Francis Perez

READING THE CURRENTS

The Philippines’ Strategic Window in the Energy and Critical Minerals Transition

Part I – It would be a mistake to read the disruption around the Strait of Hormuz simply as another geopolitical crisis affecting the price of oil. Energy security has never really been just about price. It is about physical infrastructure, geography, political alliance, and who controls the systems through which energy actually moves. Since the United States and Israel struck Iran in late February 2026, Iran has mined the strait’s approaches and attacked merchant shipping, cutting oil and petroleum flows through the passage by nearly 30 percent in the first quarter of the year (Institute for Energy Research, 2026). Before the war, close to a quarter of the world’s seaborne oil and a fifth of its liquefied natural gas moved through this one channel (International Energy Agency, 2026). There is no infrastructure built to carry that volume anywhere else.

While the world worries about oil and gas, a second energy story has been gathering momentum more quietly. As transport, industry, and power systems electrify, the strategic importance of minerals grows with them. Batteries need nickel, cobalt, lithium, manganese, and graphite. Electricity grids need enormous quantities of copper. Renewable energy systems need copper, nickel, rare earth elements, and other specialised materials. Semiconductors and advanced technologies depend on still more of them. It is no longer only who controls the oil and gas that matters. Increasingly, the strategic question is who controls the minerals, the processing capacity, and the electricity needed to turn those minerals into the technologies the next economy will run on.

It is easy to underestimate China’s position in that processing stage. It is the leading refiner for nineteen of the twenty minerals the International Energy Agency tracks as strategically important, with an average global market share around 70 percent (International Energy Agency, 2025). For rare earths, China mines roughly 60 percent of world supply but refines around 91 percent of it. For lithium, nickel, and cobalt, it often mines only 10 to 30 percent of global supply yet still refines 60 to 70 percent (Belfer Center for Science and International Affairs, 2025). Ore dug up almost anywhere in the world usually still passes through a Chinese refinery before it becomes a usable input. This is why Western industrial policy has begun paying a deliberate premium for minerals refined elsewhere, in countries considered geopolitically aligned. It is also why the Philippines, historically a minor character in this story, deserves a closer look.

A Broader Mineral Base Than the Nickel Headlines Suggest

Nickel is the obvious place to start, and the figures are genuinely striking. The Philippines is the world’s second-largest producer of mined nickel, accounting for roughly 10 percent of global output and holding about 10.5 percent of known reserves, third-largest in the world (Philstar, 2025). It is the largest exporter of raw nickel ore outright, sitting on an estimated $170 billion in deposits, with processing potential identified in Zambales, Surigao, Dinagat, and Palawan (US International Trade Administration, 2025).

But nickel is only part of the picture. Copper deserves considerably more attention than it usually gets: the Philippines holds an estimated four billion tons of copper ore, placing it among the world’s more significant copper-reserve holders, and Philippine Statistics Authority data shows the country’s Class A copper reserves rose almost 22 percent in 2024 alone (Philippine Statistics Authority, 2025; Vantage FDI, 2025). Copper may end up mattering more than nickel as electrification accelerates, since grids, transmission lines, motors, and charging infrastructure are all copper-intensive in a way few other applications are.

Cobalt is the mineral most worth adding to the conversation, precisely because it sits alongside nickel and lithium in every one of the refining statistics above. Philippine nickel operations already produce mixed nickel-cobalt sulphide, since cobalt is commonly recovered as a by-product of nickel and copper processing rather than mined on its own (Vantage FDI, 2025). That makes nickel, copper, and cobalt a genuinely linked story rather than three separate ones — a single processing chain that, if built out, could yield more than one strategic mineral from the same investment.

The country is also a significant gold producer, and gold actually overtook nickel as the largest single mineral export by value in 2024, generating roughly ₱126 billion from under 29,000 kilograms produced (Chambers and Partners, 2026). Gold is not a critical mineral in the same sense as nickel or copper, and its connection to the energy transition is modest – mainly through its use in electronics and chip packaging – but it remains a large part of the country’s overall mineral wealth and is commonly recovered alongside silver in the same operations. Gold’s renewed significance as a reserve asset amid the broader wave of central bank accumulation now underway worldwide gives this endowment an added dimension worth noting. Managed well, it is a resource that could help finance, or itself be held against, the country’s own ambitions in minerals processing and recycling, rather than one whose relevance ends at the export ledger. Chromite, concentrated in Eastern Samar and Zambales, is smaller still, used mainly in stainless steel and alloys rather than batteries, but its reserve value more than doubled in 2024 off a small base and it rounds out a genuinely diversified resource picture (Philippine Statistics Authority, 2025).

The more speculative but interesting addition is rare earth elements. The Philippines is not yet a producing country, but geologists have identified three distinct types of deposit: ion-adsorption clays in Palawan, bauxite-hosted rare earth mineralisation on Samar, and scandium-bearing nickel laterites in Zambales, with grades at some sites comparable to cut-off grades used in southern China’s rare earth industry (Rare Earth Mining, 2026). In February 2026, the Philippines signed a critical minerals memorandum with the United States at a ministerial meeting attended by more than fifty countries and the European Commission, explicitly citing the country’s rare earth potential among the reasons for the partnership (Philippine News Agency, 2026b). Given how central China’s rare earth dominance is to the argument above, this is a thread worth pulling rather than leaving aside. There is a further, less obvious connection worth naming: high-purity silica sand and quartz, the literal feedstock for silicon wafers, are also present in the Zambales and Tarlac area now central to the country’s semiconductor ambitions. The mineral that gives the wider Pax Silica initiative its name is, in a very direct sense, one the Philippines is now being asked to help supply.

The Real Bottleneck Is Electricity, Not Geology

Mining ore is only the first step. The real economic value sits further along the chain –  concentration, smelting, refining, processing, and eventually manufacturing – and every one of those stages needs electricity that is not just available, but also reliable and competitively priced. So the country holds minerals the global energy transition increasingly needs, and it has considerable renewable energy potential of its own, but it needs affordable, reliable, and increasingly clean power to process the very minerals that will build the world’s clean energy economy. Where electricity remains expensive or carbon-intensive, Philippine processors will keep losing out to processing centres elsewhere, however rich the deposits underneath them.

It follows that mining and renewable energy should not be treated as separate sectors. They are increasingly parts of the same emerging industrial system. Clean power enables mineral processing; mineral processing creates demand for reliable power; and domestic processing, in turn, creates demand for engineering, logistics, fabrication, maintenance, and finance.

Policy Has Started to Catch Up

In December 2025 the United States convened the founding summit of Pax Silica, a coalition that has grown from seven founding members to more than twenty by mid-2026, built around securing semiconductor, artificial intelligence, and critical-mineral supply chains outside China (Philippine News Agency, 2026a; Rappler, 2026a). The Philippines joined in April 2026 as the coalition’s thirteenth member and, by July, had become host to one of its flagship projects: a roughly 1,620-hectare industrial hub at New Clark City, Tarlac, described as the first “AI-native” zone under the initiative (Philippine News Agency, 2026a; Avasant, 2026). Government officials have stated plainly that the purpose of the hub is to keep critical minerals processed within the country rather than exported raw (GMA News Online, 2026) – precisely the value-chain problem described above, now stated as deliberate national policy rather than left to individual firms to solve unassisted. Government estimates put the expected investment at up to $70 billion and direct employment as high as 190,000 jobs (Rappler, 2026b).

It is a signal that governments are starting to think differently about the relationship between economic security, technology, energy, and mineral supply chains, and the Philippines has, for the first time, positioned itself inside that thinking rather than outside it. But a signal and an opening are not the same thing as a settled outcome, and that opening deserves scrutiny.

The Concerns Deserve a Fair Hearing

Large industrial and strategic projects of this kind have drawn legitimate, organised concern from several directions, and none of it should be waved aside as reflexive opposition to development. Environmental and Indigenous rights organisations have warned about the potential displacement of thousands of residents and farmers, unresolved ancestral land claims, and stress on the watershed the hub depends on (PhilSTAR Life, 2026). Farmer groups have raised similar concerns about land and livelihoods, and there have been public calls for the consent process to be genuine and independently verifiable rather than asserted after the fact (Inquirer.net, 2026b). Some legislators have questioned whether the arrangement deepens dependence on a single foreign power behind a development label. The most detailed challenge has come from the Makabayan bloc, which filed House Resolution 1128 in June demanding the government disclose “all legal instruments, binding commitments, and operational details” tied to the project (Politiko, 2026). That demand has since broadened well beyond one bloc. House minority members led by Edgar Erice and Leila de Lima filed a separate resolution in August seeking a congressional inquiry into the agreement’s implications for sovereignty and security (Manila Times, 2026b), and in the Senate, both Raffy Tulfo and Imee Marcos have pushed for their own investigations into the deal’s economic, environmental, and national-security dimensions (Ground News, 2026). Kabataan Rep. Renee Co has separately warned that the initiative could accelerate extraction of high-purity silica sand and quartz in Zambales and Tarlac — the very feedstock the hub’s own semiconductor ambitions depend on — at the expense of local communities and farmland (Manila Times, 2026a). Economists and researchers have questioned whether the government’s job figures conflate temporary construction work with permanent, higher-value roles, and whether the more skilled technical positions will actually go to Filipino workers rather than to expatriate staff (Rappler, 2026b).

The government’s and project proponents’ responses deserve equal specificity rather than being set aside alongside the criticism they answer. Officials have stated that the project will draw no water from communities or groundwater, relying instead on rainwater harvesting sized to a capacity BCDA says exceeds projected demand (Inquirer.net, 2026c), though an independent estimate puts demand at roughly 130 million litres a day – above that stated capacity range (Inquirer.net, 2026a). They have noted that a substantial share of the wider economic zone’s land has already been allocated to Indigenous groups, and that the specific project site has been earmarked for industrial use since the relevant development authority’s founding legislation more than three decades ago (Inquirer.net, 2026c). They have also characterised the initiative as industrial and technological rather than military in nature (Avasant, 2026).

None of the responses above address a separate question: the carbon cost of the processing shift the initiative is built around – less visible in the public debate so far than land, water, and sovereignty questions. The Philippines has historically exported over 90 percent of its nickel ore raw to China, which absorbs the emissions-intensive smelting and refining stage offshore (Philstar.com, 2026). Ending that arrangement, which officials have stated is the explicit intent of the hub, means bringing that stage onshore for the first time at scale. Indonesia offers the closest comparator, since it processes the same laterite ore type, and the experience is not encouraging: nickel smelting there, run largely on captive coal plants built specifically to serve industrial parks disconnected from the national grid, accounts for nearly 98 percent of the sector’s emissions, with the country’s four largest processors on track to add close to 39 million tonnes of CO2 equivalent annually by 2028 – roughly 4.5 percent of Indonesia’s total national emissions from processing alone (WRI, 2026; IEEFA, 2024). The outcome is not fixed by the ore itself. Vale’s Sorowako facility, powered by hydropower rather than coal, runs at less than half the sector’s average carbon intensity, which indicates the power source is the determining variable, not the mineral chemistry (IEEFA, 2024). The Philippines holds a structural advantage here that Indonesia’s remote, grid-disconnected nickel belt never had – established geothermal capacity that could in principle power New Clark City’s processing without reproducing Sulawesi’s captive-coal model. Whether that advantage gets used is a matter still open to negotiation in the framework agreement, not a fact already settled by geology or by government assurances offered so far.

The sensible position is neither automatic opposition nor automatic endorsement of either side. Proponents and critics are both making specific, checkable claims – on water, on land, on jobs, and now on carbon – and the more useful exercise is asking what would actually verify each of them. The carbon question is arguably the one furthest from being checkable at this stage, since it depends on a power-source and technology choice not yet made public, let alone locked into the framework agreement. What would need to be true nationally, not just project by project, is that the Philippines uses this moment of genuine negotiating leverage – before signatures, not after – to make renewable power a binding condition of onshore processing rather than an aspiration announced once construction is already underway.

Part II turns to the other half of this picture – where the investment opportunity actually sits, and what would have to change institutionally for it to become genuinely shared development rather than a faster version of the extraction the country already knows.

References

Avasant (2026) Pax Silica and the Philippines: What the New Economic Security Zone Means for Global Supply Chains.

Belfer Center for Science and International Affairs (2025) Critical Minerals Explained: Why They Matter for Geopolitics, Clean Energy & Tech. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Kennedy School.

Chambers and Partners (2026) Mining 2026 – Philippines, Global Practice Guides.

GMA News Online (2026) ‘EXPLAINER: What is Pax Silica and why are people worried?’.

Ground News (2026) ‘Senate urged to assess Pax Silica impact’.

IEEFA (2024) Indonesia’s Nickel Companies: The Need for Renewable Energy Amid Increasing Production. Sydney: Institute for Energy Economics and Financial Analysis, 24 October.

Inquirer.net (2026a) ‘Pax Silica brings promise – but at what cost?’.

Inquirer.net (2026b) ‘Pangilinan: Farmers’ welfare must not be ignored in Pax Silica project’.

Inquirer.net (2026c) ‘Myths vs facts: BCDA allays fears on controversial Pax Silica project’.

Institute for Energy Research (2026) ‘New EIA report shows extent of Hormuz oil disruptions’, 22 May.

International Energy Agency (2025) Global Critical Minerals Outlook 2025. Paris: IEA.

International Energy Agency (2026) Strait of Hormuz. Paris: IEA.

Manila Times (2026a) ‘Malacañang backs Pax Silica initiative’, 21 July.

Manila Times (2026b) ‘House minority lawmakers seek inquiry into Pax Silica agreement’, 1 August.

Philippine News Agency (2026a) ‘Pax Silica hub to boost PH role in global AI value chain’, 27 July.

Philippine News Agency (2026b) ‘PH-US pact to push for local processing of critical minerals’, 6 February.

Philippine Statistics Authority (2025) Value of Philippines’ Class A Gold, Copper, Nickel, and Chromite Reserves and Resources.

Philstar (2025) ‘Philippines poised to gain as nickel steadies, gold peaks in 2026’, 24 October.

Philstar.com (2026) ‘China grip on Philippine nickel cited as reason to back Pax Silica’, 10 August.

PhilSTAR Life (2026) ‘What exactly is Pax Silica, and why is it sparking environmental concern?’.

Politiko (2026) ‘Who authorized it? Makabayan seeks probe into PH role in US Pax Silica initiative’, 19 June.

Rappler (2026a) ‘What is Pax Silica? What are its goals, and what concerns does it raise?’.

Rappler (2026b) ‘Pax Silica: BCDA’s claims and the counterarguments’.

Rare Earth Mining (2026) ‘Philippines Rare Earth: Key Deposits & Strategic Role’.

US International Trade Administration (2025) Philippines Critical Minerals. Washington, DC: US Department of Commerce.

