Hindi Lahat ng Bitak ay Gumuguho ang Palasyo: Ang Sigalot ng Pamilyang Marcos sa Salamin ng Kuwento ng mga Fujimori ng Peru

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

Bawat umaga, nagigising ang Pilipinas na may pasan-pasang sugat na hindi naman niya hiniling. Isang bansang naghihilom tayo—bugbog ng kontrobersiya, laslas ng korapsyon, lason ng pulitikang puno ng drama, at tahimik na dumurugo dahil sa mga alitang pampamilya na sana’y sa loob lamang ng tahanan, ngunit ngayo’y isinisigaw sa buong bayan na parang entablado ang Republika.

 

At sa kabila ng lahat ng ito, tumatayo pa rin tayo.

Dahil iyan ang likas sa Pilipino—bumangon kahit pagod, ngumiti kahit masakit, umasa kahit sugatan.

 

Kaya nang humarap si Senador Imee Marcos sa dagat ng mga kapatid sa Iglesia Ni Cristo at buong bangis na sinabi sa sambayanan na ang kanyang sariling kapatid—ang Pangulo ng Republika—ay gumagamit umano ng cocaine, parang nayanig ang hangin. Hindi malumanay ang pahayag niya. Hindi rin binalutan ng paggalang. Para itong punyal na ibinaon sa gitna ng isang pagtitipon na naghanap ng katarungan, hindi ng eskandalo.

 

Ngunit ang mas malaking pagkagulat ay hindi nanggaling sa kanya.

Nanggaling ito sa katahimikan ng taong kanyang tinuligsa.

 

Hindi sumagot si Pangulong Bongbong Marcos.

Hindi nagalit.

Hindi nagpasaring.

Hindi nag-hostile takeover ng media.

Wala.

 

Tahimik siyang bumalik sa trabaho.

 

Isang kapatid ang pinili ang entablado;

ang isa, ang trabaho.

Isang kapatid ang sumigaw;

ang isa, ay tumahimik.

 

At dito nagkaanyo ang buong kuwento—mariin, dramatiko, at tahimik na mas malakas pa sa sigaw.

 

Nakita ito ng sambayanan.

Narinig nila ang gulo—pero mas malinaw nilang nakita ang totoo.

 

Sa kabila ng akusasyon, walang malawakang panawagan na magbitiw ang Pangulo.

Walang sigaw ang Simbahang Katolika para sa pagbabagsak.

Walang deklarasyon ang INC para sa pagpapabagsak ng administrasyon.

Tahimik ang mga negosyante.

At maging ang mga maralitang sinalanta ng baha—ang tunay na nasaktan sa flood control scandal—hindi humingi ng pagpapatalsik. Ang hiningi nila ay hustisya.

 

Dahil marunong na ang Pilipino.

Mas matalino na.

Mas sugatan na, pero mas nagising.

Alam na natin: Palitan mo ang pangulo kung bulok pa rin ang sistema, babalik at babalik ka sa simula.

 

At dito pumapasok ang matinding aral ng kasaysayan.

Dahil hindi ito ang unang beses na ang mga pinuno ay may madidilim na nakaraan.

 

Puno ng ganitong mga pinuno ang kasaysayan.

 

Si John F. Kennedy, mukha ng pag-asa ng Amerika, nakipaglaban sa matinding kirot sa likod, sa mga relasyong labas sa kasal, at sa pagdepende sa mga gamot. Pero minahal pa rin siya ng bayan.

 

Si Franklin Roosevelt, tagapag-ahon ng Amerika sa depresyon, itinago ang kanyang pagkaparalisa habang pasan ang bigat ng sirang relasyon at matinding emosyonal na pasanin.

 

Si Bill Clinton, na halos lamunin ng iskandalo kasama si Lewinsky, ay naghari sa pinakamalakas na ekonomiya ng Amerika.

