Guiding My Daughter Juliana Rizalhea Through the Hidden Dangers of Growing Up

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

I grew up in a family molded by military discipline. My father, my Papang, was a retired officer of the Philippine Constabulary, and one of my older brothers followed in his footsteps, also retired as a Brigadier General. Discipline was not just taught in our home—it was lived, breathed, and expected every day. I am the youngest of six children—two boys and four sisters—with a seven-year gap between me and my closest sibling. All of us became professionals: lawyers, CPAs, and degree holders. And as the youngest, I carried that discipline forward, finishing more degrees than all of them combined, earning multiple master’s and doctorate titles. The discipline of my father’s command and my brother’s uniform, and later my own years teaching police generals, military officers, and men and women of the uniformed service, shaped how I view responsibility, authority, and life itself.

Now, as a single father raising a fifteen-year-old daughter, I sometimes see that same discipline reflected in the way I guide her. At times, I catch myself acting like a professor again—laying down rules, explaining lessons, molding her with both firmness and care. But unlike the rigid drills of a military academy, my discipline as a father must be gentler, more patient, more attuned to the fragile but resilient heart of a young girl finding her place in the world.

Every day she leaves for school, and I feel a quiet mix of pride and concern. She is becoming her own person—independent, curious, full of promise—but the world she steps into is not always kind. I know too well the unseen dangers: peer pressure, innocent mistakes, unawareness of breaking school rules, the harshness of online voices, and the silent battles against self-doubt. I cannot fight these for her, but I can prepare her.

I always remind her that school is not just a place for academics—it is the first training ground for life. It is where she learns to deal with people, handle frustrations, and confront realities that will never be fair. School is not heaven; she will not always be praised. Sometimes she must accept the decisions of superiors, even when she knows they are wrong. But I remind her: never imitate what is wrong. Once she told me her math solution was correct, yet her teacher marked it wrong. When she asked for the right solution, she was ignored. I told her, “Never mind that—for now. At least you know what is right.” Life won’t always reward us for being correct, but integrity is its own reward.

When it comes to her grades, I am clear with her: I don’t care where she scores lower. I care that she enjoys learning, that she learns honestly, and that she keeps stretching her own capacity. Honors and medals are often just bragging rights for parents. If she earns them, I will celebrate it with her. But if she chooses joy, balance, and the adventures of being young, I will celebrate that even more. I do not want her to live the life I lived—driven by medals and achievements. I want her to create her own path, balancing academics with laughter, friendships, and exploration.

Because she often joins me in meetings with high-profile figures, I remind her constantly to stay humble. I tell her not to imitate me because the pressures I carry are not the ones I want her to inherit. Instead, I encourage her to think independently, to explore beyond the classroom, to learn from reading, from experiences, from people. True learning, I tell her, cannot be confined to a curriculum.

But none of this means I leave her completely on her own. Children need to be managed, and yes, sometimes controlled—not out of selfishness, but out of love. Letting her go without guidance might break her. I control her through communication, and I always explain why I set rules. To me, control is not manipulation. Manipulation pushes children with fear and strips them of respect. But what I practice is what I call Reverential Control—guidance wrapped in respect. It is about showing her why boundaries exist, and helping her understand the meaning behind them. It is not about dictating her life but about keeping her safe while she learns to choose for herself.

As a father, I also need to know who her friends are, especially online. Trouble often begins not with strangers but with the influence of misguided friends. That is when children may lose respect for their parents—when they give more faith to others than to their own family. But this only happens if we, as parents, fail to give them time, fail to listen, or if we act as poor role models. Children who grow up in homes where parents constantly quarrel or dismiss their needs often search for validation elsewhere. I do not want that for my daughter. I want her to know she is heard, valued, and guided—not by fear, but by love and example.

Sometimes I wonder if I am doing enough. I do not have all the answers, but I have love, patience, and presence. I remind her that she is more than grades, likes, or applause. What matters most is her heart, her dignity, and her values when the world tests her.

There are nights I watch her sleep and feel time rushing forward. Soon she will be old enough to step into a world filled with both opportunity and trials. That thought frightens me, but it also keeps me steady in my role: to prepare her, to teach her that her voice matters, that saying “no” is not weakness, and that asking for help is a sign of strength.

