*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I have always resisted the idea that we are prisoners of the past, condemned to relive what has already been written. No—I do not believe that history repeats itself. But I have lived long enough, seen enough of human nature and governance, to understand that it rhymes. And in that quiet, almost poetic truth, I find both a warning and a burden.
I was born during the time of Martial Law in the Philippines—a period marked, in its earlier years, by stories of missing persons, fear, and lives lost in the shadows of power. My father, a man of discipline in the Philippine Constabulary, lived that era not as an abstract narrative but as a duty—one shaped by command, structure, and belief in order. As a child, I saw the uniform not as a symbol of fear, but as a symbol of responsibility. Yet as I grew older, I came to understand that beyond the order we experienced in our home, there were voices outside of it—voices that were unheard, unseen, or, at times, deliberately silenced.
And yet, that same period did not end in darkness. It moved—through resistance, through awakening, through collective courage—toward the restoration of democracy, culminating in its lifting. That journey from suppression to expression is not just a chapter of history. It is a lesson written in sacrifice.
Decades later, I witnessed another arc during the Philippine Drug War under Rodrigo Duterte. In its early stages, the campaign against illegal drugs was defined by intensity—daily reports of deaths, a climate of fear, and a strong assertion of authority. For some, it represented protection and decisive leadership. For others, it raised profound questions on justice, due process, and human dignity. Again, two narratives emerged, each rooted in its own truth, each deeply felt.
But like Martial Law, this chapter also evolved. By 2022, the approach began to shift toward programs such as ADORE—Anti-Illegal Drugs Operations through Reinforcement and Education—reflecting a transition from sheer force toward a more balanced approach that included rehabilitation, prevention, and community engagement. From fear, there was an attempt to move toward reform. From enforcement alone, toward understanding.
It is important for me to state, not out of pride but out of responsibility, that I am the author of ADORE, grounded on what I conceptualized as the “8 E’s”—a framework designed to serve as its foundation. This framework was never meant to weaken enforcement, but to strengthen it through balance—integrating education, engagement, empowerment, evaluation, and ethical governance into the broader fight against illegal drugs. Because I have always believed that a nation cannot arrest its way to peace; it must also educate its way to transformation.
And here, the rhyme becomes undeniable.
In both eras, the nation began with a strong assertion of control in response to perceived disorder. In both, the early phase carried weight—fear, loss, division. And in both, there came a turning point—a recognition that order without humanity, and power without balance, cannot sustain a nation. There was a shift—from intensity toward humanity, from rigidity toward reflection.
But perhaps the most striking rhyme lies not only in policy, but in information itself.
During Martial Law in the Philippines, narrative control was centralized. Information was filtered. Media was regulated. The story of the nation was largely told by those in power, and what people knew was shaped by what was allowed to be seen and heard. Silence was not just absence—it was enforced.
Today, we live in the opposite environment—but the struggle is eerily similar.
We are now in an age of narrative overload, where information is abundant, but truth is contested. This is the new war—the war on information. Social media has become the new battlefield, where narratives are crafted, amplified, and weaponized. Influence can now shape perception faster than facts can establish truth.
And just like before, the nation is divided—not only by ideology, but by which narrative they choose to believe.
This is the modern form of narrative control. Not through silence, but through saturation. Not by limiting voices, but by overwhelming them—until truth itself becomes difficult to identify. And in that confusion, power finds space to operate, just as it once did in silence.
But this rhyme is not only ours. It is global.
I am reminded of the Suez Crisis, when Britain and its allies moved to seize control of the Suez Canal after Egypt nationalized it. What was framed as a matter of order, security, and strategic necessity was, to others, an assertion of power masked in justification. The canal was not just a passage of goods—it was a corridor of influence.
