When the Kingmakers Become the Protesters
Fifty-five years after political violence altered the trajectory of Philippine democracy, EDSA is once again at the center of the nation's attention—not because a dictatorship has fallen, but because one of the country's most influential religious institutions has chosen to confront the very administration it once helped usher into power.
Thousands gathered near the People Power Monument in a permit-less demonstration that quickly transformed one of Metro Manila's busiest arteries into a sea of white shirts, banners, stalled vehicles, and stranded commuters. The chants were unmistakably political. The demands were direct. President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. was being urged to resign.
For anyone who has spent enough years watching Philippine politics, the images felt strangely familiar. EDSA has always carried an unusual symbolism. It is more than a highway. It is where narratives about power, legitimacy, and public dissent repeatedly collide. Every generation seems to inherit its own version of this road—and with it, its own political reckoning.
Yet what unfolded this week carried a layer of irony that history seldom writes this cleanly.
The institution now leading one of the largest demonstrations against the Marcos administration is the same institution that, through its well-known practice of bloc voting, became one of the pillars of the Marcos-Duterte UniTeam coalition during the 2022 elections.
That irony deserves far more attention than the traffic.
Because this story is not merely about a protest.
It is about how political alliances in the Philippines are often less permanent than they appear.
The Immediate Flashpoint
Like many political crises, this one did not emerge overnight.
The immediate catalyst was the Office of the Ombudsman's decision to file a non-bailable plunder case against Senator Rodante Marcoleta over allegations involving undeclared election campaign donations. The filing represents a legal accusation rather than a judicial finding, and the case will ultimately be decided through the courts.
For the Iglesia ni Cristo, however, the legal proceedings have been framed very differently.
Church leaders and supporters argue that the prosecution reflects what they describe as selective justice—an example, in their view, of state institutions being deployed unevenly against particular political figures. Protesters have likewise linked Marcoleta's case to broader public frustrations surrounding the government's handling of the so-called trillion-peso flood control controversy, arguing that investigations should equally prioritize allegations involving massive public expenditures.
These remain political allegations rather than established judicial conclusions. The Marcos administration has rejected accusations that the Ombudsman's actions were directed by Malacañang and maintains that independent constitutional bodies should be allowed to perform their functions without political interference.
That distinction matters.
Because whether one believes this is an impartial anti-corruption campaign or an example of politically selective prosecution largely determines how one interprets everything else happening on EDSA.
One side sees accountability.
The other sees institutional persecution.
Between those competing narratives stands a nation trying to determine whether justice is truly blind—or merely looking in one direction.
The Alliance That Was Never Meant to Last
Philippine politics has long rewarded convenience over permanence.
Coalitions form with remarkable speed, often bringing together politicians whose ideologies overlap only loosely, if at all. Elections produce temporary symbioses rather than enduring partnerships, with institutions, personalities, and organizations aligning around shared electoral interests before inevitably drifting apart.
The relationship between the Iglesia ni Cristo and the Marcos-Duterte UniTeam coalition was widely viewed through that pragmatic lens.
When the church announced its endorsement during the 2022 elections, observers understood its potential electoral significance. While estimates of the exact number of votes attributable to the INC's bloc voting vary and cannot be measured with precision, few dispute that the endorsement carried substantial political weight in a closely watched national contest.
Candidates actively sought it.
Campaign strategists valued it.
Political analysts discussed it as one of several organizational advantages that could influence electoral momentum.
In return, the alliance projected an image of mutual confidence. It suggested a convergence of interests between one of the country's most influential religious organizations and an incoming administration promising stability after years of political turbulence.
Looking back today, those campaign photographs feel almost archival.
What appeared to be a durable political partnership now resembles a temporary ceasefire.
Yesterday's allies are today's critics.
Yesterday's electoral machinery has become today's source of organized dissent.
The transformation is remarkable not simply because it happened—but because it happened so publicly.
Beyond Personalities: Institutional Self-Preservation
Reducing the present conflict to a dispute between President Marcos Jr. and Senator Marcoleta misses the broader picture.
Institutions rarely mobilize thousands of people over personalities alone.
They mobilize when they believe institutional interests themselves are under threat.
Throughout Philippine history, whether involving political dynasties, labor organizations, activist coalitions, business groups, or religious institutions, one recurring pattern emerges: organizations tend to tolerate uncomfortable political relationships until they perceive an existential risk to their autonomy, influence, or legitimacy.
