaunted as cultural triumph, borders on the cringeworthy. It echoes an attitude of indifference—“Who cares about Adania Shibli or Roberto Saviano?”—as though the deplatforming of others is of no consequence so long as one’s own name shines. For these writers, what matters is not the moral ground they stand upon, but the market value of their work. In the end, this posture exposes a troubling impulse: the tendency to downplay serious, criticisable issues in favor of a self-centered narrative—the “how about me?” refrain that eclipses conscience. The suffering of others becomes “not their problem,” even as calls from independent publishers to boycott the event over its complicity in genocide grow louder, joined by the voices of their own concerned colleagues. 

The fair illustrates a fundamental truth about the global literary marketplace: profit consistently outweighs principle. Visibility, awards, and foreign recognition are seductive, but they cannot substitute for conscience. Writers who aim to inspire reflection and dialogue must reckon with the moral dimensions of their participation. Can a platform that silences some voices while celebrating others truly serve literature? Or does it merely transform works of conscience into exportable products, stripping them of context, urgency, and ethical force? 

At the end of the day, the Frankfurt Book Fair is a marketplace—powerful, influential, and undeniably global. Yet Philippine literature, in its highest form, must not bow to market pressures alone. It must retain courage, conscience, and moral clarity. It must reflect not only the brilliance of Filipino imagination but also the struggles, truths, and principles of the nation. To participate without reflection, without weighing the ethical costs, is to risk turning culture into spectacle, conscience into commodity, and pride into mere self-promotion. 

The question for Filipino writers, publishers, and cultural leaders is urgent and inescapable: will Philippine literature be celebrated only for its marketability, or will it remain a voice for conscience, a mirror of society, and a force for truth, justice, and reflection—at home and abroad? Recognition is fleeting; acclaim is temporary. But principle, courage, and conscience endure. 

To Run Like Hell: On The Burden of Independence and the Weight of Integrity

To Run Like Hell: On The Burden of Independence and the Weight of Integrity

After Watching Jerold Tarrog's “Quezon” 

By Lualhati Madlangawa-Guererro  

In the eyes of the nation, independence is a banner. But in the conscience of the citizen, it is a burden. Those who watch Jerrold Tarog’s Quezon cannot help but see the truth that history has long concealed: that behind the great men and women of the Republic were, in fact, ordinary politicians, human in their ambition, human in their weakness, often clinging to power as if survival itself depended upon it. Their principles were not always strong; their convictions were tempered by pragmatism that too often slipped into opportunism. And the people, left to witness, are forced to ask: is this the inheritance of freedom? 

A concerned would have said then, as he might now: that if corruption has become tradition, if shortcuts and compromises define public life, the revolution the Philippines needs cannot be enacted by law, by decree, or by rhetoric alone. Integrity is not something written in statutes; it is something lived—every day, without applause, without witness, with the stubbornness of conscience. 

The citizens of the nation must rediscover the meaning of civic virtue. They must speak when silence is convenient; they must vote when apathy tempts them to abstain; they must respect rules not out of fear of penalty but because the common good demands it. And here lies a bitter irony: even Manuel L. Quezon, even in his time, understood this. He issued a code of ethics—not as mere paper, not as ceremonial gesture, but as a mirror to reflect the conscience of every public servant. But, in seeing his code becomes performative as that of the pledge of allegiance, even contradicting to laws such as "Have faith in Divine Providence that guides the destinies of men and nations" when people talk about separation of church and state. So is "Value your honor as you value your life. Poverty with honor is preferable to wealth with dishonor" when one see prominent personalities tiptoeing between how to maintain image and how to upheld integrity- for image and integrity are still way different despite at times overlapped. 

