*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I have sat
through political meetings my entire life. I’ve listened to strategists argue
over precinct behavior, organizers calculate vote projections with trembling
hands, and old party guards whisper reminders of battles fought long before
many of us were born. But one meeting remains carved into my memory—not because
of what we discussed, but because of who walked into that room, and the
arrogance he carried like perfume.
The room that
afternoon was filled with people who earned their place in provincial politics. Men who
walked mountains at midnight to escort ballot boxes. Women who negotiated rival
clans into temporary peace. Youth leaders who sacrificed their safety just to
guard a precinct. These were workers of democracy—flawed, imperfect, but real.
They carried stories on their shoulders that no textbook could ever teach.
Then the heir
arrived.
He entered with
the gait of someone raised behind high walls and guarded gates—someone who had
never tasted fear, never experienced loss, never been humbled by a barangay
captain who refused to be bought or by a crowd that refused to listen. His
confidence was not born of competence; it was born of insulation. He looked at
everyone in the room—people who had fought real battles—and treated them as if
they were the inexperienced ones.
He lectured
strategists who had survived political storms decades before he learned how to
speak in complete sentences. He corrected party elders who once saved his
father’s campaign. He scolded organizers who had built the very structures he
now pretended to lead.
His arrogance
was not learned.
It was
inherited.
It was
distilled entitlement, passed from one generation to the next.
This young man
was not the disease.
He was the
symptom.
The real
disease was the bad dynasty that shaped him.
But in fairness
to history, not all dynasties in the Philippines are malign.
Some are rare,
some are quiet, but they exist—good dynasties whose public service spans
generations like a torch passed, not a throne inherited.
There are
families whose patriarch served in the earliest days of our Republic—where
dignity was the standard and corruption a disgrace. His son rose to national
prominence not through entitlement, but through years of consistent, competent,
scandal-free service. And the grandson? He became a reformist mayor who
digitalized governance, removed fixers, humanized public service, and reminded
the country that power can be carried lightly when the heart carries the
heavier load.
In Visayas,
there is a family whose local leadership transformed from traditional politics
into genuine reform. The father modernized hospitals and emergency response;
the son returned from abroad not to flaunt credentials but to immerse himself
in agriculture, learning from farmers rather than lording over them.
In Mindanao, a
family who survived violence devoted their life to peace. Their name carries
weight not because of fear, but because of compassion. Their children inherited
this mission—not entitlement.
These are good
dynasties, and when such families rise, communities rise with them.
But beside
these good dynasties lie the dark dynasties—families who have mastered the art
of extracting wealth from public funds and extracting loyalty from public
dependence. Families whose roots wrap around entire provinces, suffocating
opportunities until only their networks can breathe.
Filipinos have
heard in the news about dynasties that control infrastructure projects whose
concrete cracks even before elections end.
About dynasties
that command private armies.
About dynasties
that run agricultural smuggling rings.
About dynasties
that siphon flood-control budgets through shell contractors.
About dynasties
that turn relocation projects into multi-billion-peso scams.
About dynasties
that dominate every bidding, every agency, every corner of their kingdom.
But perhaps
nothing reveals the rot of a bad dynasty more than this painful truth:
They keep their
people poor—on purpose.
Poverty is not
a failure for them.
It is a
strategy.
A hungry voter
is obedient.
A desperate
voter is cheap.
A poor barangay
is a treasure chest on election day.
They ensure
economic stagnation so vote-buying remains effective.
They prevent
industries from thriving so people remain dependent.
They underfund
education so critical thinking remains weak.
They suppress
empowerment because empowered citizens dismantle dynasties.
This is why
some provinces look the same today as they did 30 years ago.
This is why
some municipalities remain undeveloped despite billions in internal revenue
allotment.
This is why some families thrive even as their people barely survive.
And yet, a
tragic irony follows:
People still
vote for them.
A dynasty is
not created by birth.
It is created
by ballots.
Every vote
given to a dynasty fertilizes its roots.
Every
re-election tightens its chokehold.
Every
distributed envelope becomes another brick in their empire.
There are
always alternative candidates.
There are
always independent voices.
There are
always better choices.
But people
often choose the dynasty anyway—
because of
fear,
because of
hunger,
because of
habit,
because of a
P500 bill wrapped in “thank you.”
Then later,
they complain.
Later, they
regret.
Later, they
cry.
But the dynasty
stands tall, because the people themselves built the tower.
And so the
cycle continues.
Yet the tragedy
deepens when bad dynasties mask their corruption with concrete.
There are
cities that shine—clean streets, dancing fountains, bright lights, beautiful
plazas, wide boulevards. Tourists take photos, social media praises the local
government, and people from other towns say, “Ang ganda dito. Sana ganito rin
sa amin.”
But beauty can
be a smokescreen.
Progress can be
cosmetic.
Infrastructure can be nothing more than corruption decorated with paint.
Behind many
shining skylines lies a darker arithmetic:
in every
bridge, a kickback;
in every road,
a percentage;
in every
building, an inflated cost;
in every plaza,
a hidden deal.
Not all
infrastructure is corruption—but in the hands of a bad dynasty, it often is.
True
development is not measured by cement.
It is measured
by how many families rise because of it.
I once walked
through a city ruled by the same dynasty for over three decades.
The streets
were immaculate, the parks Instagrammable, the city hall grand enough to rival
a national museum. It looked like a model city.
But behind the
painted walls, the lives of the people remained untouched.
A tricycle
driver told me, “Sir, gumanda lang yung paligid. Pero buhay namin, hindi.”
A vendor
whispered, “Yung ginhawa, pang-picture lang. Hindi pang-katawan.”
A public school
teacher confessed, “Maganda ang city hall, pero yung estudyante ko gutom.”
A city can be
beautiful, yet its people remain broken.
A city can look rich, yet its families remain poor.
A bad dynasty
builds for visibility.
A good dynasty
builds for human dignity.
This brings us
to the most painful truth of all:
The political
dynasty we feed is the nation we become.
If we feed
dynasties that keep us poor,
we become a
country drowning in poverty.
If we feed
dynasties that mask corruption with concrete,
we become a
country blinded by illusions.
If we feed
dynasties that silence our voices,
we become a
country without a voice.
If we feed
dynasties that build monuments instead of futures,
we become a
museum of wasted potential.
But if we feed
dynasties—or leaders—who honor service, truth, and integrity,
we become a
nation capable of hope.
Because in the
end, democracy is brutally simple:
We elect the
leaders we deserve,
and we live in the country their leadership creates.
If we continue
to vote out of fear, hunger, or habit,
then we will
continue to suffer under the families who cultivate that fear, that hunger,
that habit.
But if one
day—just one election day—we choose differently,
if we dare to
vote for competence, humility, and integrity,
then perhaps
the cycle will finally break.
And when that
day comes,
when a voter
stands in front of a ballot and chooses not the dynasty they fear or the
dynasty that pays,
but the leader
who inspires—
that is the day
the Philippines will begin its long-overdue revolution.
A revolution
not of guns,
not of rallies,
not of blood—
but of ballots.
Because the
fate of this nation has always been in the hands of the people.
The tragedy is
that we have forgotten our own power.
The miracle
will begin the moment we remember.
