No filter Iloilo

By Noel Galon de Leon

Ever since I began writing my column for the Daily Guardian, I knew I was also opening myself to public criticism. At first, I was afraid of being bashed, insulted, or ridiculed by strangers who knew nothing about me except the words I wrote. But that fear was always outweighed by a deeper purpose, the desire to write, to share ideas that I believed mattered, and to spark conversations that could help people think more deeply. My rule for myself, even now as I write this, is simple. I read the comments, but I only engage with real people, those who argue in good faith and come to discuss rather than to destroy. The rest, the trolls and faceless accounts whose only goal is to provoke or spread lies, I have learned to let them pass like noise in a crowded street. No matter how much I try, I will never control the public, especially the part of it that thrives on chaos.

I often ask myself why people online behave this way. Why does a small disagreement turn into a battlefield? Why do kind and reasonable people in real life turn vicious once they hide behind a username? In Iloilo City, where jeepneys move faster than gossip and every conversation can end up on Facebook, these questions are not just theoretical. They are part of daily life. The internet has turned even the most polite Ilonggos into part-time philosophers, fact-checkers, and sometimes professional bashers. This transformation, both amusing and alarming, can be explained by a fascinating psychological concept known as the Online Disinhibition Effect.

Psychologist John Suler introduced this term in 2004 to describe how people act differently in the digital world. The screen creates distance that separates the self from consequence. Anonymity becomes a mask that emboldens people to say things they would never say face-to-face. Online, we are freer, louder, and more expressive, but also more reckless. It is like singing karaoke in a dark room. The absence of an audience gives courage, even if the song is out of tune. The digital space, for many, becomes that dark room, a place where emotions echo without accountability.

In Iloilo, a city famous for its sweetness and composure, this psychological effect is almost comedic. The same person who says “Palihog lang, ya” in real life might write “Educate yourself” on a stranger’s post. A grandmother who sells baye-baye at the market becomes a fiery social critic declaring that people today have no respect. A shy student from Jaro suddenly transforms into a political analyst on X, writing threads titled Ten Reasons Why Love and Democracy Are Dead. It is not that Ilonggos have changed. It is that the digital mask allows hidden sides of them to speak.

What happens next is a fascinating social shift. Offline, conversations are guided by tone, eye contact, and decency. Online, those boundaries vanish. Without facial cues or social filters, sarcasm sounds like anger, honesty becomes insult, and humor loses its context. The line between joke and hostility disappears. People often say, “Wala lang ni, joke lang ya,” which means “It’s just a joke.” But digital jokes can cut deeper than intended. The screen shields the speaker but exposes the listener.

From barangay group chats to batchoy review pages, the pattern repeats. A simple reminder not to crowd the plaza turns into a public feud. A mild food review becomes a debate about Ilonggo pride. Even heartbreak threads turn into collective therapy sessions where strangers trade sympathy and sarcasm in equal measure. Iloilo’s online life is both a comedy and a confession booth, proof that even the kindest city is not immune to the psychology of the screen.

Still, the Online Disinhibition Effect is not entirely negative. It also has a softer and more creative side. That same sense of freedom can lead to honesty, courage, and self-expression. Many Ilonggos use the internet to share stories, humor, and emotion that they might never express in person. It gives voice to the shy, comfort to the heartbroken, and community to those who feel unheard. The danger only appears when freedom forgets its manners, when the thrill of expression replaces the responsibility of empathy.

I return to the advice I give myself every time I log on. Read the comments, but remember that behind every post is a human being. Ask yourself if you would say the same thing if that person were standing in front of you. If the answer is no, then it is not honesty you are practicing but impulse. The challenge is not only to speak online but to remain kind while doing so. Iloilo’s beauty has always been in its balance, gentle yet firm, expressive yet graceful. That Ilonggo spirit can endure even in the digital age, if only we remember that being real does not mean being rude.

Before replying in anger or posting that sarcastic remark, take a deep breath, sip your iced coffee at Madge Café, and smile at the thought that kindness is still possible, even in the comment section. No matter how noisy the trolls become, there is quiet dignity in choosing not to sound like one.

I know this path I have chosen will never be easy. The public will always have something to say, whether it makes sense or not.

There were times when my editor called to tell me that someone had filed a request to take down one of my columns online. It has happened to me twice, and I still remember that one of those attempts even came from a personal account. But my editor knows his work, and I know mine. None of my columns have ever been taken down, and I remain ready for criticism, no matter how harsh it gets. My challenge to the public is simple. Report the trolls. Protect the truth. And let us raise the level of discussion about the issues that matter to our beloved Iloilo.