Scene I – Manila Awakens
The city stirred before sunrise. Manila was still scarred: bombed-out churches stood like hollow shells, the streets were lined with rubble where homes once stood, and the Pasig River carried with it both the smell of life and death. Yet on this morning, there was something different in the air.
Vendors wheeled out carts of pan de sal earlier than usual, children darted barefoot in alleys, and across the ruined plazas, workers hoisted bamboo scaffolds, preparing flags of red, white, and blue — the Philippine sun stitched brightly against the sky.
"Hoy, hurry up with those poles!" barked a city official, sweat already soaking his camisa even though dawn was barely breaking. "The President himself will be here! And the Americans — don't make us look like fools!"
Near the plaza, Isabelo de la Cruz, now gray-haired and limping from war wounds, stood quietly among other veterans. His cane tapped against the cobblestones as he surveyed the scene.
"Independence again, Isabelo," muttered his old comrade, Pedro Morales, leaning on a crutch. "Do you think this one will last?"
Isabelo squinted at the flag being raised temporarily for rehearsal.
"We thought the same in Kawit, '98. We thought the same when Quezon spoke of a Commonwealth. Now here we are again, waiting to see if this time it will be more than words."
Pedro chuckled bitterly.
"Words are easy. Blood is costly. We gave them the blood. Now let's see what they give us."
Boy 1: "What are they talking about?"
Boy 2: "Shhh… they're heroes. They fought in Bataan."
Boy 1: "So we don't have to fight anymore?"
Isabelo overhears and mutters softly: "God grant it, anak. God grant it."
Scene II – Behind the Palace Walls
Inside Malacañang Palace, the air buzzed with preparations. Typists clicked furiously, clerks rushed with folders, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the tiled halls.
In one chamber, President Manuel Roxas adjusted his barong before a large mirror. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed not just from sleepless nights but from the weight of compromise.
General Douglas MacArthur, still in his khaki uniform and riding boots polished to a shine, entered with his usual theatrical presence. His pipe glowed faintly as he studied Roxas.
"Mr. President," MacArthur began, "today is historic. The world shall see the Philippines rise as a free nation — thanks to the sacrifices of our people, shoulder to shoulder."
Roxas smiled faintly, but his voice held caution.
"Shoulder to shoulder, yes… though one shoulder has carried more weight than the other."
MacArthur stiffened, his jaw tightening.
"I gave my word to return, and I did. The Japanese are gone. The flag will rise. Do not sully the moment with doubts."
Roxas sighed.
"I am grateful, General. We all are. But independence wrapped in trade acts and parity rights is independence with strings. The farmers in Nueva Ecija do not eat words like 'parity.' The veterans still beg for pensions while American companies eye our land."
Osmeña: "Manuel, let us take the gift and not quarrel with its wrapper. Our people need peace."
Roxas: "Peace without dignity is fragile. The farmers will not eat treaties."
MacArthur's pipe smoke curled upward. He did not answer immediately. Finally, he said:
"History remembers victories, Mr. President, not clauses in contracts. Today will shine. Make it shine."
Scene III – The Veterans' Tavern
Not far from Luneta, in a battered wooden tavern patched with corrugated iron, veterans gathered for breakfast. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and fried fish.
Isabelo and Pedro sat at a long table, joined by younger soldiers who had survived Bataan and Leyte.
A young veteran named Carlos Santos, his face still scarred from shrapnel, slammed his cup down.
"Tell me, manongs — is this really freedom? The Americans still sit in Clark, in Subic. Their money still rules our sugar, our hemp. They gave us a flag, but kept the purse."
Another, Felipe Cruz, shook his head.
"Still, it is better than the Japanese flag, better than the Spaniards' whip. My daughter can go to school without fear now. That must count for something."
Isabelo raised his cup slowly. His voice was rough but steady.
"Freedom is never given whole. It is taken piece by piece. Today, we take a piece. Tomorrow, if our children are brave, they will take more."
Carlos: "And what if our children grow tired of fighting, Manong?"
Felipe: "Then the rich will eat, and the poor will serve, as always."
Pedro, bitter: "We fought the Spaniards, the Americans, the Japanese. Maybe our children will fight us next."
The table fell silent. Then Pedro muttered,
"Or tomorrow, someone else will take it back from us. That is the curse of our islands."
Scene IV – The Market Women
At the bustling Quiapo market, women haggled over rice, fish, and vegetables. Though prices had soared after the war, the atmosphere today was less heavy, touched by anticipation.
