Power and Gloria

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he's often dismissed as an unimaginative manager, a dull academic who by some quirk of fate wound up in the palace. But she has long been a political creature, the combination of her doctor mother's steely self-discipline and her presidential father's dedication to the vocation of public service. Impelled into politics by her early proximity to power, she managed to climb the ladder without getting tagged with the scandals and suspicions one almost expects to find on the rEsumEs of public figures in the Philippines. That spotless record is no accident. The country has struggled to move beyond the endless scandals of Estrada's two-plus years in office. The current administration is reaching out for investment, for tourism dollars, for a "new global relevance after years of being isolated." Erap, as Estrada is known, might have been the movie star, but now it's Arroyo's turn to perform.

Thus far, she's received her best reviews on the international stage, particularly in America where she's bonded with Dubya (they both have that offspring-of-a-President thing going on, after all). Her rapid expression of support for the Bush Administration after the World Trade Center attacks initiated the talks that last week brought U.S. troops to Mindanao.

Arroyo exudes an overachiever's enthusiasm, which is refreshing after Erap's distinctly sluggish tenure. She turns an opening question—"how was your day?"—into a 10-minute answer that covers her morning travels, her afternoon meetings, the price of lobster in coastal provinces, microfinance initiatives, the potential of a Chinese hybrid rice she's promoting to farmers, a controversial merger between Kirin and San Miguel, and a trade agreement with China. She's supposed to be distant and combative, but on this night she is working hard to engage, to smile, to stay on message while employing a nod here, an extended hand there, to include everyone in the room in the conversation. She relies on a formula—intelligence, hard work, attention to details. It has earned her three degrees in economics, including a Ph.D., two professorships and two Senate terms, and she has no intention of deviating now.

She seems comfortable with numbers, has faith in the certainty they suggest. Growth of 3.7% in 2001, she says, outperformed expectations. A drop in unemployment to less than 10%, she informs, is encouraging. By keeping a ceiling on spending, she believes her administration can chip away at the $4.4 billion budget deficit she inherited. Reason and statistics are, in her worldview, more convincing than inspirational rhetoric. But she spent enough time in the classroom to learn that "ivory tower economics about a frictionless society don't really exist in real life." Certainly not in the Philippines.

Describing herself, she offers the image of "an economist with a politician's heart." But maybe it's the other way round, her economist's heart shining for foreign investors but leaving another, critical constituency cold: the 32 million people in the Philippines who live below the poverty line. She eagerly reminds visitors of the academic and professional pedigrees of the people she has surrounded herself with and in whose hands she's placing the economy. Seven Harvard degrees, three from Wharton, four veterans of Wall Street: "I doubt that any other country can boast of the same kind of accomplishment among its Cabinet members," she says. They are accomplished, but the way she brandishes their rEsumEs can offend people who take pride in their own homegrown institutions, like the ones she attended. It makes it easy for those so inclined to tag her "arrogant" or "Elitist," even "too American." "Harvard doesn't teach you to govern in the culture of the Philippines," says veteran businessman Enrique Zobel.

Estrada was no child of poverty, but he played one on TV, so the masses identified with him and figured his boozy nights never blurred his ability to see their troubles. Arroyo has no such fiction to lean on. Instead, she must labor to overcome the impression that she's a bad fit, a hyperdriven woman in a laid-back culture, a sermonizer whose words fail to inspire in a land more interested in flamboyance than moralizing. Palace officials say her popularity is solid, but prevailing opinion maintains that she is accepted but not liked, disconnected, bereft of that common touch that Erap wielded so effortlessly.

"I'm more cerebral than tactile," she says. "Let's say I go to the slum area, and I see a starving child. Maybe if I were tactile, my first reaction would be to pick up the child and hug the child. Perhaps I'll do that. But the first thing that goes into my mind is: 'What policy can I put in place so this child will have better nutrition.' You see? Right away, I look for a solution."

A year ago she was the solution. She was a readily available, apparently competent, clearly hungry figure who could step in after Estrada scurried away. The Catholic Church, the military, businessmen, civic organizations and ex-Presidents Fidel Ramos and Cory Aquino all mobilized on her behalf. And now she is dealing with the consequences, with the citizens and soldiers who think they're kingmakers. They helped make her President but they could not, or would not, provide her with a mandate. Instead, they employ the specter of another People Power to pressure her to attend to their demands.

Legitimacy questions, despite three Supreme Court rulings in her favor, cracked the foundations of her presidency from her first day in office. The cracks deepened following Estrada's arrest in May, a foolishly showy affair that made him a martyr and caused mob riots—quickly dubbed EDSA III—in which enraged Erap loyalists swarmed the palace gates before being repelled by hoses and tear gas.