Viewed through that lens, the Marcoleta case functions as something larger than an individual legal proceeding.
To supporters participating in the demonstrations, it symbolizes what they fear could become a precedent—one in which state power may eventually be directed against influential organizations through legal mechanisms they believe are selectively enforced.
Government officials reject that interpretation entirely, arguing that accountability should not stop simply because an accused individual belongs to a powerful institution or enjoys significant political support.
This tension sits at the heart of the current confrontation.
How does a democratic state prosecute prominent public figures without appearing politically motivated?
Conversely, how can powerful institutions challenge legal actions against their members without creating the perception that they are attempting to place themselves above the reach of the law?
Neither question has an easy answer.
But both explain why this week's events have resonated far beyond the immediate controversy.
The Real Story Isn't the Traffic
Much has already been said about the economic disruption.
Businesses reported delays. Commuters found themselves stranded for hours. Public transportation struggled to navigate roads that had effectively become political spaces rather than transportation corridors. Malacañang emphasized the collateral damage inflicted upon ordinary Filipinos who had little connection to the dispute itself, while also instructing authorities to exercise maximum tolerance in responding to demonstrators.
Those consequences deserve acknowledgment.
Public protest carries real costs—not only for governments, but for citizens simply trying to get home after work.
Yet focusing exclusively on the traffic risks missing the larger story unfolding beneath it.
Gridlock was never the headline.
The fracture was.
For perhaps the first time since the 2022 elections, the public is witnessing a visible unraveling of one of the country's most consequential political relationships. It reminds us that Philippine politics is often transactional rather than ideological, built on overlapping interests that endure only while those interests remain aligned.
When they no longer do, yesterday's coalition can become today's opposition with startling speed.
And nowhere does that transformation appear more symbolic than on EDSA itself—a road where the Philippines has repeatedly come to renegotiate its understanding of power, legitimacy, and political authority.
History has returned to one of its favorite intersections.
Only this time, the familiar faces have changed sides.
When a Court Case Becomes a Political Earthquake
There is a reason this confrontation escalated so quickly.
On paper, the immediate issue is legal. In practice, it has become deeply political.
The Office of the Ombudsman has filed a non-bailable plunder case against Senator Rodante Marcoleta over allegations involving undeclared election campaign donations. Like every criminal proceeding, the filing itself is not a declaration of guilt. It begins a judicial process in which evidence will be tested, arguments will be challenged, and the courts—not public opinion—will ultimately determine liability.
Yet politics rarely waits for a verdict.
Within hours, the legal case had evolved into something much larger than the senator himself.
To the administration and its supporters, the filing represents an example of institutions functioning as they should. If allegations involve public officials and the legal threshold for prosecution has been met, then accountability should proceed regardless of political affiliation or religious membership. The principle, they argue, is straightforward: no one should be beyond the reach of the law.
For many within the Iglesia ni Cristo and those sympathetic to the protest, however, the same sequence of events tells a very different story.
They contend that the timing, visibility, and intensity of the prosecution reflect what they describe as selective justice. Their argument is not simply that Marcoleta is innocent—that remains a question for the courts—but that state institutions are allegedly pursuing some figures with extraordinary vigor while others, facing separate controversies, appear to receive far less scrutiny.
That distinction is central to understanding why thousands of people took to EDSA.
The protest is not merely asking whether Marcoleta violated the law.
It is asking whether the law is being applied consistently.
Those are not identical questions.
The Narrative Behind the Resignation Calls
To an outside observer, calls for President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. to resign may seem disproportionate if viewed solely through the lens of the Marcoleta case.
But the demonstrations are fueled by a broader political narrative—one that extends well beyond a single prosecution.
Protest organizers and participants have repeatedly alleged that the current administration has overseen a pattern of systemic corruption, institutional favoritism, and governmental mismanagement. They argue that independent agencies are being used, or at least perceived to be used, in ways that disproportionately affect political critics and former allies.
The administration has denied these accusations, maintaining that constitutional bodies operate independently and that legal actions should not automatically be interpreted as directives from Malacañang.
This disagreement reflects one of the oldest dilemmas in democratic governance.
Even if an institution acts independently, public confidence can erode if a significant portion of society believes otherwise.
In politics, perception often travels faster than legal nuance.
