*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope
When I was in high school, not long after the ratification of the 1987 Constitution, one of my classmates told me, “You can be a senator someday.” At that young age, it felt like a spark — the idea that someone like me could rise to that chamber of power and lawmaking. For a time, I dreamed of it. I imagined myself standing at the Senate floor, debating policies, shaping the future of the nation. But dreams sometimes remain dreams. Life led me to other callings, other responsibilities. And so today, what I can do is not to legislate, but to watch, observe, and comment on the institution that once lived in my youthful imagination.
And what do I see when I watch the Senate today? I see not just a chamber of laws but a theater of contradictions. It is supposed to be the sanctuary of wisdom, where laws are refined and national destiny is debated. Yet too often, it has turned into a stage for grandstanding, selective outrage, and political rehearsal for 2028.
Take the Sara Duterte impeachment ruling. The Senate almost unanimously stood behind the Supreme Court, praising its wisdom. But the silence was telling. Where was the debate on the real implications of unanimity in constitutional rulings? Where was the scrutiny on whether quality of reasoning should matter more than appearance of unity? Senators hid behind safe words, careful not to offend, careful not to lose alliances. It was unity for convenience, not for courage.
In the flood control scam hearings, the Senate acted again as if it were a cleansing institution. Senators pounded the table, grilled DPWH officials, and thundered on national television. But it was hard not to notice the selectivity. Some names were dragged mercilessly, others conveniently spared. If this were truly “in aid of legislation,” why does it feel more like a ritual of political survival? Haven’t we seen this before—PDAF, fertilizer scam, Pharmally? Outrage today, forgetting tomorrow.
Another episode worth recalling is when Senate President Tito Sotto ordered the transfer—not the release—of a DPWH official cited in contempt. He kept Senate custody, only in another facility. His decision was attacked as if it were a betrayal of rules, as if he had undermined Senate power itself. But let’s be clear: Sotto was not giving up Senate authority; he was exercising discretion as the presiding officer. And truth be told, Sotto has been doing well as Senate President—steady, even-handed, and firm. Yet critics howled, not because of principle, but because of politics. The hypocrisy is glaring. When Senator Bato dela Rosa bent procedures in his PDEA leaks hearing, where were these critics? Silent. Selective. Suddenly the defenders of Senate integrity became blind when it was their ally who broke traditions.
But leadership alone cannot tame all contradictions. The minority bloc, which should be the conscience of the Senate, has also transformed. Once expected to serve as constructive opposition, its face has changed with the filibustering of Alan Peter Cayetano and Rodante Marcoleta. Cayetano, ever the master of long-winded privilege speeches, often stretches debates to exhaustion—not to enlighten, but to dominate the microphone. Marcoleta, meanwhile, buries issues under layers of technicalities and side-arguments until the central point is lost. Their style has shifted the minority’s role from oppositionist to obstructionist. Instead of sharpening legislation, they dull its progress. Instead of raising the quality of debate, they drain its purpose. And in doing so, they risk eroding the credibility of the minority itself.
And then there is federalism and charter change. Senator Robin Padilla, dismissed by critics as “unqualified,” pushes the discussion with passion. His lack of a law degree is thrown at him as if it alone disqualifies his advocacy. But where were these purists when Ping Lacson, also not a lawyer, chaired a powerful Blue Ribbon Committee years ago? Why was it acceptable then, and scandalous now? The inconsistency reveals the truth: in the Senate, rules are not rules—they are weapons, wielded against enemies but sheathed for friends.
What pains me most is not the hypocrisy of senators, but the resignation of the people. Committee hearings have become spectacles, privilege speeches reduced to soundbites for TikTok and X. The urgency of real issues—climate resilience, food security, education reform—takes a backseat to political theater. Meanwhile, outside the Senate halls, children beg in the streets, farmers cry over unsold harvests, and soldiers die in defense of our seas.
Yet even amid the noise, I see flickers of what the Senate should be. There are senators who prepare, who cite jurisprudence and data, who ask questions not to humiliate but to illuminate. When they speak of defending the West Philippine Sea, or reforming education, or demanding accountability from the powerful, I am reminded that the Senate can still be the conscience of the nation.
But those moments are rare. The louder voices, the selective outrage, the political rehearsals drown them out. The Senate mirrors the nation—brilliant in flashes, blurred by self-interest, noisy but often empty.
And sometimes, I think back to that high school classmate
who told me I could be a senator someday. Perhaps I was never meant to sit
inside that chamber. Perhaps my role is not to cast votes or sponsor bills, but
to keep watching, questioning, and reminding. Because in a democracy, even
those of us outside the halls of power must play our part: to hold the Senate
accountable, to call out its paradoxes, and to hope that someday, it will live
up to the promise it once held in my youthful dream.
