#EmpowerHer: The Female Rage of Bita and the Botflies

They are the modern-day sirens.

They lure you in with that vintage tune, the slow tease of a jazz riff, and those suave, irresistible grooves. Before you know it, you’re under their spell—lost in the rhythm, vibing through every track of the album. But beneath the velvet melodies and honeyed vocals lies something far sharper: a simmering, unapologetic rage. 

Feminine? Absolutely. But furious all the time.

In a world that prefers women quiet, Bita and the Botflies croon their protest. Sweet on the surface but biting underneath. Their most popular tracks thrive on this contradiction. They are delivered in melodies delicate as lace but the lyrics simmer with violence that dance around the themes of misogyny, harassment, and female rage. 

Because when anger isn’t allowed to be loud, it gets clever. It learns to charm. And it waits for the perfect moment to strike. 

The Politics of Female Rage

History and art have long been unfair in their depictions of women—a bias that’s hardly surprising, given that both fields have been shaped and dominated by men who have often regarded women as secondary to themselves.

Just humor me for a moment. Imagine you’re standing in a museum, wandering past paintings of women through the ages. What do you see? 

There’s Ophelia, floating gently on the water’s surface, her pale hands open, surrounded by delicate flowers—fragile, even in death. 

Nearby, Cleopatra lies draped across her bed, her body limp and exposed, the last traces of power slipping quietly from her grasp. 

And then Juliet, her white dress pooling around her like spilled milk, weeping over her lover’s lifeless form—pure, delicate, moments from her own tragic end.

In these images, we get a glimpse of how men view the ideal women— young, beautiful, white… and dead. 

For men, there is something exquisite about a woman who is silent, still, and soft. A woman who does not speak back. Does not resist. Whose suffering is delicate, whose pain is picturesque. The perfect muse—frozen forever in the purgatory of girlhood, lingering on the cusp of womanhood. Innocent enough to be pure, yet just matured enough to be desired. A body in bloom, but never allowed to ripen. Never granted the full agency, the power, the autonomy that womanhood brings. Trapped in that fragile, fleeting moment where she can be admired, possessed, and mourned—but never truly in control.

But what happens when a woman refuses to play dead? When she pries herself from the canvas, steps out of the frame, and takes hold of the brush? What happens when, instead of being painted, she paints—breathing life into colors long muted? What do we see then?

We see blood. 

We see anger spilling in the canvas, painting it red in broad, unapologetic strokes. No flowers and ethereal beauty— just the raw, feral smear of rage long held beneath the surface. 

When asked to describe female rage, the first image that rises in my mind is Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes. 

I see Judith, sleeves rolled, hands steady, as she drives the blade across Holofernes’ throat. Beside her, her maid holds him down, unfazed by the spray of blood. It is brutal. Unflinching. Not the soft, tragic death so often painted onto women, but something far more visceral—a woman not as victim, but as executioner.

That is female rage. Not simmering. Not passive. But active, precise, and unapologetically violent.

Art was the first witness to this explosion. 

Long before women were allowed to scream in public, they learned to pour their fury into creation. When the world told them to stay silent, they picked up brushes, pens, and instruments. Their rage found refuge in color, in rhythm, in words disguised as something beautiful.

Even now, art remains the most enduring vessel. 

When the streets grow quiet and the placards are put down, the music keeps playing. The canvases keep hanging. The stories keep telling what history tried to erase. Rage survives there—tucked into melodies, threaded through harmonies, humming beneath even the sweetest chorus.

But what happens when society punishes you for showing anger? For daring to revel in female rage?

You learn to dress it up. Doll it up. Wrap it in charm. Swirl it in sweetness.

You play pretend—smiling, swaying, singing—until the moment it slips beneath the skin and cuts exactly where it hurts most.

And by the time they taste the bitterness, it’s already too late.

They’ve been dancing to their own dissection.

Bita and the Botflies

Cue Bita and the Botflies. 

At first listen, Bita and the Botflies sounds playful, even ridiculous at times. Their songs are cheeky, mischievous, flirty in the way a knowing smirk is. They make it feel light, like it’s all just a bit of fun. 

In “Sisikat Ka, Iha,” Sofy Aldeguer sounds almost teasing, her voice slipping into a high, girlish lilt as she coos, “Sayaw nene, sayaw nene.” It’s airy. Sweet. The kind of singsong tone you might use to humor a child.

“Chop-chop Blues” plays in the same sly, seductive register. There’s a certain sensual mischief as the protagonist purrs to her lover, “Do you wanna do it slowly? Do you wanna do it quickly?”—words that slip off the tongue like an invitation to foreplay. 

In “Tagu-taguan,” the sensuality sharpens, turning up the heat with a Lolita-esque edge. The song leans into a playful, provocative persona, weaving familiar Filipino game chants into the lyrics— “Tagu-taguan, maliwanag ang buwan,” and “Langit at lupa’y ginapang ko na”—childhood refrains reimagined with a knowing wink, blurring the lines between innocence and something far more suggestive.

Bita and the Botflies make their songs feel light, like it’s all just fun and games. But that’s the trick. That’s how they get you.

Because underneath the jokes and clever wordplays that allude to innocent nursery rhymes is a rage sharpened into something lethal. What sounds at first like child’s play is anything but. Every teasing line, every coquettish lilt, hides a blade. And by the time you realize it, you’re already complicit, laughing along to a song that was always meant to mirror a harsh reality for many women.

When you sing along with Aldeguer’s “Sayaw Nene, Sayaw Nene” in “Sisikat Ka, Iha,” you realize—suddenly, uncomfortably—that you’ve become the showbiz executive, coaxing the starlet to bare her body for a hungry crowd. Or maybe you’re the devil himself, whispering promises of fame in exchange for her soul, already plotting to swap her out for someone younger, fresher, more willing. But really, what’s the difference? Either way, you’re part of the machine that chews her up. And worst of all, you’re humming along.

Or when you find yourself singing along to “Chop-Chop Blues,” only to realize it’s not just some playful, sultry tune. It’s the confession of a scorned woman, betrayed one time too many, who finally decides to take matters—and a knife—into her own hands. And when you echo the line, “Do you wanna do it slowly? Do you wanna do it quickly?” you’re not flirting. Not anymore. You’re offering him a choice: dismemberment at leisure or in haste. Foreplay? Hardly. This is the soundtrack to revenge, and you’ve already joined the chorus.

And then there’s “Tagu-taguan.” At first, it sounds like child’s play—a sing-song chant, an innocent game of hide-and-seek. But listen closer. You’re not just reciting nursery rhymes. You’re the wife lying awake, waiting while your husband slips out to meet his lover under the cover of night. And when you finally catch them—both of them—well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. There’s no forgiveness here, not even for her. Why should there be? Boys get to duel for honor, but women are expected to share? Not this time. This game ends when you decide it does—and no one gets to run.

This is all female rage—deliciously satisfying, dressed up just enough to be palatable for anyone listening. Sweetened with melody, softened by humor, made easy to swallow. But not quite. Not really.

In a society that only permits women to be politely angry—smiling through gritted teeth—Bita and the Botflies show up armed with wit, sarcasm, and dangerously cool music.

Polite Society, Violent Justice

With Bita and the Botflies and the women of the world, rage isn’t just an emotion— it is a weapon, a performance, a form of justice. It calls out the devils in disguise— the men who clap without realizing that they are the butt of the joke. 

With female rage, the women don’t just reclaim the narrative— they own the stage. And if that makes anyone uncomfortable, then good. Maybe, they should. 

Because this is what happens when women stop asking for permission to be angry. They start making art. They start making noise.

And no one gets to look away.