The Flood Control Fiasco: Ghost Projects, Ghost Accountability?

The Flood Control Fiasco: Ghost Projects, Ghost Accountability?

Flood control, once a solemn promise of government to its people, has become the latest symbol of public works gone astray. In Bulacan, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s inspection of the P96.4-million Rehabilitation of the River Protection Structure in Calumpit exposed what many residents had long feared: substandard construction, shallow dredging, and half-hearted work presented as complete. 

The President, visibly angered, demanded answers from St. Timothy Construction Corporation, the contractor behind the project. Marcos noted that Bulacan has the highest number of flood control projects in the country—668 in all—yet families still wade through rising waters. He directed scuba divers to inspect the supposed protections, even as local residents wrote to Malacañang alleging weak materials had been used. “What excuse do they have for not doing this?” he asked. His words captured the frustration of a public long accustomed to promises without delivery. 

Governor Daniel Fernando echoed this dismay. He admitted that some projects had been implemented without the provincial government’s review or even knowledge. Shocked by what the President himself saw, the governor announced an executive order requiring all flood control works in Bulacan to undergo provincial scrutiny. Fernando emphasized that several structures had already been declared “completed” despite their obvious flaws, vowing legal action against those responsible. 

Beyond Bulacan, the problem appears systemic. Baguio City Mayor Benjamin Magalong described bidding for flood control projects as “luto”—rigged. He alleged that district engineers, chosen by politicians, act as de facto contractors, handling everything from planning and design to awarding and implementation. According to Magalong, their true role is not merely technical oversight but also the delivery of political payoffs. 

Such allegations sharpen public suspicion. It was earlier revealed that 20 percent of the P545-billion flood control budget was awarded to only 15 contractors, among them St. Timothy. Past controversies involving incomplete roads, overpriced laptops, and questionable incorporators tied to these firms only deepen doubts about whether the people’s money has been hijacked by vested interests. 

Senator JV Ejercito has warned of a “special place in hell” for those who profit from ghost projects while ordinary Filipinos suffer from floods. For his part, Public Works Secretary Manny Bonoan acknowledged ongoing irregularities and said district engineers were already being rotated, citing a three-year reassignment policy meant to prevent entrenched collusion. Yet rotation alone may not be enough to cure what many see as systemic rot. 

The implications go beyond contracts. Floods do not yield to ceremonies or paper compliance. They demand defenses that work—dikes that hold, cement that lasts, waterways cleared of obstruction. When projects collapse, it is not contractors or engineers who pay the price, but the families left submerged in murky waters. 

The unfolding controversy is more than an indictment of one company or one province. It raises a broader question: whether public works in the Philippines still serve the public, or whether they have been reduced to private schemes dressed up as infrastructure. 

The people deserve protection, not deception. Unless accountability is enforced and reforms pursued, the billions spent on “flood control” may continue to vanish like so much rainwater—swallowed by corruption, leaving only the floods behind.  

Youth, Justice, and the Cost of Machismo: Why Criminalizing Ten-Year-Olds is a Folly Robin Padilla Forgot

Youth, Justice, and the Cost of Machismo: 

Why Criminalizing Ten-Year-Olds is a Folly Robin Padilla Forgot

In recent months, a controversial proposal has ignited public debate: lowering the age of criminal liability to ten years old. At the forefront of this push is Senator Robin Padilla, a figure whose own past brushes with the law are well-known. While many see this as a call for discipline, it raises profound questions about justice, youth development, and the responsibilities of society to guide its youngest members. Before applauding or condemning such a measure, it is worth examining the man advocating for it—and the lessons his own life might offer about second chances, privilege, and the very purpose of the law.

In 1994, Robin Padilla was twenty-five years old when the Regional Trial Court convicted him for possession of high-powered firearms, a crime carrying a maximum sentence of twenty-one years. By 1997, public lobbying, media attention, and legal advocacy led to an amendment of the law—now known as the “Robin Padilla Law”—and a conditional pardon from President Ramos, commuting his sentence after only four years. Raised in relative privilege and already twenty-three when he committed his offenses, Padilla benefited from interventions that countless other youths, born into poverty or violence, are never afforded. 

It is therefore jarring, if not outright hypocritical, that Padilla now pushes to lower the age of criminal liability to ten years old. He, of all people, knows that young people sometimes make poor choices, but it is precisely during this formative stage that guidance, opportunity, and rehabilitation are most critical. Punishing children—many of whom grow up in squalor or under abuse—is not justice; it is a double punishment: first by circumstance, then by the law. 

Padilla’s perception seems narrow, rooted in a brand of machismo that mirrors his political ally, Dela Rosa, who openly claims that “hazing creates warriors.” Lowering the age of criminal liability in the name of discipline reflects a mindset that forgets the essential principles of nurturing, education, and moral guidance. Worse, it risks casting children as part of a prison-industrial complex reminiscent of earlier eras, when agencies like the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology were bluntly known as the “Bureau of Prisons.” This is not discipline—it is institutionalized punishment. 

If granted that Padilla’s idea is adopted, so be it—but society must also invest in a deeper understanding of human behavior. Schools and communities should cultivate knowledge in psychology and behavioral science to guide the youth properly. Children must be made aware of the consequences of actions and provided with the proper moral, emotional, and intellectual guidance. 

Greater attention must be paid to mental health, behavioral patterns, and the early signs of character or psychological disorders that, if unaddressed, may drive individuals toward crime. In a world growing ever more complex and progressive, young minds are exposed to knowledge and influences without sufficient guidance or direction. It is therefore imperative that government officials, academics, and parents alike gain literacy in behavioral science, to identify and address hidden risks before they develop into criminal behavior. 

The proposed law, however well-intentioned, focuses on punishing the symptom rather than curing the disease. Syndicates exploit children, yet the response should be to target the exploiters, not the exploited. Lowering the criminal age is like bailing water from a flood without turning off the tap: the problem persists while innocent lives are needlessly burdened. 