And perception has become one of the most powerful forces shaping the current crisis.
The Flood-Control Controversy: A Banner Larger Than Marcoleta
Interestingly, the demonstrations are not centered exclusively on Marcoleta.
His case may have been the spark.
The fuel came from elsewhere.
For months, questions surrounding the government's multi-billion-peso—and, in public discourse, often described as "trillion-peso"—flood-control expenditures have generated widespread debate. Opposition figures, watchdog organizations, journalists, and various civic groups have called for greater transparency regarding project implementation, procurement, effectiveness, and the use of public funds.
It is important to distinguish between verified findings and political allegations.
Numerous infrastructure projects remain under audit, investigation, or public scrutiny, but allegations of corruption have not been conclusively established through final judicial rulings. Likewise, government officials have defended the necessity of many flood-control projects while arguing that isolated irregularities should not automatically invalidate the broader national program.
The protesters, however, have fused these issues together into a single political narrative.
Their message is not simply, "Defend Marcoleta."
It is, "If government is serious about accountability, then accountability must apply everywhere."
That rhetorical shift changes the nature of the protest.
Instead of appearing as a demonstration focused on protecting one politician, organizers have sought to frame it as a wider campaign demanding equal application of the law, greater transparency in public spending, and institutional accountability.
Whether that framing persuades the broader public remains an open question.
But politically, it is an effective repositioning.
A protest that might otherwise have been dismissed as narrowly partisan suddenly speaks the language of anti-corruption—a message with considerably broader public appeal.
Selective Justice or Selective Perception?
Perhaps the most difficult question raised by this crisis has no immediate answer.
What exactly constitutes selective justice?
The phrase is powerful precisely because it is subjective.
One citizen sees an overdue prosecution.
Another sees political retaliation.
A third sees both possibilities existing simultaneously.
History offers examples supporting each perspective.
Governments have, at times, genuinely pursued corruption regardless of political consequences.
Governments have also, throughout history, selectively emphasized certain investigations while allowing others to fade quietly into obscurity.
The Philippines has experienced both realities.
That historical memory shapes public interpretation today.
For critics of the administration, the Marcoleta prosecution fits a familiar pattern of institutions allegedly being deployed unevenly.
For supporters of the administration, objections to the case appear less like a defense of due process and more like an attempt to shield politically influential individuals from legal accountability.
Neither side is merely arguing over evidence.
They are arguing over trust.
And trust, once fractured, is extraordinarily difficult to restore.
The Dangerous Power of Institutional Loyalty
One of the defining characteristics of Philippine politics is that loyalty often extends beyond political parties.
It flows through families.
Through local governments.
Through civic organizations.
Through regional identities.
And, at times, through religious institutions.
The Iglesia ni Cristo occupies a unique position within that landscape.
For decades, its disciplined organizational structure and well-publicized practice of endorsing candidates have made it one of the country's most closely watched electoral actors. While the precise electoral impact of bloc voting is difficult to quantify, politicians across the political spectrum have long regarded an INC endorsement as politically valuable.
That influence, however, carries an inherent paradox.
The stronger an institution's political relevance becomes, the more likely it is to find itself drawn into conflicts traditionally reserved for secular government.
The constitutional principle of separation of church and state does not require religion to remain absent from public life.
Religious organizations, like all citizens, retain the right to express political opinions and participate in democratic discourse.
The more difficult question is what happens when legal proceedings involving prominent members become intertwined with institutional identity.
At what point does defending an individual become defending the institution itself?
Conversely, at what point does prosecuting an individual become perceived—fairly or unfairly—as prosecuting the institution?
These questions have no simple legal formula.
They exist in the realm where constitutional law meets public perception.
And perception, particularly during moments of national tension, often shapes political reality as much as statutes do.
A Democracy Being Asked Difficult Questions
Every democracy eventually encounters moments that expose its deepest institutional tensions.
This may become one of those moments.
Can the state prosecute politically influential figures while maintaining public confidence that justice is impartial?
Can powerful organizations challenge government decisions without appearing to place themselves above legal scrutiny?
Can citizens distinguish between defending due process and defending personalities?
These are uncomfortable questions.
They resist slogans.
They refuse easy answers.
Yet they matter precisely because democracies are tested not when institutions agree, but when they collide.
The Marcoleta case has become the arena in which those competing visions now confront one another.
