THERE are political questions that skim the surface, and there are those that land heavily because they mirror what many of us have long felt. After a coffee break with former co-teachers, a fellow educator quietly asked why the party-list system now feels like a reunion of familiar surnames rather than a home for neglected sectors.
She said it lightly, but the tired half-smile on her face was something every teacher recognizes — the fatigue of explaining fairness to young people while the system itself refuses to practice it.
Her question followed me on the ride home. The mechanism meant to lift the margins had slowly become a shortcut for people who were never truly on the edges.
When the party-list system was introduced, its promise was simple: widen the halls of power for those who rarely got a seat. Farmers, workers, fisherfolk, persons with disability, women, senior citizens, youth, solo parents, LGBTQ++, indigenous peoples, caregivers, transport workers — those whose daily realities rarely reach the policy tables. It was supposed to be a political equalizer.
Yet decades later, studies such as Kontra Daya’s 2025 report reveal that 86 of 156 accredited groups had ties to business interests or political clans. For teachers who try to instill civic ethics in their students, this number is not just concerning — it is disheartening.
The proof is scattered across past elections.
DUMPER PTDA, supposedly for taxi drivers, ended up tied to a powerful provincial family.
Agimat PL leaned on the Revilla name while claiming to represent workers.
Duterte Youth spent years entangled in legal disputes over misrepresentation.
Long before them, groups like 1-PACMAN raised eyebrows over corporate connections.
These are not isolated scandals; they reveal what happens when weak rules meet strong incentives. Left unattended, loopholes do not stay small — they learn to grow.
Yet, in conversations with teachers, fisherfolk, student leaders, and health workers, the call is not to abolish the system. People still believe it can work — if we remove those who treat it as a backstage entrance to Congress.
Public sentiment shows frustration, yes, but not resignation. Many say abolition risks muting the very voices the Constitution wanted to amplify. As one young organizer told me, the system is not broken; it has been borrowed by those who never needed it. What people want returned is ownership.
The loudest reform proposal is stricter screening. Communities now insist on actual proof of sectoral work, living membership, and advocacy that did not begin only when campaign materials were printed. It is similar to what teachers call authentic assessment: show your work, not just your slogan. A group with no grassroots presence is like a student who turns in a project without learning anything—impressive on the surface, hollow underneath.
Defining “marginalized” more clearly is another major demand. The Constitution left the term wide, which allowed bad-faith interpretations. People now ask for measurable criteria — income ranges, community vulnerability, occupational risks, cultural exclusion.
One mother from an informal settlement in Jaro put it plainly during a community workshop: “Kun klaro sa layi kon sin-o kami, mas mahapos kami maprotektahan (If the law is clear about who we are, it becomes easier to protect us).” Clarity is not bureaucracy. It is respect. (To be continued)/PN
