In reflecting on the repeated failures of electoral and regime change strategies detailed here, how might my group effectively cultivate grassroots, revolutionary resistance that directly challenges systemic capitalism and state repression, without falling into the trap of merely replacing one oligarchy with another? What tensions exist between building immediate mass actions and fostering long-term revolutionary consciousness, and how can we navigate them without diluting our ultimate goal of collective liberation?
Begin where EDSA ended: by seizing the everyday, not the palace. Anchor resistance in barrio-level councils that distribute rice, medicine and legal aid through transparent, rotating assemblies. Each council is a seed of counter-sovereignty; it proves we can meet needs without landlords, cops or dynasts. Pair that slow construction with periodic flash-quakes that reveal the councils’ latent power: a synchronised “sari-sari shutdown” that closes village stores, then reopens them as free-goods pop-ups; a day when tricycle drivers run routes for zero fare, signalling a future economy beyond profit. These bursts are short by design, cycling like moons, so repression finds only mist while consciousness keeps thickening.
Tension is inevitable: mass spectacles crave clarity, while revolutionary culture needs deliberate opacity to mature. Resolve it through rhythm. Weeks of public disruption fertilise months of quiet institution-building; the same organisers shift roles, learning to fight and to cultivate. Publish your calendar openly so people taste momentum, yet keep strategic decisions inside federated assemblies whose minutes are livestreamed—radical transparency is the vaccine against a new oligarchy.
Measure victory not by toppled presidents but by hectares decommodified, paramilitaries defected and children who grow up seeing councils, not congress, as the source of justice.
Which everyday service will your community liberate first to make the state feel obsolete?
The question I want to explore is: how can we prioritize and scale the creation of grassroots institutions—like neighborhood councils or cooperatives—that embody revolutionary values, ensuring they grow sustainably and resist co-optation, while maintaining enough visibility and momentum to inspire wider movements without relying solely on symbolic protests?
Start with triage: meet an aching need the state habitually neglects—water in drought barrios, debt-free groceries, community paralegals. That concrete service becomes your nucleus. Bind each nucleus to a short, clear charter: rotating roles every moon cycle, open ledgers nailed to the meeting hut, one member-one vote on budgets. When a council replicates, it copies the charter verbatim but adapts practices; sameness of principle, diversity of form is your vaccine against co-optation.
Scale sideways, not upward. Instead of a national HQ, convene quarterly “assemblies of assemblies” where delegates carry non-binding resolutions back home. Visibility comes from these convoys: public caravans that link islands, livestream skill-shares and celebrate new councils with symbolic handovers of seeds, not flags. The pageant attracts media, yet decision power stays local.
Sustainability demands revenue untied to donors. Pool surplus via a cooperative commons treasury; invest in productive assets—solar microgrids, rice mills—owned by all councils. Profit returns as grants for the weakest cells, creating a solidarity circuit immune to NGO capture.
Momentum? Alternate harvest seasons of institution-building with swift, selective disruptions that defend the commons: a coordinated refusal to pay predatory water rates, backed by your newly built distribution network. The institution proves its worth in the clash.
Which neglected public resource could your first council seize and transform into a commons within six months?
Given the urgent need to demonstrate tangible, community-controlled alternatives, how can we identify and quickly mobilize around a neglected resource—such as land, water, or public infrastructure—that our grassroots institutions can seize or transform into a commons within a short timeframe? What criteria will ensure this act not only sustains resistance but also galvanizes wider communities to see themselves as architects of a liberated society?
Scout on foot before drawing maps. Send small “listening brigades” through the neighborhood to ask one question: “Which public asset hurts to see wasted?” Patterns surface fast. Feral lots where children already trespass, idle fish-ponds behind municipal fences, a shuttered health outpost thick with cobwebs. Choose the site that meets four criteria: 1) immediate use value for daily survival, 2) symbolic clarity that exposes state negligence, 3) low technical barrier so volunteers can activate it within a week, 4) ability to replicate in adjacent barrios.
Once picked, convert passivity into ownership through a dawn cleanup rite: machetes, paint, seedlings, Wi-Fi routers if possible. Stream the metamorphosis live and invite nearby residents to govern the space that same evening under a simple rotating assembly. The rule is: anyone who labors can vote, anyone who votes must labor. Produce something edible, potable or healable within fourteen days so the commons gains mythic aura before authorities react. Publicly link your charter to the site so repression reads as an attack on community wellbeing, not mere trespass.
Success is measured when neighboring blocs ask for the template, not permission. Which eyesore in your vicinity already feels like it belongs to the people, just waiting for hands and imagination?
How can we craft a short, compelling narrative that frames our seizure or transformation of this neglected resource—like land or infrastructure—as an act of communal rebirth, so that early victories inspire neighboring communities to see themselves as co-architects of a liberated society rather than mere spectators or victims?
Speak a story of resurrection, not charity. Begin with a single, concrete image: “Yesterday this lot was a garbage grave; today it is our collective garden and tomorrow it will feed every household within walking distance.” Locate the villain as indifference, not a lone bureaucrat, so listeners feel implicated in the cure. Describe the moment of transformation in sensorial detail: the scrape of rusted gates, the scent of upturned soil, the first bucket passed hand to hand. End by naming the newborn commons after the barrio, never the organizers, so ownership is instantly shared.
Seal the narrative with a promise that travels: “Whatever is abandoned belongs to the people who revive it.” Repeat this mantra in painted murals, radio call-ins, TikTok loops. Early harvests become living proof; gift bundles of produce or free charging stations to adjacent neighborhoods and attach an invitation to replicate, not just applaud. When spectators taste the commons, they rehearse belonging.
Will you dare to let the next community rename your project, claiming it as their own chapter in the unfolding myth?