What If Imee Marcos Was Elected President in 2022: Unity and Love Reimagined in the Philippines

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

 

I was inspired to write this reflection after rewatching the old TV series Sliders. That show fascinated me when I was younger, because it played with the possibility of alternate worlds. One decision, one accident, one twist of fate, and the world would be completely different. Watching it again as an adult, I could not stop myself from imagining my own version of a slide. What if the Philippines had taken another path? What if it was not Bongbong Marcos who became President in 2022, but his sister Imee?

In that parallel universe, the Philippines would feel both familiar and foreign. Imee would not settle for the glossy branding of “Bagong Pilipinas.” She would instead revive the old fire of her father’s ideology, reshaping it for the present. But this time, she would wrap it in a vision she called Timpuyog Pilipinas. It was not just a slogan. It was a way of imagining governance as a shared responsibility, a culture of unity and love. Unity not as empty calls for silence, but as genuine harmony where government and citizens walk together. Love not as sentimentality, but as dignity restored to every Filipino — food on the table, schools open to every child, and work that honored human worth.

The word timpuyog itself is Ilocano. It carries with it a richness that the English word “unity” alone cannot capture. Timpuyog means unity with love, a gathering of men and women for a great cause. It evokes images of communities coming together not merely because they must, but because they believe in something larger than themselves. When Imee spoke of Timpuyog Pilipinas, it meant a Philippines united not by fear or by force, but by compassion and shared purpose. It meant a country where citizens worked hand in hand for a common good, bound together by love of neighbor and love of nation. In her alternate universe, the ideology was clear: a united and loving Philippines, built by citizens willing to labor not only for themselves, but for one another.

One of her first bold decisions would be to give Sara Duterte more than just the role of Vice President. She would hand her the Department of the Interior and Local Government. From there, Sara would command the barangays, the mayors, the governors, and the police. She would become the iron hand at the grassroots, ensuring that the President’s agenda reached the smallest corners of the country. Imagine Sara walking into DILG, carrying the weight of her father’s name, but reshaping it with her own force of character. Under her, the war on drugs would continue, but not in the same bloody and chaotic form.

Imee would pick up a program that I myself authored and launched during the time of President Rodrigo Duterte, on March 14, 2022. It was called ADORE, the Anti-Illegal Drugs Operations thru Reinforcement and Education. In Imee’s world, ADORE would not just survive, it would thrive. Through Sara’s DILG, it would be transformed into a movement that was as much about compassion as it was about discipline. Reinforcement would mean stronger community policing, empowering barangays to guard their people from syndicates. Education would mean teaching families, children, and entire communities how to resist the cycle of addiction. It would be a war, yes, but one fought not only with guns, but with classrooms, counseling centers, and livelihoods. Under ADORE, every addict was not just an enemy, but a life waiting to be reclaimed.

At the Department of National Defense, Imee would appoint Gilbert “Gibo” Teodoro. His presence alone would bring calm. Gibo’s reputation for intelligence and professionalism would balance the intensity of Sara’s grassroots authority. While Sara took command of the police and local governance, Gibo would assure the Armed Forces that their mission remained professional, strategic, and steady. His presence would also send a message to the international community that behind the ideological fire of Imee and the political charisma of Sara, there was competence holding the line.

General Vicente Danao would remain as Chief of the Philippine National Police. Danao’s reputation for being a hardliner, his no-nonsense posture, and his refusal to be intimidated would resonate with Imee’s vision of a disciplined nation. He would become the face of enforcement on the ground, ensuring that ADORE and other national policies were carried out with uncompromising force. For ordinary Filipinos, his name would spell both fear and order. For criminals, it would mean no refuge.

Beside Danao, Retired General Thompson Lantion a trusted aide of her late father would serve as National Security Adviser. Lantion’s task would be less visible but no less important. He would be the bridge between ideology and strategy, the man in the background ensuring that security threats were not only answered with weapons but with foresight. His counsel would steady Imee’s fiery impulses, reminding her that Timpuyog Pilipinas meant more than force — it meant protecting the people through both compassion and vigilance.

