As a Filipino citizen, not a legal expert, I write not to dissect jurisprudence, but to air questions—many of them—the kind that keep returning like unfinished homework. Why send the articles back when the Constitution clearly says the Senate “shall forthwith proceed” with the trial? What is so unclear about the word “forthwith”? And if the Senate can remand such a case under the pretext of giving the House a second look, what prevents it from doing so repeatedly? Are we now setting a precedent where impeachments can be looped endlessly until they quietly die of exhaustion?

The timing is suspicious. The articles of impeachment were transmitted in February 2024. Nothing happened for months. Suddenly, on the last day of the 19th Congress, a decision to send them back is made. The delay, to a keen observer, feels less like caution and more like choreography. It sends a signal not just to the House, but to the public: that rules can be bent, paused, and even reversed if political winds demand it.

Senator Alan Peter Cayetano’s motion to remand, supported by allies of the Vice President, is couched in legal rationalization. Yet, legal scholars from UP College of Law, like Atty. Paolo Tamase and Prof. Dante Gatmaytan, have argued this move disrupts the constitutional balance between the House and the Senate. The Senate’s role, once impeachment articles are received, is not to supervise the House, but to conduct a trial. To send them back is to step outside its lane.

Former Solicitor General Florin Hilbay pointed out that remanding gives the House the chance to kill the case quietly. If the House simply does not return the articles, the Senate can say, “we did not dismiss it—the House did.” This is what Senator Risa Hontiveros called “functional dismissal.” It is political finesse at its most polished. But finesse does not mean fairness.

Some argue that this action respects constitutional due process. Others claim it spares the Senate from having to try a case marred by procedural questions. But the deeper question remains: if the trial were allowed to begin, would the arguments truly hold? And if they would not, then is the delay a tactic to avoid a result that may be politically costly? As Senator Sherwin Gatchalian asked, why not go through the trial and let the process clarify the uncertainties?

The defense that the case is flawed echoes Duterte’s camp’s claim that the House violated procedure by sitting on prior impeachment complaints. But even if that were true, it is not for the Senate to rule on. That job, as constitutional law experts have stated, lies with the Supreme Court. And until the Court decides otherwise, the Senate is bound by the Constitution’s command to proceed.

In this spectacle, logic is twisted. Some pro-Duterte senators are quick to insist on due process, yet rush to dismiss without even a single hearing. Others cry political harassment, while enjoying the comfort of majoritarian support. It is almost as if we are watching a play where the actors have memorized the wrong script but insist the audience is confused.

This brings to mind the concept of reflection that many of us teach in classrooms, in the church, and at home. Reflection, in its deepest sense, is not just about looking back, but about looking within. What motivated this move? Was it fear of public opinion? Was it allegiance to power? Or was it simply an unwillingness to bear the burden of history?

Public opinion is not indifferent. A May 2025 SWS survey found that 88% of Filipinos wanted the Vice President to face her impeachment charges. That is not a number easily brushed aside. It reflects a citizenry that still believes in accountability. And while numbers alone do not constitute justice, they do represent a moral pulse that public servants should not ignore.

This is not an attack on the Senate. Institutions matter. They must be protected, even from the people within them. But protecting the institution of the Senate does not mean shielding it from criticism. It means holding it to its promise. It means demanding that it act with dignity, transparency, and courage. Senators are not stage actors. They are public stewards. Their oaths are not decorative. They are binding.

In schools or at work, when students or employees delay a report, dodge a deadline, or make excuses, we urge them to own up. We call that integrity. We expect the same from those in power. This trial—or rather, the refusal to begin one—has left many of us with a question: If the Constitution no longer holds sway in moments like these, what does?

The Senate still has a chance to redeem itself. Should the House return the articles, the Senate must proceed—without theatrics, without delay. Let the truth speak, whatever it may be. Let justice play out in full view of the nation. Because the real trial is not just of Sara Duterte. It is of the Senate, of our institutions, and of whether we, as a people, still believe that public office is a public trust.

Doc H calls himself a ”student of and for life” and, like many others, wants a life-giving, why-driven world dedicated to social justice and happiness. His views may not reflect those of his employers or associates.

The post Trial by delay?! first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

It bears noting that this is happening not in the arid corners of sub-Saharan Africa, but in Iloilo—a city with access to rivers, rainfall, and several bodies of freshwater nearby. What Iloilo lacks is not a natural supply, but a coherent, accountable system of distribution and long-term planning. Historical records trace our water system back to 1926 under Commonwealth Act No. 3222. Since then, transitions through NAWASA, MWSS, and now MIWD and MPIW have only added complexity to what should be a straightforward matter. We now have one entity sourcing water, another distributing it, and yet another bidding to outdo the first. This fragmented approach makes accountability murky. When the faucet runs dry, no one quite knows who to blame.
 
