The May 12 midterm elections marked a subtle but significant evolution in Philippine political culture. The speed of the vote counting and canvassing—enabled by digital transmission and streamlined procedures—meant that by the end of Election Day, the candidates and their teams already had a clear sense of who was ahead. This swiftness, ironically, has led to a growing familiarity with a rare rhetorical genre in Philippine politics: the concession speech.

While formal concession speeches have long been a staple of American political life, they are only just beginning to take root in this country. Historically, our defeated candidates have either remained silent, filed protests, or vanished into the provinces; rarely have they taken the podium to formally acknowledge the people’s verdict. This year, however, a notable number of candidates, including incumbents like Manila Mayor Honey Lacuna, took the initiative to concede, and even before the final tallies were completed.

This is a welcome sign of political maturity, but one that is still finding its linguistic and rhetorical footing. For instance, the formulation used by a major news agency—“Honey Lacuna concedes defeat to Isko Moreno”—is grammatically incorrect. One does not “concede defeat” to an opponent; one accepts defeat and concedes victory. The verb concede requires a positive object (a win, a point, an advantage); it is not the defeat that is offered to the victor but the acknowledgement of the latter’s triumph. This solecism betrays a deeper unfamiliarity with the rhetorical form of concession itself.

Consider other clumsy examples from this election cycle. A headline from a digital outlet read, “Candidate X throws the towel after neck-and-neck fight.” Besides the mixed metaphor (the phrase should be throws in the towel), the image awkwardly dramatizes what should be a sober civic gesture. Another report quoted a mayoral candidate as saying, “We lost, but our hearts are not.” The poetic impulse is forgivable, but the lack of rhetorical control risks sounding incoherent.

Contrast this with the more deliberate and polished concession speeches of Western democracies. When Mitt Romney lost the 2012 US presidential election, he said: “The nation chose another leader. And so, Ann and I join with you to earnestly pray for him and for this great nation.” John McCain, in his 2008 concession to Barack Obama, acknowledged: “Senator Obama has achieved a great thing for himself and for his country.” These speeches are crafted with a combination of dignity, pathos, and purpose. They do not merely report the facts of defeat—they offer a narrative, reaffirm values, and preserve the speaker’s political capital.

The roots of concession rhetoric lie in the classical traditions of Aristotle, Cicero, and Cassiodorus. In Rhetoric, Aristotle taught that persuasion involves ethos (character), pathos (emotion), and logos (reason). A concession speech is a textbook case of deliberative rhetoric designed not to recount the past but to guide future action. It must appeal to emotions to comfort supporters, employ logic to justify the result, and establish the speaker’s continued credibility.

Cicero, one of Rome’s greatest orators, never delivered a formal concession speech in the modern sense, but his rhetorical moves—especially after political defeats—were strategic realignments aimed at reclaiming relevance. His Philippics against Mark Antony, after Julius Caesar’s assassination, were not cries of surrender but attempts to define the future of the Republic in his terms. Ultimately, his rhetorical defiance cost him his life, but it also shows how concession can be weaponized as narrative control, a bridge to a future comeback, and not just a footnote to failure.

In the Philippine context, this rhetorical function of concession is vital. In a political culture still reeling from populism, celebrity politics, and weak institutions, concession speeches can help restore a semblance of rational public discourse. But this only works if the act of concession is grounded in sincerity and linguistic clarity.

Yet this ideal clashes with the current state of Philippine democracy, which remains in peril. Too many of our senators and local officials remain implicated in corruption and extrajudicial killings, or simply lack the qualifications for public service. When actors, influencers, or dynastic heirs with no discernible platform or record are elected to high office, concession becomes less a sign of sportsmanship than an obituary of democracy. In such instances, one cannot “concede victory” to the opponent; one can only “accept defeat”—the defeat, not of a candidate, but of the democratic project itself.

In this sense, there is a tragic irony to the sudden rise of concession speeches in the 2025 elections. On the one hand, their growing popularity signifies a rhetorical and civic maturing: Candidates are now more aware of the symbolic importance of the gesture. On the other hand, the grammar and tone of these speeches often betray a lack of rhetorical training, and worse, their very necessity is undermined by the quality of many victors. What is the point of gracefully conceding to someone whose very campaign was a farce, or whose record is tainted?

Nevertheless, the increasing presence of concession speeches—even flawed ones—signals a cultural shift. It suggests a willingness, however tentative, to align with the norms of liberal democracy and public accountability. With time, the grammar will catch up with the gesture. But more importantly, perhaps the gesture will begin to reshape the substance of Philippine politics.

For now, though, the words matter. When a politician says, “I concede victory to my opponent,” it is not just a linguistic correction; it is a civic offering, a bow to the will of the people, and a re-entry into the long rhetorical tradition of Aristotle and Cicero. It is also a faint glimmer of hope: that in conceding with grace, we might one day win back a democracy worth fighting for.

Lito B. Zulueta teaches journalism and literature at the University of Santo Tomas’ Faculty of Arts and Letters.

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