The Day General Dionardo Carlos Danced to Hawak Mo ang Beat: When Retirement Becomes Freedom

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

I remember the exact moment it happened, quiet and almost insignificant at first, like many moments that later reveal their deeper meaning. I was scrolling through my phone in between the constant rhythm of responsibilities when I came across a video of General Dionardo Carlos dancing to the now familiar tune of Hawak Mo ang Beat. There he was, moving freely, smiling without restraint, carried by the rhythm in a way that felt light, almost childlike, and for a brief second, everything else around me seemed to pause. What I saw was not a former chief of the Philippine National Police, not a man who once commanded thousands, not a figure defined by rank or authority, but simply a man enjoying a moment that belonged entirely to him.

That moment struck me more deeply than I expected, because I did not just see the man he is today; I remembered the man I once knew in a very different setting. General Dionardo Carlos was once my student, part of the very best and elite batch of the Officer Senior Executive Course, the distinguished Mabuhay Class. I had the privilege of serving as the lone faculty designate of their class during their training at the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), Hawaii, way back in 2003, a time when they were being shaped by discipline, doctrine, and the demanding standards of leadership. That class was not ordinary, and neither was he, as they distinguished themselves beyond expectations and earned numerous accolades during that international exposure, proving that Filipino leadership could stand with pride and excellence on the global stage. Seeing him now, far removed from that environment of structure and command, made the image before me even more powerful.

What made that simple dance even more meaningful was the story behind it, a story not loudly spoken but quietly lived. After his retirement in May 2022, General Dionardo Carlos was offered numerous government positions, opportunities that many would have immediately embraced as a continuation of influence, relevance, and authority. Yet he declined them all. He chose not to return to the cycle that had defined most of his life. He chose not to exchange his hard-earned freedom for another title. Instead, he chose something far more profound; he chose to live the life that had long been set aside during his years of service, the life that, in many ways, had been deprived of freedom as a civilian to enjoy an ordinary life by the very nature of duty.

We often misunderstand retirement as the end of usefulness, as the closing of purpose, as a quiet fading into irrelevance, but what I witnessed in that moment challenged that belief completely. Retirement is not an ending; it is a return. It is a return to the self that was slowly set aside in the name of service, ambition, and responsibility. For years, even decades, we wake up not because we want to but because we are needed, we move not because we choose to but because we are expected to, and in that constant giving, we unknowingly leave parts of ourselves behind.

Then one day, it all changes. The uniform is folded, the office is left behind, the calls become fewer, and what remains is a question that no rank or experience can answer: Who are we when everything we have been known for is no longer attached to our name? Many attempt to answer that question by seeking another position, another role, another way to remain in motion, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of fear of stillness, because stillness can feel unfamiliar to those who have lived a life of constant demand. Yet his decision offers a different answer, one that requires a deeper kind of courage, the courage to embrace life without the need to prove anything.

In that video, I saw that courage expressed not through words but through simple, unfiltered, and genuine joy. I saw a man walking without the weight of authority, returning to familiar spaces not as a figure of power but as an ordinary citizen, finding happiness in the simplest of things: cooking a meal, traveling, laughing, riding a 400cc motorcycle, and even daring to try again the experience of skydiving, not to impress, but simply because life now allowed him to do so. There was no arrogance, no sense of entitlement, only a quiet contentment that spoke more loudly than any title he once held.

This is perhaps the true meaning of retirement: not the absence of purpose, but the presence of freedom. It is not about doing nothing but about finally having the choice to do what truly matters. It is about reclaiming the time that was once given away, rediscovering the joy that was once postponed, and allowing oneself to live without the constant pressure of expectation. In a world that measures worth by productivity and achievement, we often forget that there is value in simply living, in simply being.

As I reflected on that moment, I realized that perhaps the greatest reward of years of service is not recognition, not legacy, not even the titles we carry, but the opportunity to finally rest without guilt and to live without obligation. It is the quiet dignity of choosing peace over power, of choosing life over position, and for some, like General Dionardo Carlos, it is also the strength to protect that freedom by declining opportunities that would take it away once more.

That simple dance, set to the tune of Hawak Mo ang Beat, carried a message far deeper than the music itself. It was a reminder that life is not meant to be all duty, that beyond the responsibilities and sacrifices, there exists a version of ourselves waiting patiently to be lived. And in that fleeting moment on my screen, I understood something that perhaps many of us overlook, that one day, when everything we have worked for is finally behind us, what will matter most is not what we achieved, but whether we allowed ourselves the chance to truly live.

Retirement, in its truest sense, is not stepping away from life; it is stepping into it, and when that moment comes, I hope we do not rush to fill it with another burden but instead allow ourselves the grace to embrace it fully, to experience it honestly, and perhaps, in our own quiet way, to find the courage to dance when the music finally belongs to us.

