I know I watched ‘Sister Stella L.’ when I was younger, but honestly, I could barely remember what happened in the movie.

So when I was invited to watch its restored version at the historic Metropolitan Theater in Manila on September 20—with Vilma Santos herself in attendance—it felt less like a rewatch and more like seeing Mike de Leon’s landmark film for the first time. And perhaps watching it again at this point in my life made all the difference.

Released in 1984, ‘Sister Stella L.’ is more than four decades old, yet sitting inside the theater, I kept thinking about how disturbingly familiar everything felt. Workers demanding their rights. People in power protecting their interests. Ordinary Filipinos struggling to make ends meet. Institutions being challenged over their silence. People being forced to decide whether to remain spectators or finally take a stand.

More than 40 years later, why does so much of it still feel like the Philippines today?

Vilma Santos plays Sister Stella Legaspi, a nun whose involvement with striking workers gradually changes how she understands her faith and her responsibility to the people around her. What I appreciated about her journey is that the film does not suddenly transform Stella into a perfect activist. She listens. She observes. She questions. She doubts. And eventually, she realizes that caring about people cannot end with simply feeling sorry for them.

The intersection between Christianity and activism is one of the film’s most compelling ideas. As a Christian myself, I believe that if Christ were physically among us today, He would be with people fighting for their rights, livelihood, dignity, and freedom. You cannot stay inside the chapel—or in Sister Stella’s case, the convent—forever while ignoring what is happening outside. If we truly want to live according to the values we preach, shouldn’t that faith also require us to listen to those who are suffering and, when necessary, stand beside them?

That is what makes Stella’s awakening powerful. Before we become nuns, workers, journalists, politicians, employers, or anything else society asks us to be, we begin as human beings. And being human means refusing to become blind or silent when something is wrong.

At the center of Sister Stella L. is a labor strike, and the film refuses to romanticize the workers’ struggle. One line particularly stayed with me: “Tayong manggagawa ang nagpapayaman sa bayan, pero bakit tayo ang naghihirap?” It is a question written for a film released in 1984, but it hardly sounds dated. That is both the brilliance and tragedy of watching ‘Sister Stella L.’ today.

The movie was confronting class inequality, labor rights, exploitation, institutional power, and the fear ordinary people experience when challenging those above them. Decades later, Filipino workers are still fighting over wages, job security, working conditions, and the right to organize. That realization made several scenes unexpectedly emotional for me.

There were moments when I couldn’t fully explain why I was crying. Was it because the dialogue hit so close to home? Or was I sad because the problems these characters were fighting against remain recognizable today? Probably both.

Mike de Leon does not make ‘Sister Stella L.’ subtle about its politics—and that works to its advantage.

The film moves surprisingly fast. The dialogue, camera movement, and progression of events give it an urgency that keeps the story from feeling like a history lesson.

I especially enjoyed the dialogue. Characters constantly throw lines at one another, but Pete Lacaba’s writing and the ensemble’s delivery make those exchanges engaging rather than exhausting. At times, it almost feels like listening to an exceptionally well-written radio drama.

The movie also allows room for humor, which surprised me. A lot of that comes through Nick, played by the late Jay Ilagan, Stella’s journalist ex-boyfriend who remains hung up on her decision to enter religious life. I have to admit: I heavily disliked Nick as an ex-boyfriend.

When he asks, “Ano bang meron si Kristo na wala ako?” I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer audacity. His behavior can be frustrating, even creepy at times, but his subplot isn’t merely a romantic diversion. It becomes another way of examining Stella’s choices and the competing demands placed upon her. Jay Ilagan nevertheless gives a memorable performance, while Vilma Santos delivers a controlled portrayal that becomes more forceful as Stella’s political consciousness develops.

Vilma doesn’t need to turn Stella into a loud revolutionary from the beginning. The power is in watching her gradually understand why remaining on the sidelines is no longer enough.

Watching the restored film at the Metropolitan Theater added another layer to the experience.

Here was a movie made during the final years of the Marcos dictatorship, being shown to a new generation of Filipinos still debating corruption, inequality, workers’ rights, accountability, and the role ordinary citizens should play in demanding change. That historical distance should have made Sister Stella L. feel like a document of another era. Instead, it often felt contemporary. And that is uncomfortable.

We often praise old political films for being “timeless,” but there is something depressing about calling ‘Sister Stella L.’ timeless. A film about social problems should eventually become dated because society has solved—or at least substantially improved—the conditions it condemns. Yet here we are. The faces change. The circumstances evolve. But workers continue fighting for their rights, ordinary people continue struggling against systems larger than themselves, and Filipinos continue asking how much suffering is enough before something finally changes.

So are we really sure we have progressed?

This is also why the restoration matters. I am grateful to the Film Development Council of the Philippines, particularly the Philippine Film Archive, and everyone involved in preserving ‘Sister Stella L.’ in 4K. Restoring a movie isn’t merely about cleaning scratches, improving images, or preserving something because it is considered a classic.

It allows another generation to encounter the questions that the film asked its original audience. And ‘Sister Stella L.’ asks difficult ones.

When does compassion require action? What responsibility does faith carry outside places of worship? What happens when institutions meant to protect people become passive? And when we recognize injustice, how long can we continue telling ourselves that it isn’t our fight?

The film ultimately becomes an ode to protest, resistance, and even the necessity of disturbing the comfortable. Its message isn’t that everyone needs to become a political ideologue overnight. Stella herself doesn’t. Sometimes you simply have to care enough to look around, listen, and recognize that something is wrong.

From there comes the harder question: If not now, then when?

Perhaps that is what I ultimately took home from this screening. When we watch films like ‘Sister Stella L.’, I hope we don’t simply admire Vilma Santos’ performance, Mike de Leon’s direction, Pete Lacaba’s screenplay, or the technical achievement of restoring an important piece of Philippine cinema. I hope they make us more aware. I hope they remind us that history is not something confined to textbooks, museums, restored movies, and commemorations. Its consequences live around us.

And I hope ‘Sister Stella L.’ reaches even more Filipinos, especially younger viewers who may know the title as an important Filipino classic but have never actually seen it. Because more than four decades after it was made, its central challenge remains painfully recognizable.

As Sister Stella says: “Mabuti nang mamatay nang lumalaban kaysa mabuhay nang nagtitiis.”

I entered the Metropolitan Theater trying to remember a movie I had watched back in younger years. I left wondering why, after all these years, we are still confronting many of the same battles. Maybe that is why ‘Sister Stella L.’ remains essential. It doesn’t simply ask us to watch. It asks us to care. It asks us to remember. And ultimately, it reminds us where power begins: Tao ang lakas.