The city of Manila breathed uneasily in the first years of independence. On paper, the Philippines had finally become free. In practice, the streets still whispered of hunger, corruption, and betrayal. For men like Rafael de la Cruz, son of Isabelo, freedom was not a flag raised in Luneta but a dream deferred, tugged further away by greedy hands.
Scene I – The Plaza of Broken Promises
It was late afternoon in Plaza Miranda. A makeshift stage had been erected under the faded shadow of the church, and a congressman from the ruling party stood before a microphone, his barong pressed so tightly it looked ready to burst at the seams. His voice, swollen with self-importance, echoed through tinny loudspeakers:
"Brothers and sisters, look around you! This is the golden age of our young Republic! Industry rises, schools are rebuilt, and our nation is respected across Asia. We are free!"
The crowd reacted in two ways: polite applause from the men in pressed coats and jeers from the barefooted workers and students. A fish vendor, her basket half-empty, shouted above the noise:
"Free? Free from food, maybe! My children have not tasted rice in three days!"
Laughter and heckling rippled through the plaza.
Rafael, tall and lean in his thirties now, stood in the crowd, arms crossed. His companion, Alejandro, a teacher turned activist, nudged him.
"Listen to that snake," Alejandro muttered. "Golden age? He eats gold while we eat shadows."
The congressman, annoyed, raised his hand for silence. "Yes, yes, I know there are challenges. But democracy thrives! Here, you are free to speak, to criticize, to dream—"
Alejandro cupped his hands and roared, "And free to starve!"
The crowd roared with laughter and applause. Rafael allowed a thin smile, but his eyes remained cold.
When the speech ended and the politician hurried offstage, a small group gathered around Rafael and Alejandro. Among them were students, street vendors, and even a former guerrilla in a ragged camisa.
"Kuya Rafael," the guerrilla said, his voice hoarse, "I fought the Japanese with the Huks. Now they call us bandits. Bandits! We who bled for this soil."
Alejandro spat on the ground. "The Americans left us their army and their land laws. The landlords fatten themselves while the peasants drown in debt. What did we fight for?"
All eyes turned to Rafael. He felt the weight of their gaze, the silent expectation that he would deliver answers. But he had no simple answers. Only truths heavy as stone.
He finally spoke, his voice measured.
"We fought for the chance to build something better. But this Republic—" He gestured at the crumbling buildings, the jeering crowd, the shadows of hunger. "—is cracked. Corruption poisons it. And when a Republic breaks, it breaks its people."
A student raised his fist. "Then we must rebuild it, Kuya. If the men in Malacañang won't, then we will!"
The crowd cheered, but Rafael only lowered his gaze. He had seen too many dreams turn to ash.
Scene II – Dinner Among Lions
That evening, Rafael attended a dinner at the house of Senator Villareal, a wealthy patron who often invited veterans and young leaders under the guise of "nation-building." The table glittered with silverware, the chandelier bathed the room in warm light, and servants poured imported wine as if independence had brought only abundance.
"Gentlemen," Villareal said, raising his glass, "to the Republic! May it stand a thousand years!"
"To the Republic!" echoed the guests.
Rafael sipped lightly. Around him, men of power traded jokes about contracts, government loans, and foreign investors.
"Have you heard," said one businessman, wiping grease from his lips, "an American company is taking control of the hemp trade again. Parity rights, gentlemen! The gift that keeps on giving."
Another senator laughed. "And the peasants will clap while we line our pockets."
Rafael slammed his glass down harder than intended. The chatter hushed for a moment.
"Do you mock the Republic so easily?" he asked, his voice low but sharp. "Men died in Bataan. My father fought the Americans, then the Japanese. And now, after all the blood we gave, you laugh while selling the country piece by piece?"
The table grew tense. Villareal waved a hand. "Now, now, Rafael, do not spoil the evening. Business is the lifeblood of a nation. Without trade, without investors, we are nothing."
"Without dignity, Senator," Rafael replied, "we are less than nothing."
A nervous cough broke the silence. Someone tried to change the subject to horse racing. Rafael pushed his chair back.
"I thank you for the meal," he said, bowing stiffly. "But I have no stomach for feasts built on the people's hunger."