Robin Padilla’s own story demonstrates the value of intervention, support, and second chances. If society truly wants to break the cycle of crime, it must treat children as potential, not criminals-in-waiting. Give them guidance, education, and hope. Do not make them prisoners of a system that has already failed them.  

Blind Loyalty, Fractured Governance: The Failure of ‘Whateverism’ in the Marcos Era

Blind Loyalty, Fractured Governance: 

The Failure of ‘Whateverism’ in the Marcos Era

Recent analyses and news reports have painted a vivid picture of the unraveling of the so-called “Uniteam,” the political alliance between Ferdinand Marcos Jr. and Sara Duterte, which defined the early years of the Marcos administration in the Philippines. This coalition, initially heralded as a formidable partnership built on the momentum of the 2022 elections, was underpinned by a peculiar phenomenon described by political observers as “whateverist” loyalty. This mindset, characterized by an unwavering commitment to uphold and follow the policies and directives of former President Rodrigo Duterte—regardless of their merit, morality, or consequences—shaped the motivations of a significant portion of the Marcos–Duterte voter base. Supporters of the tandem, particularly those loyal to Duterte, embraced a resolute allegiance to his legacy, often dismissing or downplaying the controversies, abuses, and systemic failures that marked his administration. This “whateverist” impulse, cloaked in populist rhetoric and promises of continuity, ultimately proved to be a shallow and inadequate substitute for substantive governance, failing to address the public’s growing demands for justice, transparency, and accountability. 

The “whateverist” loyalty was not merely a passive endorsement of Duterte’s policies but a deliberate choice by many supporters to prioritize political fidelity over critical scrutiny. Duterte’s presidency (2016–2022) was defined by polarizing policies, including a brutal war on drugs that led to thousands of extrajudicial killings, a foreign policy pivot toward China that raised concerns about national sovereignty, and the opaque handling of public funds, including the controversial use of confidential and intelligence funds. Despite these issues, Duterte’s populist charisma and his image as a strong, decisive leader cultivated a loyal base that viewed his approach as a necessary antidote to the perceived elitism and inefficiency of prior administrations. When Marcos Jr., running alongside Sara Duterte, campaigned on a platform of continuity, promising to build on Duterte’s legacy, this resonated deeply with voters who saw in the Uniteam a continuation of the “Dutertist” revolution. However, this loyalty was less about ideological alignment and more about a reflexive, almost dogmatic adherence to Duterte’s persona and directives, regardless of their practical or ethical implications. 

This “whateverist” stance provided a form of political comfort—a kind of “copium,” as critics have termed it—for those unwilling or unable to grapple with the unresolved issues of the Duterte era. Human rights violations, including the deaths of thousands in the drug war, remained largely unaddressed, with the International Criminal Court’s (ICC) investigation into these killings facing resistance from Philippine authorities. Arbitrary detentions, red-tagging of activists, and attacks on press freedom persisted as lingering stains on the nation’s democratic fabric. Controversial foreign policy decisions, such as the pivot toward China at the expense of traditional alliances like the United States, raised questions about long-term national interests. Additionally, allegations of corruption, including the misuse of public funds and the protection of politically connected figures, continued to erode public trust. Yet, the rhetoric of “resolute upholding” and “unswerving following” of Duterte’s policies was offered as a panacea, a way to maintain the illusion of stability and progress without confronting these uncomfortable truths.

The fragility of this approach became increasingly evident as the Marcos–Duterte alliance began to fracture in the early years of the administration, with public cracks emerging as early as 2024. What was once portrayed as a monolithic partnership, unified under the banner of Dutertism, revealed itself to be a coalition of convenience, built on fragile compromises rather than shared principles. High-profile cabinet disputes, often centered on policy disagreements or competing political agendas, exposed deep rifts within the administration. Legislative gridlock stalled key reforms, as allies of Marcos and Duterte clashed over priorities, further undermining the narrative of unity. Resignations of key officials, some citing irreconcilable differences with the administration’s direction, became public spectacles that highlighted the instability of the Uniteam. These events underscored a critical flaw in the “whateverist” approach: loyalty to a predecessor’s legacy, without a clear and principled vision for the future, could not sustain a functional governing coalition.

The failure of this approach was perhaps most starkly illustrated in the administration’s handling of major controversies, particularly those inherited from the Duterte era. The Philippine Offshore Gaming Operations (POGOs), widely criticized for their links to organized crime, human trafficking, and money laundering, became a lightning rod for public discontent. Investigations into POGOs revealed systemic failures in regulation and enforcement, with allegations that powerful political figures had shielded these operations from scrutiny. Similarly, the use of confidential and intelligence funds—large, discretionary budgets with minimal oversight—came under intense scrutiny, as reports surfaced of mismanagement and potential abuse. These controversies, rather than being addressed with transparency and accountability, were often met with deflections or justifications rooted in the “whateverist” defense of Duterte’s policies. This uncritical adherence to the past did not deliver the promised order or efficiency but instead served to protect entrenched interests and perpetuate a culture of impunity.

Public sentiment, as reflected in polling data and civic activism, began to shift in response to these failures. By 2024, surveys indicated growing disillusionment with the Marcos administration’s inability to move beyond symbolic gestures of continuity. Ordinary Filipinos, particularly those outside the hardcore Dutertist base, expressed frustration with the lack of meaningful reforms. They demanded greater transparency in governance, stronger protections for human rights, and concrete action against corruption. Grassroots movements and civil society organizations became increasingly vocal, calling for accountability for past abuses and a clear break from the divisive tactics of the Duterte era. Yet, the “whateverist” posture of the administration and its supporters encouraged conformity over dialogue, stifling dissent and framing criticism as disloyalty to the Uniteam’s vision. This approach turned the rhetoric of unity into a tool for preserving political advantage rather than fostering genuine societal cohesion.

