Transit Dialog

29/09/2025

“𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘮 𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴.”

“𝗦𝗹𝘂𝗺” 𝗕𝗼𝗼𝗸
𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘶𝘯 𝘈. 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯

In my childhood, I will never forget the sight of the shanties behind the Catholic church that bordered my hometown and another village, now part of Metro Manila.

The Christian church I occasionally attended during the summer was situated between two slum communities. The first site was just a few meters in front of our church building, while the second one was near a small farm pathway. However, residents had to walk home through a main road in the town center as the alley was privately owned.

I do not know the exact origins of these communities. Like any other informal settlement, the streets always seemed like a maze, and strangers would often get lost trying to locate specific addresses. Landmarks such as basketball courts, a social hall, and a chapel were key elements in finding your way.

My experiences in these locations were limited to religious activities, namely a summer school for kids, and giving away free pamphlets with biblical verses. No personal relationship was established with the residents except for the house-to-house visitation.

Although the houses were cramped and congested, the inhabitants were warm and welcoming. This may be seen as a façade for material poverty, which is not necessarily inaccurate.

During our visits, we encountered a particularly welcoming and generous homeowner who provided us with delicious food and coffee. Despite facing family issues and financial constraints, she was always cheerful and eager to share her resources. She passed away this year, but her house still stands as it is titled as a rented property.

However, the entire area surrounding it was demolished to make way for a commercial building. This is a familiar pattern: Slum communities are trapped in a cycle of dependency perpetuated by corrupt politicians who exploit urban migration for electoral gain.

I heard a story from a friend who used to live in a large slum community owned by a well-known pawnshop chain in the Philippines. The owner wanted to demolish the area, but the law required her to compensate each resident before doing so. This law has been manipulated to benefit these communities, leaving private owners at the mercy of an unjust system. Because of this law, she decided to charge each household a monthly fee for the lot instead.

My real immersion in a slum area happened at the invitation of my former student from the seminary. He is from Hong Kong and involved in an outreach program. He stayed in the area next to my current residence for a term as part of his immersion related to his Master's program.

We met at a designated area along a main avenue where a hospital is located, right after a bridge that connected a city and a municipality. Adjacent to the hospital garage are steps that go down to a riverside that has a pathway to the settlement. It was probably a 15-minute walk for me, as I am not used to small hilly terrain.

My experience was surprisingly pleasant as the neighborhood was quiet despite being congested. I was surprised to find the house we stayed in significantly different from its neighbors. It was made of good concrete, sturdy wood, a tiled floor, a clean toilet, and a sparkling sink. However, it was mosquito-infested, so the residents had to burn dry leaves at dusk.

I have allergic rhinitis, so I closed the windows upstairs and slept in a mosquito net. It was a breezy night, and upon waking up the following day, I saw a group of teens playing basketball on a soiled pavement.

Over coffee and some toast, my student and I chatted about the area’s social and spiritual landscape, which was continuously changing because of work, family, studies, health, relationships, and technology. We discussed how we could relevantly relate to these issues without being religiously aggressive and offensive.

What was noteworthy was the collaborative effort of residents in an attempt to provide a sense of permanency on borrowed land.

Slums are seen as sacred spaces by those who live in them, willing to do anything to protect and defend the area, even if they do not own it. Describing it as “borrowed” may be an understatement, as residents create physical and social structures to survive and flourish despite legal obstacles.

It is, therefore, unfair to say that slum dwellers are completely dependent on private and public aid for their entire lives. They utilize and adapt as necessary to meet their substantial needs.

And as long as urban migration and the struggle for land persist, new slum communities will continue to emerge. They are a permanent fixture of our society, representing both a systemic failure and the extraordinary human capacity to adapt and build a sense of home on borrowed ground.

27/09/2025

“𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮, 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬.”

𝗪𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗦𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦 ‘𝘠𝘰𝘯𝘨’ 𝘈𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧

To reduce organized corruption, we must identify our weak points. 𝘚𝘢𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘢? This is not about values, blame, or guilt-tripping. Let’s talk about nuts and bolts.

We have at least five major systemic problems: low transparency and fragmented records, multiple investigations, slow justice, a lack of whistleblowers, and poor recovery of stolen funds.

One way or another, all these issues are also tied to corruption, but they must be addressed first.

