Evolving Federalism Versus Instant Federalism: The Danger of Hype Without Substance

by Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

In 2016, I was given a rare and humbling opportunity to serve in the National Federalism Study Group convened by Usec. Jonathan Malaya, under the broader vision of Senate President Koko Pimentel, who at that time carried the torch of federalist advocacy. The initiative was not mere rhetoric—it was a sincere effort to shape a Philippine model of federalism that was not copied wholesale from abroad, but carefully tailored to our unique history, culture, and realities.

To be invited was already an honor. To be asked to chair the Fiscal Policy Cluster was both a privilege and a burden I carried with great care. Federalism is often imagined as a political restructuring, but as I quickly learned, it is at its heart a fiscal project—about how money flows, who gets what share, and how accountability is enforced. In that room, I was surrounded by great minds, but also by patriots who wanted nothing less than a stronger and fairer Republic.

Our core group was made up of some of the nation’s most respected intellectuals and practitioners: UST Prof. Edmund Tayao, DLSU Dean Julio Teehankee, UP Chancellor Dr. Grace Jamon, Mr. Francis Xavier Manglapus, IPER Executive Director Mon Casiple, SEPO Director Merwin Salazar, and UST Prof. Eric de Torres, supported tirelessly by the reliable secretariat staff headed by Prof. Aubrey Bahala. Working with them was like being part of a living think tank—one that brought together diverse disciplines but shared a common devotion to nation-building.

Special credit also belongs to members who were not always visible in the photos but whose contributions were deeply felt: Dr. Antonio Avila, Dr.  Romulo "Jun" Miral, Dr. Cesar Chavez, Atty. Susan Ordinario, Fr. Ranhilo Aquino, Atty. Ted Contacto, Dean Fe Mendoza, Mayor Frank Quijano, Atty. Salma Rasul, Dr. Ebinezer Florano, and Prof. Novel Bangsal, Dr. Ed Araral, Dr. Clarita Carlos, and many others. Each of them carried wisdom from their respective fields, and our exchanges were enriched by their perspectives. It was, in truth, a mosaic of knowledge and patriotism, stitched together by the effort of Usec. Malaya’s steady leadership.

In my Fiscal Policy Cluster, I was fortunate to work side by side with two of the country’s brightest fiscal experts: Dr. Romulo “Jun” Miral and Dr. Antonio Avila plus our cluster secretariat head Prof. Pamela Diaz-Manalo. With their combined expertise, the discussions were both intellectually rigorous and profoundly practical. Federalism, we agreed, could not be sustained without a solid fiscal framework. We wrestled with questions that were never simple: How would revenues be shared between national and federal states? How could we protect poorer regions from being left behind? How would we prevent corruption from simply being decentralized rather than dismantled?

The Fiscal Policy Cluster

The debates were sharp and at times heated. Miral would caution us against devolving too much too fast, while Avila would emphasize the need for genuine autonomy, even if it meant taking risks. As chairman, my role was to synthesize, to bridge, and to ensure that our recommendations were not merely academic theories but workable solutions. It was through these dialogues that our cluster crafted the idea of evolving federalism—a gradual, step-by-step transition toward autonomy, anchored on fiscal discipline and equalization mechanisms.

Looking back, I realized how much that journey shaped my own understanding of leadership and reform. Chairing the Fiscal Policy Cluster was not just about presiding over meetings; it was about carrying the weight of responsibility to millions of Filipinos outside those conference halls. I often asked myself if the farmer in province of General Tom Lantion’s Nueva Viscaya, the fisherman in the Visayas, or the small trader in Davao would actually benefit from the frameworks we were drafting. Those questions humbled me and kept me grounded.

This is why I now grow uneasy when I see groups loudly calling for instant federalism. Their voices are passionate, their slogans inspiring, but beneath the noise there is little technical grounding. They skip the hard questions, gloss over the complexities, and sell federalism as a magic fix. The people, weary of neglect, may bite into these promises out of hope—but promises without depth only breed confusion and disappointment.

Federalism cannot be rushed. It is not a banner to wave at rallies, but a structure to build with patience and precision. To campaign for federalism without technical expertise is not only irresponsible—it is dangerous. It risks discrediting the movement entirely, turning what should be a reform of empowerment into a failed political stunt.

