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i am ibaan, Ibaan (2026)

05/01/2026

The arrest of retired General Romeo Poquiz is not a moment for outrage or applause.

It is a moment to pause.

In a democracy, situations like this are rarely just about one person. They are about process. About how power is exercised, how the law is applied, and whether restraint still exists when emotions run high.

Sedition is a serious charge. History reminds us that it can either protect a constitutional order or be abused by it. The difference is not found in the accusation itself, but in how the process unfolds. Quietly or theatrically. Carefully or recklessly. With restraint or with fear.

The real question is not who we side with. It is whether due process is being followed, and whether it is being followed in a way the public can clearly see.

That means paying attention to the unglamorous details. Was there a lawful warrant? Were the charges explained plainly? Was access to counsel respected? Are institutions speaking through proper channels, or through leaks and posturing?

These things may feel boring. They are not. This is where freedom actually lives.

A retired general occupies a unique place in public life. No longer in command, yet never quite an ordinary private citizen. When the state acts against someone like that, the message travels beyond the individual involved. It is read by civilians and by officers still in uniform, quietly watching whether fairness or politics is at work.

Handled well, such moments strengthen civilian authority. Handled poorly, they plant doubt where trust should exist.

This is not a moment for drama. Not for instant heroes or villains. Not for trial by social media. If the case is strong, it will stand up in court. If it is weak, institutions must have the courage to correct themselves. Either outcome, handled properly, strengthens the republic.

Citizenship, especially in moments like this, requires discipline. Slowing down before reacting. Separating institutions from individuals. Demanding accountability through lawful means, not noise.

This arrest will pass. The headlines will move on. But the precedent, how power is exercised and restrained, will remain.

That is the lesson worth paying attention to.

Think. Decide. Act.
iamibaan.

03/01/2026

𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐭, 𝐀 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

When a national budget breaks records, it is usually framed as progress.
Bigger numbers suggest ambition, capacity, and momentum. On paper, they signal a state moving forward.

But budgets are not judged by size alone. What matters—often more—is what must be paid first, and what is left after.

For 2026, Congress approved the largest national budget in Philippine history: ₱6.793 trillion. Less emphasized, however, is another record quietly embedded within it: ₱978.7 billion allocated solely for debt payments.

Nearly one trillion pesos—bago pa ang classrooms, bago pa ang ospital, bago pa ang transport at suporta sa magsasaka—will go to servicing past obligations.

This distinction matters.

A growing budget does not automatically mean a growing state. Sometimes, it means a government exerting more effort just to remain in the same place.

Economists call this the erosion of fiscal space—the steady narrowing of government’s ability to act as fixed obligations consume a larger share of public resources. As debt servicing expands, flexibility contracts. Subsidies become harder to sustain. Social protection becomes more selective. Development programs grow easier to postpone or quietly reduce.

In this environment, the state leans—often without announcing it—on its most reliable source of revenue: the taxpayer.

Hindi ito sinasabi nang direkta.
Hindi ito ipinapahayag sa talumpati.
Nararamdaman lang ito.

Citizens feel it in the everyday math of life: when prices slow but incomes do not; when programs exist but reach fewer people; when promises grow louder but relief arrives thinner and later.

Debt, in itself, is not immoral. Governments borrow for valid reasons: crisis response, infrastructure, long-term investment. What deserves scrutiny is not borrowing, but how easily its consequences become normalized—especially when those consequences approach a trillion pesos every year.

Normalizing a debt bill of this magnitude without sustained public reckoning is not inevitable. It is the result of political choices: what to prioritize, what to defer, and who ultimately absorbs the burden when fiscal space tightens.

A national budget is not just a technical document. It is a moral one. It reveals what a society protects, what it postpones, and who quietly adjusts when trade-offs are made.

When debt servicing becomes routine, accountability risks becoming optional. The obligation fades into the background—too technical to question, too entrenched to challenge. Yet it is precisely this silence that should concern citizens.

Every peso allocated to debt service is a peso unavailable for immediate public use. Every narrowing of fiscal space limits the state’s ability to respond to future shocks—economic, climatic, or social. Over time, this weakens not only public services, but public trust.

The danger is not the size of the 2026 budget. The danger is how quietly the bill is accepted.

Kung inaasahang mag-adjust ang mamamayan, may karapatan silang umunawa. Clarity is not a luxury; it is a democratic requirement.

