And so I pray
When did the people’s trust become a currency that the government spends so carelessly, as if our lives were small enough to gamble with? And how do those in power sleep at night knowing the chaos they create is the burden the rest of us bleed for?
I rarely watch the news now. Not because I don’t care, but because it has become too much to bear. Yet, I recently came across the news claiming that P500 is enough for a Christmas noche buena. My eyes squeezed shut, and I wished I could erase what I had just read. Is this how little they think of us? Is this the measure of concern for the people they are supposed to serve?
It feels as if they are living in a completely different world, utterly out of touch with reality. And it amazes me—no, it infuriates me—how they can laugh while people are crying in frustration. How insulting.
The idea of “pwede na ‘yan, kaysa wala” that they instill in us fills me with a rage that is hard to contain—a phrase meant to pacify, justify, and belittle the struggles of the very people they claim to serve.
And no, it does not teach gratitude. It does not remind us to appreciate what little we have. But it is meant to silence us, to convince us that demanding more is wrong, that our struggles are trivial.
Christmas is not just an ordinary day for Filipinos. It’s the one day when families, even the struggling ones, give their best to create something magical—a meal on the table they might not normally have, a tradition they hold dear. And yet, they are trying to turn this magical day into something ordinary, as if the joy, effort, and hope of the people meant nothing, as if they are killing this one day of celebration.
And every day, while riding a jeep, stuck in traffic, listening to the heated argument between the traffic enforcer and the jeepney driver on my way to work, I can’t help but wonder: how do those in power sleep at night, knowing the chaos they create is the burden the rest of us bleed for?
“Nakapikit,” my mind whispers.
I stifle the disappointed chuckle that rises in me, hoping no one notices and thinks I’ve lost my mind.
And yet, the answer feels painfully clear: they don’t care. And maybe they never have. Our suffering is invisible to them, our struggles reduced to numbers on a report or talking points in a speech. They speak of progress while our lives crumble, while our patience runs dry, while the very system meant to protect us becomes a tool for our exhaustion. And still, we are expected to believe, to hope, to endure—like blind fools cheering for the convenience of others
The situation is frustrating. Leaders make promises as if they were empty words written on sand, easily washed away by the tides of their own indifference. Meanwhile, we—the people—bear the consequences, struggling to pick up the pieces of lives disrupted, communities ignored, and trust shattered. It is exhausting, maddening, and deeply unfair. How long are we expected to endure this cycle of neglect while those in power remain untouchable, insulated from the chaos they create?
I want to live in a country where every day isn’t a fight to survive, and people don’t have to bargain with circumstance and luck to get through life. Sometimes, it makes me unbearably sad to think that I won’t bring a child into this world, to watch them inherit the same chaos I’ve had to endure—the same disappointments, the same systemic failures. How can I ask another life to bear the weight of a government that treats its people like expendable pieces, whose mistakes and neglect ripple through families, dreams, and futures? It is a sorrow mixed with rage: rage at the injustice, at the thoughtless leaders, at a system that continues to grind hope into dust.
I want to live in a country where I don’t dream of leaving—where staying doesn’t feel like an act of compromise, where I am not ashamed of choosing to remain. I want a place where I don’t fear that my time, energy, and potential will be wasted by a system that forgets its people, that rewards negligence and punishes diligence. I want to live in a country where leaders encourage their people to dream big, do big, achieve great things—and support them in the process.
One day, I hope people will refuse to accept that surviving, rather than living, is all our nation deserves. The anger that burns in my chest will not just be mine—it is ours, shared with every tired eye, every empty stomach, every stifled dream. And one day, that collective fire will demand more than words, more than apologies, more than excuses.
Because a country that treats its people like expendable pieces will eventually meet the people who refuse to be silenced. And when that day comes, no amount of indifference, no amount of laughter, no phrase like “pwede na ‘yan, kaysa wala” will hide the truth: we have had enough. And so I pray.
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Rea Joy Reyes, 24, is a market researcher based in Mandaluyong, curious by nature and driven to explore the trends shaping today’s market.
