Flags in the Stands, Floods at Home: What Alex Eala Teaches Filipino Leaders

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

 

After posting my last blog entry, I was supposed to take a rest from writing, but I cannot control myself because of the happiness that I am feeling now. I stayed awake until four in the morning, Philippine time, just to watch Alex Eala’s match at the US Open. Every serve, every rally, and every point felt like a battle fought not just on the court but for the pride of the Filipino spirit. I cheered in the silence of dawn, holding my breath as she clawed her way back from a 5-1 deficit in the final set, and I cried with her as she fell to the ground in victory after stunning 14th seed Clara Tauson in a 7-6(11) decider. For the first time in a long while, I felt what it truly meant to celebrate being Filipino. Yet even as that pride burned inside me, another reflection took hold: why is it that a young woman with discipline and integrity can bring honor to the nation on the world stage, while many of our leaders at home continue to fail us with corruption, ghost projects, and betrayals of trust?

 

Her win was historic. She became the first Filipino in the Open Era to win a main-draw Grand Slam match, a feat that will be recorded in tennis history and remembered by Filipinos for generations. But Alex’s victory was more than a personal milestone—it was a lesson written in sweat, grit, and sacrifice. She did not win through favors or shortcuts. She won because of years of preparation, a life of discipline, and an unyielding commitment to represent the flag with pride. How stark the contrast is when we look at politics in our country, where so many victories are manufactured through deception, where billions of pesos vanish into ghost projects, and where floods continue to wash away homes and lives because leaders chose greed over governance.

 

Watching Alex rally back reminded me of how nations, too, can recover from adversity—but only with discipline and integrity. She did not crumble under pressure, and she never gave up even when defeat seemed certain. Politicians should take this to heart. Leadership is not about clinging to power or enriching oneself. It is about fighting for every point on behalf of the people, about working tirelessly without shortcuts. If Alex can train relentlessly to win a tiebreak, why can’t our leaders train themselves in honesty and service to win the greater battles of poverty, disaster resilience, and national dignity?

 

What moved me just as much as Alex’s grit was the crowd. At Flushing Meadows, Filipinos abroad turned the stands into a sea of Philippine flags. Their cheers drowned out distance, reminding Alex that she carried her people with her. On social media, Filipinos in the United States, Europe, and other parts of the globe flooded timelines with their pride. That image of unity in the stands—strangers bound only by a shared love of country—was powerful. It was, in fact, the perfect picture of what Timpuyog Pilipinas is all about: unity, love, cooperation, and collaboration for the upliftment of the Philippines. In those voices cheering together, we saw what happens when Filipinos set aside differences to support one goal. If only we could replicate that same spirit of togetherness in our politics, our governance, and our nation-building.

 

Our obsession with basketball is another mirror of our misplaced priorities. Across the Philippines, basketball clinics sprout like mushrooms—an indication of our passion, yes, but also of our narrow vision. While we pour all our energy into a sport where the global stage is nearly unreachable because of physical and systemic limitations, we ignore sports like tennis, gymnastics, athletics, and chess, where Filipinos have a fighting chance to dominate. Alex’s victory proves this. She is competing and winning against the world’s best, yet her path has been one of personal sacrifice rather than national investment.

 

The lesson of Wesley So should haunt us. Here was a Filipino chess prodigy, a grandmaster who could have given the country decades of global recognition. But he was not valued, he was not given the support he deserved, and so he left to play for the United States. Now, every trophy he raises is one that could have been raised for the Philippines. Will we repeat the same mistake with Alex Eala? Will we wait until she is embraced fully by another country before we realize what we have lost?

 

We also cannot forget Carlos Yulo, who gave us two gold medals in gymnastics and carried the country’s name to Olympic glory. Instead of celebrating him as a national treasure, many turned to bashing him because of family issues splashed in the tabloids. It is a shameful habit of our society to pull down the very people who lift us up. The same applies to our amateur boxers, who have consistently delivered Olympic medals despite limited support and constant struggles. Their victories prove that Filipinos have the talent to stand among the world’s best—if only the system would nurture rather than neglect them.

 

And then there is EJ Obiena, the Asian pole vault champion who shattered records and carried the Philippine flag in one of the most demanding sports in the world. With his height, Obiena could have easily chosen the popular path of basketball, a sport that dominates our nation’s imagination. But he chose pole vaulting instead—a sport little known or supported in the Philippines. Against all odds, he climbed world rankings, battled giants, and gave us medals in competitions where Filipinos had never before stood on the podium. His story tells us two things: first, that Filipino talent can flourish even in fields where no path exists, and second, that true champions do not follow popularity; they follow excellence. Yet how much easier would his journey have been if he had been given the full backing of the government from the start, instead of facing bureaucratic squabbles and funding controversies?