This is not alarmism. It is civic literacy.

So the question remains—simple, but unavoidable:

Are we still deciding our fiscal future, or are we merely servicing it?

⸻
iamibaan 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑒-𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑠 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑐 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠.

| Think. Decide. Act.

⸻

31/12/2025

Bagong taon. Bagong pag-asa. Bagong lakas ng loob.

Hindi man madali ang ating dinaanan,
nananatiling buhay ang kakayahan nating mag-isip, magmalasakit, at kumilos para sa kapwa.

Sa 2026, piliin natin ang mas malinaw na pag-unawa, mas tapat na desisyon,
at mas aktibong pakikilahok.

May dahilan para umasa.
May puwang para umaksyon.
May kinabukasang maaari nating hubugin—magkakasama.

Manigong Bagong Taon.

30/12/2025

𝐑𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞

Every December 30, we honor José Rizal—wreaths at monuments, verses recited, the martyrdom at Bagumbayan remembered.

But Rizal Day isn’t only about remembrance. It’s about reckoning.

Rizal didn’t die because he picked up a sword. He died because he picked up a pen—and refused to put it down.

When silence was safer, he chose clarity. When obedience was rewarded, he chose inquiry. When power demanded loyalty, he demanded truth.

That made him dangerous.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐦 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐥

Rizal understood something we keep forgetting: the deepest threat to injustice isn’t rebellion—it’s education. Not noise, but reason. Not rage, but moral clarity.

His novels weren’t calls to chaos. They were mirrors. They asked a question more unsettling than revolt: Who have we allowed ourselves to become?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭

We remember Rizal as a safe hero—the polite reformist, frozen in bronze.

But Rizal wasn’t safe. He was uncomfortable.

He criticized Filipinos as sharply as colonizers. He challenged blind obedience, unexamined faith, inherited fear. He believed freedom required discipline of mind, not just passion of heart.

Rizal didn’t flatter us. He trusted us enough to tell us the truth.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

Today, we live in a country where:
• misinformation spreads faster than thought,
• outrage replaces understanding,
• public debate becomes a loyalty test.

Rizal wouldn’t care how loudly we speak. He’d ask what we’ve learned.

Have we examined our beliefs—or just inherited them? Do we criticize power—or only when it’s convenient? Do we read to understand—or just to react?

Here’s something concrete. The next time a viral post makes you angry, pause. Ask three questions before sharing:
1. Is this factually accurate?
2. Does this help me understand—or just feel righteous?
3. Am I spreading light, or just heat?

That’s thinking like Rizal.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞

Rizal didn’t offer easy answers.
He offered responsibility.

To think.
To decide.
To act—with conscience.

Nations don’t fail for lack of heroes.
They fail when citizens stop thinking.

On this Rizal Day, honor him not just with flowers—but with seriousness of thought, honesty of speech, and courage in civic life.

Think. Decide. Act—with conscience.

29/12/2025

𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐬 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬.

You may have seen the news: inflation has eased. Prices are rising more slowly, food costs have stabilized, and the pressure many households felt has begun to loosen.

That is good news.

For ordinary families, it means fewer shocks at the palengke and more predictable budgeting. In simple terms, the floor has stopped shaking.

But inflation going down is not the same as life getting better.

Inflation measures how fast prices rise—not whether wages increased, jobs became more secure, or services improved. Relief matters, but relief alone is not progress.

The question many families quietly ask is this:
If prices slowed down but income stayed the same, are we actually moving forward—or just catching our breath?

This is why lower inflation matters most as an opportunity, not a conclusion.

When prices stabilize, government gains breathing room. The real work then begins: deciding what should improve next, where public resources should go, and how stability will finally reach the barangay—in jobs, transport, schools, health centers, and daily services.

A civically informed community does not stop at good headlines. It pays attention to what follows.

Lower inflation gives society room to breathe.
What we do with that space determines whether relief turns into real progress.

This is the moment we are in—when the price tag steadies, but the future still needs shaping.

💬 iamibaan question:
Ngayong bumababa ang inflation, ano ang dapat susunod na gumaan sa buhay ng komunidad ninyo—trabaho, serbisyo, o kabuhayan?

24/12/2025

Merry Christmas

December 25.

The light has arrived. Not announced. Just present.

