*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
If the election were held today—this February, this March, this very moment—it would be dishonest to deny the truth staring us in the face: Sara Duterte would be the frontrunner and sure winner. Her popularity is not imagined. It is felt. You hear it in conversations in tricycles, jeepney terminals, sari-sari stores, eateries like the Inopia Eatery located in Modesta Village, San Mateo, Rizal, and in family dinners where politics quietly enters the room. You see it in the sympathy that followed what happened to her father, in the emotions stirred by the ICC issue, and in the anger, the loyalty, and the sense of injustice many Filipinos carry in their hearts. All of that translated into numbers. Real numbers. Winning numbers.
And because she stands there—strong, visible, almost inevitable—people begin to circle.
This is how politics works. When someone looks like a sure winner, the noise grows louder. Politicians suddenly remember your name. Old allies return. New supporters emerge from nowhere. Everyone wants to be seen. Everyone wants to be close. Not always out of belief, but out of hope—hope for a position, for access, for protection, for a future seat at the table when power finally changes hands.
But here is the painful part that we rarely say out loud.
Sometimes, the people who shout the loudest in support are the very ones who quietly wound the candidate they claim to love.
I have spoken to ordinary Filipinos—neutral people, walang kinakapitan, walang hinihintay na pwesto—and their sadness is consistent. They say, “Gusto ko sana siya.” They admire the strength, the resolve, and the familiarity. But then they look around her. They see faces they recognize for the wrong reasons. Names associated with old scandals. Figures whispered about in stories of corruption, abuse, greed, and moral decay. And suddenly, love hesitates.
In their hearts, a fear begins to grow.
Because Filipinos know this lesson too well: when a leader wins, it is often not the leader who first benefits—but the people around her. The operators. The survivors of every administration. The political parasites who attach themselves to power and drain it until nothing is left but disappointment.
This is why politics is not always a battle of candidates. More often, it is a battle of supporters.
Hindi si Sara ang tinatanggihan ng ilan. Ang tinatanggihan nila ay ang mga mukhang nakapaligid sa kanya. Ang mga taong nag-iingay ngayon ay hindi dahil sa prinsipyo, kundi dahil sa pag-asa na sila ang mauuna sa pila kapag dumating ang tagumpay. And for many voters, that realization hurts deeply. Because they want to believe. They want to hope. But they have been burned too many times.
We have seen this political scenario before.
There was a time when another vice president looked unstoppable. The numbers were overwhelming. The momentum felt permanent. People said, “Sure win na ’yan.” And yet, as the years passed, the questions piled up. The issues were not answered. The shadows grew longer. And little by little, the numbers slipped away—not in one dramatic fall, but in quiet decisions made at kitchen tables and jeepney rides home.
Today, something similar feels dangerously possible.
Yes, her numbers rise. But they also bleed—slowly, silently. Not always because of what she says or does, but because of who refuses to step back from her shadow. Because of allies who treat her popularity as a personal shield. Because of supporters who attack critics instead of persuading them, who insult instead of listening, and who threaten instead of explaining.
And if this pattern continues—if the loudest voices claiming to love her are the same voices that keep destroying her through arrogance—then the danger becomes real. When supporters choose insult over persuasion, humiliation over dialogue, and character assassination over principle, they do not weaken the opposition—they weaken her. Every political opponent mocked instead of engaged, every ally burned instead of protected, and every supporter of another candidate maligned instead of won over is a lost opportunity. Elections are not won by shouting enemies into silence; they are won by convincing doubters, by drawing neutrals into belief, and by showing that leadership is built on principles, track record, and acceptability—not rage. If the battlefield remains one of personal attacks rather than accomplishments and ideas, then the dream of 2028 will not collapse overnight. It will fade quietly. Slowly. Until one morning, the nation wakes up to a surprise winner—someone no one expected—while the strongest candidate wonders how a sure victory slipped away without a single decisive blow.
And now, new names begin to surface. Not loud. Not dominant. Just steady. Just present. Taking small numbers here and there. In politics, those small losses matter. They accumulate. They decide elections.
This is the Filipino dilemma in its rawest form: “Gusto ko sana siyang iboto… pero kapag nanalo siya, sino ang makikinabang? ” That single question is enough to change a vote, enough to break momentum, and enough to turn certainty into doubt.
Perhaps this is not a criticism but a quiet plea. A moment for reflection. Because politics today is no longer just about strength—it is about trust. And trust is fragile. You cannot choose all your followers, yes. But you can choose who represents you. You can choose who stands closest. You can choose who speaks in your name.
In the end, many Filipinos do not abandon a candidate out of hatred. They walk away out of fear—fear that history will repeat itself, fear that power will once again be captured by the wrong hands.
And sometimes, the most painful losses in politics do not come from enemies—but from supporters who subtract where they should have added.
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