"Did you hear?" asked Aling Rosa, her hands busy arranging bundles of kangkong. "We are free today. Independent! Roxas will raise the flag at Luneta."
Her neighbor, Aling Marita, snorted.
"Free? With prices like this? With landlords still collecting rent when our homes are gone? Independence fills the air but not the stomach."
A young vendor, Luz, interrupted eagerly.
"But still — no Spaniards, no Japs, no Americans ruling us directly. My lolo fought in Bataan, he says, at least our own mistakes will be our own. That is worth something, isn't it?"
Marita: "Mistakes? Ha! Our leaders are already making them. Did you not hear about the parity rights? Our land, theirs too."
Rosa: "Better to make mistakes as Filipinos than obey orders from foreigners."
Luz, firmly: "If my children starve, I want it to be because of our choices, not theirs."
Rosa smiled wistfully.
"Perhaps. We women will still carry the baskets, cook the rice, and bury the dead when war comes again. But let the men cheer. It is their day."
Scene V – The Ceremony at Luneta
By mid-morning, the crowd at Luneta Park swelled to thousands. Families in barong and baro't saya stood shoulder to shoulder with barefoot children and weathered veterans. American officers mingled with Filipino politicians, their uniforms stark against the tropical attire.
A stage was set near the old monument of Rizal, draped with banners. The Philippine flag, folded carefully, waited to be raised alongside the American flag that had flown since liberation.
President Roxas stepped forward, his voice amplified over the field:
"Today, July 4, 1946, the Republic of the Philippines stands among the free nations of the world. Our long struggle, our sacrifices, and the faith of our people have brought us here."
An old man: "Finally! My father died waiting for this day."
A young woman: "But will my husband's pension come? Words are not bread."
A child tugging his mother: "Nanay, is the flag ours now?"
The mother, smiling through tears: "Yes, anak. Ours at last…..Cheers erupted, but Isabelo felt tears sting his eyes. His mind drifted to 1898 — Aguinaldo's voice, the flag in Kawit, the cannons booming. And then to the trenches of Bataan, the hunger, the surrender, the Death March.
As Roxas spoke, MacArthur stood at the side, his face unreadable. He was a man who loved the theater of history, but in this play, he was no longer the central actor.
Finally, the moment came. The Philippine flag was raised, its colors snapping in the breeze. As it climbed higher, the American flag was lowered. For the first time in nearly half a century, the sun and stars of the nation flew alone.
The band struck up Lupang Hinirang. Voices trembled as thousands sang, some weeping openly.
Isabelo whispered to himself:
"Long live the Philippines. Long live the blood we gave."
Scene VI – After the Speeches
When the speeches ended, crowds lingered. Some hugged, some danced, some merely stared at the flag. But in corners of the city, debates sparked.
At a food stall, a student argued with an older lawyer.
Student: "At least we have the right to argue now! Would you rather bow again to Japan?"
Lawyer: "Independence is not only about flags, hijo. It is about land, justice, and bread. Until then, this is only a costume parade."
A bystander interrupts: "Let the boy dream, abogado. You had your cynicism. Let us have hope."
"This independence is real! We have our government, our President, our own army!"
The lawyer shook his head.
"Real? The Bell Trade Act ensures Americans own as much land as Filipinos. Independence on paper, dependence in practice."
Nearby, veterans muttered about unpaid benefits, while young lovers whispered about finally marrying under a free flag.
The city was alive, not with certainty, but with contradictions.
Scene VII – Isabelo's Reflection
That night, Isabelo walked home slowly, leaning on his cane. He passed ruins where children played, their laughter echoing against broken walls. He paused before a small chapel where candles flickered for the war dead.
He sat on a stone, gazing up at the sky.
"Luzviminda, my love," he whispered to the memory of his late wife, "you should have seen it. The flag is ours again. But oh, how heavy freedom feels. I only hope our children can carry it better than we did."
Pedro: "Do you think she would believe it, Isabelo? That, after all we lost, this is the freedom we get?"
Isabelo: "She would believe in the people. And that is enough for me."
Pedro: "Then let us drink to her belief, and to the Republic — frail as it may be."
Pedro joined him, carrying a bottle of cheap gin.
"To the Republic?" Pedro asked.
Isabelo raised the bottle, though his hand trembled.
"To the Republic. May it survive us."
The two veterans drank under the stars, the city around them both broken and reborn.