This is what Christmas feels like after Simbang Gabi.
Not loud.
Not triumphant.
But steady.

For nine days, we asked difficult questions.

We examined how democracies decay—through unexamined habits, distorted language, silenced truth, concentrated power, and ordinary complicity.
We remembered the strength of fellowship.
We returned to our roots.
We learned how to continue.

Today, we pause.

Because Christmas does not demand conclusions.
It invites presence.

The story begins not in a palace, but in a place—named, ordinary, rooted.
A child born among people who stayed, who cared, who did not turn away despite fear and scarcity.

There is joy in remaining.
There is warmth in care.
There is hope in quiet faithfulness.

Light does not always arrive as spectacle.
Sometimes it comes as refusal to abandon one another.
Sometimes it comes as choosing to stay human.

Ang liwanag ay dumarating—kahit tahimik.

If there is a lesson today, it is this:
Democracy, like faith, survives not because everything is fixed, but because some people continue to care—daily, imperfectly, without applause.

So today, rest.
Be with people.
Listen more than you speak.
Stay where love has placed you.

And when the noise returns—
when the arguments restart,
when the work feels heavy again—
remember this:

You already know how to wake up early.
You already know how to stay.

Merry Christmas.
Quiet. Grounded. Hopeful.

| Think • Decide • Act

23/12/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐴𝑛𝑔 𝐷𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑛𝑔 𝑃𝑎𝑔𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑙𝑜𝑦

Ikasiyam na madaling-araw.
Christmas is near. And so is the return to old habits.

This is how Simbang Gabi ends—not with a final surge of light, but with a question: what do you carry with you when the ritual is over? When the lanterns are gone. When the posts stop. When no one is reminding you to pay attention.

On this final day, we no longer need another diagnosis. We already know how democracies decay—through distorted language, silenced truth, oligarchic systems, performative power, ordinary complicity, weakened community, and uprooted lives.

The question now is quieter, and harder:

How do you stay awake when no one is watching?

What Marcus Aurelius Understood

Marcus Aurelius was an emperor. He had power, armies, authority. Yet Meditations was never meant for others. It was written for himself—a discipline of reminders repeated daily so he would not be consumed by fatigue, anger, or despair.

What he understood was simple and unsettling:

The most important struggle is not dramatic. It is repetitive.

Not every day has a crisis.
Not every day has a moral test that announces itself.
Most days are ordinary.

And democracy, more often than not, survives—or fails—on ordinary days.

Sa mga araw na walang pumapalakpak.
Sa mga sandaling walang nanonood.
Sa mga desisyong maliit, pero inuulit.

Marcus Aurelius did not believe in constant outrage. He believed in discipline—the practice of choosing what is right even when it is boring, tiring, or unrewarded.

Why Democracies Fail After the Moment Passes

Many democracies do not collapse because they are defeated. They collapse because people grow tired.

Pagod magtanong.
Pagod makialam.
Pagod umasa.

Slowly, familiar thoughts creep in:
• “May gagawa naman niyan.”
• “Wala rin namang nagbabago.”
• “Hindi ko naman responsibilidad.”

This is not betrayal.
It is unnoticed exhaustion.

And this is where Marcus Aurelius becomes relevant—not as a philosopher-king, but as a guide for endurance:

You cannot control everything. But you can control your own conduct—every day.

The Discipline of a Democratic Life

Democracy does not ask for heroism.
It does not require constant courage or permanent anger.

What it asks for is continuation.
• Continuing to ask questions, even when they feel repetitive.
• Continuing to reject lies, even when it is inconvenient.
• Continuing to care for community, even without recognition.
• Continuing to stay engaged, even when withdrawal is easier.

Ito ang disiplina ng pagpapatuloy.

Marcus Aurelius reminds us:
Do what you can today. Then do it again tomorrow.

Not to be exceptional.
But to remain human.

The Final Light

On this ninth dawn, the lantern no longer moves.

It does not scan leaders.
It does not diagnose systems.
It does not interrogate others.

It stays.

Like democracy itself—not always bright, not always warm, but alive because some people refuse to abandon it on ordinary days.

Isipin.

What is one small but honest practice you can continue after this series ends?

Piliin.

Not everything. Not all at once. Just one.

Gawin.