That said, it is only fair to recognize those who still try to lead with grit and grace in the midst of this hydrological mess. I affirm the quiet but steady leadership of Alfredo “Alfred” Tayo III, General Manager of the Metro Iloilo Water District (MIWD), who, despite limited resources and bureaucratic challenges, continues to steer the agency with technical responsibility and civic mindfulness. I salute Tayo, an accountant and a doctor of development management, and the members of his team who uphold transparency, public safety, and collaborative dialogue. His proactive stance—however constrained by decades of inherited problems—demonstrates that leadership is not always about sweeping reforms but also about showing up, listening, and doing the best with what you have. Still, his shoulders are small against the weight of a crisis long in the making. MIWD may not be perfect, but having principled stewards at the helm provides a sliver of hope in this otherwise parched landscape.
 
But Iloilo’s crisis is just one tile in a much larger, troubling mosaic. The National Economic and Development Authority (NEDA) cautions that unless things are altered, the Philippines is on the verge of serious water scarcity by 2040. Indeed, according to a Senate Economic Planning Office 2023 study, we’ve actually already hit a turning point: since 2017, the national water supply dipped lower than 1,700 cubic meters per capita—an officially recognized threshold that makes us a water-stressed country. In simpler terms, we’re already in the danger zone, and the clock is ticking. The same report noted that around 27% of the population lives in areas classified as water-stressed or groundwater-stressed—including Iloilo City.
 
The contradiction is cruel. We are a country with 421 rivers, over 221 lakes, significant groundwater, and an average annual rainfall of 2,400 mm, providing 146 billion cubic meters of freshwater annually. But due to mismanagement, poor infrastructure, fragmented governance, and climate unpredictability, we lose billions of liters each year to inefficiencies. More than 25% of our irrigation water is wasted. About 43% of our rivers are polluted. And only 39% of our local water districts operate efficiently. These are not just numbers; they are reminders that policy failures have a very human cost.
 
MPIW, for its part, has tried to plug the gaps through technology: leak detection systems, pipe rehabilitation, and the proposed construction of a desalination plant. These are all commendable in theory, but implementation remains slow and patchy. And then there are the pipelines—many over four decades old—leaking at rates that would make even an optimist sigh. In 2024, MPIW reported a reduction of non-revenue water (or water that is produced but not billed due to leaks, theft, or meter inaccuracies) from 56% to 39%. Better, yes, but still far from good.

Meanwhile, desperation takes many forms. In some Iloilo barangays, residents crowd around tanker deliveries, jostling for water pressure with water drums and PET bottles in their homes. Others are forced to buy at exorbitant rates—₱225 to ₱250 per cubic meter—from roving private suppliers. For the minimum wage earner, this is unsustainable. For families already struggling with inflation, this is punishing.
 
The national government, to its credit, has started taking broader steps. Executive Order No. 22 created the Water Resources Management Office under the DENR to unify policy direction. Numerous bills in the Senate—the Water Sustainability Act and Safe Drinking Water Act, among others—are on the table, including modernizing the collection, storage, pricing, and distribution of water. Senator Win Gatchalian also renewed calls to establish alternative sources and future-proof supply through such initiatives as Laguna de Bay and the Davao Bulk Water Facility. These are bold strokes, but they must trickle down to the local level, where residents of places like Lapuz still rely on inconsistent rations to cook their next meal and wash their utensils.
 
We can only imagine parents, guardians, and teachers having students come to class wearing yesterday’s clothes, not out of laziness but because they had no water to wash them. In offices, cubicles, shops, and lounges, we can also imagine some people talk less about work and more about whether anyone managed to bathe that morning. How can we be animate resilience and resourcefulness when even basic dignity is compromised by the absence of water?
 
Still, the crisis has also unearthed a strange sense of solidarity. In Lapuz, neighbors now communicate through whispers and texts by the faucet: “Nag-abot na?” “Gamay lang subong.” We check on one another’s buckets. We lend and share stored reserves. We laugh, sometimes, at the absurdity of planning your life around a faucet. These moments, small as they are, remind us that even in scarcity, there is grace.
 
As we await the full activation of the Jalaur River Multipurpose Project—now reportedly 74.45% complete—we must ask tougher questions. Not just about when the water will come, but about how long it will last. How it will be shared. And whether its distribution will be dictated by who needs it most, not who profits the most.
 
Water, at its core, is more than a commodity. It is memory, ritual, survival. It is the unseen thread that binds the classroom to the kitchen, the factory floor to the garden, the hallway kiosk to the medical clinic, the call center to the karinderia. It should not be an object of corporate tug-of-war or bureaucratic indifference. It should be a promise that never falters.
 