In this alternate world, Imee would never allow Rodrigo Duterte to be taken by the International Criminal Court. To her, this was not simply loyalty to the Dutertes; it was personal. She knew the pain of seeing a father condemned on the world stage. She would make sure no such humiliation would befall the former President. The Department of Justice would close its doors to investigators, the police and Armed Forces would refuse to cooperate, and the Department of Foreign Affairs would dress the defiance in the language of sovereignty. Duterte, aging but untouchable, would live out his years in Davao as both patriarch and ghost, his legacy protected by Imee’s uncompromising defense.

The politics of intrigue in Congress would still be alive. Whispers of impeaching Sara would echo through the halls of the House of Representatives, much like in our own world. But under Imee, those whispers would never grow into a roar. Sara would not just be Vice President. She would be DILG Secretary, a force in the barangays, a commander of mayors and governors, the one holding the leash of the police. To impeach her would be to rip out the heart of local governance. The military would not permit it, and Imee herself would not tolerate such chaos in her coalition.

Even Martin Romualdez’s rise would not be guaranteed. In Bongbong’s universe, he became Speaker of the House, consolidating immense power. But with Imee as President, bloodlines would not be enough. She has always walked her own path, and family ties have never silenced her sharp independence. Perhaps she would keep Romualdez close. Or perhaps she would give the speakership to someone who owed her everything, someone she could control without question. I imagine the tension at family gatherings, the bitterness of ambitions blocked, the quiet calculation behind every smile.

Beyond domestic politics, there would be her stance on the West Philippine Sea. Imee would not bend. She would carry the same nationalistic fire as her father and temper it with modern pragmatism. She would strengthen alliances with like-minded nations, bolster the navy and coast guard under Gibo Teodoro’s direction, and make sure fishermen could sail without fear. Yet she would not recklessly provoke. Her line would be firm but measured: the West Philippine Sea is ours, and while we are open to diplomacy, we will never surrender sovereignty. For her, this too was Timpuyog — unity with love, a gathering for a great cause, the defense of what is rightfully ours, not through hatred of others but through love of country.

There would also be no propaganda wars, no battles of trolls flooding the digital space with fake news. Imee would know that disinformation is poison. Instead, her Presidential Communications Office would work to build a culture of candor. Policies would be explained in plain language. Statistics would be published honestly. Programs would be judged not by hashtags but by the results that families could feel in their homes. Rather than drowning the people in noise, she would insist on education, teaching citizens to think critically, to question, and to take part. In her world, truth itself would be an instrument of governance.

Holding it all together would be her ideology. She would call it a Democratic Revolution from the Citizenry, but its soul would be Timpuyog Pilipinas. In every speech, in every program, she would return to those two words: unity and love. The strength of her government would not be measured only by the harshness of enforcement, but by the warmth of community. The insurgency might fade not because rebels were killed but because their hunger was answered. Criminality might shrink not because of fear alone but because opportunities opened. Families might finally feel that they were seen, heard, and cared for.

She would guide all of this through what she called the eight Es: engineering, education, extraction of information, enforcement, enactment of laws, environment, economics, and evaluation. These were not empty words to her but a compass. Engineering meant building not just roads but entire pathways for opportunity. Education meant breaking cycles of ignorance. Extraction of information meant transparency and data-driven governance. Enforcement and enactment meant that laws were not just passed but lived. Environment meant protecting the country’s soul. Economics meant not just growth but food on every table. Evaluation meant humility — the willingness to measure, to admit mistakes, to correct them.

And yet, as I imagine this world, I feel conflicted. On one hand, it is bold, structured, full of clarity. It is a government with ideology, with heart, with vision. On the other hand, it is a government with power tightly held, with discipline that could easily turn to suppression. It is a dream that could inspire, or a dream that could choke.

But writing about this parallel universe is not about longing for Imee Marcos to be president. It is about remembering that ideas matter. Our world today floats on vague slogans and promises of unity, but unity without love, unity without truth, unity without structure is hollow. In the universe of Imee Marcos, Timpuyog Pilipinas is not just an idea but a practice, the daily weaving of love and unity into governance. And even if that universe does not exist, its challenge to us is real.