 

At maging si Winston Churchill, ang pinakatanyag na simbolo ng lakas sa panahon ng digmaan, ay nilamon ng depresyon na tinawag niyang “black dog” na araw-araw siyang sinusundan.

 

At sa Pilipinas, hindi rin bago ang mga aninong ito.

 

Si Ferdinand Marcos Sr. ay halo ng isang henyo at isang diktador—isang utak na makabansa at isang kamay na bakal sa iisang katawan.

Si Joseph Estrada ay pumasok sa Malacañang sa piling ng pagsamba ng masa, ngunit lumabas habang pasan ang kaso ng plunder.

Si Gloria Macapagal Arroyo ay nalubog sa mga paratang ng pandaraya at lagayan.

Si Benigno Aquino III ay sinundan ng multo ng Mamasapano at SAF 44.

 

Ngunit ang pinakamabigat na halimbawa: Rodrigo Roa Duterte.

 

Isang hayag na nagpakilalang pumatay.

 

Hindi niya ikinahiya.

Paulit-ulit niyang inulit.

Para bang ito’y medalya, hindi kasalanan.

 

At minahal siya ng DDS.

Minahal pa lalo.

Naging idolo nila siya dahil sa dilim na iyon, hindi sa kabila nito.

Ginawa nila itong simbolo ng tapang.

 

Ganito tayo ka-komplikado bilang bansa.

Nasaksihan na natin ang mga pinunong may mas mabibigat at mas madidilim na pasanin kaysa sa anumang paratang na inihagis ni Imee laban sa kanyang kapatid.

 

Kaya hindi gumuguho ang Pilipinas.

Kasi alam ng Pilipino ang kaibahan ng iskandalong personal sa pagkasira ng sistema.

 

At dito na ako nagsasalita, hindi bilang analyst, kundi bilang Pilipinong nakasaksi mismo ng kasaysayan.

 

May mga magagalit sa akin dahil hindi ko sinasabing dapat patalsikin ang Pangulo.

May mga magsasabing takot ako, o bulag, o maka-admin.

Pero hindi ito takot—alaala ito.

 

Nandoon ako sa EDSA 1.

Saksi ako sa EDSA 2.

 

Narinig ko ang sigaw ng milyun-milyon.

Narinig ko ang dasal ng bayan.

Narinig ko ang pangakong “ito na ang simula.”

 

At sa dalawang pagkakataon, nakita ko ring bumagsak ang pangako.

 

Yes, natanggal ang mga pangulo—pero ang bulok na sistema, naiwan.

Pareho pa rin ang korapsyon.

Pareho pa rin ang mga mukha sa likod ng kurtina.

Pareho pa rin ang maanomalyang sirkulo ng kapangyarihan.

 

Dalawang rebolusyon.

Dalawang pagkabigo.

Dalawang pagputok ng pag-asa na nauwi sa abo.

 

Ayoko nang umasa ng ganoong uri ng pag-asa.

Hindi na ako magpapaloko sa panibagong sigaw ng kalsada na hindi naman nag-aalok ng bagong sistema.

Hindi na ako magpapahila sa pangarap na palitan lang ang lider pero iiwan ang maysakit na ugat ng Estado.

 

Iba na ang hinahanap ko ngayon.

Mas mahirap.

Mas mabagal.

Mas masakit.

Pero mas tunay.

 

Gusto ko ng system change, hindi personality change.

Gusto ko ng bagong konstitusyon, hindi band-aid reform.

Gusto ko ng mga institusyong mas malakas kaysa sa apelyido.

Gusto ko ng hustisyang hindi nakadepende kung sino ang nasa Malacañang.

Gusto ko ng bansang hindi paulit-ulit ang trahedya.

 

At kung si PBBM ay may kasalanan man—anumang kasalanan—darating at darating ang hustisya.

Kung hindi ngayon, sa susunod na administrasyon.

Kung hindi sa korte, sa kasaysayan.