Being a single father is not easy, but it has forged between us an unbreakable bond. She knows I am her provider, her listener, her guardrail, and her loudest cheer. Every challenge she faces, I carry with her. Every victory she wins, I celebrate as if it were mine.

And as I reflect, I see the circle completed. I was molded by military discipline—by my Papang, by my brother who also wore the rank of General, and by the environment that taught me order, respect, and perseverance. That discipline gave me the strength to become who I am. But in raising my daughter, I have learned that discipline must be softened by love, anchored in patience, and wrapped in humility. If she carries any lesson from me, I hope it is this: that strength and gentleness can live together, that success is not medals or honors but integrity and courage, and that her father’s discipline was never meant to cage her but to prepare her for freedom. That, for me, is the true victory.

_______________________________

 *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: 8K

 

Government Shutdown Will Not Solve the Problem: What We Need Is a System Re-Format

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

 

I once had an old desktop computer that I depended on for work. One evening, it froze completely. No keyboard strokes worked, no mouse clicks responded. Out of frustration, I pressed the power button and forced it to shut down, thinking that when I turned it back on, everything would return to normal. And it did—for a few minutes. But soon, the same programs crashed again. The truth was, the problem wasn’t solved by shutting down and restarting. The problem was in the bad sectors of the hard drive and in the corrupted programs that kept failing. The machine looked new after a restart, but deep inside, it was still broken.

That computer became a metaphor I carry with me whenever I think about government and politics. Shutting down the system, as some advocate by pointing to what is happening in Nepal, is like pressing the restart button on that frozen machine. It may give the illusion of a fresh start, it may even provide a temporary sense of relief, but the bad sectors of the hard drive remain. The corruption embedded in the system doesn’t vanish. Instead, the same errors come back, only now under a different face, a different operator, or a different coalition.

In Nepal, the constant dissolving of parliaments, collapsing of governments, and replacing of prime minister is supposed to be a cleansing process, a chance to punish leaders and demand better governance. Yet ordinary citizens still wake up to the same frustrations—poverty, inequality, lack of services, and rampant corruption. Why? Because the shutdown of the system only changes who sits in the chair, but it does not remove the syndicates and external forces that truly control the levers of power. Outside players—economic elites, foreign influencers, political dynasties—still run their operations, benefiting from every collapse, from every revolt. The system itself remains corrupted.

And this is where I want to leave a thought for those who will read this now and remember it later. Mark my words: a year or two from today, Nepal will still struggle with the same corruption it faces now, perhaps even worse, because outside forces that profit from instability will continue to thrive. Revolts and shutdowns only weaken the nation further, while those external beneficiaries strengthen their grip. Remember this article when that time comes, because the cycle will repeat unless they choose a deeper solution—a re-format of their system, not just a shutdown of their government.

The Philippines must also reflect deeply on its own history. In 1986, we poured into EDSA with the dream of a better life, a government free from dictatorship, and a society where justice would finally prevail. People Power was a proud moment; it inspired the world. But ask ourselves honestly: did life get better? For many, life became harder. The 1987 Constitution, hailed as a symbol of restored democracy, also became the seed of today’s dysfunction. It created a weak and fragmented political structure, encouraged a party-list system that has been exploited by dynasties and opportunists, and enshrined rules that paralyzed true reform. The dream of a clean and prosperous nation slipped away, replaced by deeper poverty, more corruption, and endless political bickering.

Again, in 2001, the nation marched back to EDSA, this time to unseat a leader accused of corruption through illegal gambling. Millions hoped that by changing one man at the top, the system would be purified. But did corruption end? Did illegal gambling disappear? No—it flourished even more, evolving into a bigger and more complicated monster. Syndicates grew stronger, corruption spread wider, and the ordinary Filipino saw no relief. Just like that old computer, we shut down, restarted, and put in a new operator, but the bad sectors of the system—the very roots of corruption—were never fixed.

This is why I believe we must stop fooling ourselves with shutdowns and revolts. They give us the drama of change but not its substance. What we truly need is a re-format of the entire system. And when I say re-format, I mean starting from the very foundation—our Constitution, our political structure, our electoral system, and even our cultural mindset.

