The ouster of former President Ferdinand Marcos Sr. was a direct consequence of a failed succession plan. By 1986, Marcos was a shadow of his former self, suffering from lupus and possibly dementia. Once a brilliant strategist who secured a third term as President amid a country torn apart by insurgency, he was now debilitated and vulnerable. When a leader loses control, it doesn’t take long for the wolves to pounce.
In 1986, many believed that Marcos would be succeeded by his wife, Imelda. As early as 1983, her appointment as head of the largest metropolis in Asia was seen as a preparation for her eventual rise to power. The Marcoses had long cultivated their image as “Malakas” and “Maganda” (strong and beautiful), positioning themselves as the perfect power couple. When “Malakas” weakened, “Maganda” seemed the logical successor.
However, a male-dominated government resisted this notion. In a military-inspired dictatorship, the leader must replicate himself through a network of like-minded men who share his ideals and hunger for power. History shows that every dictatorship harbors potential dictators waiting for their moment. The Philippines was no exception.
As Marcos’s health deteriorated, the idea of Imelda running the government was seen as a nightmare. The military, accustomed to male authority, would never accept orders from a woman whose response to poverty was to whitewash shanties along Pope John Paul II’s route. Former Senator Benigno S. Aquino Jr. recognized the instability and rushed back to the Philippines, only to be assassinated. Some blamed Imelda, others a close Marcos associate. Regardless, the plan to replace a sick Marcos with his wife was not just unacceptable—it was contemptible.
We all know what happened next. Marcos woke up in Hawaii while a prayerful housewife, not Imelda, ascended to power. Corazon Aquino’s rise marked the end of Marcos’s reign, revealing a failed succession plan and a miscalculated attempt to maintain power within the family.
Fast forward over thirty years, and Marcos’s son now occupies the same seat of power. Publicly, he claims he wants only one term, but his actions suggest otherwise. The specter of a constitutional prohibition against a second term and the threat of persecution after leaving office loom large. The current president knows the stakes; he’s well-versed in history.
The problem is, no one in his family is fit to succeed him. His cousin, the current third-highest official, is deeply unpopular. His son lacks charisma and experience. Rumors of his wife eyeing the presidency also circulate, but her chances of winning are slim. If a political ally breaks ranks, they might have a better shot at the presidency than any family member.
The bleak prospects post-2028 leave the Marcos camp with one option: charter change, or “cha-cha.” Despite its unpopularity, cha-cha is seen as a necessary evil to secure a pro-Marcos successor. This administration is determined to amend the constitution, not just to appease business interests but to ensure political continuity.
However, cha-cha is politically toxic. Those who touch it risk becoming pariahs. Savvy politicians avoid it to prevent political suicide. Yet, if cha-cha is the only way to avert disaster and secure the Marcos legacy, this administration will pursue it, regardless of public opinion or legislative resistance.
The dictum in Philippine politics is clear: disobey at the risk of losing your head. The administration’s willingness to sacrifice political allies for the sake of family continuity underscores a ruthless drive to maintain power. For the Marcos family, the stakes have never been higher, and the future of the nation hangs in the balance