The broader implications of this dynamic were profound. The early years of the Marcos administration revealed a central tension in Philippine politics: continuity for its own sake, particularly when tied to a polarizing figure like Duterte, was insufficient to meet the needs of a democratic society. Real unity, as scholars and activists argued, required more than rhetorical pledges or loyalty to a predecessor’s legacy. It demanded a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, including the human cost of Duterte’s policies and the systemic weaknesses they exposed. It required correcting past mistakes, whether through legal accountability for human rights violations or robust reforms to prevent corruption. Above all, it necessitated prioritizing the public interest over factional loyalty or political expediency.

The “whateverist” approach, however, offered none of these. Instead, it provided a façade—a superficial reassurance that comforted loyalists while leaving the nation’s deeper divisions unaddressed. This political copium may have temporarily sustained the Marcos–Duterte alliance, but it came at the cost of eroding public trust and exacerbating governance challenges. As the administration moved forward, it faced a critical choice: to continue clinging to the illusion of unity through blind loyalty to the past, or to embrace a more inclusive, transparent, and accountable approach to governance that could truly unify the nation. The early evidence suggested that the former path was not only unsustainable but also detrimental to the democratic aspirations of the Filipino people. Only by reckoning with the failures of “whateverism” could the administration hope to build a legacy that transcended the shadows of its predecessor.  

"Stimulant Hedonism?" or "Sober Fun?": Thoughts after the Coffee Rave at Cafe 32nd St.

"Stimulant Hedonism?" or "Sober Fun?": 

Thoughts after the Coffee Rave at Cafe 32nd St.

The recent coffee rave at Cafe 32nd St., hosted by the Caffeine Club, has sparked a fascinating conversation about the intersection of social rituals, sensory experiences, and personal expression. For those who participated, the experience transcended a simple love for coffee, good company, or even the music itself. Instead, it was about the unique synergy created when these elements collided, offering a new kind of space for creativity and connection. 

The usual association of coffee, tea, or cocoa with quiet mornings, focused work, and peaceful contemplation is deeply ingrained in everyday culture. It is a beverage of solitude and productivity, a gentle ritual to ease into the day. The coffee rave, however, turns this on its head. It is a playful, almost rebellious act of subversion, taking a substance known for its contemplative qualities and infusing it with the high-octane energy of house, techno, or trance music. This blending of the mundane and the euphoric creates a chaotic yet captivating remix of daily rituals. The caffeine kick, instead of powering a quiet work session, fuels a collective jive on the dance floor, blurring the lines between a morning pick-me-up and a midday or evening party.

For those who are both dedicated coffee drinkers and avid listeners of electronic music, this fusion feels less like a novelty and more like a natural evolution. It is a "stimulant hedonism" that offers an alternative to the traditional nightlife scene. Swapping alcohol-induced hangovers for the jittery comedown of a caffeine high may not sound ideal to everyone, but it speaks to a desire for a different kind of thrill. It is about seeking out an alternative comfort, a space where the warmth of a perfectly brewed Americano or the creamy embrace of a latte can coexist with the pulsating beats of a DJ. This combination offers a unique kind of diversion, a way to chase a high without the debilitating after-effects of alcohol, all while celebrating two beloved passions simultaneously.

The appeal of the coffee rave is rooted in its ability to satisfy a deeply human need for connection and stimulation. In an increasingly digital and isolated world, these events provide a tangible, shared experience. The collective energy of a group of people, all fueled by caffeine and moving to the same rhythm, creates a powerful sense of camaraderie. It is a space where strangers can bond over a shared love for a good brew and a killer beat. The music, a universal language in its own right, becomes a catalyst for connection, while the coffee serves as a social lubricant, facilitating conversations and fostering a sense of community. This dynamic is a powerful draw for those who are seeking genuine, in-person interactions that go beyond the superficial.

Of course, this innovative concept is not without its critics. Some may dismiss the idea as absurd, a misguided attempt to "fix" something that isn't broken. They might cling to the usual view of a coffee shop as a sanctuary of quiet reflection and a rave as a space exclusively for alcohol-fueled revelry. However, for those who embrace the "sober curious" movement and the idea that "sober is the new drunk," these critiques are easily dismissed. The coffee rave isn't about replacing alcohol; it's about creating a new choice. It's about offering a space where you can have your own kind of fun, with an espresso machine humming in the background instead of a bar shaker, and a DJ spinning house tracks instead of a jukebox playing top 40 hits. The heckling from others doesn't matter because the core participants have found something they truly crave: a unique blend of energy, community, and creative expression that feels both exhilarating and familiar. Or to keep it honest: coffee raves is no different from the endless debates and poetry nights inside the coffeeshop! 

In the end, the coffee rave at Cafe 32nd St. was more than just a party; it was a testament to the evolving nature of social gatherings and the human desire to constantly innovate and find new ways to connect. It was a space where the rich aroma of coffee mingled with the vibrant sounds of electronic music, creating a multisensory experience that stimulated not just the body, but the imagination. It proved that sometimes, the most profound experiences are found in the unexpected collision of two seemingly disparate worlds.  

The Mirage of Unity: Marcos, Duterte, and the Fractured Promise of Continuity

The Mirage of Unity: Marcos, Duterte, 

and the Fractured Promise of Continuity

When Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. ascended to the presidency in 2022, his first and greatest pledge to the people was not a program of reform, not a plan of reconstruction, not a break with the injustices of the past. It was a vow to freeze the past in place.

“We will resolutely uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made,

and unswervingly follow whatever instructions Duterte gave.”

This phrase was not improvised; it was a line tempered and polished in the forges of campaign calculation. It was uttered by ministers and surrogates as if it were scripture, a declaration so unambiguous that even the dullest political operative could repeat it without error.

