PROJECT NOAH, FLOOD RISK SCIENCE, AND THE POLITICS OF ACCOUNTABILITY: A Nation Seeking Its Ark

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I was rummaging through old boxes in our storage room on a quiet morning, doing the kind of task one delays until the heart is finally ready to remember. Beneath piles of old documents, medals from youthful triumphs, and faded certificates, I found a small children’s book I had not touched since grade school. It was Noah’s Ark — its cover softened by age, its pages fragile, yet its illustrations still full of color and innocence. The image of Noah standing before the rising storm struck me deeply. As a child, I simply admired the animals in pairs. As an adult, a professor of governance and public safety, and someone who has witnessed the consequences of political decisions, I suddenly understood why that story remains timeless. Disasters were never just about the rain. They were about preparation. Noah survived not because he was lucky, but because he listened, he foresaw, he acted before the storm arrived. He built the ark when the world still laughed at the possibility of a flood. It dawned on me that the true tragedy is not the storm itself, but the refusal of leaders to prepare for it.

 

Holding that book, I could not avoid seeing Project NOAH as our modern counterpart to the biblical ark — not made of wood and nails, but of models, data, sensors, satellites, and hazard maps. Built by Filipino scientists with brilliance and compassion, Project NOAH was designed to give our nation foresight before destruction, information before panic, and understanding before loss. It was a scientific sanctuary that could transform uncertainty into preparedness, confusion into clarity, and helplessness into resilience. It did not promise to stop floods any more than Noah promised to stop the rain, but it promised survival. And survival, in disaster governance, is everything.

 

Project NOAH offered the country a rare gift: the ability to turn natural hazards into predictable events. Through hydrological models, real-time rainfall analytics, geospatial simulations, and barangay-level hazard mapping, it gave decision-makers a clear window into the future. It empowered LGUs and national agencies to anticipate where rivers would swell, which communities would flood, which roads would become impassable. It turned the unpredictable into something manageable, giving people the chance to live another day. Yet, the true power of Project NOAH extended beyond disaster science. It provided something even more threatening to the political status quo: accountability. Science, when public and transparent, is a mirror that cannot be fogged. It exposes discrepancies between what is claimed and what is real. It reveals inconsistencies in engineering plans, procurement documents, and flood-mitigation projects. It challenges decisions that defy physical laws. It resists manipulation. It demands honesty.

 

This is why the weakening of Project NOAH’s institutional foundation under the Duterte administration remains one of the most consequential turning points in our national disaster governance history. It is factually accurate to state that President Rodrigo Duterte did not directly shut down Project NOAH. There was no executive order dissolving it, no official pronouncement condemning it. But it is equally important to recognize what was not said and what was not done. When DOST announced that funding would end, there was no intervention from the highest office to preserve the project. No effort to sustain it. No sense of urgency to protect a program that had saved countless lives. When a vital national institution is left to die without resistance, the silence becomes its executioner. The ark was not dismantled; it was abandoned at the shore.

 

What adds to this sorrow is that even in the administration of President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr., no substantial step has been taken to restore Project NOAH, institutionalize it, or reintegrate it into our national disaster management framework. Despite worsening climate patterns, despite repeated community flooding, despite the intensifying need for real-time hazard intelligence, and despite the enormous value NOAH brings to evidence-based governance, it remains outside the government’s core structure. It continues to operate only because the University of the Philippines embraced it and refused to let it vanish. It survives today not by governmental will, but by academic compassion. And that is both admirable and heartbreaking.

 

The heartbreak becomes more pronounced when we consider the present flood control scandal — a convergence of corruption, incompetence, and political betrayal. Billions of pesos were allocated to dredging rivers, constructing drainage systems, reinforcing embankments, and erecting flood-control structures. Yet so many communities remain submerged after only an hour of rain. Rivers allegedly dredged still hold the same volume they did before. Drainage systems supposedly improved fail almost instantly. Structures built with astounding budgets sit in locations that NOAH’s models would have flagged as low-priority or structurally pointless. In some cases, flood control projects were approved for areas where hazard maps clearly indicated that flooding was not a primary threat, raising questions about whether these projects were designed for public safety or political gain.