Vantage FDI (2025) The Philippines’ Untapped Mineral Wealth.

WRI (2026) Decarbonizing Indonesia’s Nickel Industry for Clean Energy. Washington, DC: World Resources Institute.

READING THE CURRENTS

The Philippines’ Strategic Window in the Energy and Critical Minerals Transition

Part II – Part I of this series looked at why the Philippines’ mineral base – nickel above all, but copper, cobalt, gold, and a real if still unproven rare earth potential alongside it – has become strategically relevant at the exact moment the Strait of Hormuz crisis is forcing a rethink of energy security worldwide, and at why Pax Silica, the new US-anchored coalition and its flagship hub at New Clark City, has turned that relevance into stated national policy rather than leaving it to individual firms to work out. It also set out the real concerns that project has drawn, and the specific, checkable claims on both sides. What follows is the other half of that picture – where the investment opportunity actually sits for firms and institutions of different sizes, and – just as important – what would have to change institutionally for any of it to add up to genuinely shared, climate-just development, rather than a faster version of the extraction the country already knows.

Where the Investment and Policy Opportunities Actually Sit

Setting any single mega-project aside, the same underlying forces – energy insecurity abroad, a national push to process minerals at home, buyers who increasingly discount goods made on dirty power – open a genuine set of opportunities, at very different scales and for very different kinds of investors. Those opportunities are sharpened further by a London Metal Exchange (LME) market increasingly structured around a formal low-carbon nickel category and a discoverable green premium for producers who meet it (Metalshub, 2026), and by the EU’s Carbon Border Adjustment Mechanism, under which ferronickel and nickel pig iron have been treated as CBAM-covered precursor materials requiring reported carbon-footprint data since October 2023, with certificate-purchase obligations phasing in from 2026 (Nickel Institute, 2023; Mining.com, 2026).

The clearest is becoming a long-term power partner to mineral processing itself, not merely a generator selling into the wholesale grid. Nickel Asia’s renewable arm built a joint venture with Shell aiming for close to a gigawatt of capacity by 2028, with its first major solar plant already supplying power under a fifteen-year contract (Inquirer Business, 2023; Tribune, 2026). Philex Mining has paired solar and battery storage with its own copper project for the same reason (BusinessWorld Online, 2023). This model – embedded generation, long-term offtake, solar-plus-storage built around a specific industrial customer rather than the general grid – is likely to be replicated well beyond mining as more processors and manufacturers face the same power constraint.

This model matters for more than commercial reasons. Part I noted that the carbon cost of Pax Silica’s onshore processing ambitions depends almost entirely on what powers the furnaces and autoclaves, not on the minerals themselves — Indonesia’s experience processing the same laterite ore type shows a fourfold difference in emissions intensity between coal-fired and hydropower-fed operations (IEEFA, 2024). Embedded renewable generation of the kind Nickel Asia and Philex are already building is precisely the mechanism that would keep Philippine processing on the low-carbon side of that gap rather than reproducing Sulawesi’s captive-coal model. The country’s geothermal base gives it a starting advantage Indonesia’s remote, grid-disconnected nickel belt never had. Whether that advantage becomes the default for New Clark City and the processing capacity built around it, or remains a handful of voluntary corporate initiatives running alongside a still largely fossil-fired grid, is not yet decided — which is exactly why it belongs on the list of things a binding framework agreement should settle rather than leave to individual firms’ discretion.

A second, closely related opportunity sits in the infrastructure around industrial development rather than the generation itself: substations, storage, water systems, transport connections, construction, and maintenance. This is where patient domestic capital, including cooperative capital, has a genuine advantage, because it does not need to chase the headline project to find a durable and useful position around it.

A third opportunity lies in manufacturing pieces of the renewable and industrial supply chain locally rather than importing them – racking, mounting structures, cabling, inverters, battery enclosures, and the fabrication and maintenance services that industrial development creates demand for. None of this requires the capital or complexity of a full component gigafactory, but a country with an established electronics and light-manufacturing base is well placed to localise at least some of it.

A fourth is the circular economy end of the business – aggregating and repurposing batteries and solar panels once they reach the end of their first useful life. Batteries retired from electric tricycles, jeepneys, and telecom towers often still hold 70 to 80 percent of their original capacity, more than enough for stationary storage at a fraction of the cost of new cells, and the country’s first wave of solar panels from the mid-2010s boom will begin reaching end of life within the next decade. No serious domestic industry has yet formed around collection, refurbishment, and material recovery, which means there is a real opportunity to build one ahead of the wave.

A fifth, broader opportunity is simply widening the lens beyond nickel when thinking about mineral-linked investment. Copper, cobalt, and gold each deserve consideration alongside nickel, and the more useful question is rarely “how do we get into mining,” but where Philippine capital and enterprise can occupy a defensible position somewhere in the value chain – in energy, processing, logistics, engineering, manufacturing, technology, or specialised finance.

Institutional Shifts That Would Make Any of This Genuinely Developmental

None of the opportunities above will translate into shared, climate-just development on their own. They will simply reproduce the extractive pattern the country already knows – value flowing out faster than capability builds in – unless they are matched by institutional changes on a comparable scale. This is the half of the conversation that gets far less attention than the investment case, and it deserves at least as much.

Human development has to move first, not last. A mineral-and-energy economy built on processing rather than raw extraction needs geologists, metallurgists, electrical and process engineers, and technicians in numbers the current education and training system is not yet producing, and building that pipeline through universities, technical institutes, and TESDA takes a decade of sustained public investment, not a training programme attached to one project. It also needs a public health system capable of managing the occupational and environmental exposure that comes with industrial-scale processing, in host communities that often start from a weaker baseline of health and education access than the country as a whole.

Labor and human resource policy need to catch up to a sector that has historically been under-regulated in practice even where the law is adequate on paper. That means enforceable occupational safety standards across mining, processing, and renewable energy alike; real protection and eventual formalisation for the informal and artisanal miners who work outside the large operations the headlines cover; portable, recognised certification so skilled workers are not trapped with a single employer; and a deliberate, gender-responsive effort to open technical trades that have historically excluded women.

Market regulation and public investment have to work together rather than in sequence. Fair, transparent, and genuinely open access to the grid, and to long-term power contracts, cannot depend on which company has the best relationship with a regulator; smaller renewable developers and cooperatives need the same standing to compete for industrial offtake that large conglomerates already have. That requires independent, adequately resourced regulators, and it requires public investment in transmission and distribution reaching the mineral-rich but often grid-poor regions – Palawan, Surigao, Zambales – where this entire opportunity is supposed to be built.

Fiscal policy is where a mineral windfall either becomes durable public capital or disappears into short-term consumption, and the Philippines has not yet decided which path it is on. A mining and minerals fiscal regime that rewards low-carbon in-country processing over raw export, transparent and enforceable revenue-sharing with the local government units and communities that host the activity, and serious consideration of a resource-revenue fund that converts a finite mineral endowment into a lasting source of financing for health, education, and climate adaptation, would all mark a genuine departure from how the sector has been managed for decades.

Industrial and trade policy need to stop treating each large investment as a one-off negotiation and start requiring, as a matter of standing policy, low-carbon, local-content, and technology-transfer commitments in joint ventures and foreign investment agreements, deliberate support for the downstream manufacturers who would supply and service this new industrial base, and enough diversification in trading partners that friend-shoring does not quietly become dependence on a single power bloc. Coordination across the Department of Trade and Industry, the Department of Energy, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources, and the Department of Finance also matters more than any single agency’s individual programme, since a strategy that is coherent in one ministry and contradicted in another will not hold.

Social policy, finally, is what determines whether this is a just transition or simply a new phase of an old story. That means social protection and transitional support for workers and communities disrupted by both the expansion of mining and processing and the shift away from diesel-based livelihoods; resettlement and benefit-sharing frameworks that meet independently verifiable standards rather than voluntary company pledges; and, given the country’s exposure to climate impacts on top of everything else discussed here, a deliberate insistence that the communities most vulnerable to both environmental cost and climate change end up net beneficiaries of this transition rather than the ones who absorb its risk while others capture its returns. Resolving the ancestral domain and land tenure disputes that keep resurfacing around every major project would do more to make all of the above possible than any single piece of investment promotion.

None of these six areas function in isolation, and treating them as a checklist to work through one at a time is itself a way of failing at all of them. A resource-revenue fund is only as good as the health and education systems able to absorb what it finances; local-content requirements mean little without the technical training institutions to supply the workers they mandate; grid investment stalls without a fiscal framework that prioritises transmission spending over competing demands; and social protection frameworks are only as credible as the labour and environmental enforcement standing behind them. This is not a hypothetical risk. It is close to the default outcome in the Philippines’ recent institutional history, where a policy that reads coherently within one department’s mandate is routinely undercut by inaction, underfunding, or outright contradiction in another’s. What determines whether an initiative like Pax Silica becomes a genuine template for the rest of the sector, rather than a one-off enclave with little bearing on how mining and processing are conducted elsewhere in the country, is not any single ministry’s programme. It is whether the National Economic and Development Authority, the Department of Trade and Industry, the Department of Energy, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources, the Department of Finance, the Department of Labor and Employment, and the local government units closest to the ground can be made to move as one system rather than seven separate ones – through standing coordination that outlasts a single administration’s attention, not a task force convened for one project and disbanded once the ribbon is cut.

Compliance Is Where Good Policy Usually Fails

Almost every safeguard described above already exists in some form on paper. The Philippines has an environmental impact assessment system, occupational safety and health laws, free and prior informed consent requirements for Indigenous ancestral domains, and mine rehabilitation fund requirements. What it has historically lacked is not the rulebook but the consistent capacity, and political will, to enforce it – and that gap matters more to how this transition actually unfolds than any single new policy would.

On environmental compliance, the core issue is monitoring capacity and independence rather than the adequacy of the standards themselves. Environmental impact assessments and rehabilitation fund requirements are only as credible as the agency verifying them, and the Department of Environment and Natural Resources and its regional offices are chronically under-resourced relative to the scale of activity they are meant to oversee. Independent, third-party environmental and water audits, with results published rather than held internally, would do more to settle disputes like the one already unfolding over the Sacobia watershed than any amount of reassurance from either side. The same applies to mine closure and rehabilitation: funds are routinely set aside in principle, but verifying that rehabilitation actually happens, on the timeline promised, requires monitoring capacity the government does not consistently have today.

On labour standards, the Philippines has ratified the core International Labour Organization conventions, but enforcement on the ground, particularly in remote mining and processing sites, remains uneven, and workers in smaller or informal operations often have little practical recourse. Strengthening the labour inspectorate’s reach into these sites, and giving Filipino workers a genuine channel to raise safety and wage concerns without risking their jobs, is not a glamorous policy ask, but it is the one that determines whether “decent work” is a phrase in a strategy document or something a worker actually experiences.

On the wider category of standards, there is a real opportunity in aligning domestic compliance with the certification and due-diligence requirements that buyers in the United States, the European Union, and elsewhere increasingly demand of their mineral suppliers. A domestic verification system credible enough to satisfy international carbon-intensity, power-source disclosure, and responsible-sourcing standards would let Philippine processors command a premium in exactly the markets this series has been describing, rather than treating compliance purely as a cost of doing business. Anti-corruption and procurement transparency belong in the same category: publishing the terms of major resource contracts, as several legislators have already demanded of Pax Silica specifically, is itself a compliance measure, since opacity in contracting is usually where environmental and labour standards quietly erode later.

None of this is a call for more legislation. It is a call for funding and empowering the institutions that already exist to do the job the law already asks of them, and for building the independent verification mechanisms that turn a government or company’s claim into something the public can actually check.

Why This Should Interest Cooperatives Specifically

A cooperative does not need to become a mining company, or even an energy conglomerate, to participate in the next phase of Philippine industrial development, and it may in fact be better off not trying to. What cooperatives bring that purely financial investors typically do not is an existing membership base, standing local relationships, community legitimacy, and the ability to mobilise patient capital that is not chasing a short exit. That does not make every industrial or energy opportunity suitable for cooperative investment; if anything, it means the screening needs to be more disciplined, not less. Any credible opportunity needs a reliable off-taker, reasonably predictable revenue, properly allocated risk, competent technical partners, a clear regulatory picture, and a business model that does not simply shift environmental and social costs onto surrounding communities.

The opportunity for a cooperative-scale investor is not necessarily to be the biggest player in the room. It may be to be early, and to identify the right niche before it becomes obvious to everyone else – and, given the institutional and compliance gaps described above, cooperatives are also among the few institutions positioned to advocate for those gaps to close, since they sit close enough to affected communities to see where a policy promise and a lived reality diverge.

A Sensible Starting Point

Rather than beginning with a specific project, it makes more sense to begin by mapping what is actually changing – which mineral-processing projects are likely to proceed, where reliable renewable power will be needed, what infrastructure gaps are emerging, what incentives government is putting in place, which companies will need local partners, and where Philippine enterprises and cooperatives might offer something that foreign capital alone cannot. A modest initial step – gathering intelligence, mapping likely partners, screening potential projects, and building a shortlist worth a proper feasibility assessment – costs comparatively little and keeps every option open.

The Philippines is unlikely to become a global minerals power simply by exporting more ore, and that probably should not be the ambition in any case. The more interesting possibility is becoming a considerably more capable participant in the value chains that its existing mineral resources can support. But capability is not only a matter of enterprise and capital. It is equally a matter of the education system, the labor protections, the regulatory institutions, the fiscal architecture, the social policies, and the enforcement capacity that decide who actually benefits when the value chain moves, and whether the standards written into law are the ones that actually govern what happens on the ground. The country already holds several of the necessary pieces: a genuinely diversified mineral base, substantial renewable energy potential, a strategic location, an educated workforce, and community institutions such as cooperatives that are well placed to connect outside investment with local economic participation. What is missing is not one enormous investment decision, but coordination – between capital and infrastructure, energy and industry, minerals and processing, technology and skills, policy and enforcement, and investment and the institutions and communities that will live with its consequences either way.

The currents are changing. The real question is whether the country, and the different institutions within it, patient enough to move deliberately, are prepared to read them – and to build the structures, and the compliance capacity behind them, capable of turning that reading into something genuinely shared – while the window is still open.

References

BusinessWorld Online (2023) ‘Nickel Asia board OKs nearly P3B more for RE unit’, 17 January.

IEEFA (2024) Indonesia’s Nickel Companies: The Need for Renewable Energy Amid Increasing Production. Sydney: Institute for Energy Economics and Financial Analysis, 24 October.

Inquirer Business (2023) ‘Nickel Asia, Shell tie-up eyes 650 MW of clean energy capacity by 2025’, 24 April.

Metalshub (2026) ‘Class 1 Nickel Trading Volumes on Metalshub’, Metalshub Blog.

