IN T R 0 D U C T 1 0 N

"CLASSES, BOSSES, GOONS, AND GUNS

Re-lmagining Pbilippine Political Culture"

JOEL ROCAMORA

In Jose F Lacaba (ed.), Boss, Five Studies of Local Politics in the Philippines, Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism, Institute for Popular Democracy, 1995.

On February 28,1995, Masbate Representative Tito Espinosa was killed on his way to a celebration of the passage of an electoral reform bill. He was killed, most people believe, by his political opponents from the violence-prone provincial politics of Masbate. Espinosa was not killed because he supported electoral reform. But it might be said that he died because of the failure of electoral reform to lessen the use of violence in Philippine electoral contests.

Successful reform means changing the way people act. Changes in political action are accompanied by changes in the way people think about politics. Unfortunately, debilitating dichotomies infect political discourse in this country. There is a big difference between what politicians and power brokers say on public platforms or in press conferences, and what they discuss among themselves in the backrooms or in the coffeeshops of Manila's five-star hotels. There is an equally big difference between the language of everyday politics and the language of reform. The accumulation and exercise of power - the proper subject of politics - is only dimly glimpsed in media and academic discussion of politics.

Media reports of looming electoral battles occasionally resort to the language of cockfighting - identifying who are llamado and who are dejado among the fighting cocks, detailing how the fighters are grouped together in the grand nationwide "slasher derby" called elections. Hardly anything, however, is said about what is at stake, the amounts wagered by big spenders and penny-ante bettors.

In elections, voters and candidates share the cockfighting ethos. Many voters genuinely enjoy the thrill of the contest, cheering their candidates on, taking sides before and after the actual election. But there is a large chunk of discourse that is not public. Among themselves, politicians carefully discuss what is at stake - who gets what, when and how. The public is excluded from this discourse for the simple reason that it is excluded from the division of the spoils. The public is doubly excluded because the sabong discourse of elections quickly dies down while the jockeying for largesse among politicians continues into the next election.

Another explanation for the reticence of politicians has to do with the dichotomy between the language of everyday politics and the language of reform. When politicians are confident that they can avoid public attribution, they are perfectly happy to talk about hiring relatives and friends, about the money they can make from their elective positions, about the use of violence and threats of violence in their contests. But they have to dissimulate when talking to journalists and academics because, in the language of reform, these everyday acts of politicians translate into nepotism, corruption, and illegality. What is sad is that everyday folk relate more easily to the private language of politicians than to the language of reform.

It is difficult to locate a political death such as Espinosa in these conflicting discourses. Espinosa's advocacy of electoral reform locates him in the national discourse of reform. But we can understand his murder only through an appreciation of the radically different languages of local politics. He might as well have been killed in Masbate, though he was in fact murdered in Manila.

In this book and in a longer, related research project, the Institute for Popular Democracy hopes to bridge some of these gaps in political discourse. We should, at least, help to enrich public discussion by bringing together separate discourses. If we can increase understanding about how politics is actually conducted, we can also contribute to efforts to move it closer to how it should be conducted.

More specifically, we want to have an impact on public discussions about the 1995 elections. We share the desire expressed by Fr. Joaquin Bernas, S J., "to make the ballot an instrument not only of legitimation but also for overhauling Philippine political culture."

In his foreword to 1992 and Beyond, Forces and Issues in Philippine Elections, the joint publication of the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism and the Ateneo Center for Social Policy and Public Affairs, Fr. Bernas wrote: "In the 1992 elections and those that will follow, the goal will no longer be the legitimization of state rulers but the empowerment of agents who can invigorate the state to enable it to conquer the powerful social forces that prey on the misery of the weak and prevent more equitable development. It is a formidable task."

indeed, it is. Not just because those "agents who can invigorate the state" remain weak and need a whole lot of "empowerment," but because their weakness is partly the result of inadequate understanding of those powerful social forces that prey on the misery of the weak," and why the weak participate in their oppressors' legitimization in elections.

Through this book and subsequent publications, we want to contribute to political reform by focusing attention on structures of power in local areas. The choice of local instead of national power structures was determined by several considerations: the 1995 elections are mainly local; much less attention has been devoted to local politics by media and academic studies; and, given the weakness of the forces of reform, it makes all kinds of practical sense to begin reform in local areas.