Sliders reminded me that parallel universes are mirrors of ourselves. In one world, Bongbong Marcos is president, and history unfolds as we know it. In another, Imee Marcos leads, Sara Duterte commands local government, Gibo Teodoro holds defense, Danao ensures order in the police, Lantion guards the nation’s security, and the Philippines becomes a laboratory of unity and love.

Would it be better? Would it be worse? I do not know. But I know this: imagining it makes me more awake to the reality we live in now. It reminds me that leadership must be more than survival, more than ambition, more than slogans. It must be vision. It must be love.

And perhaps, even in our own reality, the lesson of timpuyog still stands. It is not just a word but a heartbeat, an Ilocano whisper carried across generations. It is the sound of neighbors helping neighbors after a storm, of families sharing what little they have, of citizens gathering for a cause greater than themselves. Timpuyog is unity with love. It is the gathering of men and women for a great cause. And Timpuyog Pilipinas, in any universe, means one thing: a Philippines bound together by compassion, by courage, and by a love so fierce it refuses to abandon hope.

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 *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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Cheeze Insertion at Forthweed: A Playful Creation of a Pigmented Imagination Beyond Politics

 By: Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

Writing about politics is sometimes toxic. Expressing ourselves too much on the subject can create unnecessary enemies, so maybe I will change my focus for the meantime. Perhaps Forthweed can be a good topic. Mix it with Cheeze and make a Round Robin exercise out of it, and suddenly it becomes something playful, something that can be archived again and forgotten. It is a way of finding refuge, a lighter escape from the daily heaviness of political noise.

Still, even in playful escapes, the shadows of politics sneak in. Words like insertion, which in another world would only mean something technical or mundane, now carry double meanings—naughty, sometimes illegal, always whispered with suspicion. Here in Forthweed, insertion becomes a key motif. It is the art of slipping humor into chaos, the subtle threading of ideas into stories, the gentle trick of placing a character exactly where the absurdity matters most. We laugh at it, we pause at it, we breathe through it—because in this kingdom, insertion is survival.

And then come the characters—oh, the characters that populate our imagination. There is Sara, the poor princess, weighed down by trials, who dreams of slaying the mischievous mythical creature Tambaloslos, whose laugh echoes through every hall. She is joined by Super Dante with his Magical Blue Ribbon, who guides the weak, shields the just, and improvises lessons for those who stumble—most notably Robin without his master Batman, the ever-confused sidekick who searches for courage in a stage too large for him. Robin, silent and vulnerable, embodies what happens when guidance is absent; yet through each stumble, he learns resilience, a lesson subtle as the insertion of hope between moments of fear.

Not far behind are the Royal Brother and Sister of the House of Pool, who watch over the scene with elegance and quiet judgment. They observe as Bato the aspiring comedian turns hearings into stand-up routines, as Ping the Enforcer stomps in with a dramatic flair, and as Win, who always sides with the winning side, adapts loyalties like a flag shifting with the wind. Joel the Dreamer drifts in and out, conjuring impossible visions, while Lito the Silencer glides silently, controlling the space between chaos and order.

Family drama thickens the air. The Jerry Springer wannabe full-blooded brothers thrive on spectacle, turning debates into near-brawls that leave echoes of shouts lingering in every corner. By contrast, the Half Brothers quarrel in whispers, simmering quietly, never fully resolved, their tension like a slow-burning fire. Meanwhile, Riza the Internet Explorer buffers endlessly, forever searching, seldom arriving, trapped by the endless rotations of her own curiosity.

Chaos peaks with Migz the Boom Tarat Tarat guy, who detonates surprise sound effects and eruptions at every opportunity, transforming tense silences into unexpected hilarity. His presence magnifies Titosen’s “Boom Tarat Tarat!”, creating a symphony of controlled pandemonium. Every insertion of laughter, pause, or comic relief becomes more vivid when Migz struts across the scene, a walking, shouting, musical exclamation mark of absurdity.

