Hinugyaw: Finding joy amid the austerity

January in the Philippines is a cacophony of faith and color. From the rhythmic thumping of the Ati-Atihan in Aklan to the sea of devotees in Quiapo for the Black Nazarene and the vibrant Hinugyaw Festival in Koronadal, the archipelago is alive. To an outsider, this might seem like a paradox — how can a nation so burdened by the “weak La Niña” rains and the biting belt-tightening of a global recession find the energy to dance?

But as we delve into the final pillar of our 2026 outlook, we realize that for the Filipino, joy is not a luxury. It is a form of resistance.

The theme of Radical Accountability that I have hammered home this month is often associated with ange — the righteous rage we feel when we see “fake graduates” devaluing the hard-earned diplomas of our youth, or when we see the “hunger crisis” being met with mere dole-outs instead of sustainable agribusiness. But accountability also requires a soul. It requires a community that believes it is worthy of joy, and therefore worthy of a government that doesn’t steal it.

As we face an era of austerity, our “Hinugyaw” — our outpour of joy — must be channeled into the “neighborhood” of our governance. We are currently witnessing a fascinating shift: the rise of the “unexpected heroes.” These are the local cooperatives in Northern Mindanao who, despite the economic squeeze, pushed for and secured a meaningful pay hike for their workers. These are the community pantry organizers who have evolved into digital transparency advocates, tracking how local health credits are spent.

Our “Unbreakable Thread” is being tested by a new kind of “monster”: Apathy. The rogue official counts on our exhaustion. They hope that the struggle to put food on the table will leave us too tired to question the “contingency funds” vanishing in the capital. They want our festivals to be mere distractions.

But this year, let us flip the script. Let the Hinugyaw remind us that we are a collective. When we dance in the streets of Cebu for Sinulog, we aren’t just individuals; we are a formidable force. Why can’t that same energy be applied to our “Digital Frontlines?” We must carry that sense of communal protection into the digital space, ensuring that the “Conscience of the Code” protects the sidewalk vendor as much as the tech CEO.

We look forward to a 2026 where we don’t just survive; we thrive because we refuse to let go of our humanity. Whether you are a farmer in South Cotabato or a BPO worker in Taguig, your right to a dignified life — one where joy isn’t overshadowed by the fear of the next bill or the next corrupt scandal — is non-negotiable.

The festivals of January are a “Digital Baptism” of a different sort — a renewal of our vows to this country. The Gavel will continue to strike against the thieves of our future, but it will also ring in harmony with the laughter of a people who refuse to be broken.

The party isn’t over, but the rules have changed. This year, we dance with our eyes wide open.