 

And yet, while our athletes scrape by with meager resources, the government loses billions daily to corruption. Senator Ping Lacson, in one of his privilege speeches, estimated that over seventy-five percent of government spending is lost to corruption, with as much as one billion pesos vanishing every day. Imagine, then, if even a fraction of that wasted wealth were invested in sports development. Imagine modern facilities, world-class coaches, nutrition programs, and scholarships. Imagine supporting children from the provinces who have raw talent in swimming, track, weightlifting, or martial arts. Perhaps by now we would be a sports superpower, consistently placing in the top ten in world competitions, harvesting medals and fame, and instilling national pride not through scandals but through excellence.

 

Alex Eala’s victory is a reminder that integrity and discipline are not optional—they are the foundation of true success. Her story is not just about tennis; it is about what happens when pride for the flag is matched with sacrifice and commitment. Politicians should see in her a reflection of what they lack. The floods that drown our communities are not merely natural disasters—they are the result of years of ghost projects, missing billions, and leaders who never prepared the way Alex prepared for her matches. The shame is not in being poor or vulnerable; the shame is in being betrayed by those entrusted to protect us.

At four in the morning, when Alex’s tears fell on the court and Filipinos everywhere cried with her, I realized something powerful: we are still capable of greatness. But greatness requires more than cheering; it requires change. If a young woman with a racket can show us what it means to honor the flag, surely our leaders can learn to honor it with honest governance. If our athletes can train without resources yet still bring home medals, surely our government can redirect billions away from corruption and into programs that will build not only champions in sports but also a nation of dignity.

 

The question is whether we will learn. Will we continue to obsess over basketball clinics while ignoring sports where we can truly excel? Will we continue to let corruption bleed us dry while athletes like Alex Eala, Carlos Yulo, EJ Obiena, Wesley So, and our boxers fight their battles alone? Or will we finally treasure them, support them, and take pride in them, not only when they win but also when they struggle?

 

Alex Eala’s victory was more than historic. It was prophetic. It showed us what we could be if we valued discipline over corruption, if we invested in excellence instead of theft, if we honored our flag with action instead of rhetoric. At dawn, as I turned off my 85-inch television, I realized that her triumph was not just a sports story. It was a call to the nation—a challenge to our leaders, to our people, and to our future. Will we listen?

 

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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.

VIEWS: 22M

Corruption that Kills: A Personal Reflection on the Flood Control Scam as a Crime Against Humanity

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

 

The Beginning of My Reflection

There are moments when I sit in silence after watching the evening news, and I cannot help but feel an ache in my chest. Not for myself, but for the countless nameless Filipinos who have drowned, who have lost homes, who have buried their children in muddy graves after another typhoon swept their town. Each time the floods rise, I think of what has been stolen from us—not just money, not just development—but lives.

When President Marcos Jr. admitted that almost ₱100 billion worth of flood control projects in just three years were concentrated in the hands of only fifteen contractors, my mind went immediately to the faces of families I saw during Ondoy, Yolanda, and Ulysses. I remember wading through the flood myself in Marikina years ago, listening to a father cry because the water had taken away his daughter. I remember farmers in Isabela, shoulders bent, weeping over their destroyed harvests. These were not simply victims of nature. They were victims of corruption.

 

When Corruption Becomes Death

We often think of corruption as some abstract thing. Politicians pocket money, contractors cheat on materials, agencies look away. And then we shake our heads, maybe even laugh bitterly, and move on. But corruption in flood control is not abstract. It has a body count.

Each ghost project is a death sentence waiting to be executed by the next heavy rainfall. Each embankment built with half the concrete it needed is a coffin prepared for someone who doesn’t know they’re about to die. Each peso stolen from the budget is a peso stolen from a child’s chance to live another day.

It is a betrayal so severe that it should no longer be called just “corruption.” It is a crime against humanity. Because humanity is exactly what is harmed here—not just money, but lives, dignity, and futures.

 

Faces in the Water

I cannot count the number of times I’ve heard the same heartbreaking story, told in different provinces, different dialects. A mother clutching her youngest child as the floodwaters rose, forced to let go of the other two. An elderly couple trapped in their home because no one could reach them in time. A young man drowned while trying to save his neighbors.

During Typhoon Ulysses in 2020, Marikina became a lake again. I remember standing in disbelief at the images—residents clinging to rooftops, rescuers overworked, and people shouting for help from submerged homes. Billions had already been spent on flood control before that. And yet, it was as if nothing had been done. The projects were there on paper, celebrated in ribbon cuttings, but they were ghosts when the people needed them most.

How many of those deaths should be pinned not on the storm, but on those who signed off substandard contracts? How many families grieve today not because of nature’s wrath, but because of man’s greed?

