BY RODOLFO JOHN ORTIZ TEOPE, PhD, EdD
THESE days, wherever I go, people seem to be talking about Sarah Discaya. She has become so viral that her name slips into conversations in the most unexpected places. I remember this very clearly one morning when I accompanied my daughter, Juliana Rizalhea, for her medical examination as a requirement for her Taekwondo competition. It should have been a quiet, personal moment for families waiting in the hospital, but instead, the chatter was all about Discaya—her umbrella, her Rolls Royce, her lifestyle.
Outside, the rain was steady. I carried with me a golf umbrella, a gift from General Thompson Lantion, its fabric marked with the logo of the Partido Federal ng Pilipinas. As I stood there, hearing the chatter around me, I couldn’t help but reflect. People were fascinated with spectacle, but in my hand was a very different kind of symbol. That umbrella wasn’t about wealth or scandal—it represented an idea, a cause, a vision that refuses to die. Almost instinctively, I reached for my notebook in my signature black bag, and that was how this reflection began.
The Partido Federal ng Pilipinas was never meant to be just another political banner. It was conceived with a dream—a federal Philippines, where power and opportunity do not remain trapped in the corridors of Manila but are shared across the archipelago. For decades, that dream lingered at the edges of political debate, often dismissed as too ambitious or too disruptive. But for those who believed in it, federalism was not a theory in some textbook. It was a lifeline, a way to heal the deep inequalities that have scarred our nation for generations.
I still remember the hope in 2022 when Ferdinand Marcos Jr. chose the PFP as his platform. To its members, it felt like history was finally turning in their favor. They had marched in rallies, sacrificed time and resources, endured the grind of campaigning—not for positions, but for the belief that their cause would now have a place in Malacañang. They trusted that their loyalty would be recognized, that the ideals they carried would now have space to grow.
Victory came, but recognition did not. Once the celebrations faded, the silence was deafening. Many who had carried the burden of the campaign found themselves shut out, while newcomers—people who had not shared in the sacrifice—suddenly held the keys to power. At the center of this frustration was the then Executive Secretary, whose office was seen by many as a locked gate rather than an open door. To them, it felt like betrayal. The whispers of positions being bartered, of opportunities being treated like commodities, only deepened the wound.
I had seen enough of Philippine politics to know this was unusual. Time and again, presidents, whatever their faults, had acknowledged the parties that brought them to power. Estrada leaned on his Partido ng Masang Pilipino, Arroyo fortified herself with Lakas–Kampi, Aquino surrounded himself with Liberals, and Duterte transformed PDP–Laban into the ruling force. Recognition was not always noble—it sometimes bred opportunism and corruption, and those who do bad were always fired—but it was tradition. For the PFP, that tradition was broken. It was like rowing a banca across a raging river only to be left behind on the shore once the other side was reached.
Still, the party did not surrender. In 2025, it tried again, stepping forward as the lead force in the Alyansa para Bagong Pilipinas. On paper, the alliance looked formidable. For a moment, hope returned—that perhaps this was the platform where federalism could finally claim center stage. But politics has a way of testing unity. Senator Francis Tolentino broke ranks and turned to PDP–Laban’s president Senator Robin Padilla’s endorsement. Congresswoman Camille Villar shifted to Sara Duterte. Senator Imee Marcos was a different case—she had declared herself independent from the start and had not even attended the alliance’s initial proclamation, making her eventual decision less of a surprise and more of a continuation of her chosen stance.
Even so, the alliance crumbled. Others pursued their own moves outside what was agreed. What had begun with the promise of unity collapsed almost overnight, like paper dissolving in the rain. On the ground, the elections became a free-for-all. Candidates scrambled for survival, alliances broke and re-formed by the day. For ordinary supporters who believed in the Alyansa’s promise, it was heartbreaking. Watching from the sidelines, I realized again the truth: unity built only on convenience cannot last.
And yet, even in the wreckage, the PFP showed its resilience. It did not win a Senate seat, but it won something more enduring—governors, more than any other party. In the provinces, where governance is closest to the people, the PFP proved its strength. And when Governors Reynaldo Tamayo and Dakila Carlo Cua were chosen to lead the League of Provinces of the Philippines, it was more than a title. It was a declaration that the PFP had not disappeared; it had simply grounded itself where federalism makes the most sense—in local governance.
The story of resilience is also personal. I think of General Thompson Lantion, PFP’s founding Secretary-General. In 2024, he was given the chance to serve in the Bases Conversion and Development Authority as Chairman. It should have been his moment to show how fairness and discipline could thrive inside a government agency. But his stand against corruption made him a target. Contractors and insiders who felt threatened struck back with a demolition job. From the outside, his ordeal looked like a mirror of PFP itself: not brought down by weakness, but attacked precisely because he stood for principle. And like the party, he did not abandon the fight.
Together, Tamayo and Lantion represent the dual strength of the party—one, a sitting governor pushing forward with vision and vigor; the other, a seasoned general embodying integrity and persistence. Their partnership reminds me that the PFP is not a forgotten relic of a past campaign. It is still alive, still roaring, still willing to fight for its place in the future of the nation.
Federalism itself remains urgent. Our current system continues to hoard power in the capital, leaving provinces dependent and underdeveloped. Rich lands remain poor, talented regions remain trapped in neglect. Federalism is not an empty slogan; it is an answer to wounds that have festered for generations. It is about sharing power and wealth, about giving dignity to local governments, about ensuring that progress rises from the grassroots upward.
This is why the PFP endures. Unlike parties that tied their fate to personalities—Estrada’s PMP, Arroyo’s Lakas–Kampi, Aquino’s LP, Duterte’s PDP–Laban—the PFP has tied itself to an idea. And ideas, unlike personalities, do not vanish when elections end. That is what sets it apart.
As I look back, I see the Partido Federal ng Pilipinas as both a lesson and a challenge. It reminds us that political parties must be more than temporary rafts for winning elections. They must outlast defeats, outlive personalities, and stand firm as guardians of principles. They must prove that politics is not only about who sits in power, but about what vision guides the nation forward.
And so, I return in my mind to that rainy morning outside the hospital, standing under the umbrella marked with the PFP logo. Around me, people were absorbed in the spectacle of the moment, but in my hands, I carried a quiet symbol of something deeper. That umbrella was more than protection from the rain. It was like the enduring flame of federalism itself—shielding through storms, steady in uncertainty, and guiding those who believe that real change begins not in the noise of the capital, but in the quiet strength of the provinces.
The Partido Federal ng Pilipinas is not defeated. It is defiant. It is the party of the people, the voice of the provinces, the house of federalism or balai federal. Its challenge to every Filipino is clear and unyielding: stand up, rise up, fight with us—for justice, for equality, for a Federal Republic that belongs to all.