"The Oil Bomb Maker"

When Personal Responsibility Becomes the Burden of the Individual

2026-11-08T23:10:29.855-08:00

When Personal Responsibility Becomes the Burden of the Individual

Political ideas often outlive the circumstances that originally gave them meaning. Words once spoken with conviction become familiar expressions, repeated across generations, institutions, and ideological divisions, sometimes without much consideration of the intellectual and historical conditions from which they emerged. Their continued appeal suggests a certain universality, but it also raises questions about how societies reinterpret inherited principles to accommodate changing political, economic, and social realities. What was once understood as an invitation to participate in a common undertaking may eventually acquire a significance its original advocates neither intended nor anticipated, particularly when its language becomes detached from the institutions and relationships that originally gave it substance.

This transformation becomes particularly apparent in the contemporary vocabulary of freedom, liberty, responsibility, identity, initiative, subsidiarity, justice, and fairness. These concepts continue to command widespread approval because they describe aspirations deeply embedded in modern political and moral thought. Few would openly reject individual liberty, and fewer still would deny that human beings should exercise judgment, accept obligations, or seek fair treatment. Yet the apparent agreement surrounding these principles conceals significant differences concerning their practical meaning. Freedom may describe the capacity of persons to participate in determining the circumstances of their lives, but it may also be reduced to choosing among alternatives established by others. Responsibility may refer to obligations corresponding to one's conduct and authority, but it may equally be invoked to require individuals to manage the consequences of circumstances over which they possess little control.

Such statements become increasingly liquid, if not intellectually shallow, when repeated within a social environment that treats human beings primarily as individuals to be classified, evaluated, and processed through an expanding machinery of economic and algorithmic administration. The difficulty is not that principles of freedom and responsibility have suddenly become false, but that their meaning can be separated from the social relationships necessary for their realization. A person may be praised as an autonomous individual while remaining subject to institutional decisions over which meaningful influence is limited. The ability to select among available choices is celebrated as freedom, while the capacity to question how those choices were determined is frequently regarded as impractical, disruptive, or incompatible with the requirements of social order.

Consider the advice commonly offered to someone suffering the consequences of another person's misconduct or an institution's failure. The individual may be instructed to stop examining the past, acknowledge the role supposedly played in permitting the circumstances to develop, and concentrate upon correcting the resulting difficulties. Such advice is not necessarily unreasonable. Individuals must exercise judgment, and the practical necessity of responding to adversity cannot always depend upon whether those responsible for causing it are willing to make amends. Nevertheless, the obligation to respond to harm is not identical to accountability for having inflicted it. A person may have no practical choice but to repair the damage caused by another without thereby assuming moral responsibility for the original wrongdoing. Similarly, the necessity of moving forward does not establish that accountability for what happened has become irrelevant.

The contradiction becomes more troubling when responsibility is transferred without a corresponding transfer of power. Those who make consequential decisions may retain their authority while those affected are expected to demonstrate the initiative, discipline, and adaptability necessary to survive the results. An individual who questions the arrangement may then be accused of dwelling upon the past, refusing to accept reality, or failing to exercise personal responsibility. What appears to be an encouragement toward maturity can become a means of relieving institutions and powerful individuals of obligations arising from their own conduct.

The same difficulty appears in the contemporary understanding of nation-building. The older civic ideal associated national development with the willingness of citizens to participate in the improvement of their common institutions. Education, productive work, public service, and political participation were understood, at least in principle, as means through which individuals contributed to a society extending beyond their immediate private interests. But the language of nation-building can become increasingly hyperbolic when its practical meaning is reduced to the success of separate individuals competing for opportunities within economic arrangements that are themselves treated as beyond meaningful reconsideration.

Under these circumstances, civic nationalism is no longer necessarily understood as an undertaking through which persons exercise responsibility for a common political and economic future. It may instead become a collection of private ambitions loosely connected through patriotic imagery, with the advancement of the nation presumed to follow automatically from sufficient personal effort. The citizen is encouraged to become entrepreneurial, competitive, productive, and adaptable, while the institutions necessary to connect these capacities to collective development may receive comparatively less attention. The social purpose of initiative is gradually displaced by what might be called effortism, an understanding of human development in which perseverance becomes not merely a virtue but an almost complete explanation of economic and social outcomes.

Such a transformation is especially consequential in an age when the individual is increasingly understood through measurable performance. The person becomes a productivity figure, an employment score, a consumer profile, or a demographic category, while the institutions employing these classifications present themselves as the ordinary machinery of society. Their systems may provide genuine benefits, but they also influence which forms of conduct are rewarded, which opinions acquire visibility, and which activities are treated as legitimate expressions of initiative. The result can be a society that continually praises independent thought while regarding attempts to move beyond established institutional parameters as threats to the very order supposedly committed to freedom.

The philosophical problem is therefore broader than a disagreement between individualism and collectivism. Human beings are individuals capable of exercising judgment and pursuing legitimate personal objectives, but they are also persons whose identities and opportunities develop through relationships with families, communities, economic institutions, and political society. Their freedom cannot be adequately described without considering both dimensions. A society that recognizes only the individual may regard every difficulty as a problem of private adaptation, while one that recognizes only the collective risks denying the autonomy through which persons participate meaningfully in common life. The challenge is to understand how responsibility can preserve personal agency without becoming an excuse for institutional nonaccountability, and how freedom can remain a substantive human capacity rather than a formal entitlement to survive within arrangements whose purposes are determined elsewhere.

The Historical Transformation of Civic Responsibility

John F. Kennedy's familiar appeal to seek neither the Republican nor the Democratic answer, but the right answer, and to accept responsibility for the future rather than concentrate upon fixing blame for the past, provides a useful starting point. Delivered at a Loyola College alumni gathering in Baltimore on February 18, 1958, the statement belonged to an American political environment shaped by concerns about education, scientific development, technological competition, and national preparedness following the Soviet Union's launch of Sputnik. Kennedy's appeal was directed toward a public undertaking in which citizens and institutions alike were expected to contribute to the development of national capabilities. The statement expressed an ideal of civic participation that extended beyond partisan loyalty, but its meaning cannot be separated from the assumption that public institutions possessed important obligations concerning the conditions under which citizens could act.

Kennedy's political vocabulary differed substantially from the individualized understanding of responsibility that later became prominent in economic and managerial discourse. His emphasis upon public service was associated with the development of education, infrastructure, scientific capacity, and the institutional foundations of national prosperity. He did not regard personal determination as a sufficient substitute for public investment, nor did his political philosophy require individuals to accept institutional deficiencies as permanent features of social life. The citizen was imagined as a participant in a common national project, exercising initiative within a political community whose institutions were themselves responsible for advancing collective objectives. The obligation to act therefore presumed that the future could be shaped through public decisions rather than merely endured through private adaptation.

From this perspective, Kennedy's appeal contained an expectation that citizens should possess sufficient knowledge, judgment, and civic consciousness to recognize difficulties extending beyond conventional partisan divisions. A learned community, properly equipped with education and the capacity for independent reasoning, should be capable of questioning inherited assumptions and considering solutions that do not fit neatly within established ideological or administrative boundaries. The purpose of knowledge in such a conception is not merely to reproduce accepted explanations, but to provide the intellectual means through which society can identify its deficiencies and undertake necessary changes.

Yet this very expectation creates a contradiction when placed within contemporary institutions that celebrate innovation while demanding conformity to their existing procedures. The educated citizen is encouraged to think independently, but may encounter resistance when independent thought challenges the assumptions governing public policy or economic administration. Professional organizations praise initiative, yet may treat unfamiliar proposals as disruptive merely because they depart from established practices. Educational institutions encourage critical inquiry while increasingly organizing achievement through measurable competencies and performance indicators. The individual is instructed to think beyond conventional parameters, but the practical exercise of that instruction may become unacceptable when it raises questions about the legitimacy of the parameters themselves.

Kennedy's formulation also contains a philosophical ambiguity concerning the distinction between a reasonable solution and a politically contested one. Many problems require professional competence, empirical evidence, and cooperation across partisan boundaries. Public institutions should not reject sound proposals merely because they originate from ideological opponents. Nevertheless, questions involving wages, ownership, industrial development, social protection, and the distribution of resources cannot always be resolved by identifying a technically superior answer. They involve competing interests, different conceptions of justice, and disagreements about the purposes for which institutions ought to exist. The appeal to transcend partisanship becomes problematic when it is interpreted as a requirement to accept existing arrangements as politically neutral rather than recognize that those arrangements themselves embody decisions about power and responsibility.

The historical distance between Kennedy and Ronald Reagan demonstrates how a vocabulary of responsibility can persist across political traditions while acquiring different institutional meanings. Reagan's rise occurred amid the inflation, economic instability, energy crises, and dissatisfaction with government that characterized much of the 1970s. His victory in the 1980 presidential election also reflected broader concerns about American confidence and international standing, intensified by the Iranian hostage crisis and the difficulties confronting the Carter administration. Reagan's political program offered an interpretation of these conditions in which excessive government intervention, regulatory burdens, and weakened incentives had constrained economic initiative. The recovery of national prosperity was associated with reducing those constraints and restoring confidence in private enterprise and the productive capacities of individual Americans.

The political effectiveness of Reagan's message lay partly in its ability to connect a recognizable account of economic difficulties with a moral understanding of freedom. Many Americans had experienced rising living costs, economic uncertainty, and frustration with public institutions, making the promise of renewed opportunity attractive. Reagan argued that government should create conditions favorable to productive activity rather than impose unnecessary direction upon it, and his rhetoric associated individual initiative with the broader recovery of national confidence. His subsequent popularity, particularly during the economic recovery preceding his reelection in 1984, cannot be understood without considering the relationship between these promises and the economic circumstances of the period. Nor would it be accurate to treat his political philosophy as an unqualified rejection of government, since his inaugural address acknowledged the importance of public institutions, equitable burdens, and the responsibilities of Americans toward one another.

Nevertheless, the enduring influence of Reagan's rhetoric permits a distinction between the historical purposes for which it was employed and the meanings it subsequently acquired. The encouragement of enterprise does not necessarily imply that individuals should bear every economic risk independently, just as the reduction of unnecessary public restrictions does not establish that private economic power is always compatible with substantive freedom. An employee may possess the legal right to seek alternative work while depending upon an economy offering few suitable opportunities. A prospective entrepreneur may possess the formal freedom to establish a business while lacking access to financing, reliable infrastructure, or markets sufficiently competitive to permit entry. Such circumstances do not make individual initiative irrelevant, but they demonstrate why its exercise depends upon institutional conditions extending beyond the resources and choices of isolated persons.

The later history of American political economy complicates any attempt to attribute contemporary individualization exclusively to Reagan. Administrations of different parties pursued varying combinations of market-oriented reform, public investment, deregulation, social protection, and fiscal restraint, while globalization, technological change, and financial innovation altered the organization of production and employment. Yet the language of personal competitiveness and adaptation remained influential across these changes. Workers were increasingly expected to manage transitions between occupations, households to absorb financial uncertainty through private planning, and graduates to regard their prospects as dependent upon continuous improvement in marketable qualifications. These expectations could promote valuable forms of initiative, but they became politically consequential when employed as alternatives to examining the institutional conditions that determined whether initiative could produce security.

The irony is that Reagan's promise of freedom could remain believable within the historical circumstances that made it politically attractive while acquiring increasingly contradictory meanings in later periods. What began as a call to restore productive initiative could be interpreted as an obligation for individuals to accommodate themselves to the decisions of private institutions possessing considerable economic power. The citizen was expected to become more independent, yet the practical conditions of independence remained connected to employers, financial organizations, markets, and administrative structures whose decisions could profoundly shape personal opportunities. The language of freedom survived, but the relationship between individual autonomy and institutional authority became more difficult to reconcile.

This tension is particularly apparent when Reagan's political optimism is compared with Donald Trump's language of national restoration. Trump's emphasis upon tariffs, economic nationalism, immigration restrictions, and national sovereignty differs in important respects from the market-oriented conservatism commonly associated with Reagan. Nevertheless, his promise to restore American greatness appeals to a recognizable desire to recover political control over circumstances perceived as having deteriorated under established institutions. His second inaugural address in January 2025 announced a new American golden age, presenting national recovery through restored strength, prosperity, and sovereignty.

The analytical difference concerns the increasingly performative character of contemporary political communication. Reagan's message was associated with a relatively identifiable argument about economic reform and the relationship between government and enterprise. Trump's presentation of national greatness gives greater prominence to political spectacle, confrontation, and the public demonstration of strength, although the policies accompanying that rhetoric must still be evaluated according to their material consequences. The distinction does not establish that one political tradition possessed a monopoly upon sincerity or competence. Rather, it raises questions about how the public representation of national achievement relates to the actual capacities of citizens to participate in determining their circumstances.

What makes the comparison especially relevant is the changing environment through which political messages circulate. Kennedy addressed a public whose information was largely mediated through newspapers, radio, television, educational institutions, and established political organizations. Reagan's political communication developed within an increasingly television-centered environment in which the presentation of confidence and leadership possessed substantial importance. Trump's political career, by contrast, operates within a media system where continuous digital engagement, social-media visibility, and rapid cycles of controversy form an important part of public communication. These differences do not determine the meaning of each presidency, but they influence the conditions under which political promises are received, debated, and transformed into public expectations.

To imagine Kennedy's statement being delivered in the contemporary political environment is therefore to confront a different kind of contradiction. The appeal to seek a reasonable solution beyond partisan divisions would enter a public sphere in which the visibility of an argument can depend partly upon its capacity to generate attention, provoke immediate reactions, and circulate through algorithmic systems. The demand to accept responsibility for the future might be interpreted as a call for public cooperation, but it could also be absorbed into a culture of competition in which individuals and political movements struggle to establish their own claims to responsibility while attributing social failure to others. The language retains its original moral attraction, but the institutions through which it is communicated may reward forms of conduct considerably different from the deliberation and common purpose the statement appears to encourage.

The Privatization of Public Troubles and the Rise of Effortism

The American sociologist C. Wright Mills provided a framework for investigating this relationship in The Sociological Imagination (1959). Mills distinguished personal troubles, which concern difficulties experienced within the immediate circumstances of individuals, from public issues arising through the organization of society and its institutions. His argument did not deny individual responsibility or suggest that personal decisions could be explained entirely through social structures. Rather, he insisted that a person's experiences must be situated within the historical conditions that establish the possibilities and limitations of individual action. The distinction challenges the assumption that a problem experienced privately necessarily possesses a private cause or can be adequately addressed through private remedies.

Unemployment illustrates the importance of this perspective. An individual who fails to obtain work may reasonably consider qualifications, conduct, occupational preferences, and willingness to pursue available opportunities. But when an economy cannot provide sufficient employment to large numbers of qualified people, the accumulation of individual explanations cannot account for the condition as a whole. The structure of investment, technological development, industrial capacity, and public policy becomes relevant because these arrangements influence the opportunities available before any particular person begins seeking employment. A similar distinction applies to housing, where financial discipline may help an individual household but cannot independently resolve the consequences of insufficient housing supply, inadequate wages, concentrated ownership, or financing arrangements that systematically exclude certain groups.

The significance of Mills's argument is that contemporary society often reverses this relationship. Problems arising through institutional arrangements are interpreted primarily through the capacities of individuals to manage them. A shortage of suitable employment becomes a problem of employability, widespread household insecurity becomes a problem of financial literacy, and inadequate access to services becomes a problem requiring greater resourcefulness among those affected. These explanations are attractive because they identify actions individuals can undertake immediately. They also preserve the reassuring belief that personal circumstances remain manageable through sufficiently disciplined choices. But their practical usefulness becomes limited when the underlying conditions cannot be changed by the individuals expected to overcome them.

This is where the contemporary culture of self-help requires more critical examination. Self-help can provide useful guidance concerning personal conduct, emotional resilience, financial management, and the development of skills. The difficulty is that such guidance may be elevated from a means of personal improvement into a general philosophy of social organization. Under this interpretation, the principal response to institutional difficulties is not to examine the institutions involved but to encourage individuals to become more capable of adapting to them. Personal advancement becomes the accepted form of progress, while the collective conditions determining the possibilities of advancement remain comparatively unexamined.

The result can be a society organized through successive competitions and countercompetitions. Workers compete for employment, students compete for credentials, entrepreneurs compete for access to markets, and individuals compete for social recognition within environments whose standards of success are established through increasingly elaborate systems of evaluation. Competition is not inherently objectionable, and its capacity to encourage achievement and innovation should not be dismissed. But competition becomes socially corrosive when it is treated as the principal means through which responsibility is exercised and when the failure to secure a favorable position is interpreted as evidence of personal deficiency rather than as a possible consequence of how opportunities are distributed.

Countercompetition emerges when those unable to obtain security through established arrangements respond by seeking alternative means of recognition, advantage, or retaliation. Rather than organizing around shared interests, individuals may become engaged in rivalries over status, legitimacy, access to opportunities, and the moral responsibility for social difficulties. The language of fairness remains prominent, but its practical meaning becomes increasingly adversarial. One group demands recognition of its disadvantages, another insists upon the legitimacy of its achievements, and institutions frequently respond by measuring claims through procedures that encourage further comparison without necessarily addressing their structural causes.

This development resembles the predicament described colloquially as being damned whether one acts or refrains from acting. A person who accepts prevailing conditions may be criticized for lacking initiative, while one who challenges them may be accused of creating unnecessary conflict. The individual who fails to obtain an opportunity may be told that insufficient effort explains the result, while the individual who undertakes unconventional action to improve those circumstances may be regarded as irresponsible for departing from established expectations. The contradiction becomes particularly damaging when the standards by which conduct is judged change according to the outcome, permitting institutions and observers to interpret both action and inaction as personal failures.

Zygmunt Bauman's concept of liquid modernity helps explain why this condition can coexist with apparently expanding individual freedom. In Liquid Modernity (2000), Bauman described a world in which established institutions, enduring relationships, and previously reliable forms of security become increasingly uncertain. Individuals are expected to adapt continually to changing employment arrangements, social expectations, and economic opportunities, while the processes producing these changes are often difficult for them to influence. The burden of navigating uncertainty is progressively transferred toward the individual, even where the sources of uncertainty operate at scales beyond personal control.

Bauman's analysis becomes especially relevant when the language of self-help acquires an almost compulsory character. Individuals are expected to regard their lives as projects of continuous self-improvement, acquiring skills, reconstructing identities, and adjusting aspirations according to changing circumstances. Such activities can be productive, but they also imply that the individual possesses principal responsibility for overcoming conditions that may be generated through institutions whose decisions remain beyond immediate personal influence. The worker must prepare for restructuring, the graduate for an uncertain labor market, and the household for financial pressures that no amount of personal discipline can fully eliminate.

What becomes liquid is not necessarily the moral importance of responsibility but the relationship between responsibility and power. An institution may retain authority over employment arrangements, access to services, or the standards by which performance is evaluated, while the person affected becomes responsible for accommodating whatever consequences follow. The resulting obligations are often presented as expressions of personal freedom because the individual retains some capacity to choose among responses. Yet this framing overlooks the difference between choosing how to respond to conditions and possessing meaningful influence over how those conditions are established.

Such a society may produce considerable personal ambition while weakening the capacity for collective action. People experiencing similar difficulties may interpret their circumstances as unrelated personal failures rather than as experiences connected through common institutions. The unemployed graduate may blame inadequate qualifications, the underpaid worker may blame insufficient ambition, and the indebted household may blame inadequate discipline. Each may consequently pursue private remedies to circumstances that also involve broader economic arrangements, reducing the possibility that shared difficulties will be recognized as matters requiring coordinated institutional responses.

The transformation is particularly serious for civic nationalism because the ideal of nation-building presupposes more than the accumulation of individual achievements. It involves the development of institutions and productive capabilities through which persons acquire a meaningful stake in their common future. When this undertaking is reduced to personal effort, the language of national development can become increasingly detached from the actual organization of economic and political life. The citizen is encouraged to contribute to the nation by improving personal competitiveness, while the question of whether the nation's institutions possess the capacity to utilize those improvements productively receives less attention.

Žižek, Foucault, and the Normalization of the Self-Managing Individual

Slavoj Žižek offers a further perspective on how the contradictions of contemporary individualism become normalized. Drawing upon Hegel, Marx, and Lacanian psychoanalysis, Žižek has challenged the conventional understanding of ideology as simply a collection of false beliefs imposed upon people who would otherwise perceive their circumstances accurately. Ideology, in his account, also operates through ordinary practices, institutional expectations, and forms of identification that continue to organize social life even where people recognize the inconsistencies involved. An individual may understand that economic opportunities are unequally distributed, that corporate institutions possess considerable power, or that personal success depends partly upon inherited circumstances. Yet such knowledge does not eliminate the necessity of obtaining employment, fulfilling financial obligations, and participating in the institutions through which everyday life is conducted.

Žižek's critique of ideological cynicism becomes relevant because modern individuals need not sincerely believe that existing institutions are entirely fair for those institutions to continue exercising authority over them. A worker may recognize the contradiction between a company's language of collective loyalty and its treatment of employees during restructuring, yet remain dependent upon the organization for a livelihood. A consumer may distrust the practices of a digital platform while continuing to rely upon it because the platform has become an important means of accessing services. A graduate may understand that educational credentials do not guarantee employment while nevertheless pursuing additional qualifications because employers increasingly require them.

The problem becomes more complicated when the capacity to choose among existing alternatives is treated as sufficient evidence of freedom. A person may be legally free to leave an unsatisfactory occupation, establish an enterprise, or challenge an institutional decision, but the practical consequences depend upon resources and opportunities that are not equally distributed. The worker who resigns may face unemployment, the entrepreneur who undertakes a new venture may confront concentrated market power, and the individual seeking redress may encounter financial costs or institutional retaliation. These choices possess genuine significance, and their existence should not be dismissed. Nevertheless, treating them as entirely voluntary without examining the circumstances governing their exercise allows the responsibility for undesirable outcomes to be attributed disproportionately to the person who made the decision.

Žižek's discussion of the contemporary injunction to enjoy adds another dimension to this contradiction. Modern economic culture does not simply demand productivity, discipline, and obedience. It frequently encourages individuals to regard the fulfillment of economic obligations as an expression of personal identity, ambition, creativity, and emotional satisfaction. Workers are invited to identify with corporate missions, professional development is presented as a continuing process of self-discovery, and entrepreneurial risk is celebrated as an expression of freedom. The familiar encouragement to pursue one's passion can be genuinely valuable where people possess opportunities to cultivate their abilities, but it acquires a different character when the pursuit of fulfillment becomes another requirement imposed upon those who must earn a livelihood.

Under such circumstances, dissatisfaction with institutional conditions may be redirected toward the individual's supposed inability to maintain the proper attitude. An employee who experiences exhaustion may be instructed to improve motivation rather than question whether organizational expectations are reasonable. A person struggling to obtain suitable employment may be encouraged to demonstrate greater confidence, even where opportunities remain inadequate. Someone dissatisfied with the prevailing social order may be advised to reconsider personal expectations rather than examine whether the arrangements themselves require modification. The individual becomes responsible not merely for adapting to circumstances but for experiencing adaptation as an appropriate expression of freedom.

Michel Foucault approached related questions through his analysis of governmentality and the production of norms through which individuals come to regulate their own conduct. In his lectures on neoliberalism, Foucault examined the development of an economic understanding of the person as an entrepreneur of personal capacities. Education, professional experience, health, and behavior become forms of human capital whose value individuals are expected to cultivate and improve. The student becomes an investment in future earning capacity, the worker a portfolio of competencies requiring continuous upgrading, and the household an economic unit expected to manage risks through prudent calculation.

This framework does not imply that economic reasoning is always inappropriate. Education involves costs and benefits, professional development requires planning, and households must consider financial consequences. The difficulty arises when economic calculation becomes the dominant language through which human development and personal worth are understood. The individual is increasingly encouraged to assess life according to the standards of productivity, competitiveness, and market usefulness, while the civic, intellectual, cultural, and relational dimensions of existence become secondary considerations.

Foucault's analysis complements Žižek's by illuminating different dimensions of the same predicament. Foucault helps explain how institutions establish standards through which particular forms of conduct become normal, while Žižek helps explain how people may reproduce those standards despite recognizing their contradictions. Together, their perspectives suggest that contemporary individualism is not simply the absence of government or the expansion of private choice. It may also involve increasingly elaborate forms of administration through which people are encouraged to govern themselves according to economic expectations established by institutions.

This matters because an individual may be encouraged to become more independent precisely by learning to comply with external criteria of success. Professional qualifications, credit assessments, productivity indicators, and other forms of measurement may be useful, but their accumulation can also encourage people to understand themselves primarily through the standards employed to evaluate them. The person may become increasingly adept at navigating these standards without acquiring any greater capacity to question why they exist or whether they serve appropriate social purposes. The appearance of self-government can therefore coexist with a substantial degree of dependence upon the institutional systems defining the conditions of personal success.

The contradiction also affects the public meaning of initiative. The individual who develops a new commercial activity, improves professional competitiveness, or acquires additional qualifications may be praised for demonstrating responsibility. But the person who attempts to alter the institutional arrangements determining which activities receive support may encounter resistance. Innovation is encouraged where it increases efficiency within existing purposes, but becomes more controversial where it questions those purposes themselves. This difference helps explain why a society can appear committed to progress while remaining comparatively hostile to forms of change that challenge established concentrations of authority.

Business, Polanyi, and the Algorithmic Reduction of the Person

The relationship between individual freedom and institutional power becomes especially visible in the contemporary business environment, where the language of initiative is inseparable from the organization of productive activity. Enterprises require capable managers, skilled employees, investors willing to assume risks, and institutions capable of sustaining production and exchange. Competition can encourage innovation and efficiency, while performance measurement can improve coordination and discourage arbitrary management. These benefits should not be dismissed, particularly in societies seeking to develop their productive capacities and expand employment opportunities. The concern is not with the existence of economic competition or the pursuit of commercial efficiency, but with the assumption that personal initiative and effort can provide sufficient explanations for outcomes whose causes extend well beyond individual conduct.

This tendency may be described as initiativism and effortism, terms used here not as established philosophical doctrines but as analytical descriptions of the elevation of initiative and perseverance into supposedly comprehensive explanations of economic success and failure. Under initiativism, difficulties are interpreted principally through an individual's willingness to act, while effortism treats persistence and personal discipline as decisive considerations in determining outcomes. Both assumptions contain elements of truth. Enterprises can fail because of incompetent management, employees can neglect reasonable obligations, and individuals can lose opportunities through poor judgment. But their explanatory value diminishes when applied to circumstances involving inadequate infrastructure, limited access to capital, concentrated market power, or a shortage of productive employment opportunities.

A technically competent worker cannot independently establish an industry capable of employing specialized skills. A small manufacturer cannot construct the transportation, energy, financing, and technological infrastructure necessary for international competitiveness. A household cannot compensate indefinitely for inadequate income through budgeting, however carefully its members distribute available resources. These examples do not imply that individuals are powerless or that personal decisions have no consequences. Rather, they demonstrate that economic initiative operates within a framework of material and institutional conditions, some of which must be created through coordinated action at scales beyond the capacities of private persons.

Karl Polanyi's The Great Transformation provides an important perspective on the relationship between economic activity and society. Polanyi argued that labor, land, and money could not be treated as ordinary commodities without disregarding their distinctive relationship to human life and social organization. Labor may be exchanged through markets, but it cannot be separated from the person performing it, whose existence involves family relationships, community obligations, health, education, and needs extending beyond the employment transaction. Consequently, decisions affecting employment and wages have effects that cannot always be confined to the immediate contractual relationship between employer and employee.

A manufacturing enterprise considering the relocation of production may possess legitimate commercial reasons for doing so, including differences in costs, market access, technological requirements, or long-term competitiveness. The decision may improve organizational performance and even contribute toward economic development elsewhere. Nevertheless, the resulting consequences may affect households, suppliers, educational institutions, and the economic life of communities dependent upon the enterprise. The commercial legitimacy of the decision does not establish that these consequences are morally irrelevant, nor does it imply that the individuals affected should bear every cost independently. A comprehensive account of responsibility must examine the obligations of management, investors, workers, and public authorities in relation to the productive arrangements they sustain.

The same difficulty appears when corporations describe themselves through the language of community while organizing responsibility according to markedly different principles during periods of prosperity and uncertainty. Employees may be encouraged to identify with organizational missions, demonstrate loyalty, and accept sacrifices for collective objectives. Such expectations can be appropriate where the institution genuinely recognizes reciprocal obligations and invests in the people upon whom its performance depends. But the language becomes contradictory when collective responsibility is emphasized whenever the organization requires cooperation, while the consequences of restructuring or declining performance are presented primarily as private problems requiring individual adaptation.

This does not imply that enterprises should be required to preserve every position indefinitely or that economic change can occur without imposing costs. Businesses must retain the capacity to innovate, reorganize production, and respond to changes in demand. The question concerns how the consequences of those decisions are distributed, what forms of assistance may be appropriate, and whether those possessing the greatest influence over organizational outcomes accept obligations corresponding to that influence. Where management retains extensive authority while workers are expected to absorb uncertainty without meaningful consultation or support, the distinction between collective enterprise and individualized risk becomes particularly pronounced.

The expansion of algorithmic management adds a technological dimension to these relationships. Digital systems can now assign work, monitor productivity, evaluate performance, influence access to employment opportunities, and support consequential managerial decisions. Such systems are increasingly present not only in platform work but also in logistics, customer service, finance, and conventional workplaces. Their development can improve coordination and provide information unavailable through traditional methods of supervision, but they also create questions concerning transparency, accountability, and the extent to which workers can understand or challenge decisions affecting their livelihoods.

Research by the International Labour Organization and the OECD has documented both the spread of algorithmic management and the concerns associated with its application. An OECD report published in December 2025, drawing on a survey of more than 6,000 managers across six countries, found that algorithmic management tools were widely adopted in the surveyed workplaces. Managers reported benefits involving information and decision-making, while concerns included unclear accountability, difficulty understanding algorithmic decisions, and possible effects upon workers' well-being. The findings should not be generalized automatically to every national economy or industry, but they illustrate how the increasing sophistication of managerial technology can coexist with unresolved questions about the distribution of authority and responsibility.

Consider a worker whose performance is evaluated through a system emphasizing the number of completed assignments, time spent on tasks, or customer satisfaction scores. These indicators can provide useful information, but they may not adequately explain the circumstances influencing performance. A lower score may reflect negligence, inadequate training, unreasonable expectations, insufficient resources, or conditions outside the worker's control. If the system cannot distinguish among these possibilities, the numerical assessment risks acquiring an authority greater than its explanatory value. The individual may then be expected to improve performance without possessing adequate information about the standards employed or meaningful opportunities to contest an unfavorable classification.

The issue becomes more complicated where a system's decisions influence access to work itself. A platform worker may be formally described as independent while depending upon automated allocation procedures to obtain assignments. A prospective employee may be assessed through screening processes whose criteria remain difficult to examine. A consumer may possess numerous choices while those choices are increasingly organized through predictions of behavior derived from accumulated data. In each situation, the language of individual freedom remains applicable at one level, yet the institutional systems governing the exercise of that freedom possess substantial influence over the outcomes.

This development suggests a distinction between the individual as an administrative category and the person as a social and moral being. An individual can be counted, classified, compared, and evaluated according to characteristics relevant to a particular institutional purpose. A person possesses relationships, obligations, capacities, and vulnerabilities that cannot be exhausted by those characteristics. Statistical representation is indispensable to the management of complex organizations, but it becomes problematic when the categories through which institutions recognize individuals are treated as sufficient accounts of human existence.

A student may possess an academic record that is useful for evaluating educational performance, but the record cannot fully describe intellectual development, circumstances affecting achievement, or capacities that have not been captured by examination. An employee may satisfy every productivity measure while experiencing insecurity incompatible with a sustainable family life. A consumer may be represented through purchasing behavior without the commercial profile revealing the social circumstances in which those purchases were made. None of these limitations invalidates measurement itself; rather, they establish why institutional judgments must remain open to contextual evaluation and why those affected should possess meaningful opportunities to question consequential classifications.

The larger concern is that a society increasingly capable of calculating human behavior may become less attentive to the distinction between information useful for administration and the purposes for which administration ought to exist. Economic performance, consumer preference, and institutional efficiency are important considerations, but they do not exhaust the meaning of human welfare or civic participation. When the measurable individual becomes the principal unit through which society understands its members, the person capable of exercising judgment, developing relationships, and participating in determining common objectives risks becoming less visible within the machinery supposedly organized for human benefit.

Gramsci, Common Sense, and the Fear of Corrective Action

The transformation of responsibility also affects public reasoning. Antonio Gramsci's examination of common sense provides a useful perspective on how inherited assumptions can acquire the appearance of unquestionable reality even when they contain contradictions. In the Prison Notebooks, Gramsci treated common sense not as a coherent philosophical doctrine but as a historically accumulated collection of beliefs, practical judgments, and fragments of different intellectual traditions. He distinguished this condition from the more coherent forms of critical understanding through which people might recognize the historical origins of prevailing assumptions and participate in transforming their circumstances.

Gramsci's analysis is relevant because contemporary political and managerial discourse frequently invokes common sense as though it were independent of ideology. A policy may be described as economically inevitable, an institutional procedure as administratively necessary, or an existing arrangement as the only practical means of achieving a desired objective. Those who question such assumptions may then be accused of intellectual abstraction, ideological rigidity, or an unwillingness to accept the realities of social life. Yet the classification of a particular arrangement as inevitable does not eliminate the political decisions and historical circumstances through which it came into existence.

The distinction between common sense and critical judgment becomes especially important when public discourse is increasingly organized around immediate responses rather than sustained examination. A complicated institutional problem may be reduced to a familiar explanation involving personal irresponsibility, while proposals requiring broader economic or political changes are dismissed as impractical. The familiarity of an argument may provide it with persuasive force even where its explanatory value is limited. Under such circumstances, what appears to be common sense can become an accumulation of inherited assumptions that discourages precisely the critical reflection necessary for social improvement.

This condition may be described metaphorically as a lumpenization of public reasoning, provided that the expression is understood as criticism of intellectual fragmentation rather than as a judgment concerning the intelligence or moral worth of any social class. The concern is that public discourse can become increasingly dominated by opportunistic accusations, immediate resentments, and competing claims to legitimacy, while sustained examination of causes and consequences receives comparatively less attention. A society may possess unprecedented access to information while remaining vulnerable to explanations whose principal attraction lies in their simplicity or emotional familiarity.

The contradiction becomes especially severe when institutions claim to encourage critical thinking while treating its practical exercise as a threat to existing authority. Educational institutions promote inquiry, professional organizations celebrate innovation, and governments invoke the importance of informed citizenship. Yet the same institutions may reward conformity to established procedures and regard attempts to question their underlying assumptions as disruptive. Knowledge is encouraged as a means of improving performance, but its use becomes controversial when it challenges the purposes for which performance is measured.

The problem is not that every unconventional proposal should be accepted. Institutions require procedures, and public decisions must account for evidence, costs, legal obligations, and competing interests. Nevertheless, the legitimacy of a proposal cannot be determined solely by whether it conforms to existing institutional expectations, particularly where those expectations are themselves implicated in the difficulties requiring correction. A society genuinely committed to reason must permit the possibility that established parameters are inadequate and that responsible inquiry may produce conclusions inconvenient to those charged with maintaining them.

The practical consequences of this contradiction appear in the familiar predicament of the person who is condemned regardless of whether corrective action is undertaken. Someone who accepts unfavorable circumstances may be criticized for lacking initiative, while someone who challenges those circumstances may be accused of creating unnecessary conflict. An employee who remains silent about a workplace problem may later be blamed for failing to report it, while one who raises the issue may encounter accusations of disloyalty or unprofessional conduct. A citizen may be urged to exercise civic responsibility, yet face ridicule when attempting to influence decisions beyond the narrow forms of participation already approved by institutions.

Such experiences can produce defensive skepticism toward the possibility of meaningful reform. Before challenging a decision, pursuing a complaint, or proposing institutional change, an individual may consider not merely whether the action is justified but whether the consequences of acting will be more difficult to endure than the circumstances that originally required correction. A worker may fear retaliation, a citizen may anticipate administrative delays or social hostility, and someone seeking accountability may worry that the entire effort will become another occasion for accusations of irresponsibility.

These concerns do not necessarily reflect cowardice or insufficient moral conviction. They may indicate an awareness that the costs of corrective action are distributed unequally. Those possessing substantial economic security, institutional influence, or access to legal assistance are often better positioned to challenge wrongdoing than those whose livelihoods depend upon the approval of powerful organizations. The formal right to act may therefore coexist with conditions that make the exercise of that right personally hazardous.

Hannah Arendt's account of political action provides an important response to this difficulty. In The Human Condition (1958), Arendt distinguished the activities through which people sustain life and produce useful objects from the public action through which persons appear before one another and participate in shaping a common world. Her conception of freedom was not confined to the possession of private choices or the pursuit of economic objectives. It also involved the capacity to deliberate, cooperate, and undertake collective action through which public life acquires meaning.

Arendt's perspective challenges the narrowing of initiative to an economic virtue. Individuals may be encouraged to establish businesses, acquire professional qualifications, and pursue financial independence while receiving less encouragement to question institutional arrangements or participate in determining collective priorities. The person who successfully navigates existing conditions may be praised as enterprising, while the person seeking to change those conditions may be regarded as unrealistic or disruptive. Initiative remains an approved quality, but the range of activities through which it can be exercised becomes increasingly narrow.

A society committed to civic responsibility cannot confine participation to the successful management of private affairs. It requires institutions through which persons can exercise judgment concerning common objectives, contest decisions affecting their lives, and cooperate in developing alternatives. Such participation does not guarantee correct outcomes, nor should it be insulated from criticism. Political action necessarily involves disagreement and uncertainty. But where the risks of public participation become overwhelmingly private, the society that praises individual responsibility may gradually discourage the forms of action necessary for responsible self-government.

The Algorithmic Spectacle and the Performance of National Greatness

The development of digital platforms has intensified these contradictions by transforming the conditions under which political arguments acquire visibility and public significance. Algorithms are employed to organize information, recommend content, evaluate engagement, and determine which messages are presented to different audiences. Such systems can improve access to information and permit forms of communication that were previously difficult or expensive. Nevertheless, their operation also raises questions concerning how public attention is distributed and whether the criteria governing visibility correspond to the requirements of informed political judgment.

Research on engagement-based ranking has found that certain algorithmic systems can amplify emotionally charged and antagonistic political content relative to chronological presentation. A study published in Nature in February 2026 examined a field experiment conducted among active American users of X in 2023. The researchers found that switching participants from a chronological to an algorithmic feed increased engagement and shifted certain political attitudes in a more conservative direction, while switching from the algorithmic feed to a chronological one did not produce comparable reversals. These findings were specific to the platform, participants, and period studied, and the researchers emphasized limits on generalization. Nevertheless, the experiment provides evidence that the systems through which political information is organized can influence the attitudes and behavior of users.

The philosophical significance of this development becomes clearer through Guy Debord's The Society of the Spectacle (1967). Debord's analysis concerned the mediation of social relationships through representations, images, and forms of communication connected to modern economic life. The spectacle was not merely an excess of visual entertainment, but a condition in which representations could acquire a social authority distinct from the relationships and activities they purported to describe. Applied cautiously to contemporary politics, this perspective suggests that national greatness can become increasingly associated with its public performance rather than exclusively with the sustained development of the institutions necessary to realize it.

Political leaders may communicate achievements through declarations, symbolic acts, and continuous demonstrations of authority, while the public encounters these claims within information systems that reward visibility and immediate engagement. The presentation of national renewal may therefore acquire a momentum partially independent of the slower processes through which economic and institutional changes produce measurable consequences. This possibility is particularly relevant where political communication emphasizes exceptional threats, national decline, decisive confrontation, and the promise of historic restoration.

To imagine Kennedy's appeal to nonpartisan responsibility being delivered in the political environment of Trump's second presidency is therefore to confront a striking difference between the language of civic deliberation and the incentives governing contemporary political visibility. Kennedy's statement presupposed that public reason could transcend partisan disagreement and contribute toward a shared national undertaking. Trump's rhetoric of restoration operates within a public sphere where narratives of national crisis, institutional betrayal, external danger, and decisive recovery compete continuously for attention. Supporters may understand this language as an effort to confront neglected problems and recover national confidence, while critics may interpret its emphasis upon crisis and confrontation as a form of political spectacle that risks subordinating institutional deliberation to the performance of strength.

From the latter perspective, the promise of greatness can appear entangled with algorithmic dominance and what might be called apocalyptic political bravado: a rhetorical style in which national circumstances are described through exceptional danger, impending catastrophe, decisive confrontation, and historic deliverance. This is an interpretation of political communication rather than a claim that every policy associated with it is merely theatrical or that the concerns invoked by its supporters lack substance. The analytical question is whether repeated dramatization encourages the public to understand political life primarily through competing identities, the identification of enemies, and declarations of victory rather than through sustained consideration of institutional development.

Civic nationalism requires more than a compelling narrative of collective belonging. It involves relationships through which citizens possess meaningful opportunities to participate in determining political objectives, accept reciprocal obligations, and hold authority accountable. A political culture organized increasingly around the performance of national restoration may preserve the language of collective purpose while reducing the citizen's role to affirming, opposing, or circulating competing representations of greatness.

The algorithmic environment can reinforce this tendency because political disagreement becomes intertwined with systems of visibility and attention. Individuals are encouraged to express opinions, defend identities, and respond to public controversies, but their participation may be shaped by incentives that reward rapid judgment and emotional intensity rather than sustained inquiry. The resulting competition for attention can resemble an endless sequence of accusations and counteraccusations in which the ability to dominate discussion becomes more visible than the ability to resolve the underlying issues.

This is not an argument that digital platforms inevitably destroy public reason. They can provide access to information, facilitate civic organization, and permit previously marginalized groups to participate in public discussion. The difficulty concerns whether their institutional incentives consistently support these possibilities or sometimes encourage forms of communication that undermine them. A society whose political life becomes increasingly dependent upon the circulation of attention may find it difficult to distinguish between a proposal that has acquired visibility and one that has acquired legitimacy through evidence and deliberation.

Under these circumstances, Kennedy's appeal to transcend partisan differences can become paradoxical. The demand to seek a reasonable solution may be absorbed into a political culture in which every claim to reason is immediately associated with competing identities and interests. Individuals may become more capable of expressing opinions while possessing less confidence that public institutions can translate discussion into meaningful collective action. The rhetoric of responsibility survives, but its practical expression risks being reduced to the obligation to participate in an endless competition over interpretations of political reality.

Subsidiarity, Capabilities, and the Civic Purpose of Nation-Building

The distinction between individual initiative and collective responsibility becomes most significant when applied to the civic task of nation-building. A nation cannot develop its productive capacities merely by encouraging citizens to improve themselves independently, although personal effort and enterprise remain indispensable to economic advancement. Industrial development requires infrastructure, financing, education, technological capabilities, and institutions capable of coordinating activities across sectors and generations. These capacities are created through relationships among public authorities, businesses, workers, educational institutions, and communities, each possessing responsibilities that cannot be assigned entirely to the others.

A society that emphasizes entrepreneurship while neglecting the productive conditions necessary for enterprises to flourish may celebrate initiative without adequately supporting it. A country that continually produces educated graduates without developing industries capable of employing their skills may encourage personal achievement while failing to connect that achievement to broader economic development. Similarly, a government that invokes national resilience while relying upon households to absorb the consequences of inadequate services may preserve the language of civic responsibility without establishing institutions through which the population can exercise meaningful influence over its collective future.

The relationship between private enterprise and national development therefore requires more careful consideration than a simple opposition between markets and government. Private investment, competition, and entrepreneurship can contribute to productive growth, but their effectiveness depends partly upon legal arrangements, infrastructure, educational systems, and public policies that establish the conditions of economic activity. Government can support these conditions, but it can also become inefficient, excessively centralized, or unresponsive. The question is not whether one institution should replace all others, but how responsibilities should be distributed so that each contributes according to its capabilities and remains accountable for the consequences of its authority.

The principle of subsidiarity offers a framework for examining this distribution of responsibility. In Catholic social teaching, subsidiarity recognizes that persons, families, communities, and intermediate associations possess functions that should not be unnecessarily absorbed by larger institutions. Yet the same principle also requires higher-order institutions to provide assistance where the capacities of smaller social bodies are insufficient. Its purpose is not simply to protect individual autonomy against government intervention, but to preserve the ability of persons and communities to fulfill their responsibilities within a network of appropriate institutional relationships.

When subsidiarity is reduced to a demand for self-sufficiency, an essential part of the principle disappears. A family cannot independently establish the infrastructure required for a productive economy. A community may lack the resources necessary to provide adequate educational and technological facilities. A small enterprise may require coordinated investment, reliable energy, transportation, financing, and technical assistance before it can compete effectively. Appropriate institutional support need not weaken initiative; it may establish the conditions under which initiative becomes possible.

Amartya Sen's capability approach offers a related perspective by distinguishing formal rights from the substantive opportunities through which rights become meaningful. In Development as Freedom (1999), Sen argued that development should be understood partly through the expansion of people's real capabilities to pursue lives they have reason to value. The existence of a formal right does not necessarily establish that individuals possess the resources and social conditions necessary to exercise it. A person may possess the legal right to education while lacking access to adequate schools, just as an individual may be free to seek employment within an economy incapable of providing suitable opportunities.

Sen's approach is particularly relevant because it preserves the importance of individual freedom while recognizing the institutional conditions necessary for its realization. Public policy, markets, educational systems, and social cooperation can expand the capabilities of persons, while deficiencies in these arrangements can restrict the practical meaning of rights that remain formally recognized. The responsibility to exercise judgment consequently cannot be considered independently of whether people possess reasonable opportunities to act upon that judgment.

Iris Marion Young's account of responsibility for structural injustice further clarifies the relationship between personal conduct and collective obligation. Her social connection model distinguishes accountability for identifiable wrongdoing from the political responsibility arising when individuals and institutions participate in processes that produce unjust outcomes. It recognizes that structural problems may emerge through the combined activities of many actors whose individual conduct does not fully explain the resulting conditions. Correcting such problems therefore requires cooperation among those possessing different capacities to influence the arrangements involved.

Young's distinction is especially relevant to the problem raised by Kennedy's injunction against fixing blame for the past. In circumstances involving identifiable misconduct, accountability remains important because responsibility for an action cannot simply be dissolved into a general obligation to improve the future. But where injustice is produced through structural processes, assigning blame to a single individual may be insufficient to explain or correct the problem. Forward-looking responsibility requires those connected to the processes involved to participate, according to their different capacities and positions, in changing the arrangements that reproduce harmful outcomes.

The distinction also preserves the moral importance of individual conduct without allowing it to replace institutional analysis. A worker remains responsible for fulfilling reasonable professional obligations, but an employer remains answerable for decisions concerning working conditions and organizational policy. Citizens possess duties toward their communities, but public institutions must provide meaningful opportunities for participation and remain subject to scrutiny. Individuals who experience wrongdoing may need to recover from its consequences, but their obligation to respond does not eliminate the responsibility of those who caused the harm.

This understanding permits a more substantial conception of civic nationalism than either the abandonment of personal agency or the expectation of complete individual self-sufficiency. Persons remain accountable for their conduct, but institutions possess obligations corresponding to their power. Individuals must exercise initiative, but their capacities depend upon social arrangements that can either expand or restrict meaningful opportunities. Nation-building consequently involves more than encouraging people to work harder, become more adaptable, or accumulate private resources. It requires developing the conditions through which individual capabilities can contribute toward collective advancement and through which institutions remain answerable to the people whose lives they affect.

Recovering the Person From the Individual

The distinction between the individual and the person becomes fundamental to recovering a more substantial understanding of responsibility. An individual can be understood as a distinct unit within a population, capable of being counted, classified, compared, and evaluated. A person possesses a social and moral existence that cannot be exhausted by these classifications. Human identity develops through family, language, education, culture, work, and participation in institutions. No human being enters the world possessing complete independence from the relationships through which personal capacities become possible.

This social dimension does not require denying individual autonomy or subordinating personal dignity to an unrestricted collective authority. Rather, it provides a basis for understanding why freedom and responsibility acquire meaning through reciprocal relationships. Individuals remain accountable for their conduct, but institutions possess obligations corresponding to their power. Persons must exercise initiative, but the effectiveness of that initiative depends partly upon the opportunities and resources provided by society. The proper relationship between individual and collective responsibility therefore requires more than deciding whether government should intervene more or less; it involves determining which institutions possess the capacities necessary to fulfill particular obligations and how their authority should remain accountable.

For business, this means acknowledging that productive enterprise depends upon more than entrepreneurship and managerial competence. Firms operate within infrastructures, educational systems, legal arrangements, communities, and markets that sustain their activities. Their decisions concerning investment, employment, and technological change can therefore have consequences extending beyond immediate contractual relationships. Profitability and efficiency remain legitimate objectives, but their pursuit must be considered alongside the obligations arising from the social relationships through which economic activity becomes possible.

For government, the challenge concerns the development of institutions capable of providing public goods, coordinating activities beyond the capacities of isolated individuals, and preserving meaningful opportunities for civic participation. A state may become inefficient, excessively centralized, or unresponsive, just as the absence of appropriate public action may expose citizens to forms of dependence they cannot overcome independently. The question is not whether every social problem should be resolved through government, but whether responsibilities are distributed according to the capabilities of different institutions and whether those institutions remain answerable for the consequences of their decisions.

For communities and intermediate associations, the task involves preserving the capacity for cooperation and collective initiative. Families, cooperatives, professional organizations, educational institutions, and local associations provide relationships through which individuals develop capabilities and participate in social life. Their effectiveness depends partly upon their own internal responsibilities, but also upon broader economic and political arrangements that can either strengthen or weaken their capacities.

Such an understanding offers a more substantial conception of civic nationalism than the increasingly hyperbolic language of nation-building divorced from institutional development. National greatness cannot be evaluated solely through public declarations, the performance of political identity, or the accumulation of private achievements. It must also be examined through the degree to which society develops the productive, educational, technological, and civic capabilities necessary for people to exercise meaningful responsibility for their common affairs.

This conception is admittedly idealistic, but the ideals through which societies justify their institutions have never been reducible to economic calculation alone. Kennedy's appeal to responsibility presupposed that citizens could participate in undertakings extending beyond immediate self-interest. Reagan's promise of freedom depended upon confidence in the human capacity to exercise judgment and contribute toward national renewal. Trump's language of greatness similarly invokes the belief that political action can alter the direction of national life. Their political philosophies differ substantially, but each employs a language of human possibility that cannot be fully explained through the management of existing conditions.

The contradiction emerges when such idealism remains acceptable in political rhetoric while becoming suspect as a justification for questioning the organization of society. Individuals may be encouraged to dream of better lives, provided that those ambitions are expressed through professional advancement, entrepreneurship, consumption, or the accumulation of private resources. The desire for a better society becomes more difficult to accommodate when it requires reconsidering economic arrangements, institutional responsibilities, or the distribution of power. Under such circumstances, idealism is celebrated as a private aspiration while its civic meaning becomes progressively restricted.

The contemporary emphasis upon self-help illustrates this limitation. Advice concerning personal conduct can assist individuals in navigating difficult circumstances, but it cannot substitute for the development of institutions through which collective problems become capable of collective resolution. A person may improve financial discipline, acquire additional qualifications, and undertake productive activities while remaining subject to conditions that require broader economic and political action. Treating those difficulties exclusively as private obligations does not necessarily strengthen personal responsibility; it can instead weaken the recognition of shared circumstances through which civic responsibility becomes possible.

The same problem arises when political discussion becomes increasingly organized through algorithmic systems rewarding visibility, confrontation, and immediate reaction. Citizens may become more capable of expressing opinions while possessing less confidence that discussion can produce meaningful institutional change. The multiplication of competing interpretations, accusations, and demands for recognition can create the appearance of intense political participation without necessarily developing the capacities required for sustained collective action. The public sphere becomes highly active in its production of attention while remaining comparatively uncertain about the relationship between attention and political judgment.

The danger is not simply that people become statistics within an algorithmic system. Modern societies require information, measurement, and complex administrative institutions, and technological capabilities can contribute substantially toward human welfare. The deeper concern is that the representation of individuals through measurable characteristics may become the principal means through which institutions recognize human existence, while the social person capable of judgment, solidarity, and collective action becomes progressively less visible.

A society organized in this manner may continue to celebrate freedom, initiative, justice, and national greatness while treating the consequences of its decisions as problems that individuals must resolve through personal effort. The political ideals remain persuasive, their language retains its familiarity, and their promises continue to sound reasonable. But the human person to whom those promises are addressed may increasingly experience life as an obligation to remain functional within arrangements that offer limited meaningful opportunity for participation in their direction.

Recovering the civic meaning of responsibility therefore requires more than encouraging individuals to work harder, adapt more quickly, or accept greater sacrifices. It requires preserving and developing institutions through which personal initiative can contribute toward collective advancement and through which the authority to make consequential decisions remains connected to corresponding obligations. The future cannot meaningfully belong to a society of responsible persons if those persons are recognized principally as individuals expected to adapt to arrangements they possess little authority to change.

Kennedy's appeal to accept responsibility for the future can retain its original civic significance only if that future remains something persons are capable of shaping together. The appeal becomes incomplete when individuals are expected merely to survive decisions made elsewhere, accommodate institutional failures, and regard the resulting struggle as sufficient evidence that freedom exists. Similarly, the promise of national greatness acquires a more substantial meaning when it refers not simply to the demonstration of strength or the performance of political identity, but to the development of institutions through which citizens can participate in determining their collective circumstances.

The enduring difficulty of contemporary society lies in the widening distance between its language of human freedom and the practical organization of responsibility. Institutions may proclaim the dignity of the individual while evaluating human existence principally through economic performance, administrative classifications, and algorithmic predictions. Political movements may celebrate national development while offering citizens comparatively limited opportunities to participate in determining the purposes of that development. The individual may be encouraged to exercise initiative while discovering that attempts to challenge the conditions governing initiative are treated as violations of institutional order.

These contradictions do not establish that modern society has abandoned human dignity or that its institutions are incapable of reform. They demonstrate why the meaning of responsibility cannot be adequately preserved through moral exhortation alone. It must be connected to the distribution of power, the creation of substantive opportunities, and the development of relationships through which persons can act upon the circumstances shaping their lives.

As economic and administrative machinery becomes increasingly capable of recording human activity, evaluating individual performance, and predicting behavior, society may acquire more information about its members than any preceding generation. Yet the possession of information cannot substitute for an understanding of the human person whose worth extends beyond measurable usefulness and whose responsibilities extend beyond private survival.

What began as an idealistic call for citizens to participate in the construction of a common future may otherwise be transformed into an obligation for individuals to endure whatever future has already been prepared for them. The distinction between these interpretations is fundamental because one understands the person as a participant in society, while the other increasingly treats the individual as a unit expected to remain functional within it. Whether the language of freedom and responsibility retains substantive civic meaning will depend not merely upon its continued repetition, but upon the willingness of institutions and communities to create conditions through which people can exercise responsibility for their common affairs rather than simply accommodate themselves to the machinery governing them.

***

Selected References

Arendt, H. (1958). The human condition. University of Chicago Press.

Bauman, Z. (2000). Liquid modernity. Polity Press.

Debord, G. (1967). La société du spectacle. Buchet-Chastel.

Foucault, M. (2008). The birth of biopolitics: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1978–1979. Palgrave Macmillan.

Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the prison notebooks (Q. Hoare & G. Nowell Smith, Eds. & Trans.). International Publishers.

Mills, C. W. (1959). The sociological imagination. Oxford University Press.

Polanyi, K. (1944). The great transformation. Farrar & Rinehart.

Sen, A. (1999). Development as freedom. Alfred A. Knopf.

Young, I. M. (2011). Responsibility for justice. Oxford University Press.

Žižek, S. (1989). The sublime object of ideology. Verso.

THE GREAT OCTOBER AND THE UNFINISHED STRUGGLE OF THE WORKING CLASS

2026-11-06T12:53:27.365-08:00

THE GREAT OCTOBER AND THE UNFINISHED STRUGGLE

OF THE WORKING CLASS

On the 109th Anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution, the Contradictions of World Capitalism, and the Continuing Necessity of Social Emancipation

By Kat Ulrike

This note extends its revolutionary greetings on the occasion of the 109th anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution, whose historical significance remains inseparable from the continuing struggle of the working masses against exploitation, oppression, and the domination of society by the interests of capital. Although commemorated in November under the Gregorian calendar, the revolution retains its October designation from the old Julian calendar, under which the workers, soldiers, and revolutionary forces of Petrograd overthrew the Provisional Government on October 25, 1917. More than a century has passed since that momentous event, and the world has undergone transformations that the revolutionaries of that period could scarcely have anticipated. Nevertheless, the commemoration of October serves as a reminder that the struggle for the emancipation of labor does not necessarily disappear with the defeat of revolutionary movements, the dissolution of socialist governments, or the apparent triumph of an opposing political and economic order.

The history of the international working-class movement has never been an uninterrupted succession of victories. It has been marked by periods of extraordinary advance and equally profound retreat, by revolutionary enthusiasm and political disillusionment, by the construction of new institutions and the destruction of those institutions through internal contradictions and external pressures. Yet the historical significance of these developments cannot be determined solely by the survival or disappearance of particular states and organizations. Political institutions may collapse, revolutionary parties may lose their influence, and entire generations may be persuaded that the aspirations of their predecessors have become obsolete. The material conditions from which those aspirations arose, however, do not necessarily vanish with the organizations that once represented them. As long as exploitation, class inequality, economic dependence, and the concentration of productive resources continue to characterize society, the fundamental questions raised by the revolutionary movement remain unresolved.

Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels opened their Manifesto of the Communist Party with the declaration that a spectre was haunting Europe, the spectre of communism. This observation, written in 1848, expressed more than the apprehensions of European governments confronted by a developing socialist movement. It referred to the emergence of a historical force whose existence challenged the legitimacy of the economic and political relationships upon which the established order depended. The subsequent history of capitalism has demonstrated that the spectre was never confined exclusively to the European continent, nor could it be permanently exorcised through political repression, ideological denunciation, or the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union and the socialist governments of Eastern Europe.

For generations, the defenders of the established order have attempted to diminish the significance of revolutionary history through arguments that range from the failures of particular socialist experiments to the supposed impossibility of organizing society upon principles other than competition, private accumulation, and the pursuit of individual advantage. They have repeatedly invoked freedom, liberty, democracy, choice, and personal initiative as though the frequent repetition of these terms were sufficient to establish the moral and historical legitimacy of the prevailing economic system. Indeed, the extraordinary persistence of these arguments suggests that the question of social emancipation remains sufficiently troublesome to require continual ideological opposition, even after the political establishments of the capitalist world have proclaimed the definitive triumph of their preferred system.

One may call the revolutionary aspiration idealistic, impractical, or even delusional, as its critics frequently do. Nevertheless, such descriptions cannot substitute for an examination of the economic relationships that continue to generate inequality and social conflict. It is insufficient to declare that socialism has failed and capitalism has prevailed without examining whether the latter has resolved the conditions that made the former historically necessary. The existence of a victorious economic order does not establish that its contradictions have been overcome, just as the defeat of a revolutionary movement does not necessarily demonstrate that the grievances from which it emerged were without foundation.

Capitalism has undoubtedly established itself as the dominant world economic system. Its institutions, commercial relationships, financial arrangements, and conception of economic development influence virtually every country, regardless of the political terminology employed by their governments. Its vocabulary has become the ordinary language of public administration, business management, international finance, education, and even personal conduct. Investment, productivity, entrepreneurship, competitiveness, innovation, and consumer choice are presented not merely as economic activities but as indispensable principles of modern civilization. Their apparent universality has reached the point where alternative conceptions of economic organization are frequently dismissed before their underlying arguments have been seriously examined.

Even countries that continue to identify themselves as socialist, particularly China and Cuba, operate within an international economic environment substantially determined by global capitalist relations. China possesses extensive state-owned industries and powerful institutions of economic planning while also maintaining a large market economy, substantial private enterprise, and a central position in international manufacturing and trade. Cuba retains a much more extensive system of state ownership and direction, although its economic arrangements have also been affected by market reforms, private activity, international trade, and external financial constraints. These differences are significant, and it would be inaccurate to treat the two countries as possessing identical relations of production. Nevertheless, neither exists outside the pressures of the international division of labor, commodity exchange, technological competition, and the global accumulation of capital.

Capitalism must therefore be examined as a world system rather than merely as a collection of individual national economies. Its influence extends beyond the formal ownership of enterprises into the relationships through which countries acquire technology, obtain financing, organize production, distribute goods, employ labor, and participate in international exchange. The economic policies of governments may differ considerably, but the material requirements imposed by global commerce and the concentration of productive capabilities continue to shape the choices available to them. The domination of capitalism is consequently not abolished by the existence of governments that employ socialist terminology, just as its universal influence does not imply that every society possesses the same economic institutions or the same degree of political independence.

The defenders of capitalism frequently regard this historical predominance as sufficient justification for treating the system as the natural and permanent organization of human economic life. According to this argument, the persistence of competition, inequality, private ownership, and the pursuit of material advantage demonstrates that capitalism corresponds more closely to human nature than its alternatives. The imperfections of the system are acknowledged, but these imperfections are themselves converted into evidence of its realism. Greed, selfishness, acquisitiveness, and the unequal distribution of wealth are explained as unavoidable expressions of human conduct, while proposals for transforming the social relationships that encourage them are dismissed as attempts to establish an impossible perfection.

Yet the same system that claims to accommodate human imperfection continually demands perfection in production, management, technology, and individual performance. Workers are instructed to become more productive, enterprises are encouraged to eliminate inefficiency, industries are expected to achieve ever greater competitiveness, and governments are urged to remove obstacles to investment and commercial expansion. The individual is subjected to an apparently endless requirement to improve qualifications, acquire additional skills, demonstrate initiative, and adapt to increasingly rapid economic changes. The system accepts the supposed inevitability of exploitation and inequality as expressions of human nature while refusing to accept limitations upon the productive demands imposed upon human beings.

This contradiction exposes the peculiarity of the prevailing conception of progress. Capitalism recognizes the necessity of continually transforming the machinery and methods of production, yet its defenders frequently resist the proposition that the social relationships governing production might themselves require transformation. Scientific discoveries may overturn established methods of industry, technological developments may render occupations obsolete, and entire communities may be subjected to economic restructuring in the name of efficiency. Nevertheless, the continued subordination of labor to capital is defended as though it belonged to an immutable social order.

Thus the world is encouraged to imagine a technologically extraordinary future while remaining bound to economic relationships inherited from an earlier period of industrial development. The appearance of society changes, but the fundamental question of who controls the means of production and appropriates the results of collective labor remains substantially unchanged. The future becomes an endless succession of machines, commodities, and commercial innovations rather than a transformation of the social conditions under which human beings live and work.

Marx and Engels themselves recognized capitalism’s extraordinary revolutionary role in developing the forces of production. Their analysis did not deny the capacity of the bourgeoisie to transform industry, expand international commerce, overcome the restrictions of feudal society, and establish productive capabilities of unprecedented magnitude. On the contrary, their criticism rested partly upon the contradiction between the immense social character of modern production and the private appropriation of much of the resulting wealth. Capitalism developed the material possibilities for improving human existence while maintaining relationships that prevented those possibilities from being fully realized by the people whose labor sustained them.

The fundamental relationship between capital and wage labor remains central to this contradiction. Marx, writing in Wage Labour and Capital, observed that capital presupposes wage labor and wage labor presupposes capital. In Marxist political economy, capital is not merely a quantity of money, a collection of machinery, or a stock of accumulated commodities. It is also a social relationship through which the owners or controllers of productive resources employ labor power in the process of producing additional value. The worker receives wages, but the productive activity performed under capitalist relations generates value beyond that represented by the compensation paid for labor power. The difference forms the basis of Marx’s theory of surplus value and his explanation of capitalist exploitation.

This distinction remains fundamental despite the considerable changes in the organization of the world economy since 1917. Where production is organized through the employment of wage labor for the accumulation of capital, there continues to exist a working class whose economic position cannot be abolished merely through changes in occupational terminology. The industrial worker, office employee, teacher, supermarket attendant, hospital worker, transport employee, warehouse laborer, call-center agent, and digital-platform worker may occupy different positions within the productive process. Their educational qualifications, incomes, professional identities, and conditions of employment may differ substantially. Nevertheless, their dependence upon the sale of labor power and their limited control over the principal decisions governing production remain important characteristics of their economic position.

The composition of the working class has undergone profound changes during the past century. Extensive industrial complexes have emerged in China, Southeast Asia, Latin America, and other regions historically classified as belonging to the developing world, while traditional concentrations of heavy industry in Western Europe and North America have experienced restructuring, contraction, and relocation. The decline of mining, steelmaking, shipbuilding, and other established industries has weakened working-class communities whose collective identity developed through generations of employment in particular enterprises and localities. Meanwhile, the expansion of services, finance, information technology, and digitally mediated employment has created new occupational arrangements that often conceal rather than eliminate the dependence of labor upon capital.

These transformations have affected not only the material organization of production but also the consciousness of the people participating in it. The disappearance of large industrial workplaces and their associated communities has weakened many of the institutions through which workers developed a common understanding of their economic interests. Trade unions, mutual-aid organizations, cooperatives, political associations, and working-class cultural institutions have experienced changes in influence and membership, while the language of individual advancement has increasingly displaced the language of collective emancipation. Workers are encouraged to regard themselves primarily as consumers, professionals, entrepreneurs, independent contractors, or aspirants to an indefinitely expanding middle-class existence, even when their livelihoods remain dependent upon employment under conditions established by others.

The result has been an increasingly fragmented conception of labor. Economic difficulties that arise from common structural relationships are frequently interpreted as evidence of personal inadequacy, insufficient discipline, or a failure to acquire the qualifications demanded by the market. Unemployment becomes a problem of employability, inadequate wages a problem of personal financial management, and insecure working conditions an unavoidable consequence of competition. Such interpretations do not necessarily deny the importance of individual responsibility, but they become ideological when they obscure the relationships through which economic opportunities and constraints are distributed unequally across society.

One may consequently ask whether the defenders of capitalism will eventually find it necessary to abandon the very terminology of capitalism in favor of expressions possessing a more agreeable moral appearance. Shall the prevailing order be described as initiativism, effortism, or some other doctrine celebrating the virtues of enterprise and industriousness while avoiding serious examination of ownership, exploitation, and class power? Such hypothetical descriptions may appear exaggerated, but they reflect a tendency already present in contemporary economic discourse, where the language of self-improvement is increasingly employed to explain social relationships that cannot be reduced to individual conduct.

The individual is encouraged to regard the self as an enterprise whose knowledge, personality, appearance, reputation, and productive abilities must be continually improved to preserve market value. Professional development becomes a permanent obligation, personal relationships may acquire commercial significance, and even leisure is increasingly examined according to its contribution to individual advancement. The distinction between the human being and the economic commodity becomes less apparent when personal existence is subjected to continuous evaluation through the requirements of employability and competitive performance.

This development gives renewed relevance to Marx’s analysis of alienation. The worker may possess advanced qualifications and sophisticated technical abilities while remaining separated from meaningful control over the organization, purposes, and results of productive activity. Technological progress does not necessarily overcome this relationship, for the introduction of new machinery may strengthen the authority of those who control investment and production while increasing the dependence of workers upon decisions in which they possess little influence.

The development of artificial intelligence and advanced automation has brought these contradictions into increasingly sharp relief. For generations, scientific and technological progress was presented as the means through which humanity might gradually free itself from exhausting, repetitive, and dangerous labor. Machinery was expected to increase productivity and provide the material conditions for improved living standards, greater security, and the reduction of unnecessary toil. Yet under an economic system in which investment decisions are substantially governed by profitability and the accumulation of capital, technological improvements may instead become instruments for reducing employment, intensifying surveillance, weakening bargaining power, and transferring the benefits of productivity to those who own the new productive assets.

The worker is thus encouraged to compete not only with other workers but also with the machinery introduced to increase productive efficiency. Human beings and machines are incorporated into the same system of production, although their respective positions within that system are fundamentally different. Machinery does not experience exploitation in the human sense, but it may become an instrument through which the conditions of exploitation are reorganized. The contradiction is particularly striking when enterprises celebrate the arrival of technologies capable of reducing necessary labor while the people whose employment may be displaced are informed that they must simply acquire additional qualifications and find alternative opportunities within the same economic order.

A society possessing increasingly sophisticated productive capabilities ought to be able to examine whether higher productivity might permit shorter working hours, more secure livelihoods, improved public services, and broader access to education and cultural development. Yet such possibilities are frequently subordinated to the requirement that technological advancement must first demonstrate its commercial profitability. The question of who benefits from increased productivity is consequently treated as secondary to the question of whether that productivity generates satisfactory returns upon investment.

The same contradiction extends into the relationship between industrial development and the natural environment. The celebrated technologies of the digital age depend upon extensive material infrastructures, including energy generation, mining, semiconductor manufacturing, transportation, construction, and the processing of substantial quantities of natural resources. Their production may involve environmental degradation, land conversion, displacement of communities, and the concentration of strategic resources in the hands of a relatively small number of enterprises. The technological future promoted through commercial advertising may therefore reproduce forms of exploitation whose origins belong to the earliest periods of industrial capitalism.

It would be a mistake to interpret these contradictions as evidence that technological development should be rejected in favor of an idealized agricultural or preindustrial existence. Such a conclusion would deny the productive possibilities created by modern science and industry. The question is not whether humanity should abandon machinery but whether the immense capacities of modern production should remain subordinate to private accumulation or be organized according to broader social objectives. A system capable of producing unprecedented quantities of wealth cannot claim to have fulfilled its historical purpose merely because it has perfected the instruments of production while leaving substantial sections of humanity without adequate food, housing, employment security, and access to essential services.

The contradiction between productive development and social dependence becomes equally apparent in the international economic order. Developing countries are repeatedly instructed to organize their economies according to comparative advantage, attract foreign investment, liberalize commercial relationships, and participate in global supply chains through activities corresponding to their existing productive capabilities. These prescriptions are commonly presented as neutral conclusions of economic science, even though their application may reinforce historical inequalities between industrially advanced economies and those whose productive capacities remain comparatively underdeveloped.

Comparative advantage is a legitimate analytical concept in international economics, and specialization can produce substantial gains from trade. The difficulty arises when an account of existing productive relationships is transformed into a permanent prescription for national development. If a country presently possesses an advantage in inexpensive labor, agricultural commodities, or elementary processing, it may be encouraged to remain within these activities rather than undertake the difficult process of establishing advanced industries. The immediate requirements of commercial competitiveness may consequently become obstacles to the long-term development of national productive capabilities.

The historical experience of industrialization demonstrates that productive advantages are not simply inherited through geography or determined permanently by the existing distribution of resources. They may be created through investment, infrastructure, education, technological acquisition, industrial research, institutional coordination, and the deliberate cultivation of domestic enterprises. The development of advanced manufacturing in South Korea, semiconductor production in Taiwan, and aircraft manufacturing in Brazil demonstrates that capabilities once regarded as beyond the reach of particular national economies may be established through sustained industrial policy.

The issue is therefore not whether developing countries should reject international trade or foreign capital. It is whether their participation in the world economy should be determined exclusively by existing inequalities in productive capacity or directed toward the transformation of those capacities. Foreign investment may contribute to national development when it supports domestic industries, technology transfer, engineering capabilities, skilled employment, and the expansion of productive resources under increasingly favorable conditions. It becomes considerably less satisfactory when its principal attraction lies in inexpensive labor, fiscal concessions, imported industrial inputs, and the continued dependence of local enterprises upon decisions made outside the national economy.

For the Philippines, these questions possess immediate importance. Economic growth cannot be regarded as a sufficient measure of national development if the expansion of commercial activity does not produce a corresponding strengthening of domestic industry, agriculture, infrastructure, and technological capability. The development of business-process outsourcing, overseas employment, commercial real estate, and foreign-financed activities has contributed to national income, but these achievements do not automatically establish the productive foundations required for genuine industrial advancement.

A country that exports substantial quantities of labor while importing much of the machinery, equipment, advanced technology, and finished goods upon which its economy depends must eventually examine whether it is building the foundations of independent economic development or merely accommodating itself to a subordinate position within the international division of labor. The problem cannot be resolved through appeals to entrepreneurship alone, nor through the assumption that the unrestricted operation of the market will necessarily generate the industrial capabilities required for national progress.

Industrial development requires a deliberate relationship between public investment, domestic capital formation, scientific education, infrastructure, agriculture, energy, transport, and the establishment of industries capable of creating increasingly sophisticated products. It also requires consideration of the relationship between economic development and the distribution of its benefits. A nation may establish modern factories and attract considerable foreign investment while leaving workers without adequate compensation, farmers without secure livelihoods, and communities without the infrastructure necessary for social progress. The expansion of productive capacity is indispensable, but its social purpose cannot be determined solely by the profitability of the enterprises engaged in production.

The prevailing international order frequently presents the future as a collection of technological capabilities that developing countries must purchase, import, or acquire through participation in production networks controlled elsewhere. Such a conception risks transforming national development into a permanent process of adjustment to priorities established by more powerful economies. The possibility of creating independent productive capabilities is consequently subordinated to the immediate requirements of investment attraction, trade specialization, and competitiveness.

This is one of the more consequential contradictions of contemporary capitalism. It celebrates the advancement of productive forces while frequently discouraging weaker economies from undertaking the institutional transformations necessary to develop those forces independently. Progress is encouraged insofar as it strengthens participation in established commercial relationships, but it becomes subject to suspicion when it involves deliberate changes in the distribution of economic power.

The same reluctance to examine the historical foundations of economic relationships can be observed in the manner by which contemporary society organizes its memory. Capitalism depends upon the continuous introduction of new commodities, technologies, and methods of production, while commercial competition encourages the replacement of objects that were themselves celebrated as revolutionary only a few years earlier. The mobile phone, computer, vehicle, and household appliance are repeatedly transformed into successive generations of products whose desirability depends partly upon the suggestion that what was previously adequate has become obsolete.

This process of commercial renewal is not necessarily without productive or social benefit. Technological improvements can increase efficiency, improve safety, and expand human capabilities. Nevertheless, the commercial celebration of novelty may encourage a broader cultural tendency to regard historical experience as irrelevant simply because it belongs to an earlier period. The old becomes synonymous with the obsolete, while the new acquires an appearance of superiority independent of its actual contribution to human welfare.

Such attitudes become politically consequential when applied to the history of working-class struggle. The achievements of trade unions, socialist movements, cooperatives, labor organizations, and campaigns for social protection are increasingly treated as ordinary features of modern economic administration rather than historical results of prolonged political conflict. The circumstances under which workers secured the recognition of collective bargaining, shorter working hours, occupational protections, and social insurance gradually disappear from public consciousness. Institutions established through collective struggle may come to be regarded as concessions provided by enlightened governments or employers rather than achievements arising from the organization of the working masses themselves.

The weakening of historical memory is reinforced by the fragmentation of employment and the decline of institutions through which workers previously developed a collective understanding of their interests. Individuals are encouraged to interpret their economic circumstances principally through the language of personal responsibility and professional advancement, while structural questions concerning ownership, production, and the distribution of wealth are increasingly confined to specialized political or academic discussions. The consequence is a society in which enormous quantities of information circulate continuously while the historical relationships necessary to interpret that information become less familiar to much of the population.

The interests of the bourgeoisie are served when the working class loses the capacity to recognize the historical origins of its own rights and institutions. This does not require the existence of a single coordinated conspiracy. The requirements of commercial culture, the weakening of collective organizations, and the increasingly individualized character of employment may themselves encourage the erosion of class consciousness. Nevertheless, the political consequences are substantial, for a working class deprived of historical understanding may be encouraged to accept as natural those relationships that earlier generations struggled to transform.

The preservation of revolutionary memory must therefore involve more than the repetition of historical slogans or the ceremonial observance of anniversaries. It requires serious examination of the development of capitalism, the transformations of the working class, the achievements and failures of socialist governments, and the changing conditions under which social emancipation may be pursued. The historical experience of the proletariat cannot be reduced to an imagined past that must be restored. Its importance lies in the lessons it offers concerning the organization of society and the possibilities of future transformation.

The distinction is especially important because reactionary political movements have frequently employed an idealized conception of the past to justify their own programs. Nationalist, authoritarian, and religious movements may present social restoration as the recovery of an imagined period of harmony, authority, and established hierarchy. Such movements differ substantially from one another, but their appeal frequently rests upon the promise that the contradictions of modern society can be overcome through the reestablishment of selected institutions or identities associated with an earlier historical period.

The revolutionary socialist conception of history proceeds from a different premise. It understands society as a developing totality whose productive capacities, institutions, and social relationships are subject to historical transformation. The purpose of historical inquiry is not to reconstruct an idealized social order that once existed but to understand the conditions through which a society beyond existing relationships of exploitation might become possible. The proletariat, within this conception, is a class whose historical interests are associated with the transformation of the present rather than the preservation of inherited privilege.

It is against this wider historical background that the recent political events of 2026 acquire particular significance. The strikes and demonstrations in France, the reelection of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva in Brazil, the political and financial crisis surrounding Paraguay’s President Santiago Peña, the results of the United States midterm elections, and renewed protest movements in Southeast Asia have revealed substantial dissatisfaction with established political and economic arrangements. Their origins, participants, and immediate objectives differ, and it would be incorrect to regard them as manifestations of one unified revolutionary movement. Nevertheless, their recurrence demonstrates that the institutional predominance of capitalism has not produced an uncontested social order.

In France, the nationwide strikes and demonstrations of November 5 brought together workers, students, trade unions, and other sections of society protesting wages, purchasing power, public services, and the economic conditions confronting ordinary people. Participation estimates differed substantially between the authorities and labor organizations, but the scale of the mobilization demonstrated that the social contradictions confronting a developed capitalist economy had not been eliminated through the institutions of parliamentary government and the welfare state. The demands extended beyond immediate compensation to questions concerning public expenditure, employment conditions, education, and the distribution of the burdens associated with economic adjustment.

In Brazil, the reelection of Lula on October 25, defeating Flávio Bolsonaro in a closely contested presidential contest, demonstrated the continuing political influence of forces historically associated with organized labor, social inclusion, and state intervention in economic development. Lula’s victory does not constitute a revolutionary transformation of Brazilian society, nor does it place his government outside the contradictions of capitalism. Nevertheless, the continued appeal of a political movement rooted in the history of the labor struggle challenges the proposition that the pursuit of social redistribution and public economic intervention has lost its political relevance.

The crisis in Paraguay provides an illustration of the relationship between financial institutions and political legitimacy. The collapse of digital lender ueno, the freezing of depositors’ funds, and allegations concerning the relationships between political authorities and financial interests provoked public anger and demands for accountability. President Santiago Peña announced his resignation on November 5, although its formal acceptance remained unresolved as impeachment proceedings continued on November 6. The affair demonstrated how rapidly questions ordinarily treated as matters of banking supervision, corporate governance, and financial regulation may become political crises when ordinary people discover that their savings and economic security have been endangered.

In the United States, the November 3 midterm elections produced Democratic victories sufficient to secure control of both chambers of Congress, reflecting a substantial electoral reversal for the Republican administration of President Donald Trump. The results cannot be regarded as an endorsement of revolutionary socialism, particularly within a political system whose principal parties remain broadly committed to capitalist economic arrangements. Nevertheless, they indicate that the institutional strength of an incumbent government does not automatically guarantee continued public acceptance of its policies, and that questions concerning living costs, public accountability, and the direction of national governance remain capable of producing significant political change.

The situation in Southeast Asia reveals similar tensions under different economic and political circumstances. In Indonesia, students, workers, transport employees, and civic organizations have participated in demonstrations over corruption, wages, employment conditions, and the concentration of political authority. In Thailand, protests associated with the October meetings of the International Monetary Fund and World Bank brought attention to debt, economic inequality, environmental destruction, and the influence of international financial institutions over national development. These mobilizations were particularly significant because their participants challenged not merely individual governmental decisions but also the wider economic relationships through which indebtedness, resource allocation, and development priorities are determined.

The Philippines has likewise witnessed renewed demonstrations over corruption, political accountability, dynastic influence, and the distribution of public resources. Protest actions surrounding the September commemoration of the declaration of martial law brought together students, workers, civic organizations, and other concerned groups demanding accountability for irregularities associated with public expenditure, including the flood-control controversy. These immediate political grievances exist alongside more enduring questions concerning inadequate wages, insecure employment, agrarian inequality, homelessness, deficient infrastructure, and the continued dependence of national development upon an unequal international economic order.

These events do not establish that a revolutionary situation exists simultaneously in every country mentioned, nor that the participants in these movements possess identical political objectives. The distinction is essential to a materialist understanding of political developments. Popular dissatisfaction may produce demands for reform, changes in electoral leadership, the reorganization of existing institutions, or more fundamental challenges to the economic and political order. The direction of such movements depends upon the relationship between objective conditions, political organization, social consciousness, and the capacity of competing classes and political forces to influence the outcome.

Nevertheless, the recurrence of these conflicts exposes the limitations of the prevailing claim that the existing economic order has achieved a stable reconciliation between productive development and social welfare. Governments may respond through concessions, legislative measures, institutional reforms, political appeals, or restrictions upon protest. Such responses differ considerably in legitimacy and consequence, but they demonstrate that the preservation of established authority remains inseparable from the management of social contradictions that have not been permanently resolved.

The defenders of the existing order frequently invoke freedom, democracy, and constitutional legitimacy when confronted by popular dissatisfaction. These principles possess real historical importance, and their defense remains necessary wherever arbitrary authority threatens the rights of citizens. Yet their invocation becomes contradictory when the legitimacy of political participation is recognized only insofar as it remains confined to questions that do not challenge established relations of economic power. Workers may be encouraged to exercise their right to vote, but demands for a fundamental transformation of ownership and production are often dismissed as incompatible with the supposedly natural requirements of economic society.

Thus arises the contradiction between the formal sovereignty of the people and the material authority exercised by those who control the principal resources of production. Political institutions may recognize equality before the law while operating within an economic order characterized by profound inequalities of property, income, and social influence. The citizen possesses the formal right to participate in elections, while the worker may remain dependent upon employment conditions determined by enterprises whose decisions are not subject to comparable democratic accountability.

It is in this context that the Marxist conception of the dictatorship of the proletariat must be examined. The term has frequently been employed by opponents of Marxism as evidence that revolutionary socialism necessarily requires the establishment of arbitrary rule. Yet its theoretical origins concern the historical character of state power and the class relationships upon which political authority rests. For Marx, the transition from capitalist to communist society involved a period in which political power would be exercised by the proletariat for the purpose of transforming the economic and institutional foundations of class domination.

The concept did not concern merely the replacement of one set of government officials with another. It concerned the question of which class exercised decisive authority over the state and whose interests were protected through the organization of political power. In this interpretation, the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie referred to the class character of a political order founded upon capitalist property relations, even where that order possessed representative institutions and constitutional forms. The dictatorship of the proletariat was conceived as the revolutionary political rule of the working majority during the transformation of society beyond capitalist relations.

Lenin developed this argument in The State and Revolution, drawing upon Marx’s interpretation of the state and the experience of the Paris Commune. He argued that the working class could not accomplish its emancipation simply by assuming control of the established machinery of government without transforming the institutional relationships through which the state exercised authority. The revolutionary question was therefore not confined to the identity of those who occupied political office but extended to the organization of the state itself and its relationship to the classes composing society.

The historical experience of revolutionary governments, however, requires this theoretical conception to be examined critically. Institutions established in the name of proletarian political power have at times developed into systems characterized by bureaucratic privilege, political repression, and the concentration of authority. Such developments cannot be dismissed merely through appeals to revolutionary necessity, for they raise the question of whether political institutions claiming to represent the working class may themselves become separated from the people whose interests they profess to defend.

This problem is of fundamental importance to any serious contemporary examination of socialism. If the purpose of proletarian political power is the abolition of class domination, then its institutional organization must be assessed according to whether it actually expands the capacity of working people to participate in the direction of social life. The mere existence of a government identifying itself as socialist cannot establish that the economic and political relationships of exploitation have been overcome.

Nevertheless, the failures of particular revolutionary governments do not eliminate the question of class power. If the existing political order continues to protect relationships through which productive resources are controlled by a minority, then the transformation of society necessarily raises the question of how political authority itself might be reorganized. The right to revolution, considered within this historical framework, concerns the possibility that the legitimacy of established institutions may be challenged when those institutions are no longer regarded as capable of resolving fundamental social contradictions.

The right to revolution cannot be reduced to an indiscriminate authorization of violence or the proposition that any movement invoking the people thereby acquires unlimited moral authority. Political transformation remains subject to questions concerning human dignity, public accountability, and the consequences of the means employed. Nevertheless, the historical development of modern society demonstrates that fundamental changes in political authority have not always occurred exclusively through procedures established by the institutions being challenged. The distinction between legality and legitimacy consequently remains central to the examination of revolutionary history.

The political awakening of the working class is indispensable to this question. Economic hardship does not automatically produce revolutionary consciousness, nor does the existence of exploitation guarantee the emergence of a movement capable of transforming society. The development of class consciousness requires a process through which workers and other oppressed sections of society begin to understand their immediate difficulties in relation to the wider organization of production, ownership, and political authority.

John Reed, in Ten Days That Shook the World, provided a particularly revealing account of the political awakening that accompanied the Russian Revolution. Describing the extraordinary interest in political education and public debate among workers, soldiers, peasants, and other sections of society, he wrote of a country in which the demand for knowledge had become inseparable from the revolutionary struggle:

“All Russia was learning to read, and reading politics, economics, history - because the people wanted to know … The thirst for education, so long thwarted, burst with the Revolution into a frenzy of expression. From Smolny Institute alone, in the first six months, went out every day tons, carloads, trainloads of literature, saturating the land. Russia absorbed reading matter like hot sand drinks water … Then the Talk, beside which Carlyle’s ‘flood of French speech’ was a mere trickle. Lectures, debates, speeches - in theatres, circuses, school-houses, clubs, Soviet meeting-rooms, Union headquarters, barracks … meetings in the trenches at the front, in village squares, factories … What a marvellous sight to see Putilovsky (the Putilov Factory) pour out its forty thousand to listen to Social Democrats, Socialist Revolutionaries, Anarchists, anybody, whatever they had to say as long as they could talk! For months in Petrograd, and all over Russia, every street corner was a public tribune. In railway trains, street-cars, always the spurting of impromptu debates, everywhere … At every meeting, attempts to limit the time of speakers were voted down, and every man free to express the thought that was in him.”

Reed’s account possesses significance beyond its description of revolutionary enthusiasm. It illustrates the transformation of a population previously accustomed to occupying a subordinate position within established institutions into a political force increasingly determined to examine the organization of society. Workers who had previously been expected to devote their energies primarily to production began discussing economic theory, government, history, and the future of political authority. Soldiers questioned military discipline and the purposes of war. Peasants examined land ownership and the organization of agricultural production. Questions previously confined to government offices, universities, political parties, and intellectual circles became the subjects of public debate among people whose everyday circumstances had allowed them comparatively little influence over the direction of society.

The significance of this development rested upon the emergence of a new relationship between political knowledge and popular participation. The worker was no longer merely an employee seeking improved wages, the soldier no longer merely an instrument of military authority, and the peasant no longer merely a producer dependent upon established agrarian relationships. Each became involved in examining the institutions that determined the conditions of collective existence.

This is what is meant by the politicization of class struggle. Workers, driven by immediate economic necessity, may come to recognize that their difficulties cannot be fully understood without examining the wider organization of society. A dispute concerning wages may raise questions about productivity, ownership, and the distribution of profits. A struggle for housing may lead to the examination of land ownership, speculative investment, and the relationship between public policy and private property. A movement against corruption may develop into a broader inquiry concerning the relationship between political authority, commercial interests, and the control of national resources.

The transformation from immediate economic grievance to political consciousness is neither automatic nor inevitable. Workers may organize around limited reforms, and popular movements may remain committed to the preservation of existing institutions while demanding their improvement. Nevertheless, the possibility of broader political awakening remains inherent in the contradictions of social life. The class struggle becomes a question of political power when the participants begin to examine not merely the conditions under which they are governed but the legitimacy and organization of the institutions that govern them.

Lenin emphasized the importance of revolutionary theory in What Is To Be Done?, arguing that political movements required more than immediate dissatisfaction if they were to develop a systematic understanding of society. His observation concerning the relationship between revolutionary theory and revolutionary action reflected the conviction that class consciousness could not be reduced to spontaneous reactions against particular instances of exploitation. It required an examination of the totality of social relationships, the historical development of political institutions, and the interests of the classes participating in economic life.

The political education described by Reed was therefore not simply an incidental feature of the October Revolution. It was one of the conditions through which the revolutionary movement acquired a social character extending beyond the immediate activities of political organizations. The workers and soldiers engaged in public debate were examining the questions upon which the future organization of society depended. Their participation demonstrated that political knowledge need not remain the exclusive possession of established authorities and professional administrators.

The modern world possesses technological means of communication that would have appeared extraordinary to the revolutionaries of 1917. Information travels across continents almost instantaneously, economic statistics are published continuously, and political debate has acquired a global reach through digital networks. Nevertheless, the abundance of information does not automatically produce the development of political consciousness. The circulation of competing opinions may coexist with a limited understanding of the structural relationships governing economic and political life.

Indeed, the commercial organization of information can encourage the treatment of politics as entertainment, personal rivalry, or an endless succession of controversies detached from their material foundations. Questions concerning ownership, labor, production, and national development may be subordinated to disputes over personalities and administrative procedures. The citizen is encouraged to participate continuously in public discussion while exercising comparatively limited influence over the institutions whose decisions determine the distribution of economic resources.

The revolutionary significance of political education lies precisely in overcoming this separation between public discussion and the organization of society. The working class cannot develop an adequate understanding of its historical position solely through the accumulation of information. It must examine the relationships connecting everyday economic experience with the broader structures of production, ownership, public authority, and international economic power.

The recent political movements across Europe, the Americas, and Southeast Asia demonstrate the continuing possibility of such a development, although their eventual direction remains uncertain. The workers protesting in France, the citizens contesting political authority in the United States, the depositors demanding accountability in Paraguay, and the students and labor organizations mobilizing in Southeast Asia do not necessarily possess a common revolutionary program. Yet their grievances may give rise to questions extending beyond the immediate circumstances that brought them into political activity.

The important distinction is between a population that merely experiences the consequences of economic and political decisions and one that begins to question the relationships through which those decisions are made. Political awakening occurs when the ordinary conditions of social life cease to be regarded as natural or inevitable and become subjects of collective examination.

The defenders of the prevailing order frequently respond to such developments by presenting the preservation of stability as the highest objective of political life. Stability, however, cannot be understood independently of the conditions it preserves. A society may possess orderly institutions while tolerating severe inequality, economic insecurity, and the concentration of political influence. The restoration of administrative normality following a period of unrest does not necessarily establish that the grievances responsible for that unrest have been resolved.

This is not to suggest that disorder possesses an inherent revolutionary virtue or that the breakdown of institutions automatically benefits the working masses. The experience of revolutionary history provides numerous examples of social upheavals whose outcomes differed substantially from the aspirations of their participants. Nevertheless, the existence of institutional stability cannot be regarded as sufficient justification for preserving relationships that remain the subjects of legitimate social conflict.

The contradiction between the political language of freedom and the economic reality of dependence is particularly apparent in the position of wage labor. Workers are repeatedly informed that capitalism provides freedom of contract, freedom of employment, and the opportunity to pursue individual advancement. Yet the necessity of securing the means of subsistence places substantial limitations upon the practical choices available to those who possess little productive property. An employment agreement may be voluntary in the formal legal sense while reflecting inequalities of bargaining power that cannot be understood independently of the economic circumstances of the parties involved.

The same contradiction appears when enterprises demand public assistance during financial crises while opposing measures intended to strengthen the economic security of workers. The state, otherwise condemned as an obstacle to private initiative, may become indispensable when the preservation of established commercial interests requires intervention. Meanwhile, demands for higher wages, stronger labor protections, agricultural reform, public housing, and social provision are frequently subjected to arguments concerning fiscal discipline, competitiveness, and the dangers of excessive governmental involvement.

Such inconsistencies do not demonstrate that every intervention in support of enterprise is unjustified. Industrial development may require extensive public investment, infrastructure, technological research, and coordinated economic planning. The question concerns the interests served by these interventions and the distribution of their benefits. A developmental policy that strengthens national productive capacity while improving the material conditions of the working masses differs fundamentally in social purpose from one that uses public resources principally to preserve private profitability without corresponding obligations to the wider population.

The continued relevance of Marxist political economy lies in its insistence that these questions are not merely technical problems of administration. They concern the relationships between classes, the organization of production, and the distribution of economic power. The language of managerial efficiency may conceal the political character of decisions concerning wages, taxation, employment, investment, and public expenditure, but it cannot abolish their consequences for the classes composing society.

One may therefore observe that capitalism has not overcome class struggle so much as developed increasingly sophisticated institutions through which its contradictions are administered. The decline of traditional industrial workplaces, the expansion of digital employment, the internationalization of production, and the commercialization of everyday life have altered the appearance of class relationships, but they have not eliminated the fundamental dependence of labor upon capital.

The historical significance of the Great October Socialist Revolution must consequently be examined beyond the ceremonial commemoration of a particular victory. The revolution arose from the contradictions of a society devastated by war, agrarian inequality, economic dislocation, and the incapacity of established institutions to satisfy urgent popular demands. It represented an attempt to transform the relationship between political authority and the masses through the establishment of institutions identified with the rule of workers and peasants.

The Soviet experiment that followed produced achievements of considerable historical importance, including rapid industrialization, the expansion of education, scientific development, and the mobilization of productive resources. It also developed contradictions associated with political repression, bureaucratic privilege, coercive administration, and economic organization that require serious historical analysis. The dissolution of the Soviet Union cannot be dismissed as an insignificant event, but neither can it be treated as definitive evidence that the social questions motivating the October Revolution have been permanently resolved.

The failure of a particular institutional arrangement does not establish the impossibility of the social objectives it claimed to pursue. Equally, the historical achievements of a revolutionary government do not exempt its institutions from examination or criticism. The preservation of revolutionary memory demands an understanding of both achievements and failures, particularly where the concentration of political authority threatens to reproduce forms of domination inconsistent with the declared purpose of emancipation.

The experience of the twentieth century should therefore encourage the development of a more comprehensive understanding of socialism rather than the substitution of nostalgia for analysis. Questions concerning public ownership, economic planning, democratic participation, technological development, national independence, and international cooperation cannot be resolved merely by reproducing the institutional arrangements of earlier socialist governments. They require examination in relation to the material circumstances of contemporary society and the historical lessons furnished by previous attempts at transformation.

The fundamental contradiction of the present world remains the disparity between the extraordinary productive capabilities developed by humanity and the continuing insecurity experienced by substantial sections of the population. Modern industry can produce immense quantities of material goods, advanced agriculture possesses the means to increase food production, technological systems can coordinate economic activity across continents, and scientific research continues to expand the possibilities of human development. Yet poverty, homelessness, insecure employment, environmental destruction, and unequal access to essential services persist alongside these achievements.

The problem cannot be explained entirely through insufficient production, for the distribution and organization of productive resources remain central to the conditions under which people live. Nor can it be resolved solely through appeals to charity, individual discipline, or improved administrative efficiency. These measures may alleviate particular difficulties, but they do not necessarily transform the relationships through which economic inequality is generated and reproduced.

Capitalism’s defenders may continue to proclaim that the system has prevailed because it corresponds most closely to human nature and possesses an unmatched capacity for innovation. Its achievements in developing the productive forces are undeniable, but its historical predominance does not confer permanent legitimacy upon every relationship through which those forces are organized. The existence of private accumulation, wage dependence, and unequal control over productive resources remains a matter of historical development rather than an immutable requirement of human society.

The idea that humanity has reached the final and most satisfactory form of economic organization is itself contrary to the historical experience upon which modern civilization rests. Feudal institutions once appeared permanent, colonial empires justified their authority through appeals to civilization and necessity, and political arrangements regarded as indispensable by their defenders were eventually transformed through changes in productive capacities and social relationships.

There is no sufficient reason to assume that the institutions of contemporary capitalism possess an exemption from the historical processes that transformed earlier social orders. Their durability and capacity for adaptation must be recognized, but neither characteristic establishes that further transformation has become impossible.

This consideration is especially important in an age when technological progress is repeatedly presented as evidence that humanity has entered an entirely new historical condition. The instruments of production may have changed beyond recognition, but the continued subordination of labor to capital demonstrates that technological novelty does not necessarily constitute social transformation. A society may possess artificial intelligence, automated industry, advanced communications, and immense financial resources while continuing to organize economic life through relationships whose fundamental characteristics were already being examined by Marx during the nineteenth century.

The prevailing order thus offers a future whose technological appearance is continually renewed while its underlying economic relationships remain bound to a continuing past. The individual is encouraged to celebrate innovation while accepting the permanence of economic dependence, to admire the productive capacity of machinery while competing for employment against it, and to recognize the extraordinary wealth of modern society while treating insecurity and deprivation as unavoidable consequences of human nature.

The contradiction becomes increasingly difficult to justify as productive capabilities advance. If humanity can transform the organization of industry, develop sophisticated technologies, overcome geographical limitations, and create new forms of material wealth, then the proposition that its social relationships must remain substantially unchanged requires more than an appeal to tradition, market necessity, or the alleged imperfections of human conduct.

The question of the future cannot be separated from the question of political power. The working masses may seek immediate improvements in wages, employment, housing, education, and social protection, but the persistence of structural inequalities raises the wider question of who determines the direction of economic development and whose interests guide the organization of society. In Marxist theory, the struggle for proletarian political power emerges from the recognition that the transformation of productive relationships cannot be accomplished solely through changes in the administration of an unchanged economic order.

This does not make every protest revolutionary or every political crisis an indication of the imminent collapse of capitalism. A serious materialist analysis must distinguish between immediate dissatisfaction, organized class struggle, political crisis, and the development of conditions in which fundamental social transformation becomes possible. Nevertheless, the persistence of these possibilities demonstrates why the historical question raised by October cannot be dismissed merely because the institutions established in its name have experienced defeat.

The commemoration of the Great October Socialist Revolution should therefore be understood as an occasion for examining the unfinished development of human emancipation. Its significance does not depend upon an expectation that history must reproduce the events of Petrograd or that the political institutions of 1917 should be reconstructed in their original form. Rather, it lies in the recognition that the economic and political organization of society remains subject to historical transformation, and that the working masses possess a legitimate interest in determining the conditions under which their labor contributes to collective prosperity.

The revolutionary traditions of the working class must be preserved not as objects of uncritical reverence but as sources of historical understanding. Their achievements demonstrate the capacity of organized labor to influence the development of society, while their failures reveal the dangers of political isolation, institutional degeneration, bureaucratic privilege, and the substitution of authority exercised in the name of the people for the meaningful participation of the people themselves.

The recent political developments across the world do not establish that the international working class has already entered a unified revolutionary movement. They do, however, reveal the continued instability of the relationships through which economic and political authority is exercised. The grievances expressed by workers, students, depositors, farmers, and other sections of society demonstrate that the prevailing order has not succeeded in reconciling its promises of freedom and prosperity with the material circumstances of all those who live under it.

The politicization of these grievances remains a historical possibility rather than a predetermined outcome. The development of class consciousness depends upon the capacity to connect immediate economic experiences with the broader relationships of production, ownership, and political authority. Reed’s account of revolutionary Russia reminds us that periods of profound social conflict may also become periods of extraordinary intellectual and political awakening, when people previously confined to subordinate positions begin to participate in examining the organization of society itself.

The continued relevance of October rests upon this relationship between material conditions, historical consciousness, and political action. The transformation of society cannot be understood solely through changes in technology, commercial organization, or the personnel occupying public office. It involves the development of productive capabilities and the relationships through which the people who sustain those capabilities participate in determining their social purpose.

As the world enters another year marked by political dissatisfaction, economic uncertainty, technological transformation, and unresolved inequalities, the question posed by the Great October Socialist Revolution remains one of considerable historical importance. The working class has undergone profound changes in composition and organization, yet the relationships between capital and labor continue to shape the conditions of production and distribution. The international economic order has become increasingly integrated, yet the inequalities between nations and classes remain substantial. Humanity has developed extraordinary productive capabilities, yet the possibility of placing those capabilities more fully in the service of social emancipation remains contested.

The persistence of these contradictions provides sufficient reason to reject the proposition that class struggle belongs exclusively to the history of an earlier industrial age. The proletariat may no longer be concentrated primarily in the great factories and mining communities depicted in the photographs of the early twentieth century, but its continued existence within the relationships of modern production demonstrates that the material foundations of class conflict have not disappeared.

Capitalism may have prevailed, and its institutions may continue to dominate the international economic order, but its predominance does not constitute the completion of history. The development of productive forces does not automatically resolve the contradictions of their social organization, just as the repeated invocation of freedom, liberty, democracy, and initiative cannot establish the justice of every relationship defended in their name.

The future cannot be understood merely as an endless succession of technological innovations introduced into an otherwise unchanging social order. It must also remain open to the possibility of transforming the institutions through which humanity organizes production, distributes wealth, exercises political authority, and determines the purposes of collective economic life. Without such a possibility, the celebration of progress risks becoming the repeated presentation of an inherited economic order in increasingly modern forms.

It is upon this understanding that this note commemorates the 109th anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution, recognizing both the profound historical significance of the revolutionary movement and the necessity of examining its experience through the conditions of the present. The struggle for the emancipation of labor remains inseparable from the wider question of whether humanity can organize its productive capabilities in a manner that overcomes exploitation, reduces unnecessary dependence, and permits the people who create society’s wealth to participate meaningfully in determining its use.

The class war cannot be regarded as concluded merely because its outward forms have changed, because the institutions of earlier socialist governments have disappeared, or because the prevailing economic order has developed increasingly sophisticated means of preserving its authority. Its continued relevance must be judged according to the material relationships that persist within society and the contradictions that arise from them.

On this anniversary, the memory of October remains a reminder that social institutions are historical rather than eternal, that the productive achievements of humanity need not be regarded as inseparable from the economic relationships under which they were developed, and that the future remains a legitimate subject of collective political action. The unfinished struggle for social emancipation will continue to demand serious examination for as long as the development of productive wealth coexists with exploitation, insecurity, and the unequal distribution of economic power.

In extending revolutionary greetings upon this commemoration, this note recognizes that the historical importance of the Great October Socialist Revolution lies not merely in the victory achieved in 1917 but in the enduring questions it raised concerning class power, social ownership, political authority, and the emancipation of labor. These questions remain inseparable from the determination of whether the extraordinary productive capabilities of modern humanity will continue to reproduce the inequalities of an inherited order or contribute to the development of a society in which economic progress and human emancipation are no longer treated as competing objectives.

Long live the memory of the Great October Socialist Revolution and the continuing struggle for the emancipation of labor and humanity.

***

References and further reading

Marx, K., & Engels, F. (1848). Manifesto of the Communist Party. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/61/61-h/61-h.htm

Marx, K. (1849). Wage Labour and Capital. https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1847/wage-labour/

Marx, K. (1867). Capital: A critique of political economy (Vol. 1). https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1867-c1/

Marx, K. (1875). Critique of the Gotha Programme. https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/gotha/

Lenin, V. I. (1902). What Is To Be Done? Burning Questions of Our Movement. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1901/witbd/

Lenin, V. I. (1917). The State and Revolution. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1917/staterev/

Lenin, V. I. (1918). The Proletarian Revolution and the Renegade Kautsky. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1918/prrk/

Reed, J. (1919). Ten Days That Shook the World. https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3076

United Nations Conference on Trade and Development. (2016). Virtual Institute teaching material on structural transformation and industrial policy. https://unctad.org/system/files/official-document/gds2016d1_en.pdf

International Monetary Fund. (2022). Industrial Policy for Growth and Diversification: A Conceptual Framework.

Contemporary reporting

Associated Press. (2026, November 5). Reporting on nationwide labor and student protests in France.

Tribunal Superior Eleitoral, Brazil. (2026, October 26). Official announcement of the reelection of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva.

Reuters. (2026, November 5–6). Reporting on the resignation announcement and impeachment proceedings involving Paraguayan President Santiago Peña.

Associated Press. (2026, November 4). Reporting on the United States midterm elections and Democratic congressional gains.

Channel NewsAsia. (2026, August 27). Reporting on anti-corruption demonstrations in Indonesia.

The Philippine Star. (2026, September 21). Reporting on Philippine anti-corruption protests marking the anniversary of martial law.

The Nation Thailand. (2026, October 15–16). Reporting on protests associated with the IMF and World Bank meetings in Bangkok.

ON THE REVERSION OF THE COMMONS: On the Post-Pandemic Politics of Cultural Palatability, Musical Memory, and the Folly of Sanitized Pop

2026-11-04T21:57:51.551-08:00

ON THE REVERSION OF THE COMMONS:

On the Post-Pandemic Politics of Cultural Palatability,

Musical Memory, and the Folly of Sanitized Pop

A note on ordinary Filipino listeners, the entertainment industry's pursuit of modernity,

and the contradictions of wanting everything to sound familiar.

One might begin with an apparently ridiculous question: Is contemporary Philippine pop worth listening to for someone who has just ordered a bucket of beer? The question would probably offend the sensibilities of a professional music critic, since the artistic value of a composition cannot reasonably be determined by its suitability to a drinking session. Yet the circumstances of ordinary entertainment are rarely as orderly as the arguments made about it. Music is not always encountered as an object of serious appreciation, and listeners do not necessarily approach every recording as an opportunity to examine its production, lyrical sophistication, or place within the continuing development of popular culture. Sometimes it accompanies a gathering in which the principal attractions are familiar company, affordable drinks, and the prospect of forgetting the week's disappointments.

Consider an ordinary evening at a neighborhood establishment somewhere in metropolitan Manila. Someone has ordered another bucket of beer, another has requested something to eat, and the conversation moves between workplace complaints, neighborhood gossip, unsuccessful romances, and recollections of acquaintances whose lives have taken rather questionable directions. A familiar romantic ballad emerges from the speakers, followed by a guitar-driven anthem associated with the early 2000s. Later comes an R&B recording whose lyrics have become so thoroughly embedded in popular memory that several people can sing along without remembering when they first learned them. The music may be sentimental, vulgar, repetitive, or hopelessly unfashionable, but nobody has gathered to conduct a seminar on the shortcomings of Philippine entertainment. Its immediate purpose is to make the evening enjoyable.

Suppose somebody decides to play BINI's “Salamin, Salamin” or “Pantropiko.” There is no particular reason to assume that the gathering would suddenly become hostile. One person might know the choreography, another could recognize the chorus, and someone younger might insist upon playing the recording again. Both songs have demonstrated considerable appeal, and their popularity belongs to a larger transformation of Philippine popular music whose accomplishments deserve recognition. Yet another listener might prefer something by South Border, Nina, Jay R, Hale, or Sponge Cola, not because the contemporary recording is necessarily inferior, but because the older material seems more appropriate to the circumstances of the evening. A familiar arrangement, a predictable romantic sentiment, or the particular sound of a guitar riff may correspond more closely to what that listener expects music to do.

The distinction is worth examining because it concerns the difference between recognizing popularity and experiencing personal attachment. An individual can acknowledge an artist's commercial success, admire the discipline required to produce an elaborate performance, and enjoy a recording when it happens to play without necessarily wanting to make it part of every social occasion. The ordinary listener is not always interested in the hierarchy of contemporary entertainment, much less in the arguments through which organized fandoms establish the cultural importance of their preferred performers. The immediate concern may be no more complicated than whether the song sounds agreeable, whether its atmosphere suits the occasion, and whether it recalls something already understood.

This is the perspective of what might be called the commons, or the ordinary listener whom contemporary slang describes as the normie. The term is not intended to identify a uniform working class whose members share identical musical tastes. A market vendor, university student, provincial professional, factory worker, office employee, and jeepney driver may encounter entirely different repertoires and possess very different expectations of entertainment. The distinction concerns a relationship with popular culture rather than a particular income bracket. These are people who may enjoy music without identifying themselves with a cultural movement, who can recognize a contemporary hit without joining its fandom, and who may prefer older recordings without subscribing to a coherent philosophy of nostalgia.

For such listeners, the explanation is often disarmingly ordinary: they have simply grown accustomed to certain things. The music may be excessively sentimental, technically imperfect, commercially manufactured, or morally questionable. The listener may recognize these shortcomings, laugh at them, and occasionally complain about them. Nevertheless, the recordings remain associated with school life, friendships, romantic disappointments, television programs, neighborhood celebrations, and other experiences through which personal memory develops. Their attraction may survive the recognition that something newer is more professionally accomplished, just as the popularity of a contemporary composition does not guarantee that it will displace what the listener already knows.

There is an uncomfortable contradiction in this attachment to normalcy. Ordinary audiences may criticize the repetitive character of contemporary idol pop while returning willingly to older genres whose conventions have become equally predictable. They may object to highly coordinated performances as artificial while celebrating entertainers whose apparent spontaneity was itself cultivated through professional management. They may demand greater maturity from contemporary female performers while measuring maturity against the provocative standards of an earlier commercial entertainment industry. These judgments are not necessarily consistent, and their inconsistency is precisely what makes them revealing. The ordinary listener is not obliged to develop a systematic theory of cultural authenticity before deciding what to enjoy.

The distinction matters particularly in the years following the pandemic, when Philippine pop has become more internationally ambitious and its professional machinery considerably more conspicuous. A new generation of artists has demonstrated that Filipino performers can participate in a global entertainment economy shaped by coordinated choreography, extensive training, sophisticated production, and the remarkable organizational capacities of digital fandoms. These developments represent genuine achievements. Yet the appearance of something newer and more technically refined does not automatically transform the emotional conventions through which ordinary people have learned to appreciate music. It may enlarge the available repertoire without dislodging the older attachments that remain part of everyday life.

The Algorithm and the Grassroots Commons

One of the peculiarities of contemporary popular entertainment is the increasing identification of commercial visibility with cultural authority. Streaming platforms offer precise measurements of consumption, social-media services transform recordings into circulating fragments, and organized fandoms treat rankings and promotional achievements as important demonstrations of an artist's significance. The resulting figures are not imaginary, and it would be unreasonable to dismiss them simply because contemporary technology makes them unusually conspicuous. Nevertheless, the ability to measure how frequently a recording is played does not explain the entire relationship between music and the society that consumes it.

The Philippine streaming landscape itself suggests considerable diversity. In 2024, Hev Abi led Spotify's local artist rankings, followed by BINI, Arthur Nery, TJ Monterde, and Ben&Ben. The following year, Cup of Joe led the local artists, while its melancholy hit “Multo” became the country's most-streamed song. Such figures hardly describe a society that has abandoned romantic melancholy in favor of synchronized idol performances, or one that has rejected contemporary pop in favor of traditional balladry. They suggest instead a commercial environment in which hip-hop, alternative music, sentimental compositions, and P-pop can attract substantial audiences simultaneously.

The difficulty lies in treating the platform as though it were an exhaustive representation of musical experience. Streaming statistics describe the activities of particular users within particular technological systems, but they cannot fully explain why a sentimental recording remains meaningful to someone whose adolescence coincided with its original circulation. They do not necessarily capture the cultural importance of an old love-rap song repeatedly played in a neighborhood computer rental shop, or the continuing attraction of a familiar ballad requested at a provincial karaoke gathering. Such music may circulate through contemporary platforms, but its appeal remains connected to social experiences that those platforms did not create.

Nor are recommendation systems entirely neutral instruments through which listeners encounter recordings independently of commercial priorities. Their suggestions reflect listening behavior, editorial decisions, accumulated popularity, and promotional arrangements. Spotify's Discovery Mode, for example, permits eligible artists and labels to prioritize selected recordings in certain recommendation contexts. Such mechanisms do not establish that successful musicians possess artificial audiences, and the presence of professional promotion should not be confused with a lack of artistic merit. They do, however, complicate the assumption that digital visibility is simply a direct and unmediated expression of popular taste.

The distinction becomes particularly apparent when the activities of organized fandoms are treated as though they correspond to the musical habits of society at large. Dedicated supporters may participate in streaming campaigns, follow individual performers closely, learn choreography, and regard an artist's commercial achievements as collective accomplishments. The ordinary listener may encounter the same recording with far less investment, appreciating the melody while remaining indifferent to the institutional identity surrounding it. Both forms of participation are genuine, but they are not interchangeable, and the enthusiasm of a highly organized audience should not be mistaken for the complete emotional experience of everyone who happens to hear the song.

The tension between the algorithm and the commons is therefore more complicated than a struggle between manufactured popularity and authentic public preference. The commons has never existed beyond commercial influence, and the modern algorithm is perfectly capable of reinforcing nostalgia rather than replacing it. Someone who discovers “Salamin, Salamin” through a recommendation may subsequently encounter an R&B reinterpretation and find the latter more satisfying because it resembles the music associated with an earlier period of life. The platform may respond by recommending additional recordings with similar arrangements, reinforcing an attachment that developed long before contemporary P-pop became prominent.

The relationship is reciprocal, although the institutions involved possess unequal capacities to organize attention. Technology can introduce listeners to unfamiliar material, while the listeners' existing preferences influence which recommendations attract sustained engagement. The commercial industry can promote a particular sound, but it cannot guarantee that audiences will incorporate that sound into the emotional circumstances through which music becomes personally significant. Popularity can make a recording recognizable, but familiarity acquired through personal experience is not always produced at the same speed as commercial visibility.

There is also a more uncomfortable dimension to the contemporary economy of attention. Its emphasis upon continual engagement can reward recognizable formulas, repeated musical structures, and material designed to attract immediate interest. This anxiety partly explains the contemporary complaint about disposable digital content, often dismissed under the broad label of artificial-intelligence slop. It would be misleading, however, to equate professionally produced P-pop with automatically generated filler merely because its visual presentation is meticulously coordinated. Human musicians can produce formulaic entertainment, just as commercially organized music can possess substantial artistic merit. The more significant problem concerns the commercial preference for patterns that are readily recognized and repeatedly consumed.

The irony is that this tendency affects nostalgic entertainment just as readily as contemporary idol pop. An artist who becomes successful through Y2K R&B may be encouraged to reproduce the same romantic grooves, while a guitar band may continue revisiting an established sentimental formula because audiences find it reassuring. The listener who complains about repetitive idol productions may enthusiastically reward an equally repetitive nostalgic arrangement. What appears to be resistance to commercial homogenization can therefore become another source of predictable commercial demand.

Desire, Heartbreak, Vulgarity, and the Familiar Sound of Ordinary Life

The endurance of older musical preferences becomes easier to understand when one considers the emotional vocabulary that has long characterized Philippine popular entertainment. Romantic attraction, sentimental longing, disappointed affection, and occasionally disreputable humor have occupied a prominent place in songs heard through radio, television, school performances, and social gatherings. Their particular arrangements may change, and their lyrics may be English or Filipino, but the emotional expectations they satisfy remain recognizable across generations. A contemporary listener can identify the familiar predicament of an abandoned lover or an excessively confident suitor without having to examine the historical origins of the composition.

The sentimental tradition is especially persistent. Philippine popular music has long accommodated songs about betrayal, jealousy, unrequited affection, romantic desperation, and the painful recollection of relationships that failed to endure. Such themes appear in acoustic balladry, smooth R&B, theatrical power ballads, and sentimental hip-hop. The listener need not have personally experienced adultery or abandonment to appreciate a recording about either predicament. Popular entertainment supplies a repertoire of recognizable emotions that people learn to reproduce, sometimes long before their own lives have provided corresponding experiences.

The occasionally disreputable character of this repertoire is equally important. During the 2000s and early 2010s, Filipino love rap circulated through neighborhood computer rental shops, inexpensive personal recordings, and online uploads. Performers associated with Salbakuta, Crazy as Pinoy, Repablikan, and the Breezy Boys and Breezy Girls attracted listeners whose appetite for sentimental hip-hop was not necessarily shared by traditional rap purists. The recordings could rely upon repetitive synthesizers, imperfect mixing, melodramatic lyrics, and arrangements openly indebted to American R&B. Their technical limitations were sometimes conspicuous, but their emotional appeal was connected to the circumstances in which audiences encountered them.

A particular recording might recall an unsuccessful school romance, an afternoon spent with friends in a crowded computer shop, or the embarrassments of adolescent courtship. Its cultural value did not depend exclusively upon the quality of its production. Indeed, a listener might recognize that the lyrics were excessively sentimental or that the performer had adopted an absurd public image while continuing to enjoy the song precisely because its limitations belonged to a familiar period of life. What a professional critic regards as crude may remain personally satisfying to someone whose memories developed alongside it.

The emergence of the so-called jejemon subculture and its successors like "Geng Geng" further complicated the relationship between popular entertainment and respectability. Certain fashions, styles of speech, and forms of musical expression became associated with social embarrassment, attracting criticism from audiences who regarded them as excessively imitative, vulgar, or aesthetically inferior. The ostentatious display of imitation luxury clothing, exaggerated masculine confidence, and sentimental swagger surrounding some street-oriented performers could invite ridicule from traditional hip-hop enthusiasts and more affluent listeners alike. Yet mockery did not necessarily prevent the music from becoming familiar, and familiarity could preserve affection long after the original fashions had become unfashionable.

The appetite for sensuality produced another set of contradictions. During the late 1990s and early 2000s, Philippine entertainment cultivated performers whose public appeal involved suggestive choreography, provocative imagery, double meanings, and an occasionally uninhibited approach to romantic attraction. The SexBomb Girls and Viva Hot Babes belonged to different but overlapping areas of this commercial environment, and their success cannot be understood apart from the television networks, record companies, publicity campaigns, and professional arrangements that sustained their visibility.

The SexBomb Girls were particularly revealing because their novelty performances could become widely accepted as family entertainment without entirely losing their adult associations. Their famous “Spaghetti Song” became familiar at birthday parties, school events, and ordinary celebrations, although the participants did not necessarily interpret its suggestive elements in the same manner. The coexistence of playful innocence and adult innuendo rarely required a systematic explanation. The recording had become sufficiently familiar that its apparent contradictions could be absorbed into the conventions of ordinary amusement.

The Viva Hot Babes represented a more overtly provocative tradition, one closely associated with the commercialization of female attractiveness and the men's-magazine culture of the period. Their relationship with FHM, including a reunion cover featuring Katya Santos, Maui Taylor, and Andrea del Rosario in 2009, reflected an entertainment economy in which sensuality could become an important component of celebrity. Yet the public images involved were no less professionally constructed than those of contemporary female performers. The difference is that an earlier generation encountered them often enough for their conventions to become part of what it understood as ordinary popular entertainment.

This history complicates the occasional complaint that contemporary female idol groups appear excessively cute or insufficiently mature. Some listeners may appreciate BINI's “Salamin, Salamin” while imagining a more mischievous interpretation resembling older novelty entertainment, or a more provocative version associated with the visual standards of the men's-magazine era. The preference may have little to do with musical sophistication or artistic independence. It may concern an inherited expectation that female performers should demonstrate a particular kind of sensuality before they can be considered sufficiently adult.

The contradiction is evident when an audience criticizes contemporary idol pop for appearing artificially innocent while demanding an image whose erotic confidence was itself cultivated through professional choreography, publicity, and commercial marketing. What appears to be a demand for greater naturalness may actually be a request for another familiar form of manufacture. The listener may be less interested in eliminating artificiality than in replacing an unfamiliar artificiality with one whose conventions have already become acceptable.

This is not an argument against sensual performance, nor does it suggest that contemporary female entertainers must avoid provocative imagery. The issue concerns the distinction between an artist's freedom to cultivate a particular image and an audience's expectation that the artist must satisfy inherited standards of sexualized entertainment to deserve recognition. What some listeners regard as ordinary maturity may reflect a commercial construction of femininity whose longevity has made its assumptions appear natural.

The commons' attachment to familiar entertainment is therefore not always innocent. It can preserve memorable forms of expression, but it can also sustain questionable attitudes whose defects have become less visible through repetition. A listener may continue enjoying an old novelty recording despite recognizing that its humor is crude, or remember a provocative performance affectionately without wishing to defend the commercial assumptions behind it. The resulting distinction between enjoyment and endorsement is often genuine, but it can also become a convenient excuse for refusing to examine familiar conventions as carefully as unfamiliar ones.

Making a Bubbly Pop Sound Ordinary

The attraction of older-styled reinterpretations of contemporary P-pop provides one of the clearest illustrations of how musical familiarity operates. Such recordings do not necessarily reject the original compositions, and their appeal frequently depends upon the melodies that made those compositions successful. What changes is the language through which the music becomes emotionally intelligible. A listener may recognize the artistic achievement of the original while finding a different arrangement more satisfying because it resembles sounds already associated with personal experience.

Jopper Ril's Y2K R&B rendition of BINI's “Salamin, Salamin,” released in full in September 2024, offers an instructive example. The melody remains recognizable, but the arrangement evokes the romantic grooves, vocal ornamentation, and sentimental atmosphere associated with turn-of-the-millennium R&B. Listeners accustomed to performers such as Usher and Ne-Yo can hear in the interpretation something resembling the musical environment of an earlier period, even though the underlying composition belongs to a contemporary pop group.

Some anecdotal responses have expressed a preference for this treatment, while others have imagined the singer reproducing the theatrical conventions of older romantic music videos, including the spectacle of a performer dancing or pleading in the rain. The image is almost comically familiar. The rain-soaked shirt, the anguished expression, and the exaggerated gestures of romantic suffering belong to a visual tradition whose predictability can make it embarrassing and enjoyable at the same time. Such reactions are not evidence that most Filipino listeners prefer the cover, but they illustrate how an arrangement can summon an entire remembered atmosphere rather than merely a particular style of instrumentation.

A similar possibility can be imagined through the 1990s-pop treatment of BINI's “Karera” attributed in listener discussions to Paprikka. The particular recording and the extent of its reception remain insufficiently documented here, although Paprikka's broader association with retro-influenced pop provides context. The composition's message about the pressures of life and the importance of proceeding at one's own pace can be heard imaginatively through the brighter arrangements and melodic conventions of an earlier generation. The attraction may concern the pleasure of encountering a contemporary sentiment through musical language that seems already familiar.

The melancholic acoustic treatment of “Salamin, Salamin” associated with Johnoy Danao illustrates another possibility. The original composition's youthful romantic anticipation can acquire a more vulnerable character through slower phrasing and restrained accompaniment, allowing the material to resemble the sentimental balladry through which Filipino audiences have long expressed disappointment and longing. Nothing about the underlying melody requires that it be permanently associated with the cheerful presentation of its original release. A different arrangement can invite listeners to discover an emotional possibility that the original did not emphasize.

The R&B reinterpretation of “Pantropiko” circulated under Steven Peregrina's name invites a rather less innocent observation. In the interpretation described by its admirers, the original's picturesque tropical atmosphere becomes more intimate and physically suggestive. The beach is no longer merely a cheerful summer postcard but a place of heat, sweat, wet skin, sand, and the ordinary inconveniences of bodily attraction. One might describe the result, with deliberate irreverence, as music suited less to a tourism advertisement than to an Instagram thirst trap, where tropical pleasure is measured not by the perfection of the scenery but by the sensual possibilities of the people occupying it- or should say the touristic setting end shifted to the "sand in the butt".

The description is intentionally crude, but it captures the difference between two familiar ways of presenting romantic attraction. The original composition emphasizes youthful exuberance and an idealized summer atmosphere, while the R&B reading can suggest a more physical and less immaculate experience of the same setting. Such a preference does not establish that the original lacks sensuality or artistic value. It demonstrates how a listener may prefer a composition when its emotional presentation resembles conventions already associated with pleasure.

Denise Julia's career provides a related example on a broader commercial scale. Her contemporary R&B draws upon musical traditions associated with the 1990s and early 2000s, including influences from Aaliyah, Tamia, and Beyoncé. Her recordings circulate through contemporary digital platforms, but the grooves, vocal arrangements, and romantic sensibilities that help define their appeal belong to a musical language cultivated decades earlier. Technological modernization and nostalgic familiarity are not opposing forces here; the former can provide new commercial opportunities for the latter.

Yet the transformation of contemporary music into something familiar need not always involve an elaborate nostalgic reinterpretation. One of the more revealing intermediaries is the Filipino showband, particularly within the live-entertainment circuits associated with Malate and Timog. Working bands have long maintained repertoires that accommodate international pop, sentimental ballads, romantic rock, novelty songs, and contemporary chart material. Their immediate task is frequently not to reproduce the original spectacle but to make a recognizable composition function within the circumstances of a particular evening.

A bubbly song such as “Salamin, Salamin” need not become sultry R&B or a melancholy acoustic ballad to satisfy such an audience. The musicians may simply perform it through a familiar combination of keyboards, electric guitar, bass, drums, and live vocals. The tempo might be adjusted slightly, the harmonies redistributed among available singers, and the arrangement modified to suit the venue. The result can remain cheerful and danceable while sounding closer to the ordinary live entertainment through which Filipino audiences have long encountered popular music.

This is particularly significant because the showband does not require the listener to embrace the entire visual and promotional apparatus surrounding the original recording. The audience need not reproduce elaborate choreography, identify with an organized fandom, or concern itself with the international ambitions of contemporary P-pop. The composition becomes one more recognizable number in a repertoire that might also include South Border, an old guitar-rock anthem, a familiar sentimental ballad, and whatever recording someone has requested from the stage.

The observation should not be generalized to every establishment in Malate or Timog, whose musical offerings and audiences remain diverse. Nevertheless, the showband illustrates a longstanding feature of Philippine entertainment: contemporary compositions can enter established social environments through practical musical adaptation. The musicians may be thoroughly professional, but their professionalism is presented through conventions that audiences already understand. The song does not necessarily become more sensual, more sentimental, or artistically superior. It becomes ordinary enough to accompany an evening in which the music is only one part of a larger social occasion.

This is perhaps the most revealing answer to the question of whether contemporary P-pop belongs beside a bucket of beer. The listener who finds the original idol-pop presentation excessively polished may enjoy the same composition when performed by a familiar band. The adaptation does not require an ideological rejection of the original or a wholesale restoration of older musical conventions. It simply allows the melody to circulate within the ordinary repertoire of Filipino entertainment, where songs from different decades can coexist without requiring audiences to declare their allegiance to any particular cultural movement.

The Professional Manufacture of Naturalness

The contrast between contemporary idol pop and older Filipino entertainment becomes particularly revealing when audiences express a preference for what they regard as naturalness. The difficulty is that professional entertainment has long possessed the ability to make carefully prepared performances appear spontaneous. What audiences experience as rawness may be the result of rehearsal, artistic direction, and commercial calculation, while a conspicuously polished performance may contain genuine emotional commitment and considerable individual creativity.

The career of Smokey Mountain offers an instructive historical example. Formed in 1989 under the musical direction of Ryan Cayabyab, the original group emerged from auditions at his music school. Eight finalists underwent nearly two months of vocal and dance instruction before Geneva Cruz, Jeffrey Hidalgo, James Coronel, and Tony Lambino were selected as the original quartet. The ensemble was therefore a professionally organized project rather than an accidental gathering of exceptionally talented youngsters.

Nevertheless, some listeners remember Smokey Mountain as possessing a youthful rawness that distinguishes its performances from the more conspicuously synchronized presentation of contemporary idol groups. The singers had recognizable individual voices, their personalities could appear unguarded, and their stage presence retained something of the ordinary youngster growing into professional accomplishment. The musical arrangements were sophisticated, but the performers did not necessarily project the seamless visual uniformity associated with contemporary idol systems.

This impression should not be confused with a lack of discipline. Cayabyab's arrangements required serious preparation, and the group benefited from professional musical and choreographic direction. Yet refinement could coexist with the appearance of youthful spontaneity, allowing the public to recognize the performers as individuals whose abilities had been carefully cultivated rather than as components of an entirely coordinated visual spectacle.

Related expectations were encouraged through youth-oriented television programs such as "Ang TV" and "Penpen de Sarapen" to that of shows like "That's Entertainment", "It's Showtime", or Eat Bulaga, where performers became familiar through singing, dancing, comedy, games, and ordinary television interaction. These programs were professionally produced, but their formats could allow awkwardness and individual personality to remain visible. The audience might appreciate the performance while retaining the impression that it was encountering ordinary youngsters whose talents were still developing.

The Filipino amateur singing-contest tradition cultivated a related understanding of musical accomplishment. In school programs, neighborhood fiestas, and televised competitions, performers were encouraged to attempt demanding repertoire associated with internationally celebrated vocalists. A child capable of reproducing the difficult passages of a Whitney Houston or Celine Dion recording could become an object of considerable admiration, even when the song's emotional content belonged to a world far removed from the performer's personal experience.

Consider the hypothetical spectacle of a young contestant singing Houston's “Saving All My Love for You,” a composition about an adult relationship involving a married man. The choice might seem inappropriate if judged exclusively by lyrical interpretation, but the competition setting can transform it into an examination of vocal accomplishment. The audience knows that Houston's recording is difficult, and the prestige associated with performing it may outweigh consideration of whether the child understands the relationship being described.

This is the peculiar logic of musical winnability. The performer is expected to demonstrate difficulty through recognizable material, while the audience rewards exceptional technique, sustained phrases, and conspicuous vocal power. At its best, the tradition celebrates extraordinary ability and disciplined training. At its worst, it becomes a contest in which the climactic high note receives greater attention than the interpretation preceding it. The result can be genuinely magnificent or painfully embarrassing, but its conventions remain familiar because audiences have encountered them repeatedly through generations of entertainment.

The Eurovision Song Contest of the 1970s and 1980s offers a useful international comparison. Its performances were hardly free from professional calculation or theatrical artificiality. Groups such as Mocedades, Brotherhood of Man, ABBA, and the Herreys belonged to commercial entertainment environments in which arrangements, costumes, and stage presentations were carefully prepared. Nevertheless, the prominence of melody, live accompaniment, ensemble harmonies, and individual vocal character produced a different impression from contemporary idol performances organized around continuous choreography and visual synchronization.

One can therefore imagine BINI performing its material through arrangements resembling an old-school Eurovision entry or a Cayabyab youth ensemble, with a live band, more prominent individual vocal passages, and simpler stage movements. Such a presentation would not necessarily be artistically superior, and contemporary idol pop already contains substantial musical accomplishment. It might, however, appear more familiar to listeners whose expectations were shaped by older traditions in which professional refinement remained compatible with visible youthful awkwardness.

The historical relationship between BINI and Smokey Mountain makes the comparison particularly revealing. BINI's pre-debut release in 2020 was a dance-pop reinterpretation of “Da Coconut Nut,” a Ryan Cayabyab composition associated with Smokey Mountain. The newer group therefore entered public attention partly through the transformation of an established Filipino novelty song into a contemporary idol presentation. Moreover, BINI's members have participated in creative decisions, including choreography, complicating any suggestion that coordinated performance necessarily eliminates individual agency.

Both groups emerged through professional institutions, and both drew upon international musical conventions. Their differences cannot be adequately explained by treating one as authentic and the other as manufactured. The more revealing distinction may concern the degree to which professional preparation is made visible. Contemporary idol pop frequently turns synchronization into a central attraction, while older entertainment could allow the apparatus of professionalism to recede beneath the appearance of youthful spontaneity.

The same principle applies to the SexBomb Girls and the more provocative entertainment associated with the Viva Hot Babes. Their public images could appear mischievous, spontaneous, and uninhibited, but their choreography, publicity, musical arrangements, and television appearances belonged to professionally managed systems. What audiences remember as natural may have been commercially cultivated from the beginning.

The listener who demands that contemporary performers abandon their scripted image may therefore be asking for another form of scripting, one that reproduces a familiar impression of informality or sensual confidence. The preference is not necessarily for genuine amateurism but for a style of professionalism whose construction has become less conspicuous through years of exposure. The professional performer can appear amateur, and the appearance of amateurism can become a valuable commercial asset.

This is a considerable complication for any argument that celebrates the grassroots commons as an untouched reservoir of cultural authenticity. Its expectations have themselves been cultivated through decades of recording companies, commercial television, advertising, professional instruction, and carefully organized entertainment. The apparent naturalness of older popular culture may reflect conventions whose commercial origins have become less visible as audiences have grown accustomed to them.

When Familiarity Becomes an Excuse

The attachment to musical normalcy raises a broader question about the relationship between familiarity and judgment. What happens when the ordinary habit of accepting something because it has long been present becomes a standard through which other aspects of life are evaluated? The problem is not confined to music, because familiar institutions and conventions can acquire the appearance of legitimacy through repetition, even when their limitations remain apparent to the people who continue accepting them.

This tendency becomes particularly revealing when older entertainment is tolerated despite qualities that attract criticism in contemporary culture. A listener may continue enjoying suggestive novelty songs from an earlier generation while dismissing newer performances as excessively progressive or “woke.” The term can function as a shorthand for discomfort with unfamiliar expectations of representation, propriety, or artistic expression, even when the person using it has not developed a clear explanation of the objection.

Such reactions are not necessarily evidence of a coherent political ideology. Some objections to contemporary entertainment concern genuine artistic disagreements, while others address commercial presentation, lyrical themes, or the priorities of entertainment companies. The contradiction emerges when the standards of judgment differ primarily because one form of entertainment belongs to the familiar past while another appears comparatively unfamiliar. A provocative performance from the early 2000s may seem acceptable because its conventions have long been absorbed into ordinary life, while a contemporary artist expressing a different understanding of femininity or personal independence may attract scrutiny simply because the presentation departs from established expectations.

The resulting inconsistency is not always consciously hypocritical. People can recognize shortcomings in familiar practices without finding those shortcomings sufficient to diminish their attachment. They may regard the older material as part of the ordinary landscape of entertainment while interpreting the newer as an attempt to alter standards they had never consciously examined. The question is not whether every familiar convention should be discarded, but whether familiarity is being allowed to substitute for an explanation of why a particular convention deserves continued acceptance.

An analogous problem can arise in political life, where recognizable names, longstanding relationships, and established institutions can influence judgments about public authority. The Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism reported that 71 of the country's 82 governors elected in May 2025 belonged to political families, notwithstanding several significant defeats of established clans. These findings illustrate the continuing prominence of dynastic politics, although they do not establish that voters who prefer older entertainment are more likely to support traditional politicians.

Electoral decisions involve considerations far more consequential than musical preferences, and their outcomes cannot be explained through familiarity alone. Material interests, patronage networks, candidate performance, access to public resources, political organization, and the alternatives available to voters all influence electoral behavior. Nevertheless, longstanding familiarity can enter the standards through which people evaluate political authority, just as it may influence their treatment of established cultural conventions.

A person may recognize the shortcomings of a familiar political figure while retaining confidence in the relationships and expectations associated with that person or family. An unfamiliar alternative may face demands for reassurance that the established figure no longer encounters in the same form. The relevant parallel is not that nostalgia causes a particular voting preference, but that familiarity can become an independent source of acceptance even when objective considerations might support further scrutiny.

Nor should this tendency be attributed exclusively to ordinary Filipinos or the working class. Educated professionals, prosperous families, political elites, and cultural institutions are equally capable of defending familiar arrangements despite their limitations. Many structures of traditional authority are maintained by people possessing considerable education, wealth, and institutional influence. The difference between the grassroots and the elite is not that one is susceptible to habit while the other is free from it, but that the social consequences of their habits may differ substantially.

The relationship between familiarity and judgment also helps explain how commercial stagnation can coexist with continuing popular attachment. During the 2000s, romantic guitar bands such as Hale, Sponge Cola, Cueshé, and Callalily became associated, in varying degrees and sometimes unfairly, with accessible melodies, handsome frontmen, and recognizable expressions of sentimental masculinity. The label *pogi rock*, or handsome-frontman rock, was not always complimentary, but it captured a commercial phenomenon in which romantic rock became associated with a particular style of celebrity and musical appeal.

The songs became familiar through radio, school gatherings, television appearances, and ordinary social life. Their romantic atmosphere could accompany youthful heartbreak or an evening drinking with friends, and their melodies offered immediate recognition to audiences whose experiences had developed alongside them. Yet commercial success could encourage the repetition of recognizable arrangements until the music began to appear predictable. A band might possess considerable technical ability and genuine artistic accomplishment while operating within a market that rewarded the continual production of similar romantic material.

This is where the normie's relationship with familiarity becomes especially contradictory. A listener may complain that contemporary idol pop sounds repetitive while returning willingly to older romantic rock whose arrangements have become equally predictable. The person may recognize that the genre's formulas are exhausted and still find the music enjoyable because the songs recall experiences already lived. The preference is not necessarily for permanent stagnation, but for an atmosphere associated with an earlier period of ordinary life.

The same pattern can be commercially exploited. A nostalgic R&B recording may attract listeners because it resembles familiar music, but an endless succession of indistinguishable nostalgic arrangements can reproduce the fatigue that audiences associate with contemporary pop. The entertainment industry has no fundamental objection to nostalgia when nostalgia becomes profitable, and digital recommendation systems can amplify repetitive older conventions just as readily as they promote new ones.

The commons is therefore not innocent of the stagnation it occasionally criticizes. Its appetite for familiarity may encourage performers to reproduce successful formulas even when those formulas offer diminishing opportunities for artistic development. The same listener may demand something new while preferring that the new resemble what has already become familiar. Such a preference is understandable, but it can also contribute to the commercial repetition that the listener wishes to escape.

The problem deserves consideration without being transformed into a moral indictment of ordinary audiences. People are not obliged to pursue artistic innovation whenever they listen to music, and the familiar can provide legitimate pleasure regardless of its originality. Yet the distinction between enjoyment and justification remains important. A recording may be personally meaningful despite its defects, but personal attachment does not establish that those defects are beyond criticism. Familiarity can explain why something remains palatable without proving that it deserves continued cultural authority.

The Reversion of the Commons

The debate over BINI, contemporary P-pop, and earlier Philippine entertainment is not adequately understood as a contest in which one musical tradition must inevitably defeat another. The country's popular culture has developed through accumulation, adaptation, and the coexistence of conventions whose artistic and moral assumptions are not always compatible. Contemporary idol pop can attract enthusiastic listeners without displacing sentimental balladry, just as the continuing appeal of older recordings does not establish that newer performers have failed to achieve genuine popularity.

The same person may admire BINI's choreography, enjoy Denise Julia's R&B, remember Smokey Mountain affectionately, and continue playing a sentimental love-rap recording whose technical imperfections would be obvious to a professional producer. Another may appreciate the original version of “Pantropiko” while preferring a more sensual arrangement, or recognize the appeal of “Salamin, Salamin” while finding its Y2K R&B interpretation closer to the music associated with an earlier period of life. These preferences need not be reconciled through an elaborate theory of cultural authenticity, because their appeal has developed through different circumstances of ordinary experience.

Nor should the commons be imagined as uniformly opposed to newer forms of entertainment. BINI's popularity has extended beyond the most visible metropolitan fandoms, and the widely circulated 2024 footage of construction workers dancing to “Pantropiko” demonstrates that working-class audiences can participate enthusiastically in contemporary P-pop. Younger listeners may already regard such songs as ordinary parts of their musical lives, while older audiences may encounter them through showbands, public celebrations, or nostalgic reinterpretations that connect the compositions with familiar arrangements.

What remains significant is that musical acceptance does not necessarily require the abandonment of earlier preferences. A contemporary recording may enter the ordinary repertoire of a neighborhood establishment without transforming the listener into a dedicated participant in idol culture. The same song may acquire an entirely different emotional character when performed by a live band, interpreted through nostalgic R&B, or recalled years later because it accompanied a memorable experience. Popular music acquires personal significance through uses that exceed the promotional intentions of the institutions responsible for introducing it.

There is consequently no reason to imagine that the professional achievements of contemporary P-pop must be diminished in order to explain why some listeners continue preferring older musical conventions. The industry has developed new standards of production, training, and international visibility, but the emotional habits through which people appreciate music may change at a different pace. A person can recognize greater technical sophistication while finding an older recording more personally satisfying, because artistic accomplishment and emotional familiarity do not always correspond.

The opposite conclusion is equally important. The persistence of familiar preferences does not establish that older entertainment was more authentic, more sophisticated, or morally superior. Much of what audiences remember as natural was itself commercially manufactured, while the sentimental, sensual, and occasionally vulgar conventions of earlier popular culture remain open to legitimate criticism. The listener's affection may survive the recognition of these defects, but that affection should not be mistaken for a universal defense of everything the music represents.

In time, contemporary P-pop may itself become part of the normalcy through which younger generations remember their lives. The songs that appear conspicuously polished or commercially coordinated to an older audience may eventually acquire the nostalgic significance now attached to Smokey Mountain, the SexBomb Girls, or the romantic entertainment of the early 2000s. Their original promotional machinery may recede from memory, leaving behind associations with school life, friendships, relationships, and the ordinary experiences of growing older.

Such a development would reproduce a familiar process in the history of commercial entertainment. A recording may first achieve visibility through professional promotion, but its subsequent significance can depend upon circumstances that neither its creators nor its promoters could fully anticipate. A song may become part of a school celebration, an evening at a drinking establishment, a family gathering, or the private recollection of an earlier relationship. The industry can introduce the music, but it cannot completely determine how listeners will incorporate it into their lives.

The reversion of the commons should therefore not be mistaken for a demand to restore the pre-pandemic world or reject every cultural development that followed it. It concerns the persistence of familiar emotional habits within an increasingly modernized entertainment environment, including the contradictions that arise when people continue enjoying what they have grown accustomed to despite recognizing its imperfections. The ordinary listener may welcome contemporary pop, criticize the stagnation of older genres, and still return to those genres because they recall a particular atmosphere that newer recordings have not yet acquired.

That attachment is neither inherently admirable nor necessarily irrational. It can preserve valuable cultural memory, but it can also sustain questionable assumptions and commercially exhausted formulas. What deserves examination is the point at which familiarity ceases to explain a preference and begins to function as a sufficient justification for it. The older song may remain enjoyable, but its age does not make it better; the newer performance may be technically impressive, but its novelty does not guarantee that it will become personally meaningful.

The question of whether contemporary P-pop belongs beside a bucket of beer consequently becomes less absurd than it first appeared. The answer depends partly upon the social circumstances through which music is encountered, the habits of the people listening, and the degree to which a recording has become part of their ordinary repertoire. Someone may enthusiastically request BINI, another may prefer an old South Border number, and the showband may accommodate both without treating the evening as an argument about the future of Philippine entertainment.

What the scene reveals is not a definitive verdict upon contemporary pop but the complicated relationship between musical change and social memory. The ordinary listener may recognize a song's popularity without finding it indispensable, or continue enjoying an older recording whose artistic limitations are no longer in doubt. Such judgments may appear inconsistent because the experience of music is itself entangled with friendships, romances, embarrassments, routines, and recollections that do not conform to a systematic theory of taste.

The entertainment industry can refine its arrangements, improve its choreography, reorganize its promotional methods, and cultivate performers whose accomplishments would have seemed remarkable to an earlier generation. It cannot assume, however, that the visibility of those achievements will automatically displace the emotional vocabulary through which listeners have already learned to recognize ordinary pleasure. The commons may embrace new music while retaining an attachment to familiar sounds, including sounds that are repetitive, crude, sentimental, or professionally manufactured beneath an appearance of spontaneity.

The persistence of normalcy is consequently less a refusal of cultural transformation than a reminder of its uneven character. Musical production can change rapidly, but the emotional habits through which audiences interpret it accumulate through experiences that cannot be revised as efficiently as a marketing strategy. The listener who returns to an old romantic ballad, a sentimental rock anthem, or an embarrassing novelty recording may do so without believing that the past was superior or that the present is unwelcome. The music simply remains associated with experiences already lived, and those associations can endure even after the conventions that produced them have become outdated.

There is little innocence in this process, and perhaps that is what makes it worth examining. The commons can be affectionate and inconsistent, receptive and resistant, culturally adventurous and surprisingly conservative in its habits. It can recognize excellence while preferring mediocrity, criticize artificiality while enjoying professionally manufactured spontaneity, and demand something new while rewarding performers who reproduce the familiar. Such contradictions should not be erased in the name of celebrating ordinary taste, because they reveal the limitations as well as the enduring appeal of the normalcy to which people return.

The reversion of the commons is ultimately an account of those attachments and their consequences. The ordinary Filipino listener may enjoy contemporary P-pop, recognize its achievements, and accept its place within the modern entertainment landscape, yet continue finding greater personal satisfaction in music associated with earlier social experiences. That preference does not establish that the familiar is superior, and it does not require the unfamiliar to be dismissed. It reveals instead how popular music becomes part of ordinary life through repetition, memory, and the sometimes contradictory standards by which people decide what they find enjoyable. The industry may continue producing new sounds and new spectacles, but their place within the commons will depend upon more than commercial prominence. It will depend upon whether, over time, listeners find reasons to make them part of the ordinary circumstances through which their lives are remembered.

***

Selected References and Further Reading

- Gabrillo, James. (2024). *[Pop Convergence: Musical Multimedia in Manila](https://academic.oup.com/book/58171).* Oxford University Press.

- *Rolling Stone Philippines*. (2025). [How 2000s Pinoy Love Rap Defied Taste in Hip-Hop](https://rollingstonephilippines.com/music/2000s-pinoy-love-rap-hip-hop/).

- GMA News. (2020). [Geneva Cruz Looks Back on Smokey Mountain](https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/showbiz/chikaminute/762253/geneva-cruz-looks-back-on-smokey-mountain-we-were-just-all-hungry-to-sing/story).

- *The Philippine Star*. (2024). [Smokey Mountain's Original Members Share Lessons From Ryan Cayabyab](https://www.philstar.com/entertainment/2024/10/27/2395611/smokey-mountains-original-members-share-priceless-lessons-mr-c/amp/).

- ABS-CBN. (2020). [Star Hunt Academy Introduces BINI](https://corporate.abs-cbn.com/newsroom/news-releases/2020/10/6/star-hunt-academys-new-rookie-girl-group-bini-t?lang=fil).

- *Billboard Philippines*. (2024). [BINI Are in Full Bloom](https://billboardphilippines.com/music/features/bini-are-in-full-bloom-ppop-pantropiko-tiktok-interview-2024/).

- GMA News. (2024). [Spotify Wrapped: Hev Abi and BINI Lead Philippine Charts](https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/lifestyle/hobbiesandactivities/929073/spotify-wrapped-2024-hev-abi-bini-lead-philippine-charts/story/).

- GMA News. (2025). [“Multo” Is Spotify Philippines' Most-Streamed Song](https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/lifestyle/hobbiesandactivities/968432/multo-is-most-streamed-song-on-spotify-ph-in-2025-cup-of-joe-is-most-streamed-opm-artist/story/).

- *Bandwagon*. (2022). [Denise Julia on Her R&B Influences](https://www.bandwagon.asia/articles/introducing-filipino-singer-songwriter-denise-julia-interview-nvmd-tiktok-release-music-video-august-2022).

- Jopper Ril. (2024). [“Salamin, Salamin” — Y2K R&B Full Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeLXjWqe4i0).

- [Recording attributed to Steven Peregrina: “Pantropiko” R&B Interpretation](https://youtu.be/6zl1y4kB7d0). Attribution and broader audience reception remain independently unverified.

- *Interaksyon*. (2024). [Construction Workers' “Pantropiko” Dance Cover](https://interaksyon.philstar.com/trends-spotlights/2024/04/18/273989/construction-workers-pantropiko-dance-cover/).

- Philippine Entertainment Portal. (2009). [Viva Hot Babes Reunite for FHM Cover](https://www.pep.ph/news/local/20713/viva-hot-babes-katya-maui-and-andrea-reunite-on-the-cover-of-fhm).

- Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism. (2025). [Political Dynasties and the 2025 Gubernatorial Elections](https://pcij.org/2025/05/22/philippines-governors-political-dynasties-election-result/).

- Spotify for Artists. [Discovery Mode](https://artists.spotify.com/discovery-mode).

WHEN REALITY NEEDS LULAS: The Conscience of Lula, the Decisiveness of Brizola, and the Determination of Enéas

2026-11-03T02:15:15.546-08:00

WHEN REALITY NEEDS LULAS:

The Conscience of Lula, the Decisiveness of Brizola,

and the Determination of Enéas

The recent victory of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva has demonstrated that the Brazilian Left remains capable of mobilizing a nation. Whether it can transform that nation is another question. Between the social conscience of Lula, the political decisiveness of Leonel Brizola, the industrial nationalism of Getúlio Vargas, the strategic outlook of Ernesto Geisel, and the national determination of Enéas Carneiro lies a neglected argument about the responsibilities of government. It is an argument that ought to concern conservatives no less than socialists, particularly in an age when patriotism is too often divorced from economic sovereignty and pragmatism is increasingly invoked to excuse the abandonment of principle.

The morning after the victory

The re-election of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva to the Brazilian presidency on October 25, 2026, has naturally occasioned considerable satisfaction among those who regard the defeat of the Bolsonaro political movement as an essential condition for the preservation of Brazilian democracy. For the Workers’ Party and its allies, it was another demonstration of an organizational resilience that has survived political scandal, imprisonment, electoral defeat, ideological fragmentation, and the formidable growth of a conservative populism increasingly capable of appealing to constituencies once regarded as the natural preserve of the Left.

The victory was remarkable in its own right. Having trailed Flávio Bolsonaro in the first round, Lula recovered sufficiently to secure a majority in the second. The renewed mobilization of supporters, particularly through the combined use of public demonstrations and digital communications, exposed the mistaken assumption that the techniques of mass political agitation perfected by the contemporary Right were beyond the capacity of its opponents. The Left, which had often appeared uncomfortable with the language and methods of the new popular politics, demonstrated that it could contest the field upon which its adversaries had acquired a substantial advantage.

There is something rather amusing about the indignation of those conservatives who regard such methods as perfectly legitimate when employed in their own campaigns but as evidence of political impropriety when adopted by the opposition. Political communication is not the hereditary property of any ideological movement, and the ability to mobilize public opinion through contemporary technology is no more inherently conservative than the newspaper, radio, or mass meeting was inherently socialist. Indeed, a movement that professes to represent ordinary people would be singularly incompetent if it refused to employ the means through which those people increasingly conduct their political discussions.

Nevertheless, the achievement invites a question that should be addressed before the excitement of victory becomes a substitute for political judgment. Does the successful defeat of a political opponent necessarily represent a corresponding victory for the principles upon which the successful movement was established? The election has determined who is entitled to govern, but it has not resolved the more difficult questions of what government is expected to accomplish, what economic arrangements it ought to defend or reform, and what place Brazil intends to occupy in an international order increasingly characterized by great-power competition and the renewed assertion of economic spheres of influence.

For those who take political principle seriously, such questions cannot be dismissed as the complaints of purists insufficiently appreciative of electoral realities. Political parties must win elections if they intend to influence government, and there is nothing inherently dishonourable about adapting their methods to prevailing circumstances. Yet political success becomes a questionable achievement when the acquisition and preservation of office gradually displace the purposes for which that office was originally sought.

There is a particular danger in making the defeat of the Right the permanent measure of the Left’s political accomplishments. It is perfectly possible for a left-wing administration to defeat its conservative opponents while leaving substantially undisturbed the economic arrangements that contributed to the growth of conservative dissatisfaction. A government may restore democratic conventions, enlarge social benefits, and conduct itself with greater civility than its predecessors, yet still fail to provide a convincing answer to the declining security of industrial employment, the concentration of productive power, regional inequalities, and the continued dependence of national development upon financial decisions made beyond the country’s borders.

The Brazilian electorate has given Lula another mandate, but a mandate is an instrument rather than an accomplishment. Its historical importance will depend upon whether the administration can convert electoral legitimacy into a programme of economic and institutional development that outlasts the next political campaign. The president’s social conscience remains one of his greatest political assets, but conscience requires an executive capacity equal to its ambitions and a national purpose that does not evaporate upon encountering the objections of the market.

The Capitulation disguised as Economic Wisdom

One observes a curious development in modern political life. Men who begin their careers denouncing the established economic order frequently conclude them explaining why that order cannot substantially be altered. Others who enter politics in the name of national sovereignty, cultural tradition, and public authority become enthusiastic advocates of economic doctrines that leave much of the nation’s material existence to the discretion of private interests whose loyalties are not necessarily national. The socialist learns to accommodate the financial establishment, while the conservative increasingly accepts the market as an authority before which the institutions of society must justify their continued existence.

The vocabulary employed to defend these adjustments is familiar enough. Comparative advantage, market efficiency, competitiveness, fiscal responsibility, investor confidence, and the efficient allocation of resources have become indispensable expressions in the rhetoric of contemporary government. They possess the considerable advantage of appearing scientific, and their employment often permits a political leader to present controversial decisions as the unavoidable consequences of economic laws rather than choices involving competing social purposes.

There is no reason to deny the analytical value of these concepts. Comparative advantage is an important explanation of the benefits obtainable through international specialization. Efficient allocation matters because resources are finite, and the government that persistently wastes them will eventually diminish the welfare of those it claims to serve. Fiscal responsibility is an indispensable consideration in any country whose public obligations must be sustained over generations. Foreign investment may introduce capital, technology, and access to international markets that could not otherwise be readily obtained.

But these propositions are not a complete philosophy of government. Economic analysis can identify the costs and advantages of particular arrangements; it cannot determine, without reference to political and moral judgment, what kind of society a nation ought to become. Nor does the existence of a comparative advantage under present conditions establish that a country must preserve those conditions indefinitely.

If comparative advantage were treated as a permanent prescription rather than an explanation of relative costs, the industrial ambitions of many countries that subsequently became advanced manufacturing economies might never have been pursued. Their governments and enterprises undertook investments in education, machinery, infrastructure, technological development, and industrial organization precisely because they wished to acquire capabilities that existing circumstances did not yet favour.

This distinction was understood by Friedrich List in his criticism of an international economic order whose apparent benefits were unequally distributed between already industrialized nations and those attempting to acquire comparable productive capabilities. It was subsequently reflected, under different historical conditions, in the developmental arguments associated with Latin American structuralism and thinkers such as Celso Furtado. Their common concern was not that trade should be abolished, but that participation in trade must not become a permanent justification for remaining technologically and industrially subordinate.

The problem arises when economic efficiency is elevated from an instrument of public policy into the final purpose of political society. A factory may be closed because a foreign producer can manufacture its products more cheaply. In purely commercial terms, the decision may be rational. But a government must also consider whether the closure destroys accumulated technical knowledge, undermines a regional community, diminishes the domestic supplier network, or increases strategic dependence upon sources over which the country exercises little control.

These considerations do not establish that every factory should be preserved at public expense. Some industries become obsolete, some enterprises are badly managed, and others have survived only through the cultivation of political privilege. A government that refuses to recognize these realities will eventually acquire an economy of subsidized inefficiency. Nevertheless, the opposite proposition, that every productive institution must survive or perish exclusively according to immediate market profitability, mistakes the commercial interests of individual enterprises for the total economic interests of the nation.

The economist may reasonably ask whether a particular industry justifies the resources devoted to it. The statesman must additionally ask what consequences its existence or disappearance will have upon the country’s long-term productive capacity. The two questions are related, but they are not identical, and the politician who answers the second exclusively by reference to the first has already conceded more than he may recognize.

This is where principle becomes indispensable. A government need not reject markets in order to refuse their elevation above all other social obligations. Nor must it reject foreign capital in order to insist that investment should contribute to national development. It requires only the confidence to acknowledge that the economy is part of a political and historical community whose interests extend beyond the immediate calculations of buyers and sellers.

What, precisely, does the "modern conservative" conserve?

The contradiction becomes particularly conspicuous among those political movements that have made national greatness and public order the principal ornaments of their appeal. They are remarkably insistent that the state must possess sufficient authority to restrain crime, protect property, defend territorial sovereignty, and uphold the institutions of public life. Yet when discussion turns toward the productive foundations upon which those institutions depend, the same advocates of authority frequently become reluctant to recognize any substantial governmental responsibility.

Jair Bolsonaro provides a revealing example of this tendency. His political identity developed through military associations, conservative social positions, and a reputation for defending the interests of soldiers and sections of the public service. He appealed to voters who believed that the political establishment had become indifferent to institutional discipline, national pride, and the obligations of government toward those who served it.

Yet his presidency became closely associated with the programme of economic liberalization advanced by Paulo Guedes, whose conception of reform emphasized privatization, fiscal retrenchment, and the reduction of what he regarded as excessive state participation in the economy. Bolsonaro’s administration pursued the pension reform of 2019, while the separate restructuring of military retirement and career arrangements produced a different balance of obligations and benefits for the armed forces.

The circumstances surrounding these measures were complicated, and one should not pretend that pension reform is inherently incompatible with social responsibility. A retirement system that cannot meet its future obligations is ultimately a threat to the very beneficiaries it purports to protect. Nor would it be reasonable to deny that military service involves professional conditions distinct from those of ordinary civilian employment.

The question is whether the political leadership possessed a coherent principle governing the distribution of economic obligations, or whether the language of necessary sacrifice was applied according to the changing priorities of fiscal policy and political constituency.

Bolsonaro’s administration illustrated the difficulties that arise when a populist nationalism, strongly concerned with the authority and prestige of the state, becomes dependent upon an economic philosophy inclined to regard much of the state’s developmental role as an impediment to efficiency. National greatness was invoked as a moral and political objective, but the mechanisms through which national productive power might be deliberately strengthened received considerably less consistent attention.

One may inquire why the conservative who desires a powerful military should be so indifferent to the industrial arrangements upon which military capability depends. Modern defence requires engineering, electronics, advanced materials, communications, transportation, energy security, and a substantial domestic knowledge base. A nation cannot develop sophisticated military capabilities merely by cultivating patriotic sentiment or increasing the ceremonial prominence of its armed forces.

Equally, the defence of the family cannot be separated from the material conditions under which families are established and maintained. Employment insecurity, inadequate housing, the decline of productive communities, and the inability of younger generations to acquire stable livelihoods are matters of conservative concern because they threaten the continuity of social institutions. A conservatism that regards these consequences as morally regrettable but economically beyond the responsibilities of government has narrowed its understanding of society to an extraordinary degree.

The old conservative argument was never exclusively concerned with the protection of capital. It involved the defence of inherited obligations, institutional authority, and the social relationships that preserve continuity between generations. Such obligations may require the regulation of private economic power no less than the restraint of governmental excess. Indeed, the conservative tradition has contained substantial currents of paternalism, economic nationalism, Christian social thought, and opposition to forms of commercial individualism regarded as destructive of established communities.

The modern identification of conservatism with market liberalism is therefore historically contingent rather than philosophically inevitable. It is possible to believe in private property, constitutional authority, religious and cultural continuity, and the importance of national independence without believing that the market should possess exclusive jurisdiction over the country’s industrial development.

Why, then, should a Brazilian conservative regard the revival of the country’s industrial capabilities as an offence against his political philosophy? Why should the desire to establish domestic technological competence be treated as an unacceptable concession to socialism? Why should the protection of essential productive institutions be considered inherently less respectable than the protection of traditional moral arrangements?

A political movement that professes national greatness but regards the economy chiefly as a field for the unrestrained calculations of investors may discover that its patriotism possesses remarkably little practical content. The danger is not simply inconsistency. It is that a nation may retain the symbols of sovereignty while steadily surrendering the material capabilities necessary to exercise it.

Lula's conscience and the incomplete promise of Trabalhismo

Lula’s political importance begins with an understanding of labour that the purely commercial conception of economic society cannot adequately supply. His emergence from the industrial working class endowed him with a familiarity with the social consequences of economic insecurity that many professional politicians encounter only through statistical reports and constituency briefings.

For the industrial worker, unemployment is not merely a temporary misallocation of labour. It may mean the interruption of a household’s income, the abandonment of educational plans for children, the loss of accumulated savings, or the necessity of leaving a community in which several generations have lived. The economic condition of labour therefore acquires a moral significance that cannot be measured entirely through wages or productivity.

The Workers’ Party drew much of its original legitimacy from the proposition that working people were entitled to participate in the decisions affecting their economic lives. Lula’s political achievement was to convert this principle into a broad democratic movement capable of governing a society whose political institutions had historically been dominated by established elites.

His social programmes, particularly Bolsa Família, became symbols of an effort to alleviate poverty through public policy rather than leave the improvement of poorer households entirely dependent upon the uncertain diffusion of economic growth. Their contribution to the material condition of many Brazilians deserves recognition. A government that reduces hunger and gives families greater access to education and basic necessities performs a public service that cannot be dismissed merely because its methods offend a particular economic orthodoxy.

Nevertheless, a society cannot be permanently reconstructed through the administration of social benefits alone. Income transfers may alleviate deprivation, but they do not automatically create productive employment, modern industries, advanced technical skills, or the economic independence of communities that have historically depended upon external sources of capital and production.

The distinction is important because the political success of a social programme may encourage its administrators to mistake the enlargement of assistance for the accomplishment of structural reform. It is possible to improve consumption without producing a corresponding transformation in the country’s productive capabilities. Such improvement is valuable, but its permanence may remain vulnerable to changes in commodity prices, government revenue, financial conditions, and the availability of domestic employment.

The older Brazilian trabalhista tradition possessed a broader conception of the relationship between labour and national economic development. It did not consider the working class solely as a population requiring protection against poverty. It also regarded labour as a principal participant in the construction of an industrial nation, with public institutions responsible for establishing the conditions under which production, employment, and social improvement might advance together.

There were important differences between the trabalhismo associated with Getúlio Vargas and Leonel Brizola and the independent trade-union movement from which Lula emerged. Vargas’s labour institutions were closely tied to state supervision, whereas the Workers’ Party arose partly from struggles against authoritarian controls over union organization. These differences should not be concealed merely to manufacture a convenient continuity between political traditions.

Yet there is a common economic question beneath them. How can the state organize the conditions under which labour becomes not simply an object of social assistance but a beneficiary and participant in national productive development?

Lula’s more recent industrial initiatives suggest an increasing recognition that social policy requires a productive foundation. Nova Indústria Brasil, launched in 2024, seeks to strengthen manufacturing, technological development, industrial innovation, and strategically important sectors through a combination of public financing and private investment.

Such a programme is more substantial than the idea that government should merely distribute the social benefits made possible by growth generated elsewhere. But its historical importance will depend upon execution, institutional discipline, and the willingness of government to distinguish genuine productive development from the distribution of incentives to politically influential enterprises.

The public development bank, the research institution, the industrial ministry, and the purchasing power of the state must become instruments of a coherent strategy rather than separate bureaucratic establishments engaged in the administration of fashionable programmes.

Lula’s conscience requires an appreciation of this distinction. If his legacy is to extend beyond Bolsa Família and the political defeat of his conservative opponents, it must demonstrate that Brazilian workers can acquire a greater share not only in the distribution of economic wealth but in the industrial and technological capacity through which that wealth is created.

Getulio Vargas and the unfinished task of Trabalhismo?

To invoke Getúlio Vargas in this discussion is to invite objections from more than one ideological direction. Conservatives may regard his corporatism and extensive economic intervention as excessive exercises of state authority, while socialists may recall his repression of communists and his restrictions upon independent working-class organization. Liberals have substantial grounds for condemning the Estado Novo, whose censorship, arbitrary rule, and suppression of political opposition cannot be excused by reference to its economic policies.

Such objections are necessary to any serious historical appraisal. They do not, however, settle the question of Vargas’s contribution to Brazil’s transformation from an economy principally associated with agricultural exports toward one possessing more extensive industrial institutions.

The Brazil that emerged from the Revolution of 1930 was not a country suddenly liberated from every influence associated with the old oligarchic republic. Regional elites retained substantial power, rural inequalities remained severe, and the political system acquired new forms of authoritarian centralization. Nevertheless, the period marked an important change in the conception of federal authority.

The Brazilian state increasingly assumed responsibility for economic coordination, industrial development, labour regulation, and the creation of institutions capable of supporting a more diversified national economy. The country would no longer be regarded merely as a collection of regional producing interests whose prosperity depended principally upon access to foreign markets.

The development of the Companhia Siderúrgica Nacional was particularly significant. Steel production was not simply another commercial undertaking but an industrial capability upon which machinery, transportation, construction, and other productive activities could subsequently develop. The same broader ambition informed the establishment of institutions associated with industrial finance and the development of national energy resources, including the creation of Petrobras during Vargas’s elected presidency.

The Consolidation of Labour Laws similarly reflected a recognition that the relationship between labour and capital could not be left exclusively to private contract. Its corporatist foundations and restrictions upon union independence were substantial limitations, but the social legislation represented a durable attempt to establish labour rights within the institutions of the national state.

The political contradiction was considerable. Vargas sought to integrate labour into the national community while limiting its freedom to organize independently of the government. His administration could advance industrial development while suppressing political liberties. It could present itself as the defender of ordinary workers while denying many of those workers the capacity to contest the authority exercised in their name.

These contradictions belong to his historical legacy and should not be concealed. But the existence of authoritarian defects does not establish that the industrial project itself was without merit or that subsequent democratic governments must abandon developmental responsibilities merely because an authoritarian predecessor once exercised them.

The Brazilian Left has sometimes approached Vargas through the injuries inflicted upon its predecessors, while the liberal Right has emphasized the economic inefficiencies and institutional distortions associated with state intervention. Both perspectives contain important truths. Neither fully addresses the historical significance of the proposition that Brazil required a deliberate strategy to escape excessive dependence upon primary commodities.

This is why Vargas remains relevant to the present argument. He recognized that the possession of sovereignty in the constitutional sense was inadequate without an economic structure capable of sustaining national independence. Brazil required institutions, skilled labour, machinery, steel, energy, and capital investment if it intended to exercise greater influence over its own economic future.

There is something particularly incongruous about contemporary politicians who celebrate the language of national grandeur while proposing an economic order that would make Brazil increasingly dependent upon the export of primary products and the importation of sophisticated manufactured goods.

Brazilian agriculture today is technologically advanced and internationally competitive; it should not be caricatured as a mere survival of the plantation economy. Its achievements in agricultural science, mechanization, logistics, and productivity are substantial. But its success offers an argument for extending technical capability into additional sectors, not for accepting a narrow conception of national economic specialization.

A country capable of developing sophisticated agricultural technology ought also to seek advanced capabilities in machinery, biotechnology, pharmaceuticals, energy systems, electronics, transportation, and industrial services.

One must therefore ask why a self-described nationalist would prefer Brazil to become principally a quintal of larger economic powers, rather than a country increasingly capable of producing the machinery, technology, and industrial knowledge upon which its own prosperity depends.

The old café com leite republic was not conservative in any noble sense merely because its dominant interests were established and wealthy. It represented a particular political and economic arrangement in which regional power and commodity production acquired extraordinary influence over national government.

To regard an analogous economic dependency as the natural future of contemporary Brazil would be an abandonment of much of the developmental inheritance that made the modern country possible.

Leonel Brizola and the politicial duty to decide

If Vargas represents the institutional beginnings of a more deliberate national economic policy, Leonel Brizola represents the proposition that such a policy requires political courage as well as administrative design.

Brizola’s public career was marked by a willingness to confront established interests and to exercise governmental authority in circumstances where accommodation might have been politically more convenient. His nationalization of utility operations in Rio Grande do Sul, his role in the constitutional crisis of 1961, and his later educational initiatives in Rio de Janeiro reflected an understanding of public office fundamentally different from the contemporary conception of government as the cautious management of arrangements determined by other institutions.

During his governorship of Rio Grande do Sul, Brizola regarded essential services as matters of public responsibility extending beyond the contractual rights of their private operators. The assumption of state control over electricity and telecommunications enterprises associated with foreign capital produced substantial controversy, but it also expressed a belief that the development of infrastructure must be judged according to the needs of the wider community.

This did not mean that foreign ownership was necessarily incompatible with adequate public service. Private capital can operate essential utilities successfully under appropriate arrangements. But Brizola refused to assume that private ownership automatically exhausted the legitimate considerations governing the organization of such services.

His role in the Campaign of Legality during 1961 was a more dramatic illustration of his political disposition. When military opposition threatened to prevent Vice President João Goulart from succeeding President Jânio Quadros, Brizola organized resistance in defence of the constitutional order. The radio became an instrument through which public opinion was mobilized, and the governor demonstrated that the legitimacy of constitutional government depended in part upon the willingness of political authorities to defend it against unlawful interference.

The eventual compromise that allowed Goulart to assume office under a parliamentary arrangement did not resolve all the difficulties confronting Brazilian democracy. Yet the episode demonstrated a principle often neglected by those who equate moderation with political virtue. Constitutional order does not preserve itself merely because its provisions have been elegantly drafted. It requires institutions and officeholders prepared to defend the lawful exercise of authority.

There is no reason why such determination should be understood as inherently authoritarian. Brizola’s defence of succession in 1961 was directed against an attempt to obstruct constitutional government. His decisiveness in that instance served legality rather than replacing it.

His educational programme in Rio de Janeiro, associated particularly with Darcy Ribeiro and the Integrated Public Education Centers, revealed a similar understanding of government in a less dramatic field. The intention was to provide children from disadvantaged communities with institutions capable of addressing educational and social needs that could not be satisfied through the conventional classroom alone.

The undertaking encountered disputes over expense, effectiveness, administration, and long-term sustainability. Such questions were legitimate, and the historical record cannot be reduced to a celebration of admirable intentions. But Brizola’s willingness to devote public authority and resources to a concrete institutional project distinguished him from politicians whose commitment to education consisted chiefly of speeches on its importance.

He recognized that the advancement of the poor required the construction of institutions, not merely the expression of sympathy.

For Lula and the Workers’ Party, the lesson is particularly relevant. A government may possess extensive popular legitimacy and yet gradually become hesitant to confront interests whose cooperation it regards as indispensable to political stability. Coalition management is a necessary part of democratic government, especially within Brazil’s complex parliamentary arrangements. But the cultivation of coalition support can eventually become a substitute for exercising the authority that the coalition was established to obtain.

Brizola’s example does not prescribe confrontation for its own sake. His political temperament could be excessively combative, and the capacity to provoke opposition is not necessarily evidence of statesmanship. Rather, his career demonstrates that a reforming government must be prepared to distinguish between objections requiring reasonable accommodation and resistance intended to prevent any substantial alteration of existing arrangements.

The social conscience of Lula must therefore be accompanied by the decisiveness associated with Brizola, not because the president should imitate every aspect of Brizola’s political conduct, but because a programme of national reconstruction will inevitably require choices that cannot satisfy every constituency.

An administration unwilling to make those choices may remain popular, respectable, and constitutionally legitimate while accomplishing considerably less than its historical responsibilities demand.

Ernesto Geisel and the problem of Strategic Continuity

Ernesto Geisel presents a more difficult historical figure because his developmental policies were undertaken within the institutional framework of Brazil’s military dictatorship. His government continued to exercise authoritarian powers, and its responsibility for political repression cannot be cancelled by the economic or diplomatic achievements of the period.

The gradual political opening associated with his administration was neither equivalent to immediate democratization nor evidence that the regime had abandoned coercive methods. The dictatorship remained a dictatorship, and the eventual restoration of constitutional democracy should not be understood as a justification of the system that preceded it.

Nevertheless, the economic programme pursued under Geisel deserves examination, particularly because it illustrates the importance and the limitations of strategic industrial planning.

The international oil crisis confronted Brazil with a serious difficulty. The country had acquired an expanding industrial base, but its dependence upon external energy supplies and imported capital goods left important sectors vulnerable to changes in international prices and financial conditions.

The Second National Development Plan attempted to address these problems through large-scale investment in energy, basic industries, transportation, communications, and industrial capabilities that private enterprise could not readily establish without substantial public coordination.

Geisel’s administration did not simply interpret the oil shock as evidence that Brazil should abandon its industrial ambitions and adapt itself to a reduced position in the international economy. It attempted instead to alter the conditions that had made the economy vulnerable.

The programme also depended upon a particular conception of relations between the state and private capital. Government and public enterprises would undertake large investments in foundational sectors, while domestic private firms were expected to participate in equipment supply, industrial development, and related activities.

Foreign investment was not excluded, but its role was to be considered within the larger objectives of national development. The state was therefore expected to possess sufficient institutional competence to distinguish strategically important sectors from those in which private and foreign capital could operate with greater freedom.

This was an ambitious undertaking, and its financial weaknesses were serious. Heavy external borrowing contributed to vulnerabilities that became increasingly apparent as international monetary conditions changed. The debt crisis that subsequently afflicted Latin America exposed the dangers of industrial development financed through obligations whose costs and availability could not be reliably controlled.

The experience suggests that the possession of an industrial plan is not sufficient to guarantee successful development. Government must also consider fiscal sustainability, foreign-exchange constraints, technological feasibility, and the capacity of enterprises to achieve improvements in productivity.

The lesson should be particularly important to anyone tempted to turn developmental nationalism into a doctrine of unlimited state expenditure. Public authority cannot repeal economic scarcity, and the mere designation of an enterprise as strategically important does not ensure that it will become technically proficient or financially sustainable.

Yet Geisel’s failures do not invalidate the proposition that government must concern itself with strategic capabilities. They demonstrate instead that industrial policy requires discipline and a realistic assessment of the financial and technical conditions under which it operates.

His foreign policy provides a related lesson. Brazil’s pursuit of diversified international relationships and the nuclear cooperation agreement with West Germany reflected a determination to acquire greater freedom of action in technological and diplomatic affairs.

The nuclear agreement encountered formidable practical difficulties and did not fully deliver the technological independence originally anticipated. Nevertheless, its objectives reflected an understanding that advanced scientific capability was an important component of sovereignty.

The interesting question for contemporary Brazil is whether a democratic government can maintain an equally serious commitment to long-term strategic development while avoiding the authoritarian practices and financial vulnerabilities of Geisel’s administration.

There is no inherent reason why the answer should be negative. Constitutional government can establish industrial priorities through legislation, public investment, development financing, and institutional coordination. Democratic accountability may also expose errors and inefficiencies that an authoritarian administration would prefer to conceal.

What is required is a conception of government in which national development survives changes in political leadership without becoming immune to criticism or correction.

The appeal of Geisel’s example should therefore be understood as an appeal for strategic continuity, not for the restoration of military government. Brazil requires institutions capable of pursuing projects whose useful lives extend beyond a presidential term, while preserving the constitutional mechanisms through which the public may examine their costs, purposes, and consequences.

Enéas Carneiro and the material content of sovereignty

Enéas Carneiro occupies an unusual position in Brazilian political memory. He was a conservative nationalist whose public reputation was shaped partly by his extraordinary television appearances, combative manner, and willingness to advocate positions far outside the accepted assumptions of the political establishment.

His reputation for eccentricity often overshadowed the seriousness with which he approached questions of science, technology, industrial development, and the material foundations of national power.

The founder of the Partido de Reedificação da Ordem Nacional was not a socialist, nor was his political outlook readily compatible with that of the Workers’ Party. His conservative social positions and advocacy of nuclear weapons are among the many reasons why an unqualified adoption of his political programme would be neither necessary nor desirable for a democratic Left.

Nevertheless, his insistence upon Brazil’s capacity to become an advanced industrial and scientific power deserves more consideration than is usually granted by those accustomed to classifying political arguments according to the ideological reputation of their advocates.

Enéas believed that national sovereignty required the possession of capabilities that could not simply be purchased whenever circumstances demanded them. A country dependent upon imported technology for its essential industries, foreign expertise for critical infrastructure, and external political approval for the acquisition of strategic knowledge could not reasonably regard its independence as complete.

Such a position does not require the rejection of international cooperation. The acquisition of technology frequently depends upon cooperation with foreign institutions, while participation in international markets may provide the resources necessary for further development.

The issue concerns whether these relationships increase national capabilities or perpetuate an arrangement in which the country remains dependent upon the same external suppliers indefinitely.

A nation may import machinery for the purpose of establishing an industry that will eventually produce comparable equipment. It may also import machinery year after year because it has never developed the scientific and industrial institutions necessary to manufacture it. The commercial transaction may appear similar in both cases, but the implications for national development are substantially different.

Enéas was concerned with the second possibility. His nationalism involved the assertion that Brazil should become capable of producing increasingly sophisticated technologies and maintaining the institutions necessary for scientific independence.

One may disagree with his emphasis upon military strength while recognizing the economic importance of advanced engineering, research establishments, energy technology, and industrial design.

His nuclear ambitions, especially the development of weapons, should be subjected to an exacting appraisal of strategic necessity, international legal commitments, regional security, and opportunity cost. It does not follow that a nation must acquire nuclear arms in order to become technologically independent, and Brazil has powerful reasons to preserve its peaceful nuclear commitments.

Yet the broader issue of technological competence remains. A sovereign country must be able to determine which capabilities are essential to its security and development, and it must possess the capacity to pursue them through institutions accountable to the national community.

Enéas’s importance is especially evident when contrasted with contemporary politicians who employ nationalist language but regard the acquisition of productive capacity as an incidental consequence of market activity.

He did not understand sovereignty merely as a matter of territorial possession or diplomatic recognition. He understood it as a condition requiring industry, technical knowledge, resources, and political determination.

There are ample reasons to criticize particular policies he proposed. But the historical importance of his argument should not be dismissed because of its conservative origins.

The Workers’ Party does not need to become PRONA, and a democratic developmental programme should not seek to reproduce the entirety of Enéas’s political thought. It should, however, be prepared to answer the questions he raised concerning Brazil’s material independence.

If the Left proposes to emancipate labour, it must explain what productive capabilities will sustain that emancipation. If conservatives propose to defend the nation, they must explain how the nation will acquire the industrial and technological strength necessary for effective sovereignty.

Neither question can be answered adequately by appealing to patriotic sentiment or confidence in the market alone.

The impartiality that History demands

The inclusion of Vargas, Geisel, Brizola, and Enéas in a discussion of Lula’s political future does not constitute an attempt to establish an artificial lineage between men whose political positions were frequently opposed. Nor does it imply that their historical controversies should be subordinated to the usefulness of particular policies.

It is instead a demand for a more serious method of political judgment.

The Brazilian Left has good reasons to remember the dictatorship, the suppression of independent labour organization, the persecution of communists, and the restrictions imposed upon democratic institutions. Its historical memory includes individuals who suffered imprisonment, exile, torture, and death in conflicts with authoritarian government.

Among the important figures in that history are Luís Carlos Prestes and Carlos Marighella, whose political commitments and methods were themselves subjects of intense controversy.

Prestes’s association with the communist movement and his understanding of revolutionary political organization cannot be examined without considering the influence of international communism and the strategic disputes of the twentieth century. Marighella’s commitment to armed resistance must likewise be assessed in relation to the repressive circumstances under which he acted, while retaining the distinction between understanding the reasons for political violence and endorsing every method employed in its name.

Their histories deserve careful study because they illuminate important conflicts within Brazilian political life. The same standards should apply to political figures whose ideological commitments fall outside the Left.

The industrial programmes of Vargas and Geisel do not excuse their authoritarian governments. Brizola’s constitutional courage does not establish that all his administrative decisions were wise. Enéas’s concern for national sovereignty does not oblige anyone to accept his positions on nuclear weapons or social policy.

Yet it would be equally unreasonable to conclude that their industrial and strategic concerns were therefore without merit.

A political movement that accepts only the historical contributions of those who share its complete ideology deprives itself of the ability to learn from experience. It is possible to condemn the suppression of civil liberties under an authoritarian regime while recognizing that a particular industrial institution established during that period subsequently contributed to national development.

Such recognition is not an act of political absolution. It is an acknowledgment that history consists of institutional consequences as well as ideological intentions.

The more important question is whether contemporary democratic government can preserve useful achievements while correcting the institutional defects under which they were produced.

If a developmental state can acquire scientific competence, industrial depth, and strategic independence while preserving constitutional freedoms and democratic accountability, it may recover the constructive objectives of earlier national programmes without perpetuating their authoritarian characteristics.

This is a more demanding political undertaking than either unconditional celebration or indiscriminate condemnation, but it is also more likely to produce useful conclusions.

The Trabalhista inheritance in the age of "Don-roe" doctrine

The international setting has made the question of Brazilian independence more urgent than it appeared during the comparatively confident years of post-Cold War globalization.

The renewed prominence of the Monroe Doctrine in American strategic policy, particularly under the Trump administration’s so-called Donroe Doctrine, reflects the reassertion of a conception of hemispheric order in which Washington claims a privileged interest in determining the strategic circumstances of the Americas.

The American government has legitimate reasons to concern itself with threats arising within the Western Hemisphere. Great powers have always considered their immediate geographical surroundings especially important to national security, and the United States is not exceptional in this regard.

But the legitimate defence of national security must be distinguished from the assumption that the strategic or economic choices of other sovereign countries require the approval of a dominant regional power.

The 2025 American National Security Strategy explicitly proclaimed a Trump corollary to the Monroe Doctrine, emphasizing American pre-eminence in the hemisphere and the denial of certain strategic positions to outside competitors. Its language reflects a broader movement away from the confident universalism of the earlier liberal international order toward a more openly competitive conception of great-power relationships.

For Brazil, the implications are considerable. The country possesses extensive economic relationships with the United States, China, Europe, and numerous other partners. Its industrial and technological development may require cooperation with enterprises and institutions from several competing geopolitical centres.

A foreign policy organized exclusively around the preferences of one great power would unnecessarily restrict these choices.

There is an uncomfortable historical resemblance between certain contemporary arguments for hemispheric predominance and the doctrines once employed by the Soviet Union to limit the independence of states within its own strategic sphere.

The comparison should not be mistaken for an assertion that the two political systems or their methods are identical. The Brezhnev Doctrine emerged within a particular ideological and military alliance, and its justification of intervention against socialist governments possessed characteristics that cannot simply be transferred to every aspect of American foreign policy.

Nevertheless, the underlying problem is recognizable. A great power may begin by asserting a legitimate interest in its security and gradually treat that interest as conferring a right to restrict the sovereign choices of other countries.

For nations situated within its sphere of predominance, the practical result may be a narrowing of the freedom to pursue independent diplomatic and economic relationships.

This is especially relevant to Brazil because the country’s ambition to acquire advanced technology and strengthen its industrial capabilities cannot be confined indefinitely to a single international source.

A government committed to national development must preserve the capacity to cooperate with different countries according to the technical, economic, and diplomatic merits of particular arrangements.

Such an approach is not an appeal for indiscriminate alignment with American adversaries. The replacement of dependence upon Washington with dependence upon Beijing or Moscow would accomplish little in the way of genuine independence.

Brazilian autonomy must be measured by the country’s ability to maintain relationships without allowing any one partner to determine the entirety of its national policy.

The trabalhista tradition possesses a historical interest in this problem because the development of Brazilian labour was understood as part of the development of the Brazilian nation. Economic sovereignty was not merely a matter of diplomatic prestige; it concerned the ability to provide employment, build industry, and determine the social uses of national resources.

In the present circumstances, that tradition requires a sophisticated approach to international capital. Brazil cannot afford to reject investment simply because it originates abroad, but neither should the government treat every foreign investment as equally beneficial to national development.

An enterprise that establishes domestic research, develops local suppliers, trains engineers, and expands export capabilities contributes differently from one whose activities consist principally of extracting resources or acquiring existing assets without substantially improving productive capacity.

Both may be lawful and commercially profitable, but the government has legitimate reasons to encourage the former more actively than the latter.

The distinction acquires greater importance when foreign investment is accompanied by strategic political conditions or the prospect of external control over essential infrastructure.

A democratic developmental state must therefore possess the capacity to assess international economic relationships as part of a national strategy. It should welcome cooperation without surrendering judgment, and pursue independence without confusing it with economic isolation.

Principle, Pragmatism, and the danger of the Fading Flag

There is a persistent tendency among political commentators to divide public men into two broad categories: the principled ideologue, who is assumed to be incapable of compromise, and the pragmatic statesman, who is regarded as possessing the wisdom necessary to accommodate political reality.

The distinction is misleading because it treats principle and pragmatism as mutually exclusive qualities.

A political principle identifies an objective or obligation that a movement regards as fundamental. Pragmatism concerns the selection of methods through which that objective may be pursued under particular circumstances. The two become incompatible only when the selection of methods begins to determine the purpose itself.

A socialist government may temporarily accommodate private capital because it recognizes the productive and financial limitations confronting the state. A nationalist administration may enter into agreements with foreign enterprises in order to acquire technology and investment that domestic institutions cannot immediately supply. A conservative government may enlarge social provision because it considers the preservation of social stability an obligation of public authority.

None of these decisions necessarily constitutes an abandonment of principle.

Indeed, a political movement incapable of distinguishing between immediate objectives and ultimate purposes may find itself unable to govern at all. A programme that requires the simultaneous satisfaction of every ideological ambition before accepting any practical improvement will almost certainly achieve less than its advocates intend.

But there is an equally serious danger in a political pragmatism that gradually ceases to recognize any purpose beyond the maintenance of office and the avoidance of conflict.

When every industrial undertaking is postponed because investors may object, every labour reform diluted because employers demand reassurance, and every strategic initiative abandoned because international financial institutions question its efficiency, one may reasonably inquire what remains of the original political programme.

The language of pragmatic necessity then becomes a means of concealing ideological surrender.

The problem is especially acute for movements whose symbols and historical identities were formed through struggles against economic arrangements they now find themselves administering.

The red flag need not be carried into every governmental decision as an instrument of theatrical militancy. Its historical meaning, however, cannot be reduced to a decoration employed at election rallies while the party accepts the permanent subordination of social objectives to the requirements of established capital.

A political movement may moderate its methods without abandoning its social philosophy. But when the objectives themselves become progressively less distinguishable from those of its opponents, the claim of ideological continuity becomes increasingly difficult to sustain.

Lula’s political career has been characterized by an unusual capacity to negotiate among institutions and interests whose support might otherwise have been impossible to obtain. This quality has contributed substantially to his electoral achievements and to his ability to govern a politically fragmented society.

It would be foolish to suggest that Brazil could be governed successfully through a permanent refusal of negotiation.

Yet the virtues of compromise must be assessed according to their consequences. A coalition that permits the establishment of lasting developmental institutions may justify concessions that would otherwise appear regrettable. A coalition whose principal achievement is the continued survival of the government, while its original economic objectives are indefinitely postponed, presents a different proposition.

The principled pragmatist accepts temporary limitations while preserving the means of future advance. The unprincipled pragmatist gradually adjusts his conception of what ought to be accomplished until it becomes indistinguishable from what established interests are already prepared to permit.

The Workers’ Party must decide which conception will govern its future.

Towards "Left conservatism?"

The political synthesis suggested by these historical experiences may be described as left-conservative, although the expression is likely to offend those who regard the conventional ideological categories as sufficiently comprehensive.

The objection is understandable. Conservatism and socialism have frequently been opponents, and their disagreements over property, class, political authority, and the organization of production cannot simply be dissolved through an appeal to patriotic sentiment.

Yet the conventional association of conservatism with economic liberalism conceals an older concern with social continuity, inherited obligations, and the preservation of institutions necessary for a functioning national community.

A conservative understanding of society recognizes that the individual is born into relationships that precede his own choices. Families, communities, professions, religious institutions, systems of law, and national traditions create obligations that cannot be reduced to voluntary commercial exchanges.

The economy operates within this larger social order. Its institutions are necessary because society requires production, employment, investment, and the distribution of resources, but they do not exhaust the purposes for which society exists.

The disruption of productive communities may therefore be a conservative concern even where it results from lawful market activity. A country whose younger generations cannot acquire stable employment or establish independent households has reason to question whether its economic arrangements adequately serve its social institutions.

Likewise, a nation whose industrial capabilities are progressively diminished may be weakening the material foundations of the sovereignty and continuity that conservatives profess to defend.

The Left approaches many of these difficulties through its concern with labour, equality, social rights, and the unequal distribution of economic power. Yet these concerns also require attention to the institutions through which society creates wealth.

A government cannot indefinitely improve wages through legislation alone if productivity stagnates and productive investment disappears. It cannot maintain comprehensive social services without a sufficiently capable economy. Nor can it ensure broad access to education while neglecting the creation of skilled employment for the people who receive it.

The resulting political convergence does not require ideological uniformity. It requires recognition that the preservation of a functioning national community and the improvement of the material condition of its members are mutually dependent objectives.

Such a conception would defend private property while recognizing its social obligations. It would support enterprise while opposing the conversion of economic power into permanent political privilege. It would encourage international trade without accepting the permanent limitation of national industrial ambitions to presently profitable activities.

It would also recognize a legitimate role for public ownership in sectors where strategic requirements, natural monopoly, or the scale of investment justify such arrangements, while refusing to presume that a state enterprise is necessarily efficient simply because it belongs to the public.

The governing consideration would be whether institutions contribute to the long-term development of national productive capacity and the welfare of the population.

In this respect, a left-conservative developmentalism would have as much reason to oppose inefficient public monopolies as to oppose private monopolies whose market power imposes excessive costs upon the national economy.

Its economic nationalism would not consist of hostility toward foreigners but of responsibility toward the national community. Foreign investment would be welcome where it advances productive capabilities, employment, technological knowledge, and export development.

Its social conservatism would likewise be judged by the material seriousness with which it supports families, communities, and the institutions necessary for intergenerational continuity.

It would not regard national independence as a ceremonial abstraction, but as a continuing obligation to cultivate the scientific, industrial, agricultural, and administrative capabilities through which sovereignty becomes effective.

This is a demanding conception of politics because it refuses the conveniences of both doctrinaire anti-capitalism and doctrinaire market liberalism. It requires government to make distinctions, assess institutions, and maintain long-term commitments without mistaking state intervention for an automatic guarantee of success.

The institutions of a productive social republic

If these propositions are to become more than historical reflections, they must acquire institutional content.

Brazil already possesses important foundations upon which a renewed developmental strategy can be constructed. Its public development institutions, universities, scientific establishments, agricultural research organizations, industrial enterprises, energy companies, and technically proficient workforce represent accumulated capabilities that many developing nations have struggled for generations to acquire.

The problem is not that Brazil must construct an industrial society from nothing. It is that the country’s existing productive capacities must be strengthened, diversified, and integrated into a more coherent strategy capable of addressing technological dependency and uneven social development.

The public development bank has an important role in this undertaking, but its legitimacy must rest upon measurable productive results. Financing should support enterprises that undertake technological upgrading, expand domestic production, develop suppliers, increase exports, and establish skilled employment.

The state should not distribute industrial assistance indefinitely without establishing conditions governing its use.

Enterprises receiving public support must be expected to demonstrate improvements in capability, and there must be mechanisms for withdrawing support from those that persistently fail to meet reasonable objectives.

Such discipline is indispensable if industrial policy is to escape the familiar accusation that it merely transfers public resources to politically influential businesses.

The development of domestic technological capability should receive particular attention. Universities and research institutions require more than academic prestige; they require relationships with enterprises and public agencies capable of translating scientific knowledge into productive activity.

Brazil’s agricultural achievements demonstrate that research, technical education, and practical production can reinforce one another. Similar relationships may be cultivated in advanced manufacturing, energy technology, pharmaceuticals, medical equipment, transportation, aerospace, and digital infrastructure.

The development of these sectors must be guided by realistic assessments of existing capability and international demand. Government should not assume that every strategic industry must be entirely domestically owned or that every component must be manufactured within national territory.

Such ambitions may impose excessive costs while diminishing the competitiveness of the very enterprises they are intended to protect.

What matters is whether Brazil acquires progressively greater influence over design, production, technology, and the organization of industrial supply chains.

The country should also employ international investment as a means of enlarging domestic capabilities rather than treating it solely as an immediate source of finance. Partnerships that involve technical training, joint research, local procurement, and export expansion may be particularly valuable.

There is nothing inherently unpatriotic about foreign participation in national development. The danger lies in allowing the terms of participation to be determined without adequate regard to national objectives.

A similar responsibility applies to infrastructure. Energy systems, ports, railways, communications networks, and urban transportation should be understood as elements of productive development rather than isolated opportunities for construction contracts.

Their economic significance depends upon the activities they make possible, the regions they connect, and the costs they reduce for enterprises and households.

An industrial strategy that neglects transportation, housing, and public services will eventually discover that its benefits are limited by the conditions under which workers live and producers operate.

Labour policy must therefore remain integral to development. Technical education, apprenticeships, occupational protections, collective bargaining, and the provision of social security should not be treated as dispensable expenses introduced after industrial investment has already taken place.

They are part of the institutional arrangements through which productive capacity is established and sustained.

A nation whose workers acquire increasingly sophisticated skills possesses an important economic advantage. A country that relies principally upon inexpensive and insecure labour may attract particular forms of investment, but it risks remaining dependent upon activities whose competitiveness rests upon the continued suppression of domestic purchasing power and social improvement.

The objective should be the development of productive employment capable of supporting rising living standards without undermining international competitiveness.

Such an undertaking requires administrative competence and a willingness to examine results. It will produce successes and failures, and government must possess the capacity to learn from both.

A developmental state that cannot acknowledge unsuccessful investments eventually becomes a mechanism for protecting its own mistakes. A market-oriented government that refuses every industrial initiative because some previous interventions have failed commits the opposite error.

National development requires institutions sufficiently confident to act and sufficiently accountable to correct themselves.

The Responsibility that survives the ballot

The political experience cannot end with the ballot and the subsequent victory of those who have sought it.

An election is an indispensable instrument through which citizens authorize government, but it is not a substitute for the institutions, economic relationships, and social organizations necessary to sustain a functioning republic.

The Brazilian Left has demonstrated an impressive capacity to mobilize voters. Its more demanding responsibility is to transform that mobilization into institutions capable of surviving the electoral cycle.

Trade unions, cooperatives, professional associations, universities, local governments, research establishments, and productive enterprises must participate in the broader process of national development.

A movement that regards ordinary people principally as voters to be mobilized and beneficiaries to be assisted has not fully realized the democratic ambitions that originally justified its existence.

Citizens should possess opportunities to participate in productive economic life and in the institutions through which public decisions are examined and implemented.

This requires more than a change in presidential rhetoric. It requires sustained investment in local capabilities, the strengthening of technical institutions, and a political culture capable of treating national development as an undertaking that extends beyond the immediate electoral interests of the governing party.

It also requires the opposition to recognize obligations extending beyond the defeat of the administration. A conservative movement that wishes to replace Lula must offer an economic conception of Brazilian society more substantial than the promise to reduce regulation, attract investment, and restore confidence among financiers.

Those objectives may have legitimate places within economic policy, but they are inadequate as a complete programme of national development.

The Right must decide whether its nationalism includes responsibility for the productive life of the country, just as the Left must decide whether its socialism includes a coherent strategy for expanding productive capacity.

There is considerable danger in allowing both sides to evade these questions by concentrating upon the cultural and personal controversies through which electoral polarization is most easily sustained.

Brazil’s political disagreements are real, and many concern matters upon which reasonable compromise will remain difficult. Yet the country’s industrial development, scientific advancement, and the provision of stable economic opportunities are responsibilities that cannot be postponed indefinitely while political factions contest the symbolic ownership of the nation.

The nation possesses a future beyond the ambitions of its parties.

A government that understands this must pursue objectives whose benefits may not become evident until after its members have left office. Its success should be judged partly by the institutions and productive capabilities transmitted to succeeding administrations and generations.

This is not a demand that politics cease to be partisan. It is a demand that partisan competition take place within a more serious understanding of the enduring responsibilities of the state.

Lula’s re-election provides an opportunity to recover such an understanding, but it does not guarantee that the opportunity will be used.

The Conscience, the Decision, and the Will

The political significance of Lula, Brizola, Vargas, Geisel, and Enéas lies neither in their agreement upon a common doctrine nor in the possibility that contemporary Brazil might reproduce their historical programmes.

Their political differences are too substantial, and the controversies surrounding some of them too grave, for such a conclusion to be credible.

What they offer is an opportunity to reconsider the relationship between social purpose, public authority, and national productive capacity.

Lula’s political conscience remains indispensable because an economic programme that neglects the ordinary citizen can acquire impressive industrial establishments while failing to justify the sacrifices imposed upon the population. Social improvement must remain the purpose of development rather than a benefit expected to emerge incidentally from it.

Brizola’s decisiveness remains relevant because democratic legitimacy must be accompanied by the courage to exercise lawful governmental authority. A reforming administration cannot indefinitely avoid difficult decisions merely because they may provoke resistance from established interests.

Vargas’s developmental inheritance deserves consideration because the creation of modern productive institutions required Brazil to move beyond the assumption that its economic future should be determined principally by the interests associated with its existing commodity exports.

Geisel’s strategic outlook remains instructive because industrial development involves long-term institutional commitments, technological planning, and an appreciation of the vulnerabilities created by external dependence. His government’s authoritarianism and the financial weaknesses of its programme also demonstrate why such ambitions must be subject to constitutional restraint and economic discipline.

Enéas’s determination retains its force because national independence cannot be sustained solely through diplomatic language and patriotic symbolism. It requires the cultivation of scientific, industrial, and technical capabilities through which a country becomes increasingly capable of determining its own future.

The synthesis is therefore not an attempt to reconcile every proposition advanced by these political figures. It is an argument that the qualities they represented, when subjected to democratic accountability and practical judgment, address weaknesses that have become increasingly apparent in contemporary political life.

The conservative who wishes to preserve the nation must recognize that the preservation of national society involves responsibility for its productive institutions and the material security of its people. The socialist who wishes to improve the condition of labour must recognize that social provision requires a productive economy capable of sustaining it. The nationalist who wishes to defend sovereignty must recognize that economic and technological independence cannot be acquired merely through the declaration of political will.

The modern state must therefore possess a conception of national development extending beyond both the administration of welfare and the unrestricted pursuit of commercial profitability.

Such a conception requires political judgment precisely because the objectives involved cannot always be reconciled without difficulty. Industrial investment competes with immediate social expenditure. National strategic projects impose costs that must be measured against alternative public requirements. Foreign capital may offer indispensable resources while introducing new forms of dependency. The defence of established industries may preserve useful capabilities, but it can also obstruct innovation when protection becomes permanent.

These problems cannot be resolved through slogans or ideological formulas. They require government to establish priorities, assess consequences, and maintain public accountability.

That is why the appeal to principle must not be confused with a demand for doctrinaire rigidity. Principles provide the purposes against which practical choices are judged. Pragmatism supplies the methods through which those purposes may be pursued under circumstances that are inevitably imperfect.

When pragmatism becomes a reason to abandon the purpose, it has ceased to be a political virtue. When principle becomes an excuse to ignore the conditions of successful action, it has ceased to provide responsible guidance.

Brazil’s contemporary challenge lies in maintaining the distinction.

The election of October 2026 has demonstrated that Lula remains capable of assembling a majority sufficient to defeat a formidable political opponent. It has not established that his governing coalition will prove equally capable of undertaking the more difficult work of national reconstruction.

The historical accomplishment will depend upon whether Brazil emerges from the years ahead with stronger productive institutions, greater technological independence, a more capable labour force, and a social order in which ordinary citizens possess better opportunities to sustain themselves and their families.

That outcome requires the moral imagination associated with Lula’s political career, but it also requires a determination to establish institutions and pursue objectives whose immediate political rewards may be uncertain.

In this sense, the conscience of Lula needs the decisiveness of Brizola and the determination of Enéas Carneiro. The historical experiences of Vargas and Geisel supply further reminders that the development of national productive capacity has been a continuing Brazilian concern, rather than the exclusive property of any particular political tendency.

Their achievements may be examined without excusing their failures, and their failures may be condemned without denying the importance of the questions they attempted to address.

For the Brazilian Left, the object cannot be merely to preserve the electoral position it has recovered. For the Brazilian Right, the object should not be merely to restore conservative authority while leaving the organization of national economic life to impersonal forces whose operation may undermine the very institutions conservatives claim to defend.

Both must contend with the proposition that Brazil is more than a market, a collection of competing constituencies, or an administrative territory within the international economy.

It is a historical community possessing accumulated institutions, productive capabilities, natural resources, and obligations toward generations that have yet to enter political life.

A government worthy of that community must regard the improvement of its material and institutional inheritance as a principal responsibility.

The victory at the polls may establish the opportunity to undertake this work, but it supplies neither the determination nor the competence necessary to complete it. Those qualities must be demonstrated through the ordinary and frequently unglamorous affairs of government: the development of industry, the education of labour, the organization of investment, the construction of infrastructure, the preservation of constitutional authority, and the cultivation of scientific and technological capability.

If Lula’s new mandate is to amount to more than another successful episode in an extraordinary political career, it must be judged against these responsibilities. His government must show that social conscience can extend beyond the relief of deprivation toward the transformation of the economic conditions that perpetuate it, and that democratic compromise need not require the abandonment of a national developmental purpose.

The larger question is whether Brazil will continue to organize its ambitions around what the existing international economy is prepared to permit, or whether it will acquire the institutions and confidence necessary to enlarge the range of possibilities available to its people.

The answer will not be supplied by the election returns alone. It will emerge from the political and economic decisions undertaken after the electoral struggle has ended, when the victorious movement must assume responsibility not merely for defeating its opponents, but for governing the nation it has been entrusted to serve.

The Watch Beyond the Gate

2026-11-03T00:12:46.803-08:00

The Watch Beyond the Gate

From this day forth, the road shall lead me on,

Beyond the fields where silent rivers bend;

The morning knows the footsteps of the dawn,

Yet never asks what waits beyond the end.

Beneath the cedar, where the shadows fall,

A lantern burns behind a distant gate;

No name is written on the garden wall,

No voice is heard to summon me or wait.

The eastern winds have carried many things,

The prayers of men, the fragrance of the rain;

And every year the wandering swallow brings

A season that shall never come again.

Yet somewhere in the silence of the earth,

A promise rests where neither hand can see;

It asks no witness to proclaim its worth,

Nor any word to tell what it must be.

Should winter gather at the garden door,

The cedar shall receive the falling snow;

And those within shall hear the storm no more,

Nor learn whose branches sheltered them below.

The moon shall pass above the eastern wall,

As once it passed above a distant shore;

And though the leaves of autumn rise and fall,

The ancient path shall lead me evermore.

Before the dawn, when all the lamps grow dim,

I turn toward the light beyond the hill;

And where the waters meet the horizon's rim,

The heart remembers what the lips keep still.

No golden seal shall mark the work of hands,

No marble stone shall bear the hidden vow;

The keeper of the gate alone understands

Why certain branches never learn to bow.

And should the garden bloom in other springs,

When unfamiliar footsteps cross its ground,

May every bird return upon its wings,

And every sleeping flower rest profound.

For I have sought no place beside the flame,

Nor claimed the warmth that reaches through the door;

The lantern need not recognize my name,

Nor know the road that brought me to its shore.

And when the final watch has reached its close,

When shadows gather underneath the tree,

Let morning find the garden and the rose

As undisturbed as they were meant to be.

Then let the eastern wind pass through the leaves,

And carry what no written words could tell;

For what the distant garden still receives

Shall speak of one who guarded it too well.

And if the lantern burns another night,

Beyond the gate where I shall never stand,

The road shall disappear beneath the light,

The rain shall fall upon an empty hand.

Yet when the first pale morning breaks the sky,

And all the sleeping windows open wide,

The cedar shall remain, though none know why,

With all its deepest scars upon the hidden side.

THE UNSETTLED DEBT

2026-11-01T04:14:00.000-08:00

THE UNSETTLED DEBT

At this sacred time, profound respect and sympathy are extended to all families who continue to cherish the memory of their departed loved ones, particularly those whose grief has been accompanied by circumstances which neither the passing of years nor the ordinary consolations of mourning have been sufficient to resolve.

These observances provide an occasion not only for prayer and remembrance, but also for a serious consideration of the conditions under which men and women have lived and died, the principles by which their lives were guided, and the responsibilities which their passing has entrusted to succeeding generations.

The significance of this occasion must therefore be understood in its fullest spiritual and human dimensions, recognising that the departed leave behind more than memories of affection and sorrow. Their lives remain part of the historical and moral inheritance of society, and the circumstances surrounding their passing may continue to impose obligations upon the living long after the immediate events have receded from public attention.

In Remembrance of the Departed

Among those remembered are the generations of men and women who devoted their lives to principles which they regarded as inseparable from the dignity and welfare of their fellow human beings. Some endured considerable personal sacrifice in the service of their country, their communities, and the convictions which sustained them through years of hardship and uncertainty. Others laboured without recognition, preserving through quiet perseverance the hopes and aspirations which they wished to entrust to those who followed.

Their contributions, whether acknowledged by history or preserved only in the memories of their families, deserve the continuing respect of succeeding generations. The sincerity of their convictions, the hardships they endured, and the circumstances which shaped their lives remain matters worthy of remembrance, particularly when the passing of time has obscured the extent of their sacrifices.

Yet remembrance must not be confined to those whose lives were associated with a recognised cause or whose names have acquired a place in public memory. There are countless others whose existence was marked by ordinary labour, personal hardship, and the daily responsibilities of family and community. They sought neither public distinction nor historical recognition, but only the opportunity to live with dignity and to provide for those entrusted to their care.

Among them were the innocent who suffered through circumstances beyond their control, the vulnerable who were neglected, and those whose final years were burdened by deprivation, uncertainty, and the failure of others to fulfil responsibilities properly owed to them.

The worth of their lives cannot be measured by the recognition they received, nor can the importance of their suffering be diminished by the absence of any public acknowledgement. The dignity of the human person must remain the common measure by which these lives are remembered, regardless of their station, convictions, achievements, or the circumstances in which they departed.

Those Denied Justice and the Right to Be Heard

Particular remembrance is accorded to those who died under the burden of accusations which they were never afforded a proper opportunity to answer, whose reputations were damaged by judgments reached without adequate consideration, or whose efforts to obtain justice remained unresolved at the time of their passing.

There are those who departed innocent of allegations which had nevertheless affected the course of their lives. Others died before the truth of their circumstances could be established, having been deprived of the opportunity to examine the evidence against them, challenge the claims of their accusers, or obtain an impartial hearing before those entrusted with the authority to judge.

Some were condemned in public without the benefit of a fair examination. Others found themselves bound by decisions whose consequences were immediate and enduring, while the means of securing reconsideration remained distant, inadequate, or altogether inaccessible. Still others carried to their graves the burden of official errors, administrative neglect, and judgments which acquired an appearance of finality principally because those affected had exhausted their means of contesting them.

These circumstances raise questions which cannot properly be dismissed merely because the individuals concerned are no longer among the living. The death of a person does not establish the truth of allegations previously made against that person, any more than it automatically establishes innocence. What remains necessary is the preservation of a distinction between accusation and proof, between an established fact and an inherited assumption, and between a decision lawfully issued and one reached through a process lacking essential fairness.

The responsibility to maintain these distinctions becomes especially important when the deceased can no longer speak in their own defence. Their families may inherit the consequences of judgments in whose making they had no participation, while official records and public recollections continue to influence the manner in which their departed relatives are remembered.

The surviving generations may consequently find themselves required to seek clarification of events, correction of records, or acknowledgement of errors which those most directly concerned had been unable to obtain during their lifetimes.

The obligations of justice cannot always be discharged through a formal declaration that a matter has been concluded. Where a person has been deprived of a fair hearing, where an accusation has been treated as established without sufficient evidence, or where an error remains capable of correction, society retains a responsibility to examine what can reasonably be established and to provide such remedies as remain possible.

Such consideration must extend also to those who died in deprivation, whose suffering resulted from neglect, or whose rights existed more securely in the language of public declarations than in the conditions of their ordinary lives. Their experiences deserve to be regarded as part of the same wider question concerning the responsibilities of society towards individuals whose welfare and dignity ought to have been protected.

The Present and the Continuing Past

In the prevailing circumstances, which in many respects reveal themselves to be a continuation of an unresolved past, the commemoration of the departed has assumed a significance extending beyond the customary observances of remembrance and prayer. It has become an occasion for considering the extent to which the conditions responsible for earlier suffering have been genuinely overcome, and whether the obligations inherited from previous generations have received the serious attention which they deserve.

The mere passage of time cannot reasonably be regarded as sufficient evidence that the questions of an earlier period have been settled. Institutions may undergo alterations in their outward appearance, procedures may be revised, and successive generations may speak of advancement and reform, while practices rooted in older assumptions continue to influence the treatment of individuals and the administration of public affairs.

A decision once made may remain unexamined because its reconsideration is regarded as inconvenient. An allegation may continue to be repeated because it has long formed part of an accepted account. An institutional error may survive the departure of those responsible for it, acquiring through the passage of years an authority which it did not originally deserve.

Such circumstances demonstrate the danger of confusing the preservation of an established arrangement with the fulfilment of the purposes for which that arrangement was created. The authority entrusted to institutions carries with it responsibilities which cannot be adequately discharged through adherence to formal procedures alone, particularly where those procedures have failed to provide effective protection against arbitrary decisions, unreasonable delay, or the denial of an opportunity to be heard.

The continuing relevance of past grievances must not be understood as a demand that every former controversy should be perpetuated indefinitely. Rather, it requires recognition that unresolved questions may retain their importance wherever their consequences continue to affect individuals, families, or the wider confidence placed in institutions responsible for maintaining justice.

Nor is it sufficient to regard the hardships of earlier generations as unfortunate circumstances belonging exclusively to another age when comparable failures remain possible under present conditions. The experiences of the departed invite consideration of whether the lessons of previous suffering have genuinely informed contemporary practices, or whether the same shortcomings have merely assumed different forms under altered circumstances.

The solemn significance of remembrance is therefore inseparable from an examination of the present. It asks whether the principles invoked in honour of the dead have been afforded practical meaning in the treatment of the living, and whether the desire to preserve institutional appearances has sometimes prevailed over the more fundamental obligation to acknowledge and correct what is unjust.

The Responsibilities of Society and the Established Order

The existence of organised society presupposes certain obligations towards those who live within it, including the protection of individual dignity, the fair administration of justice, and the provision of meaningful opportunities for the examination of accusations and grievances. These obligations cannot be reduced to expressions of goodwill or the formal existence of procedures whose practical operation may place them beyond the reach of those most in need of their protection.

The authority to make decisions affecting the livelihood, reputation, freedom, or standing of an individual necessarily carries a corresponding responsibility to exercise that authority with fairness, restraint, and due regard for the consequences which may follow. Where such responsibilities have been neglected, the resulting injury may extend beyond the individual directly concerned and remain a source of hardship for families and succeeding generations.

It must likewise be recognised that injustice does not invariably arise from deliberate cruelty. Indifference, unreasonable delay, misplaced loyalty, excessive rigidity, and an unwillingness to reconsider established conclusions may produce consequences of comparable seriousness. The failure to acknowledge a mistake may prolong suffering long after the original circumstances have passed, while the refusal to examine a legitimate grievance may deprive an individual of the only practical means of securing redress.

The responsibilities owed to those who have died must therefore include, wherever circumstances permit, the correction of inaccurate records, the fair examination of unresolved allegations, the acknowledgement of established wrongdoing, and the restoration of reputations unjustly diminished. Where the passage of time has rendered complete vindication impossible, there remains an obligation to preserve the historical record with integrity and to distinguish what is known from what has merely been assumed.

These responsibilities extend beyond individual cases. They require a continuing examination of the conditions which permitted injustice, deprivation, and neglect to occur, and of the measures necessary to prevent their repetition. A society which honours the memory of those who suffered in the past must be prepared to consider whether the same standards of dignity and fairness are being afforded to those who remain vulnerable in the present.

Such an undertaking demands neither indiscriminate condemnation of established institutions nor the abandonment of the legitimate authority required for the maintenance of public order. It demands instead that authority remain answerable to the principles upon which its legitimacy depends, and that the correction of error be recognised as part of responsible administration rather than as an admission incompatible with institutional dignity.

The interests of reconciliation and social stability are not necessarily served by the indefinite suppression of difficult questions. Where truth has been neglected, where injury remains unacknowledged, or where legitimate claims have been left without reasonable consideration, the appearance of finality may conceal circumstances which continue to obstruct a more enduring understanding.

The responsibility of succeeding generations consequently lies in approaching these matters without prejudice, preserving the distinction between established fact and allegation, and ensuring that the pursuit of historical understanding does not itself become an occasion for further injustice.

The Solemn Obligation of Remembrance

The Christian observance of All Souls provides an appropriate occasion for reflection upon these responsibilities, since it directs attention towards the common mortality of mankind and the dignity which belongs to every human life beyond the distinctions of earthly circumstance.

The prayers offered for the departed express a recognition of the limitations of human judgment and an acknowledgement that the final worth of a life cannot be determined solely by the opinions, decisions, or institutions of a particular age.

The remembrance of the saints likewise recalls the importance of conscience, humility, charity, and fidelity to principle. Their examples invite consideration of the relationship between personal conviction and the responsibilities imposed upon individuals by the circumstances in which they live, particularly where the exercise of authority or the preservation of accepted customs may conflict with the demands of fairness and compassion.

These observances should therefore encourage a deeper appreciation of the obligations owed to those whose lives were marked by hardship, whose reputations were unjustly diminished, and whose appeals for assistance or vindication remained unanswered.

There is an enduring responsibility towards the families who continue to bear these memories. Their grief must not be regarded as an inconvenience to be dismissed through the passage of years, nor should their concern for the circumstances of their departed relatives be treated as an unreasonable attachment to matters which others may prefer to consider closed.

The ordinary consolations of mourning may be insufficient where uncertainty remains, where an injustice has never been acknowledged, or where the surviving family continues to suffer consequences arising from circumstances beyond its control. Such burdens deserve understanding, and where legitimate avenues of clarification or correction remain available, they merit proper consideration.

The remembrance of those who devoted their lives to cherished principles must stand alongside the remembrance of those who died without public recognition, those who suffered in innocence, and those whose final years were overshadowed by deprivation and unresolved accusations.

The circumstances of their lives differed considerably, and it would be improper to disregard those distinctions. Yet all possess a common claim upon the conscience of the living, arising from the dignity of their humanity and the responsibilities which society has undertaken towards its members.

The obligations inherited from the past cannot reasonably be fulfilled through ceremony alone. They require the continuing preservation of truth, the recognition of suffering where it has occurred, and a willingness to correct those failures which remain within the capacity of the living to address.

In the Keeping of the Living

As families gather in places of worship and remembrance, as candles are lighted and prayers are offered for the repose of the departed, the solemn observance of this season provides an opportunity to consider the manner in which succeeding generations have discharged the responsibilities entrusted to them.

The memory of those who have gone before remains part of the inheritance of the living, not only through the affection of families and the traditions of communities, but also through the lessons provided by their experiences. Where those experiences reveal courage and devotion, they deserve gratitude and respect. Where they disclose neglect, injustice, or the denial of elementary fairness, they deserve an examination sufficiently serious to ensure that remembrance does not become a substitute for responsibility.

The departed cannot return to clarify their intentions, defend their reputations, or complete those undertakings which remained unfinished at the time of their passing. Their surviving families and communities possess neither the power to reverse death nor the means to recover every opportunity which was lost. Yet the living retain the capacity to examine the circumstances inherited from the past, to preserve an accurate account of what occurred, and to address those outstanding obligations which remain susceptible to correction.

This responsibility belongs particularly to those who possess the authority and means to act. It cannot properly be transferred indefinitely to individuals whose resources have already been exhausted by prolonged hardship, nor can the absence of a continuing public demand be taken as proof that every legitimate concern has been resolved. The administration of justice and the protection of human dignity remain obligations which must be exercised conscientiously, including where those most directly affected are no longer capable of asserting their claims.

In this regard, the present generation must consider what inheritance it intends to leave to those who follow. The unresolved circumstances of earlier periods may either be examined with fairness and understanding or permitted to persist until their origins have been obscured by the succession of years. The course adopted will determine whether the experiences of the departed contribute to the prevention of further suffering or become another part of an accumulating history of neglected responsibility.

It is in this understanding that the observance of All Hallows, All Saints, and All Souls acquires its continuing significance. The prayers of the faithful and the remembrance of families remain central to its sacred character, but the occasion also invites the living to consider whether the principles of mercy, justice, and human dignity are reflected in their conduct towards one another.

The departed are remembered with reverence, including those who dedicated their lives to the welfare of others, those who endured suffering without recognition, those who died innocent of accusations made against them, and those who were deprived of a reasonable opportunity to obtain the justice which they sought.

Their circumstances deserve to be preserved in the historical and moral consciousness of succeeding generations, not for the perpetuation of hostility, but so that the responsibilities left unresolved may receive the attention which truth, fairness, and the dignity of the human person require.

At this solemn time, sympathy is extended to all families who continue to mourn, with particular remembrance of those for whom the years have brought neither complete understanding nor the consolation of a just resolution. The hope is expressed that those entrusted with positions of responsibility will approach the circumstances of the living and the memory of the departed with the seriousness demanded by their duties, and that no avoidable injury will be allowed to persist merely because its correction has become difficult or inconvenient.

May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. May their families find consolation in the remembrance of their loved ones, and may the living find in this sacred observance a renewed appreciation of the duties which conscience, justice, and humanity continue to place upon them.

The Eternal Promise

2026-10-31T04:17:00.000-07:00

The Eternal Promise

A Reflection on Sacrifice, Conscience,

and the Unfinished Hopes of the Departed

As the solemn season of All Hallows, All Saints, and All Souls is observed, heartfelt greetings and expressions of remembrance are extended to all families, friends, and communities, particularly those who continue to carry the memory of loved ones who have departed from this earthly life.

These sacred days offer an occasion for quiet reflection upon the passing of generations, the impermanence of earthly things, and the enduring obligations of the living toward those who came before them.

Throughout history, countless men and women have lived not merely for themselves but for principles and aspirations greater than their own existence. Some devoted their lives to the preservation of faith, learning, and culture; others endured hardship, deprivation, and suffering in the hope that those who followed might inherit a more dignified and just future.

Their names may have faded from public memory, their voices may have fallen silent, and their resting places may be known only to those closest to them. Yet the measure of their lives cannot be confined to the stones that mark their graves or the years that have passed since their departure.

Their true inheritance lies in the convictions they upheld, the examples they left behind, and the obligations entrusted to succeeding generations.

On this occasion, particular remembrance is accorded to those whose lives were marked by courage, sacrifice, and an unwavering sense of duty. Their families, who have endured the burdens of separation and loss, remain deserving of profound respect, compassion, and solidarity.

Those who continue to bear hardship, separation, confinement, or uncertainty are likewise remembered, together with the families who await their return and the friends who preserve their memory.

The heroism of those who devoted themselves to their country and to the hope of a better future shall never be forgotten. Neither the passage of years nor the changing circumstances of the world can diminish the significance of lives offered in the service of convictions sincerely held.

The most ardent wishes of the departed are not fulfilled through remembrance alone. They endure wherever conscience remains steadfast, wherever injustice is confronted, and wherever the living refuse to accept that the shortcomings of the present must become the permanent inheritance of the future.

History has repeatedly shown that no earthly arrangement is beyond change, no position of authority is beyond responsibility, and no condition of hardship is necessarily everlasting. What appears immovable to one generation may become a distant memory to the next.

Yet lasting change begins not with grand declarations, but with the quiet preservation of principle, the cultivation of understanding, the strengthening of human solidarity, and the patient fulfilment of duties left unfinished.

For this reason, remembrance carries a responsibility greater than the observance of tradition. It requires fidelity to truth, the defence of human dignity, and the refusal to allow indifference, fear, or the comforts of forgetfulness to extinguish the hopes of those who came before.

The living are consequently called to cherish not only the memories of the departed but also the better world they had hoped to leave behind.

As candles are lighted and prayers are offered, the solemn observances of these sacred days serve as reminders that the passing of a life does not necessarily signify the passing of its purpose.

A flame may be extinguished, yet its warmth can be remembered. A voice may fall silent, yet its words may continue to guide. A generation may pass from the earth, yet its unfinished aspirations may remain in the keeping of those who follow.

The seasons change, the years advance, and the outward circumstances of human existence are continually transformed. But the enduring claims of conscience, justice, and human dignity cannot be measured by the convenience of any particular age.

What is worthy of remembrance must also be worthy of preservation. What remains unfinished must not be surrendered to oblivion. And what has been entrusted to the living must, in due season, find its fulfilment.

In the stillness of All Souls’ Day, the departed are therefore remembered not only with sorrow, but with gratitude for their example, reverence for their sacrifices, and quiet confidence that the highest aspirations of humanity may yet be realised.

May the departed find eternal rest. May their families find consolation and peace. May those who remain find strength in remembrance, wisdom in adversity, and steadfastness in the responsibilities entrusted to their care.

For time may claim the lives of men, but it cannot command the final destiny of the principles for which they lived.

What the Moon Remembers

2026-10-31T02:51:52.881-07:00

What the Moon Remembers

Tonight the last of October meets the rain,

And leaves its silver letters on the pane;

The roses trembles in the evening air,

And still its quiet fragrance lingers there.

Some call this night a border, dark and deep,

I call it time to count the things we keep;

Not every farewell asks the heart to grieve,

Some love is most complete when free to leave.

Call it weird as at first may seem,

As thoughts once linger end written like stream;

Just because of yours that resonates my mind,

I hope you're not just beautiful but also kind.

Like flames the thought end written through,

As dark ink in thy sheet now end as blue;

This note may end cast thy lasting spell,

Enough transcend be above or hell.

How little of your beauty can one own,

When even stars are borrowed, briefly shown?

The face may change; the years will take their due,

Love keeps the inward light that made it true.

The roses opens in the hush of night,

And needs no witness to declare it bright;

If I leave nothing written when I go,

Remember what the quiet flowers know.

Seeing the skyline late at night,

Casts the moon in its silv'ry bright;

The magic lingers as that of incantations,

Enough to escape from desperation.

Inspire me well the way blossoms grow,

Amidst the trials of pain and sorrow;

That even when the stars depart,

Hope blooms within the quiet heart.

Across the path the fireflies wheel and rise,

Their little lanterns answer to the skies;

No hand can keep their brightness in its hold,

Whatever shines need not be bought or sold.

The things I thought were mine are passing through,

Like rain that leaves the garden fresh with dew;

If love survives the silence of my name,

Then what was truly mine was never fame.

Long after midnight empties every street,

The rain will cool the stones beneath our feet;

The moon may disappear beyond our sight,

And still your grace belongs to every night.

Some words were meant to travel without sound,

Like fallen leaves that settle on the ground;

And if I speak no more when winter's near,

May what I meant be simple, warm, and clear.

I have no final wisdom left to give,

Yet love is how the fleeting learns to live;

Wherever dawn unfastens night's embrace,

The light within outlasts the changing face.

The firefly departs; the stars withdraw,

And silence keeps no tally, makes no law;

If I am gone when autumn comes once more,

Think of the rose that's opening by your door.

As this day folds the fields in softer gray,

I do not ask the night to turn to day;

If years should take the sound of all I knew,

Still let my quiet blessing rest with you.

May your goodness be the beauty you carry on,

Not something lost upon the edge of dawn;

And when the moon is pale above the sea,

Remember what the night once meant to me.

THE WORD AT MOONRISE

2026-10-30T08:58:36.394-07:00

THE WORD AT MOONRISE

May your beauty bless the night,

Over fields, the moon shines bright,

Only you remain the light,

No years shall dim the delight.

Radiant as the stars on high,

In the moonlight, dreams draw nigh,

Still your charm shall never die,

Endless grace lights the sky.

Recall the moon upon the tide,

Ever yours, though worlds divide,

Moon and stars shall be the guide,

Even when the stars must hide.

May your silent beauty glow,

By the stars that come and go,

Endless grace shall ever grow,

Remain, though none may know.

Underneath the moonlit sky,

Night shall hear your gentle sigh,

Some vows live when words run dry,

Promises never die.

Only stars know what we keep,

Keep the promise buried deep,

Even as the night winds sweep,

Naught shall make your heart weep.

Lula's Pyrrhic Victory, Flávio's Departure from Accountability

2026-10-29T21:11:00.000-07:00

Lula's Pyrrhic Victory, Flávio's Departure from Accountability

The Contradictions of the Brazilian Right, the Limits of Reactionary Market Liberalism,

and the Unfinished Promise of Ordem e Progresso

The reelection of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva on October 25, 2026, has produced one of the more remarkable political reversals in the history of Brazil's modern republic. Having trailed Senator Flávio Bolsonaro in the first round, Lula managed to overturn a deficit of more than two million votes and secure an unprecedented fourth presidential term. The final result, as certified by the Superior Electoral Court, gave Lula 51.79 percent of the valid votes against Bolsonaro's 48.21 percent, representing an advantage of approximately 4.43 million votes. Yet the scale of the reversal should not obscure the political and economic difficulties confronting the renewed administration, particularly in a country where the electorate remains deeply divided over the meaning of national development, the authority of the state, and the direction of economic policy.

For the Workers' Party, or Partido dos Trabalhadores (PT), the election offered a reprieve from the conservative movement that has challenged its political dominance for much of the past decade. Nevertheless, the victory may prove Pyrrhic if Lula is unable to convert his electoral survival into a more durable economic and institutional settlement. The Liberal Party, or Partido Liberal (PL), associated with the Bolsonaro family, is expected to enter 2027 as the largest party in both houses of Congress, with 121 deputies and 29 senators, while controlling six state governments. These figures hardly suggest that the Brazilian right has suffered a decisive political retreat. Rather, the defeat of its presidential candidate has occurred alongside the consolidation of its substantial parliamentary and regional influence.

The financial markets offered a distinctly less enthusiastic assessment of the election result. On October 26, the first trading day following the runoff, the Ibovespa fell by approximately 13.9 percent, while the United States dollar appreciated by more than eight percent against the Brazilian real. Trading was temporarily interrupted as investors unwound positions established in anticipation of a conservative presidential victory. The reaction reflected concerns over fiscal policy, public indebtedness, interest rates, and the prospect that Lula would continue policies involving substantial public expenditure and state-supported economic development.

Such market volatility should not be interpreted simply as the collective displeasure of financial capital toward a progressive administration. Brazil's fiscal difficulties are genuine, and investors have legitimate concerns about the sustainability of public borrowing, the cost of financing, the effectiveness of public investment, and the government's ability to maintain predictable economic conditions. Nevertheless, the severity of the market response also exposed the substantial expectations that sections of the financial and business establishment had placed upon a Bolsonaro victory. For these constituencies, the political attraction of the conservative candidate was closely associated with the possibility of a more extensive return to market-oriented economic reforms, including fiscal retrenchment, privatization, deregulation, and reduced governmental intervention.

It is precisely within this relationship between political conservatism and economic liberalization that the contradictions of the Brazilian right become most apparent.

A substantial current within Bolsonarismo has combined economic libertarianism, or at least market-oriented liberalism, with a sociopolitically reactionary understanding of authority. It favors the reduction of governmental intervention in economic affairs while supporting established hierarchies in political and social life. Its conception of democracy can consequently become restrictive: electoral competition provides the means through which political leaders acquire authority, while the subsequent exercise of that authority is expected to proceed with comparatively limited interference from institutions regarded as subordinate to the mandate of the government.

The irony is that many conservative voters may understand national greatness in terms quite different from those of the economic elites supporting the movement. Their desire for order may arise from insecurity, unstable employment, criminal violence, and the perception that public institutions no longer provide dependable protection. Their aspiration for a stronger Brazil may evoke the industrial expansion, infrastructure construction, technological accomplishment, and economic confidence associated with the country's developmentalist past. Yet the economic programs of influential market-oriented conservatives do not necessarily reproduce the state-building and industrial policies that made those earlier achievements possible.

The election therefore exposes a fundamental disagreement within the conservative coalition concerning what kind of Brazil should be restored. While certain elite constituencies may favor a reversal of the developmental and redistributive policies associated with the PT, important sections of the electorate may be seeking the stability and material accomplishments of an earlier national-developmental tradition. The distinction is especially important because the historical institutions responsible for many of Brazil's industrial achievements were created through policies that combined public enterprise, domestic private capital, foreign investment, and substantial governmental coordination.

For Lula, the political opportunity lies in recognizing that the demands for order, development, productive employment, and national sovereignty are not inherently incompatible with democratic laborism. The challenge is whether the Workers' Party can recover these objectives within a program that moves beyond the preservation of welfare arrangements and gives greater importance to productivity, scientific advancement, industrial modernization, fiscal sustainability, and institutional competence.

The Brazilian Right's Hierarchical Understanding of Democracy

The ideological character of Bolsonarismo cannot be adequately explained through the conventional distinction between liberal economics and authoritarian politics. The relationship between the two is more complicated because the movement's economic and sociopolitical components frequently reinforce one another.

Economic libertarianism places considerable emphasis upon private property, freedom of enterprise, contractual autonomy, market competition, and the reduction of public intervention in economic transactions. Its advocates commonly maintain that excessive regulation, taxation, and public ownership discourage investment, weaken entrepreneurship, and reduce the efficiency of production.

Sociopolitical reaction, by contrast, tends to assign greater importance to established institutions, traditional family arrangements, religious authority, military discipline, and hierarchical relationships within society. In such a conception, public order is often understood through the preservation of differentiated roles and obligations rather than through the continual renegotiation of authority.

These positions can coexist because the freedom emphasized by the economic component is not necessarily equivalent to a comprehensive commitment to individual autonomy throughout political and social life. A movement may advocate greater freedom for employers and investors while supporting stronger state authority in public security, education, cultural disputes, and the regulation of political demonstrations. Similarly, it may oppose governmental interference in business decisions while regarding organized labor and social movements as obstacles to economic efficiency or established institutional authority.

The political consequences become particularly important when such a movement acquires executive power. Elections may be treated as the principal mechanism for choosing the national leadership, but the subsequent operation of government may be understood less as a continuing process of democratic negotiation than as the responsibility of an elected executive expected to govern decisively.

This understanding resembles what political scientist Guillermo O'Donnell described as delegative democracy, in which elected presidents acquire substantial personal authority while institutions responsible for continuing accountability remain comparatively weak. The formal existence of elections does not necessarily prevent political leaders from interpreting their mandates as authorizations to govern with limited institutional restraint.

Within such arrangements, courts may be criticized for interfering with the popular will, legislatures may be treated as obstacles to decisive administration, and independent social organizations may be accused of disrupting the authority of the elected government. The population participates in selecting its rulers but may be expected to return afterward to established relationships of economic, social, and political subordination.

This conception has particular significance in societies possessing substantial inequalities of wealth and political influence. Business groups with considerable financial resources may retain opportunities to influence economic policy between elections, while trade unions, neighborhood organizations, student movements, and other constituencies encounter greater resistance when seeking to influence public decisions.

The historical resonance with Brazil's oligarchic past is difficult to overlook. Although the contemporary Republic bears little institutional resemblance to the First Republic, the relationship between economic predominance and political influence remains a relevant concern. Electoral participation may coexist with an unequal distribution of practical authority, particularly when economic decisions are treated as matters for private managers and technical specialists rather than as subjects of wider public deliberation.

This is not to suggest that all market liberals possess authoritarian political preferences or that every social conservative favors the weakening of constitutional institutions. Economic liberalism has also contributed to traditions of constitutional government, civil liberty, and political pluralism. Likewise, conservative political movements have historically supported social insurance, labor protection, national industry, and other forms of economic intervention.

The distinctive feature of Bolsonarismo lies in the particular alliance it has developed between economic liberalization, cultural conservatism, strong executive leadership, and the political identity of the Bolsonaro family. As Niels Søndergaard argued in his study Between Markets and Barracks, the movement's economic narrative has included a tendency to place economic management beyond broad democratic contestation while marginalizing groups regarded as politically hostile. This creates a political environment in which economic freedom and hierarchical authority may be regarded as complementary rather than contradictory.

From Paulo Guedes to the Contemporary Conservative Coalition

The origins of this arrangement became particularly visible during Jair Bolsonaro's presidential campaign in 2018, when economist Paulo Guedes supplied the movement with a program emphasizing privatization, fiscal adjustment, deregulation, and the reduction of the state's direct economic responsibilities.

Guedes appealed to business groups and economically liberal voters who believed that excessive intervention, public indebtedness, inefficient regulation, and political patronage had contributed to Brazil's economic difficulties. The appeal was strengthened by the severe recession and institutional crises of the preceding years, during which the PT's economic management had become the subject of intense criticism.

Yet the political movement that carried this program into government was not organized primarily around the technical arguments of economic liberalism. Bolsonaro also mobilized support through cultural conservatism, religious identification, opposition to the PT, military symbolism, and the demand for stronger public security.

The resulting coalition brought together constituencies whose economic interests differed considerably. Financial investors might favor fiscal restraint and deregulation, while agricultural producers could support similar policies but remain dependent upon public infrastructure, research institutions, and rural credit. Small entrepreneurs might seek fewer administrative restrictions while demanding affordable financing, improved transportation, and reliable public services. Industrial workers could identify with conservative cultural values while continuing to support labor protections, domestic manufacturing, and policies intended to preserve employment.

Such differences became less visible during electoral campaigns dominated by opposition to the PT and the personal appeal of Bolsonaro. They become more consequential when government must decide how public resources should be allocated and which social groups should bear the costs of economic adjustment.

A program emphasizing the reduction of public economic responsibilities may be attractive to sections of business, but it does not automatically provide the developmental institutions required for industrial modernization, technical education, scientific research, or strategic technological capacity. These functions cannot always be achieved through market competition alone, particularly where investment involves long-term risks, substantial infrastructure requirements, or benefits extending beyond the returns available to individual firms.

The deeper contradiction of contemporary conservative nationalism is therefore not merely that it advocates a smaller economic state alongside a stronger coercive state. It is that its language of national greatness may create expectations of productive achievement that its economic program does not always adequately address.

The Bolsonaro Family and the Politics of Accountability

The political events surrounding the Bolsonaro family since 2022 provide another perspective upon the movement's understanding of public authority.

Jair Bolsonaro's departure for Florida on December 30, 2022, occurred shortly before the inauguration of Lula as president. The outgoing president did not attend the transfer of power, having declined to participate in the traditional ceremonial handover of the presidential sash. His departure took place after weeks of demonstrations by supporters who rejected the electoral result and called for military intervention.

At the time, Bolsonaro's travel did not constitute a violation of judicial restrictions, and it would be inaccurate to treat the departure alone as evidence of criminal conduct. Nevertheless, the episode acquired greater significance following the January 8, 2023, attacks upon the National Congress, the Supreme Federal Court, and the presidential palace in Brasília.

The subsequent investigations examined efforts by Bolsonaro and individuals associated with his administration to overturn the 2022 electoral result and prevent the constitutional succession. Federal Police investigators argued that his departure had occurred in the context of those efforts, although the legal significance of the journey was only one element of the broader proceedings.

Bolsonaro returned to Brazil in March 2023. In September 2025, the Supreme Federal Court convicted him of offenses connected with the attempted coup, including participation in an armed criminal organization and attempts to abolish the democratic rule of law through violence. The sentence of 27 years and three months represented an extraordinary development in Brazil's history of political accountability, particularly given the country's longstanding difficulties in addressing abuses committed by senior political and military figures.

His supporters disputed the proceedings and alleged that the judiciary had acted politically. Such objections can properly be examined through legal argument, judicial review, and public debate. Nevertheless, disagreement with a court's decision does not eliminate the distinction between constitutional criticism and the rejection of lawful authority.

Eduardo Bolsonaro's subsequent activities in the United States introduced a different legal and diplomatic dimension. After relocating to the United States in March 2025, Eduardo sought international support for his father and criticized the actions of Brazilian judicial authorities. His activities became associated with efforts to encourage sanctions and other forms of American pressure upon Brazilian institutions.

Brazilian prosecutors maintained that these efforts were intended to interfere with the proceedings against Jair Bolsonaro. Eduardo and his defenders argued that the actions represented opposition to political persecution.

In June 2026, Eduardo was convicted of coercion in the course of legal proceedings and sentenced to four years and two months. The case concerned efforts to obtain foreign pressure upon Brazilian authorities during the dispute involving United States tariffs and sanctions. In October, the Supreme Federal Court ordered the execution of the sentence, issued an arrest warrant, and directed the cancellation of his Brazilian passports. Eduardo remained in the United States.

These developments raised questions extending beyond the criminal responsibility of one political figure. They involved the relationship between domestic constitutional institutions and the ability of a foreign government to exert economic pressure upon judicial proceedings within another sovereign country.

The matter is particularly significant because the Bolsonaro movement has frequently identified itself with Brazilian patriotism and national independence. The effort to obtain foreign political assistance against domestic institutions introduces a tension between the movement's nationalist rhetoric and the international methods employed by some of its leading representatives.

Flávio Bolsonaro's Defeat and Departure from Brazil

Flávio Bolsonaro's departure following the October 2026 presidential election continued this pattern of internationalized domestic political disputes, although his legal circumstances differ from those of his father and brother.

The senator entered the runoff facing investigations involving alleged financial irregularities. Among the matters under examination was the financing of Dark Horse, a film concerning the political career of Jair Bolsonaro.

In September 2026, previously confidential investigative materials associated with the Banco Master case became public. Federal Police reports described communications between Flávio Bolsonaro and banker Daniel Vorcaro involving substantial financing for the production. Investigators examined requests reportedly involving approximately R$131 million, including indications that substantial amounts had already been transferred.

The materials also referred to possible participation by Eduardo Bolsonaro and other intermediaries in arrangements connected with the production.

Flávio's representatives maintained that the financing related to a legitimate film project. The allegations remained under investigation, and no criminal conviction had been established against him in these matters. Nevertheless, the disclosures placed his financial relationships under closer public scrutiny during the final stages of the presidential campaign.

The circumstances became more complicated after Lula's victory on October 25. Flávio refused to concede and challenged the electoral process, focusing upon the extension of voting hours at polling stations affected by transportation difficulties and adverse weather.

The available electoral evidence did not establish that the extension could have changed the outcome, particularly given Lula's advantage of approximately 4.43 million votes. The Liberal Party itself acknowledged the result, while the Carter Center's election expert mission commended the electoral administration and urged candidates to pursue any concerns through established legal procedures.

Meanwhile, the Federal Police sought precautionary judicial measures against Flávio after identifying a risk that he might leave Brazil. The measures included the seizure of passports, a prohibition on international travel, and restrictions upon contact with other persons under investigation.

According to the Federal Police's October 28 statement, Flávio's Brazilian ordinary and diplomatic passports were cancelled. He was also instructed to surrender any additional passports issued by other nationalities, but did not comply within the prescribed period. The authorities further reported that no official record of his departure appeared in Brazil's immigration controls.

The police were careful to emphasize that restrictions involving travel documents do not automatically establish fugitive status or independently authorize arrest. This distinction remains important because the legal status of a person under investigation should not be confused with that of an individual already convicted of a criminal offense.

Nevertheless, Flávio's departure despite judicial travel restrictions created an immediate political controversy. The senator crossed into Argentina on October 27, traveling with his wife and children through the border area connecting Foz do Iguaçu and Puerto Iguazú. From Argentina, the family boarded a chartered aircraft that continued through Ecuador before arriving in Miami on October 28.

The journey prompted questions about how the senator had left Brazil, the documents used during the trip, and whether political figures outside Brazil had provided assistance.

Upon arriving in the United States, Flávio argued that he had left because of political persecution. His subsequent declaration presented him initially as Brazil's legitimate president-elect, although the formulation was later altered to describe him as the country's rightful political leader.

The declaration attracted criticism from prominent figures within the Brazilian right, including politicians who believed that the refusal to recognize the result would weaken the opposition's credibility and complicate its work in Congress.

The distinction between lawful electoral challenge and the maintenance of an unsupported claim to presidential authority became particularly important. A defeated candidate possesses the right to question electoral procedures through established institutions, but the constitutional process cannot operate effectively if a political movement treats a result as legitimate only when its preferred candidate wins.

Flávio's conduct consequently created a political problem for the wider conservative movement. The PL had achieved substantial parliamentary gains and possessed opportunities to influence government policy, yet its presidential candidate was now outside Brazil while asserting a form of leadership that had not been conferred upon him by the electorate.

Political Exile, Foreign Assistance, and Brazilian Sovereignty

Flávio's departure also exposed the complicated relationship between Bolsonarismo and foreign political support. Reuters reported that figures associated with the Trump administration assisted in arrangements connected with his arrival in the United States. American officials granted humanitarian parole to Flávio and his family, while the precise roles played by various political intermediaries became the subject of additional reporting.

The Trump administration nevertheless indicated that it did not intend at that time to recognize Flávio's claim to be Brazil's rightful leader. This distinction matters because political sympathy, permission to enter a foreign country, and diplomatic recognition of an alternative government involve substantially different considerations.

The passage through Argentina also created diplomatic friction between Brasília and Buenos Aires. Brazilian officials reportedly sought explanations concerning the circumstances of the journey, while the Argentine government's public response reflected the existing political differences between Lula and President Javier Milei.

These developments reveal the limitations of relying upon international ideological alliances to resolve domestic political disputes. Foreign governments may sympathize with particular movements, but their actions remain constrained by diplomatic relationships, economic interests, and considerations extending beyond the political preferences of individual leaders.

For Brazil, the controversy is especially relevant because national sovereignty has historically been a central element of both conservative nationalism and developmentalist economic thought.

A political movement seeking international assistance against domestic constitutional institutions must explain how that approach relates to its understanding of national independence. This does not mean that international criticism of judicial abuse or political persecution is illegitimate. Human-rights violations and procedural injustice may properly attract international attention. The concern arises when foreign economic pressure is employed to influence the outcome of domestic legal proceedings or political disputes.

The same principle applies to the left. Brazilian sovereignty cannot be reduced to opposition to Washington while permitting unconditional dependence upon Beijing, Moscow, or another powerful capital. Strategic independence requires diversified international relationships and domestic economic capabilities sufficient to preserve meaningful freedom of judgment.

The recent controversies surrounding the Bolsonaro family therefore bring together questions of legal accountability, political legitimacy, and national autonomy that extend beyond the personal difficulties of individual politicians.

The Oligarchic Temptation and the Return of Café com Leite Politics

The economic contradictions within Brazilian conservatism invite comparison with the country's older oligarchic arrangements. During the First Republic, the political system popularly associated with café com leite reflected the disproportionate influence of regional economic elites, particularly those connected with São Paulo and Minas Gerais. The expression did not describe a perfectly regular alternation of presidential authority between the two states, but it captured the wider predominance of established economic and political groups within the Republic.

Contemporary Brazil differs enormously from that era. Its electorate is broader, its economy more diversified, and its constitutional institutions more developed. Nevertheless, the historical comparison remains useful when considering the relationship between popular mobilization and concentrated economic influence.

The problem is not the participation of business interests in politics. Every productive economy requires entrepreneurs, investors, financial institutions, industrial enterprises, and the capacity to allocate capital efficiently.

Rather, the concern arises when economic elites acquire influence over public policy disproportionate to their contribution to national productivity, or when the protection of existing privileges becomes more important than technological advancement and competitive investment.

Within the contemporary conservative coalition, the language of national restoration can serve different purposes. For certain investors, it may imply a reduction in taxation, regulatory obligations, and labor costs. For a small manufacturer, it may suggest access to affordable finance, modern infrastructure, and greater protection against economic uncertainty. For an industrial worker, it may mean the recovery of stable employment and the possibility of obtaining a better income through productive work.

The distinction between these expectations is important because a government cannot assume that a common cultural identity or shared opposition to the PT eliminates disagreements concerning economic policy.

A political program that reduces the state's developmental responsibilities may benefit particular sectors while leaving unresolved the structural weaknesses affecting industry, infrastructure, technical education, and technological capacity.

This is where the contemporary Brazilian right risks reproducing a familiar feature of oligarchic politics: the ability of established economic interests to define national policy while popular constituencies are mobilized through promises of order, patriotism, and social stability.

The historical developmentalist tradition offers a different approach because it treated private enterprise and public authority as participants in a wider effort to expand the productive capabilities of the country.

Argentina, Chile, and the Regional Appeal of Market Reform

The political developments in Brazil form part of a wider Latin American environment in which economic liberalization and conservative political movements have gained influence.

Argentina under Javier Milei provides one of the clearest examples of a government whose political identity is strongly associated with economic libertarianism.

Milei has pursued fiscal adjustment, deregulation, restrictions upon public expenditure, and reforms intended to improve the flexibility of the labor market. His administration argues that Argentina's recurring economic difficulties are connected with excessive public intervention, unstable government finances, and institutional arrangements that discourage investment and formal employment.

In February 2026, the Argentine Senate approved the government's labor reform program following substantial opposition from trade unions and other political organizations. The legislation modified several aspects of labor regulation, including arrangements concerning dismissal, collective bargaining, and industrial action.

The government maintained that these changes would encourage investment and reduce informality. Organized labor argued that they would weaken protections and transfer greater economic risk to workers.

The conflict illustrates a fundamental disagreement concerning how productive modernization should be achieved. Economic reform may involve removing restrictions that discourage investment, but the weakening of labor protections does not automatically guarantee improvements in productivity or employment quality. The consequences depend upon the wider economic environment, the availability of capital, the organization of production, and the ability of workers to acquire relevant skills.

Chile under José Antonio Kast provides another example of conservative political leadership seeking to encourage private investment while placing considerable emphasis upon public security and immigration control.

In August 2026, Chile's Congress approved an economic reform package associated with reductions in corporate taxation and measures intended to improve the investment environment. The program nevertheless encountered legislative and constitutional difficulties that complicated implementation.

The Chilean experience demonstrates that market-oriented reforms may operate through established constitutional institutions, even where governments possess conservative social priorities. It also illustrates that investment policy remains subject to questions concerning fiscal sustainability, public services, and the distribution of economic opportunities.

Neither Argentina nor Chile should be regarded as institutionally identical to Brazil. Their political histories, economic structures, and constitutional arrangements differ substantially. Yet their recent experiences demonstrate how economic liberalization has become an important component of the regional conservative agenda, frequently accompanied by demands for stronger government performance and public authority.

El Salvador, Ecuador, and the Politics of Security

A different regional tendency can be observed in El Salvador under President Nayib Bukele, whose political appeal has rested primarily upon the restoration of public security rather than a comprehensive program of economic libertarianism.

Bukele's campaign against criminal gangs has been associated with major reductions in reported homicide rates and has received substantial domestic support. Citizens who previously experienced extortion, intimidation, and criminal control have consequently regarded stronger security measures as evidence of effective government.

Nevertheless, the prolonged emergency regime has generated serious concerns concerning arbitrary detention, judicial independence, due process, and the concentration of executive authority.

In July 2025, El Salvador's legislature approved constitutional changes allowing indefinite presidential reelection and altering other features of the electoral system. The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights subsequently warned that the changes could weaken constitutional accountability.

The Salvadoran experience illustrates the political appeal of effective security policy while raising questions about the relationship between electoral popularity and institutional restraint. Citizens may legitimately demand protection from criminal violence, but the permanence and concentration of executive authority remain separate constitutional questions.

Ecuador under Daniel Noboa offers another example. His administration has sought stronger security measures and expanded cooperation with the United States in response to organized criminal violence.

Yet Ecuadorian voters rejected a proposal in November 2025 that would have permitted foreign military bases within the country. The result demonstrated that citizens concerned about insecurity were not necessarily prepared to support every institutional or diplomatic arrangement proposed in the name of public safety.

The wider significance of these examples is that the demand for order does not establish agreement concerning the nature or limits of governmental authority. Public security requires capable institutions, but the effectiveness of those institutions must also be judged according to their ability to maintain constitutional safeguards and provide lasting protection.

Brazil's own experience has illustrated these difficulties. The October 2025 police operation in Rio de Janeiro known as Operação Contenção resulted in 122 deaths, including five police officers. An investigation published by Human Rights Watch in October 2026 identified serious concerns involving body-camera procedures, the preservation of evidence, and possible excessive use of force.

The findings raised questions about whether the scale of a security operation necessarily corresponds with its effectiveness in dismantling criminal organizations and restoring public authority.

For Brazil, public security cannot be reduced to an argument between permissiveness and repression. The more important challenge concerns the development of professional policing, reliable intelligence, judicial accountability, effective criminal prosecution, and public institutions capable of maintaining services and economic opportunities in communities affected by organized crime.

Vargas, Geisel, and the Developmentalist Alternative

Brazil's historical experience offers an alternative framework for understanding the relationship between national greatness and economic policy.

Getúlio Vargas remains one of the most complicated figures in the country's political history. His administrations contributed to labor legislation, industrialization, administrative reform, and the creation of strategic public enterprises, while the Estado Novo dictatorship restricted constitutional freedoms and concentrated political authority.

Any attempt to recover elements of his developmental legacy must therefore distinguish institutional achievements from authoritarian practices.

The economic significance of Vargas lies partly in the recognition that Brazil could not achieve sustained national advancement through dependence upon primary-product exports alone. Industrialization was understood as a means of improving productivity, expanding employment, strengthening public finance, and reducing dependence upon external suppliers.

The Fundação Getulio Vargas historical account describes the developmental model of his second administration as involving a relationship among public enterprise, domestic private enterprise, and international capital.

This arrangement did not require the exclusion of foreign investment or the complete nationalization of economic activity. Rather, it assigned the state an important role in coordinating investment and developing strategic industries while recognizing the contributions of domestic entrepreneurs and international capital.

The later experience of Juscelino Kubitschek continued this emphasis upon national industrial expansion. His Plano de Metas sought to coordinate investment in transportation, energy, manufacturing, education, and infrastructure, contributing to the growth of important industrial sectors while also generating fiscal and external-financing difficulties.

Ernesto Geisel's Second National Development Plan represented another attempt to strengthen national productive capacity. Established in 1974, the program emphasized investment in energy, heavy industry, transportation, capital goods, and technologies considered important to Brazil's economic independence.

Its achievements were accompanied by serious limitations, including external borrowing, financial vulnerabilities, and the lack of democratic scrutiny associated with military rule.

The experience nevertheless demonstrated that national industrial strategy involves more than the ownership of individual enterprises. It requires institutions capable of coordinating investment, developing technological expertise, financing infrastructure, and strengthening domestic productive capabilities.

These historical policies cannot be transplanted unchanged into contemporary Brazil. The technological environment, global financial system, structure of international production, and constitutional obligations of the Republic have changed substantially.

Their continuing relevance lies in the recognition that national development requires deliberate attention to productivity, technological capability, and the institutions responsible for long-term economic transformation.

The Workers' Party and the Need for a Modern Trabalhismo

The PT emerged from a different historical tradition from that of Vargas's original Brazilian Labour Party. Its origins in the independent labor movements of the late 1970s, particularly the metalworkers' strikes in the industrial ABC region of São Paulo, gave it a political identity associated with trade-union independence, social participation, and opposition to military rule.

A contemporary return to trabalhismo should therefore not involve the restoration of Vargas-era labor corporatism or the authoritarian administrative practices associated with earlier developmentalist governments.

It should instead represent a synthesis of productive national development and democratic labor participation. The PT's experience in government has demonstrated the importance of income transfers, social assistance, access to public services, and policies intended to reduce poverty. These achievements should not be minimized, particularly in a society possessing substantial economic inequality.

Nevertheless, welfare policy and economic development are not equivalent. Income transfers can protect households from deprivation, improve access to education, and support domestic consumption. Their long-term sustainability, however, depends upon an economy capable of generating productive employment, higher incomes, public revenue, and technological advancement.

A modern laborist program would therefore need to connect social protection with the expansion of productive capacity. Brazil possesses important foundations for such an approach. Petrobras has accumulated substantial technical experience in energy development. Embraer has demonstrated the capacity of Brazilian engineering to compete internationally in aerospace manufacturing. Embrapa has contributed to major improvements in agricultural research and productivity, while the BNDES has historically provided long-term financing for industrial and infrastructure development.

These institutions followed different historical trajectories, and their achievements should not be attributed exclusively to one political tradition. Nevertheless, they demonstrate that Brazil possesses substantial experience in creating organizations capable of accumulating technical knowledge and supporting productive transformation.

The challenge is to extend these capabilities into sectors where technological dependence remains significant. Advanced manufacturing, industrial software, biotechnology, digital infrastructure, agricultural equipment, energy storage, medical technologies, and strategic engineering capabilities offer opportunities for further development.

A successful industrial strategy need not require complete domestic self-sufficiency. Such an objective would be unrealistic and economically costly in an international economy organized around complex production networks.

Rather, Brazil should seek stronger domestic capabilities in selected strategic sectors while maintaining access to international investment, technology, and markets.

The government should also develop more effective mechanisms for ensuring that public support produces measurable improvements in productivity. Industrial financing, preferential procurement, and selected forms of protection may be justified where they encourage technological upgrading and the development of competitive enterprises. But public support should remain conditional upon performance, investment, research, workforce training, export capacity, and improvements in domestic supply chains.

Without such conditions, developmental policy risks deteriorating into another form of patronage, particularly in an economy where political relationships can influence access to public resources.

Nova Indústria Brasil and the Problem of Implementation

Lula's government has already introduced an industrial strategy intended to strengthen the country's productive and technological capabilities. Nova Indústria Brasil, launched in January 2024, established a framework for industrial modernization extending through 2033. Its principal missions include sustainable agroindustry, the health-industrial complex, infrastructure and mobility, industrial digitalization, the bioeconomy and energy transition, and technologies associated with national sovereignty and defense.

The program reflects a renewed recognition that industrial policy can contribute to economic resilience and reduce technological dependence.

Nevertheless, the existence of a development plan does not establish that its objectives will be achieved.

Brazil's economic difficulties include high financing costs, tax complexity, uneven infrastructure, weaknesses in technical education, and the limited capacity of many enterprises to undertake substantial research and technological investment.

Public financing can assist firms confronting these constraints, but the effectiveness of such support depends upon the selection of projects and the ability of government institutions to monitor results.

A modern developmental program must avoid permanently protecting enterprises that fail to improve their productivity. It must also prevent public financial institutions from becoming instruments through which politically connected interests obtain favorable financing without contributing to national economic advancement.

Industrial policy should therefore be integrated with competition, administrative reform, fiscal responsibility, and transparency.

The relationship between public and private enterprise should be organized around measurable developmental outcomes rather than ideological preferences concerning ownership.

For the Workers' Party, this would also require expanding its relationship with the contemporary workforce. Industrial labor remains important, but Brazil's workers increasingly include service employees, technicians, professionals, agricultural workers, small entrepreneurs, and participants in digital platforms.

Their economic circumstances differ, yet many face common challenges involving insecure employment, inadequate training, technological displacement, and limited opportunities for advancement.

A renewed trabalhismo should seek to improve the productive capabilities of these workers while establishing mechanisms through which they can participate in the benefits of technological change.

Fiscal Responsibility and the Limits of State-Led Development

The revival of industrial policy must also confront the difficult condition of Brazilian public finances. Public debt, borrowing costs, and the expectations of financial markets impose substantial constraints upon the government's capacity to expand expenditure. The sharp market reaction following Lula's reelection demonstrated the importance investors assign to the credibility of fiscal policy.

These concerns cannot be dismissed simply as opposition to the PT's political program. Unsustainable borrowing may increase interest rates, discourage productive investment, and reduce the resources available for social services. Such consequences can be particularly damaging to workers and lower-income households whose economic security depends upon stable prices and access to employment.

Nevertheless, fiscal responsibility should not be equated with the indiscriminate reduction of productive public investment. Infrastructure that reduces transportation costs, technical education that improves labor productivity, and research that supports technological innovation may generate economic benefits over extended periods.

The relevant distinction concerns the effectiveness, financing, and sustainability of expenditure. Brazil's earlier developmentalist experience provides important warnings about the dangers of ambitious industrial programs financed through excessive borrowing or implemented without sufficient administrative scrutiny.

A credible modern developmental strategy must therefore combine long-term planning with independent project evaluation, transparent public finance, and the capacity to revise or terminate investments that fail to deliver their expected benefits.

For Lula, this means that a renewed commitment to trabalhismo must also include the reform of public administration and the improvement of fiscal institutions.

The objective should be to strengthen the economic foundations supporting social policy rather than perpetually expand commitments without corresponding productive growth.

The Unfinished Relationship Between Order and Progress

Brazil's national motto, Ordem e Progresso, remains relevant to the country's contemporary political difficulties because its two principal ideas have often been treated as competing priorities.

Conservative political movements have frequently emphasized public order, institutional discipline, and the authority of government. Progressive movements have generally assigned greater importance to redistribution, social participation, and the correction of historical inequalities.

Yet economic development requires functioning institutions, public security, reliable administration, investment, and social cooperation. Likewise, political stability cannot be sustained indefinitely where economic insecurity, inadequate services, and limited opportunities undermine public confidence.

A developmental interpretation of the Republic would therefore require integrating public authority with the material advancement of society.

For the Brazilian right, this means confronting the limitations of a political program that may combine economic liberalization with hierarchical social relations without providing an adequately integrated strategy for industrial and technological renewal.

For the PT, it means recognizing that social protection and constitutional democracy require capable institutions, sustainable public finance, productive employment, and effective public security.

Neither tradition can adequately address Brazil's developmental difficulties by relying exclusively upon its established ideological priorities.

The experiences of Argentina, Chile, El Salvador, and Ecuador illustrate that demands for market reform, security, and stronger executive leadership can produce different political responses. Their consequences depend upon institutional design, economic conditions, constitutional safeguards, and the ability of governments to deliver practical improvements.

Brazil's historical experience suggests that productive development is inseparable from the construction of capable institutions. Its challenge is to recover that developmental capacity without reproducing the authoritarian practices or financial weaknesses associated with earlier periods.

Conclusion: The Political Economy of Lula's Pyrrhic Victory

The reelection of Lula has preserved the presidency for the Workers' Party while leaving unresolved the political and economic contradictions that contributed to the strength of Bolsonarismo.

The conservative movement retains substantial parliamentary representation, regional influence, and popular support. Its electorate includes constituencies concerned with religion, public security, market freedom, employment, and national restoration, whose expectations concerning government differ considerably.

The Bolsonaro family's recent legal and political difficulties have added another dimension to these contradictions. Jair Bolsonaro's departure in December 2022, the subsequent investigation and conviction arising from efforts to overturn the constitutional succession, Eduardo's activities in the United States and conviction connected with attempts to influence judicial proceedings, and Flávio's departure after the October 2026 electoral defeat have all raised questions concerning the relationship between personal political authority and institutional accountability.

These episodes are legally distinct and should not be treated as establishing identical responsibility or motives. Nevertheless, their combined political significance lies in the tension between a movement that emphasizes discipline, sovereignty, and public authority and the disputes involving its principal representatives and the constitutional institutions of Brazil.

The economic contradictions are equally important. A substantial current within the Brazilian right favors market-oriented economic policies while maintaining a hierarchical conception of social and political relations. Democracy may be understood principally as the process through which political leaders are selected, while the subsequent exercise of authority remains concentrated within established political, economic, and social institutions.

Such an arrangement may appeal to constituencies seeking greater stability, but it does not necessarily provide the productive institutions required for sustained national development.

Brazil's historical experience demonstrates that industrial advancement has depended upon combinations of public investment, domestic enterprise, international capital, research institutions, and administrative coordination.

The developmental achievements associated with Vargas, Kubitschek, and Geisel offer important historical lessons, although they must be considered alongside the authoritarian practices, financial vulnerabilities, and unequal development that characterized their respective periods.

For Lula and the Workers' Party, the opportunity created by the 2026 election lies in recovering the productive ambitions of Brazilian laborism within a democratic and fiscally responsible economic framework.

This would require a more comprehensive relationship between labor policy, industrial development, scientific research, technological innovation, public security, and national sovereignty.

The objective should not be the preservation of social assistance as a substitute for economic transformation, but the creation of productive opportunities and institutions capable of supporting lasting improvements in living standards.

Lula's political achievement will therefore depend upon whether his renewed administration can demonstrate that democratic government possesses the capacity to deliver the stability and material advancement sought by a divided electorate.

The substantial support retained by the conservative opposition indicates that the social and economic grievances contributing to its rise remain politically important. Their resolution will require more than another electoral victory or the legal and political difficulties of the Bolsonaro family.

Brazil's long-term direction will depend upon the ability of its institutions to reconcile constitutional accountability with effective administration and economic modernization with broader participation in the benefits of development.

The historical aspiration represented by Ordem e Progresso consequently remains unfinished. Its contemporary relevance lies in the continuing need to construct a Republic whose authority is sustained not simply through elections or political hierarchy, but through the capacity of its institutions to provide security, productive advancement, and a greater measure of national economic independence.

For Lula, the election has provided another opportunity to attempt that reconstruction. Whether his victory remains Pyrrhic will be determined by the political and economic accomplishments of the administration that follows.

THE PRICE OF A SHORTENED IMPEACHMENT: When Political Expediency Threatens to Overtake the Search for Truth and Public Accountability

2026-10-24T18:13:00.000-07:00

THE PRICE OF A SHORTENED IMPEACHMENT:

When Political Expediency Threatens to Overtake

the Search for Truth and Public Accountability

The decision of the House prosecution panel to withdraw three of the four articles of impeachment against Vice President Sara Duterte presents a disturbing question about the manner in which the Philippine political establishment understands its responsibilities to the people. What began as an extraordinary constitutional proceeding intended to examine allegations of misconduct, misuse of public resources, and abuse of authority has now been reduced to a single controversy concerning unexplained wealth. The prosecutors may consider this an intelligent tactical maneuver, a prudent economy of judicial time, or even a practical concession to the demands of an increasingly impatient public. Yet the development deserves consideration beyond the calculations of parliamentary strategy, because the larger question is whether the pursuit of a conviction has begun to displace the more fundamental obligation to establish the truth.

On October 13, the prosecution announced that it would abandon Article I, involving the alleged misuse of confidential funds; Article III, concerning alleged bribery within the Department of Education; and Article IV, relating to grave threats and other accusations arising from the Vice President's public statements. The Senate impeachment court, presided over by Senator Francis Escudero, accepted the withdrawal, leaving Article II, concerning unexplained wealth, allegedly deficient asset declarations, and prohibited business interests, as the sole remaining charge for adjudication. The prosecutors explained that the financial evidence was sufficiently substantial to justify concentrating their efforts on that article. There is an understandable legal calculation in such a decision, since a conviction on one article would be enough to produce the constitutional consequences of impeachment. Nevertheless, what may be sufficient for conviction is not necessarily sufficient for public accountability.

This distinction is neither academic nor insignificant. The nation did not arrive at the impeachment proceedings merely because somebody suspected that a high official possessed more money than could be satisfactorily explained. The controversy developed through a succession of questions about the expenditure of public funds, the behavior of officials entrusted with government agencies, the relationship between political power and administrative discretion, and the use of national security as a justification for expenditures ordinarily requiring a greater degree of public explanation. The original articles embodied a wider indictment of alleged conduct in public office. Their abandonment does not establish that the accusations were true; equally, it does not establish that they were false. It means, more simply and more troublingly, that three questions once considered sufficiently serious to be brought before the Senate will no longer receive an impeachment verdict.

There is an important difference between a prosecution that acknowledges deficiencies in its evidence and one that abandons allegations because it believes another charge provides a more convenient route to conviction. The former is a legitimate exercise of legal judgment, provided the decision is explained with candor. The latter risks transforming an impeachment proceeding into an exercise in political arithmetic. In ordinary litigation, a prosecutor may narrow a case to secure an attainable judgment. An impeachment trial, however, occupies a different constitutional and political position. It is not simply an adversarial contest between government lawyers and the accused. It is also an inquiry, conducted in the name of the Republic, into whether an official has betrayed the public trust.

The prosecution's confidence in the unexplained wealth article is not without an evidentiary basis deserving serious examination. Financial testimony presented before the impeachment court has raised questions concerning allegedly undeclared assets and income of the Vice President and her husband, Manases Carpio, with estimates ranging from approximately ₱817.87 million to ₱1.5 billion, depending upon the accounting assumptions employed. These figures remain allegations advanced through prosecution evidence and are subject to the defense's examination and explanation. If established under the applicable constitutional standard, they would constitute a matter of exceptional gravity. Public officers are required not only to declare their interests truthfully but also to demonstrate that public responsibility has not been converted into an instrument of private enrichment. The material presented therefore warrants rigorous judicial consideration rather than political dismissal.

Yet it is precisely because the financial article is so serious that the disappearance of the other allegations becomes difficult to justify on grounds of expediency alone. Unexplained wealth raises questions concerning the accumulation, ownership, and disclosure of assets. Alleged misuse of confidential funds raises a different question: how public money was obtained, distributed, expended, and accounted for. Alleged bribery concerns the possible corruption of administrative decisions through private inducement. Grave threats concern the conduct of an official wielding the authority and prestige of a constitutional office. These are related controversies, but they are not interchangeable offenses. To establish the existence of improperly disclosed wealth would not, by itself, explain how a confidential fund was utilized, whether government employees were improperly influenced, or whether the authority of public office was abused.

The original charges therefore deserved more than a calculation of which allegation appeared most likely to persuade the necessary number of senator-judges. They deserved examination according to their respective constitutional and institutional importance. Otherwise, the proceedings risk producing a verdict that determines the political fate of an individual while leaving unresolved much of the conduct that made the impeachment necessary in the first place.

Consider the question of confidential and intelligence funds. The original impeachment articles cited alleged irregularities involving ₱612.5 million in confidential funds associated with the Office of the Vice President and the Department of Education. The controversy included questions about disbursement, liquidation, the identities of recipients, and the adequacy of supporting documentation. These matters had already attracted substantial public attention because confidential expenditure occupies a peculiarly sensitive place in the management of government finances. Its secrecy may be justified by legitimate operational requirements, but secrecy can never be permitted to become a substitute for accountability. The taxpayer has a reasonable interest in knowing whether the safeguards governing public expenditure were observed, even when operational details cannot be disclosed indiscriminately.

The original investigation also presented a broader problem concerning the purposes for which such funds were sought. During the controversy over the Department of Education's confidential fund proposals, national security and the alleged danger of communist recruitment among the youth were invoked as justifications for expenditures in an agency principally responsible for education. There is nothing inherently improper in government recognizing genuine security threats. The objection arises when an expansive understanding of security permits ordinary governmental responsibilities to be treated as intelligence operations, particularly where the public has insufficient means of determining whether the corresponding expenditures were necessary, proportionate, and lawful.

This is where the country's recurring habit of employing anticommunism as a political explanation becomes especially relevant. The invocation of communist infiltration, subversion, or ideological recruitment has frequently occupied a prominent position in the nation's political vocabulary. Such concerns may sometimes possess a legitimate factual basis. They may also be stretched into convenient explanations for extraordinary administrative powers or restrictions upon legitimate dissent. The significant question in the present controversy was not whether the government should possess a capacity to defend itself against genuine threats, but whether the activities financed under the language of national security corresponded to legitimate functions and could withstand independent examination. Once the impeachment article dealing with confidential funds was withdrawn, that issue ceased to be one upon which the impeachment court would render judgment.

The danger is not confined to any single administration. When the classification of expenditure as confidential is allowed to diminish ordinary standards of verification, the resulting precedent can be exploited by succeeding governments irrespective of their political convictions. A department of education should not require the administrative character of a security establishment to perform its educational mission. A confidential fund should not become an informal budget insulated from meaningful scrutiny. Nor should an official be permitted to treat the assertion of national security as sufficient proof that public money was properly spent. If the allegations concerning the Vice President were unfounded, the proper examination of records and testimony would have helped establish that fact. If they were substantiated, the same examination would have strengthened the case for accountability. Either conclusion would have been more satisfactory than allowing the matter to disappear from the impeachment verdict.

Equally consequential was the allegation of bribery within the Department of Education. The article concerned claims that money was distributed to certain officials through envelopes, allegedly to influence procurement and financial decisions. The Vice President has disputed these accusations, challenging the sufficiency of evidence linking her to any unlawful payments or inducements. Nevertheless, the underlying issue reaches beyond the legality of individual transactions. It raises the possibility that the resources, appointments, relationships, and administrative machinery of a government department could be employed to cultivate personal loyalties, reward compliance, or discourage professional independence.

The issue of building a political power base within the bureaucracy is particularly important in a country where administrative institutions have often been exposed to personalistic politics. The civil service was never intended to function as the private following of an elected official. Department secretaries are custodians of institutions whose existence, legal authority, and financial resources precede their incumbency and must survive their departure. Procurement officers must be answerable to the law, not to the personal preferences of political superiors. Accountants must protect the accuracy of financial records, not accommodate the requirements of factional loyalty. The question of whether any such improper influence occurred during the Vice President's tenure at the Department of Education therefore deserved serious consideration, irrespective of whether the prosecution believed it possessed a stronger case concerning unexplained wealth.

The consequences of bureaucratic capture are familiar to the Philippine economy. Public procurement becomes vulnerable to favoritism, administrative decisions are made according to political considerations rather than institutional necessity, and career officials discover that obedience to personalities may be more rewarding than fidelity to rules. Such practices, wherever established, impose costs that are not always recorded in the national accounts. They appear in delayed projects, inefficient purchases, demoralized employees, poorly delivered services, and diminished confidence among citizens and investors. A government that cannot protect the independence of its administrative machinery will encounter difficulty persuading the business community that contracts, regulations, and public expenditures are governed by predictable standards.

The withdrawal of the article concerning grave threats raises another dimension of political responsibility. The Vice President's public statements involving President Ferdinand Marcos Jr., First Lady Liza Araneta Marcos, and former Speaker Martin Romualdez formed the basis of allegations that extended into questions of public intimidation and the conduct expected of a constitutional officer. Whatever the political animosities between the rival camps, the proceeding offered a formal opportunity to distinguish actionable misconduct from rhetoric, personal hostility, and political exaggeration. That distinction matters in a democratic society, for constitutional officers must enjoy freedom of political expression while remaining subject to the responsibilities and limitations attaching to their offices. Removing the allegation from adjudication leaves the impeachment court without the opportunity to pronounce upon its merits.

The abandonment of these three articles consequently presents the uncomfortable appearance of a retreat from the original reasons for demanding accountability. Months of public argument concerning confidential expenditures, questionable records, alleged inducements, national security justifications, and threats against high officials now appear to have been subordinated to the forensic attraction of a single financial charge. The prosecution may believe that it has simplified the case. The public may reasonably wonder whether the simplification has been purchased at the expense of a fuller accounting of the exercise of power.

This concern is sharpened by the legal consequences of the withdrawal. Articles I and IV were withdrawn with prejudice, preventing their revival in the impeachment proceedings within the applicable period identified by the Senate court. Article III, whose evidence had not yet been presented, was withdrawn without prejudice. These distinctions are significant because they illustrate that the decision was not merely a rearrangement of the presentation of witnesses. The prosecution surrendered the opportunity to obtain impeachment judgments on allegations that had formed part of the House's original case. It cannot be presumed that these allegations have been disproved, but neither can the prosecution continue treating them as though they were pending questions upon which the Senate will eventually decide.

The prosecutors have subsequently maintained that the withdrawn evidence need not be wasted, since appropriate records may be supplied to the Office of the Ombudsman or other agencies for possible proceedings under the law. This assurance is welcome insofar as it recognizes that withdrawal from impeachment does not resolve every other question of accountability. Nevertheless, an intention to furnish evidence to another institution is not equivalent to the completion of an investigation, much less a finding of responsibility. The public is entitled to know what records will be transmitted, what proceedings may lawfully follow, and whether the officials responsible for further investigation possess both the independence and the determination to pursue the matters according to their merits.

The prosecution must also recognize that its action has presented a political opportunity to the Vice President and her supporters. Her camp has already characterized the withdrawal as an admission that the accusations lacked foundation, while arguing that the Vice President was deprived of an opportunity to rebut the allegations and seek vindication before the impeachment court. That interpretation does not necessarily follow from the withdrawal, which is neither an acquittal nor a finding of factual innocence. Yet it would be politically naive to suppose that the distinction will prevent loyalists from employing the development as evidence of persecution or as a justification for dismissing the wider controversy.

There is an irony in this situation. Those wishing to hold the Vice President accountable now find themselves vulnerable to criticism not only from her supporters but also from those who believe the original charges should have been fully examined. The prosecution, by attempting to simplify its task, has supplied its adversaries with an argument that may prove more valuable politically than anything produced by another prolonged series of hearings. Its decision can be represented as proof that the original accusations were exaggerated, while the public is denied an impeachment judgment on their merits. Those who remain unwavering in their political allegiance to the previous administration may exploit this ambiguity, presenting tactical withdrawal as substantive exoneration and institutional restraint as vindication of their preferred narrative.

The danger becomes particularly grave when political loyalty is treated as a substitute for moral judgment. Supporters of any administration have the right to defend its record, challenge hostile evidence, and insist upon due process. They do not possess the right to demand that legitimate questions concerning public money be extinguished merely because their favored officials are involved. Yet there remains a deeply entrenched habit in Philippine politics of converting allegations of official misconduct into contests of personality, regional loyalty, and partisan identity. Under such conditions, accountability ceases to be considered an obligation owed to the Republic and becomes an inconvenience to be tolerated or rejected according to political affiliation.

The prosecution should have anticipated this reaction. An impeachment trial involving a Vice President with a substantial political following, a prominent family name, and an acknowledged place in the succession struggles surrounding the 2028 elections was never going to be insulated from partisan interpretation. For precisely that reason, the proceedings demanded greater completeness, procedural fairness, and intellectual discipline. Every abandoned charge creates room for competing narratives about why it was abandoned. Every unresolved allegation permits supporters and opponents to claim conclusions that the court itself has not reached. It is therefore possible for a prosecution to increase its probability of securing a conviction on one article while simultaneously diminishing the public credibility of the proceedings as a whole.

There is also the matter of the defense's right to be heard. The constitutional requirement of fairness cannot be set aside merely because public frustration has become pronounced. Where accusations have already been aired through testimony and documentary submissions, the respondent possesses a legitimate interest in challenging their accuracy and explaining the circumstances from which they arose. The defense's objection to the withdrawal therefore deserves consideration even by those who regard the allegations against the Vice President as serious. An accountable constitutional order cannot be built upon a proceeding in which the government is free to level accusations publicly but unwilling to permit their complete examination when doing so becomes inconvenient.

The difficulty is that the prosecution's interests and the public's interests are not always identical. The former may legitimately seek the most efficient means of establishing an impeachable offense. The latter encompasses the broader requirement that the state explain how its institutions were used, whether rules were observed, and what reforms may be necessary to prevent a recurrence of questionable practices. The public is not merely a spectator awaiting the result of a contest between opposing lawyers. It is the ultimate beneficiary of constitutional accountability. This distinction should have governed the House's judgment before it decided to place most of its original case beyond the impeachment court's consideration.

An additional concern involves the growing emphasis upon completing the proceedings before the Christmas recess. Statements by legislators and officials connected with the impeachment process have repeatedly entertained the prospect of a verdict before the year ends, while prosecutors have expressed hopes of a decision by late November or early December. Such expectations cannot automatically be equated with improper interference, since the Senate also has responsibilities concerning the national budget and its ordinary legislative calendar. The courts and Congress alike must maintain reasonable schedules. Nevertheless, a calendar becomes objectionable when its convenience is allowed to determine the completeness of a constitutional proceeding.[9]

The possibility that the impeachment trial might be concluded before Christmas invites a question of considerable seriousness. Has the political establishment become so impatient with the demands of accountability that the arrival of the Yuletide recess is to be treated as a more pressing consideration than the examination of charges already brought before the Senate? Public officials certainly possess the ordinary human desire to spend the holidays with their families, and the nation has an equally legitimate interest in avoiding a proceeding unnecessarily prolonged by procedural maneuvering. Yet public office involves obligations that cannot always be arranged around the conveniences of the legislative season. A prosecution concerned principally with finishing before Christmas risks conveying the impression that dispensing justice has been reduced to an administrative assignment which must be cleared from the docket before the year's festivities begin.

There is something particularly unfortunate about the appearance of such haste at a moment when the country continues to confront economic uncertainties, pressures upon public expenditure, and persistent dissatisfaction with the performance of political institutions. The Christmas season has considerable social importance in the Philippines, and its commercial significance is well understood by business establishments whose annual revenues depend upon consumer expenditure during the final quarter. Yet the constitutional business of the Republic is not a retail operation whose outstanding accounts must be closed before the holiday rush. The Senate's legislative calendar may accommodate a recess; the public's right to an honest and adequate determination of official accountability does not expire with the closing of the session.

No responsible observer should demand an interminable impeachment proceeding. Delays can diminish the value of evidence, increase the expenditure of public money, and encourage political exhaustion. A defense that deliberately prolongs proceedings without legitimate purpose would be open to criticism, just as a prosecution that introduces unnecessary witnesses or repetitive testimony would be failing in its duties. But the answer to excessive delay is sound case management rather than the abandonment of substantial allegations. The two are not synonymous. The Senate possessed procedural means to regulate the length of testimony, examine the relevance of evidence, and ensure that the parties observed reasonable schedules. The prosecution's decision to surrender three articles was a much more consequential measure than ordinary procedural discipline.

There is an economic consideration that deserves equal attention. The reputation of a government for integrity is an important, although often unquantified, element of the business climate. Investors examine financial indicators, foreign exchange conditions, market opportunities, infrastructure requirements, and the prospective profitability of enterprises. They also consider whether government agencies are reliable, whether public contracts are awarded according to ascertainable rules, and whether political influence can override lawful procedures. A state in which allegations of corruption receive only partial institutional examination may encounter greater difficulty establishing the confidence required for productive investment and long-term economic planning.

The cost of diminished confidence extends beyond foreign capital. Domestic enterprises, particularly smaller firms that possess neither political patrons nor access to privileged networks, depend upon impartial public administration. Honest suppliers are disadvantaged when procurement rules are manipulated. Taxpayers are disadvantaged when funds cannot be traced to legitimate public purposes. Workers are disadvantaged when financial resources intended for public services are diverted or inefficiently administered. Students are disadvantaged when the institutions responsible for their education become arenas of political controversy rather than centers of administrative competence. The prosecution's withdrawal of allegations involving confidential funds and procurement therefore touches questions of economic governance more substantial than the political fortunes of one official.

It is in this sense that the impeachment controversy must be understood as a political-business question. The relationship between public authority and private benefit has long been one of the central problems of Philippine development. The accumulation of wealth by officials is an obvious subject of concern, but the deeper danger lies in the conversion of governmental machinery into a means of personal advantage or political consolidation. An investigation concerned solely with unexplained wealth may illuminate one part of that problem. It does not necessarily explain the administrative methods, institutional weaknesses, and possible networks of influence through which an abuse of power might occur.

A conviction on Article II, should the evidence and the constitutional standard justify it, would carry substantial legal consequences. It would not, however, automatically produce a complete historical accounting of the other alleged misconduct. Conversely, an acquittal on Article II would not establish the innocence of the Vice President in relation to the three withdrawn articles. That distinction must be understood by the public and respected by political commentators on both sides. The constitutional requirement of a two-thirds vote for conviction is a formidable safeguard against the arbitrary removal of public officers. It also makes the quality and completeness of the case presented to the Senate especially important. The court must ultimately decide according to the evidence and the Constitution, rather than the political demands of either camp.

The 1987 Constitution begins its provisions on accountability with the declaration that public office is a public trust. That principle was not incorporated into the fundamental law merely to furnish an attractive phrase for ceremonial speeches. It imposes a standard of conduct upon the holders of public authority and establishes the premise upon which the institutions of accountability are justified. The Constitution also recognizes that impeachment judgment is limited to removal and disqualification, while liability under other laws remains a distinct matter governed by the applicable constitutional and legal rules. These provisions show that the removal of an official and the pursuit of legal responsibility are related but different functions of the state.[10]

The present controversy consequently demands more than assurances that the unexplained wealth evidence is sufficiently persuasive. The House prosecution should explain why allegations once presented as substantial grounds for impeachment have been withdrawn, how their withdrawal serves the public interest beyond the anticipated shortening of the trial, and what concrete institutional arrangements will ensure that the remaining questions are not abandoned. If the evidence concerning confidential funds, bribery, or grave threats is considered suitable for other lawful proceedings, the relevant agencies must be permitted to examine it independently. If particular allegations cannot be substantiated, that conclusion should be reached through an honest evaluation of evidence rather than hidden beneath a claim of procedural efficiency.

A further obligation rests upon Congress itself. Regardless of the verdict, the legislature should examine whether the rules governing confidential and intelligence funds sufficiently protect against unauthorized expenditure, whether audit procedures permit adequate verification without compromising legitimate security operations, and whether procurement and personnel safeguards are capable of protecting the civil service from political interference. These reforms would not require a finding of guilt against the Vice President. They would constitute a proper institutional response to weaknesses exposed by the controversy. Indeed, a responsible legislature should regard such corrective measures as part of the public value of an impeachment proceeding, rather than as incidental matters best forgotten after the political struggle has passed.

The deeper danger is that the House prosecution, in its effort to win an impeachment case, may have adopted too narrow an understanding of victory. A favorable verdict achieved through a shortened proceeding could be celebrated as a triumph of constitutional accountability, while substantial questions concerning the original accusations remain unresolved. An unfavorable verdict could be employed by the Vice President's supporters to discredit the entire impeachment effort, notwithstanding the fact that most of the accusations were never submitted for a final judgment. In either event, the nation could emerge from a costly and divisive proceeding without an adequate institutional explanation of matters that had occupied its attention for months.

The citizens who seek accountability are not necessarily demanding that the Vice President be condemned in advance of judgment. Many are demanding something more elementary and more consistent with constitutional democracy: that serious allegations be investigated fairly, that evidence be tested, that public money be accounted for, that the accused be afforded the opportunity to answer, and that the institutions entrusted with these responsibilities resist the temptation to subordinate their duties to political convenience. The same obligation would apply if the respondent were the President, a Cabinet secretary, a justice of the Supreme Court, or any other official entrusted with public authority.

That demand cannot be adequately answered by a prosecution that declares itself satisfied because one article appears strong enough to obtain conviction. The country is entitled to ask what became of the remaining allegations, what the original hearings established, and what consequences should follow from whatever evidence can legitimately be sustained. It is entitled to expect that the debates over confidential funds, national security justifications, the independence of government officials, and the possible misuse of bureaucratic authority were not merely episodes of political theater that could be discarded once another charge appeared more promising.

The expectation that the controversy should be settled before Christmas may provide a convenient conclusion to the legislative year. It may offer relief to exhausted prosecutors, defense counsel, senator-judges, and an impatient political establishment. But it will not, by itself, satisfy the demands of accountability. Nor will it prevent the supporters of the previous administration from exploiting the abandoned allegations as evidence of a politically motivated prosecution. Indeed, the narrower the adjudication becomes, the more room remains for partisan interpretations of questions that might otherwise have been examined in the open.

The responsibility of the political establishment is therefore to ensure that the conclusion of the impeachment trial does not become the conclusion of the search for truth. The financial allegations must receive a judgment supported by evidence and constitutional standards. The withdrawn allegations must not be casually represented as either proven wrongdoing or established innocence. The appropriate institutions must pursue the remaining questions wherever the law and available evidence permit. Above all, Congress must recognize that the confidence of the people in their government cannot be restored merely by producing a verdict before the holiday recess.

For a country that has endured repeated controversies over corruption, political patronage, the misuse of state resources, and the transformation of public institutions into instruments of factional advantage, the consequences of institutional failure extend far beyond the fate of one Vice President. The real danger is the gradual acceptance of a political culture in which allegations may be loudly proclaimed, extensively debated, and finally set aside whenever a more expedient course becomes available. Such a culture would leave public accountability dependent upon the convenience of those entrusted with enforcing it, rather than upon the lasting obligations of constitutional government.

The approaching Christmas season may bring the customary declarations of goodwill, reconciliation, and national renewal. These are respectable sentiments, but they cannot be made substitutes for the responsibilities of public office. The Republic is entitled to repose, but it is also entitled to answers. If the impeachment proceedings are to conclude before the year's end, their conclusion must be justified by the completion of the constitutional task, not by the convenience of the calendar. Otherwise, the prosecution's apparent success in simplifying the case may ultimately be remembered as a failure to pursue the full measure of accountability that the original accusations demanded.

The nation may eventually receive a verdict on the Vice President's alleged unexplained wealth. Whether it receives a satisfactory accounting of the wider controversy will depend upon what Congress and the other institutions of the Republic choose to do after that verdict has been rendered. It is upon this larger responsibility, rather than upon the speed with which the impeachment court reaches its decision, that the enduring political and institutional significance of the proceedings will have to be judged.

***

References and Source Notes

1. House of Representatives, Public Communications Bureau. (October 13, 2026). *House prosecution drops 3 impeachment articles, believes unexplained wealth charge enough to oust VP Sara.* https://congress.gov.ph/media/press-releases/10322

2. NewsWatch Plus. (October 13, 2026). *Impeachment court allows withdrawal of 3 articles vs. Duterte.* https://www.newswatchplus.ph/2026/10/13/impeachment-court-allows-withdrawal-3-articles-vs-duterte/

3. GMA News Online. (October 12, 2026). *Sara Duterte, husband's 'unexplained wealth' could reach P1.5B — witness.* https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/topstories/nation/1005657/sara-duterte-husband-s-unexplained-wealth-could-reach-p1-5b-witness/story/

4. Philippine News Agency. (August 4, 2026). *Initial evidence on confi funds shift 'burden of evidence' to VP Sara.* https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1281007

5. Manila Bulletin. (August 7, 2023). *VP Duterte defends DepEd's P150-M confidential funds; cites national security concerns.* https://mb.com.ph/2023/8/7/vp-duterte-defends-dep-ed-s-p150-m-confidential-funds-education-is-intertwined-with-nat-l-security

6. Manila Bulletin. (May 7, 2026). *A deeper look into the four articles of impeachment vs VP Sara.* https://mb.com.ph/2026/05/07/a-deeper-look-into-the-four-articles-of-impeachment-vs-vp-sara

7. House of Representatives, Public Communications Bureau. (October 20, 2026). *Luistro: evidence on withdrawn VP Sara charges will go to Ombudsman.* https://www.congress.gov.ph/media/press-releases/10331

8. GMA News Online. (October 14, 2026). *Sara Duterte camp: Withdrawal of 3 articles of impeachment means allegations 'lacked basis'.* https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/topstories/nation/1005862/sara-duterte-camp-withdrawal-of-3-articles-of-impeachment-means-allegations-lacked-basis/story/

9. Philippine News Agency. (October 19, 2026). *House prosecution hopes to see VP impeach decision by Nov or early Dec.* https://www.pna.gov.ph/article/house-prosecution-hopes-to-see-vp-impeach-decision-by-nov-or-early-dec

10. Republic of the Philippines. (1987). *Constitution of the Republic of the Philippines*, Article XI, Sections 1–3. Supreme Court E-Library. https://elibrary.judiciary.gov.ph/thebookshelf/showdocs/3/353

"TO SAVE THE CENTER, DESTROY THE CENTER"

2026-10-19T09:11:54.260-07:00

"TO SAVE THE CENTER, DESTROY THE CENTER"

France’s upheaval, the failure of political moderation,

and the limits of Filipino restraint

The spectacle of France in turmoil has once again brought forth the familiar pronouncements of those who regard public order as the supreme achievement of civilized government. As buildings burn, demonstrators clash with police and shopkeepers confront the destruction of their businesses, the argument is readily made that whatever legitimate grievances originally brought people into the streets have now been overtaken by criminals, looters and political extremists. The same accusation has been extended to the disturbances in Italy, where demonstrations over economic hardship, public expenditure and other political questions have similarly descended into confrontation.

There is considerable truth in the observation that criminal elements take advantage of public disorder. Arson and looting are not transformed into admirable activities merely because they occur in the vicinity of a political demonstration. The destruction of a small shopkeeper’s livelihood is not an achievement of the working class, and an attack upon an ordinary citizen cannot be defended as an exercise in revolutionary justice. But those who consider this sufficient explanation for the present European disturbances have committed a rather elementary error. They have confused the criminal acts arising within a political crisis with the political crisis itself.

The more pertinent question is why an initially recognizable collection of grievances should develop into a confrontation in which the original demands no longer appear sufficient to explain the behavior of the crowds. In France, what began with students complaining about overcrowded classrooms, insufficient teaching personnel and deteriorating school facilities became inseparable from public dissatisfaction with rising living costs, the erosion of social services and the continuing demand for fiscal restraint. By October 17, 2026, more than half a million people had participated in demonstrations across the country, while the subsequent violence prompted arrests on a scale not seen in France for years. Similar unrest in Italy suggested that the dissatisfaction was hardly an exclusively French phenomenon.

There is a tendency to imagine that a demonstration is legitimate only so long as it remains within the boundaries originally prescribed by its organizers. Students are entitled to complain about schools, workers about wages, farmers about agriculture and pensioners about social security. But once these groups begin demonstrating together, and once the confrontation expands beyond their immediate demands, the movement is increasingly described as disorderly, infiltrated or manipulated. That judgment assumes that economic grievances exist in neat administrative compartments, each capable of resolution by the appropriate ministry. In reality, a society’s economic arrangements connect the classroom with the workplace, the supermarket with the public treasury, and the household budget with decisions taken by governments and financial institutions.

When these connections become apparent to the people experiencing their consequences, a protest ceases to be merely a petition for administrative improvement. It becomes an argument over the direction of society. That is precisely the development that makes governments uncomfortable, for it is one thing to negotiate with teachers over the number of classrooms and quite another to confront a population questioning the economic policies that have made those shortages a permanent feature of public life.

The situation cannot be expected to remain peaceful merely because governments insist upon peaceful conduct. This is not to suggest that violence is either inevitable or desirable. It is to recognize that public demonstrations do not take place in a political laboratory where every participant possesses identical motives, every grievance has a readily available remedy and every confrontation with authority concludes in orderly negotiation. The larger and more diverse a movement becomes, the more difficult it is for its original organizers to determine its character. Police actions, factional rivalries, political provocations, frustration with failed negotiations and the participation of opportunistic criminals can all change the course of events. A government that responds exclusively through police measures may restore control over the streets without resolving the conditions responsible for filling them.

The history of France should be sufficient warning against the belief that the distinction between legitimate protest and riot has always been as clear as contemporary commentators would prefer.

During the French Revolution, demands for constitutional reform and representative government became entangled with popular anger over the price and availability of bread. The women who marched upon Versailles in October 1789 were not conducting a polite seminar on constitutional government. They were responding to material hardship, and their confrontation with the monarchy acquired revolutionary significance precisely because the demand for bread could no longer be separated from the question of political authority. The revolution itself contained peaceful assemblies, popular insurrections, bread riots, political terror and eventually the violent destruction of the monarchy. It would be absurd to suggest that every act committed during those years was therefore justified. It would be equally absurd to maintain that the revolutionary process was illegitimate simply because it did not remain peaceful.

The events of May 1968 provide another example, although they were not bread riots in the strict historical sense. What began in the universities developed into a national confrontation as millions of workers joined strikes and occupations. Barricades appeared in Paris, students fought with police, and the government of Charles de Gaulle confronted a crisis that challenged not simply its immediate decisions but the prevailing organization of French social and political life. The movement was neither a single ideological organization nor an uninterrupted procession of peaceful demonstrators. It contained different interests, competing revolutionary visions, workers seeking material improvements and students rejecting the authority of institutions they regarded as archaic and oppressive. Its significance lay precisely in the inability of the established political system to contain those grievances within their original boundaries.

One may therefore ask whether the familiar accusation that contemporary demonstrations have become riots really explains very much. Certainly they have, in particular places and at particular moments. But the description is not an analysis of how the transformation occurred. To label a crowd a riot is to identify its immediate behavior, not necessarily to understand the political and economic process that brought it into existence.

The political center and the preservation of disorder

The greater danger for the established political order is that the present unrest exposes the exhaustion of the political center as it has come to be understood in much of contemporary Europe. For several decades, moderation has increasingly been associated with a particular combination of economic liberalization, fiscal restraint, institutional continuity and the avoidance of policies considered unacceptable to international financial markets. Political parties may differ substantially on immigration, culture, social values and the language in which they present their programs, yet considerable agreement frequently survives on the proposition that public expenditure must be disciplined according to prevailing economic orthodoxy.

This is particularly troubling in France, whose postwar prosperity was achieved not through the wholesale abandonment of the state but through an extensive tradition of economic planning, public investment, industrial modernization and social protection. The achievements of the Thirty Glorious Years rested upon a political settlement in which the state accepted substantial responsibility for the productive and social development of the nation. The French Republic was expected to do more than administer contracts and enforce commercial rules. It was an active participant in the construction of industrial capacity, infrastructure and a society in which economic advancement could be translated into improvements in ordinary living conditions.

The subsequent influence of neoliberal economic thought did not abolish the French social model, nor did every alteration of the postwar settlement constitute an act of betrayal. France still retains considerable public institutions and protections. Nevertheless, the steady elevation of fiscal discipline, privatization, competitiveness and market confidence has changed the political expectations placed upon governments. The citizen who once understood public services as an achievement of national development is increasingly instructed to regard them as financial commitments whose continued existence must be justified before the demands of budgetary balance.

This is where the supposed political center has encountered its crisis of legitimacy. The center presents itself as the reasonable alternative to ideological extremism, promising administrative competence and a pragmatic accommodation between markets and social welfare. In principle, such moderation need not be objectionable. A genuine third way could combine industrial development with social protection, economic initiative with public accountability, and fiscal responsibility with a clear obligation to preserve the material foundations of citizenship.

But there is an enormous difference between a third way that actually reconciles competing social interests and a centrism whose principal accomplishment is to protect the existing distribution of economic and political power. When the range of acceptable policies is already restricted by the priorities of powerful financial interests, moderation becomes less a method of achieving compromise than a means of preventing substantial change. The center is then no longer the meeting ground of society. It becomes the position from which society is instructed to accept the limitations imposed upon it.

Under such circumstances, remaining in the middle does not necessarily mean remaining impartial. A government that refuses to alter an unequal arrangement is taking a political position, even when it describes that position as neutrality. The decision to preserve an existing economic settlement is itself a decision about whose interests deserve protection. And when the settlement increasingly imposes hardship upon workers, pensioners, farmers and students, the claim that the center represents the national interest becomes progressively less convincing.

It is in this sense that the seemingly contradictory proposition acquires meaning: to save the center, one must destroy the center itself. This does not require the destruction of democratic institutions or the abandonment of constitutional government. It means that a political center which has become synonymous with the preservation of the status quo must cease to exist in its present form if a genuinely representative center is ever to emerge. Its monopolization of political respectability must be broken, its economic assumptions challenged and its claim to be the only reasonable custodian of national affairs rejected.

The task is not to abolish compromise but to make meaningful compromise possible again. There can be little genuine reconciliation between social interests when one side is repeatedly asked to adjust its demands while the basic privileges of the other remain beyond negotiation. What passes for moderation under these conditions becomes a continuing process by which the burdens of adjustment are distributed downward while the authority to determine economic policy remains concentrated above.

One can understand, therefore, why demonstrators cease to be satisfied with assurances that their concerns will be examined by the appropriate authorities. They may have reached the conclusion that the authorities themselves are part of the problem. The demand is no longer confined to correcting the administration of a particular service. It extends to challenging the political and economic arrangements that determine why the service remains deficient in the first place.

When the headquarters becomes the problem

There is an uncomfortable historical parallel in Mao Zedong’s famous injunction to “bombard the headquarters,” issued in August 1966 during the opening phase of China’s Cultural Revolution. Mao accused elements within the Communist Party leadership of suppressing revolutionary criticism and adopting positions that, in his account, served interests contrary to the socialist purposes of the revolution. His argument was that the institution supposedly entrusted with advancing a revolutionary project could itself become an obstacle to that project, particularly when officials acquired privileges and interests that depended upon preserving their own authority.

The notion that a governing institution can be captured by interests contrary to its declared purposes is hardly peculiar to Maoism. It can be found in criticisms of bureaucratic capitalism, oligarchic government and the degeneration of political parties that once claimed to represent workers and the poor. A political organization founded upon popular aspirations can become increasingly absorbed in appointments, internal privileges, access to public resources and the preservation of its own influence. Eventually, the organization may come to treat criticism from its supposed constituents as a threat to institutional stability.

In this limited sense, Mao’s accusation raises a question of enduring relevance: what happens when the headquarters of a political system becomes more committed to defending its occupants than fulfilling the purposes for which the institution was established?

But the history of the Cultural Revolution also supplies a devastating warning against treating Mao’s proposed remedy as a model for democratic politics. The assault upon the party establishment did not produce an orderly liberation of the Chinese people from bureaucratic privilege. It unleashed persecution, factional violence, the destruction of institutions and widespread suffering. Mao himself was hardly an innocent outsider confronting an entrenched establishment; he was the country’s supreme political figure, using revolutionary mobilization in a struggle that also served to reassert his authority. The consequences demonstrate how easily an appeal to popular rebellion can become an instrument of arbitrary power when political accountability is replaced by ideological denunciation.

The distinction matters. To recognize the danger of institutional capture is not to approve every method adopted by those claiming to combat it. A corrupted headquarters must be subjected to scrutiny, democratic pressure and genuine accountability, but a movement that destroys all restraints upon political power may merely replace one privileged hierarchy with another. The question is not whether society should tolerate a governing class that has abandoned its responsibilities. It is how society can reclaim authority over that governing class without surrendering its own freedoms to the next group claiming exclusive possession of revolutionary virtue.

Applied to contemporary Europe, the analogy concerns the political establishment’s increasing tendency to regard the preservation of its governing arrangements as an end in itself. The political center insists that its policies represent stability, yet many citizens experience that stability as the continuing deterioration of their economic security. Public expenditure is restrained in the name of responsibility, while the ordinary household is expected to accommodate rising costs and uncertain employment. The government claims to be protecting social order, while its critics contend that the existing order has become a mechanism through which insecurity is perpetuated.

For those who have reached this conclusion, the demand to preserve the center sounds less like an appeal to reason than a demand to preserve the privileges of those occupying it. The center cannot indefinitely maintain its authority by presenting every challenge from outside its established consensus as a descent into extremism. Its legitimacy must rest upon material achievements and responsiveness to public needs, not simply upon the inadequacies of its opponents.

Why the riot cannot be separated from the protest

It is here that the familiar denunciation of the French and Italian demonstrations as no longer legitimate protests becomes politically inadequate. The existence of criminals within a large mobilization does not abolish the grievances of those participating in it. Nor does the violence of one group necessarily establish the intentions of another. The student seeking improved school facilities is not automatically responsible for the masked individual looting a shop several streets away, just as the trade unionist demanding higher wages cannot be presumed to approve an attack upon a police officer.

Yet it would be equally mistaken to treat every violent incident as entirely external to the broader political confrontation. Demonstrations sometimes become riots because the relationship between protesters and public authority deteriorates to the point where neither side expects an accommodation. Police may encounter genuinely violent groups, while otherwise peaceful demonstrators may regard particular police tactics as provocative or excessive. Arrests, injuries and the circulation of dramatic images can intensify anger beyond the original grievance. Some individuals may then come to believe that peaceful demonstrations are incapable of attracting the attention that violent disorder commands.

There is no reason to assume that this belief is always correct. Violence can alienate potential supporters, weaken disciplined organizations and provide governments with an opportunity to shift the public discussion away from economic grievances toward security. It also creates conditions in which criminal opportunists may act without possessing the slightest commitment to the movement’s political demands. A smashed storefront cannot feed a hungry family merely because the person who smashed it claimed to be protesting inflation.

Nevertheless, the possibility of escalation must be treated as a political problem rather than simply a moral failure of the crowds. Governments that permit legitimate grievances to accumulate while treating organized demands as administrative inconveniences should not be surprised when public confidence in established methods of protest begins to weaken. The fact that violence is destructive does not eliminate the need to examine why some citizens have ceased to believe that peaceful methods will be heard.

France’s political tradition makes the contradiction particularly visible. Its citizens possess extensive social protections compared with those available in the developing world, yet they mobilize vigorously when they believe those protections are being eroded. The French recognize that the public institutions now taken for granted did not simply descend from the generosity of enlightened governments. Many were the products of prolonged struggles involving workers, organized political movements and generations of demands for social rights.

This makes the claim that the protests are somehow un-French because Palestinian banners appear among the crowds especially ridiculous. The French did not require immigrants, foreign activists or international causes to develop a tradition of insurrection. Their own history contains enough revolutions, barricades, general strikes and popular disturbances to make such an accusation historically illiterate. France has always been a country in which domestic political struggles intersect with broader ideological and international questions. The appearance of a Palestinian flag does not cancel the French citizenship of the person carrying it, nor does it invalidate the demands of a worker protesting the cost of living.

Those who insist that genuine French patriotism must confine itself to approved symbols appear to misunderstand the very republic whose traditions they claim to defend. One suspects that certain defenders of the tricolor are less troubled by the absence of a national flag than by the persistence of the republican and revolutionary traditions associated with it. Their ideal France may be closer to the old monarchy and its fleur-de-lis than to the turbulent political culture through which the modern Republic emerged.

France is not simply the country of Dior and Chanel, of magnificent boulevards and cultivated luxury. It is also the country of the socialist, the trade unionist, the republican radical, the communist veteran and the student who questions the legitimacy of established authority. The conservative image of France and the France of the organized left are not separate nations. They are competing expressions of the same historical society, and the conflict between them forms part of the country’s political character.

The Filipino who appears to be patient

For Filipinos, however, the more disturbing lesson lies not in the French habit of protest but in our own habit of restraint. We have grown accustomed to describing the Filipino as resilient, patient and capable of enduring adversity with remarkable good humor. These qualities are regularly celebrated by officials and commentators who appear to regard public endurance as sufficient compensation for inadequate services and deficient economic arrangements.

The Filipino commuter must rise earlier because transportation remains unreliable. The public school teacher must improvise because educational resources are insufficient. Families must borrow money when medical treatment exceeds their means, while workers are expected to accept wages that frequently fail to provide a satisfactory standard of living. Millions have sought employment abroad because the domestic economy has failed to generate enough productive opportunities for its own citizens.

These circumstances produce an extraordinary degree of individual adaptation. Yet they also permit the government to shift the responsibility for its shortcomings onto the people compelled to suffer their consequences. What should be a matter of national economic planning becomes a question of personal discipline. What should be an obligation of public administration becomes an occasion for charity. What should be a political demand becomes another demonstration of the Filipino’s admirable willingness to make do.

The apparent tranquility of Philippine public life should therefore be approached with considerable caution. A population that does not regularly paralyze its cities with nationwide strikes is not necessarily a population satisfied with the conduct of its government. It may simply be one that lacks the organizational resources, employment security and social protections necessary to sustain such action. A worker dependent upon daily earnings may have every reason to resent the prevailing economic arrangements while possessing equally compelling reasons not to miss a day’s employment.

There is also the more subtle constraint imposed by the national interpretation of legality and political respectability. Filipinos are repeatedly reminded that public grievances must be expressed within the limits of the law, that political disagreement must remain peaceful and that the institutions established by the Constitution must be allowed to perform their responsibilities. None of these propositions is objectionable in itself. Indeed, the protection of constitutional liberties is indispensable to democratic government.

The difficulty begins when appeals to the rule of law are employed not to defend citizens against arbitrary power but to discourage citizens from exercising effective pressure upon those who possess it. In such circumstances, law is gradually presented less as a protection of popular sovereignty than as a discipline imposed upon the sovereign people. Political criticism is welcomed so long as it does not substantially disturb those being criticized. Demonstrations are tolerated so long as they do not interfere with the normal operation of the institutions whose failures have provoked them.

The resulting conception of democracy is peculiar. Citizens are informed that they possess the ultimate authority in a republican state, yet they are frequently made to feel that any vigorous exercise of that authority constitutes a threat to stability.

The 1987 Philippine Constitution itself does not support so narrow an interpretation of political life. It declares that sovereignty resides in the people and that all government authority emanates from them. It protects freedom of expression and peaceful assembly, establishes the principle that public office is a public trust and provides mechanisms through which officials may be held accountable and removed from office. These provisions do not create an unrestricted legal license for violent overthrow or attacks upon persons and property. They do, however, make clear that government authority exists conditionally, under constitutional restraints and ultimately for the benefit of the public.

The rule of law was never intended to mean the indefinite political immunity of those who govern. Neither should the law be treated as an instrument through which the powerful can demand obedience while postponing accountability. Its authority depends upon the confidence that it provides meaningful remedies against abuses of power.

When citizens begin to perceive that legal institutions are exceedingly efficient at regulating ordinary conduct but remarkably slow in correcting official misconduct, that confidence becomes increasingly difficult to sustain. It is then that the distinction between the rule of law and the use of law to preserve an established political order acquires practical significance.

The Philippine experience makes the question particularly acute. The country has already demonstrated, most dramatically in February 1986, that popular mobilization can alter the direction of political authority. The People Power uprising was not understood merely as a routine expression of dissent. It was a confrontation with a dictatorship whose claim to legitimacy had been profoundly undermined. Its achievement was not that the population secured permission to complain, but that citizens, supported by a broad coalition of social forces, compelled a transfer of political power.

Yet the subsequent restoration of constitutional democracy did not eliminate the economic arrangements that had long concentrated wealth and political influence. Elections continued, institutions were restored and successive administrations presented competing visions of reform. Nevertheless, many of the structural problems confronting ordinary Filipinos survived the changes in national leadership.

This has contributed to the peculiar frustration of contemporary Philippine politics. The public is frequently encouraged to concentrate its dissatisfaction upon personalities rather than institutions and economic relationships. The replacement of a president becomes the principal expression of political change, while the underlying conditions of employment, land ownership, industrial weakness, public services and unequal opportunity remain comparatively resistant to alteration.

The Filipino may therefore become increasingly suspicious of the proposition that another election, another investigation or another promise of administrative reform will necessarily produce substantial improvement. He may not reject constitutional government. He may instead begin to doubt whether the existing political establishment possesses either the will or the capacity to make constitutional government serve its declared social purposes.

Deep beneath Filipino restraint lies the possibility of a more profound desire to express accumulated anger. It is not always expressed in organized political language. It appears in bitter humor, conversations among workers, denunciations of corruption and the growing suspicion that the respectable procedures of political life have become highly effective at preserving the privileges of those who already possess them.

Under such circumstances, some citizens may begin to imagine that only a disruption of normal political arrangements can force genuine change. Their dissatisfaction is directed not merely against particular officials but against the continued operation of institutions that appear incapable of correcting their own failures. The temptation is to seek a disorderly interruption of an already disorderly system, particularly when orderly methods seem to produce little beyond the reproduction of existing conditions.

That sentiment should alarm the political establishment, not because it is necessarily a revolutionary program, but because it indicates the possible collapse of confidence in conventional democratic remedies. A society does not become secure merely because its discontent remains largely invisible. Nor can the government assume that people who continue to obey the law have therefore accepted the justice of their circumstances.

There is, however, a danger in confusing the desire for rupture with a credible program of political transformation. The collapse of ordinary restraint may produce a mass democratic movement, but it can also produce criminal opportunism, sectarian violence or the rise of authoritarian figures who promise to impose order upon the confusion. A population that has lost confidence in existing institutions requires more than the satisfaction of seeing them humiliated. It requires the capacity to establish institutions that will answer to the public more effectively than their predecessors.

This is why organized labor, students’ associations, farmers’ organizations and independent civic institutions remain indispensable. Their value does not lie merely in their ability to assemble crowds. It lies in their capacity to translate diffuse grievances into sustained political demands, to prevent popular anger from becoming the private instrument of ambitious politicians and to create the conditions under which an existing settlement can be replaced by something more accountable.

An orderly society for whom?

Those who dismiss the present French and Italian disturbances as criminal riots frequently conclude by asking why similar events are not occurring on the same scale in the Philippines. The implied answer is that Filipinos remain more sensible, more disciplined or more respectful of law. It is an attractive explanation, particularly to those who equate the absence of visible confrontation with successful government.

But the relative absence of spectacular disorder is not an adequate measure of social stability. A country may experience few nationwide strikes while millions endure economic insecurity. Its government offices may operate without interruption while its public services remain inadequate. Its streets may be free from barricades while its households struggle under debt, insufficient income and the accumulated costs of failures that the state has not corrected.

There is also an element of class interest in the demand for uninterrupted order. Business establishments naturally depend upon predictable operations, and workers themselves require the continuity of employment and public services. Yet a conception of stability concerned exclusively with protecting commercial activity can neglect the economic conditions of the people upon whom that activity ultimately depends.

The worker who cannot afford adequate food, housing or healthcare does not experience social stability in the same manner as the investor whose principal concern is the security of financial returns. Their interests are not necessarily irreconcilable, but they cannot be reconciled merely by instructing one party to remain patient while assuring the other that economic policy will preserve its expectations.

A responsible political center ought to recognize this distinction. Its purpose should be to mediate social conflicts by changing the conditions that produce them, not merely to suppress their public expression. Economic growth must create productive employment and improvements in living standards. Fiscal policy must be judged not only by its effect upon borrowing and market confidence but also by its consequences for essential public institutions. Industrial development must become a national undertaking rather than a collection of isolated investments whose benefits fail to reach the wider economy.

If these obligations are neglected, the political center gradually forfeits its claim to represent moderation. It becomes instead the custodian of an arrangement whose inequities it is unwilling to disturb. That is the point at which the defense of the status quo ceases to be a stabilizing influence and begins to contribute to the instability it professes to oppose.

The French demonstrations are therefore significant not simply because of their size or the violence that has accompanied them. They are significant because they reveal a widening refusal to accept the proposition that existing economic arrangements are beyond substantial revision. Those marching in the streets do not necessarily possess a common political program, and some may eventually support movements whose objectives are mutually incompatible. But they increasingly share the conviction that the prevailing political settlement is not adequately serving their interests.

The presence of criminal elements within the disturbances does not erase that conviction. Nor can the authorities indefinitely rely upon the spectacle of burning vehicles to divert attention from the deeper causes of public dissatisfaction. The restoration of order may be an immediate necessity, particularly for ordinary citizens endangered by the violence. It cannot become the entire substance of public policy.

For the Philippines, the lesson is more uncomfortable. Our celebrated resilience has allowed society to survive the inadequacies of government, but it has also helped conceal the cumulative political cost of those inadequacies. The Filipino has too often been expected to compensate privately for failures that should have been addressed collectively. That arrangement has survived partly because the burdens of protest fall heavily upon those least able to bear them.

There may come a time when the population no longer accepts the claim that patience is the principal obligation of citizenship. Such a development need not involve the burning of buildings or the abandonment of constitutional order. But it would necessarily involve a rejection of the notion that the preservation of established political arrangements constitutes an adequate substitute for economic and social justice.

The true challenge is not to persuade people that disorder is preferable to democracy. It is to prevent the continued failures of democratic institutions from making disorder appear more effective than the lawful exercise of popular sovereignty.

This requires confronting a political center that has confused its own survival with the survival of the Republic. If the center is to remain worthy of public confidence, it must be prepared to dismantle the arrangements through which entrenched interests have come to dominate its decisions. It must recover the capacity to challenge privilege, redistribute the benefits of development and make the state answerable to the citizens whose authority it exercises.

In that respect, the destruction of the old center is not necessarily the destruction of constitutional democracy. It may be the precondition for restoring the social substance without which constitutional democracy becomes increasingly hollow.

The French have repeatedly demonstrated that public order is not an unconditional gift bestowed upon governments. It is a political relationship sustained by the belief that institutions remain responsive to the society they govern. When that belief deteriorates, protest becomes more difficult to contain, its demands become broader and the distinction between ordinary political disagreement and a crisis of legitimacy becomes increasingly uncertain.

Nobody does revolution quite like the French, although their history also reminds that revolutions are neither guaranteed to succeed nor guaranteed to produce the justice promised in their name.

For Filipinos, the greater danger may lie in believing that the absence of a French-style upheaval proves that the Republic is sufficiently stable. A population compelled to tolerate persistent institutional failures may remain outwardly restrained for many years, but such restraint should never be confused with permanent political consent.

The question confronting governments is not merely how to prevent the next demonstration from becoming a riot. It is whether the prevailing political order still possesses the willingness to correct the injustices that make increasingly radical opposition conceivable.

If the established center can answer that question only by demanding further patience, obedience and sacrifice from those who have already borne the greatest burdens, it should hardly be surprised when those citizens eventually cease to regard the center as a solution.

And if the political establishment insists that every challenge to its authority constitutes an assault upon democracy, the public may ultimately conclude that democracy itself must be rescued from the people who claim to speak exclusively in its name.

France Is Not a Postcard (Also a Barricade)

2026-10-19T02:50:36.612-07:00

France Is Not a Postcard (Also a Barricade)

By Lualhati Madlangawa-Guererro

The country of Chanel and Dior is also the country of the barricade.
Its political and economic history cannot be understood merely
through the castles, monuments and pageantry admired by outsiders.
(Source: Euronews)

There is something curious, if not altogether amusing, about the expressions of concern accompanying the latest disturbances in France. As demonstrators gather in the streets of Paris and other French cities, protesting deteriorating public services, educational conditions and the rising cost of living, a certain class of observers has found particular offense in the apparent absence of French national flags. Photographs showing red banners, trade-union insignia and the emblems of left-wing organizations have encouraged the familiar complaint that France is somehow losing its identity. The conclusion, presumably, is that French patriotism can be measured by the frequency with which the tricolour appears in a crowd, rather than by the political convictions or material interests of the people composing it.

One might wonder what these concerned observers have actually learned about France beyond what they have seen in travel advertisements, historical dramas and illustrated volumes on European royalty. Their conception of the country seems rooted in the picturesque: the Palace of Versailles, the gardens of the Tuileries, the old châteaux of the Loire Valley, the magnificent gowns and elaborate ceremonies of the Bourbon court. France, in this imagination, is a country of refinement, hereditary dignity and well-ordered public occasions. Its citizens are expected to preserve the atmosphere, maintain the scenery and conduct their disagreements without interfering with the visitor’s appreciation of the monuments.

It is an attractive picture, certainly, and one that France itself has cultivated with considerable commercial success. The French tourism industry has long understood the value of selling history, fashion and culture as components of a distinctive national product. Yet the trouble begins when the commercial representation of a country is mistaken for the country itself. France has never been merely a collection of architectural treasures, nor has its political development consisted of an uninterrupted succession of dignified ceremonies presided over by benevolent rulers. Much of what the world now recognizes as modern France was produced through precisely the kind of social conflict that some of its contemporary admirers regard as an embarrassing departure from national tradition.

Indeed, whether a demonstration comes from an industrial worker, a farmer, a university student, a pensioner or a public employee, the French have repeatedly shown a willingness to bring their grievances into the streets when ordinary political arrangements seem insufficient. The causes are seldom identical, and the participants may belong to movements whose economic and political objectives are incompatible. A farmer protesting agricultural imports may have little in common with a socialist student demanding greater public expenditure, while a pensioner opposing retirement reforms may reject the methods of militant trade unionists. Yet all participate in a political culture in which the public demonstration has remained an established means of asserting demands upon government.

Sometimes such demonstrations are peaceful, disciplined and conducted through recognized organizations. At other times they become incendiary, literally as well as politically, particularly when confrontations with police or the intervention of violent factions transform a public assembly into an occasion for destruction. There is no reason to romanticize the burning of shops, the assault of public officials or the devastation of private property. The immediate victims of such violence are often ordinary workers and small proprietors who have little influence over the policies being contested. Nevertheless, it would be equally mistaken to interpret every outbreak of disorder as proof that the political tradition from which the original demonstration emerged was itself illegitimate.

The distinction matters because the present unrest has brought together grievances extending well beyond a single ideological organization. The demonstrations of October 17 followed weeks of student protests over shortages of teachers, deteriorating classrooms and educational conditions, eventually attracting trade unions, public employees, Yellow Vest activists and others concerned with wages, pensions and household purchasing power. Although hundreds of thousands demonstrated peacefully, serious rioting, looting and attacks on public buildings occurred in several cities. The government is obliged to protect public safety and commercial property, but the origins of the movement cannot be adequately explained by treating the entire body of demonstrators as participants in criminal disorder.

One might imagine a young Frenchwoman named Chloé, a student of left-wing convictions who joins a demonstration demanding better schools and more affordable living conditions. She may carry a red banner rather than the tricolour, and her political opinions may be thoroughly objectionable to a conservative admirer of French grandeur. Yet her nationality does not become less authentic because she chooses the pavement rather than the salon as the venue for expressing them.

The France of Chanel and Dior is also the France of this leftist Chloé. There is no contradiction in recognizing both as parts of the same national society, except to those who have come to believe that a country’s commercial elegance must somehow exclude its political discontent. The boutiques, fashion houses and grand avenues of Paris are not inhabited by an entirely separate civilization from the people who clean them, staff them, transport their merchandise or attend the public schools and universities that sustain the city’s workforce.

To suggest otherwise is to confuse a picturesque image of France with the social and economic relationships that make the image possible.

The historical difficulty with this selective understanding of France is considerable. The Revolution of 1789 was hardly the conclusion of French political development. It inaugurated a prolonged struggle over sovereignty, property, representation and the organization of society that repeatedly brought the population into confrontation with governments of almost every description. The July Revolution of 1830 overthrew Charles X. Another revolution in 1848 removed Louis-Philippe. The Paris Commune of 1871 challenged the established political order under the red flag. In 1936, factory occupations and strikes accompanied the Popular Front’s introduction of landmark labor reforms. Then came May 1968, when students and workers occupied universities and factories while challenging the political and social assumptions of postwar France.

These movements were by no means identical, nor should their differences be dissolved into a sentimental account of one continuous revolution. The constitutional monarchists of 1830 did not necessarily share the objectives of the social republicans of 1848, while the Communards of 1871 advanced arrangements that many moderate republicans vigorously opposed. What they did share was an understanding that the relationship between the people and the state remained open to political contestation. Governments could claim legitimacy through constitutional forms, historical inheritance, military authority or electoral victory, but none could expect the French public to accept that political argument had been permanently settled.

The history of the national flag itself makes the present complaint particularly peculiar. The tricolour emerged from the Revolution, was displaced by the royal white flag during the Bourbon Restoration and returned following the upheaval of 1830. In 1848, revolutionaries debated whether the national emblem should be entirely red before Alphonse de Lamartine successfully defended the retention of the blue, white and red. The argument was not between Frenchmen and foreigners but between Frenchmen holding different conceptions of their country. To describe the red flags of the Commune or May 1968 as evidence of an alien political influence would therefore require one to dismiss substantial portions of France’s own political inheritance.

Even Napoleon Bonaparte, whose military achievements and imperial ceremonies are frequently admired by enthusiasts of European grandeur, complicates the nostalgic picture. Napoleon was a product of the Revolution and owed his extraordinary advancement to the collapse of the old system of hereditary privilege. His rise through the revolutionary armies would have been inconceivable under the social arrangements of the earlier Bourbon monarchy. Although he eventually established an empire, surrounded himself with elaborate ceremonies and created a new imperial nobility, he did not simply restore the institutional foundations of the Ancien Régime. His Civil Code consolidated important revolutionary achievements, including uniform civil law, legal equality for male citizens and the protection of private property.

Napoleon was certainly no advocate of unrestricted popular demonstrations. His government suppressed political opposition, censored newspapers and reinforced authoritarian rule, while also restoring slavery in French colonies where it had been abolished. His purpose was to contain the Revolution politically while preserving those elements of its social and legal settlement that could strengthen the state. Yet therein lies the historical contradiction for those who imagine that French greatness consists primarily of hereditary privilege and royal ceremony. Even the emperor understood that the institutions of pre-revolutionary France could not simply be reconstructed by restoring the costumes and symbols of an earlier age.

The more extreme expressions of contemporary nostalgia occasionally suggest that France requires the return of its monarchy. As a constitutional proposition, monarchism is a historical and political position that can be debated on its merits. But the mere restoration of royal titles would provide no obvious answer to the grievances of contemporary France. The Bourbons returned after Napoleon, only for Charles X to be overthrown in 1830. Louis-Philippe then became king, only to be removed in 1848. The French monarchy itself was not a single, politically unchanging institution but a succession of competing settlements over sovereignty, privilege and the distribution of political power.

Perhaps what some of these observers really desire is not monarchy as a functioning political institution but monarchy as spectacle: the château, the glittering chandeliers, the handsome uniforms, the gowns and the carefully arranged ceremonies. It is a France in which the public may admire the palace but should preferably refrain from troubling its occupants. The familiar suggestion that demonstrators ought to confine their grievances to their proper places and venues has an especially telling resemblance to the hierarchical assumptions associated with the old regime, under which public order was conceived in terms of social stations and established obligations.

The October 1789 march on Versailles offers an instructive historical comparison. Thousands of people, led by Parisian women protesting the scarcity and price of bread, marched directly to the residence of the king because it was there that political authority was concentrated. They did not consider the inconvenience to royal ceremony a sufficient reason to demonstrate somewhere less conspicuous. Modern democratic institutions ought to provide alternatives to insurrection and coercion, but the episode illustrates why the public visibility of grievances has always been central to political mobilization. A system that permits dissent only when it cannot inconvenience authority risks preserving the appearance of harmony without addressing the conditions producing discontent.

One might also wonder what such guardians of French respectability intend to do with the country’s intellectual inheritance. If the political traditions of dissent are to be disowned as an unfortunate source of disorder, perhaps Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Voltaire would eventually become unsuitable representatives of French civilization. Rousseau’s arguments concerning popular sovereignty questioned the foundations of political legitimacy, while Voltaire challenged religious intolerance, arbitrary injustice and abuses of established power. Neither participated in the Revolution of 1789, having died in 1778, and their intellectual differences were considerable. Nevertheless, their writings helped establish the climate of philosophical criticism in which inherited institutions could be subjected to rational examination rather than accepted as permanent facts of nature.

It would be a strange reading of French civilization to admire these figures as ornaments of its literary greatness while objecting to the unsettling consequences of their ideas. The Enlightenment was not merely an agreeable conversation among educated gentlemen in aristocratic salons. It was a sustained argument over authority, liberty, religion, reason and the claims of government upon society. By the twentieth century, the relationship between intellectual life and political mobilization had become more direct. During May 1968, Jean-Paul Sartre publicly supported the protesting students, addressed an occupied Sorbonne and associated himself with their challenge to established authority. One need not agree with Sartre’s politics to recognize that his participation represented an established French tradition in which intellectual criticism could extend into public political action.

Yet the current unrest deserves examination beyond the familiar historical arguments about flags, revolutions and national identity. An observer might suggest that the demonstrations also invite a much larger question concerning the direction of the French economy, particularly the gradual movement away from the state-directed developmental arrangements that contributed to the country’s extraordinary postwar transformation. The loss of confidence expressed in the streets may have several immediate causes, but it is difficult to separate these grievances from the longer history of economic restructuring, industrial decline in certain regions, fiscal restraint and the increasingly uneven distribution of prosperity.

There was a period when France presented itself not merely as a center of European elegance but as a major industrial power capable of combining technical advancement, national planning and social modernization. The decades between the end of the Second World War and the mid-1970s became known as Les Trente Glorieuses, the Thirty Glorious Years, a period of rapid growth, rising productivity, reconstruction and improvements in living standards. France developed industries, expanded infrastructure, modernized agriculture and built institutions through which the state sought to direct national resources toward defined economic priorities.

The French model was neither Soviet central planning nor a completely unrestricted capitalist market. The state exercised substantial influence through the Commissariat général du Plan, established in 1946 under Jean Monnet, and through public enterprises, financial institutions and sectoral policies that coordinated investment and modernization. Private enterprise continued to operate, but it did so within a framework in which the government regarded industrial capacity, energy, transportation and technological development as matters of national concern. The economy was expected to serve a conception of French development extending beyond the immediate profitability of individual enterprises.

Electricity generation, telecommunications, transportation and heavy industry received particular attention. Électricité de France became an instrument of national electrification, while the railway system and associated engineering industries benefited from public coordination and long-term investment. The aerospace and nuclear sectors subsequently demonstrated how the state could bring together scientific research, industrial production and national strategy. France eventually acquired internationally competitive capabilities in high-speed rail, civil aviation, energy technology, defense manufacturing and sophisticated consumer industries. These achievements did not arise from government spending alone, but from the interaction of public direction, private initiative, engineering expertise, skilled labor and sustained investment.

The significance of this arrangement was that France did not regard industrial development as merely the accumulation of profits by separate corporations. The state’s responsibility, at least in principle, was to act as steward of national productive capacity. The factory, the laboratory, the technical school, the transport network and the research institution were understood as related elements of a national economic system. Industrialization was expected to improve living standards, supply employment, strengthen national independence and support the public institutions upon which social cohesion depended.

There were important shortcomings. The benefits were not distributed equally among all communities, and migrant workers often endured appalling living conditions despite contributing to the expansion of French industry. Some sectors benefited excessively from protection, and bureaucratic coordination could become inflexible or expensive. Nevertheless, the central achievement was substantial: France demonstrated that a modern capitalist economy could develop advanced technological and industrial capabilities under strong public direction without eliminating the role of markets and private ownership.

The subsequent transformation of economic policy was not an overnight abandonment of that model. The oil shocks of the 1970s, inflation, the international monetary environment and intensified competition exposed weaknesses that the earlier growth period had partly concealed. The decisive political symbolism came in 1983, when François Mitterrand’s Socialist government, confronted by financial pressures and the constraints of maintaining the franc within the European Monetary System, adopted the tournant de la rigueur, or turn toward austerity. The change involved restraints on expenditure and consumption, measures to contain inflation and a greater emphasis on external competitiveness.

It would be inaccurate to describe this decision as the complete conversion of France into a neoliberal state. France retained substantial public ownership, a significant welfare system and extensive state involvement in economic affairs. Nevertheless, the shift reflected a broader alteration in the priorities of economic management. In the following decades, privatization, financial liberalization, European market integration and competition policy gradually reduced some of the instruments through which the French state had previously directed industry. Successive governments increasingly measured national economic performance through the language of market confidence, fiscal discipline, competitiveness and international capital flows.

Supporters of these changes argue that France could not indefinitely shelter its industries from global competition or sustain public expenditure without regard to inflation, debt and productivity. Their argument cannot be dismissed lightly. A national industrial strategy that ignores costs and commercial viability eventually becomes a burden upon the taxpayers it is supposed to benefit. But critics of the neoliberal turn raise another question: whether the pursuit of market efficiency has progressively weakened the productive and social foundations that made French competitiveness possible in the first place.

Industrial enterprises are not interchangeable entries in a national balance sheet. When a plant closes, the damage extends to suppliers, skilled workers, technical schools, small businesses and the community that has developed around it. A factory cannot always be replaced by a financial service or a tourist establishment without fundamentally changing the opportunities available to the local population. Likewise, the privatization of an enterprise may improve certain measures of financial performance while reducing the state’s capacity to coordinate investment in sectors requiring long periods of development and substantial initial capital.

The problem becomes particularly serious when an economy increasingly depends upon the profitable circulation of goods, services and financial assets while neglecting the domestic productive capacity necessary to sustain incomes. France remains a major industrial and technological economy, and it would be absurd to suggest that the country has been reduced entirely to hotels, fashion houses and monuments. Its aerospace, defense, energy, pharmaceutical, agricultural and luxury-goods industries retain considerable international importance. Yet the broader concern is whether the distribution of investment, employment and opportunity has become sufficiently uneven that the spectacle of continued national prosperity conceals significant social deterioration.

The tourist who visits Paris sees the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Élysées, the Louvre and the boutiques of the great fashion houses. The visitor sees a country whose civilization remains commercially valuable, a Paris that continues to sell its history and elegance to the world. But the same metropolitan region contains overcrowded housing, precarious employment, neglected neighborhoods and people living in temporary encampments. It is not necessary to equate every suburb with a slum or to deny the vitality of working-class communities to recognize the considerable inequalities separating different portions of metropolitan Paris.

Indeed, the contrast between the postcard and the shantytown is not entirely a recent invention. During the very decades celebrated as the Thirty Glorious Years, migrant workers and their families lived in the bidonvilles of Nanterre and other parts of the Paris region, often without adequate water, sanitation or electricity. French industrial prosperity therefore contained exclusions of its own. The postwar developmental state achieved impressive advances, but it did not always distribute the resulting prosperity according to the universal claims of the Republic. Its successes should be remembered without transforming the period into another imaginary golden age.

The distinction today lies partly in the expectations produced by several decades of economic liberalization. France was promised that greater exposure to international competition, the free movement of capital and the discipline of markets would preserve prosperity by making its enterprises more efficient and adaptable. Some industries benefited, and consumers gained access to wider markets and products. Yet the social costs of restructuring did not disappear merely because they were transferred away from corporate accounts. They appeared in employment insecurity, regional disparities, pressures upon public services and a growing sense that the institutions charged with protecting national welfare were increasingly responsive to financial constraints imposed elsewhere.

The figures published by the national statistics institute provide some indication of the problem. In 2023, the monetary poverty rate in metropolitan France reached 15.4 percent, affecting approximately 9.8 million people living in ordinary housing. This was the highest rate recorded since the beginning of the comparable series in 1996. These statistics do not establish that neoliberal policies caused the deterioration, much less explain every grievance expressed during October 2026. But they provide grounds for examining whether the gains of the national economy have been distributed sufficiently broadly to support the social confidence upon which stable government ultimately depends.

There is another consequence of the changing economic order that cannot be ignored: the relationship between France and the countries once governed by its colonial empire. It has become common in some quarters to blame immigrants for the difficulties of the French economy, as though the movement of people from poorer countries toward wealthier ones were an entirely spontaneous phenomenon unrelated to earlier systems of labor recruitment, colonial administration, trade dependency and unequal opportunities for development.

The history is considerably more complicated. France recruited or admitted workers from abroad to meet the demands of reconstruction, industry, agriculture and construction. Its former colonies, particularly in North and West Africa, were connected to the metropolitan economy through language, administration, financial institutions, commercial networks and historical relationships that did not simply vanish with political independence. Migration was influenced by these ties, but also by personal ambitions, family networks, demographic changes, insecurity and the demand for labor within France itself.

During the postwar boom, migrant labor contributed to the construction of the very France now celebrated for its industrial achievements and modern infrastructure. Workers from Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia and other countries helped sustain factories, building sites and public services, even as many encountered discrimination and inadequate accommodation. The irony becomes especially pronounced when immigrants are accused of threatening national prosperity while their predecessors are omitted from the history of how that prosperity was produced.

This is not to deny that migration creates genuine administrative, economic and social challenges. Housing, language education, labor-market integration and the provision of public services require planning and resources. An effective immigration policy must consider the capacity of institutions and the rights and obligations of residents, citizens and newcomers. But it is intellectually unsatisfactory to assign responsibility for structural unemployment, housing shortages or underinvestment to immigrants without examining the policies governing land, capital, industry and public expenditure. To do so is to substitute a visible population for the less visible institutions that determine economic outcomes.

The colonial inheritance is equally relevant to the countries from which people depart. Political independence does not automatically produce economic independence when a country continues to export largely unprocessed commodities, import manufactured goods and depend upon foreign finance, technical services and markets. Such arrangements can persist through commercial structures that are entirely legal and ostensibly voluntary. Yet where domestic industrial capacity remains weak, governments possess limited means of expanding employment and raising wages beyond the constraints imposed by commodity prices and external demand.

It is in this context that the experiment now being undertaken in Burkina Faso becomes worth examining. Its military leader, Captain Ibrahim Traoré, frequently appears in camouflage and presents his administration as a campaign to recover economic sovereignty. Since coming to power through a coup in 2022, his government has emphasized local production, control over mineral resources, agricultural development and the processing of raw materials within the country. Recent initiatives in mineral refining and agricultural processing have been promoted as expressions of this policy, alongside greater state participation in mining.

There is an understandable developmental argument behind these measures, independent of any observer’s judgment of the government itself. A country that exports gold or agricultural commodities without developing the capacity to process, refine and manufacture domestically may surrender important opportunities for skilled employment, industrial learning and the accumulation of national capital. If a developing economy wishes to reduce the pressure on its population to seek livelihoods elsewhere, it must eventually create those livelihoods at home. Schools must lead to productive employment, infrastructure must serve domestic enterprises, and resource revenues must be translated into capabilities that remain after individual deposits have been exhausted.