In the end, Iloilo’s water story is not simply about drought or infrastructure. It is about whether we, as a people, still believe in the ethic of care—care that does not wait for headlines or calamity declarations to act. If we value life, then we must value water not just in words, but in how we manage, share, and protect it. Because the true cost of this crisis is not measured in liters, but in lost hours, stolen dignity, and the collective exhaustion of a city that has learned to keep waiting for a faucet that does not always keep its promise.
 
Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

The post Water crisis, quo vadis!? first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Impeachment is serious business. It is not a hobby for bored lawmakers, nor a weapon for political rivals. As Article XI, Section 2 of the 1987 Constitution outlines, it exists to hold our highest officials accountable for serious breaches: culpable violations of the Constitution, treason, graft, corruption, and betrayal of public trust. It is a safety valve, a last-resort measure to protect the republic when traditional checks and balances fail. But the strength of any mechanism lies not just in its design but in its use. A wrench left unused on the shelf during a system failure is not just useless—it is negligence.

Legal scholars across the board have weighed in. The faculty of the University of the Philippines College of Law, in a June 5, 2025 open letter, was unequivocal. They warned that dismissing the case without a trial, under the pretext of either procedural technicalities or the end of a congressional cycle, would set a dangerous precedent. They clarified that the Senate, when it sits as an Impeachment Court, assumes a special constitutional role that is distinct from its legislative function. This means the usual rules about the non-continuing nature of Congress do not apply. The Constitution itself mandates the Senate to “forthwith proceed” with the trial. That phrase, according to constitutionalist John Molo and other signatories, is not flexible. It is binding.

Even legal veterans like former School of Law Dean Chel Diokno, who has spent decades navigating our jurisprudence, echo the concern. Diokno has pointed out that an impeachment court is a different animal. It is not bound by the rules that govern day-to-day legislation. Senators, once sworn in as impeachment judges, are not lawmakers temporarily. They become custodians of the people’s trust. They carry the weight of deciding not merely guilt or innocence, but the institutional integrity of our democracy.

This sentiment is reinforced by no less than constitutionalist and 1987 Constitutional Commission member Atty. Christian Monsod, who, in an interview on Dobol B TV, stressed that dismissing the Duterte impeachment would violate the very Charter designed to protect democratic accountability. Monsod’s firm reminder cuts through the legal debate: the Constitution is not subject to political mood swings, and adherence to its processes is not optional.

Some argue that delaying the trial or outright dismissing it protects the Vice President’s right to a speedy disposition. But as several law professors noted in their legal opinions, impeachment is a sui generis (of its own kind; unique) proceeding. It is not a criminal case nor a quasi-judicial matter. Even if one were to assume that such a right applies, the Vice President herself sought to block the proceedings by petitioning the Supreme Court. You cannot stall a process and then claim to be victimized by the delay.

Iloilo, where I live and work, is no stranger to the consequences of public officials ducking accountability. I have seen how a delayed procurement, an ignored audit report, or a quietly junked investigation can make things worse for ordinary people—farmers who do not receive promised subsidies, teachers with delayed pay, barangay health workers waiting for hazard pay that vanishes in the paperwork. That is why this issue matters. When powerful people are allowed to dodge scrutiny, the costs trickle down to those who least deserve to suffer.

The public, it turns out, agrees. A recent Social Weather Stations (SWS) survey conducted from May 2 to 6, 2025, commissioned by Stratbase, found that 88% of Filipinos believe Vice President Sara Duterte should face the impeachment charges head-on—with 68% saying she “definitely should” and 20% saying she “probably should.” Only 7% said she should avoid the issue. This was the second highest priority respondents gave her, just behind calls for her to “collaboratively work to prioritize the nation’s needs.” The message is loud and clear: accountability is not just a legal requirement, but a public demand. And that demand crosses social, economic, and political divides.

And yet, this moment is not without hope. When law students, political science professors, and civil society groups speak out—as they have, from UP, La Salle, Lyceum, and Adamson Colleges of Law to the Ateneo Human Rights Center and the Center for People Empowerment in Governance (CenPEG)—they remind us that truth does not always need a gavel or a headline to be seen. CenPEG Chair Prof. Roland Simbulan has said that the Senate’s delay threatens not just one case, but the foundation of democratic governance. Inaction, he argues, is a form of complicity.

Still, this article is not about attacking Vice President Sara Duterte personally. Like any public official, she deserves due process and the opportunity to defend herself. But let that process happen. Let it take place not in rumor mills, press briefings, or social media threads, but in the Senate floor, where evidence is presented, examined, and weighed. We are not asking for conviction. We are asking for fairness, for the trial to begin as the Constitution demands. That is what any public servant should welcome if they have nothing to hide.

