THE ORIGINAL PURPOSES OF THE PARTY LIST SYSTEM

 THE ORIGINAL PURPOSES OF THE PARTY LIST SYSTEM

Several Party-List Organizations (PLOs) have recently been dragged into scandals such as the flood control projects mess. What’s ironic is that many of the so-called “representatives” implicated in these scams are not from marginalized sectors at all. Instead, reports show that some of these groups were funded, organized, and even controlled by wealthy individuals who had no business claiming to represent farmers, laborers, or indigenous peoples.

Because of this, the Party-List System (PLS)—once heralded as a beacon of social justice—has earned a bad reputation. Now, many Filipinos are calling for its outright abolition. Frankly, I am tempted to join that call. But on second thought, scrapping the system altogether would mean depriving the genuinely marginalized of the very representation that the Constitution promised them. Isn’t that another form of marginalization? So where do we stand? Reform, not abolition. But then the hard question: how do we reform a system that has already been hijacked?

Let us first go back to the original purpose of the PLS. Under Article VI, Section 5(2) of the 1987 Constitution and Republic Act 7941 (1995), 20% of the House of Representatives’ seats were reserved for party-lists. The goals were clear:

1. Broaden political representation – give voice to the poor, the women, the youth, the fisherfolk, the indigenous peoples, and other excluded groups.

2. Democratize power – break the monopoly of political dynasties and traditional elites.

3. Promote sectoral advocacy – allow civil society to push forward issues like education, workers’ rights, and the environment.

4. Strengthen pluralism – ensure multiple viewpoints in Congress, not just those of entrenched clans.

Sounds noble, doesn’t it? Yet somewhere along the way, we lost sight of these principles. Judicial reinterpretations like the Atong Paglaum v. Comelec ruling in 2013 widened the scope of who could run, making it easier for non-marginalized parties to jump in. That’s how we ended up with party-lists linked to big business, political dynasties, and even security agencies. What’s worse, some of them focus less on legislation and more on pork projects, like—you guessed it—flood control. Pardon me, but why should a party-list supposedly representing, say, the youth or women, be neck-deep in infrastructure deals?

This is where the rot lies. What was meant to be an avenue for social inclusion has mutated into another vehicle for social exclusion, where real marginalized groups are pushed out by impostors.

So what now? Here are some suggestions:

• Tighten accreditation: The Commission on Elections (COMELEC) should review if these PLOs are genuinely composed of, and led by, the marginalized. Proof of track records—years of advocacy, grassroots organizing, or sectoral leadership—should be mandatory.

• Replace tainted representatives: If the PLO is valid but its nominees are compromised, then why not allow the organization to replace them? After all, it is the party, not the nominee, that the people elected.

• Define “marginalized” clearly: Congress should pass reforms requiring measurable socio-economic indicators to qualify as a marginalized group. No more vague claims.

• Educate the voters: Many Filipinos still do not fully understand the purpose of the party-list vote. Civic education, especially at the barangay and school levels, could help people identify which groups are genuine and which are mere proxies of dynasties.

• Strengthen watchdog mechanisms: Independent bodies, NGOs, and media must continue monitoring the performance of party-lists. Transparency reports on bills filed, budgets received, and community engagements should be mandatory.

Now, are there countries where such a system works? Yes. Germany, the Netherlands, Sweden, and even New Zealand have proportional representation systems that ensure small parties and minority voices enter parliament. What’s their secret? Strict rules, transparency, and political maturity. If they can do it, why can’t we?

But let’s be honest: reforms will not be easy. Those who benefit from the loopholes will resist change. Still, if we care about democracy, we must not throw the baby out with the bathwater. The Party-List System was never meant to enrich a few; it was designed to empower the many.

The question is: will we allow it to remain a hollow shell, or will we fight to restore its original spirit? For me, the answer is clear—let’s not abolish, but let’s reform, revitalize, and reclaim what rightfully belongs to the marginalized. Otherwise, the system that was meant to give them a voice will continue to silence them.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres

iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com 

09088877282/01-24-2026

MONITORING AND REPORTING THE NATIONAL BUDGET

 MONITORING AND REPORTING THE NATIONAL BUDGET

Here in the Philippines, everything boils down to the national budget. It is the single most important policy document the government produces every year, and yet it remains one of the least understood by ordinary citizens. We complain about poor public services, but often forget that every project, every school, every hospital upgrade, every farm subsidy—all of it—depends on what is written (or left out) of the General Appropriations Act.