First, despite all commitments and programs, 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩. For example, we would like to know how many bags of cement were used in a Bulacan flood-control project in 2019. Where can we find the answer? We are talking about something clear and direct, like 5,234 bags.

What we obtain initially are the procurement and bidding records, the winning contractor, and the final project cost. At that point, we start getting lost in the information jungle. The national government will direct us to the DPWH, which will then direct us to its regional office, followed by the district office. 𝘕𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘥.

Transparency is the root. This is the place to start: a single proactive website where we can ask a question and get an answer on any corruption-related issue, one whose backend is deep and wide enough to uncover even the most minor details on any anomaly. 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢 𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘵.

Second, 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨. We have an independent commission that looks like a manager, not an executioner. We need a body that jails people, shuts down companies, pays informers, and negotiates the repatriation of stolen money from other countries. Its summons must make your knees shake.

𝘐𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯: To maintain the Philippines within the top 20 least-corrupt nations globally. We are now 114 from number one. Start the countdown. (https://tinyurl.com/jmcwmrxk)

The body must be high and above all government agencies when it comes to its mandate. The Senate and the House must recognize their authority through a formal resolution. Let us not rue the separation of powers when fighting graft: one authority, one guillotine, no holy cows.

Third, 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚. We have already proven that justice can be hastened under the current programs of the Supreme Court. Let’s establish special courts for corruption, with hearings held every other day, and a clearing deadline of less than a year.

With the magnitude of the problem, we must aim to fill Bilibid at the rate of one grafter a week.

Fourth, 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨. We must protect and reward them well. We can multiply the number of potential whistleblowers ten times if we offer 5-10 percent of the recovered loot. 𝙃𝙖𝙝𝙖𝙗𝙖 𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙖. Harm a whistleblower or family? You get the death penalty.

Suppose our economy reportedly lost 120 billion pesos from 2023 to 2025 from sham flood control projects. In that case, we should be willing to pay up to 6 billion pesos (5 percent) to whistleblowers whose direct testimony and actions lead to convictions and the recovery of public funds.

In what is said to be the largest whistleblower reward ever, fourteen years ago, 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗹 𝗘𝗰𝗸𝗮𝗿𝗱 was awarded $96 million after she exposed serious contamination problems at GlaxoSmithKline's (GSK) pharmaceutical manufacturing operations. (https://tinyurl.com/drpa4jbw)

What did the US government gain after an 8-year legal battle? GSK agreed to pay the US government $750m to settle civil and criminal charges that it manufactured and sold adulterated drug products.

If the system is credible, we get whistleblowers who actually received the money and stashed it in vaults or banks on behalf of their bosses, not contractors or district engineers who will say they didn’t hand over the money to the principal recipient.

Fifth, 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙪𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙩. If we have OFW diplomacy, we must have 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪-𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘺. Why can the media identify assets allegedly obtained through fraud in other countries, but the government is unable to recover them?

In June 2024, the US government announced it had recovered and returned to Malaysia approximately $1.4 billion. (https://tinyurl.com/2a88a6rk)

“The funds from 1MDB, formerly Malaysia’s investment development fund, were laundered through major financial institutions worldwide, including in the United States, Switzerland, Singapore, and Luxembourg.”

Why can’t we do that?

Let us remember the five weak spots and never forget them. The code is LAKAS:

𝙇 — 𝘓𝘪𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨 𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘢́𝘯
𝘉𝘶𝘬𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴: 𝘬𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘰, 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘢-𝘐𝘋, 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰—𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘢, 𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘣𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦.
𝘼 — 𝘈𝘺𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘐𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘺𝘰𝘯
𝘐𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘢, 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦-𝘥𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦; 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳.
𝙆 — 𝘒𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘴
𝘛𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘺-𝘵𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘺 𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘴; 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘴𝘢, 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯; 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘣 𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘰𝘯.
𝘼 — 𝘈𝘭𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘢 𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘨
𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘬𝘴𝘪𝘺𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘣 𝘯𝘨 72 𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘴 + 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘺𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘸𝘪.
𝙎 — 𝘚𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘪 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘪
𝘐-𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦, 𝘪-𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘪𝘵, 𝘪-𝘶𝘸𝘪; 𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰.

𝘓𝘈𝘒𝘈𝘚! Shout it out in the next rally.

26/09/2025

“𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵.”

𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗚𝗼𝗲𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗮 𝗟𝗼𝘁
𝘉𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘨𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪

Everybody tries. There are days when happiness seems like a requirement, and so we put on a smile and pretend that everything is fine. We try to make our days brighter, to find solace in the little things, and to keep our heads above water. But there are nights that feel too dark and too deep, and all we can do is try to sleep, hoping that tomorrow will be a little kinder.

The sunlight touches our skin as the sun tries to set in, and we wake up with a smile, trying to make our day as bright as the sunshine. We try to find meaning in the mundane, to discover joy in the everyday moments. But beneath the surface, we are often struggling to keep up appearances. Everybody tries, but not everybody succeeds.

Everybody lies. We’re not always happy, but we choose to smile and pretend that we are. When someone asks how our day is, we remember the stress and anxiety that we’ve been carrying, but we say “I’m fine” instead.

We tell ourselves that we can handle it, that we are strong enough to bear the weight of our responsibilities. But deep down, we’re often unsure and uncertain. We lie to ourselves and others, trying to maintain a facade of confidence and control.

Everybody cries. It’s past midnight, and we are staring at the ceiling, lost in thoughts and memories. We’re trying to fall asleep, but our minds are racing, and our hearts are aching. Tears pour down our pillows as we try to suppress our emotions, afraid of being seen or judged. But the more we suppress, the more our hearts ache.

Outside, the rain pours down, disturbing the stillness of the night, and we sob as the sky mourns. Everybody cries, and it’s okay to let our emotions show.

Everybody dies a little inside. We have big dreams and ambitions. We once dreamed of being a doctor, an engineer, a writer, a teacher, an artist, or a nurse. But some of these fade away as we grow older. We lose our passion and motivation, and we are left with the remnants of our childhood aspirations.

We let them die because we are slowly losing ourselves as the path we are walking through becomes more and more unclear— and the world outside is too harsh, and we feel too tired to keep fighting. Everybody dies a little inside, and it is a slow and painful process. But we will get through it.

Life is complex and hard, but it is meant to be lived. It is meant to be felt, to be experienced, and to be explored.

We are entitled to our own feelings and emotions, and we should allow ourselves to feel everything. We should let ourselves be overwhelmed, be happy, be sad, be angry, and hate things we don’t really like. We should smile because it feels good, laugh because it is joyful, and scream because we're angry. We are human beings, and so we are allowed to feel.

To live is to express what we feel, to be true to ourselves, and to let our emotions shine through. But we should not dwell on the negative emotions. We can, always and always, overcome them. It is not just about existing; it’s about living life to the fullest. We’re not just robots going through the motions; we’re human beings with feelings, emotions, and experiences.

We should allow ourselves to feel things. It’s okay. But believe that we can surpass these bumpy roads and huge waves. We can find the right path as long as we choose to be ourselves and choose to live.

25/09/2025

24/09/2025

“𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦, 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘴.”

𝗗𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗮 𝗦𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁
𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘫𝘰

I’ve lived most of my life with severe hemophilia and, later, epilepsy. That means I’ve had my fair share of stares, sympathy, and the occasional pedestal. People don’t always know how to respond to disability. Some recoil, others pity, and some rush to elevate you as “inspirational” simply for existing.

At first, I used to take comfort in the praise. Who doesn’t want to be seen as strong or courageous? But over time, I realized something darker beneath the applause: I wasn’t really being seen at all. My humanity was being replaced with a symbol.

The disability community calls this inspiration p**n: those viral posts where a student who is handicapped excels and joins the honor roll in school, or where an athlete in a wheelchair is framed as proof that “anything is possible.” On the surface, it looks like kindness. But it’s actually another form of objectification. The world is applauding not me or us, but instead an idea of us: a caricature designed to inspire the able-bodied.

And there’s something deeply dangerous about that. Because when society glorifies us, it quietly strips away our complexity. People with disabilities aren’t angels. We aren’t automatically good, wise, or moral. We can be kind, selfish, generous, cruel, thoughtful, reckless, or abusive, just like anyone else. Disability doesn’t make us saints.

Yet society keeps treating us that way. I cringe at the stereotype that says, “All people with disabilities go to heaven,” as if suffering in body guarantees purity of soul. Others assume we must be better, more resilient, morally superior, simply because we’ve endured pain. That’s not admiration, that’s erasure. It denies us the right to be flawed. It denies us accountability.

