*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I remember reading about a country that woke up one morning believing history had already turned its page. The flags were changed, the palace was occupied, and a new leadership announced itself to the world with certainty. Yet outside its borders, there was only silence. No recognition. No congratulations. Only cautious statements and frozen decisions. It was Afghanistan in 2021, when the Taliban regained control. They held the streets and the ministries, but not the confidence of the international community. That pause—quiet, diplomatic, and devastating—hurt the nation more deeply than the gunfire that preceded it. Control was achieved overnight. Legitimacy was not.
That memory refuses to leave me today.
When I hear public calls for a “one-time, big-time” rally to remove President Bongbong Marcos, I do not hear courage or reform. I hear a dangerous assumption echoing through our political discourse: that a government can fall on any given day, and that whatever follows will naturally be accepted—by the people, by institutions, and by the world. This assumption is reckless. And what makes it more alarming is how casually it is spoken.
When figures like Chavit Singson talk about sudden mobilization, many dismiss it as political theater. But history teaches us that destabilization does not begin with tanks rolling down avenues. It begins with language that normalizes rupture. It begins when the idea that any day can be the day becomes socially acceptable. From that moment on, every day becomes destabilization day.
The most uncomfortable question—the one few are willing to ask aloud—is not whether a sitting president can be ousted. History has proven, time and again, that it can happen. The real question is this: What happens the day after? Who governs not just in name, but in legitimacy? Who speaks for the country when foreign governments quietly ask, “Is this constitutional? Is this stable? Is this permanent?”
This question becomes heavier when we consider the Philippines’ current geopolitical posture. The country today maintains a strong and explicit strategic relationship with the United States. This relationship is not abstract or sentimental; it is operational. It is anchored in active defense arrangements such as the Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement and reinforced daily by shared security concerns—most critically, the ongoing tensions in the West Philippine Sea. These are not optional commitments. They are visible signals of alliance, deterrence, and continuity.
Any abrupt or extra-constitutional change in leadership would inevitably force Washington and its allies to pause, reassess, and review the legitimacy of the new government. Recognition, in such moments, does not arrive automatically. It is withheld until clarity emerges. And in geopolitics, that pause alone can be destabilizing.
Some assume that if President Marcos Jr. were suddenly removed, Vice President Sara Duterte would seamlessly assume power and inherit full international recognition. That assumption ignores how foreign policy perceptions shape legitimacy. Fairly or unfairly, she is widely viewed as inheriting her father’s foreign policy posture—one seen as more accommodating toward China. In a time when maritime disputes are intensifying and alliances are being stress-tested, such perceptions matter. They influence trust, security, cooperation, and diplomatic confidence.
The effects of non-recognition by the United States and its allies would not be symbolic. They would be immediate and deeply damaging. Economically, uncertainty would ripple through markets. Foreign investors would hesitate. Credit risk would be reassessed. Development financing would slow or become conditional. The peso would feel pressure driven not only by fundamentals, but by fear. And fear, once embedded in markets, is notoriously hard to reverse.
Politically, non-recognition fractures authority. A government questioned abroad becomes vulnerable at home. Bureaucracies slow down, unsure whose signature will still matter weeks from now. Institutions become cautious rather than decisive. Opposition forces grow bolder. Loyalists grow anxious. Governance shifts from leadership to survival.
The security implications are even more severe. Agreements like EDCA are built on trust, constitutional continuity, and recognized authority. In a scenario where recognition is withheld, EDCA would not necessarily be terminated—but it would enter a dangerous gray zone. Joint exercises could be paused. Intelligence sharing could be downgraded. Forward planning could be frozen under “policy review.” In geopolitics, a pause is often more damaging than a withdrawal because it signals uncertainty to both allies and adversaries.
This uncertainty would directly weaken the Philippines’ position in the West Philippine Sea. Maritime disputes are not sustained by declarations alone. They rely on alliance credibility, consistent presence, and the belief—by both friends and rivals—that commitments will hold under pressure. Political instability and diplomatic hesitation erode deterrence without a single shot being fired. Patrols become cautious. Protests lose weight. Adversaries calculate not just capability, but resolve.
We have seen this story before. Venezuela’s long crisis was not merely about ideology or sanctions. It was about fractured recognition, frozen assets, paralyzed institutions, and a nation caught between competing claims of legitimacy. When the world cannot agree on who truly represents a country, that country begins to unravel from within.
The Philippines is not immune to such a fate. Our strategic value—our geography, our alliances, our role in regional balance—means that any sudden political rupture will never be treated as a purely domestic matter. It will be weighed, judged, and acted upon by others. Aid pauses. Investments freeze. Security cooperation enters review. Silence becomes policy.
I write this not to defend personalities or political dynasties. I write this out of concern for the state. Political ambition is temporary. National credibility is not. Once a country earns the reputation of being perpetually unstable, recognition becomes conditional, alliances become transactional, and sovereignty quietly erodes.
Every day now is destabilization day, not because the government is about to fall, but because we have allowed the idea of collapse to become casual conversation. And when collapse becomes casual, preparation replaces trust—both at home and abroad.
The hardest truth history teaches us is this: overthrowing a government is far easier than convincing the world that what replaced it deserves recognition. Power can be seized in a day. Legitimacy takes years to build—and seconds to lose.
The question no one wants to ask is not whether change is possible. It is whether, after the noise fades and the crowds go home, the world will still recognize the Philippines as a stable, legitimate, and reliable state. Because if that recognition is withheld, it will not be politicians who suffer first.
It will be the nation itself—quietly, painfully, and for a very long time.
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