Dynasties bill loophole

By Herman M. Lagon

A few days ago, while having coffee with friends, somebody cracked a joke that drew more laughter than it probably deserved.

“If political dynasties are the ones writing the anti-dynasty law, that is like asking mosquitoes to draft anti-dengue measures.”

Everyone laughed. Then everyone paused. Because some jokes are funny for uncomfortable reasons.

Last week, the House finally passed an Anti-Political Dynasty Bill. The Constitution had waited 38 years for it. That is long enough for children to become parents and parents to become grandparents—while many political surnames remained exactly where they started.

So when Congress finally acted, many expected a moment worth celebrating. Instead, it sparked another debate. The reason is simple. Many critics are asking whether the bill truly limits political dynasties—or merely teaches them how to stay in power legally.

That question hits close to home because dynasties are not abstract concepts for most Filipinos. They are familiar faces. They are names painted on waiting sheds, basketball courts, covered gyms, scholarships, ambulances, and tarpaulins. In many towns, cities, provinces, and regions, children grow up seeing the same family name on campaign posters from elementary school to adulthood. The position changes. The surname does not. In some places, people joke that campaign posters no longer need photographs. The surname alone is enough. Everyone already knows the rest of the story.

The father becomes governor. The son becomes congressman. The daughter becomes mayor. The spouse runs next. Then the cycle repeats.  Some communities joke that local elections resemble family reunions with ballot boxes. The joke is funny because it feels true.

To be fair, not every political family is a problem. Anybody who has lived long enough knows that reality is more complicated than social media slogans. Some political clans have produced competent, hardworking, and genuinely effective leaders. Some areas have improved under families whose members continued programs that worked. Stability has value. Continuity can sometimes help long-term projects survive beyond a single term.

The issue is not whether good people can come from political families. Of course they can. The issue is what happens when access to public office becomes concentrated within a few surnames for so long that competition begins to shrink.

That concern is not merely emotional. It is not even new. Mendoza, Beja, Venida, and Yap (2012) found that stronger dynasties often coincided with higher poverty, while Querubin (2016) observed that entrenched political families can make it harder for new leaders to emerge.

The conversation became even more compelling when Mendoza, Jaminola, and Yap (2019) introduced the idea of “fat dynasties”—situations where several members of the same family simultaneously occupy elective positions. Their Ateneo School of Government research found that these dynasties had become increasingly common across the country, with more than 80 percent of provincial governors at the time belonging to such political networks. The researchers also argued that term limits, without a corresponding anti-dynasty law, may have unintentionally encouraged political families to field more relatives rather than surrender influence.

None of these studies categorically suggest that every political family governs poorly. Some have served their communities well. At some point, the issue stops being about dynasties and starts becoming about opportunity.

Across the country are ordinary Filipinos already doing extraordinary things. There is a teacher mentoring children long after class ends. There is a young leader helping solve community problems without cameras or fanfare. There is a fisherfolk advocate standing up for livelihoods and local waters. They may have fresh ideas and genuine public spirit. Yet when elections come, they often discover that the hardest battle is not winning votes. It is finding a way into a system where the doors have long been occupied by familiar names. The challenge is no longer simply winning votes. It is overcoming a surname that has become an institution.

Teachers understand this instinctively.

Imagine running a classroom election where the same family wins every year, regardless of who else joins the race. Eventually students begin asking questions. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not immediately. But they ask. “Sir, is it really an election if the result feels predetermined?” Most teachers would understand the discomfort behind that question. Students quickly recognize the difference between a fair contest and one where the outcome appears decided before the race even begins.

That question captures the heart of the debate. What troubles many reform advocates is not simply what House Bill No. 8389 prohibits. It is what it allows.

The measure restricts certain relatives—generally those within the second degree of relationship—from simultaneously occupying specific positions in certain situations. At first glance, that sounds substantial. But critics quickly pointed out that many relatives remain outside the restriction. Cousins remain available. Nephews remain available. Nieces remain available. In-laws remain available. Extended family networks remain largely untouched. A family prevented from fielding a sibling may simply turn to a cousin. A cousin may be followed by a nephew. A nephew may be replaced by an in-law. The faces change. The network remains.

For critics such as Akbayan’s Chel Diokno, Mamamayang Liberal’s Leila de Lima, and several members of the Makabayan bloc, that distinction matters enormously because political influence rarely stops at the front door of a household.

Power, after all, tends to travel through entire family networks. And that is precisely where many critics believe the bill falls short.

That is why some observers walked away unconvinced. The broader restrictions did not survive, and many of the familiar routes remain open. For them, the issue is simple: A law against dynasties should do more than rearrange them.

This bill, critics argue, seems more interested in defining the conditions under which dynastic power may continue. That may sound harsh. But it explains why so many reacted with skepticism instead of celebration.

To be fair, others see the measure differently. They argue that an imperfect reform is still better than none and that any restriction is a step forward after decades of legislative inaction. That perspective deserves consideration. Yet it also explains why expectations became so high.

After all, thirty-eight years is a very long wait. When people wait that long for reform, they expect more than a symbolic gesture. They expect something that actually changes the landscape.

And maybe that is why this debate matters beyond politics. At its core, the discussion is really about opportunity.

It is about whether a young teacher, social worker, entrepreneur, farmer, fisherfolk leader, or community volunteer with no famous surname can realistically dream of public office and believe they have a fighting chance.

Because democracy is healthiest when leadership remains open to talent, ideas, and service—not merely inheritance.

Thirty-eight years after the Constitution called for action, Congress has finally moved. The question now is whether it opened more doors for aspiring leaders—or merely rearranged the furniture while keeping the same families inside the room.

Because democracy works best when leadership is earned through trust, service, and ideas—not handed down like a family heirloom. Public office was never meant to be inherited. It was meant to be entrusted.

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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.