The Return of People Power.(the Philippines)

Just before noon on Saturday, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo arrived at the absolute center of power in the Philippines. It wasn't the palm-fringed oasis of Malacanang Palace, where presidents--including her late father--have ruled for decades. Nor was it the stark complex at Manila's military headquarters, where generals in crisp olive uniforms have plotted coups over the years. No, the 53-year-old vice president made it to the massive street party on EDSA Boulevard--also known as the birthplace of People Power. Fifteen years ago a series of massive protests here toppled dictator Ferdinand Marcos and propelled Corazon Aquino to power. Last week lightning struck again. At noon on Saturday, nearly a million raucous Filipinos went quiet to focus on the diminutive woman who would lead them out of turmoil. In her gray suit and purple eye shadow, Arroyo took the oath of presidential office--and told the cheering crowd why she was filled with awe: "Because Filipinos have done it again through People Power, [making] a new beginning possible."

Only one person was not invited to the EDSA fiesta: the Partyer-in- Chief, Joseph Estrada. A former movie star, and a man of prodigious appetites--five meals a day, 10 out-of-wedlock children and (according to impeachment prosecutors) more than $60 million in his secretive bank accounts--the president suddenly found himself in a frighteningly unfamiliar situation: he was utterly alone. Gone were the supplicants and sycophants. Gone were his "midnight cabinet" cronies who used to play mah-jongg--and cut business deals--late into the night. Gone, too, were the anchors of his official cabinet, including the top military commanders and his entire economic team. They'd all resigned their positions or withdrawn their support. Sapped of his power, Estrada in the final hours could not even secure immunity from prosecution. Minutes after Arroyo was sworn in, Estrada announced that he was reluctantly leaving the palace. "I have strong and serious doubts about the legality and constitutionality of [Arroyo's becoming] president," said Estrada. "[But] I do not wish to prevent the restoration of unity and order in our civil society... I now leave for the sake of peace." Then, flanked by his wife and son, he limped onto a decrepit barge that reportedly took him to his private mansion in a suburb of Manila. Onboard the barge, Estrada waved wanly toward shore, his trademark white wristband visible one last time under his jacket sleeve.

For nearly everyone in Manila, Estrada's ouster evoked a strong sense of deja vu. Ever since the president's impeachment trial broke down in mutual recriminations last Tuesday, the drama in the Philippines has followed a script that was reminiscent of 1986: four days of massive street protests led by rock bands and the Roman Catholic Church; a series of last-minute defections by top military brass; the triumphant crowning of a new woman president and--as a final act--the ignominious departure of her disgraced predecessor. For sheer entertainment value, it's a hard formula to beat. But in a young democracy struggling to get on its feet, the four-month roller-coaster ride also raises some serious questions: How did it come to this again? How will the new government reunite the divided country and rebuild its economy? And, fingers crossed, does Arroyo's ascension mean the Philippines is ready to go from the ridiculous to the sublime, or at least to a semblance of national respectability?

Estrada's downfall, ironically, came just when he seemed certain to escape impeachment. The Senate trial, which began on Dec. 7, was based on allegations by one of Estrada's former drinking buddies that the president had pocketed nearly $12 million in illegal gambling profits and cigarette-tax revenues. As the trial progressed, however, prosecutors focused less on the alleged kickbacks than on the enormous personal fortune that Estrada reportedly accumulated. They claimed that Estrada amassed $63.5 million in seven different bank accounts, or nearly 100 times more than his declared assets of $690,000. But last Tuesday, when prosecutors attempted to submit as evidence bank records from one account, Estrada's supporters cried foul. The senators decided 11-10 in favor of keeping the records sealed--a vote that virtually ensured Estrada's eventual acquittal. Estrada thanked "the good Lord for giving us this initial favorable vote." But he added: "In any important trial, you win some, you lose some."

It was a Pyrrhic victory. A day later the 11 House prosecutors quit in angry protest, stating: "We fear that our further participation in the charade will only mislead the people--the ultimate judge." Both sides had viewed the trial as a way to consolidate democratic institutions and resolve the political crisis--as long as it worked out favorably for their side. With the trial suspended, both sides were pointing fingers. "It is such an infantile, juvenile reaction to resign," said defense lawyer Sigfrid Fortun. "If you want democracy to work, you have to have faith in its institutions. It doesn't make sense for you to join in the game and then subsequently quit if you lose."

But that was precisely the problem: people lost faith in the impeachment process. "The fact that we are now resorting to the streets shows that we don't trust the institutions," says Don Songco, a leader of Kompil, a coalition of NGOs opposing the government. Cardinal Jaime Sin, a force in the 1986 revolution and a longtime Estrada critic, said: "We see the continuance of the trial as an exercise in futility and a mockery of the truth. We cannot be blamed if we use other ways of intensified nonviolent forms of protest, including even civil disobedience."

Within hours, several protests had started in Manila, and all of them were converging on the site of the 1986 People Power revolution. The end of the trial took the opposition by surprise. But from the Galleria Suites Hotel, not far from EDSA, activists rushed to set up a makeshift command center. Rumors, jokes and organizational-protest needs were all spread by the Filipinos' favorite mode of communication: text messages sent via mobile phones. (They send more than 30 million per day, more than all of Europe combined.) One message read: "Congratulations, Estrada, you will go down in history as the first president to be ousted by text." By Thursday night, more than 100,000 protesters had gathered. Confetti streamed down from packed overpasses, and the crowd joined in a massive rendition of "Impossible Dream." Giovanni Miguel, a government-employed economist, sat on the side of a blue truck in the middle of the rally, shouting for Estrada to resign. "The youth have been underestimated," he said. "This is a turning point for the people of the Philippines."