Commit to it not as protest, but as discipline:
• Read before you share.
• Ask before you follow.
• Listen before you judge.
• Stay even when no one applauds.

Write it down. Repeat it. When you forget, return.

Democracy is not sustained by moments of awakening.
It is sustained by people who continue after the awakening fades.

Hindi lahat makakagawa ng malaki.
Pero sapat na ang marami na hindi tumigil.

This is the final light.
Not the beginning of courage—
but the beginning of continuance.

| Think • Decide • Act
Simbang Gabi Series | Day 9 of 9

22/12/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧

𝐴𝑛𝑔 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑠𝑦𝑜𝑛 𝑛𝑔 𝑃𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑖

Ikawalong madaling-araw.
May liwanag na, ngunit ang lamig ay nananatili.

Ganito ang Simbang Gabi sa mga huling araw—hindi na mahirap gumising, ngunit mas malinaw na ang tanong: saan ka talaga nakatayo? Hindi na sapat ang makita. Kailangan nang manindigan.

For seven days, we examined how democracies decay—through distorted language, silenced truth, oligarchic structures, performative power, and ordinary complicity.

Now we ask a quieter but deeper question:

What happens to democracy when people lose their roots?

What Simone Weil Saw

Almost a century ago, Simone Weil named something modern societies had learned to dismiss: rootedness.

Before people can claim rights, she argued, they need roots. Before they can act politically, they must feel attached—to land, to memory, to work, to community. When these are stripped away, people become easier to move, easier to manage, easier to discard.

Uprooted people are not free.
They are vulnerable.

Uprootedness, Filipino-Style

This is not abstract in the Philippines. We live it.

When Lumad communities in Mindanao are displaced from ancestral lands in the name of security or extraction, democracy weakens—not only through injustice, but because a people is torn from the ground that once gave them voice.

When Boracay workers were evicted during “rehabilitation,” many lost not just jobs, but homes, networks, and political presence. Decisions were made about them, without them.

When millions of Filipinos leave as OFWs, it is not because they lack love for country, but because survival demands departure. Yet the cost is real: fractured families, hollowed barangays, civic life thinned by absence.

When urban poor communities are cleared overnight—relocation replacing eviction as language—the vote may remain, but voice does not.

Ang nawawala ay hindi lang lupa—kundi ugnayan.

And democracy cannot survive without people who are rooted enough to defend it.

What Rootedness Is—and Is Not

Let us be clear.

Rootedness is not exclusionary nationalism.

It does not demand sameness, nor loyalty without conscience.

Rootedness is not staying when leaving is necessary for survival.

Migration is not betrayal. Sometimes it is courage.

Rootedness is not preserving every tradition.

Some roots harm. Those must be questioned, even pruned.

Rootedness, as Weil meant it—and as Filipinos have long practiced through kapwa, damayan, and bayanihan—is critical attachment: the decision to care for a place and people because they have shaped you, even as you work to change what is unjust.

You can move and still be rooted.
You can leave and still remain committed.

What destroys democracy is not mobility—but detachment.

Why This Matters Politically

Democracy requires people who will:
• Attend assemblies because it is their barangay
• Defend land because it is their watershed
• Protect institutions because they are theirs
• Speak because silence would abandon a shared home

Rooted citizens do not ask first, “Ano ang makukuha ko?” They ask, “Ano ang mangyayari sa atin kung wala akong gagawin?”

This is why moments like EDSA, farmer land struggles, indigenous land defense, and community-led disaster response succeed when they do. People act not as spectators, but as members.

The Eighth Light: Standing Where You Are

On this eighth dawn, the lantern does not scan the horizon.

It points downward—to the ground beneath your feet.

To your street.
Your barangay.
Your workplace.
Your school.
Your memory.

Dito nagsisimula ang demokrasya.

Isipin.
Anong lugar o komunidad ang humubog sa’yo—na madalas mo nang iwanan sa isip, kung hindi man sa katawan?

Piliin.
Isang paraan ng pananatili:
• Dumalo sa barangay assembly ngayong buwan at magsalita kahit isang beses
• Makipag-usap sa isang nakatatanda tungkol sa buhay bago ang Batas Militar at isulat ito
• Suportahan ang isang samahan ng mangingisda, g**o, o katutubo (oras, kasanayan, o ambag)
• Maglaan ng isang oras kada linggo sa komunidad—hindi bilang consumer, kundi bilang kasapi
• Kilalanin ang isang taong matagal mo nang kasabay sa lugar o trabaho, at itanong: Ano ang pinagdaanan ng lugar na ito?

