Floods, Corruption, and Snap Elections 2025: 1986 All Over Again?

Introduction

In the Philippines today, the political climate is beginning to echo the upheavals of 1986. Back then, Ferdinand Marcos called a snap election for February 7, 1986, hoping to reassert his mandate. Instead, the widespread perception of massive cheating unleashed a political storm. 

It created an atmosphere of anomic instability—dark clouds of anger, lightning strikes of defection, and gale-force protests—that culminated in the historic People Power uprising later that month. Forty years later, another tempest has emerged with similar volatility: flood control corruption.

If the fraudulent snap election symbolized the arrogance and decay of a dying dictatorship, the billion-peso scandals in flood control projects have come to represent the entrenched rot of governance in our time. The floods are not just natural disasters; they are man-made calamities—storms born of siphoned budgets, substandard infrastructure, and a political class fattened on pork-barrel largesse.

The Parallels: 1986 and 2025

1. Crisis of Legitimacy

1986: Marcos still commanded military loyalty and controlled the electoral machinery, but the brazen fraud of the February 7 snap elections destroyed his moral authority. The cheating became the eye of a storm, destabilizing his rule until the People Power revolution swept him away.

2025: While the ruling coalition still claims strength, the spectacle of ghost dikes, overpriced pumping stations, and favored contractors has eroded confidence. Each downpour exposes the cracks, and every flood swells into a storm of discontent.

2. Middle Class Anger

1986: The urban middle class was jolted awake by the COMELEC walkout and televised fraud. Their outrage gathered like storm clouds and burst into massive street protests.

2025:  Today, it is the middle class that bears the brunt of every flood—cars destroyed, homes submerged, jobs interrupted. Their anger is no longer distant or abstract; it has become a storm surge, rising fast and eroding what little trust remains in government.

3. Fractured Elites

1986: Key figures from business, the Church, and even Marcos’s allies began distancing themselves after the election fraud, sensing the typhoon about to hit.

2025: Cracks are forming in today’s ruling alliances. When the very families who bankroll flood control projects are also the families funding campaigns, political storms brew within the palace gates.

The Differences: 1986 vs 2025

1. The Nature of the Trigger

1986: A single dramatic event—the perception of massive cheating in the February 7 snap elections—ignited a storm of outrage almost overnight.

2025: Corruption in flood control is a slow-burning storm—each rainfall adds water, each ghost project piles wind to the gale. The anger builds cumulatively, not explosively.

2. The Role of Social Media

1986: Newspapers, Radio Veritas, and television acted as storm sirens, rallying people into the streets.

2025: Social media is a swirling whirlwind—spreading outrage instantly, but also dispersing energy, mixing truth with disinformation, and complicating sustained mobilization.

3. The International Context

1986: The Cold War framed Marcos’s regime, and U.S. pressure acted like a typhoon warning, pushing Marcos to the brink.

2025: The geopolitical climate is multipolar, a storm with many winds. The U.S. still wields influence, but China, ASEAN, and global markets now buffet Philippine politics, making external pressure less decisive.

4. Opposition Leadership

1986: Cory Aquino became the calm at the storm’s center—moral, unifying, and steady amid chaos. She gave Filipinos a clear direction for democratic renewal.

2025: The opposition is fragmented, storm-tossed without a unifying figure. Some speculate that Vice President Sara Duterte could assume such a role if her father were to pass away. But unlike Cory, who embodied renewal, Sara is tied to dynastic politics and carries a polarizing legacy. If she does not calm the storm, she may deepen it.

5. The Military Factor

1986: Military defections—Enrile and Ramos breaking away—were lightning bolts that split Marcos’s fortress.

2025: Today’s armed forces are more professionalized, less openly political, but storms of factionalism still swirl beneath the surface. Whether lightning strikes again is uncertain.

6. A Lesser Role for the Church: No Cardinal Sin

1986: Cardinal Jaime Sin’s call over Radio Veritas was the thunderclap that summoned millions to EDSA, lending the storm moral power.

2025: The Church is quieter now, its voice a drizzle compared to the past. We definitely have no Cardinal Sin. Civil society groups, NGOs, and digital networks have become the new storm-bringers.

The Probability of a “Snap Election”

The prospect of a snap election—or its modern variant, an early destabilizing vote—is not far-fetched. History shows Filipinos have little patience for leaders who appear both corrupt and incompetent in times of crisis. The next presidential election, that of May 8, 2028, is two years and seven months away: many of them might not be willing to wait that long. 

But the probability depends on two brewing storm fronts:

Escalation of the Flood Crisis. If another catastrophic flood paralyzes Metro Manila and Central Luzon, exposing shoddy DPWH projects, public outrage could spiral into a typhoon of accountability.

Elite Defection. If key political blocs—business magnates, regional kingpins, even factions within the ruling party—withdraw support, the ruling coalition could collapse like a levee in a storm, just as Marcos’s allies did in 1986.

Projections

Opposition Opportunity. A credible opposition figure could channel the flood narrative as Cory Aquino once harnessed the electoral fraud storm. The challenge: fragmentation and lack of a unifying anchor.

Youth Mobilization. In 1986, students filled the streets; in 2025, youth anger swirls faster through social media, like a tropical storm forming in real time. Viral flood videos may unleash a generational backlash.

Church and Civil Society. Then, the Catholic Church’s pastoral letters shook consciences. Today, civil society groups—engineers, environmentalists, civic clubs—may carry the lightning rod of moral outrage.

What Lies Ahead

Short-Term: Expect protest actions to gather like thunderstorms, framed not in ideology but in urgent demands: “Stop the Flood, Stop the Theft.”

Medium-Term: If corruption exposés multiply, whistleblowers may strike like lightning from DPWH and LGU offices, forcing the regime into a desperate electoral gambit—a premature plebiscite, referendum, or snap election.

Long-Term: Whether or not a snap election is called, the erosion of legitimacy could become a typhoon-force rupture. It may bring a peaceful transition—or a more turbulent reconfiguration involving military adventurism.

Conclusion: The Coming Deluge

In 1986, it was the perception of massive cheating in the February 7 snap election that unleashed the storm that toppled Marcos. In 2025, it may be the floodwaters lapping at doorsteps that spark the next reckoning. 

History does not repeat itself exactly, but it does rhyme in storms. And the rhyme scheme of our politics suggests that when a people are battered by both flood and fraud, they will reach for the first lifeboat—be it a snap election, a protest wave, or a revolution by another name.

The danger is that while storms may sweep away rulers, the channels for genuine reform are weaker now than in 1986. With a fragmented opposition, a less assertive Church, and dynasties steering the ship, the lifeboat may drift in circles.

The challenge for Filipinos, then, is not only to weather the storm but also to rebuild institutions strong enough to withstand both the natural disasters and the corruption.

