Let a Hundred EDSAs Bloom

By Emmanuel M. Hizon and James Miraflor

We are glad Mr. Joseph Estrada was pardoned. We are glad Erap entered into a compromise with Mrs. Arroyo, in effect absolving him of any wrongdoing he bestowed in a country so wronged and offended. Thank you for sparing us the effort to remind everyone that justice here in our society is a plaything of the rich and powerful, that the search for truth within the comforts of legalism, of our ‘beloved constitution’ and jurisprudence, is nothing but a blind alley.

We are also glad Mrs. Arroyo is capable of feelings, however twisted the brand of empathy and compassion she usually evokes whenever her throat and her ‘presidency’ is on the line. We are glad Mrs. Arroyo once again spat on the spirit and ethos of Edsa 2, reminding everybody especially the middle class that it takes more than a restrained remonstration to bring forward a better future free from elite exploitation and domination.

We are equally glad Erap puked on the masses who stormed the gates of Malacanang in Edsa 3, all for the comfort of his mansion in San Juan which none but the few like him enjoy. We are glad he swindled those who believed in him, those who sacrificed and died all in his name. We are glad the self-styled champion of the poor accepted a cowardly, pathetic and unsacrificing settlement with the same faction of the elite he regularly lambasted as the ‘real enemy.’ We are glad he finally went back to the fold of his true class roots. We are happy that with his newly found freedom he denied satisfaction to a people longing for truth, justice and accountability.

We are glad they did it. We are happy they finally shed any form of pretension and illusion. We are relieved they finally erased any memento that their was an indeed an “Erap-Gloria war”, that our society is stupidly divided between their interests, that our struggle is a fight between the camps of Estrada and Arroyo and that we are compelled to decide if we are for “Erap for the masses”, for “Gloria’s Economic paradise” or national suicide.

Now, it’s just between them and us, between the haves and have-nots, between the different factions of the elite pursuing the same elite interests and the poor who for the longest time have been sidelined, used and abused.

Now, let us march in the streets not in their name, not with their plundered resources, not with their prodding. Let us pour in the streets without them, without their plastic smiles, without their fake patriotism, without their unsolicited leadership, without their phony loyalty to the people—the same people they unhesitatingly rob and oppress whenever they are in power. We must hit the streets because we are sick and tired of them all. Let us tell them that we are tired of elitist reruns, of same conjured dreams, of the same trapo governance.

We must muster our strength because we believe that a better world is not only possible but is currently under construction. We should not limit ourselves in outlining an alternative society; we must begin building the edifice of a humane and egalitarian future now. For pete’s sake, let us spare the next generation of this system.

Instead of getting frustrated and disappointed, instead of running away to some first world country, instead of being paralyzed by apathy and indifference, let us have the resolve to have another Edsa. Let us reclaim it from the elite who bastardized it.

Let a hundred Edsas bloom. Edsa uprisings that are radical, mass-oriented and explicitly anti-elite rule.

"The Song Remains the Same"

Your words they make just a whisper
Your face is so unclear
I try to pay attention
And the words just disappear

Cuz it's always raining in my head
Forget all the things i should have said

So i speak to you in riddles
Cuz my words get in my way
I smoke the whole thing to my head
And feel it wash away

Cuz i can't take anymore of this
I wanna come apart
And dig myself a little hole
Inside your precious heart

Cuz it's always raining in my head
Forget all the things i should have said

I am nothing more than
A little boy inside
That cries out for intention
That i always try to hide

Cuz i talk to you like children
Though i don't know how i feel
But i know i'll do the right thing
If the right thing is in fear

Cuz its always raining in my head
Forget all the things i should have said

-Epiphany, Staind

Ten years and still angry

Ten years ago, I feel so invincible and indestructible. No baton, shield or threats of incarceration can break us. They will never break us. Not the hypocritical school dictator, not the local police, not even feudal god himself. We paint the town red, crimson red, scarlet-like, warning the unrepentant, giving notice to the coming. Words were shouting, written, angry, splattered on ugly Manila walls, reeking with piss and shit. Words, though sometimes alone, were never really alone. A reminder that the imperishable remain imperishable and unconquerable.

Ten years ago, I feel I can take the whole world, deny it and refuse it, rip it apart, rip it to pieces and rip the rotten cadaver out of its propertied soul. I scream so loud that no boundaries can limit it, no stupid blog can confine it, no restrictions and imposed margins can scare or mellow it, no politician can interpellate it.

Everyday for the last ten years, I can hear my scream echo in every street corner, in every diploma mill, in every factory, in every music and poetry, joining with other screams, with other roars, flirting with peril, like a bullet forever on a ricochet, coveting the impossible, demanding the unattainable, celebrating the orgy of the great unwashed.

Now, I’m 29 years old, ten years after. I'm sitting on the edge of the cliff, pondering, wondering, looking. Was it all worth it? Do I still feel unbreakable, undying and unyielding?

"It is always raining in my mind."

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Was it all worth it?



You bet it is. And we are just warming up. Hear us roar louder. We will spit on the cradle of this ‘new democracy’ and mock it again and again. We will never be satisfied. We will never be contended. Yes, we will destroy your ‘world’ and build a new one instead.

Screw you. We're still here.


Emman Hizon, 29, and still angry.