I am ashamed that I cannot even remember whether we studied Martial Law in elementary or high school. If we did, it is even more embarrassing to admit that it did not leave a lasting impression on me, or that I no longer remember it.

I do remember, however, performing at the Bantayog ng mga Bayani together with some of my fellow theater actors as a senior high school student. Through Playback Theatre, a form of theater in which performers listen to personal stories shared by the audience members and reenact them on the spot, I had the opportunity to hear firsthand the experiences of families affected by Martial Law. I remember how especially painful it was for those of them who were still searching for their loved ones—individuals abducted during Martial Law who are still nowhere to be found. Yet, despite bearing witness to these stories, I realize now that even those memories had gradually faded.

That realization came back to me while watching Edjop.

I cried out of shame and guilt as I witnessed the sacrifices he made and the battles he fought. I was deeply moved by his passion for our country, particularly his concern for marginalized communities in Philippine society. I was also moved by the sacrifices of those who stood and fought alongside him.

I felt anger over the suffering experienced by farmers and other poor communities in the country during that period, and sorrow for all that Edjop had to endure. More than anything, however, I felt guilty for realizing that I had truly valued or honored their sacrifices. The stories I once heard at Bantayog ng mga Bayani, which had slowly faded from my memory, suddenly came to life again.

Many years have passed, creating a sense of distance between those who lived through Martial Law and my generation. I constantly question why I do not seem to be as affected or as angry as I thought I should be. My reaction feels different from that of other Gen Zs I know who care deeply about Martial Law and place great importance on remembering it. Perhaps it is because I am too consumed by my own personal battles, or because I did not experience Martial Law myself, nor do I come from a family that was directly affected by it.

At the same time, belonging to today’s younger generation means constantly being confronted by new issues that demand our attention. There is the continuing problem of corruption, as well as environmental and human rights concerns. In Pakil, Laguna, for instance, residents and environmental advocates have raised concerns about the Ahunan Pumped-Storage Hydropower Project and its potential effects on land, livelihoods, and the environment. Environmental defender Daisy Macapanpan was arrested in 2022 after opposing the project, while other residents have also reported experiencing intimidation. There are also ongoing concerns surrounding the proposed Pax Silica project in Capas, Tarlac, particularly among farmers and Aeta communities who have expressed fears about losing their homes, livelihoods, and water sources.

Perhaps this is why remembering can sometimes feel difficult: we are not only carrying the weight of the past—we are also trying to respond to what is happening in the present.

As someone who works at ISACC where we organize activities and go out into the streets in response to pressing social issues, I know how exhausting this work can be. There are moments when I feel pessimistic and find myself asking, “May magagawa pa ba talaga tayo?” “May magbabago ba talaga?” “Hanggang kailan tayo ganito?” “May hustisya ba tayong makakamit?” There are moments when I struggle to see the impact of our actions, especially when we continue to show up, stand with different communities, and speak out without seeing immediate change. It can be exhausting to keep hoping and doing things when the problems seem so much bigger than what we can do.

But this is where Edjop struck me most deeply. It made me ask myself: If we give up, who will continue to stand with those who are fighting for their basic rights? Who will challenge systemic injustice? If marginalized groups draw strength and hope from those standing alongside them, what happens when those allies start losing hope?

Edjop reminded me that we must always cling to hope. As the film says, “Pagasa ang gasolina sa pagbabago.” Hope is what keeps us moving toward change. Hope means continuing to believe that a better and more humane society is possible, even when change does not happen as quickly as we want it to.

But fighting for a more humane society also requires selflessness, courage, and a willingness to keep showing up. The struggle did not end with Martial Law. In different forms, injustice continues to exist, people continue to suffer, and abuse and oppression persist. This is why we cannot allow ourselves to forget and to become indifferent.

Another scene that stayed with me was Edjop struggling in pain on the floor as he is shown a photograph of his child. In response, he sings. The song highlights a painful contradiction: many who join the military come from humble backgrounds with dreams of protecting their fellow Filipinos, yet end up becoming the source of fear and harm threatening their own countrymen. That moment made me think about those who, like Edjop and the people who stood alongside him, chose to put themselves at risk for something bigger than themselves.

