Random Shots

Madam President (Irn) 2

Irene stood tall at the steps of Ateneo de Manila University, a place she hadn’t visited in decades. The air was warm and humid, and the campus was buzzing with activity as students went about their usual routines. This visit had been scheduled for weeks, and while she had anticipated a formal welcome, she was aware of the growing tensions. The shadows of her family’s history still loomed large, especially in spaces where activism flourished. She wore a calm and composed expression, as she had learned to do over the years, even as she felt the simmering resentment around her.

As she entered the campus, escorted by her presidential guards, the familiar chants began to rise in the distance, growing louder with each step she took.

“Marcos, Diktador, Tuta!”

Irene’s face remained impassive. She had heard those words all her life. It was a chant from a different time, yet here it was, echoing through the halls of the university. She had made peace with the complexities of her past, her father’s legacy, and her family’s name. But the world had not.

As the crowd grew larger, students armed with placards, megaphones, and conviction surged forward, surrounding the path. Some of the placards bore messages that were harsher than the chants, but Irene remained calm, her posture regal. Her guards formed a protective barrier around her, their presence palpable but not aggressive. They had strict instructions not to engage, to let the president handle the situation with the dignity befitting her office.

But the students were relentless.

“Marcos, Diktador, Tuta!” The words rang out like a battle cry, over and over, gaining momentum as more students joined the throng.

The tension in the air was thick. Irene kept walking, her heart steady but her mind alert, calculating every step, every move, prepared for the worst but hoping for the best. Ateneo had always been a place of intellectual freedom, a place of protest. She respected that. She understood it, even if it was directed at her.

As she reached the courtyard, where a group of protesters had gathered to block her exit, the chants became deafening. The crowd pressed in closer, their anger palpable.

Then, suddenly, something snapped.

A protester broke through the guards' barrier and lunged at her, shoving her shoulder with force. It wasn’t a calculated move, just the impulsive action of a young person driven by emotion. Before the guards could react, others followed suit, pushing and grabbing at Irene, their voices rising to a fever pitch.

The scene descended into chaos. Irene staggered but quickly regained her balance. Her guards surged forward, trying to shield her from the growing wave of aggression, but the protesters had the upper hand with their sheer numbers. Placards were thrown, hands reached out, and the air was filled with angry shouts.

"Marcos, Diktador, Tuta! Never Again! Hindi bayani si Marcos! " they screamed in unison, their voices fueled by rage.

Irene felt the sharp sting of a slap across her face, a forceful tug at her coat, a shove to her side. For a moment, the world spun around her, and the noise of the crowd became a dull roar in her ears.

Then, out of nowhere, a girl appeared—a petite, chinita girl, her features delicate but her presence fierce. Without hesitation, she pushed her way through the mob, cutting through the chaos with an air of authority and urgency. She was a student, no older than twenty, but in that moment, she commanded attention.