We must understand that protest does not wear a single face, yet it always carries a single purpose. It is the cry of the hungry, the march of the oppressed, and the courage of those who refuse silence. In Philippine society, history has been forged by such voices, from revolutions against colonizers to defiance under dictatorship. Often dismissed as disorder and repressed by those in power, protest is not chaos but resistance to silence. It is both a refuge for the voiceless and a force that transforms grievance into hope. More than a gathering on the streets, protest is history, culture, and lived experience turned into courage, an act of defiance that insists change is never given but fought for.
Protest in the Philippines is as old as the nation’s struggle against colonialism. The Revolution of 1896 against Spain was born out of collective indignation against an oppressive system. During the American and Japanese occupations, mass uprisings and local resistances intensified as Filipinos sought land, livelihood, and dignity. Under Martial Law in 1972, protest became an indispensable means to confront dictatorship, proving that silence under tyranny is complicity.
In Iloilo, known historically as “La Muy Leal y Noble Ciudad” (The Most Loyal and Noble City), protest has likewise shaped civic life. Beyond its colonial architecture and reputation for cultural refinement, Iloilo bears the marks of labor strikes, student demonstrations, and grassroots mobilizations. Workers fought abusive factory owners, teachers and students organized for fair wages and quality education, and activists marched against corrupt governance. From the streets filled with parades during fiestas to the same avenues echoing with chants for justice, Iloilo exemplifies how protest is woven into the fabric of civic life.
Protest is not chaos; it is resistance to enforced silence. In a society marked by vast inequalities in wealth and power, silence often means consent. Protest asserts that quiet endurance is not enough, for it demands recognition, justice, and reform. Protest is not exclusive to activists.
It is frequently stigmatized as the realm of agitators or anti-government dissenters. Yet every citizen who complains about rising prices, who voices discontent online, or who demands better public services participates in the broader tradition of protest.
It is also an emotional and human experience. For a mother marching with her child to demand access to education, every chant carries a dream. For a farmer raising a placard under the scorching sun, every step bears the weight of labor and longing for land. For a student in Iloilo standing firm before police lines, every act of courage defies fear and affirms dignity.
Authorities often invoke “order” as a justification to suppress protest. They argue that demonstrations disrupt daily life, tarnish the country’s image, or hinder progress. But what kind of order is being defended? An order built on the silence of the hungry? An order maintained by fear? Genuine order is rooted in justice, not repression. Every protest dismantles the illusion of false order and opens the path toward authentic change.
To attend a protest in Iloilo is not merely to participate in a public event, it is to undergo transformation. To march with hundreds of others, to raise one’s voice in unison, is to experience a strength greater than the individual self. The collective act of defiance creates a profound sense of unity and hope that private prayers within the safety of one’s home cannot replicate. Protest is therefore an emotional revolution, a reminder that one is never alone in struggle.
Protest matters because it is the lifeblood of democracy. Without protest, we might still remain bound by colonial rule, dictatorship, and systemic corruption. In Iloilo, as in the rest of the nation, protest reminds us that sovereignty ultimately lies in the people. We must resist attempts to criminalize or delegitimize collective dissent. With every chant on the street, every placard lifted, and every step taken toward light, we reaffirm the most fundamental lesson: change is never granted, it is fought for.
Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.