This is why the Bantay Budget campaign was such an important initiative when it emerged in the early 2000s. Launched by a coalition of civil society organizations—among them Social Watch Philippines and the Alternative Budget Initiative (ABI)—it aimed to make the budget process more transparent and more participatory. At a time when citizens felt excluded from national decision-making, the Bantay Budget campaign created a space for ordinary Filipinos, experts, and advocacy groups to have a voice in how public funds were allocated.

The core of the movement was simple but powerful: citizens should not only vote every three or six years; they should also help decide how their taxes are spent. Bantay Budget monitored allocations, tracked implementation, and proposed alternatives in critical areas like education, health, agriculture, and climate resilience. It helped institutionalize mechanisms like Bottom-up Budgeting (BuB) during the Aquino administration, and it pushed for CSO participation in congressional budget hearings. Because of initiatives like these, the Philippines once ranked among the global leaders in public participation in the Open Budget Survey.

So what happened?

It seems the original coalition is no longer as visible as it used to be. There are social media pages that use the name, but it’s not clear if they are connected to the original network. What is clear is that many of the principles of Bantay Budget live on—through sectoral groups under ABI, through participatory audits with the Commission on Audit, and even through digital tools like the DBM’s Project DIME, which uses satellite and drone monitoring to check on big-ticket projects.

But as Congress once again talks about budget reform, perhaps it is time to revive the Bantay Budget campaign—not necessarily as a single organization, but as a coalition of credible voices. Two decades have passed since its launch, and the public’s distrust in the budget process is as strong as ever. If anything, the demand for independent oversight is even greater now.

In 2025, Bantay Budget continues to be cited in Senate discussions, especially when legislators call for livestreamed bicameral deliberations or demand that the public be given access to comparative matrices of the House and Senate budget versions. In other words, while the grassroots presence has waned, the advocacy lives on in policy debates. The challenge now is to make it relevant again at the community level.

Technology could play a huge role. Imagine if citizens could log into a simple app and see where their town’s budget goes, who the contractors are, and whether projects are on schedule. Imagine if artificial intelligence could scan budget documents and flag suspicious items, or if blockchain could be used to track fund disbursement in real time. These are not science-fiction ideas—they are already being explored in other countries. Why can’t the Philippines harness them too?

Of course, trust is the bigger issue. Citizens may not want the government alone to run these systems; data security and political capture are real concerns. This is where the private sector and independent CSOs can step in. Many tech companies would be more than willing to donate platforms or expertise if it means restoring faith in public finance. The key is ensuring that the process remains independent, credible, and people-centered.

Reviving Bantay Budget—or at least its principles—would also mean strengthening budget literacy at the grassroots. Too often, people do not engage simply because they don’t understand the jargon. How many citizens know the difference between a General Appropriations Act and a Special Purpose Fund? Between an obligation and a disbursement? Civil society must break down these concepts so that citizens can participate meaningfully, not just symbolically.

To my mind, monitoring and reporting the national budget is not just about watchdogging the government. It is about reclaiming ownership of public money. Every peso in that budget comes from us—through taxes, fees, and even debts that our children will repay. Shouldn’t we, then, demand to know where it goes, and insist that it reflects our priorities rather than the whims of a few?

The Bantay Budget campaign showed us that this is possible. Perhaps it is time to bring it back—this time, smarter, stronger, and equipped with 21st-century tools. Because unless citizens themselves watch the budget, we may once again wake up to ghost projects, overpriced contracts, and “missing” billions. And by then, it will be too late.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres

iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com 

09088877282/01-23-2026

WHAT IS THE LEGAL DEFINITION OF CORRUPTION?

 WHAT IS THE LEGAL DEFINITION OF CORRUPTION?

