THE INNER FIRE: THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ACTIVISM AND THE FILIPINO SEARCH FOR CHANGE

Activism is often described in political colors — left, right, progressive, conservative, populist, or radical. But beneath ideologies lies a quieter phenomenon: the human psychology that powers action. What drives a person to stand under the sun for hours, to speak when it is easier to stay silent, to risk social pressure, fatigue, or isolation? The answer is not purely ideological — it is existential. Activism begins when an individual senses that life must amount to more than routine survival. It is a search for purpose, a refusal to waste one’s brief time in silence.

At its core, activism is meaning-seeking. Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl once wrote that man can endure almost anything — as long as he finds meaning in it. Activists appear irrational to observers: why protest when nothing seems to change? Why argue when power is deaf? Yet, from a psychological lens, this “irrational persistence” is precisely what gives life coherence. Activism answers a deep human fear — that our days might pass without leaving any trace. The impulse to act is often more existential than political: I must live a life that matters.

But meaning alone does not move crowds. Beneath many activist movements lies empathic anger — a fusion of compassion and moral outrage. It is the kind of empathy that cannot sit still. When injustice is normalized, the activist feels psychological dissonance — a discomfort between belief and inaction. Action then becomes not only political, but therapeutic: it restores alignment between values and behavior. Whether through marches, petitions, or community work, activism gives people a sense of agency — the belief that one is not entirely powerless.

Finally, activism forms identity. Movements provide what modern life rarely gives: solidarity. The individual is absorbed into a larger “we.” This collective identity lowers fear, boosts hope, and fuels endurance. Humanity has seen this across history — from anti-slavery campaigns in the 19th century, to the Suffragettes, to the civil rights struggles of the 1960s. Every era has its thunder. But the inner psychology remains constant: a person acts not only for society — but to answer the question, Who am I really?

Filipino activism has always been shaped by this psychological foundation — but with uniquely local tones. Our history forged a people who protest for survival, not ideology. The Propaganda Movement was triggered not by political theory, but by the pain of human dignity denied. The Katipunan was not a philosophical school — it was a cry from the gut. Even the First Quarter Storm, EDSA I, EDSA II — each began not with manifestos, but with exhaustion. When ordinary life becomes unbearable, activism emerges as a last language.

Filipino activism has evolved into two distinct forms: street activism and quiet activism. The former dominates headlines — rallies, slogans, speeches, and slogans rehearsed for cameras. But beneath this loud surface lies a gentler, often unreported current: barangay health missions, youth tutoring networks, community farming, disaster mapping, neighborhood chats about drainage, small groups collecting research on procurement anomalies, students fact-checking claims instead of chanting slogans. This is not the activism of symbols — it is the activism of solutions. It is less theatrical, but more sustainable.

Filipino activism suffers today from three psychological wounds. First is protest fatigue — the fear that nothing changes anyway. Second is political capture — when movements are weaponized by elite factions, activism slowly becomes performance. Third is identity confusion — many Filipinos want to help their country but do not wish to be labeled or dragged into ideological wars. They ask: Is there space for activism without being used?

But there is another side to our story. The Filipino activist is not disappearing — it is mutating. It is moving away from spectacle, towards strategy. It is leaving the stage and entering classrooms, spreadsheets, local ordinances, online fact-checking, and quiet data gathering. It refuses to merely shout. It wishes to build. It is still moral outrage — but it is now escorted by competence.

The psychology of activism in the Philippines is therefore not the psychology of rebellion — but the psychology of rebuilding. It is not always loud, and rarely perfect. But it continues — stubbornly, quietly — in school projects, disaster-preparedness workshops, NGO internships, local campaigns against child abuse, anti-plastic drives, mental health support groups, town hall dialogues, and youth councils that record budget flows. These may not fill the streets — but they are beginning to fill the gaps where government often fails.

Activism is not sustained by anger alone. That burns out quickly. The deeper fuel is hope with discipline—the belief that solutions exist and that ordinary citizens can build them. The Filipino activist of today might speak less, but study more. March less, but design more. He may not display a placard — but he might already be writing a policy draft, mapping a drainage system, or starting a local database of ghost projects.

Boy Abunda: The Host Who Became the Show

In Philippine television, the talk show is meant to be a venue for revelation—for the gradual unfolding of a guest’s personality through thoughtful questioning. Yet with Boy Abunda, this traditional framework is often reversed. The spotlight does not wait for the guest—it gravitates instantly toward the host. What should be a shared stage becomes a showcase of presence, and what should be an interview often turns into a stylized performance—with the guest positioned merely as a responding figure within the orbit of Boy Abunda.

Dominance of Presence — When Style Becomes Centerpiece

Abunda’s hosting approach rarely leaves room for silence or subtlety. His loud voice, sweeping gestures, theatrical pauses, and flamboyant attire do not simply color the conversation—they define it. Instead of generating space where the guest may speak naturally, he becomes the gravitational center of the moment. The spotlight expands around him first, leaving the guest to adjust to the temperature of his presence. The result is the “host-as-star” phenomenon: a talk show that serves less as a platform for others and more as a canvas for his personality.