The main purpose of this essay is to provide an introduction to the case studies that follow. This is necessary because we have only a few case studies, which were chosen more on the basis of avail-ability of writers and their interests than for their value as representative case studies from a predetermined typology of local power. This introduction partakes of a similar infirmity. It is based on the limited case studies it is introducing and the unsystematized remains of three decades of reading and thinking about Philippine politics.

Apart from its practical value as an introduction to a specific set of studies, writing this introduction prior to the main bulk of research allows a certain degree of intellectual adventurousness, of floating theoretical balloons. The more arrows launched to shoot down these balloons, the better. Subsequent to the publication of this book, we will undertake a range of other case studies which will hopefully allow a more systematic essay on the nature of local power.

CENTRAL AND LOCAL

In an influential study of nationalism several years ago, Cornell University professor Benedict Anderson wrote of the nation as air "imagined community." By that phrase, he did not mean that the nation is only a figment of the imagination, but that how we think about the nation shapes how we act within it.

In our case, we tend to think of national and local as a dichotomy, as opposites, instead of imagining the nation as nothing more than the sum of its local parts. When we think "national," we think of Metro Manila

the central government, the financial and corporate center.

Because Metro Manila is also where the top universities and the editorial offices of media are, where basketball, movie, and other entertainment stars live and play, we see it as the center of sophistication. Everything outside of Metro Manila is probinsiya. Worse, probinsiyano, baduy. This view is not altogether inaccurate. Popular perception tends to follow the actual distribution of power, the centralization of economic and political power in Metro Manila. It is the extension of power relations into the realm of cultural putdowns that is problematical, It does not help to tell a real probinsiyano that, to a New Yorker, Manila is baduy.

Our bias against the "local" helps to legitimize centralization, to extend and intensify it. Because Manila is "where it's at," people, especially talented and ambitious people, gravitate towards Manila and deprive local areas of key human resources. Because of the overwhelming presence of Manila in our consciousness, we tend to think of the relationship between Manila and the provinces - more accurately, between "central" and 1ocal" - as an immutable reality. In fact, the relationship has changed over the years. It has a history.

NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL

One of the functions of nationalism is to facilitate the distinction between "us" and "them." One inescapable element of our "nationhood" is that what we are - our "us" - was shaped by "them' by our Spanish and later American colonizers. Our territory is, pure and simple, what was conquered by the Spaniards and later, the Americans. Manila was started on its odyssey as our primate city, our center, by the Spanish decision to locate its central colonial administration, both political and ecclesiastical, in Manila. The Americans only surrendered to the historical momentum set by the Spaniards. By independence, our leaders really had no choice.

In the beginning, everything was local. In the early 16th century, Manila was backwater compared with Jolo. Manila was a village like all the other villages that dotted the archipelago. These small communities had rudimentary economic and political structures. Only Muslim Philippines had developed more sophisticated economies based on long-range seaborne trade, and built larger and more complex political organizations buttressed by Islam. It is understandable, therefore, that the Sulu. and Maguindanao sultanates offered more effective. resistance to Spanish colonialism than the small barangay federations in the rest of the country.

While already the capital by the late 16th century, Manila did not play a major economic role in relation to the rest of the country for most of the next two centuries. Colonial administrators were preoccupied with the galleon trade, which was in Chinese goods exchanged for Mexican silver. Manila played a role as an entrep6t, but not for the rest of the country. Outside Manila, change was slow. Villages were consolidated around plazas centered in churches and municipios, the better to collect tribute and enforce Catholicism. Still, the gulf between Manila and other municipalities, which were both slow to change, was not great at the time. Limited transport and communications also limited popular consciousness of differentiation.

Change only accelerated in the 19th century. British and American capital spurred export agriculture. Food production, often centered in friar estates, increased to feed those engaged in the production of export crops, as well as the growing population in town centers. Manila grew faster than other town centers. But its power and prominence as the Spanish colonial capital was limited by the leading economic role of English and American merchant houses. After ports other than Manila were opened to international trade, export products could flow out of towns closer to production areas. Cities such as Cebu and llollo competed with Manila as economic and cultural centers.

