Certain events in a nation’s history become more than dates—they become emotional landmarks. For Filipinos, 1986 is not a year. It is a pulse. It lives in our anthem, our textbooks, our slogans, our political speeches. It lives in every protest placard that invokes the words People Power. It lives in the way we still say, with strange confidence, “Pag nagka-problema, kita-kits sa EDSA.”
I was not on EDSA in 1986. Millions weren’t. But we were all shaped by it. Some watched on the news. Others heard the stories. But everyone knew that something spectacular had happened: an entire dictatorship ended without a civil war. Tanks halted because priests stood between the barrel and the crowd. Ordinary citizens—clerks, market vendors, students, nuns—suddenly carried the weight of history. And for one moment, the whole world stood still and saluted us.
It was difficult not to believe after that that we Filipinos were capable of anything. And that is where the complication begins.
The Weight of a Beautiful Memory
How does a nation move forward when its greatest triumph is behind it? How do you build institutions when miracles come more easily to the imagination?
When Marcos fell, the air was filled not only with joy, but with an intoxicating sense of power. If the people brought down one president, they could bring down another. The Constitution was rewritten, institutions were rebuilt, and democracy was declared restored. But something lingered in our political bloodstream: the idea that the ultimate judge is not the Supreme Court, not Congress, not even the ballot box—but the street.
The EDSA Narrative Slowly Transformed into a Political Reflex.
Marcos fell. Estrada followed. Arroyo endured marches, siege attempts, and the constant threat of collapse. Today, whispers gather around President Bongbong Marcos. As accusations rise, familiar slogans reappear. Old rally grounds stir like muscle memory. It is as if the nation keeps a pair of marching shoes — always polished, never fully stored away. History, it seems, does not only echo—it rehearses.
But with every return to EDSA, a quiet question grows louder, more insistent: Are we honoring our history—or are we trapped by it? Have we preserved the spirit of People Power, or have we preserved only the choreography? Do we rally because the moment demands it—or because we have forgotten any other way to respond to crisis? What began as a cry for democratic rebirth may now be turning into a political shortcut, a ritual performed whenever institutions move too slowly, or justice seems too distant.
And if we cannot imagine change without a crowd on the highway, then perhaps the triumph of 1986 has become our cage—a victory so luminous that it now blocks our view of a different future.
The Subtle Cost of Revolutions
The problem with miracles is that they age badly. The first time, they are riveting. The second time, they are déjà vu. The third time, they are routine. And revolutions, when repeated, slowly become hollow theater—stripped of moral complexity, reduced only to spectacle.
Our institutions—meant to grow stronger after 1986—have instead grown timid in its shadow. Impeachment is no longer respected. Courts are distrusted. The legislature becomes hesitant. The Ombudsman issues findings but few consequences. Political parties are built around personalities, not principles.
Why? Because many Filipinos quietly believe that all of these institutions are merely the prelude to something “real”: another uprising, another confrontation, another surge of bodies on the asphalt of EDSA.
It is as though the nation matured only halfway. We learned how to revolt—but not how to govern. We learned how to protest—but not how to prosecute. We learned how to topple presidents—but not how to hold them to account. And now the price has become due.
The Current Crossroads
Criticism against the current administration is growing. Accusations of corruption and betrayal are surfacing again. This alone is not new. Democratic societies must learn how to criticize their leaders. But here lies the danger: every time political pressure mounts, some Filipinos instinctively reach for the shortcut. “EDSA na lang ulit.” “Tanggalin na lang.” “March tayo.”
We forget that EDSA succeeded only because the system had collapsed. Today, the system exists. Impeachment exists. Investigative journalism exists. Congressional hearings exist. Judicial review exists. Our challenge is not to bypass these institutions—but to force them to work. That is the moral difference between a rebellion and a Republic. A Republic stands not on anger, but on institutions built to survive it.
The Future We Owe EDSA
The greatest irony is that to honor EDSA is not to repeat it—but to render it unnecessary. People Power was never meant to be a permanent option. It was a bridge: a transitional moment meant to lead us away from emergency politics and toward constitutional maturity. If we must use it every generation, then we have not evolved—we have looped back on ourselves.
Perhaps the real tribute to EDSA is this: That one day, no Filipino child will need to march to restore justice. That one day, corruption will be punished not by rallies—but by verdicts. That one day, presidents will fear not crowds—but the law. When that day comes—when change happens inside the system, not outside of it— then EDSA will not be abandoned. It will, at last, be fulfilled. And the crowd will not need to return to the streets. Because the Republic will finally stand on its own feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment