By Herman M. Lagon
Election season in the Philippines has a familiar rhythm. Tarpaulins rise before the rain clouds do, surnames grow larger than platforms, and campaign jingles recycle promises that sound generous but feel oddly hollow. In many provinces, the choices look different only on paper. The same families rotate seats, swap positions and rebrand their names as if public office were a family business passed down with land titles and old grudges. What makes this harder to ignore now is not just the persistence of political dynasties, but their sheer size. Some have grown so dominant, so deeply rooted across local and national posts, that they crowd out competition the way an unchecked monopoly crowds out a market. This is the quiet problem the Anti-Dynasty Bill tries to address, not as punishment, but as correction.
Political dynasties are not new, and not all family names in politics are automatically harmful. The deeper issue is accumulation. Studies by Mendoza, Beja, Venida, and Yap (2012) showed that provinces dominated by dynasties tend to have higher poverty rates and weaker development outcomes. Later research by Querubin (2016) reinforced this pattern, linking dynastic concentration to reduced political competition and limited accountability. When one family controls the mayoralty, the vice mayoralty, congressional seat, and key provincial posts, politics stops behaving like public service and starts behaving like inheritance. The problem is not talent running in families. It is power refusing to circulate.
Teachers see this early. In civics classes, students ask why elections feel predetermined in their hometowns. In social studies discussions, they struggle to explain how democracy thrives when choice is more symbolic than real. Parents feel it too, especially when disaster funds disappear, roads remain half-finished, flood control projects are substandard, and the same surnames appear in every ribbon-cutting photo. These are not abstract complaints. They come from lived repetition. When the same families dominate budgets, contracts and enforcement for decades, mistakes are forgiven, questions are softened, and consequences are postponed indefinitely. That is how political power becomes obese: Not from excess weight alone, but from the absence of limits.
The Anti-Dynasty Bill, long promised in the 1987 Constitution but repeatedly stalled, does not ban families from public life. It simply draws boundaries. It recognizes that proximity to power, when unchecked, creates unfair advantages that no amount of personal virtue can fully neutralize. International experience supports this logic. In democracies with strong anti-nepotism and conflict-of-interest rules, political competition tends to be healthier, and leadership pipelines more diverse (Dal Bó, Dal Bó and Snyder, 2009). The aim is not to shame families, but to protect institutions from capture. Public office is not private property. It is a trust that works best when shared.
What often gets lost in the debate is how dynasties affect everyday governance. In dynasty-heavy areas, oversight bodies hesitate, local media self-censors, and civil servants learn to read surnames before rules. Promotions become political, and silence becomes a survival skill. Over time, this shapes a culture where loyalty matters more than competence. Even well-intentioned officials struggle in such environments because systems bend toward preservation, not performance. The Anti-Dynasty Bill interrupts this cycle by forcing political families to pause, step back and allow new voices to enter. That pause matters more than any single election upset.
Critics argue that voters should decide and, in theory, that sounds reasonable. In practice, dynasties tilt the playing field long before ballots are cast. They control name recall, local machinery, donor networks, and often, local narratives. A first-time candidate without a famous surname competes not just against an individual, but against decades of accumulated advantage. This is not pure choice. It is structured inequality wearing democratic clothing. Regulation exists precisely for moments like this, when freedom without guardrails benefits only those already ahead.
There is also a moral fatigue setting in. Many Filipinos are not angry; they are tired. Tired of watching accountability stall, tired of seeing public positions treated like heirlooms, tired of being told that change must always wait its turn. Supporting the Anti-Dynasty Bill is less about moral outrage and more about civic hygiene. It is about clearing space, so governance can breathe again. Just as healthy systems require rest, rotation and renewal, political life needs intervals where power steps aside and allows others to serve.
For educators, this issue cuts close. Schools are where ideas of fairness, effort and shared responsibility are taught. When students grow up seeing leadership inherited rather than earned, lessons about merit feel theoretical. Passing an Anti-Dynasty law aligns governance with what classrooms already teach: that no one owns authority, that leadership is temporary, and that systems must outlast personalities. This is not ideological. It is practical. It strengthens trust, especially among the young, who increasingly demand coherence between values taught and values practiced.
None of this denies that some political families have served well. The bill does not erase that history. It simply says that good governance should not depend on lineage. Service can resume after a pause. Influence can survive without constant occupation of office. In fact, families confident in their contribution should welcome limits, because limits protect legacies from stagnation. Power that circulates stays legitimate. Power that hoards eventually weakens itself.
And so, the Anti-Dynasty Bill is less about exclusion than balance. It asks the country to place public interest ahead of private continuity. It nudges politics back toward its original purpose: solving shared problems, not securing family permanence. Democracies do not collapse because of disagreement; they erode when power stops moving. If our country is serious about deepening its democracy, trimming political obesity is not radical. It is responsible. Sometimes, the most life-giving reform is simply making room for others to stand, serve, and be counted.
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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with./WDJ