It was, in essence, an insurance policy. For Duterte’s loyalists in the police, the military, the bureaucracy, and in Congress, it guaranteed immunity: there would be no reckoning for the dead of the drug war, no scrutiny of contracts signed in haste or in darkness, no dismantling of the machinery of coercion built over six years. For the inner circle of Duterte’s rule, it promised that the hand of the state would remain their shield.

This was the cunning of the slogan: in a country where each administration traditionally tramples the legacy of its predecessor, “continuity” was dressed up as the highest virtue. It was sold as stability — no sudden changes in foreign policy, no interruption of the so-called “war on drugs,” no pause in the cement and steel of Duterte-era infrastructure.

But in its very construction, the slogan carried its fatal flaw. It rested on the assumption that unity could be manufactured not through the people’s will, not through democratic consensus, but through the embalming of a single leader’s choices. It mistook the political corpse of the previous administration for the living body of the nation.

And history does not lie still. To attempt to halt it is to invite rupture. The Marcos camp imagined they had built a bridge to the future; in truth, they had built a dam, and behind it the waters of change were already rising.

Foreign Policy: From Apparent Inheritance

to Complete Reorientation

In the early years of his presidency, Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. appeared poised to carry forward Duterte’s pro-China tilt. Yet within months, he unveiled a decisive pivot that reversed several pillars of his predecessor’s foreign policy—particularly in defense and alliance-building.

• EDCA Expansion: Four New Bases Added

Marcos approved four new Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA) sites in April 2023, supplementing the original five bases agreed in 2016. The new locations—Balabac Island (Palawan), Camp Melchor Dela Cruz (Isabela), Lal-lo Airport (Cagayan), and Naval Base Camilo Osias (Santa Ana, Cagayan)—significantly enhanced U.S. access across northern Luzon and the western flank of the Philippines.

• Joint Military Exercises Surge

The annual Balikatan (shoulder-to-shoulder) exercises under Marcos swelled dramatically—from roughly 5,100 U.S. and 3,800 Filipino troops in 2022, to over 17,600 participants in 2023, including contingents from Japan and Australia. Moreover, Marcos elevated the total joint exercises from approximately 300 in 2022 to 500 in 2023.

• “Full Battle Test” Drills and Missile Deployments

By April 2025, Balikatan evolved into its first “full battle test”—complete with simulated missile strikes, island-defence war games, and operations in the Taiwan Strait and South China Sea. This included deploying U.S. anti-ship missiles in the Luzon Strait and integrating Japanese and Australian forces for the first time in live drills.

• Deepening Security Agreements 

Marcos also revisited long-standing defense frameworks. In 2023, he endorsed updates to the 1951 Mutual Defense Treaty, ensuring non-military provocations (e.g., attacks on Philippine Coast Guard vessels) would still trigger U.S. defense commitments. Additionally, the U.S. and the Philippines signed the General Security of Military Information Agreement, enabling secure intelligence sharing and arms cooperation—covering missile systems and satellite surveillance—highlighting the growing sophistication of their military partnership.

This reorientation marked a clear break from Duterte’s era of strategic balancing. While Duterte downplayed the 2016 arbitral ruling and favored closer ties with Beijing, Marcos:

• Reinvigorated U.S. military presence via EDCA expansion;
• Multiplied joint military exercises—both in scale and complexity;
• Activated “full battle test” drills to stress-test operational readiness;
• Enhanced intelligence-sharing frameworks and treaty protections. 

For Duterte loyalists, Marcos’s moves appeared to violate the early pledge to “uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made.” For critics, they demonstrated that blanket “continuity” was impossible in a rapidly changing geopolitical environment.

Even in the economy,  Marcos himself had to continue vassalage towards the United States, such as recently when President Donald Trump said he and Marcos Jr. of the Philippines have reached a trade agreement: that calls for 19% tariffs on goods the US imports from the two countries, paid by American businesses, while American goods shipped there won’t be charged a tariff. But come to think- while increasing tariffs on Philippine exports from 17 to 19 percent, Marcos disingenuously foisted on the Filipino people as a “significant achievement” in bilateral relations with the country’s “strongest, closest, most reliable ally.” What does this mean? turning the Philippines into a “dumping ground” for American products, as in exchange for the one percent point reduction on the tariffs for Philippine products entering the US, while some US products that will be exported to the Philippines will have zero tariffs?

So much for that ironclad relationship that's obviously a vassalage, like how Duterte tried to the Chinese while maintaining existing agreements with the Americans. Duterte's pivot to China is all but vassalage using unequal agreements. Otherwise, his foreign policy is an apathetic one: don't interfere with domestic matters (particularly human rights, war on drugs, among others of controversial nature) and stick to economic ones even it meant unequal and compradore in character. 

The Fracture of the Covenant:

From Pact to Political Civil War?

The Marcos–Duterte alliance, hailed in 2022 as the “Unity Ticket,” was never a genuine fusion of forces. It was a temporary truce between rival warlords of the political oligarchy, each commanding their own regional base, patronage network, and loyal bureaucracy. Its sole unifying aim was victory in the presidential race and the mutual guarantee of survival afterward.

From the first day of the new administration, the seeds of rupture were already sown. Marcos, backed by the northern and Ilocano machinery, occupied the apex of the state. Sara Duterte, commanding the southern Mindanao base and the loyalty of much of the national police and key military figures, stood as the indispensable junior partner. But the logic of Philippine politics is ruthless: once the prize is secured, the allies of yesterday become the obstacles of tomorrow.

By mid-2024, the split was no longer theoretical. The spark came with Vice President Sara Duterte’s resignation from her cabinet positions, delivered under the antiseptic phrase “differences in governance priorities.” It was, in truth, a declaration of political independence—an unmistakable refusal to be bound by the President’s authority.

