Justice in every kilowatt

Rain, rain, go away, come again another day. Everyone knows this rhyme. There was a time when rain offered a kind of poetry — soft, steady, reflective. But judging from recent days, the skies seem less forgiving.

Like in Metro Manila, where floods now occur an estimated 18 to 20 times a year — according to recent studies — what once felt like a seasonal disruption has become routine. Streets swell, traffic stalls, commuters are stranded, and nights are lit only by phone screens. They say the weather changed. It’s no longer just the weather — it’s something deeper now.

As the rains grow heavier, so do the costs — electricity, water, food, even internet access. For many, disruption quickly turns into a burden. I ask: what kind of power do we need — not just to keep the lights on, but to leave no one in the dark?

Climate change — everyone has something to say, usually in numbers and reports. But it’s also about how we live, how we care, and how we move forward. Renewable energy (RE) was once seen as too costly, too technical, only for the rich. But quietly, across the country, something is shifting.

Players like First Gen are making that shift real. Through its subsidiary, the Energy Development Corporation (EDC), they’ve expanded geothermal, wind, hydro and solar power nationwide.

These aren’t pilot tests. They reflect the long view — a decision to invest in cleaner sources even as our grid still leans on coal and imported fuel.

Meanwhile, smaller ventures like GenWATT Energy Solutions are helping households, cooperatives, and small businesses tap into solar power at less cost — with simpler setups, lighter payments, and clearer benefits. Especially for those tired of rising bills, their real strength lies in how they’re helping people take back control.

This matters even more in the Bangsamoro region, where electricity isn’t always a given. Many parts of Muslim Mindanao suffer from an inadequate supply. Here, renewable energy isn’t just about emissions. It’s about dignity.

Picture a small madrasah on a rainy evening, the pitter-patter on its tin roof, warm light spilling on young faces; a rural health center with the fridge humming through the night, keeping vaccines safe; women at a seaweed farm using a solar dryer that finally frees them from the old, unreliable mill.

Wishful images? No. They’re real.

In fact, in Maguindanao del Norte, a quiet shift is already underway — a solar-powered water system delivering over 4,000 liters of clean water daily, as noted in SolarQuarter’s February 2024 report.

But even good ideas stall without support. When local governments lack technical know-how, policies can be slow. Without financing, it feels out of reach. And without real investment — in people, training, and trust — renewables risk remaining isolated wins.

This brings me back to something familiar: the values behind Muslim democracy — justice, participation, and governance that reflect real lives. It reminds us that power, like representation, shouldn’t be distant while those in the margins wait.

That is energy. When communities light homes, run schools, and power futures without waiting endlessly that’s ownership. That’s dignity. That’s democracy in practice.

Two years ago, I had a casual conversation with two professionals in the solar energy space. I asked, “Should I get a hybrid car?”

Almost simultaneously, they said, “Don’t buy a hybrid…”

I was about to nod, expecting a technical reason. But one of them grinned and said: “Get yourself a hybrid solar system for your house — and thank us later.” I laughed, nodded, and tucked it away.

But even if the lights stayed on, the cost of electricity was another story. I should have listened.