There Was a Time the Budget Was Sacred: Jose de Venecia and the Congress We No Longer Have

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

I still remember that day clearly—not because it was grand, but because it was quiet. I raised my right hand in the middle of the first decade of the 2010s, in a room filled with formality yet softened by a rare sense of calm. I was taking my oath as a Municipal Councilor of San Mateo, Rizal, carrying with me the hopeful nervousness of someone who still believed that public service was a calling. At the same time, I was serving as Executive Director of the Institute for Policy Studies of Lakas-CMD, the political party think-tank group—young enough to dream, old enough to understand responsibility.

The oath was officiated by House of Representatives Speaker Jose de Venecia himself and witnessed by then Congressman of Valenzuela City Jose Emmanuel Carlos, MD, and Bukidnon Congressman Jose Miguel Zubiri, then Secretary-General of Lakas-CMD. I expected distance. I expected a ceremony. What I did not expect was warmth. Speaker De Venecia was calm, accommodating, and unhurried. He listened as if the moment mattered, as if I mattered. There was no display of power, no theatrical authority—only quiet confidence. Looking back now, that may have been my first real lesson in leadership.

That memory hurts differently today.

When Jose de Venecia was installed as Speaker in 1992, the 1987 Philippine Constitution was still young—fragile, idealistic, and still healing from the wounds of dictatorship. Congress then was conscious of history. It knew it was walking on sacred ground. Sectoral representatives truly came from their sectors—youth, workers, farmers, women—chosen by communities, not engineered by lawyers. There were no party-list representatives pretending to be marginalized while serving elite interests. No construction company owners voting on infrastructure budgets that fed their own businesses. No PDAF scandal yet poisoning public trust. Shame still existed. Limits still mattered.

It was in that atmosphere—imperfect but principled—that De Venecia led. His record in Congress was not just long; it was heavy with consequence. He was elected Speaker five times, something no one has repeated since. But what mattered was not the number—it was how he wielded power. He governed by patience, by listening, and by building consensus instead of crushing dissent. Laws passed because they were understood, not because they were forced.

Of all the laws he authored, he often spoke with quiet pride about the 1992 Build-Operate-Transfer Law. It was never about personal credit. It was about foresight. That law allowed private capital to build public goods—power plants, roads, skyways, airports, markets, irrigation systems—projects worth more than US$26 billion, without selling the nation’s soul. Investors were repaid fairly, and then ownership returned to the people. Every time a train ran through Metro Manila connecting workers to jobs and families to opportunity, that vision moved silently beneath the noise of politics. The same long view shaped the Bases Conversion Law, turning former military installations into engines of growth rather than relics of dependence.

But Jose de Venecia believed that peace was also infrastructure.

Together with his wife, Gina, he crossed deserts—literally and politically—to talk to enemies others refused to face. He met Muammar Qaddafi and Nur Misuari to help end a war in Mindanao. He spoke to military rebels who once tried to overthrow the government. He reopened talks with communist insurgents when dialogue seemed futile. These were not acts meant for applause. They were acts of courage born of faith in the Filipino capacity to reconcile. He understood something we often forget today: a nation cannot develop while bleeding from old wounds.

And then there was the budget.

In his time, the national budget was sacred. Deliberations were slow because they were serious. Line items were argued over because money meant classrooms, hospitals, roads, and dignity. Committees mattered. Plenary debates mattered. There were no midnight insertions, no ghost projects hiding between pages, and no need for exposés to explain how billions disappeared. The budget could be defended in daylight. It could be explained to the poorest Filipino without embarrassment.

Today, I read the news and feel something close to grief. Congress is once again drowning in scandal. Budgets are no longer questions of priority but of suspicion. We no longer ask, "What will this build?" We ask, Who inserted this? "Ghost projects" are now common language. Insertions are explained away as skill. And I cannot help but think of Jose de Venecia—and how different it once was.

He understood that the Speaker is not the owner of the House, but its caretaker. That once you corrupt the budget, you corrupt everything that follows—trust, legitimacy, nationhood. He guarded the institution not with fear, but with restraint. Not with noise, but with discipline.

He did not become President. In 1998, he placed second to Joseph Estrada. But history has a longer memory than elections. Millions believed in his principles, his intellect, and his quiet patriotism. And today, when institutions feel hollow and leadership feels performative, his loss feels heavier than defeat ever did.

And so I return, in memory, to that moment when I stood before him and took my oath. I remember how steady his voice was, how unhurried his presence felt, and and how the gravity of public service was communicated without a single sermon. In that brief exchange, he did not remind me of power; he reminded me of duty. He did not make promises; he embodied restraint. That was Jose de Venecia’s quiet gift to those of us who met him—not inspiration wrapped in slogans, but a living example of how authority should feel when it is exercised with conscience.