I have long believed that federalism is one key. A centralized system has only made corruption easier because power is concentrated in Manila, where syndicates and dynasties negotiate their deals. If power is distributed to the regions, local governments will not only be more accountable to their people, but opportunities will be spread more evenly. Federalism, when designed carefully, can weaken the stranglehold of political dynasties and make governance closer to the lives of ordinary Filipinos.

The party-list system also cries out for re-formatting. What was once envisioned as a way to give voice to the marginalized has been hijacked by the very dynasties it sought to prevent. We must redesign it to truly serve laborers, farmers, fisherfolk, and indigenous peoples—not political families hiding under new acronyms. The party-list law needs cleansing, and its intent must be restored to give a real seat at the table to those who have long been ignored.

We must also strengthen anti-corruption institutions not as tools of political vendetta, but as permanent watchdogs that transcend administrations. Ombudsmen, audit commissions, and anti-graft courts must be given sharper teeth and protected from political influence. The justice system must be re-coded so that plunderers cannot buy their freedom or delay their cases until they die of old age.

But I know that even if these structural reforms are enacted, they will fail if culture remains the same. If voters still sell their votes for a few hundred pesos, dynasties will continue to win. If citizens still admire politicians for their wealth rather than their integrity, corruption will continue to thrive. If we excuse “small” corruption—like cheating in exams, bribing traffic enforcers, or pulling strings to avoid accountability—we are feeding the same virus we claim to hate.

This is why the re-formatting of the system must also begin in the grassroots. Teachers must instill in their students not only knowledge, but the discipline of honesty. Parents must raise their children to value integrity over convenience. Workers must refuse to participate in bribery, even when pressured. Communities must learn to hold their leaders accountable, not by blind loyalty, but by critical thinking and active participation. Civic education, moral values, and patriotism must become the antivirus that protects the re-formatted nation.

Every Filipino has a role. A student who refuses to cheat is part of the re-formatting. A worker who declines to pay a fixer is part of the re-formatting. A voter who refuses to sell their ballot is part of the re-formatting. A citizen who speaks the truth even when unpopular is part of the re-formatting. These small acts may seem powerless, but when multiplied by millions, they become the firewall that corruption cannot break.

Shutting down government is like turning off the power button of a frozen computer. It may restart, but it will still crash because the system itself is broken. Re-formatting, however, gives us the chance to rebuild a nation on clean ground, free from viruses, and designed to serve its real owners—the people.

If we truly want to re-format our nation, we must find the courage to change our Constitution, to adopt federalism, to cleanse our party-list system, to empower anti-corruption courts, and to rebuild our culture of governance from the ground up. It will be painful. It will mean letting go of comfort zones and privileges. But only then can we finally break the cycle of corruption and see a government that runs, not for syndicates and dynasties, but for the ordinary Filipino.

That is the only way forward. That is the only way to finally marked and paralyzed the bad sectors of our national hard drive. That is the only way to ensure that this time, when the system boots up again, it will truly work for all of us.

_______________________________

 *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: 21K

The Unseen Conspiracy Theory About Corruption Around Every President

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

 

Every time a new president is elected, the air is filled with hope. People gather in the streets, clapping, waving flags, and convincing themselves that perhaps this leader will be different, perhaps this time the country will finally change for the better. The words spoken in the inaugural address are grand and inspiring, the plans sound bold and transformative, and we allow ourselves to believe.

But I have long noticed a shadow that never leaves Malacañang, no matter who sits in the highest office. It is as if every president inherits it the moment he takes his oath. It is the conspiracy theory that corruption always reaches the top, even when the president himself knows nothing about it. And that is the painful truth: sometimes, it isn’t the president who is corrupt—it is the people around him who use his name like a weapon and a key at the same time.

I imagine the president, seated at his desk, focused on policies, reading reports, or preparing for the next big speech. He may be sincere, he may even be innocent. Yet, outside those walls, others are busy invoking his name. They walk into offices and whisper, “This is what the president wants.” They make phone calls saying, “The Palace expects this.” And suddenly, money begins to flow—not to the president himself, but to the networks of men and women who thrive in his shadow.

The tragedy is that the president often doesn’t know. He goes on believing in his vision, speaking to the people about reforms, trying to project honesty and leadership, while behind his back, his very name is being used to intimidate, to collect, to enrich. It is almost cruel. The man might be unaware, yet when the scandal breaks, when corruption is exposed, the people no longer distinguish between the operators and the leader. They only remember the president, tainted forever by crimes committed in his name.

