The presidency we missed

There is a quiet kind of regret that visits after every election. It does not shout. It does not trend. It lingers—in jeepney rides where drivers talk politics between fares, in faculty lounges where teachers shake their heads, in family dinners where someone says, “Sayang.” It is the regret of realizing that the names we now praise as “the best presidents we never had” were once not legends, not hashtags, not framed portraits—but choices. Real, breathing, thinking candidates on a ballot we held in our hands. And somehow, again and again, we let them pass.

We like to romanticize these names now. Ninoy Aquino, Raul Roco, Miriam Defensor Santiago, Claro M. Recto, Jose W. Diokno, Jovito Salonga, Arsenio Lacson, Jesse Robredo, Leni Robredo. We say they were brilliant, principled, visionary. We say they were ahead of their time. But perhaps the harder truth is this: they were not ahead of their time—we were behind. Behind in how we weigh competence. Behind in how we filter truth from noise. Behind in choosing leaders not by spectacle, surname, or short-term gain, but by substance, record, and moral courage.

Take Ninoy Aquino. Before he became a martyr, he was already a formidable public servant—mayor at 22, governor, then senator who challenged a sitting strongman when it was neither safe nor convenient. He had political instincts sharpened by both power and sacrifice. There’s a quiet truth in how people began to value him more only after he was gone. While he lived, he was part of the everyday political landscape—noticed, but not always fully appreciated. But when he was no longer around, the sense of what we lost became clearer. We never saw him lead as president—not just because events cut his path short, but because even then, leaders like him were often easier to admire than to actually entrust with power.

Then there is Raul Roco—the kind of leader who made you believe government could actually work. He pushed reforms, cleaned systems, and treated public service with seriousness. He was not loud, but he was steady. He did not perform, but he delivered. Yet he lost—twice. Not because he lacked capability, but because in a system drawn to personality, quiet leadership can feel invisible.

Miriam Defensor Santiago was the opposite—brilliant, sharp, and commanding. She could challenge anyone and leave no room for weak thinking. Many believed she came close in 1992, but did not make it. Her story reminds us that admiration does not always lead to trust.

Claro M. Recto carried a different kind of strength—the strength of thought. He helped build the Constitution, defended national dignity, and challenged dependence. He was not trying to be popular. He was trying to be right. But being right does not always win votes. Recto asked for depth in a system that often rewards simplicity.

Jose W. Diokno and Jovito Salonga showed what leadership grounded in principle looks like. Diokno stood firm when others stayed silent. Salonga rebuilt institutions when trust was broken. Both were respected. But respect is not always enough to win. On the other hand, Arsenio Lacson showed urgency. He acted, enforced, and led with presence. People saw in him a leader who could move the nation. But his story ended too soon—reminding us that not all lost leaders are lost at the ballot.

Jesse Robredo and Leni Robredo bring the lesson painfully close to our time. Jesse transformed Naga through transparency, participation, and disciplined governance. He proved that local leadership, when done right, can ripple nationally. His death froze him in promise—a leader rising, unfinished. Leni, on the other hand, was given the chance to be tested nationally. As vice president, she showed what limited resources, when paired with integrity and organization, could do. Her work was there, not hidden, not imagined. Angat Buhay, pandemic efforts, clean audits—these were things people could verify, not just believe. They were not promises waiting to happen. They had already happened. And still, in 2022, she lost. Not because she lacked the ability, but because ability had to compete with things far stronger in elections—stories people were already comfortable believing, networks that quietly delivered votes, online spaces that boxed people into their own truths, money that spoke louder than principles, softened memories of the past, and emotions that often decided faster than facts.

And in the end, the story returns to the one part we often avoid: the voter.

Because let us be honest. These leaders did not simply “lose.” They were not chosen, others were not listened to. And that distinction matters. Some votes were sold—for money, for favors, for survival. Others were given away casually—without research, without reflection, without responsibility. Many were shaped by noise: viral posts, catchy slogans, familiar names. And some were cast out of habit—the same families, the same patterns, the same disappointments recycled every cycle.

But here is the harder truth we rarely say out loud: democracy does not only fail because of bad leaders. It fails when good voters become lazy voters. When thinking is replaced by feeling. When scrutiny is replaced by loyalty. When we spend more time choosing a phone than choosing a president.

Because choosing a leader is not a moment. It is a process. It asks us to read, to listen, to compare, to doubt, to verify, to discern. It asks us to go beyond what is easy and reach for what is right. And when we do not do that work, we do not just risk a bad election—we guarantee it.

That is why the phrase “best president we never had” should not comfort us. It should disturb us.

It should remind us that many of these leaders were not hidden. They were visible. They spoke. They worked. They offered something better. And we—collectively—chose otherwise. Not once, but repeatedly.

Because the real tragedy is not that we lacked good options. The real tragedy is that we had them—and still let them slip through our fingers.

And if we are not careful, if we do not change how we choose, how we think, how we value leadership, we will keep writing the same story. Different names. Same regret.

We will keep telling our children about leaders who could have been. And they, in turn, might inherit not just our kind of democracy—but our habit of choosing wrong.

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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.