First of a four-part series

THE sudden burst of legislative enthusiasm in both chambers of Congress to “finally operationalize” Article II, Section 26 of the 1987 Constitution — mandating the State to “guarantee equal access to opportunities for public service and prohibit political dynasties as may be defined by law” — has been greeted with predictable applause.

Who, after all, would object to curbing dynastic excess?

But the present debate, for all its moral polish, remains trapped in the shallow end of the pool. It asks the wrong question. The issue is not whether Congress should define political dynasties. The real question is why, for 39 years, Congress never did — and why the same institution now claims the moral authority to correct a defect it has carefully preserved.

This is not a story about legislative delay. It is a story about design.

To understand why the anti-dynasty clause has remained a constitutional ornament — admired, cited and ignored — we must go back, not merely to 1987, not to Marcos, not even to the American period. We must descend deeper, into the foundations of Filipino political culture, where the logic of patronage, oligarchy and dynastic rule took root long before the vocabulary of democracy ever reached our shores.

Only by tracing these origins can we understand why Article II, Section 26 has been practically impossible to implement — and why the present congressional effort, however elegantly packaged, risks becoming yet another exercise in political theater.

This four-part series draws from my long engagement with the subject in my columns and essays over the years — an inquiry into the interlocking architecture of political dynasties (polydyn), oligarchy, and patronage (polpat): a fusion I have elsewhere described as olipolidyn, the operating system of Philippine politics.

'Barangay': Our first political unit

Before Spain arrived, the archipelago was a mosaic of small, autonomous barangay (villages). Each was ruled by a datu, supported by a council of maginoo (nobility), and sustained by the labor of maharlika, timawa and alipin classes.

This was not democracy. It was a kinship‑based hierarchy, where authority flowed from lineage, wealth and the datu’s ability to protect and provide. Governance was personal, not institutional. Loyalty was to the clan, not to an abstract “state.”

This is the earliest ancestor of what we now call political patronage.

Spain: Centralization and the birth of the political patron

Spanish rule did not erase the datu system — it co‑opted it. The colonial bureaucracy and the Catholic Church became the new centers of power, but they relied on local elites to collect taxes, maintain order, and mediate between colonizer and colonized.

The datu became the cabeza de barangay, the principalia, the local intermediary. The old bonds of reciprocity were replaced by a new hierarchy of coercion, tribute and clerical authority. This was the first major rupture: Filipino clan politics was absorbed into a centralized colonial state.

America: Democracy imposed on feudal soil

The Americans introduced republicanism, elections, political parties and the idea of popular sovereignty. But they did so without dismantling the centuries‑old clan structures beneath.

Worse, they imposed a unitary presidential system — the exact opposite of the federal structure that might have accommodated our archipelagic diversity and clan‑based loyalties. The result was a political hybrid: Western institutions on the surface; Filipino clan logic underneath.

This mismatch produced the embryo of our modern political system: patronage (polpat) as the operating system of governance.

The president as the ‘top patron’

With the 1935 Constitution, the presidency became the apex of political power. Elections were expensive, national in scope and dependent on local networks. The president became the ultimate dispenser of favors, and local elites became the brokers of votes.

Ferdinand Marcos Sr. perfected this arrangement. Martial law centralized patronage, created monopolies, and birthed “crony capitalism.” When the dictatorship fell, the system did not collapse — it merely changed hands.

The 1987 Constitution restored democracy but preserved the unitary‑presidential structure that makes patronage inevitable.

Term limits and the birth of 'polydyn'

The framers of the 1987 Constitution believed term limits would prevent the concentration of power. Instead, they created a new incentive: succession by blood.

A mayor limited to three terms simply passes the seat to a spouse, child or sibling. Governors do the same. House representatives rotate seats among relatives. Senators groom their children for national office. This is how political dynasties ("polydyn") became the default operating system of Philippine politics.

And this is why Article II, Section 26 has remained unenforceable: Congress is dominated by the very families the provision seeks to regulate.

Why Congress never passed an anti-dynasty law

The numbers are stark: Roughly 80 percent of the House of Representatives, and more than 60 percent of the Senate, belong to political dynasties.

Expecting Congress to define and prohibit dynasties is like asking a cartel to regulate itself. For 39 years, the anti‑dynasty clause has remained merely a symbolic provision — praised, quoted, but not enforced. This is not a failure of political will. It is a structural impossibility.

Why the sudden interest now

The present legislative awakening is not born of constitutional conscience. It is the product of dynastic competition. Alliances that once held have fractured. Families maneuver for succession. The approaching presidential cycle sharpens rivalries.

An anti-dynasty law crafted by dynasts will not dismantle dynasties. It will be calibrated — definitions narrowed, thresholds adjusted, disqualifications timed.

The danger is not that Article II, Section 26 will remain unused. The danger is that it will be weaponized.

The real issue: The system, not the families

The public debate today focuses on personalities — who benefits, who loses, which families are threatened. But the deeper truth is this: Political dynasties are not the disease. They are the symptom of a deeper structural defect:

– a unitary‑presidential system that centralizes power

– a patronage culture that rewards loyalty over merit

– a party system captured by oligarchs

– a Constitution that mixes incompatible political models.

This is why dynasties flourish. This is why oligarchs thrive. This is why patronage persists. And this is why Article II, Section 26 — even if defined — will not cure the system. You cannot legislate away a symptom while preserving the machinery that generates it.

The path forward

If Congress is serious about political reform, it must confront the structural roots of dynastic power:

1. Shift from a presidential‑unitary to a parliamentary‑federal system — where parties, not families, are the vehicles of governance.

2. Reform political parties — to make them ideological, member‑owned and programmatic.

3. Rationalize campaign finance — to break the dependency on oligarchic funding.

4. Implement genuine decentralization — to empower regions, not clans.

Only then will an anti‑dynasty law have meaning.

Article II, Section 26 is not enough

The Senate and House may pass a definition of political dynasties. They may even claim victory. But unless the system is restructured, the "olipolidyn" — the fusion of oligarchy and political dynasty — will remain intact.

The Philippines does not suffer from a shortage of good people. It suffers from a surplus of bad systems. And no constitutional clause, however noble, can fix a system designed to perpetuate itself.

Next week: The rise of polydyn: How families became the state