The Unfinished Revolution Within

The air in Manila feels heavy today, and it isn’t just the humidity or the exhaust fumes clinging to the overpasses of EDSA. It is the weight of memory colliding with the friction of survival. It is November 30 again—a date circled in red on the calendar, signaling a pause in the grind of the work week and end of the month, a non-working holiday where the flags are raised a little higher and the wreaths are laid a little fresher.

We gather, in spirit or in person, at the foot of the monuments. There stands Andres Bonifacio, the Great Plebeian, immortalized in bronze and stone. He is usually depicted shouting, a bolo in one hand and a pistol in the other, muscles tense, forever frozen in the act of charging toward a future he would never live to see. But looking at him today, against the backdrop of our modern skyline—a mix of gleaming glass towers and patchwork roofs—one has to wonder: if the Supremo were to step off his pedestal and walk the streets of the metropolis right now, would he recognize the freedom he died for?

We are no longer tearing up cedulas in the hills of Balintawak. The fight has shifted. The enemy is no longer a foreign empire in a walled city; the enemy has become shapeless, systemic, and sometimes, sits within us. Today, the revolution is not a single cry, but a million quiet gasps for air.

Bolo and the budget

If Bonifacio were a bodeguero (warehouse worker) today, he would likely be standing in line at a grocery store, staring at the price tag on a sack of rice. The modern equivalent of the colonial tax is the crushing weight of inflation. The cry of the people today is not for independence from a crown, but for liberation from the anxiety of the empty wallet.

Walk through any palengke (wet market) this morning, and you will feel the tension. It is in the furrowed brows of mothers budgeting a minimum wage that rarely keeps pace with the cost of dignity. It is in the hesitation before buying meat, the calculation of how far a kilo of fish will stretch. The tearing of the cedula was an act of defiance against a system that viewed the Filipinos as subjects rather than citizens. Today, the defiance is found in the sheer will to make ends meet in an economy that often feels designed to keep the poor in their place.

Bonifacio’s revolution was fueled by the hunger for justice, but it was also fueled by literal hunger. The connection remains visceral. When we see the queues for government aid or the scramble for affordable goods, we are witnessing the modern battleground. The bolo has been replaced by the calculator, and the battlefield is the kitchen table. To honor him today is to acknowledge that true independence is impossible when the people are shackled by poverty.

Deluge and defiance

This year, the Filipino spirit has been tested not just by the economy, but by the very skies above us. We are still drying out from a relentless season of storms that felt like a siege by nature itself. From the unprecedented succession of six storms late last year—Kristine, Leon, Marce, Nika, Ofel, and Pepito—to the recent battering by Typhoons Tino and Uwan this month, the archipelago has been pummeled into a state of perpetual recovery.

Bonifacio fought in the rain and mud of the mountains, but today’s "Katipuneros" are the rescuers wading through chest-deep floods in Bicol and Cagayan. They are the neighbors sharing roof space when the waters rise, pulling each other out of landslides in the Cordilleras. The recent calamities have stripped away the illusion of stability, revealing that for many, survival is a daily gamble against the elements.

The resilience we praise so often—that famous "Filipino resilience"—is becoming a weary badge of honor. Just as the Katipunan demanded more than just survival under Spanish rule, the people today are silently demanding more than just the ability to float. They demand infrastructure that holds, disaster response that is swift, and a system that values their lives before the storm hits, not just after. The "Cry of Pugad Lawin" finds a haunting echo in the cries for help from rooftops, a reminder that the fight for our land includes protecting it—and us—from the changing climate.

Siege on the seas

While the internal economy struggles and the skies open up, the external gaze turns toward the West. Bonifacio was, at his core, a defender of the native land. He understood that the soil under his feet belonged to those who tilled it, not those who claimed it from across the ocean.

Today, that soil is water. The tension in the West Philippine Sea is the modern manifestation of the Katipunan’s struggle for sovereignty. We see images of wooden fishing boats—small, fragile vessels manned by weather-beaten Filipinos—facing off against steel-hulled giants and water cannons. These fishermen are the accidental heirs of the Katipunan. They do not carry revolvers; they carry nets. Yet, their insistence on fishing in their own waters is a revolutionary act of claiming what is ours.

It is easy to feel small against geopolitical superpowers. The Indios felt small against the Spanish Armada, too. But Bonifacio taught us that courage is the great equalizer. The "red" in the flag today seems to pulse a little brighter when we think of the frontliners on the seas, defending the perimeter of our archipelago not with aggression, but with presence. The fight for territory has evolved from the trenches of San Juan del Monte to the shoals and reefs where the map is being redrawn by force.

Algorithm of truth

Perhaps the most insidious enemy facing the modern Filipino is one Bonifacio could never have imagined: the distortion of truth. The Katipunan was founded on the principles of the Kartilya—a code of conduct based on honor, charity, and enlightenment. Bonifacio and his formidable advisor, Emilio Jacinto, believed that a free mind was the prerequisite for a free nation.

Today, the printing press of the Kalayaan newspaper has been replaced by the algorithm. We are drowning in information, yet starving for wisdom. The digital landscape is a battlefield where history is revised, heroes are villainized, and lies travel faster than the truth. We see the fragmentation of our history, where the legacy of the revolution is often twisted to serve political dynasties or temporary agendas.

The "Cry" today must be a cry for discernment. In an era of deepfakes and troll farms, holding onto the truth is an act of rebellion. To remember Bonifacio is to remember that he was a reader, a self-taught intellectual who translated poems and read about the French Revolution by candlelight. He valued intellect. Today, honoring him means refusing to be passive consumers of disinformation. It means guarding our history as fiercely as we guard our borders.

Quiet heroism

As the sun sets on this Bonifacio Day, the wreaths will wither, and the speeches will fade. The monuments will return to being birds' perches until next year. But the relevance of Andres Bonifacio does not fade.

We are living in a time that demands a different kind of bravery. It is not the bravery of charging into gunfire, but the bravery of rebuilding a home after the floodwaters recede. It is the bravery of the teacher buying chalk with her own money, the nurse working a double shift, the fisherman crossing the shoal, and the student fact-checking a viral post.

The revolution is unfinished because the work of nation-building is never done. We are the sculptors of this era, chipping away at the stone of our circumstances. We look to the man in the camisa de chino not for him to save us, but to remind us that we have the capacity to save ourselves. The "Cry" continues, echoing not in the hills, but in the beating heart of every Filipino who refuses to give up on this difficult, beautiful, and enduring country.

Article: Rebelyn Beyong

Graphics: Jan Mike Cabangin and Keren Hope De Leon