When Crime Rode the JD Bus: The Legend of Danny Purple

One humid afternoon in the Seventies in UP Diliman, the legendary eccentric Danny Purple flagged down a JD bus—one of those red, rattling warhorses that shuttled students from Balara to Quiapo. The bus was already packed, but Danny squeezed himself in.

The JD “kundoktora”—prim, pink-uniformed, hair sprayed to military stiffness—clicked her ticket puncher and asked matter-of-factly:

“Saan ho kayo, sir?”

Instead of answering, Danny Purple froze, then exploded in righteous fury. His eyes bulged, his voice thundered, and the whole bus fell silent.

“Do you know who I am?”

The poor kundoktora blinked, terrified.

“Eh… hindi, sir…”

Danny threw his arms wide like he was unveiling the apocalypse:

“I… AM… CRIME!!!”

The bus gasped. The kundoktora, regaining her barrio-lass backbone, shot back:

“Eh ano ngayon?!”

And with operatic drama, Danny Purple delivered the line that would echo in UP canteens and tambayans for decades:

“CRIME… DOES NOT PAY!”

 The bus erupted—in laughter, not fear. Even the driver almost drove into a kariton. And thus, with one punchline, Danny Purple cemented his immortality in UP Diliman lore.

From Noise to Clarity: A Scattered Movement Must Unite to Win Real Accountability.

Introduction: Too Many Battles, No Single War

The anti-corruption rallies scheduled today arrive with a paradox: they are both overflowing with targets and lacking one. Each participating group carries its own agenda—some against the Marcoses, others against the Dutertes, still others against the system itself. What should be a unified call for accountability risks becoming a cacophony of voices, where clarity is drowned in a sea of competing demands.

One rally leader even warned against those who would “makikisakay”—a veiled reference to the Left. But in doing so, he revealed not leadership, but division. At the very moment when the country needs solidarity the most, divisive lines are being drawn. The instinct should have been the opposite: to call for a united front, to stitch together these disparate energies into a single banner. Instead, the seeds of fragmentation are already being sown.

The Perils of Mixed Messaging

Movements succeed not only through moral fervor but through disciplined clarity. “Ano ba talaga, kuya?” is the lingering question. What is the demand? Is it for the President to resign? For the Vice President not to succeed him? For plundered funds to be returned? For systemic reform of pork-barrel-style allocations and flood-control scams? Each is worthy, but taken together without prioritization, they blur into confusion.

Social media reflects this dissonance. One group wears black shirts declaring something like: “Don’t demand that BBM resign, because ang papalit ay si Sara.” This is the kind of cognitive knot that immobilizes action. Instead of focusing firepower on corruption itself, the campaign is preoccupied with second-guessing succession scenarios.

Meanwhile, the Powerful Move Quietly

As the movement gropes for coherence, political figures named in controversies take defensive positions—some resign, others lie low, still others are abroad—while inquiries churn. In recent weeks, the Commission on Audit (COA) has publicly flagged additional “ghost” flood-control projects and filed new complaints, part of an expanded fraud audit covering DPWH flood-control spending [1]. These reports underscore how incomplete or non-existent works can thrive under opaque budgeting and weak oversight, with potential irregularities spanning officials and private contractors alike.

And while politicians lie low, their partners in plunder remain in the shadows. Contractor families—the Discayas among them—are often cited by observers as emblematic of the racket. Allegations of overpriced flood projects, ghost infrastructures, and padded contracts have swirled for years in Senate and House inquiries. 

The Politician-Contractor Nexus

Contractors questioned on their lavish lifestyles have even invoked the right against self-incrimination [2]. Whether proven in every case or not, the pattern is depressingly familiar: funds are released, costs balloon, projects crumble—or vanish altogether—and both politicians and contractors walk away richer.

Here lies the deeper truth: corruption is not sustained by politicians alone, but by the symbiosis between political patrons and contractor-beneficiaries. Without the contractors who enable and profit from these deals, the machinery of looting would grind to a halt. Tools to stop this already exist—blacklisting rules under the Government Procurement Policy Board (GPPB) allow erring suppliers and contractors to be barred from future projects—but enforcement and follow-through are everything [3][4].

The Need for a Single Banner

History offers a lesson. The rallies that shook the Marcos dictatorship in the 1980s did not succeed because they were scattered in a dozen directions. They succeeded because they coalesced into a single cry: “Tama na, sobra na, palitan na!” Clarity emboldened the many, not just the organized few.

Likewise, during the 2013 Million People March, the demand was equally pointed: abolish the pork barrel system. That clarity galvanized broad participation and helped pave the way for the Supreme Court’s landmark ruling later that year, declaring the congressional pork barrel (PDAF) unconstitutional [5][6][7].

Today’s anti-corruption movement must relearn this lesson. Its moral energy is undeniable, but its narrative is weak. If the demand is resignation, declare it without hesitation. If the demand is restitution, outline the mechanisms to recover stolen wealth. 

If the demand is systemic reform, identify the precise targets: pork-like discretionary insertions, collusion with favored contractors, bid-rigging, ghost projects, and substandard works. 

And with every target, combine the solution: full e-procurement, project geotagging, independent technical audits, mandatory publication of as-built plans, real-time COA dashboards, and strict blacklisting of erring contractors. 

Only when outrage is paired with clarity can it cut deep. Ambiguity serves not the people but the corrupt—whether they occupy Manila’s halls of power or profit quietly as contractors in the provinces.

Toward a Sharper Campaign

If today’s rallies are to avoid becoming tomorrow’s footnotes, three steps are urgent:

1. Unify the Front. All groups—Left, Center, and Right—should be urged toward one non-negotiable demand (e.g., “Recover and return the money,” or “Abolish discretionary insertions and blacklist colluding firms”). Differences can be postponed until after a concrete win.

2. Name the Enemy Precisely. Not in generalities like “corruption,” but in specifics: the scheme (ghost projects, padded contracts), the enabling offices (procurement, implementing agencies), and the mechanisms of capture. When naming examples—politicians or contractors—anchor them in publicly reported inquiries, COA flags, or court actions [1][2].

3. Create and Empower a Recovery Mechanism. Demand a modern, truly independent PCGG-style body (with prosecutorial coordination) to: (a) freeze assets, (b) claw back ill-gotten gains, and (c) blacklist crooked contractors—using existing GPPB rules but with stronger enforcement and public transparency. Historical precedent shows the state can recover assets with the right mandate and political will [8].

Conclusion: A Moment That Demands Clarity

The tragedy of the Filipino nation is not only that it is robbed, but that its outrage is scattered. A people’s cry can move mountains, but only if it is sharp, focused, and sustained. Today’s anti-corruption movement is at a crossroads: it can either dissipate into the fog of competing slogans or it can forge itself into a spear that pierces the heart of brazen impunity.

