In 20 years since Marcos, little stability for Philippines

BATAC, Philippines — Two decades after President Ferdinand Marcos was chased from power, he still draws the faithful and the curious to this farming town in the northernmost Philippines.

Displayed in an adobe mausoleum, his lavishly waxed corpse lies in a family tribute, bedecked in military medals and surrounded by faux flowers while Gregorian chants echo softly.

The "People Power" movement that forced Marcos into exile 20 years ago this week (he died three years later in Hawaii) ushered in a period of sustained political turmoil — repeated coup attempts, a popular uprising that toppled another president and continuing efforts to impeach the current president, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. Now, many Filipinos declare East Asia's oldest democracy a failure.

The blame, Philippine analysts say, rests with the country's political system — first put in place by the United States during four decades of colonial rule — and the family dynasties it allowed to cement their power. Today, Philippine democracy is little more than a ruthless contest among rival clans with such names as Aquino, Arroyo and Marcos. Political parties are largely irrelevant, and most Filipinos are relegated to the role of spectators.

The cost to the economy has been tremendous. The perpetual political crisis has scared off investment, both domestic and foreign, while national leaders have often been too preoccupied with their own survival to pursue long-term strategies of development. "In theory, it's American-style politics because we have a Xeroxed system," said Imee Marcos, the former president's daughter, a three-term member of Congress who personifies the dynastic system. "But democratic processes don't work the way they're meant to," she added. "It's ties of kinship and blood relations."

The United States wrested control of the Philippines from Spain in 1898 and soon created a national assembly modeled on the U.S. Congress, with representatives elected from single-member districts.

With suffrage initially limited to literate property owners, the new system allowed landed families in each district to monopolize local power. The clans used their access to public money, loans and patronage to consolidate their position. Political office became a family heirloom to be handed down.

Nor was it only in politics that U.S. colonial rulers sought to reinvent the Philippines in their own image. Hundreds of American educators streamed into the archipelago, setting up the public-school system and establishing English as the language of instruction.

In the ensuing decades, Philippine culture has echoed America's. Radio stations long played nothing but American music. Filipinos play basketball instead of soccer, rush home early from work to watch "American Idol" and are passionate about U.S.-style beauty pageants.

But even as the Philippines came increasingly to resemble the United States, the electoral system failed to deliver American success.

Today, about two-thirds of the members of the House of Representatives are from dynastic families, according to a recent study by the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism.

Without parties that command loyalty from their members, politicians race to the side of popular leaders, then betray them at the sign of weakness. Moreover, ordinary Filipinos have little way to channel their interests through the electoral system. This explains why crowds repeatedly flood into the streets to demand change, as they did in ousting President Joseph Estrada five years ago.

Politics are frantic, with civic groups, research institutes and TV talk shows competing in a national shout-fest. But the ballast of a modern political system, a professional civil service, is lacking, and the feeble bureaucracy is easily buffeted by electoral turbulence.

"The lack of political institutions has made Philippine politics less stable than other countries," said Felipe Miranda, a pollster and political scientist at the University of the Philippines. "Disillusionment has come about because there has been a betrayal of democratic elections. The majority of people would say democracy has largely failed."

Imee Marcos works from an antique wood-paneled office in the family's colonial mansion in Batac. It was once the provincial office of her grandfather when he was a congressman; later it was her father's congressional office before he became president.

A small Marcos museum and the family-run mausoleum where he has lain for 13 years are just next door. "It's spooky," she admitted.

Across Ilocos Norte, schools and streets bear the Marcos name. So do the state university and the premier private hospital, both in honor of the late president's father, Mariano Marcos, a congressman and governor.

Ferdinand went to Congress in 1946, graduating to the Senate before becoming president. He held that office for two decades, the majority of them under martial law. He was chased out in 1986, accused of violating human rights and plundering the treasury to support a lavish lifestyle; the Marcoses' excesses were symbolized by his wife Imelda's vast shoe collection. But Ilocanos prefer to remember the paved roads, pride and government jobs he brought to their province, where his children retain his mantle.

The president's son, Ferdinand Jr., returned to the Philippines to become congressman in 1992. Six years later, he was elected governor of Ilocos Norte.

The People Power movement that expelled Marcos drew tens of thousands of demonstrators to Manila's Edsa Boulevard. But two decades later, many Filipinos primarily know the gritty thoroughfare as home to the Philippine Overseas Employment Administration.

By 8 a.m. every weekday, hundreds of people line up to register for jobs abroad. The government estimates that 2,500 Filipinos leave the country every day for work overseas, and about 10 million are estimated to be working abroad.

There is no greater testament to the failure of Philippine democracy to provide for its people. In a country of 85 million, nearly 17 percent of all families now experience hunger, according to a recent survey by the Social Weather Station, a polling group.

"It's very hard to find work here. If you stay, you feel hungry," said Ronald Almerol, 32, a machine operator who had been waiting in line for more three hours to register for work in South Korea. "In this political crisis, the politicians don't want to stop fighting each other and find time to think about what they can do for the Philippine people."