It was not until after the Americans took over from the Spaniards that Manila began its headlong plunge into being the Philippines' center of everything. At the turn of the century, Manila had less than a million inhabitants, some 2.9 percent of the enumerated population. By 1992, with an estimated 8.1 million people, the metropolitan Manila area contained some 12.6 percent of the country's population. The concentration is even more pronounced in the economy. Manila - or, more accurately, the Metro Manila area that is now officially known as the National Capital Region (NCR) - accounted for P216 billion of the gross domestic product, just a little less than a third of the country's total P712 billion GDP in 1992.

The unification of economic and political control in one colonial power had an emphatic centralizing effect. Both economic domination and political power were now in the hands of the Americans, and Manila was their political and economic center. The acceleration of economic activity exaggerated the centralizing tendency, more so because the burgeoning export trade quickly focused on the American market. The rapid establishment of a public education system spread the use of English much more widely than Spanish. This provided a powerful cultural tool linking the rest of the country to the center.

The conscious American effort to shape a Filipino national elite probably had the most long-term impact on central-local relations. Where the Spaniards had violently resisted the attempts of a nascent Filipino elite to be integrated into the national colonial structures of power, the Americans carefully orchestrated this integration. Because few Filipinos held economic power that stretched beyond the local, it made sense that the Americans began the process with municipal elections. Provincial elections became occasions for coalitions of municipal elites. By the time a national representative body was formed, the coalitional pyramid which became the characteristic structure of Philippine politics had been set.

This structure carried at its core a contradiction between central and local which continues to this day. The structure of representation put in place by the Americans was supposed to translate local to national power through the agency of elections for a national executive and legislature. There was a "national elite" at this time made up of Filipino leaders of the national legislature and top bureaucrats. But American control of the apex of the colonial economic and political structure set limits to this national elite's power. This situation continued even after independence because of the national elite's continued dependence on the Americans. The contradiction might be explained this way: the translation of local to national could not be clinched because the source of national power was as much international as it was local.

The situation can be illustrated by looking at the political role of the "sugar bloc," widely acknowledged in the 1950s and 1960s as kingmakers in national politics. The sugar bloc - comprising the hacenderos of Negros and Panay - might be said to have been "local," but it had "national" political power in that it had the financial resources necessary to bankroll presidential and senatorial electoral campaigns. This financial capability was based on sugar exports to the American market at premium prices higher than world market prices. The economic power of the sugar bloc, therefore, depended less on domestic factors than on the sugar export quotas allotted to the Philippines by the US government.

American political intervention was often more direct. Few people remember today that the "Independence" granted by the Americans in 1945 was heavily hedged. The problem was not just the infamous parity amendment. The exchange rate between the peso and the US dollar could not be changed without the consent of the US treasury. The Armed Forces of the Philippines could not buy armaments except from the Americans. The Americans intervened in elections by means fair and foul. CIA operatives ran President Magsaysay's presidential campaign, drugged President Quirino, and reportedly distributed damaged condoms in nationalist Senator Claro Recto's name .

This "unsettled" relationship between local and national was exacerbated by the adoption of the American presidential form of government, with its powerful chief executive. Through control over national budget formulation and disbursement, government contracts, and licensing authority, the chief executive controls much of the economic resources of the Philippine state. The president also dispenses the major part of the patronage resources of the government through control over line agencies. But without effective political parties, the president is dependent on local elites for electoral mobilization. As a result, local elites can negotiate effectively during elections and, between elections, through the Congress, the bastion of local power in the central government.

These are among the main sources of weakness of the Philippine state. The government, in particular the central government, is the dispenser of economic power - export quotas, contracts and licenses, subsidized loans. But the central government has at best weak control over those chunks of the economy controlled by foreigners or those local business people whose success depends on foreign ties. This, plus the central government's dependence on local elites for its authority, has made it difficult to capture larger and larger portions of the economic surplus through taxation and other means. Without such resources, the central government can only dispense largesse; it cannot finance economic growth. The constant scramble for government largesse, moreover, compromises the uses of planning to promote economic growth, because even the best economic plans cannot be implemented.

The political uses of violence can be best understood from this perspective. One of the defining characteristics of a state is control over the legitimate uses of violence. The prevalence of violence in local Philippine politics is an indication of how weak the Philippine state is. In Sulu politics, for instance, competing political clans fight pitched battles with hundreds of heavily armed men on the streets of the provincial capital. As Eric Gutierrez's study shows, even attempts by the central government to control local violence end up exacerbating it. Successful government efforts to win over commanders of the Moro National Liberation Front in the 1970s only served to create new local political warlords in the 1980s.

