Cogito Obligatur

We may have killed the Bill, but kaore ano kia mutu ta matou mahi. In Aotearoa, Te Tiriti o Waitangi isn’t just a Māori issue—it’s the foundation of the very ground every person walks on. And for Filipino migrants, for tauiwi from all walks, upholding Te Tiriti isn’t just solidarity—it’s justice. The idea that “when Indigenous rights are recognised, so too will migrant rights be”—that’s not a metaphor. That’s a principle of liberation. Because the same systems that tried to erase Māori are the same ones that can silence migrants, the same ones that say, “You can live here—but don’t speak too loudly. Don’t rock the boat. Be grateful, be quiet.” But when we uphold Te Tiriti: We say Māori sovereignty is not a threat—it’s a template for justice. We reject assimilation and demand inclusion on our terms. We strengthen the fabric of Aotearoa by recognising that manaakitanga, kotahitanga, and whanaungatanga are not just Māori values—they are human values. When we, Filipinos, and other migrant ...

On 4 July 2015, a day before my twenty-eighth birthday, I found myself with a few friends in the quiet Polish town of Oświęcim, 66 kilometres southwest of Poland’s second largest city, Kraków. It was a quiet, primarily agricultural town, except for one feature. It is in this town where the biggest monument to remind us of the horrors of World War II is located – the Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp, which the Polish government converted into a memorial museum to remember the martyrdom of those who suffered during the Holocaust. As someone who only knew about the horrors of World War II through studies, the media, and accounts from my grandparents who lived through its horrors, seeing the memory left behind by the victims of the Holocaust made me feel like I was also experiencing war at that moment. To say that the experience was life-changing is an understatement. It also felt emancipatory, but at the time I did not understand why. The mainstream, rational understanding of war a...

Before I begin, let me tell you a story: In the ancient world, before the sky was tamed and the stars were chained, there was a dragon whose very existence defied the heavens. Skybreaker. Born of fire and ice, he was forged in the depths of Mt. Caldrithar, a volcano so fierce it burned with both the heat of magma and the cold of the abyss. The mountain roared as it birthed him—scales of blue steel, a body wreathed in steam, wings vast enough to blot out the sun. He emerged, not crawling nor learning, but rising, for he was never meant to bow. The gods themselves feared his arrival. They had spent eons crafting order—rules, boundaries, destinies pre-written in the stars. Skybreaker was an aberration, a being who would not be bound by prophecy nor leashed by fate. And so, they sought to chain him. They sent their celestial warriors, the Seraphic Wardens, with lances of light and armor of the firmament. They descended in legions, their voices like thunder, demanding that Skybreaker kneel....

When people hear the name Niccolò Machiavelli, they often think of ruthlessness, manipulation, and political cunning. His infamous work, The Prince , has long been regarded as a handbook for the power-hungry, a guide for rulers who wish to maintain control through deception, fear, and, when necessary, cruelty. At least, that was how I understood it the first time I read it. But returning to The Prince recently, I found myself questioning this long-held interpretation. What if we've been reading it all wrong? What if The Prince isn’t just an instruction manual for autocrats, but also a cautionary tale about the dangers of power itself? To truly understand The Prince, we must first consider the man who wrote it. Niccolò Machiavelli was no armchair philosopher—he was a Florentine diplomat, deeply entrenched in the turbulent politics of Renaissance Italy. He witnessed firsthand the chaos of shifting alliances, the ruthless ambition of ruling families, and the fragility of power. His ...

Photo generated by DALL-E 3.0 Time, as a social construct, is deeply interwoven with the narrative of modernity, which has defined progress as a linear, forward-moving force. We are conditioned to see time as an unbroken progression—from the past to the present, with the future awaiting just ahead. In this framework, the past is something to be left behind, and the present is seen as a fleeting moment on a one-way path toward the future. However, this view of time is not a universal truth; it is a construct, an illusion shaped by modernity's promise that we must always move forward. By stepping back and reconsidering time through a broader lens—particularly that of the cosmos—we begin to see that this linear understanding is not only incomplete but dangerously restrictive. Time, both as a scientific concept and a social construct, requires rethinking: a new framework that embraces the cyclical, interconnected nature of existence and the lessons of the past as we navigate the future...

Photo courtesy of Otago Daily Times Today marks six years since the horrific terrorist attack in Ōtautahi, a day that continues to reverberate through the soul of Aotearoa. Fifty-one innocent lives were stolen in an act of senseless violence—lives marked by faith, family, and community. As we remember, we must do more than mourn. We must ask ourselves: are we truly confronting the forces that led to this? Are we repeating the same cycles of ignorance, fear, and hatred that brought this tragedy into being? To answer that, we must ask: how do we understand time? How do we perceive the past? And more importantly, how do we reckon with it? "Past is past," they say. But this is a convenient myth. We cannot simply reject the past, nor can we ignore how it shapes us. In astrophysics , we measure the distance of stars and galaxies in light years —the time it takes for light to travel from one object to another. The light we see from the sun, for example, is not the sun as it is now...

Photo generated by Dall-E The Philippines has long grappled with a culture of impunity, where those in power often evade accountability for crimes committed under their watch. Former President Rodrigo Duterte's brutal drug war, which led to thousands of extrajudicial killings, is a glaring example of this pattern. Yet, despite mounting international pressure, domestic legal and political realities continue to shield him from prosecution. With the International Criminal Court (ICC) reopening its investigation into the drug war, the question arises: will Duterte finally be held accountable, or will history repeat itself? In 2018, the Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute, the treaty that established the ICC. However, the Supreme Court ruled in 2021 that the withdrawal does not absolve the country of its obligations for crimes committed while it was still a member. Since the ICC had already initiated its preliminary examination in 2018—before the withdrawal took effect in 2019—it...

Since the arrest of Rodrigo Duterte by Interpol in Manila, a wave of misinformation and denial has spread among his supporters. Many claim that his arrest is baseless, that the charges lack evidence, or that the International Criminal Court (ICC) has no jurisdiction over the case. These arguments, however, collapse under scrutiny. To set the record straight, let’s address the most common misconceptions surrounding Duterte’s arrest and why it is not only legally justified but also a crucial step toward accountability. 1. “The ICC has no jurisdiction over Duterte because the Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute in 2019.” This is one of the most frequently cited arguments, but it is completely false. The ICC retains jurisdiction over crimes committed while a country was still a member. The Philippines was a state party to the Rome Statute from 2002 to 2019, and Duterte’s most egregious human rights violations—including the thousands of extrajudicial killings (EJKs) under his drug...

photo courtesy of www.getdrawings.com Anyone who knows me knows I’m a huge Harry Potter fan. I’ve read the books, watched the movies, got sorted into my house (Hep hep Slytherin!), discovered my Patronus, and received my wand. But throughout the seven books (or eight films), there is one element of the series that resonates with me the most—the Tale of the Three Brothers, or the Tale of the Deathly Hallows. For those who might not be familiar with the story, let me summarize: Three wizard brothers come across a treacherous river. Since they are wizards, they use their magic to create a bridge. As they cross, they encounter Death, who feels cheated because no souls were taken from the brothers. In his cunning way, Death pretends to congratulate them for their cleverness and offers each of them a gift. The first brother, Antioch, desires to be the most powerful wizard in the world, so Death gives him the Elder Wand. The second brother, Cadmus, wishes to bring back his lost love, and Deat...