History is relentless in its lessons. Heneral Luna warned: “Mayroon tayong mas malaking kaaway kaysa mga Amerikano—ang ating sarili.” (“We have a greater enemy than the Americans—ourselves.”) He mocked the self-deception of the weak: “Para kayong mga birheng naniniwala sa pag-ibig ng isang puta!” (“You are like virgins who believe in the love of a whore!”) And he asked the ultimate question: “Negosyo o Kalayaan? Bayan o Sarili? Mamili ka!” (“Business or Freedom? The Nation or Yourself? Make your choice!”) These lines, though uttered in that movie done years ago, still echo in the halls of the present. For the greatest enemy of the Republic is not foreign power, not the distant hand of influence, but the Filipino himself—indifferent, distracted, morally lazy. 

True independence is not the waving of a flag. It is not the ceremonial signing of treaties or the pomp of parades. It is the hard labor of the soul. It demands a maturity of character, a pride that is principled and sustained, a courage to choose what is right when no one is watching. Pinoy Pride, if it is to survive, must be more than a catchphrase or a hollow cheer. It must be the practice of honesty, the exercise of empathy, the devotion to civic responsibility. Without moral grounding, pride is merely noise—a hollow echo of what Lu Xun called the spirit of Ah Q: the cowardice that congratulates itself for small victories, the self-deception that excuses laziness, the opportunism that masquerades as cleverness. Too often, it is a reflection of the Filipino who prefers spiritual victory over true effort, who praises himself while avoiding duty. 

The lesson is clear, unyielding, and uncomfortable. To be free, the Filipino must rise not only in protest but in principle. The nation’s fight is not won only in armed struggle or in political maneuvering. It begins, every day, in the hearts of citizens who refuse to look the other way, who insist upon decency even when it is inconvenient, who hold themselves accountable to standards higher than personal gain. As Quezon himself declared, “I would rather have a government run like hell by Filipinos than a government run like heaven by Americans.” At first, one might hate him for the bluntness of this statement. Yet in that bluntness lies understanding of human nature in its rawest form. Quezon knew that Filipinos, flawed though they might be, possessed the potential for self-correction, for growth, for improvement. He added, often forgotten in its entirety: “Because no matter how bad, a Filipino government might be improved.” It is a call to responsibility, a call to engage, a reminder that the work of nation-building begins with the courage to act within one’s own people, one’s own society, and one’s own conscience. 

Independence is a burden that tests character. It is a call to courage, to conscience, to moral vigilance. It demands of every Filipino the patience to build, the honesty to endure, and the integrity to persevere. Without these, freedom is no more than a word; without these, the flag flies over a hollow house. Only when citizens choose principle over expedience, duty over convenience, and conscience over comfort, can the Philippines claim the independence it celebrates, the sovereignty it demands, and the dignity it deserves. Otherwise, with all the performativism so often displayed, one cannot help but wonder: is the Filipino truly fit for independence? Perhaps Leonard Wood was right when he said that the Filipino must first learn the very meaning of independence. Yet Quezon and his circle refused to wait. They chose to learn independence the hard way, knowing that since 1896 or 1898, the Filipino people had understood it, and that this understanding now had to be translated into policy—not through an American lens, but through a distinctly Filipino perspective. 

To be honest, as an observer, one cannot help but note that Filipinos have often become shallow in their approach to nation-building. It becomes performativism, a display of rhetoric without depth or consequence. In such moments, one might ask: is the Philippines truly a nation, or merely a “cultural community”? The question is sharpened when observing those who wish for the country to become the 51st state of the United States—an idea that would make Puerto Rico’s claim to independence seem both justified and urgent, if not for the leadership of Muñoz-Marín, who, like Quezon, understood that independence is not merely a status, but a hard-won practice of governance, identity, and moral responsibility. The difference was this- Quezon believed in self-determination as a nation and thus deserve the independence even it meant going through hell, Muñoz-Marin quashed the idea and prefers seeing his country a cultural community "under the auspices of the Americans". 

