We were not always this tired

When I was a little boy, the news had endings.

I still remember the Manila hostage crisis in 2010. I was in elementary school and did not understand the politics behind it—the hostage negotiations, the government response, or the consequences that followed. I remember vividly being disappointed when “May Bukas Pa” was canceled that night to make way for the news.

Looking back, that memory feels almost innocent. Back then, major national events seemed to happen one at a time. There was the Ampatuan massacre, the pork barrel scandal, “Ondoy,” “Yolanda,” and the other super typhoons and tragedies that marked my childhood. Each event felt enormous, but eventually, it passed. There was time to absorb it, to talk about it, to mourn, to become angry, and eventually to move on.

Today, it feels as though nothing ever really passes. Before we have finished understanding one controversy, another has already taken its place. There are flood control scandals, impeachment proceedings, the International Criminal Court, tensions in the West Philippine Sea, rising prices caused by conflicts abroad, and floods and rains that seem to keep coming. And because of the internet, we no longer have to wait for the evening news. The news is in our pockets, in our feeds, in our group chats, and at our dinner tables.

Maybe the world did not suddenly become more chaotic. Maybe we simply became capable of seeing all of its chaos at once.

But I think something else has changed, too. Somehow, somewhere along the way, political disagreement stopped being a simple disagreement. It became our identity.

The rise of Rodrigo Duterte to national power marked an important turning point. Not because every problem began with Duterte, but because political discourse became louder, more personal, and more divisive. Social media turned politics into a battlefield, and political identities became almost tribal. Duterte, Aquino, “DDS,” Loyalists, “Kakampink,” “Dilawan”—people were increasingly defined by the camp they belonged to. We stopped asking only, “What did this politician do?” We began asking, “Whose side are you on?” And once politics becomes a matter of identity, criticism feels like a personal attack.

What worries me is that ordinary Filipinos have become so busy fighting each other over that system that we sometimes forget who is actually supposed to be served by it. We argue about politicians while the price of food rises. We defend political families while ordinary Filipinos worry about making their salaries last until the next payday. We fight strangers online because they voted differently, while the politicians we defend continue living lives far removed from the struggles of the ordinary people arguing on their behalf.

Sometimes I wonder what if we are fighting the wrong people? We proudly call Filipinos resilient. And maybe we are. After all, we survive typhoons, floods, inflation, corruption, political scandals, and one administration after another.

But sometimes I wonder whether what we call resilience is really resilience—or simply our ability to endure a system we have no choice but to live in.

When the flood comes, we clean up. When prices rise, we tighten our belts. When corruption is exposed, we get angry. When another scandal breaks, we post about it. Then we go back to work. Not necessarily because we are strong, but because tomorrow we still have bills. And that is why I look toward 2028 with both hope and exhaustion. I do not expect an election to magically fix the Philippines. No president can erase decades of corruption or dismantle political dynasties overnight. But I hope that 2028 will give us an opportunity to stop asking which family should rule next and start asking what kind of country we actually want. Because the Philippines is bigger than the Dutertes. It is bigger than the Marcoses. It is bigger than any president, political party, color, or surname.

And maybe that is what we need to remember before the next election turns us against one another again.

I miss being that little boy who was simply disappointed because his favorite television show had been cancelled for the news. I did not know then how complicated the country would become, or how exhausting it would feel to constantly watch one crisis replace another.

I did not know that one day, I would miss the feeling of not knowing everything.

Maybe that is what I want most now. Not ignorance, but silence between the storms. Enough time to understand one crisis before another arrives. Enough space to disagree without hating one another. Enough distance from politics to remember that before we are “DDS,” Loyalist, “Kakampink,” “Dilawan,” or anything else, we were Filipinos trying to make it through the same country.

—————-

Ian Joseph Angel, 27, is a fourth-year civil engineering student at National University–Baliwag and a civil engineering intern at LiaBelle Construction in Zambales.