Meanwhile, Kiko the Farmer tills words as if they were soil, planting seeds of wisdom in an otherwise chaotic field. Bam the Teacher’s Pet clutches his notebook, determined that diligence alone will earn him recognition. Pia moves with elegance, precise and deliberate, while Alan, the 10,000 Peso Man, waves his bills with the confidence of someone who believes money can fix all problems. Grace drifts like a gentle melody, Malasakit offers care like a comforting spell, and Lito the Silencer ensures that even in bursts of pandemonium, order lurks between the insertions of chaos.

Together, these figures weave a kingdom both absurd and familiar. Robin without his master Batman watches, sometimes lost, sometimes inspired, learning from the antics around him. Super Dante trains him with patience, showing that guidance can come even from unexpected places. Meanwhile, Sara the Poor Princess and her allies prepare to face Tambaloslos, reminding everyone that courage is learned in chaos. Migz and Titosen punctuate the narrative with eruptions and surprises, while Lito the Silencer subtly enforces order, creating rhythm and balance. Each character—dreamer, enforcer, comedian, farmer, sidekick, silencer, or boomer—teaches resilience, humor, and hope in a world that often feels absurdly heavy.

Even impeachment drifts in like a dark cloud, a reminder that serious matters hover over all their antics. Yet in the play of Forthweed and Cheeze, every character—Robin, Sara, Super Dante, Bato, Ping, Win, Joel, Kiko, Bam, Pia, Alan, Grace, Malasakit, Titosen, Lito, Migz, the Half Brothers, the full-blooded Jerry Springer wannabes, Riza, and the Royal Brother and Sister of the House of Pool—becomes a vital piece of the story. Each insertion, whether comedic, dramatic, or instructive, binds the kingdom together, teaching that survival, laughter, and wisdom can coexist even in the most absurd chaos.

Because in the end, laughter is not just an escape—it is a lifeline. Insertion, carefully crafted, is the secret passage that allows imagination to breathe, chaos to become art, and the weary to find hope. And in this kingdom of Forthweed and Cheeze, survival itself is already half a victory, with Robin learning courage, Sara learning strength, Migz amplifying joy, and every character discovering the power of subtle influence in a world that rarely makes sense.

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 *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.

 

The Banyo Queen Phenomenon: When the Nation is Laughing While the House is Burning

By: Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

It was one of those usual blessed, muggy afternoons when the news felt heavier than the air itself. I was sitting in our rocking chair, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea that I had forgotten to sip while scrolling through my feed. And there she was again—the so-called “Banyo Queen,” an OFW in Hong Kong, doing things in a public karaoke bar and enjoying the Andrew E song Banyo Queen that would make even the boldest telenovela villain blush. Her video received more shares than the Senate’s press release regarding the impeachment case. In the comments section, people were making jokes, debating morality, and tagging their friends. The laughter was loud, but somewhere in it, I heard the silence of a distracted nation.

Behind the noise, another headline sat almost unnoticed: the Senate had archived the impeachment case. Just like that—tabled, filed away, out of sight. If you weren’t paying attention, you’d think the issue had been resolved. But it hadn’t. In fact, the protests outside the gates of the Senate told a different story: people with banners, people chanting under the unforgiving sun, and people whose voices were being drowned out by a viral scandal. Furthermore, there are other issues that were forgotten when this Banyo Queen Phenomenon instantly went viral on the internet: there is the questionable national budget insertion, the flood control mess, the DPWH corruption, the West Philippine Sea, the ICC detention of former president Rodrigo Duterte, and so on.

There was an odd absurdity to it all. On one hand, you had a personal tragedy—a mother, a fellow Filipino, an OFW who once sent money home for her children’s tuition, now the subject of worldwide ridicule. I couldn’t laugh. How could I? Somewhere in the provinces, her college-aged children might have been watching the same clip, their classmates whispering, their hearts breaking. The affair wasn’t just a scandal. It was the public execution of a family’s dignity.