 

The ICC and the Irony of Numbers

I do not say this to diminish the pain of the drug war victims, but let me pose the question: if the International Criminal Court can investigate former President Duterte for thousands of extrajudicial killings, then why not investigate corruption that has killed even more?

According to PAGASA, hundreds die each year from floods and landslides (PAGASA, 2022). Multiply that over a decade, and the number surpasses the casualties of the drug war. The difference is that the Flood Control Scam does not kill with bullets. It kills with silence, with indifference, with the slow drowning of an entire community. But the cruelty is the same. In fact, it may even be worse. At least with bullets, there is honesty in violence. With corruption, death is disguised as “acts of God,” when in truth it is the act of thieves.

 

Lessons from Abroad

When the Morandi Bridge collapsed in Genoa, Italy in 2018, killing 43 people, the entire country demanded accountability. Executives and officials were charged with manslaughter because negligence and corruption had paved the way for that tragedy (Bianconi, 2021).

When the Rana Plaza garment factory fell in Bangladesh, killing over a thousand workers, it was declared not an accident but a man-made massacre caused by corruption, bribery, and neglect (Human Rights Watch, 2013).

Why then do we Filipinos so easily shrug when floods claim hundreds of lives after billions were spent on protection? Why do we settle for Senate “inquiries in aid of legislation” that end in nothing but grandstanding? Why do we allow ghost projects to haunt us year after year without demanding that their architects face the bar of justice?

 

The Political Cartel of Flood Control

I used to teach Accounting and Business Management. So when I heard about the ₱100 billion funneled into only fifteen contractors, I immediately thought of financial statements and Net Financial Contracting Capacity (NFCC). These companies, many of them single proprietorships with laughably small capital, should never have qualified for billion-peso contracts. Yet here they were, bagging projects meant to defend millions of Filipinos against floods.

It does not take an accountant to see what happened here: a cartel of contractors and politicians, manipulating figures, exchanging envelopes, and laughing their way to the bank while the rest of the nation waded through waist-deep floods.

And so I ask: when the flood rises and sweeps away children, is that not murder by another name? When politicians sign off on ghost projects, knowing the danger, are they not complicit in mass killing?

My Personal Burden

I must confess that I take this matter quite seriously. I count myself among those who survived the Ondoy disaster. Remembering how close I came to losing not just my property but even my own life is something that I still do. It is possible that I would have been stranded in floodwaters with my vehicle if I had not skipped class on that particular day due to my utter annoyance with a fellow worker. That annoyance, as weird as it may sound, was the thing that ultimately saved my life. There were others who did not fare as well.
This is the reason why I am unable to view these so-called "scams" with the same level of dispassion that many others show. My ability to summarize them in headlines or hashtags is limited. mainly due to the fact that I have witnessed the damage that may be caused by floods and I am aware of the consequences that occur when the government fails to fulfill its responsibilities.
If the deaths of individuals are not the result of an inescapable fate but rather of corruption in government, then the responsibility for the deaths lies not with the rain but with those who are corrupt.

 

A Call for Justice

I believe the Flood Control Scam should not be treated as just another graft and corruption case in our courts. It deserves to be elevated to the level of crimes against humanity. Why? Because it was not an isolated act. It was systematic. It was widespread. It targeted civilians by denying them protection. And it was done with full knowledge of the consequences. The perpetrators knew exactly what they were doing. They knew that ghost projects meant there would be no protection when the floods came. They knew that substandard work meant the walls, dikes, and floodways would collapse. They knew that every bribe taken, every shortcut approved, was equivalent to a life placed in danger. And despite knowing all this, they still chose to do it. This, to me, is no different in gravity from extrajudicial killings. EJK is what we call active killing—when a person is gunned down in cold blood, directly and violently. Corruption, on the other hand, is passive killing. It does not use a bullet or a knife, but it slowly robs people of life through disasters that should have been prevented, through resources stolen that could have saved communities. One kills swiftly, the other kills silently—but both kill just the same. That is the very essence of a crime against humanity. It is not just the act itself, but the deliberate choice to profit from the suffering of others, knowing full well that lives will be lost. The Flood Control Scam is proof that corruption, when it reaches this scale, is not merely theft—it is complicity in death.

 

Conclusion: Naming the Crime

In the end, my reflection always comes back to this: corruption in flood control is not just theft. It is killing by another name. And if we refuse to name it for what it is, then we are accomplices in silence.

To every Filipino who has ever lost a loved one to floods, I say this: you were not abandoned by nature—you were betrayed by your leaders. To every human who died, every child who drowned, every senior citizen who perished, every family torn apart, and to every property destroyed that causes the loss of homes, shelter, and livelihood leading to death, I say this: your deaths should not be counted as “collateral damage.” They are evidence in the case against corruption as a crime against humanity.

The floods may wash away our homes, but they should never wash away our memory. And they should never wash away our demand for justice.

