The Debt of Memory: Why Education, Not an Anti-Dynasty Law, Is the Only Cure for the Vindictive Return

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

The memory of 1988 still carries the scent of damp pavement and the heavy, electric hum of a nation trying to find its footing. Back then, I was just a college student living under my parents’ roof in San Mateo, Rizal. My days were measured by the long, rhythmic rattle of the jeepney as it wound its way from the quiet foothills of our town toward the chaotic, ink-stained streets of the University Belt in Manila. I was a student leader then, an activist with a heart full of fire and a knapsack heavy with flyers. We walked the line between the suburban peace of Rizal and the feverish protests of Mendiola, believing with every fiber of our being that the world could be made new.

In the U-Belt, we shouted for systemic change, but in Rizal, I watched that change take a quiet, human form. That year, the people of my home province did something that felt like a miracle to a young activist’s eyes. They chose Reynaldo R. San Juan Sr., a man whose name lacked the gilded shine of Malacañang, over Vic Sumulong, the nephew of the sitting President. I remember the hushed conversations in the markets of San Mateo—the way people spoke of "San Juan" not as a king, but as a chance. It was a heartbreak for the powerful, but it was a triumph for the soul of the common man. In that moment, I realized that power is not a family heirloom; it is a fragile thing, lent by the tired hands of the people, and it can be reclaimed as quietly as a departing tide.

That spirit followed me across the map of my own life. I think of San Juan City, where I spent my high school years walking the hallowed halls of Aquinas School. Back then, the name Estrada was synonymous with the soil itself, a cinematic fixture that felt as permanent as the streets I walked as a teenager. But even there, the air eventually shifted. The transition to the Zamoras was a poignant reminder that no matter how storied a name, the audience eventually stops believing in the legend when the reality no longer matches the script.

My heart, however, has always been anchored elsewhere—in the rugged, salt-sprayed shores of Catanduanes, the root of my family, the Teopes. I grew up hearing the stories of the island, and I watched from afar as the Cua family held the horizon for twenty long years. In 2025, when Patrick Alain “Doc” Azanza—an independent soul with limited machinery—stood against those towering walls and won, it felt like the first deep breath a drowning man takes. It shattered the cruel myth that some families are born to rule while others, like mine, are born only to watch. Even in Las Piñas, a place distant from my life in Rizal but near in its struggle, I hear the same echo: the Villar machinery finally meeting a sunset it did not expect. It is a national symphony of people simply saying, "Enough."

But as I look back, I see a new, more sorrowful song being sung by those who have been unseated. We see them now—the fallen dynasties sitting in their darkened halls, wrapping themselves in the tattered cloak of victimhood. They tell us they are being "suppressed" by the present administration. They frame their return not as a quest for service, but as a crusade for survival, weaving a story where their family is the target of a systematic "persecution." Having been an activist in the U-Belt when real suppression meant something far more dangerous, I find their rehearsed sorrow difficult to swallow. They trade their silk robes for sackcloth, hoping we will mistake their fear of accountability for a fight for our well-being.

This is why we must understand a fundamental truth: a defeated dynasty must never be allowed to return. When a family that has treated public office as a private inheritance is finally unseated, their eventual comeback is rarely an act of humble service—it is an act of restoration and revenge. Once they regain the throne, they do not reconcile; they consolidate. They move with surgical precision to erase the names of those who dared to defeat them and dismantle every reform that flourished in their absence. Their return sends a chilling message to the soul of the voter: that their bravery was temporary, and the old masters always win. It poisons the well of courage, teaching our children that it is safer to be silent than to be free.

When they cry "harassment," they hope we will forget the years of stagnation. But when a leader is held to account for public funds, that is not harassment—it is justice finding its way home. I have often been asked why I do not support a law to ban these families. It is because I still carry the idealism of that student leader from 1988. I believe in the sacredness of the human heart and its ability to learn. A law is a cold, metallic thing; it cannot teach a young voter the value of their own dignity.

Instead of passing an anti-dynasty law, we should be pouring our energy into the classroom. We need to integrate Voters Education into our curriculum starting from Grade 1. We must teach our children, from the moment they can read, how a single wrong choice in leadership can systematically destroy a nation. We must equip them to evaluate a servant’s heart over a master’s surname. An informed voter does not need a law to tell them who to reject; they possess the internal compass to do it themselves. Education is the only key that can truly unlock the gates of these political fortresses.