The greater incidence of violence in Sulu politics is partly a function of Moro history. Centuries of successful anticolonial warfare helped shape Moro consciousness and social structure around a well-developed c4pacity for violence. The same anticolonial resistance attenuated the region's connections with the rest of the archipelago. The weakness of local-national connections is expressed today in the limited economic and social services of government in the province of Sulu. Another way of putting it is that the central government's writ does not go very far in Sulu. If Moro history is a source of Sulu particularity, the weak central government capacity to impose its will establishes a connection with other areas. Sulu, in this sense, illustrates a more general condition.

Political violence is directly related to the intensely personal character of Philippine politics, especially at the local level. As such, it is inextricably linked to the continued dominance of political clans. In Masbate province, for example, the clan to which the assassinated Representative Tito Espinosa belonged has been dominant for most of the last three dec~ ades. Challengers have apparently felt that they can only break this dominance through violence. Tito Espinosa's brother, Moises, was himself killed in the middle of his term in Congress. Most people in Masbate believe that the subsequent murder of political opponent Jolly Fernandez was political revenge.

From the perspective of the "national' - the central government's monopoly over the legitimate uses of violence - the solution to Tito Espinosa's killing should be simple: find the killers and "bring them to justice." Murder is an individual's crime, that of the killer and his co-conspirators. In our judicial system, there is no such thing as a "clan murder." But if the national government cannot "solve" Tito Espinosa's murder in ways that make sense to people in Masbate, the locals will seek a different kind of "justice" in the resumption of the long-running cycle of violence in the province's clan politics.

CENTRALIZATION, DECENTRALIZATION

It was this logjam in local-national relations that President Marcos tried to break. One of the first things he did after he declared martial law was to abolish Congress, the bastion of local politicians' power in the central government. He then moved against two of the main sources of local political power: lie did away with local elections, and he made the first

determined effort by government to control unlicensed firearms. At the central government level, Marcos consolidated civilian and military power around the office of the president. Marcos not only increased the military budget and personnel, he also made the military the arbiter of civil and political rights under the guise of counterinsurgency. Thi 's unprecedented

centralization of power is best described by the characterization of the Marcos post-1972 regime as a dictatorship.

Marcos complemented his political moves with efforts to control the economy. The most important of these efforts was the establishment of quasi-government monopolies in the main export industries, sugar. Although his key move was against the sugar industry, symbolised politically in his attack on the Lopez family, Marcos also established control over smaller export crops such as bananas, and over the external and domestic trade in grains. Oe.

PATRONS AND BOSSES

Our "Manila-centric" political discourse hides the fact that relations between citizens and central political institutions are mediated through local political structures. It has only been in the last few elections for national officials that what has been called the "market vote" - the vote that is not secured through local politicians - has become increasingly important. Even citizen-central government political exchanges in between elections - permits, licences, patronage - are mediated through political fixers among local politicians. Studies of Philippine politics therefore have to begin with what might be called the basic unit of Philippine politics the relationship between the citizen and the local politician.

The "patron-client" framework that was put forward in the 1960s has remained relevant much longer than it deserves because it goes directly to the heart of this essential analytical task. The quintessential patronclient relationship is that of landlord and tenant, though it also describes other kinds of political relationships. It has been defined as "an exchange relationship or instrumental friendship between two individuals of differ~ ent status in which the patron uses his own influence and resources to provide for the protection and material welfare of his lower status client and his family, who, for his part, reciprocates by offering general support and assistance, including personal services, to the patron."'

This framework has been criticized many times because it does not give sufficient attention to the inequality in the relationship, because it emphasizes "valorized reciprocity, smooth interpersonal relations, and kinship and fictive kinship bonds." Other critics say that whatever the validity of the framework may have been in the past, the political situation has changed and "patron-client" ties have been replaced by more "modern" political relations. These are valid criticisms. But analysts continue to use this framework because it comes close to everyday political discourse among politicians and probably still the majority of the people.

By most standards, Makati is one of the most "modern" cities in the country, if not the most modern. Its politics should be furthest away from an analytical framework derived from landlord-tenant relationships. Yet Glenda Gloria's account of Makati politics makes the relationship between Mayor Jejornar 'J0JJ Binay and his base in Makati's urban poor communities look suspiciously like a patron-client relationship. A pre-EDSA veteran of "modern" progressive activism, Binay begins "his day early, jogging along the streets of Makati's poor districts and stopping by carinderias to break bread with jeepney drivers and street workers." He ends his day "with a visit to every funeral site in town."

