By: Jia Erikah Fajardo
Photo: Jia Erikah Fajardo/The LANCE
Across generations, Filipinos have taken to the streets to express their frustrations and defiance, as well as their hopes and dreams. These assemblies, protests, and marches have become some of the country’s most defining moments, reshaping the nation’s story. Luneta Park and EDSA stand as testaments to the Filipino’s undying spirit, bearing witness to the birth and countless rebirths of Philippine democracy.
Luneta Park has long been the background of public unrest. What began as Bagumbayan, known most as the execution site of José Rizal in 1896, evolved into a rallying ground for generations who demand justice and accountability.
Under Martial Law, it also became a space where protesters risked arrest to make their opposition felt. Decades later, in 2013, it once again served as the backdrop to a movement during the Million People March. Sparked by public outrage over the Priority Development Assistance Fund (PDAF) scam, which revealed billions of pesos in government pork barrel funds funneled into fake NGOs, the rally drew tens of thousands to Luneta. Notable not only for its scale but also for its character, it was largely organized through social media, marking a new era where Filipinos mobilized through technology as much as through word of mouth.
As described by Inst. John Renzo Espinosa, a faculty member in the Political and Legal Studies Area and the current Area Chairperson of the National Service Training Program (NSTP) at the Colegio, it is often called, “the birthplace of Filipino nationalism,” underlining the enduring significance of Luneta Park—from colonial times to present day.
Historically, if Luneta has been the cradle of assemblies, EDSA would be the altar of democracy.
In February 1986, after years of authoritarian rule and electoral fraud, millions of Filipinos filled Epifanio de los Santos Avenue or EDSA in what became known as the People Power Revolution. For four tense days, citizens faced tanks and armed troops with nothing more than prayers, flowers, and songs. The peaceful standoff concluded with Ferdinand Marcos fleeing the Malacañan, resulting in the restoration of democracy after two decades of dictatorship. The world hailed it as a triumph of nonviolent resistance, and EDSA became a symbol for the power of ordinary citizens to topple regimes.
Inst. Espinosa noted that these locations were not picked by the masses blindly, but rather, strategically, particularly EDSA. “Kung titignan natin, kahit saang points or point ka ng Metro Manila manggagaling, it is accessible,” he said. “Malaki [rin] kasi ‘yung espasyo… It can hold as many people as possible.”
Together, Luneta and EDSA hold meaning in Philippine history as places where the masses have gathered not just to protest, but to remind the government of its nation’s collective strength. From the million voices that filled Luneta against corruption to the waves of citizens who stood shoulder to shoulder along EDSA to protest military rule, these spaces remain imprinted with the echoes of struggle and solidarity.
They are not simply landmarks, but reminders that the Filipino spirit has always found a way to rise, whether in parks or avenues, in quiet vigils or thunderous marches, standing as reminders that democracy was not granted from above or by those in positions of power. It was won in the streets, shoulder to shoulder.
With the ongoing probe on the anomalous flood control projects under the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH), allegations of corruption in the government have once again stirred public outrage.
On September 21, coinciding with the 53rd anniversary of Martial Law, thousands of Filipinos gathered for the “Baha sa Luneta” and “Trillion Peso March,” protests that echoed past calls for transparency and accountability.
Scenes at both locations were similar. “Stand Against Corruption,” “Kurakot, managot,” and “Isoli ang ninakaw” filled the streets, written on placards and tarpaulins raised high under the afternoon sun. Crowds chanted as speakers denounced officials linked to the alleged misuse of public funds. Despite the heavy rain that poured over EDSA later that day, the demonstrators stood their ground, refusing to let the weather dampen their message.
Among the participants was Christian Umali, a student who joined his fellow Letranites at the EDSA Monument in coordination with the Community Extension Department (CED) of the Colegio. “Nakakalungkot lang na 6 years nang nakalipas, iisa pa rin 'yung krusadang pinaglalaban: pagtuldok sa katiwalian,” he said, recalling his years as a campus journalist. For Umali, the protests were not only about opposing corruption but also about reclaiming visibility amid silence and censorship. “Kung patuloy tayong binabalewala at sinusupil sa peace at table talks, kailangan ng malawakang pag-aalsa sa kalsada na ang sentro ay 'yung masa,” he said, emphasizing that real change must emerge from the people themselves.
For Lara Bartolay, who traveled from Bulacan to join the march, the issue struck closer to home. She recalled the devastating floods that submerged her community twice in two years. “After hearing that billions and trillions of pesos supposedly for flood control projects only end up in the pockets of corrupt government officials, it motivated me even more to join the Trillion Peso March,” she said. “I hope that our voices would open the minds of everyone that we should be wise [about] who to vote [for]...”