He left the mansion with his anger burning hotter than the wine in his veins.
Scene III – In the Shadows of Tondo
Rafael walked through Tondo later that night, his footsteps echoing in alleys lined with shanties. The air smelled of salt fish and sweat, and children ran barefoot, chasing each other between makeshift homes.
In a dimly lit clinic, his sister Isabella tended to patients — mothers with feverish infants, laborers with festering wounds. She glanced up as Rafael entered.
"You're late," she said, not unkindly. "Were you at another of those dinners with men who promise much and deliver nothing?"
Rafael sighed. "Yes. And every promise tastes of ash."
Isabella cleaned a child's wound with careful hands. "The Republic may be broken, Kuya, but we must work with what we have. Look around — these people need hope, even if it is a fragile one."
Before Rafael could reply, two men stepped into the clinic. Their clothes were simple, but their eyes burned with intensity. Huk recruiters.
"Señorita," one said with a nod to Isabella, then turned to Rafael. "We know who you are. A man of the people. You see their suffering. You hear their cries. Why not join us? The Republic is a sham, a puppet show for the Americans. The true fight continues in the hills."
The other added, "The peasants rise again. With leaders like you, Rafael, we can finish what our fathers began."
Rafael's jaw tightened. He glanced at Isabella, who paused her work but said nothing. The room was heavy with expectation.
"I fought once," Rafael said slowly. "I saw comrades starve, shot in the back by our own countrymen. Tell me, what happens after victory? Another strongman? Another betrayal? Another Republic in chains?"
The recruiters exchanged looks. "Without struggle, there is no freedom," one insisted.
Rafael stepped closer, his shadow tall in the lamplight. "And without wisdom, there is only endless war."
The men left with muttered promises to return. Isabella sighed, wiping her hands. "They will not give up on you, Kuya. You are too visible. Too respected."
Rafael sank into a chair. "Respect feeds no one. And if I choose wrongly, it may cost lives."
Isabella touched his shoulder. "Then choose carefully. But do not forget — silence is also a choice."
Scene IV – Monologue of a Tired Son
Later that night, Rafael sat alone by the Pasig River. The city lights reflected faintly in the murky water, broken by floating debris. He lit a cigarette, the glow briefly illuminating his weary face.
"Father," he whispered to the darkness, as though Isabelo himself were listening. "You told me freedom is taken piece by piece. But the pieces keep slipping through my fingers. We take one step, and the chains return heavier."
His thoughts drifted to María, his late mother, whose gentle voice once calmed Isabelo's storms. "Nanay, you believed in prayers. Tell me, should I pray for leaders who mock us? For farmers who rot in their fields while senators feast? Should I pray for a Republic that exists only in paper speeches?"
The river answered only with ripples.
He remembered the plaza, the laughter of the poor, the fury in Alejandro's eyes. He remembered the recruiters in Tondo, their promise of fire and revolution. And he remembered the hollow toasts of Villareal's mansion.
"God," Rafael muttered, voice hoarse, "do not let me become like them. Do not let me betray the people. If rebellion is the path, guide me. If patience is the path, strengthen me. But do not leave me blind in this broken Republic."
The night deepened. Dogs barked in the distance. Somewhere, a gunshot cracked — the familiar punctuation of unrest. Rafael sat in silence, cigarette dying between his fingers, as Manila lay restless in its chains.
Scene V – The Spark Yet Unlit
The next morning, Rafael returned to Plaza Miranda. The crowd had thinned, but Alejandro and a group of students were there, distributing pamphlets denouncing corruption and calling for reforms.
"Kuya Rafael!" one student cried, handing him a leaflet. "We are organizing a march. Join us. The people will listen to you."
Rafael scanned the leaflet. Bold words leapt from the page: Justice for the Farmers. End Corruption. A Republic for the People.
Alejandro watched him carefully. "This Republic may be broken," he said, "but a broken thing can be reforged. With fire."
Rafael did not answer immediately. He folded the leaflet slowly, slipped it into his pocket, and looked toward the horizon where the flag fluttered weakly in the breeze.
"Fire," he repeated softly. "Yes… Perhaps fire is what we need."
And though his voice was quiet, it carried the weight of a man on the edge of choosing between silence and struggle.