 

If Project NOAH had been fully institutionalized, mandated, and funded, these anomalies would have been harder to conceal. Hydrological models would have shown whether dredging was genuine or a fiction. Rainfall projections would have been cross-referenced with drainage capacity claims. Hazard maps would have exposed the absurdity of locating multimillion-peso projects in zones that never needed them. Satellite imagery, operating under NOAH’s framework, would have revealed discrepancies between contractual promises and actual physical outcomes. Science would have become a witness, and accountability would have been unavoidable.

 

The absence of NOAH in the official government apparatus created a vacuum where corruption could flourish unnoticed. Procurement documents overstated flood risks in areas where scientific data suggested otherwise. Engineers justified projects that defied hydrological logic. Contractors built without reference to hazard data. Oversight agencies lacked the scientific backbone to audit infrastructure claims. And the people — ordinary Filipinos living in flood-prone barangays — paid the ultimate price. It is wrenching to imagine how many of today’s scandals could have been prevented had Project NOAH been standing at the center of decision-making, demanding truth through data, challenging falsehoods through simulations, ensuring transparency through open-access maps. The scandal does not only reflect moral failure; it reflects a profound rejection of science.

 

Yet the tragedy does not end there. Project NOAH could have strengthened anti-corruption monitoring and also enhanced the nation’s fight against organized crime. Many coastal zones vulnerable to storm surges — carefully mapped by NOAH — are the same corridors exploited by smuggling syndicates. Integrating NOAH’s geospatial and environmental intelligence with Presidential Anti-Organized Crime Commission (PAOCC) operations could have revolutionized predictive patrolling and tightened maritime surveillance. The same visibility that prevents flood disasters could prevent economic sabotage. The same models used to warn residents of rising waters could guide security forces in anticipating smuggling routes shaped by tidal shifts, river flow, and terrain. And at the level of LGUs, this interdisciplinary approach could have been transformative: a mayor reading rainfall projections would also be reading risk maps for criminal activity, turning science into both shield and strategy.

 

But instead of embracing this powerful convergence of science, security, and governance, Project NOAH was allowed to drift into semi-obscurity. It floats now in the care of UP, respected by scholars but underutilized by the state. And as storms grow stronger, as corruption grows bolder, as criminal networks grow more sophisticated, the absence of a national commitment to NOAH becomes a wound that bleeds with every flooded street, every ruined livelihood, every scandal that steals money meant to keep families safe.

 

As I placed the old children’s book gently back on my desk, I could not shake the image of Noah standing before the rising storm, hammer in hand, building something not for glory but for survival. Noah built the ark before the rain came. We, on the other hand, dismantled our ark while the sky was already darkening. We had the tools. We had the science. We had the warnings. We had the chance to create a culture of preparedness. Yet we allowed politics, indifference, and corruption to drown our best efforts.

 

And so the question that lingers — the question that echoes from that fragile childhood book to the present reality of our nation — is painfully simple: when the next great storm approaches, will our leaders finally choose to build and protect the ark? Or will we once again wait for the floodwaters to rise before realizing that the tragedy was never the storm, but the silence and neglect of those who refused to prepare?

 _____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

VIEWS: 719K

The Political Dynasty We Feed Is the Nation We Become

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

 

I have sat through political meetings my entire life. I’ve listened to strategists argue over precinct behavior, organizers calculate vote projections with trembling hands, and old party guards whisper reminders of battles fought long before many of us were born. But one meeting remains carved into my memory—not because of what we discussed, but because of who walked into that room, and the arrogance he carried like perfume.

The room that afternoon was filled with people who earned their place in provincial politics. Men who walked mountains at midnight to escort ballot boxes. Women who negotiated rival clans into temporary peace. Youth leaders who sacrificed their safety just to guard a precinct. These were workers of democracy—flawed, imperfect, but real. They carried stories on their shoulders that no textbook could ever teach.

