by: Chloe Cristobal
Copyedited by: Joebbie Gaugano
Publication by: Jamelle Ronquillo

The streets are crowded, cultivated, and booming with cries of protests. They march with a proud stride that shakes the ground they step on. Their voices echo the pleas of every generation that’s witnessed injustice. Their signs make the roads like a sea of colors, each one representing a fervent desire for change. They didn’t just walk; with them, they carried the fury of the betrayed, the wishes of the unheard, and the dreams of the forsaken. Today, the city of Manila is not just protesting—it is remembering, demanding, and hoping.

I was one of them once. But now, the weight of years lived weighs down my shoulders. The fire burning in my chest now causes my heart to ache. The hands I raised in protest now tremble with age—but not with fear. Never with fear.

I watch from the window as they surge forward. Students, workers, artists, and elders walked side by side. People of different skin, backgrounds, orientations, and jobs held each other’s hands as they screamed and demanded. Their differences dissolved in the unity of purpose and passion. The atmosphere pulsed with phrases that refused to be ignored, each syllable a strike against suppression. And oh, how I longed to feel that relentless inferno in my chest once again.

I was one of them once, and I wish I was marching with them right now. Though my heart relishes the fact that the spirit I carried still lives on. That the chants I used to shout are louder and bolder as they utter them. That the streets I walked with trembling hope are now filled with unwavering conviction. A conviction that’s lasted for decades because of corruption that has been persistent … the more I think about it. I cannot help but ask why the battle we fought is being passed on to the children we promised a better future.

I was one of them once, and it breaks my heart to see that there is still a need for mass laments like these. The echoes of cries grow louder, but the people who sit atop remain unmoved and apathetic. The faces in the crowds differ, even multiply, but the pain they carry and show seems hauntingly familiar. The systems we fought to change seem to bounce back and grow even stronger, fueled by greed, nepotism, and indifference.

Yet, even as these thoughts weigh heavy on my soul, as I look back out the window, I realize that I find solace in the march itself. In the rhythm of resistance. In the defiance they show. In the truth that every step taken today means something for the people. In the fact that every voice raised is one step closer to achieving change.

I was one of them once, and I forever will be. I sit in my chair watching as the crowd slowly evaporates and heads on to the next corner. My heart burns with sorrow and pride, for as long as the battle persists, so does our spirit. And maybe this time around, their yells will reach even those who turn their backs to the sound.