Burkina Faso also illustrates why self-reliance should not be mistaken for a simple formula or an accomplished success. Most Burkinabé migration abroad has historically been directed toward neighboring West African countries, particularly Côte d’Ivoire, rather than principally toward France. The country continues to confront severe insecurity, internal displacement, poverty and difficulties in mobilizing capital and technical resources. Traoré’s government has also been criticized for repression of political opponents, restrictions upon journalists and serious human-rights abuses. An industrial program cannot be judged solely by the number of factories inaugurated or the nationalist language employed at official ceremonies. Its lasting value will depend upon actual production, employment, agricultural security, institutional competence and the extent to which its benefits reach ordinary citizens.

Nevertheless, the underlying question posed by such programs deserves attention far beyond Burkina Faso. Why should developing countries be expected to supply commodities and labor indefinitely while the higher-value stages of production remain concentrated elsewhere? Why should migration be treated as the principal problem when the absence of productive opportunities in countries of origin is rarely accorded comparable urgency? The international economy cannot reasonably expect poorer countries to remain dependent upon external markets and capital while simultaneously condemning their citizens for seeking better opportunities abroad.

It is here that the immigration anxieties expressed in France acquire a deeper political-economic dimension. Jean Raspail’s 1973 novel The Camp of the Saints imagined the arrival of an enormous fleet of impoverished migrants and the resulting collapse of Western civilization. The novel became influential within sections of the European and American far right because it transformed anxieties over immigration, cultural change and national decline into an apocalyptic narrative. Its racialized depiction of migrants has been extensively criticized, and fiction of this kind should not be confused with demographic or economic analysis.

Yet the continued interest in Raspail raises a question that deserves to be pursued beyond the argument over his literary intentions. Why did the prospect of migration from the developing world come to occupy such a prominent position in the imagination of national decline? What conditions produced the disparities in wealth, employment and opportunity upon which such anxieties depended? One can understand how Raspail’s story appealed to readers fearful of social change without accepting its representation of migrants as an invading force, or treating immigration as the principal cause of Western economic difficulties.

The difficulty with the apocalyptic interpretation is that it begins with the movement of people while giving insufficient attention to the international arrangements that precede and shape that movement. It depicts the migrant as the threatening consequence of global inequality while often leaving the institutions responsible for economic dependency, unequal exchange and failed development beyond comparable scrutiny. The person seeking employment becomes the immediate object of public resentment, while the policies that failed to create employment either in the country of origin or in neglected communities within the destination country receive considerably less dramatic attention.

This is not to argue that every migration flow arises from colonialism, or that the interests of migrants and existing citizens are always harmonious. The effects vary according to economic conditions, skills, institutions and the scale of migration. Rather, the argument is that the controversy cannot be understood through cultural fear alone. It is also a question of development, productive capacity and the relationship between the richer and poorer portions of the international economy.

There is considerable irony in the fact that France, once among the most determined practitioners of state-directed national industrial development, now finds itself debating the social consequences of an international economy in which many developing countries have been encouraged to liberalize markets without first acquiring comparable industrial capabilities. The French state helped organize investment, technology and infrastructure during its own postwar transformation. Countries that seek to exercise similar direction today are often required to explain their departures from policies emphasizing unrestricted markets, privatization and international competition.

The historical circumstances are different, and the achievements of the French planning system cannot simply be reproduced through administrative decrees. International trade, foreign investment and technological exchange remain indispensable to industrial development. Yet they need not exclude national strategy. A country may welcome foreign enterprises while insisting upon local training, infrastructure development and domestic industrial participation. It may cooperate with international financial institutions without abandoning the right to determine its productive priorities. Economic sovereignty, properly understood, is not the refusal to trade with the world but the capacity to participate in that trade without becoming permanently confined to its least rewarding activities.

The same principle deserves reconsideration within France itself. The country cannot recover its social confidence merely by preserving the attractiveness of Paris or the profitability of its most internationally recognized corporations. Its future depends also upon the ability of public institutions and private enterprises to provide productive employment, affordable housing, effective education and opportunities for technical advancement throughout the national territory. The economic achievements of the earlier dirigiste period suggest that industrial development and social welfare need not be treated as unrelated objectives, even if the instruments appropriate to the twenty-first century will necessarily differ from those employed after 1945.

For the business community, these considerations cannot be reduced to a romantic preference for planning over markets. Enterprises require the capacity to compete, innovate and earn returns sufficient to sustain further investment. Governments require credible finances, administrative competence and the ability to distinguish useful public expenditure from political patronage. But the market also requires workers who can afford its products, transport systems that permit goods and people to move, schools capable of producing technical competence and a society sufficiently confident in its institutions to support long-term economic commitments.

A government that concentrates upon financial indicators while neglecting these foundations may eventually discover that the appearance of stability has concealed the accumulation of discontent. Inflation may be contained while household insecurity increases. Capital markets may remain open while particular industries and communities experience prolonged decline. Tourism revenues may improve while residents encounter mounting difficulties obtaining adequate housing or public services. None of these outcomes is inevitable, and the relationships between them require careful examination. But neither can they be dismissed simply because aggregate indicators continue to suggest that the national economy remains functional.

This may also explain why the tradition of protest extends so widely across French society. The worker may perceive industrial decline in the disappearance of employment from his community, while the farmer may see his economic security threatened by prices, imported products or environmental regulations that alter production costs. The student experiences the condition of public institutions through overcrowded classrooms and uncertain prospects for employment. The pensioner measures economic policy through purchasing power, retirement provisions and the cost of essential services. Their political demands are not necessarily compatible, and no government can satisfy all of them without confronting difficult trade-offs. Nevertheless, their willingness to demonstrate arises from a common institutional fact: government decisions and economic arrangements have consequences extending into ordinary life.

The left does not possess a monopoly over this tradition, nor does the right stand outside it. French farmers have protested governments of different political orientations. The Yellow Vest movement brought together participants whose views ranged across the established political spectrum and whose grievances concerned taxation, fuel costs, purchasing power and the distance between governing institutions and the provinces. Trade unions have likewise mobilized under governments identified with both the left and the right. Students and pensioners may march together on one occasion and disagree fundamentally on another. Their demonstrations cannot be understood as expressions of a uniform ideological identity merely because they employ the same public space.

In this respect, the young leftist Chloé standing beneath a red banner is no more an invention alien to France than the farmer driving his tractor into a departmental capital or the pensioner carrying a placard against changes to retirement provisions. All may express themselves in ways that disturb the predictable rhythms of commerce and administration. Some may adopt methods that other citizens reasonably condemn. Yet their appearance in the streets belongs to a continuing political practice rather than an inexplicable departure from the national character.

The country of Chanel and Dior, therefore, is not separated by an invisible frontier from the country of the leftist Chloé. Its fashion houses depend upon designers, textile specialists, skilled workers, sales personnel, transport systems, international trade and the purchasing power of consumers. Its celebrated restaurants depend upon agriculture, food processing and service labor. Its monuments require public expenditure, maintenance and the revenues generated by productive activity. The economic system that sustains the picturesque France admired by visitors is inseparable from the people whose grievances periodically become visible upon its streets.

This is not an argument that every participant in a demonstration possesses a superior understanding of national interest, or that violence should be excused as an inevitable expression of economic dissatisfaction. The farmer demanding protection may advance policies that burden consumers, just as the worker seeking higher wages may propose arrangements that an employer considers unsustainable. The student demanding additional expenditure must ultimately confront the question of how that expenditure is to be financed. Responsible government consists in reconciling such claims through institutions that command sufficient confidence to make compromise possible.

The events in France should therefore be approached neither as a romantic reenactment of 1789 nor as proof that the country has surrendered to revolutionary disorder. They are an occasion to examine the connection between economic policy and political legitimacy. The business owner whose property has been damaged possesses an immediate and legitimate grievance against those responsible. But the demonstrator who believes that deteriorating public services have deprived him of economic opportunity also raises a question that deserves political consideration. The protection of property and the legitimacy of peaceful dissent are not mutually exclusive principles; indeed, a functioning republic requires both.

This is why the traditional distinction between public order and social justice remains important. France cannot permit criminal violence to become an accepted method of bargaining with government, since the immediate victims are frequently ordinary people whose economic security is already fragile. But an exclusive preoccupation with policing cannot supply an industrial strategy, improve deteriorating schools, restore household purchasing power or resolve the difficult allocation of public resources. Restoring calm is an important responsibility of government; securing the economic conditions under which that calm can endure is another.

The defenders of a picturesque France may reasonably desire that its museums, monuments, commercial districts and historic buildings remain protected. Such preservation is both a cultural obligation and an economic necessity. What cannot reasonably follow is that French citizens should be expected to behave as though their country’s history had ended at the most aesthetically pleasing moment of the eighteenth century. The people whose work sustains the modern economy are not merely custodians of an inherited national exhibition. They are participants in a political society whose institutions, industries and public policies continue to be contested.

Nor should the country be imagined as a civilization brought into existence exclusively by its monarchs, generals, financiers and prominent industrialists. The French nation was also formed by workers, farmers, engineers, teachers, philosophers, journalists and ordinary citizens whose demands helped alter the distribution of power and opportunity. Its commercial and technological achievements were produced through investment and enterprise, but also through public infrastructure, scientific education, organized labor and state direction. Its present difficulties cannot be examined adequately if one remembers only the palaces and the financial districts while disregarding the institutions and people upon which their continued prosperity depends.

The Revolution may indeed belong to history, as the concerned observers insist. So do the monarchy, the empire, the Paris Commune, the Popular Front and the student uprisings of 1968. Yet history does not become irrelevant merely because the events themselves have passed. The decisions taken during these periods established institutions, traditions and expectations that continue to influence the country’s political economy. Indeed, it would be particularly strange to demand that the French move beyond the Revolution while simultaneously proposing that they return to a monarchy that preceded it.

The more serious question is whether France can reconcile its traditions of national development and republican citizenship with the demands of an increasingly competitive international economy. The country that once demonstrated the value of state stewardship need not regard public planning as an obsolete doctrine, any more than it must reject private enterprise or international trade. The challenge is to determine how the benefits of productive development can be made sufficiently broad and durable to sustain the consent of the population.

As for those who look upon the latest disturbances and see only the disappearance of the tricolour or the disturbance of an elegant national landscape, they might consider that the Paris of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées has always existed alongside another Paris whose residents do not necessarily share in the prosperity advertised to visitors. The old bidonvilles of Nanterre were already an uncomfortable presence during the celebrated years of French industrial expansion; contemporary poverty and precarious housing demonstrate that prosperity remains an uneven experience. It is not unreasonable for citizens to demand that the economic achievements of their country be reflected in their own conditions of life.

The castles, gowns, monuments and ceremonies will remain an important part of France’s inheritance, and there is every reason to preserve them. But they cannot substitute for productive industry, functioning public institutions and a population that believes its welfare matters to the state. France did not become a modern nation by remaining permanently within the social arrangements of Versailles, and it will not resolve its present difficulties by presenting itself merely as a magnificent collection of historical attractions.

The château and the barricade both belong to French history. The country’s industrial achievements belong there as well, particularly those decades when national economic development was understood as a responsibility of government and an undertaking involving society as a whole. If the latest demonstrations reveal anything beyond their immediate political grievances, it is the continuing difficulty of maintaining an appearance of national stability when a substantial portion of the population questions the economic arrangements beneath it.

For the admirer of French elegance, Chanel and Dior will remain familiar expressions of the country’s creative achievements. For the politically engaged Chloé, France may represent the unfinished business of republican citizenship and economic justice. Both belong to the same society, though neither can claim to represent it entirely. The France that produces international luxury goods is also the France that has repeatedly brought workers, farmers, students and pensioners into its streets to dispute the direction of national policy.

The historical relationship between these different Frances is not always harmonious, and it would be irresponsible to pretend otherwise. Yet their coexistence reflects the realities of a modern nation whose economic development has never eliminated conflicts over the distribution of its benefits. The task of government is not to turn the country into a placid historical exhibition, but to preserve public order while providing institutions through which those conflicts can be addressed.

France may be admired for its elegance, but it must ultimately be governed for the people who live and work within it. The postcard can preserve the appearance of a civilization. It cannot, by itself, preserve the economic and social foundations upon which that civilization depends.

The Courtesy of Contradiction

2026-10-10T12:31:15.819-07:00

The Courtesy of Contradiction

Leni Robredo, Palestine, and the Liberal Uses of “Political Purity”

The first refuge of an embarrassed political establishment is often a complaint about the manners of its critics. A troubling act becomes a misunderstanding; a demand for consistency becomes an exercise in extremism. In the controversy over Naga City Mayor Leni Robredo’s reception of Israeli Ambassador Dana Kursh, this familiar retreat has acquired a convenient name: “political purism.” The expression permits those who use it to appear worldly and reasonable while avoiding the substance of the objection. Instead of explaining what principles should govern an official welcome, they ask why progressives insist on bringing principles into the occasion.

Kursh’s October 5 courtesy call in Naga has drawn criticism because an official reception carries a public meaning beyond the conversation between its participants. Robredo’s defenders are entitled to argue that meeting an ambassador does not establish approval of the government that ambassador represents. But critics are equally entitled to ask whether the welcome helped confer an appearance of normality and respectability upon Israel’s official representation amid the devastation of Palestinian life. The meeting occurred; the dispute concerns its political significance.

Dismissing that dispute as political purism is philosophically shallow, politically evasive and morally impoverished. It assumes that an objection becomes unreasonable once it interferes with the routines of government. Yet routines themselves are political choices, especially when public officials lend their offices, reputations and publicity to visiting representatives. Courtesy does not suspend judgment. It requires judgment about whom an official receives, how the encounter is presented, and what the official chooses to say.

The Liberal Party’s statement, as circulated in this controversy, illustrates the difficulty. It begins by acknowledging public concern and disappointment, recognizes Palestinian suffering, and says that government officials should be sensitive to the messages conveyed by their engagements. It then argues that there is no evidence that Robredo’s reception amounted to agreement with Israel’s military operations in Gaza. Diplomatic engagement, it explains, differs from support for a government’s policies. Finally, it affirms human rights and Palestinian self-determination while reminding citizens that criticism carries a responsibility to be fair and truthful.

Taken separately, several of these propositions are defensible. Taken together, they leave the central objection unanswered. The statement recognizes that an official encounter conveys a message, then defends the encounter largely by observing that it contains no express endorsement of military operations. But the criticism need not depend on such an endorsement. A public reception can assist diplomatic normalization without its host approving every policy of the visiting state. Political symbolism works through association, setting and presentation as well as through explicit declarations.

This is why the statement invites accusations of contradiction. Its opening establishes a standard of sensitivity to public meaning; its defence retreats to the narrower question of whether Robredo announced support for Israel’s conduct. The party moves between two different tests without explaining why the more demanding one should cease to apply to its own political figure. It recognizes the importance of the message when addressing public anguish, then treats the absence of an explicit endorsement as sufficient when addressing accountability.

“Gaslighting” may be too imprecise a word for every inadequate political defence. Nothing in the supplied statement proves a deliberate attempt to make citizens doubt their perceptions. The more demonstrable fault is that it answers a narrower allegation than the strongest criticism actually makes. Citizens asking whether the reception contributed to Israel’s public legitimacy are told that there is no proof Robredo approved its military operations. Their concern is acknowledged, but its substance is displaced.

A serious defence would explain the purpose of the encounter, what public benefit it sought, and whether Palestinian rights were raised. It would distinguish whatever obligations attended the visit from whatever discretion the mayor retained over its tone and publicity. It would also recognize that the information presently available does not establish what was said privately. That uncertainty limits accusations about Robredo’s personal intentions; it does not place the public presentation beyond scrutiny.

Nor does the criticism require imagining that the mayor of Naga commands Philippine foreign policy. A local official cannot sever diplomatic relations on behalf of the republic. She can, however, determine how her office participates in an encounter and explain the principles guiding that participation. The choice need not be reduced to a cheerful reception or an undignified confrontation. Diplomatic engagement can carry an explicit statement of concern, a demand for civilian protection, or an affirmation of Palestinian self-determination. Those defending the visit as necessary should be prepared to explain why such clarity would have been impractical. The stakes extend beyond one mayor. Philippine liberal reformism has often presented itself through the language of decent government, transparent administration and humane leadership. These are valuable commitments. But their credibility depends on how they operate when the people seeking recognition stand outside the domestic constituency, and when taking their side may inconvenience an established diplomatic relationship. Palestine exposes the distance that can emerge between a politics of good administration and a politics willing to confront domination.

That distance should not be disguised by calling one side pragmatic and the other pure. Pragmatism is a method of pursuing an objective under constraints. It is not a substitute for identifying the objective or defending the compromises made along the way. A politician may reasonably conclude that engagement offers an opportunity to advance a principle. The public may then reasonably ask what principle was advanced and what evidence supports that conclusion. Merely receiving a representative does not demonstrate useful engagement any more than refusing a meeting automatically demonstrates an effective policy.

The charge of purity becomes especially convenient when directed at the left. It suggests that progressives demand spotless politicians, reject every compromise and prefer moral satisfaction to practical results. Some political criticism does fall into those habits. But disagreement about the legitimacy conferred by a public reception is not, by itself, evidence of them. Critics may understand the constraints perfectly well and still conclude that the official has assigned too little weight to Palestinian suffering.

The gravity of that suffering cannot honestly be reduced to partisan rhetoric. In September 2025, the United Nations Independent International Commission of Inquiry concluded that Israel had committed genocide against Palestinians in Gaza. Israel rejected the finding. The commission’s conclusion must be distinguished from a judicial judgment, but it gives the controversy a seriousness that no casual reference to ideological purism can dispose of.

Another evasion appears when solidarity with Palestine is treated as support for Hamas. The Palestinian people are not interchangeable with one organization, and their claim to freedom does not derive from that organization’s programme. Palestinian society includes competing political movements, secular nationalists, religious communities, workers, students and families whose rights cannot be made conditional upon their agreement with a faction. To collapse this society into Hamas is to deprive Palestinians of political individuality while pretending to assess their politics.

The Palestinian struggle also precedes Hamas. Its central questions concern dispossession, occupation, sovereignty and the denial of self-determination. In its July 2024 advisory opinion, the International Court of Justice concluded that Israel’s continued presence in the occupied Palestinian territory was unlawful and examined the violation of the Palestinian people’s right to self-determination. These questions cannot be answered by asking whether a Filipino critic approves of Hamas. (un.org⁠)

Condemning attacks on civilians and hostage-taking is entirely compatible with defending Palestinian freedom. Indeed, a consistent defence of civilian life requires both. The demand that supporters of Palestine continually prove their innocence of every association with Hamas becomes suspect when it functions chiefly to postpone discussion of Israeli responsibility. No population should have to establish the moral perfection of its political organizations before its children are entitled to safety.

Historical explanation must nevertheless be handled carefully. Israeli occupation, settlement policies, coercion and repeated violence belong to the conditions in which Palestinian resistance has developed and intensified. Removing those conditions from the account produces a distorted picture in which Palestinian action appears to arise without a history. But restoring that history does not mean declaring every subsequent act inevitable or legitimate. Armed organizations retain responsibility for their decisions, and attacks on civilians cannot acquire moral permission from earlier oppression.

The serious argument is therefore more demanding than the familiar exchange of accusations. It recognizes the accumulated violence of domination without excusing crimes committed in its name. It also rejects the use of those crimes to justify collective punishment or to erase an entire people’s political rights. Those who dismiss the left as supporters of Hamas often avoid precisely this distinction, because acknowledging it would require answering the Palestinian case on its merits.

Religious sentiment introduces a further confusion when modern Israel is granted a political immunity derived from Christian attachment to the Holy Land. Christians are entitled to their faith, their concern for sacred places and their interpretation of scripture. But a contemporary state exercises power through institutions, armed forces and policies. Its conduct must be assessed in those terms. Biblical association does not relieve a government of responsibility under international law.

To invoke Christian feeling as a ready defence of Israeli state conduct is also to narrow the moral reach of Christianity itself. Compassion cannot sensibly depend on whether the sufferer belongs to the community with which the observer most readily identifies. Palestinian Muslims and Christians possess rights as human beings; Israeli civilians possess the same rights. A defensible public position protects those rights without transforming theology into an exemption for state violence.

For Filipinos, the question has an additional resonance. A country whose political identity was shaped by resistance to colonial rule should be capable of recognizing why another people insists upon self-determination. This does not require pretending that the histories are identical. It requires understanding that domination is not made acceptable by diplomatic familiarity, and that the language of liberation loses credibility when its application depends on the convenience of the speaker.

Robredo’s action thus creates an appearance of contradiction that her defenders ought to address directly. A politician associated with humane and accountable government should expect those commitments to inform how her official engagements are judged. Her reputation cannot serve only as an argument for generosity toward her intentions. It also creates a reasonable expectation that she will explain how her actions express the standards on which that reputation rests.

The strongest criticism concerns that expectation, rather than an unsupported claim about what she privately believes. There is no need to invent a secret allegiance to establish that public symbolism matters. Nor is there any need to abandon fairness in order to demand consistency. Fairness requires accurate descriptions of the meeting, restraint about unknown intentions and an honest account of the objection. It does not require treating a popular politician’s choices as presumptively beyond challenge.

The anatomy of liberal opportunism becomes visible when universal principles remain available for declaration but grow difficult to apply at the point of inconvenience. Palestinian dignity can be affirmed in a statement, while those asking what that affirmation requires are reprimanded for excessive demands. The language of rights survives; its practical consequences are deferred. The resulting politics may remain courteous and administratively respectable, but it leaves those facing domination to wonder what the declared solidarity is intended to accomplish.

The proper response is a fuller explanation from Robredo and a more exact defence from her party. What did the encounter seek to achieve? How were Palestinian rights represented? What should the public understand from the welcome? These are ordinary questions of political accountability, sharpened by an extraordinary moral crisis.

Calling them “political purism” does not resolve the contradiction. It merely reveals how quickly the defence of a political personality can displace the examination of a political act. Philippine liberalism will have to decide whether its commitment to human dignity can bear the weight of such examination. Its critics are entitled to insist that Palestine remain part of that test.

An Economy of One’s Own: Foreign Capital and the Making of Productive Independence

2026-10-05T09:29:16.208-07:00

An Economy of One’s Own: Foreign Capital
and the Making of Productive Independence

By: Lualhati Madlangawa-Guererro

The opposition between attracting foreign investment and undertaking self-industrialization rests on a confusion about the meaning of development. Foreign direct investment describes a relationship of ownership and control across borders. Industrialization describes the acquisition and organization of productive capabilities. The first may contribute to the second, but neither its presence nor its volume establishes that the second has occurred. To announce a preference for foreign investment “rather than” self-industrialization is therefore to place an instrument and an objective on opposite sides of an argument. Before choosing between them, one must explain why a country’s effort to develop its own productive competence should exclude the use of foreign capital.

Self-industrialization, in the defensible sense of the term, means that a society assumes responsibility for building and reproducing that competence. It need not manufacture every machine it employs, prohibit foreign ownership, or finance every undertaking from domestic savings. It may import equipment, purchase licenses, borrow abroad, welcome foreign enterprises and enter international production networks. What makes the process its own is the deliberate cultivation of institutions, workers, suppliers and technical knowledge through which these external resources enlarge domestic possibilities. The criterion is the capacity increasingly to shape economic participation, rather than the geographical purity of every input.

Autarky addresses a different question. It seeks economic self-sufficiency through the exclusion or drastic reduction of external exchange. Productive self-reliance can instead increase a country’s ability to trade because it gives that country more to offer, more partners to approach and more activities in which to compete. A country that learns to manufacture components may import more sophisticated machinery than before; one that develops engineering competence may enter more international partnerships. Greater external exchange and greater domestic capability can develop together. Dependence is consequently not measured by trade alone, but also by the availability of alternatives and the distribution of knowledge and decision-making power within the relationship.

This distinction should govern the reply to the unnamed argument under consideration. Favoring foreign investment does not, by itself, constitute an admission that industrialization is unnecessary. Foreign investment can establish factories and support substantial industrial learning. The objection becomes justified when investment attraction is presented as sufficient, when domestic capability-building is dismissed as obsolete, or when existing comparative advantages are treated as a permanent national assignment. It is this stronger proposition that deserves criticism. Attributing it to every advocate of foreign investment would weaken the argument by making an enemy of people who may agree that investment must support domestic transformation.

A government’s investment statistics cannot settle the matter. The acquisition of an existing enterprise, the construction of a new factory and the establishment of an engineering center may all appear under the broad heading of foreign investment, although their developmental consequences differ. Even a new factory can vary greatly in its contribution: it may cultivate local suppliers and technical management, or perform a narrow operation whose equipment, inputs and principal decisions remain external. Neither arrangement is necessarily worthless. The question is whether the country has a strategy for moving beyond the capabilities it initially possesses, and whether public concessions purchase benefits that would otherwise be unlikely to occur.

The distinction becomes clearer when South Korea is invoked. Its early industrial ascent cannot accurately be reduced to a policy of making itself attractive to foreign equity. KDI’s account of Korean investment policy describes an early preference for foreign loans over direct investment, partly to preserve domestic control over industrial development, followed by greater openness to FDI and later extensive liberalization. That history demonstrates both the importance of external resources and the inadequacy of treating all forms of external capital as interchangeable. It also cautions against romanticizing borrowing: debt creates repayment obligations and financial vulnerabilities of its own.[1]

The inference is not that the Philippines should reproduce Korea’s historical financing arrangements. It is that a development strategy must decide how different financial arrangements serve industrial objectives. Foreign equity may be preferable where it brings expertise, access to customers and a willingness to bear commercial risk. Borrowing may preserve ownership while imposing risks that the borrower cannot safely absorb. Licensing may transfer particular knowledge without transferring an entire enterprise. The choice requires appraisal of the activity, institutional competence and bargaining position involved. Declaring a universal preference for attracting capital evades these differences.

Nor does Korea establish that industrial policy requires authoritarian government. That claim confuses a feature of a particular historical regime with a necessary condition of productive development. The relevant question is whether institutions can coordinate investment, acquire information, enforce performance and revise unsuccessful policies. Repression does not supply those capacities merely by suppressing opposition. It can also conceal failure, protect favored interests and deprive government of information. An industrial policy should be judged on the competence and accountability of its administration; the ability to silence criticism is no substitute for either.

France supplies an important corrective, provided its example is stated with historical care. France was already an industrial country before its postwar planning institutions were created. Its experience concerns modernization and reconstruction as well as the much longer history of industrial development; it should not be presented as though a single plan created French industry from nothing. Nevertheless, the Commissariat général du Plan, established in January 1946 under Jean Monnet, preceded Korea’s principal industrial drive and coordinated priorities that included electricity, steel, transport and agricultural machinery. Its methods brought public officials, engineers, academics and social partners into organized deliberation.[2]

Postwar French planning operated within a parliamentary republic, and subsequently within the institutions of the Fifth Republic. It therefore defeats the categorical assertion that deliberate industrial coordination belongs exclusively to extreme authoritarianism. This observation does not certify every French policy as efficient or every exercise of French state power as democratic. The narrower conclusion is sufficient: public direction of modernization and political dictatorship are not identical concepts. One can debate the scale, instruments and results of planning without pretending that the only alternatives are political liberty without industrial purpose or industrial purpose without political liberty.

France also exposes the artificial opposition between industry and the knowledge economy. In presenting France 2030 in October 2021, Emmanuel Macron connected innovation with the capacity to turn prototypes into industrial production in France. The policy’s stated ambition was not to substitute knowledge for productive activity, but to connect research, demonstration and production.[3] This is evidence of an official objective, not proof that every funded project succeeded. Yet the objective itself is instructive: an advanced economy can seek greater technological sophistication precisely by developing its industrial base.

The expression “knowledge economy” becomes misleading when it suggests that the material organization of production has ceased to matter. Software requires computing equipment and reliable electricity; medical research requires laboratories and the capacity to manufacture under exacting standards; sophisticated agriculture depends on machinery, storage, measurement and transport. Some of these requirements can sensibly be imported. The mistake is to infer from the possibility of importing them that no domestic competence is worth developing. Knowledge has economic force partly because institutions can embody it in reliable products, processes and services.

Services should consequently be treated with seriousness rather than contempt. Engineering, logistics, design, finance and software can contribute directly to industrial productivity, while internationally traded services can sustain valuable employment in their own right. There is no need to diminish Philippine achievements in services to argue for industrial development. The developmental problem is the weakness of connections among activities and the uneven distribution of opportunities to learn. A World Bank discussion of the Philippine economy identified precisely the missing connections between services, manufacturing and agriculture, while arguing for greater innovation and services content in production.[4]

The Philippines therefore need not retrace every stage of nineteenth-century industrialization. It can adopt newer technologies, combine services and manufacturing, and avoid investments whose environmental or commercial costs exceed their prospective benefits. What it cannot do is dispense with the acquisition of competence and describe the omission as advancement. A country may leap over a superseded technology; it cannot leap over the need to understand, maintain, adapt and organize the technologies on which its prosperity depends. The necessary developmental phase is a process of learning and institution-building, not a compulsory inventory of smokestacks.

Comparative advantage remains relevant to this process. Resources are scarce, and an economy that attempts everything simultaneously may dissipate its strength. But a comparison of present costs does not by itself answer which capabilities can profitably be acquired over time. Training, infrastructure, accumulated experience and coordinated investment can change the terms of that comparison. The argument for development begins where an existing pattern of specialization is mistakenly converted into a prohibition against changing it. Present advantage is information for judgment; it is not a constitutional settlement governing the occupations of future generations.

This does not give governments permission to disregard costs indefinitely. A prospective industry must have a plausible route toward improved productivity or supply a clearly specified public benefit that justifies its continuing expense. Support should be revisable, and failure must remain an admissible finding. An enterprise cannot prove its developmental value by attaching the word “national” to a demand for assistance. The case for building productive capabilities is strongest when it incorporates this discipline, because indefinite protection of poor performance consumes the resources that other learning opportunities require.

China and Vietnam enter the discussion at this point, although neither should be treated as an uncomplicated model. Their use of foreign investment demonstrates that market participation and external capital can be incorporated into a political project that retains objectives beyond the attraction of investors. The relationship between these instruments and the proclaimed socialist destination remains open to criticism. What cannot reasonably be inferred is that the presence of foreign enterprises establishes an official abandonment of developmental purpose in favor of the unrestricted authority of international capital.

China’s official position states the compatibility directly. In June 2023, Xi Jinping linked self-reliance to stronger connections between domestic and international markets and declared, “Only by opening up can China realize modernization.”[5] The statement should be read as evidence of the government’s declared approach, not as an independent verdict on its conduct. It nevertheless contradicts the suggestion that self-reliance must mean a closed economy. In that formulation, international participation is meant to contribute to national modernization, while domestic strength provides the basis for sustaining the relationship.

Vietnamese official political-economic discussion makes a related connection. A 2026 article published under the Ho Chi Minh National Academy of Politics describes the relationship between an independent, self-reliant economy and extensive international integration as a problem to be resolved in the process of building socialism.[6] The significance is conceptual: integration and self-reliance are presented as objectives requiring reconciliation, not as mutually exclusive choices. Whether particular policies actually strengthen domestic enterprises, improve working lives and reduce vulnerability requires further evidence; the declared relationship does not settle those empirical questions.

Here the idea of necessary conditions deserves careful treatment. Foreign investment, infrastructure, export access and industrial employment may create conditions for further transformation without constituting that transformation in full. In an officially socialist account, such conditions are justified partly through the material possibilities they are expected to open. A government with a different political philosophy might justify similar instruments through employment, national independence or regional development. The instruments do not determine the ultimate purpose by themselves. Their meaning depends on what institutions are expected to do with the capacities and resources they create.

Neither necessity nor sequence guarantees an eventual destination. An export enclave does not automatically become an integrated industrial system; a growing productive economy does not automatically become socialist; a successful factory does not automatically generate effective social provision. The word “transitional” can conceal permanent arrangements if there is no mechanism for moving beyond them. Anyone defending foreign investment as a necessary condition must therefore explain the connection to the next stage: how suppliers improve, how workers acquire transferable skills, how public revenue supports wider development and how domestic institutions gain the ability to undertake more demanding activities.

That requirement sharpens the criticism of a certain globalist political economy. The difficulty is not its recognition that international cooperation can be beneficial. It is its tendency, where that tendency occurs, to judge national policy chiefly by the convenience it offers mobile capital. Public purposes then become permissible insofar as they attract investors, while investors’ requirements acquire the standing of public purposes. It would be inaccurate to attribute this position to every liberal economist or supporter of open trade. It is nevertheless a coherent position, and one that can be identified whenever a government is encouraged to surrender developmental judgment while remaining energetic in providing concessions.

Such a government is not necessarily a small government. Preparing investment locations, financing infrastructure, administering incentives and protecting commercial arrangements can require extensive public action. The issue is the direction of that action. A state may be highly active in making a country usable by investors while remaining passive about the capacities its population acquires. Calling this arrangement neutral obscures a substantive choice: the allocation of public effort toward securing investment, with the broader developmental outcome entrusted to effects that may or may not materialize.

The pandemic made the consequences of fragile supply arrangements harder to ignore. OECD research on the COVID-19 shock found that foreign supply disruptions had particularly large effects where supplying countries and firms were highly concentrated. Its simulations also found substantial benefits from supplier diversification, with only limited additional benefits from partial onshoring.[7] This evidence supports neither complacency nor a universal retreat behind national borders. It requires a more discriminating discussion of resilience, in which the distribution of suppliers matters alongside the location of production.

The charge of autarky is therefore misplaced when directed indiscriminately at domestic capacity-building. A proposal to develop selected capabilities, maintain essential inventories or reduce dependence on a single source must be evaluated on its actual design. It is not equivalent to a proposal to abolish foreign trade. Conversely, the experience of disruption cannot justify every demand for domestic production. A locally concentrated supply chain can also fail, and attempting to internalize an entire international production system may introduce costs and vulnerabilities greater than those it removes. The objective should be credible alternatives under stress.

The post-pandemic debate has also exposed the weakness of portraying domestic industrial ambition as an anachronism reserved for poorer countries to outgrow. France’s contemporary efforts to link innovation and production illustrate that advanced economies continue to regard productive capacity as a matter of policy. The appropriate inference is not that every French subsidy should be copied, but that the substantive question cannot be dismissed by announcing the arrival of a knowledge economy. A developing country is entitled to inquire which capacities it should acquire even when established economies already possess them.

For the Philippines, that inquiry should begin with identifiable constraints and opportunities. Reliable power, workable freight connections, technical education, testing facilities and access to finance can make existing enterprises more productive while allowing new ones to emerge. Public policy should examine how these provisions connect agriculture, manufacturing and services across regions. Their value should not depend solely on whether they serve a celebrated foreign investment. Infrastructure that local producers cannot effectively use may improve an enclave without sufficiently improving the economy surrounding it.

Foreign investors can participate constructively in such a program. Supplier development, technical training, research partnerships and opportunities for local managers can be supported where they make commercial and developmental sense. The state must recognize that investment involves negotiation: demands unsupported by local capabilities may deter useful activity, while concessions without scrutiny may subsidize activity that would have occurred anyway. A realistic policy builds the host economy’s competence and bargaining position rather than assuming that either generosity or severity invariably produces the desired result.

Domestic ownership requires equally careful judgment. A locally owned enterprise may innovate, train workers and reinvest, or it may preserve a protected position while relying on imported equipment and seeking rents. A foreign-owned enterprise may make a substantial contribution to domestic competence. Ownership matters because it affects control, income and strategic choices, but it cannot substitute for an examination of conduct. Self-industrialization should enlarge the productive abilities available within the country, rather than merely distribute privileges to citizens who happen to own firms.

Education belongs at the center of this undertaking. A development policy cannot be satisfied with adapting successive generations to the immediate requirements of whichever employers arrive. It must cultivate literacy, numeracy, scientific understanding and the capacity for further learning. Specialized training has its place, but a population whose knowledge is confined to a narrow task remains vulnerable when that task changes. The purpose of education extends to citizenship and personal development; even in economic terms, its value exceeds the production of compliant labor for present vacancies.

A democratic industrial policy must also make its commitments answerable to those who bear their costs. Workers, consumers, taxpayers and affected communities should be able to question the terms of assistance and the distribution of its benefits. That scrutiny can improve the information available to government and expose arrangements that survive through patronage rather than performance. The response to the authoritarian objection is therefore not to promise that national purpose will excuse arbitrary power, but to make the acquisition of productive capacity compatible with public examination and correction.

Self-industrialization is best understood as the assumption of responsibility for this continuing work. It permits foreign capital because foreign capital can help. It permits imports because imports can make domestic production more capable. It permits specialization because resources must be used intelligently. What it refuses is the conversion of these practical arrangements into an argument that the country need not develop the ability to choose, adapt and undertake more for itself. The distinction concerns who accepts responsibility for development and what evidence will establish that development is occurring.

The proper answer to the preference for investment attraction “rather than” self-industrialization is consequently a demand for a fuller account of purpose. Investment should be welcomed where it contributes to employment, learning and an expanding range of productive possibilities. Its success should be assessed through those contributions, not presumed from its arrival. A country becomes more self-reliant when participation in the world economy enlarges its alternatives and strengthens its institutions. That achievement may require extensive international cooperation. It also requires a domestic developmental undertaking that no foreign investor can be expected to conduct on the nation’s behalf.

***

References and source notes

[1] SaKong, I., & Koh, Y. (2026, August 26). Evolution and strategic impact of South Korea’s foreign direct investment (FDI) policy. K-Developedia. https://www.kdevelopedia.org/k-db-originals/evolution-and-strategic-impact-of-south-koreas-foreign-direct-investment-fdi-policy

[2] France Stratégie. (2016, January 7; updated 2025, September 8). Du Plan à France Stratégie. Haut-commissariat à la stratégie et au plan. https://www.strategie-plan.gouv.fr/du-plan-france-strategie

[3] Macron, E. (2021, October 12). Présentation du plan France 2030 [Speech]. Élysée. https://www.elysee.fr/emmanuel-macron/2021/10/12/presentation-du-plan-france-2030

[4] World Bank. (2017). The Philippines: Resurrecting manufacturing in a services economy. https://blogs.worldbank.org/en/eastasiapacific/philippines-resurrecting-manufacturing-services-economy

[5] Xinhua. (2023, June 28). China’s self-reliance is not a closed-door policy, Xi says. State Council of the People’s Republic of China. https://english.www.gov.cn/news/202306/28/content_WS649b6b4ac6d0868f4e8dd46f.html

[6] Ho Thanh Thuy. (2026, August 27). Ensuring and maintaining an independent and self-reliant economy in the new era of national development. Political Theory, Ho Chi Minh National Academy of Politics. https://politicaltheory.hcma.vn/ensuring-and-maintaining-an-independent-and-self-reliant-economy-in-the-new-era-of-national-development-13765.html

[7] Schwellnus, C., Haramboure, A., & Samek, L. (2023). Policies to strengthen the resilience of global value chains: Empirical evidence from the COVID-19 shock. OECD Science, Technology and Industry Policy Papers, 141. https://doi.org/10.1787/fd82abd4-en

"The Nation Is Not an Investment Portfolio": Political Economy, Industrial Development, and the Limits of Market Rule

2026-10-05T09:00:28.747-07:00

"The Nation Is Not an Investment Portfolio":

Political Economy, Industrial Development, and the Limits of Market Rule

The dispute between the advocates of foreign investment and the advocates of national industrialization has been conducted, too often, as though the nationality of capital determined the purpose of an economy. One party discovers independence in the domestic ownership of every important enterprise; the other discovers progress in the willingness of foreign corporations to establish themselves within the country. Both possess a fragment of the truth, but neither fragment supplies a sufficient account of development. An enterprise may be domestically owned and remain dependent upon foreign credit, machinery, patents and distribution. A foreign enterprise may, under appropriate conditions, enlarge the technical competence of its host society. The decisive question concerns the productive powers acquired by the nation and the authority through which their development is directed.

A nation cannot be adequately described as an investment portfolio because its continuity involves obligations that no portfolio is constituted to discharge. It must reproduce the institutions through which people learn, work, govern themselves and transmit an intelligible common life. Its economic decisions affect the survival of communities, the formation of skilled occupations, the provision of essential goods and the material foundations of political independence. These purposes do not disappear when they become inconvenient to an accountant. Nor does acknowledging them establish that every proposed factory deserves a subsidy. It establishes that the selection of economic instruments presupposes a judgment about the community they are intended to serve.

The policy disputed here must be identified more precisely than the general defense of markets. It is a particular neoliberal prescription in which the existing international division of labor becomes the presumptive boundary of national ambition. A country exporting workers is encouraged to improve their employability and the mechanisms through which their earnings return home. Foreign capital is welcomed as the principal agent of productive change. Government is assigned the task of facilitating its entry, maintaining reassuring conditions and refraining from an independent judgment about the productive structure that ought to emerge. The prescription is considered here as a type of policy argument; attributing it to a particular author or government would require evidence more specific than the label neoliberal.

Such a government is not inactive. It supplies infrastructure, alters regulations, negotiates concessions and may spend considerably to establish an attractive investment environment. Its abstention concerns the direction and obligations of development. The role of facilitator becomes inadequate when it declines to distinguish investment that builds domestic competence from investment that leaves the country dependent upon the next external decision. Apparent neutrality then shelters a substantive choice: the purposes of mobile capital receive institutional support, while alternative national purposes must justify themselves as departures from an order whose creation is itself political.

This judgment has particular urgency in countries still engaged in the formation of national institutions. Their problem is not simply to allocate a mature stock of productive resources more efficiently. It is to create resources, acquire knowledge, connect territories, establish reliable administration and enable enterprises to undertake activities that would otherwise remain beyond their reach. The distinction between the allocation of existing capabilities and the construction of new capabilities is therefore fundamental. An economic doctrine may illuminate the former while remaining inadequate to the latter. The error begins when a useful theory of exchange is promoted into a comprehensive philosophy of national destiny.

The standpoint of this essay is contemporary, although its governing questions are older than the present vocabulary of competitiveness. Writing in this present time permits a comparison of arguments separated by several generations: the classical liberal defense of exchange, the European New Right's criticism of economism, and the developmental left's insistence that production must answer to the needs of peoples historically placed at the margins of accumulation. Their conjunction is an occasion for judgment, rather than evidence of a concealed identity. They disagree about the individual, the nation, equality and the legitimacy of authority. What warrants their consideration together is the inadequacy of an economic discussion that presumes its political purposes to have been settled before discussion begins.

The nation invoked here is consequently a community whose institutions owe obligations to its members, including those whose ancestry, faith or occupation differs from the majority's. The capacity to undertake development should not depend upon the invention of a homogeneous people. A government may claim to speak for the nation while excluding substantial parts of it from the benefits of national construction. The distinction between a public purpose and the self-description of a ruling group must remain visible throughout the argument. Otherwise sovereignty becomes a term through which the possession of power is mistaken for the fulfillment of its obligations.

Friedrich List supplied an older vocabulary for this distinction when he wrote that "the power of producing wealth is therefore infinitely more important than wealth itself." His argument concerned the institutions and accumulated abilities that permit a society to generate wealth repeatedly, rather than merely possess it temporarily. The relevant inheritance includes scientific knowledge, practical competence, public administration and the relationships among different branches of production. List's historical judgments need not be accepted in their entirety for this distinction to remain instructive. A country may receive a large sum of money and remain technically dependent; another may sacrifice some immediate consumption while acquiring powers that enlarge its future choices.1

List's distinction does not abolish the problem of opportunity cost. Resources devoted to productive powers must come from somewhere, and the promised powers may fail to appear. A society can impoverish itself by purchasing expensive symbols of industrial adulthood. The developmental contention is narrower: some investments yield benefits that are dispersed among enterprises, emerge over time, or depend upon other investments that no isolated firm can coordinate. A testing laboratory can improve several industries; a technical school can furnish skills whose beneficiaries cannot be known in advance. The public case arises from the character of those benefits, and must be tested against the possibility that less costly arrangements would achieve them.

Raúl Prebisch placed this question within the unequal international distribution of technical progress. His 1950 report for the United Nations challenged the expectation that specialization in primary commodities would automatically transmit the gains enjoyed by industrial centers to the periphery. Yet his formulation was deliberately instrumental: "Industrialization is not an end in itself." It was a means of obtaining a larger share of technical progress and improving the living standards of the population. Primary exports remained important, including as a means of paying for equipment. The structuralist objection therefore concerned the conditions of participation in trade, rather than a prohibition upon trade itself.2

The distinction between List and Prebisch deserves preservation. List addressed productive powers through the development of national institutions; Prebisch examined a structure of international relations in which the distribution of gains could impede that development. A country may require internal reform and changes in its external position together. Neither diagnosis excuses every tariff. Both oblige the observer to ask whether current prices adequately register the consequences of a productive activity for future competence and for the distribution of income. A protected industry that raises the cost of essential goods without generating learning or better employment would disappoint both the productive and the social justification.

For a developing country such as the Philippines, the acquisition of productive capabilities cannot be bypassed by a change in economic description. The presence of industrial establishments is not equivalent to the development of an industrial structure with extensive domestic connections. Nor does the prominence of services establish that the country has completed the productive transformation associated with a mature economy. The relevant question concerns what its enterprises and institutions can actually accomplish: produce to demanding specifications, maintain and adapt equipment, organize suppliers, generate knowledge and employ that knowledge in activities yielding sustained improvements in ordinary life.

This is the defensible meaning of a necessary phase of development. It does not prescribe an identical sequence of industries for every country, or require a repetition of nineteenth-century European industrial history. Some technologies permit older methods to be bypassed; sophisticated services can contribute directly to productive transformation. What cannot be bypassed is the work of acquiring the skills, institutions and complementary capacities upon which such transformation depends. A country may shorten an apprenticeship through access to external knowledge. It cannot establish that the apprenticeship has been completed merely by announcing its participation in a modern sector.

The Philippine problem should therefore be described as an incomplete and uneven transformation, rather than the literal absence of industry. A World Bank analysis of manufacturing in the Philippine services economy emphasizes weak connections between services, manufacturing and agriculture, alongside the possibility of increasing the knowledge and services embodied in production. Its significance lies in the relationship among activities. Manufacturing can purchase sophisticated services, services can improve agricultural and industrial performance, and domestic enterprises can acquire more demanding functions within international production. None of these relationships is secured simply by classifying a country as a services economy.3

The distinction remains pertinent to present policy. At the Philippine Industrial Policy Forum in May 2026, the World Bank identified a heavy reliance on fiscal incentives and special economic zones alongside insufficient investment in skills, logistics, standards, digital infrastructure and quality certification. This is a criticism of the composition of public action, rather than a claim that no public action exists. It also shows why investment promotion cannot be treated as a sufficient developmental program. The capabilities that make investment productive must be supplied and connected; an incentive cannot substitute for them merely because it is administratively easier to announce.4

The warning against skipping development is consequently a warning against substituting visible signs for underlying abilities. An export total, an office district or a group of assembly plants may register real economic activity and still conceal limited domestic learning. To recognize that limitation is not to deny the work already performed by Philippine enterprises and workers. It is to refuse the inference that their present position exhausts what the country should seek to become. Industrial policy should build upon existing competence while making the acquisition of additional competence an explicit and assessable purpose.

This writeup's interest in industrialization arises from this question of continuity through acquired capacity. Industry is not valuable merely because a smoking chimney appears more substantial than a countinghouse. It matters where it generates technical knowledge, sustains useful occupations, supports essential infrastructure and reduces vulnerabilities that the political community has reason to avoid. A steelworks without customers, a machine shop incapable of meeting specifications or a subsidized enterprise protected from every consequence of failure does not become a national achievement through the attachment of a flag. Industrial development requires a more exacting standard than patriotic ownership.

Equally inadequate is the contention that a country can dispense with such development by producing professionals for the international economy. Physicians, teachers, accountants and lawyers perform indispensable functions; engineers and technicians are themselves constituents of industrial competence. The objection concerns the substitution of educational credentials for a productive structure capable of employing acquired knowledge. A country may train engineers while importing the engineering of its major installations, educate chemists while possessing few laboratories connected with production, and graduate administrators whose most attractive opportunities lie elsewhere. The resulting mismatch cannot be resolved by increasing the number of diplomas alone.

The treatment of education reveals the deeper consequence. When the school is understood principally as a mechanism for supplying employable labor, its success is measured by the student's fitness for an existing demand. That demand may originate in a foreign corporation or an overseas labor market whose requirements the country has little influence upon. Adaptation to those requirements can be useful to a particular graduate and still be inadequate as a national educational purpose. The problem arises when education's other responsibilities—understanding, judgment, historical memory and the capacity to initiate unfamiliar work—are treated as dispensable embellishments.

The phrase taming a generation for the needs of labor describes this reduction, rather than education itself. It implies that the young should learn to accommodate themselves to an economic position determined elsewhere, while the possibility of altering that position disappears from their formation. Discipline, reliability and practical skill are not objectionable qualities. They become politically diminished when obedience is cultivated without the intellectual means to question the arrangement being obeyed. A citizen must be able to understand an account, assess an argument and recognize when an institution's declared purpose differs from its conduct. Those capacities cannot be supplied by the training of a compliant employee alone.

Freire's criticism of the banking conception of education approaches this danger from the left. Teaching organized around deposits of knowledge into passive recipients reproduces a relationship of dependence; his alternative of problem-posing education makes the learner a participant in inquiry. This is not the conservative account of inherited formation employed elsewhere in the essay. It nevertheless asks a question that the conservative should recognize: does education develop the person's judgment, or simply prepare the person to occupy a predetermined place? The answer cannot be inferred from the market value of the resulting credential.5

The comparison requires a qualification on both sides. Intellectual independence does not eliminate the need for accurate knowledge, disciplined practice or skilled teaching. The transmission of a cultural inheritance need not make the student passive, provided the inheritance is encountered as something to understand and judge. Conversely, a rhetoric of liberation can become another official instruction if learners are permitted to discover only the conclusions their educators have already authorized. An education that strengthens national competence should form people able to examine technical and political claims, including claims made in the name of the nation itself.

Neither literacy nor development follows automatically from the multiplication of university places. Literacy requires sustained elementary education, competent teachers and the circumstances in which families can keep children at school. Development requires that the knowledge so acquired encounter institutions capable of putting it to increasingly productive use. A professional minority can flourish amid deficient mass education, just as widespread literacy can coexist with a narrow economic base. Education and productive transformation should therefore reinforce one another. The school enlarges what an enterprise can attempt; the enterprise supplies practical experience, revenue and occupational opportunities that help sustain the school.

Where a society also confronts a literacy problem, reducing education to labor-market preparation becomes particularly incoherent. Literacy provides a foundation upon which occupational training and civic understanding both depend. The UNESCO Institute for Statistics' conception extends beyond recognizing words to understanding, interpreting, creating and communicating through written materials in differing contexts. Its breadth matters: the ability to complete a familiar task is not equivalent to the ability to comprehend an unfamiliar instruction or evaluate a written claim. School participation, certificates and reading proficiency should therefore be examined separately.6

A government cannot establish the adequacy of education merely by citing enrollment, graduation or the employability of a selected group. A technically trained minority can coexist with widespread difficulty in reading with comprehension. Public policy must attend to the foundation as well as the credential, including teacher preparation, access to books, conditions for sustained study and support for learners whose schooling has left essential abilities insecure. Assessments should make their definitions and coverage explicit, so that a population's ability to use written knowledge is not obscured by administrative measures of participation.

The corresponding national investment need not oppose practical training to humane education. A technician benefits from mathematical competence and the ability to understand specifications; a citizen benefits from language, history and the habit of testing evidence. Scientific education supplies more than a certificate for an existing vacancy when it enables experimentation and inquiry. Literature supplies more than a decorative cultural identity when it enlarges the ability to understand human circumstances. The demand that every educational activity demonstrate an immediate employer is therefore a poor account of how a society acquires the abilities upon which future employment will depend.

There is no warrant here for treating services as inherently inferior to manufacturing. Engineering consultancies, scientific laboratories, transport, communications and sophisticated commercial services may generate substantial productive knowledge. Agriculture likewise demands research, machinery, processing and distribution. The objection is directed against an economy organized around a restricted set of subordinate functions, whether those functions occur in a factory, an office or a plantation. A foreign-owned assembly plant may offer fewer opportunities for learning than a domestic engineering firm. What matters is the depth of competence, the quality of employment and the range of decisions that can be made within the country.

Emigration introduces a further ambiguity. A professional who works abroad may acquire skills, support a family and eventually establish an enterprise at home. Such movement need not be regarded as national injury in every instance. Yet a policy that depends indefinitely upon the departure of its trained citizens risks confusing a means of supporting household consumption with a method of developing national production. Remittances can finance useful investment, but they cannot by themselves supply an industrial organization, a research institution or an administrative system. A society must examine what its citizens are enabled to build, as well as what their absence enables others to buy.

The appeal to comparative advantage does not settle these questions. Properly understood, the principle explains how exchange may benefit parties whose relative costs differ. It does not require every country to manufacture everything, and it does not imply that a poor country must possess an absolute advantage before it can trade. Nor, however, does it establish that the conditions determining relative costs should remain unchanged. Schools, transport, accumulated experience, technology and the organization of credit affect those conditions. The relevant dispute concerns the means by which they can be altered and the costs that an alteration justifies, rather than the elementary proposition that exchange can produce gains.

The doctrinaire application converts an explanation into an injunction. Because a country can presently supply inexpensive labor or agricultural commodities, it is advised to organize its future around those activities; because another country already manufactures machinery efficiently, the acquisition of domestic competence is dismissed before its possible benefits are considered. Such reasoning treats historically produced differences as though they were permanent properties of geography. A responsible industrial policy must account for present costs, but it must also investigate learning, dependence and the possibilities opened by complementary investments. Its justification lies in demonstrable benefits that private calculation may fail to capture, not in contempt for calculation itself.

The particular abuse of comparative advantage is now easier to state. A proposition about relative costs is made to govern the permissible future of a society. Because exporting labor presently provides income, labor export becomes its assigned vocation; because advanced production is presently concentrated abroad, domestic acquisition of that competence is regarded as presumptively wasteful. The possibility that today's pattern expresses inadequate infrastructure, unequal access to finance or the absence of institutions for learning receives insufficient consideration. Historical disadvantage is then presented as economic instruction.

The inference is not contained in comparative advantage itself. Relative costs can change, and trade can accompany the investments through which they change. Nor does criticism of that inference establish that every ambition to industrialize is sound. The country must still assess which capabilities are feasible, what learning can reasonably be expected and which sacrifices are defensible. The objection is to a doctrine that forecloses that assessment by treating the existing pattern of specialization as an authoritative answer. A theory of the gains from exchange cannot, without additional premises, decide which capabilities a nation should seek to acquire.

Labor export warrants an equally exact distinction. Migration can be an exercise of personal freedom and a rational response to inadequate opportunities. Migrants should not be burdened with blame for deficiencies in national institutions. The problem is a development strategy that comes to rely upon their departure so extensively that creating suitable work at home loses urgency. Household income then provides relief from an economic weakness that the state has ceased trying to overcome. A remedy for present necessity is converted into a principle of permanent organization.

The consequences extend beyond the accounting of remittances. Training expenditures are incurred at home while much of the resulting productive service is delivered elsewhere. Families must organize care across distance; domestic institutions may struggle to retain experienced personnel. These outcomes differ among occupations and migration arrangements, and cannot be inferred from the gross amount remitted. The relevant assessment asks what migration enables and what deficiencies it sustains. A policy that broadens a person's choices differs from one that celebrates departure because it cannot offer a practicable alternative.

Foreign investment and labor export can therefore coexist without generating an adequate domestic developmental structure. An enclave may employ a limited range of workers while trained citizens depart for occupations unavailable locally. Neither the factory's existence nor the remittances' arrival establishes that the links between education, production and public provision have been built. Those links require deliberate attention to supplier capabilities, technical institutions, research and opportunities for domestic enterprise. Government becomes a fencesitter in the relevant sense when it presides over these flows without accepting responsibility for the relationships among them.

This criticism is compatible with welcoming useful external capital. Its admission can provide resources and knowledge that domestic efforts need. The difference concerns the public authority's intention and capacity: whether it merely removes obstacles identified by investors, or also identifies the institutions and obligations through which their activities can contribute to an independently considered developmental purpose. The latter undertaking includes refusal where terms are unfavorable, revision where experience disappoints expectations and investment in capacities for which no external corporation has an immediate interest. Facilitation is one function of government; it is inadequate as the whole of government’s economic judgment.

At this point a difficulty emerges within contemporary conservatism. Some of its representatives deplore the weakening of inherited communities while accepting an economic philosophy that affords those communities little standing beyond the preferences of their individual members. They defend continuity in cultural discussion and celebrate incessant mobility in economic discussion. They invoke the historical nation, then treat its attempt to acquire a more complete productive structure as an intrusion upon a supposedly natural order. This is not a contradiction possessed by every defender of markets. It is a contradiction in a particular political synthesis, and it becomes more conspicuous when that synthesis borrows the language of the conservative revolution.

Bastiat, Mises, Hayek, Rand and Friedman should not be compressed into a single author. Their accounts of knowledge, freedom, government and social obligation differ substantially. Their strongest arguments concern real dangers: the invisibility of sacrificed alternatives, the scarcity of capital, the dispersion of knowledge, the coercive power of government and the misuse of other people's resources. A developmental argument acquires no strength by pretending that these dangers disappear when an enterprise is declared national. It must specify why a proposed public action is warranted and how the difficulties identified by its critics will be confronted.

Bastiat's distinction between what is seen and what is not seen supplies a first discipline. The employment visibly created by expenditure cannot be counted without considering the activity displaced by the same use of resources. A subsidized factory is conspicuous; the household consumption or alternative enterprise forgone to sustain it may remain dispersed and politically mute. The argument against waste is decisive as far as it goes. Its developmental application must nevertheless examine both sides with equal patience: productive learning and the advantages furnished to later enterprises can also remain unseen in an account restricted to the first recipient's balance sheet. The proper response is a fuller accounting of alternatives and benefits, rather than an exemption from accounting.7

Mises is particularly ill served by an interpretation that makes him indifferent to industrial advancement. In his discussion of economic progress he states that "The prerequisite for more economic equality in the world is industrialization." His explanation emphasizes the accumulation of capital and the contribution foreign investment can make where domestic savings are insufficient. International capital permits machinery and productive methods to reach places that could not quickly finance them from their own resources. The developmental reader should acknowledge the force of this argument: a shortage of capital cannot be remedied merely by declaring its prospective owners politically undesirable.8

The disagreement concerns what follows from the arrival of capital. Its quantity does not determine its allocation, the distribution of its returns or the extent of domestic learning. A profitable extractive installation can coexist with deficient transport between domestic producers, just as an advanced foreign plant can coexist with a weak local supplier base. Mises's argument identifies an indispensable means of increasing productivity; it does not, by itself, establish that every arrangement through which capital enters produces the same national result. The developmental question begins where the aggregate category of investment gives way to particular contracts, occupations and institutions.

Mises's defense of free trade also requires a serious answer. In Liberalism he opposes the political redirection of production away from the international allocation that economic conditions would otherwise produce. Protection may enrich particular producers while diminishing the gains available through exchange. That objection bears heavily upon entrenched industries whose claim to infancy survives for generations. The counterargument is that some of the conditions determining location can themselves be altered by acquired skills, infrastructure and cumulative experience. The dispute is therefore about the costs and feasibility of altering those conditions, rather than whether their existing configuration has consequences.9

Hayek's account of knowledge deepens the objection. He directs attention to information dispersed among persons who understand local circumstances that no central authority can possess in their entirety. Prices help coordinate decisions without requiring each participant to know the whole. His phrase "particular circumstances of time and place" identifies an important limitation of abstract administrative knowledge. A ministry may know a national output target while misunderstanding maintenance problems, the availability of particular skills or the changing needs of customers. No serious industrial policy can assume that such knowledge will become complete merely because the ministry's intentions are admirable.10

It does not follow that dispersed knowledge makes every common undertaking impossible. The organization of a harbor, a technical college or a network of testing facilities can enable independent actors to use knowledge that would otherwise remain unproductive. The state need not determine every transaction in order to influence the conditions under which transactions become possible. Indeed, the developmental function may be to provide arrangements through which firms discover and communicate difficulties, with support revised as experience accumulates. Hayek's objection then becomes a rule against administrative omniscience and against the suppression of contrary information. It remains an objection to comprehensive command; its application to more limited coordination requires further analysis.

The most dangerous misunderstanding occurs when policy converts a provisional judgment into a permanent entitlement. An official decision that an industry deserves initial assistance must remain open to the discovery that it cannot attain useful competence. Competing enterprises, alternative technologies and independent technical assessments preserve information that a protected monopoly may conceal. Failure should become a reason for revising the undertaking, rather than an accusation against those reporting it. This is one point at which a developmental state can learn from a liberal critic without accepting that all public purposes are reducible to the transactions of individuals.

Friedman's celebrated argument about business responsibility is similarly more qualified than its popular reception. The manager, acting on behalf of owners, should pursue their purposes within established rules; Friedman explicitly includes "both those embodied in law and those embodied in ethical custom." His objection is directed against executives who claim public authority to spend resources entrusted to them for other purposes. It does not establish that the political community lacks authority to set obligations through law. The distinction is between a corporate officer's mandate and the legitimate determination of the rules under which corporations operate.11

This distinction strengthens rather than dissolves the developmental question. A host country need not expect an investor to become an unsolicited guardian of its industrial future. It can require conditions through taxation, procurement, competition law and negotiated concessions, provided those conditions are legitimate, intelligible and practicable. The difficulty is deciding which obligations advance public purposes at an acceptable cost, and preventing the rule-making authority from becoming an instrument of favored firms. Corporate responsibility cannot substitute for political institutions; political institutions cannot excuse incoherent demands by invoking corporate responsibility.

Friedman's wider liberalism also recognizes public functions in maintaining competition, enforcing agreements and addressing circumstances in which ordinary exchange does not adequately secure the relevant benefits or costs. His account gives the individual and the family a central place, and regards voluntary exchange as a means of coordination that can preserve freedom. The developmental critic should contest the sufficiency of that framework for building capabilities and sustaining common institutions, rather than invent a Friedman for whom government literally has no functions. A political argument improves when the disagreement concerns the scope and purposes of those functions.12

Ayn Rand introduces a different emphasis: objective rights and government constrained to the protection of persons against force. Her account of government opposes arbitrary coercion and does not endorse political anarchy. It raises a direct objection to making individuals instruments of a collective undertaking simply because rulers invoke a higher purpose. The developmental response must therefore explain the legitimacy of taxation and common obligations, rather than imply that national necessity supplies an unlimited title to command. Rand's premises leave little room for the conception of inherited social obligation employed here, but the danger she identifies remains pertinent to a nation-building project.13

The argument among these authors and their critics concerns more than the size of the state. It concerns what counts as a reason for action, which responsibilities attach to institutions, and how authority can be exercised without destroying the information or liberties upon which competent action depends. A public authority can be modest in its operational reach while serious about long-term development. Conversely, a government that praises markets can distribute extensive concessions and guarantees without demanding useful performance. Counting interventions does not disclose their purpose or their beneficiaries.

The notion of an organic society is itself impoverished when it excludes purposeful construction. A living institution adapts, establishes disciplines and acquires new capacities; it is not authenticated by remaining helpless before every change in its environment. National markets required law, communication and the removal of internal obstacles. Public education required institutions and expenditure. The deliberate character of these undertakings did not necessarily make them hostile to historical continuity. A late-developing nation may have to create the material circumstances in which its inherited communities can survive without being reduced to picturesque residues of an economy organized elsewhere.

Armin Mohler's discussion of postwar conservatism provides a useful corrective to the assumption that conservative thought must be merely preservative. In his 1974 essay he invokes Jünger's phrase "organischen Konstruktion," or organic construction, and, recalling Moeller van den Bruck, writes: "Man will Dinge schaffen, deren Erhaltung sich lohnt"—one seeks to create things worth preserving. These formulations do not establish an industrial program. They do establish that, within this tradition, creation and conservation need not be mutually exclusive. The developmental application proposed here is an inference: institutions that are absent cannot be preserved, and capacities essential to a community's independence may first have to be acquired.14

The French Nouvelle Droite supplies a related criticism of the reduction of collective life to a uniform scale. In the introduction to Vu de droite, Alain de Benoist identifies "la disparition progressive de la diversité du monde"—the progressive disappearance of the world's diversity—as a central danger. The relevance to political economy requires argument rather than mere quotation. Different societies can exchange goods while retaining distinct institutions and purposes. But their differences become precarious if every productive decision is subjected to an identical external criterion and if communities lack the means to sustain activities that express their own needs. Economic dependence does not erase a culture immediately; it can progressively narrow the circumstances in which that culture remains practicable.15

De Benoist's 1979 statement in Le Monde extends his concern for cultural renewal to the young nations of the Third World. This provides a historical basis for considering development as something more than the imitation of a wealthy society's consumption. It supplies no ready-made endorsement of centralized nation-building, still less of every national government's conduct. The French and German currents discussed here contain disagreements about the state, regional identity, technology and authority; their accounts of collective identity are often far removed from a civic conception of equal membership. The present argument draws upon their criticism of economic reduction without treating their wider doctrines as an indivisible inheritance.16

Guillaume Faye makes the issue explicit in Contre l'économisme, whose introductory account declares that "l'économie devient le destin"—the economy becomes destiny. The complaint concerns the elevation of economic organization into the governing horizon of civilization. A society may submit to this elevation under private capitalism or administrative socialism. Production remains necessary in either case, but the increase of production cannot decide what human purposes deserve pursuit. From this perspective, the industrial argument advanced here requires a qualification: productive power is a condition of political freedom and social continuity, not their complete content. An industrial state that treats its people solely as inputs has reproduced the reduction it claims to oppose.17

The later joint statement of Alain de Benoist and Charles Champetier makes the criticism of liberalism more explicit. Its account describes the movement "from market economics to market societies": exchange becomes a model for interpreting relationships whose meaning is not exhausted by exchange. This argument concerns an anthropology as much as a policy preference. A person appears as the bearer of preferences and interests, while associations and inherited obligations are understood through the individual's selection of them. The authors regard that transformation as a dissolution of the social setting in which persons first acquire their language, loyalties and purposes.18

Their contention should neither be reduced to a demand for larger ministries nor accepted as a complete developmental theory. A social institution can deserve protection while being hierarchical, exclusionary or poorly adapted to contemporary needs. Its inherited character does not settle the claims of those who bear its burdens. The liberal emphasis on individual rights can expose abuses concealed beneath the language of solidarity; the communitarian objection can expose losses that a catalogue of individual transactions fails to describe. Public judgment must confront both, especially where an economic undertaking distributes its benefits unevenly among regions and social groups.

The Nouvelle Droite's insistence upon subsidiarity and plural associations also complicates any attempt to recruit it into a uniform program of centralized national mobilization. In their 1999 statement, de Benoist and Champetier connect their criticism of economism with institutions below and beyond the centralized state, and criticize the confinement of economic life to market exchange. Their references to reciprocity and redistribution permit an account of provision broader than commercial purchase. Yet this remains a different political project from an administration directing national industrial accumulation. Its relevance lies partly in reminding the developmental state that a society contains forms of cooperation it should support rather than absorb.19

There is a tension here that should remain unresolved rather than concealed by an ingenious label. A country may require coordinated infrastructure and a common fiscal capacity while its communities require room to govern their own affairs. Industrial concentration can improve technical performance while increasing the power of distant institutions over local life. The criticism of economism cannot decide these conflicts in advance. It provides a reason to consider the social consequences of organization, after which a judgment about the appropriate scale and limits of authority must still be made.

Such a qualification distinguishes the acquisition of competence from the cult of mobilization. An exhausted labor force, a devastated countryside and enterprises sustained by compulsory sacrifice may increase output without establishing a durable common good. Social peace cannot be reduced to the absence of strikes, nor national discipline to the inability of workers to defend their conditions. The authority capable of directing capital must also restrain the temptation to regard every objection as sabotage. Otherwise the national project becomes a convenient name for obligations imposed upon the weak while advantages accumulate among those who possess access to the state.

The developmental left approaches these questions through a different historical experience. Its concern is not principally the erosion of European cultural difference, but the position of societies whose labor and resources have been organized around accumulation elsewhere. It asks whether the national economy can sustain improvements in the lives of the majority, and whether domestic elites have interests opposed to that result. A shared objection to unrestricted capital mobility does not make this perspective identical to the European New Right. Similar instruments can be proposed in the service of substantially different conceptions of membership, equality and emancipation.

Samir Amin's account of delinking supplies a particularly useful distinction. In Maldevelopment he defines the undertaking through the "subjection of external relations to the logic of internal development." Delinking is not simply withdrawal from international exchange. It concerns the authority to order external relations according to a domestic project, rather than treating the requirements of participation in the world economy as the source of that project's purposes. Amin's framework places this question within the polarization of accumulation between centers and peripheries, not merely a disagreement over which country possesses a factory.20

The formulation clarifies the difference between importing equipment to strengthen domestic production and reorganizing domestic production solely to satisfy an external purchaser. Either arrangement can generate exports; their developmental implications may differ. The distinction is not observable from the nationality of the purchaser alone. It requires attention to the links between production, domestic demand, public provision and the distribution of income. A country whose modern sector serves external markets and elite consumption may possess impressive installations without providing a corresponding improvement in the productive opportunities of the majority.

In his later account of a sovereign popular project, Amin insists that the class content of sovereignty must be specified. Sovereignty can serve a domestic ruling bloc within global capitalism, or protect a project directed toward popular needs and a transition beyond that order. The national state is important in his argument because political struggles develop unevenly and cannot wait upon a simultaneous transformation of the entire world. The claim is emphatically not that every national government is emancipatory. It is that national authority can provide a terrain upon which a different social purpose becomes effective.21

This supplies a necessary correction to a conservative argument that treats the nation as though its members had a single economic interest. A domestic bank, an industrial workforce and a rural producer may bear different consequences from the same concession or exchange-rate policy. To call all three national does not reconcile them. The public purpose must be expressed through arrangements that can be judged: wages and working conditions, access to basic provision, the position of smaller producers and the distribution of the risks undertaken. Popular welfare cannot remain a promise postponed until the accumulation of capital is declared complete.

The distance between Amin and the Nouvelle Droite nevertheless remains substantial. Amin's horizon is a universal emancipatory project pursued through historically situated national struggles; de Benoist's criticism stresses plural identities and the dangers of universalizing political models. Neither should be rewritten as the other's obscure precursor. Their encounter is instructive precisely because they expose different inadequacies in the same reduction: one examines the social relations that determine who gains from accumulation, the other questions the authority of accumulation to define a civilization's purposes. The present essay accepts neither account without qualification, and draws a political conclusion that requires its own defense.

Karl Polanyi supplies another route into the dispute. His observation that "Laissez-faire was planned" challenges the representation of an extensive market order as the simple absence of political construction. The institutions that enable markets in labor, land and money require deliberate legal and administrative action. Protective responses arise as societies confront the consequences of organizing their existence through those markets. This historical argument does not prove that every protection is desirable. It does discredit the assumption that intervention alone is artificial while the institutions permitting extensive market dependence are innocent of political choice.22

Polanyi's objection also bears upon national productivism. If human labor is treated simply as a resource to be moved at the planner's convenience, public ownership can reproduce the social dislocation attributed to market rule. A development program must account for the practical circumstances of the household, the village and the workplace. These are not sentimental additions to an otherwise complete industrial calculation. They help determine whether acquired capacity can be sustained without imposing losses that undermine the community supposedly being strengthened. The economic means remains accountable to a social purpose.

South Korea should be examined with this distinction in mind. Its experience does not demonstrate industrialization without foreign resources. A contemporary IMF study records the importance of external private borrowing and reports government guarantees covering nearly 95 percent of outstanding private medium- and long-term foreign loans in the period under discussion. The state also investigated projects and their relationships with infrastructure and other industries. Domestic ownership therefore coexisted with dependence upon external finance. The Korean case concerns a particular method of organizing international resources and allocating responsibility for their use, rather than the successful exclusion of the foreigner from economic development.23

The allocation of risk is crucial. An equity investor ordinarily bears the commercial loss on the capital invested; a borrower owes repayment according to the terms of the loan, even when an undertaking disappoints its expectations. Government guarantees can transfer part of a private enterprise's financing risk to the public balance sheet. The difference deserves attention in countries whose capacity to obtain foreign exchange is limited. Domestic ownership may preserve managerial authority and a larger claim upon future profits, yet the means used to obtain it may expose public institutions to liabilities that outlast the enterprise. Nationality and financial independence must therefore be examined separately.

Foreign direct investment does not, conversely, make failure costless to the host society. A foreign corporation can abandon its investment while leaving unemployed workers, specialized infrastructure and environmental liabilities. Tax concessions and subsidized utilities can place public resources at risk before the plant begins operating. Guarantees, local borrowing and contractual commitments can further complicate the presumed distinction between foreign equity and national debt. The sound case for FDI is that it may distribute some risks and supply capabilities otherwise difficult to obtain. The claim that foreigners bear all risk is an invitation to careless bargaining.

The Korean debt intervention of August 1972 illustrates how a strategy of rapid accumulation can generate financial obligations demanding extraordinary action. It should not be treated as interchangeable with a sovereign default or as conclusive evidence that the entire method was economically irrational. Nor should the repression associated with Park's government be elevated into a universal prerequisite of industrial progress. A historical judgment must distinguish the institutions that supported learning and investment from the political practices through which burdens were imposed. The existence of both in the same regime does not establish that they were inseparable in every possible developmental order.24

Singapore offers a different arrangement of external capital and public purpose. Its Economic Development Board, established in 1961, and the construction of Jurong provided institutional and physical foundations for industrial investment. The establishment of DBS, Jurong Town Corporation and Intraco in 1968 further differentiated the functions of finance, industrial infrastructure and trade. These undertakings do not resemble the withdrawal of government from production's prerequisites. They show a public authority arranging the circumstances in which enterprises could operate, while foreign firms supplied capital, management, technology and access to markets that the small domestic economy could not readily provide.25

The significance of Singapore is consequently more exact than the familiar claim that it welcomed investors. The public authorities sought to connect external enterprises with an economy whose institutions they were actively constructing. Foreign ownership was compatible with a deliberate national undertaking, though such compatibility was neither effortless nor guaranteed. It would be equally misleading to describe the system as a paradise without taxes or to assume that its reliance on multinationals removed questions of labor discipline and political restriction. The useful comparison concerns the organization of productive resources, rather than a moral division between a coercive national model and an innocent foreign one.

Singapore's openness must be read within this institutional history. Its acceptance of foreign direct investment did not dispense with the developmental task; it supplied an instrument through which that task could be pursued. A government seeking investment could also organize industrial land, technical education, infrastructure and the movement toward more demanding activities. The foreign enterprise and the directing state were therefore not mutually exclusive explanations. The question was how public action could obtain a developmental contribution from an enterprise whose own responsibilities and purposes remained commercial.

The continuing description of the Economic Development Board's role makes the point plainly. The agency identifies its work as planning and executing strategies for economic competitiveness, while its investment programs support higher-value production and the development of industrial skills. These are activities of a state seeking to shape productive outcomes. Calling this dirigism means the deliberate direction and coordination of development; it need not mean that every price or production decision is settled administratively. The distinction permits Singapore's extensive use of markets to be acknowledged without making the public authority disappear from the explanation.26

Singapore thus supplies poor evidence for the libertarian paradise sometimes imagined by its admirers. Commercial openness and business-friendly administration do not establish a minimal state. The error consists in taking one characteristic of a system—its welcome to international enterprise—and treating it as the explanation of the whole. A government that constructs the circumstances of investment, cultivates capabilities and influences the direction of upgrading performs more than the role of an impartial host. The developmental lesson concerns the purposeful combination of these functions, not a supposed liberation of economic life from political judgment.

The opening of China likewise cannot be explained by asserting that the mainland possessed no industrial capabilities because some entrepreneurs and their capital had departed after 1949. Private enterprise had been radically restricted, and the subsequent political upheavals inflicted profound damage. Yet state industry, engineering institutions and technical personnel existed before the new opening. The question was how to reform and supplement an existing productive order, obtain external knowledge and establish new commercial connections. The distinction matters because investment can yield more substantial learning where a host already possesses the institutions required to understand and adapt what arrives.27

China's special economic zones are similarly intelligible as instruments within a larger transformation. They permitted differentiated arrangements for investment and commercial activity, but their importance cannot be explained by the mere suspension of constraints. A China Development Bank account prepared for the 2015 Investing in Africa Forum stresses the combination of local problem-solving with governmental support, and the connections among infrastructure, research, learning and production. Its account identifies organized conditions under which firms could acquire and exercise productive competence. A zone was therefore a potential means of accomplishing development, rather than a territorial certificate that development had already occurred.28

The Chinese case also resists the inference that admitting market coordination entailed abandoning national direction. The relationship among public authority, enterprise and local experimentation changed over time; that complexity should not be flattened into either unmodified command or an eventual disappearance of the state. Even in 2026, the announced five-year program for specialized smaller firms links state support to innovation, employment and industrial capabilities. This continuing effort to influence the direction of accumulation supports the description of a dirigist agenda, although the effectiveness and costs of particular measures remain questions for investigation.29

The comparative lesson from Korea, Singapore and China is therefore more demanding than an instruction to borrow abroad, admit multinationals or designate zones. These arrangements helped supply conditions under which productive transformation could proceed. Their contribution depended upon institutions capable of converting access into learning and investment into a more capable domestic economy. They did not abolish the developmental phase. In different ways, they organized parts of it. The analogy becomes misleading when a latecomer copies the concession offered to capital while neglecting the technical, administrative and social arrangements that gave the concession a developmental purpose.

Nor should phase be understood as a period after which a country can cease acquiring capabilities. The initial movement into more complex production establishes institutions that must continue to learn as technologies, markets and public needs change. The danger for a late developer is to mistake admission to an international production chain for the completion of this work. Participation can remain confined to a narrow function unless firms and public institutions acquire the means to undertake others. The developmental claim rests upon that enlargement of competence, rather than upon the prestige of the foreign enterprise with which the country has become associated.

Chen Yun's economic thought permits this issue to be considered from within a socialist administration rather than solely from outside it. His well-known image of the bird and the cage contains a warning against both excessive constraint and uncontrolled movement. In his 1982 formulation, "The bird cannot be held in the hand; it will die if held there." The cage represents the framework of planning within which economic activity can move. The metaphor is often remembered only for its restriction; the warning about killing the bird through direct restraint is equally important. An authentic reading must retain both parts.30

Chen's argument acknowledges that market activity can supply variety and responsiveness that administrative allocation fails to provide. It also insists that its operation occur within an overall framework of balance and public control. This differs from the liberal presumption that a market order should supply the principal coordination and planning should bear a special burden of justification. It differs, too, from a command economy that mistakes instructions for the knowledge required to carry them out. The scope of the framework and the room allowed within it are themselves matters of judgment, with the danger that those controlling the cage can constrict it to protect their own authority.

His attention to economic balance adds substance to the metaphor. Chen criticized excessive investment demands and the pursuit of quantities without adequate attention to quality, assortment and actual needs. The relevance to industrialization is immediate: tonnage can rise while the economy lacks the materials and goods that households and enterprises require. A growth target detached from those relationships can create shortages, unfinished commitments and burdens upon consumption. Prudence in this account is a condition of sustained development, rather than a renunciation of socialist objectives.31

Chen Yun should not be made to certify every policy subsequently undertaken in China. His contribution here is a set of problems: the relation of planned priorities to commercial initiative, the discipline imposed by balance, and the need to preserve activity that direct control can extinguish. A contemporary developmental state must also confront questions his metaphor does not resolve, including how affected citizens contest priorities and how officials are held accountable. The preservation of an economic framework cannot justify indefinite administrative immunity. A cage whose custodians cannot be questioned supplies a very poor institution for discovering that its dimensions have become mistaken.

The comparison with Hayek is therefore more demanding than the opposition of freedom to planning suggests. Hayek asks how dispersed knowledge can be coordinated without concentrating decisions in an authority incapable of possessing that knowledge. Chen asks how initiative can operate without dissolving the framework intended to preserve economic balance. Their answers remain different, but each exposes a danger the other side must address. The developmental argument must specify which decisions require common coordination, which should remain decentralized, and how information moves between them. A metaphor, whether of spontaneous order or of the caged bird, does not perform that institutional work.

No country should convert these examples into an obligation to reproduce another society's institutions entire. The size of the home market, the stock of savings, access to external finance, administrative competence and strategic circumstances alter what can prudently be attempted. A small trading state may require foreign markets from the outset. A large country may have greater scope to develop production around domestic demand. Both may combine public enterprises, private domestic firms, licensing, external borrowing and FDI. The relevant criterion is the contribution each arrangement makes to a coherent undertaking, together with the liabilities it creates.

Historical comparison further cautions against presenting the policy prescriptions of established economies as a faithful description of their own ascent. Ha-Joon Chang's examination of developmental policy argues that today's wealthy countries frequently employed protections and interventions inconsistent with the simplified history offered to latecomers. The argument challenges the retrospective mythology of an uncomplicated laissez-faire rise. It does not establish that a measure is appropriate now because an earlier government once used it. Historical evidence expands the range of admissible questions; the present costs, institutions and international circumstances must still determine the answer.32

The useful lesson is therefore methodological. Countries do not enter development from the same position, and policies change their character as capabilities accumulate. Protection that helps an enterprise acquire competence can become a barrier to improvement once competence exists. Foreign investment that initially provides scarce technical knowledge can later confine domestic firms to subordinate functions if contractual arrangements never change. Public institutions should be capable of recognizing those transitions. The relevant historical analogy concerns the changing relationship between instruments and productive abilities, rather than the reproduction of another country's policy catalogue.

Foreign investment is, in this account, a means of inducing conditions under which a country becomes less dependent upon the perpetual arrival of new foreign investors. This should not be confused with a prediction that successful development necessarily causes foreign investment to diminish. A more capable country may attract more of it, precisely because it offers skilled labor, sophisticated suppliers and productive institutions. Independence consists in a greater capacity to proceed, negotiate or refuse without intolerable loss. Investment becomes more optional in the strategic sense even when it remains substantial in the statistical sense.

The conditions to be induced are concrete. Workers acquire practical familiarity with machinery and standards; engineers learn how to organize production; local enterprises encounter specifications that require them to improve; banks obtain experience in evaluating industrial undertakings; technical schools discover the abilities that employers actually require. These processes can connect an initially isolated plant with a wider domestic economy. Their cumulative effect is to enlarge the range of activities that local firms can undertake. Yet every link in the sequence requires institutions, incentives and effort. The mere presence of a foreign factory does not guarantee its occurrence.