Why look back at history? After watching "Quezon", even its ealier ones "Goyo" and "Heneral Luna", and observing at the present situation, one cannot help but see that behind the appearances of order and stability, old problems continue to creep into daily life. These are the problems that many would rather dismiss, forget, or call irrelevant—but they persist, shaping the nation’s reality. Imperialism—whether American, Chinese, or even Filipinos themselves exercising authority over the people—remains a shadow over sovereignty. Bureaucratic capitalism, with personalities past and present alike, still reeks of corruption, often hidden behind layers of performativism. Feudalism lingers, with landlessness continuing to plague the common folk, whose clamor for social justice echoes the very struggles Quezon himself faced. Many would dismiss these socio-political challenges as “passé,” as if the past no longer matters. But in truth, the Philippines’ past is ever present, feeding the hollow performances of the present and shaping the fragility of the future. Until these issues are confronted not in rhetoric but in principle and action, independence remains incomplete—celebrated in word, but not yet realized in deed.

This is the challenge. This is the burden. And in answering it, the Filipino proves not merely that the country is free, but that the country is worthy of freedom.  

Japan’s Contradiction: Between Capitalist “Coprosperity” and Domestic Contempt

Japan’s Contradiction: Between Capitalist “Coprosperity” and Domestic Contempt

This writer recently came across an article about Japan’s international development aid—its partnerships, training programs, and cultural exchanges. Yet beneath the optimism lay a familiar unease: the tension between Japan’s global ambitions and its guarded domestic outlook.

When longtime Kanagawa resident Jigyan Kumar Thapa, a Nepali who has lived in Japan for twenty-five years, boarded a train one day wearing his traditional topi, he did not expect hostility. A Japanese passenger shouted, “Stop bringing foreign culture!” Thapa, who has spent decades promoting Japan-Nepal friendship, was left silent.

His story spread across social media but drew little sympathy. Instead, many blamed foreigners for Japan’s “social problems.” It was a revealing echo of a rising mood—one that cloaks anxiety in patriotism and uses “manners” as a mask for prejudice.

The irony is striking. Japan speaks of “coprosperity” through agencies like the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), while relying ever more on foreign labor to sustain its industries. Yet resentment festers toward the very people keeping its economy alive. An aging, shrinking Japan depends on outsiders for survival but struggles to see them as part of its community.

If Japan cannot reconcile its global image with its domestic attitudes, it must pause and reflect. A nation cannot preach “coprosperity” abroad while cultivating quiet suspicion at home. It cannot invite workers to share in its progress, then draw invisible lines when they arrive.

What Japan needs is not more programs or slogans, but honesty—an admission that beneath its outward warmth lies discomfort with difference. If that cannot be faced, then perhaps the old isolation of sakoku would at least be more consistent than a partnership built on half-truths.

To embrace the world while rejecting its presence is not diplomacy—it is theater. The danger lies not in closing one’s doors, but in pretending they are open while keeping them locked.

This contradiction is not new. Japan has long wrestled with the balance between imported modernity and native moral tradition. Thinkers like Ikki Kita and Yukio Mishima, though separated by time, shared the fear that Japan’s soul was being diluted by Western ideas. They called for a return to Shūgi—a moral discipline rooted in loyalty, sincerity, and labor.

Ironically, Shūgi once drew Western admiration. Commentators praised Japan’s “work ethic” as the secret of its postwar recovery, contrasting it with their own welfare systems. Yet this praise was hollow: the West desired the results of Shūgi—efficiency and productivity—without its spirit of duty and sacrifice. Work was reduced to transaction, hardship to “choice,” and inequality to morality.

That spirit of Shūgi built modern Japan’s work ethic. But global capitalism hollowed it out. The ethic remains, the soul is gone. Efficiency replaced empathy, hierarchy replaced dialogue, and discipline replaced understanding. Shūgi became a corporate slogan, stripped of moral depth.

So when society blames immigrants for its discomforts, perhaps the problem lies deeper—in the system that created them. The foreigner becomes a scapegoat for the machine that demands endless output and denies humanity. It is not Thapa, nor the Nepali worker, nor the Filipino entertainer who unravels Japan’s balance—but the relentless pursuit of efficiency that turns people into instruments.