That is why I hold firmly to the recommendation we put forward in 2016: evolving federalism. It is not as loud or as flashy as instant change, but it is honest, practical, and sustainable. It tells the Filipino people the truth: federalism can work, but it demands preparation, discipline, and sacrifice.

To this day, I remain grateful that I was invited to work alongside giants in academe and policy, to be given the trust to chair the Fiscal Policy Cluster, and to add my voice to a movement that sought real reform rather than hype. When federalism finally takes root in the Philippines—and I believe one day it will—I will remember those sessions in 2016, and I will take pride in knowing that we planted its seeds with integrity, care, and love for country.

  ________________________________________________________________

 *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.

 

Awiting sa Puso Mo Maririnig: A Journey of Youth, Nationalism, and Memory

by Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

When I was seventeen, I thought I was just another student trying to find my place in college. But looking back now, I realize I was already carrying something much heavier than books and notebooks—I was carrying the fire of a young activist. I didn’t belong to the usual groups aligned with the CPP/NPA/NDF. In fact, we were their rivals, always clashing during student council elections. I was part of NASCOP, the National Association of Student Councils of the Philippines, the mortal enemy of the National Union of the Students of the Philippines (NUSP) and at such a young age, I became its National Secretary-General (Till now all my positions are Secretary-General maybe that is my line or positive curse). At the University of the East, where I studied, I was elected as Speaker of the Legislative Department even though I was just a first-year pre-dentistry student wherein I did not pursue. Imagine that—a seventeen-year-old boy standing before older, more experienced students, trying to lead. It was overwhelming, yes, but it also fueled my growing love for the nation.

In those restless years, I discovered that my strength was not just in organizing rallies or delivering speeches. It was in writing. Whenever my mind raced with ideas or my heart swelled with emotions about our country, I turned to pen and paper. Reflections, Essay and Poem became my way of shouting into the world. One of them was titled “Awiting sa Puso Mo Maririnig.”

You see, I had listened to so many nationalistic songs back then. I am a solid fan of Joey Ayala until now, and I admire Heber Bartolome, Mike Hanopol, Coritha, Lolita Carbon, Chikoy Pura, Inang Laya and Florante. They were fiery, passionate, filled with words about change and freedom. They could rouse a crowd, yes, but once the singing stopped, the feeling faded too quickly. I wanted to write something different. I wanted a song that would not just echo in the ears but would remain in the heart.

The problem was, I wasn’t a musician. I barely knew how to strum a guitar. But life has a way of giving us the right companions at the right time. In our group was Archie, a “guitar freak” from TIP. He had magic in his fingers. I showed him my poem, and he gave it a melody. Suddenly, my words had a heartbeat. They were no longer just verses on paper—they became music. Until now, I don’t know where Archie is, but I will always be grateful to him. Without him, my poem would have remained silent.

The song asked questions that haunted me as a young man: What song could awaken those asleep? What melody could lift the bowed down to stand tall again? I never claimed to have the answer, but deep in my heart, I believed that the truest song of freedom could not be written by anyone—it had to be felt and heard in one’s own heart.

Then time passed. Life carried me forward. The song was pushed to the back of my memory, almost forgotten like an old notebook gathering dust. I moved on to other battles, other responsibilities. For years, I didn’t think about it—until one day in 2024, out of nowhere, a message popped up on my Facebook. It was from Usec. Alain Del Pascua, the founder of NASCOP and a great mentor and role model for leadership and integrity. He asked me if I still had a tape of my song. I was stunned. After all those years, someone still remembered. I told him that Archie had it, but the mere question lit a spark inside me again.

Suddenly, I was seventeen once more. I could see myself scribbling verses in notebooks, humming half-forgotten tunes, dreaming of a Philippines united not by hate or division but by love and solidarity. That fire returned. I picked up a guitar, tried to recall the melody, and with the help of modern tools like AI, I created a new arrangement for the song. It was no longer just a relic of my youth—it was alive again.

Reviving “Awiting sa Puso Mo Maririnig” is more than just nostalgia. It is a reminder to myself, and hopefully to everyone who hears it, that we don’t need to fight one another to prove our love for this country. What we need is to remember that unity is our greatest strength. Politicians and those in power may try to divide us, but in the heart of every Filipino lies the true melody of freedom.