This is also not about hating political families or idolizing another. The impeachment process must be depersonalized. It is not about who wins in 2028. It is about who does what now. Senate President Chiz Escudero, as presiding officer, has the chance to either uphold the Constitution or reduce it to a suggestion. Some whisper he is playing safe to preserve alliances. Others say he is angling for future endorsements. But real leadership is not about staying in power. It is about doing what is right, even if it costs you everything.

One can look at this moment as an exercise in civic courage. A kind of Ignatian examen—a pause to reflect not only on the decisions made but the intentions behind them. Are our lawmakers acting out of fear, ambition, or conscience? Are they truly protecting the institutions they swore to serve, or merely playing the long game of political survival? We, the public, are not passive spectators in this unfolding drama. Our silence can either greenlight shortcuts or signal that we will not be fooled.

In classrooms across the country, especially in public schools where many teachers struggle with little support, we teach our students to stand up, speak truth, and act with integrity. If we demand that from our youth, we must demand it even more from those who sit in the highest halls of government. Let the trial begin. Let the Senate act not as a shield but as a mirror of our democratic values.

The call is simple and just: Honor the Constitution. Let the process run its course. No shortcuts. No excuses. The real danger is not the trial itself—it is the refusal to hold one. Because when the powerful are no longer held to account, the powerless have nowhere left to turn.

Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

The post Senate on trial first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

The post The clock, the code, and Chiz first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

What stood out was not just the data, though Dr. Wilfredo Campos’ presentation made the science speak volumes. It was the simplicity of the messages that echoed through the hall: protect the 15-kilometer municipal waters. Keep them for the fishers who depend on them. The logic was clear. As Dr. Campos emphasized, these waters are not empty, underutilized spaces waiting for commercial expansion—they are already overfished, and they are the last line of defense for many coastal families. The proposed entry of large-scale fishing vessels into these zones, now legitimized by a controversial court ruling, is not just a policy shift. It is a redrawing of survival lines.

What struck me most during the open forum was a fisherwoman from Ajuy who said, “Pag nawala ang kinse, wala na kaming babalikan.” It was not dramatic. It was plain truth. The 15 kilometers are not just coordinates on a map—they are cultural lifelines, inherited from generations who learned to read tides like textbooks. If these waters are opened to commercial vessels, equipped with sonar, nets the size of chapels, and financial capital to spare, small boats will not stand a chance. No law of physics allows a paddle to outpace a propeller.

And yet, it is not only a question of might. It is also one of rights. As pointed out by Atty. Rose-Liza Eisma-Osorio of Oceana Philippines, the Constitution is not ambiguous: municipal waters are for municipal fishers. The 1987 Constitution, Article XIII, Section 7, guarantees the preferential rights of subsistence fishers. RA 8550, amended by RA 10654, affirms it again. What we are seeing is not just a legal oversight—it is a moral misalignment. When laws are left unenforced, or worse, quietly reversed, those who have the least often pay the highest price.

Fisherfolk poverty is not news. According to the PSA, fishers remain the second poorest sector in the country, with a poverty incidence of 27.4 percent. But what stings is how preventable it is. For decades, small-scale fisheries have been the backbone of our food security. They contributed 39 percent of the total value of fisheries production in 2022, often with outdated boats and uncertain weather. And yet, they are now being asked to compete with commercial giants for the same marine space? It is like sending a jeepney to a drag race and pretending the contest is fair.

As the forum continues, I remember the ISUFST’s position paper we drafted and released last February. It was firm but grounded: uphold the law, protect municipal waters, and center the voices of coastal communities in policymaking. We, as the country’s only fisheries university, are not neutral in this fight. Our students, many of whom come from fishing families, cannot afford to be neutral either. To teach sustainability while turning a blind eye to the systematic displacement of small fishers is academic hypocrisy. Our role is not only to study the sea—it is to stand with those who live by it.

I left the forum thinking about the silent cost of policy. The Supreme Court decision allowing commercial vessels within the 15-kilometer zone, following a lower court ruling, may appear as a technical victory for commercial fishing firms. But its consequences are deeply human. According to a study cited by Dr. Campos, 90 percent of municipal waters are deeper than seven fathoms—the new benchmark for commercial entry. This means nearly the entire municipal area could be exploited, leaving only the shallowest waters for small fishers, or as one speaker put it, “parang palanggana na lang ang matitira.”

This ruling did not come out of nowhere. It came from years of erosion—of legal enforcement, of political will, of attention to the margins. But if the “Atin ang Kinse” forum taught me anything, it is that resistance is also built in layers. TBTI Philippines, with its roots in UP Visayas and global partnerships, has been compiling studies, building alliances, and advocating tirelessly for small-scale fishers. This forum was not an isolated protest. It was a coordinated stand. A convergence of science, policy, community memory, and lived experience.