There is bitter irony in Thapa’s experience. The Vedic-Buddhist ideals that once shaped Japan’s moral culture came from the same world Thapa represents—Nepal, India, the Himalayas. Yet in today’s Japan, that shared heritage is forgotten. The man who told Thapa to stop “bringing foreign culture” did not realize that Japan’s own ethical foundations trace back to that very source.

Modern capitalism turns ideals into slogans. Multiculturalism becomes a word without meaning; efficiency, a false god. When citizens tell foreigners to leave, the question should not be about the foreigners—but the system itself. Why does Japan depend on migrant labor instead of improving life for its citizens? Why invite others under the name of friendship, only to humiliate them? Why speak of “global cooperation” while tolerating quiet xenophobia?

If Japan truly believes in Shūgi, it should practice it honestly—not as propaganda, but as living philosophy: discipline balanced by compassion, pride tempered by humility. Shūgi without compassion becomes tyranny; “coprosperity” without sincerity, hypocrisy.

The West, too, hides its self-interest behind rhetoric of “development” and “democracy.” It preaches partnership but demands imitation; offers aid but ensures dependence. It celebrates work ethic not out of respect for labor, but to preserve hierarchy. It is easy to tell others to “work harder” when the system rewards ownership over toil.

Now, that contradiction grips all advanced economies. Societies that glorified effort are collapsing under the efficiency they worshiped. The shortage of workers in Europe, the U.S., and Japan is not just demographic—it is moral. The cultures that once praised sacrifice now refuse to bear it, outsourcing both labor and conscience, then blaming immigrants for the fractures that follow.

The West admired Shūgi only when it served convenience—a disciplined ethic without communal duty. But Shūgi, in its pure form, is not nationalism or capitalism. It is the moral dignity of labor, the belief that work carries meaning beyond wages or metrics. That is what both Japan and the West have lost in their chase for productivity.

So when Japan invokes “coprosperity,” one must ask: prosperity for whom? If the nation seeks a moral role, it must lead by example, not by slogans. Let Shūgi be practiced with sincerity, not performed for applause. Only then can Japan offer something more than aid or trade—perhaps a spiritual correction to a world that mistakes material growth for moral progress.

When Thapa quietly removed his topi on that train, it became a symbol of Japan’s crisis of identity—a nation that once drew from Asia’s spiritual breadth, now shrinking within its own fences. His silence spoke volumes: a society proud of its order, yet uncertain of its humanity.

The Forbes Flop: When Their Protest Becomes Performance

The Forbes Flop: When Their Protest Becomes Performance

Last Sunday night, October 12, about a hundred "Diehard Duterte Supporters" (DDS) gathered in Forbes Park, led by Cavite Representative Kiko Barzaga, ostensibly to demand accountability from the Marcos administration over alleged corruption. They chanted, waved banners, and made a show of defiance—but let’s call it what it was: a flop. 

From the start, things were telling. The “rally” didn’t kick off until 11:00 p.m.—apparently, traffic delayed the revolution. The streets were crawling with police and vloggers, yet the actual rallyists were scarce. Barzaga himself arrived late, gave a quick interview, and was gone in under an hour. By midnight, the square had emptied, leaving only a handful of content creators to document the ghost of a protest. Across Manila, there were minor demonstrations elsewhere, but nothing that remotely resembled a movement in Forbes. 

To top it off, diehard DDS influencers are pointing fingers at Chavit Singson for failing to send ships to transport “thousands” of supporters to Manila. And when the numbers didn’t materialize, they turned to fake videos and photos—some from last September 21, some from as far away as Nepal—trying to convince the world that the streets were teeming with these self-proclaimed "revolutionaries". Spoiler alert: they weren’t. The noise was online, not on the streets. 

And here’s the irony: they claim to be “against corruption,” yet their loyalty remains with a regime that is itself steeped in it. Being “opposed” seems less about justice and more about factional allegiance—protesting not because officials are implicated in scandal, but because they dared investigate a favored patron. That’s not dissent; that’s theater. 

