Benhur Abalos and the One-Year Ban: When the Law Makes the Nation Wait

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

Every election leaves behind more than winners and losers. When the campaign posters are torn down and the noise of politics finally fades, what remains is a quiet but unsettling question: did we truly choose the best people to lead us? I have found myself returning to this question often, especially when I reflect on the one-year election ban and how it affects individuals who may have lost at the polls but never lost their capacity—or willingness—to serve the country.

The one-year ban has a clear legal and moral rationale. It exists to prevent the abuse of public office, to draw a firm line between governance and politics, and to respect the outcome of elections. In theory, it protects democratic institutions. But in reality, it also creates an unintended consequence: it compels the nation to wait, even when the nation can no longer afford the luxury of time.

Not all who lose an election are rejected by the people. Sometimes, the loss is not a verdict on integrity or competence but a reflection of timing. The electorate may not yet be ready for certain ideas, reforms, or ways of thinking. And if we are to be brutally honest, Philippine elections are not always contests of merit. Many voters still choose based on popularity, political machinery, or name recall, while capable and principled candidates are left behind.

This is where the one-year ban on appointments of losing candidates in the recent elections becomes painfully ironic. Those who are most ready to work, to reform, and to confront corruption are forced to step aside—not because they are unfit, but because they dared to run and failed to win.

Secretary Benhur Abalos is one such case.

He did not prevail in the 2025 senatorial election, having not been endorsed by a big influential group. By the strict arithmetic of democracy, that is the end of the electoral story. But governance is not mathematics alone. It is about experience, resolve, and the courage to confront entrenched wrongdoing. Benhur Abalos has already shown, through his previous public service such as being mayor and congressman of Mandaluyong City, chairman of the Metro Manila Development Authority (MMDA), and secretary of the Department of Interior and Local Government (DILG), that he possesses these qualities. His electoral defeat did not erase his competence, nor did it diminish his readiness to serve.

Yet today, because of the one-year ban, he remains a private citizen.

I find this deeply troubling—not because elections should be disregarded, but because the country itself bears the cost of this enforced pause. At a time when corruption remains systemic, when institutions are strained, and when public trust is fragile, we are sidelining people who are willing to stand firm against abuse of power. The law does not distinguish between the unworthy and the capable. It is blunt, impartial, and, at times, indifferent to urgency.

One might argue that this is simply the price of the rule of law. Perhaps it is. But laws are not sacred simply because they exist; they must also be examined in light of their real-world consequences. When a rule designed to protect democracy ends up depriving the nation of effective leadership at a critical moment, then it deserves sober and honest reflection.

Benhur Abalos may not have been chosen by the electorate at that specific moment, but that does not mean the country no longer needs him. History teaches us that many leaders are rejected first—not because they are wrong, but because society is not yet ready for their kind of firmness, discipline, or reformist vision. Sometimes the people are not yet ready for a leader—but the nation already is.

And this is where the one-year ban begins to feel less like protection and more like punishment—not of the candidate, but of the country itself. At a time when corruption remains entrenched, when courage in public office is rare, and when integrity is often louder in defeat than in victory, we find ourselves forced to wait. Waiting not because there is no one willing to serve, but because the law tells us that service must be postponed.

Today, we badly need Benhur Abalos. We need leaders who have already shown the will to confront wrongdoing, to stand their ground, and to act without fear or favor. Yet he remains on the sidelines—not because he is unqualified, not because he is unworthy, but because he ran, lost, and must now wait.

So the question that lingers is not whether Benhur Abalos is ready to serve. The question is whether the country can afford to wait one more year before allowing someone like him to step forward.

And in the middle of corruption, uncertainty, and a nation yearning for real change, the most painful question of all remains unanswered:

We badly need Benhur Abalos now—but can we afford to keep waiting?

_____

*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: 2.24M

Borrowing Death, Losing Truth: Fake Death, Public Distrust, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

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

My daughter Juliana and I recently sat together one evening, watching Gone Girl on DVD bought from Segunda Mana. It was not meant to be a lesson, just a quiet moment between a father and a child, the kind where the world pauses for a while. The film, released in 2014 and led by Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike, unfolded slowly—too slowly, perhaps—until the truth became unbearable. A woman had staged her own death, and the world mourned her with sincerity, with outrage, and with certainty. What stayed with me was not the twist, but the ease with which death silenced doubt. Once people believed she was gone, questions felt almost immoral. To ask was to disturb the dead.