Whether history ultimately remembers this episode as an example of accountability, political overreach, institutional self-preservation, or some combination of all three will depend less on speeches than on what happens next—in courtrooms, in public institutions, and on the streets.
History Rarely Repeats Itself—But It Often Changes the Way We Listen
One of the peculiar habits of Philippine politics is that every major protest eventually summons ghosts.
The moment thousands gather on EDSA, memories begin surfacing almost instinctively. Some recall the triumph of People Power. Others remember the years that followed. Still others think of the darker episodes—the moments when public assemblies became turning points that permanently altered the relationship between citizens and the state.
Perhaps this is inevitable.
A country that has repeatedly negotiated its democracy in public spaces cannot help but measure the present against the weight of its own history.
That does not mean history is repeating itself.
It means history has become the lens through which the present is understood.
The Long Shadow of Plaza Miranda
On the evening of August 21, 1971, what was meant to be an opposition campaign rally at Plaza Miranda became one of the most consequential political tragedies in modern Philippine history.
Grenades exploded in the crowd, killing and injuring numerous Liberal Party leaders, supporters, journalists, and bystanders. The nation was stunned.
President Ferdinand Marcos Sr. blamed communist insurgents for the attack and, in the aftermath, suspended the Writ of Habeas Corpus. That decision dramatically expanded executive power and became one of the significant steps leading toward the declaration of Martial Law the following year.
More than half a century later, historians continue to debate aspects of the bombing, and competing interpretations remain part of the historical record. What is far less disputed is its political consequence.
A single act of violence fundamentally reshaped the balance between public dissent and state authority.
That historical memory inevitably colors contemporary political events.
Yet today's INC mobilization differs in a crucial respect.
Plaza Miranda involved an attack on a political gathering that was later used to justify an expansion of state authority.
The current EDSA demonstrations represent something almost inverted.
Here, it is the public assembly itself challenging what participants perceive to be an increasingly assertive state.
The comparison, therefore, is not one of equivalence.
No bombing has occurred.
No suspension of constitutional rights has been declared.
No Martial Law has been proclaimed.
The similarity lies elsewhere.
Both moments reveal how rapidly public assemblies can become constitutional stress tests, forcing governments to demonstrate how they intend to respond when political legitimacy is openly contested in the streets.
History's warning is less about identical events than about institutional choices made under pressure.
The Protest That Looks Strangely Familiar
For many Filipinos, however, there is a more immediate historical comparison.
They need not travel back to 1971.
They need only remember 2015.
More than a decade ago, the Iglesia ni Cristo also occupied portions of EDSA during a prolonged demonstration arising from internal disputes within the church and the Department of Justice's investigation into allegations raised by expelled ministers.
At the time, protesters argued that government involvement represented an intrusion into matters of religious autonomy. The language of "separation of church and state" became central to the movement's message.
Critics questioned why a major public thoroughfare should be occupied over what they viewed as an internal institutional dispute.
Supporters argued that constitutional principles themselves were at stake.
The resulting gridlock became one of Metro Manila's defining political images that year.
Fast forward to today, and the choreography feels remarkably familiar.
Again, EDSA is filled with demonstrators.
Again, traffic across the metropolis slows to a crawl.
Again, legal action involving a prominent figure associated with the Iglesia ni Cristo has evolved into a much broader debate over the limits of state authority.
The language has changed.
The banner has expanded.
Instead of focusing primarily on institutional autonomy, today's protest speaks the broader vocabulary of anti-corruption, transparency, and government accountability.
Yet the strategic framework remains strikingly similar.
A legal proceeding involving one of the institution's own becomes a national conversation about constitutional principles.
Whether one views that strategy as principled civic engagement or institutional self-preservation depends largely on one's political perspective.
Either way, it demonstrates that Philippine democracy continues to wrestle with the same unresolved questions about the boundaries between religious influence, legal accountability, and political power.
From Kingmaker to Counterweight
Perhaps the most fascinating transformation is not the protest itself but the role reversal it represents.
In 2015, the Iglesia ni Cristo confronted the Aquino administration.
In 2022, it became an influential supporter of the Marcos-Duterte UniTeam coalition.
In 2026, it now finds itself confronting the Marcos administration.
The institution has not abandoned political engagement.
Rather, it has shifted from electoral ally to organized counterweight.
That evolution illustrates something broader about Philippine politics.