A line from Joyette also stayed with me, —something like, “...Time allows you to forget, but sometimes it doesn’t.” It made me think about the stories I had allowed to slip away and the truths that should never be forgotten.

Perhaps this is what Edjop gave me: not simply anger about the past, but a renewed understanding of why we need to remember. Forgetting can happen quietly, especially when life becomes overwhelming and new, bigger problems demand our attention. But remembering is also a choice. It reminds us that the struggles of those who came before us are not separate from the struggles we continue to witness and experience today.

Remembering does not mean living in the past. It means acknowledging what happened, honoring those who suffered and sacrificed, and carrying their stories forward so that future generations can continue to tell them and honor those who fought for justice and freedom.

Remembering also means refusing attempts to distort or erase the truth. It means questioning the burial of Ferdinand Marcos Sr. at the Libingan ng mga Bayani, or why his son ended up being elected as President decades after the painful history of his father’s regime. The sacrifices of Edjop and countless others should not be in vain —they should remind us of the importance of standing for truth, justice, and human dignity.

To remember is to ask ourselves what we are willing to do today, even in our own small ways. We may not always see the change we hope for, and we may not be able to carry every burden. But we can choose not to become silent and indifferent. We can continue to care, to speak up, stand with others, and keep hope alive.

Because honoring those who came before us is not only about remembering their sacrifices—it means letting their courage inspire us to fight injustice today. It means carrying forward the hope that moved them to act in the first place, so that together, we can help build the more humane society Edjop envisioned. 

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Denise Ganalon

ISACC Program Officer

Watching Edjop was a very ironic and somewhat frustrating experience for me. Before the movie officially began, there was a short video message telling us viewers to “enjoy the movie” from none other than the current president himself, Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. It made me ask myself: What happened, and how did we end up in this situation?

The very family that the characters in the movie spent their lives fighting against is once again the very family in power, appearing on the big screen and giving us a seemingly innocent reminder.

One scene in the movie spoke to me—the scene when Joyette was asked, “What would your father think if he saw the current situation of the country?”

Similarly, I asked myself: “What would Edjop think or feel about our time, when the son of the dictator he fought against—the very person who called him a mere “grocer’s son"—now serves as the President of the country? Was it all worth it? Did all of their efforts lead to nothing?” What did we do wrong for the very same family that committed such atrocities to be back in the exact position of power they once held?

Reflecting on it now, I believe the true point of Edjop’s sacrifice is to give us something to hold onto—that we must remember not only his story, but also those of the unsung heroes who stood up against a powerful authoritarian force that terrorized the country and its people—no matter how daunting the battle seemed. Our task is to remember, to never let their stories fade away, and to ensure that such history never repeats itself again.

I was also struck by a question posed in the film: “Why are there poor people and rich people?” At some point, I feel we have somehow forgotten our duty to care for one another as “kapwa.” I am reminded of Proverbs 3:27: “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act,” and the parable of Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:19–31).

How do we respond to the people outside our gates? Do we meet them and extend our hands, or do we just go on with our lives because we no longer truly see them— so used to their sight that we have become desensitized? In Matthew 25:40, Jesus tells us, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,” a reminder that the poor are His proxies. We might not hold a lot of power, but in our own everyday ways, we can stand with and fight for them.

Our loyalties should lie with our country and our fellow Filipinos, not for any politician. We should dream of a nation where fellow Filipinos do not have to go against one another with guns and violence; a country where compassion and doing good are everyday acts, not spectacles worthy of attention and praise simply because they have become so rare.

Joyette’s answer to my question was that her father would never give up the fight and the dream for a more humane government and country. As a new generation, I hope that we keep the same dream in our hearts and carry on the same fight. Today, we have far more tools and avenues to take a stance and make our voices heard. Let us use them not only to honor the memories of those who came before us, but to light the way toward a better future for the coming generations.

