REVISITING PROBLEMS IN OUR LAKES

REVISITING PROBLEMS IN OUR LAKES

Are there problems in our lakes that we do not notice? That is the first question we should ask ourselves, because too often, we only react when the crisis is already staring us in the face. When fish kills happen, when floods become unmanageable, when water sources dry up—then we suddenly scramble for answers. But should we always wait for our problems to hit the headlines before we act on them?

The Philippines is blessed with more than 59 natural lakes, not counting man-made reservoirs. These are not just water bodies—they are our lifeblood. Laguna de Bay alone sustains some 15 million people in Metro Manila and CALABARZON. Lake Lanao is not only the second-largest lake but also the cultural heart of the Maranao. Taal Lake is both an ecological treasure and a tourism magnet. Smaller lakes like Buhi, Mainit, Sebu, and Naujan are home to endemic species and migratory birds. In short, our lakes are food baskets, water sources, cultural sanctuaries, and natural flood buffers all rolled into one.

Yet, as we marked World Lake Day 2025, it was painful to admit that most of our lakes are in crisis. Laguna de Bay is choked with illegal fish cages and untreated sewage—did you know that 64% of Metro Manila’s wastewater is still discharged untreated? Taal Lake, despite its “protected” status, remains crowded with aquaculture pens. Lake Lanao suffers from watershed deforestation and declining endemic species. Naujan Lake, a Ramsar site, has lost nearly a third of its migratory birds in just two decades.

Where are these problems reported? Usually in academic studies, DENR or BFAR reports, or NGO field notes—but rarely do they reach the mainstream conversation unless there is a disaster. Our lakes are slowly dying in silence.

Which brings me to the next question: aside from BFAR, who else should be involved in protecting and preserving our lakes? The DENR, yes—but governance today is so fragmented. LLDA manages Laguna Lake, LGUs have jurisdiction through devolved powers, and various agencies step in for fisheries, irrigation, power, and tourism. The result? Overlaps, finger-pointing, and weak enforcement. Local politics doesn’t help either. Let’s be honest: in Laguna de Bay and Taal Lake, powerful families benefit from illegal cages, which explains why demolition drives fail repeatedly.

And what is the government doing to remove plastic pollution in our lakes? In truth, very little. Less than 20% of Metro Manila’s sewage is treated before entering Laguna de Bay. Imagine the plastics that come with that wastewater. What about invasive species? Do we have a serious program to eliminate janitor fish in Laguna Lake or knife fish in Taal? So far, it seems we are fighting these invasions with half-hearted campaigns.

Then there is the question of protecting native and endemic species. Lake Buhi’s sinarapan, the world’s smallest fish, is under pressure. Lake Lanao’s unique gobies are disappearing. Yet, I hardly hear of serious national programs to revive them. Where are the hatcheries, restocking initiatives, or watershed reforestation drives linked directly to lake conservation?

I believe what we need is a comprehensive lakes protection law—a National Lakes and Wetlands Protection and Restoration Act. Current laws—the Fisheries Code, the Clean Water Act, the NIPAS Act—are all scattered, and none provide a unified framework. Why not create a National Lakes Authority, or at least a strengthened Wetlands Bureau under DENR, with clear zoning powers, enforcement authority, and enough budget muscle? Why not earmark a Lake Conservation Fund from aquaculture fees, eco-tourism revenues, and environmental charges? Why not designate “lake wardens” with police powers to remove illegal structures?

The big question is whether we have the political will. Because at the heart of this issue is governance, and at the heart of governance is accountability. Our lakes are commons—no one owns them, but everyone depends on them. And when commons are abused, we all suffer.

We cannot continue treating our lakes as dumping grounds, fish pens, or reclamation sites. They are not just bodies of water—they are our water security, our food security, our cultural identity. If we lose them, we lose far more than fish or flood control; we lose part of who we are as a nation.

So let us revisit the problems in our lakes—not tomorrow, not when the next fish kill makes the news, but now. Because saving them is not just an environmental issue. It is a survival issue.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-24-2025 

PROMOTING MALIPUTO AS A HIGH VALUE FISH

 PROMOTING MALIPUTO AS A HIGH VALUE FISH

To put matters in the right perspective, the Giant Trevally is not endemic to the Philippines. It thrives in marine environments across the Indo-Pacific. But when Taal Volcano erupted in 1754 and sealed off Lake Taal from the sea, some of these trevallies were trapped in freshwater. Over time, they adapted, evolved, and became what we now call Maliputo.

