Diary of a Volunteer

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘼𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜

There were times in our history when rallies and demonstrations were seen not as expressions of democracy, but as signs of disobedience. Those who took to the streets to voice their grievances were often branded as subversives, “too left,” or simply nuisances disturbing the order imposed by those in power. It was a difficult era to be an advocate of anything that ran against the prevailing current, for dissent was treated not as a right but as a threat.

During the regime of Ferdinand Marcos Sr., this climate of repression reached its darkest form. The years of martial law were marked by fear, silence, and the stifling of freedoms. Thousands fell victim to torture, imprisonment, and extrajudicial killings. Death became an everyday companion for those who dared to resist. Yet even in the face of brutality, the Filipino people mustered courage. They fought not merely against a dictator but for the preservation of democracy itself, showing the world that even in despair, resistance is possible.

But history, it seems, has a way of repeating itself. Under the administration of Rodrigo Duterte, the shadow of authoritarianism returned with chilling familiarity. Activists and critics of government policies were once again treated as enemies of the state. Innocents were jailed under trumped-up charges, others killed without trial, their names forgotten, their bodies left as grim reminders of the dangers of speaking out. Communities learned to live with fear, yet also with anger, for the violence was no longer hidden; it was broadcasted, normalized, and sadly, even defended.

Today, in our present time, like the weight of a building atop gushing floodwaters the nation once again groans under the weight of corruption and decay. Institutions that should safeguard justice instead bend to the will of the powerful. The people are weary, yet there is also a stirring beneath the silence. It is the sound of frustration turning into defiance, of grief shaping itself into collective memory, of fear giving way to a fragile but persistent hope.

Perhaps what we are witnessing is not just suffering but the early tremors of another awakening. History has shown us that repression cannot fully extinguish the will of a people who yearn for freedom. The question now is whether we will recognize the moment, and whether we will once again find the courage to rise as those before us did. Let us be reminded that democracy, though wounded, can still be reclaimed.

𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜, 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙧𝙮, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙊𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙯𝙚𝙙: 𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙑𝙤𝙩𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧

In every election cycle, there’s a predictable headline: “The Youth Vote Could Decide the Election.” It’s an almost obligatory reminder that young Filipinos make up the largest demographic in the electorate—over 60% in recent cycles, according to COMELEC. But too often, this narrative is treated like a one-off trend, a viral moment, or worse, a hopeful slogan. What we fail to recognize is that the youth vote isn’t just statistically powerful—it’s transformational. And in a political system teetering on the edge of collapse or renewal, this generation could very well tip the balance.

Let’s be clear: young people are not waiting in the wings of history. They are already shaping it. From the massive volunteer-driven campaign machinery of progressive candidates, to the decentralized but potent forces of digital activism, the youth are not only voting with ballots—they’re voting with their labor, their time, their platforms, and their principles.

They are not bound by traditional loyalties to political dynasties or patronage networks. Instead, their political awakening has been forged in the crucible of crisis—climate disasters, tuition hikes, online disinformation, pandemic mismanagement, and an increasingly authoritarian political atmosphere. These are not abstract issues for the young—they are lived experiences. And with that comes clarity: that politics is not optional, that silence is complicity, and that the future is not something to be waited for, but something to be claimed.

The youth vote is not just a bloc—it’s a bellwether. It signals where the country could go, if given the right conditions, support, and trust. And yet, despite its immense potential, this demographic is often underestimated, condescended to, or tokenized. Politicians are quick to court youth attention during campaigns—launching TikTok dances or meme-heavy slogans—but rarely commit to structural change in education, employment, or climate justice once in office.

This transactional approach misses the point entirely. The youth do not just want to be heard—they want to be taken seriously. They are asking real questions: How do we hold power to account? Why are the same names on every ballot? Why does our generation inherit crises we didn’t cause? These are not naive queries—they are acts of political literacy and moral imagination. And they deserve answers.

What we’re witnessing today is not a fleeting moment of youth engagement—it’s the beginning of a generational reckoning. These young people are building movements that are intersectional, inclusive, and deeply informed. They know that hashtags are not revolutions, but they also understand that every tweet, every post, every on-the-ground effort contributes to a larger cultural and political shift.

If we want a more just and democratic Philippines, we cannot treat the youth as accessories to that project—they must be its architects. That means investing in youth-led initiatives, protecting student organizers from harassment, integrating civic education into our school systems, and creating meaningful channels for youth participation in governance beyond mere consultation.

To my fellow young voters reading this: our role in this democracy is not a novelty, it is a necessity. The youth vote is not a footnote, it’s not a trend. It’s a tipping point. One that moves us away from apathy, toward accountability. Away from inherited power, toward earned leadership. Away from fear, toward the courage to build something better.

