President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. shakes hands with Liberal Party stalwarts, their smiles wide as old coconut palms bending in the wind. This unholy huddle between dynastic rivals reeks of pure convenience. It’s a laughable sham, cooked up to kneecap Vice President Sara Duterte before she even declares for 2028.
Picture the scene: Marcos, with his polished suits and aviator shades, cozying up to the same Liberal ghosts who once marched in yellow shirts, toppling his father in ‘86. These are the heirs of Cory Aquino, the ones who branded the Marcos name synonymous with plunder and People Power fury. Now? They’re swapping business cards and toasting “unity” over lumpia in some air-conditioned hotel ballroom. I can’t help but chuckle darkly—it’s like the cat and the dog teaming up because the mouse grew fangs.
They’re riding each other like jeepneys jammed bumper-to-bumper on EDSA, honking past the real traffic: Sara’s stardom. The Marcos camp needs the Liberals’ machine in urban strongholds—Quezon City, Manila—where Duterte’s brash style doesn’t always land. Liberals, meanwhile, smell a shot at relevance after years in the wilderness, post-Robredo flop. It’s mutual back-scratching, folks, with nails sharpened for one target: the woman whose family delivered Davao’s iron grip and Mindanao’s votes.
Flash back to 2022, and the joke writes itself. Marcos glued himself to the Dutertes like a barnacle on a bangka, borrowing their massive turnout to crush Leni Robredo by 16 million votes. Sara played a loyal VP, with her supporters cheering BBM as the prodigal son returned. What did he do once the throne was secure? Kicked her to the curb, sickening impeachments, budget slashes, and confidential fund probes on her like rabid askals after a stray.
That betrayal stings deep—ungrateful doesn’t cover it. Duterte voters, those tough southern folk with callused hands from fieldwork and fierce loyalty from the drug war days, handed Marcos his presidency on a silver salver. He spat it back as political demolition: stripping Sara’s office funds, grilling her on every peso, while his own allies skate free. It’s the classic Filipino elite move—use the masses’ muscle, then discard them like yesterday’s pandesal wrapper.
This alliance screams fear, plain and simple. Sara Duterte isn’t just a candidate; she’s a storm front rolling out of Davao, with polls already whispering early support. Marcos knows his grip slips without a united front; Liberals know solo they’d fade as old adobo left too long. So, they link arms, a mismatched parade of trapos grinning through gritted teeth, all because one woman’s momentum threatens their cozy carousel.
I see it for the farce it is—a temporary tango destined to trip. Once Sara’s sidelined or 2028 dust settles, these “allies” will claw at each other’s throats again, Liberals decrying Marcos’ excess, Marcos eyeing their enclaves. History’s littered with these flimsy pacts: Arroyo hugging Estrada foes, then stabbing backs. It’s Philippine politics at its most predictable, a cockfight where the handlers switch roosters mid-round.
Call it out loud and clear, neighbors—shine spotlights on every handshake, every backroom deal. Demand candidates stand on their own records, not propped up by yesterday’s enemies. Let the voters’ eyes stay sharp, picking leaders who build bridges that last, not rickety rafts for crossing one river. That’s how we flip this circus into something tangible.
