Selfie with a revolution

By Noel Galon de Leon

Even though I wasn’t feeling my best that morning, I knew I had to go to the Trillion Peso March at the Iloilo Capitol on September 21, 2025. There was a part of me that wanted to stay home, wrapped in the comfort of my room, avoiding the rain and the crowds, and maybe even avoiding the tension of a protest. But I also knew that this day mattered, that my presence and the presence of everyone else who had been wronged or ignored by the system was important. I wanted the government to see the frustration, the anger, and the quiet strength of ordinary citizens who had been robbed of their trust, their resources, and their faith in public institutions. So, despite the nervous flutter in my stomach, I got up, got ready, and joined my fellow faculty members from UP High School along with a handful of our students. We marched together from UP Visayas to the Iloilo Capitol, a mix of determination and apprehension in our steps.

When we arrived, the crowd took my breath away. It was enormous, with people spilling out across the streets, chanting, waving placards, snapping selfies, and filming every moment. Seeing so many Ilonggos united in one space, demanding accountability from those in power, was overwhelming and humbling at the same time. I remember thinking how rare it was to see so many people from different walks of life come together in such a way. Professionals, office workers, students, families, even retirees were all present and contributing their voices to a single demand for corruption to end and justice to be served. The sheer energy of the crowd was contagious. Despite the rain, the noise, and the occasional push from the density of people, I felt a sense of community that made every step worth it.

For a long time, protests in the Philippines have had a reputation. People often see them as dangerous, chaotic, and radical. Images of students clashing with police, farmers marching under a scorching sun, and activists shouting militant slogans dominate the public imagination. But this march felt different. Here were ordinary people, people I might see at the market, in a classroom, or at a coffee shop, smiling for selfies, posting on social media, retweeting calls to join, and sharing the moment with friends and family online. The event was both political and personal, serious and approachable, and it reframed what protest could be. Even for those of us who are usually hesitant to join demonstrations, seeing how social media and pop culture could transform participation into something accessible and almost celebratory made it easier to step forward.

As an Ilonggo, I could feel how significant this shift was. Our culture often emphasizes caution and conservatism, and protests have historically been seen as spaces for radicals or troublemakers. Many people hesitate to join because they do not want to be labeled or associated with extreme movements. Yet, during this march, something had changed. Social media buzzed with images and memes that reframed the protest as fun, civic-minded, and culturally relevant. People who normally liked food posts or cute videos were now sharing protest calls with hashtags. Carrying a placard became an act of creativity, snapping a photo of your sign became a statement, and joining a march did not feel like risking your safety or reputation. It felt like participating in a movement, a shared experience, and even a little performance of civic duty.

Pop culture played a huge role in this transformation. In a country like the Philippines, where social media is woven into the daily lives of millions, memes, viral videos, and hashtags become powerful tools of dissent. This march used that reality beautifully. It showed that activism does not have to be intimidating or inaccessible. You could be both online and offline, sharing your frustration with corruption while also participating in a moment of collective joy and creativity. The protest became a human experience, where humor, irony, and artistry could coexist with seriousness, determination, and moral outrage. It was a hybrid form of participation that young activists, professionals, and students alike could relate to and engage in.

In the context of Iloilo and Western Visayas, the march was especially meaningful. This region has a long history of labor struggles and agrarian disputes, events often labeled as radical and therefore avoided by the urban middle class. But on this day, that divide seemed to vanish. Professionals, university students, overseas workers, and young families came together not as rebels but as responsible citizens. The aesthetic of protest changed as well. People brought witty, clever signs, Instagram-worthy art, and slogans that were accessible and even fun to engage with. It was not about intimidation or anger alone. It was about creating a shared space where people could express their frustrations and demand accountability in a way that felt personal, performative, and social.

When I think about the difference between this march and historical events like the 1986 People Power Revolution, the contrast is striking. EDSA was framed around moral outrage, solemnity, and traditional Catholic imagery. This march was the protest of the internet age, flattened, shareable, meme-able, instantly visible. It humanized activism, especially for Ilonggos. You did not have to carry radical anger in your chest. You could carry humor, creativity, and irony while still making your voice heard. The protest became performative but was also deeply sincere, a way to express outrage without feeling isolated or extreme.

Of course, there are criticisms. Some argue that turning protests into cultural spectacles can dilute their political impact. When the focus shifts to selfies, viral moments, and social media visibility, there is a risk that long-term organizing and accountability take a backseat. And indeed, in the aftermath, reforms were slow and selective. But even with these limitations, the march proved something powerful. Activism could be political and cultural, serious and playful, visible and human.

Looking back, what struck me most was how personal the experience felt. This march was not just about corruption or government accountability. It was about a generational shift in how Filipinos, especially young activists and Ilonggos, see civic engagement. Protest became less intimidating and more participatory. It offered hope that even in a country plagued by inequality and injustice, ordinary people could come together, have their voices heard, and use both culture and technology to amplify their presence. That day, collective outrage had its stage, its hashtags, and its human faces, and I was there, part of it, a small but connected piece of a larger story.