The “Nay, Tay” Problem—Intimacy or Distraction?

A key example of this tendency is his constant invocation of his parents—“Nay,” “Tay”—regardless of the guest or the tone of the conversation. While perhaps meant to be humanizing, these repeated references often have the opposite effect: they interrupt the rhythm, shift the focus, and add a layer of emotional framing that many viewers neither need nor seek. The average viewer is not tuned in to hear about him—they tuned in expecting to hear from the guest. 

But instead, the recurring “Nay, Tay” narrative becomes an unnecessary burden on the viewer, as though we must carry the memory of his parents throughout every conversation—whether it fits or not. It becomes a kind of forced intimacy that distracts rather than deepens the exchange. For some, it even feels like another way of re-centering the host, as if loud mannerisms were not enough—now we are asked to bear personal history as well.

Performance Over Conversation

In classical interviewing, the host disappears—facilitating insight through quiet listening and carefully shaped questions. Abunda, however, approaches interviewing as performance. His phrasing is dramatic, his movements staged, his emotional pivots calculated. What begins as conversation often turns into choreography. The guest must essentially follow his rhythm. Presence becomes performance, sincerity becomes secondary, and the question is not “What truth did we discover?” but “How did Boy Abunda present it?”

The Cultural Shift

This has broader implications. When interviewing becomes performance, the search for truth gives way to the display of personality. The Filipino interview format shifts—not toward the story of the guest, but toward the narrative of the host. What could have been a moment of revelation becomes an exhibition of posture. The hierarchy of voices changes: the guest may enter the studio—but it is the host who occupies it.

The Illustrative Interview

In many interviews, the emotional tone is set even before the guest speaks. The gestures, the vocal texture, the solemn framing—these arrive before any real exchange begins. Suddenly, it is not a dialogue but a directed scene. The host conducts the music, and the guest must sing accordingly. We remember less of what was said, and more of how Boy Abunda reacted to it.

One Final Observation

Ultimately, Abunda shows us that a talk show today is not merely a conversation—it is a struggle for presence. His repeated “Nay, Tay, Kapuso” invocations may mean much to him personally, but for many viewers, they feel like yet another means of spotlighting himself rather than illuminating the guest. Whether one sees this as flair or self-centricity, one truth emerges: in a media culture that rewards spectacle, it is not always the guest who enters the room—but the host who never leaves it.

Beyond the Noise: The Quiet Progress of a Nation

In recent months, public discourse in the Philippines has been consumed by one issue—the flood control scandal. Opinion columns thunder with outrage, social media magnifies anger by the second, and headlines often suggest that the country is spiraling into dysfunction. 

Yet outside the echo chamber of political rhetoric and the often sensationalized media cycle, a quieter reality persists—one marked not by collapse, but by resilience, reform, and unmistakable signs of progress. To mistake noise for truth is to overlook the many forward-moving sectors that continue to strengthen the country’s foundations.

Across the Philippine economy, investment indicators tell a story different from the nightly news. Business process outsourcing (BPO) remains robust, employing over 1.5 million Filipinos and expanding into higher-value services such as health analytics, engineering design, cybersecurity, and AI-assisted workflows. Manufacturing, particularly in electronics and automotive parts, has been gaining momentum as supply chains slowly shift away from China. 

The country is now among Southeast Asia’s top exporters of semiconductors, and major tech firms have signaled plans to expand operations in Central Luzon and CALABARZON. Meanwhile, agriculture—long viewed as the nation’s weakest link—is finally receiving overdue attention, with irrigation projects, rice genome research, and digital farm-to-market platforms beginning to reach farmers beyond urban centers.

In the infrastructure sector, while controversies attract national attention, thousands of other projects proceed steadily: road widening in provincial corridors, the rollout of renewable microgrids in island communities, airport expansions from Bicol to Cagayan, and the rehabilitation of long-neglected seaports. 

The railway revival, once a historical footnote, is becoming tangible—the North-South Commuter Railway is advancing, the Cebu Monorail is scheduled for groundbreaking, and feasibility talks for a Mindanao railway are being reactivated. These developments may lack the drama of scandal—but they represent the slow, necessary steps toward a genuinely modern nation.

There are also encouraging developments in governance and civic participation. The adoption of e-governance systems has accelerated since 2022—more local governments are now digitizing business permits, civil registry services, and tax payments. The Commission on Audit has introduced AI-assisted auditing models that help identify suspicious patterns in procurement. 

More importantly, citizens are learning to monitor government performance themselves—civil society groups are tracking infrastructure budgets, student organizations are analyzing climate data, and volunteer lawyers have expanded legal clinics across disaster-prone municipalities. Public scrutiny, once limited to urban intellectual circles, is becoming decentralized and participatory.