Then the heir arrived.

He entered with the gait of someone raised behind high walls and guarded gates—someone who had never tasted fear, never experienced loss, never been humbled by a barangay captain who refused to be bought or by a crowd that refused to listen. His confidence was not born of competence; it was born of insulation. He looked at everyone in the room—people who had fought real battles—and treated them as if they were the inexperienced ones.

He lectured strategists who had survived political storms decades before he learned how to speak in complete sentences. He corrected party elders who once saved his father’s campaign. He scolded organizers who had built the very structures he now pretended to lead.

His arrogance was not learned.

It was inherited.

It was distilled entitlement, passed from one generation to the next.

This young man was not the disease.

He was the symptom.

The real disease was the bad dynasty that shaped him.

But in fairness to history, not all dynasties in the Philippines are malign.

Some are rare, some are quiet, but they exist—good dynasties whose public service spans generations like a torch passed, not a throne inherited.

There are families whose patriarch served in the earliest days of our Republic—where dignity was the standard and corruption a disgrace. His son rose to national prominence not through entitlement, but through years of consistent, competent, scandal-free service. And the grandson? He became a reformist mayor who digitalized governance, removed fixers, humanized public service, and reminded the country that power can be carried lightly when the heart carries the heavier load.

In Visayas, there is a family whose local leadership transformed from traditional politics into genuine reform. The father modernized hospitals and emergency response; the son returned from abroad not to flaunt credentials but to immerse himself in agriculture, learning from farmers rather than lording over them.

In Mindanao, a family who survived violence devoted their life to peace. Their name carries weight not because of fear, but because of compassion. Their children inherited this mission—not entitlement.

These are good dynasties, and when such families rise, communities rise with them.

But beside these good dynasties lie the dark dynasties—families who have mastered the art of extracting wealth from public funds and extracting loyalty from public dependence. Families whose roots wrap around entire provinces, suffocating opportunities until only their networks can breathe.

Filipinos have heard in the news about dynasties that control infrastructure projects whose concrete cracks even before elections end.

About dynasties that command private armies.

About dynasties that run agricultural smuggling rings.

About dynasties that siphon flood-control budgets through shell contractors.

About dynasties that turn relocation projects into multi-billion-peso scams.

About dynasties that dominate every bidding, every agency, every corner of their kingdom.

But perhaps nothing reveals the rot of a bad dynasty more than this painful truth:

They keep their people poor—on purpose.

Poverty is not a failure for them.

It is a strategy.

A hungry voter is obedient.

A desperate voter is cheap.

A poor barangay is a treasure chest on election day.

They ensure economic stagnation so vote-buying remains effective.

They prevent industries from thriving so people remain dependent.

They underfund education so critical thinking remains weak.

They suppress empowerment because empowered citizens dismantle dynasties.

This is why some provinces look the same today as they did 30 years ago.

This is why some municipalities remain undeveloped despite billions in internal revenue allotment.

This is why some families thrive even as their people barely survive.

 

And yet, a tragic irony follows:

People still vote for them.

A dynasty is not created by birth.

It is created by ballots.

Every vote given to a dynasty fertilizes its roots.

Every re-election tightens its chokehold.

Every distributed envelope becomes another brick in their empire.

There are always alternative candidates.

There are always independent voices.

There are always better choices.

But people often choose the dynasty anyway—

because of fear,

because of hunger,

because of habit,

because of a P500 bill wrapped in “thank you.”

Then later, they complain.

Later, they regret.

Later, they cry.

But the dynasty stands tall, because the people themselves built the tower.

And so the cycle continues.

Yet the tragedy deepens when bad dynasties mask their corruption with concrete.

There are cities that shine—clean streets, dancing fountains, bright lights, beautiful plazas, wide boulevards. Tourists take photos, social media praises the local government, and people from other towns say, “Ang ganda dito. Sana ganito rin sa amin.”

