The Power of Eleven

By Herman M. Lagon

There was something almost cinematic about that Senate walkout Tuesday night. Not cinematic in the polished Netflix sense, but in the very Filipino way where tension, absurdity, humor, and constitutional crisis somehow end up sharing the same cramped jeepney ride. One moment senators were debating a proposal to allow remote participation in Senate sessions. The next moment, members of the minority bloc began standing up one by one and walking out of the plenary hall. Then came the scene many people replayed online afterward: Tito Sotto, left nearly alone on the minority side, calmly reminding the chamber that without quorum, there could be no vote. Motion to adjourn. Not debatable. Session over. Somewhere between parliamentary procedure and dry wit, the veteran “comedian” outmaneuvered lawyers, political tacticians, and a majority that appeared convinced numbers alone could bulldoze process. For many watching online, it felt less like a Senate session and more like a chess match where one old player quietly waited for everyone else to overextend before saying checkmate.

What made the moment resonate was not merely the drama. We have seen louder political spectacles. We survived fistfights in Congress, cursing press conferences, and election campaigns that often feel like reality television with public funds. What unsettled many people was the growing suspicion that the rules themselves were being bent midgame. The proposed amendment allowing senators to participate and vote remotely under “justifiable reasons” might sound harmless at first glance. After all, ordinary workers attend Zoom meetings daily. Teachers conduct online classes during storms. Students defend theses through Google Meet. Technology is not the villain here. But politics is rarely judged only by legality. Timing matters. Intent matters. Process matters. And many people could not ignore the timing: reports of possible arrests, an impeachment cloud hanging over national politics, and senators potentially unable—or unwilling—to physically appear in the chamber. Suddenly, the phrase “justifiable reasons” stopped sounding administrative and started sounding elastic.

One reason the issue hit a nerve is because we all understand fairness instinctively, even without law degrees. Ask any public school teacher handling classroom elections. The fastest way to trigger student complaints is not necessarily cheating itself, but changing the rules while voting is already happening. “Ma’am, hindi po fair.” That sentence carries more democratic wisdom than many policy papers. The Senate minority’s objection was fundamentally about that feeling. Senator Kiko Pangilinan questioned why the proposal was being rushed. Senator Ping Lacson pointed out that the Committee on Rules had not even been properly constituted. Senator Risa Hontiveros challenged the procedure. Senator Migz Zubiri called it a “travesty.” Whether one agrees with them or not, their protest reflected a larger anxiety many citizens already carry: that institutions increasingly look flexible for the powerful and rigid for everyone else.

Then came Senator Rodante Marcoleta’s remark implying that legal discussions become difficult when people “do not have legal backgrounds.” The statement immediately stirred murmurs in the plenary. Senator Erwin Tulfo quickly flagged it as ad hominem. That moment mattered more than some politicians probably realized. Many are tired of debates where arguments are replaced by credential flexing. The public reaction online was telling. People were not necessarily rejecting expertise; they were rejecting the implication that ordinary citizens—or lawmakers without legal training—should somehow sit quietly when constitutional or democratic questions arise. In truth, our democracy has always depended not only on lawyers, but also on journalists, teachers, activists, economists, health workers, and ordinary citizens willing to ask uncomfortable questions. One does not need to be a mechanic to know when smoke is coming out of the engine.

The irony, of course, is that the “comedian” became the night’s procedural assassin. Tito Sotto has long been mocked by critics as an entertainer who wandered into governance. Yet during that tense session, he demonstrated something increasingly rare in modern politics: institutional memory. While others argued emotionally, he understood the rules deeply enough to know precisely when the majority had already lost control of the room. It was almost poetic. The man dismissed for decades as merely a TV personality ended up defending Senate procedure against a chamber filled with lawyers and veteran politicians. Somewhere there is a lesson there about underestimating people because of labels. We often do this. We mock teachers until we need them during literacy crises. We dismiss scientists until typhoons arrive. We laugh at old politicians until younger ones forget how institutions actually work.