When the movie ended, my daughter was quiet. I was quieter. Because fiction, when it is honest, mirrors something we refuse to see in real life: that death, real or imagined, has the power to end not only life but also inquiry.

In criminology, there is a cold word for this: pseudocide. Fake death. It sounds clinical, almost harmless. But behind it lies a devastating truth. When someone pretends to die, it is not merely an escape from life; it is an escape from consequence. It is the most extreme way of saying, “I will not answer.” In our legal system, death extinguishes criminal liability. The case stops. The files are closed. The questions lose their teeth. And so, for those who fear accountability more than disappearance, death becomes tempting—not as an end, but as a shield.

Real-life fake deaths are rarely dramatic. They are quiet, almost respectful. No blood, no noise, sometimes no body. Just absence. Silence. And the hope that silence will be mistaken for truth. But silence is never empty. It is filled with things we choose not to pursue.

If there is such a thing as a fake death, then we must face a more painful realization: death can be used to free not only the one who disappears, but those who remain behind the curtain. When a key figure is declared dead—rightly or wrongly—cases weaken. Threads go cold. Witnesses hesitate. Beneficiaries breathe easier. The dead can no longer testify, no longer contradict, and no longer confess. In that moment, death becomes the perfect accomplice. It protects not just one person but an entire web of responsibility that suddenly has no center.

We have seen this pattern across borders. In the United Kingdom, John Darwin faked his death in 2002, disappearing into the sea while his family and the state mourned him. Insurance claims were paid. Life moved on. For years, the lie held. Until it didn’t. When the truth surfaced, the punishment was heavier than anything he had tried to escape. His fake death did not free him—it branded him. It taught the world that lies age poorly, and death borrowed too long always demands interest.

In the United States, Nicholas Rossi was believed dead, memorialized online, and erased from pursuit. But he resurfaced, very much alive, still running from serious accusations. His supposed death did not save him. It exposed him. The lie about death became proof of guilt, not innocence. Across continents, the story repeats: fake death delays justice, but it also sharpens it.

Closer to home, the case of Mary Ann Maslog reminds us that the same darkness exists here. Facing trial for the DepEd textbook scam, she vanished. Whispers of death circulated. Had they been true, the case would have died quietly. But she was alive—hiding, assuming names, and evading responsibility. Her borrowed death did not protect her. It condemned her further. The law waited. And when it caught up, it did not forget.

Yet what unsettles me most is not the act of fake death itself, but what grows around real deaths. In our country, conspiracy theories bloom easily after the passing of powerful figures. Not always because there is evidence—but because there is exhaustion. A deep, collective fatigue from scandals that fade, cases that stall, and truths that never fully surface. When people stop believing that justice survives power, even death becomes suspicious.

This was the quiet storm that followed the death of DPWH Undersecretary Maria Catalina Cabral. Some whispered. Some speculated. Some asked questions that had no answers. Let me say this with care and fairness: there is no judicial finding, no verified evidence, and no official determination that her death was faked or manipulated. None. And still, doubt lingered. Not because of her alone—but because of where she worked and what that institution represents in the public imagination.

The Department of Public Works and Highways carries a heavy shadow. Massive budgets. Visible failures. And, more recently, public anger fueled by the flood control scandal—projects meant to protect communities, yet often remembered only when the floods return. In that context, death is no longer just grief. It becomes a question mark. People ask who benefits, not out of malice, but out of learned disappointment.

This is not an accusation against the dead. It is a confession about the living. About how little trust remains. About how easily we slip from demanding accountability to accepting disappearance.

Legally, the truth is simple. Rumors do not matter. Speculation has no weight. Death must be proven. If death is real, the law moves on. If death is false, the law strikes harder. Courts are patient. They wait longer than public outrage ever will.