The same thing happened with sardines, which evolved into the freshwater Tawilis. I am playing safe by calling Maliputo a “new variety,” but I have reason to believe that it could already be considered a new species. If only the government could validate this scientifically, we could make an official claim before the right international bodies.

And if we could do that, we could even declare Maliputo as our true national fish. Why not? Bangus, as beloved as it is, is not endemic to the Philippines—it is found across Asia. By contrast, Maliputo is ours and ours alone. It is a living legacy of the unique geological history of Taal Lake.

Because of this, I am calling on government agencies, particularly the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (BFAR), to pursue an internationally recognized Geographical Indication (GI) status for Maliputo. Imagine: only the Philippines could use the name Maliputo for this freshwater giant trevally, the way only France can use Champagne and only Mexico can use Tequila. That is not just a matter of pride—it is a matter of economics.

But for this to happen, we must protect the integrity of Maliputo. The export of its fingerlings must be banned to ensure exclusivity. At the same time, invasive species like tilapia must be gradually removed from Lake Taal. I say gradually, because I understand the livelihood of many families depends on tilapia farming.

Tilapia, after all, competes with Maliputo for food and even eats its eggs. If left unchecked, it will always threaten the survival of Maliputo. But we cannot simply wipe out tilapia cages overnight. That would be irresponsible. Instead, a transition program should be in place: the government could support farmers by providing them with Maliputo fingerlings, enabling them to shift production over time without losing their source of income.

Even if this transition takes years, it is worth pursuing. The same farmers who are now raising tilapia could become Maliputo farmers. And here is the good news: they could earn more. Maliputo sells at premium prices because of its rarity and reputation. While tilapia fills mass-market needs, Maliputo could anchor a high-value aquaculture industry, combining cultural pride with economic opportunity.

But here’s the crucial question: is Maliputo truly a freshwater fish? Technically, it is euryhaline—it can thrive in both fresh and brackish water. In Lake Taal, it migrates through the Pansipit River, living in freshwater before returning to spawn. That means its story is even more unique than we imagine.

Are there enough fingerlings to support large-scale farming? Not yet. But progress has been made. The National Fisheries Research and Development Institute (NFRDI) has already distributed thousands of fingerlings in Batangas, with survival rates reaching more than 80%. Breeding programs are ongoing, and though not yet at national scale, the foundation has been laid.

Is Maliputo a better alternative to tilapia? That depends on what we mean by “better.” Tilapia grows faster and costs less to feed, making it ideal for mass production. But Maliputo offers something tilapia never could: exclusivity, cultural prestige, and premium pricing. It is not a commodity fish—it is a heritage fish.

The comparison with bangus is equally telling. Bangus will remain central to Philippine aquaculture—it feeds millions and sustains entire industries. But bangus is not unique to us. Maliputo is. In fact, Maliputo might be the perfect candidate for what I have always advocated: data-driven, value-adding governance. With the right scientific validation, policy support, and transition programs, we can elevate Maliputo from a local delicacy to an international symbol of Filipino identity.

Ultimately, promoting Maliputo is not just about farming fish. It is about telling a story—a story of resilience, adaptation, and national pride. It is about using science, policy, and governance to protect what is ours and to turn it into a sustainable source of livelihood.

So, I ask: do we have the political will to make Maliputo our own Champagne, our own Tequila? Do we have the foresight to balance conservation with livelihood, tradition with innovation?

For me, the answer should be yes. Because Maliputo will not promote itself—it is up to us to act, before it disappears from both our lakes and our memory.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-23-2025 

THE DATA TRAILS OF FLOOD CONTROL PROJECTS

THE DATA TRAILS OF FLOOD CONTROL PROJECTS

No, it is not my job to go after corrupt politicians and their equally corrupt contractor cohorts. Other people can do that. My job is to write about possible technological solutions to social problems. My job is to look for new ideas that could be applied to good governance and public administration. It is not my style to jump into the noise of political discussions without adding value to the conversation. Yes, that is my job—to add value to any relevant conversation that could lead to something good for the country.