 

References

Bianconi, F. (2021). Bridge collapse in Genoa: Corruption, negligence, and accountability. Journal of Civil Engineering and Architecture, 15(6), 325–334.

Human Rights Watch. (2013). Bangladesh: Rana Plaza building collapse. Retrieved from https://www.hrw.org

PAGASA. (2022). Annual climate and disaster statistics. Department of Science and Technology, Quezon City.

World Bank. (2021). Philippines disaster risk management and resilience report. Washington, DC: World Bank

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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.

 VIEWS: 553K

 

Evolving Federalism Versus Instant Federalism: The Danger of Hype Without Substance

by Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

In 2016, I was given a rare and humbling opportunity to serve in the National Federalism Study Group convened by Usec. Jonathan Malaya, under the broader vision of Senate President Koko Pimentel, who at that time carried the torch of federalist advocacy. The initiative was not mere rhetoric—it was a sincere effort to shape a Philippine model of federalism that was not copied wholesale from abroad, but carefully tailored to our unique history, culture, and realities.

To be invited was already an honor. To be asked to chair the Fiscal Policy Cluster was both a privilege and a burden I carried with great care. Federalism is often imagined as a political restructuring, but as I quickly learned, it is at its heart a fiscal project—about how money flows, who gets what share, and how accountability is enforced. In that room, I was surrounded by great minds, but also by patriots who wanted nothing less than a stronger and fairer Republic.

Our core group was made up of some of the nation’s most respected intellectuals and practitioners: UST Prof. Edmund Tayao, DLSU Dean Julio Teehankee, UP Chancellor Dr. Grace Jamon, Mr. Francis Xavier Manglapus, IPER Executive Director Mon Casiple, SEPO Director Merwin Salazar, and UST Prof. Eric de Torres, supported tirelessly by the reliable secretariat staff headed by Prof. Aubrey Bahala. Working with them was like being part of a living think tank—one that brought together diverse disciplines but shared a common devotion to nation-building.

Special credit also belongs to members who were not always visible in the photos but whose contributions were deeply felt: Dr. Antonio Avila, Dr.  Romulo "Jun" Miral, Dr. Cesar Chavez, Atty. Susan Ordinario, Fr. Ranhilo Aquino, Atty. Ted Contacto, Dean Fe Mendoza, Mayor Frank Quijano, Atty. Salma Rasul, Dr. Ebinezer Florano, and Prof. Novel Bangsal, Dr. Ed Araral, Dr. Clarita Carlos, and many others. Each of them carried wisdom from their respective fields, and our exchanges were enriched by their perspectives. It was, in truth, a mosaic of knowledge and patriotism, stitched together by the effort of Usec. Malaya’s steady leadership.

In my Fiscal Policy Cluster, I was fortunate to work side by side with two of the country’s brightest fiscal experts: Dr. Romulo “Jun” Miral and Dr. Antonio Avila plus our cluster secretariat head Prof. Pamela Diaz-Manalo. With their combined expertise, the discussions were both intellectually rigorous and profoundly practical. Federalism, we agreed, could not be sustained without a solid fiscal framework. We wrestled with questions that were never simple: How would revenues be shared between national and federal states? How could we protect poorer regions from being left behind? How would we prevent corruption from simply being decentralized rather than dismantled?

The Fiscal Policy Cluster

The debates were sharp and at times heated. Miral would caution us against devolving too much too fast, while Avila would emphasize the need for genuine autonomy, even if it meant taking risks. As chairman, my role was to synthesize, to bridge, and to ensure that our recommendations were not merely academic theories but workable solutions. It was through these dialogues that our cluster crafted the idea of evolving federalism—a gradual, step-by-step transition toward autonomy, anchored on fiscal discipline and equalization mechanisms.

Looking back, I realized how much that journey shaped my own understanding of leadership and reform. Chairing the Fiscal Policy Cluster was not just about presiding over meetings; it was about carrying the weight of responsibility to millions of Filipinos outside those conference halls. I often asked myself if the farmer in province of General Tom Lantion’s Nueva Viscaya, the fisherman in the Visayas, or the small trader in Davao would actually benefit from the frameworks we were drafting. Those questions humbled me and kept me grounded.

This is why I now grow uneasy when I see groups loudly calling for instant federalism. Their voices are passionate, their slogans inspiring, but beneath the noise there is little technical grounding. They skip the hard questions, gloss over the complexities, and sell federalism as a magic fix. The people, weary of neglect, may bite into these promises out of hope—but promises without depth only breed confusion and disappointment.

Federalism cannot be rushed. It is not a banner to wave at rallies, but a structure to build with patience and precision. To campaign for federalism without technical expertise is not only irresponsible—it is dangerous. It risks discrediting the movement entirely, turning what should be a reform of empowerment into a failed political stunt.

