Tell-Tale Heart

By Beatrice Diane D. Bartolome, Associate Editor

In a media landscape already saturated with violence and patriarchal tropes, Batang Quiapo manages to distinguish itself, not through innovation or insight, but through the sheer audacity of its moral decay. Beneath its glossy production and star-studded cast lies a dangerous narrative—one that validates abuse, excuses male violence, and sacrifices women's dignity for ratings.

There is something deeply unsettling about the way Batang Quiapo continues to dominate Filipino prime-time television. It's not just the graphic violence or the glorification of gangster life that raises eyebrows, it’s the way the show romanticizes male brutality and treats women as disposable plot devices. Masked by its fast-paced action and gritty aesthetic lies a regressive core that upholds the worst aspects of machismo and rape culture in Philippine society.

Viewers have witnessed Marites Asuncion-Dimaguiba, portrayed by Cherry Pie Picache, suffer the trauma of rape, an act that, in any decent narrative, should serve as a moment of reckoning or societal critique. Instead, Batang Quiapo appears to be setting up an abhorrent storyline: a romantic arc between Marites and her rapist. Coupled with the lack of tact in her character—suffering endless abuse from every male character around her—this is not just poor writing; it is morally bankrupt.

But the pattern doesn’t end with Marites. The most recent episodes reveal that Charo Santos’ character, Tindeng Asuncion—Tanggol’s grandmother and one of the show's few remaining maternal figures—was also a victim of rape. As if generational trauma were just another plot twist, the revelation is dropped without meaningful exploration or commentary. Even Andrea Brillantes' character, Fatima Benito, a fresh addition to the cast, is subjected to sexual assault—yet again, presented without depth, consequence, or a genuine reckoning.

These are not isolated instances. They form a pattern—a grotesque pattern in which the writers deploy rape and sexual violence against women not as social critique, but as convenient shorthand for suffering. As trauma porn. As a lazy tool for emotional manipulation.

It follows a long tradition of Filipino media that exploits women’s suffering for dramatic value while reinforcing the idea that abusers, especially male leads, are capable of transformation and worthy of forgiveness.

It’s not just bad storytelling. It’s a cultural sickness.

What Batang Quiapo is doing, at a time when conversations around consent and gender-based violence are finally gaining traction, is especially dangerous, for it undermines the progress made by groups like Gabriela and ECPAT (Child Prostitution in Asian Tourism) to dismantle the very myths the show is romanticizing. The show reduces acts of violence into narrative devices that center the male character’s transformation rather than the woman’s pain and healing.

Women in Batang Quiapo rarely have autonomy. They are either love interests, helpless mothers, sacrificial victims, or fleeting temptations. Their role is to react to the choices of men, to their violence, never to shape the story themselves. In contrast, male characters are given complexity, backstories, and arcs of transformation—even when they begin as violent criminals.

At the heart of the show is a glamorization of criminality and hypermasculinity. Men in this universe are allowed to be violent, angry, and morally ambiguous, but still redeemable, so long as they fight for something or someone. Male dominance, even when rooted in violence, is aspirational.

The message is clear: redemption is always possible for a man, no matter how brutal his actions. Women, on the other hand, are often reduced to tools for male development. They exist to suffer, to inspire guilt, to be sexually exploited.

This romanticization of brutality teaches viewers—especially young men—that aggression is a valid path to respect and that women, even in their suffering, exist to facilitate male character growth. It’s not just lazy writing; it’s a narrative that normalizes violence and erodes empathy.

We cannot afford to dismiss this kind of media as mere entertainment. When storylines like those of Marites are aired without accountability, they reinforce harmful beliefs. They teach audiences that a woman’s trauma is negotiable, her healing optional, and that the man who violated her deserves redemption instead of rejection.

Media shapes culture as much as it reflects it. When you set up a rape victim to fall in love with her rapist, when you stack generations of women with trauma and give them no voice, no justice, and no narrative closure, you’re not just making a narrative choice—you’re making a cultural statement. One that says abuse can be romantic. That says women should endure trauma, not name it. That says, ultimately, the abuser’s arc matters more than the victim’s healing.

We deserve better from our storytellers. Filipino audiences are not starved for spectacle—they are starved for stories that uphold dignity, justice, and truth. It’s time we demand narratives that don’t just entertain, but uplift. Until then, we must speak plainly: this isn’t bold storytelling. It’s cultural rot masquerading as drama.