Mining.com (2026) ‘Canadian nickel exporters eye EU carbon boost’, 14 January.

Nickel Institute (2023) ‘Ferronickel and NPI importers to the EU: get ready for the EU Carbon Border Adjustment Mechanism and its data collection and submission requirements’, Nickel Institute Blog, September.

Tribune (2026) ‘Nickel Asia, Shell JV secures P9.36-B funding for 240-MW San Isidro Leyte Solar Project’, 6 May.

Francis Perez

The Philippines’ Housing Paradox

Why government-owned homes remain out of reach under the Expanded Pambansang Pabahay Para sa Pilipino Programme (4PH)

How many government-owned residential units are currently occupied without title, and why are they not being systematically converted into accessible owner-occupied housing through existing public housing finance mechanisms?

The Philippines continues to face a housing backlog running into the millions of units. Housing remains a national priority, and successive administrations have launched programmes aimed at expanding access to affordable housing. At the same time, publicly available information shows that government institutions such as GSIS continue to manage thousands of acquired residential properties under various lease, sale, and lease-with-option-to-buy arrangements.

The paradox is difficult to ignore. In a country that continues to speak of a housing shortage, government institutions also hold substantial inventories of housing that already exist. Many of these properties are occupied. Some have been occupied for years. Yet ownership and tenure arrangements often remain unresolved.

This is not necessarily the result of a single policy failure or the actions of a single institution. Housing projects, foreclosures, asset recovery programmes, changing occupancy arrangements, and evolving regulations have unfolded over decades. Different institutions have different mandates. Housing agencies seek to expand access to shelter. Financial institutions and pension funds are expected to protect assets and recover value. Local governments focus on service delivery and community development.

Each of these objectives is legitimate. The difficulty arises when they intersect without a framework capable of reconciling them.

As a result, a property can simultaneously be viewed as a housing solution, a financial asset, and an administrative liability. Depending on which institutional lens is applied, different outcomes become possible. What is harder to explain is why communities can remain occupied for decades while questions of ownership remain unresolved.

The issue matters for reasons that extend well beyond housing.

Much of the discussion on climate adaptation focuses on large-scale infrastructure: flood control systems, drainage networks, seawalls, evacuation centres, and disaster preparedness measures. These investments are essential. Yet resilience is also shaped by decisions made at the household and community level.

People invest in places where they believe they have a future. Secure tenure encourages investments that make homes and communities more resilient. Roofs are repaired. Drainage systems are improved. Shade trees are planted. Ventilation is upgraded. Flood protection measures are installed. Individually, these may seem like small interventions. Collectively, they determine how communities cope with rising temperatures, heavier rainfall, stronger typhoons, and other climate-related stresses.

Where ownership remains uncertain, those investments are often delayed or never undertaken at all.

This relationship becomes particularly important in older housing developments. Many were designed for a different climate reality. As temperatures rise and rainfall patterns become more extreme, ageing housing stock faces growing pressure. Communities with limited tree cover, extensive paved surfaces, and deteriorating infrastructure are increasingly exposed to urban heat stress and other climate risks.

In such situations, unresolved tenure can become more than a legal or administrative issue. It can become a constraint on adaptation.

Climate vulnerability is often discussed in terms of geography and exposure to hazards. Yet vulnerability is also shaped by institutions. Families become vulnerable not only because storms become stronger or temperatures become higher, but because the conditions that would allow them to adapt remain absent or incomplete.

This is one reason why the question of ownership deserves greater attention within broader development discussions.

The existence of large inventories of government-owned residential properties reflects a long history of housing finance, foreclosures, changing occupancy arrangements, and evolving public policies. Whatever the origins of particular cases, the challenge today is not simply to revisit past decisions. It is to determine what public purpose these assets should serve now.

Should they continue to be managed primarily as assets for disposal?

Should they be integrated more systematically into existing public housing finance mechanisms?

Should long-term occupants be provided transparent and affordable pathways to ownership where feasible?

Should tenure regularisation be linked to programmes that support climate-resilient upgrading of older communities?

These are not merely administrative questions. They are questions about public investment, social equity, and development priorities.

Viewed from another perspective, many of these communities represent substantial public investments that have already been made. The land has been acquired. The roads exist. The houses have been built. Schools, markets, transport connections, and local economies are already in place. Communities have formed and endured.

Yet the full social value of these investments remains unrealised when ownership remains unresolved and residents lack the security needed to invest confidently in their homes and neighbourhoods.

The Philippines undoubtedly needs more housing. The scale of the housing backlog leaves little room for debate on that point. However, the national conversation cannot be limited to construction targets alone. It must also address the communities and homes that already exist.

How many government-owned residential properties remain occupied without secure tenure?

How many households could potentially access ownership through existing public financing mechanisms?

How many communities could become safer, healthier, and more climate resilient if residents had both the security and the incentive to invest in their homes?

Ultimately, the issue is not simply whether government-owned properties should be disposed of. It is how those assets can best contribute to the public good. The Philippines may not simply have a housing shortage. It may also have a tenure shortage. Until that problem is addressed, thousands of existing homes will remain unable to fulfil the purpose for which they were originally built.

Francis Perez

The ad hoc Opposition: Crisis of Strategy, Organisation, and Political Imagination

Much of the discussion surrounding the Philippine opposition’s electoral defeats—particularly after 2022—has revolved around the perceived reluctance of Vice President Leni Robredo to seek or sustain national leadership. Robredo’s hesitation may have mattered tactically, but it was never the central problem. The more consequential failure lies deeper: in the opposition’s chronic lack of long-term political preparation, its episodic and reactive approach to electoral politics, and its inability to articulate and institutionalise a coherent national development project capable of sustaining power beyond moments of crisis.

The challenge confronting the opposition is not simply the absence of a charismatic presidential contender, but the absence of a durable political machinery, a sustained organisational ecosystem, and a compelling political-economic vision capable of attracting long-term investment, loyalty, and social constituency-building across classes and regions.

The Marcos restoration did not emerge from historical inevitability, nor from mere nostalgia. It was the outcome of nearly four decades of disciplined political reconstruction following the family’s ouster in 1986. From the moment Ferdinand Marcos fled Malacañang, the Marcoses treated political rehabilitation as a continuous and intergenerational project. They rebuilt provincial bailiwicks in Ilocos, preserved congressional footholds through successive electoral victories, cultivated relationships with entrenched political clans, embedded themselves within shifting elite coalitions, and—perhaps most decisively—invested heavily in a digital and cultural ecosystem that gradually reframed historical memory for a new generation.

The eventual Marcos-Duterte alliance was the culmination of years of patient political consolidation, regional alliance-building, and strategic positioning. The Uniteam formula effectively combined the Marcos machinery in Northern Luzon with Duterte influence in Mindanao, while making significant inroads into the Visayas. It transformed fragmented dynastic influence into a national electoral juggernaut.

The opposition, by contrast, has largely operated through an ad hoc politics of resistance rather than a sustained politics of power-building. Coalitions are repeatedly assembled at the last possible moment, often driven more by immediate electoral necessity than by coherent ideological or programmatic alignment. Signals sent to potential allies are frequently inconsistent: unity is invoked rhetorically while rival candidacies are entertained informally; democratic reform is promised, yet local machinery-building remains weak; broad coalitions are sought, but long-term political integration rarely materialises.

Even where financial support potentially exists—from segments of the business sector, overseas Filipinos, reform-oriented networks, civil society organisations, and progressive constituencies—the opposition often arrives too late to consolidate these resources into a coherent and sustained political infrastructure. By the time national candidacies are formalised, resources, loyalties, and local alliances have frequently already migrated elsewhere.

This is not merely a tactical weakness. It reflects a deeper structural problem in the way opposition politics has evolved in the Philippines. Electoral mobilisation remains heavily candidate-centric and episodic, rather than institutional and continuous. Political engagement intensifies during election cycles, then dissipates afterward. Party-building remains weak, regional expansion inconsistent, and leadership development thin beyond a small circle of nationally recognisable personalities.

The Liberal Party, in particular, has struggled to transform itself into a genuinely national, mass-based political organisation capable of sustained grassroots consolidation outside its traditional areas of strength. It has not invested sufficiently in building second- and third-tier leadership across regions where it remains electorally vulnerable. Nor has it systematically cultivated a new generation of nationally viable political figures capable of carrying a long-term democratic reform agenda beyond the Aquino-Robredo political lineage.

The result is both a leadership vacuum and a broader crisis of political reproduction. At the heart of this weakness is the absence of a compelling and sustained national development agenda capable of functioning as the anchor for long-term political investment and coalition-building. The opposition has often defined itself primarily in relation to what it opposes—corruption, authoritarianism, disinformation, impunity—rather than through a deeply articulated and socially embedded programme for national transformation.

Yet democratic resistance alone is rarely sufficient to sustain long-term political mobilisation, particularly in contexts marked by persistent inequality, regional disparities, elite capture, vulnerability, and deep public frustration over everyday economic insecurity.

What is needed is not the replication of the Marcoses’ motivations. The Marcos political project was fundamentally rooted in dynastic restoration, historical revisionism, and the recovery of state power lost in 1986. The opposition cannot and should not derive its coherence from the same impulse. Its challenge is fundamentally different: to construct a progressive and credible national project capable of linking democracy with material transformation, institutional reform, and social justice.

Such a project must move beyond abstract liberalism and articulate a concrete and integrated political, economic, and social vision for the country.

Politically, this would require a sustained commitment to democratic deepening: institutional accountability, rule of law, protection of civil liberties, press freedom, electoral reform, and accountability for human-rights violations. But these democratic commitments must also be connected to material questions of governance and public welfare.

Economically, the opposition must articulate a development framework that addresses structural inequality rather than merely managing it. This includes progressive taxation, labour protection, industrial and agricultural revitalisation, anti-monopoly regulation, food security, strategic economic sovereignty, and a more equitable distribution of development gains across regions and sectors.

Socially, it requires a serious commitment to universal healthcare, quality public education, social housing, climate resilience, environmental justice, and social protection systems capable of addressing both chronic poverty and emerging vulnerabilities associated with economic instability and climate change. Even national sovereignty issues—such as the defence of the West Philippine Sea—must be situated not only within geopolitical discourse but within broader questions of democratic accountability, resource security, and national dignity.

Without such a programme, opposition politics risks remaining personality-driven and emotionally reactive rather than structurally transformative.

A coherent national agenda matters not only because it clarifies policy direction. It also creates the conditions for long-term political investment. Donors, reform-oriented business sectors, grassroots organisers, civil society actors, youth movements, labour groups, local political leaders, and ordinary citizens are more likely to invest sustained resources and commitment when they see not merely an electoral campaign, but a viable and enduring political project.

The Robredo Paradox

Most Philippine political families enter politics because politics is their family business. Office, influence, and dynastic continuity are part of a single project. Children are prepared for succession. Family identity becomes intertwined with political power. Withdrawal from politics is therefore not a neutral choice but a loss of influence, status, and access. The Robredos do not fit comfortably into that model.

Leni Robredo’s political journey appears inseparable from Jesse Robredo’s legacy of public service. Yet that same legacy was never about building a dynasty. It was about governance, reform, and service. The result is a curious tension. The family carries a moral and political legacy that many supporters feel should continue to find expression in public leadership, but they do not appear to possess the dynastic instinct that typically drives political families to perpetuate themselves in power. That tension may explain much about the current moment.

In many ways, the Robredos embody two competing impulses. On one hand is the imperative of continuing a public-service tradition that began with Jesse Robredo and that many Filipinos now associate with integrity, competence, and democratic governance. On the other hand is an equally understandable desire to live meaningful, productive, and fulfilling lives beyond politics. The family has already paid a steep price in service to the nation. Jesse Robredo’s death while serving in government is a constant reminder that public office carries costs that extend far beyond elections and political attacks.

Unlike political dynasties that seek to preserve power across generations, the Robredos seem uniquely positioned to walk away from politics altogether. Their daughters have established their own academic and professional identities. They are strongly positioned for public service, but none appears to have been groomed for political succession. Their family’s future does not depend on retaining public office. Yet it is precisely because they are not a dynasty that many Filipinos continue to see them as an authentic alternative to dynastic politics.

This is the paradox of the Robredos. The very qualities that make them attractive to many reform-minded Filipinos and deserving of leadership position—their apparent lack of dynastic ambition, their rootedness outside politics, and their ability to lead lives independent of public office—are also the qualities that make it difficult to assume they will remain in politics indefinitely.

For the opposition, this paradox carries an uncomfortable lesson. If the future of democratic reform depends heavily on a family that has repeatedly demonstrated its willingness to leave politics behind, then the problem is not the family. The problem is the opposition’s failure to develop institutions, leaders, and movements capable of carrying that legacy forward without relying on the continued sacrifice of the Robredos themselves.

When Robredo finally committed to the 2022 presidential race, she inspired one of the most remarkable volunteer-driven mobilisations in contemporary Philippine political history. The pink movement demonstrated extraordinary levels of grassroots energy, civic participation, youth engagement, and decentralised volunteerism across the country. That mobilisation was not the product of organisational coercion or dynastic machinery. It reflected genuine public yearning for an alternative political future.

Yet the movement also exposed the limits of charisma and moral legitimacy in the absence of equivalent long-term organisational infrastructure. Enthusiasm alone could not compensate for decades of machine-building, alliance consolidation, narrative warfare, and political financing accumulated by rival political forces.

In this sense, Robredo’s reluctance is politically significant not because it proves unsuitability for leadership, but because it reflects a broader tension within reform-oriented politics itself: the persistent underestimation of the extent to which democratic politics also requires continuous power-building, strategic endurance, and organisational consolidation.

From a purely strategic opposition standpoint, her decision not to contest the presidency in 2028—despite surveys indicating a potentially competitive race and despite the absence of another opposition figure with comparable national recall, legitimacy, and mobilising capacity—inevitably deepens the leadership vacuum confronting the democratic opposition. Senator Kiko Pangilinan’s concerns about this vacuum are therefore not exaggerated. They reflect a structural reality.

But the responsibility for that vacuum cannot be placed on Robredo alone. She is also a product of a broader opposition ecosystem that has repeatedly failed to institutionalise its gains, consolidate its movements, and sustain political engagement beyond electoral moments. The opposition has not built the organisational, financial, ideological, and territorial infrastructure required for a long political struggle. Nor has it fully internalised the hard lesson that the Marcoses understood decades ago: political power is not won only during campaigns; it is accumulated continuously through organisation, narrative construction, alliance maintenance, constituency-building, and institutional endurance.

The central issue, therefore, is not whether Robredo is “fit” for the presidency. The deeper question is whether the opposition is finally prepared to treat politics as a permanent vocation rather than an episodic reaction to democratic crisis.

The Marcoses succeeded not only because they worked harder—though in many respects they did—but because they approached politics as a generational project requiring patience, discipline, strategic flexibility, and relentless investment in political infrastructure.