And that’s what I want my philosophical and critical thinker daughter Juliana Rizalhea as well as my favorite nephew veterinary Dr. Lenon Teope Del Rosario, and someday my grandchildren, to understand. The real song that can change a nation doesn’t come from a stage, or a rally, or even from a guitar. It comes from the heart. And once you hear it there, it can never be silenced.

  ________________________________________________________________

 *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.

 

 

The Bicam Insertion for Flood Control: Controlling the Flood or Controlling the Funds?

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

I sat in a budget hearing back in the year 2000, when I was still a consultant for a government agency. I went there with so much idealism, believing that the process I was about to witness was democracy at work. For me, it was more than numbers on paper. It was about lives, about the sweat of ordinary Filipinos converted into taxes, and about the promise that government would return those taxes in the form of services and protection. But in the middle of those long hours of deliberation, I began to notice something strange. Projects that technical people had worked hard to prepare were suddenly being cut. And in their place, new allocations magically appeared—projects that were never part of the plan, never seen in the original proposals, but suddenly defended with such energy by certain lawmakers. That was the first time I heard the word whispered in the halls: insertions. It was a disheartening revelation, the moment when I realized that the budget was not simply a document of priorities but also a tool of politics, easily bent in favor of power.

Fast forward to today, more than two decades later, and the same story continues. Every year, we see billions of pesos allocated for flood control projects. On paper, these funds should protect our communities from the devastation of rising waters. Yet year after year, the floods still come, drowning our streets, destroying our crops, washing away our homes. Each storm exposes how fragile and temporary our defenses are. Dikes collapse, drainage systems clog, pumping stations fail. And still, in the midst of these failures, we hear of billions being inserted into the flood control budget, as though the solution to flooding is to throw more money at it, even if much of that money never reaches the ground.

I will never forget September 26, 2009, when Typhoon Ondoy poured a month’s worth of rain on Metro Manila in a single day. That morning, I was supposed to attend my graduate school class in the boundary of Quezon City and Manila, but I decided to stay home. I was irritated with an old lady co-faculty member who had been spreading rumors about me, and I thought it best to avoid the added stress. That irritation, as it turned out, became my unexpected blessing. Because I stayed home, both I and my newly bought pyreneese black Mitsubishi Adventure were spared from the floodwaters that swallowed streets and stranded countless vehicles. I remember standing by the window in our overlooking house in the mountains of San Mateo, Rizal watching rivers of muddy water rushing through the roads, and realizing how close I had come to disaster. In that moment, I understood that survival often hangs on the thinnest of chances, and that the true tragedy is when government repeatedly fails to turn billions of pesos into lasting protection for its people.

The Ondoy tragedy was supposed to change everything. We thought it was our wake-up call, the disaster that would finally push our leaders to say “never again.” Billions were poured into flood control after that. Yet here we are, fifteen years later, still telling the same story.

And it wasn’t just Ondoy. Yolanda in 2013 tore through the Visayas with storm surges so massive that they erased entire communities. Ulysses in 2020 reminded Marikina and Cagayan Valley of Ondoy’s nightmare, as waters rose quickly and mercilessly. Paeng in 2022 left trails of mud and mourning. Egay in 2023 submerged northern Luzon. Carina in 2024 forced thousands into evacuation centers yet again. Each storm was a reminder, each storm a test, and each storm a missed opportunity. Because despite all the money allocated for flood control, we never truly learned how to solve flooding once and for all.

When Senator Ping Lacson delivered his privilege speech titled “Flooded Gates of Corruption,” he put into words what many of us have long felt. From 2023 to 2025 alone, more than a trillion pesos was allocated for flood control. In Oriental Mindoro, he uncovered projects worth nearly two billion pesos, where only a fraction came from the President’s budget and more than a billion appeared later as insertions in the House. He spoke about ghost projects and substandard works. He described how money intended to save lives was siphoned into kickbacks and commissions. In his words, only about forty percent of flood control funds actually go into real projects. The rest is eaten away by greed. And his warning rang clear: more than flood control, what the Filipino people need is greed control.

