It’s funny how sometimes the mind and the heart pull us in two different directions. That’s exactly how I’ve been feeling thinking about the upcoming event in The Hague. The last day of the photo exhibit dedicated to FPRRD, and a chance to see Vice President Sara Duterte, is happening tomorrow. It’s something I truly want to be part of.
As a Filipina living abroad, moments like this—where Filipinos gather, where we show support, where we see familiar faces—feel special. But even though the desire is strong, I have to weigh things carefully.
The Hague is just about three hours away from where I live. In the grand scheme of things, three hours isn’t that long. But when you’re a parent, and you have a daughter to think about, that time stretches. She’s done long drives before. She’s actually been great during them, and I know she’s capable of handling it. Still, every trip brings new variables, and my mind doesn’t stop running through all the what-ifs. Will she be tired? Will the weather make the trip more stressful? Will the crowds be overwhelming for her? Even though there’s a strong part of me that says, “It’ll be fine,” the mom in me can’t shake off the worry.
My husband, who’s not exactly excited about these things, is willing to drive. That says a lot, and I appreciate it more than I probably show. He knows how much this means to me, and sometimes that’s all the support you really need. But even with his help, another concern has popped up: the weather. Rain clouds are on the horizon, and if you’ve done any kind of long-distance driving with kids in less-than-ideal weather, you know that adds another layer of stress.
So I’m leaning toward not going. There’s a tinge of disappointment, of course. I would love to be there, standing side by side with fellow kababayans, seeing the photos that remind us of home, feeling that energy in the air when people come together for something they believe in. But I also believe in listening to the voice inside that says, “Maybe next time.”
Because there will be a next time. That’s one of the lessons I’ve learned over the years. Just because you miss one opportunity doesn’t mean it’s the end. What matters is keeping the spirit alive.
I still fully support FPRRD, and I continue to hope that he can come home to the Philippines, where so many still believe in him. His win as mayor of Davao is a strong statement. It tells me that no matter where the stories and headlines go, people on the ground remember the work, the results, the presence. Davao is a city that carries its own identity, but his leadership has shaped much of that.
I know that for some, going to events like the one in The Hague might be about more than just showing support. Some go for the photos, for the exposure, for the clout, as people say these days. But honestly, that doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that people show up. Whatever brings them there—curiosity, admiration, social media—it adds to the headcount. And in moments like these, numbers speak. They reflect a community. A silent message: we are here, we remember, and we care.
I imagine what tomorrow will look like. The exhibit, the crowd, the conversations. I see the photos printed, framed, lined up neatly. Each one tells a different story, captures a different time, a different mood. I picture people standing quietly, some smiling, some maybe getting emotional.
For us who live far from the Philippines, anything that brings us back—even for a few minutes—is a gift. We cling to these events not because we’re stuck in the past, but because they help us feel connected to our roots. They remind us who we are.
There’s something beautiful about gatherings like this. They’re more than just political. They’re deeply personal. People bring their families, their friends, even their children. You’ll see seniors who remember the earlier years, and young people who may not know every detail but carry the spirit.
You’ll hear Tagalog, Bisaya, Ilocano—languages that make the air feel like home. There’ll be laughter, debate, shared food, maybe even a few karaoke tunes after the official program. It’s not just an event; it’s a feeling.
So even though I might not go, my heart is already there. I’ll probably be scrolling through photos shared online, watching short videos, reading comments. Some posts will bring me joy, some might make me miss the Philippines more than I expect, and some will remind me why these things matter. Because they tell us that we’re not alone. That our voices, though scattered across different parts of the world, still carry meaning.
And perhaps that’s the bigger message I carry from all this: we all support in our own ways. Some are able to show up physically. Others share posts online, donate, write, speak. And some, like me this time, simply stay home but keep the hope alive in their hearts. It doesn’t make the support any less real. If anything, it shows how strong and wide our community can be.
So here I am, writing this not out of regret, but out of reflection. I might not make the trip tomorrow, and I’m at peace with that. Because I know that support is not defined by one moment. It’s something that builds over time. It shows up in decisions, in conversations, in the way we raise our children, and in the values we pass on.
Maybe one day, I’ll bring my daughter to one of these events and she’ll understand a little more about who we are and what we stand for. Maybe she’ll see the pride in my eyes and feel it in her own heart. Maybe we’ll both take photos, not just for clout, but to remember that we were part of something bigger.
Until then, I’ll keep watching, hoping, and praying for home—for better days for the Philippines, and for leaders who truly care. And I’ll always be ready for the next time.
