*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
Every election leaves behind more than winners and losers. When the campaign posters are torn down and the noise of politics finally fades, what remains is a quiet but unsettling question: did we truly choose the best people to lead us? I have found myself returning to this question often, especially when I reflect on the one-year election ban and how it affects individuals who may have lost at the polls but never lost their capacity—or willingness—to serve the country.
The one-year ban has a clear legal and moral rationale. It exists to prevent the abuse of public office, to draw a firm line between governance and politics, and to respect the outcome of elections. In theory, it protects democratic institutions. But in reality, it also creates an unintended consequence: it compels the nation to wait, even when the nation can no longer afford the luxury of time.
Not all who lose an election are rejected by the people. Sometimes, the loss is not a verdict on integrity or competence but a reflection of timing. The electorate may not yet be ready for certain ideas, reforms, or ways of thinking. And if we are to be brutally honest, Philippine elections are not always contests of merit. Many voters still choose based on popularity, political machinery, or name recall, while capable and principled candidates are left behind.
This is where the one-year ban on appointments of losing candidates in the recent elections becomes painfully ironic. Those who are most ready to work, to reform, and to confront corruption are forced to step aside—not because they are unfit, but because they dared to run and failed to win.
Secretary Benhur Abalos is one such case.
He did not prevail in the 2025 senatorial election, having not been endorsed by a big influential group. By the strict arithmetic of democracy, that is the end of the electoral story. But governance is not mathematics alone. It is about experience, resolve, and the courage to confront entrenched wrongdoing. Benhur Abalos has already shown, through his previous public service such as being mayor and congressman of Mandaluyong City, chairman of the Metro Manila Development Authority (MMDA), and secretary of the Department of Interior and Local Government (DILG), that he possesses these qualities. His electoral defeat did not erase his competence, nor did it diminish his readiness to serve.
Yet today, because of the one-year ban, he remains a private citizen.
I find this deeply troubling—not because elections should be disregarded, but because the country itself bears the cost of this enforced pause. At a time when corruption remains systemic, when institutions are strained, and when public trust is fragile, we are sidelining people who are willing to stand firm against abuse of power. The law does not distinguish between the unworthy and the capable. It is blunt, impartial, and, at times, indifferent to urgency.
One might argue that this is simply the price of the rule of law. Perhaps it is. But laws are not sacred simply because they exist; they must also be examined in light of their real-world consequences. When a rule designed to protect democracy ends up depriving the nation of effective leadership at a critical moment, then it deserves sober and honest reflection.
Benhur Abalos may not have been chosen by the electorate at that specific moment, but that does not mean the country no longer needs him. History teaches us that many leaders are rejected first—not because they are wrong, but because society is not yet ready for their kind of firmness, discipline, or reformist vision. Sometimes the people are not yet ready for a leader—but the nation already is.
And this is where the one-year ban begins to feel less like protection and more like punishment—not of the candidate, but of the country itself. At a time when corruption remains entrenched, when courage in public office is rare, and when integrity is often louder in defeat than in victory, we find ourselves forced to wait. Waiting not because there is no one willing to serve, but because the law tells us that service must be postponed.
Today, we badly need Benhur Abalos. We need leaders who have already shown the will to confront wrongdoing, to stand their ground, and to act without fear or favor. Yet he remains on the sidelines—not because he is unqualified, not because he is unworthy, but because he ran, lost, and must now wait.
So the question that lingers is not whether Benhur Abalos is ready to serve. The question is whether the country can afford to wait one more year before allowing someone like him to step forward.
And in the middle of corruption, uncertainty, and a nation yearning for real change, the most painful question of all remains unanswered:
We badly need Benhur Abalos now—but can we afford to keep waiting?
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*About the author:
