In a Parallel Universe of Dignity and Discipline: What If Ping Lacson and Tito Sotto Had Won in 2022?

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

I became a fan of interdimensional travel after watching the television series Sliders, which explores multiple universes.  There are times when I allow my mind to wander to that other timeline, that alternate universe in which the elections of 2022 were decided differently, while I am sitting by my desk in my home office and drinking hot chocolate. In that world, the people voted not for charisma, not for dynasty, and not for political machinery, but for discipline and dignity. In that world, Panfilo “Ping” Lacson raised his hand as President of the Republic, and Vicente “Tito” Sotto III stood beside him as Vice President—the calm and collected counterpart to the quiet and calculating reformer. I often imagine how the Philippines would look today, and every time, I find myself smiling—not because it would have been perfect, but because it would have been cleaner, calmer, and more honest.

In that parallel universe, the day Lacson took his oath, there was no thunder of grand promises. There was only the solemn voice of a man who had seen how corruption eats from the inside, who had walked through the corridors of the Senate holding a flashlight into the dark corners of the national budget. From the very start, there were no illusions — only the promise of order. The bureaucracy began to move like a disciplined battalion. Paperwork no longer slept on dusty desks. Procurement became traceable, and every centavo spent was accounted for. Gone were the days of ghost projects and padded budgets. People didn’t have to shout on social media to demand accountability because the system itself demanded it.

It wasn’t glamorous, that government. There were no colorful press conferences or dramatic tirades. Instead, there was silence — the kind of silence you get when people are actually working. The agencies, once sluggish, became efficient. The Office of the President stopped being a stage for speeches and became a command center for reform. And when you talked to the people in that alternate Philippines, you would sense pride — quiet, steady pride that comes from knowing your taxes are respected.

Vice President Tito Sotto, on the other hand, was the voice that reached the people’s hearts. He spoke like a friend who explained complex policies in words everyone could understand. He balanced Lacson’s sternness with humor and empathy, making governance relatable again. Instead of political tension, there was calm collaboration between Malacañang and the Senate. The opposition didn’t have to scream to be heard because the administration actually listened. Sotto became the great interpreter between the technocrats and the tricycle drivers, between the policy-makers and the public. Together, they made government sound less like an order and more like a conversation.

Economically, the country in that parallel timeline was not dependent on slogans but on structure. There were no massive dole-outs for temporary applause. Instead, there were real incentives for farmers, local entrepreneurs, and honest public servants. The “Build, Build, Build” program was reborn as “Build with Integrity.” Projects were completed on time because nobody dared pocket public funds under Lacson’s watchful eye. The business community started returning, foreign investors began to trust again, and the peso found stability not through manipulation, but through management. The Philippines, finally, was not the joke of Southeast Asia but the example of fiscal prudence.

Peace and order in that world were not defined by fear. The war on drugs was fought with intelligence, rehabilitation, and community programs. The police were no longer afraid of oversight because they were trained to act with integrity. Human rights and discipline existed together — not as opposites, but as partners. The military and the police worked together under one philosophy: service without corruption. The streets were safer not because of extrajudicial power, but because of restored respect for the law.

In foreign policy, Lacson’s steady hand turned the Philippines into a nation that stood tall without shouting. The West Philippine Sea issue was handled with firmness and respect, backed by intelligence and diplomacy. We neither bowed to Beijing nor clung blindly to Washington. Our Coast Guard was modernized, our military professionalized, and our diplomats empowered. We became a country that negotiated from strength, not desperation.

What made that universe beautiful was not just the leadership, but the moral climate it created. Integrity became fashionable again. There were no Cabinet secretaries flaunting luxury watches or mistresses on social media. There were no power-hungry presidential cousins or public officials behaving like royalty. The people were not afraid of their government, and the government was not ashamed of its people. There was no endless noise, no empty wars of words—only the quiet confidence that comes when competence governs.

I imagine Lacson walking through the corridors of Malacañang without fanfare, just a man doing his job, the same way he combed through the national budget as senator — meticulous, methodical, and incorruptible. And beside him, Tito Sotto, greeting janitors by name, joking with the press, translating the President’s policies into something the masses could understand. Together they represented balance: intellect and empathy, logic and heart, law and laughter.

In that parallel universe, I believe the Philippines was not richer in gold, but richer in dignity. There were fewer scandals, fewer memes, and more respect for facts. The young were inspired to serve, not to scam. The old felt proud to have lived long enough to see government done right. It wasn’t a perfect country, but it was a country with a conscience.

And then I look back at this world, take a deep breath, and whisper to myself — maybe that universe isn’t entirely gone… maybe it’s just waiting for its rightful turn, hidden beneath the rhythm of the deeply flooded events, quietly aligning itself with the law of time and destiny.

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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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When Systems Stall and Conscience Moves: Organized Crime and the Power of a Resolution

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

It was a humid afternoon inside a cramped operations room in Camp Crame. The walls were cluttered with maps of the Philippines, filled with pins marking syndicate routes — red for drug trafficking, blue for smuggling, and yellow for cybercrime hubs. Around the table, men and women from different agencies debated with quiet urgency. The intelligence was credible, the suspects were identified, and the team was ready. Yet everything stood still.

Someone finally whispered, “Sir, we want to move… but we can’t.”

It was not fear that froze the room — it was limitation. The Presidential Anti-Organized Crime Commission (PAOCC), under Executive Order No. 46, had the vision to fight organized crime and the moral legitimacy to lead the nation’s anti-crime efforts. But it also had a leash: it could coordinate, but not command; recommend, but not always act. Its personnel were drawn from other agencies, its operations reliant on cooperation. The Commission was like a lion behind glass — fierce in intent, but confined by its design (Official Gazette, 2011).

That day, I understood something profound: sometimes, justice is not delayed by evil, but by administrative paralysis.

Years later, that moment returned to me when I heard the name Gen. Benjamin Acorda Jr. again — no longer as a classroom participant, but as a national figure. He was once my student in the Directorial Staff Course, a man whose silence often spoke louder than speeches. During one of our leadership sessions, I asked the class, “What is the hardest part of command?”

He paused, then said softly, “Sir, it’s doing the right thing when no one agrees with you.”

Those words, simple but resolute, encapsulated the kind of moral leadership our institutions desperately need — especially within structures as limited yet essential as the PAOCC.

Through the years, I have seen officers struggle not because they lacked courage, but because the system lacked flexibility. Investigations stalled over clearances. Coordination drowned in hierarchy. Good people were left waiting for authorizations while criminals moved freely. These are not the failures of individuals; they are the cracks of a fragmented system.

Under EO 46, the PAOCC’s member-agencies — the PNP, NBI, PDEA, NICA, DOJ, AFP, DICT, BOC, BI, and others — carry immense collective power. Yet that power remains dormant without an operational mechanism that unites them beyond formality. It is within this context that the creation of a Task Force on Organized Crime, through a Resolution of the Member-Agencies under Executive Order No. 46, becomes not only logical but moral.

Such a resolution is not rebellion; it is redemption. It allows the Commission to act within its mandate yet transcend its paralysis. Through joint commitment, the member-agencies can give the PAOCC a body capable of movement — a structure that respects legal bounds but breathes with unity and resolve.

This is not about creating another office; it is about awakening a conscience. The fight against organized crime cannot be won by laws alone — it must be fought by men and women who still believe that integrity has a place in governance.

When I think of Gen. Acorda, I see that belief personified. He was never loud, but his quiet strength could steady a storm. He proved that the most effective leaders are those who guide systems that are slow to move — not with impatience, but with patience anchored in purpose.

He once told me, “Sir, systems may stall, but conscience doesn’t.”

And perhaps, that is why his leadership resonates in a time when institutions often forget their humanity.

The envisioned resolution among the PAOCC member-agencies will breathe new life into the Commission’s mandate. It will transform its coordination into collaboration, its structure into synergy, its silence into strategy. When the agencies finally sign that document — when the PNP, NBI, PDEA, and others commit their best officers to a shared cause — it will be more than administrative reform. It will be an act of faith in the system’s ability to correct itself.

