*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD
While my daughter Juliana Rizalhea and I were enjoying the festivities of the Anti-Corruption Rally at the EDSA Shrine—where the atmosphere was almost festive, with songs, prayers, and a shared spirit of unity—chaos was breaking out elsewhere in Manila. EDSA was calm despite agitation attempts, the police presence was strong, and the people kept the rally peaceful. But in other parts of the city, particularly at Luneta, Mendiola, and most painfully at SOGO CM Recto, the story was very different. What was supposed to be a day of righteous indignation against corruption turned, for some, into a day of terror and destruction.
Inside SOGO CM Recto, September 21 began like any other. Couples checked in, travelers found respite from long journeys, employees carried out their routines with practiced smiles and gentle greetings. The hotel was not a symbol of power, not a political landmark, not even connected to the corruption being protested. It was simply a private establishment where ordinary people sought rest.
Then came the storm. A mob broke through, bringing with them the rage of the streets. Glass shattered, furniture overturned, fear spread instantly. Guests ran down hallways barefoot, some clutching belongings, others too shocked to think of anything but escape. Couples who minutes before had been laughing together and sharing intimate moments now clung to each other in fear. Employees tried to shield strangers, but they too were trembling, unprepared for such violence.
The funny thing is that out of all the establishments along Recto, it was SOGO that bore the brunt of the mob’s anger. The protesters claimed their target was Malacañang—the seat of power, the very symbol of what they opposed. Yet, somehow, their fury shifted toward a private hotel filled with innocent guests and workers. Why SOGO? Why not march straight to the Palace if Malacañang was the aim? The misdirection was as absurd as it was tragic. Instead of striking at government, the rage was unloaded on people who had nothing to do with the cause.
The images linger: glass shards scattered like wounds across the lobby floor, the echo of panicked footsteps, the sight of strangers comforting each other in desperation. The hotel that prided itself on being “So Clean, So Good” had, for one dreadful afternoon, become So Chaotic, So Unsafe.
And here lies the bitter irony. The Anti-Corruption Rally was supposed to be about justice, yet injustice fell upon those who never raised a placard. The people inside SOGO CM Recto had no stake in the protest, yet they bore its cost. And the haunting question remains: who will answer for their suffering?
The easy answer is the rallyists who smashed the doors, looted, and vandalized the rooms. But who among them can be identified, and who among them can pay? The hotel may be blamed, since innkeepers by law have a duty of care, but how could clerks and janitors be expected to defend against a mob? The government was there too, police stationed nearby, yet their presence did not prevent the chaos. And when the innocent look to the State for relief, they are met with the cold wall of state immunity, which declares the government cannot be sued unless it allows itself to be.
This is where the deepest injustice lies. Cars parked on Recto that day had windows smashed. Nearby sari-sari stores had their doors broken. Families in surrounding residences locked their gates, whispering prayers that the mob would not turn toward their street. They were not protesters. They were not agitators. They were not government. They were collateral damage. And in our present laws, collateral damage has no voice, no remedy, no guarantee of justice.
Democracy fails when it forgets the silent. Freedom of assembly is sacred, yes, but so too is the right of every citizen to safety, to property, to dignity. The Anti-Corruption Rally at EDSA showed the best of our people—disciplined, prayerful, hopeful. But what happened at Recto showed the worst of our system—where bystanders are left to fend for themselves, abandoned to fear and loss.
Other countries have already accepted the need to protect their innocents. In London, after the 2011 riots, the Riot (Damages) Act of 1886 was invoked to compensate shopkeepers and homeowners, because when order fails, the State must help rebuild. In France, a national fund exists to compensate victims of terrorism and violent acts, because the pain of the innocent is society’s responsibility. In India, courts have compelled governments to pay victims of riots when police failed to protect them. In the United States, after the Los Angeles riots of 1992, federal and state authorities provided relief programs to families and businesses, acknowledging that no citizen should be left to carry the cost of failed order.
If London shopkeepers, Paris café owners, Indian families, and American businesspeople could be compensated, why not Filipinos? Why not the couples who cowered in fear inside SOGO CM Recto, the drivers whose cars were smashed, the vendors whose stores were ransacked? Why must they be left to pursue endless lawsuits against nameless vandals, or worse, accept their loss in silence?
This is why I believe the tragedy of September 21 must become more than a memory. It must become a lesson and a call for reform. We need a Compensation for Collateral Damage Act. Such a law would not silence protests, nor would it criminalize assemblies. It would balance rights—protecting those who march while also protecting those who never marched at all. It would create a government-managed fund for swift compensation, perhaps supported by fees or bonds from rally organizers, to ensure that victims are paid within months, not years. It would hold the State accountable where it fails, while still allowing recovery from perpetrators later. Most importantly, it would affirm that the rights of the innocent are not secondary—they are sacred.
As I stood at EDSA with my daughter Juliana Rizalhea, I saw the peaceful face of protest. I saw a crowd that chose unity over violence, prayer over rage. It gave me hope. But as I later reflected on the broken doors of SOGO CM Recto and the silent suffering of those inside, I knew hope must be matched with action.
September 21, 2025 will forever be remembered as the
Anti-Corruption Rally. But it should also be remembered as the day democracy
revealed its blind spot—the day it forgot the innocent. The broken glass of
SOGO CM Recto is not just wreckage; it is a symbol, a plea, a call to
lawmakers. If we are wise, we will not let this incident fade into history as
collateral. We will let it spark the birth of a law that tells every Filipino:
your safety matters, your dignity matters, and never again will you be treated as
collateral damage in your own democracy.