Most of us use the words graft and corruption interchangeably, but I would argue that there is an important distinction. To me, corruption is the cause, while graft is the effect. Corruption is the temptation; graft is what happens when someone gives in.

Think of it this way: when a public official demands money from a citizen in exchange for a signature, that is solicitation. When a citizen slips an envelope to an official in exchange for approval, that is bribery. Both involve the exchange of money—but notice the direction of the temptation. In solicitation, the official dangles the bait; in bribery, the citizen offers it. Either way, when money changes hands in the context of public service, the result is graft.

From a moral perspective, corruption resembles the Christian concept of temptation. Temptation itself is not sin—it becomes sin only when one gives in. Similarly, a public official could be offered a bribe but refuse it. In that case, corruption was present, but no crime was committed. The real crime occurs when the temptation results in an actual act of dishonesty.

The problem, of course, is that in real-world cases—like the infamous ghost flood-control projects—it is often unclear who acted first. Did the engineers demand bribes from contractors, as some claim? Or did the contractors themselves offer money to get ahead? In truth, it may not even matter anymore, because once graft has happened, the damage is done.

Now, what does the law say?

In Philippine law, corruption is addressed mainly under Republic Act No. 3019, the Anti-Graft and Corrupt Practices Act. The law doesn’t give a neat one-liner definition but instead lists concrete acts, such as:

• Influencing another public officer to break rules.

• Requesting or receiving gifts or benefits in connection with government transactions.

• Accepting employment or favors from entities with pending official business.

• Misusing public funds, entering into disadvantageous contracts, or using one’s office for personal benefit.

Other related laws expand on this. RA 6713 (Code of Conduct and Ethical Standards) requires public officials to file Statements of Assets, Liabilities, and Net Worth (SALNs) and to live by the values of integrity and transparency. The Revised Penal Code penalizes bribery, malversation, and other dishonest acts. The Ombudsman Act (RA 6770) gives the Ombudsman the mandate to investigate and prosecute corruption cases.

If corruption is the umbrella term, graft is a specific manifestation. Corruption can include nepotism, favoritism, embezzlement, or political patronage. But graft, in our context, often means the dishonest acquisition of public funds—kickbacks, ghost projects, overpriced contracts, or undue advantage. That is why when we hear of a new scandal, we usually hear of cases being filed before the Sandiganbayan for graft, not for corruption.

To put it simply: corruption is the disease, graft is one of its symptoms.

But here is where I want to challenge both the government and citizens. We can endlessly debate definitions, but the bigger problem is our tolerance for these practices. Too often, bribery is excused as “lubricating the system.” Too often, solicitation is tolerated because “that’s how things get done.”

If we view corruption as mere temptation, then resisting it becomes a matter of moral discipline. But can we realistically expect individuals—especially poor applicants at city hall—to resist paying grease money when their livelihoods are on the line? This is why systemic reform is needed. Laws alone are not enough; what we need is a culture where solicitation is punished swiftly and bribery becomes socially unacceptable.

The Philippines has had moments of global recognition. In 2019, we ranked among the top countries in the Open Budget Survey when it came to public participation. We also pioneered mechanisms like the Citizens’ Participatory Audit and Bottom-up Budgeting. These show that transparency and accountability can work here. But all too often, reforms remain ad hoc, reversible, or captured by political elites.

So perhaps the real question is not just, “What is the legal definition of corruption?” but rather: How do we make the definition matter? How do we translate those words in RA 3019 into everyday practice where bribery and solicitation are the exception, not the norm?

Until we answer that, corruption will remain not just a legal problem, but a cultural one—an environment of temptation where graft inevitably thrives. And the tragedy is this: in a country where every peso could build a classroom, a health center, or a farm-to-market road, every peso lost to graft is not just stolen money. It is a stolen opportunity.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres

iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com 

09088877282/01-22-2026

WHAT IS PARTICIPATORY BUDGETING?

  WHAT IS PARTICIPATORY BUDGETING?

Everything in the Philippine government eventually traces back to the national budget, or what we formally call the General Appropriations Act (GAA). Without money, there can be no policies, no programs, and no projects. This makes the budget the single most important expression of government priorities.

