The Freedom we still owe each Other

Independence Day is not just something we celebrate. It is something we keep trying to understand—especially in times like these.

Every June 12th, we parade the word kalayaan as if it is already settled. As if it is a quest completed.

But when we look around us today, it feels more complicated than that. 

We live in a country where freedom exists on paper, but feels uneven in practice. Where we are free to speak, but not always free from consequences when what we say challenges power. Where we are free to ask questions, but not always free from being dismissed, labeled, or drowned out.

And in the middle of this, we see our institutions strained by division—now even in the Senate, where debates are no longer just about policy, but about allegiance. Where accountability, especially around painful chapters like the extra-judicial killings during the drug war, becomes something people defend or deny depending on which side they stand on.

And for many of us young people watching all this unfold, there is a quiet question that lingers underneath the noise:

If truth depends on who holds power, what kind of freedom are we actually living in?

We are told democracy is participation. But what happens when participation feels performative? 

When elections come and go, but the distance between leaders and lived realities does not shrink? When public trust feels fragile, not because people do not care, but because many have learned, over time, that care does not always lead to change?

It is in this space that many young Filipinos find themselves today.

Not absent. Not indifferent. But tired of being told that speaking up is enough when systems remain unchanged. Tired of watching conversations turn into a laughing stock. Tired of seeing complex truths reduced into slogans that leave no room for grief, accountability, or repair.

And still—despite all this—we remain.

We organize. We volunteer. We fact-check. We join discussions even when they feel heavy. We show up in classrooms, communities, online spaces, and sometimes in silence, trying to make sense of a country we deeply love but do not always recognize.

Because love for country, at this point, is not abstract. It is not blind pride.

It is discomfort. It is questioning. It is refusing to look away.

Because without justice, freedom becomes a privilege rather than a right. Without accountability, democracy becomes a performance rather than a promise. Without inclusion, progress becomes something enjoyed by a few instead of shared by all.

So maybe the real question this Independence Day is not simply Are we free?

But also: who gets to feel free in this country? and who still has to fight for it every day?

Para sa mga kabataang binabasa ito, your fatigue is real. It is difficult to grow up in a time when truth is contested, when public trust feels fragile, and when the future can seem uncertain. But the answer to disillusionment cannot be disengagement.

The future of this country will not be decided only in halls of power, courtrooms, or Senate sessions. It will also be decided in classrooms, communities, workplaces, and everyday conversations. It will be shaped by those willing to remain curious when others become cynical, to remain principled when others become convenient, and to remain hopeful when hope feels hardest to hold.

Independence was never only about breaking away from colonizers.

It is also about deciding, generation after generation, what kind of nation we want to become.

So we continue, not with easy certainty, but with steady courage.

Maligayang Araw ng Kalayaan. May we never confuse freedom with comfort, nor patriotism with silence – and may we have the courage to love our country enough to ask for more of it.