But beauty can be a smokescreen.

Progress can be cosmetic.

Infrastructure can be nothing more than corruption decorated with paint.

 

Behind many shining skylines lies a darker arithmetic:

in every bridge, a kickback;

in every road, a percentage;

in every building, an inflated cost;

in every plaza, a hidden deal.

Not all infrastructure is corruption—but in the hands of a bad dynasty, it often is.

True development is not measured by cement.

It is measured by how many families rise because of it.

I once walked through a city ruled by the same dynasty for over three decades.

The streets were immaculate, the parks Instagrammable, the city hall grand enough to rival a national museum. It looked like a model city.

But behind the painted walls, the lives of the people remained untouched.

A tricycle driver told me, “Sir, gumanda lang yung paligid. Pero buhay namin, hindi.”

A vendor whispered, “Yung ginhawa, pang-picture lang. Hindi pang-katawan.”

A public school teacher confessed, “Maganda ang city hall, pero yung estudyante ko gutom.”

A city can be beautiful, yet its people remain broken.

A city can look rich, yet its families remain poor.

 

A bad dynasty builds for visibility.

A good dynasty builds for human dignity.

This brings us to the most painful truth of all:

The political dynasty we feed is the nation we become.

If we feed dynasties that keep us poor,

we become a country drowning in poverty.

If we feed dynasties that mask corruption with concrete,

we become a country blinded by illusions.

If we feed dynasties that silence our voices,

we become a country without a voice.

If we feed dynasties that build monuments instead of futures,

we become a museum of wasted potential.

 

But if we feed dynasties—or leaders—who honor service, truth, and integrity,

we become a nation capable of hope.

Because in the end, democracy is brutally simple:

 

We elect the leaders we deserve,

and we live in the country their leadership creates.

 

If we continue to vote out of fear, hunger, or habit,

then we will continue to suffer under the families who cultivate that fear, that hunger, that habit.

 

But if one day—just one election day—we choose differently,

if we dare to vote for competence, humility, and integrity,

then perhaps the cycle will finally break.

 

And when that day comes,

when a voter stands in front of a ballot and chooses not the dynasty they fear or the dynasty that pays,

but the leader who inspires—

that is the day the Philippines will begin its long-overdue revolution.

 

A revolution not of guns,

not of rallies,

not of blood—

but of ballots.

 

Because the fate of this nation has always been in the hands of the people.

The tragedy is that we have forgotten our own power.

The miracle will begin the moment we remember.

 _____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

VIEWS: 889K

 

When Justice Is the Crime: Manggahan, the Flood Control Scandal, and the Rot We Can No Longer Ignore

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

 

I learned the truth about our justice system not from a courtroom, but from the ruins of the place where I grew up. Manggahan in Barangay Bagong Lipunan ng Crame was once a quiet community filled with families of retired soldiers and police officers. These men had served the Republic through the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, carrying in their bodies the exhaustion of conflict and the weight of public duty. They built their lives on land granted with the permission of an American owner. Later, when President Ferdinand Marcos Sr. issued Presidential Decree No. 2016, the community felt something close to relief. The decree recognized their long-term possession and granted them the dignity of security. For a long time, that decree was their shield.

 

Then one day, the shield shattered.

 

A claimant no one had ever seen emerged through lawyers whose confidence seemed to signal something more powerful than truth. A sheriff arrived with a demolition order for twenty-six houses, yet far more than twenty-six fell. Families who were not even part of the order watched their walls collapse. Homes that stood since 1952 were turned into rubble. Medals from past service were buried under dust. Mothers cried over crushed furniture, fathers tried to salvage what remained, and children watched the familiar shape of their childhood disappear in a morning.

 

What made the tragedy unbearable was not only the destruction, but the silence that accompanied it. PD 2016 was still valid, still binding, still the law. Yet no court stepped forward to uphold it. No judge issued an injunction. No institution questioned why the demolition exceeded its mandate. The law that once protected the community remained in the archives while the community itself was swept away.

