I arrived early at Barangay Jefmin. This was the site of the next caucus for Team Anjo, and as usual, I like to come early—not just to prepare, but to feel the pulse of the people even before the personalities arrive.
I quietly sat at the side, not in front but in a corner closer to the townsfolk than the stage. While some were busy setting up chairs and tarpaulins, the residents were engrossed in their own conversations. I was more interested in the words they spoke softly, yet full of feeling.
"That's Mayor, right? He's done so much for us here," said an elderly woman behind me.
"He's still helping even now. When I got sick before, I asked for help, and he gave—even if he was no longer in office," another replied.
I stayed silent, listening and nodding, but didn't reveal myself. They didn't know I was one of those quietly working behind the scenes for Team Anjo. To them, I was just an ordinary curious young person.
After a while, an old man approached and sat beside me. His skin was weathered from the sun, and his steps a bit stiff. He smiled at me, and I returned the greeting with a respectful nod.
"You know, child," he began, resting his body as he sat, "I don't personally know him, but I really respect Mayor Lacson. That man is something else."
I listened quietly. I didn't say a word, nor did I reveal I was part of his team. For me, moments like these—hearing the voice of a common citizen—not for cameras but from the heart—are the most important.
"He's done a lot for the town, like health facilities that would really help folks like us struggling in life, but those weren't continued by the current administration," the old man continued, rubbing his hands.
"See those ambulances, the schools, the health centers?" he said, pointing at the LED screen playing projects and programs implemented during Mayor Lacson's administration. "He made all those happen. He's done so much. That's why I admire him a lot."
I just nodded. I chose to be a listener because at that moment, it was more important to hear the feelings of a simple man like him.
"I hope he continues. It would be a waste if the people don't let him. But I think many still support him—you can tell by how the people welcome, hug, and kiss him," the old man said, looking far into the distance.
I looked around—people slowly arriving, each with their own stories of acceptance and gratitude. They each had their reasons to be there. And in my silence beside the old man, I felt the weight and value of every project once written only on paper—now living proof in the eyes of the people.
"But you know, child," the old man said again, looking around, "not everyone sees what the leaders do. Sometimes, they quickly turn their backs just where they benefit."
I looked at him. "You're right, money has a big influence, but I hope the heart prevails now."
He smiled. "I have great trust in him. I know he will succeed because he has a dream for the town."
He sighed deeply and wiped his forehead.
"My only prayer is that he gets to continue. Because if not him… I don't know if there will be another with the same compassion."
I smiled, and inside, my respect deepened for the quiet voice of people like him. He is not a politician. He did not receive special privileges. He is simply a citizen who experienced honest service and now speaks not to praise, but to give thanks.
—
Soon, members of the Sangguniang Bayan began to arrive one by one, bringing smiles and pats on the shoulders of long-time acquaintances.
One by one, they took the microphone, speaking about projects they want to push forward, goals for the barangay, and gratitude for the warm welcome from the residents.
After some time, Vice Mayor Carla Bautista arrived. She entered quietly, simple yet dignified. Though her voice was not loud, her presence was immediately felt—a mother with care, a woman of honor.
When she reached the stage, she firmly and clearly shared her message about the importance of unity, education for the youth, and staying aware of truth amid a time full of deceit.
She did not make promises but reminded that when the government truly partners with the people, it is felt in every corner of the barangay, every door of every home, and every table that has food.
Just when everyone thought the gathering was complete, the honored guests arrived—Governor Max Roxas and Vice Governor Bogs Aganon.
They were warmly welcomed by the residents, eager to hear their messages. But among the names, there was still one the people eagerly awaited.
And then he arrived.
Mayor Andy David Lacson.
Before he had even fully stepped out of the vehicle, waves of cheers and applause erupted. Children ran toward him, elders nearly rushed to shake his hand. Mothers lifted their children high, hoping for a blessing from a leader they deeply admired.
He was like a star on the town's stage—not to show off, but because he was chosen by the people—not for fame, but for honesty.
He shook hands one by one, avoiding no one, skipping no one. Some elders could not hold back tears—he hugged them, kissed their cheeks, and softly whispered, "Thank you, Mayor, for standing up again for us... thank you for all your sacrifices for the town... thank you for never forgetting us."
Those words have no equal. No poster or jingle could ever repay them.
After everyone had spoken, Mayor Andy stepped onto the stage. As he stood, the entire place fell silent. Like a parent speaking to their children—not forceful, but with authority. No arrogance, but weight in every word he uttered.
He thanked everyone who came. Praised the courage and perseverance of the people of Jefmin, their unity amid trials. Every question had an answer, every dream a plan.
He shared platforms long advocated—not for his name, but for the town's future.
"This is not about me," he said. "This is a fight for every Filipino father, mother, student, and worker. If we are elected again, this is not my victory. It is the victory of Filipino families who have long yearned for real change."
The people stood, applauded, shouted. Tears in some, smiles in others. But I stood quietly in the back—watching, listening, writing in my heart every moment that no camera could capture.
This is the voice of the people.
And that night, I understood once again why I am here—not just as an employee, but as a witness to the change created by a leader with heart, spirit, and conviction.
—
This trust of the people, and the vow of a servant who will never turn his back, cannot be bought by any position or power.
As we left and traveled again into the night, I held in my mind the words Mayor said:
"This is not about me."
And it's true. Because in every barangay we visit, in every hopeful eye, and every hand that holds his, it is clear who the real hero of this story is—the people and the community.