That is why I hold firmly to the recommendation we put forward in 2016: evolving federalism. It is not as loud or as flashy as instant change, but it is honest, practical, and sustainable. It tells the Filipino people the truth: federalism can work, but it demands preparation, discipline, and sacrifice.

To this day, I remain grateful that I was invited to work alongside giants in academe and policy, to be given the trust to chair the Fiscal Policy Cluster, and to add my voice to a movement that sought real reform rather than hype. When federalism finally takes root in the Philippines—and I believe one day it will—I will remember those sessions in 2016, and I will take pride in knowing that we planted its seeds with integrity, care, and love for country.

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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.

 

VIEWS: 53K

Awiting sa Puso Mo Maririnig: A Journey of Youth, Nationalism, and Memory

by Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

When I was seventeen, I thought I was just another student trying to find my place in college. But looking back now, I realize I was already carrying something much heavier than books and notebooks—I was carrying the fire of a young activist. I didn’t belong to the usual groups aligned with the CPP/NPA/NDF. In fact, we were their rivals, always clashing during student council elections. I was part of NASCOP, the National Association of Student Councils of the Philippines, the mortal enemy of the National Union of the Students of the Philippines (NUSP) and at such a young age, I became its National Secretary-General (Till now all my positions are Secretary-General maybe that is my line or positive curse). At the University of the East, where I studied, I was elected as Speaker of the Legislative Department even though I was just a first-year pre-dentistry student wherein I did not pursue. Imagine that—a seventeen-year-old boy standing before older, more experienced students, trying to lead. It was overwhelming, yes, but it also fueled my growing love for the nation.

In those restless years, I discovered that my strength was not just in organizing rallies or delivering speeches. It was in writing. Whenever my mind raced with ideas or my heart swelled with emotions about our country, I turned to pen and paper. Reflections, Essay and Poem became my way of shouting into the world. One of them was titled “Awiting sa Puso Mo Maririnig.”

You see, I had listened to so many nationalistic songs back then. I am a solid fan of Joey Ayala until now, and I admire Heber Bartolome, Mike Hanopol, Coritha, Lolita Carbon, Chikoy Pura, Inang Laya and Florante. They were fiery, passionate, filled with words about change and freedom. They could rouse a crowd, yes, but once the singing stopped, the feeling faded too quickly. I wanted to write something different. I wanted a song that would not just echo in the ears but would remain in the heart.

The problem was, I wasn’t a musician. I barely knew how to strum a guitar. But life has a way of giving us the right companions at the right time. In our group was Archie, a “guitar freak” from TIP. He had magic in his fingers. I showed him my poem, and he gave it a melody. Suddenly, my words had a heartbeat. They were no longer just verses on paper—they became music. Until now, I don’t know where Archie is, but I will always be grateful to him. Without him, my poem would have remained silent.

The song asked questions that haunted me as a young man: What song could awaken those asleep? What melody could lift the bowed down to stand tall again? I never claimed to have the answer, but deep in my heart, I believed that the truest song of freedom could not be written by anyone—it had to be felt and heard in one’s own heart.

Then time passed. Life carried me forward. The song was pushed to the back of my memory, almost forgotten like an old notebook gathering dust. I moved on to other battles, other responsibilities. For years, I didn’t think about it—until one day in 2024, out of nowhere, a message popped up on my Facebook. It was from Usec. Alain Del Pascua, the founder of NASCOP and a great mentor and role model for leadership and integrity. He asked me if I still had a tape of my song. I was stunned. After all those years, someone still remembered. I told him that Archie had it, but the mere question lit a spark inside me again.

Suddenly, I was seventeen once more. I could see myself scribbling verses in notebooks, humming half-forgotten tunes, dreaming of a Philippines united not by hate or division but by love and solidarity. That fire returned. I picked up a guitar, tried to recall the melody, and with the help of modern tools like AI, I created a new arrangement for the song. It was no longer just a relic of my youth—it was alive again.

Reviving “Awiting sa Puso Mo Maririnig” is more than just nostalgia. It is a reminder to myself, and hopefully to everyone who hears it, that we don’t need to fight one another to prove our love for this country. What we need is to remember that unity is our greatest strength. Politicians and those in power may try to divide us, but in the heart of every Filipino lies the true melody of freedom.

And that’s what I want my philosophical and critical thinker daughter Juliana Rizalhea as well as my favorite nephew veterinary Dr. Lenon Teope Del Rosario, and someday my grandchildren, to understand. The real song that can change a nation doesn’t come from a stage, or a rally, or even from a guitar. It comes from the heart. And once you hear it there, it can never be silenced.

  ________________________________________________________________

 *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.

 

 VIEWS: 57K

The Bicam Insertion for Flood Control: Controlling the Flood or Controlling the Funds?