 

That is where corruption in the justice system truly lives—not only in bribes exchanged in dark rooms, but in the decisions judges choose not to make. Corruption is also the refusal to enforce the very laws that give meaning to people’s lives. It is the selective blindness that appears when the powerless beg for help and the powerful whisper into the right ears.

 

Manggahan was my first lesson in this kind of corruption. The Flood Control Corruption Scandal is my second, and this time it is the entire country learning the same bitter truth.

 

Billions were allocated for flood control—a promise that communities would be protected by proper drainage systems, functioning floodgates, and solid river defenses. People believed these projects were their shield against calamity, just as Manggahan once believed in PD 2016. But the shield was hollow. Many projects were overpriced. Others were never built at all. Some were built with materials so substandard they washed away at the first heavy rain. And when the floods came, they revealed not the strength of the government’s infrastructure, but the magnitude of corruption within it.

 

Floodwater swallowed homes from Central Luzon to Metro Manila. Families stood on rooftops waiting for rescue. Old men carried soaked sacks of clothes, and mothers held their children above muddy currents. Roads disappeared into brown water. Schools and businesses drowned. Lives were disrupted not by nature alone, but by theft disguised as public service.

 

And once again, the justice system watched quietly from the sidelines.

 

Investigations stalled. Cases were delayed. Temporary restraining orders appeared at convenient moments. Complaints were dismissed on technicalities. Officials implicated in the scandal suddenly found legal shelter from judges who moved with a swiftness the poor never experience. The same silence that erased Manggahan now threatens to erase accountability for billions stolen from the Filipino people.

 

This pattern is familiar. It echoes through the country’s history. There are judges who have been caught fixing decisions for money, judges who issue restraining orders that benefit criminals and politicians, judges who allow case folders to mysteriously vanish, judges whose rulings deviate so sharply from the law that even the Supreme Court calls them malicious, judges who work with prosecutors and police officers in extortion schemes, and judges who move mountains for the powerful while burying the powerless under paperwork. These stories surface every few years, then disappear again under the weight of tradition and fear. We pretend corruption lives only in the other branches of government. We call the judiciary the final refuge of justice even when we know some courtrooms have become marketplaces where outcomes can be bought.

 

What makes judicial corruption the most dangerous form of corruption is its invisibility. When the Executive steals, we see the missing funds. When the Legislature engages in wrongdoing, we see the padded budgets and unusual insertions. But when the judiciary is corrupt, the entire mechanism for correcting wrongdoing collapses. A corrupt judge can bury a case, shield the guilty, destroy the innocent, and hide behind a robe that too many Filipinos are taught to respect without question.

 

This is why Manggahan and the Flood Control Scandal belong to the same narrative. They expose a system where truth matters less than influence, where the law bends toward whoever can manipulate it, and where the people suffer because justice depends on who controls it. Manggahan was the microcosm of this tragedy. The flood scandal is its national version.

 

And yet, despite everything, people still hoped. The residents of Manggahan once believed that President Bongbong Marcos Jr., as the son of the man who issued PD 2016, would defend the community that his father’s decree intended to protect. They waited for intervention, believing that legacy carried weight. But no protection came. PD 2016 was ignored, and the community was erased. That failure is remembered now as the nation looks to the same President to ensure justice in the flood control scandal.

 

This is the heart of the country’s dilemma. If a President cannot defend his father’s decree when it matters, can he defend the Filipino people from corruption on a massive scale? If he could not intervene for a small community of veterans wronged by a corrupt process, can he intervene for millions who were wronged by a corrupt network? The people are left wondering whether justice can still be expected, or whether justice in the Philippines has always depended on who stands to benefit from its absence.

 

The truth is no longer avoidable. Corruption in the Executive is being exposed. Corruption in the Legislative is being exposed. And now, the Judiciary must be exposed as well. We cannot continue pretending that the courts are untouched by the rot. We cannot demand accountability from politicians and ignore the judges who enable them. We cannot fix the country if the very institution tasked with delivering justice is compromised.