In theory, our district representatives—yes, the congressmen we elect—are supposed to consult us about what should be in the budget. After all, they are our voice in Congress. In reality, though, such consultations rarely happen. Perhaps it is too naïve to expect them to knock on doors and ask us: “What do you want funded this year?” But here’s the irony—mechanisms already exist for them to do exactly that.

They could organize town hall meetings in their districts. And if distance or logistics is the issue, we now live in an era of Zoom calls, Facebook Live, and online surveys. Consultation is not rocket science anymore; it just requires political will. On top of this, marginalized sectors have the option to consult either their party-list representatives or the government agencies preparing their budgets for congressional scrutiny. In short, the infrastructure for participation is already there.

This brings us to the concept of participatory budgeting (PB). In simple terms, PB is a democratic process where citizens—not just officials—help decide how part of a public budget should be spent. Instead of merely reacting to government projects after the fact, communities propose, deliberate, and even vote on which projects get funded. Imagine voting not just for people during elections, but also for projects that directly affect your neighborhood—like fixing a footbridge, building a daycare center, or putting up a community garden.

The core principles of PB are worth emphasizing. First is transparency, since budget discussions should be open. Second is inclusion, ensuring that marginalized voices are heard. Third is deliberation, where citizens don’t just vote but also discuss priorities and trade-offs. Finally, there is empowerment, giving communities a real sense of ownership over their development.

How does it work? Typically, a local government sets aside a portion of its budget for PB. Citizens submit project ideas, which are then refined with technical support to ensure feasibility. Afterwards, the community votes, and the winning proposals get implemented by the LGU. That’s democracy in action—tangible, concrete, and visible.

Has this happened in the Philippines? Yes, but unevenly. Barangay Assemblies and Local Development Councils are supposed to provide avenues for participatory planning under the Local Government Code of 1991. More recently, the Bottom-up Budgeting (BuB) program launched in 2013 gave civil society and barangays a chance to propose anti-poverty projects. It was hailed as a breakthrough in grassroots participation. We also have Budget Partnership Agreements (BPAs), which formalize collaboration between agencies and civil society groups, and the Citizens’ Participatory Audit (CPA), where CSOs help the Commission on Audit review government projects.

These efforts even earned the Philippines global recognition. At one point, we ranked 5th worldwide in the Open Budget Survey’s public engagement pillar—a sign that citizen participation is possible.

But challenges remain. Too many participatory budgeting initiatives are pilot-based or ad hoc, without long-term institutionalization. Local politics often dilutes genuine participation, with projects still driven by patronage. Worse, many citizens either don’t know they can participate, or they don’t trust the process enough to bother showing up. Even when projects are approved, bureaucratic delays or funding bottlenecks often derail implementation.

So here’s the question: are we making the most out of the mechanisms already in place? It’s easy to call for budget reform or procurement reform, but maybe the starting point is simpler: let us first use the spaces that already exist. We can attend barangay assemblies, organize NGOs to act as procurement observers, or push our LGUs to set aside real funds for participatory budgeting.

Citizens often say, “let’s keep watch on Congress and Malacañang.” That’s true—but keeping watch should not mean passive observation. It should mean active participation. A watchful citizenry can demand accountability, yes, but a participatory citizenry can shape priorities from the start.

Participatory budgeting is not a magic wand. It will not solve corruption overnight. But it can build trust, enhance accountability, and make governance more efficient. At its heart, PB is about returning power to where it truly belongs—in the hands of the people.

The challenge, then, is both for the government and citizens. The government must open the doors wider, institutionalize the mechanisms, and provide real funding. Citizens, for their part, must walk through those doors, show up at consultations, and insist that their voices be heard.

Otherwise, we remain stuck in the cycle where budgets are written far away, behind closed doors, and for priorities we never agreed to. And that, my friends, is a budget that is public in name but private in practice.

So perhaps the next time your barangay or city hall calls for a consultation, instead of ignoring it, you might ask yourself: if I don’t show up, who will decide where my taxes go?