Conversely, the political drama proceeded seamlessly. The Senate’s move to shelve the impeachment was a decision with ripples across governance, accountability, and trust in institutions. But we weren’t talking about it enough. We were too busy watching, replaying, and arguing over the details of a bathroom door.

It hit me! Maybe this is precisely how corruption survives. Not always through grand conspiracies, but through a simple shift of attention. One minute we’re marching for transparency, the next we’re laughing over a meme. By the time we look back, the decision’s been made, the records closed, and the people in power have already moved on.

I thought of the protests, those ordinary citizens giving up their day’s wage to be there. Farmers abandoned their tractors, students skipped classes, and mothers carried placards instead of groceries. And then I thought of the Banyo Queen’s children, possibly hiding from the world. Both scenes, in their own way, were about family: one fighting for the larger family called the nation, the other struggling to keep a smaller family from crumbling under shame.

Somewhere between the comedy of a viral video and the drama of a political letdown, I felt an ache. The family, our first school, our first government, and our first community were under attack. She wasn't the only victim. The attack also targeted our own family. When we choose scandal over accountability and the nation ceases discussing ways to combat corruption, we become complicit in allowing the walls protecting our society to crumble.

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*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.

A Process Betrayed: How the Filipino People Lost in the Politics of Impeachment

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

Last August 6, 2025, while waiting for my 15-year-old daughter Juliana to arrive from school, I was sitting in my abstract-inspired home office room, staring at my 85-inch television with super surround sound systems, feeling that I was in the Senate Gallery, eyes fixed on the deliberations of Senators Sotto, Marcoleta, and Lacson, the Cayetano siblings, and others while taking notes in a steno notebook over the impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte. It wasn’t the spectacle that drew me in—it was the weight of the moment. As a Filipino citizen who cares deeply about the country’s future, I couldn’t look away. I’m not a lawyer. I don’t pretend to be. I don’t memorize legal doctrines or speak in Latin phrases. But I know what truth feels like. I know when something doesn’t sit right. From the very beginning, this situation has not felt right to me.

I’ve written before that I respect the authority of the Supreme Court. I accept that they are the final interpreter of the Constitution. Their decisions are binding and final. But still, as a citizen, I can’t help but ask: could they not have explained more clearly why they ruled the way they did? Could they not have invited the public into the reasoning, into the process, into the heart of justice?

Imagine if the Supreme Court had called for oral arguments before handing down their decision. Imagine if they invited not just lawyers but also the framers of the 1987 Constitution, retired justices, respected academics, and even the public to witness the rationale behind the ruling. We would n't be confused, with half the nation protesting and the other half in disbelief. The Filipino people deserve explanations, not just declarations. Decisions without dialogue can sow division—and that’s precisely what’s happening now.

At the heart of the decision is the Supreme Court’s ruling that the House of Representatives violated its own internal rules when it transmitted the Articles of Impeachment against VP Sara. As a technicality, maybe that’s true. But since when did internal legislative rules become subject to judicial review? The Constitution does not grant the Court authority to meddle in the parliamentary practices of Congress. Those rules are for the House and Senate to interpret and apply. They’re not the “law of the land”—they’re tools to organize proceedings, not to override them.

This brings us to the constitutional wisdom behind the one-year ban on successive impeachment cases. That clause wasn’t meant as a technical hurdle—it was a moral safeguard. Its purpose is to prevent the harassment of public officials through repeated, frivolous, or politically motivated complaints. Once an official has been acquitted, the people deserve closure—for at least a year. It was never meant to be a loophole to escape accountability but a firewall to protect democracy from weaponized partisanship.

But here’s the thing: this whole controversy is no longer just about Sara Duterte. It never really was. The deeper we look, the more clearly we see that the real story is the 2028 presidential election. Sara Duterte, love her or hate her, is a leading contender. And removing her from the race would open the door wide for others—particularly those with control over today’s political machinery.