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

I sat in a budget hearing back in the year 2000, when I was still a consultant for a government agency. I went there with so much idealism, believing that the process I was about to witness was democracy at work. For me, it was more than numbers on paper. It was about lives, about the sweat of ordinary Filipinos converted into taxes, and about the promise that government would return those taxes in the form of services and protection. But in the middle of those long hours of deliberation, I began to notice something strange. Projects that technical people had worked hard to prepare were suddenly being cut. And in their place, new allocations magically appeared—projects that were never part of the plan, never seen in the original proposals, but suddenly defended with such energy by certain lawmakers. That was the first time I heard the word whispered in the halls: insertions. It was a disheartening revelation, the moment when I realized that the budget was not simply a document of priorities but also a tool of politics, easily bent in favor of power.

Fast forward to today, more than two decades later, and the same story continues. Every year, we see billions of pesos allocated for flood control projects. On paper, these funds should protect our communities from the devastation of rising waters. Yet year after year, the floods still come, drowning our streets, destroying our crops, washing away our homes. Each storm exposes how fragile and temporary our defenses are. Dikes collapse, drainage systems clog, pumping stations fail. And still, in the midst of these failures, we hear of billions being inserted into the flood control budget, as though the solution to flooding is to throw more money at it, even if much of that money never reaches the ground.

I will never forget September 26, 2009, when Typhoon Ondoy poured a month’s worth of rain on Metro Manila in a single day. That morning, I was supposed to attend my graduate school class in the boundary of Quezon City and Manila, but I decided to stay home. I was irritated with an old lady co-faculty member who had been spreading rumors about me, and I thought it best to avoid the added stress. That irritation, as it turned out, became my unexpected blessing. Because I stayed home, both I and my newly bought pyreneese black Mitsubishi Adventure were spared from the floodwaters that swallowed streets and stranded countless vehicles. I remember standing by the window in our overlooking house in the mountains of San Mateo, Rizal watching rivers of muddy water rushing through the roads, and realizing how close I had come to disaster. In that moment, I understood that survival often hangs on the thinnest of chances, and that the true tragedy is when government repeatedly fails to turn billions of pesos into lasting protection for its people.

The Ondoy tragedy was supposed to change everything. We thought it was our wake-up call, the disaster that would finally push our leaders to say “never again.” Billions were poured into flood control after that. Yet here we are, fifteen years later, still telling the same story.

And it wasn’t just Ondoy. Yolanda in 2013 tore through the Visayas with storm surges so massive that they erased entire communities. Ulysses in 2020 reminded Marikina and Cagayan Valley of Ondoy’s nightmare, as waters rose quickly and mercilessly. Paeng in 2022 left trails of mud and mourning. Egay in 2023 submerged northern Luzon. Carina in 2024 forced thousands into evacuation centers yet again. Each storm was a reminder, each storm a test, and each storm a missed opportunity. Because despite all the money allocated for flood control, we never truly learned how to solve flooding once and for all.

When Senator Ping Lacson delivered his privilege speech titled “Flooded Gates of Corruption,” he put into words what many of us have long felt. From 2023 to 2025 alone, more than a trillion pesos was allocated for flood control. In Oriental Mindoro, he uncovered projects worth nearly two billion pesos, where only a fraction came from the President’s budget and more than a billion appeared later as insertions in the House. He spoke about ghost projects and substandard works. He described how money intended to save lives was siphoned into kickbacks and commissions. In his words, only about forty percent of flood control funds actually go into real projects. The rest is eaten away by greed. And his warning rang clear: more than flood control, what the Filipino people need is greed control.

This is why, no matter how much money we pour into flood control, the waters keep coming back. Because the problem is not just engineering—it is governance. Flood control has become politically attractive because it is highly visible. A new dike can be photographed, a drainage project can be inaugurated, a ribbon can be cut. But permanence is different. Permanent solutions require vision, planning, and sacrifice. They require watershed rehabilitation, reforestation, relocation of entire communities, and urban planning that anticipates climate change. They require confronting the fact that development has often been reckless, with houses and malls built on waterways, mountains stripped of forests, and rivers left to choke in silt. Those are not projects that can be rushed before elections. They are not glamorous. And most importantly, they do not generate the same kind of political currency that temporary “control” projects do.

What makes it more painful is that the cost is always borne by ordinary Filipinos. The vendor who watches her small stall float away, the tricycle driver whose vehicle is submerged and ruined, the farmer whose rice field is drowned just before harvest, the child who must leave school because his family is displaced—these are the people who pay for the insertions. Each flood is not just water; it is betrayal. It is the visible face of corruption, the proof that money meant to protect us was diverted somewhere else.