The question is not whether corruption must be fought—it must. The question is whether the people can summon the discipline to fight it together, under one banner, with one voice, until stolen funds are returned—and until the contractor-politician nexus that enabled the looting is finally broken. 

References

1. COA flags 4 more ghost flood control projects, files new raps. (2025, Sept.). Philippine Daily Inquirer.

2. AP News. (2024). Philippines Senate and House inquiries into flood-control anomalies.

3. Government Procurement Policy Board (GPPB). (2017, Dec. 21). Resolution No. 40-2017: Uniform Guidelines for Blacklisting of Manufacturers, Suppliers, Distributors, Contractors and Consultants.

4. Government Procurement Policy Board (GPPB). (2017). NPM No. 036-2017.

5. Amnesty International Philippines. (2022, July). Million People March (2013): ProtestPH.

6. Reuters. (2013, Aug. 26). Tens of thousands of Filipinos protest “pork barrel” funds.

7. Greco Belgica, et al. v. Ochoa, et al., G.R. No. 208566 (Supreme Court of the Philippines, Nov. 19, 2013).

8. Presidential Commission on Good Government (PCGG). (2023). Year-End Report 2022: Asset Recovery and Disposition.

How Ferdinand Marcos Won the Senate Presidency

Introduction: The Philippines and the World in 1963

The contest for the Philippine Senate presidency in April 1963 unfolded against a backdrop of political uncertainty at home and turbulence abroad. Domestically, President Diosdado Macapagal was midway through his term, pushing his “New Era” program of land reform and foreign policy realignment toward stronger ties with the United States. 

Inflation, rising unemployment, and a stubborn rice shortage were fueling public dissatisfaction, while corruption scandals like the Stonehill Affair kept the political climate tense. Within Congress, the traditional rivalry between the Liberal and Nacionalista Parties was sharpening as the 1965 elections loomed. 

Abroad, the Cold War was at its height: the Cuban Missile Crisis had shaken the world just months earlier, the Vietnam conflict was escalating, and Southeast Asia was becoming a new arena of superpower competition.

In this climate of waning credibility and domestic volatility, the struggle for the Senate presidency assumed outsize importance, serving not only as a fight for legislative control but also as a dress rehearsal for the presidential succession.

With this broader context in mind, the drama that played out in the Senate on April 5, 1963 — remembered for Roseller Lim’s legendary filibuster and Alejandro Almendras’s decisive defection — can be better understood as more than a procedural skirmish. 

It was a pivotal episode in the nation’s political trajectory, one that foreshadowed the stormy years to come. It was in this climate of uncertainty that the Senate chamber became the nation’s arena, with a single vote set to decide not just leadership but the future course of Philippine politics. It marked the turning point in the career of the man who, within less than a decade, would undo the then-17-year-old democratic experiment of the Philippines. 

Roseller Lim’s 18½-Hour Stand

On April 5, 1963, Nacionalista Senator Roseller T. Lim employed the most extreme parliamentary tactic in the Senate’s history. He initiated an 18½-hour filibuster, determined to prevent a vote for the Senate presidency until Sen.Alejandro Almendras, then abroad, could return and strengthen the Nacionalista majority. 

Lim stood at the rostrum all day and through the night, drinking only water and refusing to yield the floor. His marathon effort, remembered in political lore as “The Great Filibuster,” was a physical and political gamble. Finally, when Almendras arrived, Lim, utterly exhausted, cast his vote for Rodriguez and collapsed, needing to be carried out of the session hall. 

What followed was a twist that stunned the chamber: Almendras broke ranks and sided with Marcos. Lim’s heroic filibuster, intended to save his party’s leader, instead highlighted the futility of resistance.

The Roll Call: Who Voted for Whom

The final tally reflected the razor-thin division: 13 for Marcos, 11 for Rodriguez.

For Ferdinand Marcos (13 votes):

Liberal Party senators (10): Ferdinand E. Marcos, Ambrosio B. Padilla, Estanislao Fernandez, Gerardo “Gerry” Roxas, Juan R. Liwag, Maria Kalaw Katigbak, Gaudencio E. Antonino, Camilo Osias, Wenceslao Lagumbay, Cipriano P. Laurel Jr.

Progressive/Grand Alliance senators (2): Raul S. Manglapus, Manuel P. Manahan.

Nacionalista defector (1): Alejandro D. Almendras.

For Eulogio Rodriguez Sr. (11 votes):

Nacionalista Party senators (11): Eulogio “Amang” Rodriguez Sr., Roseller T. Lim, Gil J. Puyat, Cipriano Primicias Sr., Arturo M. Tolentino, Jose J. Roy, Genaro F. Magsaysay, Oscar Ledesma, Mariano Jesús Cuenco, Fernando Lopez, Eulogio Balao.

Although renowned for his independence as leader of the Nationalist Citizens’ Party, Tañada’s vote in this contest aligned with Rodriguez, consistent with the official 13–11 split. His reputation as a principled “wild card” explains why neither side counted heavily on him, but mathematically, his support had to be on the Nacionalista side since Almendras was the lone defection.

The Final Tally: Almendras Decides, Tañada Stands Apart

Based on the available accounts of the 1963 Senate presidency election, Lorenzo M. Tañada did not vote for Ferdinand Marcos. As mentioned, the decisive swing came from Alejandro Almendras, who broke ranks with the Nacionalistas and joined the twelve Liberals to give Marcos a slim 13–11 victory. 

Had Tañada also cast his lot with Marcos, the margin would have been 14–10, but both the Senate record and reports of the time are unanimous that the outcome was 13–11. Thus, the final tally stood at 13 votes for Marcos (12 Liberals plus Almendras) against 11 votes for Rodriguez (the solid Nacionalista bloc), with Tañada abstaining or casting an independent vote. 

As the lone senator of the Nationalist Citizens’ Party, Tañada was renowned for his independent nationalist stance and frequently abstained or cast symbolic votes when the contest was simply between the two major blocs. In 1963, both camps understood that he would not bind himself to either side, and thus his vote, while principled, was not pivotal to the result.

Why this Senate Election Was Significant

The Senate Presidency had immense institutional clout. The position was far more than a ceremonial title. As presiding officer of the chamber, Marcos now held the authority to influence committee assignments, control the referral of bills, and manage the flow of legislation on the floor. 

This allowed him to reward allies, marginalize rivals, and cultivate a reputation as an effective power broker. Beyond procedure, the position carried enormous prestige: the Senate President was seen as the second most powerful elected official in the Republic, just a heartbeat away from Malacañang. 

In a country where political stature was closely tied to visibility, Marcos’s assumption of the role elevated him instantly into the national spotlight and confirmed his status as a serious contender for the presidency.

Political Momentum

Marcos’s narrow victory demonstrated not only his tactical shrewdness but also his ability to seize the moment. Having secured the Senate presidency against a seasoned Nacionalista leader, he emerged as the undisputed star of the Liberal Party, seemingly poised to inherit its mantle in 1965 under President Diosdado Macapagal’s earlier assurance. 