The path forward is difficult, but it is not hopeless. The Department of Agriculture-BFAR has filed a motion for reconsideration. More importantly, communities are organizing. The Diocese of Bacolod has released a pastoral statement in support of fisherfolk. Local governments and state universities are expressing concern. The hope is that momentum builds, not fades. And it must. Because this is not just a fisheries issue. It is a test of national coherence. Can we still protect what our laws say we must? Can we still listen to the small voices before they are drowned out by the hum of steel boats?

To the untrained eye, the 15-kilometer line may appear arbitrary. But after hearing the stories, seeing the faces, and understanding the stakes, I know it is sacred. Not because of mythology, but because of memory. Because of meals provided, tuition paid, and communities anchored. It is not just a line on water—it is a promise on which so many lives rest.

As we continue to reflect on the National Fisherfolk’s Day, let us not just thank fishers for their service. Let us act in ways that honor their dignity. The boats may be small, but the justice they are asking for is immense. Let us be wise enough to see that keeping the kinse for them is not charity—it is clarity, it is coexistence. And perhaps, that is what sustainability truly means: to choose and fight for the long view, even when the tide pulls the other way.

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

The post Atin ang kinse! first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Russia’s expected quick triumph upon invading Ukraine in February 2022 was Kyiv was meant to fall within days, and a puppet government would replace it. But Ukraine’s aggressive defense subverted these expectations. Ukraine pushed back, driving Russia into a costly and protracted conflict with its surprising fortitude and international community support. Putin’s first mistake—underestimating the Ukrainian people—has made retreat almost impossible. Russia is now fighting to avoid acknowledging failure, not to win, with over a hundred thousand Russian troops lost and sanctions cutting deeper.

Putin missed the will of the Ukrainian people. Once a major player in the area, Russia thought Ukraine would buckle under strain. Still, Ukrainians have gone against expectations everywhere. Supported by the world, they have rebounded, freed areas, and maintained their sovereignty. Although the war costs both sides more the longer it lasts, for Putin, admitting defeat would mean admitting his miscalculation, damaging his fragile power and legacy.

Today, Russia is in a sunken cost conundrum. One load that cannot be readily dropped is war. Economically, the damage is enormous; Russia finds it challenging to keep momentum militarily. Walking away, though, would be catastrophic, at least in Putin’s eyes. His survival rests on this war; a retreat would indicate military loss and a loss of national pride and power. Restoring Russia to global prominence has become his identity; thus, turning back down would destroy the basis of his control.

This conundrum is not exclusive to Russia; it is typical of totalitarian governments. Making decisions alone, Putin runs against no democratic restraints on his authority. Attached to him for their survival, his advisers hardly question his choices. Putin is surrounded by people who support his own faulty presumptions in a system where dissent is suppressed, so limiting honest criticism.

Stakes for Putin go not only military but also personal. Over years of propaganda, his picture as a strong, unbeatable leader has been developed. Retreat would challenge the narrative that keeps him in power. Putin gets more ingrained in the belief that to back down would be to lose everything the longer the war drags on.

For Ukraine, meanwhile, this war is about survival. Every square inch of land and every moment of sovereignty captures their future. Concessioning anything to Russia would mean compromising the sacrifices made by families, soldiers, and the country itself. Ukraine battles for its existence; Russia battles for pride, if not for Putin’s hubris. The different reasons of both countries draw attention to the great gulf in this war.

The West is essential. Although the US and European countries have backed Ukraine, demand for a negotiated peace mounts. Peace negotiations are challenging, though, because Putin’s refusal to compromise is unacceptable. He finds any peace agreement lacking a complete surrender of Ukraine unacceptable; hence, the war is probably, and unfortunately, going to last.

While Ukraine’s resilience is constant, Russia’s resources are running low. International support for Ukraine keeps growing, particularly from Europe, where the invasion is seen as a challenge to the post-World War II order. But Russia gets more cut off as the war wears on. Putin’s denial of the expenses of his activities confirms his leadership quality as one ready to give all for personal benefit.

Putin’s basic weakness has been his overestimating of Russia’s military might and underestimating of Ukraine’s will. Even if Russia were to acquire more territory, it would incur enormous expenses. The war demonstrates how mistakes in calculations might have terrible results. War is about people’s will to defend their identity and determination, not only military might.

This conflict sharply reminds us of the human cost of war. It is about national identity, sovereignty, and the right to self-determination as much as power or territory. While Ukraine fights for the very core of its nationhood, Russia’s war is a struggle for political, if not Putin’s personal, survival.

The fundamental question still stands: Will Putin fight, caught in the sunken cost fallacy, or will he face the reality that Russia cannot afford to pay to continue the war? Time will tell, but the longer this war lasts, the more intense the conflict gets, and there seems to be no simple fix in view.