We must teach our children that voting is an act of love for their neighbor, not a debt to be paid to a local patron. We must show them how to distinguish the true cry of the oppressed from the rehearsed sob of the elite. Allowing a defeated dynasty to return because we feel sorry for their "suppression" is not kindness—it is amnesia.

History is a persistent teacher. I learned that on the jeepney rides from San Mateo to the U-Belt, in the classrooms of Aquinas, and in the blood of my Teope ancestors. Let us not dim the light of progress by falling for the myths of those who miss their titles more than they miss the people. The people have spoken before, and their voices were beautiful. Let us protect that beauty. Because once we forget why we chose to be free, we invite the chains to return, disguised as an old, familiar friend.

_____

*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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Supreme Court Justices Are Not Gods: Why Questioning the Court Is an Act of Democracy

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

I have sat in classrooms where students wrestle with the idea of authority and in council halls where decisions affect real communities with real consequences. In both spaces, one lesson keeps returning: power is healthiest when it is questioned. The moment authority becomes untouchable, it stops serving the people and starts serving itself. Democracy does not die in chaos; it dies in quiet acceptance.

There are moments in a republic when silence becomes more dangerous than dissent. This is one of those moments.

Senate President Tito Sotto is right to sound the alarm. Impeachment is not a favor granted to Congress. It is a constitutional power explicitly and exclusively lodged in the legislative branch. It is political by design—not because it is partisan, but because it is meant to be exercised by elected representatives who answer directly to the people. When the judiciary intrudes into this clearly political process, the issue is no longer about judicial review. It becomes judicial overreach—and that is precisely how constitutional crises begin.

Let us be clear: questioning the Supreme Court is not an attack on democracy. It is democracy in action. No branch of government is immune from scrutiny. Not the Executive. Not Congress. And certainly not the judiciary. Accountability applies to everyone. Justices are not gods; they are public officials with defined powers, bound by the same Constitution they are sworn to uphold.

What Senator Sotto has done is neither reckless nor inflammatory. It is an assertion of constitutional duty. He is defending the separation of powers—the invisible architecture that keeps our democratic house from collapsing. To remain silent when that balance is disturbed is not prudence; it is abdication. Leadership is not measured by comfort but by courage, especially when speaking up invites criticism.

Tama naman si TitoSen.

The law is not the private property of lawyers, nor is justice the exclusive province of judges. Courts and law books are tools of governance, not objects of worship. In the final analysis, justice does not live only in rulings and footnotes; it lives in a collective commitment to liberty, fairness, and mutual respect among institutions and citizens alike. When ordinary people feel that justice has become inaccessible, overly technical, or detached from common sense, trust erodes—and trust is the lifeblood of any legal system.

The Supreme Court’s role is to interpret the law, not to make it. This distinction is not semantic; it is foundational. Interpretation applies existing rules to concrete disputes. Lawmaking creates new rules that bind future conduct. When the Court effectively crafts new standards governing impeachment—an area the Constitution deliberately assigns to Congress—it crosses a constitutional line. That line matters. Because once interpretation quietly morphs into legislation, the balance collapses. The referee becomes a player, and the game ceases to be fair.

Many citizens sense this unease even if they cannot articulate it in legal jargon. They feel that something fundamental has shifted—that a political accountability mechanism has been judicialized beyond recognition. They see doctrines invoked to stop processes before they can even mature. And they remember—rightly or wrongly—that the Court’s credibility has, in past periods, been bruised by perceptions of partisan alignment. In constitutional governance, perception matters almost as much as doctrine. Legitimacy is not sustained by authority alone, but by public confidence that power is exercised with restraint.

This is not a call to weaken the judiciary. On the contrary, it is a call to protect it—by insisting that it remain within its proper sphere. Courts are strongest when they are restrained, principled, and faithful to their constitutional limits. When they appear to substitute their judgment for that of elected institutions on political questions, they invite backlash and undermine their own moral authority.

A healthy democracy demands friction among co-equal branches. Congress must guard its mandate. The Executive must respect legal boundaries. The Judiciary must exercise humility. This tension is not a flaw; it is a feature. When one branch expands at the expense of the others, governance does not become more efficient—it becomes brittle. And brittle systems break under pressure.

History teaches us that constitutional crises do not begin with dramatic declarations. They begin quietly—with blurred lines, rationalized exceptions, and overreach left unchallenged because questioning authority was deemed impolite or dangerous. Democracies are not preserved by reverence alone, but by vigilance.