I think about how heavy that must feel—carrying not only your own mistakes but also the sins of those who claim to be loyal to you. History does not remember the faceless fixer, the greedy aide, the ambitious ally. It remembers only the presidency. And so every president, no matter how honest he may be, ends up shouldering a burden he did not always deserve.

It is a cycle that repeats itself from one administration to another. Relatives, trusted aides, political allies—figures close to power—have always been accused of taking advantage. The president may not be complicit, but he becomes the perfect shield: too busy, too trusting, too insulated. And those who truly manipulate power thrive under the cover of his name.

What makes it worse is that the people often allow it. We hear the stories, we witness the excesses, but we brush them off as if they are just part of politics. In doing so, we unknowingly strengthen the conspiracy, until it grows so bold it no longer bothers to hide. And when everything finally collapses into scandal, we point our fingers at the man in Malacañang, not realizing that he too may have been a victim of those who used him.

If there is a lesson here, it is that we cannot simply trust names or positions. We must demand transparency, not just from the president but from everyone who surrounds him. We must not believe so easily when someone claims, “This is what the president wants,” without proof, without accountability. Because if we do, then we become complicit in the very conspiracy we complain about.

I sometimes wonder: what if unity, instead of blind loyalty, defined our politics? What if citizens worked together to strip away the shadows, to expose the men who exploit power, to protect even the president himself from being used? Maybe then, the conspiracy would lose its grip. Maybe then, every new administration would not have to begin with hope only to end in suspicion.

And so I say this with both sadness and resolve: corruption will always find its way near the top, not necessarily through the president’s own doing, but through the misuse of his name by those who stand closest to him. The greatest enemy of a leader is often not the rival across the aisle, but the so-called ally at his side—the confidant who says, “The president wants this,” when in truth, the president knows nothing 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.

VIEWS: 120K

The Cognitive Decline of Former President Rodrigo Duterte at the ICC: A Perspective on Justice and Humanity

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD,EdD

Last year, I visited a nursing home where I met an 80-year-old retired police officer. Once, he was the embodiment of strength, discipline, and service. He had led men in the field, carried the weight of responsibility, and stood tall as a protector of society. Yet as I sat across from him, I saw a man slowly losing pieces of himself. His words often trailed off mid-sentence, his memory flickered like a fading light, and at times he did not even recognize where he was. I remember holding his hand as he tried to recall his own stories—stories that once defined his very identity. In that moment, I realized how fragile the human mind truly is, and how quickly time can strip away the sharpness that once made a man unshakable.

That image returns to me now as I read the reports about former President Rodrigo Duterte’s condition. His legal counsel describes a man no longer in command of his faculties—struggling with memory lapses, confusion, fatigue, and disorientation. It is painful to imagine, because regardless of what one thinks of his politics, Duterte was once a figure of tremendous power, influence, and even fear. To see him now described in such terms is to be reminded that power is temporary, and that in the end, we are all subject to the frailties of age.

Yet while I recognize this frailty, I cannot and will not forget those who cry for justice. I sympathize deeply with the families of the thousands of victims of extrajudicial killings during Duterte’s drug war. Their wounds remain open, their nights remain restless, their longing for truth and accountability remains unfulfilled. They deserve their day in a fair venue of justice. Whether or not Duterte is ultimately found guilty of crimes against humanity, they deserve to know the truth. Justice must not be denied them—but justice must also be pursued in a way that honors the humanity of all involved, even the accused. 

Here, I find wisdom in Scripture: “Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream” (Amos 5:24). Justice, to be true, must flow with righteousness—meaning it cannot be selective, cruel, or stripped of compassion. Similarly, the ancient philosopher Cicero once reminded us that “the welfare of the people is the ultimate law” (Salus populi suprema lex). For the people—the victims, the families, the nation at large—justice must be done, but not at the cost of dehumanizing even the one accused.

This is where the International Criminal Court faces its greatest test. A courtroom that ignores the mental state of the accused ceases to be a place of fairness. If Duterte is indeed in decline, then forcing him to undergo trial without proper assessment risks turning justice into vengeance. At the same time, if he is fit enough to stand trial, then let the proceedings move forward swiftly so that victims may finally hear the truth. Justice loses its moral foundation if it disregards either side of the equation—both the rights of the victims and the dignity of the accused.