Political capital is rarely permanent.
Influence must constantly be renegotiated.
Support today does not guarantee protection tomorrow.
Nor does yesterday's alliance ensure tomorrow's loyalty.
This is not unique to the Iglesia ni Cristo.
Business organizations, labor groups, civil society organizations, political dynasties, and regional coalitions have all experienced similar transitions throughout Philippine history.
The country's political ecosystem is remarkably fluid.
Relationships endure only while institutional interests continue to intersect.
Once those interests diverge, even the strongest alliances can dissolve with surprising speed.
The Fear Nobody Wants to Name
Whenever large demonstrations converge with an increasingly tense political atmosphere, another historical memory quietly enters the conversation.
Mendiola.
The Mendiola Massacre of January 1987 remains one of the defining tragedies of the post-EDSA democratic era. Farmers marching toward Malacañang to press for genuine agrarian reform were met with violence that left multiple protesters dead and many others wounded.
The event permanently complicated the narrative that democracy alone guarantees restraint.
It reminded the country that even constitutional governments can experience catastrophic failures in crowd management and political judgment.
That memory lingers whenever thousands gather near the seat of national power.
It surfaces not because history is expected to repeat itself, but because Filipinos understand how quickly peaceful confrontations can unravel when communication fails, emotions escalate, or a single miscalculation changes the course of an afternoon.
That fear deserves to be acknowledged honestly.
Not amplified.
Not sensationalized.
Simply recognized.
Is Martial Law a Real Possibility?
Social media rarely rewards nuance.
Within hours of the June 30 demonstrations, speculation spread rapidly online. Some warned of an impending declaration of Martial Law. Others predicted violent dispersals or a constitutional crisis.
These fears are understandable given the country's historical experience.
But they should also be examined carefully.
At the time of writing, there is no verified indication that the Marcos administration is preparing to declare Martial Law in response to the protests. Malacañang has instead publicly instructed law enforcement agencies to exercise "maximum tolerance," emphasizing restraint while maintaining public order.
That official position matters.
It suggests that the government recognizes both the constitutional right to peaceful assembly and the political consequences that excessive force would inevitably carry.
Yet acknowledging that reality should not breed complacency.
The demonstrations also exposed significant structural vulnerabilities.
The gathering was permit-less.
Authorities were initially caught off guard by its scale.
Major transportation corridors became effectively immobilized.
Police reinforcement followed as crowds grew throughout the day.
None of these developments automatically point toward authoritarian measures.
They do, however, create precisely the kind of environment in which misunderstanding, overreaction, or isolated confrontations can escalate unexpectedly.
Democracies are often tested not by deliberate decisions to abandon constitutional norms but by incremental failures in communication, preparation, and restraint.
That is why the events unfolding on EDSA should be viewed less as evidence that the Philippines is returning to Martial Law than as a reminder that democratic institutions must repeatedly prove their capacity to manage conflict without surrendering either public safety or civil liberties.
The greatest danger is not that history repeats itself exactly.
It is that societies become so consumed by the fear of one historical outcome that they fail to recognize entirely new risks emerging in front of them.
History seldom returns wearing the same clothes.
But it almost always asks the same questions.
Democracy's Hardest Test Isn't Elections—It's Disagreement
If there is one lesson this moment leaves behind, it is that Philippine democracy is rarely tested during elections.
It is tested after them.
Campaigns are, by design, optimistic. Coalitions are assembled with promises, endorsements, and carefully choreographed images of unity. Every handshake is photographed. Every alliance is described as historic. Every victory speech speaks of moving forward together.
Governance is different.
It is where competing interests begin pulling in opposite directions. It is where institutional loyalty collides with constitutional responsibility. It is where campaign slogans encounter the slower, messier reality of law, public administration, and political consequence.
The events unfolding on EDSA remind us that political capital has an expiration date.
The same organization that may help elect a president can later become one of his most formidable critics.
The same legal institutions praised for pursuing accountability can later be accused of selective enforcement.
The same citizens who once celebrated political stability can later find themselves stranded on a highway asking whether their democracy is becoming stronger—or simply louder.
That is not necessarily evidence that democracy is failing.
In many respects, it is evidence that democracy is functioning exactly as it should: institutions disagreeing, citizens assembling, courts preparing to hear cases, journalists documenting events, and government officials being forced to answer difficult questions in public.