•https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/topstories/nation/935726/millennials-gen-z-make-up-63-of-eleksyon-2025-voters/story/
•https://www.facebook.com/share/p/15ai82zNVe/?mibextid=wwXIfr

𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙗𝙤𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚

May 20, 2022–three years ago. A week had passed since the elections. The results were in, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. I returned to the Leni-Kiko headquarters not out of obligation, but instinct. I felt that I needed to help clear the space, but more than that, I needed to feel anchored again—to touch something familiar amidst the disorienting disappointment, to wrap myself in the remnants of what we built together.

I was dry. My skin bore the marks of long days under the punishing sun—darker, parched, exhausted. My eyes stung from sleepless nights. My heart, heavier than my feet dragging across the once-bustling room now filled with boxes and echoes.

As all the hanging pink curtains were folded, pins sorted, posters removed from walls that still whispered with laughter and debate, when the trucks were full and the chatter ceased, the silence settled in. That’s when I turned to them—these standees.

They stood as they always had—steadfast, smiling, symbols of a future we dared to fight for. I remembered squeezing them into a cramped sedan for an out-of-town sortie, holding them upright with one hand while balancing campaign materials with the other. I remembered the children who took photos with them, the elders who touched them like talismans, the volunteers who bowed their heads in prayer beside them before a rally. They weren’t just cardboard. They were witnesses, they were companions.

So I took one last selfie with them—one final moment with the figures who had, for months, reminded us what was possible. And even though the hall was now bare and the air thick with disappointment, I knew that what they represented couldn’t be packed into a box or driven away in a truck.

We didn’t just campaign—we believed, and we gave of ourselves. Although we didn’t win the seat, we awakened a nation—and in that awakening, as what we can see now, we planted something far more enduring than any political victory.

Hope isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet and tired and clings to cardboard standees in empty halls, but it lives on.

𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙒𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝘾𝙮𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙢 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙋𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙎𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢

During the early months of our campaign, I had a few words from a fellow volunteer that left a lasting impression on me, “the elections are rigged and already decided.” It wasn’t just a passing comment—it felt like a microcosm of the broader disillusionment that many Filipinos feel toward our democratic processes. And it was, perhaps, one of the most difficult things to confront—not just because of the cynicism in those words, but because of how common that sentiment has become.

It forced me to reckon with an uncomfortable truth: there is a deep, systemic erosion of public trust in our political institutions. Years of patronage politics, electoral manipulation, impunity, and entrenched political dynasties have contributed to a perception—sometimes a reality—that elections are not always fair battlegrounds, and that genuine reformists are set up to fail before the race even begins.

But here’s the danger: if this fatalism spreads, it will paralyze the very foundation of democracy—participation. If we believe the system is irredeemable, then what’s the point of organizing? Why knock on doors, hand out flyers, speak truth to power, or engage in political education? If we internalize that our actions are futile, we risk surrendering not only the vote—but the collective will of the people.

And yet, it was precisely in that moment of reckoning that I found clarity.

Yes, we must name the system for what it is—flawed, inequitable, and often hostile to progress; we cannot engage in political romanticism or naivety. Acknowledging the dysfunction is not only honest—it is necessary. This awareness however, should not breed apathy. It should generate moral urgency. The brokenness of our institutions should not be a reason to retreat; it should be the very reason we step forward, organize, and resist.

Political power does not only reside in high offices or elite circles. It is built through the painstaking, quiet, and consistent work of ordinary citizens who choose to act despite the odds. Every flyer we hand out, every person we talk to, every community meeting we hold—these are acts of resistance against a system that relies on our silence and disengagement to stay intact.

There is transformative potential in collective civic action, even in an imperfect system. History has shown us that even in the most repressive of regimes, public pressure, sustained mobilization, and principled leadership can shift the trajectory of a nation. The Philippines is no exception.

The system may be rigged in favor of the powerful—but it is not immutable. Systems are made by people, and they can be unmade and rebuilt by people, too. That is the essence of democracy: not a perfect system, but a continuous process of struggle, accountability, and renewal.

So, to those who say “there’s no point,” I say this: If we concede the fight before it even begins, we only strengthen the status quo. But if we push forward—fully aware of the obstacles—we reclaim our agency. We send a message that we will not allow our future to be dictated by corruption, cynicism, or fear. We will campaign smarter, organize deeper, and vote with conscience.

We do not campaign because the odds are favorable. We campaign because the stakes are too high not to. Broken systems should not be sanctuaries for those who thrive in injustice—they should be battlefields for those who believe in change.