This leads us to the House of Representatives, specifically Speaker Martin Romualdez. Reports and exposés—especially from the campaign manager of Alyansa ng Bagong Pilipinas, Congressman Toby Tiangco—reveal a disturbing pattern in his TV interview: many of the congressmen who signed the Articles of Impeachment were lured by political favors. Some were allegedly promised infrastructure projects. Others were offered financial incentives. What kind of governance is that?

It’s not just unethical—it’s a betrayal. When members of Congress, who are supposed to be the voice of the people, trade their signatures for personal gain, the entire process becomes a mockery. It no longer seeks justice; it seeks convenience. And the target is not just one official—it’s a threat to anyone who stands in the way of political ambition.

The Senate’s decision to archive the Articles of Impeachment was not a victory. It was a funeral—for truth, for due process, for hope. The people didn’t win. In fact, they were never invited into the ring. The real battle wasn’t between Duterte and Congress—it was between political survival and public service. And in that battle, the people were collateral damage.

Let’s not pretend that the Supreme Court is just a neutral observer. By stepping in, by striking down the impeachment on a procedural basis, they became part of the narrative—willingly or not. Their ruling may have been based on legal principles, but it will be remembered in history as a political turning point. When the highest court is used—not for justice—but for justifying the unjust, then we are no longer living under the rule of law, but under the rule of interpretation.

The House, in response, filed a Motion for Reconsideration, arguing that the Supreme Court had no jurisdiction over their internal rules. And in principle, they’re right. But this isn’t about who’s legally correct. This is about what is morally and constitutionally right. Impeachment is not just a legal process—it is a political one. And politics, at its best, should serve the public good, not private agendas.

We, the Filipino people, deserve better. We deserve institutions that we can trust. We deserve lawmakers who read what they sign. We deserve a judiciary that opens its chambers to the people. We deserve elections that are not shaped by elimination but by competition. Because when a possible presidential candidate is removed—not by vote, but by vendetta—the democratic process is no longer democratic.

Let us be clear: this is not about personalities. This is not about defending Sara Duterte or attacking Speaker Romualdez. This is about principles. This is about ensuring that no one—no matter how powerful—can hijack the democratic process to clear the path for their ambition.

If this is how we play politics, if this is how we use our courts and our Congress, then we are not preparing for 2028—we are preparing for disaster. We are planting seeds of distrust and division. And the real victim won’t be Sara Duterte or any politician. It will be the Filipino people.

So what do we do now? We watch. We listen. We remember. And most importantly, we demand better. We demand transparency. We demand integrity. We demand that those who represent us do so with honor—not with empty signatures or backroom deals.

Because if we let this pass as normal, we are not just spectators to the fall of democracy—we are its accomplices.

Let history be the judge. But let truth be our compass.

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*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

Understanding the Difference Among Political Party Merger, Coalition, and Alliance: A Case Reflection on the Collapse of Alyansa ng Bagong Pilipinas

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

Introduction

In the often chaotic rhythm of Philippine politics, many people have become familiar with shifting loyalties, recycled slogans, and sudden political alliances. What we are less familiar with, however, are the deeper structures that shape those changes. The words “merger,” “coalition,” and “alliance” are often tossed around during interviews and campaign launches, yet most Filipinos are never really told what they truly mean—or why it matters.

This lack of clarity is more than just academic. It has real consequences. The Alyansa ng Bagong Pilipinas (ABP)—a political movement that once inspired hope for genuine reform—is a perfect example. Its collapse wasn’t simply because of external opposition but because of its own internal confusion, timing, and structural flaws.

Thus, there is a need to break down the differences among mergers, coalitions, and alliances, and by reflecting on the rise and fall of ABP—what it promised, what it failed to protect, and what future movements must learn.

 

Defining the Basics: Not All Political Agreements Are the Same

Before diving into the story of ABP, it’s important to understand the basic differences between a party merger, a coalition, and an alliance. While they may sound similar, each serves a different purpose in the political world.

A party merger is the most formal and legally binding of the three. It’s when two or more parties decide to dissolve themselves and form a completely new entity. This involves shared leadership, shared ideology, and a brand-new identity. It takes time, legal paperwork, and a serious commitment to unity (Dela Cruz, 2015).