From there, the façade collapsed with remarkable speed:

• Legislative paralysis — Coordination between the two camps in Congress disintegrated. Committees stalled; bills died without a vote; joint priorities vanished from the agenda.
• Fragmented party machinery — Operatives loyal to each camp blocked the projects of the other, diverted funds, and used local offices to undermine rival initiatives.
• Information warfare — Social media surrogates, once united in chorus, now sang dueling anthems, trading accusations of betrayal, corruption, and incompetence.

By early 2025, the “Unity Ticket” had transformed into a cold civil war within the ruling bloc. Public sniping replaced private negotiation. The once-formidable campaign machine split into two rival electoral armies, each quietly forging alliances in anticipation of the next presidential contest.

The breach, far from healing with time, deepened into a structural schism. No longer a mere clash of personalities, it became a contest between two political dynasties for control over the commanding heights of the state. Each sought to seize the organs of security, the levers of budgetary power, and the loyalty of the local government network.

By the start of 2025, local party operatives aligned with either camp actively obstructed each other’s initiatives, while national legislation became mired in partisan obstruction. Grassroots organizers complained of mixed messaging and dwindling resources, even as social media surrogates amplified the feud daily. What began as a controlled rift escalated into a sustained political cold war.

The events of 2024–2025 have proven a lesson written countless times in the history of bourgeois politics: alliances forged for office cannot withstand the strain of governance. Without a common program, without shared principles, they dissolve at the first serious test, leaving behind not unity but mutual sabotage.

Here the mirage stands exposed: what was promised to the nation as stability was nothing more than a ceasefire between oligarchic clans—a ceasefire that ended the moment one side moved to consolidate power at the expense of the other. Today, both camps are entrenched, trading jabs in public forums while the “unity” brand of 2022 survives only as a cautionary tale in Philippine politics—a reminder that expediency in alliance is purchased at the cost of eventual mistrust and open warfare.

Rights, Freedoms, and the Continuation of Old Patterns

Civil society organizations noted that in several respects, the old order had not changed at all. Reports of attacks on activists, harassment of journalists, and pressure on independent institutions persisted well into the early months of Marcos’s term, echoing the Duterte era’s hardline law-and-order ethos. For many, the atmosphere felt less like a fresh start and more like an unbroken continuum of repression.

During his campaign and in early statements as president, Marcos had said he would “uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made,” a remark that—while intended by his team as a gesture of continuity—landed heavily with human rights advocates. To victims’ families and survivors of past abuses, it was not a reassurance but a warning: that the same culture of impunity that flourished under Duterte would remain untouched under his successor.

Advocacy groups pointed out that without accountability for extrajudicial killings, arbitrary arrests, and the intimidation of political dissenters, no amount of rhetorical unity could close the nation’s wounds. The past was not just lingering—it was being normalized. “We are being told to move on,” one rights worker said, “but the killings, the harassment, the fear—these are not things you just move on from.”

Observers also noted a subtle but significant difference in style. Unlike Duterte, whose bluntness and public tirades left no doubt about his stance, Marcos adopted a softer, more calculated tone. He downplayed the controversial legacy of his predecessor while signaling no intention of reversing it. The promise to maintain “whatever” Duterte had put in place became a political balancing act—appeasing the former president’s base while avoiding overt rhetoric that might alienate foreign allies or revive scrutiny of ongoing International Criminal Court (ICC) investigations.

That balancing act, however, did not change the underlying reality. For victims’ families, the ICC’s move to arrest and prosecute Duterte for alleged crimes against humanity was a rare glimmer of justice in an otherwise stagnant field. Yet even here, Marcos’s cautious language and deliberate avoidance of confronting the ICC matter head-on raised doubts about whether his administration would cooperate—or whether it would quietly shield Duterte under the banner of national sovereignty.

In the eyes of critics, the issue of human rights in the Philippines had not entered a new chapter at all. Rather, it was a continuation of the same script, with a different lead actor. The vocabulary was gentler, the stagecraft more polished, but the machinery of state power—the one that could be used to silence, intimidate, and erase—remained firmly in place.

And so, as the months passed, many Filipinos wondered if the country had truly moved forward, or if it was simply learning to live with an unchanging truth: that promises of unity meant little without justice, and that “whatever” policy decisions of the past could also mean “whatever” consequences for those who dared to challenge them.

Corruption, Dynasty, and the Eclipse of Governance

Let the record stand: the promise of continuity quickly proved to be a smokescreen for the preservation—not the reform—of a political order suffocated by patronage, impunity, and dynastic ambition. Beneath the fine phrases about unity lay the real meaning of “continuity” in the Philippine context: the uninterrupted rule of entrenched families, the unbroken protection of corrupt allies, and the unchallenged operation of the state’s coercive machinery.

This was not stability in the service of the people. It was stability in the service of the ruling class.

• The Vice President on Trial — Literally 

By December 2024, the second highest office in the land was under siege. Vice President Sara Duterte faced a barrage of impeachment complaints, each more damning than the last: graft, misuse of confidential funds, betrayal of public trust, and even allegations of plotting the assassination of President Marcos Jr. What began as scattered grievances in the House of Representatives quickly gathered momentum, uniting lawmakers from Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao in a rare, if temporary, alignment of political will.

By February 2025, this wave of accusations culminated in a formal impeachment vote in the House—a remarkable moment in Philippine politics where the legislative branch moved against a sitting vice president from the ruling coalition itself.

Yet the unity against Duterte was fleeting. Once the case reached the Senate, procedural delays—framed as adherence to due process—effectively froze the proceedings. This stalling was more than a calendar game; it was a calculation. The longer the trial was delayed, the greater the opportunity for backroom negotiation, media spin, and political realignment.