Binay undergoes this bizarre daily ritual because he knows that the language of politics most Filipinos understand is the highly personalized language of coffee and pan de sal breakfasts and funerals. He knows that the political relationship most Filipinos are comfortable with is translated into a one-on-one, or at best a family-to-family, relationship. And why shouldi* most Filipinos feel this way when there aren't too many other structures that carry political weight in their day-to-day lives? But class-struggle enthusiasts need not fret. People are perfectly aware that these "reciprocal" relationships carry a built-in inequality, that more and more politicians are, plain and simple, crooks and not benign patrons.

Young American political scientist John Sidel's framework comes closer to everyday political discourse, at least to that of the oppressed "client" if not the self-justificatory "Patron." His focus on what he calls "bossism' - a "sophisticated system of brigandage" - is more emotionally satisfying (and, of course, more PC, or "politically correct") than the bland academic jargon of clientelism. Sidel points out that "an examination of the complex processes through which inequality, indebtedness, landlessness, and poverty are created has highlighted how so-called patrons have -through predatory and heavily coercive forms of primitive accumulation and monopoly rent-capitalism - expropriated the natural and human resources of the archipelago from the broad mass of the population, thereby generating and sustaining the scarcity, insecurity, and dependency which underpins their rule as bosses."'

It is no accident that Sidel's framework is especially appropriate for Shella Coronel's study of contemporary Cavite politics. Cavite was one of the two provinces that Sidel based his study on, and Juanito Remulla is a particularly apt "boss" - a "modernizing goon," as some have called him. Cavite is also a good case study of how "modernization" affects political relationships. Despite Sidel's critique of the patron-client framework, Coronel's study shows that Remulla's use of violence and wheeling-anddealing with foreign investors is made possible by a painstakingly built patron-client-based political machine.

"It would be a mistake," Coronel insists, to think that Remulla governs by sheer terror alone. The governor may be feared and, by the dispossessed peasantry, even loathed. But in Cavite, Remulla is also a munificent patron. Two mornings a week in his office at the provincial capitol in Trece Martires and two evenings a week in his home in Imus, the governor receives a continuous stream of favor-seekers.... The callers bring with them every imaginable request. One morning at the provincial capitol in November 1994, two teachers from Dasmariflas were asking for the repair of school toilets; an old couple from the Senior Citizens Association of Bulilian, Silang, wanted Christmas packets for the elderly; a young college graduate needed a recommendation for a job in Monterey Farms; a barangay captain was asking for the delivery of construction materials for a village hall. Remulla sat behind a huge desk, smiling and making small talk with the visitors, all of whom left the office with the governor's assurance, written on the margins of their letters of request, that what they wanted would be granted."

If this machine worked perfectly, it would not be necessary to use violence. In Cavite's case, it becomes necessary to use violence because the reaction of Cavite's farmers to what are, in effect, expropriations of their land, cannot be contained in the personalized patron-client system's mechanisms for dealing with such intensification of exploitation. The reactions of Cavite peasants and workers are nothing else but class action. This interpretation fits within what Sidel calls a "neo-Marxist" approach which posits that "the penetration of capitalism into the Philippine countryside, the commercialization of agriculture, and the resultant trends of increasing landlessness and rising inequalities in income distribution narrowed the scope and effectiveness of clientelistic exchanges, undermined patronclient relations, and paved the way for intensifying factionalism, social unrest and class conflict."

Sidel is as critical of this approach as he is of the patron-client framework. "The myriad manifestations of bossism," Sidel asserts, "reflect neither the strength (or decline) of patron-client relations nor the resilience and rule of a landed oligarchy, but rather the peculiar institutional structures of the Philippine state, whose lineages may be traced over successive phases of state formation."' Sidel's own historical account does not discount the changes in the Philippine political economy pushing class formation; he takes issue instead with the extension of the analysis to the "weak state, strong society' framework currently in vogue in both academic and government circles.

Sidel constructs his own interpretation of how this framework might be used to analyze the Philippines, drawing on works that are not even directly about the Philippines. He might have done better criticizing the framework's use in a specific work on the Philippines such as Temaric, Wvera's thesis.'

