The Barzaga Suspension: Can Fairness Survive in a Country Where Lugaw Is Warmer Than Congress?

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

It began in the gentlest way, with my daughter Juliana Rizalhea slipping her hand into mine and asking if we could go down for lugaw. She said it calmly, her voice free of the politics and noise that fill my days. At fifteen, she reads history the way others scroll their phones, and she speaks about governance and philosophy with a maturity far beyond her age. Yet in moments like this, she is simply my daughter—seeking warmth and comfort from a bowl of rice porridge on an ordinary Quezon City evening.
 
The lugawan near our condominium has always felt like an honest part of Manila—untouched by the theatrics of power. The vendor stirred his large pot with practiced ease, releasing the familiar scent of ginger and softened rice. Around us sat construction workers still coated in dust, students flipping through notes, mothers soothing sleepy toddlers. Lugaw, in all its simplicity, has always carried a quiet fairness. It does not ask who you voted for or what party you support. It warms everyone equally.
 
We sat on old plastic stools full of scratches that wobbled just enough to remind us we were human. For a brief moment, everything felt peaceful — steam rising, city lights humming, the world briefly forgetting its chaos.
 
Then the radio crackled.
 
The announcer reported the sixty-day suspension of Congressman Barzaga, and the atmosphere subtly shifted. Then came the harsher details — fellow lawmakers mocking him, branding him “abnormal,” “mentally unstable,” “unfit.” It wasn’t discipline being described. It was humiliation disguised as governance.
 
I stared into my bowl of lugaw, struck by the contrast. The warmth in my hands felt honest. The words on the radio felt cold and calculated.
 
Because if we are to be fair, Barzaga is indeed unusual.
 
He moves as though his thoughts run faster than his feet can follow.
He gestures with wild emphasis, sometimes comedic, sometimes chaotic.
He speaks with sarcasm sharp enough to slice through pleasantries.
He takes selfies inside the plenary as if it were a tourist spot.
He goes live on Facebook at dawn, at midnight, while walking, while pacing, sometimes breathless.
He posts dramatic reels, jarring photos, and alarming captions.
 
His personality is eccentric, overwhelming, unpredictable.
 
To some, he is entertaining.
To others, he is irritating.
To his critics, he is “abnormal.”
 
But eccentricity is not immorality.
Expressiveness is not unethical.
Sarcasm is not sedition.
And being different is not being deranged.
 
And so I found myself asking:
If all these actions from other lawmakers did not merit suspension, what standard was used to judge Barzaga?
Who decided that sarcasm was more dangerous than corruption?
Who decided that hyperactivity was more unfit than hypocrisy?
Is the yardstick of Congress shaped by principle — or by convenience?
 
Because the history inside that institution is not clean.
 
There was a lawmaker who slapped a Sergeant-at-Arms inside the House — yet he was never branded mentally unstable.
There were lawmakers who openly associated with groups aligned with the CPP–NPA–NDF — yet no ethics complaint followed.
There were legislators who entertained Mindanao separatism — yet their mental fitness was never questioned.
There were those with domestic violence accusations — yet the chamber remained silent.
And today, there are lawmakers deeply entangled in billion-peso budget insertions, flood control anomalies, ghost projects, and manipulated biddings — yet they move around the plenary untouched, unsuspended, unquestioned.
 
So again — what was abnormal?
Barzaga’s gestures?
Or the system protecting those far more dangerous?
 
My sympathy toward Barzaga does not mean I support his call for President Bongbong Marcos to resign. I do not. I do not endorse the tone of his speeches or the theatrical extremes of his posts. Sympathy is not agreement. Fairness is not allegiance. And justice cannot be conditional on who we personally approve of.
 
As an educator, I must see beyond personalities and into the architecture of events. If I allow my judgment to be shaped by personal preference instead of principle, I betray my role — not as a scholar, but as someone responsible for guiding young minds who deserve honesty, not bias. My task is not to echo noise but to understand its source, its consequences, and the systems that allow it to thrive.
 
Later that night, surrounded by her books, Juliana Rizalhea asked me why Congress punished someone for being different while others who did damage were left untouched. Her clarity revealed something many adults overlook:
Selective justice is the most dangerous kind of injustice.
 
And yet, as I reflected deeper, another uncomfortable truth emerged:
I cannot fully blame every congressman who voted for Barzaga’s suspension.
 
Politics is not a temple of pure principles.
Politics is a jungle.
And in the political jungle, survival is oxygen.
 
Many who voted for the suspension may have disagreed with it privately, but inside those walls, every vote carries a cost. A wrong move can result in committee removals, budget denial, political isolation, retaliation from alliances, or the end of one’s ability to deliver projects for their district.
 
And so, painfully yet honestly, I admit:
It is the system — not merely the individuals — that pushed them toward that vote.
 
A system built on:
• political manipulation
• political blackmail
• political survival
• political self-preservation
• political loyalty tests
• political fear
• political necessity
 
Because in our political landscape, a congressman who votes with conscience may return home empty-handed — unable to bring infrastructure, scholarships, medical assistance, or livelihood funds to their constituents.
 
The people suffer for the representative’s courage.
 
This is how a broken system perpetuates broken decisions.
 
Barzaga became an easy target not because he was the guiltiest — but because he was the safest to punish.
Not because his offense was the worst — but because his behavior was the easiest to weaponize.
Not because he was dangerous — but because he was different.
 
And in such a system, difference is unforgivable.
Difference is inconvenient.
Difference is punished.
 
This is why the question arises:
Can his suspension be questioned before the Supreme Court?
The answer is clear: Yes.
And perhaps it must.
 
Because when an institution punishes eccentricity but protects corruption,
when it mocks a man’s behavior but shields true wrongdoing,
the judiciary becomes the last safeguard of fairness.
 
Much later, as I looked at the city from our window, I thought again of that bowl of lugaw. Warm, honest, comforting — everything our institutions should aspire to be.
 
Before sleeping, I checked on Juliana. She was curled up peacefully, her books neatly stacked beside her bed. And in that quiet moment, I felt the weight of the future she will inherit.
 
And so I challenge those who celebrated Barzaga’s punishment simply because they dislike him:
 
If being sarcastic is a sin,
but stealing is a strategy —
what are we defending?
 
If hyperactivity deserves suspension,
but corruption deserves silence —
what kind of morality is that?
 
If eccentricity is abnormal,
but betrayal of public trust is normal —
who is truly unfit?
 
And if you accept punishment based not on wrongdoing
but on personality,
ask yourself this:
 
What will you do when the system uses the same standard
against someone who speaks for you?
 
Because if this is the fairness we embrace,
then perhaps the last remaining place
where justice still feels human
is in a humble bowl of lugaw
shared by a single father and his daughter
on a night when the nation quietly forgot
what fairness looks like.
 
I refuse to raise Juliana in that kind of country.
And I refuse to stay silent
while convenience replaces principle
and ridicule replaces reason.
 
Fairness must stand on principle —
or it will not stand at all.

 ____

 *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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