I also don’t want to be among those who are branded as “No Action Talk Only” (NATO). I thank the Lord that even though I am already retired, already a senior citizen, I still have a means of action—even if only by way of writing. In the past, I had a talk show, but even then, I could not be accused of “Talk Only,” because my topics were always about good governance and public administration.

Now, let me say this: all of us want to bring out the truth when it comes to social and political issues, but what could be a better way to bring out the truth than to bring out the data? Yes, there is nothing better than data-driven governance.

And here’s the bottom line—there is always a data trail if you want to investigate corruption in government projects, not only in flood control projects. The problem is that few people actually follow it.

The data trail starts with the Terms of Reference (TOR). This is not just some bureaucratic paper—it is the document that contains all the technical specifications of the project. The TOR must first be approved by the Head of the Procuring Entity (HOPE), upon the recommendation of a Technical Working Group (TWG). In the case of Government Owned and Controlled Corporations (GOCCs) and similar entities, the TOR must first be approved by the Board of Directors before it can even reach the HOPE.

As soon as the TOR is approved, an Invitation to Bid is published, listing the specifications found in the TOR. In short, if there are discrepancies in project delivery, the TOR is the ultimate basis for accountability.

If there are suspicions that a project is overpriced, then the project cost must be compared with the budget indicated in the TOR. If there are accusations of defective or substandard work, that too should be measured against the TOR. If the qualifications of the winning bidders are questioned, again—check the TOR.

In summary, if there is any real desire to investigate or prosecute contractors, all actions should be based on the TOR. Ultimately, the data trail could lead back to the HOPE, and in some cases, responsibility may also be shared with the Board of Directors.

But I would add a further step: in hindsight, all project costs should also be compared with prevailing construction industry costs. That way, we can test whether the figures in the TOR itself were inflated from the start. Fortunately, we already have reliable data sources for this.

The Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) publishes Construction Statistics from Approved Building Permits, including average cost per square meter by type of building, with regional breakdowns. For example, in January 2025 the average cost was ₱11,039.52/sqm, which dropped by 13.4% the following month, then rebounded to ₱11,600/sqm by June. That means if a flood control project’s unit cost is way off from these benchmarks, that is a red flag.

Other useful sources are LGUs and DPWH regional offices, which keep their own data on building permits and cost indices. Even the private sector publishes construction market reports explaining fluctuations in material and labor costs. When compared with project budgets, these datasets could show whether overpricing or under-delivery is happening.

So, the framework is clear: if we truly want accountability in flood control projects, or any government infrastructure, then let’s stop relying on rumors and start following the data trails.

Yes, politicians will argue, contractors will deny, and agencies will shuffle papers. But data does not lie. And if we insist that governance be data-driven, then corruption has fewer places to hide.

For me, this is the way to “add value” to the noisy conversations about flood control, infrastructure, or any other government project. Instead of mere finger-pointing, let us demand data transparency, TOR accountability, and benchmarking against industry costs.

That way, even if I am already retired, already “just writing,” I know I am not guilty of “Talk Only.” I am pointing to a path forward—one where truth is not manufactured by politics but revealed by the data trails that are already there, waiting to be tracked.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-22-2025 

WHAT IS FOOD NATIONALISM?

WHAT IS FOOD NATIONALISM?

Credits go to Dr. Ted Mendoza, PhD, the author of a fascinating book that introduced me to a concept that is both very new and very necessary in the Philippines: food nationalism. As far as I know, Dr. Mendoza is the only one writing about it from a scientific and professional perspective. And if you ask me, his advocacy resonates strongly with mine—fighting cultural appropriation and promoting geographical indication.

But what exactly is food nationalism? And why should we even care about it?

Food nationalism is not simply about celebrating adobo, sinigang, or lechon. It is about reclaiming our sovereignty over what we grow, cook, and eat. It is about protecting our culinary traditions as living testimonies of survival and resilience—pinakbet in Ilocos, inabrao in Pampanga, laswa in the Visayas, ginataan in Bicol, tinola and sinigang all over Luzon and beyond. These are not just recipes; they are declarations of identity, seasonality, and ecological wisdom.

Dr. Mendoza frames food nationalism as a strategic framework for reclaiming cultural heritage and ecological sovereignty in the pursuit of food security. If that sounds academic, let me simplify-- it means our food traditions are not just nostalgic memories, but practical blueprints for how we can feed ourselves sustainably in the future. Think about the bahay kubo song, which lists 18 vegetables—already a complete, diverse, and climate-smart diet.

Yet here’s the challenge: as far as I know, no government agency has picked up this advocacy. Not the Department of Agriculture (DA), not the Department of Trade and Industry (DTI), not the Department of Science and Technology (DOST), not even the Intellectual Property Office (IPO) or the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA). Shouldn’t at least one of them take the lead? Which one should it be? Or does it need an entirely new body dedicated to food sovereignty and cultural preservation?

Food nationalism also ties directly to global realities. The Philippines remains heavily dependent on imports—rice, garlic, onions, even galunggong. Every time the peso weakens or supply chains collapse, Filipinos suffer. This is not just an economic issue, it is a sovereignty issue. Do we really want to rely on foreign countries for our daily meals?

On the cultural side, we face the ongoing threat of cultural appropriation. Other nations are quick to claim dishes or ingredients as their own. This is why I keep emphasizing the need for geographical indication (GI)—a legal tool that protects products tied to a specific place, much like Champagne in France or Parmigiano-Reggiano in Italy. Why not “Pinakbet of Ilocos” or “Laing of Bicol”?

If you are a lawyer who knows about intellectual property rights, I urge you to join this conversation. If you are a scientist, innovator, or engineer, your knowledge is needed too. In fact, I have created Facebook groups for this very purpose:

·       CULTURAL APPROPRIATION AND GEOGRAPHICAL INDICATION (CAGI) for those interested in food and heritage.

·       ROSTER OF SCIENTISTS, INNOVATORS AND ENGINEERS (ROSIE) for those who want to bring technical expertise into the advocacy.

Food nationalism is not just symbolic pride. It is also practical policy. Dr. Mendoza envisions it institutionalized through participatory reform—meaning ordinary citizens, not just experts or bureaucrats, must take part. That’s an inspiring idea: food as a platform where nationalism is not dictated from above but cooked, shared, and protected by communities themselves.

Some may say this is too idealistic. But consider the historical evidence. For centuries, colonizers tried to control our land and dictate our diets, yet we held on to our recipes, our farming cycles, our backyard gardens. That endurance is proof that food nationalism is not only possible—it is already alive in our kitchens. What remains is for us to recognize it, protect it, and scale it up.

So here are my questions for you, dear readers:

·       What Filipino food or drink do you think has already been culturally appropriated by others?

·       Which dishes deserve protection under geographical indication?

·       And which government agency should be brave enough to take the lead in this new but urgent advocacy?

There are many ways to be a nationalist. Some wave the flag, others write the laws. But I think Dr. Mendoza is right: even in the simple act of preserving and promoting our culinary heritage, we are practicing food nationalism. And the best part? Anyone can join—no PhD required, just a love of country and a plate of pinakbet.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-21-2025 

LET’S STOP SAND ENCROACHMENT

LET’S STOP SAND ENCROACHMENT

Sand encroachment is a real problem in the Philippines, even if the government does not seem to realize it yet. And if it does realize it, then perhaps it is still in a stage of denial—choosing to ignore it.

It could be a matter of definition, but I would say that lahar flows are also a form of sand encroachment. And if that definition holds true, then we must ask: why have many lahar areas in the Philippines not been rehabilitated? To say it bluntly, they have practically been abandoned. Drive through parts of Pampanga and Tarlac and you will see wide, desert-like stretches where once fertile land used to be.

That said, I think it would be fair to ask the government: what is it really doing about sand encroachment in the Philippines?

By law, the easement area—the public land strip from the shoreline—should be about 20 meters. Beyond that line, it may already be private or still public land. But here lies the problem: once sand encroaches beyond the easement, it destroys productivity. The ground becomes unfit for crops, or worse, the groundwater turns salty. As salinity increases, agriculture suffers, and so do the communities that depend on it.

This is not a theoretical concern. In the Ilocos Region, windblown sand dunes have buried portions of farmland and even crept into roads and houses. In Zambales and Pangasinan, mining and quarrying have altered natural sediment flows, pushing sand inland where it doesn’t belong. After typhoons in Leyte and Samar, sand has covered once-vegetated areas, leaving barren patches where rice once grew. And in tourism zones like Palawan and Mindoro, the clearing of mangroves and beach forests has allowed sand to drift freely with the wind.

So why does sand encroachment matter? Because it is not just a coastal issue—it is a food security issue. It is an economic productivity issue. And in the long run, it is a climate resilience issue.

The government should already have a nationwide sand encroachment program—if it doesn’t have one yet. This should include not only the mapping of encroachment zones but also real interventions at the barangay level.

There are solutions, if only we would take them seriously. Communities could stabilize dunes by planting coastal vegetation like pandan, vetiver grass, or even ipil-ipil. Coconut husks and recycled plastic waste can be woven into geotextiles to trap sand and keep it in place. Mangrove nurseries could be expanded to restore natural windbreaks. Modern tools like drones or satellite monitoring—yes, even involving PHILSA, our space agency—could track movement and identify hotspots before they worsen.

If we can talk about climate adaptation and mitigation, why can’t we also talk about sand encroachment and desertification? Because in a manner of speaking, some lahar areas already look like deserts. Shouldn’t the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) be on top of this? Or should it be BFAR, given that salinized water affects fisheries? Maybe the Land Management Bureau (LMB), NAMRIA, PHIVOLCS, or even DOST should take the lead. Whoever it is, the important thing is that somebody takes ownership of the problem and mobilizes the scientists we already have in this country.

The bottom line is this: we cannot afford to ignore sand encroachment. It is creeping up on us—literally—and yet it does not seem to have made it into our national agenda. If left unchecked, it could quietly erode not only our coastlines but also our food security and economic stability.

In my view, it is time to stop treating this as an isolated or local problem. It is a national problem that requires a national strategy. The science is clear: sand encroachment, when combined with climate change and human activity, can make productive land unproductive and coastal communities vulnerable. The question is—are we waiting for the day when parts of our country start resembling deserts before we take this seriously?

The government must act now. Attention DENR. Attention DOST. Let’s stop sand encroachment before it swallows more of our land, our livelihoods, and our future.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-20-2025 

LEVELING UP FROM CHARITY DOLE-OUTS TO LIVELIHOOD PROGRAMS

LEVELING UP FROM CHARITY DOLE-OUTS TO LIVELIHOOD PROGRAMS

What is the difference between charity dole-outs and livelihood programs? There are many ways to differentiate between the two, but for now, allow me to share with you my own ideas about it.

Charity dole-outs are good, especially if these are given purely in the name of caring for other people and sharing resources with them without expecting anything back. That’s why in my book, giving dole-outs for political reasons is not really charity. The so-called giver—usually a politician—is expecting something in return: votes when election comes.

Worse, most political dole-outs are not even funded by the politician’s own resources. The money or goods being distributed come from the people’s taxes. In other words, there is no sacrifice involved because the supposed giver does not actually lose anything. That is why I do not call that charity at all.

At best, charity dole-outs only alleviate poverty. They ease the suffering of people, but they do not liberate them from the cycle of poverty. Poverty alleviation is temporary; poverty reduction is transformational. The more desirable outcome is poverty reduction—and this is where livelihood programs come in.

Take for instance the inspiring story of Marcel LeBrun, a Canadian entrepreneur who sold his company for hundreds of millions of dollars. Instead of buying a yacht or mansion, he invested in building a community for the homeless in Fredericton, New Brunswick. His project, called 12 Neighbours, is not about handouts. It is about giving people dignity and a foundation to rebuild their lives.

LeBrun didn’t just build 99 tiny homes, he built opportunities. Each house is solar-powered and complete with a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom—plus a porch for community living. At the center of the project is a business hub offering job training, education, and real pathways to independence. The goal was not simply to shelter people but to empower them.

That’s the difference between a dole-out and a livelihood program. The former hands out food or cash for survival. The latter invests in people’s ability to earn, to sustain themselves, and to participate fully in society. One is relief; the other is empowerment.

Here in the Philippines, the challenge is that many politicians still equate generosity with handing out bags of rice or distributing cash allowances. These efforts, though appreciated, do not move the needle on poverty. The real measure of leadership should be: did poverty rates go down in your city, your province, or your country after your term? If not, what have you really achieved?

