Tired of Loving a Country That Won’t Love Itself

Loving a country isn’t blind loyalty—it’s demanding better. But how long can hope survive when the Philippines settles for less and refuses to change?

They tell me my words are too harsh. Too negative.

That I should write about hope instead.

That if I have so many complaints about the Philippines, I should just leave.

As if loving your country means pretending it isn’t falling apart.

As if the only way to show patriotism is through blind loyalty, not righteous anger.

As if pointing out what is broken makes you less of a Filipino, when in truth, it’s the silence that betrays this nation the most.

I do not hate the Philippines.

I hate how Filipinos have been conditioned to accept so little.

To celebrate what should be expected.

To lower their standards so much that even a drop of decency from a politician feels like an act of heroism.

A road gets paved? "Wow, ang galing niya."

Never mind that the funding for that project was taken from taxpayers.

A new law is passed? "Salamat sa pagmamalasakit."

But wasn't that their job to begin with?

Filipinos clap for leaders who simply do what they were elected to do.

A mayor cleans up a city, and suddenly he is hailed as a savior.

A senator passes one good law, and people act as if they owe him their loyalty for life.

A president fulfills a campaign promise, and his supporters demand unwavering gratitude—never mind the other promises left broken.

They defend corruption with passion.

They see criticism as an attack, rather than an opportunity to demand better.

The bar is so low that even mediocrity is applauded.

And when you ask for more? When you say, "We deserve better"? You are met with hostility.

"Eh di lumayas ka kung ayaw mo dito."

As if expecting competence is too much.

As if wanting a country that protects its people, that values their dignity, that does not exploit their suffering—is a crime.

We laugh at our problems. Because what else is there to do?

Gas prices soar, and we joke about needing bicycles.

Traffic gets worse, and we turn it into a running gag.

Government officials steal from public funds, and we turn them into punchlines rather than demanding justice.

We turn our tragedies into memes, our hardships into running jokes.

We make light of everything until the weight of it no longer registers.

Wala na tayong magagawa.

But there is always something that can be done. The problem is, too many are unwilling.

Too many are comfortable in their discomfort, unwilling to shake the foundations of a system that thrives on their silence.

And those who do speak up?

They are ridiculed and dismissed, their voices drowned out by those who refuse to face the truth.

Loving a country is not just about singing the anthem with pride.

In other nations, leaders are scrutinized, held accountable, and even forced to step down when they fail their people.

Citizens demand transparency, question policies, and push for systemic reforms—understanding that criticism is an essential part of progress, not a reason to be silenced.

Here, questioning authority is seen as betrayal, when in reality, it is the highest form of patriotism.

It is not about waving the flag or waxing poetic about resilience.

Love should not be blind.

If you truly love something, you do not let it rot.

You do not allow it to keep making the same mistakes.

You do not turn your back when it chooses the wrong path.

So yes, I will continue to write about what is wrong.

Not because I have given up, but because I still have hope—no matter how tired I am.

Because love, real love, does not mean silence.

It means fighting for change, even when the fight feels impossible.

But how long can hope survive in a country that refuses to change?

The answer is up to us.

Hope fades when we stay silent,

when we accept scraps instead of justice,

when we let them convince us that things will never change.

But hope endures when we refuse to be complacent.

When we demand more.

When we remind those in power that they serve us—not the other way around.