If these self-proclaimed diehards were serious, they would take a page from history—where the brave didn’t just post online or pose for cameras. Think of Guatemala’s Jueves Negro, when ordinary citizens, armed with machetes, clubs, and even guns, descended on the capital in a violent, merciless push for power. The diehard, in those moments, was remorseless, uncompromising, and utterly committed to the cause, come what may. That kind of grit—the willingness to risk everything—is what separates true rebellion from performativism. 

Or perhaps one should ask—was it almost? If to recall, one speaker at Liwasang Bonifacio last September 21 was caught on camera declaring, before the group proceeded to Mendiola, that they were “ready to storm the gates” and “willing to die for their cause.” Another voice followed, urging the crowd to “prepare your lighters.” Later, when a riot broke out in Mendiola and their attempt to unseat the President failed, the same group suddenly played innocent. They claimed that the earlier call to “prepare the lighters” was only meant for a candle-lighting and prayer vigil. 

But really—if it were just that, they could have said “light the candles.” Why, then, were so many carrying lighters, and why use the word storm? The language itself betrayed their intent. No one storms for prayer; people storm for confrontation. And in that brief, televised moment, their own words ignited more than any candle ever could. But in fairness, that expresses something beyond the parameter "prepare your lighter" and "willing to storm the gates". 

But back to the main point—their actions amounted to nothing. It was noise masquerading as conviction, a spectacle staged for relevance. They seized on the corruption scandal as a convenient excuse to call for their patron’s “return home,” or worse, his “return to power,” dressing up nostalgia as righteousness and glorifying a past that was anything but clean—an “order” built on blood, fear, and scandal. Yet in the end, it was a flop, plain and simple. No matter how hard they spin it, the public saw it for what it truly was: barely a hundred diehard loyalists meeting for an “eyeball,” not a movement. 

What happened in both Rajah Sulayman Park in Malate and Forbes Park on October 12 was less a protest and more a parody—a hollow echo of defiance. The Alsa Masa spirit they so proudly invoke? It flickered for a moment, then disappeared before it ever truly began.  

Neither His Patriotism nor the "Law" Could Save Duterte from the Truth

Neither His Patriotism nor the "Law" Could Save Duterte from the Truth

In the end, neither his brand of patriotism nor the “law” could save Rodrigo Duterte and his circle from the truth.

The International Criminal Court’s Pre-Trial Chamber I, in a decision dated 26 September and made public days later, left no ambiguity: “The detention of Mr. Duterte is required so as to ensure his appearance in these proceedings, that he does not obstruct or endanger the investigation or the Court’s proceedings, and to prevent the commission of related crimes within the jurisdiction of the Court.”

The judges made clear that Duterte’s enduring influence — once the foundation of his political dominance — remains potent enough to threaten the process of justice. His family’s open defiance, they noted, reflected “the will to help him elude detention and prosecution.”

That defiance was most vividly embodied by Vice President Sara Duterte. Her public vow to “break [her father] out” of detention and her accusation that the ICC and the Philippine government relied on “fake witnesses” were not treated as rhetoric but as evidence that “Mr. Duterte continues to command loyalty and political power strong enough to undermine future proceedings.”

When the defense proposed his release under strict conditions — electronic monitoring, communication limits, and a pledge to remain abroad — the court was unconvinced. The country that offered to host him, the ruling said, “lacked infrastructure for electronic monitoring,” rendering the plan unworkable.

Nor did the judges accept arguments about his age or health. “The Defence does not have the requisite expertise to draw such a conclusion — and as such, [its claims] are purely speculative and without basis.” Duterte’s alleged frailty, the court concluded, did nothing to diminish his reach or his capacity to influence others.

More damning was the chamber’s warning about his return to Davao City: “Should he return to Davao City, Mr. Duterte would be placed in the very position that allowed him to commit the crimes for which his arrest and surrender to the Court was initially sought.”

The judges also cited his 2024 campaign remark pledging to “double the killings” if elected again — proof, they said, of the ongoing danger he poses.