The title of the resolution may speak of organized crime, but its real enemy is disorganization — the scattered will of institutions trapped in their own walls. This resolution will remind them that they were not created to compete but to cooperate; not to protect their turf, but to protect the Republic.

I often think back to that day in Camp Crame — that moment of stillness when everyone wanted to move but couldn’t. I imagine that if the Resolution had already existed, if unity had already been institutionalized, the story would have ended differently.

And now, perhaps it can.

When systems stall, conscience must move. And when it does — guided by the kind of moral leadership embodied by men like Gen. Benjamin Acorda Jr. — it has the power to turn even the most limited structure into a force of transformation.

This, after all, is the quiet revolution our institutions need: not the noise of new laws, but the moral movement of existing ones finally fulfilled.

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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 Man Who Said What We Couldn’t: A Reflective Dissection of Secretary Larry Gadon

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

There was a morning when I scrolled through social media and saw once again the name Larry Gadon trending. As usual, people were divided—some laughing, others cursing, and a few quietly nodding in agreement but afraid to say so aloud. I found myself staring at the screen, thinking: why does this man stir so much emotion in us? Why does his anger, his loudness, even his profanity, reflect something deeply buried in the Filipino psyche?

When people hear the name Larry Gadon, they immediately think of the word “bobo.” Ironically, he is despised for calling others stupid—yet what he actually despises is stupidity itself. In a nation struggling between apathy and awakening, Gadon stands as that one voice willing to shout what the rest of us only whisper. We may not always agree with his words, but we cannot deny that his courage exposes a truth about our society: that we have grown afraid to speak.

As an educator and political analyst, I have seen how silence breeds corruption, and how fear allows falsehoods to thrive. There are truths that never make it to the classroom or the newsroom because they are too controversial, too “uncomfortable,” or too politically incorrect. And then comes Larry Gadon—breaking that silence, crossing lines, and saying what most Filipinos dare not say. It is easy to label him rude or arrogant, but behind his roughness lies a man unafraid to confront hypocrisy.

I often tell my students that courage does not always come dressed in eloquence or diplomacy. Sometimes, courage comes wrapped in profanity. Gadon’s words, harsh as they may sound, resonate with a kind of raw honesty that this country often lacks. He says what millions feel but cannot utter for fear of cyberbullying, ridicule, or professional backlash. Yet, Gadon seems immune to all that. He eats cyberbullying for breakfast, laughs at insults, and carries on as if the whole nation’s judgment were just noise.

I am not saying we should emulate his manner of speech. What I am saying is that society needs people like him—those who disturb our comfort zones, challenge our tolerance for stupidity, and remind us that democracy thrives not in uniformity but in fearless diversity. Every generation has its provocateur: someone misunderstood, often mocked, but necessary for the times.

Gadon’s disbarment is not merely a punishment—it is a statement about how uncomfortable truth-tellers can be. The establishment often silences those who are too loud, too blunt, or too fearless. But in doing so, they forget that even in his defiance, Gadon has become a mirror of what the Filipino soul longs for: freedom to speak without fear, courage to call out wrongs, and the audacity to challenge the powerful.

To some, he is a villain; to others, a folk hero. For me, he is a necessary character in this chaotic theater we call the Philippine Republic. Because when the refined refuse to speak, the rough will rise to do it. When the educated grow timid, the passionate will roar. And in that roar—sometimes messy, sometimes vulgar—lies the unfiltered voice of a nation yearning to be heard.

Yes, Larry Gadon may not fit the mold of a saint or a scholar. But he is, in his own unorthodox way, a reminder that silence is not always golden. In times when truth trembles, sometimes what we need is not politeness—but a man unafraid to shout, “Bobo ka!” if only to wake a sleeping nation.

