By Herman M. Lagon

A few nights ago, I posted a question online that sounded half-sarcastic, half-exhausted: “What do you call a person who, after everything is said and done, will still vote for and defend the corrupt, the slothful, the gasbag, the inept, the vile, the crass, the trapo, the greedy, the prig, and/or the fraud?” I expected a few witty reactions, and perhaps some memes. Instead, the comment section became a miniature portrait of the Filipino political psyche. Some answered “DDS.” Others wrote “bobotante,” “apologist,” “cultist,” “enabler,” “asinine,” “8080,” “subhuman,” “tanga,” “walang kaluluwa,” “successfully indoctrinated,” “hopeless,” or simply “poop.” One even quoted Winston Churchill’s famous jab about democracy and the average voter. The replies were funny, harsh, creative, sometimes disturbing, and honestly revealing. Beneath the insults sat something deeper: fatigue. Many are simply tired. Tired of recycled surnames, tired of fake outrage, tired of hearing “para sa mahirap” from politicians whose watches cost more than a teacher’s yearly salary.

The easy temptation, of course, is to stop at ridicule. Social media thrives on humiliation. One wrong political opinion and suddenly a person becomes “bobo,” “bayaran,” “moron,” or “Dutertard.” It feels satisfying for five seconds. Then nothing changes. The voter remains unconvinced, the divide deepens, and everyone retreats back into their algorithmic bunker. Political discussions now resemble basketball fandom more than civic engagement. People defend politicians the way die-hard fans defend a struggling import in the PBA: statistics no longer matter because identity already entered the room. Once politics becomes personal identity, criticism feels like an insult. Research in Political Psychology supports this, showing that highly partisan individuals often process political information emotionally before rationally (Goldsmith & Moen, 2024). In simpler terms, many people no longer ask, “Is this true?” They ask, “Is this against my side?”

Teachers see this dynamic quietly unfold every day. A student repeats a fake TikTok claim with full confidence because it already received 100,000 likes. A parent dismisses verified information because “mas gasalig pa ko sa vloggers.” A faculty room discussion about elections suddenly turns tense because someone mentioned a surname that has become almost sacred or demonic, depending on who is listening. Sometimes it is not ignorance at all. Sometimes it is emotional investment hardened over years. The late psychologist Daniel Kahneman once argued that humans often think fast emotionally before thinking slowly and critically. Our local and national elections reveal this beautifully and painfully at the same time.

Yet calling voters “bobotante” often misses the complicated reality behind many political choices. Social scientist Eric Gutierrez correctly pointed out that the term has become a politics of humiliation rather than understanding. A farmer accepting ayuda before elections may not be stupid. A tricycle driver voting for the politician who paid for his child’s hospitalization may not be irrational from his perspective. A market vendor supporting a familiar dynasty may simply distrust every alternative presented to her. Poverty reshapes political choices. Patronage reshapes them further. When institutions fail consistently, people cling to personalities because systems have stopped feeling reliable. That does not excuse corruption. But it explains why emotional loyalty survives despite repeated disappointment.

This is where some middle-class conversations about politics become disconnected from reality. Some professionals talk about elections as though every voter has the luxury of spending evenings reading policy papers between coffee runs at Starbucks. Most do not. They are commuting for three hours, stretching budgets, surviving inflation, and trying to avoid another electric bill shock. Political information is absorbed in fragments: Facebook reels during lunch break, YouTube commentaries while cooking dinner, rumors from neighbors, and TikTok edits with dramatic background music. In that environment, certainty spreads faster than nuance. Propaganda succeeds not because people are inherently foolish, but because modern disinformation is emotionally efficient.

