Symbolic Wins, Systemic Questions

The election of three women to Iloilo City’s highest elective posts—mayor, vice mayor, and congressional representative—is undeniably historic. For the first time in the city’s political history, women will simultaneously hold the three most powerful positions. It is a moment that deserves recognition, even celebration. But as the confetti settles, a more sobering question must be asked: Is this genuine progress toward equality, or just a familiar script with new faces?

Raisa Treñas-Chu’s decisive victory in the mayoralty, along with Lady Julie Grace “Love-Love” Baronda’s win as vice mayor and Julienne “Jam-Jam” Baronda’s reelection to Congress, represents a breakthrough in gender representation. That all three top posts will now be held by women is significant in a patriarchal political system that has, for generations, favored men in power.

Yet, symbolic milestones are not always structural transformations. Two of these women come from entrenched political families. Treñas-Chu, the daughter of outgoing Mayor Jerry Treñas, is inheriting a political seat her father held for over 15 years. Jam Baronda, meanwhile, is herself part of a known political clan and is now on her third and final term. Love-Love Baronda, though relatively more independent, still benefited from powerful campaign endorsements, including the influential Iglesia ni Cristo bloc vote.

These details cannot be ignored. While the candidates are women, the mechanics of their victories closely resemble those of traditional Philippine politics: reliance on dynastic continuity, patronage networks, name recall, and the support of established power blocs. In short, they won through the same systems that historically shut most women—and men without means—out of the political arena.

Yes, women won. But could any woman have?

This is where the celebration meets its limits. Political representation means little if it is not accompanied by political equity. A woman from a poor barangay, a community organizer with strong grassroots ties, or a young professional with no famous last name would still face nearly insurmountable odds if she aspired to the same positions. Electoral participation remains unequal, tilted in favor of those with resources, networks, and legacy.

This moment, then, must not be mistaken for a definitive shift toward gender-inclusive democracy. If anything, it highlights the urgent need to distinguish between representation and redistribution—between putting women in power and making power truly accessible to more women.

It also compels us to rethink the way we frame women in leadership. Much has been said about women being “nurturing,” “meticulous,” or “motherly” in politics. Even Treñas-Chu referred to herself as “a mother to Iloilo City,” echoing the familiar trope that women lead like they parent. While such narratives can be comforting, they can also be confining. Leadership—whether by a man or a woman—requires competence, vision, and accountability. We should resist the urge to soften or romanticize women’s victories with gendered expectations that shield them from scrutiny.

Equality does not mean treating women in power with deference or immunity. It means holding them to the same, if not higher, standards of public service and governance. That includes interrogating their policies, decisions, appointments, and use of public funds. It means demanding transparency, inclusivity, and reform—not simply basking in the novelty of their gender.

In this context, Iloilo City has an opportunity not just to mark a first, but to model a future.

The election of women to the city’s top posts should open the door to deeper questions: Will this new leadership prioritize issues affecting women and the marginalized—healthcare, childcare, reproductive rights, job security, and inclusive urban planning? Will it engage more women in governance beyond symbolic appointments or token participation in committees? Will it break the cycle of patronage politics or reinforce it under a new banner?

Real progress would mean reshaping the structures that made these women’s victories exceptional in the first place. It means pushing for campaign finance reform, public funding for candidates, and stronger party-list systems that allow non-dynastic and sectoral voices to emerge. It also means investing in education, civic engagement, and political training for young women—especially those from low-income backgrounds.

True inclusion is not about replacing male dominance with female dominance. It’s about creating a political culture where leadership reflects the full diversity of the community—regardless of gender, surname, income, or connections.

As such, the challenge for Raisa Treñas-Chu, Jam Baronda, and Love-Love Baronda is not merely to prove that women can lead. That argument has long been settled. The real test is whether they will govern differently—not just in tone, but in substance. Will they open the door wider for others, or close it behind them?

Their tenure could mark a transformative chapter in Iloilo City politics. But only if they refuse to play by the old rules. Only if they recognize that genuine equality is not just about being in the room—but about rebuilding the room altogether.

Because true political progress is not when a few women rise, but when every woman—and every Ilonggo—has a fair chance to lead.