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres

iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com 

09088877282/01-21-2026

WHAT IS CIVIC EDUCATION?

 WHAT IS CIVIC EDUCATION?

When I was in high school in the United States, I took a civics course as part of the regular curriculum. It was basic but foundational: how the government works, what rights we enjoy, and what duties we owe as citizens. History tells us that the Americans introduced civic education to the Philippines in 1898. More than a century later, we must ask: has it done us any good?

Vlogger and historian Leloy Claudio makes a distinction that I agree with—what we need is not just voter education, but civic education. The difference may seem subtle, but it is important. Voter education focuses on how to cast a ballot properly. Civic education is broader: it teaches why your vote matters, how institutions function, what your rights are, and how you can hold leaders accountable. In short, it is about building active, informed citizenship.

Some prefer the term “citizenship education,” which also makes sense. Whatever we call it, the essence remains the same: learning our civic duties and practicing them. For example, it is often said that we should teach civic education to prevent vote buying. If no one sells their vote, then no one will buy it either. That logic is sound, but the reality is more complicated. People often sell their votes not because they don’t understand democracy, but because they need the money for food, medicine, or water.

Among the middle class, the temptation to sell votes is much less because basic needs are met. For the poor, survival sometimes trumps principle. That is why I believe that civic education must go hand in hand with socio-economic reforms. Give people decent jobs and quality public services, and they will be less beholden to politicians who offer cash or favors in exchange for votes.

But let us go deeper. What exactly should civic education look like in the Philippines today?

Globally, civic education has three main components: knowledge, skills, and values. Knowledge means understanding political systems, laws, institutions, and rights. Skills mean learning how to analyze issues, engage in dialogue, and advocate for change. Values—or what some call “civic dispositions”—include tolerance, empathy, and the willingness to compromise. Without all three, democracy is hollow.

Here at home, civic education is already embedded in the K–12 curriculum, particularly in Araling Panlipunan and Edukasyon sa Pagpapakatao. The Alternative Learning System (ALS) for out-of-school youth also has modules on citizenship and social responsibility. Indigenous Peoples’ Education (IPEd) integrates stewardship and ancestral rights. NGOs and schools run their own initiatives too. But how effective are these efforts?

The picture is mixed. On one hand, projects like Project Citizen Philippines have shown promise—students who participated became more engaged in civic issues. On the other hand, the persistence of political dynasties, historical revisionism, and rampant disinformation suggests that our civic education is not strong enough to inoculate us against undemocratic practices. Out of the 31 topics in the senior high subject “Understanding Culture, Society and Politics,” only one deals directly with active citizenship. That is not nearly enough.

If we are serious about reform, we must bring civic education beyond the classroom. Civic learning should not end at age 16—it should be lifelong. Barangays can host civic forums where residents co-design solutions to local issues like waste, disaster response, or livelihood. Sangguniang Kabataan (SK) could organize youth bootcamps on political literacy and climate action. Civic theater and satire could make political education more accessible and engaging.

Another challenge is our digital environment. Fake news, troll farms, and manipulated narratives thrive online. Civic education today must include digital literacy—how to spot disinformation, verify sources, and resist online manipulation. Without this, our democracy is vulnerable.

So, has civic education done us any good after 126 years? My answer is: not enough. We have the structures in place, but not the depth, consistency, or urgency. Too often, civic education remains abstract—teaching definitions rather than dispositions, memorization rather than mobilization.

The long-term solution, I believe, is to embed civic education in daily life. Good jobs, fair services, honest governance—these create citizens who are harder to bribe and easier to empower. But schools, barangays, churches, cooperatives, and even media must also play their part in teaching us not just how to vote, but how to live as citizens in a democracy.

Civic education, at its best, is not just a subject. It is the art of becoming a people who know their rights, do their duties, and never forget that power belongs not to politicians, but to the citizens who put them there.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres

iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com 

09088877282/01-20-2026

FABRICS FROM BANANA FIBERS

 FABRICS FROM BANANA FIBERS

Strictly speaking, the banana plant is not a tree—it is a giant herb. But never mind that. For practical purposes, it could become just as useful as a tree, perhaps even more so, once we begin to fully realize its potential.