In July 2025, the Supreme Court delivered the decisive intervention, declaring the impeachment complaint unconstitutional. It was a legal reprieve that did not absolve Sara Duterte of wrongdoing, but it robbed the impeachment process of its teeth. In the public eye, she emerged not exonerated, but re-energized—proof that in a dynastic system, defeat in one arena often signals a counterattack in another.

• Rodrigo Duterte’s Arrest — and the Family’s Enduring Grip 

If the vice president’s survival was an example of elite impunity, her father’s continued influence was an even starker one. Former President Rodrigo Duterte, detained in The Hague under International Criminal Court charges for crimes against humanity, should have been politically finished. Instead, he used his detention as a political stage.

In the 2025 midterms, Duterte ran for—and won—the mayorship of Davao City from abroad. His son took the vice mayoralty, ensuring that the family’s control over their southern stronghold remained unbroken.

Nor was the Duterte network confined to Davao. In the Senate, loyalists like Christopher “Bong” Go and Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa secured top positions, proving that the dynasty’s reach extended from the jail cells of The Hague to the legislative halls of Manila. Here, “continuity” revealed itself for what it was: not a commitment to policy, but a guarantee that power, once accumulated by a family, would not be surrendered—no matter the venue, no matter the charges.

• A Nation of Dynasties, Not a Democracy 

The 2025 elections made plain what political scientists had long warned: the Philippines remains less a representative democracy than a confederation of family fiefdoms. Of the 253 congressional districts, 216 were held by members of political dynasties. These clans rule like private kingdoms, passing seats from parent to child, sibling to sibling, cousin to cousin.

This reality makes constitutional prohibitions against dynasties not merely ineffective, but openly mocked. The ruling class sustains itself through the rotation of surnames, not the rotation of policies.

In 2024, the so-called People’s Initiative movement for constitutional change was exposed as yet another instrument of oligarchic engineering. Villagers were reportedly paid between ₱100 and ₱10,000 to sign petitions—petitions organized not by genuine grassroots advocates, but by political brokers with deep ties to both ruling camps. “Unity” here meant unity of method: whether in Marcos territory or Duterte country, the cash-for-signatures tactic was the same.

• Budget Battles as Political Theatre 

The 2025 national budget became a battlefield not for the allocation of resources, but for the performance of power. Civil society leaders labeled it “the most corrupt in history,” condemning cuts to health and education while pork and patronage projects flourished.

One flagship initiative, the “Ayuda para sa Kapos ang Kita” (AKAP) program, was ostensibly a social assistance scheme for low-income households. In practice, critics argued, it functioned as a vote-buying mechanism—its rollouts conveniently timed with political campaigns, its beneficiaries often selected through partisan channels. Lawmakers close to Speaker Martin Romualdez were accused of weaponizing AKAP to secure loyalty in local constituencies, proving that in the patronage state, even welfare is a political weapon.

• Structural Decay in Civic Space 

The same state that could mobilize billions for patronage aid was relentless in using its coercive apparatus against dissent. Since 2024, terrorism financing charges—often without credible basis—against civil society actors have skyrocketed from 14 to 66 cases. Human rights defenders were red-tagged; NGOs saw their bank accounts frozen.

Laws designed to combat terrorism were thus transformed into tools of political policing. In a grim irony, while the state struggled to dismantle criminal syndicates embedded in local governments, it showed ruthless efficiency in dismantling the capacity of activists and watchdog groups to operate.

Even public service delivery itself became hostage to the Marcos–Duterte feud. Political scientists warned that the distribution of cash aid and essential services was being weaponized by both camps to mobilize electoral support. In this climate, a citizen’s access to relief could depend less on need than on which faction’s colors flew in their barangay.

Under Marcos Jr., unity meant the preservation of the power structures of the past—shielding political families, shielding corrupt actors, and preserving coercive state mechanisms. It meant that dynastic immunity remained the operating principle of governance.

Yet the scandals of 2024–2025 show that continuity built on privilege is a lie. When the marionettes of “unity” begin to pull their strings in different directions, the façade collapses, and the machinery of shared domination is laid bare for all to see.

In such a system, reform is not a policy disagreement—it is an existential threat. And when unity is bought, enforced, and hereditary, the legitimacy of the state becomes a hollow echo, incapable of commanding true loyalty from the people.

The Collapse of the Continuity Myth

What began as a campaign promise of “continuity” and “unity” quickly unraveled into a political arrangement more concerned with preserving the legacy and power networks of the past than addressing the needs of the present. On paper, the incoming leadership vowed to maintain stability, honor previous achievements, and ensure a smooth transition. In practice, it became a tightrope act—appeasing entrenched allies while navigating a growing tide of public dissatisfaction.

The so-called unity project was never a cohesive vision. Instead, it was a patchwork of competing loyalties and backroom understandings, where policy direction was often dictated by what would keep fragile alliances intact. Reforms were watered down or shelved entirely if they risked upsetting key power brokers. “Continuity” became a coded assurance to the old guard: the same rules, the same privileges, the same protection from accountability.

This arrangement also demanded a peculiar kind of public messaging—carefully staged speeches, symbolic gestures, and a refusal to directly address glaring contradictions. When pressed about unresolved scandals or unmet promises, the answer was often reduced to the dismissive shrug of “whatever keeps the peace.” It was unity, but only in the shallow sense of everyone avoiding open conflict while quietly protecting their own interests.

Over time, the cost of this arrangement became clear. Economic inequities widened, corruption persisted, and the justice system remained selectively applied. The rhetoric of harmony masked a political stalemate, where decision-making was paralyzed by fear of alienating any faction of the old order.

The nation found itself trapped between two incompatible realities: the ceremonial performance of loyalty to a bygone administration, and the urgent demands of a public hungry for genuine change. By clinging to a corrupted version of unity, the administration not only risked alienating its own base—it steadily eroded the legitimacy of the state itself, undermining the very development, justice, and peace it claimed to champion.

