bonifacio day – TYPiNG ouT oF THe BLue

Every November 30, the Philippines remembers Andres Bonifacio, the man who helped spark the 1896 revolution. One of the most iconic moments in his story happened in Balintawak, when he tore his cedula in front of the Katipuneros.

What was the cedula back then?

The cedula—also known as the community tax certificate—was not just a piece of paper. It symbolized Spanish control because it showed that:

• you paid the colonial tax
• you accepted the Spanish government
• you recognized their authority

Tearing it was a bold, public declaration of rebellion. It sent one clear message: “We do not recognize this government anymore.” That moment helped ignite a revolution.

Why tearing a cedula today is… pretty meh

The cedula still exists today, but it no longer carries any real meaning. It’s not tied to oppression or authority anymore—it’s simply leftover bureaucracy.

And here’s the ironic part: For many people, the cedula feels less like a useful document and more like a tiny tax on simply being alive, because it isn’t based on proof of income and isn’t connected to any modern system. It’s just something you pay because the generations before you paid it too.

Today:

• most people aren’t asked for it
• LGUs barely verify anything
• it doesn’t represent control
• it holds no emotional weight
• it functions like outdated paperwork

If someone tore their cedula now, people wouldn’t see a hero—just someone throwing away an old document.

Why the cedula isn’t really needed anymore

Modern systems already replaced everything the cedula used to handle:

• national IDs
• government databases
• company records
• tax systems
• digital identity

Because of these improvements, the cedula no longer has an essential role in 2025. It survives only because nobody bothers removing it and because it still brings small, easy income to local governments. Tradition kept it alive more than purpose.

The quiet kotong (silent extra squeeze)

Individually, the cedula fee is tiny. But when thousands pay it every year, the total becomes huge. And because all of it enters the LGU’s general fund, there is:

• no specific breakdown
• no transparent accounting
• no clear yearly report
• no explanation of where the money actually goes

It’s not a crime or a scandal. It’s simply a quiet fee that kept surviving because everyone got used to it.

That’s why people call it the quiet kotong—silent, unnoticed, but always there.

We don’t need to be heroes like Bonifacio

Bonifacio risked his life for freedom. He already did his part.

Today, we don’t need to start a revolution or tear a certificate to make a point. But we do need something just as important:

• awareness
• honesty
• vigilance
• courage to question outdated systems
• the habit of noticing when something no longer makes sense

Bonifacio fought with courage and sacrifice.

We fight with awareness and responsibility.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what the present needs. A quiet space to think a little longer, almost like Wandering Through Dreams.

Wandering Through Dreams • Darem Placer

⌨ ᴛʸᵖⁱⁿᵍ ᴏᵘᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ʙˡᵘᵉ ᵈᵃʳᵉᵐ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜ ᵇˡᵒᵍ

**Living in Two Octaves** explores the duality of life—shifting between emotional highs and lows, balancing the physical and spiritual, and living in the space between the past and future. It’s all about the contrasts and connections that shape our journey. This album includes **Wandering Through Dreams**.

Listen on Apple Music, Apple Music Classical, and YouTube Music

The first wave started long before anyone called it a “movement.” It began when church leaders and civil-society groups finally said what many people were already thinking. They were the first to make the call. Then groups on the ground—like Taumbayan Ayaw sa Magnanakaw at Abusado Network Alliance (TAMA NA)—picked it up and began shaping it into something bigger.

From there, the circle widened fast. Student organizations joined. Labor unions stepped in. Youth groups, faith communities, civic alliances, even political coalitions—each one adding their own weight until September 21, 2025, no longer felt like an ordinary day on the calendar.

Why that date?

Because September 21 carries a shadow. It’s the anniversary of Martial Law—a day remembered not for silence, but for what silence cost. Choosing that day wasn’t random—it was symbolic. A reminder that accountability loses its value when people wait too long to demand it.

The reason behind the call was clear: alleged massive corruption in infrastructure and flood-control projects—misused funds, ghost projects, and billions that never made sense. People weren’t chasing shallow fuss or empty drama—they were chasing answers. And the more those answers stayed hidden, the more the movement pressed forward.

It didn’t grow because one person led it. It grew because nobody could keep pretending the questions were small.

By the time the gatherings in EDSA People Power Monument ended on September 21, the first wave had done its job. It proved that frustration wasn’t isolated. It showed that ordinary people, spread across different groups, could still move in the same direction without waiting for a central figure to tell them what to do.

That’s why November 30, 2025 exists. Not as a replay, not as a louder version of the same cry—but as the continuation. And the date carries its own weight. November 30 is Bonifacio Day—a reminder of the kind of bravery that refuses silence, the kind that steps forward even when it’s risky. The next half of a conversation that September started. The moment where whispers sharpen into a clear request for something concrete—answers, accountability, even just one visible step toward setting things right.

On November 30, people are set to gather again at the EDSA People Power Monument, hoping that this second wave brings something more solid than silence.

If something real finally happens on November 30, then that’s where the true turning point begins.

And after that, the line stays blank—waiting for whatever comes next.

Imprison. Return. Reveal. Hurry.