In 20 Years Since Marcos, Little Stability for Philippines

In later decades, Filipino filmmakers mimicked their American counterparts, producing movies about cowboys and Indians. 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.

This was never meant to be Marcos's final resting place. His widow, Imelda, has long insisted that he be buried beside other presidents in the national cemetery. But a series of Philippine leaders have balked, and the dispute has divided even the Marcos family.

Imelda Marcos has thrown her support behind Arroyo in hopes of winning her assent for a state burial, while the Marcos children have actively pressed for her ouster. Now, Imee Marcos has suggested that it is time to break the stalemate by burying the Old Man in the province.

"He would be at home here," she said.

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 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.

"Nobody dares to challenge them," said Antonio Casimiro, manager of the local radio station. "The thinking of the people in Ilocos Norte is Marcos, Marcos, Marcos."

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.

"I remember George Shultz in 1987 saying the Marcoses were history," he recounted in an interview, referring to the former U.S. secretary of state. "My father answered that history is not finished with us yet. His answer is coming true."

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 this 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, thronging the building's cavernous lobby and spilling down the front steps. 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."

Catherina Mente, 30, had long planned to register for a foreign job but said it took her several months to save up for the two-hour bus ride to the capital. She arrived at the agency only to find hundreds of others in line ahead of her.

"All the politicians are all selfish. They just care about enriching themselves," muttered Mente, who had put on blue eye shadow and lipstick for the occasion. "That's why we all have to go outside."

She suddenly looked away. A tear streaked her cheek.

"Here," she added, "we can barely survive."