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

The post Putin’s sunken cost dilemma first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Founded in 2016 by Ronald Cardema, the group was originally formed to support President Rodrigo Duterte’s campaign and later, the burial of Ferdinand Marcos at Libingan ng mga Bayani. Early on, it positioned itself not just as a political group, but as a counterforce to progressive youth movements. Cardema’s statements have often drawn parallels to nationalist youth groups abroad, and though he dismissed comparisons to the Hitler Youth, the branding choices raise eyebrows. Still, symbolism aside, the group has pursued recognition as a legitimate representative of the Filipino youth.

In 2019, Duterte Youth ran in the party-list elections with five initial nominees, all of whom eventually withdrew. Cardema, then chair of the National Youth Commission and beyond the allowable age for youth representatives, attempted to substitute himself. This triggered a legal firestorm. As per Republic Act No. 7941, youth sector nominees must be aged 25 to 30 on election day. Cardema was 34. The Commission on Elections (COMELEC) ruled against his substitution, stating there was material misrepresentation. Yet the party-list seat was eventually filled—by Cardema’s wife, Ducielle Marie Suarez Cardema.

For critics like Kabataan Party-list Representative Renee Co, the Duterte Youth’s very claim to youth representation is questionable. She argues that the group does not reflect the struggles of ordinary youth: the battle for accessible education, fair employment, mental health support, or human rights. Instead, they associate the Duterte Youth with red-tagging, pro-administration cheerleading, and policy positions far removed from the grassroots concerns of students and out-of-school youth. Others see the group’s presence in Congress as a political reward rather than a reflection of a marginalized sector.

Still, numbers do not lie. In the 2025 elections, the Duterte Youth garnered over 2.3 million votes, placing second among party-list groups. That figure cannot be dismissed. To their supporters, that vote count affirms legitimacy. The group insists it has nationwide reach and claims to serve not just youth, but young professionals—an interpretation that conveniently bypasses the strict age requirements of the law. They argue that Comelec’s suspension of their proclamation is unjust and politically motivated, even filing a petition to the Supreme Court to compel their recognition.

The suspension, however, was not without legal basis. Comelec clarified that pending disqualification cases—filed as early as 2019—remain unresolved. Groups like Kabataan Tayo ang Pag-asa and election lawyers argue that Duterte Youth’s registration itself should be voided due to misrepresentation. As a matter of procedure, Comelec opted to withhold proclamation until these questions are settled, a move deemed prudent by many legal observers.

This clash reveals the deeper cracks in our party-list system. Designed to amplify marginalized voices, the system has too often been gamed by dynasties, proxies, and interest groups. The Duterte Youth saga is a symptom, not the disease. Senator Panfilo Lacson once remarked that such manipulation turns the party-list law into a national joke. Harsh, but not baseless. When parties named after sectors fail to authentically represent them, public trust erodes.

Still, fairness demands that we view the issue from all sides. The Duterte Youth has followed certain rules, filed documents, and participated in elections. They have also faced intense scrutiny—some of it arguably political. Their pushback against the Comelec and threat to expose alleged corruption within the agency, though dramatic, reflects real frustrations with bureaucratic opacity. If anything, it exposes the need for tighter, clearer standards for party-list participation.

Reforming the system requires both legal clarity and civic honesty. Age limits, sectoral representation, and public accountability must mean something. If the youth sector is to be represented, then youth voices—not just pro-youth slogans—should be in Congress. If professionals are the intended constituency, then the label must change. Pretending to be both dilutes the purpose of each.

Let this controversy spark something better than partisan mudslinging. Let it ignite a broader conversation about how we define representation and who gets to speak on behalf of whom. Let the young be truly heard—not just counted as votes or used as campaign hashtags. After all, representation should not be a loophole. It should be a promise kept.

The Duterte Youth’s fate now lies in the hands of the Comelec and the Supreme Court. Whatever the legal outcome, it should serve as a wake-up call. Our democracy deserves more than cosmetic labels and procedural gymnastics. The next time we see the word “youth” on a ballot, may it reflect not just age or allegiance—but authenticity.

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

The post The Party-List puzzle first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Coffeebreak, for context, is not just any café. For many of us Ilonggos, it is where thesis defenses were caffeinated, group studies brewed, job rejections softened, hangovers relieved, first dates nervously began, ‘lonely tables’ became ‘not just for one,’ reunions turned into yesteryear inventories, and Sunday mornings felt a little less alone. Twenty years of quiet, thoughtful service marked by consistency, warmth, and genuine personal connection. Twenty years of classic coffee, frappés, chocos, and other beverages served with patience. Twenty years of cakes and pastries that somehow understood your mood. So yes, when Castro casually dismissed the entire menu in an Iloilo Coffeebreak branch with a sweeping statement, it struck deeper than flavor.