Standing at EDSA, both Umali and Bartolay described a shared sense of hope that transcended fatigue and frustration. “It brought back my hope na nawala last 2022 national elections,” Umali said. “Nakita kong tumindig 'yung kabataan, kababaihan, at lalong-lalo na ang uring manggagawa.” Bartolay echoed this sentiment, saying, “I felt that finally, we’re not blind and voiceless anymore. Joining the Trillion Peso March made me feel that I was actually contributing something to our country.”
The march was not without challenges. Heavy rain drenched participants as they filled the streets of EDSA, and some, like Bartolay, faced challenges even before leaving home. “My father really didn’t allow me to join the rally because he was worried about my safety. But I was persistent and told my mother that I really wanted to take part in the Trillion Peso March, especially since our family has been one of the main casualties of those failed flood control projects,” she said. “After the march, I felt exhausted but proud, knowing I stood up for what I believe in.”
The movement also reflected a generational shift in civic engagement. While much of today’s activism begins and unfolds online, the presence of young Filipinos in the streets of EDSA and Luneta shows that the digital generation is not detached from the realities their elders once faced. Many of them have grown up hearing stories of protests that shaped the nation, and now, they are taking part in writing the next chapter.
For this generation, participation is not limited to hashtags or online petitions. It is a conscious act of reclaiming space—of standing where their grandparents and parents once stood and continuing the struggle for accountability and justice that has spanned decades. Their presence in these rallies signals both remembrance and renewal, proving that political awareness is alive among the youth.
They recognize that the fight against corruption and inequality is not new, but ongoing. It is a battle passed down from those who once filled the same streets with the same call for change. The youth understands that silence only strengthens the systems they hope to dismantle. And so, even in a time of uncertainty and fatigue, they choose to act—to gather, to speak, to march—because they know that democracy survives only when people, especially the young, refuse to be passive. Not anymore—especially not in the light of recent controversies and in the wake of colonialism, dictatorship, and the wounds they caused.
The Colegio de San Juan de Letran community, together with the Dominican Family for Justice, Peace, and Care for Creation, friars, and various Dominican congregations and institutions, joined the Holy Mass at St. Pedro Poveda College before marching in solidarity along EDSA, as well.
The gathering evoked the Letranite spirit of Deus, Patria, Letran.
Inst. Espinosa reflected on the institution’s presence. “Letran has always been there— ever since,” he said. “Dito nagsimula ang isa sa pinaka-unang student-led protests in the Philippines—maraming mga first dito sa Letran. ‘Yung first ever na may babaeng pinapasok sa isang educational institution kahit bawal pa. It’s a form of protest. And Letran is always playing its role to be part of it. Nakita rin natin nung nakaraan, even our rector, ‘yung mga admins natin, ‘yung buong Letran consortium, naglabas sila ng isang collective statement to combat, or at least [to not] condone, ‘yung corruption na nangyayari sa paligid natin. Kaya nga next to God, it’s the country.”
For Inst. Espinosa, civic engagement and faith need not be separate pursuits but extensions of the same conviction. “Hopefully, us Letranites will not feel obligated to come to those activities,” he said. “It must be an extension of ourselves—not just as Filipinos, but also as Letranites.”
Letran’s participation in these movements is a living expression of its creed as well as of its quadricentennial prayer that recognizes the Colegio “as haven for the poor, as seedbed of saints, as cradle of heroes, and as a school dedicated to the teaching of truth, and the learning of life.”
By joining the masses in their call for justice, Letran remains faithful to its Dominican values and history, reminding every Letranite that democracy is empowered when it is rooted in and driven by collective faith and action.
“For as long as democracy is there, and even kahit magkaroon man ng blur, nakikita ko pa rin na palagi’t palaging babalik at babalik [tayo] sa EDSA at babalik at babalik tayo sa Luneta,” said Inst. Espinosa, “Because it's part of Philippine democracy.”
What once began as grounds for protest have become vessels of continuity. Luneta and EDSA does not belong solely to those who marched before; they also belong to those learning why they did. Every generation inherits not just the stories carved into these spaces, but the duty to decide what they mean next.
To keep them alive is not to reenact the past, but to let them breathe in the present—in the voices that question, the art that reminds, and the conscience that refuses to forget. And in tracing the heartbeat of Philippine democracy, we shall always return to these places not merely as tourist spots or landmarks, but as living reminders of the battles fought and the freedoms hard-won