But society is not a court. Society remembers differently. It grows tired. It learns to live with unanswered questions. And that is the most dangerous outcome of all.

As my daughter and I turned off the DVD player that night, I felt a quiet fear—not of fake deaths, but of forgotten truths. Of a future where we stop asking not because we are satisfied, but because we are weary. Where death, real or imagined, becomes a convenient ending to stories that should never have ended that way.

Movies fade to black. Real life does not. In real life, unanswered questions accumulate like unclaimed bodies of truth. And if we ever reach the point where death—any death—automatically ends our demand for justice, then the greatest loss will not be the person we buried, but the truth we chose not to pursue.

Because when that happens, death no longer marks the end of life.

It marks the end of courage.

 _____

*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: 1.20M

Protection Without Power: Defects of the Law Creating the Department of Migrant Workers

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

 

I have heard and read too many stories that begin with hope and end in silence. As a researcher, an educator, and a friend of many Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs), I have learned that these stories are not isolated incidents—they are patterns. One story that continues to haunt me is that of a woman sitting in a narrow government hallway, clutching a brown envelope that contained everything she had left: receipts, affidavits, and promises written on cheap paper. She trusted a recruiter who told her that a better life awaited her abroad in Italy. The job never existed. The recruiter disappeared. What remained were debt, shame, and a question she never asked aloud: Where was the government when I needed it most? When Republic Act No. 11641 created the Department of Migrant Workers (DMW), I wanted to believe that stories like hers would finally come to an end.

The creation of the Department of Migrant Workers was born out of decades of frustration. For years, migrant worker protection in the Philippines was fragmented across multiple agencies—POEA, OWWA, DOLE, DFA—each holding a portion of responsibility but none exercising full accountability. In my research and in my classrooms, the same concern repeatedly surfaced: when something goes wrong, no single institution truly owns the problem. RA 11641 promised to correct this by establishing one department that would serve as the clear institutional home for migrant worker protection.

However, as I examined the law more closely and listened to the lived experiences of OFWs and their families, I learned that reorganizing offices is not the same as fixing a broken system. Agencies were merged, but processes were largely left intact. The same forms, the same approvals, the same waiting—only now under a larger department. For an OFW who must take unpaid leave simply to follow up a complaint, or for a family that borrows money just to travel repeatedly to government offices, very little has changed. Red tape was centralized, not eliminated.

The law also struggles with authority. Although the DMW was created to lead migrant worker protection, the Department of Foreign Affairs retains control over embassies and diplomatic decisions, while the Department of Labor and Employment continues to govern domestic labor policy. During overseas crises—detentions, abuse cases, mass layoffs, or emergency repatriations—the same painful question emerges: Who is really in charge? In emergency situations, confusion in command results in delayed responses, and delay often translates into prolonged suffering.

Trust is further weakened by unresolved issues surrounding the Overseas Workers Welfare Administration (OWWA). OWWA funds are not government donations; they are mandatory contributions taken directly from OFWs themselves. Yet even after OWWA was placed under the DMW, RA 11641 failed to meaningfully reform its governance. Transparency remains limited, OFW participation in decision-making is weak, and accountability is largely internal. Many OFWs continue to ask a simple but deeply personal question: Where does our money really go?

The most serious defect of RA 11641, however, lies in what the law did not give the Department of Migrant Workers—law-enforcement power. Despite being the primary agency mandated to protect migrant workers, the DMW has no authority to arrest illegal recruiters, investigate trafficking syndicates, conduct surveillance, or lead criminal operations. Its powers are confined to administrative actions such as license suspension, blacklisting, and referral of cases to other agencies.

This creates a disturbing contradiction: the agency closest to migrant suffering is legally the weakest in stopping the crimes that cause that suffering. In my research on illegal recruitment and human trafficking, it is evident that these crimes are organized, transnational, and increasingly digital. Syndicates recruit through social media, operate across borders, and disappear quickly. Administrative penalties do not deter organized criminals. One cannot dismantle a criminal network with paperwork alone.