The opposition continues, too often, to approach politics as a recurring emergency to be managed periodically.

Until this changes, electoral cycles will continue to expose the same structural weaknesses: fragmented coalitions, inconsistent messaging, weak regional machinery, shallow leadership benches, underdeveloped political institutions, and the absence of a unifying national programme capable of binding together diverse democratic constituencies over the long term.

The challenge confronting the opposition today is therefore far larger than the candidacy of any single individual. It is the challenge of constructing a credible, progressive, and deeply rooted national development project that Filipinos can believe in, invest in, and sustain politically over decades rather than electoral seasons.

Without such a transformation, reluctance will continue to appear as the central problem when, in reality, it is merely one manifestation of a much deeper crisis: the opposition’s continuing failure to prepare systematically, organise continuously, articulate a transformative vision, and remain embedded in the long game of democratic politics.

The stakes extend far beyond electoral victory. They concern the future character of Philippine democracy itself.

Francis Perez

A Marine Biodiversity Hotspot Under Stress


Climate Adaptation, Political Economy, and Governing at the Scale of the Ecosystem in the Verde Island Passage


This series grew out of a longer inquiry into climate change adaptation in the Verde Island Passage – an inquiry that began as an academic exercise but gradually shifted in emphasis as fieldwork, community engagement, and policy analysis unfolded alongside one another. What became increasingly difficult to ignore was the gap between how adaptation is often framed in policy and how it is actually experienced and negotiated in coastal communities. The concept of transformative adaptation provided a useful analytical lens, but it also raised questions: where, and under what conditions, does transformation begin to take shape? And why does it so often remain partial, uneven, or bounded? The Verde Island Passage, with its ecological significance and layered development pressures, offered a setting in which these questions could be explored in a more grounded and, at times, more unsettled way.

Part 1: The Experience of Fragmented Adaptation

The Verde Island Passage (VIP) is often described as the “center of the center” of nearshore marine fish biodiversity. Stretching between Batangas and the island provinces of Oriental and Occidental Mindoro, Marinduque, and Romblon, it contains an extraordinary concentration of marine life—around 350 coral species and 1,736 nearshore fish species, representing more than sixty percent of globally documented nearshore fish diversity (SEA Institute, 2020; ProtectVIP, 2023). For scientists, this makes the Passage globally significant. For coastal communities, the significance is more immediate. It is where livelihoods are made, sustained, and increasingly put at risk.

More than two million fishers depend directly on these waters. The Passage also supports tourism, maritime transport, and an expanding network of energy infrastructure concentrated in and around Batangas. It is not a remote ecological enclave. It is deeply embedded in the country’s economic geography.

Source: Google Maps

Over the past decades, signs of strain have become more difficult to ignore. Fish stocks are widely reported to have declined, in some estimates by more than half (Boquiren, 2010). Coral reefs face increasing stress linked to rising sea temperatures. Mangroves and seagrass beds, which function as nurseries for fish and buffers against storm surges, continue to be degraded in parts of the Passage. At the global level, the IPCC (2022) has pointed to the accelerating warming and acidification of the oceans, trends that are already affecting tropical marine ecosystems. Projections suggest that even under moderate warming scenarios, coral survival becomes increasingly uncertain (WEF, 2024).

These shifts are often described in scientific terms. Along the coasts of the VIP, however, they are recognised through community experience.

Fishers speak of seasons that no longer behave as they once did. The timing of fish arrivals has become less predictable. Periods of abundance appear shorter. Species that were once commonly caught nearshore now require longer trips, greater fuel costs, and more time at sea. There is no single moment that marks this change. It accumulates, gradually, until it becomes part of everyday calculation.

Daily routines have adjusted accordingly. Some fishers leave earlier, well before dawn, to avoid the increasing heat later in the day. Others extend their hours or shift to night fishing. These are practical responses. They do not come with labels. Yet they reflect a process of ongoing adjustment to conditions that are no longer stable.

Source: Philippine Information Agency (2025)

On land, the changes are also visible. Residents describe high tides that reach further inland than they remember, occasionally flooding roads and homes. These observations align with broader patterns of sea level rise, though they are not always framed that way locally. They are simply understood as part of a changing environment.

The effects move through households in ways that are less visible but no less significant. Women who process and sell fish in local markets experience directly the variability of supply. When catch declines, income becomes uncertain. Decisions about spending, saving, and borrowing become more constrained. In many cases, adjustments are made quietly – reducing consumption, delaying expenses, finding alternative sources of income where possible.

Climate change, in this sense, is not experienced as a singular event. It is absorbed into the rhythms of livelihood and household management.

At the same time, the Passage has been undergoing another kind of transformation. Batangas, on the northern edge of the VIP, has become a focal point for energy infrastructure, including liquefied natural gas terminals and gas-fired power plants (Cabico, 2023). Maritime traffic remains dense, linking major economic centres. These developments are part of broader national strategies for energy security, maritime and transport networks, and economic growth. Their presence introduces another layer of complexity. The same waters that sustain small-scale fisheries also support industrial activity. The risks associated with these uses are not evenly distributed.

When environmental incidents occur – such as the oil spill that affected parts of Mindoro – fishing is often suspended. Assistance is provided to affected communities. For households that depend on daily catch, such assistance is critical. It provides immediate relief. At the same time, it raises questions that extend beyond the immediate response. Relief addresses the symptoms of disruption; it does not necessarily alter the conditions that make communities vulnerable to such disruptions in the first place (Ongcal, 2023).

This is where the broader political economy of the Passage begins to come into view. Fishing households are directly exposed to ecological variability and environmental shocks. Industrial actors operate within regulatory frameworks that extend beyond the local scale. Decisions about infrastructure, investment, and enforcement are made elsewhere, even as their consequences are felt locally.

Adaptation, in this context, takes multiple forms.

At one level, there are the adjustments that fishers make to continue their work under changing conditions – altering gear, changing fishing grounds, extending hours. These responses are often immediate and pragmatic. They allow livelihoods to continue, at least in the short term.

There are also more significant shifts. Some households move away from capture fisheries altogether, turning to aquaculture or relying on income from family members working in urban areas or overseas. These transitions can stabilise income, but they also signal a departure from traditional livelihood systems. Often they similarly face climate-related and other challenges.

Local governments have also acted. Marine protected areas have been established. Integrated Coastal Management initiatives have been introduced. Fisheries regulations have been strengthened in some municipalities. These efforts reflect recognition that the condition of marine ecosystems cannot be taken for granted.

These responses suggest that adaptation is not absent. It is present, and in many cases, active.

Yet when viewed across the scale of the Passage, a different picture begins to emerge. These efforts are often confined within municipal or provincial boundaries. They are shaped by local capacities, resources, and priorities. The ecological processes they seek to manage, however, extend beyond those boundaries.

This creates a form of fragmentation that is not immediately visible at the level of individual initiatives. A marine protected area may be well-managed within one municipality, while adjacent waters fall under different regimes. Enforcement may be strong in one area and weaker in another. Monitoring systems may not be harmonised. Data may not be shared. The result is not a lack of effort, but a lack of alignment.

This is where the question of scale becomes unavoidable. The Passage functions as an interconnected ecological system. Governance, for the most part, does not. The challenge, then, is not simply to encourage more adaptation. It is to understand how existing efforts relate to one another, and whether they can, over time, add up to something more than a patchwork of responses.

The distinction matters because not all forms of adaptation lead in the same direction. Some allow systems to persist under stress. Others involve more fundamental changes in how resources are managed and how decisions are made.

The possibility of such deeper change becomes clearer when we look more closely at how certain communities have responded. It is here that the experience of women and their communities in Bgy. Lagadlarin in Lobo becomes relevant – not as an exception, but as an indication of what may be emerging, and of the limits that they encounter.

Next: Part II – The case of Samahan ng Maliliit na Mangingisda sa Pangangalaga ng Kalikasan sa Barangay Lagadlarin (SMMNPKBL) 

Part II: Women’s Stewardship and the Political Economy of Scaling Transformation

The first part of this discussion situates the Verde Island Passage (VIP) within a landscape of ecological stress and fragmented responses. The next one looks more closely at how adaptation takes shape in practice – and what happens when those practices begin to move beyond adjustment and toward something more structural.

In Barangay Lagadlarin, in the municipality of Lobo, Batangas, a community-led initiative offers one such point of entry. The organisation at the centre of this effort is the Samahan ng Maliliit na Mangingisda sa Pangangalaga ng Kalikasan sa Barangay Lagadlarin (SMMNPKBL), a group composed largely of local women who have taken on the stewardship of a mangrove ecosystem that has become both an ecological asset and a site of collective organisation.

The mangrove forest they manage covers roughly thirty hectares and is notable not only for its size but for its diversity, containing a significant proportion of the true mangrove species found in the Philippines. In ecological terms, it functions as a nursery for fish, a buffer against coastal erosion, a shield against storm surges, and a store of blue carbon. In social terms, it is a source of livelihood, as well as a focal point for community activity.

The origins of this initiative are not rooted in a formal programme or externally driven project. They can be traced to a local decision in 2014, when the punong barangay who was himself a fisher – began to demarcate a path through the mangrove area. The intention was simple: to encourage residents to see the mangrove forest not as an unused or peripheral space, but as something worth protecting and maintaining.

What followed was not immediate transformation, but a gradual process of participation. Residents joined in maintaining the pathway and started discouraging destructive and illegal practices of cutting mangrove trees for charcoal making. The barangay invested in an elevated walkway. Over time, what began as a conservation effort took on an organisational form. The group that would become SMMNPKBL emerged from this process, drawing in members who were already embedded in the local economy – many of them women engaged in fish processing, vending, and household management.

Images by Meng Abarquez and F. Perez

The shift from informal participation to organised activity did not happen in isolation from changing environmental conditions. Declining catch and increasing variability in fisheries meant that the connection between the  health of the mangrove ecosystem and livelihood became more difficult to ignore. For those whose income depended on daily catch, the consequences were immediate. In this context, mangrove conservation was not framed as an abstract environmental concern. It was tied to the question of whether livelihoods could be sustained at all.

SMMNPKBL’s activities expanded accordingly. The group established a mangrove nursery, producing seedlings that could be sold to government agencies, private companies, and individuals required to participate in  reforestation activities. They developed small-scale tourism facilities, including cottages and guided access through the mangrove area. They organised maintenance of the walkway and coordinated with local authorities on conservation-related matters.

These activities generated income, though not without limitations. A portion of the revenue from seedlings and services is retained by the organisation for maintenance and reinvestment, while the remainder is distributed among active members. At the same time, entrance fees to the mangrove eco-park are collected by the municipal government and the barangay. The organisation itself does not receive a share of these entrance fees, despite being responsible for the upkeep of the site. Their project of mangrove forest conservation and marine eco-park has won environmental conservation awards, but they never get a share of the prize money from the local government.

This arrangement is not presented locally as a point of conflict. It is, however, indicative of a broader pattern. The labour of conservation is organised at the community level. The formal channels of revenue collection are structured through local government. Recognition of the organisation’s role exists, but the alignment between responsibility and financial return remains partial.

What is more immediately visible is the way in which the organisation has altered the dynamics of participation and governance within the barangay.

Women, who are often positioned at the intersection of livelihood management and household decision-making, have become central actors in the stewardship of the mangrove forest. Their involvement extends beyond routine maintenance. It includes coordination with visitors, engagement with local authorities, and participation in discussions about resource use.

This shift has subtle but important implications. It broadens the scope of what is considered part of resource governance. Discussions that might otherwise focus narrowly on fish catch or enforcement begin to include questions of household stability, future livelihood options, and the long-term condition of the ecosystem. In this sense, the organisation does not simply implement conservation activities, but rather it reshapes how those activities are understood.

From the perspective of adaptation theory, these developments begin to approach what has been described as transformative adaptation (Pelling, 2010; Ziervogel, 2021). There is a discernible change in how environmental services and their limits are perceived, in how responsibilities are organised, and in how practices are sustained over time.

Yet it would be misleading to suggest that Lagadlarin represents a complete transformation.

The scope of the organisation’s influence remains largely within the barangay and, to some extent, the municipality. The mangrove area they manage is significant, but it is only one part of a much larger ecosystem. The conditions affecting fisheries, their livelihoods and their lives – currents, water quality, regional fishing pressure, and industrial activity – extend beyond their reach.

Financially, the organisation operates within tight constraints. While it generates income, it does not control the larger revenue streams associated with tourism or environmental fees. Access to national-level climate finance mechanisms, such as the People’s Survival Fund (PSF), remains limited by procedural requirements and administrative capacity.

Institutionally, the systems within which they operate remain fragmented. Monitoring of coastal ecosystems is not standardised across municipalities. Data is not always shared. Enforcement varies from one jurisdiction to another. The alignment between local initiatives and provincial or national strategies is, at best, uneven.

These constraints do not negate what has been achieved. They define its limits. Lagadlarin is not an isolated success story. It is an example of how far community-level organisation can go within existing structures – and where it begins to encounter boundaries that cannot be addressed locally.

Those boundaries are shaped by the same factors that define the broader political economy of the Verde Island Passage.

Decentralisation has given local governments authority over coastal management and, in many cases, the ability to generate revenue from environmental fees. This has enabled innovation. It has also created a landscape in which incentives are tied to jurisdictional control. Municipalities that have invested in conservation may be reluctant to enter into arrangements that dilute their (fiscal) autonomy.

Climate finance mechanisms exist, but they are not easily accessed by communities or even by some local governments. The technical requirements for proposals, the need for coordination across agencies, and the limited availability of support for proposal development all contribute to a situation in which resources do not always reach the areas where they are most needed.

At the same time, development trajectories – particularly those related to energy infrastructure – continue to shape the ecological context in which communities operate. Decisions about LNG terminals, shipping routes, and industrial facilities are made at scales far removed from barangay-level governance. Yet their implications are felt locally.

Within this landscape, the question of scaling becomes more complex than simply replicating what works in one place.

It is not enough to ask whether other communities can adopt similar practices. The more difficult question is whether the institutional environment can support the expansion of such practices in a way that is coherent across the ecosystem.

Lagadlarin suggests that transformation can begin from below. It also suggests that without alignment above, such transformation risks remaining limited.

The issue is not the absence of initiative. It is the conditions under which initiative can accumulate into something more than a patchwork of localised responses.

This brings the discussion back to the question of scale – not only ecological scale, but institutional scale – and to the forms of coordination and negotiation that would be required to bridge the two.