I appeal to my fellow Filipinos, whether you admired Duterte or opposed him, to look beyond politics for a moment. Think of your own grandfather, father, or even an elder you once knew—imagine them sitting confused in a cold courtroom, unable to grasp what was happening around them. Would you not feel the urge to shield them, even as they are made accountable? Accountability does not mean cruelty. Justice, if it is true, must be both firm and humane.

Duterte’s case forces us to confront difficult truths. It reminds us that leadership and mortality are not opposites—they coexist. A man who once commanded soldiers, threatened enemies, and made nations listen is now facing the slow erosion of his mind. This is not just a legal issue; it is a profoundly human story. The real test is not whether the ICC can pursue its case, but whether it can do so without abandoning the moral foundation of justice itself.

As I recall the old police officer I once met—grasping for memories slipping through his hands—I realize that age humbles everyone. No position, no title, no history can shield us from decline. That truth should not frighten us; it should teach us to treat others with compassion, even when justice must be done. Because if we allow justice to become blind to mercy, then what we create is not justice—it is vengeance dressed in legal robes.

Let us, therefore, be a people who demand accountability for the victims of EJKs, who insist that the truth be told, but who also remain capable of compassion for the frailties of an aging man. For this is the way of Timpuyog Pilipinas—to choose unity over division, love over hate, justice over vengeance. If justice is to be our nation’s light, then it must shine with both truth and humanity. Only then will it serve not just the victims, not just the accused, but the conscience of an entire nation.

 ________________________________

 *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: 62K

The Difference Between an Investigation in Aid of Legislation and a Court Trial

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

One evening, while browsing the internet, I came across a flood of comments from netizens bashing our non-lawyer legislators. Many were quick to say that senators or congressmen who are not lawyers have no right to sit in the halls of legislation. They argue that without legal training, these officials lack the wisdom to craft laws. But as I reflected on it, I realized how misguided this view is. Legislation is not about practicing law inside the legislative hall—it is about wisdom, experience, and understanding the needs of the people. A lawmaker does not need to be a lawyer to make meaningful laws; rather, they need to be in touch with the realities of the nation they serve.

This confusion becomes even more obvious when people mix up a Congressional or Senate investigation with a court trial. To many, the fiery exchanges and the grandstanding in legislative hearings look like a courtroom drama. Witnesses are called, documents are subpoenaed, and people are questioned under oath. But the purpose is not the same. An investigation in aid of legislation in the Senate and House of Representatives. It is about uncovering facts to identify gaps in our existing laws or policies, and using those findings to craft reforms. It is not designed to convict, punish, or acquit—that is the work of the judiciary.

A court trial, by contrast, is the arena of lawyers and judges. In the courtroom, evidence is presented and challenged, arguments are meticulously laid down, and the final judgment carries the weight of the law. At the end of a trial, a person is either acquitted or convicted, fined or imprisoned. It is here that lives and reputations are truly decided.

That is why it is unfair to belittle non-lawyer legislators when they hold investigations. Their role is not to practice law like attorneys in court, but to gather enough truth and insight to shape the nation’s policies. In fact, the best laws often come not from legal jargon but from real stories—the farmer struggling with land rights, the fisherfolk defending our seas, the worker crying for fair wages. These experiences are not learned in law school; they are learned from life itself.

As I thought further, I saw that this misunderstanding is not harmless. When people expect legislative hearings to function like trials, they also expect instant justice. And when justice does not come, they grow cynical. But we must remember: justice belongs to the courts; reform belongs to the legislature. A legislative hearing may expose a corrupt deal or a flawed system, but it cannot make final judgement and sentence them for a crime. What it can and should do is ensure that new laws are passed so that such abuses never happen again.

This distinction matters because our democracy rests on balance. Congress looks forward: “What laws can prevent this in the future?” Courts look backward: “Who broke the law, and how should they be punished?” Both roles are essential, and both must work in harmony if we want real justice and progress.

Yet, there is also a painful reality. Too often, our hearings become political theater, and our trials drag on endlessly. This erodes trust. Still, I believe in the framework. If our legislators, lawyer or not, embrace sincerity and integrity, and if our courts uphold fairness without delay, then the system can still work for the people.

