Balota and the Philippine Curse of Repeating History
Balota isn’t just a film—it’s a reflection of the never-ending cycle of Philippine elections. Corruption, vote-buying, and political violence repeat like a bad script, and we, the audience, have seen it all before. In this personal reflective review, I dive into how the movie mirrors real-life struggles, how it reminds me of my adoptive mother—a teacher once caught in the web of election duty—and why that final Putang ina isn’t just a line, but the collective frustration of an entire nation. Will this film wake us up, or will history repeat itself once again?


I’ve seen this before.
Not on the big screen. Not in some award-winning political thriller.
I’ve seen this in real life.
Every election season, the same script plays out. Violence erupts. Vote-buying runs rampant. Candidates make empty promises while the powerless watch, hoping—maybe this time, it will be different.
It never is.
Balota hits too close to home. It’s a film, but it may as well be a documentary. The chaos, the corruption, the helplessness—it’s all too familiar. And for me, it’s personal.
My adoptive mother was a teacher. Though she never had to flee into the forest with a ballot box like Emmy did, she carried the weight of election duty on her shoulders for many years. Teachers don’t sign up for this fight, yet every election, they are forced into the crossfire. They become reluctant guardians of democracy, trying to protect a system that never protects them back.
That’s what Balota gets right. The suffocating fear. The desperation. The bitter truth that no matter how hard you fight, history repeats itself.
And when Emmy screams that final, searing word—Putang ina!—it doesn’t feel like fiction.
It feels like a nation screaming with her.
The Reality Behind the Film
This isn’t just a movie.
This is the Philippines, every election year.
We’ve heard the stories. Teachers dragged into election chaos, risking their lives for a system that treats them as collateral. Some threatened. Some bribed. Some never made it home.
My mother was never caught in the middle of a gunfight, but I remember the tension. The unspoken fear. The weight she carried every time she was assigned to election duty.
She wasn’t just a teacher on those days. She was a witness. A reluctant participant in a game where the rules were written by those in power.
In Balota, Emmy is that witness. She runs through the forest, ballot box in hand, chased by men who don’t care about democracy—only victory. It’s absurd. It’s terrifying. And it’s real.
One scene refuses to leave my mind.
A group of goons, their hands clasped together, heads bowed in prayer. They make the sign of the cross, murmuring blessings before stepping out to spill blood in the name of their candidate.
This is who we’ve become. A nation that prays before it kills. A people who ask for divine protection before committing the very sins we condemn on Sundays.
Election violence isn’t an anomaly. It’s tradition.
The cycle continues because people let it. Vote-buying isn’t just done in the shadows anymore. It happens in broad daylight, wrapped in cheap promises and crisp bills slipped into eager hands.
Everyone knows. No one stops it.
And every time, we convince ourselves that maybe, just maybe, things will change.
They don’t.
The Ending: A Punch in the Gut
It all comes back to that final scene.
Emmy, exhausted. Bloodied. Eyes hollow from everything she has endured. The ballot box—the symbol of democracy, of hope, of everything she fought for—now just a battered, meaningless object.
The news plays in the background.
The same headlines. The same faces. The same empty outrage.
Nothing has changed.
And then, she says it.
Putang ina.
Sharp. Raw. A curse, not just for herself, but for all of us. For this country that never learns. For the endless cycle of corruption, of stolen elections, of people who cry foul one day and forget the next.
I felt that. Deep in my bones.
Because that’s the thing about Balota. It doesn’t end with victory. There are no triumphant speeches, no moment of redemption. Just that one bitter, searing word.
A scream of frustration that echoes beyond the screen.
Because we all know what happens next.
The cycle begins again.
Will This Film Wake People Up?
That’s the real question, isn’t it?
Will Balota shake people enough to finally say, Tama na? Or will it become just another film—watched, praised, then forgotten when the next election circus comes around?
Filipinos have seen it all. The ballot-snatching. The vote-buying. The killings. The parades of plastic smiles, campaign jingles, and promises that mean nothing. We rage about it online. We joke about it. We call out the corruption while laughing at the very people who enable it.
And then, we move on.
That’s why the film hurts. Because it holds up a mirror, and what we see isn’t just broken politics—it’s us.
We let this happen. Again and again.
But maybe, just maybe, Balota will plant a seed. Maybe someone will watch it and feel that same boiling frustration. Maybe, for once, we won’t just laugh off the insanity of our elections.
Maybe we’ll finally stop waiting for things to change on their own.
Or maybe, when the next election comes, we’ll hear the same news. See the same violence. Watch the same cycle play out.
And all we’ll have left is another Putang ina.
Conclusion: Breaking the Cycle
We say we want change.
But do we?
Every election, we cry out against corruption, against vote-buying, against the same recycled names running the show. Yet when the ballots are cast, the same faces win. The same families tighten their grip. The same headlines flash across our screens.
Nothing changes.
That’s why Balota isn’t just a film—it’s a warning. It forces us to ask the hard questions: When will we stop accepting this as normal? When will we stop laughing at our own suffering? When will we finally decide that enough is enough?
I think about my mother. A teacher who, like many others, was thrown into election duty without a choice. I wonder if she ever felt the same frustration Emmy did. If she ever questioned whether what she was doing mattered, if she ever saw the cycle repeating even then.
I don’t want to keep asking these same questions decades from now.
The film ends with a scream of anger, a word that sums up years of exhaustion, betrayal, and hopelessness. But maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to be the final word.
Maybe the next election, we won’t just watch. We won’t just rage online.
Maybe this time, we’ll fight.
Maybe this time, we’ll break the cycle.
Reflections
Thoughts on life shared over morning coffee.
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