Rain poured as the skies dimmed unexpectedly. The usual silence was drowned by intensifying murmurs and occasional chanting. In the sea of black and red, stood makeshift tongues, folklore costumes, and one giant effigy of terror personified. That day, Filipino folklore came to life and bared the streets of Manila to confront the real horror, both here and awaiting.
Fear differs depending on what can or cannot send a shiver down one's spine. Many fear that when they make a noise, the terrors that they can only once imagine, may come to life—to haunt and chase them. These are the kinds of terror that has forcibly equated silence to comfortable security.
Yet, what happens when the noise outside is exactly the reason why the inside is cuddled in quiet? And why those silent have always known peace?
Folktales have always described these mythological creatures of frightening stature as mostly discreetly lurking, but on that day, there was no slow screeching or subtle premonitions. Every single attendant was audibly present and proactive, as if there was no urge to cower and hide.
Dressed in entities that have always been feared, the youth raised banners and called for change, for reform—for their represented sectors and even for those of our folks unaware they need it.
Some stood with the crowd, some stood from a distance while contemplating. For some reason, it was clear that the fear gnawing at them was not because of the gory details of the costumes nor the messages written in bold, screaming letters.
The skies cleared but the route did not. There were two kinds of barricades that day—one, in the form of state-funded equipment, and two, the refusal of others to grant themselves a chance to realize the apparent lines between activism and terrorism.
From one street to the other side of the city, many ran, skipped, and some even tipped over. The folklore representation showed what genuine unity must look like—driven clearly by advocacy and depicted with the kind of courage that calls out broken systems.
The other side of the street roared with honking and people screaming questions about what nuisance was happening across them.
The nuisance many blatantly complained about was one of the very few initiatives of progressive people demanding clearer plans for the education sector, the economic crisis, and, among others, basic human rights—that, in the first place, should be assured with no question.
Horror is not our youth asserting constitutionally given rights; horror is continuously being amused by a circus that bleeds society to death.
At the end of the assembly and unity walk, the youth sector found refuge at the feet of Bonifacio—one of the most remarkably significant national heroes and activists that led a revolution.
As the 11th month of the year represents the celebration of International Students' Day as well as important commemorations of ending the impunity towards crimes against journalists, different advocacy from universities and organizations were led to reiterate them until the end.
As the giant effigy of the real horror burned, many remained standing with fears long gone. While people continue to question and belittle the contributions of activism, it is at the feet of Bonifacio and many national heroes that we can realize that we were freed from colonial and martial influences because there are activists who questioned, fought, and pushed through.
The crowd dispersed but the dim plaza of Liwasang Bonifacio remained ignited—by the fact that nothing is ever too frightening, too threatening, and too horrifying—for a generation willing to reference folklore in the fight to dismantle the real perpetrators of social horror.
Graphics: Ashley Alba
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