No mayor or governor is worth anything if he or she cannot reduce poverty rates within his or her jurisdiction. At the national level, the question becomes sharper: who do we blame if poverty rates don’t fall? The President? The Department of Social Welfare and Development? The Department of Finance? Whoever it is, there must be accountability—and there must be poverty reduction targets tied to every mayoral, gubernatorial, and presidential term.

Personally, I don’t think we need to set targets for poverty alleviation. Relief will always be needed in times of disaster or crisis. But what we do need—urgently—are targets for poverty reduction. That means livelihoods, jobs, skills training, and inclusive economic growth.

Marcel LeBrun’s project shows us that transformation is possible when the approach shifts from dependency to empowerment. If one man’s personal vision could move government to invest alongside him, imagine what could happen if our local governments worked hand in hand with private investors, cooperatives, and civil society.

What we need in every barangay is not just a feeding program but a skills program. Not just a subsidy but a sustainable livelihood. Not just charity, but real change.

At the end of the day, we should ask ourselves: do we want to keep people poor but grateful—or do we want to empower them so that they can stand on their own feet with dignity?

The answer should be obvious.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-19-2025 

WHAT IS A DISCOMFORT ZONE?

WHAT IS A DISCOMFORT ZONE?

When we speak of “comfort zones,” we usually mean a safe, familiar space where we feel at ease. But in a homily, Cardinal Ambo David invited us to think about the opposite—the “discomfort zone.” Following God, he said, often means deliberately stepping into danger, into suffering, into uncomfortable places. Why? Because there is a fire burning inside the heart, one that cannot be contained.

The prophet Jeremiah once cried out that God’s word was like fire raging in his bones, a fire he could not ignore even if he wanted to. Jesus, too, in the gospel, seemed restless, even angry--burning with passion for justice and truth. That fire is what drives prophets, saints, and ordinary people of conscience to leave comfort behind.

We know this from our own history. Jose Rizal’s story of the moth drawn to the flame captures the attraction of sacrifice for a higher cause. San Roque turned his back on wealth and privilege at the age of 20 to care for plague victims in Rome. He chose discomfort over comfort because his love for God demanded it.

But how do we live this “discomfort zone” today, in the Philippines of 2025?

Cardinal Ambo tells the tragic story of Dion Angelo, a 20-year-old sacristan from Malabon. During the floods, he searched for his father who had been wrongfully arrested for illegal gambling. In the process, he contracted leptospirosis and died. Imagine that: the young man who was his family’s hope, a college student, and a servant of the Church—gone, because of systemic neglect and corruption. His grandfather soon followed him in death.

And here’s the harder question: How can we give justice to the poor?

We hear of a co-accused in court who pleaded guilty to a crime he did not commit just so he could go home and feed his family. He could not afford bail. He could not afford a lawyer. This is the painful truth: the poor often plead guilty not because they are guilty, but because justice in this country is too expensive. What choice do they really have?

If governance were true stewardship—as Cardinal Ambo preached in another homily—then resources would go first to protect the vulnerable. But what do we see? Billions poured into flood control projects that do not work, while funds for PhilHealth, 4Ps, and social safety nets are cut. Flooded streets, broken systems, neglected poor. Comfort zones for the powerful, discomfort zones for everyone else.

And yet, discomfort is precisely where the gospel calls us. Jesus himself said there will be division, that following him is not about keeping false peace but about igniting truth, even if it hurts. If faith means anything, it must mean being willing to step into discomfort zones—where poverty, corruption, and injustice burn holes into the lives of ordinary people.

Perhaps this is what “discomfort zone” truly means: refusing to stay numb when injustice becomes normal, refusing to stay safe while others drown in floods, rot in jail cells, or die young without hope.

Don’t you wish our leaders felt this fire in their bones? That they, too, would leave their comfort zones of privilege and step into the discomfort of real governance—facing floods, poverty, corruption, and hunger head on? Perhaps most government officials will shrug this off. But maybe, just maybe, those who are Christians should take it more seriously.

The discomfort of following God is not abstract. It is about giving justice to the poor—because in their suffering, God is present. If we cannot feel that fire, maybe we are not really following Him at all.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-18-2025