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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Alex Eala, Constitutional Reform and the Politics of Avoiding Accountability

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

I still remember the sound of tennis before I understood its rules. The dull thud of the ball on the court, the hush of the crowd between points, the silence that felt heavier than the racket itself. As a child, I would sit in front of the television watching figures who seemed almost unreal—Björn Borg dismantling opponents with ice-cold calm, Jimmy Connors fighting every point like it was personal survival, Martina Navratilova redefining excellence through relentless discipline. I did not yet understand rankings or tactics, but I understood something instinctively: tennis was honest. You could argue with the screen, complain about calls, or wish for miracles—but when match point ended, so did the argument. The scoreboard told the truth.

That lesson stayed with me.

Years later, watching Alex Eala, that same childhood feeling returned. The same silence before a serve. The same clarity of consequence. The same unforgiving honesty. And suddenly, tennis stopped being just a sport I loved and became a mirror—reflecting not only an athlete’s journey, but the condition of a country.

I am writing this, for now, plainly as a wishful-thinking citizen who still hopes—perhaps stubbornly—that this country can become the honest, accountable nation it keeps promising to be. That is why the story of Alex Eala stays with me—not simply because she wins, but because of how she wins. Alone on a court far from home, bound by rules she did not write, yet fully accountable for every mistake she makes.

There are no loopholes in tennis. The ball is either in or out. The score is mercilessly honest. You cannot delay a loss through motions. You cannot reinterpret a bad serve. You cannot hide behind technicalities. Alex Eala lives inside that clarity. She trains knowing that effort will be exposed, failure will be public, and excuses will be useless. And still—still—she chooses discipline. Still, she chooses integrity. Still, she raises the Philippine flag with humility, as if to remind us that this pride is not borrowed. It is earned.

That quiet courage hurts when contrasted with what we have become at home.

While a young Filipina earns honor through sacrifice, many of our elected officials earn wealth through delay. While Alex respects the rules of the game, corrupt businessmen exploit the rules of governance. While she accepts defeat as a lesson, hoodlums in robes and suits treat accountability as an attack. Our democracy has slowly become a place where losing power is unacceptable, but losing honor is routine.

The recent decision of the Supreme Court of the Philippines on impeachment crystallized this painful reality. What should have been a constitutional process of political accountability was reduced to a technical puzzle—timelines dissected, procedures elevated, substance set aside. Justice did not fail loudly. It failed politely. It failed legally. It failed in a way that left no one personally guilty, yet left the people collectively disappointed. As a sports fan, it felt like watching a match where the scoreboard was ignored and the result decided in a room far from the court.

I am not obsessed with doctrine, but I recognize patterns. When accountability repeatedly dies by technicality, the problem is no longer interpretation—it is design. Our Constitution, noble in intention, has developed weaknesses in practice: gaps where delay thrives, spaces where power hides, corners where corruption waits patiently. These weaknesses are not accidental. They are exploited deliberately by those who understand that in our system, time is the most valuable currency.

But there is another truth we can no longer avoid. Our Constitution is also struggling to keep pace with globalization.

Alex Eala’s own development is proof of how the modern world works. Sports today thrive in an open, global ecosystem—international academies, foreign coaches, cross-border competition, global sponsorships, and unrestricted investment in talent. No serious sporting nation limits excellence by fearing foreign participation. We celebrate it because it works. We cheer when a Filipino athlete trains abroad, absorbs global standards, and competes with the world’s best.

Yet in our economy, we hesitate.

We still cling to restrictive ownership rules born from a different era, as if capital, technology, and expertise are threats rather than tools. Many countries have already amended their constitutions or laws to allow 100 percent foreign ownership in key sectors, recognizing that openness is not surrender but adaptation. In sports, we understand this instinctively. In governance and the economy, we resist it—at great cost.

A Constitution that allows accountability to be neutralized by procedure and opportunity to be repelled by fear does double damage. It protects incompetence and drives away progress. Reform, therefore, is not betrayal. It is survival.

Alex Eala does not benefit from time. She races against it. Youth fades. Opportunity narrows. Every missed training session is a loss that can never be recovered. That is why her victories feel clean and emotional. She pays the price upfront—in sweat, loneliness, and discipline. Our leaders, by contrast, postpone payment indefinitely. They appeal, reconsider, reinterpret, and reframe until accountability grows old and collapses from exhaustion—and opportunity quietly leaves.

I have sat in rooms where urgency was theatrical but action was postponed. I have seen budgets praised in daylight and twisted in darkness. I have watched democracy turn into performance—noisy, dramatic, hollow. And then I watch Alex, silent between points, eyes focused, breathing steady, and I remember Borg’s calm, Connors’ fire, Navratilova’s relentless preparation. I am reminded that greatness is not influence. It is restraint. Not power, but responsibility.

This is why constitutional change can no longer be dismissed as impatience or ambition. It is about aligning our political and economic systems with moral and global reality. A Constitution that allows impeachment to be neutralized by procedure does not protect democracy; it numbs it. A Constitution that resists globalization does not protect Filipinos; it limits them.

Alex Eala competes in a system where rules are strict but fair, and opportunity is global. Our political system is strict on the powerless, flexible for the connected, and fearful of openness. That imbalance teaches the young a dangerous lesson—that integrity is optional, that shortcuts are smarter, that honesty is admirable but impractical. And yet Alex stands there, disproving that lie with every match she plays.

Every time she wins, she tells the world that Filipinos can succeed without cheating and without hiding. Every time our institutions fail to hold power accountable or adapt to a changing world, we tell ourselves the opposite. One story builds character. The other erodes it.

In the end, this is not really about tennis. It is about accountability and courage in a global age. On the court, the score ends the argument. In government, the argument is often used to erase the score and delay reform.

The politics of avoiding accountability—and avoiding the world—is not an accident. It is a choice. And until we confront that choice, our cleanest victories will continue to happen far from home, on courts where excuses do not work, borders do not limit excellence, delay does not help, and accountability cannot be appealed.

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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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