Criticism, after all, is not a crime. In fact, when offered constructively, it is a gift. In fact, people pay for critiques to improve their services or products. One may say, “The lasagna was bland for my taste,” or even, “The iced coffee lacked depth.” These are fair takes. But to curse a full team of bakers, baristas, and line cooks with a single comment felt less like a review and more like a gut punch. As culinary professionals would agree, feedback, like salt, must be measured. Too little and nothing improves. Too much, and it burns.

Let us also not ignore the reality behind content creation. Studies such as Luong and Ho (2023) reveal that influencer attractiveness, expertise, and similarity drive consumer perception. Viewers often treat vlogger opinions as gospel. Maderazo et al. (2024) go further, pointing out that vlogger credibility directly shapes food choices through dimensions like taste and cost. So when a popular figure uses profanity to broadcast a judgment, it amplifies the weight of every word. That is not just personal opinion; that is social marketing with stakes.

And what stakes. The café employs locals, sources ingredients from nearby farms, and supports families who count on every cake sold and coffee poured. It represents a local brand navigating a digital economy that often favors viral controversy over nuanced dialogue. Coffeebreak responded not with fire, but with grace. Their statement recognized room for growth while appealing for decency. They reminded us that behind every plate is a team, not a target.

Still, let us be clear: this is not a call to canonize Coffeebreak. Every establishment, no matter how cherished, benefits from honest feedback. Outgoing Mayor Jerry Treñas put it best in his FB post: we must protect local businesses while listening to customer voices. The issue here was not taste; it was tone. Castro’s review may have come from a place of frustration or performance, but language has power. Especially in a region that earned UNESCO’s nod for Creative City of Gastronomy, there is pride on the line.

Some say Ilonggos overreacted. Perhaps partly true. But when a review morphs into a takedown, what appears as defensiveness may just be love miscommunicated. This is a city where food is not just sustenance; it is sentiment. Where La Paz batchoy is memory. Where Kap Ising’s Pancit Molo is legacy. Where Guimaras mangoes are metaphors. Where Jo-ann’s fishballs are childhood in a cup. Where KBL is comfort on a rainy day. Where Madge’s coffee is heritage in a mug. Where Y2K’s native chicken is home. Where Biscocho is sweetness that lingers. Where Roberto’s Queen Siopao is life. Where lasagna, even if flawed, is given a second chance before it is dismissed. As my former student and incoming Vice Mayor Love Baronda reflected in her ‘busog ka na, lipay ka pa’ post, Coffeebreak’s lasagna, cookies, and blueberry cheesecake have been her 24/7 comfort food for years—an emblem of loyalty and taste tied not just to the tongue, but to the heart.

My former student now professor Paul Monicimpo, a food enthusiast, reminded everyone that while Coffeebreak may not be the best in every cup, it is a capsule of youth, of safe spaces, of first coffees and shared laughter. That should count for something. On the other hand, former Mayor Jed Mabilog also shared his thoughts online, calling Coffeebreak more than just a café—it’s a civic space that helped shape Iloilo’s sense of community. It created jobs, supported local farmers, and offered a warm, familiar place where people could gather, reflect, and connect.

However, let us also take this as a moment for self-awareness. Many were quick to defend, but some crossed lines too. Body shaming Castro, or mocking her persona, is no better than the ridicule that started this. As Ilonggo historian and commentator Nerio Lujan aptly put it, disagreement is fair, but cruelty is not. If her words lacked finesse, ours should not follow suit. Ilonggos are known for their “kalma,” not cancel culture.

There is a quiet lesson here, something akin to what good teachers know: it is easy to critique, harder to build. The better path, as always, lies in discernment—that fine art of knowing when to speak, how to listen, and what is truly helpful. In a way, it is the same principle that guides respectful reviews, ethical teaching, and meaningful dialogue. As my fellow professor John Niño Crauz wisely put it, standing up for places and spaces like this should be done with grace, not hostility. We can protect what we value without tearing others apart.

This is also a nudge to influencers and aspiring reviewers. Be sharp, be honest, but be kind. Content must have context. Castro’s degree from Enderun gives her culinary background, yes. But expertise must come with responsibility. Influencing, especially in food culture, is not just about likes, shares, comments, trends, and cha-chings. It is about livelihoods, shared culture, and the silent labor of brewers, bakers, servers, cooks, and staff whose dignity rests on every meal served. Reviews can uplift or unravel. And perhaps, in this economy of virality, we need more influencers who understand that flavor is subjective, but respect is universal.

In the end, no one wins in a shouting match. Coffeebreak, despite the attack, stood tall. Ilonggos, though shaken, largely responded with perspective. And even Castro, perhaps in her own reflection, may now grasp that criticism should not sound like insult. This is not about silencing dissent. It is about choosing words that add to the conversation, not erase years of hard work.