Next: Part III – Governing at the Scale of the Ecosystem: Institutional Alignment and Political Choice

Part III: Governing at the Scale of the Ecosystem – Institutional Alignment and Political Choice

(Posted: 28 April 2026)

The experience of the Verde Island Passage shows, quite clearly, that climate adaptation does not occur in isolation. It takes shape within institutional arrangements that determine what can be done, by whom, and at what scale. As the discussion moves from individual and community responses toward the question of system-wide resilience, adaptation can no longer be treated as a stand-alone issue. It becomes inseparable from governance.

What stands out is not a lack of effort. Across the Passage, municipalities have established marine protected areas, enforced fisheries regulations, and engaged in Integrated Coastal Management initiatives. Communities such as Lagadlarin have assumed stewardship roles that extend beyond what might have been expected of local organisations. At the national level, policies are in place and financing mechanisms have been established. The institutional architecture exists, at least on paper. Yet, the sense of fragmentation remains.

This has less to do with gaps in activity and more to do with how ecological processes relate to institutional arrangements. The Passage functions as a connected system. Fish stocks decline across municipal boundaries. Ocean acidification, sea level rise, and temperature rise do not stop at administrative lines. Governance, however, continues to be organised along those lines. Authority is distributed across municipalities, provinces, and national agencies, each operating within its own mandates, incentives, and constraints.

At the level of individual municipalities, progress can be observed. A marine protected area may be effectively managed. Enforcement may be sustained. Community participation may be strong. But these gains do not necessarily extend beyond the boundaries within which they are achieved. Adjacent areas may operate under different priorities or levels of capacity. Monitoring systems are not always aligned. Data is collected, but not consistently shared in ways that allow for a system-wide understanding of conditions.

This is often where “coordination” enters the discussion. The problem is framed as one of improving coordination – creating platforms, enhancing communication, aligning plans. These steps are not unimportant. They address real gaps. But they do not fully account for the underlying dynamics that shape how institutions behave.

Local government units operate within a decentralised system that gives them authority over coastal management and, in many cases, access to revenue streams derived from environmental fees and tourism. These revenues are not incidental. They form part of local fiscal structures and, by extension, local political accountability. Municipalities that have invested in conservation and enforcement have done so partly because they are able to retain the benefits of those investments.

Seen from this perspective, the question of ecosystem-scale governance becomes more complicated. It is not simply a matter of aligning plans. It raises the issue of how benefits are shared.

Proposals to declare the Verde Island Passage as a protected seascape recognise the need for governance arrangements that better reflect ecological reality. At the same time, they bring into view concerns about revenue-sharing, authority, and control. For municipalities that have built their own systems, integration into a broader framework can be interpreted not only as an opportunity for coordination, but also as a potential loss of autonomy. This is not resistance to conservation. It is a response to how incentives are structured.

If governance at the scale of the ecosystem is to move beyond aspiration, these incentives have to be addressed directly. Creating coordinating bodies or mandating alignment will not be sufficient on their own. The more difficult question is how participation in such arrangements becomes viable for those who operate within them. This inevitably brings fiscal considerations to the centre of the discussion.

An ecosystem-scale framework would need to recognise existing investments made by municipalities while creating ways for benefits to be shared without undermining local revenue bases. This could involve pooled funds, performance-based transfers, or other arrangements that reward effective stewardship while supporting coordination. The specific design may vary, but the underlying principle is difficult to avoid: ecological alignment depends on fiscal alignment. Without it, coordination remains uneven and largely voluntary.

A similar pattern can be seen in relation to climate finance. The People’s Survival Fund was created to support local adaptation initiatives, reflecting a recognition that climate risks require dedicated resources. In practice, however, access to these funds has been limited. Requirements for proposal development, technical documentation, and inter-agency coordination create barriers that not all local governments can easily navigate.

For communities such as those in Lagadlarin, the existence of climate finance does not automatically translate into support. The gap is not simply administrative. It reflects a mismatch between how funding mechanisms are structured and how local adaptation processes unfold.

If climate finance is to contribute to scaling adaptation, it will need to engage more directly with these realities. This may involve identifying priority areas more proactively, supporting proposal development, and enabling multi-municipal initiatives rather than treating projects as isolated interventions. It also calls for a shift in how outcomes are understood – from discrete project outputs to contributions to system-wide resilience.

The question of accountability introduces another dimension. Environmental incidents, such as oil spills, make visible the limits of existing arrangements. Immediate responses tend to focus on containment and relief. These are necessary. They address urgent needs. But they do not necessarily alter the conditions that allowed such incidents to occur or that shape their impacts.

Communities affected by these events often receive assistance. At the same time, questions of liability, enforcement, and long-term remediation remain less prominent. Where relief consistently substitutes for accountability, the incentives for prevention may remain weak.

In a setting where industrial activity and ecological vulnerability coexist, governance cannot afford to treat these as separate domains.

This is where the broader development model becomes relevant. The expansion of energy infrastructure in Batangas is part of a national strategy, linked to decisions about investment, energy security, and growth. These decisions are made across sectors and levels of government. They do not sit neatly within the framework of coastal resource management.

Yet their implications are felt within the Passage.

For small-scale fishing communities, the relationship to these decisions is indirect. They do not determine where infrastructure is located or how it is regulated. They experience the consequences when ecological conditions shift or when disruptions occur. This asymmetry is part of the political economy of adaptation.

It is also where questions of climate justice take on a more immediate form. While climate justice is often framed in global terms—between countries that contribute differently to emissions and face different levels of risk—similar questions arise within the Passage itself. Who bears the costs of ecological degradation? Who benefits from development? Who participates in decision-making?

Fishing households, particularly those with limited alternatives, are directly exposed to environmental variability. Women, as noted earlier, often absorb these pressures within household economies. Industrial actors operate within broader regulatory frameworks that shape their responsibilities. Recognising these dynamics does not require adopting a single framework of justice, but it does require acknowledging that adaptation is not neutral. It redistributes risk and opportunity.

Returning to the question of scale, the experience of Lagadlarin can be read in this light. The organisation has shown that collective stewardship is possible and that local institutions can evolve. At the same time, it operates within a system that limits how far these efforts can extend.

Scaling such initiatives is not simply a matter of replication. It involves creating conditions in which similar forms of organisation can emerge and be sustained across different contexts, while also ensuring that they are connected to broader governance frameworks.

This is where the idea of governing at the scale of the ecosystem becomes more concrete. It does not imply a single authority controlling the Passage. Rather, it points to a set of arrangements through which different levels of governance – barangay, municipal, provincial, and national – can align their actions in ways that reflect ecological interdependence. It requires mechanisms for sharing information, coordinating enforcement, and aligning incentives, as well as processes for addressing disagreements.

None of this removes the need for political choice. Decisions about revenue-sharing, authority, and accountability involve trade-offs. Municipalities may weigh the benefits of coordination against the risks to their autonomy. National agencies may balance competing sectoral priorities. Industrial actors may respond to changes in regulatory expectations.

The movement toward coherence is unlikely to be straightforward. It will involve negotiation, adjustment, and, at times, contestation.

What the Verde Island Passage makes clear is that the alternative – continuing along a path of fragmented adaptation – carries greater risks. Efforts may continue and even expand. But without alignment, their cumulative effect may fall short of what is required to sustain the ecosystem and the livelihoods that depend on it, and to respond meaningfully to climate change.

The Passage remains a place of remarkable ecological richness. It is also a place where the limits of existing governance arrangements are becoming more visible. Whether it becomes a site of systemic resilience or of continued strain will depend on how these limits are addressed.

The challenge is not only to adapt to a changing environment. It is to organise governance in a way that recognises the interconnected nature of that environment, across scales and across institutions.

That is not a problem to be resolved once. It is an ongoing and difficult political process.

Francis Perez

Rediscovering our revolution

Third and Final Instalment

Memory, Transformation, and the Work Ahead

If the first instalment of this series challenges simplified narratives of EDSA, and the second instalment traces the uneven and contested trajectories that followed, then the question that remains is not whether EDSA succeeded or failed, but how it should be situated within a longer process of transformation—one that remains unfinished.

To see EDSA only as a triumph is to overlook its limits. To see it only as a failure is to ignore what it made possible. A more grounded view is to recognise it as a milestone: a decisive moment that altered the political landscape, but did not ensure a transformative direction of what would come next.

What EDSA restored was political space—the possibility of contestation, participation, and institutional rebuilding. What it did not resolve were the deeper structures that shape inequality, exclusion, and the concentration of power. These were carried forward into the post-EDSA period, where they interacted with shifting domestic and global conditions in ways that produced both gains and contradictions.

The decades that followed revealed both the potential and the limits of liberal democratic governance. Institutions were rebuilt, elections were held, and periods of economic growth were achieved. Yet these advances did not consistently translate into structural transformation. Inequality persisted, public services remained uneven, and accountability mechanisms were often constrained by entrenched interests. Over time, this gap between institutional form and lived experience contributed to  erosion of trust.

It is within this context that the appeal of populist politics can be more clearly understood. As discussed earlier, populism did not emerge in isolation; it drew from accumulated frustrations, unanswered questions, and a growing sense of betrayal (real and imagined). At the same time, it reshaped those grievances into simplified narratives and immediate promises that often bypassed institutional safeguards. The result was not a resolution of underlying issues, but a reconfiguration of how they were expressed and acted upon, and in most occasions, the further entrenchment of those exact same issues.

This dynamic was further intensified by changes in the broader information environment. The increasing role of digital platforms in shaping public discourse has altered how history is remembered and contested. Narratives about both the EDSA People Power Revolution and the Marcos dictatorship have been reframed, circulated, and, at times, distorted in ways that blur the line between historical record and political messaging. Memory itself has become part of the terrain of political struggle.

At the same time, the conditions within which the Philippines operates have changed significantly. The global environment is more complex and more volatile than it was in 1986. The rise of China as a major economic and geopolitical actor, tensions in the West Philippine Sea, and the broader reconfiguration of global power have introduced new pressures that intersect with domestic governance challenges.

Perhaps more fundamentally, the nature of the challenges themselves has evolved. Climate change is no longer a distant concern but an immediate and intensifying reality, affecting livelihoods, ecosystems, and economic stability. Persistent poverty and inequality remain, but are now compounded by new forms of vulnerability. At the same time, democratic systems around the world—including liberal democracies—are under strain, facing questions about their capacity to respond effectively to complex, fast-moving crises.

Taken together, these developments suggest that the task ahead is not simply to defend or reject the legacy of EDSA, but to build on it with a clearer understanding of both its possibilities and its limits.

This requires, first, a more honest reckoning with the past. Recognising EDSA as a milestone allows for a more balanced assessment—one that acknowledges its role in restoring democratic space, while also examining why deeper transformation proved more difficult to achieve. It also requires confronting the ways in which political narratives have been simplified, polarised, or instrumentalised over time.

Second, it calls for renewed attention to the question of collective agency. The fragmentation of progressive forces, as noted earlier, limited the capacity to sustain pressure for structural reform. Moving forward will depend not on the reassertion of singular leadership, but on the ability to build broader, more inclusive coalitions that can engage both institutions and communities. This is less about ideological uniformity than about shared commitments to equity, accountability, and inclusion.

Third, it requires rethinking the relationship between national and global challenges. Issues such as climate change, economic inequality, and geopolitical tension operate beyond national boundaries. Responses to these challenges will need to be similarly interconnected, combining domestic reform with regional and global engagement. The Philippines’ experience is part of a wider set of transitions affecting many societies, each grappling with similar tensions between growth, equity, governance, and sustainability.

More fundamentally, it raises a question about the direction of political development itself. If the past four decades have shown the limits of both technocratic reform and populist reaction, then the work ahead may lie in finding ways to move beyond this binary—toward approaches that are both structurally grounded and responsive to lived realities.

At a time when the world appears increasingly fragmented—marked by rising authoritarian tendencies, deepening geopolitical competition, and uneven responses to global crises—the need for collective action becomes more urgent. The challenges facing the Philippines are not isolated; they are part of a broader set of existential risks that require cooperation across societies and across borders.

The unfinished nature of EDSA is not only a national condition, but part of a wider global process. The struggle to build more just, inclusive, and resilient systems is ongoing, and its outcomes remain uncertain.

EDSA did not complete that work. It created the conditions in which it could continue. What remains is the question of how those conditions are used—how political space is engaged, how institutions are strengthened or reshaped, and how collective action is mobilised in response to evolving challenges.

Forty years on, the task is not to return to EDSA as a moment, but to carry forward what it has taught us—more consciously, more critically, and with a clearer sense of what transformation requires.

Francis Perez

Beyond Simplified Narratives

Second Instalment

Rethinking EDSA, Governance, and the Politics of Memory

One of the more persistent distortions in contemporary narratives about EDSA is the claim that a single political bloc—often caricatured as the “dilawans”—monopolised power and steered the country in a uniform direction in the decades that followed. A closer, historically grounded examination does not sustain this claim. The post-EDSA period is better understood not as a continuum of ideological control, but as a sequence of distinct administrations, each shaped by different political coalitions, governing philosophies, and historical constraints.

The presidency of Corazon Aquino was defined less by ideological consolidation than by political restoration. It brought together a broad and inherently fragile coalition—ranging from reform-oriented elites and segments of the Catholic Church to elements of the military and civil society actors united primarily by opposition to authoritarian rule. Aquino’s leadership was marked by moral authority rooted in the anti-dictatorship struggle, but this did not translate into a coherent program for structural transformation. Her administration faced persistent destabilisation, including multiple coup attempts, as well as pressures from competing constituencies with divergent expectations. The Mendiola massacre highlighted the tensions between reformist aspirations and entrenched interests, particularly in relation to land reform and social justice. In this sense, the Aquino government functioned as a transitional regime—reopening democratic space while leaving many structural questions unresolved.

The administration of Fidel V. Ramos marked a shift toward consolidation and technocratic governance. Ramos, drawing on his military background and pragmatic political approach, sought to stabilise institutions and reposition the Philippines within a rapidly globalising economic order. His administration emphasised market-oriented reforms, deregulation, and infrastructure development, alongside efforts to resolve long-standing internal conflicts through negotiated peace processes. Politically, Ramos operated through coalition-building rather than ideological alignment, assembling a broad base of support that cut across traditional party lines. His project was less about ideological transformation than about restoring confidence—in governance, in markets, and in the state’s capacity to function. However, the limits of this approach became evident during the Asian Financial Crisis, which exposed underlying vulnerabilities in the economic model.

The presidency of Joseph Estrada introduced a different political dynamic. Estrada’s rise was grounded in populist appeal, drawing support from lower-income sectors through rhetoric that positioned him as a representative of the “masa.” Unlike his predecessors, Estrada’s legitimacy was not anchored in institutional reform or technocratic competence, but in a direct connection with marginalised constituencies. However, this political style did not translate into a coherent governance framework. His administration was marked by inconsistencies, internal divisions, and allegations of corruption that ultimately led to his ouster. Estrada’s presidency revealed both the political potency of populist mobilisation and its limitations when not supported by institutional coherence or policy depth.

