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.

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Gilas Was Ready, But the Whistle Blew Before Tip-Off

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

I did not think of law when I read the Supreme Court ruling. I did not think of doctrines, footnotes, or technical phrases. What came to my mind was basketball—because that is how Filipinos understand fairness, struggle, and heartbreak.

I imagined Gilas Pilipinas about to face China. The players were ready. The lineup was strong. The coaches had studied every move, every weakness, every possible adjustment. The country was watching. There was no promise of victory, only the hope of a fair fight. The anthem played. The ball was ready at center court. And then, just before the tip-off, the whistle blew—not for a foul, not for a violation, but to cancel the game entirely. Papers filed weeks ago were suddenly enough to erase months of preparation. No first quarter. No defense. No chance to see what the team was made of.

That was the heaviness I felt when the impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte was stopped—not because the accusations were proven false, not because the evidence was weak, but because the process itself was declared invalid before it was allowed to breathe.

I have spent years teaching young minds, serving in public safety, and observing how institutions work under pressure. I respect rules. I understand procedure. But I also know that rules were never meant to silence the truth before it speaks. Preparation means nothing if you are never allowed to step onto the court.

I lived through the impeachment of President Joseph Estrada. I remember those days vividly. The country felt tense, divided, restless. Allegations were read on television. Evidence was debated openly. Senators argued not as polished performers but as human beings burdened by history. It was noisy. It was emotional. It was flawed. But it was alive. The process moved forward, imperfectly, painfully, but visibly. The Supreme Court did not stop the game mid-play. It did not disqualify the match before the first whistle. It allowed the political process to unfold, to struggle, and eventually to collapse under the weight of reality.

Only after the nation had already felt the breaking point did the Court step in—not to judge the impeachment, but to recognize what had already happened on the ground. That was restraint. That was trust in democracy, messy as it was.

Today, the feeling is different. In the Sara Duterte case, the game never started. The Court did not wait for evidence to be weighed or arguments to be tested. It did not allow the House to fully deliberate or the Senate to even prepare for trial. Instead, it ruled that earlier complaints—some barely heard, some barely acted upon—had already triggered a constitutional clock. And just like that, the door closed.

It was at this point that the words of SP Tito Sotto echoed with painful clarity. When he said that impeachment has now become an “impossible dream,” he was not exaggerating. He was expressing a hard truth that many citizens quietly felt but could not articulate. If impeachment can be stopped before it even reaches the Senate—before evidence is weighed, before truth is tested—then accountability itself begins to feel unreachable, almost theoretical.

To lawyers, this may sound correct, even elegant. To ordinary Filipinos, it feels cold. It feels like telling a team that trained with discipline and sacrifice that their efforts no longer matter because of a technicality they did not commit. It leaves people staring at an empty court, asking softly, “So we will never know?”

When people ask me if the Supreme Court contradicted itself compared to the Estrada case, I answer carefully. On paper, no. The doctrines were not overturned. The language of the Constitution was not rewritten. But as a citizen, as an educator, and as a father explaining this to the next generation, I feel something deeper. The Court may not have contradicted its words, but it changed how it referees democracy.

Before, the Court trusted the people and their representatives to wrestle with truth, even if the fight was ugly. Now, it trusts procedure more than process, finality more than participation. One approach allows the game to be played, even if it ends in heartbreak. The other ends the game before anyone breaks a sweat.

This is why many Filipinos are not angry—they are simply sad.

Impeachment was never meant to be comfortable. It was designed to be painful, revealing, and risky. The one-year bar was meant to protect officials from harassment, not to shield them from ever being questioned. When procedure becomes a wall instead of a guide, accountability quietly slips away—until what was once a constitutional safeguard becomes, as Senator Sotto warned, an impossible dream.

In basketball, Filipinos do not demand automatic victory from Gilas. We only ask for a fair chance to fight, to lose honorably if we must, or to win honestly if we can. In democracy, it is the same. We are not asking for convictions. We are not demanding acquittals. We are only asking that the game be allowed to begin.

Because when the whistle blows too early, no one truly wins. We are all left watching an empty court, wondering what truth might have emerged—if only the ball had been tossed.

_____

*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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