‘The question is: Are we ready to turn what we hear into something we live?’
GROWING up in the early 2000s, many of us remember how Araling Panlipunan teachers would ask us to write reflections on the President’s State of the Nation Address. It was, for most students, a chore but also a glorious respite. The SONA is aired at 4 in the afternoon, and since my school was just a few turns away from the Batasang Pambansa, we were often dismissed early. The official reason: traffic. The unofficial one: so we could listen.
I remember those days vividly: lawmakers arriving in resplendent barongs and ternos, the chaotic river of vehicles choking Commonwealth Avenue, and my curious wonder at the spectacle. But more than what the eyes could see, I remember the act of listening. At first, it was forced. Later, it became a habit. Now, I consider it a duty.
Four presidents later, I still marvel at how the President’s men and women manage to rewire a year’s worth of national life into one sweeping narrative crafted, curated, and delivered before a nation hungry for results but often exhausted by spin.
Two presidents ago, I was no longer just a viewer; I was part of the machine. As a senior speechwriter and media officer in a national agency, I witnessed firsthand how SONAs are built. Contrary to popular belief, they do not come together in just a few weeks. They begin as early as November of the previous year, when agencies begin submitting performance reports highlighting what they did right and massaging what went wrong.
We sent our report to the Presidential Management Staff (PMS), which filtered, reviewed, and rewrote everything. Then came the drafts, multiple versions refined for tone, timing, and political nuance. The speech would reach “The Boss” in its final form, complete with footnotes and rehearsals. On the day itself, the thousands of words we submitted would be reduced to a few sentences. I remember once, just three. But those three sentences mattered. They reflected not just metrics but sweat.
This is why I believe listening to the SONA is a dignified way of paying homage not only to the President but to his people – the public servants, field workers, analysts, and staffers who make those promises happen. Each number is a name. Each paragraph a thousand stories.
The SONA, first delivered in 1936 by President Manuel L. Quezon, began as a constitutional requirement, a formal report to Congress. But over the decades, it became a performance of statehood. Each president has redefined their tone:
Gloria Macapagal Arroyo was clinical and data-heavy. Her 2005 SONA had over 11,000 words, detailing a ten-point agenda, regional projects, and technocratic achievements, yet she faced a public riddled with distrust after the “Hello Garci” scandal.
Benigno Aquino III brought back conversational Filipino, humor, and moral framing. His 2011 SONA mentioned “wang-wang” 15 times as a metaphor for abuse of power. His longest SONA in 2015 stretched to 2 hours and 13 minutes, sparking both admiration and memes.
Rodrigo Duterte took the stage with raw candor. His speeches swayed between policy and profanity, sometimes veering unscripted. His 2019 SONA was tightly secured but full of ad-libs, with policies on federalism buried beneath digressions.
Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr., on the other hand, has favored well-curated messaging and media sophistication. His 2023 SONA contained over 65 major programs, focusing heavily on infrastructure and digital transformation. The speech was accompanied by infographics, animations, and post-SONA primers online.
And now, the SONA is no longer confined to mahogany halls and televised broadcasts. It lives in livestreams, fact-check threads, reaction videos, and Tiktok explainers. We can pause it, criticize it in real time, meme it, remix it. But in this freedom, something is lost too: depth.
Public viewership of the SONA has fluctuated. According to Nielsen Philippines, President Aquino’s SONAs averaged 20–25 million TV viewers. Duterte’s first SONA in 2016 reached 26 million. But by 2022, audience engagement dropped significantly. Many Filipinos, especially Gen Z, now encounter the SONA only through social media soundbites, if at all.
Which brings me to the deeper question: Do we still care to listen?
Listening to the SONA isn’t just about assessing the President’s voice; it’s about echoing our own. It is an act of civic witness. We don’t listen to flatter, we listen to measure, to verify, to expect.
Listening is no longer passive. In the age of disinformation and deepfakes, to truly listen is to cross-reference, question, and share responsibly. To listen must be translatable to action, in community discussions, in votes cast, in programs supported or opposed. Civic duty is no longer just showing up. It is speaking up after we have heard.
We are a country that has built bridges, fought wars, rebuilt after storms, and survived pandemics. Every year, a President stands at the podium to summarize for us. Whether or not we like what we hear, we must listen if not for the President, then for the people who work tirelessly to keep the machinery of the state running, and for the promises that still hang in the air, waiting to be fulfilled. With this, we can say that listening to the SONA is the most underrated form of patriotism.
The question is no longer: Do we care to listen to the SONA?
The question is: Are we ready to turn what we hear into something we live?