The administration of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo combined elements of technocratic governance with a highly contested political foundation. Arroyo’s ascent to power, following Estrada’s removal, was framed as a constitutional transition but remained politically polarising. Her administration focused on macroeconomic stabilisation, fiscal reforms—most notably the expansion of the value-added tax—and efforts to sustain economic growth in a challenging global environment. Arroyo’s governing style was characterised by a strong emphasis on executive control and political survival, often relying on strategic alliances and institutional manoeuvring. While her tenure delivered measurable economic gains, it was persistently overshadowed by questions of legitimacy, including allegations of electoral manipulation. This duality—economic performance alongside political contestation—became a defining feature of her administration.

The administration of Benigno Aquino III is often invoked as emblematic of so-called “liberal” rule, representing a return to a reform-oriented, institution-focused approach. Anchored in a platform of anti-corruption and good governance, Aquino’s administration sought to rebuild public trust in state institutions and improve fiscal management. His leadership drew on a narrative of moral renewal linked to his family’s association with the anti-dictatorship movement. Yet even here, the picture is more complex.

Economically, the period was marked by strong growth, improved credit ratings, and increased investor confidence. The administration emphasised institutional reform, anti-corruption, and fiscal discipline, achieving macroeconomic gains and international confidence. At the same time, these gains unfolded within a broader global framework shaped by neoliberal economic principles, which prioritised market efficiency and growth but proved insufficient in addressing entrenched inequality and structural imbalances. Economic expansion did not automatically translate into equitable distribution, leaving underlying social tensions unresolved. While the emphasis on institutional reform was significant, it did not fully address deeper questions of inequality and exclusion.

Taken together, these administrations reflect a pattern of divergence rather than continuity. They were shaped by different political affiliations, leadership styles, and governing priorities. To reduce them to a single ideological bloc is to overlook the complexity of the post-EDSA period and obscure the varied ways in which governance was pursued under changing conditions. Collapsing these administrations into a single, continuous “dilawan” project is therefore analytically untenable—it simplifies a far more complex political trajectory into a convenient but misleading narrative.

At the same time, the landscape of progressive politics was undergoing its own transformation. The Left, which had been a significant force in the anti-dictatorship struggle, entered the post-EDSA period already weakened by internal conflicts—marked by ideological divisions, rectification campaigns, and violent purges that eroded cohesion and trust. These dynamics extended beyond internal organisational concerns, affecting relationships with other actors in the broader social movement.

In the years that followed, this fragmentation did not simply result in pluralism. It often translated into competition and distrust. Certain sections of the hard-line Left, seeking to recover lost ground and reaffirm historical leadership, attempted to reassert ideological authority over the broader movement. Rather than consolidating alliances, these efforts frequently deepened divisions. Other progressive groups—church-based organisations, NGOs, and emerging civil society formations—responded with caution or resistance, shaped by earlier experiences of exclusion or confrontation. What might have evolved into a broad, adaptive coalition instead became a landscape marked by contested legitimacy and limited coordination.

These internal dynamics significantly constrained the capacity of progressive forces to influence the direction of the post-EDSA transition. At a moment when institutional reform, redistribution, and social justice required sustained and coordinated pressure, fragmentation diluted collective agency. The result was not the absence of reform, but its unevenness—partial advances alongside persistent structural inequalities.

At the same time, the Philippines was navigating a rapidly changing regional and global context. The post-Cold War period gave way to new configurations of power, among them the rise of China as a major economic, political, and military actor. This shift enabled more assertive behaviour in contested spaces such as the South China Sea, where expansive and widely challenged claims intersected with the Philippines’ own territorial and sovereign interests. China’s growing influence also extended into economic and political spheres, shaping dynamics not only within the Philippines but across ASEAN.

These global shifts interacted with domestic trajectories. Liberal democratic governments operated within an international system increasingly shaped by neoliberal economic norms, while also confronting new geopolitical pressures. The space for national policymaking was therefore neither fully autonomous nor entirely constrained; it was negotiated within overlapping layers of global markets, regional power competition, and domestic political realities.

It is within this broader context—of uneven governance outcomes and fragmented social movements—that the conditions for populism took shape. Beneath the macroeconomic gains and institutional continuity, legitimate questions had been accumulating: why had liberal democratic governance struggled to address fundamental and institutional injustices? Why did inequality persist despite sustained growth? Why did reforms appear incremental in the face of urgent social needs?

The rise of Rodrigo Duterte can be understood as emerging from these unresolved tensions. His political appeal lay in his ability to articulate widely felt frustrations and to present himself as an alternative to what was perceived as a slow and ineffective system. Where previous administrations emphasised process, institutional safeguards, and gradual reform, Duterte offered a model of governance centred on immediacy and decisiveness.

At the same time, populism operates not only by responding to grievances, but by reshaping and exploiting them. It simplifies complex structural issues, identifies convenient targets, and offers solutions that appear direct and immediate but often bypass institutional safeguards. In the Philippine context, this dynamic was reinforced through the reframing of political identities. Those associated with liberal democratic governance were increasingly characterised as “disente”—a term that, rather than signifying civic responsibility, was recast as an indicator of elitism and detachment. This discursive shift allowed populist narratives to transform structural critiques into cultural and political divisions.

The governance approach that followed reflected these dynamics. Duterte’s administration sustained certain economic policies in its early years, while simultaneously redefining political practice through a greater reliance on executive authority. The brutal, bloody anti-drug campaign became a central expression of this approach. It was marked by widespread violations of fundamental human rights and raised grave concerns regarding due process and accountability. It can be understood ironically as a response—however deeply problematic—to longstanding frustrations with crime, corruption, inequality, and institutional inefficiency. Yet in promising immediate and forceful action, it also demonstrated the risks inherent in bypassing the very institutions designed to uphold justice.

Table 1: Comparative Socio-Economic Indicators Across Post-EDSA Philippine Administrations 

AdministrationPeriod CoveredAvg GDP Growth (%)Poverty Incidence (%)Inflation (avg %)Unemployment (%)Key Observations
Corazon Aquino1986–19923.145.3 (1985) → 39.9 (1991)11.28.7Post-crisis recovery; macro instability early; high inflation and debt burden
Fidel V. Ramos1992–19984.739.9 (1991) → 31.8 (1997)7.68.4Structural reforms; liberalisation; improved growth; Asian Financial Crisis impact
Joseph Estrada1998–20013.431.8 (1997) → 33.7 (2000)6.89.8Populist orientation; uneven recovery post-crisis; governance instability
Gloria Macapagal Arroyo2001–20104.833.7 (2000) → 26.3 (2009)5.87.5Fiscal consolidation (VAT); steady growth; inequality persists
Benigno Aquino III2010–20166.226.3 (2009) → 21.6 (2015)3.16.8Strong macro growth; governance reforms; limited redistribution
Rodrigo Duterte (Pre-COVID)2016–20196.421.6 (2015) → 18.1 (2018)3.25.4Growth continuity; infrastructure expansion; poverty reduction gains
(COVID/Post-COVID)2020–2022−9.5 (2020); 5.7 (2021); 7.6 (2022)18.1 (2018) → 23.7 (2021)3.98.7 (2020 peak)Severe contraction due to COVID-19; recovery uneven; poverty reversal

Notes

  1. GDP Growth
    Source: World Bank World Development Indicators (constant prices, annual %)
    Averages computed as simple mean of annual growth rates within each administration period
  2. Poverty Incidence
    Source: Philippine Statistics Authority official poverty statistics
    Figures represent closest available survey years (not annual averages)
    Not strictly comparable across decades due to methodology updates
  3. Inflation (CPI)
    Source: PSA Consumer Price Index (annual averages)
    Based on prevailing base years per period
  4. Unemployment
    Source: PSA Labor Force Survey
    Annual averages per administration period
  5. Duterte Period Treatment
    Split into:
    Pre-COVID (2016–2019) → trend continuity
    COVID/Post-COVID (2020–2022) → structural shock

Populism, in this sense, can be seen as both a product and an amplifier of unresolved tensions within the post-EDSA period. It draws on real grievances but channels them into forms of political action that may further complicate, if not totally hinder, the pursuit of justice and structural transformation. Its emergence underscores the need to examine not only the failures of governance, but also the conditions that make such political responses possible.

This process was further enabled—and accelerated—by the strategic use of digital platforms. Social media did not merely serve as a neutral channel for communication; it became an active arena where narratives were constructed, amplified, and contested. In this space, simplified and often distorted accounts of both the EDSA People Power Revolution and the Marcos dictatorship circulated alongside more complex historical interpretations. Over time, these narratives contributed to a reframing of public memory—blurring distinctions among documented history, revisionist accounts, and outright lies.

By repeatedly associating the post-EDSA period with failure and inefficiency, while simultaneously recasting the dictatorship (as well as populist, authoritarian rule) in more favourable or ambiguous terms, these narratives created an environment in which those political trajectories are readily legitimised. The persistence and scale of such messaging did not simply reflect public sentiment; it actively shaped it, reinforcing existing frustrations while manipulating them toward distorted political conclusions and actions.

In this context, the return of the Marcos family to national political prominence cannot be understood solely as a product of electoral dynamics. It reflects a longer process in which historical narratives, political dissatisfaction, and digital amplification intersected. The ability to reframe the past became part of the struggle over the present, illustrating how political outcomes are increasingly mediated not only by institutions and material conditions, but also by control over narrative and memory.

It is clear the post-EDSA period reveals neither a singular failure nor a unified project of governance. It is better understood as a contested and uneven trajectory—marked by institutional rebuilding, unresolved structural inequalities, political fragmentation, and shifting global conditions. Simplified narratives, whether celebratory or dismissive, fail to capture this complexity, as illustrated partly in Table 1 above. Difficult and persistent problems required complex and sustained responses. The challenge is not to replace one caricature with another, but to recognise how multiple trajectories—state, movement, and global context—interacted to shape the failures, limits, and possibilities of a post-EDSA Philippines.

Third and last instalment: Rediscovering our Revolution: Exploring ways forward.

Francis Perez

The Unfinished Republic

My reflections on EDSA

First Instalment

On the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of EDSA People Power, I find myself uneasy with how carelessly we talk about it. The arguments have hardened into familiar scripts. One point of view treats EDSA as sacred ground — a completed moral triumph beyond criticism. The other dismisses it as an elite maneuver that hijacked a revolution and therefore deserves nothing but scorn. Both positions, in their own ways, avoid something more uncomfortable: accountability.

There is yet another view, one that has gained traction in recent years. It argues that the promises of EDSA were betrayed by those who led it — perhaps the liberal democrats — who, according to critics and political opponents, have ruled the country ever since. This misinformed view characterises the last four decades as a single, uninterrupted liberal order, and everything that went wrong can be laid at its feet.

It is an attractive argument because it is simple. It compresses forty complicated years into one ideological villain. 

But it is not historically accurate.

Corazon Aquino presided over six transitional and deeply unstable years mostly under a revolutionary government. Fidel Ramos followed with a technocratic modernization program shaped as much by global market currents as by neoliberal philosophy. Joseph Estrada’s presidency was explicitly populist and rhetorically anti-elite. Gloria Macapagal Arroyo presided over fiscal consolidation and political survival for more than nine years. Benigno Aquino III governed for six reformist years focused on anti-corruption and institutional discipline. Rodrigo Duterte then steered the country toward an openly illiberal and authoritarian territory. And now Ferdinand Marcos Jr. leads under yet another political alignment, as if completing a political circle – one step up, two steps back.

To say that “liberals ruled for forty years” erases the shifts, contradictions, and power realignments that defined the post-EDSA republic, and flattens all this and the current authoritarian drift into one convenient label. It also obscures the more persistent truth: political dynasties, oligarchic families, and patronage networks have adapted fluidly across administrations, regardless of political allegiances.

This does not absolve liberal democrats of responsibility. Some reforms stalled. Some opportunities were missed. Structural inequality was not acknowledged and dismantled. But responsibility must be distributed honestly. Myth-making may mobilise resentment, but it does not clarify history.

I was part of the generation shaped by that period. Many of us believed – sincerely – that we were standing at the threshold of a different republic. Not perfect, not revolutionary in the romantic sense, but open. A republic where institutions could be rebuilt, where the social justice provisions of the new Constitution could slowly reshape the political economy, where democratic space could be used for deeper transformation.

EDSA was not a finish line. It was not a betrayal either. It was both a milestone and a beginning. Perhaps it was a squandered opportunity or an unfinished business.

What followed was not preordained by those four days in February. It was shaped by choices – alliances made and broken, movements that fragmented, elites who adapted instead of retreating, reformists who sometimes mistook macroeconomic stability for structural change, and citizens who, over time, grew tired of waiting for justice that seemed permanently deferred.

We also need to be honest about the context. The Marcos dictatorship did not fall because people gathered at a highway alone. By the mid-1980s, the country was in severe economic crisis. Output had collapsed in 1984 and 1985. Debt had ballooned. Legitimacy had eroded. The regime was weakened economically, morally, and institutionally. The uprising was the culmination of multiple, layered pressure – years of organizing, resistance, repression, fracture, and contested legitimacy. It was not a miracle detached from material reality.

What EDSA decisively restored was civic space. Elections meant something again. Newspapers reopened. Political prisoners were freed. A new Constitution was drafted with safeguards against the concentration of power. These were not small achievements.

But restoration is not transformation.

Liberal democracy is indispensable for preventing dictatorship. I will never argue otherwise. Yet liberal democracy, by itself, does not dismantle oligarchy. It does not automatically redistribute land. It does not prevent political dynasties from reconstituting themselves within electoral politics. It does not dissolve wealth concentration. In societies like ours — where inequality is historically embedded – procedural democracy can coexist with structural injustice.

When that coexistence persists for decades, legitimacy becomes fragile, not because people want another dictator, but because they grow tired of reforms that are either stalled or never seem to reach the roots of inequality. Fatigue becomes fertile ground for strongman narratives and resentment becomes political currency.

The restoration of liberal democracy in 1986 was necessary. It was immeasurably better than authoritarian rule. But it proved insufficient – under Philippine structural conditions – to produce a durable settlement of social justice. 

We overthrow, we restore, we stabilize. Then we drift. EDSA became a symbol, sometimes more than a program. Those who benefited from democratic reopening often retreated from the harder work of institutional transformation. Meanwhile, democratic forces fractured – liberals defending procedure but constrained by elite capture; progressives demanding transformation but divided by doctrine, suspicion, and tactical missteps. Over time, these differences became perennial debates, then turned into identities. We learned to distrust each other more than we learned to build together.

And so the Marcos-Duterte axis did not rise from deception alone. It fed on real disillusionment. It fed on inequality that remained acute despite stability and growth. It fed on opposition movements that could not sustain unified moral direction. It fed on our own inability to convert democratic space into structural change.

