*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I am not a
member of the Iglesia Ni Cristo, but I believe—and quietly admire—their deep
economic and political concern for the Philippines. I do not share their
doctrine, their rituals, or their sacred traditions. Yet when I saw their
people gather—thousands upon thousands—under a sky that has witnessed too many
of our wounds, something inside me softened, trembled, and awakened a longing I
have carried for years:
the longing for
a country that no longer breaks its own people.
You do not need
to belong to them to feel the pain.
You do not need
to stand in their chapel to understand the weight they carry.
Sometimes,
being Filipino is enough—
because loving
this country means accepting that it can break your heart again and again.
It began with
the simplest scenes:
a mother
shielding her child from the heat,
a father
tightening the strap of his worn backpack,
an elderly man
clutching a cardboard sign with trembling hands—
hands that were
once strong, now frail,
yet still
holding the truth more firmly than any politician ever dared.
And in between
them were placards—
modest, aching,
almost like prayers etched on fragile cardboard:
“Transparency,
not Conspiracy.”
“Justice, not
Politics.”
“Give back the
money and jail the corrupt.”
They were not
shouts.
They were
confessions—
confessions
from a nation that has been crying in silence for too long.
I am not INC.
But in that
moment, as I watched them,
I felt like one
of them—
not by
membership,
but by
heartbreak.
Not by
doctrine,
but by the
shared ache of wanting a country that does not steal from its own people.
For this was
not a protest.
It was a
lamentation.
A trembling,
quiet lamentation—
a hymn of weary
souls who, despite everything,
still believe
this nation can be beautiful.
As the hours
passed, I looked into their faces—
not angry
faces, but wounded ones.
In their eyes,
I saw stories:
the father
juggling three jobs because public funds meant for his community were stolen,
the mother
stretching coins because corruption stole the bridge that would have brought
her closer to livelihood,
the young man
who studies hard every day knowing that in a country ruled by thieves,
hard work alone
is never enough.
And there,
standing among them in my own reflections,
I whispered a
question that ached through my entire being:
When did
stealing from the Filipino stop being a crime?
When did
corruption cease to be shameful?
When did
betrayal become tradition?
I looked at
them again.
They did not
come with fists raised—
they came with
wounds exposed.
They did not
come with rage—
they came with
faith.
A faith not in
politics,
not in
personalities,
but in the
fragile hope that if they stand here long enough,
someone in
power might remember
that the people
they govern are not numbers, not votes—
but human
hearts.
The placards no
longer bore the phrase “Change the system,”
yet the longing
for a better system was written everywhere—
in the old man
whose knees shook but still stood,
in the mothers
murmuring to their children,
“Anak, this is
for your future,”
in the thousand
quiet sacrifices of people who endure the sun
because the
deeper burn is corruption itself.
At moments like
this,
I realized
something tender and almost tearful:
You do not have
to be INC to cry with them.
You do not have
to be INC to hope with them.
You do not have
to be INC to feel the trembling weight of a million broken promises carried in
their silence.
You only have
to be Filipino—
a Filipino who
still believes,
a Filipino who
still hopes,
a Filipino who
still dreams of justice that is not for sale.
As I watched
them from the quiet distance of my own thoughts,
I felt the
collective ache of a nation plundered too many times.
Money stolen.
Trust stolen.
Future stolen.
And the
cruelest theft of all—
the theft of
dignity.
“Give back the
money and jail the corrupt”—
the words
echoed like soft thunder,
a plea lifted
gently to the heavens,
a quiet attempt
to remind those in power
that the people
they lead are not stones—
they are hearts
capable of breaking.
These were not
the words of rebels.
These were the
whispers of people who have been hurt so deeply
that all they
ask now is the simple right
to live without
fear
in a country
that does not devour its own children.
In the end, I
remain not an INC member.
But in this
moment, in this struggle, in this soft and trembling cry for a love of country
that refuses to die—
I stand with
them.
HUSTISYA
PARA SA BAYANG NILAMON NG PAGNANAKAW: ANG PANAWAGAN NG IGLESIA NI CRISTO
By Dr. Rodolfo
John Ortiz Teope
Hindi ako
miyembro ng Iglesia Ni Cristo, ngunit naniniwala ako—at tahimik kong
hinahangaan—ang kanilang malalim na malasakit sa ekonomiya at pulitika ng
Pilipinas. Hindi ko kapareho ang kanilang doktrina, hindi ko kabisado ang
kanilang mga himno, ngunit noong nakita ko ang kanilang pagtitipon—libo-libong
tao, sa ilalim ng kalangitang matagal nang saksi sa ating mga sugat—may
gumalaw, may nanginig, may nagising na bahagi ng puso kong nangungulila rin
para sa isang bansang paulit-ulit tayong sinasaktan.
Hindi mo
kailangang maging bahagi nila upang maramdaman ang pait.
Hindi mo
kailangang tumayo sa kanilang kapilya upang maunawaan ang bigat ng kanilang
dalahin.
Minsan, sapat
na ang pagiging Pilipino—
sapagkat ang
umibig sa bayang ito ay ang maging handang masaktan ng paulit-ulit.
