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For once, let us judge. Let the discriminated discriminate, let our anger and cry fill your ears, let our rage be felt piercing through skins. Gela Alonte. Christine Lim. Claudine Co. You are not merely “socialites” or “influencers”, you are the daughters of thieves. You live in comfort because of public funds. You use our taxes to live a lavish life, while the nation that funds your comfort drowns in poverty and floodwater. We wake up every day with the weight of bills heavier than our own bodies. Electricity, tuition, food, every single peso is stretched. We are forced to pay taxes despite almost not making the meet ends. And where does it go? To you. Even before the money reaches our hands, the government has already taken its share in taxes. We endure because of its purpose. But we are not benefitting anything from what we've been paying. It all falls inside your pockets—your dad's. The very princess life you are living. When the storms come and our houses collapse, when the sick die waiting for medicine that never arrives, we realize where our money went. To you. To your Chanel bags, your tinted cars, your spoiled lives that you so much flex on Instagram. While mothers in the provinces walk through waist-deep floods carrying children who cry for food, you pose with a handbag that could have built a dike to keep those very floods away. While families beg in government hospitals for a single bed, you glide through your air-conditioned rooms, resting and comfortable. That's a privilege to you. A life you don't have to suffer because your family being part of the government can take our taxes anytime, in just a snap of a finger. And when people dare to call you out, when they spit words of anger at you online, you dismiss it as “bashing.” But this is the cry of a people forced to suffer while your families fatten themselves on stolen public funds. The pain you hear in our voices is not jealousy but hunger. Exhaustion. The rage of working every day only to finance your excess. You are not influencers. You are parasites. A proof of the rot your families have planted deep in this country. It does not immortalize your parties or your outfits. It immortalizes your shame. Your names will not be written in gold, but in the mud and floodwater that swallowed our homes. For once, let us judge. Let our screams be heard and our rage be felt. Let our words cut deeper than a knife while your family keeps telling you to ignore our voices. History is not kind to the children of thieves. You will not be remembered as daughters of power. Instead, you will be remembered as daughters of plunderers.