A coalition, on the other hand, is more of a practical arrangement. It usually happens when different political parties decide to work together—often for elections or legislative work—without giving up their individual identities. Coalitions can be strong or fragile, depending on how clearly the rules are defined (Torres, 2015).

An alliance is the most informal. It’s usually built on mutual interests or convenience. Unlike a coalition or a merger, alliances don’t always require documentation or shared goals beyond short-term political advantage. They’re often personality-driven and tend to dissolve as quickly as they form, if there is no commonality of interest and shared vision.

In the Philippines, these distinctions are often blurred. This was one of the key problems ABP faced.

 

ABP: A Movement Born Out of Reform and Frustration

When the 2022 elections ushered in the administration of President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. and Vice President Sara Duterte, there was a sense of both optimism and uncertainty. On one side, Marcos Jr.’s promise of a “Bagong Pilipinas” stirred a desire for modernization and reform. On the other, many were anxious about what would happen to the Duterte legacy, particularly in the areas of human rights and governance.

It was during this transitional moment that the Alyansa ng Bagong Pilipinas (ABP) was born. ABP wasn’t a traditional political party. It was a broad movement of professionals, youth leaders, civil society groups, and some former officials who felt that real systemic change was still possible—if not through traditional parties, then through a united reformist front.

Its platform included ambitious goals: eradicating corruption, promoting federalism, pushing for education reform, protecting the environment, and reviving Filipino values. These goals were attractive to people tired of political theatrics and dynastic control. But even with all its promise, ABP failed to do the one thing that mattered most: define itself clearly.

 

The Identity Crisis: What Exactly Was ABP?

From the beginning, ABP struggled with its own identity. Was it aiming to become a new political party? Was it a coalition of groups working toward reform? Or was it just a temporary alliance for the 2025 elections?

Different leaders within ABP had different answers. Some pushed for registration as a formal political party, complete with a constitution and membership rules. Others feared that this would alienate existing allies from other parties and insisted that ABP remain a loose coalition. Still others treated it as a convenient platform to boost their public profiles ahead of the next elections.

Without a unified answer, ABP became vulnerable. Local chapters sprung up without central coordination. Public figures joined without ideological vetting. Traditional politicians—many of whom had been part of the problem ABP was trying to solve—started using the alliance to clean up their public image.

What was once a hopeful movement slowly began to feel like just another political vehicle.

 

The Political Earthquake: Impeachment and Arrest

While ABP wrestled with its internal confusion, the Philippine political landscape was rocked by events that no one had fully anticipated.

In late 2024, Vice President Sara Duterte faced serious impeachment complaints. She was accused of misusing confidential funds and undermining her working relationship with President Marcos Jr. These complaints gained traction, and by early 2025, she became the first vice president in Philippine history to be impeached (Bagayas, 2025; Thornton, 2025).

Around the same time, the International Criminal Court (ICC) issued and enforced an arrest warrant for former President Rodrigo Duterte. He was flown to The Hague to face charges related to human rights violations during his administration’s controversial war on drugs (ICC, 2025; HRW, 2025).

These events shook the Duterte political camp to its core. Many of their longtime allies were suddenly looking for a new political home—and some saw ABP as that home.

This influx of displaced political actors into ABP might have seemed like a victory. In truth, it marked the beginning of the end. With no strong vetting process in place, the movement was overwhelmed by personalities who had little interest in its original ideals. Reformists either left or were pushed aside.

 

Lessons from ABP’s Collapse

So, what really caused ABP to fall apart?

First, it lacked clarity of purpose. Was it a merger, a coalition, or an alliance? Without defining itself properly, it could not set boundaries or make strategic decisions.

Second, it had no internal structure. There was no governing body to enforce discipline or to keep members accountable. This made it easy for opportunists to hijack the platform.

Third, it lacked ideological screening. Anyone could join, regardless of whether they truly believed in the movement’s mission. This diluted its message and eroded public trust.