Social media made this worse. Before, political echo chambers required physical spaces. Today, one only needs a smartphone. Algorithms reward outrage, certainty, and mockery. Calm analysis dies quietly beside dancing campaign jingles and manipulated clips. A 2021 Rappler investigation documented how coordinated networks amplified false narratives during elections. Meanwhile, researchers like Cialdini (2022) have shown how repeated exposure inside digital echo chambers reinforces loyalty and tribal thinking. After hearing the same narrative long enough, even absurd claims begin sounding familiar. Familiarity then masquerades as truth. That is why some people can watch a corruption scandal unfold in high definition and still say, “At least may nagawa.”

Ironically, intelligence alone does not protect anyone from political fanaticism. One of the most uncomfortable truths in public life is that educated people can also become fiercely irrational when ego, tribe, or ambition enters the conversation. I wrote previously about the Greek concept of amathia — not lack of intelligence, but refusal to confront truth even when it is already obvious. One sees this during Senate hearings where eloquent officials spend 15 minutes speaking without answering one direct question. One also sees it online when highly educated supporters twist themselves into intellectual yoga routines just to defend a politician’s indefensible behavior. Intelligence can illuminate truth, yes, but it can also become an elegant weapon for avoiding it.

Still, it would be unfair to pretend only one political camp suffers from blind loyalty. Every faction has its saints, its devils, and its selective memory. Some excuse corruption because “our side did worse before.” Others suddenly discover morality only when the opposing camp is involved. Philippine politics has become emotionally symmetrical in many ways. Different colors, same habits. One side weaponizes nationalism. Another weaponizes moral superiority. Both sometimes reduce complex social problems into hashtags and slogans. Somewhere in between sits the exhausted ordinary Filipino who just wants lower prices, decent health care, flood-free streets, accessible quality education, and leaders who do not embarrass the country every week.

What fascinated me most about the responses to my post was how the different LLMs answered almost like mirrors of human society. Gemini sounded clinical and analytical. Claude leaned philosophical. ChatGPT tried balancing empathy with critique. Perplexity became concise and practical. Grammarly behaved like the calm English teacher in class. Meta AI drifted toward social commentary. Even artificial intelligence seems to understand that there is no single word for voters who defend deeply flawed politicians. “Apologist,” “fanatic,” “tribalist,” “enabler,” “partisan,” “true believer,” “hostage of propaganda” — each captures only one slice of a very human condition. The frightening part is not that people disagree. Democracy expects disagreement. The frightening part is when people stop listening entirely.

Ateneo and PIDS studies on voter behavior repeatedly show that political choices are shaped not only by education, but also by identity, economic insecurity, family influence, emotional narratives, and perceived survival needs. UP Professor John Molo, writing during the 2021 elections, argued that persuasion works better than humiliation because people rarely change when they feel attacked. That insight matters. Teachers know this instinctively. A student shamed in class rarely learns better afterward. The same applies to voters. If conversations begin with “bobo ka kasi,” dialogue already died before it started. Listening does not mean surrendering principles. It simply means understanding why people think the way they do before trying to change minds.

Perhaps that is the deeper discomfort behind the entire thread. The question was never really about what to call these voters. Deep down, many of us already know the labels. The harder question is why the system keeps producing this kind of politics repeatedly. Why does corruption remain electable? Why does celebrity still overpower competence? Why do political dynasties survive every scandal? Why do emotionally charged speeches often outperform detailed policy plans? Those questions are less satisfying than memes because they force everyone, including intellectuals, educators, journalists, and institutions, to confront uncomfortable failures within society itself.

Somewhere between the insults, sarcasm, and political tribalism, one truth quietly remains: democracy is fragile because people are human. Human beings vote with memory, fear, utang na loob, anger, identity, hope, survival instinct, and sometimes exhaustion. Facts matter, but emotions often arrive first. That does not mean citizens should stop demanding accountability. Quite the opposite. But perhaps the country needs less political sneering and more difficult conversations grounded in honesty, humility, openness, and courage. The goal is not merely to win arguments online. The goal is to create citizens who can pause long enough to ask themselves one uncomfortable question before defending any leader: “Am I protecting the just and the truth here, or just protecting my side?”

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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.