The win created a sense of inevitability about his presidential ambitions, burnishing his image as a man destined for higher office. For Marcos’s allies, the triumph was proof of his political genius; for his opponents, it was a warning that he had both the will and the skill to outmaneuver even the most entrenched figures in Philippine politics.

A Lesson in Political Procedure

The 1963 battle also crystallized key features of Philippine politics that have echoed across generations. 

First was the culture of brinkmanship, vividly dramatized by Roseller Lim’s 18½-hour filibuster, a show of endurance that highlighted how procedure could be weaponized in pursuit of partisan goals. 

Second was the reality of fluid loyalties, symbolized by Alejandro Almendras’s sudden defection and later mirrored by Marcos himself when he crossed over to the Nacionalistas to secure the 1965 nomination. Such shifts revealed the transactional nature of alliances, where personal ambition often took precedence over ideology. 

Third was the Senate’s role as a launchpad for presidential power: the visibility and authority of its presidency provided an unmatched platform for those seeking national leadership. In these three ways, the episode not only decided a leadership contest but also illuminated the enduring dynamics of Philippine politics.

A Party Divided: Liberal Party Cracks on the Road to 1965

In 1965, the Liberal Party faced not only the defection of Ferdinand Marcos but also the departure of Vice President Emmanuel Pelaez, who likewise left the party to seek the Nacionalista Party’s presidential nomination. 

With two of its most prominent figures leaving, President Diosdado Macapagal had to rebuild his ticket for the upcoming election. To replace Pelaez, the Liberals turned to Senator Gerardo “Gerry” Roxas, son of former President Manuel Roxas, who was chosen as Macapagal’s running mate for vice president. 

This realignment highlighted the deep divisions within the Liberal Party and revealed the shifting loyalties that shaped the volatile political landscape leading up to the crucial 1965 presidential race.

Epilogue: The Players and Their Legacies

Roseller T. Lim

Known ever after as the “Great Filibusterer,” Lim’s extraordinary 18½-hour stand symbolized both his devotion to the party and his willingness to sacrifice personal comfort for political loyalty. Yet his effort, though legendary, ultimately proved futile. In later years, he would transfer to the Liberal Party and eventually close his career as a justice of the Court of Appeals, remembered more for that single act of physical endurance than for his judicial work. Roseller Lim died on July 5, 1976

Alejandro Almendras

Once regarded as a reliable Nacionalista, Almendras stunned the chamber when he defected to support Marcos. That one decision, delivered at the crucial moment, altered the balance of power and changed the course of national politics. His role epitomized the fluidity of Philippine political alignments, where loyalty could yield to personal calculation and circumstances could elevate a single senator into a kingmaker. Alejandro Almendras died on August 4, 1995

Eulogio "Amang Rodriguez" Sr. 

For more than a decade, Rodriguez had been the formidable steward of the Nacionalista Senate majority, embodying both its traditions and its authority. But in 1963 he was overtaken by fissures within his own ranks. His loss to Marcos marked not only the end of his long tenure as Senate President but also a symbolic passing of the torch from an older generation of party bosses to a new breed of ambitious tacticians. Eulogio "Amang" Rodriguez died on December 9, 1964.

Ferdinand E. Marcos Sr.

Of all the players, it was Marcos who emerged triumphant. His victory in the Senate presidency confirmed his status as the most formidable political strategist of his generation and gave him the stature needed to pursue the presidency. The episode revealed his ability to navigate shifting alliances, exploit opportunities, and convert narrow margins into decisive triumphs. It was the moment when his path to Malacañang became unmistakably clear. Ferdinand Marcos Sr. died on September 28, 1989. 

Conclusion: The Promise and the Betrayal

The Senate drama of April 1963 remains a pivotal inflection point in Philippine political history. It brought into sharp relief the theatrics of parliamentary maneuver, the fragility of party loyalties, and the force of personal ambition in shaping national destiny.

Yet what gave the episode a deeper resonance was the irony that unfolded afterward. President Diosdado Macapagal, who had earlier assured Marcos that he would not seek reelection in 1965, later reversed course and chose to run again. 

This reversal shattered Marcos’s expectations and enraged him. Feeling betrayed, he defected to the Nacionalista Party, secured its nomination, and in the November 1965 elections, decisively defeated Macapagal by 673,572 votes, out of a voting population of 9,962,345. 

Thus, the 1963 Senate presidency battle was not merely a one-vote upset or the story of a legendary filibuster. It was the crucible of Marcos’s ascent—the moment when he perfected the art of political maneuver, only to wield it against the very party and patron who had once promised him the presidency.

References

Agoncillo, T. A. (1990). History of the Filipino people (8th ed.). Garotech Publishing.

Burton, S. (2022). Roseller T. Lim and the Great Filibuster. Vibal Foundation.

Manila Times. (1963, April 6–7). Reports on the Senate presidency battle. Manila, Philippines.

Philippines Free Press. (1963, April issue). Coverage of the Marcos–Rodriguez Senate presidency contest. Manila, Philippines.

Senate of the Philippines. (n.d.). List of senators: Fifth Congress (1962–1965). https://legacy.senate.gov.ph/senators/senlist.asp

Tañada, L. M. (n.d.). Biographical sketch. Nationalist Citizens’ Party archives.

U.S. Department of State, Office of the Historian. (1967). Foreign relations of the United States, 1964–1968, Volume XXVI: Philippines. https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26

Wikipedia contributors. (2023, August). 1963 in the Philippines. In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1963_in_the_Philippines

Wikipedia contributors. (2023, September). Roseller T. Lim. In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roseller_T._Lim

Wurfel, D. (1988). Filipino politics: Development and Decay. Cornell University Press.

A Path Not Taken

 The 51st Star: What If the Philippines Became a U.S. State in 1946?

In an alternative universe, the Philippines is not granted independence on July 4, 1946. Instead, the flag of the United States gets one more star—representing a beautiful Pacific archipelago. Overnight, every Filipino becomes a U.S. citizen. Soldiers who fought in Bataan are entitled to the GI Bill. Their children no longer dream of visas; they dream of Yale, UCLA, or even community college in Houston. 

And Philippine history further diverges. It doesn’t enter the fragile and unsure dawn of the new republic. Instead, it joins America’s Union, with all the chaotic, dazzling, and perilous consequences that follow.

The Philippines Could Have Been Like Hawaii

The Hawaii Model is the bright, postcard version of Philippine history. Federal money flows steadily into highways, ports, bridges, and power grids across the islands. FEMA becomes a familiar presence, swooping in after typhoons to restore order, turning what used to be national tragedies into survivable events. Veterans’ benefits stimulate suburban-style developments, with neat homes and manicured lawns sprouting outside Manila and Cebu. Middle-class prosperity grows not from remittances but from domestic wages and federal transfers.