Now that he has returned to his Maker, that memory has become a measuring stick. Whenever I see budgets distorted, institutions cheapened, and leadership reduced to noise, I remember the calm of that oath-taking day. I remember a Speaker who made the House feel worthy of respect. In grieving Jose de Venecia, I am not only mourning a statesman. I am mourning a standard I once saw up close. And perhaps the most painful truth of all is this: we know—because we have lived it—that we can do better.

__________________

*About the author:

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

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The Quiet Candidate the Administration Fears More Than Sara Duterte in 2028

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

I am writing this fully aware that 2028 will not be an easy contest for anyone. The administration will surely field a strong candidate—one backed by incumbency, resources, and a political machinery that knows how to win. What makes the coming election unusually complex is not just the strength of the administration, but the quiet reshaping of alliances that would have seemed impossible a few years ago. In Philippine politics, permanence belongs not to friendships or ideologies, but to interests.

One of the clearest developments today is the posture of the Kakampink movement. Their priority is no longer subtle: prevent any Duterte comeback in 2028. Ideological purity has given way to strategic necessity. Because of this, they are increasingly open—however reluctantly—to a tactical alignment with the administration of Ferdinand Marcos Jr.. It may feel ironic, even uncomfortable, but Philippine political history teaches us that coalitions are often forged not by love, but by fear.

This emerging convergence matters because it reshapes the entire battlefield. A Marcos-backed candidate reinforced by Kakampink discipline, messaging, and moral framing will be formidable. This coalition will not be sentimental. It will be calculated, unified by a single objective: ensure that Malacañang does not return to Duterte hands. In such a scenario, clarity becomes power—knowing exactly who the enemy is, how to frame the narrative, and how to mobilize resistance.

This is precisely why the widespread assumption that Sara Duterte is the inevitable standard-bearer deserves serious reexamination.

I know this is where discomfort begins. I know many will read this as disloyalty, even betrayal. But this is not an argument that Sara Duterte is weak or unwinnable. She is strong, popular, and capable of mobilizing a loyal base. The problem is not her ability to excite supporters; the problem is that she equally energizes opposition. She is a familiar symbol, and familiarity cuts both ways. Her candidacy would instantly solidify the very alliance now quietly forming between the administration and anti-Duterte forces. The story would be simple, emotionally charged, and easy to sustain throughout a long campaign.

This is where reality intrudes.

Politics is not won by who inspires the loudest devotion, but by who enters the race carrying the least baggage. And this is where Christopher Tesoro Go emerges—not as a disruptor by confrontation, but as a disruption by presence.

For years, Bong Go was dismissed as nothing more than an accessory to power, a loyal assistant living in someone else’s shadow. I shared that view once. Many of us did. But elections have a way of stripping illusions. His rise was not theatrical or dramatic. It was quiet, repetitive, almost unremarkable in the way real service often is. And yet, when votes were counted, it became clear that people were not voting for nostalgia or endorsement alone. They were voting for something far more practical: familiarity born of help received, problems solved, and presence felt in moments of need.

What makes Bong Go uniquely unsettling for established strategies is that he does not fit neatly into the moral or political boxes prepared for a Duterte comeback. He does not carry confrontational energy. He does not provoke instant outrage. There is no defining scandal that easily sticks, no excess to dramatize, no lifestyle narrative to inflame. He does not frighten moderates or exhaust independents. In a country weary of political noise, that restraint becomes a strength.

This is why I believe—quietly but firmly—that the administration is more uneasy at the idea of a Bong Go candidacy than a Sara Duterte one. A loud opponent can be anticipated. A polarizing figure can be planned against. But how do you fight someone who does not announce himself as a threat, who enters the national consciousness not as a symbol of conflict but as a figure of reassurance?

The Kakampinks understand this, even if they would never say it publicly. Their willingness to align tactically with the Marcos administration is built on clarity: they know who they are fighting when the opponent is Sara Duterte. They know the slogans, the angles, the pressure points. But a Bong Go candidacy introduces hesitation. It fractures certainty. It forces coalition partners to ask uncomfortable questions. And in politics, uncertainty is poison to rigid alliances.

What troubles me most is how narrowly many are thinking—both in the opposition and within the Duterte-aligned base. They speak as if 2028 has already been decided, as if there is only one acceptable banner to carry, as if loyalty alone guarantees victory. History is unforgiving to that kind of complacency. Elections are not won by emotional inheritance; they are won by expanding acceptability.

This is not about abandoning Sara Duterte. It is about acknowledging that Bong Go is acceptable to more people across more political divides. He occupies a rare space in Philippine politics: loyal but not polarizing, familiar but not exhausting, credible without being threatening. That space is often where elections are quietly decided.