This is why, no matter how much money we pour into flood control, the waters keep coming back. Because the problem is not just engineering—it is governance. Flood control has become politically attractive because it is highly visible. A new dike can be photographed, a drainage project can be inaugurated, a ribbon can be cut. But permanence is different. Permanent solutions require vision, planning, and sacrifice. They require watershed rehabilitation, reforestation, relocation of entire communities, and urban planning that anticipates climate change. They require confronting the fact that development has often been reckless, with houses and malls built on waterways, mountains stripped of forests, and rivers left to choke in silt. Those are not projects that can be rushed before elections. They are not glamorous. And most importantly, they do not generate the same kind of political currency that temporary “control” projects do.

What makes it more painful is that the cost is always borne by ordinary Filipinos. The vendor who watches her small stall float away, the tricycle driver whose vehicle is submerged and ruined, the farmer whose rice field is drowned just before harvest, the child who must leave school because his family is displaced—these are the people who pay for the insertions. Each flood is not just water; it is betrayal. It is the visible face of corruption, the proof that money meant to protect us was diverted somewhere else.

I think back to Ondoy, to Yolanda, to Ulysses, to Paeng, Egay, and Carina, and I see not only natural disasters but opportunities wasted. Each storm should have been a turning point. Each one should have been the last time we said “never again.” And yet each time, we went back to business as usual. We poured billions more into the same broken system, allowing insertions to thrive, allowing greed to masquerade as governance.

It is easy to say floods are inevitable, that typhoons are acts of God. But I cannot accept that anymore. Flooding on this scale is not purely natural; it is political. It is the result of choices made in budget hearings, of deals struck in bicameral conferences, of projects inserted without merit, and of funds stolen instead of spent. The water may rise because of rain, but it lingers because of corruption.

That day in 2000, when I first heard the word insertion, I thought it was just a small detail in the complexity of government. But now, after Ondoy and every storm since, I realize it was more than a detail. It was a shadow cast over our democracy. A shadow that stretches from the halls of Congress to the homes of flood victims. A shadow that will not be lifted until we confront the truth: that no amount of money can save us from floods if the system itself is flooded with greed.

Ergo, the question of whether or not the floods can ever be prevented is one that we frequently ask. I have faith that they are able to. There are other nations that have done it. Some countries, such as the Netherlands, Japan, and even Singapore, have demonstrated that flood control and prevention together water flow management and community protection are possible via careful planning, discipline, and honesty. However, there is one thing that we have not yet accomplished: leaders who prioritize the well-being of their constituents before political considerations and monetary gains. Up to that point, each and every bicam insertion will not merely be a line item in the budget; rather, it will be another stone that is placed on the back of the Filipino people, another reason why the waters continue to rise and won't go down.

 __________________________________________________________________

 *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.

 

The Story of Tai Yow Pei and the Birth of the Surname "Teope"---Setting the Stage: A Diplomatic Lecture That Turned Into a Personal Journey

By Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

In 2019, I was invited as a lecturer on China–ASEAN Diplomacy. It was not the first time I had spoken on regional affairs, but the invitation carried a special weight. The event was hosted in partnership with a Chinese university, one that specialized in international relations and history. My lecture was to focus on maritime diplomacy, trade relations, and the delicate balance of power in the South China Sea. 

I remember preparing slides on treaties, shipping routes, and the complex interplay between sovereignty and cooperation. My focus was geopolitical, analytical, and very much in the present. What I did not know was that this professional duty would unexpectedly open a window into my own past.

As part of my engagement, I was given access to the university’s virtual library. This was a treasure trove of manuscripts, digitized documents, and archival records from Fujian and other provinces—sources rarely accessible outside China. At first, I browsed with the mind of a scholar, searching for historical trade records that could illuminate the long relationship between Fujianese merchants and Manila’s Parián.

But as I scrolled through fragile digitized manuscripts, something caught my eye. A name. A name that seemed oddly familiar.

The Name That Stopped Me

The record was from early 18th-century Fujian, referencing a poet named Tai Yow Pei (戴耀培). The name, translated, meant “one who shines and cultivates.” What startled me was not only the beauty of the name but its strange familiarity.

In the document, Tai Yow Pei was described as a poet whose verses had unsettled the Qing authorities. His poetry, allegorical and sharp, criticized the corruption of mandarins and echoed the suffering of peasants. His words had spread in whispers among villagers and markets, repeated like chants of defiance (Zhang, 1720/2010).