Right now, most of us think of bananas only for their fruits, and occasionally for their leaves, which we use to wrap food or as makeshift umbrellas when caught in the rain. Beyond that, the banana plant is often treated as waste once the fruits are harvested. This, to me, is a classic case of linear thinking: grow, harvest, discard. For centuries, we accepted this pattern without question.

Now comes a refreshing idea: turning banana “waste” into banana fiber. An entrepreneur from Taiwan, Nelson Yang, is pushing hard to make banana fiber the island’s next big export. His vision? To transform discarded banana stems into fabric that could rival cotton, hemp, or jute. Imagine that—clothing, bags, upholstery, and even high-end fashion made from what we once considered garbage.

This is the essence of the circular economy: turning waste into wealth. If we had thought of this decades ago, imagine how much value the Philippines could already have created. We are, after all, one of the world’s biggest producers of bananas. In fact, the Philippines is the second-largest exporter of bananas after Ecuador, shipping over $1.5 billion worth annually. Yet most of the stems and sheaths are simply left to rot.

Banana fiber is not entirely new. In India and Japan, banana textiles have been around for centuries. Japan even has a tradition of banana-fiber kimonos. What is new, however, is the push to commercialize banana fiber globally, with modern branding and sustainable fashion narratives. In Switzerland, a company called Bananatex® has already turned Abacá—a banana-like species native to the Philippines—into durable fabric for backpacks and outerwear.

Here’s where it gets even more interesting: banana fibers come in two types. The outer sheath provides coarse, strong fibers suitable for ropes, mats, or packaging. The inner sheath produces softer, silkier fibers that can be woven into clothing. Combined, they open up endless applications—from eco-friendly bags to breathable tropical wear.

But challenges remain. For one, global fashion companies demand consistent quality, scalability, and softness. Processing banana fibers requires special extraction equipment and trained workers. Moreover, consumers need convincing that “banana fabric” is not only sustainable but also stylish and luxurious.

So where does the Philippines fit into all this? For me, the answer is obvious: everywhere. We already have the raw material in abundance, and unlike Abacá, which requires dedicated plantations, banana fiber can be reclaimed from fruiting plants after harvest. That means farmers don’t need to plant anything new; they just need a system to turn waste into fiber.

This brings me to a practical question: who should lead? Agencies like PHILFIDA (Philippine Fiber Industry Development Authority), DOST (Department of Science and Technology), and PTRI (Philippine Textile Research Institute) could play crucial roles in setting standards, training communities, and developing processing technologies. Farmer cooperatives could manage barangay-level fiber hubs, ensuring that benefits reach smallholders, not just big plantations.

Imagine a model where banana growers in Mindanao or Luzon could sell not just fruits but also fibers, doubling their income. Imagine community-based textile labs producing not just rope and mats, but also fashion textiles infused with indigenous designs. Imagine Filipino designers showcasing banana-fiber clothing at global fashion weeks. This isn’t far-fetched; it is entirely possible if we adopt systems thinking instead of linear thinking.

In truth, we Filipinos already have a proud history with banana fibers, through Abacá. Abacá rope was once so strong it was used for ship rigging and even specialty papers like tea bags and banknotes. But while Abacá is suited for industrial use, banana fiber from edible species can diversify the market by entering the fashion and lifestyle sector. The two are complementary, not competitive.

So I ask again: who will lead us in this opportunity? Who will connect the dots between agriculture, industry, and design? The government has a role, yes, but so does the private sector, academia, and even local artisans. What we need is vision, coordination, and a shift in mindset.

The bottom line is simple: banana plants grow practically everywhere in the Philippines. People will be willing to plant more bananas if there is a market not only for the fruit but also for the fiber. Waste will no longer be waste—it will be raw material. In the language of circular design, this is regeneration. In the language of common sense, this is simply making the most of what we already have.

Maybe, just maybe, the next time someone looks at a banana tree—or should I say, a banana herb—they won’t just see fruit. They’ll see fabric, fashion, and a future where nothing is wasted.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres

iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com 

09088877282/01-19-2026