Gawin.
Pumili ng isang ugat na hindi mo na pababayaan.

Hindi ito dagdag na tungkulin. Ito ang parehong gawain—inuulit lang sa iba’t ibang anyo.

Because democracy does not survive through mobility alone. It survives because some people choose to remain connected.

A Grounded Hope

There are places in this country where democracy still breathes:
• Cooperatives that shield farmers from predatory pricing
• Indigenous councils that defend watersheds
• Parent-teacher groups that resist quiet budget cuts
• Neighborhoods that organize without waiting for permission

Not all efforts succeed. Some fail. Some are erased. But democracy survives because enough people stay long enough.

Before the Final Dawn

The Christmas story does not begin in a palace. It begins in a place—named, ordinary, rooted.

Ang liwanag ay dumarating. Ngunit kailangan muna nitong may patutunguhan.

Bukas: Ikasiyam na Liwanag — Marcus Aurelius at ang Disiplina ng Pagpapatuloy.

| Think • Decide • Act
Simbang Gabi Series | Day 8 of 9

21/12/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

𝐴𝑛𝑔 𝑆𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑 𝑛𝑔 𝑆𝑎𝑚𝑎ℎ𝑎𝑛

Ikapitong madaling-araw. Lampas na tayo sa kalahati.

May liwanag na—at ngayon, may kasabay na paghinga.

For six days, we examined what is broken.
Our thinking.
Our language.
Our systems.
Our leaders.
Ourselves.

Today, the question changes.

Not: What is wrong?
But: How do we live—and act—together within imperfect systems?

Epicurus is often misunderstood as a philosopher of pleasure. But he was really a philosopher of security—of how ordinary people survive uncertainty together. Living under unstable political conditions, he understood something radical: safety does not come from rulers, walls, or power alone. It comes from friendship, trust, and mutual care.

In uncertain times, Epicurus argued, community is not a luxury.

It is infrastructure.

He believed that people who trust one another—who share knowledge, resources, and care—are harder to dominate. They are less dependent on patronage. Less vulnerable to fear. Less likely to be isolated and manipulated.
Kapag may kasama ka, mas mahirap kang takutin.

This is why fragmented societies are easy to control. When people are isolated, they rely upward—on patrons, on strongmen, on favors. But when people are connected horizontally, they rely on one another. Power shifts quietly.

Epicurus called this ataraxia—a kind of calm that comes not from ignorance, but from shared security. Not peace as escape, but peace as preparation.

In the Philippine context, we already have a word for this: bayanihan.

Not the romanticized version from posters—but the practical kind. Neighbors sharing information. Friends pooling resources. Communities watching out for one another when institutions fail or fall short.

This is not about replacing the state.

It is about surviving—and improving—while the state struggles.

Mutual aid groups.

Parent-teacher communities protecting schools.

Professional circles that refuse unethical shortcuts.

Barangay-level cooperation that doesn’t wait for permission.

These are not small things. They are counter-systems.

On this seventh day of Simbang Gabi, the lantern widens again—not to institutions, not to leaders, but to the people beside you. To the quiet networks that make life livable even when politics disappoints.

Epicurus reminds us: tyrannies fear organized armies, yes—but they fear organized friendships more. Because friends talk. Friends think. Friends support one another when pressure comes.

𝐈𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐧. Sino ang mga taong maaari mong pagtiwalaan kapag mahirap ang sitwasyon—hindi lang kaibigan, kundi kasama sa pagkilos?

𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐢𝐧. Aling ugnayan ang maaari mong palalimin—sa trabaho, sa barangay, sa paaralan, sa propesyon?

𝐆𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧. Sa linggong ito, gumawa ng isang konkretong hakbang ng samahan: share reliable information, support a local initiative, form a small discussion group, help someone without waiting for credit.

Democracy is not rebuilt by individuals alone.
It is rebuilt by people who choose to stand together—quietly, steadily, and with care.

Bukas: Ikawalong Liwanag — Simone Weil at ang Ugat ng Pananagutan.

| Think • Decide • Act

i am ibaan

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31/12/2025

30/12/2025

29/12/2025

24/12/2025

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