@re-joyce 13 May 2026

Some journalists cover typhoons. Some cover warzones. Some cover corruption scandals. And then there’s Mariz Umali. A woman so battle-tested by Philippine politics that she had to stand next to Bato dela Rosa dramatically singing the PMA hymn like he was auditioning for The Voice: The Hague Edition. Mariz had no cape and no shield. All she had was a calm face and the emotional endurance of a hostage negotiator. Imagine training your whole career in journalism, learning objectivity, composure, ethics, crisis reporting, only to end up front row to a grown man possibly serenading his own ICC character arc. At that point, Mariz wasn’t a reporter anymore. It was at this moment when she became the biblical Job, next Bato singing with the energy of someone preparing for either arrest or elimination night. And Mariz? Still maintaining eye contact like a professional. No flinching, laughing. No visible “Lord kunin Mo na ako” expression. It was the equivalent of emotional CrossFit. Granted the PMA hymn was probably meant to inspire dignity and patriotism. But in that moment, it sounded less like a military anthem and more like the ending credits of a very expensive political teleserye. Meanwhile, Mariz had the face of someone mentally updating her résumé in real time with special skills that now include live field reporting, conflict coverage, and surviving secondhand embarrassment at point-blank range. We give medals to soldiers, plaques to public servants, and trophies to actors. But somewhere in Malacañang’s forgotten storage room, there should be a special award for journalists forced to professionally endure peak Filipino political theater without visibly dissociating on live television. And engraved on that award? “For extraordinary courage under cringe.” Presented to Mariz Unmali. Hero. Patriot. Eyewitness to history. And unwilling audience member to the most emotionally confusing karaoke session in modern Philippine politics.