Browsing the internet that night, I realized the bashing of non-lawyer legislators missed the point entirely. The measure of a good lawmaker is not whether he or she can cite Latin maxims or recite legal precedents—it is whether they can listen, understand, and respond to the needs of their people. Legislation is about wisdom, conscience, and courage. And in the end, both investigations in aid of legislation and court trials must serve the same higher goal: to ensure that truth and justice are not just ideals, but realities in the life of the Filipino.

_________________________________

 *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: 12K

If the Government Does Not Act, Tomorrow or the Day After We May Wake Up to New Leadership

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

Three leaders, three days, three falls—Japan’s Ishiba, France’s Bayrou, and Nepal’s Oli. In seventy-two hours, political power collapsed across three nations. Different contexts, but the same truth: once people withdraw their trust, no government survives.

Here in the Philippines, we are dangerously close to that breaking point. The flood control scandal is not just another corruption story—it is betrayal. Funds meant to build dikes and protect communities from deadly floods were siphoned away. While Filipinos wade through chest-deep waters, lose homes and livelihoods, and bury loved ones, the money that could have saved them has fattened pockets. Nature’s floods are merciless, but the floodwaters of corruption are worse, because they are deliberate.

And this comes after a string of other wounds that remain unresolved. The mystery of the missing sabungeros. The impeachment case of Vice President Sara Duterte. Allegations about the President’s cocaine use. POGO-linked crimes. Reports of Chinese espionage. The insurgency that bleeds the countryside. Budget insertions that reek of plunder. Each of these scandals is heavy enough on its own. Together, they crush a people already drowning.

How much more can Filipinos take? Our history shows the pattern. In 1986, Marcos fell in four days. In 2001, Estrada was gone in hours. Both ignored the people’s cry. Both believed power was permanent. Both were swept aside by a roar they could no longer silence.

The same danger looms now. The Senate hearings have turned into political theater. Accusations fly, names are dragged, reputations destroyed, yet accountability stops at the powerless. The people are not fooled. They know this scandal is systematic, that both contractors and politicians are complicit, and that justice always seems to stop where power begins.

Violence must be avoided at all costs. But violence is not prevented by denial or suppression—it is prevented by listening. The roar of the people is not rebellion. It is a plea. A warning. A demand to be heard. If leaders continue to mock, ignore, or dismiss it, then they should not be surprised when the roar becomes a storm. 

And when that storm comes, we may wake up not only to new leadership, but to leadership we never expected. The next leader could emerge through constitutional succession—someone already in the line of authority, thrust into power by the collapse of trust at the top. But just as dangerously, the next leader could also come from outside the constitutional framework, sponsored by powerful players—political dynasties, oligarchs, foreign interests, or factions who see in crisis an opportunity to seize control. That is the peril of broken institutions: when the people are desperate for change, they can be made to accept even those whose motives are not pure, so long as they promise order amid chaos. 

This is why action is needed now. The government must cleanse itself with sincerity, not empty speeches. It must pursue accountability all the way to the top, not just scapegoat the small players. It must replace arrogance with humility, self-preservation with genuine service. Otherwise, tomorrow—or the day after—we may wake up to new leadership. And if that happens, it may not be the leadership we chose in peace, but one imposed upon us by collapse and manipulation.

The lesson from Japan, France, and Nepal is clear. The lesson from our own history is even clearer. When leaders fail to act, the people will. And when institutions fail, power does not disappear—it is simply seized by those bold enough, or ruthless enough, to take it.

As a Filipino, I do not pray for collapse. I pray for renewal. But renewal requires courage—courage to face the truth, courage to admit failures, courage to choose country over ambition. If our leaders cannot find that courage, then history will once again write its verdict, swift and merciless. And when it does, we may find ourselves waking up to a new leader—perhaps one within constitutional succession, or worse, one outside it, backed by power players who see our nation’s suffering as their chance to rise.

  _________________________________

 *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: 57K

Mayor Vico Sotto and the Danger of Lies in the Flood Control Scam

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD 

I was struck while following the recent congressional hearings on the flood control scam, particularly when Mayor Vico Sotto spoke. His words were not mere observation; they were born of firsthand experience. He knew the Discayas, the people behind 9 Construction Corporation, and he dared to say what others only whispered—that these individuals had the capacity to twist narratives, to create confusion, and to casually drag names into the mud without regard for truth.

