The Country That Almost Was: Reading Third World Geography in 2026
"Some things never change" they say, and honestly? Whoever came up with that saying was probably thinking about the Philippines. A country known for its 7,000 islands and citizens being recognized worldwide for resilience and warmth, yet it keeps stumbling in the same places, decade after decade, and we end up hoping for a different ending on the same film. It feels annoyingly accurate how Cirilo F. Bautista’s poem “Third World Geography” puts the exact feeling into words, and reading it now, in 2026, it does seem that some things do never change.
From the very first stanza, Bautista tells us the burden we’re carrying and then sharpens it with the image of “banana trees rotting in the sunlight.” That picture shows how abundance is wasted because it isn’t protected, and it says more about Philippine underdevelopment than a page of statistics could. This is a country where over 60% of Filipinos are highly vulnerable to climate shocks like typhoons, yet farmers, the people who grow our food, are among the poorest, with poverty rates around 30%, almost double the national average (Lalu, 2025; Mateo, 2025). The resources exist, but their distribution and protection don’t.
A leader carries a sack that supposedly holds “all hopes,” but when asked what’s inside, he shrugs and says it’s just feathers—practically nothing. Bautista shows how those in power turn real suffering into something small and forgettable: a metaphor instead of a crisis. That hits even harder when you realize just how low the Philippines sits on global corruption rankings — trailing well behind most of its neighbors when watchdog groups measure transparency in government (2024 Corruption Perceptions Index - Explore Philippines’s Results, 2025). And that makes sense, because corruption rarely calls itself corruption. It shows up dressed as red tape, as "just how politics works," as a shrug and a shoulder turned away. The poem understands that a burden can look light if you just rename it.
The line about the wind —how it's the only thing left listening when you kneel down and pray for rice was quietest moment in the poem. That image captures a very particular kind of tiredness: the feeling that no matter how loud you speak, it never actually reaches anyone with the power to do something about it. It would be easy to write that off as bleak thinking, until you notice that close to half of Filipino families still describe themselves as poor in recent national surveys, and that number hasn't really moved no matter who's in charge (INQUIRER.net, 2025). So, when people keep voting, keep protesting, keep asking for basic things year after year and nothing changes, it starts to make sense why the wind feels like the only one still listening.
Bautista wasn’t writing about a fake country. He was writing about a real pattern that many Filipino students, including me, have grown up inside without having any chance to speak up, and even if we do, it'll still go unnoticed. History has a way of rhyming with itself, and Bautista seems to know that. The poem ends with the country trying to get up off the page, only to be held down by “bold ink and sharp colors”—the very image meant to show it. That ending feels almost self-aware: even the poem can’t fully free the country it’s describing, as if to say the story keeps getting written the same way because no one has changed the ending yet.
But that’s not hopelessness. It’s a warning label. Naming a pattern this clearly is usually the first move before someone finally decides to break it. The real question the poem leaves is not whether the country will rise, but whether the next generation will still be reading the same lines, or finally writing new ones.
-Franchessa A., Sec. Pasteur, July 03, 2026-2027