Instead, criminal enforcement is left to the Philippine National Police, the National Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Justice, and the Inter-Agency Council Against Trafficking. While these agencies play crucial roles, RA 11641 does not clearly position the DMW as a lead or command agency in anti-trafficking operations. As a result, cases are delayed, passed from office to office, and weakened by jurisdictional confusion. Criminals exploit these gaps. Victims wait—often too long.

This weakness is rooted in how the law frames trafficking and illegal recruitment. Rather than treating them as organized crimes and national security threats, they are often approached as labor or welfare concerns. When crimes are framed softly, responses also become soft. Intelligence-driven operations are limited, surveillance is weak, and action tends to be reactive rather than preventive.

Operationally, the law also falls short abroad. Based on reports, data, and sustained conversations with OFWs, labor attachés, and welfare officers, they remain overstretched and under-resourced. Institutional reorganization did not automatically translate into more personnel, better logistics, or faster assistance. Delays in helping distressed workers are often not due to lack of compassion but to a system burdened beyond its capacity.

When OFWs return home, another gap becomes evident: reintegration. While RA 11641 speaks of reintegration, it does not establish a strong, enforceable system to guarantee employment, recognize skills gained abroad, or ensure sustainable livelihoods. Many OFWs return only to prepare for another departure. Migration becomes a cycle rather than a choice.

Equally troubling is the limited voice of OFWs in shaping the policies that govern their lives. RA 11641 does not mandate meaningful OFW representation in decision-making bodies. Policies are crafted for migrant workers, but rarely with them. As an educator and researcher, I have learned that policies designed without stakeholder participation often fail at the point of implementation.

Even accountability remains unclear. The law provides no clear performance metrics, no public scorecards, and no concrete benchmarks to determine whether the Department of Migrant Workers is truly more effective than the system it replaced. Without measurement, accountability weakens. Without accountability, reform becomes symbolic.

Beyond these institutional and enforcement defects lies a deeper and more uncomfortable implication. By creating a Cabinet-level department whose sole purpose is to manage and protect overseas employment, the state effectively gives legal and policy endorsement to the exportation of Filipino labor. In doing so, RA 11641 implicitly admits a painful economic reality: that the Philippine economy, as currently structured, cannot consistently provide enough high-paying, dignified jobs for its people at home.

Laws do not merely regulate; they communicate priorities. The creation of the Department of Migrant Workers does not challenge the labor-export model—it professionalizes it, stabilizes it, and normalizes it. While the law speaks the language of protection, it quietly concedes that overseas employment is no longer a temporary necessity but a long-term economic pillar. In effect, the State tells its workers, "We will protect you abroad, because we cannot yet guarantee that you can thrive here."

By institutionalizing labor migration through a permanent department, RA 11641 transforms labor export from an emergency response into a normalized state function. This is perhaps the most sobering defect of the law, because it reflects not only governance failure but also an unresolved national development crisis. Protection becomes a substitute for transformation. Management replaces reform.

I do not argue that RA 11641 is a bad law. I argue that it is an unfinished one. A department created to protect migrant workers but deprived of enforcement power is structurally incomplete. Organized crime cannot be defeated by coordination alone. Traffickers cannot be stopped by sympathy without authority. And a nation cannot claim progress if its best solution is to send its people away and manage the consequences.

True protection requires more than good intentions. It requires power, accountability, courage, and a serious commitment to building an economy where Filipinos no longer need to leave in order to live with dignity. Until these defects are addressed, the Department of Migrant Workers risks becoming a larger institution managing the same old suffering—while, in quiet government waiting rooms, the stories continue to be told, one brown envelope at a time.

 _____

*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: 1.25M

Congressman Romeo Acop: The Speaker the House Never Had, but the Hero We Must Remember

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

I still remember the quiet urgency that pushed me to write “Congressman Romeo Acop: The Speaker that the House of Representatives Needs Today.” I was not writing to praise a man. I was writing because I was tired—tired of noise masquerading as leadership, tired of power being mistaken for greatness, tired of watching institutions drift without moral anchors. That piece came from a deep longing: a longing for order in chaos, for dignity in debate, for leadership rooted in discipline and love of country. I wrote it because I saw, standing quietly in the House of Representatives, a man who already knew how to lead even without the gavel.

That man was Romeo Acop.