Unity vs. Conformity

The early pledge to “unswervingly follow whatever instructions Duterte gave” presumed the political past could be simply frozen in place. Yet the messy realities of governance—volatile geopolitics, personal rivalries, mounting public discontent—made such a promise unattainable.

That collapse of the “continuity” narrative revealed a harsh lesson: unity isn’t something that can be declared or forced upon a fragmented political landscape. True unity demands accountability, tangible reforms, and inclusive politics—none of which were sufficiently embraced. What instead emerged was a veneer of unity that masked worsening institutional dysfunction and fractured public trust.

• Midterm Election Fallout and Cabinet Reshuffle 

The May 2025 midterm elections served as a stark referendum on the administration’s unity-by-continuity strategy. Support for Marcos’s slate plunged—his allies won only half of the contested Senate seats—while Vice President Sara Duterte’s camp surged, revealing deep political polarization and weakening the president’s mandate.

In response, Marcos ordered a sweeping reset: all cabinet secretaries and heads of agencies were asked to submit courtesy resignations. This “bold reset” aimed to realign governance with public expectations but also underscored the failure of cohesion and unity as effective governance tools.

• Outcry Over Corruption, Poverty, and Accountability

Growing frustrations over corruption and inequality also punctured the narrative of unity. Massive rallies in early 2025 called out high-profile abuses—such as Vice President Duterte’s P612 million confidential fund spending in just 11 days—highlighting popular outrage over the privileging of the few over citizens’ welfare. 

 

This matter involving the Vice President's misuse of Public Funds also brought recent calls for her impeachment by concerned legislators, that rather end "archived" by the solons who obviously wanted to junk the complaint "all in the name of rule of law" even at the expense of "accountability" and "transparency" as public servants. 

These protests illustrated that superficial unity—one that glosses over corruption—cannot withstand a public hunger for responsive and transparent governance.

• Strained Institutions and Exclusionary Symbolism 

Recent decisions further revealed how the administration treats unity more as optics than inclusivity. Executive Order 81 reorganized the National Security Council, notably excluding Vice President Duterte and past presidents—traditional positions intended to symbolize institutional checks and balance. Critics called it a centralizing move that may deepen political rifts rather than unify. 

 

Even patriotic gestures were criticized as performative—an echo of Marcos Sr.’s Martial Law-era symbolism, rather than a unifying future-building effort. But, it's also no different from Duterte's performativism too - but sans the braggadocio Marcos jr's predecessor did during his presidential term.

Conclusion: The Shattered Formula of 'Unity' as 'Continuity'

Again, the Marcos Jr. administration began with a message that, while never officially phrased in these exact words, could be distilled into a single, unambiguous formula:

“We will resolutely uphold whatever policy decisions Duterte made,
and unswervingly follow whatever instructions Duterte gave.”

This was the political shorthand of the early months — the concentrated essence of every statement, press briefing, and ceremonial handover. It was the reassurance offered to Duterte’s loyalists in the military, the police, the bureaucracy, and the provincial dynasties: there will be no reckoning, no reversal, no dismantling of what has been built.

But a formula of this kind, rooted not in a program for the people but in a pact between factions of the ruling class, contains the seeds of its own destruction. To “unswervingly follow” a predecessor’s line is possible only so long as doing so serves the ambitions of the incumbent. The moment the paths of the two dynasties diverge, the unity collapses into open rivalry — and the pledge, once repeated as political scripture, becomes a hollow memory.

The events of 2023 to 2025 have stripped away the pretence. The foreign policy reorientation toward the United States, the vice president’s resignation from cabinet posts, the impeachment battles, the budget wars, the street protests, and the entrenchment of dynasties all revealed what the “continuity” promise truly was: a temporary ceasefire between two camps, never a shared vision for the nation.

By the time the 2025 midterm elections dealt Marcos a stinging rebuke, the façade had already crumbled. Cabinet purges replaced consensus. Institutional centralization replaced power-sharing. Symbolic theatrics — anthems, pledges, slogans — replaced substantive reform. What was sold as unity had, in practice, served as a protective shell for entrenched political interests, now split into rival camps more concerned with each other’s destruction than with the country’s welfare.

This is why the distilled slogan stands today not as a testament to political stability, but as proof of the bankruptcy of unity-by-continuity. Without accountability, without dismantling the machinery of dynastic privilege, without a program that addresses the needs of the people rather than the preservation of elite networks, “continuity” can only mean the perpetuation of the past’s failures.

Thus, the early message — so simple, so confident — now reads as the epitaph of its own promise: a political mirage that, once touched by the heat of reality, dissolved to reveal the unchanging desert beneath.

In the Silence of the Senate, Avelino Speaks Still

In the Silence of the Senate, Avelino Speaks Still

José Avelino
(1890-1986)

When the Senate, by a margin too comfortable to ignore, moved to archive the impeachment case against Vice President Sara Duterte, they did not just mothball a piece of paper. They mothballed the people’s unease. They mothballed the demand for clarity. And they mothballed the one duty that a legislative chamber must never relinquish: the duty to test power, even if the power belongs to one of their own.

The press release language was neat. Due process. Jurisdiction. Ripeness of the case. These were the words they fed to the microphones.

But the people—those who have watched the fever of politics break into cold calculation—heard something else entirely: a retreat dressed in robes of decorum.

It is in moments like this that one remembers José Avelino.

Avelino, the Senate President who, in 1949, detonated the polite hypocrisies of his peers with a sentence that has survived longer than many of their careers: “What are we in power for? We are not hypocrites. Why should we pretend to be saints when in reality we are not? We are not angels. When we die, we will all go to hell. It is better to be in hell—because in that place, there are no investigations, no secretary of justice, no secretary of the interior to go after us.”

To polite society, it was a confession. To the cynics, a wink. But to those who understood the inner machinery of power, it was something rarer: the truth stripped of the perfume of self-righteousness. The words were scandalous in their candor, but they were also, in their own way, a provocation to honesty—an invitation to confront the gap between political sainthood and political reality.

