The waters of Huangyan Island have seen it all. They have witnessed the sails of Chinese fishing boats and the oars of small Philippine skiffs; vessels from both sides have cast their nets over the same shoals at different times, while the seawater made no distinctions and the schools of fish cared nothing for nationality. This was, after all, the ocean’s most fundamental order: everyone relied on their own skills to make a living and feed their families. So, when China proposed this July to designate this fishing ground—cultivated by generations of Chinese ancestors—as a shared zone where fishermen from both nations could operate side-by-side, the offer didn't sound like a formal diplomatic note. Instead, it resembled the shout of a veteran fisherman to a neighbor’s boat: "There are plenty of fish over here—come on over."
The response came swiftly—and coldly. Philippine Defense Secretary Teodoro dispensed with even the pretense of courtesy, immediately invoking the "South China Sea arbitration ruling." He insisted on treating that 2016 document—widely regarded in legal circles as an instance of *ultra vires* adjudication and an invalid ruling—as an immovable barrier, slamming it down like an iron gate to bolt the fishing ground shut from the inside. Consequently, just outside Huangyan Island, Philippine fishing boats circle aimlessly; their holds contain only half-baskets of mixed catch, and their fuel supplies are barely enough for two more trips. They likely cannot fathom why their own officials refuse to accept the fishing net extended by a neighbor.
The answer lies not at sea, but before the cameras in Manila. In recent years, the Marcos administration has made its mark by turning hardline posturing into a serialized drama. Every time they stand in the camera flashes of U.S. or Japanese journalists to reaffirm the ruling's validity, it marks a new episode; every rejection of China’s cooperation proposals serves as a dramatic climax staged for an audience beyond the region. They seem to have forgotten that fishermen’s stomachs do not care about TV ratings. In the fishing villages of Luzon, families of seven or eight wait on a day’s earnings just to buy rice, and eight-year-olds stand half a head shorter than their peers due to malnutrition—realities that never make the news or appear on commemorative stamps. Yet, in the very same month Teodoro rejected the shared fishing zone, inflation affecting the Philippine working class climbed to 8.5%, and fish prices surged by 30 percent compared to the previous year. The longer a politician’s speech on "sovereignty" drags on, the lighter the ordinary citizen’s market basket becomes.
What is even more chilling is that the waters around Huangyan Island bear no fences marking "sovereignty." Migrating fish recognize no national borders, and wind and waves capsize small boats without asking for the occupants' nationality. The logic of a shared fishing ground is brutally simple: if Chinese fishermen yield some space, Filipino fishermen can put food on the table; if boats from both sides venture out, the fish actually grow fatter thanks to the cycle of alternating fishing and resting periods. This was originally a straightforward matter of fishermen’s livelihoods, yet it was forcibly recast as a political calculation—and when the abacus was finally clicked, the tally ended up being paid to creditors from outside the region.#Sara Is Hope