Yet what is often forgotten is the consequence. Britain, despite its military capability, found itself overstretched—economically strained, politically pressured, and ultimately forced to withdraw under international and financial pressure. The cost was not only strategic defeat, but a blow to its global standing, exposing the limits of power when not matched with sustainable strategy and global legitimacy. It triggered fiscal strain and accelerated the decline of British influence on the world stage.
Fast forward to today, and we see a similar tension unfolding in the Strait of Hormuz crisis. The involvement of the United States in Iran and the struggle over control of a critical global oil route has once again placed the world on edge. The narratives are familiar: security, deterrence, necessity on one side; overreach, escalation, and consequence on the other.
And here lies a deeper and more urgent rhyme.
If the lessons of Suez are not carefully studied, there is a possibility—however distant, yet real—that history may rhyme once again, not in identical events, but in outcome. A prolonged engagement, miscalculated strategy, or failure to balance force with diplomacy could impose immense financial burdens, strain alliances, and challenge the sustainability of power. The United States, as a global leader, must recognize that dominance alone does not guarantee success; it must be matched with prudence, restraint, and foresight.
Thus, the warning is clear: the United States must avoid allowing this rhyme to unfold into consequence. It must manage its operations and approaches with clarity, discipline, and strategic wisdom—lest it face a modern echo of Suez, where power asserted without sustainable balance leads not to control, but to costly retreat.
What is striking is not just the conflict—but the narrative surrounding it.
Just like in Suez, just like in Martial Law, just like in the Drug War—there are competing stories. One speaks of security, necessity, and order. Another speaks of control, excess, and consequence. And the people—whether in a nation or across the globe—are left to decide which version of truth they will believe.
This is the rhyme.
From the Philippines to the Middle East, from Martial Law to the Drug War, from Suez to Hormuz—the pattern remains: power asserts, narratives justify, people choose what to believe, and only later does reflection attempt to correct.
And even within our own national experience, this rhyme extends further into the political transitions that define our collective memory. After years under Martial Law, the regime of Ferdinand Marcos Sr. was ultimately ended in 1986 through a people-driven movement that restored democratic institutions. There was hope—immense hope—that change would bring not only freedom, but immediate reform, stability, and national progress. Yet history shows us that transitions, while necessary, do not automatically guarantee transformation. Instead of seamless reform, the nation encountered new challenges—political instability, economic difficulties, and interrupted development plans that struggled to regain momentum.
And today, in 2026, as voices once again emerge calling for the removal or weakening of leadership under Ferdinand Marcos Jr., I cannot help but hear the rhyme once more. The call for change is not new. The promise that a shift in leadership will resolve deep-rooted national problems is not new. But history reminds us—gently yet firmly—that change in leadership, by itself, is not the same as change in direction.
There is a danger in believing that removing one figure will automatically produce progress. Because if the structures, the culture, and the deeper systemic issues remain unaddressed, then the outcome may not be reform—but repetition in a different form. The rhyme may unfold again: a change of regime, followed not by sustained development, but by disruption, delay, or even regression.
This is not an argument against change. It is a call for understanding change. Because true reform is not anchored on personalities alone—it is anchored on systems, discipline, continuity of good policies, and the collective maturity of a nation.
If we fail to recognize this, then we risk repeating the emotional cycle of hope and disappointment—different in actors, but identical in consequence.
As someone who has lived through one era and witnessed another unfold, I have come to understand that history rhymes because human nature does not change. The tools evolve. The platforms modernize. But fear, ambition, control, and belief remain constant.
And yet, I still hold on to hope.
Because if history only rhymes, then we are not condemned to its ending. We are given awareness. We are given memory. We are given the ability to discern—not just what is being done, but what is being said, and why it is being said.
So I write this not merely as a reflection, but as a reminder. The rhyme of history is not meant to trap us—it is meant to awaken us.
Because in this age, the greatest battle is no longer just for territory or power.
It is for truth.
And if we fail to defend it, then the rhyme will continue—louder, deeper, and more dangerous than ever before.
#DJOT
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