There is also a geopolitical layer that complicates everything. The global shift toward neoliberal policy in the 1980s, the end of the Cold War, the rise of export-led East Asian growth, and the emergence of China as a strategic power all reshaped the terrain on which our democracy operated. China’s growing assertiveness in the South China Sea – and its rejection of the 2016 arbitral ruling – remind us that sovereignty and democracy today are contested not only internally but externally. Fragmented domestic politics makes meddling and manipulation by external forces easier.

So when we mark forty years since EDSA, the task is not commemoration for its own sake. It is reflection. It is asking whether we treated 1986 as an end point rather than the beginning of a generational reconstruction.

If EDSA is to remain historically meaningful, it must be reclaimed as unfinished – an incomplete republic-building project that still demands deeper institutional shifts toward something more socially democratic, more just, and more transformative.

Next:

What follows is not a morality play. It is a historical reckoning. We will revisit the fractures of the 1980s, examine administrations past the caricatures, confront the mathematics of reality, and ask whether liberal democracy — as practiced in an oligarchic society — is enough.

It may not be.

And if it is not, then the responsibility is no longer about defending or denouncing EDSA. It is about completing it.

Francis Perez

When Infrastructure Promises Collapse

And Their Corrosive Impact on the State

Renewable energy has been presented to Filipinos quite rightly as a response to several urgent and overlapping challenges: rising electricity prices, dependence on imported fuel, vulnerability to climate-related disasters, and persistent poverty. Solar and wind power, in particular, are framed as technologies that could democratise energy, create jobs, and strengthen national resilience.

These promises carry particular weight when viewed through the lens of climate justice—the expectation that climate action should reduce, rather than reproduce, existing inequalities, and that those least responsible for climate change should not bear the heaviest costs of response. A just energy transition follows from this logic. It is not only about shifting from fossil fuels to renewables, but about how that shift is financed, governed, and distributed: who benefits, who carries risk, and whether cleaner energy actually translates into affordable power and reduced vulnerability for ordinary households and communities.

It is in this context that the decision of the Department of Energy (DOE) in January 2026 to cancel a massive number of renewable energy service contracts—and to pursue roughly ₱24 billion in penalties and contractual obligations linked largely to one group of solar companies—takes on significance far beyond the energy sector.

This is not simply a story about a company that failed to deliver. It is a case study in how weaknesses in governance, oversight, and accountability can quietly drain public resources, weaken institutions, and undermine confidence in the country’s ability to manage highly technical infrastructure—whether in renewable energy, flood control, or other critical public systems such as water supply and national telecommunications. When this happens, it is the poorest and most vulnerable—those already facing climate shocks and high energy costs and those who are least able to cope—who ultimately bear the burden. In this sense, infrastructure failure becomes a climate justice issue.


A brief background and timeline

The rise of Solar Philippines
Founded in 2013, Solar Philippines rose rapidly during a period of strong policy support for renewable energy. It became one of the most visible developers of large-scale solar projects and positioned itself as a flagship of the country’s clean energy ambitions.

The grant of a national franchise (2019)
In 2019, Congress granted Solar Para sa Bayan Corporation a national franchise to develop and operate a distributed power system across the country. Such franchises are not routine. They confer extraordinary rights over critical infrastructure and are typically justified by demonstrated technical capacity, financial strength, and the ability to deliver power at scale in the public interest.

From the standpoint of a just energy transition, the granting of such a franchise represents a social contract: public authority and market privilege are extended on the expectation that real, timely benefits will accrue to consumers and communities. Questions were raised at the time—quietly but persistently—about whether a relatively young company had the institutional depth to meet such a critical need and high expectations. Those questions have become more pressing in hindsight.

Accumulation of service contracts and restructuring (2020–2023)
Between 2020 and 2023, Solar Philippines-linked entities accumulated a very large number of renewable energy service contracts under DOE programs, including the Green Energy Auction Program. These contracts granted exclusive rights to develop thousands of megawatts of capacity within defined timelines, backed by performance bonds and other contractual obligations.

During this period, assets were reorganised through listed vehicles such as SP New Energy Corporation (SPNEC), enabling capital entry and exit. Strategic investors—including ACEN Corporation and later Meralco-linked entities—acquired stakes through disclosed transactions. These developments are relevant not because these investors are accused of wrongdoing, but because they illustrate a deeper structural issue: climate-related finance and investment can move even when physical delivery and public benefit lag behind. When this happens, the promise of equitable climate financing—finance that is meant to deliver real social, developmental, and environmental outcomes—begins to erode.

Cancellations and enforcement (2024–2025; announced January 2026)
In 2024 and 2025, the DOE cancelled or accepted the relinquishment of nearly 17,900 megawatts of renewable energy service contracts nationwide. More than 11,000 megawatts—over 60 percent—were linked to Solar Philippines entities.

In January 2026, the DOE publicly announced that it was pursuing approximately ₱24 billion in penalties and contractual obligations related to these cancellations and that the matter had been referred to government legal offices for further action. Around the same time, the Office of the Ombudsman confirmed that it was examining alleged franchise-related violations involving a Solar Philippines firm.


Responsibility, finance, and public interest

Understanding this issue requires clarity about who is involved and in what capacity, because much of the public confusion stems from the overlapping—but not identical—roles of companies, regulators, investors, and political institutions. What follows is not a list of accusations, but a mapping of relationships in a complex governance and financing ecosystem.

Solar Philippines
Solar Philippines is a private renewable energy developer founded in 2013. It rose rapidly during a period of strong policy support for utility-scale solar and accumulated a large number of renewable energy service contracts issued by the Department of Energy (DOE). These contracts granted exclusive rights to develop solar projects within specific timelines, subject to performance requirements.

Solar Philippines did not require a congressional franchise to hold these contracts; its authority flowed primarily from executive-branch regulation. Over time, however, the sheer scale of contracts held by Solar Philippines–linked entities made the company central to national renewable energy planning, amplifying the public consequences of any failure to deliver.

Solar Para sa Bayan Corporation
Solar Para sa Bayan Corporation (SPBC) is a distinct corporate entity but is historically and strategically linked to Solar Philippines. Its defining feature is the national franchise granted by Congress in 2019, allowing it to develop and operate a distributed power system and sell electricity directly to end-users.

This franchise conferred public-utility–like privileges that go beyond ordinary project development. While SPBC and Solar Philippines are legally separate, they have long been understood—by policymakers, regulators, and the public—as part of the same corporate ecosystem pursuing complementary regulatory pathways: one through DOE service contracts, the other through congressional authority.

Leandro Leviste
Leandro Leviste is central to this story not because of personal allegations, but because of overlapping institutional roles. He is the founder and original public face of Solar Philippines and was closely associated with Solar Para sa Bayan at the time its franchise was granted. He is now a sitting member of the House of Representatives.

While franchises are granted to corporations rather than individuals, his leadership role and public association mean that questions about performance, delivery, and accountability inevitably reflect on him—particularly in a political economy where corporate identity and personal leadership are often closely intertwined. This overlap heightens the importance of transparency and institutional safeguards, even in the absence of any finding of wrongdoing.

SP New Energy Corporation
SP New Energy Corporation (SPNEC) emerged as a listed vehicle linked to Solar Philippines’ renewable energy assets. Through SPNEC, solar projects were aggregated, restructured, and opened to public investment. SPNEC later underwent ownership changes and has stated in official disclosures that it is not liable for penalties associated with Solar Philippines’ cancelled service contracts.

SPNEC’s role illustrates how financial instruments and listed entities can continue to function even as underlying project delivery encounters serious difficulty—a key issue in discussions of equitable climate financing and risk allocation.

ACEN (Ayala Group)
ACEN (Ayala Group), the renewable energy subsidiary of the Ayala Group, entered the picture as a strategic investor through disclosed transactions involving SPNEC. ACEN is not the subject of DOE penalty actions and is widely regarded as a technically capable and reputable renewable energy player.

Its involvement matters analytically because it demonstrates how large, credible capital can enter a project ecosystem after key public rights have already been allocated. This does not imply fault, but it complicates public understanding of responsibility and underscores the need for clear rules on how climate-related investments intersect with pre-existing regulatory obligations.

Meralco and Metro Pacific Investments
Meralco, the country’s largest power distribution utility, and Metro Pacific Investments Corporation (MPIC), a major infrastructure conglomerate, became relevant through later-stage corporate transactions and strategic positioning in the energy sector. Their involvement—directly or through affiliates—reinforced the perception that Solar Philippines–linked assets were being absorbed into the orbit of established power and infrastructure players.

Again, this does not suggest impropriety. But it highlights a structural issue: public-facing risks and obligations often remain with original developers or the state, while assets and opportunities can migrate toward larger, better-capitalised actors. For ordinary citizens, this dynamic contributes to confusion about who is accountable when projects fail.

Regulators, oversight bodies, and the public
The DOE is responsible for issuing, monitoring, and enforcing renewable energy service contracts. The Office of the Ombudsman examines potential administrative or legal issues involving public authority and public interest. Congress grants franchises and exercises oversight over the energy sector.

Finally, the public—especially electricity consumers and climate-vulnerable communities—bears the downstream consequences of failure: delayed power supply, lost public revenues, weakened state capacity, and diminished trust.


What went wrong? 

At its core, the problem is not complicated: power plants were promised but not built, at a scale large enough to disrupt national energy planning.

Service contracts are instruments through which the state allocates scarce development space and signals future supply. When a single group of companies holds a disproportionate share of those contracts and fails to deliver, the consequences extend well beyond that group.

Auction slots are locked up for years. Other capable developers—including smaller and more locally embedded actors—are crowded out. Energy supply projections must be revised. Consumers remain exposed to volatile prices and supply constraints.

From the standpoint of transformative adaptation, this represents a missed opportunity. Transformative adaptation requires more than incremental change; it involves reshaping systems and institutions so societies can cope with escalating climate risks in durable and inclusive ways. In the energy sector, this means diversifying actors, decentralising solutions, strengthening public learning institutions, and reducing systemic vulnerability. Large-scale non-delivery does the opposite: it reinforces concentration, fragility, and dependence on a narrow set of actors.

DOE officials have stated publicly that many projects failed to meet development milestones and did not adequately respond to notices issued by the department. Whatever the immediate causes—land access, financing constraints, technical limits, or over-extension—the outcome is the same: the public absorbs the cost.


Climate financing as a governance test

Climate finance is often discussed in terms of scale—how many billions are needed to fund energy transition and climate adaptation. But scale alone is not the core challenge. Governance is.

In principle, climate financing is meant to correct market failures, share risk, and enable transitions that would not otherwise occur—especially in countries facing fiscal constraints and high climate exposure. It is meant to support a just energy transition by lowering costs, broadening participation, and ensuring that climate action delivers tangible benefits to vulnerable groups.

What this case reveals, however, is how easily climate-related finance can become detached from those goals.

The accumulation of large renewable energy service contracts, followed by financial restructuring and capital transactions, created pathways for finance to move even as physical projects stalled. This does not automatically imply illegality. But it does point to a serious misalignment: finance responding to paper commitments rather than delivered infrastructure and public outcomes.

From the perspective of climate justice, this misalignment is deeply problematic. When climate finance rewards scale without delivery, it concentrates opportunity while socialising risk. Communities are left without power. Local governments lose expected revenues. The state loses fiscal and institutional space to invest in adaptation where it is most urgently needed.

Equitable climate financing cannot function under these conditions. It depends on strong public institutions capable of pacing investment, enforcing obligations, and ensuring that climate finance supports transformation rather than speculation.


The visible cost

The DOE’s estimate of roughly ₱24 billion reflects penalties, performance bonds, and contractual obligations associated with cancelled contracts. Whether this amount will be fully recovered remains uncertain and subject to legal processes.

But focusing only on this figure obscures a much larger cost—especially for a country seeking sustained access to climate finance for both mitigation and adaptation.


The even bigger hidden costs

The most serious damage caused by large-scale infrastructure failure is rarely captured in a single number.

Renewable energy projects that are not built do not pay local taxes, land rentals, or fees. They do not generate employment or secondary economic activity. For many local governments—particularly outside major urban centres—these revenues could have supported health services, disaster preparedness, and climate adaptation measures. Their absence deepens existing inequalities.

Renewable energy development requires sophisticated public systems: auction design, grid studies, contract management, and regulatory enforcement. When hundreds of projects collapse or stall, years of public investment in planning and oversight are effectively written off. Officials are diverted from learning and system improvement to managing disputes, litigation, and clean-up.

Following major failures, governments tighten rules. While necessary, this also raises transaction costs and slows future project development. More importantly, repeated failures undermine confidence among international climate funds, development partners, and responsible investors. The country’s credibility as a destination for equitable climate financing is weakened, just when long-term support is most needed.

Perhaps most damaging is the loss of trust. Investors become cautious. Financing costs rise. Citizens grow sceptical of government promises. This erosion of confidence weakens the social contract that underpins any credible just energy transition.

And a wider pattern

The renewable energy cancellations echo a broader and longer-running pattern visible in the country’s flood-control sector.

Over many years, tens of billions of pesos allocated for flood-control projects have been lost to substandard work, incomplete projects, or infrastructure that exists only on paper. These failures disproportionately affect poor and climate-exposed communities, turning what should be climate adaptation investments into sources of injustice and harm.

The connection between renewable energy and flood control is not technology—it is governance. In both cases, large sums of public money and climate-related financing were committed to technically complex infrastructure. In both cases, oversight proved insufficient to prevent large-scale non-delivery. And in both cases, the consequences extended far beyond individual projects: weakened institutions, drained budgets, and eroded public trust.

Of compounding effect

These failures do not occur in isolation. Flood vulnerability disrupts power systems. Weak energy systems slow economic recovery after disasters. Fiscal losses limit investment in both prevention and resilience.

In this way, infrastructure failures reinforce one another and amplify national vulnerability. They undermine the very conditions required for transformative adaptation—long-term planning, institutional learning, and inclusive decision-making.


A climate justice and development issue

Whether courts ultimately confirm wrongdoing in specific cases is important—but accountability matters even before legal outcomes are final.

Franchises, service contracts, and licenses are not private favours. They are instruments through which society entrusts private actors with public responsibilities tied to climate action and development. When those instruments can be accumulated, traded, and abandoned without proportionate consequence, the result is fragility, not progress.

From a climate justice perspective, weak accountability shifts the costs of failure onto those least able to bear them. From a development perspective, it corrodes the state’s capacity to govern.


Building a just transition

What, then, can be learned from this case—beyond memes and public accusations and counter accusations? Beyond immediate controversies and ongoing legal processes?

First, discipline in the allocation of public rights matters. Renewable energy service contracts and congressional franchises are not speculative instruments. They are public trusts. Granting them at scale without rigorous, ongoing verification of technical, financial, and organisational capacity invites failure—and shifts the cost of that failure onto the public.