 As Filipinos, it might seem that we are running in loops. But perhaps we are being led to where we began in order to start anew. I am reminded of the movie Coco, where the existence of those who have passed depends on the memory of the living. As long as there are people who remember, the fight continues—not just the fight against the Marcoses or any other powerful names, but the continuing fight for the justice and righteousness that the Filipino people have long deserved.

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Jerome Bonita

ISACC Multimedia Officer

During my time at ISACC, I have had the opportunity to hear the stories of Filipino activists from different generations and backgrounds. I took them seriously, but I did not, maybe, fully understand the history out of which they had walked. Watching Edjop made those stories come to life for me, and put them in a context I had not comprehended before.

The movie also impacted me in a second way. I grew up in Ukraine, and I vividly remember my parents carrying me through the crowds protesting during Maidan in 2014. While my city was not impacted the same way Kyiv was, the gatherings were still huge. What stood out to me then was the hope of my parents and the protesters. That same thing stands out to me in the hope of Edjop, especially in Joyette’s speech towards the end of the film. We must imagine a better future for those who will follow, and fight for that future in all the ways we can. Giving up now will stop the passage of time, nor will it stop children from being born into this world. The only choice we have is to keep moving forward, and to keep hope alive.

Finally, I deeply valued the film’s reminder of our shared humanity—that we are all made of the exact same stuff as the person standing beside us. Social and political divisions do not serve the good future we imagine. The only thing they do is create room for suffering, oppression, and hatred. And what kind of future is built on hatred? It is no future at all.

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Elizabeth Taturevych

ISACC Intern

Between state violence, social injustice, and the relentless stream of distressing news on our daily feeds, the realities of a troubled world have become so normalized that it seems almost natural for a generation like ours to fall into despair and hopelessness —finding refuge in humor or protecting ourselves through a general indifference, desperately clawing our way toward a mundane and ordinary life that we see as pure, safe, and detached from the confusing, distressing, and paralyzing world of social and political turmoil. We are told not to give in, not to give up—to keep fighting, to hold on to hope. As one character tells Edjop in the film, we must keep hoping because “hope is the fuel for change.” But where, and how, do we find hope?

Today, we often find ourselves like Edjop during that one scene—staring hopelessly into the fields at farmers tilling the land as if their village had not been set on fire the night before, wondering what was the point of it all—or like Joyette, both literally and figuratively running from the painful, albeit crucial, truths of our history, whether we are aware of it or not.

The film offers us an answer: hope is found in the people we love. One of the things that struck me most from Edjop was how it refused to treat one’s relationships as separate from activism and the broader collective struggle for a more humane society. It weaves the personal—deep ties to family and romantic partners—with the political—regardless of how closely, or to what degree they align with our ideals and the methods we choose to pursue them.

Just as Edjop reminds Joy that his struggle for freedom, justice, and a more humane Philippine society is inseparable from his love for her, so too does the film show how his family becomes a source of strength in his most painful moments. It is the thought of his parents, his siblings, and the family he built that gives him the courage to endure torture and face the violence and repression of the state. In this way, the film reminds us that our pursuit of social change is not something we do in isolation. Our commitment to a cause cannot be detached from who we are, the people we love, and how we live in the other spheres of our lives. The people we love can become a source of strength for the struggles we choose to take on, while those struggles, in turn, become part of how we love and live.

As that popular coffee commercial goes, we must ask ourselves every day, “Para kanino tayo bumabangon?”

Bridging the personal and the political is something I still find highly challenging and almost impossible, but it is something I want to actively work toward. Because if my activism is confined merely to myself, my personal ideology, my own goals, and only those who agree with me, what is it truly for? What end would it ultimately serve?

We do not need to look far or beyond ourselves to find hope. If we step back, we will find it in ourselves and in each other—our shared fears, strengths, joys, and longings. The question is not whether there will be a future, or what it will look like. There will be a future, because we are already writing it right now. We must live and persist, keeping in mind the baton we carry and the people who will inherit it from us.

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Danica Quijano

ISACC Research and Publication Officer