This brings us to a troubling dilemma. How do we deal with witnesses who have a track record of lying? Can they ever qualify as state witnesses if, in the middle of solemn proceedings, they play around with the system? It is almost comical, if it were not tragic, that some of them suddenly develop “selective amnesia.” Records and facts that once guided their transactions from 2016 to 2022 are now conveniently forgotten. Are they protecting someone more powerful? Or is there an invisible hand threatening them into silence?

Congressional hearings are supposed to be avenues for accountability, but too often they become theaters of half-truths. Once a name is mentioned—whether it is a senator, a DPWH official, or any public servant—that person becomes guilty in the eyes of the people, even before evidence is weighed in the proper court. Public perception becomes the jury, and the damage to reputation is irreversible.

We have seen this before. Senators Jinggoy Estrada and Joel Villanueva were casually implicated by DPWH officials and linked to the so-called “BGC Boys,” or Bulacan Group of Contractors. Senator Ping Lacson exposed how this group used casinos to launder nearly PHP950 million from flood control projects. Cash was exchanged for chips, played briefly, and cashed out as “winnings.” This was not luck—it was a laundering scheme. DPWH engineers and contractors were identified, with Lacson even urging the Anti-Money Laundering Council to freeze their accounts and investigate.

But here lies the greater danger: the BGC Boys and the Discayas have more to gain the more names they throw out. By naming senators, congressmen, mayors, governors, undersecretaries, directors and others—whether guilty or not—they muddy the waters. The more confusion, the safer the real masterminds remain. Some names may be dragged out of revenge, others as distractions. That is why I must be clear: I am not saying that those mentioned are innocent, but we must accept that some names may have been thrown in recklessly or maliciously. If we are to pursue justice, let us practice objectivity, not subjectivity.

And can we rely on the testimonies of people who openly admitted they enriched themselves through anomalous DPWH contracts and bribery? Do we put our trust in the BGC Boys who squandered fortunes in casinos, treating ill-gotten wealth like play money? A line from a TV Filipino series captures their mindset: “Tutal nahuli na tayong magnanakaw, aminin na natin at idamay na natin lahat pati mga kaaway natin. Guluhin na natin lahat para di lang tayo ang magdusa.” Isn’t this the very strategy we are witnessing—confuse the process so that no one bears full responsibility? 

This is why Senate and Congressional hearings, while useful in surfacing issues, cannot by themselves deliver justice. They can expose systemic weaknesses, yes—but they cannot convict the guilty. The flood control scam highlights the cracks in our laws: weak procurement safeguards, porous anti-corruption measures, and blurred lines of accountability.

If we truly want justice, we must move beyond spectacles. Lacson’s documentation of casino-based laundering and years of warnings on budgetary insertions should have been enough to elevate cases to the courts. Why then are we stuck in endless hearings and sound bites? Justice belongs in the proper forum—our courts of law—where perjury has consequences and guilt or innocence is established by evidence, not by headlines.

The bigger lesson is clear: Congress should legislate reforms, not just stage prolonged hearings. Amend the Procurement Act to close loopholes. Tighten bicameral deliberation rules to prevent last-minute insertions. Review the DPWH’s structure to clarify accountability. And most of all, abolish pork barrel politics in all its forms so legislators focus on what they were elected to do—make laws, not build roads.

As an educator, I remind my audience in every academic venue that truth is not negotiable. If we allow lies to dominate our institutions, we teach the next generation that integrity is optional. Witnesses who lie and lawmakers who grandstand corrode democracy rather than strengthen it.

Mayor Vico Sotto was right to warn us about people who lie and create confusion. His words capture the essence of our national challenge: justice cannot thrive in a climate of deception. If hearings become circuses where names are weaponized—whether to shield allies or take revenge—we will never find the truth.

The Filipino people deserve better. We deserve a justice system that punishes the guilty, protects the innocent, and restores trust in government. The time for spectacle is over. Congress must pass reforms. The non-bailable case of malversation of public funds must be filed now. The Ombudsman and the courts must act. And the people must demand truth over confusion, justice over deception.

Only then can we begin to rebuild trust. Only then will we prove that lies, no matter how loud, can never silence the truth.

 _________________________________

 *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: 35K