There is also the matter of time, which politics never forgives. Windows open, and they close. If Bong Go harbors any genuine intention of becoming president, 2028 is not merely an opportunity—it is the moment. Beyond that year, the country will inevitably shift toward generational leadership. By 2034, it is entirely plausible that a new political age emerges, one where figures like Vico Sotto dominate the national imagination with youth, reformist appeal, and a narrative that is almost impossible to defeat.

When that age arrives, today’s battles will feel old, no matter how disciplined or loyal their champions once were.

That is why I chose to write this now—not to provoke division, but to challenge complacency. Not to deny strength, but to confront reality. Because in the end, 2028 will not be decided by who is loved the most, but by who is feared the least and accepted the widest.

The uncomfortable truth is this: the administration and its tactical allies are preparing for a familiar enemy. But history often turns on the candidate no one planned for. And sometimes, the most dangerous contender is not the one who rallies crowds, but the one who quietly convinces the country that choosing him would feel safe.

That is the question 2028 will ultimately answer.

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 *About the author:

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

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The Senate, the Gold Medal Sex Video, and the West Philippine Sea: When Distraction Shields Surrender

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

I watched the nation come alive for a video while the Senate of the Philippines remained largely unseen. Phones were raised, group chats exploded, and conversations shifted instantly—animated by curiosity, judgment, laughter, and outrage. For a brief moment, it felt as if everyone was paying attention. And then the heavier realization settled in: while the public was absorbed in spectacle, the Senate—the institution entrusted to guard our sovereignty—was spared the burden of sustained scrutiny. This is how attention is misplaced, and this is how silence becomes power.

The cycle was painfully familiar. Outrage came first, loud and moral. Humor followed, quick and relieving. Then indifference—the most dangerous stage of all. The video passed, as all viral things do, leaving only fatigue and the quiet readiness for the next distraction. What remained with me was not anger, but grief. Grief that we could mobilize so quickly for scandal, yet struggle to summon the same intensity for the nation itself.

This matters because while the country was looking elsewhere, the Senate was not speaking with one voice. The Majority was busy doing what it was elected to do—defending the West Philippine Sea as ours, invoking law, history, and dignity, insisting that sovereignty is not a bargaining chip. But alongside this, the Senate Minority often spoke in a different register. Their language was softer, their caution louder than their conviction. They warned against offending China, against being “too emotional,” against asserting too firmly what international law already affirms.

This contrast would be healthy if it were balanced by equal urgency. But it is not. The Majority speaks from defense; the Minority often speaks from accommodation. One frames the issue as territory and dignity; the other as restraint and relationship management. And in that framing, something vital is quietly displaced. When caution consistently favors the comfort of a foreign power over the assertion of our own rights, it stops being neutrality and begins to resemble alignment.

What makes this especially troubling is how easily this posture hides behind distraction. While the Majority fights openly—issuing statements, absorbing criticism, standing firm—the Minority benefits from a public whose attention is elsewhere. Their defense of China does not need to be loud; it only needs to be calm enough to avoid scrutiny. Their reluctance to confront does not need to persuade; it only needs to outlast the news cycle.

The Gold Medal sex video became more than a scandal. It became cover. While people argued, joked, and moralized over something fleeting, the harder questions were postponed yet again. Who is softening our position? Who is teaching the public to accept less than what is rightfully ours? Who presents retreat as maturity and silence as wisdom? These questions demand patience and courage, but they are drowned out by something easier to consume and quicker to forget.

The sea does not go viral. It does not shock. It does not entertain. It simply waits—vast and patient—while language softens and resolve thins. While the nation laughed and scrolled, pressures continued, positions adjusted, and words were chosen carefully not to defend, but to avoid discomfort. Any loss is never announced; it is absorbed quietly, like something we have grown tired of caring about.

This is how betrayal avoids daylight. Not through denial, but through fatigue. Nationalism requires memory. Compromise relies on exhaustion. And exhaustion is manufactured when attention is constantly pulled toward spectacle at the very moment it should be fixed on power.

There is a word we hesitate to use because it is heavy and uncomfortable. Treason does not always arrive as a single dramatic act. Sometimes it appears as a pattern—silence where firmness is required, explanation where defense is owed, comfort where sacrifice is demanded. It is rarely shouted; more often, it is rationalized. And when a people are distracted long enough to stop watching, treason no longer needs secrecy. It only needs time.

If we ever ask how a nation lost what should never have been negotiable, the answer will not be found in one speech or one vote. It will be found in a season when spectacle mattered more than sovereignty, when sex drew more passion than nationalism, and when senators willing to give ground were allowed to do so under cover of noise. This was not an invasion. It was a sale—completed quietly, while our eyes were elsewhere and our silence did the rest.

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 *About the author:

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

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