In another hour of moral weight, he warned with biting irony: “We are not angels. When we die, we will all go to hell. It is better to be in hell—because in that place, there are no investigations, no secretary of justice, no secretary of the interior to go after us.”

Had Avelino lived to see this week, in this time when solons chose to archive the decision rather than wait for the courts, or even pursue as they've sworn to uphold accountability and transparency under the rule of law, he might have said something sharper: “Let there be a trial—otherwise we’re all but hypocrites who admit, ‘let’s go to hell and pretend it’s heaven.’”

But Avelino is gone, and with him the rare courage to be honest about what power is and what it is for. In another hour of moral weight, he once asked:

“Señor Presidente, ¿no es la verdad que sin hacerlos vigorosamente es traicionar y negar esencialmente nuestros deberes como sirvientes públicos? ¿Para qué está el nuestro mandato del pueblo?”

Why are we in power, if not to pursue the truth with vigor—especially when that truth is uncomfortable, especially when it implicates the powerful?

That is the marrow of representative government. And yet, this week, the Senate dodged the bone.

They did not defeat the charges; they merely declared them “unripe” and filed them away in the vault of procedural limbo. Archived, they called it.

One cannot fault the public for now speaking the tongue of clerks and lawyers. Moral clarity has grown scarce in high places. When morality fails, people cling to process—because process, at least, can be demanded in writing.

And let readers be clear: it is not sedition to ask for accountability. It is not destabilization to seek transparency. It is not political persecution to question the second-highest official in the land. It is democracy doing what it is meant to do—if only those entrusted with its tools remember how to use them.

The senators claim fidelity to the Constitution. But constitutions are not glass cases for display. They are living pacts, signed not in the ink of ceremony but in the daily transaction of trust between ruler and ruled. And this week, that trust took on water.

What is the Senate for, if not to sit in judgment—not just of law, but of conduct; not just of budget, but of principle? If it now serves only to protect the comfortable and shield the politically sacred, then it has ceased to be a Senate. It is a sanctuary.

And sanctuaries, history tells the people, are where the guilty wait for the storm to pass.

So let the record show: when the moment called for fortitude, most chose convenience.

When the nation needed clarity, it was offered delay.

When the people sought justice, they were told to wait for ripeness.

But truth does not spoil with time. It ferments. It sharpens. It returns with a smell that cannot be hidden.

And somewhere in the backbenches of memory, José Avelino still speaks—not to excuse the crookery of power, but to remind the people, the so-called "constituents", the "subjects of the law", of its naked shape. 

The Senate Archives the Case — But Cannot Bury the Question

The Senate Archives the Case — But Cannot Bury the Question

When the Senate, by a vote of 19 in favour, opted to archive the impeachment complaint against Vice President Sara Duterte, it did not just make a legislative decision—it chose to speak to history, albeit with a muffled voice. They called it procedure, but the public heard silence. They spoke of finality, but the people smelled fear.

And in that silence, the ghost of José Avelino stirred again.

Avelino, Senate President in the fragile years of the First Republic, once faced his peers and said with frankness that shocked polite society: “What are we in power for? We are not hypocrites. Why should we pretend to be saints when in reality we are not? When Jesus Christ died on the cross, he made a distinction between good crooks and bad crooks. We can be good crooks.”

Many had laughed bitterly then. Few had the courage to agree. But nearly eighty years later, his words feel less like a scandal, and more like a mirror.

For what else can one say about a Senate that shelves—rather than settles—a challenge of national consequence? That refuses to even try the case, citing procedural uncertainties, and buries the issue behind the comforting word “archive”?

There was no ruling. No testimony. No public hearing. There was only a motion to keep things quiet.

Some senators said it was “not yet time”—that politics should wait for the court’s final word. Others appealed to “the institutions”, as if the institution they served was not precisely the one duty-bound to uphold accountability. They forgot that the Senate, as co-equal to the Supreme Court, is not a waiting room, but a chamber of judgment.

The same late Avelino, in rare candor, once rose and spoke—not with pretense, but with conscience—in the language of his generation: “Señor Presidente, ¿no es la verdad que sin hacerlos vigorosamente es traicionar y negar esencialmente nuestros deberes como sirvientes públicos? ¿Para qué está el nuestro mandato del pueblo?”

And from his words tore through the veil of parliamentary ritual, piercing the heart of the matter: What is the mandate of public office, if not the solemn duty to pursue truth with unwavering vigor?

Why, indeed, are they in power?

For sure as solons, especially those concerned would have understood this moment well, that the measure of public service is not in the comfort of one’s office, but in the courage to confront storms—even those that come from within. But the Senate did not confront this storm. It went around it. And in doing so, it has only confirmed what many citizens already suspect: that the old adage “once you're in public office, you're eaten by the system” is no longer cynical, but self-evident.

That citizens now speak in legalese is not mockery—it is necessity. That they demand accountability, even from the second highest office of the land, is not sedition—it is the exercise of democracy.

One cannot chide the people for asking questions when it is they who fund this republic with their taxes, their labor, their votes. And if the answer the Senate gives them is a shrug disguised as procedure, then do not be surprised when distrust grows deeper.

The Constitution is not a curtain to hide behind. It is a lamp to illuminate. It was meant to protect institutions by allowing them to correct themselves. But here, it was used as a veil to avoid confrontation.

They say they archived the case for the rule of law.

But what the people saw was an act done in the service of the rule of silence.

Let no one be mistaken: to archive is not to resolve. To delay is not to absolve. And to bury is not to forget.

If Avelino’s words still echo, it is because the dilemma of power remains unresolved in our time. Shall it be wielded for the comfort of the few—or for the mandate of the many?

The Senate chose the former. But history watches still.

And so do the people.