That is why questioning the Court, when warranted, is not sedition. It is a civic responsibility.

By speaking out, SP Tito Sotto is not undermining democracy. He is reminding us how it survives: through courage, debate, and an unwavering insistence that no one—no matter how robed or learned—is above the Constitution.

_____

*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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Are We Fixing Senior High School—or Just Making It Easier to Fail Later?

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

I remember sitting across young people who were already tired before life had even truly begun. Not tired because they were lazy, but tired because school felt heavy in the wrong places—full of subjects they memorized but did not always understand, lessons they passed but could not carry with them into the real world. So when I first read that the House of Representatives is considering cutting the Senior High School core subjects down to five, my initial reaction was not outrage. It was pause. A long, uneasy pause.

On the surface, the proposal sounds merciful. Fewer subjects. Less congestion. A lighter load for students who are already navigating adolescence, poverty, family pressure, and uncertainty about their future. Many learners who joined the pilot program reportedly felt relief. And who wouldn’t? When a system overwhelms you, any form of simplification feels like rescue.

But education is not emergency medicine. It is long-term nourishment. And here lies my fear.

Are we truly fixing Senior High School—or are we quietly making it easier for our children to fail later, just not immediately?

Reducing the curriculum to five core subjects may help students breathe today, but what happens when they step into college classrooms, boardrooms, courtrooms, laboratories, or communities that demand depth, context, and critical thinking? What happens when the world asks more of them than what we chose to teach?

Education is not just about surviving school; it is about surviving life.

I worry that in our eagerness to unclog the curriculum, we may be treating symptoms while ignoring the disease. The problem was never simply the number of subjects. The problem was relevance, quality, execution, and support. A bloated curriculum poorly taught is harmful—but a narrowed curriculum poorly grounded can be equally dangerous. One overwhelms; the other underprepares.

There is also a quiet, painful truth we must confront: when we cut subjects, we do not just cut lessons. We cut teachers’ hours. We cut livelihoods. We cut the sense of purpose of educators who dedicated their lives to forming minds, not merely delivering modules. Reform that forgets teachers is reform that will eventually fail students.

And then there is the larger question no committee hearing can fully answer: what kind of Filipino are we trying to form?

If education is reduced to what is “useful” in the narrowest economic sense, we risk raising a generation trained to comply but not to question, to perform but not to reflect, to work but not to understand why their nation keeps struggling with the same wounds—corruption, inequality, historical amnesia, moral compromise.

Yes, students must be job-ready. But they must also be life-ready.

They must know how to communicate, yes—but also how to think ethically. They must know mathematics and science—but also how to read society, history, and human behavior. A nation does not collapse because its people cannot compute; it collapses because its people forget who they are, what they stand for, and what they are willing to tolerate.

True reform is not about subtraction alone. It is about coherence. It is about asking hard questions: Why are students disengaged? Why do employers still say graduates are unprepared? Why does learning feel heavy but hollow? These questions demand courage, not shortcuts.

If we truly want to fix Senior High School, then let us do the harder work—train teachers better, align subjects meaningfully, invest in learning environments, and ensure that every lesson connects to life beyond exams. Let us simplify where needed, yes—but never at the cost of depth, dignity, and direction.

Because the real failure of education is not when students struggle in school.

It is when they leave school thinking they are ready—only to discover too late that they were not prepared to stand.

And that, for me, is the danger we must not ignore.

_____

*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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Why PBBM Must Implement the Mandanas Ruling for the Countryside, Peace, and Development

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

I write this not from theory alone, but from memory. This isn't a calculated deduction or a scholar’s map; it is the raw, jagged reality of a life actually lived. While others speculate from the safety of the sidelines, these pages offer the grit of the terrain and the weight of the scars. Forget the abstract—this is the undeniable testimony of someone who was there.

I was once a municipal councilor of San Mateo, Rizal, and I remember what it felt like to sit through budget deliberations knowing that no matter how sincere our intentions were, the money simply was not enough. Every meeting was an exercise in choosing which problem would wait. Not which problem mattered more—but which problem could be postponed without breaking the community completely. Health or drainage. Flood control or classrooms. Prevention or emergency response. Governance, at the local level, was never about abundance. It was about survival.

