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

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

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.