 

Kilala ng kasaysayan ang mga lumalabag.

Hindi ito nakakalimot.

Hindi ito nagpapatawad nang walang kabayaran.

At hindi ito nawawalan ng oras.

 

Kaya hindi matutulad sa Peru ang Pilipinas.

Hindi guguho ang Palasyo dahil sa sigaw ng isang kapatid.

Dahil ang Pilipino ngayon ay hindi na nadadala sa tsismis.

Hindi na nadadala sa drama.

Hindi na nadadala sa mabilisang himagsikan.

 

Ang gusto natin ay katarungan, hindi kaguluhan.

Reporma, hindi pag-aalsa.

Konstitusyonal na pagbabago, hindi paulit-ulit na EDSA.

 

Peru ay bumagsak dahil inilibing ang katotohanan.

Pilipinas ay nananatiling nakatayo dahil hinihingi natin ang katotohanan—hindi sa ingay, kundi sa hustisya.

 

Hindi lahat ng bitak ay gumuguho ang palasyo.

Ang ilan, nagpapakita lang kung saan papasok ang liwanag.

Ang ilan, nagtuturo kung anong sugat ang dapat hilumin.

At ang ilan, nagpapaalala sa atin na ang tunay na pagbabago ay hindi nanggagaling sa pagbagsak ng isang tao—kundi sa muling pagbuo ng mismong kaluluwa ng bansa.

 

At ngayon, habang ang isang kapatid ay sumisigaw at ang isa ay nananahimik, pinipili ng Pilipino ang mas makapangyarihang landas:

 

Ang pag-asa na, sa wakas, hindi na mauulit ang kasaysayan.

 _________________

Translated to English

___________

Not All Cracks Break the Palace: The Marcos Rift Through a Fujimori Lens of Peru

 

By Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

 

The Philippines wakes up each morning carrying wounds it never asked for. We are a nation still healing—bruised by corruption, stung by controversies, shaken by political theatrics, and quietly bleeding from family feuds that spill into the public square like confessions meant for the world to dissect. Yet for all these wounds, we rise. We always rise. Because rising is the only thing we Filipinos know how to do, even when our hearts are tired, even when our dreams are faded, even when our faith in leadership feels thin.

 

So when Senator Imee Marcos stepped before a sea of Iglesia Ni Cristo members and told the entire nation that her own brother—the President of the Republic—was a cocaine user, the country trembled for a heartbeat. Her words were not careful. They were not softened by love or loyalty. They were sharp, deliberate, almost surgical in their cruelty.

 

But the greater shock came not from her.

It came from the silence of the man she accused.

 

President Bongbong Marcos did not answer.

He did not deny in anger.

He did not retaliate.

He did not turn the podium into a battlefield.

 

He simply went back to work.

 

One sibling chose spectacle; the other chose silence.

One chose accusation; the other chose duty.

One shouted; one carried on.

 

And this contrast—quiet yet thunderous—became the soul of the moment.

 

Filipinos saw the drama. But they also saw through it. Because despite Imee’s explosive allegations, there was no national call for PBBM to resign, not from the Church, not from the INC, not from the elites, and not from the poor who suffered the floods.

Filipinos asked not for a fall, but for accountability.

Not for chaos, but for justice.

 

Because we, as a nation, have learned the hardest lesson history could teach: leaders have always carried shadows. And the world has always been led by men—and women—whose private lives were often darker than their public victories.

 

History is full of such leaders.

 

John F. Kennedy, the golden boy of American hope, lived with chronic back pain so agonizing he could barely stand. He drowned himself in painkillers and entangled himself in extramarital affairs. Yet America loved him—deeply, blindly, almost religiously.

 

Franklin Roosevelt—hero of the Great Depression and architect of the New Deal—hid his paralysis from the public eye. Behind closed doors, he bore the pain of a broken marriage and the psychological toll of illness. Still, he became one of America’s greatest presidents.