Worse, this moral pedestal can create blind spots. If we’re always viewed as “inspirational,” what happens when a disabled person is manipulative, violent, or abusive? Too often, people look away. The myth of automatic goodness becomes a shield, allowing harm to hide behind the very label meant to glorify. And for some, being constantly told they’re “morally higher” can warp into entitlement, even justification for cruelty.

To me, that’s not just misguided kindness. That’s a form of medical racism. It treats disability as a moral category rather than a human condition. It flattens us into symbols instead of individuals. And it denies us the dignity of complexity.

Here’s the truth I wish more people understood: being disabled is not inherently good or bad. It’s not a moral badge, a cosmic punishment, or an automatic fast-pass to heaven. It’s simply one of the many ways to be human. Some of us will be remarkable. Some of us will be destructive. Most of us will live somewhere in between.

If you really want to honor people with disabilities, stop glorifying us. Stop stripping away our humanity by turning us into lessons. See us in full: the mess, the contradictions, the good, the bad, the mundane. Give us the same space you give anyone else to be accountable, to be flawed, and to be real.

Because until we end the glorification, we’re not respecting disabled lives — we’re desecrating them.

22/09/2025

“𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 15 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘦?”

𝗜 𝗪𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗕𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁
𝘉𝘺 𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰 𝘎𝘶𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢

I want to be corrupt.

I don’t want to worry about building generational wealth, providing money to my extended family and relatives, and ensuring that all my children get all the perks and advantages that they would ever need in life.

I don’t want to worry about government-mandated salary deductions, delayed pay, rampant inflation, and all the other inconveniences of being a professional worker.

Oh, and my wife would surely love another jewelry set from Tiffany & Co.

I want those easy-peasy, juicy government contracts that allow me to get away with underpaying worker salaries, utilizing substandard materials, and delaying project completion dates. If those 15 companies can get away with it, then why not me? I thought we were living in a capitalist democratic republic where public bidding is free and open to everyone… and where getting money is supposed to be a “free market”.

I also want to have a Swiss bank account and an offshore shell company where I can park all my money and avoid having to pay my taxes. Why do I need to give back to the people when I can keep all of it for myself?

Most importantly, I want to have the juicy contacts that would allow me to be rich forever and sleep in a bathtub full of 1000-peso bills. Or better yet, sleep in a bathtub full of 100-dollar greenbacks.

Of course, since I’m supposed to be a 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘰 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘥𝘢𝘮, I’m going to support an art project or two, plant a company forest, do some cleanups, and donate a solar panel set when I am in the mood (and when I’m not busy chasing the latest Bugatti model). Maybe I can also do a medical or dental mission at a most visible squatter barangay with the logo of my company prominently displayed.

What do they call it these days? Sustainable Development Goals and Corporate Social Responsibility? I like these buzzwords, they allow me to divert their attention from what I’m doing.

Obviously, I have insured myself against whatever punishments man and God can send towards me within my short, sweet life on Earth.

Floods? They don’t worry me, we live in a gated community by the hill, with state-of-the-art security systems and 24/7 armed private guards. 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Political upheaval? Least of my worries. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘸𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢.

Prison? Almost no one was ever convicted of corruption. Even those who are convicted get politically rehabilitated and even go back to higher office. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧, 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥, 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘶𝘩?

Earthquakes? My house has been built to withstand a magnitude 8 earthquake. Enough said. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘫𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘦.

Road ambushes? Nothing to worry about, our cars are all bulletproof, have off-road capabilities, contain upgraded and rugged engines, and can run on flat tires for 80 kilometers. 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘰𝘰?

War? I can just hop on my private jet and take off from a private airfield of my own, away to one of my properties in Australia, Spain, or Chile. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘺 195-𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴!

Accountability? 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘍𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 - 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳! 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘥𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘸 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯.

So, I want to be corrupt.

Yet, I know that as long as I still have a shred of conscience left in me, it will only happen when pigs start flying.

20/09/2025

“𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭.”

𝗔𝗻𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝗠𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦 ‘𝘠𝘰𝘯𝘨’ 𝘈𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧

𝘛𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨 & 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨. Two forces that shape today’s world, like partners who should break up, but won’t — because life still insists. Every day, one slams the door, the other knocks — very us.

This is the tension we hold in Transit Dialogue, a cheerfully conflicted collective. Some take off with rage against fakery, then land with a haiku on patience. Others flare, then steer toward dignity with quietude.

