Early this year, Kassa, a young singer, songwriter, and artist, wanted to write a song that would make people stop, listen, and think. She wanted to say something meaningful about what was happening around her—to capture the thoughts and feelings of ordinary people who see, hear, and experience the realities of the times.
She even dreamed of collaborating with popular rapper Gloc-9, believing that having an established artist on the song could help bring it to a much bigger audience.
Then the rains came.
And with the relentless habagat came floods that destroyed homes, livelihoods, and crops. And, tragically, took lives.
Kassa could have simply finished her song and waited for an opportunity to release it.
Instead, she opened it up.
She posted the first lines of her song on social media, released the complete music as an open-verse challenge, and invited anyone—amateur or professional, known or unknown—to add their own words, their own experiences, their own anger, their own pain.
And something extraordinary happened.
Those first few lines became a microphone for thousands. People began writing and rapping their own verses. They spoke about the floods, the suffering, the corruption, the neglect, and the frustration of watching ordinary Filipinos bear the consequences of failures and broken promises.
What began with a few followers exploded into more than 100,000 collaborators in just a few days.
And as the rains continued, so did the voices. You can hear some of those voices here:
Kassa’s BAHA — Open Verse Collaborations:
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This is the power of music.
A song is not always just entertainment. Sometimes, it becomes a witness. Sometimes, it becomes an indictment - an accusation of a serious charge that deserves to be condemned.
Sometimes, it becomes a megaphone for people who feel they are not being heard.
Kassa’s song became all of these. She titled it “BAHA.” And these are the words she gave the people:
Ayan na, ayan na ang ulan
Tumakbo na sa kawalan
Lumangoy sa kasakiman
Lubog sa kapabayaan
Ayan na ang ulan.
Simple words. But they struck a nerve. Because the people did not merely hear the song. They answered it. They took the music and filled it with their own stories. Their own frustrations. Their own demands. And with every new verse came another voice saying, in its own way: We see what is happening. We feel it. And we will not remain silent.
That is what makes this collaboration remarkable. Kassa did not try to own the song. She gave it away—and the people gave it a voice.
I salute Kassa for having the courage to open her music to everyone who had something to say.
And I salute the countless open-verse rappers who stepped forward and used their talent not just to entertain, but to express, expose, question, and call for accountability.
When people can no longer find a microphone in the halls of power, they will find one in a song. And this one is loud.
Ayan na. Ayan na ang ulan.
And the people are speaking.
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