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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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PBBM and the Psychological Dynamics of Source Bias: When Truth Loses Its Voice

Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

It was a humid afternoon in a small café somewhere in Quezon City.n Quezon City. I was sitting quietly at another table with my daughter, Juliana Rizalhea, sipping her favorite iced chocolate, when we both overheard a loud conversation from a nearby group of friends. They were arguing about a news report on the President’s new infrastructure project. One of them, a young engineer, explained that the plan could ease traffic and create thousands of jobs. But before he could finish, another friend interrupted, scoffing: “Ah, that’s fake! Coming from him? Impossible.” Nobody bothered to check the details. Nobody read the report. The judgment was instant — not on the project, but on the person behind it. I looked at Juliana, who simply shook her head, and I told her softly, “Anak, that’s what they call source bias — when people judge truth based on who said it, not what was said.”

That brief moment stayed with me. Because in that small café scene, I saw a mirror of what is happening to our country. Source bias doesn’t just distort facts; it erases the chance for truth to even be heard.

I have always believed that leadership, no matter how imperfect, deserves a fair hearing. Yet in this age of algorithm and outrage, fairness has become a scarce virtue. What I see today is not merely political division — it is psychological conditioning. It is the Psychological Dynamics of Source Bias at work, shaping the way we see, hear, and even feel about our leaders, regardless of what they do or say.

This, sadly, is the predicament of President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. (PBBM). The President now faces an invisible enemy — not rebellion, not insurgency, but perception. The moment he speaks, the comment section explodes. Before his words even settle, interpretations rise like wildfire. A single slip of the tongue becomes proof of incompetence. A well-intentioned statement becomes propaganda. His achievements — though real — are dismissed as theatrics. And his failures, amplified like echoes in a tunnel, define his entire being in the public eye.

It is painful to watch, not because we must agree with him, but because we must understand the psychology behind what is happening. Source bias is the human tendency to judge the truth of a message not by its content but by the person who delivers it. When people have already decided that they dislike the source, no truth can penetrate. The mind closes, the heart hardens, and the eyes refuse to see. This kind of bias slowly erodes the integrity of leadership, not because the leader stops working, but because the people stop believing.

And when belief is gone, governance collapses from within. A leader who speaks with sincerity is mocked; a policy born of good intention is dismissed as deceit. The Psychological Dynamics of Source Bias turn credibility into a casualty — they kill trust without firing a bullet. They destroy not only the reputation of a leader but also the moral fabric of a nation that depends on faith in its institutions.

History has shown us how this phenomenon leads to downfall. In the post-war era, leaders who once inspired nations fell not from corruption or war, but from relentless public conditioning. Take Winston Churchill — the man who led Britain through its darkest days was voted out after victory because the people grew weary of his voice. It was not his policy that failed, but perception that shifted. Once bias sets in, even greatness becomes invisible.

That is what source bias does — it blinds a nation to its own good. Even if PBBM works tirelessly in his final years to uplift the economy, restore agricultural stability, and protect national sovereignty, it will mean little to those who already decided that everything he does is wrong. In their eyes, he can do nothing right anymore. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous point of no return in a democracy: when truth loses its power to heal because it has already been condemned by the mouth that speaks it.

It’s easy to say that leaders should simply prove themselves through action. But in an age ruled by perception, even action can be misinterpreted. A new farm-to-market road becomes “photo opportunity.” A foreign investment meeting becomes “damage control.” A gesture of compassion becomes “acting.” The bias is not just emotional — it is systemic, reinforced by social media influencers, partisan journalists, and echo chambers that profit from outrage.

The Psychological Dynamics of Source Bias do not only destroy the image of a leader; they weaken the faith of a people in the very concept of leadership. They breed cynicism, and cynicism is the death of national unity. When people stop believing in anyone, they stop believing in themselves. The downfall of any nation begins not in corruption or poverty, but in the day its citizens lose the capacity to discern truth from prejudice.

And so I write this not as a defense of PBBM, but as a warning to a nation. When we allow our biases to dictate our judgment, we become prisoners of our own emotions. When we reject truth simply because we dislike the source, we are not proving intelligence — we are confessing blindness.

In the end, leadership can survive criticism but not disbelief. A country can survive mistakes, but not mistrust. And when the Psychological Dynamics of Source Bias rule over reason, no government, no matter how sincere, can lead a people who refuse to listen.

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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.

VIEWS: 880K