 

Bill Clinton survived the humiliation of the Lewinsky scandal, a moral earthquake that would have shattered lesser men. Yet he presided over one of the strongest economic booms in U.S. history.

 

Even Winston Churchill, the man who stood against Hitler with unmatched courage, battled a depression so deep he named it “the black dog.” He drank too much. He cried often. But he saved a continent.

 

And here at home, our leaders carried their own shadows.

 

Ferdinand Marcos Sr. embodied both statesmanlike brilliance and authoritarian brutality in one complicated heartbeat.

Joseph Estrada entered Malacañang with the love of the masses and left its gates under charges of plunder.

Gloria Macapagal Arroyo navigated the storms of electoral fraud, corruption scandals, and political isolation.

Benigno Aquino III spent his term haunted by Mamasapano, SAF 44, and the weight of expectations he could never fully meet.

 

But perhaps the most jarring example of all is Rodrigo Roa Duterte.

 

A self-confessed killer.

 

He admitted it loudly.

He admitted it repeatedly.

He admitted it with a sense of pride—as though killing were a credential, not a confession.

 

And yet the DDS adored him even more.

They worshipped his darkness.

They embraced his ruthlessness.

They made a hero out of a man who celebrated violence.

 

This is who we are as a nation:

A people who have seen presidents with sins far greater, darker, and more violent than anything Imee hurled at her brother.

A people who know the difference between personal scandal and systemic collapse.

A people who no longer rise for gossip—but rise only when the system betrays us.

 

And here is where I speak not just as an observer, but as a Filipino who lived through history’s flame.

 

There are those who may hate me for saying that I do not wish for the president’s swift downfall. They may call me blind, cowardly, or complicit. But I say this not from fear—I say it from memory.

 

Because I was there at EDSA 1.

And I was there at EDSA 2.

 

I felt the electricity of hope surging through millions.

I believed in the righteousness of our cause.

I believed we were tearing down darkness so the country could finally breathe.

 

But in the quiet years that followed, hope slowly collapsed.

The same corrupt networks resurfaced.

The same dynasties returned.

The same wounds reopened.

 

And then EDSA 2 came—another explosion of hope, another promise that we were finally free.

Yet after the confetti fell and the cheers faded, we realized the truth:

 

We removed presidents, not systems.

We toppled leaders, not corruption.

We changed the faces, not the foundations.

 

Hope betrayed twice is a wound that never fully heals.

 

And that is why I refuse to hope that kind of hope again.

 

I do not want another EDSA.

I do not want another revolution wrapped in euphoria but destined for disappointment.

I do not want another cycle of anger mistaken for reform.

 

I want something deeper.

Harder.

Slower.

But permanent.

 

I want systems change, not personality change.

I want a new constitution, not a recycled political circus.

I want institutions stronger than surnames.

I want justice that does not depend on who sits in Malacañang.

I want a country that stops repeating its tragedies every decade.

I want a nation my daughter can rely on—not a nation held hostage by political theatrics.

 

And if PBBM is guilty of anything—anything at all—then justice will still reach him.

If not today, then tomorrow.

If not under his own term, then under the next.

Because history is patient.

History takes its time.

But history never forgets.

 

This is why the Marcos sibling rift—no matter how dramatic, no matter how loud, no matter how explosive—Imee’s accusations may be, does not shake the foundations of the state.

Because the Filipino people now understand:

Removing a president is easy.

Rebuilding a country is hard.

 

Peru shook because its truth was suffocated.

The Philippines stands because its people demand truth—slowly, painfully, but through justice, not chaos.

 

Not all cracks break the palace.

Some cracks simply reveal where the light must enter.

Some cracks teach us that revolutions are loud but fleeting…

while reforms are quiet but lasting.

 

And today, as one sibling screams and the other chooses silence, the Filipino chooses something infinitely more powerful:

 

The hope that this time, history will not repeat itself.

 

____

 *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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