Tourism would have surged to levels unimaginable in our actual timeline. With American standards of safety, infrastructure, and marketing, Manila and Cebu could have become Pacific versions of Miami, while Palawan rivaled Hawaii as a vacation magnet. Instead of sending millions abroad to work as bellhops, nurses, and seafarers, Filipinos would have hosted millions of Americans flying in for leisure.

But the Hawaii path is not just about wealth—it’s about identity. Statehood would have bound Filipinos’ sense of self more tightly to the United States, reducing the cultural schizophrenia of being both Asian and Western yet fully neither. English would have solidified as the lingua franca, while fiestas, cuisine, and folk traditions found themselves woven into America’s larger multicultural fabric.

Asian Tiger: Quezon City Could Have Been Silicon Valley East

The Asian Tiger Model would have thrust the Philippines onto the global stage as an innovation hub firmly under American auspices. Statehood meant federal management—FBI investigations, Justice Department indictments, and federal courts unwilling to tolerate the systemic graft that had weighed down the Philippines for so long.

That kind of governance would have unlocked an economic miracle. Quezon City might have become a Silicon Valley East, where American venture capital poured into Filipino startups in aerospace, semiconductors, and defense contracting. Engineers from Diliman and Los Baños would not be fleeing abroad but leading NASA projects, while Filipino coders would have written the software running Wall Street’s trading floors.

And perhaps most transformatively: the Pinoy brain drain could have been a Pinoy  brain loop. Instead of the best Pinoy minds leaving permanently, they would circulate—Manila to San Jose, Cebu to Seattle, Davao to Houston—returning with knowledge, capital, and networks.

In this version, the Pinoy psyche grows prouder, more disciplined, and less cynical.

The Puerto Rico Model

In the Puerto Rico Model, statehood translates not into dynamism but into dependency. Of course, there are food stamps, Medicare, and Medicaid, but these become lifelines rather than catalysts. Typhoons devastate communities, FEMA always arrives, yet rebuilding feels endless. Infrastructure grows old before it is repaired. Washington becomes both the benefactor and the bottleneck.

In the Puerto Rico Model, statehood hasn’t meant progress but reliance. Federal aid like food stamps, Medicare, and Medicaid keep people afloat, but these don’t lead to real growth. After every typhoon, FEMA steps in, yet rebuilding never seems to finish. Roads, bridges, and buildings wear out faster than they get fixed. Washington provides the money, but also controls the pace—helping, yet holding things back at the same time.

The economy under this path never quite takes off. Inter-island shipping remains lethargic, inflating the cost of goods. Factories struggle, ports remain clogged, and industries migrate elsewhere in Asia. As opportunities stagnate, millions leave for California, Texas, Hawaii, and New York.

Most tragic of all, the culture of cynicism persists. Statehood delivers rights, but not rejuvenation. Politics becomes a cycle of pleading and depleting larger aid packages and bailouts. The Philippines remains visible on the US flag but peripheral in the national imagination.

The Cold War Model

The Cold War Model transforms the Philippines into a garrison state—the Pentagon of the Pacific. Subic and Clark bloat into colossal bases supplying Korea and Vietnam. Draft quotas weigh heavily; thousands of Filipinos serve in wars not as allies but as drafted American citizens.

Jobs are plentiful: shipbuilding, logistics, and base services keep families get by. Yet prosperity feels borrowed, contingent on war. When peace comes, bases close, leaving ghost towns behind.

And there are protests. Just as Berkeley raged, so too would Taft Avenue. Students at UP Diliman burn draft cards. Priests pontificate against militarism. Riot police clash with demonstrators. The Philippines becomes America’s Vietnam staging ground, split between those who depend on the bases and those who hate them.

The Turbulent Model

The darkest fork is the Turbulent Model, where statehood delivers rights on paper but discord in practice. Mindanao erupts in unrest, its Muslim population feeling dominated not just by Luzon but now by Washington. Federal troops patrol Cotabato and Davao, bringing back memories of Bud Dajo and Bud Bagsak massacres of 1906 and 1913. Civil rights clashes play out in Davao, Marawi, and Jolo streets.

Meanwhile, corruption, the bane of the Filipino,  refuses to die. Local and national political dynasties adapt, manipulating federal funds and bending rules. FBI indictments trigger resentment rather than reform. Filipinos begin to see Washington as a meddler, not a savior.

The turbulence is not just political—it’s psychological. Citizens grow up half-American, half-Filipino, but fully alienated. They wave the flag without warmth. In this world, statehood produces bitterness, not renewal.

The Path Not Taken

If the Philippines had taken the 51-star path in 1946, America wouldn’t just look different on a flag. It would be different in its soul. The Cold War’s hottest waters would have been home waters. China’s island-building in the South China Sea? Unthinkable. Filipino senators would be running Washington committees, not begging Washington for favors.

If the Philippines had taken the 51-star path in 1946, America wouldn’t just look different on a flag. America would be different in its soul. The tensions of the West Philippine Sea would have occurred in familiar waters and would have happened in the context of America's immense power. China’s island-building in the South China Sea? Unthinkable. And Filipinos as mendicants? Impossible. Filipino senators would be chairing Washington’s powerful committees, not flying across the Pacific to plead for crumbs.

In that alternative universe, the Philippines didn’t merely add a star to Old Glory. It rewrote the American story.

When the Philippines Slammed the Door on History

On September 16, 1991, the Philippine Senate voted to reject the renewal of the U.S.–Philippines Bases Agreement. The decision was celebrated as a triumph of sovereignty, a casting off of colonial chains at Subic and Clark. Thirty-three years later, however, the reckoning is less triumphant and far more sobering. What was billed as “independence” may in fact have been one of the costliest mistakes in modern Philippine history.

The Economic Price was Immediate 

Tens of thousands lost their jobs when Clark and Subic shut down. Local businesses—from jeepney drivers to factory suppliers—collapsed overnight. The U.S. was prepared to inject billions in rent, aid, and infrastructure upgrades. Instead, the Philippines got empty runways, rusting hangars, and the slow conversion of Subic into an industrial park that only partly made up for the devastation. The promise of progress was exchanged for economic dislocation.

The Security Price Was Even Steeper

By closing the bases, the Philippines also closed the door to one of its strongest deterrents. Within four years, China seized Mischief Reef in the Spratlys, exploiting the power vacuum. Our underfunded armed forces, still flying Vietnam-era helicopters and sailing World War II ships, had nothing with which to push back. The symbolism of nationalism had cost us the substance of security.

Geopolitically, the Philippines Surrendered its Leverage

For nearly a century, the country was the United States’ most strategic outpost in Asia. By rejecting the bases, we forced Washington to pivot to Singapore, Thailand, and Australia. The Philippines—sitting at the very throat of the South China Sea—was suddenly reduced to a bystander in a game it once anchored. 