The Qing dynasty, still consolidating its rule after the fall of the Ming, was paranoid about dissent. They charged Tai Yow Pei with “literary crimes” (wenzi yu)—a practice where even a single character or metaphor could be interpreted as treason. He was arrested, beaten, and humiliated. He was forced to confess his authorship of the verses. The punishment was severe: he was given a choice between death and exile (Li, 1712/2005).

He chose exile.

I leaned back in my chair that day, stunned. Here was a man whose poetry had ignited a quiet rebellion, whose name resonated with dignity and defiance. And yet, something about that name pulled me closer.

Escape from Fujian

The record continued: disguised as a servant, silver tied to his leg, Tai Yow Pei fled Fujian. He boarded a vessel bound for Manila, one of the key ports of the Spanish colonial empire.

At the time, Fujianese migration to Manila was common. Thousands of Chinese men left their homes to seek trade and work in the Philippines. Some prospered, some perished, and some became the forebears of Filipino families whose surnames still echo Chinese syllables.

But Tai Yow Pei was not an ordinary migrant. He was a fugitive poet, a man who had defied an empire with words. As I read, I could almost picture him: slipping through the darkness of a Fujian port, head lowered, heart pounding, carrying only memory, hope, and the determination to live.

Manila, 1701: A New Identity

The next part of his story came not from the Fujian archives, but from Manila. I cross-referenced the Chinese virtual library with colonial records available in the Philippines. There, in the Libro de los Sangleyes—a registry of Chinese migrants—I found mention of a man whose name was reshaped at the point of colonial translation (Archivo de la Real Audiencia de Manila, 1701/1987).

When he arrived in Manila in 1701, Spanish authorities required all Sangley migrants to register. At his turn, Tai Yow Pei presented himself. The Dominican friar who wrote down names struggled to pronounce it. Tai Yow Pei. The tones clashed with his tongue. The syllables refused to cooperate.

And so, searching for a substitute, the friar recalled a fellow priest: Rodolfo de Legaspi. He took “Rodolfo” and, reshaping the sounds of “Tai Yow Pei,” produced a new surname: Teope (de la Cruz, 1703/1992).

With the stroke of a quill, the revolutionary poet was reborn. From that day forward, Tai Yow Pei was recorded as Rodolfo Teope.

The Shock of Recognition

At that moment of discovery, sitting in front of my laptop in the Philippines while browsing the archives of Fujian and Manila, I froze. My eyes lingered on that name—Rodolfo Teope. It was a name I knew well. It was my name.

I had always introduced myself formally as Dr. Rodolfo "John" Ortiz Teope but there is still another missing my mother's surname  is actually Ortiz-Luis, I will tell more about that how it happen. But until that moment, it had been just a name, a label, an identifier. That day, however, it became a story. I realized that the very first Rodolfo Teope was my ancestor, once called Tai Yow Pei, a poet who had defied an empire, suffered persecution, and carried his courage across the sea.

The friar’s quill may have transformed him, but the essence of his resilience lived on. And somehow, generations later, his name had returned to me.

Life in Exile: From Poet to Patriarch

The colonial records in Manila, though sparse, give hints that life slowly stabilized for Rodolfo Teope, once Tai Yow Pei. From the ashes of persecution, he built something new. He married, and together with his wife, raised a large family—three sons and five daughters. Their lives were far from easy, for Sangley families often endured restrictions, discrimination, and the constant burden of survival under colonial suspicion. Yet within their home, there was warmth, resilience, and continuity.

I often imagine the evenings in that household: children gathered around, listening to their father’s quiet stories about Fujian, about mountains and rivers they had never seen, about poems once whispered in rebellion. Perhaps he never dared write again, but maybe he recited lines by memory, reshaping them into lessons of resilience. His sons likely learned the value of hard work in Manila’s bustling trade, while his daughters carried the grace and quiet strength of their mother.

This detail moved me deeply. For a man once condemned to death for his verses, survival was not only personal—it was generational. He did not just escape; he planted roots. His decision to live, to choose exile over silence, created a lineage that today continues through me.

Reflection: Carrying His Name

When I write my name now—Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope—I feel a weight I never carried before. It is not the weight of burden but of responsibility. To know that I bear the same name first given to a man who resisted tyranny through poetry, who refused death and chose exile, is humbling.