 

Judicial reform is no longer optional. It is urgent. It is necessary. And it must include the possibility—not the mere suggestion, but the real and enforceable possibility—that corrupt judges will go to jail. Not reprimanded. Not quietly retired. Not transferred. Jailed.

 

Because a nation cannot heal when justice itself is corrupted. And a people cannot trust a system that has repeatedly abandoned them.

 

Manggahan taught us what happens when the courts fail a community. The Flood Control Scandal is teaching us what happens when the courts fail an entire country. These are not isolated stories. They are warnings. And if we ignore them, we will have no right to ask why our nation keeps breaking in the same places.

 

When justice becomes the crime, the whole country becomes the victim. And unless we confront the corruption inside our courthouses, the tragedies we have lived through—both on land and under water—will repeat themselves again and again.

 _____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

VIEWS: 777K

The Barzaga Suspension: Can Fairness Survive in a Country Where Lugaw Is Warmer Than Congress?

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

It began in the gentlest way, with my daughter Juliana Rizalhea slipping her hand into mine and asking if we could go down for lugaw. She said it calmly, her voice free of the politics and noise that fill my days. At fifteen, she reads history the way others scroll their phones, and she speaks about governance and philosophy with a maturity far beyond her age. Yet in moments like this, she is simply my daughter—seeking warmth and comfort from a bowl of rice porridge on an ordinary Quezon City evening.
 
The lugawan near our condominium has always felt like an honest part of Manila—untouched by the theatrics of power. The vendor stirred his large pot with practiced ease, releasing the familiar scent of ginger and softened rice. Around us sat construction workers still coated in dust, students flipping through notes, mothers soothing sleepy toddlers. Lugaw, in all its simplicity, has always carried a quiet fairness. It does not ask who you voted for or what party you support. It warms everyone equally.
 
We sat on old plastic stools full of scratches that wobbled just enough to remind us we were human. For a brief moment, everything felt peaceful — steam rising, city lights humming, the world briefly forgetting its chaos.
 
Then the radio crackled.
 
The announcer reported the sixty-day suspension of Congressman Barzaga, and the atmosphere subtly shifted. Then came the harsher details — fellow lawmakers mocking him, branding him “abnormal,” “mentally unstable,” “unfit.” It wasn’t discipline being described. It was humiliation disguised as governance.
 
I stared into my bowl of lugaw, struck by the contrast. The warmth in my hands felt honest. The words on the radio felt cold and calculated.
 
Because if we are to be fair, Barzaga is indeed unusual.
 
He moves as though his thoughts run faster than his feet can follow.
He gestures with wild emphasis, sometimes comedic, sometimes chaotic.
He speaks with sarcasm sharp enough to slice through pleasantries.
He takes selfies inside the plenary as if it were a tourist spot.
He goes live on Facebook at dawn, at midnight, while walking, while pacing, sometimes breathless.
He posts dramatic reels, jarring photos, and alarming captions.
 
His personality is eccentric, overwhelming, unpredictable.
 
To some, he is entertaining.
To others, he is irritating.
To his critics, he is “abnormal.”
 
But eccentricity is not immorality.
Expressiveness is not unethical.
Sarcasm is not sedition.
And being different is not being deranged.
 
And so I found myself asking:
If all these actions from other lawmakers did not merit suspension, what standard was used to judge Barzaga?
Who decided that sarcasm was more dangerous than corruption?
Who decided that hyperactivity was more unfit than hypocrisy?
Is the yardstick of Congress shaped by principle — or by convenience?
 
Because the history inside that institution is not clean.
 
There was a lawmaker who slapped a Sergeant-at-Arms inside the House — yet he was never branded mentally unstable.
There were lawmakers who openly associated with groups aligned with the CPP–NPA–NDF — yet no ethics complaint followed.
There were legislators who entertained Mindanao separatism — yet their mental fitness was never questioned.
There were those with domestic violence accusations — yet the chamber remained silent.
And today, there are lawmakers deeply entangled in billion-peso budget insertions, flood control anomalies, ghost projects, and manipulated biddings — yet they move around the plenary untouched, unsuspended, unquestioned.
 