We traded centrality for irrelevance, only to beg for a return through the Visiting Forces Agreement in 1999 and Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement in 2014. By then, Beijing’s artificial islands were already rising from the sea.

The Sovereignty Argument, in Hindsight, Rings Hollow. 

Other nations host U.S. bases on their soil without being reduced to colonial wards. Japan has allowed tens of thousands of American troops on Okinawa for decades, yet remains the world’s third-largest economy and an unmistakably sovereign power. South Korea, with nearly 30,000 U.S. troops stationed there, has grown from war-torn ruin into a technological and cultural giant. 

Even Germany, the beating heart of the European Union, hosts over 35,000 American personnel, yet dictates EU policy from Berlin, not Washington. These countries demonstrate that sovereignty is not weakened but rather strengthened when backed by credible security guarantees.

By contrast, the Philippines chose to conflate nationalism with isolation, waving the flag as the bases shut down. The result was a hollow sovereignty: we kept the symbols but lost the substance. A nation is not less sovereign because it has allies; it is less sovereign when it cannot defend its own seas, cannot secure its own resources, and cannot guarantee prosperity for its own people.

"Magnificent 12"

Looking back, the Senate’s “Magnificent 12” voted with their hearts, but perhaps not with their heads. Sovereignty is precious, but sovereignty without security and prosperity is a hollow boast. A country may wave its flag, but a flag cannot stop missiles nor feed the jobless.

Today, as Chinese coast guard vessels train their water cannons on our resupply missions to Ayungin Shoal, the irony is brutal: we are once again calling on the United States, pleading for joint patrols, security guarantees, and a return of the very presence we once expelled.

In 1991, we told the Americans to leave. Now, in the shadow of a rising China, we realize too late: it was not the Americans we had evicted, but our own future.

The Limits of Sison’s Theory : Why the Communist Movement in the Philippines is Stagnating

 Introduction

Jose Maria Sison, founding chairman of the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP), provided the ideological backbone of the communist insurgency in the country. His writings, anchored in "Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong Thought", laid down the framework for “national-democratic revolution” as the only valid path to Philippine liberation. 

For a time, particularly in the 1970s and 1980s, his ideas galvanized cadres and mobilized thousands. Yet over the decades, the movement has declined, fragmented, and stagnated, and is arguably headed to an ignominous end. While state repression played its part, much of the blame also lies in theoretical errors and Sison’s failure to understand the Philippine context in all its complexity.

Sison’s writings reveal a striking rigidity that ignores the evolving realities of Philippine society. He often insisted on a fixed narrative of unending systemic crisis, while the political system repeatedly showed its capacity to absorb shocks through reforms, elections, and elite realignments. This disconnect between his predictions and lived reality gradually eroded the credibility of his ideological framework.

Moreover, the communist movement under his leadership became increasingly isolated from the everyday aspirations of Filipinos, who sought stability and upward mobility in pragmatic, legal, and economic avenues rather than revolution. 

The introduction of new industries, the opportunities of overseas work, and the cultural resilience of the people highlighted the widening gap between theoretical expectation and social reality. This gap ultimately set the stage for the movement’s decline.

1. Misreading the “Ruling System”

Sison argued that the “ruling system” in the Philippines was in a state of “chronic and ever-worsening crisis” that could only end through revolutionary overthrow. This prediction turned out to be flawed:

- The Philippine state, though weak and plagued with corruption, was never in an unresolvable crisis. It proved resilient, adapting through reforms, elections, elite realignments, and international support.

- Institutions bent without breaking; transitions of power (from Marcos to Aquino, then to subsequent administrations) showed that the system could absorb shocks rather than collapse outright.

- This misdiagnosis blinded the movement to the reality that the state’s survival mechanisms were more robust than Sison’s theory allowed.

2. Underestimating Filipino Resilience

Sison’s framework assumed that worsening economic hardship would automatically radicalize the masses and drive them into revolution. He underestimated the cultural and historical resiliency of the Filipino people:

- Filipinos developed creative ways to survive economic downturns — from "diskarte" and informal side jobs and "rackets", to migration abroad, to "ukay-ukay" clothes, to "pagpag" food, to community sharing, and to extended family support.

- Rather than collapsing into revolutionary desperation, many found ways to adapt. While Sison’s framework assumed hardship would radicalize the masses, in practice these adaptive strategies — which some Marxist analyses might label as distractions from class struggle — functioned as genuine survival mechanisms that prevented widespread revolutionary ferment.

3. Failure to Anticipate Structural Economic Shifts

Sison’s writings treated the Philippine economy as permanently “semi-feudal, semi-colonial,” destined to decay. But this analysis failed to anticipate major structural shifts:

- Rise of Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs): Labor migration provided millions of families with incomes that softened the blows of local poverty, diffusing revolutionary discontent.

- Boom of the Business Process Outsourcing (BPO) industry: From the early 2000s, BPO became a multi-billion-dollar sector, employing hundreds of thousands and providing upward mobility for educated youth.

These developments undercut Sison’s insistence that Philippine society was trapped in semi-feudal stagnation. They revealed a dynamic economy capable of producing new opportunities — an element his static framework did not account for.

4. Disconnection from the Filipino Psyche

Perhaps the most serious flaw was Sison’s estrangement from his own people’s mindset:

- His expectation that Filipinos would embrace the rigors of a protracted people’s war overlooked the fact that many preferred nonviolent, legal, and pragmatic routes to change.

- He underestimated the Filipino capacity to endure hardship with hope, humor, and pragmatism. What he read as passivity was, in reality, a form of resilience and optimism that blunted revolutionary fervor.

- By not truly understanding the Filipino character—adaptive, inventive, and often more interested in improving life through migration, education, or entrepreneurship—Sison overestimated the mass appeal of armed struggle.

5. Consequences of Theoretical Rigidity

Because of these blind spots, the CPP under Sison’s guidance:

- Continued to wage armed struggle even when it had lost strategic resonance.

- Boycotted the 1986 Snap Election, a blunder that forever cast the CPP as a pathetic spectator to the nation’s greatest democratic triumph. 

- Grew increasingly irrelevant to younger generations who saw opportunities in education, overseas work, and BPOs rather than revolution.

Conclusion

Jose Maria Sison’s genius was in crystallizing discontent into a revolutionary framework in 1968, but his tragedy was in failing to update that framework to match Philippine realities. By misjudging the ruling system’s adaptability, underestimating Filipino resilience, ignoring structural economic shifts like OFWs and BPOs, and misunderstanding the Filipino psyche itself, Sison locked the movement into a strategy that no longer fit its terrain. The result was fragmentation, irrelevance, and decline.

The lessons from this failure extend beyond the CPP. They underscore the importance of grounding political theory in a nuanced understanding of national culture, economy, and historical trajectory. Revolutions cannot succeed if they impose borrowed frameworks that misread the people’s actual conditions and capacities.