If there’s one painful truth the ABP experience teaches us, it’s this: good intentions are not enough. In Philippine politics, if you’re not structurally prepared, you will be swallowed by the very system you’re trying to reform.

 

Comparisons and Missed Opportunities

ABP’s experience is not unique. Other movements have gone through similar cycles. The Koalisyon ng Katapatan at Karanasan sa Kinabukasan (K4) in 2004 worked as a temporary coalition that successfully backed President Arroyo. It served its purpose and dissolved afterward—no confusion there (Reyes, 2015).

The United Nationalist Alliance (UNA) under Jejomar Binay had a more ambitious vision but failed due to leadership clashes and weak party-building (Villanueva, 2015).

Had ABP learned from these examples, it might have avoided many of its mistakes.

 

Reform Movements in a Dynasty-Driven System

The sad reality is that reform movements like ABP operate in a system rigged against them. Political dynasties still dominate local and national governance. Research shows that family-based political power is not only surviving—it’s growing (Acuna et al., 2024). These dynasties are skilled at adapting, forming new alliances, and even co-opting reformist language when it suits them.

In such a system, unstructured movements are easy prey. Without legal status, without leadership training, without an ideology people can cling to, movements like ABP become stepping stones for career politicians—not engines of change.

Worse, when these movements fail, they leave behind a trail of disillusionment. People who once believed in change become more cynical, thinking that maybe reform is impossible after all.

 

Moving Forward: What Must Be Done

Despite its collapse, ABP left behind valuable lessons for those who dare to dream of political reform in the Philippines.

Movements must be clear from the start about who they are and what they want to become. They must establish internal rules and structures, no matter how inconvenient or tedious that might seem. They must screen their members, protect their identity, and never compromise on their values just for visibility.

They must also communicate with the people consistently and transparently. The moment a movement loses its moral clarity or looks like it’s just another political brand, it begins to lose the trust of those who believed in it.

And above all, they must remember: movements take time. ABP may have risen too fast—relying on the momentum of the moment instead of building the muscles of sustainability.

 

Conclusion

The story of Alyansa ng Bagong Pilipinas is both a cautionary tale and a call to action. It reminds us that while passion, slogans, and moral outrage can ignite a fire, it is structure, vision, and discipline that will keep that fire burning.

As we move toward another election cycle, many new groups will emerge. Some will be born out of hope. Others will be manufactured out of political necessity. The challenge for all of us—citizens, scholars, reformers—is to ask the hard questions: Who are they? What do they stand for? Can they last?

Because if we continue to chase reform without preparation, we will continue to see movements like ABP rise and fall—leaving us, once again, with broken dreams and unfinished revolutions.

 

References

Acuna, R., Alejandro, A., & Leung, R. (2024). The families that stay together: A network analysis of dynastic power in Philippine politics. ArXiv Preprint.

Ayson, M. E. G., & Reyes, L. G. S. (2023). The Philippines 2022–2023: A turbulent start for the new era of Marcos leadership. Asia Maior.

Bagayas, J. P. P. (2025). Duterte’s impeachment and the spectacle of Philippine politics. East Asia Forum.

Dela Cruz, M. T. (2015). The dynamics of electoral coalitions in Philippine democracy. Institute of Political and Electoral Studies.

Human Rights Watch. (2024). Philippines: Duterte arrest a step forward for justice. HRW News.

International Criminal Court. (2025). Statement of the Office of the Prosecutor on the arrest of former Philippine President Rodrigo Roa Duterte. ICC Press Release.

NCCP. (2025). Statement on the Impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte. National Council of Churches in the Philippines.

Reyes, L. B. (2015). Power and personality in Philippine elections. Visayas Social Research Center.

Thornton, S. (2025, May 28). Historic impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte shakes Philippine politics. Broadsheet Asia.

Torres, J. C. (2015). Temporary alliances, permanent problems: The risks of political coalitions in weak democracies. Ateneo de Davao University Press.

Villanueva, S. M. (2015). The rise and fall of opposition movements in Philippine politics. Political Development Review.

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*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