The proposition that the dominant class in the Philippines is the landlord class, one strong enough to keep the Philippine state weak through its exactions, is a theoretical straw man. A dominant ruling class strong enough, on its own, to keep a state weak is also strong enough to take the state over completely and bend it to its class will, use it against competing classes and in the process, turn it into a "strong state."

In Rivera's analysis, the Philippine landlord class does not fulfill its supposed historic role to dismantle itself and make way for the bourgeoisie. This happened not because the landlord class was strong enough to prevent its historic demise, but because it was too weak to transform itself into the bourgeoisie and usher in a new mode of production. Instead, part of the landlord class transformed itself into the import-substitution-industrialization bourgeoisie. When the ISI phase is exhausted, the same and/or additional segments of the landlord class shift into export-oriented industrialization. It is this chameleon-like capacity of the landlord class to transpose itself into another class without completely becoming that class that keeps it literally in business, but not strong enough to shape the state around its own interests.

DEMOCRACY AND THE PHILIPPINE STATE

In the end, these arcane academic debates justify themselves only insofar as they contribute to our understanding of the key political question of our time - the connection between democracy and development. The dominant frameworks for studying Philippine politics, the patronclient and what Sidel calls the "neo-Marxist" approaches, are embedded within at times only implicit but no less definite assumptions on these issues. They also contain prescriptions for political action, though mostly by extrapolation, because academics are reticent about going from the descriptive to the prescriptive in their work.

Carl Lande, who first developed the patron-client framework in the early 1960s, thought that patron-client relations were an adequate base for democracy. "This pattern of persistent bifactionalism - allegedly reflected in "the unrestrictedness, the closeness, and the intensity of competition for elective office at all levels of government" - guaranteed that politicians were "highly responsive"to their constituents and that ordinary voters exerted "substantial influence ... upon decision-making."

Examining the two-party system that predominated in the pre-martial law years, one scholar concluded that "each party has had a reasonable chance ofwinning a good number of elections - and neither party~ having won control of a constituency anywhere in the country, has been able to take its continued hegemony for granted."'

Lande was not bothered by the obvious inequalities in the patronclient relationship because he operated within the "modernization theory' framework dominant at that time in American political science. In this framework, democracy is a matter of fine-tuning formal institutions of constitutional democracy so that they adequately fulfill their "functions." For Lande, an essentially "democratic" patron-client system of political relations buttresses these institutions. Because the resulting political system is democratic, economic inequalities will be lessened in the long term through a process of bargaining and negotiation that is at work not only in the economy but also in the political system.

NOTES

1 Ulat sa Bayan, January 4, 1995, photocopy of original, p. 2.

2 Jose Almonte, "The Politics of Development," Manila Times, July 2426, 1993.

3 Fidel V. Ramos, "State of the Nation, 26 July 1993," Office of the Press Secretary, p. 4.

4 For a more extensive discussion of the political framework of Philippines 2000, see "The Ramos Administration: Challenge of Philippines 2000," Chapter 6 of my book, Breaking Tbrougb.. The Struggle witbin the Communist Party of the Pbilippines (Manila: Anvil Publishing, 1994).

5 James C. Scott and Benedict J. Kerkvliet, "How Traditional Rural Patrons Lose Legitimacy: A Theory with Special Reference to Southeast Asia," Cultures et Development, V:3 (1973), p. 502. This and other quotes and much of the discussion of analytical frameworks for Philippine politics in the next few pages take off fromjohnThayer Sidel, "Coercion, Capital, and the Post-Colonial State: Bossism in the Postwar Philippines," Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, January 1995.

6 Sidel, p. 509.

7 Sidel, p. 21.

8 Temario Rivera, "Class, the State and Foreign Capital: The Politics of Philippine Industrialization, 1950-1986," Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1991.

9 Quoted in Sidel, p. 9.

10 Kit G. Machado, "Changing Patterns of Leadership Recruitment and the Emergence of the Professional Politician in Philippine Local Politics," in Benedict KerkOict, ed., Political Cbange in the Philippines.. Studies ofLocal Politics Preceding Martial Law (Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, 1974), pp. 77129.

11 From the unfortunately still unfinished study of the ideological dimensions of Philippine elections, by 1P1) research staff Myrna Alejo, Annelle Rivera, and Noel Valencia.