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, PWDs, 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.
Just as urgent is the public insistence that nominees must truly belong to the sectors they claim. This is not romanticism—it is common sense. A son of a farmer, my student, in Barotac Nuevo once told me he wanted representatives who knew the weight of a failed harvest, not just the vocabulary of one. His point mirrors what scholars like Hanna Pitkin, author of “The Concept of Representation,” argued decades ago: representation is strongest when lived experience and advocacy reinforce each other.
Transparency is another craving shared across communities. People want to know what their representatives filed, defended, or fought for. They want hearings attended, funds accounted for, and performance documented in ways ordinary people can understand. Groups like Mamamayang Liberal, Gabriela, ACT Teachers, Kabataan, Anakpawis, and Akbayan have offered visible legislative work, but others have become what teachers jokingly call “wallpaper congressmen”—present in designation, absent in contribution, suspect in corruption, and missing in execution. Democracy deserves more than placeholders.
Redundancy also frustrates voters. When five groups claim to speak for drivers or when multiple farmer blocs fight for the same votes, representation becomes splintered. Consolidation is not control; it is coherence. Teachers understand this intuitively. In class projects, we group students by common purpose because scattered voices rarely build something solid. Voters now seek the same logic in governance.
Even the framers of the Constitution, like Christian Monsod, have clarified that while the system was not meant to be exclusive to marginalized groups, it was always intended to deepen representation—not dilute it. The issue, he argues, is not the concept but the absence of firm anti-dynasty rules and poorly enforced guidelines. The Supreme Court’s Atong Paglaum decision widened eligibility, but it also created confusion that lawmakers never fully addressed. Reform—not demolition—is the remedy.
Senator Bam Aquino’s 2025 reform bill arrived at a time when the public was already articulating similar demands. The proposal—stronger screening, disqualification of nominees tied to incumbent officials, and community-vetted sectoral membership—echoes what many citizens have been calling for in consultations, classrooms, and barangay assemblies. Democracy strengthens not when everyone can run, but when those who do are genuinely rooted in the people they claim.
Where do we go from here? Reform requires political will, civic honesty, and patience. Teachers often tell students, “Show me your work, not your excuse.” Perhaps the same ethos must now guide policymakers. Representation must not be a theatrical role. It must be lived, demonstrated, checked, and renewed. If reforms succeed, faith in the system may finally grow again—not because it is perfect, but because it strives to be fair.
In the end, the party-list system does not need burial. It needs repair. It needs stronger filters, clearer rules, and representatives who approach public service the way good teachers approach their classrooms—with consistency, humility, and respect for the people before them. If citizens vote with both memory and conviction, the system can still fulfill its original purpose: opening the doors of Congress to those who were long kept waiting at the gate. That is the overhaul we owe to ourselves.
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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.