Ultimately, Sison’s story highlights the limitations of ideological rigidity in a rapidly changing world. While his contributions to Philippine radical thought remain undeniable, his inability to evolve left the movement trapped in outdated strategies. A truly transformative politics must remain open, adaptive, and attuned to the resilience and ingenuity of the Filipino people.

In the end, Sison knew Marx, Lenin, and Mao, but he did not know the Filipino people — their creativity, endurance, and pragmatic pursuit of survival and progress. It was this gap, more than any government counterinsurgency program, that has ensured the defeat of the communist movement in the Philippines.

When Diplomacy Looks to the Sky

 MacArthur’s Theater of Surrender

On September 2, 1945, aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay, representatives from the Empire of Japan and from the Allied nations signed the Japanese Instrument of Surrender, bringing World War II to an official end. The moment was solemn, legalistic, and historic. 

But General Douglas MacArthur was not content with signatures alone. As the ink dried, the sky filled with the thunder of nearly a thousand American aircraft—B-29 bombers and carrier planes in majestic formation. MacArthur later explained that this was not a victory parade. It was a warning. If Japan failed to honor the terms of surrender, the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki could be repeated many times over.

It was theater, yes, but theater with teeth. The Japanese delegates had just bowed to a document; now they bowed, in effect, to the spectacle above their heads. Power had spoken, not in words but in wings.

Alaska 2025: The Choreography of Power

Eighty years later, the setting could not have been more different, yet the logic was eerily familiar. On August 15, 2025, at Joint Base Elmendorf–Richardson in Alaska, Donald Trump welcomed Vladimir Putin for a high-stakes summit. As the two leaders strode down a red carpet—itself lined with F-22 Raptors, the most advanced air-superiority fighters in the world—the air suddenly cracked open. A B-2 stealth bomber swept overhead, flanked by sleek F-35 escorts. The timing was flawless. It was not a coincidence. It was choreography.

Much like MacArthur’s sky parade over Tokyo Bay, the Alaskan flyover was no ceremonial flourish. It was a calculated message. The B-2 is not just another aircraft; it is a nuclear-capable ghost, designed to slip past defenses and deliver devastation anywhere on earth. To have it roar over the tarmac as Trump and Putin met was to remind the Russian leader that beneath the handshakes and photo-ops stood a vast arsenal—silent, watchful, and ready.

Spectacle as Substance

The parallels are instructive. MacArthur’s flyover was about closure, sealing the surrender of a defeated nation. Trump’s was about opening, setting the tone for talks with a rival who was anything but defeated. One sought to hammer in finality; the other to establish leverage. Yet both moments reveal the same truth: in diplomacy, spectacle can be as decisive as substance.

Because airpower is more than a weapon. It is a symbol. When hundreds of bombers filled the skies in 1945, they told Japan: "You are finished." When the B-2 glided over Alaska in 2025, it told Putin, "Do not mistake diplomacy for weakness." Both moments turned the sky into a stage, where power was not theorized but enacted.

Two Audiences, Two Messages

But here’s the irony. These displays are never aimed only at the adversary. They are also for the home audience. Americans in 1945 needed to see Japan’s defeat made real, tangible, in smoke and steel. Americans in 2025 needed reassurance that their president still commanded the most advanced arsenal in the world. The flyovers served a dual purpose: to awe abroad and to reassure at home.

The Risks of Brinkmanship

And yet, as with all theater, there is risk. Spectacle stabilizes but also provokes. A bomber in the sky can deter, but it can also inflame. MacArthur’s flyover underscored American dominance at the end of a total war. Trump’s, by contrast, played out in a world still very much in contest, where Putin could interpret the gesture as insult as easily as deterrence. Brinkmanship thrives on this ambiguity. That is its essence: keeping the adversary unsure whether the show of force is a mere show or the prelude to something worse.

Power Seen Is Power Believed

The lesson is that power, to be credible, must be seen. This is why states invest in parades, flyovers, and carefully staged demonstrations of might. It is not only about what they can do but also about what others believe they will do. In that sense, MacArthur in Tokyo Bay and Trump in Alaska were not just military leaders or presidents. They were playwrights, scripting the skies, making contrails into sentences and formations into punctuation.

The world took notice. The Japanese in 1945 knew they could not backslide. Putin in 2025 knew he was not arriving as an equal partner. And Americans watching both moments knew, at least for a time, that their nation’s power was real, visible, and unchallengeable.

Trump’s Realist Aim

The truth is sobering: once bombers fill the sky, their shadow never disappears. Every flyover revives the possibility of conflict, even as it claims to prevent one. Diplomacy may start at the table, but it always unfolds beneath the shadow of airpower.

Trump, after all, is no naïve idealist. A realist to the core, he could not have expected to squeeze a neat ceasefire from Vladimir Putin simply by sharing a table and a pot of coffee in Alaska. The B-2 overflight, the carpet lined with Raptors, the choreography of power—all of it suggested he aimed higher, or at least deeper. 

Perhaps his true calculation was not to coax peace but to instill unease; not to settle the war in Ukraine but to unsettle the man waging it. A ceasefire might have been the obvious prize. But intimidation, the kind that makes an adversary second-guess every move long after the summit is over—that is the subtler, sharper trophy. 

And maybe that was Trump’s intention all along: not merely to end a war, but to remind Putin that, in the theater of power, he was still only a guest on America’s stage.

America’s Shadow: Were Our Best Years Under Its Tutelage?

It is a vexing, even slightly impolite, and even ridicule-inviting question: did the Philippines achieve its finest hours not in the fire of post-independence nation-building, but under the watchful eye of another flag? And in those first twenty years of freedom, namely 1946 to 1966, did we shine precisely because the hands steering the ship had been trained during colonial times?

The American Legacy

The American period — 1898 to 1946 — did not merely build roads and bridges; it built classrooms, courtrooms, and a bureaucratic spine. The Thomasites brought not only English primers but also a gospel of civic order and procedural governance.

By the time the Commonwealth came, a generation of Filipinos could run a ministry, argue in court, or conduct a symphony — all in a language that gave them instant access to the world stage.

A Flourishing in the Arts

Consider the arts. Our finest artists of the 20th century — Fernando Amorsolo, whose sunlit rural landscapes still shape our idea of the Filipino countryside, and Guillermo Tolentino, who sculpted the iconic Bonifacio and Rizal monuments — were all educated by American teachers at the University of the Philippines.

And the University itself? Founded in 1908 by the Americans, UP became the nation’s premier training ground for leaders in government, industry, culture, and science. In classrooms built on American blueprints, under professors steeped in U.S. academic traditions, a generation emerged that could match global standards.

The Early Republic’s Momentum

The first two post-independence decades felt like the natural fruit of that planting. The peso was strong, the civil service relatively clean, the military disciplined, and the Philippine national basketball team fared well in international competitions. 