The challenge is ensuring that these disagreements remain within the framework of constitutional order rather than descending into violence or institutional paralysis.
The Real Cost of Political Gridlock
There is another side to this story that deserves equal attention.
For every protester who believed they were defending justice, there was also a commuter who missed work.
For every banner demanding accountability, there was a small business absorbing another day's financial loss.
For every political speech delivered through a loudspeaker, there were ambulance drivers, delivery riders, jeepney operators, and ordinary families forced to navigate an unexpected citywide disruption.
Those experiences matter.
Democratic rights do not exist in isolation from civic responsibility.
The right to peaceful assembly is fundamental, but so too is the responsibility to recognize that every large-scale demonstration carries consequences for people who may have no direct involvement in the dispute.
Malacañang has emphasized this point in defending its criticism of the permit-less mobilization, arguing that public protest should not unnecessarily impose economic hardship on millions of commuters. Protest organizers, meanwhile, maintain that meaningful demonstrations have always required inconvenience, pointing to history's many movements that disrupted ordinary life in pursuit of broader political change.
Neither perspective can simply be dismissed.
One prioritizes public order.
The other prioritizes political expression.
Democracy requires room for both.
The Transactional Republic
Perhaps the deepest irony of this entire episode is not that allies became adversaries.
It is that many Filipinos are no longer surprised.
That, more than anything else, should give us pause.
The country's political culture has become so accustomed to shifting alliances that today's extraordinary headline often feels like tomorrow's predictable outcome.
Coalitions emerge.
Coalitions fracture.
Former rivals become partners.
Former partners become opponents.
The cycle repeats with remarkable consistency.
This is not merely about personalities.
It reflects a political system in which institutions frequently act according to self-preservation, electoral necessity, or strategic alignment rather than enduring ideological commitments.
That observation should not be read cynically.
Institutions naturally seek to protect themselves.
Governments naturally seek to preserve authority.
Religious organizations naturally seek to defend their autonomy.
Civil society naturally seeks accountability.
The difficulty arises when those imperatives collide in the same public space.
EDSA has become that space once again.
Not because history demands it.
Because the Philippines continues to negotiate, in full public view, where the boundaries between secular power, institutional influence, and democratic accountability should ultimately be drawn.
Beyond This Week's Headlines
Years from now, the Marcoleta case will likely be remembered not only for whatever legal outcome the courts eventually reach, but for the broader questions it forced the country to confront.
Can powerful institutions be held legally accountable without eroding public confidence in impartial justice?
Can governments exercise lawful authority without creating the perception of political retaliation?
Can citizens distinguish between defending constitutional rights and defending political allies?
Can protest remain peaceful when emotions, symbolism, and history all converge on the same highway?
These questions have no easy answers.
Perhaps they never will.
But they are the questions mature democracies must continue asking.
History is rarely shaped by those who shout the loudest.
It is more often shaped by institutions capable of exercising restraint when restraint becomes politically difficult.
That responsibility belongs to everyone.
To government officials entrusted with state power.
To protesters exercising constitutional freedoms.
To courts weighing evidence rather than public pressure.
To journalists separating verified fact from political narrative.
And to citizens willing to think beyond the slogans of whichever side they already support.
Because democracy is not measured by how passionately we agree with people who think like us.
It is measured by how responsibly we handle conflict when they do not.
As EDSA fills once more with competing visions of justice, power, and accountability, perhaps the most important question is not who wins this political confrontation.
It is whether the institutions that survive it emerge stronger—or simply more divided.
Only time, and the choices made in the days ahead, will answer that.
Continue the Conversation
Political moments like these deserve more than viral headlines and partisan sound bites. They deserve context, historical memory, and thoughtful discussion.
If you enjoy long-form essays that connect current events with Philippine history, culture, and everyday life, explore more reflections here on The ROJ Project. You may also enjoy our recent essays examining how historical memory shapes modern political discourse, including our analysis of EDSA, bloc voting, and the evolving relationship between religion and the state, as well as our piece on why history should inform public debate without becoming political mythology.
If this article challenged your perspective—or reinforced it—share it with someone who might disagree. The healthiest conversations are rarely the easiest ones.
TAGS: #PhilippinePolitics #EDSA #IglesiaNiCristo #Marcoleta #Marcos #PoliticalCommentary #PhilippineHistory #Democracy #CurrentEvents
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