A surreal moment unfolded on the banks of the Pasig River late afternoon of 20 January 2001. Hidden from a mob surging outside the Palace gates, Joseph “Erap” Estrada — once a box-office king and now a beleaguered president — boarded a small barge behind Malacañang Palace.

His wife Loi was with him, along with a handful of close aides and family members. There were no grand speeches as the barge pulled away from the seat of power. Armed soldiers stood at a distance, some saluting quietly, others looking away. A few were said to have wept.

Inside the barge, Erap sat in contemplation. He hadn’t signed a resignation letter, but the Supreme Court would later declare that he had effectively vacated the presidency. It was the end of a political dream that had begun with the bold promise: Erap para sa mahirap.

Born Jose Marcelo Ejercito in Tondo on 19 April 1937, Estrada secured his political star not through elite grooming or technocratic credentials, but as a movie star who portrayed the underdog — the gangster with a heart, the crook who cared, the reluctant hero who punched up for the little guy. Those roles would come to define his public persona and political appeal.

After dominating Philippine cinema for three decades and founding the Movie Workers Welfare Fund (MOWELFUND), he entered politics in 1969 as mayor of San Juan. His success in delivering tangible help to the poor — funeral assistance, free medicine, scholarship grants — made him a local legend.

He served as senator, then as vice president under President Fidel V. Ramos, during which he would concurrently head the Presidential Anti-Crime Commission. Still, it was in 1998 that his national stardom translated into an electoral landslide. Estrada won the presidency with 10 million votes — the largest mandate at the time — on a populist platform that promised to bring dignity and opportunity to the poor.

However, Estrada’s years in Malacañang proved tumultuous. He held informal meetings wearing slippers. He preferred blunt or “kanto boy” talk to legalese. Critics said his friends were cronies; supporters said they were just old drinking buddies partaking of pricey Petrus or Johnny Walker Blue. While technocrats bristled, the masses felt heard. He launched pro-poor programs, pushed housing projects and handed out aid to indigent patients and fire victims.

But allegations of corruption, especially a damning exposé by political ally-turned-nemesis Chavit Singson, linking him to an illegal numbers game — jueteng — led to an impeachment trial in late 2000. When senators blocked the opening of a controversial bank envelope — suspected of containing key evidence — prosecutors walked out. The country erupted.

What followed was EDSA II: Days of protest, the withdrawal of military support and, finally, the quiet ride on that river barge to San Juan. His vice president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, was sworn in that same afternoon, and the Supreme Court would declare his departure a “constructive resignation.”

Conviction, pardon and return

In 2007, Estrada was convicted of plunder and sentenced to reclusion perpetua, becoming the first Philippine president found guilty of corruption. Yet just a month later, President Arroyo pardoned him. Some said it was a political compromise; others said it was closure.

What’s remarkable is that Estrada didn’t retreat. He ran for president again in 2010, finishing a strong second to Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino III. In 2013, he made another comeback — this time as mayor of Manila, serving two full terms until 2019. He held “Malasakit” caravans, revived health centers, and returned to his old habit of visiting barangays, this time not as a president, but as a city mayor.

Estrada’s life is a paradox. He was, by his own admission, no saint. He loved brandy, horses and women. He fathered children across multiple relationships. Yet to many Filipinos, especially the poor, he never stopped being “Erap” — the guy who answered their letters, paid for their medicine, and showed up at wakes and fire scenes when no one else did.

He was honored by the Senate in 2024 for his contributions to politics and film. Even his harshest critics could not deny that his story — imperfect, cinematic and deeply human — reflected the soul of a country that often forgives, and always remembers.

Estrada did not cling to power. In the end, he walked away — through a side gate, across the river and into history. And if only so bloodbath could be averted.

And for all that was lost, perhaps that quiet ride on a Pasig barge was also his greatest legacy: Proof that even the most powerful among us must, one day, bow to the will of the people, or a bloodthirsty mob.