An investor has no general obligation to create future competitors. It may find it more convenient to import components, reserve design functions for its headquarters and employ local workers in operations that generate little transferable competence. These choices can be commercially rational while disappointing the host country's developmental hopes. The public authority must therefore distinguish what an enterprise is likely to accomplish voluntarily from what requires encouragement, negotiation or separate domestic investment. To call the multinational a tutor is acceptable only if the country has identified what is being taught and has supplied pupils capable of learning it.

Supplier development illustrates the difficulty. A demand for domestic purchasing accomplishes little if local firms cannot meet tolerances, delivery schedules or volumes. The response requires testing facilities, access to equipment, credit, technical assistance and opportunities to demonstrate competence. Preferential treatment may help an enterprise cross an initial threshold, but indefinite preference can remove the incentive to improve. The object is a supplier capable of serving several customers and eventually competing beyond its protected relationship. A national policy that merely changes the nationality of an intermediary while leaving its functions shallow has mistaken ownership for development.

Training presents a similar problem. A requirement to employ local people should be distinguished from a program through which local people acquire authority over increasingly complex operations. Apprenticeships, engineering experience and participation in maintenance, process improvement and management can generate abilities that survive the departure of an investor. The movement of experienced employees into domestic enterprises may then diffuse those abilities. But it requires financing, customers and conditions in which the new firm can operate. Knowledge does not become a domestic industry through the act of being learned; institutions must make its independent application possible.

The same reasoning applies to technology. Purchasing a machine conveys neither the entire knowledge embodied in its construction nor an unrestricted right to reproduce it. A license may permit production while reserving important modifications to the original owner. A joint venture may share management without sharing research. The host society must therefore examine the particular arrangement rather than rely upon the general phrase technology transfer. Its objective should be progressive competence in using, maintaining, adapting and, where feasible, designing productive systems. For some activities this may justify substantial domestic research; for others, continued purchase from abroad may be entirely sensible.

Public procurement can create an initial market, especially where infrastructure and essential services require substantial investment. It can also become an instrument for rewarding political friends with expensive contracts. Developmental procurement consequently requires technical specifications, inspection and an account of the capabilities that public spending is expected to build. A railway ordered abroad may be justified by urgency or scale; an associated program for local maintenance, components and engineering may still enlarge national competence. Conversely, the insistence that every part be domestic can delay an essential undertaking beyond the value of the learning supposedly obtained.

Public enterprise deserves the same discrimination. It may undertake infrastructure whose benefits extend beyond the revenue it can collect, or establish capacity where private investors will not accept the risks. Its public ownership does not excuse technical incompetence, obscure accounts or political patronage. Private domestic champions are no more automatically virtuous. Assistance should be attached to purposes that can be assessed, and the state should retain the capacity to terminate support when those purposes are persistently frustrated. A policy of disciplining capital loses its meaning if the politically connected can claim permanent exemption from discipline.

Foreign and domestic firms need not receive identical arrangements in every circumstance, but neither should nationality settle every dispute. A domestic monopoly can impoverish the country while invoking patriotic necessity. A foreign enterprise can broaden the supply of essential goods and improve technical standards. The relevant judgment combines commercial performance with public purposes that commerce alone may not secure. It also recognizes that an authority able to bargain effectively must offer reasonably dependable rules. Sovereignty is weakened when official discretion degenerates into arbitrary interference, since enterprises then organize themselves around influence rather than competence.

Such dependability does not require surrendering the possibility of change. A state can specify the duration of concessions, the conditions governing their renewal and the obligations associated with assistance. As domestic capabilities improve, new terms can be negotiated without pretending that every revision is either confiscation or betrayal. The country should also examine whether its infrastructure is so specialized that one corporation's departure would render it useless. Facilities serving several industries and firms improve both productivity and bargaining strength. The material foundations of independence often consist of institutions that preserve alternatives.

This analysis also requires a more exact account of finance. Credit does not become developmental because its lender is publicly owned. Its contribution depends upon the ability to evaluate undertakings, distinguish temporary learning costs from persistent incompetence, and insist upon performance without reducing every decision to immediate collateral value. Long-lived infrastructure and industrial learning may require arrangements that ordinary short-term lending cannot supply. Yet patient finance should not be confused with indefinite indulgence. A borrower protected from meaningful review can absorb resources that would have made another undertaking feasible.

Foreign-currency borrowing introduces an additional constraint: an enterprise can sell successfully in the domestic market and still fail to generate the currency needed to service its debt. The relation between the country's external earnings and its financial commitments consequently deserves an assessment beyond the profitability of each project considered separately. Public guarantees should be recognized as obligations, even before a call upon them occurs. If losses are socialized while the gains remain private, the public should at least know what performance and return justified the risk. Concealing that bargain beneath the designation national champion weakens the developmental case.

The same discipline applies to concessions intended to attract equity investment. A tax holiday, publicly supplied land and infrastructure devoted to one enterprise represent uses of public resources even when the headline investment figure appears large. The developmental return should therefore be examined alongside the commercial return: additional skills, domestic linkages, reliable provision and revenues that can sustain shared institutions. Negotiation must also consider what would probably have occurred without the concession. A government cannot claim the entire value of an enterprise as the achievement of an incentive that merely transferred income to an investor already disposed to establish it.

Questions of resilience have similar limits. Some redundancy in essential production may be justified where interruption would inflict disproportionate harm. It does not follow that every import is a strategic danger or that self-sufficiency is affordable in every field. Several foreign suppliers, stocks of critical inputs, repair competence and regional cooperation may provide better security than an expensive domestic monopoly. The object is the capacity to withstand disruption and retain practical alternatives. Sovereignty becomes an operational question concerning those alternatives, rather than an assertion that territorial ownership removes vulnerability.

The transition from investment attraction to development must therefore be judged through more than the annual sum of inflows. Investment directed toward a productive installation differs from the acquisition of an existing asset; a plant integrated with local suppliers differs from one whose inputs and expertise remain almost wholly external. A rise in exports may conceal a narrow domestic contribution. These distinctions require inquiry into wages, learning, purchases, reinvestment and the functions actually performed within the country. An impressive aggregate can coexist with little improvement in the host society's ability to organize its own production.

Conversely, falling dependence should not be equated with the obligation to produce every good at home. A technically capable society can choose to import because domestic production would be wasteful, while retaining competence in activities that matter more to its development or security. It can participate in international specialization without treating the existing division of labor as sacred. The purpose is a larger range of practicable choices. An economy that has acquired this range may remain deeply involved in trade and foreign investment, but its involvement need no longer be governed by the desperation of having no alternative.

This distinction clarifies the constitutional question. Parliamentarism, federalism and decentralization may have substantial merits, including improved accountability and a more appropriate distribution of authority. They do not determine whether a government will establish technical education, coordinate infrastructure or support the acquisition of industrial competence. A presidential state can fail at those tasks; a parliamentary state can perform them. The conservative objection is to the presentation of constitutional rearrangement as a sufficient economic program, especially when the rearrangement is accompanied by an assumption that national productive policy should be surrendered to whatever private investment finds immediately profitable.

A related reduction appears when the nation itself is imagined as a manageable commercial city: compact, administratively convenient and judged principally by its ability to attract mobile business. Such an image can be useful for the limited discussion of urban services. It becomes inadequate when elevated into a theory of political community. A nation must reconcile relations among regions, sustain provision beyond the most profitable locations, and discharge obligations to people whose lives cannot be organized around their immediate attractiveness to investors. Territorial and social continuity are part of its responsibilities, including where neither produces a competitive commercial return.

Singapore's existence as a city-state supplies no reason to erase these responsibilities from the concept of a nation. Its scale and geography affect the instruments available to it; its public institutions still pursue collective purposes. A large archipelagic country cannot treat the success of a concentrated commercial district as an adequate measure of national development. Ports and metropolitan centers must be connected to productive opportunities elsewhere, while public services and political membership cannot be confined to the places capital finds most convenient. The imitation of a city's appearance may conceal a failure to perform the work of national integration.

The fondness of certain market-centered prescriptions for reducing the state to a facilitator can thus extend into a reduction of the nation to an investment location. Its citizens appear chiefly as workers and consumers, its territory as a collection of assets, and its institutions as instruments for lowering the costs of transactions. The invisible hand is then asked to discharge responsibilities that have never been specified as obligations of any participant. Yet the aggregation of commercially intelligible decisions does not by itself guarantee the development of neglected regions, the reproduction of public knowledge or the availability of essential capabilities.

Organized anarchy describes the resulting contradiction, provided the phrase is used with care. It does not mean that markets lack coordination or that every decentralized order is chaotic. It means that elaborate administrative effort can organize the conditions of private accumulation while leaving the direction of the common undertaking officially unattended. Concessions are coordinated, commercial rights enforced and investment sites prepared, but responsibility for the country's productive future is dispersed until no institution accepts it. The frustration arises from this combination of energetic facilitation and strategic abstention, followed by the assertion that the resulting pattern is simply what economic order ought to be.

The answer is not a government pretending to know every desirable outcome. It is a government capable of stating public purposes, coordinating the institutions necessary to pursue them and revising its instruments in the light of results. Its authority should be proportionate to its competence and answerable to those bearing the consequences. A nation acquires greater freedom when it can undertake this work effectively. Redefining the work out of existence does not make the nation freer; it makes its future more dependent upon decisions for which no public authority has accepted responsibility.

Constitutional institutions nevertheless affect the possibility of implementing a program. A government unable to coordinate transport across jurisdictions or resist capture by established interests may find its industrial objectives repeatedly frustrated. The question is therefore which arrangement supplies legitimate and competent action, rather than which constitutional name possesses a mystical developmental property. Changes in cabinet formation or regional powers should be assessed against the functions that the state must perform. Institutional reform becomes an evasion when it promises transformation while leaving those functions unspecified.

Decentralization contains a further possibility of disappointment. Provinces may receive wider formal powers while competing to offer the same investors cheaper land, lower taxes and weaker obligations. Political authority becomes dispersed, yet the bargaining position of mobile enterprises may become more concentrated. This outcome is not inherent in federalism; it arises where regional initiative lacks effective coordination and where each jurisdiction can gain temporarily by undermining the terms sought by the others. A federal order requires national arrangements for shared infrastructure, fiscal solidarity and common standards if local freedom is to become more than a competition in concessions.

The treatment of inherited protections also requires discrimination. Some restrictions preserve monopoly privileges and obstruct useful investment. Others protect essential functions or create space in which competence can develop. Their existence does not establish their wisdom, but neither does their removal establish progress. A sound reform examines the particular restriction, the problem it addresses, the interests it serves and the more effective arrangements that might replace it. General declarations of openness can conceal a failure to perform this examination, just as invocations of sovereignty can conceal the preservation of private privilege.

The conservative borrowing from Jünger and Evola becomes particularly strained when it supplies a dignified language for withdrawal from these political questions. Jünger's Anarch is not simply the anarchist renamed, and Evola's Cavalcare la tigre is not a defense of bourgeois economic optimism. Both offer ways of considering personal independence amid circumstances judged profoundly compromised. Such considerations do not amount to a program for the construction of national productive institutions. The distinction must be preserved if their work is to be read seriously rather than employed as decoration for an economic philosophy developed elsewhere.33

The individual may seek an interior distance from the age, but a nation must still decide how its trains operate, its hospitals obtain equipment and its young people acquire useful occupations. When the language of riding the tiger becomes an excuse for accepting every economic tendency as irresistible, the metaphor ceases to illuminate the problem. Personal composure does not settle the terms under which capital enters a country. Nor does the cultivation of a sovereign self guarantee that the community retains the institutions necessary to exercise collective judgment. The inward refuge may be defensible; its conversion into national policy requires an argument its admirers too seldom supply.

Spengler's civilizational vocabulary can be borrowed just as superficially. A writer may deplore decline in the language of historical destiny, then prescribe an economy in which communities must accept whatever position current prices assign them. The borrowed grandeur does not resolve the inconsistency. If the survival of a particular civilization matters, the material circumstances sustaining its institutions must also matter. It does not follow that such circumstances can be secured by unlimited state power, but it does follow that their preservation cannot be left entirely outside political judgment.

The question of the common good thus returns to the center of the argument. Property, exchange and enterprise are institutions within a society; they are not a sufficient definition of society. An economic policy should help maintain the conditions in which families can endure, communities remain habitable and work contributes to a life extending beyond subsistence. Industrial expansion that destroys those conditions cannot vindicate itself merely through higher tonnage. Equally, the conservation of a village becomes rhetorical if its inhabitants lack water, transport, health care and remunerative work. Continuity requires the capacity to provide for contemporary needs without surrendering every inherited relationship to immediate commercial calculation.

Agriculture consequently belongs within the developmental undertaking. Industrialization should improve the tools, energy, processing and transport available to rural producers, rather than treat the countryside solely as a reservoir of cheap labor. A society that weakens food production to sustain subsidized urban enterprises may exchange one dependence for another. Domestic demand also deserves a place beside exports. Housing, electrification, public transport and basic equipment can improve ordinary life while creating opportunities for local production. The choice of activities should reflect productive feasibility and social need together.

There remains a serious practical objection: a weak state may lack the competence to perform the judgments demanded of it. This cannot be answered by describing the state as sovereign and expecting competence to follow. Administrative capacities must be developed through recruitment, training, clear responsibilities and procedures that expose failure. Industrial commitments should be proportionate to what institutions can evaluate and supervise. An initial program concentrating on reliable electricity, transport, technical education and a limited number of supplier opportunities may accomplish more than a grand scheme whose execution depends upon abilities the government does not possess.

The objection also applies to the policy of indiscriminate investment attraction. Selecting tax concessions, appraising land, supplying infrastructure and negotiating contracts require capable administration. A weak state does not escape the need for judgment by inviting foreigners; it may merely exercise judgment badly while disclaiming responsibility for its consequences. The practical alternative is therefore not between omniscient planning and a government without economic duties. It is between different distributions of initiative, knowledge and risk, all of which depend upon institutions whose competence must be cultivated.

A practical developmental order must consequently make its own claims examinable. The authority proposing assistance should identify the capability it expects to create, the institutions through which learning is likely to occur and the circumstances under which support will end. Those requirements need not imply that every benefit can be reduced to one numerical indicator. They do require enough specificity for disagreement to become possible. If a policy can be defended equally well after any outcome, it is an article of political allegiance rather than a disciplined economic judgment.

Participation in that judgment should extend beyond the assisted enterprise and the ministry negotiating with it. Workers understand aspects of production and its burdens that balance sheets can conceal. Technical institutions can assess claims that political patrons are poorly placed to test. Communities know the consequences of relocation, pollution and altered access to land. Their testimony does not make every preference decisive, but excluding it deprives the state of relevant knowledge and legitimacy. A development program intended to strengthen the common life must permit those living it to question the terms of its supposed improvement.

Ecological limits reinforce the need for such inquiry. A productive installation whose operation damages the water upon which other livelihoods depend has costs outside its own accounts. The same is true of energy systems and land use whose burdens persist beyond an investor's planning horizon. The criticism of economism becomes practical where policy insists that these consequences enter the judgment. Industrial competence can include the capacity to produce more efficiently, repair equipment and sustain essential provision with fewer destructive effects. The acquisition of productive power should enlarge the possibility of responsible choice, rather than license the exhaustion of its material foundations.

The contemporary undertaking is thus neither a return to an imagined closed economy nor a promise that international competition will dissolve every public problem. It is an effort to establish institutions through which external resources, domestic initiative and common provision can support one another without making the population an instrument of accumulation. The liberal objections discipline its treatment of knowledge, scarcity and coercion. The New Right's criticism tests the tendency to elevate economic means into civilizational purposes. The developmental left asks whose purposes and whose gains have been sheltered by the invocation of national development. These are persistent questions, not authorities whose juxtaposition relieves the author of answering them.

This writeup's defense of industrialization is strongest when it recognizes these limits. It does not require a domestic replica of every advanced industry, nor does it promise that a sufficiently resolute government can manufacture competence by command. It requires the political community to consider which abilities it ought to acquire, which investments can help acquire them and which burdens can responsibly be borne. Foreign equity, domestic savings, public enterprise and technological licensing are then evaluated as means within a developmental undertaking. Their usefulness varies; the obligation to judge their usefulness remains.

Foreign investors accordingly remain welcome where their presence enlarges the country's productive possibilities. Their participation should be assessed by what can endure beyond the original concession or corporate decision: knowledge, skilled occupations, useful infrastructure and enterprises capable of finding customers independently. Successful development may deepen relations with foreign firms rather than diminish them. The decisive change is that the host society increasingly possesses the competence and alternatives required to shape those relations. It can collaborate without making collaboration the indispensable condition of every further advance.

The test of the argument returns, finally, to the young person leaving school. Has education supplied enough literacy and knowledge to permit further learning? Does the economy offer opportunities to apply that knowledge at home? If the person chooses to work abroad, is that choice among credible alternatives, or the consequence of a productive structure never seriously developed? These questions join the educational and industrial argument. They prevent the convenient separation through which one ministry counts graduates, another counts investments and a third counts remittances, while no institution answers for the common result.

A nation that accepts the permanent export of its labor as an unalterable comparative advantage has diminished the scope of its own political judgment. A nation that forbids migration while failing to create useful opportunities has merely imposed the burden of that failure upon its citizens. The defensible undertaking is to enlarge their effective choices through literacy, productive competence and institutions capable of sustaining worthwhile work. Its achievement can include migration, international trade and foreign ownership. What it must overcome is the presumption that the population's adaptation to external demand constitutes a sufficient national future.

An investment portfolio can abandon a holding whose return has disappointed expectations. A nation cannot abandon its people on comparable terms. It must consider what becomes of them when an enterprise closes, when a market contracts or when a lender demands payment. Its economic policy therefore bears responsibilities extending beyond the valuation of assets. Development is achieved where institutions and productive abilities enlarge the community's capacity to discharge those responsibilities. The scale of foreign investment may record part of that achievement; it cannot define the achievement itself.

***

References:

List, F. (1885). The national system of political economy (S. S. Lloyd, Trans.), Book II, chap. 12. Longmans, Green. Original German work published 1841. The quoted sentence appears in the Lloyd translation; chapter references are preferable to page numbers that vary among editions. Digital text: https://davidmhart.com/liberty/OtherWorks/List/1909-EnglishTrans/index.html

Prebisch, R. (1950). The economic development of Latin America and its principal problems (E/CN.12/89/Rev.1), p. 2. United Nations. The quotation refers to industrialization as a means of obtaining technical progress and improving living standards. Text: https://archivo.cepal.org/pdfs/cdPrebisch/002.pdf

World Bank. (2017). The Philippines: Resurrecting manufacturing in a services economy. The discussion concerns weak connections among sectors and opportunities to increase the services and knowledge content of production. https://blogs.worldbank.org/en/eastasiapacific/philippines-resurrecting-manufacturing-services-economy

World Bank. (2026, May 15). Philippine Industrial Policy Forum 2026. Opening remarks identify the reliance on incentives and zones, and the need for foundational public goods. https://www.worldbank.org/en/news/speech/2026/05/15/philippine-industrial-policy-forum-2026

Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the oppressed (M. B. Ramos, Trans.), chap. 2. Herder and Herder. The discussion paraphrases the distinction between banking and problem-posing education. Publisher description and contents of the later anniversary edition: https://www.bloomsbury.com/us/pedagogy-of-the-oppressed-9781501314162/ .

UNESCO Institute for Statistics. (n.d.). Glossary: Literacy. The definition covers identifying, understanding, interpreting, creating, communicating and computing with written materials in differing contexts. This conceptual reference is not evidence for any particular country’s literacy rate. https://databrowser.uis.unesco.org/resources/glossary?search=literacy

Bastiat, F. (1850). What is seen and what is not seen. In Selected essays on political economy, chap. 1 (S. Cain, Trans.). Foundation for Economic Education. The application to learning benefits is the present essay's argument. Text: https://www.econlib.org/book-chapters/chapter-chapter-1-what-is-seen-and-what-is-not-seen/

Mises, L. von. Economic progress. In The Mises reader unabridged, chap. 18. Mises Institute, online edition. The quoted sentence and the discussion of foreign investment occur in this chapter. Text: https://mises.org/online-book/mises-reader-unabridged/chapter-18-economic-progress

Mises, L. von. (1927). Liberalism, part 3, sec. 7, Free trade. Online English edition, Liberalism: The classical tradition. Mises Institute. Text: https://mises.org/online-book/liberalism-classical-tradition/3-liberal-foreign-policy/7-free-trade

Hayek, F. A. (1945). The use of knowledge in society. American Economic Review, 35(4), 519–530. The distinction between comprehensive planning and particular public institutions is the argument of the present essay, not a claim that Hayek endorsed its proposed industrial policy. Text: https://www.econlib.org/library/Essays/hykKnw.html

Friedman, M. (1970, September 13). The social responsibility of business is to increase its profits. The New York Times Magazine. The quotation appears in the description of the executive's responsibility to owners. Text: https://public.websites.umich.edu/~thecore/doc/Friedman.pdf

Friedman, M. Old school liberalism. Excerpt republished by the Hoover Institution from Milton Friedman on freedom (R. Leeson & C. G. Palm, Eds.). The passage outlines voluntary exchange and the functions of government; the present essay's developmental criticism is interpretive. Text: https://www.hoover.org/research/milton-friedman-old-school-liberalism

Rand, A. (1963). The nature of government. The Objectivist Newsletter; subsequently collected in The virtue of selfishness (1964). Text supplied by the Ayn Rand Institute: https://courses.aynrand.org/works/the-nature-of-government/

Mohler, A. (1974). Deutscher Konservatismus seit 1945. In G.-K. Kaltenbrunner (Ed.), Die Herausforderung der Konservativen. Herder. Quotations are from the opening section on the conservative revolution. Mohler attributes organic construction to Jünger and the creation of things worth preserving to Moeller van den Bruck. English translations here are editorial. The online republication identifies three annotations added in 1995; the quotations here belong to the original discussion. Text: https://scholien.wordpress.com/lizentiatur/praeceptum2/2016085-2/

Benoist, A. de. (1977). Vu de droite: Anthologie critique des idées contemporaines. Copernic. The quotation from the original introduction is reproduced by the author in his 2002 preface; the quotation is identified as part of the original introduction. Translation here is editorial. Verification text: https://alaindebenoist.s3.amazonaws.com/pdf/preface_nouvelle_edition_vu_de_droite.pdf

Benoist, A. de. (1979, September 29). Ce que nous disons. Le Monde. The paragraph above gives a limited interpretation of this period statement, rather than attributing the essay's entire economic program to its author. Text: https://www.lemonde.fr/archives/article/1979/09/29/ce-que-nous-disons_2783433_1819218.html

Faye, G. (1983). Contre l'économisme: Principes d'économie politique. Le Labyrinthe. The quotation is reproduced in the publisher-associated presentation of the work; translation here is editorial. Its application to the industrial argument is the fictional author's interpretation. Verification text: https://www.revue-elements.com/produit/contre-leconomisme-pdf/ . Related period work: Faye, G. (1981). Le système à tuer les peuples. Copernic; publication record: https://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb366025452

Benoist, A. de, & Champetier, C. (1999). Manifesto for a European renaissance. Telos, 115, 117–144. The short quotation is from the discussion of liberalism, reproduced in the publisher's excerpt Liberalism: The main enemy (2023), from the later English book edition. Text: https://arktos.com/2023/09/04/liberalism-the-main-enemy/

Benoist, A. de, & Champetier, C. (1999). Manifesto for a European renaissance. Telos, 115, 117–144. Discussions of subsidiarity and economic relations are consulted in the later English book edition (Arktos, 2012). Text: https://rabbimayerschiller.com/collectedarticles/pdf/12

Amin, S. (1990). Maldevelopment: Anatomy of a global failure. Zed Books. The delinking formulation is reproduced in the online chapter extract hosted by Róbinson Rojas. Text: https://rrojasdatabank.info/uu32me08.htm

Amin, S. (2017). The sovereign popular project: The alternative to liberal globalization. In October 1917 revolution: A century later, chap. 5. Daraja Press. Publisher-author open edition: https://pressbooks.pub/october1917/chapter/the-sovereign-popular-project-the-alternative-to-liberal-globalization/

Polanyi, K. (1944/1957). The great transformation: The political and economic origins of our time, chap. 12, p. 141. Beacon Press. Page number follows the scanned Beacon edition. Text: https://knowledgehub.ghamfin.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/Karl-Polanyi_The-Great-Transformation_book.pdf

Kanesa-Thasan, S. (1969). Stabilizing an economy—A study of the Republic of Korea. IMF Staff Papers, 16(1), 1–26. The guarantee figure refers to the study's historical reporting period, not to every year of Korean industrialization. Source: https://www.elibrary.imf.org/view/journals/024/1969/001/article-A001-en.xml

The August 3, 1972 intervention restructured private debt; it should not be described simply as sovereign default. Historical verification: Corporate restructuring during times of crisis in South Korea, chap. 20, in IMF, Current developments in monetary and financial law, vol. 6 (2012). This later historical account documents the 1972 intervention. Source: https://www.elibrary.imf.org/display/book/9781616350819/ch020.xml

Singapore government historical accounts verify the pre-1984 institutional chronology: SG101, 1959–1965: Early economic strategies, https://www.sg101.gov.sg/economy/surviving-our-independence/1959-1965/ ; and 1965–1970: Singapore's development plan, https://www.sg101.gov.sg/economy/surviving-our-independence/1965-1970/ . These official historical accounts verify the institutional chronology. A period discussion identified there is Goh Keng Swee's 1976 essay, A socialist economy that works.

Singapore Economic Development Board. (n.d.). Work with us; Development and expansion incentive for manufacturing; Incentives and facilitation programmes. Official descriptions of strategic planning, higher-value manufacturing and company training support. https://www.edb.gov.sg/en/setting-up-in-singapore/working-with-edb.html ; https://invest.edb.gov.sg/gov-support/development-and-expansion-incentive-for-manufacturing ; https://www.edb.gov.sg/en/incentives-and-programmes/incentives-and-facilitation-programmes.html

Editorial historical verification: IMF. (1993). China at the threshold of a market economy, chap. 2, Initial conditions and special characteristics of Chinese reform. Its account describes a substantial industrial base before the reforms. The passage concerns the industrial inheritance before the reform-era opening, rather than a claim that all subsequent capabilities were already present. Source: https://www.elibrary.imf.org/view/book/9781557753496/ch02.xml

China Development Bank. (2015). Experience gained in the development of China’s special economic zones. Investing in Africa Forum, hosted by the World Bank. The account emphasizes governmental support, infrastructure, innovation and connections between learning and production. https://www.worldbank.org/content/dam/Worldbank/Event/Africa/Investing%20in%20Africa%20Forum/2015/investing-in-africa-forum-chinas-special-economic-zone.pdf

Reuters. (2026, September 3). China to support “little giants” and other emerging companies in plan to boost jobs and innovation. The reported five-year program is evidence of continuing public direction, not proof of the effectiveness of every intervention. https://www.reuters.com/world/asia-pacific/china-vows-support-small-midsize-firms-employment-innovation-2026-09-03/

Chen, Y. (1995). Chen Yun wenxuan [Selected works of Chen Yun], vol. 3, p. 320. Renmin Chubanshe. The December 1982 statement is reproduced with this reference in Chen Yun’s contribution to the transition from a planned economy to a market economy (2009), republished by the Institute of Party History and Literature in 2019. English translation for this essay. Verification: https://www.dswxyjy.org.cn/n1/2019/0228/c423964-30916668.html

Chen Yun jingji sixiang de jige yaodian [Several key points of Chen Yun's economic thought]. Shanghai Party History research website. This institutional discussion reproduces and contextualizes Chen's arguments about balance, quality and market regulation. These claims are limited to his historical thought. Text: https://www.ccphistory.org.cn/shds/bydt/content/3037f3a6-4aa6-4bea-8b84-56362d9c479d.html

Chang, H.-J. (2003). Kicking away the ladder: Infant industry promotion in historical perspective. Oxford Development Studies, 31(1), 21–32. https://doi.org/10.1080/1360081032000047168 . The paragraph draws on the article's historical thesis; the qualifications concerning contemporary application are the present essay's argument.

Jünger, E. (1977). Eumeswil. Klett-Cotta. Evola, J. (1961). Cavalcare la tigre. Vanni Scheiwiller. These are predecessors and influences, not interchangeable members of the postwar Neue Rechte or Nouvelle Droite. No direct passage from Eumeswil is quoted. The distinction drawn here is the fictional author's interpretive application. Evola's opening discussion is available in the later English translation, Ride the tiger (J. Godwin & C. Fontana, Trans., 2003), published by Inner Traditions: https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Ride-the-Tiger/Julius-Evola/9780892811250

The Cost of Leaving

2026-09-26T06:17:00.000-07:00

The Cost of Leaving

Mary Jane Veloso, citizenship abroad,
and the economics of protection

When Ferdinand Marcos Jr. told reporters in Eastern Visayas that he had signed an absolute pardon for Mary Jane Veloso, the announcement was almost striking for how little ceremony it required. “I signed her pardon yesterday,” he said. The document had been signed on September 24, 2026; the following evening, after the Department of Justice transmitted the release order to the Bureau of Corrections, Veloso walked out of the Correctional Institution for Women in Mandaluyong. A case that had occupied presidents, prosecutors, diplomats, courts, churches, migrant organizations and two governments for more than a decade had reached its legal conclusion in the most ordinary way available to executive power: a paper had been placed before the President and the President had put his name on it.

There was nothing ordinary about what preceded the signature. Veloso was arrested at Yogyakarta’s airport in April 2010 after Indonesian authorities found 2.6 kilograms of heroin in her luggage. She was convicted and sentenced to death later that year. From the beginning she maintained that she had not knowingly carried narcotics, saying that recruiters who had promised her employment abroad had given her the suitcase. In April 2015 she was brought within hours of execution by firing squad before Indonesia unexpectedly spared her. She remained imprisoned there for nearly another decade and returned to the Philippines only in December 2024, after Manila and Jakarta negotiated her transfer. She was forty-one by the time Marcos pardoned her.

It is tempting to regard the pardon as the end of an unusually long humanitarian drama, and in the personal sense it is. No theory of development is needed to explain what freedom means to someone who has spent almost sixteen years imprisoned, much of that time under a death sentence. Children grew up while their mother was in prison. Parents aged while they waited. Appeals that once concerned whether Veloso would still be alive the following morning gradually became arguments about testimony, trafficking, prisoner transfer and finally clemency. The vocabulary changed because time changed the problem.

But the Veloso case has never fitted comfortably inside the boundaries of one criminal conviction. It began with something considerably more ordinary in Philippine economic life: a woman needed work, and the work appeared to exist somewhere else. Between the worker and the promised livelihood stood recruiters, unfamiliar destinations, documents and travel arrangements she did not control, and people who knew considerably more about the proposed journey than she did. Veloso’s claim was that she trusted those intermediaries and accepted a suitcase whose illicit contents she did not know. Whether one approaches that account through criminal law, labor economics or the law of trafficking, the underlying asymmetry is familiar. A worker with few alternatives must often depend upon the person who claims to possess an opportunity.

The extremity of Veloso’s eventual predicament can obscure how conventional its beginning was. The Philippines has spent decades learning to regard departure as one of the normal ways a household improves its circumstances. A job in Hong Kong, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Europe or aboard a ship may pay several times what the same worker can obtain at home. The first remittance can finance tuition, medicine, a roof repair, debt repayment or a small business. Overseas employment has become sufficiently ordinary that the elaborate institutional architecture surrounding it—recruitment agencies, training centers, government offices, remittance companies, banks, insurance products—can make the original economic fact seem almost invisible. Someone leaves because the expected return from leaving appears better than the expected return from staying.

Most of those journeys do not end in an Indonesian prison. That is precisely why Veloso’s case is useful. Catastrophes reveal relationships that normal transactions conceal. The recruiter who honestly matches a worker to a foreign employer performs an economic service, reducing the cost of information and access. The dishonest recruiter exploits the same advantage. The worker usually knows less about the employer, the destination and the route. She may already have borrowed money. Her family may be waiting for the promised income. The intermediary may control not only access to the job but the documents, transportation and possessions accompanying the worker across a border. The same arrangement that makes labor mobility possible can, under sufficiently unequal conditions, make exploitation unusually easy.

By April 2015, the economics of Veloso’s departure had been replaced by the mechanics of capital punishment. Indonesia was preparing to execute a group of prisoners convicted of narcotics offenses. Veloso was among them. Philippine appeals for clemency had failed. Then the circumstances changed. Maria Kristina Sergio, the recruiter accused of deceiving Veloso, surrendered to Philippine authorities, and Manila found itself in possession of a new argument. Veloso was no longer useful merely as a condemned prisoner asking for mercy; she might be a necessary witness against the people alleged to have trafficked her.

Benigno Aquino III, then attending an ASEAN summit in Malaysia, appealed directly to Indonesian President Joko Widodo. Philippine officials argued that both countries had an interest in going beyond a courier and pursuing the network allegedly responsible for using her. Indonesian authorities halted Veloso’s execution while the other condemned prisoners were put to death. Reuters reported at the time that officials on the Philippine side understood the reprieve as an agreement, in effect, to pursue the larger trafficking network rather than simply punish what Cabinet Secretary Rene Almendras called a “mere courier.”

The intervention deserves neither sentimental embellishment nor dismissal. Aquino’s critics were correct to note that the rescue came extraordinarily late. Migrant organizations had been raising questions about the case before the final hours. A state that arrives only when a citizen is already awaiting a firing squad cannot easily present itself as a model of preventive administration. Those who believed Veloso had been trafficked understandably wanted something more than a stay of execution. Their argument was not simply that Indonesia should postpone killing her, but that the circumstances surrounding her recruitment should fundamentally alter the way the case was understood.

Yet timing does not make outcome irrelevant. The appeal came at the eleventh hour, but the eleventh hour has unusual importance when the twelfth is execution. Aquino did not compel Indonesia to repudiate its legal system. The Philippine government instead supplied Jakarta with another interest that could operate within Indonesian sovereignty: a living Veloso could testify in a criminal case involving the people alleged to have arranged the journey. Indonesia retained jurisdiction. It retained its judgment. But diplomacy created room within the exercise of Indonesian authority.

This distinction becomes important because the reprieve was followed almost immediately by an uglier argument at home. When Celia Veloso returned to the Philippines after her daughter had been spared, she was expected by some supporters of the Aquino administration to speak principally in gratitude. Instead, she thanked the people, churches, migrant groups and others who had rallied to her daughter’s cause and then spoke angrily about the government. She said the case had been neglected and that the family had questions for officials now that they were back in the country. “There are many things we will demand answers for from the government,” she said in substance at the May 1 press conference.

The reaction was remarkable. Celia was denounced as "ingrata"—an ingrate. Social-media users attacked the family for criticizing an administration that, they argued, had just prevented Mary Jane’s execution. Some posts went beyond criticism into fantasies of punishment. The hashtag politics of the moment included calls for Celia herself to face a firing squad. Contemporary reporting recorded the intensity of the backlash; days later, Celia publicly appealed for understanding, explaining that her anger came from the experience of watching a daughter she believed innocent sit in a foreign prison and nearly die.

One pro-Aquino comment from the period captured the political psychology better than any formal defense of the administration could have done. It scoffed at the Veloso family for suggesting that Aquino had failed them, arguing that without his breaking protocol Mary Jane would have been “riddled with bullets” along with the other foreigners executed that night. It then moved beyond defending Aquino and questioned Veloso’s innocence itself: perhaps, the writer suggested, she knew what was in the suitcase and had been blinded by money; perhaps the family would have enjoyed the commission had the shipment succeeded. The family were then called ingrates. Yet the same political voice could later express surprise that Veloso remained alive after Duterte had taken a markedly harder position toward her case.

It would be unfair to treat one social-media comment as representative of Aquino’s constituency, just as it would be careless to assume that every person who criticized Celia was part of an organized operation. But the episode became notable enough to generate subsequent academic study. A 2016 article in the University of the Philippines journal Daluyan, “#ingrata at si Mary Jane Veloso: Mga Bakas ng Trolling sa Spreadable Media,” examined the controversy specifically as a case involving political trolling and the circulation of the ingrata label. A contemporaneous Pinoy Weekly investigation also argued that some suspicious accounts participating in the attack appeared to behave like organized political trolls, while acknowledging that many genuine users shared the same views. What these materials establish is the existence of a trolling controversy and a recognizable pattern of political messaging; they do not establish, on their own, that Malacañang centrally ordered an “ingrata” campaign. That is an important distinction in a history already overburdened with partisan certainty.

The more interesting fact is that such coordination was not necessary for the argument to flourish. The moral intuition behind ingrata was already culturally familiar. A powerful figure had helped someone in distress; the beneficiary should therefore exhibit gratitude. Criticism after receiving assistance appeared unseemly, almost treacherous. Translated from the household or patron-client relationship into politics, however, the idea produces an unusual theory of citizenship. It suggests that when a government performs an obligation successfully, the citizen incurs a personal political debt to the officials who performed it.

This is where the Veloso affair becomes more than another partisan quarrel from the Aquino years. A democracy cannot easily operate on the proposition that citizens petition the state as clients approaching a patron. A president does not spend his private fortune when the foreign service intervenes abroad. Diplomats, prosecutors and officials act under public authority and are paid from public funds. If they save a citizen’s life, that achievement can be acknowledged without transforming the rescued family into political dependents.

Gratitude and accountability can exist simultaneously. Celia Veloso could recognize that Aquino’s final intervention mattered while still asking why the case had reached the firing squad before such urgency appeared. The two propositions do not cancel each other. A family whose house is saved by firefighters may thank the firefighters and still ask why building inspections failed. A business protected from fraud by regulators may recognize the enforcement action while still questioning why the warning signs were ignored. Public administration is evaluated over a sequence of actions; a successful final act does not purchase immunity from examination of everything preceding it.

This was particularly obvious when one looked beyond Philippine partisan politics. More than a decade ago, support for Veloso was hardly confined to Filipinos or to the domestic opposition. Indonesian migrant workers became prominent participants in the campaign to save her. Migrante International later thanked Indonesian migrant organizations for helping lead the effort in Indonesia and said their appeals to Widodo had been crucial to the suspension of the execution. Reporting at the time described Indonesian migrant groups, women’s organizations and other activists holding vigils and lobbying Indonesian authorities.

Their involvement made intuitive sense. Indonesian migrant workers did not need to share Philippine party allegiances to recognize the structure of the story. Many had themselves left home through recruitment networks, worked under foreign employers and lived in countries where a misunderstanding, abusive contract or confiscated document could suddenly become a legal crisis. The argument that Veloso might have been a trafficking victim rather than an intentional drug smuggler resonated because the underlying vulnerability was not uniquely Filipino. It belonged to migrant labor.

I remember that atmosphere in Hong Kong around the eve of May Day in 2015. At an interfaith gathering, Indonesian migrant women were crying over the prospect that Mary Jane might be executed. Elsewhere in Hong Kong, Indonesian and Filipino migrant workers demonstrated together; Antara reported Indonesian workers joining Filipinos outside the Indonesian consulate to demand that the execution be stopped. They carried the issue not as an abstraction about Philippine presidential performance but as something recognizably close to their own lives.

It is difficult to reconcile that scene with the online desire to punish Celia for insufficient gratitude. The women crying in Hong Kong were not asking whether Aquino deserved credit in the next election. They were reacting to the possibility that a migrant worker might be killed despite credible indications that she had been used by others. Yet in Manila the argument was rapidly being translated into the grammar of partisan loyalty: the President had acted, therefore the family should know whom to thank; criticism of the administration was treated almost as a betrayal of the rescue itself.

The strange consequence was that some defenders of Aquino began to reproduce a punitive logic that would become much easier to recognize during the Duterte era. If Mary Jane carried the drugs, perhaps she deserved the consequences. If the President saved her, the family should stop complaining. If they continued to complain, perhaps they did not deserve sympathy in the first place. The rhetoric differed from Duterte’s later language, but one premise was surprisingly durable: once the state had acted, the citizen’s claim to challenge the state became morally suspect.

Rodrigo Duterte approached the case from another direction, although the eventual destination could look familiar. During his September 2016 visit to Indonesia, Duterte met Widodo. Indonesian reports subsequently quoted Widodo as saying that Duterte had given a “go-ahead” concerning Veloso’s execution. Philippine officials disputed that account. Presidential spokesman Ernesto Abella said Duterte had told Widodo, “Follow your own laws. I will not interfere.” Foreign Affairs Secretary Perfecto Yasay likewise denied that Duterte had issued an explicit green light. The Palace position was that Duterte had accepted Indonesia’s right to follow its judicial process rather than personally authorized Veloso’s death.

That qualification matters. Political memory has a habit of simplifying ambiguous exchanges until the version most useful to one faction becomes common knowledge. It would be inaccurate to state as proven fact that Duterte directly instructed Indonesia to execute Veloso. Indonesian and Philippine accounts differed. Duterte himself initially kept the details of the closed-door conversation private and said publicly after the visit that the Philippines and Indonesia would continue to respect each other’s judicial processes because “the rule of law is what matters.”

His later remarks, however, make the underlying view considerably easier to understand. In a December 2016 interview, Duterte said he could not ask for a reprieve for someone convicted in a drug case. “A criminal is a criminal,” he said. His formulation was reciprocal: Filipinos should not interfere with another country’s laws if they did not want foreigners interfering with Philippine law. On drugs, his answer was essentially that offenders had to face the consequences.

This was more than a statement about narcotics. It reflected a particular conception of citizenship abroad, one closer to the classical territorial understanding of sovereignty than to the increasingly expansive language of consular protection. A Filipino remained Filipino after entering Indonesia, but Philippine nationality did not travel with her as a portable legal enclave. Indonesian territory meant Indonesian law. Indonesian courts determined criminal responsibility. Indonesian penalties followed Indonesian judgments. The Philippine passport identified her nationality and entitled her to consular representation, but it did not place a second criminal jurisdiction around her.

The familiar expression is “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” It is useful if one does not push it too far. A Filipino entering Indonesia does not stop being Filipino, any more than an Indonesian entering Manila loses Indonesian nationality. What changes is the governing jurisdiction. Citizenship does not give the traveler the option of choosing between two legal systems according to convenience. Territorial sovereignty supplies the first answer to the ordinary criminal-law question: whose law applies here?

Duterte’s formulation therefore possessed a certain austere coherence. The state might act vigorously when an overseas Filipino was abused by an employer, abandoned by a recruiter or mistreated outside the law, while showing much greater restraint when the host state had already investigated, tried and convicted the Filipino through its own institutions. In that sense, protection had limits. The government could help its citizen navigate the foreign system, but it should not behave as though the foreign system ceased to matter merely because the accused possessed a Philippine passport.

This view also sat comfortably beside Duterte’s broader foreign-policy doctrine. Returning from regional meetings in September 2016, he repeatedly emphasized “sovereign equality, non-interference and commitment to peaceful settlements of disputes” as principles of his independent foreign policy. The point was larger than Veloso. Duterte wanted relations among states understood as relations among sovereign equals rather than as hierarchies in which one government lectured another about its internal affairs.

The Veloso case exposed the difficulty hidden inside the elegance of that principle. If she were simply an intentional drug courier, the territorial argument was straightforward. Indonesia had arrested her, tried her and imposed a sentence under Indonesian law. But if she were a trafficking victim who had been deceived into carrying the suitcase, then the fact of conviction did not exhaust the factual problem. Philippine authorities were prosecuting people alleged to have recruited her. Her testimony had become relevant to those proceedings. The categories no longer aligned neatly: the person whom one jurisdiction had convicted as an offender might simultaneously be treated by another as a victim and witness.

Aquino’s 2015 intervention worked precisely because his government exploited that ambiguity. He did not claim that Indonesia lacked jurisdiction. Manila instead argued that Indonesian interests and Philippine interests intersected: keeping Veloso alive could help expose the network alleged to have placed the drugs in her luggage. The reprieve therefore demonstrated something that the phrase “follow your own laws” can easily obscure. Vigorous diplomatic advocacy and respect for foreign sovereignty are not necessarily opposites.

This is the difference between recognizing jurisdiction and treating jurisdiction as the end of diplomacy. Governments routinely ask one another for clemency, sentence commutation, humanitarian treatment, evidentiary cooperation and prisoner transfers. None of these requests requires the supplicant government to claim that its own law supersedes the law of the host state. The very existence of diplomacy reflects the fact that sovereign legal systems can have overlapping interests without sharing jurisdiction.

Duterte’s harder formulation gave greater weight to the conviction itself. “A criminal is a criminal” compresses a complicated set of facts into a status: once law has determined guilt, the political question changes. In the setting of his domestic anti-drug campaign, punishment also had an exemplary function. The offender was not only someone receiving a penalty but someone through whom a warning could be communicated.

It would go beyond the evidence to conclude that Duterte personally wanted Veloso to die. His government denied that he had ordered such an outcome, and the disputed Widodo account does not prove otherwise. But the political logic of deterrence is visible in Duterte’s own language. Once drugs were involved, his sympathy narrowed. Whether a courier said she had been deceived or exploited became less politically salient than the danger of appearing to excuse a narcotics offense. Punishment instructed others.

There is a curious continuity here with the earlier ingrata controversy. Some people who opposed Duterte politically had already accepted a related penal intuition while defending Aquino: Mary Jane had been convicted; she had drugs in her luggage; the Aquino government had nevertheless saved her; therefore her family had little standing to demand more. Under Duterte the partisan alignment changed, but the idea that the citizen had reached the limit of what she could reasonably demand from the state remained surprisingly portable.

The contradiction becomes clearer if one asks a basic democratic question. Does pressuring a government to defend or free a citizen require patronage? If the state acts, is the citizen then indebted to the administration? Such a view makes sense within a system of personal favors: a political patron intervenes, the beneficiary remembers the debt, loyalty follows. It makes much less sense within the theory of republican government. The government is not an independent benefactor. Its diplomatic service exists partly to represent nationals abroad. Its officials exercise delegated authority. The citizen may owe appreciation to individuals who worked exceptionally hard, but gratitude cannot logically extinguish the right to criticize policy.

Nor does democracy require the family of a prisoner to adopt the government’s preferred interpretation of events. Celia Veloso had watched her daughter approach execution. Her anger may have been politically inconvenient and, at times, rhetorically excessive. That did not create an obligation to become an administration spokesperson after the reprieve. A government confident that its intervention was successful ought to be able to withstand criticism from the family it helped.

This point matters because patronage thinking and punitive thinking can reinforce one another. The first says that protection is a favor and therefore gratitude is owed. The second says that protection can be withheld from those judged unworthy. Together they transform citizenship from a durable legal relationship into a moral assessment conducted by the state or its supporters: the obedient and grateful citizen deserves help; the troublesome citizen may be left to the consequences.

Yet citizenship abroad is valuable precisely because governments cannot know in advance which citizen will become inconvenient. Consular protection would mean little if it existed only for people whose innocence was obvious, whose behavior was exemplary and whose families praised the administration. The difficult cases test the institution. They are precisely the cases in which the government must separate its political preferences from its public obligations.

Duterte’s own foreign policy adds another layer to the problem because he repeatedly described international relations in practical and economic terms. His administration courted investment in China, Japan, Malaysia and Singapore and told business leaders that the Philippines was open for business. In Singapore he emphasized infrastructure, energy, competition and a more investment-friendly environment. At APEC he linked foreign engagement to infrastructure, rural development, human capital and the competitiveness of Philippine business. After his China visit, the administration explicitly said that foreign relations should help create an economy in which working abroad became “an option and no longer a need.”

There is much that is sensible in such an approach. Foreign relations cannot subsist on ceremonies and communiqués alone. Developing countries require markets, investment, technology, energy security and infrastructure finance. A government that neglects those interests in favor of permanent geopolitical theater does not necessarily serve its citizens better. Economic diplomacy is diplomacy.

The problem arises when the definition of economics becomes too narrow. Trade, investment, loans and infrastructure are easily classified as economic because they appear in familiar financial categories. A migrant worker in legal trouble is classified as consular or humanitarian. Yet for the Philippines this division is artificial. Labor itself is one of the country’s major international economic flows.

The numbers make the point without requiring romantic language about modern-day heroes. The Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas reported roughly $39.6 billion in personal remittances in 2025, including about $35.6 billion in cash remittances sent through banks. In the first half of 2026, remittance inflows continued to support household income and domestic demand. These are not incidental sums. They influence consumption, housing, education, savings, creditworthiness and the country’s supply of foreign exchange.

If foreign relations are to be treated substantially as economics, then the overseas worker cannot be placed outside the economic relationship the moment something goes wrong. The worker is not a sentimental attachment to a commercial foreign policy. The worker is part of the commercial relationship. Employers abroad obtain labor; Philippine households obtain wages; banks and remittance firms process the transfers; recruiters and training providers earn income; the balance of payments records the result.

This is why “respect their laws,” although entirely defensible at one level, can become too convenient at another. It allows a government to separate the pleasant parts of labor mobility from the difficult ones. Wages sent home are economic. A worker sentenced abroad becomes a legal problem belonging to the other country. Investment is bilateral. Consular protection is humanitarian. The classification makes sense bureaucratically, but the underlying economy does not observe it.

A company cannot reasonably count the income from an activity while insisting that the risks created by the activity belong to someone else. Supply-chain security is part of the cost of trade. Fraud prevention is part of banking. Safety systems are part of manufacturing. Insurance is part of transportation. In the same way, legal assistance, anti-trafficking cooperation and credible consular intervention are costs associated with an economy that sends large numbers of workers into foreign jurisdictions.

Mary Jane Veloso provides an extreme illustration of what happens when those costs are recognized only after failure. The state eventually deployed enormous institutional resources. Diplomats made representations to Jakarta. Presidents spoke directly. Lawyers pursued parallel proceedings. Prosecutors investigated alleged recruiters. Indonesian migrant organizations joined the campaign. Indonesian officials halted an execution, maintained the prisoner for years and later negotiated her transfer. What had begun as one person’s employment journey became an intergovernmental affair stretching across administrations.

From a business perspective, this resembles the familiar problem of privatized gains and socialized losses, although the phrase must be used with care. The recruiter who successfully places a worker receives a fee. The foreign employer gets labor. The family receives remittances. The state gains foreign exchange. But when the labor-migration transaction collapses catastrophically, the expenses move outward. The worker loses years. The family pays legal and emotional costs. Courts, diplomats and agencies expend resources. Political capital may be consumed in negotiations with another government.

Prevention is usually cheaper than rescue, but the institutions benefiting from a transaction do not always bear the entire cost when it fails. This is why better regulation of recruitment matters, but also why regulation by itself cannot answer the entire problem. It treats the point at which vulnerability is exploited; it does not necessarily change the economic conditions producing vulnerability.

Francis Pangilinan’s response to Veloso’s pardon concentrated on the first level. Illegal recruiters, human traffickers and drug syndicates, he said, should face stronger action because they exploit people seeking work abroad. Sarah Elago of Gabriela placed the case within a broader structure, arguing that Filipinos would remain vulnerable while cheap labor and economically compelled migration continued to shape the labor market. Their political traditions are different, but the two observations need not contradict each other. One asks how predators operate inside the overseas-employment system. The other asks why the system continually produces workers whose need for opportunity weakens their bargaining position.

The Philippines does not need to romanticize staying home in order to consider this question seriously. Migration is often an exercise of freedom. A nurse who prefers London, a software engineer who chooses Singapore or a seafarer who enjoys an international career is not proof that the Philippine economy has failed. Wealthy societies also send workers abroad. The relevant distinction is between migration as an attractive option and migration as the ordinary household remedy for insufficient opportunity.

When the second condition becomes widespread, the recruiter acquires unusual economic power. A prospective migrant may know little about the employer beyond what the agency says. She may not understand the host country’s legal system. She may already have borrowed money to obtain documents and transportation. Her relatives may be counting on income that has not yet been earned. Turning down the offer therefore imposes a cost even before departure.

The intermediary stands in a different position. He knows—or claims to know—the employer, the destination and the process. An honest agent reduces information costs. A dishonest one exploits them. The same asymmetry that allows efficient matching also allows fraud. Veloso’s account that she accepted luggage from people arranging her journey is an extreme version of the point. The person controlling access to the opportunity can acquire influence over details that would otherwise appear absurdly personal: which route the worker takes, which document she presents, which bag she carries.

Economic desperation does not erase personal responsibility, and one should be cautious about turning every migrant who encounters legal trouble into a passive victim. But desperation alters bargaining power. A person with credible alternatives can decline a suspicious offer. A person who believes this is the only route out may accept conditions that would otherwise appear unreasonable. That difference matters to any serious analysis of trafficking.

Regulation operates against this imbalance. Governments can license recruiters, investigate agencies, verify contracts, provide pre-departure education, negotiate labor agreements and fund legal assistance abroad. These measures reduce risk. Yet the strongest protection remains the ability to say no. A labor market that provides productive employment at home gives the worker an exit option before the journey begins.

This is where the celebration of remittances requires business discipline. The inflows are valuable and measurable. They appear each month in central-bank releases and enter discussions of consumption, reserves and the balance of payments. The costs are more dispersed. Recruitment debt appears in household budgets. Separation appears in family life. Abuse becomes a labor or criminal case. Legal emergencies become consular expenditures. Years lost to detention disappear almost entirely from conventional economic accounting.

A corporation that reported revenue without discussing contingent liabilities would not be regarded as especially sophisticated. Yet national discussion of labor export often comes close to doing precisely that. The foreign exchange is visible; the risks are treated as individual tragedies occurring outside the economic model that helped produce the movement in the first place.

Duterte’s own government seemed aware of the contradiction. Its economic diplomacy explicitly pursued the kind of investment and domestic growth that, in its language, would eventually make overseas employment an option rather than a necessity. That aspiration deserves to be separated from the administration’s more restrictive view of intervention in foreign criminal cases. The two positions reveal a tension rather than a simple inconsistency. Duterte wanted a sovereign state whose citizens would not have to leave for economic survival; at the same time, when a citizen abroad became subject to another sovereign’s criminal law, he placed unusual weight on non-interference.

The classical appeal of this position is easy to understand. Citizenship tells you which republic you belong to; territory tells you which law governs you at a given moment. The Philippine state cannot follow every citizen overseas with an invisible boundary around her. But nationality does not become meaningless merely because territorial jurisdiction shifts. If that were so, consular diplomacy itself would be difficult to explain.

Citizenship abroad has always contained this dual condition. The citizen is subject to the laws of the host state while remaining a national of the home state. Those two facts create the problem that diplomacy exists to manage. A consul cannot overturn the foreign court, but the consul can seek access, ensure representation, transmit evidence, request humane treatment or ask that extraordinary circumstances be considered. A president cannot issue an order to a foreign prison, but a president can ask another president to exercise discretion available under that country’s own law.

Seen from this perspective, “When in Rome” is not an answer to the Veloso case so much as the beginning of the question. Of course a visitor to Rome obeys Roman law. But suppose the visitor says someone secretly placed contraband in her possession. Suppose alleged recruiters are subsequently arrested in her own country. Suppose her testimony is required to prosecute them. None of these facts abolishes Roman jurisdiction. They do, however, create reasons for the visitor’s own government to speak.

The dispute between Aquino and Duterte can therefore be described without turning either into a moral caricature. Aquino’s intervention was consequential and very late. Duterte’s theory of territorial sovereignty was coherent and risked becoming too rigid. Aquino demonstrated that diplomatic pressure could operate within respect for Indonesian law. Duterte demonstrated the political appeal of a bright line: the host country’s judgment should normally be accepted, particularly where drugs were concerned.

Marcos encountered the case at yet another stage. By the time his administration dealt with Veloso, there was no execution scheduled for that week. Years of delay had transformed the problem. The relevant questions were now whether Indonesia would transfer the prisoner, what legal effect the transfer would have and whether the Philippine president could ultimately exercise clemency. Jakarta agreed to send Veloso home in December 2024. Marcos then faced a decision unavailable to Aquino in 2015 and unnecessary to Duterte in 2016: whether to pardon a woman physically in Philippine custody but carrying an Indonesian sentence. On September 24, 2026, he did.

The three administrations therefore confronted different versions of Mary Jane Veloso. Aquino confronted an execution measured in hours. Duterte confronted a continuing sentence and a question of how aggressively Manila should challenge another state’s penal policy. Marcos confronted a prisoner transfer and clemency. Any comparison that ignores those differences in circumstance risks becoming merely partisan bookkeeping.

The more useful comparison concerns the conception of the state underneath each moment. Aquino’s final intervention treated diplomatic advocacy as compatible with foreign sovereignty. Duterte stressed that Philippine citizenship did not give a person exemption from another country’s laws. Marcos eventually exercised the sovereign discretion available to the Philippines once Veloso had been returned. These were different instruments applied to different stages, and each tells us something about what government believes citizenship entitles a person to expect.

The "ingrata" episode adds another dimension because it asks what government believes the citizen owes in return. The answer in a democratic state should be limited. Citizens can be grateful. They can also remain angry. They may praise one action and condemn another. The state does not lose legitimacy when a rescued citizen refuses to become a grateful client.

There is, after all, something odd in demanding political gratitude from a family while simultaneously celebrating the state for fulfilling a public function. If Aquino’s intervention was admirable because the Philippine government protected a Filipino, then protection was being treated as part of legitimate government. If it was instead a personal favor for which political gratitude was owed, the democratic basis for the praise becomes much weaker.

The issue extends beyond one administration. Patronage language survives changes of party because it is older than any party. Philippine politics has long blurred the distinction between public service and personal benefaction. A scholarship funded by taxes acquires the politician’s name. Relief goods become evidence of generosity. Access to public institutions is narrated as the accomplishment of a patron. The beneficiary is encouraged to remember who “helped.”

The danger is not merely symbolic. Once public obligations are recast as favors, selective protection becomes easier to justify. A grateful citizen is deserving; an angry citizen appears less so. A politically inconvenient family can be portrayed as unreasonable even when its substantive complaint remains unanswered.

Celia Veloso’s refusal to perform gratitude therefore mattered in ways that were easy to miss amid the anger of 2015. She was not arguing that Aquino’s final intervention had no effect on the execution. She was asserting, however crudely, that one successful act did not erase years of frustration. The ferocity of the response revealed how uncomfortable that distinction can be in a political culture accustomed to treating access to state power as a personal transaction.

The Indonesian migrant women who supported Mary Jane offered, unintentionally, a different model. They had no patronage relationship with Aquino. Many had no political relationship with the Philippines at all. Their solidarity rested on shared economic conditions. They saw a migrant worker whose vulnerability resembled their own. To the extent that the campaign succeeded in making Indonesian authorities look at Veloso differently, it did so by moving her out of the abstract category “drug trafficker” and into the concrete world of recruitment, migration and unequal power.

That is perhaps the most consequential transformation in the entire case. A legal category had to be reopened by economic facts. The suitcase contained heroin; that was never in dispute. The deeper question was how the suitcase came to be in Veloso’s hands and what she knew about it. The business of recruitment, usually treated as background, became central to the meaning of the crime.

This is also why the case should resist easy conclusions. “Respect foreign law” is correct but insufficient. “Protect every Filipino” is morally appealing but too broad to function as a legal doctrine. “End labor export” captures one critique of economic dependence but can overlook the agency and genuine benefits experienced by many migrants. “Celebrate remittances” recognizes their economic importance while ignoring the costs distributed outside the national accounts.

The more useful approach is to hold the contradictions together. The Philippines benefits from labor mobility and should therefore invest in the institutions that make mobility safer. Citizens abroad remain subject to foreign jurisdiction and should therefore be warned clearly that a passport is not immunity. Governments should respect foreign legal systems while retaining the diplomatic confidence to ask for exceptions, clemency or reconsideration when particular facts warrant them. Migrants should possess greater bargaining power before departure so that the need for rescue arises less often.

This is where foreign relations understood as economics must become broader rather than narrower. Duterte was correct that trade, investment and infrastructure belong at the center of statecraft. But labor mobility means that workers belong there too. A foreign policy that can spend presidential attention securing an infrastructure loan should not regard the legal security of its migrant labor force as extraneous to economics.

Good relations are not the same as quiet relations. Mature bilateral relations should be capable of accommodating disagreement about a prisoner without threatening trade. If a request for clemency is treated as an unacceptable disruption to commerce, then the commercial relationship has begun to dictate national policy rather than serve it.

The same is true of sovereignty. Sovereignty does not mean never asking another state for anything. It means that the answer remains the other state’s to give. Aquino could ask; Widodo could refuse. Duterte could decline to ask; Indonesia retained its authority either way. Marcos could negotiate a transfer only because Indonesia agreed to one. Diplomacy occurs precisely in that space between what one government cannot command and what another government may nevertheless be persuaded to do.

Mary Jane Veloso’s case lasted long enough for every stage of that process to become visible. First there was migration and recruitment. Then arrest and conviction. Then appeals. Then an alleged trafficking network. Then an eleventh-hour reprieve. Then an argument over gratitude. Then another president’s doctrine of non-interference. Then years of waiting, a transfer agreement and finally a pardon.

The unusual length of the story is what makes it valuable to business policy. Nearly sixteen years separate the original employment journey from the presidential pardon. During that time the Philippines continued to rely heavily on overseas labor, administrations changed, the language of foreign policy shifted and remittance flows kept arriving. Veloso’s ordeal was exceptional; the economic structure that sent her abroad was not.

This does not mean that the Philippines should aspire to stop its people from leaving. A government that attempted to trap labor at home would merely replace one problem with another. The more ambitious objective is to improve the domestic economy sufficiently that departure ceases to function as compulsion. That requires productive investment, industrial employment, services capable of paying competitive wages, infrastructure, education and the ordinary institutions of a functioning labor market. It is a more difficult program than regulating recruitment agencies because it reaches the source of bargaining power.

A worker who has alternatives does not become invulnerable, but she becomes harder to exploit. She can question a dubious contract. She can decline to borrow against a promise. She can walk away from a recruiter who asks her to carry something she does not understand. Economic development becomes, in this sense, a form of anti-trafficking policy.

The Veloso affair also suggests a more disciplined way of thinking about the economic contribution of migration. Remittances should be valued for what they are: income earned by workers and transferred to households. They should not be mistaken for a development strategy in themselves. They may finance private advancement without necessarily creating the domestic productive capacity that would allow the next generation to stay if it wishes.

For decades, the Philippines has been extraordinarily good at producing workers capable of succeeding in other economies. The harder question is whether it can become equally good at producing enough high-productivity work for them at home. The answer determines whether the overseas worker is principally an expression of Filipino competitiveness or an adjustment mechanism for domestic economic weakness.

Mary Jane Veloso entered this system at its most precarious end. She was not an engineer recruited by a multinational corporation with a legal department, nor an executive transferred within a global company. She was a worker seeking employment through informal or poorly protected networks, the part of migration in which information asymmetry is greatest and bargaining power weakest. The disaster that followed was extreme, but the vulnerability was structurally ordinary.

The pardon cannot repair that structure. Nor can it make the politics surrounding the case disappear. Aquino’s role in the 2015 reprieve remains significant. Duterte’s remarks remain part of the record. Marcos’s pardon is now the act that formally closes the sentence. Supporters of each administration will naturally emphasize different parts of this history.

But the most important lesson lies outside presidential credit. A modern state cannot promise that its citizens will never encounter foreign law, nor should it pretend that nationality overrides territorial jurisdiction. It can, however, build an economy in which fewer citizens must accept opaque arrangements simply because they need work. It can make recruitment more transparent. It can treat migrant protection as economic infrastructure. It can use diplomacy without confusing advocacy with interference. And it can perform those functions without expecting citizens to repay public service with partisan loyalty. That last point may be the simplest and the easiest to lose. The Veloso family did not receive the reprieve because a president owned the power of mercy as private property. Aquino exercised the office of the Philippine presidency. Duterte later exercised the same office according to a different conception of sovereignty. Marcos now exercises it in granting clemency. Presidents leave; the state remains. A democracy depends upon maintaining that distinction. The citizen may petition the state, criticize it, embarrass it and still retain a claim upon its lawful protection. That is not ingratitude. It is the difference between citizenship and patronage. And abroad, citizenship acquires an even more complicated meaning. The Filipino who enters Indonesia is obliged to obey Indonesian law. The Philippines cannot shield that person from the existence of another sovereign. Yet the citizen does not become politically orphaned at the immigration desk. The home state continues to possess interests and obligations, particularly when credible allegations of trafficking or coercion arise.

The old advice remains sound: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. What Mary Jane Veloso’s sixteen-year ordeal demonstrates is that this is a rule for travelers, not a complete theory of foreign policy. The difficult work begins when obedience, guilt, exploitation and citizenship cease to fit neatly together. Veloso left the Philippines looking for work. By the time she was finally free, the journey had passed through a recruiter, an Indonesian airport, a death sentence, a last-minute presidential appeal, an international migrant campaign, an ugly dispute over whether her mother was sufficiently grateful, a second president’s doctrine of non-interference, years of diplomatic negotiation, a prisoner transfer and an absolute pardon. Few employment journeys could accumulate a heavier institutional cost.

For a country that has made labor mobility an important part of its economic life, that cost belongs in the ledger. The money sent home is real. So is the obligation created when the people earning it cross borders into legal systems the Philippines cannot control. The point of economic diplomacy should not be to choose between commerce and citizens. It should be to understand that, in a labor-exporting country, the citizens themselves are part of the commerce—and that protecting them is part of the price of doing business with the world.

One China, Two Perspectives: Rethinking What the Policy Means for the Philippines

2026-09-21T10:19:11.889-07:00

One China, Two Perspectives:

Rethinking What the Policy Means for the Philippines

Source: the Economist

The “One-China Policy” is often invoked in Philippine foreign-policy discussions as though its meaning were self-evident. The conventional formulation is familiar: there is one China, the People’s Republic of China (PRC) is the government representing China, Taiwan is part of China, and countries that recognize Beijing are expected to observe that position in their diplomatic relations.

There is, however, a problem with treating that formulation as the complete explanation. The phrase “One China” has a history that predates the PRC’s present diplomatic formulation. It emerged from a much longer contest over who had the political legitimacy to represent China. For much of the second half of the 20th century, the relevant dispute was not simply between Beijing and Taiwan as two separate political entities. It was a contest between the PRC in Beijing and the Republic of China (ROC), whose government relocated to Taiwan, with both governments claiming to represent China.

That history is important because it changes the question being asked. The issue is not merely whether there is “one China.” It is also which conception of China, which government’s claim to representation, and which historical interpretation provide the basis for saying that there is one China.

For Beijing, the answer is clear. The PRC is the sole legal government of China, Taiwan is part of China, and there cannot be “two Chinas” or an independent Taiwan. Taipei's position has evolved considerably over the decades, particularly as Taiwan developed its own democratic institutions and political identity, but the ROC's original position was itself based on a competing claim to represent China.

The international system eventually resolved the question of China's representation in favor of Beijing. But resolving representation is not necessarily the same thing as resolving every historical, political or legal question that has grown out of the Chinese civil war.

That distinction is particularly relevant when the United Nations is invoked as the definitive foundation of the contemporary One-China narrative.

Is the issue really about the United Nations?

United Nations General Assembly Resolution 2758 of 1971 is central to the history of the issue. The resolution restored the PRC's rights in the United Nations, recognized the representatives of the PRC government as the lawful representatives of China in the organization, and removed the representatives of Chiang Kai-shek. In institutional terms, it was decisive: Beijing obtained China's seat at the United Nations, while Taipei lost the ROC's representation there.

But the resolution raises a question that is often overlooked in public discussion: "is the Taiwan question fundamentally a question about the United Nations?" It is not. The UN is an important part of the history, but it is not the entirety of the history. Resolution 2758 settled who would represent China within the United Nations system. It did not, merely by determining the occupants of China's UN seat, erase the political history that produced the competing governments in the first place.

Nor should a resolution concerning representation automatically be treated as though it were a comprehensive international adjudication of every question concerning Taiwan's sovereignty, political status or future.

This is where the use of the United Nations as a kind of diplomatic alibi can become problematic. It allows a complicated historical contest over legitimacy to be reduced to an institutional outcome: the UN recognizes Beijing, therefore the broader One-China question is considered settled on Beijing's terms.

That conclusion goes beyond what the institutional question itself necessarily establishes. Beijing certainly has a broader interpretation. Chinese authorities regard Resolution 2758 as affirming the One-China principle and supporting the position that Taiwan is part of China. Taiwan and other governments and analysts have disputed that interpretation, particularly the proposition that the resolution itself constitutes a determination of Taiwan's sovereignty.

The existence of this dispute does not make Resolution 2758 irrelevant. Quite the opposite. It demonstrates why the resolution must be understood in its proper context.

The UN resolved the question of "who represents China in the organization". It did not transform a decades-long contest over Chinese legitimacy into a simple matter of historical nonexistence. The distinction may appear technical, but international relations frequently turn on precisely these technical distinctions. Representation, recognition, sovereignty and territorial claims are related concepts, but they are not interchangeable.

The historical problem of “One China”

The contemporary phrase can also obscure the fact that “One China” historically had competing meanings. For the PRC, the principle meant that there is one China, that the PRC is the sole legal government of China, and that Taiwan is part of Chinese territory. For the ROC, particularly during the earlier decades after 1949, the proposition was framed differently. The ROC did not initially regard itself as merely the government of Taiwan. It claimed to be the legitimate government of China.

Thus, the historical dispute was not simply “Beijing versus Taiwanese independence.” For a substantial period, it was a contest between two governments making competing claims to represent the same China.

That distinction matters because it shows why the phrase “One China” cannot simply be detached from the question of political legitimacy. The PRC ultimately prevailed in the international contest for diplomatic recognition. Most states shifted recognition from Taipei to Beijing, and the PRC assumed China's UN seat. Taiwan, meanwhile, continued to be governed separately under the ROC government and gradually developed a political system and identity distinct from the mainland.

The international community consequently arrived at a diplomatic arrangement that is inherently more complicated than the slogan suggests. Most states recognize Beijing as the government of China while maintaining various forms of unofficial relations with Taiwan.

The Philippines is part of this diplomatic system. But being part of that system does not necessarily require Manila to adopt every proposition contained in Beijing's broader political narrative.

What did the Philippines actually agree to?

The Philippine position has a clear historical foundation. When Manila established diplomatic relations with Beijing in 1975, the two countries issued a Joint Communiqué. The Philippines recognized the PRC as the sole legal government of China and stated that it understood and respected the Chinese position that Taiwan is part of Chinese territory.

This is an important commitment and should not be minimized. It forms part of the foundation of Philippine-China diplomatic relations and explains why official Philippine policy does not recognize Taiwan as a separate sovereign state.

But a diplomatic commitment should be read according to what it actually says and the context in which it was made. There is a meaningful difference between recognizing the PRC as the government representing China and accepting that every subsequent interpretation Beijing places upon the One-China principle automatically becomes a Philippine position.

The distinction is not unique to China. In international diplomacy, recognition of another government does not ordinarily mean that the recognizing state adopts every historical claim, territorial interpretation, strategic objective or political doctrine advanced by that government. Diplomatic recognition establishes a relationship between states and governments. It does not eliminate the independent foreign policy of the recognizing state.

This is where the Philippine discussion could benefit from greater precision. The relevant question is not whether Manila has a One-China Policy. It clearly does. The more useful question is "what the Philippine One-China Policy actually requires Manila to recognize, and what it does not require Manila to surrender." That is particularly important because the Philippines has interests of its own.

A policy cannot be separated from national interest

Philippine policy toward China cannot be considered exclusively through the prism of diplomatic recognition. China is one of the Philippines' most important economic and trading partners, while the Philippines is simultaneously a maritime state with its own territorial claims, security interests and obligations.

Taiwan is also not an abstract issue for Manila. Its geographic proximity means that instability in the Taiwan Strait could have direct consequences for Philippine commerce, shipping, supply chains, investment and energy security. The Philippines also has substantial people-to-people and economic ties with Taiwan, including a large Filipino workforce there.

From a business perspective alone, this makes excessive simplification undesirable. Companies do not operate according to diplomatic slogans. They deal with shipping routes, insurance premiums, supply-chain exposure, investment decisions, labor mobility, market access and political risk. A significant disruption in the Taiwan Strait would not remain a theoretical geopolitical problem; it could become an economic problem for the Philippines.

This does not mean that Manila should abandon its One-China Policy. It means that the policy has to coexist with the Philippines' responsibility to protect its own interests.

There is no inherent contradiction in maintaining official diplomatic relations with Beijing while sustaining substantial unofficial economic, commercial, cultural and people-to-people relations with Taiwan. Indeed, this is broadly how many governments manage the practical consequences of the cross-Strait divide. The question is therefore one of diplomatic scope.

Recognition is not the same as deference

There is a tendency in some discussions to treat the One-China Policy as though it were a comprehensive commitment to Beijing's worldview. That is where a diplomatic policy can quietly become something much larger than its original purpose.

Recognizing Beijing does not necessarily mean that Manila must accept Beijing's interpretation of every development involving Taiwan. Nor does it mean that the Philippines must treat every Chinese statement concerning the Taiwan Strait as though it were an authoritative interpretation of Philippine obligations.

There is an important distinction between "acknowledging another state's position" and "adopting that position as one's own".

The Philippine formulation in its 1975 diplomatic agreement is instructive precisely because it used language concerning the Philippine government's understanding and respect for the Chinese position. That language belongs to the diplomatic history of the relationship and should be taken seriously. But it should also be distinguished from the broader and more categorical formulation Beijing uses when describing its own One-China principle.

This distinction becomes particularly important when the issue intersects with Philippine sovereignty. A sovereign state cannot reasonably be expected to regard its own foreign policy as infinitely elastic simply because another state attaches a broader meaning to a diplomatic commitment.

The Philippines can recognize China's government while retaining an independent assessment of what its own national interests require. It can avoid taking a position on Taiwan's ultimate political status while still preparing for the economic and security consequences of developments across the Taiwan Strait. It can maintain its diplomatic relationship with Beijing while continuing practical relations with Taiwan. That is not necessarily a contradiction. It is the normal complexity of statecraft.

The problem with making Beijing the default definition

The deeper issue, then, is the tendency to treat Beijing's interpretation of “One China” as though it were the definition of the term itself.

This is understandable from Beijing's perspective. The PRC is the internationally recognized government of China and holds China's seat at the United Nations. It is therefore unsurprising that Beijing would present its interpretation as the authoritative one.

But other countries do not have to surrender the distinction between "China's position" and "their own policy". This is particularly important for the Philippines because diplomatic language has practical consequences.

If Manila says that it recognizes the PRC as the government of China, that establishes one thing. If Beijing then says that this recognition necessarily requires Manila to accept every element of the PRC's interpretation concerning Taiwan, regional security, military activities or Philippine policy, that is a second proposition. The second proposition requires its own justification.

It should not be smuggled into Philippine policy simply by repeating the phrase “One China.” This is why the debate over terminology is not merely semantic. The language used in diplomatic statements establishes the boundaries within which governments later interpret their obligations.

A broad interpretation may produce a very different foreign policy from a narrower one.

What about Taiwan?

None of this requires the Philippines to recognize Taiwan as an independent sovereign state. That would be a separate policy question. Nor does it require Manila to reject the PRC's position.

The more modest argument is that Taiwan's practical existence cannot be wished away simply because most countries do not recognize it diplomatically as a sovereign state. Taiwan has its own government, legal and economic institutions, political system, armed forces and international economic relationships. Its political status is contested, and its international participation remains constrained by the diplomatic consequences of the PRC's position and by the policies of other states. These facts coexist. The Philippines can acknowledge these practical realities without altering its formal diplomatic recognition of Beijing.

Indeed, this distinction is essential for business and economic policy. Philippine companies dealing with Taiwan do not cease to exist because Manila maintains a One-China Policy. Trade does not become illegitimate. Educational exchanges do not become illegitimate. Investment does not cease to have economic value.

The challenge for government is to maintain these practical relationships without creating unnecessary conflict with its formal diplomatic commitments. That requires careful policy, not slogans.

The danger of confusing international recognition with historical finality

There is also a broader lesson in the way the One-China issue is discussed. International recognition can settle the practical question of which government other states will deal with. It does not necessarily settle every historical argument surrounding legitimacy.

The PRC won the international contest for recognition as the government representing China. That is an established feature of the present international system. But the historical fact that another government once made the same claim does not disappear because the international balance changed.

Nor does the separate political development of Taiwan disappear. This is why describing the history simply as “China and Taiwan” can itself be misleading. It projects today's political geography backward onto a period in which the central dispute was explicitly about which government represented China.

Understanding that history does not require endorsing the ROC's former claim, nor does it require rejecting the PRC's current position. It simply makes the analysis more accurate.

What should matter to Manila?

For the Philippines, the practical issue is ultimately one of policy autonomy. Manila does not need to choose between Beijing's entire political narrative and Taipei's historical narrative. It needs to determine what its own diplomatic commitments mean and how those commitments interact with Philippine national interests. That means maintaining the One-China Policy where it forms part of the country's established diplomatic position, while being precise about its scope.

It means recognizing the PRC as the government with which Manila maintains official diplomatic relations without assuming that recognition transfers to Beijing the authority to define Philippine policy on every issue. It means understanding Resolution 2758 as an important part of the history of China's representation at the United Nations without using it as a substitute for analysis of the broader Taiwan question.

And it means recognizing that Philippine sovereignty and national interest remain distinct from the diplomatic question of which government represents China. This last point is particularly important as economic and security questions increasingly overlap.

The Philippines is not an abstract observer of the Taiwan Strait. It sits near one of the world's most important commercial and strategic waterways. Its economy is integrated into regional supply chains. Its workers, companies and consumers are exposed to developments in both mainland China and Taiwan.

Foreign policy therefore has an economic dimension that cannot be ignored. A policy that is diplomatically neat but analytically imprecise can create problems when geopolitical tensions reach the level of trade, investment, logistics and national security.

A more precise way of looking at One China

The One-China Policy need not be discarded. But neither should it be treated as though its meaning were self-evident. A more precise reading begins by distinguishing several questions that are frequently collapsed into one.

First, "which government does the Philippines recognize as the government of China?" The answer is the PRC.
Second, "what position does Beijing take regarding Taiwan?" Beijing maintains that Taiwan is part of China and that the PRC is the sole legal government representing China.
Third, "what does UN Resolution 2758 establish?" It establishes the PRC's representation of China in the United Nations and removed the ROC representatives from China's UN seat. The broader implications of the resolution for Taiwan remain a matter of competing interpretation.
Fourth, "what did the Philippines itself agree to when it established diplomatic relations with Beijing?" That question should be answered from Philippine diplomatic documents, not simply from Beijing's subsequent characterization of the agreement.
And finally, "what remains within the Philippines' own sovereign policy discretion?" That last question is often the least discussed and perhaps the most important.

A country's foreign policy cannot consist solely of accepting the interpretations of larger powers. Diplomatic relationships necessarily involve accommodation, but accommodation is not identical to surrendering policy autonomy.

Beyond the slogan

The One-China question is therefore more complicated than the standard formulation suggests. Historically, it emerged from a contest in which two governments claimed to represent China. The PRC ultimately secured international recognition as the government representing China and took China's seat at the United Nations. Taiwan, under the ROC government, subsequently developed along a separate political and economic trajectory.

That history matters because it explains why “One China” is not simply a geographical statement. It is also a question of representation, legitimacy and diplomatic recognition. The United Nations is an important part of that story, but it should not become a substitute for the story itself. Resolution 2758 answered the institutional question of who represents China at the UN. It did not eliminate the historical circumstances that produced the dispute or automatically determine the meaning that every country must attach to its own One-China Policy.

For the Philippines, the prudent approach is therefore neither to discard the policy casually nor to treat it as an unlimited commitment to Beijing's interpretation.

The better approach is to recover the distinction between recognition and endorsement, representation and sovereignty, diplomatic commitment and national interest. That distinction allows Manila to maintain its established diplomatic relationship with Beijing while preserving the policy space necessary to protect Philippine economic and security interests.

It also avoids a false choice. The Philippines does not have to decide whether Beijing or Taipei is the country's preferred historical narrator of China. It has to decide what the Philippine government recognizes, what it has agreed to, what it remains free to determine for itself, and how those choices serve Philippine interests.

For a country whose economy is deeply connected to the wider East Asian system, that is not a philosophical distinction. It is a practical one. And perhaps that is where the One-China debate should begin: not with the assumption that Beijing's interpretation is the only possible meaning of the phrase, but with the more basic question of what the Philippines itself means when it says it has a One-China Policy—and whether that meaning is being defined in Manila or elsewhere.

September 21 and the Continuing Past

2026-09-21T09:40:03.853-07:00

September 21 and the Continuing Past

There was something appropriate about the route taken through Manila on September 21.

Activists and multi-sectoral groups gathered at Liwasang Bonifacio before marching toward Mendiola for the 54th commemoration of the declaration of martial law. Their grievances did not stop at 1972. Corruption, human rights violations, the flood-control controversy and the proposed Pax Silica development all appeared in a protest that sought to connect an unhappy past with an equally unsettled present.

The contingent was initially blocked by authorities along Recto near Mendiola before proceeding with its final program. Elsewhere around the capital, police and barricades had already become part of the scenery as thousands were expected to join various September 21 demonstrations. Accountability over corruption, political dynasties and civil liberties figured prominently in the day's mobilizations.

It would be tempting to treat all this as another annual ritual: speeches, placards, the familiar chants of “Never Again,” followed by the inevitable arguments over what martial law accomplished and what it destroyed.

Yet September 21 persists precisely because the argument has never really been confined to martial law. It is also an argument over how power presents itself, how development is sold, how corruption survives political transitions and how easily the language of national salvation can become the language through which entrenched interests protect themselves.

That is why the starting point must still be 1972. Martial law was imposed with promises of order, discipline, reform and national reconstruction. What followed included widespread arrests and detention, torture, enforced disappearances and killings of people considered opponents or critics of the government. Amnesty International documented such patterns during the period; Philippine law itself later formally recognized victims of summary execution, torture, enforced disappearance and other gross human-rights violations committed under the Marcos regime.

These facts need not be embellished. Their weight is sufficient. But the more interesting question today is how such a system explained itself.

Martial law did not advertise repression as its objective. It offered instead a grander proposition: the republic had to be saved and society remade. The old political order was supposedly exhausted. Oligarchs had corrupted democracy. Disorder had become intolerable. Only a more disciplined state could sweep aside the failures of the past and construct something new.

The phrases associated with the period — the “New Society,” the need to “save the republic,” even the notion of a “revolution from the center” — reveal something important about political power. Measures that concentrate authority seldom arrive carrying labels that say concentration of authority. They arrive as solutions to disorder. And the vocabulary was clever because it borrowed the grievances of ordinary people.

The old society really was unequal. Oligarchic power really was a problem. Poverty, landlordism, political patronage and dependence on outside interests were not inventions of martial-law propaganda. The failure lay in claiming that concentrating political authority would solve these problems.

Instead, the attack on the old oligarchy became associated with the rise of cronies and favored interests surrounding the new regime. One arrangement of privilege gave way, in significant respects, to another.