#DJOT

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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 Illusion of the Savior: A Nation Waiting, A People Awakening

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

I remember one humid afternoon during a campaign season way back in 2022, standing alongside my daughter Juliana Rizalhea at the edge of a crowded national park, watching a politician step out of a van as if he were a long-awaited savior, the music swelling, people clapping, and mothers lifting their children just to catch a glimpse of him, and for a moment, even as someone who has spent years studying governance, power, and the anatomy of public deception, I felt that familiar tug in the chest, that quiet and dangerous hope that maybe this time would be different.

But as I looked closer, beyond the rehearsed smiles and carefully choreographed gestures, I saw not a hero but a performance, not salvation but repetition, and it brought me back to a question that has haunted me for decades. How many times must we fall in love with the same illusion before we finally learn that no single person, no matter how polished his or her words or how dramatic his or her promises, can rescue a nation trapped in a system designed to consume even the cleanest of intentions. I write this not as a cynic, but as someone who has believed, hoped, voted, and watched leaders rise and fall while the same wounds in our country remained open, bleeding quietly beneath layers of slogans and campaigns.

The truth we often refuse to confront is painfully simple. Our problem has never been the absence of good men but the presence of a system so deeply entrenched in patronage, compromise, and survival that even the most sincere leader finds himself negotiating with forces that do not yield to purity. We have been conditioned, election after election, to search for a face, a name, a personality to carry the burden of our expectations, as if governance were a stage play and we were merely waiting for the right actor to deliver the final line that would set everything right. But nations are not saved by performances, and progress is not delivered by applause.

I have seen politicians cry on stage and embrace the poor under the harsh glare of cameras. I have seen them eat with their hands to simulate humility, ride tricycles to project simplicity, and sleep on woven mats to manufacture relatability. Yet behind these images often lies a reality that does not match the narrative, a reality of unexplained wealth, of networks carefully constructed to protect interests, of decisions made not for the public good but for the preservation of power. And still, we forgive, we forget, we hope again, because hope is the most powerful currency in politics.

What breaks my heart is not that we are deceived, but that we allow ourselves to be deceived in the same way, over and over, as if the passage of time alone could purify a broken system, as if a change in leadership automatically means a change in structure. In truth, the machinery remains largely the same, waiting to absorb whoever steps into it. I have come to realize that placing all our hopes on one leader is like pouring a glass of clean water into a barrel of sewage and expecting the entire contents to become pure. What actually happens is the opposite. The clean is overwhelmed by the unclean, the ideal is diluted by the real, and the promise of change is slowly negotiated into something unrecognizable.

At some point, we must confront a deeper and more uncomfortable realization that the problem is not only the people we elect, but the very framework that allows the same names, the same families, and the same interests to recycle themselves in power. There is a growing need to seriously examine and even change the Constitution and the form of government itself, because when a system is structured in a way that enables political dynasties to entrench their influence, shields corruption through complexity and loopholes, and concentrates opportunity in the hands of a few, it inevitably widens the gap between the rich and the poor. A structure that rewards longevity in power without sufficient accountability becomes fertile ground for abuse, and unless that structure is reformed with clarity, courage, and genuine public participation, we will continue to see the same cycle where wealth consolidates at the top while ordinary citizens struggle below, no matter who sits in office.

And yet, despite all this, I do not write in despair, because there is still a path forward, though it is far less romantic than the myth of a savior and far more demanding of us as a people. It requires that we shift our gaze from personalities to systems, from promises to processes, from blind trust to relentless verification. It requires that we demand transparency not as a favor but as a right, that we insist on digital trails for public funds, that we scrutinize projects in our own communities, and that we ask uncomfortable questions without fear.

Most of all, it requires that we remember that those we elect are not our idols but our employees, accountable not just during elections but every single day they hold office. Because in the end, the greatest illusion we must dismantle is not only the image of the politician, but the version of ourselves that believes our duty ends at the ballot box. Democracy does not end when we vote. It begins there.

And if we are brave enough to accept this, if we are willing to trade the comfort of hope for the discipline of vigilance, then perhaps one day we will no longer stand in crowds waiting for a hero to arrive but stand together as a people who have finally learned to govern those who claim to govern us.

#DJOT

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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 Federal Republic of Maharlika: An Alternate Universe of a Reimagined Nation

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

I remember that afternoon, February 22, 2014, at the University of the Philippines as if it were suspended between memory and meaning, one of those rare moments when ideas do not simply pass through you but stay, linger, and quietly reshape how you see the world. I was there as a guest speaker, sharing the platform with former Senator Eddie Ilarde, and the atmosphere was one of thoughtful engagement rather than spectacle. My topic was “Maharlikism: Consciousness and Counter-Consciousness as Determinants of Nationalism and Patriotism,” a discourse on how nations are not merely products of history, but of how they interpret, accept, and sometimes resist that history. I carried with me not only my academic perspective but also a personal milestone, having just been conferred the title of Datuk by the Royal Sultanate of Sabah and Sulu, reflecting on identity not just as theory, but as something lived, inherited, and continuously negotiated.