This lived experience is why the Mandanas Ruling matters to me. And this is why President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.—PBBM—must implement it fully and faithfully, not just as a constitutional obligation, but as a moral commitment to the countryside, to peace, and to sustainable development.

For decades, the countryside has learned to live with less. Less infrastructure. Less health care. Less opportunity. Development plans were announced in Manila, while rural communities waited for trickle-down benefits that rarely came on time, if they came at all. In many barangays, the presence of the state was felt only during elections, disasters, or police operations. In between, people learned to fend for themselves.

This absence is not just an economic problem. It is a security problem.

As a former student political activist, I see that insurgency does not begin with ideology. It begins with neglect. It begins when communities feel unseen, unheard, and permanently left behind. When roads are impassable, when schools deteriorate, when health centers run out of medicine, frustration hardens. And when frustration is left unattended, it becomes fertile ground for conflict.

The Mandanas Ruling offers a quiet but powerful correction to this historical imbalance.

Anchored on Article X, Section 6 of the Constitution, the ruling insists that local government units receive their full 40 percent share of all national taxes, not a selectively reduced computation. When the Supreme Court of the Philippines decided the Mandanas–Garcia case, it did not invent decentralization. It simply restored honesty to a constitutional promise that had long been diluted by administrative convenience.

When the ruling took effect in 2022, money finally moved closer to where people live.

This is why PBBM must see Mandanas not as a fiscal adjustment, but as a peace-and-development strategy.

When funds reach provinces, cities, municipalities, and barangays directly, local governments can finally act before problems metastasize. Roads can be built not as political symbols, but as lifelines. Farm-to-market roads shorten the distance between labor and reward. Health centers become functional, not ceremonial. Schools remain places of hope, not overcrowded holding rooms for deferred futures.

These are not soft outcomes. These are the foundations of peace.

Peace and order cannot be sustained by force alone. They are sustained when people feel that government works, that effort is rewarded, and that dignity is protected. A barangay that receives timely services rarely becomes hostile. A community that is heard rarely rebels. Development, when felt, disarms resentment more effectively than any slogan.

The Mandanas Ruling also directly confronts one of the most corrosive realities of our governance: corruption hidden by distance.

For years, flood-control projects became the perfect illustration of overcentralization gone wrong. Budgets were designed far from the rivers they were meant to tame. Projects disappeared into layers of bureaucracy. When floods came despite billions spent, accountability dissolved into process. Ghost projects thrived because they were buried in paperwork and geography.

Mandanas changes that.

When funds are devolved, projects can no longer hide. Mayors see the rivers every day. Barangay officials know where water rises first. Citizens can inspect what is built—or what never existed. Oversight becomes personal. Corruption loses its favorite weapon: invisibility.

This is why calls for federalism are no longer urgent simply to achieve decentralization. Decentralization is already happening—constitutionally, immediately, and without tearing the system apart. Mandanas delivers what federalism promises in theory, but without the risks of constitutional overhaul, prolonged transition, or institutional shock.

For PBBM, this is a historic opportunity.

His administration speaks of Bagong Pilipinas, of development that reaches the grassroots, of governance that people can feel. Mandanas is the most concrete pathway to that vision. It allows the President to strengthen regions without weakening the nation, to empower local governments without fragmenting the state, and to promote development without sacrificing stability.

But Mandanas also carries a burden—and this is where leadership truly matters.

With the full 40 percent share finally flowing, excuses disappear. Local leaders can no longer hide behind national neglect. Performance becomes visible. Failure becomes traceable. And citizens, in turn, can no longer be passive spectators. Democracy becomes heavier when it moves closer—but also more honest.

As a former local official, I welcome this burden. It is the burden of relevance. The burden of trust restored.

PBBM did not author the Mandanas Ruling. But history will judge him by how firmly he protects it. To weaken it, delay it, or quietly undermine it would be to repeat the same mistake that kept the countryside waiting for decades. To implement it fully is to affirm a simple but powerful truth: that unity is built not by centralizing power, but by sharing it responsibly.

The Mandanas Ruling gives the countryside what it has long asked for—not charity, but fairness; not speeches, but tools; not promises, but presence. It tells communities that peace is nurtured through development, and development is sustained through trust.

If fully implemented, Mandanas will not just redistribute money. It will redistribute hope.

And in a country where too many have learned to live with less than they deserve, that hope may be the strongest foundation for peace and progress that PBBM can leave behind.

_____

*About the author:

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

VIEWS: 1.74M