That distinction is worth remembering because it prevents September 21 from becoming merely an argument over whether roads, hospitals or cultural buildings were constructed during the dictatorship. Of course things were built, as Governments build things. But the more serious questions concern lies in how they were financed, who benefited, what institutions were weakened in the process and whether visible construction compensated for costs carried elsewhere by the population. Concrete is an inadequate unit with which to measure political legitimacy.

The same caution applies in the present. The Philippines of 2026 is not the Philippines of 1972. There is no useful analysis in pretending that every controversy involving government is simply martial law reborn. Institutions differ, political competition exists, circumstances change and contemporary abuses require examination on their own terms. But the persistence of certain questions is difficult to ignore. Extrajudicial killings, red-tagging, alleged trumped-up charges, anti-terror laws and the treatment of political dissent have replaced some of the terminology associated with the dictatorship. They are not interchangeable phenomena, and they should not be lazily collapsed into one historical category. Yet they keep alive the older dispute over where legitimate state power ends and political coercion begins.

So does corruption. Every generation seems to discover corruption as though previous generations had somehow neglected the subject. Scandal is exposed, hearings are held, officials denounce wrongdoing, prosecutions begin and reforms are promised. A few years later the country discovers that public money has once again acquired a remarkable talent for finding its way toward private interests.

That recurring spectacle explains why corruption occupied such a prominent place in the September 21 demonstrations. The commemoration became not merely a retrospective condemnation of what happened half a century ago but a convenient occasion for asking why the political structures that permit patronage, concentrated wealth and weak accountability remain so difficult to dislodge.

Pax Silica entered the march from this direction. Opposition to it should not be mistaken for the whole protest, nor should criticism of Pax Silica be reduced to hostility toward technology or foreign investment.

The proposed initiative is tied to semiconductor manufacturing, artificial intelligence infrastructure, critical minerals and other strategic supply chains, with a major hub planned in New Clark City. Supporters see an opportunity to place the Philippines inside higher-value technological industries. Critics, including labor, environmental, church and other civil-society groups, have raised questions about control, land and water use, environmental costs and the extent to which the project aligns Philippine development with the strategic objectives of the United States.

There is a serious economic argument buried beneath the slogans. A semiconductor plant on Philippine soil is not automatically Philippine industrialization. Neither is an artificial-intelligence complex necessarily technological sovereignty. A mine producing strategic minerals may generate exports without developing downstream industry. A data center may attract capital without producing Filipino ownership of the technologies running inside it.

None of this makes such investments undesirable by definition. Foreign capital can create employment. Integration into sophisticated supply chains can expose local firms and workers to new technologies. Industrial parks, transport corridors and energy projects can become foundations for something larger.

But the outcome depends on the terms. That is the part of development policy that ribbon-cuttings tend to obscure. If land, labor, minerals, electricity and public infrastructure are supplied locally while technology, intellectual property, financing and commanding corporate decisions remain elsewhere, then the country may host advanced industry without acquiring much industrial power of its own.

The factory may be modern while the economic relationship remains old. That concern explains why Pax Silica has become useful to a broader critique of Philippine development. Protesters opposing the initiative have explicitly argued that development should occur on Philippine terms rather than those set by foreign powers and large corporations.

Whether that criticism ultimately proves justified will depend on the actual agreements, technology transfers, ownership structures, environmental obligations and industrial policies attached to the project. But the question itself is legitimate.

It is also much older than Pax Silica. Philippine governments have spent decades navigating between domestic oligarchic interests and competing foreign centers of economic and strategic power. Washington retains deep security and commercial links with Manila. Beijing has become a major economic actor and geopolitical rival. Japanese, Korean and European capital occupies important sectors. Global finance exerts its own disciplines through investment, debt and access to markets.

The danger lies in confusing movement between these interests with independence from them. For critics marching on September 21, the issue is not simply American influence, nor should it be. Replacing Washington with Beijing would hardly constitute economic sovereignty. Nor would replacing one set of foreign investors with another while leaving the basic domestic structure untouched.

The problem is less geographical than structural. Wall Street or Shanghai, Washington or Beijing: the relevant economic question is what the Philippines gains beyond the immediate transaction.

Does foreign investment create domestic suppliers? Does it transfer technology? Does it produce engineers and researchers capable of building the next generation of industry? Does it deepen Filipino capital formation? Does it strengthen local control over strategic sectors? Does dependence diminish as development proceeds? Or does the country remain primarily a supplier of labor, land and resources while celebrating each new investment announcement as evidence that industrialization has finally arrived?

Those questions become harder to avoid when set against the conditions experienced by ordinary Filipinos.

The country has changed enormously since 1972. Cities have expanded. Industries have developed. Millions now work in sectors that hardly existed half a century ago. Infrastructure has improved, technology has transformed daily life and the Philippine economy is far larger and more complex.

Yet familiar problems remain stubbornly recognizable: insecure employment, inadequate wages, landlessness, housing shortages, unequal public services, political dynasties and recurring corruption.

This persistence gives every new language of transformation a burden of proof. There was once the New Society. Later governments had their own formulas for national recovery, modernization and reform. "Philippines 2000", "Angat Pinoy 2004", "Daang Matuwid", and more recently came "Build, Build, Build" and now "Bagong Pilipinas". Every administration naturally requires a vocabulary with which to explain itself.

The trouble begins when vocabulary substitutes for examination. Order is not necessarily justice. Discipline is not necessarily consent. Investment is not necessarily industrialization. Infrastructure is not necessarily development. Stability is not necessarily legitimacy.

Nor does questioning these terms require rejecting what they can genuinely accomplish.A useful road remains useful. A functioning railway improves lives. A productive factory creates employment. Foreign partnerships can serve Philippine interests. Public authority is necessary for any functioning society.

The point is precisely to distinguish the thing itself from the political mythology built around it. A road can be necessary and overpriced. A factory can create jobs while transferring little technology. A foreign partnership can be mutually beneficial or profoundly unequal. An administration can construct useful public works and still deserve scrutiny for abuses committed elsewhere.

One does not cancel the other. That is also why arguments defending martial law by listing infrastructure have always been inadequate. They treat repression and development as entries in the same ledger, as though enough bridges might eventually balance an enforced disappearance.

For the families of those arrested, tortured, killed or never seen again, September 21 necessarily means something more intimate than a historical debate over economic statistics. The Philippine state has already recognized that such violations occurred.

For the rest of the country, however, the date poses a different challenge. It asks how a political order promising to destroy oligarchy could produce new concentrations of privilege; how repression could be marketed as discipline; and how policies presented as national development could coexist with enormous private accumulation and continuing poverty.

Those are historical questions, but they are not antiquarian ones. The Marcos dictatorship did not invent inequality, oligarchy or foreign dependence. Its overthrow did not eliminate them. EDSA restored democratic institutions without magically resolving the political economy beneath them. Subsequent administrations operated within many of the same unresolved structures, even as each modified them in important ways.

That is the more sober meaning of a “continuing past.” History does not simply repeat 1972. It does something more complicated. Old problems survive while acquiring new institutions, new personalities and new slogans.

The result is not another New Society but the recurring temptation to believe that political concentration can cure political failure, that foreign alignment can substitute for national strategy, or that impressive construction can settle the argument over who actually benefits from development.

Seen this way, the September 21 march from Liwasang Bonifacio toward Mendiola was less a reenactment of an old struggle than an argument about unfinished business. Pax Silica was part of it, but only part. So were corruption, inequality, state violence, foreign influence and the continuing ability of entrenched interests — domestic or foreign — to adapt themselves to whichever language happens to dominate the moment.

This does not mean that nothing has changed since martial law. Much has. It means instead that democratic memory is most useful when it does more than remember villains and victims. It should also examine the arrangements that made abuse politically possible and economic dependence durable.

“Never Again” remains an important warning. But perhaps the harder lesson of September 21 is that the past rarely announces its return under its old name.

It usually arrives rephrased for the present.

The Price of Order: Remembering September 21 and the Political Economy of Authoritarian Rule

2026-09-20T02:24:08.391-07:00

The Price of Order: Remembering September 21

and the Political Economy of Authoritarian Rule

There are dates in the history of a country that resist conversion into ordinary anniversaries. September 21 belongs to that category in the Philippines, not simply because Proclamation No. 1081 bears that date, but because it has come to represent a political rupture whose consequences extended far beyond the formal declaration of martial law. The arrests, the closing of newspapers and broadcast stations, the detention of political opponents, the enlargement of executive authority, and the subsequent institutionalization of authoritarian rule transformed what had been presented as an emergency measure into a new arrangement of political life. General orders issued immediately afterward directed the arrest and continued detention of persons whom the government considered connected with rebellion, subversion and threats to national security, while other orders placed important categories of offenses within the jurisdiction of military tribunals.

The commemoration of September 21 therefore cannot be separated from the experience of those who were arrested, detained, tortured, killed or disappeared during the years of dictatorship. This is no longer merely a matter of competing recollections between admirers and opponents of the Marcos government. The Philippine State itself, through Republic Act No. 10368, subsequently recognized victims of summary execution, torture, enforced or involuntary disappearance, arbitrary detention and other gross violations of human rights committed during the Marcos regime, and acknowledged a moral and legal obligation to restore their honor and dignity and provide recognition or reparation. The significance of that law lies not merely in the compensation it authorized but in the institutional acknowledgment that the injuries of the period were not simply unfortunate episodes attached to an otherwise conventional administration. They formed part of the historical record of the State and consequently of the obligations inherited by the democratic republic that followed it.

Such remembrance necessarily carries grief and anger, particularly among those whose families experienced detention, disappearance or death. Yet its importance extends beyond the emotional claims of memory. September 21 remains intellectually and politically relevant because the authoritarian experiment of 1972 was justified not merely through the language of emergency but through an ambitious theory of national reconstruction. Martial law was presented as a means of saving the Republic from disorder while simultaneously creating what the government called a New Society. The rhetoric appealed to discipline, social reform, economic development and national regeneration. General Order No. 15, for example, explicitly described one objective of the martial-law proclamation as the achievement of social, economic and political reforms and the transformation of the country into a new society supposedly infused with discipline and social conscience.

The argument had considerable political force because many of the conditions against which it was directed were real. The pre-1972 Republic was hardly an egalitarian democracy. Political parties were frequently personalistic machines, elections were expensive and violent, landed interests retained considerable influence, poverty remained widespread, and access to public authority was substantially conditioned by family, wealth and patronage. Rural insurgency and separatist conflict were real security problems rather than later inventions of official propaganda. The social discontent of the period was likewise genuine. To acknowledge these conditions is not to accept the authoritarian solution that followed; it is instead necessary to understand why the rhetoric of national reconstruction could acquire plausibility among sections of the population dissatisfied with the old order.

The New Society presented itself as a repudiation of precisely these defects. Its official argument held that an exhausted political order dominated by oligarchic interests could no longer reform itself through the conventional mechanisms of liberal democracy. What Ferdinand Marcos would describe as a “revolution from the center” proposed that the State itself would become the principal agent of transformation, disciplining both the political class and society from above while directing the resources necessary for modernization. The old oligarchy was to be restrained, administrative authority centralized, economic development accelerated and the population incorporated into a disciplined national project.

It was an ambitious proposition, but it contained a contradiction that became more apparent as authoritarian rule matured. The concentration of authority that was supposed to free the State from entrenched private interests also made access to the State itself more valuable. Once the executive possessed extraordinary discretion over credit, licenses, contracts, foreign exchange, monopolies, franchises, government guarantees and appointments, the problem of oligarchic influence did not disappear. It changed its institutional location. Competition among established interests was increasingly replaced by a system in which economic advantage depended upon access to an unusually centralized presidency and the networks surrounding it.

The resulting arrangement has frequently been described as crony capitalism, although the phrase itself can conceal as much as it reveals if used merely as an insult. Its more useful meaning concerns the transformation of the boundary between public authority and private advantage. World Bank retrospectives on the Philippine private sector later observed that the distinction between public and private activity had become blurred during the Marcos administration, with selected firms receiving directed credit, foreign-exchange access, tax privileges and other forms of state support. Some investments were productive, while others were inefficient and became liabilities ultimately absorbed by public financial institutions. The broader problem was therefore not state intervention as such, since successful developmental states elsewhere in East Asia also intervened extensively, but the absence of sufficiently impersonal institutions capable of disciplining beneficiaries of state assistance and withdrawing privileges when they failed to serve wider developmental purposes.

This distinction is important because criticism of the Marcos economic order need not proceed from the assumption that government intervention in economic life is inherently undesirable. Such an assumption would itself distort the development experience of much of Asia. Japan, South Korea, Taiwan and Singapore all employed different combinations of state direction, industrial policy, public investment, controlled finance and collaboration between government and business. The decisive distinction was not between an interventionist State and a laissez-faire one, but between intervention governed by developmental discipline and intervention subordinated to privileged political access. A State that directs credit toward an industry while requiring exports, technological upgrading or measurable increases in productivity performs a different economic function from a State that socializes the liabilities of enterprises because their proprietors possess political connections.

The Philippine case under martial law increasingly revealed the latter danger. State power could be used to reorganize industries, grant monopolistic privileges and extend financial support, yet the State itself lacked effective independent mechanisms through which these decisions could be publicly contested. Congress had ceased to function in its old form; media institutions operated under severe restrictions; opposition figures were imprisoned, marginalized or forced abroad; and the political environment discouraged the kind of scrutiny that might otherwise have exposed the costs of favored economic arrangements at an earlier stage. The suppression of political accountability therefore had economic consequences. Authoritarianism was not simply a question of what government could say or whom it could imprison; it affected the distribution of resources and the ability of society to examine how those resources were being used.

This is why the enduring argument over martial law cannot adequately be resolved by inventories of infrastructure. Roads, bridges, irrigation systems, hospitals, schools, cultural buildings, power plants and other public works were built during the period, and any serious historical assessment has to acknowledge their existence and, where appropriate, their continuing usefulness. Yet physical accomplishment by itself is an insufficient measure of development. Every public structure embodies a financing decision, an allocation of scarce resources and an opportunity cost. A project paid for through foreign borrowing continues to impose obligations long after the inauguration ceremonies have ended. A government guarantee extended to an unsuccessful private enterprise may later become public debt. An industrial undertaking protected from competition may produce employment while simultaneously imposing higher costs elsewhere in the economy. A large infrastructure program may increase productive capacity, but it may also become economically burdensome if projects are poorly selected, contracts are inflated or foreign liabilities accumulate faster than the country's capacity to service them.

The relevant question is therefore not whether public works existed, because they plainly did. The question concerns the economic and institutional terms under which they were undertaken and the distribution of their benefits and costs. The developmental State cannot be evaluated through concrete alone. It has to be examined through employment, productivity, industrial capability, technological acquisition, agricultural transformation, real wages, public health, educational access and the long-term capacity of the economy to reproduce growth without repeatedly depending upon unsustainable external financing.

The external debt accumulated during the 1970s and early 1980s consequently belongs within the discussion. Borrowing is not inherently evidence of economic failure; developing economies commonly borrow to finance investments whose returns are expected to exceed the eventual cost of repayment. The difficulty arises when the quality of investment deteriorates, when borrowed funds sustain politically protected enterprises without corresponding increases in productive capacity, or when the structure of debt leaves the economy dangerously exposed to changes in international interest rates, export conditions and investor confidence. World Bank reviews of the Philippine economy have noted that a number of large investments during the period contributed to the external debt burden without producing commensurate increases in output.

The eventual economic crisis cannot be attributed to a single cause. The oil shocks, the changing international credit environment, higher global interest rates, deteriorating terms of trade, weaknesses in domestic industry, policy errors, capital flight and political instability all formed part of the deterioration. The assassination of Benigno Aquino Jr. in 1983 then intensified an already serious crisis of confidence. Any useful economic history must resist the temptation to explain the collapse entirely through either foreign circumstances or domestic corruption. Both external vulnerability and internal institutional weakness mattered, and they interacted with one another. A heavily indebted economy could have endured international shocks more successfully had investment returns been stronger and public confidence greater, while even competent domestic policy would have confronted severe pressures from the global environment of the period.

What remains particularly relevant is that the promise of authoritarian efficiency did not insulate the Philippines from either economic crisis or political decay. The restriction of political competition removed certain obstacles to rapid decision-making, but it also weakened the mechanisms through which bad decisions might be corrected. Administrative speed and administrative quality are not identical. A government may acquire the capacity to decide quickly while simultaneously losing the institutional capacity to determine whether the decision is correct, because officials become reluctant to transmit unwelcome information upward, private interests cultivate access to concentrated authority, and public institutions become increasingly identified with the political survival of the regime.

The language of the “revolution from the center” deserves particular scrutiny in this regard. It attempted to appropriate grievances traditionally associated with movements seeking structural transformation while insisting that such transformation could be accomplished without transferring political initiative to the population itself. The State would attack oligarchy, direct development and reorganize society, but the citizen would participate largely within structures defined by that same State. The contradiction was obvious: the New Society claimed to act in the name of ordinary Filipinos while narrowing the independent political spaces through which ordinary Filipinos might contest the policies being implemented on their behalf.

This contradiction was most visible when the language of social reform encountered the continuing realities of inequality. The regime promised agrarian transformation, national discipline and economic modernization, yet the structure of landed and commercial power proved more resilient than its rhetoric suggested. Existing oligarchs were weakened in some sectors, but politically favored economic groups emerged or expanded in others. The result was not the abolition of elite economic power but its partial recomposition. A more centralized State altered the manner in which wealth and influence interacted with government without necessarily democratizing ownership or substantially redistributing control over the productive resources of the country.

The experience also demonstrates why the political and economic dimensions of democracy cannot easily be separated. Freedom of the press, judicial independence, freedom of association and political opposition are sometimes treated as liberal luxuries distinct from the material problems of employment, wages and development. In practice, they are among the institutional instruments by which economic power is made answerable to society. Independent journalists investigate questionable contracts and monopolies. Legislatures examine public expenditure. Labor organizations contest wage policies and conditions of work. Farmers' groups challenge land arrangements. Universities subject official development theories to criticism. Courts establish limits upon executive action. When these institutions are weakened, those already possessing administrative or economic power encounter fewer obstacles to converting public authority into private advantage.

The human-rights question thus belongs within the political economy of martial law rather than in a separate moral appendix. Arbitrary detention, torture, disappearance and political intimidation affected not only individual liberties but the capacity of society to organize around competing economic interests. A worker who fears association, a peasant organizer exposed to military suspicion, a student movement constrained by surveillance, or a journalist unable to investigate politically connected firms operates within an economic system in which bargaining power has already been altered by coercive political arrangements.

This is also why the commemoration should avoid a simplistic nostalgia for the constitutional order preceding 1972. The failures of that order were among the conditions that permitted authoritarianism to present itself as an attractive alternative. Restoring elections by itself could not eliminate oligarchy, just as removing martial law could not automatically resolve landlessness, low wages, unemployment, inadequate housing or regional inequality. The deeper historical question concerns whether Philippine democracy has developed institutions capable of addressing these structural problems without repeatedly inviting the argument that political liberty must be suspended because democratic government is supposedly too disorderly to undertake serious reform.

More than half a century after the proclamation, many of the issues that gave force to the language of the New Society remain recognizable, even though the country itself has undergone profound political, demographic and economic change. Questions concerning unequal development, precarious employment, insecure housing, agrarian conflict, the concentration of wealth and dependence upon external sources of capital continue to influence political life. It would be inaccurate to suggest that nothing has improved since the 1970s, just as it would be misleading to treat every contemporary social conflict as a repetition of martial law. The more useful conclusion is that the endurance of these problems continues to create political opportunities for those who promise order as a substitute for difficult institutional reform.

The persistence of practices such as red-tagging demonstrates the relevance of this institutional caution. The Supreme Court has recognized that red-tagging, vilification, labeling and guilt by association may constitute threats to life, liberty or security, while civil-society monitors continue to report cases in which activists, journalists, environmental defenders and organizations are publicly associated with communist or terrorist movements. These contemporary practices do not make the present constitutional order identical to the dictatorship, and historical differences should not be erased for rhetorical convenience. They do, however, show how the vocabulary of national security can extend beyond armed groups and affect individuals engaged in lawful political, labor, environmental or community activity.

The lesson of 1972 therefore lies less in searching for exact repetitions than in recognizing recurring institutional temptations. Governments facing disorder will naturally invoke security, and the State possesses a legitimate responsibility to confront rebellion, terrorism and criminal violence. The democratic question concerns how that authority is exercised, whether accusations are supported by evidence, whether defendants receive due process, whether legitimate dissent remains distinguishable from armed activity, and whether the language of security becomes a convenient instrument against criticism that may be uncomfortable but lawful.

The same caution applies to the rhetoric of discipline. Discipline has frequently possessed an almost mystical place in Philippine discussions of development, as though national poverty were principally a consequence of insufficient obedience among the population. Yet development is not merely the accumulation of personal virtues. It depends upon institutional capability, productive investment, land use, industrial organization, technology, infrastructure, education, public health and the distribution of bargaining power. A poorly paid worker cannot be disciplined into a high-wage industrial economy; a tenant cannot practice his way into land ownership; a country cannot moralize itself into technological independence without institutions capable of financing, coordinating and protecting long-term productive investment.

Authoritarian political language nevertheless finds discipline attractive because it relocates responsibility downward. Structural failures can be attributed to the supposed indiscipline of citizens rather than to deficiencies in government policy or economic organization. Poverty becomes a problem of individual conduct; protest becomes evidence of disorder; demands for redistribution become obstacles to stability. This moralization of economic failure can coexist comfortably with policies that protect powerful interests, since the burden of adjustment is placed primarily upon those with the least influence over the design of policy.

The memory of martial law consequently becomes relevant to the continuing debate over what development means. If development is measured chiefly through highly visible projects, the State can present itself as benefactor while leaving largely unexamined the manner in which those projects are financed and administered. If development is understood more broadly as the enlargement of productive and human capacities, however, then the condition of the worker, farmer, small entrepreneur and household becomes central. The issue is no longer simply how many projects were completed but whether the economic structure enabled ordinary citizens to obtain secure employment, adequate wages, housing, education and meaningful opportunities for advancement.

The infrastructure defense of authoritarian government becomes especially problematic when it implicitly asks that political repression be weighed against economic accomplishment, as though a sufficient quantity of public works could compensate for abuses of state power. This is conceptually mistaken. Public infrastructure is one responsibility of government, while the protection of basic rights is another. The construction of a dam or highway cannot retroactively provide due process to a detainee or restore a person who disappeared in custody. Nor does the existence of human-rights violations establish that every economic undertaking of the same government was without value. Historical judgment need not choose between these two simplifications. It can acknowledge useful public investments while still recognizing that such investments did not confer upon the government a license to violate rights or eliminate political accountability.

For the victims and their descendants, the distinction is especially important because developmental nostalgia can transform their suffering into an incidental cost of modernization. Such reasoning effectively requires those who suffered to justify their claims against an accounting of buildings, roads and statistical growth. Republic Act No. 10368 rejected that logic by recognizing that human dignity created obligations independent of whatever material accomplishments the regime might claim.

At the same time, remembrance gains analytical strength when it refuses to treat every person who initially supported martial law as either malicious or foolish. Some Filipinos welcomed the declaration because they feared crime, insurgency and political disorder; others believed that strong government could finally break the control of entrenched families; sections of the business community initially valued administrative predictability; and some technocrats saw centralization as an opportunity to implement reforms previously obstructed by congressional patronage and electoral politics. These expectations form part of the historical record and should be understood rather than caricatured. Their eventual disappointment also reveals how authoritarian systems acquire legitimacy: not simply through force, but by attaching themselves to genuine social frustrations and promising solutions that existing institutions have failed to provide.

It was precisely this combination of legitimate grievance and concentrated authority that made the New Society politically significant. The regime did not invent the poverty of the countryside, the weaknesses of Philippine industry, the corruption of electoral institutions or the dominance of established families. Its historical responsibility lay in claiming that these problems required the concentration of political power while subsequently reproducing important elements of privilege under a more centralized arrangement.

The lesson is broader than the fate of any single administration. Political systems frequently survive by appropriating the language of those who criticize them. Demands for social justice can be converted into programs administered from above; nationalism can be invoked while external dependence continues; anti-oligarchic rhetoric can accompany the emergence of new privileged networks; and appeals to popular welfare can be used to legitimize institutions in which the population possesses limited influence over decisions supposedly undertaken in its interest. The contradiction between rhetoric and structure is therefore one of the most important subjects of any serious commemoration of September 21.

This also explains why remembrance cannot consist solely of remembering repression. The economic promises of the regime must be remembered alongside the repression because the two were components of the same political project. The New Society justified extraordinary authority partly through the assertion that ordinary democratic procedures had become obstacles to transformation. Evaluating that claim requires attention to the economy produced under extraordinary rule, including the development projects that succeeded, the enterprises that failed, the debt that accumulated, the industries that received protection, and the social groups that gained or lost bargaining power.

Such an evaluation also guards against the opposite historical error: the notion that the restoration of formal democracy in 1986 resolved the social conditions that had preceded authoritarianism. Many of the economic structures inherited from both the pre-martial-law republic and the dictatorship remained intact or were reorganized rather than abolished. Oligarchic politics did not disappear with the return of elections. Foreign dependence did not disappear with the restoration of Congress. Rural poverty and unequal landholding did not vanish with the new Constitution. The democratic restoration was indispensable because it reopened political space and restored institutional restraints upon executive authority, but it did not by itself complete the social transformation that generations of Filipinos had demanded.

The continuing task is therefore more difficult than either defending or condemning a single historical period. It requires a conception of democracy that extends beyond periodic elections without diminishing the importance of elections, and a conception of development that extends beyond economic growth without dismissing the necessity of growth. Political liberty and material security have to be treated as mutually reinforcing components of a democratic society rather than competing objectives between which the country must permanently choose.

Under such a conception, the dignity of the person acquires both political and economic content. It involves freedom from arbitrary arrest and coercion, but also access to the material conditions necessary for meaningful citizenship. It includes freedom of expression and association, but also the practical capacity of workers, farmers, communities and professional groups to organize around their interests. It requires due process against the power of the State while also requiring institutions capable of preventing private wealth from exercising disproportionate power over public decisions.

September 21 therefore remains a difficult but necessary date precisely because it forces Philippine society to examine the relationship among order, development and freedom. The dictatorship claimed that extraordinary authority could save the Republic and reconstruct society. Its history demonstrated instead the danger of attempting social transformation while weakening the institutions through which society itself can scrutinize those entrusted with transformation.

The commemoration need not become an annual exercise in partisan accusation, nor should it be reduced to a contest between nostalgic inventories of infrastructure and equally mechanical lists of abuses. The record is sufficiently important to demand more serious treatment. The period should be examined as an experiment in authoritarian development whose achievements, failures, contradictions and human costs remain relevant to any discussion of Philippine state-building. Its victims deserve remembrance not because memory requires the country to remain imprisoned by the past, but because a political community incapable of recognizing the injuries committed through its own institutions becomes more vulnerable to repeating them under new circumstances and new language.

The enduring significance of September 21 consequently lies in the unfinished character of the Republic. The conditions invoked in 1972—inequality, insecurity, political corruption, concentrated economic power and social conflict—were not abolished by martial law, just as they were not abolished by the restoration of democratic government. Their persistence should not be used to romanticize authoritarianism or to dismiss democratic politics as futile. It should instead encourage a more demanding understanding of democracy, one capable of confronting economic concentration and social deprivation while preserving the rights through which citizens participate in that confrontation.

Such a democratic order would have little need to describe repression as discipline, exclusion as stability or privilege as development. Its legitimacy would rest upon institutions sufficiently strong to permit disagreement, sufficiently impartial to restrain both public and private power, and sufficiently developmental to demonstrate that political liberty need not condemn the country to economic stagnation. The remembrance of September 21 would then cease to be merely an argument over whether the past was good or bad and become what historical commemoration ought to be: an examination of the choices that produced that past and of the institutional safeguards necessary to prevent its most destructive features from acquiring new forms.

In that sense, the struggle associated with the memory of martial law is not adequately understood as a struggle against one family, one party or one generation. Its more enduring content concerns the effort to construct a political order in which the State can be strong without becoming arbitrary, development can be directed without becoming patronage, security can be maintained without converting dissent into criminality, and economic growth can be pursued without treating the common citizen merely as the taxpayer, debtor, laborer or passive beneficiary of decisions made elsewhere.

The victims of authoritarian rule occupy an indispensable place in that continuing national argument because their experiences reveal what happens when the authority to define the national interest becomes excessively concentrated. The economic record occupies an equally necessary place because it demonstrates that the legitimacy of government cannot be established through physical accomplishment alone. A Republic worthy of preservation requires both the material capacity to improve the conditions of its people and the political restraint to recognize that those people are citizens rather than instruments of policy.

The commemoration of September 21 thus remains neither an antiquarian exercise nor a demand that succeeding generations inherit every bitterness of those who came before them. Its value lies in historical vigilance: in understanding how legitimate demands for order, reform and development can be absorbed into political arrangements that gradually narrow the space available for public judgment, and how the vocabulary of ordinary people can itself be appropriated to justify concentrations of power from which ordinary people remain distant.

More than five decades after 1972, that is perhaps the most important reason the date continues to matter. The historical problem was never simply that a government promised to save the Republic and build a new society. The deeper problem concerned the terms under which that Republic was to be saved, the distribution of authority within that proposed new society, and whether citizens themselves retained sufficient freedom and institutional power to determine whether the transformation being undertaken in their name was genuinely their own.

Any durable democratic settlement must answer those questions differently. It must make social justice compatible with political freedom, public investment compatible with accountability, national development compatible with human dignity, and effective government compatible with the participation of those whose lives are most affected by its decisions. The continuing relevance of September 21 lies in the fact that these questions remain unfinished business, and that the lessons of authoritarian rule become useful only when remembrance is joined to the construction of institutions capable of addressing them.

The State, the Dead, and the Record: How the Philippines is Still Arguing With Duterte's War on Drugs

2026-09-17T11:26:19.071-07:00

The State, the Dead, and the Record:

How the Philippines is Still Arguing With Duterte's War on Drugs

By Kat Ulrike

Photo from ICC

The difficulty with political violence is that it rarely ends when the violence itself subsides. Governments change, policemen are reassigned, slogans disappear from official speeches and the emergency vocabulary of one administration gives way to the managerial vocabulary of the next. Yet the arguments that justified the violence, the grievances of those who suffered from it and the loyalties formed around those who ordered or defended it tend to survive. What had once been a contest over policy becomes, in time, a contest over memory.

The Philippines has entered precisely such a period over Rodrigo Duterte’s war on drugs. The raids and nightly casualty reports that defined much of his presidency no longer occupy the center of national political life, but the country has not arrived at an agreed understanding of what happened. Thousands of deaths remain embedded in police records, court complaints, family recollections and human-rights investigations. At the same time, a substantial political constituency continues to remember the campaign not principally as an episode of abuse but as a period in which the state recovered an authority that previous governments had seemed unwilling or unable to exercise. The disagreement is therefore not simply over Duterte. It concerns the older Philippine question of how much coercion a weak or frustrated state may employ in the name of restoring order.

The appearance of Duterte before the International Criminal Court has given this argument a new institutional setting without resolving it. The Hague can determine criminal responsibility within the limits of the charges and evidence before it. An independent Truth Commission in the Philippines has begun the broader work of documenting cases that may never reach an international courtroom. Between them remains the political nation itself, still divided over whether the drug war should be remembered primarily as a campaign against criminal disorder or as a period in which the state permitted violence to outrun law. That division was visible even before a single witness at Duterte’s trial had been called.

Two Audiences

There were at least two Philippine audiences watching Rodrigo Duterte when he appeared in person before the International Criminal Court in The Hague, and the distance between them was considerably greater than the miles separating Manila from the Netherlands. Duterte, now 81, sat in a dark suit and white shirt behind his lawyers while the judges discussed witnesses, evidence, scheduling and the practical arrangements for a trial expected to begin on Nov. 30. It was his first physical appearance before the tribunal since he was taken into ICC custody in March 2025. He did not address the court. For much of the hearing, the drama lay less in what Duterte said than in the fact that he was physically there at all.

For his allies, the images revived a familiar political language. Robin Padilla posted photographs of Duterte accompanied by the word Tatay—“Father”—while Christopher “Bong” Go, his aide for more than two decades, used the affectionate “Father Digong.” The vocabulary was revealing. Duterte was not presented merely as a former chief executive awaiting trial but as the paternal figure around whom a political family and constituency had long organized their loyalties. His own public response was more explicitly political: “Everything I did, I did it for my country.” The sentence compressed into eleven words the defense that had surrounded much of his presidency—that whatever harshness attended the anti-drug campaign had to be understood through the purpose his supporters attributed to it: the restoration of order and the protection of the public.

Another audience had gathered in Quezon City. Families of people killed during the anti-drug campaign watched the proceedings with lawyers, church representatives and human-rights advocates. Their attention was directed toward the same face and movements, but they drew from them almost the opposite reassurance. Llore Pasco, whose sons Crisanto and Juan Carlos Lozano were killed in a police operation in 2017, said she had been surprised but pleased to see Duterte appear. Translated into English, her reaction was practical rather than triumphant: “We were surprised, but of course we were happy that he finally appeared, and we saw that he looked well. He even gained weight. So we expect that he really is capable of facing trial.”

Dahlia Cuartero, whose son Jesus Cuartero III was also killed during the drug war, expressed a similar hope in the language of prayer. “Our prayer was answered—that he would remain strong so that all his victims could be given justice,” she said. “We were happy to see that he was strong.” The peculiar moral geometry of the moment was difficult to miss. These relatives were not hoping to see an accused adversary diminished by illness. They wanted him healthy enough to remain before the judges, understand the proceedings and stay alive long enough for the judicial process to run its course.

Neri Colmenares, who represents some alleged victims, converted those impressions into a legal argument. In his view, Duterte’s behavior in court suggested that he understood what was happening and recognized supporters in the gallery. Translated into English, Colmenares said: “It showed that President Duterte can do this, that he is fit for trial because he understands what is happening. He still knows how to wave to his supporters. He knows where in the gallery his supporters are.” He added that forgetfulness alone should not automatically be treated as proof that a defendant cannot stand trial. That is an advocate’s interpretation rather than a clinical finding, but it demonstrates how an ordinary human gesture could immediately acquire evidentiary and political meaning.

The defense has presented a sharply different picture. Duterte’s lawyers say significant memory impairment prevents him from reliably retaining recent information and from giving meaningful instructions about a complicated criminal case. Prosecutors, relying on a three-member medical panel, have argued that he remains capable of exercising his procedural and fair-trial rights. The question belongs properly to medicine and law rather than to photographic interpretation. An accused person’s fitness cannot depend upon whether relatives of the dead want a trial to continue or whether his admirers see an elderly statesman enduring detention with dignity. Yet outside the chamber politics had already done what politics normally does: it had given the same image several meanings.

Even politicians who did not speak as either prosecutors or unconditional defenders found themselves responding to the human image. JV Ejercito said he felt sadness at seeing Duterte after a long absence, describing him as extremely thin and frail. Translated, Ejercito said: “I felt sad when I saw him for the first time in a long time because he was very thin and very frail, with his hair grown long.” But when asked about the families of those killed during the drug campaign, he stopped short of converting personal sympathy into a judgment on the proceedings. “Let justice take its course,” he said.

The multiplicity of these responses matters because there was no single Rodrigo Duterte visible on the screen. There was the accused before an international tribunal, the aging former president who elicited ordinary human sympathy, the paternal political figure remembered by loyalists, and the architect of an anti-drug campaign associated with thousands of deaths. One audience saw endurance. Another saw the possibility of accountability. Neither image, by itself, tells us what the court will decide. Together, however, they tell us why the drug war has remained politically unsettled long after Duterte ceased to exercise presidential power.

What Was the “War”?

The most important division is not over Duterte’s present condition but over the past that placed him in The Hague. Nearly a decade after the anti-drug campaign became the organizing drama of his presidency, Filipinos continue to disagree not only about individual killings but about what the campaign represented. To its critics, it became a period of unlawful violence, institutional impunity and the erosion of due process. To many of its defenders, it remains a necessary response to a narcotics and criminality problem that ordinary institutions had failed to contain.

Ronald dela Rosa, Duterte’s first national police chief, has stated the second position more candidly than most. In October 2024, asked whether he regretted implementing the campaign, he replied: “No regrets. If you are going to give me the chance to do it again, I will do it again. The same approach.” He went further, arguing that a campaign against drug personalities could not succeed through gentleness. “You have to be forceful enough,” he said, for the government’s message to reach criminals unmistakably.

Three months later, dela Rosa offered a more qualified but substantively similar defense. Loss of life was regrettable, he said, including the deaths of police officers during operations, but that did not mean the campaign itself should never have been undertaken. Without it, he claimed, the Philippines might have become a “narco-state,” with powerful drug lords exercising influence over provinces, cities and politicians. His conclusion was emphatic: “We have to do that. We had to do that.”

Such statements are significant because they show that severity was not merely an accidental embarrassment later disowned by the campaign’s principal implementers. Severity formed part of the governing argument. Dela Rosa’s defense begins from the premise that criminality had become emboldened because the state had ceased to command sufficient fear. The solution was therefore not simply better police administration or more efficient prosecution but a restoration of the psychological asymmetry between government and those it regarded as lawbreakers. The criminal was to understand, in unmistakable terms, that the state had recovered its capacity to punish.

Dela Rosa has also insisted that the campaign was not designed selectively to spare one class of offender while targeting another. “We didn’t discriminate as to who we are going to arrest,” he said in 2024, arguing that drug lords, pushers, traffickers and users were all targets of enforcement. He has acknowledged that human-rights violations occurred in some cases and argued that these should be investigated individually rather than used to classify the entire campaign as a crime against humanity. That distinction is central to the defense mounted by many Duterte supporters: abuses may have occurred, they say, but abuses committed within a policy do not necessarily define the legal or moral character of the policy itself.

This interpretation cannot be understood merely as the retrospective self-defense of officials facing international scrutiny. Duterte’s rhetoric possessed a genuine constituency because it answered frustrations that preceded his presidency. Many Filipinos experienced the criminal-justice system as slow, unequal and vulnerable to local influence. Police could appear corrupt or ineffective; prosecutors and courts moved at a pace far removed from the immediacy of neighborhood crime; wealthy or politically connected defendants could seem capable of manipulating procedure. Within such circumstances, a politician promising uncomplicated force could present himself not as the destroyer of government but as the man finally willing to make government work.

The political attraction of Duterte therefore lay partly in the collapse of distinctions that liberal institutions normally try to preserve. He spoke about narcotics, crime, corruption, weak policing and cumbersome legal process as aspects of a single disorder requiring executive will. What his critics heard as contempt for procedure, supporters frequently heard as impatience with institutional paralysis. What critics interpreted as menace could be heard by supporters as reassurance.

Dela Rosa later accused legislators of opportunism for having praised the anti-drug campaign while Duterte was politically dominant and condemning it after circumstances changed. In his recollection, lawmakers had once thanked the administration for restoring peace, tranquility and safer streets, only to reverse themselves later. The accusation is partisan, but it points toward a historical fact that should not be overlooked: the drug war did not initially exist outside respectable Philippine politics. It enjoyed substantial public and institutional support. Any serious reconstruction of the period must explain that support rather than treating it merely as an embarrassing national aberration.

This is what makes the language of “war” important. Calling anti-drug enforcement a war was not merely colorful rhetoric. War has enemies, casualties, sacrifices and emergency measures. Criminal law has suspects, warrants, evidence, defendants and trials. Once policing is imagined as warfare, the restraints associated with ordinary criminal procedure can begin to look like impediments placed upon those defending society.

Duterte’s supporters can reasonably object that the metaphor did not automatically suspend the law. Police still operated under statutes, arrests still occurred, courts continued to function, and officers retained a lawful right to defend themselves when confronted by armed suspects. Forcefulness and illegality are not synonymous. But critics begin from the opposite institutional concern: a suspected dealer remains a citizen, suspicion does not amount to conviction, and precisely because the state possesses overwhelming coercive power, restraints upon lethal force become more rather than less important.

The argument is therefore more substantial than the familiar opposition between “security” and “human rights.” Both sides claim an idea of order. The defenders of Duterte emphasize the capacity of government to protect ordinary people from criminal disorder. His critics emphasize the legal restraints necessary to protect ordinary people from arbitrary state power. One camp fears a state too weak to govern; the other fears a state powerful enough to escape accountability.

The Archive of the Dead

The families watching in Quezon City carry another archive of the drug-war years. It is composed not principally of crime statistics or political speeches but of bodies, wakes, disputed police reports, exhumations, witnesses and the long bureaucratic aftermath of violent death. Where a defender of the drug war may remember a neighborhood dealer disappearing from a street corner, a mother may remember a son who never returned home.

The phrase nanlaban became one of the essential words of the period. Literally, it meant that a suspect “fought back.” In police reports it could describe an officer responding to armed resistance during an operation. Among many families and human-rights advocates, however, it became shorthand for an official explanation they believed was repeatedly used to justify killings after the fact. The significance of the word lay precisely in this collision of narratives. A police report and a family testimony might describe the same death in incompatible ways, and the issue became not merely whether a person had died but whether the state’s own record could be trusted.

It is in this unresolved space that the independent Philippine Truth Commission has begun its work. Formally launched in May 2026 by Church leaders, lawyers, academics and human-rights advocates, the commission describes itself as independent, civilian-led, survivor-centered and trauma-informed. Raul Pangalangan, a former ICC judge, chairs it; its commissioners include forensic pathologist Raquel Fortun, trauma specialist Al Fuertes, theologian Daniel Franklin Pilario and human-rights advocate Carlos Conde. Cardinal Pablo Virgilio David serves as adviser. Its stated mission is to document and preserve evidence of violations associated with the anti-drug campaign while providing spaces in which victims and witnesses can place their experiences on the public record.

The commission says it has documented more than 7,500 incidents. That number must be understood with care. It describes the scope of the commission’s documentation; it is not a judicial determination that 7,500 crimes have been legally established. The distinction is essential because a truth process earns authority not by converting every testimony into a finding but by separating allegation, corroboration and conclusion.

The commission’s first public truth-telling session concerned Luzviminda Siapo and her 18-year-old son Raymart, who had a congenital clubfoot that affected his ability to walk and run. According to the commission’s account, Raymart was taken hours after a neighbor accused him of selling marijuana and was later shot. The hearing sought not merely to establish the circumstances of his death but to restore the biography that death had eclipsed: he was a son and brother, was preparing to work with an uncle and had discussed continuing his education. The session combined family testimony with documentary and forensic material in an attempt to create a record that would survive beyond the emotional force of recollection.

Its second session examined the death of 17-year-old Darwin Hamoy in Payatas during a 2016 police operation. His family disputed the police claim that Darwin and others had fought back during a buy-bust operation. Years later, according to the commission, examination of his exhumed remains documented injuries consistent with gunshot wounds and classified his manner of death as homicide. The inquiry extended beyond the instant of death into the family’s attempts to find the body, complaints against police officials and the psychological, social and economic consequences of the killing.

These are questions a criminal indictment may never need to answer. A court asks whether the prosecution can establish the elements of a crime and connect them to the accused. A broader historical inquiry may ask what happened to a family after the funeral, how children understood the disappearance of a father or brother, how barangay officials compiled lists of suspected drug personalities, what policemen believed their superiors expected of them and how repeated presidential rhetoric changed the range of violence that citizens were willing to tolerate.

Pangalangan’s argument for the truth-telling sessions rests largely upon this difference. Many victims and survivors, he has said, will never have cases before the ICC. Their stories therefore cannot depend upon whether an international prosecutor finds them necessary to proving a particular charge against Duterte. The court and the commission are not substitutes for one another because they are engaged in different kinds of inquiry.

Yet the commission’s historical burden extends beyond giving the dead back their names. If it is to explain the period rather than merely memorialize one side of it, it must also take seriously the experience of citizens who insist that the anti-drug campaign improved their lives. Their testimony cannot determine whether a particular killing was lawful, but neither should it be excluded from the social history of the policy. A resident who says the street became safer after a dealer disappeared is describing a political experience. That claim may be compared with crime data, surveys and local evidence, but it remains part of the reason Duterte’s program acquired democratic support.

The important distinction is between recording a claim and accepting it. A policeman who says a suspect fired first makes a claim that may be tested against ballistics, autopsy findings, witnesses and scene evidence. A family alleging execution makes another claim requiring corroboration. A politician who says crime fell because of the campaign makes an empirical assertion that can be tested against data. A supporter who says the campaign restored dignity or peace to a neighborhood makes a more subjective statement but one that nevertheless belongs in the historical record.

Listening broadly does not require concluding that every account is equally well supported. Indeed, a truth commission becomes useful precisely when it refuses the lazy convention by which journalism sometimes places two contradictory statements beside each other and calls the resulting symmetry balance. Evidence can strengthen one account, weaken another or leave matters genuinely unresolved.

What The Hague Can Decide

The ICC operates under a different discipline. It is not writing the final history of the Duterte presidency. It must determine whether specified charges against a particular accused have been proved according to the Rome Statute while preserving the accused’s procedural rights. Duterte faces crimes-against-humanity allegations connected with killings during periods in which the court says it possessed jurisdiction. He denies the charges. The upcoming trial will be governed by rules of evidence, legal responsibility and proof rather than by the larger political question of whether Filipinos approve or disapprove of the drug war.

The status conference itself illustrated the practical narrowness of the task. Presiding Judge Joanna Korner discussed the prosecution’s witnesses, evidence, disclosures and the sitting schedule. The chamber is also considering arrangements shaped partly by Duterte’s age and health. The problem facing the judges is not whether the entire Philippine drug war was morally acceptable; it is how to conduct a manageable and fair criminal trial concerning the charges before them.

The dispute over Duterte’s mental fitness reinforces the distinction. Families may reasonably interpret his courtroom behavior as indicating awareness. Supporters may reasonably interpret the same scene as the stoicism of an old man determined to acknowledge them. Neither observation settles the medical question. The judges must examine expert reports and decide whether Duterte possesses the capacity required to understand proceedings and meaningfully assist his defense.

This is also why the rights of the accused and the interests of victims should not be treated as competing moral luxuries. A proceeding in which an incapable defendant could not understand or answer the case would satisfy little beyond vengeance. Conversely, a system in which age, political stature or loyal public support shielded an otherwise capable accused from trial would hardly satisfy the principle of accountability. Fair process is not a concession granted to Duterte by his critics; it is part of what gives any eventual judgment legitimacy.

The same caution will be necessary once the trial ends. A conviction would establish criminal responsibility for charges proved to the court’s standard. It would not prove every allegation ever made about every police operation under Duterte. An acquittal would mean that the prosecution failed to establish the particular charges to the required standard; it would not retroactively declare every contested drug-war death lawful.

Courts necessarily exclude more history than they include. Prosecutors select representative incidents, documents and witnesses because no trial can become infinite. Some deaths will fall outside jurisdictional dates. Others may lack evidence. Still others may be unnecessary to a prosecution theory already supported by stronger cases. This is not indifference; it is the architecture of adjudication.

The danger lies in asking the judgment to carry a political meaning it cannot logically bear. Duterte’s supporters may be tempted to interpret an acquittal as vindication of the entire drug war. His opponents may be tempted to interpret a conviction as judicial confirmation of every accusation ever made against the administration. Neither conclusion follows automatically. The law is more precise, and therefore in some respects less emotionally satisfying, than political memory.

Truth Without Monopoly

The Truth Commission faces almost the reverse problem. The court must narrow; the commission must broaden without losing rigor. It is attempting to construct a record capable of containing personal testimony, police documentation, forensic examination, public rhetoric and institutional behavior without collapsing these different forms of evidence into a single moral narrative.

The presence of Fortun is especially important because forensic evidence imposes a discipline upon both state narrative and family memory. A bullet trajectory cannot explain why Duterte won an election or why citizens supported aggressive policing, but it may indicate whether a particular account of a shooting is physically possible. Exhumed remains cannot establish the moral legitimacy of the drug war, but they may recover information neglected or concealed in an original investigation. The physical record is limited, but it is often resistant to rhetoric.

The commission’s trauma-informed procedures address another problem. Participants are not merely sources of data. They may remain vulnerable to intimidation, political abuse and renewed psychological distress. Its media rules therefore restrict unsolicited interviews around truth-telling sessions and emphasize the privacy, security and well-being of participants. This may appear to be a peripheral procedural matter, but it reflects an important difficulty of public truth processes: suffering can be exploited even by those who believe themselves to be documenting it.

The commission must nevertheless avoid becoming an institution whose conclusions are determined by the political identities of those who created it. If it appears to Duterte supporters simply as the organized voice of people who had already decided that the former president was guilty, its findings will persuade mainly those who required no persuasion. Conversely, if calls for “balance” become a demand that documented evidence always be offset by an unsupported denial, then balance becomes another mechanism of obscuring fact.

The harder standard is openness without false equivalence. Dela Rosa’s assertion that the campaign was necessary belongs in the record because it reveals the governing logic of the policy. His claim that the Philippines risked becoming a narco-state can be examined historically. His acknowledgment that some human-rights violations occurred can be placed alongside his insistence that those cases should be investigated individually. Duterte’s statement that everything he did was for the country belongs in the record as an assertion of political intention. None of these statements proves the lawfulness of a particular killing, but excluding them would impoverish an account of why the campaign happened and why it retained adherents.

The same principle applies to Pasco, Cuartero and other relatives. Their testimony explains the human meaning of accountability to those who have waited years for formal proceedings, but testimony is not automatically a judicial finding. Their accounts become historically stronger when connected to independent witnesses, documents and physical evidence.

This is what distinguishes truth seeking from merely collecting narratives. A society may possess many memories, but evidence gives those memories different weights.

The Politics of Remembering

The Philippines has never suffered from a shortage of narratives. Governments manufacture them, oppositions construct counter-narratives and political families transmit selective memories from one electoral generation to the next. A fact invoked solemnly while one coalition holds power can become propaganda after a realignment, only to be rediscovered when political usefulness changes again. History often functions less as a public archive than as an arsenal from which present factions select convenient weapons.

The drug war is unusually vulnerable to this tendency because it remains recent and most of its protagonists are still politically active. Duterte’s children and allies remain in public life. Police officers who implemented the policy can still defend it. Families of the dead continue to campaign. Human-rights organizations remain engaged in litigation and documentation. The institutions being asked to interpret the period are institutions that themselves lived through it.

There has therefore been no clean historical distance between the event and the argument over the event. The same citizens who once voted during the drug-war years are being asked to interpret their own choices. Some former allies have become critics; some critics have entered alliances with former supporters. The facts consequently compete not only with ignorance but with changing political interest.

Dela Rosa has complained precisely about this instability. His recollection of politicians once thanking the administration for safer streets and later condemning the campaign is intended as an accusation of opportunism. It is also an inadvertent reminder that political memory is frequently retrospective. Policies that appear normal while power is consolidated can acquire very different meanings after power disperses.

A useful historical record must therefore preserve what political actors said at the time, not merely how they explain themselves later. Duterte’s speeches, police directives, legislative hearings, contemporaneous surveys, crime statistics, autopsy reports, court records and accounts from poor communities must all be treated as part of the record. The post-Duterte reinterpretation of the drug war is itself historically relevant, but it cannot substitute for contemporaneous evidence.

Here the continuing loyalty of Duterte supporters also matters. Padilla’s and Go’s use of “Father” is not evidence in the ICC case, but it is evidence of the paternal political relationship Duterte cultivated. Dela Rosa’s refusal to repent is not proof that the campaign was lawful, but it is evidence that the governing philosophy of the drug war survives its presidency. Those reactions prevent the historian from writing a convenient story in which the entire country awoke after 2022 and unanimously repudiated what had occurred.

Likewise, the testimonies of families prevent the story from becoming an uncomplicated tale of popular order restored. They demonstrate that the same policy experienced as security by one household could be experienced as terror by another. The question is not which emotion should be deleted from history but what happened in the specific cases from which those emotions arose.

This is why the best description of the conflict may not be between law and order, or even between rights and security. It is between different fears. The Duterte constituency feared the failure of the state: drugs, criminality, corrupt institutions and the apparent immunity of offenders. Many victims’ families came to fear the success of an unrestrained state: armed officers, lists, accusations, raids and official explanations they believed they had no power to challenge.

Neither fear should be romanticized. Fear of crime can become a justification for arbitrary authority; fear of authority can obscure the real violence criminality inflicts upon communities. A serious account must be capable of holding both propositions simultaneously without allowing either to predetermine the facts of individual cases.

The War After the War

The anti-drug campaign no longer occupies the Philippine presidency in the form it did between 2016 and 2022. Subsequent police leadership publicly shifted emphasis toward supply chains and high-value targets rather than street-level users, explicitly describing the recalibrated policy as less bloody and more attentive to human rights. The Marcos administration has itself contrasted its approach with lethal enforcement, emphasizing large drug seizures in operations in which no one was killed.

But the political conflict created by the Duterte years has not disappeared with the policy’s alteration. It has changed arenas. The first war was conducted through police operations, presidential speeches and the language of emergency. The second is being conducted through court filings, testimony, forensic reports, historical documentation and struggles over public memory.

For the ICC, the final question will be bounded: what has been proved against Rodrigo Duterte under the law governing the charges? For the Truth Commission, the question is broader: what happened to people and institutions during the anti-drug campaign, including those whose cases will never enter an international courtroom? For the Philippine public, the unresolved question is broader still: what relationship between authority, legality and social order did the country accept during those years, and how should that acceptance be remembered?

The responses to Duterte’s courtroom appearance reveal why no single institution can provide all three answers. Pasco and Cuartero saw a defendant apparently strong enough for proceedings to continue. Colmenares saw behavior he believed relevant to fitness. Ejercito saw the physical decline of a former president and felt sadness while still insisting that justice should proceed. Padilla and Go saw the political father they continued to recognize. Dela Rosa, in his repeated defenses of the campaign, has made clear that he regards its central methods as necessary and would not repudiate them merely because the political climate has changed.

These statements belong in the same history, but they do not perform the same evidentiary function. A mother’s account of losing a son is testimony about a death and its consequences. A former police chief’s declaration that the campaign was necessary is evidence of governing philosophy. A senator’s sadness is a political and human reaction. A former president’s claim that he acted for his country is an assertion of intention. None can replace forensic evidence, documentary proof or a judicial finding, but each helps explain the political world in which those forms of evidence must now be interpreted.

That distinction may be the most important protection against turning the aftermath of the drug war into another partisan mythology. The task is not to find a sentence capacious enough to make one side disappear. It is to construct a record sturdy enough that neither loyalty nor hatred can easily rewrite it.

The same photograph from The Hague may continue to mean different things. One viewer can see an old leader enduring confinement; another can see an accused finally present before judges. Those are interpretations. What happened during particular operations, who gave particular orders, what police reports omitted or accurately recorded, what the forensic evidence shows and what responsibility the law ultimately assigns are questions susceptible, at least in part, to proof.

The first drug war was justified by its architects as a struggle to restore order. The struggle that follows concerns the order of memory itself: which facts survive, which testimonies are tested, which claims are corroborated and whether the historical record can resist the recurrent Philippine habit of changing with the government presently in power.

The ICC trial may eventually produce a judgment. The Truth Commission may eventually produce an archive and a set of findings. Neither will abolish political disagreement, nor should either be expected to do so. Their more modest but more durable contribution would be to make future disagreement answerable to evidence.

That may be the real war after the war. It is less dramatic than midnight raids, presidential threats or courtroom photographs, but it is likely to last much longer. It will determine not whether Filipinos are permitted to admire or condemn Rodrigo Duterte, but whether the period over which they continue to argue can eventually be remembered as history rather than indefinitely recycled as political ammunition.

Of Empty Chairs and Full Powers

2026-09-16T02:24:50.610-07:00

Of Empty Chairs and Full Powers

Sara Duterte’s Impeachment, the Senator-Judges,
and the Constitutional Burden of Attendance

(Photo from the Manila Times)

The constitutional controversy now confronting the Senate impeachment court has been presented, perhaps inevitably, as a dispute over arithmetic. Article XI of the 1987 Constitution requires the concurrence of two-thirds of all members of the Senate for conviction in an impeachment trial. Since the Senate is constitutionally composed of twenty-four members, the conventional calculation produces sixteen votes. Presiding Officer Francis Escudero adopted that construction when the trial of Vice President Sara Duterte began. Yet the subsequent inability or failure of several senators to participate has exposed a problem which arithmetic alone cannot answer: whether the Constitution intended the numerical composition of the Senate to remain wholly detached from the legal and practical capacity of its members to perform the judicial function assigned to them.

The four retired Supreme Court justices invited as amici curiae did not merely provide competing formulas for determining the denominator. Their respective positions disclosed several different theories of constitutional government. Retired Associate Justice Adolfo Azcuna defended what may be called the institutional-textual view: membership itself determines the denominator, and so long as a senator remains legally a member of the Senate, that senator continues to count in computing the two-thirds requirement. Retired Chief Justices Hilario Davide Jr., Artemio Panganiban and Reynato Puno, though differing among themselves in important respects, questioned whether constitutional interpretation could stop at that formal proposition when certain members are legally restrained, physically unavailable or substantially absent from the very proceedings in which they are expected to exercise judgment.

Azcuna’s proposition is intellectually stronger than its critics sometimes admit. “As long as they are members of the Senate, they constitute the denominator in computing the threshold of two-thirds because all means all,” he said. The argument is founded upon an essentially conservative understanding of constitutional safeguards. A supermajority requirement was not placed in the Constitution for decorative purposes. It exists precisely to make removal difficult and to prevent impeachment from being converted into an instrument by which an ordinary legislative majority disposes of a constitutional officer whom it dislikes. Azcuna therefore warned that “the supermajority rule protects against factional and partisan abuse,” because conviction should rest upon an agreement wider than the combination ordinarily sufficient to legislate, organize the chamber or control its committees. In this reading, twenty-four is not merely the number of chairs physically occupied on a particular afternoon; it is the constitutional size of the institution whose extraordinary power is being exercised.

There is an important principle here. Constitutional safeguards should not become variable quantities whenever their application causes political inconvenience. If two-thirds of the Senate means sixteen when the chamber is complete and politically tranquil, it would be dangerous to permit a temporary configuration of absence, detention, illness or political estrangement automatically to produce a smaller constitutional threshold. Such a doctrine could itself become susceptible to manipulation. A faction interested in conviction might discover that strategic nonattendance by several members conveniently reduces the votes required. Any interpretation which permits the constitutional protection of an accused official to depend upon attendance tactics must therefore be approached with considerable caution.

Yet the opposite construction produces difficulties no less serious. If every sitting senator must count regardless of whether he is legally capable of performing the functions of a senator-judge, absence itself may begin to exercise political force. A member who hears no witness, examines no exhibit and participates in no proceeding may nevertheless increase the number of affirmative votes required from those who actually do. The empty chair would not formally vote for acquittal, but it could have an equivalent numerical consequence. What was designed as a supermajority safeguard could then become something different: a system under which incapacity, evasion or deliberate nonparticipation acquires the constitutional value of a negative vote.

It is this difficulty which gives Davide’s intervention particular significance. His position was that the phrase “all the Members of the Senate” cannot be interpreted as though membership were an abstraction unaffected by legal disability. Senators who have resigned or been expelled plainly cannot count. More controversially, Davide argued that those who are detained, suspended, beyond the jurisdiction, missing or otherwise legally incapable of exercising their senatorial functions may likewise have to be excluded from the denominator. He invoked jurisprudence stating that “the performance of legitimate and even essential duties by public officers has never been an excuse to free a person validly in prison.” From this he drew a broader proposition: public office does not suspend the ordinary operation of law merely because the detained official happens to possess important responsibilities.

That proposition has substantial republican pedigree. Philippine political life has too often encouraged the opposite understanding—that election converts office into a species of personal property, accompanied by privileges which survive even when the officer is unable or unwilling to perform the corresponding duties. The constitutional language of public office, however, points in another direction. Office exists for the performance of public functions. Its authority is fiduciary rather than proprietary. The citizen elected to the Senate receives extensive powers precisely because those powers are to be exercised for constitutional purposes; he does not acquire a private entitlement to deploy the prestige of his position whenever useful while asking the state to disregard circumstances that make the performance of that position impossible.

The issue becomes particularly important because attendance is not foreign to the constitutional understanding of legislative duty. In ordinary legislative proceedings, the Constitution permits a smaller number of members to compel the attendance of absent colleagues in such manner and under such penalties as the chamber may provide. The Senate also possesses disciplinary authority over its members. These provisions do not by themselves resolve an impeachment question, because the Senate sitting as an impeachment court performs a function distinct from ordinary legislation. They nevertheless demonstrate that Philippine constitutionalism has never regarded attendance as a matter of purely private discretion. Membership carries an institutional expectation of presence, and the chamber has been given means by which that expectation may be enforced.

Panganiban brought this question into sharper relief by moving beyond the denominator and asking what judgment itself requires. His argument was not merely that some absent senators should be excluded because their presence is numerically inconvenient. He asked whether it is fair, or even faithful to the adjudicative character of impeachment, for senators who have not attended the proceedings to exercise the same final voting power as colleagues who have heard the evidence and studied the submissions.

“Thus the Senate must hear the prosecution and the defense witnesses as it already does, allow their counsels to argue verbally and in writing, and study their presentations deeply,” Panganiban said. “Only thereafter should it issue its orders and decisions. In this connection, is it truthful and fair to allow senators to cast their votes despite being absent from the proceedings?”

His examples were deliberately vivid. He referred to senators who might be “looking at the pyramids along the Nile,” shopping in Paris or riding gondolas in Venice while their colleagues remained inside the chamber performing the tedious work of adjudication. He extended the problem to those who are hiding, detained, hospitalized, abroad or otherwise unable to examine documentary evidence or observe witnesses. Behind the picturesque imagery lay a conventional judicial principle: the authority to decide derives not simply from possession of office but from engagement with the record upon which the decision is supposed to rest.

“You are tasked with a constitutional duty that cannot always be reduced to abstract arithmetic, neither can such duty be performed in the shadows of absence nor from legal impediments,” Panganiban said. “Indeed, meaningful adjudication requires active participation in the search for truth and fairness.”

This should not be mistaken for the crude proposition that only a senator physically present at every moment of testimony may vote. Puno’s observations are important precisely because they prevent such an argument from becoming doctrinaire. Judges in ordinary courts sometimes decide matters from transcripts, affidavits and records even when they did not personally hear every witness. Modern adjudication could scarcely function otherwise. Davide similarly emphasized that a senator’s failure to interrogate witnesses is not evidence of nonparticipation, observing that judges should often refrain from questioning except where clarification is necessary. A senator who has quietly attended, read the record and considered the arguments may have participated more seriously than one who has filled hours with questions intended principally for political display.

The relevant distinction therefore lies not between physical visibility and invisibility, nor between senators who speak and senators who remain silent. It lies between genuine performance of adjudicative duty and the attempt to retain adjudicative power without undertaking the work necessary to exercise it responsibly. The Senate must eventually determine how much participation satisfies that duty, but it cannot avoid defining the relationship altogether.

The controversy becomes politically more charged because the absent senators are not neutral abstractions. Rodante Marcoleta and Jinggoy Estrada are detained while facing plunder cases. Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa has remained beyond the reach of the impeachment proceedings while facing an International Criminal Court arrest warrant arising from alleged crimes against humanity in the drug war. These circumstances are separate from the accusations against Duterte and do not establish the guilt of any senator concerned. They nevertheless create a practical constitutional question because the chamber must decide whether members constrained by criminal process, international process or voluntary absence continue to exercise the same impeachment powers as colleagues who are present and participating.

Marcoleta has insisted upon his continued status and voting authority as a senator-judge despite detention and has favored the retention of the sixteen-vote requirement. His position can be defended in institutional terms: he was elected, has not been removed from office, and therefore remains constitutionally part of the Senate. Yet the same facts inevitably invite a political interpretation, especially because the mathematical consequence of retaining all twenty-four members in the denominator makes conviction more difficult. Critics therefore see the claim of institutional completeness as politically convenient to Duterte’s defense.

A similar partisan reading surrounds other senators identified, fairly or unfairly, with positions sympathetic to the vice president. Imee Marcos has repeatedly adopted positions which Duterte’s critics interpret as favorable to the defense. Members of the Villar family have likewise been associated with political formations and procedural positions viewed as friendly to Duterte. Loren Legarda has raised institutional and evidentiary objections which some partisans interpret in the same fashion, although it would be unwarranted to conclude from those interventions alone that every question she raises is reducible to support for acquittal. Political alignment, procedural skepticism and legal interpretation may overlap without being identical.

The distinction matters because a constitutional rule cannot be responsibly constructed upon allegations of motive. A senator may sincerely believe that twenty-four must remain the denominator and simultaneously prefer Duterte’s acquittal. Another may sincerely favor excluding legally incapacitated members and simultaneously desire conviction. The coincidence between legal interpretation and political advantage does not by itself prove bad faith. Indeed, most constitutional disputes arise precisely because principled arguments have distributive political consequences.

What the Senate must guard against is not political preference as such—politicians are not expected to cease having political commitments—but the adaptation of constitutional rules to produce a desired partisan result. The proper test of any proposed doctrine is whether its advocates would continue to defend it if the political alignments were reversed. If several absent senators were firmly opposed to Duterte, would those who now insist that every member must count still insist upon twenty-four as the denominator? If an administration used dubious criminal proceedings to detain hostile senators on the eve of an impeachment vote, would proponents of excluding detained members remain equally comfortable with reducing the threshold?

Those counterfactuals demonstrate why the question cannot be settled by determining which interpretation presently favors which faction. Constitutional law worthy of the name must be capable of surviving a change of government.

This returns the discussion to the concept of institutional completeness. There is an understandable desire within the Senate to maintain the proposition that it remains a twenty-four-member constitutional body notwithstanding the legal difficulties of particular members. Institutions depend upon continuity, and the temporary incapacity of individual officeholders should not casually dissolve the structure of the chamber. Yet institutional continuity cannot be reduced to maintaining a complete list of names while disregarding whether those names correspond to functioning members capable of performing the duty at issue.

A Senate which insists upon being counted as complete must confront what completeness requires in practice. If all twenty-four members remain constitutionally relevant because membership continues despite detention, absence or other impediments, then the institution has reason to insist with equal seriousness that members who can lawfully participate actually do so. Otherwise the concept becomes asymmetrical: membership remains absolute when it increases the threshold for conviction but becomes optional when attendance, study, deliberation and submission to lawful process are considered.

This asymmetry becomes especially difficult where members are themselves under accusation or restraint by the state. No democratic legal order should presume guilt from accusation. Detention before conviction must remain subject to judicial scrutiny, and criminal process must never be manipulated merely to alter legislative arithmetic. A government capable of neutralizing opposition senators through convenient prosecutions would pose an obvious danger to impeachment as an independent constitutional mechanism.

But the converse is equally troublesome. Election cannot create an automatic exemption from the consequences of valid legal process. A senator detained pursuant to lawful judicial authority cannot simply say that his constitutional importance requires the ordinary rules applicable to other detainees to be relaxed whenever an important vote arises. Ordinary citizens in detention also possess employment, dependents, contractual responsibilities and public obligations which confinement prevents them from fulfilling. Representative government would be difficult to defend if election alone transformed this general consequence of detention into a privilege from which legislators were uniquely exempt.

The same principle applies, although in a different form, to a senator who avoids legal process. The existence of an accusation or warrant does not establish guilt, and the rights of the accused remain intact. But due process does not logically entail that a legislator may remain outside the effective reach of legal institutions while simultaneously demanding that his office be treated as fully operative for every constitutional calculation. If voluntary absence has no consequence for membership, participation or the denominator, political actors may acquire an incentive to convert evasion itself into a procedural strategy.

The solution therefore cannot simply be the mechanical exclusion of inconvenient members. The categories of absence must be distinguished. Serious illness is different from deliberate flight. Hospitalization differs from political travel. Detention under judicial order differs from unexplained nonattendance. Suspension differs from resignation. A senator who has participated substantially but misses several hearings presents a different case from one who has never attended at all. Constitutional interpretation is weakened, not strengthened, when all these circumstances are collapsed into the single word “absent.”

A workable institutional rule would accordingly have to address both attendance and legal capacity. If the Senate determines that all twenty-four members remain within the constitutional denominator until death, resignation, expulsion or formal vacancy, it should consider corresponding rules governing compulsory attendance, justified absence, access to the record and the minimum participation necessary before a senator may cast a final impeachment vote. Where members can lawfully be compelled to attend, institutional completeness may reasonably demand compulsion. Where they are legally detained, the chamber must determine whether participation can be accommodated without granting privileges incompatible with the ordinary operation of criminal justice. Where attendance is genuinely impossible, the rules should identify whether the member nevertheless remains entitled to vote after reviewing the complete record.

Conversely, if the Senate adopts Davide’s functional interpretation and concludes that certain legally disabled members do not belong in the denominator, the grounds for exclusion must be defined with similar care. A vague doctrine allowing the presiding officer or a temporary majority to decide who is “capable” of voting would be more dangerous than the problem it seeks to solve. Any rule of exclusion must be narrow, objective and prospective enough that the majority could not manipulate it merely to obtain the required number.

The old case of Avelino v. Cuenco remains useful mainly because it reminds us that constitutional language about membership and quorum has always had to contend with the untidy circumstances of actual legislators. The Senate contemplated by constitutional text is stable and complete; the Senate encountered by history is composed of men and women who become ill, travel abroad, resign, are detained, refuse to attend or disappear from effective jurisdiction. Avelino does not mechanically resolve impeachment under the 1987 Constitution, as the amici broadly recognized, but it demonstrates why literalism and institutional reality cannot be wholly separated.

There is consequently an element of both conservatism and egalitarianism in the more demanding understanding of legislative duty. The conservative element insists that constitutional procedures cannot be rewritten in the middle of a political conflict simply because one faction dislikes their consequences. The egalitarian element insists that election does not create a privileged legal caste entitled to enjoy authority without exposure to the obligations and restraints applicable to public officers and citizens generally.

These principles are not contradictory. They become compatible once public office is understood not as property but as an institution whose powers exist for defined purposes. A senator does not lose legal rights merely because he holds office; neither does he acquire an unrestricted constitutional immunity from the ordinary consequences of his conduct. The protection of senatorial independence should preserve the capacity of legislators to deliberate and vote without intimidation. It should not be enlarged into a doctrine under which an officeholder may disregard lawful restraints while continuing to insist that the Republic count his absent seat whenever the arithmetic is politically useful.

This is why the present controversy should ultimately be treated as an institutional problem rather than merely a Duterte problem. The vice president will eventually be convicted or acquitted according to the evidence and whatever threshold the Senate determines the Constitution requires. The amici’s debate does not properly answer that substantive question. Its importance lies elsewhere: it has exposed the absence of a sufficiently developed doctrine connecting senatorial membership with senatorial participation when the chamber exercises its impeachment power.

Those who insist that the Senate must appear complete are therefore entitled to demand the preservation of its full constitutional identity. But that demand carries a reciprocal obligation. If twenty-four senators must be counted because twenty-four senators constitute the institution, then the Senate must explain what it expects those twenty-four senators to do. It cannot indefinitely maintain that every member has full constitutional significance for determining the denominator while treating attendance and participation as matters left almost entirely to political preference.

The issue becomes particularly sensitive when the senators concerned are identified with one side of the impeachment dispute. Marcoleta’s insistence upon participation from detention, dela Rosa’s continued absence, and the positions taken by senators regarded as sympathetic to Duterte will understandably be read by opponents as efforts to preserve a defensive bloc around the vice president. Their supporters will answer that excluding those senators would itself amount to manipulating the institutional composition of the court. Both interpretations are politically intelligible, but neither supplies a sufficient constitutional rule.

What the Senate requires is a doctrine which makes such partisan calculations less important. Members should know before the next impeachment, and regardless of the identity of the accused, whether unjustified nonattendance can be sanctioned; whether a senator legally detained remains entitled to vote; whether a member who has never participated may enter only for judgment; whether examination of transcripts can cure substantial absence; and whether legal incapacity alters the denominator. Clear rules would not remove politics from impeachment, which is impossible, but they would narrow the field within which political convenience may masquerade as constitutional interpretation.

The deeper question raised by the amici is therefore not simply whether sixteen votes are required. It is whether the Constitution’s grant of power to senator-judges presupposes an enforceable conception of duty. The constitutional authority to compel attendance in ordinary Senate business suggests that the answer cannot be that presence is wholly voluntary. The judicial character of impeachment suggests that participation cannot be entirely nominal. The principle of equality before the law suggests that detention, legal restraint and criminal accusation cannot be neutralized merely because the person affected possesses an electorally valuable office.

At the same time, those principles must be administered in a manner which prevents the executive, the prosecution or a Senate majority from manufacturing incapacity in order to change the result. The institutional objective should therefore be neither to preserve sixteen votes at all costs nor to reduce the denominator whenever absence becomes inconvenient. It should be to ensure that no faction gains an artificial advantage from either strategic absence or opportunistic exclusion.

A mature Senate would address this problem by making the obligations of membership as definite as the privileges of membership. Senators who can attend should ordinarily be required to attend proceedings in which they exercise the power of judgment. Those unable to attend should fall within clearly defined categories of justified absence, legal incapacity or substantial participation through the official record. Those subject to lawful detention should not receive extraordinary privileges solely because political arithmetic makes their presence desirable, although procedures consistent with judicial orders may be considered where the law permits them. Those who deliberately remain outside lawful process should not be allowed automatically to convert that circumstance into an indefinitely consequence-free constitutional position.

Such an arrangement would preserve Azcuna’s legitimate concern that impeachment not be made easier through casual manipulation of the denominator while taking seriously Davide’s insistence that legal capacity matters, Panganiban’s demand for meaningful participation and Puno’s warning that adjudication need not depend upon theatrical physical presence at every moment. Properly understood, the four positions are not merely mutually exclusive answers to a numerical puzzle. Together they reveal the elements of a more coherent institutional doctrine.

The Republic would gain little from settling this dispute merely by declaring either that “all means all” or that sixteen is not immutable. Those formulations are beginnings rather than conclusions. The more durable settlement would define the constitutional relationship between membership, capacity, participation and legal accountability, so that future senator-judges cannot select whichever understanding happens to protect their faction at the time.

If the Senate wishes to insist upon its completeness as an institution, it must be willing to require completeness in function as well as in enumeration. The point is not to punish absence as though physical presence were itself a moral virtue, nor to treat accusation as guilt. It is to prevent public office from becoming a peculiar arrangement in which the holder may invoke every privilege attached to membership while declining, evading or becoming legally unable to perform the duty for which that membership is constitutionally important.

That question will remain after Sara Duterte’s trial is over. It concerns not merely the fate of one vice president or one alignment of senators, but the older republican problem of whether legislative power is something an officeholder owns or something he is obligated to exercise under law. A constitutional order which answers that question clearly will be better protected both against partisan prosecution and against partisan evasion, because it will have established in advance that the authority to judge carries with it a corresponding obligation to be present in law, to engage seriously with the record, and to accept the legal consequences which attach to the officeholder as surely as the constitutional privileges of office do.

The Gospel According to Capital: The Moralized Market and the Philippine Illusion

2026-09-15T01:46:56.757-07:00

The Gospel According to Capital: The Moralized Market
and the Philippine Illusion

A political economy of the attempts
for a "Social Market Economy" in the Philippines

By Kat Ulrike

Few economic doctrines have travelled to the Philippines with a more respectable passport than the Social Market Economy. It arrived clothed in the language of constitutional democracy, private initiative, Christian humanism and concern for the poor. It offered the business community a vocabulary in which profit could coexist with stewardship, while offering a post-dictatorship state a way to defend markets without appearing indifferent to social justice. The formula was politically attractive precisely because it seemed to avoid both the discredited dirigisme of the Marcos years and the revolutionary socialism that frightened the property-owning classes. It promised enterprise with conscience, competition with solidarity and growth disciplined by moral purpose.

Economist Bernardo Villegas became one of the doctrine's best-known Philippine advocates, but the argument should not be reduced to one economist or one school. It became part of a wider post-1986 common sense shared, in different proportions, by technocrats, business associations, Catholic intellectuals and governments seeking credibility with creditors and investors. In public, this common sense spoke of subsidiarity and the common good. In practice, it placed much greater confidence in privatization, tariff reduction, deregulation, foreign investment and the moral self-restraint of owners than in organized labor, public enterprise, industrial coordination or redistribution before the market had completed its work.

The result was not a faithful copy of Germany's Social Market Economy. Nor was it pure laissez-faire. The Philippine state remained deeply involved in granting franchises, rescuing banks, building infrastructure, negotiating concessions, supplying incentives and protecting property. What emerged was more selective and more contradictory: a market order whose hard institutions were liberal, whose social obligations were often pastoral, and whose developmental direction was substantially delegated to investors responding to global demand. It appeared to observe the encyclicals while practicing Hayek and Mises, with Friedman supplying much of the managerial confidence that private ownership would outperform bureaucratic direction.

This is the Philippine illusion examined here. The issue is not whether individual businessmen are sincere Catholics, whether private enterprise is legitimate, or whether every state corporation deserves preservation. The issue is institutional. A Social Market Economy is not established by attaching a moral adjective to a liberalized economy. It exists only when competition is defended against private concentration, labor is treated as an economic citizen, social rights are enforceable, and public authority possesses enough autonomy to direct markets toward purposes that markets cannot select for themselves.

A German Doctrine and a Manila Adaptation

The original German conception was born from distrust of two concentrations of power: the total state and the private cartel. Walter Eucken and the ordoliberals did not imagine a competitive order arising spontaneously from the withdrawal of government. Competition had to be constituted and preserved through law. The state was to be strong enough to prevent monopolies, establish stable rules, restrain abuses of economic power and maintain the conditions under which prices could perform their coordinating function. Alfred Müller-Armack's phrase Soziale Marktwirtschaft added the social purpose: a market economy embedded within institutions capable of securing social balance, political legitimacy and human freedom (Feld et al., 2021).

The postwar German settlement accordingly became more than private ownership plus charity. It included competition law, social insurance, collective bargaining, codetermination, works councils and a state capable of coordinating long-term reconstruction. Its several elements arose from different political traditions and were frequently contested, but they shared a conviction that economic freedom would become socially destructive if concentrated capital could write its own rules. The market was not the constitution. It operated inside an economic constitution.

The Manila adaptation took the least troublesome portions of this settlement and left much of the institutional burden behind. Private property, entrepreneurship, price signals, monetary stability and subsidiarity travelled well. Codetermination, organized countervailing power, public development finance, sectoral coordination and the active construction of domestic productive capabilities travelled less comfortably. The result was a Social Market Economy interpreted less as an architecture of power than as an ethic of personal conduct. Owners were asked to be socially responsible; workers were urged to become productive; families were encouraged to save; corporations were praised for philanthropy; and the state was instructed to create the conditions in which responsible private initiative might flourish.

This difference is not semantic. It marks the point at which an institutional doctrine became a moralized market. The German question was how public law could prevent political and economic domination. The Philippine version too often asked how private actors could be persuaded to behave well after the distribution of property, bargaining power and opportunity had already been settled. One approach attempted to structure economic power. The other placed unusual weight upon virtue among those who possessed it.

The distinction also separates an idealist reading from a historical-materialist one. The idealist begins with intentions: the entrepreneur as steward, the manager as servant leader, the firm as social institution. The materialist begins with incentives, ownership and power: who controls credit, land, technology, franchises, supply chains and the state. The first asks whether capitalists possess a conscience. The second asks what happens when conscience is costly and competitors are not obliged to share it. In the Philippines, where wealth and political access have long reinforced each other, the second question is not ideological discourtesy. It is the elementary test of whether a doctrine can survive contact with the society it claims to govern.

Subsidiarity Without Solidarity?

The theological argument is particularly revealing because subsidiarity has often been treated in Philippine economic discourse as though it were a Catholic synonym for privatization. If a family, community, association or business can perform a task, the higher authority should refrain from doing it. From this correct beginning, however, an incorrect conclusion is sometimes drawn: that the normal duty of government is withdrawal and that public provision is presumptively an intrusion upon civil society.

Quadragesimo Anno, the classical source, says something more demanding. Pius XI warned higher bodies not to absorb functions that smaller associations could perform, but he also required social activity to furnish help rather than destroy those associations. He then described the responsibilities belonging to public authority alone as “directing, watching, urging, restraining” whenever necessity demanded (Pius XI, 1931, paras. 79–80). Subsidiarity is derived from subsidium, assistance. It protects lower institutions from unnecessary absorption, but it does not abandon them when they lack the resources to meet a social need.

The wider Catholic tradition is equally inconvenient for theological laissez-faire. Rerum Novarum rejected the proposition that a formally voluntary labor contract necessarily produced a just wage. Laborem Exercens treated just remuneration as a principal test of whether the socioeconomic system itself functioned justly. It developed the concept of the “indirect employer”: the network of state policies, institutions, contracts and international relationships that shapes the bargaining conditions within which a direct employer sets wages. John Paul II's point was structural. Justice could not be reduced to the private morality of the employer because the employer also operated within an institutional order (John Paul II, 1981, paras. 17–19).

The same pope's qualified defense of capitalism in Centesimus Annus is frequently remembered more clearly than its qualification. A market economy was legitimate when it recognized business, private property and human creativity, but not when economic freedom escaped a “strong juridical framework” and ceased to serve the whole of human freedom (John Paul II, 1991, para. 42). Pope Francis sharpened rather than invented this institutional criticism. Fratelli Tutti states that the marketplace cannot resolve every problem and calls for proactive policy favoring productive diversity and job creation (Francis, 2020, paras. 168–169).

Catholic Social Teaching therefore recognizes markets without canonizing their outcomes. It recognizes property while insisting upon its social function; enterprise while defending worker organization; subsidiarity while requiring public support; and charity while distinguishing it from justice. A system in which liberalization is enforceable but solidarity is exhortative cannot claim the full tradition merely because businessmen attend Mass or corporate foundations build classrooms. It may be market liberalism accompanied by Catholic pastoral language.

The Philippine Sequence

The market turn did not begin at EDSA. The World Bank approved the first Philippine structural adjustment loan in 1980; a second followed in 1983. The program promoted tariff reform, import liberalization, export orientation and changes intended to encourage private industrial investment. These measures operated alongside International Monetary Fund stabilization and were overwhelmed by the debt and political crises of the early 1980s, but the institutional direction preceded the fall of the dictatorship (World Bank, 1985).

The Aquino government inherited an economic wreck: insolvent state corporations, behest loans, captured monopolies, weakened banks and a public sector compromised by crony appropriation. Privatization was not therefore a simple act of doctrinal submission. It was also an effort to dispose of failed assets, restore financial credibility and separate the democratic government from the corporate machinery of the dictatorship. Yet Proclamation No. 50 of December 1986 established a presumption that would outlive the emergency. It declared that the private sector should be given “primacy” while government assumed a “supplemental role” in entrepreneurial activity, and created the institutions through which state assets would be disposed (Republic of the Philippines, 1986).

