Heat used to seem like a common annoyance in the Philippines, a familiar inconvenience that every Filipino grew up with. Sticky afternoons, overworked electric fans, and a miracle of sporadic respite of rain. It was typical. Predictable. Almost comforting in its consistency.
But lately, the heat feels different. It no longer simply rests on the skin. It pierces and burns. Stepping outside is now draining and suffocating. It is the kind of uncomfortable heat that makes you pause and ask, “Has it always been like this?” Or “Have we just learned to tolerate too much?”
And perhaps that is the more unsettling question, not just about the weather, but about us. Because in many ways, the way we talk about heat mirrors the way we talk about politics in this country. We have disturbingly grown accustomed to political chaos as part of the Filipino condition. Corruption scandals, injustices, and empty promises have become as routine as humid mornings in the Philippines. It is our version of calling a burning afternoon “just another summer day.”
But just like the heat, something has shifted. What once felt tolerable now feels too much to handle. The crookedness is so blatant that ignoring it is more like fooling ourselves. The abuse of power is now on display in the open, no longer hiding in the shadows. They demand attention. They weigh down on the public the same way this unforgiving heat does: relentlessly, unapologetically.
And yet we are reluctant to call it what it is. In the same way that we dismiss the scorching sun as something we have to simply endure, we dismiss political decay as something we are too powerless to confront. There is a danger in this kind of normalization. Because we can never avoid the consequences of something that continues to happen, even if we pretend it is not. Such is the case with governance. For as long as corruption gets worse, accountability becomes more elusive, and truth can be bargained for, ignoring such realities will only make them worse.
The heat we are experiencing now forces acknowledgment. It disrupts routine. It demands adjustment. You cannot walk under a punishing sun and pretend it is just a gentle warmth. Politics should be no different. If the system burns, we should not call it summer. Instead, we should call for accountability and action. Because the longer we keep insisting that it is normal, the more we risk losing our sense of what normal should actually feel like. And by the time we finally admit that something is wrong, we may already be too accustomed to the discomfort to remember that we deserved better all along.
This country is on fire. And the most dangerous thing we can do is keep convincing ourselves that it is just the weather.