Second, equitable climate financing requires strong state capacity. Climate finance is meant to correct market failures and support transitions that would not otherwise occur naturally or automatically. When governance is weak, however, climate-related finance can reward paper commitments rather than real delivery, concentrating benefits while socialising risks. This undermines both climate justice and long-term investor confidence.

Third, accountability must operate across institutions, not only through courts. Legal processes are essential, but they are slow and retrospective. Effective accountability also requires transparent disclosure, consistent enforcement of milestones, and credible consequences for non-delivery—regardless of political stature or corporate scale.

Fourth, transformative adaptation depends on institutional learning. Large-scale failures in renewable energy and flood-control infrastructure reveal the same underlying problem: the inability of public systems to learn, adapt, and correct course early. Without this capacity, climate responses remain reactive, fragmented, and unjust.

Finally, public trust is a form of national capital. When infrastructure promises collapse, trust erodes—not only in specific projects, but in the state’s ability to govern complex transitions. Rebuilding that trust requires more than new projects. It requires demonstrating that lessons have been learned, rules will be enforced, and public interest will prevail over short-term gain.

It is also important to be clear-eyed about expectations. While it is possible for private companies and investors to align with the aspirations of a just energy transition, equitable climate financing, transformative adaptation, and climate justice, it would be naïve to assume that these goals will naturally guide private decision-making. Private capital responds primarily to risk, return, and regulatory signals. The consistent pressure to ensure that climate action delivers fairness, inclusion, and long-term resilience has historically come not from markets alone, but from civil society, affected communities, and an informed public demanding more of both corporations and the state. It is this collective pressure that compels governments to craft development strategies, regulatory frameworks, and public investment priorities that are genuinely aligned with these broader ambitions.

There is, undoubtedly, much more to examine in the regulatory framework governing power generation in the Philippines—from market design and grid integration to pricing, competition, and system planning. A detailed assessment of these technical and legal dimensions, however, is not the primary aim of this piece. Rather, the analysis here is intended to underline a more fundamental point: that regulatory frameworks must be strengthened and applied consistently so they serve clearly articulated public goals as part of a whole-of-government, integrated, and coherent approach. These include sustainable development, climate justice, a just energy transition, equitable climate financing, and transformative adaptation—not merely the rapid scaling of capacity or the movement of capital.

A just energy transition, supported by equitable climate financing and oriented toward transformative adaptation, cannot be built on ambition alone. It rests on institutions that are credible, capable, and accountable. The real cost of failing to strengthen those institutions will not be measured only in pesos or megawatts, but in diminished capacity to protect the vulnerable and to lead the country through the intertwined crises of climate, energy, and inequality.

Without these guardrails, the energy transition risks becoming technically sound but socially hollow—delivering megawatts and financial returns while falling short of the justice, resilience, and transformation that climate action ultimately demands.

Author’s Note

This analysis is based on publicly available reporting, official statements, regulatory disclosures, and government announcements, including those issued by the Department of Energy in January 2026 and confirmations by the Office of the Ombudsman. Legal and investigative processes related to the matters discussed are ongoing. No findings of criminal liability are asserted in this piece. The purpose of the analysis is to examine governance, climate justice, equitable climate financing, and development implications in the public interest.

Francis Perez

Beyond Borders, Beyond “Normal”

Solidarity, Democracy, and the Transformative Future We Must Build

My previous posts explored the lessons of COVID-19, the urgent need for flood-proof cities, the links between health and climate, the failures of car-centric mobility, and the fragility of education. Each theme pointed to the same conclusion: the systems we inherited were unjust, unsustainable, fragile, and corruptible. Business-as-usual is not only broken; it is dangerous.

But to reimagine life, society, and governance, we must go beyond national reforms. Climate change, pandemics, disinformation, and corruption spill across borders. The future of transformative change depends on solidarity — global, regional, and local — and on leadership that strengthens democracy, not dismantles it.

Hybrid Futures

The pandemic revealed both possibility and fragility. Hybrid work showed that productivity need not mean traffic and smog; hybrid study proved that learning can adapt to crisis. But millions without savings, digital access, or social protection were left behind. In the Philippines, people had no choice but to break lockdowns to survive, leading to devastating infection waves. The lesson is not that lockdowns failed, but that governance failed to protect the poor.

Hybrid futures must be made a right — supported by investments in community hubs, digital access, and social safety nets. To treat them as privileges is to deepen inequality. To secure them as rights is to build a transformative society where adaptation is equitable and inclusive.

Transformative Systems

Year after year, floods devastate lives and livelihoods. The Philippines loses ₱133 billion annually to flood damages (World Bank, 2022), while extreme heat increasingly shuts down schools and workplaces. Yet from 2022 to 2024, ₱545 billion was poured into flood control projects riddled with corruption. Infrastructure built as political pork cannot protect people.

Transformative adaptation demands accountable governance: transparent budgets, participatory planning, and leadership willing to legislate for long-term safety rather than short-term patronage.

People-Centered Mobility

Metro Manila bleeds ₱3.5 billion daily in congestion costs. A statistical modelling by the Centre for Research on Energy and Clean Air (CREA) in 2023 using air pollution, rates of exposure, and health coefficients, estimated that air pollution killed 66,000 Filipinos in 2019 (WHO). Cars, less than 30 percent of trips, still dominate over 70 percent of road space (MMDA). This is not accidental. It is the product of choices — choices to prioritize projects ripe for kickbacks while delaying public transport modernization.

Mobility reform is not only about buses, trains, and bike lanes. It is about justice: pregnant women, elderly citizens, children, and persons with disabilities deserve safe, dignified mobility. Hybrid work and study can ease pressure, but governance must shift resources from car-centric “development” to a transformative vision of mobility that puts people and dignity first.

Community Hubs

Education disruptions are mounting: 32 lost teaching days in 2023–2024 due to floods and heat, 19 million students affected by Storm Trami, and more than 4,000 damaged schools in three years. When disaster strikes, learning collapses.

Community hubs — with internet, childcare, and safe study spaces — can keep education alive. But this requires governance that prioritizes equity, not just elite schools. It also requires digital infrastructure that is secure from sabotage and espionage, ensuring transformative adaptation in education, where learning continues despite shocks and inequalities are reduced rather than widened.

Accountable Leadership

Across every sector, corruption bleeds resources away from transformation. Citizens are taxed, then asked to shoulder modernization costs, while contractors and officials profit. This is not leadership; it is betrayal.

True leadership does not mean authoritarian shortcuts. We should have learned this from both past dictatorships and current populist regimes that suppress dissent while enabling graft. Authoritarianism promises efficiency but delivers corruption, fear, and weakened institutions. What we need are leaders who defend democracy and the rule of law — locally and globally — while reforming systems to serve the public good.

Good governance is not abstract. It is the decisive factor that makes hybrid work equitable, flood defenses real, transport safe, and education transformative and future-ready.

Global and Regional Solidarity

The Philippines cannot face these challenges alone. Corruption, climate shocks, and pandemics spill across borders. Around the world, citizens have risen in protests against corruption and inequality, signaling a shared demand for accountability. Yet at the same time, we see backsliding: climate denial, ultranationalism, immigration scapegoating, unjust trading practices, and a slide toward despotic rule.

What is needed is solidarity. A peace premium: shifting resources away from militarism and corruption toward schools, health, transformative adaptation, and digital equity. Global institutions like the Pact for the Future and the Global Digital Compact hint at this direction but must be made more accountable to citizens rather than power blocs.

ASEAN, too, must step up. It can no longer afford to be a cautious talk shop. As a bloc, it can amplify the voices of its less developed members — Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar, and the Philippines — in demanding fairer climate finance, human-centered digital governance, and international rules that protect people, not only markets. A stronger ASEAN voice on global platforms is essential for justice in the region.

The Courage to Imagine

The greatest danger is not only corruption or climate collapse but nostalgia — the longing to “return to normal,” as if that normal were ever just. The air we breathed before the pandemic was thick with smog from jeepneys and cars; the streets of Metro Manila were clogged daily with traffic that drained ₱3.5 billion in wasted time and fuel. The schools were already overstretched, with leaking roofs and overcrowded classrooms. Hospitals were underfunded, forcing poor families to pay out of pocket or go untreated. Governance was corrupted by budget insertions and ghost projects. That past was not safe, equal, or sustainable. To cling to it is to chain ourselves to crises that will only intensify.

What we need instead is courage to imagine a transformative future, rooted in our own realities. Imagine barangay hubs where parents type reports while children learn nearby, both sheltered from floods or extreme heat. Imagine jeepneys reborn as clean electric shuttles, safe for children and elderly passengers, no longer symbols of survival but of dignity. Imagine mangrove parks along Manila Bay that serve as flood barriers by day and recreation spaces by evening, proof that nature and city life can co-exist. Imagine hospitals equipped with solar power, mobile clinics reaching far-flung barangays, and health workers supported, not abandoned, by government.

Picture classrooms that no storm can silence, because every child has access to safe, connected learning spaces. Picture governance where every peso is traceable, every contract open to citizen oversight, and leaders earn respect not through fear but through trust. Picture businesses competing to design the most transformative homes, the safest transport, and the most affordable internet, proving that profit and public good can reinforce one another.

And picture borders not as walls of fear, but as bridges of cooperation — an ASEAN that secures climate finance, fair trade, and digital justice for its peoples, and a global community that prizes peace as the best investment in human survival.

These are not dreams too lofty for the Philippines. They are already glimpsed in Marikina’s flood monitoring, Iloilo’s river rehabilitation, Cebu’s rainwater harvesting, BGC’s cisterns, and Naga’s participatory planning. What is missing is not capacity or resources, but imagination — and the governance to make imagination real.

Toward a Just and Transformative Future

The crises we face — floods, pandemics, authoritarian backsliding — are products of human choices. And because they are human-made, they can be unmade. The question is whether we will have the courage to choose differently.

Citizens must demand accountability. Businesses must innovate for transformation rather than collude for profit. Leaders must strengthen, not weaken, democracy and the rule of law. ASEAN must amplify vulnerable voices. Global institutions must reorient toward human security.

The choice is stark: continue shackled to nostalgia for a broken past, or free ourselves to build a just and transformative future that redefines how we live, work, learn, and govern.

The imagination premium is within reach — if we demand it, defend it, and act on it together.

Francis Perez

Education and Community Hubs

The COVID-19 pandemic revealed both the fragility and the resilience of education systems. Schools closed their doors for months, leaving millions of students in the Philippines to navigate online classes with patchy internet, limited devices, and cramped living spaces. The learning losses were profound. The World Bank estimates that as many as nine out of ten Filipino children aged 10 struggle to read and understand simple text — a crisis worsened by prolonged school closures and unequal access to technology.

Disruptions have continued beyond the pandemic, intensified by climate extremes. In the 2023–2024 school year alone, students lost about 32 teaching days due to extreme weather and heat (PIDS, 2024). Storm Trami in October 2024 disrupted learning for more than 19 million students across the country (Save the Children / DepEd). Between 2021 and 2023, disasters damaged nearly 4,000 schools, interrupting education for about 2 million children (World Bank / DepEd). These are not isolated interruptions; they accumulate, widening learning gaps that are hardest to close for children in poverty, rural communities, and hazard-prone areas.

Citizenship: Active Co-Creators

For too long, education has been treated as a service delivered from the top down. But citizens — parents, students, teachers, and community groups — can reshape the way learning is organized. Community hubs at the barangay level could provide shared access to fast internet, computer stations, common study areas, and even creches or day care centers for young children. By reducing the reliance on long, unsafe commutes and uneven home environments, such hubs would level the playing field for children who currently study in noisy cafés or cramped homes without internet.

Citizenship here means asserting that learning is a right, not a privilege. It means demanding that public budgets prioritize education infrastructure in the same way that they prioritize roads and bridges. It means defending civic spaces where parents, learners, and local leaders can co-create solutions — ensuring that no child is left behind because of geography, poverty, or disaster.

Governance and Education

Public spending on education in the Philippines remains far below international benchmarks, with allocations still under UNESCO’s recommended 6 percent of GDP. This underinvestment is visible in classrooms that double as evacuation centers, in school buildings unfit for floods or heat waves, and in the lack of reliable digital infrastructure.

Legislation and budgets must treat broadband access, safe learning spaces, and resilient schools as essential public goods. Every barangay should have at least one fully equipped education and community hub, with reliable connectivity, computers, safe lighting, and secure spaces for study. New school buildings should be designed with disaster resilience in mind — raised floors for floods, proper ventilation for extreme heat, and backup power sources for emergencies. Governance that invests in education is governance that invests in resilience.

Meaningful and Profitable Partnerships

The private sector has long profited from education through tuition, gadgets, and connectivity charges. Yet education cannot be treated as a commodity alone. Telecommunications companies, in particular, play a decisive role. Their services keep schools and hubs connected, but service interruptions or poor investment leave communities vulnerable. Worse, dependence on foreign-made infrastructure exposes digital systems to risks of espionage, sabotage, or cyber-attacks — vulnerabilities that can undermine not just education but national security.

Here, partnership is key. Telecom providers can commit to universal, affordable internet packages for schools and hubs. Tech companies can contribute recycled or low-cost devices and software, while also investing in cybersecurity training for students and teachers. Developers can design residential and commercial projects that integrate shared study spaces, ensuring that connectivity is built into the fabric of communities. By moving from extraction to partnership, the private sector strengthens both its market and its social contract.

From Disruption to Opportunity

The future of education is not about abandoning schools but about broadening where and how learning happens. Hybrid models, where physical classrooms are complemented by digital tools and community hubs, reduce the vulnerability of education systems to floods, heat waves, and future pandemics. A child should not have to miss lessons because waist-deep floods block the road to school, nor should a parent have to choose between earning a living and supervising online classes.

Community hubs can bridge these gaps. They provide safe and equitable access to learning, reduce unnecessary commutes, and create resilience against disasters. They also help protect education from digital risks by decentralizing access and embedding safeguards. In this sense, education becomes not only a pathway to personal opportunity but also a community-wide investment in resilience.

Toward an Equitable Learning Future

The crisis of education is inseparable from the crises of climate, mobility, and governance. But it is also inseparable from hope. The lessons of the pandemic — that adaptability, technology, and community matter — can be turned into blueprints for long-term reform. Citizens must demand hubs and hybrid systems as rights, not privileges. Governance must sustain investments in both schools and digital infrastructure. And the private sector must treat connectivity and safety as responsibilities, not mere revenue streams.

The Philippines cannot afford to lose another generation to outdated systems, recurring disasters, or digital vulnerabilities. Education and community hubs, grounded in equity and resilience, offer a path forward: a future where learning is universal, adaptive, secure, and just — no matter the storm, the flood, or the heat.