We are self-aware. It’s easy to weaponize 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨 and cheapen 𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨. Speak with heat and you are “toxic” or “subversive.” Show kindness and you are “weak” or “plastic.” Labels are cheap; worth is in the weave. We work the loom with a steady hand, threading raised fists and open palms into one cloth. Without both, we’re not fully human.

Generations clash, then collaborate. Boomers bring memory. Gen X brings synthesis. Millennials bring systems. Gen Z brings speed. Put them together, and the world moves. Pull them apart, and we return to the same floods and the same speeches.

The aim is not uniformity; it’s orchestration. We are a band with guitars, drums, and an off-key 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘰 on vocals. When the beat locks in, it works.

𝘛𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨 without a path burns out; 𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 without boundaries burns us out. We plot wisely: protest, then propose. Expose, then educate. Call out, then call in. Not glamorous. Necessary.

Transit Dialogue is not a temple of answers; it is a hive. We curate indignation that clarifies, not corrodes; we grow care with spine, not vanity. We rage with purpose and care with strength.

Another year older, a shade more skeptical, and somehow more hopeful. We’ve learned to laugh at the nonsense — ours included. We admit mistakes, then we edit.

To our writers: thank you for shouting with 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨 but without hate, and caring with lambing without pretense.

To our readers, commenters, sharers, and quiet lurkers: thank you for sitting through the traffic of our thoughts. You opened windows to our souls, and through them, peace found its way in.

We move with 𝘛𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨 & 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨, together. Keep riding with us. The road is long. Memes may be savage; the company is good. And our shared destination may be closer than we think. 𝙎𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙤.

19/09/2025

𝑭𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔. 𝑺𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒕, 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 💚💚💚

19/09/2025

“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭: 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩 “𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥” 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥.”

𝗦𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝘆𝘀?
𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘶𝘢𝘯 𝘒𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘭𝘢𝘯

There’s a quiet danger happening in pulpits every Sunday morning. It isn’t the fire-and-brimstone rants of decades past, nor the overt manipulation of prosperity gospel televangelists.

No, the danger is subtler: it’s the way sermons have drifted from discourse into demonstration, from conversation into performance, from the messy business of truth into the easy business of entertainment.

And most clergymen either don’t realize it — or worse, they do, and they keep doing it anyway.

Because here’s the thing: scripture, in its raw form, isn’t meant to be read like a comic book. It’s full of metaphor, paradox, poetry, and jagged edges. But instead of teaching people how to wrestle with those layers, too many preachers serve up fairytales fit for children.

They hand out shiny toys in the form of angels, demons, beasts from Revelation, saints, and prophets they treat as superheroes — while quietly avoiding the heavy truths about kindness, humility, justice, and accountability.

Why? Because literalism feels safer than nuance.

Nuance requires wrestling. Wrestling requires questions. And questions make leaders nervous, because what if people come to conclusions that don’t line up with the script? So it’s easier to say, “𝘚𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘵, 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵.” Certainty sells. Doubt complicates.

But let’s be honest: fantasy also sells better than responsibility. A sermon about humility and sacrifice? That’s homework. A sermon about heavenly armies or miracle battles? That’s a Marvel movie. One asks you to change your life; the other lets you sit back and enjoy the show. Guess which one fills pews faster.

And once you’ve turned scripture into a blockbuster, religion itself becomes a marketplace of toys. People start collecting prayer cards, medals, prosperity slogans, statues, “prophecies” like they’re Funko Pops. Trinkets become substitutes for transformation. It’s not about remembering humanity. It’s about accessorizing a spiritual identity.

The result is predictable: the infantilization of believers. People never mature into compassionate adults; they remain consumers of fairy dust. Priests become entertainers instead of mentors. And the flock, rather than learning to wrestle with suffering, injustice, and moral accountability, gets trained to clap politely at a weekly show.

But sermons were never meant to be shows.

A true sermon is discourse, not demonstration. It’s not a priest broadcasting divine TED Talks into passive skulls. It’s a mutual wrestling, a provocation, a dangerous conversation. At its best, it isn’t tidy at all. It leaves people disturbed, awake, questioning. It scratches the itch of meaning instead of soothing it with holy anesthesia.