So to everyone involved: sip slower. Think deeper. Talk wiser. Sometimes the best reviews do not come with stars or shout-outs. Sometimes, they come with sincerity served at the right temperature. See you in Coffeebreak soon!

“Doc H” fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

The post More than a Coffeebreak first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

The real sting of the term came when I saw how close it was to truth. Trapo politicians wielded recycled promises like campaign flyers. They wept on cue, kissed infants for the camera, and rolled out medical missions that doubled as re-election strategies. They mastered the choreography of charity, while their backrooms reeked of patronage, corruption, and ambition disguised as concern. This was not mere coincidence. The sociopolitical fabric they thrived in, woven from utang na loob, pakikisama, and palakasan, had kept them untouchable for decades. It was jarring how one short word—five letters, two syllables—could carry that much rot.

Now, in 2025, after another cycle of midterm elections, I find myself wondering if Trapo still captures the political moment. The answer, unfortunately, is yes. The word has aged but not expired. It has evolved like its subjects. Today’s Trapo no longer just rides in parades with big hair and velvet sashes. He posts TikToks of himself feeding stray dogs, silly dancing for good vibes, launches “scholarship funds” sourced from public coffers, and joins webinars to talk about empathy and sustainability—as if they were not part of the system that made empathy and sustainability so elusive in the first place.

Some have gone digital, even AI-savvy. They hire ghostwriters for their posts, deepfake smiley town hall videos, and seed praise campaigns through bots and trolls. But peel back the polish and the pattern is the same. The soundbites have been rebranded, the hashtags upgraded, but the governing philosophy—if it can even be called that—remains rooted in illusion, familiarity, and expediency. As detailed in studies by the Ateneo School of Government, dynastic candidates still dominate over 80 percent of legislative seats, proving that name and face matter more than bills passed or debates won.

What makes Trapo a sticky descriptor is not just the gimmicks, but the posture. It is how one performs politics like theater, confusing noise for vision, name recall for integrity, and attention for credibility. The Trapo is performative by design. He waves from tinted SUVs, cuts ribbons with exaggerated grins, funds birthday parties of barangay captains, and builds halfway-finished basketball courts a week before elections. And when caught in scandals? He blames the opposition, feigns memory lapses, or tearfully reads a legal statement while flanked by his family, who just so happen to be running too.

Yet despite all these, many of them win. Again. And again. It would be tempting to pin the blame on voters. But that would be too neat. The reasons are layered: institutional failures, poverty, patronage culture, disinformation, and a citizenry long trained to equate aid with love. As noted in the 2023 SWS survey, 41 percent of voters still identify “being helpful to the poor” as the strongest sign of good governance, a metric that is emotional, not empirical. That is not ignorance; it is survival logic in a system that has repeatedly failed its people.

What worries me is how the term might adapt. In the future, the Trapo might wear barong still, but also quote philosopher and political theorist Hannah Arendt in campaign speeches. He might retweet feminist manifestos, raise rainbow flags during Pride Month, and advocate mental health awareness—only to later gut education budgets, silence student protests, and keep laws vague to preserve control. He may look woke, but govern like a dictator. That would be the most dangerous version: a progressive on the outside, a patron on the inside.

But amid this cautionary tale, I remain hopeful. If anything, the last midterm elections have taught us that change, while slow and bruising, is not impossible. The rise of volunteer-driven campaigns, fact-checking collectives, and youth-led movements prove that we are not entirely captured. In 2022 and 2025, we saw voters lining up at sunrise, refusing payoffs, attending house-to-house campaigns led by unpaid students. Even Yano’s “Trapo” was sung anew, no longer just a lament but a protest soundtrack re-energized by a new generation.

We must nurture that spark. But doing so demands more than memes or moral superiority. It requires supporting platforms, not personalities. It means listening even to those who vote differently, not to correct them, but to understand the survival strategies that inform their choices. It involves running for office, mentoring future leaders, or simply showing up in local meetings where contextual decisions often matter more than national ones. And it definitely means naming the Trapo when we see him, not just during elections, but long after the tarpaulins are taken down.

The word Trapo, at its core, is a cultural mirror. It forces us to ask not just who they are, but who we are. What do we celebrate? What do we forgive? What patterns do we perpetuate by silence, by cynicism, or by forgetfulness? The midterm elections may be over, but the story of the Trapo is not. He is still among us, smiling in posters, trending online, shaking hands, and taking oaths.

And yet, maybe there is hope in those willing to flip the script—who treat public service as a duty, not a show. They call out the mess and dare to clean it up. It is never easy, but real change begins with telling things as they are.

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

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