What was once power is now proof. The same networks that lifted Duterte from Davao’s city hall to the presidency — the machinery of loyalty, fear, and family — have become the grounds for his continued confinement.

The court found that his re-election as Davao City mayor placed him “once again at the helm of the city where many of the alleged drug war killings occurred.” His son, Sebastian “Baste” Duterte, now serves as vice mayor, while his daughter, Vice President Sara Duterte, wields national power and has repeatedly vowed to defend him. Together, these ties give Duterte “the necessary political contacts … that may help him abscond.”

For the judges, even offhand statements by Sara Duterte confirmed the family’s intent to shield the former president. Her vow to “break him out” and her accusations of “fake witnesses” were taken as proof that Duterte’s network remains active and dangerous.

These findings dismantle the myth Duterte long cultivated — that of the iron-willed patriot who brought “discipline” to a broken republic. For years, he cloaked brutality in the language of duty and nationalism, insisting his methods served the greater good. “My only sin,” he once boasted in 2018, “is the extrajudicial killings.” What was once bravado now reads as confession.

Today, both patriotism and law — his twin shields — stand as witnesses against him. The flag he claimed to defend can no longer protect him. The legal system he once manipulated has yielded to an international court beyond his control.

Like the strongmen before him, Duterte faces the reckoning that comes when slogans fail to disguise the weight of truth. History now regards him as it did those who ruled by decree and silenced dissent in the name of order — only to discover that no ideology outlasts justice.

The ICC’s words close the circle of his legacy: “The detention of Mr. Duterte is required so as to ensure his appearance in these proceedings, that he does not obstruct or endanger the investigation or the Court’s proceedings, and to prevent the commission of related crimes.”

The law he once claimed to command has spoken plainly.

And neither patriotism nor law could save Rodrigo Duterte from the truth.

Beyond the Checklist: Traveling with Respect and Reverence

Beyond the Checklist: Traveling with Respect and Reverence

At first glance, this note conveys a deep sense of gratitude toward those with a genuine interest in exploring the world, admiring the beauty and uniqueness of each nation’s traditions. Countries that proudly display their wonders carry not only picturesque vistas but also profound histories and rich cultural heritage—yet, sadly, these treasures too often become fodder for careless consumption. 

There exist places that are not theme parks, no matter how photogenic or trendy they may appear. Churches, temples, shrines, ancient ruins, even graves, demand respect. They are living testaments to a people’s beliefs and histories, not mere backdrops for a social media post or a passing glance. 

In Japan, signs like “No Circus Performance Here” or “No Hanging from Torii Gates” serve as gentle, yet firm, reminders of this principle. The torii gate, a graceful threshold from the ordinary into the sacred, carries profound spiritual meaning in Shinto practice. Those who disregard it—or worse, treat it as an object of entertainment—risk not only cultural insensitivity but a disconnection from the reverence the space commands. Observers might feel worry more than anger toward such transgressions, for it reflects a lack of awareness rather than malice. 

In fact, although customary etiquette prescribes appropriate behavior within shrine precincts, a legally binding code of conduct is also established by statute. Pursuant to Article 188 of the Penal Code, titled Desecration of Places of Worship; Interference with Religious Services, the following legal penalties are stipulated: “A person who openly desecrates a shrine, temple, cemetery or any other place of worship shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than six months or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen. A person who interferes with a sermon, worship or a funeral service shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than 1 year or a fine of not more than 100,000 yen.”

Often, such disregard arises from a superficial encounter—a visitor who professes spirituality yet is primarily motivated by aesthetic curiosity, or one who approaches without any belief or understanding at all. From a local perspective, however, the divine presences inhabiting these sacred spaces—whether gods, spirits, or ancestral beings—are not perceived as tolerant of irreverence or careless conduct. Within this worldview, even the torii gate is not merely an architectural symbol but a liminal threshold, a passage between the human and the divine realms, silently reminding all who cross it to proceed with humility and mindfulness. Consequently, shrines, like the torii themselves and other culturally significant sites, merit profound respect and preservation. They embody centuries of tradition, devotion, and collective memory, serving as living expressions of a community’s spiritual and cultural identity. To honor these spaces is to recognize the continuity between past and present, ensuring that future generations may experience the same sense of awe, reverence, and connection that their predecessors once felt. Therefore, travelers and visitors alike are urged to act with sensitivity, avoiding behaviors that may inadvertently diminish or dishonor the sacredness of the communities that protect and sustain these revered sites.