I see him in my imagination: bruised, defiant, whispering verses in a Fujian cell. I see him on the docks, silver tied to his leg, eyes fixed on the horizon. I see him in Manila, standing before a friar’s quill as his name is reshaped forever.

His words may have been lost to history, but his story lives in me. The fact that his name became my name is no coincidence—it is a reminder that resilience and rebellion can travel across centuries, hidden in bloodlines, carried in syllables.

A Poetic Legacy

The discovery also reshaped how I see my work as a writer, a political analyst, and an academic. I had always been drawn to words, to the power of narrative, to the responsibility of commentary. Now I understand why. Somewhere in my bloodline, there was a poet who believed words could ignite rebellion. Somewhere in my ancestry, there was a man who chose exile over silence.

When I write today—whether on governance, society, or history—I realize I am continuing a legacy. I am wielding the same weapon my ancestor did: the pen.

My Final Thoughts

The story of Teope is the story of Tai Yow Pei. It is the story of how a revolutionary poet in Fujian, condemned for his verses, chose exile, crossed the seas, and was reborn in Manila with a new name. It is the story of how that name—Rodolfo Teope—survived across centuries until it returned to me.

When I sign my name today, I am not just Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope. I am also Tai Yow Pei’s heir, his namesake, his continuation. I carry his defiance, his resilience, and his renewal. And in doing so, I remember that names are not just identifiers. They are stories, monuments of survival, and legacies that whisper across time.

References

Archivo de la Real Audiencia de Manila. (1701/1987). Libro de los Sangleyes: Registro de Chinos conversos y avecindados en Intramuros. Manila: Archivo Histórico Dominicano.

de la Cruz, F. (1703/1992). Diarios de un fraile en Manila: Conversión y nombres de los Sangleyes. Manila: Editorial de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario.

Li, X. (1712/2005). Whispers Beneath the Dragon Robes: Exiled Poets of Fujian. Beijing: Zhonghua Press.

Zhang, M. (1720/2010). The Silent Verses: Banned Poetry of Late Ming and Early Qing. Shanghai: Phoenix House.

 __________________________________________________________________

 *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.

 

When Numbers Hide the Truth: NFCC, Capitalization, and the Flood Control Controversy

 Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, MBA, MPS, PhD, EdD.

At present, most people know me as a political analyst and public safety expert, but my journey began in the academe as a professor of Accounting and Business Management after finishing my 1st Masterate Degree in Business Administration with Latin Honors. That foundation has never left me. In fact, as I watched the Senate Blue Ribbon Hearing today, I felt my knowledge of financial accounting and business administration awaken once more, stirred by the very line of questioning raised by the senators

When I was still teaching business administration, I would always remind my students that in the world of corporate finance, figures are not always what they seem. Numbers can impress, intimidate, or even deceive if not properly examined. One example I often emphasized is capitalization. Capitalization, the declared or paid-up capital of a company, is usually perceived as its backbone. But I always told my classes: capitalization is not the sole capacity of a company to work on a project. Beyond that figure on paper, what truly matters are the financial statements and the Net Financial Contracting Capacity (NFCC).

Now as I show my other of me as a non-practicing financial analyst, I have had the privilege—and sometimes the burden—of looking beyond those surface numbers. I have seen companies with modest capitalization but stable and honest financial statements. They may look small on paper, but they are healthy in practice. On the other hand, I have seen firms with lofty capitalization, only to find that their financial statements reveal nothing but debt and obligations. This is why regulators insist on using NFCC as a key measure (Department of Budget and Management [DBM], 2016).

The NFCC, for those unfamiliar, is a formula mandated by Republic Act No. 9184 or the Government Procurement Reform Act. It is designed to ensure that contractors undertaking government projects have the financial breathing room to fulfill them (Republic Act No. 9184, 2003). It considers current assets, liabilities, outstanding obligations, and the value of existing projects. In theory, it protects the government from awarding contracts to firms that are already financially weak.

But here lies the irony—and perhaps the tragedy—in our system. The recent flood control controversies, now laid bare by President Marcos himself, revealed that billions of pesos’ worth of projects ended up in the hands of only 15 contractors, some of which are not even large corporations but mere single proprietorships (Marcos, 2025). These entities, with very low capitalization, somehow managed to bag contracts worth hundreds of millions, even billions. The question is: how?