I see him not as a memory frozen in the past, but as a hero we must consciously choose to remember. Not the kind of hero built by slogans or applause, but one formed by a lifetime of discipline, restraint, and faithful service. In a nation that often celebrates volume over virtue, he stood as proof that integrity still has weight, even when it stands alone.

Before politics ever shaped him, duty did. Long before microphones and plenary halls, he learned obedience, sacrifice, and accountability as a soldier and a police general. These were not mere career milestones; they were the furnace that formed his character. When he entered Congress, he did not abandon those values—he carried them with him quietly, consistently, and without compromise. He brought into legislation the same discipline he learned in uniform, and into debate the same respect for order he once enforced.

What made Romeo Acop different was not what he demanded, but what he refused to take. He refused shortcuts. He refused convenient silence. He refused to trade principle for comfort. In an environment where survival often requires compromise of conscience, he chose the harder path—to remain principled even when it was costly.

This is why I have always believed—and will continue to believe—that he was the Speaker the House never had. Not because he sought the position, but because he embodied what the position truly requires: moral authority, intellectual rigor, discipline, and deep respect for institutions. He understood that the gavel is not a symbol of power, but of responsibility. Leadership, for him, was never about domination—it was about stewardship.

Scripture captures this kind of life with quiet precision:

“The integrity of the upright guides them.”

— Proverbs 11:3

That integrity guided him—in hearings, in committee rooms, in decisions unseen by cameras. And because of that, Congress is now poorer.

We will miss his intellect.

In a chamber where noise often replaces substance, he was a thinker. He spoke with clarity, not theatrics. His arguments were grounded in experience, law, and reason—not populism. He understood systems because he had lived inside them, and he brought that depth into legislation. Without him, debates feel thinner, less anchored, less sure.

We will miss his courage.

Not the loud, performative courage, but the quiet kind—the courage to stand firm when bending would have been easier. The courage to resist political convenience. The courage to choose conscience over coalition. That kind of courage does not announce itself, but when it is gone, its absence is painfully clear.

And we will miss his patriotism most of all.

Not the kind wrapped in rhetoric, but the kind forged in service. His love of country was disciplined, restrained, and deeply Filipino. He treated public office not as entitlement, but as trust. He understood that the State exists to serve the people—and he lived that belief every day.

Now, with his sudden passing, the House of Representatives carries a silence it cannot easily explain.

When the House convenes and his seat remains quiet, there is an absence that no rulebook can fill. No roll call can summon back his questions. No committee can replace the steadiness he brought into tense rooms. The House still stands—but it stands a little less upright, a little less sure of itself, because a mind, a conscience, and a patriot are no longer there to steady it.

We will miss him in ways that cannot be legislated.

We will miss the intellect that clarified without humiliating.

We will miss the courage that stood firm without spectacle.

We will miss the patriotism that served without asking anything in return.

And perhaps the deepest sorrow of all is this: that men like Romeo Acop are often fully recognized only when their voice is gone, when their seat is empty, when their steady presence has turned into memory. We are left wondering how many moments of guidance we have lost, how many quiet corrections we will now go without, how many times the House will search for wisdom and find only noise.

Scripture whispers a painful truth to us now:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

— Psalm 90:12

His passing forces us to number not only days, but opportunities—the opportunity to honor integrity while it still walks among us, to elevate character before it disappears, to choose conscience before it becomes absence.

The Speaker the House never had is no longer there to rise, to speak, or to vote. But what he leaves behind is heavier than any gavel: a standard that now judges us. Every shallow debate, every compromised principle, every forgotten duty will quietly echo his absence.

To remember him as a hero is not to romanticize the past. It is to feel the ache of knowing what leadership looked like—and realizing how rare it truly is. It is to carry the sorrow of knowing that the House, and the nation, must now move forward without a man who could have led it with firmness, intellect, and soul.

And so we remember him not with noise, but with a silence that hurts.

A silence that asks us to be better.

A silence that reminds us what we lost.

A silence that, if we are honest, brings tears—because we know that men like Romeo Acop do not come often, and when they are gone, something in the nation goes with them.

 _____

 *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: 1.20M