I think back to Ondoy, to Yolanda, to Ulysses, to Paeng, Egay, and Carina, and I see not only natural disasters but opportunities wasted. Each storm should have been a turning point. Each one should have been the last time we said “never again.” And yet each time, we went back to business as usual. We poured billions more into the same broken system, allowing insertions to thrive, allowing greed to masquerade as governance.

It is easy to say floods are inevitable, that typhoons are acts of God. But I cannot accept that anymore. Flooding on this scale is not purely natural; it is political. It is the result of choices made in budget hearings, of deals struck in bicameral conferences, of projects inserted without merit, and of funds stolen instead of spent. The water may rise because of rain, but it lingers because of corruption.

That day in 2000, when I first heard the word insertion, I thought it was just a small detail in the complexity of government. But now, after Ondoy and every storm since, I realize it was more than a detail. It was a shadow cast over our democracy. A shadow that stretches from the halls of Congress to the homes of flood victims. A shadow that will not be lifted until we confront the truth: that no amount of money can save us from floods if the system itself is flooded with greed.

Ergo, the question of whether or not the floods can ever be prevented is one that we frequently ask. I have faith that they are able to. There are other nations that have done it. Some countries, such as the Netherlands, Japan, and even Singapore, have demonstrated that flood control and prevention together water flow management and community protection are possible via careful planning, discipline, and honesty. However, there is one thing that we have not yet accomplished: leaders who prioritize the well-being of their constituents before political considerations and monetary gains. Up to that point, each and every bicam insertion will not merely be a line item in the budget; rather, it will be another stone that is placed on the back of the Filipino people, another reason why the waters continue to rise and won't go down.

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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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The Story of Tai Yow Pei and the Birth of the Surname "Teope"---Setting the Stage: A Diplomatic Lecture That Turned Into a Personal Journey

By Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

In 2019, I was invited as a lecturer on China–ASEAN Diplomacy. It was not the first time I had spoken on regional affairs, but the invitation carried a special weight. The event was hosted in partnership with a Chinese university, one that specialized in international relations and history. My lecture was to focus on maritime diplomacy, trade relations, and the delicate balance of power in the South China Sea. 

I remember preparing slides on treaties, shipping routes, and the complex interplay between sovereignty and cooperation. My focus was geopolitical, analytical, and very much in the present. What I did not know was that this professional duty would unexpectedly open a window into my own past.

As part of my engagement, I was given access to the university’s virtual library. This was a treasure trove of manuscripts, digitized documents, and archival records from Fujian and other provinces—sources rarely accessible outside China. At first, I browsed with the mind of a scholar, searching for historical trade records that could illuminate the long relationship between Fujianese merchants and Manila’s Parián.

But as I scrolled through fragile digitized manuscripts, something caught my eye. A name. A name that seemed oddly familiar.

The Name That Stopped Me

The record was from early 18th-century Fujian, referencing a poet named Tai Yow Pei (戴耀培). The name, translated, meant “one who shines and cultivates.” What startled me was not only the beauty of the name but its strange familiarity.

In the document, Tai Yow Pei was described as a poet whose verses had unsettled the Qing authorities. His poetry, allegorical and sharp, criticized the corruption of mandarins and echoed the suffering of peasants. His words had spread in whispers among villagers and markets, repeated like chants of defiance (Zhang, 1720/2010).

The Qing dynasty, still consolidating its rule after the fall of the Ming, was paranoid about dissent. They charged Tai Yow Pei with “literary crimes” (wenzi yu)—a practice where even a single character or metaphor could be interpreted as treason. He was arrested, beaten, and humiliated. He was forced to confess his authorship of the verses. The punishment was severe: he was given a choice between death and exile (Li, 1712/2005).

He chose exile.

I leaned back in my chair that day, stunned. Here was a man whose poetry had ignited a quiet rebellion, whose name resonated with dignity and defiance. And yet, something about that name pulled me closer.

Escape from Fujian

The record continued: disguised as a servant, silver tied to his leg, Tai Yow Pei fled Fujian. He boarded a vessel bound for Manila, one of the key ports of the Spanish colonial empire.

At the time, Fujianese migration to Manila was common. Thousands of Chinese men left their homes to seek trade and work in the Philippines. Some prospered, some perished, and some became the forebears of Filipino families whose surnames still echo Chinese syllables.

But Tai Yow Pei was not an ordinary migrant. He was a fugitive poet, a man who had defied an empire with words. As I read, I could almost picture him: slipping through the darkness of a Fujian port, head lowered, heart pounding, carrying only memory, hope, and the determination to live.

Manila, 1701: A New Identity

The next part of his story came not from the Fujian archives, but from Manila. I cross-referenced the Chinese virtual library with colonial records available in the Philippines. There, in the Libro de los Sangleyes—a registry of Chinese migrants—I found mention of a man whose name was reshaped at the point of colonial translation (Archivo de la Real Audiencia de Manila, 1701/1987).