The answer lies in the very safeguard meant to protect us: the NFCC. By formula, a contractor may appear to have a “healthy” NFCC, especially if liabilities are structured favorably or assets are declared optimistically. A single proprietorship with less than ₱5 million in capitalization could still show an NFCC running into hundreds of millions because the law does not rely solely on capitalization. The result? Firms with very little corporate backbone are entrusted with projects far beyond their real-world capacity (Commission on Audit [COA], 2023).

When I heard the President disclose that 20 percent of the ₱545 billion budget for flood control projects went to only 15 contractors—five of whom had projects across the entire country—I could not help but think back to those lectures in my classroom. Numbers are not always as they appear. If NFCC becomes a loophole rather than a safeguard, then we end up with this scenario: contractors with paper capacity but no real capacity cornering projects far beyond what they can manage (DPWH, 2025).

And what is the consequence? Projects that are either delayed, substandard, or overpriced. Flood control projects that should protect communities instead become avenues for flooding corruption. The rain pours, rivers swell, and homes are washed away—not by the typhoon alone, but by a system that trusted paper numbers over real financial capacity.

This is where the distinction I always stressed to my students becomes painfully clear. Capitalization is not enough, true. But neither is NFCC if it is treated as a mere formula without context. Financial statements must be studied with discernment—not only for compliance but for substance. A company’s liquidity, its operational track record, its manpower, and its equipment—these matter just as much as the numbers written on balance sheets.

It troubles me deeply that small proprietorships, with limited capitalization, could dominate multi-million peso flood control projects, while local contractors, who could have been tapped by LGUs for better accountability and faster coordination, were sidelined. As an educator, I cannot help but think of my students who believed in systems, in formulas, in laws that were supposed to be safeguards. As a financial analyst, I see the dangers of relying on incomplete pictures of financial health. And as a Filipino and a public safety advocate, I feel the frustration of knowing that these cracks in our procurement system translate into literal cracks in our dikes and flood structures.

Perhaps this is where reforms must come in. Capitalization should not be ignored, nor should it be the sole measure. NFCC should not be scrapped, but recalibrated to reflect not only numbers but real capacity. A single proprietorship may pass the NFCC formula, but does it have the manpower, the equipment, and the operational breadth to carry out flood control projects nationwide? These are questions that cannot be answered by formulas alone—they require audits, investigations, and accountability.

I go back to a principle I often told my students: finance is not just about numbers—it is about truth. When numbers hide the truth, corruption finds its home. The flood control controversies are not merely about overpricing or favoritism—they are about a failure to see beyond the numbers, a failure to demand truth in the figures that should safeguard our nation’s resources. Until we learn this, the floods will not stop—neither in our rivers nor in our governance.

References

Commission on Audit (COA). (2023). Annual audit report on the Department of Public Works and Highways. COA.

Department of Budget and Management (DBM). (2016). Government procurement policy board guidelines on the computation of the net financial contracting capacity. DBM Publications.

Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH). (2025, July). Preliminary audit report on flood control projects. DPWH Press Release.

Marcos, F. R. Jr. (2025, August 18). Remarks on flood control projects audit. Office of the President, Malacañang.

Republic Act No. 9184. (2003). Government Procurement Reform Act. Official Gazette of the Republic of the Philippines.

 __________________________________________________________________

 *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.

 

The CHED Crisis on Graduates to Unemployment Mismatch and the Provincial Solution: Why South Cotabato Matters Now!

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

I was not supposed to write an article today linking a provincial governor who could one day be president of the Philippines; documenting and posting this piece would not benefit me. I will just manufacture my own enemies from his circle and his personal enemies, but when a post popped up on Facebook relevant to the above title, it alarmed me and made me realize something: no matter how much I try not to connect the governor to this issue, he naturally emerges as both a reference point and a possible solution. I write this not to promote him, but to inform and educate people about the reality of what is happening in terms of local governance in the provinces and its impact on national counter-consciousness. 

When the Commission on Higher Education revealed that out of 25,000 graduates surveyed, only 3,000 landed jobs, I froze (Platform, 2025). Twelve percent. The figure was so harsh that it ridiculed the underlying sacrifices. For a moment, I stared at it in disbelief, realizing that this number was not just a statistic—it was a story of broken dreams.