The larger concern goes beyond personalities. The real danger is the gradual normalization of absentee governance. Imagine an impeachment trial conducted partly through floating Zoom boxes on a screen. Imagine senators voting on a national security treaty while physically hidden from public view. “Present, Mr. President.” Present where exactly? Hotel room? Private residence? Another country? Is someone coaching off-camera? Is there pressure outside the frame? These questions sound dramatic until one remembers that trust in institutions depends heavily on visibility. Democracies are sustained not only by votes, but by public confidence in how those votes are cast. Political scientist Bernard Manin once argued that representative government relies heavily on public scrutiny and visibility. When it weakens, suspicion naturally grows. In a country already exhausted by corruption scandals and political theatrics, blurred accountability feels dangerous.

That exhaustion is important context. Many no longer react to political controversies with pure outrage. They react with weary humor. Memes flooded social media almost immediately after the walkout. Some joked that the Senate was becoming a group chat with voting powers. Others compared the proposed setup to students asking permission to join class remotely while secretly at the beach. Beneath the jokes, though, was genuine frustration. Teachers dealing with overloaded classrooms, jeepney drivers battling fuel prices, nurses enduring impossible shifts, and employees surviving paycheck-to-paycheck are constantly required to physically show up. If ordinary workers can lose salaries for absence, many wonder why senators should exercise sovereign power remotely under vague standards. The issue stops being technological and becomes symbolic: must accountability still show its face?

There is also the uncomfortable political backdrop nobody wanted to say too loudly but everyone understood anyway. The minority repeatedly questioned whether the rule change was designed partly for senators facing possible legal troubles or for Senator Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa, who has remained controversial due to the ICC situation. Senator Erwin Tulfo openly raised the possibility on the floor. Senator Pangilinan bluntly asked if the proposal was for Bato. These are serious insinuations, and fairness requires caution. Suspicion alone is not proof. Still, perception matters enormously in politics. Democratic institutions may weaken not only through overt abuse of power, but also when the public perceives that rules are being manipulated for partisan or political survival (Levitsky & Ziblatt, 2018). Once citizens begin seeing institutions as adjustable shields for allies, trust becomes difficult to rebuild.

Curiously, the walkout also revived an older conversation about what the Senate used to represent. Many of us online and offline began invoking names like Diokno, Salonga, Roco, Drilon, Santiago, Tañada, Recto, Flavier, Aquino, and Arroyo—not because the past was perfect, but because there was once a stronger expectation that Senate debates involved intellectual rigor and procedural seriousness. UP Visayas Chancellor Clement Camposano recently argued that the Senate’s nationally elected structure incentivizes permanent campaigning and spectacle over statesmanship. He has a point. Senators today survive through visibility. Viral clips matter. Sound bites matter. Algorithm-friendly outrage matters. Quiet competence rarely trends. That reality partly explains why moments like the recent walkout feel both theatrical and deeply consequential at the same time. Politics has become performance, but performance still shapes real institutions.

To be fair, the majority bloc also has arguments worth hearing. Remote participation is not inherently undemocratic. During emergencies like pandemics, natural disasters, or medical crises, technology can preserve continuity of governance. Businesses, schools, and even courts around the world adapted remote systems during COVID-19. The Senate cannot pretend digital tools do not exist. Some critics of the walkout argued that true debate should have continued inside the chamber rather than through symbolic exits. Others viewed the minority’s move as political theater too. That criticism deserves acknowledgment. Democracies become unhealthy when every procedural disagreement instantly transforms into apocalypse rhetoric. Not every rule change is authoritarian. Not every majority vote is tyranny. Calm analysis still matters.

Still, the image that lingers is difficult to shake: eleven senators walking out, leaving twelve suddenly unable to move. The mathematics itself became symbolic. In basketball-loving Philippines, people often assume bigger numbers automatically win games. But experienced coaches know momentum, timing, and discipline matter just as much as raw size. That night, the minority reminded the country that institutions are not sustained merely by numerical dominance. Procedure matters. Debate matters. Presence matters. Sometimes slowing things down is itself an act of democratic defense.

And perhaps that explains why many ordinary Filipinos unexpectedly sided with the walkout, even those who do not necessarily support every senator involved. Deep down, people are not only asking whether online voting should be allowed. They are asking something more personal: when power becomes uncomfortable, will our leaders still show up physically, publicly, and fully accountable? Or will democracy slowly become another floating square on a screen—camera on, conscience muted, accountability buffering?

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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 that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.