When he arrived in Manila in 1701, Spanish authorities required all Sangley migrants to register. At his turn, Tai Yow Pei presented himself. The Dominican friar who wrote down names struggled to pronounce it. Tai Yow Pei. The tones clashed with his tongue. The syllables refused to cooperate.

And so, searching for a substitute, the friar recalled a fellow priest: Rodolfo de Legaspi. He took “Rodolfo” and, reshaping the sounds of “Tai Yow Pei,” produced a new surname: Teope (de la Cruz, 1703/1992).

With the stroke of a quill, the revolutionary poet was reborn. From that day forward, Tai Yow Pei was recorded as Rodolfo Teope.

The Shock of Recognition

At that moment of discovery, sitting in front of my laptop in the Philippines while browsing the archives of Fujian and Manila, I froze. My eyes lingered on that name—Rodolfo Teope. It was a name I knew well. It was my name.

I had always introduced myself formally as Dr. Rodolfo "John" Ortiz Teope but there is still another missing my mother's surname  is actually Ortiz-Luis, I will tell more about that how it happen. But until that moment, it had been just a name, a label, an identifier. That day, however, it became a story. I realized that the very first Rodolfo Teope was my ancestor, once called Tai Yow Pei, a poet who had defied an empire, suffered persecution, and carried his courage across the sea.

The friar’s quill may have transformed him, but the essence of his resilience lived on. And somehow, generations later, his name had returned to me.

Life in Exile: From Poet to Patriarch

The colonial records in Manila, though sparse, give hints that life slowly stabilized for Rodolfo Teope, once Tai Yow Pei. From the ashes of persecution, he built something new. He married, and together with his wife, raised a large family—three sons and five daughters. Their lives were far from easy, for Sangley families often endured restrictions, discrimination, and the constant burden of survival under colonial suspicion. Yet within their home, there was warmth, resilience, and continuity.

I often imagine the evenings in that household: children gathered around, listening to their father’s quiet stories about Fujian, about mountains and rivers they had never seen, about poems once whispered in rebellion. Perhaps he never dared write again, but maybe he recited lines by memory, reshaping them into lessons of resilience. His sons likely learned the value of hard work in Manila’s bustling trade, while his daughters carried the grace and quiet strength of their mother.

This detail moved me deeply. For a man once condemned to death for his verses, survival was not only personal—it was generational. He did not just escape; he planted roots. His decision to live, to choose exile over silence, created a lineage that today continues through me.

Reflection: Carrying His Name

When I write my name now—Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope—I feel a weight I never carried before. It is not the weight of burden but of responsibility. To know that I bear the same name first given to a man who resisted tyranny through poetry, who refused death and chose exile, is humbling.

I see him in my imagination: bruised, defiant, whispering verses in a Fujian cell. I see him on the docks, silver tied to his leg, eyes fixed on the horizon. I see him in Manila, standing before a friar’s quill as his name is reshaped forever.

His words may have been lost to history, but his story lives in me. The fact that his name became my name is no coincidence—it is a reminder that resilience and rebellion can travel across centuries, hidden in bloodlines, carried in syllables.

A Poetic Legacy

The discovery also reshaped how I see my work as a writer, a political analyst, and an academic. I had always been drawn to words, to the power of narrative, to the responsibility of commentary. Now I understand why. Somewhere in my bloodline, there was a poet who believed words could ignite rebellion. Somewhere in my ancestry, there was a man who chose exile over silence.

When I write today—whether on governance, society, or history—I realize I am continuing a legacy. I am wielding the same weapon my ancestor did: the pen.

My Final Thoughts

The story of Teope is the story of Tai Yow Pei. It is the story of how a revolutionary poet in Fujian, condemned for his verses, chose exile, crossed the seas, and was reborn in Manila with a new name. It is the story of how that name—Rodolfo Teope—survived across centuries until it returned to me.

When I sign my name today, I am not just Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope. I am also Tai Yow Pei’s heir, his namesake, his continuation. I carry his defiance, his resilience, and his renewal. And in doing so, I remember that names are not just identifiers. They are stories, monuments of survival, and legacies that whisper across time.

References

Archivo de la Real Audiencia de Manila. (1701/1987). Libro de los Sangleyes: Registro de Chinos conversos y avecindados en Intramuros. Manila: Archivo Histórico Dominicano.

de la Cruz, F. (1703/1992). Diarios de un fraile en Manila: Conversión y nombres de los Sangleyes. Manila: Editorial de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario.

Li, X. (1712/2005). Whispers Beneath the Dragon Robes: Exiled Poets of Fujian. Beijing: Zhonghua Press.

Zhang, M. (1720/2010). The Silent Verses: Banned Poetry of Late Ming and Early Qing. Shanghai: Phoenix House.

 __________________________________________________________________

 *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.