Leaders like Elpidio Quirino, Ramon Magsaysay, and Carlos Garcia — schooled in institutions patterned after Washington rather than Madrid — carried themselves with the confidence of men who had studied at the knee of the world’s most powerful republic.

The Decline After Independence

And yet—the counterpoint is insistent. These institutions, for all their polish, were not grown from our soil but transplanted wholesale.

Without the American gardener’s regular pruning and watering, they began to wilt. As U.S. influence waned—though still faintly felt after July 4, 1946—the Philippines entered a slow but steady strategic decline. By the late 1960s, the professional ethos in politics and governance had begun to erode, as if the system had been running on the leftover energy of a colonial battery.

A Historical What-If: The Path of Statehood

Here, a controversial thought intrudes: might the Philippines have fared better as a U.S. state?

The idea is not entirely fanciful. In 1900, some Americans entertained it, and a few Filipino leaders quietly favored it. Statehood could have meant a strong federal framework to discipline and rein in the corrosive tendencies of our political culture. 

Federal law, courts, and institutions might have imposed a sturdier spine of accountability and meritocracy, preventing corruption, dynasties, and patronage from eating away at the system from within.

US Markets

Economically, the Philippines would have enjoyed unrestricted access to U.S. markets and federal development funds. Filipino workers would have been covered by the social safety nets of the world’s richest republic.

But the trade-off would have been profound: Filipino identity blurred into a shared American-Filipino consciousness, and independence as an ideal sacrificed on the altar of stability and integration.

Statehood remains one of history’s most intriguing “what-ifs” — a path not taken, but one that still haunts debates about discipline, governance, and the destiny of nations caught between pride and pragmatism.

Culture in Contest

Culture, too, was a contested ground. The American period gave us professionalized journalism, symphonies, and modernist poetry — but in Americanized forms that sometimes pushed aside indigenous languages, rhythms, and idioms.

Was it flourishing, or was it mimicry dressed in fine tailoring?

The Tragedy of Borrowed Light

So we circle back to the question, still unsatisfied. Perhaps our “best years” were not wholly ours — but neither were they wholly alien. The American era and its immediate aftermath were a peculiar alchemy of imported discipline and local ambition, of a young nation still basking in the glow of its tutor.

The challenge — one that perhaps remains unmet — was to take those gains and make them wholly Filipino, resilient without the umbilical cord.

Forging Our Flame

In the end, the most vexing truth is this: our brightest light in the modern era came from a lamp we did not build, but one we carried for a while with surprising grace. Yet lamps burn out, and borrowed light fades.

The real question—the one that should haunt our nights — is whether, after a century of shadows, we are at last ready to kindle a flame that is truly ours.

To conclude, our brightest light in the modern era came from a lamp we did not build, but one we carried for a while with surprising grace. Yet lamps burn out, and borrowed light fades. 

The paradox of Philippine history is not that our finest triumphs were shaped by American hands, but that we never built lasting greatness with our own. The challenge now is whether we can step out of the shadow and ignite a light that will endure as ours alone—a light that, once kindled, might yet shine brighter than any we have ever known.

Why the Senate Won’t Touch Sara Duterte’s Impeachment

The inaction of the Philippine Senate on the impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte, now cemented by a Supreme Court ruling, speaks volumes. While Sara's critics raise charges—some dramatic, some serious—the Senate’s nonintervention reflects a deeper, more calculated political strategy: no one wants to challenge 32,208,417 votes (representing 61.53% of the total), especially when that support is backed by a silent but powerful bloc like Iglesia ni Cristo (INC).

A Mandate Too Big to Ignore

In the 2022 elections, Sara Duterte garnered the largest electoral tally ever recorded in Philippine history. That figure is political armor. It represents a powerful mandate that lawmakers could not dismiss lightly. For many senators—especially those eyeing re‑election—targeting a figure with such mass support would be politically reckless.

The INC Factor: Open, Not Silent

That electoral strength is magnified by the open backing of Iglesia ni Cristo (INC), whose bloc voting power has long been able to shift tight races. Far from staying silent, INC explicitly opposed efforts to impeach Duterte, organizing rallies under the banner of “peace” and denouncing the process as a waste of time. In Philippine political culture, such a display is more than support—it is a signal to allies and institutions alike: stand down.

Sara's Enduring Popularity and Political Legitimacy

Yet numbers alone aren’t everything. Recent Pulse Asia polling underscores Duterte’s ongoing popularity. Between March 23–29, 2025, Pulse Asia’s Ulat ng Bayan survey found that Vice President Duterte earned 59% approval, with only 16% disapproval among surveyed Filipino adults. She also posted a strong 61% trust rating, the only major official to do so in that round of polling. These figures confirm not just enduring support but continued legitimacy in the eyes of millions.

Political Calculus Over Constitutional Duty

Combine Duterte’s mass appeal with INC’s behind‑the‑scenes sway, and the Senate’s reluctance becomes explainable. Impeachment is as much a political act as a legal one; in the Philippines, public sentiment and political risk often take precedence over constitutional principles. Why antagonize a popular vice‑president whose support remains rock‑solid and whose name still resonates across the electorate? And why alienate a bloc that continues to influence critical races?

A Mechanism Undermined by Alliances

This isn’t an endorsement of inaction. It reflects a political reality: the impeachment mechanism—designed to check power—has become hostage to electoral calculations and unspoken alliances. The recent ruling by the Philippine Supreme Court declaring the House-led impeachment of Vice President Duterte as unconstitutional further reinforces the Senate’s refusal to act. 

A Convenient Exit: The Supreme Court Ruling

With the legal basis struck down and political costs still high, any effort to revive the case seems both improbable and unwise. Most likely, it will falter—not because of a lack of substance, but because Vice President Duterte is simply too vote-rich to touch. In the end, the Senate will keep its head down. It knows that in Philippine politics, popularity protects, and silence serves strategy.

Not Paralysis, But Strategic Stillness

The Senate’s passivity is not born of ignorance or paralysis—it is calculated. With Vice President Sara Duterte enjoying strong public approval and reinforced by powerful allies like the Iglesia ni Cristo, any move to pursue impeachment would be tantamount to political suicide. 

Senators, many of whom are either eyeing reelection or aspiring to higher office, are acutely aware of the perils of going against someone whose mass base, financial backing, and religious bloc support remain formidable. In such a volatile environment, silence becomes not weakness but a form of survival—a holding pattern until the tides of power shift more decisively.

Stalling as Strategy

Lastly, the Supreme Court ruling gave the Senate a perfect alibi. It allowed senators to wrap their inaction in the language of legality and restraint. 

By hiding behind jurisprudence, they can avoid alienating Duterte’s supporters while maintaining a veneer of institutional respectability. This is textbook political evasion—stall long enough and you can look principled while doing nothing.