Under Fidel Ramos, this presumption broadened into a modernization program covering telecommunications, aviation, oil, water, infrastructure and power. Many reforms answered real failures. Manila's water system suffered inadequate coverage, high leakage, weak collection and chronic underinvestment. The National Water Crisis Act of 1995 explicitly listed privatization of state-run water facilities among the policy options and authorized the reorganization or privatization of MWSS segments where necessary (Republic of the Philippines, 1995). The case for change was substantial. What matters here is the chosen direction: public incapacity was answered primarily through private participation and concession rather than through the construction of a more capable public utility.

Power reform followed the same trajectory. The Electric Power Industry Reform Act of 2001 was not a crude deregulation statute; it included consumer protection, lifeline rates, independent regulation and public-interest language. Its desired structure was nevertheless unmistakable: private capital, competition where feasible, and the orderly privatization of the National Power Corporation's assets and liabilities (Republic of the Philippines, 2001). By 1998, a Philippine memorandum to the IMF reported that average nominal tariffs had fallen from 28 percent in 1990 to 13 percent in 1997 and committed the government to continued trade and investment liberalization, capital-market development, privatization and power-sector restructuring (Government of the Philippines, 1998).

Across administrations, the vocabulary varied—globalization, competitiveness, democratization of capital, public-private partnership, good governance—but the operational sequence was stable. Ownership was liberalized, barriers were lowered and public assets were transferred or concessioned. Social correction and competitive discipline were expected to follow.

Liberalization Before Competition

This sequence reveals one of the sharpest contradictions in the Philippine claim to ordoliberalism. An ordoliberal does not regard privatization as equivalent to competition. A transfer from public to private ownership changes the proprietor; it does not necessarily change the structure of the market. Where entry costs are high, infrastructure is naturally monopolistic, franchises are exclusive or regulation is capturable, privatization may replace a public monopoly with a private one, or a government oligopoly with a private oligopoly.

The Philippines liberalized major sectors long before it created a comprehensive national competition regime. The Philippine Competition Act became law only in 2015. Its declaration of policy almost reads as an official acknowledgment of the sequencing problem: earlier measures liberalizing key sectors, it states, needed to be “reinforced by measures that safeguard competitive conditions” (Republic of the Philippines, 2015, sec. 2). For decades, then, the country opened, privatized and deregulated without an economy-wide authority fully equipped to police anticompetitive agreements, abuses of dominance and anticompetitive mergers.

Rafaelita Aldaba reached the same conclusion before the statute was enacted. Trade liberalization, deregulation and privatization might be necessary, she found, but they were insufficient to generate effective competition without attention to structural, regulatory and behavioral constraints (Aldaba, 2008). The World Bank later described Philippine markets as more concentrated than those of regional peers, linking restricted competition to weaker job creation and slower poverty reduction (World Bank, 2019).

This is nearly the reverse of the ordoliberal sequence. The German tradition insisted that competition must be legally protected against concentrations of private power. The Philippine tendency was to assume that reducing the state's direct economic role would itself create a competitive market. That expectation ignored the society into which liberalization was introduced. Capital, land, credit, political influence and access to professional expertise were already distributed unequally. Opening the auction did not make the bidders equal.

The Market in an Oligarchic State

Philippine political economy cannot be understood through the elementary opposition between state and market. Paul Hutchcroft's “booty capitalism” describes a weakly autonomous state penetrated by powerful private interests, especially in finance. Alfred McCoy's An Anarchy of Families documents the durability with which family wealth converts into public power and public power reproduces wealth across political regimes (Hutchcroft, 1998; McCoy, 2009). The problem is not merely too much government or too little market. It is the relationship between concentrated capital and a state whose decisions are repeatedly available for private appropriation.

In that setting, “less state” does not automatically mean “more market.” When public authority retreats from production without gaining the capacity to regulate concentrated private capital, political leverage is not abolished; it is privatized. A franchise, concession, tariff decision, land conversion, infrastructure contract or fiscal incentive becomes another arena in which incumbent firms possess advantages over hypothetical entrants. Established conglomerates bring capital, banking relationships, legal teams, administrative experience and political access. The small entrepreneur brings the formal liberty to compete.

This is why an authentic ordoliberal critique can sound unexpectedly left-wing in Manila. Its central concern is not the nationality or nominal ownership of the enterprise but the concentration of power. A private monopoly is no more competitive because it is listed on the stock exchange. A concession is no more socially accountable because the state retains legal title to the pipes or rails. The relevant tests are whether consumers possess real alternatives, regulators possess independence, workers possess voice and the public possesses the power to demand investment and performance.

Philippine conservatives have often feared a strong state because oligarchs may capture it. The fear is historically justified. Yet weakening public authority does not dissolve the oligarchy; it can remove one of the few institutions theoretically capable of disciplining it. What the country required was not a larger state in every activity, but a stronger and more autonomous one: constrained by law, staffed by competent bureaucracies, able to enforce competition and capable of negotiating with capital from a position other than dependence. That is closer to Eucken than simply selling the assets.

Labor Without Economic Citizenship

The distance from the German settlement becomes wider on labor. The Philippine Constitution recognizes labor as a primary social and economic force, guarantees organization and collective bargaining, and commits the state to social justice. Yet Philippine corporate governance contains no general equivalent of German board-level codetermination, nor a comprehensive works-council system through which employees participate inside the governing structure of the enterprise. Labor rights exist, but worker influence generally remains outside the room where investment, automation, restructuring and profit distribution are decided.

The Wage Rationalization Act of 1989 created regional wage boards and a tripartite process for setting minimum wages according to regional conditions. It cannot fairly be called laissez-faire. It recognizes labor representation and authorizes public intervention. But its institutional logic balances subsistence and social policy against regional competitiveness, employment effects and employers' capacity to pay (Republic of the Philippines, 1989). Labor consequently enters policy as both citizen and cost, but the second identity often dominates when investment promotion becomes the overriding objective.

Catholic Social Teaching poses a more severe standard. Laborem Exercens describes a just wage as a “key means” of verifying the justice of the socioeconomic system, not as a desirable residual payable after competitiveness is secured (John Paul II, 1981, para. 19). Its indirect-employer concept also prevents government from disclaiming responsibility by pointing to a private payroll. Trade policy, education, infrastructure, monetary policy, labor regulation and international agreements shape the field in which wage bargains occur. A low-wage outcome is not merely a contract between two private parties; it is partly the product of the economic order that made one side more dispensable than the other.

The Manila model frequently moralized this imbalance. Workers were urged to improve skills, accept flexibility, save, acquire credentials and become globally competitive. Education was presented as emancipation through employability. Yet when the structure of production offered too few advanced domestic jobs, schooling could become a system for sorting citizens into external labor markets rather than enlarging national capability. Market participation pacified political discontent by promising individual mobility: learn the demanded skill, accept the available work, become relevant abroad. The object subtly shifted from national uplift to the management of a surplus population whose ambition had to be made compatible with the existing economy.

Liberalization Without Industrial Transformation

The industrial question exposes the moralized market most clearly. Trade liberalization can discipline inefficient firms. Foreign investment can provide capital, technology and market access. Export manufacturing can become a ladder toward industrialization. Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, China, Singapore and, more recently, Vietnam all used external trade and foreign capital. None simply opened and waited for comparative advantage to issue instructions.

Their institutions differed, but their governments coordinated some combination of credit, procurement, technology acquisition, education, infrastructure, export performance and domestic enterprise formation. Even the United States, long the principal sponsor of liberal economic rules, deploys subsidies, domestic-content provisions, public research, strategic procurement and technology controls when national capability is at stake. The advanced economies advise comparative advantage most confidently in sectors where earlier public policy has already made them competitive.

The Philippine post-1980s settlement adopted not monetarism in the narrow technical sense, but a broader American-led market liberalism associated with the Washington Consensus. Monetary stabilization was joined by tariff reduction, deregulation, privatization, openness to foreign capital and reliance on investor choice to determine specialization. This was where the appropriation of the Social Market Economy became selective. Private initiative, subsidiarity and opposition to excessive state ownership were accepted. The German insistence upon constituted competition, labor participation and public power capable of directing reconstruction was weakened. The encyclicals supplied the language; Hayek and Mises supplied the suspicion of planning; Friedman supplied confidence that private ownership and open markets would expose inefficiency and allocate resources more rationally.

Liberalization without productive direction was itself a direction. It channeled capital toward opportunities offering the highest private return within the existing structure: property, utilities, retail, finance, importation, consumer goods, low-risk franchises, export assembly and internationally traded services. None of these activities is inherently unproductive. The problem is that their profitability did not necessarily construct the capabilities needed to transform the economy.

Philippine development discourse repeatedly oscillated between an agrarian image of the nation and a service-oriented image of modernity. Agriculture was treated as a natural comparative advantage; tourism, overseas employment, finance, real estate and business-process outsourcing were later presented as evidence that the country could leapfrog the difficult stages of industrial deepening. Modern agriculture and sophisticated services can be powerful components of development. They become evasions when used to argue that the archipelago need not build the machinery, transport equipment, electrical systems, materials industries, engineering firms and technological institutions upon which both agriculture and services ultimately depend.

Persistent demands for industrialization were not ignored so much as accommodated within narrow limits. Manufacturing was welcome when tied to consumer markets, assembly lines, subcontracting, semiprocessing and the schedules of multinational production networks. The country could assemble rather than design, package rather than control the process, fabricate a component rather than own the platform, and host a factory without creating the system around it. Production was organized according to “global demand” before the state asked what industrial capacities were necessary for national needs.

A factory is not yet an industrial system. An export platform may contain technically advanced plants while remaining dependent upon imported machinery, foreign patents, external design centers and sourcing decisions made elsewhere. An industrial economy develops a dense domestic ecology of engineers, toolmakers, component suppliers, standards laboratories, development banks, research institutions and firms capable of retaining knowledge when a multinational changes its location.

Aldaba's review after two decades of liberalization found weak manufacturing performance, limited contributions to value added and employment, and an industrial structure that remained “hollow” or “missing” in the middle. Medium-sized enterprises had not seriously challenged entrenched incumbents, linkages between large firms and local SMEs were limited, and major export groups remained concentrated in lower-value segments (Aldaba, 2013). Rene Ofreneo described the larger pattern as deindustrialization without a prior complete industrial transformation: openness proceeded without the institutions required for domestic integration, technological upgrading and broadly rooted employment (Ofreneo, 2015).

The policy substitution was subtle but decisive. Market access became industrial policy. Foreign investment became technology policy. Participation in global value chains became evidence of structural transformation. Education became a means of supplying the skills multinational employers or foreign labor markets presently demanded. The state did not cease making choices; it chose to let external demand define the feasible horizon.

This was often defended as realism. Government need not choose industries, build difficult technical bureaucracies or confront importers, conglomerates and foreign investors. It needed only to secure stability, improve infrastructure and human capital, and allow entrepreneurs to reveal the economy's future. But markets reveal profitable opportunities under existing conditions. They do not automatically disclose the productive capabilities a nation must acquire to electrify its islands, build railways and ships, house its population, mechanize farms, process minerals or maintain strategic equipment twenty years later. That intertemporal and political judgment is what industrial policy exists to make.

Crony Capitalism as Explanation and Alibi

The strongest objection to purposeful industrial policy is also the most historically serious: Marcos attempted state-directed capitalism and produced cronyism. The dictatorship abused government banks, guarantees, monopoly franchises, import licenses, commodity funds and public corporations for favored business groups. Any later proposal for directed credit or protection therefore entered debate shadowed by behest loans and presidential favorites. Post-1986 reformers reasonably asked why a state lacking bureaucratic autonomy should be trusted to choose national champions.

The warning gradually hardened into an alibi. The state should not direct development because oligarchs could capture it; because the state was not strengthened enough to discipline those oligarchs, their continuing influence became further proof that public authority must remain weak. An emergency diagnosis became a circular doctrine.

Cronyism did not arise simply because government intervened. It arose because concentrated property, family-based electoral power, weak bureaucracy and access to the presidency enabled particular interests to capture intervention. Removing one policy instrument did not remove the interests. They migrated. A group denied a protected industrial monopoly could acquire a privatized utility, dominate commercial banking, obtain an infrastructure concession, enter property development or partner with foreign capital. Lower tariffs did not redistribute land. Asset sales did not equalize finance. Deregulation did not prevent wealthy families from financing candidates and cultivating regulators.

The distinction between crony capitalism and oligarchic capitalism is essential. Cronyism describes privileged proximity to a ruler. Oligarchic capitalism describes a distribution of wealth sufficiently concentrated that large families and conglomerates reproduce influence under different rulers, parties and economic doctrines. A democratic administration can replace the cronies without transforming the oligarchy. Indeed, established groups may be best positioned to purchase privatized assets because they already possess capital, credit and political knowledge.

The use of crony capitalism as a universal objection to industrial policy therefore disregards the deeper system that created cronyism while preserving the foothold of the oligarchy. Japan did not answer corruption by abandoning industrial strategy. South Korea did not answer chaebol favoritism by concluding that technological upgrading was illegitimate. Taiwan did not treat every inefficiency in directed credit or state enterprise as proof that capability-building should cease. These states revised instruments, imposed performance requirements and, with varying success, disciplined recipients.

The choice is not between Marcosian discretion and passive openness. Development policy can be rules-based, transparent, conditional and temporary. Firms receiving credit, tariff support, procurement preferences or fiscal incentives can be required to meet targets for exports, localization, productivity, research, training and wages. Support can expire; audits can be published; procurement can be competitive; beneficiaries can be barred from related-party abuse; and the state can withdraw assistance from firms that fail. The historical lesson of cronyism is the need to build institutions capable of disciplining capital, not the impossibility of national direction.

The OFW as a Macroeconomic Institution

Where domestic industrial employment failed to absorb labor, overseas migration expanded from emergency valve into macroeconomic institution. Remittances stabilized household consumption, foreign exchange and external accounts. They financed tuition, housing, medicine and small businesses, and millions of families gained opportunities that the domestic economy could not provide. It would be perverse to dismiss those achievements or blame migrants for the conditions that made migration rational.

The developmental question is different. Ernesto Pernia observed that labor export began in several Asian countries as a stopgap response to unemployment, poverty and foreign-exchange shortage but became a durable Philippine policy plank even as neighboring economies transformed their domestic employment structures (Pernia, 2011). The persistence of migration is not mechanically caused by liberalization, but it reveals the productive deficit that services and remittances were asked to manage.

The family absorbed risks that a developmental economy might otherwise confront collectively. A nurse in London, seafarer on a foreign vessel, engineer in the Gulf or caregiver in Hong Kong constructed a private welfare and foreign-exchange system for relatives at home. Remittances supported consumption and property, stimulated retail and finance, and reduced the immediate political pressure created by insufficient domestic employment. What began as a response to underdevelopment became one of the mechanisms through which underdevelopment remained socially tolerable.

Subsidiarity acquired an unintended meaning. The state did not need to solve the employment problem completely because the Filipino family internationalized itself. Education increasingly prepared citizens for outside relevance, sometimes regardless of whether the resulting occupational structure met national needs. The worker was celebrated as globally competitive, and the nation praised his sacrifice, while the economy continued to export the human capabilities it had paid to develop.

Charity After Distribution

The same institutional weakness appears in the prominence of corporate social responsibility. Philippine business foundations have built classrooms, funded scholarships, supplied disaster relief, financed community organizations and provided health services where the state has failed. These activities accomplish real good. The criticism begins only when philanthropy is asked to substitute for distributive institutions.

Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) is discretionary; a wage law is enforceable. A donation can be redirected; social insurance creates a claim. A feeding program relieves deprivation after income has been distributed; collective bargaining changes the distribution produced by the enterprise itself. Research on CSR warns that corporate benevolence can legitimize managerial power without altering the structures from which it arises (Banerjee, 2008). Philippine scholarship similarly finds that philanthropy often becomes prominent where public institutions have not adequately addressed unemployment, hunger and poverty (Habaradas, 2013).

Catholic doctrine does not allow a charitable act downstream automatically to cancel an injustice upstream. Its recurring concern with wages, associations, property obligations and public authority places justice within production rather than appending benevolence after profit. A company may fund schools while resisting a union; sponsor housing while benefiting from land concentration; distribute relief while demanding contractualization; or proclaim stewardship while lobbying against regulation. The good performed remains good, but it cannot settle the prior question of power.

The moralized market reverses this order. It treats the distribution generated by property and bargaining power as economically objective, then treats redistribution as a matter of conscience. Structural advantage becomes invisible because generosity is visible. The corporation appears as benefactor precisely where citizens lack enforceable rights against it or against the state.

Ritual Catholicism and Social Calvinism

The elite culture produced by this arrangement may be described, deliberately and metaphorically, as ritualistically Catholic but socially Calvinist. This is not a theological account of Calvinism. It is a Weberian description of a social psychology in which success becomes evidence of discipline, foresight and merit while poverty is interpreted through deficient savings, education, productivity, planning or character.

Catholic forms remain everywhere: corporate Masses, Marian devotions, chapels, religious schools, papal quotations, foundations and the language of stewardship. The contradiction is not that Catholics make profits. Catholic teaching has never prohibited legitimate profit. The contradiction arises when market outcomes acquire moral authority simply because those who benefit from them appear industrious and charitable.

The poor household is advised to economize, reskill, endure congestion, accept flexible work, start a small business and educate its children for global competition. Each recommendation may be individually prudent. Together they relocate political economy inside personal behavior. Wages, transport costs, rent, land ownership, public services and bargaining power retreat from view. Social failure is translated into a deficiency of household management.

Philanthropy can then resemble a modern economy of indulgence—not in the literal ecclesiastical sense, but as political metaphor. The wound created upstream by unequal power is treated downstream by a donation. The firm may become exceptionally generous without surrendering control over investment, wages or the workplace. The moral ledger is privatized with the economy.

Hayek Friedman and Mises Without Saying So

The Philippine model's philosophical identity is slippery because its language and mechanisms come from different traditions. Its vocabulary invokes solidarity, stewardship, subsidiarity and the Social Market Economy. Its operating assumptions often resemble twentieth-century market liberalism.

From Hayek comes suspicion that administrative direction will replace dispersed knowledge and impersonal prices with political discretion. From Friedman comes the belief that private ownership and competition generally allocate resources more effectively than bureaucracy, along with the proposition that corporate managers should pursue profit within the rules of the game rather than exercise public functions on their own authority (Friedman, 1970). From Mises comes the stronger warning that intervention generates distortions that invite further intervention.

These thinkers should not be caricatured. Hayek accepted a social minimum and a legal order; Friedman accepted public rules and some income support; Mises's argument concerned the cumulative logic of intervention rather than the abolition of law. Nor does every privatization prove their influence. The family resemblance lies in the presumption that public economic direction is epistemically dangerous, that state ownership is normally inefficient and that voluntary exchange carries a strong claim to legitimacy.

Catholic Social Teaching begins from a different moral threshold. It does not ask only whether exchange is voluntary, but whether the institutions surrounding exchange are just. Property is legitimate but social; work is not a commodity; unions are legitimate counterweights; public authority must protect the weak; and distribution cannot be understood solely as the retrospective outcome of market productivity. Economic freedom is one element of human freedom, not its governing principle.

The Philippine settlement attempted to inhabit both worlds. It sought the discipline of markets, security of property, attractiveness to foreign capital and legitimacy of Catholic solidarity. When the two sides conflicted, however, the hard mechanisms usually belonged to the liberal side. Privatization, debt contracts, concessions, property rights and investment agreements were enforceable. Solidarity was a value, stewardship an exhortation, a living wage an aspiration, corporate responsibility voluntary, and technology transfer something foreign investment was expected eventually to deliver. The result was not a synthesis but an asymmetry between law and sermon.

The Technocratic Calculus of the Lesser Evil

The arrangement endured because it answered the fears of a particular historical moment. After Marcos, state banking evoked behest loans, industrial policy evoked cronies, and public enterprise evoked debt. Communist insurgency remained powerful enough that redistribution appeared to important sections of the elite as an existential threat. Foreign creditors demanded stabilization, while the democratic government urgently needed capital, legitimacy and recovery.

Liberalization could therefore be understood as the lesser evil. If officials could not be trusted to choose industrial champions, let competition choose them. If state corporations became patronage machines, privatize them. If bureaucrats manipulated prices, deregulate prices. If protected firms grew complacent, expose them to imports. If planning had become synonymous with dictatorship, replace discretion with rules. There was genuine rationality in this response.

Its weakness was the conversion of a historically contingent cleanup into a permanent theory of development. A policy suitable for dismantling a crony monopoly is not automatically an industrial strategy. Selling an insolvent corporation does not prove that public enterprise is always undesirable. Removing a tariff protecting an inefficient producer does not prove that performance-conditioned protection can never create a capability. Inviting foreign investment does not ensure domestic technological absorption. Decentralization does not decentralize property.

The avoidance of state failure gradually took precedence over the construction of state capacity. Philippine policy became sophisticated at stating what government should no longer do and uncertain about what productive transformation it should accomplish. This negative industrial policy became self-confirming. Weak manufacturing justified a turn toward services. Overseas labor proved the international competitiveness of Filipino skills. Imported consumer and capital goods demonstrated the benefits of openness. Assembly exports demonstrated participation in global value chains. Each response could be individually rational while the combined economy remained technologically shallow and externally directed.

Education and market participation performed a political function within this settlement. They promised that the individual could escape structural scarcity by becoming employable, entrepreneurial or internationally relevant. The promise did not need to transform the nation so long as it provided enough routes of private advancement to reduce the appeal of subversion. Social mobility became a form of pacification: not a collective alteration of the economic structure, but an invitation to succeed within it, even when the training offered bore only a weak relationship to national productive needs.

This helps explain why the Philippine Social Market Economy could be neither genuinely ordoliberal nor wholly neoliberal. The state remained active in producing market society—guaranteeing contracts, building roads, offering fiscal incentives, training workers and negotiating access—while reluctant to direct the purposes toward which private accumulation should move. It was strong in the defense of claims and weak in the reorganization of power.

A Social Market Worth the Name

A Philippine Social Market Economy worthy of the name would be more institutional and less sentimental. It would begin with competition policy rather than assuming market opening creates competition. Regulators would possess the salaries, information, technical competence and political protection required to discipline utilities, banks, platforms and conglomerates. Merger review would be integrated with an understanding of family ownership, cross-directorships and control over credit. Public concessions would contain measurable investment and service obligations, with credible penalties and reversion when contractors failed.

It would treat labor as an economic citizen. The Philippines need not reproduce German codetermination mechanically, but it can accept the underlying principle that workers are not merely inputs whose future is decided solely by owners. Sectoral bargaining, stronger protection for organization, employee representation, works councils, profit-sharing and worker ownership- even that of self-management can move labor from the exterior of the enterprise toward its constitutional center. A living wage would be connected to productivity policy, housing, transport and social insurance rather than debated as an isolated cost imposed upon employers.

It would treat healthcare, education, transport, housing, social insurance and basic infrastructure as institutions of freedom. Universal provision is not necessarily a violation of subsidiarity. It can be the subsidium that allows families, cooperatives, local governments and small firms to act. A commuter cannot exercise entrepreneurial freedom while losing hours to congestion; a small manufacturer cannot compete without reliable power; a family cannot accumulate capital when illness destroys its savings.

It would restore industrial policy without restoring crony privilege. The starting point should be a national inventory of productive requirements: electrification, inter-island transport, rail, shipbuilding and repair, mass housing, agricultural machinery, food processing, pharmaceuticals, telecommunications equipment, mineral processing and climate resilience. Not every item should be produced domestically, but the decision should follow an assessment of capability, scale, security and learning rather than passive acceptance of current comparative advantage.

Support for chosen sectors would be conditional. Development banks and public procurement could lower the cost of learning; tariffs and incentives could be time-limited; joint ventures could be required to develop suppliers, train engineers and place research locally. Public enterprises could operate where natural monopoly, strategic need or capital intensity makes private provision inadequate, while facing professional management, transparent accounts and legislative oversight. Cooperatives and employee-owned firms could receive institutional support rather than praise alone.

Foreign investment would remain welcome, but as an instrument inside a domestic accumulation strategy. An assembly plant would be evaluated not only by exports and jobs but by supplier development, technical training, local research, domestic value added and the capacity retained when the investor leaves. The aim would not be autarky. It would be the ability to choose interdependence rather than experience it only as dependence.

Most importantly, the country would take seriously the doctrine it quotes. Subsidiarity would empower lower institutions rather than excuse higher ones. Solidarity would receive budgets, laws and bargaining machinery. The social function of property would become an operational principle. The common good would occasionally override private return not because profit is sinful, but because markets are political institutions whose legitimacy depends upon outcomes citizens can live with.

The Moralized Market

The deepest problem is not personal hypocrisy. Many businesspeople sincerely believe in stewardship. Many technocrats sincerely believe that openness expands opportunity. Many Catholic economists genuinely seek a reconciliation between enterprise and social justice. Sincerity does not resolve the contradiction because an economy cannot depend upon the moral excellence of those occupying its commanding heights.

Managers answer to owners, creditors, customers and competitors. A firm that voluntarily assumes costs its rivals do not bear will face pressure from firms that do not share its conscience. Charity can moderate consequences but cannot rewrite incentives. Civilization developed labor law, taxation, competition policy, social insurance and public regulation precisely because virtue is unreliable as an economic constitution.

The original Social Market Economy understood that markets possess productive virtues only inside a prior legal and political order. Catholic Social Teaching goes further: economic life must serve the human person, and the justice of work, property and distribution cannot be postponed until after profit is calculated. The Philippine illusion reversed the relationship. It sought to construct the market first and moralize its consequences afterward.

Thus the peculiar architecture: liberalized sectors accompanied by seminars on values; privatized infrastructure accompanied by corporate foundations; labor flexibility accompanied by lectures on human dignity; overseas employment accompanied by praise for family sacrifice; oligopolistic concentration accompanied by appeals to entrepreneurship; and low-value assembly accompanied by declarations that the Philippines had industrialized because factories stood inside export zones. The rhetoric says Müller-Armack, solidarity and Catholic Social Teaching. The operating instinct too often says Hayek, Friedman and Mises. Beneath both lies the older Philippine reality: concentrated property working through a state too weak to discipline capital consistently yet strong enough to protect its claims.

If the Philippines truly intends to build a Social Market Economy, it does not need more moral instruction addressed to the market. It needs institutions through which moral claims and material basis become economic law. Until then, the social in the Philippine social market will remain chiefly an adjective attached to a market economy, and the Gospel According to Capital will continue to promise that what structure has denied, conscience may someday provide.

***

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THE PHILIPPINES IN THE SILICON ORDER (AND THE LIMITS OF THE ENCLAVE)

2026-09-14T20:22:32.960-07:00

THE PHILIPPINES IN THE SILICON ORDER
(AND THE LIMITS OF THE ENCLAVE)

Or: why the Philippines Needs a National Industrial Program

Beyond the whims from Washington and Beijing

The controversy surrounding Pax Silica has become more revealing than the proposed development at New Clark City itself. What initially appeared to be another dispute over foreign investment has gradually exposed a much older argument over the nature of Philippine development. The disagreement is not adequately described as a contest between those who favor factories and those who oppose them, nor between supporters and critics of the United States. Four broadly distinguishable positions have emerged. There are those prepared to support Pax Silica substantially as it stands because incorporation into an American-led technological and economic-security system is considered economically advantageous and strategically desirable. There are those who support it more conditionally, believing that technology transfer, Filipino supplier development, research partnerships, and higher-value employment can eventually transform the foreign-led undertaking into something approximating a Philippine industrial project. There are critics who arrive at opposition from a very different direction, arguing that the Philippines is fundamentally an agricultural and commercial society which need not reproduce the industrial structure of Northeast Asia so long as agriculture, services, professional employment, and international trade provide the income with which industrial goods can be purchased elsewhere. Finally, there is a nationalist-developmentalist position which rejects both enclave industrialization and agrarian resignation and argues instead for a Philippine industrial program whose priorities are determined domestically before either Washington, Beijing, or an international corporation arrives with an investment proposal.

These positions involve more than different assessments of Pax Silica. They imply different answers to the question of what development itself is supposed to accomplish. One conception measures progress substantially through the arrival of capital and the integration of Philippine territory into advanced international production. Another assumes that such integration can eventually generate domestic technological capability if the right conditions and incentives are imposed. A third measures development more heavily through the prosperity and mobility of individuals: productive farmers, successful entrepreneurs, licensed professionals, and internationally employable graduates who can obtain from the world market whatever the domestic economy does not manufacture. The nationalist-developmentalist conception takes a different unit of analysis. It asks whether the productive system of the country itself is becoming more capable of reproducing the machinery, technology, firms, research organizations, skills, and capital upon which modern economic life depends.

This distinction matters because the promises attached to Pax Silica are considerable. The Bases Conversion and Development Authority has projected that the approximately 1,620-hectare development at New Clark City could eventually attract between US$40 billion and US$70 billion in investment and generate more than 130,000 high-quality direct jobs. BCDA President Joshua Bingcang has presented the project as a means of reversing the familiar Philippine “brain drain,” arguing that engineers, researchers, computer scientists, and other technically trained Filipinos should be able to build careers in the country rather than leave for better opportunities abroad (Presidential Communications Office [PCO], 2026a). The government's description of Pax Silica is equally ambitious: semiconductors, artificial intelligence, critical minerals, advanced manufacturing, and logistics would be assembled into a large technological and production ecosystem linked to the Luzon Economic Corridor and to international markets.

There is nothing trivial about these objectives. The inability of the Philippine economy to employ enough of its educated population in highly productive domestic industry has imposed enormous social and economic costs. Labor migration may increase household income, and foreign employment has provided indispensable foreign exchange, but an economy that repeatedly educates engineers, nurses, seafarers, programmers, and other professionals principally for productive systems located elsewhere cannot reasonably regard the export of human capital as the ultimate measure of success. The case for creating technologically demanding employment inside the country is therefore substantial. The problem arises when the location of that employment is equated automatically with the location of industrial power.

The question that should concern Philippine business is consequently not whether Pax Silica might create real jobs, exports, and technical experience. It almost certainly could if major investments materialize. The more difficult question is whether a project conceived within an externally organized technological architecture can generate a productive system increasingly commanded from within the Philippines, or whether it will enlarge a familiar structure in which sophisticated production occurs on Philippine soil while the firms, patents, research, equipment, capital allocation, and strategic markets remain controlled elsewhere.

The Attraction of Pax Silica “As It Is”

The most straightforward case for Pax Silica rests upon the belief that the Philippines should position itself decisively within the American-led restructuring of global technology supply chains. The argument is partly commercial and partly geopolitical. The United States remains a major market, a treaty ally, a source of investment and technology, and an increasingly important counterweight to Chinese economic influence. Supply-chain diversification away from excessive concentration in China creates opportunities for countries possessing skilled labor, favorable geopolitical relationships, strategic location, and existing electronics capacity. The Philippines possesses all four.

From this standpoint, the American origin of Pax Silica does not constitute a defect requiring apology. It is part of the opportunity. The December 2025 Pax Silica Declaration explicitly speaks of building “secure, prosperous and innovative global technology supply chains” and identifies semiconductors, advanced manufacturing, artificial intelligence, information infrastructure, transportation logistics, minerals refining, processing, and energy as elements of a new economic-security order. The declaration further emphasizes investment security and the mobilization of the “complementary industrial and technological strengths” of participating economies (Australian Department of Industry, Science and Resources, 2025).

There is a recognizable historical disposition behind the enthusiasm with which some Philippine commentators receive such proposals. The country's political and business culture retains a Cold War-era tendency to associate American capital, institutions, and strategic sponsorship with entry into the technologically advanced world. Under this interpretation, a project linked to Washington is not simply an investment proposal; it is evidence that the Philippines has been included in the preferred industrial geography of an allied economic system. The geopolitical association itself acquires developmental meaning.

Such reasoning should not be dismissed merely as sentimentality, because alliances and political trust do affect investment. A semiconductor company placing billions of dollars in fixed assets will consider political risk, export controls, security relationships, and access to major markets. A Philippines regarded as a reliable participant in an American-centered supply network may obtain investments that would otherwise locate elsewhere. The weakness begins when strategic affinity substitutes for examination of the actual productive relationship being created.

The difficulty is particularly evident because contemporary American policy bears progressively less resemblance to the market orthodoxy that shaped much Philippine economic thinking after the 1980s. Washington no longer assumes that the geographical location of strategic production can safely be determined solely by comparative cost and international markets. In January 2026, the White House concluded under Section 232 that imports of semiconductors and semiconductor-manufacturing equipment threatened to impair American national security. It imposed a 25 percent tariff upon certain advanced chips and explicitly contemplated broader tariffs and preferential treatment for investments contributing to United States semiconductor production and domestic manufacturing capacity. The policy's stated purpose included reducing dependence upon imports and encouraging domestic technological and manufacturing capabilities (White House, 2026).

The contradiction is more complicated than the familiar accusation that the United States preaches free trade abroad while practicing protectionism at home. Pax Silica itself is not laissez-faire. It is a consciously managed international arrangement involving state policy, economic security, investment screening, incentives, supply-chain coordination, and strategic technology. The more significant asymmetry is that the United States increasingly reserves for itself the right to identify industries whose domestic location matters sufficiently to justify tariffs, subsidies, reshoring, and state intervention, while economies such as the Philippines continue to demonstrate their attractiveness largely through openness to foreign investment, tax incentives, export production, skilled labor, and the willingness to perform complementary functions within international corporate networks.

American industrial policy increasingly asks which productive capabilities must be retained or reconstructed within the United States. Philippine investment policy still too often begins by asking which internationally mobile productive activity can be induced to locate in the Philippines. The distinction is not anti-American; it is an observation about the different positions occupied by the two economies inside the same international system.

The More Idealistic Case: Technology Transfer and Filipino Participation

A second position accepts much of this criticism but reaches a more optimistic conclusion. Its proponents argue that Pax Silica should not be accepted passively but can be transformed through policy. Foreign investors can be required or encouraged to develop Philippine suppliers, undertake local research, train Filipino engineers in increasingly advanced functions, collaborate with universities, and create greater domestic value. Given enough time, this process might move Philippine electronics from assembly, testing, and packaging into design, advanced materials, semiconductor equipment, research, and possibly selected fabrication.

The present administration increasingly speaks in these terms. At the September 10, 2026 Luzon Economic Corridor Investment Forum, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. said that the government's objective was “not simply to attract investment” but to obtain investment that strengthened Filipino enterprises and expanded Filipino capability. He called upon investors to transfer knowledge and technology, develop Filipino talent, and work with local suppliers. In the same speech, he stated that the government wanted Filipino enterprises to become producers, innovators, exporters, and investors in their own right rather than remain secondary participants in the value created inside the country (PCO, 2026b).

This is a considerably more serious formulation than the simple equation of foreign investment with development. It acknowledges that the location of capital inside Philippine territory does not necessarily mean that the technological and entrepreneurial capabilities generated by that capital become Philippine. It also corresponds with the country's own stated industrial-policy aspirations. The Board of Investments' Comprehensive National Industrial Strategy calls for stronger forward and backward linkages, technological and human-resource upgrading, stronger supply chains, and integration of manufacturing with agriculture and services. PIDS economist Rafaelita Aldaba has likewise argued that the country requires a renewed industrial policy capable of deepening linkages among domestic firms, SMEs, large enterprises, and foreign investors because manufacturing failed for decades to generate the structural transformation and employment expected of it (Board of Investments [BOI], n.d.; Aldaba, 2013).

The difficulty is that the Philippines has already spent more than half a century waiting for essentially this process to occur in electronics. The country has not merely begun to host semiconductor production. Foreign semiconductor companies have operated in the Philippines since the 1970s. Generations of Filipino engineers have acquired experience inside sophisticated multinational facilities. Export earnings have become enormous. Yet the domestic technological structure surrounding those plants remains comparatively shallow.

Myrna Austria's 2006 PIDS study identified the structural weakness with unusual clarity. Philippine participation in global electronics production had become the country's largest source of merchandise-export earnings, yet the country had “hardly progressed beyond the lowest level of the production chain,” with activity concentrated heavily in labor-intensive, import-dependent assembly and testing and with relatively limited domestic value added (Austria, 2006). Twenty years later, the World Bank's April 2026 East Asia and Pacific Economic Update reached a strikingly similar conclusion: the Philippine semiconductor footprint remains concentrated in assembly, testing, and packaging, with comparatively limited participation in front-end fabrication and design-related activities and an ownership structure characteristic of foreign-direct-investment-led production (World Bank, 2026).

The persistence of substantially the same diagnosis across two decades should temper the assumption that another generation of multinational semiconductor investment will automatically produce a qualitatively different result. The Philippines has already demonstrated that Filipinos can operate internationally competitive semiconductor facilities. What remains insufficiently demonstrated is the ability of Philippine institutions to convert that accumulated experience systematically into domestically controlled firms, intellectual property, research organizations, equipment suppliers, materials companies, and sources of long-term industrial finance.

This is the point at which the conventional language of “technology transfer” becomes inadequate. Foreign factories unquestionably transfer some knowledge. Engineers learn processes. Managers acquire organizational experience. Technicians master advanced equipment. Suppliers become familiar with exacting quality standards. These are valuable benefits, and an argument denying them altogether would be factually weak.

But the transfer of operational knowledge is not identical to the transfer of technological command. A Filipino engineer may understand a semiconductor process without owning the patents governing it. A Filipino plant manager may understand every production stage inside a factory without possessing authority over the corporation's research agenda, product strategy, capital budget, or international customer relationships. The plant may operate in the Philippines for decades without becoming a Philippine technological institution.

Intel's experience provides a particularly clear illustration. When Intel announced in 2009 that it would close its Cavite assembly and test facility, the company described the decision as part of a broader international restructuring intended to align manufacturing capacity with “current market conditions.” The Philippine operation was one part of a global production system, and its continuation was determined accordingly. Filipino employees retained experience and skills, but the patents, research organization, corporate technology, and global customer relationships did not pass into Philippine hands when the plant closed (Intel Corporation, 2009).

The issue is therefore not whether technology transfer occurs in an everyday occupational sense. It is whether the Philippine economy acquires institutions capable of reproducing and redirecting the technology after the original foreign corporate relationship changes.

Why a Concession-Based Project Cannot Simply Be “Filipinized”

This historical experience also complicates the idea that Pax Silica can simply be “Filipinized” through improved contractual provisions. Stronger supplier programs, research partnerships, employment commitments, local procurement, and training requirements can undoubtedly improve the benefits received from particular investments. The state should negotiate such provisions where they are technically and commercially realistic.

Yet there is a structural difference between localizing the benefits generated by an externally conceived project and nationalizing the developmental purpose of the project itself.

Pax Silica is being created through long-term investment commitments, leases, tax and regulatory arrangements, corporate rights, intellectual-property rules, and an international production architecture designed before the Philippine factories themselves are established. Investors require precisely this stability because semiconductor plants, data centers, mineral-processing facilities, and other advanced industrial projects involve large fixed costs. Once contractual rights and productive purposes have been established, later governments cannot simply redefine the technological mission of the investment without confronting the legal and commercial arrangements upon which it was based.

A concession can therefore be improved considerably without ceasing to be a concession. A foreign manufacturer may employ overwhelmingly Filipino workers, purchase more locally, establish a research center, and conduct training while the decisive matters of product strategy, capital allocation, ownership of patents, and ultimate market orientation remain with the foreign enterprise. The resulting operation may be deeply embedded in the local economy and still not amount to a nationally directed industry.

A genuine Philippine industrial program would reverse this order of causation. The state would first identify the productive capabilities the domestic economy required and organize public research, financing, procurement, infrastructure, and enterprise policy accordingly. Foreign corporations would then enter as investors, contractors, licensors, technology suppliers, or joint-venture partners inside a program whose objective had already been established domestically.

Under the present model, Philippine policy frequently asks what developmental benefits can be extracted from an industrial architecture already determined by foreign corporate and geopolitical requirements. Under the nationalist-developmentalist model, foreign capital would instead be asked what contribution it could make to a Philippine industrial architecture determined beforehand.

The distinction is not semantic. It is the difference between negotiating a share of somebody else's project and deciding what project the country itself intends to construct.

Semiconductor Production Without a National Semiconductor Policy

The Philippine semiconductor sector should therefore be described with greater precision. The Philippines undoubtedly produces semiconductors, but the physical presence of semiconductor manufacturing does not by itself prove that the country possesses a semiconductor policy comparable to that of the economies which have deliberately constructed semiconductor firms and institutions of their own.

For much of the sector's history, Philippine policy was concerned primarily with attracting the multinational manufacturer that happened to require additional assembly, testing, or packaging capacity. Industrial estates were provided, incentives granted, capital equipment imported, and export-processing arrangements streamlined. This model produced substantial benefits and allowed the Philippines to become highly competent at particular functions in global electronics production. It did not produce a correspondingly deep national semiconductor structure.

The continuing orientation toward external demand can be seen even in recent official language. In 2023, then-Trade Secretary Alfredo Pascual encouraged American firms to invest in Philippine semiconductors and emphasized the country's competitive business environment, skilled labor, strategic market access, and ability to serve international clients profitably. He also sought greater Philippine participation in the American semiconductor value chain and movement toward higher-value functions. The desire to upgrade was sound, but the reference point remained the international production network rather than a semiconductor program originating from domestic technological requirements (DTI, 2023).

The result is an economy that can contain advanced semiconductor plants while remaining a reserve production base for multinational markets. Production is expanded because foreign corporate demand requires capacity. Investment occurs because a multinational enterprise finds Philippine labor, incentives, logistics, and political relationships attractive. The Philippine economy's own requirements for power electronics, industrial controls, railway systems, telecommunications, agricultural electronics, medical devices, shipbuilding, and defense play a comparatively smaller role in determining the evolution of the sector.

That is successful participation in international production. It is not necessarily the same thing as possession of an industry whose direction is increasingly determined by Philippine demand and Philippine institutions.

The Agrarian and Professional Critique

A third view arrives at opposition to Pax Silica from almost the opposite direction. It does not complain that Pax Silica industrializes the Philippines insufficiently; it questions whether extensive industrialization is an appropriate Philippine objective in the first place.

One expression of this view argues that the Philippines was “naturally built” to prosper as an agricultural nation and that government has repeatedly neglected one of the country's greatest strengths in its pursuit of industrial modernity. Its more sophisticated version does not advocate subsistence agriculture or economic backwardness. It imagines a modern agro-commercial society based upon productive agriculture, fisheries, agribusiness, food processing, tourism, trade, finance, digital services, and a large professional sector. Sophisticated manufactured goods can be imported from economies possessing greater scale and technological advantages.

There is considerable historical logic behind the argument. Philippine agriculture has been neglected repeatedly. Irrigation, logistics, storage, agricultural research, rural finance, mechanization, and food-processing capabilities remain inadequate. Productive farmland and watersheds constitute genuine economic assets and should not be converted casually merely because urban or industrial land commands a higher market price. Opposition to environmentally destructive or socially unjust industrial projects is therefore not equivalent to opposition to development.

The problem emerges when agricultural strength becomes a doctrine of permanent economic specialization. Modern agriculture itself requires machinery, chemicals, electricity, electronics, transport equipment, refrigeration, irrigation systems, processing plants, and sophisticated logistics. PIDS economists Roehlano Briones and Ivory Myka Galang have argued that agricultural transformation requires deeper relationships among farming, agricultural services, industrial inputs, and agro-processing—in effect, an entire “agro-industrial complex” rather than an agricultural sector insulated from manufacturing (Briones & Galang, 2013).

An agriculture-first Philippines that purchases practically all of the machinery required to modernize agriculture has not escaped industrial dependence. It has merely located the industries upon which agriculture depends outside the country.

The professional-service component of this worldview raises a related problem. A society need not, according to this approach, reproduce the complete industrial structure of Japan, Korea, China, or Germany if it can educate doctors, engineers, accountants, architects, lawyers, nurses, programmers, managers, and other professionals capable of earning enough income to purchase the products those industrial economies manufacture.

This is a coherent economic philosophy. At the level of the household, it is frequently sensible. A family need not manufacture a motorcar to acquire one; it needs sufficient income to buy it. A hospital need not own a medical-device factory if it can purchase superior equipment internationally. An engineering company can import high-quality machinery more cheaply than attempting to manufacture the equipment itself.

The difficulty is that an individual's rational purchasing decision cannot simply be scaled upward into a national development strategy.

The Individualization of Self-Reliance

The agro-commercial and professional model tends to define self-reliance primarily at the level of the individual or family. Education, professional credentials, employment, savings, property, and purchasing power provide economic security. If domestic opportunities are inadequate, the professional can migrate. If a machine is unavailable locally, income earned through agriculture, services, commerce, or overseas work can purchase the imported equivalent.

This conception has deep roots in Filipino middle-class experience. The family seeks security by educating children for medicine, engineering, accountancy, law, nursing, architecture, management, or another recognized profession. The professional credential becomes a form of portable capital. It belongs to the individual and can travel to whichever market values it most highly.

Carlos P. Garcia made a strikingly different distinction in 1958. In his address to the Second Labor-Management Conference, Garcia argued that development meant the increasing ability to produce needed commodities through effective use of national resources and identified science, technology, and industrialization as the means through which productivity could be raised. He then called for “a high degree of self-reliance—not only individual but also national self-reliance” and described the government's objective as “the shaping of our economy according to our own best interests” (Garcia, 1958).

The distinction between individual and national self-reliance deserves renewed attention because contemporary Philippine development has become highly individualized. A Filipino engineer may be professionally successful while the country remains dependent upon imported machinery. A doctor may practice sophisticated medicine while the hospital relies upon foreign diagnostic equipment and pharmaceutical technology. A farmer may become commercially prosperous while tractors, pumps, fertilizer, refrigeration, and agricultural electronics are sourced abroad.

At the household level, purchasing power compensates for the absence of domestic productive capacity. At the national level, the absence remains.

This does not make professional success meaningless. It simply means that a successful individual and a productive national economy are not interchangeable concepts.

A Credential Economy and a Knowledge Economy

The same distinction applies to the increasingly fashionable phrase “knowledge economy.” Knowledge can reside primarily in individuals who sell professional services, or it can become embodied in institutions capable of producing technology repeatedly.

The Philippines is already proficient at producing the first kind. Filipino doctors, engineers, accountants, architects, programmers, nurses, managers, and seafarers compete internationally. Their education constitutes genuine human capital.

But a semiconductor design house, pharmaceutical company, machine-tool manufacturer, industrial laboratory, advanced-materials company, or engineering enterprise represents something different. Knowledge in such institutions becomes attached to patents, machinery, brands, laboratories, supplier relationships, and organizational routines that remain in the country even when an individual employee departs.

The Philippine weakness has historically been the conversion of world-class individual talent into world-class domestic productive institutions.

This is why migration can appear simultaneously as personal success and national failure. The engineer solves his employment problem by moving to an economy that has already built an engineering industry. The nurse joins a health system with greater capital. The programmer works for an international client. The individual adapts successfully to the global economy while the structure that made migration economically attractive remains unchanged at home.

Pax Silica appears to offer an alternative by moving advanced foreign production to the worker rather than moving the worker abroad. This is an improvement, particularly for family life and domestic employment. Yet the deeper question persists if the worker remains principally an employee of productive institutions owned and directed abroad.

The geography of employment has changed; the ownership of industrial capability may not have changed with it.

The Common Premise behind Three Apparently Opposed Positions

The unconditional Pax Silica supporter, the idealized technology-transfer supporter, and the agro-commercial professionalist appear to occupy very different political positions. Yet they can share a surprisingly similar assumption: that the larger productive structure surrounding Filipino labor should be determined substantially by the world market.

The unconditional supporter accepts the external industrial architecture because association with it is economically and strategically desirable. The idealized supporter accepts the same basic architecture but hopes that sufficient learning, localization, and technology transfer will gradually create domestic capability within it. The agro-commercial professionalist considers much of that industrial structure unnecessary to reproduce domestically at all, provided Filipinos can earn sufficient income through agriculture, commerce, services, or professional work to purchase its products.

The common result is that the world market remains the principal arbiter of the structure of production.

The nationalist-developmentalist alternative begins by challenging precisely that assumption. International trade is indispensable, but the market is not an economic constitution determining the maximum productive ambitions available to a country. The set of industries in which a country possesses comparative advantage at any particular moment reflects its inherited technology, infrastructure, accumulated capital, historical policy, and institutional capabilities. Comparative advantage can therefore be altered by deliberate investment and technological learning.

The economic histories of the major industrial states make this difficult to deny.

The International Return of Protection, Champions, and Technological Sovereignty

The most striking feature of the present international economy is that nearly every major economic power now pursues some form of policy intended to preserve or create domestic technological capabilities. The terminology differs according to political tradition. Washington uses the language of national security, reshoring, supply-chain resilience, and domestic manufacturing. Beijing speaks of technological self-reliance, modernization of the industrial system, and breakthroughs in core technologies. Brussels uses the language of technological sovereignty and strategic autonomy. New Delhi speaks increasingly of self-reliance, domestic ecosystems, production-linked incentives, and Indian intellectual property.

These are not identical economic systems, and they should not be treated as though they were. Their policies differ significantly in the relationship between state and market, the scale of subsidies, the role of public enterprises, tariff policy, financial institutions, and political organization. Yet they share a proposition that is highly relevant to the Philippines: productive capability, intellectual property, domestic firms, and control over selected technologies have value beyond the immediate price at which the corresponding product can be purchased internationally.

The American semiconductor case is particularly explicit. Washington has concluded that excessive dependence upon imported semiconductors represents a national-security vulnerability and has adopted tariff and domestic-production measures accordingly. The issue is no longer whether an imported chip can be purchased more cheaply than one manufactured domestically. The American state has assigned strategic value to the possession of production capacity itself.

China reaches a similar conclusion through different institutions. Its 2026 policy documents call for greater scientific and technological self-reliance and “decisive breakthroughs” across integrated circuits, machine tools, high-end instruments, basic software, advanced materials, and other core technologies. The objective is not simply that Chinese engineers work inside the international technological system; it is that Chinese organizations increasingly command crucial portions of that system (State Council of the People's Republic of China, 2026).

The European Union has moved in the same direction. In June 2026, the European Commission defined technological sovereignty as Europe's ability to act independently by developing and controlling key technologies, data, and infrastructure while reducing reliance on non-European providers. Its Chips Act 2.0 seeks to strengthen the European semiconductor ecosystem, reduce strategic dependencies, encourage semiconductor design and production, and increase domestic demand. The earlier Chips Act had already helped mobilize more than €52 billion in public and private semiconductor investment. European policymakers therefore no longer regard access to global suppliers as an adequate substitute for the possession of strategic technological capacity (European Commission, 2026a, 2026b).

India supplies an especially revealing comparison because its development constraints are closer to those of emerging economies than those of the United States or Europe. The Indian government announced Semiconductor Mission 2.0 in 2026 with the explicit objective of producing semiconductor equipment and materials domestically, designing “full stack Indian” intellectual property, strengthening domestic supply chains, and creating industry-led research and training centers. The wider 2026 manufacturing agenda includes domestic electronics components, rare-earth processing and manufacturing, chemical parks, construction equipment, and other sectors in which New Delhi seeks to reduce dependence and develop nationally rooted industrial capability. In July 2026, the Indian Cabinet approved a much larger Semicon 2.0 program intended to deepen the semiconductor design and manufacturing ecosystem over the long term (Press Information Bureau [PIB], 2026a, 2026b).

There is an important lesson in the Indian example. India already possesses a formidable body of semiconductor design talent. Government sources estimate that Indian engineers account for a substantial share of the global semiconductor design workforce and work on advanced processes within global capability centers. Yet New Delhi has not concluded that this success makes domestic semiconductor manufacturing, equipment, materials, or intellectual property unnecessary. It has reached almost the opposite conclusion: if the country possesses such extensive engineering talent, that talent should increasingly become embedded in Indian firms, Indian IP, Indian production capabilities, and Indian technological institutions rather than remain principally a service supplied to foreign companies.

The implications for the Philippines should be uncomfortable. Philippine governments and business leaders frequently speak with pride about world-class Filipino talent. Multinational companies routinely praise the quality of Filipino engineers and technical workers. Yet that confidence in Filipino individuals is often accompanied by much greater skepticism toward the possibility of Filipino industrial institutions. The engineer is considered capable of operating the world's most sophisticated equipment, but domestic machinery manufacture is dismissed as unrealistic. Filipino programmers and designers are internationally competitive, yet nationally rooted technological firms remain treated as exceptional rather than as an object of deliberate policy.

If the country's human capital is genuinely as capable as official rhetoric maintains, the appropriate policy question should not end with how efficiently that talent can be supplied to the world market. It should also ask how a greater portion of that talent can be converted into firms, patents, laboratories, machinery, brands, engineering organizations, and accumulated domestic capital.

Patents, Champions, and the Ownership of Knowledge

This is why the language of national champions, though sometimes abused, cannot simply be dismissed. The United States, China, Europe, India, Japan, Korea, and Taiwan all attempt in different ways to preserve or create firms and institutions capable of owning strategic knowledge. Their objective is not merely to employ talented nationals but to ensure that some of the value created by that talent remains embodied in institutions located within the national economy.

The distinction between skill and ownership is fundamental. A worker's expertise creates income for the worker. A domestic corporation possessing intellectual property, research capability, equipment, suppliers, brands, and markets creates an institutional asset capable of generating income repeatedly and employing successive generations of workers.

This does not mean that national champions should be protected indefinitely from competition. Philippine history supplies ample warning against a nationalism reduced to protecting domestic oligarchs. A Filipino-owned company that merely imports components or finished products behind tariff walls contributes little to technological sovereignty merely because its shareholders possess Philippine citizenship.

A developmental industrial policy must therefore impose performance discipline upon domestic capital just as firmly as it bargains with foreign capital. Firms receiving development finance, procurement preference, research assistance, or temporary protection should be required to improve productivity, invest in engineering, develop suppliers, increase technological content, and eventually compete internationally.

The object is not national ownership in the abstract but national productive ownership.

The Fourth Position: A Nationalist-Developmentalist Alternative

The nationalist-developmentalist position therefore begins neither with Washington nor with Beijing, neither with a foreign investor nor with inherited comparative advantage. It begins by asking what productive structure Philippine development itself requires.

This does not mean attempting to manufacture everything domestically. Such a policy would waste scarce capital and reproduce the worst failures of indiscriminate import substitution. A middle-income archipelagic economy cannot and need not reproduce every industrial technology available internationally.

A serious program would instead identify a limited set of mutually reinforcing capabilities whose development would raise productivity across the economy. Electrical equipment, power electronics, industrial controls, cables, transformers, and grid technologies deserve consideration because the Philippines must invest enormously in electricity generation and transmission regardless of Pax Silica. Railway expansion should create markets for signaling, electrical systems, fabrication, maintenance, communications equipment, and eventually more sophisticated transport manufacturing. Shipbuilding and marine engineering possess obvious relevance in an archipelagic country requiring commercial vessels, ferries, fishing fleets, coast-guard craft, and naval capability.

Agricultural modernization should create sustained demand for pumps, irrigation systems, refrigeration, processing machinery, fertilizer, sensors, and agricultural electronics. Industrial chemicals and materials require greater attention because practically every advanced industrial activity depends upon them. Semiconductor production itself requires gases, chemicals, precision equipment, reliable power, water treatment, and industrial services. A semiconductor enclave surrounded by dependence upon imported machinery and materials may be technologically sophisticated while creating fewer national linkages than its physical appearance suggests.

The aim should consequently be industrial density rather than industrial spectacle.

Agriculture inside the Industrial Program

The fourth position also offers a more satisfactory answer to the agricultural critique than simply converting farmland into industrial estates. Philippine agriculture requires modernization, and food security remains a legitimate national objective. Productive irrigated land, watersheds, and rural communities should not be treated as expendable merely because industrial or real-estate use generates higher immediate land values.

But agriculture should be understood as part of an agro-industrial system. Briones and Galang's formulation is useful precisely because it refuses the false distinction between farm and factory. Agricultural transformation requires industrial inputs, services, processing, storage, transportation, and technology (Briones & Galang, 2013).

The industrial question is therefore not whether agriculture should disappear but whether the modernization of agriculture will create additional industries inside the Philippines or merely create additional import demand. Pumps can be imported forever, or an expanding irrigation program can help sustain domestic electrical and machinery enterprises. Agricultural processing machinery can be purchased entirely abroad, or national demand can be used gradually to build engineering and fabrication capability at home.

No serious program would insist upon domestic production regardless of cost or quality. The purpose would be to identify those products for which repeated domestic demand, technological spillovers, and linkages to other industries justify a deliberate learning process.

That is economic development in the dynamic rather than static sense.

A Filipino Semiconductor Policy Would Begin with Filipino Requirements

The same principle should govern semiconductors. A Filipino semiconductor strategy need not begin by asking how many foreign fabs or packaging plants can be attracted. It would begin by examining the electronic requirements generated by Filipino infrastructure and industry.

The expansion of the electricity system requires sensors, controls, smart meters, power electronics, and communications equipment. Railways require signaling, traction controls, and embedded systems. Agriculture increasingly requires sensors, automated irrigation, drones, and processing controls. Hospitals require medical electronics. Shipbuilding requires navigation, communications, and industrial-control systems. Telecommunications and defense require increasingly sophisticated electronic systems.

No rational policy would attempt to fabricate every semiconductor used in these applications domestically. The semiconductor industry is too internationalized and capital-intensive for such an objective. But these domestic requirements could support selected capabilities in semiconductor design, power electronics, sensors, advanced packaging, embedded systems, testing technologies, and related engineering.

The crucial difference is that a portion of the industry would exist because the Philippine economy itself required its output, not merely because a multinational company happened to require a production site serving customers elsewhere.

Exports would remain essential. Domestic demand would provide an additional anchor.

Taiwan and the Institutional Meaning of Technology Transfer

Taiwan remains instructive because it demonstrates the difference between importing foreign technology and hosting foreign technology. Taiwan's government and Industrial Technology Research Institute deliberately selected integrated circuits as a field in which technological capability should be acquired. ITRI signed a technology-transfer and licensing agreement with RCA in 1976, sent teams of Taiwanese engineers to learn design, manufacturing, verification, and equipment, established a domestic demonstration factory, and subsequently transferred acquired capability into Taiwanese enterprises. UMC was established in 1980 with technology and an R&D team transferred from ITRI; TSMC followed in 1987 with the transfer of facilities, equipment, technology, and personnel. Taiwan's semiconductor ecosystem therefore emerged from an institutional process designed to convert foreign knowledge into nationally rooted production (ITRI, 2023a, 2023b).

The important lesson is not that Taiwan associated itself with American technology. It did. The important lesson is that Taiwanese institutions already possessed a national purpose for the technology they acquired. The foreign relationship was an instrument of that program.

The Filipino sequence has more often been reversed. The foreign company arrives with the production system, and Philippine policy then seeks training, supplier opportunities, and spillovers from its presence.

That difference explains why the phrase “technology transfer” can describe very different economic realities.

Development Finance, Procurement, and the Domestic Market

A national industrial program also requires institutions capable of financing activities that ordinary commercial banking will not automatically undertake. Semiconductor design, machinery manufacturing, advanced materials, chemicals, and industrial research frequently require long investment horizons, expensive equipment, and uncertain returns. Real estate and trade may offer faster and more predictable profits.

Development banking therefore remains relevant. The Development Bank of the Philippines and other appropriate institutions could support technically credible firms entering industries with strong developmental linkages, provided that finance is tied to transparent performance criteria and insulated as far as possible from political favoritism.

The failures of politically directed credit are well known, but they do not demonstrate that industrial finance is unnecessary. They demonstrate that institutional quality determines whether industrial finance creates productive enterprises or cronies.

The domestic market should likewise become a more deliberate industrial asset. Government, state corporations, utilities, and private enterprises already purchase enormous quantities of railway equipment, electrical systems, ships, buses, communications equipment, medical devices, construction machinery, and agricultural technology. Procurement need not be turned into crude protectionism, but public expenditure can be structured to develop local engineering, maintenance, supplier participation, and manufacturing where commercially feasible.

The domestic market should neither become a sanctuary for permanently inefficient firms nor remain merely a showroom for foreign industrial products. Properly administered, it can provide the initial scale through which firms learn before facing international competition.

Where Pax Silica Would Fit?

Under such a national program, Pax Silica would cease to carry the burden of representing Philippine industrialization. Particular investments associated with it could still be assessed and, where useful, contracted. A semiconductor investment might contribute to design, packaging, power electronics, materials, or research capabilities the country had already decided to build. A critical-minerals project might be useful if it contributed to downstream metals, battery, electrical, or advanced-material industries. Infrastructure developed around the Luzon Economic Corridor could reduce costs for Philippine firms as well as foreign exporters.

The difference would be the hierarchy of policy. The Philippines would no longer ask what industrial role Pax Silica offered the country and then attempt to maximize local participation within that role. It would possess its own industrial objectives and determine which portions of Pax Silica, Chinese investment, Japanese finance, Taiwanese semiconductor expertise, Korean manufacturing, European technology, or any other external relationship happened to serve them.

This is not economic isolation. It is the opposite. It requires extensive international engagement but refuses to allow any one international relationship to determine the country's productive structure.

Beyond Washington and Beijing

The case for going beyond Washington and Beijing should consequently not be understood as equidistance for its own sake. The Philippines possesses different security, political, and commercial relationships with the two powers, and some forms of investment may properly be limited by legitimate security concerns.

The economic principle is narrower. Neither American nor Chinese industrial policy exists principally to industrialize the Philippines. Washington seeks secure American-centered supply chains and renewed domestic manufacturing capability. Beijing seeks Chinese technological self-reliance, Chinese firms, and Chinese industrial strength.

European governments likewise pursue European technological sovereignty; India pursues Indian semiconductor IP, equipment, materials, and manufacturing. None of these governments would reasonably be criticized for doing so. They are performing one of the ordinary functions of a serious economic state.

What would be peculiar is for the Philippines to conclude that precisely because others are pursuing national industrial strategies, the appropriate Philippine response is to specialize more completely according to the requirements those strategies create.

Such a conclusion would convert Filipino comparative advantage into foreign industrial policy by another name.

The Opportunity Hidden in “World-Class Filipino Talent”

The recurring official celebration of Filipino talent should therefore be taken more seriously than it usually is. If Philippine engineers are sufficiently capable to operate multinational semiconductor plants, work in advanced design centers, manage global shipping, build software, practice medicine internationally, and staff sophisticated research organizations abroad, then the principal constraint upon Philippine technological development cannot be an inherent lack of human ability.

The question becomes institutional. Does the country possess research organizations through which knowledge can accumulate? Does it possess development finance willing to support technologically risky domestic firms? Does public procurement provide a market through which new industrial companies can learn? Are universities connected to industrial commercialization? Are firms rewarded for creating intellectual property and supplier networks rather than merely importing and distributing?

A country that repeatedly describes its citizens as world-class should eventually ask why so much of their world-class ability becomes productive capital for institutions headquartered elsewhere.

The proper objective is not to prevent Filipinos from working abroad or for foreign firms. Such restrictions would be economically absurd. The objective is to create enough Philippine productive institutions that remaining in the country and building something locally becomes a credible alternative.

Conclusion: From Talent to Productive Power

The argument over Pax Silica therefore reveals four different approaches to Philippine development, but it also exposes the limitations of the first three. Unconditional support for Pax Silica recognizes the opportunities created by American technology and geopolitical realignment but risks allowing alliance sentiment and investment enthusiasm to substitute for industrial analysis. The idealized Pax Silica position correctly demands technology transfer, supplier development, and Filipino participation but tends to underestimate the difficulty of transforming a contract- and concession-based foreign production architecture into a national industrial system after the fundamental investment structure has already been determined. The agro-commercial and professional alternative properly emphasizes agriculture, education, and individual enterprise but ultimately relies upon the proposition that the products of industrial civilization can be purchased indefinitely from societies that chose to develop the industries producing them.

The nationalist-developmentalist alternative begins from a different premise. It treats development not merely as the prosperity of Filipino individuals or the productivity of foreign factories located in the Philippines but as the accumulation of productive capability within the national economy. It does not reject the world market, foreign investment, professional services, or agriculture. It seeks to organize them around a domestic process of technological and industrial accumulation.

The contemporary international environment makes this argument considerably less eccentric than it might have appeared during the high period of neoliberal globalization. The United States protects semiconductor manufacturing and treats productive dependence as a national-security issue. China seeks self-reliance in integrated circuits, machine tools, software, instruments, and advanced materials. Europe explicitly seeks technological sovereignty and reduced strategic dependence. India, despite possessing a vast pool of internationally competitive engineers, finances semiconductor fabrication, domestic equipment and materials, and “full stack Indian” intellectual property.

These countries differ profoundly in political system and economic philosophy, yet each has concluded that nationally rooted productive capability matters.

The Philippines should ask why it should be the exception. A country which takes legitimate pride in local talent should not regard the highest possible use of that talent as supplying engineers to whichever foreign corporation or labor market happens to offer the strongest demand. Nor should it regard the ability to purchase sophisticated products internationally as an adequate substitute for learning how to create selected technologies domestically.

There is nothing irrational about buying from the world market. The irrationality lies in assuming that every existing dependence should remain permanent merely because importing is currently cheaper.

Garcia's distinction between individual and national self-reliance remains pertinent because Philippine development has too frequently solved structural problems at the level of the household. The engineer migrates, the family receives remittances, the farmer buys imported machinery, the hospital purchases foreign equipment, and the state attracts foreign corporations to employ domestic talent. Individuals adapt successfully to the economic structure that exists.

National development requires asking whether the structure itself should change. The Philippines now confronts a particularly opportune moment for doing so. Global supply chains are being reorganized; major powers have returned openly to industrial policy; large infrastructure projects are under construction; the country possesses a substantial domestic market, an established electronics base, mineral resources, and a technically capable labor force. Those circumstances can again be offered principally as locational advantages to external industrial systems, or they can become the raw materials of a coherent Philippine program.

The issue is not whether every Philippine company must become a national champion or whether every imported product must be replaced. It is whether enough firms, laboratories, technologies, and production capabilities are deliberately cultivated that the Philippines becomes increasingly capable of bargaining with the international economy rather than simply adapting itself to whatever role that economy presently offers.

Only then would the familiar phrase “world-class Filipino talent” acquire an economic meaning larger than employability.

It would describe not merely talented Filipinos, but a Philippine productive system capable of retaining, organizing, and multiplying their talent into national industrial power.

***

References

Aldaba, R. M. (2013). Why a new industrial policy for the Philippines is critical. Philippine Institute for Development Studies.

Araneta, S. (1965). Economic nationalism and capitalism for all in a directed economy. Araneta University Press.

Austria, M. S. (2006). Enhancement and deepening of the competitiveness of the Philippine electronics industry under a bilateral setting. Philippine Institute for Development Studies.

Australian Department of Industry, Science and Resources. (2025, December 12). The Pax Silica Declaration by countries attending the Pax Silica Summit. Australian Government.

Board of Investments. (n.d.). Comprehensive National Industrial Strategy. Department of Trade and Industry.

Briones, R. M., & Galang, I. M. R. (2013). Urgent: A road map for agro-industrial development in the Philippines. Philippine Institute for Development Studies.

Department of Trade and Industry. (2023, November 16). DTI chief Pascual encourages US companies to invest in the semiconductor industry. Government of the Philippines.

European Commission. (2026a, June 3). Strengthening Europe's tech sovereignty. European Union.

European Commission. (2026b, June 3). Chips Act 2.0. European Union.

Garcia, C. P. (1958, October 16). Speech of President Garcia before the opening of the Second Labor Management Conference. Official Gazette of the Republic of the Philippines.

Industrial Technology Research Institute. (2023a). Adopting technical knowledge from RCA to develop Taiwan's IC capabilities. ITRI.

Industrial Technology Research Institute. (2023b). Developing semiconductors from scratch: Taiwan's semiconductor industry hall of fame. ITRI.

Intel Corporation. (2009, January 21). Intel to consolidate manufacturing operations; company to halt production at five older factories.

Press Information Bureau. (2026a, February 7). India Semiconductor Mission 2.0: A major push towards semiconductor self-reliance. Government of India.

Press Information Bureau. (2026b, July 15). Cabinet approves Semicon 2.0—Government delivers on its commitment for long-term policy support to semiconductors in India. Government of India.

Presidential Communications Office. (2026a, July 23). BCDA says Pax Silica project could generate over 130,000 high-quality jobs. Government of the Philippines.

Presidential Communications Office. (2026b, September 10). PBBM: Government seeks to empower Filipino enterprises, capture greater value from investments. Government of the Philippines.

State Council of the People's Republic of China. (2026, March 5). China to make breakthroughs in core technologies, achieve sci-tech self-reliance. Government of the People's Republic of China.

White House. (2026, January 14). Adjusting imports of semiconductors, semiconductor manufacturing equipment, and their derivative products into the United States. Executive Office of the President.

World Bank. (2026, April). East Asia and Pacific economic update. World Bank Group.

Power, Impunity and the Republic: The Long Crisis of Accountability

2026-09-09T19:19:22.309-07:00

Power, Impunity and the Republic: The Long Crisis of Accountability

Or: "All After Imelda Marcos’s Acquittal, Martin Romualdez's Arrest, and the still Ongoing Trial of Sara Duterte: The Old Uses of Power and the Persistence of Abuse"

There is a peculiar quality to Philippine political scandals in their old age. They cease to resemble scandals and begin to resemble institutions. They acquire archives, jurisprudence, generations of lawyers, changes of government and, eventually, the faint sepia tone of history. The original outrage becomes something younger citizens encounter through inherited arguments, yellowing newspaper clippings and the occasional anniversary program, while the litigation itself continues at the more stately pace of geology. By the time judgment finally arrives, the country is no longer quite the country in which the case began, although the families, curiously enough, are often still there.

So it is with Imelda Marcos and the Swiss foundations.

The Supreme Court’s acquittal of the former first lady on seven counts of graft is therefore difficult to regard as merely the disposition of seven criminal informations. The First Division, speaking through Associate Justice Rodil Zalameda and joined by Associate Justices Ramon Paul Hernando, Henri Jean Paul Inting, Ricardo Rosario and Jose Midas Marquez, concluded that the prosecution had failed to establish guilt beyond reasonable doubt. The case turned in considerable measure upon the authentication of Swiss documents and upon the meaning to be assigned to the foundations in which Mrs. Marcos allegedly maintained financial interests while occupying public office.

There is nothing inherently sinister in these legal propositions. Criminal guilt must be proved beyond reasonable doubt. Documents must be authenticated according to law. Penal statutes cannot simply be stretched because the accused is famous, disliked, historically notorious or politically inconvenient. A constitutional republic that discards procedure whenever public indignation becomes sufficiently intense will eventually discover that procedure was protecting more than the unpopular defendant.

But the Philippine difficulty begins where the textbook proposition ends. A technical requirement experienced after a year of litigation is procedure. The same requirement discovered after three or four decades begins to resemble an indictment of the institutions responsible for the prosecution itself. The cases against Mrs. Marcos were already part of the national landscape before many of today’s voters were born. Governments changed, constitutions settled into middle age, prosecutors retired, judges died, witnesses disappeared, and the family that had once fled Malacañang returned to it. Only then did the legal process arrive at the conclusion that the State had not proved its case in the manner criminal law requires.

Reasonable doubt remains indispensable. Forty years to discover reasonable doubt is another matter entirely.

This is the distinction that partisan argument habitually refuses to make. The Court may have reached a conclusion defensible within the law while the justice system that required decades to reach it remains indefensible as a system. Both things may be true at once. Indeed, the more intellectually serious criticism of the acquittal does not require imagining five magistrates secretly assembling to rescue the mother of a president. Institutional failure is usually less theatrical. It consists of delay, poor prosecution, evidentiary decay, bureaucratic incompetence, political interruptions, procedural exhaustion and the extraordinary capacity of powerful defendants to remain standing until the State has forgotten how it intended to prosecute them.

The political circumstances nevertheless cannot be wished away by judicial syntax. Ferdinand Marcos Jr. has occupied Malacañang for four years, and it is during his presidency that his mother has obtained this reversal. No evidence has been produced showing that the President personally dictated the judgment, and criticism becomes unserious when suspicion is casually promoted into proof. But public confidence does not depend solely upon the absence of a discoverable conspiracy. Courts live within political history even when they properly refuse to decide cases according to it.

There is another irony, and Philippine politics has lately become unusually rich in them. Every justice participating in the acquittal was appointed to the Supreme Court by Rodrigo Duterte. That circumstance proves no corruption and should prove none; the independence of a judge would mean little if every decision were assumed to belong permanently to the president who signed the appointment. Yet the fact acquires an almost literary quality now that the Marcos and Duterte houses have become enemies. The mother of the Marcos president has been acquitted by Duterte appointees while supporters of Duterte prepare to use the acquittal as evidence against the Marcos order.

One Duterte supporter supplied the argument with unusual economy, imagining “the anti-Marcos crowd, Kakampinks, Dilawans, and company, going apoplectic” over the judgment and wondering whether they might instead respect the Supreme Court because, after all, “Principles don’t depend on who wins, right?”

It is a clever taunt because its premise is correct. Constitutional principle cannot mean respecting courts only when courts injure one’s enemies. Due process does not become dispensable because the defendant’s surname is Marcos. Those who defended institutional independence when courts frustrated Rodrigo Duterte, or when legal processes protected his adversaries, cannot logically demand that those same institutions become instruments of historical vengeance when Imelda Marcos appears before them.

Yet a principle becomes interesting only after it is permitted to cross the aisle.

For the Duterte camp has lately developed its own elaborate vocabulary of necessity. The controversy over Vice President Sara Duterte’s confidential funds has repeatedly been met by arguments invoking national security, intelligence gathering, insurgent recruitment, communist subversion and the need to protect schools and state institutions from threats invisible to ordinary accounting. During her tenure at the Department of Education, the department itself justified confidential expenditures partly through threats involving terrorism, violent extremism and insurgent recruitment. The explanation supplied a familiar Philippine political doctrine: exceptional dangers require exceptional instruments.

That proposition is not absurd. Intelligence cannot be administered as though it were the purchase of blackboards. A government cannot publish the names of informants, operational targets and covert sources and still pretend to possess an intelligence service. Yet the secrecy of an expenditure cannot become an alibi for the expenditure. National security may explain why details cannot be made public; it cannot answer whether the money was lawfully spent, properly liquidated and actually used for the purpose claimed.

The anticipated gloating over the Marcos acquittal therefore aggravates a tension already running through the entire system. At one end stands a scandal as old as the Marcos restoration itself, sustained through decades of litigation until its legal foundations finally gave way. At the other stands the much fresher controversy over Duterte’s confidential funds, where another political camp asks that necessity and security be given their due weight. Between them has opened the flood-control scandal, with its ghost projects, inflated contracts, contractors, politicians, allegations of kickbacks and that almost grotesquely Philippine image of suitcases said to have been filled with cash and carried from one important address to another.

Former Ako Bicol representative Zaldy Co has become one of the central names in the flood-control investigations. The Ombudsman has pursued cases involving projects alleged to have been nonexistent or anomalous, while testimony and counter-testimony concerning cash deliveries have produced their own bewildering subplot of bodyguards, affidavits, recantations and accusations of fabricated testimony. The Sandiganbayan has also issued attachment orders over properties in a case involving Co, while an Anti-Money Laundering Council witness testified that hundreds of millions of pesos moved from a contractor to him. These remain matters for adjudication rather than editorial conviction, but their political meaning is already obvious: public works, appropriations, private contractors and political power have again become almost indistinguishable characters in the same national drama.

Martin Romualdez, too, now confronts serious flood-control allegations and a plunder case, which he denies. The details may ultimately establish guilt, innocence, partial responsibility or another long Philippine excursion through procedural uncertainty. But even before the courts finish their work, the spectacle has revealed the inadequacy of partisan morality. To say that Marcos corruption absolves Duterte corruption would be nonsense. To say that Duterte abuses somehow cleanse Marcos history would be equally absurd. To call Romualdez a crook, whether rhetorically or eventually by judicial finding, does not automatically make Zaldy Co innocent; and evidence against Co would not automatically make Romualdez guilty. Criminal responsibility remains individual even when political systems are collective.

This is precisely why the vulgarity beneath all the competing defenses begins to look remarkably similar. One faction says that the Marcos cases were politicized and poorly prosecuted. Another says confidential funds were necessary to protect the nation against subversion. Another says the flood-control accusations are inventions of rival political camps. Witnesses appear, disappear or recant. Documents become decisive and then questionable. Money is alleged to have traveled through foundations, confidential accounts, contractors or suitcases. Every camp develops an intricate jurisprudence of why its own scandal is complicated and the opponent’s scandal perfectly simple.

If one may ponder the matter, this is where the bullshitry becomes substantially the same, because the protagonists belong to the same system even when they occupy opposing wings of it.

The system does not require Marcos and Duterte to be friends. It does not require Romualdez and Co to remain allies. Indeed, political rivalry may be one of its normal operating mechanisms. Yesterday’s coalition becomes today’s prosecution witness; yesterday’s prosecutor becomes tomorrow’s defendant; yesterday’s defender of executive discretion discovers legislative oversight when another family reaches Malacañang. The factions may fight ferociously because they are competing for possession of the same state, not because they represent fundamentally different understandings of what that state should be.

This is why the familiar questions ought to be asked without partisan qualification. Just because Marcos is corrupt, whether as historical judgment or as an accusation in a particular case, does that make Duterte clean? Obviously not. Just because Romualdez may be implicated in wrongdoing does that establish the innocence of Zaldy Co? Of course not. Nor does a case against Co establish Romualdez’s guilt merely by association. The point is almost embarrassingly elementary, yet Philippine political argument repeatedly proceeds as though corruption were a championship in which proving that the opposing team cheated automatically awards moral innocence to one’s own.

The Marcos-Duterte quarrel has made this habit unusually visible. Each camp now rummages through the record of the other with the diligence it rarely displayed while they governed together. Duterte supporters rediscover the Swiss accounts, martial-law wealth and dynastic privilege. Marcos supporters rediscover confidential funds, drug-war accountability and the discretionary habits of the previous administration. Their researchers have become excellent. Their memories have improved. Their principles have acquired an admirable sharpness, provided the telescope remains pointed across the street.

The flood-control scandal widens the view because it refuses to fit neatly into either family mythology. Contractors, legislators, officials and intermediaries occupy a world older than the present Marcos-Duterte feud. The alleged cash-filled suitcases are almost too picturesque, a form of corruption imagery apparently designed by a novelist lacking confidence in subtlety. Yet even here caution is required: some witnesses who alleged such deliveries later recanted, others maintained allegations, and investigators themselves have at various moments questioned whether testimonial claims were sufficiently corroborated. The uncertainty does not diminish the need for investigation; it demonstrates why investigations must be competent enough to survive politics.

A republic therefore requires two propositions to remain true simultaneously. The accused must receive due process, whether named Marcos, Duterte, Romualdez or Co. And due process must not become the civilized vocabulary by which powerful people consume enough time to make accountability impossible. Confidentiality may protect legitimate intelligence operations, but it must not become invisibility. Evidentiary rules protect defendants from arbitrary conviction, but the State cannot invoke its own decades of incompetence as though they were acts of God.

Here Philippine history supplies an old and rather indecent epigraph.

In 1949, Senate President José Avelino was reported in the Manila Chronicle as protesting investigations ordered during the Quirino administration. The passage subsequently found its way into the Supreme Court reports in Avelino v. Cuenco, which preserved the extraordinary complaint: “Why did you have to order an investigation Honorable Mr. President? If you cannot permit abuses, you must at least tolerate them. What are we in power for?” Avelino continued by rejecting the pretense that politicians were saints or angels. Whatever the circumstances and disputes surrounding the episode, the phrase survived because it possessed the brutal efficiency of an accidental national motto.

“What are we in power for?” has outlived Avelino because it identifies something deeper than ordinary greed. It expresses the belief that political victory purchases not merely the temporary authority to govern but a zone of tolerance around those who possess power: appointments to distribute, contracts to influence, funds to classify, relatives to protect, investigations to encourage or discourage, and institutions whose independence is loudly proclaimed so long as their independence produces convenient results.

The modern politician is unlikely to speak as candidly as Avelino was reported to have spoken. Philippine political language has improved considerably since 1949. Abuse is now reform, patronage is assistance, discretion is flexibility, secrecy is national security, political protection is due process, and factional prosecution is accountability. The vocabulary is cleaner. The appetite is recognizably the same.

This is what connects a Swiss foundation from another political age to a confidential fund spent under a vice president, and both of them to a flood-control project that exists beautifully in government paperwork and less convincingly on the ground. The instruments differ because government itself has changed. The logic remains remarkably persistent: public authority creates opportunities; political affiliation arranges the defenses; and once scrutiny begins, every interested faction explains why its own circumstances are exceptional.

That is also why the Duterte supporter’s question deserves to be preserved rather than dismissed. “Principles don’t depend on who wins, right?” Quite so. The proposition should be accepted in full and then applied without mercy.

If the Supreme Court’s acquittal of Imelda Marcos must be respected because proof beyond reasonable doubt and evidentiary rules do not change according to political preference, then Sara Duterte’s confidential expenditures must likewise be subjected to the governing rules without assuming guilt merely because her enemies demand it. But if confidential funds require accountability notwithstanding claims of national-security necessity, Marcos partisans cannot suddenly treat documentary scrutiny as persecution when their own family history is examined. If Romualdez is entitled to challenge witnesses, affidavits and allegations against him, then Zaldy Co is entitled to the same protections. If evidence ultimately condemns one, it does not cleanse the other.

Principle, if it deserves the name, has no surname.

The real division is therefore not between a clean faction and a corrupt faction, because Philippine politics has rarely offered the electorate so charitable a choice. It is between an institutional order capable of investigating everyone according to durable rules and a political order in which accountability functions as a weapon periodically captured by whichever coalition possesses sufficient power to wield it.

Marcos and Duterte may today appear to be opposite wings. Romualdez and Co may become bitter antagonists. Their followers may spend the coming years cataloguing one another’s scandals and describing every unfavorable investigation as persecution. Yet from the distance at which history eventually views such quarrels, the resemblance may prove more significant than the differences. The wings beat against one another, but the bird remains airborne.

Avelino’s old question thus returns, stripped of its period costume and made respectable by modern bureaucratic vocabulary. What are they in power for? The answer supplied publicly will involve service, security, development, democracy and the national interest. The answer implied whenever accountability becomes selective is considerably older.

The tragedy of the Republic is not that it lacks laws against corruption. It possesses them abundantly. Nor does it lack investigators, auditors, courts, committees, commissions or righteous speeches. What it has lacked with depressing regularity is the ability to apply these instruments quickly, competently and without regard to political genealogy.

Until that changes, the acquittal of a Marcos, the confidential funds of a Duterte, the flood-control allegations surrounding a Romualdez or a Co, and whatever scandal succeeds them will continue to be debated as though each were an unprecedented moral emergency. They are not. They are recurring symptoms of an old constitutional illness whose most candid diagnosis may still have been uttered, or at least attributed, in 1949.

The country has spent three quarters of a century pretending to be shocked by the question.

It has spent rather less time answering it.