23/09/2025
๐๐น๐ผ๐ผ๐ฑ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐๐ฟ๐: ๐ผ ๐๐๐ฉ๐๐ค๐ฃโ๐จ ๐๐ง๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ค๐ฃ ๐๐ก๐๐
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ช๐ค๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ง๐ช๐ด๐ฉ๐ฃ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐ด ๐ณ๐ช๐ด๐ฆ๐ด, ๐ช๐ต ๐ช๐ด๐ฏโ๐ต ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ด๐ต๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ง๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ตโ๐ด ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ช๐ฏ๐จโ๐ช๐ตโ๐ด ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ข ๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ.
On September 21, 2025, Luneta Park turned into a flood, not of rain but of rage. They called it โ๐๐ข๐ฉ๐ข ๐ด๐ข ๐๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ต๐ขโโthe Trillion Peso March. Thousands of people demanded answers for the โฑ545 billion lost to ghost flood-control projects, while real families are left to drown in both water and debt. It was a flood that no sandbag of denial could hold back.
โIkulong na โyan! Mga kurakot!โ shouted a group of students, their handmade cardboard signs trembling in their fists. Nearby, a grandmother clutched a rosary while chanting, โIbalik ang pera, ibalik ang dignidad.โ
The trigger? The revelation of billions of pesos poured into flood-control projects that either barely stood, cracked too soon, or never existed at all. Ghost projects haunting the nation while real families wade through waist-deep waters every typhoon season.
But the soul of the protest came from the margins: a fishball vendor at the rallyโs edge, holding a placard that read: โNever again, never forget.โ His voice even echoes: โIbaba ang presyo ng fishball!โ At first, people laughed. Some even snapped selfies with him.
But his face, shadowed of being weary, turned humor into heartbreak. Because that shout was not a joke; it was a sermon. It meant that even the cheapest comfort worth three pesos of the Filipino, now weighs heavy on the pockets of the poor.
It meant that while billions vanish into ghost projects, ordinary lives are haunted by rising prices, by the quiet desperation of stretching a dayโs wage across a weekโs hunger. His cry was not about fishball; it was about dignity, about survival, about the audacity to demand fairness in a world that mocks the poor for demanding too much when they are asking for too little.
Here is where our duty as humanistas begins. To study humanity is to refuse to ignore its wounds. We are called not just to write essays in classrooms, but to inscribe justice into the streets. If we claim to hold the voice of the nation, then that voice must speak for the vendor who cannot afford silence. It must echo louder than the laughter, deeper than the hashtags. For silence, in times like this, is complicity.
The Baha sa Luneta was more than a protest; it was a prophecy. A reminder that when people rise, they do so like waterโsoft at first, then unstoppable.
As one banner fluttered in the crowd, painted in messy black strokes: โ๐๐ถ๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช ๐ต๐ข๐บ๐ฐ ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฌ๐ช๐ญ๐ฐ๐ด, ๐ด๐ช๐ฏ๐ฐ? ๐๐ถ๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช ๐ฏ๐จ๐ข๐บ๐ฐ๐ฏ, ๐ฌ๐ข๐ช๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ? โโa clichรฉ once ignored, but never more true. ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐จ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฌ๐ข๐ช๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ?
๐๐๐ฉ๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐๐ฒ: ๐๐ก๐ซ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข๐๐ง ๐๐๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฎ๐๐ง
๐๐๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐๐ฒ: ๐๐ก๐ซ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข๐๐ง ๐๐๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฎ๐๐ง