Or perhaps, to put it bluntly: if a tourist journey is undertaken solely for the sake of shopping, dining, beaches, nightlife, or other fleeting pleasures, travelers should recognize it for what it truly is: either respect it or leave them alone and focus on the intent from the bucketlist. There is no shame in seeking enjoyment, but such pursuits should not come at the expense of local life or traditions. The generation steeped in consumerism has reduced the significance of belief and its interpretations to little more than an aesthetic, secondary to material intent and conveniently labeled “enjoyment.” One might ask: do the majority of tourists really visit Thailand for the temples, ruins, and museums, or is it for the mall, the marijuana shop, the beach, and even the red-light district? The people who live in these places have invested their time, devotion, and care into preserving their culture, and they rightly expect visitors to tread lightly. To treat sacred temples, historic landmarks, or living cultural spaces as mere checklist items or brief stops along a superficial itinerary is to squander the rare opportunity for meaningful engagement. True travel is more than consumption; it is learning, observing, and connecting. It calls for patience, humility, and an awareness that each step in a foreign land carries weight. Respectful engagement ensures that cultural heritage remains alive, vibrant, and inspirational, rather than reduced to background scenery for passing amusement. 

Ultimately, the note urges travelers to embrace culture with humility and care. To do otherwise is to risk reducing centuries of history and spiritual practice to nothing more than a passing spectacle. Respect ensures that culture remains a source of inspiration, connection, and wonder for all who follow.  

Of Coup Rumors and the Crisis of Credibility: Between Loyalty and Opportunism amongst the “Men in Uniform”

Of Coup Rumors and the Crisis of Credibility:

Between Loyalty and Opportunism amongst the “Men in Uniform”

Recent coup rumors have once again stirred the political discourse in the Philippines, but the Department of National Defense (DND) has swiftly belied such claims, calling them "baseless," "unfounded," and "far removed from reality." Describing the talk of destabilization as “another desperate attempt” to sow discord among Filipinos, the department’s response underscores a growing frustration with those who continue to exploit national crises to forward personal or partisan agendas. 

The idea of a coup in the current climate seems not only implausible but also cynical. These rumors often link the country’s ongoing sociopolitical scandals—particularly those affecting both the administration and opposition—as a pretext to "restore" certain individuals to power. At the heart of this narrative is a concerning attempt to paint discontent as patriotism. However, beneath the surface, the movement appears less like a principled call to action and more like a coordinated power grab by disillusioned elites—retired generals, pseudo-partisan actors, and remnants of a regime that lost its moral legitimacy. 

Claims that the armed forces and police are siding with the past administration only serve to muddy the waters. Such assertions not only discredit the institutions that have sworn to protect the republic but also suggest a dangerous erosion of democratic norms. Invoking “patriotic” intent while backing whether the vice president or a potential “civil-military junta” is regressive. It evokes a time when executive power was wielded extrajudicially, often with the support of the military, to suppress dissent in the name of national stability. 

To be clear, the military today appears more concerned with asserting Philippine sovereignty in the face of external threats. Maritime cooperation with like-minded allies, joint and multilateral sails, and frequent military exercises both locally and abroad underscore this shift. The Army is undergoing significant restructuring, while the Navy and Air Force continue to modernize, acquiring new vessels, aircraft, and ammunition. These developments suggest that the armed forces are increasingly outward-looking—rightly channeling their nationalism toward defending territorial integrity rather than meddling in internal power plays. However, the military remains a microcosm of the broader society it serves. Within its ranks, there still exist factions clinging to a dated doctrine of internal security, one that prioritizes the protection of entrenched interests over the genuine welfare of the people. This mercenary tradition, rooted in historical alliances with political patrons, weakens the very oath to protect the republic. It fosters a mindset where political intervention, rather than democratic resilience, becomes a perceived solution to governance crises. 

The persistence of coup rumors is symptomatic of a deeper issue: a lack of institutional trust and a political culture that often turns to extralegal means in moments of instability. Such narratives gain ground not because they are plausible, but because scandal—especially when it touches both the ruling coalition and the opposition—leaves the public grasping for explanations, however conspiratorial. In truth, these rumors may not gain real traction. The public, while disillusioned, remains wary of repeating past mistakes. The military, despite its internal contradictions, has not signaled any coherent desire to return to the era of political adventurism. But the noise will persist—as it always does—particularly under a regime grappling with scandals that serve as political fodder for both sides of the aisle. 

In the end, national defense cannot be divorced from political responsibility. To truly uphold their oath, the armed forces must reject not only the act of destabilization, but also the lingering traditions that make such rumors even remotely credible. Democracy cannot be defended by those still entangled in nostalgia for authoritarian power. 

The Myth Behind the Coup Rhetoric 

To be fair, one cannot entirely blame the so-called plotters for being tempted to act amid rising public discontent. The country is, after all, grappling with yet another wave of sociopolitical scandals—rampant corruption, both at national and local levels, involving elected and appointed officials alike. Add to that the persistent reality of the state’s subservience to foreign and entrenched interests, and you begin to understand why the environment feels ripe for unrest. But the deeper question remains: are these alleged moves truly driven by patriotism and a genuine love for the people? Or are they, once again, a calculated power grab—one wrapped in the language of nationalism, using scandal as a convenient pretext to seize control? 

History gives this reader a clue. Past attempts at regime change under the guise of “patriotic duty” have too often revealed themselves to be hollow. Plotters and ideologues have promised new orders, only to offer fragmented solutions masked by patriotic-populist rhetoric. Decades ago, there were those who championed the call to “internalize the Filipino ideology,” anchored on political liberation, economic emancipation, and social unity. Noble as it sounds, this slogan was nothing new—it echoed the very ideology propagated during the Marcos dictatorship. That regime, too, claimed to be anti-oligarchic while nurturing its own network of cronies. It waved the flag of nationalism while aligning with foreign powers, especially the United States. It promised reform but upheld a system that enriched the ruling elite and unleashed state violence on the people. So what became of that promise of political liberation, economic emancipation, and social unity? It collapsed—not because the people lacked will, but because the regime's actions betrayed its words. And when the people finally rejected that order in 1986, what replaced it was a system that gradually embraced the neoliberal world order—globalization, privatization, deregulation—even when these came at the cost of national interests and social welfare. 

Today, people see echoes of that past in the present. The current climate of scandal and dysfunction has become fertile ground for opportunists—those who posture as patriots, but whose real motives are power, protection, and nostalgia for a discredited regime. These actors claim to defend the nation but offer no real alternative beyond blame games, disinformation, and calls to "restore order" through authoritarian means. Their version of patriotism is suspect: shallow, performative, and eerily trying to be that to the very kind of "radicalism" they once vilified—except theirs is devoid of substance, driven not by ideology but by resentment, revenge, and entitlement. However, their supposed “patrons” is mired in corruption scandals, and so are many of their allies. Yet they package their movement as a moral crusade. This is not patriotism. It’s political cosplay masquerading as national salvation. It's a bid to harness the frustration of the people not to uplift them, but to restore a regime known for bloodied policies and systemic abuse—all under the pretense of fixing a broken order. Yes, the people are discontented. Yes, the government is plagued by dysfunction. But what’s being peddled in the name of patriotism is just another version of elite capture—weaponizing nationalism to preserve the power of a few, not to serve the many. 

Until people learn to see through this rhetoric and demand not just change, but meaningful, inclusive reform rooted in accountability, history will keep repeating itself. Not as redemption—but as farce.