Holy Week is still a few days away, but walk into any gas station and you’ll see that the crucifixion has already started. We aren't carrying wooden crosses yet but we’re definitely being nailed to that digital price board at the corner of the street.
As I stood there last night, watching a sea of idling motorcycles waiting for the clock to hit midnight, it hit me: we aren't just pilgrims watching a ritual, we are the ones being offered up as the sacrifice.
This sacrifice begins the moment you pull up to the pump. It feels less like a quick stop and more like standing in a courtroom, waiting for a verdict we already know is guilty. There’s a heavy, collective silence as we stare at the clock, praying the pump doesn’t click over to the new price before it’s our turn.
This ₱24 surge marks the highest in our history, and they label it a "market adjustment." But for the people in this line, it’s a sentence handed down to every worker and student in a city.
In my class, we’d label this market deregulation and move on to the next slide, but on the ground, you can feel the air leave the room. It’s the first blow of a long and expensive week.
Then comes the part where we actually have to carry the thing. Today, that ₱24 hike isn't just a headline but a literal physical weight.
You’ll feel it the moment you climb into a jeepney or a tricycle. We debate whether capitalism or socialism fits better in this country—but for a student living on a ₱15 minimum fare, those "isms" don't really mean a thing. What matters is that the commute just got ten pesos heavier, and we’re expected to carry that burden all the way to campus without a peep.
It’s the ultimate sacrifice play. In the grand theater of global economics, someone always has to bleed so the markets can stay stable—and it’s always the "karaniwang tao" (commoners).
Because a missile hit a refinery thousands of miles away, a father in our city has to sacrifice his children’s dinner just to fill his tank. We are literally bleeding silver coins just to keep the global gears turning.
And what is the response from the top? A "mercy" that feels more like an exile.
Legislators are tossing us a bone by suggesting a four-day workweek and a return to the glowing screens of online classes. They are telling us to lock ourselves away and stop moving, because the simple act of existing in our own city has become a luxury we can no longer afford.
It’s the peak of gaslighting. We are being told this is necessary while it’s the very thing killing our budget.
Stability of the global market is built on the quiet exhaustion of the common people. We are being conditioned to call this "resilience," as if losing sleep to save twenty pesos at 11:59 PM is a badge of honor rather than a systemic failure.
There is nothing holy about a crisis that forces a student to choose between a jeepney fare and a decent meal.
We’ve been tricked into thinking we’re just passengers in this car, but we’re the ones paying for the gas, the tires, and the driver’s lunch while the wheels are falling off.
Now, when that fare hits your wallet, realize that it’s the weight of a world that has decided your struggle is a necessary sacrifice. We are the ones on the cross, one liter at a time. The clock has struck midnight, the price has changed, and the burden just got heavier. The only question left is how much more we are expected to carry before the system finally breaks.