Education and culture—a country’s long-term engine—are also showing signs of renewal. The number of Filipinos in STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) fields has increased, and scholarship links with Japan, South Korea, and the United States have quietly multiplied. Philippine universities are beginning to integrate AI tools into teaching and research. Heritage conservation is experiencing a renaissance: Intramuros is being digitized for interactive history apps, several provincial museums are being restored, and Filipino artists are gaining global recognition in digital and architectural design—fields once dominated abroad. 

Even in sports, the average Filipino athlete receives far better science-based training today than a decade ago, and the success of Filipino chess prodigies and Olympic hopefuls signals a rising generation shaped less by luck and more by systems.

Above all, Filipino resilience today is not of the passive kind. It is not simply “weathering the storm.” It is an active resilience—a search for solutions instead of a tolerance of pain. Barangay-level disaster mapping, youth-led climate initiatives, volunteer-based tutoring networks, overseas mentorships, cooperative farming—a quiet network of progress is weaving itself underneath the loud narrative of decay. 

The real story of the Philippines is not told solely in Senate hearings or viral posts. It is told in classrooms, export zones, research labs, municipal halls, and community gardens.

The flood-control scandal must be investigated. Accountability must be pursued. But outrage must not blind the nation to its own endurance. The Philippines is not defined solely by what is wrong—it is also defined by those who steadily build what is right. History records not only the failures of governments—but the perseverance of citizens who never abandoned the long work of nationhood.

The noise may grow louder in the coming months. But beyond it lies a Philippines that is quietly learning, building, adapting. And that quiet work—though unsung—is the true foundation of the future.

The Flood That Never Recedes

When Typhoons Tino and Uwan battered the Philippines in November 2025, they exposed more than swollen rivers and shattered dikes. They revealed a deeper and deadlier reality: in this country, the flood often begins not with rain, but with corruption. From 2022 to 2025, the government allotted ₱545 billion for flood control. Yet audits and Senate inquiries suggest that ghost projects, substandard construction, and contractor monopolies may have bled the economy of up to ₱118 billion. Some experts estimate that in certain projects, only 40% of the funds reach actual implementation—the rest disappears into a maze of kickbacks and political favors.

This scandal is not an accident. It is a system. Fifteen favored contractors cornered about ₱100 billion, roughly a fifth of all flood-control spending since 2022. These projects are technically complex, difficult to monitor, and perfect for quiet profit. The pork barrel was abolished in name—but survives in practice. Flood control has become the new political currency.

That is why the 2025 flood control scandal cannot be treated as a simple “abuse of funds.” In a country battered by 20 typhoons a year, the absence of flood protection is not mere inefficiency. It is slow, systemic violence—one that falls hardest on the poor, the riverside settlers, the jeepney drivers, and the farmers waiting for relief goods beside muddy roads.

The scandal also exploded at the worst political moment: amid the deepening split between President Marcos and the Duterte camp. Each side now exposes the other’s budget allocations with surgical precision—and both are correct. Allocations in Davao are questioned; allocations in Romualdez districts are likewise flagged. Where political alliances once protected projects, political feuds now expose them. But this “expose war” brings no reform—only paralysis. When everyone has something to hide, no one dares to clean house.

Public anger has surged. The November 2025 rally gathered an estimated 650,000 Filipinos—one of the largest public demonstrations in decades. They came from parishes, jeepney terminals, evacuation zones, and student dormitories. But the presence of well-organized bloc-voting groups—particularly Iglesia ni Cristo—added an ambiguous note. Was this the birth of a real movement for reform—or merely the rehearsal of another election war?

The administration responded with familiar moves: it cancelled ₱252 billion in 2026 flood-control projects, formed a commission, and promised accountability “before Christmas.” But history warns us to be cautious. The Philippines has seen this play before: PDAF, the Fertilizer Fund, Pharmally. Money vanishes. Public outrage rises. A few names are prosecuted. The system resets—and waits for the next budget cycle. In this structure, corruption is not aberration; it is strategy.

But there is a deeper danger now—scandal fatigue. As corruption becomes routine, outrage becomes brief. Our worst political illness is not plunder—it is exhaustion. If we accept that corruption is inevitable, we must also accept that death by flood is inevitable. Climate change will not wait. The next typhoon season will test not only our infrastructure—but our democracy’s pulse.

There is a boundary that must not be crossed: When the public stops caring, accountability vanishes. When accountability vanishes, disaster response becomes mere performance. When performance replaces governance—floods do not come from the sky; they originate from the system itself.

The waters from the 2025 typhoon have receded. But the real flood—the one running through our institutions—has not. It erodes the riverbanks of democracy, quietly and steadily, year after year. If we allow it to flow unchecked, there may come a day when disaster strikes—and we find that our democracy, too, has quietly drowned.

The question is not whether the next storms will come. They will.

The deeper question is: Will we have built defenses— or only better excuses?