Yet look at the modern model: one man with a microphone, everyone else told to sit quietly, look soft, and not make trouble. It’s schoolroom discipline disguised as worship. Worse, it betrays the very humanity of the exchange. A priest is not a celestial robot, but a human being. And human communication is always two-way.

To pretend otherwise is to deny the humanness of both priest and parishioner.
Shouldn’t clergymen be unafraid to challenge and be challenged? Isn’t that the point? What kind of spiritual leader avoids questions for fear of losing control?

Jesus himself sparred publicly with skeptics and cynics. Debate was his lifeblood. Why do his followers now tiptoe around honest confrontation?

The irony is brutal: 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙝 “𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙙” 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙. They’ve consumed a performance, not a provocation. They’re happy that the Avengers won, but never realized the significance of the battle. The sermon becomes spiritual Netflix: you sit, you watch, you nod, you leave. Nothing wrestled with, nothing transformed.

And maybe that’s the part that offends me most. Because scripture at its best isn’t a bedtime story to keep us safe. It’s a manual for growing up. A set of mirrors that reveals us at our most fragile and most accountable.

To treat it like a fairytale is to waste it.

To preach it like a stage play is to betray it.

And to sit through sermons that never challenge, never provoke, never open the floor to resistance — well, that’s not worship. That’s infantilization with incense.
Faith deserves better. Humanity deserves better. And frankly, God deserves better.

So the next time you sit in the pew and hear another sermon wrapped neatly in bows of certainty and fairytale language, ask yourself: 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩, 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵?

If it’s the latter, then don’t be surprised if the toys eventually break, the stories ring hollow, and the faith you thought was fire turns out to be plastic.

18/09/2025

17/09/2025

“𝘎𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦…”

𝗢𝘂𝘁𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘭𝘪𝘮 𝘉𝘢𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘳

It was raining when I finished my part-time job as a tutor. Having remembered all along that I forgot my umbrella back in the university, I asked the family if they had any spare umbrellas to lend me.

Luckily, my tutee, a seven-year-old HotWheels fan, had a cute Cars umbrella. He said I could borrow that, and his grandma said, “I like little umbrellas because they are easy to use,” with a smile.

I laughed from within, thinking inwardly about the last time this umbrella looked so big. Probably when I was in elementary school. Since then, I have used the bigger ones and grown much taller. 𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘯𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘴𝘺𝘢 𝘴𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘨.

Sizes determine outgrowing things. Shoes, uniforms, tumblers, and umbrellas have respected sizes varying from kids, medium-sized, and adult. The designs can also vary widely, from playful designs featuring our favorite cartoon characters to a more minimalist style. Our physical growth often begins slowly and then accelerates, which is mirrored by the rapid changes in our sizes and preferences as we get older.

Growing up in a poor working-class neighborhood required my parents to be frugal. When they bought things for me, like a pair of sandals, my school uniform, and clothes, they tended to be two sizes bigger — everything bigger. “𝘖, 𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘪 𝘥𝘢𝘬𝘰-𝘥𝘢𝘬𝘰, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘶𝘢𝘯.” Mama would always reassure me. “This one, bigger, so you won’t outgrow it fast.”

The triviality of buying bigger things out of frugality, however, became temporary as one grows up. At some point after adolescence, we will stop growing physically. Eventually, it is no longer the size that matters, not even the preferences. When we point something at the store, we no longer have that spark in our eyes to ask our parents what we want, but instead, we look at the price, we look at our current state, and we rationalize.

Growing along with sizes and preferences means losing our innocence, and once one’s excitement is now in silence.

I was first shy walking with my small umbrella in the rain. People would find it ridiculous, but its little cover saved me from getting overwhelmingly damp. It was funny that I remembered a memory of me twirling my small umbrella on a sunny afternoon. “That little child”, I said. He was navigating the unpaved road with little strides in bigger shoes, making a “𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘱-𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘱” sound.

I tried to imitate him, but my shoes fit me perfectly. The sound was not that similar. It was just the splash of water. “It is rainy, that’s why I can’t make the same sound,” I said while making bigger strides.

I can still use a small umbrella. I learned it that day. Yes, my elementary uniform won’t fit me anymore, not even my high-school one. But what truly stays with me isn't the uniform itself, but the feeling of having worn it every day.

I may no longer fit my old uniform or choose a smaller umbrella, but I can still be that cheerful child, even with shoes two sizes too big.