Beside me, Senator Ilarde spoke with clarity and conviction on the need to change the name of the Philippines to Maharlika. At that time, it felt like an idea that belonged more to possibility than to policy, something that could inspire thought but perhaps not immediate action. Yet as I listened, I realized that what he was proposing was not merely a legislative adjustment. It was a challenge to the very consciousness I was discussing. It was an invitation to move from an identity that is inherited toward one that is deliberately chosen.

And so, over the years, I have returned to that moment, asking a question that continues to echo. What if, in an alternate universe, that proposal did not end as a discussion within the halls of UP? What if it moved forward, was debated with urgency, and ultimately signed into law under Ferdinand Marcos? What if the Philippines, as we know it, not only changed its name but transformed its system, its structure, and its direction?

In that alternate universe, the nation became Maharlika, and with that transformation came not just a new name, but a new form of governance. The country shifted into a Federal Republic composed of the Federal States of Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao, with Manila serving as the capital estate guiding national coordination. Governance was no longer distant, no longer centralized in a way that created imbalance but was brought closer to the people, localized, responsive, and accountable.

In Luzon, development accelerated in a way that balanced both tradition and modernity. The northern corridors strengthened agriculture and energy production, while Central Luzon became a powerhouse of logistics and industrial activity. Southern Luzon, anchored by CALABARZON and Bicol, expanded manufacturing and regional connectivity, linking growth areas to the capital estate. Luzon was no longer simply the dominant region by default, but a structured economic engine aligned with national direction and federal coordination.

In the Visayas, the transformation was equally profound. Long seen as the geographic heart of the archipelago, the Visayas became the connective tissue of the federal republic. Inter-island infrastructure improved dramatically, ports became more efficient, and tourism evolved into a sustainable industry rather than a seasonal economy. Cebu, Iloilo, and other key cities emerged not just as regional hubs, but as centers of commerce, education, and innovation. The Visayas, in this alternate universe, became a model of balanced growth and cultural integration, where economic progress did not erase identity but strengthened it.

And then there was Mindanao, whose story perhaps changed the most. With the establishment of the Federal State of Mindanao, governance became immediate and relevant to its people. Investment flowed into agriculture, mining, and energy sectors, transforming the region into a critical pillar of national development. The long-standing issues that once fueled insurgency gradually disappeared, not because they were silenced, but because they were addressed at their roots. Opportunity replaced neglect, inclusion replaced marginalization, and peace emerged not as a declaration, but as a lived reality. There were no longer the shadows of insurgency in the countryside, no lingering narratives of exclusion, only a region moving forward with confidence as part of the federal whole.

At the center of all these was Manila, the capital estate of the Federal Republic of Maharlika. But in this alternate universe, Manila was no longer the overburdened center of everything. Instead, it became a true coordinating capital, a seat of governance that guided national direction without suffocating regional growth. Infrastructure in Manila was modernized, urban planning became more disciplined, and its role shifted from concentration to coordination. It became the symbolic and administrative heart of Maharlika, not by dominance, but by design.

Across the entire Federal Republic of Maharlika, the pattern was clear. Economic stability led to social stability. With opportunities distributed more widely, the hold of entrenched political dynasties began to weaken. Leadership became more competitive, more open, and more grounded in performance rather than inheritance. Governance became less about control and more about service, less about entitlement and more about accountability.

And through all these changes, the name took on a life of its own. Maharlika, as history reminds us, was not originally a kingdom but a class, a group of freemen and warriors bound by duty and responsibility. Yet in this alternate universe, it was not adopted as a claim of past greatness, but as a standard for present conduct. The Laguna Copperplate Inscription became a symbol of continuity, reminding the people that long before colonization, there was already law, governance, and structure in this land.

We were no longer Filipinos, a name historically tied to Philip II of Spain. We became Maharlikans, Maharlikano and Maharlikana, defined not by what was given to us, but by what we chose to become.

As I reflect on this imagined transformation, I am reminded that nations across history have reshaped themselves through deliberate choices of identity. Thailand, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Zimbabwe, Iran, Eswatini, and Democratic Republic of the Congo all made decisions to redefine how they saw themselves and how the world would see them.

And perhaps that is where everything comes full circle, back to that afternoon in UP, where two ideas met on one stage. Senator Ilarde spoke of the need to change the name of the nation. I spoke of consciousness and counter-consciousness as determinants of nationalism and patriotism. In that alternate universe, those two ideas converged, and the result was a nation that chose to define itself not only by what it inherited, but by what it aspired to become.

In this reality, we remain the Philippines, a name shaped by history and given meaning by generations who have endured and built a nation despite its challenges. But in that alternate universe, we became Maharlika, and in doing so, we discovered that the true transformation of a nation does not begin with a name alone, but with the courage to align that name with systems that deliver progress, equity, and dignity.

And perhaps that is the enduring lesson that remains with me, that identity is never fixed, that history is never final, and that a nation, at any moment, holds within itself the power to redefine not just what it is called, but what it truly becomes.

#DJOT

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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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