Nagsimula ito
sa mga pinakasimpleng tanawin:
isang inang
iniingatan ang anak sa init,
isang amang
inaayos ang lumuwang na strap ng lumang backpack,
isang matandang
lalaking mahigpit na hawak ang plakard,
mga daliring
dati’y malakas, ngayo’y nanginginig,
ngunit mas
matibay pang humahawak sa katotohanan kaysa sa sinumang pulitiko.
At sa pagitan
nila—
mga kartong
tila dasal na isinulat ng kamay na sanay na sa hirap:
“Transparency,
not Conspiracy.”
“Justice, not
Politics.”
“Give back the
money and jail the corrupt.”
Hindi iyon
sigaw.
Mga pag-amin
iyon.
Pag-amin ng
isang bansang matagal nang umiiyak sa katahimikan.
Hindi ako INC,
ngunit habang nakatingin ako sa kanila,
pakiramdam ko
isa rin ako—
hindi sa
pagiging miyembro,
kundi sa sugat.
Hindi sa
ritwal,
kundi sa kirot
ng paghahangad ng bansang hindi tayo pinagnanakawan.
Sapagkat hindi
lamang ito protesta.
Ito ay
panaghoy.
Isang mahinang
panaghoy, nanginginig, ngunit totoo—
awit ng
libo-libong pagod na kaluluwa na, sa kabila ng lahat,
ay naniniwalang
maaari pa ring gumanda ang Pilipinas.
Habang
tumatagal, mas nakikita ko ang mga mukha—hindi galit, kundi sugatan.
Nasa mga mata
nila:
ang amang
tatlong trabaho ang kinakaya dahil ninakaw ang pondong dapat ay para sa kanyang
komunidad,
ang inang
pinaghahaba ang barya dahil ninakaw ang tulay na magdadala sana ng kabuhayan,
ang kabataang
alam na kahit gaano siya kasipag mag-aral,
hindi siya
ligtas sa korapsyong minana sa nakaraan.
At doon, habang
nakikita ko sila,
tinamaan ako ng
mga tanong na masakit, kalmado, at tapat:
Kailan pa
nawala ang takot na magnakaw mula sa sariling bayan?
Kailan naging
kultura ang korapsyon, hindi krimen?
Kailan naging
tradisyon ang pagtataksil?
Tinitigan ko
silang muli.
Hindi sila
dumating na may galit—kundi may sugat.
Hindi sila
dumating na may kamao—kundi may pananalig.
Isang pananalig
na hindi tungkol sa relihiyon,
kundi sa
marupok na pag-asang baka, kung tatayo sila nang matagal,
may isang nasa
kapangyarihan ang maalalang tao ang kanyang pinaglilingkuran—hindi numero,
hindi boto.
Hindi na
nakasulat sa mga plakard ang “Baguhin ang sistema,”
ngunit dama mo
ito sa bawat anino ng tao,
sa bawat titig
na may pagod ngunit may dangal,
sa bawat inang
bumulong sa anak,
“Anak, para sa
kinabukasan mo ito,”
sa bawat
Pilipinong nagtiis ng init,
sapagkat mas
malalim ang sakit ng pagnanakaw ng pera
kaysa sa sikat
ng araw.
Sa ganitong mga
sandali,
may napagtanto
akong banayad,
isang bagay na
halos nagpaluha sa akin:
Hindi mo
kailangang maging INC para umiyak kasama nila.
Hindi mo
kailangang maging INC para umasa kasama nila.
Hindi mo
kailangang maging INC para maramdaman ang pagyanig ng milyong nabigong pangako
na dala ng kanilang katahimikan.
Kailangan mo
lang maging Pilipino.
Pilipinong
marunong umasa,
Pilipinong
marunong sumampalataya,
Pilipinong
marunong mangarap ng hustisyang hindi nabibili.
Habang
pinagmamasdan ko sila mula sa malayo,
ramdam ko ang
kirot ng isang bansang paulit-ulit na nilimas.
Ninakaw ang
pera.
Ninakaw ang
tiwala.
Ninakaw ang
kinabukasan.
Ngunit ang
pinakamasakit—
ninakaw ang
dangal ng bayan.
“Give back the
money and jail the corrupt”—
umalingawngaw
na tila munting kulog,
isang pakiusap
na itinataas sa langit,
isang huling
pagsubok upang ipaalala sa gobyerno
na ang mga
pinamumunuan nila ay puso, hindi bato.
Hindi iyon
salita ng mga rebelde.
Ito ang bulong
ng mga taong masyadong nasaktan
na ang
hinihiling na lamang ay huminga nang walang takot,
at mamuhay sa
bansang hindi kinakain ang sarili niyang mga anak.
Sa huli, hindi
ako INC.
Ngunit sa
sandaling ito, sa laban na ito, sa panaghoy na ito para sa pag-ibig sa bayan na
ayaw mamatay—
kasama nila
ako.
Kasama sa
kanilang luha.
Kasama sa
kanilang lakas.
Kasama sa
kanilang tinig na humihingi ng hustisya para sa bayang ninakawan.
Dahil ang
hustisya ay hindi dapat pribilehiyo.
Ito ay
karapatan ng bawat Pilipinong
ninakawan—
ng pera,
ng dangal,
at ng simpleng
pangarap ng bansang pumipili ng katotohanan kaysa kasakiman.