So again — what was abnormal?
Barzaga’s gestures?
Or the system protecting those far more dangerous?
 
My sympathy toward Barzaga does not mean I support his call for President Bongbong Marcos to resign. I do not. I do not endorse the tone of his speeches or the theatrical extremes of his posts. Sympathy is not agreement. Fairness is not allegiance. And justice cannot be conditional on who we personally approve of.
 
As an educator, I must see beyond personalities and into the architecture of events. If I allow my judgment to be shaped by personal preference instead of principle, I betray my role — not as a scholar, but as someone responsible for guiding young minds who deserve honesty, not bias. My task is not to echo noise but to understand its source, its consequences, and the systems that allow it to thrive.
 
Later that night, surrounded by her books, Juliana Rizalhea asked me why Congress punished someone for being different while others who did damage were left untouched. Her clarity revealed something many adults overlook:
Selective justice is the most dangerous kind of injustice.
 
And yet, as I reflected deeper, another uncomfortable truth emerged:
I cannot fully blame every congressman who voted for Barzaga’s suspension.
 
Politics is not a temple of pure principles.
Politics is a jungle.
And in the political jungle, survival is oxygen.
 
Many who voted for the suspension may have disagreed with it privately, but inside those walls, every vote carries a cost. A wrong move can result in committee removals, budget denial, political isolation, retaliation from alliances, or the end of one’s ability to deliver projects for their district.
 
And so, painfully yet honestly, I admit:
It is the system — not merely the individuals — that pushed them toward that vote.
 
A system built on:
• political manipulation
• political blackmail
• political survival
• political self-preservation
• political loyalty tests
• political fear
• political necessity
 
Because in our political landscape, a congressman who votes with conscience may return home empty-handed — unable to bring infrastructure, scholarships, medical assistance, or livelihood funds to their constituents.
 
The people suffer for the representative’s courage.
 
This is how a broken system perpetuates broken decisions.
 
Barzaga became an easy target not because he was the guiltiest — but because he was the safest to punish.
Not because his offense was the worst — but because his behavior was the easiest to weaponize.
Not because he was dangerous — but because he was different.
 
And in such a system, difference is unforgivable.
Difference is inconvenient.
Difference is punished.
 
This is why the question arises:
Can his suspension be questioned before the Supreme Court?
The answer is clear: Yes.
And perhaps it must.
 
Because when an institution punishes eccentricity but protects corruption,
when it mocks a man’s behavior but shields true wrongdoing,
the judiciary becomes the last safeguard of fairness.
 
Much later, as I looked at the city from our window, I thought again of that bowl of lugaw. Warm, honest, comforting — everything our institutions should aspire to be.
 
Before sleeping, I checked on Juliana. She was curled up peacefully, her books neatly stacked beside her bed. And in that quiet moment, I felt the weight of the future she will inherit.
 
And so I challenge those who celebrated Barzaga’s punishment simply because they dislike him:
 
If being sarcastic is a sin,
but stealing is a strategy —
what are we defending?
 
If hyperactivity deserves suspension,
but corruption deserves silence —
what kind of morality is that?
 
If eccentricity is abnormal,
but betrayal of public trust is normal —
who is truly unfit?
 
And if you accept punishment based not on wrongdoing
but on personality,
ask yourself this:
 
What will you do when the system uses the same standard
against someone who speaks for you?
 
Because if this is the fairness we embrace,
then perhaps the last remaining place
where justice still feels human
is in a humble bowl of lugaw
shared by a single father and his daughter
on a night when the nation quietly forgot
what fairness looks like.
 
I refuse to raise Juliana in that kind of country.
And I refuse to stay silent
while convenience replaces principle
and ridicule replaces reason.
 
Fairness must stand on principle —
or it will not stand at all.

 ____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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