I thought of the families behind those numbers. A mother had to pawn her last heirloom to enable her child to enroll. A father drove his tricycle through sleepless nights to cover the tuition. Then the graduate himself walked proudly across the stage, holding his diploma in hand, while his parents wept with joy. That diploma was supposed to be the golden key to a better tomorrow. Yet months later, that same graduate sits at home, laptop glowing in the dark, sending résumés that vanish into silence. The echo of unemployment replaces the cheers of graduation.

CHED's survey exposes not just an economic issue, but also a breach of trust. For decades, we have instilled in our children the belief that education serves as a powerful equalizer. But what use is a key when the doors it promises no longer exist? What use is sacrifice when the nation fails to honor it?

The mismatch between education and industry has haunted us for years. Universities produce thousands of graduates in oversaturated fields, while industries lament the lack of digital, technical, and specialized skills (Asian Development Bank [ADB], 2020). Research from the Philippine Institute for Development Studies (Orbeta, 2020) has shown that youth struggle most with the “school-to-work transition,” spending years in job hunting or settling for underemployment. The World Bank (2020) also noted that nearly half of Filipino firms identify inadequate skills as a major obstacle to growth, proving that the problem is not the lack of workers but the lack of alignment between what is taught and what is needed.

Even if graduates had those skills, the economy itself struggles to create enough decent jobs. Many are pushed into contractual work, informal labor, or migration (International Labour Organization [ILO], 2023). The Philippine Statistics Authority (2023) reported youth unemployment rates consistently higher than the national average, with 1 in 7 young people either jobless or underemployed. Every Filipino boarding a plane for work abroad carries not just luggage but the weight of a dream this country could not carry.

And yet, amid this despair, I find myself asking: must it always be this way? Is there no alternative? My thoughts turn to the provinces, to the leaders who stand closest to the people. How I wish the League of Provinces of the Philippines would step forward, for governors hold the power to shape local economies and tie education directly to livelihood.

In this regard, one governor comes to mind—Reynaldo Tamayo Jr. of South Cotabato.The president of the League of Provinces of the Philippines. His province has emerged as a model of genuine sustainable development. There, education is not treated as a hollow promise but as a living bridge to employment. Programs link schools to industries, agricultural reforms train the youth as entrepreneurs, and livelihood opportunities grow because governance listens (South Cotabato Provincial Government, 2024). Tamayo has proven that when leadership is grounded in sincerity and vision, even a province can thrive while the nation struggles.

Under his stewardship, South Cotabato demonstrates that the challenges faced by our graduates are not insurmountable. It indicates that diplomas can still lead to jobs, that sacrifice can still bear fruit, and that hope can still be rewarded. If the League of Provinces were to adopt this model, and if governors throughout the nation united in their efforts, CHED's dire assessment could transform into a narrative of redemption.

CHED has defined the crisis, but leaders like Tamayo point to the response. The question is whether others will follow. Until they do, graduation day will remain bittersweet—a day of applause, followed by silence too heavy for young hearts to bear. But if they rise, if they embrace the lesson of South Cotabato, then perhaps the next survey will not speak of despair but of hope fulfilled.

 

References

Asian Development Bank. (2020). Philippines: Employment and skills strategies. ADB. https://www.adb.org/publications

International Labour Organization. (2023). Youth employment in the Philippines: Trends and challenges. ILO Asia-Pacific. https://www.ilo.org/manila

Orbeta, A. C. (2020). Education, labor markets, and the youth: Addressing the school-to-work transition in the Philippines. Philippine Institute for Development Studies Policy Notes, 2020-05. https://pids.gov.ph

Philippine Statistics Authority. (2023). Employment situation in the Philippines. PSA. https://psa.gov.ph

Platforms, E. P. (2025, August 17). Diploma alone not enough for jobs, CHED chief says; OJT required in all degree programs. Explained PH | Youth-Driven Journalism. https://www.explained.ph/2025/08/diploma-alone-not-enough-for-jobs-ched-chief-says-ojt-required-in-all-degree-programs.html

South Cotabato Provincial Government. (2024). Sustainable development programs and youth empowerment initiatives. Provincial Planning and Development Office.

World Bank. (2020). Philippines skills report: Preparing for the jobs of the future. World Bank Group. https://worldbank.org

____________________________________________________________________

 *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.